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angellicxx · 2 months ago

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Ricochet- Chapter 1: The Beginning

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter x Vigilante Reader

Summary: In the streets of New York, injustice thrives in the dark. Despite your work alongside Daredevil, you have to dig deeper into the criminal underground of NYC to discover the roots of corruption. Your vigilante life becomes entangled with your past as you work to infiltrate the underground mob run by the infamous Kingpin, freshly released on parole. Loyal federal agent Benjamin Poindexter is tasked with overseeing Fisk’s house arrest– and aiding in his empire under the alias of Bullseye. The both of you become interlaced within the Volchiy, a Russian gang led by your childhood friend; you moonlight as a vigilante, trying to take down the mob from within, while Dex is unaware the new girl he can't get his mind off of is the same one in a mask he fights in the streets. Torn between secret identities, lies, and threat of betrayal, you and Dex navigate a tension filled clash between loyalty and justice.

warnings: drug dealing implication, fight scene, blood, mention of h@nging

slowburn, enemies to lovers, secret identities, bullseye x vigilante reader, use of (y/n), reader is an orphan

an: Chapter 1 of my first full length fic. Hopefully you like it and I actually finish.

disclaimer: ivan volkov is an oc and the volchiy gang is a fictional mcu gang i made up. i dont speak russian so sorry if any of the langauge is wrong or stupid.

wc: 3,500

YOU

New York City was different at night.

A different city during the day, and different from anywhere else in the world.

But to the fortunate millions who are unlucky enough to burrow within the labyrinth of streets nestled between skyscrapers and offices, twinkling streetlights and billboards that replaced the stars, living in rows of century old bricked townhomes and eating at their corner store bodegas– it was home.

With its dreams and flaws and all, it was the one place where in a crowd of millions you could feel so close– yet so alone.

You weren’t a stranger to the deep poison that drained into the ground of the city. Bloody– like black bile– the cruelty of crime and lies that had been ever present as a New York native.

Justice had to be paid with a high price, but only by those willing to sell. Even with the haunt of knowing there was at least one person out in the streets below you who needed help, just someone to be noticed and saved by a dashing hero in the night, was enough to send you on the streets every evening in a skin tight costume, face guarded in a mask.

Every night was different.

Tonight could change.

“(Y/N).” A voice called from the other side of the roof as the access door’s hinges squeaked in the wind.

Devil horns pointed to the heavens as the fellow masked hero walked across the roof, where soot and dirt had caked into layers from decades of the building's abandonment.

“You’re late, Matt.” You with a tinge of annoyance through a cracking smile. This wasn’t an uncommon late appearance, but you didn’t mind; it gave you more time alone to breathe.

This has been your routine for the past year.

Late nights alongside Matt.

You couldn’t picture what your life would be like if you hadn't crossed paths. There were few heroes in New York, some that were unknown to anyone but thugs in the shadows. But meeting Matt put you on a clear path. It was refreshing to come across a normal person who understood you, even if you met that someone by nearly bashing each other's ribs in.

Your tired arms pushed your body up from its spot of legs dangling over the ledge, tingling as they gained feeling to stand up.

“Apologies. Got held up in the office.” He flashed a charismatic smile from beneath his half exposed cowl, stepping onto the ledge next to you.

You rolled your head over your shoulders, stretching your back with a scoff. “Don’t let your job get in the way of your hobby.”

“Ouch.” Matt said.

“And to think you actually enjoyed working with me.”

“No, no, I’m strictly here for business.” You patted a gloved hand over his padded shoulder and sighed. “Where are we going tonight?”

“Yesterday, there was a robbery on 56th. Three men from the Italians, all armed with guns and high out of their minds. Through their drugged rambling they managed to tell me about a warehouse at the piers; they said it was a hideout for some operation, only ever occupied for drops and pickups. Figured we would check it out tonight and see where it leads.”

You nodded, eyes wandering to the river distant in the horizon, the black waters gleaming with reflections of moonlight. “Sounds fun.” You said, pulling on your mask.

The warehouse was near the docks– an old canning factory in the early industry days turned moonshine distributor in the twenties. Abandoned for decades the red brick had faded and been engulfed in tangles of long ivy that covered the frosted pane windows.

Semi-trucks were parked for the night on the surrounding lot, stacks of shipping containers and a chain link fence keeping it guarded from a pedestrian road and isolated to the water. There was a small dock of rotting wood with a single boat bobbing in the black water.

You jumped the fence after Matt, the impact absorbing into the heel of your boot as you scanned the area. “It looks like a drop point.”

Matt rolled his shoulders as he crept around a shipping container. “Does it?”

You ignored him, piecing together as many clues as possible. “Shipments must be coming down from the Hudson, either local or overseas. Did the Italians say who owned it?”

“No, he passed out before he could even say what it was. It's empty, smells like gunpowder.”

“Weapons?”

He nodded. “Or there was trouble here recently.”

You managed to find an unlocked side door, making your way inside to the spacious warehouse. There was a layer of stagnant dust covering pillars of stacked crates and workbenches, the faint glow of a lantern as you peered from behind a wall.

Before you could advance further inside, a glove layered hand clutched onto your shoulder, pulling you back behind the corner.

“Stop.” Matt whispered.

You quickly scanned the area and tried to listen for what Matt was sensing. “What’s wrong?”

His head tilted. “Five men, armed. Coming from the dock.”

Through a shattered window you could see it, a second boat tethered at the water and the muffled sound of speech.

“Shit .” You muttered. “Great timing.”

There was a rumbling of an iron door and footsteps as the men entered– foreign speech echoed across the walls. A loud crash sent them into disarray. You peered over to see a crate had been knocked over, black guns scattered over the floor as they began to yell at eachother, fingers pointed at a retreating peer.

Matt took this opportunity to creep from the shadows, throwing a punch into the back of a straggler at the edge of the argument. You quickly followed suit, throwing your momentum into a kick that sent another on the ground as the other three were too busy engulfed in their bickering to notice they had visitors.

You were quick in the dark, it was where you worked best. Maybe that was why you and Matt worked so well together– you both had an advantage of being invisible.

You propelled yourself with your legs, wrapping them around the smaller of the accusing pair as you wrapped his neck and slammed him into the ground.

Despite your stealth, it came at the cost of your strength, especially against guys twice your bodyweight. You groan as you hit the pavement, thankful his head collided and knocked him out on the first try.

The other men finally caught on to the ambush. They snapped from the dispute, reaching for their holsters only to be hit away with a baton. One of the guys was on the ground before you even managed to stand back up. The last one standing, the guy who had dropped the crate, stood frozen– scrambling to unlock his safety as he walked backwards into a pile of boxes that clattered over him.

Your smirk dropped when an arm wrapped from behind you. Before you could dodge the impending blow to your face, Matt had pulled him off of you and pummeled his face.

Halfway between consciousness and falling to the floor from his knees, Matt held him up by his collar, fist raised. “Who do you work for?”

His head rattled frantically, pleading to the dark eyes of Daredevil’s mask. “N-n--nobody. N-o work-” Matt hit him again, grasping a tighter hold and looming over him.

“Who do you work for?”

The man choked, blood spurting out of his throat and dripping to the ground, eyes near swollen shut as he managed the words.

“Ivan Volkov.”

The name echoed in your mind as Matt struck a blow to his bloodied face, a quick knockout as he fell limp to the floor. There was a moment of silence– only heavy breathing echoing through the large warehouse.

Matt was listening, slowly turning to look at his partner who hadn’t moved.

“You know him.”

Not a question– a confrontation. You really hated having a human lie detector to work with.

Suppressed memories of your childhood seemed to flood in with no reason. Just one name and you were suddenly seven years old again; running through the streets of Brooklyn with your friends to escape classes taught by the nuns, scavenging for change in the gutter to buy candy and spend on petty bets, breaking windows with rocks to enter the abandoned buildings just like this one.

Just parentless, uncontrolled children– dreams still far and the ever lingering hope of finding a family one day. Through those early formidable years you had countless siblings.

Ivan Volkov was one of them.

A few years older than you, Ivan was orphaned at age ten when his father was imprisoned for his position in the Russian mob, only to be found hanging in his cell two days before the case went to trial. As far as you ever knew, Ivan’s mother was a nameless woman never present in his life, most likely killed for knowing too much when he was a child.

Nonetheless, Ivan was one of the few older kids at St. Michaels Orphanage. Aggressive, erratic, and manipulative– how he was labeled in his file. But you only knew Ivan as sweet, caring and funny.

He was just troubled, like the rest of you.

He would leave some nights and return bloodied in the morning; it was only a secret from the nuns that Ivan was slipping into a life similar to his father’s. You and the other children had watched him steal and do deals in the park near the church. He would only smile at you and buy ice cream with the leftover money so you all kept your mouths shut and never questioned anything.

He was like a brother to you.

When he aged out, you and three other kids cried all night; one of you even begged him to adopt you all. Ivan never visited after he left. He moved on in life.

But everytime a group of men in dark sunglasses, trench coats, and brooding energies walked down the street near gang territory you looked extra closely to see if you could recognize his face.

Now, years later, the truth was revealed. Heavy dust in the air and echoing clatters of distant machinery confirmed you weren’t dreaming. Ivan was alive and making a name for himself.

Reminiscence broke as you furrowed your brow and blinked your dry eyes to focus, a reluctant nod and click of the tongue.

“Yeah. Yeah I know him.”

Matt was watching you closely, reading you through subtle movements. “Have you worked for him before?”

You shook your head, sweat dripping as you rubbed your mask-covered brow. “We- uh, grew up together– in the orphanage. He left as soon as he turned eighteen and I never knew what happened to him. Last I knew he had run off to join a gang his dad had been a part of.”

Matt cocked his head, pieces coming together. “Dimitry Volkov, right? Christ, I remember studying that case in law school. He had the cops running circles back then– the biggest weapons bust in city history.”

“And now I guess he’s built it back up.” You reached your hand into an opened crate, fingers brushing cold metal as you hauled a handgun from its depths. You studied it in your hands– the weight, model, balance. As you turned the hilt you could see it. Carved into the shiny black was two thin converging lines, a watermark– “ V ”.

You swallowed, holding it out for Matt.

“Volchiy .”

He sighed as he took it. “Russians.” He removed a glove and brushed his thumb over the inscription. “I felt the same thing on the guns I found on the Italians. It's new– oiled. My guess, they were manufactured abroad and altered in the city. The Volchiy are dealing them underground so the weapons can’t be traced. There's probably hundreds of them distributed in the streets right now.”

You stood silent. The warehouse was filled with boxes. “Well, what do we do now?”

“They’re going to realize their stashpoint is compromised, probably move it or reinforce security. For all we know there could be dozens of locations scattered across the city– factories, hideouts, headquarters. It runs deep. This is just the tip of the iceberg.”

“What, we just leave an anonymous tip to the NYPD? ‘Hey, here's a new crime ring, good luck.’ We have to find where this leads.”

Matt was hesitant, placing down the gun. You knew the reason he didn’t want to keep searching.

“ Fisk .” You hissed, the name a curse. “You think he’s involved?”

He lowered his head, shaking it. “I know he’s in charge.”

“He’s on house arrest. He got the justice you wanted. He can’t possibly be doing damage from a penthouse.” You protested, but it was no use. Fisk haunted Matt more than you could realize. You could tell his release from prison infuriated him, despite when he claimed the FBI had the right to keep him locked away under supervision, even if it was in the comfort of a luxury apartment.

“He’s got the whole city wired from that penthouse. He’s pulling strings with the FBI– he’s only locked in there because he wants to be. He’s brutal, (Y/N). A man like Fisk– we can’t.”

You nodded despite your disappointment. This was a serious lead Matt was willing to abandon just because of his past with Fisk.

“Fine. I guess we’ll just stick to disarming the thugs on the streets after they’ve already striked.” You took one more look around the spacious warehouse before stepping over a knocked out gang member to the open door.

You were exhausted climbing up the fire escape to the roof, gripping the rusted rails to haul yourself up the next step. You were relieved to pull off your mask and breathe uncovered air when you landed on the same decrepit rooftop overlooking Hell’s Kitchen. You and Matt had made your way back through the shadows in silence, tensions high about your splitting decisions. He finally broke it as he lingered behind you.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N). Really. If things were different, then maybe. But right now– it’s just not safe.”

You understood. You hated that he was partly right, Fisk wasn’t a figure to be messed with. Especially when every criminal organization was under his command. Just going after one would domino all the others to come to aid. But deep in your bones you knew there was more. This was the whole point– protecting the city. If just one guy got to dictate how it ran, then there was no justice at all.

You turned around, nodding with sincerity. “I get it Matt. It’s alright. I’m sure there's something else we can do.”

He read you for a moment, a twitch of a smile when he realized you were telling the truth. “Thank you.” He gave a nod of approval before turning around. “Stay safe (Y/N).”

“You too, Matt. Good night.”

“Good night,” Matt called out as he vanished down the fire escape. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

You rolled your eyes and beckoned a wave, crouching back down onto your rooftop perch, gripping your mask in your hands-- hard. A sigh of aggravation fell through the air, caching back in your throat as you looked up.

Your eyes lingered in the skyline. Nothing felt so far anymore. Everything that was happening was in your territory– the one you promised to protect.

It was right there, stretching its influence across the city and trickling into Hell’s Kitchen.

It was a dumb thought, really. But what more was there to lose? How many people could get caught in the crossfire before you decided to sacrifice your integrity?

You tucked your mask into your belt, taking one more glance at the alive city before retreating home.

It was time to pay an old friend a visit.

DEX

Dex was haunted.

By the things he’s done, the things he was bound to do all over again.

He fell for it.

He fell right into Fisk’s grasp.

Every order he followed, it was because he wanted to.

Testified in the trial for Wilson Fisk’s parole and appeal.

He lied under oath– not like the truth has ever mattered.

He took out the fellow agents who refused loyalty.

Wore a mask.

Pulled the trigger.

Killed people.

The rest of the FBI would move on from this assignment and continue their work. Dex would be left to linger in the past-- more trapped within the house arrest boundary than Fisk ever was.

The thick bulletproof glass was the only thing keeping him from falling over sixty stories to the muck filled streets of New York. His gaze fell over the skyline, light filled windows of the Midtown high rises imitating the stars in the midnight darkness.

The sterile apartment of Fisk was like a familiar sanctuary above the city.

It was the same way he had his apartment– clean and orderly. The only thing visible in the fresh white painted walled penthouse were the dozens of modern art pieces on display at every turn, a museum worth millions for only Fisk and his wife to see.

At first, Dex could understand how only a deranged monster like Fisk could find solace in those strange pieces.

As time grew on, he began to grow fond of them too.

His favorite one was hanging right in the foyer.

Much of the art Fisk kept was just geometric shapes of paint on canvas, nonsensical patterns he never cared for of bland color.

This one was different.

Organic.

Messy.

Raw.

It wasn’t art to him– it was real.

Splatters of crimson that stained the linen canvas, no clues of the former cream color it once was. Streaks of different hues and splotches of unidentified circles. It was chaotic, but organized.

Just a red, bloody, mess.

For the quick glance where his eyes fell each day when he entered the front door, his dread disipated. He would forget he was in the same sterile apartment with the one task of being ordered around by Fisk; instead he was back in the field, gun in hand and steady throw at his will– complete precision and control. This was the only art in the world he could truly digest.

Every time he saw it there was a reminder that the artist– a name of a painter unknown to him and probably long dead– understood him.

Even with the entire city in his field of vision, Dex’s mind was far behind him in the entryway, glaring at the red and trying to understand it.

“Special Agent Poindexter.”

A gravelly voice echoed through the abnormally large apartment, rippling a chill through Dex’s spine, ears perking up as he turned to face the dim lit room.

The brooding force in a white suit– Wilson Fisk stood across the living room, hands behind his back like a marble statue.

“Sir.” Dex straightened, legs shoulder width apart and arms crossed over his thundering chest.

A vicious smile crept across his round face, city lights from the window bouncing off his bald head as he crept closer to the agent.

“Please, there is no need for formalities. I owe my gratitude for what you have done. For me, for Vanessa.”

Dex flexed his hands, fingers aching and knuckles bruised.

Killed people.

Fisk began his creep forward, careful steps across the white tiles that reverberated through the sparsely furnished room until he was parallel to the windows next to him.

“I am proud of your work.” Fisk sighed out the reluctant praise. Dex could tell the corruptive man wasn’t one to hand out sincerities like this.

“From that very night you saved my life, I knew you had an exceeding talent. One that could never be fully appreciated under the constraints of a federal agency. Where rules and standards demanded you set aside these strengths and neglect your abilities for a noble pursuit. The Bureau never appreciated you the way I do, Benjamin. With your help, I can restore the city. To the way it needs to be. Tamed. Disciplined.”

Dex rocked back on his heels to adjust his footing, becoming more aware of his time standing all day. “Thank you sir. It’s an honor to work for you.” The words forced from his voice, a tinge of a smile and nod at his approval.

“Now that I am free, the true work may begin. My time incarcerated has enacted a toll on the order of everything. They are becoming more sloppy and arrogant, my workers. I would go myself, but as you know I am still constrained.” He smiled.

Dex’s eyes flicked to the black banded ankle monitor, light beeping in the dark over Fisk’s pant leg. “My prospects are in desperate need of management in my absence. It is much to ask of you– but it must be done.”

Dex rolled his shoulders, glancing from the city to his boss.

“Anything you need, Fisk. I’ll do it.”

“Good. Very well.” Kingpin grinned. “How familiar are you with my empire?”

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slowsonic69 · 2 months ago

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Leave My body

Chapter 2

Benjamin Poindexter x fem!oc

Author's note: So I did write another part to this. I don't even know where this is going but it is fun to write. I hope you like it!

Word count: 1.8k

With a cigarette between her chapped lips, Alex watched the snow fall. A soft white blanket coated the streets of New York — accompanied by an eerie silence that didn’t befit the city. Perhaps she had just grown used to its chaotic nature: police sirens morphing into white noise, drunken shouts replacing the songs of birds, beeps of cars blowing like harsh winter winds.

That must be the reason. Not the guilt or regret that had overtaken her every step — a simple but difficult acclimatization to the life of a civilian. Alex blew one last frozen puff of smoke into the air before pushing the cigarette’s butt into the ashtray. Turning, she headed back into her apartment, leaving behind her now completely snow-coated balcony. Only the mark of two shoes broke the harmonious white of it all.

Alex herself was covered in snowflakes, shaking them off her coat before hanging it back into the hall closet. Two mud-covered combat shoes and a stashed-away A H-S Precision sniper rifle stared back at her. She should get rid of those.

She knew she wouldn’t.

She knew she couldn’t.

Instead of reminiscing on these recurring thoughts that had haunted her for the last few months, she closed the closet and walked to her bathroom. Removed her office clothes, dumped them into the dirty laundry basket, opened the shower curtain, and stepped into it. Scorching hot water spurted against her skin, the sensation fogging her brain numb. The day, and the sentiments that came with it, seeped out of her and into the shower drain.

Her father had always told her she was stuck in her own mind. That when it came to it, between life and death, it wasn’t thoughts and ideas that saved you — but the movement of your hands, the shuffling of your feet, the grit of your teeth.

He was right, because of course he was. And yet Alex felt lost. Even with his training embedded into her — scratched so deeply into her skin, her soul must have scarred with it. She ate like he taught her, she breathed like he taught her, but she didn’t live the way he told her to. Not anymore.

There were no fists to block, no guns to recharge, no bodies to hide. It was her, only her, left to think and rethink about everything and everyone. Imprisoned in the echo chamber her mind had become.

The itch to just take her AutoMag III and empty its magazine into Suzie’s face was overwhelming. So much so, there were days when she truly considered it. If not Suzie, someone else, someone random. Just so she could see blood splatter out of them, its iron smell filling her nostrils one more time.

No. She had promised Hannah she woul—

Thud.

Alex halted, water still streaming down her face and body. Waiting. Listening.

Thud.

She shut off the water, her senses sharpening. A moment passed —cold air creeping up her wet skin, no noise to hear until—

Thud. It came from the living room.

Alex hopped out of the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping it tightly around herself. With a hesitant hand, she opened the bathroom door and peeking through the gap.

Nothing. The appartement was empty.

Thud Thud Thud.

The sound grew louder —impatient. Hollow, like someone knocking on glass. She frowned—she was on the seventh floor.

The Balcony door.

Still hunched low, Alex crept into the living room. She darted toward the couch and retrieved the hidden gun tucked beneath it. Crouched behind the frame, she edged her head forward until her eyes could peek out.

At first, she could only see an arm lifted upward, its connected body laid on the floor —out of sight. Its hand sliding down the glass of the balcony door. Then a head finally lifted up — glistening brown eyes catching hers. Poindexter.

Alex bolted upright. Unlocking the door. Face with full view of a bloody and defeated Poindexter sprawled on her balcony, wearing a weak red grin.

“About time.” He rasped. Voice hoarse, tired — beaten.

Without another word, Alex hauled him up. He leaned heavily against her shoulder, groaning as they staggered inside. She hesitated, eyeing the couch—he would ruin the fabric—but laid him there anyway.

Poindexter winced and moaned as he adjusted himself with difficulty.

“What happened?” Alex asked, watching the uneven rise and fall of his chest. A faint ache of worry creeping up against her will.

A gurgled chuckle took over him, blood trickling down from the corner of his mouth.

“Work.”

“Right.”

She nodded. He wouldn’t say more; she understood.

Heading for the bathroom once more, grabbing the med kit from behind the mirror cabinet. Faced with her reflection, she was reminded that she was still practically naked. Only a slipping towel guarding her modesty.

A tingle of embarrassment colored her cheeks — even when they had lived together, Poindexter had never seen her this way. He most likely hasn’t noticed she was half-naked, too busy on not dying. The notion comforted her. Somewhat.

She pulled on her pajamas, grabbed the med kit and a wet towel, and hurried back to his side. His eyes were closed now—a relief. She could scan him without interruption.

His black uniform masked most of the blood, but the wet sheen gave it away. Abdomen and left upper arm—bullet wounds, she guessed. Bruised ribs from the way he breathed. A swollen, battered face. He must have bitten his tongue.

“You can just ask where I’ve been hit, you know.” Poindexter murmured, startling her. Alex looked away.

“Right. I never tended to somebody else’s wounds before.” She admitted, surprising herself. Admitting to a flaw, a weakness laid bare. Pathetic.

He hummed in response, his eyes slipping closed again. The adrenaline seemingly wearing out, now only left with anguish and exhaustion — the worst part of getting this hurt.

She first lifted up his shirt to show his abdomen. As expected, he was indeed hit by a bullet. She noticed even more blood leaving the wound at his back. The bullet went straight through, not hitting any major organs at first sight. He got lucky.

Getting antibiotics and painkillers out of the med kit, she handed them to him.

“You’ll need these. Do you need a cup of water?”

Poindexter shook his head, popping a few into his mouth and swallowing them dry.

Without wasting another second, Alex went to work. Cleaning up the wounds, getting as much of the bullet fragments out. Cutting the sleeve of his left arm open, tending to the bullet wound there as well. This time, the bullet was stuck — she had to get it fully out. The rest—bruises, swelling—would heal on their own.

Through the whole ordeal, Poindexter seemed out of it, groaning and moaning here and there. The painkillers working wonders on his already feeble state.

Alex tried to keep her composure, tricking herself into believing she was tending to her own wounds rather than those of another. It felt forbidden, invasive, personal.

Had he felt the same way when he took care of her? Had his fingers tingled too? Had her bare skin burned against his palms? Had he looked away when her curves overwhelmed him?

She hoped so.

She feared so.

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A gasp slipped out of his lips as he sat up, followed by a deep groan as the stitches pulled and stretched at his abdomen.

“Careful. You’ll open your stitches.”

Dex felt his eyes widen as Alex came into view, a plate in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other. She placed them carefully on the living room table in front of him. She had made him an omelet — he suddenly felt dizzy.

“I was about to wake you up. Good timing.” Her tone neutral, familiar. Unbothered by his presence — but he knew better.

Dex barely remembered getting here — only flashes. The pain, the struggle of climbing the building walls, the cold snow melting into his wounds — turning beet red. Alex’s face somehow appearing above him, staring back at him with an unusual, contorted expression of concern.

She, who always seemed so far away — detached and cold — had felt warm against his side as she dragged him inside.

He wished he had felt every poke of her needle, the tightening of the surgical sutures. To ingrain it in his mind as much as it would on his body. For it to scar ugly and ragged, so he couldn’t even try to forget it.

But Alex was precise and meticulous. He knew the scarring would be faint — calm and collected like her. A thin white line that could never resemble the way he had felt then. Comforted and irrationally angry about it.

The urge to vomit out all these obscene thoughts to her was strong. To beg on his knees for her to understand them — to understand him. To see him like she had back in that empty warehouse where they fought like one. To continue watching him sleep on the couch every morning before work, trying to stay as quiet as possible. To make him an omelet despite disliking eggs.

To tend to her wounds, and she to his.

Instead of giving in, knowing the rejection that would follow, he sat up — slowly this time — and started eating. Slurping at the orange juice in between bites.

Alex stayed put, upright in the middle of the living room. A lost animal in its own habitat. He wanted to laugh, to insult her for her strangeness. To make her bleed and hurt like he had.

As if hearing him she unfroze, he could see her move from the corner of his eye.

The couch sagged a little as Alex sat down next to him, a soft pull against his side, as if the couch itself drew him closer to her. His teeth clenched, scraping against each other as he forced another piece of omelet in him.

“I’m -” Alex hesitated, cutting herself off before starting over again. Hands held tightly atop her lap —knuckles white.

“I’m glad you came back.” It was a murmur, the softest her voice had ever sounded to him. Like a scolded child coming to apologies. It’s that what it was, an apology? An olive branch, thin and weak — ready to break at any hint of wind.

His hand tightened around the butter knife. He could plunge it into her throat, make her drown in her own blood — in her own words. He wanted to, so badly. To watch her claw at her neck, panic overflowing her eyes. Her gurgles filling the room as life drained out of her.

"Me too," Dex said instead, setting the knife down next to the plate she had made for him. She had even sprinkled paprika powder on it, just the way he liked.

#benjamin poindexter fanfiction #benjamin poindexter #dex poindexter #benjamin poindexter x reader #Benjamin Poindexter x fem!oc #benjamin poindexter x oc #bullseye

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urdreamydoodles · 3 months ago

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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.

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inknopewetrust · 11 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐰 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬

Summary: In the volatile nature of tornado hunting, you crossed paths with Scott on more than one occasion–each time resulting in a piece of yourself being left behind with the man larger than the storms you chased. [Scott x Fem!Reader; Twisters] [wc: 15.7k]

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, pinv, oral (f receiving), angsty-romance, Scott is… a complicated asshole who reader can totally fix… right? Right!?

Quick Links: Masterlist

You weren’t sure where it ended or began, but you could feel it coming in your bones. Not the whirring of a drone or the rumbles of thunder—the fast, blistering speed of tires rolling toward the funnel that made your heart beat twice as fast as it did before.

It was tornado season after all… it never surprised you.

The skies of Oklahoma rose into a gloomy beige on a Friday afternoon. Heat lingered in the air, heavy and unyielding. It was dense outside of the small gas station that sat alongside the fork in the road.

Everyone could smell it: the anticipation of a storm. They broke earlier every year and this season appeared to be no different at first glance. The radios were filled with the familiar constant chatter, the computer screens you shared with Dexter in the lot were running the same radar’s the morning predicted.

Not everyday was as exciting as the next, however.

“Shit,” Dexter mumbled, running a hand over his eyes in frustration as the storms weren’t breaking that evening. His glasses perched on his fingers before he brought his hand back down to his computer.

It was just rain. In an era of record tornados, tonight would be quiet sans the few sparks of lightning and the thunder that followed.

“Nothin’” he flicked the laptop screen closed before him, knocking you on the shoulder as your own screen took all your attention.

Your eyes were entranced by the Doppler's movements. The back and forth of the projections coming and going in shades of green and yellow but no red. No purples or the darkest blues to send the lot of you running toward danger.

Dexter bumped you again with a focused effort.

“What?” You mumbled, clicking the refresh button on the radar’s program. Nothing changed.

“I think we’re done for the day.”

“It’s like six-thirty, Dex” you shrugged, turning to face him with a squint as the half-set sun was in your line of vision. “Somethin’ might pop up.”

“Omega says not,” he put a finger on his closed computer. “It dissipates before it can get out of bed.”

“Yeah,” you sighed as he did before. “Shit.”

Breathing in deeply, you could still smell it. Those storms were on the horizon and just waiting for the perfect moment to grow but you all have waited around these parts of Oklahoma begging for something that was not going to appear a hundred times.

Today was just one of those days.

You shut your own computer with the thud. Rolling your shoulders, Dexter clapped a hand on your back and chuckled at the prospect of another day without a tornado.

“Tomorrow’s chances are just as good,” he reassured.

“I know,” you nodded. The buzzing of Lily’s drone overhead swished by slowly as it came to land.

“Why don’t you go tell ‘em and I’ll clean up before we move out, hm? Get dinner and relax.”

Dexter didn’t allow the chance for you to argue back and made for the computers immediately. You groaned, standing up from the milk crate Boone scoured from the side of the road for “portable seating.” They were a bitch to your back and after sitting and watching the screen for what felt like hours, your body was screaming for help.

You stretched your arms high above your shoulders to rest them interlocked on your head and closed your eyes.

Maybe it was a sign. No storms, good sleep, and a hot meal from a wayside diner in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. It was comfort, it was home and it was a relief for an instant that the skies were tame. No one would die from nature tonight in the vicinity of your chasing—an adjustment from the last month.

So you envisioned in your closed eyes the peace the evening would bring. How the sheets of the motel’s bed would feel against your legs; the sound of air conditioning fanning and sending you into a deep slumber.

The imagination of an evening molded into scenes under your eyelids.

Like the thunder everyone wished to hear, you could practically feel the rumblings of his fingertips as you imagined them on your skin. A lingering hope of days gone by without seeing him and his team of assholes started to stir in your mind every time it had a second to not think of the weather.

You hated the way it made you feel.

Like a goddamn school girl who couldn’t control a crush but it was more than that. It wasn’t a fatal fantasy you’d imagined every time your paths crossed but one cemented in your memory to hold you off until the next time he caught you in the same place.

And you saw him in your idea of a decent night.

In the distance, Dani and Lily called your name from outside of the RV. You cracked an eye open to see the two of them waving, pointing toward the diner attached to the station.

Your arms fell, turning to Dexter who passed it off.

“Go,” he shook his head, “I’ll join you when I’m done.”

You’d be lying if the sound of food didn’t sound wonderful that very second. The day had been nothing but driving and sitting. Every bit of food was junk besides the apple Boone threw your way at noon. He had been the first one to run into the diner an hour before with Tyler hot on his tail.

They were gluttons for greasy homemade meals.

“Come on!” Dani yelled as she held open the door and you broke off from Dexter to join the two for dinner.

The diner was like any other hole in the wall establishment in middle America. Sparse hangings on the wall, chairs and booths made from cheap leather that had burns and slashes through them, and menus that haven’t been updated for twenty years.

They were the best places. They were what made the small towns in between the big ones staples. No one could pinpoint this town on a map but the second the tea is sipped and the spuds are downed, it’s something you couldn’t forget.

“We’re gonna shack up in Perry tonight,” Dani spoke with her mouth half full. “‘Bout a half hour from here.”

“Tyler alright with that?” Lily asked, glancing out the diner window. “I thought he wanted to stay ahead of them?”

Them.

You sipped on your iced tea casually.

“We will be heading in that direction anyway.”

“Ain’t there a lake down in Perry?” Lily inquired, racking her mind in hopes she could remember. Dani nodded and picked up her own glass.

“Mhm,” she hummed. “And I do plan on jumpin’ in it before we leave tomorrow.”

Lily smiled as she turned her attention to you. She wasn’t oblivious to your absence from the conversation. You were quiet and reserved. Maybe it was that time of the month or you had a bad day—but it was strange and she furrowed her brows, kicking at your foot with hers from under the table.

“Don’t got anything to say?” She asked, causing Dani to look over the glass at you.

“No,” you dismissed. “Just tired, that’s all.”

“I’ve got Advil if you need it,” Lily went to dig in her bag but you stopped her.

“No, no,” you shook your head. “Really. Just feels like a long day is all. Finding nothin' is frustrating and this heat..."

“I get you,” Dani scoffed and put her cup down. “This heat is awful. I think Boone’s music is starting to get to me.”

You laughed knowingly. “It’s better than listening to him scream into the camera for twenty minutes."

The two snickered at the thought. Anything was better than the sound of his screeching. You pushed around the remnants of your meal around your plate when the waitress came back to fill up the glasses, leaving the check. A chorus of 'thank you's' were followed by the bell ringing above the diner's rickety door.

"Oh Lord," Lily muttered and went back to looking out the window. She crossed her arms like a pouting child. Out the window, Boone was yelling inaudible jests at the white shirts making their way into the establishment.

"What?" You asked her, turning over in your seat to see the crew of Storm Par filing in one by one.

In their uniforms of slacks and white shirts, they gave their most polite smiles to the staff that ate out of the palms of their hands. Dani let out a groan of frustration. Rich men, educated men. Men.

"Just the fraternity, Doc," Dani replied as though your eyes couldn't see that. You shot her a judgmental scowl before glancing at the group again.

"I thought I told you not to call me that."

It was the PhD in physics that earned you the affectionate, but infuriating title.

"Eh," Dani popped a piece of ice between her teeth. "You ain't like them though. They're all assholes and you're only an asshole when we can't get the signal to work and you wanna watch Love Island."

You laughed, chucking your napkin across the table which she dodged gracefully.

"Don't act like you're not obsessed with it too," Dani narrowed her eyes in faux offense.

The check at the end of the table blew in the wind generated by a few of Storm Par's team walking past. None of them spared a glance in the direction of the three of you. Out of spite or hatred, you wouldn't know but it was always the same way with most of them. It wasn't unwarranted, however. Your squad from Arkansas were known to give them as much grief as they gave you all.

You reached out to slap the check back down on the table. A glance up toward the retreating Storm Par members told you that their leaders hadn't joined the bunch at the table. You hadn't seen him enter the diner when you looked before.

But you knew the second the bell rang above the door again that it was him and likely Javi beside him. You could feel it in the air just as you did the storms. Everything shifted. The pace of your heart, the rigidness of your back, and you had done all you could in your power to keep it as quiet as possible.

You painted yourself a fake in front of the friends you adored because of Scott. He didn't ask you to, yet there was nothing more solid than agreeing to never speak of what you'd do for a second alone with him.

And you weren't sure what they'd say if they knew you were sleeping with the enemy.

With the check in your hands, you grabbed your bag from the seat and dismissed Lily and Dani's movements to split the check.

"I've got this one," you assured them. "My treat."

Lily protested and continued to shuffle through her bag. "At least lemme get the tip. How much?" Her wallet was filled with receipts and loose change.

"No," you shook your head. "Go on to the truck and I'll pay and we can head out."

Dani crunched the ice loudly. "You sure?"

"Positive," you nodded, giving them both a smile that could have read tense. You didn't mean it to be but it did. "Go on," you tipped your head. “Dex didn’t eat so I’ll order and run out when it’s ready.”

Dani eyed you as Lily put away her wallet. "I don't want to leave you alone with them in here," she knocked her head in the direction of Scott and Javi who settled along the lunch counter beside the register.

Dani watched them carefully whenever it was only the three of you. She trusted the men on your team like brothers but the others, Storm Par or any of the other groups that followed in the same direction, she held at a distance. Not only had they been somewhat competitors in the field, they were jerks and Dani could not help but be repulsed by it.

Scott looked in the direction of the small booth you all sat in, making contact with Dani's harsh stare. His face was blank—as Dani had come to realize was its factory setting. He was stoic, a wooden board of a man who was a head taller than his companion even as they sat. Dani always thought he looked miserable.

In her eyes, he was generically handsome with dimples on the sides of his cheeks. She saw other storm chasers give him eyes but he never entertained it. He was boring, a dud.

Not one person could make that man crack a smile or have an ounce of joy weep from him—but she supposed it was perfect for the work they conducted.

"I can handle myself, Dani–besides, there are other people in here."

She shook her head, souring her face. "You know I don't like 'em."

"Neither do I," you laughed. Liar. "I got this. It’s okay."

Dani trusted your word and exited the diner with Lily while you made your way to the register.

Scott had taken his baseball cap off his head, sliding it into the back pocket of his pants and pushing his sunglasses into his hair. Javi made niceties with the same waitress that had assisted you upon your approach. You saddled up to lean on the counter in the empty space between Scott and the register that broke apart the counter from the other patrons. It wasn't crowded as a restaurant in the middle of a city would be. It was filed with locals that made it feel welcoming.

"I'll be with you in one second, ma'am," the woman who served, in a name-tag labeled 'Kathy', called over to you as she jotted down Javi's order.

You took the bag from your shoulder to place it on the counter in front of you. The base of it brushed Scott's shoulder, nudging him purposefully.

"Sorry," you said quietly as Javi finished up beside him. Scott looked over at you–his stormy blues baring into you and sending you into a spiral of blind faith.

“Not out wrangling tornados tonight?” He questioned in a condescending tone. His brow quirked in a challenge: play along. You could never be civil in public.

“Maybe if you were good at reading radar you’d know that already.”

He scoffed. “Wh—“

“And for you sir?” Kathy, the waitress, cut him off with a tap of her pen. Javi stifled a laugh as Scott faced her with a half-baked expression of annoyance. You turned to thumbing through your bag for your wallet.

“Ah,” Scott stuttered as he looked over the menu. “A coffee—“

“Cream or Sugar?” Kathy drawled. She must have been in her sixties but she was giving Scott the best impression of a flirt at the moment.

“Black, please.”

“Of course, honey.”

Javi turned his head away from Scott to chuckle like a little boy. You smiled to yourself as the contents of your bag were suddenly so very interesting.

“And a… turkey sandwich with fries.”

Kathy gave Scott a cheeky, wide smile with painted red lips. The thinning drugstore paint was wearing thin beyond the lining and her hay bale, yellow as corn hair was doing nothing for her.

“That’ll be right up for you boys, okay?” She gave them a wink and tore the order from her pad. “Don’t forget to order somethin’ sweet before you go—on the house.”

Kathy walked away with a sway of her hips which only worsened Javi’s laughter. The laughs spilled from his mouth without remorse as his friend tried to not turn an ugly shade of red.

“Holy,” Javi dragged out the syllables in exasperation. “You got yourself a cougar, Scott!”

You slipped your wallet to the side of your bag and looked upright waiting for her return.

“I didn’t know Mr. Storm Par had it in him,” you said, which drove Javi even deeper in laughter. Scott sighed heavily, shaking his head in disbelief. “She’ll give a napkin with a lipstick kiss… just watch.”

“Ooh man,” Javi crooned. “I ain’t missin’ that!” He got up from his stool.

“See you out there,” Javi said your name kindly—a rarity in these parts. He surely didn’t know about you and Scott but he treated you decently all the same.

He rushed off to the small hallway labeled ‘bathroom’. Small mercies for a second alone.

“Did you have to say that?” Scott commented the moment Javi was out of an earshot. He turned back to look at you so you turned to look at him with your hip digging into the counter. His legs spread wide as if to accommodate you.

“It was too good not to,” you admitted with a grin. “The old ladies love you.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, gazing at your face as his eyes darted to take you in. They trailed from your eyes to lips to chin to chest to… everywhere.

“It’s been a minute.”

“Two weeks,” you agreed.

“You been counting?”

“No,” you said quickly. “I just—“

“I was joking,” he clarified with a sly, cunning smirk.

“Ha,” you panned. “You should think about going into another career after this. I hear they’re looking for comedians.”

“Maybe I will,” he suggested. “I can mention the skeleton that tried to get with me in a diner. Though,” he thought on it, “her lipstick might find me in nightmares so probably not.”

You laughed and he smiled—also a rarity in these parts.

“Where are you off to?” He asked.

“Perry for the night. Headin’ in that direction afterwards.”

Scott hummed, tapping one of his hands on the counter as the other rested on his knee. Your eyes moved down his body in the same way he did yours.

“You?” You asked him.

“I think we’ll be makin’ our way there too.”

“Hm,” you thrummed. Kathy caught your vision as she gathered Javi’s glass and Scott’s mug in her hands. “Then I should be expecting you?”

Scott nodded his head. “Motel?”

“Right off the highway. Easy on and off.”

Scott made a noise of agreement. Kathy placed their beverages in front of them with a sweet smile. Scott glanced at the mug but returned his attention to you which she frowned at—you found it amusing. There couldn’t have been many attractive men waltzing through the diner on a weekly basis. Scott was a treat.

“Anything I can get you, hun?”

Scott shook his head. Kathy held out her hand for you to hand over the check. She wasn’t as wordy with you.

You glanced over his shoulder to the table of his crew in the back who were minding their own business. Javi had to return and put the window, your team of misfits were packing up the vehicles.

You took a chance and lifted a hand to his shirt’s collar. Taking the fabric between your fingertips, you putzed as he looked at you with a gleam in his eyes that made your stomach do summersaults.

It’s the kind of look that made your heart sink when he was so rude on the road.

“Text me when you get there, okay?” You asked him. You adjusted his collar before dropping your hand at the sight of Javi leaving the restroom.

Scott caught your eyes change and turned back around in his seat.

Kathy laid the receipt for you to sign on the counter with a bang.

“Sign, please.”

You were quick to sign and exit the space before Javi could even sit down, forgetting Dexter's order. Kathy took the receipt and while stapling it to the order, she tipped her head in the direction of you.

“She’s pretty,” was all Kathy said and left as Javi returned.

“Did she give you her number?” Javi prompted Scott who passed a confused face to his friend.

“What?”

“The waitress,” Javi chuckled. “You get ‘er number or what?”

Scott closed his eyes and swallowed the nerves that built rapidly. He thought Javi was talking about you. He may have been an ace at MIT and a dependable guy on the battlefield, but Scott nearly jumped out of the diner at the thought of Javi or anyone else finding out about his escapades with you.

It was a good secret. A great one, if he let himself think about it too long. But he’d be damned to throw everything away for the sake of a lay in the middle of Oklahoma.

And if he told himself that enough, he’d fathomed he would start believing it.

The motel was what you had dreamed about.

Soft sheets, working air conditioning, and a lovely continental breakfast in the mornings with boxes of cereal and packaged muffins. It wasn’t a five-star resort but they did the job. It was perfectly imperfect for what you were used to on the daily.

It was so much better than the floor of the RV and so unusual for the types of places Dani and Lily often chose.

When you arrived at the motel, Scott was receiving a napkin with a kiss and a number on it that went straight in the trash. Javi kept rolling with laughter and for the time being, it was something he would not live down.

But both of your minds were preoccupied with what would hold true as the sun finally set on that day.

Just like the storms, you weren’t sure where this ended or it began. You had established a routine without realizing it was happening and this game of chances was slowly evolving into a feeling difficult to hold on to.

Maybe it was everything in between the nights that made it more difficult than it needed to be.

You ached for them nonetheless.

The jolt of anticipation hit you about an hour after arriving. Showered and clean, you sat around while the news played lifelessly in the background waiting for your phone to ding but it never did. It sat there mocking you every minute that passed.

Seconds turned into minutes that turned into hours that turned into two.

You half thought about going to bed before a knock sounded at your door. Neglecting to view the visitor through the peephole, you were taken aback by the entrance.

Scott made quick work of pushing you backwards and shutting the door closed with a thud. A backpack landed in the space between the door and chair. His hands were on you immediately, immodestly cupping your face and the back of your head with a force as he kissed you—hard.

You wrapped your arms around his forearms in support of your uneasy feet. A thrill ran down your spine at the feel of his hands on you.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled between frantic kisses that took your breath away. “They,” kiss, “wouldn’t,” kiss, “stop fucking talking.”

You ran your hands down his forearms gently. “It’s okay,” you reassured him. Ignoring your doubts would manifest itself another day.

Scott nodded, his nose knocking yours before leaning back in and kissing you slowly. His mouth captured your lips softly, gently as if there was no worry of time at all. His hands trailed themselves along the sides of your neck, to your shoulders, letting yours fall from his arms in the process.

You tilted your head upwards at an angle to open up to him. His mouth moved unhurried as the sound of your heart rushed to your ears.

He broke the kiss at the feel of your hands inching toward the buckle of his jeans.

“Woah,” he chuckled lowly but didn’t pull away and didn’t tell you no. “I don’t think my old lady would appreciate you havin’ your hands all over me.”

He let you lift the tails of his dress shirt out of his pants. At a quick pace you undid the buttons.

“She was tellin’ me all about this great peach pie,” Scott kept on and on as he peppered kisses on your face. “And then,” he whispered and shrugged off his shirt. “Then she left me this nice farewell note with a kiss on it.”

Your hands stilled on his abdomen. Head pulling away rapidly with glittering amusement in your eyes, you scoffed.

“No shit… really?”

“Oh yes, really,” Scott confirmed. He stepped away from you and stripped himself of the undershirt he had on. He moved over to the bed to work on his shoes.

“Can’t go to that diner again I gather.”

Scott smiled which made his dimples stand out. He looked tired but present, and that was all you could ask for at that moment.

“Not unless I want to be scorned for never callin’ her back.”

“Eh,” you picked up the remote on the bedside table and turned up the sound. “Give it ten years.”

Scott looked over his shoulder at you as a boot dropped on the floor.

“That’s brutal.”

“Well,” you said, dropping onto the duvet. “What can I say?”

You crawled over to him and got on your knees behind him. Scott leaned his head backwards against your chest as you wrapped your arms around him. You could smell the earth in his hair. The darkness of it couldn’t shield the way a day's work remained.

Underneath your fingertips his shoulders eased up. He relaxed in your touch.

“I was counting,” you admitted. The days between.

“Yeah,” he breathed out. “Me too.”

You kept one hand wrapped around his shoulders but moved the other to turn his face to the side. You planted a light kiss on his cheek, resting your forehead on the spot after. You savored the small, delicate moments that were few and far on the road.

Scott patted your arm when the quiet became too much.

“Lay down,” he instructed.

You untangled yourself from him and fell backwards on the bed. Splayed on the mattress with your knees bent, he slipped his socks off and turned around with one leg perched on the bed and the other on the floor. Scott’s hand traced the lines on your bent knees formed by the lighting of the room. He watched you adjust your body for comfort in his observance.

He’d be a fool to say you weren’t igniting a fire in him.

There were nights where he’d find you angry at him, the fuck that followed heated and he’d mark you with bruising kisses to remind you of it. There were some hurried and frantic—usually following a close encounter by either of you but the ones where it was slow… they were rare.

And looked down at you with adoration he couldn’t express. His eyes were telling yet he never said words that reaffirmed he cared for you more than he looked forward to your next meeting or that he thought about you—in the shower or in passing, Scott never clarified.

Scott pushed open your legs to accommodate him. He took in the oversized tourist tee that helped cover the pair of sleep shorts of his next conquest. Without hesitation, he grabbed at the waistband of the shorts and pulled them down your legs quickly.

He ticked at you at the sight of you bare before him.

“Were you expecting someone?” He chastised jokingly. “That’s a little presumptuous.”

“Maybe,” you cooed. He grasped you by the back of your knees and pulled you down the bed before getting on his own.

“There’s always a some guy followin’ us around in these parts. Sometimes I’ll let him in.”

“Oh?” His breath was hot on your thigh. A kiss laid as he maneuvered himself to your center and you tossed your head back to stare at the ceiling.

“Mhm,” you hummed. You bit your lip to fight a smile when his familiar lips kissed at the crux of your leg and groin.

“Handsome with this cute smile no one ever sees.”

You felt your breath stagger as he moved to the most wanton part of you and licked a line through you. His eyes watched you intently; the slow rise and fall of your chest, the way your hands begged for something to grasp on. His nose bumped your clit as he got comfortable with a rhythm. Scott savored the way his tongue gathered your wetness, pushing against your plush walls.

You were trying so hard to be quiet. The walls of hotels were thin—you weren’t an idiot. It was a miracle that the man you fucked wasn’t a talker most of the time.

Scott’s tongue was warm against you. Lapping in a way that made you lose the breath inside. He was slow, soft in his movements that made you want to squirm.

You could feel your heart beating rapidly against your ribcage. Head pressing harshly against the comforter of the bed, your body hooked itself into an arch at his ministrations. A lewd, antagonizing sound of your pleasure being had by a man whose eyes bore deep into the way your body moved at his will sent you spinning.

Scott shifted himself on the bed. His feet propelled him upwards but he never let go, his hands nor mouth. He pushed you upwards on the bed and wrapped an arm around your leg to rest on your lower abdomen.

The change caught the words in your mouth.

Scott, occupied, still watched you unravel like putty. His eyes watched you focus on anything but his face and in an attempt to get your attention, his hand on your stomach moved to fiddle with your shirt that had not made it to the floor.

Your hand was quick to fold over his, squeezing tightly. His fingers flexed back.

“Oh,” you keened. In an effort to stay quiet, your other hands fingers pressed against your lips. The fire within you grew hotter.

Moving his hand from yours, he shifted to spread open your lips and gather the wetness on his tongue. Scott titled his head upwards and sucked on your clit that had you spinning. Your free hand went straight to his head and settled in his brown locks.

“F-fuck,” you stuttered as your toes curled and your hips rutted against his face unabashedly.

Scott’s other hand was long missing from your body as the one focused on you was hard at work with your satisfaction. He palmed at himself in his pants the best he could. The angle wasn’t working and soon, he’d need a reprieve.

The muscles in your body tensed. They began to shake not from a release, but an anticipation of one growing. The more you moved, the more Scott wanted to let go and slip inside of you.

He slowed his tongue to small, sensual flicks reminiscent of him bringing you back from a high you hadn’t yet reached. Pulling back on you, his lips caught with a trail of your slick and his spit. Scott ran his tongue over his lips—taking with him the taste of you.

“Move up,” he instructed, voice hoarse.

You sat up on your elbows and moved upwards on the bed as he stood up. He walked back to the chair beside the door where his belongings had ended up when he first burst through the door.

If you were attempting to be sly, your eyes navigated his body on display. Scott fully undid his belt and chucked his phone on the chair beside it. He shuffled out of his pants and briefs—pausing when the screen on his phone lit up with a text.

You couldn’t read it from the distance between you but he left it unread, turning back to you as your focus narrowed to his dick freely standing.

“My eyes are up here,” he rolled his eyes.

“I’m admiring,” you drawled. You ran a hand up your body and bent it behind your head on the pillows. “Can’t a girl admire? I mean…”

“She can,” he nodded in implying you can.

Scott took himself in his hands, pumping as he approached the bed again. He didn’t need to ask the ways in which to make both of you happy. He could read the room and the days and knew that what you both needed was something simple.

But sometimes, something simple was enough.

He joined you on the bed, tapping on your leg that blocked his goal.

“Come on,” his words were cut and dry and quiet.

You moved your leg back down as you sat up to meet him. Him, on his knees before you with his length in his hand and you, splayed before him wet and wanting. You reached to replace his hand with yours but he shook his head, knocking his chin at your shirt with a disapproving shake.

The worn Ole Miss letters standing stark amidst the nakedness of the room. Doc.

Huffing, you were quick to lose the shirt.

“Better?” You asked him. Reaching back toward to replace his hand, he removed his and let you take him.

“Perfect,” he groaned at the feel of your hand.

He was heavy and warm in your palm; watching with an intensity that only beckoned you to go further—sliding your hand along him delicately and squeezing just enough at the base for him to emit a grunt of satisfaction. Scott’s hands caressed the sides of your thighs as his mind went blank.

“Scott,” you purred. Sitting up on your knees and never letting him go. Your other hand wrapped around his shoulders as you pressed your chest against his. His hands were hot on your hips and ass.

You lazily drew your lips along his jaw to ear.

“I want you to fuck me,” you whispered. His heart was beating so fast. “I want you to fuck me into this mattress and make me think about it for days.”

Scott’s eyes were closed. His breathing unsteady and head pushing into yours. He gripped your body tightly.

“Baby—“ the pet name slipped out before he had a chance to take it back. Too personal? He wasn’t sure. But he couldn’t think straight. With your hand on his dick, all he could think about was how fast he could get inside of you.

“I thought we said—“

“We’ll be quiet,” you reassured him. “I didn’t say hard.”

Oh. You wanted to be fucked softly. At least for the moment you did.

The kind of sex that left a heavy haze in the air. The one that drew everything out of a person and left it there, lingering, as if the pieces of them were nothing more than particles in space.

It was the sex you couldn’t turn back from.

You were too far gone.

You had been for quite some time yet never slipped up. You enjoyed what small, unreliable fling you had no matter how it grew inside of you. Scott wasn’t a man you’d dream about as a teen thinking of your future. He was a certified asshole with an ego as big as the fucking ocean but it slithered past your defenses and ended up knocking at the gate.

But you loved the sinful way it made you feel.

“Do you wanna fuck me?” You cooed. You careened in his touch, pitching upwards as he cupped your ass roughly and relished the feel of your breasts on his chest. Everything about you was so soft. So delicate and warming and familiar.

“You know I do,” he panted. You stroked him still. His eyes could have drooped but he watched you intently.

“Then what are you waiting for?”

You positioned your head in front of his, kissing him gently on the lips before lowering back down onto the bed with your knees parted. You let him go and his cock bobbed.

And he did as you asked.

When Scott fucked you, the heavens blushed from above. He took his dick in his hand, positioning himself to be in front of your pussy that was still shining with the wetness he left. He rubbed the tip up and down, gathering the wetness he could. Each motion threatening to push him in faster than either of you wanted.

This could be hours or forever and you’d never want it to end.

He stopped at your entrance to look in your wanton eyes. They begged him, they wanted him without a word. He guided his cock into you slowly. Your cunt, hot and inviting, welcomed him smoothly. Pressing your head deep into the pillows, you let out weak gasps at his intrusion.

Your head was swirling. You were full of him.

Each touch and each thrust was sending you toward a tether that was breaking string by string. A violin to be played delicately and only the musician who cared enough to learn its tuning could make it sing.

Scott was calculated but not over aware. He listened to your calls—the shallow, meek whimpers at the virility of his drives. He let you get lost; finding the stars in your eyes as he peered down at you until it became too much and Scott needed to feel you again.

Scott leaned down, taking your neck in both of your hands and kissed you deeply. Your hands glued themselves to the sides of his torso. His lips were a pillow in short breaths; tongue sloppy when his hips ground into you faster than before.

His cock was splitting you. Thrust after thrust he gained the momentum of chasing a high. He never let you go; holding onto you whether delicate on your neck or grasping at your body, Scott palmed as you grew in want.

“Come on, come on,” he gritted through his teeth as you clenched around him. You weren’t registering the sounds of the headboard hitting the wall behind you. It was only you, Scott, and the sounds of your pleasure.

He picked up the rapid movements as best he could. It was so easy to lose himself in you. He, the most rigid man in both word and action, came alive at the opportunity to simply let go. Those words were strange—to let go—but he had found it in your meetings.

Scott Miller was many things, yet fucking you unbeknownst to the world was his greatest secret in his cruelty.

He watched you wither or waver, hands shifting to hold his face close to yours. You kept muttering nonsensical deliverances with your hips jutting up to join his. It was growing fierce—your end. The orgasm eating away at your resolve. Scott’s eyes were battering down on your own, nodding his head with eager anticipation of the rush of your finish. Scott knew you to be quick. It was so easy for him to get you off because the methodology of you and him made it that way.

He could read you the alphabet and if you bore into your eyes enough, you’d be wet. He could feed you a fucking pretzel and your mind would illustrate the way you’d let him pound you into tomorrow.

He nodded, chin bumping yours as your mouths declined to collide in a spectacle. Your breaths beat at the rapid nature of your heart; panting for respite in the low light of the hotel’s table lamp and glow of the television.

“That’s it,” Scott coaxed. His silence in the efforts of his body ceasing. “Come on.” His teeth bit at his words.

“F-fuck,” you stuttered out. The wave was approaching. It tingled in your toes and laid heavy in your core. “Shit,” you gasped quietly. “Oh!”

Your mouth fell open and he took the opportunity to kiss you, tugging on your bottom lip as he pulled away and the curl of your toes became too real. You kept squeezing him, emboldening him to come with you.

Scott felt your muscles contract before it was nothing but a shake of your legs. You arched your back into him, allowing him to draw you close as he pounded into your finish to race to his own.

There was nothing in your eyes except the stars you couldn’t see. It was fuzzy, exhilarating as the pulses rushed through you in a couple, disjointed and erratic bursts. You couldn’t help but shake; it was overstimulating as Scott continued to push against your walls.

He loved to feel you shake. He loved to be the one to cause such a rapture within you. To have to uncontrollably trembling in pleasure? What a treat.

You swallowed his grunts, clinging onto his shoulders and cupping his face as he drew his arms under your back and repositioned you. He was close, so close. The beads of sweat on his forehead called him to end—a sure sign of his stamina along the sheen that covered you.

His hips snapped in and out with a fury. The softness of his earlier actions were thrown out the window. He did as he believed, fuck you into a state where you’d remember it for days.

And then his tether broke too.

Scott held your hips against him tightly. He kissed your lips as he finished inside of you before deepening it.

Suddenly you weren’t going to remember the sex.

You were going to recall the way he kissed you after he made sure you both came. How he wouldn’t let you feel anything but his lips, his tongue, his teeth, until he was soft inside of you.

Scott left your lips with a faint, nearly absent smile.

“How’s that for remembering?”

He wasn’t one for validation. He didn’t seek your approval but it slipped out of him with the words he shouldn’t say.

You ran your tongue over your lips to wet them or maybe to collect the remnants of him. “Mm,” you thought. “I might forget what it feels like to be kissed?”

Scott scoffed as you ran your fingers through his hair. He dipped his head again to kiss your shoulder, peppering kisses to your lips as he made a trail. He nuzzled his nose into the side of your face and could tell when your face broke out into a smile. Taking the chance, he tucked his forehead into the crux of your neck and shoulder. You squirmed with laughter but his hands held you steady.

“I’ll be heading to The City for a few days,” he grumbled into your neck. “We got a new truck.”

“The gang ain’t enough anymore? You’re gonna outnumber us.”

Scott shook his head and began to unravel. He lifted up from you, slipping out as the cold met wet in the air. You could not help but draw your brows together at the discomfort—Scott’s thumb rubbed soothing circles on your thigh.

He started off the bed and into the bathroom attached to help clean you up. Tossing your worn shirt back on the bed before shuffling into his briefs and pants again. You sat up in confusion.

“Aren’t you stayin’?” You asked. “I thought we’d have a few hours.”

Maybe it had been dangerous to voice hope.

To voice and acknowledge the misery of missing him when it hurt to do so.

He shook his head again and went to his phone. “I gotta get that truck before she flies in.”

She. “Who?” You questioned with concern. You weren’t exclusive, you weren’t supposed to be jealous.

“Some girl Javi invited out for a few days,” he dismissed. Scott’s eyes were glued to the phone in his hand. “She works for NWS.”

“To help you?”

“Why else?” He sounded disgruntled at the fact. But he ignored your tone too. “Said she was a friend from college.”

“What’s the NWS got to do with your work?”

“She’s just helpin’ us find the tornados, not anything else. We don’t need help in what we do.”

You weren’t oblivious to Storm Par—you’d be a fucking fool not to be. It was something you detested, despised, about him and if you thought about it too long, you felt even the slightest bit guilty of letting your thoughts wander to him when you were set on doing good.

He took from people in pain for what? His own personal gain? The money he raked in on the side of allowing a maniac of a man to fund his projects?

You knew there was a piece of him that strung you along not for sex or the fondness of it, but out of necessity to follow.

His team of storm chasers wouldn’t have the opportunities they did if they didn’t follow Tyler and the crew.

You were just collateral for the course. A “get love quick scheme” in the center of a raging cyclone of fucked up felonies and a YouTube channel of misfits.

Scott let his fingers move briskly over the keyboard of his phone.

“When is she coming?” You feigned to ponder instead.

“Monday.”

“So that means you have to leave now?”

Oh Lord Almighty. You sounded pathetic. Knees pulled up to your chest, holding the pieces of you together as you became forgotten. You felt the events of moments ago begin to unsettle your body. The need of care that hasn’t come making your skin crawl.

You may have done things that made your momma blush but you cowering under the idea that a man is gonna leave you cold after a good roll in the sheets would set her aflame.

“Have to,” he tossed his phone back on the chair and took a new shirt out from his backpack. “For business on Sunday with Riggs before we head out. We agreed to…” he went back to his phone to check the time. “A two o’clock departure time.”

It wasn’t even fucking twelve thirty but hey, he couldn’t be seen, right?

“Bullshit,” you let fall out.

“What?” Scott picked it up. His head snapped to you.

“I said it’s bullshit,” you said a bit louder for him to hear. “I don’t get it, I don’t.”

“What don’t you ‘get’?” He had a lacing of judgment in his voice. It could have been the MIT superiority in him that festered with the ever mounting praise of his colleagues.

“I just don’t know when it will be enough for all of you,” you scoffed. “You pour money down drain for machines and tech and then you stockpile tragedies we can’t even keep up with. And now you’ve got the NWS on your side? The ones who are supposed to care about keeping us safe?”

“It’s freelance,” he pointed out while tucking in his shirt. He did up the belt in a flash. “And these people don’t need what’s left for them after it’s all gone. You know how hard it is for them to rebuild.”

“But those are their homes, Scott. What if it was your home or my home or your parents?”

“I’d figure we’d all end up in different places anyway,” he tucked his phone in his back pocket.

You shook your head at him, looking away to focus on the TV. Muttering an ��unbelievable” under your breath, you began to wonder the reasons why he even bothered to show up.

They drove an entire team to Perry to sleep in a run of the mill hotel or perhaps that was second to Scott getting his fill. He just needed one good fuck to send him off and running to his next paycheck.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Scott concluded dispassionately. That stone cold, humorless man replaced whoever burst through the door.

“We both have jobs to do. Just stay in your lane and I’ll be in mine.”

Oh Christ he made you fume.

“You can be a real jackass, you know that?” You narrowed your eyes at him.

“You aren’t tellin’ me anything I ain’t heard before, honey.”

“Oh fuck off!” You shouted a bit too loudly. He slung his cap back on his head. “You’re such a piece of shit.”

“Then why tell me you were gonna be here?” He hummed an ask, approaching the bed with intent. You looked up at him as he settled in the spot next to you with his feet on the floor and arm outstretched to hold onto the headboard.

Scott caged you in. He towered over you to be intimidating.

“Why ask me to sleep with you or stay or kiss you or whatever else just to hate me after it’s all done?”

“I didn’t ask to hate you.”

“You don’t hate me,” he clarified. “You just hate the way you feel about me.”

“You’re selfish,” you settled on.

“You’re entitled,” Scott countered. The Ole Miss logo on your shirt burned.

“You don’t care about anyone except yourself.”

And that pained you.

“You care about everyone else far too much,” he pulled his head toward you. His eyes flicked between your lips and eyes and you wanted to punch him and kiss it away.

All you wanted was to have a good night. To be worshiped in a quiet space and he gave you that, even if brief. But he also tore it away. He always took it away.

“Sometimes I don’t know why we even try.”

He was taken aback by it. You both were two people on very different ends of a string that snapped you together. It wasn’t perfect but it worked for the most part.

“Then why do we?” He shouldn’t have said it yet he did.

“You can’t even bear to stay,” you whispered. For a second, you thought you saw clarity in those cloudy eyes. “You can’t even fucking hold me after what we did… or-” the words fell deaf on your lips.

“I have to leave. I can’t stay.”

“You don’t get it do you?”

Scott breathed in deeply, declining the sentiment with a toss of his head.

“I gotta go,” he said quietly instead. He took your chin in his hand, knocking it gently to the side.

“I don’t know how you do it,” was all you could muster.

And then he left without another word.

In Boone’s mind, it did not matter if the sky was at its darkest, a joint never waited to be smoked when necessary.

He had woken about an hour before as Storm Par’s slamming of car doors rustled him from slumber. The RV wasn’t the most perfect place to reside while traversing wild weather but he loved it all the same. He rolled off the bunk without notice of Dexter who would have surely scolded him for partaking at such a late hour.

So, he snuck into the truck and lit up in the quiet solitude of night without interruption.

It wasn’t until an hour later when the drowsy feel of his tingles began to wear into sleep that he began to see things he’d question.

Boone rubbed the tired from his eyes the same time a door opened up to his right. He ducked into the front seat as though what he was doing was far from normal and spied the invasion of the public space.

Down to the right, Scott exited the room with a scowl on his face Boone could see in the dark. A backpack slung over his shoulder, he looked frustrated compared to the blasé he was used to. Scott walked past Boone without noticing and hopped into one of Storm Par’s trucks.

Boone remained ducked as he thought back to the room. Scott settled in the passenger seat before reclining it back to sleep. He disappeared from Boone’s view and the latter looked to the motel rooms again.

Even in his foggy memory, he recalled Lily sticking a crumpled piece of paper in the cup holder for Tyler to use. It had the address of the motel and the room numbers reserved. He scouted the cup holders until his fingers grasped the paper’s corner.

“34221 Sli-“ he rumbled off as he read the note. His eyes traveled down to the rooms.

Lily room nine.

Tyler room thirteen.

Dani room twenty-one.

And then his eyes widened in curiosity at your name finely written and a twenty-two carved next to it. Those same numbers were lightly illuminated by the light above the door.

“No shit,” Boone chuckled in disbelief.

The next few days were nothing but a blur.

The sky was like that too. Cloudy and gray. It seemed to reflect whatever was left inside of you to stir and gather into something larger as your memories of Scott overplayed in your mind with poor restraint.

God, how you wished it would just rain and swallow you whole.

It was absurd—feigning such disappointment over a man who was not your significant other but did everything in solitude to appear that way. He loved on you and left you cold with nothing to warm the thoughts of what it would be like when you saw him again.

And when you did, it was disappointing.

The brown haired woman they had brought on to help with was far too good to be mixed in with a crowd of degenerate Ivy pricks but she stayed with them longer than she should have. In their paths, it felt like they crossed yours even more than before.

You were stuck trying to avoid Scott’s entire being when his truck passed or when they stopped at the same station or motel or place as you and yours.

It started to eat at you, the avoidance.

On an early Tuesday morning, you felt the winds begin to change again. Tyler blew a tire the night before and broke his jack trying to fix it. The lot of you ended up in the parking lot of a rundown gas station as the sun began to rise when the white trucks came barreling down the road and straight into the parking lot.

Dani booed them from the stairs of the RV.

“Can’t your just leave us the hell alone?” Lily complained. It had been four days straight of interactions with them and it had caused nothing but trouble. You tried your best to stay normal but Boone kept sitting by you as if he wanted to hold your hand.

It peeved you to think he knew something was wrong.

“They just love us too much,” Dani joked as she waved at the group exiting their trucks. Kate, their newest addition, smiled in the distance.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Boone acknowledged from beside you.

“Hey Storm Par!” Dani shouted. “Go find your own fucking tornados!”

Beside their trucks, Javi scoffed and shook his head.

“What?” Kate inquired, her eyes curious as they had been the last week. “They’re just jokin’ I’m sure.”

“Nah,” Javi replied. “They don’t like us the same as we don’t like them. I thought you’d pick up on that now.”

“Well sure,” Kate laughed at the ridiculousness of it. “But there’s more to this than that.”

There’s more to chasing than a fight.

“Yeah well, tell that to them.”

“They’re just shitheads,” Scott piped up on his approach. “Think they’re better than the rest of us because they’ve got a camera in their face.”

“They’ve been fine to me,” Kate defended. She watched as the so-called tornado wranglers bounced up from their seats and headed in her direction. The man with the bandana tried to coax you to join but you refused physically. Hands outstretched and pushing the man away. It was a weak attempt, she noticed.

“It’s just all of you that rub them the wrong way.”

“Well it’s a two-way street.”

You go your way, and I’ll go mine.

Kate observed the carefree way in which everyone interacted with one another. The two other girls tugged on your arms to bring you to your feet against your will. She felt Scott shift on his feet beside her but didn’t dwell on it.

“They still got that reporter with ‘em,” she noted. “Must be an interesting bunch to write a story about.”

“When you put together people from seven different walks of life, you’re bound to get something good,” Javi agreed with her.

Scott shifted again and Kate looked up at him. He wore his sunglasses, therefore it was hard to see his eyes. But his face was set and jaw tight. His hands were dug into his pockets but the distaste rolled off of him in waves. She looked back into the direction of all of you.

Boone was running circles around the three girls as their arms were wrapped around each other. Friends. It reminded Kate too much of the ones she lost.

“Alright everyone,” Scott called out. “Five minutes and then we’re back on the road.”

The inside of the station was no different than any other. Five rows of food with a wall of freezers in the back, a broken counter with a tower of cigs and vapes waiting to be sold. Kate was reading the back of a SunChips bag when you all came in. The bell above the door sounding with a jingle, Dani and Lily’s laughter filled the space compared to the nonexistent chatter of Storm Par’s presence.

You held the door open for Tyler who gave a wink and a thanks that didn’t phase you as it would her. He was handsome, charming, if a little obnoxious. He smiled at Kate and a part of her felt like running, the other falling.

You didn’t have the same spunk the others did. After they left your vicinity the smile on your face dropped and the shoulders you wore were heavy. You passed Kate, giving her a small hello, before walking down the aisle. She peaked her head to the side of the stand.

“Find anything good?” Kate called out kindly. Her light Oklahoma twang cutting through.

You glanced at her. “If you count fruit flavored Doritos good, then maybe we have different tastes.”

She chuckled and took it as a sign to approach you.

You didn’t know much about Kate other than what Boone had dug up and what Scott had mentioned before she arrived. She was smart as a whip, a talented chaser, and one who made mistakes too.

“I don’t think those would be good in any situation.”

“We can agree there,” you mumbled. You picked up a small bag of Veggie Straws.

“So where are y’all chasing today?” Kate inquired.

“Why?” You countered. “So you can follow us around?”

“No,” she shook her head, feeling as though she offended you. “No… we can find our own. I was just wonderin’ if y’all wanted to go to this bar tonight.”

You furrowed your brows. Under the static lighting of the gas station mart, you were falling into confusion.

“Y’all as in… us?”

“Yeah,” she laughed. Kate was intrigued by what you did. The way you all risked so much for entertainment or maybe, for some of you, there was still an inch of science to be discovered.

The day after you all converged and she had a panic attack at the sight of the tornado, Kate spent the morning watching the videos posted from your channel. She was amazed by the thrill of what feelings Tyler and Boone could ooze out of the screen.

But she took a liking to the science you broke down for the average viewer. The way you taught amidst the chaos of wrangling tornadoes or shooting fireworks up the funnel.

“I thought we could all use a break,” she shrugged. “Javi and I have known each other for a long time and we used to stop there for line dancing on Thursdays.”

Well it just so happened to be a Thursday.

“And these fellas are more wound up than a goddamn toy,” she said under her breath. “I think a pitcher of beer and some good ol’ fashion Oklahoma hospitality would do us well.”

“Oh,” you replied softly. “Um, well… Ty makes a lot of those decisions so maybe you could ask him?”

Her eyes went bright. “Sure! I mean, I just thought I’d ask. They all talk about you a lot… I think they’re all a little jealous.”

The thought of what Scott or any of the other Storm Par guys said about you and your friends bristled you. Scott’s face met you in dreams to remind you that he was never too far away and whatever strife you had with him and his work was always going to get in the way.

“Do they?” You commented. You could hear Javi in the aisle over talking to Scott about equipment.

“Mhm.”

“How charming,” you moved down the aisle to the other products but Kate didn’t follow. She looked in your direction but behind you.

Javi and Scott were now at the end of the aisle beside you, the former shuffling behind you with a small ‘excuse me’ while the other stood there for a brief moment. You looked over your shoulder at him and his glasses were now gone, meeting your gaze for seconds too long.

“I was just inviting them to come with us,” Kate informed Javi who turned, eyeing you as your attention was distracted.

“Well I hope they can dance,” Javi said with a glee he always had.

Kate said your name which brought your attention back. You could feel Scott lingering, his stance imposing on the small aisle of snacks. You could always feel him around—a curse from caring about everyone too much. He wasn’t a small man or one who could hide in the shadows; he towered over the short shelves. He was as gigantic as a comic book hero even if he was far from one.

The invitation caught Tyler’s attention when the conversation became too loud to go unnoticed. He appeared out of thin air at the other end of the aisle by the door.

Like an old western standoff, you were caught in the center.

You wanted the bags of chips to swallow you whole. It was bad enough that you were stuck between the world you loved and the man who made it more complicated. It was bad enough that Tyler would certainly say yes to Kate’s proposal because he had been sneaking glances at her for a week.

He had shit-eating grin on his face as he walked closer to the group of you. His curious eyes monitoring the way Scott’s body was a little too close to yours.

A part of him believed they were cornering you for something about storms. He wouldn’t put it past them for their sordid work in the hellish treatment of victims but hey, who was he to assume? You clutched the bag in your hands hard enough it could pop.

“We all good over here?” Tyler questioned Scott specifically. It was the only other guy he could size up to and play out a macho-man persona. “I don’t think I need to tell y’all that my team is my team, off limits to your work.”

Scott laughed, truly laughed at Tyler. Javi and Kate’s heads whipped around to Scott who rested an arm bent on the shelves beside him. It was far too close to you and it gave you flashbacks to his nasty exit. Tyler focused on Scott in a labored calculation. He might have been the one they all liked the least.

“Did I say somethin’ funny?”

“Yeah,” Scott replied. His voice flat as always. “You did.”

Tyler looked around at Kate, Javi, and yourself who frowned.

“Care to explain what?”

Scott held back an amused smile as his eyes creased at the edges. You looked up at him with a warning. To your surprise, Scott looked back.

“No,” he responded curtly while looking at you. Off limits.

Kate sensed it. She did. There was something there—the air heavy like a storm.

“We’re gonna go to a dance bar in Enid tonight. I was just askin’ if all y’all would like to join us,” Kate pitched in to Tyler who slowly removed his gaze from Scott to her. His eyes let up softly.

“Dance bar? I don’t take any of these fellas for the dancing kind.”

“Don’t you know we’re all from here?” Javi asked him and Tyler didn’t. You did but Tyler didn’t know much about any of them except their high degrees of achievement and late-stage superior fraternity behavior.

“So you’re tellin’ me that Mr. Stick-up-his-ass here can two step like it’s his birthday?”

“Oh you ain’t never seen Scott dance,” Javi laughed loudly and gathered the rest of the wranglers to the aisle. “We can dance you into next week!”

“Alright.” Tyler nodded his head. One night wouldn’t hurt. “I’m good with it as long as it’s fine with Doc.”

Shit. They all gazed at you with bated breath. You could feel their beady eyes piercing; Scott's blistering eyes on the side of your head prompting you to try.

The last time you attempted to have a good evening it left you reeling. That was six days ago and you still replayed Scott’s words through your mind. Over and over and over and over again.

You’re entitled.

Stay in your lane.

You cared about everyone else too much.

Yet your lanes always converged. And you had the right to be entitled as the name suggested. Doc. You were overly qualified to be there and whatever flew your way, you deserved it.

And fuck, if you didn’t care about everyone else, you’d be a shell of a human. So hollow that your world would collapse. By the laws of physics, you’d stay in motion. You’d keep going even if he pulled you backwards a million times.

You looked at Tyler, tossing your bag of chips in his direction.

“I’d love to go dancin’.”

Boone screeched a happy whistle and yelled to save him a dance. Scott seethed at those words as if he had a claim otherwise. It was an agreement to keep it quiet for the sake of your jobs, your sanity. But he was covetous in his belongings and for whatever belief he had, you were his in all but name.

His actions made it difficult to fully manifest into reality. When you keep a locked door locked, you don’t deserve to enjoy it for free. It ate away at him differently than the anxiety of hurt ate at you.

He wanted to freely give himself to you–to be the man you'd see on dark nights in the solace of a bedroom or wherever you could find respite.

It was tough to be the person you thought you were. It was much easier to be a coward.

The dance bar was packed full of locals and tourists alike. You couldn’t place the pull Enid had on people who weren’t from there but it was alive the moment you walked through the door.

Boone whistled at the sight of everything.

“I gotta hand it to ‘em. They sure can pick a place.”

“Have you never been dancin’ before?” You questioned, linking your arm in the space offered by him. He gave a cheeky smile and tipped his cowboy hat with a free finger.

“Oh, don’t underestimate me, Doc. Just cause you ain’t seen these moves don’t mean I ain’t got them.”

“Maybe I’ve been blessed. If it’s the same way you hold a camera, I can’t imagine your feet.”

“Uh huh,” he egged you on. “Keep it comin’. I have a whole night to prove you wrong.”

You scrunched your nose at him. At the moment, a series of rapid clicks sounded behind you. You and Boone peaked behind you at Ben, the reporter, snapping a photo.

“Sorry,” he apologized bashfully. “I haven’t been able to capture much of you.” He spoke to you, not Boone. “I want to feature more than just the storms.”

“Well you’re gonna get a whole lot more than storms tonight, Ben!” Boone cheered as Dani joined him on his other side.

You got the sudden sense of deja vu to your college days. Those undergraduate nights where your friends would drag you to the bar and everything was far too loud and over exciting. It was beer and booze and feet that fumbled. There was nothing over exhilarating about going out on a weekday but now, past those prime days, you felt a simmer of that feeling come alive inside of you.

Against your better judgment, the idea that Scott and you were crossing paths in a public setting beyond your professions was exciting. It sent thrills down you when it shouldn’t.

He had done nothing to remedy what he said—nor you for that matter. You kept your distance by sitting in the truck while stopping or sleeping in the RV with Dexter and Boone instead of a motel. Every time in the last week that your lines had met, you kept them parallel.

Tonight would be the hardest to not intersect.

“Can I buy you all a round?” Ben offered kindly. His mannerisms were foreign in the West. “For an exciting week, I suppose.”

“Who are we to say no, Ben?” Tyler slung an arm around his shoulder. Dexter and Lily flanked him at his sides.

Your group settled at a table in the back of the bar by the darts and pool table. Dexter challenged Dani to a rematch of a game they had settled a couple of weeks ago, and the rest of you nursed or chugged the beer that Ben had bought. You were the former. Sticking your attention on the foam at the top as it slowly made its way down the glass to become nonexistent.

“So,” Boone cleared his throat beside you as Dani, Tyler, and Ben looked over the photos the journalist had taken thus far.

“Is there a reason your attitude has been shit lately?”

You peered into the glass. Fingers tapping the sides of it.

“I was editing the last video and if anyone wanted a tornado to actually kill them, viewers might be convinced it’d be you.”

“Oh come on,” you scoffed. “I am sure my bad day didn’t ruin the video.”

“I didn’t say ruin, only tainted it. But what’s goin’ on?” He pointed and probed at your temple invasively. “The wheels are turning. I can hear them.”

“It’s nothin’, Boone. Just… girl stuff.”

“My favorite!” He bellowed like a King. Dani transitioned from her conversation to yours.

“What’s your favorite?”

“Girl stuff,” he mimicked. “Just askin’ about little miss sad is all.”

Dani nodded, taking a sip of her beer.

“Is it about your tinder date?”

“My what?” You showed deep confusion. “What date?”

“Last week,” she said casually. “I could hear your headboard against my wall. Jesus,” Dani laughed. “I didn’t know you had it in you Doc.”

Ben and Tyler’s conversation ended and they eavesdropped from the end of the table. At the other end of the bar, Storm Par, in casual clothing, entered.

You blanched at her words. You didn’t even realize.

“Oh-ho!” She pounded a fist on the table. “It was a tinder guy! Ha!”

Boone went suspiciously quiet beside you as she kept on.

“I didn’t want to say anything then but it makes sense. You’ve been on edge ever since. Maybe you should call him—“

“No,” you shook your head at her. Your hands left the glass and settled in your lap.

“He wasn’t good? Oh—“

“No!” You defended too fast and awkwardly. Boone glanced at Tyler who became far too interested in his co-pilot’s silence.

Dani lowered her voice with concern. “Was it too, you know, rough? Did he hurt you?”

“Oh my God!” You exclaimed at the invasion of privacy. “Can you not?”

“Sorry!” She held up her hands. “I didn’t hear anything else if that’s what you’re worried about. I don’t want to know your kinks.”

“Oh fuck me,” you wailed. “Dani, can you please stop?”

“Ok, ok!” She backed off and sat in her seat. “I’m just trying to help!”

“I know,” you breathed in. Tyler took a large sip of his beer before putting it back on down the table.

“We know him?” He questioned, eying Boone move uncomfortably in his seat. You looked at him and gaped for a millisecond before shaking your head.

“No. No, I don’t think so.”

Boone glanced at Tyler again and he knew you lied. He didn’t think it was Boone—that would be a nonstarter because you weren’t his type. It wasn’t Dexter because he was married and Ben was not interested in women.

He knew you didn’t swing for Dani or Lily so it was someone else. Dani already deduced it was a man so any other woman was out of the question.

“Well maybe you just need to find someone else to take your mind off of it?” Dani suggested.

“Yeah. Maybe.” You bit at the inside of your cheek.

“A lot of fuss over a one night stand,” Tyler put an arm over the back on Ben’s seat. “Must’ve been somethin’ if you’re down and out about it.”

You downed the beer before you in a flash.

“Must’ve,” Dani agreed with a hum.

“Anyone want another?” You asked, shifting out of your seat. The heels of your boots clacked onto the floor with a bounce.

Everyone shook their heads no and let you leave the table.

The music was pumping through the speakers loudly and the bar was full. You spotted Kate with a couple of the Storm Par guys doing a shot—all of them looking like regular Joe’s in their tees and flannels. Not far from the edge of the bar Scott and Javi waited for pitchers to be filled.

It was rare you saw him out of his “uniform.” Clad in a dark blue tee and his own flannel, the only thing that separated him from the rest was the way he looked. When he tried, Scott was movie-star handsome. The kind of person that’d be having girls write their numbers on his hand at the end of the night.

His presence was unfair to the other men around—except for Tyler on the occasion. It was a shame he was an asshole.

Instead of going toward Scott and Javi as you might have a week ago, you took an empty spot beside Kate who cheerfully greeted you. She waved down the bartender, asking for another shot and to refill your glass.

Tyler watched you walk away. He couldn’t see the decision making in your eyes or hear the thoughts in your mind, yet he had his own to make assumptions.

“Boone,” he called to his friend who sat quietly. Tyler watched you stand next to Kate and Ben’s gaze followed.

“Yeah?”

“Why you bein’ so quiet?”

“I’m n-not,” he tripped over his words. “I’m not.”

“You sure we don’t know him?”

Tyler clocked each of the Storm Par men. None of them looked immediately taken by you standing there, itching to get their hands on you, but then he let himself wander to the end of the bar.

And he locked in.

“I don’t know him,” Boone choked a laugh. “How would I know? She’d tell Dani before me.”

“I didn’t say she told you.”

“Well I’m just implying.”

Tyler turned to Ben who was trying to copy Tyler’s movements.

“Ben,” Tyler tipped his head toward you. “Tell me what you see.”

Ben cleared his throat like he was being interrogated. “Well they just got a second round of shots and the bartender said it’s on the house. She must recognize us.”

“Ok,” Tyler pointed. “And down there? What can we conclude, Mr. London.”

“Oh, well… it seems not everyone is out for a good time.” It was Scott’s frown that told him that.

“You sure?” Tyler watched as Dani blanked. Her eyes suddenly went wide and worrisome at the thought.

“No!” She objected. “No fucking way. Not on my watch, Tyler. Nope!”

“What?” Ben asked frantically. “What’s wrong?”

“Tyler thinks it’s one of them,” Dani pointed to Javi and Scott.

“It is one of them,” as though there were options. “It’s the fucking stick in the mud.”

Dani scowled and physically rejected the idea. Ben watched what Tyler did as Scott, the taller of the two men and the one facing your direction at the bar, couldn’t keep his eyes off you as you laughed at whatever Kate said.

You started to leave and he averted his gaze until your back was to him. You didn’t even look at him when you passed him and Javi.

“Shit,” Dani muttered as you got closer. Boone closed his eyes with a sigh before nodding at the rest of the table.

“It is him,” he admitted and Dani slapped a hand on her face. “I saw him.”

“You saw them?”

“No, him. Leaving her motel room last week.”

“Oh Lord,” Dani nearly wailed. “She’s been sad over him?”

“He is quite attractive,” Ben defended. Dani slapped his arm harshly.

“Dammit don’t say that!”

Tyler sat in contemplation. He had been your friend for years now and knew when things got rough, it could be difficult to overcome them. Everyone had gone through countless breakups and one night stands and situationships that didn’t work out and after a bit, you’d be ok.

Yet he knew it was different somehow.

Even though he despised Storm Par and had nothing but horrible interactions with Scott, there must have been something there for you to cling on to.

And anger had a distant cousin: jealousy.

When you came back to the table, everyone was quiet and observing.

“What?” You questioned each of them.

“Nothin’” Dani said quickly.

“Oh really?”

“Do you wanna dance?” Tyler asked you abruptly. You could see on his face that there was another thought lingering below the surface.

“Right now?”

“Yeah,” he hopped off his stool and motioned toward the group of people dancing to the rhythm of the music. Most were couples, a few scatterings of friend groups around.

Tyler held out his hand to you.

“Don’t tell me a PhD can’t dance, Doc.”

You rolled your eyes, taking his hand in yours. It wasn’t Scott’s, but it would do for now.

“Of course I can, hillbilly. I just do it a bit more sophisticated than you.”

Dani and Boone howled in laughter as you let Tyler take you to the dance floor, spinning you around twice before settling to the score. You danced sweetly with one another as the others looked on from their seats.

Tyler Owens always looked proud to be in the company of his friends. Each plucked from their own little obscure corner of the world: a YouTube daredevil, an amateur late-age scientist, an ex-pr firm reject, a tech fair winner, and you—the science bros internet girlfriend who was a professor of physics.

He adored each of you in a special way that made everyday worth living.

It hurt him that you couldn’t be honest about an action so natural. If Scott had been a one time thing or a many time thing, he would learn to accept it if it meant you would be happy.

He’d want the same in return should a situation arise.

“You know,” he cleared his throat as the song sped up in tempo but came back down. “We don’t really keep secrets from each other here.”

You sighed, looking away from Tyler. Everyone was at peace on the floor before the real dancing began and you tried not to peak at the table as Storm Par settled at the table beside your friends.

“I’m not keeping secrets. I’m not revealing information.”

“Ah!” Tyler chuckled. “Ok, fine… but if I said that even if you didn’t tell us and kept whatever you have with whoever it is going, that we would all be ok with it, that wouldn’t matter?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you said frankly. “I think—“

“That he’s staring at us right now.”

Tyler met your eyes with purity. There was no cruelty or hatred in them for you to think he was being a jerk about it.

You opened your mouth to speak but he denied you the chance.

“There’s a lot of things I could say about it, Doc. A lot. You could’ve picked a nicer dude, not a leech to our operations, someone who cares about people…” he trailed off when he saw your demeanor fall far from his jokes.

“Boone saw him,” he clarified. “He put the pieces together but didn’t want to say anything. Not his place, I guess.”

“No,” you said in soft resignation.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“How long?”

“Not long after we met them,” you confessed. About a year ago. Tyler whistled, his hand inched a bit lower on your back but it was still respectful, you didn’t mind.

“And something he did, said, isn’t sitting right?”

“Yeah… it’s not.”

“Do you want my advice?”

You stayed silent as he continued on. He let the music play out as you swayed. Javi and Kate joined on the floor and their giggles were noticeable from the short distance between you.

“Guys like him… they’re complicated. And I get it if you don’t want to hear it but I’ve been around guys like him my whole life. They can be selfish and unnerving and stupid. It’s like they’re trying to prove to the world that they’re fit to be in it.”

You couldn��t disagree.

“When they find a place that accepts them, they’ll rise to the top of it and not know what it’s like to be at the bottom anymore. They forget about people like us.”

“I think I changed my mind—“ you started to pull away but he tugged you back.

“I’m not telling you to let him go. He just hasn’t been put in a place of uncertainty in a long, long time.”

“He said I was entitled.”

“He’s a prick and I will beat his ass if you want me to.”

You smiled. “No. It’s ok.”

“I will do it, don’t underestimate me,” he smirked. “And by the way he watches you, that uncertainty is you.”

“What do you mean by it?”

“I think you might scare him a little, Doc.”

You did.

Scott’s heart rate rose significantly from the time he entered the bar, saw you, and had to watch you dance with Tyler. Those same words that replayed in your mind the last week surfaced as soon as he sat in the truck and the door was shut.

He was an ass. It was a part of him that he couldn’t escape from no matter how hard he tried. His memories delicately held onto the hours you shared where he felt he could be someone else.

Tyler kept glancing in the direction in which Scott sat as though to rub salt in the wound.

“Can we try not to frown today?” Kate saddled up in the seat beside him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile.”

“Normal people don’t walk around grinning.”

“No,” she kicked her feet. “But they do allow themselves to have fun.”

“I am.”

She blew raspberries as Javi poured the beer into their glasses. “You are a tough nut.”

“Never not one,” Javi agreed. “Just loosen up, man. The world is bigger than what we do.”

Scott breathed in a frustrated sigh. “I’m fine,” he pressed.

“Not since I’ve met you,” Kate suggested. She looked out into the sea of people. “Maybe we can just all take it easy tonight. Drink some beer, dance, and then find you someone to take home.”

Scott’s voice was muffled by the beer he drank but he shook off her suggestion. He didn’t even really know this girl who appeared to be a phenom of weather patterns. All she had done this week was disrupt their workings and fall on his irritation scale.

“I like the sound of that!” Javi encouraged. “When’s the last time you been laid, huh? 2015?”

Scott didn’t entertain it. He looked out onto the dance floor and saw you swaying with Tyler—a mix of concern and thankfulness levied on your face.

“Ok, ok… blink once if before or twice if after,” Javi continued at Kate’s amusement. “I’m serious, man. We’re gonna hook you up, alright? Kate’s got a six sense for pickin’ the right ones.”

Javi took his turn but the song changed to a favorite of Kate’s and his eyes lit up at the same time hers did. Call it a sign from the heavens, but Scott had been saved from the humiliation of his friend.

Kate dragged Javi to the floor not far from you and Tyler and it gave him protection to keep looking.

Tyler spun you close to Javi and Kate.

“We all have to face our fears,” Tyler told you. “If we don’t, they’re gonna prevent us from what we need in our lives.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that a book deal might be in your future? Words of Wisdom by everyone’s favorite tornado wrangler.” You emphasized with the sparkle of your fingers.

“That ain’t a half bad idea.”

“I’m full of great ideas.”

“Then start thinkin’ of one to remedy this. I love ya, I do. But if you let his shell break you, it will be a hell of a lot harder to handle the road.”

“Thank you, Tyler,” you said earnestly. “I wasn’t sure what any of you would say about it.”

“Well,” he racked his brain for the thought. “You remember that girl Dani was seein’ from Kansas? She might not have been the most perfect but she was perfect for Dani when she needed her. And maybe that’s Scott for you.”

The sound ended abruptly and the speakers let out a deafening tone. A bartender came onto the surround sound to kick off the line dancing that only Tyler could hype up more. Kate and Javi found themselves beside you both and everyone that could fit on the wooden floor ascended.

Tyler clapped his hands together as he stationed himself near the first line. You weren’t too confident in yourself even if you had been doing this since you could walk, so you settled in the spot behind him. Kate was jovial to stand next to Tyler. Her eyes twinkled and you thought back on his words.

Perfect for what was needed.

“OoO, my man!” Javi clapped Scott’s back in surprise as he joined on the floor.

Dani, Boone, and Lily ran to stand next to you, so Javi and Scott took the positions behind you. Dexter cheered everyone on from the table with Ben. The latter took his camera out with his finger on the shutter.

“Don’t step on our shoes now, you hear me?” Lily screeched over her shoulder to Javi and Scott. Feeling emboldened by the two glasses of beer he downed in a record time, Scott ran a hand through his hair.

“Don’t worry about it!” He shouted back.

“Ok Mr. MIT, come to show us how it’s done!” Lily drawled. She tugged on your arm—having missed the conversation prior. Dani’s smile dropped off her face fast.

“I say we place a bet!” She yelled over the music that was getting so loud. Your ears rung as the lights began to spin in different colors. Javi heard the bet and drew closer to Lily.

She pulled your arm with her, sticking you beside Scott. He put his hands on his hips and his elbow knocked your other arm.

“Twenty that he’ll fall on his face,” she suggested.

Javi looked at Scott and contemplated the idea. Scott was distracted by you standing there. He just stared, like a fish out of water in a town not far from one he visited as a kid.

You made him feel like a fish out of water.

“Deal!” You heard Javi agree and before Lily could shake his hand in a deal, you piped up.

“I bet with Javi!” She peeped at you surprised. “Forty says he can!”

Scott never had someone put trust in him like that. It was a damn good thing his mother taught him more than just math and science.

“Ok!” She yelled back, shaking both Javi and your hand.

Before you turned to take your spot as the music started, you took Scott in.

“Don’t disappoint me!” You shouted.

After the last few days, he couldn’t will himself to.

He shook his head, letting a smile grow to his eyes. Dani had never seen it before.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, baby!”

And Scott danced his fucking ass off.

You weren’t sure where it ended or began, but you could feel it coming in your bones.

Not the sounds of laughter in a confined space or the blaring of music—the rapid, unpredictable nature of dedication a person could not admit. It was a funnel cloud below the truck; a spiraling tire on the side of the road blasting its radius toward you.

The cool air at night hit your body like a bucket of water. The squealing of the door to the bar rattled at the force you used to push but it didn’t slam closed as you expected.

Two minutes ago, you were breathing heavily on the dance floor. The stomping rhythm of boots on wood turning your mind blank with every kick and turn. You had found the peace within the steps and let it drive you to a foundation.

Scott had gladly proved them all wrong—enjoying the surprised excitement that emitted from both his and your own team at the way he was able to, standing above six feet, move the way he did. He caught your smile more than once, a resurgence of hope filled him.

At the break of the song, you hung onto Lily’s arm, pointing to the door.

“I need some air,” you nearly heaved.

So you went for the door and he debated on whether to follow but in the business you took up, there was always the possibility of never having another moment.

And if he didn’t strike his fear now, he’d never do it.

“Hey,” he called out to you as the music started up again but you were too far gone. Already halfway to the door by the time he had made a decision. He tried calling out to you again, except his track was cut off by a sweaty Boone.

“Ex-“

“Don’t fucking hurt her,” Boone panted. His eyes pleaded for his friend, for you. “Don’t do it. Please.”

“I’m not—“

“You say you’re not but I’m sure you’ve said it before. But think about it, dude…” Boone got up in Scott’s personal space. “If a tornado hit this building right now and you were the only one left, would you be ok with how this ends?”

Scott saw the earnest plea in Boone’s call. He placed a hard, firm hand on Boone’s shoulder.

“I appreciate it, man.”

It was the first time Scott was decent to him.

Scott left him standing there near the entrance as he caught the door before it slammed closed. Outside, you stood in a cool down position in the orange-yellow glow of the parking lot.

His heart was beating out of his chest. It hadn’t felt that way in a week.

He wasn’t sure if you knew he had followed you. You didn’t turn around and didn’t acknowledge him as the silence overtook. Crickets strung their chords and cars whirled by on the road.

Scott leaned against the brick building under the neon lights with a knee bent.

“Do I scare you?”

You broke the silence after minutes had passed. You kept your back to him but he looked up, folding his arms across his broad chest.

If you turned around, you feared you wouldn’t be able to keep it together.

“Don’t lie to me,” you tried not to sound like a beggar. “Do I scare you?”

“Yeah,” he stated frankly. “Yeah you do.”

“Why?”

You could hear him breathe out. You imagined him looking around for an answer.

“There’s a million reasons why.”

“You can’t name one?” You took the chance to glance at him. His face was half illuminated by a moody blue glow of the neon sign.

“I can name plenty,” he reassured. “I just don’t know what’s too personal to say.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“Fine,” his fingers tapped on his bicep. “You scare me because this game we play doesn’t always feel like a game to me.”

The sex. The getting together in the middle of the night to whisper sweet nothings and cherish a deep connection to feel like it’s nothing the next day.

“You scare me because you’re smart and know what you’re doing when we’re just getting our heads straight.”

Your head tilted to the side at his honesty.

“You scare me because I feel something that maybe I shouldn’t. Because by some stupid chance I can’t have you, someone else will and I can’t imagine seeing them with you.”

Your chest tightened.

“I’m selfish to think that way,” he nodded. “You’re right about that.”

“I was talking about your work,” you confessed. “I think what you do is selfish.”

He didn’t say anything to that because he knew it was also true. Everything he sold to people was a fat lie to make money for a man who already had enough.

“You care about people too much,” he repeated. “And I don’t have enough people to put the care that I have into them.”

“You’re an asshole,” you told him and he nodded again.

“I’d have to agree.”

“You made me feel like shit.”

“I can’t take it back.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “For what I said and didn’t do. I was an asshole and you didn’t deserve it.”

His moody blues were turning the sky sad. A raindrop hit the ground between you.

“I don’t think I deserve your forgiveness,” he continued. “I’ve never been nice to your friends, or you, when we’re on the road. I dislike the way Tyler danced with you—made me want to knock his fucking teeth out but I figured you’d hate me more if I did.”

“He did that on purpose, you know.”

He shook his head, looking off into the grassland beyond the bar. You felt like you were being laid onto an altar for a choice. One that seemed easy but was hard, and one that was hard but the devil claimed it was easy.

“Figures,” he mumbled. “But I deserved it.”

“We’d have to agree there too.”

He looked up at you again. Arms still crossed, he undid them and extended a hand to you as an offering. Scott was not shocked by the hesitation in your steps.

“I think you have a lot of work to do, Scott.”

“I do.”

“And I don’t want to think this is all grandstanding to get into my bed.”

“It’s not.”

“I’m not one to give second chances,” you told him and he dropped his hand in his lap. “But I don’t think what we were doing constitutes as a first chance either.”

You walked toward him at your own volition. The gravel harsh under your heels, you settled with your toes at his. And you fiddled with the edges of the opening to his flannel no different than the collar in the diner.

“This is the only chance I’ll give you.”

Another raindrop fell.

“I don’t intend on wasting it.” Scott’s eyes flicked between your lips and eyes.

In the laws of physics, there is one to triumph above the rest.

The gravitational law states that if a particle exists, it will attract others to them unwillingly—it is simply the natural state of existence.

The pull is magnetic; impossible to pass by the will of your mind, body, or soul. It tugged at the heartstrings roughly. A bridge that connected people from everywhere to be in one singular place at the right time.

Scott’s gravitational pull was too powerful to withstand. It pulled every bit of you into him without remorse—it was blue, red, and the colors of the world within to bloom into spectacles you’d only see when your eyes were closed.

Scott’s hands found purchase on your waist, drawing you into his pull. One of your hands remained on his chest. His erratic heart beat no differently than your own and the other hand grasped his forearm.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered in the night. “I’m sorry.”

You rested your forehead on his. “I know.”

The strength of his pull was strong. Yet it was not strong enough for you to pull your head back.

“Don’t prove I’m right,” you wanted him. He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Can I be selfish one more time?” He inquired with a gleam in his eyes. Scott ran his tongue over his lips expectantly.

“Oh,” you feigned innocence. “Well, I don’t know if that would—“

He cut you off as he brought his lips to yours, kissing you sweetly. His lips were warm and smelt of a faint cheap beer. Another raindrop fell and this time it hit your face. You ignored it.

You gripped onto his shirt with a fist as he deepened the kiss. Taking one of his hands from you, he cupped the side of your neck to position you as he pleased.

It started to rain in Enid.

In the rain, the laws of physics didn’t defy themselves. The rain soaked into your clothes and into his dark locks to drip onto his face more so than yours. The blue of the neon sign growing hot instead of cold.

You broke away from him, tracing the lines of his face.

“Don’t prove I’m right,” you repeated.

And he didn’t.

A/N: thanks for reading! As always comments, reblog, and likes are always appreciated. I love hearing from all of you and your reactions motivate us greatly! Also ignore the spelling mistakes… I didn’t have time to edit.

#Scott x reader #Scott miller x reader #Scott twisters #scott (twisters)#twisters #twisters 2024 #x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #david corenswet #Scott x fem!reader #twisters has overtaken my life #also this is a honker of a fic and I do not apologize

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thevillainswhore · 2 months ago

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Familiar Ghosts

Pairing: Dark!Benjamin Poindexter x F!Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: How you thought you could end your relationship with Dex was a mystery to him. Didn’t you know he would always come back for you? Didn’t you know that you belonged to him?

Warnings: Ex-boyfriend!dex, toxicity, dark content, stalking, smut, dubious consent, a little somnophillia?, oral (fem receiving)

Author’s Note: divider by @saradika-graphics. hi!! very very nervous to post this, but the hyper fixation of bullseye has been strong and I can’t get him out of my head. Hope you enjoy x

Benjamin Poindexter. A veteran soldier. A former FBI agent. And most recently, your ex-boyfriend.

It had been a volatile breakup. Dex was intense, while you were breezy and happy-go-lucky. Where you were outgoing, Dex was a fortress of solitude, who put you on a pillar of excellence. He made you a deity. Something so spiritually powerful it scared you. In Dex’s eyes, you could do no wrong. He would follow you to the ends of the earth if it was what you wished.

His expectations weren’t attainable. Dex spoke of you as though you belonged with the higher powers religion based their ideals upon. He treated you like a fallen angel, simply too beautiful for this world.

Dex was fervent in his adoration of you, in making you a pinnacle of his life. It was in the way he catalogued your facial expressions as they flashed across your face, knowing how you felt before you did. Like he could read your mind. It was proven in the obsession of keeping you safe, making sure he knew where you were at all times. He’d spend any spare moments he had with you, because as he had put it so many times, he felt like he couldn’t breathe without you.

That’s why you had ended it, you had told him.

For you, it became too much.

You had tried so delicately to end the relationship. With sweet words and appreciation of the time spent together. But Dex had taken it like a bullet to the heart no matter how honeyed your apologies poured out. His eyes had darkened, his breaths had become unsteady, his fists had tightened against the upholstery of your sofa.

Dex was a storm, ready to wreak total

destruction. And you weren’t ready for it.

Your first mistake was leaving your window open.

Naive as you were, it worked out in Dex’s favour. Of course, he could’ve entered your apartment whether you took better care to lock up or not. Though, you made it a hell of a lot easier for him to gain access and for that, he was grateful.

See, Dex told himself internally. She does care about you. She’s still thinking of you. She’s practically letting you in.

It was simple enough for Dex to explain away the doubts lingering in his mind. His moral compass wasn’t broken, you just made it work better. You guided him. Just like you paved the way for him to enter your home while you were sleeping.

The invitation was there.

And how you looked so beautiful, chest slowly rising and falling. The silk of your camisole melted into your skin, the white material clinging to the curves of your breasts as your nipples stood to attention. It was a sight for sore eyes.

Luckily, Dex’s eyes had seen too many horrors and you were the balm to heal his wounds.

The day you left him, Dex felt not only his heart shatter, but also his mind. You were his buoy in an open endless sea, a beacon in the night calling him home to safety. And a man so reliant on his North Star, who was suddenly deprived of that shining light, was a dangerous one.

Frayed nerves. Destructive tendencies. A whole lot to lose.

It was unfair. An injustice of Dex’s love you’d so easily tossed aside.

But it was okay. Dex wasn’t angry. You were just confused. Taken aback by the sincerity of his affections and how deeply they ran. You weren’t used to it, always settling for less than you deserved.

Men hadn’t always been kind to you. He’d know of course. Dex had always watched over you. He couldn’t remember what life was like before you graced him with your presence.

So it was time for Dex to prove that he knew what you needed. What was best for you.

Your second mistake was your choice in nightwear.

It wasn’t anything different to what you’d usually wear on a night where the breeze danced through the voils of your window, goosebumps echoing along your soft skin.

But how silly of you to leave yourself so uncovered when Dex had warned you an inconsequential amount of times about the monsters that lurked in the night.

Luckily, you needn’t worry. Dex would always be around to protect you.

Stood in your bedroom, Dex inhaled. Honey and caramel incense, the lotion you lathered into your body after a shower. How he’d missed it dearly. How he could drown in your scent and drag you with him to keep you for eternity.

It had been too long. A lifetime without you it felt. The muscle in his jaw ticked while he watched you rest so peacefully. Why weren’t you itching with unease in the middle of the night like he was? How could you be so content without him by your side?

It wouldn’t do. Dex needed you to crave him as he did you. He needed you to feel the same raw ache that had created a hole in his chest.

Footsteps light, Dex crept towards the edge of your bed, sheets wrapped around you lightly. You were a deep sleeper, your situational awareness on mute in the early hours.

It was why the phantom touch of his fingers, ghosting over the inside of your upper thigh went unnoticed by you.

Plump. Buttery. So damn delicate. A shudder ran down Dex’s spine. His first touch of you in a while. Like an addict finally reuniting with its downfall.

Trails of constellations etched into your skin by Dex’s fingertips, each manoeuvre carefully crafted in his head. He swallowed roughly, his mind was finally starting to quieten.

Becoming more comfortable, Dex’s hands grew more desperate, more inclined to grasp instead of trace. To squeeze rather than brush.

It was no surprise that he was quick to lift the sheets covering your form, hiding your beauty away from him. Your legs were already spread apart slightly and so resting his palms in the divot behind each of your knees, Dex opened you up further, revealing the absence of any underwear as the camisole rode up your body.

They’re so uncomfortable, Ben. I need to feel free while I’m sleeping, you know? Dex could hear the sweet melody of your voice replaying back to him in his own head. He had appreciated it back then, how you so effortlessly bent to his will when his hand smoothed over your bare hip. How pliable you became when his cock found itself growing hard against the rump of your ass and begged for your tight, warm hole to accommodate him.

And so how he appreciated it now, no barrier to keep him away; no unnecessary layer to stop him from reclaiming what was rightfully his.

It was almost like you knew Dex would come back.

Swallowing the saliva that was rapidly gathering over his tongue, Dex swallowed. The pretty sight of your soft folds, framed with the trimmed hair over your pubic bone overwhelmed him. He had gone without you for so long.

Dex gently secured his hands in the crease between your thigh and crotch on each side of your legs, his thumbs naturally resting next to your hole. He couldn’t help but smile when you shifted, your pussy twitching as though to say welcome home.

Your slumber wouldn’t last long, Dex knew that — not with what he came to do. But he was tired of holding back, riddled with restlessness the longer he held out.

And he had reached the end of his tether. The band had snapped.

Wasting no more time, Dex rested himself on his stomach between your legs, opening your pussy up to him, and finally burying his nose into your sex to breathe you in.

“Fuck,” Dex’s voice was a growl in the calm night. “You smell just as good as I remember.”

From then, Dex’s focus was infiltrated. No longer did the honking cars outside your apartment cause him to grind his teeth. No more did the harsh lights of the city billboards make his eyes sting with harshness. In that moment, Dex’s mind liquefied in the recesses of the heaven between your thighs. His alter.

His arms tightened around your legs, hands rested against your stomach as his tongue rolled over your sex. Reunited at last.

Dex groaned into you, the harsh sound no doubt vibrated against you. It didn’t matter that your muscles jumped in awareness or if your chest began to heave, nothing would stop him now.

Even as he started to grind himself against the mattress without shame, Dex still held the immaculate precision of his tongue lathering over your folds, the tip flicking against what he knew was your sensitive clit.

While his body may well be greedy, he was at least loyal to a fault — destined to always belong to you.

“B-Ben?” Your voice trembled and oh, how Dex loved you all the more for it. “Is that you?”

Dex sighed contentedly. You still knew his touch. “Yeah. It’s me, sweetheart.”

He felt the muscles in your legs become more stiff all of a sudden. “What—What are you doing—?” Though you tried to sound accusatory, your exclamations couldn’t help but be airy — light with what could only be pleasure. “H-How did you even get in?”

“Shh. Don’t worry about that. Just relax, you’re safe with me.”

Dex continued his motions, beginning to suction his lips around your engorged clit while he held you tight when you began to squirm.

Your breaths came out more panicked, more rushed. You tried to get away. “Ben, I don’t—This isn’t right, please stop—“

“You don’t want that.” Dex pressed kisses over the meat of your thighs. “You want me. You can’t hide it, just look how much you’re showing me you need this.”

Because while you may have tried to run away, your body remembered Dex perfectly. You couldn’t shy away from the wetness leaking out of your pulsing hole. Couldn’t ignore how your juices had coated the skin of Dex’s chin.

And as much as you tossed and turned, attempting to shake off the physical hold Dex had on you, you hadn’t even realised how you began to follow his mouth. How your hips gyrated in rhythm with each stroke of his tongue, purring for more.

“No—,” tears rolled down your cheeks in rivulets, your head shaking from side to side against the pillow. “Ben, stop—“

“You thought you could just leave me, huh? Thought you could call it quits and end us?” Your cries went ignored as Dex became more cruel with each suck, his fingers beginning to circle your entrance. “That’s not the way this works, sweetheart. You're mine.”

Your thighs began to shake just as Dex pushed two fingers in at once, merciless and brutal, until his knuckles sat against you.

“Always have been.”

Beginning to grind them, Dex curved his fingers against your walls, making sure to hit the spot he hadn’t forgotten.

“Always will be.”

He was ruthless, brutal with each undulation of his fingers, barely removing them from your pussy. You couldn’t even keep your whimpers down, each whine and moan like ecstasy to Dex.

Maybe it was unorthodox to gift you enough pleasure that you would forget any previous hesitancy. To make you remember how good you had it with Dex. But he didn’t care enough to let it hold space in his mind.

Dex would do whatever it took to get you back.

He looked up at you, hair tousled, eyes wide with fear and yet a spark of something else.

It was your third mistake to unveil the shy excitement in your eyes.

Your body still shook, your nervous system rewiring itself as your walls contracted around his fingers with the upcoming gratification of an orgasm. But beneath the terror, the horror of Dex’s actions, he could see behind the fog, to the exhilaration and eager anticipation digging its talons into you.

You were made for him.

Benjamin Pointdexter may have haunted you.

Benjamin Pointdexter’s love may have suffocated you.

But in the midst of clawing your way back for breath, you enjoyed the feel of his scratches marking you. Dex knew it.

Dex knew you.

And as fire burned its way through your veins with your release, Dex’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. Drinking you in like he was dehydrated and you were the water he needed to survive.

Your stomach caved in, barely able to inhale any air with how powerful your orgasm was. It was seconds after your muscles finally had a chance to relax before Dex crawled his way up your body, his clothes somehow already shedded and neatly folded upon the chair, and kissed away the tracks still staining your cheeks from your tears while his bare cock bobbed against your pussy.

Eerily calm, Dex whispered, “You’re not leaving me again. Do you understand?”

He watched intently as your throat constricted around the lump in your throat. “Yes, Ben. I-I promise. I’m sorry.”

Stroking your hair, Dex smiled, already edging the tip of his cock to rest upon your weeping entrance. “Good. Because you can’t escape me, sweetheart. I love you too much to let you go.”

#benjamin poindexter #benjamin Poindexter x reader #Benjamin Poindexter x f!reader #Benjamin Poindexter x you #Benjamin Poindexter x female reader #bullseye x reader #bullseye x f!reader #bullseye x you #bullseye x female reader #Benjamin Poindexter fanfic #Benjamin Poindexter fanfiction #Benjamin Poindexter smut #Benjamin Poindexter x reader smut #bullseye x reader smut #wilson bethel #daredevil born again

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willieverseetheland · 10 months ago

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like you mean it (pt. 2)

Dexter Morgan x fem!reader

Summary: You haven't felt very appreciated by your (serial killer) boyfriend recently, so he shows you how much he really cares.

WARNINGS: 18+, angst, smut, language, unprotected sex (which i HIGHLY CONDEMN!!!), do as i say not as i...write?

Pt. 1

"Stay the night. Be with me... Fuck me, like you mean it. Like you want me, like you care."

Dexter gazes into your eyes for a moment, contemplating his next move. He then grabs your face with both hands, crashing his lips into yours. The kiss is deep and desperate. He kisses you like he may never get the chance to again. You mean so much to him and he doesn't want to lose you, he can't lose you. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him as close as possible.

"I'm so sorry, so so sorry." He whispers in between kisses

He moves to kissing your chin, then to your jaw leaving a trail of wet kisses to your ear. He moves down, grazing his teeth along your neck. You let out a small gasp at the sensation.

He lifts you up and you wrap your legs around his waist. You bury your face in his neck as he carries you to the bedroom. He gently lays you down on the bed, kneeling over you. He looks into your eyes for a moment before returning to your lips. You pull him in closer with your legs and can feel him beginning to harden against you. You slide your hands under his shirt across his back, feeling his muscular frame. He sits up for a moment to remove his shirt, and you do the same. He snakes his hand around your back unclipping your bra. Dexter leans back down placing kisses along your shoulders and collar bone. You arch beneath him, pushing your hips to his. He tugs at your waistband signaling that he wants them off. You wiggle out of your pants and toss them aside, as he unbuckles his belt, removing his as well.

Dexter moves to kneel at the edge of the bed, grabbing your thighs and pulling your hips to his face. He slips your underwear off, and you gasp at the cool air hitting your soaked cunt. He places kisses up your thigh. His face hovers between your thighs and his hot breath sends shivers down your spine.

"Dex, please" you whine.

He pushes your thighs back and begins licking and sucking your clit. You throw your head back and let out a loud moan. He's relentless and you can already feel your orgasm approaching. You arch your back as he pushes his tongue in, throwing your hands down to grasp his hair. Your orgasm crashes into you like a wave as you loudly moan his name

"God, Dexter!"

When he crawls back over you, you can see that his cock is fully hard

"Dex, I need you, please" you beg while looking into his eyes

He places a gentle kiss to your lips while softly stroking your hair. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer. He lines his cock with your entrance, slowly pushing in. You gasp at the stretch, moaning as he pushes further in. He thrusts into you with soft, slow strokes. It's like he's afraid to break you.

You kiss him rough, biting down on his lower lip, hoping he'll get the message that you want more, and know what you can handle. He breaks the kiss. Looking into your eyes, you see a dark, hungry look wash over them, like you had flipped a switch. His hands fly to your hips, gripping them hard. He picks up the pace, thrusting fast and hard. The sound of skin-on-skin and your loud moans are the only sounds filling the air. You grip the sheets beneath you, every thrust sending you further into a daze. As he hits that spot inside you, you feel your second orgasm quickly approaching. His grunts and moans are like music to your ears. You squeeze your eyes tightly and moan out his name as you spill over the edge. He continues fucking into you rough, but as your walls pulse around him, he’s not far behind.

“I’m - I’m close” he says breathless in your ear

He begins to pull out but you reach up to grab his face in your hands

“Don’t, please”

And with that he comes undone, spilling into you, breath ragged, his hands gripping you tightly, your hands holding his face. You look into each other’s eyes, dazed with pleasure.

He rolls over next to you, chest rising and falling rapidly. He scans your face, analyzing your features, wishing he could save this moment in his mind. You look over at him, his face is still, at pace, something you don’t see too often.

"I forgive you" you smile

...

Idk this seems kinda short, I hope I did it justice. I am literally in love with Dexter and for some reason it's easier for me to write for characters i'm not as attached to. But anyways, i hope you enjoyed ;))) and remember my requests and asks are always open!!!!

One more thing, it's 11 pm when i'm posting this and I wrote most of this in one sitting so not proof read at the time of posting, will get to it tomorrow! So sorry for typos or errors

#dexter #dexter morgan #dexter morgan x reader #dexter x reader

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somicawrites · 1 month ago

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Shared Melancholy

Benjamin Poindexter x fem!reader

Summary: You and Dex have been neighbors for quite a while now, but never really interacted before. That soon changes when you enter the elevator, just wanting to get to your apartment as fast as you can after having a shitty day, but he invites you over for some tea as an excuse to keep you company.

Warnings: mention of stalking, manipulative parents, ¿angst?, comfort, NSFW

Word count: 2.6k

Bottling feelings up is usually as easy as putting clothes on. But for some reason, today you failed.

Well, at least you didn’t break down in front of your co-workers, that would've been embarrassing.

The cold night air hits your face the moment you step out of the building, finally done with work for the day. Your body is aching and your shoulders slump while you stand on the sidewalk for a moment and just stare into nothing.

You don’t mind the rain soaking you from head to toe, instead you embrace the cold drops hitting your warm skin when your head tilts back, and you take in a big breath to try and get rid of the stinging behind your eyes.

Unfortunately it's no use, and before you know it, the tears are rolling down your cheeks and onto the wet concrete, becoming one with the rain that's already pooling at your feet.

With a sigh you grip the strap of your bag and start walking home.

Your mind is running with the reason that caused you this state, but you ignore it, instead counting the clicking noises your heels make every time you take another step.

You promised yourself you won’t let your parents make you feel guilty for leaving them anymore. That also includes not caring that your mom called you earlier today to complain about how hard it is without you home. A shitty reason to call, in your opinion.

Minutes later you push the familiar door open and step into your apartment building.

The lights casting a dim, nostalgic gloom over the empty hallway, one of them flickering as if holding on for dear life.

With slower steps, you walk towards the old elevator by the staircase and press the button with one hand while wiping your wet face with the other. Usually you’d take the stairs, but your feet feel too weak for that right now and all you wish for is to get in bed as fast as possible.

The doors slide open and your eyes are met with none other than your neighbour. Dex. He once introduced himself.

You step in, greeting him with a quiet hey while averting your gaze so he doesn’t see the redness surrounding your eyes from crying all the way home, and the mascara that you’re pretty sure is already everywhere but on your lashes.

After pressing the button to your floor, you step back and lean against the back wall – joining him.

You can feel him eyeing you, but just like your thoughts, you ignore it.

Until he speaks up.

“Rough day?” He asks, his voice calm and deep.

You just give a small nod and continue to stare at the glowing buttons by the doors as they keep switching from one number to another, until you’ve reached your floor.

The small ding pulls you out of your stance against the wall and you step out before him.

Shortly after, he follows and walks behind you as you both go down the hallway towards your apartments.

Sometimes, you find it a little awkward that his is just two doors down from yours because the two of you don’t talk much, only a few greetings every now and then and some small talk that has more silence than words.

You guess he’s just a quiet person, which you don’t mind, because so are you.

You’ve spent more years alone than you did with anyone, for as long as you can remember. So you totally get it.

It’s only when your brain reminds you of how lonely you are, that you actually feel bad about it.

The key twists in the lock as you push the door to your apartment open, but just as you put one foot in, you hear that deep voice again.

“Hey neighbour,”

You look to your left at him, not expecting him to call you out for a second time.

“You down for some tea?”

At first you blink, not sure you heard him right, but then without thinking, you just nod.

He gives you a small smile and unlocks his own door, stepping inside and leaving it agape.

You exhale and put your bag down by yours before closing it again and making your way over.

The first thing you notice when entering, is the fresh smell of clean laundry mixed with his cologne and..vanilla?

Your eyes close for a moment to take it in before the sound of a kettle snaps you back to reality.

With a soft push, you close the door behind you and look towards his kitchen where he’s standing with his right side to you.

“You sure it’s not too late for tea?” You wonder as your eyes dart over his apartment, looking for a clock that you can’t seem to spot. Last time you checked before your phone died, it was 11pm.

“It’s never too late for tea,” he replies as he pours the boiling water into two small, white cups.

You realize his whole apartment is pretty much that color. Mostly white, with some grey here and there while everything is clean and in order. Somehow matching his personality perfectly, you think.

The space isn’t too big either, perfect for one person at least.

You look to the wall beside the door on your left and spot a framed group photo that includes him and a blue sign mentioning the brooklyn suicide prevention center.

“Didn’t know you work there,” you blurt out.

He looks your way and takes a very short glance at the picture frame you're referring to.

“I used to. I work for the FBI now.”

You didn’t expect that answer, but you take it in. It does suit his lifestyle from what you’ve seen and heard so far.

He approaches you with the two cups and hands you one before making his way over to his couch. You follow.

The two of you take a seat and you make sure to keep a good distance between the two of you.

“Didn’t take you for a tea guy.” You stare at the hot liquid in your perfectly white porcelain cup before meeting his eyes.

“I drink it sometimes, when I run out of coffee. Helps with the tensions, you know.”

You hum and look away again as you take a slow sip, careful not to burn your tongue.

“Alright, that was a lie. I don’t really like tea, I just thought it could lift up your spirits a bit.” He admits while putting his cup down and leaning back against the back of his couch with a slow sigh. His legs spreading.

“You didn't have to do this, you know.” You take another sip, still not looking at him.

“Yeah, but I wanted to. I know we don’t talk much, but you seem like you could use some company sometimes.”

This time, when you look at him, he’s already looking at you. His eyes holding something you can’t yet decipher.

“I never see you have anyone over. Not that it’s any of my business. I’m just assuming.”

For a moment you feel like the veil has been lifted and your mask has finally been peeled off, leaving you exposed.

Your silence answers his assumptions and his gaze softens.

“You too. I don’t see you have anyone over either.”

He nods, “I don’t. Besides, I see enough people at work.”

“Not even family?”

He shakes his head and asks the same question in return.

You pause for a moment before giving him the same answer he gave you.

“So we’re two loners then, huh.” You slowly set your cup down on the coffee table before you.

Something in the air shifted, the silence finally being comfortable instead of awkward, for once.

“What do you do to make it go away? The melancholy, I mean.” His voice is quieter, as if he’s afraid of ruining the moment.

“Nothing.”

You don’t know what else to say. You hate lying. And even tho you always do, this time you feel like finally being able to speak the truth.

Because he gets it.

Without realizing it, you’ve shifted closer to him, your knee almost brushing his.

“I’m a loser.” You let out a tired chuckle, “I go to work, come home, go to sleep and then repeat. It’s almost pathetic to have no switch up in this routine. Not that I couldn't. In fact, I could. I just...don’t.”

Your eyes stay on his, almost as if searching for the insults you tell yourself on the daily. Almost as if searching for that judgement others always give you.

But he doesn’t. He just looks at you like you’re his reflection.

Like you’re the first sacred thing he’s found in this lifetime.

His right hand reaches out for your cheek and you let him.

Even tho the two of you are technically strangers, you can’t shake the feeling that you know him. Which is absurd, because you don’t. But he does.

He’s the one that kept an eye on you ever since you moved in. He’s the one that follows you from afar to make sure you’re safe. Definitely not because he’s obsessed with you and needs you all to himself.

But of course, you don’t know any of that because he can’t lose you. And if he’d be honest with you, he would.

So instead. he keeps quiet and slips his hand from your cheek down to your nape, sitting up as he slowly pulls you in closer.

Moments later, your noses touch and your breath hitches while your eyes are glued to his lips.

You’re not the type to mess around. Especially not when you’re not in your right mind. But right now, you couldn’t care less.

So you close the remaining distance between the two of you and meet his lips with yours in a gentle kiss.

That softness is soon gone when his free hand sneaks around your waist and he pulls you to straddle his lap. Almost as if he’s been preparing for this.

He deepens the kiss, the hand on your nape crawling into your hair and gripping it gently to keep you in place while his tongue brushes against your lower lip as a sign to let him in.

Your hands wrap around his neck and your chest presses against his while allowing him into your mouth. His tongue immediately tangling with yours in a game of back and forth.

The moment you let out a soft whimper, both his hands move to your waist and he flips the both of you so you’re under him while he makes himself room between your thighs.

“You want this?” He whispers against your cheek before moving down to your neck and carefully sucking on the sensisitive skin.

You nod, your lips parting and your eyes closing, “Yeah..”

A small grunt escapes him when he hears your consent and his breath hitches while his fingers fumble with the edge of your pencil skirt, slowly pushing it up your thighs till its around your hip and your panties are visible through your black tights.

“Can I rip them?” His eyes meet yours for a second, his pupils wide.

You open yours and give another nod before looking down between your legs.

Without wasting time, he grips the thin material with both hands and with a harsh pull, the material tears and leaves a large hole, exposing your damp panties.

Your breath hitches at the sound, your eyes half lidded as you wait for his next move.

His fingers brush over the soft cotton, testing the state you’re in to make sure you’re ready before pushing it aside and exposing your slightly glistening pussy to the cold air.

A shiver runs down your spine and almost on instinct your thighs go to close.

“Don’t. You have no reason to feel ashamed.” He comforts, “You’re beautiful.”

You swallow since it’s been a while since you’ve heard that word being directed at you. Your thighs relaxing.

His eyes stay on yours as he unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants before pulling out a condom from his back pocket.

He breaks the contact to put the protection on, but your eyes stay glued to his face.

Something in your mind suddenly wondering if he’s done this before. If maybe he lied, and he does have people over, just not when you’re home.

Either way, that is none of your business. What’s happening now is probably a one time thing. Or at least, you think it is, because it doesn’t feel real.

But it doesn’t feel wrong either.

He lowers himself over you again and wipes the leftover mascara from under your eyes with his thumb, “I’ll give you a good reason to cry. Promise you’ll like this one more than the one your parents gave you.”

You blink, eyebrows drawing together in confusion as he mentions your parents.

“How did you-” You cut yourself off with a gasp when he slowly pushes in, stretching you at a maddening pace.

A whimper escaping you next as your head tilts back and your mouth falls open, forming a O.

“Fuck..” He props himself up with the hand he used to wipe your makeup while the other finds its way to your thigh and slowly pushes it further apart to open you up more.

His pace quickens the moment he feels your wetness increasing, and not long after, you feel that weird pressure you haven’t felt in months form in your lower abdomen.

The pleasure is overwhelming, almost comic like how he hits your G-spot immediately and constantly, making your eyes tear up from how good it is.

“Dex..” You pant out, fingers digging into the sides of his couch.

“C’mon baby, let go for me.” He pants back while his hand slides up your thigh to your clit, slowly circling it with his thumb.

That’s all it takes.

Seconds later your whole body tenses and that pressure snaps, your walls clenching around him tight as you let yourself go.

“That’s it sweetheart..” His lips find your temple and he places a gentle kiss against the sweat covered skin.

“You did so good.”

He pulls out and gets rid of the used condom before tucking himself away and reaching for the wipes on the coffee table, using them to clean you up before rolling your skirt back down.

“How..” you manage to speak up again after catching your breath, your body still trembling slightly from your orgasm.

“You can use my shower, if you’d like.” He offers, looking you over with admiration. His brain still processing the fact he finally got to touch you after waiting 8 months and a half.

You slowly sit up, your hair even more dishevelled than it already was from the rain before.

“Uhm..” You try to find your words. Would it be a bad idea to ask what this was? To ask if it meant anything or if it was just a quick stress relief?

“Would you like to meet up for coffee tomorrow?” He cuts in, as if reading your mind.

You stare at him with parted lips before closing them and nodding, glad he asked that.

After what feels like forever, you finally break eye contact and get up, waiting for him to do the same.

“I think..I’ll take a quick shower, if that’s okay.”

A genuine smile spreads across his face and he nods, guiding you towards his bathroom and letting you step in. Once the door is closed and he hears the water start to run, his forehead presses against the door.

Because now it’s official.

You’re not just the neighbour he watches from afar anymore. Now you’re his.

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hazbinshusk · 1 year ago

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shameless overlord!husk x fem!reader brainrot inspired by this post by @irkimatsu

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“You bring entertainment for all of us, Husker, or just you?” One of the players jokes snidely as you enter the room and approach the table. You ignore them, smiling as your Overlord turned his head and met your eye. His ears twitch forward – a rare break in his poker face – and a smirk graces his features.

“My good luck charm,” he announces, holding a hand out to you. You take it eagerly, letting him pull you down into his lap so your chest presses to his and your knees are parted to rest on either side of his thighs. They sink into the luxurious cushioning of his chair, pressing you flush against him. Husk bumps his nose against the edge of your jaw before returning his attention to the others in the room. “Hope you boys don’t mind.”

“It’s your casino, man.” Another player says with a shrug.

“Yes, it is,” Husk agrees with a cocksure grin, a rough, appreciative hum sounding in his throat as you curl your fingers in the lapels of his jacket and press a kiss to the side of his throat.

His claws curl around the flesh of your thigh, smoothing up to tease under the hem of your tiny skirt. He squeezes, his smirk growing as you shudder against him and watch the way his claws sink into your thighs possessively.

“Now,” Husk continues, returning his attention to the table. “Whose play is it?”

***

You watch the game with only the mildest interest, twisted in Husk’s lap so the both of you can watch the pot grow and shrink with each hand played. His arm is now wrapped around your waist, claws spread against the small of your back. You only move away from the warmth of his chest when he whispered instructions in your ear and you lean back towards the table to push chips into the middle for him.

Each time you do you press yourself teasingly into his lap, rocking back and forth over his now half-hard cock every time you straighten back up again.

“Hell of a lucky charm, Husker,” the player across from him asserts lasciviously. The same one who eyes you each time you lean towards the pot.

“Don’t I know it,” Husk replies, nuzzling against your throat.

You whimper in response, rolling your hips over his. Husk groans quietly, his teeth grazing your ear. All this contact has you punch-drunk with arousal; you’re feeling just as needy as he is. Husk’s hand slips down to squeeze the curve of your ass. His claws curl under the edge of your skirt, the tips of them teasing you through the soaking, sheer fabric of your barely-there underwear, and you moan.

“Hell, didn’t realize we’d be getting a free show with this game, man.” A sinner with a wickedly hooked beak says in a tone that makes Husk’s hand tighten on your flesh. “Gotta get me a piece of ass like—"

Husk growls warningly, and you draw his attention back to you with a hand on his cheek, kissing him. Husk lets you –lets himself – enjoy the way your tongue slides against his for a moment longer than necessary. You wonder if, despite the growl, he’s enjoying the way the other players are watching the two of you with a mix of lust and jealousy. The idea of him bending you over this table, all those heated eyes hungrily watching as Husk thrust himself into your tight little cunt…

You shudder into his chest.

“You’ll mind your tongue, Dex.” Husk warns gruffly, even as he presses his hips up into yours and uses the hand still on your ass to guide you into grinding against his erection. “Unless you want to lose it.”

The sinner audibly swallows, and you reward Husk for his protectiveness by loosening his tie and scratching your nails through the revealed fur. “Sorry, sir.”

“You take such good care of me, daddy,” you murmur against Husk’s neck, reminding him that you were happily aware of just who you belonged to. “Thank you.”

Husk purrs deeply, leaning forward to sweep the pile of chips in front of him towards the two of you. He turns his head to speak over his shoulder to the sinner standing in the corner. “I’m cashin’ out, Lou. Make sure the boys here pay up before leavin’. I’ve got some… details that need my attention.”

Husk pushes you off his lap, wrapping his arm back around your waist as soon as he’s standing. He pulls you into his side, his hand tugging up the back of your skirt to slip between your legs again. Your knees almost buckle at his touch.

“Let’s go, doll,” he rumbles in your ear. “I think it’s time you show daddy just how much you appreciate me takin’ care of you.”

#husk x reader #I couldn't help myself #I hope you like it irk :)#husk #hazbin hotel #husk posting #overlord!husk #overlord!husk x reader #hazbin hotel husk x reader #hazbin hotel fanfic #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel husk #my fic #husk fic

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imyourbratzdoll · 1 year ago

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Warnings and Reminders - Please do not plagiarise, copy, repost/republish, adapt, or translate any of my work on any social media platforms, apps, or third-party sites. The only platforms I post my work on are: Tumblr and Wattpad. I do not own any character of any franchise (Marvel etc.) All my works are fiction and may be dark or triggering content: READ ALL WARNINGS BEFORE PROCEEDING.

𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐉𝐈𝐍-𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐆 (𝐃𝐄𝐗) 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:

♡ 𝒇𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇 ➳ 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕 ❥ 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 ❦ 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌

೫˚🖤❀ *ૢ🥀೫˚🌑

𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐤 ♡

summary - the apocalypse strikes out of nowhere while you are shopping, thankfully there's a good-looking man that rescues you and makes you fall for him in a short amount of time.

𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐬𝐤 ❥

summery - you end up getting what you wanted after dex pulls you aside.

೫˚🖤❀ *ૢ🥀೫˚🌑

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dissolvedprincess · 13 days ago

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Upcoming Works

I made this list so you guys know what to expect from me in the upcoming months! There are more requests in my inbox that i haven’t have the ripe ideas for, but trust that i will be going through every one of them. And something to note, these will most likely not come out in the exact order i’ve set them here.

❀ Request

𖥔 Black Milk (Poindexter/Bullseye x Fem Reader)

𖥔 Windows (Poindexter/Bullseye x !GN Reader) POSTED

𖥔 Will You Lie? (Josh Washington x Fem reader)

The long awaited part 3 of the ‘Party 4 U’ series

𖥔 Honeycomb (Poindexter/Bullseye x Fem Reader) POSTED

Part 2 of Honeydew

𖥔 ❀ Form of You (Frank Castle x Blind!Fem reader)

𖥔 ❀ Close Isn’t Close Enough (Josh Washington x Fem Reader)

𖥔 ❀ Nothing but a Dream (Frank Castle x Fem Reader)

Part 2 of Angel Fangs

𖥔 ❀ This Mess We’re In (Josh Washington x Fem Reader)

Also, i will not be opening requests until i go through all the ones in my inboxes! I still have almost a dozen of ‘em (꩜ᯅ꩜;)⁭ I feel so blessed!

Hope you guys understand. ♡

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angellicxx · 1 month ago

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Ricochet- Chapter 5: Frost Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter x Vigilante Reader

summary: You encounter the O'Connell Brothers to gather evidence against the operation. In a daze, you discover a shocking secret. warnings: drugged reader, drugs, hallucinations, blood, guns, knife, fighting

w.c: 3,000

Ivan wasn’t kidding- this place was a shit hole.

A decrepit townhouse nestled on a deserted street in Hell’s Kitchen, your surprised they hadn’t been busted sooner.

Graffiti stained the brick, trash lingered on the pavement and into the side alleyway, and smoke trickled from a chimney in an almost luminescent glare—even from across the street the chemicals burned your sinuses and wafted your mind.

It didn’t take you long to find. At first, you filed through past reports and tried to triangulate their crime patterns to where they lived; convenience store robbery within a three block radius, corner sales at possible street intersections, and your general knowledge of the neighborhood piled together to try and find the address.

You were actually really close to figuring it out. Until you stumbled upon the online ad— an open broadcast plastered with their name, address, and product.

It was really that easy.

You didn’t even need to come in your vigilantes suit get-up, you just wore a long dark coat and brought a knife with a police transmitter. You’d be in and out like you were never even there, maybe even take a few samples for evidence or as a gift for Ivan.

You walked across the street, clicking the transmitter and holding it to your lips, repeating the address through the police comms. “Active drug den, four possible suspects. Need backup units ASAP.”

The static crackled off, a beat of silence before a voice interrupted. “Who is this?”

You clicked it off, tucking it back in your pocket before you reached the front. Cops should be here in about ten minutes— that was all you needed.

Boots scuffed over the soot embedded concrete steps as you approached the black gated door, the acrid scent of chemicals and smoke now stronger.

You took a breath in. Don’t fuck it up.

You rapped on the gate, waiting with fingers clenched around the knife burrowed far into your pocket, peering over your shoulder one last time.

The front door creaked open, a large man inspecting you through the crack. An Irish tinted gruff voice spoke. “What do you want?”

You let your face relax back to a calm expression, trying to fall into character of a new customer. “I’m here for a pickup.” You flashed a sweet little smile like you were here for a slumber party— not narcotics.

He wasn’t as amused as you.

“Hughie!” A voice called from down the hall. You watched through the cracked door as a brother tumbled from a room of smoke, sucking one last drag from his joint before flicking it at the wall. “Don’t scare the damn customers away!”

Hughie mumbled as he pushed the gate open for you, barely stepping aside before you took one more inhale of fresh air and crossed the threshold.

It was dark inside— the front windows covered in shutters with only a light down the hall for guidance. You swallowed when the gate swung shut behind you, a lit up pair of eyes landing on you from the guy in the hall, “Especially when they’re a fine looking jewel like this.” He whistled, punching his towering brother in the shoulder.

“Sorry about that love,” He nodded and flashed a half rotted tooth grin. “Name’s Sean, what can i do you for?”

Reluctantly, you shook his ash covered hand. “I’m looking for some Frost. Is this the place?” You chirped with a forced smile.

“Oh yeah, this the place.” He rocked back on his heel, practically twirling around as he beckoned you to follow him. “Come this way, we’ll get a fresh one for you.”

You nodded a good-bye to Hughie, who remained guarding the door as you followed Sean up the stairs. Landing in the second story living room, the pungent aroma of metallic chemicals lingered in smoke filled air, cascading in ripples through fluorescent white light and trailing to a guy lazily sipping a bong atop a filth colored couch.

Sean pointed at the guy while he walked to a paper covered table. “That’s Donny— he usually handles the transactions, but his heads been knocked up a bit. Say Hi, Donny.”

Donny waved at you, “Hi.” Smoke poured from his puffy bandaged nose and through a wide grin. “You’re pretty.”

You waved back. “You too.”

Donny blushed as you turned to Sean, who was shuffling things around on the table before landing on a clipboard and pen.

He double clicked the pen and gripped the board, looking up at you. “How’d you hear about us?”

You blinked. “The ad.”

Sean tilted his head, raising an eyebrow.

“The one online.” You clarified.

“Ha!” Donny almost giggled off the couch, nearly spilling everywhere. “I told you the ad was a good idea.”

“Alright, alright.” He rolled his eyes and marked one tally on a table chart. “If there’s one thing that could make you more likely to buy from the O’Connell Bros Co., what would it be?” He bit his lip, waiting for you answer intently.

You prayed the cops would roll up at this moment. “A welcome mat.”

He nodded as if that was the right answer. “Got it. Ok, now— how much you looking to purchase, Love?”

Your eyes scanned the room, not bothered as he wrote. “What would you suggest?”

“Well, a pretty first timer like you, I’ll do an ounce for the price of half, how’s that?”

Guns spilled out of a crate in the corner, bullets rolled out of cases and littered the stained floor.

Volchiy guns.

You smiled. “Sound great.”

Donny sputtered out a cough of smoke. “An ounce for half-off? We gotta meet the quota by the end of this week, Sean.”

Sean threw his head back in annoyance. “Oh c’mon, like you ain’t give away deals all the time.”

Donny shook his head. “Not anymore, remember last time? Fisk wasn’t happy with me, and he won’t be happy with you.

Your body tensed up, blinking to concentrate on acting like the name didn’t just send a shiver through you. “Fisk? Like, Wilson Fisk? Like that crazy criminal guy?” Your voice pitched and tinged with blind curiosity.

“Yeah, Fisk.” Sean smirked, putting down the clipboard and straightening up. “We, uh- not to brag or nothing- are the number one drug supplier for him, actually. You came to the top-dog for your first frosty.”

What fucking idiots.

Donny scoffed. “Yeah, top-dog until that deal coming up. He’s gonna snub us, I know he will.”

Sean twitched, shooting his brother a look. “Shut up.” He hissed.

He turned back to you, shaking his head. “Sorry, my brother don’t know what he talking about. Drugs killing the remaining braincells in that concussed, empty sack of nothing.”

Donny seemed unbothered, taking another hit and waving goodbye as Sean beckoned you down the hall to a lit up kitchen. Sounds of boiling and clashing metal loudened, a full hazmat-suit covered figure busy mixing over a steaming pot.

Fingers gripped at your watch covered wrist noting the time—you really didn’t want to be here when the cops pulled up, especially dressed as a civilian.

“Kieran!” He yelled. “How’s that batch coming along, buddy?”

A goggle covered face peered up at you, offering no answer.

“Ah, don’t mind him,” Sean smiled, brushing it off. “He don’t talk much. The chemicals fried his throat a bit. But it’s alright, we got one from earlier today.” He twirled around to the next doorway that lead to a converted dining room— boxes scattered up the walls and a single folding table in the middle. A lightbulb dangled loosely over it, moving with each tremble of the kitchen next door.

Shadows rippled over the clustered room— you wondered how many of those boxes held Volchiy guns, more drugs, maybe papers, contracts, and deals. This could be a gold mine.

“Ah! Here we go,” Sean chuckled as he walked over to a tray filled with small bags of powder sitting on the table. “Fresh.”

Sean held up a tiny clear bag stuffed with powder in the light of the hanging bulb. You knew that bag— it was the same kind Salvatore gave to Ivan.

Your brows furrowed, squinting to make sure you were seeing it right. “Is that glitter?”

He nodded, happy you noticed. “Helps with the presentation.”

You tried to match his enthusiasm as he opened it up, his nose hovering over the dust rising over the plastic and sparking in the air.

He smiled, pupils dilating while he smacked his lips in satisfaction before offering it to you.

“Try it.”

You froze.

Your smile almost faded away, but you quickly covered it with a giggle. “Oh no, I’m good.”

“I insist.” Sean chuckled, ushering the bag closer. “A free sample.”

There was no time, cops would be here any minute now. You tried to reach for the bag. “I’ll try it when I get home.”

Like a game of keep-away, he pulled it back. “C’mon you gotta try it.” He poured a small bump onto his finger, holding it up to your face. “This shit’s crazy, especially the first time.”

It glinted in your wide eyes while you struggled to form a better excuse.

The silent tension hung still beneath the light.

Sean’s brows furrowed, head tilting at your refusal as a finger slowly raised toward your lips. A sting hit your nose, blending your neurons and halting the ability to form a coherent thought.

You blinked. Sean wasn’t offering anymore.

No backing out now.

Your arm swung at him— knocking the bag and sending a plume of white smoke into the air. In the moment of chaos you kicked his chest, both of you tumbling backwards through the cloud of drugs.

A fresh burn trickled into your throat. You stumbled blindly, frantically trying to exhale the drugs out of your system. Everything swirled. Tear stung eyes blinked open to see Sean on the table, gripping at his face while he cursed you.

You leaned into the supportive barrier of drywall to ground yourself. The room spun. Voices were shouting throughout the house and mixed into a sound of animal roars in your drug altered mind.

Practically clinging into the wall, you found yourself in the light of the kitchen— an alien in a spacesuit looking at you over the pot of magical stew.

Fuck— this shit was crazy.

A robotic voice interrupted your confusion. “Did someone call the cops?”

Donny stood in the doorway, pointing at the flashing red and blue sirens leaking through the shutters.

Uh oh.

You tore the bong from his grasp, tossing it back as he just let it smack into his nose. Donny screeched, tumbling to the floor as his nose grew legs and ran away like a tiny, frenzied mummy.

The clamber of footsteps made your brain hit your skull.

“You fucking bitch!” A really big Leprechaun ran up from behind you, fist raised.

You stepped back, hands finding the pot and splashing the scalding materials into Hughie’s face, half expecting him to melt into a puddle through the floor boards.

More screaming. The Frost was really starting to mix into your blood stream and probably alter your DNA at this point.

Kieran just stood there, shoulders low and fogged goggles looking at the spilled pot in defeated surrender.

The sirens sounded like they were coming inside your head, vision twirling with different colors, everything bedazzled. You retreated out of the burning white lights, finding a door and pushing it open to a dark bedroom, a window calling you like a lost moth to a streetlamp.

It was a miracle you made it onto the fire escape. Hovering two stories high above the alleyway, you gripped the bars so your newly sprouted fairy wings didn’t lift you into the night sky.

You managed a smile, wiping your bloody nose on the back of you hand as you focused on the flashing lights through your dizzied state.

It was all worth it.

Four incapacitated Fisk employees were now cornered in the apartment, ready to be carted off to the nearest courthouse to testify. You considered going back in for a bag of Frost to present to Ivan, but the thought of ever encountering that shit again almost made your eyeballs fall out.

Sirens squealed to a halt as blacked out cars blocked the street, uniforms filing out with guns drawn and the sound of the gate rattling when they moved into the house.

You were in a daze— but something wasn’t right.

This wasn’t NYPD.

You tried to backtrack through spilling memories.

You called it in.

You were on the right frequency.

It didn’t look like SWAT— or maybe it did, and your mind was to drugged to see it correctly.

Honestly, you were astonished you weren’t seeing a cavalry of wizards on unicorns right now.

“Secure a perimeter.” A voice ordered from below.

Through the alley’s entrance you caught a glimpse of a man standing, head turning as he gave out orders to passing uniforms.

You crept closer to the bars, peering through to get a better look. But your coordination betrayed you— a hand slipped and your forehead cracked on the hard metal with a sharp thunk. You hissed, gripping the vibrations before it could last long enough to be pinpointed.

A head turned toward the alley.

Shit.

You inched into the shadow, grasping your mouth before a high giggle could leave your uncontrollable self.

A figure lurked forward out of the brightness offered by sirens and street lamps to join you in the dark.

His eyes were intently scanning, surveying the alleyway with cold precision and concentration.

You were still, praying he wouldn’t see you as you watched him— closely.

You couldn’t breathe.

No.

You were seeing things.

It couldn’t be.

It was dark— your vision was betraying you. Maybe you were hallucinating.

He didn’t belong here.

Not like this.

Gun in hand like an extension of his arm, his vest adorned by bright white letters.

FBI.

“Poindexter.” A voice called.

Dex turned. Red light caught across his jaw and dead stare.

Your heart stopped.

“All good?” The voice asked.

Methodical hands lowered the gun, looking around one last time before rolling his shoulders.

“All clear.” Dex’s voice rasped in conformation.

You sobered up real fast, watching as he left without even spotting you.

Fucking hell.

He was a fucking double-agent.

Not a charming, slightly off-putting guy from the bar.

Dex was a corrupted fed working for Fisk.

You nearly toppled from the fire escape, gripping the bar even though you felt like the metal was melting beneath you. It was bad enough he was working for Fisk— but a federal employee? Weren’t there oaths, contracts, laws against that?

If the drugs hadn’t already fucked up your mind, this sure did.

Your eyes never left him as he emerged back onto the street, the light only confirming you were seeing correctly. He stood tall, surveying as men filed in and out of the building, watching intently to make sure everything was in order.

The fear of being caught lingering at a crime scene evaded your mind, replaced with an overload of thoughts as you watched him.

He must’ve found your transmission in the comms. The location he needed to find the O’Connell brothers—you had given it to him. Now he could bury the evidence and erase all links to Fisk under the guise of lawful duty.

You could just imagine the news tomorrow—“Federal Agent busts drug den”— he’d be hailed a hero.

What a fucking dick.

You buried your turning head in trembling hands, covering your ears at the overbearing noise of the agents tearing the house apart, O’Connells spewing curses and groaning in agony at the rattle of cuffs.

Shit.

They knew you.

They’d tell everyone about the mysterious customer, inquiring about Fisk before beating the shit out of them. You should’ve brought the damn mask.

If Dex found out it was you— that you were the rat— you were dead.

You stumbled through the maze of unstable fire escape bridges, finding your way down the alley while evading the perimeter as you pulled your coat extra tight, trying to look as sober as possible with each pathetic stumble.

You couldn’t believe you could be so stupid. So careless to think this was going to be easy.

Nice going (Y/N). You cursed yourself, willing your dulled senses to be on high alert to make sure you weren’t followed back to your apartment.

But you did do good. You just took on four drug dealers with ease and led the cops to them. You survived that bomb of Frost that you felt still sizzling your brain cells. You did everything right.

It was Dex. He fucking ruined it.

Rage brewed deep inside of you.

That smug, son of a bitch.

You couldn’t believe you let him get so close to you in Berezka, returning a sweet smile to the guy who just stopped you from toppling the entire operation.

You wondered if Ivan knew— if he was in on the fact that Dex was a fed.

Sure, he was loyal— but he was loyal to Fisk. You just watched him bust the O’Connells, what would stop him from being ordered to do the same to the Volchiy? A giggle escaped your dry lips, making you look like a maniac on the streets, but you didn’t care— at least you had something for leverage against Dex.

Thanks to you, Ivan and Fisk would be happy to know the O’Connells are dealt with, though Agent Poindexter would get the credit. Sure, you were the only one left with possible permanent brain damage and glitter in your lungs— but at least no one else on the street was.

When you arrived home you stripped your clothing and left it stranded in a glitter quarantine at the door while you flushed your nose with water in your bathroom. Sparkling blood dripped down your sink, your mind still buzzing with disbelief and drugs as you tried to think.

You didn’t know what you were going to do next.

All you knew was that you fucking hated Poindexter.

taglist: @blxckwidxxw

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vigilantekisser · 1 month ago

Text

⌖༝ fic masterpost ✦༝

→ for marvel’s daredevil - mostly dex/bullseye and matt murdock → mostly fem reader-insert

MDNI – 18+ NSFW and DARK CONTENT present!!! read tags and heed the warnings before reading! if you don't like them DON’T READ + block me and move on :) you are responsible for curating your own reading experience

masterlist under the cut | last updated june 23 2025

most works linked below will take you to ao3, where they were originally posted! links marked with a 𖥠 will open here on tumblr instead! do not feed my works to generative ai!

✧ Dex/Ben Poindexter/Bullseye ✧

Ring Toss (fluff, carnival date, jealous/possessive dex)

dex loses his chill and drops twenty bucks to obliterate a ring toss game for you. using assassin precision, of course.

Off Target (fluff, sick fic, gn reader)

the man who never misses takes a sick day.

Cat, Interrupted (fluff, stray cat, gn reader)

dex insists he hates the stray cat outside your apartment, as if that will explain the food he keeps leaving outside for it to eat...

𖥠 Dex vs. The Emoji Industrial Complex (fluff, crack, gn reader)

in which dex has zero meme literacy and doesn't know wtf you're talking about

𖥠 Backslide (nsfw, rough sex, knifeplay, choking, dacryphilia)

feed a stray dog once, it'll keep coming back for more

Trigger Happy (nsfw, hate sex, gun kink, blood, rough sex)

the least he could do to make up for interrupting your twin peaks rewatch was fuck you.

Loser (nsfw, sub!dex, oral f receiving, stalker bf)

you come over without warning and the evidence of dex’s stalking is still in plain sight. what better way to distract you than to get on his knees and keep his tongue on you until you can’t think anymore?

𖥠 Misfit (nsfw, sub!dex, sequel to loser)

dex thinks he's gotten away with it, but you know more than you let on.

𖥠 Reroll (nsfw, sub!dex)

prejac, handjobs + crying

Take Everything (nsfw, TW: NON-CON/SA, stalking, drugging, somnophilia, he is horrible in this, dead dove do not eat!)

“you nod, leaning back, and don’t question it when he rises and goes to the kitchen, don’t question how he knows which cupboard holds the glasses, how he doesn’t hesitate even once.”

✧ Matt Murdock ✧

Scent of Peace (fluff, office romance, mutual pining)

matt can’t read anything from your heartbeat. it’s too fast all the time — amped on caffeine, stress, not enough sleep. maybe that’s why he keeps trying to figure you out.

𖥠 Let It Be Done Unto Me (nsfw, husband!matt, breeding kink)

some dreams have always felt beyond reach for matt, including having a family of his own. but post-party, three drinks in—well, turns out all he had to do was ask.

✧ etc ✧

deliverance (nsfw, dex/matt hate bj, facefucking, canon typical violence)

he hated how easy dex made it to forget himself, how every time he tried to mete out justice, dex opened the door to sin, daring him to walk through.

𖥠 joint effort (college!foggy nelson x reader, getting stoned, handjobs)

#benjamin poindexter x reader #bullseye x reader #matt murdock x reader #daredevil x reader #dex x reader #foggy nelson x reader #daredevil imagine #daredevil masterlist #matt murdock x you #ben poindexter #marvels daredevil #ddba #benjamin poindexter #matt murdock #dexmatt #dead dove #vigilantekisser

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urdreamydoodles · 3 months ago

Note

MCU characters and how they meet their soulmate ?

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

How they meet their soulmates

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, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Wade Wilson & Logan Howlett

Tony Stark

- You do not meet Tony Stark the way people meet in books or movies. There is no slow unraveling, no lingering glances across a crowded room. No, Tony Stark arrives in your life like an explosion—sudden, blinding, impossible to ignore. He is a force of nature, all sharp wit and arrogance, a storm wrapped in designer suits and expensive cologne. And yet, beneath the flash, beneath the charm, there is something else. A tiredness. A weight he carries behind his smirk.

- He notices you before you notice him. And that is saying something, because Tony Stark does not spend time watching people—he is the one being watched. But you are different. You are not awed by him, not tripping over yourself to impress him. You challenge him. And Tony Stark, for all his genius, cannot resist a challenge. “Do I know you?” he asks, as if he hasn’t already run through every possible scenario of how to get you to notice him.

- You meet in the middle of chaos, because that is where Tony lives. A gala, a lab, a battlefield—it doesn’t matter. He sees you, and the world shifts just slightly on its axis. But love? No, love is not something Tony allows himself to believe in anymore. Love means loss. Love means pain. But you are persistent in the way the sun rises, in the way the ocean reaches for the shore. And maybe—just maybe—Tony Stark is tired of running.

- He flirts, of course. It is his armor, his shield. But there is something different in the way he teases you, in the way he watches your reactions like a scientist studying the most fascinating discovery of his life. “You must be new,” he says, tilting his head. “Because I’m pretty sure I’d remember someone like you.” And when you roll your eyes instead of blushing, when you match him word for word, something in his chest clicks into place.

- He does not call you his soulmate. That word is too soft, too fragile. But one day, when the world is quiet, when he is half-asleep and you are curled beside him, he murmurs, “I think… if I believed in fate, it would look a lot like you.” And in the morning, when he pretends he doesn’t remember saying it, you only smile. Because Tony Stark may not believe in soulmates—but he believes in you. And that is enough.

Steve Rogers

- You meet Steve Rogers the way a ship meets the shore—gradually, naturally, like something inevitable. He does not rush toward love, does not chase it down like a man afraid of time. No, Steve Rogers has patience. And when he looks at you, it is not with the urgency of a man who fears loss, but with the quiet certainty of someone who knows exactly what he wants.

- He notices the little things. The way you tilt your head when you listen, the way your fingers drum against your thigh when you’re thinking. Steve is observant, not just because of the soldier in him, but because he cares. He does not love lightly, does not give his heart in pieces. When he loves, it is whole. And that is why he waits. Waits until he knows you see him not just as Captain America, not just as a man out of time, but as Steve.

- You do not fall into each other. There is no whirlwind, no reckless rush. Instead, there is understanding, companionship. It starts as friendship, because that is the foundation of everything Steve Rogers believes in. “You’re easy to talk to,” he admits one evening, leaning against a doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. And the way he looks at you then—soft, steady, certain—it is a look that says more than words ever could.

- When he touches you, it is with reverence. Not because he is afraid you will break, but because he wants you to know—to feel—that you are something precious. A brush of fingers against yours, the warmth of his palm against your lower back. He does not need grand gestures, does not need elaborate confessions. His love is in the way he listens, in the way he stands beside you in a crowded room, in the way his eyes soften when they find yours.

- The moment he knows, truly knows, is quiet. No fanfare, no dramatic revelation. Just a moment—simple and perfect. You are laughing at something, a sound so genuine and free that it tugs something deep in his chest. And that is when it hits him. This is home. You are home. And Steve Rogers has spent too many years without one to let this slip away.

Natasha Romanoff

- Love is not something Natasha Romanoff trusts. It is a foreign language, a place she has never dared to call home. She has seen what love does—how it weakens, how it breaks. And yet, when she meets you, something shifts. Not in a way that is loud or obvious, but in the smallest of ways. In the way her walls do not feel as necessary. In the way your presence does not feel like a threat.

- She does not flirt, not in the way most people do. Her affection is in her attention, in the way she remembers things others overlook. Your favorite drink, the way you fidget when you’re nervous, the songs you hum under your breath when you think no one is listening. Natasha watches, learns, memorizes. Because that is how she protects, how she cares.

- You do not realize she has chosen you until one day, you find yourself safe in her presence. There is something unspoken between you, something steady. You do not have to ask for her loyalty; it is simply there. And when she does touch you—fingertips grazing your wrist, the ghost of a smile as she tugs you closer—it is deliberate. Natasha Romanoff does nothing by accident.

- She lets you see pieces of her that others do not. The way she tilts her head toward the sunlight, the way her laughter is rare but real when it comes. She lets you in—not all at once, but slowly, cautiously, as if waiting for the moment you will turn away. And when you don’t, when you stay—that is when she begins to believe in the possibility of us.

- One day, in the quiet of an empty room, she speaks—not with words, but with her hands, with the way she leans into you, with the way her forehead rests against yours. And in that moment, she is not Black Widow, not an assassin, not a spy. She is just Natasha. And for the first time in a long, long time, she is not afraid.

Bruce Banner

- Bruce does not believe in soulmates, not in the traditional sense. The idea that someone could look at him—at all of him—and not be afraid? That is not something he allows himself to hope for. He has spent too many years running, hiding, keeping his distance. Because love, in his world, is dangerous.

- When he meets you, he is wary. Not because he does not like you, but because he does. And that is terrifying. You are warmth, kindness, something soft in a world that has never been soft to him. And so he keeps his distance at first, watching from afar, convincing himself that he is only curious. But curiosity turns to admiration. And admiration? That is a dangerous thing.

- You are patient with him. You do not push, do not demand. You simply exist beside him, a presence that is neither overwhelming nor suffocating. And for Bruce, that is everything. One day, he catches himself reaching for you—without thinking, without fear. His fingers barely brush yours, but the moment feels monumental. Because for the first time in years, he is not pulling away.

- He falls in love in moments, in increments. In the way you talk about things you love, in the way you tilt your head when you listen. And one day, when you look at him—really look at him—with no fear, no hesitation, he thinks: Maybe. Maybe this could be real.

- When he finally says it, it is not a grand confession. It is quiet, almost hesitant. “I think… I think I’m in love with you.” And when you smile, when you take his hand without hesitation, he exhales a breath he did not know he was holding. Because for the first time, Bruce Banner is not afraid of himself. Not when you are beside him.

Clint Barton

- You don’t meet Clint Barton in a way that feels significant at first. There’s no dramatic music, no lingering glances across a battlefield. He’s just there, like he’s always been, like he always will be. Steady. Reliable. He notices you before you notice him, blending into the background like a shadow, like a ghost. But Clint Barton doesn’t waste time on people he doesn’t think matter, and the way he watches you—curious, assessing, interested—means that, somehow, without trying, you’ve already become important to him.

- He isn’t flashy, isn’t loud. He doesn’t sweep you off your feet or try to impress you. That’s not Clint’s way. Instead, he worms his way into your life so naturally that you don’t realize it’s happening until one day, you’re reaching for your coffee, and he’s already got one waiting for you. Until you’re in the middle of a conversation, and he finishes your thought before you do. Until you catch yourself looking for him in a crowded room, and the moment you find him, his eyes are already on you.

- He makes you laugh. Not in the practiced way of a man trying to win someone over, but in the way that feels easy. Like it’s second nature. “You’re trouble,” he says one day, shaking his head as he smirks at you. “I like trouble.” And maybe you should be wary, maybe you should tread carefully, but Clint Barton is the kind of man who makes you feel safe even as he leads you straight into danger.

- It’s in the small things, the details. The way he stands between you and an exit without thinking. The way he nudges his food onto your plate when he sees you eyeing it. The way he never quite lets you out of his sight, as if he’s already memorized a hundred different ways to keep you safe without you ever realizing. Clint Barton is a protector by nature, but with you, it’s personal.

- He never says the words soulmate, never makes grand declarations. But one night, when it’s just the two of you and the world feels quiet, he murmurs, “Wherever you go, I’ll find you.” And in his voice, in his eyes, you hear the promise: Always.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes does not believe in fate. He does not believe in soulmates. He does not believe in a world that gives people things without demanding something in return. So when he meets you, when something deep inside him stirs in a way it hasn’t in decades, he does not trust it. Does not trust you. Not because you’ve done anything wrong, but because he has learned, over and over again, that good things do not stay.

- He tries to ignore it. Tries to ignore you. But Bucky Barnes has never been good at lying to himself. Not when you laugh and something in his chest tightens, not when you look at him like he’s just a man—not a soldier, not a weapon, not a ghost. And that? That is dangerous. Because Bucky Barnes does not know what to do with kindness, not when it’s freely given.

- You are patient with him. You do not push, do not pry. You simply exist beside him, letting him come to you in his own time. And it is that patience that undoes him. Because Bucky has spent too long being feared, too long being avoided. But you? You are not afraid. You meet his silence with understanding, his hesitation with warmth. You never ask for more than he can give. And that? That is why he wants to give you everything.

- The first time he touches you, it is tentative. Fingertips brushing against yours, brief but deliberate. It is a test, a question without words. And when you do not flinch, when you do not pull away, something in him shifts. He lets himself be closer after that. Lets himself want. Because maybe, just maybe, he is not as broken as he thought.

- He does not tell you he loves you. Not with words, not at first. But one night, when he is half-asleep, when the world is quiet and his guard is down, he exhales against your skin and murmurs, “You’re my safe place.” And that? That is enough. That is everything.

Sam Wilson

- Sam Wilson is warmth. He is laughter and easy smiles, the kind of man who makes strangers feel like old friends. And when he meets you, it is no different. He is charming, quick-witted, effortlessly magnetic. But beneath all of that, beneath the teasing and the grins, there is depth. There is steadiness. Because Sam Wilson does not love halfway.

- He flirts with you before he realizes he’s doing it. “You got a smile that could end wars,” he tells you, and when you roll your eyes and call him out on it, he just grins. But what starts as playful banter shifts into something real, something deeper. Because you are interesting, and Sam Wilson is a man who chases the things that make life worth living.

- He is observant. Picks up on things before you ever say them. He knows when you’re holding back, knows when you need space, knows when to push and when to stay silent. And that? That is what makes him dangerous. Because Sam Wilson does not just see people—he understands them. And when he starts understanding you, when he starts peeling back the layers, it is impossible not to fall.

- He makes you feel light. Not in the sense that he takes away your burdens, but in the way he carries them with you. He does not ask you to change, does not try to fix you. He just stands beside you, unwavering, unshaken. And that? That is what makes him different.

- The moment he knows is quiet. No grand revelation, no dramatic confession. Just a moment—a simple, perfect moment—where you laugh at something stupid, and he thinks, Oh. There you are. And from that moment on, there is no turning back.

Peter Parker (Tom H.)

- Peter Parker falls in love like he does everything else: all at once, headfirst, completely. He does not ease into things, does not take his time. No, Peter Parker feels—deeply, intensely, without hesitation. And when he meets you, it is immediate. A spark, a pull. Like gravity has just shifted, and suddenly, you are at the center of his universe.

- He is awkward, at first. Stumbles over his words when he gets nervous. But when he talks to you about things he loves—science, Star Wars, the feeling of swinging through the city at night—his nerves disappear. Because Peter Parker may be shy, but he is passionate, and when he lets you in, when he shares the things that make his heart race, it is the most honest kind of intimacy.

- He looks at you like you are the most fascinating thing he has ever seen. Like he is memorizing every detail, storing it away for later. The way your eyes crinkle when you smile, the way your voice sounds when you say his name. And when he falls, it is not gradual. It is instant. A realization that hits him like a train: Oh. It’s you. It’s always been you.

- He gets flustered when you touch him, no matter how small the gesture. A hand on his arm, fingers brushing his. It takes everything in him not to combust on the spot. But the first time you kiss him? He forgets how to breathe. Because Peter Parker has dreamed of a lot of things, but nothing—nothing—has ever felt like this.

- When he tells you, it is rushed, breathless, spilling out of him like he can’t hold it in any longer. “I love you,” he blurts out, wide-eyed and terrified. But when you smile, when you take his hand and squeeze, he exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Because Peter Parker may not always know what he’s doing, but with you? He is sure.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange does not believe in soulmates. He believes in logic, in science, in the tangible threads of reality that can be pulled and shaped at will. Love, in his mind, is chemical, nothing more. But when he meets you, something in him hesitates. A fraction of a second too long. A moment where time stretches and bends, and he is caught in it.

- He tells himself it is coincidence, this way you linger in his thoughts long after you’ve gone. That it is simple curiosity, nothing deeper. But then he begins to seek you. Subtly, at first. A glance across the Sanctum, a conversation extended a few minutes longer than necessary. And then, before he even realizes it, you have become necessary.

- He resists it. Of course he does. Stephen Strange is not a man who falls easily, and he is certainly not a man who hands over his heart without a fight. But you—you—slip through the cracks of his carefully constructed walls like light through ancient stone. And for all his knowledge, for all his power, he does not know how to stop it.

- He begins to notice things. The way your hands move when you speak, the way your lips curve before a smile fully forms. The way his name sounds softer when you say it. He hates that he notices. Hates that it matters. Because Stephen Strange is a man who has lost too much, and the idea of wanting something—someone—so deeply is terrifying.

- But one night, when the world is quiet and he is exhausted in a way that magic cannot heal, you touch his hand. A simple gesture, nothing grand. And yet, it is enough to unravel him. Because in that moment, he understands: he has already fallen. And this time, for the first time in a long, long while, he does not want to get back up.

Thor Odinson

- When Thor Odinson meets you, it is with the full force of a storm. He does not quietly fall in love. No, he crashes into it. Like thunder against the sky, like lightning through his veins. He sees you, and in that instant, you are known to him. A force as undeniable as the pull of Mjolnir in his grasp.

- He is immediate in his affection. In the way he smiles, in the way he speaks your name like a declaration. Thor does not hesitate. He does not play games. He wants, and he shows it. You are magnificent, he tells you. You are radiant. You are the sun itself, and he is not ashamed to orbit you.

- He watches you with reverence, as though you are something divine. He listens—truly listens—when you speak, as if every word you say is worthy of being carved into history. And when he laughs, it is unrestrained, full-bodied, a sound that shakes the air between you. He laughs with you more than he has in years, and it is then he realizes: he is home.

- He is protective, but never possessive. He trusts you. And that trust is sacred. He does not doubt your strength, does not seek to cage you. Instead, he stands beside you, a storm at your back, a warrior at your side. And if ever you should fall, know this: he will tear apart the heavens to catch you.

- One night, as the stars stretch endless above you, he turns to you, expression unguarded, voice low with certainty. “I have lived a thousand years,” he murmurs, “and yet I think I have only just begun. Because you—you are where my life truly starts.” And with that, the sky itself seems to hold its breath.

Loki Laufeyson

- Loki does not fall in love. That is what he tells himself. Love is a trick, a weapon wielded by the foolish, and he has long since sworn to never be such a fool. But then there is you. And suddenly, everything he has ever known begins to unravel.

- He resists you at first. Pushes, teases, taunts. If he can keep you at a distance, if he can make you believe he does not care, then perhaps it will be true. But you are not so easily deterred. You see through his sharp words, through his smirks and his laughter that never quite reaches his eyes. You see him. And that? That is dangerous.

- You match him, step for step, wit for wit. You are not afraid of him, and that is what terrifies him most. Because he has built his life around being untouchable, unreachable. And yet, here you stand, hands open, eyes steady. You do not ask for the parts of him he is unwilling to give. You simply wait, patient, unyielding.

- And then, one day, without realizing, he gives. A glance held a moment too long, a touch that lingers. A secret whispered between you, something sacred, something real. He does not say the words, not yet, perhaps not ever. But you know.

- Because Loki Laufeyson does not love lightly. His love is sharp, it is consuming, it is fierce and endless. And when he loves, it is not a fleeting thing. No, when he loves—when he loves—it is forever.

T’Challa

- T’Challa is a man who carries the weight of an entire nation on his shoulders. He is a king before he is anything else. He does not have the luxury of reckless love, of foolish infatuation. But then there is you, and suddenly, he begins to wonder if perhaps the gods have written you into his story all along.

- He notices you first in silence. The way you move, the way you are. Strength and grace intertwined. He is drawn to you, though he does not yet know why. It is not a matter of beauty—though you are, undeniably, beautiful. It is something deeper. Something that hums beneath his skin like an unspoken truth.

- He is careful, at first. Measured. T’Challa does not rush, does not leap without looking. But as the days pass, he finds himself seeking you out, lingering in conversations he once would have ended quickly. And when he speaks to you, when he listens, it is not as a king, but as a man.

- He is deliberate in his affections. Every touch, every glance, every word is given with intention. There is no hesitation, no uncertainty. He knows what he wants, and he chooses you. Not because of fate, not because of prophecy, but because he wills it so.

- One night, beneath Wakanda’s endless sky, he turns to you and says, voice rich with quiet certainty, “A king’s heart belongs to his people. But my soul, my soul—it belongs to you.” And in that moment, there is no crown, no throne—only him, only you, only the promise of forever.

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector does not believe in soulmates. He barely believes in himself. His life has been shaped by war, by violence, by loss. Love? Love is dangerous. Love is something to be taken away. And yet, when he meets you, something in him stirs. A quiet ache, a pull he does not want to name.

- He does not make it easy. He keeps his distance, walls high, gaze sharp. He is kind, in his own way—offering gruff concern, a jacket when you’re cold, a silent presence when the world grows too loud. But he does not let you in. Because he knows what happens when you love something. You lose it.

- But you do not scare easily. You do not demand softness from him, do not reach for the broken pieces and try to fix them. You simply stay. And that? That terrifies him more than anything. Because Marc has spent his whole life running, and now, for the first time, he wonders what it would mean to stop.

- The moment he realizes he loves you is quiet. Unassuming. A night like any other, the world reduced to nothing but your breathing beside him, the way your fingers brush against his own. It is not grand. It is not a revelation. It is simply true. And he does not know what to do with that truth.

- But love is not something he can fight—not this, not you. And so, in his own way, in his own time, he lets himself have you. A hesitant touch. A murmured confession. A love that is raw and aching and real. And when he finally holds you, truly holds you, he whispers against your skin, "I don’t know how to do this. But I want to." And for him, for you, that is enough.

Steven Grant

- Steven Grant believes in soulmates. How could he not? He has spent his life buried in stories, in myths, in ancient echoes of love that spanned across time. He does not think he is meant for something so grand—not him, not quiet, lonely Steven. But then, one day, he meets you, and suddenly, the world is not quite so lonely anymore.

- He falls fast. Hard. Like a man who has been waiting for a single drop of water in a desert, only to be given the ocean. He stumbles over his words around you, fidgets under your gaze. But oh, the way he looks at you. As if you are a wonder carved into history, as if he is memorizing every part of you like scripture.

- He wants to know everything. What makes you laugh, what makes you sad, what dreams live inside your head. He listens, truly listens, as if every word you speak is sacred. And when you ask about him, he hesitates, shy but eager, because no one has ever wanted to know him the way you do.

- He is gentle in his love. Soft-spoken confessions, hands hovering like he’s afraid you might disappear. But make no mistake—his love is fierce. It is unwavering. It is yours. And he would give you every star in the sky if you asked, even if he had to climb to the heavens himself to retrieve them.

- One night, he holds your hand in his, thumb tracing over your knuckles, gaze earnest. "I think, maybe, I was always meant to find you," he says, voice quiet but certain. "Like one of those myths, yeah? The ones where two souls are tied together, across lifetimes." And with that, his fate is sealed. Because Steven Grant does not love lightly. He loves forever.

Jake Lockley

- Jake Lockley does not speak of love. He does not believe in fate or destiny or the soft promises that come with them. Love, to him, is just another game. Another risk. One he is not willing to take. But then there is you. And suddenly, every rule he has ever followed begins to crack.

- He watches you before he lets himself know you. Observes. Studies. You are a puzzle he does not understand, and yet, he cannot stop looking. You move through his world like something untouchable, and yet, he aches to touch. To have. But Jake does not get to have things. And so, he fights it.

- But love, real love, is relentless. And you? You are patient. You do not push, do not demand. You see him, in a way no one ever has. And for the first time in his life, he does not feel the need to run. He does not feel the need to hide.

- When he finally gives in, it is not with words. It is in the way he stands closer than necessary, the way his fingers skim your wrist like a whisper. The way he shields you in a fight, not because he thinks you are weak, but because the thought of losing you is unbearable. His love is unspoken, but it is fierce.

- One night, after too much silence, after too many unsaid things, he finally turns to you and murmurs, "You’re mine." Not a question. Not a plea. A statement, low and rough with something he does not dare name. And when you do not pull away, when you only smile, he knows—he is yours just as much.

Scott Lang

- Scott Lang falls in love like he does everything else—with his whole heart, unguarded and eager. He is not subtle. He does not play it cool. He sees you, and suddenly, you are the best thing to ever happen to him.

- He flirts, shamelessly, but there is no arrogance in it. Just warmth, just affection. He wants to make you laugh. Wants to see you happy. Because, for him, there is no greater joy than making you smile. And when you do, when you so much as glance at him with amusement, he swears he feels lighter.

- He tells himself he is being ridiculous. That it is too soon, too much. But Scott has lost too much to waste time pretending. He wants to know you. Wants to hear about the things you love, the things you hate, the things that make you you. Because you? You are worth knowing.

- When he realizes he loves you, it is not some grand revelation. It is in the small moments. The way you roll your eyes at his bad jokes but laugh anyway. The way you remember the little things he says, even when he forgets them himself. The way you fit into his life like you have always been there.

- One night, without thinking, he blurts it out. “I love you.” Just like that. No pretense, no hesitation. And when you look at him, eyes wide, he only grins, shrugging. “What? I do.” Because Scott Lang may be many things—reckless, impulsive, a little bit of a mess—but when he loves, he loves openly, fully, honestly. And there is nothing in this world he would rather be than yours.

Matt Murdock

- Matt Murdock has always lived in the dark. It is familiar, predictable. He has built his world out of quiet suffering, out of whispered prayers and clenched fists. Love? Love is something distant. Something dangerous. And yet, when he meets you, he feels the earth shift beneath his feet.

- He does not know what to do with you. You are light, and he has spent too long in the shadows. But oh, how he wants. How he aches. He hears the steady rhythm of your heart, the way it stutters when he gets too close, the way your breath hitches when he says your name. And he knows. Knows that this, whatever it is, is real.

- But Matt is a man of guilt, of sacrifice. He convinces himself he does not deserve you. That his life is too dangerous, that you are better off without him. So he keeps his distance. Wears his charm like armor, keeps his touches fleeting, his words careful. But love? Love has never been something he could fight.

- One night, after a battle that leaves him bloody and broken, he finds himself at your door. He does not speak, does not explain. He just stands there, breathing heavy, hands shaking. And when you reach for him, when you pull him inside and whisper his name like a prayer, he realizes—he was always going to be yours.

- When he finally admits it, it is quiet. A confession murmured in the dark, between shared breaths and tangled sheets. "I tried to stay away," he tells you, voice rough with something fragile. "I couldn’t." And you do not tell him that you already knew. That you had felt it in every touch, in every stolen glance. Instead, you press your lips to his and whisper, "Then don’t." And he doesn’t. Not ever again.

Frank Castle

- Frank Castle does not believe in love. Not anymore. He once had a heart, a home, a future. He once had everything. And then, in a single moment, it was all taken from him. Now, love is nothing but a ghost—something that lingers in the spaces between grief and rage. Something he can never have again.

- And then, there’s you. And suddenly, the world is not so quiet anymore. Suddenly, there is something—someone—that makes him pause. That makes him feel something other than anger, other than loss. And it terrifies him. Because Frank knows what happens when he loves something. It dies.

- He tries to push you away. He is cruel, sometimes, in the way that broken men are. Short words, cold silences. He convinces himself it is for your own good. But you? You are relentless. Not in a loud way, not in a desperate way. Just in the way you stay. In the way you look at him like he is worth saving.

- The first time he lets himself have you, it is a surrender, not a victory. A slow, aching unraveling. He grips you too tightly, kisses you like a man who does not believe in second chances. And when he pulls away, when he looks at you like you are something holy, something his, he does not say "I love you." He does not have to.

- Frank Castle loves with his hands, with his body, with the way he shields you in a fight, the way he pulls you close at night like the world might steal you away. He does not speak of forever, because he does not believe in it. But when he looks at you, when he stays, you know—he would burn the whole world down before he ever lost you.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

- Dex has always been searching for something. For someone. His whole life, he has wanted to belong. To be seen, to be chosen. And then he meets you, and for the first time, the world makes sense. Because you see him. You do not flinch. You do not run.

- He is drawn to you like a moth to flame, reckless and desperate. He wants you, needs you, in a way that is terrifying in its intensity. But Dex does not know how to love gently. He loves like an obsession, like a wound that will not heal. He wants all of you, wants you to need him just as much.

- He is good at pretending. At being charming, being normal. But with you? With you, the mask slips. And when you do not pull away, when you meet his darkness with steady hands and patient eyes, something inside him cracks. He has never been given love without conditions, without expectation. And he does not know what to do with it.

- The first time he truly breaks in front of you, it is ugly. A night filled with too much anger, too much pain. His hands shake, his breath ragged. "Tell me to leave," he whispers, voice raw. "Tell me you don’t want me." But you don’t. You never do. And that? That is what undoes him.

- Love does not fix him. It does not erase the sharp edges, the fractures in his soul. But it gives him something real. And for the first time in his life, he is chosen. Not as a weapon. Not as a tool. But as a man. And that? That is enough.

Wanda Maximoff

- Wanda Maximoff has always known loss. It is woven into her bones, into the very fabric of her being. She does not expect love. Does not dare hope for it. Because everything she loves is taken from her, and she does not think she could survive losing anything else.

- And yet, when she meets you, something inside her shifts. It is slow, hesitant. She does not trust it, does not trust herself. But you? You are patient. You do not push. Do not demand. You simply exist, warm and steady, a presence she never realized she needed.

- She loves you before she even realizes it. In the way she reaches for you first, in the way your laughter softens the sharp edges of her world. But Wanda is afraid of love. Afraid of what it could mean, of what it could cost. She tries to keep her distance, but it is already too late. You are in her veins, in her breath, in the spaces between heartbeats.

- The first time she says it, it is not in words. It is in the way she looks at you, magic flickering at her fingertips, a silent promise woven between them. It is in the way she lets herself need you, in the way she trusts you with parts of herself she has never shared before.

- Wanda Maximoff does not love in halves. She loves with her whole soul, with a devotion that is fierce and unyielding. She does not promise you forever—she has learned not to trust forever. But she promises you now. And for her, for you, that is everything.

Pietro Maximoff

- Pietro Maximoff has always lived like a storm—fast, reckless, untouchable. The world has never been able to keep up with him, and he has never minded. Until you. Until the moment he meets you, and for the first time in his life, something makes him want to slow down.

- He falls for you without realizing it. At first, it is playful—quick remarks, teasing smiles, fingers brushing yours for just a second too long. But then it is more. It is the way his body moves toward yours before his mind catches up. The way his heart races for reasons that have nothing to do with speed.

- Love terrifies him. He has lost too much, too many. His sister, his home, his past—all ghosts that whisper warnings. But you? You make him forget to be afraid. You make him believe, for just a moment, that maybe—maybe—he was never meant to run alone.

- The first time he realizes it, truly feels it, it is quiet. No jokes, no flirting. Just the way you look at him, like he is worth something. Like he is more than a blur, more than a joke made of speed and bravado. And in that moment, he knows—he is yours.

- Pietro Maximoff does not love in small ways. He loves like the wind—wild, consuming, everywhere all at once. He leaves notes in places only you will find, brings you flowers at impossible speeds, holds you like he is afraid you will disappear. And maybe, just maybe, for the first time in his life, he isn’t running away from something. He is running to you.

Peter Quill

- Peter Quill has spent his whole life with his head in the stars, chasing the next thrill, the next adventure. Love? Love is a complication, a risk. He has lost too much, and he knows better than to hope. But then there’s you. And suddenly, the galaxy does not feel so big anymore.

- He fights it at first. Makes jokes, turns everything into a game. But it’s a losing battle. Because you see through him. See the man beneath the charm, beneath the cocky smirk and quick wit. And worse? You don’t turn away.

- He doesn’t know how to handle it. He is reckless with his feelings, careless with his heart. He pushes, then pulls, then pushes again. But you stay. You match him joke for joke, but when it counts, when it matters, you are there. And that? That undoes him.

- The first time he calls you his, it is unplanned. A fight, a close call, adrenaline in his veins. "Don’t touch my girl," he growls, fists clenched, eyes burning. And when it’s over, when you’re safe, he looks at you—uncertain, hesitant. But you just smile, because you had known long before he did.

- Peter Quill does not love with caution. He loves in grand gestures and stolen songs, in whispered confessions under alien skies. He plays you mixtapes, sings to you when he thinks you aren’t listening. And when he holds you, it is with the quiet desperation of a man who has spent his whole life searching for something he did not think he could have. Until you.

Wade Wilson (Fox)

- Wade Wilson does not believe in soulmates. He does not believe in much of anything anymore. The world has taken too much, left him too broken. He is a man stitched together with bad jokes and worse decisions, and love? Love is for people with futures.

- And then there is you. And suddenly, love is not some distant thing. It is here. It is real. And Wade—God help him—does not know what to do with it. So he does what he always does. He hides behind sarcasm, behind crude jokes and exaggerated bravado. But you? You just see him.

- The first time he realizes he loves you, it is terrifying. Because it is not a loud thing. Not some big, dramatic moment. It is the way you look at him without flinching, the way you laugh at his worst jokes, the way you stay even when he gives you every reason not to.

- He tries to push you away. Tries to convince you that he is not worth it. But you are stubborn. You kiss the scars, touch the jagged edges of him without fear. And when you whisper, "I love you," he cannot breathe. Because for the first time in a long, long time, he believes it.

- Wade Wilson does not love easily, but when he does, it is all-consuming. He loves in stolen moments and whispered jokes, in fierce, desperate touches and ridiculous, over-the-top gestures. He calls you a hundred stupid nicknames, leaves you notes in the weirdest places, holds you like you are the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. Because maybe, just maybe, you are.

Logan Howlett (Fox)

- Logan has lived too long, lost too much. He does not believe in love. Not anymore. He has seen it ripped away too many times, left too many ghosts in his wake. He is a man built for war, for pain. And yet, when he meets you, something inside him shifts.

- He resists it. God, he resists it. He grunts instead of speaks, glares instead of softens. He convinces himself that you are better off without him. That he is a man made of blood and violence, and you—you—deserve something gentle. Something whole.

- But love is not something he can fight. It is in the way you touch him, like he is not a weapon, not a monster. In the way you hold his hand like it is not something meant for killing. And Logan? Logan is tired of fighting.

- The first time he says it, it is rough, almost angry. "I love you," he growls, like it is being ripped from his chest. And when you smile—when you accept it—something inside him breaks. Because he had never thought this was meant for him. Had never thought he could have this.

- Logan Howlett does not love gently. He loves in quiet, protective touches, in fierce, desperate devotion. He loves in the way he stands in front of you in a fight, the way he holds you at night like he is afraid you will vanish. He does not promise forever—he has lived too long to believe in it. But he promises you. And that? That is more than enough.

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