#Bendix | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

monicfever · 20 days ago

Note

ddba + punisher characters with a reader that's just as obsessed with them as they are obsessed with the reader? i feel like ben would be insane 😭

mutual obsession. 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hcs

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

r e q u e s t e d ♡

cw ᝰ .ᐟ mutual obsession ,, unhealthy relationships ,, yandere (?) tendencies ,, dark themes ,, swearing ,, jealousy ..

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

he used to beg god to take the feelings away. the hunger, the want. he'd sit in the confessional with blood on his knuckles and your name on his lips, whispering that he couldn’t stop thinking about you. that it wasn’t pure. that he didn’t care. now he doesn’t pray for mercy. he prays for you. to you.

you tell him one night — quiet, almost embarrassed — that you think about him constantly. that it’s starting to hurt, physically, when he’s not around. he goes completely still. then he laughs — breathless, broken — like the world just split open in front of him and inside it was you.

after that, something in him snaps. not like glass. like a leash. he stops pretending. doesn’t bother hiding the way he follows you when you leave without him. doesn't try to mask the bite marks he leaves on your throat, your thighs. he wants people to see.

you don’t shy away. you lean in. you leave lipstick stains on his collar and scratch marks down his back and you smile when you see his fists clench. you whisper in his ear that you dream about hurting anyone who looks at him too long.

you start going to church together. not to pray — to sit in the back pews while he grips your hand like a lifeline and confesses all the awful things he’s imagined doing in your name. you squeeze back. tell him you think sin looks good on him.

sometimes he ties your wrists. not for control, but because he’s afraid of what you’ll do if he lets go. he wants you dangerous, but only for him.

he listens to your heartbeat. when it stutters, when it speeds — he knows you. knows your moods, your lies, your lust. sometimes he forces your pulse into chaos just to hear it.

matt’s never been the type to lose control. but when it comes to you he’s a mess. he knows it’s not normal, knows it’s not healthy, but every time you look at him, every time you smile, every touch, it makes his heart race in a way he can’t ignore. “im not supposed to feel this way,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. but the way his fingers tighten around yours says it all. he can’t let go.

even when he tries to pull back, tries to focus on his work, he’s consumed by thoughts of you. he knows you’re just as involved, just as obsessed, but that knowledge doesn’t make it easier. It just makes the ache worse. when you’re around the rest of the world fades into the background. he can’t hear the usual noises of hell’s kitchen, can’t focus on his other senses. he’s so tuned into you — your voice, your breath, the warmth of your body next to his — everything else becomes a distant echo.

matt’s struggle isn’t just with the world outside of you, it’s with himself. every time he gives in to the pull of you, every time he lets his emotions get the best of him, he feels like he's losing a piece of his sanity. “this isn’t normal.” he says softly, as if he’s trying to convince both you and himself.

when you’re not around he can’t focus. doesn’t sleep properly. his mind races with thoughts of you, trying to keep it together, trying to push through the guilt and the dark need clawing at him. every time he’s near you, it’s like his willpower shatters. “I can’t think without you, I can’t...” he trails off, not even knowing how to finish the sentence. his every thought, every decision, revolves around you.

he’s so rational — matt murdock, the lawyer, the vigilante, the man who’s always thinking a few steps ahead. but when it comes to you, all that goes out the window. the second you kiss him, or even just touch him, he’s gone. the more you give him, the more he needs. he never expected to be the kind of man who’s so deeply obsessed, so utterly dependent on someone else, but now he can’t imagine life without you.

when you pull away, even just a little bit, it drives him crazy. he’s always been good at dealing with separation, but with you? It’s like he’s drowning. the moment you distance yourself it’s as if every ounce of his reason evaporates. “don’t do this.” he says, voice almost frantic, fingers grabbing at your wrist, pulling you back into his orbit.

you tell him you’d kill for him. not as a promise — as a fact. he doesn’t test you. he doesn’t have to. he’s never loved anyone more. doesn’t fear the devil in him anymore. now he knows you’d kiss his horns, kneel at his altar, and worship him anyway.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

he never thought he’d love again. didn’t want to. love is vulnerability. it’s blood on the floor and pictures on a mantle that get burned with the house. but then there’s you. and it’s not peaceful. it’s not healing. it’s an obsession that rips him open.

you say “i want you” like it’s salvation. he hears it like a death sentence. you touch his scars and kiss them like they’re holy. like you understand. he hates how much that matters. how much you matter.

because the more he loves you, the more he knows he’s going to ruin you. and he can’t stop.

when you talk about hurting people for him, there’s this look in his eyes — somewhere between arousal and grief. part of him loves it. another part mourns what you could’ve been. the softness you used to have before him. now it’s gone and it’s his fault.

he’s tried to leave. once. maybe twice. you found him. he told you he wasn’t good for you. you told him you’d rather be damned with him than holy without. he broke right there.

got on his knees and begged you never to say that again. because if you mean it, he won’t survive losing you.

he keeps you hidden. not because he’s ashamed — but because if anyone ever touched you, looked at you, found you— he wouldn’t stop at revenge. he’d erase cities.

sometimes he holds you too tight, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. sometimes he pushes you away just to see if you’ll come back. you always do. every time he falls harder.

he wants you to have a better life. somewhere safe, somewhere clean. but you only ever smile when you’re with him, blood on your hands and his dog tags around your neck. and that smile? he’d kill a thousand men just to see it one more time.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

foggy’s always been good at hiding the darker parts. the jealousy. the possessiveness. the way his stomach turns when he sees someone laugh too long at your jokes. he smiles through it. doesn’t flinch.

but when he gets home, he takes off his tie with shaking hands and fantasizes about never letting you leave the apartment again.

he’s the type who won’t sleep if you haven’t texted goodnight. who memorizes your coffee order, your allergies, your usual parking spot. it looks sweet. it is sweet. it’s also surveillance.

he’s always watching. people forget how smart he is — how much he sees. you belong to him. he knows your tells. your schedule. your scent. he doesn’t just notice — he documents. pages in his journals. photos tucked in books. voicemail recordings he’s saved for years.

you find out by accident. stumble across a notebook of his, full of your name. you don’t get mad. you add to it.

he doesn’t understand at first. thinks maybe you’re playing him, testing him. until you press your mouth to his ear and whisper, i think about killing her every time she flirts with you. then he gets it. you’re just like him.

jealousy becomes a language between you. subtle, coded. a look. a hand on a knee. a deep inhale when a stranger gets too close. then later — your nails in his back, his teeth on your throat, both of you desperate to prove the other is yours. every time someone looks at him, you fuck him like it’s war. he does the same.

he starts locking the door when you're both inside. always. you don’t notice at first. then you do. you start handing him the key yourself.

you leave notes in his briefcase. “you looked at her too long.” / “he touched your arm.” / “don’t forget who you belong to.” he keeps every single one.

his apartment becomes a shrine. your perfume on his sheets. your clothes in his drawers. your lipstick on a wineglass he refuses to wash.

he’s terrified of losing you. not because he thinks you’ll leave — but because he knows how deep your obsession goes. how far you’d go for him. how far he’d go for you. it’s not safe, but it’s perfect.

you watch him in court. walk past his office and peek in. offer to do laundry just to touch all of his clothes. he lets you. lets you into everything — even the ugly stuff. he trusts you with it. knows you’d never leave. if you ever did, he wouldn’t let you.

you start dropping by the firm unannounced. he pretends to be surprised every time. he’s not. he’s been waiting for you all day. his calendar’s clear, his desk is spotless, there’s already a drink for you on the table. he’s trained his whole life to make people feel comfortable — but with you he wants to be needed. wants to be kept.

you both get good at pretending. to matt. to marci. to the world. you’re just a little codependent. just a bit intense. nothing dangerous. not like the way your phone is never off for him. not like the way he keeps your used lip balm in his drawer and smells it.

he doesn’t dream of a white picket fence life. he dreams of locking the door, turning off the phone, and never letting you leave again. just you. and him. no one else in the world to ruin it.

he tells you once, voice low and shaking, “i’d do anything for you.” you smile. you already knew.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

it’s slow at first — eye contact held too long, texts that go a little too deep — but when it hits her, it hits hard. she clings to it like a lifeline.

you don’t scare her. not your obsession, not your intensity. in fact it comforts her because she’s the same way. she checks your social media like clockwork. reads every comment, every like. she never says anything, but you notice certain people suddenly stop talking to you. you don’t ask questions. you’re too busy doing the same thing to her.

when you say it the first time — “i think about you constantly” — she doesn’t believe you. not really. she smiles like she does, leans into the comfort of the words, but there’s this look behind her eyes like she’s preparing to lose you anyway.

then you start proving it. you start showing up everywhere. you text her at 2 a.m. because you miss the sound of her voice. you walk her home even when she says she’s fine. you memorize her coffee order, her bylines, her favourite shade of lipstick, and you say things like, “i hate when people interrupt you. i want to break their hands.”

she tries to test it. mentions an old flame. lets her hand linger on someone else’s arm while telling a story. your jaw tightens, you go quiet. later, in the dark of your apartment, you grip her waist hard enough to bruise and say, “don’t do that again.” and she melts under it.

karen has always kept her secrets close. the trauma. the violence. the things she’s done and the things she liked doing. but when she tells you — piece by piece, raw and shaking — you don’t flinch. just ask her what it felt like. she kisses you like she’s trying to crawl inside you.

you start picking up on her habits. the way she gets quiet when she’s thinking of something ugly. so you touch her, gently. and she starts associating your hands with safety. and danger. because she knows you’d kill for her, and that terrifies her. and turns her on.

she shows love in small, quiet control. she makes sure you eat. double-checks your calendar and finds excuses to keep you close. sends articles she knows will get under your skin just to start conversations you’ll obsess over for days. she likes being inside your head.

the first time you tell her you’d kill for her, she laughs like you’re joking. but you’re not. and when she realizes that — really feels it — she kisses you like it’s the last time you’ll ever speak.

she’s not violent, not by default; but she knows how to destroy people. how to leak things. how to plant a story. how to spin a narrative so tight it strangles someone’s entire life. you see it once — someone gets too close to you. and the next week, their career’s over. she never mentions it. but when you thank her with your hands in her hair and your mouth on her throat, she understands.

she gets jealous in small, brutal ways. you say someone’s name too fondly and suddenly she’s cold for a day. distant. it drives you insane, so you stop saying anyone’s name but hers.

she finds your journal once. reads every page. you catch her. she doesn’t apologize. just says, “i needed to know if you felt the same.” you tell her you wrote it hoping she would. she cries when you say that.

then you both stop pretending this is normal. you live in her apartment more than your own now. your toothbrush. your shirt in her drawer. your charger on her nightstand. you don’t talk about moving in — it just happens. like everything else with you two.

she keeps a file on you. your first conversation. old texts, photos. random facts. you find it by accident. instead of being scared, you pull it closer and say, “you missed a few things.” and you help her fill in the blanks.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

elektra doesn’t do “casual.” she doesn’t do “normal.” she does devotion. when she sees it in your eyes — the way you watch her like a religion, the way your jaw tightens when someone touches her — she knows you’re not just another game. you’re a match.

she tests you, of course. she pushes. she flirts with strangers in front of you, brushes her hand down their arm just to watch your reaction. you don’t yell. you smile. walk over, take her by the jaw, and whisper, “again, and i’ll cut his throat.” elektra’s pupils dilate like she’s high. she kisses you so hard your teeth clack.

she lives for the obsession. the way you memorize every scar on her skin. the way you track her when she disappears for days. the way you scream at her when she comes home bloody and laughing. she likes it when you scream.

she loves that you don’t try to tame her. you don’t ask her to be soft. you understand that she was built for violence. when you match her — when you come home with scraped knuckles and someone else's blood on your boots — she moans when she sees you. says, “tell me what they did. slowly.” you do.

you start fighting together. not just sparring — hunting. you follow her into danger and she doesn’t stop you. she wants you there. you’re better when you’re both bloody and grinning, breathing hard, backs pressed together, knives dripping. it’s not love. it’s carnage.

when she’s jealous it’s not subtle. she’ll walk up to someone who touched your arm and ask, “do you want your fingers broken or cut off?” you say nothing. you’d let her do it.

when you’re jealous, she smiles. she feeds on it. she wants you possessive. wants to see you furious. wants you to grab her hair and remind her whose she is. she’ll laugh the whole time, bleeding and smiling and saying, “that’s it. show me.”

sometimes you disappear for a while she hates it. won’t say it out loud, but she starts getting reckless. picking fights. baiting enemies. when you come back, she says, “i was fine.” but you find the way she’s been sleeping in your shirt.

she doesn’t cry, not really. but once — after you nearly die, after you bleed out in her arms and she can’t stop it — she breaks. for just a second. says, “if you leave me, i’ll kill everything. everyone. the whole world.” you’re too weak to speak. so you just kiss her hand.

she adores how obsessed you are. you don’t just want her body — you want her mind, her violence, her chaos. you ask her about her kills. beg her to show you the scars. you study her and it makes her feel seen in a way that’s almost unbearable.

she’ll lean in real close when you’re out together, whisper, “you’ve been staring all night. tell me what you’re thinking.” and when you say, “i want to kill the guy who just looked at you,” her eyes light up. she bites her lip. you feel her hand on your thigh, and she says, “then let’s give him a reason to stare.”

she’ll push you, too. tell you she’s meeting someone dangerous. see how you react. you pull her back by the wrist, say, “not without me.” she grins. says, “i was hoping you’d say that.”

she’s always been good at disappearing. but now? she doesn’t want to. she wants to be seen by you. she leaves her weapons on the table; lets you see her without the makeup, the mask, the armor. lets you wrap her in your arms like she’s something worth holding. she lets it happen. because you’re not trying to fix her, you want her ruined.

sometimes she watches you sleep. not in a sweet way, in a consuming way. like she can’t believe you exist. like she’s counting how many places she could carve her name into your skin.

the more obsessed you are, the calmer she becomes. you’re the only thing in the world that makes her feel safe in her own skin. the only one who doesn’t ask her to be better. the only one as unhinged as she is. when you wrap your arms around her and say, “i’d kill god if he tried to take you from me,” she doesn’t laugh. she cups your face in both hands, eyes wide, voice soft. “i’d help you.”

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

he’s obsessed with being watched. he wants your eyes on him always. his hands shake if you don’t say something sweet every hour. if your texts slow down. if you forget to tell him he’s yours. he remembers what it felt like to be ignored. and now that he has your attention? he can’t live without it.

he keeps everything you give him. notes. receipts. hair from your brush. you say “i missed you,” and he writes it down in a notebook.

he thrives under your obsession. he needs it. when you get jealous? his pupils blow wide. you tell someone to back off and he smiles like it’s his birthday. you slap someone for flirting and he’s ready to marry you on the spot.

he asks constantly if you still want him. over breakfast. mid-sex. in the dark at 3 a.m. “do you still love me?” / “do you think i’m good?” you say yes every time, and every time it’s like a hit to his veins.

he spirals fast if he thinks your attention is fading. too many texts? too little response? you might just be busy — but in his head, you’re gone. you’ve left him. and if you’ve left him he doesn’t care who dies next.

because if you’re not watching, if you’re not loving him — what’s the point of behaving?

he wants to feel owned. collar around his throat. bite marks under his shirt. you tell him he belongs to you and he glows. he’ll sit in your lap like a housecat if you let him. wrap his arms around your waist and bury his face in your chest like he’s trying to crawl inside you.

he panics if you’re mad at him. not just hurt — terrified. starts pacing. whispering apologies. offers to hurt himself if that’s what it takes to get you back. you have to hold his face and say, “i’m not going anywhere.” you have to say it over and over. the second you stop he’s slipping.

he lives for praise. tell him he’s good. tell him he’s yours. tell him he’s the only one. he’ll do anything. kill for you. die for you. just don’t stop looking at him.

he starts doing things just to get reactions out of you. spinning a knife in front of strangers. flirting with danger. and when you grab him by the collar and say, “don’t play with what’s mine.” he melts. moans into your neck like he’s starving.

he doesn’t care if it’s unhealthy. all he wants is you. all he’s ever wanted is to be wanted. now that he has it he’ll never let go, even if he has to drag you down with him.

the first time he realizes you’re obsessed with him — like really obsessed — it hits him like a drug. you say something low and honest, something insane, like, “i thought about gutting the waitress when she smiled at you.” and his breath catches.

not because he’s scared — because he’s relieved. he stares at you for so long it’s uncomfortable. you ask what’s wrong. he just says, “i didn’t know you meant it. when you said you loved me.” and then he’s on you, kissing you like it’s the last time, like you’ve given him permission to exist.

from that moment on, it’s over.

he texts constantly.

asks you where you are, who you’re with, what you’re wearing, if you’re thinking about him. he says “i miss you” even when you’re in the other room. you laugh once. he doesn’t. he says, “no, i mean it. i hate when i can’t see you.”

he gets better when you’re watching. calmer. focused. you say, “good boy,” when he lets someone live and he glows like a kicked dog being pet for the first time. if you ignore him — or get too quiet — he falls apart fast.

he needs routine now. calls with you every night. sleeping with one of your shirts. you brushing his hair when he can’t stop pacing. if any of it changes, he panics. clutches your shirt. stares at the wall. says things like, “are you gonna leave me?” with wide eyes and bloody fingers.

he gets nasty when he’s scared. accusations. pacing. snapping at strangers. but when he’s alone with you, he collapses. on his knees, clutching at your thighs. saying, “don’t stop loving me. i’ll be good. i’ll be anything you want.” and the worst part? he doesn’t want to get better. he wants to worsen with you. sink into this need until there’s nothing left.

he feeds off your jealousy. pushes people just to make you snap. and when you grab him, spit in his face, he nearly cries from how right it feels because no one’s ever fought for him like that. no one’s ever wanted him so violently.

he doesn’t say “i love you” like other people. he says, “if you die i’ll put a bullet in my throat.” / “i want you to skin me open and crawl inside.” / “i’d rather go to hell with you than live in heaven alone.” and when you say, “same” he starts laughing. then crying. then begging you to never leave him.

he doesn’t knock anymore. he shows up at your door in the middle of the night, eyes wide, nails chewed bloody, hoodie unzipped like he ran here. you ask if he’s okay. he shrugs, says, “i missed you.” but there’s this fracture in his voice like if you said “go home,” he might lie down in traffic.

he’s glued to you in private. head in your lap, arms around your waist, hands always moving — petting you, holding your wrist, fisting your shirt. if you leave the room, he follows. if you lock the door, he sits outside it. he’ll sit on the floor by your feet for hours like a dog, completely still.

you make the mistake of joking, “clingy much?” once. his whole face drops. he pulls away instantly. sits in the corner like you hit him. you have to drag him back, put his hands on your chest, say, “no, baby, i love it. i love you like this.” and he breaks. murmurs, “don’t joke like that. i can’t take it.” then he just clings again. tighter this time.

if he thinks you’re pulling away even a little? he loses it. starts apologizing for things you never said he did wrong. starts offering things — his money, his blood, his life.

he gets physically ill when he can’t see you. his head pounds. hands tremble. stomach flips. he tells you once, “i think you’re the only thing keeping me alive.”

one time you forget something at his place. he won’t give it back. sleeps with it tucked against his chest like a baby blanket.

he panics if you take too long to text back. he paces. rocks. mutters your name under his breath like a rosary. if it goes on too long he’ll show up. doesn’t matter where. work. family dinner. a funeral. he’ll be outside, eyes wide, voice small. “you didn’t answer. i thought something happened.”

he never wants to be apart from you. ever. the idea of you going anywhere without him— doing anything without him — drives him mad. “where are you going?” he’ll say, voice frantic as he grabs your arm, pulling you back in. he’s almost frantic, but in a way that makes him seem like a puppy needing affection. he just wants to be wanted. he wants to be needed like you need him. it feels like everything is right with the world when you’re there, close to him, giving him that attention. when you give him that attention back he melts. he’s so happy he can barely contain it.

ben’s not above being clingy. in fact, he thrives on it. every moment you’re not with him, he’s thinking about you — wondering if you’re thinking about him. he’s practically glowing when you give him your full attention. it’s like a drug. the more you show him you care, the more he craves it. he loves being the center of your world because, for the first time, someone truly sees him.

sometimes, he’s so lost in the feeling of being wanted that he’ll act a little over-the-top — like he’s suddenly showering you with affection, wrapping you up in his arms at all times, never wanting to let you go. he’s clingy, needy, adoring, and the more you reciprocate, the more he gives. he’s like a puppy who just wants you to love him back, and when you do, he’s on cloud nine.

if you ever did leave he wouldn’t survive it. not emotionally. not physically. neither would anyone else.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

your obsession feeds his ego like wine in crystal. he’s not used to being worshipped back, and it makes him feel godlike. you call him beautiful even when there’s blood on his hands. he looks in your eyes and sees something holy, something sick. it makes him want to kneel, or make you kneel. maybe both.

he used to crave power. money. control. now all he wants is your attention. your obsession. your insanity. he feeds off it. bathes in it. needs it like air. when you cling, he melts. when you beg, he purrs. when you scream that no one else can have him — he nearly cries. because finally, someone loves him.

he’ll lie through his teeth just to make you cry a little. just to see if you’ll beg. just to watch you lose your mind for him — because he loses his for you daily, hourly, minute by minute.

your fights are full of broken glass and kisses that taste like blood. he wants to hurt you just a little, just enough for you to need him, for you to bleed his name. he watches you spiral over him and it’s better than sex. better than blood. you skip meals when he’s upset. cry when he ignores you for half a second. you lose sleep over him. it makes him feel immortal. “you’re fucking crazy,” he whispers into your mouth when you say you’d rather die than lose him. and he’s smiling because he’s just as bad. maybe worse.

you don’t mind his lies. he tells you what you want to hear, and you believe it, because why would he lie to someone who loves him this much? (he does. he lies all the time.)

billy’s voice turns sugar-sweet when he whispers: “no one’s ever going to love you like this.” and he’s right. no one ever will.

he’s touch-starved and sick with need. he holds you too tight, kisses you too long, stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your soul. he can’t get enough.

when you get jealous, when you cry and scream and beg him not to leave, he feels alive. like he’s worth breaking down over. like he’s worth killing for. he’d ruin the world to keep you looking at him like that. sometimes he stares at you like a painting. like a fever dream. like something he hallucinated out of sheer desperation and loneliness. it hits him like a knife — you’re real. and you want him. only him.

it’s scary how much he enjoys the way you need him. there’s a rush every time you get a little possessive, every time you remind him that you belong to him. he loves it more than he’d like to admit. “you don’t get to want anyone else.” he thinks.

he doesn’t want you sane. doesn’t want you logical. he wants you devoted. unhinged. desperate. he wants you looking at him like he’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. because that’s how he looks at you. when you finally say— “i’d kill for you” — he just smiles, pulls you in close and whispers, “i already have.”

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

“you’re not good for me,” she tells you, voice trembling. but she doesn’t stop touching you. doesn’t stop coming back. you’re everything she’s ever wanted. the worst thing. the only thing.

she tells herself it’s not obsession. not really. she’s just looking out for you. watching your back. making sure no one gets too close. but the truth is you’ve become a fixation. she knows it. you’re a weakness she can’t afford. a vulnerability she should’ve cut out the second she noticed it. but now you’re in her — rooted in her spine, in her lungs, in the way she thinks. she can’t pull you out without bleeding to death.

when you act crazy for her, it shakes her. she tells you to stop, to breathe, to not throw your whole life away over her. but then you look at her like she’s worth it. like she’s your whole reason for existing. she swallows hard and pretends she’s not melting inside.

she scolds you when you lash out. when you talk about hurting people who get too close to her. but later, when it’s quiet, she holds your face and whispers, “i��d do the same.” and you know she means it. she knows she’s not clean. not righteous, not anymore. but she wants to protect what little softness is left in you. she’ll burn the world down to keep you safe. she’ll lie. she’ll run. she’ll break everything. just don’t lose that part of yourself. let her be the monster if she has to.

you cling to her. idolize her. and she wants to correct you, wants to tell you she’s not what you think. but the way you love her — it heals something brutal inside her chest. so she stays quiet. lets you believe in her. she gets possessive, even when she pretends she’s not. the way she stares too long at anyone who touches you. the way she keeps one hand on your back when you’re in a crowd.

she tells herself she’s not like them. not like the people she hunts. not like you, even — when your voice shakes and your hands won’t stop clinging to her jacket. but the truth is she likes it. likes how desperate you are. likes that she’s the only one who can calm you down. it makes her feel powerful. chosen.

she still talks like she’s the sane one. like she’s holding the leash. “you can’t keep threatening people,” she says, stern. but her voice always softens after.

she keeps tabs on you like it’s her job. not in a creepy way — at least, that’s what she tells herself. she just wants to know where you are. who you’re with. she doesn’t ask for passwords. she doesn’t need to. you’d give them to her anyway. that’s what scares her. that she’d use them.

she doesn’t like what she becomes when she’s afraid of losing you. cold. violent. unrecognizable. but if it means keeping you safe, keeping you close—she’ll be a monster. she’ll burn her own conscience to the ground and not look back.

“you’re not thinking straight,” she says, when you cry and beg her not to leave. but her arms are already around you. she’s already kissing the top of your head. because the truth is she was never going anywhere.

you say things like “i’d die without you.” and she flinches. not because it’s dramatic, not because she thinks you’re lying. because she believes it and she doesn’t know how to live with that.

sometimes she looks at you like she’s memorizing you. every scar, every habit, every broken piece. like she’s preparing to lose you. like she knows something awful is coming. but she won’t let it touch you. she swears it. even if she has to die first.

she’s the kind of person who breaks quietly. no screaming. no begging. just silence. just the soft sound of her heart snapping in half behind her ribs. so if you ever walked away — she wouldn’t chase you. she’d just never recover. but you won’t leave. you’re just as far gone. and that’s the only thing keeping her whole.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

he calls you divine. muse, angel, apocalypse. your obsession doesn’t scare him, it enchants him. he sees your madness like a mirror. beautiful. necessary. artful.

when you cling to him, when you lose control, he doesn’t soothe you. he paints you in that moment. with his eyes, with his hands, with his words. “stay like this,” he encourages, fingers tangled in your hair. “you’re perfect when you’re falling apart.”

you talk about love like it’s worship. he talks about it like it’s murder. and somehow, you both mean the same thing. he doesn’t get jealous, he gets possessive. obsessive. someone brushes your hand in a crowd and he’s already deciding how they’ll be immortalized — in oil, in ink, in red.

they touched his masterpiece. they don’t get to keep their hands.

he lies to you constantly, just to see how far you’ll go to prove your trust. and when you lie back? when you twist your mouth into a smile and feed him poison sweet as honey — he falls deeper. “good,” he breathes. “lie to me again.”

he carves your name into canvases. into his skin. into the bones of those who get too close. he calls it devotion. if you do it back? when you come home with your wrists inked in his handwriting? he stares like he’s seen god.

you don’t run from his madness. you reach for it. kiss it. trace the blood on his cheek and say “you’re beautiful.” and he laughs like it’s a love song.

he brings you pieces of the world like gifts. fingers. teeth. blood on his collar. “this one was for thinking about you,” he grins. “aren’t they lucky?” your obsession becomes art. his obsession becomes religion. he talks to you like a prophet would speak to their god. trembling. awestruck. doomed.

the first time he sees your blood, it’s almost too perfect. too raw. too alive in a way that his brushes can’t even capture. he watches the red streak across your skin, and he’s trembling. this is art. you’re art. when he whispers, “let me paint you,” you think it’s a metaphor until you feel the cold steel of the blade against your wrist. “just a drop.” he coos, his voice almost too sweet. you don’t protest. you never do.

you know. you get it. you’re his masterpiece, his obsession, his bloodied canvas. he’s obsessed with how the red looks against your skin — how the veins shift under the surface, how the blood blooms out in delicate, wild patterns. it’s perfect. “you’re my creation.” he says, fingers covered in your blood, painting it across his walls, his floors, his soul.

he doesn't care if it hurts. he doesn't care if you're trembling beneath him, scared or in pain. in his eyes it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. when you bleed, he breathes in deep, the metallic scent making his skin hum. it’s like a drug to him. when he’s done painting, when he’s covered his room in the dark red of you, he doesn’t stop. he stares at the canvas like he’s staring at the universe. he looks at your blood and he feels alive.

he doesn’t just want you. he wants to destroy you. to remake you. to see if you’ll survive it. and when you whisper, “do it.” he knows. you’re his greatest work.

⏜︵ AMY BENDIX. 𐂯

amy doesn’t just fall for you — she pounces. one minute, she’s sweet, full of giggles, telling you how lucky she is that you’re finally hers. the next, she’s throwing herself at you, desperate for your attention, eyes wide and frantic.

her obsession is like a sugar rush. one second, she’s all smiles, pulling you close and showering you with kisses. the next, she’s possessive, clinging to you like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.“stay with me,” she demands, like a child who doesn’t want to share her favorite toy. “please, please don’t leave.”

she’s got this spark in her when it comes to you— a kind of chaotic energy that’s infectious. she’s constantly smiling at you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to her. you make her feel things she can’t even name. her moods flip like a switch. one minute, she’s laughing, pulling you into playful, breathless kisses. the next, she’s staring at you wide-eyed, full of that manic energy, demanding your attention. “you better not look at anyone else.” she growls, fists tight around your shirt.

amy can’t sit still when you’re around. she follows you everywhere. she’s the kind of person who’ll ask the same question over and over, just to hear you say it again — that she’s the only one who matters. when you finally give in, when you pull her into your arms and whisper that she’s the one, her whole body lights up. “I knew it!” she beams, kissing your lips like she’s been starved for it.

she’s not subtle. ever. when you catch her staring at you with that gleam in her eyes, she doesn’t hide it. she jumps at you, laughing like it’s the best joke ever. “I love you so much! can’t you tell?” she giggles, biting your lip playfully, and then the next second, she’s asking, “so, like, you’re not gonna leave, right?”

the best part? she loves how obsessed you are with her. she feeds off it. every time you act possessive or clingy, she’s thrilled — it’s proof you’re as tangled up in her as she is in you. even when she gets childish and pouty, you’re right there with her, matching her energy. when she kicks her feet and sulks because you’re not paying enough attention to her, you can’t help but laugh, and it only makes her more determined to get you back. “hey, hey, don’t ignore me!” she demands.

when amy is ecstatic, you feel it too. when she pulls you into her orbit, it’s impossible to say no. she’s bubbly, clingy, everything you never knew you needed. when she’s in her manic, hyper mode, you’re as bad as she is — bouncing off the walls together, as if the whole world can see how in love and obsessed you both are. the intensity of it all doesn’t scare either of you. it thrills you both. her obsession matches yours in the most twisted, adorable way. when you’re apart for even a minute, she’s texting, calling, doing whatever she can to bring you back to her. “where are you?” she’ll ask, pouty and clingy on the phone. “I need to see you right now.”

when she’s around, you can’t focus on anything else. her presence is electric, all-consuming, like a spark that lights a fire in your chest. she thrives on it, the constant rush, the pull between the two of you. she needs you as much as you need her, and you both know it.

★ a / n : benjamin poindexter was not harmed in the making of this story, though he did insist on bringing a briefcase full of glitter to every scene for “dramatic effect.” we’re still finding sparkles in the carpet. thanks, ben.

started 4.23.2025. finished 4.25.2025.

( masterlist. )

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