she/her, twenty-one, persian. . . .equal parts devotion and delusion, curated through romantic obsession, beautiful catastrophes, and the art of loving too much.
𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑, 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐄, 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐍'𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄—at least according to the editorial direction.
Consider this a collection of soft violence, dark affection, and stories that linger longer than they should.
𝐍ot every boyfriend has it, and no, confidence alone isn't enough. a boyfriend who serves cunt enters a room like he's carrying a secret, wears sunglasses indoors without irony, and somehow makes basic eye contact feel editorial. he's equal parts charisma, style, and the quiet certainty that everyone is looking at him—and he's right. the true test? whether he could stand beside a supermodel and still look like part of the campaign.
𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓 ◞ open.
𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ◞ masterlist. pinterest.
𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓 ◞ pink bracelet pt 3 : yandere benjamin poindexter. why so fast baby : yandere daredevil men. pink bracelet pt.2 : yandere benjamin poindexter.
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Anya is LIVE right now
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❝ dex was convinced he has frightened away the first person to ever treat him with genuine warmth, and so he returns to apologize.⠀⠀❞⠀
◜ including ⠀! ⠀benjamin poindexter.
◟ warnings ⠀! ⠀part 3 of series. part 1 — part 2. fem reader. obsessive dex. fluff? masterlist. gifs by @.novagif. english is not my first language.
That night, Dex puts the bracelet on the second he gets home.
The apartment is dark except for the kitchen light he forgot to turn off that morning. Pale yellow spilling weakly across the floorboards. Rain still taps softly against the windows. New York sounds distant tonight. Muted by weather.
Usually he likes rain because it dulls the city down a little.
Tonight it just makes him feel hollow.
The front door clicks shut behind him and suddenly the silence inside the apartment presses against his skin too tightly. The rooms feel wrong again. Empty in the way abandoned hospitals feel empty. Like something should be alive there and isn’t.
Dex drops his keys onto the counter.
The sound cracks through the apartment sharply.
Too loud.
Everything feels too loud after you.
Your voice still lingers in his head like warmth trapped beneath skin.
Hey, it’s okay.
His jaw tightens immediately.
No.
Don’t start.
But his brain already has.
The memory replays itself instantly.
Your face softening.
Your voice lowering gently.
The way you looked at him while he stood there unraveling in front of you.
Not annoyed.
Not scared.
That’s the problem.
You saw it.
That’s what keeps digging under his ribs.
You saw it.
You saw something wrong inside him.
He knows you did.
People always notice eventually.
The strange pauses in conversation. The staring. The intensity. The way he starts talking too fast once panic gets into him, words spilling over each other like blood rushing from a slit artery.
Normal people pull away after that.
They get uncomfortable.
Careful.
Guarded.
Dex stares at the bracelet inside the drawer for a long moment before taking it out carefully.
Pink stones.
Rose quartz.
Your hands touched this.
The thought moves through him slowly.
Warm.
Painful.
He slides the bracelet onto his wrist immediately.
The beads settle against his pulse.
And God—
It feels good.
That’s the pathetic fucking part.
The pressure of the stones around his wrist feels grounding somehow. Like something holding him together loosely before he comes apart.
He sits down heavily on the edge of the bed.
The mattress creaks softly underneath him.
His apartment smells like rainwater soaked into old concrete. Laundry detergent. Metal.
His eyes stay fixed on the bracelet.
You noticed when he wasn’t wearing it.
You actually noticed.
Nobody notices things about him unless they’re bad.
Nobody notices if he cuts his hair.
Nobody notices if he stops sleeping.
Nobody notices him at all half the time unless he’s fucking something up socially.
But you noticed the bracelet immediately.
His chest tightens painfully.
Dex lies down eventually without changing clothes first.
One arm folded across his stomach.
The other curled against his chest tightly.
Protecting the bracelet instinctively.
Like he’s afraid somebody’s going to cut his hand off and take it.
The thought should disturb him.
Instead it settles naturally into his mind beside everything else.
The ceiling above him is cracked faintly near the corner. He stares at it while your face keeps resurfacing against the dark behind his eyes.
Your smile.
Your laugh.
Your voice saying just breathe, alright?
His throat tightens.
Why did you say it like that?
Why did you sound—
Kind.
The word feels unbearable.
Because kindness feels invasive to him. Violent in its own way. It crawls under his skin and touches places nobody else reaches.
People are supposed to keep distance from him.
That’s safer.
For them.
For him.
But you stepped closer.
You kept stepping closer.
Even after seeing him panic.
Even after hearing the rambling.
Even after realizing there was something deeply fucking wrong with him.
His eyes squeeze shut hard.
Sleep.
Just sleep.
But his thoughts keep moving.
You looked at him differently near the end.
Didn’t you?
A little distance.
And more fearful too.
Like you finally understood something.
Dex turns onto his side abruptly, curling tighter around himself.
His hand closes around the bracelet against his wrist.
Please don’t be scared of me.
The thought appears suddenly.
Raw enough to make his chest ache.
Please.
He falls asleep eventually sometime near dawn with the bracelet pressed against his chest hard enough to leave marks in his skin.
The next day, he goes back to the coffee shop again.
Because of course he does.
His stomach twists the entire subway ride there.
What if you’re uncomfortable now?
What if you see him walk in and immediately tell somebody?
What if yesterday finally crossed the line?
He almost turns around twice before reaching the café.
But then he imagines never seeing you again and the thought feels physically wrong. Like trying to peel skin from muscle.
The bell above the café door jingles softly when he enters.
It’s quieter this morning.
Almost empty.
Soft music playing low through speakers overhead. The smell of coffee beans and cinnamon hanging warm in the air.
And there you are.
Behind the counter.
Alive.
Safe.
His chest loosens instantly.
You look up automatically when the door opens.
Your eyes meet his.
And immediately—
you look away.
Dex stops walking.
Something cold slides directly into his stomach.
Oh.
Oh no.
There it is.
He knew it.
You figured him out.
The realization spreads slowly through his body like black water.
You’re wiping down the counter now without looking at him again.
Too focused on your work suddenly.
Too formal.
His pulse starts thudding harder.
Leave.
Just leave now.
But his feet keep moving anyway.
He walks toward the counter slowly while every horrible thought in his head starts overlapping.
You scared her.
You pushed too far.
Now she’s uncomfortable.
Look at her.
She won’t even look at you.
You did that.
You did that because you couldn’t stop acting fucking insane for five seconds.
“Hello,” you say politely when he reaches the counter.
Polite.
Not warm.
Not kind.
Just polite.
Your eyes stay fixed on the register.
“What can I get started for you?”
Dex’s chest hurts.
Actually hurts.
You sound like you’re talking to a stranger now.
Distance.
Professional.
Safe.
His mouth goes dry suddenly.
“I…” His voice catches slightly. “I actually just came to apologize.”
That finally makes you glance up briefly.
Then away again.
Dex notices everything.
The slight tension in your shoulders.
The way your fingers tighten faintly around the pen in your hand.
Fuck.
You’re nervous.
Because of him.
“I know I probably made you uncomfortable yesterday,” he says quickly.
Too quickly.
Slow down.
Don’t corner her.
He takes a small step backward instinctively.
Giving you space.
His hands stay visible at his sides carefully.
“I just—I wanted to say I’m sorry for that.”
You still won’t fully look at him.
Dex feels panic crawling slowly up his throat.
“I know I have…” He swallows hard. “Issues.”
The word feels humiliating.
But true.
“I know I can be intense sometimes.”
Sometimes?
Liar.
“I never wanted to upset you.”
Your eyes flick toward him briefly again.
Then away.
His stomach twists harder.
She’s scared.
Of course she is.
Look at yourself.
He forces himself to keep talking anyway because if he stops now he’ll never get the words out.
“I understand if you don’t want me here anymore,” he says quietly.
And he means it.
That’s the worst part.
The thought of never seeing you again already feels like somebody slowly pushing a knife between his ribs, but he still means it.
Because the idea of becoming something frightening to you feels even worse.
“If you want, I’ll leave,” he says.
His voice sounds rough suddenly.
“I won’t come back.”
Please say no.
The thought screams through him so loudly it almost makes him dizzy.
Please don’t say yes.
You finally look at him properly then.
And the expression on your face almost kills him.
Not fear.
Not disgust.
You look—
conflicted.
Like you don’t know what to do with him.
The silence stretches painfully.
Too long.
Dex can hear everything suddenly.
Coffee machine humming.
Milk steaming in the back.
A spoon clinking against ceramic somewhere near the windows.
His own heartbeat.
Then—
“Uh, excuse me?”
A man behind Dex shifts impatiently.
“Are you ordering or what?”
Dex startles slightly.
He hadn’t realized people lined up behind him.
Heat floods his neck instantly.
Of course.
Holding up the line.
Making a scene.
The desperation inside him suddenly feels visible somehow. Like all the people in the café can see straight through his skin into the ugly starving thing underneath.
He takes a step back immediately.
“Sorry,” he mutters automatically.
Then your voice cuts through everything again.
Soft.
Quick.
“It’s okay.”
Dex looks at you immediately.
You’re looking at him now.
Actually looking at him.
And then quietly, almost carefully, you say:
“My shift ends in an hour.”
His pulse stops.
“If…” You hesitate slightly. “If you still want to, we could have coffee together after.”
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◜ including ⠀! ⠀matt murdock. benjamin poindexter. frank castle.
◟ warnings ⠀! ⠀nsfw. minors dni. obsessive characters. fem reader. masterlist. english is not my first language.
matt murdock
you barely get him inside you before his hips jerk violently.
“fuck— oh god—” his voice cracks as he buries himself to the hilt in one desperate thrust. his whole body tenses, muscles locking up. you feel his cock twitch hard, then he’s cumming already, thick spurts flooding you in under a minute.
“shit— i’m sorry,” he gasps, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. “i didn’t— i couldn’t hold it. you feel too good. too fucking wet and tight around me.”
he stays buried deep, still twitching, face flushed with shame and lingering pleasure. his guilt hits instantly. “i wanted to make you feel good first… i ruined it.” but even as he apologizes, his cock is already twitching back to life inside you. he rolls his hips slowly, pushing his cum deeper. “let me make it up to you. please. i’ll stay hard for you this time. i’ll eat you out first if you want— just don’t be mad.”
benjamin poindexter
dex is already shaking the second he pushes inside you.
his eyes are wide, pupils blown, staring at your face like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. he manages maybe thirty seconds of frantic, shallow thrusts before his rhythm falls apart completely.
“f-fuck— wait— i c-can’t— i’m gonna— stop stop stop— p-please—” his voice cracks into a pathetic whimper. his hips stutter violently as he cums way too fast, spilling deep inside you with a broken sob. “no— no no no— i d-didn’t— i couldn’t stop—”
he freezes, still buried in you, but his face crumples. tears spill down his cheeks instantly. his hands grip your hips too tight, trembling.
“i’m sorry— i’m so f-fucking sorry— so s-sorry” he stutters, voice wrecked and cracking. “you feel t-too good. i disappointed you. i a-a-always disappoint you. i’m p-pathetic— i couldn’t even last a minute— p-please don’t hate me... please.”
real tears are running down his face now. he looks genuinely devastated, like he might spiral. his cock is still twitching inside you, not fully soft, but he’s too busy panicking to move.
“i’ll do b-better— i swear. l-let me stay inside. i’ll get hard a-again. i’ll make you c-cum first next time. just… please don’t push me away. i need you. i-i love you. i’m sorry i’m such a fuck up...”
he buries his face in your neck, crying quietly while his hips make tiny, desperate little movements, like he’s terrified you’ll leave him over this.
frank castle
frank grunts as he sinks into you, but he only gets a handful of deep thrusts before his control snaps.
“goddamn it—” he growls, voice strained. his hips jerk hard once, twice, then he’s cumming with a low, frustrated groan, flooding you in thick pulses. it’s over.
he stays buried deep, breathing heavily against your shoulder. “fuck. too fast.” he sounds pissed at himself more than anything. one big hand slides down to rub your clit roughly, trying to make up for it immediately.
“didn’t mean to bust that quick,” he mutters, voice rough. “pussy’s too fucking good tonight.” he doesn’t pull out. instead he starts grinding slow and deep, pushing his cum around inside you while his thumb works your clit.
“you gonna let me try again?” he asks, nipping at your neck. “i’ll last longer next round. i’ll fuck you right.” his free hand grips your thigh hard, you can feel his frustration. “ain’t stopping till you cum all over my cock like you deserve.”
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❝ a simple act of kindness becomes something far more important when benjamin finds himself unable to stay away from the barista who gave him a pink bracelet. after three sleepless days spent replaying every detail of their meeting, dex returns to the café only to see his favorite barista again.⠀⠀❞⠀
◜ including ⠀! ⠀benjamin poindexter.
◟ warnings ⠀! ⠀part 2 of series. part 1 here. fem reader. obsessive dex. masterlist. gifs by @.novagif. english is not my first language.
The thought of you has rooted itself somewhere deep in his nervous system over the last seventy-two hours, and now everything keeps circling back to you no matter what he does. Training. Paperwork. The subway ride home. Standing in his kitchen at two in the morning staring at nothing while the refrigerator hums loud enough to feel like a drill bit pushing through his skull.
Your voice keeps resurfacing.
You need it more than me.
Again.
Again.
Again.
His mind doesn’t replay memories normally. It dissects them. Slows them down until every tiny detail becomes unbearable.
The warmth of your fingers around his wrist.
The exact shape of your smile afterward.
The slight embarrassment in your voice when you apologized for thinking he was a creep.
He remembers all of it with nauseating clarity.
His apartment had felt wrong after meeting you.
Too quiet in some places.
Too loud in others.
The pipes behind the bathroom wall clicked every forty minutes. The neighbor upstairs dragged furniture across the floor around midnight. Water dripped slowly from the kitchen faucet no matter how tightly he shut it off.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
His thoughts wrapped around the sound until it felt like water leaking directly into his skull.
He barely slept.
Every time he closed his eyes, his brain reconstructed your face automatically.
Not intentionally.
It just happened.
Like a reflex.
Your smile appearing suddenly in the dark behind his eyelids while his body jerked awake again.
He’d stood in front of his dresser that morning holding the bracelet for almost fifteen minutes.
Pink stones resting against his palm.
Tiny.
Fragile.
Soft looking.
It looked absurd against his hand. Like somebody had draped flower petals over a gun.
Wear it.
No.
Wear it.
What if it breaks?
His stomach tightened immediately at the thought.
The bracelet snapping during work.
Beads scattering across concrete floors.
Somebody stepping on them accidentally.
Crushing them.
Destroying the thing you touched.
The idea bothered him more than it should have.
Way more.
Embarrassingly more.
So instead he wrapped the bracelet carefully inside an old towel and placed it inside the top drawer beside his bed.
Not tossed.
Placed.
Protected.
Like something alive.
That thought followed him all day.
You touched this.
Your hands were here.
Three days later, he goes back to the coffee shop.
He tells himself it’s because the place is quiet enough to sit in after work.
That’s a lie.
The second he walks through the door, his eyes immediately go to the counter.
Not there.
His stomach drops a little.
Okay.
Fine.
Maybe you’re in the back.
He walks toward the same booth automatically anyway. The dark corner near the wall where the overhead light flickers every few minutes like it’s trying to die. Nobody else ever sits there. People like windows. Sunlight. Open space.
Dex likes corners.
Corners let him see everything.
The door.
The counter.
The hallway to the kitchen.
Everybody’s hands.
Everybody’s faces.
A teenager near the window keeps bouncing his knee under the table. Fast rhythm. Anxiety maybe. The woman beside him smells strongly of lavender detergent. Somebody burned milk recently. He can still smell it faintly underneath the coffee beans.
But you’re not there.
He sits down slowly.
Maybe you’re late.
The thought settles badly.
You didn’t seem irresponsible.
You seemed—
No. Stop.
Don’t do that.
Don’t start building a whole personality out of a conversations and a fucking bracelet.
A waitress approaches him after a minute or two. Red lipstick. That's the first thing he notices.
“What can I get you?”
His eyes flick toward the counter again before answering.
“No thank you.”
Too blunt.
He hears it immediately.
The waitress pauses slightly.
Weird answer.
Yeah. He knows.
You can’t sit in a café for without ordering, idiot.
She walks away.
Dex keeps looking toward the entrance every few seconds.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Twenty.
Still nothing.
Rain taps softly against the windows outside. Steady. Wet. Gray light bleeding through the glass. The café feels warmer today because of the storm. More crowded too.
Couples.
Always fucking couples.
A woman near the front laughs and rests her hand against her boyfriend’s arm.
Dex looks away immediately.
His jaw tightens.
Twenty eight minutes.
You’re late.
What if something happened?
The thought appears so naturally it almost feels logical.
Subway platform.
Wet pavement.
Car accident.
No.
Stop.
But his brain doesn’t stop once it starts moving.
You were walking home. Somebody grabbed you. Somebody followed you. Somebody hurt—
STOP.
His fingers tighten hard around the edge of the table.
The café noise suddenly gets louder.
Too loud.
Ice clinking in glasses.
Milk steaming.
Fork scraping plate.
A man coughing near the bathroom.
His head starts hurting.
Where the fuck are you?
Thirty four minutes.
His leg starts bouncing unconsciously beneath the table.
You’re fine.
You’re obviously fine.
People are late all the time.
But then another thought slides in underneath the panic.
Maybe you quit.
His stomach twists immediately.
Maybe you told your manager about the weird guy sitting in the corner watching you like a psycho.
Maybe they told you not to approach him anymore.
Fuck.
He shouldn’t have come back.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
He should leave now before you even get here.
But he stays.
Because if he leaves and you—
What if you walk in right after?
What if you look for him and he’s gone?
The thought hits him so hard emotionally it actually startles him.
Look for him?
Huh.
He grips the edge of the table harder.
You don’t even know him.
No.
He stays.
Thirty nine minutes.
Then—
your voice.
Everything in him reacts instantly.
His head lifts before he even consciously decides to look.
And there you are.
Rainwater drips from your sleeves onto the café floor. Your hair is soaked near the ends, sticking slightly to your cheeks and throat. Your jacket hangs half off one shoulder while you apologize breathlessly for being late.
And you’re smiling.
Smiling.
Bright enough that it physically changes your whole face.
But you look freezing.
Your nose is pink from the cold.
The waitress with red lipstick laughs and starts helping you out of your soaked jacket while you keep talking, hands moving animatedly while you explain something.
Alive.
Fine.
You’re fine.
The relief hits him so hard it almost pisses him off.
Look at yourself.
Forty minutes spiraling because a waitress was late to work.
Pathetic.
You laugh suddenly at something the other waitress says and Dex feels the sound move through his chest strangely.
Your hair’s still wet near the ends.
There’s mascara smudged faintly beneath one eye.
You look—
His eyes stay on you too long.
Again.
God.
Then your head turns slightly.
Your eyes land directly on him.
Fuck.
He looks down immediately.
Too late.
Too fucking late.
He knows exactly what he looked like.
Staring.
Again.
Like a creep.
His stomach drops hard enough to ache.
Great.
Now she remembers you as the weird guy from last time who came back just to stare at her some more.
Perfect.
He keeps his eyes fixed downward for a second too long, pulse climbing unpleasantly into his throat.
Don’t look up.
Don’t—
He looks anyway.
Just quick.
Just enough to see how uncomfortable you look before he leaves and never comes back here again.
But you’re smiling.
Not nervous.
Not fake.
Playful.
Like you caught him doing something embarrassing.
Like you think it’s funny.
Dex just stares.
You remember him.
The realization lands slow and heavy.
Out of everybody in this café—
you remember him.
Then you turn away again and head behind the counter.
Still smiling.
His chest feels weird suddenly.
Too tight.
Like something’s trying to unfold itself between his ribs.
He watches you work.
Of course he does.
You keep tucking your wet hair behind your ear while talking to the waitress with red lipstick.
Friend.
They’re friends.
That bothers him more than it should.
Not because he wants you touching him instead.
No.
Because you fit together naturally.
You know how to laugh with people. How to stand close without looking stiff. How to exist around others without feeling like your skin was put on backward.
Dex watches you smile at customers.
Smile at coworkers.
Smile at everyone.
You smile so easily.
What the fuck would somebody like you even do with somebody like him?
Then suddenly—
“Hello, stranger.”
His pulse jumps.
You’re standing right beside the booth now.
Close.
Rain and vanilla again.
“Oh,” he says stupidly. “Hi.”
Great response.
Real smooth.
You smile wider.
“My friend said you still haven’t ordered.”
Friend.
Again.
Dex glances briefly toward the waitress before looking back at you.
You’re watching him expectantly.
Say something normal.
“Well…” His throat feels tight suddenly. “I couldn’t decide.”
That’s not even believable.
You probably know he’s been sitting here forever.
But you just nod thoughtfully.
“What about hot chocolate?” you suggest. “It’s perfect weather for it.”
You like hot chocolate.
You probably curl up on your couch during storms.
You probably wear fuzzy socks.
Jesus Christ, stop.
“That sounds good,” he says quietly.
Your face brightens instantly like he just told you something important.
“Okay,” you grin. “I’ll make it.”
You.
Not anyone else.
You’re making yourself.
Why?
You don’t have to do that.
His chest feels strange suddenly.
Too full.
Like his ribs are wrapping around something alive and struggling.
He watches your hands carefully while you work.
Milk steaming.
Chocolate powder.
Whipped cream.
Your movements look easy. Fluid. Nothing jerky or overcontrolled like his own.
You belong inside your body comfortably.
Dex doesn’t think he’s ever belonged inside his.
Then you walk back over carrying the mug carefully.
“Here you go, sir.”
Sir.
He doesn't like that.
Makes him feel old. Distant.
“Thank you.”
His fingers brush the ceramic mug.
Warm.
You don’t leave.
Instead you stand there watching him expectantly.
Waiting.
Oh.
You want him to try it.
Dex lifts the mug carefully and takes a sip.
Chocolate.
Sweet.
Warm enough to spread through his chest slowly.
“It’s good,” he says immediately.
Your entire face lights up instantly.
There’s that smile again.
“Thank God,” you laugh softly. “I thought I messed it up.”
You were worried?
About his drink?
His chest aches suddenly and he doesn’t know why.
No, that’s a lie.
He does know why.
Because you feel soft.
Soft.
And Dex feels like every sharp thing in the world was stuffed inside him at birth.
Watching you feels like pressing his hand against warm glass.
Then your eyes flick downward suddenly.
To his wrist.
“You’re not wearing the bracelet?”
Fuck.
His stomach drops so hard it physically hurts.
You noticed.
Of course you noticed.
And worse—
you sound disappointed.
Still smiling.
Still gentle.
But disappointed.
You fucked up.
“No, I— I wanted to wear it, I just couldn’t at work because—”
Slow down.
You’re talking too fast.
“I didn’t wanna ruin it,” he blurts out quickly. “Things happen at work sometimes and I thought maybe it could break or get damaged and I didn’t want that because you gave it to me and—”
Shut up.
Stop talking.
He hears himself spiraling and can’t stop.
Words keep falling out messy and frantic.
“I still have it,” he says quickly. “I kept it safe.”
Why would you think he threw it away?
Now you sound insane.
His chest tightens painfully.
There it is again.
That horrible feeling.
The one where he can physically feel conversations going wrong while they’re happening but can’t stop himself from ruining them anyway.
“Hey,” you say quietly.
Your voice cuts through the noise in his skull instantly.
“Hey, it’s okay.”
You smile at him gently.
Not scared.
Not mocking.
Gentle.
“Just breathe, alright?”
And suddenly Dex realizes he’s sitting there half out of breath like he’d been running.
