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(01, 01) - homam

(ho-mam'), (ζ) Pegasi, "the lucky star of the hero, or the whisperer."

synopsis: While watching Matt, he finds a new variable he's never seen before: you. word count: 11.0k+ pairing: dex poindexter x fem!reader notes: oh man oh man oh man... the first chapter of this lovely series/baby of mine, ahh i'm so nervy! i truly adore this series, so i hope people like it as much as i do! without further ado, here's the first chapter of a long journey :) and also fuck this country celebrate my fic instead of 4th of july!!!!!! warnings/tags: no use of y/n, told from dex's pov!, stalking, mentions of St. Agnes, mentions of Doctors Without Borders, some small mentions/insinuations of reader not properly eating, yeah this is pretty much just dex stalking you lol series masterlist ⋆◎˚｡⋆

Dex had already been watching them long enough to know what “normal” looked like on Foggy’s face, which mostly meant loud and animated and a little too pleased with himself, especially when he was carrying a drink he didn’t need and talking like he owned the sidewalk. Karen walked like she was pretending she wasn’t looking over her shoulder, even when she wasn’t actually doing it, and she kept her bag close the way people did when they’d learned the hard way that a city took whatever you gave it. Matt was harder, not because he was mysterious, but because he was disciplined, and discipline was annoying when you were trying to predict someone who insisted on having control over every inch of himself.

Dex held still in the shadowed recess between a pharmacy window and a closed gate, a spot that gave him the whole corner without putting him in anyone’s line of sight, and the street noise did the rest of the work for him. The air smelled like roasted coffee and exhaust and someone’s perfume trailing behind them, and it made his teeth ache in that faint way that meant he was too aware of everything all at once. He watched Matt’s head angle a fraction toward Foggy’s voice, watched the cane tap a steady rhythm, and then watched Karen’s hand flick out to swat Foggy’s shoulder when he said something that made her roll her eyes.

scarletddevil

OMG THIS IS MY NEW OBSESSION (and I guess dex's too lol) AND I LOVE IT !!

#dex poindexter x reader #benjamin poindexter x reader #ben poindexter x reader #bullseye x reader #dex poindexter x fem!reader #benjamin poindexter x fem!reader #ben poindexter x fem!reader #benjamin poindexter x f!reader #north star ⋆◎˚｡⋆ series #dex's recs

dosmiltres

charles leclerc | p1 - silverstone gp 2026

scarletddevil

IL PREDESTINATO VINCE

#charles leclerc #f1 #formula 1 #scuderia ferrari

thranguil

scarletddevil

on my knees to pray 🙏🏻

#daredevil #matt murdock #matthew murdock

peterftpercy

The Thirst — Prologue

series masterlist — introduction — next chapter

matt murdock x vampire!reader

warnings: (18+ minors dni) eventual smut. mention of blood and graphic scenes of violence. blasphemy. constant mention of the catholic religion.

attention: mention of the uterus and its loss! mention of motherhood as something expected, taking into account the context of the 1920s.

word count: 5084

clarification: english is not my native language, so i apologize in advance for any mistakes.

Owney Madden hadn't been released yet, but the lethal cadence of unparalleled violence born in the shadow of his existence was more than present in Hell's Kitchen. Now that his release was a reality, it meant it was time to rebuild the foundations of an empire that would later be remembered in the city's history.

The idea was to find key locations in Clinton with enough influence to go unnoticed or to intimidate people. Space was also necessary to safeguard what would later become as precious as gold: alcohol.

Clinton Church had an ideal location to pass itself off as something, and at the same time, it had loyal followers who listened to Father Steven's words without question. The church had an attached orphanage, making it an important hub for future smuggling; the children were easy to train and manipulate, and the young women who took refuge there could be used for many other purposes.

The plan was simple. It wouldn't be the first time a church had joined a criminal network.

The convent refused. It said no to the web of death, corruption, and bloodshed woven by Owney Madden's gang.

The Gopher Gang—Madden's gang—decided that if Clinton Church didn't join them, then they would suffer the consequences.

The police would call it an isolated incident.

May 23, 1923

The doors of Clinton Church slammed shut behind you with a thud that echoed through the nave, as if the entire building had breathed its last with you. Your hands trembled so much you barely managed to slide the old iron bolt; the metal squeaked beneath your bloodied fingers as your weight finally collapsed against the wood.

Outside, Hell's Kitchen burned.

Not amidst flames.

It burned with voices.

The gunshots continued to echo through the narrow streets like premature thunder, mingling with shouts that arrived distorted by the distance. You could hear men laughing, boots pounding on the cobblestones, orders shouted with that carefree violence possessed only by those convinced the world belongs to them.

Owney Madden was still in prison.

But his men were already walking the streets as if he had never left the neighborhood.

The Clinton Church had the sacrilege of not bowing to corruption.

It said no to hiding weapons and alcohol. It said no to the corruption of children and to handing over its young novices and girls.

The Church refused to become just another cog in a machine of a city that seemed to have forgotten the difference between faith and fear.

And Madden's men never took no for an answer.

Another gunshot pierced the air.

Then a scream. It was high-pitched. Too young.

You closed your eyes.

You recognized that voice. It had been one of the novices; she couldn't have been more than seventeen. She had arrived just a few months before with a battered suitcase and the hope of finding a place where the world stopped hurting.

On the other side of the wall, separated only by a small stone courtyard, stood Saint Agnes Orphanage. You thought of the children hiding behind the windows, huddled together while the nuns tried to cover their ears so they wouldn't hear the horror unfolding beyond the stained glass.

You prayed they wouldn't come out.

You prayed Madden's men wouldn't cross that courtyard.

You prayed...

and kept crawling.

Each movement left a new scarlet stain on the wooden floor. The trail of blood snaked between the pews as if another, invisible creature were walking behind you, claiming every drop that left your body.

The incense from the morning mass still hung in the air. It mingled with the iron in your blood and the damp scent of the ancient stone, creating a strange, almost solemn perfume, as if the church had begun preparing your funeral long before you crossed those doors.

Inside, the church remained silent, a silence so ancient it seemed to have outlived all the prayers uttered beneath that vault. Only the ragged rustle of a crawling body broke the stillness. You were fortunate that they presumed you dead and tried to eliminate those outside. They wanted those outside first, so no one could escape.

Your hands left a dark trail across the flagstones as you groped your way to the side altar, away from the front door, away from the overturned pews and the stained-glass windows shattered by Owney Madden's men. Each breath was shorter than the last. The iron of your blood mingled with the harsh taste of dust, and for the first time since you'd learned to hold a rosary between your fingers, you understood the true meaning of agony.

You didn't want to die.

Not there. Not like that. Not at the hands of filthy men who only sought to stain the streets of your beloved, damaged home crimson.

Your fingers found the crucifix hanging around your neck. The silver was warm, soaked with your own blood. You gripped it with the desperate strength of someone who has nothing left to offer.

“Please…” the word barely left your lips.

Then came another. And another.

Not a memorized prayer, but a broken babble, a plea born of fear.

“God... please…”

The church didn't answer.

The crucifix remained motionless between your fingers.

Yet… something changed.

It wasn't a sound. It was the complete absence of them all. As if suddenly deafness had engulfed you and the mere presence of despair was all that surrounded you.

The trickle of blood stopped.

The wind ceased to pierce the shattered stained-glass windows.

Even the pain seemed to cease, suspended in a moment that no longer belonged to time.

Then a voice spoke.

It didn't descend from the ceiling.

It didn't emerge from the shadows.

It had no direction.

It simply... existed.

Profound. Immense. Powerful.

So ancient that no human language could have claimed it as its own. You didn't understand its language, yet at the same time, you did. You recognized and didn't recognize the voice. It was a strange sensation that clung to the very core of your being, beyond the physical.

“You ask for salvation.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks before you even realized you were crying.

“Please…”

“There is no salvation without sacrifice.”

The air grew heavy. The cross was still in your hands, but suddenly it felt heavier.

“What protects must first relinquish what it was made to preserve.”

You frowned. Those words echoed in your head, and you turned them over in the brief moment you had, trying to understand them.

It didn't make sense, not entirely.

A dagger lay just inches from you, fallen to the ground where you had left it when you collapsed. That same weapon had repeatedly plunged into your side; violent thrusts that dug into your skin without mercy while your screams of pain adorned the macabre scene of your attacker.

A nobody, a pawn who only followed orders, but at the same time enjoyed the brutality of being the one with power. He plunged his dagger in without a second thought, drove it in so hard that it became embedded in you.

The dagger must have fallen from dragging yourself so much. Or perhaps you pulled it out to try and deny the pain you felt.

You didn't remember it, you didn't remember the movement, but at that precise moment it didn't matter.

The important thing was that it was there.

With an effort that made every muscle in your body tremble, you reached for it; your fingers closed around the dagger's hilt.

“I have nothing, my lord,” you whispered with barely any strength. “I only have this body that is about to perish under your gaze.”

The voice didn't respond right away.

When it did again, it no longer sounded like an order. It sounded like the truth.

“Then offer that from which life begins.”

The whole world seemed to hold its breath.

You looked at your own body, the same one you were about to leave with your last breath. The blood still spreading beneath your legs. You were a pathetic sight, a human being in its final moments.

Then you remembered.

The womb, so often described by priests and mothers as a sanctuary destined to give life.

Since childhood, you had been taught that the greatest gift bestowed upon a woman resided there. That one day that void would be filled by another life. That motherhood was not just a destiny, but a promise.

What if you gave it up?

Who would you be then?

Not a wife.

Not a mother.

Not what the world expected.

Just… you.

A person willing to surrender the future that would never be yours. The future everyone told you you had to achieve.

The tip of the dagger rested on your abdomen.

You closed your eyes. You didn't utter a prayer.

Only a promise.

“Take it.”

The blade descended.

The pain was so immense it ceased to feel like pain. For an instant there was no flesh, no bones, no blood, but a white light that pierced every corner of your consciousness. You felt something leave your body, not torn away by your hands, but claimed by a will infinitely older than your own.

Your womb was empty.

Not empty of organs. Empty of destiny. The destiny imposed or chosen. The destiny implored or cursed.

Empty of possibility. Of all that the world had decided you should be.

The voice spoke for the last time.

“Then rise as that which no longer gives life... but guards it.”

Darkness fell upon you as softly as a blanket.

Your hand went limp, and the dagger struck the floor. The rosary remained trapped between your motionless fingers.

And your heart stopped beating.

For an immeasurable time, the church was deserted once more. The clamor of agony, despair, and violence echoed in the distance, far, far away.

For a few fleeting moments, you were nothing. A being no longer of the living, but one about to ascend to heaven or descend into hell.

You weren't alive; you had left life.

Until, somewhere between death and dawn… a breath broke the silence.

Your lungs filled with air with an unfamiliar force.

Your eyes snapped open.

They were no longer the same.

Nor was it the thirst that awoke with you.

The first heartbeat didn't reach your chest. It reached the church. It was the wood creaking under the weight of centuries, the stained-glass window barely trembling on the eastern wall, the wax melting with impossible slowness.

Then… came the hunger. It wasn't born in your stomach or your body.

It was an ancient, primal need, hidden in a corner of the universe long before churches, men, or the names of God existed. It surged through your veins like a raging river, filling every space the blood had left behind.

The world had changed.

No.

The world has always been this way.

It was you who had never been able to see it.

The darkness ceased to be darkness. The stones breathed centuries. The dampness hidden between the bricks had a scent. The incense still hung over the oratory like a golden cloud, and behind it, you could distinguish each drop of blood that had fallen from your body, each with a different fragrance, a different story.

You sat up with unnatural slowness. Your joints protested for barely an instant before settling as if they had never known the wound that had pierced your abdomen. There was no trace of the pain. Nor of the cold. Nor of the blood that minutes before had left your body to stain the marble red.

Only the rosary remained between your fingers.

You clutched it tightly.

“Thank you,” you whispered with the greatest of thanks.

You called, and He answered. God didn't save you.

He consecrated you.

Protect.

The church remained shrouded in gloom, but your eyes no longer needed the light. The darkness had become a second skin; you could make out every crack in the stone, every grain in the wood, every breath hidden within the centuries-old walls. Beyond the altar, on the other side of the doors, twelve hearts continued to beat.

Twelve.

You heard them with unbearable clarity.

Each heartbeat pierced the temple like a bell.

Each carried the same scent.

Gunpowder.

Sweat.

Blood.

Sin.

Thirst answered before you did.

You didn't walk toward them. You disappeared.

The first scream tore through the silence of Clinton Church with such violence that even the stained-glass windows seemed to tremble. Then came another. And another. The gunfire began almost immediately, hurried, chaotic, fired at an enemy no one could comprehend.

The bullets found columns.

Pews.

Plaster saints.

Never you.

You moved too fast for human eyes to follow. Barely a shadow crossing the space, an icy rustle between the pews, a black figure appearing where just a moment before there had been no one.

The men began to back away.

They weren't fleeing a person, but a revelation.

Fear changed the scent of their blood. It became more intense, warmer, almost intoxicating. Each racing heart fueled the hunger that burned within you like a prayer uttered in reverse.

The entire church seemed to breathe with you.

The crucifix hung suspended above the altar, motionless, observing everything with the serenity of one who has witnessed centuries of human violence. At its base, blood began to spread slowly between the lines of the wooden floor, tracing a dark river that flowed toward the sanctuary as if seeking to reach it.

You didn't look away.

Each life taken was another weight on your shoulders.

Each silenced throat was another prayer that would never be uttered again.

And yet...

the voice did not return.

There was no reproach, no condemnation.

Only the same immense silence that had filled the church when you pleaded for help.

Perhaps that was the answer. Mercy had ended where desecration began. To protect required becoming what men would call a monster.

When the last shot rang out, Clinton Church fell silent once more.

A different kind of silence.

Not the silence of peace.

The silence after judgment.

You stood motionless in the center of the church. Blood trickled slowly down your hands, dripping onto the rosary you still held as if you had never let go. The air smelled of iron, incense, and melted wax. Outside, dawn was breaking.

The first rays pierced the shattered stained-glass windows and illuminated the main altar.

For a moment, the light fell upon your figure. You ignored the pain it caused, which for the moment was minimal, but would soon grow.

The nuns, who were slowly emerging from their hiding places, didn't know what they were seeing.

It wasn't an angel.

It wasn't a demon.

It was a person who had died defending the house of God and had returned transformed into something capable of making hell fear to cross its gates.

The two weeks since your awakening had been a succession of discoveries, as fascinating as they were exhausting.

The world had kept turning without you for ninety-four years, and now it forced you to catch up with it in a single step.

Electric light was commonplace, not something only big cities usually had; the gadgets you once saw as luxurious no longer roamed the streets of Hell's Kitchen, and instead, a ceaseless river of cars roared even into the early hours of the morning.

From the small windows near the basement ceiling, you could see the reflection of the neon signs coloring the centuries-old stone of Clinton Church, and there were still nights when you would spend long minutes gazing at them with the same fascination as a child. Sometimes you forgot you had awakened in another century until Sister Maggie came down with a cell phone in her hand or Father Lantom left you a recent book to help you understand this world to which you no longer belonged and which, nevertheless, remained determined to welcome you.

That day you were resting on an old wooden chair next to a table covered with anatomy books. You had requested everything the church could get its hands on about modern medicine. The illustrations were different, the techniques too, but the human body remained the same. You continued running your fingertips over the pages as if, by memorizing those new names, you could recover the nurse you had been before becoming something else.

It wasn't thirst that frightened you most since you had awakened. It was the possibility of having forgotten how to save a life.

The measured sound of footsteps descending the stairs broke the silence. You recognized Father Lantom before you even looked up. In those two weeks, you had learned the rhythm of his steps, the calm breathing with which he always approached you, and the soft creak of his knees as he stopped in front of the door. You carefully closed your book as he entered the room, still wearing his coat draped over his shoulders.

“I didn’t expect to find you awake”

You barely smiled.

“I still find it hard to get used to sleeping when the city doesn’t,” you admitted. “It’s… very noisy. Everything. Kind of overwhelming, both day and night.”

You weren't lying, not entirely. You were tired, but sleep wasn't what would give you the energy you needed.

Lantom let out a low laugh before glancing at the open books on the table.

“You’re still studying.”

“I need to remember, Father,” you said softly.

He understood immediately what you meant. There was no need to explain. During those two weeks, he had never tried to convince you to leave behind the person you had been before 1923; on the contrary, he seemed determined to bring it back to you little by little, as if he believed it still remained intact beneath the monster.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. Silence was never awkward with him. He had this strange ability to wait until the words came on their own. However, that day something was different. You noticed it as soon as your ear focused again on the rest of the church.

An unfamiliar heart.

Its beats were weak, irregular.

The smell arrived just a moment later.

Human blood.

Warm.

Fresh.

Your throat tightened.

You immediately lowered your gaze, ashamed that you had recognized it so easily.

“This is someone who needs help,” Lantom finally said.

You didn't answer. You couldn't. The more you listened, the more clearly you could make out that heart struggling to stay alive. You could hear the blood rushing through exhausted arteries, the breath gasping between lungs, the whole body seemingly clinging desperately to life.

“He is very badly injured. Right now, the sisters are doing everything they can.”

Your hands began to tremble on the edge of the table.

“I’m not the one to… ,” you whispered, shaking your head slightly.

Father Lantom did not answer immediately. He took a step toward you, just enough for the yellowish light of the lamp to fully illuminate his tired face.

“Sister Maggie told me that you bandaged your hand again this morning.”

You glanced absently at the white bandage around your knuckles. It had barely been a tiny cut; it had disappeared in a matter of minutes. Yet you had covered it out of sheer habit, just as you would have done before you died.

“Customs die hard,” you murmured.

“Thank God.”

Those words made you look up.

Lantom smiled with a serenity you had never been able to comprehend.

“Before you became this, you dedicated your life to caring for others. I don’t think that disappears just because you now have fangs.”

Your throat burned again.

“Father… I can smell their blood from here.”

It wasn't a confession. It was a warning.

He nodded slowly.

“I know.”

“I’m hungry,” you whispered.

You felt ungrateful. They had been prepared for you, in case the demon of Saint Agnes ever awoke again. They fed you, they fed you with the blood of some sacrificed animal.

But it wasn't enough.

“I know that too.”

You clenched your fists until your nails dug into your own palms.

“What if I can’t stop?” you said this time, raising your gaze to face him.

The question hung between them. For a few seconds, only the sound of their hearts beating above their heads existed, slower and slower, weaker and weaker, like a candle silently burning down.

Father Lantom took another step and placed a hand on the back of the chair in front of you.

“Ninety-four years ago you believed that God was asking you to become that which protected this church. Perhaps you were right. Perhaps you weren't. I will never know who answered your prayer that night. But I do know one thing.”

He waited until you looked at him again.

“If you were truly chosen to protect, then it can’t be solely to take lives. It also has to be to save them.”

You felt something slowly breaking inside you.

Because, for the first time since you'd awakened in that unknown century, you understood that Father Lantom wasn't leading you to a dying man to test the monster.

He was trying to give a nurse back the purpose that death had stolen from her.

He had faith in you. You didn't know how he'd been trained to face you if you ever woke up, but you could sense his honesty. Father Lantom saw good in you; he ignored or accepted the monster—you weren't sure.

It scared you, really scared you. What would happen if you let yourself go? What if he or Sister Maggie saw the dark side of you? Would they still accept you as another sheep of God, or would they condemn you as an abomination of the Devil?

“I… can help,” you said slowly. “But… little by little. And I need to know that… that you’re there, that Sister Maggie is there, please.”

Father Lantom said your name. “Of course, you are not alone in this.”

When you returned to the small room with a fresh basin of clean water, you noticed the change even before crossing the threshold. The man's breathing was no longer the same. It had lost the deepness of sleep and now rose and fell with the irregularity of someone struggling to regain consciousness. You carefully placed the basin on the table, trying not to make too much noise, though you doubted it would change anything. His entire body seemed torn between remaining asleep and waking up to a world that, judging by the tense expression on his face, you sensed he never wanted to return to.

For the past few hours, you had cleaned his wounds, changed his bandages, and stayed by his side long enough to learn the sound of his heart. It was a stubborn organ. Even battered, bruised, and exhausted, it clung to life with an almost violent determination.

You could hear it now, throbbing beneath the bandages you yourself had applied, accompanied by the slow flow of blood through exhausted arteries. That, more than anything else, made your throat burn. Human blood still had a scent impossible to ignore; no amount of animal blood had ever managed to silence that call. Yet, you had learned to live with it for a few weeks, to endure it like one endures an old pain that never truly disappears.

The man opened his eyes slowly. It wasn't a sudden awakening, but a cautious one, as if even regaining consciousness required an effort he could barely afford. His pupils remained motionless for a few seconds, lost somewhere on the ceiling, before he began to scan the room with evident bewilderment. He seemed to be searching for something familiar within those stone walls, some explanation for his continued existence.

“Elektra…?” he asked in a voice so raspy it barely seemed his own. “Father Lantom…?”

You had forgotten how grave a throat punished by dust, blood, and smoke could sound.

“Father Lantom will be back shortly,” you replied calmly, trying to maintain a certain distance between you both.

Her head immediately turned toward the exact location from which your voice had come.

Not toward where she thought you were.

Toward where you actually were.

That caught your attention more than you were willing to admit.

“Who are you?” he asked hoarsely, but cautiously.

For a moment you hesitated, unsure what to answer. It was impossible to explain who you were without telling a story that no one in their right mind would accept as true.

“A new novice,” you murmured.

He didn't insist. Perhaps because he was too tired. Perhaps because the pain occupied too much space inside his body to worry about a stranger.

He remained motionless for only a few more seconds before trying to sit up. You saw him tense his abdomen under the blankets, brace his arm against the mattress, and push with a stubbornness that almost brought a smile to your lips. A single movement was enough to realize he was asking too much of a body on the verge of collapse. His muscles gave way immediately, and his balance vanished before he even realized it.

You reacted purely on instinct.

You reached him before he hit the floor.

Your hands found his arms with an ease that forced you to restrain yourself. You barely had to exert any force to support him; had you not been careful, you probably would have lifted him from the ground as if he weighed nothing. You feigned a small effort, just enough to make the movement seem natural, while holding him against you only long enough to restore his balance.

It was then that it happened.

The touch.

It wasn't the first time you had touched him. You had cleaned his unconscious skin for hours, changed his bandages, sutured wounds that anyone else would have considered fatal. But consciousness seemed to open a different door.

The moment your hands held his awake body, a wave of emotions surged through you with the same violence with which thirst demands blood.

Pain.

Not the pain of broken ribs or open wounds.

It was something much deeper.

An old guilt.

A weariness that seemed to have settled in his bones years ago.

Rage.

Fear.

And an immense loneliness, so heavy that for a moment you even forgot hunger. A loneliness that threatened to shut him down completely, mixed with the dread of uncertainty.

He was afraid and felt abandoned.

By whom?

You held your breath.

You had never felt anything like it. You could feel him, literally. You almost felt within yourself the emotions battling inside this man whom Father Lantom called Matt.

A pang of guilt stirred within you, like an intruder entering his inner world, rummaging without permission.

It wasn't your intention; you hadn't even known you were capable of feeling another person in such a way.

Matt also remained motionless. His forehead was just inches from yours, and for a brief moment, neither of you seemed to remember how to break that strange balance. He spoke first.

“You're…” He frowned slightly, as if trying to make sense of a feeling he couldn't quite grasp. “...cold,” he finished, somewhat puzzled. Luckily, he was still a little disoriented.

You lowered your gaze almost reflexively. Of course, you were cold. You'd been dead for ninety-four years.

You helped him lie down more carefully, making the gesture seem more laborious than it actually was, before taking a step back.

“And you’re too stubborn for someone who just woke up,” you muttered.

A barely perceptible exhalation escaped his lips. It wasn't quite a laugh; it was too soon for that. Yet, for a moment, the gesture softened the deep lines of exhaustion etched across his face.

Silence settled between them once more. You remained standing by the bed, watching him with a curiosity you hadn't felt since waking. There was something about this man that defied all logic. Not only because, being blind, he had turned his head precisely toward you. Nor because he had survived injuries that would have killed most men.

It was something else.

Something you couldn't name.

As if suffering had become a second skin for him, just as immortality had become yours. It was strange; for a few moments, you had felt what he had lived through, what he suffered. Just a few moments.

It was terrifying to be able to feel another person in that way.

“Are you still here, sister? I’m not… I can’t…” he murmured, confused. “I need… I need Father Lantom, I need… I need to know if she’s alive,” he said, in a vulnerable tone that you knew didn’t belong to a man like him.

You nodded, but then you remembered he was blind and almost hit yourself for your lack of tact.

“Yes, I’m still here, I…” you salivated. You salivated.

Suddenly, a wave of nervousness washed over you because you could feel his presence growing stronger.

He was alive. His heart was pumping blood, not with the weakness it had been when he first arrived, no, this time… this time it was stronger, and the sound intoxicated your ears like a siren's song to a lost pirate.

You had managed to restrain yourself during the short time you cared for him, even when, sometimes at night, you found yourself fixated on his heartbeat; perhaps to know if he was still alive, or simply because the rhythm tempted you.

But now… now something had suddenly pierced you to your very core. Your throat felt incredibly dry, and he felt so alive. You could not only hear the blood coursing through his veins, but you also knew with certainty that he was suffering.

What had begun as curiosity was now a different kind of feeling, one you longed to eradicate.

You were thirsty. Thirsty for him. Perhaps you could sink your fangs in for a moment. Perhaps scratch his wrist to lick a few drops. Maybe clean an open wound and be content with the scent of his warm blood?

No.

Father Lantom trusted you. Sister Maggie did too. This man trusted this sacred ground to heal, and you… you were thinking of drinking his blood.

You heard him speak, but you turned a deaf ear.

“I’ll look for Father Lantom,” you said quickly, as your feet began to move on their own.

As you walked away, you clearly heard his confused whisper. One that revealed how disoriented he still was.

“I cannot hear your heart.”

notes: so here's the prologue. it ended up being longer than i expected. but i really needed to lay the groundwork for this story.

there are many things about reader's vampirism that will be explained throughout the story. nothing is accidental or a mistake!

the first encounter between you two is quite confusing for matt, but for you… yeah.

taglist: @lilacmurdock @silentrreader @supremeshrimpy2 @alexandra2345 @oraclecenotaph @perpetualmess @kitkatq05 @uselessnewt @riverjane-d @scarletddevil @myoldblogisdead @unfortunatelyacertifiedcrashout @mooucifer @nerdytrash-panda @energerstar @vvitchesh3x

scarletddevil

OH MY LORD IT'S HERE AND IT'S AMAZING

#matt murdock x reader #matthew murdock x reader #matt murdock x fem!reader #matt murdock x you #daredevil x you #daredevil x reader #The Thirst 🦇#matt's rec

blindshotblue

Matthew Murdock and Benjamin Pointdexter | First meeting

scarletddevil

MY BABIES 😩

#matt murdock #matthew murdock #daredevil #dex poindexter #benjamin poindexter #bullseye

dexfangs

dex is such a freak that he makes you share a straw for your milkshakes because he thinks of it as indirect kissing. suggestive, mdni. pre relationship dex.

he’ll swat your hand away when you go to put a second straw in, or he’ll take your straw out. or, he’ll just grab your face in his big calloused hand to keep you still for him, making your lips pucker, and shove his straw in your mouth after he’s taken a good sip.

“see? there, not so hard.” it’s almost crooned condescendingly before he gives your cheek a final squeeze.

leaving him to just stare at your lips as they finally wrap around where his mouth just was, ignoring the way you glare at him. because all he could think about was that your saliva was mixing with his.

your saliva was touching his. your saliva was touching his. your mouth your mouth your mouth. he swallows his own saliva that’s pooled in his mouth at the thought.

c’mon, just let him have this.

scarletddevil

he's so pathetic (I love him)

#dex poindexter x reader #ben poindexter x reader #benjamin poindexter x reader #dex's recs

b4mbiseyes

#benjamin poindexter #dex poindexter #bullseye

cnibaal

scarletddevil

he's one of the good ones!! what do you mean??

#benjamin poindexter #ben poindexter #bullseye #dex poindexter

b4mbiseyes

Dating fbi!Dex

Do you want dating bullseye!dex moodboard like this?

scarletddevil

ohhhh yess feed my delulu 🙏🏻

#benjamin poindexter #dex poindexter #fbi!dex

i-smoke-chapstick

'SUPERNOVA, [CHAPTER TWO]

-BENJAMIN POINDEXTER X READER-

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; After saving the most wanted man in New York, the Angel of Hell’s Kitchen finds herself locked in a standoff with something far worse than the average criminal. Benjamin Poindexter isn’t grateful, and he isn’t afraid of her. But he is…interested.

⋆ tags/warnings. Benjamin Poindexter x female!reader. SLOW BURN!!! Not sure how many chapters this will be yet (but likely a LOT)! LOTS OF PLOT SET-UP!! AGE GAP ROMANCE! LOTS OF EVENTUAL ANGST, FLUFF, AND SMUT! Reader's powers are weird. Warnings for mild body horror. Reader is an ex-avenger, originally an experiment by HYDRA, and naturally has intense trauma (and regenerative/healing powers through her blood! think deadpool just quieter and more depressing). Set during/after the AVTF manhunt for Matt and Dex. Writing this kind of artistically and as character studies for everyone. Dex and reader are doomed soulmates, she becomes his northern star. Basically two characters who do NOT want to be saved consistently being saved by each other...until they learn to live for each other. Eventual smut in later chapters. More about reader is revealed as the story goes on. I'm taking canon out back and beating it with a stick until it stops twitching. You'll be able to find this fic on Ao3 as well once published!

⋆ tag list. @xreader1989 @tvdumarvelhpsimp @xjyuto @gojoswhkre @not-the-teen-witch @cpuffz @memeorydotcom @kkkkisworld @astrozonaut @itsneversirius @urm0msoldcar @andi-o-geyser @vvitchesh3x @starlitflora @mewmew222 @redpool @njutul @skollinghunter @triciawritesstuff @noble-17 @spderless @cricketmeow @ancientbeing10 @sprinkles260 @lillycore @eternallovers65 @cicikinby @montagoves (let me know if you'd like to be added ❤️)

⋆ chapter directory. previous chapter / next chapter

♫ “I am the conscience clear / In pain or ecstasy.” Staring at the Sun by TV On The Radio

Emptiness. Chronic Emptiness. Loneliness. There is a dark pit waiting to swallow the body of New York- his body. He can feel it behind his eyelids, in the soreness of his triceps, somewhere inside him. Feeding off of him like a sickness.

It's only instinct to attack. Make it go away. That darkness.

His wrists rattle against the bloodied sheets of your bedpost, twitching in a rough motion. Like his hands are starved- willing to grab onto anything he could get them on. He twists his body, and you watch as two hundred pounds of pure muscle fight against the pitiful restraints.

You freeze like a deer in headlights.

Think. You rack your brain, looking at the empty space Matt left. Something about needing to speak with Karen Page and an AVTF Storage Facility.

The man pulls on the restraints tighter.

Aw, Fuck. You want to curse Matty for not just letting this guy kick the bucket. Or giving you some weapon of self-defense. Your eyes flicker to the discarded throwing knife across the room.

"I really, really wouldn't do that if I were you." The gravel of his voice suddenly rings out, causing you to jump. The sound is thick and heavy, tired. More of a growl than anything. Your lips part as you watch him sit up.

His eyes don't leave yours at the implied threat, not until you watch his eyebrows furrow to look downwards at where his bullet wound definitely should be.

You swallow when he looks back to you, chest heaving, perplexity momentarily eclipsing the severity of his expression. He cocks his head, face contorting into something scary.

"What the hell did you do to me?" He immediately tugs against the restraints, attempting to lunge forward. The bedpost creaks under the force, sheets stretched thin. The clatter is sudden and deafening, coupled with the force of his question.

"…I saved you," you say finally, voice steadier than you feel.

It sounds stupid the second it leaves your mouth.

His expression doesn’t soften. If anything, it sharpens, eyes narrowing, head tilting just slightly, like he’s trying to place you. Then he scoffs.

"Don't need to be saved." He heaves out between breaths, still trying to push off the bed. His eyes follow the trail back to the knife. You notice. "Already fixed it. Balanced it."

You blink at him. Unsure of what he's trying to say. This guy really must be fucked in the head. You swallow again, unsure if asking him to elaborate is the best course of action. Fuck it. Keeping him occupied with his own warped psyche might be your best bet.

You frown. "Balanced...what?"

His gaze drags back to you, something cold settling into place behind it. Cosmic.

"The scales," he says. "What she did to them."

A beat.

"You don’t get it," he continues, almost like he’s explaining something simple. "It was wrong. Before." His jaw tightens in exasperation. "Loud. Not mine. Had to get my mind back. It's....It's the correction. The trade."

His wrists flex again, slower now. Testing, not fighting. His gaze flickering back to the knife- almost as if he can already feel the weight of it in his hands. All he needs is a clean shot in-between those two doe eyes of yours...

"I made it stop."

Your stomach twists.

"…As long as she's dead." He finishes.

He doesn’t flinch when you do.

"...Yeah." He drawls, more to himself, watching your face. His own is still bloodied, the red having dried into his skin, hair, and mouth. He smiles.

It's silent for a moment, and he continues to grin bitterly at your tense expression.

"...Nothing ever dies." You whisper. It's clearly not the response he was expecting, throwing him off kilter. "Not really."

The absence of the bullet wound suddenly feels a lot more prominent in the thin, dry air.

The more he studies your face, he leans in closer, tension leaving his tight wrists struggling against the make-shift ropes. A brief flicker of recognition, perhaps, passes in his gaze. Like he's seen you somewhere before.

"Are you-"

His slow, increasingly bewildered voice is cut off by the sound of your phone ringing. You whip your head around at the noise. Bucky. Shit. Should've known he wouldn't just let you hang up without a word.

This man, Benjamin Poindexter, as you've come to understood, lets out another dry scoff. He finally sits back into the bed, opting to rest with his features pulled into a taunt.

"Should probably get that." He notes, dryly. You momentarily curse yourself that he's right, lest Bucky decides to take matters into his own hands and show up right in the middle of this fuckfest Matt Murdock has thrown into your hands.

Another ring.

You step back, finally breaking whatever strange, suffocating line had formed between the two of you. Your fingers brush your nightstand, grabbing the phone a little harder than necessary.

"Don’t-" you start, not even sure what you’re telling him not to do.

He doesn’t move, and you thank every god you can possibly list.

"Relax," he says, almost bored now, leaning back into your pillows like he belongs there. Like he hasn’t been tied to your bed for the past eight hours. “Not going anywhere. Clearly."

Sassy.

You answer the call anyway, turning just slightly away.

"What?" you snap, quieter than usual.

"You hung up on me," Bucky’s voice cuts through immediately, sharp with irritation- and something underneath it. Concern. "Someone was there- what's going on?"

Your eyes drift back to Poindexter without meaning to.

He’s watching you. Not casually. Not impatiently. Watching. Smiling sharply, mockingly.

"Nothing," you say, too quickly. "False alarm."

"Hey, let me talk to her-" Another voice sounds on Bucky's end, cutting through. Butting in. A woman with a Russian accent that briefly reminds you of Natasha- if not more petulant and childish. Your fingers twitch nervously.

"…That doesn’t sound like nothing." Bucky ignores her.

"It’s handled."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"I said let me talk to her-" The woman's voice prods again, before continuing too casually. The phone is easily swiped from Bucky, who you can hear huff.

Behind you, there’s a subtle shift of fabric- Poindexter adjusting, slow and deliberate. You don’t turn, but you feel it anyway. Like the room itself has tilted toward him.

“Hi.”

The woman's voice is bright. Too bright.

"…Hi?" You answer cautiously. Still focused more on the man tied up to your bed.

"Okay, haha, good, you are real person," she says quickly, words clipped like she’s checking something off a list. "Bucky is terrible at explaining things. I thought maybe he made you up."

"Yelena-" Bucky cuts in somewhere behind her.

"No, no, he is done talking," she dismisses, and you can practically hear her wave him off. "He has been trying to recruit you for-what-weeks? Months? It is very embarrassing."

You swallow at the god awful timing of this call. You run a hand over your face.

Behind you, Poindexter lets out a quiet exhale. Not a laugh. Colder. Amused. As if he can't believe the situation he's winded up in himself. Of course.

This woman...Yelena, keeps talking. You tune her out when you meet Poindexter's eyes, which are still studying your face.

"...For team," she says, like it’s obvious. "New team. Not Avengers Avengers...."

Yelena continues. You find yourself unable to listen to the same speech Bucky's given you a hundred times before. You and Poindexter continue to stare into each others eyes, trying to figure out the other. The woman's voice sounds more like a distant dream, building white noise. The two of you don't seem to pay one ounce of attention to her on the other end of the line.

"...Hello? Hi? Yoo-hoo?" The woman snaps her fingers. You don't listen.

The mattress creaks underneath Poindexter as he leans in closer, still trying to remember where he's seen your face. Your power. What you could have possibly done to completely erase a .380 ACP entry wound.

"Can she hear me? You are Angel, yes?" Yelena's voice asks, suddenly sharper. More precise.

Your stomach dips. Heard that one. You don’t answer. You can't.

"That is you," she continues anyway. "Former Avenger. Disappeared. Big reputation. Lots of rumors." A pause. Then, more casually- "Most of them are insane..."

Poindexter’s breathing shifts. You hang up the phone without a word, throwing it across the room like it's burned your hands. It hits the wall with a sharp crack, clattering to the floor.

The silence is thick. His eyes narrow onto you, split lips parting as his breath quickens.

"…Angel," he repeats.

Your name doesn’t sound like a name in his mouth. It sounds like he’s testing the weight of it. Turning it over. Matching it to something...an image already sitting in his head.

You don’t turn around.

You don’t want to see his face. But you can feel it anyway, the shift in the room is palpable.

"Oh," he says, softer now.

A beat.

"...That's how."

Your jaw tightens. "Don’t." You tell him for the second time today, suddenly praying for Matt Murdock to finish up as quickly as possible to come collect his pet.

He's watching you like something has slotted into place. A pause. His breathing is even now, controlled in a way it wasn’t when he woke up. That’s worse. That means the panic is gone. The noise is gone- every muscle in his body suddenly focused on you with an accuracy and curiosity that borders on frightening.

"What are you doing...here?" he asks. His voice is still taunting, though it's been mostly displaced by a genuine confusion. You helped save the world. And now he's gesturing around your small, messy, bloody apartment.

It's not accusatory. Not even demanding. Just…trying to place you in the system he understands. Where you suddenly fit into the scheme of New York, of Matt Murdock's life. His hands flex with minimal movement, testing limits, finally not attempting to break them. Learning the room instead of fighting it now. Shit.

"I don’t get it," he says finally, quieter. Noting. There’s no frustration in it. Just fact.

How does someone like you wind up in a place like this? He doesn't say it, but it's clear. Almost belittling.

It doesn't make sense. There's no order to it. That clawing feeling of emptiness bubbles up inside him again that he can't quite place. Another imbalance. You are an imbalance.

"Yeah. Me neither." You decide on, tired of this conversation.

Neither of you moves after that- just the low sound of his breathing, and the restraints finally resting as the silence settles in again.

"...Are you hungry?" You ask him, awkwardly, anything to tear his piercing and questioning gaze away from you. You note how much quieter he's suddenly gotten at the confirmation of your identity. It's unnerving.

He stares at you for a few more moments. Then something halfway between confusion and something...tense and awkwardly friendly. He's trying too hard for a man who was ready to kill you minutes ago. Like a brightly colored, poisonous frog. The way his features suddenly melt into a righteous, smarmy, welcoming smile.

"...I could eat."

scarletddevil

OH MY MORD OH MY LORD CHAPTER 2 I LOOOOOOVE IT

EVERYBODY GRAB YOUR POPCORN AND TAKE A SEAT CAUSE THIS IS AMAZING

#dex poindexter x reader #benjamin poindexter x reader #ben poindexter x reader #dex poindexter x fem!reader #benjamin poindexter x fem!reader #bullseye x reader #bullseye x fem!reader #supernova #dex's recs

paniniimpressed

Kiss It Better

Pairing: Benjamin Pointdexter X Reader

Summary: After witnessing something you weren’t supposed to, there’s a price on your head. It would be easy for the excellent marksman to finish the job, but something about you makes him reconsider.

Or- I saw Wilson talking about how Dex needs a weirdo freak gf and was like ‘well, yes’. Reader is implied to be neurodivergent but its kept a bit vague.

Word Count: 15.4k

Warnings & Content: no use of y/n, fluff, smut, slow burn (sorta), swearing, attempted murder, actual murder, stalking, violence, blood and injury mention, mention of death, happy ending, slight angst, toxic attachment, 18+ mdni please

I do not authorize my work to be used for Al or reposted across platforms

For most of your life you felt invisible.

Your friends and coworkers seemed to advance easily in life, getting degrees that led to solid jobs and fulfilling relationships. You, despite your best efforts, did not have the same experience.

In high school, you first became aware of your…difference. The way people would easily talk to others and make friends, but with you they would only feign politeness and share wordless looks behind your back.

Even teachers thought you were weird. It wasn’t said explicitly, they had to be professional of course, but there was only so many times they could call you ‘an interesting yet quiet young lady’ without you catching on.

You had tried hard to change it, to ‘put yourself out there’. It never worked out well. Dates would go fine at first until there was something you said or did to unnerve the other person. Even situations you were sure had gone great resulted in you being ghosted.

You wish that they at least yelled at you or complained, then you could know for sure what they didn’t like.

scarletddevil

this is the perfect mix between cute and hot I mean- I'm speechless this is PERFECT

#dex poindexter x reader #benjamin poindexter x reader #dex poindexter x fem!reader #ben poindexter x reader #ben poindexter x fem!reader #bullseye x reader #bullseye x fem!reader #dex's recs

babybellabale

help (ben poindexter x reader)

dex needs matts radar hearing, desperate to know what the girl behind the locked doors does when she’s alone.

warnings?: stalking/ hint of voyeurism, legal age gap, privacy violations, self pleasure (reader), ddba dex and matt, matt lowk gets turned on??.

the neon sign across the street cast long, jagged shadows through the blinds of your third-floor apartment.

dex stared at those blinds from the roof of the adjacent building, his jaw tight, a stray coin flipping flawlessly across his knuckles over and over.

flip. catch. flip. catch.

he was losing his mind.

you didn’t know he was bullseye. you didn’t know the soft-spoken, slightly awkward older man you chatted with at the diner was capable of turning a toothpick into a lethal weapon.

you just thought he was... nice. and he thought you were perfect. gorgeous, funny, and smart. too smart.

your apartment was a fortress: heavy-duty deadbolts, reinforced window tracks, and those damn blinds that were always drawn tight. you varied your routine from habit, all those crime cases and survival tips catching up to you.

dex was desperate. he needed to know your patterns, your thoughts, if you talked about him when you were alone, if he had made any impression on you at all.

he officially hit rock bottom, because he had just dragged hell’s kitchen’s resident devil into his obsession.

———————————————————————————

the rusted metal of the fire escape creaked softly as matt settled onto the landing, his crimson suit shadowed by the night. he tilted his head, his sightless eyes fixed toward the brick wall opposite them.

“i shouldn't be doing this, poindexter,” matt murmured, his voice low and gravelly. “this crosses so many lines. it’s stalking.”

“you want the ledger on fisk’s associates in queens or not, murdock?” dex’s voice was completely devoid of warmth. sharp, transactional, and tight with a manic, brittle edge. he didn't look at matt. his eyes never left your window. “don’t need your legal counsel. i need your ears. turn them on, or the ledger goes in the incinerator.”

matt’s jaw clenched, the muscles working tightly in his cheek. he despised the compromise, but the intel would take down a dozen of fisk’s lingering foot soldiers. with a sharp, hostile exhale, matt turned his head toward the third-floor unit, filtering out the city's noise.

the first night was a fail, “she's cutting vegetables,” matt reported dryly. dex stood behind matt, vigilant and so so desperate. his posture was stoic but the visible need in his eyes said everything. “the television is on, some sitcom”.

matt grunted out “she’s asleep.” and left dex standing there.

night two was even more a fail when you made last minute plans to stay over at a friends house for the weekend.

then started the new week, new possibilities. dex was adamant to find out something, anything. and matt was adamant to block dex’s contact number.

“she’s reading. her heart rate is steady. boring, dex.”

dex’s frustration was a physical weight, his breathing turning shallow as he paced.

spending hours on end together, matt and dex began to form some sort of relation. a slip of the tongue here and there and matt began to find out snippets about you. it was weird to see dex so serious about something.

on the sixth night, the air was thick, heavy with the promise of summer rain. dex was practically vibrating with excitement.

dex entered your diner as usual, and you were so so sweet to him. milkshake on the house, a soft pat on his bicep, and a sweet smile when he rose from his seat to leave.

———————————————————————————

dex and matt had been sitting motionless, just an awkward exchange of words and a few coughs.

matt’s posture stiffened, his jaw tightened, and his head tilted just a fraction of an inch closer to the window.

inside the apartment, the rustle of sheets echoed in matt's ears like thunder. then came a shift in your breathing. shallow, hitched, a sudden spike in your heart rate that wasn't born of fear but pleasure.

thump-thump. thump-thump. thump-thump.

it was accelerating.

matt swallowed hard, his own throat suddenly dry. he could hear skin against skin, the soft friction of silk pajamas shifting. slow, breathless gasp escaped your lips, vibrating through the brick walls and straight into matt’s heightened senses.

“what?" dex asked.

matt didn't answer right away. he couldn't. his own heart gave an involuntary thud. through the walls, you voice came in a trembling, ragged whisper, a quiet plea into the empty bedroom.

“...dex...mmh, dex...”

matt’s breath hitched. the intimacy of it, the raw vulnerability of her whimpers flooding his ears, sent a sudden, unexpected spike of heat straight down his spine. he shifted uncomfortably in his suit, caught off guard by the visceral reaction of his own body to your private ecstasy.

“murdock, talk to me.” dex hissed, stepping closer, frantic.

matt cleared his throat, pulling himself back from the edge of her bedroom with an immense effort of will. he turned his head toward dex, a tight, slightly strained smirk touching his lips.

matt managed, his voice a little rougher than usual. “she's in bed. and she's…visualising.”

dex blinked, his manic energy freezing. “visualizing what?”

“you, poindexter,” matt said, clapping a hand onto dex’s shoulder. the visual of the terrifying bullseye being reduced to a pining schoolboy over a girl who was currently reaching ecstasy with his name on her tongue was both hilarious and intensely awkward.

“she just whispered your name. loud and clear. you're all she's thinking about,”

dex’s eyes widened, a slow, absolutely radiant grin breaking across his face. the tension evaporated from his spine, replaced by a surge of pure, ecstatic triumph.

“repeatedly,” matt muttered, giving dex a firm, slightly heavy pat on the back as he stepped past him toward the edge of the roof, eager to escape. "you’re good to go, poindexter. i’m leaving. lose my number.”

with a swift movement, the devil of hell's kitchen dropped into the shadows of the alley below, leaving dex alone on the fire escape, smiling like a lunatic into the night.

———————————————————————————

scarletddevil

I love my boy acting like a schoolgirl, a crazy one, but he's cute so whatever

#benjamin poindexter x reader #dex poindexter x reader #ben poindexter x reader #bullseye x reader #benjamin poindexter x fem!reader #dex poindexter x fem!reader #bullseye x fem!reader #dex's recs

ssvbse

Scars Across Your Body

Matt Murdock x F!Reader | 1.7k

Summary: Matt gets hot and bothered when you start touching his scars.

Warnings/Tags: 18+, MDNI, p in v, oral sex (f receiving), biblically accurate whiny Matt, scratching, scars, no choking but Matt puts his hand on your throat to feel you moan, mentions of past violence, sorta overstimulation.

"What happened here?"

Matt dragged his hand down your naked thigh, and a shudder overwhelmed his already overstimulated body as your fingers absentmindedly danced across his slick shoulders. He slowly raised his attention from where it had strayed between your knees, and his swollen lips parted with a shaky exhale.

"What?"

scarletddevil

OH MY GOODNESS THIS IS A NEXT LEVEL OF HOT

#matthew murdock x reader #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x fem!reader #daredevil x reader #daredevil fanfiction #matt murdock fanfic #daredevil x f!reader #matthew murdock x you #matt's rec

i00que

omg I beg you to write this into a story: reader's parents are very good friends with Shane and he takes a liking to reader who doesn't give af about dating and basically toys around with guys left and right. And maybe some night he came for a visit at readers parents and he stayed in the house while readers parents left for grocery shopping or smth like that and reader is upstairs in her room toying yet with another guy who's been dying to sleep with her and he's dirty talking to her through text/ call??? And maybe reader is also touching herself as the guy is texting/ talking and Shane hears or sees? And maybe comes in and yeah spicy time???

idk if this made any sense sorry

REQUEST ── S. M : man eater

over the years of knowing shane maguire, he was well-behaved when it came to you, until one last boy pissed him off.

reader-insert (no y/n,) age gap, family friend shane, southern reader, tennessee setting, reader has a roster, jealousy, possession, flirting, banter, fighting, dry humour, maneater reader, sex whlle on the phone, oral (f receiving,) moaning another name, pussy slapping, fingering, overstimulation, manhandling, doggy position, squirting, praise, degrading, exhibitionism, accidental voyeurism.

18+ only — minors dni

your mama said company was coming and you said okay and went back to your phone, where jake pritchard was sending you texts that got less interesting with every notification. you were sitting on the porch steps when three men came up the drive and one of them stopped walking the moment he saw you.

you didn't look up.

"this is my daughter," your daddy said, somewhere above your head.

"hey there, little lady."

scarletddevil

he wanted that cookie so bad he waited 5 years 🙏🏻 #respect

#shane maguire x reader #shane maguire x fem!reader #shane maguire x you #shane maguire x female reader #shane's rec

yunyuu

scarletddevil

and specifically him!

#benjamin poindexter #bullseye #ben poindexter #dex poindexter

lvely-prose

— wild one

pairings: shane maguire x fem! reader

synopsis: yosemite held so many secrets. thousands of stories were held within those ancient trees, whispers of those lost in the breeze. then there was you—the forest girl. completely wild and untamed. you were good at hiding, at running, just like a forest animal. but you weren’t the only one who thrived in the wilderness.

word count: 10.4k

warnings/content: unspecified legal age gap, fluff, hunter x prey trope, slow burn but storyline is kind of fast paced (?), blood, injuries, switch pov, mentions of death, inexperienced reader but not naive, suggestive content, descriptive making out, implied intimacy (non-descriptive oral f!receiving), mentions of nudity

pae speaks ~ i just watched untamed and i absolutely loved it. this is definitely a longer one but i’m really happy with the way it turned out and hope you do too :) divider by @toastray

The forest was unpredictable, much like you, a girl out of touch with civilized reality. It was a choice, living out where the trees bent too low and the smell of pine often accompanied your rundown shack out in the middle of nowhere.