monicfever

[monicfever]

hello!! stumbled on your blog while I was surfing through the daredevil tag and wanted to thank you for its existence

it's already difficult to find pieces about characters like elektra, dinah and dex, and ones where they are written so good like here? hard, really hard. you get them yk? I read the things thinking "yeah!! they would do/say it"

plus I was thirsty for some dd and punisher content. this blog was really a find! I just wanted to show my gratitute for it! good work here!!

this was the absolute best compliment to get 😄!!! it’s one thing to be told you’re a good writer, anyone can say that, but it’s a whole other thing to actually be told you’re accurate and understand the character because i really try to put myself in the characters shoes when im writing so it’s an enjoyable and compelling read.

on another note im sorry i dipped for like a month yall 😭 i hope i didn’t leave yall too neglected and that like this community didn’t die fast

[monicfever]

hii, hope you are well! can u write how you imagine that would be the perfect date with dd and the punisher characters?

the perfect date 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / muse / james wesley

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

1. THE QUIET RESTAURANT HE KNOWS BETTER THAN ANYONE. Matt takes you to a tiny, tucked-away spot in Hell’s Kitchen, family-owned, never flashy, not even listed online. He knows the owner personally, probably helped him out with legal trouble years ago. The lighting is low, almost entirely candlelit. Perfect for ambiance. But also perfect for him. You notice he’s relaxed here in a way he rarely is, shoulders down, voice softer. He asks the waiter for your order before you even open your mouth, because you’d told him earlier what you were craving, and of course he remembered.

2. THE ROOFTOP ESCAPE. After dinner, he takes you somewhere higher. It’s not a date with Matt unless it involves a fire escape or some wildly unsafe climb. But when you reach the top, it’s worth it. He’s laid out a blanket, brought your favorite drink in a thermos. There’s no plan. Just the city breathing around you, the air thick with the scent of summer and concrete, and Matt sitting close, knees touching. “I don’t need a view,” he says, turning his head toward you, “but I like hearing your heartbeat when you’re happy.” It’s quiet. Comfortable. And you know he’s listening to everything.

3. THE CHURCH AFTER HOURS. He brings you to the church, not during mass, but late. After hours. It’s dim, echoing, ancient-feeling. There’s something reverent about the way he walks between the pews, his fingertips brushing the wood like he’s grounding himself. He shows you a stained glass panel that used to terrify him as a child, and tells you why. Then he confesses, not sins, just thoughts. Fears. The mess in his head. Being with him is never easy, but here in this half-lit sanctuary, he lets you into the places he usually keeps locked. He touches your hand at the altar, not quite ready to kiss you, but the moment is full of tension and tenderness. Holy in its own way.

4. JAZZ AND WHISKEY AND A LOW CONVERSATION. A late-night bar with live jazz, Josie’s, probably, all soft brass and rasping vocals. He takes you there when he’s tired, emotionally bruised, but still trying. You’re tucked into a booth, close enough for your knees to bump. He listens more than he speaks, but when he does speak, it’s honest and low. He tells you what the music feels like to him, how the trumpet curls around his ribs like smoke. When he drinks, he does it slow, cheap whiskey, because he never liked the expensive stuff. Every date with Matt feels like he’s trying not to fall too hard, and failing anyway.

5. DOMESTIC. A perfect date might not even leave the apartment. He insists on cooking, something simple but good. Pasta with garlic and anchovies, that kind of thing. The whole apartment smells like warmth and oil and spice. He moves fluidly through the kitchen, confident, sleeves rolled, listening to the sizzle in the pan, occasionally bumping into the table and muttering under his breath. Afterward, you eat on the couch, knees up, and he leans into you while some old black-and-white movie plays in the background. He doesn’t really watch it. He listens to you breathing, to the sound of the city through the open window. He says, almost absently, “This feels...normal,” like that’s the most radical thing in the world.

6. HE’S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE OUT. You find out halfway through that he’s injured. He’s trying to hide it, holding your hand a little too tightly, biting his lip when he moves too fast. You call him on it. He sighs, almost laughs, and admits it: yes, he shouldn’t be out, yes, he probably shouldn’t have scaled that wall to get to your place, but “it was worth it.” You help him home instead, and the date becomes you fussing over him on the couch while he finally lets himself relax under your hands. You sit next to him and he leans against you, just enough weight to show trust.

7. THE RAIN DATE. One of his favorites. Not planned at all. You’re walking together when it starts to pour, sheets of rain, drenching and cold. He doesn’t rush. He lives in the weather, lets it fall over him like it’s cleansing. You start to complain but he just laughs, his head tipped back, his face open and joyful in a way you almost never see. You stop under a ledge to dry off, but he pulls you back into it, into the rain, hands on your waist, grinning. And then he kisses you and it’s perfect.

8. THE NIGHT YOU STAY UP TALKING. Not every perfect date ends in kisses or tangled sheets. Some just end with Matt sitting on the floor next to your couch, talking. About cases, about God, about pain and justice and what it means to keep going. He says things in the dark he’d never say in daylight. You see the depth of him, how much he cares, how much he doubts. He reaches up at some point to brush your fingers with his, not asking for anything. Just... there. And when you finally fall asleep beside him, he stays awake a little longer, listening to the quiet. Just to memorize the sound of peace.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

1. THE DINER DATE. He takes you to a diner. Not because it’s romantic, because it’s safe. A place he’s scoped out a hundred times, where he knows the exits, the blind spots, which waitress has a kind smile and which one has a knife in her boot. The booths are cracked vinyl, the lights hum fluorescent and ugly. But Frank’s more relaxed here than anywhere else. He orders black coffee and fries, nothing more. He watches you eat, eyes soft in the corners. He doesn’t talk much. His comfort is in the silence, in the way he pushes the ketchup bottle toward you before you even ask, or reaches out to wipe something off your cheek with his thumb like it’s the most natural thing in the world. No music, no drama. Just the two of you in a space where, for once, no one is dying.

2. THE RANGE DATE. This is his idea of bonding. A dusty shooting range on the edge of nowhere, half-abandoned, no one around for miles. He shows you how to hold the rifle, steady your breathing, find your rhythm. He’s patient, quieter than usual, all focus and heat behind the eyes. When he touches your hands to adjust your grip it’s careful, measured, almost reverent. He watches you line up the shot, then looks at you like you’re the most dangerous and beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Afterward, you sit on the tailgate of his truck drinking lukewarm beer, sun going down, the smell of gunpowder still clinging to your clothes. He doesn’t say much, but he looks at you like you’re his, and that’s enough.

3. THE RAIN CHECK DATE. You make plans. Something simple. He agrees, says “Yeah, okay,” in that gravel voice like maybe he means it. But the day comes and he doesn’t show. Not a call, not a text. Nothing. You’re half-worried, half-pissed. Then, hours later, he’s at your door, soaked to the bone, knuckles split, blood on his shirt. “Had to take care of something,” is all he offers. But his eyes are hollow with guilt, like he knows he let you down. You don’t yell. You just nod, pull him inside, sit him down. Patch him up. The date becomes quiet care, hands in gauze and steam from a kettle, the weight of his head finally sinking onto your shoulder. “Next time,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’ll be there.” And you believe him.

4. THE NIGHT DRIVE. He picks you up without telling you where you’re going. No destination, no plan. Just asphalt and the sound of the engine under his hand. His fingers tap the wheel to some beat in his head, and he drives like he needs it, like speed is the only thing that drowns out the noise. You lean back, windows down, night air biting. He doesn’t speak for a long time, but when he does, it’s low and rough: stories about Texas highways, Afghan nights, the way New York smells different in the summer when it’s about to rain. You end up at a lookout with no name, stars half-swallowed by clouds. He lets you fall asleep in the passenger seat while he keeps watch — always.

5. THE NOT-A-DATE. He tells you outright: “This ain’t a date.” Says it like a warning, like a wall he’s trying to build in midair. You nod. You go anyway. It’s a walk through the woods outside the city, boots crunching on dirt, his eyes scanning the trees like ghosts might emerge. He keeps his distance, except when he doesn’t, reaching out to help you over a fallen log, pressing a hand to your lower back to guide you. You talk about nothing: birds, weather, how quiet it is. And when you pause to look at the sky bleeding pink over the horizon, you catch him staring, not at the sunset, at you. He doesn’t kiss you. But it’s there. In the silence. In the ache. In the way he almost says your name and stops himself.

6. THE GARAGE DATE. It smells like oil, metal, old leather. He’s fixing something, his bike, a truck, some piece of equipment you don’t recognize. You sit on a crate, watching him work. His hands are calloused and sure, black with grease, veins standing out under his skin. You hand him tools, sip a beer, maybe mess with the radio until he mutters, “Not that station.” It’s domestic in the weirdest, most Frank Castle way, like he’s letting you into the parts of his life he doesn’t even think about. He tells you what he’s doing, why that part’s important, what’ll happen if you fuck it up. And when he’s done, he wipes his hands on a rag and says, without looking at you, “You hungry?”

7. THE STAY-IN DATE. He doesn’t want to go out. Not because he’s tired, because he knows someone’s watching. He’s got that look in his eye, the one that says danger is close, too close. So you stay in. The lights stay off. He closes every curtain, double-checks every lock. Then, and only then, does he sit down beside you. You end up on the floor, backs against the wall, eating whatever leftovers you could scrape together. He keeps a gun within reach. His arm stays around you, loose but firm. His eyes scan the windows even when you’re laughing. But when you fall asleep against his chest, his head tips down and rests on yours. You don’t see it, but he smiles, just barely.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

1. THE COFFEE SHOP DATE. It’s raining outside, but not the dramatic cinematic kind, just a constant drizzle that fogs up the windows and makes the world feel small. He picks the shop because he likes the smell of it, because they make the best mochas, because the barista knows his name and asks about Matt. You sit across from each other in mismatched chairs, hands wrapped around hot mugs. Foggy’s talking — rambling, really — about a client, about a podcast he half-listened to, about the squirrel that keeps breaking into his fire escape garden. He makes you laugh in that way that bubbles out of your chest without warning. Halfway through, he reaches over and absentmindedly wipes a coffee smudge off your lip with his thumb, then freezes like oh god was that too much. It wasn’t. It was perfect.

2. THE HOMEMADE DISASTER DATE. Foggy insists on cooking. “It’s foolproof,” he says. It is not. There’s smoke, two emergency trips to the corner store, a moment where you have to Google if shrimp can explode in a microwave. But you’ve never laughed harder. He’s wearing an apron that says Kiss the Cook like a joke, except he kind of means it. When things go fully off the rails he gives up and orders Thai food. You eat it on the couch in your pajamas, surrounded by a kitchen crime scene, and he looks at you like you just walked into his life with sunshine in your pockets. “I like this,” he says. “Even the... uh, fire hazard part.” He means it. Every bit.

3. THE BACKYARD MOVIE DATE. He borrows a projector from a guy at work, drags a sheet up in his tiny backyard, and strings fairy lights with a level of effort that screams please let this work. He sets out snacks, the good kind, not movie theater garbage, but actual baked goods and your favorite drink and popcorn that’s still warm. You lie side by side on an old blanket, watching some classic he swears is a “cultural necessity.” He knows every line. Quotes them under his breath. Occasionally glances at you when he thinks you won’t notice. And when the credits roll, he doesn’t make a move, just looks at you like you’re the whole screen.

4. THE "MEET ME AFTER WORK" DATE. It starts with a text: Meet me after work? I need to see your face before I melt into legal goo. You show up outside the office and he’s already waiting with two coffees and that warm, worn-out smile that says you made it better just by showing up. He’s in his work clothes but the tie’s loosened, the sleeves are rolled, and there’s ink on his fingers from signing too many forms. He doesn’t have a big plan, just wants to walk with you, shoulders brushing, talking about nothing and everything. He keeps slipping into your space, bumping your arm with his just to feel you there.

5. THE DRUNK BAR TRIVIA DATE. Foggy’s not a heavy drinker, but he is a competitive little shit. He signs you two up for bar trivia at the local pub and it’s chaos from the start. He shouts out the answers before you're allowed to, argues with the host over music round rulings, and buys a round of drinks for the table that beats you because “they earned it... somehow.” He’s flushed and laughing, louder than usual, his arm slung around your shoulder as he tells you “We would’ve won if they hadn’t mispronounced Dostoyevsky.” You take a cab home with him leaning into your side, murmuring things like “you’re the best part of my team, you know that?” over and over.

6. THE SICK DAY DATE. You’re sick. It sucks. Foggy shows up anyway. With soup. And cold medicine. And three flavors of cough drops because he didn’t know which you’d want. He stays even when you tell him he doesn’t have to, curls up beside you on the couch, watching terrible daytime TV with surprising enthusiasm. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead, murmurs “you’re burning up, sweetheart.” like he’s in a bad romance novel. He insists on fluffing your pillows. Makes you drink water. Tucks a blanket tighter around you every fifteen minutes. He kisses your temple only once, careful not to catch your flu, and says, “Don’t worry. I’ve survived Matt’s cooking. I’ll survive this.”

7. THE “I MISSED YOU” DATE. Maybe it’s been a bad week. Maybe you’ve both been pulled in too many directions. But when you finally see each other again, he holds on longer than usual. Doesn’t want to talk about the stress or the noise, just wants this. You. Him. Close. It’s a late dinner in a quiet corner of the city, somewhere low-lit and cozy. He can’t stop looking at you. He keeps reaching out, brushing your hand, your wrist, your knee under the table, like he’s checking if you’re real. “Sorry I’ve been MIA,” he says softly, voice scratchy.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

1. THE NEWSSTAND DATE. Karen loves a good ritual. Saturday morning, she meets you at the corner newsstand, coffee in hand, hair still a little messy from sleep. You browse the papers, discuss headlines, argue playfully about op-eds. She’s fired up before she even finishes her latte, gesturing with her hands, quoting sources. You don’t always agree and she loves that. She likes that you push back, that you listen. She links her arm through yours as you walk, talking about truth and justice and what people deserve to know. With Karen, conversation is intimacy.

2. THE LATE-NIGHT OFFICE DATE. She’s working late. Again. The newsroom’s empty except for the hum of machines and her voice, low over the phone. You show up with takeout and a tired smile. She lights up the moment she sees you, pulls you into a hug that says thank God you're here. You eat at her desk under flickering fluorescent lights while she vents about deadlines, ethics, and corrupt officials. She’s tired, but she still glows when she talks about the story. And you listen. That’s all she really wants, someone who sees the fire and doesn’t try to put it out.

3. THE SMALL TOWN ESCAPE DATE. You rent a car and get the hell out of the city. She picks the town, somewhere two hours north with a diner and a bookstore and a general store that sells homemade honey. She’s in jeans and sunglasses, one foot on the dashboard, singing along to old music on the radio. She smiles more when you’re not surrounded by tall buildings and ghosts. You stay at a bed and breakfast with a clawfoot tub and peeling wallpaper, and she says it feels like something out of a novel. At night, you share a milkshake in a booth lit by neon, and she says “I could stay here forever.” You know she doesn’t mean it. But she wants to.

4. THE MOVIE NIGHT DATE. Karen loves movies. Not just the good ones, all of them. Bad horror, dusty noirs, rom-coms from the '90s. She wants you to watch everything with her. You lie on the couch with her feet in your lap while she narrates trivia over the credits. Sometimes she laughs too hard. Sometimes she cries too easily. And when the movie ends, she doesn’t rush to turn the lights on. She likes the silence. The stillness. And then the moment passes, and she’s back to arguing about the plot holes.

5. THE SPAGHETTI NIGHT DATE. It’s her night to cook. You show up to a kitchen covered in flour and a playlist from 2003. She says she learned the recipe from her grandmother, but she’s guessing half the measurements. You help her stir the sauce, bumping hips, singing badly. She dances with you in the kitchen, socked feet sliding across tile. The food turns out decent but she insists it’s amazing, and you let her win. After dinner, she’s barefoot on the fire escape, wine glass in hand, talking about her childhood.

6. THE GRAVEYARD DATE. It sounds strange. It is strange. But it’s Karen’s idea. She says she likes places where people remember. You bring flowers, not for anyone you knew, just to leave. She walks with you between headstones, reading names out loud, making up stories about who they were. She tells you about people she’s lost. You don’t interrupt. You just listen. And when she takes your hand in hers, it’s with a quiet sort of gravity, like she’s saying thank you for not looking away.

7. THE GALLERY DATE. She says she doesn’t know much about art. She lies. She leads you through the museum with a soft sort of reverence, stopping at every piece that makes her feel something. She likes the sad ones. The ones that look like bruises and prayers. She says art is just a different kind of journalism, truth you feel instead of read. She stands in front of one painting longer than the others. Doesn’t speak. And you don’t press.

8. THE UNDERCOVER DATE. She pulls you into something half-legal, definitely risky. Says she needs a distraction at a charity gala where someone’s hiding something. She wears red — of course she does — and walks into the room like she owns it. She gives you a fake name to use, just for fun. You dance once, bodies close, her fingers tight around yours. Then she disappears into the crowd, chasing a lead. When it’s over, you walk home under streetlights, hearts racing, laughing like kids. She looks at you and says, “That was fun. We should break the law together more often.”

9. THE “I NEED TO GET OUT OF MY HEAD” DATE. She calls you late. Her voice sounds frayed. “I can’t sleep. Can you come over?” You do. No questions. She’s already at the door when you arrive, hair pulled back, sweater sleeves pushed up. You take a walk, nowhere in particular, just enough movement to keep the thoughts from swallowing her. She talks about guilt like it’s a second skin. You don’t try to fix it. Just walk beside her until she stops shaking. Back at her place, she lets you stay. You fall asleep with her back pressed to your chest, her breathing finally even.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

1. THE ROOFTOP TRAINING DATE. She takes you to the rooftop of some forgotten building. No pleasantries, just raw, hard training. She teaches you how to throw a punch, how to fall without breaking, how to move silently. Every movement is precise and brutal, but her eyes never leave yours. When you mess up, she corrects you sharply but with care, like a fire testing steel. Afterwards, you’re both breathing heavy, sweat dripping, and she leans in close enough for you to feel the heat of her breath. “You’re stronger than you think.”

2. THE NIGHT MARKET DATE. The city’s neon blurs around you as Elektra drags you through crowded alleyways, the pulse of the night alive beneath your feet. She knows where to find the best street food, the sharpest knives, the most elusive vendors. You try new flavors, some spicy enough to make your mouth burn, others sweet and sticky. She moves with ease through the crowd, protective and alert, occasionally slipping into a shadow when trouble brews. You catch glimpses of the woman beneath the assassin, alive, curious, fiercely loyal. She brushes a stray lock of hair from your face and smiles, just for a second.

3. THE UNDERGROUND FIGHT CLUB DATE. This is dangerous, even for her. But she wants you to see the world she inhabits, the raw, brutal edges beneath the surface. The air is thick with sweat and tension, the crowd roaring as fists fly. She watches you watch, analyzing every flinch, every tight breath. When the fight ends, she pulls you close, blood on her knuckles and a wild fire in her eyes. “Not bad.”

4. THE MIDNIGHT SWIM DATE. You meet at the edge of a dark river, the moon casting silver across the water. Elektra strips down without hesitation, stepping into the cold like it’s nothing. You follow, shivering, but she’s steady. She swims with powerful strokes, pulling you into the water with a laugh that’s more rare than you thought. Floating on your backs, she points out constellations, voice soft in the night air. There’s no fight, no tension, just the two of you.

5. THE SECRET LIBRARY DATE. She leads you to a hidden library, one filled with ancient texts and dusty scrolls. Elektra isn’t usually one for quiet moments, but here she’s different, patient, almost tender. She pulls books from the shelves, reading aloud passages that resonate with her, stories of warriors, love, betrayal. You sit close, her hand finding yours between the pages, fingers intertwining. She doesn’t say much, but the silence hums with meaning. You realize this is her sanctuary and she’s sharing it with you.

6. THE FIRE ESCAPE ESCAPADE DATE. Spontaneous and reckless, she drags you onto a fire escape under the cover of night. You climb higher than you thought possible, hearts pounding, not just from the climb but from the thrill. At the top the city sprawls beneath you, a chaotic tapestry of lights and sounds. She pulls you close, the danger sharpening every sense.

7. THE RAIN-DRAPED ALLEY DATE. Caught in a sudden downpour, Elektra doesn’t run for cover. Instead she pulls you into a narrow alley, the rain dripping from her hair and skin. She laughs, dark, wild, free, and kisses you hard, rain mixing with the sharpness of the moment. The city blurs around you, thunder rolling distant and low. She’s alive here, unrestrained, the storm matching the tempest inside her.

8. THE KITCHEN DATE. It’s rare. She cooks. Simple things, strong coffee, thick toast, something spicy. The kitchen smells like smoke and pepper. She’s silent mostly, but the way she looks at you while you eat says more than words could.

9. THE ABANDONED WAREHOUSE DATE. She takes you somewhere no one goes. Broken windows, cracked floors, shadows that cling to the walls. It’s eerie, but she moves with purpose, like this place holds secrets only she can read. You talk in whispers, stories unfolding between the dust and decay. When she brushes your hair from your face, it’s a moment of fragile tenderness amid the ruin.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

1. THE EXACTLY-7:30 DINER DATE. Dex picks you up at 7:15. Not 7:20. Not 7:10. 7:15. He’s already anxious if you’re even slightly late, not because he’s mad, but because he’s wired like a bomb. He takes you to a quiet corner booth in the same old diner he’s been going to since before you met him. Same seat, same waitress, same patty melt and root beer. He’s trying to give you something “normal,” something safe. He’s deeply attentive, a little too still, always watching your face for approval. He doesn’t talk much unless you ask questions, and then he gets so excited to tell you about work or a podcast he’s listening to. He pays in exact change.

2. THE BOWLING DATE (ON A TUESDAY, WHEN IT’S QUIET). He suggests bowling like it’s a joke — “You ever seen me throw a strike?” But it’s not a joke. It’s controlled chaos. He takes you to a run-down alley on a weeknight when it’s mostly empty, just the sound of pins crashing and neon buzzing. He’s ridiculously good (of course), and sometimes people watch. He hates that. He relaxes more when it’s just the two of you. He lets you win once, but only once. He shows you how to line up your throw with intense focus, hands on your waist or shoulders, breath close to your ear. His eyes soften when you laugh. He doesn’t say much but he doesn’t want the night to end.

3. THE BASEBALL GAME DATE. Not a Yankees game. He’s not taking you into that chaos. It’s a minor league game an hour outside the city. Cheap seats, bad nachos, kids running up and down the bleachers. He brings you there because it reminds him of the only time he ever felt okay as a kid. He’s quieter here, calm in a way that makes you want to protect him. He doesn’t hold your hand until the seventh inning, and when he does, he doesn’t let go. He drives you home after and doesn’t kiss you. Just looks at you like he wants to, but doesn’t trust himself.

4. THE ICE SKATING DATE. Indoor rink. Early morning. Practically empty. He tells you he’s bad at it but he’s lying, he’s precise and graceful in a way that feels almost too perfect. He doesn’t go fast. Doesn’t show off. He circles back around you over and over, eyes locked on yours, smiling in that too-wide, too-sharp way. When you slip, he catches you before you hit the ground. He doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the session. Later, in the parking lot, he gives you his jacket even though he’s shaking from the cold.

5. THE MOVIE THEATER DATE (ONE THEATER, ONE SCREEN, BACK ROW). He doesn’t like crowds. He doesn’t like noise he can’t control. So he finds a weird little one-screen theater, maybe in Brooklyn, maybe Queens, that plays old films. No big blockbusters. Something quiet. Maybe The Conversation or Zodiac or Double Indemnity. He buys your ticket in advance. You sit in the very back row, far from anyone else. He doesn’t watch the movie as much as he watches you watching it. Afterward, he talks about the sound design and cinematography like he’s been rehearsing it in his head for days.

6. THE “STAY INSIDE AND PLAN EVERYTHING” DATE. You don’t go anywhere. That’s the point. You stay at his place — which is clean, sparse, sterile — and he’s made an itinerary. Literal bullet points. He’s scheduled food, movies, maybe board games. Every part of it screams “please don’t leave me for the chaos in my head.” He’s thought about what snacks you’d like, what blanket to have on hand, what movie you once said you liked in passing. You tease him gently, and he grins, but his hands still shake when you touch them. He’s not doing it for control. He’s doing it because he wants to do it right.

7. THE LATE-NIGHT WALK DATE (WHEN THE CITY IS QUIET ENOUGH). He doesn’t sleep. Not really. So when he texts you at 1:14 AM — “You up?” — and you say yes, he shows up fifteen minutes later with two cups of vending machine coffee. You walk through the quieter parts of the city: the waterfront, the cemetery, the industrial neighborhoods where even the rats are asleep. He opens up more when the world is quiet, tells you things he shouldn’t, things you didn’t want to know, and then goes quiet like he’s ashamed. He sits next to you on a loading dock and says, “I don’t know why you’re still here.” but he doesn’t ask you to leave.

8. THE MUSEUM DATE (OFF-HOURS, PRIVATE TOUR). He somehow arranges a private tour at a museum — maybe he knows a guy, or maybe he just made it happen in a way you don’t want to ask about. It’s late. The lights are low. The whole building is yours. He shows you exhibits he already knows by heart. There’s something reverent about the way he moves through the space, like he’s in a church. He doesn’t touch anything. Doesn’t speak loudly. Just watches you take it all in, like you’re the art.

9. THE GUN RANGE DATE. He asks if you’ve ever shot a gun. You say no. He says, “Wanna try?” The gun range is quiet. Clinical. Controlled. He’s respectful. Painfully careful. He teaches you how to hold the weapon, how to breathe, how to listen. He corrects your stance without touching you unless you say it’s okay. You can tell it matters to him that you feel safe, that he doesn’t scare you. He doesn’t smile much during this date. But afterward, he says, “You were amazing.” And he means it.

10. THE “I DON’T WANT TO SCARE YOU” DATE. There’s no real plan. He just shows up at your door with his hat in his hands, eyes flicking nervously from your face to the floor. “We could just... hang out? If that’s okay?” You watch a show. You eat something simple. He talks a little too fast, like he’s rehearsing what a person should say. And every so often, he stops mid-sentence, panicked, like he’s afraid he’s ruining it. But you tell him he’s not. You tell him it’s enough. You touch his shoulder and he flinches, not from fear, but from how gentle it is. You stay up with him until morning. He lets you.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

1. THE HIGH-END BAR DATE. Billy doesn’t take you to just any place for drinks, it’s a rooftop lounge, sleek and dimly lit, tucked into some hotel only people with business cards know about. He dresses sharp. You do too. He orders for you but asks first, always, and tips like a man with something to prove. Everyone notices him. He notices you. And when you talk, he actually listens. He smiles a lot, but it never quite reaches his eyes until you surprise him, a joke, a memory, something real. That’s when the mask slips, just a little.

2. THE HOTEL ROOM ROOM SERVICE DATE. He books a fancy room. For the view, he says. For the privacy, he means. He’s wearing a robe. You’re wearing his T-shirt. Room service comes in silver trays, overpriced wine in a cooler, everything tailored to your taste because he asked, weeks ago, subtly. You eat in bed. Watch something trashy. He teases you for it but he’s into it too. And when things slow down, when your head’s on his chest, and the city glows through the window, he goes quiet. He doesn’t fall asleep. He stays still, like he doesn’t want to miss this.

3. THE ART GALLERY DATE. Billy doesn’t pretend to be deep, not anymore, but he wants to be around things that are. He takes you to a small gallery opening in some converted warehouse space. Wine in paper cups, artists in black, but he’s oddly comfortable here. He stands behind you while you look at the pieces, hands in his pockets, watching you more than the art. He asks what you see in them. What you feel. When you turn the question back on him, he shrugs, grins — “I see you liking it. That’s enough for me.”

4. THE EARLY MORNING COFFEE DATE. Surprisingly domestic. He’s half-asleep, hoodie and joggers, stubble rough. He meets you at that one corner café with bad music and perfect lattes. You sit outside. He reads the paper. You talk about nonsense. He’s quiet here, less performative, like the armor’s not all the way up yet. When he laughs, it’s real. When he reaches for your hand, it’s not a move. It’s instinct. People pass and glance, and he lets them. He likes being seen with you.

5. THE PRIVATE CLUB DATE. This is when he’s showing off — not for you, but for himself. Some exclusive spot where the host knows his name. He wears cologne sharp enough to sting. He orders the steak rare and the wine expensive. You get the sense this is what he thinks he has to do to keep you. But somewhere between the dessert and the whiskey, he leans in and says something too honest, about his mother, or nightmares, or how quiet it gets at 3 AM. He’ll brush it off right after. But you won’t forget it.

6. THE GYM DATE. You don’t mean to call it a date. But he invites you to train with him — private gym, empty, padded floor. He teaches you to hit pads, how to breathe through a punch, how to move your feet. He’s intense, hyper-focused, eyes tracking everything. You land one solid hit on him and he grins, breathless. “Damn, alright.” he says, and you’ve never seen him look prouder. Afterward, you sit on the mat drinking water, sweat-slick and flushed, and he watches you like he’s never seen you before. Like you could break him if you wanted.

7. THE “I FUCKED UP” DATE. He shows up at your door late. Doesn’t say much. Just looks at you with that tight jaw, that I-ruined-something stare. You let him in. He doesn’t talk for a while. When he does, it’s careful. Too careful. “I don’t want to lie to you.” And he doesn’t. But he doesn’t tell you everything either. He takes you somewhere quiet, a dark little bar or a 24-hour diner, and he tries. Not to impress you. Just to be real.

8. THE CHINATOWN NOODLE SHOP DATE. One of his comfort spots. Loud, cramped, cash only, fluorescent lights and the best dumplings in the city. You sit side by side in a narrow booth, brushing knees under the table. He orders for both of you, fast and fluent. This is a rare look at him relaxed, mouth full, sleeves rolled up, joking about the old lady at the next table who yelled at him once. He eats like he grew up hungry. He glances at you between bites like he’s checking if you still like him. You do. And he knows it.

9. THE “JUST STAY WITH ME” DATE. There’s no plan. Just his penthouse, expensive, sterile, too clean. You bring over takeout. He makes a show of complaining about the movie you picked, but halfway through, his arm’s around you, his chin on your shoulder. His voice is low. His touch is soft. And when the movie ends and the room goes dark, he doesn’t reach for anything else. He just stays there, pressed against you like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “You don’t have to go.” he says, like he expects you to. You stay. He sleeps for once. Really sleeps.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

1. THE AFTER-WORK BAR DATE (WITH HER GUN STILL ON HER). You meet her at some hole-in-the-wall place, dim lighting, real whiskey, no music loud enough to drown out thinking. She’s already seated when you arrive, sipping something straight, jacket still on. Her shoulder holster is visible for half a second when she shrugs it off. This isn’t romance. It’s decompression. She vents about the bullshit at work, about the way people don’t listen, and you listen. That’s the date. Just you, her, the world pulled down to one booth.

2. THE "JUST GET IN" DRIVE DATE. She texts you: “Come outside.” You do, and she’s already in the car, engine running, hair up, something old playing through the speakers, maybe Fleetwood Mac, maybe Nirvana. She doesn’t say where you’re going. You drive over the bridge, lights cutting across her face, city fading behind you. Eventually you stop at some nothing-town gas station, sit on the hood, drink bottled tea, and talk. Not about work. Not about trauma. Just about old music, books, and what the stars looked like in Kandahar. She tells you something small, something true. She doesn’t want to go home yet. Neither do you.

3. THE MIDDLE-OF-THE-DAY MUSEUM DATE. She takes her lunch break late. Asks if you’re free. You meet at a museum, nothing flashy, maybe the Tenement Museum or the New-York Historical Society. She walks slowly, eyes scanning everything. She reads the plaques. She likes context. She leans in close to tell you things she remembers from her old studies, quotes, statistics, political history. She's sharp, not performative, and when she catches you looking at her instead of the exhibit, she says, “What?” but she’s smiling.

4. THE PERSIAN CAFE DATE. There’s a place she goes that no one at work knows about. Persian food, warm spices, real bread, people who know her order. She takes you there on a Sunday evening when she finally breathes again. She teaches you how to pronounce things right, tells you about her mother’s cooking. She doesn’t talk about Iran often, but here, in the soft light and scent of saffron, she lets herself remember. She eats slowly, laughs quietly, watches you like she’s trying to decide if she can trust how easy this feels.

5. THE “YOU'RE COMING TO THE GYM” DATE. You didn’t plan it. She texts “I’m already here. You coming?” It’s a gritty, old-school boxing gym where everyone knows her name. She wraps your hands. Shows you footwork. She doesn’t go easy on you. She likes that you keep up. The trainer says she’s never brought someone in before. Afterward, you both sit on the bench, dripping sweat, silent for a while.

6. THE TARGET RANGE DATE. She doesn’t ask. She just hands you ear protection and says, “Let’s go.” She keeps it professional at first, posture perfect, grouping tight. But when she sees your hands shake a little, she steps behind you, presses her hand to your back, and says “You’re alright. Just breathe.” That’s the real date: her teaching you calm, control, how to stand steady in the noise. Later, she lets you drive. Keeps her hand on your knee the whole way home.

7. THE “I NEED TO BE OUT OF THE CITY” DATE. She’s not in a good place. She doesn’t say that. She just picks you up and drives north. Into the woods. A lake. A state park. She parks the car and says “Walk with me.” She doesn't talk much until you’re a few miles in, the silence softening her shoulders. She finally exhales. Tells you about the nightmares, the guilt, the job she hates and won’t quit. She throws rocks into the water, jaw tight. You don’t try to fix it. That’s why she brought you. You just walk back beside her, and this time, she takes your hand.

8. THE LAUNDRY NIGHT DATE. Late night. You meet at the 24-hour laundromat near her apartment. She hands you a basket without comment. It’s quiet. Fluorescent. Smells like detergent. You fold shirts while she vents about her idiot boss and the paperwork she wants to set on fire. She lets her hair down, finally, and throws a sock at your face. It's the calmest you’ve ever seen her. At the vending machine, she buys you a bag of M&Ms. Says, “Thanks for being here,” in a voice that makes you forget the night is ordinary.

9. THE FILES-AND-WINE NIGHT DATE. She’s working late. You bring wine. She doesn’t stop working. Not at first. But she lets you read over the files with her, explain what she's tracking. She trusts you enough to let you in, into the mess, the obsession, the dangerous details. At some point she kicks her shoes off and leans back against you on the couch, wine glass in one hand, red ink on her other. “This isn’t exactly romantic.” she mutters. But she doesn’t stop leaning on you. She lets herself fall asleep there. That’s the part she won’t admit means everything.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

1. THE STOLEN GALLERY NIGHT. He blindfolds you. That’s part of it. Says he wants your “first impression” to be pure. When he takes it off you’re standing in an abandoned building, paint and blood and canvas smeared across the walls like a murder scene curated for aesthetic. It’s quiet. He calls it his “private exhibit.” You don’t recognize the medium. You don’t ask. He waits, head tilted, to see what emotion crosses your face first. Fear? Disgust? Awe? That’s the whole date. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t speak much. Just watches you walk through what he made, and decides whether or not he likes how you respond.

2. THE DINNER HE COOKS HIMSELF (BADLY). He shows up at your place. Somehow knows where you live. He says, “Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned. That’d be boring.” He cooks you something and it’s almost childish in its sincerity. Overcooked steak. Under-seasoned vegetables. But he tries. He watches you eat like it’s an experiment. He doesn’t sit. He crouches in a chair like a predator too restless to settle.

3. THE “DO YOU WANT TO SEE IT?” DATE. It’s raining. You’re in his car, some beat-up, anonymous thing with no radio. He drives for hours. Never says where. Finally, you stop in front of a warehouse by the docks. Inside: a tarp. A body under it. Not fresh, but not old either. His voice is soft. Childlike. “I wanted you to see it before the world does. Before I finish it.” He waits for your reaction like a child showing a drawing to a parent. Not for forgiveness. Not for horror. Just… approval. Or not. Either way, you leave different than you came in.

4. THE ROOFTOP SURVEILLANCE DATE. He brings you to a rooftop. There’s no blanket, no wine, no pretense. Just binoculars, police scanners, and an angle on Hell’s Kitchen that sees everything. “This is where I study them,” he says. “Before I decide what they are.” You sit in silence for over an hour. No touching. No conversation. Just him pointing out people. Murmuring what he thinks they are: “That one cheats on his wife. That one embezzles. That one kicks her dog.” You don’t know how he knows. You don’t ask. When you leave, he looks disappointed. “You didn’t ask for anyone’s name.”

5. THE ABANDONED CHURCH DATE. He thinks he’s funny when he calls it “romantic.” The pews are broken. Candles half-melted. A blood-streaked mural covers the altar wall made from oil paint and something thicker. He says he likes the stillness in places like this. “God doesn’t live here anymore. But I do.” He asks you if you ever lied to a priest. If you ever really confessed. He doesn’t touch you, but he invades space without needing to. He stands so close you feel his breath, but never his hands. It’s not intimacy. It’s invasion disguised as worship.

6. THE “MAKE SOMETHING WITH ME” DATE. He lays out supplies in front of you: paints, scrap wood, photographs, razors. “Let’s make something together.” he says, far too gently. You think it’s art. At first. But there are instructions. Rules. Things you can’t do. Things you have to do. He wants your hands dirty. Wants to see how far you’ll go. You don’t know if it’s a real piece or a test.

7. THE QUIET NIGHT IN (WITH THE TV STATIC). You’re in his place. Sparse. Windowless. You sit together on the couch. The TV is on, but it’s static. He says it helps him think. He asks you strange questions: “What’s your earliest memory of cruelty?” “Do you ever feel beautiful when you’re bleeding?” “Would you save a stranger if no one ever knew?” You’re not sure if it’s a conversation or an interrogation. But you answer. Because you want him to see you as something worth keeping.

8. THE “LOOK AT ME” DATE. No movement. No sound. Just the two of you sitting in a locked room, no phones, no distractions. He tells you to look at him. For one hour. Just look. “It’s a study,” he says. “Not of me. Of you.” Your eyes burn. You flinch. You try to speak, he raises one finger. No. When the hour ends, he finally exhales. Says, softly, “People always show you what they are if you look long enough.” You don’t know what he saw in you. But he smiles on the way out.

9. THE HOSPITAL DATE. Not your hospital. Not his. Just a hospital. He takes you to the trauma wing, says he wants to show you where the world bleeds. You sit in the waiting room together, silently watching people come and go, broken arms, crying children, gurneys and blood-slicked sheets. He points at people and says, “Art. Art. Not art. Waste.” You don’t speak. You don’t stop him. He watches your reactions more than he watches the people. You realize you’re the exhibit. You always were.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

1. THE RESERVATION-NOBODY-ELSE-COULD-GET DATE. It’s not a loud place. It’s not on TikTok. There are no influencers here. Just real food, flawless lighting, and waiters who already know your name when you walk in. Wesley opens every door for you. He orders something elegant, but not flashy. He watches you across the table, totally present. When he touches your hand, it’s deliberate, thumb brushing your knuckles, grounding you both in that moment. He never talks too much, but he always listens. And if anyone bothers you? He doesn’t make a scene. He makes a call. You never see that person again.

2. THE OPERA DATE (YES, REALLY). He has box seats. Of course he does. He doesn’t go often, but when he does, it’s always for someone else. He brings you because he wants you to experience it, the elegance, the gravitas, the control of a story told through discipline and volume. You dress up. He looks devastating in a dark suit. During the performance, he barely moves. He knows every cue. Afterward you talk about it in low tones over a neat drink, and when you say something insightful about the second aria, he smiles with quiet pride. He doesn’t say “I love you.” He says “That’s why I brought you.”

3. THE LATE-NIGHT WALK WITH A DRIVER 30 FEET BACK. He doesn’t like chaos. But he likes walking with you. Only after dark, only when the city’s quiet and his security team has already cleared the area. There’s a black car idling half a block back. He pretends not to notice it, because this is his version of vulnerability. He walks close to you, always on the side facing the street, always watching the windows above. Once in a while, he’ll pause and say something completely sincere, like “You have an extraordinary way of noticing things.” You don’t know what he means by that. But it matters.

4. THE “I CLEARED MY SCHEDULE FOR THIS” DATE. It’s 3:00 PM on a weekday. He never takes time off. Ever. But today, he sends a car to pick you up and meet him at an art gallery, small, quiet, completely empty. He booked it out. Just for you. You walk the space alone. He doesn’t pretend to know art. He just watches you respond to it. You talk. You teach him things. He smiles more than usual, eyes sharp, body calm. And when you get to the final piece, he says, “I knew you’d like this one.” Because he already walked the entire exhibit yesterday to make sure.

5. THE WESLEY-COOKS DINNER DATE. Yes. He can cook. He’s not flashy about it. Just careful. Exact. Everything timed perfectly, risotto stirred like a ritual, steak seared with the same focus he uses to arrange hits. The kitchen is spotless. He hands you a glass of wine while you sit at the counter and watch him work. Dinner is candlelit not because he’s trying to be romantic but because he knows soft lighting makes you feel safer. Afterward he cleans up while you’re still finishing dessert. There’s jazz playing.

6. THE LIBRARY DATE. He tells you to meet him in a library. Not a big one — a private, old, dusty place with windows that catch the light just right. You sit across from each other at a long table, reading separate things, occasionally sharing lines that make you smile. He reads slowly. He likes holding the spine of a book in his hands, something about the weight of it, the control. He likes watching your face when you get to a good part. He doesn’t interrupt.

7. THE CLASSIC MOVIE THEATER DATE. He finds a theater that plays black-and-white films, original reels, organ music before the opening credits. You get popcorn in a red-and-white striped bag. The seats creak when you sit down. He’s watched this film a hundred times, probably. But he watches you watching it. When you whisper something about the scene — a little detail, a line of dialogue — he turns to you, and says, “Exactly.” He walks you home after. Doesn’t try anything. Just walks beside you in the cold, hands in his pockets, the streetlight throwing his shadow long behind him.

8. THE “EVERYTHING IS ALREADY HANDLED” DATE. You mention offhand that you’ve been stressed lately. Too much on your plate. Too many little things slipping. You don’t even ask for help. But the next weekend, he picks you up and drives you to a small house outside the city, someone’s guest home, fully stocked, fridge filled, phone off. You ask how he arranged it. He just says, “I thought you’d like some silence.” You spend the day reading, walking the grounds, sitting near the fireplace. It’s the kind of calm that feels orchestrated. Because it was. Because he saw what you needed before you knew you needed it.

9. THE CLEANED-UP-DISASTER DATE. You’re having a bad night. You call him. That’s the entire date. He shows up at your door in under fifteen minutes. Says nothing at first, just lets you talk. Or cry. Or sit in silence. Then he asks if you’ve eaten. You haven’t. So he orders something simple. No questions, no judgments. You fall asleep on the couch. When you wake up, the food’s been put away, the lights are off, and he’s still there. Reading quietly in a chair near the window. He doesn’t sleep. Not when you might need him.

10. THE “NO ONE KNOWS ABOUT THIS” DATE. It’s a bar with no sign. No windows. The owner recognizes him and waves you both in. There’s jazz playing on vinyl. Maybe five people inside, tops. He takes you to the corner booth. No one watches you here. He’s different tonight. Looser. Warmer. He lets his fingers linger on yours when he sets his drink down. He tells you stories that never make it into case files. Things about his childhood. About loyalty. About what people really are when you take the masks off. He never talks this way to anyone else. You know that. And he knows you’ll never tell.

started 5.20.2025. finished 7.15.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[monicfever]

miss miss miss miss you

i miss yall more. 🫶 it’s been a minute, my bad. do yall still rock with daredevil / punisher fics ⁉️

[monicfever]

i love your writing sm 😭 especially your dex hcs, i dont know what it is but the way you write hcs flows so nicely and the way you explore all the little details makes it feel so cozy and comforting hahah i hope you feel better soon!! vitamin c, water, and rest!!! <3

THANK YOU !!!!!!! this for real made me super happy , i love this compliment so much and im glad it’s comforting for you to read :)) thank you for taking the time to say that !!!

[monicfever]

I *love* love love your writing!! I could scroll through your stuff for hours just rereading, you're so talented!

you are so lovely and im so happy you took the time to leave this message! made me smile

[monicfever]

hello dearest monic ! plopping by to say please rest well and get well soon !! your works are such a phenomenal display of talent, every headcannon for every character for every scenario is sooo well thought out. i can definitely see the effort you put in to make sure your characterisations are well aligned. you write so frequently for so many characters its insane !! pleasee take care of yourself, im virtually giving you hot soup n sending hugs n kisses <33 get well soon 🫂🫂 :))

ty nez 💞. i always get so happy when i see your reblogs they make my day you always take time to pluck my work apart and it’s so very appreciated. ☺️ i really try my hardest to make the headcanons actually accurate to the character and the fact it’s being noticed makes me so ecstatic. im resting dw, i’ll be back soon to feed y’all 🫡

[monicfever]

Hiiii i wanna thank you for your service to the daredevil community😭😭 no joke your writing is so immersive and interesting!!! The attention to detail for each character you write is insaneee your writing is the highlight of my day and I always go back and reread your headcanons!!

THANK YOU SO MUCH.

truly was not expecting this much love. i started this account a week ago and ive already been overwhelmed in the best way with support. im a writer, but i dont even have the words to describe how eternally grateful i am and im so happy you guys like my work. :(

thank you for 250 followers, if you sent in a request i swear ill be getting to it soon. ^_^

[monicfever]

ILY MARRY ME

ILYT I MISSED YOU OMFGG signing the papers rn

[monicfever]

could we have some frank boyfriend hcs please? love ur writing !! <3

frank castle as your boyfriend. 𝜗𝜚 hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

cw ᝰ .ᐟ gender neutral reader ,, sfw ,, it’s frank castle so 🤨 mentions of blood and stuff

FRANK AS YOUR BOYFRIEND . . . loves quietly. fiercely. like it’s carved into him. he’s not the type to write poems or whisper sweet things — but he brings you coffee before you wake up and keeps his arm around you in every crowded room. he remembers how you take your tea, what shirt you sleep in, the exact sound you make when you laugh too hard.

frank doesn’t fall in love. he commits to it. like a vow. something permanent. he watches over you the way most people breathe — effortlessly, constantly, without needing to think. puts himself between you and danger before you even register that something’s wrong. it’s not dramatic for him — it’s just instinct.

watches bad action movies with you and critiques the gun work the whole time. “that’s not how recoil works.” “no way that guy walks away from a wound like that.” but when you laugh at him for it, he gets all smug. “just saying. i could do it better.”

frank’s not invincible. he carries grief in his ribs and guilt in his spine. sometimes it catches up with him. some nights he won’t come to bed. just sits on the floor beside it, back to the wall, eyes dark. like if he closes them, he’ll lose everything. including you. he doesn’t talk about his past much. doesn’t talk about feelings either. but when he holds you it’s with this kind of aching gentleness, like you’re the last good thing in a world he doesn’t trust anymore.

he never asks for anything, but he always lights up when you touch him first. when you kiss his shoulder without warning. when you reach for his hand. like it catches him off guard, every time — the idea that someone like you could choose someone like him.

he always drives. always. he won’t say it out loud, but he needs to be in control — needs to protect you, even from a fender bender or a bad intersection. keeps one hand on the wheel and one on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth. sings quietly when his favourite old songs come on. you almost miss it the first few times.

has a quiet little grunt-laugh when you get sarcastic. never full-on laughs — not the belly kind — but it’s a sharp exhale, a crooked smile, head tilted like “you got me.”

“you tired?” you’ll ask, and he’ll grunt something half-hearted. “i’m good.” but then he’s pulling you in, pressing his face into your neck, one heavy arm around your waist like a shield.

he doesn’t say i love you much. but he shows it in the way he always notices when you’re cold, the way he drives a little slower when you’re in the passenger seat, how he keeps an extra sweatshirt of his in your closet like it belongs there. frank listens when you talk. keeps your words tucked away like secrets. remembers names you mentioned once, the kind of books you like, the way you bite your lip when you’re about to cry but don’t want to.

he’s not scared of bullets or pain or anything that can be solved with his fists — but he gets scared of you leaving. scared that you’ll wake up one day and realize you deserve someone softer. someone safer, someone cleaner. so he’s careful. careful not to break things, careful not to raise his voice. careful not to bleed too close to you, even when he’s hurt.

keeps a toolbox in your apartment before he ever brings a toothbrush. fixes that squeaky cabinet door without being asked. rehangs your shelves, patches your drywall, silently wires your lamp so it stops flickering. doesn’t make a big deal about it — just hands you a cup of coffee after and kisses your forehead like it’s nothing.

does your dishes without saying a word. folds laundry with sleeves tucked in and socks matched. gets grumpy if you try to help while he’s in the zone. “i got it,” he mutters, brow furrowed like laundry’s a mission he must complete correctly. then he’ll look over and gently nudge you onto the couch. “sit. rest.”

like taking care of you is just part of his day.

he doesn’t sleep through the night, but he tries not to wake you. gets up quietly, makes tea in the dark. reads worn paperback thrillers with a flashlight like he’s still out in the field. but if you come find him — sleepy and barefoot, rubbing your eyes — he just opens his arms. pulls you into his lap, tucks his chin over your head.

gets oddly proud when he teaches you how to shoot. or fix a leak. or throw a punch. grins when you hit the target, calls you a natural. but the truth is he never wants you to have to use any of it. he’d burn the world down before he let something hurt you.

keeps a knife in the drawer by the bed. one in the glove compartment. one taped under the coffee table. it’s not paranoia — it’s habit. he was trained to anticipate the worst. but when you ask him about it, he softens. “just in case,” he says, hand resting on your back. “nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

he’s the kind of boyfriend who always knows when something’s off. even if you’re smiling, even if you say you’re fine. he notices when you’re quiet for too long, when your shoulders are tight. doesn’t push — just pulls you close, rubs slow circles into your back.

won’t ever tell the world what you are to him, but he keeps a photo of you tucked behind his driver’s license. always checks on it before he leaves for anything dangerous. you’re his anchor. his reason. he’s not a man who believes in second chances — but somehow, you are his.

he cooks like he’s back in the marines. efficient. fast. always enough for leftovers. but over time, he starts adding things just because you like them. makes your eggs how you like them, even if he doesn’t eat that way. tries your weird coffee orders without complaint. grumbles when he actually likes it. “too sweet,” he says, but finishes the whole thing.

when you fall asleep on the couch, he carries you to bed. always. tucks the blanket around you, kisses your forehead, brushes your hair back with hands that have broken bones and pulled triggers — but only ever touch you like you’re made of silk. then he lays beside you, arm wrapped around your waist, breath evening out to the rhythm of yours.

still wakes up too early. still checks the locks. still sits with his back to the wall in restaurants, even when it’s just brunch on a sunny sunday. but now he does it with your hand in his, thumb tracing soft, absent-minded shapes across your knuckles. he doesn’t say it, but his body speaks for him: i’ve got you.

he keeps things simple. practical. doesn’t like clutter. but then your books start piling up on the nightstand, and your sweater ends up on his desk chair, and your perfume lingers in the bathroom air — and he doesn’t move any of it. not even once. instead, he adds to it. a second toothbrush. a pair of slippers in your size. a grocery list stuck to the fridge that says “your coffee” in his blocky, all-caps handwriting.

he won’t say i miss you when you leave for a few days, but he’ll text to ask where you keep the cereal. then follow up with “never mind, found it.” when you come home, the bed’s made, the dishes are done, your favorite blanket’s draped over the couch. he doesn’t know how to say i missed you, so he just lives it.

he starts to laugh more. not loud, not often — but the kind that makes you freeze for a second because it’s real. usually when you tease him. or when you trip over nothing and pretend it was “parkour.” that little huff he gives, the crinkle by his eyes — it feels like a gift every single time.

he does that thing where he kisses the top of your head every time he walks behind you. in the kitchen, brushing your teeth, putting on your shoes. just a soft press of his lips to your crown.

you’re the only one he lets bandage him. he’ll brush off broken ribs like they’re nothing but sits still when you press alcohol-soaked cotton to a split knuckle. watches you like you’re something holy. like your hands could undo every war he’s fought.

reads labels now. like, really reads them. checks if the cereal has too much sugar. makes sure the medicine doesn’t interact with the one you take. won’t admit it, but he googled the skincare brand you use to see if it was safe.

refuses to let you carry heavy groceries. like, absolutely not. you once tried to bring in two bags and he took them out of your hands mid-step. “what the hell are you doin’?” he said, annoyed, already loading up his arms.

doesn’t like crowds, but he’ll go anywhere with you. leans down and says “stay close” in your ear, hand low on your back the whole time. doesn’t let go until you’re home again.

he won’t dance. won’t sing. won’t go to parties. but he’ll hold you in the kitchen, swaying slightly to the radio while you hum into his chest. that, he’ll do.

major dog person. duh. doesn’t care that he’s tough. doesn’t care that he’s seen things — nothing melts him like a dog wagging its tail. he’s the kind of guy who’s out in the yard throwing a ball, talking in that low, soft voice that only dogs get to hear. “go get it, buddy!” and you almost can’t believe it’s him saying it.

makes sure your car is always in running condition. not just oil checks, either. he replaces your windshield wipers, cleans the headlights, checks the tires — all without you asking. it’s like his way of protecting you, even when he’s not around. he knows it’s a small thing, but it’s one more way to make sure you’re taken care of. you get a flat tire? frank’s there in a second. doesn’t matter what time it is, doesn’t matter if he’s just gotten home after a week-long job. he’ll grab the tools, roll up his sleeves, and take care of it — no problem.

when he gets home after a mission, he’s quiet at first. but then he’ll slide into bed next to you, pull you close, and breathe you in like he can’t quite believe he’s back. “missed you.” he’ll whisper, voice hoarse, like it took everything out of him just to say it.

when you’re quiet, lost in thought, he notices. doesn’t pry, but always checks in with a low “you alright?” just so you know he’s paying attention.

frank is actually really into music, but only plays it when he's alone with you. he has an old guitar stashed in a corner of the apartment and you’ll catch him strumming it softly in the mornings before either of you are fully awake.

whenever you’ve had a bad day, he’ll quietly take care of things around the house — extra dishes done, the laundry folded without you asking, everything wiped down and cleaned up. not because he has to, but because he wants you to feel like home, like you have one less thing to worry about. he doesn’t say anything about it; he just silently goes about it while you take a nap or relax.

he’s sentimental about your things. you’ll catch him carrying around a keychain you gave him, or putting a postcard from your last vacation on his fridge. it’s subtle, but there are all these little pieces of you around his place — items that remind him of you, things that carry a piece of your heart.

good at remembering all your friends’ names. and the names of their kids. and their jobs. you’ll be like, “i saw claire today,” and frank will be like, “the one with the twin boys? she doin’ okay?” like it’s his job to keep track of your whole social circle now.

he has a weird soft spot for baking shows. says he doesn’t care, just watches ‘cause you do — but then suddenly he’s dead serious about whether the sponge is overbaked. sits there with his arms crossed, judging the contestants like he’s on the panel. “too much fondant. gonna cost ‘em.”

he’s surprisingly good at picking gifts. not flashy ones — thoughtful ones. a new mug because your favorite one cracked. a hoodie from a concert you couldn’t go to. a book by that author you said you liked once, six months ago. he remembers everything.

he buys you snacks when he’s mad at you. not big mad — just quiet, brooding, stubborn mad. instead of talking it out right away, he drops a bag of your favorite chips or candy on the counter and walks away like that settles it. it kind of does.

he’s so gentle with your stuff. your phone, your clothes, your decor — he handles all of it like it’s fragile, even if you toss it around like nothing.

he has zero patience when you’re sick. not annoyed — just worried. extra gruff. keeps asking “you need anything?” even though he just brought you tea, tissues, meds, and a hoodie. paces around the house like he’s prepping for battle against your cold.

he doesn’t talk in the mornings. just grunts and nods. but if you’re up before him and being cute or busy or just existing in his space, he’ll pull you into his chest without saying anything.

he’s not a big texter, but he reads all your messages the second they come in. always leaves you on “read” because he’s looking at it immediately, even if he replies 3 hours later with just “ok” and a thumbs-up emoji he definitely didn’t mean to send.

he always checks the expiration date on your food. opens the fridge and mutters under his breath about the milk “cutting it too damn close.” doesn’t want you eating anything that’ll make you sick. throws out the sketchy yogurt when you’re not looking.

he’s so good at reaching things for you. doesn’t matter how tall you are, he lives to reach the thing on the top shelf before you can. you stand on your toes, and he’s suddenly behind you like, “you’re gonna hurt yourself.” then hands it over like a knight returning a holy relic.

he doesn’t like you walking home alone. ever. if he can’t come get you, he’ll track your location. texts you the whole way like, “where are you now?” “you inside yet?” “door locked?” and you know the second you stop answering he’s already throwing on his jacket.

he uses your bath products and thinks you don’t notice. you’ll wonder why your fancy shampoo is suddenly disappearing faster, but then he walks past smelling like lavender and vanilla and acts like nothing’s different. you bring it up once and he grunts, “smells nice. don’t make it a thing.”

he tucks your legs into his lap when you sit next to him. even if he’s sore. even if you’re fidgety. he just wants you there — anchored to him, warm and close. sometimes he absentmindedly rubs your calves or traces circles on your ankle while he watches the news.

he hates being away from you overnight. says he doesn’t mind, but when he’s gone, he sleeps like shit. texts you random things at 3 a.m. — “you lock the door?” “the heater working?” “dog okay?” you know he only really rests when he’s home and you’re curled up next to him.

he always brings you water before bed. even if you don’t ask. even if you forget. there’s always a glass or a bottle on your nightstand when you crawl under the covers.

he kisses the inside of your wrist when he’s too tired to speak. when the day’s been too much. when his body hurts and his mind’s too loud — he pulls your hand to his mouth and presses his lips there.

he never lets you pump your own gas. doesn’t matter the weather. rain, snow, heatwave — he takes the keys and gets out before you even unbuckle. doesn’t say a word about it. just does it because it’s second nature now.

he always opens jars for you, even when you don’t ask. like you’ll just be holding it, about to try, and suddenly he’s there. doesn’t say anything, just takes it, opens it, hands it back.

he lets you warm your hands on him. no complaint, no hesitation. just grabs your frozen fingers and presses them to his neck, under his shirt, into his palms. grunts when it stings, but never pulls away. just says, “go ahead. s’okay.”

always lingers at the door when you leave. watches you walk to your car, stands there until you’re out of sight. won’t move. won’t blink. like part of him won’t settle until you’re home again.

he’s weirdly good at untangling necklaces. big hands, thick fingers, but somehow he’s patient as hell with tiny knots. sits at the table, squinting like he’s disarming a bomb.

he knows which drawer all your stuff is in. at his place, at your place, doesn’t matter — he knows where you keep your chargers, your snacks, your pain meds. grabs things before you even ask. sometimes you wonder how he pays that much attention. you forget — he’s a soldier. he notices everything about what he loves.

he lowkey judges your shoes. not fashion-wise — function. “you’re gonna walk five blocks in those?” and if you say yes, he just sighs and gives you his arm the whole time. doesn’t say another word. but if you stumble once? “told you.”

has a deep, secret love for hot chocolate. doesn’t ask for it, never buys it, but if you make it? he’s sipping it silently, eyes half-lidded, shoulders relaxed. you catch him making it for himself once. refuses to make eye contact.

he gets the mail before you can. every day. rain or shine. not because he cares what’s in it — because he wants to be the one to deal with anything stressful before it reaches you. bills, notices, whatever. you only ever get the fun stuff. the packages. the postcards.

he remembers anniversaries you forget. first date. first road trip. the day you moved in. doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just quietly brings home your favourite dinner or sets a movie up you mentioned on that day.

he absolutely has a favorite mug. won’t admit it. but if you’re ever using it, he pauses for a second like he’s been emotionally robbed. won’t take it back, though. just pours his coffee into something else and quietly hopes you offer to switch.

he fixes things that don’t even belong to him. neighbor’s broken porch light? fixed. squeaky gate down the block? doesn’t squeak anymore.

never lets you walk through the door first if it’s dark. goes in ahead of you, even if it’s your place. checks the rooms out of habit. flips the lights on.

knocks before entering your space, even when you live together. bathroom door cracked? he knocks. bedroom door half-closed? still knocks. doesn’t matter if he knows you’re alone — he respects your space.

weirdly good at calming you down in traffic. if you’re driving and someone cuts you off? hand on your thigh. if you're stressed about getting lost? “take the next right, i got you.”

he teaches you how to punch — gently. wraps your hands himself, touches your wrists like he’s afraid they’ll bruise. he holds the pads out and murmurs “that’s it, right there,” every time your form’s good. he doesn’t teach you so you can fight. he teaches you so you won’t ever feel helpless.

so careful when you’re sleeping. gets out of bed like you’re made of glass. turns the TV down low. covers you up without waking you, tucks your hair behind your ear, kisses your shoulder and just stares for a second like he still can’t believe he gets to have this.

he writes down your car’s license plate. and the make. and the year. and the tire pressure. keeps it in a little notebook in his glove box — not because he’s nosy, but because he needs to know in case anything ever happens.

puts his name down as your emergency contact without asking. just does it. one day you’re filling something out and he goes, “already on file.” like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like of course it’s me. who else?

he reads manuals. like, actually sits down and reads them. toasters. phones. whatever you buy, he knows how to fix it, clean it, use every setting.

he wears your hair ties on his wrist. even when you didn’t ask him to. finds them in the bathroom or under the couch and just keeps them there like it’s a reflex. you don’t notice until one day he silently hands you one without looking and you realize — he’s always paying attention.

calls you “kid” sometimes, even if you’re not younger. not condescending — it’s fond. soft. it slips out when he’s feeling protective. like, “c’mon, kid, get some rest,” or “you did good, kid.” and if anyone else calls you that, he bristles like no — mine.

he gets tense when you’re near windows at night. especially lit ones. moves around the room in ways that put him between you and the glass. not paranoid. just hardwired to protect you. you don’t notice until one night you go to close the curtains and he’s already there, pulling them shut with a soft, “let me get that.”

he texts you like he’s on a recon mission. all short updates: “headed back.” / “store’s packed.” / “traffic’s shit.” but every now and then, he’ll throw in something like “you eat yet?” or “thinking about you.” and those are the ones that wreck you a little.

he always leaves the porch light on if you're out late. even if you say you don’t need it. even if you’re only gone for ten minutes. it’s not about the light. it’s about you always having something to come home to.

he’s secretly a little superstitious about you. doesn’t let you say things like “what if something happens to you.” knocks on wood under the table. leaves the porch light on even when you’re only gone ten minutes. he’s seen too much not to be cautious. and you — you’re the one thing he refuses to lose.

double-knots your laces. crouches down in front of you without a word, doesn’t make it a thing. just ties them up snug and gives your ankle a gentle pat before standing.

sets your things by the door if you’re running late. bag, keys, jacket, water bottle. lines them up neatly like he’s giving you every small advantage he can. “you’re gonna be late,” he says, already handing you your coffee. you kiss his cheek on the way out. he pretends it didn’t make him smile.

he gets fussy if you don’t eat. doesn’t scold, just… fusses. quietly. starts cooking something without asking. sets a plate in front of you like “you don’t gotta finish it, just eat a little.”

wears your chapstick when he can’t find his. acts like it’s no big deal. “same stuff, right?” but if it smells like you he ends up keeping it in his pocket the rest of the day.

refills your water bottle. always. before bed. before work. if you leave it in the car, he brings it in and tops it off. just does it. in his head, hydration = survival = love.

he buys you medicine before you even realize you’re sick. notices you sniffling or rubbing your temples, and the next day it’s already there — cold meds, your favorite tea, tissues, cough drops.

started 4.27.2025. finished 4.29.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[monicfever]

dilf dex 😝😝😝 ur fics give me life thx u sm

this was the funniest notif

thank you 😭😭😭😭

[monicfever]

Hey, saw the note of you saying that you're tired and sick, hope you get better soon. Take your time and rest if that's possible :)

this was the sweetest thing 🥲. you and me both bahaha this is NOTT fun but it’s part of the reason why i’ve been able to be so active so you win some you lose some. 😅 im resting , and i really appreciate this message. <3

[monicfever]

How you think the punisher and DD characters would be with their s/o asking to move in with them

asking to move in 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / james wesley

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

MATT pauses for a moment, trying to process it fully, because his brain short-circuits a little at the idea of someone wanting to share that much of their life with him.

“you really want to?” like he’s trying not to sound too hopeful but failing. you can hear the smile in his voice before you see it on his face. he probably acts cool about it but is internally spiraling in nervousness.

immediately starts thinking about how to make the apartment more comfortable for you, even if it means giving up some of his own habits or routines. asks if you want a drawer… and then the next day clears out half his closet without saying anything. lets your things blend into his space like they’ve always belonged.

listens to your footsteps echo in the apartment and thinks it already feels more like home.

has a brief moment of worry about you finding out how bad his insomnia really is, or how often he gets hurt, but ultimately decides you're worth the risk. starts sleeping a little better just knowing you're there.

makes you coffee in the morning even when he’s half-dead from a night out as daredevil.

listens to the sound of your key turning in the lock like it’s his favuorite song. gets irrationally proud when you call it “home” for the first time

the first time you fall asleep on his chest on the couch, he doesn’t move for hours, even if he’s stiff and sore, because it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. lets you steal all the blankets because he runs warm anyway.

hears your heartbeat when you're unpacking and notices the slight tremor of nerves — whispers, “me too”.

finds one of your socks in his drawer weeks later and smiles like an idiot all over again.

if you're out late, he pretends he's not listening for you on the street but he's absolutely tracking your every step once you’re a block away.

lets you put up art on the walls, even if he can’t see it, just because he knows it makes you happy. touches the wall near where you hung a photo and quietly asks, “what’s this one of?” with a smile that says he’s already memorizing where everything is, even if he can’t see it.

gets really self-conscious about how sparse and impersonal his place is — starts asking things like, “do you want to paint? get some real curtains?”

the first time you leave clothes on the floor, he trips over them and mutters a sarcastic, “great, love this part.” but you can hear the affection behind it.

the first time he comes back injured after you’ve moved in, he panics — not because he’s hurt, but because he doesn’t want you to see him like that. lets you patch him up anyway, quiet and vulnerable, murmuring “i’m sorry” over and over.

learns how to move around the apartment a little differently now, more careful, more attuned to your presence — even asleep, he always knows where you are.

the first time you kiss him goodbye on your way out in the morning, he stands there for a full minute afterward, grounding himself.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

FRANK goes completely still. like statue-still. doesn’t say anything right away because he’s not sure he heard you right. finally mutters something like, “you sure?” but his voice is rough and low, like he’s fighting back something big.

part of him wants to say no — not because he doesn’t want it, but because he’s scared he’ll ruin it. the other part of him, the part that remembers what peace used to feel like, is already picturing what your toothbrush would look like next to his.

doesn’t know how to ask what kind of stuff you’d need space for, so he just clears out an entire drawer and half the closet and pretends it was always like that. fixes the creaky step by the door before you even move in.

sharpens every knife in the kitchen. installs better locks. reinforces the windows. doesn’t tell you. just does it. the first time you fall asleep in his bed after moving in, he stays awake all night listening to your breathing like it’s the only thing tethering him to the world.

lets you put your books and blankets and candles around, even if it feels like too much softness at first — it grows on him. catches himself smiling when he sees your coffee mug in the sink. still sleeps with one eye open but it’s less about paranoia now and more about making sure you’re okay.

the first time he has a nightmare after you move in, he almost leaves in the middle of the night, but you hold onto him and he stays.

says “this place is yours too” and means it, even if it terrifies him doesn’t call it home out loud, but he feels it in his chest every time he walks through the door and you’re there.

starts cooking more, not just heating up canned stuff — actual meals, because you’re there and you deserve better. doesn’t say much when you rearrange the furniture a little, sits in the new spot on the couch without complaint like it was always meant to be that way.

silently memorizes the sound of your footsteps, your breathing, the way you hum when you’re making tea — tiny details he tucks away.

buys an extra blanket for the bed but claims it was “just lying around” — it’s new, and soft, and clearly for you. one day you catch him fixing the busted sink cabinet, muttering to himself like “can’t have you hurtin’ your damn knee on this thing” and it’s the most tender thing in the world.

gets weirdly possessive over your safety now that you're sharing a space — triple-checks locks, glances out the window every time he hears something.

he doesn’t say “i love you” easily — if at all — but you hear it in the way he says “you good?” every night before bed.

thinks about his old life sometimes, but now when he does, there’s less pain in the remembering and more hope in the now.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

FOGGY says “really??” with wide eyes and a grin before you even finish the sentence. immediately starts talking about how you can redecorate — “i was gonna get new pillows anyway. those old ones are criminal, and not in a cool-lawyer way.”

gets way too excited about sharing a grocery list, like “now we can buy milk together like adults!”

plays it cool but absolutely calls matt the second you leave the room like “guess who’s shacking up with someone way out of his league?”

genuinely proud when you bring over a toothbrush, like it’s a milestone. insists on cooking dinner the first night you officially move in. burns something. orders takeout. swears it was the plan all along

excited to show you every little part of the apartment like “and this — is the cabinet where i keep old soy sauce packets, but we can throw them out now.”

buys a “his & theirs” or “ours” type of mug even though you didn't ask for one. starts referring to things as “ours” before you do — our couch, our kitchen, our mess, our bed.

gives you a key and then immediately worries he made it too big a deal, so he plays it off like “no pressure, just... y'know. if you wanna come and go like a cool roommate who kisses me sometimes”

absolutely cries the first time you call it “home,” but tries to hide it by pretending there’s something in his eye. kisses your forehead while mumbling “can’t believe you’re stuck with me now” and means it.

starts labeling leftovers in the fridge with cute notes like ‘for you (but i’ll fight you for it).’

if you move even one thing slightly, he notices immediately but rolls with it — “did you move the couch a little? i love it. feng shui, baby.”

offers to build ikea furniture with you and somehow turns it into a romantic bonding experience instead of a war. brings home takeout with your favourite sides just because it’s thursday. starts referring to weekends as ‘us days.’

you catch him watching you with this stupidly soft look when you’re folding laundry or doing something completely ordinary. 100% keeps a mental inventory of your snacks and restocks them without being asked.

your first mini-argument about something dumb (like which way the toilet paper goes) ends with him making a dramatic legal defense for his side — complete with opening statements.

finds excuses to say “our place” as often as possible — “our place could use a plant, don’t you think? we’re plant people now.”

if you leave town even for a day, he immediately texts “this apartment is haunted by your absence” and sends sad selfies with your pillow.

you once casually mention you like soft lighting and the next day there are like three new lamps and he’s pretending it was totally normal behavior.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

KAREN goes quiet for a second, her heart stutters at the idea of being chosen like this. looks at you with this wide, soft gaze and says “are you sure?” but you can already see the yes blooming behind her eyes.

she smiles right away but her eyes flicker, like she’s flipping through every time she’s let someone in and gotten hurt. she says yes gently, like she’s afraid if she says it too loud it’ll scare the moment away.

later that night, when she’s alone, she stares at the corner of her apartment and starts mentally rearranging furniture just to make room for you.

the first night you bring a few things over, she’s buzzing with nervous energy — lighting candles, fluffing pillows, asking “do you want this side of the bed or that one?” three times.

she overthinks everything — are you comfortable? is it too soon? does it smell weird in here? what if you hate how she folds towels?

she insists on doing a “tour” even though it’s a small apartment — shows you the squeaky kitchen drawer, the window that fogs up in the morning, her favourite mug. the first time you brush teeth side by side, she watches your reflection in the mirror and feels this quiet little thrill in her chest.

she’s careful about letting you into her routines, but once you’re in, you’re in — she brings you coffee with exactly the right amount of sugar and leaves notes on the mirror in the morning.

gets a little nervous about being “too much”—too messy, too intense, too late-night-working— but when you reassure her, she melts.

lights candles at night to make it cozy, and always puts on soft music while you’re both unwinding. loves grocery shopping with you. makes it a whole date. argues playfully over which pasta is best.

if you have a rough day, she’ll cook something simple and grounding, even if she’s tired, and sit cross-legged on the floor with you to eat.

tells foggy immediately and with so much joy in her voice that he tears up a little.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

ELEKTRA laughs at first — not unkindly, but like you’ve caught her off guard, like you just suggested something absurd. “you want to live with me?” she says, smiling with a raised brow, but there's a flicker of something behind it — fear, maybe. or wonder.

“you’re either very brave… or very stupid.” but her voice is gentler than her words. doesn’t say yes right away. needs time to sit with it. she’s not used to people wanting to stay, let alone being allowed to stay.

the first time she sees you carrying a bag into her place, her heart jumps like a startled bird — but she keeps her face calm, cool, unreadable acts like it’s not a big deal. like your toothbrush beside hers is just “convenient.” like your jacket on her chair doesn’t make her chest ache in a good way.

rearranges nothing. if you want space, you have to carve it out yourself — but once you do, she never touches it. it’s yours.

the first time you bring her coffee in the morning, she stares at it like it’s a weapon she doesn’t know how to disarm.

tries to hide her affection in sarcasm — “what, planning to redecorate now?” — but her fingers brush against yours a little too long when you hand her something.

she lets you see her vulnerabilities in small fleeting moments. when she comes back after a mission, her expression softens when she sees you sitting on the couch waiting for her, and she doesn’t hide the relief that hits her. when you catch her staring at you across the room, she looks away quickly, but the warmth in her eyes is undeniable — like she’s finally allowed herself to belong somewhere.

if you ever say “i love you,” she’ll freeze for a moment, then give you that sharp, half-smile that means she’s feeling things she can’t put into words. she never says it back in those moments — not because she doesn’t feel it, but because she’s not sure how to show it without breaking.

the quiet is important to her. too much noise and she’ll retreat — go for a walk, meditate, or just sit in silence until she can breathe again. intimacy is still new to her. she doesn’t always know how to be tender when things are calm. she’s used to chaos, violence.

in the evenings, after a long day, she’s still a little restless. she’ll either pace around or dive into her training — anything to keep the adrenaline in check — but she never minds when you join her, even if it’s just sitting in the same room, offering quiet support.

she’s always late to bed, lingering in the quiet of the night with thoughts that won’t settle, but you’ve learned to meet her halfway. you stay up just a little longer, keeping her company, offering the presence she craves but never asks for.

she doesn’t ask you to stay. she dares you to. and when you do, she looks at you like you’re the first person in the world who’s ever passed her test.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

DEX, at first, would freeze. completely caught off guard. it’s not something he’s ever really considered. he’s used to being alone, isolated, and the idea of someone sharing his space would set off alarms in his head. part of him is thrilled by the idea, but another part feels like he's being asked to open a door he’s been desperately trying to keep closed.

he’d try to play it cool, maybe give a half-hearted smile, and act like it’s not a big deal, but you’d see the tension in his posture, the slight shift in his eyes, betraying his nerves. he wouldn’t be used to sharing space, and while he’d agree (hesitantly), he’d quickly start obsessing over everything — every little thing you might change or touch.

moving in with him would require adjustments for you. his place is sparse, cold, slightly clinical — some things are arranged in odd, very specific ways. any changes you make, even small ones, would throw him off, and he is not going to be the type to adapt.

he tries so hard to be easy to live with. washes dishes right after eating. folds your laundry just the way you like. buys the same brand of everything you use because he doesn’t want to mess it up. but when things go out of rhythm — when you go out of rhythm — his chest tightens. the world tilts. and he doesn’t know how to ask, “did i do something wrong?” so he just hovers, waiting for the routine to return

he'd ask for boundaries almost immediately, perhaps too early, like he’s putting walls up before they’ve even begun to come down.

he never outright says “i need you to stay on schedule,” but you can feel it. the way his body goes tight when you skip breakfast, the way his voice flattens when you cancel plans last minute. like you’ve disrupted something crucial to his sense of control. when you do stay consistent — when you fall into routine naturally — he relaxes. he’s all quiet humming, fingers brushing yours while passing a mug, lingering in the doorway just to watch you exist.

there’s an underlying unease to everything he does: the way he watches you unpack, the way he hovers when you move something slightly out of place, like he’s hyper-aware of every decision being made. he’d definitely have moments of intensity when you both adjust to this new dynamic. any accidental miscommunication or small thing would make him tense up, on edge because it feels like he’s walking on thin ice.

he’d have a very hard time with the idea of you being “permanent,” and may subconsciously sabotage the idea out of fear of getting too close. he might withdraw without explanation, acting distant to see if you’ll leave, just to test how much you’re willing to stay. eventually, he’d start letting down the walls in small ways: leaving his phone unlocked for you to use if you need it, letting you use his bathroom products, giving you a drawer for your things.

he notices every single thing you do. how you fold your socks. what side of the bed you take. the sound of your toothbrush against the sink. it becomes part of his routine. part of the structure he builds around himself to stay okay. he starts checking if the stove is off twice instead of three times because your voice in the kitchen grounds him faster than his rituals ever could.

incredibly routine-oriented. if you mess with the order of things — dishes, towels, what shelf the mugs go on — he doesn’t say anything at first, but you’ll catch him quietly moving them back later. doesn’t like a lot of clutter. your stuff slowly migrating into his space freaks him out at first. not because he doesn’t want you there, but because change makes him feel like he’s losing control.

he has comfort habits; like lining up his keys just so, or triple-checking the locks. if you ask he’ll downplay it, but if you don’t ask and just let him do it, he relaxes around you faster.

he doesn’t just notice your routine — he memorizes it. down to the minute. how long your showers take, what time you usually eat, which sock you put on first. if anything changes, even slightly, he feels it in his body like a system glitch.

he builds his entire day around you without realizing it. he starts syncing his schedule to yours — when you wake up, when you brush your teeth, when you leave for work. if you're five minutes late one morning, he gets stuck staring at the door like it personally betrayed him. your habits become sacred. you like honey in your tea? he’ll keep three kinds in the cupboard just in case one runs out. you hum while folding laundry? he starts doing it too. not on purpose, it just imprints.

he keeps a mental archive of everything that soothes you. what music you put on when you’re sad. how you like your blankets folded. the exact temperature you set the thermostat to. and then starts applying it before you ask, like clockwork. if you ask how he knew you needed something, he just says, “i pay attention,” but he won’t tell you that he’s been tracking it for weeks.

if you act off routine — oversleep, cry out of nowhere, forget to eat — he goes into full quiet panic mode. he won’t bombard you with questions, but he’ll hover close, every muscle in his body tense, waiting for the threat he thinks he missed.

he starts sleeping better with you there. deeper. more still. but only if you’re facing him. if you turn away he wakes up every time. when you fall asleep on the couch, he sits nearby on the floor, just watching you breathe. hand resting on the edge of the cushion like he’s guarding you. like if he lets go, something bad will happen.

he'll try not to be clingy but the fact is, the closer you get, the more obsessive his behavior can become. you’ll notice him lingering in rooms just to be near you, watching your every move, constantly ensuring that you’re comfortable and safe. If something’s off he can go into a spiral. that gnawing fear of losing you.

and when you look at him with soft eyes and say, “i love being here with you,” his throat goes tight. “yeah?” like it’s fragile. like it might vanish.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

BILLY’S first reaction is a practiced, easy smile. cool, smooth. "you really want to?" he sounds confident — playful, even — but his heart stutters like it just got clipped by a bullet. there’s a flicker behind his eyes. one second of real vulnerability before it’s buried under charisma.

he says yes. of course he does. but internally? he’s spiraling. he’s spent his whole life building walls lined with silk and marble, and now you’re asking to step inside.

he makes it look effortless. he wants this to feel like it was always going to happen. “it’s your place too now, sweetheart.” he says with that soft, smirking charm — but deep down, he’s bracing for you to change your mind.

the penthouse is pristine. expensive. cold. and when you move in, he watches your stuff disrupt that carefully polished perfection—and he loves it more than he knows how to say. a mug you leave on the counter? he stares at it for a second longer than he should. your shoes by the door? he steps around them like they’re sacred.

he keeps acting cool — laughs when you accidentally drop a sock in the hallway, rolls his eyes when you leave a light on — but every time you do something domestic, his chest gets tighter in a way he’ll never admit out loud.

starts getting scared of loving it too much. of waking up next to you and thinking, this could be forever, and then remembering that forever’s never been kind to him.

he’s obsessive about protecting you now. starts double-checking locks, adding security, keeping a closer eye on who’s around you. he won’t call it paranoia, but you know what it is. his trauma simmers underneath it all. on nights he can’t sleep, he’ll go out onto the balcony, staring at the skyline like it owes him answers. when you come out and wrap your arms around him, he just leans into you silently. he’s still afraid you’ll leave. that you’ll see the cracks under the surface — the mess he hides under suits and soft lighting — and walk away.

so he starts giving you pieces of himself, slowly. a key. his favourite hoodie. his real laugh, unpolished and unguarded

“honey, im home.” in that frustratingly charming voice when he’s trying to be annoying.

mornings are quiet. not cold, just muted. he’s already been awake for a while, sipping espresso by the window in a robe that’s way too expensive, staring out like he’s trying to solve a puzzle only he can see. but the second he hears you stir, he softens. brings you coffee without asking, knows exactly how you take it. kisses the top of your head like he’s done it forever. never says good morning like a normal person. always some variation of “hey, gorgeous.” or “you sleep okay, baby?” — and it sounds like velvet every time.

he watches you move around the kitchen like it’s art. like it calms something in him. you’re the only chaos he allows inside his perfect little world.

when he’s had a bad day, he won’t say anything. just drops onto the couch beside you and pulls you onto him like you’re an anchor. you let him sit in the silence until he’s ready to breathe again.

he can’t cook. not well. but he insists on making you dinner at least once a week — usually ends with a half-burned something and him going, “okay, maybe i’m more of a reservation guy.”

he gets weirdly attached to your routines. like, if you skip a skincare step one night, he notices. “no moisturizer?” he asks, faux-casual, but he’s already reaching for the bottle.

he never says it directly, but being with you day to day makes him feel human. like maybe he’s more than the wreckage he came from. and when you say “i love living with you,” his whole body stills. like it’s too much. like it hurts. then he touches your face, gently, reverently, and says, “you have no idea how much that means to me.”

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

DINAH blinks. once. twice. like she didn’t hear you right the first time. “you serious?” half-laughing, half-deflecting, because that’s easier than letting her heart show on her face.

the truth is: she’s wanted you there. for a while. but she didn’t think she was allowed to want that kind of softness. she probably tries to play it off like it’s no big deal. “sure. yeah. we can try it.” but you can see the way her shoulders drop just a little. like a weight she didn’t know she was carrying slipped off.

she spends the next week obsessing over logistics. where your stuff will go. whether her place is “too small.” acts like she’s just being practical, but really, she’s panicking under the surface. she doesn’t share space easily. she’s used to her solitude. used to walking around guarded even in her own home. so with you she tries. she wants to let you in, even if her hands shake while doing it.

clears a drawer, then a second one. gives you the better side of the closet. buys you your own toothbrush holder without saying a word. still doesn’t let you see her cry. not yet. not even when you set a mug down beside her while she’s working late and kiss the top of her head.

every time she comes home and hears you moving around in the apartment, she exhales without realizing it. like her body’s been holding tension all day and finally gets to release it. she’s not great at domesticity, but she tries. starts making dinner with you, folds your laundry and pretends she’s not secretly proud of it all.

when you fall asleep on the couch, she puts a blanket over you and sits beside you in the dark, sipping wine and watching whatever you left on the tv. doesn’t even care what it is. she just wants to be near you.

still keeps parts of herself locked up tight, files and folders and grief she never talks about. but every now and then, she lets you see the cracks “i’m not .. easy to live with,” she says one night, eyes on the floor.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

WESLEY doesn’t flinch. doesn’t stutter. just tilts his head slightly like he’s calculating what this means, how it fits into the long-term picture he already started building with you months ago. “you want to?” he says it low, like he’s double-checking, not because he’s surprised, because he wants to be sure.

you nod, and he’s quiet for a second too long. then he smiles, small and private, like something just slotted perfectly into place. “okay.” simple. certain. like he’s already rearranging his entire life in his head and doesn’t see a single downside.

he’d already been making room for you before you asked. subtle shifts. an extra set of your preferred wine glasses. drawer space you hadn’t noticed yet. everything is done intentionally. he doesn’t rush anything, but by the time you bring over your first overnight bag, there’s already a place for every item.

he doesn’t just make room for your things — he blends them into the space like they’ve always belonged. a book you left out gets bookmarked and stacked next to his. your jacket ends up hanging beside his tailored coat. if you move something, even if it’s out of place, he leaves it there. memorizes the change. adjusts.

he notices everything. the way your keys sound when you drop them on the counter, your mood when you walk in, what kind of music means you had a long day. you come home once and he’s already poured your favourite drink, sat it on the table, like he’s been waiting for that exact version of you.

he doesn’t show affection with grand gestures, he shows it in consistency. in remembering. in placing himself exactly where you need him to be without being asked.

at night, he watches you read, or wash your face, or fold laundry like it’s a scene he wants to etch into stone. like it’s the first thing that’s ever felt like peace.

he keeps your schedule memorized. he knows when you’re home, when you’re late, when you’re off. if something’s wrong he’s already halfway to fixing it before you even mention it.

he lets you talk through your day at dinner while he listens, always with quiet focus. occasionally he’ll offer insight or dry commentary, but mostly he’s content to just hear you speak.

he doesn’t nag about tidiness, he just fixes things without a word. your charger’s always plugged in. the pantry stays stocked with what you love. if you leave something out — like a sweater on the back of a chair — he’ll leave it there until you wear it again. he’s waiting to see if that was part of your pattern.

when you’re sick, he takes time off without being asked. “don’t argue,” he’ll say, slipping a blanket over your legs. “you’d do the same.” when he’s sick, he pretends he’s fine. but the minute you touch his forehead and tell him to sit down, he obeys without a word. only for you.

he buys expensive soap you mentioned liking once. replaces your pillow when you say your neck’s been sore. upgrades the apartment’s security without telling you. at night, he reads next to you, one hand resting on your thigh.

when you call it “home,” he just gives you this look — soft, quiet, intense. like he’s storing the word away somewhere deep

★ a / n : i didn’t add muse to this one bc im sick asf and tired but if somebody wants me to add him just leave a comment and i can come up with smth no biggie

started 4.26.2025. finished 4.28.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[monicfever]

dd n punisher characters with a hypersexual/overly hormonal reader? of course if you're not comfortable with this type of stuff you don't have to write <3

hypersexual!reader 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / james wesley / muse

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

matt pretends to be unbothered by how forward you are, but he absolutely notices every suggestive comment, every lingering touch, every flirtation. it always gets under his skin more than he lets on. he’ll smile that smug little half-smile, tilt his head like he’s trying to read you, and say something like, “you really don’t hold back, do you?” — but it’s always a little breathless.

he’s always listening. you think you’re being sneaky when you touch yourself in the other room, but matt hears everything. every breath, every rustle of sheets, every quiet whimper. it drives him insane. he’ll usually let you keep going for a while (just to hear it). eventually he’ll show up in the doorway, arms crossed: “having fun?” and the moment you smile at him, it’s over.

he likes the chase. you being constantly turned on doesn’t bother him, but he enjoys making you wait. you’ll try to crawl into his lap when he’s doing paperwork or patching himself up, but he’ll smirk and say, “you want something?” like he doesn’t already know.

he has rules, but you’re the exception. matt tries to set boundaries. “no distractions before patrol.” “not while we’re in public.” “not when i’m bleeding.” yet, somehow, your lips on his neck or your hand creeping under his shirt makes him forget every one of them. you’ll hear him groan out, “you’re gonna be the death of me.” while pulling you closer.

you fluster him more than he’ll admit. you’ve whispered things to him in church before. at nelson & murdock while foggy’s in the other room. across a dinner table while he's pretending to focus. every time, you catch the faint pink in his cheeks, the way he adjusts his posture like he’s suddenly uncomfortable in his skin. “you’re incorrigible.” he’ll mutter. and then he’ll kiss you like he’s punishing you for it.

sometimes, when you’re being especially over-the-top — dropping innuendos in public, texting him filthy things while he’s in court — he’ll give you that warning tone. quiet, dangerous, voice low and right at your ear.

when you’re feeling particularly needy, he’s infuriatingly good at switching the roles. “oh, now you want my attention?” he’ll murmur, catching your wrists as you crawl into his lap. “you seemed just fine earlier.” he knows exactly how to drag it out until you’re the one begging, and when he does finally give in, it’s intense, focused, and a little overwhelming in the best way.

aftercare means a lot to him, even if you’re the one instigating all the time. he’ll kiss your shoulder, your knuckles, the top of your head. he’ll ask, “you okay?” even if you’re giggling and glowing. “again? insatiable.”

on a heavier note, sometimes your intensity stirs something deeper in him. his own guilt, his conflict between pleasure and penance. there are moments when he’ll gently pull back, not to reject you, but to steady himself.

sometimes he worries he’s not enough. he knows you’re intense, that your needs don’t exactly quiet down. even though he’s more than capable of keeping up, there are nights where he wonders if he can keep satisfying you.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

notices everything. every suggestive glance, every teasing touch, every time you slide up beside him wearing next to nothing. he won’t always react — not right away — but you’ll catch the slight tilt of his head, the shift in his breathing. he’s got that stillness that says don’t push me unless you mean it. and you always mean it.

he’s not one for words, especially not when it comes to sex. so when you’re being flirty, constantly on him, slipping innuendos into everyday conversation, he mostly just hums or raises a brow. when he does speak, it’s in that rough voice — something like, “you keep talkin’ like that, you’re gonna find out how far i’ll take it.”

he holds back for a while. you’re always testing the line, always touching, always turning things suggestive. he plays it cool at first, lets you push and push. once he gives in, he doesn’t hold back. it’s intense, fast, physical — he grabs, lifts, pins. after he’s quiet again. catching his breath. wiping his hand down his face like you’ve just unraveled him.

tries not to act like he cares about how much you want him, but the truth is it gets to him. you wanting him like that, so openly, so often; it gets to him. there’s something healing in it, something anchoring. sometimes when you’re curled up next to him afterward, he’ll press a kiss to your forehead and murmur, “you’re trouble.”

he doesn’t judge. never once makes you feel like you’re too much. your neediness, your teasing, your constant desire doesn’t scare him, doesn’t annoy him. if anything, it pulls him in. you’re real, alive, shameless about what you want. frank’s been in the dark too long not to be drawn to that kind of light.

he tries to ignore you when he’s focused, but you are relentless. sitting in his lap while he’s working on something. whispering, “wanna take a break?” with your fingers ghosting over his chest. he doesn’t look at you at first — keeps his hands busy — but his jaw tenses and his breath slows, like he’s trying to pray his way through it. “i’m tryin’ to get this done.” he’ll rasp. you smirk, “i’m trying to get you done.”

he doesn’t like being teased when he’s busy, so when you push him too far, pressing against him while he’s fixing something or whispering filthy things in his ear when he’s trying to clean a gun - - he’ll give you a warning. just a look. if you ignore it? he shuts the whole world out and shows you exactly what happens when you don’t listen.

when you’re being dramatic about needing him, he’ll act annoyed, but deep down it kills him in the sweetest way. “frank,” you’ll whine from across the room, “i’m bored and horny and you’re ignoring me.” and he’ll sigh like you’re exhausting — but then walk over and manhandle you into his arms without a word. picks you up and lays you out like he’s been waiting for you to ask.

he worships your body in private. all that heat and teasing you throw at him gets returned in full once he’s got you alone. he takes his time, holds you still, tells you exactly what he’s going to do in that deep, steady voice. “you want this?” he’ll ask, even though he already knows.

but he’s also so soft after. runs his thumb along your cheekbone like he’s checking you’re real. presses a kiss to your shoulder, your forehead, the curve of your hip.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

he is constantly flustered. like. constantly. you’ll say something absolutely filthy with a straight face while he’s drinking his morning coffee and he’ll choke every time. stammering, red in the face, eyes wide. “you — you can’t just say that while i’m holding hot liquid!”

he brags to matt. not in detail (he’s respectful, okay), but he definitely walks around with that post-you glow, hair messy, tie a little crooked, sipping coffee like he’s untouchable. matt raises a brow. foggy just shrugs. “what can i say? i’m being thoroughly appreciated.” — casually mentions to karen that he “had a very energetic weekend” while sipping his fourth cup of coffee.

he pretends to be shocked, but he loves it. he lives for it. he’ll say things like “you are so inappropriate” while his hand is already on your waist, pulling you closer. he’s not fooling anyone, not with that little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

he loves making you feel good. your neediness doesn’t put him off, he’s just thrilled to be the one you want. he takes his time with you. he listens. and when you’re breathless under him, gripping the sheets and begging for more? he looks at you like you hung the stars.

you make him feel like a king. you’re bold about it. you want him, loudly and often, and foggy melts. literally melts. “you want me that bad?” he asks, half in disbelief, half smug. and when you say yes without hesitation? he gets that cocky little glint in his eyes.

you make him nervous in the best way. like, this is a guy who can argue a courtroom into submission, but the second you lean in at the office and whisper something filthy in his ear, he loses all ability to function.

public teasing turns him into a mess. you run your hand along his thigh under the table, whisper dirty things while you’re walking beside him, and he’s just trying to not combust. “can you not?” he hisses through a grin, but there’s no real protest. he’s into it.

he calls you a menace all the time. lovingly. half-scold, half-swoon.

he tries to retaliate. he’ll flirt back. maybe even whisper something filthy of his own, thinking he’s got you now. you double down. he immediately regrets it in the best way. “okay, okay, you win,” he laughs, hands up. “you’re dangerous.”

he’s an aftercare king. gets you water, fluffs your pillow, runs a bath. holds you close while you both come down. if you so much as hint at being ready for another round he’ll fake-complain (“you’re trying to kill me!”) while already kissing down your neck.

when he tries to keep up with you, it’s adorable. you’ll say something filthy and he’ll try to match you with a slick comeback; but the timing’s off, or he blushes halfway through, and it just ends up being the cutest thing you’ve ever heard.

he’s a cuddler with no shame. after you’ve exhausted him (and let’s be honest, you do), he’s all tangled limbs and sleepy kisses. “you’re insane,” he mumbles, burying his face in your shoulder. “i love it. don’t stop.” his voice is warm, a little hoarse, completely smitten.

he can’t keep secrets. not real ones. if he’s been thinking about you all day, he’ll tell you. “you left me like that this morning and expected me to go to work like a functioning adult?” he texts you during court. you send back a selfie in something slightly obscene. he slams his phone face-down on the desk and mutters “i’m in hell” with a dazed smile.

“no more sending suggestive photos while i’m at lunch with matt’s priest friend.”

he loves you exactly the way you are. loud, needy, bold, inappropriate — he eats it up.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

she tries to be professional. she’ll be typing up a story, dead focused, and then you saunter in, leaning over her chair, whispering something that should absolutely be illegal. her jaw tenses, her eyes stay on the screen. “i’m working.” but she’s already shifting in her seat, biting her lip.

she has a secret mouth. when she wants to, she’ll say something so filthy it stuns you into silence. usually in a whisper. close to your ear. “you gonna beg for it, or just keep looking at me like that?” and then she just waits. calm. still. eyes on you, daring you to do something about it.

you flirt like it’s breathing, kiss like it’s urgent, touch like you need her; it leaves her reeling. she’ll try to keep her cool but you’ll catch the way she exhales a little too hard, or stares at your mouth a second too long.

she teases right back. once she’s comfortable with you, you’re in trouble. she’ll wait until you’re the one trying to focus, then lean in and say something devastating in that soft, matter-of-fact voice. “if you keep looking at me like that, we’re not making it to dinner.” and then just walk away. smirking.

but you also unravel her. she’s used to bottling things up, being composed. you’re all touch and need and hunger and affection. it pulls something raw out of her. when you’re whispering her name, clawing at her shirt, telling her how good she makes you feel, she loses her edge.

she’s fiercely attentive. your hypersexuality doesn’t scare her, doesn’t make her pull away. if anything it makes her want to understand you better. know your needs, meet them fully, love you through it. she’ll read you like a book — figure out exactly what makes you tick — and then use it.

she absolutely uses your energy to distract you. when she wants your attention, she’ll give you that look, chin tilted, eyes sharp, and say something devastating in a calm voice. “get over here.” and suddenly you’re the one undone, aching and obedient.

she knows when you’re trying to seduce her and lets you. she’ll play along like she’s unfazed, arms crossed, head tilted. “you think you’re being subtle?” she’ll say while you’re practically crawling into her lap. but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth? the way her eyes darken just a little? yeah, you’ve already won.

she does not shy away from intimacy. your neediness doesn’t embarrass her, it draws her in. she’s not here to shame you or play coy. she wants to be wanted like that. to be touched like she matters. when she gets overwhelmed, she clings. yeah, you’re the hypersexual one — but when she finally lets go, she gets wrapped up in it too. hands in your hair, lips on your throat, whispering your name like it’s the only thing that matters.

she absolutely teases you in public. she’ll press up behind you at the grocery store, whisper something obscene with the most innocent look on her face, then walk off like nothing happened. you’re the one standing there stunned, clutching a box of cereal like it just said something inappropriate.

gets handsy when she’s tired. maybe it’s after a long day, maybe it’s when she’s half-asleep on the couch, but her hands start wandering, slow and lazy and full of intention.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

absolutely thinks it’s amusing. from the start, she watches you with that signature, smug little smile every time you throw yourself at her like a live wire. her eyes are dark, hungry, like she’s daring you to want her more.

she matches your energy with terrifying ease. you flirt to fluster — she flirts to destroy. you say something filthy and she just smiles, leans in, and whispers something ten times worse in your ear while touching you exactly where it counts.

you don’t scare her. she welcomes all of it. feeds off of it. where others might pull away, elektra leans into it. and when you beg? her grin gets sharp.

she teases you to the edge of madness. she’ll touch you under the table during dinner, drag her nails over your thighs when you’re trying to focus, kiss your jaw and say, “you’ll behave, won’t you?” in public — knowing damn well you won’t. she wants you to break. that’s the game. taunts you when you’re needy. you’ll whine, cling, kiss her like you’re begging for something, and she’ll laugh — low and wicked. “you’ll have to earn it.” she’ll purr, dragging her fingers down your back.

she owns the aftermath. after you’ve lost your mind on her, desperate and clinging, she turns soft. unexpectedly so. hands gentle, voice low, fingers brushing your hair back as she says, “look at you. i do love how pretty you are when you fall apart.”

she lives for your attention. she won’t admit it, at least not easily, but the way you’re always reaching for her, needing her, dragging her in like you’re starving for her? it feeds something in her. reminds her she’s wanted.

she doesn’t believe in moderation. so you being constantly touchy, constantly turned on? she meets it with equal force. doesn’t ask why you want her again, just laughs, low and cruel, “on your knees, then.” like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

she gets mean when she’s turned on. in that smirking, dominant, slightly dangerous way. “what’s the matter, sweetheart?” she’ll say when you’re writhing under her, voice honey-sweet and mocking. “this is what you wanted, isn’t it? all that begging…”

she tests how far you’ll go. she’ll push you in public, press a hand between your thighs under the table, kiss your neck just a little too long, and ask in your ear, “going to behave, or make a scene?” and when you shiver, grip her wrist, beg for more — that’s when she grins like the devil. “that’s what i thought.”

watches you like prey. doesn’t matter how many times you’ve kissed, or how many times you’ve begged her to take you apart, she always looks at you like she’s deciding where to sink her teeth next. you flirt with her in front of someone else? challenge her in that low voice? she’ll take you home and ruin you.

when you come onto her in a bad mood she melts. she could be fresh off a mission, furious, bloodied, but you crawling into her lap and saying, “let me help”? she softens instantly. not in a weak way, in a worshipful way. like your desire grounds her.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

at first, he doesn’t know what to do with you. you flirt like it’s breathing, kiss him like it’s urgent, touch him in casual greedy little ways that short-circuit his brain. he tries to act normal, tries to hold himself together, but you catch him clenching his jaw, fingers twitching, chest rising a little too fast.

he gets obsessed fast. the second he realizes how much you want him — how openly, constantly, shamelessly — you flip some hidden switch in him. he wants more. needs it. suddenly he’s tracking your every move, memorizing the way you kiss him, the way you look at him like he’s the only thing on your mind.

he follows instructions like they’re oxygen. “sit.” “stay still.” “hands behind your back.” you say it, and he does it. instantly. without blinking. it’s instinct at this point — his body reacting before his mind catches up. the second he obeys, he’s looking up at you, waiting for approval, wide-eyed and aching for your praise.

he’s dangerous when you rile him up too far. you flirt too much, grind against him when he’s trying to behave, whisper something filthy in his ear when you’re supposed to be focused, and he snaps. drags you somewhere private, presses you against the wall, and just takes. it’s quiet, intense, almost reverent. “you drive me crazy.” he groans, forehead to yours.

he doesn’t know how to handle being needed. you tell him you want him — again and again and again — and it undoes him. makes him shaky. makes him cling. sometimes after you’ve worn each other out, he just holds you too tight and buries his face in your neck. like he’s afraid if he lets go, it’ll all disappear.

he gets flustered in the cutest, darkest way. you say something explicit and he freezes — eyes dark, jaw clenched, pulse ticking in his neck. he doesn’t laugh it off or blush. he stares. silently. like he’s deciding how many rules he’s willing to break right now. spoiler: it’s all of them.

he’s so good at ruining you in return. the minute you start pushing him he gives it back, tenfold. pins your wrists. makes you beg. says nothing for most of it, just stares at you like you’re the most perfect thing he’s ever seen. when you come undone he whispers, “look at you… look at what you let me do.”

your neediness makes him feel safe. he doesn’t always say it. but knowing you want him that much? that openly? it quiets the noise. the guilt. the rage. he touches you like you’re salvation. holds you after like you’re the only thing keeping him on the edge of sanity. you are.

he spirals when you tease him and then act innocent. you’ll straddle his lap, whisper something obscene, kiss his neck, then just walk away like it didn’t happen. dex sits there, frozen, jaw clenched, staring at the wall like he’s trying not to snap a pencil in half. by the time he finds you again, he’s feral. “you think this is a game?”

he thrives when you lose control. the moment your composure cracks — the moment you beg, or whimper, or grab at him like you can’t take it anymore — his whole demeanor shifts. his lips curl into this possessive little smirk.

he's insatiable once you’ve broken the seal. if he’s gone too long without touching you he gets ravenous. rough, shaky hands. kisses that don’t stop. taking you again and again, like he’s trying to make up for all the hours he went without you.

he doesn’t know how to take it when you praise him. he stares at you like he doesn’t know how to absorb it. like part of him doesn’t believe he deserves that softness. but he needs it. and when you say it again, gentler this time, he kisses you like he’ll die without it. he adores being praised. when you tell him he’s good, or strong, or perfect, his whole body trembles, just a little. his breath catches. it’s like he’s hearing it for the first time, every time, and it shakes him to his core. “you like that, don’t you?” you’ll tease. and he’ll look at you with this raw, desperate expression. “say it again,” he’ll whisper, voice hoarse, “please.”

he gets needy in the best way. the more you touch him, the more you praise him, the more desperate he becomes. the man who usually has all the control suddenly becomes weak for you. he’s a mess when you praise him during sex. when you tell him he’s good in bed, that he’s making you feel good — that’s when he absolutely falls apart. his hands go slack, his body goes rigid, and he’ll mumble, “don’t stop.” over and over. every word that spills from your mouth is like a drug, and it’s ruining him in the best way possible.

he loves when you take control. push him down. tell him not to move. give him orders like you expect them to be followed — because he wants to follow them. he wants to earn your touch, your words, your love. when he gets it he’s panting, melting, gripping the sheets like it’s the only thing keeping him from floating away.

his obedience isn’t about power — it’s about love. he doesn’t kneel for you because he’s weak. he kneels because he trusts you. because he knows that when you give him orders, you’ll also give him affection. and that means everything to him.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

tries to be cocky about it at first. smirking while you straddle him, talking shit like, “gonna take what you want, baby?” but the second you actually do — grab his wrists, grind down, whisper “be good for me” — his whole body shudders. the smirk fades. his jaw clenches. and he’s whispering, “fuck… okay. okay.”

he gets jealous of your attention. not just who you give it to — but when you withhold it. you tease him, flirt then walk away, or spend more time on your phone than in his lap, and he’s immediately pressing up behind you, voice low: “what, you done using me already?”

you catch him off guard constantly. dragging him into the nearest room, climbing into his lap during meetings, whispering something unholy while he’s trying to concentrate. and he plays it cool, sure — but the way he grips the edge of the table or clenches his jaw? oh, he’s losing it.

he becomes so obedient under the right pressure. you tell him stay still and he does. every muscle tight, breathing uneven, eyes locked on you like he’s waiting for his next instruction. he looks cocky, but that tension in his body? that’s need. he wants your praise. needs your permission.

he thrives off your desire. knowing you want him all the time, that you’re always thinking about him — it makes him feel powerful. desired. worshipped. he’ll tease you for it —“you really can’t keep your hands off me, huh?”

but the more you want him, the more needy he becomes. it stops being a game and starts being obsession. now he’s the one touching you constantly, dragging you into bed at all hours, whispering, “just one more time, baby. can’t stop thinking about you.”

he’ll let you use him. no ego, no fight — just “tell me what to do.” if you’re extra desperate, pulling at his clothes and grinding on him like you’ll lose your mind without it, he lets you take it. lets you pull his belt loose and ride him breathless. hands on your thighs, eyes locked on you like you’re holy.

he melts for praise but tries to hide it. you call him good and he lets out this shaky breath, head dropping back, hands fisting the sheets. “fuck,” he whispers, like he’s embarrassed at how much it affects him. you tease him for how much he likes it. “look at you,” you’ll purr, dragging your nails down his chest, “mr. billy russo. ceo. soldier. killer. begging for my approval.” and he groans. because yeah. he is. and when you call him your pretty boy, your sweet thing, your favourite toy — he thrives. eats it up. all of it. he follows instructions so, so well. you train him without even meaning to. tell him how to touch you. when to stay still. where to put his hands. he gets desperate for your praise. he’ll push himself to the edge trying to make you feel good, looking up at you like a starved thing. “you feel good?” he pants.

he wants you to ruin him. not physically — emotionally. he wants you to strip him down. take all the masks off. make him yours in a way no one else ever has. when you say, “mine,” and grip his chin so he has to look at you? his body goes limp. he nods, quiet, obedient.

he’s competitive about keeping up. you want it again? again? oh, he’s rising to the challenge. he won’t back down — won’t let you think for one second he can’t handle it. but by round five, he’s on his back, breathless, hair damp, muttering, “jesus christ— what are you trying to do to me?”

he starts scheduling around your sex drive. literally moves meetings, delays calls, closes his office door and texts you a simple: now. and when you show up already knowing what he wants? he just leans back in his chair, unbuttons his shirt, and smirks — “i knew you couldn’t resist.”

but the second you get needy? oh, he crumbles. you press up against him, whine a little, tell him how bad you want him — and suddenly the smug façade shatters. he’s flustered, hands already on your hips, murmuring, “yeah? tell me what you need, baby. i’ll give you everything.”

he keeps things on him just in case. backup condoms. lube in his desk drawer. a change of clothes. because he knows you — knows you’re unpredictable, insatiable, always two seconds from crawling into his lap and making him lose every ounce of professionalism he has left.

he talks a big game but loses it so fast. he’ll say shit like “you gonna ride me like you mean it?” or “hope you can handle what you’re asking for”— and then you do, and suddenly he’s gasping, clutching at you, swearing under his breath like his whole body’s going haywire.

your appetite breaks his composure. you get him worked up in public, and suddenly mr. smooth-talker is stammering. distracted. flustered. he’ll pull you aside, grab your face, and growl, “you need to stop or i’m gonna fuck you in the nearest locked room.” (spoiler: you don’t stop.)

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

slow mornings where you can’t keep your hands off her while she’s brushing her teeth, trying to read case files, trying to drink her coffee — she doesn’t stop you, just mutters “insatiable” with a smirk. late nights on the couch with your legs tangled over hers, your fingers tracing the scar on her side, whispering everything you want to do to her — she listens quietly, then pulls you into her lap.

you call her detective when you're being flirty — she pretends to be annoyed, but the flush in her cheeks always gives her away.

she’s the calm to your fire, but when she snaps, when she lets go — you learn that she’s been holding back so much more than you thought. your need for touch grounds her; sometimes it’s the only thing that pulls her out of her head after a long day.

she’s not overly verbal during sex, but you are — and she loves it. loves how uninhibited you are, how you make her feel wanted in a thousand ways. sometimes she doesn’t say anything at all — just looks at you with that heavy gaze, hands on your hips, and you know exactly what she needs.

you send her texts during work: i need you, thinking about your hands, wear that button-down tonight — she leaves you on read, but always shows up exactly how you want.

she’s the type to make you wait. edge you for hours just because you’ve been too much all day and she wants to remind you who’s in control.

she sets boundaries with you early on — not because she wants distance, but because she knows your appetite could swallow her whole if she let its “you don’t get to touch me just because you’re needy,” she says, low and measured, her hand firm on your wrist — but she never pushes you away, not really.

she gives you rules. no touching without asking. no teasing when she’s on the phone. and god help you if you break them — she doesn’t yell, she disciplines. when you push too far, she doesn’t lose her temper — she goes cold, calculated. “take your hands off me. now. you don’t get me when you’re acting like a brat.” she uses your hypersexuality to train you — gets in your head, turns your hunger into obedience.

you test her constantly, and she lets you — up to a point. then it’s “knees. now.” and you’re on the floor before your brain can catch up. she loves that you want her all the time — but she makes sure you need her on her terms, not yours.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

he’s amused by how needy you are — not mocking, just indulgent. “insatiable little thing, aren’t you?” he says without looking up from his glass. he doesn’t initiate in public, but you can feel it in his stare across the room — the promise of what he’ll do to you later if you don’t behave.

he makes you ask. always. “use your words.” and if you whine or pout? “that’s not asking. that’s begging. i haven’t decided if you deserve it yet.” his discipline is precise — never cruel, always controlled. he doesn’t punish out of anger, but out of principle.

you learn very quickly not to touch him without permission. not because he doesn’t want you to — but because he enjoys denying you just enough to keep you desperate.

“if you can’t sit still through dinner without thinking about my hands, maybe you don’t need dessert tonight. or tomorrow.”

he knows your body like a weapon — keeps you right on the edge with barely a touch, just his voice, just the way he looks at you when you’re squirming in his lap. he buys you luxury — lingerie you’re not allowed to wear unless he puts it on you, jewelry that marks you as his, bruises that match your diamonds.

there’s a cold satisfaction in how he makes you obey. “no talking back.” if you try to argue he silences you with a kiss, a firm grip on your jaw, “i’ll speak when i want. you’ll listen.” he loves the way you bend to his will.

when you’re on your knees, obedient and desperate, he takes his time with you, savoring the control he has over your every move, over the way you look at him like he’s the only thing that matters. he loves when you’re desperate, when you can’t hide how much you crave him. “beg for it,” he’ll say, casually, and the way you do makes him smile with that dangerous satisfaction.

in those rare moments when he decides you’ve earned it, he’ll show a sliver of tenderness. a brush of his fingers on your cheek, a gentle word in your ear — it’s the only time you get a glimpse of the softer side he hides behind his icy control.

he doesn’t let you forget who’s in charge. if you slip up, if you get too demanding or bratty, he’ll pull back with a simple “that’s not how this works. try again.” he holds back just enough to make sure you’re always wanting more. when he finally gives you what you crave, it’s a slow, calculated act — drawing you to the brink, then pulling you back again, just to see how much you’ll beg.

“you’re not getting anything until you prove you can behave.” — you have to be good for him to get what you want.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

he calls you his favourite canvas, but he never means it metaphorically. his fingers drag across your skin like brushes, like he’s trying to paint need into your bones. he doesn’t understand restraint — when you want him, it feeds something primal in him. “say it again,” he demands, breathless and too close.

blood on his hands, paint under his nails, and you pulling at his shirt like you’re starving — he doesn’t care what time it is or what mess he left behind, not when you’re looking at him like that. he laughs when you get desperate, but it’s not mocking — it’s delighted. “look at you,” he purrs, “so hungry. like a little beast. i could make something beautiful out of that.”

he marks you in more than bruises — red smudges from pigment he won’t name, his fingerprints staining your thighs, your back, your neck — like he’s signing you. he gets obsessed with patterns — the way your body responds to certain touches, sounds, pressure — like he’s studying a new medium. “arch your back. no — slower. let me see the shape of it.”

he doesn’t like being told no. not because he’s cruel, but because he can’t comprehend being denied something he craves. your desire fuels his delusions of devotion. when you touch him, it drives him manic — like being wanted back is a concept he can’t entirely believe, and he spirals into reverence or obsession. sometimes both.

he doesn’t knock when he enters — he appears, silently, suddenly, like inspiration itself. and when you look at him with need in your eyes, he exhales like he’s relieved. “oh good. you’re ready for me.” he doesn’t understand why you crave him so often — but he adores it. treats it like proof. like you were made for him. like your desire validates the madness in his head.

he feeds on your desperation — physically, mentally, artistically. your need becomes his muse, your body the altar he builds madness on. when he ties you up, it’s not just for control — it’s a frame. your body, trembling and aching, becomes the exhibit. “stay still. you’re art now. don’t ruin it.”

he’s rough, but never careless. every bruise is intentional. every handprint, every bite — a signature. he gets frustrated when you wear something that hides his marks.

after, when you’re ruined and trembling and boneless, he presses his forehead to yours, whispering in rapid, breathless phrases: “my perfect, filthy little thing.”

and then he sketches. right there, with you still shaking, sprawled over his lap — he sketches the aftermath. the glow. the way you fell apart.

started 4.27.2025. finished 4.28.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[monicfever]

Hey! I saw your latest hcs and it gave me an idea, so I wanted to ask if you could do something with the reader taking care of injuried DD & punisher characters. Maybe about taking care of when they're sick too?

Your blog is a delight. Here, for you 🌹

taking care of them 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher headcanons ( includes sick & injured hc’s )

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / muse / james wesley

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

he hates being seen like this. bruised, bloody, barely holding himself upright — matt’s first instinct is to hide it. not because he doesn’t trust you, but because it feels wrong to need help. he thinks he should be stronger than this. when you gently take his mask off and get to work cleaning him up, he can’t look at you. not at first. his voice is tight when he says, “you don’t have to do this.” but you’re already doing it, and something in him aches at the quiet intimacy of it. the embarrassment is real. he flinches when you see a particularly bad bruise. he gets stiff when you help him out of his shirt. he mumbles half-hearted protests like, “i’ve had worse.”

he apologizes too much. for the blood. for the bruises. for making you worry. for taking up your time. “sorry,” he mutters, over and over, until you finally stop him with a hand on his cheek and say, “stop apologizing.” and that’s when he finally breaks a little. just breathes out slow, lets his head fall against your shoulder. lets himself be held.

he secretly loves it. once the initial shame wears off, once he realizes you’re not disgusted or overwhelmed, he starts to relax. it kills him how much he likes it. your fingers in his hair. the way you wipe his forehead with a damp cloth. the way your voice goes soft when you talk to him like he’s something precious. it undoes him. every little gesture makes him fall harder.

he listens to your heartbeat. when you’re tending to him, especially if he’s in pain, he focuses on the sound of your heartbeat. smirks a little if it’s beating faster out of worry.

he can’t move much, so you help him change into one of his oldest, softest shirts. he winces, but lets you tug it over his shoulders with quiet, patient movements. “you’re lucky you’re hot when you’re miserable,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood. and he laughs — low and a little breathless — and says, “you’re lucky i’m too beat up to flirt back properly.”

sick ;;

denial is the first symptom. he wakes up coughing, congested, clearly feverish… and insists he’s fine. he’ll drag himself out of bed like he’s perfectly healthy, wobble into the kitchen, knock over a glass with his elbow, and then insist that you not make a big deal out of it. he’s losing the fight against his own body but he’s not going down without being insufferable about it.

he HATES how everything feels. his skin hurts. the sheets are too scratchy. the pillow’s too soft. sounds are too loud but also too quiet. the tea is too hot and also not hot enough. it’s not even that he wants to complain, he’s just miserable and everything is overstimulating. he lies there scowling like a feral cat in a blanket burrito.

his voice is all gravel and rasp. he’s congested as hell and absolutely refuses to blow his nose in front of you. instead he’s all “i’m fine.” in the most pathetic, raspy, sniffly voice ever. it’s so sad and endearing that you have to tease him.“you sound like a dying jazz musician.” he glares, but also kind of melts when you bring him more tea and rub his chest with slow circles of your hand.

he refuses to stay in bed, because “being vertical helps drain congestion” (a lie). so he curls up in a massive, tangled blanket pile on the couch. he looks utterly defeated. he dozes off halfway through trying to listen to the news, and when you tuck another blanket over him, he instinctively turns toward you, half-asleep.

his sense of smell is completely off and he’s MAD about it. he is so personally offended by the betrayal of his own senses. you try to gently feed him something bland so it won’t overwhelm him, and he makes a face like he’s just tasted betrayal. “you gave me this when i’m dying?” but he still eats it. all of it.

he’s clingy in his sleep. when the fever breaks and he’s all sweaty and exhausted, that’s when he finally stops fighting you. he curls around you like a heat-seeking shadow, one arm thrown around your waist, breath shaky but slowing. if you try to get up, even just for a second, his fingers twitch and search for you in the sheets. “stay.” barely a whisper.

he insists on wearing cologne even though he can’t smell it. this is a little ridiculous but it’s so him. he feels gross and unbalanced, so he spritzes on a little cologne out of habit. it’s way too strong. you walk into the room and immediately go, “matt. babe. what did you do.” and he just shrugs miserably. “i didn’t want to smell like sick.” you have to open a window. he’s pouting under the blanket. you kiss his forehead anyway.

you keep feeding him honey and tea and he sighs dramatically like he’s enduring great hardship.

he’s awful at asking for help but melts when you give it anyway. he’ll never ask you to do anything. won’t ask for more water, or a blanket, or your company. but when you offer it, and do it without him asking? he’s so soft about it. he turns his face toward your hand when you brush his hair back. leans into your palm like a tired cat. he won’t say thank you, but you’ll catch the whisper of it, later, when you’re not even sure he’s awake.

you catch him halfway through putting on the suit. he’s pale, disoriented, swaying a little on his feet, and trying to get his gloves on with shaking hands. “matt.” / “i have to—there’s a lead—there’s a guy moving weapons and—” / “you can’t even hold up your own damn head right now.” he mumbles something about “responsibility” and “the city needs—” before you march over, put your hands on his burning chest, and physically push him back onto the bed. he doesn’t fight it. he can’t. he just coughs pathetically and mutters, “you’re so bossy when i’m dying.”

he tries to sneak out and fails miserably. you go into the other room for five minutes and come back to find the window open, the suit missing from the closet, and matt trying to climb out onto the fire escape like a dramatic, feverish bat. “matt. murdock.” he freezes. turns around slowly. hoodie pulled over his mask like an idiot.“…hi.”

you literally grab him by the back of the hoodie and drag him back inside. he coughs halfway through and nearly folds in half. “this is humiliating,” he mumbles. “good. maybe you’ll stay put this time.”

and the second he feels better? he pretends he was never sick. he gets up, showered, dresses in something sharp, and acts like he wasn’t wrapped in three blankets whining about soup 24 hours ago. “you were being dramatic,” you say. “you’re imagining things,” he smirks.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

he only comes to you when it’s bad. frank doesn’t want to bring blood into your space. he tries not to. but when it’s bad — when he’s staggering, hand pressed to his side, pale and barely standing — he shows up. always at night. always wordless. you open the door and there he is: soaked in rain and blood, eyes glassy.“didn’t know where else to go.”

you already have towels, the first aid kit, a basin of warm water. you were waiting. he insists on handling it himself. tries to brush you off, sit on the edge of your tub and stitch himself up like he always does. but his hands are shaking. he's lost too much blood.

you kneel in front of him, take the needle gently from his fingers. “frank. let me.” he stares at you, jaw locked, eyes dark. vulnerable. and then he nods. just once.

you cut the shirt off his body, soaked with blood and rain, bruises already forming, ribs swelling. he watches your face the whole time, trying to read your reaction, like he’s bracing for you to flinch, to leave. his eyes close and he exhales like he’s been holding it in for days. like you seeing him like this is worse than the pain itself.

he’s so still when you’re working. doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t wince. just clenches his jaw and grips the edge of the counter while you clean and stitch him. but you notice the way he grips the sink so hard his knuckles go white. the way his whole body flinches when your fingers brush too soft across his skin. he’s not afraid of pain. he’s afraid of your kindness.

you whisper to him while you work. not because he needs it, but because you do. little things. “almost done.” “you’re okay.” “i’ve got you.” he doesn’t answer. but his breathing evens out. like your voice is the only thing tethering him to earth.

when it’s over he almost collapses. you bandage him up, ease him back into bed, and suddenly all the fight goes out of him. he’s exhausted. sweating. tries to push himself up, say he should leave, but you put a hand on his chest and gently press him down.“you’re not going anywhere.” his whole body stills, and then relaxes completely.

you sleep in the same bed, hand on his chest. he doesn't really sleep — just drifts in and out. but every time he stirs, your hand is there. grounding him.

he remembers every second of it. even when he’s healed, even when the bruises fade. he remembers the way your brow furrowed. the way you held his wrist when he tried to leave. the way you saw him — hurt, bleeding — and didn’t look away. he doesn’t say it, but it lives in the way he looks at you now. softer. deeper. like you’re something holy.

he would die before letting anyone else take care of him. after that night, there’s only you. he won’t let another soul near his wounds. not curtis. not david. no one. when he’s bleeding, he comes to you. your hands don’t just fix him. they hold him. remind him he’s still human.

sick ;;

he hides it like a wounded animal. you don’t even know he’s sick at first because he’s so damn good at hiding it. goes about his business with bloodshot eyes and a sore throat, coughing into his arm like it’s just dust. but then you catch him sitting on the bathroom floor at 3 a.m., drenched in sweat, breathing shallow, and trying to convince himself he doesn’t have a fever.

you crouch down. touch his forehead. “frank. you’re burning up.” he closes his eyes and leans into your hand without meaning to. “i’m fine.” he rasps. he is not fine.

he tries to disappear for your sake. frank gets weirdly distant when he’s sick. not because he wants space — but because he doesn’t want you to see him like that. he’ll hole up in the garage or the basement or wherever he thinks he won’t be a burden. you find him shivering under a blanket he probably grabbed off the floor. “why are you hiding?” / “don’t wanna get you sick.” but you sit down beside him anyway. wrap your arms around his big, stubborn body. “tough. we’re doing this together.”

he’s the worst patient alive. he will not rest. will not sit down. will not take the medicine unless you physically make him. you hand him a thermometer and he looks at it like you just gave him a live grenade.

“just hold it under your tongue.”

“…that’s bullshit.”

“what, the concept of thermometers?”

he grumbles. takes it anyway. makes the most murderous face while doing it. you laugh, he scowls. he’s your problem now.

soup is sacred. frank doesn’t ask for anything. ever. but when you set a bowl of hot soup in front of him and say, “eat.” he obeys without a word. slow, methodical spoonfuls. quiet. a little pathetic. he won’t meet your eyes but he lets his knee bump yours under the table.

he sleeps hard when he finally gives in. once he lets himself rest, it’s like his body crashes. he sleeps harder than he has in weeks — snoring, twitching, breathing unevenly. he curls toward your side of the bed instinctively. tucks his head into your neck like he doesn’t know he’s doing it. you run your fingers through his sweaty hair and he sighs in his sleep.

he melts when you fuss. he’d die before admitting it, but he loves when you take care of him. fluffing the pillows, tucking the blanket around him, gently brushing your fingers across his forehead. he acts like it annoys him — grumbling, muttering, but he’s leaning into every touch. softening under your hands. falling asleep faster when you hum to him. he never got this before. not after maria. not from anyone, and now he needs it more than he knew.

he gets better and remembers everything. once he’s back on his feet, he doesn’t say much about it. starts being extra gentle. extra present. fixes something in the house you didn’t know was broken. touches you a little more carefully.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

he tries to brush it off at first. walks in with his arm cradled against his chest, limping just slightly, face tight with pain, and you know it’s worse than he’s letting on. “what happened?”

“just a little accident in court. tripped on justice.”

“foggy.”

he’s scared. not of the pain, but of you worrying. of you seeing him as fragile. he doesn’t want to sit still. you try to help him onto the couch and he’s all, “no no, i can get it, really.” but then he winces when he moves his shoulder and you’re done. “sit. down. now.” he finally listens. you’re so gentle with him it makes him feel like his ribs might crack for a different reason.

you touch him so carefully it makes his throat close. your fingers ghost over the bruises on his ribs, you help him out of his bloodied dress shirt, you hold his wrist steady while you check for swelling. he keeps his eyes on you, not the injury — like your face is the only thing keeping him grounded. “you’re not mad?” he whispers. you look up, confused. “mad? foggy—i’m just glad you’re here.” and he swallows hard. “okay. good.”

he’s way too polite about his pain. you’re patching up a nasty scrape and he keeps saying, “you don’t have to do this,” and “i can take it,” and “it’s not that bad.” but then you hit a spot that clearly hurts and his breath stutter.

he tries to keep it light until he can’t. he’s making little jokes like, “guess i’ll have a cool scar to show off at parties,” or “now you have to carry all the groceries.” but then he sees the look on your face while you’re bandaging his side, the worry. and he just goes quiet. “…i really scared you?” you nod. he kisses your knuckles. “i’m okay now. ‘cause of you.”

he falls asleep with your hand over his bandages. you’re sitting on the couch, curled close to him, your hand warm and steady over the clean gauze across his ribs. he keeps blinking slow, like he’s trying not to miss it. but eventually, his breathing evens out. and he sleeps. his fingers twitch for yours in his sleep, like his body’s still reaching for you even when his mind is at rest.

he doesn’t want to take the pain meds unless you say it’s okay. he’s weirdly shy about it, like taking them means he’s weak. you explain it’s to help him heal. he nods and lets you hand them to him. “only ‘cause you’re the boss,” he murmurs with a smile. (he always listens to you when it really matters.)

sick ;;

he insists he’s fine. always. stubbed his toe? “i’m good.” fever of 102? “i’ve had worse.” coughing like an old man? “just a little post-nasal vibe.”

he’s got that i-don’t-want-to-be-a-burden complex, and he tries to downplay everything because he doesn’t want to stress you out. but you can see how pale he is. you can hear the rasp in his voice. and eventually, you’re like, “foggy. babe. sit your ass down.” he listens. cutely.

he laughs through the discomfort. he’s got a headache, his nose is red, and he’s bundled up on the couch like a human tissue — but he still tries to crack jokes between coughs. “on a scale of one to dying, i’m probably a strong... five and a half.” you kiss his forehead, make him tea, and he looks at you like you’re his entire world.

he gets so clingy when he’s not feeling good. like yes, he’ll act like it’s “no big deal”, but the second you sit down next to him, he’s got his head in your lap, arms around your waist, refusing to let you go.

he’s a dramatic little baby when he’s really sick. you catch him texting matt things like “tell my story” and “delete my browser history.” you walk in and he looks up with teary eyes like, “babe. promise me… if i don’t make it… you’ll water the fern.” / “foggy. you have a cold.” he just sniffles and holds out his hand like he’s saying goodbye forever. you’re trying not to laugh, he knows it. he still wants you to kiss his forehead and call him brave.

he LOVES when you take care of him. loves it. it’s written all over his face. when you run your fingers through his hair, when you put a cool cloth on his forehead, when you make him soup or tuck him in, he melts. gets all soft and quiet. looks at you like you’re a miracle. “how did i get you?” he mumbles. you tell him he earned it. he grins, all pink-nosed and sleepy.

he’s the best sick-day partner ever. once he leans into it, foggy becomes the king of cozy. he sets up movies, gets the couch just right, grabs a stack of blankets, and lets you curl up next to him. he’ll hold your hand under the blankets, share snacks, fall asleep halfway through the movie with his head on your shoulder.

he keeps trying to help around the house anyway. you catch him trying to load the dishwasher while half-sweating and wheezing. he lets you drag him back to the couch. pouts. lets you put a blanket over him, smiles like he’s never been more in love.

he sends you sick selfies. if you have to leave the house, he sends dramatic pictures of himself in bed with captions like: “pray for me.”“death comes for us all.” “miss u. bring soup.”

you send him back a photo of the soup and he sends you 15 heart emojis in return.

he never forgets how good you were to him. when he’s better he’s constantly returning the favour. he brings you your favourite drink, tucks you in when you’re tired, checks your forehead for no reason and says, “just making sure you’re not dying like i was.”

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

she tries to walk it off. she’s bleeding, limping, hands shaking — but she insists she’s fine. “it’s not as bad as it looks.” you look at her shirt, dark and blooming with red. “karen. sit down.”she hesitates, but something in your voice makes her stop fighting. she sits, breath hitching, finally lets the pain show.

you kneel in front of her, and she can’t meet your eyes. not because she doesn’t trust you—but because this hurts. not just the wound, but being seen. you’re so careful, so gentle.

she apologizes. for bleeding, for needing help, for everything. “i should’ve been more careful.”she bites back tears, flinches when you clean the wound.

your touch is light, steady. your voice soft. you talk her through every step. and the whole time, she’s blinking fast. overwhelmed. “why are you so gentle with me?” she whispers. you press gauze to her side. “because you deserve it.” she laughs, a little broken. “that’s new.”

she trusts you with the pain. once the bandages are on and the worst is over, she leans into you. lets you hold her. doesn’t talk, just breathes. you feel her body start to relax. her guard drop, inch by inch.

she lets herself cry when she knows you won’t leave. the tears come slow, almost reluctant. you don’t ask questions, don’t push. just hold her tighter. and when she says “thank you” through a cracked voice, you kiss her hair and say, “always.”

you help her out of her ruined clothes, and it’s not about shame. you’re careful, slow. not clinical — tender. she shivers when you help her into clean clothes. not from cold, but from the realization that she’s being cared for. like someone thinks she’s worth saving.

she starts to smile again as she heals. they’re small, shy smiles at first. but you catch them. when you hand her coffee just the way she likes it. when you refill her meds before she has to ask. when you hold her close, careful of her bruises.

she looks at you like she’s finally allowed to hope again.

sick ;;

she tries to power through it. karen doesn’t like being sick. she’s not used to being vulnerable, so when she starts to feel under the weather, she pushes through it. you notice the sniffles, the way her voice cracks when she talks, but she’s still at work, still going full-speed, pretending she’s fine. “i’m just a little off today,” she’ll say, brushing it off.

she fights the idea of being taken care of. when you take her back to your place, she still fights it. doesn’t want to sit down, doesn’t want to admit she needs rest. “i can make soup myself.” she says hoarsely, trying to get up. you stop her, gently pressing her back down on the couch. “nope. not today, miss page.”

you speak softly, your hand on her forehead to check for fever. she sighs, defeated, but there’s a tenderness in her eyes.

she gets embarrassed by how much you’re doing for her. when you start taking care of the little things, getting her fluids, covering her with blankets, making sure she’s comfortable, she’s so embarrassed.

you sit beside her, brushing her hair out of her face, and it makes her melt. she’s not sure how to handle the fact that you’re taking care of her with no strings attached.

she’s exhausted, physically and emotionally. she tries to fight it, but eventually, her head drops against your shoulder as you sit together. you run your fingers through her hair and she relaxes into you. she’s too proud to ask for help, so you give it anyway.

when her fever spikes, you realize she’s not going to ask for help. you take the medicine into your hands and gently coax her to take it, even though she doesn’t feel like it. she protests, but you firmly place the glass in her hand.

you sit next to her, feeling her body shiver a little, and you pull her close to give her warmth. she doesn’t argue this time. she lets you hold her.

she leans into you when you feed her soup. you make her soup and feed her spoonful by spoonful, even though she’s still stubborn. “i can feed myself.” you smile softly, holding the spoon in front of her mouth anyway. “you need to eat. and i want to take care of you.”eventually, she just closes her eyes and lets you feed her, your presence grounding her in a way she never knew she needed.

her soft, grateful smiles when you check on her. whenever you leave her side to get something, a blanket, water, medicine, she looks up at you like she can’t believe someone’s really taking care of her. you come back to her on the couch, and her smile is small, but it hits your heart in a way she doesn’t realize.

eventually, she just lets go. she falls asleep with her head resting on your chest, her body warm but still fragile. you notice her sleeping more soundly now, the fever subsiding, the stress of the world easing off her shoulders.

she asks you to stay the night — just for her peace of mind. when she starts feeling a little better, you get ready to leave, but she looks at you with a bit of hesitation. “can you stay… just for a little longer?” it’s a small request, but it means everything to her. you stay the night, just sitting with her as she falls asleep in your arms. without question, you’re not going anywhere.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

she won’t admit it’s as bad as it is. elektra is always in control. when you find her, she tries to hide it — she’s good at that. “it’s nothing,” she’ll say, holding her side, a smirk on her lips. you know better. “don’t even try it,” you reply, guiding her to sit down. “you’re hurt, and you’re letting me help you.” she glares at you, but the intensity of her gaze softens just a little. “you’re annoying.”

she’ll be teasing — but also secretly appreciative of how careful you are. while you’re cleaning up a deep cut on her arm, she’s smirking. “you know, if you were trying to get my attention, there are easier ways.” you roll your eyes but keep your hands steady. “i’m just trying to keep you from bleeding out.” she raises an eyebrow. “oh, so you do care?” you shoot her a glare, and she laughs, but there’s something in her eyes — that softness she doesn’t let out often. “fine, fine.” she says, leaning back, her shoulders relaxed for once.

she’s so used to taking care of herself, it takes a while to let you in. she insists she’s fine, standing up too fast, wincing only a little when she moves. but you can see the subtle signs of pain she’s trying to hide. but when you start to clean up her cuts and bruises, she lets you. quietly, though, her usual fire replaced with something more vulnerable.

“you’re bossy.” she mumbles, but there’s no fight behind it.

when she’s wounded, she’s more open than usual. as you tend to her injuries, she’ll talk a little more than usual. there’s a vulnerability underneath the teasing. she hates being weak. she’s always the one in control.

even with a bullet wound in her side, she’s attempting to reach for her weapons. “i don’t need you babysitting me.”

she loves being spoiled. when you’re tucking her into bed, you get her a glass of water. she just looks at you, half-amused, half-embarrassed.

won’t let you leave her side. even though she pretends she doesn’t want anyone around, she makes sure you’re nearby. “i’m fine,” she insists, but when you start to walk away, she grabs your wrist, just enough to stop you. “where are you going?” she asks, voice just a little more vulnerable than usual. “just to grab a drink.” she’s quiet for a moment, but then says, “bring it back here.” — it’s not a request.

when she’s finally feeling a little better, she’s adorably grumpy about it. she’s been resting all day, and she’s finally feeling less woozy. when she tries to sit up, she huffs and rubs her eyes.“i’m bored.”

when you sit next to her, she leans into you, not as much in pain anymore but in need — for once, she’s letting herself rest with someone she trusts.

sick ;;

she insists on toughing it out. she’s always been the type to push through pain and discomfort, and sickness is no different. so when you try to give her a glass of water or make her rest, she brushes you off with a dismissive wave.

she’s stubborn about medication. when you get her some cold medicine, she eyes the bottle suspiciously. there’s a moment of silence as she glares at the bottle, considering refusing just to be difficult. but when she sneezes hard and immediately winces, you know you’ve won. reluctantly, she takes it. “this better work.”

she’ll tease you about being overprotective. even though she loves the attention (she’s just not used to admitting it), she can’t help but poke fun at you when you’re hovering a little too much.

she’ll start asking for extra things just to see you scramble. elektra can be very subtle about her need for care. one minute, she’s insisting she’s fine, the next, she’s letting you do little things for her.

she’ll nap, but only if you’re close. after a while, the fever starts to make her drowsy. her eyes flutter as you sit beside her, and she lets herself lean against you without saying anything. “you’re not going to leave, are you?” she mutters, too tired to hide her vulnerability. you let her sleep, keeping her hydrated, and check in on her every now and then.

she’s too proud to ask for help, but you catch her needing it anyway. when she wakes up with a dry throat, she tries to reach for the water, but her hands are shaky. you notice right away, grabbing the glass and gently bringing it to her lips.“don’t make that face,” she says when she notices the concerned look on your face. “you’re not as tough as you think.” she scowls, but doesn’t pull away from the water. “i don’t need to be babied.”

she will eventually fall asleep for hours. after more fluids, some rest, and probably a dozen more grumbled complaints, elektra finally gives in to sleep. she curls up on the couch, wrapped in the blanket you brought her, and you sit by her side, quietly watching over her.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

dex isn’t used to being physically vulnerable. the pain doesn’t even register at first, it’s the vulnerability he hates, the way he feels exposed when you take charge. but as you clean the blood off his face, bandage his new scars, there’s a strange peace that settles over him. he can’t help but let you. maybe it’s the way you move so gently, like you’re not just patching him up but stitching back something in him that he thought he could never let anyone see. when your hands are on him, he doesn’t resist, even though he’s never allowed anyone this close. it’s almost like he’s afraid to let go, but at the same time, he’s not sure he ever wants to.

each time you touch him, a little piece of his pride slips away. dex is proud — more proud than most people would realize — and he’s spent years convincing himself that he doesn’t need really anyone.

but when his injuries leave him vulnerable, helpless in a way he can’t control, he realizes just how much he’s been starving for this. for someone who isn’t afraid to see him in pieces. the slow pressure of your hands as you adjust his position, carefully lifting him so he doesn’t hurt himself more, makes him feel both exposed and cared for at the same time. he can’t help but melt into the sensation. he’s craving this softness.

the air between you two becomes charged, every touch heavier than normal. when you press a bandage into a gash on his side, there’s a tension that settles. he’s not used to someone being this close — being this gentle — so the simplest things feel intimate. when you meet his eyes, you see something in them he’s never shown before: trust, raw and unguarded. it’s not just the physical pain he’s dealing with, but the emotional weight of letting someone care for him in this way. and even though it’s not spoken, the way he looks at you is almost desperate, a silent plea for more of the care you’re offering.

you notice how he relaxes a little more each time you’re near him, how his body leans into yours as you help him sit up. when you press a cloth to his forehead, he doesn’t pull away. he doesn’t want to. there’s a hunger for your touch. he tries to be stoic, to maintain control, but his body betrays him. he stays still longer than necessary, savoring the way you care for him with obedience.

when you step out of the room for a moment, just to grab something or to check on the door, dex lets out a deep breath, as if the absence of your presence has left him feeling exposed again. it’s not that he doesn’t trust you, but your touch has anchored him in ways he didn’t realize he needed. when you return, he looks at you like he’s been waiting for your return.

throughout it all, dex is watching you.

it’s not just the physical care, it’s the emotional depth of it. he’s used to people using him, taking what they need from him. you’re not like them. when you care for him, it feels different. there’s no agenda. it’s just pure, simple care. the longer you stay, the more that glimmer of appreciation shows in his eyes.

by the end of it, dex isn’t just letting you take care of him — he’s accepting it. he’s letting go of the need to be strong, letting himself lean into the care you’re offering him.

sick ;;

dex is stubborn and doesn’t like being seen as vulnerable, but when he’s sick, it’s hard to hide it. at first, he’ll try to act like nothing’s wrong, but there’s a slight quiver to his voice and a flushed look on his face that makes it clear he’s not okay. you insist he rests, but he resists, trying to get up, even though it’s obvious he’s barely holding it together. “i’m fine.” he insists, though he winces when he tries to sit up. you place a hand gently on his shoulder, guiding him back down. “let me help, okay?” there’s a moment of hesitation, but then, he sinks into the bed with a soft sigh. “fine. but just for a bit.”

starts to enjoy the attention. at first, he’s awkward about the idea of being taken care of. he’s not used to this kind of attention, especially when he’s vulnerable. when you bring him tea or medicine, he takes it from you with a quiet thanks. when you press a cold cloth to his forehead, he sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. “i never get sick,” he mutters. “this is... embarrassing.” you just chuckle softly. “you don’t have to be embarrassed.” he grumbles, but when you adjust the blankets around him, he allows you to do it without protest, a small, content smile tugging at his lips.

gets way too comfortable with being spoiled. as the day goes on, dex stops protesting so much and starts relaxing into the care you’re giving him. he’ll lean into you when you’re sitting next to him, subtly seeking out your attention. he’s clearly not used to letting his guard down like this, but now that you’re there, it’s as if he doesn’t want to let go of the feeling of being cared for. you end up sitting close to him, rubbing his back or holding his hand, and he lets it happen without a single complaint. he might be too eager for your attention at this point.

he’ll keep asking for just one more thing. “can you bring me more water? my throat’s killing me.” / “can you adjust the blankets? i think i’m cold.” / “hey... i think i need more tea.”

each time, you just smile and do whatever he asks. it’s obvious he’s soaking it all in, and when you return with whatever he’s asked for, he looks almost smug. he’s enjoying being doted on.

“hey, stay close.”

he’ll let you do whatever it takes to make him feel better. you go out of your way to make sure he’s comfortable — adjusting pillows, offering him favorite snacks, ensuring the temperature is just right — and he doesn’t fight you on it. in fact, he starts to let you do even more, seeking you out for small comforts.

“can you grab my jacket? i’m cold.”

milks the attention longer than he should. even though he’s starting to feel better, dex still leans into the sick act, enjoying the extra care and affection you're giving him. he’s obviously pushing the limits, pretending to be more miserable than he really is, just so he can keep you close for a little longer.

he’ll use the smallest excuse to keep you close. he’s not even sick anymore, but he finds ways to need you. “i think i need more water... can you get it?” he asks, and even though he could get up himself, he doesn't. when you return with the water, he makes sure to sit up a little, just enough to let his body brush against yours.“thanks,” he says, taking the glass from you but not letting go of your hand. “you’re still sick, huh?” you tease, noticing his play for more attention. “mhm.” he hums, pulling you back to sit beside him.

starts to get more demanding, subtly asking for your attention and touch in ways that are almost too obvious. “i think i need another blanket. i’m cold.” you don’t question it, just draping the blanket over him, but as you do, he shifts his position, cuddling against you with his face pressed against your chest. “you okay?” you ask, but there’s a hint of a smirk on your lips. “yeah. just... it’s more comfortable this way.” he mutters, but there’s a faint blush creeping up his neck.

at this point, it’s clear dex is milking the whole situation for all the affection he can get. “can you give me more tea?” — you get up to make him another cup, but when you return, he’s acting like he can barely keep his eyes open, his body practically sprawling out on the couch as if he needs help sitting up.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

he’s stubborn about it, of course. billy won’t let you see how much pain he’s in. at first, he’ll insist he’s fine, but there’s an underlying tension in his jaw, a small wince when he moves, betraying him. he’s never liked being weak, but with you, he might let his guard down just a little.

despite being injured, he still tries to take care of you in small ways, like reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face or trying to make you laugh with a smirk even though he’s clearly in pain. it’s his way of showing that, even when he’s vulnerable, he’s still your protector. he just struggles with the idea of being dependent on anyone.

there’s a quiet intensity in the way he lets you care for him. he watches you with a mix of appreciation and reluctance, his pride tugging at him. you can tell it bothers him to have someone else take control, but the trust he places in you during these moments is something you’ve earned over time. it’s not easy for him to let go, but with each soft word you say or gentle touch you offer, he begins to settle. when he finally relaxes enough to close his eyes, there’s this peaceful, almost childlike quality to him that you don’t often see.

billy’s mind is always moving, always on alert, so even in his injured state his gaze doesn’t lose its sharpness. he’s still watching you, still trying to read every shift in your expression, even though he knows you’re just there to help.

his patience wears thin quickly. he’s snappy, his usual calm demeanor replaced with frustration. every little thing seems to set him off. maybe it’s because he’s not used to being in a position where he can’t control the situation. if you try to help him sit up, he might groan and mutter, “I can do it myself.” but his tone is sharp, as if he’s trying to hold on to whatever dignity he has left.

but then, just when you think he’s about to snap again, he’ll flash you that smirk. it’s crooked and a little cocky, like he’s amused by his own stubbornness. “didn’t think I’d let you do all the work, did you?” he’ll tease, the words dripping with his usual charm, even though you know he’s still hurting.

sometimes, he tries to play it off like it’s nothing. you’ll catch him pretending to stretch out a sore limb or walk a few steps as if he's not barely able to stand. his chest will puff up a little, that familiar arrogance creeping back in despite the pain. “im fine. just a couple of cuts. didn’t even faze me.” - but you can see the way he’s fighting to keep his composure. you can tell he’s testing his limits, trying to prove something to himself more than anyone else.

still, there’s a subtle charm in the way he interacts with you when he’s like this. even though he’s being difficult, there’s an undeniable magnetism to the way he looks at you — half-mischievous, half-vulnerable. it’s that same cocky confidence that makes him so irresistible, even when he’s at his weakest. “gonna take care of me? maybe I’ll let you.” he’ll say with a grin, like he’s giving you some kind of privilege.

his ego doesn’t disappear entirely, though. he still likes to make light of his injuries, tossing out sarcastic remarks to mask the discomfort. “im gonna need a massage after this. what do you think? I’d let you take care of me… if I was feeling generous.” he’ll tease, but you can tell by the way he looks at you — half playful, half serious — that he’s grateful. even if he won’t say it out loud, he trusts you to be there for him in a way he doesn’t trust anyone else.

when it’s time for him to sleep, you’ll notice the way his posture softens just a little. even when he’s trying to be cocky, there’s a shift in his demeanor. he’ll sigh, a little more worn out than he lets on, and that sharp edge will disappear for just a moment. his voice might be quieter, softer. “..you’re staying, right?” he’ll ask, his hand reaching for yours.

sick ;;

when billy’s sick, it’s a whole new level of dramatic. he hates being vulnerable, and every sniffle or cough feels like the end of the world to him. he’s the type to grumble and complain, his usual confidence replaced with whiny annoyance. “im not staying in bed. im fine.” he’ll huff, trying to sit up despite the way his body betrays him. “just give me some water and I’ll power through it. no need to coddle me.”

but, of course, he does need to be coddled, and he knows it. despite his protest, he leans into your care like a cat begging for attention. as soon as you bring him some tea or medicine, he’s dramatically sighing, “i swear, ive never been this sick in my life. you’re lucky you’re here.” there’s a strange mixture of annoyance and self-pity in his voice, like he can’t decide if he’s mad at you for babying him or if he’s secretly enjoying the pampering.

billy’s needy, it’s almost adorable how much he craves your attention when he’s unwell. he’ll drag himself under the blankets, looking absolutely pitiful, just to make sure you’re still close by. “I need another blanket.” he’ll demand, his voice hoarse, and when you pull one up to his chest, “no, higher — it has to cover my shoulders. do I look like I’m made of strength right now?”

when you try to leave the room for a moment, he becomes ridiculously clingy. “where do you think you're going?” he’ll say, voice dripping with that faux-dramatic tone, as though he’s just barely hanging on. he’ll pull at your hand like he’s holding onto a lifeline, only to give you a smirk when you roll your eyes at him. "come on. I know I’m a handful, but you like it."

he's annoyingly charming about it, though. in between his exaggerated complaints, he’ll throw in little winks or cheeky comments, like, “you’re really good at this. could get used to it, honestly.”

he’s like a child when he’s sick. billy will “accidentally” spill something on the couch or knock over his water, then give you the most innocent, pleading look. “whoops, guess I’m just too weak to do anything by myself,” he’ll say, batting his eyelashes. It’s all a game to him, and you’re just the one caught in the middle of his adorable (but infuriating) antics.

at one point, he’ll try to be tough again and downplay how miserable he feels, but you can see right through it. “you know i’ve been through way worse than this?” he’ll ask, trying to sit up straight but clearly wincing with every movement. “this is nothing... but I could really use some tea right about now.”

even when he’s sick, he can’t resist being the center of attention. he’ll joke around, flashing a sly grin as you tend to him. his eyes always betray him, glinting with the knowledge that he’s getting exactly what he wants: you, all to himself, for as long as he’s in this state.

as the day goes on, his mood might swing. he’ll go from snappy to needy to playful in the blink of an eye. "im freezing," he’ll complain dramatically, shivering under the covers, only for a second later to insist, “actually, im burning up. open a window, will you?” he’s impossible to please, but the more he shifts between being unbearably needy and adorably cocky, the more endearing it becomes.

when you finally sit down next to him, offering your hand or a little support, he’ll grab your wrist with a feigned groan, dragging you closer. “you don’t have to sit so far away, you know. im dying over here.” he’ll say with a teasing smirk, clearly enjoying the fact that you’re stuck by his side. as much as he pretends to be miserable, there’s a glint of satisfaction in his eyes, because, in the end, he does like being taken care of by you.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

dinah’s always been tough, and used to doing things on her own, so when she’s injured, she’ll fight you at first. she’ll try to stand up by herself, even though every movement makes her wince. “i’m alright,” she’ll insist, her voice rough but still holding onto that controlled edge, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as you. she won’t want to admit she needs help, but there’s a quiet vulnerability in the way she looks at you when she realizes she can’t do it alone.

she won’t let you coddle her, but there’s something in the way she lets you take care of her that says she trusts you in a way she doesn’t with anyone else. when you help her sit down on the couch, she’ll let out a long breath and briefly close her eyes. “this isn’t exactly how i wanted to spend the day.” she’ll say, trying to make light of the situation with a small, wry smile. but it’s obvious how much she’s holding back, how much she doesn’t want to seem weak.

dinah’s pride doesn’t let her rest easily. when you offer to help her get something to drink, she’ll reach for the cup herself, her fingers shaking slightly. “i can handle it.” she’ll say, but you can see the fatigue in her eyes.

she might get snappy when she’s frustrated, snapping, “i don’t need to be treated like i’m fragile.” but you can tell it’s just a defense mechanism. deep down, she’s relieved when you reassure her and show her that it’s okay to be vulnerable. when you gently adjust the blankets around her or brush her hair back, she’ll close her eyes, momentarily losing that sharp edge, allowing herself to lean into the moment.

dinah still holds on to that stubborn strength, but she’ll let you pamper her in small ways. she’ll accept your help without fully acknowledging it, maybe with a soft sigh as you help her sit or when you pass her a glass of water. “thanks.” she’ll mutter, voice barely above a whisper, and it’s not much, but it’s enough for you to know she’s grateful, even if she doesn’t always show it.

sick ;;

she won’t let you baby her, but when you bring her a cup of tea or some medicine, there’s a soft sigh of relief in her that she tries to hide. “i’m not some damsel in distress.” she’ll joke, but there’s a faint smile that follows, one that’s only for you. she’ll roll her eyes.

when you sit next to her, she’ll complain about how much she hates being stuck in bed, how useless she feels. “this isn’t me,” she’ll say, voice hoarse. “i don’t do sick.” but even as she says it, she’ll lean closer to you.

there will be moments where she’ll get a little snappy, her patience wearing thin. “stop hovering.” she’ll say, but the words aren’t harsh, they’re just her way of pushing back against the discomfort. she’s not used to being on the receiving end of attention, and it takes her a moment to adjust. still, there’s a quiet relief when you respect her space, but you know when to step back in with something she needs; whether it’s a blanket, another drink, or just a simple reassurance.

you’ll find her leaning on you more than usual. when you bring her some soup or medicine, she’ll try to sit up on her own, but she can’t help but let herself rest against your side. “you’re not getting paid for this, are you?” she’ll dryly joke.

when she does finally settle down to sleep, she’s still a little restless, tossing and turning. she’ll reach out for you in the dark, hand brushing your arm, just to feel your presence close by. she won’t admit it, but she finds comfort in knowing you’re there, watching over her.

the next day, when she’s starting to feel a little better, she’ll try to get back to her usual self—fighting the weakness in her body. “i’ll be fine,” she’ll say, but there’s still a lingering tiredness in her voice, something that tells you she’s still not fully healed.

she’ll try to hide it, but you’ll catch her leaning on the wall or taking a breath before standing up straight again. and in those moments, you just know: she’s still the same strong, independent woman.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

he’ll be reluctant to let you help. wesley’s always been the one who’s in control, running things behind the scenes, so when he's injured, he’s at odds with himself. he’ll try to mask it, pushing through like he always does, even when every movement sends a jolt of discomfort through him.

he won’t ask for anything, but he’ll appreciate when you step in. if you gently help him sit up, or offer him a glass of water, he’ll hesitate for a moment, but then take it without a word. there’s a silent gratitude behind his eyes, even if he tries to downplay it.

wesley’s not great at being taken care of. he’s used to being the one who takes care of everyone else, but when he’s hurt, he’s almost embarrassed by how dependent he feels. if you try to help him stand, he’ll grumble, “i don’t need a nurse.” but there’s a subtle shift in his posture, a small, almost imperceptible relaxation when he leans against you.

when you try to get him to lie down and rest, he’ll fight it. “i can’t just lie here.” he’ll insist, voice a little strained, his usual calm lost to frustration. he doesn’t like being in a position where he has no control, where he’s forced to rely on someone. but when you gently guide him back onto the bed, the tension in his shoulders will slowly melt away. you’ll notice how his usually sharp eyes soften a little, the cool exterior cracking just enough for you to see how tired and worn down he really is.

there are moments when his usual cocky confidence slips, and you catch glimpses of a side of him that’s much more vulnerable. if you’re cleaning a wound or adjusting his bandages, he’ll flinch, and his hand might instinctively reach for yours.

despite his frustration with needing help, wesley will occasionally make sly remarks or try to lighten the mood. “maybe you should consider a career change.” — it’s his way of admitting that he likes the attention, even if he’s too proud to admit how much he’s relying on you. his words are playful, but there’s a sincerity to them that tells you he’s appreciating everything you’re doing, even if he won’t come out and say it directly.

when he finally falls asleep, his body still tense but exhausted, you’ll notice that he seems to have let go of some of the usual control he clings to. his breathing will even out, and for a moment, he’ll look completely at ease, vulnerable in a way he’s rarely allowed himself to be. and while he might not say it, you know that he trusts you more than anyone to be there when he’s at his most fragile.

sick ;;

he’ll try to push through, pacing around, pretending he doesn’t need rest. “just need some air.” he’ll say, as if standing up too fast won’t make him dizzy. but you know better. you know he’s trying to fight it, but it’s clear he’s not okay.

when you hand him some medicine or a cup of water, he’ll take it, but with that same snarky attitude. the way he grips the glass a little too tightly, though, betrays him. he wants the care, but he can’t quite admit it. instead, he’ll make some snide remark about how you're being too nice to him.

at some point, you’ll have to convince him to rest. “i’m not staying in bed all day.” he’ll say, trying to push the blankets off, but he’s sweating, pale, and his energy is practically gone. you’ll have to practically beg him to lie down. “wesley, you’re not fine,” you’ll insist gently, and his usual resistance will crumble. with a huff, he’ll let you tuck him in but not without a bit of sass. “this better not become a habit.”

the moments when he lets you in are subtle. at first, he’ll just let you bring him food or water, never making a fuss about it. but then, when you help him sit up, maybe prop him up with a pillow, he’ll lean into your touch just a little longer than necessary. he won’t say anything about it, but his body will relax in a way it normally doesn’t.

despite being sick, he still can’t help himself from trying to act cool. “there are worse things to experience.” he might act like it’s no big deal, and he might do a good job at it too if it weren’t for his sickly appearance.

there will be moments where he gets frustrated with himself. “i hate this,” he’ll mutter, his usual control slipping. “i don’t like being stuck in bed.” you’ll see the frustration in his eyes, the way he clenches his jaw, and you’ll know he’s not just mad about being sick — he’s mad about not being able to do things on his own.

as he finally drifts off, you’ll notice how much more at ease he is. his breathing will even out, and there’s a small, almost imperceptible smile on his lips. he won’t say thank you, but the way he lets you stay by his side, trusting you enough to let himself fall asleep while you watch over him, is his way of showing it.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

physically injured ;;

will try to be stoic about his injury. whether it's a gunshot wound or a deep gash, he’ll do everything he can to hide the extent of it. won’t show it outwardly, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his usually composed demeanor cracks ever so slightly.

you’ll probably have to push him to sit down, or at least let you tend to the injury. he won’t like it, but there’s a moment when you’re looking at him, softly urging him to let you care for him, that his usual defenses lower. “i can handle it,” he’ll say, but there’s no denying the exhaustion in his eyes, the way he’s fighting to maintain his composure. he’ll reluctantly let you clean the wound or patch him up, but he’ll make sure to cover his vulnerability with sharp, dismissive comments:

muse doesn’t like to be treated with tenderness. it feels too vulnerable to him, too human. he’d rather brush it off or power through it. but the moment you press the cool cloth to his forehead, or you gently hold his hand while helping him sit up, he’ll pause. he might not say anything, but there’s a flicker in his eyes — he’s letting you in, even if it’s uncomfortable for him.

when you try to get him to rest he’ll be stubborn, leaning against walls or trying to push himself up when he clearly needs to be lying down. he’ll snap, irritated that he can’t be his usual self. he might even close his eyes for a moment, allowing himself that tiny indulgence, though he won’t admit to being grateful.

by the time he starts to feel better, muse will try to get back to his feet, never wanting to admit how much he needed the rest. “i didn’t need you to do all that.”

sick ;;

he won’t admit that anything’s wrong. he’ll try to keep going, like nothing’s changed. you’ll see the way his usual composure starts to crack though, the way he rubs at his temples or coughs quietly when he thinks you’re not looking. it’s clear he’s already pushing himself too hard.

when you offer to help, he’ll brush you off. he hates the idea of being taken care of. there’s a certain bitterness in his voice when he denies it, like he’s offended by the very idea of being weak. “i don’t need tea.” he’ll mutter, but you’ll catch him eyeing the mug you brought him anyway. he’ll take it, but only after a little push, and when he does, there’s a reluctant satisfaction in the way he closes his eyes for a second, letting the warmth soothe him.

muse isn’t one to sit still for long, but when he’s sick, he’s forced to. you’ll catch him trying to get up, pace around, or even work despite his feverish state. you’ll have to insist that he rest, leading him to the couch or back to bed, and he’ll make a show of it. “this is ridiculous,” he’ll say, but his eyes are bloodshot, his energy drained. he knows he’s not going anywhere, but he’s too proud to admit it.

muse gets easily frustrated when he’s sick, especially with the way it renders him useless. he can’t help but feel annoyed by how dependent he is on you, and when you suggest something like taking medicine or drinking water, he’ll roll his eyes and try to avoid it. eventually he’ll give in, albeit begrudgingly.

in the quieter moments, when he’s too tired to fight or argue, he’ll finally let you be the one to care for him. maybe it’s when you adjust his blankets, or when you bring him something warm and place it next to him. “i’m not weak.” he’ll insist, though his voice is quieter, weaker than before. he’s trying to remind you that this is temporary, that he’ll get back to his usual self soon.

★ a / n : bwuhhh thank u for the rose .. flowers for you lovely anon 💐. hope this was to your standard !

started 4.27.2025. finished 4.28.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[monicfever]

hiii angel!! i was wondering of you'd do something for dex and reader who has severe attachment and abandonment issues? i love love love your work sm!! <33

ben poindexter x attachment/abandonment!issues reader. 𝜗𝜚 headcanon’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

cw ᝰ .ᐟ co dependency ,, toxic relationship probably? idk my heart shaped glasses are on ,, gender neutral reader ,, it’s dex so .. yah

DEX knows that kind of fear. the kind that makes your chest ache when someone takes too long to reply. the kind that whispers they’re leaving. so when you get quiet and distant and paranoid, he doesn’t take it personal. doesn’t get mad when you ask for reassurance three times in ten minutes — just pulls you into his arms and says it again: i’m not leaving. i’m right here.

he literally doesn’t know how to process being wanted this much. this is probably one of the most ideal scenarios out there for him.

emotional dependency. if one of you is upset, you can’t focus on anything until the other is calmed down.

dex lets you kiss his pulse when he’s scared. he won’t say it out loud, but it grounds him — to feel your lips where his heart beats. to know someone wants him alive. you let him kiss your wrist in return.

he lets you cling. he needs it too, if he’s being honest. lets you tangle your limbs around him like a lifeline. lets you fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, steady and real and not going anywhere.

the relationship isn’t about space, it’s about closeness. constant closeness. suffocatingly sweet, terrifyingly intense closeness.

you joke about being codependent and he nods like it’s a compliment. like, yeah? obviously.

you’ve both made it a habit to over-reassure each other when you talk about friends or exes. like, you’ll say “she’s nice, but she’s not you. no one makes me feel like you do.” dex’ll say “he’s cool, but you’re mine.” and it never sounds forced. it sounds like medicine.

you’ve both had full-blown meltdowns over someone going to the store without saying goodbye. the smallest silence, the smallest gap in communication triggers that deep, clawing fear: they left. they didn’t think it mattered.

both have habits to constantly reassure each other you're still chosen. dex will tap your thigh three times — his silent code for i love you, i'm here, i’m not leaving. you squeeze his hand in return — i know, i feel it, don’t stop.

he sends voice notes when he knows you’re spiraling. tells you exactly what he’s doing, exactly when he’ll be home. never ghosts, never disappears. he knows what that does to someone.

lets you repeat yourself. lets you doubt. lets you cry. he gets it — how love feels like something that could vanish if you breathe wrong. he lets you see him anxious, too. the tapping, the pacing, the tension in his jaw. not to make you feel guilty — but so you know you’re not alone. you don’t scare him. he’d rather have you panicked and clinging to him than not have you at all.

it’s terrifying how much he loves you. he needs you like air, like sleep, like the pills he forgets to take when he's too busy watching your location update on his phone. he never calls it stalking. he calls it making sure you’re okay. calls it looking out for you. calls it love.

he adores that you’re clingy. never complains. never rolls his eyes. in fact, the more you need him, the calmer he feels. finally, someone who wants him like that. who’s just as intense. neither of you go anywhere alone unless it’s absolutely necessary. if you could, you’d share one nervous system. always touching — pinkies hooked, shoulders pressed, legs tangled.

both of you panic when the other doesn’t answer the phone right away. he’s texting “where are you? are you okay?” while you're calling back in a frenzy thinking he got hurt.

falling asleep on top of him. always. his chest, his lap, draped across his body like a weighted blanket. he’d stop breathing before he’d ask you to move.

you panic when he leaves. even if he says it’s nothing big, even if it’s just a quick job. you cling to him at the door, voice cracking as you whisper “what if you don’t come back?” — dex melts. completely. cups your face in both hands, presses your forehead to his and says “hey. i’m coming back. i always come back to you.”

he leaves behind a hoodie that smells like him. a voicemail saying “i love you” just in case. his location’s always on. he double checks the locks before he goes. triple checks if you’re crying.

the second he’s home he’s dropping everything at the door, walking straight to you like he’s been starving. wraps his arms around you and mumbles, “missed you so bad. i’m sorry, i’m here now. i’m not going anywhere baby, i’ve got you.” you’re curled up on the couch in his hoodie, cheeks blotchy from crying, and he’s just standing there staring at you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen. like, he thinks you’re so adorable when you need him. “gonna make it up to you,” he whispers, running his fingers through your hair while you cling to him. “wont go anywhere without you. won’t even go to the bathroom without you, swear to god.”

and he doesn’t. for the next 24 hours he’s glued to your side, follows you around the house like a puppy. lays on top of you like a weighted blanket, kisses every inch of your face until you start laughing through the tears.

you’re in his lap while he eats. in his lap while he watches tv. he literally can’t function unless you’re physically touching him. one hand on your thigh, arm slung around your shoulder, pinkies linked — something.

if you say “i thought you were gonna die,” he gets so soft. kisses the corner of your eye, strokes your cheek with the back of his hand and says, “you really love me that much, huh?” like he’s shy about it.

he thinks it’s so cute when you get possessive too. like if you cling to his sleeve when someone flirts with him, he leans in and kisses you right there, smiling against your mouth.

you both have those breakdowns where it’s not even words, just shaking and holding each other like it’s the only thing keeping your hearts beating. and every time he promises it again. even if he already said it twenty times that day. “i’m not going anywhere. i couldn’t even if i wanted to. you’ve got me forever.”

one time he tried to leave in the middle of the night for something “quick.” didn’t want to wake you. but you did wake up — reached out, found the bed empty, and by the time he was at the door, you were sobbing in the hallway. he immediately dropped his bag, walked back to you with the most heartbroken look on his face. cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing your tears away. you clung to him so tight he just sank to the floor with you, held you there until the sun came up. whispered over and over, “shhh. i’m not mad. you’re allowed to need me. i love it when you need me.”

he started letting you tag along after that. even if it’s just waiting in the car. even if you’re not doing anything. he’d rather see your worried face through the windshield than not see you at all.

he talks to you through his earpiece. “you still there, baby?” / “mhm.” / “talk to me. tell me what you’re gonna make me for dinner. i just wanna hear your voice.” and if you do stay home, he calls during the job. on the job. literally ducking behind cover like “hey, yeah, just wanted to say i miss you. i’ll be home soon, okay?” - - que him throwing a rock at matts forehead without even looking. when he comes back, he doesn’t even take off his boots before grabbing your face and kissing you breathless. muttering “you okay? did you cry? i missed you.” (part of him secretly likes it when you cry over him.)

he’ll cancel plans to stay in bed with you. has zero problem being irresponsible if it means holding you through a panic attack or a clingy spiral.

absolutely calls you pet names when you’re anxious. “sweetheart,” “angel,” “my baby.” says them soft and slow, like a lullaby, until you settle in his arms.

he wants the mess. wants the tears. wants the clinginess. it makes him feel safe. it makes him feel real. desired. if you ever try to apologize for needing too much he cuts you off with a kiss. “you’re exactly what i’ve always wanted.”

if you ever pull back, even just a little — even for a second — he goes absolutely wild. not in a “calm down” kind of way. in a “no, no, no” kind of way, like you’re slipping through his fingers. the moment you don’t immediately reach for him, his chest tightens, his heart rate picks up. “what’s wrong? don’t you want me?”

if you stop needing him for a second, even in a non-desperate, non-needy way, he can’t breathe. he panics. he feels his whole world shattering. like you’re getting ready to leave him. your clinginess feeds him. he knows you care. if you even accidentally pull away or seem like you’re trying to give him some space, he’s on you within seconds. wrapping his arms around you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart. he cracks when you show signs of independence. he thinks it’s a sign you’re going to disappear.

his mind works overtime, spiraling into the idea that if you don’t cling to him, if you don’t hold him like you’re terrified of losing him — then you will leave him.

starts to feel resentful of anything that takes you away from him. if you hang out with friends, if you don’t text him back immediately, if you want time for yourself, it all feels like a slow rejection.

will whine or get genuinely upset if you don’t show enough physical affection. even if he’s the one who’s too clingy, he’ll act like you’ve abandoned him just for pulling away for a minute.

he doesn’t like when you act like you’ve got it together. when you try to be strong without him. it makes him feel like you don’t need him anymore, like he’s invisible. “i thought you needed me. i thought i was the one you couldn’t live without.”

obsessive, compulsive tracking. you go to the store? he needs to know when you’re leaving, when you’re back, what you bought. stalker tendencies. if you leave for a moment, if you go out alone — he’ll follow. just to make sure you’re not leaving him or finding someone else.

he listens to you so obediently. whatever you say goes. if you tell him to stay close, he doesn’t question it. if you tell him to sit down, he’ll drop whatever he’s doing and sit at your feet.

he’ll drop everything for you. his work, his hobbies, his interests — none of it matters if you need him.

both of you feed into each other’s worst fears: being abandoned, being alone. you make excuses for each other, let each other get away with anything just to avoid the uncomfortable idea of ever losing the other.

he enjoys knowing that you're so wrapped up in him, that when you feel abandoned, it’s almost as if the world is crumbling. he doesn’t want to be cruel, but he can’t help the rush it gives him knowing you’ll always look to him first for validation, for connection.

dex knows exactly how to get under your skin when you're struggling with your abandonment issues. when you try to shut him out emotionally, he’s the one to make you feel like it’s impossible to be without him. the more you get lost in your own head, the more he thrives on being your constant. when your insecurities flare up he doesn’t give you space; he pulls you in closer, touches you in ways that ground you. dex loves that you fall apart when he isn’t there. when you shut down or spiral into your own head, he sees it as proof that you can’t exist without him.

when you catch him spiraling, getting quiet, withdrawn, convinced you’re gonna leave - you drop everything to hold him. he clings to your shirt and hides his face in your neck like a kid. he never had that kind of comfort growing up, and now he craves it from you. only you.

when either of you even jokes about leaving, the other shuts it down immediately. it’s not funny. not even a little. you both get too in your heads about it, replaying it for hours after, paranoid it wasn’t a joke at all.

you both feed off each other’s clinginess. if one of you starts it — handsy, needy, whispering you can’t sleep without them — the other doubles it, tenfold. suddenly you're locked in each other’s arms like the world’s ending and only this moment exists.

keeps one of your things with him at all times. could be a hoodie, a piece of jewelry, even a chapstick you used once. he doesn’t tell you, but when he’s losing it, he holds it like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. when you find it and realize he’s been carrying it around? you start doing it too.

neither of you knows how to fight without the deep-rooted panic that this will be the one that ends it. dex raises his voice once, and your heart drops into your stomach. you go quiet and his hands are already in his hair, begging under his breath — “don’t shut down. don’t leave.”

when one of you leaves the room for more than ten minutes without saying where you’re going, the other’s already pacing. it’s ridiculous. dex once came back from a shower to find you curled up on the floor thinking he bailed. now he always announces where he’s going. even if it’s just the kitchen.

when one of you is away for too long, you both lose sleep. it’s not just missing each other. it’s panic. dex gets snappy and withdrawn, you get dramatic and anxious. the reunion is always intense. too many emotions, too much relief.

he doesn’t just get protective. he gets viciously protective when you talk about past relationships, past abandonments. he hates thinking about you being hurt before him. loving someone before him.

sometimes dex gets so overwhelmed by how much he loves you that he just shuts down. goes quiet. curls up against you and buries his face in your stomach, you play with his hair until he comes back.

you both hate sleeping without the other now. you try to be normal about it, but you wake up nauseous. dex stares at the door like you might walk in. even one night apart leaves you both off balance. you sleep facing each other a lot. turning your back feels like a statement, and neither of you could survive misinterpreting that in the dark.

he picks up on your micro-expressions instantly. your blink patterns, how you fidget when you’re upset, how your smile twitches when you’re scared. he watches you like a survival manual. you do the same to him — he calls it creepy as a joke, but he melts every time.

dex starts fights on purpose when he’s scared you’re pulling away. just to make sure you care.

your phone backgrounds are each other. not even cute aesthetic photos — full-on, raw, vulnerable pictures.

you both keep little mementos from each other. you write notes to each other constantly. on mirrors, on receipts, on the backs of your hands. he has every post-it note you’ve ever written. you keep a receipt from a gas station because he held your hand in the parking lot and told you he’d never let go. you keep them like relics. like insurance against loneliness.

when one of you gets triggered or panicky, the other instinctively lowers their voice, softens their movements, goes small. you both know what it’s like to be too scared to ask for comfort.

every time one of you has a nightmare, the other doesn’t ask what it was. not unless you want to say it. instead, the rule is: water, forehead kiss, wrap around each other until your breathing syncs. the night resets when you find each other again.

there’s a rule: never leave the house angry. ever. if you fight, you sit on the floor, back to back, and you breathe. five minutes. ten. until the tension melts.

you keep a shared notebook for when the feelings are too big. you write letters to each other in it, especially on hard days. sometimes dex scribbles “i love you even when you’re quiet.” and leaves it on your pillow. you write back: “i love you when you’re angry. i know why you get that way.”

dex lets you trace his scars when you’re anxious, over and over. even the ones he usually hides. you do it like it’s sacred. like every inch of him deserves love. when he can’t breathe, you ask him to trace your spine, your jaw, your hands. it calms him every time.

dex keeps a note in his phone called “what to do when they’re hurting.” it’s just little things you’ve said helped. your favourite snacks. songs that pull you back. the way you like your hair touched.

you both panic when the other one sleeps too still. like — is that still breathing? dex has absolutely leaned over you, whispered “baby?” until you stirred just slightly. and you’ve done the same, barely touching his chest with your fingers to feel it rise.

marks you up when he’s jealous. hickeys, scratches, bite marks in places only he’ll see. for control — for comfort, for proof. you do the same. a little too hard with your nails. a kiss with too much teeth.

he absolutely malfunctions when you compliment him too earnestly. like, he can take teasing or playful flattery, but if you look at him dead serious and say something he stares at you like you’ve knocked the wind out of him.

he doesn’t know how to handle the way you hover when he’s injured or just tired. like bringing him water, checking his face for any sign of discomfort, asking “need anything?” every ten minutes. he’s never had someone be gentle with him like that, it completely unravels him.

becomes totally silent when you trace his features. like, drag your fingers over his cheekbones, his brow, his jaw — just looking at him like he’s something sacred. he leans into your palm every time.

dex absolutely gets flustered when you praise him in front of people. casual stuff — “he’s so good at that,” or “he takes care of me better than anyone ever has.”

he loves being watched. like when he’s doing something totally mundane — loading a gun, brushing his teeth, pacing — and he notices you looking at him like you’re obsessed. it short-circuits him a little. he tries to act normal, but it makes his skin burn in a good way.

once got really quiet after you hugged him from behind and just held him there. no words. no tension. just arms around his waist, your cheek against his back.

when he’s being moody or short, you don’t fight back. you just cup his jaw, tilt his face toward yours, and say “talk to me.” it undoes him completely. you never use that voice unless you’re pulling the hurt out of him like a splinter.

he is always waiting to be “too much” for you. too cold. too quiet. too angry.

he can always tell when you’re spiraling in your head, even if you don’t say a word. maybe you’re fidgeting with your hands, chewing your lip, or just not making eye contact. he’ll pull you into his space, drape a heavy arm around your shoulders, and rest his head on top of yours. you don’t need to explain; he already knows. sometimes, he’ll just leave a kiss on your temple and wait, and that’s all it takes for you to calm down a little.

when you’re feeling overwhelmed in public, maybe at a party or in a crowded place, his first instinct is to reach for your hand, fingers squeezing just enough to pull you back to him. the simple pressure of his hand is enough to remind you that no matter how loud the world is, he’s here, and he won’t let you go.

when you’re on the verge of a panic attack he instantly knows. his reaction is immediate, he doesn’t try to talk you down with logic (because he knows that doesn’t work), instead, he pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly, keeping you in his chest until you’re calm. when it’s over, he doesn’t leave you, even for a second. he’ll make sure you feel safe.

sometimes, when your abandonment issues hit, you get scared of being left alone — whether it’s him going out or just being in a different room. dex, noticing this, will make sure to be around you constantly, but in a way that doesn’t overwhelm you. if he has to leave for a bit, he’ll casually say, “i’m going to grab coffee. wanna come?” or, if you’re staying in, he’ll just hang out in the same space as you, whether it’s in the living room or the kitchen.

started 4.27.2025. finished 4.27.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[monicfever]

omgg youu are talented at writting 😭😭 could youu please write more of dex?? YOUU ARE AMAZING ♾️♾️🤍💘

orbiting you quietly. 𝜗𝜚 ben poindexter.

working side by side in the hum of routine, dex moves through every task with quiet devotion, chasing the warmth of your praise like it’s sunlight — like it’s the only thing that keeps him alive.

brooklyn was grey that morning.

heavy with a kind of lightless fog that pressed low against the buildings, as if the city itself had given up holding its head high. the brooklyn suicide prevention center sat quiet near the corner of a long, cracked street, tucked between a shuttered deli and an apartment complex that hadn’t seen fresh paint in a decade. the building didn’t look like a place for saving lives, it looked like a place people went to disappear.

inside, the walls were an off-white that had seen too many winters, too many cheap coffee spills and curled bulletin board notices pinned and forgotten. it smelled faintly of disinfectant and the ghost of burnt toast. there were dying plants on windowsills, drooping toward the glass like they, too, had tried to leave and failed. phones rang in soft cycles, never urgently. voices murmured behind the fabric walls of cubicles. sometimes crying, sometimes silence.

dex’ cubicle was third from the end in the west corridor, just past the breakroom that always smelled like someone else's soup. his space was a picture of immaculate restraint. not a pen out of place, not a single paperclip skewed. everything was lined up, corner to corner, colour-coded sticky notes stacked with precision. the monitor sat perfectly centered. the chair never spun when he stood up. it was rigid, obedient. just like him. he liked it that way.

he liked the quiet, the way the lights buzzed just barely too loud, like something inside the walls was always alive. he liked the uniformity, the structure, the rules. the way the day folded itself into clean, containable blocks. thirty-minute calls, ten-minute breaks, scheduled wellness checks. everything measured. everything expected.

predictability was peace.

it didn’t matter that most of the people he spoke to were crying, or silent, or on the edge of not breathing. he followed the script provided, voice smooth and sterile, each word handed over like a prescription. detached, impersonal. it was what they trained him to do. dex was good at following orders. he didn’t feel bad about the calls. he didn’t feel much at all. maybe once, in a different life, there was guilt or something like it. now it was just static.

the carpet was grey and frayed near the corners of the hallway, the breakroom door had a squeak that made his teeth itch, the clock above the main desk always ran four minutes fast. he catalogued these things without meaning to, without wanting to. everything filed away neatly in his mind.

the building itself felt suspended in time; dim, slow-moving, tired. there was something haunted about it. not by ghosts, but by the weight of too many stories stacked on top of each other. hundreds of voices funneled through the same lines, all pleading into the same nothing.

the walls didn’t echo. they absorbed. every whisper, every sob, every broken breath swallowed whole by the cubicles, the stained ceiling tiles, the thin industrial carpet that dulled footsteps. it was a quiet that wasn't peaceful. it was the quiet of restraint. of things left unsaid. the lights overhead hummed with the same tired persistence as the people beneath them. no one spoke loudly here, no one laughed. even the breakroom felt like it existed underwater — muted, slow, beige.

outside, the city moved fast. horns, trains, voices, music leaking from passing cars; but inside this building time collapsed inward. minutes dragged like wet cloth. hours disappeared without a trace.

dex sat at his desk like he’d always been there. spine straight, hands still, eyes fixed on the screen even when nothing was moving. he was good at this part — the waiting. the stillness. he could out-sit anyone. sometimes he watched the light change. the way it crept across the floor from the narrow windows, cold and pale in the early hours, yellow and foggy by late afternoon. it gave the illusion that something was shifting, even if everything else stayed exactly the same.

his headset rested just behind his ear; ready. not because he wanted the calls, but because he wanted to be seen. wanted them to see him. to see how composed he was. how exact.

the others here had softness in them. he could hear it in their voices, the way they said i’m sorry like they meant it. the way they let themselves feel for the strangers calling in, bleeding into the phone. dex didn’t bleed. he couldn’t.

but he was clean. efficient. dependable. and he thought — he hoped — that maybe that meant something to them. maybe that was enough to be worthy of a second glance. a quiet compliment. a fleeting you’re doing good work, dex. he would carry those words like a relic, polish them smooth in his mind.

this place didn’t need to be warm. it just needed to hold them both. him, and the one person he couldn’t stop wanting to impress.

you.

sometimes dex thought about how many people had whispered their last words into this building. he didn’t feel sad about that either. he didn’t come here to feel, he came for control. for order. for the soft, rare moments when they noticed him. that was the only thing that made him real lately. not the routine. not the script. not the careful stacks of paper or the alphabetized tabs on his desktop.

just them.

and he tried. god, he tried. arrived early, stayed late, kept his stats high, his reports spotless. he kept hoping they’d stop behind his chair again, hand resting on the edge of his cubicle, voice low and even, saying something — anything — that he could replay in his head later when the calls were over and the building had emptied and he sat alone in the quiet.

he was good. he had to be.

not just clean numbers and flawless reports. not just the voice he used on the line, untouched by emotion. it was in the way he sat, the way he breathed, the way he never left a single thing out of place. perfection was the language he spoke, and he spoke it for them.

they moved like the building belonged to them. not in any loud or arrogant way, it was quieter than that. the way people naturally shifted when they were near, like water parting around a steady shape. dex watched it happen every time. watched the way they drifted through the halls like gravity bent around them. watched how their presence could calm a room. they didn’t know what they were doing to him. or maybe they did. he couldn’t tell.

sometimes, they would stop behind him, just briefly. a word or two dropped like gold coins.

“you handled that one well.”

“i like the way you log your notes.”

simple. professional. casual, even. but dex would carry it like scripture. would repeat it in the quietest part of his mind, over and over, until the syllables wore grooves into his brain. he didn’t need kindness. didn’t need warmth. he just needed recognition.

his entire body was tuned to their presence. their steps, the scent of their cologne or shampoo, something clean and unplaceable. the way their hand sometimes grazed the edge of his cubicle wall when they walked by, fingers dragging for half a second too long. he lived for the scraps. he worked like he was starving. like praise was food, and only they could feed him.

and when the building emptied, when the phones stopped and the lights flickered tired above him, dex would still sit there. alone in the hush, thinking of them. always them. thinking of the way their voice sounded when they said his name four days ago. thinking of how it might sound if they ever said it a little softer.

he stayed late under the lights that buzzed just a little louder when the building thinned out. his monitor casting a pale blue glow across his face, making the hollows under his eyes look deeper, sharper. the clock ticked quietly, but he didn’t hear it. he was thinking. not about the calls, not about the woman he’d just talked off a ledge with a voice that didn’t waver once. he was thinking about the way they’d paused near his desk that morning. just a second. just long enough.

they didn’t say much. just glanced down at his screen and nodded, slow and approving, before moving on. “doing good.” that was all. but it played in his head like music.

he had written it down — he always did. kept a private document hidden in layers of folders on his desktop, buried beneath fake names and acronyms. a log and date of every word they’d ever said to him. every smile, every glance. he read through it when the office got too quiet, when the night pressed in too close. every compliment was a wound he reopened on purpose.

he thought about them on the subway ride home. standing, always, even when seats were open. gripping the cold metal pole with his hand, staring straight ahead but seeing only their face.

he wondered if they ever thought about him. if they ever wondered why he never took days off. why he never made mistakes. why he was always exactly what they needed. he didn’t want anything from them, not really. not in the way people always assumed when they used words like ‘infatuation.’

he just wanted to be good enough. good enough to notice. good enough to need.

if that meant becoming hollow and perfect, if that meant learning every single thing about them and storing it behind his teeth like a secret, he would do it. he was already doing it.

and he was so, so good.

the next morning was pale and brittle.

the sky outside the narrow windows was washed-out, barely blue, the kind of color that felt unfinished. snow had started to fall again — thin, soundless flakes drifting sideways past the glass like ash. it hadn’t stuck to the pavement yet, but everything looked muted, quieter than usual. like the world was holding its breath.

inside, the office was already alive with low chatter, the occasional cough, the creak of desk chairs. cubicles stretched in neat rows under the ceiling’s low sprawl, each one its own little box of half-lives and coffee-stained reports. someone was crying softly into their headset two aisles over. someone else was typing too fast.

dex’ corner was untouched, still perfect. clipboard aligned to the edge of the desk. pen uncapped, resting parallel. his chair didn’t squeak when he moved. he was already mid-call, voice low, steady, pulled taut like string. “...and that’s okay. it’s okay to feel that way. what matters is that you called. we’re gonna walk through it together.”

his tone didn’t change. it never did. he could’ve been reading from a cookbook. his eyes flicked to the clipboard in front of him, following the script like a ritual. mechanical, precise. not because he cared, but because they might be listening.

and then — that shift.

that unmistakable flicker in the air, subtle as a change in pressure. he didn’t look up, not right away, but he felt it. recognized their footsteps. the way the light seemed to change. they were close. he heard the soft drag of their steps, the gentle creak of their weight against the wall of his cubicle; then a pause.

they leaned against the edge of his workspace, not speaking yet, just watching him. dex’ breath caught, but he didn’t let it show. his fingers tightened faintly around the clipboard. he kept reading word for word. “you’re not alone in this. i’m here. just breathe, okay? can you do that for me?” his voice was warmer now. emotional. almost convincing. he could feel their eyes on him.

then they smiled. not big, not loud. just a small, knowing thing. patient. dex swallowed. his heart, previously so even and quiet in his chest, now thundered. not because of the caller, not because of the script; because they were listening and he wanted to be good.

their gaze moved over him with that quiet kind of focus that made his skin feel too tight, like he wasn’t meant to hold this much attention. his voice stayed even, but his fingers tapped once nervously against the clipboard. “yeah,” he said into the receiver, eyes fixed on the words in front of him but meaning none of them. “you’re doing the right thing. just stay with me a little longer, okay? we’ll take it one step at a time.” his throat felt dry. out of the corner of his eye, he saw you mouth something.

you’re doing great.

just that. silent. lips forming the words like a secret meant only for him. his grip tightened. his heart stuttered. he nodded once — tiny, instinctive. not for the caller. for them. always them.

they stayed for a moment longer, arms still folded, eyes warm but unreadable. listening. watching. then they pushed off the edge of the cubicle with that same soft grace they always moved with and walked away, further down the row to check on someone else.

their absence was immediate.

like breath pulled from a room. dex exhaled slowly, blinked, refocused. the caller was still speaking, shakily, and dex responded automatically, voice instantly flat again. but in his chest, everything was loud. frantic. glowing.

they said he was doing great.

he would hold onto that for days.

the call dragged on, the voice on the other end of the line scared, low. words spilled out of him with an eerie precision, as if he were reciting a mantra, something hollow and detached. “i’m still here. i’m not going anywhere.” but the words felt empty. inside everything was burning, frantic. a sharp, throbbing pressure in his chest. every thought, every heartbeat, seemed to be pulling him in a direction he couldn’t resist. his mind kept circling back to them, to the way they’d looked at him, the way they'd smiled before walking away. he wanted to grab onto that moment, hold it tight, feel it slip through his fingers. it wasn’t enough. it would never be enough.

the girl on the line was still speaking, but her voice barely registered. his eyes flickered to his screen, gaze sharpening, almost predatory. then he leaned closer to the mic, voice dropping lower, quieter, colder. "maybe you should just do it." he murmured, tone so dark it almost tasted like metal. "make it stop." the words felt raw, too raw, but he couldn’t stop them. he wanted to hear them. he leaned even closer, breath steady. "what’s stopping you? go ahead. make it quick. you think anyone cares? clearly not, if you needed to call a stranger for help."

the words hung in the air, the silence between them thick and oppressive. the girl’s voice on the other end stuttered, a soft whimper escaping her lips. dex didn’t care. and then, the call ended with a sharp click, the silence ringing through his ears.

he blinked, fingers hovering over the mouse. the room was suffocatingly still. for a moment, he sat there, the weight of the words lingering in the air. but before he could process what had just happened, the sound of footsteps approached again. he didn’t need to look up. he already knew who it was.

their voice, soft and uncertain, broke through the quiet. “hey, uh, dex...” they sounded almost hesitant, as if they were trying to be careful not to disturb the fragile calm of his world.

“yeah?” he responded, his voice clipped, sharper than he intended.

there was a pause, and then the words came out in a rush. “there’s a birthday party for michelle today. you know, just something small after hours... cake, some decorations. i’ve already asked everyone else, but they’re busy. i was wondering... if you have a few minutes... maybe... you could stay and help me set up?”

it was simple. innocent. but something about it made the blood rush to his head, made his stomach twist in ways that felt dangerous. his fingers tightened around the clipboard, the edges digging into his skin. he exhaled slowly, forcing a calm he didn’t feel, as his gaze finally lifted, eyes locking onto theirs. “sure,” he said, too quickly. “i’ll stay. no problem.” the words came out almost too eager, but he didn’t care. staying was all that mattered. staying meant being close.

they smiled then, the faintest curve of their lips, and it felt like a brief moment of relief — like they had just thrown him a rope, and he was grabbing onto it with everything he had. “thanks, dex.” their voice was light, but he could hear the warmth beneath it.

he nodded, his throat tight. "yeah. no problem."

they walked away after that.

stay and help me.

it wasn’t much, but to dex it felt like an invitation. an opening. an opportunity to be needed, to prove he was worth something. to make himself useful in a world where he often felt like a shadow fading into the background.

he clicked through the tasks on his screen, the words blurring as his thoughts spiraled, his focus split between the calls he needed to take and the thought of them, standing just out of reach.

it wasn’t long before the workday was winding down, the office growing quieter. the last few calls filtered through, voices distant and hollow, but dex barely heard them anymore. his eyes flicked towards the clock, then back to his screen. the tension in his chest was building again.

when his final call ended, dex was already standing, his movements quick. he grabbed his jacket, almost throwing it on, hands moving with a frantic energy that was out of place in the otherwise calm office. he didn’t wait. he couldn’t wait. he found them just as they were finishing up something at their desk.

“ready.” he greeted, voice a little too sharp, too eager, like he was afraid they’d change their mind.

they looked up, surprised but with that same soft smile. "oh, you’re ready to help?"

"yeah," he replied immediately, "just tell me what to do."

they hesitated, eyes studying him for a moment, and it sent a thrill through him. did they notice? did they see how much he wanted this? how much he needed their attention? "okay," they said, voice warm, like the invitation had never stopped. "follow me."

dex nodded, following closely behind them as they made their way to the small break room where the party would take place. his steps were almost too quick, matching their pace, but just enough distance to leave room for that sliver of space he knew he couldn’t invade. yet. he watched them move around, setting up with a practiced ease, and for the first time in what felt like forever, dex found himself... still.

when they turned to him, asking if he could hold something, the smile they gave him was warm and kind, and for a moment, it felt like they were looking at him in a way they hadn’t before — like he mattered, like he was someone they wanted around. “thank you.” they said again, their voice softer now, with that subtle approval he craved.

dex nodded, his throat tight, chest swelling with something he couldn’t name. "anything for you." the words slipped out before he could stop them, raw and needy, and he almost winced at the intensity in his own voice. they didn’t seem to notice, or maybe they did, but they didn’t care. they just smiled, the kind of smile that made his heart race.

as they continued to set up his thoughts began to race again. he was so close now. so close to what he wanted, to what he needed. he would stay close. stay useful. stay needed. and maybe, just maybe, they would notice. maybe they would see him as more than just the guy who followed the script, more than just the quiet one who stayed in his corner. maybe, this time, he could be someone they wanted — someone they couldn’t ignore.

the world outside the room faded into nothing. dex moved with urgency, hands trembling slightly as he helped set up the decorations. he tried to focus on the task at hand, but all he could feel was their presence, the air thick with the faintest traces of their scent. their laughter, light and easy, drifted through the room, and he couldn’t stop himself from glancing at them, catching the way their eyes sparkled when they smiled.

stop it. just focus. he thought, trying to reign in the overwhelming pull he felt. but the more he watched them, the harder it became to pretend. they passed by him again, just close enough that he could feel the warmth of their proximity. "could you grab that box over there?" they requested, their voice easy, casual.

"of course." his hands reached for the box a little too quickly. it was a simple request, one they probably didn’t think twice about, but to dex, it was like a direct command — and he would always listen to what they had to say.

when he placed the box down they gave him a soft smile, and for a moment, it was like time slowed. "you’re really helpful." the words hung in the air for a heartbeat too long, and dex felt a jolt of something sharp, something electric course through him. he swallowed hard, trying to mask the way his heart was pounding in his ears.

"yeah, no problem." he managed, hands clenching at his sides, aching to touch, to do more. instead, he forced himself to look away, focusing on the task in front of him. they moved around the room, busying themselves with small tasks — hanging up a banner, setting out plates. dex watched every move, every glance, every soft chuckle that escaped their lips. it was like he was drowning in them.

they went about their work and would ask him the occasional question, tone light and friendly. "hey, you’ve been working really hard lately, huh?" they glanced at him as they placed a stack of cups on the table. "i’ve noticed. you’re kind of a perfectionist, aren’t you?"

his breath caught, and he forced himself to laugh, though it felt hollow in his chest. "i try," he said. "it’s just easier when everything is orderly."

they smiled again, that soft, warm smile that made his stomach flip. "i think that’s why you’re so good at your job," they said casually. "you really care about getting things right."

the words cut through him, each one a needle pinning him to the spot. they think i care. they notice. he swallowed hard, "i do.” he didn’t. not about the job. not really. but the praise, the validation from them, that was everything. they didn’t seem to notice how much their words affected him. to them, it was just casual conversation, the kind they had with everyone. but to dex it was like they had just handed him the most precious gift.

the conversation moved on and dex felt the unease growing inside of him bubbling. it wasn’t enough. nothing would ever be enough. he wanted more, needed more. all of them, all of their attention. he wanted to be the center of their focus, to be the one they turned to when they needed something — anything. he watched them move across the room, taking charge, organizing. every word that fell from their lips, every simple instruction, was a rule he had to follow. even the smallest request sent a surge of something sharp and eager through him. he stood a little straighter, waiting for another moment, another task. anything.

"could you help set this up over here? just grab a few of the chairs and bring them over." their voice was light, nothing extraordinary, but to him, it was everything. "you got it." his hands were already moving before the words left his mouth. it didn’t matter that the task was small, that it was nothing more than setting up chairs. what mattered was that they had spoken to him, asked him to do something.

when he returned with the chairs, he set them down carefully, making sure they were perfectly aligned, just like everything else in his life. "thanks." they said with a smile that seemed to stretch a little longer than usual, just enough to leave his heart racing in his chest.

"anything." he smiled, and it was friendly, the kind you’d offer to be polite, but the word hung in the air more than a simple response. anything for you.

the evening wore on, and he stayed close, just enough to be in their orbit. he couldn’t get enough of the feeling — of being needed, of doing something for them, of being the one they called on. nothing else mattered. not the calls he’d taken, not the people on the other end of the line, not the world outside this room. it was only them, only their presence that filled his mind, their every word and smile that kept him tethered to this moment, this small piece of purpose.

everything for them. only for them.

the conversation faded into a low murmur behind him, like waves crashing against a shore he no longer stood on. dex wasn’t listening. not really. his eyes were on them again — the curve of their spine as they leaned over a table, the easy grace in their movements, the way they gestured with one hand while the other cradled a clipboard to their chest. he could watch them forever. he wanted to.

in the quiet recess of his mind, the scene shifted — subtly at first. he imagined them turning toward him with that same warm smile, but softer now, like it was just for him. no crowd. no task. just their voice, low and familiar, asking him to stay a little longer. maybe they’d brush his hand when passing by, fingers lingering just a second too long. maybe they'd whisper something just for him — something secret, something his. maybe they’d need him in a way that wasn’t about chairs or lists or neat rows of order. just him. only him.

his chest ached.

dex blinked. the room snapped back into sharp relief — they were still across the room, still organizing, still unaware of the spiral he’d disappeared into. that was fine. that was better.

he cleared his throat, tugged at the hem of his shirt, forced his feet to stay grounded. one step at a time. one small task at a time. he could manage that. he had to.

he looked back at them — not too long. just enough. “let me know if you need anything else.” he said, louder than necessary, voice steady now, composed. it wasn’t just an offer.

it was a promise.

★ a / n : thank you sm for this sweet message

started 4.26.2025. finished 4.27.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[monicfever]

I’m so obsessed with your writing, you write everyone and everything so well it’s like addicting to read!! 🩷🩷 like genuinely you’re so talented!

your support means more than i could ever express and gives me motivation to continue writing. one of the best things a writer could hear. happy reading. 💐