#personalities

[thatpollguy]

Would you consider yourself a boring person?

Yes

Not any more, but I used to be

No

Voting ended onNov 22, 2025

[myfictionalcorner]

Marvel Preferences: You’re Inscure❤️‍🩹 Part 3

A/N: i'm back with Part 3, finally🤞😫 I really tried to reflect each of their personalities in these little imagines💕

Frank Castle, Matt Murdock, Billy Russo, Ben Poindexter, Marc Spector, Bob Reynolds, John Walker, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards

Part 1 Part 2

Marvel Masterlist Masterlist

Frank Castle

The TV flickers quietly in the background, but you’re not watching. You’re curled up on the couch, arms wrapped tight around yourself, staring at the dark window like it might give you answers. Frank notices the second he walks in—he always does. His boots are heavy on the floor, his jacket thrown over the chair, and his eyes are immediately on you.

“You’re quiet,” he says, voice rough but not unkind. “What’s goin’ on?”

You try to brush it off, but he just stands there, arms crossed, waiting you out. He’s got all the patience in the world when it comes to you. Finally, the words spill out.

“I don’t… I don’t feel good about myself, Frank. I don’t feel beautiful. I just…” Your voice cracks. “I feel ugly.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move. His jaw tightens, his whole body goes rigid, and when he finally speaks, his voice has that sharp, dangerous edge he usually saves for men who deserve a bullet.

“Who?” His eyes are locked on you, hard as steel. “Who the hell put that in your head? Somebody say somethin’ to you?”

You blink, startled. “What? No—no one said anything. It’s me. It’s just how I feel.”

But Frank shakes his head, stepping closer, a storm brewing in his expression. “Nah. Nah, that’s bullshit. You don’t just wake up one day thinkin’ that. Somebody made you feel that way, and if I find out who—” He cuts himself off, his chest heaving, fists clenched like he’s already got the bastard in front of him.

You reach for his hand, grounding him. “Frank, it’s not like that. It’s not someone else. It’s just… me.”

He stares down at you, breathing hard, and then his face softens—just a little. He kneels in front of you, rough palms sliding over your knees, up to cradle your face. His voice drops low, raw.

“Listen to me. You’re beautiful. You hear me? Beautiful. Inside, out—don’t matter. You walk into a room, I can’t see anyone else. Don’t wanna see anyone else. And it kills me that you don’t see what I see.”

You try to protest, but he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath warm, his tone pleading now instead of angry. “You’re it for me. You’re the only thing in this whole fucked-up world that feels right. Don’t ever talk about yourself like that again. Not ‘cause I don’t wanna hear it, but ‘cause it ain’t true. It’ll never be true.”

Your tears spill over, and Frank kisses them away clumsily, rough stubble scratching your skin, his hands steady on your face like he’s holding you together.

“Far as I’m concerned,” he whispers, “you’re perfect. Always have been. Always will be.”

And when he pulls you into his chest, wrapping you in those broad, unyielding arms, you believe him - because Frank Castle doesn’t waste words, and he sure as hell doesn’t lie.

Matt Murdock

The apartment is quiet, just the low hum of the city outside, traffic weaving in the distance. You’re curled up on the couch, a throw blanket tight around your shoulders, staring at nothing. Matt can hear it—your breathing, uneven, your heartbeat quickening for reasons that aren’t physical. He sets down his briefcase by the door, his cane folded neatly beside it, and makes his way over.

“You didn’t even say hi,” he says softly, crouching near the couch. His head tilts slightly, listening. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

You bite your lip, debating whether to say anything. But it pushes its way out anyway. “I just… I don’t feel beautiful, Matt. I don’t feel good about myself at all.”

There’s silence for a beat. You can practically hear him processing. His brows furrow, lips parting slightly, like you just knocked the wind out of him. “You don’t… what?”

“I don’t see it. Not the way other people do. Not the way you say you do.” You swallow hard, hesitating before you whisper the thing sitting heavy in your chest. “And… how can you even know? You can’t see me.”

It’s out. You instantly regret it, but Matt doesn’t flinch, doesn’t get defensive. He sits down right beside you instead, close enough that your knees touch. His hand finds yours, warm, steady, grounding.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “Don’t ever think for a second that I don’t know you. Blind or not, I see you more clearly than anyone ever could.”

You open your mouth, but he keeps going, his voice low and firm, threaded with that intensity he never loses in court or on rooftops. “When you walk into a room, I hear the way people shift—the pause, the stutter in their hearts, the air catching in their lungs. They notice you. They feel you. And me?” He takes your hand, presses it against his chest, right where his heartbeat pounds steady. “I know every single thing about you. The rhythm of your breath when you’re relaxed. The way your heartbeat changes when you laugh. The warmth of your skin. The scent of your hair after a shower. I know you in ways sight could never tell me.”

Your throat tightens, guilt creeping in. “I didn’t mean it to sound cruel—”

“I know.” His hand slides up, cupping your cheek, thumb stroking gently across your skin. “But I need you to understand something. You’re beautiful. I don’t need sight to know that. I don’t need sight to feel how the world bends when you’re near. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known, inside and out.”

His voice breaks just slightly, and he presses his forehead against yours, whispering like a vow: “And I’d fight God himself if He ever tried to make you believe otherwise.”

The tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them. Matt kisses them away—soft, reverent, following their trails until you’re laughing through the crying. He keeps you close, arms wrapped around you like a shield, repeating it against your hair.

“You’re beautiful. You’re mine. And I’ll remind you every single day, as many times as you need.”

And in the way only Matt could, you believe him—not because of sight, but because he’s never spoken a word with more conviction in his life.

Billy Russo

The penthouse smelled faintly of cologne and leather—Billy’s favourite scents. You were curled up on the edge of the bed, knees drawn to your chest, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. The glow from the city outside spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting you in silver and blue.

Billy came in still on his phone, blazer slung over one arm, tie loosened. “God, these board calls are a nightmare,” he muttered, then saw your face and stopped dead.

He set everything down slowly. “Hey. What’s with the look? You’re supposed to be happy I’m home so I can shower you in my irresistible charm.”

You tried to smile, but it fell flat. “Not tonight.”

That cracked something in him. He came over immediately, crouching in front of you so you had no choice but to look at him. “Okay. What happened?”

Your throat tightened. “I just… I don’t feel good about myself. I don’t feel… attractive.”

Billy blinked. For a heartbeat he looked almost offended. “Come again?”

“I don’t feel pretty,” you said, quieter now. “I feel like… I don’t know why you’d even look at me.”

Billy let out a laugh—not mean, but disbelieving, like you’d just claimed the sky was falling. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Stop. No. You don’t get to talk about yourself like that, sweetheart.”

“I’m serious,” you whispered.

“I know you are. That’s the problem.” He raked a hand through his hair, standing to his full height. “Jesus Christ. Did someone say something to you? Because if they did, you tell me who and I’ll bury ’em in litigation so fast they won’t know what hit them.”

You gave a weak laugh, shaking your head. “It’s not anyone else. It’s me.”

His jaw tightened, but then he knelt again, his hands sliding up your thighs until he could hold your face. Gone was the glossy charm, the practiced smirk. His voice, when it came, was low, almost hoarse.

“Look at me. Right here.” He tapped under your chin until your eyes met his. “You’re gorgeous. Not Instagram-gorgeous. Not makeup-ad gorgeous. You. The way you bite your lip when you’re nervous. The way you lean in when you laugh. The way you look at me when you think I’m not watching. It kills me.”

You swallowed hard. “You’re exaggerating."

He gave a small, sad smile. “Sweetheart, I’ve been selling things my whole life. I know what a lie sounds like. And this?” He pressed his forehead to yours. “This is the truth.”

His thumbs stroked your cheeks as he spoke, voice soft but insistent. “I grew up hating myself. Hating my face, my name, everything. I built this…”—he gestured vaguely to the suit, the skyline—“…because I thought if I looked perfect, I’d feel perfect. It doesn’t work. But you—you’re the first real thing I’ve ever had. Don’t ever think you’re not enough for me. Don’t ever think I don’t see how beautiful you are.”

Your tears blurred his face. “Billy…”

“Shhh.” He kissed your forehead, then your temple, then down your cheekbone, slow and deliberate. “I’m gonna keep saying it until you believe me. You’re stunning. Gorgeous. Devastating. My girl.” He let out a shaky laugh. “And maybe I’m selfish, but you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. So don’t you dare disappear inside yourself. Not with me. Not here.”

He tugged you gently into his lap, wrapping his arms around you, his voice breaking on the next words. “Let me be the one who helps you see what I see. Please.”

And sitting there in Billy Russo’s arms, with the city glittering beyond the glass and his heartbeat thudding under your ear, you could feel the mask gone—the slick, cocky charmer stripped away, leaving only a man who meant every single word.

Ben Poindexter

The apartment was quiet, but Dex’s mind wasn’t. He sat on the arm of the couch, his leg bouncing, the familiar leather of his baseball creaking under his grip as he tossed it from hand to hand. His eyes were fixed on you — you at the kitchen table, staring down at your phone, not actually scrolling, lips pressed into a line. You’d been quieter for days now. Not just tired. Different.

He noticed everything. The way you avoided the mirror. The way you pulled your sleeves down even when it wasn’t cold. The way you’d started dodging his gaze when he touched you.

“Hey,” he said finally, too softly for how hard his pulse was pounding. “What’s going on?”

You startled slightly, glancing up. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Dex tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to snap. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” His voice was quiet, but sharp, cutting through the room. He set the baseball down carefully, deliberately, and walked toward you, every movement controlled. “You think I don’t see it? I see everything. What’s wrong?”

Your stomach flipped. You knew this look — the one where his blue eyes were too bright, too focused. When Dex zeroed in like this, he didn’t stop until he had the truth.

“Dex…” You tried to deflect, but he crouched down in front of your chair, hands on either side of it, blocking you in without even touching you. “Tell me,” he said, low, almost pleading. “Please. Don’t shut me out.”

You bit your lip, eyes darting away. “It’s stupid.”

“Nothing about you is stupid.” His voice cracked on the last word.

You exhaled shakily. “I just… lately I haven’t really felt that pretty. Especially compared to other women. Like… you could do better. You definetly deserve better.”

It was like you’d slapped him. Dex’s entire body went still. His hands, braced on the chair, curled into fists so hard the knuckles went white.

“What?” The word came out strangled, almost a growl.

“I’m just saying—”

“No.” He shook his head sharply, standing so fast the chair rocked. “No, no, no. Don’t—don’t ever say that. Don’t even think it.” He was pacing now, one hand dragging over his face, the other gripping the back of his neck. His breathing was uneven. “You think I could do better? You think there’s anyone out there who—God, you don’t get it.”

He spun back toward you, eyes wild, but his voice softer. “You’re the only thing keeping me… here. You’re the one thing that’s real. Everyone else—people like me—we’re… we’re broken. But you—” His hand pressed to his chest, trembling. “You’re the only thing that makes me feel like there’s something worth holding onto.”

Your throat tightened. “Dex…”

“No. Don’t.” He came back to you, this time slower, kneeling between your knees. His hands came up, cupping your face with a desperation you could feel in his fingertips. “Listen to me. Look at me. There is no ‘better.’ There’s no one else. It’s you. It’s always been you. You’re beautiful. You’re…” His breath hitched. “You’re perfect. Even the parts you hate. Especially the parts you hate.”

Tears stung your eyes. “But I don’t feel that way—”

“Then I’ll feel it for you.” His voice dropped to a whisper, forehead pressing against yours. “I’ll hold it for you until you can. I don’t care how long it takes.”

You tried to protest, but Dex kissed you instead — not soft, not gentle, but a fierce, trembling kiss like he was pouring all the words he couldn’t say into it. When he pulled back, his eyes were shiny. “I can’t stand the thought of you doubting yourself. It makes me crazy. It makes me want to…” He broke off, shaking his head like he was reining himself in. “I’d fight anyone who made you feel like this. Anyone. But if it’s your own head doing it…” His voice cracked. “Then I’ll fight that, too. Every day. I don’t care. I’ll do it.”

You rested your hands over his, feeling them shake. “Dex…”

He gave a small, broken laugh. “You think you’re not enough? You’re the only thing that keeps me enough.” His thumbs brushed your cheeks, catching the tears. “So don’t you dare talk about yourself like that. Don’t you dare.”

And then he held you — arms wrapped tight, face buried against your neck like he was breathing you in, grounding himself. For a long moment you just stayed there, tangled up with his darkness and his devotion, feeling the storm inside him calm under your touch.

When he finally spoke again, it was a whisper. “You’re mine. You’re beautiful. And I’ll tell you every day until you believe it. I’ll tell you a thousand times if I have to. But don’t ever think you’re less, okay? Not to me. Not ever.”

His grip never loosens, as though letting go would mean losing you to the doubt that haunts your words. And in that moment, wrapped in his intensity, you realize his love is both shield and tether—a fire that burns too bright, but always, always for you.

Marc Spector

The apartment was dark except for the faint glow of a streetlight filtering through the blinds, streaking pale orange across the floor. Marc sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. It was another one of those nights — the ones where he’d come back from a job with sand under his boots and silence in his chest. The city outside felt far away; inside, everything felt too close.

You were curled up on your side, staring at the wall. The blanket was pulled high, but not because you were cold. You’d been quiet all evening — too quiet even for nights like this. He noticed. Marc always noticed, even when he pretended not to.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, voice low and rough from disuse.

You shifted a little. “Not really.”

He glanced back at you, eyes glinting in the dim light. “You’ve been quiet all night.”

You tried for a small smile. “So have you.”

He huffed out a humorless sound — not quite a laugh, more like a sigh. “Touché.”

A long silence followed. Marc rubbed at the scar on his knuckle, something he did when he didn’t know what to do with his hands. “What’s going on?” he asked finally. “Talk to me.”

You hesitated. “It’s nothing.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, “I know that one. I say it all the time. Doesn’t make it true.”

That made you look at him, the way he sat there — still in his t-shirt, hair damp from a quick shower, eyes tired but fixed on you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered. He didn’t push, not like someone else might. He just waited.

You exhaled slowly. “I just… I don’t feel good about myself. Lately, when I look in the mirror, I don’t like what I see. I feel like I’m not enough. Like you could do better.”

Marc blinked, his brow furrowing. He stayed quiet for a beat too long, like he was parsing the words, like they were heavier than they sounded. When he finally moved, it wasn’t with anger or shock — it was with something else. He shifted, turning fully toward you, one knee on the bed, closing the distance between you.

“Come here,” he murmured, reaching out.

You sat up reluctantly, letting him pull you closer until you were sitting cross-legged across from him, knees touching. He rested his palms on your thighs, thumbs rubbing small circles, grounding himself as much as you.

“You think I don’t get that?” His voice was quiet but steady. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to hate the person you see in the mirror?”

Your eyes flickered to his face. “Marc—”

“No, listen to me.” His gaze held yours, heavy and unflinching. “I spent years thinking I was nothing but a weapon. That everything about me was wrong. I still do, most days. But then there’s you.” His thumbs pressed firmer against your legs, like punctuation. “You’re the only thing that makes any of this feel worth it. You’re the only thing that makes me feel like maybe I’m not a lost cause.”

You swallowed hard, a lump rising in your throat. “But I don’t feel—”

“I know,” he cut in softly. “I know you don’t. And I’m not gonna give you some speech about how you ‘should.’ I’m just telling you what I see.” His jaw flexed. “I see someone beautiful. Not just because of how you look — though yeah, you’re gorgeous — but because of who you are. You’re kind, and stubborn, and you stay. You stay, even with me. That’s beauty.”

Your eyes blurred. “You really think that?”

“I don’t think it,” Marc said quietly. “I know it.”

He reached up, brushing his knuckles gently down your cheek. “I know you don’t see it right now. That’s okay. I’ll hold it for you until you can. You’ve been doing that for me for a long time without even realizing it.”

Something inside you cracked at that, a tear slipping down your cheek. Marc caught it with his thumb, not smiling, just looking at you like you were a puzzle he’d already solved but didn’t want to stop tracing.

He leaned in and kissed you then — not hard, not desperate, but slow and steady, like an anchor lowering. His hands slid up your back, pulling you against him until your forehead rested on his shoulder. He breathed you in, the smell of your shampoo, the warmth of your skin, grounding himself with you as you trembled against him.

“You’re enough,” he murmured against your hair. “More than enough. You’re the only part of my life that makes sense. You’re the one thing I don’t doubt.”

You closed your eyes, holding onto him, feeling his heartbeat under your palm.

Outside, the city hummed low and distant, but in the quiet of the apartment, it felt like the two of you existed in your own small orbit. Marc’s arms were strong and warm around you, a tether in the dark.

For once, he wasn’t the man haunted by the things he’d done. And you weren’t the person picking yourself apart. For a heartbeat, you were just two people holding each other in the dark, both of you trying to believe you deserved it.

Bob Reynolds

The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant city sounds leaking in through the window. You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, knees hugged to your chest, staring at your reflection in the darkened TV screen. The longer you looked, the worse it got—every flaw magnified, every imperfection screaming at you.

You didn’t even hear the door open until Bob’s voice broke through the silence. “Hey,” he said softly, almost cautious. “You okay?”

You jerked a little, wiping at your face quickly, but of course he noticed. He always did. Bob stepped inside, shutting the door with a quiet click. He looked huge and yet somehow small at the same time, his shoulders curved inward like he was trying to make himself take up less space. His eyes flicked over you, worry darkening the blue of them.

“What’s going on?” he asked again, coming closer but stopping just short of the couch, like he was afraid of crowding you.

You tried to smile, but it didn’t even come close. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Bob tilted his head, the corners of his mouth pulling downward. “No, you’re not,” he said gently. “I know what ‘fine’ looks like. That’s not it.”

You stared at your hands, fingers twisting in your lap. The words slipped out in a whisper before you could stop them. “I just… I don’t like myself. I don’t like how I look. I don’t feel good enough. For you, for anyone.”

For a second, there was nothing. Just stillness. Then Bob let out a shaky breath, the kind that sounded like it hurt. “Oh… sweetheart,” he murmured, and his voice cracked. “No.”

You looked up at him, startled. His eyes were shining—tears welling up—and he was shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “No, no, no,” he whispered, moving forward until he was kneeling right in front of you, big hands trembling as they cupped your face. “Don’t… don’t say that about yourself. Please.”

“I mean it,” you said weakly. “I don’t see what you see.”

Bob’s thumb brushed under your eye, and he let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. “You sound like me,” he said, voice raw. “God, you sound exactly like me. I’ve spent so many years—” His voice broke, and he ducked his head, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ve spent so many years hating what I am. Hating what I see. And it kills me to hear you—my light—say the same things about yourself.”

You blinked, your own tears blurring your vision. “Bob…”

“No, listen.” His hands slid down to hold yours, squeezing so tight it was like he was anchoring himself. “You’re beautiful. You are. Inside, outside, all of it. You’re the only thing that makes the noise in my head stop. The only thing that makes me feel like I’m… worth anything.” His lips trembled. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You shook your head, tears spilling freely now. “I feel like I’m failing you. Like I’m not enough.”

Bob made a choked sound and pulled you straight into his arms. He was so warm, so solid, his heartbeat thundering against your ear. “You’re enough,” he whispered fiercely. “You’re more than enough. You’re everything. You’re the reason I keep trying.”

For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just sat there on the couch, clinging to each other like two people standing in the same storm. Bob’s hands trembled as they stroked your hair, his lips brushing the top of your head over and over like a prayer.

Finally, he pulled back just enough to look at you. His cheeks were wet, eyes red but soft. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m supposed to be the one who protects you from feelings like this, not…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Not break down with you.”

You touched his face, wiping away one of his tears with your thumb. “You’re human, Bob. You’re allowed.”

A shaky smile tugged at his mouth. “You always say the right thing,” he whispered.

“No, you do,” you replied. “You make me feel seen. Even now.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. “We’ll remind each other then,” he said softly. “Every time you forget how beautiful you are, I’ll remind you. And when I forget, you’ll remind me. Deal?”

“Deal,” you whispered.

Bob exhaled, relief shuddering out of him. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then another to your cheek, slow and reverent. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured between kisses. “You’re mine. You’re everything. And I swear I’ll keep saying it until you believe it.”

You sniffled a laugh. “You’re beautiful too, you know.”

That made him huff a soft laugh, his forehead dropping to yours again. “Guess we both need work, huh?”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “But we’ll do it together.”

He smiled then, a real one that lit up his whole face despite the tears. “Together,” he echoed.

And there, in the quiet of the apartment, the two of you held onto each other—two people who’d spent years battling shadows, finally finding a little bit of light in each other’s arms.

John Walker

The motel room was dim, a single lamp casting a warm circle of light over the small table where you sat, staring at nothing. Outside, the highway hummed faintly; inside, John was pacing, still in his tactical gear from the day, his jaw clenched tight. He always paced after missions. You’d gotten used to it. But tonight, his boots on the carpet were the only sound filling the heavy silence.

He stopped suddenly, turning toward you. “You’ve been quiet all night,” he said, his voice low but edged. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you said automatically.

His brow furrowed. “Don’t do that. Don’t shut me out.”

You hesitated, fingers knotting together in your lap. “It’s… stupid.”

He came closer, stripping off his gloves, his movements sharp. “Try me.”

You swallowed hard. “I just… lately I haven’t felt good about myself. Or my body. Like… you could do better. Like you deserve better.”

The reaction was immediate. His whole body went rigid, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Don’t,” he snapped, so loud you flinched. He caught himself, exhaling hard, then crouched in front of you, eyes dark and steady. “Don’t you dare say that. Not ever.”

You blinked at him. “John—”

“No.” His voice cracked on the word. “You don’t get it. You think I don’t know what that feels like? To look at yourself and not like what you see?” He pressed a fist briefly to his chest, his head bowing for a moment. “I live with that every damn day. But you—” He looked back up, eyes glassy. “You’re the one thing I don’t question. You’re the one thing that’s right.”

Your throat tightened. “But—”

“No.” He reached out, his hands gripping your knees firmly but not rough, grounding you. “You don’t get to talk about yourself like that. Not to me. Not when you’re the best part of my life. I don’t care what you think you see in the mirror. I see you. And you’re—” He swallowed hard, his voice dropping. “You’re beautiful. You’re strong. You’re everything I wish I was.”

You blinked, tears stinging your eyes. “John…”

“I’m not good at this,” he said roughly, shaking his head. “But I know this: you’re not less. You’re not replaceable. You’re the one thing keeping me from losing it completely.” He let out a humorless laugh, his thumb brushing over your hand almost shyly. “You’re my anchor. You’re it.”

Then, almost hesitantly, he pressed his forehead to yours — a small, clumsy gesture that carried more weight than any words. “I’ll tell you as many times as it takes,” he murmured. “You’re not broken. You’re not less. You’re mine. And you’re beautiful.”

Outside, a car hissed by on wet asphalt, but inside the room, everything went still — John, kneeling there in front of you, looking at you like you are the only steady thing left in a world that kept pulling him apart.

Johnny Storm

The living room smelled faintly of burnt popcorn — because of course it did. Johnny was sprawled across the couch, a smirk playing at his lips as he flipped through channels with one hand and scrolled through his phone with the other. He always seemed to take up too much space, too much light, like a living fireball even when he wasn’t literally on fire.

You sat curled at the far end of the couch, half-watching the screen but not really. The weight in your chest felt heavy, like it had been creeping up for days. It had been easier to hide when Johnny was out doing press or zipping around the city, but now, sitting next to him, it felt impossible not to crack.

“You’re quiet,” he said suddenly without looking up, his tone teasing but curious. “That’s dangerous. Usually means you’re plotting something.”

“I’m not plotting anything,” you muttered, eyes on your knees.

That made him glance up. He caught the way you said it — flat, tired — and instantly, his smirk slipped. He tossed the remote aside and sat up straighter, leaning in your direction. “Hey. What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

Johnny snorted softly, tilting his head. “Oh, come on. Don’t ‘nothing’ me. I invented ‘nothing.’”

You tried to smile, but it just didn’t come. “It’s stupid.”

“I’m the king of stupid,” he said easily, scooting closer. “Hit me with it.”

You hesitated, picking at your sleeve. “It’s just… lately I haven’t really felt pretty. Especially compared to, you know… all the people who throw themselves at you. Like you could do better. Probably should do better.”

At first, Johnny actually laughed — a short, incredulous sound. “Wait. Hold up. You’re joking, right?”

Your eyes stayed down. “No.”

That stopped him cold. His face went from cocky to panicked in an instant. “No, no, no. Don’t—don’t even finish that sentence.” He shifted closer until his knee bumped yours. “Do you… you actually think that?”

You shrugged, feeling stupid. “I just don’t—”

“Okay, timeout.” Johnny threw his hands up, eyes wide. “I’m literally the Human Torch. I’ve had people scream my name from balconies. I’ve had… God, I don’t even know how many magazine covers. And you’re sitting here thinking you’re not—” He broke off, staring at you like you’d just told him gravity stopped working. “Baby, what kind of upside-down world is this?”

“Johnny—”

“No, listen to me.” He slid off the couch and knelt in front of you dramatically, hands braced on your knees. “Do I need to build a billboard? Skywrite it over Manhattan? Put it on the Baxter Building? ‘Y/N is the most beautiful person alive.’ Would that do it? Because I will. Don’t test me.”

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escaped you, and his grin flickered back, just for a second. “There it is,” he said softly. “God, I love that sound.”

Then his expression sobered. He rested his palms gently on your thighs, thumbs rubbing slow circles. “I’m not messing around here. Yeah, I joke, I show off — but that’s all noise. The truth? You’re the only person who makes all of it feel like it’s not just noise. You’re it for me. You walk into a room and everything else fades out. You’re gorgeous. You’re perfect. You’re…” He searched for the word, uncharacteristically quiet. “…you’re home.”

Your throat tightened. “But I don’t feel that way.”

“Then I’ll feel it enough for both of us,” Johnny said softly. “I’ve got a big enough ego to cover us for a while.” That earned another weak laugh, and he smiled, softer now, brushing his knuckles down your cheek. “I don’t care how many people scream my name. I don’t care how many cameras flash. None of it matters if you’re not there. You’re the one I come back to. You’re the one I want to hold at the end of the day. You’re the only one who sees me, not the fire.”

You blinked hard, tears slipping free. “Johnny…”

He leaned in and kissed your forehead, your nose, finally your lips, each one slow but certain, the showman stripped away for once. “No more talk about me ‘doing better,’ okay? I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”

When he pulled back, his grin came back just a little, crooked and warm. “And if you ever forget, I’ll remind you. Loudly. Embarrassingly. Repeatedly. Deal?”

You laughed through your tears, and he brightened like a flame catching. “That’s my girl,” he murmured.

In the glow of the TV, with Johnny’s hands warm on your knees and his eyes still fixed on you like you were the only star in his sky, it was hard not to believe him — at least a little.

Reed Richards

The lab hummed softly, filled with the low whir of machinery and the faint smell of solder. Reed was at his workstation, bent over some strange-looking device, his glasses sliding down his nose as his impossibly long fingers adjusted a circuit board with precision. He was completely absorbed — or at least you thought he was — until he spoke without looking up.

“You’ve been quiet for twenty-three minutes.”

You blinked. “You’re timing me?”

“I time everything,” he said matter-of-factly, glancing up at last. His eyes, soft and sharp all at once, flicked over your face. “But that’s not the point. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you muttered automatically.

He tilted his head like a scientist studying a new variable. “Statistically speaking, that’s almost never true.” He set his tools down and straightened, wiping his hands on a rag. “Talk to me.”

You hesitated, fingers twisting in your lap. “It’s stupid.”

“Then let me decide that.” His tone was even, but not cold. If anything, it was patient.

You exhaled. “I just… lately I haven’t been feeling pretty. Or enough. Especially next to all the people you work with, all the brilliant, gorgeous women who throw themselves at you. Like you could do better. Like you probably should.”

Reed blinked at you, startled — as if you’d just told him two plus two equaled five. “That’s… illogical.”

You frowned. “Thanks.”

“No, I mean—” He stopped himself, running a hand through his hair, trying to recalibrate. “Let me try again.” He walked over, slow, deliberate, and sat across from you on the bench. “When you say that, you’re presenting a hypothesis. But it’s based on flawed data.”

You blinked. “Reed…”

“I’m serious.” His voice softened, though his words still carried that scientific cadence. “You’re comparing yourself to variables that aren’t relevant. People who don’t matter. Data points with no weight.” He reached out, hesitating for only a second before taking your hand, his thumb brushing the back of it almost shyly. “I don’t want them. I chose you. You’re the constant in my equation.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out shaky. “That’s not very romantic.”

“It’s the most romantic thing I know how to say,” he admitted quietly. “But if you want specifics…” His brow furrowed as though he were about to deliver a report. “I love the way you smile before you realize you’re smiling. I love how you push your hair back when you’re thinking. I love the sound you make when you’re about to laugh but you’re trying not to. I love the way you stand by me even when I disappear into my work. I love—” He cut himself off, exhaling slowly. “I could keep going.”

Your eyes stung. “Reed…”

He gave a small, awkward smile. “I’m not good at this. But I know what’s true. And what’s true is that you are brilliant. You are beautiful. You are… extraordinary. You’re not a variable I stumbled onto. You’re the answer.”

Your throat tightened as he squeezed your hand, his own hands warm and calloused from years of experiments. “You don’t have to feel it right now,” he said softly. “Let me feel it for you until you can.”

He shifted closer, his forehead resting against yours — a rare moment of stillness from a man who lived in his own mind. “I don’t care about the noise, or the rest of the world. This is the part that matters. You. Always you.”

And for a moment, surrounded by the quiet hum of machines and the faint glow of Reed’s lab, you felt like the only equation that had ever made sense.

Your feedback and criticism is greatly appreciated; feel free to leave a comment, it means more than you know 💕

Thank you for stumbling onto my Blog, enjoy reading 💫

[peonyb]

UGHHHHHH I ♥♥♥ LOVE ♥♥♥ THE IDEA OF OPPOSITES ATTRACT!!!!! Welling x Stoic!MC. Trivelyn x Outgoing!MC. Venali x Sweetheart!MC. Anle x Charming!MC. I want to bring balance to the relationship while also making the love interests completed. Thank you for all of the personilities that we can have with the love interests!

Oh good! I really like customization and making MCs feel as unique as I can. It usually means writing like 12 different versions of the same interaction, but it’s really fun lol. I’m happy you’re enjoying the way the opposite pairings interact! Honestly, broody MC/Welling and charming MC/Venali have always been the most entertaining to me.

[nocternalrandomness]

Actress Lynda Carter photographed by her husband Ron Samuels in 1977

[soneatisland]

[isabewinha]

[emilywrites185]

List of Quirks

(The categorized lists are below)

What is a quirk?

Quirks are habits, attitudes, mannerisms, or behaviors that are unusual, unexpected, or strange.

People have quirks, and your characters and locations should too. Think obsessions, a silly or unusual laugh, habits like pacing around the room, knuckle cracking, or braiding or twisting hair while thinking. Someone could always be cold, even in the summer without AC. An old man could have the habit of checking his mailbox twice a day, so much so that there is a path of trampled grass leading to his mailbox.

Locations can have quirks. The front door might have to be pushed or pulled in a certain way to engage the lock. The sink faucets could be switched. The hot water tap could really be the cold water tap despite the label.

Think of somewhere you've lived or a person you knew. What stood out to you about them? What did you find bizarre, aggravating, or charming about them?

Quirks will serve as the little details that will make your characters and settings lifelike. These quirks will say a lot about what you are describing, and they can even be used to allude to something important in your plot. There could be significant explanations to the quirks you choose which can add a layer of depth to your story.

Personality Quirks:

Thorough planner

Never plans for anything

Lone wolf

Needs approval

Adventurous

High strung

Takes things seriously

Skeptical of everything

Loves to argue

Avoids people

Avoids touching people

Honest to a fault

Impulsive liar

The Martyr

Sensitive

Abrasive

Compulsive flirt

Ambitious but lazy

Behavioral Quirks:

Picks at nails

Smokes only certain brands

Drinks a homemade concoction of choice

Tops their food with a specific dressing or additional ingredient

Loud laugh

Subdued laugh

Whistles or hums when walking

Always misses the trash can

Touches their face when they talk

Gets a stomachache at tense moments

Stutters when talking to someone attractive

If they clean is always a deep clean

Avoids public restrooms

Collection of ducks

Collections in general

Very loud sneezes

Kitten sneezes

Hisses when thinking

Always sounds angry even when they aren't

Has a hard time articulating feelings or desires

Often gets cliches or common phrases wrong

Physical Quirks:

Twitchy eye

Twitchy foot

Extremely flexible

Extremely inflexible

Two colored eyes

Chipped nails

Long perfect nails

Distinctive weight distribution

Very short

Very tall

Distinctive marks like birth marks or scars

Clothes/accessories:

Wears new clothes but has an old beaten-up suitcase or bag

Fingers full of rings

Never seen without makeup

Never wears their hair down

Cracked glasses

Socks never match

Old people sweaters

One sock pulled up, the other falling down

Half tucked shirt

Always a pen in the shirt pocket

Wears only a specific color

Crooked pins or name tag

Wears anything with their favorite animal

Wears slippers out in public

Location Quirks:

Squeaky steps

Window that jams

Lot full of old trees

A popular place of business with limited, inconvenient hours

House locks that are hard to open

A front door without weather stripping

Plumbing that rattles when water runs

Whistling windows

Creaky couch

Wavy, uneven floors

Always windy

A yard where critters are always seen

A public place that seems to attract certain people or animals

Always spotless