#dex has problems

[selfmedblves]

i love getting drunk to forget how fucked i am

[incorrect-green-lantern-quotes]

closest thing you'll get to me writing a sick fic

[sysig]

Without me, who am I (Patreon)

[milo-igidk]

have i mentioned lately that i fucking hate the council

[urdreamydoodles]

Hi hi!! Hope your day’s going well!!

I adore the krakoa headcanons you have for the x-men, how willing would you be to do something similar for mcu characters?? Idk if there’s an equivalent though, if not it’s no problem ❤️

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

A year after your death, you are resurrected and reunited with your lover

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Wade Wilson, Logan Howlett, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff & Erik Lehnsherr

Requests are reopened since I'm going to have surgery for my scoliosis...yes, it's bad news, it's a major operation, so I need your requests to feel better. PLEASE SEND ME REQUEST. I don't have surgery for another four months so I have plenty of time since I'm at home! I can't wait to see all your ideas, I LOVE YOU <3

Tony Stark

- Tony Stark, the man who could build a new world with his hands but could not stop them from shaking when they lost you. He spent a year in ruins, laughing too loudly at parties that could not fill the silence you left behind, drowning in half-finished projects where your ghost lingered in the curve of every wire. He never stopped talking about you—not to his friends, not to himself, not to the night. You were the equation he could not solve, the loss he could not engineer his way out of.

- When he sees you again, standing in the flickering light of his workshop, the wrench in his hand slips, clattering to the floor. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. His mind, sharp as ever, gives him ten different explanations, each more impossible than the last, but his heart—his battered, grieving heart—gives him only one. “Tell me I’m dreaming,” he says, voice hoarse, because the alternative is something he cannot afford to believe.

- And then you speak, and the walls he built to keep himself from shattering crumble in an instant. He is across the room before he knows it, hands gripping your arms, your face, tracing the proof of you. The ache in his chest is unbearable, but not from pain—it is the sheer weight of having you again. “They told me I was crazy,” he murmurs against your lips, against your skin. “Guess they were right.”

- You are back, but time has moved without you, carving deeper lines into Tony’s face, dulling the arrogance that once carried him like armor. He watches you like you might disappear again, fingers always brushing your wrist, your hip, the pulse at your throat. He doesn’t sleep much—he never did—but now, when you wake in the night, he is already awake, watching the rise and fall of your breath as if it is the only thing tethering him to reality.

- He brings you everywhere, makes no excuses for it. “My ghost, my rules,” he says when someone questions it. He builds new suits and doesn’t let you out of his sight, not when danger is near, not when a single misstep could take you away again. He has never been a man who believed in second chances, but for you, he will believe in anything.

- The world thinks he is Iron Man, but you know the truth: Tony Stark is just a man who loved and lost and refused to let death win. He holds you like a miracle, like proof that he was right to fight for the impossible. And for the first time in a long time, he is not afraid.

Steve Rogers

- Steve Rogers has always known loss—has carried it like a second skin, worn it like a name he could never leave behind. But losing you was different. It was not the cold silence of the ice, nor the distant ache of time slipping through his fingers. It was immediate, brutal. It was your blood on his hands, your last breath against his cheek. A year passed, and he carried on because that was what he did, because that was what you would have wanted. But he stopped looking at sunsets. Stopped drinking coffee the way you used to make it. Stopped believing that the world could ever feel warm again.

- When he sees you again, standing in the doorway of the safe house, the shield strapped to his back feels heavier than ever. His breath catches, his heart stumbles, and for a moment, he wonders if this is some cruel trick played by an enemy who knows exactly where to cut him open. But then your lips part, and you say his name, and the sound of it is like the first breath after drowning.

- He moves toward you slowly, hesitantly, as if one wrong step will shatter the illusion. His hands hover over your face, your shoulders, trembling with the unbearable need to touch, to feel, to know. And when you don’t disappear, when you are warm and real beneath his fingers, something inside him breaks. His arms crush you to him, his breath shaking as he buries his face in your hair. He is crying, but he doesn’t care. “I held you,” he whispers. “I held you.”

- After that, he does not let you go. The world calls him Captain America, but to you, he is just Steve—the man who wakes up in the middle of the night just to press his forehead against yours, the man whose grip tightens every time you reach for his hand, as if to reassure himself that you are not a dream. He does not know how to make peace with this miracle, so he does not try. He simply loves you harder, holds you closer, refuses to waste a second of the time he was so cruelly robbed of.

- He is more protective now, but it is not the suffocating kind. It is the quiet, steadfast kind, the way he always positions himself between you and an open door, the way he memorizes the sound of your breathing while you sleep. He does not speak of the past year unless you ask, but when you do, the grief in his eyes is something ancient, something that will never fully fade.

- Steve Rogers has always carried the weight of the world, but with you beside him, it is lighter. You are proof that even after all the battles, all the sacrifices, the universe still has kindness left to give. And he will spend the rest of his life earning it.

Natasha Romanoff

- Natasha Romanoff has survived on borrowed time for as long as she can remember. She has lost, she has bled, she has walked away from battlefields without looking back. But losing you was different. It was the one wound that did not heal, the one loss she could not turn into fuel. She did not cry. Did not speak of you. She simply moved forward, faster, harder, with reckless abandon—because if she slowed down, even for a second, she would have to feel the hollow space you left behind.

- When she sees you again, standing in the shadows of a dimly lit alley, her knife is in her hand before she even registers what she is seeing. Her body reacts the way it was trained to, but her heart—her traitorous, fragile heart—stutters in her chest. “No,” she breathes, shaking her head as if denying it will make it any less real. “No, I buried you.”

- And then you step closer, into the light, and she sees the familiar curve of your smile, the warmth in your eyes. She drops the knife. It clatters against the pavement, forgotten, as she crosses the space between you in two strides, her hands fisting in the fabric of your jacket. Her lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if she can taste the truth in the way you breathe against her mouth.

- After that, she is different. Softer, in ways only you will ever see. She touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reverence. A hand at the small of your back, fingers trailing over your wrist, knuckles brushing against yours as if reminding herself that you are here. The world may question, but Natasha has never cared for the world's judgment. You are hers, and she is yours, and that is all that matters.

- She does not let you fight alone anymore. Not because she doubts your strength, but because she refuses to feel that kind of loss again. She watches you when you sleep, when you move through a room, when you laugh. She memorizes the details she once took for granted—the exact color of your eyes in the morning light, the rhythm of your voice when you call her name.

- Natasha Romanoff has spent a lifetime making peace with ghosts, but you are not one. You are flesh and blood, a heartbeat beneath her palm, a warmth she never thought she would feel again. And this time, she will not let you go.

Bruce Banner

- Grief is not an emotion Bruce Banner can afford. He has spent a lifetime suppressing, locking away the parts of himself that feel too deeply, because feeling too much is dangerous, and losing you nearly ended the world. The Hulk roared in agony that day, the earth itself trembling beneath his wrath, but even in his most furious state, even as he destroyed everything in his path, you were gone. And no amount of strength, no amount of science, could bring you back.

- He stopped fighting after that. Retreated. Isolated himself in a place where no one could see the way his hands trembled when they weren’t balled into fists, where no one could hear him whisper your name like a prayer, a question, a plea. He stopped shifting into the Hulk—not because he was afraid, but because the monster within him had nothing left to fight for. There was only silence, only the ghost of your touch, only the unbearable weight of having lived when you did not.

- So when you return, standing before him in the quiet of his lab, he does not react at first. His mind, trained to doubt, to question, to disassemble and understand, tells him it cannot be real. That the chemicals in his brain are firing incorrectly, that his grief has finally shattered him in a way no transformation ever could. But then you say his name, and it is not just sound—it is gravity, it is a force pulling him from the abyss.

- He crosses the room in a single breath, hands hovering over your face, your shoulders, your waist, unable to trust his own touch. He is afraid to break you, afraid to break himself. And then your fingers slip into his, grounding him, reminding him that this is not a hallucination, not a cruel trick of his subconscious. You are warm, real, here. And just like that, the weight he has carried for a year crumbles to dust.

- After that, he does not leave your side. He watches you sleep, not because he doubts, but because he cannot waste another second of the time he was so certain he had lost. He builds new defenses, new protections, because if death could not keep you, then neither will any enemy foolish enough to try. He teaches himself to trust happiness again, to allow himself to feel, because with you beside him, it is no longer a danger—it is a gift.

- Bruce Banner has always been afraid of his own power, but with you, he is not afraid. He is a man, not just a monster, and for the first time in a long time, he believes in the possibility of a future. A future where he is not alone. A future where he is not running. A future where you, against all odds, are still his.

Clint Barton

- Clint Barton has never been one to dwell. The life he leads does not allow for it—grief is a luxury, mourning a weakness, and the only way to survive is to keep moving. But when he held you in his arms, felt the last shudder of breath against his skin, something inside him shattered. And he did not put the pieces back together. He let them fall, let them burn, let the silence swallow him whole.

- The others saw him continue—heard his sharp wit, watched him loose arrows with deadly precision, saw the same easy smirk that had always been there. But they did not see the empty spaces where you used to be. Did not see the way he avoided the places you had loved, the way he drank in solitude, the way his hands curled into fists whenever someone mentioned your name.

- So when you return—when you step into the dim light of his hideout, when your voice cuts through the silence he has lived in for a year—he does not believe it. He grips the bow at his side, tension in every muscle, because this is a trick, a trap, an illusion designed to destroy him completely. But then you move closer, and the way you look at him—the way only you ever have—makes the doubt in his mind fracture.

- And then he is there, hands gripping your waist, your arms, his forehead pressed to yours as he exhales a breath he did not know he had been holding. He does not ask how, does not ask why. He only pulls you closer, lets himself collapse into the only thing that has ever truly felt like home. His fingers are tight against your skin, unwilling to let go, unwilling to lose you a second time.

- After that, he is different. Lighter, in ways only you will notice. He is still Clint—still sharp, still reckless, still throwing himself into danger without hesitation—but there is a warmth now, a flicker of something that had long been extinguished. He touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reassurance. His hand on the small of your back, his fingers brushing against yours, a quiet, wordless promise that he will not take a second of this for granted.

- Clint Barton has always been a survivor, but he did not truly live until you returned. And now, with you beside him, he has no intention of losing that again. He is yours, wholly and completely, and this time, no force in the universe will take you from him.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes knows the taste of loss better than most. He has drowned in it, clawed his way through decades of it, watched everyone he has ever loved slip through his fingers like sand. But losing you was different. Losing you was not the slow, creeping erosion of time. It was a blade to the gut, a wound that never closed, an ache that settled deep in his bones and refused to let go.

- He did not grieve the way others did. He did not cry, did not rage, did not seek solace in memories. He simply stopped. Stopped talking, stopped trying, stopped allowing himself to feel anything at all. Because feeling meant acknowledging the gaping wound your absence had left behind, and that was not something he could survive.

- So when he sees you again, standing in the doorway of his apartment, he does not move. Does not breathe. His mind—trained to expect deception, to anticipate betrayal—tells him this is a trick. But then you step forward, and the way your eyes soften when they meet his, the way your lips part in a quiet whisper of his name, makes the world tilt beneath his feet.

- And then he is there, crossing the space between you with the kind of desperation that only comes from losing something you thought was gone forever. His hands tremble as they frame your face, his breath shuddering as he drinks in the impossible reality of you. He does not trust words, does not trust his voice to hold steady, so he simply presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the proof of your existence.

- After that, he does not let you go. He does not speak of the past year, does not tell you how empty it was, how he spent every night staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came. He only shows you in the way he touches you, in the way he holds you closer at night, in the way his fingers linger on yours as if afraid you might vanish again.

- Bucky Barnes has spent a lifetime being taken, being controlled, being used. But you are the one thing that was his, the one thing that was real, and now that you are here, he will fight for you with everything he has. You are his salvation, his anchor, his second chance at something he never thought he deserved. And this time, he is never letting go.

Sam Wilson

- Grief is a weight Sam Wilson carries well, but carrying it does not mean it is light. It sits in his chest, heavy and unmoving, an ache that never quite fades. Losing you was not a clean wound—it was jagged, raw, a battlefield farewell written in blood and breathless whispers. He held you, watched the life slip from your eyes, and still, somehow, he had to stand up. He had to keep fighting. Because that’s what you would have done. That’s what you would want.

- But wanting and doing are not the same thing. He laughed in public, told stories that made others grin, carried himself with the same easy confidence. But alone? Alone, it was different. He spoke to you sometimes when the night was too quiet, when the wind sounded too much like your voice. He ran until his lungs burned, trying to chase the memory of you, knowing he never really could.

- So when you stand before him, alive, breathing, real, the world does not feel like the one he left behind. His first instinct is denial—a trick, an illusion, a cruel joke played by something with too much power and not enough mercy. But you look at him, and there’s something there, something he recognizes too well. Love. History. You. And suddenly, the weight in his chest is gone.

- He moves before he can think. One step, then two, then his arms are around you, his head buried in your shoulder, a shuddering breath breaking from his lips. His grip is tight—too tight, maybe—but he doesn’t care. He needs to feel you, needs to know this isn’t a dream he’ll wake from. He says your name like it’s the only word he remembers, his voice thick with everything he couldn’t say when you were gone.

- After that, Sam is different. Lighter, freer. He still fights, still leads, still carries the burdens of the world on his back—but he does it with you at his side, and that changes everything. He touches you constantly, a hand on your back, fingers brushing against yours, small, quiet reassurances that you are here, that he did not imagine this.

- Sam Wilson has lost many things. He has seen friends fall, watched the world tear itself apart. But this? This is something he never thought he’d get back. And now that he has you, he swears to himself—he’s not losing you again. Not now. Not ever.

Peter Parker (Tom Holland)

- Peter Parker does not know how to exist in a world where you do not. The pain is not sharp, not a clean wound he can stitch together with time. It is suffocating. Slow. A weight pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs, making every step feel heavier than the last. He was holding you, talking to you, and then you were just… gone. And nothing he did, no amount of strength, no web-slinging through the city, no late-night patrols could change that.

- He keeps going. He has to. That’s what Spider-Man does. That’s what you would have wanted. But some nights, when he is alone, when the mask is off and the world is quiet, he feels like a boy again—small, lost, powerless. He whispers apologies into the dark, tracing the memory of your touch, trying to pretend he still remembers exactly what your voice sounded like. Because he’s terrified he’s forgetting.

- And then, one day, you are there. Standing in the shadow of a flickering streetlamp, watching him with the same eyes he never thought he’d see again. At first, he doesn’t move. He can’t. His brain refuses to process it, refuses to accept this impossible, beautiful reality. And then you smile—small, hesitant, you—and he breaks.

- He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurts. His breath stutters, hands shaking as they press against your skin, your hair, anything that proves you are real. “You—” His voice cracks. “You died.” And it’s not an accusation. It’s a question, a plea, a broken whisper of disbelief. But you are warm, solid, here, and he holds onto that with everything he has.

- After that, Peter is clingy. He doesn’t mean to be, but he is. His fingers find yours without thinking, his arm curls around your waist at every opportunity, his webbing pulls you to him when you step too far away. He is afraid—afraid this is temporary, afraid that one day he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. But he also smiles more, laughs louder, lives in a way he hasn’t since he lost you.

- Peter Parker has lost so much. But this? This is a miracle. And Peter—Peter is going to make sure he cherishes every single second of it. Because this time, he has you. And that? That is everything.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange is no stranger to loss. He has lived through pain, through heartbreak, through the destruction of things he once believed unshakable. But losing you—that was something else entirely. That was not just loss. That was devastation. It was the kind of pain that settled into his bones, that made the world feel quieter, colder, less.

- He did not weep. Did not rage. Did not crumble beneath the weight of it. Instead, he buried himself in his work, in his magic, in the relentless pursuit of something—anything—that could fill the void you left behind. He scoured the multiverse, searching for answers, but found only silence. Death, it seemed, was absolute. Even for you.

- So when you stand before him, alive, whole, untouched by the grave, he does not react at first. His hands twitch at his sides, eyes sharp, mind racing through a thousand possibilities, a thousand explanations. This must be a trick, a deception, some cruel game played by forces beyond his understanding. But then you speak his name, and the way you say it—the way only you say it—breaks him.

- He crosses the room in three steps, hands cupping your face, searching for any sign of illusion. But there is none. There is only warmth, only life, only you. His breath stutters, his fingers tighten, and for the first time in a long, long time, Stephen Strange allows himself to feel. His lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if trying to convince himself that this moment is not slipping through his fingers.

- After that, he is possessive. Not in a way that is suffocating, but in a way that is unmistakable. His cloak wraps around you when you are cold, his hands find yours beneath temple robes, his magic lingers in the air around you like a silent guardian. He does not say it—not outright, not often—but you know. You have always known. He cannot lose you again. He will not.

- Stephen Strange has faced the impossible, has bent time and reality to his will. But this? This is the greatest miracle of all. And he, a man who once scoffed at faith, finds himself believing in something again. Because if the universe had any mercy, any kindness at all, it would let him keep you. And this time, he will fight for that with everything he has.

Thor Odinson

- Grief and gods have never mixed well. Mortals mourn with time, with rituals, with whispered prayers to the sky. But Thor? Thor does not know how to grieve in a way that does not tear the world apart. He held you as you died, cradled you against his chest, his hands helpless against the tide of fate. The sky wept with him that day—thunder cracking, the heavens splitting open in rage, the storm inside him unfurling with no battle left to fight.

- He left Earth after that. It was too loud, too full of life, too painfully real in your absence. He searched for answers in the stars, in old myths and forgotten magic, in the whispered promises of gods who had lost more than he had. But the truth was simple: not even the might of Thor, not even the power of Asgard, could bring back the one thing he truly wanted. So he drank, and he fought, and he laughed too loudly to hide the fact that he was breaking.

- And then, one day, he turns, and you are there. Standing in the golden light of the Bifrost, impossibly, beautifully alive. His breath catches in his throat, Mjolnir slipping from his fingers, his entire body frozen between disbelief and desperate hope. “This is a trick,” he says, but his voice is hoarse, unsteady, as if saying the words out loud might make them false. But then you smile, and he is undone.

- He crosses the space between you in an instant, crushing you against him with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. His hands tangle in your hair, his forehead pressing against yours, and his chest heaves with something between laughter and a sob. “You have returned to me,” he whispers, reverence in every syllable. And then he is kissing you, fierce and unrelenting, as if proving to himself that this is not some cruel jest of fate.

- After that, Thor does not let you go. Not truly. His arm is always around your waist, his hand always at the small of your back, his eyes watching you as if you might disappear the moment he looks away. He tells you, constantly, in grand declarations and quiet murmurs, how much he loves you, how he will never lose you again. You are his greatest treasure, more precious than any throne, any kingdom, any power the cosmos could offer.

- The God of Thunder has lost much—his home, his family, pieces of himself that may never fully return. But you—you are here, in his arms, alive once more. And Thor, a warrior who has fought countless battles, swears that he will fight against gods and monsters alike to keep you at his side.

Loki Laufeyson

- Loki knows loss better than he knows himself. He has lost love, trust, family. But losing you—that was different. That was a wound he could not charm away with silver-tongued words, a pain he could not outwit or outmaneuver. You died in his arms, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist as the light in your eyes faded. And for the first time in his life, Loki Laufeyson was powerless.

- He did not rage. He did not scream. Instead, he withdrew, wrapping himself in silence and solitude, retreating into the shadows where grief could not be seen. The world continued without you, and he played his part well—smirking, deceiving, spinning tales as if he were not hollow inside. But in the quiet moments, when no one was looking, he traced the ghost of your touch on his skin and whispered your name like a prayer.

- So when he sees you again, standing before him in the flickering candlelight of some forgotten sanctuary, he does not react—not at first. His body stills, his breath catches, and his mind races through every possibility, every cruel illusion that could explain this. But then you speak his name, soft and familiar, and something in him shatters.

- He reaches for you hesitantly, his fingers brushing over your cheek as if expecting you to dissolve beneath his touch. And when you do not—when you are warm, and real, and here—a sharp breath leaves his lips, and he pulls you against him with all the desperation of a man drowning. His grip is tight, unyielding, as if trying to convince himself that you will not be stolen from him again.

- After that, Loki is different. Not softer, not weaker—if anything, he is more dangerous, more cunning, more willing to do anything to ensure you remain by his side. He keeps you close, always within reach, his sharp wit reserved for those who dare to threaten what is his. There is no force in the universe he fears, no power he will not challenge, if it means keeping you safe.

- Loki Laufeyson has never believed in fate, in mercy, in second chances. But you? You are proof that even the most broken of men can find something worth living for. And this time, he will not lose you. Not to death. Not to gods. Not to anything.

T’Challa

- T’Challa was a king before he was a man, a warrior before he was a lover. But you—you—were the one thing that belonged solely to him. With you, he was not a ruler, not the Black Panther, not the protector of a nation. He was simply a man in love. And then, in a single moment, in the chaos of war, you were gone. And he—T’Challa, the unshakable, the wise, the just—fell to his knees, holding you as the life slipped from your body.

- He did not mourn in ways the world could see. There were no public displays of grief, no speeches of loss. He carried the weight of your death in silence, bearing it with the same quiet dignity that he bore every burden. But in the stillness of his chambers, when no one was watching, he let the sorrow take him. He traced the last place he had held you, whispered your name to the night, and wondered if he would ever learn to breathe without you.

- So when he sees you again, standing beneath the glow of Wakanda’s golden lights, his heart stops. His breath catches. And for a moment, he is afraid to move—to hope. But you step forward, your eyes locking onto his, and everything else ceases to matter. The world falls away, and there is only you.

- He crosses the distance between you in a single step, his hands cupping your face with reverence, with disbelief, with a depth of emotion he has never let himself show before. He does not ask how or why. He only whispers, “My love,” as if speaking the words aloud will make them real. And then he kisses you—slow, deep, a promise, a prayer, a thousand unspoken words pressed into your skin.

- After that, T’Challa is your shadow, your shield, your unwavering protector. He does not smother you—he respects you too much for that—but he watches, always. His fingers linger against yours in quiet moments, his gaze softens whenever you speak, and when he holds you at night, it is with the quiet, unyielding certainty that he will never let go again.

- T’Challa has lost many things—his father, his home, pieces of himself in battles fought for the greater good. But this? This is something sacred. And a king who has been given back his heart will protect it with everything he has.

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector has never been good at losing people. He has lost too much, buried too many, carried ghosts in the hollows of his ribs and the shadows of his mind. But losing you—watching you die in his arms, feeling your body grow cold as his own blood soaked into the ground—was something else entirely. It didn’t break him. It obliterated him.

- He stopped pretending after that. Stopped holding himself together, stopped fighting for anything beyond survival. He threw himself into missions with reckless abandon, took every fight as if he was begging for someone to land a fatal hit. He couldn’t sleep in your bed, couldn’t bear to hear your name spoken aloud. He tried—Khonshu knows, he tried—to find a way to bring you back. Bargained with gods, hunted down forbidden magic, but nothing, nothing, worked. So he gave up. He accepted that this was his punishment, his curse, to keep losing the things he loved until there was nothing left of him.

- And then—then—you were there. Standing in the doorway, alive, whole, looking at him like you weren’t a phantom haunting his grief. He didn’t move at first, didn’t breathe, convinced you were another trick of his fractured mind. But then you spoke—soft, hesitant, like you weren’t sure if he would even want you back. And the moment your voice reached him, Marc snapped.

- He was on you in an instant, his hands on your face, your shoulders, your arms—anywhere he could touch, anywhere he could convince himself you were real. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he whispered, voice shaking, breath unsteady. And when you smiled, when you nodded, he kissed you—desperate, bruising, like a man drowning who had finally found air.

- After that, Marc is different. Not softer, not gentler—he has never been those things—but determined. He refuses to let you out of his sight for too long, refuses to take a single moment for granted. The nightmares don’t go away—sometimes he wakes up reaching for you, convinced he’s lost you all over again—but you are always there, grounding him, reminding him that miracles exist.

- He still fights, still follows the path Khonshu carved for him, but now, there’s something else driving him. Not vengeance. Not guilt. You. You, alive and breathing, laughing in the golden light of morning, rolling your eyes when he gets in one of his moods. And if he has to fight every god, every monster, every force in the universe to keep you by his side? So be it.

Steven Grant

- Grief is a lonely thing. And for Steven, it was lonelier than most. He didn’t have Marc’s rage or Jake’s cold detachment—he just had absence, an empty space beside him where you used to be. You had been his bright thing, his sunbeam, the warmth in his life he never thought he deserved. And then, in a moment of violence and blood, you were gone.

- The flat was too quiet after that. He still made tea for two, still caught himself turning to tell you something, still found little reminders of you everywhere. Your books on the shelf. Your perfume lingering in the air. A sweater you’d stolen from him, draped over the back of a chair. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t move—just existed, stumbling through the days with a polite smile and eyes that held too much grief.

- And then, one evening, as he shuffled into the flat with the exhaustion of another day spent pretending he was okay, he saw you. Standing there, real as anything, watching him with that soft, hesitant look you always had when you weren’t sure how he’d react. He didn’t even think. Didn’t question. Just dropped whatever was in his hands and ran to you.

- “Oh, love,” he breathed, his voice cracking as he cupped your face, pressing his forehead to yours. He was crying—of course he was crying—but he didn’t care, didn’t even try to stop. “I—I thought—oh God, I thought I lost you.” His hands trembled as he touched you, as if afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful. But you didn’t disappear. You were here. And when you kissed him—gentle, reassuring—he let out a broken, disbelieving laugh.

- After that, Steven becomes more himself again. The light comes back into his eyes, the warmth into his voice. He tells you every day how much he loves you, how grateful he is that you came back. He holds you for hours sometimes, murmuring little things against your skin, afraid that if he lets go, the universe will take you away again.

- You are his miracle, his impossible, wonderful second chance. And Steven, the man who never thought he was enough, now knows one thing with absolute certainty—he will never take you for granted again.

Jake Lockley

- Jake doesn’t grieve the way others do. He doesn’t sit in sorrow, doesn’t cry himself to sleep. He compartmentalizes, shoves it all into a locked box in the back of his mind and throws away the key. When you died, he didn’t break down. He didn’t scream. He just acted. Found the ones responsible. Made them pay. Made everyone pay.

- He convinced himself that was enough. That revenge was all he had left to give you. But when the dust settled, when the blood was washed from his hands, there was nothing. Just an emptiness so vast it threatened to swallow him whole. He became a ghost, slipping through the world unnoticed, unseen. He only spoke when necessary, only acted when called upon. If Marc and Steven noticed how much darker he’d become, they didn’t say anything.

- And then—then—you were there. Sitting in the backseat of his car like you belonged there, like you hadn’t died in his arms a year ago. He slammed on the brakes so hard the tires screeched, his pulse roaring in his ears. He didn’t turn around at first. Couldn’t. His hands gripped the steering wheel like a vice, his knuckles white with tension. “Not funny,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous. “Not a game I wanna play.”

- “It’s not a trick, Jake,” you whispered. And that was all it took. He turned, his breath catching as he finally let himself look. Let himself believe. And the moment he did, something inside him snapped. He surged toward you, pulling you into his arms with a desperation he rarely let himself show. His face buried in your neck, his breath shaky and uneven, his body trembling as if the entire world had just shifted beneath his feet.

- After that, Jake is ruthless about keeping you safe. He doesn’t care how you came back—only that you did, and that nothing will take you from him again. He’s always watching, always waiting, always a step ahead of any potential threat. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s in the way he tucks you close against him in crowds, in the way his fingers ghost over your pulse like he’s memorizing it.

- Jake Lockley is not a good man. He never claimed to be. But you—you are the one thing that makes him want to be. And if death couldn’t keep you from him, nothing else will either.

Scott Lang

- Scott never truly believed in happy endings, but he believed in you. He believed in the way your laughter could turn an ordinary day into something extraordinary, the way your hand in his made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he was enough. Losing you shattered him in ways he didn’t even know were possible. You died in his arms, your blood on his hands, and in that moment, he stopped believing in miracles.

- He tried to hold it together for Cassie. He smiled, told jokes, did his best to pretend he was okay. But he wasn’t. His apartment felt too big without you, the bed too cold. He found himself talking to the empty air, half-expecting you to answer. The worst part was the moments right before he woke up, when his brain still tricked him into thinking you were next to him, breathing softly in sleep. And then he’d open his eyes and reality would sink in like a knife to the gut.

- When he sees you again, it’s like the universe plays a cruel trick on him. He blinks, rubs his eyes, thinks he’s hallucinating. But then you smile, that soft, knowing smile he dreamed about, and everything collapses. He doesn’t think—just moves, just grabs you, just feels. “Oh my God,” he breathes, his voice shaking, his arms wrapping around you so tightly he might never let go. “Tell me this is real. Please tell me this is real.” And when you nod, when you whisper his name, he lets out a half-laugh, half-sob against your shoulder.

- Scott becomes clingy after that—not in an overbearing way, but in a you-can’t-leave-me-again way. He constantly reaches for you, constantly checks if you’re still there. He makes up for lost time—cooking you breakfast (badly), taking you on spontaneous road trips, making you laugh until you can’t breathe. Every moment is precious now, every second a gift. He refuses to waste a single one.

- He tells you everything he couldn’t before. How much he missed you, how much it hurt, how many times he caught himself looking for you in a crowded room. He never wants to take you for granted again. Every night, he holds you like you might disappear in the morning, presses kisses to your skin as if he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

- Scott Lang doesn’t know why the universe gave you back to him, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is that this time, no force in the world—no villain, no bad luck, no cosmic cruelty—is going to take you away from him again.

Wade Wilson (Fox)

- Wade doesn’t mourn like other people. He doesn’t wear black, doesn’t cry softly in the night. No, Wade’s grief is ugly, loud, chaotic. After you died, he became worse—more violent, more reckless, more unhinged. He threw himself into fights he knew he couldn’t win, hoping—praying—someone would finally land the killing blow. But they never did. His healing factor cursed him to keep living, to keep hurting.

- He talked to you like you were still there. Made jokes to the empty side of the bed. Left your favorite snacks untouched in the cabinet. The others tried to check on him—Weasel, Domino—but he just shoved them away with a laugh, a joke, a bloody fight he walked away from without a scratch. “I’m fine,” he’d say, voice hollow behind the mask. “Totally normal levels of depression. Probably a seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. Who’s to say?”

- And then, one day, you walked through his door. Just like that. No fanfare, no dramatic music—just you, standing there, looking at him with that same familiar amusement in your eyes. He froze. Blinked. Looked down at the bottle of vodka in his hand. “Oh,” he muttered. “Guess I finally drank myself into hallucinations. Took long enough.” But then you said his name, your voice real, and everything inside him broke.

- He tackled you before you could even take a step closer. Knocked you onto the couch, onto the floor, onto him, his arms squeezing so tight it was a miracle you could still breathe. “If this is a dream, I swear to Ryan Reynolds’ beautiful abs, I will murder my subconscious,” he babbled, his voice cracking. He touched your face, your arms, every inch of you, just to be sure. And when you laughed—when you really laughed—he just lost it. Full-on ugly sobs, face buried in your neck, refusing to ever let go.

- After that, Wade is worse—but in a different way. He never shuts up about how lucky he is. Clings to you, wraps himself around you like a human (questionably clean) blanket, dramatically declares that if you ever die on him again, he’ll personally go to hell and drag you back himself. He texts you every five minutes when you’re not around. If you so much as sneeze, he’s already googling life-threatening illnesses.

- But beneath all the jokes, the over-the-top antics, there’s something soft there. Something raw. Wade Wilson doesn’t believe in happy endings. But he believes in you. And if the universe was kind enough to give you back to him, then maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally start believing in second chances too.

Logan Howlett (Fox)

- Logan is no stranger to grief. He has lost more people than he can count, buried more loved ones than he dares to remember. But losing you—you—was different. It wasn’t just another loss, another name on the long list of people the world had taken from him. It was the loss. The one that finally made him want to lay down and never get up again.

- He disappeared after that. Vanished into the wilderness, into the places where no one could find him. He drank himself into oblivion, picked fights with men twice his size just for the chance to feel something. The nightmares were worse—your face, your voice, the way you reached for him as you died in his arms. He could still feel your blood on his hands, still hear your last breath. There was no escaping it. No running fast enough.

- When he sees you again, it’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s silent. He turns, expecting an enemy, a threat—only to see you. Standing there. Alive. His breath catches in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to break free. For a long moment, he just stares, his jaw clenched so tight it aches. “No,” he finally rasps. “No, that ain’t possible.” But you just step closer, your hands trembling, your eyes pleading. “Logan,” you whisper. And something inside him snaps.

- He moves before he can think, his arms wrapping around you with the force of a man drowning who has finally found solid ground. He buries his face in your hair, breathes you in, his whole body shaking. “If this is some kinda sick joke,” he growls against your skin, “I swear to God—” But you just hold him tighter, and he finally—finally—lets himself believe it.

- After that, Logan is fiercely protective. More than before. You are his second chance, his proof that maybe—just maybe—the world hasn’t taken everything from him. He keeps you close, always within reach. He doesn’t talk about the time you were gone, doesn’t say how lost he was without you—but you see it in the way he touches you, like he’s making sure you’re still real.

- Logan has lived a long life, filled with too much pain, too much loss. But now, with you back in his arms, he thinks—just for a moment—that maybe, maybe, he finally has something worth fighting for again.

Matt Murdock

- Grief became a quiet shadow in Matt’s life, a presence that never left. He carried it with him in the way he adjusted his tie, in the way he spoke to Foggy and Karen like he was fine when he wasn’t. He still went out at night, still fought in the streets, but the fire inside him had dimmed. He no longer fought to save the city—he fought because it was the only thing that numbed the ache of losing you.

- He whispered your name in his prayers, his voice breaking over the syllables. In his apartment, your absence was louder than anything else. He reached for you in his sleep, his hands closing around nothing, waking up with an emptiness so heavy it stole his breath. He let the guilt drown him—because you died in his arms, and no matter how many bones he broke or how much blood he spilled, he couldn’t change that.

- When you return, he knows it’s you before you even speak. The world is full of sound, full of heartbeats, full of voices—but yours? Yours has always been different. His entire body stills, his breath hitching in his throat. He listens, waiting for the trick, the deception, because he knows what death feels like. But then you say his name, and the world tilts sideways.

- He moves without thinking, reaching for you, his hands trembling as they trace over your face, your hair, your lips. “You’re real,” he breathes, almost afraid to say it. “You’re real.” And when he finally lets himself believe it, when he pulls you into his arms and holds you so tightly it aches, he lets out a broken sound—somewhere between a sob and a prayer.

- After that, Matt is different. He refuses to let you go alone anywhere, his protectiveness manifesting in quiet touches, in the way his fingers always seek yours. He’s softer now, more open with his emotions, because he’s lost you once and he won’t make the mistake of taking any second for granted.

- At night, when the city is quiet and his scars ache, he traces over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. “I don’t know how I deserve this,” he whispers against your hair, his voice raw with devotion. “But I’m never letting you go again.”

Frank Castle

- Frank has always been good at loss. Not because he accepts it, but because he survives it. Losing you, though? It was a different kind of wound, one that never stopped bleeding. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just became colder. The world lost all color, all meaning. He didn’t live after you were gone—he just existed, a weapon with no purpose but destruction.

- He stopped talking. Stopped caring. The men he hunted became nothing more than names on a list, their deaths nothing more than numbers. He never said your name, never spoke of you, because acknowledging you were gone would break something inside him that even he couldn’t put back together.

- And then, one night, you stand in front of him, breathing, alive, looking at him like he’s still the man you loved. He doesn’t believe it at first. His grip tightens around his gun, his entire body coiled and ready for a fight because this? This is cruel. And yet—your eyes. Your heartbeat. The way you whisper, “Frank?” like it’s his name that brings you back to life.

- His hands shake as he reaches for you. He touches your face like it’s something fragile, something that might disappear if he presses too hard. And when you don’t, when you lean into his touch with a softness he thought he’d never feel again, something inside him shatters. He pulls you against him, his grip almost desperate, his breath ragged. “I lost you,” he rasps against your hair. “I lost you, and I didn’t—I didn’t know how to keep going.”

- Frank becomes your shadow after that. He’s gentler with you than he’s ever been with anyone, but that protectiveness? That fire? It’s stronger than ever. If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, they won’t live to make the mistake twice. But with you? With you, he is something softer, something almost human again.

- He doesn’t pray, doesn’t believe in fate. But at night, when you sleep beside him, warm and real, he presses a silent kiss to your forehead and whispers, Thank you. He doesn’t know who he’s thanking. Maybe the universe. Maybe you. All he knows is that this time, he won’t waste a single second.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

- Losing you broke Dex. And when Dex breaks, he destroys. He tried to keep it together—tried to pretend he could move on, that he could keep living without you—but the anger, the madness, the unbearable emptiness inside him only grew. The world felt wrong without you. He felt wrong. He stopped sleeping, stopped feeling anything but the burning need to punish whatever took you away from him.

- He lost control after that. Killed without hesitation, without remorse. Let his mind spiral, let his demons win, because what was the point of fighting them without you? You were his anchor, the one person who made him believe he could be more than the monster inside him. Without you, he had no reason to pretend anymore.

- When he sees you again, he doesn’t react the way most people would. No tears, no disbelief. He stalks toward you, his entire body trembling, his breath uneven. His fingers twitch like they’re reaching for a weapon—like he can’t decide if you’re a dream, a trick, or something worse. “You’re dead,” he says, voice flat, empty. “I held you while you died.” And then, quieter, almost desperate—“Tell me this is real.”

- The second you touch him, the second your fingers brush over his, he breaks. He surges forward, his arms crushing around you, his breathing ragged against your skin. “Don’t leave me again,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Please. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.” And for the first time in a year, his mind is quiet. The rage, the spiraling thoughts, the unbearable emptiness—it all stops the moment you’re back in his arms.

- After that, Dex is obsessive. He always had that trait in him, but now? Now it’s even worse. You are his, and he refuses to let anything take you away from him again. He follows you like a shadow, sleeps with his arms locked around you, memorizes every detail of your body just in case the universe dares to rip you away from him again.

- There’s a darkness inside him, one that never truly fades. But with you alive, with you real, that darkness is tempered by something softer. Something dangerous. He’s not just a killer anymore. He’s yours. And if anyone tries to take you from him again? He’ll burn the whole world to the ground.

Wanda Maximoff

- Grief clung to Wanda like an old, tattered shawl, woven with the ghosts of everyone she had ever lost. She had thought she had reached her limit—that the universe could take no more from her than it already had. But then it took you. And that, she realized, was the cruelest cut of all. She had survived wars, watched cities crumble, lost her family, her brother, her home. But losing you? That was the first time she felt herself break.

- She became something else after you died. A ghost walking through her own life, untethered from the world. The wind carried whispers of you—the echo of your laughter in a marketplace, the ghost of your breath against her skin in the moments before she woke up alone. And the anger—God, the anger. She lashed out when she fought, red energy sparking at her fingertips with a ferocity she couldn’t contain. She wanted to hurt the universe the way it had hurt her.

- And then, like an answer to a prayer she had never dared to whisper, you stood before her again. At first, she thought it was another cruel trick, another illusion meant to unravel what little remained of her sanity. But then—then she felt you. Your heartbeat, your warmth, the undeniable reality of you. And the moment that truth settled into her bones, she collapsed into you, shaking, weeping, hands clutching desperately at your arms, your shoulders, your face.

- “You were gone,” she sobbed, burying herself in you like she could merge her soul with yours. “I—I felt you leave me.” And for the first time in a year, her magic did not rage. It did not spark and burn with untamed grief. It simply was. It curled around the two of you like a shield, like a silent promise that she would never let you be taken from her again.

- After that, Wanda became something softer, but not weaker. She still held the storm inside her, but now, it had purpose. Now, it had you. She held you like she was afraid the wind might steal you away again, always touching—fingers brushing over yours, arms wrapping around you in sleep, a protective hand against the small of your back in public. She had lost everything before. She would not lose you again.

- At night, when the world was still and your breath rose and fell against her chest, she whispered things she could never say in the daylight. Apologies, promises, prayers in a language she had almost forgotten. And when you stirred, murmuring her name, she simply kissed you—deep and slow, like she could pour her very soul into you, like she could make you stay this time.

Pietro Maximoff

- The world never felt fast enough after you were gone. Time slowed into something unbearable, something suffocating. Pietro had always outrun grief before, always left it in the dust, but your death? That was a weight even he couldn’t shake. He stopped joking. Stopped running for fun. The world lost its color, its spark, its meaning. What was the point of moving quickly when you weren’t at the finish line anymore?

- He tried—he really tried—to pretend. To act like he was okay, to throw on that smirk and tell people, “Eh, I’m fine.” But Wanda knew. She saw it in the way he sat still for too long, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, the way he lingered in places that reminded him of you. His speed was once his escape, his freedom. Now, every step forward only took him further away from the last time he held you.

- And then—then he sees you. And for the first time in his life, he can’t move. He just stares, his heart a violent drumbeat against his ribs, his breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No,” he whispers, blinking rapidly, because this has to be some sick joke. “This isn’t real.” But you are. And the moment you take a step toward him, he snaps.

- He moves too fast, too desperate, grabbing you like you might vanish if he lets go. His hands cup your face, his lips press against every part of you he can reach—forehead, cheeks, hands, lips. “You’re real,” he gasps between kisses, between shaky laughter and choked sobs. “You’re—you’re real.” And suddenly, the world isn’t slow anymore. You are his new gravity, the only thing keeping him from spinning out of control.

- After that, Pietro is obsessed with feeling you close. He picks you up just to hear you laugh, carries you even when you insist you can walk. He talks more, filling every silence with his voice because silence is what haunted him for a year. And he touches—not just because he wants to, but because he needs to. Holding your hand, leaning against you, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to remind himself you’re here.

- And at night, when he curls around you in bed, his heartbeat thrumming like a song against your skin, he whispers things he’s never said before. “I thought I lost you forever.” “I never stopped looking for you.” “If you ever leave me again, I swear I’ll outrun death itself to bring you back.” And when you tell him you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere, he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder and finally—finally—lets himself breathe again.

Erik Lehnsherr (Fox)

- Erik was already a man carved from loss, molded by grief, his soul tempered in the fires of tragedy. Losing you was not just another wound—it was the moment he snapped completely. He did not rage. He did not weep. He simply became something else. Harder. Colder. More dangerous. Without you, there was no reason to hold back. No reason to believe in anything but vengeance.

- The world paid for your absence. He became relentless, his war against those he deemed responsible for suffering escalating beyond reason. He did not believe in mercy anymore—because if the world had shown you none, why should he? But in the rare, silent moments when he was alone, when his hands were still for once, he would stare at the space beside him and feel something that terrified him. Emptiness.

- When you return, he does not react as a man should when seeing his lost love brought back to life. He does not run to you. He does not whisper your name like a prayer. He simply stares, cold and unreadable, his mind calculating every possibility—illusion, manipulation, deception. And then—then you reach for him, and the moment your hand touches his, his composure shatters.

- His hands shake as they frame your face. His breathing is shallow, his eyes burning with something unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is low, trembling with something dangerous. “Who did this?” he demands. Because someone had to bring you back. And Erik Lehnsherr does not believe in miracles. But when you smile—when you whisper, “I’m here, Erik”—his fury dissolves into something broken, something human. He kisses you like a dying man gasping for air, his hands gripping you as if afraid the wind might steal you away.

- After that, Erik is ruthless in his protectiveness. He keeps you close, watches you with the sharp gaze of a predator waiting for the world to try and take you again. But in private, in the spaces where no one else can see, he is something else. His hands are reverent as they hold you, his voice is soft when he speaks to you, and his nightmares—the ones filled with loss—fade when you press a kiss to his temple.

- He does not believe in peace. He does not believe in forgiveness. But he believes in you. And that? That is the only thing in this world he will not let go of again.

[kafus]

how i caught entei in leafgreen in the most ridiculous way possible

SO last week i started a pokemon leafgreen file on my childhood cart i've had since my 5th birthday, and one my goals ended up being getting every owned dex entry possible in JUST the one copy of leafgreen without connecting to any other game… and i did. except i forgot one. ENTEI!!

like probably a lot of you reading this i COMPLETELY forgot that one of the johto roaming beasts is in every copy of FRLG. i never even caught any of them as a kid. which roamer you get is based on your starter (squirtle = raikou, bulbasaur = entei, charmander = suicune) and i happened to pick bulbasaur so my roamer was entei. it does actually ROAM in kanto, aka whenever you change locations, the pokemon moves to a new route. obviously this is a pain in the ass, but it gets even more painful because roamers can flee from the battle and they will the instant you encounter them. you get the chance to throw one ball or use one move and that's it… so like in most pokemon games, you would use a trapping move like mean look to keep the roamer in the battle and turn it into a normal legendary encounter, right? HAHA WRONG

raikou and entei are affected by the ROAMER ROAR BUG in FRLG, which means if they use roar to escape the battle (yes, even in mean look, it doesn't stop roar from working) they just disappear from the game. permanently. forever. you can never capture it. suicune is not affected by this because it doesn't have roar, but my roamer was entei, so uh. the odds were stacked against me. did i want to repetitively encounter the roamer over and over, never trapping it, just throwing one ball each time? or did i want to set up a mean look pokemon only to have to soft reset every time entei used roar? neither option sounded fun and i was going to just give up and master ball it despite REALLY wanting it in a luxury ball like all the other kanto legendaries i had already caught… UNTIL!

i am a moderator of the ribbon master discord (a different pokemon challenge) and i was just sorta liveposting my thought process about this annoying roamer when gen 3 rng manipulation extraordinaire ddeeffgg crashes into the chat and suggests this fucking bonkers idea. and his bonkers idea is galaxy brain LET ME EXPLAIN

ariados is available in leafgreen's post game by catching spinarak in pattern bush, and of course electrode is a fairly common kanto pokemon. ariados gets access to spider web, which is basically just mean look with a different name (and i completely forgot it existed), it traps the opponent in the battle. but IMPORTANTLY, it ALSO gets access to BATON PASS… which, in gen 3, passes the trapping effect! usually if you were to use spider web and swap out ariados, the opponent would no longer be trapped, but baton pass solves that! and then electrode has the ability soundproof which prevents roar from working, and it even gets thunder wave (paralysis) and sonicboom (consistent 20 damage with no chance of accidental crits) to assist in easier capture of entei! nice!! awesome!! but getting this setup in order is the most ridiculous shit i've ever done in leafgreen

PROBLEM #1: ariados gets baton pass through egg move. in gen 3, egg moves are only passed down by the father and not the mother, so i had to grab a male ledyba, grind it to a high enough level to learn baton pass, then grab a female spinarak and breed them together. unfortunately this means my ariados would be level 1 and i'd have to train it up quite a bit, which leads into my next problem…

PROBLEM #2: ariados is SLOWWW. its base speed is a measly 40 compared to entei's whopping 100! ariados needs to outspeed entei to use spider web first turn so entei can't just run away! i would have to get ariados to a very high level to outspeed entei, grinding all the way from level 1. the one plus side is that the roamers in FRLG are bugged to always have a 0 IV in defense, special attack, special defense, and speed, which means unless entei has a +speed nature, its speed would always be a predictable and relatively low 105 at level 50, which is what it's encountered at. so i had to get an ariados with a speed of 106 or higher.

to get around both these problems as efficiently as possible, while breeding spinarak, i bred quite a few to get one with a +speed nature, and ended up with a jolly spinarak. everstone doesn't work in FRLG unfortunately, so the nature was completely random each time. soon my DAUGHTER WAS BORN after like 2-3 hours of breeding because FRLG eggs are SLOOOW and i was being stubborn about the nature, which i was getting unlucky on LOL

then i maxed out her speed EVs real quick by fighting picnicker susie on route 13 over and over, who gives 12 speed EVs per battle, 24 with the macho brace, which i was using. this was just to make sure i would reach 106+ speed as fast as possible. then i grinded her levels by repetitively fighting the two trainers right outside the weird chansey dance guy's house in sevault canyon on seven island, right above tanoby ruins. using the vs seeker on them is the best grinding spot in the game since they give 20k experience per fighting both of them and there's a healing spot Right There. i was using exp share and leading with my level 100 jolteon named Egg who i adore with all my heart. ariados, now named koolaid, ended up crossing the speed threshold at level 62! yes this took a while lmao

as for electrode, i wanted one at as high of a level as possible so i hopefully wouldn't have to grind levels. i lucked out as electrode is found at a whopping level 64 in cerulean cave's bottom floor. a 5% encounter rate but as i had already caught numerous 5%s for the pokedex, i didn't really care. however it DOES have explosion and i'd rather not have the electrode explode on me before i could catch it which would then send me on a wild goose chase for ANOTHER 5% electrode… so i grabbed the random level 24 poliwhirl with the damp ability, which prevents explosion from working, out of my PC, and gave it a smoke ball from the celadon game corner so i could lead with her and easily run from each encounter that Wasn't Electrode.

now you may be wondering how i was going to handle capturing electrode once i was actually in the battle because SURELY it would just use thunderbolt or something and instantly murder my poliwhirl. however funnily enough electrode only has two attacking moves at level 64, swift and explosion. explosion obviously doesn't work, and swift is a physical attack in gen 3 due to all normal type moves being physical, this was before the physical/special split in gen 4. electrode's physical attack stat is a garbage 50 and swift only has a base power of 60 so i honestly wasn't concerned. and best of all, poliwhirl gets the move hypnosis, so i could easily put electrode to sleep and start chucking ultra balls… and the smoke ball ended up being useless because i somehow ran into electrode first try what the fuck LOL

anyways i named them gatorade to match with koolaid. truly the dream entei capturing team. i didn't even feel the need to grind any levels on gatorade, level 64 was more than enough, so i just slapped the two moves i wanted on them - thunder wave through the one-use tutor in silph co, and sonicboom through the move reminder on two island, costing me two tinymushrooms which i thankfully already had and did not have to go out of my way to grind.

however the hours worth of prep ISN'T DONE YET! because uhh…

PROBLEM #3: ariados has to be above entei's level to outspeed it (yes, even if it had a 31 IV in speed AND a speed boosting nature AND maximum speed EVs, it still wouldn't be enough at level 50), which means the repel trick can't be used to encounter it. tracking down the roamer is practically impossible without using repels to cancel out all other wild pokemon, and in gen 3, unlike later gens, you can't put a fainted pokemon in the front of the party for the repel trick instead. and if i DON'T lead with ariados, entei will run away when i try to swap into it. SO i decided i would have to run into entei once first through the repel trick method, which marks it as "seen" in the pokedex, and then i would track its location through the pokedex to encounter it while leading with ariados.

to accomplish this, i simply ran in and out of the building on route 16, going in and out of the grass in the process, which would constantly be randomizing entei's location until it happened to randomize onto route 16. i caught a staryu with illuminate as an ability to raise the chance of entei appearing, which does work while staryu is fainted (wouldn't want to go in and out of the grass while entei was on route 16 without encountering it!) and otherwise led with my level 50 magmar that was on my elite four team named Torch for the repel trick.

i bought a whopping 100 max repels for this task but i ended up getting entei within just a few lol. torch was holding the smoke ball just to be able to run away safely without any shenanigans!

and now entei was in the pokedex and able to be tracked that way!

however, there was still ONE more problem...

PROBLEM #4: luxury balls are a pain in the ASS to get in this game! they can't be bought from any shop. the only way to repeatedly get luxury balls in FRLG is to show a pokemon to selphy, a rich girl who lives in resort gorgeous on five island.

i will mostly skim over this because it's boring, but TLDR i had to continuously talk to her, fly back to the pokemon center, get the pokemon she wanted to see out of the PC because the step limit is 250 before she gets sick of waiting which is like nothing (i already had a living dex of every mon obtainable in leafgreen otherwise so this wasn't hard), surf to her, then spam A through dialogue with her butler in which i had a 70% chance of receiving a luxury ball. i did this over 40 times until i had 30 luxury balls, and sold off all the nuggets and other items she gave me. good lord this took a while

and now with ALL of that setup i was FINALLY ready to capture entei in a luxury ball. this took me literally all day and i was really excited. to consistently encounter entei, i saved in cerulean city and tracked it in the pokedex from there, opening it over and over after changing to any of the four routes connected to the city, and moving to an adjacent route from entei's location when it was close in the hopes of walking onto the same route it moved to when i did. i was following a map made by hangarofroam, he has a video tutorial on how to shiny hunt the FRLG roamers and encounter them as quickly as possible, and i highly recommend looking it up if you want to capture these roamers yourself, but tldr this is the map i was using:

and once i encountered entei i was finally able to use the strategy i had prepped so long to do... and it worked without a hitch!! entei can't try to use roar first turn because it wastes a turn trying to flee, which is prevented by ariados outspeeding and using spider web... then if it tries to use roar the next turn, i've already switched into electrode to block it with soundproof. so from there it's just a matter of whittling down entei's HP to the red with swift/sonicboom and paralyzing it with thunder wave, then tossing luxury balls until success!

and i GOT IT after 3 encounter attempts and 73 luxury balls thrown. and FINALLY i have all 171 national dex entries possible in a single copy of leafgreen with no connection to other games, and all the legendaries are in fancy ass luxury balls. i am winning.

this was ridiculous. please be proud of my accomplishments. i've had this file for less than 2 weeks and i already have over 70 hours of gameplay in it after doing all this AAAAA

also barely related but look at Egg my jolteon he had like no purpose in this story but i took a pic of him in front of entei before going on to capture entei because i love him so much pleas

thanks for coming to my fucking ted talk i am SOOO normal about pokemonsdfjkfds (joke)

[lustagel]

can you please write smut about dexter i LOVED the riding one i ate that shit up

of course! this is also for the other person that asked! :3 first fic of the year! sorry it took so long :((

he doesn’t see you much anymore. with his job eating up his noon hours, and killing his latest murder at night, he has to admit he’s yearning. but he realizes, maybe too late, how much—how badly he’s missed this—until the morning sun is cracking through the blinds of his apartment and his cock is halfway into you, your skin is soft against his and he’s in complete control of how much cock he’s giving you. no, control has never been his problem. but now, with you wrapped around him, he’s finally allowing himself to forget.

it’s annoying, really, how forgetful he gets when he’s with you— how careless he gets. “more, dex. please.” you never have to beg much, because of how easily he caves, giving in to your voice. he hides in the crook of your neck, his breath warm and shaky against your skin, his hair tickling your face. your fingers trail through the short hairs at the nape of his neck, where they meet the fullness of his hair, soothing and anchoring him as if you know he needs it, before adding soft kisses to the shape of his ear. his cock fills you up without much room for anything else, as always, and you never complain despite your whines and body shivers.

you take him in every way, and he wonders, in the moments when his mind isn’t entirely lost in you, if he could ever do the same. the thought doesn’t last long before he’s spilling inside of you and you’re squeezing onto him. his movements slow, his focus narrowing to the way your body fits against his, the softness of your touch. he sighs, his eyes falling shut to enjoy the way you completely consume him.

so many things have been trying to keep him away from you— away from this feeling, but he just doesn’t want to escape it. and, the darkness that keeps pulling is his to keep. in his head, the words come unbidden, clear and resolute: i’ll never let it touch you. It isn’t something he’d ever say aloud—not to you, not to anyone. promises spoken can be broken. but here, in the quiet sanctuary of his own mind, it’s absolute.

[lampochkaart]

As promised, here's more of Cyborg AU. First post here

This time I'll tell about some other characters. Specifically Kaito's friend group

Kokichi wanted to meet Kaito's friends. Momota never took Ouma with him anywhere before, but after he found out that Kokichi is intelligent, he figured he might, since now he knew that Kokichi isn't glitchy, he was just being an asshole. So there's not much of a risk of Ouma intentionally blowing their cover (because it's also in his interests). But they both agreed that Kokichi should pretend to be human to avoid any questions. And it wouldn't even be a problem, since Bond's imitation program is the most advanced. It's extremely hard to spot Bond and their processors have advanced protection so they can't really be detected by humans or other cyborgs (except more advanced models of Bond).

So it seems like everything should go without a problem. But here's a thing. Maki is actually also a cyborg. DEX. She's been masking pretty well, everyone just found her just a little weird at times. But Kokichi immediately detected her, because unlike Bond's DEX's processor isn't very hidden. He "sees" her but she doesn't "see" him.

He tested a little with some vague prodding questions to see everyone's reaction and realized that nobody knew. Somehow Maki was hiding among this friend group and none of them had a clue.

That already complicated the situation. But what's even worse is that Shuichi's uncle is working in DEX company. And Shuichi is studying cybernetics and unofficially helping him with some work.

(Shuichi is the reason how Kaito figured out that Kokichi is a cyborg when he first met him. Momota just asked him a test question as a joke because Ouma was acting weird. And Kokichi... answered.)

So this group is a ticking time bomb and Kokichi somehow ended up with the remote to blow it up. And now he has to decide what to do: if he should press the button and get it over with or if he should wait until it's gonna inevitably blow up on it's own.

Oh, and there's also Kaede. She's just vibing, unaware of what a disaster their group is.

So that's their group. What a mess.

Also a bit more facts about this AU.

In this AU all the characters are a bit older than I usually hc them. They're probably around 21-22. But Kokichi and Maki are a bit different.

Kokichi is around 3 years old (since the date of his creation) which is pretty old for Bond. He worked on a long multi-staged mission consisting of a lot of different short missions that involved him pretending to be human and being around a lot of people pretty much all the time. This is what helped him develop consciousness faster. So his mental age is probably 18-20

(In canon it usually takes longer to gain consciousness and develop it, but it's my AU so I don't caaaare)

Maki is around 5 years old, which is a little bit old for DEX, but it's still a relatively normal age. Depending on the profession of course. In this AU she also worked as an assassin for an organization, she had some people of the higher rank assigned as her owners. How she escaped is similar to another character from the books. The ship that she was on crashed and she took that chance to escape during the chaos. For a while she was hiding from most people, trying to learn how to act like a human. Practiced on homeless people and random strangers who, luckily for her, in most cases just thought she was a weirdo. People from the organization are still considered as her owners, so she has to be very careful to never ever meet them again.

Her mental age is probably 20-21. Her consciousness developed slower than Kokichi's (not that much interacting with humans, especially not imitating a human), but she had more time.

In this AU Kaito is training to be a pilot. He has a license to pilot a flyer (a vehicle used on the territory of the planets), but he wants to become a pilot of a real space ship. The emblem on "Kokichi's" hoodie is the emblem of Kaito's academy (or whatever it's called).

After some time of having Kokichi ruining his life Kaito figured that if something would happen it's better for him to have a documents on Kokichi to avoid being in trouble. So he asked Miu for help (again) and asked her to make fake documents for Ouma. Naturally it wasn't easy to convince her but eventually she agreed.

The problem is. They can't put in the documents that Kokichi is Bond. And he could never pass as DEX, even from very far away. And he also doesn't look like Mary too, since they mostly look like some kind of caregivers.

Kokichi can only roughly pass as an Iren. Which is DEVASTATING for Kaito, but it's not like he has other options. Kaito is not willing to present Kokichi like that to anyone, but he still needs to have some kind of documents in case of an emergency.

Miu is Kaito's hacker friend who he asked for help with all the cyborg thing. She's a great inventor and a good hacker which is why Kaito asked for help her specifically. She makes fun of him constantly, but still they're pretty good friends so they know they can rely on each other. And even if she's gonna curse Kaito all the nastiest words possible, she's still gonna help him.

...But would she be willing to hack the subordination program of a cyborg giving him freedom to disobey any orders and do whatever he wants? That's a good question..........

[angellicxx]

Steady - Benjamin “Dex” Poindexter x Rookie FBI Reader

summary: As a new FBI agent, you’re paired with Dex for your first mission manning a sniper’s nest. Your aversion for each other has you both struggling with staying on objective and following the rules.

warnings: Gun, unprotected sex, smut, semi-public sex, bruises, scratching, strong pull out game

a/n: first smut let's goooo

w.c: 3,400

You were new to the unit.

A fresh graduate from Quantico, you proudly wore your badge of Special Agent for the FBI with a smile. The other agents had been welcoming and kind; throwing out tips about the rugged New York streets, helping with the overwhelming paperwork— and even assigning a more experienced agent to show the ropes and keep a watchful eye on you.

Agent Benjamin Poindexter.

Even the name gave you chills.

When his dark eyes glared at you for the first time, greeting you with a raspy voice and that smug smirk, you knew it was going to be rough.

Unlike the other agents, Dex wasn’t that enthusiastic on helping a rookie.

Cocky and independent, you could tell he hated you.

It ruined his order of things.

He would always send you down to fetch his coffee or do some other chore he couldn’t be bothered with, anything to get you away from him. Yet whenever you weren’t next to him, obediently waiting and ready for the next task, you could feel his piercing gaze from a far, just in time to see him quickly look away when your eye caught his.

You could really feel his stare when he was assigned to man the sniper position with you.

One of your first ever real missions; keeping watch during a high profile event where some underground crime network might attend, of course you were thrilled— until you found out you were going to be stuck with Dex all night.

The job was easy, if things went south while the other agents were in the building, the sniper would take out the problem from an isolated distance.

The kind superior he was, Dex of course gave you the honor of being the sniper—which was really just lookout and a punishment for ruining his night. The bright streets of Midtown were alive with distant sirens and pedestrian chatter echoing off the buildings. Too bad you had to enjoy it on a cold rooftop lying stomach down on the ground next to the one guy who hated you the most.

Six feet of Dex was towering next to you, completely engulfed in his work and eyes rarely leaving the building through his telescope. Your bones had began to ache— your hips had been digging into the floor for the past hour and your arms were tired from gripping the rifle, which was positioned on a tripod at the edge of the roof. You were becoming dizzy from the height, multiple stories and the cold concrete being the only thing separating you from falling whenever the wind shifted.

It was late, but you didn’t know how long this event was going to last and if things were going to even get exciting. As far as you knew, you would be stuck like this next to Dex until dawn.

After a while of staring at the windows and entrance, you began scanning the New York skyline, trying to name as many familiar buildings as possible.

Just when you were adjusting the sights to see the Brooklyn Bridge, a rasped voice pierced the silence.

“Do you even know how to handle that thing?”

You pulled back, looking up to see Dex had lowered his telescope and was now watching you.

“If you didn’t know if I could handle it, why give me the gun?”

He only shook his head. “Stop messing with it, its not a toy from your training.”

“I’m not.”

Your objection was no use. You could see that smug look in his eye through the dark, peering down at you like an ant near his boot.

“Then take a practice shot, rookie.”

A nervous feeling formed in your gut at the future criticism that was bound to happen.

“We’re not authorized to fire unless its for approved force.”

Dex was almost surprised at your defiance. “I’m your superior, you can do what I say or leave. There’s not going to be any action anyways.” He sighed, putting the telescope back in the sniper case, crossing his arms over his chest with a patronizing smirk. “Now c’mon, lets see if you’re really the hot shot you think you are.”

You swallowed your pride for a moment, looking back into the scope and gripping the gun steady. You brought the sights back to the area, scanning the nearby rooftops for a target to hit.

There was a low groan of annoyance when Dex landed on his knees next to you. He took one close look at your form and position and scoffed.

“Lower.”

You rolled your eyes, shuffling your hip against the hard floor. “I can see.”

“No-” A rough hand pushed your shoulders, knocking your chest to the ground and nearly your jaw. “Here.”

You gritted your teeth to stifle the whimper at the hit to your ribs. “I got it.” You managed to hiss, nudging your shoulder to get his hand off of you.

“No, you don’t.”

Before you could fit another snide remark in, arms wrapped you— caging you to the ground and gun.

His broad forearms were on the concrete floor on both sides of you, biceps flexed and brushing against your numbing arms. Dex’s chest was hovering just above your flexed back, shifting his weight to draw closer to the scope.

His head loomed over your shoulder for his eye to reach down the sight, so close you could feel his breath on your cheek— hot and raspy. His knees were anchored to the ground next to you, the holsters and buckles of his belt dug into the side of your leg, your hip brushing his waist.

He felt close.

Way too close.

You were now pushed nearly face forward into the ground, your superior almost completely on top of you and so close you couldn’t tell if it was his heartbeat you were hearing or just the blood thundering in your ears.

You had no choice but to try and slow down your breathing and not make a noise every time you felt him touch you. You kept your eye through the lens, not even realizing his hands were reaching for yours until you felt them wrapped over the sides of the weapon.

Dex moved the gun around on the ground, just enough to find the new target as you laid there in a daze.

“Right there,” he whispered. “You see that billboard?”

You could only manage a small nod as you felt your breath catch in your throat. The large billboard was on the building parallel from you across the street, featuring a model posing in the newest collection of a fashion designer; big blue eyes peering at you through the dark night, sparsely illuminated by the bright lights on the street level.

“I want you to hit the eye, got it? Right in the middle.”

His hand brushed against yours as he reached the scope, adjusting the ring until it was in perfect focus for the distance and looking right into the model’s pupil. Rough skin cradled your own as he gently moved your loosened grip around until he decided it was right.

“Deep breath,” His right hand disappeared from your own as it reached back, gently resting on your back below the end of your vest.

The vision in the scope seemed to blur and fade away for a moment as he brushed it lower, sending a shiver straight through your body from the contact. You obeyed, stirring the night air into your nervous lungs as his hand pressed deeper into you the more you inhaled.

“Just like that.”

He assured, yet it sounded more like a growl than a whisper.

His index finger lightly applied pressure over your own, pressing on the trigger. You breathed in tandem with him, your back brushing against his tense chest as the heat between your bodies overwhelmed you more than the cold air ever did.

He let out a deep exhale against you, pushing your finger down as your body jolted against his, a shot ringing out into the night and piercing the eye perfectly in the middle.

You could finally breathe again when the sound of the shell clattered to the ground and snapped you from the trance, a sheepish smile formed on your face as you admired the perfect hit.

You pulled your eye from the scope and looked over your shoulder to suddenly become face to face with Dex.

His jaw clenched, a flicker of something raw flashing behind his eyes. The grip on your hand tightened, just slightly, like he was holding onto restraint by a thread.

A soft gaze— his dark eyes glinting with the reflections of city lights. It was out of character seeing Dex look at you like that.

He must’ve realized he was staring at your lips— his adams apple bobbed as he swallowed, “Good.”

The praise lingered in your ear, whistling in the wind and reverberating in your mind.

His lips hovered inches from yours. You could feel his breath ghosting against your skin, every inhale shared in that narrow space. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to find a reason not to do it, trying to remember what lines he wasn’t supposed to cross.

But then his hand slid further down your back—deliberate, grounding, possessive.

He hated that he was stuck with you.

He hated that he was always partnered with you. He hated that he couldn’t get your body out of his mind, no matter how hard he tried.

He hated every single second he was near you. And he hated that he couldn’t stop himself.

Your lips brushed.

A mistake.

You gasped softly, and that was all it took—Dex’s mouth crashed into yours like he’d been starving for it, rough and hungry and angry at himself for wanting it this badly.

His hand gripped the side of your neck, tilting your jaw up and holding you like he was afraid you’d pull away, the other still pressed firmly into your back, anchoring you in place— slowly skimming lower down the curve of your spine and over your hip.

Your breath hitched and his smirk pressed into your lips.

You kissed him back just as desperately, your teeth grazed his lip— you weren’t sure if it was punishment or need—but it made him moan against you, breath hitching as he pushed you further into the rooftop floor.

A hand hooked under you, flipping you to your back and pulling you by your hips away from the edge and the gun as you struggled to regain your lost breath. Dex loomed on top of you, straddling your body with his knees on each side of your legs.

His belt clinked as he shifted above you, his weight pressing into you harshly. One hand slid up your shirt—calloused fingertips exploring every line and curve like he had to memorize, methodical and precise , just like how he handled the gun.

You moaned into his reconnecting kiss, your hands clutching into his hair.

Your conscious returned for a moment and you managed to breath out a plead.

“Dex—the mission-”

“Fuck the mission.”

He practically ripped your vest off from the sides in one brute stroke, tossing it the dusted concrete next to you.

He leaned back just enough to rip the rest of your shirt over your head, his eyes dragging over your body like you were something he couldn’t believe he’d kept his hands off this long. There was something frantic in the way he moved now—like weeks of tension had finally cracked open all at once.

His eyes stayed on you as he shrugged off his vest, tossing it next to yours and pulling his shirt off in one brisk motion. The warmth of his chest hit yours, your fingers digging down his neck to his back, pulling him against you.

A deep groan escaped him as he dropped his head to your neck, gently biting your sensitive skin as his arms hooked under your back, lifting you from the cold concrete to unclasp your bra.

A trail of heat led from your collarbones to your breasts as Dex kissed your exposed skin, fingers caressing over your peaking nipples and gripping your ribs as he trailed down your torso.

You were breathless and flushed, looking down to see Dex’s arms flexing as he manhandled you to lift your hips, tearing off your pants as you kicked off your boots in desperation.

The cold night air brushed at your bare legs, but it was nothing compared to the burn his mouth left as he trailed kisses along your jaw, down the slope of your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make your pulse stutter.

Your back arched off the concrete as his hands dragged down your thighs, rough palms searing into your skin with every possessive touch as he reunited his lips to yours.

This wasn’t the same Dex from a moment ago, complete control and smooth precision—this was chaos breaking through, hungry and shaking as he grappled your body with a wet mouth and trembling hands.

You whimpered as his belt dug into the thin fabric of your panties, sending a sensitive throb in between your legs.

“Dex-” You breathed out as his hands gripped your thighs. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Shut up.” He growled, spreading them wider as he pressed his hips against yours. “They’ll call if they need us. Right now, I need this.”

He looked down at you from half lidded eyes as his fingers hooked under your waistband, dragging them down as your bare legs moved to cling to his hips.

Dex grunted as he leaned back on his knees, towering over your vulnerable form as his fingers undid his belt— never breaking eye contact as he freed his straining cock, stroking the pre-cum over bulging veins.

In one swift, harsh motion he pinned your hip in place and thrusted inside of you, stealing the air from your lungs as you managed a breathless whimper, fingers digging into his tense shoulders to stabilize the blinding pressure that pierced your body. Dex began a rhythmic pace, digging deeper into you with each movement, grinding you into the ground as the silent rooftop filled with the raw noise of your bodies slamming together.

“Oh, fuck—” Your hand reached for his stomach, nails trailing down firm abs to his v-line as you clutched at his skin, palm pressing into his tense muscle.

His outstretched arm holding him up from the ground next to you buckled for a second, breath catching in his throat as he hovered closer over you.

Dex brought his mouth to yours, your moans mixing together with a sloppy kiss.

You were ruining each other, abandoning all sense of the mission to fuck each other senseless, the rooftop dissipating as his body slammed against yours. Your muscles strained to keep up with his movements, hips bucking and back arching.

His mouth bit into your neck, sucking at your pulse and hand pushing into your hip so hard you knew it would be a black bruise by morning. He was fast, desperately driving deeper to reach both your climax’s before you were caught. The anticipation was driving you mindless, resisting the impulse to let your eyes fall back by keeping them locked on Dex.

Your moans were erratic, high pitched and needy as tension in your body became overwhelming against the friction. You whimpered incoherently as your fingers clung into his shoulder, a plead to continue. He grunted as your nails dug into his skin, obeying with a sharper thrust.

You cried out as the orgasm shook through you, your hold on Dex being the only thing keeping you grounded. He groaned with his last thrusts, trembling as your pulse around his dick sending him over the edge.

Dex tore himself away, spilling hot cum over your belly and dripping down your thighs as you both struggled to catch your breath in the cold night air. Hot pants rippled through the quiet, your chests heaving as you gasped for air. Dex collapsed back onto his knees, muscles twitching and abs trembling with rapid breaths and covered with red welts left from your nails.

Your eyes locked in the dark, staring at each other in awe as you resisted regret. You swallowed, remnants of his spit trickling down your throat as his hand flinched close to your skin.

“Poindexter.”

The static of the comms tore through the silence. “We’ve got movement.”

Dex didn’t move, breath rasping as he looked down at you.

“Dex, do you copy?”

The sudden wave of shame and cold air rippled over you as Dex pulled away, harsh reality pulling you from your lust induced trance.

He switched into sniper mode in an instant, like a trained command and subconscious pull of routine. All distractions of the mission fell away.

He would curse himself for abandoning procedure, for falling through and giving in— to you.

As you breathlessly stared at the dark sky, Dex was already at the edge of the roof, pants zipped and in position, one knee down cradling the gun in his arms— eye trained down at the street.

“Suspect exiting through west side.”

He was back in his domain, grip steady— the same tight force around the gun like he’d used on you.

But metal doesn’t bruise.

He gripped it harder, forcing it down as he breathed out. A sharp roar of the gun rippled in the night. Dex jolted with the weapon, the end jabbing into his tight uncovered shoulder, red marks decorating the skin.

A yelp pierced the air from below, a man screaming echoing across the street as sirens lit up.

After a few seconds the comms crackled back on. “Nice shot, Dex. We got him.”

He lingered with the rifle, his bare back glistened with sweat in the faint light, flexed muscle trailing from his shoulders to his biceps as he moved with rapid breaths.

A finger trembled over the trigger— like it was taking everything in him to resist the urge to plunge the next shot through the bastard’s skull for so selfishly interrupting your moment.

He had to follow orders. Keep the suspect alive.

Not like he was good at following them— not when a second body laid breathlessly naked behind him.

Finally, he pulled himself from the gun, keeping his eye on the scene below, refusing to look back at you. With practiced ease he dismantled the rifle, stowing it back in the case as he retrieved his shirt and vest like nothing had ever interrupted the job.

You managed to tug your clothes back on, wincing as the fabric clung to skin smeared with cum and dirt, every movement a sharp reminder of what had just happened.

“Transporting suspect to Mass General—shot obliterated his kneecap. Recon at lobby.” The comms buzzed and clicked off.

As you clipped your vest into place, Dex loomed over you—one hand gripping the case handle, the other securing his belt with a harsh tug.

Without warning, he grabbed the strap of your vest, hauling you up with one arm until your toes barely scraped the ground.

His face lingered inches from yours, looking down at you. “You don’t tell anyone about this, got it?” He rasped, low and cold. “Not a fucking word.”

You nodded fast, breath caught in your throat before you could mutter a promise.

Then, without warning, he kissed you—sloppy and raw, more claim than affection. He pulled back just enough to flash that crooked grin.

“Good girl.”

He let you go, sending your half tied boots staggering for a grip on the floor as he brushed past you. You looked back at the empty roof, red and blue lights cascading through the dark from below, revealing the emptiness— proof nothing had ever happened.

The only evidence left now marked both of your bodies in reddening lines and darkening bruises.

You followed Dex down with a lowered head, praying he wouldn’t turn around and see your creeping blush and smile.

[htchnr]

𑣲 wilson bethel characters ٠࣪⭑꩜.ᐟ

「 ⓲ nsfw. ★ sfw. ᰔ request. ᵕ̈ comfort. ꩜ series. 」

© 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐇𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐍𝐑. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨���� 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦, 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫!

may 2025 writing challenge with his characters!

꩜ WADE KINSELLA, hart of dixie.

[⓲] TIRE YOU OUT ,, you can't seem to get tired enough at night to sleep well, so Wade helps wear you out.

[★] WALKIN' HOME ,, Wade and George end up in jail, so you bail them out. not without taxing Wade for his behaviour.

[★] RIPTIDES ,, two, disgustingly sweet domestic moments with you and Wade.

[⓲] HEAT WAVE MELT ,, you come back to Wade's place during a Bluebell-stapel heat wave, in desperate need of relaxing and cooling down.

꩜ BENJAMIN POINDEXTER, daredevil.

[★ᵕ̈] SHAKY HANDS ,, you come home to find Dex halfway through a panic attack. so you help him get through it.

[⓲ᰔᵕ̈] PINKY PROMISE KISSES ,, you comfort Dex after he has a nightmare.

[★ᵕ̈] ROT BESIDE YOU ,, Dex finds you broken, so he lays down to rot with you.

[★ᰔ] INTIMACY HC'S ,, a few of my personal thoughts and opinions on intimacy related things + Dex.

[★] CAT-LIKE SHADOW ,, a short drabble on Dex's intense and desperate need for closeness.

[★ᵕ̈ᰔ] CHEMICAL REACTION ,, you have really bad anxiety, and tracing Dex's scars help soothe you.

꩜ MISSED KISSES ,, series.

your life, your routine, through Dex's eyes. and your apartment windows..

[★] PART ONE ,, Dex muses about his favorite moments. + your thursday routine.

[★] PART TWO ,, Dex takes care of your upstairs neighbor problem. and in his eyes, you thank him for it.

[★] PART THREE ,, Dex finds out you've been sketching him + your first official meeting.

[digi-lov]

Just some thoughts

It's weirdly ironic how Pokémon fans often complain about every game being the same, games being too easy, or too soft and for babies—

And sometimes it feels like, Digimon has everything they're asking for?

Almost no game is like the other, the games can be difficult becuase they don't treat you like a kid that needs everything spelled out for you, the themes can be darker etc.

In my opinion, the biggest problems Digimon games have is the Translations usually, second is that many times a large part of the difficulty is made of grinding and back tracking.

But honestly that's also how I tend to play Pokémon games too? I fill my Pokédex as I go through the game, I don't move on until I caught most if not all Pokémon on a route. Most games I collect a "living dex". I also tend to have teams of up to 20 Pokémon in rotation cause I just love them all.

More than half digimon games I've played, I played in japanese, so not even first or second language, and although sometimes the mechanics seem convoluted on paper, I don't remember many, if any, instances of the game not telling me or giving me the pieces to figure out what to do.

I feel like many people just aren't used to games not coddling them and interpret it as the games being ridiculous and "how was I supposed to know that"

I'm not above blaming myself being stupid before I blame the game.

Obligatory I AM a Pokémon fan note, I play all the games, multiple times usually, I spend months of my own time on the team translating fan mod Pokémon Luminescent Platinum into my first language, german, i throw no hate at Pokémon

[everliving-everblaze]

As someone who has lived with no pockets and as a many-pocketed menace, I think that more should be done with the KotLC characters having good pockets. I think that Sophie admits to having a headache, and everyone immediately delves into their pockets and thrusts something at her. Some of is more helpful (Fitz's bottle of youth, Dex's three gadgets and five elixirs) and some of it is less helpful (Keefe's notebooks and sketchbooks, Biana's beauty elixirs, Linh's three different fully living creatures), but all present their finds to Sophie as if it'll solve the problem immediately

[lastofthewardens]

SPOILERS i'll probably be talking about mostly foggy but also some other things so read at your own risk

alright. i said i'd wait until the end of the season to be mean, but now the season is over, and i have no reason to care or be cautious anymore.

i'm the most livid about the foggy stuff so i'm going to start there.

last week, when they revealed vanessa ordered the hit, i was pretty hopeful. but i thought about what this episode could look like over the past week, and i decided my worst case scenario was if it was confirmed that vanessa specifically wanted foggy dead. if that happened, it was over, and i wasn't going to let them fuck with my emotions anymore. that was my line in the sand.

and so here we are. because vanessa ordered dex SPECIFICALLY to kill him.

i really don't think, after seeing that finale, that foggy is coming back. i already didn't after watching the way they chose to film his death scene, but against my better judgment, i let myself believe as the season went on, especially this past week, and i wish i had just kept the same energy the whole time now because this hurts way more.

but i'm also kind of glad i didn't because it makes me more angry too.

i've said it before, but they've been outright cruel in the way they've handled things with foggy. they've laughed about wrecking everything, they've done really weird interviews saying frankly really weird things, they've directly teased brubaker on social media..

the most cruel part though, to me at least, is adapting foggy's fake "death" from the brubaker comics without it being fake. filming the scene with similar or at least comparable shots, the matt hearing his heartbeat stuff, having it be an ordered hit, having matt think fisk was behind it only to reveal it was vanessa, having all the necessary characters and puzzle pieces around, using so much of that plot.. and then stopping short of having foggy be alive. THAT'S fucked up.

they have, i believe intentionally if i'm being honest, strung foggy fans along for most of this season. they had to know they were inviting brubaker theories, they had to know people would hope, speculate, wish for an adaptation of the secret life of foggy nelson. there's no way they didn't know exactly what they were doing when they chose these plot points.

i complained about the "maybe i didn't want to give you an excuse" line back when it happened because it doesn't make sense for foggy to be complaining about daredevil anymore given where the original show left off. and even after how stupid it already was, they somehow managed to make this line even worse too?

because karen told matt that foggy saw the true matt, light and dark, matt/daredevil/etc, and believed in him anyway. so what the fuck was that line of dialogue from episode 1 then? lmao. WHY did they have him say THAT, especially as his last words to matt EVER? i allowed myself to hope that if foggy was alive, that line would be out of context, that maybe he knew the red hook stuff was connected to fisk, and he was hiding it because of the deal matt made with fisk/not wanting matt to potentially accidentally break their truce. in that case, the dialogue could be referring to not wanting to give matt an excuse (to break the truce). but no, he had no idea about any of that, he thought it was a random truck robbery apparently and had no clue what he stumbled into lmao. great.

the only explanation i can think of is that they had foggy say that because it assisted the plot. they wanted matt to feel bad and just did it, and then by episode 9, they probably forgot because it made no sense to begin with. that's part of the problem this show has btw. so many lines of dialogue and other stuff is entirely dictated by the plot or wanting to sound cool or be quotable rather than anything that makes sense for the characters. i'm still not fucking over "my mistake was believing i was immune to the darkness". what a wildly bad misread of the character, just a horrible line of dialogue. i don't know if there's any basis for that in other materials that i haven't seen, but in the netflix show iteration of this character, matt knowing he's got darkness inside is half the plot, dude.

speaking of character assassination though. cole n*rth is probably going to go through some weird redemption plot next season i'm sure, but uh. wow. the things they've done with him have certainly been a choice.

and kirst*n mcd*ffie.. hoo boy. she's one of my top 5 favorite characters in the comics. i see the potential in her scenes, but they wasted her the whole time and barely gave her anything, and i'm annoyed as fuck about that too. i would've loved to see this actress play her alongside matt and foggy like in the comics (and being able to include karen could've been fun).

i also just want to say.. i'm a mattfoggy first and foremost, i'm sure anyone reading my posts can guess that, it's very obvious lol. but i'm also a fan of matt x karen, it's my second favorite ship after mattfoggy. and in a world where foggy wasn't dead and i didn't hate this show, i'd be glad to see matt x karen get back together. i want that, especially since my main ship can't/won't be canon, but watching them use foggy's death as a prop to make that happen makes me mad as fuck. foggy deserves better, i think foggy fans probably feel that way, but i think matt x karen also deserves better than that. and while i understand people do bond over these things, the way they did it here just felt weird to me, it was a weird scene and didn't feel very genuine in content and was entirely carried by the actors being great at what they do. i've felt this way since "i refuse to believe a tragedy had to destroy everything", which is something the real matt would NEVER say about foggy nelson being dead. comics matt and even netflix matt would NEVER. and the scenes about it tonight only made me feel that more.

some of those scenes also gave me the impression they think they can just replace foggy with karen, which will never be okay. karen is her own person with her own personality and her own function in the narrative. neither of them can replace the other, that's not how it works.

like the scene where karen tells matt how foggy felt about him.. why her telling him that? it literally makes sense, i guess, but why? why not have a foggy hallucination at some point express those things? or even when he's 'dying' after taking the shot for fisk, he could've talked to foggy if he's really dead? or even a foggy who came back from being dead! because those words would've meant a lot more after a foggy is alive reveal! karen telling him that stuff couldn't possibly have the same impact as foggy saying it after "maybe i didn't want to give you an excuse". (a stupid line of dialogue, yes, but if they chose to roll with it anyway and try to explain it away). can you imagine after matt thinks foggy hated daredevil, he reluctantly picks up the mask against "foggy's wishes", only for foggy to eventually come back and tell him he knows him and believes in him?

i've said it before and i'll say it again, this show, EVEN THE NEW EPISODES BY THE NEW TEAM, is mostly just missed opportunities: the show.

also i clocked the clumsy attempt to explain how fisk got out of prison and it just made me laugh. 'oh there was fbi corruption so that's why my husband got acquitted' LMAO. what a weak explanation for a plot point that should've been adequately handled but whatever.

extra side note just for a bonus.. the slowmo in the fight with matt, frank, and the police in matt's apartment was horrible. no idea why they did that. it actively made the fight seem worse than it was lol.

and i'll say one more thing. there's a world in which foggy is like.. in actual witpro or something. like for example if there's a case being built against fisk that we don't know about yet, and he's stuck in real witpro until fisk and vanessa are dealt with. i hesitate to say that because i honestly do not think that's happening at all, but i have to acknowledge that it's at least a small chance. resuscitated in the ambulance unbeknownst to everyone, hidden away by actual law enforcement who aren't corrupt... idk, i guess it's possible, right?

but i seriously don't think you guys should get your hopes up at all. i don't want anyone to be sad or hopeless or anything like that. it's just that i think the only real possibility of foggy coming back now in the capacity he deserves is if people are angry.

because i don't think these showrunners (or half the people involved tbh, despite 'we care a lot' lmao) give a fuck about foggy at all. it's transparently clear they bring him up to inject easy emotion into scenes and that's it. i mean, come on, the avocados at law thing? don't get me wrong, in a world where foggy's not dead i'd eat that fanservice up, but they're purposely invoking these things for a reason. which doesn't have to be bad but reads as pretty shitty in the context of everything else they've done. they're doing it because it's easy to make you emotional that way. they don't have to write better dialogue that way. nostalgia bait indeed.

so i think if you're mad, you should use that, you should be open about this foggy stuff on social media and wherever else (don't be aggressive or hateful though; if you are, you'll just get blocked or ignored, and it's better if they hear you out). because if everyone sings their praises for these last two episodes, they'll think no one cares, and they need to know people are unhappy or they'll just carry on.

i don't know why they have elden in season 2, or what foggy's role will be, but let them hear you. even if they've started to backtrack on their own (press x to doubt), speaking up would only be good for foggy either way. they need to know fans do care and aren't happy with this.

[foggyinphx]

"Sometimes, peace needs to be broken, and chaos must reign, just for a moment to build a stronger order." -Wilson Fisk

After rewatching DDBA season 1 again I'm back in the Fisk has Foggy camp.

Vanessa and Foggy were caught up in their own little Red Hook world, each keeping their partner uninvolved, aware of the season 3 truce. Each justifying it to themselves as what their partners don't know can't hurt them.

In good mafioso fashion, Vanessa doesn't do or say outloud the dirty work. Notice she never said the word "kill", Dex did. So Vanessa asked Buck to arrange everything Dex needed. But Buck, playing good soldier to both sides of the Fisk marriage, gave Wilson the heads up about the "kill Foggy Nelson" plan.

Wilson made a pact with Matt that he isn't going to break, because he would never break his word that way. He has some honor and pride after all. He also wants to save his estranged wife from herself. This is the second disloyal thing she has done in his absence. He's just recently returned home after his injury/recovery and he wants to be with her again. He can't just call off the hit though. His plans for his future mayorship have everything to do with Red Hook. Foggy is still a problem. So he has Buck give a different plan to Dex: Injure/incapacitate Foggy in a way that's recoverable, make sure there's a witness, Dex will be protected from the consequences. With his lawyer gone Dumb Benny will go to jail, illustrating to the public that crime in Red Hook punishable by law, nothing fishy going on here!

So a critically injured Foggy is whisked away by Fisk's people and Matt Murdock thinks Foggy is dead. Wilson is anticipating Matt's freak out. He wants the freakout, to turn Matt's world to chaos if even for a moment. He wants Matt to mourn the lost time like Wilson had to suffer every time Vanessa was ripped away from him. See how painful this is Murdock? How empty life can be? Well good news, Wilson Fisk didn't break the truce and will give you back your Foggy for the low low price of letting Fisk rule the city unimpeded.

But Matt throws a curveball. He gives up Daredevil and goes straight. Unexpected, but it makes Wilson's bid for mayorship easier! And should Daredevil ever come knocking, Fisk has the ultimate leverage: a living Foggy Nelson.

Wilson Fisk is the master of longterm planning, anticipating problems, and acting without anyone realizing. Before DD season 1 he amassed his power completely under the radar. In season 2 he took over an entire prison by networking with the right people and knowing where to move money. And in season 3 he manipulated an entire government agency to do exactly what he wanted by killing family members, canceling health insurance, and getting a waitress a new job. In DDBA season 1 he already had Adam. He already knew about Vanessa and her plan against Foggy.

"He's always a part of this." -Benjamin Poindexter

[giveamadeuschohisownmovie]

Regarding the possibility that Foggy Nelson isn’t dead, the reason why I can’t really wrap my head around it is that there would have to be some sort of complicated conspiracy to justify why Foggy survived. I know that people referenced the comic where Foggy got shanked and turned out to be alive, but consider where we’re at with the show.

If Foggy somehow survived, then that means Bullseye had to have been told by someone to make Daredevil think that his best friend is dead. Bullseye’s massacre at the bar would then be his way of covering up his actions. There’s no other way Foggy could’ve survived, Bullseye had to have done that intentionally since this is someone whose aim is around Hawkeye’s level. Foggy was literally standing still when he got hit, there’s no way Bullseye wouldn’t have been able to miss a killshot.

The question then is if Bullseye did intentionally “miss” to let Foggy live, who would order this, why would they order this, and how did they convince Dex to go through with it. Whoever this person is, they’re someone who is fine with letting several innocent people die as long as Foggy survived. That’s why I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around this possibility, it just seems far-fetched, even for this show.

The one thing I can think of is that Wilson or Vanessa Fisk hired Bullseye to do it. They wanted to destroy Matt Murdock, but in a way that their actions can’t be traced back to them. So, Bullseye “kills” Foggy, but in reality, Foggy survived somehow. That’s why when Wilson Fisk says he honored his deal with Matt, he’s technically telling the truth, which is enough to fool Matt. The problem with that possibility is that it doesn’t explain where Foggy went. Like, are the Fisks just keeping the man in some dungeon somewhere? At that point, they might as well just actually kill him.

I don’t see the police being behind this since the police would be authorizing a massacre. Say what you will about corrupt cops, but even that’s a touch too far. Also, even if the cops were behind this, why specifically keep Foggy alive? In fact, why hire Bullseye to do this? The other remote possibility is that Foggy hired Bullseye to fake his death. But that also seems too much of a stretch, plus I’m sure there’s an easier way to fake your death that doesn’t involve killing innocent people.

Anyways, we’ll see what happens in the rest of the show. I know that Elden Henson is coming back for season 2, but at this point, I’m sure it’ll just be for flashback sequences. If he’s alive, there has to be a solid mystery behind it.

[urween]

Idiosyncratic Fellows | Poindexter x ftm!reader | english version

summary : Dex needs a new North Star, and it just so happens that a young person crosses his path. But a major problem stands between the two: he's a transgender man, and Poindexter has never had to deal with this feeling.

notes : (A quick reminder to help with understanding) Eileen Mercer was Dex's psychologist when he was a child/teenager. I also want to clarify that I wrote all this based on my interpretation of the little information we have about Dex's issues. I can understand that some people might disagree with this analysis.

⚠︎ warnings : Mental health issues, stalker, description of Benjamin's mental state, discovery of transgender identity without transphobia, mention of deadnames, mention of books with homophobic ideas.

English isn't my first language, sorry for the mistakes <3

- 2nd person description

- 4 251 words

french version here

It all started with an ordinary day, fueled by fleeting adrenaline rushes. A compliment from a colleague on a well-written report, a boosting sip of caffeine. Then, later, as the winter sun began to sink behind the New York skyscrapers, Benjamin Poindexter had to head to the grocery store down the street to restock his supplies.

He didn't appreciate having to do this kind of thing, the kind of activity that required a higher level of maintenance than his usual. By this, he implied that even though his life as a model citizen working for the FBI seemed to contain him, he still needed to control his true self, or at least that voice inside that was just waiting to come out. A stable job, a healthy environment. In other words: a framework, a lifeline. The only thorn in this flower was the North Star.

Not now, Dex interrupted himself.

He needed eggs, milk, tomatoes...oh, and a new mug; the old one had slipped out of his hands last night.

The plastic basket provided by the store was making his palms sweat terribly. Perhaps it was also the way the white fluorescent lights on the ceiling flashed in his eyes, or the repetitive beeping of the checkout a few shelves away.

He'd had a long day. A trying day, Eileen would have corrected him, one that required a lot of restraint. First, there had been an administrative meeting, full of diplomatic blather that required close attention and impeccable posture. Speaking of posture, he'd spent most of the day standing, stiff as a rod, his back tense – ready to follow orders – and now the pain was catching up with him like electric shocks up his spine. During his lunch break, an argument had broken out in the monitoring office located right next to the break room. It had twisted his stomach, and he'd ended up simply drinking another coffee. Then came "trivial" internal tensions, like a remark that hadn't made him laugh today, or some idiot who took advantage of his rank to give him pointless orders. It was a chain reaction, an accumulation, that made this thing boil in his gut. The urge to shoot Greg between the eyes, to throw those beautiful pencils one by one into the rib cages of his superiors. But he knew how to manage it and, above all, contain it.

"Please," came a voice from behind the cereal aisle, "I know my application isn't eligible, but... no, of course not, I'm just asking you to think about it more."

Dex couldn't help but glance quickly through two multicolored packages. He only saw a silhouette from behind, barely visible due to its proximity to the shelf. He wanted to withdraw, to return to the milk, but the sudden scent that wafted from the fabric on the other side held him back a little longer. A tender, light note, perhaps a perfume that had faded over the course of the day.

"Alright," the same person continued in a lower tone, "thank you for taking the time to call me back, have a good evening."

It was dangerous to linger so long over someone; it wasn't normal social behavior; he had to stop that right away. And at this time of day, the grocery store was rarely visited; he had only encountered four strangers.

The figure shifted slightly, turning toward Dex. They didn't see him; being shorter than him, they might have been able to make out his white shirt between two boxes of candy. He took one last look at the shapes he could see, telling himself that after that, he would force himself to leave. A hand crossed his field of vision; he guessed it was probably resting on a face as a sign of fatigue. He thought he heard a shaky sigh. Then the person moved away abruptly, almost making him jump.

Enough, Ben murmured quietly.

He stepped back in turn, tightening his grip on his almost full basket, and finally his legs guided him to the cartons of milk a little further away. That was all he had left on his shopping list, then he could go home and breathe.

To help his mind focus again, Dex imagined as best he could what awaited him in his apartment. A tidy kitchen, a clean floor, changed sheets. He would be able to fill the uncomfortable emptiness in his fridge, but also, and above all, erase the mistake of that broken mug. The shards of porcelain scattered at his feet with a deafening crash, and immediately an abstract break took place within him to let this thing out. It had only lasted two seconds, three at most, before he regained control. But two seconds had been enough for him to scream and cut his hand. After that, he had done the exercises required of him at such times: deep breathing, listening to a recording, cleaning, verbal affirmations, and then, in addition, explanations and apologies to his neighbors. But now the problem could be completely solved and erased, since a new mug, as white as the old one, sat proudly in his basket – supported by the well-desired milk bottles –.

Dex arrived at the store's checkout, manned by a woman in her forties who reminded him of a victim in a case he had dealt with earlier that day. He didn't dwell on her facial features any longer, preferring to concentrate on his task of placing the items on the rotating roller. The eggs, the milk, the tomatoes, the mug, the dish soap... Everything was going well, as it should for everyone. But suddenly, a noise awakened Poindexter's heightened senses: a box of cereal falling from the hands of the next customer. A young man, about his age, with a sorry and exhausted expression on his face.

"Excuse me," he stammered, picking up the slightly damaged box lying on the floor.

The cashier, startled by the loud noise, smiled falsely at the person in question, holding back a nasty remark when she saw the dried tears on his face. It's already a bad day for him, she told herself, don't make it worse. And she went back to work, scanning the other man's – Dex's – last item with a limp, end-of-day hand.

You left the grocery store with a knot in your stomach, perhaps milder than when you arrived. You needed that receptionist job; the last of your savings was being spent on groceries or electricity. New York was a big city, yet finding a position in a stable company was not easy at all. Most of the offers didn't pay enough for your financial needs. This job in the three-star hotel, a twenty-minute bus ride from your home, paid very well, and it was the most affordable you'd managed to find in such a short time. Unfortunately, your CV didn't include any hospitality experience, and even though you insisted that you'd already worked in a top restaurant, the manager didn't want you on his team. You'd even tried calling him back earlier, but it was no use; you weren't going to be able to go to bed peacefully tonight.

However, several positive aspects have been sent to you, as if by the Universe, to comfort you and tell you to "keep fighting." First, you'd found your favorite cereal at half price, just as Mr. Hugh – the hotel manager – had called you. Then, sure, you had a little crying fit between two aisles of the store, and you had almost cried again when the box of cornflakes had slipped from your hands at the checkout, but something had almost managed to make up for it all. A man, who at the time had seemed blond, had given you an insistent look. You could have been offended, taken this glance for something perverse and disturbing, but that hadn't been the case. The blue eyes of this stranger had vaguely looked you up and down before stopping – fixed – on your face. At the time you hadn't really reacted, in other circumstances you would surely have had an embarrassed smile and blushed, but your mind was still too focused on the job rejection you had just suffered. But after reflection, now that you were settled at home, you thought back to his look and you couldn't help but think that it was as if he had recognized you. Yet you had never seen him, you would have remembered a face as well-drawn as his. Perhaps he had mistaken you for someone else? That you reminded him of a loved one? But whatever the reasons for that look, it had touched you, and had helped soothe the end of your day.

Dex had a problem he didn't know how to solve.

He'd seen you at the checkout, recognized the distinctive texture of your sweater and the scent of your perfume. He'd seen your silhouette, clear this time, the shape of your face and the color of your eyes. He'd also seen the moisture in your eyelashes, the irritation on your cheeks. He'd seen all of that, and felt his heart beating.

There were no other words to describe this sensation: he'd felt his heart beating. Not that it usually didn't beat, but it wasn't the same; he didn't feel it tapping against his ribs like it did now. Eileen had given him the image of a mechanism restarting to help him illustrate and understand this phenomenon. His vital organ was still active, but something inside wasn't functioning on a daily basis. As good as that feeling may seem, Mercer had told him, you have to realize that it's there as a consequence of your mental state. He often listened to that recording, number 21, in which his therapist explained in more detail what would later be called "the North Star." To summarize, the mental disorders he managed to contain always manifested themselves in his life, in other ways. For example, through his rigor, his euphoria, or his anger. Whereas for the other 95% of the world's population, anger was simply a natural and legitimate emotion, his was almost artificial – a sort of excuse used by his subconscious to bring out troubles – . As a result, his brain had found a fairly stable solution to keep him in society for a long time: the North Star. However, this miracle cure wasn't natural either, which meant that the symptoms or reactions weren't either. Concretely, he had fallen in love with someone, but to such an extreme that it became obsessive and compulsive.

So far, nothing was truly unknown to him. The problem lay more on your side: you were a man. Of course, it wasn't your fault, he was aware of that, nor was it his. He couldn't control this thing, this attraction. But he had always considered himself heterosexual, had never even really imagined being attracted to men. And yet you were there, in his head, after having activated a mechanism in his heart.

He had never discussed this subject with Eileen; he had no solution. But you were there, and he could already feel the euphoria slowly gnawing at his neurons, which meant he had to find a solution, and quickly, before it got out of control.

As expected, he hadn't slept all night. As if fate itself wanted him to fall into this obsession, when you went after Dex at the checkout, you gave your last name so the cashier could find your loyalty card. Ben could have easily found what he needed without that information, but it had to be said that having it was more useful. Especially since, given the situation he was in, he needed to know everything about you quickly.

In short, he had everything on you. Starting with your public information like your birthday or your first name, to delve deeper into what you were passionate about and what you liked, then your social situation with your friends or family, and finally a minimum of information on the places you frequented. All this without going into work, Dex thought with bitter pride.

With his first North Stars, he quickly understood that rules were needed to regulate and, above all, control his impulses. He valued the stability he'd managed to achieve in his life far too much to ruin it all with compulsive stupidity. The most important thing was his work. It was his guiding principle, which allowed him to hold on even without a star or in moments of crisis. As he'd heard a colleague say once: "We separate the personal from the work, it's the key to a relatively healthy life." Certainly, their "personal" wasn't like his, but the principle remained the same. Clearly, he shouldn't link the star to work, and that started by not researching you using the FBI's numerous tools. How many times had he wanted to look up your name in the super-powerful organization on his computer at work; he could be sure of having absolutely your entire life at his fingertips that way. But he forbade himself, and capturing information little by little was also part of the enjoyment of it all.

Meanwhile, he had the main thing, and in this brief summary of your life, he had found something crucial. Hidden between two publicly available school certificates, he had discovered a very old photo of you – you must have been in kindergarten – with a first name written underneath that didn't match the one he had linked to you today. From there, he had searched several pages vaguely mentioning you – mostly from school or business forums – and finally unearthed a clue: a thank-you announcement for donors to a queer organization. Your first and last name appeared there, among about ten other useless ones. A simple internet search was all he needed to obtain all the necessary information on the subject.

So you were transgender, which by definition meant "a person whose gender identity does not match the sex assigned at birth." Dex hadn't really known what to do with this information at the time. He then thought back to a piece of advice Dr. Mercer had given him: "If you ever feel lost on a social issue, whether behavioral or not, do some research. Libraries are for that, or use your cell phone if it's an emergency." So he followed that advice, and there he was in the bookstore across the street from the building with the imposing "FBI" sign. His appetite not fully developed – he wasn't even feeling hungry at the moment – he preferred to use his lunch break to educate himself.

"Can I help you?" the bookseller interrupted.

Dex took a deep breath before turning to the graying man. He hesitated for a moment before accepting the specialist's help.

"Actually, I'm looking for something about transition," he finally admitted, hoping he wouldn't have to say more.

The fifty-year-old man across the street smiled at him, skirting a pile of boxes to access a well-stocked shelf.

"Here you'll find everything related to ecological, political, and even economic transitions-"

"Ah, uh... no, I was talking—," Dex interrupted. "Well, I was more interested in books about gender transitions."

The storekeeper seemed a little taken aback, but nevertheless flashed another smile. He pointed with a slightly wrinkled finger to a much smaller section at the back of the store. Poindexter thanked him with a quick nod before wordlessly slipping over to those shelves.

From the large meeting room on the eighth floor of FBI HQ, Dex had gotten into the habit of glancing briefly at the street across the street from time to time. His gaze was always drawn to the recently opened Starbucks – imagining the money they'd be able to make from FBI orders – but also to the neon red bookstore. Several times he'd seen his colleagues go there, buying a book for their children or a gift for a neighbor. He had come to imagine a fairly large, tidy, and bright interior, given the number of customers who visited the store each day. But now that he was there, he was almost disappointed to see dust on the books at the back.

His hand, covered in tiny scars, lingered over several books. He often saw people do this, this movement. They ran their hands over the books, as if it could describe the story to them. He had gotten into the habit of copying the repetitive behaviors he observed in his daily life, and this was one of them, even if he had never really imagined going into a bookstore and doing it. It just goes to show that life was full of surprises.

“Beyond Magenta, Social Studies in a New World, Homegrown Magic”: full of books, novels, collections, each one as colorful as the last. Dex pulled one off the shelf, thinking its small size meant it would be easy to read, but once he read the summary he quickly put it back down. “Dealing with homosexuality,” the phrase replayed in his head, what bullshit. He wasn’t the most knowledgeable on the subject – he never really was on many others, in fact – but he at least knew what that sort of thing meant, and now that you were in his life he felt a different kind of rage towards people who thought they were superior to others.

As his eyes read another summary, his mind lingered on you, and on him. When he thought about it, you were alike. Both in a category, counted as a percentage that changed from year to year. Yours was certainly higher than his, 17% – he had checked – compared to 5%. However, he would have imagined a higher figure for you; 17% of queer people – he had memorized the term – seemed low to him. In the office alone, he knew six homosexual people, two men and four women. Eileen had told him that these studies weren't reliable, that most of those affected didn't dare declare their uniqueness. People are afraid of mental illness, she had explained, referring to Dex's case, and those who suffer from it don't want to be out in the open. Of course, for you it was different, he understood that, but in the end, the result was the same: fear.

Anyway, he had found several interesting books on the subject. He went to the checkout, and the bookseller quickly arrived, his smile still as annoying as ever. Dex thought back to the summary he had read, and felt a surge of anger rise within him before he checked it. This guy sells these kinds of books like it's nothing, he thought as he paid. I could have him arrested for selling illegal content.

"Thanks and have a nice day!" the bookseller's voice crooned.

A week later, on one of the upper floors of the FBI office, two colleagues were discussing this bookstore.

"Did you hear about this? The bookstore across the street is closing," Sarah declared, staring at Greg with her big green eyes. "I read that an anonymous letter was forwarded to the municipal colleagues."

His interlocutor sipped his freshly paid coffee, shrugging.

"I heard about it, yeah," he replied. "It's a shame, I had to go for the kids' birthday."

Sarah continued to recount the details, like the gossip she was. She recounted how the famous unsigned document cited a complete list of all the propaganda books and articles the bookseller displayed in his shop. Racism, homophobia, xenophobia, and conspiracy theories. All of it was barely camouflaged between two fantasy novels.

"And to think he was doing that in front of us," Greg snorted dryly before cutting the conversation short to call out to a colleague passing in the hallway, "Hey, you’re leaving already?"

Dex looked up at the slim figure crossing his path. He finished putting his personal belongings in his pockets, having just gone to get them from the locker room

 "Yeah," he stated simply, "I have something planned."

Officer Greg Thil didn't hold him back any longer, sensing that this wasn't the time to tease good old Poindexter.

He's already waiting for me, Benjamin mentally repeated to himself, picking up his pace.

Your day had gone pretty smoothly so far. You'd come across a job posting for a barista position at the coffee shop you went to once a week. This unexpected miracle had put a smile back on your face and made you want to get out and enjoy the fresh air that winter was gradually setting in. You hadn't planned anything big, or anything very structured. I need to let go, you told yourself as you took your shower this morning.

For this reason, and others, you'd gone to the small exhibition that had opened three days ago. While taking out the trash last week, you saw the poster; at first, you hadn't even considered going, being too preoccupied with your unemployment. But now you had plenty of time to enjoy it, with peace of mind.

A young teenager taking the money at the entrance to the exhibition smiled at you when you thanked him for the change. He was probably doing an internship, or helping a relative while earning some pocket money. This simple reflection slightly dimmed your smile, which had been intact until then. You would have liked to be like him at his age, to enjoy your adolescence like everyone else. Stop thinking about it, you reprimanded yourself.

The art gallery simply consisted of a single large room, divided in two by a half-wall large enough to accommodate an imposing canvas. You had read that these works were created by an old man, enjoying his retirement to paint. And now that you were standing in front of one of his creations, you didn't regret coming. It was sumptuous and expressive, everything you needed to while away an hour letting your mind wander.

A few meters away from you, sheltered by a black cap, Dex wandered through the small crowd that had gathered here. He was spending the afternoon with you today; he needed to. From his vantage point, a little distant but not far enough away to not admire you, his eyes examined your posture with unselfconscious depth. Your head was tilted to the left, your back supple, your hands relaxed. You were beautiful; he couldn't ignore it.

In that precise moment, euphoria, exhilaration, and obsession controlled him as they always did with his North Star. He wasn't really there; his body was, but it was too complicated to understand or put into words. However, if he had been able, if he had been in control of himself enough to push aside your name as it played over and over in his mind, he would have discovered why he felt different around you.

It wasn't the same euphoria that disrupted his neurons; it wasn't just the admiration he felt upon seeing you that made his heart beat so fast. There was something changing, a newness in his functioning, yet it had never changed. The North Star was supposed to guide him, show him the right path, the right way to act. For that, he often found a young woman who was gentle, empathetic, and attentive to the world. He lived like her, following her habits. But he did all this without love; he just wanted to become like her. Except it was different with you. To begin with, he hadn't met you in a positive context; you were crying, vulnerable and sensitive, things he wasn't trying to be. And yet his brain had latched onto you, to that first image you had given him of yourself.

You lightly brushed your hand against the frame of the red painting in front of you. This work felt good, for no apparent reason. It blush was aggressive and bloody, but an instinct deep in your ribcage crooned to you that you had to see it today, now, in the company of all these strangers.

Dex followed the shadow of a couple, his eyes fixed on you so much that even in his state, he was afraid you'd notice. He wanted so badly to talk to you, to know you. But how could he describe what was going on in his head? The screams and flashes that tore through his mind, then the obsession – for he had no stronger word – that dictated his every move. How could he tell you what was happening behind his eyeballs when he saw you? It was almost unbearable, this longing and desire. He was afraid that if he ever got his hands on you, his skull would explode and lead to his death. But he was convinced of one thing, his heart even lying lonely on the ground would continue to beat as strongly as it does now for you.

images : Pinterest

dividers : @uzmacchiato , @diviniyae and @strangergraphics