liv, wtf is going on?

22 red taylor’s version 🎧 marvel (tws/ jbb), starwars (kr/ bs & as/ dv), and formula 1 (cs55&op81) and (a small amount of) harry potter ✨ idk how to use this app

[fewerstars]

pushing and pulling

summary: you’re hopelessly in love with Frank, being the one who patches him up when he’s hurt, but he pushes you away to protect you, making the excuse that you’re young. you finally argue, then you cry and shout and yeah…

authors note: fic based off this request! I love you for this anon, angst with an agegap is my SHIT 🥹. this is like actually angsty though. crying, arguing, confessing love.

content: fem reader, smut, p in v, praise, mean!frank, angst, slight detail of injuries, agegap, arguing, crying, hurt/comfort, frank pushes you away, yearning!frank, pet names (sweetheart, sweet girl, doll, baby, darlin), frank is a SOFTIE when you do it, oral (f and m)

word count: 8.3k

The clock on your wall ticks past midnight, its soft rhythm in the back of your head. You've been pacing the living room for almost an hour, unable to settle after the reports running through the streets- another brutal night for the punisher: bodies found in places, blood on the streets. These few years of knowing Frank, you'd seen enough darkness in this city to know the moment when worry twisted into something that kept you from sleeping. Especially when it involved him. And it was happening now.

The first aid kit sat ready on the kitchen counter, stocked with everything he might need. You told yourself it was just habit. But deep down, you know it wasn't. It was months of attachment and building love that had you waiting like this.

Before you know it, he knocks three repeated bangs that rattle the door in its frame. Your heart beats against your ribs- you know that knock. You cross the room quickly, your bare feet slapping against the cool wood as you hurry towards the door, then throw it open without checking who it is. Of course, it’s frank who fills the doorway, rain dripping down his bleeding face and off his black jacket as he clutches his front in pain.

Blood streaks his temple, and his posture tells you that his pain is fresh. His shoulders are hunched, and it breaks you, seeing him in so much pain, but his fists are still clenched like he's ready for anything.

He doesn't wait doe you to invite him in, he just steps inside, tracking mud across your rug with his boots. The door slams shut behind him, sealing the two of you in the dim glow of your lamps. Your cozy apartment- with its mismatched couch and bookcases suddenly feels invaded, and it makes your chest tighten. This is your space-he's come here, bleeding and broken, like always, waiting for you to fix him. And the worst thing is you wouldn't want it any other way. You need him to need you like this.

"Frank," you say, as you hurriedly move toward the kit. "Shit- are you okay?” Your breath hitches, “Just- sit down before you bleed all over my floor.” You sigh as you look through the kit. “God, why do you do this shit to yourself?” you frown, hurt at seeing him in this state. Hurt is an understatement, his pain is your pain now.

He ignores your suggestion, and shrugs off his jacket with a grunt. You can tell he’s hurting. It hits the chair with a wet slap, revealing his dark shirt underneath, which is torn and stained dark red across his ribs. His deep eyes sweep the room once, then lock on you. You gasp softly at the state of his chest. For a split second, something vulnerable flickers in his eyes, buried fast under layers of anger and not caring. Only for a second though. "Didn't come here for a damn lecture. Or your pity." he sighs, looking away.

You frown in confusion, but grab the antiseptic and gauze anyway, anger already simmering low in your stomach. Months of this. Months of him showing up half fucking dead, letting you patch him up, then vanishing like you don’t mean shit. You'd fallen for him in these months- in the rare times his hand would brush yours for a beat too long, the way his voice softened when he spoke of the past. You’ve become hopelessly in love with a man who carries revenge like it’s armour. But tonight, something feels different. You aren't in the mood for his shit.

"Pity? That's funny" you say calmly, balancing the gauze along with other things in your arms. You step closer, about to reach for the hem of his shirt. "You show up at my door looking like this, and I'm meant to ignore it?" You sigh, closing your eyes before opening them and taking a deep breath to calm down. “Just let me help, Frank. Stop being stubborn and sit down."

“Whatever” he sighs, hovering above the chair, watching you ask you walk over. Something about you just makes him feel different. You make him want to be different. You reach your hand forward and whisper, “Just let me help.”

That seems to ignite something in him. He catches your wrist before you can touch his shirt, his grip firm but gentle. Rainwater drips from his hair onto your floor and god, is he is sight to see. "I can handle my own shit.” he begins, not even raising his voice, which throws you off. “Don't need you playing nurse like I'm some stray dog.”

Strangely, the words sting, but you pull your hand free. "I've been here for months helping you and sitting through your silences when you disappear. And you call it playing nurse?" Your voice rises, sharp with frustration that had been building too long. "Just let me look- you're bleeding through your shirt, for fuck's sake."

He doesn't move, towering over you in your own kitchen, watching your gentle face twisted into frustration, deep down he wants to be gentle with you, tell you it’s okay, and thank you darlin. But he can’t. Who will it be helping to get you more attached to eachother? Instead he stays silent, the air thick with the tang of blood and rain. Finally, he let you peel the fabric aside. The slice is deep enough to need stitches, and you aren’t sure you can do them without him flinching.

Your hands work quickly, cleaning the edges of his wound with the antiseptic that makes him hiss through his teeth. Your touch is meant to be clinical, but your fingers linger on the scarred skin around his wound, feeling the heat of him. God, you love him. Even like this. Especially like this.

But the sadness doesn't fade. It coils tighter as your hand shakes, holding the needle to his skin. You begin stitching him up, the once quiet room filled with groans and cursing. Frank tilts his head back in pain, with a groan of, “Ah fuck.”

You gently wrap a bandage around the stitched up wound, trying to be soft despite your frustration. "There. Now tell me why you came if you're just gonna push me away again."

Frank straightens up, wincing, and paces a little in the small space. The rain lashes harder against the windows, mirroring the tension between you. "That's what this is." he chuckles. "You wanna collect people who are broken. Fix them." His voice is flat, rough as concrete. Your eyes water instantly at the accusation, hot tears pricking unbidden. It hits like a slap, after all the nights you'd stayed, all the quiet ways you'd shown you cared.

He notices the glistening in your eyes, the way your lashes clump together with moisture. Internally, Frank curses himself to hell.

Christ frank, you piece of shit. She’s standing there heartbroken because of you.

The thing is, he loves you hopelessly, like a drowning man loves air, but he’s gutting you to save you. He needs to push harder. Make you see you deserve better than him. Than his suffering and pain. But his face stays the same, no crack in his armor. No softness.

"And they all leave eventually," he goes on, relentless. "Even the ones who don't die first." Your eyes are glistening, you're trying so hard not to cry- but his words are killing you. "Maria did what she could with what I was. You? You're young. Got years ahead of you, and they don't have to end in blood darlin’."

For fucks sake, why does his brain work like this?

"You gotta leave, or I drag you down with me. That's the truth. Being strong means cutting this off before it poisons you too." He shakes his head, looking down before dragging his palm down his face in frustration. He's still pacing back and forth.

Tears are spilling down your cheeks, but your anger is stronger. You swipe them away angrily, stepping infront of him to block his pacing. You wish he would just listen, just reason.

"You show up here bleeding and expect me to just fix you and send you off?" Your voice climbs and you're shouting now, echoing off the apartment walls. "I'm not collecting anyone- I'm here because I care- more than you fucking know. I see you under all this rage. I see you as the man who fights for innocent people, even when it costs you everything." You feel hysterical, flailing your hands around, trying to get something into that thick skull of his. "Let me help carry it, stop acting like being a man means suffering alone."

He looms closer, his dark eyes blazing. "You don't know the half of what I carry. Sweetheart, I push because I don't want to hurt you. Strong is handling my war alone. Not leaning on some kid who has a life ahead of her."

"Kid?" You shout louder, shoving at his chest with both hands. He doesn't budge, but the contact sends sparks through you- anger and that hopeless pull. "I'm not some fucking teenager. I've sat with you when you had nothing. Don't you fucking dare dismiss me like that." Your voice cracks with raw emotion, tears streaming freely now. The apartment suddenly feels smaller and you can't breathe. "If I'm such a burden, why the fuck do you keep coming back?"

The argument spirals back and forth. You pace after him, pouring out your heart. How his silence hurts more than words, how his rare touches leave your heart aching. Frank counters in that low, gravelly rumble talking about the blood on his hands, the enemies who’d target anyone close to him. "Darlin, I’m too old for this fantasy you're spinning. You'll wake up and see.”

“Fantasy?” You yelled, voice hoarse but fierce, jabbing a finger into his chest. “I’ve bled worry for you every time you’ve vanished! I’ve cleaned wounds that should’ve killed normal men! I know your pain, Frank, and I still choose to stand here and reason with you.”

He grabbed your wrists again, holding them steady against his bandaged ribs. His heartbeat thunders under your palms betraying the uncaring mask he’s put on. Inside, the love claws at him. You’re everything. Your fire, your stubbornness, the way you see him. He’s in love with you so deeply it terrifies him. But you’re young. He’ll ruin you.

Push her away you bastard. Save her.

“Why do you care so much?” he finally growls, the question shooting out of his mouth like a bullet. Your face drops. “Why the hell do you keep doing this to yourself- to me?”

The moment swells, emotions fill the room. Your chest heaves, tears burning down your cheeks. All the months of swallowed feelings explode suddenly. “What the fuck do you want me to say, Frank? That I’m in love with you? That seeing you like this kills me? That I would do anything for you, even stand here and shout because I can’t fucking walk away?”

His lips part as you shout, but nothing can leave his mouth. He watches you spit words out furiously as you cry, and all he can say softly is, “darlin’-” while he is still holding your soft hands against his chest.

“Don’t fucking call me that” you cry, face screwed up in anger and sadness as you try to get out of his clasp, but you can’t. “For months, every goddamn time you fucking showed up like this, every scar I’ve touched- it was love! And it hurts like hell because you won’t let it in! It makes me feel like a fucking idiot Frank. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Your words echo like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. Silence fills the air right after. His grip tightens slightly on your wrists, his plain expression slipping for a heartbeat. His eyes widen with raw pain and his jaw clenches against the shoot of emotion that goes up his chest. That same agonising love roars inside him, matching the depth of yours. He loves you achingly, you’re a light in his shitty world. But that only makes him have to push you further. You’re too young, too good. He’d destroy that light.

He releases you slowly, stepping back like your confession burned him. “Look, you’re not thinking straight,” he says, his voice edged with frustration, as he forces the words out like it hurts. “What do you know about love? You’re young. This isn’t love- it’s just attachment. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you sweetheart, full of possibilities.” He looks at your tear stained face as you stand in front of him, and his heart breaks at your sweet face. “I know what love is- you don’t. Love breaks you. I’m pushing you away because I don’t wanna drag you into my hell.” A heavy sigh escapes him, and his shoulders slump, showing how defeated he is.

All the while, you shake your head, violent tears still running down your face. “You think this doesn’t break me Frank?” You swipe furiously at your eyes, not wanting to cry anymore. He already thinks you’re a kid and you can’t add on to that. “You pushing me away hurts, no matter why you do it. My heart aches because of you.”

He sighs, dragging a hand down his face again in frustration. He doesn’t know what to do in this shitty situation, he cares for you so much, but he just can’t risk it. “I can’t have this conversation.” he says calmly, turning around, a hand on the back of his neck.

“Of course.” you scoff bitterly. “Why am I even surprised.”

He shakes his head, broad back still to you as he scratches his neck and says defeatedly, “Just cut it out.” Your breath hitches in disbelief, you just can’t understand how someone can be so fucking stubborn. “You’re too young and that’s the end of that.” he says, but his words kill him too.

You feel your blood boiling again, and you don’t know whether to cry or shout or hit him. “Fuck you frank.” You finally say, fighting back the endless tears. “Fuck you for hiding behind that, using my age as an excuse.” You sniffle, moving your hair out of your face. Frank turns back to face you, his broad chest glistening ever so slightly, and it’s like he’s punched in the gut again when he sees your beautiful face crying. You see his expression falter, and his eyes sadden. “What are you so fucking afraid of?” you finally whisper demandingly, watching his broad figure move towards the glass table besides his chair and lean over it.

As he hovers over the table, he slouches forward, holding himself up with his muscular arms, his head lowered. “Just stop it” he sighs, defeated. He’s trying so hard to bottle it all in. He calls your name softly in protest, begging you to end this conversation.

But you won’t accept that shitty response. “No, answer me.” you demand.

“I said cut it out please.” he groans, and it’s like he’s holding himself back from something.

You shake your head, “No, why are you so fucking scared to let me in?” you shout.

And abruptly, you hear a shatter. Your eyes search for Frank and you forget everything. Once they find him, all you can see is red. The table beside him is in pieces, and his hand is in a fist, blood dripping onto the empty frame, and the floor. “Frank.” you gasp, your breath hitching.

“Because I care about you too much.” he roars, and you realise you’re terrified of him in the moment. “Everyone I love dies. ‘Cuz of me.” he shouts, wincing as he holds his bleeding hand in the air. “If anything happened to you I’d never fucking forgive myself for it.”

Your lips part, and you want to talk but you’re left with no words in your mouth. No air in your lungs. The only thing you can say is the cursed name that’s had a hold of you all these months. “Frank…” you gasp, walking towards him. He turns his head, eyes threatening to spill tears, but he doesn’t shout or dismiss you, or even walk away.

You move your hands to his bare chest, trying to be careful with his stitches, and his now bleeding hand. “Frank,” you say again softly, “look at me.”

And how could he ever deny that soft voice of yours? You’re the only light in his life at the moment, the only thing he thinks of besides pain and hurt and regret. You’re his only escape. He turns his face to you, looking down at your doe eyes and croaks out, “I can’t lose you too.” with a soft shake of his head.

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath to gather yourself together. “You won’t Frank,” you say softly, taking hold of his forearm and guiding him to sit back down on the chair. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, almost to yourself more than him. He sits down, yearning for you as he watches you sit infront of him, pulling out more bandages and things of the sort.

He’s so tired. So tired of being himself, of pushing you away, of regretting his choices. You’re all he wants, and he’s selfish enough to know it, but that doesn’t mean he’ll take any action. No, you deserve better. You deserve someone young who can give you what you want. Someone who is capable of loving and caring.

He groans as you pulls the shards of glass out of his hand, putting them to the side with a clink. You work gently of course, but with the you-shaped wound in his heart, everything is too much to bear today. He nearly cries when you pour alcohol over his hand, throwing his head back with a low wail. “Shh, I’m sorry.” you whisper, hushing him gently.

He straightens himself up as you grab some bandages, watching your slender fingers work quickly to unravel it. Eventually, you put your hand out, asking for his in return. Slowly but surely, he gives you his wounded hand, grunting as you start wrapping it up. He stares at you carefully as you finish the task, and strangely, raises his hand to his head, with yours still holding his. His eyes flick to your face without you seeing, then with a tilt of his face, he presses the most gentle kiss to your hand. “Thank you.” he croaks, and a pang of emotion shoots through your heart.

“That’s not fair,” you say softly, not moving your eyes away from his. He lets go of your hand slowly, like he’s suddenly aware of what he’s done, and whispers, “I know.” You nod your head disappointedly, turning away and walking out the room, your footsteps growing more distant.

You don’t know what to do, or what you can do, but lock yourself in the bathroom to stop and breathe. Because God knows you haven’t been breathing properly with him here, like this. He curses quietly to himself as he hears you leave, wondering what the fuck is wrong with himself, why he’s doing this to you- to himself.

Once you’ve locked the bathroom door, you turn to the mirror and give yourself a shitty smile. You breathe slowly, feeling stupid for letting a man do this to you. Except he’s not just a man, he’s Frank and you care for him, maybe you even lo- yeah. But your emotions are stronger and before you know, you’re sniffling, gently dabbing at the mascara under your eyes. The past hour has been insanity. And you’ve witnessed scarier things of course, but this? Finally telling Frank how you feel?

You’d only just stopped crying too, but now you’re hovering over the sink, hot tears dribbling down your face again, silently this time.

Franks head perks up, and he can hear you shuffling around the bathroom. He doesn’t stand get up to check, but he can hear you sniffling. Not only is he angry at himself for being the reason for your tears again, but the worst thing is, you’re alone in the bathroom, trying to hide it. You’re in there trying to be silent. He doesn’t want you to feel like you have no one, because you have him. He would do anything for you. He’d die for you, live for you, even live for you.

He wishes he could tell you that. Tell you what he wants most in this world is to be yours and live with your beautiful heart everyday. But he can’t get close to you, closer than he already is, because he’ll hurt you. He can never protect the ones he loves, and if anything happens to you, he won’t see the point of living anymore.

Before he can realise what he’s doing, he’s stood up, and his feet have led him to the bathroom door. He lifts his hand to knock, before stopping himself and letting it fall to his side, too conscious of his own every move now. He squeezes his eyes shut in concentration, then calls your name, trying hard to sound softer. “You alright?”

You sniffle an unconvincing “Yeah,” and he furrows his eyebrows in frustration with himself. “You sure darlin’?” he calls back, and your heart clenches.

“I’ll be two secs,” you say, carefully pressing your finger to the corner of your eye, drying up rogue tears. You smile again at yourself in the mirror, tucking your hair behind your ears, and stepping towards the door. It clicks open, and Frank is greeted with your red raw face.

“I’m sorry.” he says, eyes flickering as he looks over you. He wants to talk, but his mouth is glued together. You shrug, wiping your eye again, acting like it’s no big deal. Like he isn’t breaking your heart by just standing there. “Frank, it’s whatever.”

He shakes his head, and he’s quickly filled with emotion too. “No, it’s not.” You look up at him, eyebrows furrowed a little, patiently waiting for him to talk. His mouth opens, and your heart patters in anticipation. But it just closes. You nod, feeling like a fucking idiot again, stepping to the side, and walking away. He freezes, standing in the empty door frame, eyes hovering over the spot you left.

Frank remains rooted to the spot long after you’ve brushed past his bare torso. The doorway feels too small for all the things neither of you can say. You make it halfway down the hall before you hear him move behind you. “Hey,” his voice is quiet, almost uncertain. You stop, but you don’t turn around. “Please,” he whispers, the word hitting harder than it should. You look back slowly, and Frank’s still standing there, shoulders tense, hands hanging uselessly by his sides.

“What?” you ask, and the exhaustion in your voice surprises even yourself. His jaw tightens. Then loosens. Then tightens again. You almost laugh at the repetitiveness of it. “That’s exactly what I mean.” you sigh, shaking your head, and his eyebrows pull together. “You keep looking at me like you wanna say something.” you shrug exasperatedly. “And then you just- dont?”

He glances away, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks genuinely stuck. Not awkward, scared. The realization only makes your chest hurt more. “Forget it,” you mumble, about to turn away.

“Wait” he says, the reply coming fast enough to stop you. You freeze as he takes a step forward and soon enough, you’re stood in front of eachother. He raises a hand and lets it rest on the side of your face. “Oh god,” he sighs, and you can’t help but nuzzle your cheek into his warm hand. He lets his hand slide lower, smoothing over the line of your jaw, then gently moving it higher, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip. “Darlin’,” he groans, as you look up at him with those pleading eyes.

He moves his hand to the back of your neck, fingers laced between your hair, the other hand creeping to the small of your back. Frank pulls you closer, and for a moment you’re relieved, this is all you’ve been thinking about for the past few months. But it’s not fair for you, when this isn’t even real.

His lips brush over your hairline, but he doesn’t kiss you. He just lets you feel him, loving you without having to say it. “I’m so sorry baby.” he sighs, softly tilting your head back to look at him, hand still in your hair. “I only push you away to keep you safe. I can’t live without you- I can’t risk losing you.”

“But you won’t lose me Frank,” you sniffle, “I already said, I’m not going anywhere.” He laughs bitterly, shaking his head as he looks away.

“You don’t know that sweetheart. The world fucks over everyone, even if they’re good.” He looks back down at you, eyes skimming over your soft lips, your glistening eyes.

“I know Frank, but you can’t live in fear.” You press yourself against his bare skin again, inhaling his comforting scent. “You have to try. Is your fear stronger than the love you have?” you ask him, desperation dripping off every word. He’s silent, reflecting on your words, before he shakes his head.

“No,” he says firmly, lowering his face, letting his lips meet yours. The kiss is desperate, like he’s been holding back forever. You groan into it, splitting your lips to let his tongue slide wetly over your bottom one. His hand is still on the back of your head, keeping it safe as he walks you both to the nearest wall, pressing your body against it. He devours you, need pouring out of his mouth, out of every part of his body.

Frank presses his calloused hands against the wall, trapping you between the cold surface and his muscular chest. His mouth trails to your jaw, peppering wet kisses along it, moving down to your neck. You moan as he kisses you passionately, his lips on your collarbone now. He’s exploding with desire, needing to love every part of you. His hand hooks beneath the hem of your sleep shirt carefully, and once you whine, “please” he slips it off, lifting your arms to get it over your head.

“My sweet girl,” he moans in awe, his mouth loving every bit of you now, jaw grazing over your chest, creeping lower over the fabric of your bra. “I’m so sorry,” he mutters. He presses a kiss to your breast over the lace, lowering himself to lick and nibble down your sides, over the flat of your stomach.

“You’re an angel baby,” he whispers, hands on your soft thighs as his mouth trails lower. He’s on his knees, looking up at you with those deep brown eyes as you slip your fingers through his short hair. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Please Frank,” you whimper, and he doesn’t waste any time.

“i know baby, I know,” he coos, hands moving up, caressing your skin beneath your sleep shorts. “I’m gonna take care a’ya okay?”

You nod desperately, brows knitting together as he starts to pull your little shorts down your legs. His eyes flick up to yours again as he hooks his thick finger into the side of your panties, making sure you’re okay with everything. He drags them down slowly, with excruciating care, then stuffs them in the back of his jeans as you look down at him.

He’s level with your core now, hands on the back of your plush thighs as he pushes his soft lips to your inner thighs. “Frank” you gasp, and he continues dragging his lips over your thighs. His stubble grazes the skin of your inner thigh, sending a wave of shock through you as you whine, needing him closer.

His breath is hot against your skin as he chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “Easy, baby. I got you.” Gently, he squeezes the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you steady as he finally moves his mouth higher. Slowly, his tongue drags a hot trail up your slit, savoring the your sweetness with a deep groan that makes your knees buckle. You cry out, fingers tightening in his short hair as he licks again, a little firmer this time, circling your clit with the flat of his tongue before sucking it gently between his lips.

“Oh god- Frank,” you moan, hips twitching toward his mouth. He doesn’t pull away. Instead he keeps lapping at you, tongue flicking and swirling to explore every fold while his calloused hands keep you pinned to the wall. His stubble scrapes deliciously against your inner thighs with every movement, making your back arch even more. He looks up at you through dark lashes, eyes heavy with adoration as he watches your lashes flutter and your chest heave.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he murmurs against your core, the words muffled as he slides a thick finger inside you, curling it till your face is screwed up. “Let me hear how good it feels.” he coaxes, adding second finger and pumping slowly, his tongue working at your clit in devastating strokes. Your thighs tremble around his face, pleasure hot in your belly as he worships you, completely lost in the taste and sound of your pleasure.

You haven’t came yet, but he moves back, pressing a kiss to your clit and pulling back. You whine, breathless and needing release, but he just stands back up on his feet, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You deserve better than a wooden floor baby” he says gently, tilting his head as he strokes your cheek. “Could you show me to your bedroom? Is that okay sweetheart?”

You nod bashfully, unsticking yourself from the wall as he watches your beautiful body. He presses a paw to your lower back, respecting your bare body, and follows you as you start walking towards your bedroom. He’s right behind you, his expression softening at the sight of your room. It’s sweet and warm, just like you. Your bedding is white and pure, a few stuffed animals scattered around it. Your bedside table has a book in it, with a cute little alarm clock, and a photo frame of your family. The walls are decorated with more pictures, and posters too. He can’t hurt you, not when you’re still young and pure and have a beautiful life to live.

“Thank you for letting me in your room darlin’, it’s beautiful” he smiles, rubbing your back. You shrug sheepishly, cheeks flushed as you mumble, “mhm.”

“C’mere,” he whispers, pulling you close again, but then hoisting you up, hands holding your thighs steadily. “Let me show you how sorry I am.” You wrap your legs around his waist, throwing your hands over his neck as you’re almost skin to skin, besides that damn scrap of fabric you have over your breasts. Before you know it, he’s loving on you again, lips all over your neck, under your ear. He’s whispering apologies into your neck, telling you how much he needs you, and how sorry he is. He forgets about his stitches, ignores the pain of you rubbing against them because his pleasure overpowers it.

He takes a few steps towards your bed, carefully leaning forward to place you on your back. “Oh babydoll,” he croaks, looking at you like you’re a gift for him splayed out on the bed, an angel of some sort. “You’re so beautiful.”

He places his hands on both sides of you again, leaning down to kiss you passionately, like he can’t live away from the taste of your mouth. His hand trails down your body, then skims back up, hovering over your chest. “Can I see you fully, baby?” he asks. Once you nod, he lifts your torso ever so slightly, so he can unclip your bra, and throws it off to the side. His lips part in awe as he sees the soft swell of your breasts, and he runs his hand across them both. “You gotta have the most perfect tits I’ever seen sweetheart.”

You can’t do much but blush again, and then moan when his mouth is leaving wet trails over your chest. “I think they need some lovin’ too” he coos, hand cupping a breast and beginning to knead, the other one tucking your hair behind your ear. “That okay sweet girl? That feel good?”

You whine “mhm” desperately, unable to form words with how overwhelmed you are with need. “I’ll make you feel so good doll, don’t you worry your little head,” he says, pulling away, hands trailing to his belt. You watch his muscles flex as he works at the clasp, then pulls it off, unbuttoning his jeans now. You don’t know how you managed to control yourself to not pounce at him till now, while he’s been walking around your house all night, shirtless.

He’s bare now besides his boxers, and those are only on in respect for you. You shift yourself up a little, head on your pillows and he climbs into your soft bed, his chest hovering over yours again. “Tell me what you want sweet girl. I’ll give you anything you ask.” he coos, brushing your cheek with his thumb again.

“I need to feel you,” you whimper, and he nods, lifting you up and sitting you onto his lap. He presses another gentle kiss to your hairline, cherishing you so softly.

“Are you sure doll?” he asks, making you know that you can take it slow. “You’re still young, we don’t have to rush.” You shake your head firmly.

“I’m sure Frank, I want you to make love to me- please.” you say, leaning further into him, your skin pressed warmly together. You’re careful not to press against his stitches, so as not to hurt him. He groans, hands resting over the swell of your soft ass cheeks while you straddle him.

“Alright, since you’re saying it so sweetly.” he smiles, tilting his head to look at your shy face. “Just like this?” he asks, looking down at the two of you, bodies pressed together.

“Yeah,” you agree, as he admires your beauty, “I wanna feel you while we do it.” He smiles softly at your words, nodding as he gives you another gentle kiss, this time on the side of your mouth. He lays you back, freeing himself to pull off his boxers, then moves back beside you, his back pressed against your headboard. His cock rests stiff and sore on his thigh, and he gently pulls you onto his lap. You can feel his need under you, but he doesn’t rush anything, only goes with what you want.

You gasp when your hot need finally meets his, and he lets out a low groan, feeling you wet against him. “Whenever you wanna start,” he whispers, like it hurts to speak, and places his manly hands on the sides of your waist. You nod, lifting your hips so he can free himself, and he takes his cock into his hand, breath stuttering as he groans. “Okay, now sweetheart?” he asks, affection on every word that leaves his mouth.

“Please Frank, I want you so badly,” you whine, and he nods, one hand beneath your ass, the other guiding himself to your entrance.

“Alright baby, shh shh sh” he whispers, sliding his sore tip back and forth against the slick of your pussy. His eyes meet yours again and he says lowly, “I’m gonna put it in now, okay?”, checking to make sure you’re ready. He knows realistically- it’ll hurt. He doesn’t have much of an ego, but it’s obvious he’s big, and he knows that without proper care, you’ll end up sore and gaping afterwards.

His mouth falls open with a low groan as he finally slips inside you, gently pushing you down onto his dick, inch by aching inch. “There’s my girl,” he croaks, caressing your sides as you finally sink into him fully, plush ass against his thighs. “Fuck- you feel amazing doll.”

You moan at the feeling of being overwhelmingly filled, needing something to be your anchor. All you can do is press your hands against his chest, careful not to move the bandages right below. You shudder in pleasure, and Frank tells you softly, “I’m gonna move now sweetheart.” He starts to buck his hips up into yours, and your eyes close in pleasure.

“Oh god,” you moan, feeling him deeper at every buck of his hips. Frank groans throughout it, whether because of the pain beneath his chest, or this pleasure- you don’t know. You lean forward, wanting to feel his body around yours, and he gets the memo. Carefully, he leans forward, off the headboard so that he can hold you. His big, bear arms wrap around your torso, and he ignores the shooting pain beneath the bandages. “I want my pretty girl in my arms,” he says quietly, only for you to hear, stroking your back as he keeps you covered with his arms.

You grind back and forth a little, trying to make it easier for him. The friction on your clit is driving you insane, and all you can think of is to keep moving to reach that pleasure. “You’re doing so well f’me,” he coos, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “My best girl.”

His words go straight to your core. All you wanted was to be his girl, and now- you just might be. You keep grinding, chasing your high as he makes love to you, hands caressing your back. “I can’t lose you,” he croaks into your ear as you move, “you’re my whole life.”

“Frank.” You moan as you feel the pleasure building, your body loosening with contentment, knowing you’re safe here- with him. “I’ll always be here, I promise.” His manly arms squeeze around you even tighter, like he can’t risk letting go of you.

You moan helplessly, on the verge of release, and Frank can tell. “That’s it, we’ll get you there” he reassures, helping you grind on him. He leans further into you, holding you skin to skin as his cock drags up and down your walls, filling you completely. He leaves wet trails all along your neck with his mouth, your hair tangled around his face. Neither of you can think of anything, just the feeling of eachothers bodies.

“Frankie,” you moan crudely, your hips slacking, “mm- I’m so close.” He nods understandingly, pushing your bodies forward to rest you on your back, making sure not to pull out. He strokes your forehead with his thumb, softly dragging his lips along your jaw as he whispers, only for you to hear.

Frank keeps a thick arm braced beneath your back as he gently lowers you down, never once slipping from your heat. The shift changes the angle instantly- deeper and fuller. You gasp sharply, legs falling open around his hips. He follows you down, covering you with his broad body like a warm shield, careful of the bandages on his chest but refusing to let even an inch of space come between you.

“Easy, baby, that’s it,” he murmurs, voice low with adoration. His forehead rests against yours, eyes locked on your face like he’s memorizing every bit of you. One of his big hands slide down to grip the back of your thigh, spreading you wider for him. “Gonna take care of you now. Just let me make you feel good.”

He starts moving again, slow at first, but eventually building with purpose. He fucks you deeply, thrusts dragging his cock against that spot inside you over and over. The wet, obscene sound of him sliding in and out of your soaked pussy fills the room, but Frank doesn’t seem to notice anything except you. His free hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly across your bottom lip.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he breathes. “Wanna watch my pretty girl come apart for me.”

You try to keep your eyes open, but it’s hard when every thrust punches the breath out of you. He’s so thick and deep, hitting places that make your back arch off the mattress. Frank groans softly each time you flutter around him, praise dripping off his every word.

“Attagirl, you’re taking me so well.” He leans down to kiss you, his tongue slowly tongue sliding against yours in time with his hips. When he pulls back, his voice is wrecked. “That’s my baby. Let it build, okay? I gotcha.”

His pace quickens just enough, still loving and controlled, but relentless. He angles his hips to grind against your clit with every thrust, the coarse hair at the base of his cock rubbing perfectly against your sensitive bundle of nerves. The pressure inside you coils tighter faster than you expected. “Frank- frankie-” you whimper, hands flying up to clutch at his shoulders.

“I know, I know,” he soothes, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your throat. “Come on, angel. Come for me. You’re so close, I can feel it.” He reaches between your bodies, calloused thumb finding your clit and circling it with firm strokes. The sensation of his thick cock driving into you deep, and his thumb working at you shatters the little control you had left.

Your orgasm crashes over you hard. A broken cry tears from your throat as your body seizes up, thighs shaking around his waist. Waves of pleasure rip through you intensely, your pussy clenching desperately around his length. Frank keeps moving through it, fucking you through every pulse, his voice keeping you conscious.

“There she is, that’s my girl” he coos, stroking your cheek through it, “keep going, baby, let me feel it all.” His thrusts grow a little sharper, chasing the way you grip him, but his hands ate gentle, stroking your sides, cradling your face, whispering endless praise against your skin. “I’ve gotcha. I’ve always gotcha.”

Even as you break down around him, Frank doesn’t stop moving. He rides out every aftershock with you, slowly, kissing the tears of overwhelming pleasure that escape the corners of your eyes.

When you finally start to come down, body lump and exhausted, he stays buried inside you to the hilt and holds you close, murmuring loving words into your hair. “You did so good f’me.”

You whine like a desperate animal, brain mush from the pleasure. Softly, his thumb brushes beneath your eye again, collecting the stray tears. “I’m sorry for pushing you away baby.” Your breath hitches as you’re caught off guard by his words. “You’ve only been good to me sweetheart, you didn’t deserve any of it.”

“It’s okay Frank,” you say quietly, “you were just trying to keep me safe.” He nods as you speak, but you can tell he disagrees. He inhales deeply, clearly upset with himself.

“But I wasn’t, was I? I was only hurting you more.”

“Frank,” you start. You know he’s right, and that his actions weren’t logical at all, but you also know he’s sorry now, and that there’s no changing the past. You don’t want him to dwell on things that have already happened. You’re good now, you wanna keep it that way.

He cuts you off, shaking his head. “No baby, I was wrong.” He sighs, still holding himself above you, he’d crush you if he fell. “I’m gonna spend every day making it up to you, okay? I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay Frank, it’ll be okay,” you reassure him, moving the back of your hand across his cheek.

He leans down, kissing your mouth softly, before moving back. Gently, he starts to pull out, hushing you as you moan at the feeling of being empty. “Easy baby, easy.” He flops down onto your side, dick still hard, his tip blazing red.

“Frank,” you say, a little shocked, leaning onto your side, “you didn’t cum.” He shakes his head, dismissing the sentence.

“Wasn’t about me, s’bout you doll.” You frown, sitting up as you watch him, selflessly just laying on his back. “What baby?” he chuckles, looking at you pouting, “it’s not important.”

“Of course it’s important!” You protest, sitting there with your arms crossed. He just chuckles, sighing relievedly, knowing how much he loves his girl. He lies there on his back like it’s the most natural thing in the world, a thick arm draped over his eyes, cock still heavy and against his stomach, glistening from you. He looks completely content just having taken care of you. But that’s not fair.

You crawl to him slowly, thighs still weak. He lifts his arm just enough to peek at you when the mattress dips under your weight. “Baby?” he murmurs, voice rough. You don’t answer with words. Instead you lean down and press a soft, open mouthed kiss to the underside of his cock. Frank’s breath catches hard, and before he can say anything, you drag your tongue up the full length of him, them taking him into your mouth.

A deep groan rumbles out of his chest the second the wet heat of your mouth envelopes him. His hips twitch upward instinctively before he catches himself. “Fuck-”

You don’t let him protest. You want to make him feel as good as he just made you feel. One of your hands wrap around the thick base he barely fit inside you earlier, stroking with slow bobs of your head. Your tongue swirls around the tip as you suck gently, then firmer when his groan turns into curse words.

Frank’s hand finds the back of your head, not pushing, just resting there, fingers threading through your hair like he needs something to hold onto. “Jesus Christ, baby- you don’t have to-” You hum around him, taking him deeper and relaxing your throat as best as you can. The vibration makes his thighs tense and his other hand fists the sheets beside him.

You pull off just long enough to look up at him, your lips shiny with him. “I want to, Frank. I want you to cum.” His eyes are dark and whatever he was going to say dies in his throat when you sink back down, working him with eager strokes. You pour every bit of love and gratitude you feel for this man who just spent his time making sure you came apart first.

His breathing grows ragged, hips starting to rock up into your mouth despite his desperate effort to stay still. “Ohh- you’re so good, angel. So good to me.”

You moan around his length, the praise making heat bloom low in your belly again. His groans turn deeper, and mofe desperate, the hand in your hair tightening “Baby- I’m gonna-” he warns, voice wrecked. You pull away, taking him in your hand and working him until he’s shaking.

Frank comes undone with a groan that seems to rip out of his soul, his hips stuttering as thick pulses of cum spill across his stomach. You keep touching him through it til he’s trembling and panting beneath you, whispering your name between shaky breaths.

When he finally starts to soften, you pull away, pressing a gentle kiss to his abs before crawling up his body. Frank immediately hauls you against his side, arm wrapping around you like he never wants to let go. His heart is hammering under your cheek.

“Christ, doll,” he rasps, pressing kisses to the top of your head, your temple, anywhere he can reach really. You nuzzle your face in his side, wishing you could just melt into him. You breathe together, heartbeats synchronised as you lay on your soft bed. “Hey,” he whispers softly, “you okay?”

You nod a quiet “mhm”, opening your eyes and giving him a small smile before you nuzzle your head back into him. “Of course I am.” But despite the calmness of the moment, he can’t stop thinking about what just happened before.

“I’m sorry for everything” he says quietly, almost ashamed, “you didn’t deserve none’a the shit I put you through.” His words throw you off guard slightly, your brain still caught up in the softness of this moment.

“Frank, it’s okay-”

You got to protest, but he doesn’t let you. “I pushed you away when I shoulda been grateful you even wanted to help me." He runs a rough hand through your hair again, letting it rest on your back. "You deserved more than that. You deserve love and gentleness." He sighs softly, the next words hesitant to leave his mouth. "I know I'm not exactly the epitome of that, but I'm gonna try."

"Frank," you call softly, hand smoothing over his bandages carefully, down to his stomach. "Thank you." But he just sighs, like he's still disappointed with himselt.

"I hurt you, and I'm gonna make it up to you every single day, if you let me."

“I know Frankie," you whisper, kissing his side, "you're a good man, you're just stubborn. He chuckles softly, nodding at your words as he circles his thumb on your back.

"Yeah baby, I'm a stubborn bastard. And a stupid one, pushing your sweetness away like that." He sighs again, but the weight is lifted slightly off his shoulders. He feels like he can breathe again. A quiet moment passes as he watches your face, lashes fluttering in the moonlight shining through your window, the sheen of sweat on your forehead.

"You know I love you?" he says quietly, breaking the silence filling the room.

Your heart patters softly at his confession, not because you didn't know, but more because you're surprised he's admitted it to himself. "I love you too Frank" you breathe, closing your eyes against him. "I promise you won't lose me."

“I know I won’t baby. Not if I can help it.”

He presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head, holding you a little closer. For a moment, neither of you says anything, content to listen to the quiet hum of the night. "Good,” you murmur, a small smile in your voice.

As you’re wrapped in each other's warmth, the weight of your old fears feels a little bit lighter, and before long, sleep finds you both. You drift off, Franks arm still steadily around you, keeping you close to him.

He may be stubborn, may be too protective. But he loves you, and you know that’s enough. Enough for him to try.

[livwtfhaha]

—-Is your fear stronger than the love you have?

oh my god this fic is perfect, the smut is so well written and the angst/comfort/smut blends so well together, doesn’t feel artificial!!

[dirtylittlediary]

lord forgive me for i have sinned- matt murdock

pairing : matt murdock x f!reader

summary : “Well, well,” a man laughs somewhere to your left. “The Devil brought company.”

warnings : mentions of death- READER DOESN'T DIE I LEARNT MY LESSON I SWEAR- mentions of canon level violence, catholic guilt!matt, protective!matt, lmk if im missing any

word count : 6.6 k

a/n: based on a rq that i got from the very lovely @goawayplease95, thank you for the matt ideas trust i will write the rest later but u said this was ur personal fave.... now this lowk is rushed so it's not amazing- sorry for the emotional distress im going to cause (not proofread!)

Matt starts going to again church every night in November.

At first you don’t think much of it.

Matt’s relationship with Catholicism has always been complicated in a way that somehow still ends with him kneeling in a pew at two in the morning bleeding through a dress shirt. You learned early on not to question it too hard. Faith, guilt, grief — with Matt they all braid together until they become impossible to separate.

Still.

Something feels wrong.

It starts small.

He gets quieter.

Not distant exactly. Almost the opposite.

Softer.

Like every time he touches you he’s trying to memorize it.

He kisses your forehead more. Holds your hand tighter in public. Pauses in doorways just to listen to you moving around the apartment like the sound itself comforts him.

At first it’s sweet. Then it becomes terrifying. Because Matt Murdock has never behaved like a man planning for a future - he's always just let it happen. But he's absolutely behaving like a man preparing to leave one. You notice other things after that. He starts organizing files at the office nobody asked him to organize. Calling people back immediately. Returning books. Giving away clothes.

One night you find him sitting on the edge of the bed holding his father's old boxing rosary wrapped around his fist so tightly the beads left marks in his palm.

“Matt?” He startles hard enough your stomach drops. That almost never happens. He always hears you come up behind him.

“Sorry,” he says immediately, standing too fast. “Didn’t mean t’wake you.” You glance at the clock.

2:13 AM.

“You haven’t come to bed yet.”

“Lost track of time.” His voice sounds strange. You sit up slowly beneath the blankets, watching him carefully in the dark. Matt can feel it. You know he can. Because his shoulders tense almost imperceptibly beneath his t-shirt.

“You okay, Matty?” you ask quietly.

Too quick: “Yeah, honey.” Lie. You’ve learned the shape of them. Matt crosses the room toward you before you can push further, leaning down automatically to kiss your forehead. His hand lingers against your cheek afterward. Too long. Like goodbye. Your chest tightens.

“You smell like incense,” you murmur. His fingers still. Then:

“Church.”

“At two in the morning?” A pause.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Another lie. You don’t call him on it. Mostly because suddenly — horribly — you realize this isn’t the first night. The incense. The late hours. The exhaustion. Your stomach turns cold. Matt presses one last kiss to your hair before sliding into bed beside you, all careful quiet warmth and familiar muscle beneath soft cotton. But he doesn’t sleep. You can feel it. Even after your breathing evens out he stays awake staring at the ceiling. Listening. Thinking.

Mourning something in advance.

The next night he leaves again at 11:47. You pretend to be asleep. Matt stands near the door for a long moment before leaving. Like he’s struggling to make himself go. The apartment feels wrong the second he’s gone. Too quiet. You lie there for maybe thirty seconds before throwing the blankets off entirely. By the time you get outside, rain has started. Cold November drizzle slicking the sidewalks silver beneath streetlights. Matt is already half a block ahead of you moving fast, cane tapping sharply against concrete. You follow anyway. Guilt gnaws at you immediately.

You hate this.

Hate sneaking after him.

Hate the ugly suspicion curling tighter and tighter in your chest. But something is wrong. Something is deeply, terribly wrong. And Matt won’t tell you what it is. So you trail him through Hell’s Kitchen at nearly midnight while rain dampens your jacket and taxis hiss through puddles beside the curb. Matt never looks back. That’s what scares you most. Usually he notices everything. Usually he notices you. Tonight he’s somewhere else entirely. Lost deep enough in his own head that he misses your footsteps completely. The church appears three blocks later.

Saint Agnes.

Small.

Old.

Mostly empty this late. Matt climbs the front steps slowly. Not hesitant. Resolved. Like a man walking willingly toward judgment. You stay across the street at first watching through rain-streaked darkness as he disappears inside. The church doors close behind him with a heavy groan. And still— Something feels horribly wrong.

You wait maybe five minutes before crossing the street too.

Inside smells like candle wax and old wood and incense burned so deeply into the walls it’s become permanent. The sanctuary is empty except for a few scattered prayer candles flickering red in the dark. At first you don’t see him.

Then— Voices.

Low. Muffled. Confessional. Your pulse stutters. You move carefully down the side aisle before stopping dead near one of the wooden booths. Matt’s voice drifts faintly through the screen. Not loud enough for every word. Just enough.

“…don’t think i'm doing this for the right reasons anymore.” Silence from the priest. Then Matt again. Rawer this time. “If a man knows he’s not comin’ back…” Your entire body goes cold. Inside the booth the priest says something too quiet to hear. Matt answers immediately. “No.” A pause. “No, Father, I made peace with it.” Your heartbeat starts hammering violently now. You grip the edge of the pew beside you hard enough your fingers ache. Matt continues softly: “They’ll never stop unless somebody finishes this.” Another pause.

Then the priest finally says something clear enough to hear:

“Matthew… this sounds less like sacrifice and more like surrender.” Silence. Long enough to become unbearable. And then Matt says quietly:

“Maybe I’m too tired t’know the difference anymore.”

You feel sick. Violently and nauseatingly, sick. You barely realise you're moving until you're outside, gasping for air, backing away from the church like it's poison and not something Holy.

You don’t confront him. Not that night. Not the next one either. Because what are you even supposed to say?

"Hey, I followed you to church and overheard you discussing your own death like it was already decided?"

So instead you do what people do when they’re terrified. You pretend. You pretend everything is normal while your boyfriend quietly plans something catastrophic right in front of you.

And Matt— Matt lets you.

Maybe because he thinks he’s protecting you. Maybe because if he says it aloud, you’ll try to stop him. Maybe because some part of him already knows you would follow him into hell if he asked. So life continues.

Sort of.

Mornings at Nelson, Murdock & Page. Takeout cartons on the coffee table. Matt’s hand finding yours automatically when you cross streets. But underneath it all something awful hums constantly now. Like standing in a building with a gas leak. Invisible. Deadly. Waiting. You start noticing impossible things after that. Matt lingering in doorways longer than necessary. Touching the small of your back every time he passes you. Pausing conversations halfway through just to listen to your heartbeat. One night you wake up at three in the morning and find him sitting beside you listening to you sleep.

Not creepy. Heartbroken. Like he’s trying to memorize the sound of your breathing.

When he realizes you’re awake, he smiles immediately. Too quickly.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean t’wake you.” You reach for him instinctively. Matt folds into the touch like he’s starving.

Three nights later he walks into the living room, clearing his throat.

"Foggy just called. Some, uhm, emergency about our case. I gotta go back in to the office."

Your heart drops to your ass. You glance at your phone, the one laying face down beside you on the couch. The one where Karen, just seconds ago, sent you a picture of her and Foggy enjoying a drink at Josie's. Your fingers curl around the edges of your book, trying to school your breathing, your heartbeat- anything Matt could potentially hear.

“Sweetheart.” Matt’s voice gentles immediately. “C’mere.” You almost don’t. That’s the terrible part. Not because you’re afraid of him. Because you’re afraid if he touches you right now you’ll break apart and start screaming at him not to die. But then Matt reaches for you blindly across the small space between you, familiar and warm and achingly human, and your body betrays you immediately. You go. Of course you go. His hands settle at your waist with a tired exhale. For a second he just stands there holding you. Listening to your heartbeat. Then he kisses you.

And something is wrong. Not physically. Emotionally.

There’s desperation in it. A kind of grief. Like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t say into your mouth before it’s too late. Your back hits the kitchen counter softly. Matt’s fingers tighten against your hips. The kiss deepens. Hard enough your breath catches. And suddenly— You feel it. Beneath his clothes. Armor. Your entire body goes rigid instantly. Matt notices.

Of course he notices.

He pulls back slightly, brows pulling together.

“Hey.” His thumb brushes your hip automatically. “What’s wrong?” Nothing.

Everything.

"I promise i'll be back before you wake up." You can feel the ridged plating beneath his dress shirt now where your hands rest against his ribs. The Daredevil suit. Already underneath his clothes. Ready to go. Your pulse starts thundering so hard you’re convinced he can hear it.

Actually— He probably can. Matt stills.

“…Sweetheart?” You force your hands to relax. Force your face not to crack open.

“Heavy jacket,” you lie weakly. Silence. Matt knows immediately you’re lying. You know the exact second it happens too. His expression changes subtly. Not suspicious. Worse. Sad. Because he realizes you noticed something. And because Matt Murdock has always been smart enough to know exactly how much silence can say. His forehead rests briefly against yours. He sounds exhausted when he speaks.

“You should get some sleep. I'll be back soon.” There it is again. That goodbye tone. You hate it so much you could scream. Instead you nod mechanically because if you open your mouth right now, you’re afraid the truth will come pouring out.

I know. I know you’re planning something. I know you think you’re not coming back.

Matt kisses your forehead softly. Lingering. Then steps away. And you stand frozen in the kitchen , watching him walk out of the apartment.

For a long time you don’t move.

You just stand there in the kitchen staring at the closed apartment door while the silence rushes in around you all at once. Your heartbeat is so loud it makes you nauseous. He lied. Not a little white lie. Not a harmless omission. A goodbye lie. You can still feel the shape of the armor beneath his shirt. The way he kissed you like a starving man. The way he lingered afterward like he was trying to memorize the exact height of you against him.

Your knees almost give out.

“No,” you whisper to the empty apartment. Because suddenly every strange thing from the past month rearranges itself into one horrifying shape. The confessions. The sleepless nights. Matt touching you constantly like he was afraid he’d lose the right. The way he’d been softer lately. Sadder. More careful. You press both hands hard over your mouth. He thinks he’s going to die tonight.

And worse— He made peace with it.

A sharp panic surges through you so violently you nearly run for the door immediately. But then another thought hits just as fast:

What if you’re wrong?

What if you follow him and he hears you? What if this really is just work? What if you sound insane?

Your eyes land on the phone still sitting beside your abandoned book. Karen’s picture glows faintly on the screen. Josie’s. Timestamped seven minutes ago. Your stomach twists. You grab your jacket so fast it nearly falls off the hook. By the time you hit the hallway your hands are shaking too hard to zip it properly.

The city feels wrong tonight. Too loud. Too sharp. You stay half a block behind Matt, heart hammering every time he pauses. He moves quickly through Hell’s Kitchen, cane tapping pavement in that familiar rhythm that would almost fool you if you didn’t know better now. But you do know better. Because halfway down West 44th he slips into an alley. And Daredevil comes out. You stop dead at the mouth of the alley just in time to see him pull the mask down over his face. Red armor beneath dark civilian clothes. Batons at his hips. Your chest caves inward so hard it physically hurts.

Matt pauses for half a second before climbing the fire escape. His head tilts slightly. Listening. You flatten yourself against the brick wall instantly, barely breathing.

Please don’t hear me.

Please don’t make me go home.

For one horrible second you think he did catch you.

Then he turns and launches himself onto the next rooftop. Gone. You wait exactly three seconds before following.

It’s pathetic, honestly.

You are not built for rooftop chases. Within ten minutes your lungs are on fire and your shoes have absolutely no traction whatsoever. You nearly eat shit crossing a narrow gap between buildings and have to grab a rusted pipe to keep from plummeting four stories.

“Oh my God,” you gasp to nobody. “How does he do this every night?”

Somewhere ahead of you, faintly— A scream. Then gunfire. Your blood freezes. You run faster.

The warehouse sits near the docks, half abandoned and enormous. Every window shattered. Lights blazing inside. You crouch behind a stack of shipping crates trying not to throw up while voices echo through broken glass. Men yelling. Too many men. And underneath it— Matt.

You can always tell where he is now. Not by sight. By sound.

The brutal rhythm of fighting. The crashes. The impossible violence of him. But tonight there’s something different in it.

Recklessness.

He’s not fighting like someone trying to survive. He’s fighting like someone who already decided not to. Your entire body goes cold. Inside the warehouse another gunshot cracks through the air. Then another. Then a horrible sound— Matt choking on pain. You’re moving before you even consciously decide to.

“Matt!” The second your voice rings through the warehouse everything stops. Everything. Daredevil’s head snaps toward you beneath the red mask. Even from across the room you feel the absolute horror radiate off him.

“No—Baby, no, stay back-” The word tears out of him too late. Because somebody grabs you from behind immediately. A huge arm locks around your throat. A gun presses against your temple.

“Well, well,” a man laughs somewhere to your left. “The Devil brought company.” Matt goes completely still. And somehow that’s worse than the fighting. Because now you can see it clearly— The blood soaking one side of his suit. The way he’s breathing too hard. The dozens of armed men surrounding him. And the look on his face beneath the mask. Not fear for himself. For you. Pure. Animal. Terror.

“Let her go,” Matt says. Quietly. The entire room stills around the sound. The man holding you laughs harder.

“Or what?” Matt takes one step forward. Everybody raises their guns instantly. Your pulse nearly stops.

“Matthew,” the crime boss says almost conversationally, stepping from the shadows. “You really thought you could do this alone?” Matt doesn’t answer. His head tilts slightly toward you instead.

You realize suddenly— He can hear you crying.

“Oh God,” you whisper shakily. Because now you understand the plan.

He never intended to leave here alive. He was going to take all of them down with him. And Matt knows you know it. Even across the warehouse floor you can feel it happening between you. The awful understanding. The betrayal. The fear. Matt’s chest rises sharply beneath the ruined armor.

“Please,” he says. Not to the men. To you. Your breath catches. In all the time you’ve known him—through bruises and blood and impossible fights—you have never heard Matt Murdock sound afraid like this.

“Sweetheart,” he says again, voice roughening around the word. “Listen to me real careful, okay?” The man holding you jerks you tighter against him when you instinctively try to move toward Matt. “Don’t,” Matt snaps instantly. The room stills again.

Jesus Christ.

Even the criminals look unsettled now. Because Daredevil sounds dangerous. Not in the theatrical way they’re used to. Not cold. Not angry. Protective. The kind that turns lethal.

“You shouldn’ta come here,” Matt says, and it’s almost broken. “Why would you follow me?”

“Because you were going to kill yourself, Matty,” The words rip out of you before you can stop them. Silence detonates through the warehouse. The crime boss slowly smiles.

“Well,” he murmurs. “That’s interesting.” Matt goes perfectly still. Not one movement. Not one breath.

And suddenly you realize something horrifying— He never told them who you were. Not really. But now they know. Because you just handed them the one thing Daredevil would burn the city down to protect.

“Shit,” you whisper. Matt’s head dips once like he heard the realization hit you.

“Don’t panic,” he says quietly. "You're going to be just fine, honey."

Your eyes sting instantly. Because he says it the same way he always does. Crossing busy streets. Holding your hand during thunderstorms. Like this is fixable. Like there’s still a world after tonight. The crime boss sighs theatrically.

“You know,” he says, circling slowly, “I was beginning to think the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen didn’t have any real weaknesses.” Matt turns his head toward the voice.

“You touch her,” he says softly, “and I will kill every person in this room.” The certainty in it sends terror skittering down your spine.

Daredevil doesn't kill. But he would for you.

The man holding you laughs nervously, shifting his grip.

Matt hears it instantly. You see the exact second he clocks the gun repositioning near your ribs. His entire body coils.

“No,” he says sharply. Too late.

Everything explodes at once. Matt moves first. Of course he does. One second he’s thirty feet away. The next he’s airborne. Batons flying. Bodies crashing. Gunshots erupt deafeningly through the warehouse. The man holding you curses and jerks backward hard enough to wrench your shoulder painfully. Instinct takes over. You slam your heel down onto his foot and twist violently out of his grip.

“Fuck!” he shouts. You run. Not away. Toward Matt. Toward the red blur tearing through armed men like something divine and furious.

“Matty!” His head snaps toward your voice instantly.

“No, wait—!” Another gunshot cracks through the air. Then six more. Chaos. Screaming. You see Matt trying to get to you. See it in the frantic violence of him. He throws one man hard enough through a crate that wood explodes outward like shrapnel. Another gets dropped instantly with a baton strike to the throat.

“Baby, get down!” Matt roars. You’re almost to him.

Almost.

Then somebody catches your arm from behind. You scream and wrench free blindly— And the world erupts white-hot. For one strange second you don’t understand what happened. There’s just this hard punch against your stomach. A force. Then warmth. Too much warmth. Your legs stop working.

“Oh,” you breathe. The warehouse tilts sideways. You hear shouting. Gunfire.

Matt screaming your name.

Not yelling.

Screaming.

The sound tears through the entire building like something dying. You hit the concrete hard. Pain detonates through you a second later. Blinding. You curl instinctively around it with a strangled sob. Somewhere nearby men are still shooting. Matt is still moving. You can hear him. Can hear bones breaking now. Can hear the horrifying wet sounds of someone no longer holding back. People are screaming. Not you. Them.

“Move!” Matt bellows. Another crash. Another body hitting the floor. Then suddenly he’s there. Hands everywhere at once. Frantic. Shaking.

“Heyheyheyhey— no, no, no, no—” His gloves come away wet instantly. You don’t think you’ve ever heard panic like this before.

“Matt,” you whisper weakly. He tears his mask off, the hard shell clattering to the floor. You can finally see his face, his blind eyes darting all over the place.

“No.” His voice breaks apart completely. “No, sweetheart, stay with me, stay with me—” He presses both hands hard against your stomach. Agony explodes through you. You cry out. “I know, I know, I know,” he gasps desperately. “Baby, m’sorry, I gotta put pressure on it—”

Blood drips from his mouth. From his nose. From cuts split across his jaw. But he doesn’t seem aware of any of it. All he can hear is your heartbeat. And it’s getting weaker.

“Oh God,” he chokes. You’ve never heard Matt cry before. Not really. You hear it now. Raw and helpless and horrified. “This was supposed t’be me,” he whispers brokenly. Your chest tightens painfully. Because that confirms it. He really had planned to die here. His hands are shaking so hard against your stomach you almost don’t recognize them as Matt’s. Matt’s hands are always steady.

Even bloodied. Even exhausted. Even after fights that should’ve killed him. But not now. Now he’s falling apart right in front of you.

“Hey,” you whisper weakly, trying to reach for him. He catches your hand instantly and presses it hard against his chest like he needs proof you’re still moving.

“Don’t,” he chokes out. “Don’t do that voice with me right now.” Your vision blurs around the edges. Everything feels strangely far away already. Gunpowder. Blood. Sirens somewhere in the distance. Matt is still saying your name over and over like a prayer gone wrong.

“You’re okay,” he says frantically. “You’re okay, sweetheart, you hear me? I got you.” You try to laugh because the irony is unbearable. He was supposed to be the one dying tonight.

Not you.

Not because of him.

“You asshole,” you whisper. Matt breaks completely. A horrible sound tears out of him.

“I know,” he gasps immediately. “I know, I know, I know—”

“You lied t’me.” His forehead nearly drops to your chest.

“I’m sorry.” Raw. Destroyed. “God, baby, i'm so sorry.” Another wave of pain crashes through you so violently you cry out. Matt jerks closer instantly. “Heyheyhey— stay with me.” His voice rises sharp with panic. “Stay with me, sweetheart, c’mon, c’mon—” Your fingers fist weakly in the front of his suit.

“You were gonna die.”

“No.” Immediate. Automatic. You stare at him. Even now. Even now he tries to lie.

“Matt.” His face crumples. You’ve never seen him look this young before. Not the Devil. Not the vigilante. Just Matthew.

Just your Matthew.

Terrified.

“I didn’t know how to stop anymore,” he whispers finally. The confession nearly hurts worse than the bullet. Around you the warehouse has gone eerily quiet. The surviving men either fled or are unconscious. Somewhere nearby somebody groans in pain, but Matt doesn’t react to any of it. All his focus is locked onto you. Your heartbeat. Your breathing. The blood soaking through his fingers.

“You were just gonna leave me?” you whisper shakily. Matt makes another wrecked sound.

“No.”

“You said goodbye.”

“I was trying not to.” Tears spill hard down his face now, unchecked. “Christ, sweetheart, every time I looked at you I almost stopped.”

That hurts. God, that hurts.

Because you know he means it.

“I heard you in confession,” you whisper. Matt goes still. Not physically. Soul-deep still.

“You followed me there too?”

“You said maybe you were too tired to know the difference between sacrifice and surrender.” Your voice breaks apart. “How was I supposed t’hear that and not be terrified?” Matt shuts his eyes hard. Tears slip instantly beneath his lashes.

“I never wanted you to carry this,” he whispers.

“Well I do.” His breathing turns ragged. Sirens are louder now. Closer. But Matt doesn’t seem to hear them. “And I’d hate myself for still wanting to stay.” That does it. You start crying all over again. Matt immediately panics. “No, no, baby, please don’t cry—”

“You idiot,” you sob weakly.

“I know.”

“You absolute fucking idiot.”

“I know, sweetheart.” His shoulders are shaking now too. You don’t think either of you have ever been this scared before. Then suddenly Matt jerks violently upright. His head tilts. Listening. You feel it happen instantly. That terrifying shift in him. The Devil returning.

“Ambulance is two blocks out,” he says breathlessly. “Okay? Stay with me that long.” Your stomach twists weakly.

“I’m tired.” Fear detonates across his face so hard it’s almost ugly.

“No.” He grabs your face carefully. “No, you stay awake. Talk to me.” Your eyelids feel heavy. So heavy.

“Matt—”

“Talk to me,” he begs. “Please.” You swallow hard.

“Tell me somethin’ true.” He stares at you for half a second like the request guts him. Then:

“I love you more than God.” Your breath catches. Matt’s forehead drops against yours again. “And that’s the most honest thing I've ever said.” For a second neither of you moves. The warehouse feels suspended outside of time. Blood beneath you. Sirens screaming closer. Matt cradling your face like you’re the most fragile thing God ever made.

And then— A wet sound catches in his throat. Because your heartbeat stutters. You feel it happen too. The strange drifting sensation. The cold creeping slowly into your fingertips. Matt hears all of it. Every weakening beat. Every hitch in your breathing.

“No,” he whispers immediately. Fierce. Terrified. “No, no, stay with me.” You try to smile at him. It comes out crooked.

“Matty.” His entire face collapses at the nickname.

“Oh God.” His voice shakes violently now. “Baby, please.” You’ve never seen him beg before either. Not really. Matt Murdock negotiates. Threatens. Endures.

But begging? Never. Until now.

“I need you to keep talkin’ to me,” he says frantically. “C’mon, sweetheart, yell at me again. Tell me i'm an idiot. Tell me how pissed you are.”

“You are an idiot,” you whisper faintly. A broken laugh-sob escapes him instantly.

“Yeah,” he chokes. “Yeah, that’s my girl.” Your eyes burn. Because he sounds relieved just hearing your voice. Matt presses harder against the wound suddenly and you cry out. “I know, I know, m’sorry.” He’s trembling so hard now his words shake apart. “You gotta stay awake, baby. Stay with me.”

“You sound scared.”

“I am scared.” Immediate. Honest. “I am so fucking scared right now.” That almost undoes you more than the pain. Because Matt never admits fear. Not even when he’s bleeding out. Not even when he’s dying.

But now? Now he’s looking at you like the thought of losing you is the most horrifying thing he’s ever faced.

“You can’t die for me,” he says suddenly. You blink slowly.

“What?” His jaw tightens hard enough to shake.

“You can’t do that.” Tears spill freely down his face. “I can’t survive that.” Your chest aches. Not from the bullet. From him.

“You were gonna make me survive it,” you whisper. Matt flinches like he got hit. Actually flinches.

“I know.” His voice comes apart completely. “Christ, I know.” The sirens are outside now. You can hear tires screeching. Voices shouting. Matt barely reacts. His whole world has narrowed down to the sound your heart is making under his hands.

And it’s getting worse. His panic spikes violently.

“Hey.” He cups your face harder. “Hey, sweetheart, stay with me. Look at me.” You try. God, you try. But your vision keeps blurring.

“You smell like blood,” you mumble weakly. Matt lets out this startled, wrecked laugh through tears.

“Yeah?”

“Gross.”

“Oh, now y’wanna complain?” He brushes shaking fingers through your hair. “Now?”

“You’re still beautiful though.” That absolutely destroys him. Matt bows forward hard enough his forehead knocks against yours. A sob tears straight out of his chest.

“Don’t,” he whispers brokenly. “Please don’t talk like goodbye.” Your throat tightens.

“I don’t wanna leave you.”

“You’re not.” Fierce now. Desperate enough to border on angry. “You hear me? You are not leaving me.” The warehouse doors burst open.

Police. Paramedics. Chaos floods in all at once. But Matt barely notices until someone grabs his shoulder.

“Sir, we need space—”

“No!” Matt snarls so violently the paramedic recoils instantly. You’ve never heard that sound from him before either. Pure terror. “She’s bleeding out!”

“We’re trying to help her!” Matt’s breathing turns ragged. His senses are overloaded now. Too many heartbeats. Too many voices. Too much blood.

And yours— Yours is fading underneath all of it.

“She hates hospitals,” he blurts suddenly to the paramedic like it physically hurts him not to be the one fixing this. “She gets cold easy. She—” His voice breaks. “She was just supposed t’be asleep at home.” Your eyes sting instantly. Matt catches the tiny change in your breathing and snaps back to you immediately.

“Hey. Hey, stay with me.”

“I’m trying.”

“I know.” He kisses your forehead frantically. Your cheeks. Your hairline. Anywhere he can reach. “You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart.” Paramedics finally manage to get him back enough to work. Barely. Matt refuses to let go of your hand.

Even when they load you onto the stretcher.

Even when they wheel you away to surgery.

Matt sits in the surgical waiting room still covered in your blood.

Nobody can get him to leave.

Not the nurses gently suggesting he clean up. Not Karen crying quietly beside him. Not Foggy trying to press a cup of coffee into his shaking hands. Matt just sits there bent forward with his elbows on his knees, staring blindly at the floor while dried blood cracks across his knuckles every time his fingers twitch.

Yours. All yours.

And the worst part—the part that keeps hollowing him out from the inside—is that he can still feel his own body perfectly.

No broken ribs. No knife wounds. No gunshots. Nothing. He went into that warehouse ready to die and walked out untouched while you bled out on concrete because you loved him too much to let him do it alone. The shame of it sits like acid under his skin.

“She’s gonna be okay,” Foggy says again softly, for maybe the fifth time. Matt hears the exhaustion in his voice. The fear he’s trying to hide. “Matt, hey. Look at me.” Matt doesn’t move. Because he can still hear your heartbeat in his head. Weak. Stuttering. Fading every time the ambulance hit a pothole. He should’ve died there. That was the plan.

Not a fully formed suicide wish maybe—Matt’s too Catholic to call it that out loud—but close enough. A surrender disguised as martyrdom. One final impossible fight against men too powerful to stop any other way. He’d told himself it was noble. Necessary. Better him than anybody else. Then you got shot taking a bullet meant for him. And suddenly every justification sounds monstrous now. Matt drags both hands over his face hard enough to hurt.

“Oh God,” he whispers. Karen crouches carefully in front of him.

“Matt.”

“She heard me,” he says hoarsely. Karen stills.

“In confession.” His mouth twists violently. “She knew what I was planning and I still left anyway.” The guilt in his voice is unbearable. Foggy sits down hard beside him.

“Matt, you didn’t know she was gonna follow you.”

“I should’ve.” Immediate. Self-loathing soaked clean through the words. “I know her heartbeat better than my own and I still—” His voice breaks abruptly. Because underneath the antiseptic hospital smell and fluorescent lights and distant footsteps— He hears your heart stop for half a second in surgery. Matt folds instantly. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just this horrible sharp inhale like somebody shoved a knife directly through his ribs. Karen grabs his shoulder immediately.

“Matt?”

His face has gone white.

No— Please— Then suddenly— Your heartbeat kicks back in.

Weak. But there. Matt nearly collapses from relief right there in the chair.

“Oh thank God,” he chokes. Foggy looks between them in alarm.

“What? What happened?" Matt can’t answer. He’s crying too hard now. Silent tears sliding down his face while his entire body shakes with delayed terror.

Because for one second— One single second— You were gone.

And he realizes with horrifying clarity that if you die because of him, there won’t be enough confessionals in the world to save what’s left of his soul afterward.

Hours later they finally let him see you.The room is dim and painfully quiet except for the steady beep of monitors. Machines breathe softly beside you. Tubes. Bandages. Brues already blooming beneath your skin.

Matt stops dead in the doorway. He can hear your heartbeat now. Stronger than before. Steady.

Alive. Alive.

His knees almost give out from relief. The nurse says something quietly to him before leaving, but he barely hears it. He moves toward your bed slowly instead, like approaching something holy. You look so small like this. Matt’s throat closes immediately.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispers. You don’t wake up. Of course you don’t. Surgery took hours. Pain medication still drags heavy through your system. But Matt reaches for your hand anyway, cradling it carefully between both of his like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip even slightly.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he murmurs shakily. And then he laughs once. A horrible broken sound. Because the sentence is absurd. You should be the one saying it to him. Matt bows his head over your hand.

“I was gonna leave you,” he whispers. The confession slips out ugly and trembling. “I convinced myself it was okay because I thought losin’ me would hurt less than watchin’ me become…” He swallows hard. “Whatever the hell I’ve been turnin’ into.” His thumb strokes weakly across your knuckles.

“But then you got hurt and all I could think was—” His voice snaps completely. “I don’t wanna die.” The words wreck him. Because they’re true.

Not noble. Not heroic. Just honest.

Matt presses your hand against his mouth, shaking hard.

“I don’t wanna leave you,” he whispers brokenly. “I don’t care how tired I am anymore.” For a long time he just sits there listening to your heartbeat. Steady. Alive. Every beat feels like mercy. Eventually, sometime near dawn, your fingers twitch weakly in his hand. Matt jerks upright instantly.

“Sweetheart?” Your eyelids flutter slowly. Painfully. Confused from medication and exhaustion. The second you make a tiny sound of discomfort, Matt is already leaning over you.

“Hey, hey.” His hand cups your face carefully. “Easy. Easy, m’here.” Your gaze struggles to focus on him.

“…Matty?” The nickname almost kills him.

“I’m here.” His voice breaks immediately. “I got you.” Your brows pinch weakly.

“You okay?” Matt actually laughs. A disbelieving, devastated laugh. You’re barely conscious after emergency surgery and you’re asking if he’s okay. His forehead drops against your hand.

“No,” he whispers honestly. “No, sweetheart, I don’t think I will be for a while.” Your brows crease.

“Why?” you whisper. Matt looks at you like he doesn’t even know where to begin.

Because you almost died. Because he heard your heart stop. Because he walked into that warehouse ready to throw his own life away and instead watched yours spill across concrete in his hands. Because the universe handed him back alive while you lay here stitched together because you loved him enough to follow. His throat works hard.

“You got shot,” he says finally, voice wrecked. You blink slowly, like the memory has to swim upward through painkillers and exhaustion first. Then suddenly your face changes.

“Oh.” Yeah. Oh. Matt sees the exact second it comes back to you—the warehouse, the gunfire, him screaming your name—and his grip on your hand tightens instantly.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Go somewhere else in your head.” His thumb strokes over your knuckles compulsively. “Stay here with me.” Your eyes flick over his face sluggishly. The bruises. The split lip. The dried blood still staining the collar of his shirt.

“…You’re hurt.” Matt almost sounds offended.

“Baby, you got a bullet hole in you.”

“But you’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.” You stare at him for a long moment through heavy eyelids.

“You say that like a liar.” Despite everything, a tiny broken laugh slips out of him.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Probably earned that.” Silence settles softly between you after that. Hospital quiet. Monitor beeps. The faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Matt can hear every tiny shift in your body. The pain you’re trying not to show him. The exhaustion dragging at your heartbeat. He hates it. He hates all of it. His fingers brush shakily through your hair.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. Raw. Immediate. Your eyes open a little wider.

“Matt—”

“No.” His voice cracks hard enough to stop you. “No, sweetheart, I need you to hear this.” He bows his head for a second, trying and failing to steady himself. “You were right.” You go still. “I was gonna die in that warehouse.” There it is. No hiding now. No careful wording. Just the truth sitting ugly and exposed between you. Matt laughs once under his breath. Miserable. “God.” He rubs hard at his face with his free hand. “Sounds even worse out loud.” Your eyes burn instantly.

“Why?” you whisper.

And that question— That one nearly destroys him. Because there isn’t one clean answer. Too much violence. Too many nights coming home soaked in blood. Too many people slipping through his fingers no matter how hard he fought. Exhaustion curling around his throat for so long he stopped recognizing it as drowning. Matt stares down at your hand in his.

“I got tired,” he admits quietly. “An’ somewhere along the line I stopped carin’ if I survived anymore.” Pain flashes across your face so sharply he hears your heartbeat stutter.

“You were just gonna leave me,” you whisper again, weaker this time. Matt closes his eyes.

“I thought…” His voice frays apart. “I thought maybe you’d hate me less if I died a hero instead’a slowly turnin’ into somebody miserable.” Your face crumples.

“Oh, Matty.” The tenderness in your voice guts him worse than anger would’ve. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“You don’t get to love me enough to protect me from everyone except yourself.” Matt goes completely still. The monitor beside you speeds up slightly with emotion. He hears it immediately.

“Easy,” he murmurs automatically, thumb stroking your wrist. But his own breathing has gone uneven now too. Because you’re right.

God, you’re right.

You shift weakly against the pillows with a tiny sound of pain. Matt is on his feet instantly.

“Don’t move, baby—”

“I’m okay.”

“You literally got outta surgery six hours ago.”

“And you’re hovering.”

“I’m gonna hover for the rest’a your natural life, so you should probably adjust now.” That startles a tiny laugh out of you. Matt freezes. The sound hits him like sunlight after weeks underground.

“You really scared me,” you admit quietly. Matt’s face folds in on itself.

“I know.”

“No, I mean before.” Your fingers tighten weakly around his. “The last few weeks.” Your voice trembles. “It felt like you were already halfway gone.” Matt can’t breathe for a second after that. Because you noticed. Not just the mission.

Him.

The slow quiet disappearing act he’d been doing right in front of you. He sinks carefully into the chair beside your bed again, bringing your hand to his mouth.

“I’m here now,” he whispers against your skin. Your eyes search his face.

“Are you?” Matt nearly breaks all over again. Because you aren’t asking physically. You’re asking if he’s going to stay. If he’s going to choose it.

Choose you.

Choose himself.

Matt presses his forehead carefully against your hand and answers with terrifying honesty.

“I’m trying to be.”

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[livwtfhaha]

enough tears to flood nyc

[yoursinfulurges]

LoveShot Killer

Introduction:

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he stared down at you, his obsessive internal self completing a massive, definitive calculation. He was keeping you. How could he not? You were a beautiful, bulletproof thing that had literally shot its way through his worst nightmares just to drag him back to the light.

In which you're hired to kill Bullseye, you steal his mask and his heart instead.

CW: Sugar spice and everything nice, minor charater deaths, no use of y/n, implied age difference, size difference, reader is very hyper sexual, inspired by "Dex needs a crazy psycho girlfriend" and "when are they gonna put Dex in the Thunderbolts", basically my rewrite of the movie.

WC: 17.k (Full Story!)

The silence around you was an intrusive, grating entity. A presence with the kind of suffocating quietude that did not soothe, but rather amplified the discordant chorus of voices whispering within the recesses of your mind. Your brain, frantic as it is, tried desperately to hold onto anything it could. The hum of electricity in the air, the faint ringing in your ear that was always there, sometimes drowned out but never truly gone. But nothing anchored you, not in the way motion did. The present threatened to bore you to the point of violent madness. Until you actively resisted the urge to shatter your own skull against the unforgiving concrete. Muscles in your body ached to move now.

You had never possessed an affinity for the calm.

To you, tranquility was not sanctuary; it was a profound, treacherous lie whispered by the world before the inevitable storm tore it apart. Calm was the agonizing static prelude that rendered you restless. Inciting a bloodlust that could only be quieted by the frantic tempo of survival.

You understood the concept of fear, yet not through the visceral, heart-hammering literal sense. The torrent of adrenaline coursing through your veins was always far too potent, far too intoxicatingly absolute, for your consciousness to register anything as mundane as hesitation or terror. You had inhabited this bloody existence for far too long to be swayed by the moral gravity of what you do. Instead, you conceptualized fear intellectually, recognizing it in the way a freezing silent atmosphere sharpens the human instrument. Heightening the somatic senses until the air itself feels heavy with malice. Fear was that creeping phantom sensation that you were not entirely alone when you should be.

Yet, within your internal landscape, fear had been reduced to a voice that rarely spoke. A subtle, fleeting inkling that your hyper-vigilant brain acknowledged with cold clinical precision, but refused to welcome. And you weren't about to step aside and invite it in now.

The desert vault loomed before you, a brutalist monument of uncompromising concrete. Impenetrable and cold-rolled steel in its hulking form. Though that didn’t deter your body away, but rather flicked a match as your posture squared and your heart felt heavier, faster, excited. You knew a thing or two about being impenetrable.

Your gait was deliberate, almost lazy. Chunky platformed heels striking the floor with a rhythmic, resonant echo that refused to hurry as you traversed the narrow corridor. Downward you stared, your gaze flickering to the digital tracking device cradled in palm framed by impeccably manicured pink nails. On the small screen, a solitary, blood-red dot pulsed with patterned malice, mapping a trajectory deeper into the belly of the facility.

With effortless practiced grace, you adjusted the weight of your customized, high-caliber submachine gun, letting the cold metal rest familiarly against your bare shoulder. Stepping into the waiting elevator, you slid the tracker into your black leather utility belt that dangled loosely across your hips. A belt that served absolutely no structural or modest purpose, existing solely as a morbid, high-fashion harness for a dozen gleaming daggers and three heavily modified handguns. All custom-made with sterling metal and pink marble enamel, decorated with a bit of lace, just because. Though the black, razor-pleated mini skirt that swirled about your thighs was far more dangerous than your arsenal.

You sighed, a soft, melodious sound of utter exasperation. Heel taping impatiently as you waited. Jesus, how many floors did this place have?

Taking advantage of the elevator’s sluggish descent, you reached up to adjust the straps of your baby-pink bikini top. It was a preposterous thing a for a black-ops infiltration, but that was the entire, intoxicating point: another day, another kill, and another absolute refusal to hide behind the heavy, suffocating cowardice of Kevlar.

You told yourself, not for the first time, that this was your last pro-bono contract. You desperately needed to stop giving charity to the intelligence community. Executing high-risk liquidations with little to no recompense. Yet, Valentina Allegra de Fontaine had been extraordinarily, almost hysterically eager to scrub this particular name from the ledger.

Benjamin Poindexter. Or "Dex," as his dossier indicated he preferred to be called.

Now, you had always favored a more intimate, psychological approach to your hunts. Finding no joy in the sterile, detached efficiency of one-and-done bounties. So before arriving, you had briefly, almost cursorily, familiarized yourself with the legend of the man known as Bullseye. You didn't study him with the meticulous rigor you usually reserved for your targets, but you had gathered enough fragments to paint a deeply disturbing, yet strangely inviting, portrait.

The man was unequivocally sick in the head. But hey, weren’t we all? He, as you categorized, was a fractured soul bound by an agonizing obsessive need for perfection and external validation. And, according to every rumor whispered from Hell's Kitchen to Madripoor, he never missed a shot.

You smiled, plotting as the elevator neared the bottom, your glossed lips curling into a sharp, beautiful sneer. It was a pity for him then, that you never get hit.

As the elevator doors groaned open to reveal the freezing expanse of the subterranean vault, your kinetic awareness bloomed. The bootleg Super Serum in your blood didn't grant you the roaring, tank-flipping strength of a super-soldier. But it did elevated your central nervous system to a state of terrifyingly efficient. You could feel the microscopic shifts in the air density; you could hear the subtle, metallic click of a firing pin before the hammer even dropped. And right now, your ears heard the song of gunfire like a gavel brought down by a judge demanding order. A ceremonial hum left your lips in anticipation.

You stepped out into the dark, your pink platforms clicking softly against the concrete, ready to find out what happened when an unstoppable trajectory collided with a mystery.

The heavy vacuum of the Vault didn't contain the violence. It incubated it, transforming the chamber into a claustrophobic amphitheater of slaughter. Inside the cavernous expanse, the air was thick with the ozone stench of discharge and the bitter, metallic tang of panic. Somewhere in the room, John Walker and Yelena Belova were already locked in a grueling, graceless battle of mutual survival. Their movements are a frantic testament to tactical desperation. Yet, your entry into this brutal performance was characterized by an almost sacrilegious levity. Your heightened cortex parsed the symphony of chaos with clinical detachment, filtering out the desperate grunts of exertion until your focus narrowed entirely upon him.

Benjamin Poindexter.

He was a monument to terrifying, rigid efficiency, his silhouette cutting through the dimness as he hurled a barrage of lethal projectiles towards Taskmaster, whose vibranium shield was preoccupied with deflecting Walker’s unhinged, heavy-handed strikes.

Your ears twitched, catching the faint, bewildered cadence of Yelena’s voice as she muttered a fractured question to the empty air: “What is happening?”

You didn’t know, nor did you possess the luxury of a singular damn to give.

“More extra credit,” you hummed to yourself, a soft, melodic purr of pure delight vibrating in your throat as your hands instinctively adjusted the weight of your submachine gun. Your eyes locked onto the broad plains of Poindexter’s back, your finger tightening against the cold trigger with the intent to paint the concrete in a single, devastating burst.

The trajectory was immaculate. The execution would have been flawless.

But the universe, in its infinite, irritating wisdom, chose that exact second to intervene.

A heavy, tactical boot collided with your flank. A jarring disruption that failed to compromise the dense, serum-enhanced architecture of your musculature. But the kick succeeded enough in rattling your pristine stance.

The sudden shift was enough to draw Bullseye’s hyper-fixated attention. His gaze snapped toward the source of the anomaly, his calculating eyes widening imperceptibly as they mapped the sheer, theatrical absurdity of your presence.

“Who invited the hooker?” Walker bellowed, his voice a crude, grating rasp that immediately sealed his fate.

Before the final syllable could fully leave his lips, your arm snapped forward with whiplash velocity. A pink-coated dagger, gleaming with deceptive cosmetic brilliance, whistled through the air. Aimed squarely and mercilessly for the center of his forehead. Walker flinched, the blade grazing the air close enough to leave a phantom sting.

Dex, however, remained momentarily paralyzed by the sheer, unadulterated picture of you. Enough for his brows to pull and head to tilt. His mind, traditionally bound to the rigid structures of military pragmatism, worked to process the data. The meticulously styled hair that defied the humidity of a warzone; the absurdly skimpy, pastel bikini top that offered an arrogant, naked invitation to death; the ridiculously chunky platform heels that should have rendered motion impossible; and the low-slung leather belt cradling a dozen lethal instruments like a macabre harness.

You were a vision meant for a beauty pageant, packaged in a lethal, hyper-feminine veneer. Yet, Bullseye’s obsessive mind could only linger on the aesthetic incongruity for a millisecond. Before the deep-seated compulsion of his programming yanked his eyes back to his designated target.

Your brows pulled together in a profound, agitated scowl as you turned toward your instigator. It was the phasing woman, The Ghost, as the intelligence dossiers labeled her. Flickering in and out of the physical plane like a dying television set. Your customized firearms swung toward the disappearing specter, but before you could waste the ammunition, Yelena materialized through the smoke, discharging a crackling, blue-white ĺelectrical pulse that temporarily anchored Ava to the floor in a state of paralysis.

With the nuisance sidelined, you were back on him. And he, inevitably, was back on you. The over-six-foot assassin found his pristine, orderly universe utterly upended by a barely five-foot-two asteroid. The man was forced into an immediate, breathless defense. His large, calloused hands coming up to block a succession of blindingly fast, fluid punches that carried the deceptive, bone-snapping density of you. It was a grotesque, beautiful dance; Dex was urgently trying to parry your incoming strikes while simultaneously attempting to calculate the trajectory of a knife intended for a shield-wielding target across the room.

For LoveShot, the lack of exclusivity in his attention was a profound insult. You grew rapidly, violently tired of vying for a man’s focus while his eyes remained stubbornly fixed on another. Worse still, there was the irritating, persistent peck of the phasing woman biting at your back, threatening to disrupt the polished rhythm of your game.

Without tearing your gaze away from the unsettling blue of Dex’s eyes, your perfectly painted pink nails dipped toward your belt. Your arm extended outward, not toward the man standing mere inches from you, but blind across the room, mapping the space entirely through the exquisite, hyper-acoustic map in your brain.

Bang.

The single, deafening report echoed through the vault. For a fraction of a second, Dex caught himself mid-dodge, his body tensing as his instinct prepared for the bullet to rip through his own flesh.

Instead, the slug traveled a perfectly calculated, cross-facility arc. It bypassed the chaos entirely, tearing with absolute, clinical precision straight into the skull of Antonia.

The Taskmaster’s body dropped to the concrete like a sack of unceremonious meat. The room stilled. The energy of the battle evaporated in an instant, replaced by a suffocating, bewildered paralysis. Everyone froze in their tracks. Yelena remained pinned beneath Walker; Ava hunched mid stand on the floor; and Dex blinked

Once, twice, an imperceptible glitch of his eyelids. His mind, a perfect organic computer, literally could not calculate the variable that had just rewritten the rules of the room. He hadn't missed. She hadn't missed. But she had stolen his kill with an indifferent, blind throwaway shot.

“Pay attention to me!” you yelled at him, the melodious quality of your voice twisting into a sharp, petulant demand as you stomped your chunky pink platform against the blood-flecked concrete.

Before he could articulate a response, your heightened ears picked up an entirely different unglamorous sound: a wet, violent gagging. Your brows pulled together in deep disgust as your eyes drifted to an unfamiliar, disheveled man stumbling into the periphery, his stomach violently rejecting the reality of the room. Your gun began to rise instinctively to silence the noise, but Yelena’s hand abruptly intervened. Pushing your forearm down with a firm warning pressure as she raised her own gun. Yelena knew you were messy, and the worst part of it all was that you liked it.

“Uh, okay, eww,” you muttered, your blush powdered nose wrinkling in revulsion as you eyed the puking intruder.

The distraction lasted for a single, fleeting second before your gaze snapped back to Dex. He was already staring at you, his pupils dilated with a dangerous curiosity, still high off of adrenaline as his built chest rose and fell. That prolonged eye contact was all the invitation you needed. Your painted fingers slipped to your belt, drawing a fresh, gleaming blade to finally finish the job you were here for.

“Is she actually dead—”

A voice broke the tension, and you bristled instantly. You felt the sudden, hot flash of a genuine tantrum fury, thrown completely off your game like a child whose favorite toy had been snatched away. The orchestrated, seductive atmosphere of your game was entirely spoiled now by this bumbling idiot, who immediately turned and ran straight for the primary exit. Only for the heavy security doors to slam shut with a definitive, hydraulic groan, sealing you all inside the tomb.

Your perfect brows raised at the minor inconvenience of the lockdown, but the logistical nightmare of escape was irrelevant to you. Your world has narrowed to a singular path. With a slow deliberate stomp, you began to stalk toward Ex-Special Agent Poindexter.

Dex slipped a knife of his own into his palm, his entire posture dropping into a coiled, predatory stance as he assessed the hyper-feminine nightmare advancing upon him. He didn’t know your name. He didn’t know what artificial poison touched your bloodstream to grant you that terrifying, supernatural latency. But as he watched you step closer, his mind fixated on a single, impossible detail that defied every law of order he worshiped: he had seen the stray bullets from the crossfire strike your exposed, bare skin. And instead of ripping through flesh, they flattened, dropping to the floor like harmless, discarded coins.

The sudden, jarring hiss of the vault’s primary seals locking into place did little to disrupt the highly venomous orbit established between yourself and Poindexter. But the rest of the room devolved into a predictable, tactical flurry as the disheveled man, Bob, stumbled backward. His presence is an unrefined blemish against your playground.

"Will you stand down," Yelena muttered, her tone lacking the sharp, militaristic edge she usually reserved for combatants. Instead, it possessed a weary, heavy cadence that suggested an undeniable familiarity.

More importantly, she said your name.

The syllable hung in the freezing, stagnant air of the vault like a tangible, glittering thing. To Dex, it was a sudden, seismic revelation; the nameless killer that had just systematically dismantled his carefully crafted inner workings finally had a designation. A name to pair with the feminine blood-splattered face. His eyes, cold and hazardous analytical, narrowed as he watched the subtle shift in your posture.

Everyone’s attention had inevitably drifted toward the trembling, figure of Bob, whose very existence screamed of some bureaucratic absurdity. Yet, yours remained entirely anchored to Dex. You were swaying, a slow, hypnotic rocking of your weight across the square platforms of your pink heels. An explicit, non-verbal manifestation of how desperately you were itching for the violence to resume. You were a coiled spring decorated in lace and pink marble enamel.

Yet, you didn’t advance. You didn't move to complete the contract Valentina had so eagerly requested. No; you listened to Yelena. You allowed her brief intervention to stay your hand.

To a mind as violently compulsive as Poindexter’s, that single, uncharacteristic display of restraint was a puzzle piece that refused to fit into the established picture. It suggested deference. It suggested respect. But why? his internal monologue parsed, the gears of his hyper-vigilant mind grinding with a sudden, localized agitation. Yelena Belova was a broken, disgraced operative. Systemic loss and currently amounted to no real, formidable title within the intelligence community. She possessed no leverage over a lethal creature like you. But you listened. And Dex had decided that you didn't seem like the type to listen.

So the deduction arrived with certainty: you knew each other personally. You shared a history that existed entirely in the peripheral shadows, away from the sterile text of official governments. And then there was John Walker. The disgraced Captain America was currently nursing his bruised ego and a near-miss from your dagger, his jaw tight as he glared across the room. He hadn't merely thrown a generic insult when you breached the perimeter; he hadn't called you a hooker. He had explicitly called you the hooker.

The definite article was damning. It implied a recurring character in a sordid, violent history. A known variable in a world Dex had thought he fully planned out. A subtle, subcutaneous itch of possessive annoyance began to dig beneath Bullseye's skin. An irritating, foreign friction born from the realization that this beautiful, bullet-flattening psycho already belonged to a narrative he wasn't a part of. Not yet.

"The doors are dead," Ava's voice cut through the tension, her form flickering violently as she leaned against a console, her breathing shallow as the heat in the room rises.

"The main terminal is completely unresponsive. This isn't a containment protocol. We're locked in an incinerator!" She declared as red floodlights filled the room, painting the walls in danger and peril. The ominous warning partnered by a loud urging siren that made you cringe at the volume.

"She's right," Yelena said, her eyes shifting from you to the reinforced steel barrier, her expression darkening with a cold, retrospective clarity. “Two minutes and Valentina’s slate is wiped clean."

Walker let out a harsh, mocking laugh, though his hand remained close to his sidearms, his eyes darting warily toward your pink-belted arsenal. "You're telling me Val put us in a box? Why? We secured the asset." He gestured aggressively toward the dead body he raided on the floor.

Ummm no, you, secured the asset. They did nothing.

"Because we're fuck ups," you chimed, your voice a sweet hum that completely contrasted the grim reality of the realization. You stopped swaying on your heels, your painted fingernails tracing the delicate lace wrapping the grip of your submachine gun. "We're on clean up duty. She didn't send us here to retrieve anything. She sent us here to be deleted. Why'd you think we were all trying to kill each other?"

"A sterilization protocol," Dex summarized, his voice flat, devoid of fear, but entirely focused on you as he balanced his own blade in his palm. His mind skipped over the betrayal of his handler entirely, far more captured by the way your lips curved at the prospect of a trap.

"Well," you sneered, a beautifully wicked expression taking hold as your eyes locked back into his, completely ignoring the frantic tactical chatter of the others as the ceiling vents began to hiss with a heavy, pressurized gas. "It would be a terrible shame to disappoint her. Don't you think, Dex?"

Yelena’s voice sliced through the ambient dread once more, explicitly uttering your name in a sharp chastise. You whirled on her, your pink platform heel stomping against the concrete with the indignity of a slighted princess.

"What!? I shot the bullet, I got the kill!" you yelled, your voice a beautiful, discordant screech of entitlement that utterly refused to acknowledge the impending lethality of the scarlet room.

Ava, her form flickering with an erratic, painful instability against the backdrop, let out a harsh, breathless rasp. "You can't win anything if we're all fucking dead."

"What a perfect world that would be," you countered, blinking with a serene lack of self-preservation.

Across the space, Dex slowly crossed his arms. His analytical gaze was entirely rapt, his mind meticulously cataloging every erratic variable of your demeanor. He wasn't looking at the locking mechanisms or the gas vents, or listening to the warning sounds and the panic in the room; he was studying the strange woman who treated an execution chamber like another day at work. You caught his look and leaned into it.

Your chest rose proudly beneath the baby-pink bikini top as you declared. "And I can't die," the statement dripped with an absolute, delusional certainty. Your eyes locked onto Ava, a wicked, knowing smirk pulling at your glossed lips. "You were given a suicide mission the moment you got my name."

"We need to get out of here!" Yelena bellowed, her pragmatic instincts overriding the absurdity of your tantrum. She snapped her gaze toward the phasing operative. "Ava, can you walk through the door and open it from the outside?"

You let out a loud sigh, rolling your eyes so hard it practically hurt as you bypassed the frantic huddle entirely. With an air of boredom, you sauntered over to a nearby crate and sat down, crossing one bare, unarmored leg over the other, utterly indifferent to the collective weight of the eyes tracking your movement. It was a stupid idea, you decided within the confines of your mind Ghost was an unstable element; given the opportunity to slip the noose, she would simply leave them all to rot.

You watched the digital countdown on the security console bleed away. Death was a profound, terrifying conceptualization for the rest of them, a looming existential finality that made their hearts hammer and their movements frantic. But in your beautifully deranged mind, the concept simply did not apply. You were a creature meticulously designed to survive. The universe had provided ample, physical proof of your permanence with every flattened bullet that had ever dared to touch your skin.

And, as if to prove the accuracy of your intuition, the universe intervened again. Ava appeared back through the opening barrier, her expression frantic as she signaled the breach.

Before you could offer a sarcastic commentary on her return, Yelena’s calloused hand gripped your bare shoulder, violently hoisting you up from your perch and dragging your dense, heavy-laden frame toward the exit corridor just as the secondary demolition system triggered.

The ensuing explosion was a catastrophic, blinding wall of fire. The force was massive, a roaring wave of heat and displaced air that completely defied your augmented center of gravity, sending your body flying through the smoke-choked air like a mannequin.

You hit the ground with a heavy, unceremonious thud, landing squarely on top of a broad torso. A sharp, breathless groan escaped your lips as your vision cleared through the haze. You blinked down, realizing your dense weight was currently pinning Dex directly to the debris-strewn floor. He was staring up at you from behind his tactical mask, his breathing labored but his pupils still violently fixed on your face.

"Dammit, you're still alive," you huffed, your face mere inches from his as you frowned in profound disappointment.

"Unfortunately," he groaned back, the single word a rough, scraping cadence of dry amusement and physical strain.

With a look of exasperation, you pushed yourself off his chest, your perfectly manicured pink nails digging briefly into his tactical gear for leverage as you rose back onto your chunky platforms, dusting off your black pleated mini skirt as if the demolition was nothing more than an inconvenient gust of wind.

The vertical chasm of the elevator shaft stretched upward into a daunting infinity, a hollow concrete throat that seemed to swallow their collective, muttered fucks.

"So none of us fly?" Yelena questioned, her voice dripping with flat exhaustion as she stared into the dark expanse above. "What, we all just punch and shoot...?"

You pursed your lips to the side, your acute mind evaluating the sheer impossibility of the obstacle before you. "Okay, John, today's your lucky day," you announced with a flourish of condescending benevolence, nodding decisively. "I'm letting you throw me."

The knock-off Captain America let out a harsh, incredulous scoff, but the survival instinct overrode his ego. He unfastened his heavy shield, positioning the vibranium surface as a crude, metallic launch pad.

Taking a head start, or as much as the claustrophobic perimeter would allow, your platform heels struck the cold metal surface with a resonant clang. John braced and shoved, sending your body hurtling upward into the gloom.

The ascent lasted for a single, fleeting breath before gravity reasserted its absolute authority. Your trajectory stalled, and you plummeted straight down, collapsing back onto John Walker’s chest with an unceremonious, bone-jarring impact. You immediately let out a whine, a vocalization far too theatrical, far too perfectly curated to indicate actual physical pain, as your head shook no against his tactical vest, your styled hair spilling across his shoulders.

Across the narrow shaft, Poindexter’s jaw tightened. A sudden, uncalculated spike of visceral distaste rippled through his chest, a foreign friction that rubbed beneath his skin like coarse sand. He didn't like the sight of you draped across Walker's frame, and his fixated mind, usually so immaculate with its internal algorithms, failed to deduce why.

"Okay... new idea..." you wobbled up, smoothing down the edges of your razor-pleated mini skirt with a huff.

What followed was, by every metric of black-ops pragmatism, the single most ridiculous logistical solution ever conceived.

"I can't believe you all actually listened to me!" you gleamed in pure, unadulterated disbelief, your melodious voice echoing off the concrete as the six of you engaged in a grueling, synchronized army stomp up the narrow walls of the elevator shaft.

It was a claustrophobic, friction-locked nightmare. Backs pressed against one another, boots wedged against the wall, the group moved in a stuttering climb born of sheer desperation.

"Somebody has a hard butt," Dex groaned out, his low, gravelly cadence vibrating with irritation as he struggled to maintain his own gravity-defying weight.

He didn't do this. He didn't participate in collaborative, touchy-feely teamwork. It would have been infinitely preferable if the facility had simply collapsed, or if they had each discovered an independent method of escape. Rather than enduring this ridiculous, feet-up, back-to-back transit toward liberation. Yet, by some cruel twist of fate, he found himself intimately sandwiched between John Walker and the trembling, unrefined bulk of Bob.

"That's not my butt, it's my suit!" you argued petulantly from your position around the chain, nestled tightly between the defensive boundaries of Yelena and Ava.

"What suit? You're half naked!" Walker scoffed from the left, his voice strained under the immense physical exertion of the climb.

"Ummm, you weren't complaining when you saw an eyeful up my skirt!" you snapped back, attempting to twist your neck to glare at the disgraced soldier.

Then a sudden, erratic disruption broke the fragile, rhythm of the collective. The entire human chain staggered, slipping violently down the concrete shaft for twelve agonizing inches before everyone’s boots bit back into the wall, catching the descent with a unison gasp of panic.

"Sorry. Slipped," Dex huffed out. His cold, blue eyes remained locked onto the concrete wall directly in front of him, staring at the structure as if it had personally offended him. Though as he said it, there was no actual apology in his words.

Eventually, against every probability, the group breached the surface, dragging their bruised and thoroughly degraded frames out into the blinding, oppressive glare of the entrance room. But there was no sanctuary awaiting them. A heavily armed greeting of Valentina’s clean-up crew stood entrenched across the dunes, weapons drawn to finish the sterilization protocol that the vault’s demolition had failed to achieve.

Your augmented nervous system immediately mapped the exit trajectories. You knew you should run now. You should ignore everyone’s frantic attempts at a coordinated escape, shut down their stupid, collaborative plan, and save your own skin. It was what you always did. Yet, for some entirely foreign, almost lonely reason, you hesitated. It was... kinda nice being around people, you thought with a strange, fleeting twinge of sentimentality. So, you stayed, and you played your part.

With a burst of velocity and vigor, the five of you ambushed the perimeter, hijacking one of the heavy tactical vehicles in a flurry of synchronized violence. You scrambled into the back of the transport, completely elated that you had all actually made it out alive.

Well, most of you.

Before a single tire could kick up dust, the mundane reality of the fight was shattered. Bob, the shivering asset they had dragged from the depths, suddenly ignited awake. A decisive, terrifying stillness bled from his skin, and then he was flying. He was fucking flying.

The five of you sat frozen in the cramped cabin of the hijacked vehicle, your faces pressed against the reinforced glass, watching in absolute, deadpan silence as he launched himself into the stratosphere. He vanished into the horizon like a runaway god, leaving the entire battlefield in a state of stunned silence.

"You all fucking saw that right!?" you asked into the quiet cabin, your finger still hovering over the trigger of your pink gun.

Nobody answered. The sheer absurdity of the spectacle was still processing when the shockwave of Bob’s sonic boom hit the vehicle. The concussive blast rolled across the dunes, catching the side of the transport and violently tipping it over. With a metallic crunch, the car flipped, rolling once before landing heavily on its side, leaving the wheels spinning uselessly against the empty air.

By the time you managed to kick the shattered doors open and crawl out of the wreckage, the blistering sun had completely dipped below the horizon, plunging the desert into a freezing, deceptive night.

The remaining five of you turned your backs on the smoking overturned vehicle. With no functioning transport, no definitive plan, no backup, and absolutely no remaining allegiances, the long, silent march began.

The endless expanse of the desert night was vast and unfeeling. It was a bizarre, slow-moving parade of tactical pragmatism: Walker nursing his bruised pride, Yelena trudging forward with a low, muttered string of Russian curses, Ava treading sporadically to save her energy, and Dex walking with a rigid, calculated stride.

Yet, the entire bleak landscape remained anchored by a single, defiant flash of baby-pink lace moving through the dark, your chunky platform heels sinking into the cold sand with every lazy, deliberate step. The temperature in the desert dropped rapidly, the freezing night air cutting through the vast emptiness as the five of you trudged onward. The silence was broken only by the rustle of the paper Yelena had managed to salvage from the wreckage.

"She did that to him. To test on someone like that, it's inhuman," Yelena declared, her eyes fixated on the stark black ink on the document in her hand.

"Project Sentry," you nodded, your voice taking on a slightly higher pitch in confirmation.

"You know what that thing was?" Dex asked. The question cut through the dark, perhaps a bit harsher and more immediate than he had originally intended.

"Well, yeah. I know that many doctors have been trying to recreate whatever happened with me, but I didn't know they'd go to that extent," you mused, thinking back to the staggering, impenetrable density Bob had displayed before ascending. Your lips pouted slightly as a brand-new, thoroughly superficial grievance crossed your mind. "Why does he get to fly and I don't!?"

Dex completely ignored your slight jealousy, his mind already jumping to the next piece of the puzzle. "That woman back there. Did you know her?" he asked suddenly.

You blinked, pausing for a moment before it registered exactly who he was talking about, the masked woman, Taskmaster, whom you had carelessly executed across the room.

"No," you shrugged indifferently, eyeing whatever fruit Walker had managed to scavenge and deciding you wanted some of it, so you took it. The man could only grimace in exhaustion.

"I knew her," Yelena nodded, her voice heavy with the grim reality of their shared past. "She had a tough life. She killed a lot of people and got killed. Same as us someday."

“That's a shit life.” Ava commented.

Dex remained half a step behind, his devoid eyes studying the absolute vacancy of guilt or remorse in your demeanor. Your long, dark lashes merely blinked, your face remaining entirely neutral. You had shown far more genuine, visceral emotion when you grew tired of vying for his attention and shot Antonia out of pure pettiness. By all accounts of his rigid, obsessive-compulsive programming, he should have been violently irritated that you had stolen his kill. The contracts Valentina had given them were entirely irrelevant now, yet the theft remained.

But instead of anger, Dex found himself experiencing a strange, foreign sensation: amusement.

His fingers clutched his tactical mask a bit tighter against his palm as he actively forced down a smirk in the dark. Was he flattered? Excited? Drastically drawn to the sheer chaos of your presence? He couldn't entirely formulate the answer, but he knew he liked whatever the feeling was.

It wasn't the same predictable gravity he felt when he used to search for a north star, a moral anchor like Julie or Fisk to dictate his actions. His compass didn't feel guided toward the concept of 'good' when he looked at you; it felt perplexed and challenged. It was challenged in a unique, exhilarating way that made a small voice in his fucked up head whisper, "This isn't right," at whatever bullshit you pulled. Dex had spent a long time reigning in his desperate need to seek out external validation to show him what was acceptable. He had finally made peace with the stark reality that there was no pure good or absolute evil in their bloody line of work. There were only actions, and the positive or negative outcomes they generated.

And this LoveShot Killer balanced directly on the precipice just right. You were human enough to exhibit raw emotion, yet completely desensitized to the gravity of a body dropping. And you possessed an accurate terrifying shot that rivaled his own.

He watched your gait through the shadows of the dunes. He cataloged the hypnotic sway of your hips as you walked, moving through the sand as though you were following a melody playing exclusively inside your head. There was a distinct, unbothered pep to your step, a radiant, terrifying air of genuine happiness in your isolated world, despite the utterly miserable situation you all found yourselves in.

A situation that somehow managed to get more miserable. The confines of Alexei Shostakov’s dilapidated limousine were, without a doubt, the true zenith of psychological torture. The air inside the cabin was a stagnant cocktail of cheap upholstery, stale sweat, and the distinct, alarming odor of whatever concoction resided within the questionable cup.

"Do not drink out of the Big Gulp," Alexei warned with a boisterous, entirely unbothered wave of his hand.

Your face pulled into an immediate, violent grimace of disgust. You pointedly tuned out the ensuing emotional debris as Yelena and her father launched into a thoroughly depressing, sentimentally hijacked conversation regarding her childhood pee-wee soccer team. The sheer absurdity of the moment was only exacerbated by John, who offered a half-hearted cheer of, "Go Thunderbolts!"

This was a disaster. Dex sat rigidly in his seat, his internal monologue cataloging the sheer, unrefined ridiculousness of the environment with a dangerous venom. They were not a team. They were a collection of weaponized criminals who simply needed to escape the perimeter of this hellscape. So that they could disappear and never lay eyes on each other ever again. Dex didn't do teams. His historical record with structural alliances was a pristine ledger of catastrophe. His tenure within the bureau had been an entirely different situation, he possessed a script then, a rigid hierarchy, and explicit directives dictating precisely who to neutralize and when. But in this lawless team, Alexei was currently dangling the treacherous, highly volatile promise of redemption and camaraderie. Dex knew better. He was a fractured soul; he would never fit into the equation.

"Ah! Bullseye, the man that never miss!" Alexei’s thick, aggressively boozy Russian accent suddenly boomed across the cabin, slicing through the assessment. Dex didn't even bother to verify if the genetic relic was entirely sober.

The heavy, bearded man then turned his attention toward your corner of the leather seating. "And LoveShot Killer! I heard you never get hit, eh?"

For all your hyper-sexual, bullet-flattening bravado, you merely offered a brief, uncharacteristically awkward nod. You possessed an absolute deficiency when it came to navigating parental figures, so your eyes instinctively darted across the cabin, searching for a familiar target. They found Dex.

He was already side-eyeing you from the shadows of the vehicle, his mask cradled loosely in his large hand.

Under the intrusive, blinding shafts of sunlight cutting through the limousine’s grimy windows, the intricate network of creases around his eyes became starkly prominent. A large, jaggedly healed scar traced an uneven trajectory across his cheekbone, mirroring another violent marker just above his eyebrow. Like someone had driven a knife across his face in an attempt to dishonor. Yet, the physical disfigurement did not render him grotesque; it didn't project the unrefined aura of a convict that might make a person feel unsafe. It suited the sharp symphony of his features. He looked beautifully wild, dangerous, thoroughly rough around the edges, with a faint, predatory gleam vibrating in the blue of his irises.

"You're older than I thought you'd be," your mouth moved, the observation slipping past your glossed lips before your filter could actively suppress it.

Dex’s head tilted slightly, his voice dropping into a low, testing register. "Is that a problem?"

"No," you answered instantly, the syllable clipping short as your trained vision caught a sudden flash of polished metal in the rear-view.

The heavy, armored silhouettes of approaching pursuit vehicles were rapidly closing the distance through the dust.

"Someone do something about that!" you alerted the cabin, your arms crossing defensively over the scant, baby-pink lace of your bikini top.

Dex’s gaze dipped, his pupils tracing the sudden movement of your arms before snapping forward toward the windshield. The limousine barely reached an acceleration, the engine groaning in deep agony. And Bullseye let out a harsh, impatient exhale that vibrated through his chest like a low growl.

"Activating defensive measures!" Alexei yelled with a triumphant madman’s grin.

Instead of a localized smoke screen or an oil slick, the vehicle’s sound system violently detonated to life, blaring aggressive, bass-heavy stripper music through the cracked speakers. The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the countermeasure struck your core so perfectly that a massive, unbridled laugh broke free from your throat. Dex watched the transformation of your features, his obsessive mind immediately deciding that he liked the addictive sound of your amusement.

Then, the rear window violently disintegrated into a shower of lethal glass shards. The bubble was popped. Dex was on his feet in an instant, his heavy frame shifting as he helped Walker anchor his massive vibranium shield against the incoming rain of high-caliber military fire.

"What happened to bulletproof!?" Dex yelled over the deafening music and gunfire.

"Bulletproof-ish! Everyone is a critic today!" Alexei bellowed from the driver's seat, spinning the wheel with manic indifference.

Ava attempted to intercept the threat, her form flickering wildly as she phased through the trunk of the limousine. But the pursuing vehicles were equipped with high-frequency sonic countermeasures; the moment the soundwaves blared across the sand, her kinetic matrix crumbled, and she collapsed onto the metal chassis in a state of agony. Dex and Walker immediately reached out, their combined physical leverage yanking her back into the relative safety of the cabin.

You decided you had endured enough of this. Squeezing your dense, serum-enhanced frame through the crack of the window, you hoisted yourself onto the exterior of the speeding vehicle. A fraction of a second later, Yelena materialized opposite behind you in the passenger side, her movements mirroring yours with practiced efficiency. The two of you raised your respective weapons, your acrylic pink fingers tightening against the trigger of your submachine gun as you prepared to paint the dunes red.

But before either of you could discharge a single round, the lead pursuing truck violently detonated.

The chassis flipped into the air in a spectacular arc of fire and displaced metal. You and Yelena paused mid-aim, your eyes locking onto one another for a single, bewildered millisecond through the smoke before the two of you slithered back down into the cramped interior of the limousine.

"It's Bucky!" Walker yelled, his voice carrying a sudden, triumphant inflection as he watched the dark, unmistakable silhouette of the Winter Soldier systematically clearing the remaining threats with clinical, heavy-handed precision from his own bike.

You let out a loud, elated cheer at the sight of the metallic arm cutting through the chaos.

But the celebration was violently short-lived. Through the smoke, Bucky’s focus remained utterly fixed on the rogue assets inside the limousine. With a fluid, unblinking aim, he deployed a magnetic explosive. The projectile whistled through the air, latching onto the undercarriage of the limousine with a definitive, metallic clack. Detonation was immediate. The under-blast tore through the axle, lifting the massive, rusted luxury vehicle entirely off the desert floor and sending it flipping violently through the air.

Fuck.

The constraints of the cold iron links wrapping around your torso were a suffocating, uninvited weight, yet your posture remained entirely fluid, entirely unbothered by the sudden, aggressive containment.

"You always did like it tight," you purred into the stagnant, dusty air of the abandoned gas station, your voice a wicked drop that cut straight through the tense atmosphere.

The so-called team immediately bristled. John Walker let out a sharp, uncomfortable cough, and Yelena simply closed her eyes as if praying for a sudden aneurysm to take her from the room. Across the concrete floor, Poindexter’s brows furrowed into a tight, menacing knot where he sat bound in his own heavy restraints. His calculating eyes flicked between your unbothered smirk and the broad, stoic shoulders of the man who had just neutralized them. A violent, possessive irritation flared beneath Dex’s skin, a friction he could neither calculate nor suppress. He didn’t like that comment. He didn’t like the inherent, unvarnished history bleeding out of your mouth.

"You look disappointed, James," you pouted, your lower lip jutting out in a display of mock grievance.

James?

The name echoed within the dark chambers of Dex’s mind like a jarring, misaligned gear. He questioned the syllable with a silent, hyper-vigilant intensity, trying desperately to work the answers of the situation as the six of you sat marooned inside the rotting carcass of the gas station. You didn't use titles. You didn't call him the Winter Soldier, nor did you use the sterile, bureaucratic designations of global intelligence. You called him James. It was an intimacy that suggested a deep history, a shared landscape of shadows that Dex was entirely excluded from.

"And you're still dressing like that," Bucky muttered, his deep, gravelly cadence devoid of amusement as his gaze flicked momentarily over the bikini top before settling back onto the collective group. "Look, save it. You're all evidence in the impeachment trial against Valentina."

"We don't even work for Valentina," Ava rolled her eyes, her form hunched with fatigue.

"I get it— she has some threat named Bob, and you're all heroes ready to save the day. Am I supposed to believe that?" Bucky said, his posture unyielding, entirely unswayed by the sheer absurdity of your group’s narrative.

"Yes!" you yelled petulantly, stomping a heel against the floor.

"We weren't going after her together," Walker gruffed out, his jaw tight.

"We're not a team," Dex stated at the exact same moment, his voice flat, mechanical, and entirely focused on separating his identity from the collective meat on display for the butcher.

"We were just trying to get home alive, actually," Yelena clarified, her tone heavy with the exhausting realism of their failure.

"That's even more pathetic," Bucky countered, his voice rising with a hard, uncompromising edge as he stepped away to answer a vibrating phone.

Your perfect brows raised as Bucky spoke into the receiver, his hushed, low-register tones seemingly deciding the ultimate fate of your company. To be truthfully honest, you had tuned out the vast majority of the reality surrounding you, the geopolitical nuances of impeachment trials and intelligence ledgers entirely failing to capture your interest. It wasn't until the heavy, clanking weight of the chains around your body suddenly dropped to the floor that you snapped back into the sharp, immediate present.

"Bucky. You have the wrong people," Yelena said, her voice sounding entirely defeated as she rubbed her wrists.

Bucky stood before the group, his cybernetic arm gleaming faintly under the dying fluorescent tubes, his eyes carrying the heavy, ancient weight of a man who had survived his own trail. "Look, I've been where you are," he began, the words slow, deliberate, and thick with a grim, universal truth. "You can run, but it doesn't go away. You can either do something about it now, or live with it forever."

The words hung in the freezing air, and for a rare, terrifying moment, the frantic tempo of your internal landscape ground to a sudden, agonizing halt.

Live with it forever.

The phrase dug deep into your chest, forcing your mind to retreat into the one place you spent every waking second trying to escape: the quiet. It was the exact reason you possessed such a violent, subcutaneous evasion to calmness. The silence was an intrusive entity that amplified the voices, the memories of the labs, the phantom scent of ozone and blood, the realization that you were an anomaly designed solely for the execution of others. You felt the sudden, terrifying weight of why you constantly had to keep killing, why you actively sought out the choice of survival. The bloodlust wasn't just a preference; it was a shield. If the guns stopped barking, if the bodies stopped dropping, the noise of your own fractured existence would finally catch up to you. You had to keep moving, keep fighting, because the alternative was drowning in the static of a normal, quiet world that had no place for a creature like you.

Beside you, Dex sat entirely motionless, Bucky’s heavy words striking a resonant chord within his own psychology. He stared down at his large, calloused hands, his mind turning inward in a rare, sentimental display of self-examination.

Redemption.

It was a beautiful, entirely treacherous concept that he had spent years convincing himself he didn't need. He had made peace with the stark reality that he was a monster, an instrument of pure murder who had caused an infinity of unvarnished pain from Hell's Kitchen to the dark corners of the globe. He had told himself that there was no pure good or absolute evil, only actions and outcomes. But as he looked at the others, broken side characters standing in the ruins of this gas station, a small, stubborn voice in his head began to reshape itself. He wanted to mean something. He wanted to prove, if only to the architecture of his own brain, that his life wasn't entirely fixed on destruction. He didn't want to be a weapon discarded in a sterilization protocol; he wanted to dictate his own outcome. He wanted validation that didn't come from a script or a handler like Fisk or Valentina.

And then his eyes drifted back to you. You were standing there, a defiant flash of baby-pink lace amidst the grimy concrete, looking just as beautifully damaged as he felt. He didn't want to live with the darkness forever. He wanted to challenge it. He wanted to see what happened when two broken stars decided to rewrite their own orbit.

"Stop Val and save Bob," Yelena sighed, the concession heavy but definitive as she looked around the room.

"Fine. Yeah," Walker agreed, stepping forward with a reluctant nod.

"Alright," Dex found himself nodding, his voice low, his gaze locked entirely onto your face as he committed.

"Sure," you shrugged indifferently, a beautiful, wicked little smile returning to your features as you smoothed down your pleated skirt, the weight of the silence instantly evaporating the moment a new target was established.

"Go on then," Ava nodded out as Alexei’s loud, boisterous, yelling suddenly filled the air, shattering the lingering sentimentality of the room as he heralded the official birth of their ridiculous, lawless crusade.

It was a wonderful morning in New York, clear skies and busy streets awaiting for some action. The vibrating cargo of the unmarked delivery truck hummed with a strange, domestic sort of friction. Bucky was somewhere up front, steering them directly into the jaws of a corporate hellscape with a tactical plan that amounted to “crash the doors and improvise,” while Alexei occupied the passenger seat, likely muttering to himself. But back here, isolated from the political gravity of the situation, the atmosphere had devolved into something bordering on a high-stakes pajama party.

Your laugh was a bright sound as Yelena and Ava offered deadpan nods to whatever military theory John was currently spinning. This show-and-tell was your group’s third attempt at artificial entertainment during the seemingly endless transit back into the city. It had been a necessary pivot, following a highly volatile round of "Put a finger down: Never have I ever" and a deeply questionable game of "Take a shot if," fueled by the single bottle of Smirnoff Ice you successfully smuggled away in your utility belt from Alexei’s limousine.

"What about you, huh?" Ava asked, her chin jerking toward Bullseye, who sat with one long leg extended completely across the metal floor, the other casually crossed over the other.

"Yeah. Why is your gun holster brown? Wouldn't it have made more sense if it was black or blue?" Yelena questioned through the haze of severe sleep deprivation, her Russian accent thick and sluggish.

Dex’s expression rendered itself thoroughly, genuinely amused at the sheer absurdity of the interrogation. His sharp brows raised, and he forced down an instinctual eye-roll with a slight, unconscious tick of his head.

"Forget the color, why do you only carry one gun?" you chimed in, your own perfect brows furrowing as you gestured toward his sparse, rigid arsenal.

"I didn't know color coordination was such a big deal," Dex replied, his gravelly voice cool and thoroughly unserious. It wasn't the sterile, calculated performance of feigning human emotion he had so meticulously rehearsed during his days observing Julie; this was entirely unrehearsed, unburdened, and light.

You watched, entirely rapt, as his large hand slipped inward, pulling the solitary firearm from the tactical strap secured across his broad chest.

"And I only carry one because I only need one shot," he stated flatly with absolute certainty, his gaze locking onto yours as he turned the weapon slightly. "Also, because I have favorites."

He held the gun up, a subtle, deliberate alignment aimed loosely in your direction, and for some entirely wrong reason, the gesture caused a strange, intoxicating sensation to dance directly in the pit of your stomach.

"Okay, my turn. I have my baby here—" you announced proudly, hoisting your customized submachine gun into the dim light, the white lace wrapped around the grip looking considerably more grimy and blood-flecked now than when you had initiated the contract. "Oh, and we have my honey— and sweetie— oh, oh—and I can't forget my girls!" You pointed in rapid succession to the two secondary handguns nestled against your hips and the dozen gleaming, pink-enameled knives tracing your waistline.

"That's cute," Ava nodded, though the flat cadence of her voice made it abundantly clear that she didn’t mean it.

Yelena seamlessly took the floor next, launching into a granular breakdown of her own specialized gear, while Walker nodded along with an air of grim, nostalgic recognition, loudly voicing that he vividly remembered the devastating efficacy of Yelena’s high-voltage electrical shockers.

At some point during the chatter, your roaming gaze found the discarded, dark blue pile of fabric tucked away in the shadows of the corner. Without a second thought, your grip snatched the material, pulling it over your head in a single, fluid motion before peeking out through the cut-outs.

Dex’s head turned, his internal algorithms instantly grinding to a halt as he caught you mid-motion.

You were sitting there on the vibrating metal floor, peering out from beneath the iconic, stark label of the Bullseye mask. It smelled entirely of him, a heavy intoxicating mix of expensive cologne and dried violent copper.

Fucking hell.

Dex stared, his jaw freezing as a sudden heat surged beneath his skin. He liked that sight. He liked it with a terrifying intensity that threatened to rewrite every piece of discipline he possessed. The very mask he had worn to commit an infinity of horrific, calculated atrocities, the symbol of his deepest damnation, was currently being worn by this tiny half-naked creature. Your massive, doe-like eyes stared up at him from behind the target emblem, and the image struck his brain with the force of a grenade. Sitting there in your pink lace and his dark hood, you looked, for all intents and purposes, entirely branded as his.

His mind raced, a hundred different dark, possessive thoughts colliding within his skull, only to be made violently worse when you playfully raised your own customized gun at him, closing one eye and pretending to shoot him dead center. His jaw clenched so hard the muscle twitched beneath his scarred cheek, his large fists tightening into white-knuckled blocks against his knees as he actively, desperately restrained himself from reaching across the short distance and pulling you into his lap.

"Are we there yet!?"

The roaring torrent of his internal monologue was violently severed by Yelena’s sudden, exhausted screech toward the front cabin. A fraction of a second later, you joined in, your voice echoing her petulant cadence as you yelled the exact same thing, completely unbothered by the fact that you were still wearing his identity over your face.

The terrifying portrait of a god completely dismantling your capacity without blinking was a deeply irritating check to your ego. The sheer absurdity of the violence left a bitter spike of pure envy in your chest. Why did the shivering, untrained asset get the cosmic, reality-warping powers while you were left with the pedestrian reality of invincibility and pretty guns?

You had watched from the debris-strewn floor as John’s vibranium shield was folded like a cheap piece of tin, Ava and Yelena dropped like discarded marionettes, and Dex was forced into a dance of parrying his own bounced-back projectiles. But Bucky had sustained the most visceral, uncompromising trauma. The heavy, metallic thud of his severed cybernetic arm hitting the concrete was the ultimate, unvarnished signal that the script was entirely dead.

Your little group weren't the Avengers. You possessed no grand, selfless illusions of martyrdom or moral nobility; you were weaponized threats, and you knew exactly when the situation demanded retreat.

Clutching Bucky’s severed limb to your bare chest like a trophy, you scrambled into the relative, groaning sanctuary of the elevator with the others. Once outside the building and into the stinging New York air, the seven of you attempted to process the absolute, reality-shattering failure that mission was. You handed the heavy, metallic arm back to its owner. Taking an uninvited familiar liberty in aggressively locking the cybernetic joint back into its socket for him.

Dex’s calloused fingers brushed lightly over the fresh, blooming cut on his bottom lip, his dark blue eyes fixated entirely on the display. His jaw tensed as he watched you tend to another man’s anatomy, all while his own iconic Bullseye mask remained perched casually on the crown of your head like a ridiculous beanie.

"Okay, we need a new plan," Alexei tried to nod, his massive, boozy body thoroughly beaten and leaking blood into the dirt.

"Nah—no new plans. That thing's too powerful," Walker sighed, his large hands clutching the pathetic ruin of his tactical shield.

"We just need to regroup and think—" Alexei tried again, his stubborn, Soviet-era optimism entirely unaligned with the reality of the crater behind them.

"This isn't regrouping. We're not even a team," Dex cut in sharply. His voice was a flat rasp as he slid his solitary firearm back into its chest harness, his aching, bruised musculature dropping into a rigid, defensive stance. All hope he was foolish enough to have in the gas station was gone.

"Of course we're a team! We're the Thunderbolts!" Alexei yelled, the delusion so thick it forced a loud, unbridled scoff from your throat.

"I don't know what that means," Bucky exclaimed, his expression darkening with a deep, historical exhaustion.

"It's her pee-wee soccer team-thing," Ava tried to explain, her voice flickering with a fatigued, erratic latency.

The argument that followed instantly degenerated into a frantic, overlapping chorus of panic. Everyone was yelling over the other with no apology until the sheer volume of the yelling finally snapped your remaining patience.

"There's no regrouping! He turned John's shield into a taco! And look at my gun!" you shrieked, hoisting your disfigured, custom submachine gun into the light. The sterling metal permanently warped with the deep, violent imprints of Bob's physical superiority.

"Oh my god, stop! There is no us, there is no we!" Yelena suddenly exploded, her voice carrying the absolute, suffocating weight of a defeat that reached back into her very childhood. "Bob changed into that thing, and there's nothing any of you can do about it!"

"And what did you do, exactly!?" you countered instantly, your painted pink fingernail pointing directly at her face. "Because I seem to remember you getting your ass beat way worse than mine!"

"Yeah! I suck! I'm terrible! We're all shit!" Yelena screamed back, her face flushing with a raw, unvarnished venom bathed in exhaustion. "You're not a hero! You're not even a good person!"

You grimaced, your features pulling into a genuinely offended scowl at the blunt, unglamorous evaluation.

"Alright, go easy on her," John Walker intervened, his hands lifting in a half-hearted attempt to dispel the sudden volatility of the Russian's anger.

"Oh, so what, you're nice now!?" she bit back, her eyes flashing with a terrifying malice.

John slowly turned his head, his wide eyes landing on Dex, the closest variable to him in the immediate space. Silently signaling a bewildered disbelief at the scale of the emotional outburst. Dex merely allowed an uncontrollable, sinister smirk to tug at the corner of his bleeding lip, his entire posture explicitly projecting that he wanted absolutely no legal or physical part in this.

“So it's my turn now?” John asked.

"No, you know you're a piece of trash, Walker. So does your family," Yelena delivered the final, crushing blow.

"Jesus," Dex muttered under his breath, his brows lifted imperceptibly and your jaw dropping in offense for John.

"We're all losers. And we lost."

With that grim, definitive finality, Yelena turned and walked away into the urban sprawl. You didn't hesitate; pivoting sharply on your chunky heels, you began to trudge in the exact opposite direction, your pleated mini skirt swirling with the momentum of your own tantrum.

"Where to now?"

Dex’s tall, imposing frame appeared seamlessly at your flank, his long legs instantly matching the lazy, deliberate rhythm of your stride. He didn't frame the words like a question; it was a flat, possessive statement of fact. It carried the certainty that whatever destination your brain decided on, his body would follow.

"Well, I need a new gun. And I want a taco," you shrugged indifferently. Dex offered a single, understanding nod.

Two blocks away, you both found yourselves in the vinyl-wrapped interior of a greasy, fluorescent-lit diner. It wasn't a taco establishment, but the fading neon sign in the window had promised a good milkshake, which was good enough for you. Ignoring the overt, lingering stares of civilian patrons, who were understandably alarmed by a six-foot scarred assassin sitting next to a half-naked woman in a pink bikini, you slid onto a chrome bar stool. Dex claimed the seat immediately beside you, his large hands settling on the counter.

"Are you okay?" he asked. The syllables were stiff, delivered with the awkward, hesitant cadence of a man who possessed absolutely no blueprint for treading on sensitive emotional terrain. The hesitation wasn't born from an uncertainty regarding your physical state. He knew you were fine, he simply just didn't ask people if they were okay. In his universe, targets either lived or died. But looking at the tight line of your shoulders, his fractured mind had deduced that this was the correct, human protocol to initiate, even if the underlying sentiment felt entirely foreign beneath his skin.

"Yeah. Yelena's right. I'm not even a good person," you shrugged it off with a lazy indifference, wrapping your fingers around the cold glass and taking a slow, rhythmic sip of your vanilla milkshake. "And I'm okay with that," you added, your doe eyes tracking the condensation down the glass.

Dex went quiet, his analytical brain turning the statement over like a complex equation. "Why?"

"I can't handle being America's sweetheart," you confessed, the words carrying a rare, unpolished truth. The mere conceptualization of it, being anchored to a rigid, moral team where you had to behave, follow a script, and act with selfless restraint. It was a suffocating, unbearable prospect.

"We are who we are," Dex nodded. The statement was absolute, a cold comfort born from a man who had finally stopped trying to force his broken pieces into a normal template.

"And I'm not sorry I took your kill," you chimed in, your tone instantly shifting back to its signature, provocative sweetness.

A genuine, slow-burning smile spread across Dex's scarred face, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked down at his own drink. "No... I didn't think you were."

"I would've gotten you too, if none of this shit fucking happened," you hummed.

Having thoroughly finished the contents of your own glass, your roaming gaze landed on his milkshake. Without a single shred of respect for personal space, your manicured fingers plucked your red straw out of your empty glass and slid it directly into his, leaning in close enough for the scent of your perfume to collide with the metallic edge of his cologne as you began to drink.

Dex didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. Instead, his large, calloused hand reached up, his fingers sliding against your hair as he wrapped his palm around the dark blue fabric of his mask, lifting it off your head like a hat.

"Nothing's stopping you now, angel," he hummed, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent a sudden, dangerous spark straight down your spine.

"Hey!? I liked that!" you protested, reaching for the hood as he twirled it around his fingers. "And you're wrong."

His sharp brows furrowed, the system of his mind slightly disrupted by the contradiction. "How?"

"There's this annoying feeling now... like, like I can't just end it that way. That you shouldn't go out that way," You expressed, your voice tight with a genuine, thoroughly frustrating confusion at the uninvited moral latency currently taking root in your brain.

A dark, mocking glint danced in Bullseye’s eyes. "What? Does it ache right here, Love?" he mocked softly.

Before you could dodge, his large, heavy palm slid across the exposed skin of your midriff, settling flat and warm over your bare stomach. The sudden, intense proximity of his touch sent a visceral jolt through your nervous system, and your thighs subconsciously pressed tightly together against the chrome base of the stool.

Your mouth opened to deliver a sharp, defensive retort, but the words were violently severed as a sudden, concussive rumble of chaos began to stir outside the diner windows. The civilian patrons let out a synchronized gasp, scrambling toward the glass as the distant sound of detonations and screaming echoed down the asphalt.

"Trouble in paradise," you calculated down to, your eyes tracking the plumes of dark smoke rising toward the neon skyline.

"I can think of ten other bad things we can do instead of that..." Dex murmured, his gaze shifting from the window back to your face. He nodded toward the back exit, his mind instantly mapping a path that involved leaving the city to burn while the two of you discovered exactly what happened when two monsters stopped pretending to be soldiers. A slow, sinister smile flashed across his scarred face, an unsettling predatory expression that should have terrified you, but instead it felt entirely beautifully fitting.

The temptation was immense. God knows every subcutaneous instinct in your blood desired nothing more than to slip into the dark with a man who looked at you like you were his entire universe. But as you stared into the fractured blue of his eyes, that small, stubborn voice in the back of your head, the one that had felt a fleeting, lonely warmth while army-stomping up a concrete shaft with a group of rejects, spoke up. And somehow, against every law of your selfish, bulletproof physics, it completely overpowered the rest of the noise.

"We can't leave the team hanging," you sighed begrudgingly, letting out a heavy, dramatic breath of utter exasperation.

Sliding off the bar stool, your small, perfectly painted hand slid into his large, calloused palm, your fingers locking tightly around his as you began to physically drag the massive, muscular assassin toward the front doors of the diner. And Dex, with a slow, resigned exhale that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, simply let you.

The bell above the diner door jingled a useless, cheerful note as you burst through the threshold, the neon-lit sanctuary instantly dissolving into a gray, suffocating landscape of dust and screams. Your scuffed heels skidded over loose gravel just in time for your acute vision to map the immediate layout of the street.

Across the avenue, the rest of the team was violently strained against a massive, shearing wall of concrete that had sheared off an office building, currently teetering at a devastating angle above a trapped, weeping civilian woman.

"Move!" you shrieked, playfulness vanishing in a fraction of a second as the bootleg serum in your veins surged, elevating your central nervous system to a state of roaring, singular focus.

You and Dex arrived at the structural ruin simultaneously, a synchronized strike of absolute physical momentum. Your small, unarmored hands slammed flat against the freezing, jagged stone right alongside John Walker’s straining shoulder, your hyper-dense musculature locking into place as Dex wedged his broad frame directly beside yours. His large, scarred forearms flexed, veins bulging against his tactical gear as he poured every ounce of his mortal strength into the vertical plane. Together, a group of rejects and assassins heaved against the dead weight of the world. With a deafening, grinding screech, the massive slab shifted, toppling backward away from the civilian and shattering into harmless, billowing plumes of white powder on the asphalt.

Instantly, the atmosphere shifted. The trapped woman scrambled to her feet, her face streaked with tears as she looked at the bizarre, mismatched group.

"Thank you! Oh my god, thank you!" she sobbed, and a small, scattered chorus of surviving onlookers joined in, cheering openly for the monsters who had just played the part of saviors.

Slowly, you lowered your hands, turning your head in absolute, unvarnished confusion toward Dex. He looked equally, profoundly perplexed. The white target emblem on his mask sat static as his empty eyes darted across the appreciative crowd. Neither of you had ever received positive feedback so openly, so unprompted, without a script or a handler validating the kill. It was a completely foreign, intoxicating frequency.

But the celebratory high was violently short-lived.

The air temperature plunged into an impossible, sub-zero freeze. Several sharp gasps and panicked screams cut through the dust, and ahead, a towering, absolute darkness began to bleed over the high-rises. A void of crushing anti-matter that defied the afternoon sky. The sheer, existential weight of it pressed down on your chest, and for the first time in your bulletproof existence, a visceral, heart-hammering panic rippled through your core.

You took a staggered step backward, your heels clicking weakly against the debris. Instantly, Dex’s heavy, solid arm snapped out, anchoring you firmly against his side. You looked up at him through the gloom, your doe eyes pleading, silently begging the one man who never missed a shot to never, ever let that abyssal thing consume you, as a far more troubled vulnerability awakened deep within your mind.

You looked back up at the hovering, empty silhouette at the center of the dark.

"I think Bob's not playing nice anymore..." you whispered, an uncharacteristic, terrifying edge of genuine fear slipping into your melodic voice.

The street erupted into instantaneous tactical pandemonium. Walker and Bucky were already yelling, their voices booming over the din as they commanded the civilian crowd to get inside the nearest shelter before the growing void could swallow the block. But amidst the sweeping panic, your gaze drifted to the center of the avenue.

Yelena was standing there, her unmoving figure a monument of shock against the oncoming blackness. Then in the next microsecond, a distortion rippled through the air, her solid form was there, and then she was simply gone, sucked violently forward into the unknown of the dark.

Your brain barely registered Alexei's distant, heartbroken roaring before your body acted on pure, human instinct. You tore away from the perimeter, sprinting directly toward the mouth of the void after the fallen widow. And Dex, without a single syllable of hesitation, was running right beside you.

As the threshold of the dark swallowed his physical frame, Benjamin Poindexter’s internal universe fractured entirely. He didn't fully comprehend the reason why he had been compelled to move, why he had abandoned a perfectly viable exit vector to sprint into a cosmic meat-grinder. But his body had long since decided its primary directive: it would follow you into the dark, regardless of the chances of survival.

His mind twisted under the sudden manipulation of Bob's influence, the reality around him bending as his thoughts turned violently inward. He was deeply, agonizingly confused by these new moral tugs. He had spent his entire life operating as a perfect organic machine, requiring a rigid script, a Julie, a Fisk, a bureau manual, to dictate what was acceptable. He didn't like people. He didn't form attachments to the meat he was assigned to clean.

Yet, your chaotic, hyper-feminine frequency had dug so deep beneath his skin that the song of your pink heels had become his new operational baseline. He liked you with a terrifying, possessive intensity because you didn't ask him to be a hero, nor did you look at his scars and see a monster. You saw an equal. You were just as beautifully broken, just as desensitized to the slaughter, yet you moved through the world with an unbothered, radiant happiness that he had never been permitted to possess.

And that cheering... the sound of the civilian woman thanking him... it had sparked a dangerous, volatile wildfire within his compulsive brain. For a man who had spent his existence begging external forces for a sign that he was doing a 'good deed,' that unscripted, organic praise was the ultimate narcotic. He realized, with a sudden surge of adrenaline, that he would do absolutely anything, he would dismantle a god, he would march through hell itself, to receive that kind of unvarnished validation again. To be worth something.

But the void didn't offer redemption; it offered psychological execution.

The gray dust of the street suddenly dissolved, and Dex found himself violently wrenched out of the present, waking up with a gasping lurch on the floor of his old, sterile apartment in Hell's Kitchen. He was entirely alone. The air smelled of stale rain and old paper.

Through the dim, unfeeling light, he watched in horror as a familiar silhouette began to systematically destroy the room. It was him. A younger, unscarred version of himself, still clad in the rigid, pristine tailoring of his FBI tactical uniform. The younger Dex was unhinged, his eyes wide with a manic, obsessive-compulsive desperation as he smashed furniture, searching for an order that didn't exist in the world.

Suddenly, the younger iteration stopped. He drew his standard-issue sidearm, his large hand trembling with a pathetic, agonizing instability as he aimed the barrel directly at the framed photograph of Julie affixed to the wall.

The sight struck the current Dex like a physical blow to the sternum, transforming the space into a theater of pure torture. He hated this exact point in his timeline. He loathed every single second of that stifling, rigid era, the suffocating loneliness, the terrifying mental instability. The pathetic dependency on a woman who was nothing more than a temporary bandage on a bleeding psychic wound. He watched his younger self weep in the dark, a visual manifestation of how desperately unstable and unloved he had felt before the world had finally broken him completely. He wanted to scream, to reach out and shatter the mirage, to pull his identity out of the pathetic trap of his own history.

The younger himself stood frozen in the center of the decaying room, his knuckle whitening against the trigger as the barrel of the service weapon migrated from the wall, finding a jagged home directly beneath his own chin. His fractured, inexperienced mind had seemingly calculated a final, desperate answer to the static noise. The current Dex explicitly looked away, his jaw clenching as he refused to witness the pathetic, unvarnished depth of his past misery. Even though he knew that he had never possessed the nerve to pull the trigger.

"Dex!"

The heavy wood of the apartment door violently bursted open, splintering against the drywall as you crashed through the threshold.

More importantly, you were bleeding. LoveShot Killer never bled. The universe simply didn't permit the ballistic physics of flesh-ripping trauma to apply to your augmented skin. Yet, here you stood, looking entirely worse than he had ever seen you. Your meticulously styled hair was completely disheveled, your glossed lip split open, and deep, blooming cuts traced the exposed skin of your thighs. Worst of all, a dark, smoking bullet wound marred the toned surface of your stomach, the left strap of your top torn and dangling loosely off your bare shoulder.

The visual layout of your desecration struck Dex with a sudden, roaring wave of overwhelming anger. It wasn't an offense born from your sudden indecency; it was a found protective fury directed at whatever psychological entity had dared to lay a hand on you.

You ran straight past the current Dex, your awareness entirely blinded by the illusion of the void as you scrambled toward his younger, uniform-clad self.

"Hey— what're you doing?" you asked, your frantic gait halting as a pained gasp escaped your throat. "Stop being silly, okay?" Your sweet voice broke under the weight of the exhaustion, your painted fingers desperately reaching out to pry the cold metal of the service weapon from his stiff fingers.

"I-I'm here now, s-so we can go and find Yelena, okay?" you whispered urgently, your chest heaving beneath the ruined lace as you pleaded with the ghost.

"Who are you," the younger Dex spoke. The syllables were flat, dead, and entirely devoid of the predatory heat you had grown accustomed to.

You took a staggered step backward, your perfect brows pulling together in a grimace of profound distaste. You hated that look in his eyes, the hollow, mechanical emptiness that mirrored a clinical ledger. Those weren't the same electric, obsessive blue irises you had looked into across the diner counter merely twenty minutes ago.

"What?..." you muttered, unsure.

"Who are you!?" the younger Dex yelled, his posture dropping into an aggressive, unrefined sprint as he approached you with a manic malice.

He didn't waste a single second evaluating the outcome. His choice was instantaneous, a reflex born of his need for your safety. His solitary firearm raised, aligning perfectly with the space of the room, and he fired a single, deafening shot.

Bang.

You flinched violently as a hot spray of crimson landed across your cheek. Downward you stared, your wide, terrified eyes tracking the heavy thud of his body hitting the linoleum, your brain temporarily freezing as you tried to register the paradoxical sight of Dex killing himself to keep you unblemished.

Dex stepped forward through the smoke, his large, rough hand reaching out with a rare, uncharacteristic gentleness to guide your chin upward, forcing your gaze away from the corpse until your eyes finally locked onto his current, scarred face.

"That version of me died a long time ago, okay?" Dex muttered softly, his large thumb brushing against your cheekbone to smear the wet blood away from your skin. It was the only clumsy, unscripted statement of reassurance his damaged psychology could offer.

You let out a ragged breath, your chest heaving as the sheer horror of the void threatened to pull you under. But looking at him, really looking at the rigid intensity in his irises, the terror in your veins suddenly mutated into something else entirely. A sharp, intoxicating surge of adrenaline. You didn't want comfort; you wanted to feel alive, to feel the brutal, grounding heat of the only person who understood the dark as deeply as you did.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his tactical shirt, aggressively yanking him down to your level. The collision of your lips was instant and unrefined, a heated, desperate crash of friction that tasted faintly of copper and vanilla. Dex let out a low, guttural growl in his throat, his restraint snapping like brittle glass. His large hands instantly abandoned their gentleness, trapping the sides of your face and sliding into your disheveled hair to tilt your head back, burying his mouth into yours with a fiercely hungry desperation.

It was intoxicating. The world around completely dissolved as he dragged your body flush against his broad chest, his heavy grip sliding down to clamp around your waist, lifting you slightly off your platforms. Every subconscious barrier you both possessed collapsed. You whimpered into the kiss, your mouth parting to invite the suffocating, dark heat of him, your hands moving frantically up his neck to anchor him closer, needing to consume him just as badly.

The heat turned dangerous, spiraling rapidly out of control as Dex backed you into the nearest wall. The thud of your spine hitting the plaster didn't even register. His hand slid beneath the torn bikini, his calloused palms searing against the bare skin of your breast, his thumb digging into your hip with a bruising, desperate possessiveness that signaled he was ready to completely lose his mind right here in the ruins of his past. The kiss grew deeper, heavier, a breathless, bruising dance that went entirely too far, blurring the line between survival and volatile ruin.

A sharp, concussive rumble from the hallway outside rattled the floorboards, the reality of the collapsing void violently bleeding through the threshold.

The sudden vibration forced Dex to tear his mouth away from yours with a sharp, ragged gasp. His forehead dropped heavily against yours, both of you breathing the same hot, frantic air as his chest heaved against your ruined lace. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with an unadulterated, dangerous desire that took every ounce of his remaining physical leverage to actively restrain. Your breathing increased to a frantic, erratic tempo, lungs hitching as you stared up at his flushed, scarred face, your heart hammering a relentless rhythm against your ribs.

"What happened, hm... Love?" Both hands cradled your face again, softer now.

"It was so awful...... I was in the lab and I had to watch myself get locked in the room and it was dark—then I started attacking myself!?" you heaved out in a sudden, panicked rush of words, your knees buckling slightly under the weight of the memory.

Dex muttered a succession of soft, low-register shhs into your disheveled hair, his broad chest anchoring your trembling frame against the concrete reality of his presence. His blue eyes darted across the ruined apartment, instantly finding a discarded, oversized button-down shirt draped carelessly over a baseball trophy in the corner. The fabric was stained with old, dried patches of his own blood, an atrocity in his historical world back then, but a thoroughly familiar, comforting sight in his current line of work.

Carefully, his large hands gathered the heavy shirt. He wrapped the oversized cotton around your bare, bruised shoulders, his fingers meticulously helping your small hands slip through the wide sleeves before he began to work the plastic buttons up to your collar, concealing the ruined pink lace beneath his own dark history.

"Let's go find the others, okay?" he nodded, the directive surprising his own internal computer the moment the words left his lips. He wasn't a team player. He didn't care about the meat. But as he looked down at you, swaddled in his clothes and breathing against his chest, he knew he couldn't leave the puzzle unfinished.

The illusionary walls of Dex’s old apartment didn’t shatter so much as they bled away, dissolving back into the shifting, unstable architecture of Bob’s fractured psyche. Navigating the void was like wading through a fever dream, but together, the two of you managed to anchor the crumbling pieces of the others.

Ava was discovered first, trapped in a terrifying, perpetual loop of high-frequency phasing, her form screaming as she rapidly disintegrated and rematerialized. It wasn't until you stepped into her space, your voice cutting through the static to explicitly remind her that she was no longer trapped in the clean-room labs of her childhood, that her molecular matrix finally stabilized. Bucky was worse. He was marooned in a desolate, frozen play of his own past atrocities, surrounded by the bleeding ghosts of the Winter Soldier program. The heavy weight of his historic damnation was palpable, but your presence offered an uncharacteristic, grounding sanctuary. You reminded him, with a blunt, unvarnished simplicity, that he had no choice that they made him do it. The ancient tension in his shoulders finally fractured just as Alexei and John stumbled into the perimeter, their own psychological hazes clearing in the wake of Bucky’s dissipating nightmares.

But finding Yelena required traversing the deepest, most concentrated gravity of the anti-matter.

She was entrenched at the absolute epicenter of the darkness, standing guard over the trembling figure of Bob. The real Bob. He was slumped on the floor of his own mental prison, his eyes wide and leaking brilliant, terrifying tears as he looked up at the mismatched, bruised assembly. He literally could not believe you had all descended into the abyss for him.

"We're a team, right?" you said, the sentiment delivered with a half-hearted, beautifully cynical shrug as you adjusted the oversized sleeves of Dex’s button-down shirt. The sentimental beat was violently cut short by your own impatience. "Now do that god-thing and break us out of here!"

"It's not that easy—they just get worse and worse, and I—" Bob’s voice cracked, a devastating thunder vibrating in his throat.

"We'll go through it together," Yelena nodded, her voice a solid, unyielding anchor as she stepped directly into his collapsing perimeter.

The space violently rejected the intrusion. The wall's physical form convulsed into visual manifestation of his internal monster, the Void itself. Shadows with the density of collapsing stars erupted around, lashing out with whiplash velocity to tear the room apart. The transition from a quiet mental prison to a raging internal warzone was instantaneous and brutal. As You anchored yourself in Bob’s collapsing perimeter, the darkness didn't just lash out, it organized itself. From the bleeding shadows surrounding the real, trembling Bob, a towering silhouette materialized. It was the absolute presence of his devil: a faceless, undulating mass of pure anti-matter. The shift in the architecture was instantaneous and violent, the metaphorical walls of the mind hardening into an industrial, sterile labyrinth.

The illusionary sky vanished, replaced by low-slung, humming fluorescent lights that flickered erratically as the fabric of the facility began to fold in on itself.

Bob didn't possess the roaring, cosmic majesty of a god here; he was stripped entirely of his radiant luminescence, reduced back to a trembling, frantic man trapped in a plain cotton shirt. He was locked in a brutal, desperate grapple with a towering, shifting silhouette of pure anti-matter, his own shadow,. Bob was flailing, his pained, unrefined punches cutting through the air as he desperately tried to beat back a psychological parasite that was physically suffocating him.

"He's killing himself!" You yelled over the rising, mechanical screech of the collapsing room.

The rest of the team was instantly pinned down by the sheer atmospheric pressure of the failing reality. The floorboards buckled upward, and gravity wells erupted across the laboratory floor, anchoring Dex's heavy frame and dragging Ava down as her phasing matrix flared out. Heavy steel support beams groaned and snapped overhead, dropping a cascade of sparks and debris that threatened to bury Walker and Alexei entirely.

But the restraint didn't hold. Not after what you all had just crawled through to get here. With a collective, roaring surge of adrenaline, you broke free from the spatial gravity. John shoved a falling concrete pillar aside with his bare shoulder; Bucky and Alexei used their combined physical leverage to clear a path through the warping space, and Dex moved with flawless, unblinking precision, using a discarded piece of rebar to block oncoming threats.

You and Yelena spearheaded, rushing headlong into the heart of the epicenter where Bob was violently collapsing under the weight of his own shadow.

"Stop! Bob, stop!" Yelena commanded, her voice an desperate, unyielding anchor as her arms wrapped securely around his right shoulder, using her entire body weight to stall his frantic, self-destructive momentum.

You slid across the cracked tile floor, your platforms skidding through the white dust as you threw yourself onto his left side. Your solid arms locked around his trembling forearm, your fingernails digging into the fabric of his sleeve as you forcefully halted another pained, desperate punch aimed at the empty, suffocating air.

"We've got you! Just hold on!" you shrieked over the roar of the void, your face flushed with sheer physical exertion as Dex materialized directly behind you, his large, steady hands slamming onto your shoulders to add his massive, stabilizing weight to the human anchor.

Bucky and Walker dove into the huddle next, their massive hands locking onto Bob’s chest and legs, physically pinning the man to the floor to separate him from the dark entity feeding on his panic. Alexei, the father and guardian that he was, hunched over the mess you all were, serving and protecting in the way that he knew how. The eight of you became a single, solid monument of support. Broken pieces whole by each other.

"Look at us!" Yelena ordered, her eyes burning into his leaking, terrified gaze. "We're leaving!"

The declaration was the final, critical and promising in a way the void could not assimilate. A collection of selfish, discarded assassins putting their bodies on the line for a man they barely knew. The towering shadow let out a final, deafening screech of frustration, its form fading into a harmless, dissipating thread of dark smoke as Bob’s chest heaved in a massive, ragged breath.

Gravity snapped. And it was like waking up from a dream. The heavy, real-world atmosphere of New York rushed back into your lungs with a vengeance. The eight of you collapsed in a tangled, bruised heap onto the freezing, unpolished floor, gasping for air as the cold starlight of reality finally washed over your faces. The velocity with which the universe could pivot from an apocalyptic nightmare into a complete, bureaucratic farce was a testament to the joke of their existence.

With Dex’s steady, calloused hand anchoring your weight, you rose from the cold concrete floor of the real world. Your knees were still a little weak from the phantom trauma of the void, but the mocking cadence of your voice returned the exact millisecond reality solidified around you.

"Dammit, you're still alive," you joked, a soft, melodic huff escaping your lips as you looked up at him through your disheveled hair.

"Unfortunately," he shot back, the gravelly register of his voice carrying an uncharacteristic fondness. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he stared down at you, his obsessive internal self completing a massive, definitive calculation. He was keeping you. How could he not? You were a beautiful, bulletproof thing that had literally shot its way through his worst nightmares just to drag him back to the light.

His analytical gaze wandered downward, mapping the damage. The blood-stained shirt he had buttoned around you in the dream was gone, vanished back into the confines of Bob's mind. Your own baby-pink top remained violently torn, the strap dangling loosely over your bare shoulder in an explicit invitation to indecency. Without a single word of hesitation, Dex stepped intimately behind you, his large, scarred forearms wrapping securely around your chest to serve as a firm, protective barrier against the elements. He would have to find you a completely new, meticulously styled uniform later, but for now, his body was your defense and he already liked the way you fit into him.

Your eyes instantly locked onto the distant, unmistakable silhouette of Valentina Allegra de Fontaine barking orders across the plaza, and a sudden, subcutaneous heat flared in your veins. You began to stalk forward, Dex seamlessly moving with you, his muscular form still securely wrapped around your short body as the rest of the broken team rallied into a tight, unified formation alongside a confused but conscious Bob.

"I'm going to kill that person," you nodded, your voice taking on a dangerously sweet edge.

"We stick together from now on," Yelena declared, her hand firmly pulling Bob along as she assumed the baseline orientation of a leader.

"We can't kill her. We have to take her in," Bucky countered, his cybernetic arm gleaming under the city lights as his moral programming reasserted its heavy, unyielding authority.

"Maybe we break a few bones," Alexei offered with a boisterous, entirely unbothered grin, cracking his massive knuckles in anticipation.

"I'd like to kill her," Ava nodded flatly, her form stabilizing as desperately tried to bend his taco-shaped vibranium shield back into a practical shape, failing miserably with a quiet grunt of frustration.

Valentina, sensing the immense threat marching down the avenue, scrambled backward into the false, temporary safety of a haphazardly strung perimeter of construction tarps. The team surged forward, preparing to execute a thoroughly unglamorous, heavy-handed arrest, only to be violently ambushed by a blinding, deafening wall of flash photography and shouting members of the press.

You felt Dex freeze instantly behind you, his large chest tensing against your back as the intrusive media lights washed over his scarred face. Your small hand subtly reached behind his hip, your small hands sliding into his low-slung utility belt to wrap around the grip of one of his blades. You weren't above a televised murder. In fact, you thought it would look rather spectacular on the evening news.

"For years, I've been secretly developing a new age of protection," Valentina’s voice boomed through a microphone, her performative, corporate-politician smile turning radiant as she completely hijacked the narrative in front of the rolling cameras. "Today, the citizens of the United States needed that protection, and thanks to my hard work, they got it. Ladies and gentlemen, meet... The New Avengers."

The sudden, sheer absurdity of the announcement hit your brain with the force of a physical blow. The blade slipped from your fingers, dropping toward the pavement before Dex’s secondary hand snapped out with whiplash velocity, catching the steel mid-air while his other arm remained firmly across your chest to keep you modest in front of the flashing lenses.

Your perfect brows raised to the clouds as you looked around at the mismatched, bruised assembly of rejects standing in the glare. Everyone was equally, profoundly confused.

A silent, completely bewildered laugh broke free from your throat, your shoulders shaking against Dex's chest. An Avenger? You? A hyper-sexual, bulletproof liquidator who wore lace to a black-ops infiltration? It was a hilarious, beautiful joke. Dex tried desperately to suppress the amused, sinister smirk tugging at his mouth, quickly deflecting by looking over at Walker, whose face was frozen in a comical state unvarnished cognitive dissonance next to Ava’s utterly stunned, wide-eyed expression.

As the media circus swarmed around Valentina, the chaotic, bright energy of the plaza seemed to soften into something entirely different, something uniquely quiet and grounding.

You leaned back into the heavy, solid density of Dex’s torso, your laughter fading into a soft, genuine breath of contentment. For the first time in your life, the silence that usually amplified the terrifying static in your brain didn't arrive. The frantic, subcutaneous urge to keep killing, to keep hunting just to survive the noise, simply wasn't there. The static had been entirely replaced by the steady, rhythmic thump of Dex’s heart against your shoulder blades and the unpolished, exhausting warmth of the people standing beside you.

You looked over at Yelena, who was currently nursing a bruised jaw but looking back at you with a faint, weary smirk of mutual understanding. Bucky stood half a step away, his cybernetic arm catching the starlight, his posture no longer carrying the crushing, solitary weight of his past atrocities. They were all pieces of trash, as Yelena had so eloquently put it, discarded side characters, losers who had been marked for deletion by the very system that created them.

But as Dex’s grip tightened just a fraction more around your waist, a possessive, silent promise cementing itself between the two of you, you realized that being a loser didn't feel so bad when you were surrounded by your own specific brand of freaks. You weren't America's sweethearts. You were never going to be good people who followed a script or sought the sterile validation of a heroic title. You were the Thunderbolts. You were broken, desensitized, and thoroughly unhinged, but as the eight of you stood under the flashing lights, whole by each other, you knew the universe was finally going to have to make room for the supernova unleashing.

Bonus :)

The heavy, reinforced doors of the infamous Midtown high-rise groaned as they were forced open, the pristine, high-tech sanctuary of the former Avengers Tower completely vacant and swaddled in dust sheets.

"Are we even supposed to be here?" Ava asked, her voice flickering with latency as she stepped tentatively into the cavernous, sleek lounge space.

"You heard what they called us earlier- The New Avengers. Why wouldn't the Avengers live in the Avengers Tower!?" you justified, offering a brilliant, entirely unbothered grin that completely brushed past the legal definition of breaking and entering.

"Seems perfectly reasonable," Bucky nodded, his eyes gleaming under the ambient security lights as he casually tossed his tactical duffel onto a multi-million dollar sofa.

"Where are you going," Dex’s low voice cuts through the spatial geometry of the room. His large, calloused hand snapped out with precision, his fingers catching the bare skin of your upper arm the exact second you attempted to slip away into the shadows of the corridor.

"Exploring!" you chirped, turning your head to pout at him.

"I'm coming with you," he stated flatly. It wasn't an offer; it was a baseline directive. He wasn't letting his bulletproof girl out of his sightline.

Behind you, the team seamlessly dissolved into their own pockets of the tower. Alexei and John immediately migrated toward the industrial kitchen, the super-soldiers already bickering over the expiration dates of the high-end rations left in the sub-zero refrigerator. Ava collapsed onto the expansive couch with a long sigh, her form finally resting against the cushions, while Bob quietly located the remote, turning on the massive television screen with the wide-eyed wonder of a man re-learning how to be human. Near the primary terminal, Yelena and Bucky were already huddled over the control panels, their heads together as they systematically began rewriting the building's security codes to ensure Valentina’s cleanup crew could never breach their perimeter again.

The transition into this bizarre, unauthorized new life was characterized by an unglamorous peace. When the bureaucratic handlers eventually attempted to deliver the official, standardized "New Avengers" uniforms. Stiff, unyielding suits of muted Kevlar and patriotic insignias, you had rejected the garment with a tantrum that nearly resulted in the delivery agent getting a pink dagger thrown through his shoe. You absolutely refused to hide behind the heavy, suffocating cowardice of standard armor.

Instead, a compromise was meticulously engineered in the privacy of the tower's lower levels, drafted entirely between yourself and Benjamin Poindexter.

The resulting uniform was a magnificent, feminine middle finger to military pragmatism: a baby-pink, high-collared crop top with form-fitting long sleeves, constructed from a dense, blast-resistant weave that left your midriff entirely exposed. Emblazoned directly across the center of your chest was a stark, stylized symbol, a pristine target, mathematically perfect in its form, but curved beautifully into the distinct shape of a heart.

Dex loved it. His obsessive mind was completely captured by the design; it was a flawless, physical synthesis of his rigid, ordered universe and your chaotic, beautiful self. It was a literal bulls-eye, a love invitation to the world to try their absolute best to hit you.

The eight of you were undeniably fucked up. There were no grand illusions of moral nobility or pristine redemption within the walls of the tower; you were a ragtag parade of weaponized rejects, side characters who had survived the cleaning house. Dex still spent hours silently realigning the silverware in the kitchen to achieve perfection, and the static in your own brain still whispered of the dark labs.

But as you sat on the edge of the polished mahogany bar, swinging your new platform heels while Dex meticulously strapped a fresh dozen of your custom enameled knives around your low-slung belt, you realized the noise didn't matter anymore. It was nice to finally be around a group of people who looked at your broken pieces, looked at the wild, predatory gleam in Dex's blue eyes, and didn't ask a single damn question. The team didn't blink at whatever it was that was happening between you and Dex. There were no juvenile jokes from Alexei, no mocking smirks from Yelena, and John Walker never offered a single, unsolicited piece of advice about workplace decorum. Nobody taunted you when Dex spent forty-five minutes straight meticulously sharpening your throwing knives at the kitchen island, his eyes tracking your movement across the room with a laser-focused, protective intensity. Nobody commented when you casually lay across his lap on the massive plush sofa while Bucky and Ava argued over what to watch on the monitor.

It simply made sense. In a world that had spent years trying to break, script, or eliminate every single one of you, you had found an equal who looked at your unhinged, bulletproof nature and saw an absolute certainty. The rest of the Thunderbolts understood what it meant to be an anomaly; they weren't about to interrogate the physics of the only two people who could look into Sentry's void and find a way to make it hotter.

The New Avengers and Bob will be back?

=========================================

A/N: So that was long as hell, anways! I hope you all enjoyed it! Depending on how busy I am with fashion school I may continue this story some more bc I really wanted to write some smut but I left like it just didn't blend into the setting. Let me know what you think and I'll see yall in the next one! Which may or may not be a Clark Kent story because I'm working on a Supergirl corset irl for the new movie! Also I didn't proof read anything so if a few italic points are missing my bad gang.

[livwtfhaha]

tbr

[isntitoddie]

dex whose north star disappeared during the blip. maybe this is me needing to rewatch season three and born again season one but idk when the blip happens during the daredevil timeline nor do i remember how long dex was in prison for. i want to say six years but who knows and for the sake of this post i am not looking it up.

because i don't really know the timeline, i cannot stop thinking which would be worse for dex in the long run; his north star being blipped when he's in prison or while he's free

if she's gone while he's in prison, lets say a year or less into his sentence and all communication from his north star just stops. no letters, no phone calls, no weekly visits, the one think keeping him sane and preventing him from breaking out of that hellish place. because if we want to be really honest, if dex had a north star/girlfriend he would NOT have served his time, even if she told him to for whatever reason, he'd struggle with wrapping his head around the fact his north star willingly wants them to be apart for so long

but thats another conversation.

i can imagine dex just sitting there, waiting at the table for his visit or in his cell for guards to come escort him to the visiting area. either way, like a good loyal dog, he sits there patiently waiting for his north star's return, trying not to let the time passing later and later get to him. gods help the poor guards who oversaw visiting hours that day. when time was up, and she still didn't show, they were shaking in their boots, doing round for round of rock paper sissors to see who the unlucky bastard was that would have to tell benjamin poindexter, bullseye, time was up and he'd have to wait a week for a chance to see her.

dex didn't want to wait a week. its been days since he's last heard from her. i think we can all agree prisons weren't safe from thanos so sure some inmates and a couple guards turned to dust but dex could never think in a million years it could happen to her. his north star. shes above all that, above all the scum who turned to nothing but specks in the air and more work for the cleaning crew.

and heres when it turns to ‘you/your’ pronouns causes its more natural for me to write i blame wattpad being the platform i learned to write

dex would crash the fuck out because he can't break himself out of his spiral. there was nothing, no one telling him you didn't leave him, because why wouldn't you show? if he gets in his head maybe you did get blipped and it wasn't your fault, that wouldn't be any better because that means something—someone took you from him and he wasn't there to protect you. long story short, dex gets thrown in solitary but not without taking out a handful or so of guards

maybe he'd ride out the years in prison because it was your last wish before you disappeared. that maybe the help he'd get in there would help him get better. you loved him the way he is, but if people still saw him as a scary, disgusting threat then the chance of him being taken away from you were too high. but now you weren't around for him to be taken from and that realization may cause him to snap and break out

on the other hand. if you were to have disappeared while you were together, it'd be much harsher on dex almost immediately. i'm picturing you two in your apartment, dex had to leave the room for one thing or another. he was gone for six seconds, he knows because he's counted and tracked the time he wasted took from you to his destination for an object he couldn't be bother to remember. nothing was more important than you. he looked away for six seconds

six seconds, it would have been 4 but he was distracted by a car that crashed into the sidewalk. saw dust evaporating and when he turned back to you, where you were supposed to be sprawled out on the couch like the angel you are. except, you weren't. and the couch is covered in dust slowly floating out the window you keep open for the stray that frequents for food.

dex wouldn't panic at first. he's too used to the pranks you pull, always pushing his buttons for your amusement. so dex calls your name and waits, then searches for you, calls your name and waits. then his searching gets more frantic, now he's calling your name with every step that turned into uncontrolled stomps. dex is checking closets, the pantry, the shower, cupboards you couldn't possibly fit into, the roof because you like to traces constellations on the back of his palm while complaining about not being able to see them.

he'd look for you for about a year, more maybe if no one confronts him. if matt for some reason comes to dex, pre-foggy i can see matt peeping how destroyed dex is as he's following bullseye's trail of bodies and trying to talk some sense into him. or dex could come to the conclusion on his own, though that would happen a lot more slowly and he just wouldn't be as convinced opposed to it coming from matt.

flash forward to when everyone comes back from the blip. your shared apartment has turned into a shrine. nothing has been touched since the day you left aside from a few guns on the table and holes in the wall. pictures of you and dex, of your friends and family have turned into rows of framed photos of just you.

dex comes home at the right time, you're mind had just stopped reeling from the sudden change, because well... nothing has changed at least not on your end. sure it was daylight outside just a few seconds ago but.... maybe you fell asleep. sure, but then, when did dex leave? and since when did he have on his bullseye suit.

the two of you would stare at each other for a while. dex frozen in the door way, you a little disoriented wondering why your ben was acting so strange, when he went from the bedroom to your front door. then he walks past you as if he didn't notice your presence in the first place.

he doesn't flinch when you call his name, he pauses when you grab his hand, looks at you and with all the cold malice you thought you'd never receive from him, dex spits at you, "go away" heads to the bedroom and slams the door.

your left standing there, hurt, confused and scared. not because of dex, kinda because of him, but because now there were shouting and loud noises coming from outside. so you turn on the tv because maybe at least someone in there will tell you what the hell was happening.

dex, our poor death row husband. went a little crazy in your absence. we see how he took julie's body with him to kill fisk. i can imagine he would start hearing you in his head, maybe not full on hallucinations, but he fully could not function without you to the point where his brain had to make up a fictious you just to keep going. while it worked, he hated it.

he didn’t want something fake his mind made up, even if at times when he gets really bad, it nearly convinces him. he wants you. he wants the real thing. he wants your hands on his skin. your real warm lips kissing away his tears. your soft words chasing away the noise until all he knows is your breath, your name and you heart beat

so when you appeared in the living room after a night of gruesome work, in the same pajamas you left him in, looking like an angel in the neon glow, he didn’t believe you were real. your voice echoes when you call him name and you look so confused, so loving when you look at him not disappointed or scared or disgusted like he knew he deserved for whats become of him in your absence

he retreats into the bedroom to escape you, fully expecting you to appear in the room behind him. but you don’t and there’s a commotion outside. dex let himself look, if only to distract himself from the daunting fact he’s finally gone insane. it doesn’t really hit him, how he’s seeing people being reformed from dust until a tv turns on in the distance

and suddenly he’s in the hallway, staggering towards the source of the sudden chatter. when he sees you lit up all in up and silver, he chokes and he doesn’t really have time to think much else other than your name when you come running up to him with tears in your eyes.

your hands on his biceps as you look into his eyes, pressing into his skin as you drag them up his shoulders, neck, raking your fingers through his hair with enough pressure to ground him. dex is stiff when you tuck his head under your chin. a moment later, his hands are holding your waist, hips, clawing gloved nails and down your back.

he’d be whispering, “are you real?” and not even notice until you shush him, because he’s too focused on your scent, which had been nothing but a dying memory for years, how it shuts everything off but sets his skin and every one of his senses on fire.

you’re muttering back, “i’m sorry” which dex has to shut down immediately with a harsh, salty kiss. he was the one who treated you so harshly when you just came back to him. he should have trusted that you could never leave him on your own.

then fade to black…. i might add more of this later if i come up with something thing else

[fru1t4fr0gs]

Folie a Deux

Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter/Bullseye x Reader

Summary: Folie a deux: "the madness of two"

If you were to ask most sane people, a relationship between a hacker with a penchant for breaking the law and an FBI agent shouldn’t work. And yet, you and Benjamin Poindexter just seem to…well, work. You get each other. You love each other. In fact, it doesn’t take much to see that your boyfriend is completely and utterly obsessed with you.

Unfortunately, Wilson Fisk sees this too, and it isn’t long before it becomes clear just how far Dex is willing to go to keep you with him. And, after tragedy strikes, how far he’ll go to get you back.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Obsession, Stalking, Violence, Murder (I mean, it's Bullseye), Blood, Dex is down so bad guys, Smut!!, Unprotected PinV (wrap it before you tap it), Slight knife play, Slight gun play, Reader matches Dex’s freak, Vague mentions of mental illness (it's Dex), Angst, Canon-compliant character death, Please please let me know if I forgot anything!

Author's Note: And here we have the longest fic I've ever written! I loved writing these two so much that I'm almost sad to post it because I don't get to work on it anymore. Be warned that this fic is going to follow the events of Daredevil season 3 through Born Again season 2, so there will definitely be spoilers! As always, let me know what you guys think!! Your feeback brings me joy and keeps me writing!!

Word Count: 22k

-

It’s almost painfully cliche, how he meets you.

You slam into him, head banging against his shoulder so hard that it might bruise. So hard that your phone clatters to the ground in a chaotic little cacophony of plastic on pavement.

“Shit!” Your voice is a sharp cry in the crowded street, but no one really turns around for this kind of thing in New York. No one offers much more than a backwards glance and a raised eyebrow. He just wanted a damn coffee, and now his shoulder is aching and he’s about to whip around to snap at you for-

Your palm is pressed against your forehead, and your eyes are squeezed shut. You’re in a sweatshirt and jeans. There are subtle bags under your eyes from what he can only assume is a lack of sleep. Your sneakers are worn. There is almost nothing about you that should be in any way memorable.

One eye peeks open, and his heart…stutters.

“I’m sorry. Shit. You okay?”

His heart stops.

He isn’t sure why. He can’t exactly place it, but it’s just…there you are. Running right into him like that. Asking if he’s okay when you look like his shoulder bone might have fucking concussed you.

He reaches down, picks up your phone, and offers it to you.

“I’m fine.” He says, softer than he means to, and you open your other eye.

“Are you made of concrete or something?” You huff a laugh, accept your phone, and slide it into your pocket. He’s staring too hard. He needs to break the gaze but it feels impossible and wrong to even try.

“Not that I know of.”

A feeling like desperate need claws its way up his throat when you smile again. When you laugh at his words like you really hear them. He doesn’t know exactly what it is he needs, but it’s overwhelming to the point of near-pain.

“I’m sorry about that.” You say again, and you mean it. “If I left a bruise, don’t sue me.” You glance down, notice the badge clipped to his belt. “Or…arrest me.”

He can’t remember how to speak. How to breathe right. But he needs to act…normal. He can’t just yank you to him in the middle of the street, bury his nose in your neck and inhale your perfume. Not like he wants to.

The world is narrowed down to a pinpoint. The crowded, chaotic streets of the city are gone. The honking of taxis, the bustle of people trying to get to their destinations, the towering buildings, it’s all gone. It’s just you, and your smile, and your eyes looking up at him.

His smile twitches a little before it finally forms on his lips, lopsided and genuine. You relax at the sight of it.

“Don’t have my cuffs on me, so I guess you’re safe.” And you smile at the joke, and it’s perfect.

He’ll buy you coffee. He’ll talk to you. He’ll make you smile more.

Your phone dings, and you curse as you glance down at it. “Shit. I gotta go.” You murmur, shooting one more apologetic glance up at him. “Sorry again. Really.”

“It’s…okay.” But it’s not. You can’t leave. You can’t walk away from him he just found you he’s not done-

But you’re gone, and your sudden absence shudders his breath and makes his chest feel too tight. No. No, you need to be here. With him. He just found you. You can’t leave.

He doesn’t move for a good few seconds, frozen in place as the noise and chaos crashes back in, crippling and horrible.

The bell to the coffee shop dings. There. That’s where you are. Where you’re going. Not gone. Not too far for him to find again.

He waits sixty seconds, counts his breaths, and follows.

-

“Yikes, what happened to you?”

You’re rubbing your forehead. You’re hurt. His shoulder hurt you. The dull ache in the spot where you slammed against him feels like a connection. A tether holding you to him.

“Too embarrassing.” You grumble, but he can hear a hint of humor and familiarity in your voice. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Well now I have to know.” You smile at the blond man. Nelson. The lawyer. Dex knows about him. Are you with him, somehow? Is Nelson trying to take you away from him?

You huff a laugh, and plop down unceremoniously into the opposite chair, still rubbing your forehead. “I was trying to respond to your millionth text, and I just absolutely slammed into this smoking hot FBI guy.”

“FBI?” Nelson repeats, but you said hot. You called him hot. He’s so distracted by that that he barely hears your next words, dripping with sarcasm as you pull one foot up onto the chair and wrap your arms around your knee.

“Yeah, and then I told him all about my extra curricular activities, and my home address.”

“Your jokes aren’t as funny as you think they are, you know.”

“Neither are yours, and we’re still friends.” You accept the cup of coffee Nelson slides your way, and Dex’s heart stutters again as you smile over the rim of the mug.

“So, speaking of which…”

“I knew it. I knew it. You never just wanna hang out and get coffee.”

“We hang out and get coffee all the time.”

“The ratio is off, lately. You ask for favors more since you went into that corporate law job. Now your pro-bono work always goes through me and all my incredible skills like some dirty little secret.”

Pro-bono work. Secrets. What do you do? You’re kind. You’re good. He can feel it. Sense it like second nature. But the questions and lack of answers are making him grip his own mug a little tighter, making it difficult for him to lean back in the shadows and hide like he’s supposed to.

Nelson looks sheepish, but you give a good natured wave of your hand. A silent ‘go on’ gesture that Dex can’t help but find painfully charming.

“I have a case. This guy…” Nelson slides a file towards you, “didn’t do it. Works for a big company, going down for financial crimes that he didn’t commit. They’re trying to cover their tracks, and a little bit of proof might keep him from missing his kids’ elementary school graduation.” You raise an eyebrow, and Nelson smiles a little. “And middle school. And high school. And…college. The point is they’re gonna try to put him away for a long time, and he didn’t do it.”

You squint, and slide the file closer to yourself. “Financial crimes?”

“Just saying, a little bit of…evidence towards his innocence will really help.”

“Hm.”

“And it shouldn’t be a problem for the best hacker in New York.”

You raise an eyebrow again.

“Okay, the east coast.”

Your eyebrow climbs higher.

“America?”

You grin, and Dex twitches with the need to be closer to you. To see that grin directed at him.

“You’re gonna have to start paying me soon.”

“And if I do, it becomes illegal.”

You tilt your head back again, puff out a dramatic sigh, and curl your fingers around the file.

“I want one of your mom’s sandwiches, at two am. The one with the provolone that I like.”

Nelson grins, wide. “Done and done.”

And then, you tilt your head back towards Nelson. “Does this have anything to do with Fisk?”

Fisk. Fisk? That asshole? That annoying detail he’s about to be stuck on?

“Wilson Fisk?”

“No, the other one. The other crime boss who just got out of prison and has a bone to pick with you.”

Nelson rolls his eyes. “Still not funny.”

“Foggy.”

He hesitates, and frowns. “No. But don’t…just stay away from that, okay? We’ll figure it out. You getting involved, especially with your tendency to…piss people like that off…”

“I haven’t been caught.”

“You will be, if you keep up that little Robin Hood act you have going on. There’s only so much legal counsel I can give you. This is extra legal council. I should be charging you for this.”

“Those companies don’t notice any money missing. You know who does? Mr. Stevenson next door, who can pay off his damn bills and not have to work an extra six hours a day to afford medication for his bad leg.” Your tone is sharp. Defensive.

So you’re a criminal. A good one. Because stealing from the rich and giving to people who need it… that’s good. His own moral compass might be a little off-kilter, but he knows that much.

Then again, you could be a serial killer and he would probably still feel this way, but oh well.

Foggy frowns, like this is a conversation you’ve had many times before, and gives you a familiar little nod, like he knows arguing won’t get him too far. “Just…don’t get involved, okay? Stay away from it. This is more dangerous than you think.”

“Vague.” You grumble, but you’re sliding the file into your bag. “Sandwich with the provolone, three am.”

“You said two.”

You stand, finish your coffee, and smile. “This one’s gonna take a while.”

-

Watching you work is…fascinating.

It’s a slow process, Dex realizes quickly. You don’t click at your keyboard and bust through firewalls like in movies. You lay on your couch, bite your nails, and seem to work through problems one by one. It takes a while. It frustrates you. It makes you smile to yourself when you solve one of those problems.

You get your sandwich. You talk to Nelson for a while. Update him. Get back to work.

The sun is going to rise, soon. You’re still working. His eyes are starting to hurt from watching you through this telescope, but he can’t make himself look away.

When you move to the kitchen, you slide on the hardwood in your socks. You play music. You tap your fingers on your keyboard to the beat.

He watches every second. Every single twitch of your eye. Every frown when you can’t figure something out. Every bright little spark when you do figure it out.

Perfect. You’re perfect. And when you finally do fall asleep, computer resting on your stomach and eyes dropping closed like they’re weighed down by anvils, he wants more than anything to make his way into that dingy little apartment and carry you to your bed in the adjacent room. To slide his fingers through your hair, feel you smile, and listen to your heartbeat until he’s positive that nothing will ever be able to take you away from him.

But for now, he watches. He stays, long after you’ve fallen asleep, and he watches.

-

It takes planning. It takes hours of working himself up to it. Of watching you from afar, plotting every scenario out bit by bit and talking himself out of it a thousand times.

You consume his thoughts like a poison. He follows you to your work. Back to your apartment. Watches every interaction you have with everyone else and wishes it was him you were looking at until he stops fucking sleeping with the need to have you near him.

So, when the torture becomes too much, he follows you to a bar, and he sits in the corner, and he watches you laugh with your friends. Watches and watches and craves to be closer to the light that seems to emanate from your very being.

And he gets up at just the right time, and allows you to bump into him as you start walking back towards the group you came with.

Not a single drop of his drink spills on him - he’s still a little too organized to allow that to happen if he can help it - but he makes it look like it does. He catches your waist as you stumble with an ‘oomph’, and just like that you’re close to him. You’re touching him. He’s touching you. You’re here. With him.

“Oh, fuck. Sorry. Sorry.” You’re not drunk, barely even buzzed, but he knows you well enough now to know that you’re just a little clumsy, and this place is just loud enough for this to work.

Your eyes turn up to his, and you nearly stumble back.

Practiced smile. Fingers curling against your back a little because he just can’t help it. “We’ve gotta stop bumping into each other like this.” He’s practiced that line in the mirror, and it works. You laugh.

You laugh. At his joke. At his line that he’s practiced for this specific scenario. It worked.

“I know you.” You grin, wide, and then flinch a little, but you’re still laughing. “Have I said I’m sorry yet?”

“You did.” He has to let you go. He would rather die, but he can’t be holding you like this. You don’t know him yet. Not yet. “Never got your name, though.”

“I never got yours. Figured you hated me for dislocating your shoulder.”

“Dex.”

“Dex.” You repeat, and his blood hums in his veins at the sound. “Nice to meet you, Dex.”

“Nice to meet you…public hazard.” Lame joke. Bad joke. He just can’t string a fucking thought together when you’re near him and-

You snort. His heart bursts into flames.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Fuck. It’s too soon. Way too soon. You’re gonna say no, and leave, and he’s-

“Yeah.” You set your drink down. “Yeah, I do.”

-

“So…hobbies?” You take a bite of your pizza, heels clicking against the pavement, and he can’t stop looking at you.

“Not really.”

“Hm.” You don’t seem bothered by it. By his lack of interesting traits. He’s not lying to you. He doesn’t have to. You’re meant to be together, after all. He doesn’t have to lie about himself. Right? “Okay. Any special skills then, Special Agent?”

Actually, yeah. “I have one.”

You perk up, raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

He grins, real and genuine, and pulls a quarter out of his back pocket. “Think you’re ready for it?”

“More than.” You’re excited. Really, truly excited. It’s fucking adorable.

“Nah.” He flips the coin over his fingers, feigns pocketing it again. “Don’t think you are.”

“Aw, come on. Please?”

Butterflies swarm in his chest. A smile curls on his lips. He nods towards the darkened street before you. “Pick somethin’.”

You frown, cock your head to the side, and purse your lips when he doesn’t budge to give you any more information. “Okay….street sign. That one right there.”

“Letter.”

“What?”

“Pick a letter.”

Your brow furrows a little more, and your lips twitch in a smile. “T.”

The throws the quarter out, and the sound of metal on metal sings through the air.

There’s a dent in the T. It’s so small, so subtle, that you have to move over to the sign to inspect it.

“Holy shit.”

Do you like it? Are you impressed? He has to stop himself from grabbing your shoulder and demanding to know.

“Can you do it again?”

Yes. Yes of course he can. He’ll do anything. Anything to make you look at him with those wide eyes and that big grin.

You name five more things, he hits them all perfectly, and he doesn’t want to stop. He wants to keep impressing you. Keep hearing your startled noises of approval.

But you make it back to your apartment, and he has to force himself to let you leave. To not follow you upstairs and learn every inch of your skin until it’s locked into his memory forever.

Instead, he asks you to dinner, and you agree. You smile, and you agree.

-

He kisses you for the first time on your second date. Dinner and ice cream.

He’s walked you to your door, like he did the last time, and you’re standing there in your dress with that smile of yours and your eyes looking expectantly into his and he doesn’t know how to do this right. Sure, there have been women in the past. He’s kissed girls. Slept with them when the time was right, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, and never really…felt anything. Never wanted anything like this. Fuck, he feels more excitement just looking at you than he did with every hookup he’s ever had.

He has to do it. Make it romantic. Make it perfect. He’s looked up the right way to do this. Studied romantic movies like it was some kind of assignment with life-or-death consequences.

Reach up, brush your hair behind your ear, drink in your shy smile, lean closer so his breath ghosts over your lips-

“You have ice cream on your nose.”

He freezes, fingers still cupping your jaw, and pulls back.

“What?”

You giggle, oblivious to how much his mind is spinning, and reach up to swipe it off with your thumb.

“Shit.” He mumbles, shaking his head and stepping back. “Shit. I’m sorry. I-“

You tilt your head to the side, curious and confused and beautiful as you seem to realize that he’s actually freaking out a little. Because it’s not perfect. It was supposed to be perfect because that’s the only way he gets to keep good things. Order. Focus. But he fucked it up and now you’re-

“Woah, hey. Hey.” You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry, it was cute. Just…try again.”

Try again. Yeah, he…he can try again. It can still be good. Still be perfect.

So he does. He leans down, and when his lips brush yours his breath comes out as a shaky exhale.

And then your mouth is on his, warm and soft and everything he’s ever wanted. Electricity shoots down his spine, through his blood, and some tether of control within him snaps. He presses closer, the hand on your cheek moving to the back of your head to keep you in place, and kisses you like he’s trying to devour you with a passion he didn’t know he possessed.

You gasp against his lips, arms coming up to wrap around his neck as you meet him with just as much enthusiasm. Just as much hunger. And this…this is perfect. This is rough and desperate and perfect. This didn’t need to go according to plan. This is so much better than the plan.

When you finally break apart, he’s out of breath and more than a little pleased to see that you are, too.

“Wow.” You whisper, and he grins as his nose ducks back down to brush against yours.

“Yeah.” He breathes, unable to think of another response. Any other word to describe this feeling. “Wow.”

-

When you see the caller id, you can’t help but smile at the screen.

“Geez, you look so weird with the cartoon heart eyes.” Foggy’s voice breaks you out of your little trance, and you snort as you answer the phone, confirming that Dex is off work and headed back to his apartment. You feel a twinge of excitement, cheesy as it is, at the idea of seeing him soon. You try not to flag down the bartender too quickly, lest the mockery get any worse.

“FBI guy?” Foggy raises an eyebrow, and you smile again.

“His name is Dex.” Foggy’s eyebrows rise even higher. You flush. “I dunno, I like him. A lot, actually.”

“He’s in the FBI. You’re a pretty notorious hacker.”

“So we don’t talk about work.” You take a sip of your drink. “Plus, he’s not gonna turn me in. I’m too good in bed.”

“But he knows?”

“Of course he knows.” You raise your eyebrows, leaning forward like you’re explaining something imperative. “One you start having sex with someone, it’s important that you confess all of your crimes to each other.”

Foggy laughs, and shakes his head. “You’re insane.” And then, curious and caring as ever, “so what’s he like, if he’s got you risking federal prison?”

Your smile returns, cheeks heating a little, and you shrug. “Cute. Nice. A little weird. Well, actually a lot weird, but…I like it.” You think about the precise way Dex loads the dishwasher. How he carefully makes the bed every morning. How he makes an odd joke every now and then, and then looks absolutely panicked until you laugh, and that panic will always melt into an expression of relief and adoration.

Sometimes his emotions are a little…intense. He can get frustrated, and sometimes he doesn’t seem like he knows how to handle it. But you help. You always do. You tell him to breathe and help him work through whatever’s bothering him, and it works. He always listens. Always tries, even if it takes a moment.

You just…work. Something about you, and something about him, and all the weirdness in between…it works.

When you get back to his place tonight, he’s holding a bouquet of flowers and looking genuinely nervous.

“I don’t get this.” He admits before you even drop your keys onto the counter, frowning down at the colorful petals. “They’re just gonna die in a couple of days.”

“Then why did you get them?”

He cocks his head to the side, but you can see a tinge of pink on his cheeks. “They did it in the movie we watched last night. You smiled.”

You smile now. Wide. “You know, you’re kinda cute, Poindexter.”

Something like vulnerability sparks in his eyes. “Do you not like the flowers?”

You snort, and move forward to slide your hands up over his shoulders, feeling the crisp fabric of his white button-down against your palms. “I like them. You did good. Really good.”

He smiles at that, like those words are the best thing he’s ever heard, and you pull him down to kiss you.

Your conversation with Foggy flashes through your mind. You forgot to tell him that one thing. That one major reason why you like Dex. Why you’re with him.

You get him. And he gets you.

You just…work.

-

The newspaper sits on the counter, Dex’s picture stamped right on the front page. FBI investigates one of their own.

You try not to talk about work with him. After all, you’re technically a criminal and he’s in law enforcement. But you knew about the investigation. It’s unjust, Dex says, and you believe him because…well, of course you do. It’s Dex. He saved lives that night, and the few coworkers of his that you’ve met since you’ve been dating have confirmed it.

And then the suspension came.

“It’s bullshit. It’s fucking bullshit.” In what feels like only a few words, his voice morphs from a frustrated growl into something as sharp and loud as the crack of a whip. His hand moves faster than you can even register, and in a split second there’s a kitchen knife sticking out of a photo on the wall. Right in the forehead of the person you recognize as his boss.

“Shit, I keep forgetting how spooky that is.” You breathe, and Dex’s eyes whip back to yours.

“Breathe, Poindexter.” You raise your hands in surrender, and step ever-so-carefully forward, like one wrong move might frighten him off.

“Don’t.” He snaps, fingers curling on the counter, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s breathing too heavily. Too raggedly.

You reach up, and turn his face down to yours. Gentle, but firm. “You gotta breathe. Tell me three things you can see.”

He freezes, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to tell if you’re kidding or not, before he speaks. “Your eyes.” He finally says, voice softening a little with each word. “Your nose…your mouth.”

Okay, it’s usually supposed to be things around the room, but this works too.

“Three things you can feel?”

He blinks, eyes still fixed on you, and raises one hand to your cheek. “Your skin.” He leans closer, helplessly. His hand moves up to your hair, curling a lock of it around his finger. “Your hair…” his free hand drops to your waist, bunching in the fabric of your borrowed t-shirt. “Your shirt.”

“Your shirt, technically.”

He grunts, and buries his nose in your temple.

“Three things you can hear.”

“Your voice.” You hum in response, and he presses closer. “Your heartbeat. Your breathing.”

You nod, and reach up to wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. He holds you a little more tightly. “Your breathing is better, see?”

He nods, and pulls back to kiss you. It’s slow, hard and desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling. You pull him closer, and he makes a soft noise against your lips before he lifts you up and carries you over to the counter.

“Do you feel better?” You ask against his lips, feeling his fingers push the hem of your shirt up so he can trace them over your skin.

“I’m still being framed.” He murmurs, pulling back to trail his lips over the line of your jaw. “It’s still bullshit.”

“I know.”

“You make it better.” His hands move up, higher, warming the bare skin of your back. “You make everything better.”

“Hell of a compliment.”

“I mean it.”

“Me too.”

You kiss him again, feel him press his body closer to yours until your fingers are moving up to fumble with the buttons of his dress shirt and his are sliding your t-shirt up over your head. Moving down to skate over the hem of your underwear.

“Bedroom?” You breathe, and he shakes his head, lips never leaving your body for a second as he lowers himself to his knees right there before the counter.

“Here.” He rasps, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and pulls you to the edge of the counter in one sharp movement that has you locking your fingers in his cropped hair. “Please.”

“That’s my line, I think.” You’re breathless, his lips are trailing higher.

“No, it’s not.” His blue eyes are on yours, filled with something so much like worship that it halts your breath in your lungs. “It’s mine.”

-

“One more.”

The word is warm and sweet in your ear, a low hum paired with wandering hands and a soft, languid kiss to your jaw.

You snort, and you can feel him grin against your ear.

“I think one more will kill me.” You murmur, feigning misery, and his hand slides down over your hip, teasing. “Seriously, how do you have so much stamina?”

“Mm, it’s just you.” He murmurs, and trails his fingers over your stomach. “I can go all night.”

“We have gone all night.”

It’s been hours since he snapped in the kitchen, and your brain has become too mushy to even remember when the two of you migrated into his room. The problem with Dex’s…ability, is that he really never misses. He can take you apart almost embarrassingly quickly, immediately finding every spot and movement that has you seeing stars. And, with his obsessive personality, he has a tendency to try to one up himself. A lot. To see how many times he can make you fall apart until your legs are shaking and you’re spending the next day aching in all the best ways.

Which is why you’re pretty sure, even as his fingers find the apex of your thighs once more and he swallows your gasp with a smile against your lips, that he’s going to kill you. Death by too-many-orgasms has to be a thing, right?

“Dex…” you breathe, arching beneath him as your hands fly up to grasp at his muscled biceps.

“One more.” He repeats, the words a quiet rasp. “You can do it. Just give me one more. Please.”

How the fuck are you ever supposed to say no to him?

You kiss him, and he groans as he presses his body closer to yours.

One more turns into three more.

-

You can’t get a hold of Foggy. Or Karen.

Their names aren’t on the list of people who died at the Bulletin, so that’s something. Still, the chances of either of them being in the building during the attack are pretty damn high. And you don’t blame them for not answering. If they really were there, they must be fucking traumatized.

You would absolutely love it if one of them could pick up the damn phone, though.

Dex shows up around midnight, and you’ve already pulled on your jeans. Already grabbed your keys in preparation to run out the door and start banging on apartment doors. Hell, you might even go to the church Matt’s been hiding out in since he got back. Self-appointed recluse or not, you want answers. Before the news makes the information public, this time. There’s only so much information that hacking can give you, and if the cops and news outlets are currently scanning through the cameras for information of their own, it’s going to take a lot longer for you to find anything out than it will if your friends would just fucking talk to you.

“Hey, where are you going? What’s wrong?” Hands are on your shoulders, moving up to your cheeks, and you wonder if you look fucking insane with worry and confusion right now.

What the hell are you supposed to tell him? Oh yeah, Daredevil is my friend Matt. You know the one who died and kinda sorta came back? Have I mentioned him? Well apparently he’s gone fucking berserk and tried to kill Karen, but I’m absolutely fucking positive that it wasn’t him, which means that someone is out there murdering people in his old suit-

“I’ve…gotta go.” You say weakly, lamely, and start to pull back.

His hands tighten on you. Fast.

“Where? Where do you have to go?” He’s holding you surprisingly firmly, large arms locked around your body and making a frown curl your lips.

“Dex, let me go.” You can’t tell him. Of course you can’t. You have to figure this out on your own.

He doesn’t. In fact, he holds you even more tightly. “You can’t leave. You can’t leave me.”

“I’m-huh?” You turn to him, now, and blink in surprise at what you find. His eyes are dark. He looks like he’s sweating. Shit, he might be shaking. “Dex, what’s going on?”

“I need you here, okay?” He’s breathing a little strangely, hand smoothing up over your back with something like desperation. “I…you need to be here.”

You frown, and reach up to brush your fingers over his cheek. He closes his eyes, and leans into your touch.

“Okay. Hey, it’s okay.” He wasn’t able to help tonight. That’s it. He’s just been suspended. All of the order and structure he relies so heavily on is gone. You didn’t realize just how much it must be affecting him, and you feel like a shitty girlfriend for not immediately seeing just how off he is. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

He ducks down, fingers curling against your cheek and lips hovering over your own. “Tell me you need me.”

“Dex-“ you start, but his fingers slide into your hair and he backs you against the wall. It’s not aggressive, not quite, but it’s firm. Determined. Almost overwhelming in its desperation.

“Say it. Please.”

You frown, but reach up to wrap your arms around his neck. “I need you.”

He groans, and kisses you so hard your knees give out. He catches you, all-but scooping you into his arms as he traces his tongue over your lip and slides his arms around your waist.

You have to go find Foggy and Karen and Matt. You have to make sure they’re okay, and the four of you need to come up with some kind of game plan. Or, they do, and they’ll probably need your help because you just had to learn Matt’s secret. Just had to get mugged that night and recognize his voice. Just had to check security cameras and figure everything out and confront him about it.

So, with your particular skill set, and the information you have, they’ll probably need you, as outside of all this as you like to keep yourself. But Dex needs you more right now, and that matters more. You’ll get to the bottom of this mystery another time, when your boyfriend’s trembling hands aren’t pulling at your clothes and his lips aren’t trailing over your throat as he whispers your name like a prayer over and over again.

“What’s wrong?” You ask again, breathless and worried as he lifts you against the wall, as he wraps your thighs around his waist and curls his fingers against your skin hard enough that you worry it might bruise. You hope it does.

“You make it quiet.” He murmurs between kisses, tugging at your clothes until your shirt slides up over your head, discarded on the floor in a second. Messy. Disordered in a way that isn’t like him. “You make it all quiet. I need it to be quiet. Please.” His voice is shaking. Desperate.

You’re not quite sure what he means, but you nod anyway.

The moment you do, his body is pressing impossibly closer to yours. His lips are moving down your neck, kisses so rough and starved that you can feel his teeth scraping over your skin. His hands are tight on your body, hips rocking forward and making you gasp, and you can still hear the shakiness in his quickened breaths as he moves back up to kiss you so hard your head knocks lightly against the wall.

Your fingers move to the buttons of his shirt. His breaths are getting quicker. His grip is getting tighter.

“D-Dex.” You’re so breathless yourself that you can barely get his name out, but he doesn’t stop kissing you. Doesn’t slow his desperate movements until you finally reach up to pull his face away from yours.

His pupils are blown. His gaze is starved. He’s still shaking.

“Hey, stay with me.” You card your fingers through his hair, and kiss him slowly. Warmly. He doesn’t need rough and desperate right now. He needs reassurance. Grounding. Love.

He releases a shuddering breath, kisses you back, and nods as he rests his forehead against yours. “I’m here. I’m good.”

You nod, and as he carries you into the bedroom and lies you back on the mattress, you can see in his eyes that he’s telling the truth. He’s here. He’s with you.

He peels the rest of your clothing off slowly, trailing his mouth over newly exposed skin, and you do the same for him, barely able to keep your lips and hands off of him for a second.

It’s slow, and loving, and painfully intimate. He murmurs your name against your ear as he moves with you, and you drag your nails over his muscled back as you tell him how good it feels until he falls apart with a groan that almost sounds like a sob.

He holds you after, presses his lips to your forehead and trails his fingers over your body like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you.

“Do you think I’m a good man?” His voice is low, quiet and vulnerable as he slides calloused fingers through your hair.

You look up, surprised by the question, and he holds you a little more tightly like he’s worried you’ll bolt.

“Of course.” You frown, reaching up to brush your own fingers over his cheek. He turns his face into your palm, kissing it once, and you turn his eyes back to yours. “You’re a good man, Benjamin Poindexter.”

He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, something raw and pained and full of hope, and tucks you closer to him like you’re the most precious thing in the world. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” You kiss his shoulder, and let your eyes fall closed. “You’re gonna be okay.”

And for a moment, as he breathes something like a sigh of relief into your hair, you think he believes you.

-

“I need you to listen to me, and listen carefully.”

“Oh, now the zombie hiding in the basement is making demands. It’s good to see you too, Matt. I’ve been great, how about-“

“The man in the daredevil suit is Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter.”

That shuts you up, right the fuck away. “Very funny.”

“I’m not joking. He’s working for Fisk. He’s killing for him, and framing me.”

You feel cold. “No, he’s not. He wouldn’t do that.”

Matt’s expression is intense, his words are low and pointed. Urgent. This is his stupid fucking Daredevil voice. “He would. And he is. Fisk has him convinced that doing this will keep you with him. You have the means and the skill to prove me right. I need you to do that, as soon as possible. You need to get as far away from him as you-“

“Stop.” You snap, holding up a hand you know he won’t see. He’ll feel it though, or whatever. “Stop, Matt. You have the wrong guy.”

“You know that’s not true, and we don’t have time for you to come to terms with it. You are in danger, and you need to-“

“It’s not him.” Your ears are ringing. Your voice sounds desperate. Angry, even. “He’s…he’s a little intense. He’s a little weird, sure. But he wouldn’t…he wouldn’t do that.”

Matt’s jaw tightens. He shakes his head.

“You look into it the way you know how. You know. You’ll see it.” Matt reaches to grab your shoulder, and you flinch back. He looks pained, like he’s genuinely worried and didn’t call you here after all this time to falsely accuse the man you love of mass fucking murder. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been here for you enough. For Foggy and Karen. But I’m here now. I can protect you now. And you need to stay away from him.”

You pull back, and shake your head again. “I…no. You have the wrong guy, Matt. He’s…you’re wrong. We’ll find who’s doing this, but it’s not Dex.”

“We can keep you safe. You can hide-“

“No.”

“Please. He’s unpredictable. He’s dangerous. He could kill you if he knows you know.”

“I don’t know. I know you’re…you’re wrong.” He is wrong. He has to be wrong. “I’ll find out who it is, okay? But it’s not Dex. Just…it’s not Dex.”

And yet…

No. No. It’s not possible. There’s no way.

Matt spends the next ten minutes trying to convince you, and you block all of it out. You refuse to listen. You tell him you’ll go home, and you’ll avoid Dex until you can find the proper evidence.

You lie. And as you walk out of the church into the suddenly too-bright, too-loud city, you wonder if… if he could…

Fuck. You need to get to your computer. You need to prove him wrong.

-

He killed Ray tonight.

It doesn’t bother him. That kind of thing never has. What bothered him was Nadeem talking about you.

“He’s lying. He’s using you. He’s using her.” Dex’s hands had tightened reflexively on his gun. “You think he’s gonna keep her safe? You think this is how she stays in your life? Whatever he told you, he’ll hurt her the second it’s convenient for him, and he’ll take you out too.”

“You need to stop talking about her, Ray.” Dex’s voice is low. Quiet.

“When she finds out, you think she’s gonna stay with you? You think Fisk is gonna make her stay with you? How does this plan of yours work, exactly?”

Yes. Of course. Whether Fisk needs to make it happen or not, you’ll stay with him. And it will be okay, because you love him. Sure, you’ll be upset, but he can make that better. He will make it better. All of it. Everything he does is to keep you happy. Keep you by his side. But for now, you don’t have to know anything. You can just be with him, and love him.

If you learn a little too much, learn about the darkness that lives inside of him, about the things he’s done, Fisk will do what he needs to do, what he promised, and make sure you stay. Simple as that.

And you’ll still love him, right? Right. You’re meant to be together.

The shot lands perfectly between his former friend’s eyes. And, once it’s all said and done, he goes home to you.

-

You’re on the couch when he walks through the door. You’re chewing on your nails. You’re staring at your computer screen.

So perfect. So beautiful. All his. Just like he’s all yours.

Like he has a hundred times before, he moves over to gently move the laptop out of your hands, leaning you back against the cushions with a smile that surely holds all of the affection that feels like it’s about to overwhelm him.

“What’re you doing?” He presses his lips to your nose, your cheek, your jaw.

You’re tense. Something’s bothering you. He can fix that.

“Looking something up.” You murmur, soft and hesitant. “Or…I should be. I can’t…make myself do it.”

He can see in his peripheral that your screen is blank. You’re still tense, and when he kisses you he can taste the faintest tinge of iron from where you were biting your lip.

You’re wearing his t-shirt. He moves to slide his hands under it, reveling in the softness of your skin, and presses another kiss to the shell of your ear. You relax, like you just can’t help yourself, and he smiles as he settles a little more comfortably atop you.

“Hm, you know you’re not supposed to tell me about any of your hacking stuff.” He jokes, but you don’t smile like you usually would. Don’t tease him back. “Might incriminate yourself a little too much. And you know there’s only one way I wanna see you in cuffs.”

You do smile now, though there’s something in your eyes that he can’t place. He wants to ask, but you kiss him and he forgets everything that isn’t you.

“Or, you know. Put me in cuffs.” And you hum, and smile a little more.

He peels your clothing off nice and slow, trailing his lips down to follow every movement. It’s warm, and safe, and soft and gentle in all the ways the rest of the world is not. You gasp his name, look into his eyes even as yours threaten to flutter closed, and he loves you so much it hurts. So intensely that he worries it might swallow him whole. He wants it to.

When it’s over, and he’s pressing his lips over your cheeks and nose again, heavy breaths matching your own, he tastes the saltiness of tears on your skin and pauses.

His brow furrows, and he pulls back.

You reach up, and smooth your thumb over his cheek. “You’re a good man.” You whisper, and you sound like you’re talking to yourself, but he melts anyway.

“I love you.” He breathes, and drags you closer so he can kiss you again. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You murmur, and there’s never been so much of this strange emotion in your voice before. He can’t quite place it.

But you’re overwhelmed by your love for him, too. That’s all.

That’s all.

-

The worst part of it all is that you know you’re going to find it before you even bring yourself to open your computer.

And yet, it still feels like a punch to the fucking gut.

“Hello, Karen. It’s nice to see you again.”

You would recognize that voice anywhere.

It took you five minutes to get into the security cameras. Of the Bulletin. Of the church.

It took five more minutes for you to find all of the other evidence. The therapy sessions. The people he’s killed. The people he’s manipulated. Threatened. His lack of empathy. His obsessive behavior. His enjoyment of killing. Fuck, you even figure out that he was stalking you before you ever ran into him at that bar. You like to say, in your cockiest moments, that everything can be found online. Everything is documented even when people think it isn’t. You just have to look.

You didn’t look. In ten minutes, you found it all. In an hour, you’ve found too much for any excuse to ever work. For anything other than the truth to make sense.

And then, with perfect timing like the universe is making some sort of sick joke, Foggy Nelson tells you to come down to the old gym. He shows you Nadeem’s video, and you have to drag a trash can over so you can puke your guts up as the world drops from beneath your feet.

You cry silently. Curl in on yourself against the boxing ring while Foggy and Karen watch you, expressions filled with sympathy and guilt. Because they weren’t here. They didn’t check in on you. They let this get this far and it blindsided you because you were too wrapped up in stupid domestic bliss to even hang out with your friends like you should have.

Foggy’s hand comes down on your shoulder, comforting and kind. “Can you do it?”

You don’t look up from the phone screen even as you take it from his hand.

You nod.

-

“What are you-“

You aren’t supposed to be here. You aren’t supposed to be here. You aren’t-

Matt is gonna kill you, if Dex doesn’t do it first. And yet, you know without a shadow of a doubt that he won’t hurt you. Everyone else, maybe, but not you.

That doesn’t make him any less dangerous.

You grab his arm, and pull him outside with you, into the alley. It will be on camera. It will be obvious that you know, when Fisk sees it. But it doesn’t matter. None of that will matter soon, anyway.

His brow is furrowed, that look of frustration when he doesn’t have control of the situation tightening his features. After all, you did just show up to his work unannounced and drag him outside.

He reaches for you, and you step back.

“What the hell are you doing?” He asks, something in his face cracking a little. “Come here. Please.”

“Tell me it’s not true. Please, tell me it’s not true.”

Panic. Immediate, sharp panic. He knows. He knows you know. “Come here.”

“Dex.”

“It’s not true.” He says immediately, lies immediately, and reaches for you again. You back up again. “It’s not true. None of it’s true. Just-“

You pull out your phone, and play the video. Ray Nadeem’s confession. His eyes widen, and you already knew but the confirmation from him is fucking shattering.

“In three hours, it’s going out to every phone in the immediate area. To the cops. To the public. Everywhere. And if you kill me, it still goes out.” Your voice is tight, shaking. “You’re not gonna stop it.”

Dex tries to grab you now, not the phone, you, desperate. You jump back into the street. Into the public. Away from the dark alley and into the light of day.

“Don’t touch me. Do not fucking touch me.”

“Don’t do this.” He sounds dangerous now. You should probably be afraid of him. You’re going to fucking cry again and it hurts so bad you can’t think. You’ve never felt more stupid in your life. “Don’t you dare do this. Don’t leave me. You can’t leave me. You promised.” His hand catches your sleeve, and you rip it back.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Don’t leave me. Baby, don’t do this. You love me. I love you. We can-“

“What is this, fucking Barney?!” You snap, horror and shock making your voice shaky and shrill. “You’ve been murdering people.”

You’re fully in the street, now. You’re still shaking. He’s still approaching.

“If you come any closer, I’ll scream.” You mean it. He looks like he’s about to risk it. Like he’s moments away from covering your mouth and dragging you back into the alley. Into the shadows with him.

You turn, and walk away.

You hear him scream from a block away. It’s loud. Primal, even. It turns heads.

You keep walking.

-

He goes to prison that night. Matt defeats Fisk. You see it all on the news, from where you’re curled on the couch with tears drying on your cheeks.

He tried to kill Fisk at his wedding. Broke into the party in Matt’s Daredevil costume. It’s on the news. It’s on film.

He says your name before he starts killing people. Tells Fisk and Vanessa that the two of you wish them a world of happiness. You watch the clip. Newspapers call. You watch the clip again. You shut out the world.

It takes some time for you to leave your couch. Even longer to leave your apartment.

But time heals all wounds, even if they have to scab over and reopen a few too many times.

You meet Matt, Foggy and Karen at Josie’s on a Tuesday. They don’t mention it. You do. You apologize, and Foggy hugs you so tightly that your ribs creak.

And you heal. Slowly, surely, you heal.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

-

It’s a nice, normal Friday night.

Cherry’s retirement party is fun. You’re having fun. You’re laughing with Matt and Karen, listening to the laughter and jokes around you, teasing each other about Foggy’s attempts at hitting on Keirsten, and not thinking about Dex. Because you never think about Dex.

You don’t think about the way he made breakfast in the morning. Always so careful and precise. Always plating it perfectly like the act was a science, watching you when you ate it like he was either trying to figure out just how much you liked it or just…watching you. So much of him looking at you felt like he was basking in your mere presence.

Or the way he would leave on his way to work. Always the same pattern. The same habits. Wake you up with a kiss, get dressed, make breakfast, kiss you again on the way out the door.

The way he would smile at you like you hung the moon in the sky. The way he would hold you when you watched a movie on the couch. The way…

Warm lips against your temple. Your forehead. Your cheeks.

You hum, and feel Dex smile as his arm slides more tightly around you. “Morning.”

“S’the middle of the night.” You complain weakly, turning in his arms to hide your face in the warm skin of his chest.

“Five forty-five.” He murmurs, hand already coming up to slide through your hair. “Gotta get ready for work.”

“Play hooky.” You mumble, nuzzling closer, dreading the moment his warmth leaves the bed.

“Would if I could.” He means it, and you can tell, so you keep trying.

“You’re reinstated and promoted now…” you press a kiss to his collarbone, warm and slow and as tempting as you can make it. “Their apology should come in the form of as many days off as you want. Or going into work after dawn.”

His body relaxes a little. His hold on you tightens, like he’s thinking about it.

And then he sighs, and pulls back to press his lips against your forehead.

“I can’t.” He sounds so genuinely remorseful that you just might be falling in love with him all over again. Still, you plaster an exaggerated little pout on your face as you sit up.

“Goody two shoes.” You accuse, and if you were more awake you might think his laugh sounds a little…different. But he sits up with you, and kisses your neck, and wraps his arms around you again and any doubt or confusion flutters out of your mind as you melt into-

“Hey, you okay?”

Your eyes whip up, reflected in Matt’s glasses. You swallow. Smile. “Hm?”

“Your…” he lowers his voice, leans a little closer, “your heart is racing.”

Karen is looking at you, too closely, too kindly. You smile wider.

“I’m fine.” And you are. You’re fine. You’re absolutely, totally fine.

Ten minutes later, everything goes to shit.

Foggy goes outside. Matt hears something wrong. Karen follows You stay in the bar.

A gunshot outside. The bang of a flash grenade. The screams of panicked patrons.

You’re frozen for a moment, smoke and shock filling your lungs and fogging your mind. Gunshots. Screaming. The heavy sound of footsteps and-

“Hey, baby.”

A low, familiar growl of a voice, barely raised enough to be heard over the commotion but cutting through it all like a knife and zeroing your attention on the approaching figure.

Speaking of knives, you hear one whir through the air just before your wrist is slammed back against the wall, a blade attaching your sleeve to the surface with perfect precision. You reach up in a panic to remove it, only for another knife to slam your other arm back against the same wall. Neither blade comes close enough to even nick your skin, but you’re still completely trapped against the old wooden surface, eyes wide as Benjamin Poindexter stalks over to you like he has all the time in the world.

He’s wearing a mask, but you’d recognize his eyes anywhere. You’ve never seen them so fucking crazed.

“I missed you.” His hand is on your waist, large and gloved and firm even as you try to kick him away from you. He grunts, and halts your movements with a knee pressed between yours.

And then he rips off his mask, and kisses you. Hard. Rough. Tongue forcing its way past your lips and arm locking tight around your hip as his body presses against yours like it’s drawn there by a gravitational pull. It’s been so long, and you are most certainly in shock, but you can’t help the soft noise that pulls its way from your throat at the feeling. The way your toes curl a little at the rough sound he makes in response.

He reaches up, and pulls one of the knives out of your sleeve before throwing it towards Daredevil so quickly you almost miss it. He doesn’t even look. He keeps his gaze right on you.

The knife is deflected. Of course it is, because it’s fucking Matt, but Dex looks down at you, grins, and presses his lips to your cheek before pulling his mask back down just in time to be knocked to the ground.

The battle happens all around you, too quick for you to keep track of, and it takes you a good fifteen seconds to register that you need to get the fuck out of here.

The knife attaching your sleeve to the wall is in the wood so deep that you can’t get it out. You grunt in frustration, and finally rip your sleeve to free yourself. You think, vaguely, that you liked this jacket, before the sound of glass shattering makes you flinch and stumble back towards the door.

Your ears are ringing. You can’t think. You make it out into the street just in time to fall to your knees beside the body of your friend, nearly get trampled by people screaming and running and Karen is crying and you can’t think.

And Foggy Nelson dies on the sidewalk.

And, a few horrible moments of silence later, you hear a thud behind you.

And you don’t scream. You don’t cry. You still don’t even speak. Your clothes are stained with blood, and you can still taste the mint of Dex’s toothpaste on your tongue. Foggy dies, and Dex’s body just hit the pavement behind you.

You crawl to him in a haze of screams and the ringing of a thousand bells in your ears, and you can hear Karen sobbing behind you.

You think you might throw up. Or pass out. Or die right here next to Foggy Nelson and Benjamin Poindexter.

Dead. He’s dead. Oh God, Foggy isn’t breathing and now…and now Dex…he’s-

Blue eyes shoot open, wide and pained and crazed, and a gloved hand grabs your wrist. You didn’t even realize that you were touching him, hands shaking as they move over his body like you can fix it. Like you should even want to. Your palms sting. Knees, too. You think you scraped them on the pavement when you crawled over here.

“What did you do?” You ask, numb and confused and horrified, and Dex groans and presses his injured face into the pavement like the sound of your voice is the sweetest relief. His hand tightens on your wrist, relaxes, doesn’t let you go. “Dex, what did you do?”

-

ONE YEAR LATER

There is a deep, prominent scar on his cheek. He’s even larger than you remember. His eyes are different, like he’s allowed the illusion of control and sanity to shatter.

You’re here for Foggy. You haven’t seen Matt or Karen in almost a year. You are not here for Benjamin Poindexter.

But you’re here. Maybe you shouldn’t be, but you owe it to Foggy. To the other people this man has killed.

So many people. So many deaths. So many, because of you. And now Foggy, for reasons you still can’t understand.

The sentencing comes. The gavel is banged. You can’t hide your flinch at the sound. Dex’s eyes move right over to you, and lock in.

He smiles, eyes filled with a sick sort of love, and your fingers dig into your palms until your nails bite into the skin hard enough to draw blood.

They take him away, and he doesn’t stop smiling at you.

-

“He refuses to speak unless you’re in the room.”

Your fingers curl painfully tightly against your coffee cup. Your eyes fly up to Matt’s face.

“No.”

“I need information. We need information. He’ll be cuffed the entire time. He won’t touch you.”

“I’m not worried about that. I don’t want to speak to him.”

“They moved him to gen pop.”

You try to hide the way your heart pounds at the implication. You fail. And it’s Matt, so there’s no use pretending.

“Is…did they…” Gen pop. They’ll fucking kill him in there. Good, right? Someone like that shouldn’t be walking the Earth. He killed Foggy. He killed so many people.

“They will. He won’t last a week. Which means Fisk wants him dead.” Matt’s hand rests on the table before you, and he leans closer, adamant. “We need to know why. And then he can rot in prison until-“

“I want him out of gen pop.” You hate yourself so, so much for saying it that you feel like you’re going to be sick. “I want you to get him back in protective custody.”

Matt looks like you just slapped him across the face. You don’t blame him.

But he agrees. So you go. God help you, you go.

-

“Hi, baby.” His grin is fucking manic. His eyes are starved as they rake over you like he’s filing away every inch.

You glare, and sit down across from him. He leans forward, almost jerking in your direction, like he momentarily forgot about the cuffs in his desperation to touch you. Well, he’s not going to get to. Never again.

“You killed Foggy Nelson.”

“Your hair is longer.”

“You killed Foggy.”

“Do you think about it? The way it felt when I touched you again?”

“Shut up.”

“I’ve thought about it every minute. You tasted just like I remember.” His tongue darts out, smile lopsided as he traces it over his lip, eyes raking over you again so intensely that ice trickles down your spine in a way you really wish was unpleasant. “I wonder what else tastes just like I remember.”

You slap him, the sound cracking through the room, and his head whips to the side. His smile doesn’t fall.

“Do it again.”

“Fuck you.”

“Get me out of these cuffs, baby, and I will.”

“If you think I’ll ever, ever let you touch me again, you’re more fucked in the head than I thought.”

His smile cracks. Falls a little. His eyes darken. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Why did you kill Foggy Nelson?”

“You still love me.”

“No. I don’t.”

“You’re lying.” He’s still looking at you, intensely enough that you have to fight the urge to squirm. “Say it.”

“Fuck. You.”

His head rolls back, like those two words were a confession on their own. “Fuck, I missed your voice.”

“You said you’d speak if I came here. Answer me.”

“Do you remember our three month anniversary?” He asks, unbothered, and you want to throw something at him. Cuffs or not, the asshole would probably catch it. “Chinese food on the couch. The first time I told you I loved you.” Pain twists in your chest at the memory, and Dex leans forward when he sees it, another horrible smile curling on his lips. “I took my time with you that night. I had you making these noises, do you remember? These high pitched, sweet little begging sounds.” His fingers tap absentmindedly against the arms of his metal chair, and your face bursts into flames. “Think about them every night, but you know it doesn’t compare to the real thing.”

“You’re trying to get in my head.”

“I’m already in your head. Just like you’re in mine. We’re connected, forever.”

“Did you kill Foggy to punish me?”

He frowns, eye twitching a little when you refuse to give in. “No. But you shouldn’t have left me.”

“So what? Are you gonna kill me if you get out? Are you gonna kill me now?”

He looks genuinely pissed that you would even suggest something like that, jaw clenched and fingers flexing on the metal table again. “When I get out of here, I’m not going to hurt you.” The intensity of his gaze makes your blood feel cold. “But you’re not leaving me again. Ever.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I do. I already have.”

“Fuck this.” You push yourself to your feet, the metal chair scraping against the floor like a gunshot. Like the shot that killed Foggy. Fired by the man in front of you. “Fuck you.”

That gets to him. “You’re not leaving. We’re not done.”

“We’re done.” You lean over the table, eyes hard as they look into his. His hands are already struggling against the cuffs locking him to the chair. “We’re done, Dex.”

“I haven’t seen you in a year. You can’t walk out like this.”

“And you’re not gonna see me for another eleven life sentences.”

His voice is a low, violent growl. “Don’t say that.”

And, because you’re a fucking idiot, you do exactly what you told yourself you wouldn’t do.

They confiscated your phone when you came in here. They didn’t confiscate your watch.

One button. One stupid thing you set up in anticipation for this meeting. That you promised you wouldn’t use. And yet, reckless fool that you are, you knew you would.

The security camera light flickers off.

Dex notices immediately, and the hunger that burns in his eyes and curls on his lips lights something aflame in your stomach that you don’t want to think about. Not right now.

You lean both arms on either armrest of his chair. His hands jerk against the cuffs, still trying to reach for you.

You lean closer. You don’t break eye contact. His mouth moves up to chase yours, and you pull back just enough to pull a frustrated grunt from his throat.

“If you ever, come anywhere even close to the people I love again…” you whisper, leaning in so your lips are close enough to his ear that he moans and tilts his head to the side, like he’s silently begging you to rip his throat out with your teeth. “I will kill you myself. Do you understand me, baby?”

For a moment, the thrill of it all makes you forget just how stupid you were for this. Just how dangerous this man is.

And then, as if to remind you himself, you hear a pop. A sharp, pained intake of breath.

Your eyes drop down to Dex’s right hand, just in time to see him slide it out of the cuff.

The crazy motherfucker dislocated his own thumb.

You jerk back, but Dex is faster. Of course he’s fucking faster. His arm locks around your middle, yanking you down onto his lap hard enough to pull an ‘oomph’ from your chest, and his breath is hot on your neck as you squirm against him.

“Shhh, shh.” His rough voice is too soft. You turned off the cameras. You’re a fucking idiot. Something hotter and more intense than panic shoots through your veins, and your breath catches in your throat. “I’ve got you.”

“That’s the problem.” You gasp, but his hand comes up to the back of your head, fisting in your hair and pulling you back so he can look at you.

“I did it for you.” He whispers, reverent. “I bought my freedom with it. For you.”

And then he kisses you, rough and hard, and your attempts to shove him off are met with nothing but a low and hungry growl.

There’s a moment, brief but painfully there, where the feeling of sparks lighting down through your blood is too overwhelming. Where his lips moving against yours is too familiar. Where you kiss him back, and his groan is nothing short of victorious as he wraps his arm more tightly around you.

And then the door opens, and he doesn’t let go. You sink your teeth into his lip, and bite down hard enough to draw blood. He moans shamelessly, but holds you tighter.

It takes two guards to get you out of his vice-like grip. His lip is bleeding. You can taste the iron of his blood. He’s smiling. Wide.

It’s only when the guards start pulling you toward the door that his smile falls, like he hadn’t expected that. Like he hadn’t even considered that you would be leaving again.

“No. Don’t take her. Stop it.” He snaps, as two more guards force his hand back into the cuff. “Don’t take her from me again. Stop it!”

They close the door behind you, and you wipe his blood from your lip with the back of your shaking hand as his scream echoes through the prison.

-

“You didn’t do it. You didn’t help him.”

Matt turns to you, and you can feel the surprise emanating from his very being at the sound of your voice. Here. At this fancy gala to celebrate the esteemed mayor.

“What are you doing here?” He asks. Deflection. And then, concern. “Have you slept?”

No. No, you haven’t. But you’re not going to tell him that. That ever since you went to that prison your thoughts have been more consumed by him than ever. That every beat of your heart has been chanting Dex, Dex, Dex and it’s getting more and more difficult to tell yourself that it’s because you want answers.

And you have them, now. Because you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t ignore it anymore.

“I did it for you.”

“It’s not exactly an invitation you can refuse.” Your dress is uncomfortable. Your heels hurt your feet. You can feel eyes on you from all around the fucking room and you’re going to crawl out of your skin. “And yes. I’ve slept.” You don’t care that he knows that you’re lying.

“I-“ he’s going to come up with an excuse, an apology, but Dex is probably already dead. You’ll probably be dead soon, too. So what’s the fucking point? What’s the point of being subtle? Of trying to be careful, anymore? You weren’t careful when you looked into all of this. You didn’t cover your tracks, and you know. You know it all. And they know you know. You’ll be in the ground in a week at best.

“It was Vanessa. She was in charge of his businesses. She did it.” You don’t even lower your voice. You’re exhausted, and you’re hurting, and you’re angry, and who fucking cares anymore?

Matt grabs for your arm, already beginning to steer you away from watching eyes and listening ears. You pull back, whirl to face him. “Stop. They know I know. They know what I do. That’s why I’m here. They’re probably gonna kill me too, tonight.”

For a moment, you think Matt Murdock might actually be speechless. You just keep talking.

“It’s fine. It’s a long time coming, right?” You run a hand through your hair, and your smile is a pained and humorless thing. “Do you know how many people have been killed, just from me loving him? Because he loved me too, and they used it to manipulate him?”

And Matt is still looking worried, still bothered that people might hear you. But who fucking cares?

“But it’s fine, right? At least the ‘weapon of mass destruction’ who did it is rotting in a prison morgue now. He didn’t deserve help. I didn’t deserve to ask for it. Not for him.”

Matt’s hand is on your arm. You want to cry, but you’ve cried all night and the tears won’t come anymore. You’ve cried so many tears for him. Maybe that makes you a monster, too.

“Keep it down.” Matt says, hand tightening on your arm, but you ignore him.

“I know everything, too. Do you know how many pills he was on in that prison, when she got to him? The inside of his body was a fucking pharmacy. I saw the signature. He couldn’t even hold the pen right.”

Matt Murdock’s jaw twitches. He looks right at you, through his glasses, and you can feel his unseeing gaze on your face. “He still did it.”

He’s right. He did. But-

“You don’t know him. He…he doesn’t think like other people. They got to him. They did this.” Matt opens his mouth, and you raise a hand. “I’m not an idiot. He did it too, okay? He did it. But…” and your exhausted eyes rise to the dance floor, and it all makes sense.

Fisk took everything from you. From so many people. Foggy is dead. Dex is dead. And they’re dancing and smiling like this is the happiest day of their fucking lives. They don’t care. Sure, you don’t care. You’re numb. You’re hurting and confused enough that you don’t care what happens to you, but them… these people did all of this, and they’re happy about it.

“They did this.” You murmur, just to yourself, and start to move forward.

Matt catches you, hard. Fast. In one smooth move, he twirls you onto the dance floor, deflecting your momentum and still trying to fucking cover for you.

“You’re delirious.” He says, voice low and grip tight. “You’re acting irrationally. Don’t-“

But you’ve made it close enough. Just close enough to hear what Buck says to Fisk, quiet and serious but very much audible over the din.

“Benjamin Poindexter killed three guards and escaped prison.”

The world narrows. The floor tilts beneath your feet. Matt holds you upright, and you barely register what he’s saying over the rapid beat of your heart.

Dex. Dex. DexDexDex-

“We have to get you out of here.” Matt’s voice by your ear, his feet already beginning to move you away. You blink, too shocked and…relieved to even force your own feet to move. “He’ll be coming for you.”

Alive. Alive. DexDexDexDex-

You may not have Matt’s senses, but you swear you hear the click of the gun at the same time his head whips up to face the balcony.

“Not me.” You whisper, eyes on the dark shape above you. The dark, achingly familiar shape of a man who should be dead.

And the gunshot launches the party into chaos.

Matt. Matt just jumped in front of the fucking bullet and you’re trying to get to him but you’re being dragged away by the crowd, nearly carried off in the commotion and panic as people rush to the door. You almost fall at one point, stumbling in your heels and nearly getting trampled before you’re saved by the arm of some kind civilian, and by the time you make it back into the ballroom to where the paramedics are crowding around your friend you can’t see the shape on the balcony anymore.

You reach towards Matt, and something on your wrist catches your eye. A small etching of marker on your skin that definitely wasn’t there before.

A bullseye.

-

Hours later, you climb the stairs to your apartment, aching and tired and knowing damn well what you’re going to find.

You spent every free minute tracing the bullseye on your skin with the tip of your finger, sitting in the hospital waiting room and listening to the beat of your own heart.

Alive. Alive. Dex. Alive. Dex. Dex. Dex.

The power is still out. You’re exhausted. There’s still blood on your dress.

Matt begged you not to go home, but he would find you anyway. Anywhere.

There’s a bullseye painted on the door of your apartment. Small, but noticeable. Right above the handle.

You drop your keys on the counter. Loud. No use in trying to hide.

“You moved.”

“Yeah.” You say, voice steadier than it should be. “My boyfriend ended up being a serial killer.”

“I don’t really fall under that definition.”

You hum, casual, and move to the dingy fridge in the open kitchen. Pull out a bottle of wine.

“You look tired.”

“You’re missing a tooth.” You pop the cork with your teeth. Take a swig right from the bottle. “You gonna kill me now?”

“Stop saying that.” It’s still dark, you still can’t see much more than his silhouette, but the words sound like they’re gritted out through his teeth. “I love you.”

“I trusted you.” You grit your own words out, fingers tightening on the bottle.

“You still can.”

You take another swig, and lean against the counter. “Now that’s funny. Didn’t know they taught comedy classes in prison.”

“I thought about you every day. Every minute.” His boots thud against the hardwood, and you turn before he can reach you.

“Funny. I thought about Foggy.”

“That sounds hard. Really-“

“Shut the fuck up.” And now, you have to stall. You have to find your phone, and dial Matt’s number. Or reach one of the panic buttons you installed that will call him. With the power out, there’s a pretty good chance neither of those things will work anyway. “Get out.”

“You don’t really want me to.” It sounds like a plea, beneath the roughness of his words. “You still love me.”

You pull out your phone. It flies out of your hand in a second. Shatters against the wall. You jump back.

“Was that a fucking knife?”

“Bottle cap. I don’t wanna cut you.”

“But you’ll shoot at me.” Well, not at you, but you know mentioning it will bother him.

“I would never in a million fucking years-“

“You. Killed. Foggy.”

“And we’ll work past it, baby. We can work past it.” And there he is, turning you in his arms and walking you back until your lower back hits the counter. His breath is warm, ghosting over your lips, and you hate how your body responds to it.

“You’re delusional.”

“You want me. Say it. Please.” Too close. Too close. His hand is wrapping around the wine bottle, pulling it from your grasp and raising it to his own lips. The moonlight spilling in through the window illuminates the lines of his face, so agonizingly familiar. So beautiful.

You reach up like a woman possessed, and brush your fingers over the scar on his cheek. He groans, and leans into your touch.

In a blink, your other hand whips up, and you press the blade of a kitchen knife to his throat.

He smiles, and you wonder if he’s always been this crazy. He leans forward, letting the blade dig into his skin to brush his lips over yours again, and now you genuinely wonder if he would let you do it.

“I should kill you.”

“I’d let you.” He murmurs, a truly sick confirmation, and your hand is trembling and you hate yourself for it. “But you won’t.”

“I don’t have Daredevil’s moral code.”

“No.” His mouth closes over yours, just enough to feel his teeth scrape against your bottom lip. “You love me.”

“I don’t.” But your voice catches on the word, and your hand shakes more, and he’s bleeding and he doesn’t seem to care.

You pull the knife away, and his fingers curl around yours on the handle, guiding your hand to lower it onto the counter beside you.

“You asked Murdock to get me out of gen pop.” He hums, still so close that you can feel his heartbeat against your own. “Didn’t work, but I appreciate the thought.” The confirmation. “Helped me get back to you.”

“I didn’t want you to get back to me.”

“Liar, liar.” He murmurs, teasing and soft, and kisses you again. These kisses are nothing like the last couple of times, so rough and nearly violent with their desperation. No, these kisses are brief and soft, gentle presses of his lips against yours between words like he can’t help himself.

“I thought you were dead.” You don’t mean to say it. You don’t mean to acknowledge it. “Matt left you to die.”

“And you mourned me.” Another kiss. Slower this time. More lingering. You need to pull away from him. You need to shove him the fuck off of you. This is so wrong. So fucked up. He has killed so many people. Lied so many times. He’s fucking batshit insane. “I saw you. You were about to confront Fisk. For me.”

“I don’t know what I was gonna do.” You breathe, and your eyes are already falling closed. Your body is giving in to him like it doesn’t belong to you. Your heart is still beating heavy in your throat.

Dex. Dex. Dex. Dex.

This time, you lean up and press your lips to his. Wrap your arms around his neck. Tangle your fingers in his hair and devour him. He makes a noise that’s almost akin to a whimper against your mouth, his own hands flying up to your face to angle your head so he can kiss you fucking breathless.

You bite at his lip. Pull at his hair like you’re trying to punish him for how much you want this. How much you missed him. How fucking good this feels.

He moans, lifts you onto the counter and presses his body up against yours like he can’t get close enough. Cradles the back of your head and all but sobs into your mouth when you whimper and kiss him hard enough that his teeth click against yours.

You hear a soft, metallic noise, and feel cool metal on your thigh as Dex slices through the fabric of your bloodstained dress to allow himself more room to press his large body between your legs, the prison guard uniform digging into your burning skin and making you arch against him.

You slide your hand over his neck, thumb digging into the thin cut beneath his chin. His moan vibrates through your entire body, and you smear the blood over his throat as you angle his head to pull him closer to you.

His hand slams into the cupboard by your head like he’s trying to brace himself, the fingers of his free hand gripping your hair so tightly you see stars, blunt teeth digging into your lip like a silent and desperate plea for more.

“Say my name.” He whispers, rough, and you don’t. You fucking moan his name, a sound you’ve never heard from yourself before ripping its way from your chest and making him shake as he releases you to rip his gloves off like separation between your skin is physically burning him.

He doesn’t leave you for long, warm fingers sliding up your thigh and trailing sparks in their wake until you’re trembling against him. Until you’re gripping the back of his head and yanking him down to kiss you again. His fingers slide higher. Higher. Until they’re curling in the waistband of your underwear and every kiss comes on a swallowed and ragged breath.

You nod your consent, fingers curling even more tightly against his scalp, and he kisses you again. You hear the click of the knife, feel the flat end of the blade slide up your thigh again, and can’t find the words to complain as he slices your underwear from your body.

When his long, skilled fingers reach the apex of your thighs, and he feels just how desperate you are for him, the noise that rips from his throat sounds like the most fucked up prayer that’s ever been uttered.

“Fuck.” He pulls back, presses his nose against your temple, and when his fingers immediately find the spot that has you fucking whining you hear a breathless chuckle against your ear.

“Never miss.” He whispers, cocky and infuriating and agonizingly intimate in the dark apartment, and you’re going to fucking kill him.

Kill. Kill.

All those people. Father Lantom. Nadeem. Foggy.

Clarity rips back into you like a fucking car crash. Like a bolt of lightning. It freezes your burning blood, rises to your throat, and makes you shove him so hard his back hits the wall across from you with a dull thud.

You’re just as breathless as him, and his eyes are on fire as they look into yours. As they rake over you, slow and hungry, and he doesn’t even try to catch his breath even as he realizes why you pushed him away.

“Why?” He asks, but he knows. He knows and he’s goading you and you need to make yourself-

“I hate you.” It is the least convincing sentence you have ever uttered. You’re still breathless, still flushed with need, still spread out on your kitchen counter with his name lingering on your kiss-swollen lips.

Slowly, without looking away from you, he raises his fingers to his mouth, and your next breath catches on a whimper at the sight.

He moves forward at the sound, and your foot flies up to stop him, heel digging into his chest.

Something flashes in his eyes. Something you can’t place. You don’t know what’s in your own expression, but you see him scan it. Watch the breath shudder out of his chest as his hand rises up to trail lovingly over your calf.

And then, scarred and beautiful and illuminated by moonlight, he drops to his knees.

Benjamin Poindexter looks up at you like he’s worshipping at your fucking altar, and refuses to look away from you as his lips press against the skin below your knee.

“Stop it.” You try. You really do.

He shakes his head, and blunt nails drag down over your thigh as he moves closer. Kisses higher. Keeps his eyes locked on yours as he guides your heel over his shoulder.

“Dex.” It’s supposed to be a warning. It comes out as a plea.

And then he’s right where you need him, on his knees before you with your hands gripping at his hair and his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you in place, and it feels so good that your eyes are watering with something between pleasure and emotion so intense it’s going to drown you.

Your hand leaves his hair, flying up to scramble for purchase on the creaky old cupboard behind your head as Dex doubles his efforts like he’s desperate to pull more noises from you. He moans into you, gripping you more tightly as your heel digs into his back, and your hand leaves the cupboard to slap over your mouth as a near-wail of pleasure echoes off the walls. It doesn’t do much. Doesn’t muffle your helpless noises nearly enough, and before long Dex is sliding his large hand up your body to pull your palm away from your mouth, fingers tangling with yours as his too-skilled tongue turns your blood to lava in your veins.

You fall apart in minutes, shattering with a sharp gasp of his name as your thighs tremble and your nails dig into his scalp. He pulls back like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, resting his head against your thigh and staring up at you with a breathless smile on his lips and you want to hate him so badly it hurts.

But you pull yourself off of the counter, slide onto his lap and kiss him hard as you fumble blindly with the belt of his stupid fucking prison guard uniform, and before you know it he’s rolled you onto your back and you’re ripping his shirt open as he hikes your ruined dress up over your hips and-

“Tell me you want this.” He rasps, low against your ear, and when you nod emphatically he grabs your chin and turns your face towards his. “Tell me.”

“I want this.” It’s a sick, horrible confession, but it’s true. “I want you.”

He groans, like it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever heard, and his first thrust hits home and your moan is loud enough to wake the neighbors.

“I love you.” He breathes against your lips, as you scramble at him like a wild fucking animal, desperate for more. “I love you.”

You won’t say it back. You can’t say it back. This is already fucked up beyond belief.

He holds you like he’s trying to touch every inch of you at once, lips trailing down your jaw until every near-whimper is vibrating against your ear. You can’t stop touching him, either. You yank at his open button-up shirt so hard you hear it rip, until he moves to help you pull it the rest of the way off of him, bracing himself against the floor beside your head and rolling his hips into yours until you’re sobbing his name on every breath.

When you break for a second time, your nails are dragging thin red marks down the skin of his back. He doesn’t stop. He keeps going, keeps relentlessly hitting that spot inside you until the pleasure builds up all over again and it is fucking unbearable.

“Dex.” You manage to gasp, mindless, head rolling back against the floor as he bites at your shoulder and speeds up his movements until you’re practically sobbing.

“One more.” He growls, low and rough and just as wrecked as you are. “Give me one more.”

The third time, he’s right there with you, pressing his nose into the hollow of your throat with a groan of your name that burrows its way into your very bloodstream. Locks itself in your soul and becomes just as much a part of you as the color of your eyes and the bones beneath your skin.

It takes a long time for you to come back to earth. Longer for Dex to pull himself away from you, just enough to roll onto his back and tug you into his side.

“I love you.” You whisper, like a shameful confession, and he shudders like the sound of it is a drug and he’s more than happy to relapse.

He pulls you closer. You rest your cheek against the sweat-damp skin of his chest. Try to even out your breathing as he cards his fingers through your hair.

You have to go. You have to get out of here. Fisk is gonna be coming for you soon.

He grunts, and you make a soft noise as he sits up and gathers you into his arms, drags himself to his feet and carries you into your bedroom.

Everything is so different, now. Dex is a killer. A monster. Your life has been flipped upside down and shaken like a damn snowglobe. You’re probably going to be assassinated soon.

And yet, as Dex helps you out of your ruined dress, skating his fingers and lips over the newly exposed skin, and reaches into your dresser drawer, it’s all so familiar that you ache.

He digs to the bottom, and his grin is triumphant as he pulls an old FBI t-shirt out. His T-shirt. The one you couldn’t bring yourself to throw away.

He slides it over your head, presses a kiss to your cheek, and smiles a little wider when you relax.

And then, when he’s cleaned you up and pulled you into the rest of your pajamas, he smooths out the sheets behind you like a ritual before he lays you down atop them, sliding his body over yours and kissing you until you melt into your cheap comforter.

You make love again. You don’t think either of you even mean to. It isn’t as desperate as the first time, not nearly as mindless and rough, but his kisses deepen and he slides his scarred hand down your back until he’s shifting you beneath him, murmuring a quiet plea against your throat as his fingers tug at the waistband of your shorts that you respond to with another emphatic nod. And then he’s sliding them off, and you’re unbuttoning his pants again, and his tongue is tracing silent sonnets over your skin until you’re writhing against him.

He doesn’t tease, but he still seems to savor every second. He nudges your knees apart with his own, and pushes into you with a groan of your name. He moves with you like the tide, builds you until the wave crests and whispers praises against your ear as it crashes through you. You kiss him, tell him how good it all feels, and he tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it.

When it’s over, and you’re lying together in the rumpled sheets and he’s breathing shakily against your forehead and holding you like you might vanish at any moment, you finally speak again.

“We’re not back together.” You mumble, and he hums like you just told him the sky is purple but he couldn’t care less. Like it’s such a ridiculous lie that he may as well indulge it for now.

You frown, but you don’t double down. There’s no point, really. You know him. You know he’s not letting you go anywhere.

“How do I fix it?” He finally asks, and your brow furrows as you sit up a little to look at him.

“What?”

“How do I make you forgive me? For Fog-“

Your hand flies up to cover his mouth as if of its own accord. The movement surprises even you.

“Don’t say his name.” You snap, pain curling in your stomach. Guilt, too. But not enough. You’re lying naked in bed with the man who killed one of your best friends, and you don’t feel guilty enough, and you hate yourself for it. “You still don’t get to say his name.”

He looks at you. Nods. You pull your hand back, and he chases your lips with his own.

He kisses you. You kiss him back. You keep trying to hate yourself for it.

“What do I do?” He asks again, and he looks so earnest that you want to die.

You don’t know what crosses your face. What expression is in your eyes, but his own melt into a look of pure desperation.

It takes you a while to speak, and even when you do, the words spill unpracticed and quiet from your lips.

“He was good.” You whisper, and grief tugs at your stomach with enough force to nearly cripple you. “Foggy was so…good.”

“You said I was good, once.” Dex murmurs, brow twitching a little in that way it does when he’s trying to understand something.

“I did.” You reach up, hesitate, and give in. Your fingers trace over the scar on his cheek. “I think…I think you can be. You can be good.”

He melts. He turns his cheek into your palm, looks at you like you are both heaven and earth and everything in between. “I’ll be anything you want. I’ll do anything for you.”

Your heart crumples, and you see it. You shouldn’t, and you’re fucked up for it, but you see it. You see how he thinks. How he is. How he’s been manipulated and hurt and how he’s hurt others and you still fucking love him.

“I want to kill Fisk.” You whisper, like it hurts, and he reaches up to curl a lock of your hair around his finger like you just admitted nothing more intense than liking sugar in your coffee. “I want them both dead. And I don’t want it…I don’t want it for the right reasons, I think.”

“Why do you want it?”

“Revenge.” You whisper. “The greater good, yeah, but revenge. They killed Foggy. They hurt you. I want them to die for it.”

“Hm.” He slides his hand up your back, palm flat and warm, and turns his nose into your cheek. “If I help you kill them…it balances the scales.”

You frown. “It-“

“A good deed, to make up for the bad. Right?” He presses a kiss to your ear, and your eyes fall closed. “It balances out. You’ll forgive me.”

“I can’t forgive you.” You can’t. You shouldn’t. You won’t.

Even if you understand how his mind works. How he was tricked and manipulated and taken advantage of. Even if you understand him.

You pull back, look into his eyes, and the look on his face breaks something inside of you. The desperate hope. The need.

“We’re probably gonna have to move tomorrow. Fisk definitely wants me dead.” You murmur, and brush your lips over his.

He smiles. “We’ll move.” We. You and him.

“If we do this, you don’t do it for me. I’m not making you do anything.”

“I do everything for you.” He says, matter-of-fact, and closes the distance enough to peck you on the lips. “But okay. Let’s kill ‘em all.”

-

“Such a sweet boy.” The old woman across the hall is absolutely enamored with Dex, or should you say ‘Tony’. Sometimes you think he’s enjoying it a little too much. Especially now, as he crouches down to slide a fried egg into her cat’s bowl. “And what are you two up to?”

“Takin’ the missus to lunch.” He answers smoothly, sliding his arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to the side of your head. You smile brightly, and endure a few more minutes of cooing and fawning before making your way down the hall. He keeps his arm around you the whole time, humming absentmindedly as you make your way out into the street.

“You have got to stop telling her we’re married.” You chastise, and he doesn’t let you go even as he flips a coin behind him into a homeless man’s cup.

“I didn’t.”

“You just called me ‘the missus’.”

He’s smiling, a little too proud of himself. “Could mean anything.”

You still insist that you’re not back together. He still allows you to, but he seems to find it more amusing than bothersome. Which, you suppose, is understandable. After all, you woke up in his arms just this morning, like you do every morning. And, like you do most nights, you spent the majority of the evening moaning his name.

But fuck, he’s like a drug to you. You tried so, so hard to hate him. To pretend like he was a monster. Maybe he is, but maybe you are too.

Because whatever Benjamin Poindexter is made of, it calls out to something intrinsic within you. He knows it, and he’s just waiting for you to admit it.

You don’t know if the spring in his step and the smile on his face is from your activities last night or anticipation of what’s about to happen, but you would say it’s safe to blame both as he holds the door of the diner open for you with an exaggerated chivalry. And, because it’s him and he’s an asshole, he makes you yelp as you walk ahead of him with a playful swat to your ass.

You glare. He smiles, and leads you to the counter.

“You two ready to order?”

The woman behind the counter looks tired. Dex smiles like he’s been practicing how to, sweet and with his eyes crinkled in the corners. Sometimes, when you look at him, scarred and huge and absolutely fucking bonkers, you wonder how much he’s changed since you bumped into him on the street all that time ago. How much you’ve changed.

“My wife and I will have a…banana milkshake, then.” He grins at you, and it is so annoyingly hard not to smile back. “Does that sound good, sweetheart?”

You snort. “Sounds perfect, darling.”

His fingers come up, catching your chin and turning your head to him so he can press a soft, smiling kiss to your lips.

“Cute. I’ll be right back with that.” The woman says blandly, disappearing behind the counter as Dex pulls back.

“Menace.” You accuse, and he pats your cheek before he pulls out his phone.

He makes the worst, least convincing phone call you’ve ever heard. So unconvincing, in fact, that you almost giggle as he says “oh shit, he’s got a gun” in the most monotone voice you’ve ever heard. His eyes don’t leave you for a second. They rarely do. Like when you’re near, he’s locked in on a target.

Then again, hasn’t it always been that way?

You did the research. You did the tracking. All you have to do now is wait.

Dex unwraps two straws, carefully places them both in the milkshake, and leans down to take a sip.

You smile at him, roll your eyes, and lean down to the other straw.

You swear, in moments like this, that his eyes could be little cartoon hearts. He doesn’t stop smiling. Doesn’t look away. And shit, if you don’t feel like baby bluebirds could be tweeting around your own head. Like you’re the only two people in the whole world. Cue the cheesy, romantic music. Cue the world vanishing around you until it’s just you and him in this diner, smiling like idiots and sharing a milkshake.

You glance down at your phone. Watch him finish the milkshake. “Forty five seconds.”

He grunts, calm and relaxed, and starts pulling on his gloves. Pulls a toothpick out of the cup beside you.

“Aren’t you gonna tell me to take cover?” You hum, and the corner of his mouth rises even higher.

“No one’s gonna touch you.” You believe him, and you like that he acknowledges that you know what you’re doing.

“Everybody get on the ground!”

You throw your hands in the air, view blocked by Dex’s large frame, and shriek like a dramatic damsel in a movie.

His shoulders shake once. A silent laugh.

“Too much?” You ask, just as they shout again and come closer.

A toothpick finds its home in the ATVF officer’s eye, and all hell breaks loose.

You climb onto your chair, just in time for Dex to push you over the counter. You land with a roll, and in a second he’s on top of you, hands over your head and body covering yours.

“That was a really great milkshake.” He mumbles almost conversationally as the bullets slow, and you reach up to pull his mask the rest of the way down for him before he climbs off of you and snatches up a handful of silverware.

You manage to get to your feet just in time to watch three officers fall with forks sticking out of their eyes. Unfortunately, it’s also just in time for another man to grab you and press the barrel of a gun to your temple.

“Stand down!” He shouts, right by your ear, and digs the barrel in harder. Deeper.

Dex turns, and tilts his head.

“Ow.” You pat the arm wrapped around your throat. “Wrong move, dude.”

He screams as a fork impales the back of his hand, and you feel two more whir past you before they find their homes in his face. Not kill shots. Not yet. When you turn, he’s moaning on the ground with cutlery sticking out of his cheek and eye.

You tuck yourself into a booth as the rest of the men go down, bullets and weapons finally coming to a stop. Heavy bootsteps land beside you, and Dex pulls his mask off as the man in front of you trembles and clings to a tiny dog in his lap.

“Dogs in restaurants are unsanitary.” He says, genuinely perplexed but not quite annoyed.

“P-Please don’t kill me.” The man whimpers. Dex smiles in that unnerving way he has, and you smile too as you grab a bottle of ketchup off of the table.

“Don’t worry.” He takes your hand, stands you up with him, and throws a final pair of forks behind him to slam home into the retreating form of the man who just held the gun to your head. “We’re the good guys.”

You draw a bullseye on the door. He kisses the side of your head as you make your way out of the diner, stepping carefully over shattered glass with the sound of sirens wailing down the street.

-

ONE YEAR EARLIER

“This is no way to live, Benjamin.”

Vanessa Fisk sits across from him. He tries to focus on her. On anything. His mind has been scrambled since he was checked into this place. The cocktail of pills they have him taking every day makes it hard to think.

But you’re still there. You. You. You.

He lies in his bed at night, stares at the ceiling and blinks like his eyes are weighed down by anvils, and if he focuses hard enough he can almost feel your head on his chest. Almost feel your soft hair against his nose. Maybe your fingers tracing over his skin, soothing and warm.

Your voice, lips barely brushing his own. “You’re a good man, Dex…”

And he’ll reach up, searching for you, wanting to pull you to him and feel your body against his. Wanting you so badly that the pain is overwhelming.

And there’s nothing there. And the room is cold.

“I miss you.” He’ll murmur to the darkness, tongue heavier than his eyelids. And he won’t hear anything back.

Now, Vanessa Fisk pushes something towards him. A picture.

Of you.

His near-useless hand paws at the table, something like desperation surging through him as he grasps for it. They won’t let him have any pictures of you here. They call you one of his ‘victims’. He hasn’t seen your face in so long.

“She misses you.” And a part of him knows Vanessa is manipulating him. Even through the drugs, and the longing, he knows it.

And yet, she pushes the picture toward him a little more, and there you are.

You. You. You.

You, at that bar he found you at. The second time you met. You’re with Foggy Nelson, Matt Murdock, and Karen Page. You’re smiling, but not with your eyes. He knows what it looks like when you smile with your eyes.

You look sad. His eye twitches with the urge to fix it. The urge to touch you.

His fingers curl against the picture.

“I know what it is to love someone so much that being separated feels like…” Vanessa’s voice is gentle. Kind. Vulnerable, even. Dex can’t stop looking at the picture of you. That vulnerability in her voice is reaching him, matching with his own. “Like a hollowness in your soul.”

He makes a soft noise. It sounds desperate, even to his own ears.

His fingers curl a little more against the picture. Brushing over your cheek. Missing the feeling of your skin against his.

“They talk to her about you.”

His eyes, still slowed by the pills, move up to her face.

“They tell her that you were evil. Horrible. She is trying to convince herself that it’s true.” Vanessa leans forward, earnest. “If you want her, you cannot let that happen.”

His eyes fall helplessly back to the picture of you.

Vanessa slides a contract his way. He doesn’t look at it. His trembling fingers trace the printed line of your cheek.

“You can have her again. I only need one…favor. But you will have your freedom, and she will have hers.”

You. You. You.

Vanessa’s manicured finger taps the picture. Taps the face of Foggy Nelson. “I need you to kill him, and one of his clients.”

Dex looks up, a muddled question in his eyes. Foggy is your friend. You like Foggy. Foggy-

“They are poisoning her mind.” Vanessa repeats. “I do not want to see you lose the woman you love, Benjamin. I am offering you a mutually beneficial opportunity.”

You are so beautiful it hurts to look at you. His shaking hand holds the pen. Hesitates. He tries to form a clear and straightforward thought.

“With your freedom, you can get back to her.”

Back to you.

He signs the contract.

-

One good deed, and it’s all better. And you forgive him.

Not like you haven’t already. Even if you won’t admit it, he knows you have. He can see it on your face. Feel it in your quickened breaths at night when he’s got you laid out on the sheets, or on the couch, or against the wall…

And when you eat breakfast together, and he’s staring at you and you’re grinning right back at him, and the sounds of the chaos and the city and the world around him fade and everything is just you. You. You. You.

You’re out at the bodega down the street, grabbing more bandages and water. You’ll be back in ten minutes, tops.

You’re gonna be mad at him. He hates that.

But Matt Murdock showed up four minutes ago, and now the apartment is an absolute fucking wreck, and the lady down the hall is screaming and terrified because Dex had to use her as a human shield for a minute there, and you’re gonna come home to that wreck and worry but…

One good deed. He can do it now. Earn your forgiveness. Earn his redemption. If he doesn’t move now, he might lose his chance. And then what? What’s the point of living if it’s in a world absent of your love? Despite everything, he can’t help but fear a day when you decide that you can’t forgive him. That his sins were simply too much. Where you deprive him of the love you offer now because you just can’t seem to help it, where you stop smiling at him and letting him touch you completely.

No, he has to go now. Killing Fisk solidifies your forgiveness. Allows him to keep you. Keeps the world balanced right.

So he leaves. He leaves the apartment for the last time, and prays to whatever God might exist that you’ll forgive him.

- 

He throws the snowglobe. Plans the trajectory against Wilson Fisks’s swing. Watches the shard pierce Vanessa Fisk’s temple.

It was easy. Almost too easy.

But the bullet. That’s the problem. That landed home, and it hit all the wrong places.

He’s going to bleed out. You’re going to be upset.

But he did it. One good deed. He didn’t kill Fisk, but he killed Vanessa. At least, at the very least, he took that pain away. She ordered the hit on Foggy. Your friend. She made you hurt. She just made him the weapon. And now, she’s going to die.

-

“Mrs. Smithers, please shut up.”

She’s screaming, and crying, and you should probably be comforting her. ‘Tony’ just held a gun to her head, after all. And yet, you have bigger things to worry about.

Two minutes, and they’ll be here. Cops have been called. AVTF is on the way, guns blazing and you have seconds to find him and your heart is hammering in your chest in that familiar staccato beat.

Dex. Dex. DexDexDex.

There. The church. The fucking church, of all places.

Vanessa Fisk, mortally wounded. Daredevil and Bullseye at the boxing match. Dex Dex DexDexDex.

You smash your computer against the counter, cracking it in half, and bolt.

You take the fire escape, and begin scrambling down just as you hear them bursting into the hall.

And you pray, with every last shred of your desperate heart, that you’re not too late.

-

He’s bleeding out. He knows it. Seen it enough times to know he doesn’t have long, and Murdock isn’t gonna stick around to help him.

He misses you. He wishes you were here.

The dizziness of blood loss is a little frustrating, but Murdock is busy calling him a piece of shit. Fair. He shot his best friend, after all. If you’re still mad about that, it makes sense that he would be too.

“One last good deed.” He hums, propped up against the wall as blood leaks between his fingers, pooling onto the floor beneath him. “N’then she forgives me.”

“Asshole.” A whole conversation in the pews a minute ago, Dex’s whole speech about how he’s making it better and earning forgiveness and getting his mind back, and that’s all the guy can say. He thought lawyers were supposed to be more eloquent.

“Take care of her when I’m gone.” You. You. You. He sees Daredevil tense. He’s pissed at you, sure, but he cares about you. So Dex smiles, tired, and tilts his head back against the wall, confident in his next words. “Yeah, you will.” And if he ever touches you, Dex will return as a ghost and put a pencil through his eye. But hey, just something to worry about in the afterlife.

Murdock stutters some sort of apology. Has a whole little crisis about whether or not he can save him. He’s so stressed it’s almost funny, but he’s not gonna save Dex. He did it. He earned forgiveness. It’s time for judgement day.

The room pulses. The sounds of ATVF bootsteps echo above. His eyes close, and you’ll be okay. You forgave him. You didn’t admit it aloud, but he doesn’t need that. Never did.

Judgement day ticks ever-closer.

“Dex!”

His eyes open, and it’s too bright in the dark room. He’s too tired, but…

There you are. In the church and illuminated by low light like an angel. He smiles, bloody and exhausted and more than a little out of it. “Hey, baby.”

“Wake up. Dex, wake up.” You sound so panicked. So scared. For him. You love him. You. You. You….

“Dex! Fuck, please wake up. C’mon.” You’re pulling at him, trying to drag him across the floor and failing miserably, and he wishes you would just stay. Just admit that this is hopeless and let him hold you close. Admit that you love him, and that you need him, and let him feel your breath and smell your hair in his last few minutes on this earth.

“Fuck. Why are you so heavy?! Where’s Matt?” You’re trying to get your hands under his shoulders. It’s a little funny, but it hurts like a bitch when you jostle his bullet wound, so he grabs you and spins you down in front of him.

“In the wind.” He reaches up, fingers sliding over your cheek and smearing it with red. Fucking beautiful. They write poems about this shit. About women so lovely they steal souls and start wars. “You gotta go, too.”

“Fat fucking chance.” You press your forehead to his, unbothered by the blood, and cradle his own face in your hands. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you.”

Oh, that’s the best thing he’s ever heard. It’s the first time you’ve said it since that night on your kitchen floor, when you were still lying beneath him and still catching your breath and still all his after so much time. Back then, you whispered it like some horrible confession. Sweet music to his ears.

“My girl.” He’s fading. He’s fading fast. You hold him more tightly, smearing his own blood on his face as he does the same to you, the matching stains like a tether. Like a claim. “North Star….”

“Dex. Dex. Stop. Wake up. Don’t leave me don't you dare leave me-“

The sound of your voice is swallowed by the tide, and he doesn’t close his eyes, refuses to look away from you, but his vision begins to blur.

And then, from deep under the water, he hears it.

The door creaking open. Your panicked voice as your head whips to the side, dislodging his bloody hand from your cheek.

“Matt?! Matt! Help him! Please-“

…

-

You’re by his bedside. You have been for hours.

Karen is not happy with you. Neither is Matt. Soledad is stitching up Dex’s wound, pulling the bullet out, and he keeps waking up.

Not only does he keep waking up, he keeps jolting awake from the pain. Keeps squeezing your hand so tightly you wonder if he’ll break bone. Keeps finding your face in the haze of sleep and agony, and grinning like a lunatic when your eyes meet.

And then he’s healed. Somewhat. For now. And you’re fighting exhaustion of your own in the chair you’ve pulled up to the cot he’s asleep in.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Karen sounds pissed. You get it. But Dex is pale and his breathing is ragged and slow and you can’t let go of his hand.

“Hey, Karen.” The casual tone of your voice is insulting. You know it. You think you’ve been spending too much time with Dex.

“Him?” Matt isn’t here. Not now. You see sweat on Dex’s brow. Look down to make sure that his bandages are still in place. Every time his breathing slows even a little, your ears ring and your vision narrows.

“Yeah.” You don’t look away from him. You’re still covered in his blood. “Cute, right?” A lame joke, like he’s some boy you just met at the bar, rather than…well, fucking Bullseye.

“We’ve been trying to find you. We thought he kidnapped you.”

Your thumb trails its way over bruised knuckles again. “Well…I mean, he kinda did.” However things ended up that night after the party, you’re pretty confident that he wasn’t going to let you leave. Not without him.

“Are you sleeping with him?” You’re getting a little tired of the twenty questions.

“I’m in love with him.” You answer simply, and hear her suck in a horrified breath.

“He killed Foggy.”

“I know.” Dex stirs, just barely, like he might be reacting to your admission even in sleep. You squeeze his hand, and when you reach up to brush your thumb over his cheek he turns his face into your palm. “And I still love him. Isn’t that fucked up?”

-

He wakes cuffed to the cot. They’re worried about what he might do. Honestly, you’re surprised they didn’t cuff you too.

He winces as his eyes open, and smiles when they land on you. His low rasp of a voice is even more gravelly, hoarse with sleep and pain.

“Hey, baby.”

He always says that in the most fucked up situations. It always makes your heart beat a little faster.

He sits up, slowly, and pulls at the cuffs on the bed.

“Do your staples hurt?” You ask, eyes falling down to the bandages. 

He grunts in acknowledgment. “C’mere.”

You do, slowly, and it’s only then that he seems to notice the gun.

“You gonna shoot me?” He asks, smile widening a little as he tilts his head to the side.

“I might.” You reach down, slip a paper clip into the cuff on his right wrist, and hear it pop free. He makes a soft noise, rolling his wrist once before sliding his hand up your back as you sink down to straddle his lap.

He leans in to kiss you. You press the barrel against his forehead and push him back. He smiles even wider.

“You disappeared.” You hum, and he pushes his forehead a little more into the gun. “You tried to get yourself killed.”

“Balancing the scales.”

“You got shot. You almost died. I watched you die.”

“You love me.” He breathes it like the memory is a fucking treasure - a shot of heroin straight to the system. His hand tightens on your back, pulling you more firmly onto his lap.

“I still hate you. For Foggy.” It’s a lie, but it should be true. He hums, and you slide the gun around to his temple.

“You love me.” He repeats, and brushes his nose against yours.

“I do.” You admit, soft, and he kisses you. Hard. Slow. His fingers slide up into your hair, curling into a fist behind your head as he completely ignores the firearm digging into his skull.

You pull back, and push it in harder.

“Listen to me, Poindexter.” You murmur, low and dark as your own hand slides up to his hair, pulling his head back and making him groan as he looks at you with a blissed-out grin on his scarred face. “Never do that shit again. You don’t get to leave me. Not now, not ever.”

Words he’s said to you before, albeit in different forms, back when you told yourself you hated him.

“Never.” He agrees, and his eyes fall closed like he would die happy if you pulled the trigger right now. He opens them after a moment, and leans up to bump his nose against yours again. “Wanna put that down?”

“I could shoot you.” You don’t know why you’re saying it. You’re smiling too.

“No bullets.” He hums, pleased. “And it’s not loaded.”

You laugh, and wonder just how crazy you’ve become. “The FBI trained you too well.”

He uses his free arm to tug you a little closer, until there’s no more space between your bodies, and you drop the unloaded gun in favor of wrapping your arms around him again.

“Not the FBI. I know you.” He kisses you again, in that slow and determined way, and slides the palm of his hand up beneath your shirt. “Uncuff me.”

You smile, and shake your head. Push him back down and chase his lips with your own.

He hums, nips playfully at your lip, and tugs on the other handcuff until it rattles.

“You’re injured.” You murmur, muffled by his kiss, and he tangles his fingers in your hair again.

“Feels better.”

“Liar.”

He grunts, and rocks his hips against yours. “This feels better. Let me touch you.”

“You are touching me.”

“Let me touch you more.”

You reach down between you, as wrong and stupid as it is, and unbuckle his belt.

He makes a very pleased noise, and moves his free hand down to unbutton your jeans.

“Uncuff me.” He growls again, demanding, as you shuffle out of your pants and move to pull his down.

“No.”

He pulls you back down to him by the back of your neck, traces his tongue over your ear. “Don’t wanna do this with one hand.”

“I could cuff your other hand.”

He grunts, and the next roll of his hips is harder. More punishing. You gasp, control slipping a little more than you want to admit, and he pulls at the hem of your blood-stained shirt.

“Off.”

You comply, and he leans back to look you over like you’re the most incredible thing he’s ever seen. You love how he looks at you like that. You love him so much it hurts.

“Your staples.” You murmur, as he drags himself back up to a sitting position, pulling you more firmly onto his lap until you can feel the very prominent evidence of his desire against you.

“Doesn’t hurt.”

It’s getting harder to breathe. Harder to focus as he moves his hand down to slide your underwear over your legs. You maneuver to help him, and his own breath catches in his throat.

“Liar, liar.” It comes out as a whisper, soft and teasing as you press a soft kiss to his lips, and his own lips curl into a smile.

“I want it to hurt.” He noses at your jaw. Down to the hollow of your throat. “Reminds me I’m alive.”

You kiss him, hard, because he is alive and he’s here with you and you suddenly need him so badly it hurts. When you finally sink down onto his lap, bodies joining and breath shaking with the feeling of becoming one, he buries a groan into your hair, hips stuttering as you begin to rock against him. Your thighs burn already at the angle, and he meets your movements with his own as he crushes you to him. It must hurt, and you want to tell him so, but when you open your mouth he groans low against your neck and finds that spot that has your toes curling and hands flying up to find purchase on his shoulders.

You slide your hands over his cheeks, pull his face back so you can kiss him breathless, and pleasure begins to build almost alarmingly fast in your core. You almost lost him. You love him. He’s kissing you like you’re the only oxygen he’s ever wanted to breathe and dragging his rough palm up over your bare back as he meets your movements with his own. The cuff rattles against the chair, but despite his restricted movement and injuries he’s still using his one arm to move you in his lap, angling your body to hit that spot in your core that has you gasping desperately against his lips.

One particularly rough thrust has him hissing in pain, and the reminder of exactly why he’s hurting like this possesses you in the strangest way as you slide your hand down to grip his throat, forcing his gaze to your own.

And there’s so much power in it. In watching this large, scarred, deadly man stare at you like he’s in awe of your existence. The sight of it alone has you falling apart, moaning his name as your body spasms against his. He clings to you, and your hand squeezes around his throat as he pushes his forehead against yours like he’s drinking in the sight of you, too.

“Mine.” You whisper, and he falls over the edge so violently you wonder if he might pass out, hand dropping down to grip your thigh tight enough to bruise.

You sit there for a while, tracing your fingers down the scar on his back as he catches his breath with his forehead pressed against your shoulder.

“I have to re-cuff you.” You murmur eventually, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. He uses his free arm to grip you tighter.

“No. Don’t move.”

“If they walk in here and see you uncuffed and inside me, they’ll probably cuff me too.” You hum, and feel him smile as his teeth dig playfully into your collarbone. You turn your head, lips brushing his ear in a conspiratorial whisper. “They think I’m crazy.”

He laughs, broad shoulders shaking as he pulls back to kiss you.

“Love you.” His fingers trace up your body, trailing slowly over your heated skin.

“Love you too, psycho.” You kiss his cheek. “No more suicide missions, or it’s both cuffs.”

Something sparks in his eyes. “Promise?”

“Both cuffs, and no touching.”

He frowns, and kisses you again like he’s trying to prove that he’s allowed to touch you now. “No more suicide missions.”

-

When Matt comes an hour or so later, you’re fully dressed and back in your chair at Dex’s bedside, one eye closed in concentration as you aim a knife at a bullseye you drew on the wall.

You throw it, and it bounces off the wooden surface and clatters to the ground.

“Flick your wrist.” Dex says, but his eyes are on you, hungry and dark. He’s tried to teach you how to aim weapons a few times before, and the lessons have more often than not been cut short by whatever seems to ignite in him like a bonfire at the sight of you holding a knife. It helps now that he’s in cuffs, but despite your activities earlier he looks damn close to trying to break out of them.

You pick up the knife, and try again. It sticks a little outside of the center, but it sticks. You turn to grin at Dex. He grins back, and the expression is downright feral.

“Uncuff me.”

“Bad boy. You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

Any response he may have, inappropriate or demanding or whatever it may be, is interrupted as the door swings open and Matt walks in. Angry. Silent.

He uncuffs Dex roughly. Sits across from him and doesn’t even acknowledge you. Rude, but fair. You can still understand why he and Karen are so pissed at you, even if you find it a little difficult to care.

“Let’s get one thing straight. I hate you for Foggy. And Father Lantom. And Agent Nadeem.” Dex’s eyes are right on you as he rolls his wrists, stretching the no-doubt stiff muscles and seemingly oblivious to how off-putting it must be that he won’t even spare a glance toward the man telling him how much he hates him. “And I even hate you for what you did to her. Whatever you did that broke her mind.”

“Woah, hey. I’m of completely sound mind.” You snap, defensive. Matt doesn’t turn around.

“Your shirt is on inside out.”

You look down, flush, and look back up in time to see Dex smirk.

“Dick.” You grumble, because he definitely knew, and he definitely didn’t tell you on purpose. You frown at Matt again. “I didn’t uncuff him.”

“Not all the way.” Dex supplies, and you glare so hard his smirk turns into a manic grin.

“Shut up.”

“Stop. Both of you stop.” Matt snaps, annoyingly serious Daredevil voice and all, and it takes a significant amount of effort to swallow your response and sit back in your chair.

He talks about forgiveness. About how he needs it for his own sake, and not for Dex’s or even yours.

But you saw Matt’s face, when you found him at the gala. When he tried to pull you out of there before you got yourself hurt in your anger and grief. And in the church, when he pulled you and Dex to safety as you begged the near-unconscious man to stay with you. To live because despite it all you couldn’t fucking lose him.

He’s angry. He’s hurting. But he cares about you. And you care about him, too. Your love for Dex doesn’t make those years of friendship just go away.

And then, the ultimate question. Aimed directly at Dex. “So, do you wanna do one good thing in a life full of shit?”

Benjamin Poindexter turns to you. You smile at him, an entire conversation passing between the two of you in the span of a second before he rolls his shoulders and turns to Matt.

“What do you need me to do?”

-

The whistle echoes through the vast expanse of the room. Three floors up. Directly and strategically across from the courthouse.

Four ATVF officers whirl, guns raised, and…

And then lowered out of pure confusion.

A woman stands in the doorway, in casual clothes, with her eyes wide and her hands raised in shocked and horrified surrender.

“I-I was just looking for the bathroom.”

Shit. A civilian. They’re gonna have to figure out what to do with her, now. There’s no way she didn’t see the fake Bullseye across the room, and if she tells anyone-

“Wait, please don’t shoot! I know what you do, right? You’re the good guys? You find vigilantes and…you know…” she curls her fingers into the shape of a pistol, aiming at the closest officer’s head, and pretends to fire in demonstration.

Exactly where the woman ‘shot’ him, a knife appears, jutting out right between a pair of wide eyes.

He goes down.

She jumps, surprised, and inspects her hand with alarm like smoke might start coming out of her fingers.

And then, she aims again, almost experimentally, at the second officer. The moment she ‘fires’, another knife flies through the air and hits home.

Just as the shock begins to wear off, spurring the startled men into action, she lowers her other hand into the same shape, and ‘shoots’ the final two men in rapid succession before they can even think to lift their guns.

And then, when all that’s left is the ‘fake Bullseye’, who is still standing there frozen and confused, she laughs.

The sound of heavy bootsteps echoes through the room.

“That was even more fun the third time.” She says, tone bright and amused as she tilts her head back towards the source of the sound.

Bullseye, the real one, appears behind her, and his low chuckle is the most frightening sound the other man has ever fucking heard.

The new Bullseye fires his gun, and screams as his hand is impaled by a knife. He goes down, crumpling to his knees and cradling the bleeding appendage, and his counterpart walks casually forward with the mysterious woman behind him.

He’s only in pain for a few seconds, just long enough to be pushed to the ground, and just long enough to see the glimpse of another knife before it finds its home in his eye.

-

“Holy shit.”

“Hm?” The click of the rifle. The subtle shift of his shoulders as he adjusts his shot. So careful and calculated, and yet you can feel him locked in on every word. Every blink. Every movement.

Even with another target in sight, he is always focused on you.

“Matt just told everyone he’s Daredevil.”

Dex hums, cocking his head to the side. “And?”

“And he’s probably gonna go to prison for it.”

Dex loads the sniper, the shell of the bullet clattering onto the floor. “Prison’s not so bad.”

“Says the guy who broke out of it.”

“For you.” He turns, and you can see his eyes crinkle in the corners even if you can’t see him smile behind the mask. “For romance.”

You hum, and pop your headphone back into your ear, eyes moving back to the monitor as you sit cross-legged atop the table beside the gun. “You’re a fucking psychooo~” you sing, under your breath, and feel him catch your chin between his gloved fingers before you have time to look back up. He tilts your chin towards him, and you feel the warmth of his lips beneath the rough fabric of his mask as he pulls you into a kiss.

He moves back to the gun with the grace of a cat, satisfied, and you do your best not to worry too much about Matt Murdock. Your friend. Daredevil, who has just outed himself to the entire world and sealed his own fate.

The shot is fired and thus your location is given up. It’s time to go.

You hesitate. You sit by the computer, and you watch the screen after it goes blank.

A gloved hand comes up, a warm chest against your back as that same familiar hand guides yours away from your lips.

“What’re you up to?”

Dex’s couch, so long ago. Your eyes locked on a screen. Warm fingers curling around your own. You must have been biting your nails again. It must be late. You barely even heard him come in.

“Tech company. Innocent employee. Spreadsheets.” You tilt your head back, sleepy, and catch his lips with your own. “Not supposed to talk about it though, remember?”

“Criminal.” He kisses you again, but he’s smiling.

“Not technically.” You kiss him back, pulling him closer, catching his hand to guide him around the couch and over to you. “You gonna tattle, Special Agent Poindexter?”

“Never.”

“Time to go.” That same voice is lower now. Raspier. Still just as achingly familiar. So much has changed, and everything is so different, and he’s still so incredibly yours.

“Matt…” the word is released on a breath, and that breath feels too heavy. Too weighed down by memories. Matt. Foggy. Karen. So many memories. So much loss.

“Can’t do anything for him now, baby.” His nose against your temple, his arm around your waist. He took his mask off, at some point. “But if they catch us up here, it’s gonna be a lot worse for him.”

You turn, still frowning, still worried, and reach up to brush your fingers over the deep scar on his cheek. He tilts his head into the touch, like he always does, and smiles.

That smile, sweet and scarred and as familiar as the palm of your own hand, will always feel more like home than any place in the world.

And that’s how it was always gonna go, wasn’t it? Since the day you ran into him in front of that coffee shop, the night he kissed you for the first time, the moment you saw the bullseye etched on the door of your apartment…

It was always him. It was always going to be him. The trajectory of your life changed before you even knew it was happening, jolting in a different direction like a ricocheted bullet, and always still pointed home.

Home, to him.

You smile back, and meet his eyes.

“Where are we going?”

-

Benjamin Poindexter rolls a coin over his knuckles, glances out the window of the airplane towards the earth thousands of feet below, and smiles.

The flight attendant speaks to the man in the seat beside yours, welcomes him into the ‘Million Milers Club’ or whatever, and he does his best not to glare at the noise. The man is beaming - annoying -  but you would tell him that it’s rude to glare if you were awake.

Speaking of which, your head is snuggled up to his shoulder, breath soft and even and both arms wrapped around his bicep like he’s some kind of teddy bear, rather than a dangerous assassin.

Then again, you’re almost just as unhinged as he is these days.

He hums, content, and turns his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply and feeling you sigh and shift a little closer.

“You two seem happy.” The too-friendly guy in the seat beside you is smiling, and Dex resists the urge to wrap his arms around you and pull you onto his lap, hiding you from the world because you’re his only his no one else-

He’s gotta reel that under control a little more. That possessiveness. But, well, you’re his. And he’s yours. Two sides of the same coin. Soulmates in every way.

And he knows that you do seem happy. You always do, because you are. You walked onto this plane together in an almost sickening display of blissful love. He lifted your bag into the overhead bin for you, pulled you into the seat after, wrapped his arms around you and basked in your laughter as he shamelessly pressed kisses to your neck and shoulder. You’d leaned back, grinned at him like you were the only two people on the plane, in the world, and slid your hand into his own.

No one suspected that you’d helped him kill people only a few hours before. That you washed the blood off of each other before you came to the airport.

He raises his eyebrows. Too-friendly Guy keeps going. “You headed to your honeymoon?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. He rests his chin on top of your head. He has a ring in his pocket, and when you land in the next country, and he gets the very first opportunity that comes his way, he already plans to drop to his knee and beg you to marry him.

But for now, he nods, and fixes the stranger with a practiced smile.

“Yeah.” He hums, feeling you shift comfortably against him, sighing contentedly against his shoulder. Perfect. His. “It’s long overdue.”

The man looks the two of you over, and seems to be about to say something else, but you shift again and Dex’s attention suddenly couldn’t be any less focused on him.

Honeymoon. Yeah, you’ll have a thousand honeymoons. A thousand lifetimes of happiness and togetherness and love so intense it’s taken lives, saved lives, shattered governments, and so much more.

May as well start now.

[livwtfhaha]

i love this sm

[aquaticmercy]

He's Good To Me

Summary : Benjamin Poindexter, monster to everyone else, is the only person who could keep your mind from falling apart.

Pairing : DDBA!Benjamin Poindexter x mind reader! reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Angst, Fluff, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, panic attacks, sensory overload, mind reading, intrusive thoughts, trauma response, mentions of medical experimentation, murder, blood, protective/obsessive behavior, codependency, morally complicated love, hurt/comfort, domestic Dex, very brief mention of sex. Reader is mentioned to be an OXE medical experiment (Set in the last Episode of DDBA Season 2) (let me know if I missed anything!)

Word Count : 15.8k

Requested By : Anon

Notes : Please send me an ask if you would like to be added to the taglist, sometimes it gets lost in the comments. Enjoy!

Matt Murdock told himself it was a welfare check.

Which was stupid. Obviously it was stupid. Calling anything involving Benjamin Poindexter a welfare check was almost funny, if Matt had been in the mood to laugh at anything anymore.

Dex had shot Buck Cashman outside the Supreme Court and forced a makeshift siege. Of course he’d act like people were just moving targets. Of course, if the city was falling apart, Dex was probably the one person who could make it worse. 

But the courthouse was done now.

Sort of.

Matt had stood there in front of God, Fisk, Karen, the cameras, all of New York, basically, and said it. He had torn the last piece of himself open with his own hands.

He was Daredevil.

There was no putting that back.

Fisk took the plea, and he was finally out of office. Fucking finally. The city had helped, and for better or for worse, the streets had bled because of it. Riots broke out, and sirens were everywhere. The whole city sounded like it was trying to crawl out of its own skin.

And Matt knew his days of moving freely were numbered.

It would not take long for the paperwork to be in order. It would not take long for the police to get their arrest warrant.

His name would spread through every system he had spent years trying to evade. Matthew Michael Murdock, Daredevil.

Whatever he was to people; Catholic boy, blind lawyer, vigilante, hero, hypocrite, all of it? That meant nothing. He was just a criminal who had to pay for breaking the law now. 

So, fine.

But before all of that happened. He needed to tie up loose ends.

That was what he told himself as he put on a hoodie the morning after the courthouse, at 2 AM. 

He crossed rooftops and fire escapes, ribs aching, lungs burning, sweat cold beneath his hoodie.

He was gonna check on him, that’s all. Make sure Dex was not out there killing people for the love of the game. Make sure the city didn’t have one more monster loose before he was taken away.

This better be quick, because would really rather spend his time with Karen before getting locked up.

By the time Matt reached Dex’s apartment building, the riot noise had thinned, like thunder moving farther away without ever really leaving.

Outside, New York still burned in fragments. Inside the building creaked. Old pipes ticked in the walls. Someone two floors down whispered angrily behind a locked door. A television murmured emergency coverage through cheap speakers. The exhaust fans gave a faint metallic complaint above him.

Matt climbed the stairs, knowing Dex’s apartment was ahead.

And then… Matt heard sobbing.

He stopped at the door.

It wasn’t theatrical, not the kind of crying meant to pull attention from the other side of a wall.

It was smaller than that. It almost made it… worse.

It came through Dex’s door in little broken pieces, like your body had run out of strength before it had run out of panic. One shaky breath, then another, then a thin, wet sound you tried to swallow and failed. You were trying to be quiet, Matt could tell. You were trying not to make noise and still the hurt kept leaking out of you anyway.

Matt stopped dead and assessed the situation.

There was a woman crying inside Benjamin Poindexter’s apartment.

For one second, Matt thought about every horrible thing he already knew about him.

Foggy, Father Lantom, all the other bodies he left in his wake.

All of them were there in his head at once, not as memories, but as evidence. As proof against Dex. As a case already built and closed in his mind.

Dex had never been someone Matt could afford to give the benefit of the doubt, not after what he had done. Not after who he had taken. Not even after all that bullshit about one good deed, about evening out the scales, as if taking another life could balance out the lives he had destroyed.

So Matt listened.

And then Dex spoke. “Baby, breathe. Come on. I’m here.”

Matt’s stomach tightened.

Baby?

From anyone else, maybe it would have sounded the way it was meant to: a soft comfort, words meant to soothe.  

But coming from Dex, the words twisted in Matt’s ears.

Still, Matt knew it sounded… sincere. 

Soft, but not fake-soft. Not mocking. Not cruel. Not even controlling.

It sounded… exhausted and careful. It frayed apart at the edges, like he had been kneeling there for hours, saying the same few words over and over because he was terrified you would disappear somewhere he couldn’t pull you back from.

“I’m right here,” Dex murmured. “You’re okay. You’re with me.”

You made a small, broken sound.

It was this heartbreakingly helpless, breathless little noise that caught in your throat and dragged itself out anyway. It was as if your body was trying to keep crying after you had already run out of strength for it.

Your breathing was too fast; Matt could hear every jagged inhale scraping up short in your chest, every failed attempt to steady yourself. Your heartbeat fluttered, frantic and uneven, skipping over itself like it was trapped.

You were on the floor. He could tell by the way your sobs hit the wood first, the way it sounded low and folded down. You were curled into yourself, maybe. 

And Dex was too close. He was close enough that his voice barely had to rise. He was close enough that Matt could hear the shift of his body beside yours, the drag of fabric against the floor, the way he moved like he knew exactly which sounds would hurt you and which ones would not.

Everything Matt heard told him Dex was not hurting you.

The care was there. The patience was there. The way he kept his voice quiet enough not to startle. The way he didn’t grab at you, didn’t bark orders, didn’t crowd too fast. He seemed to be making himself smaller just to keep from adding to whatever was tearing through you.

Benjamin Poindexter sounded…. kind.

Matt hated that. his senses were giving him one answer and his memory was giving him another.

His senses said Dex was helping you. His memory said Dex hurt people.

His senses said Dex was gentle with you. His memory said Dex had killed Foggy.

His senses said there was love in the room. His memory said Benjamin Poindexter didn’t know how to love correctly.

His mind immediately assumed the worst.

Had he held you here? Kidnapped you? Had he convinced himself he loved you, and was he trying to convince you to love him, too? 

Your sob hitched again.

“I can’t,” you whispered, voice shredded thin. “I can’t, Dex, I can’t—”

“I know,” Dex said immediately, and Matt could hear his skin on yours, rubbing gentle circles on your arm. You weren’t pulling away. “I know. Stay with me.”

There it was, the softness again.

That was an almost desperate patience in his voice, and still, Matt couldn’t make himself trust it.

Not with Dex crouched close enough for his voice to brush your skin. Not with you breathing like the room itself was killing you. Not with the door locked and the city screaming outside and no one else coming.

Then your breath snagged hard “Dex.”

“I’m here.”

“No.” Your voice thinned, almost terrified. “Someone else is h-here.”

Matt went completely still.

Behind the door, the apartment changed.

It was just a shift in the air. Dex went quiet all of a sudden. Matt understood, somehow, that you knew he was there.

For one suspended second, no one moved.

Your breathing trembled in the silence. Then Dex’s heartbeat slowed as he turned.

That was what made Matt decide. The sudden stillness of a killer turning his attention toward the door.

Whatever comfort Matt had heard before, whatever gentleness had almost confused him, it collapsed under the weight of everything else he knew:

A woman was crying in Dex’s apartment. Dex was too close to you. Ergo, Dex was hurting you and Matt had to get you out.

So Matt stepped back once he kicked the door down, and it broke inward. The sound tore through the apartment, wood splitting against the wall.

Matt stepped, expecting you to recoil.

He expected you to scramble backward on the floor, away from Dex. He expected fear to pull you toward the farthest corner, toward the broken doorway, toward him.

Anything but what actually happened.

You moved toward Dex.

It was a clumsy, desperate little scramble, knees dragging over the floorboards, one hand slipping against the wood as you tried to push yourself up and failed. Your breath came in miserable pieces, your whole body folded around the panic like it hurt to exist inside your own skin.

“Dex,” you choked.

Dex was already moving. He closed the distance before you could reach him properly, like he couldn’t stand the sight of you having to cross even that little distance alone. His hands came out, open, and you clambered into him.

There was no other word for it.

You climbed into his arms like you were trying to get beneath his ribs. As if you pressed close enough, hid deep enough, the rest of the world might lose track of you. Your fingers caught the front of his shirt and twisted there, tight and frantic, pulling yourself higher until your face was buried against his chest.

Dex caught you with his whole body. One of his arms was wrapped around your back. The other came up over your head, shielding your face, tucking you under his chin. He bent around you so gently it was almost painful to process, all that deadly mass turned into cover, into shelter.

Matt froze.

You… were not trapped.

Your cheek was pressed to his chest, hands fisted in his shirt. Your body shook against his, but the second he held you, your heartbeat changed. It was still too fast, still terrified, still broken up with panic, but it reached for his rhythm like a drowning man reaching for shore.

Dex lowered his mouth to your temple.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I’ve got you, baby.”

You made a devastated sound and curled tighter.

Your knees drew up against his thigh. One of your hands slipped from his shirt to his shoulder, then to the back of his neck, gripping there like you were afraid Matt might pull him away from you.

“He’s loud,” you managed.

Dex’s eyes stayed on Matt, who still hadn’t said anything. “I know.”

“He’s loud, Dex, he’s so loud.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

You shook your head against him, hiding your face harder in the hollow of his throat. “Baby,” you whispered, voice barely there. “He thinks you’re hurting me.”

Dex went still. 

“I’m not,” he said.

“I know.” Your voice cracked on it. “I know. But he thinks it and I can hear it and it hurts.”

Matt’s throat tightened. What did that even mean?

He heard it then, not just the panic and sobs. He heard the trust.

Your fear was everywhere, all over the room, spilling out of you in ragged breaths, but it was not aimed at the man holding you. Dex was the only place in the apartment your body seemed to recognize as safe.

You kept trying to disappear into him.

Every time Matt shifted, even slightly, your fingers tightened. Every time the broken door creaked behind him, your breath snagged and Dex’s palm moved slowly over the back of your head, as if smoothing you back into yourself.

“Don’t listen to him,” Dex murmured against your hair. “Listen to me.”

“I’m trying.”

“I know.”

“It’s too much.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

Matt took half a step forward. Dex’s head snapped up. “Don’t.”

The word was quiet to not startle you, and that was enough to stop Matt anyway.

Dex shifted on the floor, turning his body more fully between you and the doorway. You followed without thinking, clinging to him as he moved, your face still hidden against his chest. He kept you tucked there, one arm firm around your back, the other curved protectively around your head like he could keep Matt’s thoughts from touching you if he just covered enough of you.

“Poindexter,” Matt started, and it was smaller now.

Dex’s expression did not change. “Get out.”

“I thought—”

“I don’t give a shit what you thought.”

You trembled harder at the anger in his voice. Dex felt it instantly. His eyes flicked down, and when he spoke again, it wasn’t to Matt.

“Not you,” he whispered, pressing his mouth briefly to your hair. 

You made another broken little noise and pushed closer, like the words had gone straight through your heart.

Dex held you tighter, not possessively in a way that trapped, but just enough to tell your body there was he was around it. 

Matt stood there in the wreckage of the door, listening to your heartbeat try to steady itself against Dex’s chest, and for one awful second he didn’t know what to do with what his senses were telling him.

Because Benjamin Poindexter was still the reason too many people Matt loved were dead. But you were curled into him like he was the last quiet place in New York.

“He’s still here,” you whispered.

Dex’s eyes lifted. “I know.”

Dex’s face changed, but not by much. Matt doubted anyone else would have noticed, but he did. He heard it in Dex’s breathing, in the shift of his weight, in the sudden burst of restraint. The city outside was loud. The riots were loud. Matt was loud. His suspicion was loud. His righteousness was loud. His judgment was loud.

And somehow, you could hear all of it.

“I don’t want him here,” you said.

That was it. Whatever patience Dex had left for Matt died right there on the floor.

His hand stayed gentle on your back, but his voice didn’t. “Get the fuck out.”

For once, he did what Dex told him to do.

Matt stepped back into the hallway and got out.

The ruined door dragged crookedly against the floor when he pulled it mostly shut behind him. The lock was useless now, broken out from the frame, hanging loose in splintered wood, but Matt still closed it as much as he could.

He stood there in the hall, one hand still near the broken door, breathing quietly through the dust and old paint and the faint metallic tang inside the apartment.

He should have left. He knew that.

You had wanted him gone. Matt had seen enough, heard enough, to know he had been wrong about at least the first thing: Dex hadn’t been hurting you.

But Matt still could not make himself walk away.

Because Matt has convinced himself that love, in the hands of someone like Benjamin Poindexter, could become a locked room so easily.

Matt stayed.

Not close enough to push the door open again, but not far enough to pretend he wasn’t listening.

Inside, your breathing was still ragged.

Dex was still on the floor with you.

Matt could hear the tiny, frantic movements of your hands in Dex’s shirt. The tremor in your inhale. The way you kept trying to tuck yourself into him like the world might stop finding you if there was enough of his body between you and everything else.

“He’s still out there,” you whispered.

Dex’s answer came after a second of consideration. “Is he, now?”

Your breath hitched. “He didn’t leave.”

Fuck.

Matt stood very still in the hall.

“I’ll take care of him,” Dex murmured.

Your breath snagged. “Don’t hurt him.”

There was a pause. It wasn’t long, but long enough.

Then Dex said, “I won’t kill him.”

“Dex.” You didn't sound convinced.

“I won’t kill him,” he repeated, softer this time. “Promise.”

“You’re mad.”

“I know.”

“It’s sharp,” you winced.

“I know, baby. I’m sorry.” Inside the apartment, Dex went quiet in a way that felt less like guilt and more like being seen too clearly. “I won’t hurt him unless I have to.”

“Dex.”

“I won’t hurt him,” he said, and this time there was no loophole in it. There was only surrender, because it was you asking. “Okay? I won’t.”

Your breathing shuddered as Dex shifted on the floor.

“I’m going to move you, okay?” he said. “Just to the bed. I’ve got you.”

You made a small sound, and Matt could picture it too clearly now. You curled in on yourself, face hidden, body shaking from too much of whatever it is you could sense. 

Dex crouched slowly, though he was already close. Like even now, even with you clutching at him, he was careful not to startle you.  He slid one arm under your knees and the other behind your back.

You clutched at his shirt with shaking fingers. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“No.” His voice went firm immediately. “No, don’t say things like that.”

“I ruined your night.”

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

“I came here and I—”

“You came to me.” Dex pressed his mouth to your temple, quick and fierce. “That’s all. You came to me.”

You made a broken little noise against him.

Matt stood in the hallway, just outside the ruined door, listening to Dex lift you from the floor.

He heard the way your breath caught when your body left the ground. He heard your hands grip for a better hold. He heard Dex adjust instantly, pulling you closer.

“I’ve got you,” Dex murmured. “I’ve got you. I know.”

“You’re going to leave.”

“No.”

You sounded so small when you said, “You are.”

Dex carried you to the bed like every step had been chosen before he took it. Like he knew which floorboards made noise and which ones didn’t. Like he had learned how to move through this apartment in a way that made the least amount of noise for you.

“I’ll take care of him, okay?” Dex murmured. “I’ll make him go away.”

Your breathing hitched as you started to say something, but Dex shushed you gently.

“Yes, I know,” he said, softer. “I know you don’t like it when people see you like this. I know. It’s just gonna be me and you, okay? Just me and you.”

The mattress dipped down under your weight.

“I’ll close the door,” Dex continued. “I’ll turn the lights off. I’ll come right back.”

Your fingers caught the fabric of his shirt again. “Don’t leave.”

“I’m not leaving.” Dex let out a slow breath. “I’m right here.”

“You’re thinking about going.”

“I’m thinking about making him leave.”

“I can’t tell the difference.”

Dex went quiet.

Matt heard him sit beside you instead of standing right away. The mattress shifted again as the room settled around the two of you.

You cried a little, more exhausted now, as if the panic had torn through you and left you hollowed out behind it.

Dex’s hand moved over fabric in a slow, repetitive pass. Matt realised he was making the sheets smooth for you as he laid you down.

His hand slid up from your back to the side of your face, thumb hovering near your cheek, not quite wiping the tears away until you leaned into it first. “Look into my mind, baby.”

Matt’s head tilted from the hallway.

What?

Inside the studio, everything went still except for your breathing.

The room was not large enough for privacy. Not really. The bed sat pushed into the far corner. The broken front door was too close. Matt was too close. The whole world was too close.

But Dex bent over you like he could make distance with his body alone.

“Go on,” he murmured. “Look at me.”

You stared up at him through wet lashes, face blotched from crying, lips parted around breaths that still would not come right. Your fingers trembled against his shirt, twisted in the fabric so tightly the seams strained.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then your grip loosened by a fraction.

Your eyes fluttered.

A shaky breath left you, not calm, not even close, but relieved enough that Dex’s shoulders almost caved in with it.

“You’re coming back,” you whispered.

Dex nodded once, forehead nearly touching yours. “Yeah.”

“You’re not leaving forever.”

“No.”

The answer was immediate. No room for doubt. No space for the thought to grow teeth.

But then your expression crumpled again.

“You’re mad.”

Dex closed his eyes for half a second.

He didn’t deny it. He couldn't, even if he wanted to. Not to you. “I am.”

Your breath caught so suddenly it sounded like it hurt.

Dex’s whole face changed. The anger was still there, Matt could hear it in him, running hot under the skin. But with you looking at him like that, terrified because his fury had no color, no label, no clear direction once it got inside your head, Dex felt almost sick with it.

“I’m not mad at you,” he said, urgent in a way that made the words rough. “Never at you.”

Your mouth trembled and repeated yourself. “You know I can’t tell the difference sometimes.” It came out so pained Matt felt it in his own chest.

You said it like an apology, like you hated needing him to explain the direction of his anger because you could feel it anyway, and feeling it didn’t mean understanding it.

Dex swallowed. His hand curved more fully around your cheek now, warm and steady, thumb finally catching one tear before it slid down to your jaw.

“I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

You looked at him for another second, searching his face like your own mind wasn't enough tonight. Like even seeing inside him had not made your body believe it yet.

Then he lowered his voice. “I have to make him leave.”

Your fingers tightened again, not as badly this time.

Dex did not pull away. He leaned in instead, pressing a short kiss to your forehead, then another to the corner of your temple, like he could nail the promise into place with his mouth.

“I’m going to turn off the lights, okay?” 

You nodded, barely, as breathing scraped in and out through your nose.

Dex shifted only when you let him. He eased you back against the pillows in the bed, not putting you down so much as arranging the room around your collapse. One hand stayed on you the whole time, a constant point of contact while the other reached for everything else.

He crossed the few steps to it and slid the window shut with painstaking care, catching the frame before it could knock. Street noise dulled at once.

Then he pulled the curtains together until the thin spill of city light vanished from the wall and your face disappeared into darkness.

As promised, he clicked the lamp off.

The studio fell dimmer, warmer, reduced to the weak strip of hallway light bleeding through the ruined front door.

The phone was next. He picked it up from the small table beside the bed and silenced it without looking, thumb moving from memory. He put it back, screen turned down.

A radio sat near the kitchenette, cheap and old, still plugged into the wall. Dex crossed to it barefoot and pulled the cord free. The plastic scraped faintly against the outlet, and even that made your breathing tremble.

Then, he opened a drawer near the bed.

Something rattled softly as he picked it up. A pill bottle, maybe? No, it could be earplugs in a little tin. 

He came back with them in his palm.

You must have watched him through the dark because your breathing changed when he got close again, sounding less lost than before.

Dex sat on the edge of the mattress.

He tucked the blanket around you, drawing it up over your shoulder, smoothing the edge down like he was sealing the world out inch by inch. His hand lingered there after, broad against the blanket, feeling the shake of you through the fabric.

The apartment had become smaller. Every sound had been answered. Every light had been put down. Every little edge of the room had been softened, covered, turned away from you by hands that knew the ritual too well.

He had done this before. Like he had learned, piece by piece, how to make the world survivable for you.

At some point, you must have reached for him again, because Dex’s voice dropped inaudibly. “Hey,” he whispered. “I know.”

The bed creaked as he leaned closer.

A kiss touched your skin. Your forehead, maybe. Then another, lower. Your temple. The damp line of your cheek.

“I’ll be right back,” Dex breathed.

You made a small sound.

He stayed another second, maybe two. Long enough for your fingers to loosen.

Then he stood.

Dex walked to the other side of the apartment without turning on a single light. He made no wasted movement, not a single sound he didn’t mean to make.

At the broken front door, he paused and looked back once.

Matt could hear the small turn of his head. The habit of making sure you were still under the blanket, still breathing, still there.

Then Dex slipped into the hall and pulled the ruined door mostly shut behind him.

It couldn’t latch. But he cracked it closed as carefully as if it still mattered, leaving only a narrow gap of darkness between the apartment and the hallway.

He was keeping the light out. He was keeping Matt out.

When Dex turned, he stood half-shadowed in the corridor, eyes red-rimmed and flat with exhaustion. His face was calm in the way loaded weapons were calm. His voice stayed quiet, almost gentle, but not for Matt.

He did it for yous

“I told you,” Dex said, “to get the fuck out.”

For a while, Matt didn’t say anything.

The hallway held them in the aftermath of what Matt had done. The door hung crooked in its frame, pulled mostly shut even though the lock was split and useless, the wood around it cracked open where Matt’s boot had forced its way through. It couldn’t protect you anymore. It could barely pretend to be a door. Still, Dex stood in front of it as if his body could replace what Matt had broken, as if he could become the lock, the wall, the whole goddamn building if he had to.

Matt could hear the anger in him as clearly as he could hear traffic below: hot, contained, and viciously focused. Dex wanted to do something with it. Matt knew that, but he kept it buried beneath his ribs because you were behind that broken door, and if he let the rage rise any higher, you would feel it.

That was what Matt could not stop noticing. Not the anger. The restraint.

Inside the apartment, you shifted under the blanket. It was only a movement of fabric, barely anything, followed by the small uneven catch of your breath as you tried to settle yourself in the dark corner Dex had made for you. Dex turned his head at once. Not fully, not enough to take his attention off Matt, but enough that Matt realised that some part of Dex had never left the room with you. Some part of him was still sitting beside the bed, counting your breaths, waiting for the slightest sign that you needed him again.

For one moment, Matt didn't feel like he was looking at Bullseye. He was looking at a man furious enough to kill and still aching to go back inside because the woman he loved was trying to remember how to breathe without him there.

Matt swallowed. “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”

Dex looked back at him and the answer was obvious. Matt had no right to know. No right to ask. He had no right to stand there in the hallway after frightening you and pretend the question was harmless.

“I didn’t tell you.”

His voice was flat and guarded, the words set down like a barrier. Matt’s mouth tightened. 

Behind the door, your breathing hitched again, smaller this time, like the sound of voices through wood was still enough to scrape against you. Dex heard it too. The anger in him shifted immediately, folding smaller, tightening down.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asked.

He knew it was wrong the second it left his mouth. The words were too blunt, too harsh, too clinical. He had meant, What happened? He had meant, Is she going to be okay? He had meant, What did I just walk into, and how badly did I make it worse? But none of that came out. What came out sounded like you were a problem. 

“Nothing is wrong with her,” Dex said, and Matt could tell he was trying his hardest not to snap.

Matt didn’t move. Dex stepped closer by the smallest amount, and the entire hallway seemed to narrow with him. His face had gone hard, but not empty.

“Nothing,” Dex repeated, each syllable harsh enough to cut. “She’s perfect.”

Matt exhaled slowly through his nose. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yes, you did.”

Dex didn’t have to snarl. He didn’t have to raise his voice. The accusation sat there between them, plain and ugly, and Matt couldn’t defend himself from it because part of it was true.

Inside, you were quiet now. Not calm, but silent in the way people became when they were trying very hard not to take up too much space with their hurt. Matt listened to the small tremor and felt the pieces beginning to arrange themselves in his head.

You had known he was outside before Dex opened the door. You had reacted to him even before he even stepped inside. You had known Dex was mad but couldn’t tell where that anger was aimed. Dex had told you to look into his mind with the ease of someone offering proof, not metaphor, not comfort dressed up as poetry, but a real thing he knew you could do.

Oh.

Matt looked back at Dex and stated the painfully obvious explanation. “She can read minds.”

Dex’s expression changed only a little, but Matt heard the rest. The brief tightening of his mouth. The instinct to protect you by lying took over, followed almost immediately by the realization that lying to Matt Murdock was pointless.

Dex looked away, and said, “Yes.” 

His voice had changed, still rough around the edges, but the explanation seemed to cost him a part of his soul. Every word about you had to be handled carefully because it belonged to you first. He kept his eyes on the door as he spoke, as if even describing your pain required him to make sure it had not worsened.

“She hears thoughts, feelings. Most days she can keep it out, or keep it separate, or read one mind at a time. She knows how to get through the day.” His teeth clenched, and he looked down for half a second before forcing himself to continue. “But when there are too many people, when emotions run too high, it stops being individual thoughts and turns into noise.”

Oh.

Oh shit, Matt thought as he realized that last night hadn’t only been bad for you. It had been a disaster built exactly out of the things that hurt you most. 

Last night, protests clashed with Fisk’s Task Force. Bodies were pressed shoulder to shoulder in the streets, voices raised, officers behind their shields, civilians furious and terrified and righteous all at once. Fisk’s fall had moved through the city like a shockwave. Matt Murdock’s confession that he was a Daredevil had made a home on every screen, in every mouth, in every disbelieving mind.

His confession had not stayed in the courtroom. It had spilled outward, turning into rumor and revelation and riot, and you had walked straight into all of it because you thought Dex was hurt. Because you missed him.

Matt felt his stomach sink.

He thought of you moving through that crowd, not just hearing the sirens and shouting like everyone else, but taking in the thoughts beneath them. Panic layered over rage layered over grief. Thousands of minds all pushing against yours with no space between them. A whole city losing control at once, and you were caught in the middle of it, trying to find one person.

Dex’s face tightened as if he could see the same picture and hated it more because he had already lived the end of it. He hated that he had found you like that. 

Matt understood that without being told. Dex had found you shaking apart in this same apartment, or near it, or on the street outside, too overwhelmed by everyone else to find yourself. He had found you and brought you here and spent the night closing windows, killing lights, silencing phones, making the world smaller with hands that had done unspeakable things.

“She came looking for me,” Dex said.

The words were almost stripped of anger now. Dex looked at the door again, and his body softened before he could stop it. But Matt heard it in the way Dex’s breath caught around your existence on the other side of the wall.

Benjamin Poindexter loved you.

Matt didn’t want to know that. He didn’t want to have to make room for it inside the shape of the man he hated. He wanted Dex to stay simple. A killer. Someone with a label simple enough to condemn without complication. But love was written through him now in ways Matt couldn’t ignore. 

Matt’s voice came quieter when he asked, “Does she need a doctor?”

Dex scoffed. “Doctors are what made her like this.”

Matt went still.

Dex didn’t explain. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe Matt hadn’t earned that part of the story. But still, he was opening just enough of a door for Matt to picture the white rooms, fluorescent lights and people calling pain research, behind him.

Dex looked back at the broken door, and for half a second, the rage in him gave way. “She has good days and bad days,” Dex said. His mouth tightened, and when he spoke again, the grief in it was almost unbearable. “And she was having a good week.”

That mattered.

Matt couldn’t possibly understand the full weight of that sentence, but Dex did. A good week meant sleep. It meant you could eat without feeling nauseous. It meant you had mornings where you didn’t wake up already bracing against other people’s thoughts. 

You’ve had several really good weeks, actually. 

It mattered because Dex had met you on a bad day.

—

Twelve months ago… 

OXE hired him to kill you.

A freelance gig, really. 

The file was from the private medical trial branch of the corporation. It said that you were a failed participant. You were a liability. You were just a woman whose condition had become unpredictable.

They sent Dex a name, a photograph, an address, and a warning not to engage longer than necessary.

The house they had sent him to had no security. It was an old, empty place with drawn curtains and stale air and dust gathered thick in the corners.

You hated it.

Dex found you in the attic under the slanted roof, sitting in the weak orange spill of late afternoon light, one wrist was handcuffed to an exposed pipe. Your knees were drawn up close to your chest. Your hair stuck damply to your face, and your lips were bitten raw, like you had spent hours trying to keep something inside your mouth by force.

The key was across the room.

It was kicked. Dex could tell from the scrape in the dust where it had skidded away from you, just far enough that your fingers couldn’t reach it unless you pulled hard enough to tear the skin around your wrist. The cuff had already bruised a dark, ugly ring on your skin. 

You looked at him once.

A small, breathless laugh left you. It wasn’t happy, not even close. It was more like your body had mistaken despair for humor because it had run out of other ways to hold it.

“You’re…” Your voice cracked. “You’re here to kill me.”

Dex didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Your eyes moved over his face, and something strange passed through them. 

Then you laughed again, barely. “You think I’m pretty, Dex.”

The attic went still as dust drifted in the light between you.

Dex’s finger rested near the trigger.

“How do you know my name?”

You looked at him like the question itself was tired. “Mind reader,” you said. “Obviously.”

Dex stared at you for a long moment.

You didn’t look like what OXE had described.

Dangerous, yes, maybe. But not in the way they meant. You looked exhausted, cornered, and afraid of yourself than of him. Your whole body was tense against the cuff, but you weren’t trying to get free anymore.

Dex’s eyes flicked to the key, then back to you.

“Why lock yourself up here?”

For the first time, you looked ashamed. “Because it’s loud.”

Dex glanced around the empty attic.

You heard the thought before he could speak.

“Not here,” you said, swallowing, then pointing to your head with your free hand, “but here.”

Your hand then curled briefly around your own throat, not pressing, just remembering. 

“I kicked the key away,” you whispered. “So I’d have time to stop myself.”

“From what?”

You closed your eyes. Your voice came out small. “Strangling someone.”

Dex didn’t move.

You opened your eyes, wet and miserable, and looked past him because looking right at him was suddenly too hard.

“He was loud. He wouldn’t stop. He kept thinking and thinking and thinking, and I kept hearing it. I told him to stop to shut up, but they couldn’t, because people can’t just stop thinking, and I knew that, see, I knew that, but I—

Your breath broke as you looked down at your cuffed wrist. “So I locked myself up here. Before I kill someone again.”

Dex should have killed you. That was the job.

OXE had paid him to remove a problem, and there you were, handcuffed beneath a slanted roof, bruised and filthy and shaking because the world had made you into something you were terrified of becoming.

He should have pulled the trigger. Instead, he lowered the gun.

Your face fell immediately, like mercy was its own kind of threat.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

Dex paused.

“If you’re going to kill me, just do it,” you said, voice cracking. 

Dex’s mind went quiet.

He had no idea what to do with that. No idea what to do with you.

So he did the only practical thing he could.

He walked across the room and picked up the key.

You cried then, silently at first, tears spilling over without sound as he came back and crouched in front of you. Dex moved slowly. He set the gun down beside him, close enough to reach, far enough that you could see both his hands.

“I’m going to unlock it,” he said.

You stared at him.

“You can read my mind,” he added, awkward and blunt because gentleness was not a language he spoke well yet. “So you know I’m not lying.”

Your breath shook.

You looked at him, really looked, and you squinted your eyes in the smallest, most painful disbelief.

Dex unlocked the cuff.

The metal fell away from your wrist. 

You didn’t move.

You only stared at your freed hand like it belonged to someone else. The skin beneath the cuff was swollen and angry, the bruise already darkening. Dex looked at it for too long.

Then he took off his jacket.

He draped it over your shoulders.

You were shaking so hard the leather fabric around you.

Dex did not ask if you could walk. He already knew the answer. He saw the way your legs failed when you tried to gather them beneath you, saw the way your hand went out blindly toward the pipe, toward the wall, toward anything that would keep the room from tilting.

So he picked you up slowly, one arm under your knees, one behind your back, no grip tighter than necessary.

You went rigid in his arms for half a second, then sagged, exhausted past the point of fear.

“Why are you doing this?” you whispered.

Dex looked down at you.

He didn’t know how to answer out loud.

Because I know what it means to be made wrong for the world, too.

Maybe, now that we’ve found each other, we don’t have to be alone anymore. 

He said none of that. But you said, “okay.”

He carried you down from the attic and took you back to his apartment because he didn’t know where else to take you. 

You sat on the edge of his tub in his jacket while he ran the water warm.

Dex kept looking away, not because he was embarrassed, but because he understood, somehow, that being looked at was another kind of noise. He handed you a towel, found some soaps and put a clean shirt on the sink. 

When you could not lift your hands without trembling, he helped.

He helped you into warm water and rinsed dust from your hair, cleaning blood from your bruised wrist. His hand was steady on your skin when you started crying again.

He didn't ask you to stop.

He only said, once, very quietly, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

And because you could read his mind, you knew he meant it.

Benjamin Poindexter had been hired to kill you.

Instead, he took you out of the attic and bathed you.

—

Over the next couple of days, you were mostly good.

Mostly.

Because Dex learned quickly that good didn’t mean cured. It meant you slept more than you usually did. It meant you could sit by the window without pressing your palms to your ears. It meant you could make tea in his kitchen and smile at some thought he hadn’t meant to give you.

Within the first week, his apartment changed because of you. He installed wall panelling first, because the building was old and thin and the neighbors came through the walls too easily when everything felt hollow. Then, he gave you thicker curtains, then rugs. Then a new refrigerator because the old one hummed at a frequency that made you bare your teeth and say it tasted wrong.

Dex didn’t ask what that meant.

He just replaced it.

After all, your mind was already susceptible to being invaded by foreign thoughts, he didn't want you to be overstimulated by your senses, too.

That was how it started with him, really. Not with declarations. Dex loved in corrections, adjustments, and threat assessments. He noticed what hurt you, and then he removed it. He learned the signs of your bad days and built around them, one practical act at a time.

You fell in love with him so fast it should have scared you.

It didn’t, but mostly because you knew he had already fallen too.

You could hear it.

He thought he was being subtle, which was almost funny. Dex, who could control his breathing to take a shot, couldn’t hide wanting you to kiss him for more than a week.

You could hear his thoughts every time you came too close.

Not words, exactly. More like flashes of your mouth, your hands in his mind. The curve of your shoulder when you wore one of his shirts. The split-second image of him leaning in, followed by a disciplined thought-wall of don’t, don’t, don’t, because Dex could kill a man without blinking but apparently touching you first was too much.

You let him suffer with it for six days, mostly because you were giving him time to change his mind. 

He didn’t.

On the seventh, he was fixing one of the new panels in the kitchen, teeth clenched because the wood refused to sit straight. You were sitting on the counter with one of his old FBI academy shirts that had since gotten too small for his bulk now, bare legs swinging, watching him pretend he was not acutely aware of your knees on either side of his ribs when he stepped between them to reach the wall.

You had laughed from where you sat.

He looked over at you. “You think that’s funny?”

You tilted your head. “You’re thinking about shooting the wall.”

Dex stared at you, setting the screwdriver down too carefully.

“You shouldn’t go digging around in my head.”

“I didn’t dig,” you said. “You’re loud when you’re annoyed.”

That should have bothered him. It did, maybe a little.

But then you smiled at him like his mind was not a terrible place to be. Like you could look at all the terrible things in there and still find him underneath. Like understanding him did not disgust you.

Fuck, he thought, don’t do things that make me want to—

“You want to kiss me,” you interrupted his train of thoughts.

Dex went so still it was almost sweet. Then he turned his head. “You shouldn’t listen to that.”

“You know I don’t mean to.” You hooked two fingers in the front of his shirt and tugged him closer. 

His eyes dropped to your mouth, and that was answer enough.

So you kissed him.

Gently at first, just to see what he would do with it. Dex froze under your hands like his body had forgotten every instruction except stay. Then he made this small, ruined sound against your mouth and touched your waist like you were a fragile crystal he had been warned not to break.

After that, neither of you stood a chance.

Neither of you did anything halfway. Dex didn’t know how to want normally, and you didn’t know how to be wanted normally. Kissing turned into touching, touching turned to stumbling into his bed, and being in his bed turned into Dex curling into you afterward like he had found heaven and was furious nobody had warned him it would feel like this.

Sex with a mind reader should have terrified him.

But after the first time he understood what it meant with you. There was no pretending or hiding behind control. He couldn’t pretend to be calmer than he was. He couldn’t hide how badly he wanted to kiss you again, how much he liked your hands on him, how ruined he got when you said his name in that breathless sigh. You knew when he was overwhelmed and you adjusted. You knew when he needed to slow down. You knew when he was thinking too much and when he needed you to pull him out of his own head.

You kissed him through it. You talked him through it. You touched him like his wants were not shameful just because they were intense, like the inside of him was not too much for you.

And you loved him for it.

You loved the strange, violent tenderness of him. The way he checked your face before his hands moved. The way he liked when you told him what he wanted. 

“You love me,” you whispered after the second month, half asleep against his chest, your fingers tracing lazy shapes over his ribs.

Dex went still beneath you.

You smiled into his skin. “Don’t panic. I love you too.”

He didn’t say it back then because he didn’t have to.

But his arms tightened around you like the thought of you leaving had become physically unbearable. His mouth pressed to the top of your head, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth, almost desperate.

He loved you with every ruined, desperate, loyal part of himself. He loved you like gravity, like a fixation, like a religion he had invented alone in the dark and then accidentally found living in your body.

You smiled up at him, eyes wet.

“I know,” you whispered. “I can hear you.”

Dex’s hand came up to the back of your neck and kissed you.

You heard it in him constantly after that, and not  like a normal man thinking I love you in a normal way. 

Still, there were rules.

You didn’t care that he killed AVTF agents and assassination jobs. You had heard enough of their minds to know duty didn’t make most men good. You didn’t hate him for coming home with blood on his hands. 

If anything, Dex loved that about you. Because for once, he didn’t have to explain himself.

He didn’t have to come home and build a careful human-sounding justification for the violence. He didn’t have to say he had no choice, or they were a threat. You already knew. You reached into his mind, found his reasoning, and understood it before he even greeted you.

And you would look at him and say, “That’s fine.”

Not because you were naïve. But you knew exactly what he was.

You knew the terrible things he had done. You knew the sound of his mind when he decided someone had to die. You knew how quickly he could make peace with blood if the reason made sense to him. And somehow, you accepted it.

But proximity to killing was a different thing altogether. A hurt mind was a loud mind and a dying mind was worse. 

You explained it after an agent got too close to the apartment. 

Dex knew that he couldn’t risk a search. He knew he couldn’t risk him writing down the address. He couldn’t risk OXE finding you again.

So he killed him outside, close enough for you to feel the pain. 

By the time Dex came back in, you were on the floor beside the bed, hands pressed to your ears even though that never helped. Your face was pale, eyes unfocused, like you were still hearing dead thoughts long after the body had gone limp.

“A hurt mind tastes like TV static,” you whispered.

Dex stopped with blood drying on his sleeve.

You tried to explain because he needed to understand, and with you, Dex always listened like the answer might save your life later.

“I don’t hear words when they’re hurt. Pain turns everything white and icky. It buzzes behind my eyes.” You swallowed hard, breathing through it. “And dying is worse. A dying mind clings to anything it can. A face, a  smell, a prayer. Some room they were in when they were little. Anything to stay. It’s so loud, Dex. I can’t filter it, I can’t, I-I… can’t.”

Dex didn’t look sorry for the dead agent, that was not how he worked. But he looked… hurt. He was hurt because you were.

“I know why you did it,” you said, eyes wet. “I know he got too close. I’m not mad.”

That was worse, because he could’ve handled anger. He didn’t know what to do with forgiveness. “I just can’t be near it,” you whispered. “Please.”

It had never been easy for him to change rules, but just like that, because you were hurt, he changed it. 

He promised no killing within half a mile of the apartment. He promised there would be no bodies in the building. If danger came near and you were close enough to feel it, Dex would send you away first. 

And if he had no choice, if someone had to die and had to die fast, Dex dragged the body away before the mind finished breaking.

He’d drag them down alleys, around corners, behind dumpsters, far enough that their minds could get loud somewhere it wouldn’t reach you.

For a while, that was enough.

Then one day, Dex came home and you weren’t in the apartment.

The door was locked. The curtains were drawn. The lights were low the way you liked them. The kettle sat cold on the stove, even though it was time you usually had tea. Your blanket was half-folded on the chair, one sleeve of one of his shirts hanging off the armrest where you had left it that morning.

But you weren’t there.

Dex stood in the middle of the studio and listened.

He couldn’t hear bare feet shifting against the floor of the bathroom. He could hear breathing from the corner beyond the bed, where you usually were when you were overwhelmed. 

Nothing.

His body reacted before his mind did.

A bloom of panic opened behind his ribs.

“Sweetheart?”

No answer.

He checked the bathroom, the closet, the fire escape. The bed, even though he could see you weren’t  in it. Then again, because panic didn’t care about logic once it got its hands around his throat.

No.

No, no, no.

For one sick second, all he could think was OXE.

Someone had found you. Someone had gotten in while he was away. Someone had taken you from the little box he had built to keep the world out, and he hadn’t been there to stop it.

Then he heard you.

You were… down the hall?

You let out a sob muffled through someone else’s door.

Dex turned toward it so fast the room seemed to tilt.

He knew that sound. He knew every version of your crying by then. The small ones you tried to hide, the sharp ones that meant you were hurt, the breathless ones that meant too many minds had gotten in and you couldn’t find your way back out.

This one was worse.

This one sounded like shock and the beginning of self-hatred.

Dex was already moving.

The neighbors’ apartment door was unlocked.

He pushed it open and found you on the floor.

You were curled up near the kitchen tiles, knees drawn tight, hands pressed over your mouth as if you were trying to hold the sobs in with your fingers. Your whole body shook.  

You were barefoot. Your hair was a mess. One side of your face was wet with tears.

Then Dex saw the bodies around you, and it belonged to the couple who lived there.

The ones who screamed through the walls so often their voices had become part of the building. The ones whose arguments rotted into your apartment at night. The ones whose thoughts were worse than their mouths, according to you. They were bitter and poisoned all the way through.

He knew pieces of them because you knew pieces of them.

You told them they had a son who didn’t live there anymore. The grandparents had taken him in because the father’s anger had become too physical and the mother’s neglect had become too easy to pretend not to see. The child’s room was now turned into storage. 

They had been horrible people.

That did not change the fact that you had killed them.

You looked up at Dex. “I’m sorry.”

Your hands fell from your mouth to your throat, fingers hovering there like you could still feel what you had done.

“They were so loud,” you whispered.

Dex stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Your eyes darted to the bodies, then back to him, wild and wet and ruined.

“I knew it would hurt,” you said, words coming faster now, tumbling out of you before you could stop them. “I knew. I knew dying minds hurt me. I knew it would be loud when they died, I knew it would get in, but they were already so loud, Dex. They were already in my head I couldn’t think.”

Your breath hitched hard.

“They were fighting again. Not just out loud outside, but inside. Inside was worse. He was thinking about what he wanted to do to her, and she was thinking about what she should have done to him years ago, and then they were thinking about the boy, and neither of them even missed him right. They just—”

You choked on it.

Dex took one slow step closer. You shook your head, frantic. “No. Don’t. I’m awful right now. I’m so loud.”

“You’re not too loud for me.”

That made you sob harder. You curled forward, forehead nearly touching your knees.

“I tried to go back,” you whispered. “I tried to go back to our apartment. I tried to shut it out, but they kept going and going and going, and I couldn’t tell what was mine anymore. I couldn’t tell if I hated them or if they hated each other or if the whole hallway hated them, and then I was here.”

Your hands twisted in your lap.

“I was just here.”

Dex understood, because it was you.

Because your mind had been filled past the point of reason by two people who had made a life out of being loud, and by the time you understood what your hands were doing, they were already dying. 

“I made it quick,” you said.

Your voice was so small it barely reached him.

Dex’s teeth tightened. You looked at him like you needed him to believe that one thing, if nothing else.

“I did. I promise. I didn’t want them to hurt. I didn’t want to hear that part for long. I just needed it to stop, and they were going to hurt each other anyway, and they were horrible, Dex, but I—” Your face fell. “I killed them.”

There was no justification, no defence. 

“I killed them,” you said again, and it sounded like you were trying to make yourself understand it.

Dex crouched in front of you, and your eyes flicked to his hands.

Dex knew too much about violence to be shocked by it. But seeing you like this, seeing the toll of it hollow you out from the inside, he understood one thing: The city was killing you.

It was simply too loud, too full for your mind. 

“Look at me,” he said.

You shook your head. “I can’t.”

“Look at me.”

Your eyes lifted.

Dex reached for you then, slow enough that you could stop him.

You didn’t.

The second his hand closed gently around your wrist, you collapsed forward into him with a sound so broken it made his throat tighten. He caught you against his chest, one hand to the back of your head, the other arm locked around you while you sobbed into his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped.

Dex held you tighter.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to be like this.”

“I know, baby.”

“They were so loud.”

“I know.”

And he didn’t mean it the way you meant it. He couldn’t. He would never know what it was like to have a dying mind claw through yours, to feel someone’s last panic splinter behind your eyes. But he knew enough. He knew you. He knew what this had cost you.

He looked over your shoulder at the dead neighbors, and there was no pity in him for them.

Only calculation. He was going to clean up this mess, maybe make it look like a murder-suicide, and make sure the investigation didn’t even look your way. 

You were crying so hard you could barely breathe.

Dex pressed his mouth to your hair.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “You’re okay.”

That night, after he cleaned what needed cleaning and got you back behind your own door, after he tucked you into the bed and sat with you until exhaustion finally dragged you under, Dex stayed awake beside you and stared at the ceiling.

The panelling he put there was not enough. The blackout curtains he installed were not enough.

The quiet refrigerator, the rugs, the rules about killing, the way he had tried to make one studio apartment survivable — none of it was enough if the city could still get to you through the walls.

By morning, Dex had made up his mind.

He started taking bigger jobs after that, better paying ones. 

All with one thing in mind: relocate you from the city.

—

After that, every job had one purpose.

You.

And Dex had always been better when he had a purpose.

Every payment, every account number, every envelope, every favor owed became a way out of the city, a way to buy air your mind could survive.

But money was never quite enough. Money could buy a place, maybe, but money left a paper trail. Dex needed a cleaner solution. 

He got what he wanted when the property mogul came to him.

The man owned half a skyline and wanted another man dead over a development dispute he kept calling “a complication.” He met Dex in the private lounge of a building with marble floors and windows too high above the street for anyone inside to remember people lived below them.

He offered a number first.

Two hundred thousand dollars. 

Dex did not react.

The mogul smiled like he thought he had accepted the offer.

Then Dex gave him his price. “Two hundred thousand dollars,” he said, “and land.”

The mogul blinked. Dex leaned back in his chair.

“Upstate, and no close neighbors within half a mile radius. I want twenty acres at least. I want an existing cabin if you’ve got one. If not, build one.”

The man stared at him for a second too long, like money had made him forget people could ask for things that weren’t numbers. Dex’s expression didn’t change.

“You want him gone by Friday?” he tilted his head. “That’s my payment.”

The mogul laughed uncertainly.

Dex didn’t.

By the end of the week, the man was dead, the dispute was gone, and a plot of land upstate had quietly changed hands through three shell companies and a fake name. 

There was a cabin on it already.

It was small and slightly weathered, far enough from the nearest road that the city couldn’t reach it easily. It was enough from the nearest neighbor that even your mind would have to stretch to find another person.

Dex stood on the porch the first time he saw it and listened.

Nothing but birds and wind through the trees.

Perfect. 

Dex wanted to surprise you, which was adorable, because he had been thinking about the cabin constantly.

Not just the cabin itself, either. He had been fixing and sanding and checking the locks. He had managed to put extra shelves in the kitchen and fixed the creaky steps. He was planning to replace the bedroom window before you ever saw it because the old one rattled when the wind hit wrong and you’d hate it almost as much as he did. 

He wanted it perfect before he brought you there.

So you pretended not to know.

You let him come home with sawdust on his sleeve and plans tucked behind his eyes, let him sit beside you on the bed while thinking very loudly about the porch and curtain rods and whether the trees were far enough from the house to make you feel safe instead of watched.

“You’re in a good mood,” you said.

Dex glanced at you too quickly. “No.”

You smiled into your book. “Okay.”

Then, flatter, he realised, “You know.”

You looked up, trying so hard not to smile because he looked genuinely upset. “I know.”

Dex sighed through his nose. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“You did,” you said, reaching for the front of his shirt. “I’m surprised you thought you could surprise me.”

And poor Dex, murderous, meticulous, hopelessly in love Dex, let you pull him down into a kiss anyway. 

Of course, when he took you there the week after for the first time with your duffel bags in tow, you loved it.

You loved the curtains. You loved the little fire pit he built after you told him fire felt like the good kind of white noise in your head. You loved watching him chop wood with unnecessary precision. You loved sitting on the porch with a blanket around your shoulders while he checked the perimeter for the third time that day, because Dex couldn’t love normally. He loved like a security system with attachment issues.

And Dex loved that you knew.

He didn’t have to explain the strange shape of his obsession. You could reach into his mind and find the answer before he ever opened his mouth.

Why did he reinforce the back door?

Because if someone comes through it, I want three extra seconds.

Why did he move the bed away from the window?

Because glass breaks inward.

Why did he buy six bags of birdseed?

Because you smiled at the cardinals.

That one made him glare at you.

“You’re not supposed to listen all the time,” he said.

You sat on the porch railing, grinning into your mug. “You’re not supposed to think so loudly.”

“I don’t.”

You shrugged. “You do sometimes.”

Your favorite part, though, was watching him practice.

He set up a target in the clearing behind the cabin, a clean round board nailed to a tree stump far enough away that any normal person would have missed half the time.

Dex never missed.

He would stand there in the cold morning air, sleeves pushed up, knife balanced between his fingers with that beautiful focus he had. Then his hand would flick, quick as a blink, and the blade would bury itself dead center.

Again.

And Again.

You sat on a log nearby, chin in your hand, trying very hard not to smile. “You’re showing off.”

Dex did not look at you. “I’m practicing.”

“You’re showing off because you know I’m watching,” you said, “You’re thinking, She likes when I do this.”

The knife hit the target with a sharp thunk.

Dead center.

Dex turned then, eyes narrowing.

You smiled sweetly.

Poor thing. He was terrifying to everyone else. To you, he was just your murderous little cabin boyfriend who would rather die than admit to liking your sweet little praises.

“You know,” you said, “you don’t have to impress me.”

Dex pulled the knife from the target. 

That one got him.

Dex walked across the clearing toward you, knife still loose in his hand, expression flat in that way that would have scared anyone who didn’t already know his mind was doing the emotional equivalent of tripping over furniture.

“You think you’re funny,” he said.

“You love me.”

Dex stopped in front of you.

The woods were quiet around him. Birds were shifting in the trees. Firewood was stacked by the shed. Morning light caught in his hair and across the sharp line of his cheek. His mind softened before his eyes did, and you felt it bloom warm in your chest before he ever touched you.

I do, he thought. More than anything in the whole goddamn world. 

You smiled up at him. “I know.”

Dex bent downs, caught your chin carefully between his fingers, and kissed you. It was ridiculously gentle for a man called Bullseye. 

When he pulled back, your eyes were still closed.

“You’re going to do it again,” you murmured.

“The knife throwing?”

“No.” You opened your eyes and smiled. “Kiss me.”

Dex managed a smile. And because he never missed, he did.

—

Dex still went back to the city sometimes.

He had scales to level, as he put it. Important vigilante work, in his head. It was the kind of work that involved blood and ledgers and moral math only Benjamin Poindexter could make sound reasonable. You never argued with him about that part. You could read his mind. You knew his reasons. 

Still, leaving you at the cabin always hurt him.

Not because the cabin was unsafe. It was practically a fortress by then, even with enough stored food to survive whatever apocalypse Dex had apparently been personally expecting.

But he still checked everything twice.

“You’ll call if anything feels wrong,” he said.

“I’ll call.”

“If someone comes up the road—”

“I go to the back room.”

“If the radio cuts out—”

“I use the satellite phone.”

“If you hear something near the woods—”

“I don’t go investigate like a stupid horror movie girl.”

Still, he never left for more than three or four days.

Never.

By the second night, his thoughts would start turning back toward you. By the third, they got restless. He’d think about whether you remembered to eat. Whether the firewood was dry. Whether the road was clear. Whether you were wearing his sweater because you missed him or because the house was cold.

Both, usually.

When he came back, it was almost always late.

You never waited inside.

You would be on the porch before he reached the steps, blanket around your shoulders, eyes bright from missing him too much. Sometimes he didn’t even get the Bullseye mask off before you had both hands on him.

“Missed you,” you whispered, then you’d kiss the mask, right over where his mouth should be.

And his brain would go completely, embarrassingly haywire with love, relief, home, you, you, you.

You laughed softly against the fabric surface of it. “You’re loud.”

Dex’s gloved hands found your waist. “I missed you too.”

“Mmm,” you hummed, “I know.”

He would pull the mask off properly after that, just to kiss you properly. And when his mouth finally found yours, you could feel the city fall away from him.

—

This time, Dex was gone for seven days.

He didn’t tell you why, and not because he wanted to scare you. Because in Dex’s mind, silence was kinder than worry. If he told you that he had played a part in killing the mayor's wife and had been injured, and now needed to do one last assassination before signing a contract with a government agency so he could start providing better for you, you would panic before he could get back to you.

So he kept quiet.

And that was worse.

By day five, the cabin stopped feeling peaceful and started feeling empty. By day six, you were sleeping in his sweater, radio in your lap, listening for a voice that never came. By day seven, every crackle of static sounded like him dying.

He had never been gone that long.

So you left.

It took you hours to walk to the nearest train station, but you managed to do it. 

The train, once you got on, was too crowded, and you suddenly were reminded why Dex had moved you away.  There were too many shoulders, too many minds packed into one metal tube, all of them thinking too loudly at once. Fear about Fisk, about Daredevil. Anger at the Task Force. A woman was praying under her breath. A boy was trying not to cry. Someone was watching the footage of the protests on their phone.

You focused.

You filtered.

You had gotten good at that, hadn’t you? Dex had helped you get good at that. One mind at a time. One thought at a time. Find the edge of yourself. Stay there. Don’t let the fear become yours just because you can hear it.

And for a while, you managed.

Even with New York getting louder the closer you came. Even with every station spilling more panic into the train. Even as you got out, as the protests moved through the city like a fever, anger and terror and hope all tangled together until nobody’s thoughts came out clean anymore.

You pressed your nails into your palm and breathed.

In.

Out.

Find Dex.

That was all you needed to do. 

Find Dex and everything would be okay.

You could be overstimulated. You could be shaking. You could have the whole city scraping against the inside of your skull and still make it to him, because you had done hard things before. You had survived OXE. You had survived bad days. You had survived yourself.

You could survive a train ride and a trip to the city.

You were managing.

Barely, but managing.

Until…

Somewhere in the city, a Task Force Agent shot a man.

You felt it.

You didn’t even see it. 

But you felt the impact, the shock, the guttural animal panic of a mind realizing too late that the body was failing. His last thoughts clawed outward, grabbing at anything. He thought about a mother, a kitchen light, the taste of coffee, please, please, please — and it slammed through you so hard you thought you were the one dying. 

Too much.

Too much, too much, too much.

By the time you reached Dex’s apartment, you could barely separate yourself from the city.

You stumbled up the stairs with his sweater twisted in your fists and let yourself in with shaking hands and a spare key he kept in the cabin. The old apartment still smelled like him. The wall panelling he had installed for you was still there. The bed you loved was still there.

So you crawled into it.

You curled up small in the old place where he used to hold you through bad nights, pressing your face into his pillow because it was the only thing close enough to a hug you could get.

And when Dex finally found you, you were shaking in the bed, sobbing like the city had followed you all the way in.

—

Present day…

For a while, neither of them said anything.

The hallway held the two of them in the weak yellow light, close enough to fight, close enough for Matt to hear Dex's slight chatter behind his teeth.

The anger was there.

It moved through Dex like a live wire, and viciously restrained. Matt could hear through his heartbeat how badly he wanted to do something with it. He could hear it in the slight shift of Dex’s weight, in the way his fingers flexed once at his side, in the careful control of his breathing.

But Dex didn’t move.

He stood in front of the broken door like his body could make up for the lock Matt had destroyed. 

Behind him, inside the apartment, you made a small sound.

Dex’s head turned at once, not enough to take his eyes off Matt. But enough for Matt to understand that half of him had never left the room.

It was awful, seeing that.

It was awful because Matt struggled to see past his sins. He didn’t want to see past his sins. 

But the man in front of him was standing outside a bedroom he clearly wanted to return to, choosing not to kill because you had asked him not to.

Matt swallowed. “Does she need help?”

Dex looked at him. His face went cold enough that Matt knew, instantly, he had said it wrong. “She has help.”

Matt’s mouth tightened. “You?”

Dex stepped closer by half an inch. Not a threat, but rather a correction. “Yes.”

Matt let out a slow breath. “I—”

“No.” Dex cut him off. “You don’t get to stand there after kicking my door in, after scaring her half to death, and think you’re the reasonable one here.”

Matt’s jaw flexed. “I heard someone crying in your apartment.”

“And what?” Dex crossed his hand over his chest. “You decided she needed saving from me?”

“You’ve given me plenty of reasons to think that.”

Dex almost smiled. It was a terrible thing. It was humorless, dead before it reached his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “I have.”

Matt went still.

Dex didn’t deny it. He didn’t reach for innocence he had no right to hold.

“I know what I am,” Dex said, voice low now. “You don’t have to remind me.”

“I don’t think you do.”

Dex’s eyes sharpened.

Matt took one step forward, careful, measured. “You think because you think you love her, that makes this different.”

Dex’s face changed. Matt heard the hit land.

Dex didn’t hide his agitation well, because in his mind he was thinking how dare you even fucking insinuate that I think I love her. I know I love her. How dare you?

Inside, you must’ve felt the frustration flare, because shifted again, sheets whispering under your trembling body, and Dex turned his head immediately, rage folding down so fast it almost hurt to witness.

His voice dropped toward the door, not Matt. “Sweetheart, I’m okay.”

You didn’t answer, but your breathing slowed.

Matt listened until it settled by a fraction.

“You hear that?” Dex asked with a sigh.

Matt said nothing.

“You hear how she breathes when I’m here?”

Matt’s throat tightened.

Dex leaned in slightly, voice still controlled. “You heard her when you came in. You heard what happened when you kicked the door down. She didn’t run from me. She ran to me.”

Fuck. He had a point.

Matt’s mouth pressed into a hard line. “I’m not trying to hurt her.”

“You already did.”

The words landed flat in his chest and Matt flinched despite himself.

Dex saw it. 

“You came in here loud,” Dex said. “You brought in your thoughts, your judgment, your anger. You dragged all of it into the room with you and dumped it on her while she was already drowning.”

“I—“ Matt shook his head, turning it slightly down, “I didn’t know.”

“No,” Dex said. “You didn’t.”

The accusation wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

Behind the door, you gave another small, broken breath.

Dex’s hand twitched once at his side, like every instinct in him wanted to turn around and go back to you.

“You should go,” Dex said through gritted teeth.

Matt didn’t, at least not right away.

You were quiet now.

Not calm, Matt could hear that much. Your breathing still came unevenly from somewhere beneath the blanket, frayed at the edges, worn thin from crying. But you were quieter than before, and every time Dex shifted even slightly away from the door, your heartbeat changed.

Matt wanted to believe he was looking at Bullseye. At the man who had turned a courthouse into a warzone. At the man whose name belonged on a tip line, in a police report, on every alert system New York still had running after the riots.

Benjamin Poindexter was standing right in front of him.

Matt let him go only a couple of days ago, yes, but hasn’t he been pushing for transparency over the last twenty four hours?

He should believe in the law. Especially now. Especially after what he had said in front of the whole city. He had torn his own mask off for accountability. He had asked New York to believe there was still a line between justice and vengeance and was prepared to pay the price anyway.

So why was he standing here, letting a murderer guard a broken door?

Dex watched him think it.

His mouth barely moved.

“You want to hate me?” Dex said. “Fine. Hate me downstairs.”

Matt’s jaw clenched.

Dex stepped closer. His voice stayed low, but there was nothing soft in it now. “Just don’t do it near her.”

Matt shook his head and Dex shifted towards the door, like keeping Matt’s attention off you was as natural as breathing.

“She isn’t yours to protect,” Matt said quietly.

Dex’s eyes went flat. “No,” he said. “She’s mine to take care of.”

The words should have sounded wrong. Maybe they were wrong. But behind him, your breath hitched at the sound of his voice, and some tiny broken part of it steadied after.

A year ago, Matt would have heard that and called it delusion.

But tonight, he heard the window shut. Dex silenced the phone. Dex killed the lights and unplugged the radio. Dex tucked the blanket over you. He heard love in all the small, practiced mercies Dex had done without needing to be told.

Matt’s hands curled slowly at his sides.

He could still do it.

He could leave the building and call in an anonymous tip. That Bullseye was here, and they could go non-lethal because you were here and there was no way in hell Dex would kill near you. Matt could tell Brent this address, this floor, this door.

He could do it because it would be right.

Because Dex was dangerous.

Because the law had to mean something.

Because Foggy—

Matt’s throat tightened so sharply he almost moved.

But Matt understood, with a sick twist in his stomach, that if he took Dex away tonight, he didn’t know who would be left to tend to you. Who would know how to keep you from drowning in a city full of minds.

Because Matt had heard what one broken door did to you.

If cops came into that apartment with radios crackling, boots pounding, fear and adrenaline spiking out of every mind, you would fall apart. And if they took Dex away, then you would be well and truly fucked. 

He didn’t know what doctors would want their hands on you. He didn’t know who would look at you and see a woman before they saw a weapon.

Dex was dangerous.

But maybe that was exactly why he knew how to keep danger away from you. 

“She asked you to leave,” Dex said again, quieter this time. “So leave.”

Matt stood there a moment longer. Long enough to feel every reason not to. Long enough to know he might regret it. Long enough to know he would think about this hallway again, maybe for the rest of his life.

Then he stepped back.

Dex didn’t relax.

Matt took another step. Then another, until he reached the stairwell and stopped with one hand near the railing. His face angled slightly toward the apartment again, toward the woman he could still hear crying in the dark.

For a second, Dex thought he might come back.

Then Matt said, very quietly, “If she ever asks for help from someone else, don’t stand in her way.”

Dex’s finches flexed.

The answer came immediately. “If she asks, I’ll listen.”

Matt could hear that he was telling the truth.  His fingers tightened once around the railing.

Still, he stayed there for one more second.

Dex waited him out, because if Matt needed to drag his reluctance down the stairs one breath at a time, fine. He could do that. Dex could stand there all night if he had to. He could become the door until morning if he had to.

Finally, Matt lowered his head and made his way down. 

Dex stayed in the hallway until Matt’s footsteps disappeared down the stairs.

Only when the last sound disappeared down the stairs did Dex turn back toward the apartment. The door was ruined, the lock hanging uselessly from splintered wood, the frame cracked where Matt’s boot had forced it inward.

For one second, Dex stared at it.

His anger flared, then he swallowed it down.

Not now.

Not near you.

He stepped inside and pulled the door closed as much as it would go. It dragged wrong against the floor, crooked and broken, but he eased it shut anyway. Then he picked up the kitchen chair instead of dragging it, because the first scrape of wood had made your breathing catch from the bed.

Everything had to be quiet.

He wedged the chair beneath what was left of the handle and pushed once, testing it.

The door held, only barely. It hurt him that it was imperfect, but it had to be good enough for tonight.

Then he turned back to you.

You were still crying, but not like before. Not the full panic that had torn through you until you couldn’t breathe. This was smaller, yet more exhausted. Like your body had run out of strength but your heart hadn’t figured out how to stop breaking yet.

You were curled on his bed under the blanket, face wet, shoulders shaking in little miserable tremors.

Dex  crouched beside you so carefully, like one wrong sound might split you open again.

“Hey,” he whispered.

Your mouth trembled. “I wanted to hurt him.”

Dex went still as your eyes squeezed shut, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks.

“I wanted to,” you whispered, horrified by yourself. “When he scared me, when he thought those things about you, when he came in so loud, I wanted to hurt him, Dex. I did. I did, I—”

“Shh.” Dex’s hand came up slowly, waiting.

You leaned into it before he touched you, and only then did his palm settle against your cheek.

“Shh, baby.”

“I wanted to make him stop.” You shook your head, crying harder now, broken open by the confession.

Dex leaned closer until his forehead almost touched yours. “So did I, baby,” he whispered, rough and aching, “so did I.”

You opened your eyes.

Dex looked at you like it cost him to be that honest and he would pay it anyway if it calmed you. “But we didn’t.”

Your breath caught.

“We didn’t,” he said again, softer. “You stayed with me. I stayed with you. He left. It’s over.”

Your face fell, and Dex shifted up onto the bed then, slow enough not to startle you, and gathered you carefully against him. You folded into his chest with a broken little sound, fingers twisting weakly in his shirt.

He held you like he was trying to put your body back around your soul.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered into your hair. “I’ve got you. I know. I know, sweetheart.”

You sobbed once, small and ruined.

Dex pressed his mouth to your temple. “We’re going back to the cabin first thing tomorrow.”

Your fingers tightened. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” His hand moved over your back, slow and steady. “You can sleep the whole way if you want.”

Your breathing shook against him.

“And my new work doesn’t start for two weeks,” he said, like he was offering you the only miracle he had. “So that’s two weeks, okay? Two weeks of nothing.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

Dex’s thumb brushed beneath your eye.

“Just me and you,” he whispered. “No one else. No noise. No city. Just us.”

Your mouth trembled and he kissed your forehead.

“I’ll chop wood. You can sit on the porch. We’ll keep the fire on. You can wear my clothes and sleep all day if you want.”

Another tear slipped down your cheek before you could help it, and he caught it.

“And I won’t leave,” he said. “Not for two weeks. Not for anything.”

You stared at him through wet lashes, searching his face first. Then, his mind.

He was thinking about…

The cabin.

You sleeping in the passenger seat.

You on the porch.

You wrapped in his sweater.

You, safe.

And underneath it all, over and over, so constant it almost broke you…

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Your breath hitched.

His face softened. “There you are,” he whispered.

You made a tiny sound and tucked your face back into him. “Okay,” you breathed.

Dex’s shoulders nearly gave out with relief. “Okay?”

You nodded against his chest. “Okay.”

He closed his eyes and held you tighter for one second, just one, like he needed to feel the word inside his own body. Then he kissed your temple again. “That’s my girl.”

Your crying slowed after that.

It didn’t stop, but it gentled into little exhausted shudders against his shirt while Dex kept his hand moving over your back, the way he knew helped. He stayed until your fingers loosened. Until your breathing stopped tripping over itself. Until your mind, still bruised and raw, found the steady line of his thoughts again.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

You could focus on it now.

Not the city. Not Matt. Not the broken door.

Just Dex and his thoughts, warm and obsessive and constant, wrapped around you from the inside out.

Finally, Dex pulled back enough to look at your face.

“I’m gonna clean up,” he whispered.

Your eyes opened again, instantly afraid. He shook his head before the fear could grow.

“I’m just going to the bathroom,” he said. “That’s all.”

You swallowed.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” he promised. “You should go to sleep, okay?”

You didn’t answer.

Dex kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then your lips, so gently you almost started crying again.

“Try,” he whispered, because he knew you were so, so tired. “Just try for me.”

You nodded, barely.

Dex eventually eased himself away, slowly and careful, leaving the blanket tucked around your shoulders and the chair braced beneath the broken door.

The bathroom light stayed off, and the door stayed open.

Water ran low in the sink. 

You appreciated it more than you could say. The sound filled the little apartment gently, not enough to crowd your head, not enough to become another thing pressing at the inside of your skull. Just enough to give your mind somewhere simple to latch on to.

Dex didn’t need to read minds to know that running water settled you the same way fire did. It had the same white-noise hush. It had the same clear, constant sound that didn’t want anything from you. Fire and water didn’t think. It didn’t feel. It didn’t ask to be understood.

It just moved.

And Dex knew that. He knew you.

So you laid there in the dark, still hurting, still broken in places you could not name, but now, you were present.

You took a shaky breath.

For a while, there was only the water running low in the bathroom sink and Dex moving quietly through the dark.

You could hear him in pieces.

You heard the careful pass of his hands under the faucet, the soft drag of fabric as he wiped his face. The small, practical thoughts he kept lining up for tomorrow.

Cabin first thing.

Full tank of gas.

No tunnel.

Back roads.

Blanket in the passenger seat.

Radio off unless she asks.

Two weeks.

Just me and her.

You focused on him. On the shape of his mind. On the tenderness he had no idea how to say without turning it into a plan, a route, a locked door, a fixed window. Even now, Dex was thinking about firewood and the bedroom window and whether the car heater would be too loud for you in the morning.

It made you smile.

Then… oh.

Something else reached you. Someone else.

It wasn’t Dex; this thought came from outside.

It was a thought that came from out the street, clear and heavy through the thin glass:

I hope I’m doing the right thing.

Your eyes opened. For one second, you lay very still beneath the blanket.

Dex was still in the bathroom. But outside, across the street, Matt Murdock had not gone far.

You got up slowly and turned your head toward the window.

The curtain hadn’t been pulled perfectly shut. There was a narrow gap where city light slipped through, pale and dirty against the floor. You shifted, leaning just enough to see past it.

There he was, across the street, half-shadowed beneath a streetlamp, hood pulled up, face tilted toward the building like he was still listening to the apartments.

Matt Murdock stood there with one foot turned away and the rest of him refusing to follow.

He was hesitating.

His thoughts were still loud, but not loud like before.

It was no longer crashing through you with suspicion and anger and judgment. This was different. His thoughts now were coherent, almost. They came to you in pieces, clear enough to understand.

Benjamin Poindexter is still a dangerous man.

I shouldn’t leave him with her.

But she asked me to leave.

But she’s calmer when he’s near.

Your throat tightened.

Matt’s thoughts vibrated around the shape of Dex, for lack of a better word. There was still blood there, grief there, a wound so deep it had a name you didn’t touch because it hurt even from a distance.

But there was something else in his thoughts now, too.

You.

Because you could read minds, you knew he had heightened senses, and you knew you didn’t have to speak loudly to reach him. You only had to speak clearly.

So you turned your face toward the narrow gap in the curtain, toward the street where Matt Murdock stood beneath the weak glow of a lamp, and whispered into the dark, “I know what he is.”

Across the street, Matt went completely still.

You saw the subtle lift of his head, the tightening through his shoulders. His attention snapping back to your window because he could feel where you were.

He heard you. You knew he did.

You curled your fingers into the blanket.

“But he’s not that to me.”

Matt didn’t move.

You could feel his mind presently listening now. Not as Daredevil. Not as the man who had kicked down the door. Not as someone trying to decide what kind of danger you were.

“He loves me,” you whispered.

Matt’s thoughts shifted.

He does. Even a blind man could see that. 

The thought came so clearly it almost hurt.

You blinked, tears slipping sideways into your hair. “He’s good to me.”

You remembered him now, when it was Dex’s hand that unlocked the cuff, how he put his jacket over your shoulders. You thought about the cabin and the chair beneath the broken door. That man was in the bathroom, washing up with the door open because he promised he wouldn’t leave you alone.

You breathed in, shaky but steadier. “He’s a good man for me.”

Across the street, Matt’s face changed.

It was a small, tiny furrow of the brow. But then you heard the thought that followed.

I believe you.

Your breath hitched

Above all the doubt, above all the grief, above all the things Matt Murdock would never be able to forgive, that one thought came through clean.

I believe you.

Not Dex.

You.

He believed you knew what you were saying. He believed you were not trapped. He believed you understood the man beside you better than anyone else in the city possibly could.

And maybe that was the most Matt could give.

You, behind the glass, exhausted and half-broken in Dex’s bed.

Matt, across the street, carrying a truth he didn’t want and yet couldn’t put down.

Because maybe Benjamin Poindexter was not only defined by violence. Maybe there was something else buried deep under him, warped and wounded and difficult to look at, but human anyway.

A person.

Someone capable of loving. Someone, somehow, worthy of being loved.

Matt didn’t forgive him. But for the first time, he saw him differently.

Then he lowered his head and gave you a small nod.

Then Matt Murdock turned away.

This time, he truly left.

You watched until the dark took him, until his thoughts faded into the rest of New York and you could no longer separate him from the city.

But you knew.

You knew that Matt was starting to look at the man you loved differently.

— end.

Extra Note : Like the reader in this story, we all have good days and bad days. Please remember that needing help doesn’t make you weak, broken, or too much. It just makes you human. If you are struggling, please reach out to someone you trust or contact a crisis/support service in your area. You deserve care, patience, and support on your bad days too, lovelies! 🫶💕❤️

buy me a ko-fi here!

Dex taglist : @itsdynotdaddy @diabolicallydownbad @doesanyonereadthis @meicore @pixie2k5 @bibiishin @starlitflora @pearlstiare @glorybeat @stardustworlds @castawaybarnes @supervampireflame @not-the-teen-witch @billybonesxx @ultimatewolverine @treetrees-world-of-imagiation @bitch-spaghetti-o @lostinthes4uce @cotton-eee @weallhaveadestiny @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @moonbug333 @yujyujj @mattdexx @lostfallenangelsblog @bloomsberryfairy @flimsysquid @abbotfan @leonetta2014 @ficcharsimpsblog

(Let me know if I missed anyone)

[livwtfhaha]

absolute masterpiece

[marvelstoriesepic]

Scatter My Heart (||)

Pairing: Mob Boss!Bucky x Reader

Summary: As it turns out, you can’t outrun a monster in his own home. You can, however, learn to question whether he was ever a monster at all.

Word Count: 17.7k

Warnings: real big emotions and confrontations; secrecy in a relationship; lots of panic/anxiety/fear/insecurities; weapons (guns, knife); minor injury (cut); references to criminal activity and violence; Bucky is possessive and protective and in love; emotional manipulation (perceived/debated)

Author’s Note: Here we are my lovelies, the second part to His Name Was Never Just Bucky. Honestly, I’m so relieved it’s finally done and I can return to other projects. This took me so incredibly long, but it’s rewarding to have it completed and I’m so proud I didn’t end up abandoning it like so many other things before. I truly hope you enjoy where I took the story ♡

Masterlist | part one

This was probably the worst decision you have ever made.

But, hell, now you officially jumped without a parachute, the ledge is gone, the air is passing by quickly, and your only hope is that you’ll somehow learn how to fly on the way down and you’ll be able to land on your feet.

The hallway outside has lost its symmetry, as you have lost your sanity, and now nothing seems to make sense anymore. Everything seems longer and crueler, your panic stretching the hallways into a long, suffocating throat. Each of your hectic footsteps makes you feel too exposed in this big mansion, they seem to echo your exact coordinates throughout the floors. Every hallway hears you, the walls themselves are turning their heads.

You take the first turn on instinct, then another, and another, trying to remember the route, trying to retrace the thread that brought you here, but your terror and all that bottled-up panic smashes sequence, steals direction, leaves you with nothing but speed because you know that if you stop, you’re done.

Your feel your heart everywhere. In your throat, in your ears, behind your eyes, beating against your teeth.

You blow past a side table where a cluster of pale lilies sits, blooming so aggressively, looking so wrong and even ugly in the corner of your eye, you have to take another turn.

You’re no longer thinking, you’re just running.

Your chest is a hollow chamber and all you hear is your own pants when you pass a maid who startles and calls something you don’t catch. You pass a window tall as a church promise and for one insane second consider throwing yourself through it. 

Somewhere behind you, from the office, you hear a loud crash. His voice follows. His voice. It sounds so much more blood-curdling now. 

He’s calling your name. Loud and baffled and then sharper. He doesn’t sound angry yet, but definitely alarmed in a way that makes every warning bell inside you turn rabid. Because there is something uniquely petrifying about hearing alarm in the voice of a man like him. It means you have disrupted the script. It means he does not understand. It means he is coming.

You run harder, every nerve in your body overflowing with adrenaline.

But, as expected, the house doesn’t simply spit you out. Corridors feed into corridors, archways into alcoves, burnished halls into rooms you have never seen, and every choice you make seems to slide you deeper into the belly of the place instead of toward freedom. 

With a ragged and desperate breath, you shove through one swinging door expecting another passage, and stumble instead into a kitchen vast enough to feed a wedding. There is all this gleaming steel and those butcher-block islands and hanging copper, bright under the lights in a way that feels grotesque after the dim severity of the office. 

It is wrong, all wrong, too open and yet somehow still a trap, because there is no front hall here, no visible exit, only counters and cabinets and startled staff, and you realize with a sick plunge of your stomach, that you have run yourself into a dead end dressed as luxury. 

This is bad, this is so bad. 

You stop abruptly, spinning around helplessly. The breath tears in and out of you like it is trying to escape without the rest of your body. The halls behind you are full of pounding footsteps, and you know it’s just one single set, but you also know it’s him.

He’s advancing and you can’t keep escaping.

A woman near the far counter goes still with a mixing bowl in her hands. Another man freezes by the sink with his hands in water. No one speaks. No one moves. The whole room seems to hold itself in suspension around your panic, everyone watching without watching, and then from somewhere behind you in the corridor comes Bucky’s voice sounds again, practically yelling your name—no confusion left now, only alertness, apprehension; and it punches you in the gut. It rings through you, through the kitchen, through the bright metal and tile and silence, and you know it has all been for nothing. 

But before there is anything you can do, before the ground can open a portal for you to fall through, Bucky appears in the kitchen doorway, looking like an avalanche with a name. A big name. A dangerous name. A name that will be the end of you. 

He doesn’t look raging in the obvious way, but he’s lost a bit of control. And for the man that he is, you don’t know how to survive it. And this intensity with which he came thundering after you is so extremely frightening because it looks expensive on him, tailored to fit, like one of his suits, like one of his watches, like all the impeccable and dangerous things he wears so naturally you once mistook them for elegance instead of that blaring warning sign they actually are. 

Why just have you been so stupid, my god.

He’s totally got you wrapped around his finger—and dick, as embarrassing and daunting as it is—or you would have maybe been able to open your eyes for a second, you idiot. 

But now they are open, wide, wide open, and you see him. You see him as the man he is. But maybe it’s a little too late now. 

He stops the moment he sees you pressed half-backward against the dark island, sees the way your hands have come up slightly as if your body has decided on defense without consulting you, sees the wet shine gathering in your eyes, the terror you are no longer managing to powder over, and something happens to his face that is so brief and so devastating, but all you can do is stare at him so you see that clean strike of realization. 

He doesn’t look confused anymore, and it makes him even more menacing.

He knows. He knows that you know. And he probably knows what he’s going to do to you now but you don’t know if you want to know that.

The air seems to cinch around you, seems to wrap itself around your throat, and squeezes. You can’t breathe. You don’t try to.

Bucky—James, your mind insists now with a sick recoil, James Buchanan Barnes, James Buchanan Barnes, biggest crime boss in the city—does not look away from you when he tilts his face to the staff. That, more than anything, makes your blood run strange. His attention stays fixed on you with a steadiness so absolute it feels like a physical thing, a hand at the back of your neck, while his voice turns toward everyone else in the room and comes out low and unquestionable. “Everyone out.” 

His command is dropped into the kitchen and nobody argues. The immediate obedience of his people makes you visibly shudder. 

A woman near the stove sets down a towel with trembling fingers. The man by the sink lowers his eyes and moves. Another staff member glances at you once with a quick look that seems almost guilty, almost pitying, and you feel the pulse of it pounding all around you, everywhere inside you. 

Nobody looks at you too long, nobody does anything besides leaving the fucking room. They won’t meet your fear and they won’t step between it and the source. Nobody here belongs to themselves enough to choose you over him. But it’s clear that they don’t. They’re his people for a reason. Nobody here will be on your side, whatever happens. 

A door swings. The kitchen empties in a matter of seconds, everyone slipping out with the furtive speed of people evacuating a room where something dangerous has just unsheathed itself. They leave with the scene in their eyes. They leave you with him. And the silence after the last one goes is so sudden it roars.

You take another step back and only feel the unhelpfully solid press of marble against your spine. There is nowhere else to go unless you want to climb onto the counter like a cornered animal, and for one hysterical beat of a second, the idea does not even seem ridiculous. 

You keep your eyes on him because looking away feels somehow more chilling, but your gaze is frantic within that line of sight, darting to the side entrance, to the swinging service door, to the corridor beyond him, to windows that suddenly seem decorative rather than useful, to every possible seam in the room where escape might be hiding in miniature.

There is none. The whole kitchen gleams at you with pitiless order that’s just full of steel and stone and copper, knives in their block and pots all around. 

He notices you looking, but you can’t care; all you have to care about is the distance between you and him, the distance between you and anything that might become escape if panic suddenly grew wings. 

Could you run past him? Maybe, if he were anyone else. Maybe, if this were some ordinary man with ordinary reflexes and an ordinary body and an ordinary life. 

But he is none of those things. You’re in this damn situation because he’s none of those things. 

He fills the doorway without even trying. He stands there in the collectedness of his dark clothes and encroaching presence, looking at you as if he can hear your thoughts tripping over each other and your fear has turned you transparent. 

His shadow has finally caught up to his skin and you now realize how dark it is.

Even if you got around him, where would you go? The front hall might as well be on another continent. Every corridor in this house has already left you stranded. There is no map in your mind now, only panic. No way out.

The knowledge gathers in your chest until it hurts. Behind your eyes, heat stings. Your throat tightens around a lump and only something choked leaves your lips. 

And Bucky sees all of it. You keep trying to shrink back from him because his very outline has now become a threat, and it doesn’t make your situation better, but he already knows, so you don’t have to pretend anymore. 

And his face alters. It’s as if the floor has given way under him. As if he had stepped expecting hard tiles and found air.

He does not advance. That should help. It does not. He stays where he is, one hand dropping slowly from the doorframe to his side, as if he understands that any sudden movement from him might send you straight through the nearest pane of glass. 

There is a fervor to him now that feels different from the one you knew in bed, at dinner, in the soft-lit luxury of his attention. It has made you feel protected, loved, worshipped. 

But there is no feeling of that anymore, none of that, because now it’s stripped of adornment, revealed as what it perhaps always was beneath all that heat and gentleness. It’s focus. Pure and frightening focus. 

His eyes are on you in that unwavering, devastating way of his, but the expression in them is nothing easy. There is something dark in there, something grim and braced, something that knows a door has just slammed shut and is already calculating what can still be salvaged from the wreckage. 

His mouth is set. His jaw is hard enough to cast shadows. He looks, absurdly, heartbreakingly, like a man who has been struck and is refusing to touch the bruise. But he stands, and he’s still so tall, much taller than you thought he could become, and he is not the man you thought you knew. 

He stands there with his hands visible, shoulders squared but not aggressive, and the intensity in him is bridled.

His stare does not feel like a threat in the crude sense, but it’s so full of attention, too much attention, because total attention from a man like him is its own species of fear. 

“Sweetheart.”

His voice has changed. It is calm but only in pretense. It is soft, technically, but not the way it was before. Before, his softness had warmth in it, a hand held out in the dark. 

But this is lower. Straighter. It has gone cool around the edges. It’s not vicious or unkind in any sense, but your body clocks it instantly. It’s almost formal in its restraint, as though he’s speaking across the lip of something that’s close to breaking and he’s trying not to widen the crack.

And that nickname makes you want to let the tears fall. Whatever he tries to achieve by calling you that, it doesn’t work. It’s just torture how familiar he tries to make it sound. 

His gaze falls in fast snaps over your face, your posture, your trembling hands. “This looks bad,” he concedes roughly. His throat works once before he continues. “I know it does. But it isn’t what you think it is.”

The words land in you and do nothing. They just sink. Sit there.

He studies your face, sees he has not reached you at all. “What did you see, baby? What has you—” He breaks off with a crack, shakes his head slowly, and lets out a shuddering breath, eyes still on you. “Tell me what you saw.”

What answer could you possibly give him? 

That you are looking at his mouth and thinking of all the times it softened around your name, and your own mind keeps turning traitor and overlaying that tenderness with headlines, with whispers, with ravening rumor? 

That the same voice which once coaxed and soothed now sounds capable of making rooms empty and men obey and whole situations forgotten? That the current version of his voice is a masterclass in control and it terrifies you to no end?

That his hands are hanging open at his sides, looking so damn human and ordinary, as though they’ve never done anything wrong? 

Which is a lie, you now know, a lie that runs deep and leaves you scarred, because all you can think is that these bare hands are the same hands you’ve had under your chin, lifting your face to his, tucking hair behind your ear, buttoning you up against the cold, and you’ve had them gripping you tight in the dark, moving inside you until you couldn't breathe, wrecking you in the best way possible.

These hands were your favorite things. 

But looking at them now, you picture what they are doing when you aren’t around. Doing the dirty work, the ugly work, the unspeakable work, hidden back in the blacked-out corners of a life he kept under lock and key.

Your throat feels too dry to talk and you stay quiet, letting the stillness in the room ripen, letting your lack of words and the fear in your eyes speak for themselves.

A hard, hollow tension knots his face, makes his jaw grind, and look as solid as a piece of rock. His hands ball into fists and when your eyes snap to them immediately, your body already flinching, he flexes them, but it seems forced. There is an almost brute rigidity to his throat, a silent scream of dread choked down only barely.

“What do you know?” he grits out through clenched teeth. 

The question is gentle in shape and brutal in substance. It makes your stomach turn. Because it sounds like a test. It sounds like inventory. It sounds like the kind of thing a ruthless man would ask before deciding what to do with the damage.

You let your fingers grip the edge of the counter. You can’t answer him. All you can do is try to breathe. All you can do is stare at the exit behind him, and his body standing between it. 

He draws in a slow breath, lets it out. “Look at me, Y/n. Please.”

You didn’t know some part of you would still obey, but you notice too late. Maybe it’s better this way. Your eyes lift fully to his. 

And you can actually see the way he has lost his grip. It’s right there in his eyes. If you were to describe it you’d say it looks distraught. As if he’s lost, his entire biography that’s been neatly written on paper now ripped away and he can’t find the next line. 

Judging by the way you act and look at him, he knows you know something, he just doesn't know what, and the mystery is eating him alive. Just for one disorienting second he doesn’t look that much like this untouchable figure from all those disturbing rumors, but rather like a simple man who knows that if he tries to force his way out of this, he’s just confirming your worst fears about him.

“My name,” he starts with a little hesitance. The gravelly low timbre of his voice makes you shudder, “is James Buchanan Barnes.”

Something in your face gives you away. 

You feel it the moment it happens. Some tiny involuntary flinch. Some helpless widening. 

Because something crosses his expression, his throat bobs hard enough to show that everything inside him is suddenly in pieces. 

He sees that the name is not new to you. He sees that you are already standing several steps ahead of where he hoped this conversation was.

He goes very still.

“You knew that already,” he acknowledges, and it almost hurts how he tries to sound calm about it all. 

Your mouth is dry. Your whole body feels like a struck match. You let out a pitiful small breath.

He takes one careful step forward, and it’s not really a step, not even truly an advance, but you recoil so sharply, you ram your whole body against the wall of marble behind you. Your back stings, but your eyes sting more. 

His face changes with your reaction, something like pain flashing through the severe framework of him before he reins it back in. 

“How?” he asks, and he’s no longer trying for calm. He ducks his head, pleading eyes on you, and he speaks with a wounded quiet. “Sweetheart, how did you find out?”

Your throat works around the answer. “Your tags.” It comes out so faint it is almost nothing, just a shaking breath that accidentally caught a few letters on the way out. 

For a second he shuts his eyes. For just one cut of time. 

His head tips back the slightest amount, and he deflates. A breath of air leaves him in a hitching, rattling shudder, like he’s finally run out of things to hold onto.

He looks back at you and seems briefly at a loss. James Buchanan Barnes, man of closed doors and fixed outcomes, with no ready sentence in his hands. 

It is strange and unnerving and it makes you talk more, bracing for him to yell and threaten and turn cold. 

“And,” you whisper, voice wobbling and blundering around in your mouth, “there was a gun.“ 

You want to explain, want to urge that you didn’t mean to find it, didn’t mean to come across anything at all. You want him to know you would like to dump your eyes in a container of white paint so your vision is a blank canvas and you can color it with other pictures, but it’s too late, and your words already seem to break across him, differently.

He does not move at first. He almost flinches, but catches it halfway, as if his body forgot for a moment to be disciplined. 

His eyes stay on you, and all that’s in there are things you’ve never seen in him before. Or in anyone, really. It is a stricken grief, resulting from the way every new piece of your fear is arriving inside him one by one and finding purchase. 

He looks at you like he can see the exact route your mind took from one discovery to the next, and hates every mile of it.

“Baby, I—” he croaks, having to pause. Instead, he starts toward you again, even slower this time, palms open a little, perhaps meaning only to soothe, perhaps meaning only to be nearer, but simply more trepidation triggers in you before thought can intervene. “Please listen to me—”

Your gaze snags on the knife block. 

The sleek black handles. The bright clean suggestion of defense. It’s without thought that you run to grab one. 

It is graceless and frantic and you don’t brandish it like someone brave in a film. You don’t know how to do this well enough for that and you don’t have the nerve to think about it. 

Your hand shakes around the handle almost immediately, and you pull it close to your chest, because fighting this vile man would be ludicrous considering who he is and who you are, knife or not, but you use it to protect yourself with the mere fact of holding something sharp. Hopeful that this thing will keep your horror from spilling out of your body altogether. 

The blade catches the light and makes it meaner. You hate that you have done this. You hate more that you had to.

Bucky stops dead.

The whole room seems to stop with him.

His eyes go first to the knife, then back to your face, and what crosses his expression then is so nakedly agonizing it is difficult to bear. 

Because he sees that you are not trying to threaten him, unlike how someone in danger might. 

You are not foolish enough to think a kitchen knife turns you into his equal. You are holding it because your body needs one small fiction to survive on—the fiction that you are not entirely empty-handed in a room with a man who could ruin you if he chose to. The fiction that you still belong, in some tiny harrowed way, to yourself.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice cracks clean through the middle of the word.

You have never heard that happen to him before. Never heard his composure split like badly fired glass.

His stare stays locked on yours, but now there is no distance in it, no coolness, no stranger’s cadence. Just a visceral, human ache. “Hey,” he says again, softer, but it sounds so incredibly heavy. It’s the way you’d talk to someone who’s just woken up from a nightmare and doesn't know where they are yet. “I’m— I’m not going to hurt you.”

Your grip tightens. The knife trembles visibly. “Don’t come closer.”

He stops breathing for half a beat and nods slowly. 

“Okay.” The word is a single rasp. “I won’t.” He swallows. You see the muscle move hard in his throat. “I won’t come any closer.”

You cannot stop shaking, no matter how hard you try, because a man with his power shouldn’t see you be so obviously afraid, but there is nothing you can do.

“Please believe me, sweetheart, when I say that I never intended to hurt you,” he swears, and there is no command in him now, none of that cold-sounding authority from a moment ago when he emptied the room with few syllables.

This is worse, in its own way. This undone version of him, this man trying to hold himself very still because the sight of you recoiling has clearly perturbed something structural inside him. “I have a thousand sins on my head, and it’s no use to claim otherwise now,” he speaks with a vulnerability in his tone that washes past you. “I’ve done a lot of things I can’t take back, but hurting you was never on the table. Okay? It was never even a possibility. You were supposed to be the only thing I didn’t ruin,” he ends with a lacerated wince.

You stare at him and have no idea how you can understand anything at all.

The knife handle bites into your palm. Your chest rises and falls too fast. The kitchen is suddenly too loud with all that humming of the refrigerator, the lights, the distant bloodstream of the mansion; and in the center of it all he stands facing you with that wrecked look in his eyes, as if your fear is not merely inconvenient to him but unbearable, and he’d rather be struck than watched this way by you.

And in a world that wasn't currently collapsing, maybe you’d actually care, maybe you’d actually notice how he would take a bullet to the chest just to stop you from flinching, but all you can think is that you are standing in the house of James Buchanan Barnes, with a knife against your own ribs as much as against him, and the man looking at you like heartbreak has found him at last is still the same man the city says should never be underestimated.

It’s so silent all of a sudden that the kitchen seems to be held in a trance. It feels as if there is a vacuum pressing against the walls and now the molecules of the room are terrified to touch the mess of what’s happening. 

The last bit of help you could have possibly still leaned on due to your desperation has vanished, echoes of footsteps now pull back into the depths of this mansion.

The overheads feel hostile, throwing down a flat glare that skims over the stainless steel and floorboards with an inert eye. 

And centered in that manufactured peace is him. 

James Buchanan Barnes.

The name has already erupted once inside your chest, but it keeps echoing, reverberating through your bones in smaller aftershocks. It feels strange to attach it to the man standing in front of you, when his hands have mapped every part of you—right to the most intimate ones—you’ve come to recognize his voice even in half-sleep and his laugh once wound through the cage of your ribs, vibrating against the bone until you couldn't tell its rhythm from your own heartbeat.

It feels like a wronged ownership. It feels like a glitch, an error in the logic of the world, but who are you to find a way out of it. Surrounded by him, in a mansion that is now suddenly as big as the world itself.

But you see it now. And god, it’s so painfully clear. So agonizingly obvious. 

You were delusional, you know that. It’s what hurts so terribly bad. You know exactly how this looks to anyone else. After all, this all started with you dating a guy for over a month and not even knowing his actual, legal name. But when you’re used to being nobody, a little bit of hyper-focused attention feels like a drug. He looked at you as if you were the only person in the room, and you would get this tight, anxious knot in your throat, thinking don’t ruin this. Asking for a last name or a background check felt like a quick way to feel high-maintenance, and you didn’t want to give him a reason to feel uncomfortable and walk away.

It was a habit born of pure insecurity, being so grateful for the crumbs of love that you don’t dare ask who’s baking the bread. He must have picked up on that on day one. He must have realized right away that as long as he kept making you feel special, you’d keep your mouth shut and let him stay hidden.

He used your loneliness, your blind spots. You were so desperately hoping to be seen, that you fell for the most obvious trap. And it’s your own fault, really. But it still makes you feel completely hollow, like someone scooped the air right out of your lungs with a cold spoon.

Now you have to live with the shame of that mistake.

Your jaw aches from clenching it, trying to swallow down the urge to throw up right there on the kitchen floor.

His presence alone seems to pull at the corners of the ceiling, dragging it down to squash you like a grape. He anchors the room to his foundation, consumes it with all he has, and tracks you with a pinpoint focus that has you shivering and sweating, because his gaze is treating the harsh thudding of your pulse as more vital than the massive, blood-stained kingdom currently cooling its heels on the other side of the door.

The roar in your ears turns outwards, seemingly engulfing the whole room with your panicked pulse. Your vision narrows down until the room stops spinning, and for the first time, you actually feel the air in the kitchen

And in the quiet, your awareness gives you the alarm that there is still something jarringly chilling resting just above your heart. It takes you a moment to realize it’s something physical. There is a weight there that now suddenly feels so deeply misplaced. 

Your hand moves on its own, your fingers lifting toward your throat to find the source of that cold, sinister pressure.

The tips of your fingers brush pearls. 

And for a moment, you stay frozen there, grazing the smooth curve of one luminous bead where the necklace drapes across your throat. 

It once made you smile, had your shoulders drop in ease when you made contact with this present of Bucky. But it no longer feels like a present at all, it feels like a bribe, a hook, a trap because its ultimate purpose surely wasn’t meant as a gift but rather to restrict your freedom and keep you bound to him.

This necklace, these shiny pearls, they aren’t about you. Honestly, you don’t think anything is about you. It never was. It’s just a reflection of what he wants you to be, confining you in his version of your identity.

He manipulated you and stole you and wanted to make you believe you’re the luckiest damn girl in the world.

And you had been. But now you’re just the stupidest.

And you keep on being, because your mind just continues jumping back to the evening he gave it to you, how it felt so soft and intimate, something chosen carefully and fastened around your neck with that glint of pride that lived in Bucky’s eyes. And you want to cry and break down at the way he stood there in front of you so awkwardly with the luxurious velvet box in his hand like it was something far more serious than jewelry. The way his voice had gone rough when he said he saw them and thought of you.

And now, sitting against your collarbone all cold, these are no longer gems, but tiny hooks sinking deeper into your skin, reminding you with every little sting, that you walked into this prison willingly.

You let James Buchanan Barnes clasp it around your neck. The man whose name crawls across newspapers like a stain. The man whose stories carry blood and conspiracies and savagery in their wake.

Somehow you manage to close your fingers around the strand despite of their shakiness.

Across the kitchen, Bucky’s gaze drops to your hand the moment it moves.

The necklace feels impossibly smooth beneath your touch, each pearl round and shining like a row of innocent little moons.

A gift.

From a man you didn’t know.

Or maybe a man you knew too well, just not in the way the world did.

Your throat feels hot suddenly and you know it's the cursed pearls burning holes there, pressing into your pulse with every overwhelmed beat of your heart.

You cannot stand it.

Your fingers curl harder.

Bucky's gaze snaps up to your face, then quickly back to your hands, and then he goes still. But still in the way of an animal that sensed the crack of a branch in the forest. Every line of him tightens in subtle increments, his shoulders locking, his breathing halting so abruptly you see the pause ruffle through his chest.

He knows what your heart doesn’t yet.

His attention sharpens and his eyes grow wide. It almost seems like he’s about to move toward you.

“Hey—” he starts softly, though the word is unfinished, frail, fearing the direction your thoughts are taking.

But your brain is no longer interested in choosing to make decisions carefully.

The necklace feels oppressive, every inch of it tied to a truth you did not have when he first placed it there, and so you can’t think or react any differently.

Your hand jerks in one swift motion just as Bucky releases a desperate choking sound.

The strand snaps free from your neck with a sharp little noise, like a thread breaking under too much strain, and now the pearls explode outward from your hand and scatter across the kitchen floor like a sudden spill of tiny white stars. They strike the tile with a bright, haphazard clatter that echoes far too loudly in the empty room.

tik—tik—tik—tik—

Some bounce high, ricocheting against cabinet legs. Others roll wildly across the floor, spinning in spasmodic circles before coming to a stop beneath stainless steel counters and chair legs.

The sound fills the kitchen in poignant, crystalline bursts.

A rain of little impacts.

A beautiful mess.

For a second you don’t even breathe.

You just stare at them—those small, perfect pearls—rolling farther and farther away from each other, punctuating the heartbreak in the air.

Across from you, Bucky doesn’t move. Something is breaking across his face. His breath leaves him in a soft, stunned exhale, and all he can do is stare with his eyes unguarded. It startles you.

He takes a step back. Not a deliberate one. More like his body forgot the floor was there. His boot slides half a pace behind him as though the sound of those pearls hitting the tile physically pushed him away from you.

His mouth parts.

For a moment he looks like he cannot quite process what he just witnessed.

His eyes—those confident, storm-colored eyes that usually hold such controlled intensity—have widened in a way you have never seen before. It doesn’t seem to look like anger, or anything like it.

It looks like hurt. Pure, unhidden hurt.

His gaze falls to the floor, tracking the scattered pearls skittering across the kitchen tiles, watching them roll away from where you stand with that look in his eyes that says he never wished to see them destroyed.

Then his eyes return to you. Slowly. And the expression there is devastating.

Because it is not rage.

It is not even disappointment.

It is heartbreak so unexpected and unfiltered it seems to hollow his chest from the inside.

His jaw tightens as if he tries to speak, but no words come immediately. The muscles along his throat move with a hard swallow, his chest rising and falling once in a slow, unsteady breath.

You realize then that he is looking at your bare throat.

The place where the necklace used to rest, and he stares at the place with sullen eyes.

Then his eyes lift again, meeting yours, and they are still wide, still aching.

For the first time since you’ve known him, Bucky Barnes looks like a man who has just watched something precious fall apart in his hands and realized too late that he cannot gather the pieces fast enough to put it back together.

And in the bright, echoing kitchen, the last pearl finishes rolling.

Tick.

Then silence returns, and your dread turns harrowing and now Bucky doesn’t seem to know where to put his hands, which is such a small, irrational thing to notice in the middle of your terror and yet your mind notices it anyway, because this is a man who has always seemed like a structure that was built out of conviction, who has been a straight line for you to follow in your world of scribbles, a man who enters every room as though the room had the good sense to expect him, and now he stands before you with your fear pointed at him in the shape of a kitchen knife and looks, inarguably, like he has been shoved off-script and dropped into the crack that formed in his foundation and now he is walled in by the very bricks he laid.

His eyes stay on your face, then the knife, then your face again, careful, heartbroken, alert in that frighteningly intense way of his, and you feel yourself shiver as he is tracking every tremor in your fingers, every drag of your breath, every microscopic shift in your balance in case you bolt again or collapse or cut yourself by accident on the trembling edge of your own panic.

“What you think you know about me,” he starts, and his voice is lower now, roughened at the seams, “what you’ve heard… what people say, it isn’t the whole truth. It isn’t even most of it.”

You barely hear the words. They hit the air and fall uselessly to the floor. Because what else would a man like him say, standing in a cathedral-sized kitchen in a house full of people who obey him before he finishes speaking, after you found the gun and the tags and the name that can turn a city’s rumor mill rabid by itself?

No matter what he says, no matter that he looks so unbelievably shattered—the shape of him is wrong now. That is what your body keeps insisting on. Wrong in the doorway, wrong under these lights, wrong with that caution and that gentleness still trying to live in his face as if it is genuine. You cannot make him fit into one meaning anymore. He is split down the middle in your mind—tender and terrible, gentle and catastrophic—and the fracture is making noise inside you.

He takes a breath, slow, as if he is trying not to startle you even with the sound of his lungs working. “I know how this looks.”

A cough breaks in your throat, or maybe it's a huff or a wet laugh, or whatever, but it hurts coming up and out of your throat. Your hand shakes so badly the knife glints in nervous little flashes. “You used me.”

The sentence leaves you wheezy and small and much too true-feeling inside your own head. But they are out, and you take a whimpering breath, and two tears fall. They don’t arrive elegantly, and they sure as hell don’t spill subtly. They feel hot and you feel humiliated and betrayed, so deeply betrayed, and you hate that they are coming in front of him, giving him the satisfaction because your body is not able to choose a fight, to give you steel and armor and an exit and a miracle. All it can provide you with is dread and tears, and a terribly shaking kitchen knife in your unpractical hands. Your whole body has become an argument against calm and there is nothing you can do.

His face changes so sharply it is almost like watching a flame twist drastically in wind.

“No,” he gets out quickly, and his voice trips over itself. It is denial stripped to the bone. Pure and cruel because he’s genuinely the greatest actor on earth. “No,” he chokes out again, softer and somehow more desperate. “No, no, I— It's not— I never—” He swallows, the line of his throat moving hard. He looks like he is about to walk barefoot through broken glass without letting you see the blood. “You matter to me. You— God, shit, that doesn’t even come close to—”

“Stop,” you whimper while a fresh tear slips down. You shake your head because the words feel obscene now, feel almost insulting in their tenderness, like someone laying roses on a crime scene.

“I’m not pretending.”

“Stop.”

His jaw flexes. He looks toward the ceiling for half a second, and it seems like he is trying to gather language before it deserts him entirely, and when his gaze comes back to you there is something naked in it, something grim and pleading and painfully real. He seems to grope for something that keeps him standing.

“I wanted to tell you,” he despairs, voice scratchy. “I was going to.”

You stare at him through your blurred vision. Every instinct in you rejects the sentence on impact. It sounds nonsensical. The knife quivers against your chest with each breath you are somehow able to take, but they are shuddering.

“When?” you choke out. “After what? After I was stupid enough? After I—”

“No.” He takes a step before remembering himself and stopping immediately, hands opening at his sides. “No. When it was safe.”

The word safe almost makes you laugh, except there is nothing funny left in you.

He hears how deranged it sounds in this room, and grief moves across his face in one dark, swift shadow. “Listen to me,” he presses, and his voice cracks, stripped of that expensive control he wears so well. “I know this life is ugly from the outside. I know what my name sounds like to people. I know what kind of stories get told. I knew if I handed you all of it too soon, all at once, you’d run before you ever had the chance to know what was real.”

Your tears keep coming and you don’t have it in you to wipe them away. You fear your heart won’t ever be able to unclench again after this day. If you even make it out of here. “So you thought you’d just let me” —fall in love first— “into your life the way you did?”

He closes his eyes, and you know the sentence hit exactly where it meant to. When he looks at you again there is nothing smooth or seamless about him, and you have never seen him this way. Because you have never really known him. He is no longer buttoned-up and bulletproof. He honestly looks about ready to be hit in the heart one final, fatal time. “I thought I would give you time,” he supplicates quietly, voice husky. “I thought I would let you know me before the rest of it ruined everything.” The breath that follows his words sounds full of sorrow and a deeply seated regret. “Which it seems like it has.”

Yes, it has. Yes, he ruined it. But would you have felt any other way if you found out another way? In another setting, maybe while you were tangled in the sheets together, or while he was holding your hands? You don’t know because it didn’t happen that way and you found out the way you did and now the world is upside down and all wrong-angled, and your mind is spinning in a room with no corners, completely unanchored by a lie you never saw coming, or maybe you have, because a guy like him couldn’t ever want a girl like you, and perhaps first and foremost you’re just mad at yourself.

Your throat has gone tight with crying, with fear, with the dizzying effort of keeping your body upright when your whole nervous system is trying to flee in eight directions at once. He sees you struggling and looks halfway to moving again, then stops himself so hard the restraint shows all over him.

“I’m a patient man,” he keeps going, and you just want to run past him, out of this hell. You don’t hear how there is no pride in his voice, no menace, just a worn sort of honesty, as if this is the one truth he can still offer without it breaking on impact. “I would have waited. As long as I needed to. I was waiting for the right moment, for when you felt safe with me, for when I knew you wouldn’t hear my name and only hear every lie this city tells itself at night.” His voice lowers further. “For when you loved me enough to at least stay in the room while I explained.”

You blink at him as if he has said something in a language your body no longer speaks.

And then, because this nightmare apparently still has room to worsen, he says, very softly, “Because I love you.”

All you can do is stare at this stranger, and it feels like you are looking at him through a broken window.

It is not the first time he has said it, not at all, and you had loved how he had no shame in telling you, how he pressed those very words into your skin night after night, even this early into your relationship.

Gosh, you had cherished it, fallen deeper for him because of it, and now you know it's all been part of his manipulation. So what else should it be now. But at the same time—why should he still be saying it? How can he still say that? How can he say that now, after all of this, after you know who he is, after the room has filled with the bomb of revelation? What kind of man says I love you while being the very thing you are trying to escape from?

You don’t understand him. You have no clue about who this man is and it is making your hands sweat around the handle. You don’t understand how his eyes can look this shattered, how his voice can sound this human, how his face can hold this much pain and still belong to James Buchanan Barnes.

The knife is still trembling against your chest. Your arm aches from holding it so tightly. The tears keep slipping down no matter how furiously you blink. He stands there with grief in his eyes and power in every line of his body, and both things are true at once, and both things are hurting worse because no single version of him will stay still long enough to be hated cleanly.

“I was going to ease you into it,” he explains achingly, as if confession has broken loose now and cannot be coaxed back in. “Slowly. Over time. I was going to tell you what I could, when I could, and let you decide what to do with it piece by piece. I was never going to throw you into the deep end and watch you drown in it.” His throat works. “Y/n, I’m so fucking sorry you had to find out like this.”

But you are not really listening anymore. Or rather, you hear every word and none of them settle. They clatter against your panic and bounce off immediately only to land in a repressed corner of your mind.

Because maybe he means them. Maybe that is the tragedy of it. Maybe he means every single inconceivable word. But meaning them does not open the door. Meaning them does not make this house less of a trap or his name less of a threat or your pulse any less palpitating in your throat. Meaning them does not undo the gun, the tags, the scathingly smooth way everyone in this place disappears when he tells them to. Meaning them does not turn James Buchanan Barnes back into only Bucky, back into the man whose shirt you wanted to pull on because it smelled like him.

All you need now is a way out.

You don’t want justice, or answers, or even the damn truth. You just want a way out of this. You want to get the hell away from him and everything that smells and looks like him. And the room starts reorganizing itself around that instinct. The service door behind him. The hallway to the left. The distance to the far counter. Whether he is standing on the balls of his feet or flat. Whether the island might slow him for a second. Whether dropping the knife would help or harm you. Whether there is any point at all in planning when this is his house, his kingdom, his maze, and you are just a girl crying in the center of it with shaking hands and nowhere good to go.

He sees your eyes move and something in his face folds inward with understanding, with woe, with the excruciating knowledge that while he is pouring his heart out in rough little pieces, all you are doing is looking for exits. He looks completely emptied out, as if his ribs had been pried open and the only soft part of him had been torn away.

“Baby—” And now he just sounds pleading. But he doesn’t get the chance to keep on going with his drama.

The kitchen ignites with noise before you even understand what you are hearing. There was just you with your messy breathing and Bucky standing a few feet away with that awfully gutted look on his face and then the door slams open so hard the plaster cracks and the sound ricochets against your nervous system.

A crowd of men comes flooding through the opening, like a breach in a dam, so fast and threatening and all of them primed for dirtier work than anyone should ever have to do. The floor shudders under their hard slam of boots. Nobody hesitates and nobody asks questions. They all just move on some sick instinct, weapons out and raised in the space of a single heartbeat.

And now all of them are pointed at you.

The sound that hitches in your throat is not at all dignified or brave. You wish you could stare at the end of your life with at least a small sense of bravery, but it doesn’t seem like it. Every weapon these uniformed men hold is fixed on your ribs, your throat, your eyes, and the paring knife you are gripping feels pathetic. It is a useless piece of household metal against a wall of black iron, against men who don’t care that you are small and fearful.

Even so, your knuckles go numb around the handle from how hard you are gripping it. Your fingers lock up, your skin flashing from freezing cold to scorching hot while your heart thrashes against your ribs.

You think, irrationally, that this is how it happens then. There is no big speech, no lightning strike from the sky. It is just going to happen here on the linoleum, next to a bowl of apples on the counter, and a row of clean water glasses that are catching the light of the kitchen while strangers decide to put bullets in you.

Bucky pivots.

It happens so quickly it feels supernatural, like a weather change, like the room altering under the weight of him. He steps in front of you without quite blocking you, but enough that every single man in that doorway seems to remember all at once who exactly they have just disobeyed.

His expression does not merely harden; it shears. Whatever softness had remained in his face a moment ago is gone so completely it is frightening, scraped away until all that remains is authority in its most lethal form.

You feel fused to the counter behind you. You wish you would be.

He fixes his stare on his men and his eyes become glacial, pale and freezing, incandescent with a fury that somehow feels far more menacing than an outburst. He speaks, and the volume is so low that the room has to go completely breathless to catch it.

“Guns down.”

The response isn’t fast enough. No one moves quickly enough. One of the guards hesitates—just a fraction, just long enough to die for it in any other circumstance—and Bucky’s gaze lands on him so heavily, it’s as if he is deciding where to leave the body.

“I said,” he repeats, and his voice comes out with a rough friction, stripped of any emotion except the promise to do harm, “if any one of you ever points a weapon at my girl again, I’ll put you in the ground myself and make sure nobody bothers digging you back up. Do you understand me?”

His words are deadly. It doesn’t even sound like he’s acting at all, he just sounds absolutely lethal. He talks as though he has already buried people before and wouldn’t think twice about doing it again.

Around you, the momentum of the raid falters. The guards look genuinely unnerved, expressions switching so quickly between shame, panic, and obedience in ugly little flashes. Guns lower and now point toward the floorboards. A muted apology gets muttered into the silence and some of them take a step back. But it is too late, far too late, because the last thread inside you has already snapped, and your body no longer cares about reason.

You run.

There is no time for anything else; you simply hurl yourself at the nearest gap in the room, toward the delusive hope of open space, of slipping between bodies, of somehow becoming smoke, becoming speed, becoming anything but this cornered and shaking thing inside your own skin.

You aim for the narrow corridor between Bucky and the island counter, convinced by sheer panic that if you can just get past him this once, just this once, the house might cleft and let you go. Your shoulder twists, your breath catches, your feet slip against tile and then catch again, and the world blurs into motion and noise and the blood-bright animal need to escape.

But Bucky is faster.

His arms hook around your waist in one brutal, seamless movement, and it yanks you backward before you’ve even made it past his shoulder. Suddenly you are no longer running, your feet lose the air, leaving you floating for half a heartbeat, before you are driven hard into the breadth and heat of his chest.

The cry you let out this time actually tears your throat. You thrash on instinct, your body fighting him with the full deranged force of your mind freaking out, and somewhere in that struggle your hand jerks.

The knife you have been using as a means of senseless protection, hits resistance. It slides cleanly, sinking into skin and it makes you gasp sharply, your lungs suddenly jamming. It’s not your skin.

The blade has opened a shallow red line across his forearm.

And that’s gotta be it. You’re now totally and completely fucked.

The knife drops from your hand and clatters to the floor.

For one aghast second you stare at the bead of red welling against his skin, bright as a neon sign, and horror crashes through you so adamantly it almost eclipses your fear.

But Bucky does not let go. He does not even flinch properly or draw back his arms. His wounded arm stiffens only enough to keep you from pitching forward, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, not pinning now so much as containing, as if he is trying to physically keep something from breaking apart right there in his grip.

He seemingly is completely blind to his own bleeding skin, as if the knife you were holding was never a danger to his life and only a threat to yours. Even with his blood on the floorboards, his only instinct is to pull you deeper into his chest.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he calls, and the transformation in his voice makes your head spin, because the man who just threatened death into a roomful of armed soldiers is gone again, folded away, leaving only this hoarse, pleading tenderness that feels almost more agonizing. His mouth is at your temple, right at your hairline, his breath gasping against your skin. “Baby, baby, stop. Please—please, don’t do this, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

You fight him anyway because your body refuses to do anything else. Your hands shove uselessly at his chest, your shoulders wrench, your whole body convulses with the effort of getting free. But he is built like a locked gate, and every single push only burns through the last of your energy. Tears pour hot and shamefully down your face. Your lungs burn. The room swims at the edges. Somewhere nearby, boots shuffle, and Bucky snarls over your head without releasing you.

“Out.”

It is one word, but every person in the kitchen obeys it instantly. You hear the kitchen staff backing away, hear the door open and shut, feel the room empty until there is no one left but you and him and the sound of your own sobbing.

Bucky’s hold eases just a fraction, softening the pressure so you can actually draw in air even if inhaling right now feels like swallowing water. He presses his cheek against your hair for one heavy second, and when he speaks again his voice is breaking in places you have never heard it break before.

“Listen to me,” he murmurs, each word roughened by strain, by remorse, by something that sounds so heartbreakingly sincere you almost hate him for it. “Hear me out, sweetheart, please. I got you. I got you. Nobody’s gonna touch you, nobody’s gonna lay a hand on you. I won’t! I would never. You hear me? You’re safe.”

Safe.

The word is a total deformity. It is so grotesque in this moment you could probably laugh, except it comes out as a broken cry instead.

You feel the way his body tenses around the sound, how it seems to travel straight through him with his heart as the target. He bows his head, his lips brushing your temple by accident or desperation, you cannot tell which.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and now there is nothing controlled left in him, no command, no careful poise, only a man fraying in real time. “Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry. I wanted you to know, doll, I did, just—not like this. Fuck, not like this. You mean everything to me. You gotta believe that. You are everything.”

You shake your head against his chest, small and uncoordinated, feeling spent. You do not know whether you are denying him, begging him, or simply coming apart. His shirt is damp beneath your face now, whether from your tears or the sweat chilled over your skin or the blood from his arm, whatever it is, it feels symbolic somehow—one more blurred line in a night made of them.

“I wasn’t gonna let anybody hurt you,” he whispers, and even that seems to drag through his throat, hitting the walls of it. “Nobody would ever be able to hurt you. Especially me, my love, especially me! I swear to God.” His forehead grinds into yours until you can taste the heat of his skin. “I’m still the same guy who kissed you this morning. I don't care if I’m a monster to the rest of the world, but not to you, sweetheart, please not to you. I would never—god, I would cut my own hands off before I ever used them to hurt you. You have to believe me, darling, please!”

But your body no longer knows the language of swearing, or soothing, or reason. Your muscles don’t translate his pleading into safety. Your body only knows that he is stronger than you, and that the arms holding you are the same arms that can dismantle a life without raising his pulse. The palm mapped so carefully across the curve of your head is the exact same hand that commands a firing squad, directs the local precincts, and seals fates with a slight tilt of his chin.

Every touch from him now delivers a repulsive duality—a rescue that feels like an arrest, a stroke that resembles a chokehold, an overwhelming affection that wears the exact outline of a cell.

You can feel how easy this is for him, how negligible his effort is in keeping you contained even while he tries his best to appear harmless. That insulting fact finally starves out the last bit of resistance left in your veins. Your nervous system runs out of fuel, leaving your body to go completely toothless against his chest, without actually surrendering or any returning trust. Your body is simply done.

Your fingers drop their useless leverage against his chest, your joints go limp and your knees refuse to carry your weight anymore.

You sag in his hold all at once. The sobs keep coming, but weaker now, thinning out, scraping instead of breaking. Bucky feels the change immediately. His grip loosens just enough to become support instead of restraint, his palm rubbing between your shoulder blades in one of those soothing motions you used to love so much and it makes your chest ache with a fresh wave of grief.

“That’s it,” he coos, though his voice sounds completely mangled by the words. “That’s it, honey. I know. I know.”

You don’t know what he means by that. You’re not sure he does either. Perhaps he simply recognizes that your stamina has bottomed out, that even the sharpest panic has its boundaries, and that the rush of survival instincts always burns hot and fast, leaving behind this full-body collapse.

He holds your dead weight upright anyway. He keeps murmuring into your hair but it doesn’t glue your broken pieces back together or erase the reality of what he is, what this fortress hides, and what you stumbled into. His sliced arm stays locked around your waist. You can feel the sticky warmth of his blood soaking through your clothes. It is startlingly human, and it should probably make him look less like a monster, the simple fact that he can bleed. But it makes every detail about your situation so real and dreadful.

When your body finally ceases its rebellion entirely, it isn't an act of submission. It is pure depletion.

And Bucky, keeping you pinned against the wall of his chest, seems to grasp that exhaustion better than anyone else could. His lungs expand and contract in uneven hitching motions. He drops his chin heavily onto the crown of your head. He closes you in not like a conqueror taking a prize but like a man trying, too late, to keep a catastrophe from widening under his hands.

Beyond the kitchen threshold, the entire estate drops into a dead, listening sort of silence, as if the plaster and timber have cocked an ear to the room.

He keeps holding you as if you are something he has no right to touch anymore and still cannot seem to make himself release, and it’s crazy that even like this, even with your body rigid from all the things you have learned too quickly and too late, he is still somehow heartbreakingly careful, his hand spread wide and warm between your shoulder blades, his hold immovable but never bruising, his mouth close to your temple as though he cannot bear to put distance between you if distance means losing you for good.

It is all just so utterly confusing because this is not entirely what you had expected would happen.

“The way you looked at me,” he continues, and his voice comes out rough as gravel dragged through water, ruined by restraint, by panic, by the sheer effort of trying not to frighten you further with the depth of what is in him. He does not sound like the man in the hallway, not like the man who commands rooms into silence with a glance, not like the man whose name can make other people blanch and step backward and say yes, sir, with their pulse all up in their throats. He sounds flayed open. He sounds like the sight of your fear has gone into him like shrapnel and lodged somewhere vital. “The way you looked at me in there—” He stops, breathes in shallowly, like he has run straight into a blade and is trying not to lean on it harder. “Christ. I’ve taken bullets that didn’t hit like that. To have you look at me like I’m something you need to survive.”

Your face is turned into his chest, your tears soaking through the expensive dark fabric of his shirt, and still your whole body is listening against your will, because his voice is all around you now, low and urgent and splintering in places that make something cold move through you.

His hand slides back up the back of your head, not forcing, only cradling, his fingers threading carefully into your hair as though the gesture itself aches. When he speaks again, there is something almost disbelieving in him, some stunned grief that does not seem feigned, cannot possibly be feigned for this long without becoming madness.

“If I could do it over, I would do every goddamn thing different,” he breathes brokenhearted. “Every part of it. I would tell you sooner. I’d tell you cleaner. Shit, I should’ve just told you. I should’ve given it to you straight before it got this messy and before you had to figure it out by yourself and piece me together out of all the worst parts with nobody there to shield you. I would have died before I let it happen like this. I swear.” He swallows hard enough that you feel it where your cheek presses near his sternum.

The kitchen is too bright and everything is stinging so harshly with those clean counters, the severe gleam of copper pans above the island, the neat little arrangement of knives in their block where one slot is now empty, the overhead lights turning everything brutally visible.

There is nowhere for your agony to hide. It shivers right out in the open, lives in the tightness of your lungs and the salt on your mouth, and the fact that every soft word from him only makes the unreality of this more baffling. Because he sounds sincere. He sounds devastated. He sounds like a man speaking over the body of something precious he helped kill.

He says all of this like he’s offering you his throat, while all around you the evidence of his power still glints and twinkles from every glazed surface, every distant footstep, every forced silence in a house built to keep his secrets and carry out his will.

He is talking with all the gentleness he has. He is nearly breaking with it. And still, inside you, fear sits and it pants and it is unconvinced, because love does not make a cage less locked simply because the hands closing it are shaking.

You make a small sound then—not a word, not even close, just some thin and wrecked little fracture of breath—and he tightens around you reflexively, then instantly checks himself, as if terrified you will read force into even that involuntary movement.

His next words come faster, crowding each other, not panicked exactly but pressed by urgency, by the sense that you are slipping through his hands even while he is still physically holding you.

“I know what I am.” He breaks off again, and this time you feel the tremor that runs through him. “I know what kind of man I’ve been, what people say about me, what they’re right about. I know exactly what it looks like from where you’re standing.” His voice goes raw. “But, darling, I never meant for you to be afraid of me. This was never supposed to happen.”

The words enter you but you just don’t know where to store them. There is something so naked in the way he says them that your mind keeps tripping over it, keeps trying and failing to fit it beside the other truth—the guns, the guards, the coldness in his authority, the name that belongs in whispers, the empire standing tall all around you in all its obedience. Or maybe it’s just loyalty. Respect? What even is it?

It’s hard to acknowledge that he still sounds like himself. James or Bucky, the man who kissed sleep into your skin and tucked blankets around your legs and pressed absent-minded kisses to your shoulder while reading beside you in bed still exists inside this other, larger, more terrible man. He has not vanished cleanly enough to make your fear simple. You give a small whimper.

“I was selfish,” he rasps, and now the confession lands without defense. “That’s the truth. I was selfish as hell. Because I wanted you anyway. I wanted you even knowing I should’ve stayed away from you. I know I should’ve left you out of all this. A girl like you deserves something clean and safe, and I’m neither of those things. I knew that. Fuck, I knew that. And it’s been killing me. I let myself have you and it’s been so fucking selfish.”

His breath hitches around the last word, and the grief in it is so unexpectedly torturous it almost makes you nauseous. His forehead lowers for a second against your hair, and he scarily looks so weary, suddenly too full of feeling to carry it elegantly.

“Because you are...” He exhales a broken laugh with no amusement in it whatsoever. “Christ, sweetheart, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You couldn’t ever imagine what you walking into my life did to it.”

Your eyes squeeze shut and fresh tears slip out anyway. Somewhere inside you, some tired and furious part wants to scream at him for speaking like this now, for laying tenderness over terror as if one can cancel the other out, as if love—even if it is love, even if it is real and not just another instrument in his alluring hands—can unmake what you know. But before you can push any of that into sound, he keeps going, quieter, the words drawn so close to your skin they seem less spoken than confessed into it.

“If you want to go,” he states, and there is a pause before it, the kind that tells you the sentence is costing him blood, “I’ll let you go.”

Your breath snags. You don’t trust it nor believe it instantly, but even imagining the words coming out of him feels like a tectonic event, a mountain bowing. He does not release you yet, but his body changes with the promise, some iron set inside him going rigid with the effort of saying it and meaning it.

“I will,” he says, with more force now, as if he knows you don’t believe him and cannot bear that either. “If that’s what you want, I will. I’m not gonna keep you somewhere you don’t wanna be. I’m not gonna turn into that for you. But, baby—” and here his voice gives way altogether, drops into something so human and stripped down it hardly seems to belong to the same man who froze a room full of armed guards with one look, “—I am begging you not to make that choice before you hear me. I am begging you. Stay this one night, give me one chance to explain it all to you, to answer every possible question you could have. One chance to do this right, even if I already did it all wrong.”

Begging. The word would sound absurd from almost any other man. From him, it sounds cataclysmic. His hand shakes at the back of your head before steadying, his chest rises too sharply under your cheek, and he continues speaking as if silence might kill him.

“I love you too much to let this be the end of it if there’s anything I can do to stop it,” he croaks. “Too much to let you walk out of here thinking none of it was real. It was real. Every second of it was real. Me wanting you, loving you, worrying about you, making room for you in my life in ways I never made room for anybody—none of that was a lie. The only lie was thinking I could hold both worlds apart long enough to protect you from what I am. That was the lie. That was my arrogance. My mistake.”

The mansion remains hushed in that eerie, cathedral-like way that comes after a disturbance, as if everyone occupying this huge mansion is pretending not to hear the aftershocks.

But here in the kitchen, everything feels narrowed to his voice and your breathing and the blood drying on his forearm and the fact that he is speaking to you like a man on his knees, even if he is still standing, even if his arms are still around you, even if his kind of desperation does not know how to unclench fully.

There is a daunting sincerity in him now, not because it is soft but because it is not. Because it is fierce. Because even his tenderness carries the shape of obsession, of decision, of something chosen with his whole irreversible heart.

What can you possible answer here. What can you possibly think.

“I’ll do whatever I have to do.” He sounds so full of conviction. Technically, the words are quiet, but there is a hard core somewhere in his tone, and it glows fiercely. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make you feel safe again. To prove this to you. To earn back one inch of your trust. I don’t care how long it takes, I don’t care what you ask for, I don’t care what I have to lay down at your feet. I’ll do it. I will.” He takes a beat and the next words are so low you almost miss them. “I know I don’t deserve another chance and you have all the best reasons to run, but I’m asking for it anyway, Y/n.“

At that, finally, he leans back just enough to look at you. It’s not much, but the hand at the back of your head can guide your face up with painful gentleness, giving you every opening to pull away if you need to, though you are too wrung out now to do much except tremble.

His eyes find yours and stay there, and the sight of his face nearly brings you to your knees all over again. There is no coldness in him. No cruelty. No mockery. Only a kind of bereft intensity, a ravaged devotion, and beneath it the severe understanding that he is seeing himself reflected in your fear and cannot survive the image.

The whole fact of how broken he sounds starts to mess with your head. It cracks the armor of your panic, if only just a little bit. You’re trying to hate him. Because, honestly, you want to. You want the fear to be this insurmountable wall between you, but his voice keeps crumbling pieces of it.

The worst part is that you can’t just flick a switch and stop loving the guy you were tangled up with this morning. You fell for him so fast, so completely, because his version of happy felt like the safest place on earth. But with all those shocking revelations, that same love feels like a trapdoor that just dropped you into a cellar, and you are so angry at your own heart for still wanting him to hold you.

Underneath the exhaustion, there is a nauseating doubt starting to rot everything you remember about the last few weeks, and you really don’t need your mind going that far, but it does. You start wondering if you ever actually loved him, or if you were just hooked on the way he looked at you.

He treated you like you were the only important thing in the world, and you just hung off that affection, soaking up the protective way he took care of you. Even though he’s standing here right now, bleeding and hollowed out, swearing that every single touch was real, how can you ever be sure? Every memory you have is suddenly poisoned by the thought that it was just a beautifully built illusion, and the whole thing makes you feel completely seasick.

It’s just too much to handle all at once. Your brain is trying to hold two completely different men in the same space—the gentle guy who tucked the blankets around your feet in the dark, and the boss who froze a kitchen full of killers with one word. They are both real. They are both right here in front of you, and the fact that he isn't a cartoon villain makes it a hundred times worse.

If he were just a monster, you could run. But he’s a monster who tells you he loves you with this gut-wrenching, unyielding honesty, and looking at his ruined face, all your willpower just turns to mush.

“I should have asked more questions,” you whisper, and still, your voice breaks, the words tumbling out of you like loose gravel. You aren’t trying to be eloquent anymore, you are just trying to get the noise out of your head before it chokes you. “From the start, I— When you wouldn’t tell me things. I— I don't know, I was scared, I guess.”

Your fingers tighten into the expensive wool of his lapels just to keep your knees from giving out. Letting this mob boss know about your fears is probably a bad idea. But your life consists of you making bad decisions and so your mouth keeps opening. “I think I just liked the way you were to me too much to risk messing it up.”

The words drag themselves out of you like they do not want to be born, like each one has to force its way through the knot in your throat and the salt on your tongue and the simple, mind-numbing fact that nothing in you knows where to place anything anymore—not him, not yourself, not the last weeks, not the hands that held you so tenderly and the empire those same hands command with a flick of the wrist.

Bucky’s gaze is piercing as he looks down at you, listening with his breath visibly held.

“But I— I still don’t understand. I think.“ Your voice comes thin at first, scraped nearly transparent by crying, but it sharpens on pain the way a blade sharpens on a whetstone. “I just— I saw this gun, and—,” you blur out, the memory making your heart do that awful stutter against your ribs again while Bucky nearly flinches. His eyes go wide, pupils shrinking until they look like two dark pinpricks. “It was an accident. I swear it was an accident. I was just— you told me to grab a shirt of yours but I couldn’t reach up your wardrobe and so I was just going to go grab the shirt you've been wearing, but your jacket was there and then it just fell out. And I— I completely lost my mind because I realized I didn’t actually know anything about you, and I’ve been so stupid, and I’m really not good at this. I'm not good at talking things out or figuring out the right things to say. It’s just— this is so much to take in.”

Bucky´s chest hitches, a rough, dry stutter or air that sounds like he just took a fist to the solar plexus. His face looks almost unrecognizable with the pain plastered on it. You feel his hands tremble against you and he slowly takes them away, putting himself at a small distance to perhaps give you some space. His palms stay open, as do his eyes. He looks entirely unhinged by the clumsiness of his own life seeping into yours.

How could anyone understand how a man can kiss your forehead like a saint and still have blood and fear braided into his name. It’s so hard to understand how someone can look at you the way he is looking at you now—like you are both miracle and mortal wound—and still have lied, still have omitted, still have arranged the world around you so skillfully that you walked through it unknowing, barefoot and bright-hearted, straight into the center of his hidden life.

You do not understand what parts were real and what parts were merely curated, and worst of all, there is a terrible little splinter of you that already suspects the answer is not clean enough to save you. That some unbearable amount of it was real.

Your mouth trembles and you know that he can see it.

“You lied to me,” you sob, and although you mean for it to, it doesn’t sound like a weapon you’re throwing at him. It just sounds sad. “You made it so easy. I didn’t even think about it. I just— I just woke up every day and trusted the way you looked at me. And the whole time, I didn’t even know you.”

You look down at his chest so you can stop having to meet those devastatingly sunken eyes. “You let me fall in love with you not knowing who you were.” Your sentence has a shape now, the grief in you finally managing to find a spine. But you still can’t make your words sound all that accusing. Because you got yourself into this situation. You’re supposed to be furious at yourself first.

You haven’t used the word love before. You just dropped it, being the first time it cleared your teeth and the timing of it feels completely disastrous.

And Bucky suddenly undergoes a drastic freeze, as if his nervous system has been struck by lightning. He seems to tip back just a tiny bit but stays in your orbit. He stares down at you, his mouth parted, his chest stalling on an intake of air that he forgets to let back out.

The fact that you love him—and that you are saying it right now, while covered with dread and shivering nearly against his chest—seems to completely break his brain.

There is a dark heat flooding his face, his jaw tight enough to snap a tooth. He looks agonizingly vulnerable like this, the dangerous mob boss utterly gutted by four letters. His fingers twitch where they are now hovering near your neck, desperately wanting to bury themselves in your hair and pull you back into his skin, but he forces his hands down to his sides, his knuckles trembling against his tailored trousers.

“You…,” he starts, eyes burning with a starved intensity that makes the air in the kitchen feel boiling hot. He swallows loudly, taking a moment, staring out into some space behind you, and switching focus back to you. “Don’t call yourself stupid,” he goes on, voice dropping into a rasp that shakes with the failure of his own arrogance. “None of what you told me and none of what you felt makes you stupid.”

His face leans closer to yours and somehow you only shrink back a tiny bit, not really at all. You can feel the wavering rhythm of his breath against your lips. He looks thoroughly undone by his own greed, stuck in the realization that he won the only thing he ever wanted, right at the exact moment he stopped being the man who holds you in the dark and turned into the reason you’re afraid of the dark.

“The love was real,” he sounds so convinced. His face is breaking, but his voice is not. He knows what he is saying. “Every single second of it was real. I am the one who ruined it. But what I feel, and what we have, that isn’t a lie. I swear to you on my life, it was never a lie.” His eyes close briefly, and it looks like he is losing his footing somewhere internal. “I know how it feels from where you’re standing. But I wasn’t playing some game with you. I wasn’t trying to—” He drags a hand over his face, and for an instant he looks older than you have ever seen him, not in years but in burden, in wear. “I wanted more time. That was my sin in it. I wanted time. I wanted to tell you in a way that didn’t make you look at me like this.”

Like this.

The phrase feels unkind. Because yes—there it is again, the damn nucleus of the whole thing. The way your eyes have changed on him. The way he has noticed every flicker of fear in you as if each one were a cut and he keeps taking your terror not as an insult to his pride but as an injury to something much more private and much more vulnerable. And that, more than any fake excuse could have, is so hard to process. 

Because men who only know cruelty do not usually grieve like this over being feared by the woman they supposedly love. Men who are only monstrous do not usually look half-unmade by it.

You don’t want that thought, you honestly don’t, but it does arrive.

Because he has not hurt you. He hasn’t done a single thing to hurt you, and that makes him so much more complicated at the exact moment you most need him to stay simple.

He has had a thousand opportunities by now to become the thing you are bracing against. In the hallway. In the office. In the kitchen. When you ran. When you fought. When you took the knife. When you cut him. At every turn, there has been room for rage, for punishment, for the kind of retaliatory violence your frightened mind keeps expecting from a man like him, and instead he has done nothing but hold himself on a brutal leash, speak softly, plead, bleed, look at you as if your fear is the one thing in this world he has no defenses against.

And it makes you weaker.

Because fear is easier when it is clean. Outrage is easier when there are no counterweights. But now your thoughts begin to buckle under the strain of contradiction, and you feel yourself growing tired in some deeper way, not merely from running or crying or panic, but from the effort of sustaining one total version of him against the evidence of another.

The story you are trying to tell yourself—that he is simply bad, simply dangerous, simply false—keeps snagging on the memory of his hands shaking when he begged, on the way he threw his men out for aiming guns at you, on the heartache in his face now, open and unarmored and miserable with not knowing how to reach you.

None of it erases anything, how could it this fast, but still it matters, and still some fatal hope flares.

Your lungs are burning. You become dimly aware that your body is leaning, not exactly by choice, but because exhaustion is making choices for you now. The kitchen feels too bright and too far away at the same time. Your fingers feel chilled, your knees unreliable, your heart still overworked from all that horror. Even your anger is beginning to lose its clean edges, dissolving into something wetter and more helpless.

“I don’t know what to do,” you admit, and there is no strength in it at all.

The sentence is barely more than breath, but it changes him instantly, makes his misery seem softer, as if your confusion pains him almost as much as your fear did. His gaze searches your face carefully, greedily, looking for any sign that you have not vanished completely from him.

“You don’t have to know right now,” he comforts, and this time his voice is gentler still, worn down to the most tender parts of his body. “You don’t have to decide anything this second. I know I dropped all of this on you in the worst possible way. I know you’re overwhelmed.”

Overwhelmed. The word is so pitifully insufficient you want to cry some more, but the sound catches and turns to another shivery exhale instead.

Overwhelmed is a rainstorm. A bad day. A missed train. This is seismic. This is having the floor beneath your life cleave open and discovering it was built over a fault line all along.

Still, you know what he means.

Because beneath all the fear, and the betrayal and the urgent need to flee, there is now also this leaden, disorienting fatigue, this collapse of certainty.

You cannot keep all your alarms ringing at once forever. The body is not made for it. At some point even terror begins to sag under its own weight, and in that sagging comes the most dangerous thing of all. Maybe not trust or forgiveness yet, but confusion. A human confusion. The realization that if he truly meant to destroy you, perhaps he would have done it already. That if cruelty were the point, he has passed up too many easy chances. That whatever else he is—and God, he is still intimidating, still hidden, still a man with too much power and too many locked rooms in his life—his feelings for you do not look counterfeit. They look catastrophic. They look real enough to have ruined him too.

He had every opportunity to end this argument with force, not even making his hands dirty in a physical sense. But he didn’t, and that roughened sincerity that seems so deeply wounded keeps gnawing at all the things you thought you found out about this man, the stereotype you made him out to be. It makes a guilty stone drop into your belly and land with damaging intentions.

And you do not know what to do with all this honesty and realness, when real arrives dressed as the very thing you were trying to escape.

But you have to acknowledge that your lack of strength is not the only reason why you have stopped fighting him, stopped trying to get away.

Bucky seems to read some fragment of this in your face, because he does not press harder. He does not crowd you with arguments. He simply stays where he is, close enough for warmth, far enough now that his care has space to breathe. His injured arm hangs at his side, blood drying in a dark seam along his skin, ignored. His other hand lifts as if to touch your cheek, then stops halfway and falls again when he sees the flicker in your eyes. That tiny restraint breaks something in you all over again.

“I know I lied by not telling you,” he says quietly. “I know that. I’m not asking you to call it something prettier. I’m just telling you it wasn’t because you meant nothing. It was because you meant too goddamn much, and I was trying to find a way to bring you closer without making you run.”

The honesty of it is so ugly, so naked, so free of self-congratulation that it feels like he just threw a wet sandbag right at your chest, knocking every scrap of air straight out of your lungs. It’s not an excuse, not quite. More like the shape of the selfishness itself, held out in his own hands for you to look at. He wanted you. He kept you. He delayed the truth because he was afraid the truth would cost him the one bright thing he had allowed himself to love. There is no innocence in that. But there is something crushingly human.

Your eyes burn again and your grip on your own certainty loosens another inch.

You hate that, too, because, damnit, it would be easier to stand here shaking and loathing him if he would just become less tender and less heartbreakingly earnest in his regret. But he stays persistently, ruinously genuine, and all at once you feel not only afraid, not only betrayed, but emptied out by the effort of trying to hold every contradiction at once. He is a bad man. He may also love you. He lied. He is also hurting. He hid things from you. He is also standing here looking like your fear is flaying him alive. None of these truths cancels the others. They just crowd together until your thoughts feel waterlogged, too swollen to separate.

So all that is left is the simplest truth again.

You really are overwhelmed.

You are so overwhelmed that language itself seems too heavy to lift.

Your breathing has started to slowly settle in increments, like a storm reluctantly retreating from a coastline it battered too long. It feels like there are bruises left behind in your lungs, but it no longer aches with each inhale.

Your fear has ebbed enough to make you think again, to make you see again, to make you look at him not as the single monstrous shape your panic tried to build, but as the complicated, human contradiction standing in front of you now.

His shoulders are still too tight, drawn up, and perhaps trying to seem smaller. He keeps his hands visible and loose at his sides to perhaps avoid startling you. The cut along his forearm has darkened into a narrow seam of red, drying in flaking lines against his skin and remaining completely ignored by the man attached to it.

His focus hasn’t left your face. And in that focus, there is not an ounce of triumph. Rather, the opposite. There is only pain. Such a grave torment that lives in the corners of his mouth, the prominent crease between his brows, in the cautious way he keeps tracking your movements as though you still might shove him away and try bolting for the door again.

You swallow and feel the ballast of everything press back down on your chest.

“I—” you start, timidly, using every last scrap of your bravery. You don’t meet his eyes, staring at the floor beside him. “I’ve seen them.” Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, small but a little bit more poised now, like glass that hasn’t shattered but still remembers the impact. “I've seen the news, and the headlines. All the stories about you.”

The words suspend themselves in the space between you.

Bucky takes a moment to answer. His gaze drifts downward, just briefly, as if the floor might offer him something easier to look at than the defenselessness sitting in your eyes. The vulnerable questions there. When he exhales it is long and tired, and it sounds like all the versions of himself he has spent years outrunning are catching up to him anyway.

“Yeah,” he mutters out breathily. But a little flat. There is no denial in it or some sort of excuse. He drags a hand across the back of his neck, his jaw flexing slightly before he speaks again. “I figured you probably had.” He takes a shivering breath, his whole chest lifting. “They’re not all lies.”

You hold your breath, but don’t step back, don’t let fear take its seat at the forefront of your mind again.

He lifts his eyes back to yours then, and the seriousness in them deepens, intensifying into something resolute.

“I’m not gonna stand here and tell you I’m a good man,” he says. The words come slowly, and his eyes are searching yours while he talks. He is placing them carefully like he’s building something honest out of wreckage. “I’m not.”

Your heart stumbles in your chest, but you still keep your feet grounded and meet his eyes.

“I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Things most people wouldn’t forgive if they knew the full story.” His voice lowers slightly. His eyes are full of sorrow. Despite the things he’s saying he unexpectedly doesn’t look threatening at all and it makes something startle abruptly in your chest. “And yeah, I’ll probably keep doing some of those things.” He doesn’t force anything into his tone that maybe should be there. He´s not saying those things with pride or arrogance or even threat. He has just accepted the callous contours that make his life the way it is. “But not for the reasons people think.”

His eyes soften then, slightly. And it makes you realize that they’ve actually been soft all along.

“I do what I do because there are people in this world who deserve protection. People who don’t have the power to protect themselves.” His gaze holds yours a little more firmly now. “And sometimes the only way to keep those people safe is to be the guy willing to do the ugly work.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’d do just about anything to protect you, Y/n. Even if it’s me you want protection from.”

The kitchen feels very still.

You don’t know what to say to that. You’re not even sure there is something to say. The statement isn’t a justification so much as a window, and looking through it leaves you with more thoughts to sort through and you’ve already gone through so many. But you hear him. You really do.

And he seems to notice that you’re listening now—maybe not agreeing, not forgiving, but truly listening, hearing him out—and some small measure of relief loosens the tension in his shoulders.

He doesn’t move a single muscle, standing before you like a brick wall, his legs pinned wide on the kitchen tiles, his frame perfectly still except for the anxious heave of his chest. His arms are hanging at his side, and shit, your gaze just has to focus on that bloody trail on his forearm. Because right, you’ve cut James Buchanan Barnes through his expensive suit enough to make him bleed. The redness runs from his wrist to his knuckles and you see some dots on the floor. The fabric of his suit is soaking it up, turning a dark wet black around the tear.

He still doesn’t glance down at it. He’s still so entirely anchored to your face, his broad shoulders squared as if he’s trying to shield you from the very room he owns. The survival instinct that had you clawing at the air drops away and now there is a sudden freezing emptiness in your head. And in that blank space, something takes place.

You look at the knife on the linoleum, then at the wet red tracking down his arm, and your stomach completely plummets through the ground. The panic you felt earlier didn’t protect you, it turned you clumsy and ignorant.

“Oh, no,” you choke out, gaze fixed on his arm, your words hacking up from your chest miserably. “Bucky, I— Your arm, I— I didn’t mean— This is my fault, I swear I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey,” he cuts in, his voice lowering into a rough, immediate hush that clips the words right out of your mouth. “Hey, no, sweetheart. No.” He steps back into your space and his huge palms come up, traveling slowly until they map themselves carefully across your jawline.

His fingers are trembling and the pressure is incredibly light. His skin is warm, smelling of that same familiar soap from upstairs, and his thumbs softly brush the wet tear tracks off your cheekbones, forcing you to look straight into his eyes. He doesn’t even spare a glance at his forearm.

“You don’t ever apologize to me for that,” he whispers hoarsely, his chest hitching against yours as he tries to get his breathing normal. There is so much regret in his voice, it is too much for your heart to handle. “You were scared out of your mind and I did that to you. That?” He tilts his arm toward you, indicating that he is talking about the cut. “That is nothing, sweetheart. Nothing.” The corner of his mouth lifts faintly, but the expression is gentler and definitely much more somber than humorous. “I’ve taken hits that should’ve put me in the ground, and none of them touched me.”

You shake your head in his palms. “But, I—”

“Doll,” he shushes, his arms keeping your chin locked, but not firm at all. His gaze is drilling into yours and it feels like he’s bleeding more from the inside and not the outside. “That little scratch hurts a hell of a lot less than watching you run from me.”

Your hands slowly stop trying to find leverage against his chest. The heat of his palms against your jaw feels like a grounding force, something so familiar but also completely new. It’s not entirely unpleasant in its newness.

You look up into his eyes, seeing the complete lack of the monster he just unleashed on his guards, and you can’t help but feel a little unmoored.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” you admit breathily, your voice cracking as your forehead drops forward to rest against his tie.

Bucky lets out a long, ragged exhale, his chin resting against the top of your head as his arms wrap around your shoulders, pulling you into a hold that feels firm but unforced.

“You don’t have to figure it out right now, darling,” he eases, his words spoken with a splintered scrape into your hair. “You don’t have to decide anything today, or tomorrow, or next week. Take all the time you need. Turn it over in your head. Think about everything you saw, everything I am. And whatever you choose to do—if you want to pack your bags, and disappear, if you never want to see my face again—I will let you go. I will make sure you are safe, and I will support whatever choice you make. I swear it.”

He pulls back just an inch, his thumbs gently guiding your face up again so he can look straight into your eyes. There is something desperately begging in his stare, but he keeps his posture completely still, refusing to pressure you.

“But please.“ His knuckles tremble slightly against your cheek. “Just stay the night. Don't run out now while this is all still so new. Stay until morning. As soon as the sun’s up, the car is yours,” he promises sorrowfully, his thumbs catching the last of the dampness on your cheek. “If you want to leave, you leave. You can walk out of here and never look back, and I won’t follow you. I won’t look for you. If that’s what it takes to make you feel safe, I’ll let you go.”

He stops, his jaw clamping tight for a second, a sharp, jumbled hitch in his ribs breaking his breathing.

“But god, I hope you don't,” he shoves the words past the tightness in his throat, his eyes wide and burning into yours so achingly. “I will spend every single day of my life doing whatever it takes to fix this. I’ll earn back an inch of your trust at a time. I’ll show you the rest of me—the real parts—if you just give me the chance to try. I want you to love me again. I want that more than anything.”

He hitches his weight just a fraction closer, his large hands still framing your jaw with agonizingly slow caution.

“But just stay this single night,” he pleads with a strain in his voice, his forehead dropping down to rest lightly against yours. “Just stay until morning. Let me get you out of this kitchen, and you can just sleep. That’s all. Just tonight.”

You stare at the dark red crusting on his wool cuff, then look into that heavy, broken-down look in his eyes. Trying to picture next week or even tomorrow feels like watching a knotted ball of wire and not finding out where to start untying it.

But right now, your muscles are just running on empty, completely flattened and powerless from feeling all that panic. You let out one long shudder of air, asking your awareness for any reasons why you should still try to get the hell away from this guy, and come up with nothing yet. It’s all too fresh to truly give this some thought and right now all you want to do is curl up in those silky sheets and sleep it all off.

You give him a small nod. “Okay. Okay, Bucky, I’ll stay the night.”

Bucky’s shoulders drop with a massive, rattling relief. He doesn't say anything else, he just tucks your head back under his chin, his big arms closing around you to carry your weight out of the quiet kitchen, leaving the knife and the blood behind on the floorboards.

You don’t know what comes when the sun is up. You don’t know what loving a man like him means. You don’t know if the life he lives can ever exist beside the life you thought you wanted.

You don’t know if trust can grow again from the cracked ground beneath your feet, and considering your decision making skills, you shouldn’t let your heart handle things anymore.

But, frighteningly and also not all that much surprisingly after all, when you imagine leaving now—truly leaving, turning your back on him and walking out of this mansion forever—the image doesn’t bring relief.

It brings something bleak.

Because for all the discoveries of tonight and all that fear, all that shock, and the trust that has been abruptly broken, there is a bullheaded part of you that understands something you can’t yet put into words for him to hear.

You could run from this house.

You could run from his name.

But you are not sure you could run from him.

“The truth is rarely pure and never simple”

- Oscar Wilde

A/n: Looking at the word count now, I honestly probably could’ve turned this into a mini series but because this whole thing is essentially one long scene, splitting it up even more just didn’t feel right to me. So I guess I just have to admit that this became an unexpectedly long two-parter lmao.

As always, I would absolutely love to hear your thoughts on this continuation, if it gave you hope, or even if you expected something different to happen. I always enjoy hearing your interpretations and feelings after reading ♡

I also wanted to gently address something else. I’ve received a few critical comments regarding certain reactions, choices, and dynamics in the story, and I truly hope this second part helped answer some questions or at least offered a little more perspective. If it didn’t, that’s completely okay too.

What I want you to know, I genuinely do appreciate helpful criticism, especially when it comes to my writing itself, because I’m always trying to improve and become better at what I do. Constructive feedback that gives me something to work with is always welcome and appreciated. But if something in the story simply wasn’t for you, or you personally disliked a choice I made, then sometimes it’s okay to just move on from it instead of tearing it apart. And if you do choose to criticize something, I just ask that you do it kindly. We’re still a community here, and there’s no reason to be harsh or blunt. Talk to me like a human being.

I put a lot of time, emotion, and effort into these stories, not to be told this makes no sense or this is weird without any real conversation behind it. Sometimes I don’t think through every single detail deeply because at the end of the day, this is still fiction born from messy little ideas in my head, written for comfort, entertainment, and emotion—not perfection!

Still, thank you to everyone who continues to boost me and my work and helped me stay motivated to finish this part ♡

And if you enjoyed my work, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi ♡

[livwtfhaha]

love it sm 😭😭

[godmadeaterribleerror]

give me fever

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦

✦summary: you and Bucky hate each other, so it's not unusual for him to act cold around you. but this is differant. this is... feral. and you're starting to wonder what's wrong✦

✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, enemies to lovers, ragebating Bucky Barnes, emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (dry humping, manhandling, bucky's feral, emotional sex, dry orgasm, truly foul dirty talk, hyperspermia, pussy eating like crazy, fingering, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, mean!bucky, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦

✦wc: 11.1k✦

✦Author's Note: i'm so normal about sex pollen✦

It doesn’t bother you. If you tell yourself enough, you’re really going to believe that it doesn’t bother you.

But he’s everywhere. 

There isn’t a corner of the damn building without Bucky Barnes. You go to the kitchen and he’s there making a sandwich, watching you move around the counter like he thinks you’re going to bite him. In the gym he’s at the weights and the punching bags, and you try to ignore him but he grunts and moans and you think he’s doing it on purpose. the living area he takes over the TV and watches whatever he wants to catch up with the times. No matter how politely you ask him to switch to something else, he always tells you to just wait. Then you try, but he’s spread out on the couch until your knees have to bump, and your face gets all hot, and you have to stomp away before you start acting on all your stupid thoughts.

Because it’s not just Bucky’s eternal presence and stubbornness and smirking that burrows under your skin. It’s that you like it.

That when you’re next to him on the couch, all you can think about is that place where your body’s connect. He’s warm. Tall and warm. Your skin tingles at the contact point, and whenever he shifts it’s like you’re being shot up with a drug.

“You’re squirmy.” He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. “No one ever teach you to sit still?”

You stick your tongue out. “No one ever teach you to mind your own business?”

“Hard to mind my business when you’re movin’ all the cushions, doll-“

“Then go sit somewhere else, robot man.”

Bucky’s jaw twitches. “I’m not a robot.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m not-“

“You act like one.” You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like he’s fucking praying.

“I was here first.” He mutters. You don’t balk.

“Congratulations.”

You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-

Get a fucking grip.

“There’s a chair over there.” You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. “Go sit in it, if I’m so squirmy.”

Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab he’s got for you, you don’t want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movie—probably another one of Sam’s this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because there’s no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himself—and fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. You’re going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesn’t bother you.

You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.

It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Bucky’s fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like he’s thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.

“Everything okay?” You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.

That’s all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.

You’ll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, you’ll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. You’ll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesn’t get to know that.

As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. It’s all he spares you. And you’re not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didn’t notice you were there at all.

Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.

The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.

“You skipped the mission briefing.” Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.

Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.

You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.

“I was busy.”

“Too busy for your job?”

“It’s not my job-“

“Your name was on the roster.” Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.

“Have you been carrying that around all day?”

“That doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it really does-“

Bucky hisses your name. There’s a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“You need to be there, Steve was talkin’ about safety shit, and if you don’t know it you could get killed-“

“I know how mission briefing work, I’ve been here longer than you have-“

“Really? ‘Cause you don’t act like it-“

“I don’t act like it?” You snort. “Last I checked I’m ranked higher than you, Sargent.” You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. “Which is why I’m allowed to defer missions, and you’re not.”

Bucky blinks, recoiling slightly. “Defer? What, you-“

“I’m skipping.” You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. “And if I’m skipping, I don’t need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.

But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.

“Why’re you skipping.”

You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isn’t actually going to care about.

“I have a date.”

“A what.” It’s not a full reaction. He’s mostly staring at you like he didn’t understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.

“A date?” You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.

Bucky always brings everything out in you. It’s incredibly annoying.

“You know.” You push mockingly. “Where you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.”

“Robots flirt.” Bucky grunts, and you snort.

“Yeah, but they don’t have sex-“

The counter cracks. It’s loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like he’s just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.

“What’s-“

“Steve’s callin’ me.” He mutters, and you blink.

“No, he’s not-“

“Have fun.” Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. “On your human date.”

Then he’s gone.

And you’re left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where he’d vanished through the door. You don’t care about the date.

You just need to know what the fuck that was.

There’s a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. She’d picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Bucky—because you’ve never told her your secret, but you didn’t need to, she’s Natasha—but it wasn’t enough.

He didn’t have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didn’t spar. He didn’t push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all night—wrong smile, too—and then didn’t pay. Bucky would’ve paid.

You have no evidence of that. It’s just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when you’re at each other’s throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.

And there’s not a single point during the night, where you’re not thinking about him.

“We should do this again.” The Date—you’ve forgotten his name, and it’s certainly not a good time to ask—says at the end of the night.

You’re shivering. Bucky would’ve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks he’s getting a second date.

At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.

“Sure.” You smile, because even with superstrength, it’s easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. “Have a good night.”

He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.

The mission is over.

Two days early.

Your jaw tightens.

Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But you’ve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.

Something went wrong, and they have to come back.

You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. It’s mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. You’d skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasn’t anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe he’d thought they’d need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.

But they’re back early.

And if someone’s hurt, you could’ve stopped it. You could’ve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and that’s incredibly annoying. He’s going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and you’ll have earned it which isn’t going to help anything at all. 

You get back to the compound, and it’s not in lockdown. There aren’t med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that it’s already been cleared out. The jet isn’t being quarantined.

Maybe they really did just… Finish early.

You’re heading back to your room when you slam right into them.

Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.

“You need to go, Buck-“

“I’m fine-“

“No, you’re not. You can lie to the docs, don’t lie to me-“

“I ain’t lyin’, I’m fine-“

Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what they’re saying. You barrel straight into Bucky’s back.

He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.

His hand is hot.

Not sexy hot—although it’s also that—but literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.

He’s flushed. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out they’re almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.

“Hi.” You whisper.

His throat bobs. “You’re back.”

“I- I got the alert.” You glance over to Steve, who’s gone oddly pale. “Did the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasn’t there, right-“

“Yep!” Steve almost shouts, and you blink. “I mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?” Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder. “We were all good.”

Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.

“Let go.” Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.

He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.

“I was gonna.” He grumbles, and Steve sighs.

“I know, but-“ You get a weary look. Like Steve doesn’t want you to hear their conversation. “I think- You know what I think-“

“Steve-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.

He still hasn’t looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.

“I’m fine.” He says, low and under his breath. You’re rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. “It’s- I’m fine.”

Steve’s lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like he’s dragging himself away.

“How was your date?” He grunts.

“Bucky-“

“I’m just askin’ a question.” He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.

The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and it’s making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.

You hope he’d catch you, then fuck you until your can’t even walk.

Get a fucking grip.

“Bad.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. “He sucked.”

And that’s the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.

But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.

“We have debriefing!” Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s suit. “Bye!”

Before you can even register it, Steve’s dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.

Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.

Bucky’s only been acting stranger. You’d pretend it didn’t bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.

You walk through the compound, and he’s somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while you’re going through the mission files.

“What’re you doin’.” He grunts, and you sigh.

You’re not surprised he’s there. It’s the fifth time today that he’s snuck up on you.

“I’m going through the reports on the mission.” You drawl. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”

Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. It’s hard to pretend that you can’t feel his presence behind you. There’s heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent that’s filling the room. It’s making you a little dizzy. It’s all you can do, not to look back at him.

That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.

You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.

Mistake. Just like you’d thought, big mistake.

He looks even worse and better than you thought. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and they’re clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget you’re annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.

You somehow—just barely—fight it.

“Why can’t I access these files.”

Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. It’s hard to maintain your glare.

“Barnes-“

“You weren’t on the mission.” He mutters. “Not your files to see.”

You scowl. “I can access the files of every other mission I was on-“

“Steve should change that.”

God, you wish he wasn’t so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.

“I know something happened out there.” You hiss, sitting up a little taller. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ll figure it out.”

Bucky chuckles. It’s a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.

“Sure, doll. Have fun with that.”

You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think he’s going to pounce on you.

And then you blink, and he’s gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.

You wish that was the extent of it, but it’s barely the start. And it only gets worse.

Bucky doesn’t do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like he’s supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.

Instead, you find Bucky. 

He’s drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.

You sigh. You’re too tired to fight him.

“Can’t sleep?” You mumble.

He just nods.

You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.

“You want hot chocolate?”

A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.

And maybe it’s just that you’re really starting to worry, but you don’t bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.

His mouth falls open. He stares at you like he’s spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. He’s still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you don’t dare to push it.

Not when he’s looking at you like this. The way you’d always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.

“I’m watching Star Wars.” You mumble. “You wanna…”

You trail off, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.

But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. He’s breathing awfully shallow, but you’re a selfish coward that wants him close, so you don’t mention it.

You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesn’t even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. He’s not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasn’t said a word. You’re afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.

That he wants to be here.

Near you.

He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You don’t move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than you’ve ever seen. His fever isn’t breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.

Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.

It’s almost a moan.

You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You don’t know what’s going on with him, but this can’t be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. That’s not a part of him you get to have.

But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.

You feel almost sick.

It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When you’re free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You can’t really help it.

His fever is building again.

You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he can’t think you wouldn’t care enough to help.

When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.

You force yourself to go to bed. You’re not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.

If anything, you just pray he gets better. It’s hard to hide your undying care for him, when he’s in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that he’s hurting. ‘

But it is Bucky.

And he’s never going to make anything that easy.

You walk out of your room in the morning, and he’s right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like he’s trying to bite his own tongue off.

“Hi.” You say lamely.

He stumbles back like you punched him. “You- You’re-“

“Bucky, are you-“

“’M fine.” He says it mostly to himself again. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.

You’re not going to tell him, but you’re getting worried. This is the third morning in a row you’ve found him here. The first night you asked if he’d slept there, and he’d scowled and stomped away.

But from the look of him, you don’t think he’s been sleeping at all.

“Do you need something?” You ask. You sound soft, but you can’t help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. “I can call Steve-“

“Don’t get Steve.” He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. It’s the only way he’s been moving around you, lately. “I’m fine.”

You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like you’ve got a polarity field around you. Like he can’t even stand to breathe the same air.

And yet he’s here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.

“Bucky-“

“Don’t.” He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. “Just- Don’t.”

You swallow, and don’t give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks you’re going to catch him and drag him back. You won’t.

But you do go right to Steve.

“What happened on the mission.”

Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. You’re glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isn’t going to work on you here. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying anyway.

“Hey, um- Do you want a cookie-“

“Steven.” You hiss, and he swallows. “What happened.”

Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”’

“What do you mean you’re not supposed to tell me-“

“I mean I- I can.” He mutters. “But then Bucky will kill me. And I don’t want Bucky to kill me.”

You scowl. “Tough shit, because guess who’s going to kill you if you don’t tell me?”

Steve sighs. “Is it you?”

“Yep.”

He stares at his sandwich, like it’s somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it won’t. You have plenty of time.

“I’m really not supposed to tell you-“

“I really don’t care.”

“Well- You will.” Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.

You don’t have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. He’s basically asking for it right now.

“Steven, I swear to fucking God-“

“I can’t tell you.” He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.

“No, you just won’t tell me-“

“That’s not- I can’t, okay? Please stop asking me to-“

“Why, because Bucky doesn’t want you to?” You leer. “Because last I checked, you’re the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates he’s in danger so they can help-“

“That’s the problem!” Steve shouts, and you blink. “You- Look, you’re going to want to help, and I can’t let you.”

“You can’t let me help?” You echo, and Steve winces.

“I know how it sounds-“

“Do you? Because what I’m fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you won’t let me fucking help-“

“Why do you even want to help?” Steve fixes you with a pointed look. “All you ever do is complain about Bucky and how he’s annoying you. I would’ve thought you didn’t care.”

You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what he’s doing. Smug fucking asshole. 

“That won’t work on me.” You grunt, and he shrugs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Steve-“

“But,” he says causally. “If I did, I’d say that’s why I can’t tell you. And you know that.”

You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like you’re just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.

“I- I don’t-“ You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. It’s annoying. “It’s not- I’m just- Please.”

Your voice cracks suddenly. You’ve been losing more sleep over this than you’re ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with it—like the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick up—but that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. It’s making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.

“Bucky.” You say slowly. “Is- He’s not okay. I know he’s not okay.” You force yourself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Just- Lie to me and say he’s fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I can’t just-“

You don’t even know how to finish the sentence. There’s a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. You’re so worried. Worried this is something that’s going to kill him, and you’re going to lose him forever.

And there’s pity, in Steve’s gaze. It’s enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.

“Alright.” He murmurs. “But- You can’t tell him I told you.”

You nod quickly. “I’ll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.”

Steve sighs. “Okay. Okay.” He shakes his head. “It was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasn’t being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think it’s the serum, or just… Bucky. But he’s been controlling it better.” Steve grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not still knocked up with stuff.”

You nod slowly. That’s not that bad.

But Steve didn’t want you to know for a reason.

“What are the symptoms?”

Steve won’t meet your gaze. “Fever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased… libido.”

Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “What.”

“Hydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We don’t know why they were developing it, but- There’s no other name.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “The agent- His cell is disgusting.”

“But- Bucky-“

“I told you, he says he’s got it under control.” Steve shrugs, but doesn’t really sound like he’s convinced himself. “The agent has been, ah… begging for anyone. Bucky doesn’t have the same liberty with what will help. He says it’s going to pass, and he’ll be fine.”

“And will it?” You breathe. “Pass?”

Steve shrugs. “It did for the agent.”

“Before or after the mating?”

Steve’s silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-“

“I know that!” Steve snaps. “I know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.” He shakes his head. “He won’t take anyone. He’ll only- Well- You know.”

“I know? I don’t fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-“

Steve says your name plainly. You blink.

“What-“

“Nothing. Just- Why do you think he’s been lingering around you?”

You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.

“Steve-“

“I didn’t say anything-“

“Yes, you did-“

“Nope.”

You press your lips in a tight line. He can’t mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. “Bucky- He doesn’t- That’s not how he feels about me.”

Please don’t say it is. It’s not fair if you’re lying.

“Funny.” Steve shrugs. “He says the same thing about you.”

This is a bad idea.

Bucky hasn’t left his room in a day. You’d spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didn’t mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What you’d always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.

But it didn’t matter how you turned or picked at Steve’s words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you can’t even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you could’ve been actually kissing him. If Steve’s right, you’re going to kill Bucky.

After you fix this for him.

If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.

Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, you’re going to have to quit your job and change your name and  move to Indonesia.

But if he doesn’t turn you down…

You steel yourself and knock on Bucky’s door. It’s worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.

“Fuck off, Stevie-“

“I’m not Steve!” You call, and for a second there’s no response. 

Then there’s a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.

He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.

His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. He’s breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.

You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a plea or a prayer.

“You shouldn’t be here-“

“Steve said you need me.”

You stare at each other. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, you’ll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. You’ve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and you’re sure you’ll be able to fit right in over time, and if you don’t at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because it’s been almost two full minutes and he hasn’t said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-

“Steve shouldn’t have told you anything.” Bucky growls, and you swallow.

“I- I made him.”

He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. “Of course you did.”

“I was worried about you-“

“You don’t have to be, doll. I’m-“

“If you say I’m fine, I’m going to fucking punch you.”

Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.

“You’re sick.” You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.

“Maybe. But it’s not the kinda sick you can help with-“

“Steve says it’s the kind of sick only I can help with.”

He’s silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. It’s a warning. A plea.

“Don’t do this.” He mutters, fists balled at his side. “Not outta pity, not for me-“

“It’s not pity.” You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. “I want to help, Bucky. Let me help.”

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, you- You just- You don’t feel like that for me-“

“You don’t feel like that for me.” You breathe, and Bucky’s body locks up.

“Who says?”

“You’re an ass to me-“

“You’re an ass to me.”

“I don’t mean to be.” You whisper. “I- I don’t- I’m not good at… You know.”

Bucky’s throat bobs. He still doesn’t move.

“Me neither.”

You nod. “But…”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”

You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.

“Please ask me to help.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. “I- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-“

Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.

It’s not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. It’s rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.

Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way he’s almost eating your kisses. You’re standing nowhere near a wall, but he’s caged you all the same. There’s nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.

You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and it’s a little addictive. Even after you’re light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesn’t seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.

“You gotta be sure.” He murmurs against your skin. “Tell me you’re sure, doll, ‘cause- I don’t think I can go easy.”

And oh God, isn’t that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.

But he’s asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. He’s keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.

You didn’t know you could want him more.

“I- Oh-“ Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. “I’m sure, Bucky, I- I don’t want you to go easy.”

For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.

Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.

“You- You got no idea, do you?”

Your face falls to a pout. “I have a lot of ideas-“

“No, you don’t.” He drops his brow over yours. “You got no fuckin’ clue, what you do to me.”

And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. You’re already on unsteady legs. You never thought he’d catch you if you fell, but with the way Bucky’s looking at you right now, you think he’d dive off a cliff to be at your side.

“Bucky…” You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.

“You smell so good.” He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Taste better than I imagined.”

“You-“ You almost whimper, when he pulls away. “You imagined?”

He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. You’re already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesn’t stop kissing you so softly.

“Didn’t you?”

You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“Bet I imagined more.”

And you doubt that, but Bucky’s kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that you’d never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug you’d never even taken.

You’re certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than you’d let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way he’s holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like he’s trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.

“Got no idea what I’m gonna do to, either.” He rasps against your lips. “If you let me, doll… You shouldn’t- But-“ He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. “Fuck, I want you to.”

You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. He’d be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that you’ve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But you’re not sure if he’s going to believe them.

“Tell me.” You whisper. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”

Bucky pulls back, and you worry you’ve stepped on an invisible landmine. That you’re going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room you’ve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.

You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until you’re squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.

“I wanted you just like this.” He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and you’re not even kissing anymore. “Wanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetin’ and think about bending you over the table. You’d get under me on the training mats and I’d wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.”

He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and it’s almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.

“Would sit next to you on the plane and think about gettin’ on my knees.” He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. “Worshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makin’ you- Fuck- Call my name-“

Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You don’t think he can help it.

“Wanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.” He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. “You’d get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttin’ you over my knee or gettin’ you lying in my bed. I’d- I’d fuck you so nice, doll, I swear I’d be good, but- Fuuuck-“

He’s rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story he’s supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop him—never to stop him—but to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.

Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. He’s almost shaking. You think he’s trying not to fuck your hand.

You can’t have that.

“It’s okay.” You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. “I- I’ve thought about it too.”

Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.

“Wanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.”

You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Bucky’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.

“Wasn’t as big.” You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. “You’re so big, Bucky, I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”

He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. “Gonna- Fuck-“

You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. He’s almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.

“Gonna make it fit.” He hisses in your ear, and you hum.

“How?”

“Open you up.” He mutters, words slurred like he’s drunk. “Get you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-“

His dick is twitching, and you giggle. He’s working himself up.

“You think this is funny?” He rasps.

You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. “A little. You wanna make me cum but you won’t even touch me.”

He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.

“You- You’re a fuckin’ brat-“

“I’m helping you, Barnes.” You whisper in his ear.

He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. “Helpin’ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-“

Bucky’s whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.

There’s so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. You’ve never wanted anything more.

A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.

Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didn’t already wear him out.

“You okay?” You whisper, and he tenses.

Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.

Whatever he’d been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.

You can’t stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.

He’s bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and it’s barely been a minute, but he’s already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chest—all flushed skin and muscle—and realize he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.

“It won’t fit.” You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.

And Bucky’s smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. You’ve gotten exactly what you wanted.

“Gonna make it fit.” He growls.

You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You don’t even slam into his chest before he’s lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. It’s a distraction. You know that. You don’t really care, though, returning it in a second.

Bucky carries you like you’re a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second you’re fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.

“So soft.” He mutters. “All that bite, doll, but I knew you’d be so fuckin’ soft for me.”

You’d like to protest, and say that you’re not soft. But Bucky’s kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.

Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.

“You like that?” He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. “You like bein’ my sweet girl?”

You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You don’t know how he’s the one with a sound mind right now. You’re not under a sex drug.

You’re just under Bucky. Where it’s very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.

“Say it and I give you more.” He rasps. “Say you like it.”

And it’s a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But he’s poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.

So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.

Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.

“Look at you.” He mocks. “Beggin’ for me and then can’t even admit she likes it.”

You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.

“You like gettin’ tossed around, too?” He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. “I’ll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.”

He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.

“Already listen so well.” He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. “Just can admit you fuckin’ love it, do you? Can’t be a good girl and tell the truth.”

You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. It’s not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.

Permission to go further.

His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.

“Alright, babydoll.” He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Have it your way.”

In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like it’s paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before he’s grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.

A dazed part of your brain that doesn’t remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.

Then the first stroke of Bucky’s tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.

“Oh my-“ Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. “Oh my God-“

“Sensitive fuckin’ pussy.” Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. “Barely even touching it. Wonder if I-“

 His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You can’t see him. Can’t know if you’re doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.

Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.

“Look at you.” His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. “Bet I don’t even need to fuckin’ prep you. You’re so wet, you’d just…”

He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.

“Sweet.” Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. “So fuckin’ sweet.”

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Shhh.” He kisses right over your pussy. “Wanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckin’-“ He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. “Gotta taste-“

Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isn’t human.

He’s good at this. So good at this. It’s a little unfair. Your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like he’s a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.

Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. It’s a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.

You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. You’re so wet it’s almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum he’d gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.

“That’s right.” He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. “That’s it, baby, you’re already lettin’ go, aren’t you.”

You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.

“Aren’t you?”

“Ye- Yes.” You mumble. “’S good, Bucky- So good-“

“I know.” He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. “Fuck, baby, I know.”

You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. He’s lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.

“I- I’m gonna- Fuck- Bucky-“ You scratch at the sheets. “I’m gonna- Oh God-“

He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.

And Bucky doesn’t stop. You’re making a mess all over his face, and he’s rising up, but it’s just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesn’t even come up for air.

“Shit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-“

The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure that’s just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.

Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.

He’s jerking off while he eats you out.  He’s fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.

Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. He’s eating you out the same way he’s kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor that’s almost animalistic. You’re boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.

Then, suddenly, he’s gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.

“Smells good.” He rasps. “Gonna- Fuck-“

Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. There’s always just more of it, until you’re so marked up with him you’re sure you’ll never be able to wash it off.

You don’t want to.

With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you don’t think he does either.

“Shit.” He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. “Gotta- Flip for me, c’mon-“

Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles

“Good girl.” He coos.

You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you might’ve failed.

“Strangling my fingers, doll.” He teases, pulling them right out.

You whimper. You’re too wet and ready not to take something. It’s really not fair to make you wait.

“I know.” He kisses your brow, voice rough. “Trust me, I fuckin’ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-“ His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. “All yours.”

You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.

But you’re at an advantage.

Bucky’s hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like it’s an effort to speak. He’s still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.

You want him to give in.

So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.

Bucky growls again, and there’s no more teasing.

His mouth pushes over yours, and it’s not a loving kiss. It’s rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.

“Wanna be a brat.” He grunts. “Gonna get fucked like a brat.”

You almost beam. Yes, please.

Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesn’t waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. You’re so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesn’t mean your eyes don’t roll back.

He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. He’d prepared you too well. You’re more than ready within seconds.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. “Move.”

If he’d told you to wait, you wouldn’t have been surprised.

But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.

The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.

“The- There-“ You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. “Fuck, baby, right there-“

Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep you’re worried he’s going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.

He’s not even fucking you like a brat. He’s fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like you’re just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.

You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now you’re just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.

“Oh- Oooooh-“ You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. “Buuuucky-“

His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasn’t slowed or relented, but there’s a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.

That’s what he’d said he’d do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.

Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.

“Good girl.” He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.

He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.

“You fuckin’ like it, don’t you-“

“Love it.” You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. “Love you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-“

Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like you’re going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. You’ve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.

And he’s not even done.

The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Bucky’s ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before you’re being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.

You’re dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. You’re all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.

He hasn’t just ruined you. He’s pulled you apart a million times over, until you’re just a puddle that sings his name.

You don’t even fully realize he’s done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.

Then Bucky kisses you, and it’s slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but it’s lost the strained quality. He’s fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.

“So soft.” He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.

You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Jesus, doll. You’d think you were the one that got sex drugged.”

You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.

They’re blue again.

“You’re back?” You breathe, and Bucky grins.

He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.

“I’m back.”

 You’re ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You don’t think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.

You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. You’d never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think you’re some kind of freak for just saying you love him.

He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.

God, he’s so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now you’re never going to get to touch him again-

Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.

He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-

“Love you too.” He says against your lips. “Just- Uh- While we’re saying it.”

Oh.

Or that. That’s nice.

You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.

Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.

“You’re stayin’ the night, right?”

You almost snort. There’s no getting rid of you now. You’re going to stay forever, and as long as he’ll allow after that.

“Yeah. I’m staying.”

✦End note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.✦

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[livwtfhaha]

meowwww

[preeewrites]

Not going anywhere

Summary: A bright, stubborn Hufflepuff refuses to stay away from the cold, guarded Mattheo Riddle.

Slow burn. Tension. Hidden softness.

9.9k words sheesh I don’t know when to stop :’)

—————————————————————————

The Great Hall buzzed with the usual morning chaos, owls swooping low over tables, the clatter of silverware, and the low hum of gossip that never quite died down at Hogwarts.

Sunlight filtered through the enchanted ceiling, casting a soft golden glow over the Hufflepuff table where you sat, though your eyes were already drifting toward the Slytherin side.

Mattheo Riddle was there, as always, lounging in his seat like the hall belonged to him.

Dark curls slightly tousled, uniform tie loose in that deliberate way that screamed I don’t give a fuck, and an expression that could freeze fire.

He hadn’t looked your way once. He never did, not really.

You didn’t care.

Grabbing a fresh apple from the bowl, you wove through the crowd with the easy confidence of someone who had done this a hundred times.

A few Hufflepuffs shot you curious glances, saying “again?” but you just smiled brightly and kept going. You weren’t afraid of him. Never had been. There was something beneath that cold exterior, something sharp and broken and real.

“Morning, Mattheo,” you said cheerfully, sliding into the empty seat beside him without waiting for an invitation. You placed the apple in front of him, perfectly polished. “They had the good ones today. Thought you might want it before Theo hogs them all.”

Mattheo didn’t even glance up from his plate. “Didn’t ask for it, Hufflepuff.”

His voice was low, edged with that familiar bite. Sharp tongued as ever.

Around you, his friends, Draco, Blaise, Theo, and Pansy exchanged looks. Theo smirked into his pumpkin juice.

You shrugged, undeterred, and reached for some toast. “You didn’t have to. You skipped dinner yesterday. Figured you might be hungry.”

He finally looked at you then, dark eyes narrowing. “Stalking my eating habits now? Cute.” The sarcasm dripped like venom, but you just beamed at him, biting into your own toast.

Across the table, Pansy snorted. “Merlin, she’s at it again. Give it a rest, sweetheart. He’s not going to suddenly turn into Prince Charming because you bring him fruit.”

“I’m not expecting charming,” you replied lightly, defending yourself with a small laugh. “Just making sure he doesn’t starve while plotting world domination or whatever it is you lot do before Potions.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, amused despite himself. “Bold for a Puff. Most of your house would’ve run by now.”

You met his gaze steadily. “Most of my house doesn’t see the point in running from someone who hasn’t actually done anything to them.” Your eyes flicked back to Mattheo. “Besides, I like sitting here.”

Mattheo’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He took the apple though after a long pause and bit into it with more force than necessary.

You counted that as a win.

This had become routine. Weeks, maybe months now, of you orbiting him like a persistent moon.

Good mornings in the corridors, even when he responded with nothing but a grunt or a cutting remark about your “annoying cheerfulness.”

Little things: fixing the strap on his bag when it broke during Transfiguration, saving him a seat in the library (which he ignored and sat somewhere else, only for you to move anyway), defending him when some Gryffindor idiot muttered “Death Eater spawn” loud enough for the hall to hear.

His friends had started teasing you mercilessly at first.

“Another lap around the Riddle fan club?” Blaise had drawled one evening in the Slytherin common room after you’d somehow ended up there (Theo had dragged you along, claiming you were “funny” and “harmless”).

“Careful, love,” Pansy had added with a wicked grin. “He bites.”

You’d just shrugged and settled onto the couch like you belonged. “I’m not scared of teeth.”

Over time, the teasing softened. You laughed at their jokes, bantered back, helped Theo with Charms homework, and even managed to get Draco to admit your taste in Quidditch teams wasn’t completely abysmal.

You became part of the group, almost by accident. They got used to your presence. Mattheo… tolerated it.

Or at least, that’s what he showed.

Lunch was more of the same. You slipped into the seat beside him again, ignoring the way Lorenzo Berkshire raised his eyebrows across the table.

“Saved you the last treacle tart,” you whispered, sliding the plate over. “I know they’re your favorite.”

Mattheo exhaled sharply through his nose. “You keeping a bloody list or something?”

“Maybe.” You grinned, unbothered. “Someone has to notice these things.”

Theo kicked Mattheo under the table. “Mate, she’s literally handing you desserts on a silver platter and you’re acting like she hexed you.”

“Shut it, Nott.” Mattheo’s tone was flat, dangerous. But his hand closed around the fork anyway.

You chatted easily with the others, Pansy about the latest fashion disaster in the common room, Blaise about the upcoming match, Draco about some pureblood nonsense you mostly tuned out.

Every so often you’d glance at Mattheo, offering a comment or a small smile. He rarely responded with more than a grunt or a sarcastic jab.

He never spoke to you nicely. Not once.

Yet you kept showing up. After classes, in the corridors “How was Arithmancy?” even when he brushed past you with a muttered “Don’t you have badgers to hug?”

You sat with the Slytherins at dinner, laughing when they roasted each other, fitting in like a bright patch on dark fabric.

His friends noticed.

One evening in the Slytherin dungeons, after you’d left (having fixed a rip in Mattheo’s robes with a quick charm and a cheerful “See you tomorrow!”), Theo finally snapped.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Riddle.”

Mattheo leaned back in his chair by the fire, nursing a glass of firewhisky. “Problem?”

Blaise chuckled. “She does more for you in a day than half the girls throwing themselves at you ever have. Brings you food, defends your sorry arse, actually listens when you’re in one of your moods”

“I don’t have moods,” Mattheo cut in coldly.

Mattheo’s eyes darkened. “She’s just another girl hovering. They all do it eventually. Looking for the thrill of the ‘dark’ prince or whatever bollocks they tell themselves.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “She’s not looking for thrill, you dense git. She likes you. Properly. And she’s not scared off by your award winning personality.”

“She’s a Hufflepuff,” Mattheo said dismissively, though his grip on the glass tightened. “Too soft. Too… good. She’ll get tired of it.”

Theo laughed. “She’s been at it for months. Sat through your worst days. Defended you to McGonagall when you got detention for that stunt with the Gryffindors. And you still treat her like dirt.”

He was possessive by nature, territorial. But admitting she mattered? That was weakness. And Mattheo Riddle didn’t do weakness.

“She’s nothing,” he said finally, voice low and sharp. “Just background noise.”

His friends exchanged glances. They knew better. They saw the way his eyes followed her when she left the room, the subtle shift when she sat beside him. The hidden softness he buried under sarcasm and ice.

You, meanwhile, walked back toward the Hufflepuff basement with a small, satisfied smile. He’d eaten the tart. He’d let you sit there. Progress, in your book.

You weren’t naive. You knew he was cold, conflicted, carrying shadows most people couldn’t imagine. But you saw the good, buried, fighting to surface. You weren’t afraid. And you weren’t going anywhere.

Mattheo could pretend to tolerate you all he wanted.

You’d keep showing up until he couldn’t pretend anymore.

———

It was a rainy Thursday when things shifted, just a little.

You were waiting outside the Potions dungeon after class, two umbrellas tucked under your arm (one borrowed from the Hufflepuff common room because you knew he’d “forgotten” his again).

Students streamed past, giving you odd looks. A group of Ravenclaws whispered behind their hands.

Mattheo emerged last, collar up, expression stormy. His eyes landed on you and narrowed.

“Don’t,” he said before you could speak, brushing past.

You fell into step beside him anyway, unfurling one umbrella and holding it over both of you. “It’s pouring. You’ll catch a cold and then complain about it for a week.”

“I don’t complain.” His voice was clipped. “And I don’t need a bloody babysitter.”

“Too bad. I’m self appointed.” You smiled up at him, rain pattering loudly against the fabric. He didn’t take the umbrella from you, but he also didn’t speed up to leave you behind. Small victories.

Theo and Blaise caught up, grinning like idiots.

“Look at that,” Theo drawled. “Domestic already. Riddle, you gonna let her carry your books next?”

Mattheo shot him a withering glare. “Fuck off.”

You laughed softly. “I already did his Arithmancy notes last week when he was… occupied.” You didn’t mention the detention he’d earned for hexing a seventh year who’d called him a monster in the corridor. You’d simply copied the notes in your neatest handwriting and left them on his usual spot in the library.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “See? She’s useful. Unlike you when you’re brooding.”

Mattheo’s jaw flexed. He said nothing the rest of the walk.

Dinner that evening brought new company.

A tall Gryffindor boy, Cedric’s old friend, Marcus something, had wandered over to the Slytherin table, apparently on some inter house project nonsense. He stopped right beside you, flashing a bright, easy smile.

“Hey, I’ve seen you around. You’re the Hufflepuff who talks to this lot without running. Impressive.” His eyes lingered. “We’re having a study group in the library tomorrow. Potions theory. You seem like you know your stuff. Want to join?”

You felt Mattheo stiffen beside you before you even answered.

“That’s sweet,” you said politely, “but I usually study with these guys. Thanks though.”

Marcus didn’t take the hint immediately. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Less… intense.” He glanced at Mattheo meaningfully.

You opened your mouth to respond, but Mattheo beat you to it.

“She said no.” His voice was low, dangerous, laced with that dark charisma that made people listen. He didn’t even look up from his plate, but the temperature around the table seemed to drop. “Run along, Gryffindor.”

Marcus hesitated, then shrugged with a nervous laugh. “Alright, Riddle. Didn’t mean to step on toes.” He left.

Silence fell for half a second before Pansy cackled. “Territorial much?”

“I’m eating,” Mattheo muttered. “Don’t need distractions.”

You turned to him, heart doing a small flip at the possessiveness he’d just shown, even if it was wrapped in irritation. “You didn’t have to do that. I could’ve handled it.”

“Clearly.” His sarcasm was sharp. “You were about to agree.”

“I wasn’t.” You poked his arm lightly. He didn’t pull away. “I like sitting with you lot. Even when you’re grumpy.”

Draco snorted into his goblet. “Grumpy. That’s one word for it.”

The real crack appeared two days later.

It was late evening in the Slytherin common room. You’d been dragged there again, this time by Pansy, who wanted your opinion on a dress for the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend.

You ended up staying, curled up on the couch with a book while the boys played a lazy game of Exploding Snap nearby.

Mattheo was in one of his moods. Silent, sharp edged, staring into the fire like it had personally offended him. You knew the signs by now something from his past, or a letter from home, or just the weight of his own name pressing down.

You stood up quietly and disappeared toward the dorms corridor (Pansy had shown you where the spare blankets were kept weeks ago). When you returned, you draped a slightly warmer one over his shoulders without a word.

He tensed. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“You looked cold.” You sat back down beside him, closer than usual. “And you always steal the good blanket when we’re down here.”

“I don’t steal…..” He stopped, exhaling through his nose. For once, he didn’t shrug the blanket off. His fingers curled into the fabric anyway.

Theo watched the exchange with open amusement. Later, when you stepped away to grab drinks for everyone, he leaned toward Mattheo.

“You know she’s in love with you, right? Properly. Not the silly crush shit.”

Mattheo’s eyes flicked toward your retreating figure. “She’s delusional.”

“Or you’re blind,” Blaise added quietly. “She defends you to teachers, to randoms in the hall, even to her own housemates who think she’s lost her mind. Brings you food, fixes your shit, sits with you even when you’re a complete bastard to her. And you still act like she’s nothing.”

“Because she is nothing,” Mattheo snapped, voice low and venomous. But his eyes betrayed him,they followed you as you laughed at something Pansy said across the room.

“She’ll wise up eventually. Get tired of playing saint to the villain.”

Draco shook his head. “You keep telling yourself that, mate. But the way you nearly hexed that Gryffindor for just talking to her? That wasn’t nothing.”

Mattheo didn’t reply. Inside, the conflict raged. You made things easier, yes. Mornings were less bleak with your stupid cheerful “good morning” and perfectly ripe apples. His robes didn’t fall apart. He hadn’t missed meals. And the way you looked at him… like he was worth saving… it terrified him. Because if he let you in, if he admitted how much he’d come to expect your presence, then you became leverage.

A weakness.

And people like him didn’t get to keep soft, bright things without breaking them.

He was possessive. The thought of you smiling at someone else like you smiled at him made magic crackle at his fingertips. Territorial. He wanted you close but he refused to give you anything back. It wasn’t fair. He knew that. He just didn’t care.

Or so he told himself.

The next morning you were there again, sliding into your usual seat with a bright, “Good morning, Mattheo,” and placing a small vial beside his plate.

“Pepperup Potion,” you explained before he could sneer. “Just in case. You sounded a bit off last night.”

He stared at the vial, then at you. Something in his chest twisted uncomfortably, warm, annoying.

“You’re exhausting,” he said flatly. But he took the vial. Tucked it into his robe pocket like it was nothing.

You just grinned. “You’re welcome.”

Across the table, his friends shared knowing looks. They were done watching him self destruct in slow motion.

One of these days, Mattheo Riddle was going to have to face the fact that the persistent Hufflepuff had already wormed her way past every wall he’d built.

And when that happened… well. Even he wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore.

———

Slytherin party,

The common room pulsed with music and low green light, the party in full swing after Slytherin’s narrow win over Ravenclaw.

Music thrummed from enchanted speakers, firewhisky flowed freely, and clusters of students laughed too loudly, danced too close, and forgot for one night about OWLs, NEWTs, and the shadows hanging over the wizarding world.

You’d shown up with Pansy, who had insisted on you wearing a simple but flattering black dress she’d “borrowed” from somewhere.

“Blend in for once, Puff,” she’d teased. You’d laughed and gone along with it. By now, no one batted an eye when you appeared in Slytherin territory. You were one of them. Sort of.

Mattheo sat in his usual spot on the large leather couch near the fireplace, legs spread, one arm draped lazily over the backrest.

A glass of firewhisky dangled from his fingers. His expression was the same half bored, half dangerous mask he wore most days.

You had claimed the spot beside him earlier, but the crowd had shifted. Now a Slytherin girl, sixth year, long dark hair, sharp cheekbones and sharper ambition had taken your place.

Literally. She was practically in his lap, one hand trailing down his chest, laughing breathily at something he hadn’t even said.

“Mattheo,” she purred, loud enough for you to hear over the music, “you really are the most interesting one here. All that mystery… I bet I could make you smile if you let me try.”

She leaned in closer, lips brushing his ear.

Mattheo didn’t push her away. He also didn’t pull her closer. He simply took a slow sip of his drink, eyes distant, like she was background noise. No smirk, no flirtation, no interest. Just cold tolerance.

You stood a few feet away, watching for a moment. A small sigh escaped you, not dramatic, not heartbroken, just… tired.

You knew this game. Girls threw themselves at him constantly. The dark aura, the dangerous reputation, the undeniable charisma, he attracted them like moths to a cursed flame. And he usually let them hover until they got bored.

You turned away and spotted Theo leaning against a stone pillar, nursing his own drink and watching the scene with clear amusement.

“Hey, Theo,” you said brightly, walking over and bumping his shoulder. “Think we’ll see another Exploding Snap disaster tonight, or has Lorenzo learned his lesson?”

Theo grinned down at you, glad for the distraction. “Doubt it. He’s already three drinks in and eyeing that pack of cards like an idiot. You good?” His eyes flicked meaningfully toward the couch.

You shrugged, leaning beside him. “I’m fine. She’s bold, I’ll give her that. Think she’ll last longer than the last one who tried?”

Theo chuckled. “Nah. He’s not even pretending tonight. Look at his face, pure ice. Poor girl doesn’t realize she’s talking to a statue.”

You laughed softly, genuine and light. Talking with Theo was easy. He had become a real friend over the past weeks, someone who actually listened when you rambled about Herbology or the latest book you’d read.

“I was going to ask Mattheo if he wanted to dance later, but… maybe not. He looks like he’d rather hex the music.”

Theo raised an eyebrow, studying you. “You’re really not bothered by that?” He nodded toward the girl, who was now tracing patterns on Mattheo’s arm while he stared into the fire.

You took a sip of your butterbeer. “Bothered? A little. But I’m not going to compete by climbing all over him. That’s not me.” Your voice stayed calm, sweet but honest. “He knows I’m here. If he wants me to leave, he can say it. He never does.”

Theo shook his head, half laughing. “You’re something else, you know that? Most girls would be over there hexing her by now. Or crying in the corner.”

You smiled, eyes drifting back to Mattheo despite yourself. “I’m not scared of him, or of this.” You gestured vaguely at the party. “Besides, I like talking to you lot. Even when he’s being… himself.”

Mattheo’s gaze had found you.

Even from across the room, even while the dark-haired girl whispered something in his ear, his eyes locked onto you and Theo. His jaw tightened. The girl’s hand slid higher on his thigh and he shifted away just slightly but didn’t stop her. His fingers flexed around his glass until his knuckles paled.

He didn’t like it.

Not the girl. Her touch felt like nothing, irrelevant, annoying. But you standing there, laughing with Theo, looking perfectly at ease in his common room, in his world… that twisted something ugly and possessive in his chest.

You were supposed to be orbiting him. Not chatting and smiling at Nott like it was the most natural thing.

Yet he said nothing. Did nothing. Just watched, brooding.

Later, the girl finally gave up with a dramatic huff and stalked off to find easier prey. Mattheo didn’t even watch her leave.

You eventually wandered back, sliding onto the couch beside him now that the seat was free. Your shoulder brushed his.

“Enjoying the party?” you asked lightly, offering him a fresh drink you’d grabbed on the way.

Mattheo took it without thanks, setting his empty one aside. “It’s loud,” he said flatly. His eyes flicked to you, scanning your face like he was searching for cracks. “You and Nott seemed cozy.”

There it was the sharp edge. Not quite jealousy admitted, but close.

You tilted your head, smiling softly. “Theo’s funny. We were just talking about how terrible Lorenzo is at cards.” You paused, then added, “You could’ve joined us. Or told that girl to give you space if she was bothering you.”

He scoffed, leaning back. “Didn’t need to. Not interested.” His voice dropped, sarcastic and low. “Unlike some people, I don’t need constant attention to feel important, Hufflepuff.”

You didn’t flinch. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning on giving her any competition.” You reached over and straightened his already loose tie with gentle fingers, a small habitual gesture.

“You looked bored. Thought maybe you’d want actual company instead of… whatever that was.”

Mattheo stared at your hands on his tie, then at your face. The conflict raged behind his eyes, wanting to snap at you, push you away, and simultaneously wanting to pull you closer so no one else could even look at you the wrong way. He settled for his usual defense.

“You’re too much,” he muttered, but he didn’t move away from your touch.

———

Weekend ends, and the new week already started badly for Mattheo.

A letter from his father’s old circle had arrived that morning cryptic, demanding, laced with expectations he wanted nothing to do with but couldn’t fully escape. Combined with a brutal detention from Snape and losing a Quidditch strategy argument to Draco, his mood was blacker than the dungeons.

The kind of day where the shadows around him felt heavier, and everyone with sense stayed out of his way.

Everyone except you.

You had noticed immediately during breakfast. His shoulders were tense, jaw locked, eyes darker than usual.

Still, you slid into your usual seat beside him with a gentle smile, placing a steaming cup of his favorite black coffee (extra strong) in front of him.

“Morning, Mattheo,” you said softly. “Rough night? I brought you….”

“Enough.”

His voice cracked like a whip. Louder and sharper than he’d ever been with you. The entire Slytherin table went quiet.

You blinked, hand still hovering near the cup. “I just thought….”

Mattheo turned to you fully, eyes blazing with barely contained fury and exhaustion. “You thought what? That your pathetic little acts of kindness would fix anything? That I want you here every single fucking day breathing down my neck like some lovesick puppy?”

The words cut deep. His friends froze.

“Mattheo…” Theo started quietly.

“No.” Mattheo didn’t even look at him. His gaze stayed locked on you, cold and unrelenting.

“I’m done with this. Done with you hovering, done with the apples and the notes and the stupid blankets and the defending me like I’m some broken charity case. Leave me and my group alone. Go back to your Hufflepuff flowers and mind your own business for once.”

The silence was suffocating.

You stared at him for a long second, heart twisting painfully in your chest. Your eyes stung, but you refused to cry in front of them. Not here. Instead, you swallowed hard and stood up slowly.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, voice small but steady. “I’ll leave.”

You turned and walked away without another word, head high even as your hands trembled at your sides. The Great Hall felt endless. A few people whispered, but you didn’t look back.

Mattheo didn’t watch you go. He gripped his fork until it bent, then shoved his plate away and stormed out. His friends exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing to him. Not yet.

Three days passed.

You kept your word. No more good mornings in the corridor. No more saving seats. No more sitting at the Slytherin table.

You ate with your housemates, smiled politely when people asked what happened, and threw yourself into Herbology and helping in the kitchens, anything to stay busy.

You missed them. You missed him. But you respected his wishes. If he wanted space, you’d give it to him, even if it hurt.

The Slytherin group felt the absence immediately.

Lunch on day one was too quiet. No one to laugh at Lorenzo’s terrible jokes or argue Quidditch with Draco. No soft voice reminding them about upcoming assignments.

By day two, Pansy was scowling at everything. “This is ridiculous. The table feels empty.”

Theo kept glancing toward the Hufflepuff table where you sat, surrounded by your housemates but somehow looking… dimmer. Less bright.

Day three, Blaise finally said it out loud in the common room: “She’s makes this lot tolerable. Can we bring her back”

Mattheo was there, slouched in his usual chair by the fire, pretending not to listen.

He hadn’t spoken much in three days. His mood hadn’t improved, in fact, it had soured further. The little things you used to handle were piling up. His bag strap had broken again. He’d missed dinner once because no one reminded him. The common room felt colder without your occasional presence.

He told himself it was better this way. Cleaner. No weaknesses.

His friends disagreed.

On the evening of the fourth day, the group made their move.

Pansy and Theo cornered you after Charms class, blocking your path to the Hufflepuff basement with determined expressions.

“You’re coming with us,” Pansy declared, linking her arm through yours.

You blinked in surprise. “Pansy, I can’t. He said…”

“He’s an idiot,” Theo cut in. “A miserable idiot. The common room has been dead without you. Draco’s even more unbearable. Lorenzo keeps losing at cards because no one’s betting against him properly. Come on. Just for a bit.”

You hesitated, biting your lip. “I don’t want to make things worse.”

Blaise appeared behind them, smirking. “Too late for that. Mattheo’s been brooding like the Dark Lord himself since you left. We miss you, love. Properly.”

After a few more minutes of gentle insistence (and Pansy threatening to drag you), you gave in. You let them lead you down to the Slytherin dungeons, heart hammering the entire way.

And there, in his usual spot by the fireplace, sat Mattheo.

He looked up when the portrait hole opened. His eyes landed on you immediately, widening for half a second before the guarded mask slammed back into place. He said nothing.

The others moved casually, like this was normal. Pansy pulled you toward the couch. Theo dropped into the seat across from Mattheo with a pointed look.

“Look who we found,” Theo announced lightly. “Our favorite Hufflepuff.”

You stood awkwardly for a moment, offering a small, uncertain smile to the group. “Hi.”

Draco nodded at you, almost relieved. “About time. The silence was getting pathetic.”

You sat down carefully, not beside Mattheo this time, but on the opposite end of the large couch, giving him the space he’d demanded. Your hands twisted in your lap. You didn’t look directly at him, but you could feel his stare burning into the side of your face.

The conversation started slowly, Pansy complaining about homework, Blaise teasing Lorenzo, but it gradually warmed up. You laughed softly at one of Theo’s jokes, the sound familiar and bright again. For the first time in days, the common room felt alive.

Mattheo remained silent, watching you from the shadows of his seat. His jaw was tight, fingers drumming restlessly on the armrest. The conflict was clear in his eyes, the same storm you’d always seen, only sharper now. He’d told you to leave. You had. And now that you were back (because of them), the relief mixing with his anger and possessiveness was making his chest feel too tight.

He still didn’t speak to you.

Laughter echoed off the stone walls as Lorenzo dramatically retold his latest failed attempt at asking out a Ravenclaw, complete with sound effects.

Pansy was curled up beside you on the couch, showing you fabric swatches for some upcoming event, while Theo kept sliding in clever quips that made everyone groan or laugh.

You smiled and participated. You really did. You complimented Pansy’s choices, teased Lorenzo right back, and even debated Quidditch tactics with Draco when he dragged you into it. It felt good to be back among them.

They had become real friends, and their obvious relief at having you there eased some of the ache in your chest.

But with Mattheo… it was different now.

You stayed on the far end of the couch. You didn’t slide closer like you used to. You didn’t offer him the fresh drink Blaise had passed around. You didn’t reach over to fix the cuff of his sleeve when it rode up.

Every time your eyes accidentally met his, you gave a small, polite nod and looked away again. Careful. Guarded. Not cold, you couldn’t quite manage that but no longer shining that bright, effortless warmth directly at him.

Mattheo noticed.

He sat in his usual chair, legs stretched out, nursing the same glass of firewhisky he’d barely touched. His dark eyes followed your every movement. The way you laughed freely with Theo. The way you leaned into Pansy’s side comfortably. The way you existed in his space without orbiting him like before.

It irritated him more than he wanted to admit.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Pansy murmured to you at one point, low enough that only you could hear. Her eyes flicked toward Mattheo. “Still sore about what the idiot said?”

You shrugged lightly, tracing a pattern on the couch leather with your finger. “I’m here for you guys. Not… not to push anything. He made it pretty clear he doesn’t want the extra stuff from me. I’m respecting that.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “He’s a dramatic prick. He didn’t mean half of it.”

“Maybe.” You offered her a small smile. “But I’m not risking it again. Not right now.”

Mattheo’s grip tightened on his glass. He’d heard enough.

When Theo stood up to grab more drinks and you naturally followed to help him carry them back, Mattheo’s voice cut through the air sharp, sarcastic, aimed straight at you.

“Careful, Hufflepuff. Wouldn’t want you overexerting yourself playing servant again.”

You paused, holding two glasses steadily. The group quieted a little. You met his gaze evenly this time, no flinch, but no smile either.

“I’m just helping a friend, Mattheo,” you said softly. Calm. Not defensive. “No big gestures. No hovering.”

You set the drinks down and returned to your spot without another word. No apple. No blanket. No gentle check in about his clearly still terrible mood.

The silence stretched for a beat too long.

Theo cleared his throat. “Smooth, mate. Really winning her back with that one.”

“Shut up, Nott.” Mattheo’s tone was flat, but his eyes stayed on you. That possessive streak was flaring hot under his skin. You were here, in his common room, surrounded by his friends, yet you were keeping him at arm’s length. It felt wrong.

The next few days followed the same careful pattern.

You sat with the group at meals again, but not directly beside Mattheo. You chose seats between Pansy and Blaise, or across from Theo.

You still defended the group when outsiders made snide comments, your Hufflepuff loyalty ran deep but you no longer singled Mattheo out.

No more personal good mornings whispered just to him. No more saving his favorite desserts. You were warm with everyone else, bright and kind like always.

With him, you were… polite.

“Pass the salt, please?” you’d asked at dinner the next evening, voice neutral when your eyes met his.

He’d slid it over without a word, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Later in the common room, when you’d laughed at one of Draco’s rare jokes and bumped knees with Theo accidentally, Mattheo had snapped at Lorenzo over nothing, magic crackling faintly at his fingertips.

His friends saw it all.

“You’re an absolute bellend,” Blaise told him bluntly one night after you’d left for curfew (earlier than usual, another new habit). “She’s giving you exactly what you asked for and you look like you want to burn the castle down.”

Mattheo leaned back, staring at the dying fire. “She’s acting like I’m a stranger.”

Draco snorted. “You told her to leave you alone. Loudly. In front of the entire hall. What did you expect? Eternal devotion on command?”

“I expected….” Mattheo stopped himself, running a hand through his messy curls.

He didn’t know what he expected. He’d wanted space, wanted the annoying persistence gone. But now the absence of her specific light left everything feeling flat. The little comforts he’d pretended not to notice were glaringly missing. And worse, seeing her still smiling, still caring, but redirecting all of it away from him… it stirred something ugly and jealous and needy he refused to name.

He was emotionally conflicted on the best of days. This was torture.

A few nights later, the group was studying (or pretending to) in the common room. You were helping Pansy with her Transfiguration essay, heads bent together, your neat handwriting filling the page. Mattheo sat nearby, book open but unread.

You felt his stare again. Heavy. Burning.

When Pansy got up to fetch another book, leaving the two of you momentarily semi-alone, you glanced up. His eyes didn’t waver.

You offered a small, cautious smile. “Need help with anything? The essay’s brutal this week.”

Mattheo’s response was instinct sharp-tongued and defensive. “Don’t start that again.”

You closed your ink bottle slowly, expression softening but staying reserved. “I’m not starting anything. Just offering as a friend. Like I do for the others.”

The distinction stung more than he cared to admit.

He wanted to snap again. Push harder. But the words caught in his throat when he saw the careful walls behind your eyes the way you were protecting yourself now, even while sitting in his world.

You waited a beat longer, then turned back to your own work when he stayed silent.

Mattheo Riddle watched you, the same storm raging behind his guarded expression. He was possessive. Territorial. And right now, the girl who had always chosen him was choosing distance, even while staying close to everyone else.

It was driving him mad.

The common room was quieter tonight, the fire crackling softly as most students had retreated to dorms or the library for last minute revisions. Only the core group remained scattered across the couches and armchairs, Pansy flipping through a magazine, Theo and Blaise arguing over chess moves, Draco reading with a bored expression, and Lorenzo half asleep.

You had been sitting with Pansy again, but something had shifted in you. You’d watched Mattheo. Really watched him. The way his eyes tracked you when he thought no one noticed.

The tighter set of his jaw whenever you laughed with the others. The restless tapping of his fingers. He was regretting it. You could see it, the conflict, the stubborn pride warring with whatever softer thing lived under all that armor. He wanted you close again. He just didn’t know how to say it.

Time to test the theory.

You stood up casually, stretching, and moved across the room. Instead of your careful distance, you dropped down on the couch right beside Mattheo, close enough that your thigh pressed lightly against his. The same spot you used to claim every night before the blow up.

Mattheo tensed instantly, dark eyes snapping to you.

You didn’t look at him right away. You simply leaned forward, grabbing a spare quill from the low table and twirling it between your fingers like nothing had changed. “Theo, pass me that book on curses? I want to check something for Pansy’s essay.”

Theo raised an eyebrow but tossed it over with a knowing smirk.

As you settled back, your shoulder brushed Mattheo’s. You felt the sharp inhale he tried to hide.

He lasted maybe thirty seconds.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The words came out harsher than he probably intended, laced with that unwilling venom. “Decided to test how much shit I’ll take before I snap again, Hufflepuff?”

You turned your head slowly, meeting his gaze. There was no flinch in your eyes, only quiet understanding.

You saw it: the regret flickering behind the ice, the way his hand twitched like he wanted to reach out but refused to let himself.

“I’m just sitting here,” you said softly, voice even and sweet. “Like I used to. You haven’t told me to move.”

Mattheo’s jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jump. He tried again, the meanness spilling out despite himself, like a defense mechanism he couldn’t turn off.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have to. Thought I made it clear you’re exhausting. Always there, always fixing things no one asked you to fix. Find someone else to play hero for.”

The words stung, but you saw straight through them. His eyes betrayed him, lingering on the way your hair fell over your shoulder, on your hand resting near his leg. He wasn’t pushing you away physically. He wasn’t standing up.

He was just… lashing out, the same way a wounded animal snaps at the hand trying to help.

You smiled. Small. Knowing. “You don’t mean that.”

He scoffed, looking away into the fire. “Don’t tell me what I mean.”

But he still didn’t move.

Emboldened, you shifted even closer, tucking your legs under you so your knee rested against his thigh. You reached over and gently tugged the loose thread on his sleeve that had been bothering you for days, something you would’ve fixed without thinking weeks ago. He froze under your touch but didn’t pull back.

“Mattheo,” you murmured, low enough that the others pretended not to hear, “you can keep saying mean things if it makes you feel better. I’m not leaving this time unless you really want me to. And I don’t think you do.”

His breathing hitched. For a moment, the guarded mask cracked completely. Something raw and conflicted flashed across his face, possessiveness, relief, anger at himself, that hidden softness he buried so deep.

His hand lifted halfway, like he might touch your arm, then dropped back down.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. Then louder, sharper, still failing at kindness “You’re going to regret sticking around when I inevitably ruin whatever this is.”

You leaned your head lightly against his shoulder for just a second, testing, pushing, offering. “Maybe. But I’m still here.”

He didn’t shrug you off. Didn’t stand up. Didn’t tell the group to kick you out.

Instead, after a long, heavy silence, his body relaxed, just a fraction, against yours. His arm stayed draped along the back of the couch, fingers inches from your shoulder. Territorial. Close. Accepting.

Pansy caught your eye across the room and hid a triumphant grin behind her magazine. Theo didn’t even bother hiding his smirk as he moved a chess piece.

Mattheo still hadn’t spoken to you nicely. Not really.

But he wasn’t pushing you away anymore.

Your theory had been right. He regretted it. He wanted you back in his orbit closer than before, even if his sharp tongue hadn’t caught up to that truth yet.

You’d rest your head against his shoulder for a moment here, brush his hand while passing a drink there. He tolerated it all with his usual gruff silence and occasional sharp remark, but the tension rolling off him was palpable.

His friends had had enough.

Pansy caught Theo’s eye across the room and gave the tiniest nod. The plan they made that morning was in motion.

“Truth or Dare,” Pansy announced suddenly, clapping her hands. “I’m bored out of my mind and someone needs to entertain me.”

Lorenzo perked up immediately. Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t protest. Blaise smirked like he already knew where this was going.

Mattheo narrowed his eyes but said nothing, he rarely backed down from a challenge, even a stupid one.

You smiled softly. “I’m in.”

The game started innocently enough. Lorenzo admitted to stealing Pansy’s favourite lipstick.

Draco chose dare and had to charm his eyebrows pink for the next ten minutes.

Theo got asked about his latest failed hookup and laughed it off.

Then Pansy turned her sharp gaze on you.

“Truth or Dare, darling?”

You felt the shift in the air. Mattheo’s posture stiffened beside you.

“Dare,” you said, because backing down in front of this group had never been your style.

Pansy’s smile turned wicked. “I dare you to kiss Theo. Proper kiss. Ten seconds.”

The room went still.

Theo raised an eyebrow, clearly in on it, but kept his expression playful. “Only if she wants to. I’m not above being used for a good cause.”

You glanced sideways at Mattheo. His hand had curled into a fist on the armrest, knuckles white. His jaw was locked so tightly it looked painful. Dark eyes burned holes into Theo, then flicked to you, possessive, stormy, conflicted.

Your theory had been right. He was cracking.

You leaned forward slowly, giving Mattheo every chance to say something. He didn’t. He just watched, breathing shallow.

You turned to Theo, cupped his cheek lightly, and pressed your lips to his. It was soft, brief, exactly ten seconds. Theo kissed back gently, more performative than anything, and pulled away with a dramatic sigh.

“Not bad, Puff,” he teased, winking.

You sat back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, heart racing for an entirely different reason. You didn’t look at Mattheo immediately.

The crack appeared.

Mattheo let out a low, dangerous sound, almost a growl. Magic crackled faintly around him, making the fire flare for a second.

“Enough,” he said sharply, voice dripping with venom. “This game is fucking stupid.”

Pansy feigned innocence. “Jealous, Riddle?”

“I’m not jealous of Nott getting pity kisses,” he snapped, the words unwilling and too quick.

His eyes finally met yours raw, territorial, and something deeper. “She can kiss whoever the hell she wants.”

But he looked like he wanted to hex Theo into next week.

You saw the tiny fracture in his restraint. The way his hand twitched like he wanted to pull you into his lap and erase what just happened. The hidden softness bleeding through the anger. He cared. Deeply. He just wouldn’t admit it yet.

The game continued awkwardly for a few more rounds before dying out.

As people started heading to bed or pretending to study, the group quietly regrouped near the fireplace once you’d stepped away to grab water.

“Close,” Theo muttered, rubbing his jaw. “Did you see his face? He nearly lost it.”

“Not enough,” Draco said. “He’s still too stubborn. One little kiss isn’t cracking that reinforced concrete he calls emotional walls.”

Pansy crossed her arms. “New plan then. We need to push harder. Something that forces him to choose publicly. Maybe Hogsmeade this weekend. We get her to ‘casually’ flirt with someone else. Or we set up a situation where she has to be alone with one of us and see how long it takes before he drags her back.”

Blaise chuckled darkly. “Or we make him think she’s actually moving on. He’s possessive as hell. If he believes he might lose her for real…”

Theo glanced over at Mattheo, who was now staring into the fire like it had personally betrayed him. “He’s already regretting everything. We just need one more push and that restraint of his is dead.”

They all looked toward you as you walked back, none the wiser to their scheming.

Mattheo’s eyes followed you the entire way, dark and intense. The crack was there. Now they just had to widen it until he had no choice but to admit what everyone else already knew.

———

The Hogsmeade weekend arrived under a crisp, clear sky the first proper snow dusting the rooftops like powdered sugar.

Students poured out of the castle gates in excited clusters, scarves wrapped high and pockets jingling with allowance money.

The Slytherin group had claimed their usual spot near the Shrieking Shack path for pre butterbeer strategy, but today their energy was sharper, purposeful.

The new plan was simple and ruthless : push Mattheo until his restraint shattered completely.

Pansy had looped her arm through yours as you all walked down the snowy path. “Stick close to me at first,” she whispered, lips barely moving. “Then ‘accidentally’ wander off with Theo or Blaise when we reach the village. We’ll make it look natural.”

You glanced at her, then at Mattheo walking a few steps ahead, hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable. “You’re really doing this?”

Theo fell into step beside you, grinning. “He needs it. The kiss barely made him twitch. Time to light a proper fire under his arse.”

You exhaled, a mix of nerves and reluctant amusement fluttering in your chest.

Part of you still felt the sting from his harsh words days ago, but another part, the one that saw every hidden crack in his armor, wanted him to finally admit what was so obvious to everyone else.

“Just… don’t go too far. I don’t actually want to hurt him.”

“Too late for that,” Blaise murmured from behind. “He’s been hurting himself plenty.”

Mattheo slowed slightly, eyes flicking back toward you. You offered him a small, neutral smile the same careful one you’d been giving him since returning to the group. He didn’t return it, but his gaze lingered.

The village was bustling. Honeydukes was packed, Zonko’s even louder. The group moved as one at first, weaving through the crowd.

You stayed near Mattheo out of habit, your shoulder occasionally brushing his in the narrow street. He didn’t pull away.

Inside the Three Broomsticks, you all claimed a large corner booth. Firewhisky for the boys, butterbeers for everyone. Conversation flowed easily until Pansy executed the first move.

“I need to check out that new robe shop,” she announced, standing up. “Come with me, Draco? I want a second opinion.”

Draco sighed but followed, shooting the rest of you a knowing look. Lorenzo tagged along “for snacks.” That left you, Mattheo, Theo, and Blaise.

You took a slow sip of butterbeer, then turned to Theo with a bright, deliberate smile. “Theo, didn’t you say there’s a new shipment of cursed artifacts at Dervish and Banges? I’ve been wanting to see that silver dagger you mentioned last week.”

Theo’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Absolutely. Let’s go before the good stuff disappears.” He stood and offered you his hand.

You took it without hesitation, letting him help you out of the booth. Your fingers lingered in his just a second longer than necessary. “Mattheo, Blaise, we’ll be back soon,” you said casually, like it was nothing.

Mattheo’s entire body went rigid. His glass hit the table harder than needed. “Since when do you give a fuck about cursed artifacts?”

You shrugged, still holding Theo’s hand. “Since Theo told me they’re fascinating. You know I like shiny, dangerous things.” Your tone was light, playful the same sweetness you used to direct only at him.

Theo tugged you gently toward the door. “We won’t be long, mate.”

Blaise stayed behind, nursing his drink and watching Mattheo like a hawk.

The snow crunched under your boots as you and Theo walked down the high street.

You didn’t go straight to Dervish and Banges. Instead, Theo led you on a slow, meandering route stopping at a stall selling enchanted jewelry, laughing loudly at your jokes, standing a little too close when showing you a necklace with a tiny snake charm.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you muttered, cheeks pink from the cold and the performance.

Theo grinned down at you. “It’s for the greater good. Look behind us, don’t turn too obviously.”

You risked a glance. Mattheo was stalking after you both, coat flapping open, expression thunderous. Blaise was a few paces behind him, failing to hide his amusement.

Your heart skipped. The plan was working.

Theo leaned in closer, pretending to examine the necklace around your neck, his fingers brushing your collarbone. “Smile at me like you mean it,” he whispered.

You did, soft, warm, the kind of smile that used to be reserved for Mattheo’s rare good moments. Theo laughed like you’d said something brilliant.

That was when Mattheo snapped.

“Having fun?” His voice cut through the snowy street like a blade. He stopped right beside you, eyes locked on where Theo’s hand still rested near your shoulder. The possessiveness rolled off him in waves, dark and electric. “Didn’t realize you two were suddenly so fucking cozy.”

Theo raised an innocent eyebrow. “Just showing her the artifacts, like she asked. Problem?”

Mattheo’s jaw worked. He looked at you, really looked.

There was that storm again : jealousy burning hot, restraint fraying at the edges, the unwilling mean streak fighting against something deeper.

“You’re really doing this?” he said to you, voice low and sharp. “Parading around with Nott after everything? Thought you were supposed to be the one who saw ‘good’ in people. Not throwing yourself at the first idiot who smiles at you.”

The words stung, but you saw right through them again. His hands were clenched. He was one breath away from dragging you away from Theo. The crack from the truth or dare game had widened significantly.

You stepped just a little closer to Theo, testing. “I’m not throwing myself at anyone, Mattheo. I’m just… spending time with friends. Like you told me to do. Remember? Stop hovering. Stop fixing things for you.”

Mattheo’s eyes darkened dangerously. For a second you thought he might actually hex Theo. Instead, he grabbed your wrist not painfully, but firm enough to feel possessive.

“We’re going back to the group,” he growled. “Now.”

Theo smirked. “Whatever you say, Riddle.”

You let Mattheo pull you along, his grip staying locked around your wrist the entire walk back to the Three Broomsticks.

He didn’t let go even when you reached the booth. He sat down and tugged you into the seat directly beside him closer than you’d been in weeks. His thigh pressed against yours. His arm draped along the back of the booth, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder like a silent claim.

He was still being an arse, muttering sarcastic comments under his breath and shooting Theo lethal glares, but he wasn’t pushing you away.

The plan had started. And it was already cracking him open.

Pansy and the others returned shortly after, taking in the scene with barely concealed triumph. Mattheo didn’t speak to you nicely. Not yet.

But the territorial hold on your wrist, the way his body angled toward yours like a shield, and the raw, conflicted heat in his eyes said more than his sharp tongue ever could.

The restraint was dying.

The rest of the Hogsmeade afternoon passed in a charged haze.

Mattheo didn’t release your wrist for a long time. Even after you all returned to the Three Broomsticks, his arm stayed slung possessively behind you on the booth, fingers occasionally brushing the back of your neck like a silent warning to everyone else.

He was still sharp tongued, snapping at Lorenzo for talking too loud, throwing barbed comments at Theo, but he kept you glued to his side.

The group wasn’t done yet.

As the sun began to dip and snow started falling heavier, they all gathered outside, Pansy with a calculated sigh “It’s getting late. We should head back, but some of us still need to pick up things from Honeydukes. Theo, you mentioned wanting more of that fizzing whizzbees?”

Theo caught on instantly. “Yeah, and I could use help carrying stuff.” He looked straight at you. “Come with me? You’ve got better taste in sweets than these lot.”

You felt Mattheo’s body coil like a spring beside you.

Before you could answer, you turned to him with that same soft, testing smile you’d been using. “Do you mind? I’ll be quick.”

His dark eyes flashed. The crack was widening dangerously. “Yes, I fucking mind,” he bit out, the words escaping before he could stop them. “You’re not going anywhere with him.”

They went quiet. Even Draco raised an eyebrow.

You tilted your head, pushing just a little more. “Why not? You’ve made it very clear I’m exhausting. That I should stop hovering around you. I’m just hanging out with friends, Mattheo. Like you wanted.”

That struck hard. Mattheo’s hand slid from the to your waist, gripping firmly. Territorial. Needy in a way he’d never allowed himself to show.

“You know that’s not ” He stopped, jaw clenching. The internal war was visible, the mean, guarded part of him fighting the part that had grown addicted to your presence, your care, your unwavering light.

Theo slowly, offering his hand again with an exaggerated grin. “Ready when you are, love.”

Pushing further Theo says “It’s just sweets, mate. Unless you’ve got a problem with that?”

Mattheo’s eyes darkened. He pulled you flush against him in one sharp movement, right there on the snowy street in front of everyone. No grand speech. No soft vulnerability. Just raw, irritated truth wrapped in his usual barbed tone.

“Yeah. I’ve got a fucking problem with it.” He glared at Theo, then looked down at you, jaw tight. “You win, alright? Happy now?”

You tilted your head, staying close but testing him one last time. “Win what?”

Mattheo let out a sharp, sarcastic breath, his breath visible in the cold air.

“This. You. The constant hovering and fixing and defending my sorry arse like I’m worth the effort.” His grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it became more territorial.

“I told you to fuck off because it was easier. Because you make shit… simpler. And I hate how much I’ve gotten used to it.”

He glanced at the group, who were all watching with barely hidden smirks, then back at you. His next words came out gruff, almost annoyed at himself for saying them.

“I don’t want you orbiting anyone else. Not Theo. Not some Gryffindor prick. No one. You’re annoying as hell and far too soft for someone like me, but I want you next to me. Where you’ve been. Stop with the careful polite bullshit you’ve been doing since I snapped at you. Just… be there again. Like before.”

It wasn’t flowery. It wasn’t sweet. It was Mattheo, reluctant, possessive, laced with sarcasm and that dark charisma.

He leaned in closer, voice dropping so only you could hear the rest. “And if Nott tries to hold your hand again, I’ll break his fingers. Clear enough for you, Hufflepuff?”

You smiled softly, reaching up to fix the collar of his coat like you used to. He didn’t stop you.

“Crystal clear,” you murmured.

Mattheo huffed, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he slung his arm firmly over your shoulders and started walking back toward the castle, keeping you tucked tightly against his side. The others fell in behind you, Pansy looking victorious and Theo chuckling quietly.

“Fucking finally,” Blaise muttered.

Mattheo shot them all a sharp look. “Say another word and I’ll hex every single one of you.”

But his hand stayed on your shoulder the entire walk back. No more pushing you away. No more pretending he didn’t care. He still wasn’t nice, not really, but the walls had come down in the only way Mattheo Riddle knew how.

And you were right where he wanted you.

———

The castle was quiet by the time you slipped through the Slytherin dungeons, heart hammering against your ribs.

It had been a long evening after Hogsmeade. Mattheo had kept you close the entire way back, but he hadn’t said much more after his gruff admission. The weight of everything still felt new and fragile.

You were nervous. Actually nervous, for the first time in months around him. Your fingers tightened around the rolled up essay you’d finished copying for him (Arithmancy, due tomorrow).

It was a small thing, an old habit, but it gave you an excuse to see him before bed.

You knocked softly on the door to his dorm. Theo and the others were still downstairs, giving the two of you space.

Mattheo opened it in a loose black shirt and trousers, hair messy like he’d already been running his hands through it. His dark eyes softened a fraction when they landed on you.

“Essay,” you mumbled, holding it out. “I know you hate this topic, so I made notes on the side.”

He took it without a word, stepping back to let you in.

The room smelled faintly of him, smoke, cedar, and that sharp edge of magic that always clung to him.

You lingered for half a second too long, then leaned in quickly, pressing a soft, shy kiss to his cheek before immediately turning to leave.

“Sorry, goodnight,” you whispered, cheeks burning as you tried to rush back out.

A flick of his wrist and the door slammed shut, locking with a sharp click.

You froze, back to him. “Mattheo, I’m sorry? I didn’t mean to push, I just”

He was on you in two strides.

His hands came up on either side of your head, caging you against the door with his body. The wood was cool behind your back; he was burning hot in front.

That stern, smug look was fixed on his face, dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction, one corner of his mouth curved in that dangerous half smirk.

“Do it again,” he ordered, voice low and rough.

You blinked up at him, still flustered. “I… what?”

“Kiss me again,” he repeated, leaning closer until his breath brushed your lips. “Properly this time. Don’t run.”

Your heart stuttered. The nervousness melted under the intensity of his gaze. You rose onto your toes and kissed his cheek once more, slower this time.

Then, gathering your courage, you turned your head and brushed your lips softly against his.

Mattheo made a low sound in his throat, half satisfaction, half relief. One hand left the door to slide into your hair, tilting your head as he deepened the kiss, claiming your mouth like he’d been waiting weeks to do it. Possessive. Hungry. But there was something almost gentle underneath the fire.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. The smug look had softened into something warmer, more private.

“You’re still an idiot for thinking I’d let you run after that,” he muttered, sharp tongued as ever, but his thumb stroked your cheek. “Told you earlier, you’re mine. That means you don’t get to kiss me and bolt, Hufflepuff.”

You laughed breathlessly, the last of the nerves dissolving. “I was scared you’d regret it tomorrow morning.”

Mattheo huffed, pulling you away from the door and toward his bed. He sat down and tugged you into his lap, arms wrapping around you like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.

“I regret a lot of things,” he admitted gruffly. “But not this. Not you.” He pressed another kiss to your temple, almost absentmindedly. “You make my life easier. Better. Even when I’m a moody bastard. So stay.”

You nestled into his chest, tracing lazy patterns on his shirt. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.” His voice dropped, that dark charisma curling around the words. “Because I’m territorial as hell, and I’ve decided you’re stuck with me now.”

From outside the door, you both heard Theo’s muffled voice “Finally! Can we come in yet or are you two still snogging?”

Mattheo didn’t even look up. “Fuck off, Nott!” he called back, but there was no real heat in it.

You giggled against his neck. He squeezed you tighter, a rare, quiet chuckle rumbling through his chest.

For the first time in a long time, Mattheo Riddle looked… content.

Still guarded, still sarcastic, still carrying shadows, but with you curled in his arms, the weight seemed lighter.

You had seen the good in him from the start. Now he was finally letting himself believe it too.

And as the two of you stayed wrapped up together long into the night, talking in low voices between kisses, everything felt exactly right.

[livwtfhaha]

holy moly i love this

[godmadeaterribleerror]

✦bright love✦

✧･ﾟ:clark says he loves you all the time. It falls out of his mouth more like a breath than an actual declaration, because he doesn’t think of it as some grand gesture. He loves you, as sure as he knows the yellow sun will rise. And since he loves you, you should know. So that you know you’re loved, just as well as the tree that grow up to the light.

✧･ﾟ:and you know you are loved. Even without the constant flow of Clark’s I love yous—ending phone calls and signing off texts and when he kisses your cheek in the morning—he’d never do anything to make you doubt it. Clark finds pride in loving you. He sees you as the thing that brings him hope when even he loses sight of the way the storms always clear. You’re the most beautiful thing in a world full of beautiful things, and that makes you worthy of worship.

✧･ﾟ:you feel worshipped. Clark always keeps a hand on your waist and whispers adoring affirmations in your ear. You look so nice, smell so good, light up the whole room. He’s proud of you when you give a speech, and brings you food before you even ask for it. You’re the center of his very big universe, and he’s never going to let you forget it.

✧･ﾟ:no one else is allowed to forget either. It’s always have you met my girlfriend? She’s the best, no matter where you are. Clark doesn’t get drunk, but Jimmy says he might as well be whenever they go out and he spends the whole night whining about how much he misses you. How much he loves you. How amazing you are, and where are you, and why can’t you be here? With him? What if you forget he loves you? That would be the worst thing in the world.

✧･ﾟ:he gets clingy, when he’s been gone too long. You always understand—the world doesn’t wait for Superman—but Clark makes it up to you like he’s committed some great sin. You get kissed all over your face, before he falls to his knees and hugs your stomach. You giggle, running your fingers through his hair.

“I was fine, baby-“

“I wasn’t.”

“Clark-“

“I love you,” he mutters. “Hate being away.”

You hum, and sink down to his height. “I love you too,” you whisper, and his eyes shine. He never asks you to say it back. You know he loves it when you do.

And how could you not? He’s Clark. A puppy of a man when he’s at your side, then a feral animal once you get behind a door. You get splayed out on the sheets so he can worship between your legs, his tongue dragging over your sensitive pussy and a massive hand pinning you to the bed. You sob his name and buck off the mattress, and Clark sucks your clit between swollen lips. He need to be sure you’re ready, for when he drives his cock into your tight hole. You clench and whimper, but he just kisses you and drags his hips in slow, firm strokes.

He whispers more praise, as he drives you into the mattress. His good, sweet girl. So, so pretty like this. And he loves you, oh how he loves you when you scratch at his shoulders and call for him. He rasps it in your ear while he fucks you, chokes it out when he cums, and says it against your skin after you’re cleaned up and cuddled together. He loves you.

You’re never going to forget it.

✦Clark Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on AO3!✦

✦Author's Note: he's so soft i love him✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦

[livwtfhaha]

awh my heart

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Don't You Let It Slip Away

✦Clark Masterlist - Read on a03! - Main Masterlist✦ ✦pairing: Clark Kent x female!reader✦ ✦summary: Something is wrong. You feel like there's a big part of you that's missing, but you really can't quite place what. It doesn't help that you keep having flashes of a life that isn't yours. Where you're loved. Where you're Clark's, he's yours. And maybe that's been yours the whole time. AKA you have to forget Clark, but it doesn't really stick.✦ ✦warnings/tags: civilian!reader, memory fic, insecurity, angst, fluff, pining, shenanigans, double love confessions for your buck, shameless smut (body worship, dirty talk, fingering, p in v, doggy), no use of y/n✦ ✦author's note: This one is very special to me. Enjoy!✦

Someone is watching you. You can feel it, prickling on the back of your neck and making your stomach do odd, little flips. Like it’s trying to pull you in the direction of the attention, even though you can’t think of one good reason for someone to be looking at you.

You’re hiding at your desk, head down, typing fast enough to make the clacking sounds almost louder than the music in your ears. Nobody bothers you when you’re focused like this. People don’t really bother you period. Not at work, when you’re purposefully drowning everything else out. 

But you can feel someone. 

And when you pause, just to scan around the office and check that you’re not insane, everyone’s eyes are on their own computers or each other. Jimmy and Lois are having a low conversation near the coffee. Cat is examining her nails while snapping at someone on the phone. Steve is laughing at something on his phone—a little too loudly, in the boisterous, fake way that always makes you pretty sure he’s not actually seeing anything funny, and just wants someone to come talk to him—while Perry watches the TV with a focused frown, and Clark stares at his computer. 

Just stares at it. Doesn’t type. Doesn’t scroll.

He’s probably just reading something, very intently, over and over. 

You look back to your own computer, and call it paranoia. 

That would be why your skin feels raw, when you start to type again. Nobody’s watching you—and you check again, just to make sure—and you’re just paranoid. 

You’ve been oddly paranoid lately, so it’s tracking. You’re checking the locks of your windows and doors three or four times before you go to bed, like you’re in Gotham. You keep running back up the stairs after you try to leave for work, just to make sure you closed the door. When you walk down the street your gaze lingers on longer shadows, and you look up to the sky as if you’re checking for something. 

You’re not. 

You don’t even know what you’d be looking for. 

All you do know is that you feel like someone is watching you, but they’re not. That you’re paranoid, but it’s likely lack of sleep. 

You haven’t really been sleeping, either. Your bed has felt too cold, lately. Too empty. You haven’t been able to bring yourself to even lie in it for more than twenty minutes at a time, resorting to trying to sleep on the couch. 

Which is probably why your back always hurts, now. 

It hasn’t been a good few weeks. Everything has felt off.

But it’ll pass.

Hopefully. 

It’s not, but hopefully, it will. 

Someone taps on your shoulder, and you almost jump out of your skin, hand flying out in a faster reaction than you can process. 

You smack Jimmy in the jaw, and he stumbles back with wide eyes.

“Oh my god, I’m-“ You yank off your headphones, reaching out nervously. “Jimmy, I’m so, so sorry, you scared me, I’m- I don’t know why I did that, I’m so-“

“Jesus, stop apologizing.” Jimmy gives you a small grin, dropping his hand from where a red mark is starting to form. “I’m alright. Made of steel, you know me.”

You blink at him, and suddenly feel a little dizzy.

“You don’t need to get me a band-aid, sweetheart. They don’t say I’m made of steel because it sounds cool.” 

“I, um-“ You shake your head, giving Jimmy another apologetic look. “Do you want some ice?”

“Nah. That sounds cold.”

“It’s ice-“

“Yeah. Cold. I’m a big boy,” he says your name with a shrug. “I’ll live, you know?”

“I guess, but-“

“Can I ask you a question?”

You blink, and Jimmy’s staring at you with an odd intensity. “Yes?”

“Did you guys have a fight?”

“You… guys?” You shake your head, spinning your pencil nervously between your fingers, and Jimmy nods. 

“Yeah. You and Clark.”

“Me and-“ Your eyes dart over to Clark’s desk, and he’s still staring at his computer. He’s scrolling now, though. Typing a few words, then scrolling again. 

You haven’t spoken to him all morning. And he doesn’t look all that bothered. His hair is messy, and from his side profile you can tell his glasses are a little askew, but that’s just Clark.

“No?” You look back to Jimmy. “Why would we have had a fight?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” He shrugs, looking over to Clark himself. “Poor guy just has been looking bummed. I thought someone yelled at him, but he hasn’t even really been talking to anyone. Which is weird, right?”

Jimmy looks at you like you’re supposed to agree, and you give him a tight smile. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Jimmy nods to himself. “I mean, he’s Clark. He talks. We all talk. And I don’t know- Maybe I should set him up on another blind date. He hasn’t said yes to me in like, a year, but now- Poor guy might be feeling the loneliness.”

Something tugs on your heart. It’s sore and hot and makes your skin fucking itch.  

Your pencil flies across the room, as you accidentally fling it from your fingers. Hits Steve in the back of the head, making you wince. 

“Damn, you’re on a roll, killer.” Jimmy grins as Steve glares around to see the culprit. You quickly pick up another pencil. “Is there something going on with you I should be worried about? Are you secretly a vigilante

“No, I’m just…” You take a deep breath, glancing back over to Clark. 

You don’t know why you keep looking at him. It’s like you’re looking for some kind of reaction, and you don’t even know to what.

“It’s just a bad week.” You mutter, and Jimmy nods.

“Right, first one back from vacation. Those always suck.”

“Huh?” You’re not really listening, mostly just staring at Clark. His leg is bouncing. 

That means something. 

You can’t fucking remember what. 

“Your vacation. How was it, by the way?” Jimmy bumps your shoulder with his coffee, and you blink.

“How was… my vacation?”

“Yeah. Cuba, right? Or… Cairo. China? It was somewhere with a C. I think. I don’t know.” Jimmy laughs to himself. “Clark did tell me you were going, so maybe I’m just thinking of him.”

“Oh.” You swallow, and Clark’s leg is still fucking bouncing. 

“You’re doing it again.” You smile at him, poking your foot against his shin, and he blinks up at you. 

“I, uh- I’m not doing anything-“

“You were listening to me. I know you were.”

“But I didn’t even look-“

“I know.” You smile at him. “I just know you. Do you think we should do Rio?”

He turns a little red, eyes darting around the office to make sure no one else is watching, then places his hand on the back of your thigh. Squeezes gently, and gives you a small smile. 

“I’ll go where you want, baby. But if you’re asking-“

“I am-“

“Then I’ve been thinking we could go to-“

“Redwood park.” You mutter, looking back to Jimmy. “I think I just went to see the Redwoods, Jimmy.”

“Oh. Well, California starts with C.” Jimmy glances over to Clark. “You should’ve brought Clark with you. He’s always wanted to see those things. Don’t know why he hasn’t. We get plenty of vacation time.”

You nod. “I- I don’t know why either.” You whisper, and Clark’s head turns. 

For a split second, your eyes meet. And something flashes over his handsome features that you can’t quite place. 

Then he looks away, and his leg stops bouncing. 

Your head sort of hurts. 

But it’s just been an off week. Jimmy leaves you alone, and you can’t do anything but stare blankly at your computer screen, hoping your fingers will remember how to do anything but spin a pencil, and your brain will clear of this strange fog. 

You don’t even remember going on vacation.

And it feels like there's a massive fucking hole, in the center of your chest. It’s got an odd shape. It hums and kicks into a loud gear—like an echo through a cave, a ghostly replication of something that had been there before—whenever you feel it again. 

Someone is watching you.

Your pencil flies out of your fingers again.

But when you look around to see if anyone noticed, they haven’t.

It’s like nothing ever happened at all.

The day moves fast, but the strange feeling doesn’t fade. It only gets more and more pressing, until it feels like there’s something iron wrapping around your lungs. Maybe you should go back to therapy. You’re not sure why you left it in the first place. 

There’s just a faint impression of it not working. Of something on your tongue you couldn’t let go, that was holding you back from saying anything at all. 

But it’s gone now.

You just wish you’d known what it fucking was. 

There are a lot of things that are making you feel that. Like you’d had something in your hands, and it had been taken away. Leaving your skin covered in a soot or stardust you don’t know how to wash off, because you can’t even fucking see it. And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re still paranoid. It’s all you’ve been, lately, and there’s no reason for it to just vanish when you go to work. 

It’s almost certainly the paranoia. 

It will be a whole lot easier, if it’s just the paranoia. 

If people have noticed you’re acting differently, they don’t say anything. You fumble your coffee when Lex Luther comes onto one of the TV screens, and Lois gives you an odd, worryingly gentle look, but helps you clean up. Perry talks to you about your article about international metahuman law, and you type slowly, struggling to remember where you found any of your sources. Superman has another save—a kitten, in a tree, and for some reason that makes you feel fuzzy—and you stare at the screen for a little too long. You only stop staring because Cat hits your arm, amusement sparkling in her eyes.

“He’s cute, right?”

“I- Superman?” You can feel your cheeks heat, and this shouldn’t be making you flush. It’s Superman. Everyone thinks he’s cute. 

“You think I’m cute?”

“Don’t get a big head.”

“I can’t. Ma raised me better than that, sweetheart. And my head is already huge, but it’s mostly just facts about cows.”

“Yeah? What kind of facts?”

“All of them. Did you know people used to use “cow” as a compliment?”

You smile at him, and there’s something earnest on his face that always makes it hard to even play fake mean. “How the fuck would you use cow as a compliment.”

“Like, uh- You’ve got cow eyes, baby.” He squeezes your hip, and you giggle. 

“I have cow eyes?”

“Yeah. But you’re my cow.” He pauses, then frowns. “I don’t like that. It makes seem like, I don’t know, I won you at a county fair.”

You lean down, mock-pouting at him. “So you don’t think I’m a prize?”

“No, I just-“ He sighs. “Can we pretend I never said anything?”

“Nope. I’m your cow, Mr. Kent.”

He groans. “Gosh, no, don’t say that-“

“It’s too late. Live with the consequences of your actions.”

“But I regret this action, I regret it a lot, I should have just told you how to milk a cow- No.” He gives you a firm look, and you’re giggling so much you might fall over. “I know that face, baby, no.”

You shake your head, pushing your words through the laughter. “Were you going to do a demonstration, farm boy? You’ve milked me before.”

“Alright. Come here.” 

A large, warm hand glides up to your waist, and you’re still giggling when he pulls you forward. He doesn’t look cute anymore. He just looks handsome, darkened eyes on you, lips curled in a small grin as he watches you-

Cat says your name, waving a hand in your face.

“Sorry, I- Um-“ You look around, and the room isn’t spinning, but all the color seems to be washed out. Like there should be a reason for them to be vibrant, and you can’t find it at all. “I think I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Okay.” Cat shrugs, looking back to the TV. “Weird thing to tell me, though.”

“Yeah, um- Sorry.”

You almost run away from her, and your stomach feels like it’s rising up your throat. Something is wrong. It’s paranoia, but it still feels wrong, and you don’t know where you’re going but you know it needs to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere nobody can touch you, or see you, or say your name. Somewhere in the dark, where your chest won’t keep trying to pull at something you can’t name, where you can put a hand on your throat and just breathe- 

You’re only watching your feet, as you walk, because you need to walk in a straight line. You’re not dizzy. It just feels like you’re wading through mud, and if you’re not counting every step you’ll fall over.

So when you turn the corner, you don’t see him until it’s too late, and you’re slamming right into his chest. 

“Hey, woah.” Clark's arm wraps around your waist, and your fingers fly to grab the lapels of his suit jacket. 

You stare at each other. There’s that same, strange look from before, and it’s everywhere. In the slight, worried pout of his lips, the furrow of his brow, and somehow in the strong line of his nose. His eyes are burning into you, and that buzzing feeling starts to push up your throat, spreading and spreading until the hollow in your chest stirs, and Clark’s hand flexes on your back- 

“Taste it.”

He frowns at your offering, a finger covered in frosting. “I know what frosting tastes like, sweetheart. You just slipped, I want to look at your knee-“

“What are you, a doctor?”

“No, but I think I’ve learned enough to know if need to take you to the hospital, and I can x-ray for free-“

You cut him off with a strange noise. It’s as if it’s coming from underwater, muffled and strange. You can’t really hear it at all. “It’s just my fucking ankle. Look,” you swing it dramatically, and his frown deepens. He doesn’t let go of you. 

You poke his nose with the frosting, and giggle as his eyes cross to look at it. 

“Geez, you really want me to try this frosting.”

“Well, I made it, and I want your opinion.”

He nods, tongue shooting up to lick it off. And it takes a few seconds of ridiculousness for him to get it, but he does. Because he can do fucking anything. 

And your heartbeat is in your ears, now.

“That’s really good, baby.” He looks at you with a proud grin, and you don’t give a shit about the cupcakes anymore. 

He can see that. 

His throat bobs, and his ears turn red as his voice drops. 

“You’re sure your ankles okay-“

“Yes.” You cut him off quickly, and his lips twitch.

“May I please have a full cupcake, after we finish?”

You nod, a little like a bobblehead, and he grins at you like he won the lottery. 

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He leans down until your noses are bumping. “But just so you know, you’re still my favorite dessert.”

“Are you okay?” Clark says, and it jumpstarts your body. 

You shove him back quickly, eyes wide, and try not to think about how he looks like a wounded puppy. 

He says your name gently, like he’s trying to soothe a feral animal, and you take another uneven step back. 

“I- I’m- I don’t-“

Clark’s voice becomes a little more urgent. “Come here, sw-“ He swallows, syllables sliding together. “We need to get you sitting down-“

“No- No-“ You take a ragged breath. You don’t want him to touch you. Your whole body is leaning to him, like he’s got the gravity of something more than a man, but if Clark touches you, it’s going to hurt deeper than your skin. “I- I’m okay. I’m okay.”

Clark doesn’t look convinced by your repetition. “I know you might feel okay, but- You were staring at me for five minutes, I- Uh- I just think you should rest-“

“I’ll rest. I can rest.” You nod, taking another unsteady step back. The whole earth feels like it’s sliding below your feet. “I might have, like- Food poisoning? Maybe? I’m just- I’m not feeling well, Clark-“

“I know, we can go to the doctor- I mean, not we, but- You and someone-“ The strangeness flashes over his features again. “It can be me. I can drive. I’m good at it, sweetheart, I can drive you-“

“No, I’ll take the subway, I’m- Can you just tell Perry I got sick. Please?”

“I-“

“Thank you, Clark. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

You don’t wait for his response, don’t look back as you almost scramble out of the hallway.

It’s still just the paranoia. You’re just off, and maybe you did get food poisoning. You’d eaten some strange, old pastries that had been at the back of your refrigerator last night. You didn’t even remember putting them there, and they’d tasted fine, but maybe it was a fake fineness.

No. It’s all fine. 

There’s still that carved-out, empty feeling in your chest, but you’re fine. 

You’ll take a day. Maybe get back with a therapist, or install new locks on your door and windows. Everything will be fine.

Everything was not fine. 

You’re having nightmares. And they’re of strange things you’ve never even seen before, like colorful, lava rivers and infinite blackness and odd, jagged edges of strangely shaped cliffs. You’re having nightmares of a gun to your brow and a shining light in your eyes and so much cold. You can’t really feel anything in the nightmares, but you can feel cold, and it makes you wake up shivering and screaming until your voice goes hoarse. 

The one day you took off didn’t do much—you mostly just stared at the ceiling, and tried to will everything into being better, which obviously didn’t fucking work—and the moment you’re back at work, everything starts to move too fast for you to catch your breath. 

You were gone for three weeks, on a vacation you don’t remember. There’s work that needs catching up on, informants and sources you apparently forgot to tell about your vacation that you need to reach out to, and a lot of time that needs to be wasted on the floor of the bathroom. 

It still feels like someone is watching you, in the office. Still feels like something vital is missing from your chest, like an organ that’s been removed. With the nightmares, your sleep doesn’t get better. The paranoia only grows, until you beg Perry to give you a desk that has your back to the wall. 

He obliges, with a frown and muttered weird kids. 

And you’re slightly calmed, by being able to see everyone who comes in and out of the room. Nobody can surprise you, anymore. When you feel like someone is watching you, all you have to do is look up. 

“Just look up.” He says, fingers tracing slowly over the bare skin of your arm. “All you ever need to do is look up, and I’ll be there.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” you say the noise you can’t hear. “What if you’re in Kansas, or- I don’t know, France-“

He cuts you off with a deep, slow kiss that makes you dizzy. “Then call my name.” He mutters against your lips. “And I’ll come for you.”

You rub your eyes, and all the lights are a little too bright. You might need to start wearing sunglasses to work. Inside. Like you have a permanent hangover. 

It certainly feels permanent. All these strange, invasive phantom thoughts.  

Nowhere is safe from them. It’s why you like the bathroom so much. Sparse and quiet and lonely—which is only making the nightmares worse—but without anything to set you off. 

Because fucking everything sets you off. 

“Shit.” You mutter, wrinkling your nose at the fridge, then checking the time on your phone. “Shit.”

“What’s shit?” Lois asks, standing over your shoulder, and you slam the door closed. 

“I- fuck-“ The sound echoes through the room, and it was too big for such a tiny little thing.

It hums at you. Tauntingly. About how you can be as mean and crude as you want, but it’s still solid. It’s not melting apart at the seams. 

You kick it, for good measure, and grunt as it refuses to budge. Stupid fucking fridge.

Lois laughs softly. “I think you beat it.”

“Thanks.” You mutter, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “It’s too late anyway.”

“Too late?”

“I forgot my lunch.”

“Seriously? That’s what you tried to murder the fridge over- Right, sorry.” She smiles apologetically at your glare. “Not just a joke, this time. Didn’t read that one right.” 

“No, it’s-“ You let out a slow breath, and you’re so fucking tired. “You’re right, it’s stupid-“

“It’s not stupid, it’s just kind of insane.” She gives you a small smile. “Forgetting food sucks. I’m sorry I laughed at your plight.”

You huff, just through your nose, but with everything feeling a little lighter. It sucks. It’s not the end of everything. 

“Who forgot their food?” Clark says, and you turn to see him frowning at you and Lois with an odd intensity. “Lois, you ate earlier, you got taco all over my keyboard-“

“No, I didn’t. That was Jimmy.”

“But Jimmy said it was-“

“Jimmy is a liar. And I didn’t forget my lunch,” she says your name, and all of Clark’s attention seems to hone in on you. It makes you feel fucking dizzy. “She did.”

“You did?” There’s a depth to the concern in his voice. Like you’re swimming into the ocean, when it was just supposed to be the deep end of the pool, and now he’s worried everything is going to sweep you away. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” You try to hold his gaze, as you speak. It’s shockingly difficult. As if you’re staring at the sun, instead of clear, blue eyes. “I haven’t been sleeping well. Must have thought I grabbed it, then didn’t. I’ll be-“

Clark cuts in, voice earnest. “Do you want mine?”

“No, yours looks like it was made out of dead fish guts.”

“Huh.” He frowns at his spaghetti, still in the white take-out box. “I think it’s just like- Gooey pasta.”

“Wrong, fish guts.” You keep his arm around your shoulders, holding one of his large hands in both of yours, playing with his fingers as you examine dinner. “Why couldn’t we just do pizza?”

“Because Pa taught me to treat a lady-“

“To fish guts?”

“To fancy food.” He kisses the side of your head, dropping the food onto the plate. “If it tastes bad, I can hold your hair back while you vomit.”

“What if you vomit,” you say the noise you can’t hear, and he grins at you.

“I don’t get sick, darling.”

“Maybe. But look at this, I’m sure it could do the job, even on you-“

He kisses you, and your words fall into a loud, long moan. He smiles against your lips, and you wish he’d never figured out this trick for shutting you up. It’s playing dirty, for someone who always follows the rules. You think he justifies it to himself with how you try to chase him when he pulls away, and how he always asks you to finish your thought. As if the kiss was just to kiss. 

This beautiful, sweet man might really believe it is just a kiss. 

Something low shines in his eyes, though, when he finally gets you to come up for air. 

And he fucking knows. 

“Gosh,” he mutters, looking over to the food. “You think this will make me sick?”

“Maybe.” You blink at him slowly. “I don’t know.”

“Huh. I mean, I don’t mind pizza. If you don’t mind. I can go get it, right now, but, um- Only if you think this will make me sick-“

You say the sound you can’t hear softly. “I know you worked hard to get this, you don’t have to-“

“No, I think I want pizza.” He leans down, holding your gaze. “Do you want pizza, sweetheart?”

“Yes.” You smile at him, planting a small kiss on his nose. “Please.”

Clark says your name, and you swallow. You don’t feel hungry, anymore. Only sick. 

“I’m good, Clark.” You mutter, ripping your gaze down to your shoes. “Thank you.”

You almost run back to your desk, and start talking to people at work less and less. They seem to always set it off—the empty space, the echo—more than anyone else. And avoiding them isn’t a permanent solution, but it should ease the vastness of everything feeling like it’s just fucking wrong.

It should. 

But as long as you’re where people can say things to you, it doesn’t.

“You look nice tonight.” A guy with dark hair and darker eyes grins at you, taking a slow swig of his beer like you’re supposed to respond. 

You turn your glass in your hands, and give him a small smile. He’s pretty. Not that pretty, but enough to make you not hate looking. And in the dark—once you’re one drink deeper and everything has been numbed a little more—it won’t fucking matter. 

“You end up here often?”

You smile, and try not to make it too many teeth. Just be easy, and you can forget better. “Here, or at a bar?”

He laughs. Not a bad sound. Just sort of flat, like there’s an element of it that’s missing. “Either, dollface.”

“Well, I’ve been here a few times.” You try to keep your voice light and breathy. You feel fucking insane. “But usually, I’m just soliciting.”

“Yeah? For what?”

“Mormons.”

The man laughs again, and you try to make your smile wider. The drink can get you halfway there, easily. 

It’s the rest of you, that’s always the problem.

You end up in a booth, half on the lap of your bar man—Jack or Jax or Max or Miles or Martholomew, but it really doesn’t fucking matter—and with your tongue shoved down his throat. You’re grabbing at his shoulders and dragging him forward as you try to grind down, but it feels like trying to start a fire with soggy driftwood.

There’s just not enough of him. This man is nice enough, but there’s something shaped like the hole in your body that’s missing. His hands are possessive, but they should be teasing and gentle as well. As if you’re a delicate work of blown glass, that’s stronger than it looks but still needs care. He should let you play until you get tired, and he eagerly jumps in to take over. He’s supposed to have slightly longer hair, and bigger hands, and wrap around you as he kisses, as if he’s more shield than man. 

You don’t have any idea where you got those fantasies. 

No one has ever touched you like that. Kissed you like that. Been enough that you’d hold them higher than the sun. 

“Yeah, doll,” the man grabs your ass as he drawls. “You’re such a dirty girl, aren’t you.”

You frown against his lips. That’s not right either. He’s supposed to say- 

“There you go.” He keeps your legs spread apart easily, pushing a finger in until it’s knuckle deep. “Yeah. That’s it. Oh fuck, you’re soaked.”

A loud, desperate moan tears through your lips, the word fuck maybe the most sinful thing in the world, when it’s from his lips. “Please, I- I need it, just-“ You try to roll your hips forward, grabbing at the sheets. “Please-“

“You’ll get it, baby.” He kisses your inner thigh, rubbing the sensitive skin in firm circles. “I always help you, don’t I? I take care of you.”

“Yeah, yes, you do, but- Fuck-“ You moan the sound you can’t hear, grabbing at his wrist. “More-“

“Can you relax, darling? For me, please?”

You go slack, and he grins. 

“There you go. That’s my good girl.” 

For a moment, as the bar comes back into focus, you’re frozen. 

Then the man grunts from below you, and you almost vault off his lap. 

Wrong. 

Everything, everywhere, is so fucking wrong. 

You leave with rushed apologies and a twenty-dollar payment for two drinks—too much, but you just need to go so they can keep the tip—and try not to trip over yourself running home. 

And you check the locks, twice. Close the windows and keep all the lights on, even as you get ready for bed. 

But it’s not safe. 

Not anywhere. 

You’re digging through your underwear drawer, and your fingers brush over a thick, warm fabric. When you pull it out, it’s a flannel that smells of stale amber and wood. It feels right, on your fingers, but you don’t have a clue where it came from, or why it’s here. 

But it’s warm. Even after months at the bottom of a cold dresser, it’s so warm. Like an ember. Like something clinging to a flickering fire that just refuses to die. That sparks, just when it’s about to go out. 

That keeps you warm. 

“Put it on, baby. Please.”

“No.” You raise a hand, blocking him from your view. “Puppy eyes don’t work on me,” you hum the noise you can’t hear, grinning out at the field. “I am perfectly warm. I’m basically a furnace. I think I could power the eastern seaboard, with how warm I am.”

“I, um- I don’t think that’s how energy works, sweetheart-“

“But maybe it does.”

He sighs, even as the heavy sound is laced with affection. “Okay. That can be how it works, but- Please. Put it on.” He pauses. “For me?”

You drop your hand, and glare at his pretty, innocent face—which is a fucking act, because he was face deep in your pussy like three hours ago—and hopeful, clear eyes. He just smiles at you nervously, still holding out the flannel, and you roll your eyes. 

“I hate it when you play that card.”

He blinks, looking honestly confused. “What card?”

“Shut up.” You grab the flannel out of his hand, and he grins.

“Yes, ma’am. Do you want help putting it on?”

You nod, shuffling closer to his side. If it were anyone else, they’d get a biting, harsh no. You can do it yourself, it’s just a flannel, and—because you’re not fucking seven—you know how sleeves and buttons work. 

But it’s him. And you want a reason to be as close to him as possible, so you can figure out how to crawl into his lap after. Be as surrounded by him as possible, and run your fingers through curly hair as he breathes against your neck. It makes you shiver, the feeling of his lips grazing sensitive spots on your throat while his hands splay over your back. 

“I’m not cold anymore.” You mumble in his ear, and you can feel his lips curve into a smile.

“Sorry, darling, but- I thought you weren’t cold at all?”

“Don’t be mean.” You whine the sound you can’t hear into his neck, and he chuckles. 

“I’ve been learning from the best. And she,” he kisses a spot behind your ear. “Is also so smart, and cares so much, and never lets anything hold her down-“

“That’s not true.” You grumble. “I let a lot of things hold me down.”

“Yeah, but you never give up,” he pulls back, holding your face gently in his hands. His thumb traces over your cheek, and it feels like he’s taking you apart. “You’re strong.”

You laugh dryly. “You’ve been through more.”

“Yeah. Once a goat ate my favorite shirt, and- Gosh, sweetheart, remember how the ice cream place didn’t have the flavor I wanted to show you.” He grins, kissing your cheek. “I’m basically going to hell and back.”

“I’ve had banana splits before-“

“Not like these, though-“

You sigh the sound you can’t hear, and he falls silent. “You know what I mean.”

Something blurs. Like you’re scrubbing through film footage. The world moves fast, and you’re being pulled like a puppet. Saying something, but not having a clue what. Like your voice was taken from your throat. Then it slows down, the world resuming, and your voice resumes.  

“I just think- It’s not the same-“

“I know it’s not the same.” He mutters your name, kissing your knuckles. At some point, his hand had taken yours during the blur. You hadn’t even noticed. “But you still get through a lot of stuff, baby. I think it would make most people fall.”

You smile at him sadly, voice dropping to a whisper. “I think it makes me want to fall, sometimes.”

“Well.” He folds his fingers through yours, and the sleeve of his flannel flops slightly. It looks like you don’t really stop at all. You just continue. Right into him. “I’m pretty freaking grateful that you don’t.”

The flannel gets shoved back into the underwear drawer. 

You stop looking around at things.

And it’s not fine. Nothing’s fucking fine. You’re not talking to anyone, really. Not going anywhere. Hiding in your own bed, just knowing that something is so incredibly off, as the echoes continue to grow, but you don’t have a word for it. And if you tried to find one, you’d sound fucking bananas. At best, you’re just having hyper-realistic daydreams that are freaking you out way more than they should. At worst, you have a brain tumor. 

You’ve explored all the options, in your new favorite place, the bathroom floor. And you’ve settled on a very sustainable do nothing until you either drop dead or someone pins you down and makes you get help. It’s a strategy that’s worked well this long, and nobody has managed to get you pinned down at all. 

“You’ve got a flu, sweetheart, you need to stay in bed-“

“You can’t make me,” you sing the sound you can’t hear, spinning in a wide circle, all the colors neon and pastel around you. “You’re not my boss, and you’re not bigger than me. I am,” you wrap your arms around his neck. “Bigger than a mouse.”

“Well, that’s not wrong.” He sighs, and picks you up as if you weigh nothing. 

“Wow.” You poke at his muscles, squirming in his arms. “You’re strong. And big.”

“I, uh- Thanks.”

“And hot. It’s so hot.” You whine the sound you can’t hear. “Why is it so hot?”

“That’s the fever, darling.” He sounds amused, but kisses the side of your head so gently. “I’ll text Perry from your phone, okay?”

“Okay.” You mumble, clinging to his shirt when he tries to set you down. “Can you stay?”

He sighs, scanning carefully over your face. “I have work, and- You know, the other thing-“

Everything blurs again. But this time, all of his words blurring together while you’re stuck in a static. Then it all resumes, and it’s as if nothing happened at all. 

“Please?” You pout, and he nods slowly. 

“Yeah. Okay. I mean, I can’t make a promise about that, but- I swear to you I’ll see what I can do-“

“Yay.” You beam, and flop back down onto the mattress. “I love you, Martian Man.”

“Different guy. And, um- Wrong planet.” He kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter shut. “But I love you too, my cow.”

You hum. “Would you buy me in an auction?”

“You know I’m not answering that, pretty girl.” He mutters, and he’s using the other voice. The deeper, smooth one that always makes you listen to whatever you say. “Go to sleep.”

The lights are getting long. The shadows of the small, Daily Planet bathroom feel longer. 

Your eyes are stinging with tears, and you wipe them with the thin corporate napkins. 

Spend a little too long looking in the mirror. 

Apparently, your thoughts aren’t fully safe anymore either, even in the quiet.

And you’d never said I love you. To anyone. 

But you said it to him.

The man who just lives in your head, who you can’t even afford to give a name, pulls love out of you in a way that feels bigger than the hole in your chest. In a way like a tree. Always growing and growing and taking deeper root, until it’s embedded in the Earth.

And he loves you back. 

But only in your fucking head.

“I’m not saying it’s weird.” Steve is almost shouting at Jimmy and Lois, and you poke your head over your computer to watch. “You know I’m a big fan of the guys, Lois, I’m just asking questions! Isn’t that our job?”

“To… learn about Kryptonian biology?” Lois snorts, taking a sip of her coffee. “No, I think that’s up to scientists, Steve.”

“Well, they have nothing to study-“

“Neither do we, dude.” Jimmy’s grin is shit-eating. “It’s not like Superman is in this room, so we can ask him questions about his penis.”

Clark coughs loudly, and you frown at him. His leg is bouncing, and his ears look a little red. 

Lois sees it as well, and calls across the room, “You alright, Clark?”

“Uh, yeah- I’m, yeah.” Clark clears his throat, shooting to his feet and walking over to join their group.

Which is gathered near your desk. 

It’s not making you nervous so much as wired. With every step Clark takes across the room, you feel more and more like electricity is humming under your skin, sparking up in that emptiness and just making everything very fucking confusing. 

Then Clark looks at you.

Only a quick glance, with that same worry in his brow and odd shine in his eyes. It’s the only way he’s been looking at you, lately. 

You flush, and look back to your computer with everything in you feeling like it’s on fire. 

“Um-“ Clark’s words are low, and you see him shake his head in your periphery. He’s looking at you. For too long, you can see the clearness of his eyes, feel them singeing on your skin. 

Then he looks away.

And you just feel cold. 

“What are we talking about?” He asks the group, and Steve scowls.

“I don’t want your thoughts on it, Kansas, I’m looking for the big leagues opinion-“

“Steve wants us to give Superman a pat-down.” Jimmy says quickly. “The full TSA. He says it’s for science.” 

“Which is a ridiculous claim.” Lois adds. “But also pointless. Because what, are you going to just call him out of the sky and start asking him questions?”

“I mean...” Steve pauses. “Isn’t that just what you and Kent do?”

“No. Or, well-“ Clark coughs. “Sort of, I guess. But we’re asking him important questions. About world politics.”

Jimmy raises his hand. “Didn’t your last interview with him consist of only questions about cows and breakfast.”

You peek over your computer again, and Clark is blushing. 

“I- He had a hard few weeks-“

“Or you’re just a pussy, right?” Steve laughs, raising his hand for a high five, and Lois gives him a flat look. 

“None of us are high-fiving that, man.”

“Whatever.” Steve rolls his eyes. “Why does Kent get to work with Superman and not me.”

Jimmy laughs. “You write sports, dude-“

“I’m sure he has opinions! The people want to know who he is! What baseball team he’s rooting for this season!”

“Yeah,” Lois shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s what people want to know about Superman.”

“I know.” The wind is biting at your skin, and you’re glaring at him in the dark.

This seems like it’s from a long, long time ago. The air is hotter, your shirt one you think you lost months ago. When you reach up to nervously run your fingers through your hair, that’s different as well. And he’s across from you, something different in his clear eyes. 

Different from all the other flashes. 

The same as it seems to be now. 

He sighs, taking a large step forward. “Can we not do this on the roof, please? I’m worried you’re going to catch a cold-“

“I’ll live.” You snap, raising your chin. Which is a mistake—the wind only bites you harder now—but you’re not going to back down from it. You’ll see this through. “I want you to tell me.”

“Tell you what?” He frowns, and winces slightly under your withering look. “I can’t say it. You know I can’t. If I tell you, then that’s on me-“

“What’s on you, the truth-“

“No, what I’ll be doing to you-“

“You’ve done a lot worse-“

“This isn’t a joke!” He shouts your name, taking a large step forward. “You could get seriously hurt, if you actually know! And if you get hurt, and I can’t save you, I’m-“ He shakes his head. “No. I’m not telling you.”

“I already fucking know-“

“Then just know, don’t make me tell you-“

“No, Clark! I know what it means that I know! I-“ You take a ragged breath, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “I’ve known for months, you dummy. I just- I sort of-“ You swallow, choking on the sob forming in your throat. “Never mind.”

You turn to walk away, and the world is blurring from tears in your eyes, but everything is also getting sharper at the same time. Like a camera lens, coming into a focus you hadn’t even known was off.

“No, wait-“ Clark shouts your name, grabbing the crook of your elbow. “Don’t- Shoot-“ 

He moves in front of you as you yank your elbow away, blocking your path off the roof. 

“Move.” You mutter, and he shakes his head. 

“You said you wouldn’t never mind me, baby.” He’s using the deep, commanding voice. The Superman voice. It’s cheating. “You promised. I always want to know what you’re thinking. Please.”

You shake your head, staring at his shoes. “It’s stupid-“

“No.” He grabs your chin, gently angling it up. Forcing you to meet his clear, bright, affectionate gaze. When you don’t speak—not out of spite, you’re mostly just trying not to cry—he prompts you gently. “You’ve really known for months?”

“Yeah.” You whisper. “I knew like, the first week I met you.”

His eyes widen. “How-“

“You wear your suit under your clothing, Clark.” You smile at him weakly. “You stretched. I saw. That was sort of it.”

“Oh.” He sighs, glancing down at that same suit, then back to you with a guilty expression. “Shoot.”

“Yeah. But nobody else has noticed, I promise. I asked around in a very covert way and the only other person who’s seen is Jimmy. But he said he asked you about it, and you said it’s just a weird compression shirt. Which, by the way, we need to come up with a better lie, Clark, because that one is-“

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?” He mutters, and you swallow. 

“I wanted you to tell me.”

“Oh.” Clark nods, then says your name gently. “Why were you looking at my shirt, darling?”

You flush. “Don’t- This isn’t about me-“

“Really?” He grins. “Because I kinda think most things are.”

“I- Well-“ You sigh, dropping your face into his chest. “You’re cute.”

“Cute?” You can hear the grin in his voice. “You think I’m cute?”

“And… other stuff.”

“What other-“

“We’ve fucked, Clark!” You shove away from his chest. “You know I think you’re attractive, don’t be mean-“

“Yeah, I’m sorry.” He catches you easily, pulling you back into his body. “I just like hearing what you think about me, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”

“You said I’m sorry twice.” You grumble, and he kisses the tip of your nose. 

“Well, I am very sorry. And I love you. You’re the only cow I’d ever want to love.”

Your eyes widen. “You- Clark-“

“You don’t need to say it back,” he mutters your name, moving to kiss the corner of your mouth. “But I do. And I need to tell you something.”

You stare at him, and he grins at you, swiping his thumb over your lip.

“I’m Superman.” 

“Oh.” You can’t stop your stupid, wide smile. “Cool.”

“It kind of is, right?” He laughs, and pulls you up into a deep, full kiss. 

The long, dramatic kind of kiss. Where there might be music swelling in the background, and spotlights angling down to make the whole focus of everything just you and Clark. He’s dipping you down slightly, and your foot kicks into the air, and you’re dizzy and breathless when he finally pulls you upright. Still giving you smaller, softer kisses as you find your balance. 

“Just, um-“ He sighs, still holding you tight to his chest. “Please don’t call me Clark when I’m in the suit, sweetheart.” 

You giggle, murmuring against his lips. “I won’t if we can use it for sex stuff.”

“Oh. Uh-“ He blushes, but nods, dipping down to kiss your throat. “I think we can do that. You know you might be the death of me, right?”

“No. You’re not allowed to die.” You kiss the side of his head, and he sighs. 

“Yeah. But you aren’t either.” He pulls back, a deep furrow in his brow. “I’m serious. I really don’t want you to get hurt because of this-“

“I won’t.” You smile at him. “I promise.”

Someone says your name, and you blink to see Lois waving a hand in front of your face.

“Um, yeah?”

“Are you okay?” She frowns at you, scanning over your face. “You’ve been staring at the same spot for like, ten minutes. If you need, I can bring you to the hospital-“

“I don’t need a hospital.” You say quickly, looking back to your computer. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

And when you say it that time, it sounds even more like a lie than before. Lois isn’t convinced, even when you manage to talk her into just getting you some ice. You’re not convinced, because you can feel it. Even your computer doesn’t seem to be convinced, the screen so bright it feels judgmental. 

But most of all, Clark isn’t convinced. 

He’s not looking, when you do your routine scan to make sure nobody is watching. He’s just sitting at his desk, leg bouncing. 

Which is something he does, when he’s listening.  

You don’t know how you know that. Why you know that. When you learned that. 

But you know it’s Clark. 

That in your head, it’s Clark. It’s always been Clark. 

Or it’s never been Clark, and you’ve just lost your fucking mind. 

You don’t know anymore. What’s real. Why your brain has decided Clark is Superman, and why he’d ever say he loves you, or why this is happening to you. 

Something is more than wrong. Something is broken. It’s that massive fucking hollow in your chest, and it’s making your heart skip in all the wrong ways. Like you lost your metronome. Lost the beat. Can’t find it again, and now you’re falling and drowning on steady ground. 

Everything is so, so wrong. 

And when you don’t know what’s broken, you don’t know how to put it back together. 

You’re not even sure it can be put back at all. 

You have to ask him. 

It’s eating you alive. 

Clark sits across the office, and you squint at him until his face is a little more blurred, trying to blend it into the man of the echoes. You spend hours staring at your computer screen—decidedly not doing work—listening to his voice imagining him saying things to see if they match. 

Every night you watch shadows move over your ceiling at night, trying to organize every single strange moment into its place. 

Every morning, you stare at the flannel and try to remember something more. 

It’s a puzzle you can’t stand to finish, but need to or everything feels like it’s going to crumble apart. It’s a game you don’t want to play, but can’t bear to lose. 

There’s no logical reason for it to be real. You’d remember if you’d been kissing and dating and in love with Clark. Someone else would have known, someone would have said something, Clark wouldn’t have just let you forget if you had the love that seems to run under your every memory of him. 

And you’d think about it all the time if you knew Clark was Superman. 

You know, because you do think about it all the time. You’ve crunched the numbers. Built Rome in a day then tore it down, outlined the case and solved it with a pipe—anxiously chewed-up pencil—in your mouth. 

Clark is Superman. 

He’s always vanishing randomly, in the middle of the day. He’s always oddly invested in conversations about Superman, for someone who claims not to care much for superheroes, only ever commenting that they do good work before going to back to scrolling on his computer. He’s never sick, but when he is, it’s right after Superman’s had a really bad fight. His leg bounces when he’s listening to conversations he shouldn’t be able to hear. 

He has the same fucking face.

When you look at Clark, then down to the photo of Superman you pulled up on your phone, it’s the same fucking face.

But in the echoes—you’re afraid to call them memories, because that makes all of this too real—you’d told him you figured it out. 

It seems like, when you lay it all out on cluttered paper, you’d been dating before you told him you knew. 

You don’t know how you started dating. 

You’ve stared at him, and every corner of the office, and every single item you own, trying to will the answer into your existence. 

Then the building shifts, something clatters in your kitchen, and you shriek. 

The paranoia hasn’t gone away. 

You still don’t know where it came from in the first place. 

And you have to. You have to know. This isn’t something that’s going to pass. It’s only going to build and build and get worse and worse until you’re drowning in the vacuum of it all.

One person has the answers to your questions. And he’s at his desk, tapping on his phone and glancing up at the TV every few minutes.

It shouldn’t be that hard to talk to Clark. He’s your friend, and all you have to do is ask a very carefully calculated question that doesn’t make you sound crazy, but does invite him to tell you what you need to know. 

You can’t figure out what that question should be. 

So you’ve resorted to eavesdropping. 

You shuffle over to the copier, paper crumpling slightly in your fingers, and act as if you’ve never seen a machine before in your life. You’re not sure what you’re hoping he’ll say—maybe, oh, my coworker fell and hit her head and we’re all very worried, but she seems to be alright—but it’s a better plan than just driving yourself insane. 

You’re probably still going to end up doing that. It’s the plan you committed to first. 

This is mostly so you can say you tried.

And maybe, just maybe, so you can be a little closer to him. Hear his voice. 

See if anything at all comes back. 

“Ma.” Clark mutters into his phone, and you press a random button. “I’m coming home soon, I promise.”

There’s a pause as another voice crackles through the speaker, and Clark sighs. 

“No, I’ve told you, we’re not- Uh, it’s- Ma, it’s complicated- Yes, I know love shouldn’t be, but it’s not the feeling, it’s- Um-“ His eyes flick you, and he clears your throat. “I know I love her, Ma. But- I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it, please. Yes, I’ll wait for Pa.”

The line goes quiet, and he’s still looking at you. It’s like you’re being set on fire. 

You give him a weak smile. “I entered the wrong thing. To be copied.”

“Oh.” He returns the smile, and his looks so soft and real, it makes your throat ache. “They’re, uh- It’s still going?”

“Yeah, I, um- I figured other people might need some.” There’s an awkward moment of silence—he won’t stop looking at you—and you clear your throat. “Relationship problems?”

“No.” He says softy. “Nothing was ever a problem.”

You flush, looking back to the copier, and something really fucking stupid bubbles out of your throat. “Do you like cows, Clark?”

“Yeah. I love them.” He’s still fucking staring at you. “Do you?”

You shake your head. “I’ve always been more of a dog person.”

Ma Kent—with kind eyes and wrinkled hands that just finished touching pretty much everywhere on your face—laughs. “Oh, well, Clarkie was a dog boy, too, y’know. He liked to run around with the shepherds, and fly them up into the-“ Her eyes widen suddenly, and her eyes shoot to Clark. “Oh, I mean- He was just. flyin’ kites with Pa-“

“I would fly the herd dogs up into the sky.” He tells you, hand rubbing on the small of your back. “They liked being up there. Seeing all the birds. Made them happy, so I kept doing it. And it’s alright, Ma. She knows.”

“Oh. Wonderful. Did ya tell her, or did she figure it out.”

“I figured it out.” You beam, standing a little taller, and Clark sighs.

“That’s true. She did.”

“Oh, a smart girl.” Ma tilts her head at you, reaching up to cup your cheek once more. “Do you like pastries? Pa made too many, and I don’t got it in me to eat them all myself.”

You beam at her, leaning into Clark’s side. 

She likes you. 

The majority of the ride was spent with you working out every possible reason she might not like you, just to be ready. Clark had said you were just nervous, and she’d adore you. You’d told him that it wasn’t about you, it was about him.

You’d never think anyone was good enough for him either. 

He’d blushed, and muttered that you felt pretty good for him.

You’d made a sex joke. He’d blushed more. 

The goal had been to get them all out of your system before you arrived, because lewdness and vulgarity were on the list of reasons Clark’s parents might not like you. Even if Clark said they didn’t judge other people who swore, you hadn’t been about to take any chances. 

But it didn’t matter. 

She likes you. 

And when Ma Kent starts to lead you into the kitchen, you tug on Clark’s sleeve until he leans down, allowing you to whisper in his ear. 

“She likes me.”

“I know.” He chuckles, diving down to quickly plant a kiss on your lips. “Probably cause I love you.”

The paper you’d brought over is shredded on the floor, and Clark is saying your name. 

It’s with more and more worry every time, and he’s dropping the phone from his ear. Trying to reach for you. 

You can’t let him reach for you, because then he’ll touch you. Trigger another series of sparks in your chest. And it will keep slipping through your fingers too fast, when you still don’t know how to hold on.

But Clark’s a little faster than you think, for a guy his size. 

He moves forwards, and catches you by the wrist. “Sweetheart-“

“You’re pushing it.” He murmurs in your ear, and you lean your head back on his chest. “I thought you were tired?”

“I am.” You turn your face, pressing it into his shoulder as you sit in his lap. 

He holds you like he couldn’t bear to let go, even when you’re just in bed. Kisses your nose like you’re something sweet, when you’ve been all but grinding down onto his crotch for the last five minutes. But you can feel him, pressing through his sweats and rock hard. And if he just keeps dragging against your thighs and clothed core, you’re going to burst into tears. You need him inside of you.

Now. 

“If you’re tired, darling, we can go to bed-“

“Clark.” You whisper, turning your head to meet clear, slightly hooded eyes. “You could cut glass with this.”

You grind down onto him again, and he hisses softly.

“Don’t do that, it’s not fair-“

“Do you want me to stop?” You pout at him in a picture of innocence, and he groans.

“You know I don’t. But-“ He sighs, watching you carefully in the dark. “You’re tired. You sleeping is more important than me, you know-“ He thrusts up, and your lips fall over with a broken moan. 

Clark’s eyes widen at the reaction, and he’s quickly grabbing your face, angling it around to check for damage. 

“Shoot, baby, I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to-“

“Clark.” You whine, leaning into his touch. “Please.”

His throat bobs, and his thumb drops to slowly trace your lips. “You’re tired.”

“I’m always tired.” You mumble. “I want you.”

“Well, you kind of always want me- Christ.”

You take his thumb fully into your mouth, sucking on it with a lidded, sweet and drunken gaze, and you know you’ve won before you even let your tongue flick over the pad of the finger. 

He used a grown-up curse word. 

You’re getting what you want. 

“You want it?” He mutters your name, voice rough and low, and you hum around him. “Yeah? Can you please use your words, darling?”

You pop off of his thumb, and lean forward until your nose is bumping against his. “Can you please fuck me, Clark. Pretty please?”

He smiles, tangling his fingers in your hair. “That bad?”

You nod, and he raises his brows. 

“You going to let me take care of you?”

“Yeah- Oh-“

Your words die with a happy squeak as Clark drags you forward into a deep, long kiss. You’re too lost in the haze of it—of him, lips moving heavy and demanding over yours, teeth grazing your lips—to really notice how he’s moving you, until the angle is one you can’t hold the kiss in.

“Clark- Mmm-“ Your head falls against his shoulder, as he palms your breast with a large hand. “Don’t tease-“

“I’m not teasing.” He hums, slowly guiding your legs apart with his ankles over yours. “I’m taking care of you. And you like it, don’t you? This,” he rubs your nipple between his fingers. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” You whisper, and he grins.

“I know. Just feel it, darling.” He kisses the soft skin of your neck, and his hand wanders down between your thighs. “Can you feel it?”

You nod, grabbing his forearm as his massive fingers start to play between the folds of your pussy. You’re not sure when he got your clothes off. You don’t really care. 

“Yeah, there you go.” He’s cooing in your ear, and your free arm tries to reach up and wrap around his neck. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re so wet, sweetheart, you want a little more?”

“Yes.” Your back arches as Clark teases over your entrance. “More. I- I need it Clark, I-“

“Can you say please?” He flicks your nipple, and you nod.

“Please. Please, Clark, god-“ You let out a loud, sinful sound as his fingers find your clit, and start to rub. Harsh and fast, back and forth while he keeps playing with your breasts, and it’s already too much.

He’s worshipful, on your neck. Kissing and sucking on your skin, all while his fingers continue to drive you insane. You’re staring up at the ceiling with glassy eyes, just trying to keep up with what he’s doing to you, and Clark just keeps kissing you and touching your breasts like they’re something holy. 

You writhe in his arms, and he just keeps you steadily pinned. You drive to drive your hips up or grind down onto his cock, he slaps your pussy once—lightly, just a sting that makes you gasp—and keeps going. Your arousal is dripping down, wet on your ass and inner thighs, and you fly off the edge without a warning. 

Clark doesn’t stop. You can’t manage to close your legs, against his strength, and when you whine for him, you just get the same, low whisper in your ear. 

“Need you soaked, darling.” He whispers, just his voice making you moan. “Need you ready for me. You know that. Just one more.”

One more turns into two more, and by the time Clark’s hand finally slows, you’re a shaking, wired mess. He lands light hits on your cunt as you float down, and drags two fingers through the mess with a satisfied groan. 

“There she is.” He turns your head, offering you a gentle, loving kiss. “You ready, sweetheart?”

You nod, and Clark clears his throat.

“Can I please do the, uh-“

“Yeah.” You breathe out, trying to worm out of his arms to help. 

He doesn’t let you.

Clark grins like he just won the lottery, catches you by the waist, and pushes you slowly down into the mattress. Your face presses into the sheets, your ass up in the air, and Clark runs his fingers back through your pussy. Spreads your arousal around, groaning as his forefinger dips slightly into your cunt, and you flutter around him. 

“Yeah. That’s good” He crawls over you to kiss your neck. “You ready?”

You nod, trying to wiggle back into him, and he grunts.

“Yeah, alright, you’re ready. Fuck, darling, you’re so pretty.” He kisses down your spine, slowly massaging your hips and ass. “There you go. Just relax. Oh- Shit-“

Clark pushes into you, the stretch burning so fucking good, and your hands fist in the mattress. 

“So good.” He groans. “Always so good and tight for me, sweetheart, you’re-“ He grunts, bottoming out. “So fucking perfect, like an angel, so fucking good. Take me so well, this pussy was made for me-“

“Clark.” You whine, clenching around him, and he ruts into you.

“Oh, God-“ He draws fully out, then slams into you, knocking the air out of your lungs. “Yeah, fuck- Doing so good for me, baby, taking my cock like a- Shit-“

Clark cuts himself off with a groan, and pulls out for a split second, flipping you onto your back.

He slams back in, crashing his mouth down over yours, and starts to fuck you at an animalistic pace. Your nails scratch at his back, your body already so sensitive from before, but it’s pointless. Clark always fucks you like he’s never going to touch you again. His cock hits every spot inside of you that lights you up, his hands wander and touch you in every way you love, because he has them all memorized. 

When he hits a sensitive one, and gets a reaction, he fucks you a little harder. You moan his name, and his tongue shoves down your throat.

But Clark still drives his hips in a measured, careful way, keeping himself on a tight leash until you’re shaking and pleading around him. 

Then his kisses grow sloppy. 

His thrusts become uneven.

And he gives in fully when you cum with a cry of his name, your orgasm rushing through your whole body. 

Clark groans, slamming home with a grunt and messy, hungry kiss. 

You’re a little dazed, when you float down, but you still manage to reach up. Trace his slack, adoring features with light hands. 

“The point of the doggy is that you can dirty talk, baby.” You whisper, and he sighs, dropping his face into your neck. 

He still hasn’t pulled out. He hasn’t even fully softened inside of you. 

He’s probably not going to for a while. Clark likes to keep himself buried in you for as long as possible, until you need to pee and he’s carrying you to the bathroom.

He also has a dirty fucking mouth, that drives you out of your mind, and he refuses to use it. 

“You’re tired.” He mutters. “Felt mean when you’re tired.”

You laugh softly. “You know I like it, Clark-“

“Yeah, but I love you. And you should get the best.”

“I have the best.” You smile at him, and his lips twitch. 

“Yeah. I have the best too.” 

Clark says your name, voice almost as rough as it had been in your head. 

But without any lust or need. 

Just worry. 

And the same, tangible fucking affection, as his fingers squeeze your wrist.  

“I- I have to go.” You whisper, pulling your hand out of his grasp. 

He lets you. 

Clark could so easily hold on, but he lets you go.

But when you stumble away, and turn to run, you can feel it again. 

Someone watching. 

And when you glance over your shoulder, this time, Clark doesn’t look away. 

He just watches you with something so fucking heavy in his eyes, mouth hanging open as his hand still reaches out. 

Like he wants to catch you, but can’t. 

Like he knows you’re already gone. 

You can’t sleep. 

If you get into bed, you look to the side and see Clark there. Lying next to you and grinning. Holding your hand on his chest, then kissing your knuckles before rolling on top of you with a laugh. 

Something you’ve never had before. 

That it feels like you never really had at all. 

And you don’t understand. 

You crawl out onto the fire escape of your apartment—curling into a little ball on the stairs and just trying to breathe in the fresh air—and you can’t fit all of it in your head. Where this all came from, why it feels so right, and why you would have ever forgotten it. 

If this is something that was real, and you’re not just going insane, then you would never have let it go. You would have climbed mountains and screamed at the clouds, if it got taken away from you. If Clark got taken away from you. 

But he was, and you’re just sitting on cold metal stairs.

At least, it feels like he was taken away from you. Something was taken away from you. Something that you needed and wanted has been turned into his gaping hole, and the only thing that seems to fit is Clark. 

He hasn’t said anything. Hasn’t treated you any different than you can remember—although you don’t really trust your own mind anymore—and just stares at you with that worry. 

As if he knows something’s wrong, but can’t fix it. 

Won’t fix it. 

If Clark knows it’s broken, he won’t fix it for you. And if it’s not just all in your head, you’re not sure he loved you at all. 

Then, you feel it. 

Something watching you. 

Your head shoots up, and the streets are dark. Quiet, for the city. Not too quiet that it’s heralding certain death, but quiet. 

There’s a shadow, in the alley across the street. Oddly shaped, and sort of suspended in the air. 

You swallow—if you’re wrong, nobody ever has to know—and whisper, “Clark?”

Superman darts out of the alley, landing across from you on the fire escape, and smiles. Soft. Confident and nervous all at once, with his shoulders relaxed but words gentle and gaze filled with that worry. 

And it’s Clark. You can look at him and know that better than anything else. You know his face, because it’s imprinted like a burn on your brain. It’s not strange to see him in the suit, because you’ve seen it a million times before. 

You think you’ve seen it a million times before. 

But you know you’ve seen the worry. The furrow of his brow and pressing of his lips that’s all Clark, and all for you. 

Like he cares. 

“I’ve told you not to call me that when I’m in the suit, sweetheart.” 

You pull your knees into your chest, blinking up at him. “I- I’m-“

He mutters your name, taking a step forward, and you curl into a smaller ball. 

“Why are you here?”

Clark sighs, throat bobbing. “I shouldn’t be.“

“Cl- Superman.” You correct yourself quickly, and it feels strange on your tongue. “That’s not an answer-“

“I was supposed to keep away.” He says suddenly, wincing slightly. “I really shouldn’t be here, I should’ve been avoiding you all together, but-“ He mutters your name, looking up with clear, sad eyes. “I have to know you’re okay, sweetheart. I need you to tell me you’re okay.”

You swallow, forcing your gaze to hold on his. “Why?”

“Why?”

“Why do you need to know?” You whisper. “Why does it matter to you?”

His jaw presses together, and his attention darts out to the street. Mostly empty.

Something tugs on your head, and you can hear him muttering in your ears. Nothing’s ever empty enough. Safer than safe. Don’t want a mostly safe fence post, whole thing will go kaboom down.

Your lips twitch, because you remember laughing at kaboom. 

Everything hurts, because you don’t really remember it at all. 

“Can we go inside, please?” He points to your window, and you nod weakly. 

He reaches out to help you to your feet, but pulls away at the last second, and it makes your heart burn. He opens the window, and holds it up for you to go first. 

You want to reach for him, when he clambers in behind you. You can’t get yourself to move. 

The moment he’s inside, it hits you like a wave. 

Clark’s sitting with you at the table and holding your hand, because he refuses to let go. He’s spinning you around in the kitchen, and carrying a million plates while you giggle, worried he’s going to drop them. He’s hanging that painting on your wall and making your bed while you hug him from behind and kissing you on the couch because you couldn’t wait for the bedroom, but he won’t just take you on the floor. He’s painting your nails, because he spent hours practicing just for you. Kissing your cheek before he leaves in the morning, and looking back with a sweet, secret grin before he leaves out the window.

And it all feels so fucking real. It all fits so neatly into that space in your chest. It makes your heart beat the way it should, and the world seems to stop spinning at an off-kilter angle. 

You never would have forgotten that. 

But you did. 

And you don’t understand. 

Clark looks like he’s going to reach for you, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. He should be out of place, in the bright, costumey superman outfit. 

But he doesn’t. 

This seems like somewhere he’s supposed to be. The walls feel closer, and it could be the shallowness of your breath, but it also might just be how they’re trying to reach for Clark. As if even they feel emptier without him. 

They shouldn’t know him at all. But they do. 

You do. 

And it makes the emptiness hurt even more. 

Clark says your name, watching you like you’re going to turn to dust before his eyes. “Please, tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m not.” You say it before you can think. 

You can tell him. 

You tell Clark everything.

He mutters your name, and you shake your head.

“I- I’m not okay, Clark, I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know what’s real, I don’t trust myself, I don’t trust anything, and I- I scared, Clark, please, I’m so, so scared-“

A sob chokes in your throat, and he moves in a flash. Pulls you into his chest, holding you tight and wrapping over you. Like he’s trying to shield you from every bit of harm. 

You hug him back. Your arms fly up because it feels like the only thing to do, and your face presses into his chest because there’s no other place for you to be. You fit so well there. 

You never would have let go. 

“I don’t know what’s real.” You whisper into his body, and he stiffens slightly. “Clark, I can’t tell anymore, please, I- I don’t know what happened, I don’t know,” you shake your head, words weak and broken through the tears. “Please.”

You’re not sure what you’re begging for. All you know is that Clark is running his fingers through your hair, and holding you the same way he looked at you. 

As if he’s afraid you’re going to vanish from his hands. 

“I’m so sorry,” he mutters your name, heavy strain in his voice. “I can’t tell you. It’s not safe.”

You sniff, clinging to him a little tighter. “But I- I think I loved you.”

There’s a long silence, and Clark’s voice is hoarse when he breaks it.

“You did.” He murmurs, and when you lean back, his eyes are shining with tears. “You really did, darling, but- You said it wouldn’t get you hurt.”

Something haunted flashes over his face, and in the very back of your head—pushed under something deeper than the emptiness, under something iron you don’t want to open and set free—you can hear it. 

Your own screams. 

“It got me hurt?” You blink up at him, and he gives a small, tight nod. “How-“

“Luther.” He mutters, and your blood goes cold. “He worked out I might not just be up in the arctic, all the time. He thought you knew my identity, about my family, my parents. He took you, and-“ Clark’s hands tense on your body, and a tear slides down his cheek. 

“Clark-“

“You never broke.” He whispers. “You were so, so strong, but- I can’t let you get hurt again. I- I’m not worth that. Ma and Pa, they wouldn’t want it, nobody should have to go through that just because of me, and I- I found you.” He shakes his head. “I’m never living in a world where I don’t find you.”

“You’d rather not have me at all?”

Clark sighs your name, and you shake your head.

“No, I- I don’t want to forget, you can’t just-“

“It wasn’t me.” He says glumly, reaching up to trace a hand over your face. “You were so worried about me. You said you’d already talked to Terrific about it, and he knew a guy who could wipe it. Everything about us. Everything about me being Superman. Oh, geez.” He laughs weakly. “He’s not going to be happy it didn’t work.”

You drop your chin on his chest, keeping your words soft. “It didn’t. At all.”

“When-“

“The first day I got back from vacation. I remember us talking about redwood trees. You’ve always wanted to go.”

He looks like you’re shooting him. “Yeah. I have.”

“That wasn’t a vacation, was it.”

“No.” Clark bows his head, brow pressing to yours. “It wasn’t.”

There’s a moment of silence as you just breathe each other in, then Clark’s fingers curl on your hips. 

“Do you want me to fix it?” He mutters. “Wipe you again?”

Your heart moves into your throat. “No. No. Clark, I- I just want you.”

He frowns, and takes a sudden, large step away. “But what if you get hurt again? It’s not- It won’t be safe-“

“I feel safe now.” 

You do. 

For the first time since the vacation, you feel safe. 

And you’re not going to let go.

“What about when you aren’t safe?” Clark shakes his head, still backing away. “What about when I can’t find you?”

“You will, I trust you-“

“I almost didn’t-“

“But you did-“

“What if I don’t?” His voice is rising, and he’s taking another step away. “Broken hearts heal, I- I’m not God, darling, I can’t put you back together-“

“I already feel broken.” You whisper, and he freezes. “Please, Clark. Please. I- I can feel it here.” You point to the center of your chest. “So much of my life is you, you’re everywhere, I- I’m never going to be able to forget, please don’t make me-“

“I- I’d never make you-“

“So let me stay.” You plead, taking a small step forward. “I still love you, I- I’ll wait forever for you to love me again-“

“I never stopped.” He whispers. “I still love you, of course I still love you, I’ll never stop, you’re- You’re everything to me, but- If you get hurt-“

“I’ll be okay.”

“But-“

“I’m okay now.” You give him a sad smile. “With you. I- I need to remember, Clark. Please.” You take a ragged breath. “Tell me it’s real.”

Clark’s eyes flash, and he shifts on his feet for a second. 

Then he’s moving. 

Lunging forward, and pulling you into his arms.

Kissing you. Long and deep, like he’s never needed to breathe, and you’ve never needed to breathe either because this is better. This is warm and safe and cared for, and it’s all around you in a way you know so well. Your arm slots around his neck and you trace his face as you get lightheaded, because you could draw him in your sleep. 

And the kiss sends so much of it flooding back. Clark’s warm, and he smells like amber and wood. Tastes like sweet pastries and coffee. 

Feels like yours. 

“It’s real.” He mutters against your lips, and his voice in your head is as clear as the rest of him. 

“Clark…” You mumble, and he nods, smiling against your lips.

“You and me.” Clark whispers. 

He’s not letting go either. 

“It’s always been real.”

✦End note: Oh to love someone so much it physically cannot be erased. I'm very normal about memory fics, guys✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[livwtfhaha]

my both sets of cheeks are wet 😭😭😭

[godmadeaterribleerror]

There's Gonna Be Sunshine

✦Clark Masterlist - Read on a03! - Main Masterlist✦ ✦pairing: Clark Kent x female!reader✦ ✦summary: You meet Clark Kent and Superman within the same week. Fall for them at the same time. Then put two and two together, and realize that maybe for once, you can have a good thing.✦ ✦warnings/tags: civilian!reader, friends to lovers, insecurity, light angst, fluff, pining, shenanigans, love confessions, shameless smut (dry humping, slight body worship, dirty talk, fingering, p in v), no use of y/n✦ ✦author's note: This takes place in a alternate world where Clark and Lois just never happened, because I will not stand for girlboss slander. Enjoy!✦

It’s one of those warm night that makes everything wet. Sweat sticking under your clothing and hair to your brow. The ground slick with dew and making you trip every five steps. The fog so dense that seeing more than a foot in front of you is nothing short of a miracle. The city buzzing around you, but in nothing more than a hazy, neon glow. 

It’s rarer, in Metropolis, for these kinds of nights to happen. It’s something you’d expect from Gotham, or the upstate country sides. 

But it’s here, and you’re going to punch a brick wall. 

Walking alone is already something that sucks. Everyone tends to let their guard down and fuck around like idiots, thinking that Superman is just going to fall out of the sky and save them.

And he probably will.

But being saved by Superman is always a whole thing. People post a video of the rescues online if they can get one, and then suddenly you’re getting an exhaustive, unwelcome fifteen minutes of fame. The news wants to talk to you. Brands are reaching out to be sponsored by “Superman”—or at least someone who’s touched him, which they think is enough—and people are recreating your rescue as videos for clicks and likes. 

It sounds like a fucking nightmare. At least if you get mugged you only have to talk to insurance. 

And you’re not a helpless baby. You’re prepared, and alert, and lived in Gotham. Once a Poison Ivy burst into apartment, told you that your landlord had been secretly using doing illegal things with energy—either stealing it or using it too much, you hadn’t really been paying attention—and for some reason you had to die about it. 

Compared to that, one person with a gun and shine of desperation in their eyes wasn’t much to be afraid of. 

You’d be fine. 

So you walk home from work every night—a hand tight on your bag and eyes scanning around the dark—and it hasn’t gone wrong yet. 

But you also haven’t had a night like this one. 

And when you hear the click of a gun, from a darker alleyway to your side, you’re more disappointed than anything else. 

“Give- Lady, hey-“ A skinnier kid—with his hair ragged around his face and his fingers shaking slightly—slides out of the dark. “Stop walkin’, and give me your money.” 

You turn with a sigh, tilting your head at him and squinting through the dark. “Just my money?”

The kid blinks at you. “Yes?”

That’s easy then. “Alright.”

“Alright? You’re just-“ The kid frowns. “You’re going to give it to me?”

“Well, what happens if I don’t?”

“I shoot you through the head and take it anyway?”

You give him a pointed look, and the kid scowls, cocking the gun. 

“Are you trying to get smart with me, lady? That what this is? Some fucking mind trick?”

“Me?” You point at yourself in mock innocence, and shrug. “I would never. Do you want the coins as well?”

“I- Yeah.” The kid spits on your feet, and it seems more like a defensive mechanism than anything else. “Yes. Give me everything you’ve fucking got.” Then, as a last afterthought, he adds, “Bitch.”

“Hey.” You frown at him, hand stuck in your purse. “That’s pretty fucking rude. I’m being cooperative.”

The kid stares at you for a second, then shakes himself, raising the gun higher. “You got like a fuckin’ death wish, lady?”

“Not right now, no.”

“Jesus fucking- Stop being a bitch, and just give me your fuckin’-“

You never get to know exactly what the kid wanted you to do, because a lot of things happen at once. 

Superman drops out of the sky, landing between you and the kid. 

You grab your pepper spray out of the bad, using it liberally on the air and stepping off to the side, behind Superman’s back.

The kid fires his gun with a shout of pain as the chemicals hit him, hand blindly following your path behind Superman.

The shot echoes through the alley, making you wince slightly, but the bullet just crumples against Superman’s chest. The kid has ended up shaking and crying on the ground, the pepper spray quickly dissipating into the thick fog, and you sigh, tucking the empty container back into your bag. 

“Alright, buddy.” You step out from behind Superman with a frown, kneeling down at the kid’s side. “Let’s see who you are.”

You roll him over as he whines in pain, and makes a weak attempt to shove you away that you dodge. 

“Hey.” Superman’s voice cuts through the air, and it’s somehow deeper and higher than you thought it would be, all at once. You’ve heard him give interviews, in those on the street videos when someone gets lucky enough to corner him and ask for his favorite soup or whatever. In person, it feels slightly different. 

Less god-like. 

When you look up at him with a frown, he looking between you and the kid like he’s not quite sure what to do. 

“That’s pretty rude, trying to hit someone who’s helping you.” He says, taking a step forward towards the kid. “And you,” he turns, his eyes seeming to shine in the low, misting light as they land on you. “Pepper sprayed me.”

You shrug. “And? You’re fine.”

“You didn’t know I would be fine-“

“I didn’t know you’d be here.” You look back to the kid, who seems to have resorted to just curling into a little ball. “And he shot you, if we’re keeping count.”

“We’re, uh- Not.” Superman clears his throat, and you can hear him walking closer behind you. “You can go, ma’am. I’ll take it from here.”

“I’m okay, thanks.” You keep rolling the kid until he’s on his side, and you can pull out his wallet.

Superman freezes. “Miss, if you’re stealing from him I have to-“

“I’m not stealing from him.” You roll your eyes, and Superman pauses, before muttering-

“It sort of looks like you’re stealing from him.”

You hum, pulling out the thick card of the kid’s driver’s license, and holding it up to the light. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Superman coughs, not taking off into the night to look for more crime, for some reason. You’re not really sure what he’s still doing here at all. 

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step back, please. This man is in medical distress, and I need to get him to a hospital.”

“Don’t take him to the hospital.” You mutter, and Superman frowns, kneeling down across from you. 

“Listen, I understand that he just did something that caused you distress, but he’s still a person. He deserves the same care as anyone else, even if he’s made mistakes-“

“Yeah, I know that, dummy.” You roll your eyes, dropping the ID back into his wallet. “But this is a fake. And he doesn’t have an insurance card.”

Superman stares at you. “And?”

“He won’t be able to afford the hospital. This Fake ID is shit, he probably can’t even afford the pudding in the hospital cafeteria.” You tuck the man’s wallet back into his pants, then wrap your arms around his torso. “There’s a shelter, three blocks down. He should go there.”

You grunt, trying to drag him up, but you barely get him an inch off the ground before Superman’s jumping in, grabbing the man and pulling him into his arms, bridal style. 

“Three blocks down?” He asks you, and you nod, wiping your hands on your legs. 

“Yeah. Don’t tell them the mugging, though.”

“Why-“

“They’ll legally have to hand him over to the cops after.”

“And you… don’t want them to?”

“No.” You look up at Superman with a tight glare. “Do you?”

He’s not glaring at you. Superman is looking at you with an open, almost curious expression, his head titled to the side and lips in a strange sort of pout. 

It hits you a little like lightning, how he does look like only a man—he’s got all the fearless humans have—but there’s something more. His skin is clear, posture perfect, and in the glow of the streetlamps, there’s a strange sort of angelic halo around his body. 

And he’s handsome. 

You’ve seen photos. You watch the news. You’ve been at work and listened to the interns fawn about how hot Superman is, and how they hope they need help because they’d love to be saved by him, but it’s just different in person. Striking, a little mind numbing, and making your skin buzz because he’s staring at you. 

You wish he’d stop. It’s making you dizzy. 

“No.” He says softly. “I don’t.”

“Alright then.” You cross your arms, raising your chin at him. He doesn’t just get to make you feel gooey with his eyes. “We’re in agreement.”

Superman chuckles, and that just makes your face heat more. “Yeah, I guess we are. Would you like an escort home, ma’am?”

“A- What?”

“May I walk you home.” He holds your gaze, and you might be about to burst into flames. “We can drop this man off together. I don’t think it’s that safe for you to be walking alone at night, even in a city as nice as ours.”

You swallow. “I have pepper spray.”

“You have empty pepper spray. That can will be useless, and I think you know that.”

“Well, I-“ You scowl, adjusting your jacket and standing up a little. He’s so fucking tall. It’s hard to intimidate someone so stupidly tall. “I don’t live very far. I’ll be fine. Goodnight, Superman.”

He blinks at you, opening and closing his mouth once, then bows his head. “Goodnight, ma’am.”

Part of you wants him to stop calling you ma’am. You’re not a fucking ma’am, even if the gentleness and respect in his voice is making you feel even more lightheaded. 

So you turn on your heels, and march out of the alley like nothing ever happened at all.

But you can still feel it. 

Superman’s gaze. 

When you glance over your shoulder—because you’re an idiot—he’s watching you walk away, the fog almost seeming to part just long enough for your eyes to connect, before he vanishes into the dark.

———

“You can’t say that.” One of your co-workers mutters, crossing out something on the paper before looking up at you with a sigh of your name. “You know you can’t say that. Last time Ms. Lane had to stop you from saying it. Do you know how bad it has to be for her to do that?”

You shrug, rocking the chair the chair your foot is resting on back and forth. “That’s not my fault, I didn’t make her.”

“You’re dodging the question.” Your coworker gives you a flat look, and you just smile in return.

“I’ve never dodged a question in my life.”

She sighs your name again, and shakes her head. “Just- don’t say it. We’ll get sued into the next century, you know that, and Luther doesn’t fuck around-“

“I don’t fuck around.” You mutter, spinning your pen in your hands. “And you know we’d win if we tried. It’s not defamation if it’s true, and his reputation is already so damaged he’d have no proof that my remarks caused his stocks to tank lower than hell-“

“Just don’t say it. Please.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. I won’t say the factually correct thing about how Luther is such a pathetic man-baby he’s been keeping a harem of ex-girlfriends, and everything he says about Superman is just what’s true about himself, he just can’t see it because whenever he looking in the mirror because he only sees the glare of his bald head.”

Your coworker sighs, right as the door pushes open. “Thank you for not saying it.” 

“Listen, I’m so sorry I’m late.” A large, dark haired man with glasses and sharp jawline drops across from you, chair spinning as he gives you an apologetic look. “I just lost track of the time, thought this floor was the next floor, and- Gosh, I’m so sorry, I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”

You frown at him, opening your mouth, but your words die as he stares at you. He’s acting like he’s looking at a ghost, with wide eyes and a startled flinch. He’s still holding his briefcase, grip white-knuckled, and your frown deepens. 

Your co-worker clears her throat, and the man’s attention shoots away from a second. 

It leaves you oddly cold. 

“We haven’t been waiting long at all, Mr. Kent.” She gives the man a sweet smile, and he returns it in a second. “You actually just gave us enough time to finish our briefing.”

“Oh, well, that’s good, isn’t it?” He looks to you with another nervous expression, pushing his glasses up his nose, and your frown deepens. “Are you ready then, miss?”

“She’s all yours.” Your co-worker beams, shooting to her feet, and right before she leaves the conference room, you get a firm glare and a mouthed don’t fucking say it. 

You ignore her. You’re not going to say it. And if you do, it will be naturally in the conversation, wherever it may come up.

The man is fumbling, across the table. Pulling out his notebook and laptop with clumsy hands, clearing his throat and straightening his tie, shooting you an nervous look every few moments, as if you’re going to jump across the table and bite him or something. 

You lean forward, tilting your head, and he sits up straight. 

“It’s nice to meet you, miss-“

“You’re not Lois.” You say, voice flat, and his ears turn red. 

“Lois is, uh- She’s busy.”

“Busy?”

“Sick.” He mutters, pushing up his glasses again. “She caught something, in that bad weather we’ve been having. She’s very sorry she can’t make it, though.” He gives you a small, charming smile. “Gave me a whole speech about how you’re her favorite, and if I mess this up, she’ll strangle me.”

You hum, scanning over him wordlessly. It’s a strategy that works with almost everyone, staying silent until they get uncomfortable and blurt something. Something that, usually, tells you enough about them to sketch out a picture that lets you color in the lines how you want. When you’d used it on Lois, she’d stared back at you before asking if you were trying to intimidate her. When you’d met the Boravian president, he’d asked if they’d sent a mute to interview him and make him look like some sort of fool. 

This man—Kent, your co-worker had called him—is just staring at you right back. Not uncomfortably, but silently. He’s fiddling with his pen and holding your gaze, waiting for you to break the silence. 

You never break the silence. That’s losing. 

Kent doesn’t seem like he’s trying to win, though. He just seems like he’s trying to be polite. 

And after about five minutes of staring at each other in silence, he clears his throat, and frowns at you. 

“Do you want some water? Or to call Lois? She can vouch for me, I promise.” He chuckles. “Actually, she’ll probably say I’m an okay journalist, and that I’m asking the questions she wrote.” He pauses, then holds up his notepad. “I am asking the questions she wrote. If that makes this better.”

It doesn’t.

But now you know what Kent is like. 

Polite, gentle, kind. 

You can work with that.

“I’m good, thank you.” You give him a sweet, slightly mocking smile, and he returns it with the same charming grin from before. 

It’s throwing you off. You can’t be cool and collected and sharp, here. With Lois it’s like sparring. 

With Kent, it’s just making you feel like a bitch. 

“Great, then are we ready to- Oh shoot, Wait-“ He reaches back into his bag, then pulls out a tape recorder with a sheepish grin. “Almost forgot. Gosh, Lois would’ve killed me.” He places the recorder between you, and gives you another nervous grin. “Now, are you ready to get started?”

You nod, and he hits the record button. You’re silent as he rattles off the date and time, who you are—top human right lawyer, heavily involved in negotiations with the United Sates government about aide to Jarhanpur and immigration protections of Jarhanpurian refugees—and who he is. 

Clark Kent. Reporter for the Daily Planet, sitting down for a conversation about the recent developments with Lex Luther using surveillance technology to tip off Immigration authorities about illegal refugees. 

He gives you another handsome smile, before he asks the first question. You just stare at him. He doesn’t get to use his pretty face to throw you off your game. 

“So,” he glances down at his notepad, then back to you. “You’re suing the United States government for unconstitutional detainment of Jarhanpurian journalist, claiming they were both complicit in and knowingly funded the unlawful imprisonment that goes against their first amendment right to free press. Is this correct?”

You nod. “Yes, Mr. Kent, it is.”

“Great. Um-“ He flips his notepad, squinting at the words. “The United States had claimed that they had no knowledge of Luther’s methods, and says that they never once paid him to contain a private American citizen. They also stated that, if they did use Luther to hold someone, they were not aware that their funding for his research was helping him to contain people for other countries. So…” He gives you another nervous smile. “What do you say to that?”

“I say that the government is not known for being truthful about their dealings, Mr. Kent.” You raise your brows at him. “At the very least, we know they paid to have Luther contain Superman. That alone indicates that they were aware of the security of his pocket dimension. And I also happen to have several victims of the holding, all legal immigrants from Jarhanpur who were critics of Boravia, who were kept in Luther’s harem jail.”

Kent frowns at you. “Harem jail?”

Shit. “There have been allegations that he used it imprison ex-girlfriends.”

“So you…” Kent’s lips twitch. “Call it a harem jail?”

“Yep.” You give him a challenging look. “And?”

“Nothing.” He looks down at his paper again, ears red. “Just sort of graphic, I think.”

“Graphic-“

“But funny.” He gives you a small grin, pushing up his glass again. “I think it’s funny.”

There’s a fuzzy, warm feeling, over your skin. You don’t fucking appreciate it. “Oh. Thanks.”

He grins. “No problem. Uh- Right. There we were-“

Kent keeps asking you Lois’ questions, and while he doesn’t really have the edge that works you both up until she asks a hard hitter and you knock it out of the park, he’s not the worst to work with. He doesn’t fuck up the questions. He asks a few follow ups about crime rates and the responsibility of the United States to regulate business’. He even asks a pretty good question about the ethics Luther using federal funding when he’s a billionaire, and seems to have come up with it himself. 

He’s certainly better than almost any male journalist you’ve worked with. He doesn’t talk over you, or question your qualifications, or do anything but listen and nod like you’re saying something fascinating. You’re really not. You’re using words that are too big and talking too fast and discussing the constitution, one of the most boring topics of conversation. 

But he’s still looking at you as if you’re doing Circe de Solie tricks in this bland little conference room. 

He laughs at a few of your jokes, and it makes you buzz again. 

At one point, you go to the bathroom, and when you get back he’s gotten you both cups.

You lean over it, then look back up to Kent. “What’s this?”

“Uh- Water?” He glances down at the cup, then you. “I figured after going to the bathroom, you might need to stay hydrated.”

That’s such a strangely fucking good thing to do. It’s making your heart beat too fast. “And if I say I just took a shit?”

Kent blinks. “I can get you a snack?”

You snort, and that seems to make him relax again. His shoulder slump and his eyes fucking sparkle like a cartoon character, when you take a sip of his water. 

He’s like a fucking puppy turned into a human. You might be able to see his tail wagging. 

“Alright, Kent.” You set the water down. “Let’s keep-“

“Clark.” He says suddenly, wincing to himself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you but- Clark is alright. You can call me Clark.”

You stare at him, and he turns a little red. 

“It’s my first name.”

“Yeah, I figured out that one myself.” 

“Oh. Okay. Good.” He looks back down to his notepad, adjusting his tie like it’s burning him through the suit. “So- Next question is- Oh this is a good one. I mean, it’s rougher, but Lois told me you’re… Uh-“ He turns red again. “Never mind-“

“No.” You cut him off, leaning forward. “You don’t get to say Lois called me something then not tell me. What.”

He won’t look you in the eyes. “Just that you’re a little bit of a masochist. And that you were going to be… vulgar enough to make me blush.”

You laugh, soft and through your nose, and Clark looks at you nervously. “That’s it?”

“Uh- Yeah?”

“That’s nothing,” you wave him off, leaning back in your chair. “I thought you were going to say she called me a cunt or something.”

Clark gapes at you. “Gosh, no, she adores you. Told me she’d strangle me, if I messed it up-“

“I know.” 

He frowns. “How?”

“You told me earlier.”

“Oh. I did, didn’t I. Darn it.” He gives you another nervous smile. “Sorry about that. Did I tell you about how she also said she’d dump boiling soup on me? And that it was the soup I made her.”

You smile, and it feels a little too wide and toothy, but Clark doesn’t move away. “No, you didn’t.”

“Well, she did. And I don’t think she’d ever call you a- That. You don’t seem like one at all?”

You raise your brows. “I don’t?”

“No, you seem like a… Ah- A really lovely lady.”

It’s hard not to laugh at that, even if Clark looks genuinely confused by your reaction.

“Okay, Kent-“

“Clark.” He corrects with a mumble, eyes bright and almost curious on yours, and now you feel warm. 

“Clark.” You keep it together. He does not get to fuck you up. “What’s the good questions.”

“Right. Sorry, um-“ His eyes dart down to the notepad. “A lot of people are worried that by letting Jarhanpurian citizens and journalists into the country, we’re taking away jobs away from American’s and giving these immigrants shelter when they only bring danger. What would you like to say, to American’s who believe that?”

“That our country is built on the backs of immigrants.” You answer smoothly. “And the idea that they only bring danger is a frighteningly xenophobic myth that’s simply easy to believe. Lex Luther is an American citizen, and he nearly split Metropolis in half. Superman is, in all essence of the law, an illegal immigrant, and he’s saved countless lives. It’s the person, not their origin or government, who decides what they are. And the Jarhanpurian refugees have come here to be the good, strong and kind people they want to be. It is our job to protect them, and so far, we are the ones who have failed.”

Clark stares at you for a long, strange moment as your answer hangs in the air. For a second, you think he’s going to argue, or offer a counter question. 

Instead he just clears his throat, turns off the recorder, and smiles at you. 

“Thank you for talking to me,” he says your name with a warm smile, and the air feeling strangely light, when you take his hand. 

It’s big and warm. 

You have to bit your tongue as he smiles, because it’s making you want to smile back.

And when Clark walks away after a few more formal pleasantries, you’re just standing in the center of the room. He’s said your name in a deep, rich way that made your heart skip and breath hitch. He’d grinned and you’d felt warm, like a fucking idiot. Your goddamn knees feel sort of weak, because you’d been able to feel his heat from across the table. 

Or that’s just still in you. Burning up from where your hands had connected, and through your whole body. 

It’s a good thing you’ll probably never have to see him again. 

You never want to feel that soft and dizzy, for a long, long time.

———

There’s a thud on the pavement behind you, and you don’t think before you react.

Your hand shoots into your purse, wrapping around your pepper spray, and you turn on your heels. 

Right before you spray it, a big hand wraps around your wrist, and Superman takes the can from you with a small frown. 

“Sorry.” He lets go of your wrist. “You just got it replaced, and I didn’t want you to use it for no reason. I’ve heard those things are expensive.”

They are. 

You still scowl at him. 

“Are you stalking me?”

He blinks, eyes widening. “No, I’m not. Swear on it. Superman’s honor.”

He places a hand over his heart with a grin, and you frown at him. 

“It’s scouts honor.”

“I was never a scout, miss.” He gives you a small grin. “I don’t want to dishonor their badge.”

“Their scout badge?”

He nods, and you huff in amusement, shoving the pepper spray into your purse.

“Sure. Why not.”

“Well, those boys work very hard-“

“Most of them are rich kids whose parents can afford scouts.” You say dryly, and Superman frowns at the air. 

“Huh. I suppose you’re right about that.”

 “I know I’m right about it.” You wrap your arms around your stomach, frowning at him. “If you’re not stalking me, what are you doing here.”

“I’m… checking on you.” He gives you a bright, charming grin. “Just making sure you’re holding up well, after last week. Seeing if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

“To help me.” You narrow your eyes, and he keeps grinning. 

“I think so. Doesn’t seem to be anyone else.”

You hum, staring at him, and he just stares right back. 

It’s too long, that it takes him to break. And he breaks just like Clark Kent did, yesterday. Not with a nervous expression or uncomfortable shift. 

Just with worry. Which makes you feel fuzzy. 

Jesus fucking Christ, you can’t handle doing this twice. 

“Are you feeling safe, walking home? Would you want- Maybe have a driver?”

“Could you get me a driver?”

“No.” He gives you another smile, and now you feel gooey. “But I could walk you home. To make you feel safe.”

“Hm.” You raise your chin, and he quickly adds. “Do you do that for everyone whose muggings you crash?”

“I mean, normally people call it saving.” He frowns, and you scoff. 

“You didn’t save me. I was fine.”

“No- I mean, yes, you were, but I still helped.”

“How?”

Superman blinks at you. “I carried the guy. He’s okay, by the way, in case you were worried-“

“I wasn’t.” You shrug, holding his gaze. “I checked on him in the morning.”

“Oh. Good. Of course you did.”

Of course you did. 

He says it like it’s a fact. He doesn’t even fucking know you. 

“What does that mean-“

“Do you want me to walk- Sorry.” Superman sighs as you speak over each other, bowing his head. “You first.”

You stare at him, scanning over handsome features in the dark, and there’s something. It’s scratching at the back of your head, and it doesn’t have a voice yet, but it’s there. He’s being too kind, it’s odd. And he’s making your head feel a little light, and maybe you need to call the Metropolis facilities department, because there must be something in the water if you’re feeling this way twice in a week. 

“Are you actually going to walk me home?” You ask, trying to make your voice venomous, the kind of predator’s warning that makes people back away and leave you to keep walking, alone in the dark.

If you succeed, it doesn’t seem to work on Superman. 

“If you want me to, yes, I will.” He smiles at you, and it seems to light up the whole street. 

You can’t look at it too long. Your knees will start to feel weak. 

“Alright. Fine.” You turn on your heels, not looking back. “Let’s go.”

“Let’s- Okay. Let’s go.” Superman echoes your words, quickly catching up to walk at your side. 

You walk in silence for a few minutes, and it’s the kind of silence that leaks. That makes everything else feel bigger and quieter, until your breathing is shallower and your skin is prickling, and if there’s not something to fill up the creaks and horns of the night, you’re going to lose your fucking mind. 

Superman isn’t even doing anything to make it worse. He’s just walking at a respectful distance next to you, looking around the streets like it’s all the most interesting thing he’s ever seen, and you want to punch him in the face.

“Is this all you do?” You blurt, and he looks at you with a curious expression.

“No? I mean, sometimes I fly-“

“Not walk.” You sigh, looking back out into the night. “Like- Aren’t there robberies and murders for you to be stopping?”

He pauses, tilts his head, then clicks his tongue. “I can’t hear any, no.”

“Can’t hear any.” You mutter under your breath, and he shrugs. 

“Well, I have super senses, including hearing, and-“

“I know about the hearing, Supes. I just think it’s ridiculous.”

Superman blinks at you. “I- Ridiculous seems like a strong word-“

“It’s just- It’s not ridiculous. Well, it is, but-“ You sigh, glaring down at your nails like it’s their fault you’re fucking up your words around the pretty alien. “It’s crazy. To be able to hear a robbery across the city.”

“I can’t control it-“

“I know.” You shrug. “It’s just hard to imagine. I think it would overwhelm me, and I’d put a screwdriver through my head.”

“Oh.” Superman chuckles, and it’s a deep, low sound that feels like it fucking rolls through the night, and vibrates in your chest. “It can get overwhelming, I suppose. It’s just how I always am. Always have been.” He pauses, and you can feel his attention. “For me, not being to hear everything sounds terrifying.”

You hum. “Have you ever heard people have like- The loudest fucking sex?”

He coughs, and when you look over, his ears seem a little red. “Yes, but- I’ve sort of learned to tune out the grosser things.”

“Right.” You pause, then frown at him. “Do you poop?”

“Do I poop?”

“You’re Kryptonian, I don’t know how your bodily functions work.”

“They’re mostly similar to humans.” He says, amusement obvious in his voice. “Almost entirely similar, actually.”

You nod, looking back ahead. “So you do poop.”

“Yes. I poop.”

“Fascinating. I have a reporter friend.” You grin to yourself. “I’m going to sell that fact to her for a million dollars.”

Superman laughs again. He needs to stop doing that. “Something tells me she won’t be interested in that scoop.”

There’s a long beat, and you look back to see him grinning at you, wide and proud. 

You groan. 

“That’s fucking horrible.”

“You smiled-“

“I did not-“

“Yes, you did. I saw it. It was on your face, and it was a smile.”

“On my face is where all smiles happen- And it wasn’t a smile.” You glare at him, stopping in your tracks. “That was an awful joke. Zero out of ten.”

Superman mock flinches. “Ouch. That low?”

“Yeah. You should be sent to space jail.” You glance behind you. “And- This is me.”

“Oh.” He looks at the building, then back to you. “And you’re not just pretending it’s your building because of what just happened?”

That time, you do actually smile. “No, I’m not.”

He nods, then gives you another one of those knee-weakening smiles. “Well then, have a good night…”

There’s a long silence, and you never told him your fucking name. 

You do, with your arms crossed over your chest, and he echoes it back. 

Your stupid heart skips. 

And he waits for you to go inside, before he takes off. Waits all the way until you’re in your apartment, and you lean out the window to wave at him mockingly, because he can hear you. He knows you’re inside. 

He waves, grins at you, and shoots off into the night 

You stand stupidly at the window, for a moment. 

It’s just bad luck, twice in one week. Kent and Superman, making your breath hitch and body warm. It probably really is just something in the water. 

So you close the curtains, and just pray this isn’t the kind of thing that comes in threes.

———

Someone shouts your name, and you’re not fast enough to dive behind the potted plant and make them think you pulled a magic trick.

You don’t want to talk to anyone. It’s too early to speak, too public to have to play nice about everything, too loud to do anything but press yourself against the wall of the little cafe and drink your coffee. 

They haven’t even gotten your muffin yet. 

You just want your fucking muffin. 

Instead you have to just stare at the floor, hoping your lack of acknowledgment will make whoever knows you here think you have headphones in or something. 

It almost works. 

The person says your name again, then pauses. “I think she can’t hear me?”

“I, uh- I’m not sure.” Another voice—this one sending warm little shivers through your body, and Jesus Christ not again—mutters, a little lower than the first. “I think she just doesn’t want to be bothered, Jimmy.”

“Really? No, I think she can’t hear me.” Jimmy repeats your name, touching your shoulder lightly, and now you have to pretend you never heard him in the first place. 

You look up with what had to be a horribly fake expression of surprise, your fingers curling on your coffee cup. “Oh. Hi, Jimmy, when did you get here?”

Fuck, that’s such a bad fucking lie. Somehow, Jimmy, with his million-dollar toothy grin and sweet freckled face, is buying it. 

The guy standing over his shoulder, who gave you those stupid shivers, looks a little less convinced. Mostly nervous, like he’s caught the lie but doesn’t really want to fucking do anything about it. 

And the good news is, these things don’t come in threes. 

The bad news is, they come in two that just keep fucking popping up in your life. Like tall, hot weeds with puppy faces and deep voices and probably abs, given how he’s filling out that shirt. 

You stare at Clark Kent. 

He stares back at you, face a little red and mouth hanging slightly open. 

“Hi.” You say, voice a little blanker and awestruck than you wanted—it doesn’t crack, but it does have a breathlessness that you don’t really fucking appreciate—and his smile is small, but genuine. 

Which is really fucking annoying. 

“Hey. I, uh- I like your pants.” He pushes his glass up his nose, still smiling at you, and Jimmy groans. 

“Jesus, Clark, we gotta work on your compliments, Buddy.” He gives you an apologetic look. “Sorry, he was raised in a barn. He only knows how to flirt with like, cows. I’m working on it.”

Clark turns a shade of red that’s almost impressive, right as your face heats, and before either of you can protest, Jimmy’s pushing on.

“We have so much to catch up on, I was going to ask Lois to have you come out with us, but then she went and got herself sick. Which was really annoying because I had to deal with Clark’s twenty questions about interviewing, something he’s supposed to already know how to do.”

“I don’t usually do high profile people.” Clark mumbles, and Jimmy gives him a flat look. 

“You interview Superman, dude.”

“Well, uh- That’s different? He’s a chill guy, all he does is like, save squirrels, that’s different than law stuff.” He grins at you again, and it’s still charming and attractive and dumb. “Your stuff is smarter. Above the Superman league.”

You can’t stop from smiling back. It’s not fair, how he does that. Maybe he’s a secretly meta with the ability to make people smile. 

“That’s a little better, buddy.” Jimmy claps Clark back on the back, and it somehow manages to make the tower of a man stumble slightly. “See, my classes are working! Soon we’re going to have you on these streets, picking up ladies left and right.”

Clark sighs, shooting you a nervous look. “Jimmy, I’ve told you I don’t- That’s not what I’m trying to-“  

“You don’t have to try, Clark. I mean,” he says your name, and it can’t take this long to get you a muffin. “Look at this face. I know I’d kiss it-“

“How do you get your interviews with Superman?” You raise your voice over Jimmy—this really isn’t a conversation you want to have right now—and Clark stares at you.

“What, uh- What do you mean? I just- We’ve built a relationship, that’s it-“

“Like how do you find him.” You keep our voice steady and bored. “Does he just appear on the street next to you? Or have, like- A key to your apartment?”

Jimmy snorts. “I don’t think Clark is dating Superman, if that’s what you’re getting out. Our guy is way out of that Kryptonian’s league. 

Clark blushes again “Well, I- Uh- I don’t think that’s true-“

“Do you call for him? Does he have a phone number?” You keep pushing, and Clark shakes his head. 

“No- I mean- Yes-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “He doesn’t have a phone number, but I just sort of call for him, and he hears me and shows up.”

Jimmy’s eyes widen. “Oh, cool. Can I be there next time you call for him?”

“Well- He doesn’t like other people being there. For security. One at a time.”

You frown. “He’s bulletproof, why does he need security?”

Clark stares at you. “That’s- A really good question. I’ll be sure to ask him next time.”

There’s a long silence, as you and Clark stare at each other, ended only by the barista calling your name for your muffin. 

You promise Jimmy that you’ll go out for drinks with him, before you walk away. 

You can feel Clark’s warm, curious stare, all the way until you walk outside. 

And it might be branded on you, because you feel it a long while after as well. 

———

“Superman?”

You call up to the sky, and you’re met with only whistling wind and the distance sound of car horns.

“Superman!” You raise your voice, wrapping your arms around your stomach to stop the chill of the wind, and still nothing. 

You’re alone. You’re calling him, like Clark does. And unless he’s already forgotten you, he has to be at least curious what you’re doing on the roof, calling his name. 

But there’s nothing. Not even a whoosh or streak of red in the distance, showing you that he’s busy or circling around you like a bird or something.

“Superman, can you please-“ You sigh. This is so fucking stupid. “Can you come here, please?”

Silence. 

You walk slowly to the edge of the roof, frowning out over the city skyline, and nothing’s even attacking right now. It’s not like he has a fucking day job to be occupied with, he’s Superman. 

And it’s pretty fucking rude that he’ll show up for Clark and not you.

Your gaze slowly falls down, to the people rushing past on the pavement below you, smaller than ants. And you have an idea. It’s bad idea, and he’ll probably be really pissed at you, but it’s also an effective idea.

You drum your fingers on the railing, trying to weigh how important this is. In the grand scheme of the universe, not worth throwing yourself off a building for. In terms of all the people relying on you to win this case, absolutely worth throwing yourself off a building. And it’s not like you’ll die. Superman will save you. 

“Please don’t do that.”

You whip around, squeaking in surprise, and stumble a step back. There’s a split second where your balance is gone, and you’re falling backwards, and God, that was a horrible idea and now you’re going to die because you’re a dramatic idiot- 

But there’s a whoosh. 

And a strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you quickly upright before you can topple off the edge. 

Superman grins down at you, keeping you pressed against him, and your hands somehow ended up flat on his chest. He feels strong, under the suit. And you’re really not cold anymore, because he’s like a person fucking furnace. 

A furnace with a nice smile and kind eyes and a little curl falling over his forehead that makes him look like an old movie star. 

You’re staring at him. Your heart is going to fast, and there’s the buzzing feeling again, and you’re not sure you’re going to be able to keep your balance by yourself. His proximity is making you drunk, and it’s not fair-

“Who’s stalking who now?” He says, voice rumbling through your chest, and you flush. 

“Shut up.” You push him away, and he releases you in second. 

His hand lingers on your forearm. To help you get upright. 

Only to help you get upright. Nothing else. 

He does not get to turn you into a fucking idiot, any more than he already has. 

“I need to talk to you.” Arms cross over your chest. Chin raised. Voice firm. You’re going to win this conversation. 

Superman just nods, still smiling. “Yeah, I think I figured that out myself. You know, you really don’t have to jump off a roof, I was on my way.”

Shit. “I wasn’t-“

“I think you were, but if you say you weren’t, okay. I believe you.”

“Well- I wasn’t.”

“Okay.” He shrugs, still fucking smiling, and he needs to stop being so kind. It’s making you feel more things you don’t have time for. “What did you need me for, so badly you weren’t going to jump off a roof?”

You flush. “I want to ask you questions. About being an immigrant.”

He raises his brows. “Oh? Like what?”

“Your experience. What it feels like not having a home to return to, or being divorced from the governmental ideals of your home. What you’re grateful for, what you’re not grateful. What you wish would change, what you think America needs to improve on. Why you stay here, when you of all people could feasibly go anywhere in the world.” 

Superman blinks. “Well, for the last one, this is my home. And it’s not perfect, but I have no wish to be anywhere else.”

“I know that. But a lot of other people are in similar shoes, and having Superman echo their thoughts and sentiments would be good to hear. Plus you hold a lot of public sway.”

“I didn’t know you were a journalist,” he says your name with small laugh, and you shrug. 

“It’s testimony. Are you going to answer my questions, or do I need to jump off the roof.”

“I’ll answer them. They’re smart questions, and anything to help people in my position. But…” Superman pauses, watching you with a strange expression, then lets out a long breath. “You never need to jump off a roof for my attention.”

It’s like he punched you in the fucking gut. You blink, pressing your lips in a tight line as your heart stumbles and your breath becomes shallow, the heat moving down to your lower gut. He can’t just say things like that while looking at you and being so kind. You’re not going to jump off the roof, you’re going to do something stupider, like trying to kiss Superman on his pretty, full mouth that says such sweet things. 

You need to calm the fuck down. You’ve met him three times, and this is nothing more than a professional interview.

You can’t kiss Superman. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You drawl, pulling out your phone to record. 

He just nods, and takes a step forward. If you wanted to, you could reach out and poke his chest. There’s heat, radiating off his body again. 

Calm the fuck down. 

You’re not going to make a habit of calling for him. If this goes well, you’ll have everything you need from Superman, and you can go back to living a quiet, long, focused life. 

Alone. 

Without any stupid, kind puppy-men making you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’d like to let everything crumble down and just be warm. 

———

You turn the corner too fast. Slam right into a large, broad chest with a squeak.

A strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you quickly to your feet. There’s a strangely familiar feeling to it, that your slightly addled brain—a little from shame, a little from drinking—can’t quite place. 

Then you look up, and it would be nice to burst into flames, or melt into the ground. 

Clark Kent is blinking down at you, and he looks almost unfairly good in a suit. You don’t know why a journalist works out so much—and he doesn’t seem like the type to be a gym rat—but his muscles are almost pushing out of his dress shirt, and you can feel them under your fingers where you’ve grabbed his shirt, and why are his eyes so blue. 

“Hi.” He says your name, glancing down to where your bodies are pressed together, before back to you with a small blush. “You look nice.”

You do look nice. You spent three hours today, making sure you looked nice for the fancy gala. At least five people have told you that you look nice since you got here, because you’d put so much fucking effort into it, it’s a little impossible not to notice. 

For some reason, it wasn’t the appreciative look from Bruce Wayne and smirk—his hand brushing over your lower back and eyes hooded with desire—that got your to feel like you were glowing. 

It’s Clark, and his stupid, honey-like voice that’s getting under your skin. You look nice. He thinks you look nice. Enough to say it so truly, as if it’s just a fact of the universe. With a gentle element of kindness, like he’s acknowledging all that work it took you to get here. 

With his red ears, like you look so nice it’s doing something to him. 

Which isn’t fair.

“You look nice, as well.” You manage to get out, and he grins. 

“Thanks. I mean, it’s nothing really. Less expectations for me, I think.” He helps you to your feet, before taking a carefully step back. “I’m not giving the big speech tonight.”

“Oh, well- Yeah.” You try to smile back. It’s too easy. “Do you think you could, though? In my place?”

Clark laughs, and there it goes again. Making you feel like you’re fucking shining. “I would, but I don’t think I can trick people into thinking I’m you.”

“Not with that attitude you can’t.”

“I think it’s a little more than the attitude. I don’t have your gravity.” He gives you another small smile, and before you can ask what the fuck that means, he’s holding out your champagne flute. “I caught this, by the way. But- If you’re giving your speech, maybe go easy?” He blushes, shaking his head. “Not that I’m telling you what to do. You- If this is like, your process. Do your process.”

You blink at him, then the champagne. You’re not sure how the fuck he caught it and you, without spilling a single drop. 

And when you take it back, you’re fingers brush, and fucking electrically shoots through your whole body. 

You down the rest of the champagne in one swig, and Clark gapes at you.

“It is my process.” You mumble, carefully wiping your chin. “It’s called get buzzed so I forget people are looking at me.”

Clark chuckles, glancing at your glass. “Do you, uh- Do you want me not to look at you? While you’re talking? If that helps?”

“Yes. Close your eyes for the whole speech.” You sigh, spinning the flute between your fingers, and Clark nods. 

“Okay. But- I think you’re going to great no matter what. You’re good at talking and- Um- Captivating.”

Melting is back on the table. You feel a little dizzy. “Captivating?”

Clark nods, fidgeting with his tie. “I mean, you’re passionate. Makes me- And, uh, everyone else- Makes us like listening to you.”

“Oh.” You swallow. “Okay.”

This is too nice. You’re going to fly out of your skin if you don’t shift it. And Clark is opening his mouth, probably so say something else that’s sweet, so you blurt the first thing that comes to mind. 

“Do you have any pets?”

“Uh-“ Clark blinks at you, then nods slowly. “Not really, no. My cousin has a dog that I watch sometimes, but that’s about it.”

You nod, looking down to your shoes. Looking him in the eyes feels dangerous. “Is it a cute dog?”

“Yeah, but he’s also….” Clark pauses, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Rowdy. Do you have any pets?”

“No.” 

“Oh. Okay. Um- Do you like pets.” 

“Of course I like pets.” You frown at him. “My apartment just doesn’t allow them, so- I mean, I guess I sort of do have a cat, but she lives with my mom.”

Clark’s face lights up slightly. “You have a mom?”

“Yes? Most people do, I think, even if it’s just like a donor-“

“No, I meant like- Do you get to see her a lot?” He clears his throat, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves. “Like, does she live in the city?”

“No, but- She’s not far.” You pause, and either the drinks or Clark’s presence are loosening your tongue, because you add, “I’m from Gotham. And I’ve told her to come here like- A lot. But she doesn’t want to leave home.”

“Oh.” Clark nods. “That makes sense. Not her refusing to leave but- I mean, that makes sense as well, it is her home, and I don’t think you could drag my parents from their farm. But they don’t live in Gotham, they’re in, uh- Kansas. I’m from Kansas. And you’re from Gotham. Which is what makes sense.”

You stare at him, and he coughs, giving you a smaller, slightly ashamed smile. It’s impossibly fucking endearing. 

“It makes sense that I’m from Gotham?” You finally say, and he nods. 

“You’re tough.”

That makes you flush. Which isn’t fair. “What’s your cousin’s dog’s name?”

“Kr- Oco.”

You frown. “Kroco?”

“Coco.” He says quickly, taking a small step forward. “What about your cat?”

“Godzilla.”

Clark laughs again. “That’s a good name.”

“Thank you.” You’re smiling again, and you can’t even bring yourself to look at your shoes. “I came up with it.”

“I bet you did.”

You don’t get to know what that means. You want to. So fucking bad. You want to understand why Clark is saying so many nice things and why he’s so handsome and why he’s still talking to you. At no point has he tried to end the conversation and escape. He just kept grinning and talking and saying nice things, right up until one of your co-workers comes up behind you and drags you away for the speech.

And when you’re giving it, it’s impossibly easy to find Clark in the crowd. 

Towards the back, somehow shining to through the glare of the spotlights. 

Eyes squeezed shut the whole time.

———

You have the willpower of a sheep on cocaine.

Already easy to herd. 

Very easily baited by more cocaine. 

Cocaine being a handsome superhero, who you haven’t been able to shake since you shouted for him on a roof.

It started the night after the Gala. You’d walked home you with skirt hiked up and jewelry left upstairs in your office—because you’re not a fucking idiot—and Superman had dropped out of the sky with his stupid smile. 

“Do I need to wait for you to get mugged again, to say you shouldn’t walk alone at night?”

You’d laughed softly, and kept walking right past him. “Are you going to let me get mugged?”

“No, that’s why I’m here now. Offering my escort services to ladies in need.”

That had gotten you to stop. You’d had to. 

You’d started laughing so hard that if you didn’t, you would have fucking fallen over. 

Superman had stared at you with a bemused smile, taking a half-step forward, like he was worried you’d been hit with something. 

He’d said your name slowly, and you’d shaken your head, still giggling.

“God, that- That’s-“ You’d snorted, and he’d reached for you carefully. 

“Are you-“

“I’m fine, dude, that’s just- I can’t believe people thought you have a harem.”

He’d frowned. “Well, I don’t-“

“Yeah, I know.” You’d laughed again, and he’d frowned.

“I’m sorry, I just- I’m not quite sure what the joke is.”

You’d drawn back up, giving him an amused look. “What do you think an escort service is?”

Superman had blinked. “I’m going to walk you home.”

“Wrong. You handsome, sweet alien, that is so wrong.”

He’d—impossibly—stood a little taller. “Handsome?”

Shit. “Yeah, pretty boy. You’ve got a nice face.” You’d doubled down like it was nothing, and it had seemed to be an effective strategy. “You know that. People make thirst edits of you on the internet.”

“They do?” 

“Oh.” You’d beamed at him. “I have so much to show you.”

And every night after that, he’d walked you home. It’s an effective system. You show him the online form that’s dedicated to trying to convince to actually form a Harem, and he gets to make sure you’re never mugged. You wave to him from the window—which is far too romantic, yet you can’t stop doing it—and then he grins at you, and blasts up, up, and away. There are a few nights that he misses, but there’s always a sticky note on your fire escape saying dragon trying to burn down the harbor, see you tomorrow, with a little smiley face. 

You’re keeping them in your nightstand. And it’s not like anyone is going to find them anyway, so that’s not pathetic. 

But it might make you a bad person. 

Because you’re putting them right next to the other thing in your nightstand. 

The second dose of cocaine. 

Clark won’t stop popping up either. And it doesn’t start in the same seeking you out way that it does with Superman, but it builds faster. Into something more. Something bigger than you might be able to handle. 

It starts shows up for drinks, with Lois and Jimmy. Which should be nothing. 

But the universe is out to get you. So it’s everything. 

“I’m so glad he didn’t scare you off.” Lois said with a dramatic sigh, setting down her beer. “You’re my favorite person to interview.”

Jimmy had frowned. “Why, because you don’t get to interview a lot of women?”

“No, Jimmy, I interview plenty of women. It’s just- The unfortunate thing about most of the women in power right now is-“

“They’re all fucking cunts.” You’d finished for her, and Clark and Jimmy had choked on their beers with impressive comedic timing. “Which is mostly an unfortunate byproduct of the system. It’s hard to be in a significant position of power and be a good person.”

“I don’t know.” Clark had frowned. “I mean, there must be a lot of pressure. And I’m sure they’re not happy with compromising their morals, it just- It must be hard.”

Lois had shrugged. “Or they’re all just cunts.”

“That’s- Seems like a harsh word-“

“Once I was at a congress hearing.” You’d said dryly, and Clark had looked at you with his full, unwavering attention. It had made you more drunk than the beer. “And one of the congresswomen asked why I was betraying American women by supporting bringing such violent rapists into our country. Her husband isn’t allowed within a hundred yards of schools.”

“Oh.” Clark had frowned. “Well, I hope she realizes she can divorce him. Or- Maybe something will get her to turn around? Like an- Intervention?”

Lois had snorted. “What, from God?”

“No, not God, but- I don’t know.” He’d looked at you, his tone so fucking sincere. “I’m sorry she said that to you.”

You’d had to look down to hide your flush. “It’s okay. Happens.”

Clark had frowned, like it shouldn’t. 

But you hadn’t scared him off. 

He’d come to another night of drinks. Then another. Then five more, until Jimmy got sick and Lois had an article due, and it was just you and him, sitting across from a booth so small your knees bumped, and hands brushed with every gesture. 

“So, why journalism?” You’d asked. “You don’t seem to have the same passion for it that Lois does.”

He’d chuckled, pushing up his glasses. “No, I guess I don’t. And I don’t know, I like talking to people. Hearing their stories. Nice, stable career, you know?”

You’d opened your mouth, but barely spoken before Clark has shaken his head. 

“Wait, you probably don’t know, do you. You’re passionate about everything you do.”

“I- Yeah. I am.” You’d swallowed, and he’d kept saying those things like they were obvious. Looking at you like you’re fascinating. Like he could see right through you, and whatever was in there, he liked. “I mean, I like what I do, but I do it because I want to do more.”

Clark had nodded, taking a slow drink of his beer. “Bigger ambitions, huh?”

“Yeah. Do you just-“ You’d frowned. “Not have those?”

“I hate to break it to you,” he’d said your name with a small grin. “Most people don’t. Almost all the folks I know aren’t necessarily happy with what they got, but they’re not lookin’ to make the Earth spin clockwise.”

You’d blinked at him. “What?”

“Sorry, that’s just- Something my Pa says.” He’d blushed, looking down to the table. “I’m trying to say it’s admirable. To want to change things and actually, uh- Do it.”

“Thanks.” You’d whispered, and he’d grinned. 

“No problem. Mind if I guess your ambition?”

Normally, you would’ve minded. But it was Clark. And you’d sort of been desperate to know what he thought of you. “Be my guest.”

“President. Or- Actually.” He’d examined you, slowly and with an element of light, playful amusement that had made you giggle. “United Nations, but maybe still Congress?”

You’d laughed, shaking your head, and Clark had raised his brows.

“Am I close?”

“Maybe.” You’d hummed, holding his gaze as you take a drink. “But I’d rather eat glass than go into politics.”

“Ah, right. Sorry.” He’d grinned. “Just got caught up in the idea of you showing that rude congress woman what a good person looks like.”

Your grip had tightened on your bottle. “You think I’m a good person?”

“Yeah.” He’d shrugged. “Of course.”

Of course. 

You let the conversation keep going. Clark had told you about some game he and Jimmy went to, and how he’s pretty sure Jimmy’s sick because a supermodel was slobbering over him all afternoon. You’d told him about how you’d won a big litigation about your case, and smiled at your fingers when he’d made a big, happy deal about it. And the night had flashed by until it was almost two in the morning, and you’d been kicked out the bar.

And Clark had asked if you wanted him to walk you home, and you’d said no. 

Not because you hadn’t. 

But you’d wanted to see Superman. 

Because you aren’t a good person.

That night, Superman had landed on the sidewalk next to you, and you’d smiled at your fingers. 

“You’re late.”

“Sorry,” he’d fallen into pace so fast beside you. “Got busy.”

“If people need saving-“

“No, I was just talking to someone important.”

You’d hummed. “Oh? Can you tell me, or is it classified super business?”

He’d laughed. It had been a few months, and it wasn’t making your heart skip any less. “Super business, I’m afraid. Actually, I have a question for you.

“I might have an answer.”

“Alright, well- If you could be a meta, like me-“

You’d mock gasped. “You’re a meta? Why did you tell me?”

“Very funny.” His voice had been flat, but you’d been able to hear the amusement, and it had made you shine. “I just want to know what kind of powers you’d want to have.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m curious, is that not allowed?”

“No.” You’d squinted at him in the dark, he’d stared right back, and your heart had skipped a beat. Shit. “It’s allowed. But it’s suspicious.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be less suspicious in the future.” 

“Thank you.” You’d paused, thinking about his question, and you’d been walking closers and closer lately. Almost as close as you’d been to Clark, in the bar. 

And you’re a horrible person. 

“I think I’d like to be able to speak any language.” You’d told Superman, speaking slowly. “But like, any language. Plants and computers and animals, too. Understand and talk to all of them. If it’s communication, I’d be able to do it.”

“Ah. That’s one of the best ones I’ve heard.” Superman had smiled at you in the dark, and you hadn’t even needed to ask. “I might know someone who’d like his power to be knowing the weather.”

“Knowing the weather, like-“

“Just a weatherman. With total accuracy.” Superman had smiled to himself. “I know it’s ridiculous, but it makes him happy.”

You’d kept walking, and talking, and laughing until you reached your apartment. Then you’d waved to him from your window, and he’d vanished back into the night. 

The next day, there had been a knock on your door. You’d opened it to find Clark, shifting on his feet with a book in his hands and a nervous smile.

You’d frowned at him. “How do you know where I live.”

“Oh, uh- I-“ He’d cleared his throat, something like alarm flashing over his face. “You’re not going to like it. I, um- I sort of stole your contact from Lois. And she had it, so- Now I have it.”

He’d been beet red, and you might have pushed it if he didn’t look like he was about to make himself pass out. 

So you’d just nodded, watching him carefully. “And… Why are you here?”

He’d let out a sharp breath, holding up the book. “Just want to give you this. I don’t know if you have time to take care of a plant- You’re so busy I’m guessing you don’t- Which isn’t bad, but-“

“Clark-“

“They’re pressed flowers.” He’d said quickly, opening the book for you to see. “My Ma taught me how to make them. To celebrate winning your case.”

You’d stared between him and the flowers, your eyes starting to sting because that was so fucking sweet, and you want to sink teeth and claws into his pretty face, or maybe just let him tear you apart, or- 

Just keep growing. Up and up, into whatever kinder, softer thing Clark is made of.

That had terrified you. 

“I- I won a litigation of my case.” You’d whispered, voice breaking, and Clark had shrugged.

“Still worth celebrating.” He’d said softly, and that had felt like a dose. You never wanted him to go too far, where you wouldn’t be able to find him. 

You’d put his flowers in your bedside drawer. And the sticky notes Superman’s been leaving keep building up.

Bar night after bar night, you lose track of time with Clark, because you don’t want him to go, but you still let Superman walk you home. 

You stare at the flowers and notes in your drawer, and you might be forgetting how to not smile at either of them. 

And worst of all, you don’t really want to remember at all.

———

The world is spinning. 

And you giggle to yourself, because the world is always spinning. Always going round and round and right back to where it started, but a million miles away, and now you can just feel it. 

Either because of the many, many drinks you’d slammed down in an attempt to soften some sort of self-sharpening edge, or because of Clark’s proximity. 

“Oh, gosh.” He catches you around the waist, as you walk up the stairs, and you giggle again. “Let’s slow down, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Aw.” You smile, wiggling around to face him. “You care about me.”

Clark frowns. “You know I care about you. I don’t think I’ve made that a secret- Woah-“

You fall forwards, right into him, and press your face into his neck. 

“You smell good.” You mumble. “Like… rain.”

Clark pauses, hand splayed on your back. “Is that good?”

“I like it.” You whisper, fingers curling on his sleeves. “This jacket is nice.”

“I mean, it’s alright.” He frowns at the jacket, then you. “Do you want it?”

You nod, mostly because your drunken, addled brain isn’t connecting one and one to mean two. 

Clark had asked if you wanted it. You’d been staring at where his button up was slightly undone, as if you’ve never seen bare skin before.

Yes, you want him. So bad it’s making your stomach flip, although that might just been the liquor. 

It’s a heavy, crushing disappointment like titanium, when he just props you carefully against the stairwell wall, and helps you into his jacket. You pout at the floor, trying to savor how it’s warm and smells like him, but now you’re chasing a painting of a ghost that’s haunting you from a foot away. 

You turn, pout deepening, and try to march up the stairs by yourself. 

You trip, because the world is spinning and you don’t have any balance. 

Clark catches you, because the world is spinning and he’s Clark, so it’s just one of those things that happens. 

You fall. He’s there, strong with an arm around your waist.

This time though, he picks you up with a small grunt. 

Something distant and vigilant in your head is wondering why he grunted picking you up but never while carrying you up four flights of stairs. 

It’s drowned out by how warm he is, and how much you want him. 

“Why do people call them guns?” You mumble to yourself, poking his biceps, and Clark frowns. 

“Well, if you asked my Pa, he’d make some joke about them being lady killers, then say that we shouldn’t be killin’ ladies. Should be treating them well.” He chuckles, and you stare up at him because in the florescent light of the hallway, he somehow looks like an angel. 

“I like it when you talk about your parents.” 

Someone needs to put a muzzle on you, before you say anything else truthful and dangerous. 

But stupid, perfect Clark always wants to hear what you’ve got to say. 

“Why?”

“I dunno,” you play with the folds of his collar, as he sets you down on your couch. “Makes you seem real.”

Clark’s brows furrow. “Do you no think I’m real.”

“I think.” You grab the lapels of his shirt, yanking him down to your eye level. “That you are too good.”

“…To be real?”

“Yes.” To be yours. “And no. Can you tell me your cow’s name again.”

“Bessie. What do you think I’m too good for, if it’s not being real-“

“Shhhhhhh.” You press a finger to his lips, frowning out your window. “Oh. No.”

Clark tenses. “What’s wrong.”

“I can’t tell him I’m busy.” You whisper, tears starting to sting at your eyes, and Clark reaches up to carefully brush them away.

“Tell who, sweetheart. I can, uh- I try to pass on a message. If this guy is important to you.”

You don’t understand the frown in his voice. “No. You can’t find him. It’s Superman.” You whisper the last part, and Clark blinks. 

The world is starting to get fuzzy. Everything feels heavy, and it would be nice to maybe go to sleep. 

But Clark says your name, so you slump forward into him as your body demands that you listen.

“You- Um- You know Superman?”

“Yeah.” You mumble against him, pulling his jacket a little tighter. “Walks me home. Why I don’t go with you.”

“Oh.” Clark pauses. “And you’d rather have him? Walk you home, I mean?”

“I dunno. But don’t worry.” You yawn, the world slowly falling down into black. “He’s not real either.” 

———

It had hit you, with the splitting headache of a hangover. You’d stared at yourself in the mirror, and been unable to get it together expect to form one conclusion. 

You love Clark. 

And you open the drawer, and see the flowers and the sticky notes, and know that he deserves far better. Not you. 

Never you. 

Someone good like him. Who does it so easily, and trusts like he does—with everything in him—and can hold his heart in both their hands. 

You can’t.

Because you might be a really bad person. 

Leaning over the roof of your apartment, breath fogging up the air, you wait. For an answer, that only one person can offer you, even if he doesn’t know. 

You’re not sure if either of them know. It would make it a lot easier if one didn’t, and was just friendly.

Or if one felt nothing, and you’d been reading too much into it all. 

That would split you in fucking half. But that feels like it’s going to happen no matter what. 

At least if neither of them want you, you’ll have both pieces to stitch yourself back together. 

But first, you need to know.

“Do I need to tell you not to jump?” Superman says from behind you. “Or are you just trying to talk to me again?”

You smile into the dark, voice a little too soft. “I’m just trying to talk to you.”

“Okay.” You can hear the frown in his voice “And were you going to jump?” 

“No.”

“You know, that time I actually believe you.”

You turn to look at him in the dark, and it never fails to stop your heart, when he smiles at you. You thought you’d get past it. Get used to how it seems to light up the dark.’

But there it is. 

The little skip that you get high on now, because it means he’s looking at you, and there’s never been anything better. 

Or maybe just one thing better. 

Or the same. 

Jesus. You look away, bowing your head to stare at your hands, and Superman clears his throat. 

“Are you feeling okay?” There’s a beat. “Anything I can help with?”

“No. Nothing you can-“ You sigh. “Can I just ask you something?”

“Always.” 

You run your fingers over the rough rock of the roof wall, keeping your eyes fixed on everything below. There are shadows moving down there, people walking the streets alone through the dark. That’s where you belong, not up here. Not where the sun would hit you, golden and bright, when it breaks the horizon. 

Superman mutters your name, and a warmth heats over your skin. 

You push it out, before you can think better. 

“Do you think I have bigger ambitions?”

He’s silent for a moment, then, “What do you mean?”

“Like- With my life. I- I know someone who’s happy with everything he has, he- He knows everything he wants to be, and-“ You swallow, your voice starting to hurt. “I don’t know if I am.”

“Is it your job? Or someone doing something-“

“No, it’s me.” You turn to look at him, pressing your lips tight together, because you won’t cry. “I’m doing too much and I- It’s still not enough, and I- I don’t- I don’t know where I’m going. I feel like I’ve been in the same orbit for so, so long and it was fine but now it isn’t and- I don’t- I’m tired.” Your voice cracks, and Superman takes a small step forward. “I’m barely doing anything, and I’m so tired, and I don’t want to be tired anymore but I don’t know how to- I’ve never-“

Your voice dies, because it’s cracking and if you don’t pull it the fuck together soon, you’re going to cry. 

Superman moves forward in a blink. Wraps his arms around you, and cradles your head to his chest as the tears start to silently roll. 

He just holds you in the dark for so long, and there must be better things for him to be doing, but he’s not trying to move. It’s not until you’re breathing him in at a steady pace, that he loosens his grip enough for you to push back. 

And when you do, he holds your face between his hands, wiping the tears slowly from your eyes. 

“I think you do enough.” He murmurs, and you sniff. “Don’t argue with me about this one. You do. You tell me about work, and you do good things. Thing most people are afraid to, because you don’t seem to have that setting. Whatever rest you want, you deserve, because you,” he says your name, his gaze locked onto yours. “Do more than most anyone I know.”

You wipe your nose with your sleeve, mumbling into the cloth. “Everyone you know probably penguins or something, with where you live.”

“In the Arctic?” He laughs softly, attention on you still so affectionate and tender. “Yeah, I guess I know a few penguins. They’re good guys. One of them got me an icicle for my promotion.”

You frown at him. “Your promotion? You have a boss?”

“I’m my boss. I gave the promotion to myself.”

“That’s so stupid.” You smile at his shoes, and he slowly tips your gaze back up, right onto his. 

“Yeah, but it made you laugh. I’d say it was worth it.”

You take a long, deep breath, and it’s too easy to get lost in him. In this moment. You don’t want to get swept away in it. 

So you press your face to his neck, and just breathe.

He smells a little like rain. Feels a little like a home. 

And it’s not a question anymore. You have your answer. 

You know. 

———

You’re clinging to the walls of the room. Gripping your glass like a lifeline and scanning over the crowd, trying to calculate when it’s going to thin out. 

When you’re going to be able to escape. 

It’s not life or death. You just really don’t want to be here. At the big, important event Metropolis is throwing for the new Bavarian president. You’re not sure if they’re trying to make amends—or a new plan—but you know you’re only here so they can say you’re here. So in the morning they can talk about how they have nothing to hide, and how the tattered relationship of Boravia and Jarhanpur are healing, all because of America. 

You’d told your boss that going was a stupid idea. 

He said you had to, or he’d replace you on the Jarhanpurian refugee case. 

So now you’re standing on the edge of the party, watching it move around you, and trying not to think about anything at all. 

If you think about things, you think about ways out of here. Ways like sneaking up to the roof, and asking Superman to get you out. If you’re not thinking about that, you’re thinking about how the buffet table has the exact type of bread rolls Clark likes, because he’s told you about them multiple times. 

No matter what, you end up feeling like you want to cry. And you don’t, because you’re a fucking professional, but fuck if you don’t want to. 

It’s mostly just lonely. You had a plus one, but you can’t bring yourself to ask Clark if this is anything—not when you’re sort of always looking out the window—and you ended up going alone. 

That’s probably how this is going to end anyway. 

Might as well get in some fucking practice. 

Someone calls your name from across the room, and you brace for the impact of some Boravian diplomat about to berate you or an ambassador who’s going to make stunted conversation trying to convince you that you’re a bad person. You don’t need them to do that—you’re already so fucking good at doing it yourself—so they’re just going to be wasting everyone’s time. 

But it’s not a cruel, taunting diplomat.

It’s Jimmy, pulling a nervous looking Clark behind him. 

“Hey!” Jimmy stops right in front of you, and it takes a Herculean amount of effort to look at him and not Clark. “Why are you here, I thought they’d be trying to stop you from knowing this is even happening.” 

“I think it’s a weird chess move.” You turn your glass in your hands, and measure out the perfect amount of time to wait before you look up and give Clark a smile. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He responds so quickly, he looks a little surprised with himself. “I- Uh- Are you at least liking the food?”

“It’s fine.” You shrug. “They have the bread rolls you like.”

Clark blushes, fidgeting with his tie. “I know, we- Uh- We’ve been here a bit-“

“Clark ate a whole basket of them.” Jimmy tells you, and you can’t stop your soft laugh. “Then he got upset because he thought he might have taken them away from everyone else-“

“But I didn’t.” Clark jumps in quickly. “They put another basket out- I can go get you one. Do you want one?”

You don’t give a fuck about bread rolls. “Yes, please.”

Clark stands a little taller now that he’s got a mission, and smiles at you before he vanishes into the crowd. He’s left you tapping your nails on your champagne glass, giving Jimmy a tight smile. 

“What are you guys doing here?” You ask, and Jimmy shrugs. 

“Lois wants this and the protests about this covered. She decided to do the protests, gave me the event. I,” he holds up a press badge. “Am working.”

“You and Clark?”

“He’s interested in this kind of thing.”

“He is?” You frown at the crowd, and Jimmy nods. 

“Guess he doesn’t talk about it with you. Invasions and genocide aren’t romantic at all.”

Your heart moves into your throat. “They aren’t- What-“

“Hey, has he asked you his power question yet?” Jimmy cuts you off, mostly looking out at the crowd, and you frown. 

“His what?”

“Past few months he’s been asking like, everyone we know what power they’d want as a meta.” Jimmy shoves his hands in his pockets, giving you a curious expression. “Started when he was talking to Lois about if she thought Superman being able to hear everything is weird. Then he asked her what power she would want, then he asked me, then he called his parents or something- I don’t know what’s up it, but it’s a pretty good question.”

“It… is.” You frown, and there’s that thing in the back of your head. The one that had been drowned out by liquor, then pain, but now how nothing but noise around it. And it’s getting louder. “What’s Clark’s answer?”

“Um- I don’t think he’s actually said.” Jimmy shrugs, then gives you a winning grin. “But I’d know the weather. If you want to know.”

“You’d know the weather.”

“Yeah, like a weatherman, but I’m always right.”

“That’s pointless, Jimmy.”

“To you, maybe. I would figure out how to turn it into a fortune.”

You open and close your mouth, the something in your head getting louder, but it doesn’t turn into words before Clark reappears through the crowd, holding two of the not small bread rolls in one hand.  

“I got them.” He says you name, and your stupid stomach does a happy, traitorous little flip. “Here, I got you butter as well, in case you want to use that.”

He shoves the rolls into your hands, holding your gaze, and your fingers brush. He’s standing so close, he doesn’t need to be this close, but you never want him to move away-

“Clark,” Jimmy mock gasps. “Did you get two so she could give you one?”

“I- No, of course not-“

“I’m just teasing you, man.” Jimmy claps him on the back, scanning out over the crowd. “Alright, I gotta go do my job, or Lois is gonna crucify me.”

Clark wrinkles his nose. “I think that’s a little dramatic-“

“It’s not dramatic enough, and you know it.” Jimmy grins between you and Clark. “Be safe, kids. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You want to grab him, before he disappears into the crowd. Not because you don’t want to be alone with Clark, but because you do. More than almost anything. So you need a buffer, before you do something stupid. 

But Jimmy vanishes, and you have to stuff a bread roll into your mouth to occupy it. Clark just stands next to, still far too close, making your head fucking spin. 

He clears his throat, voice low enough that only you can hear, and you might be leaning into his gravity. 

“You must hate this.” He mutters, and you swallow. 

“I don’t like it.” You mumble, and—because now there’s no bread to block your sappy feelings from spilling out of your mouth—add, “It’s better now, though.”

Clark raises his brows. “Yeah?”

You nod, shoving the second bread roll into your mouth, and Clark won’t stop looking at you. Like you’re the sunrise, as your cheeks push out like a chipmunk and your lipstick smudges slightly. 

Even his voice has a kind of soft reverence, when he speaks. “Do you like them? The bread rolls.”

“They’re good,” you try to say through the mouthful, but it comes out more of a wordless grumble, and you stare at Clark for a moment before you both start laughing. 

It shatters whatever strange tension had just bene in the air. Everything flows smoother, as you talk about the food and drinks and how made up this whole thing is. Clark compliments your dress and you’ve never felt warmer. You think you could go out into the dead, winter night and still feel this warm. 

The air is getting lighter and lighter. You might be in danger of floating away.

“So,” you give him a curious look, and he mirrors it. 

“So?”

“Jimmy says you’re interested in all these events.”

“Oh. Well- I guess I am, yeah.” He’s watching you carefully, words slower than usual. “I just like to know what’s going on in the world. Part of my job, right?”

You hum. “Aren’t most of your articles about Superman?”

He coughs. “Yeah, well, he’s interested in this too. You know how everything went down, with Boravia. He likes to keep tabs on it. And I like to know what I’m probably going to talk to him about.”

The thing is starting to ring in your ears. “How often do you talk to him?”

“I don’t know, every few nights?” Clark smiles, but it’s more taut than usual. Almost nervous. “How often is too often?”

He’s saying it like it’s a joke. 

You’re not sure it is. 

“I mean, you talk to him. He’s a great guy to talk to. Right?” He gives you a strange look, and you sigh.

“He is, yeah. But I don’t interview him.”

“Yes you- I mean, you interviewed him for your case, right?”

“Maybe.” You shrug, narrowing your eyes, and Clark coughs. 

“Well, I don’t get why it’s a big thing, right. I’m interested in things. He’s interested in things. You’re interested in things. And- Yeah. We’re all interested in the same things, and we talk about them, and- I mean, he must have mentioned to you as some point how he talks to me all the time. Mutual friend.” He pauses. “I’ve told him about you.”

You tilt your head at him, lips pressed tight together. “You have.”

“Yeah? I mean, after we talk shop, sometimes he asks how life is, and- I’ve told him about you, and he- He also really likes you-“

“You really like me?”

Clark’s ears go red, and you feel a little guilty—you’re sort of treating him like a hostile witness—but the thing in your head is so fucking close to piecing itself together, you just need to push a little more.

“Yeah, I like you.” He gives you a small grin, pushing up his glass. “But- Superman does to. You’re the best, and- We talk about you all the time.”

You just keep staring at him, because that should make you feel sick. The two men you love, talking about you without you there, when you don’t even know which one you’d want forever. 

But it’s just making you suspicious. Because there’s something so slightly fucking off. 

“Superman has never once mentioned you, Clark.” You say carefully, and  he winces. 

“Ouch. I mean, all is fair in- You know-“

“Love and war?” You finish, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him more nervous. “Which part of this is which?”

He stares at you, mouth hanging slightly open, and right before you’re about to find the words, the world finds them for you. 

Clark’s head shoots up, drawing up to his full height, and pushes his glasses up his nose as he looks over the crowd. And there’s this smallest fucking shift in all your thoughts, as if a veil is being lifted. 

They have the same fucking face. 

You don’t know how you missed it, but they have the same fucking face. 

Your mouth barely opens to tell him that you know, before the first gunshots ring through the air. Clark grabs you around your waist, and the world turns into a rushing, cold blur. You’re not even sure what’s happening, besides your arms wrapping around his neck and the air being knocked from your lungs. 

Then you’re outside, in the freezing cold. Clark steadies you with wide eyes, pulling off his jacket and dumping it into your hands. 

“Put this on and go home.” He mutters, words so fast you almost don’t catch them. “Take a cab, don’t walk. I’ll pay for it, I just- I can’t go with you tonight- I’m sorry-“

You gape at him. “Go with- Clark, what the fuck-“

“I’m sorry.” He repeats, and shoots off into the night. 

Flies off into the night. 

Leaving you alone, on the cold street, with his jacket strangled in your hands and the world upside down. 

———

You’re pacing outside his door. You have been for almost an hour, waiting for him to get home. 

He’ll have to be back soon. It’s past five, you don’t think he has plans tonight, and even if he doesn’t he’d probably have to stop back home to get something.

It’s okay. 

You can wait. 

You have the week off, because your boss feels back for putting you in the middle of a terrorist attack. When he’d told you, he’d looked at you like he expected you to protest. 

Normally, you would have. Slowing down wasn’t the thing to do, not when you were so close to the finish line—even if it kept moving further and further away—and a single faltered step or second to breathe might lead to you falling so far behind. 

But this isn’t a normal week. 

And Superman said you deserve some rest, so you’re listening to him. 

It’s just that rest might not mean the same thing to you that it meant to him. Rest meant answers. Rest meant three days combing over older Superman reports, and drawing out a timeline of Clark’s life to see if things lined up, and writing down everything either of them have ever said to you, to see what lined up. 

And it did. 

Of course it did. It all falls together an avalanche, leaving you standing in to rubble and looking to the sky and wondering how you ever fucking missed it. 

He says your name, and you turn to see Clark staring at you from down the hall, grip white-knuckled on his bag. 

“Clark.” Your voice sounds faraway and cool. You don’t want to be a bitch to him. 

You don’t know how else to be. 

“Are you alright?” He takes a half-step forward, and you wrap your arms around your stomach. Of course he’s just worried about you. Asshole. “I wanted to come check on you, I promise. There’s just been a lot to deal with, and- I wasn’t sure if…” He clears his throat, watching you nervously as you just stare at him. “You’d want to see me?”

“Really?” You raise your chin. “Why wouldn’t I want to see you, Clark?”

“Um...” He glances around the hallway. “Why don’t you tell me, and we can see if we have the same reasons?”

“No, I think you should tell me first.”

“It’s just- I don’t think I should, because what if our reasons aren’t the same and mine sounds crazy-“

“Is your reason that I know?” You snap, narrowing your eyes. “Because I know.”

Clark stares at you for a long, wired moment, then lets out a long, defeated breath. “Can we do this inside, please?”

You nod, and step off to the side so he can open the door. Clark gives you another one of his small, nervous smiles as he brushes past you, and it doesn’t feel any different from before. When he’d sat too close to you at the bar. 

Or stood to close, on the street. 

That’s the worst part of it. Is not you’re not angry, or bitter, or heartbroken. You just feel stranded. Like you’re hanging over a pit and trying to work out if it’s worth falling, or trying to claw your way back out. 

Because if you’re right—and you are—you could have something. Everything. What you’ve spent so much time on, convince yourself that it really wasn’t going to matter. 

But once you have it, it’s real. Something you can lose. Something you can fuck up or neglect or break. 

It’s a good thing. 

Clark—taking your jacket because he’s a stupid gentleman and brushing warm hands on your upper arm—is a good thing. He’s the good thing, the one that everyone looks to for hope, that everyone wants. The god among men, who leaves you little sticky notes and fumbles all his words and makes you trust his every compliment because he always says them like they’re just obvious truths. 

And you can’t figure out how to hold that in your hands, even if you get to use both. 

You don’t know how to wrap your head around the idea that you could just have something good.

“So.” Clark takes a step back, as if he’s trying to offer you space. “You, uh- You know.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“And I’m guessing you figured it out after…” He trails off, and you sigh. 

“After you flew me outside, then took off like a rocket? Yeah, Clark, that kind of gave it away.”

He frowns. “You didn’t know before?”

“I had a theory.” You mumble, and his brows furrow. 

“But you didn’t know.”

You shake your head, and he groans.

“Darn it, I- I was really sure you knew. Wouldn’t have done that if- Shoot-“

“Clark.” You raise your voice, hugging yourself tighter, and he freezes. “Am I right?”

“Uh-“

“Are you Superman?”

“I-“ He lets out a slow breath, and nods. “Yeah.” 

Clark seems to lock your gaze to his as he reaches up, and slowly pulls off his glasses. 

It’s such a small shift. He stands a little taller, even as his features remain nervous and weary, and his face seems to almost shift. It’s the same face—you know, logically, that’s it’s the same face—but it’s like your head couldn’t fully connect the two into one, couldn’t hold them at the same time. 

But you can now.

And your mouth falls open as Superman stares at you with an almost fearful expression. 

“I- How?”

“The glasses?” He glances down to them with a frown. “Well, they’re hypnoglasses, so-“

“No, I mean- How did I not know?” You take a step back, shaking your head. “I- I talked to you every day and every night and it took me months to put it together, and that was only after I realized- Fuck-“

“Don’t- Wait-“ Clark takes a large step forward, arms twitching like he wants to reach for you. “The glasses make sure you don’t know, that’s the point of them, and it’s not like I told you-“

“Why?” Your voice is rising, and you take another step back. “Why are you telling me now, why- Why did you keep coming to me as Superman when I was talking to you as Clark, why- Which one of you is the real one-“

“Both. Both are real, there wasn’t- I’ve always been both- And I just wanted, I guess any reason to talk to you, so I sort off just indulged both, and-“ He takes another step forward, and you take another one back. “Can you please stop walking away? I know that you’re mad at me, and I- I understand, but- Please, just listen-“

“Why didn’t you hate me?” You blurt before you can stop yourself, everything rising so fast up your throat like an eruption, and Clark freezes. 

“I couldn’t hate you.”

You shake your head, your back hitting the wall. “No, I- I was talking to both you and- You at the same time, and- I was-“ You cut yourself off, pressing further back, and Clark takes a smaller step forward.

“Are you worried that I was jealous of myself?”

You nod weakly, and Clark sighs.

“No,” he says your name, voice firm, and takes another step. “I mean- No. I mean, I thought about it. Which one would make you happier. But I kept finding that you were always happy, and I- I thought maybe if I told you, you’d be happy. And we could laugh about it, and you’d say something- Uh-“ He stops, barely a foot away. “I mean, it’s kind of stupid now.”

“What?” You whisper, and Clark frowns.

“Do you really want me to say it?”

You nod, and he runs a hand over his face.

“Just maybe- Like- I love you either way. Both ways. I want you both ways, and wow, what a great way this worked out, that I get to love both of you, because you’re the same person. How convenient.” His ears are a little red, and he mumbles. “Most of it was just going to be you saying you love me.”

You swallow. “How do you know I love you?”

“I- uh- I don’t? I mean, I do have a reason, but it might be not- Sound. And if I’m wrong, that’s fine and we can forget the whole thing, but-” He takes a half-step forward. “Your heart. It goes really fast, when I’m near you, and, uh-“ He coughs, eyes darting down your body. “I can- Sometimes- Not that I’m trying to, but it just- It happens, and I can’t control it-“

“Clark-“

“I can smell you.” He mumbles, and your eyes widen. “So- I know there’s something. Might be wrong about love, though.” He looks at you under hooded eyes, and your face might be burning. “Am I wrong?”

You want to tell him that he’s not wrong. To tell him that he’s not wrong, that you’ve loved him for longer than you care to say aloud, and fell for both version because it was him. It wasn’t just a craving not to be alone anymore, it was him. Your heart moved in the same rhythm because it was playing the same song. Love for Clark. 

But you don’t want to mess it up. Say it wrong. Open your mouth and just start crying, because it’s so sweet and embarrassing all at once. 

So you just push out, in barely a breath. “Do you want to be wrong?”

“No.” He answers so fast, and your nails dig into your sides. 

“And- What would you have said?” You blink at him slowly, choosing every word so carefully. “In your… dream scenario?”

“That I love you, too.” He takes another step forward, and you don’t flinch away. There’s nowhere to run anyway. No reason to. “That I’ve wanted to tell you the whole time, because I don’t like lying to you but- I just wanted to make sure.”

“Make sure?” You frown. “What, that I wouldn’t- Turn you in?”

Clark’s eyes widen. “What? Gosh no, I- I just wanted to check that you felt the same and that- I don’t know, it would be worth it. Not that you’re not worth it. That me telling you would just- End in nothing. That I wouldn’t be putting you in that danger just to have gotten caught up in my feelings.”

You swallow, scanning over his open, handsome features. He means every word he says. He always does. 

And you have to ask. 

“Is it worth it?” 

Clark nods, giving you a small grin. “Yeah. I’d say it is.”

You nod, staring at each other in the dark, and the moment maybe drags on for a million years. Or only a second. It doesn’t matter, because you’re here. With Clark standing over you, one of his arms braced next to your head and the other slowly, lightly tracing up your arm. And he loves you. 

So you could waste away, and it would feel like you were drowning in daylight the whole time. 

“Can I kiss you.” Clark whispers, and you nod. 

“Yes, please.”

His hand trails up, sending shivers through your body and making your knees weak, and ends up resting on your face. He stares at you with such open affection and reverence, it’s going to put you in danger of crying again. 

When he dips down, he just brush a soft, warm kiss over your cheek, and you grab a fistful of his shirt. 

“Sorry.” He tries to lean back, eyes wide. “I- Uh- I should’ve asked you what you wanted, sweetheart, I’m sorry-“

“Clark.” You hold his panicked gaze, feeling his muscles flex as his breathing grows heavy. “I want you. Just- Touch me.”

His eyes dart down to your lips, voice hoarse. “Touch you?”

You nod, and his throat bobs. 

“How much?”

“All of it.” You try to sound commanding, but it’s just sort of coming off needy. 

He doesn’t seem to mind.

“All of it.” He echoes, and slowly leans down to ghost his lips over you. It makes your whole body light up, just from such a light touch, and you try to yank him down but he’s stronger. Doesn’t even budge an inch.

“Clark-“

“Are you sure you can take all of it?” He murmurs, lips still brushing over yours, and it’s not a challenge. It’s just a question of pure, true concern. “I mean, we can try, but if you want to stop, during any of it, you can just tell me and I’m never going to take it personally. Okay?”

You stare at him, and Jesus, you might be about to fall over just from that. He’s so close. He can’t be this close and just do nothing.

“Can you, uh- Just say that you want it, please?” Clark looks a little worried, his thumb tracing over your lower lip, and you smile. 

“I want it.” You give him a small smirk. “Please.”

He stares at you for a moment, eyes flashing with something dark, and his voice drops to an octave you’ve never even heard it before. 

“Alright.” He murmurs, and you suddenly realize exactly how pinned you are between him and the wall. “Whatever you want, baby.”

You barely get a second to process what that means, before Clark’s pulling you up into a long, deep, hot kiss. It’s consuming. Sets of every nerve in your body with how carefully he moves, how deliberately he holds you. How you feel both weightless and burning, in his arms and under his attention. His mouth works quickly against yours, like he’s been starved for it, all as his hands find a respectful place to rest on your body—under your thigh and around your back—and seems to be carefully holding back his weight over you. 

It unravels you so fast. Lights a fire in your gut and makes your legs spread. Your hips grind for more friction, broken sounds of need falling from your lips. Clark dips down to kiss your neck and shoulders, and you yank on his hair when his hand on the back of your thigh slowly starts to rub higher and higher. 

“Clark- Oh-“ You gasp as his knee pushes up between your thighs, and start to fuck yourself desperately against him. “God, please-“

“I know.” He mumbles, pressing a soft kiss over your lips. “I’ve got you, I’ll make it feel good, just-“ He grabs your hips, starting to drag them as a slightly different, rougher angle, and your head falls back with a moan. “There you go.”

His voice is gentle and deep in your ear, and he keeps kissing you almost anywhere he can reach, as you keep chasing release against him. 

A loud, broken whine falls from your lips when he pulls away, right before your release. 

“Sorry.” Clark kisses you again, groaning when you try to bite on his lower lip. “Just give me a moment, baby don’t want to do it here, and- Come on-“

He scoops you fully into his arms, bridal style, and you squeak as the air rushes past you. There’s barely a moment to register what’s happening before you’re flat on your back in a soft bed, and Clark is kissing you into the mattress.

His bed. 

You’re in his bed. 

But somehow, everything that’s happening feels like yours. 

Clark is so sweet. With everything he does, he’s just good and sweet, and it’s going to drive you out of your mind. He asks again, before taking off your clothing, and when you nod feverishly, he kisses you again with a smile on his lips. 

“You’re so pretty.” His hand rests carefully in your hair, and he pushes the kiss a little deeper. “You’re going to look even prettier when you cum, sweetheart, probably like a painting.”

You flush, a small moan escaping your lips, because somehow Clark just saying something like cum is dirtier talk than anything you’ve heard in your life. 

He catches it. Of course he is. 

He’s paying such good attention to you, rubbing a hand on your hips and letting you grind up against his bulge. Every few moments, his hand will trail up your side right as the need in pussy starts to unbearably ache, and it will offer a brief respite that just falls into more need. 

It’s like he’s trying to learn everything, with almost nothing. 

And worst of all, it’s working. 

Clark leans up, watching you with a curious expression. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

Your mouth falls open, his words rushing straight into your dripping cunt, and Clark’s nostrils flare. 

“Yeah?” He leans down, the hand on your waist slowly moving to draw big circles on your hips. “Do you like it when I say dirty things?” He says your name, voice still so gentle, and you like to sink into the sheets forever. 

“Maybe.” You whisper, trying not to squirm as his hand moves slowly between your legs, rubbing against your inner thighs without ever touching where so you desperately need him. “But- I you don’t want to-“

Clark leans down, silencing you with a deep, hot kiss, and devouring your moan as his palm finally presses against your cunt. 

He groans over you, starting to rub it back and forth at such a tortuous pace, and your mouth falls open in a long plea. 

“Oh my god- Please- I- I can’t- I need more-“

“Relax, baby. I’ll give you more.” He mutters, and when you try to wiggle below him, all it takes a deeper press of his palm, and you’re trapped. “I’ll give you anything, don’t worry about me.”

You hum, and his words are like a drug. You don’t have to worry. You can just relax, because Clark says to, and he doesn’t say anything that isn’t true. 

“Do you like your clothing?” He kisses a spot below your ear, words rolling through your body, and you barely shake your head before you hear the rip. 

There’s not even a second to feel cold, before all of Clark’s heat is over you. He seems to have taken his clothing with yours—cock pressing against your pussy, back strong beneath your hands as you try to map out his body—and you’re so quickly lost in the feeling of just being close to him. Kisses over your face as he ruts against you and holds you with such care.

You’re going to implode, though, if he doesn’t touch you properly. And you’re about to start begging when suddenly Clark is pulling you both upright, so you’re falling over his chest and sat in his lap. 

Clark grunts, as you writhe above him, and your eyes flick down. 

You might be drooling. He’s palming himself with strict, controlled movements, his face pressed into your neck as he sucks dark marks on your throat. 

“Is it…” You trail off, words broken up by a moan as Clark finds a sensitive spot. “Do- Is that part of Kryptonian- Fuck-“

Your back arches, as Clark’s hand moves to your dripping pussy, slowly sliding two fingers inside and crooking them right against that deep, hyper-sensitive spot. 

“Don’t know.” He mumbles. “Never checked. Shit, you’re so soft, and-“ He grunts as you clench around his finger. “I’m going to wreck you, sweetheart, going to play this sweet pussy until it’s soaking my cock-“

“Clark-“ You whine. “Fucking- Don’t just say that-“

“Why not?” He smiles against your skin, starting to kiss his way back over your face. “You like it, don’t you. Want it all.” He pulls his finger out, and before you can grab his wrist, he spanks your pussy. Just once, lightly, not enough to cause more than a sting. But enough to make you yelp a prayer of his name. 

“Oh- I-“ You go limp as he does it again, and you meet his hooded, arduous gaze with a soft whine. “Yes, Clark, God-“

He just keeps watching you. Grinding and rolling above him as he traces his thumb around your clit, then drags his fingers through your dripping folds.

He brings you arousal, gathered on his fingers, up to his mouth. 

Licks it clean, with a low, guttural sound from his chest. 

“So damn good.” He mutters, before pressing his thumb lightly to your mouth. “I swear I don’t think you’re real sometimes, sweetheart, you’re so- God-“ 

He groans as you suck on his thumb, moaning at the taste of your own need for him, and Clark drags you into a long, rough kiss. Falls flat on his back and starts to jerk his hips up into you, cock brushing torterously on your clit. 

“Clark.” Your fingers scratch at his chest. “Please-“

“Right. Uh- C’mon.” He grabs your ass, shifting you so that he can see your puffy, soaked cunt, and nods to himself. “That’s good, yeah- Hold on, baby. Relax.”

You nod, but no amount of sweet words could’ve prepared you for this. How fucking good it feels as he lifts you up like it’s nothing, and slowly drags you down onto his cock. He’s splitting you open and moaning as he does it, looking up at you like you’re an angel while filling you up so good you can’t remember your own name. 

He gives you a long moment to adjust, both your breathes ragged, an almost growling noise escaping his lips when you flutter around him. 

You pout down at him, trying to drag yourself back and forth for a little friction, and that’s all it takes to get Clark moving. 

He’s not going to let you do this yourself. He holds you by your hips and guides you back and forth on his cock, hitting every single spot inside of you, rutting up every few moments to kiss your cervix, and- Fuck-

“God, yes-“ You moan, throwing your head back as your dragged right up to the edge. “Clark- Yes, fuck- Feel so fucking big-“

He groans your name. “Don’t- If you keep talking I’m gonna- Fuck-“

“What?” You giggle breathily, and Clarks hands are going to leave bruises on you in the morning. It’s still not feeling him enough. “Fill me up? Fuck me stupid?”

Clark groans, twitching inside of you. “God, you got fuckin’ how much I- I wanna-“

“You said you’d give me everything.” You whisper, looking at him with your best glossy, needy eye. “I want all of you, Clark, please- Make me feel it, show me how much you- Oh-“

He flips you like you’re nothing, drawing out fully before slamming back in, and swallows the scream of his name with a harsh kiss. 

“I’ll make you feel it, pretty girl.” He mutters, setting a rough, unforgiving pace. “Love you so much, I wanted to go slow, but- You want to get cockdrunk, don’t you. Want to stop using that big brain and just feel good.” 

You moan, already so close to the edge. “Clark, please-“

“I told you, baby.” The kiss he gives you is almost taunting, with how he’s wrecking your cunt. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

And he does. 

Clark fucks into you like he’s trying to leave a mark. Every kiss on your lips and face and neck seem made to brand you, and his hand worship your body with such care, but every touch is firm and certain. He maps your body with his hands and thrusts into you with such borderline fervor, you don’t think you’re ever going to feel anything but Clark again. It’s the only word you know. The prayer that falls from your lips, over and over until you’re shaking and burning like a live-wire, desperate for just some release. 

Before you can even beg for it, Clark’s thumb finds your clit, and starts to rub it at an inhuman speed. 

“Cum for me, darling.” He almost growls in your ear. “Show me how good it feels, fucking say my name-“

You scream, just as he wanted to, and almost white-out as your orgasm wrecks through your body. Your pussy squeezes around Clark, overwhelmed and dripping with his perfect abuse of your pleasure, and he moans in your ear as he cums. You might have passed out for a second, from the feeling of him holding you so tight, fucking you through both your orgasms and muttering your name, over and over as you float down. 

He helps you clean up. Of course he does. Uses a warm cloth on the mess between your thighs, before carrying you to the bathroom. Starts the shower as you pee, then coaxes you into the warm shower, because you’re going to be sore in the morning. 

You have to convince him to get in with you. You’re pretty sure trying not to make assumptions, or take advantage of you. 

So ask him if you can stay, and try not to feel too big when he nods eagerly. 

But you have him. 

All of him. 

And you’ve maybe never felt more peaceful than when you’re folded back in his arms, just resting in his bed. 

“Was that good?” He mutters in your ear, and it’s not fair. How perfect he is. 

You nod weakly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Yeah, did you-“

“It was amazing.” He turns his head to kiss your cheek, warm breath fanning over your cheek as he laughs. “Probably should’ve told you sooner, if this is what it got me.”

“Maybe.” You whisper. “But we’re still here, right?”

“Yeah.” Clark hums. “And I- I think I’m just happy I get to love you at all.”

You push on his chest to look at him, and when he smiles, you smile right back. 

“I’m happy, too. And I- I do love you.” You lean down, letting your nose bump against his. “So much.”

Clark grins, pulling you down into a full, slow and lazy kiss, and you bask in it. The warmth on his body, and the light, happy feeling in your chest. Sinking deeper and deeper in, making you know that you don’t really need to see through the dark of Clark’s room. 

You have him. 

And that makes everything clear.

✦End note: Superman brainrot got me. guys✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[livwtfhaha]

absolute cinema bro

[godmadeaterribleerror]

seeing red

✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦

✦summary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.✦

✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦

✦wc: 10.5k✦

✦author's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with it✦

Clark has been acting strange all week.

He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didn’t question it. He runs everywhere. It’s a little ridiculous he doesn’t have a red face more.

“Want some water?” You’d tapped on his desk, and he’d let out a sharp breath.

“Yeah.” His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. “Water- Water would be nice. Thank you.

He hadn’t looked you in the eyes.

Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.

You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.

“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.

“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“

“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“

“Then go ask Lois!”

“Lois is in Gotham, I can’t ask Lois-“

“Then ask Clark, he’ll be happy to smell me-“

“I can’t ask Clark.” You’d whined. “Come on, please smell me-“

Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘

“It’s not a mating dance!”

“It seems like a mating dance-“

“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”

Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.

You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.

“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“

You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.

He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.

His eyes are black, and gleaming.

You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.

Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.

You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.

“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”

Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.

Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.

But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.

He looks dangerous.

And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.

But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.

“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”

Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“

Clark looks at you.

And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.

“You smell good.” He mutters.

He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.

“What the fuck is up with him?”

Nobody seems to be sure.

On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.

“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.

“There are no other words I could use, though-“

“Corrupt?”

“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”

You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.

“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.

“Dogshit.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“

“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“

“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.

“Yeah. Because I had a source.”

“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.

You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.

“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“

“Shut up, I’m excited-“

“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.

He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.

Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.

You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.

And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.

Today you keep it under control.

It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.

“It’s- Uh- Superman.”

You blink. “What?”

“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”

“I- You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“I can find someone else-“

“No, I- I’ve got it.”

He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.

You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.

But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.

You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”

He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.

“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.

Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.

He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.

He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.

And you have no idea what to do.

Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.

He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.

You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.

And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.

“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”

His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.

“Clark-“

“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”

You blink. “Back up?”

He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.

He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.

But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.

You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.

He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.

“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“

“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.

“You’re sick-“

“No. I’m not.”

“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”

He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.

“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”

That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.

His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.

And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.

It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.

The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.

But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.

“Clark- Please-“

He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.

“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”

You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.

And you look back. You can’t help it.

But all he does is stare at you.

So you walk away.

Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.

“Is he-“

“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”

You frown. “But-“

“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“

Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.

“Don’t go visit him.”

You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“

“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”

“But-“

“Don’t.”

“What if he needs something-“

“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”

“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”

Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Lois-“

“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”

She walks away without another word.

On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.

You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.

Don’t.

His door is right there.

Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.

Don’t.

You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.

But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.

You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.

Don’t.

But you want to.

Don’t.

He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-

Don’t.

Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.

And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.

He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.

You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.

Before Clark can open it, you walk away.

On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.

It’s a  distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-

You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.

This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.

It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.

He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.

He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.

Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.

You miss him.

Goddamnit.

Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.

You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.

He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this  sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.

You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.

You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.

Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.

But why is he home visiting you.

Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.

You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.

“Hello?”

Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.

He doesn’t look well.

Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-

Like Clark.

Just like Clark.

And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s  worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.

Or something else.

Without the glasses, there’s something else.

He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.

He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.

“Clark?”

“I’m here for your interview-“

You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.

He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.

Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.

His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.

“Clark- Wait-“

Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.

At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.

You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.

He’s burning at 150 degrees.

He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.

The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.

You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.

Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.

That time it was definitely your name.

Superman moaned your name.

You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.

Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.

It does nothing for hearing him.

And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.

It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.

Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-

Oh.

That’s… Big.

You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.

The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.

You still haven’t really dealt with that.

Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.  

And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.

To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.

When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.

You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.

Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.

Dear lord.

Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.

You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.

Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.

He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.

You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.

Clark is Superman,

And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.

His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.

“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.

This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-

You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.

He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-

No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.

But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.

The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.

If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.

And you’re not that strong at all.

Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.

You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.

When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.

He’s naked.

Fully naked.

And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.

He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.

But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.

And his cock. 

You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.

Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.

“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“

“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”

He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of  release on his thigh. He’d been humping  the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-

“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”

“Clark-“

“Stop saying it like that.”

You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.

His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.

“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”

Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.

“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”

You laugh softly, despite everything.

Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.

“Don’t laugh either.”

“I- I’m sorry-“

“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“

He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.

“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”

“No- That- That’s weird-“

“Kal-El?”

“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.

“I need to be able to call you something.”

“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”

That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.

“No, not- Not like that-“

“Not like what-“

“It’s just, when you talk-“

“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.

It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.

“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.

“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”

“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“

“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”

He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”

“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”

“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“

“You said I shouldn’t talk.”

“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.”

The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.

“You better fix the wall, Kent.”

“I will. ‘M sorry-“

“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”

You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.

“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”

 That’s not  promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.  

“You know kryptonite?”

You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”

“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“

“Clark.”

“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.

“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.

His cock twitches. You try not think about it.

“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“

“It what-“

“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”

He trails off, words hanging in the air.

Saw you.

You activated the red kryptonite in him.

There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.

“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.

Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.

“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.

“Please don’t make me say it.”

You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.

“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“

“Can’t you?”

Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.

And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.

“You- You can’t mean that-“

“Why not?”

You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.

“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.

“You don’t have to pity me-“

“It’s not pity.”

He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“

“Who says it’s not how I feel?”

You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.

“Uhh… Steve?”

You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”

Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.

You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.

“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.

You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”

His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.

“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”

“No, you-“

“Don’t tell me what I feel.”

He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.

“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”

He nods, tight and controlled.

You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.

Not with fear.

With excitement.

“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”

And Clark snaps.

He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.

Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.

If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.

But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.

He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.

There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as  he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.

You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.

You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.

He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.

“Clark-“

“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“

He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.

“Smell so good.” He almost  whines. “So good.”

You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.

Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.

It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.

“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“

“You- You can’t-“

“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“

“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.

You don’t mind at all.

“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.

“We talked about this-“

“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.

You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.

And you feel it.

The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.

Oh.

Right.

Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.

“I need to get you ready.”

You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“

Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”

“How do you know-“

“Nose.”

“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“

“Not enough.”

He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.

“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.

That’s his agreement hum.

Your jaw drops.

“Are you serious-“

“I can’t help it.”

“You- You could wear nose plugs-“

“No. Like it too much.”

Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.

“You- Can’t move-“

“You should move-“

“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”

You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.

“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”

Clark grunts. You smile at the air.

“You came in bed last night.”

He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”

“About who?”

You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”

And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.

“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”

“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.

“Yeah? Like what?”

Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.

“A brat.”

A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.

And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.

“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.

Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.

“You- You can’t just say that-“

“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”

Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.

“Can you please look at me-“

“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.

“Clark-“

“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.

You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.

“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”

“I- I need to get you-“

“I’m going to touch you, okay?”

His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.

Enough.

You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.

“Sorry-“

“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”

He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.

You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.

The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.

He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.

You add a second, and squeeze at the base.

Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.

“Be- Be careful.”

You pause. “Does it not feel-“

“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“

Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.

You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.

And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.

You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.

Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.

“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“

He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.

You want to taste him.

When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.

“What- What are you-“

You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.

The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.

There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.

You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.

“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“

You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.

It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.

“Are you-“

You moan, and Clark gives in.

He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.

“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“

Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.

“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“

You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.

And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-

Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.

He’s cumming.

And he’s not stopping.

Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.

Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.

“If you-“

“Do that inside me.”

You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.

“I- I mean- Clark-“

He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.

“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”

His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.

“Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”

Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.

“Oh- Oh god-“

“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”

You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.

“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”

He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.

“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.

You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.

He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.

“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“

You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.

Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.

Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.

You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.

You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.

There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.

It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.

“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”

His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.

“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.

Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.

“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”

Well. If he needs it.

It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.

“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“

“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”

It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.

You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.

“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.

He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.

“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”

And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.

“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“

“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.

Clark hears it.

“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”

You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.

Maybe Clark could let you live with him.

Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.

Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.

That’s a good plan. The best plan.

There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.

“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.

You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.

“Don’t do that.”

Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.

He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.

“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.

You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.

He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.

Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.

He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.

His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.

You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.

Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.

“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.

“I liked it.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”

Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.

And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.

He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.

“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”

You nod. It’s all you can manage.

He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.

“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“

He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.

Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.

“Big.”

He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.

“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“

You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.

“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.

“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”

You blink, and his eyes widen.

“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“

Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.

“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.

Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.

“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”

Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.

“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.

Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.

You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.

He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.

Safe and attended to.

You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.

It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.

“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“

He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.

Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.

He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.

Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.

It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.

Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.

Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.

And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.

Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.

Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.

You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.

There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.

Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.

You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.

He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.

It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.

If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.

On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.

There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.

Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.

It’s an oddly romantic thought.

There are lots of those to go around.

Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.

“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.

“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”

“See it-“

“X-ray vision.”

“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.

Clark bows his head, almost in shame.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.

You shake your head. “It fine-“

“I wanted to-“

“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”

He blinks at you, then relaxes.

“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.

“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”

Clark laughs at that, and you beam.

It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.

“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.

“I-“

“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“

“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”

He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”

You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.

“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“

“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“

Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”

You laugh. “Bring it on.”

✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦

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beached .ᐟ

bucky barnes x lifeguard!reader | 18.2k

warnings: mdni, forced proximity, exes to lovers, grovelling, minor teasing, vague mentions of sex, kissing, light groping, all plot and feelings my bad, bucky is down astronomically bad, feelings realization, banter carries the first half, player!bucky turned loverboy!bucky, sam and joaquin for comedic relief, fluff, a little bit of angst with a happy ending!

author's note: this is my humble contribution to @artficlly's moodboard event! i ripped my hair out every step of the way!💞this is only about 80% proofread because it's 10pm and i'm tired; i've been working on this for three months. 😩

The air felt sticky. It wasn’t surprising, given the humidity was sky high. But that didn’t make it pleasant. Your thighs stuck together, sunscreen working somewhat like glue from your spot in your chair. The water glistened like a great, vast jewel, the sun overhead making white beams, the foam of the ocean looking like frosting with each crest. Small dots broke up the blue, in various bright colours, beach goers enjoying the gorgeous day. You could just barely make out the floaties of the little kids right on the surf, parents watchful and close by.

A few teenagers were clustered around the rock pool, poking into its depths with a long piece of driftwood. Umbrellas and towels covered the beach like litter. You’d be walking the beach soon, but right now, your post was up here on the chair. You’d only had one encounter so far wherein you’d had to scale the ladder of the chair and sprint through the sand, kicking it up behind you as it scalded your feet, ignoring the shock of cold water as you dove into a forward stroke to get to the little girl who’d gotten a bit too far into the waves. It had been an adrenaline pumping moment, even after you’d brought her back to safety.

You’d been a lifeguard at the local pool in your last year of high school, but this was a step up. Back from college, you’d known immediately how you wanted to pass the time. Though some found the heat stifling, you enjoyed it. You felt like you withered away in the winter, and you’d take all the summer air you could get until you were forced to hide away in the ivy covered buildings on your campus again.

You loved this job, actually. The other lifeguards ranged in age, but the ones you were on shift with the most, Sam and Joaquin, were your favourites. It was never a dull moment with those two, and you’d seen both of them in action. You’d thought you were fast, but you had nothing on either of them. Sam seemed to fly through the sand when he had places to be, Joaquin hot on his heels. It was very clear that they were some of the most perfect people for the job.

It wasn’t like you were always stuck on the chair, up high where only the seagulls could reach. You’d stay on your perch for a couple of hours at the most before coming down, walking a circuit on the beach, and then disappearing into the shack a little ways down. It was a rule, actually, to get into the shade every two hours. What good was a lifeguard with heatstroke? Bruce was normally in there, sitting at the shabby desk with his glasses slipping down his nose. He was always poring over the schedule and checking to see if he needed to order more life jackets, rafts, or anything else that was necessary to function as a busy, popular beach. And you’d sit in one of the rickety chairs, grab one of the paper fans on the side table, and try to remember what ‘room temperature’ felt like.

This job was a dream for you, aside from one glaring issue. It wasn’t something you could easily fix—you couldn’t just ban someone from the beach if they weren’t doing anything wrong except for to get on your last nerve.

Bucky Barnes came to the beach.

Every. Single. Day.

Bucky Barnes, your former high school sweetheart, who broke up with you at your graduation, when the plan had been to stay together. You went to sister schools, after all. It would have actually been quite easy to stay together. But he’d wanted to sow his wild oats, as it were. Starting with head cheerleader Natasha.

It shouldn’t have been a problem. You’d seen him a handful of times—you shared friends, after all—but you hadn’t had to speak to him, or look at him for longer than a minute. You didn’t want to see his stupid perfect face, to remember what it felt like when he kissed you. You would stubbornly say there was no love lost there, only a wound that had been hard to heal. You had cried all night, your first evening in your dorm. The original plan had been for him to help you move in, and for you to help him, and then to tour both of your campuses to see what buildings you would be in, where the best spots to wait for each other would be.

It would have been fine if he was just on the beach because he liked it there. Unfortunately you knew, with a sinking feeling in your gut, that that wasn’t the reason. He was simply there for your attention. The first time you’d been alerted to his presence, you’d been walking the beach, heading to the chair, or Overwatch, as you and the others liked to call it. You’d seen him from the corner of your eye, and started walking more briskly, hoping to get past without him noticing, but he fell into step with you easily.

You’d tried to put all your force into pushing him away from your side, but he just laughed, immovable, keeping your pace. “Will you just talk to me?” he finally said, though he sounded amused at your ire.

“No, fuck you. I’m working.” you said crossly, not bothering to censor your words. You weren’t about to scream and shout at him, but you were very much unimpressed by his lack of contriteness.

“Yeah, I know. I’m here because I know how good you look in a bikini.”

You cut a glare his way, annoyed beyond belief that he was looking you up and down. You were actually wearing a pretty conservative suit, the top a black band around your chest, not unlike a sports bra, the bottoms high waisted and full coverage. You’d worn skimpier for sure.

You ignored his navy blue shorts, his lack of shirt. He was already halfway to a decent tan, sunglasses perched on his head rather than over his eyes. You could see the twinkling, mischievous blue of them even when you weren’t looking directly at him. “What do you want?” you hissed, almost at your destination.

“I think we should talk.” he said simply, reiterating what he’d first claimed. But you knew that it wasn’t as easy a request as he made it sound. Because how could you talk to him while ignoring your shared history?

“I don’t think so.” If he was about to ask you to be friends with him again, something you hadn’t been since you were fifteen years old, when that that word had changed, the prefix of ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ added to the front of it, then he was in for a surprise.

“Come on,” he said, drawing out the words, arms spread wide. “You’re already doing it right now!”

“Fuck off, Bucky, I’m working.” At last, you reached Overwatch. You scaled it with ease, grimacing to yourself all the while, because you just knew he was checking out your ass.

“I’m gonna be here all summer, sweetheart.” he called up to you, cupping his hands around his mouth. You gave him a withering stare. He’d projected his voice loudly enough that a few heads turned in your direction. “Can’t avoid me that easily.”

Then he’d smiled at you, smug, like he thought he’d be able to corner you easily. Well, he was about to find out how wrong he could be.

You hadn’t expected him to actually come to the beach every day. The first two weeks, sure, you guessed. Bucky was one of the most determined people you’d ever met. But you thought that eventually, even someone as tenacious as him would get tired of it.

But no, he rolled up sometime after you, without fail, even going so far as to park in the spot next to yours when it was available.

He’d lay out on a towel, or join whoever was playing a spirited game of volleyball, or try his hand at surfing. You’d begrudgingly watched him, alert as ever, to make sure he didn’t get a lungful of saltwater and drown. You were not looking forward to the prospect of giving him mouth-to-mouth. You thought it would be much more entertaining if one of your male colleagues got that pleasure.

If you weren’t up at Overwatch, he was chasing you down, pestering you to take five minutes to talk, though you still didn’t know what exactly he wanted. You’d already complained to Sam about it at length. Nonplussed, he’d told you, “Just see what he wants, and if he’s being an asshole, I'll throw him in the sea,” to which Bruce had looked up from the desk disapprovingly, and said quietly, “I don’t want to hear about any threats to someone’s life.”

You didn’t want to talk to Bucky, though. You knew that if you did, he could easily swindle you into something in under five minutes. He was very good at that—he’d always excelled at turning your brain into mush with a few carefully persuasive words and a gleaming white smile.

You didn’t think that you had ever affected him nearly so much. If you had, he probably wouldn’t have broken up with you. Regardless, you continued to ignore him to the best of your abilities. Until…

Bruce liked to have meetings every two weeks to make sure everyone was still up to code, and to mention anything important like upcoming events that might make the beach busier, or harsh weather warnings. It was standard procedure, and everyone would trudge into the office, whether they were on shift or not, to listen in.

When you got there, canvas bag hoisted on your shoulder, you stopped short. Joaquin walked into you, not noticing you'd stopped, and let out a soft “oof!” You’d only come to a halt because standing in the middle of the office amidst a handful of the other lifeguards, was Bucky.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” you muttered.

Bucky noticed you right at that time, and his pensive, distant expression melted into a charming grin. “Guess we’re coworkers for the rest of the summer. Isn’t that great?”

“You know that I can’t change the schedule to favour any of you over the other.” Bruce sat at his desk, watching you pace back and forth. There was sand caked into the worn floorboards. “You’ll be on shift with him at one time or another.”

Your hands were fists behind your back, your head down, looking at your flip flops. “But isn’t there some way we can look at it more strategically?”

“Look, I know that you have some kind of history with this guy—”

“Does he even have his certification?” you interrupted, unable to stay neutral any longer.

At this, Bruce frowned. He was very thorough of course, so it had been a silly question to ask. But you were grasping at anything, anything that could bar him from being around you 24/7. “Of course he does. And even if he didn’t, we’re doing the CPR drills on Saturday morning, remember? He would have got it then, if not.”

You stayed silent, trying to refrain from screaming.

Bruce said your name, quiet as always, and you looked over at him. “Did this guy… did he hurt you?”

You could see the concern on his face, and you sighed, defeated. “No, not physically. Just… emotionally.”

You both sat with that for a moment. “I’m sorry about that. But there’s nothing I can do. You know that I don’t tend to double you guys up unless I have to, but I can’t guarantee that you’ll never have to work with him. I know you’re professional, so I’m not worried about you,” he paused, pushing his glasses back up, “but if he goofs around or something, I’ll get rid of him. okay?”

You didn’t allow your shoulders to slump like they so wanted to. “Okay.”

It looked like your nightmare was about to begin.

Something you hadn’t anticipated, something far worse than what you’d imagined, was that Sam and Joaquin got along with Bucky like a house on fire. It had you spitting mad. Those were your friends, your work buddies, not his. At least Joaquin had the sense to look guilty when you caught the three of them laughing it up at the end of a shift.

You stomped to your car, shaking sand from yourself, as you cut past them. You didn’t hear footsteps jogging behind you until you were on the asphalt, just a few feet from the safety you were banking on.

“Hey, wait!” you scrunched your face up at the sound of Bucky’s voice and started to fumble blindly in your bag, looking for your car keys.

He caught up with you right as you fished them out. “Hey, I just wanna talk.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.” you said icily.

“Well, can you just hear me out?”

“No.” You unlocked your car, throwing your bag in the backseat. Once you’d slammed the door closed, you turned to face him. He was blocking the driver’s side. “Move.”

“Not until you talk to me.”

You crossed your arms. “Move right now, or I swear, I’ll—”

“I want to get back together.”

“Are you fucking joking?” You were incensed. The fact that he had the balls to say that to you…

His expression was serious, pleading. “Look, I know I made a mistake—”

“A mistake?” you screeched. “You broke up with me right before I took grad photos with my mother!”

You’d made her banish them to a cupboard behind all the other photo albums, unable to bear the sight of your red rimmed eyes and streaky makeup.

He winced. “I know. Shitty timing on my part, I’m sorry. But I regret it. I regret all of it. I miss you. I’ve been missing you.”

“What, Natasha not giving enough in the sack?” you said sarcastically, a vicious bite.

You thought he went a shade paler as you continued on. “Yeah, I know about that. We hadn’t even been broken up 24 hours before you slept with her.” You sounded hysterical, and for good reason. You’d never had the chance to scream and shout at him before. Now seemed to be as good a time as any. You didn’t care if you drew a crowd. Hell, the entire beach should know what a piece of work he was. “I gave you almost three years of my life, Bucky, and you stepped all over it like it was dirt. Why the hell would I take you back?”

“Well, you never dated anyone after me, did you?” he asked, though he knew the answer.

You flushed, your skin hot, and it had nothing to do with the sun beating down on you. “What’s your point? I was pretty busy studying.”

“Now, you and I both know that’s not why.” he said, leaning down and getting close to your face. You could smell his breath, peppermint. You knew he kept Lifesavers in his glove compartment—it seemed that hadn’t changed.

“You haven’t dated anyone because you still love me. And I still love you. And I’m not going to stop fighting for you.”

If he’d said it to you any other time, maybe it would have cracked your exterior, exposed your gooey center. Maybe. But right now, it was only proving to you that he didn’t even get it. That just because he said he still loved you, didn’t mean you’d drop everything. Because if he’d loved you even at all, he never would have broken up with you.

“The only thing you miss is having a girl sneak into your room at night and warm your bed.” you said, disgusted.

At this, he had the audacity to look wounded. “No, I—”

“Move out of my way, or I will scream.”

The wild look in your eyes told him you were serious, and he stepped to the side. You got in the car, shoving your key so hard into the ignition you thought you might have damaged it, and then tugged your seatbelt with enough force that it got stuck. You put the car in reverse and heard tap tap tap against your window. He was still there.

You rolled it down, just a crack. “Back up or I’m gonna run you over, I swear to God, Bucky.”

“I’ll show you how sorry I am. I swear. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be good to you for the rest of my life.”

“Go fuck yourself, Bucky.” And then you were speeding out of the lot, feeling your eyes burn with unshed tears.

That evening, as you laid in your bed, the window wide open to let in the outside air, you closed your eyes and thought of drowning Bucky in the ocean. You were sure you could lure him out there late at night, with the promise of being understanding. You could play the game, lead him out into the water under the guise of being playful. He was stronger than you, but you thought your rage might be enough to hold him under water for long enough.

You felt a small stab of peace at the idea.

Of course, you couldn’t do it—it would be just your luck that you’d land in jail because of him—but thinking about it was nice.

Instead, you would do the next best thing.

You’d make him regret ever looking in another girl’s direction. If he wanted to play, you could play. He didn’t realize what the game really was. You just had to wait for the right moment.

You had the next day off, and thank God for that. There was no way you could face Bucky so soon after what he’d said to you—you hadn’t calmed down enough yet. But you did spend the day with a couple of girlfriends at the mall. You hoped he was disappointed to pull into the lot and not see your car. After all, he might have gotten the job just to bother you, but it still meant that he had to actually work when he was there, whether or not you were scheduled.

On Saturday morning, you arrived a little after sunrise. You weren’t working that day, either, but the drill was necessary, so there you were in light, loose clothes over your bathing suit, your hair a tousled mess, prepared to spend the next couple of hours in the sand. You weren’t the first one there, but you’d beat Bucky at least, so you had a few minutes of calm before he showed up.

The drills were meant to work as refreshers and to also help team building. After all, in a real crisis, you’d all have to be synchronized with each other well enough to administer help as quickly and efficiently as possible.

As well as standard CPR on the beach, you were being tested on pulling people from the water. It was harder for someone like you, not built like Bucky or Sam, but you still always aced that part of the drill. There were also some drills based on call and response times among yourselves, and when and how a two person job should be administered. It would be a piece of cake, you thought to yourself. You were never worried about tests like these.

Your sunny mood threatened to sour when you saw Bucky, long and lean, loping across the beach to where the rest of you were gathered. Bruce and one of the older lifeguards were off to the side, speaking quietly. The drills would start in the next five minutes, but you wished it would be in the next five seconds.

Taking a deep breath, you willed yourself to be calm when Bucky entered your orbit. You knew that he’d make a beeline for you. He stood by your side, hands on his hips, as he admired the ocean. “Missed you yesterday,” he commented.

“Okay.” You were plain in your response. There was nothing to say, really, and you figured that for now, one word answers were the best you could do.

“I remember you telling me about these types of drills when you still worked at the pool. Is it gonna be similar to that?”

You pursed your lips, eyes to the sea line. You didn’t want to think about last summer, or the one before that. “In the act of saving lives? Yes.” you said drily.

“I got my certification last week,” he admitted.

you bit the inside of your cheek. So he had definitely planned this, not just taken the job up on the fly. It had been his goal all along to force you into his proximity. “Okay.” you repeated, back to the safety of a single worded answer.

“I never told you before, but I think it’s really cool that you care about this sort of stuff.”

If he thought a compliment was going to get him anywhere, he was sorely mistaken. You were saved from saying “okay,” for the third time by Bruce striding forward and clasping his hands in front of him. It had been noiseless, but it may as well have been a clap, because everyone straightened and turned in his direction. “Alright, everyone. We’re going to get started now. You know how to do this, so we’re skipping the demonstration. Just show us that you remember the right protocols, okay?”

And with that, the drills were underway.

It had started out fine. You were quick, and you knew exactly where all the extra equipment was. You knew what you should have on your person, what should be secured at Overwatch, and where any emergency backups were. You knew the best way to get them without leaving your victim. Communication was key in this sort of situation. The walkie-talkies were waterproof, but you tended to know exactly what you were dealing with before you were too far out in the water, able to call and anticipate what you’d need, or if you would require assistance, before reaching your target.

For most drills, you used dummies, though some were with your fellow lifeguards acting as helpless swimmers. So far, you’d been able to keep well away from Bucky.

That was, until it came time for the last one. It was a two person drill, and Sam, despite his newfound friendship with Bucky, was still your number one for group situations when the choice was possible. You high fived each other as you got ready on the presumed start line, right by Overwatch. The idea was that in this particular drill, two people would be needed to bring the person back to land and administer CPR or anything more serious.

The only hitch in this was that you were supposed to be saving Bucky, who had eagerly volunteered to float in the ocean and wait for his rescue. It irked you, but you pushed it to the side, ready to show that you were worth your salt. Bruce stood off to the side with a stopwatch. “Alright, ready…?”

At your determined nod, he clicked the button of the watch. “Go!”

You took off in a dead sprint. You were in only your swimwear by now, your clothes discarded in a pile along with everyone else’s. The water was still cool at this time of morning, though you’d been in and out enough that it didn't slow you down. Sam matched your pace pretty evenly, his legs longer, but you had a killer breaststroke, and got to Bucky first. He grinned at you, flicking water from his eyes. “My hero.”

“Shut up and don’t make things difficult. If you screw this for me, I’ll kill you.”

Sam got to you both right as you finished the threat, and Bucky allowed himself to be pulled to land. Once you got him down on the sand, far enough away from the lapping waves, there was a brief, hesitant pause. You were already on your knees beside him. It had been automatic. The thing was, one of you was supposed to administer CPR while the other went for the first aid kit. You and Sam hadn’t discussed who would be doing what. Inwardly, you cursed. You thought maybe somewhere in your subconscious, you were anticipating mouth-to-mouth. What you wouldn’t have given to let Sam do it instead, to leave Bucky spluttering as you held in a laugh.

But you didn’t have time to switch now, because in a real situation, that wouldn’t be an option. Sam took off towards Overwatch, and Bucky blinked up at you innocently. “Save my life, angel. What are you waiting for?”

“Shut up!” you whispered harshly. “Drowning victims usually don’t talk!” Then you started with chest compressions. You were using a bit more force than you really needed, especially since Bucky could breathe, but you didn’t care if he wheezed a little. He deserved it.

Even still, his eyes seemed to sparkle when you stopped after the count. “Do not enjoy this,” you warned, before pinching his nose and covering his mouth with yours.

You weren’t supposed to actually breathe for him, but mimicking the motions was supposed to do the trick. Why, oh why did you not get to use a dummy for this? It was because all your other compatriots were currently performing the same drill, and there were no more left, but it felt like some cruel twist of fate to you, like the universe was having a laugh at your expense.

To your utter relief, he let you do the first set without issue. Then you went back to the chest compressions, where mercifully, he stayed quiet. It was when you did the second set of mouth-to-mouth that things went south. You felt the barest twitch of his fingers against your knee. Then he was snaking his hand up your thigh and to the dip of your waist. You sucked in a breath, moving to pull away, but not before you felt his tongue breach your lips and touch the inside of your mouth.

You stared at him, stunned by his boldness. How in the world had no one noticed the obvious violation of the drill? Instead, he only smiled at you lazily, head pillowed by sand. “You taste just like I remember.”

“Oh, I’m gonna kill you,” you glowered at him, putting your hands on his chest and pressing down with all your weight. He only looked pleased.

“Hey, don’t break our dummy. He’s not one that we can replace.” Sam’s voice snapped you out of it, the first aid kit dangling from his hand.

You sat back on the sand heavily. “Work away, Wilson. I did my part.”

“And you did it so well,'“ Bucky cooed, ignoring the daggers in your eyes.

You excused yourself as soon as you could, under the plea of a bathroom break. It was a short jog down to the cabanas where the stalls were. The lighting was dingy, the four by four room made up of blue tiles. You stared at yourself in the mirror. The drills were almost done, and it was still early in the day. After this, you could go home and put Bucky out of your head, at least until tomorrow.

You still couldn't believe that he’d kind-of-sort-of kissed you. It shouldn’t have been a shock—he’d made his motivations to win you back somehow very clear—but still, you didn’t think he’d put your job at risk in order to do it. Okay, maybe that was a bit dramatic… the most Bruce would have done would be to give you a deeply disappointed stare. But even still, that wasn’t something you wanted to be on the receiving end of.

When you walked back out, the sky had started to cloud over, just a little. You thought you could smell rain on the horizon. It didn’t matter to you. You’d already been in and out of the water a dozen times. You hoped the sky would open up and pour all over Bucky after you left.

The rest of the drills were a breeze. You stayed far away from him, choosing to stick with Ava instead, though you could feel Bucky’s eyes on you. At the end of the circuit, Bruce, pleased with everyone’s efficiency, began handing out coupons. They were a dollar off for the ice cream stand, redeemable any time during the summer. You usually gave yours to Cassie, the stand owner’s daughter, but you decided to keep it this time. You deserved the treat for dealing with Bucky all morning.

You stuffed it in the pocket of your shorts before throwing your clothes on and stealing away to your car while Bucky was distracted by pats on the back from Sam and Joaquin, glad to be away from him, though you had a feeling the memory of his mouth would plague you for the rest of the day.

You settled, reluctantly, into the routine of seeing Bucky often. If you weren’t filled with bubbling annoyance, you would have felt almost like you had in high school, being in his proximity all the time. From the way he kept finding excuses to be close to you, it really did remind you of high school. Back then, when you’d been surrounded by teachers and other students, he’d had to be subtle with his affections. You remembered your hands being linked together behind your backs, or his shoe touching yours, arm to arm. Him scooting his chair closer, or pulling yours across the tile until your knee knocked into his. Back then, you’d mooned over each other like any other lovesick couple. You’d frequently been told to ‘get a room’ even when all you’d been doing was sitting on the bleachers under his arm, leaned against him, or resting back against his chest under one of the trees outside.

It was different now, of course. He’d get close to you, kicking up sand and disturbing the pecking gulls, and you’d simply move away. You had the excuse of surveying the beach, at least. Being around others didn’t really deter him either—any time you were in the middle of a laugh with Sam and Joaquin, he’d join right in, and you’d abruptly stop your giggling and become stone faced for the remainder of the interaction.

You thought you’d at least get some peace and quiet when you ventured to the ice cream stand on your break. You liked Scott—he and his daughter ran the stand all by themselves, sometimes with a volunteer on really hot, busy days. He was always very silly normally, even more so to the little kids, and there was usually a line about a mile long to get a rocket pop or ice cream sandwich. You were lucky to be the last of a rush of customers, and stuck around as you started in on your vanilla cone. You were half leaned into the window, making conversation with Cassie and enjoying the cold that you could feel blasting from the deep freeze. The stand was really more of a little hut, decorated in a Hawaiian theme. Scott always wore the most goofily patterned shirts he could find.

Your fun was short lived when you felt the heat of a warm body at your side. You felt yourself stiffen, knowing exactly who would be that bold. You barely had to turn your head to see Bucky, looking innocently at Cassie. “Is this where I redeem my coupon?” He held the paper between two fingers, and it waved lazily in the breeze.

She grinned at him and took the coupon, and it was only a matter of seconds before Bucky was mirroring you, ice cream cone in hand. “I should have known this was where you’d be hiding.”

You straightened and pulled away from the stand, offering a half-hearted wave to the Langs. “And now I need to find a new spot.”

As you spoke, you felt the slow drip of vanilla curling over your fingers. It had started an instant melt the second you’d moved away from the window. Without thinking, you licked the offending melt away, grimacing at the stickiness you knew it would leave behind, and glanced back at Bucky.

The look on his face was comical. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, completely ignoring his own melting ice cream. His eyes had been locked in on your hand, and more specifically the trip your tongue had taken. You snorted. “Oh, grow up.”

He tried and failed to school his expression. “That was hot.”

You wrinkled your nose and resumed eating, trying for bites instead of licks—you were almost down to the cone now, and you didn’t really feel like eating vanilla soup, but his eyes tracked your every move. “You’re so gross.”

“Do you remember that night… at that John kid’s party?” Bucky asked, eyes still on your mouth.

You rolled your eyes. “Seriously—”

“When we stole wine from his dad’s cellar and hid in the pool house, and you started hiccupping so much that you couldn’t breathe, but you kept laughing and laughing and laughing?”

You did remember, though it was fuzzy. You’d drank way too much that night. It had been about two months before graduation, and the nerves had been getting the better of you for weeks. But Bucky had convinced you to go, to try and get your mind off of it. “I remember. But I remember what happened after more than I remember that part,” you admitted.

He gave you a half-smile. “Yeah, me too.” The ‘after’ had been very rushed, very giggly sex, and your ‘B’ necklace had kept smacking you in the chin every time you’d moved. And then Bucky and you had snuck out, slinking behind patio furniture, hands tightly clasped, when another drunk couple had stumbled in there. And he’d taken you to a fast food drive thru, and you’d sat on the hood of his car eating ice cream and looking up at the stars.

You didn’t want to get sentimental. It was a road you’d already travelled far too many times, and you didn’t want to drive the familiar path to your dead relationship again. You didn’t want to eat your ice cream anymore, either. You threw the cone in the trash, felt the stickiness between your fingers, and looked at your hands in distaste. Your break was over soon, anyway. Bucky was still staring at you, with eyes as blue and warm as the Southern sea.

“Well, this was fun and all, but I’m gonna go wash my hands before I get back to Overwatch.” You moved to sidestep around him, but he moved with you, cutting you off.

“I miss hearing you laugh.” His voice was quiet, almost drowned out by the shriek of a gull.

You bit your tongue before saying, “Well, that’s a privilege only my friends get to hear. And you’re not my friend, Bucky.”

You left him there, with ice cream dribbling down his wrist, and a bitter taste in your mouth.

You were subject to moments like this all throughout the week. There were days where you almost reached salvation in the form of not being scheduled with him, but every time you thought you were free from Bucky’s pleading stare, he’d show himself. You really thought he’d have better things to do with his summer, but if you were at the beach, then so was he, without fail.

One of the hottest days of the year had approached. Bruce had scheduled many of your for that weekend, encouraging frequent breaks and eagle eyes on the beach goers to ensure that heatstroke was at a minimum. You’d worked days like this before, the sun no joke. The ocean shimmered like a disco ball. It was almost painful to look at, especially from your vantage point on Overwatch. Your stint up high was almost over, with only a few minutes before someone switched with you. Your little handheld fan was losing the battle with the heat, only serving to blow more hot air your way.

You caught sight of a group of girls around your age, a striped blanket held between them as they squealed at the burn of the sand on their feet. They set up not far from you, before pulling off their beach coverups. Obviously, they were intent on getting their tan on. If that hadn’t been clear already, their bathing suits were little more than floss and scraps of fabric. It left nothing to the imagination, that was for sure. You idly watched them lay out, before scaling Overwatch when one of the other lifeguards came to take over.

You were totally unsurprised to see Joaquin and Sam a little further down the beach, not hiding their ogling in the slightest. Joaquin’s eyes were so huge that they looked like dinner plates. You rolled your eyes. Typical men. You approached and lightly shoved Joaquin’s arm. “How about you look at the rest of the beach too, and not just the hot girls, hmm?”

“But—

“Oh, come on. Lighten up. It’s not every day we get to see girls that hot just laid out like that.” Sam complained, gesturing at them.

You gave him a look. “Actually, it is every day. This is the fucking beach, Sam. Hot girls are kind of a dime a dozen.”

You dragged them both along with you, hands firm on their elbows. “You’re just jealous that no one’s making eyes at you.” Joaquin muttered petulantly.

It wasn’t worth commenting on, so you just sighed and shook your head, but then Sam said, “Well, that’s not true… Bucky’s been checking her out all day.”

Your head whipped to the side to stare at Sam. Today had been a day that you’d mercifully not seen much of your ex. You’d covered up today. The UV was high, and you’d worn your rash guard, not wanting to risk a sunburn. Compared to the group of girls, you might as well have been furniture. Sure, maybe Bucky was doing his standard eye-fucking, but there was no way he’d be checking you out over those girls. You weren’t blind—even you knew they all looked like they belonged on the cover of Sports Illustrated.

You arrived at the cabana and immediately sat down on the floor in front of the dinky little air conditioner, letting it blow in your face. Sam fished in the cooler for some bottles of water and tossed one to you, which you caught with a grateful look before chugging half of it. Joaquin rounded Bruce's desk to look at the schedule, before letting out a whistle. “Well, good luck, because you’re walking the shoreline with Bucky in like, ten minutes.” He said to you.

You grimaced. “I know.”

You’d looked at what the day would bring for you when you’d first arrived. Walking the perimeter wouldn’t be so bad. And if Bucky really got on your nerves, you’d just push him into the surf and keep walking.

“Are you ready to forgive him yet?” Sam asked, slouching in one of the chairs.

You glared at him over your shoulder. “Why on earth would I do that?”

“I don’t know, maybe so we don’t have to hear him pining over you or whatever. Dude’s got a heart boner for you so strong that it makes me nauseous.”

“Shut up, Sam.”

“It’s true,” Joaquin admitted with a shrug of his shoulders. “He won’t shut up about you. I know things that I should never know.”

That gave you pause. “Like what…?” You were afraid of the answer.

“Like for your one month anniversary—lame, by the way—you made him a giant skillet cookie and stuck a sparkler in it. Why do I know that? I didn’t want to know that.”

“Or,” Sam added, “that your yellow sundress with the lemons on it is what shows off your legs the best. Why do I care? It’s gross. You’re like a sister to me. I don’t wanna know that.”

“Oh my God.” You groaned, covering your face with a hand.

“Yeah, think of how we feel.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t have gotten so buddy-buddy with him, ever think of that?” you snapped, looking between them.

“When he’s not waxing poetic about how your eyes look like the stars, he’s a cool guy. But my God, he’s so down bad for you.” Joaquin laughed at your disgusted stare. “So either forgive him, or put him out of his misery. Seriously.”

But it wasn’t up to your friends to decide whether you should forgive and forget. They weren’t the ones that had had to nurse a broken heart between shifts at your part time job and 8am lectures. You sniffed disdainfully. “Sounds like it’s gonna be a long summer for you two, then.”

You spent the remainder of your inside time sitting back against the wall, finishing your water and reapplying sunscreen to your face and your legs, listening to Sam and Joaquin talk about something or other, before you stood with a sigh. “Off to serve my sentence,” you said, stretching your arms.

“Good luck out there.” Joaquin said with a mock salute.

When you pushed open the cabana’s door, you almost screamed in surprise, your hand flying to your chest to calm your racing heart. Bucky had been standing right outside. “Jesus Christ, Bucky. Were you lurking out here like a feral raccoon the whole time?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “No, only the last two minutes. I saw you guys come inside but I didn’t want to crash the party.” His eyes flicked over your form, before he said, “Are you ready to go?”

“I guess.” You blew hair out of your face, then started walking, not waiting for him to catch up.

You basked in miraculous quiet for all of three minutes, the walk around the shoreline barely started, before you noticed that you were the only one with your head on a swivel, watching the water and the beach. Bucky had been staring at you almost the entire time.

“Ugh, god, Sam was right.”

Bucky met your eyes. “Huh?”

“He said you kept checking me out. How about you check out the beach instead? You know, seeing as it’s your job.”

“I can’t help it,” he held his hands up, giving you puppy eyes. You were pretty sure he was pouting a little, too. “I only have eyes for you.”

You scoffed, turning to look at the sea, the group of kids splashing around nearby. “Yeah, right.”

“It’s true!”

“Pretty sure you’d be singing a different tune if Natasha was here.” You sounded bitter, and you knew it. You hated it. You didn’t want to keep bringing it up, to keep bringing her up, but the whole thing was like a splinter in your palm, one that had gotten so deep under your skin that you couldn’t remove it.

There was a moment of silence between you both. You felt the sand under your feet. You were closer to the water than he was, the waves lapping at your ankles as you walked. Your footprints were washed away after every step.

“What do you want me to do,” Bucky finally said, a heavy breath escaping him, “do you want me to beg?”

And to your embarrassment, he got on his knees right there, stopping you in your tracks in front of a large family, who all turned to stare. You looked left and right, mortified as any other surrounding beach goers started turning your way as well, keen interest in their eyes.

“Oh my God, get up.” You flicked your hands, beckoning him to stand, your voice strangled.

“I’ll beg, I’m not above it. I’ll do whatever it takes. I have no shame. I know how I feel about you.” He said steadily, looking up at you like you were the sun.

Oh, no… you had a terrible feeling that he was about to begin a whole speech. “Bucky—”

“I was a total idiot. I’m gonna be kicking myself for it for the rest of my life. I was stupid and scared and everything was changing, and you were my only constant. And instead of clinging to you like I should have, I did the dumbest thing I could possibly do, and I hurt you. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I know forgiveness isn’t easy, but I’m asking you to consider it.”

You weren’t really listening, too focused on the heat under your skin, heat that had nothing to do with the warm weather and everything to do with being in the spotlight of a bunch of strangers.

“If you don’t get up right now, there’s no chance in hell.” You whispered harshly.

To your surprise, he stood immediately, latching on to hope. “So there’s a chance?”

“That’s not what I said.”

Bucky grabbed onto both of your hands, and you fought a shudder. It had been a long time since he’d touched you, and even something as innocent as this sent you into a tailspin. When you looked at his face, your eyes slow to move from where he’d been kneeling, you saw a horrible amount of earnestness there. You pulled your hands away from his, rattled. He didn’t usually let you see his true feelings, not when you were together. It had been pretty rare.

“Can we just… can we just finish the perimeter, please?” you asked. People finally started looking away, disappointed that there hadn’t been more of a spectacle.

“Okay. Whatever you want.” But Bucky stayed standing in front of you for a moment longer, before stepping to the side and falling in line next to you.

The rest of the walk was quiet, but his words kept echoing in your head anyway.

It didn’t take you long to notice, after that, that Bucky had started to switch shifts to see you. Even if he didn’t necessarily get to work with you directly, you had noticed names being scribbled out and switched with his. He was always working when you were, now. He was everywhere. Even for things as unnecessary as helping you down from Overwatch. You’d climbed that chair dozens of times without any need for assistance, but all of a sudden, there he was with an extended hand to help you down. You always ignored it, but he did it anyway.

Frankly, it was unnerving. You had to believe that was it, because if you thought about it further... you were worried a small piece of you would find it sweet.

You could no longer ignore him quite so easily. Not when he was being so nice. You could only be so much of a bitch, and it was getting harder and harder to do when he’d bring you water or a snack, or offer to take over so that you could have a couple of minutes inside. He was certainly doing the most to win you over. And you were just a little bit worried that you’d fold like a house of cards if he pushed some more.

Unfortunately, being around him so constantly also made you aware of things you didn’t really want to be aware of. Like the consistent sunburn between his shoulder blades. Bucky refused to wear a shirt, not on any of the days that he’d worked. He technically wasn’t required to, but you thought it was silly to risk a burn just to show of his Adonis-like figure. It was hard to look at him without remembering what it had been like to trace your fingers over his abs. But eventually, the perpetual red mark between his shoulders and up his neck had you taking pity on him.

The next time you were working together, you saw him wince when Sam clapped him on the back in greeting, before trading off. You’d just arrived yourself, your bag on your shoulder. Suddenly, it felt heavy with the weight of sunscreen. “Bucky, doesn’t that hurt?” You touched your own shoulder for emphasis.

He bit his lip, frowning. “Yeah, but I can’t reach there.”

You hesitated before biting the bullet. “Do you want me to—”

“Yes.” He answered before you could even finish the question, his eyes locked onto you.

You regretted asking. You fumbled with the lid of the sunscreen before squeezing some out onto your hand. Standing behind him like this made you think of all the times he’d given you a piggyback ride, walking you from his car to your house. You’d pepper the side of his face with kisses and he’d dig his fingers more firmly into your thighs, keeping you strapped to him like a backpack. You willed the memories from your head at the first gentle touch of your fingers to his skin. You could feel the heat of the burn and winced, imagining the pain. It only took turning into a lobster one time for you to always slather yourself in sunscreen and light layers of clothes, and you thought he’d do well to remember it too, but you said nothing as you rubbed the lotion in. Bucky let out a soft hiss of discomfort but stayed still otherwise. Even though it was overcast today, it was still worth the protection.

Once you were done, you gingerly patted his shoulder. “Okay, you’re good.”

You went to put the bottle back in your bag when he turned to face you. “Can I… return the favour?”

Your instinct was to say no, absolutely not, he was never getting his hands on you again. But the way he’d asked was so distinctly unlike him, it made you reconsider. There was no bravado, no cockiness. Just that same earnest look from the day he’d gotten on his knees, and a soft undertone of shyness that you’d never heard from him before. Usually, you got one of the other female lifeguards to help you with any spots you missed. But as you observed him now, his lack of flirtatiousness made you believe that he’d be on his best behaviour, for once. No lingering touches of heady stares. “Okay.” The answer left you on an exhale.

You had a racerback one-piece on today, meaning it was really only your shoulders on display. You’d done your arms and legs already. You turned away from him after handing him the bottle.

The first touch of his fingers on your skin had you fighting a shiver. This had been a bad idea. It was impossible for Bucky to touch you without your brain catapulting you to the past. All he was doing was rubbing sunscreen into your skin, and yet it was making you think of when you’d been hunched over textbooks for hours, making flashcards, and he’d sat behind you and massaged your shoulders, pressing kisses between your shoulders and to the side of your neck. You were glad that you weren’t looking at him right now—you were sure that your thoughts would be written all over your face. It was making you feel skittish, too self-aware of where your mind was spiraling. He carefully swept your hair to one side, his hand stroking against the back of your neck. You didn’t like how comfortable you felt, how easy it was to sink into the feeling of his hands on you.

When he was satisfied with his application, he let his hands linger on your shoulders before murmuring, voice close to your ear, “All done.” A flurry of butterflies exploded in your stomach. You didn’t want to turn around. You knew exactly how close he’d be.

“Thanks.”

And you both stood there for a moment longer, him behind you, hands still on your shoulders, and you staring down at your sand-filled sandals, suspended in a single stretch of time where he hadn’t hurt you and you hadn’t refused his apology, before someone called your name in greeting, and then it cracked like glass, and you were hastily shoving the sunscreen in your bag and striding across the beach like you were on fire.

Each time you found yourself alone with Bucky after that, it all felt compromising. He didn’t even have to necessarily be close to you, but you felt some sort of intangible spark between you that kept trying its hardest to flicker to life, despite your attempts to smother it. Keeping your distance wasn’t working, and almost all of Bucky’s earlier bravado seemed to have melted away in favour of more genuine connection. He’d stopped flirting with you like he had at first, stopped trying to take advantage of how he could fluster you. It made it worse when he’d stand right beside you, not touching, but only an inch or so away. The heat on your skin had nothing to do with the weather.

You started to wonder, as you observed him, if your time apart had been… good for him.

Not with the way he’d ended things, no, but he hadn’t had anyone in his corner, you believed, except for his best friend, Steve. You had always been the third person in that friendship, even before you’d started dating. And you had long since known that Steve had been the most studious of the three of you. It made you consider the long nights Bucky would have spent alone, without your company or Steve’s to keep him grounded. Something that Bucky had never done much of was stand alone. And whether you liked it or not, your break up would have forced him to do things by himself.

You found yourself thinking about it every time you saw him when he wasn’t aware of you. When he’d been getting off shift, but he’d stopped to help an elderly couple fold up their beach chairs and take them to the car. When he’d helped a lost kid find their mother, holding their hand and then wiping away their tears when they’d cried, accepting the mother’s profuse thankfulness with nothing more than a smile. The Bucky you’d known before wouldn’t have bothered with going out of his way to help people. He’d been totally absorbed in your bubble, your world with the population of two. Maybe he’d grown up more than you’d originally thought.

It was hard for you to reconcile the fact. The boy you’d loved, who’d been all of your firsts, who’d broken your heart, had changed. You wondered, if you were still together, if he’d have still become who he was now. If you’d love him more than you thought possible. But you’d changed, too. You weren’t so trusting, you weren’t so open to new things, like you’d been with him. When you’d been together, you’d felt utterly fearless. Bucky had always been good at entertaining your every whim. But you’d become a little more guarded in his absence. Your rose-tinted glasses weren’t so pink anymore.

Still, you weren’t quite ready to consider taking any steps towards anything more than a working relationship. You didn’t think you could be friends. It would never be just that, not to you. You’d always be thinking of before, when you’d been more. And he’d already made it clear that he wanted you back. You entertained the idea of telling him you wouldn’t take him back, that you could only be friends in the same capacity that you were friends with Sam or Joaquin. You didn’t know if he’d be able to respect your wishes or not or if he’d cross the line. All you really knew was that it would be too easy for you to fall under his spell if you gave in. That was the real reason for your continued distance. Falling back into Bucky would be as easy as wrapping yourself in an old, well-loved blanket, and snuggling so deeply that you’d fall asleep and never wake up again. And you couldn’t do that to yourself. Not now.

The bonfire happened every year, apparently. It was after hours at the beach, no swimming allowed, just the promise of a fire and food and music. It was always at the beginning of August. Almost everyone from the lifeguard team was going. You felt somewhat nervous at the prospect, like there was some sort of anticipation under your skin, but you couldn’t figure out why. After all, you’d spent most of your summer days with these people. You knew what to expect—Sam had filled you in, having attended these things with a cousin a couple of years in a row—but still, you couldn’t shake the feeling. It was just supposed to be a fun, lighthearted evening.

You’d heard through the grapevine that Bucky wouldn’t be attending. You felt a strange sense of disappointment, though you tried to convince yourself that it was actually relief. But when the night of the bonfire came, and your tires slid smoothly across the sand that had blown over the lot, you noticed that his car wasn’t there. You wiped your palms on your shorts, even though they were dry, a nervous tic that you had, and made eye contact with yourself in the rear view mirror. You were just going to have a nice evening, probably attached to Sam and Joaquin the whole night, indulging on hot dogs and popsicles and drinks, and then you’d go home. It sounded like a perfect summer memory to capture and keep like a firefly in a jar.

When you moseyed on over to the beach, you were greeted warmly by your fellow lifeguards. It was just after eight, the sun low in the sky, setting the entire beach ablaze. The last stragglers that had been out enjoying the day were departing, rolling up towels and gathering toy shovels and buckets into bags. You could just barely make out Bruce standing by Overwatch, having taken over so that the rest of you could start your night. You were handed a lemonade and hustled over to the metal fire pit. Some chairs were scattered about, as well as a wooden bench that had seen better days. One of these years, it would probably serve as kindling. The breeze was subtle, carrying the scent of the burning logs across the open air.

Everything was very relaxed, with no expectations but to have a good time. The stars slowly woke up over the course of the next hour, brightening up the darkening sky in soft blinks. Marshmallows were being roasted over the open flame, but you were content to sit on the bench listening to the idle chatter. The evening carried on lazily, most all of the lifeguards present, each of them weaving between each other. A Bluetooth speaker had been set up on a towel, music pumping steadily, a couple people swaying to the melody. The songs were all popular ones, whatever was trending for the summer. The chorus of one was broken up by the distant slam of a car door. You looked around the beach, but you didn’t think anyone had left yet. It was too soon, you thought.

And then you saw him, on the other side of the flames. First a long shadow, then more concrete, more real. Bucky, in a t-shirt and shorts, swinging the his keychain around his finger as he strolled up to the rest of you. He had a sweatshirt hanging over one arm. He was late, but he was here. You tried to tamp down the feeling spreading through your chest at the sight of him. He didn’t see you right away, sidling over to Sam and accepting a drink. They were hovering around the grill. You saw Bucky laugh, but you were too far away to hear him over the music, the roar of the flames, and the swish of the waves. He clapped Sam on the shoulder before turning to survey the rest of the beach, raising his red solo cup in greeting to whoever waved or shouted in his direction.

Then, predictably, his eyes came to rest on you. He stayed staring at you as he took a sip of his drink, and you broke the contact to stare into the fire. You weren’t surprised when he sat down beside you. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him resting his cup against his knee. “I thought you weren’t coming,” you said, the words leaving the side of your mouth.

“I was always coming. I just had to drop off Becca at a sleepover first. And you know how long she takes to get ready. She ran back and forth from the car to the house like ten times before she was ready.”

With a pang, you silently agreed that yes, you did know how Becca got. She always forgot something. Dates with bucky had been interrupted dozens of times because she’d called him, begging him to bring her something she’d left behind. And he’d always say yes, and then look at you apologetically, and you’d only smile and kiss the tip of his nose before standing and offering a hand. Becca had sort of been like your little sister, too. You had been the one she’d always come to about boy troubles. You missed her.

“How is she?” you asked. It was easier to talk about someone other than yourselves.

“Oh, you know, same as always. Still taking her dance classes way too seriously.”

You hummed, remembering the recitals you’d attended with Bucky’s family. “She’s got the talent for it. Is she still thinking of going to Julliard?”

“‘Course. It’s on her wall. She made this, uh…” he trailed off, searching for the word, “vision board thing. I don’t know. A bunch of pictures all stuck together?”

You nodded. “Right. It’s supposed to manifest your hopes and dreams, remind you of your goals, that sort of thing.”

He snapped his fingers, pointing at you in confirmation. “Yeah, that. God, can’t believe she’s gonna be applying for universities this year.”

“I remember when she still had frizzy hair and braces,” you said, your voice wistful. If you closed your eyes, you could see her clearly. The summer she’d gotten blonde highlights and cried because she thought they were too chunky, you’d helped her dye her hair back to brown. You used to give her your old clothes, ones you’d outgrown or no longer thought suited you. She would raid your closet and call it thrifting.

“And now she’s got her learner’s permit and a part-time job.” Bucky sounded equally pensive.

It was easy to talk about Becca and the passage of time. Bucky filled you in on what she’d been up to. It was nice to hear. No matter what had happened between you and Nucky, you’d always have a soft spot for his family. “…And then her and my mom called me in tears. I was almost late for my mid-term.” he laughed, looking at you.

You smiled at the tale. It was a classic case of dramatic teenage girl versus worried mother. You tried to ignore the fact that Becca probably would have called you, if you’d been around. Bucky seemed to think of it too. He swallowed, and you watched the line of his throat. “You know, she was uh… she was really mad at me, when we broke up. She didn’t talk to me for two weeks.” You could barely hear him over the crackle of the fire, but the words seeped into your skin, regardless. “She would have picked you over me, if she could have.”

You looked away from him, crossing your arms. You didn’t quite know what to say. “Mom, too, actually.” Bucky added after a moment. “She slapped me upside the head.”

You bit your lip to keep from smiling at the idea. Wilhelmina was one of the gentlest women you knew, who only had to threaten to count to three to get her children to fall in line. The idea of her making Bucky see stars with a smack to the skull was admittedly funny. The words left you before you could consider them. “You know, that was almost the worst part for me. Not only did you break up with me, but I lost my second family because of it.”

He said your name then, and you heard the remorse laced in it, but you cut him off before he could say another word. “I wasn’t gonna be the ex-girlfriend that kept making your life hell by keeping up with your family. You might have deserved it, but any future girlfriends didn’t. But I missed them so much.” Bucky’s family had always been much more hands on than yours. They’d never been upset by your presence, they’d just wanted to know if you were staying for dinner so that they could get an extra plate out.

A cool breeze came in from the shoreline, and it made you shiver as your hair caught on it, blowing across your face. The weight of fabric pressed against your legs a moment later. “Here, take it.”

It was Bucky’s sweatshirt. I was a bad idea to accept it, especially when you were quickly approaching melancholy and introspectiveness, but another gust of wind hand you hastily pulling it over your head. The maroon fabric nearly drowned you, the sleeves hanging past your fingers. It smelled of him. His cologne had always had a little bit of a lavender smell to it. You resisted the urge to pull the hem over your nose, to breathe him in more. You could almost believe it was like old times. You’d constantly stolen his clothes. You liked them more than your own, the way they felt so lived in. The way he always felt close. You’d taken no less than three of his shirts with you when you’d gone to France the year before, away from him for spring break. It had made the time difference bearable.

You pushed your hair back behind your ears even though you knew another billow of wind would send it flying loose around your face again. You wished that someone else would come by, pull you into a more mundane conversation, save you from reliving the past. But it was just you and Bucky on that bench. Everyone else seemed oceans away. When you looked at him again, you regretted it. His eyes were dark in the night, but every time the bonfire flickered, you saw that telltale blue. His mouth was pursed in a line, his forehead creased. He turned to the side, resting his elbow along the back of the bench so that he could look at you with the full force of his gaze. “You know my mom would still love to see you, even if we’re not together, right?”

“I know,” you said softly. “But it’s too hard for me. I can’t… I can’t go into that house anymore. I can’t look at your picture on the wall. Because then I’ll remember that I was there when she took it, and all the others.” You sighed, your eyes fluttering closed for a second. “It’s all just a reminder of before. And I can’t keep looking back on it.”

His fingers touched his mouth as he considered, then nodded. “I understand.” For once, you thought that he actually did.

You both sat in the silence of what had broken you apart, before he nudged your knee with his. “Tell me about school. Straight A’s?” The subject was an abrupt, obvious change, but you grabbed it with both hands.

“Of course. like I'd ever get any less.”

He laughed. “Wish I could say the same. got a D- on a first year seminar.”

At your look of dismay, he held up his hands. “You made all my study guides for me. I tried to recreate them the way you do, but it just didn’t really work.”

“Did you colour code everything?”

“I tried. But orange and red kept getting mixed up.”

You shook your head. “Novice move.”

The smile on his face faded then, his eyes going serious. His hand paused in the air between you, before he followed through, brushing your hair back again from where it had, predictably, come loose. “I want to kiss you right now.”

It was the wrong thing to say. The tentative, easy spell of camaraderie broke, and you shied away, ignoring the sparks on your skin from where he’d touched you. You could see regret swimming in his eyes. You stood suddenly, placing your half-finished lemonade on the bench. “I should go. I wasn’t gonna stay long, anyway.”

You took a stumbling step backward when he tried to reach for you, his lips forming your name. There were no two ways about it, you were shaken. You’d thought for a brief, shining moment, that maybe you could just enjoy the evening as something close to friends. That you could just pretend, for one night. But your feelings had risen in you like an unsteady tide, threatening to spill from your mouth. You felt like you had salt water in your lungs, the way they burned. You patted at your pockets frantically, almost at your car. It was too much, it was too soon. You didn’t know what you wanted. For a second, all you’d wanted was him. You sat in your car for a full moment, both hands on the wheel, staring blankly ahead, before finally shifting into drive and backing out of your spot.

You just hoped you’d get to your room before you started to cry.

The country road ahead was dark, with only your headlights to guide the way. It was a ten minute stretch before you’d reach suburbia again. You drove with no music, only the sound of your breathing and the car rumbling over the road. Your fingers were tight on the wheel.

You supposed you should have expected him to say something like that. It was Bucky, after all. No matter how genuine he seemed, his goal had always been to get back in your pants. Maybe that was cheapening what your relationship had been, but when you had the foundation of your love crumbling because he’d wanted to chase down some tail that wasn’t you, what else were you supposed to think? You were sure it would take nothing at all to re frame every action he’d taken over the course of the summer and twist it into something that hurt.

A flash of lights caught in your rear view mirror. The road had been empty, but there was a car behind you now. If they wanted to overtake, they could. But the lights flashed again, and you could just barely make out the shape of it. it was Bucky’s car. He was following you. “Shit,” you murmured to the air freshener hanging from the mirror.

You couldn’t let him follow you all the way back to the house. Your mom was home, and she’d ask questions. Hell, she’d probably invite him in. He flashed them again, keeping pace. You slapped the indicator with your hand, letting out a resigned sigh, and pulled onto the shoulder. He copied you, pulling in neatly behind you. You parked but stayed in the car, one hand on the wheel, the other clutching at your seatbelt where it rested over your chest. You stared straight ahead, blinking away any glassiness from your eyes.

From the edge of your periphery, you saw him lean down by your window, observing you for the space of three breaths, before he knocked gently on the glass. Your hand left the wheel to push the door open, but you stayed in the car. “I'm sorry,” were the first words out of his mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean—I'm sorry.”

You chewed your lip, eyes flicking to him and away. “And to be clear, I don’t mean that I regret the fact that I want to kiss you. I still do. I always do. But I'm sorry for saying it and making you upset. It’s the last thing I wanted to do.”

His hand gripped the top of the car’s door. You wouldn’t even have to extend your arm the entire way to touch him. Belatedly, you realized you were still wearing his sweatshirt. “Do you want this back?” you asked absently, waving the long sleeve at him.

“What? Oh, no. You can keep it. Colour suits you more, anyway.”

“Bucky,” you said on a sigh, turning your head to look at him finally, “I'm not gonna keep it. It’s not mine, and neither are you.”

“You’re wrong. I'll always be yours. Even if you don’t want me.”

The admission left you in stunned silence. He’d already said to you in so many words that he was intent on getting back together. But to hear it like that… to hear him say it with honest eyes and no expectation… Your next breath was shaky. You refused to cry.

“What can I do? I’ll do anything. Anything to make it up to you. To start making it up to you.'“

You didn’t even know how to respond. Your mind had drawn a total, perfect blank, like someone had taken an eraser to the whiteboard that was your brain, any ideas completely gone.

“Do you know why I really failed that class?” A cricket chirped between the words of the question. “Yeah, it was partly because I suck at studying without you. But it was also because I missed you, so damn much. God, I was still so gone for you—I kept a photo of you on my nightstand.”

At this, your eyes went wide, a look he caught. He gave you a grim smile. “Yeah, that’s right. It’s you on that tire swing. You know, the one at my uncle’s lake house? And the sun was in your eyes, but you looked like you were glowing. Same one I keep in my wallet.” He pulled said wallet out of his back pocket and unfolded it, sliding a creased photo from its depths. He flipped it in his fingers to face you.

It had been warm that fall. So warm, unseasonably so, that his family had hosted Thanksgiving at the lake house that year, and you’d come along. The next day had been a complete and utter downpour. You remembered because he’d forgotten to roll up the windows on his car, and the drive back had been extremely soggy. Bucky tucked it back in his wallet. “You were the last thing I saw at night, first thing I saw in the morning. I wasted hours I should have spent studying just thinking of you, trying to remember your voice. Old videos aren’t the same. I was gonna come to your house over winter break, you know. I was gonna beg you to take me back then, but then I heard from Stevie you weren’t comin’ home.”

Yes, you and your parents had flown across the country to spend Christmas with your grandparents, instead. And you’d been relieved. You hadn’t wanted to come back to town, worried you’d bump into Bucky with some new girl on his arm. “I knew that for the last three summers, you’d worked at the pool, so I was planning to just show up there. But then I heard you were being a hero at the beach instead. And the first day I saw you, it took everything I had not to just run across the sand and hold you until you forgave me, until you told me everything was okay.”

His voice broke a little on the last word. “Stop.” you whispered.

He didn’t. “I miss you so much, baby. I miss you when you’re standing right in front of me. I miss when you used to tell me everything you ate in a day. I miss when you’d tell me what dumb thing your dad said. I miss all of it. I was such an idiot. I got cold feet and I didn’t think it through. I didn’t need other girls, or time apart. I just needed you. I'm so sorry.”

You felt his sadness like you were swimming in a sea of it. You felt his regret, his anger at himself. And even though he’d hurt you more than you’d thought he ever could… he wasn’t entirely right. Time apart, whether you liked it or not, had forced you both to grow without the other, instead of tangling your roots together and staying intertwined.

The click of your seatbelt coming undone went unnoticed.

His hands hovered in the air between you again, like they had on the beach. He settled his palms on the sides of your face gingerly, like he was afraid you’d duck away. This time, you didn’t. Looking into his eyes hurt, it burned. But you wanted to ignite, you thought. You wanted to smoke and smolder and disintegrate. “Please,” he whispered, “please give me another chance.”

Each word had brought his face closer to yours. Your head was tilted up to his. He was outlined by the silvery moon, you both were. You didn’t know which one of your closed the gap, only that your hands came to rest over his. You both tasted like lemonade, but underneath it was his distinct flavour, the one that awakened your senses like an ember sparking on dry leaves. Suddenly the forest of your memories was aflame. It was a kiss both delicate and searching as well as frantic and pleading, like Bucky was pouring every single regret and wish into the same shared breath. His forehead knocked against yours. Your teeth grazed his bottom lip. The sound he made, one you thought you’d never hear again was what made you come to your senses. You pulled back, breaking the connection of your mouths, but his hands stayed on your face. His eyes stayed closed for a long moment and you were free to admire the way his lashes embraced his cheeks.

“How do I know you won’t hurt me again?”

“You don’t. but I'll spend every day proving to you that I'm worth your trust.” His eyes were still closed, like if he didn’t open them, he wouldn’t have to see what you’d decided flying across your face.

He looked at you again when your silence became the clear answer. His fingers stroked across your temples. “I have to think about it.” you said honestly.

In truth, you were unsure. You weren’t ready to trust him yet, even though your nervous system was screaming at your to dive off the board and into the deep end without a life vest. You saw his chest deflate on a long exhale, his breath fanning across your lips. “Okay. Okay, take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere. You know that.” He seemed reluctant to let go of you. “You know that, right?”

You nodded as much as you could with his hands on your face. “I know.”

That was what made him drop his hands. “I love you.”

You didn’t say it back, and you thought you saw a flicker of pain in his eyes, before he shook his head. He knew you weren’t about to reciprocate. “I'm sorry I ruined your night.”

Your laugh was born of nervousness more than humour. “You didn’t ruin it. I really wasn’t planning to stay long. You should go back, though.”

He shook his head again. “I think I got what I came for.”

“And what’s that?”

“A foot in the door.”

He stood up straight then, hand on the door. “Drive home safe, okay? I'll see you tomorrow?” The question was full of unrestrained, naked hope.

“Yeah. I start at 12.”

He moved to close your door, but ducked down at the last moment, leaving a lingering kiss on your forehead. “See you at 12.”

Then he closed your door, and you were alone in the car, the scent of him overwhelming, the taste of him even more so. It took a long time for you to buckle your seatbelt again and start driving.

It took Bucky even longer, staring at the empty space your car had been in, before he got on the road, too.

You didn’t really know what to do with yourself in the morning. You’d been on total autopilot the night before, after you’d gotten home. You didn’t remember crawling into bed, even, but you had woken up still wearing Bucky’s sweater. The faint trace of his scent was still on it. You’d let him kiss you last night, you remembered, but you couldn’t summon the strength to be horrified. You had never, never seen him so emotional before. You couldn’t believe, after that admission, that he was just trying to bed you. He had to be serious. There was no way he wasn’t.

But that didn’t mean you were ready to pick up where you left off. You needed time to wrap your head around it. You supposed you had a month before you were back on campus. You had to decide whether you wanted him haunting the hallways of your dorm or not. You didn’t want to hold onto hope only to be crushed by ‘cold feet’ again.

You didn’t remember getting ready for your shift. You only noticed as you were doing a final check of your bag that you’d gotten dressed and brushed your hair, and your teeth as well judging by the minty taste on your tongue. Somehow, you’d blown through the morning in a total fugue state.

You blacked out on the drive, too, only realizing where you were with sudden clarity as you pulled into your usual spot. Bucky’s car was already there. He’d started before you—your shift only overlapped with his for about an hour. You were nervous to see him. What if last night had actually been a cruel dream?

You drummed your fingers on the strap of your bag where it rested over your shoulder, striding over the sand and heading to the cabana. Bruce glanced up at you from over his glasses and murmured a greeting before turning back to whatever paperwork had graced his desk, and you sat heavily on one of the rickety chairs. You fumbled with your water bottle just for something to do. Even though you were wearing a loose t-shirt over your bathing suit, you felt like the fabric was pressing against you like a second skin. You couldn’t even blame it on the humidity.

You basked in the silence for all of five minutes before slinging your bag on one of the hooks by the door and heading back outside, throwing your hair into a ponytail. It was overcast today, and you had a feeling you’d get rained on at some point, but you found yourself welcoming the possibility. Maybe you needed to get in touch with nature a little more, despite the fact that you’d been spending your days surrounded by it. You were scheduled to walk the perimeter and then cover Overwatch for a while. The beach was fairly empty today. You understood—if you’d had the choice, you would have spent the day inside. Everything was awash in shades of gray, the waves looking choppy and rough.

Bucky was almost right in front of you before you noticed him, too lost in thought, too busy trying not to think of him, because if you did, you’d remember the feeling of his hands on your face and the way he’d kissed you and the sound he’d made, along with a million other tiny things he’d done last night. But then he was there in the light of day, hardly a foot from you. You stopped, narrowly avoiding kicking up sand. “Hi,” you already sounded breathless. You hated it.

“Hey,” he said with a nod. His expression was guarded, like he was afraid you’d come to your senses and decided not to take a chance on him.

You both observed each other. “Was it busy this morning?” you asked. It was a lame, easy out.

He shook his head. “The standard early morning swimmers, but otherwise, no. I’ve actually been bored out of my mind. It gave me too much time to think.” It was a leading statement, but you decided not to pull at that thread.

“It’ll probably be more of the same for you. It’s supposed to rain around three.” he added, glancing skyward.

You mirrored him, taking in the gathering storm clouds. “It’s been a pretty dry summer.”

You knew things were awkward when you were discussing the most basic of topics. You could almost picture an elephant there on the beach, a sign on its neck saying ‘address me!’

You pointed at the shoreline. “Well, I should probably get to it. Are you taking a break?”

“Yeah.” But you both stayed standing there for another few seconds, before you ducked your head and started to move.

Right as you were about to pass him, Bucky snaked a hand around your front, settling it on your hip, and kissed the side of your head. It was a small gesture, a simple one. He let go of you and walked away right after he did it, not keeping you there, but it was enough to send your heart ricocheting around your chest like it was taking a turn in a pinball machine.

For your sake, you hoped it would suddenly get very busy on the beach, just so you would have something else to focus on.

The month continued on in a slow crawl, and all of your interactions with Bucky felt like a tentative, shy dance. Sometimes he’d leave you alone, with nothing more than a cursory hello, a searching look, and a small smile, which you’d return. Other times, he’d hover in your orbit like a little lovesick fly. When you’d gone to check the schedule at one point, he’d stood right behind you as you leaned over the desk, not saying a word. You could feel his body heat radiating in waves. You wouldn’t have had to take even a full step back to lean back against him. You imagined if you did, he would have put his arms around you.

You’d started quietly pulling him to the side with no fanfare, turning him around by the shoulders, and slathering him in sunscreen without saying anything about it, though you’d only let him return the favour once, because he’d trailed his finger down your spine and your shiver had been so obvious, you couldn’t look him in the eye after.

The well of longing that you’d boarded up with nails and plywood had flooded, and it felt like it was pushing against the barrier of your skin with insistent, needy hands, begging to be let loose and consume. You were aware of the grains of sand running down on the hourglass. Your personal benchmark of the end of August was approaching, and you felt it looming over you like a vast shadow.

You were running out of reasons to deny Bucky. He’d continued to show up every day, continued to do his job as if he’d wanted to be a lifeguard all along. He was still coming to the beach on most of the days that you worked, though he’d started to give you a little more space. You’d unblocked his number from your phone, and there were now disjointed strings of texts between you. Short things like confirming each other’s schedules, even though you both new the other’s as well as you knew your own. Messages from him wishing you sweet dreams. But the ones that had you holding your phone to your chest with heated cheeks came in the middle of the night, when Bucky would send you things like, “I can’t sleep so I’m looking at your picture,” and “I think I was dreaming of you. I couldn’t see your face, but it was you. It couldn’t be anyone else.” Sometimes he’d tell you what Becca was up to, and pass on messages from you to her as well.

You had started to entertain what the fall might look like. If you took Bucky back, would it be exactly how you’d envisioned it the year before? Would you stop by each other’s campuses, have lunch and study dates together? Would you sneak him back to your dorm, tugging him along by the strings of his hoodie? Would you be one of those couples lazily making out in the quad? Or would you keep this strange tightrope of distance between you? You could picture it just as easily, telling him you still weren’t ready. Him nodding, swallowing whatever he wanted to say, but asking if he could still visit you. You had a feeling that would be worse. You’d be so distracted by the possibility, wondering if he’d make some sort of grand gesture or if he’d keep down this new path, respecting the distance and the time and your hesitation.

With two weeks to go before you needed to get packed up and head three hours away to your school, a couple of new lifeguards were being trained. The off-season was approaching, but the beach was still bound to be busy on weekends all through September and some of October. The heat loved to linger before the cold snap came closer to Halloween. Your hours had started to scale back, or else you’d be in the company of a newbie. Training Kate was somewhat of a challenge. She was good—quick, sharp, determined—but she was also akin to a dog seeing a new toy with the way her attention would shoot elsewhere. Oftentimes, you’d have to repeat yourself or try to get her to refocus. It left little time for Bucky and you, and whatever was going on there.

It was why you were so caught off-guard by Kate asking you one day, “So is that Bucky guy your boyfriend, or what?”

You dropped the bundle of life preservers that had been looped over your arm. “What?”

She pointed at the cabana. Bucky was outside of it, leaned against the wall. He was talking to Sam, but his eyes were on you. He didn’t look away when you made eye contact, and you felt your heart flutter at his open stare. “There’s something going on there, right?” she probed, crouching to pick up some of the preservers.

You joined her, knees in the sand. “We um, we used to date, yes.” You were doing a piss-poor job of picking the red and white rings up. Your fingers suddenly felt slippery.

“Used to date? How long ago?”

“A year ago, give or take.” you said mildly, hoping she’d drop it.

But Kate latched onto it like it was a bone. “A year? Then why is he looking at you like that? Oh! Are you the one that got away?” she sang the last part with enthusiasm, eyes twinkling as she looked at you.

You bit your lip and dusted sand from one of the preservers, a useless thing to do. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose.”

“Are you getting back together? No one looks at a person like that.”

“I know.”

“No, no, I mean… no one looks at a person like that.” she said, grabbing your arm. “My grandparents have been together sixty years, and I don’t think I’ve ever even seen them look so love struck. He’s looking at you like you’re keeping his heart held hostage in a box or something.” To make matters worse, she pointed at him very obviously, then at you. It couldn’t be clearer what you were talking about if she’d started twirling a baton and carrying a neon sign.

When you meekly looked up at him, he hadn’t taken his eyes off you. And damn it, Kate was completely right. You felt stripped bare under his gaze. “Well, it’s sort of complicated,” you muttered.

“What’s so complicated? He looks like he’d get down on one knee right now. It’s actually sort of gross.” She mimed throwing up. Then she looked at you. “And besides, you look equally struck by cupid.”

“What? No I don’t!” You touched your face as if you could confirm or deny her accusation.

She grinned at you, successfully collecting all the preservers and tying them together with a section of rope—the thing you’d been trying to do when you’d dropped them. “If you say so.”

As the rest of the day went on, you couldn’t help thinking about Kate’s question. What’s so complicated? Yes, you’d been hurt beyond belief when Bucky had broken up with you. Yes, it had also sucked extra hard to know that he’d boned Natasha that same night at one of the grad parties. You’d stuck your fingers to the edges of that seeping wound many times over, feeling it bleed over your hands, feeling the pulse of your veins, the hurt pumping through them. But with some level of surprise, when you put your palms over the wound now, you were met with a scar instead. It was puckered, marred, not pretty and clean. But it had healed over, nonetheless. You were sure you’d always feel the phantom ache of the slice, but you found it wasn’t something you were at risk of bleeding out over.

Did that mean you forgave him? You imagined that if you told the whole sordid tale to a council, there’d be varying levels of both outrage and passiveness. You’d seen how girls got ridiculed for going back to men that had done them wrong. But this was the only wrong thing Bucky had done to you, if you thought about it. Any argument you’d ever had, even at your immature ages, had been smoothed over. You had never been the high school couple that broke up every other week. You’d been solid. And it shouldn’t matter what other people thought of your actions, should it? If things went poorly again, you only had yourself to blame for making the choice. You didn’t want outside influence to muddy the waters of your thoughts.

And, you had to admit that as soon as Bucky realized that trying to be suave and charming in order to win you back wouldn’t work, he’d put a stop to it. Since then, he’d been nothing but sincere. He’d prostrated himself before you. He’d tried to meet you where you were at. Maybe it was something worth considering. If you were honest with yourself, you’d never fallen out of love with him, even when you’d had your heart broken, even when you hadn’t seen him for months. As soon as you had, all those feelings came rushing back in a tsunami.

You’d just stepped inside your house, shaking sand from yourself and throwing your keys on the table. At that moment, like he’d known you’d been thinking of him, Bucky sent you a text.

There was no expectation of anything, just an offer of help. and he was right—you were a serial overpacker. It was one of your more endearing qualities, apparently, or so he’d told you once. You considered the offer, considered him. And miraculously, you came to a decision.

You had a week to go, and four shifts left. You only had two days between your last one and your return date to school. You’d asked for it to be that way—you hadn’t wanted to haunt the house with your overthinking.

You had what was considered a closing shift, though it wasn’t a very long one. Four to nine, and the promise of a gorgeous sunset. You knew that Bucky was closing alongside you. After eight o’clock, you’d be on your own with him.

You managed to keep your distance for most of it—the beach was busy that evening, and you’d had to rescue some kids that had gotten a little too far from shore and started to panic. It had all been fine, nothing except for a few tears, some shaken pride, and some furious parents, but you’d kept a sharp eye on the water regardless. You were here to do a job, after all, not moon over your ex, no matter how great he looked with no shirt and dark red shorts that brought out his tan. You’d had the luxury of other lifeguards at the beginning of the shift, but as time went on, they dropped off one by one.

Ava was the last to leave, a couple minutes after eight. You had an hour to kill. You were staying up on Overwatch and keeping an eye on the dwindling beach goers while Bucky started clean up duty, making sure all the essential gear was in its right place, checking the batteries on the walkie talkies, and making sure none of the off-limits areas had been breached. You tried your best not to watch him, but it was hard when the beach was slowly emptying.

Right at nine, the soft clearing of Bucky’s throat alerted you to his presence. He stood next to Overwatch’s stilts, a hand extended up like he was a knight waiting to assist his princess down from her horse. You accepted his hand when you were low enough, your jump down the last remaining foot of the chair noiseless. “Did you lock up yet?”

“Not yet. I wasn’t sure if you needed anything else from there.” He’d already grabbed your bag and was holding it over one shoulder.

You nodded, waiting for him to pass you your bag, but he seemed utterly content to just follow along, continuing to hold it. “I just want to double check the schedule. I think my next shift is my last one with Joaquin.”

He fell into step with you easily, trudging through the sand in the twilight. The sun was gone but the sky was still a few shades lighter than black. You could see the outline of him from the edge of your sight. At least he’d put on a shirt now. It made him just a fraction easier to deal with. He followed you into the cabana and stayed hovering beside you while you ran a finger down the schedule tacked to one of the walls. The different times of day were highlighted in varying colours. You nodded to yourself. “Yeah, last one with Torres.”

“Mine was Tuesday,” Bucky said.

In the back of your head, you’d known he was going back to school, too, but it still jolted you to be reminded that you’d be drifting apart again if you didn’t do something about it.

You flicked the lights off and ushered him from the cabana, locking it and tucking the key in the mailbox, which latched when you closed it. Bruce would be able to unlock it with the master key in the morning. The walk to the parking lot was quiet. Only yours and Bucky’s cars remained, tucked side by side together. You both stopped at the edge of the lot, and he turned to you. You could see the moths thumping their tiny bodies against the street light above him. He was limned in warm gold as he handed your bag back to you. This wouldn’t be the last time you saw him, and you knew it, but you felt rooted to the spot like your brain was trying to trace his exact shape and height and leave it as an imprint behind your eyelids.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you,” you finally said.

He’d been doing the same as you, twirling his car keys in his hand but otherwise making no move to go. He nodded. “Good night.”

You turned to go, but you only got halfway to your car before stopping. You felt like you’d stepped into a thin pocket of time where only the two of you existed. There was no sound except the crash of the waves and the moth bodies against the street light’s glass. You turned, your flip flops skidding on the asphalt. He was still standing where you’d left him, still watching you. He didn’t say a word as you walked back over, right into his proximity.

It was time to be brave and take a chance, you supposed. You let your bag slip off your shoulder and down to the crook of your arm before letting it fall in a pile by your feet. There was the barest hint of a question in Bucky’s eyes, and they flared wide when you put your hands on his shoulders, before you slid your arms around his neck. This was the closest you’d been to him in over a year, barring the mouth-to-mouth incident. This was real. You rolled up onto your toes. Your vision was overtaken by his eyes, so dark in colour but so bright in a sudden gleam of hope.

“I’m not saying we can pick up where we left off,” you started, your voice hushed, “not like we were before. I’m not even saying I want to dive in headfirst. But I’m… I’m willing to try, if you can take it slow with me.”

There it was, your heart on a platter. You didn’t know if Bucky would readily accept it or if he’d have a counteroffer. He was slow to put his hands on you, like he was afraid that if he did, you’d pop like a bubble and disappear. You thought you felt one single tremor as his fingers landed on your waist, before the full weight of his palms branded you. “I’ll take whatever you give me. Even if it’s just phone calls and texts. I can’t do another year without you in my life.” You shivered under his touch, his words, his gaze.

“Can I just ask for one thing? It’s the only time I will, I swear.”

You tilted your head to the side just a little. “What is it?”

“Please, for the love of God, can I kiss you?”

You felt like you were going to be swallowed whole by those dark blue eyes. “Yes—”

The word wasn’t even fully out before your mouth was claimed by his. Your noses bumped together. The kiss was chaste, demure, even. The first one, at least. But each time his lips parted from yours, he came back, like he wasn’t satisfied with just one taste. Like he was parched and you were a full cup of water and he couldn’t resist chugging you. It wasn’t that you’d forgotten what kissing Bucky—really kissing Bucky—was like, but all your memories seemed to pale in comparison when you got to experience the real thing in full sound and colour again. There was the telltale taste of peppermint in the brush of his tongue. The slow exploration of your mouth felt like he was kissing you for the first time ever, not like he was revisiting an old haunt. It made you feel weightless.

When you really did part, your breaths fanned over each other’s faces, your heads bent together, your foreheads touching with each exhale. “Please don’t let that be the last one before we go back to college,” he muttered. The tiniest hint of the Bucky you’d known and loved before was threaded through the words, the smallest, softest whine of disgruntlement.

You couldn’t hold back your laugh. “Maybe not, we’ll see.”

As silly as it sounded, it felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. You practically floated all the way home, a dreamy smile on your face—you’d seen it when you’d gone to brush your teeth. Your phone had been lighting up almost nonstop after you’d gotten into bed. It was all texts from Bucky, ranging between sweet messages he’d apparently been dying to say all summer and had kept in his notes app, and plans for the future. Those ones were more tentative, more shy. He sent you a couple of links to restaurants between your two schools, mentioned some of the events happening on his campus. He didn’t expressly invite you, but… the implication was there, and it was clear. Now that he had the chance, he wasn’t going to make light of it.

And it continued on, all through the week. He did end up helping you pack your things, throwing your last suitcase and storage box into the trunk of his car and promising to bring them to you sometime in the first week. In between packing and plans, you’d allowed him to steal some sweet, shy kisses. You couldn’t help it. Your resolve had officially crumbled. And you didn’t think you wanted it any other way.

Your days at work were dwindling down. You were right on the finish line. Unfortunately for you, when you got there for your next shift, Sam took one look at you and groaned before fishing out his wallet and slapping twenty bucks to Joaquin’s chest. “God damn it, Torres, you won.”

You’d frowned and cocked your head, confused. Sam had gestured up and down at you. “You forgave Bucky.”

“How do you know?”

“I can just tell. If you could see you right now, you’d know. It’s really obvious.”

You looked down at your clothes, your bag, your lotioned legs. You didn’t seem any different, you thought. You felt different, but that wasn’t visible to the naked eye… was it?

But it became impossible to ignore when Bucky came sauntering across the sand. He wasn’t working, but he held two ice cream floats in his hands, and handed one to you before slinging an arm around your waist. “What’s going on?”

You had been smiling goofily at him as soon as he’d come into your eyeline. And that was when you knew that your happiness was as clear and obvious as a stain on a white shirt. You gave Sam a look. “You placed a bet?”

He snorted. “Of course I did.”

Your last day on shift was bittersweet. Bruce had thanked you for your time, and asked if you’d consider coming back the next year, which had been an easy yes. You’d had one last ice cream at the Langs’ stand, chatted with Cassie and Scott, and joked about how the former would probably look totally different in a year’s time.

Bucky swung by in your last hour. He’d already been reprimanded the previous time when he’d corralled you into the showers. You’d admittedly been playing hard to get that day, revelling in the wild look in his eyes, but you’d ultimately been mortified when he’d pinned you to the shower’s wall, a handful of your ass in his grasp, and heard a small, disapproving, “Ah-hem…” from Bruce. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he hadn’t invited you back next year.

You were still fully intending on taking it slow. You didn’t want to burn too bright, too quick. You thought being on different campuses would help with that. You were doing your very last walk of the perimeter, Bucky in tow, his hand sweaty in yours, but you kept a firm grasp on him anyway. The sun was beating down on your head mercilessly.

You came to a complete, sudden halt, hand loosening from Bucky’s, when you saw a flash of copper ahead of you. Attached to the copper was the body of a model in a black and white striped bikini, doing what could only be described as a Baywatch-eqsue run into the water.

It was Natasha.

You went cold all over, despite the heat. You hadn’t seen her since your graduation. She still looked great, as always. You were fairly sure she could wear a garbage bag and still turn every head on the beach. But then you were pulled back to reality by Bucky tugging on your hand. “Why’d you stop, love?”

You looked between him and Natasha, 50 feet away. “Natasha’s here,” you said limply, gesturing to the waves.

He frowned, a look of genuine surprise on his face. “Huh, you know, I didn’t even notice.”

It seemed crazy—even you had been ogling her. The crazier thing was, you believed him. He really had been looking at you the whole time. As you resumed your walk, his eyes flicked over to her once, as you passed. But then they slid forward, to the next swimmer, and the next, and the next… Just a cursory glance. There was nothing there, no heat, no fire. And then when he looked at you again, he smiled. “Do you want to grab dinner when you’re done? Nothing crazy, just, I don’t know, burgers? At that one place?” Then he lifted your joined hands and kissed the back of yours.

“Okay,” you nodded. “Sounds good.”

And, you thought to yourself, it really did.

TAGLIST;; @blowingbarnes, @superbassbuck, @juniebjonesin, @herejustforbuckybarnes, @stellacherryfairy, @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes, @buckysbunnny, @miraclediviner, @macbaetwo, @star-yawnznn, @kisskittenn, @dolcesaints, @akiyhara, @yourstrulymariii, @sassandscribbles, @emilyswortwellen, @colettebarnes, @starfire-irl, @pinksplace, @lunaskye999, @shackoflove, @bbyanarchist, @venigrantrogers, @idkbeautiful, @randomfanpage

bonus author's note: a special thank you to @pinksplace, who helped me cook up a plot/trope while i was floundering; you threw me the life raft, for real. um, in the end i didn't really work with any of our spicy, rated r for radical think pieces, and it ultimately came out much more yearning-forward and with none of the planned smut... i hope you're not disappointed, the place that is pink.

[livwtfhaha]

tbr

[firingstars]

familiarity of touch

knight!bucky barnes x princess!reader

summary: for years, sir james barnes has stayed by your side. you'd noticed long ago that his eyes followed your every movement— and not in the way a knight should look upon his princess.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut (piv, praise, fingering, oral (f+m receiving), cum eating, unprotected sex, creampie, aftercare, semi-public), forbidden love trope, slight age gap?, there's sort of a lack of plot here, bucky is pathetic and down bad, reader knows bucky is down bad and exploits it, reader has commitment issues, use of titles (princess, your highness, sir), slightest bit of angst, no use of y/n, not proofread || word count: 11.7k

yari's thoughts: dedicated to my fellow knight writers... @54nboo huzzah to you!!! huzzah!! and @artficlly bc we're in this together... struggling.... and also the rest of bwa <3 i think we all need bucky in shining armor to protect us during these treacherous days... for everyone else, call this a little appetizer for when i end up writing and posting my fairytale contribution for the bwa collab!! || divider credits

A hum slips past your lips as you gaze beyond your gilded window. You can see horses pulling lavish carriages from where you’re perched. Nobles of varying degrees were rolling into the palace walls despite the fact the sun was still high in the sky. 

You’re thankful your father never pays attention to you. As a result, you bear no responsibility in entertaining the early arriving guests. Though you were certain that the king would not miss you during his birthday celebration, you knew you were causing one person anxiety over your lack of urgency. 

“Your Highness, you must get ready soon. Please, allow me to call on your maids.”

Sir Barnes had insisted on the same matter at least four times now– sounding more desperate with each repetition. You couldn’t blame him though. You’d been awake long before the sun had reached its peak in the sky, and you were still dressed in your nightgown. No progress had been made towards the normal pampering that a royal should receive. In fact, you might not even be fully done by the time the ball rolled around. Perhaps you could even skip it completely. 

Besides, no one would take account of your absence.

His voice cut through your thoughts, and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. “Your Royal Highness. You will be late if you do not get started soon.”

You decide to prolong the matter even longer. 

“Are we not alone?” you ask, watching as more nobles wheel on by. Some of the women are in a different style of dress, some still in the same fashion from last season. A pity– they will soon leave the palace in embarrassment. 

There’s a lack of response from the knight, but you can feel his eyes on you. His gaze is fire against your skin, leaving scorched marks where his eyes trail your body slowly. You’ve felt this more times than you can count, each time burning hotter than the last. At first, you thought it was a mere assessment, a lookover to ensure your health was still intact. You wrongfully dubbed the action as protectiveness. It didn’t take long for you to figure out its true name– desire.

“Well?” you question, giving him a sidelong look. He’s standing stiffly by the door, hands behind his back. His shoulders are squared off, and you can’t help but appreciate the expanse of his body. Strong muscles are hidden beneath his gear, along with years of memories that he will never speak to you about no matter how much you poke.

“Yes, Princess. We are alone,” he confirms. He nods, just once. The small action creates a smile from your lips– your continuously diligent knight was too difficult to break out of his shell. You hope to make decent headway today. 

You continue your interrogation, “Didn’t I say you must call me by name during times of rest?” 

His lips part, words escaping him for a brief moment. A long breath is pulled in through his nostrils, giving him some time to think about his response– the rejection you already know is on the tip of his tongue.

“I wouldn’t dare, Your Highness.”

“James,” you say, turning to look at him fully. Heavy, tired eyes meet yours almost instantly. There’s always a weight that shows in his gaze– the burden of life coming with constant struggle to survive. Though exhausted, he was never too worn down for you. Long ago, you had pity for the man. These days, you don’t dare feel that emotion. You replace it with respect instead.

In fact, you hated him only a handful of years ago. 

Sir James Barnes was the first and last gift your father had given you, citing the need for a personal knight when you had turned the ripe age of sixteen, and he in his twenties. Even if half of the blood that ran through your veins was dirty, you still carried the King’s genes within you.

You knew what the gift really was. It was a means to placate you. To silence you. To ensure you never wished for anything more as your knight was born from filth itself. 

He had an extensive record– one that many soldiers in training looked up. Despite being so young, Barnes had fought in several of your father’s wars in efforts to expand his kingdom. Thanks to your knight, the battles were easily won. Men that he led were still alive to tell the tale of a valiant soldier that ripped through the battlefields like frost on a winter night. 

Sir James Barnes should not be your knight. He was destined for greater things– to be the Captain of the King’s Guard. He was simply an unlucky man. A son to parents that were taken in as prisoners of a war that had taken place long before you were mistakenly conceived. 

The knight was forsaken for blood he did not choose, then tossed to you, a daughter that came to be from an affair with a palace maid. You were two of the same kind. Rejects. Strays that had no place to truly call home. No matter what either of you did, respect never followed. 

You used to fight him. Demanded that he leave your side immediately to find work elsewhere. There was nothing that you wanted from him, nothing that he could give you that would truly make your life easier. 

Then again, you were a simple girl at the time. One that still threw tantrums filled with rage and despair. He saw right through you. After all, he was once you.

These days, Sir Banres spent his time guarding you from within the rooms you occupied. No longer did he wait in the halls, ears perked up to pick up every single sound that came from your direction. He claimed that it was safer for him to guard you where his eyes could see you. 

You used to think he had been cursed by a sorcerer or wizard– someone that could give him the senses that he had. There were many nights where he listened to you cry into your pillow, certain that you were being silent enough. When morning would come, you’d see fresh food waiting for you at your tables– delectable items that had never been delivered to you until he came to your service. 

Slowly but surely, the knight had wiggled his way into your heart. The stone cold man had a softer exterior than you had originally thought. Or perhaps it was just you that had the ability to melt it.

You take in his appearance once more– looking over the man who was stiff with anxiety and anticipation. His first name rarely left your lips, though it was becoming a frequent habit as of late. 

“James,” you repeat once more, eyes turning back towards the windows. More and more carriages. It’s a wonder that the head maid hadn’t stormed into your room yet, demanding to know why you were still in your sleep attire. 

This time, he answers you. “Yes, Your Highness?” 

“My name, James. Or should I call you Bucky like the other knights do? I know Sir Rogers says it often.”

He clears his throat, then wets his lips. “If that would make you happy, then by all means.”

“It would make me happy if you called me by name.”

It goes silent between the two of you. For a moment, you believe that this conversation will end like all the other times. A change of topic, a request for you to see to your day’s schedule. Your own request would become one with the wind, lost to time itself. 

“The hour of the banquet draws closer. Allow me to call the maids for your bath,” he says, and swallows thickly. You’re just about ready to resist, to state an excuse when your name passes from his lips. Your head snaps up towards him quickly, only to find him nervously looking elsewhere. “Please.”

A smile breaks out onto your face as you move to stand, abandoning your leisure activity of people watching. “Very well, call the maids.”

Your knight releases a sigh of relief, shoulders sagging forward ever so slightly. He’s gotten more comfortable around you. Then again, what did you expect from the man who you spend all your time with? He was the closest thing you had to a friend, but as the days continue to pass, you find yourself wondering if he views you the same way.

When your hand brushes against his, he flinches. When escorting you around the palace, you wander closer to him, only for him to stiffen. There have been times where you met his eyes unexpectedly, forcing the fearsome knight to lower his gaze. 

At first, you didn’t understand him. You had grown sad, actually. It didn’t make sense to you why he looked away, why he shied from your touch until you registered his ears were turning the shade of roses. 

Teasing him became your new favorite pastime. 

“Have the maids deliver the water and the scents, then have them leave,” you add onto your order.

Your knight pauses in his steps, eyebrows pulling together in confusion. “Your Highness?”

“You’ll help me bathe today, James.”

The look on his face only made your smile grow wider. A mixture of disbelief, shock, and embarrassment was written all over his features. His lips open and close more than twice, but no words seem to find him.

“Is that going to be an issue?” you challenge, standing from your spot on the window ledge. You’re already making your way to the bathing chamber, his eyes following your every move. 

“This— this is wildly inappropriate, Your Highness,” he manages to stutter. “It would not be proper for me to—“

“Who’s to say what is proper and not?”

“Your Highness,” he pleads. There’s a slight whine in his voice, and he almost sounds breathless. It only drives your determination further. 

“Does the hour of the celebration not draw near?” You look at him over your shoulder, giving him a polite smile. “I should bathe soon, yes?”

James can only draw in a tight breath, and nod once. “Yes, Your Highness. I will call on the maids.”

It doesn’t take long for the servants to scurry both in and out of the bathroom, much to your joy and his displeasure. All the while, you wait at the tub’s edge, nightgown bunched up to your thighs with your legs soaking in the freshly drawn water. 

Your knight closes the door behind him, and slowly removes the layers of his uniform. The cape and tunic are discarded to the side, showing the thin linen he wears underneath. He pushes his sleeve up his arms, and your eyes drop down to the revealed skin. 

Tanned skin, muscles that seem to ripple with every small movement. Scars decorate his body, telling the tales of all the battles he’s survived. Everything about him was carefully built, smoothed to perfection, then worn down to show his resilience. 

You aim to crack that same strength— eager for it, really. 

His sword is the last piece to come off. The sheathed weapon is placed against the tub, ready to be drawn at any moment lest your knight is caught unaware. James stands almost awkwardly beside it, hands twitching by his side, unsure what to do. 

“Well?” you ask, glancing up at him briefly. “I cannot unlace my own gown.”

Your nightgown is impossibly thin, courtesy of the warm summer nights as of late. It also means there’s little that stops you from slipping off the garment on your own. There is no bodice that requires lacing. You simply were making demands that he could not refuse— not that he had any true complaints. 

His jaw flexes. A steady breath is drawn, almost as if he’s attempting to steel his composure. He moves closer to you, gathering all of your hair with one hand to place the locks over your shoulder. 

Ever so slowly, his hands trail down the form of your gown, fingertips brushing against the fabric. As he gets to your waist, his hands reach for your dress, slowly pulling upwards.

“Please raise your arms, Your Highness,” he murmurs, his voice creating goosebumps all along your body. 

You follow his direction, and your dress soon lifts over your head. Left exposed, you can feel his eyes wandering the bare skin of your back. 

After a few beats of silence, a few moments of utter stillness, you finally move. You fully submerge yourself into the warm bath, the rippling water doing little to cover up what James has exposed. 

Without another word, James takes his place behind you, reaching for the various items the maids left behind. He washes your hair first, slow and precise. His fingertips knead into your scalp gently, but you can’t help it when your eyes fall shut in delight. 

Brief surprise fills you as he tilts your chin upwards, and his eyes meet yours. Face to face with him, you can see it– desire swims heavily within him, his pupils engulfing the blue-gray of his eyes. 

A small, water filled basin is raised over your head. James tips the container, allowing the water to run down your hair. Within a few repeats, he’s completed his first task. Gently, he loosens his grip on you. Your head is brought back to its neutral position, but he still feels the need to massage your neck muscles before moving on to the washcloth hanging on the side of the tub.

Neither of you say a word as he begins to lather the soap onto your body. He starts at  your shoulders, scrubbing down your back slowly. Unlike his appearance, his touch is soft. There’s hardly any pressure as he cleans you, forcing you to toss a glance back to him as he lifts one arm out of the water to wash.

“Not even a child would be clean with this ghost of a touch, Sir Barnes.”

“I do not wish to harm you,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes fixed onto your back. There’s a vein popping out at his neck as he continues to hold his restraint. 

“Harder, James,” you demand. “Like you mean to touch me.”

James looks helpless. 

A staggering breath enters his nose. There’s a war going on through his mind– honor, duty, and loyalty. There are lines that he cannot cross, boundaries that are meant to be maintained. Yet here you are, tempting him like the Heavens wouldn’t tear him apart for straying from his path. He cannot disobey orders given to him by you– orders that feed into the devil within his heart. 

You hide a smile as quickly as you can, lowering your eyes to the water’s reflection. He’d fallen from the Heavens long ago, but tonight he seals his sentence. 

The soaps the maids usually use weren’t submerged into the bath prior to your entrance– soaps that allowed the water to cloud up with scented bubbles. Truth be told, your maids hardly ever had their eyes on your bare form. James must’ve burned the sight of you into his mind.

From this point forth, every time the knight dared to close his eyes, he would be haunted by you. The swell of your breasts cresting over the water’s surface. Wet hair draping down your shoulders and back, doing nothing to provide James the solace of peace he craves. You, resting so peacefully within the porcelain tub, letting out soft sighs of approval or pleasure as he runs his hands all along you. 

When both arms are completely clean, you become mildly amused at the situation. He’s to move to the side of the tub, unless he would rather fully hover over you from behind. 

“Excuse me, Your Highness,” he utters, the words barely being picked up by your ears before he’s shifting around the tub. His eyes are kept downcast as his arms dip into the water, dampening his rolled sleeves. 

An ankle is taken within a hand, your entire leg exposed to the chill of the air. He holds the weight for you, not allowing you to use any of your own strength to aid him. The soapy cloth is dragged down the length, all while he keeps his gaze away from your torso. There’s only so much for him to do before he switches legs and continues the process again– slower this time. You don’t hesitate to point it out.

“You’re stalling.”

“Of course not,” he denies, though his jaw tenses once again. 

“Remind me again how many times you stand guard at my bathing chambers?” you question, raising an eyebrow at him. 

James swallows, and shakes his head. “That’s different… I… I am here to protect you, to–”

You cut him off quickly, continuing to voice your thoughts before he can fight against your words. “This is not the first you’ve seen me in this state, nor will it be the last.”

“How do you expect a man to remain strong whilst in the presence of you?” he whispers, his eyes finally meeting yours. 

“You tell me,” you shoot right back at him. Your head tilts slightly, almost in a challenging way. You don’t miss how his shoulders round out, making himself look smaller. “Are you not the King’s strongest soldier?”

His answer comes quick and honest, “I am nothing compared to all that you are.”

For a moment, you find yourself filled with surprise. With the Knight’s Oath, he is unable to lie even in the face of death. A farce, truly, yet the most honorable of men continue to hold the vow close to their hearts. James is one of them. 

He’s truthful in his view of you. From his eyes, you are nothing short of good, holy, and all things benevolent. Your word is law to him. Whatever comes from you must be right. He’s already submitted himself whole heartedly to you.

“Continue with the bath, James. And we’re alone, if I must remind you.”

“I am more aware of our lack of audience more than anyone,” he mutters beneath his breath, followed by an even softer whisper of your name.

Next time, you’ll ask him to repeat himself louder. For now, you’ll allow it to pass. You can’t seem to focus on teasing him as the washcloth moves over your sternum. 

James drags the cloth lower, the fabric brushing against your nipples and waking them as he circles your breast. This time, your knight does not look away. He doesn’t close his eyes. He watches as your body reacts to him, freshly hardened nubs pressing into his palm and greeting him. 

The cloth continues downwards as if nothing happened at all. As if his breathing did not get heavier, and his body wasn’t radiating heat that felt warmer than the water you sat in. 

He gently scrubbed at your stomach, still intent on cleaning you before his hand paused on its journey right below your naval. You didn’t move, didn’t dare to breathe a word of jest in fear he would back away completely. 

Much to your surprise, he moves his free hand, pushing your knees apart. With your legs spread, he dives lower.

James is slow in his approach. 

Cloth brushes against your folds, doing little to put out the ache building with you. He rubs the fabric against you more than a few times, eliciting a soft whine from your lips. The sound makes him stop, hand cupping right over both the washcloth and your sex. 

“Tell me to stop, Your Highness.” His words come in a whisper, shaking and dripping with need. He’s betraying his thoughts, desperately hoping for his Princess to be more rational than he. 

You lock onto his gaze, heart thumping in your chest. “Continue, Sir Barnes.”

A curse tumbles from his lips as his fingers explore, pressing the cloth harder against you. The texture of the fabric along with the feel of his touch only makes you close your eyes, tension budding deep in your core. 

Through the cloth, he finds your clit— slowly swelling with desire, eagerly awaiting his touch. James doesn’t waste time, pressing down against the nub. He watches in delight and awe as your body reacts nearly instantly. A sharp breath sucked in through your teeth as your hips tilt ever so slightly.

Tight, small circles are slowly rubbed into you. It doesn’t take long before you’re biting down on your bottom lip, trying to contain the sounds-

James cups the side of your face, thumb swiping down gently on your lips. He watches as your lips part freely before returning his eyes onto yours. 

“You’ll hurt yourself,” he murmurs, eyes nearly glazed over. Though his words are casual, he is anything but. 

From where he kneels, you can see him shift his weight around. A heavy imprint rests along his inner thigh, sending a jolt of excitement throughout your body. Your hips grind into his fingers with a pathetic noise escaping you. 

You don’t even need to tell him to get rid of the barrier between you two. If anything, he seems more eager to push it to the side, thick fingers moving to spread your lips open for him. 

A single digit is pressed into your core. Your eyes meet the back of your skull as you melt into the tub further, your entire being keenly focused on his ministrations. 

James moves slowly, finger plunging in and out of you with a steady rhythm. The feel of your soft, velvety walls swallowing him in is nearly enough to do him in. That is, until he realizes he can finally look. 

His Princess right before him, legs spread with his hand between your thighs. You’re watching him, watching as his finger enters and exits you, soft, needy whimpers bouncing off the ceramic tiles of your bathing chamber. 

The gentle prodding of a second finger catches your attention immediately, and you can only gasp as it fills you next. Your mouth left agape, there’s no words you can say as he massages you from within. Your knight, however, says all you have in mind. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, nearly delirious as if he was on the one at the brink of pleasure.  “You’re so soft everywhere— so tight and warm— here, especially.”

“James,” you manage to whimper. You’re lost in it, in his touch. There’s little you can process when he’s spreading you open with his fingers, dragging them so painstakingly slowly through you. “It’s not enough… I need— Please.”

“No need to beg, sweet Princess,” he answers immediately. “I will give you all you desire.”

You can only let out a cry of relief as his pace quickens, the sound being music to his ears. It’s difficult to focus as his fingers curl within you, gently scraping against your walls and sending shocks throughout you. 

The water trembles around you as your breathing becomes labored. One hand grips the edge of the porcelain tub, the other quickly grabbing at his wrist. Your body and mind aren’t in sync– you’re unsure whether to press him closer to your body or push him away to release yourself from his hold. 

A whimper claws its way from your throat when his thumb joins, pressing right on the sensitive nub. Heat wraps around you, and you know it’s not from the warmth of the water– it’s him. His actions. His fingers. The way he allows his gaze to roam all over your bare form like you’re on display specifically for him.

“Shh, Princess,” he hushes softly when another moan bounces off the tile. James leans over the edge of the tub, pressing an unfamiliar but welcome kiss to your temple. His voice lingers in your ears, the hair on your neck standing up as he whispers. “The maids are not too far down the hall. It was difficult to convince them to fully leave.”

“You’re–” James pulls another sound of pleasure from you, courtesy of his slower moving fingers thrusting within you against the quick paced rubs of his thumb. You attempt to swallow, chin falling to your chest. You have no strength left, completely succumbing to his ministrations.

“I’m what, Your Highness?” he questions. He almost sounds amused. You don’t fault him for it. You’ve been teasing him, pressing his buttons for months on end. It’s the first time he’s fully gotten you to silence yourself.

You don’t answer him. At least, not with words. 

A near wrecked noise fills his ears as your nails dig into his wrist, your body tensing as a sudden onslaught of pleasure erupts within you. All the while, he doesn’t let up, almost as if he’s afraid this is the last time he’ll have you like this. He forces you to ride out your high, trembling at his touch as you fight to gain control of your body once again.

It’s only when you begin to weakly push at his forearm does he pull away. You can only watch through half lidded eyes as he brings his fingers to his lips. He shuts his eyes, a long sigh exiting his nostrils as he tastes the fruits of his labor. It’s only when you meet his gaze again does the silence between you two disintegrate.

“Shall I call on the maids to help you dress, Your Highness?”

James meets you out in the hall once you’re dressed. He’s in his formal attire, freshly washed with the stubble on his face nowhere to be seen. Part of you feels disappointed. You’d daydreamed more than once what it would feel like between your thighs, but you’re sure you would be able to convince him at a later time. 

Not that there would be much convincing to do. 

He offers his arm to you, and lowers his head in an informal bow. “Shall we, Your Highness?”

You hook your hand around his elbow, offering him a smile. “The scenic route, please.”

“I’m afraid not, Your Highness.” The knight shakes his head as he begins to lead you throughout the palace. “Too much time has been eaten away from your bath. There’s little time to enjoy the scenery.”

“Pity,” you reply. James smiles at your tone– you don’t mean it. “I suppose I did take an extra long time to wash up. Do you believe anyone will care?”

“None shall find fault in you. I will present their head on a silver platter if they dare.” From his tone, you know he means it.

You can only pat his bicep a few times, in hopes of soothing him. There was no need for bloodshed tonight. That is, blood that wasn’t your own, staining your bedsheets after granting him your innocence.

The rest of the Royal family is already lined up by the time you arrive at the correct hall. Both your brother and sister look disgusted by your appearance, though your sister’s eyes slide over to James within a few moments. When she takes in the sight of your hand on his arm, the repulsion returns. 

If his upbringing did not matter, you know your father would have arranged for the war hero to wed his oldest daughter. Blessed with both beauty and strength, James would have been the perfect present for your sister. You had mere luck to thank that your knight was raised in dirt.

“You’re late,” the Queen, your stepmother, snapped. 

You release James’ arm, falling into step behind the rest of them. No words of retaliation leave your lips. You can only pray you’ll get through the rest of the night without any incident. 

Within just a few more heartbeats, the large doors push open and someone announces the arrival of the royal family. Music is played in grandeur while nobles clear the center of the venue, allowing for ample space for your family to walk towards the dais. They bow their heads, but not to you. You don’t miss the sneers and looks of mockery all over their faces.

You know James doesn’t miss it either, his eyes burning into your back. He won’t miss a single moment of any of it. By the next week, you’re sure to hear news of the more offending nobles to have some sort of misfortune brought upon them. 

The King’s birthday speech is long. You don’t pay attention to a single word that comes from your father’s lips. Instead, you blanky look forward, waiting to be dismissed into the rest of the party. You won’t be able to leave right away without your stepmother noticing. You’ll have to wait until she gets a few glasses of mead in her system. 

You don’t wait around at the top of the dais once the king’s flowery words have ceased. Even if you wanted to stay, neither your family nor their advisors would want you to. Keeping you too close to the king’s proximity would show favor– something they did not want translated to the kingdom’s nobles.

James follows you from a distance as you make your way through the party. The music resumes, couples dancing along the center of the ballroom. There are social gatherings divided into hierarchy around the room– women gossiping with each other while men speak together in hushed tones. Servants are constantly moving around, slipping by everyone undetected and prepared for any request thrown at them.

You exchange pleasantries with the more daring of nobles, ones that smell of lard and sweat. These families are backed by the Church, able to openly show their disdain for the royal family by associating with you. They believe that you’ll turn over, allow them to use you as some sort of pawn in their political game. 

You’ve heard their true intentions more than once— a bastard princess without favor should preen with delight from the attention of another. An easy target, you must be. In the end, all they’ve achieved is lessening their favor with the king. 

Once the nobles realize they’re getting nowhere with you tonight, you’re left alone to your own devices. In your humble opinion, the party is both too flashy and too dull at the same time. 

There’s nothing here worth staying for. After all, you do not have a place within the social scene of this kingdom. You simply bide your time, allowing slow gulps of wine to slide down your throat in the safety of a corner of the room.

Your knight speaks to his friends, Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson, though you feel his gaze shift over to you every few moments. He probably wished for you to call him to your side, desperately trying to catch your eye each time he looks. You never look back.

James spends his early mornings with the other knights. They train together in various forms of technique— sparring, weapons training, endurance. It’s not often your knight has a chance to truly socialize with the men he trusts his life to. Even if you’re bored, you won’t take away the joy out of his night. 

By the time you finish your second glass, you are approached once again. This time, it’s not someone you’ve spoken to before. However, you still know him. You’d be a failure of a noble if you did not upkeep on the surrounding families. 

“Quite the party, yes?” John Walker asks you, taking a long drag of his drink before turning to you. 

“Indeed, Your Grace,” you reply, careful to keep your tone light. 

The duke examines you for a few moments, and raises an eyebrow. “You do not seem pleased.”

“Oh? I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You plaster on a smile, praying for the man to take the hint. 

“Well, regardless— I’ve come to alleviate you from your pain.” Walker’s smile is relaxed, as well as his stance. The look in his eyes tells you what he truly thinks. You’re less than him. A pitiful woman exiled from the rest of the party, yet still beautiful enough for him to chat with. The man hadn’t even addressed you properly. No bow, no blessings to be said. There wasn’t an ounce of respect in his bones for you.

”I’m afraid you’ll find yourself disappointed, Your Grace. I’m quite alright on my own.”

”But what if you didn’t have to be?” He was pushing, attempting to tug on your heartstrings. 

From across the room, you see your sister giggling with her ladies in waiting. Side glances are being thrown at you before they continue to chat amongst themselves, fans covering their mouths lest they have anyone read their lips. It’s almost laughable. You know what they are talking about, and you know why Duke Walker is in your company. 

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me the first time,” you say, releasing a sigh right after. “Remove yourself from my vicinity or find yourself moved.”

The duke bristles, entire body going tense. A shiver even courses through him, prompting him to slowly turn around. There, behind him, James stood with glowering eyes.

“Barnes,” Walker spoke through gritted teeth.

Your knight offered no reply, continuing to stare with the intensity of a thousand suns. 

Walker clears his throat, then glances back over to you. “I will be taking my leave now.” 

You aren’t given a chance to respond before the duke rushes away, heading straight to where your sister and her entire group wait. James doesn’t follow his figure, instead choosing to step closer to you. With the threat gone, he stands before you with his head bent low as if he was waiting for you to scold him for his behavior. 

“I shouldn’t have left you alone,” he mutters. 

Your eyebrow raises as you take in the sight of him– a puppy that has been reunited with his owner after fighting for territory. It’s almost laughable. “My life was not in danger.”

“That asshole is the danger.” 

If you didn’t know any better, you would think James was one more comment away from causing a scene in the middle of the party. Thankfully, he’d never do that. He has an abundant list of ways to make Walker suffer without having to show his face to him ever again. 

“I think it’s about time that I depart,” you say, changing the topic. “If you’d like to stay and continue to socialize with the other knights–”

“Your jokes aren’t funny, Your Highness.”

The two of you make your way out, abandoning the celebration. Music and chatter slowly dissipate into the sound of your shared footsteps against the marble floors. Soon enough, you reach your hall.

James’ mood worsens at the sight of the darkened hallway. “The maids did not light the candles.”

“The moonlight is more than bright enough,” you dismiss, a sigh escaping you.

“It’s about respect, Princess,” he grunts. “Danger lurks at every dark corner, and to put you at risk–”

You halt, and he only takes two more steps before stopping himself. You meet his eyes with a frown, eyebrows pulling together. “What possible danger is there when you are by my side?”

“None,” he quickly answers. “But preventative measures should always be taken–”

You cut him off with a raise of your hand. He silences himself immediately, lips sealed tightly. James is the only one who would take your orders whole heartedly. The sudden reminder makes your chest ache. 

“James.” You’re careful to keep your voice soft, almost comforting. The effect is immediate– his shoulders drop, and his eyes no longer hold the rage he so suddenly acquired. “I’m alright. Nothing bad happened tonight. I don’t understand why you’re so on edge when I am safe.”

“It is my duty to be on edge,” James says, almost stubbornly. 

“You need to relax.” You move towards him, resting your hand on his chest. When you push, he takes a step backwards, once again succumbing to your wishes. You don’t stop until his back is firmly planted against the walls, and he has nowhere to go with you standing directly in front of him. “Shall I help you?”

He blinks, lips parting as he registers the words spoken to him. “Your Highness…” 

“My name,” you say with a smile, patting his chest a couple times before you slowly sink down onto your knees before him.

Panic overcomes him immediately, his hands closing around your shoulders to stop you before you touch the ground. His words spill out quickly, nearly frantic, “Your Highness, you are not to kneel before anyone other than the King or God–”

You push his hands off of you, and settle before him. “There is no king here, there is no God,” you hum softly, reaching for the waistband of his trousers. “It’s only you and I, as it always has been.”

Shaky breaths exit him as you undo the buttons. “Your Highness…”

A frown paints your features as you look up at him. “If I have to remind you to call me by name one more time, you’ll receive punishment,” you say, palming over the thick imprint of his pants.

A choked moan fills your ears as you continue to fit the length in your hand. “I… You deserve the utmost respect,” he whispers, shaking his head. “Referring to you without your title is–”

“Huzzah, Sir Barnes.” Sarcasm drips from your voice as you push down the fabric, watching as his cock springs to life before you. “You respect the one person that the rest of the royal family would prefer to see die. How noble you must feel.”

“Your High—“

”Is it wrong to want to see your point of view, Sir Barnes?” you ask with a heavy sigh, continuing to pet him. Your dress pooled awkwardly around you, your knees against the bare marble. Somehow, you don’t seem to mind it. “You’re always bent on a knee for me, willingly, might I add.”

“There is nothing that I wouldn’t do for you.” James swallows thickly, hands shaking at his sides. “I urge you to stand, this isn’t—“

He seems to choke on his words as you wrap your hand around the base of him. You take a moment to admire him— the thickness of his cock, the way it seems to respond to just the lightest of your touch. You haven’t even done anything other than hold him, and he’s pulsing like you’ve been at this for hours.

”Interesting,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. “I am the one on my knees, yet I still have power over you. Why is that, Sir Barnes?”

James does not respond to you. Rather, you don’t give him the chance to.

One experimental tug later, and you’re watching him brace his hands back against the wall. Glancing up at him, you find his jaw clamped shut, but his eyes directly on you. It’s almost predatory, the way he looks at you, as if you’re one wrong step away from being devoured by a beast.

Except you know he won’t stop you, won’t push you away, won’t deny you of what you want to do to him. The best he can do is offer suggestions through gritted teeth as he pretends to truly be concerned for the gap in hierarchy.

You don’t pull your eyes away from him as you open your mouth and lean in, licking up the bead of precum that had leaked out of the thick tip. It’s saltier than you had imagined it to be, but no less satisfying as you watch him struggle to take a breath. 

“Please…” he whispers, voice thick and heavy with both desire and restraint. 

You ignore him, continuing to focus on wetting his cock with your saliva. You allow your spit to drip from your lips, the warmth of it meeting his cock. You spread the liquid down his shaft with slow jerks of your hand, listening to his breathing get heavier and harder. 

When you finally close your mouth over the head, he can’t contain himself.

A hand flies to your hair, knocking off the small tiara the maids had placed atop your head just a few hours prior. His fingers weave through your hair, stopping at the crown of your skull. There’s no pressure, no pushing or pulling, just the feel of him holding you in attempts to prevent losing himself in your hands.

An odd sense of pride fills you as you lick at the underside, feeling a thick vein against your tongue. The idea of the strong Sir Barnes falling apart by your actions is too tempting to pass up. You want to watch him break before you, want to see how far you can take him until he’s begging you for mercy. 

You take him deeper into your mouth, flattening your tongue and allowing more salvia to pool around him. Your jaw relaxes as much as possible, and you hum around him. The vibrations reward you with a groan from above, prompting you to look up at him.

It’s the first time you’d ever seen his face like this. 

Oftentimes, he’s too stoic. There was as weight carried in his eyes that came from years of battle, tormenting him until his last breath. James holds his secrets close to his heart, though you know he’d speak if you asked him to. Perhaps it was your own respect for him that kept the question from leaving your lips. 

Sometimes, you’d catch him watching you with a sense of longing. You were someone he could not obtain, no matter what he did. You were the treasure in the dragon’s den. You were a flower growing from the side of a cliff. You were someone that he could only admire from afar, never having the courage to take you away for his own needs.

James had never tried to possess you, despite all the times you saw him watching. He had never attempted to sway you just as many others had tried. Never once did he strive for something more, only settling for the unfair life by your side. 

Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise you to see the emotion on his face. Desire was there, yes, but something deeper. Something too personal and warm to call predatory. No, this was a feeling that you had no experience with— one that you did not cultivate throughout the entirety of your life. 

You don’t wish to acknowledge this feeling. You’re undeserving. You’re unable to provide him with what he is meant for. 

So you tear your eyes away from him, allowing them to fall shut as you focus on the weight of his cock in your mouth. You sink deeper against him, nearly gagging as the tip hits the back of your throat. Your hand moves where you cannot reach, and the pace is leisurely. With the size of him, it’s unclear whether or not you can move faster than this. 

Whether or not James has an issue with your speed, he does not voice his complaint aloud. His hand tightens in your hair, and the muscles of his abdomen strain as he bends forward slightly. Another hushed moan falls from his lips—

Along with your name. No title, no hierarchy. Purely just the name given to you upon your birth, laced with affection and wrapped in love. 

Before fear paralyzes you, warmth spills into your mouth, your knight choking on his moans. It’s too much— the size of him along with the new addition of his pleasure shooting out. You can feel it begin to pool in your mouth, attempting to escape where your lips still connect on his shaft. 

You swallow around him in a feeble attempt to lessen the volume—

James’ hands are underneath your armpits, having hoisted you up with one fluid movement. You don’t get the chance to gulp down the rest of his cum, one of his hands moving to grab your chin. He tugs downwards, thumb pressing against your bottom lip in attempts to pry your mouth open.

”You— you musn’t, Your Highness,” he manages to say with labored breaths. “This is dirty. You… By the Gods, open your mouth.”

When your lips part, revealing the mess he left behind, he let out a distressed noise. Without another thought, he surges forward. He slots his mouth against yours, hand moving to the back of your head to pull you in deeper. You can feel his tongue on yours, the wet muscle sliding over yours as he searches and claims. James is overheating, yet he does nothing to stave the warmth. If anything, he welcomes it, pressing impossibly closer to your body as if he could not get enough of you.

Your hands rest on either side of his neck, in desperate need of grounding. The knight holds your hostage, an arm wrapped around your waist to carry most of your weight. Your slippers hardly scrape along the marble floors beneath you. 

His throat bobs up and down beneath your fingertips, the motion repeating every few moments. It’s only then that you register what he’s doing– he’s actively shoveling his own release into his mouth. James means to devour you, but the thought of contaminating you with his own sin is unforgivable. 

Only when he’s certain you’ve been thoroughly cleaned does he part from you, leaving you lightheaded and dizzy. Hot breaths mingle together in the little distance you have from him, though you have little to find complaint in. Each shared breath brings him closer, not allowing even air to slide between you. 

”Do not do that again,” he murmurs, lips brushing against yours. His forehead rests against yours, and his eyes shut. “Such things should not be allowed to taint you.”

”Are you saying I am dirty now, Sir Barnes?” you whisper back. You can feel his pulse thrumming beneath your fingertips. 

His eyes fly open in a panic, pulling his head away so you can see his expression— honesty is too clear on his face. “You could never be filthy, Your Highness. All that you touch and desire is cleansed by your hands. Not even the Church could compare its holiness to yours.”

Your eyebrow raises as you huff a laugh of disbelief. “I am no saint, James. My blood has been muddled from the night the stars aligned for my birth. All that I touch is disgraced.”

“Nothing you do is laced with fault,” he argues. 

”What are you, my dog?” you ask, taking in every single twitch and movement of his body. It’s a rhetorical question, one meant to be brushed away with a laughYou expect discomfort. Defiance. Instead, he offers you submission.

”I am your mutt, Your Highness,” James corrects you, dripping with sincerity. “I live to serve you and you alone— you are my God and my savior. I will do anything you ask of me.”

You should know better, and stop him here. He’s clearly too far gone to realize the weight of his words, still caught in the afterglow of his pleasure. Still, your thoughts can’t help but be spoken out loud.

“And if I tell you to fetch me the Crown?” Your voice is soft, almost too quiet to be heard. In fact, if he wasn’t so close, you’d be certain that none would hear of your treasonous words.

James does not flinch. He holds your gaze, unwavering in his devotion. “Then I will make you Queen, and kneel before you as you take over this land.”

You can only laugh in response.

Words of betrayal so easily left his lips, echoing down the hall for all to hear. James could be dragged away, thrown into the dungeon as he awaited trial. The title he had worked so hard for would be stolen from him, and his name would be written into your kingdom’s history as a traitor rather than the valiant man he is. The worst part of it all is how much faith you have in him.

You swallow, tearing your eyes away. “It is getting late, Sir Barnes. I wish to retire to my quarters.”

James does not allow you to pull away from him. Your feet no longer touch the ground as he pulls you into his embrace, a hand beneath your knees and the other on your back. If the action winds him, he does not show his struggle. His footsteps are light— not even a mouse can be as quiet as him against the marble floor. 

And you do not fight against him. 

He carries you all the way down the hall towards the safety of your room. The doors shut with an echo, kicked behind him as he continued deeper into your personal chambers. James deposits you onto the plush bed without a single hair on your head falling out of place.

Your Knight removes himself from you, your body warm where he had just touched. Before you can begin to complain about the absence, he is falling to a knee, then shifting his weight onto both. 

He looks up before you, relief clear on his face. “This is how it is meant to be, Your Majesty,” he whispers, your eyes widening. 

Your back straightens, suddenly so aware of your surroundings— though you know no one enters your quarters without being summoned. 

“That is improper, Sir Barnes,” you hiss at him, heart thundering in your chest. “The King and Queen are still alive, and the eldest son is next in line for the throne. Had anyone heard you refer to me as such, your head would no longer be on your shoulders.”

“There is none here to find such fault,” James says, reaching for the hem of your gown. “Unless you wish to see my head roll, I am still safe in your presence.”

The fabric gathers in his hands as he lifts up the skirt, slowly exposing the skin of your legs to him. Still, he keeps his eyes on you. Perhaps he waits for your rejection. Maybe an order to cut his own hands off for daring to touch what you have not allowed. However, his silent question is met with the lack of denial.

Pleased, he rests the layers of your dress against your hips, then places his hands on your knees. He pushes them apart, just as he had done only a handful of hours ago in the tub.

“This is how it is to be,” James repeats, leaning forward. A kiss is placed upon the inside of your thigh, lips trailing upwards. “It is I that shall be on my knees, not the other way around.”

You’d seen him beneath you many times. The first time was during your first meeting. Him, at twenty-one years of age, assigned to guard a princess that none had wished to protect. For all the wisdom you had, you assumed his greeting was one of pity. Mockery. You did not return his pleasantry, choosing instead to walk away. 

Yet he did not stand until you ordered him to rise. When you passed by your chamber’s drawing room, the knight was still there. Resting on a single knee, a hand pressed over his heart. Your maid at the time informed you he had been there since his arrival. 

As time went on, the view of him on his knee became more scarce. At your orders, of course. He only fell to a knee when the occasion called for it, or when others had eyes wandered to the two of you, James was always quick to show you were someone worthy of respect, someone that commanded rather than obeyed. 

Many times he bent down on a knee for you. 

This was the first time it sent excitement shooting through your body. Shivers of anticipation ran down your back as he trailed higher up your thigh. 

“You smell delectable, Your Highness,” he murmurs against your skin.

You lean back onto your hands, eyes still fixated on the sight before you. A strong man, one that had changed the tide of wars he was called to, a man who had built his future from nothing, kneels before you as if he were a sinner in church. 

His nose brushes against your undergarments, eliciting a soft exhale from your lips. Gently, experimentally, he presses a kiss against your core. Fabric be damned— you can feel everything. 

Still, you wish for more. More stimulation. More of his touch. More of him. James doesn’t fail to notice. 

The barrier between you two is pushed to the side and secured by a hand. Your knight wastes no time in ravishing you, his tongue flattening as he takes a long drag between your folds. 

Silk sheets wrinkle in your fists. You find yourself opening your legs more, inviting him to take more space against you. He does, pulling your legs to hook over his broad shoulders as he presses himself closer to you, 

The wet muscle slowly parts your folds over and over again, testing what makes you sing the most for him. He circles your clit slowly, moaning at the taste of you while you whine above him. 

“James…” you whine from above him, chest heaving. You’ve fallen to rest back on your elbows, no longer having the strength to fully hold yourself up. Still, your chin presses to your chest, entranced at the sight before you. 

James finds pleasure in the sin of your fruit. He defies the law of hierarchy, the unspoken truth that goes against the affection he holds for you. For a brief moment, he believes it must be a dream to have you like this— legs shaking on either side of his head, soft moans and incoherent babbles filling his ears, and the sweet taste of your juices on his tongue. 

He has to take advantage of this time, he decides. Like a man that had come across a stream, he drinks. He drinks until the desire ebbing deep within him dissipates, until his thirst is quenched by the nectar you produce. 

Just as a musician would, he plays with you until you create a song. Joining the efforts of his tongue, two fingers are pushed deep within your aching cunt. He parts your walls, allowing space for his tongue to push within you. He curls the muscle against your velvety walls, soaking his tastebuds and garnering noises of approval from you— but it’s not enough. 

He wants you to fall apart against his tongue, wants to listen to you cry as you suffocate him with your thighs. This death would be one met with open arms, and he is eager to get his fill in before he’s dragged away to the depths of Hell.

The tight rope within you snaps, hips bucking up into his face as he proceeds to swallow down your pleasure. Coupled with his fingers still moving, stars burst behind your eyelids as you collapse into your bed. 

Weakly, you try to shove his head, to push him away as the sensitivity overcomes you. 

For the first time, he doesn’t bend to your whims. 

“God— It’s too much,” you choke out, chest rising up and down fast. 

Perhaps he couldn’t hear you, with your thighs muffling any sort of noise that came his way. He continues to feast, moaning against you as you tug on his hair. 

James is greedy, and you’re not sure if his actions are for your pleasure or his. Desperation overcomes him as his jaw moves against you, tongue swirling over your sensitive clit. His fingers explore your every crevice, pistoning into you with precision. It’s only when his fingers are knuckle deep does he find it— that sweet, spongy texture that makes you cry his name. 

Your back arches against the bed, pulling your hips away— he will not have it. His free hand clasps around your thigh, keeping you grounded against his mouth as he pulls another orgasm from your body. 

Only when you start to pry his fingers off of your thigh does he back away. Your slick is all over his mouth and chin, but he does not mind. It’s an erotic sight, watching him collect your juices onto a finger only for him to clean it off with his tongue. 

“James,” you murmur, and watch him rise from between your legs. 

“Yes, Your Highness?” he questions, demeanor relaxed as if he hadn’t sent you to the Heavens multiple times. 

Though your body screams in protest, absolutely spent, you force yourself to sit up. Your hands rest on his chest, fists closing around the fabric of his uniform. 

The knight doesn’t stop you as you begin to peel layer after layer off of him, discarding each garment off to the side somewhere. Even his sword clatters to the ground, but he pays no mind. His eyes are on you, watching each and every single movement. 

Bare before you, you can’t help but admire him. Slightly tanned skin, warmed from his days training and on display for you. Jagged scars paint his body, proof that he had lived throughout every battle. His muscles ripple beneath your touch, almost as if his entire body is waking to respond to you. 

“Will you help me out of my dress, Sir Barnes?” you whisper, meeting his eyes. For a moment, you see hesitation. Your stomach drops, shame and humiliation settling deep into your body. You pull your hands away, but you don’t go too far. 

James holding your hand in his, guiding it towards his lips. Softly, he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist.  

“Are you certain?” His fingers are pressed against your pulse point. He can feel your nerves, your heart rapidly trying to supply your body with more oxygen to stop you from fainting. He’s giving you a chance. 

You’re not certain what the future would hold— if this one night would be a mistake. James knows this. You know this. And yet, you can’t help yourself. 

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” 

Silence fills the air as he undoes your gown. James is careful, as if he’s unwrapping a gift far too fragile for him to have. Callused hands run over the smoothness of your skin, sending goosebumps and anticipation down your spine. Before long, you’ve made it out of the prison called a corset, and he’s pushing you back into your pillows. 

He settles between your thighs once more, pulling your legs onto either side of his hips as he takes in the view. You, completely bare beneath him, watching him with excitement shining in your eyes. 

Words aren’t needed as he presses the tip of his cock against you. He slides the length through your folds, coating himself in your slick, rubbing against your clit slowly. His hands roam your body, running along the curve of your waist and up to your chest, a low moan slipping out of him as he explores, maps you by touch. 

The head of his cock catches at your aching cunt, and so does your breath. With one easy roll of his hips, he presses inside you, stretching you open to accommodate the thick girth of him. 

Sharp pain flashes through you, and you cannot help but smile. 

You reach for your knight, holding his face in your hands. His breathing is erratic and shallow, and he stills his hips against you— only halfway sheathed into your aching pussy. 

“You’ve ruined a Royal Princess, Sir Barnes,” you tell him, head dizzy with need and voice dripping with want. “How will you take responsibility for this? The King will have your head if he ever finds out.”

His cock twitches within you at your words, at your sultry smile, and the feel of your walls closing around him trying to pull him in deeper. 

James swallows thickly, and rests his hands on your hips. He stabilizes both you and him— 

Your bravado dies as his hips slam against yours. He forces you to take the length of him, body flush against yours. The stretch hurts, but in a way that leaves you wanting more. 

He leans down, face only centimeters from yours. 

“The King does not care about you, Princess,” he whispers into your ear. 

Your heart rate spikes. It’s the truth, yes, but this disrespect? This insolence? Your knight hadn’t ever dared to speak to you in such a manner. However, you don’t get to scold him before he speaks again. 

“But you don’t need him,” James grinds his hips against yours in experimentation, delighted when you make a small noise of pleasure. The corner of his mouth curls into a half smile, and he chuckles. “You don’t need anyone else to care about you. I am more than enough.” 

The air is stolen from you as James’ hips pull back. Your cunt tightens around him in a feeble attempt to keep him buried inside you. He only allows the tip of his cock to stay behind, holding himself there for just a few seconds before sinking deep within you. 

James wastes no time— he’s craved you for so long, there’s little that can stop him from ravishing you now that he has you. Virgin or not, pure or not, he won’t stop until he is satisfied. 

Your fingernails dig into the thick muscle of his biceps, desperate for some purchase as he continues to piston his hips against yours. You can feel everything. His fat cock splitting you open again and again. The thick vein that you sucked on just moments prior rubbing against your walls, somehow even larger than it was before. The tip of his cock kissing your cervix with each deep thrust. 

Your breasts bounce with each thrust, the sight mesmerizing. He bends down, tongue closing around a nipple and swirling at the stiff bud. His hips still, but you do not. With leverage from your hips, he continues to pull you into him, fucking you onto his cock. And when your hips started moving, when you began to grind against him, he could only laugh. 

“My Princess… Are you that desperate for me?” he coos softly, The lilt is teasing. He’s amassed by you, and finally, finally, his exterior is crumbling.  “Do not worry, Your Highness. I will ensure none will take my place.”

“You… you think too highly of yourself,” you manage, though your voice body betrays you. You’re still lifting your hips to meet him with every thrust, your legs are wrapped around him to keep him from going too far, and your hands won’t stop the exploration of his body. 

“Oh? Is that so?” he asks, and it’s clear he doesn’t believe you. He almost sounds amused at your attempt to push him away.

His hands tighten around your hips, pressing them into the mattress to keep you still. Suddenly, you’re unable to move. Unable to do anything as he begins to drag his cock in and out of you with the pace of a man who has too much time on his hands. 

You whine, cunt tightening around him. His hips stutter slightly, and his eyes fall shut. It takes him a moment to compose himself, to force himself not to get lost in your body. 

Then, he says your name. Again, as sweet as fresh pastries, heavy with responsibility. Your breath catches in your throat as he leans forward, forehead pressing against yours. 

“My sweet… beautiful Princess,” he rasps. He isn’t speaking from lust. It’s the same feeling once again, that same emotion you caught earlier. “Won’t you let me have you?”

Your heart rattles in your chest, caught off guard with his affections once more. Still, you don’t answer him. Don’t give him the response he craves. Instead, you wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him closer to you, meeting his lips with yours. 

“Hurry up and fuck me, James,” you mutter against his lips. 

A low groan exits him, his eyes rolling back into his skull. He hooks your knees over his elbows, folding your body beneath his. 

The new angle has you seeing stars. He’s hitting you deeper than before, filling you in ways you had never imagined. You can’t keep up with him as he fucks you, stuck with simply laying beneath him as he does all the work. After all, his darling Princess should not have to work for what she wants. 

Within a few moments, you realize what he’s doing. He’s ruining you, drilling himself into you to leave behind the imprint of his cock. You’ll feel its ghost for days to come, leaving you desperate and forcing you to run back to him. If James cannot have your heart, he will settle with your body. 

The wet squelch of your pussy fills the room. Moans harmonize as pleasure overcomes the two of you, and you can feel yourself about to snap. His cock twitches within you as your pussy holds him hostage, and you know he won’t last long. 

When his thumb presses against your clit, you are sent off the edge. You cry out his name, body seizing beneath him as he mutters words of encouragement— all of it falls on deaf ears as he fucks you through your high. All you can feel is him. His body moving against yours. His hands running up and down your sides. His mouth on your neck, suckling and kissing bruises onto your skin. 

Then you feel it— that same warmth spills into you once more as his hips catch and stutter, unable to keep his pace smooth. Thick, hot ropes of cum fill your dripping cunt, mixing your juices in a display of passion. 

Once more, his lips crash into yours. He swallows your whimpers and moans and gives you his own. Your hearts thunder together in tandem, and your legs are slowly released back onto the sheets below. 

A few moments pass, both of you silent as his head falls into your shoulder. He squeezes at your sides, almost as if he’s trying to determine that this is real— that he had defiled you in a blind act of lust. 

Soft whimpers escape you as he pulls his softening cock out, your shared cum spilling out of your abused cunt and soaking the sheets you lay on. The warmth of his body leaves you, allowing the chill of the night to wash over you. 

You can’t even move, body too spent to care. You’re pliant under his touch as he returns, brandishing a fresh cloth from the bathroom.  The knight cleans you without a word of complaint, then scoops you into his arms. 

“The bed is dirty, Your Highness,” he tells you as you rest your head onto his shoulder. 

You’re not certain how he does it, nor do you really care, but fresh sheets are laid out and you are returned to the plush mattress once more. Blankets are pulled over your body, giving you warmth against the chill air. Lullabies come in the form of rustling fabric, its gentle noise coaxing you to sleep. It’s when you hear the clatter of his armor and sword do you open your eyes. 

“Where are you going?” you ask, voice thick with exhaustion. He’d dressed himself once more, ready to resume his job– to guard you. Only now do you realize you had never seen the man take a break. You weren’t even sure if your knight slept. “I did not dismiss you from my presence.”

James seems to pause, looking down at himself. A few heartbeats pass before he lowers his sword, allowing it to properly rest against your nightstand as opposed to on the floor. His boots come off, and so does his outer layer of clothing. 

Hesitation is clear on his face as he looks down upon you. You take it upon yourself to grant him space, lifting up the blankets for him to join you. Slowly, he lowers himself into the bed, settling once more beside you. 

At first, he’s rigid. As if the last couple hours did not happen– that he hadn’t taken you for all you are worth. A tired sigh slips from you, and you shift closer to him. Your knight stiffens once more at the touch, probably keenly aware you are still bare. 

You know you’re being selfish as you nuzzle into his side. You steal from him what you cannot give– the warmth of his body, the scent he gives off, and the gentle beating of his heart beneath your ear. James allows you to take over and over again, and you are too cruel to make yourself stop.

When the sun breaks through the horizon, you’re certain he will have questions that you refuse to answer. You’ll cover up your inability to commit with half hearted teasing, flirtatious touches, and impossible demands. 

James will have to settle with watching you from a distance, unable to reach for you unless you give him the order. He’ll endure your endless taunts and unfair requests, and do so with affection running so deep that you may feel suffocated. He will stay by your side, just as he had promised you years ago.

You have yet to keep your own promises to him. Perhaps after you obtain the Crown, this game will cease. He will be free of your jests and demands, though you know he will continue to follow you around out of his own free will. 

Maybe you’ll properly face him when the kingdom is yours, after he serves you the world on a silver platter. You could take him in as a consort, raise his title up so that none could look down upon him again. 

The soft rumble of his snores break your thoughts. Carefully as to not stir him, you look up at him. You’d never seen him at peace like this. Your heart squeezes in your chest, prompting you to settle back into his arms. 

In his sleep, he tugs you closer. He wraps himself around you like a cocoon, safe from the world. Even deep into rest, your knight is unable to stop himself from protecting you. 

If only you had the strength to gift him what he longs for. 

bucky barnes taglist: @superbassbuck @flockoff-featherface @unificsation @54nboo @earthsmightestbenders @umbreoni @iamthatonefangirl @winterdecember18 @houseofhyde @blowingbarnes @heldbybarnes @bckyslover @duacruel @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels  @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @simp4f1 @its-in-the-woods @lvrrinx @herejustforbuckybarnes @djotummy @star-yawnznn @gallifreyansass @nanikio @jmclouds @sundaepoet @the-salty-asian @overwintering-soldier @kjmonster111  @bbyanarchist @buckmybarnes

⤷ to be eligible for my taglist, you must have your age stated somewhere on your blog!

[sheriff-bodecker]

vital refractions

pairing: paramedic!bucky x paramedic!reader

summary: you and bucky have always been close, close enough that everyone else noticed a spark long before you did. but after a shift leaves you both strung out, comfort blurs into something heavier, then when guilt tells him to pull away, you’re left fighting for the truth of what you did and what it meant.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut (first; not overly detailed, second; full on), fluff & angst, traumatic shift (not overly detailed), miscommunication, silent treatment, friends to something to lovers, arguments, confessions, mild dissociation (reader), bestfriend!bucky, emotionally repressed!bucky (wooow everyone act shocked), alcohol/bars, smoking, bucky smokes & it's implied reader does with him, switch!bucky, switch!reader, semi-public, making out, hair pulling (m&f!rec), dry humping, thigh humping, cumming in pants (f!rec), mean!bucky, whiny!bucky, uncut!bucky, tit worship, nipple sucking and pulling (james boobchanan barnes amirite), degradation (B wants reader to say mean things to him), the L word, lotus position, angry sex to sweet(?), missionary, clit stim, creampie, aftercare, showering together, sappy ending, no beta . . .

word count: 15.8k (i dont know either man...)

a/n: hey barbies !! it's babys first collab, and i can't be happier to be doing this with @stantastic-association !! thank you to the absolutely amazing @miraclediviner for creating this spectacular event, all the ideas, and graphics and keeping everything in check, thank you so so much mj :") and thank you to @metal-armed-muse for helping me with smart med stuff shdfsjsfh and @barnes-babydoll @phoenix-in-writing @buckytakethewheel for keeping me from going insane with this fic, although i think thats too late,, i love you all so so much, thank you for letting me be a part of this amazing and beautiful collab and group <33

just a little heads up, i'm from the uk and also not a paramedic or work in the medical field so i relied heavily on google and reddit when researching about paramedic shifts, clock ins, where ambulances sleep at night and whatnot,, if theres anything wrong i am so sorry i really tried :')

masterlist || navigation || bucky's dreamhouse m.list

✴︎ i'm just an art degree having person, i dont know shit about this im gonna be honest, but i wanted to challenge myself, so i am so sorry to the smart people in the ER, and to paramedics themselves, for anything wrong :") i'll grovel istg.

✴︎ Nat is head nurse at the ER (and readers bestie), Sam is a nurse, and Steve is Nat's partner who's energy can be felt if you look hard enough :") paramedics are basically the new avengers (Ava, Yelena and John) (im so sorry Bob..)

✴︎ this is all from reader's POV except for one small tiny bit near the beginning, but from then on, the rest is all reader and i apologise in advance:')

The call came late in the shift. The kind that settled into your bones without asking permission.

Everything that came after moved too quickly and not fast enough at the same time, muscle memory carrying you both through while something essential lagged behind. By the time you were at the ER — voices loud and assertive, arms still carrying the sting and scrape of metal, plastic and sweat — the adrenaline burned at the edges, a hum on the edge of your skin, a live wire through your fingertips, and left a cavity where certainty used to lie.

The paperwork was finished. The rig was cleaned and the building smelt like sickly-sweet antiseptic and medical supplies. A sterile zing, one you had gotten used to after a few days now burns through your insides, as if to rid you of what occurred just minutes ago. And the city outside went on, undisturbed, breathing.

It was well past evening when you finished, the sun barely had time to say goodbye, as you walked out into the parking-lot with both hands cradling your midsection, head down, hoodie up and the warm presence of Bucky beside you.

His hair was a mess from his fingers combing through incessantly. Eyes dark, jaw set and clenched with words unsaid and memories replaying, but his hand set low on your back, a radiator almost, rubbing up and down each ridge as if he was trying to remind himself that despite everything, you're still here.

"I spoke to Natasha," he spoke low, voice crackled from the tightness and silence. "She said it's best I take you home."

You stayed silent, not thinking, your brain stayed silent ever since you passed your case along, watched them try and try and try, until it was too late and now you're both stuck with a ballpoint pen that keeps skipping and fingers that wont stop twitching. Your writing was borderline unintelligible, and the pads of your palms still burn from how hard you gripped the gurney bars.

"I feel like I should be stronger than this," you huff, a mimic of a laugh that comes out tired, impatient. "I feel pathetic."

"You're not pathetic. You don't need to be strong. Not here, not right now." he responds, never letting your words hit the ground and holds his hand out. "C'mon, gets go home."

By the way his words come, the warmth that curls around them, and you, how he spoke with sureness, quickly and strong, never giving your own doubts time to release fully before they were fought back with praise, comfort. Hope squeezed your lungs together like the tightest embrace, and never let go.

Red light streaked through the windshield, spilling on the tarmac in velvet tresses, covering your faces. Bucky's car stood still with only the whirring hum of the engine to soundtrack your awkward silences. It felt full, too thick.

You sat too still, knees knocked together, hands in your lap, picking at the skin around your nails. No radio tonight. Even with an empty car, the two of you couldn't stomach some shitty three minute commercialised industry plant. Your combined sighs and incessant picking of skin will have to do.

Bucky's right hand gripped the wheel at two, thumb impatiently drumming against the fabric, and his left hand held up his head, elbow on the door.

Scraping his palm over his salt and pepper beard, he sighs.

"You did good," he says. "Really good."

Though your chest burns with the need to speak, you don't reply. You just let the soft fire creep up your sternum and lungs.

"Everything you did today was on point, no mistakes, no mishaps," He shrugs with his hand, two fingers tap on the leather. "You were perfect. You should be proud of yourself, I know I am."

A breath hitches its way from your nose, harsh and quick, a sob that stuck and makes itself known vehemently, and you grimace at the way it sounded humoured. Bucky turns his head at the sound.

"I'm sorry." Rubbing your eyes of the sleep and dirt and stress that accumulated in the corners with a deep sigh. He places his hand on your shoulder in a reassuring gesture, peeling you back from your mind and into the passenger seat of his car.

He hums, "what for."

"Everything," you whisper. Letting the word lie, you expect him to find a way to reply, to reassure and find a solution to your desolate mood. But you find yourself sitting on in the silence you made. "I did everything right. But it didn't work."

This time the silence hangs clearer. Not man-made in an attempt at gaining soft words to pillow the fall, this time it stays still and works. Both of your brains sitting in on the rapt of earlier. Resolution wasn't what either of you needed, but it comes anyway. Only this time it's jumbled and frosted, and coming from the mouth of your best friend.

"As much as I hate to say shit like this, I'm gonna have to, so — I'm sorry if i cant find the right words," Bucky rasps, calloused palm scraping against his scruff, licking his lips, and he exhales. Deep and slow, letting it all out, and you cant help the tiny voice in the back of your head from murmuring 'ah, shit, not a speech'.

"Sometimes… things don't go the way we plan. We see a solution, we see the light at the end of the dark tunnel, but suddenly theres an obstacle we didn't see, a detour kinda…" he inhales, finding his footing, and it wheezes slightly in the back of his neck. "… and sometimes… sometimes that obstacle slows you down. Or sometimes, in this case, it wraps around your legs until you can't do anything but stay."

He winces slightly, appalled by his wording, how slow it comes, how his head tingles from trying to find synonyms and meanings. A grin points the edge of your lips. "What I'm trying to say is, the outcome is never what we expect it to be. Sometimes we have this image in our head of the perfect project, but along the line your tastes change, you hate a colour, so you choose a different one. Or sometimes, you scrap the project altogether. Your angry, sad, distraught, you should feel that way, you're human. But life has it's way of putting you through shit you didn't see comin'."

Staring out onto the street, you take in his words. Clumsy as they can be, over the years of your friendship with Bucky you've gotten used to his disorder and understand how to rearrange them into something slightly comprehensible.

"I liked the second one better." You hummed, eyes still glued to the watercolour of black, white and red against the dark street.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Nodding slowly, you turned to face him, smile still stuck to your lips. "And then you kinda referred to them as a 'project'. Very tasteful, Barnes."

He smirked lazily at your animated retort. Your words come humourless, sarcasm laced and sleepy, but they still had that sharpness you carried — that he loved. A scoffed chuckle fills the car and paints his face with smile lines and a colour, despite the red of the traffic light spilling overhead. It's contagious, and you cant fight the ache of your cheeks.

Once the light turns green, the attitude shifts. The laughter still ebbed around you both, but it felt like it was suddenly swatted away with a wave of remembrance, like you both had this need to stay composed and professional.

"I'll walk you in." He decides, shaking his head with the remnants of wit.

You run your palm over your cheek, feeling the warmth. Your eyes suddenly feel heavier, skin tighter yet so lose against your muscles you're not sure how to feel.

"You really don't have to." Slips out, lower than usual, you barely recognise your voice.

Everything feels… different. Yet the world keeps turning, his car keeps driving, streetlights still spilling against his arms, and the indicator keeps blinking with every turn.

"Please," he pleads firmly, edged with a wobble. A sound that tells you he needs this, maybe even more than you do. "Just… Please."

And you cant fight. Not him.

Not when a dull ache has been ruminating inside of your chest since the call, only to deepen and cultivate through the night.

He helps you inside. Takes your keys for you after he caught the tremor in your fingers, lets you rest against him when your knees felt too weak to hold — arm wrapped tight and securely around your shoulder, letting the hum of your buildings elevator ruminate as he presses a soft kiss against your head, whispering soft praises into your scalp, as if willing them to sink into your brain and keep.

Doing so well for me.

It's okay.

You're okay.

His hand squeezes the meat of your shoulder, a pattern of kneads against taut muscle and soft slides of his thumb against your hot collarbone. It makes you shiver in a way it never had before.

Your breath expels harshly, twitches of your lungs that quiver your ribs in his hold.

"Hey," you hear him say, hand clasping ever so slightly harder, "hey, look at me."

When you don't at first, he inhales your scent once more before he moves. Gently sliding his hand to your other shoulder, pushing you to look into his eyes as he tilts his head, his free hand finding your neck, your pulse, and caressing.

"Breathe in for me, sweetheart." He requests. You try, but the air gets trapped and sputters out. Your hands go up to push his own away, but instead they weakly circle around his wrists.

"C'mon, you got it, like this," Bucky inhales. The hand that rest on your neck finds its way to your jaw, then to your cheek, a mindless move to pull your sight from his shoes and into his eyes.

And you inhale. And exhale.

"There we go, just like that." The praise, though soft, hits you in every inch of your skin like tiny pin-pricks in each follicle. The warmth of his hand, his breath, his words, it all pulls over you like a wool blanket, like that one winter he made sure to use his break-time to check up on on you while you were sick, making sure you were warm, fed and relaxed, practically forcing a spoon into your face to get you hydrated and full of the proper nutrients, to get your eyes a little wider and joins less achy for tomorrows shift.

You both almost miss the ding when you get to your floor.

The walk to your apartment is quiet. Full. You can feel it all spill out at the edges once you shut the door and suddenly it all tips over. Contents gone, messy and everywhere.

Wires seem to get mixed up. Touches linger. Voices hush lower into murmurs and whispers.

Tension snaps like a taut rubber band, and comfort is the only thing the two of you need in that moment.

Years of friendship balling up into an combination of bodies — sweat, skin, tears, whispers and closeness you didn't realise could exist. Not with Bucky anyway.

Of course you had your fair share of quick crushes and epiphanies while he was by your side, but they all quietly dissipated with each new fling or relationship he brought into the mix. Nothing indicated reciprocation. So why stay at this bus stop when it had departed long, long ago.

Being needed felt so good.

You forgot to shut the curtains last night.

Bright morning sun filters through the panes, soaking your sleep ridden body in a glow that renders Bucky dumb. From the moment he woke up, warm from your body at his front, his arm tightly wrapped around your middle, face pressed into your hair that smelled like salt and sex, with the lingering scent of your vanilla shampoo.

Guilt hits like a sucker punch straight to the stomach, rattling up his chest, and blowing his knees, even while he was laying down. Getting up immediately, retracting himself as softly and quietly as possible, letting you bask unconsciously in whatever last night was. Whatever it became.

Putting his clothes back on his body, making sure to gather your own, throw them in your laundry basket and fold some fresher clothes for the new day at the end of your bed, he sat with a heavy feeling of remorse.

Last night was a mistake.

It shouldn't have happened. Not like that, anyway.

Too inebriated with adrenaline and 'too big' emotions; the both of you needed a vice to let it all out, and it just so happened to be each other — but Bucky can't, and won't, let himself believe that.

He insisted on walking you in.

He helped you with your keys.

He draped his arm over your shoulder, tucked you in close and whispered and pecked sweet nothings into your hair like it was just another day.

The coffee machine in your kitchen hummed as it filled your favourite mug. Bucky stared at the dark liquid as it filled the ceramic. Distant.

Silently praying the whirring wont wake you up, his brain replayed the way you looked underneath him. The way your lips felt, how you felt. Hands roaming with no destination, mapping new skin like this wasn't a fresh, quick adventure, but a finale, a place to call home, a place to familiarise.

His muscles tightened as they tingled with remembrance.

It was good. It all felt right, correct in a way nothing else he had ever felt before. But it had to have been because it was you.

Good old you, and your sullen, tired eyes that reddened around the edges with unshed tears. Back and shoulders arched into yourself, only to slowly uncover at his touch and voice. You, who always beamed each morning when your names were paired, as if it wasn't a regular, everyday occurrence, as if he didn't make sure to double — triple — check the sheet just in case he didn't read the name wrong. But how could he?

It's you.

Which is precisely why he gently makes your coffee exactly how you like it. Hands moving by their own accord, muscle memory working overtime while his brain tries to wrack around last night.

How you held onto him like you needed this, needed him. The soft whispers of his name mixed with sleepy praises breathed against his neck, shoulder and collarbone. Your hands roaming his body almost as if you knew it would end with detachment, like you wanted his skin pierced into your palms forever. How you asked him, so gently, voice laced with sleep and something so much deeper than he ever thought he'd hear from you, if he could stay, not move from his position on top of you, slowly twitching while you paced yourself back into reality with pulses that traced through his skin.

You wanted him to stay.

His warmth you craved, his weight atop of you, his skin, his presence, his body inside of you. You wanted it all.

And that's precisely why he places the mug on your bedside with a clink, careful enough not to wake you. Took one last, long look at your sleeping form. Unknowing of his internal dilemma.

And left.

The emptiness that comes after you wake up didn't deter you. You expected it, kind of.

Bucky has always been the type of person who gets into work bright and early, gets everything in check, memorise, recount, retain, as if he hasn't been doing this almost every morning for years. The routine helps him, and you know that.

The coffee was still warm, steam curling while your eyes adjusted to the creamy morning sun peeking through the window, and the first conscious thought of the morning is, 'i hope it didn't wake him'.

Friday busses are always busy, especially in the morning, but this time two of your usuals skidded past without a care of your hand waving out for them. Pure coincidence? Maybe they didn't see your hand, or maybe they're full and forgot to show it on the destination sigh.

Eventually, after your card failed once, twice, before finally going through with a huff from the driver. The road was bumpier, there were kids on their way to school way too energised this early in the day. And turns out you forgot to charge your headphones the night before.

Of course you did.

You clocked in mechanically, bones already awaiting the hours waiting to be endured. Flexing your head in a circle, ridding it of a readying strain, the building felt… off. It wasn't the kind that was spotted immediately, it was a feeling, an energy that laid itself on your shoulders like a perfectly content cat already cozying up while your back started to ache and it's claws poked.

At your locker, the hallway felt emptier, the room itself was only full with the incessant humming of the ventilation and pipes in the walls — a tune half unknown to you with the accustomed noise of yours and Bucky's lazy conversations, his body facing yours, leaning against the locker beside by his shoulder, arms and legs crossed, tired grin on his face while you ramble on about anything to keep your brain awake.

The thought crystallised. The routine, the meticulous rules he ran himself by all day, everyday, simply vanishing after twenty-four hours.

You didn't put it past him though. Last night was a lot. Mentally, physically.

As if to rid you of your doubts, you shook your head, taking a deep inhale of antiseptic and a floral zip of a Dollar Tree air freshener, masking the smell around with hopes and dreams.

The rest of the team greeted you like normal. Short waves, tight-lipped smiles, though this time, some had added a soft pat on the shoulder — a gesture you should find endearing, but it only just digs its fingers deeper into the wound.

Walker was the first to talk to you. Sat at the break table, legs up, fiddling with his watch. He looks up at the sound of your footsteps.

"Hey," He said, light like usual but it dipped like a question — interrogating — looking at you quizzically. "Aren't you supposed to be with Barnes?"

Stopping in your tracks, your boots squeaked against the linoleum. "Uh," you shake your head quickly in confusion, sputtering. "I don't know, am I?"

He scoffs amusedly, "I dunno, you two are like," he gestures, hands spread wide, interlocking his fingers once, then twice, before dropping them down onto his lap. "Y'know? So."

The sentence hangs, his voice echos quietly through the dead halls, bouncing off the walls while he waits for you to speak. But you don't. You just stand there, head tilting to the side as an open invite for more context.

So he adds in a mumble, staring back down at his watch. "Think he left already though."

"What?" The words slip out before you could try to catch them, and you flinch back minutely.

John catches on, tickled by your automatic obtrusion. He settles back with a sigh, bluffing, putting on a show of carelessness. "Left like a half hour ago—"

This time you don't even try to stop yourself from asking. "With who?"

Glancing back up, he grins, shrugging his hands up. "Check the sheet. You can even find your new partner."

Your stomach churned with the words — 'new partner'. Yet, still, anticipation flowed through your veins, and you couldn't keep moping like a puppy at the door.

"Huh."

Your head flinched back slightly, tilting to the side. Thumbing at your lip automatically, scraping across the skin in an attempt to rest yourself from picking at it.

He was on call. With Yelena.

"You okay?" a voice snapped you back. Eyes clenching shut for a moment before turning your head around to face Ava.

"Hm?" You squeak, "oh, right. No, yeah, I'm fine. Great."

Brows creasing, she crosses her arms lazily, leaning back on one foot, scanning you up and down.

You scowl. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" She asks, voice pitched innocently as a teasing smile cloaks her lips.

With a tut you turn back to the sheet, finger brushing against the paper. "That scanning thing you do with your eyes, like you can read my mind."

She pouts, hands over her heart. "So you do notice the little things, huh?"

Without looking away, you kick at her shin, chuckling softly.

She takes a peek at the sheet from beside your shoulder, humming in contemplation. "No Bucky today, huh?"

Your face pulls, "seems like it."

"Hey, it's okay," tapping your bicep with her knuckles, she tips her head back. "You're with me anyways."

Your chest eased at that. Ava was better than John. But then again, anyone is better than John. And Ava had this 'no nonsense' energy you absolutely adored and found intimidating in one giant cluster, and it sent your body tingling with readiness to get the day started.

But there was no familiarity. No comforting jabs, no inside jokes, no off-hand bets you'd always gasp at in disbelief (a smile always finding its way on your face), yet add a twenty to the pool.

"Come on," Ava clicks her tongue twice. "Better to get this started sooner than later. Let's shut that brain off, shall we?"

Shut your brain off it did. In the opposite way you had hoped.

The hours you had spent working alongside Ava, speeding down streets, rushing to a patients side, checking, working, calculating, pumping the heels of your hands against chests until your wrists ached. But along the line, once the coast was clear and the area seemed to let your body rest, you sat in the passenger seat silently, thinking.

It seemed to you like the majority of those back at the bay believed you were still shaken — rightfully so — and that little assumption had your chest scarcely easing.

You couldn't fault Bucky for leaving early, that was his routine, even during hangouts that turned into impromptu sleepovers, he'd wake up earlier than you to get ready for the day ahead, leaving you a text and a coffee in his wake.

That's what was missing. A text.

Heart picking up, thumping softly against your sternum, brows furrowed, you go for your phone and scroll through your notifications. Empty, apart from the occasional passive-aggressive instruction from the work group chat and a Facebook post from your mom (you'll get back to her later), it all seemed to be crickets from Bucky's side.

Sighing louder than you anticipated, you scroll to manually check your conversation itself.

You [7:16am]: See u at work B. You [7:16am]: Bringing u some coffee btw. Deserveddd.

Yesterday morning seemed so far away. Reading back with a feeling of nostalgia that laid tainted and blackhole-like in your stomach, staring specifically at the little pink heart he had sent back as a reaction. The last sign of reciprocation through pixels before the day would inevitably wash you both up to shore, an island where only the two of you inhabit, and made nature take it's course.

Sure you weren't bright-eyed and bushy tailed, having seen the worst of the worst in your first few years, memories and shifts you buried in your brain so deep, you couldn't even remember them if you tried. But for some reason, yesterday stuck. The patient, the technique, the van ride, the whispered prayers of loved ones while you worked in the back, moving as steadily and quickly as you could with the rocking of the cab. The aftermath. The numbers that passed through your lips like a ghost itself, and the goddamn aftermath.

Cutting the thoughts off immediately with a jolt back, and you found yourself in the back of the van. Working on autopilot, hands moving with muscle memory, the tingles of used equipment still tingling on your palms.

You cursed under your breath, how long has it been? Did you dissociate that whole time? Flexing your fingers and patting down your hips, you realise your phone is still in your pocket, thanking the universe that the patient onboard the gurney was passed out, looked after well and seemingly looked like they were making a mends after you went and triple checked them over. The minor panic subsided and was immediately by the opening of the tailgate doors, listing off every bit of information and detail your unconscious mind miraculously retained, wheeling them down and out and into the anarchy that is the ER.

Instantaneously, as you moved about the bustle of bodies, Nat's eyes caught yours from the nurses' station. Standing up, she was leant forward, her weight on her palms that stuck to the desk, focused on lab results or a patient's medical history. It was as if her body was attuned to your whereabouts, finally waking up once you rushed through.

By the time the case was handed off, finding yourself strolling back through where you had entered, the scene ahead was practically unchanged. Only now, Ava seeped into the image. Cool as can be, her body slanted with her elbow to the desk that sheltered the computers while her free hand sat confidently on her hip, attention set on the redhead in front. She had a smile on her face, one that only came when gossip was shared, mouth slightly agape, eyes rocking up and down Nat's face.

Strolling past with a rigid exhale, a breath you hadn't realised you've been holding in for how long now, a hand curls it's way around your bicep. Voice, low and velvety, speaks before you could turn.

"You know, you could power an entire state with the amount of energy you're giving off."

With a playful tut and a smile, you tilt your head to the side and cross your arms. "Hello, good afternoon to you too, Natasha and Ava."

Returning your demeanour, she speaks with a classy intonation. "Hello and good afternoon, grumps," she smirked. "Now whats up with you."

You turn and nod to Ava, eyes squinting at her laid back manner. "What did you tell her."

"I had absolutely nothing to do with this," her eyes hold defence, nodding her head back in Nat's direction, "she can just read people. And to be honest you do have this energy."

"I do not."

"Yeah you do," Nat chimes back in, now holding you still with both hands on each bicep, scanning, analysing, brows taut, eyes wandering. "Was it the shift? You did look more shaken up than usual."

Without much of a pause, your lungs inhaling deep with frustration, eyes moving to the ceiling. Ready to deflect, to push away, build a wall higher than any skyscraper in Manhattan, complete with steel walls, bulletproof and all, but it all crumbles apart as Ava hums, tracing nonexistent patterns in the corian surface.

"Barnes did switch partners this morning."

As quick as her murmur came, Nat whipped her head to face her, only to start looking back and forth between the two of you, the hold of her hands becoming tighter and tighter. "Deliberately?"

"Ava—" You warn, praying the way you speak — tired and gritted — will help camouflage it into something softer than it actually is. Only it falls on deaf ears.

She hums again, a hint of amusement in her voice, song-like. "He's with your sister today."

As much as you want to let the topic go, let it lie and mend itself with the passage of time, the casualness of your two friends still pokes and jabs at your ribs like tiny pin pricks. Each easy slide of their tones, their quips, their treating your internal dilemma as nonchalant gossip, it's just another tough poke to the side that'll most likely bruise, and you'll have to endure the growing pain in fear of being a coward.

"Lena? Really?" As Nat's attitude morphs into something akin to scepticism, you try to push the pain aside. Her voice growing higher with curiousness, a scowl curling her lip even when she tries to hold it down.

Tiredness blankets you like a storm cloud, only just about half finished with your shift, and you realise now, with the new unauthorised information shared, this shift will last a lifetime. You can already feel it in your bones, and the way you barely try to debate. "We seriously don't have to talk about this."

And it was then, every ounce of you, you had left, completely left the building.

"Talk about what?" Sam's voice felt like a strike to the already blossoming purples and yellows from Nat and Ava. You love him, honestly, he's the first person you go to when you find some good, hot gossip that's burning on the tip of your tongue, begging to be free.

And that's exactly why, to the trio's hilarity, you groan obnoxiously loud, turning away, only to turn back to your spot.

"Bucky changed his partner this morning." Nat replied, low and conspiratorial, already plotting ways to talk to her sister off he clock with unsuspecting questions that Yelena will very much see through.

With a huff, Sam leans forward, palms braced on the counters edge, "And why would he do that?"

"Okay," Ava cut through, turning herself to you, closer, hands together, pointed. "Just walk us through yesterday evening."

A sigh wracked through your body, dragging a hand down your face. "He drive me home, like you told him to," glancing at Nat, who nodded attentively, silently asking for more, "he walked me in, and I didn't wanna be alone so he stayed the night."

"And that's it?"

"Yeah, basically," you suck in a breath, "he didn't text me this morning though."

"Huh…" Nat paced in her spot, "but did you text him at all?"

The silence was enough to answer.

"Sweetheart—"

"Listen I'll do it later," stepping back to address them all, you edge closer to Ava. "I'll update you or something, it's probably just because yesterday was a lot. I'll see you guys later, come on Ava."

The room moved without disturbance. Still breathed with frenzied bodies walking, jogging, hands moving without thought. Yet Nat and Sam just watch on next to each other as you and Ava scurry out through the doors.

"I bet twenty she and Barnes fucked."

Wheezing, Sam bowed his head, shaking it. "They just walked out the damn doors. You're cold, Romanoff."

"What can i say," she smiles and saunters backwards, "I like to play dirty."

"Hey, save that shit for Steve, he's not gonna be happy when you have to add another five to the jar." He called out to her as she turned, but she didn't look back. Red hair a beacon among the pack around them, her voice picks up.

"I'll make it up to him!"

After a couple days, you let it slide. Perhaps memories, emotions, muscle aches got the better of him and he needed some quiet. But his name seemed to find another, every single goddamn shift, while yours was stuck paired with Ava (not that you minded), and your days overlapped more-so than usual. Trying to find him around the station felt worse than trying to scout a glimpse of Bigfoot. His presence felt ghostlike, almost like a memory taunting you with the scuff of boots on linoleum, a hint of his aftershave in the locker room, all sharp and clean, sending your brain miles and miles away, back to your bedroom and the pillow that still carried his air like it was made for him. His voice sometimes echoes, only murmurs, nothing intelligible, your brain cannot process the words while they grasp onto his gruffness, right where it spilled onto your neck and the hinge of your jaw, just on the soft skin where it dips into your tendons.

You can still feel the warmth of it lingering. Especially after shifts that burned in your muscles and your head unfortunately laid too deep into your side, excreting his scent like the skin of an orange, reminding you that you did, in fact, text him after the shift. But his replies after felt vacant and unenthusiastic, so again, you chalked it up to him wanting to be alone.

But you tried not to let three words from forming after that thought. 'Away from you'.

He wanted to be alone, away from you.

Late nights seemed the most vacant over those silent hours. Your apartment, a place once full of joint laughter, a warmth that permeated even when his presence lacked amongst the soft pillows and handmade throws, and soft yellow lamps, it all seemed… empty. Your phone dared to buzz against your bedside table, even though you turned it onto 'do not disturb', too nervous to hear that ding of a notification. What if it's someone else? And it always is.

Natasha, ever the observer, caught wind of this sudden change between you and Bucky too quick for your liking, and understood how deep it truly was after the first day without him — something totally not lightly mentioned by Steve over takeout. Nat had a way of sniffing things out, too smart for her own good, and throughout the years (much to your chagrin) she's just gotten better at reading you. Even when it's through short two minute glances across the ER as you wheel in a patient, body running on stale gas-station coffee and burgeoning resentment. Try as you might to keep stats clear and hands steady, your eyebrows apparently have this minuscule taut the redhead can pull twenty different meanings from, just across the bay, and they're all correct.

And then there's Sam. Who wouldn't leave her alone until she spilled something. Even when he got most of the story beforehand, the man just didn't let up until someone broke, and even then you both knew he'd just take one glance at Bucky's tight jaw and immediately guess correctly, or corner Steve when he brings Nat her lunch and he'd spill. So there was really no winning. And in the ER, your business is everyone's business.

The mawkish scent of the bay hit's your gut even before you arrive.

"Incoming!" Speaking before your body could catch up, your entire nervous system, muscles, worked while you were put on standby, praying everything that came out of your mouth was eligible. "GCS 12 and dropping, heart rate 130, BP 90 over 60. twenty four year old male, MVA at 18:27, approximately twenty minutes ago. Blunt force trauma to the chest with a suspected flail segment… obvious compound fracture of the right femur. Diminished breath sounds on the left, and cool, clammy skin. Showing signs of compensated shock."

As if sensing your apprehension, Ava cut in, composed and ready. "Two large bore IVs started with a litre of saline running, and a needle decompression performed on the left side for tension pneumothorax." She nodded, eyes sharp on your own. You reciprocated, quick and tightlipped.

Once your presence was quickly filled by staff on hand — Ava moving to take a call outside — you found yourself leaning with your back against the brick wall at the side of the building. Head tipping back with a dull thunk, exhaling, you close your eyes at the feel of the early evening breeze. Light hues of yellows and oranged curtained the sky, and you let yourself bask in it for as many seconds as you possibly could.

Gravel crunched underfoot, pace quick, but not distressed, just determined. Tilting your head to the side, the bright flash of red coming closer to you settled a weight on you, yet you couldn't help the lazy smile that grew on your face.

She hummed before you could counteract, eyeing you like a cat, up and down, with a pleased smirk on her face, the kind that reads 'I know everything just by the way you're carrying yourself'.

"Still trouble in paradise?"

Taking one quick glance at her, you suck in a breath. The tiredness of the shifts, of the silence, of the week — even though it's only been a few days — hits you in a wave through your body. "I'm fine."

A singular, amused laugh claps back, "He still hasn't texted you back?"

"Who?"

"Don't 'who' me, you owl," she takes a small step forward, leaning beside you, voice lowering just enough to be heard through the hums and whirrs of traffic. "Steve mentioned earlier that Buck's been all weird and you look one second away from snapping your molars. And stop chewing the insides of your cheeks."

You swat her hand away with a groan as she tries to squish your cheeks.

"It's nothing," you sigh, hands folding over your chest, looking away from her gaze. "You know how he gets sometimes."

"Yeah, but he's never gets like this with you,"

Rolling your neck back, you shoot her an unimpressed, flat look to say 'that didn't help one bit'.

Sucking her teeth, she tapped your shoulder with the back of her hand, eyes rolling to the back of her head.

"Listen. Whatever happened — actually happened — big or small, I'm always here. So is Steve, and unfortunately by default, so's Sam," the soft attempt at humour works. Breathing out sharply through your nose, a tight, but real, smile stretches across your lips. Finally looking at Nat in the eyes, her own smile is warm. Cosy in the way that something familiar is, the way something tainted in autumnal orange and gentle grazes can be. "Just give it a little more time, yeah? He'll come around."

You sniffle, something you instantly regret with a shake of your head and murmur, but push through anyway. "Thanks Nat."

"Anytime," she replies, "Now back to work, you've got a long day ahead of you."

The next time you're back at the ER, Steve's there. A sight you rarely ever see during work hours, only if timed perfectly — which, when you're no longer next to his best friend, is scarce. His presence, though you saw him the week before, felt like a comet sighting. An eclipse in a way.

Only now, you weren't filled with delight at the sight of the blond. Not with him talking up close in hushed murmurs with Natasha and Sam.

Before you could walk up and greet the group, the redhead spotted you, and without a word, expression, or a goodbye to the guys, she was on you. Manicured hand pulling you by the bicep, down crowded hallways, weaving through bodies like it was an Olympic sport. Her face was stern, set in stone, and no matter your half-assed protests, and jokes of "it's nice to see you too!", she made no indicator of stopping, nor giving you any warmth back.

It was like third grade all over again. When your favourite teacher suddenly got stern with you one lesson, and all resolve would come tumbling down, and from then on til you left school, they were now just a teacher, and nothing else. But Nat is your friend. Albeit, terrifying sometimes, especially when you close off back into your shell and try to work shit out yourself, even when you both know that's not how you work. But she is still your friend.

Rounding a corner, your body flung slightly off circuit, boots squeaking the linoleum, scuffing the light blue with a dark grey smudge.

The closet clicked shut. Flicking the lock shut, more for theatrics than for any real purpose, Nat stared with taut brows and a confused glower. Hands snake their way to cross over her chest, she leaned back against the door with a cool ease you can, and will never get used to.

"I love you way too much and you know that. Sam is tired of you and Bucky's silences, and that's saying something. Steve won't stop talking about how tired he looks, and his default face is unimpressed and bothered. Keeps saying he's sighing like an old dog, snapping at people, hell, he's smoking more!"

Your chest does something torturous. Caves in on itself with a sound you never thought you could make. Your body sinks into the wall opposite her, spine curved, arms crossed, a mimic of Nat's powerful stance, only for it to fall weak and wet, as you turn your head to stare at the floor while your nose tingles.

Anger, frustration and anxiety start to creep up your spine. It wouldn't have gotten so bad if you both just… talked.

"I'm worried. You two were so inseparable, and now it feels like all of us are living with two ghosts who refuse to move onto the afterlife even though you both hate the house you haunt. Steve and Sam can't get a goddamn lick out'a him, and you're here," she motions you up and down with a lazy hand, "I don't even know what you're doing. 'I'm fine', 'don't worry'… Fuck, i know i said to give him time, but at this point Sam and I are so close to pushing you both into a closet, locking the door and making you sort it out."

Silence spreads in the closed off space. The only thing you could hear was your heartbeat in your ears. Guilt spread through your veins like poison, and your stomach rolled.

"I love you. So does Steve and Sam even though they never say so. But they, we, also love Buck. And we care so much about you both, and your friendship, and we don't want this to split anything up — especially if it's over some childish bullshit, you know?" She lets her words sit for a few seconds before continuing. "So please. Spill."

The throb up your nose worsened, ascending up to an ache in the inner corners of your eyes, darkening the skin around your cheeks.

"That Thursday… a week ago or something, you know," you mumble, voice croaky and whiny, your gut clenched with how embarrassed you felt. Childish. Barely able to take your eyes off the floor, and through the blur of unshed tears you see her nod for you to continue. "It was stressful. It—I, we—"

Hands cradled your shoulders, albeit cold through your shirt, but the temperature helped to mix with your warming cheeks and flushing body, as with her soft voice when it came.

"Breathe with me, hun," she exaggerates her inhales, eyes widening until you follow shakily. "In and out, that's it. Take your time, we can work this out together."

You tried. Staggering the first few breaths, breathing too quick and short, but Natasha stayed still and quiet, letting you gather yourself in your own time. After sputtering, covering your face with the back of your hand, trying to hide yourself behind tightly shut eyelids, you finally find your footing. Humming to find your voice, whispering the first utter of the situation you've been cruelly holding tight to your chest.

"Bucky gave me a ride home," you swallow, jaw clamping shut, you breathe a couple more times, feeling the next few words in your mouth before setting them free. "… and we had sex."

"Halle-fuckin-lujah."

The confession was still fresh. Warm in the confines of the tight four walls you both occupy, but the redheads bluntness swatted the squishy texture until it rid and became something hard and natural, and something… normal. You hated it.

"Nat."

The look on her face was an accumulation of happiness, irritation, and impatience. She scoffed, almost scorned by the casualness of this secret.

"What? We've been praying for this since you two were rookies, and Sam owes me twenty," She jabs, trying to fill the tiny supply closet with a lighthearted joke, but it falls a little stiff.

She sighs, "look, I know this may seem like the end of the world, but Bucky's just," she waves her hands trying to find the words, "stupid. He's doing this shit to process his feelings and this new dynamic you two created — also, this started, what? The call on Sixth?" Her voice lowers, tentative and almost motherly.

Nat's hands stay firmly on your shoulders, not in a vice grip, soft enough to say 'you can leave if you want' but tight enough to let you know this means business and you'll want to hear what she says. Her head dips, trying to hold eye contact.

"From everything the boy's have been huffing about, he most likely feels conflicted. That was… a night," she exhales harshly, "I saw the way he looked at you while you were handling paperwork. He cares. Maybe a little too much, but fuck, he really cares."

When you look up, all you see is comfort.

"I'm not saying the way he's handling this is correct or healthy, or even remotely okay, but… It's just what he does, and it's so aggravatingly him and it's dumb."

The edge of your lip points. "He is dumb"

"The dumbest," squeezing your shoulders, she shakes you softly. "Listen, Steve and I are going out after tomorrow's shift to that bar on First — shit, what's it called… the one with the karaoke?"

You chime in, voice still croaky, whispering unevenly, "The Plum Tree?"

"That's the one," her smile broadens. "Come with us. Sam'll be there, Lena and Ava too —"

"And Bucky?"

She chuckles lightly, fidgeting, but she stays collected, like this is just a tiny bump in the road and she has all the tools to fix it. "Steve's already on it. Placed a few mentions of the name here and there, said 'beer' one too many times—"

"Are you… using subliminal messaging?"

"Potato Potahto," she dismisses with a flick of her wrist, already edging backwards to the door. "In no time it's all gonna seem like it was his idea to go out."

"Wait but what will I —"

"My love, I'm begging, do not worry," flicking the latch, she opens the door and the flood of chatter and beeps is back to dull your senses. "Everything you need and want to ask will come. Don't dwell on it, even though i know you will, but Steve and I've got it. We're smart."

"Sure you are."

"Oh, was that a little sarcasm?"

"Shut up"

The bar is livelier than you expected, even though it was a Friday and it's just started to drizzle. You arrived alone and on foot, hoping to get at least a little bit of alcohol in your system just to pump yourself up and get your confidence boosting. You opted for comfort too, a casual long-sleeve and jeans combo, though the weather called for a jacket despite the nearing warmth of the sun whenever it peaked midday. The chill never ceases to bite once her company has gone. And you have an intimation something else might sink their teeth into you later.

Warmth evaded your senses, heat from bodies; familiarity in almost every corner of the place, groups of fours or more occupied booths, whereas couples stayed put by the bar. Amber lights basked on their skin, washing everything in a dark orange that felt more intimate than it needed to be, mellow and harmonious. It felt like a joke made at your own expense.

Slipping your way through, you locked onto Sam who sat at a booth. Wooden table stained with rings of condensation and carvings from years of use, half drunk glasses and cups sat atop, ice melting, dripping onto the surface and you have half the mind to collect a bundle of coasters. The acrylic sheets of maroon that coated the seats looked worn in, and well loved.

It wasn't until you neared closer to the man you saw that beside him was Ava, and in front sat Yelena.

"And here she is."

Sam's bright voice followed through the music overhead, tickled, his smile carried through. You grin despite yourself, and took the empty spot next to Yelena as she scooted to give you room.

Scanning the table with squinted eyes, you sigh. "So was this all a ruse to get Bucky and I locked in the same room?"

Hushed mutters and mumbles of 'maybe's and 'perchance's hum across the table, and Sam completely diminishes your smug with a push of an untouched bottle. "Just drink your drink."

You have no choice but to huff out a chuckle mixed with disbelief and something akin to feeling impressed.

Taking a well needed sip, letting the coldness, the fizz, the alcohol do it's work. "Where's Nat and Steve?"

Chiming in, speech slurred slightly — not from alcohol, but from drowsiness — Yelena grumped out a sound with an elbow to the table, closed fist against cheek. "Back alley with the perpetrator. Probably on his fourth pack of the day."

You wince ephemerally, catching the slight turn of your face, but the blonde is quick to catch it and try to backtrack.

"I'm sorry. He's just been so — God, shit, I don't even know —"

Ava watches on amused, and meanwhile Sam just sips this beer, looking out behind you, like it's a regular night.

"Lena here, thinks you hate her."

The sly lilt of Ava's teasing has you perking up in your seat. Tilting your head in question, eyes widening. Your hand mindlessly moving an inch closer to her as if to comfort. "Lena, please, I don't hate you."

"Good! Because really, I had no say in the matter," she mumbled into her cup, taking a gulp. "It was like babysitting an thirteen-year-old emo kid who had his first heartbreak. Sad. Made my arms hurt."

"Poor boys been sulking for a week."

You hum unamused at Ava, sarcasm dripping from your lips as you take another sip. "I wonder who's fault that might be."

"Oh, he knows." Sam quips, sarcasm filled the words he spoke, but the truth remained clear and deep. Glancing back and forth between you and the space over your shoulder, he straightens. Nodding to himself, to you, with a tight smile, trying to make light but you saw the hardness inside of it.

Taking another sip, a hand slides over your shoulder, making you lock up, only for a voice, ever so familiar and velvety, to murmur beside your ear like this was a stakeout. Clandestinely working with the grace of a spy. "He's outside. Talk to him."

You wince into your drink, groaning into the spout as you swallow. "Nat, come on—"

"Talk to him," she declares. Eyes widening, voice dropping with seriousness you only ever heard when she was on the clock, "or I swear I will drag you outside myself."

You scrunch your face with a huff, pushing yourself out of your seat with a squeak. "I hate you."

Without as much as a glance back, hearing the softness in your words despite the bite, she slips into your spot. "You so love me," she smiles. "And you'll love me more after this!"

The smoking area smells like old ash and rain. Bucky’s leaning against the farthest wall, covered by the smallest of awnings, watching the rain fall with his arms crossed, legs stretched out with a kind of composure that jabs you in the chest.

There's a warm light above him, a curved fixture that spotlights over him, making him like some kind of divine presence. The smoke he exhales trails off above him, dancing around his head and it makes you think of a halo.

You should hate him.

Your chests grows tighter as you just stand and watch him, all casual, all him with no audience. After not seeing him after a week, it felt torturous how your body immediately reacted. Emotions ended up manifesting to physical aches, tightening in your biceps and gut. Besides that, the worst part, it seems the little dog in your brain — the one that latches onto familiarity like a chew toy, holding it in your locked jaw, growling at anyone who dares to take — remembers that night like it was yesterday.

The tightening in your gut coincided with another feeling. It coiled and dragged, too sensitive and delicate, your breath hitched when you felt the first wave wash down and spill in your underwear.

A cigarette hangs from his lips barely halfway done before he sees you, silhouetted by the light of the frosted windows and outdoor lights, and holds it in his fingers.

“Nuh-uh, nope,” he mumbles the second he notices you. “I'm not doing this right now.”

A sigh slips out, small and steadying. You could already feel your eyelids drooping from tiredness.

From knowing how this will go. From being in his presence again. From the week you've had. You couldn't count all the possibilities on one hand, so you push it down and decide to make Nat and the group at least a little bit proud, and rip the bandage off.

"Too late," you draw out, inching closer slowly, testing the waters. The playful hint you always kept for him slipping out, but you catch it quickly before you could finish. "We have to, or all of them back there are handcuffing us together for the next week."

Silence.

You don't expect him to talk immediately, but there's something about this particular stillness that makes your gut tense more.

You let the rain, moved from a drizzle to a downpour, orchestrate the moment.

"Bucky, why didn't you just talk to me."

The quiet stays, though now you understand he wants to fill it. It pulls harder and hits thicker after you speak. And you can see his chest move inwards on a breath.

With a ruffle of his jacket as he shrugs briefly, a scratch of the back of his neck, an awkward, a smoke, and breathy chuckle he does when he doesn't quite know what to say. So you let him stew, like how he did to you before, only this time a minute of your withdrawal feels like years to him.

"I'm a coward."

"Not good enough."

You almost flinch at the harshness of your voice. Almost cower in on yourself and apologise, but you stand down. You stopped just in front of him, close enough that he can see the tiny movements of your face, the tightness of your jaw, and the stare of your eyes, how the honey coloured lamp above him colours your irises, but far enough that theres an obvious space between the two of you — there is now a distance, and he should notice and want to fix.

"Okay," he sighs, minutely amused, "but it's the truth."

"Okay, so, I'll reword," shuffling in your spot, your arms tighten over your chest like a physical barrier. An added wall to the stretch, and you can just about see his restraint start to fray. "Why did you shut me out for an entire week without a word?"

He chuckles again, breath and smoke swirling in front of him as he flicks the cigarette out into the rain.

"Sweetheart—"

“See, because from where I’m standing, you fucked me and then decided I was too fragile to deal with the aftermath.”

You don't shout, but the truth comes louder than expected and you're both glad no one else occupies the space with you.

"No," he straightens, jaw clicking, “I took advantage of you.”

This time you chuckle, “that's bullshit, and you know it.”

“You were shaking.” He replies, voice unshaken and fair.

“So were you!" You counteract louder and frustrated. As you lick your lips you check yourself, lowering your voice back to something that holds structure. But Bucky knows you, knows you completely and, as of recently, wholly. The watches the space between your brows crinkle and the way your right cheek hollows as you scrape your teeth against it. "We'd just worked a long shift, Bucky, and a really shitty one at that. That doesn’t make us incapable of… of consent. Of wanting something.”

“You weren’t thinking clearly.”

A groan almost slides up your throat. Tipping your head back with your eyes closed, drawing in a breath that tastes too much like warm rain and earth, and the fatally addictive scent of his aftershave and cigarettes that sunk into the fabric of his clothes and skin.

“You don’t get to say that,” you mutter, stepping closer. “You don’t get to strip me of my agency because it makes you feel better about bailing.”

"I didn't bail," His hands curl into fists at his sides, only for him to hold them up, palms out. Another barrier. “I’m trying to not be the kind of guy who—”

“Who what?” you interrupt. “Who fucks his coworker and, what? Regrets it?”

"Oh?" His eyes flash, widening a fraction and he just about stutters on his words. “Oh, 'coworker' now? Are you kidding me?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” He steps closer, never minding the space, the makeshift restrictions you both created wordlessly, his eyes dark, voice low. “You’re the one who keeps saying it like that word didn’t mean something different two weeks ago.”

“That is not what I meant." You could laugh. Annunciating each word carefully, feet planted to your spot, tipping your head like it was the only part of you that wanted to be closer to him.

“Sure sounds like it.” His jaw tightens again, ready to bite. “Funny how it’s ‘coworker’ when you’re mad, but — oh, when you were pulling me in by the shirt—”

"You're fucking mean." You swallow, eyebrows furrowing deep as anger flares hotter.

“Yeah?” He asks, stepping closer, voice rising, rough around the edges. “Say it again. If that’s all I am to you, say it to my face.”

Your pulse thunders, anger buzzing so loud it makes your hands shake. “You’re such an asshole.”

His eyes flick to your mouth, dark and heated. “Then why are you standing right here?”

You scoff incredulously, still unwilling to move, standing ground like a stubborn horse.

"Get in my face."

Something in you snaps. Tiny, but it snaps nonetheless. You tip your head back, hand wiping down from your eyes to your neck, anger sparking hot, you almost shout. "Oh, Jesus Christ —"

"Just me, sweetheart, and I'm serious," he steps closer than ever, repeating the same line again like a mantra, a demand for something, a plea of sorts, but you don't want to dig too deep into it. "Get in my face."

So you do. One step forward, boots knocking on his own, chest to chest, air exhaled becomes his, and suddenly you feel warm and clammy.

Your eyebrows tighten as you look up to him. His perfect eyebrows, the harsh crinkle of crows feet beside his eyes, those azureous pools that maliciously make your stomach flip even know. They warmed in the golden lamplight, almost a sea foam green.

His pupils flickered then, and it all snapped.

His hand fists in your jacket and he hauls you in, mouth crashing against yours with zero finesse and all intent. It’s rough and hungry, all teeth and pressure and pent-up frustration finally given somewhere to go. His kiss tastes like tobacco and anger and it ached underneath.

You make a sound you don’t recognize and grab him back just as hard, fingers digging into his shoulders like you’re trying to anchor him there, merely to plant onto his neck. Bucky kisses you deeper, sloppier, like he’s furious at the distance he created that ever existed at all.

His teeth scrape your lip. You bite back, breathless and unyielding.

"You," you murmur against his lips breathlessly, "you are so mean."

But he doesn't stop. The hands that had crumpled into your clothes rummaged up to your face, cupping your cheeks with a soft reverence that spread molten through your entire body, forcing another noise from you that he swallowed entirely. They tangled into your hair, keeping you in, holding you steady.

"I know, I know," he whispered back, lips never letting up, hands cradling you gently, one back to your cheek while his other held you by the nape of your neck. "I'm the fuckin' worst."

Nodding in agreement, you hum, your own hands finding purchase back on his shoulders and down his front, smoothing down his chest.

His soft lips mapped with earnest obedience, slipping away without a notice or protest from you. Pecking the edge of your lips, to your cheeks and temple, before moving downwards, slow and steady, memorising the way you feel, sound and taste as he licks, nips and sucks at the skin of your jaw and neck.

"Awful… just," a broken, breathless sigh leaves your mouth as he grazes the soft spot just beneath the hinge of your jaw, making you ball your fists into his front. "God, the worst."

Bucky grunts, feeling a heat accumulate where you both begin to ache, and he finds himself already in too deep to care, and his lips find yours again, bruising.

The brick crumbles and catches against your back as you both writhe, hands with no destination cling onto any surface and inch of clothing, your fists clench around his shirt, creasing the fabric, trying to pull him closer into you as possible.

Without preamble, Bucky's knee knocks into your own, hastily pushing them apart with a grunt into your mouth to which you steal gratefully, the vibration lingers on your lips and tongue. This dance the two of you follow, a new creation of the nights lingering need and unabashed desire, all made up on the go, seems to fall together so perfectly, even the clumsy shoves and hums and touches hard enough to leave tiny yellowed bruises seem so purposeful.

His fingers trail down your body and through your belt loops, keeping you secure in his palms as he pushes you down, just a slight crook to your knees atop of his thigh with a groan. Splitting from your lips, his breath strokes your ear.

"C'mon, that's it," he praises as your hips grind, denim on denim, "take it out on me, right here."

Your fists ball tighter, and a whimper falls from your slacked jaw from a strong mix of arousal, annoyance, forgiveness and punishment.

It's not him. Well not fully. It's his thigh, his thigh that's covered by denim, against you, who's also covered. The barriers of thick cloth makes your head thunk back onto the wall, but your hips never stop their movements, nor can they stop with Bucky's strong grip guiding them to and fro. The warmth of them tightens your chest, and your hands fall to them, holding his forearms, his wrists — to keep you steady, grounded, or to just touch some semblance of his skin.

You watch his eyes through heavy lids, staring down at where you frot, how you arch into him instinctively, how your nails dig into his skin without remorse.

"You're such… an asshole." You pant shakily, and he finally looks up. When he does so his grip tightens, making you grind into him, hips to hips, harder, slower, than before, and you can feel the obvious hardness of his cock tented beneath his zipper against your hip.

"I know."

You scoff weakly, "I didn't even wanna be out here."

"Understandable."

"I hate you." You bite. It's sleepy under the haze of lingering nicotine and liquid courage, but the nip is there, nonetheless. And the worst thing is, he smiles. Something that makes your heart flip inside of your chest, cracking beneath your ribs, thumping so hard, you lick your lips and clench your jaw.

"That's good to know, sweetheart," he huffs, smirk wobbling for half a second before correcting itself. "Fuck, say it again."

"I fucking hate you," you repeat, harsher than before, cutting to his chest but it feels good all the same. His arms move faster, bucking his knee up as he whispers approval in the heady air around you and against your sticky skin.

You move your hips in time, missing the short but momentous touch of his clothed cock against your hip. The note of you doing something to him, making him turned on — this turned on — brings a whole new wave of wetness to pool in your panties and ache to your already stimulated clit.

"The worst person ever… leaving me like that." You're half-gone and just about ready to cum. Thighs trembling around his own, hands shaking against his shirt, and your teeth chatter from the excess adrenaline.

Completely forgetting where you were.

As his name whispered past your lips, escaped by a sharp exhale against his neck, your movements were suddenly halted. Bucky's hands had moved you up, just enough for you to miss the friction, to drive you to the edge, and have it tingle and linger.

"Buck," you started, a hiss between your teeth as your nails dug into his skin. "Bucky, what the fuck?"

He sighs, unmoving from your temple. "You deserve better,"

"Jesus Christ, Barnes."

"I'm serious," one hand moves from your belt loop, tangling itself within your hair, keeping you close — scared of you running, of watching him undo himself in front of you. You feel him exhale shakily. "Not… Not in your jeans in the middle of some alley. I want you to cum on my cock again."

With a wobbly, breathless chuckle, you shake your head. Disbelief washing through you. "Bucky."

"Please sweetheart," his tone lingers on whiny, pleading, a complete contrast of his earlier disposition. His hands held tighter, fingertips digging deep enough for your ribs to stutter. "Please, I wanna feel you again."

The trembling of his breath, his body softly reeling against yours with leftover adrenaline, you couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt against your chest. For what, you have no clue — it's stupid, really — so you shove it down, exactly like you have for the last few days.

His gentle pleas lodged deep inside of you, pinging a new ache in your abdomen, making you feel cruel and hot.

"With the week you've put me through, I deserve this shit," pushing your hips back down, you're so glad Bucky had the gall to move one of his hands away, giving you less strength to fight against, less weight to push, and you find yourself stationed back against the thick plain of his thigh. "You started it, right here, so you finish it, Bucky," a strangled choke breaks from his lips, the hand that stayed stationed to your hip readying.

"Make me cum in this alley, and you can finish where we left off last week," you whisper. Meanwhile, Bucky stays still like your words lodged him into place, sifting through his brain, so you give him a little nudge with your own knee against his tent. Just a split second of boiling bliss, before you moved it away. "Deal?"

He wheezes. An unfortunate sound, sweet yet sharp and it reminds you of all the cigarettes he smokes, and the ones you'd share on nights where shifts hung tight and heavy on your shoulders, where you would lose track of how many beers you drank and laugh a little too loud on the fire escape. And though it's only been about a week, you missed it ever so badly.

But in that moment, the pious hums were gone, and left was the Bucky Barnes you'd only ever imagined when he'd invite the latest girl he was seeing on a night out with you and your friends — the Bucky who liked to chase and challenge, the one who had the kind of hunger in his eye that would glint insurgently. Even when the attitude wasn't directed at you at those times, it still sparked a light up your spine. And it was wholeheartedly and perfectly worse now it was for you, and only you.

Smirking, he glanced away for a split second. Back to the door where anyone could walk in to see your position, and he shrugged. "Deal."

The drags, starting slow, almost teasing with how measured and deliberate they were, drawing out the pleasure in long stretches, quickly accumulated into short bursts of need and attention.

Pulls turned to grinds. Tiny jolts of your hips on his lap, moving yourself in his hold as much as you could as he pushed.

Slick puddled, wet and sloppy between your thighs and words felt like water in your hands. Slipping from the crevices that was your lips in quick, unintelligible mumbles and whispers. Your eyes glossed over, unfocused, rolling up to look at the sky as if you were ready to ascend straight to heaven.

Your hold tightens, nails leaving deep, dark red punctures in his arms while you work yourself over the edge. Gasping, grinding slower with the help of Bucky, his breath glues to your neck with praise so sweet it just about prolongs the feeling of ecstasy.

"That's it, good girl," he draws out, holding you down, letting your senses fire up as pleasure ebbs into overstimulation. "So beautiful. So good for me, God, you're beautiful."

He whispers against you, around you, letting the breeze of the night carry them against your flushed cheeks as you come to. Bottom lip pulled between your teeth, eyes slacked but they stared unto his face as he slowed down to a stop.

You looked wrecked.

You were wrecked.

"You…" catching your breath, your mouth opened, never wandering your gaze from his face that now looked down on you with wonder. "You brought your car… right?"

He nods. Lips parting, only to close, wet and red.

"Deals a deal," You tap on his wrist twice with a smile, one too sweet for the moment shines on your face and fills your cheeks, eyes glinting with leftover pleasure. "Let's go to my place. "

The drive home felt like déjà vu. Quiet and loaded all the same, now its filled with a different kind of adrenaline. It wasn't a mystery this time, the universe wasn't pulling cards with a hand over its eyes, now it was clearer.

Anticipation thrummed through the vibrations of the engine. Words seemed too much and not enough, both of you too worried about scaring off the other, even though you both knew that this was it. Permanently and irrevocably.

The elevator ride wasn't filled with soft spoken words and comfort, this time it felt telepathic. Leaning against the handrail on the further wall, watching the red light counting floors flicker by, while in the corner of your eye you could see him looking. Watching you feign casualness with a soft smile on his face. You wanted to slap it off him, and kiss it better all at once.

Once you got to your floor, to your door, all reserve fell through the cracks in the floor boards.

Lips finding yours in a breathless mess, moving you blindly until your back hit the wall, holding your head in his hands like something precious, because to him you are, and he's not making any mistakes ever again. Humming into the touch, he takes the opportunity to run his tongue across your lip, before deciding to jump the gun. One hand moved backwards, finding the same position from back in the alleyway. The hand that rest on your cheek stroked with a loving calmness that contrasted to the way his mouth had you, and how his other hand — now threaded through your hair — pulled, causing your mouth to open with a gasped moan. He dove in.

His hands move with a sharp purpose. Sliding through the opening of your jacket, it slipped and hit the ground with a clink of the zipper, his own following, and his palms smoothed over your face once more before grazing down. Curling lightly over your neck, squeezing at the sides just enough to have you feeling light and desperate.

You tugged him closer, moving back into your home while you both became a messy bundle of hands. Touching and groping with fervour.

Bucky didn't let you get so far, pushing you back by your hips and pulling your shirt up and over your head, leaving you in just your bra and jeans.

"I missed you." He muttered as he kissed up your cheek and down your jaw. A sentiment slipped out before he could stop and inspect it. As if to divert your attention, he cups your breasts, nipping and licking at your neck.

You arch your back at the feeling. His jaw scraping raw against you, the heat of his mouth, the marks you'll see in the morning. The way he squeezes your chest just right, pinching your nipples over the fabric, making you arch into his hold.

Coasting your hands down to his jeans, you cup his crotch, palming leisurely as you feel it twitch under the thick denim.

"Fuck, don't do that," Bucky groans loudly as his hips jerk into your touch. "Please, baby."

"But you look so pretty." You whisper back, dragging your palm over him once more before holding his hips.

"You're trouble."

His hands don't let up their grip, holding, massaging, until he sneaks a hand behind you and unclips your bra with precision you file into the back of your mind for later. You push his shirt up. He helps you, tugging it off, while you slip out of your bra and quickly unbutton your jeans.

"Oh, Jesus Christ." Bucky pauses for a moment, caught in a trance, watching you unzip your fly and slip out of your pants and underwear. Watching your breasts, the way your hair covers your face messily, all before snapping out of it when your arms extend outwards to unbutton his jeans.

You giggle softly under your breath at his exclamation, and how his fingers start to fumble over yours as you both try to get his pants off.

"You okay, Buck?" You tease, staring up at him, pushing his pants down his thighs. Its then you find yourself on your knees, helping him untangle his feet from the legs.

Lips parted in harsh breaths, ears tinted pink, chest wobbling as he tries to steady himself. Bucky is conflicted between two scenarios: Watching you take him in your mouth, have you choke so beautifully around his cock, see how you look with your eyes and nose all red while you swallow around him, taking all his load. Or take you to bed.

As much as he wants to, even when people find he's such a selfless man. Bucky often finds himself in moments of weakness, a reminder that he is a part of the male species. But this time, he chooses the latter. "Sweetheart, c'mere."

With hands finding your face again, he doesn't miss the gentle confusion that washes your features. Your hands stuck on each of his thighs as he tries to hold you up, shushing your protests quickly.

"I wanna fuck you, on your bed," he clarifies, stroking your face, "I would take you on the floor, right here, but I don't think you're neighbours would appreciate that. And I wanna do this proper." He chuckles lightly with a wonky smile, thumbs tracking over the apples of your cheeks again as you whine but comply.

Once you stand at full height, he runs his big hands down your body. Cupping your breasts once again, thumbs circling your nipples as your breathing picks up, watching them harden, before giving them a lazy pinch as he trails lower and lower, down your waist, circling to your back, and finally resting at your ass. He massaged playfully, pulling you closer to his chest.

You sigh theatrically, "You're such a mean man, Bucky."

"Am I?" Tilting his head, he pouts, "talk to me, sweetheart. How am I mean?"

"First of all, you — Oh!" With one last squeeze of your ass, his hands lowered, and gripped onto the backs of your legs to hoist you up. Without a word he moved down the hall, leaving your clothes to wrinkle on the hardwood floor beside your front door. "Bucky!"

"C'mon, tell me," with his hands still on your ass, he bounced you up, making you both fall into soft laughter and sighs with a minute relief as you both grazed each other. His voice dipped breathy and low, "I'm curious, baby, don't leave me like this."

His brows dipped dramatically, smiling wide as he glanced into your eyes, trying to find your room without looking (as if he doesn't know the floor plan like the back of his hand).

"For one," you start, fingers tugging on the fuzz at the nape of his neck, making his cheeks blush, teeth to bite into his bottom lip and dick stir against you. "Leaving me all by my lonesome, all goddamn week."

Turning you both around, he pushes the door open with his back, and kicks it to with his foot.

"Lonesome," he repeated, hiding his face in your neck and scraping his teeth, "you poor, poor thing."

Your room, a disastrous mess of you. Sleep clothes stay screwed up on the floor, bottles of perfume and makeup you wear on the rare occasion you get to go out, or on random nights when you want to try something new, laid haphazardly on your desk with colourful puffs of dust coating the surface like watercolour. Your bed, Bucky's destination, was cleaned ever so quickly with a tug of your duvet and quick turn and press of your pillows just to pretend and make yourself believe you have your shit together.

"I am a poor, poor thing, Bucky," you grin, carding through his hair and pulling him back with a moan, "so you better make it up to me."

"Oh, I think I will."

Kneeling against the edge of the mattress, his knee dips, settling you down against the pillows. He follows, blanketing your torso, licking kisses down to your collarbone, easing his body down until his tongue reaches the expanse of your sternum.

"Keep talkin', sweetheart, I'm not gonna stop until I don't understand a single word that come out'a your mouth," one of his hands holds your chin, making you stare into his eyes. The blue, once vast and freeing, were now swallowed by the darkness of his pupils, leaving a ring as dark as the ocean, deep and tenacious. "Got it?"

You nod quickly, adamantly, and before you could register, Bucky licked up the middle of your chest in a broad stripe. He moves, sucking kisses around the top of your left breast, nipping into the skin, leaving soft bruises and red marks, a trail running around until he finally circles your nipple with the wet tip of his tongue.

Whispering a curse, your legs open wider and hips buck up trying to find any way to release the tension throbbing against the gusset of your panties. As he suckles, he breathes out moans, sounds that release like sighs to your wet skin, making you shiver. His free hand moves to copy on your neglected nipple, pinching, rolling between his thumb and forefinger, tugging off, before repeating.

"Teasing me, an-and," your jaw slacks as he switches sides, slipping his thumb over your wet, bullied nipple while he sucks and grunts on your other, sending vibrations through your body. "Fuck, you — oh…"

With his body over yours, his hips met your own, still covered, now in ruined, wet cloth. He lurched his hips against yours, looking for some semblance of relief as he nipped your breasts.

Unlatching with a soft pop, he pushes the mounds together, squeezing them in his grip as his hips dragged at their own rhythm. Shaky, messy, twitching at every flick down and against your sopping core. "What was that?"

"Fuck you." You bite, hands coming up to push into your eyes.

"Soon, sweetheart," he hums, dragging his tongue out to lick from one tit to the other, dragging lazily while he squished them together, leaving a sloppy trail of spit. "Patience."

A singular laugh pierces out with a shake to your chest. Your hand runs up the front of Bucky's hair, and you pull his face up.

"Patience?" You probe, staring into his watery eyes like that one pull of his hair undid his mask in just one second. His lips spit stained, kissed red and full, a string of dribble still connected him to your slick breasts.

When he stayed silent, gulped heavily, and ground his hips into yours, pushing his luck, you let go of his head and pushed his body back by his shoulders.

He stayed sat upright on his haunches, trying to catch any crumb of power, but you kept pushing until his back hit the mattress, head whipping down making the frame creak, and he watched you straddle his lap with a light grin.

You moved quickly, as if at any moment a spell would break and you'd wake up in this exact bed, only for it to be empty and cold. Fingers curling over the waistband of his boxers, silently admiring the mess he made of the front and the silhouette of his thick cock straining. Tugging without preamble. Once they got to his thighs, down to his knees, Bucky launched.

"Fuck!" You squeaked at the surprise attack, barely enough time to fully appreciate the heavy smack he made against his abdomen, or the veins that trailed down his shaft to his balls, the aching red tip that peeked out under blushing skin, wet and sticky, so needy.

Because his hands worked faster. He was always better than you at work, even though whenever you'd tell him, he'd either wave his hand and grumble or put it over your mouth and tell you to 'shut up'. But his hands always worked faster. He memorised, took notes, and when in a new environment, he made sure to understand, appreciate and work.

Understand, appreciate and work was absolutely what he did.

Your underwear was gone with a rip of the waistband, surprised they even lasted this long, sticking to your slit from cum and arousal.

Warm on your waist, pulling you forward, Bucky began to direct your body. The other snakes to your back, right between your shoulder blades where he could hold you close. His eyes bore into yours while sliding from your torso, to the curve of your hip, until it fists and kneads down your ass again. The pulsing of his fingers pushes your hips forward and into the slick heat of his cock.

"Still mean, aren't I?" Pulling from your ass with a quick, stinging slap, he holds his weeping cock in his fist, sighing with relief as he slides his hands up and down the shaft, slicking it up with his own pre, right in front of your cunt. "Tell me I'm such an asshole. Tell me you hate me for fucking you so good."

Your walls clamp around nothing, aching uncomfortably with emptiness as you whine and shift your hips closer. Your head tips forward, holding your arms around his neck and hiding your face into his collar as he slowly, achingly makes love to his hand.

"Say that you hate me and I'll let you have him," he whispers so quietly, so softly it makes your bones feel like jelly. The saliva pooling in his mouth clicks around the words, something you've always hated on others but in this moment you cant help but feel the burning desire to lick it all from his tongue and swallow it for yourself.

He nudges your head up with his shoulder, making you look up at him with a tired gaze, sleepy with need so thick it hurts, eyes dark and settling into the skin underneath. God, he hasn't seen anything so beautiful in his life.

To wake you up further, he sets his hips so the tip grazes over your clit. The shock is immediate, burning, vicious, it almost feels delirious. How your entire body jolts in short shakes, how your hands tighten around his neck, how you coat him. The sounds you both create, syrupy and sweet, mixed with the ever light taps his tip makes as he drags himself through your mess. And your chorus of moans and sighs, all while he keeps composure — tries to.

"C'mon, baby, say it," he jerks up, slipping between your lips. Hardly hiding his neediness and desperation. "Tell me, God, please just fuckin' tell me."

You have half the mind to leave him like this. Wet, shaking, pleading at his knees for you like a man praying for forgiveness, like you hold a sword to his shoulders. He deserves to wait, to beg, and whimper — needing to hear your words, hear you reprimand and berate him for what he did.

But there's a quiet voice in your head that asks: what's a week next to years of friendship?

Your hips tip up, catching the head of his cock in your entrance, and the words on your lips feel odd and quiet.

You mean them.

"I love you,"

The burn reaches every corner of your body as you slip. Taking him all. All of him. Of Bucky. Your coworker, your partner, your best friend. Inside of you, held snug and tight in your walls, twitching against your cervix, as your body greets him again.

Your breaths mingle as you share gasps and skin.

"I love you so much, that I hate…" you strain, inhaling deep and hard, swallowing back the feeling of anxiety and his length all the way in the back of your throat. "I hate that you left me, and made me guess, and — and made everyone stress the fuck out."

You don't feel the tears until he starts wiping them away from your face, cooing gently, kissing away the salty tracks.

"I'm sorry."

You sniffle, causing your walls to clamp messily around his erection. He groans under his breath, holding your hip while moving your hair away from your eyes.

The feeling of his thickness and the attention on your face and emotions has your hips canting in his hold. Grinding down and against him, clit grazing the hair of his abdomen, making sure your body remembers him completely. "Never do it again."

"Never," he shakes his head, still wiping away the tiny trails welling in the corners of your eyes, kissing your lids, breathing in your scent. He holds onto your hips tighter, following your lead, your rhythm as you find it, and starts to shift his own to your beat.

"Not — never in a million years," his head cranes back on a grunt in his throat, and he lets go of your hip, moving his arm behind him, holding your sheets, and himself from behind. He lets you move. "Make me pay for it… for the rest of our lives, and I'd — fuck, baby — I'll thank you, forever."

As your hips grinded, Bucky's eyes never faltered off yours (as badly as he wanted to watch the way your pussy swallows his cock). His hand stayed on the side of your face, moving down, just enough to cup your jaw when he felt your gaze slipping away.

Grinding, the slick sounds of your exertion got louder, your walls aching around him, his breath coming out in tight, long pants, you slowly started easing into confidence. Tipping your hips up every time you eased forward, short inches at first, letting him know you're ready to take him, until you start to ride.

Hips rocking off his, bouncing on his lap, taking his length over and over again. You could feel him deep in your belly, making himself home. And through your frosty eyes, you saw him gaze on you like you were another being.

As you locked sights, his hips pushed up into yours at every touch down, chasing you. To retaliate, you moved your head to the side and took his thumb into your mouth, humming around the digit.

He scoffed, huffed a laugh out, and pressed it to your tongue.

"You feel so good baby," he breathed, pressing up into you, chasing a speed you cant get. "Takin' me so good. Missed this pussy so bad, sweetheart. She miss me, too?"

Of course she did. You wanted to scream at him, strangle him for asking such a dumb question. But the only thing you could do was nod, moan and suck around his finger.

"Is my girl getting tired?"

Despite your previous words, you do hate him. All these nicknames, now with a little addition. An ownership.

His.

You hate him in the way that he know exactly how to push your buttons and get you going in the same order, even after just one play, because your cunt traitorously clamps around him.

Moaning, his eyebrows dip, and his hips drive up again and again.

"Yeah? Sleepy thing, aren't you?" it's with that, he leans forward. Hand back on your ass, as you're being laid down onto your back.

You want to fight back, to push him back down and take and take until your body burn and tears flood your face. But you can barely hold on.

Legs dropping open around his hips, cock still sheathed inside. And he's still so goddamn attentive, even when he speaks with sarcasm.

"I hate you," you shake your head and grumble, "fuckin' asshole."

His cock stuttered inside you, and you could've sworn you felt his balls tighten. But all was lost once his hips started moving. Smacking against yours, wet trails of fluids dripping and splatting on skin, it was all too perfect.

His girth leaving and entering in quick succession, leaving your whole body tightening, right on the edge of hysteria — unable to breathe or know if you want to laugh, cry, or both.

"You wanna cum so bad, sweetheart, i can feel it," he clasped at your hips, digging into you while he held you down and close, keeping you still while he works. "Speak."

"Fuck, yes! Fuck," You wailed into the sheets below you. Your cunt clamping down so tight, it hurt. "Bucky, please."

He didn't let up.

"Please what?" He panted, fingers tight on your skin.

Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, coming out breathy. "Please touch me. Please, please."

There was no need for spit. With the amount of cum you had created, from the exact moment you saw him in the alley at the bar to now, spit wasn't needed at all. But the thought of more of him being close to your pretty pussy, the fact he didn't get to know what you tasted like tonight, couldn't see how his saliva mixed into you so pretty. He had to drop a fat string of spit from where he sat, still fucking into you deep and hard, and chase the dribble with his thumb.

Wiping circles over your neglected bundle with the accumulated stickiness, watching how it frothed and bubbled, how a ring of cream settled at the base of his cock as you brace.

Jaw slacking with pants and whines, body fastening as every second closer to finishing comes. Bucky notices how you seem to quiet down, how you start focusing on the pleasure at hand. The drilling of his cock, his thumb bullying your clit so perfectly, it only toppled over, finally, to the sweet release when his body folded over yours, breathing sweet nothings into the corners of your mouth, where he kissed and sighed and grunted, until you shook in his embrace.

Molten, white hot, and wet. He took you in his arms, easing off your clit, keeping his pelvis to yours to bring more relief to the nerves, while he wrapped himself around you and held you close as you both finished.

Your hands fell to his skin as he filled you up. Heavy breaths slippery on your jaw, cock and balls twitching with each burst inside of you. You gripped onto his ass with each twitch, keeping him in, holding on, wanting it all to last.

It took a while for your heavy breaths and jelly-like limbs to subside.

"Wow." You don't know who made the noise, but with Bucky's face still hidden in your neck, kissing soft pecks, rustling his beard, you're pretty sure it was all you.

"I'm sorry."

Laughing softly, accidentally squeezing his half-hard cock, you pull him up to look at him. You're both fucked out. Ugly in the most beautiful ways. And it's this time you both laugh.

"Thank you for apologising," you whisper, "but I don't think I can forgive you. Not yet anyway."

He nods, the smile that was on his face before, eases into something slightly more serious. Sadder, but understanding. "Of course."

Easing up, Bucky makes no mistake in taking care of you. Picking you up, carrying you down the hall like absolutely nothing, sitting you at the toilet, cleaning you with a warm rag and making you pee, despite your protests in him being there, watching.

"Sweetheart I've seen everything," he replies, standing in front of you, cupping your jaw. "I'm seein' everything now, too."

You don't really know how it slipped your mind that you were both still naked in that moment, but it felt… strange. In a good way.

Showering with him felt harmonious. As with his touch, cleaning you all over, reverent, not lustful. Careful. He looked and worked with determination, lips pouted and brows taut, making sure your hair was thoroughly washed out of the products before shutting off the water and plopping a towel over your head, only to then start to messily rub it around. Something he would do on beach days years ago.

Laughing comes easy, same with the teasing and groans of displeasure.

"Bucky! Come on, you'll tangle my hair!" You whine from under the sheet, flicking it up and slapping his hands away with a grin and squint. His smile is wide. Bigger than you remember it ever being, all as he watches you dry your hair in comfortable silence.

"I meant what I said by the way." You say after a while, watching him from the mirror.

He hums, snapping out of the trance you put him in by just being.

"When we… I said 'I love you'," you pause for any indication, "I meant it."

Coming up behind you, arms slinging tight around your waist, holding you close. He automatically kisses your temple as he rests his chin on your shoulder. "I know."

Looking at him through the glass with your brows furrowed. "You know?"

Bucky shrugs casually. "Sweetheart, we say it all the time."

You refrain from sighing loudly, so you turn in his hold. Naked chest to naked chest and his arms stay secured, lazily draped on your sides.

"Yeah but this time its…" you gesture broadly, "different."

He smiles, breathlessly staring into your eyes, like he needed to memorise the colour and swirls of your irises. "Different."

You didn't need to clarify if it was good or bad. Didn't need to tell him anything, because when Bucky looked at you, he understood every minuscule detail your body was trying to explain.

Different isn't so bad after all. And when it's something you get to enjoy with your best friend, it's actually a lovely feeling.

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[barnes-babydoll]

Slow Ride ⋆˚۶ৎ˚⋆

Pairing | Tow truck driver!Bucky x rich girl!reader Summary | When you step into Barnes' Towing & Auto Repair, you think all you're leaving with is a newly repaired car, simple as that. But Bucky has other plans. After one glimpse of those pink heels and your overly bright personality—too polite to be genuine—he knows you're nothing but trouble. A few choice words slip from his lips before he can stop himself, and guilt hits as soon as you're gone. Now…he can't get you out of his head, and the universe is dead set on throwing the two of you together again and again. Warnings/tags | MDNI (18+), nsfw, dual pov, slow burn, forced proximity??? age gap romance?? (I imagined reader in her mid to late 20's and Bucky is late 30's) modern au, poor guy x rich girl, grumpy x sunshine, enemies to lovers if you squint, Sam Wilson makes an appearance, reader loves pink (like a concerning amount), reader is described as smaller than Bucky and can easily carry her, reader is a bit ditzy (she's just like me fr), Bucky's an asshole for like .2 seconds (pinky promise he redeems himself), reader is the daughter of a CEO, reader's father is an actual asshole (he doesn't redeem himself...it's the daddy issues in me), John Walker makes an appearance as a NASCAR driver and is a slightly cocky asshole (y'know what, maybe everyone's an asshole in this...my hate for men came through on this one, I fear), use of alcohol, hurt/comfort, angst, miscommunication, fluff, car accident, minor injuries, Bucky is a sexy motherfucker with a soaked tank top, Bucky's a groveler, Alpine makes an appearance, Bucky has a happy trail, reader catches print, mentions of how Bucky lost his arm, grief, mentions of death, mentions of drunk driving, smut, kissing, dirty talk, slightly pervy Bucky, Bucky cums in his pants, masturbation (f+m), oral (f receiving), breast attention, fingering, pussy pronouns, p in v, unprotected sex, biting, marking, praise kink, save a horse; ride a Bucky, multiple orgasms, pet names (princess, baby, sweet girl, pretty boy) Word Count | 19.5k (can you believe I popped out this big ass baby?) A/N | hi barbie, please don't be perturbed by the length of this (don't you like it bigger? :smugass:) this is officially the longest fic i've written, and i like it??? i think i really just love these characters, that's why it was so difficult for me to stop writing. i know next to nothing about cars/tow truck driving/mechanics/racing/the air force, so i'm truly sorry if anything is wrong:(( This is my portion of the Barbie Dreamhouse collab brought to you by @stantastic-association!! A heartfelt thanks to @miraclediviner for putting this together and doing such a wonderful job organizing it. And also being such a big support to everyone <3 dt: to my babies @phoenix-in-writing @sheriff-bodecker @metal-armed-muse @buckytakethewheel i love you all so much:)) cloud divider credit: @/uzmacchiato

Also on A03:))

Sam Wilson tapped the end of his pen against the counter in a steady rhythm, deep in thought, the metallic click filling the silence. Leaning over, he pressed his elbows to the cool surface and released a long, dramatic sigh. The ceaseless ting of metal hitting acrylic was beginning to irritate Bucky, but to be fair, everything about his friend seemed to irk him most days. His jaw ticked before the pen even made a sound, as if he were bracing for it now.

A barely there, unhelpful voice echoed in the back of his mind, suggesting that he reach over the table and snap the pen clean in half. Oh, it would be so satisfying. The hurt look on Sam's face, combined with the following silence after, was getting too tempting by the second. However, he thought better of making a scene, opting instead for taking a steady inhale through his nose and blowing it out through his mouth.

It really wouldn't matter if he did cause a scene. It was one of the slower days at the shop. The kind where only a couple of customers drifted in with quick replies and hurried footsteps, so they could continue on with their day. But most of today was like this—an empty room with a pressing stillness and lingering pauses. Ones that Bucky wasn't keen on filling.

"I don't know, man," Sam finally broke the silence. "The common denominator between all these relationships ending is you. Maybe you need to adjust your attitude."

"I don't need to adjust nothin'," Bucky muttered stubbornly.

Sam raised a brow. "Right. It's them. Every single one. Not the guy who's always in a mood and has a staring problem."

"'m just particular. There ain't nothin' wrong with that."

"Some might say too particular," Sam murmured under his breath. "Look, I just don't want to see your sad little face walk in here, moping around like someone punted your cat."

"Don't bring Alpine into this," Bucky's scowl deepened, his jaw twitching again. "Besides, Alpine and I are fine. Don't have time for anythin' serious anyway."

"Did you ever send a message to…what was her name?" Sam trailed off, tapping the pen against his forehead, as if that would jog his memory. "Oh, Violet."

"No. 'm not textin' your barista, just because she gives you an extra shot of espresso and happens to have a nice smile."

The man behind the counter huffed air out of his nose. "Fine, just know I'm done playing matchmaker for your sorry ass."

Bucky rolled his eyes. Never asked for your help in the first place, he thought. Then, that same instigating voice nudged him, and he gave in this time. "How's Sarah?"

Sam's posture straightened rapidly, pointing the pen at him like it was a weapon instead of a writing tool. "Don't you fucking dare, Barnes."

"What? I was just askin'," Bucky shrugged, a smirk gracing his lips.

"My sister is off limits. You know that."

"Okay, okay." Bucky held up his hands in surrender, dropping the subject completely. Still, it gave him that brief, cathartic release he had been searching for earlier, even if it was fleeting.

Glancing around, his eyes drifted out of the wide windows. The sun was a bright statement in the clear blue sky, only partially blocked by the towering 'Barnes' Towing & Auto Repair' sign outside—bold enough that it could be read by anyone speeding down the highway. The reflection of the window pane left a white cast on the tiled floor. A small black rectangle carved in the bleached reflection forced his gaze up to the flimsy paper posted by the door, its edges slightly creased. The ink fading betrayed just how long it had been hanging there.

Now hiring.

Sometimes, Bucky wondered if this place was less a job and more a coasting point for people to move through to something better. No matter who he and Sam hired, they would leave within a couple of months—the universe was never gracious enough to gift them someone for more than that. Then the cycle would start again, and he'd have to reprint the sign.

So, there it stayed—a permanent decoration on the glass until they could find someone permanent.

The rays of the sun were interrupted by a dark Rolls-Royce pulling into the lot, snagging Bucky's attention immediately. His eyes flicked over the body of the car—spotless, glistening even. Tinted windows. Freshly polished rims. Even the emblem of the tiny woman with wings appeared untouched.

He scoffed at the ridiculous sight. Obviously, this car wasn't a potential customer. This was someone who took a wrong turn along the way and needed a place to swing around, so they could head back to whatever mansion they stumbled out of.

But the car idled. Right in front of the shop. Unmoving.

The driver's door opened, revealing an older man in a pressed suit. The fabric was all clean, sharp lines—tailored perfectly for him. He even wore one of those chauffeur caps, the kind Bucky only saw in movies that Sam would force him to watch on his rare days off.

The whole get-up screamed wealth and status, as though money itself dripped off of him—none of which belonged anywhere near the likes of Bucky's shop. Yet, there he stood.

The man moved around the front of the car, adjusting his gloves and smoothing out wrinkles that weren't visible. After assessing his surroundings, he wrapped his fingers around the chrome door handle, keeping his chin high as he pulled it open.

A single pearlescent pink heel appeared first, the pointed toe hovering for a beat before carefully finding purchase on the oil‑stained pavement below. You were smart enough to avoid the puddles that could potentially ruin your expensive shoes.

You stepped out, rising to your full height. Sunlight glinted off your dark sunglasses, adding a shiny sheen to your hair. You straightened your designer coat and fixed the creases in your pale pink dress before giving your driver a practiced, polite smile.

Then, you sauntered forward, hips swaying as you adjusted the strap of your small handbag over your shoulder. Bucky could hear the loud click of your heels before you ever entered the shop.

"This oughta be good," Sam whispered behind his dark-haired friend.

As you entered, the bell above the door chimed, announcing your arrival. Bucky was hit with a gust of warm vanilla layered with grapefruit, which he could practically taste on his tongue.

You pushed your sunglasses up with two manicured fingers, resting them on your hair. Bright eyes darted around the room as you inspected it with your clear vision. You took it all in before you spoke. Walls filled with old metal signs. Counters lined with tools and little bobbles.

You breathed in the air that smelled faintly of strong coffee and even stronger motor oil, but you didn't wrinkle your nose. You looked…prepared, trained not to visibly react.

Finally, your gaze drifted to the two men who were frozen in place, as if just noticing their existence.

"Hi, I'm here to pick up my car," your voice came, velvet confidence. You introduced yourself, muttering your last name so quickly, he would've missed it if he wasn't listening. He swore he had heard that name, but immediately brushed it off like it was inconsequential.

"My father brought it in for a routine check-up, and he received a call that it was ready," you clarified.

For a moment, no one moved. Bucky didn't even blink. And even though you explained why you were here, he still thought you took a wrong turn on the way to the mall.

Eventually, Sam snapped out of it, fingers finding the computer's keyboard. "Right. The Porsche?"

Of course. He should have known that your car was the most expensive thing to ever roll through here. And if the price of the car didn't give it a way, surely the color did. Pink. The first time he saw it, he wanted it out of the garage, almost called to have it sent to another mechanic because he couldn't stand to look at the damn thing.

"That's correct," you said sweetly, causing something in Bucky's gut to sour.

It must've shown on his face because you gave him a small, courteous wave. The kind of gesture people made when they were raised to address everyone in the room, even the ones they actually didn't want to make conversation with.

Your gaze flicked briefly to his metal arm. He no longer bothered to hide it like some kind of secret. In those first few years, still adjusting to the foreign weight, he’d kept it concealed under layers of clothing—even in the heat of summer. Most days, it was less a badge from his time in the Air Force and more an inconvenience at best.

But as the years rolled by, he cared less and less about what people thought. Customers would stare at him with pity, similar to the look you were giving him now. You offered him a tight-lipped smile, and he hated the feeling it carried.

Instantly rolling his eyes, he turned away; he clearly wasn't interested in your fake-friendly facade. He knew that look all too well, and he knew that under the practiced posture and fancy clothing, you wanted to get the hell out of this place. And he wasn't going to stop you.

Noticing the slight edge of tension, Sam tapped away at the keys as he kept his eyes on the screen, feigning professionalism. He cleared his throat. "Ahh, here it is…Porsche 918 Spyder. Yeah, it looks like all you needed was an oil change and a tire rotation."

"Did you happen to take a look at the weird sound it was making? It sounded…" You paused, pursing your lips, "mechanical."

Bucky let out a dry, humorless laugh, "It's a car. Everything is mechanical."

"Right," you giggled, light and airy, and it sounded like it belonged somewhere less cramped. More open, like a rose garden, to complement the warmth of it.

Was he really comparing your laugh to fucking flowers? Maybe that perfume of yours had gone to his head and messed up his brain chemistry.

"I mean, it sounded unusual," you added after your laughter had faded.

Bucky opened his mouth to respond with something snarky, but Sam cut in immediately. "After the tire rotation, the sound went away. But if you happen to hear it again, bring it in, and we'll assess it further."

He typed out something else, then clapped his hands together as he met your eyes. "Alright, if that's all, I can bring her around."

"Thank you. I appreciate your help, Mister…?"

"Sam will do just fine," he corrected, and you offered a sharp nod in return.

Then, he disappeared into the back, heading towards the garage, leaving you and Bucky alone.

You turned to him, your expression open and approachable, as if you didn't even notice his hostility towards you. "So, you work on cars, then?"

"No, I just stand 'ere and look pretty," he grumbled sarcastically.

"Well, you're doing a great job," you teased, obviously not perturbed by his glum behavior. "Don't let me stop you from your hard work."

The tips of his ears turned red, but he recovered quickly. "'m just glad to get that pink monstrousity outta the garage," he mumbled.

"You don't like it?"

"It's…loud."

"Well, isn't it supposed to be?"

He narrowed his gaze at you, impatience flickering over his expression. "I didn't mean the engine.

"Ohh," you said with a lilt of amusement in your tone. "The color."

"It's pink," he deadpanned.

"Good observation, Sherlock," you shot back, but it lacked the bite he was expecting. Your grin stayed plastered on your face, unflinching. "Maybe you should take up detective work when you're not…y'know…standing there looking pretty."

Bucky leaned against the counter, the cool acrylic biting his heated skin. He clenched his jaw, shaking his head as his eyes flicked over your appearance. "It doesn't take a detective to know that color is hideous."

You crossed your arms, but for the most part, you were keeping your cool. "Like I'm going to take fashion advice from someone who only sees the world in greys and blacks. And is appalled by the simple sight of color."

"I like color just fine."

"Really?" you questioned, arching a brow. "Let me guess, your closet is full of the same black shirt. But when winter rolls in, you'll throw on a flannel to spice it up."

Something shifted in his expression, irritation sharpening on his features. "You think you have it all figured out, huh?"

You leaned in, not backing down from the challenge in his words. "Don't you? You seemed to have made up your mind about me as soon as I walked in the door, without knowing a single thing about me."

"Oh, I know exactly who you are," he smirked, amused. "Bet you don't know what half the buttons in that car do. You just get behind that wheel because Daddy bought it. He even spiffed it up for you. Ain't that right, princess?"

The words hit hard, and it showed on your face. Your expression changed in an instant. Before he could even blink, your smile twisted into a grimace, as if you’d just tasted something bitter.

This time, you didn't brush off his words. Instead, you took a step closer, not backing down. "Here's the thing, I don't expect you to like my car, or the color, or even me." Your voice never wavered, bold and composed. "But don't mistake my kindness for ignorance."

And with that, you made your rushed exit—the echo of your heels lingering long after you disappeared from view.

A moment later, your car zoomed past in a pink blur, merging onto the busy streets of Brooklyn. He wished the image of the hurt etched on your face would have faded, along with the smoke from your exhaust dissipating. But it stayed, lodged between his ribs like a thorn in his side.

Sam stepped into the room a minute too soon, and Bucky could already hear the criticism forming on his tongue. "What the fuck was that? What the hell did you say to her?"

"Nothin'."

"Bullshit. She hopped into that car like she was fatally wounded and needed emergency assistance."

"Don't be dramatic."

"I'm not." Sam shook his head, eyes to the ceiling as if he was praying for strength. "Do you know who her father is?"

"No."

"You don't want to. At least not personally. He's…intense," Sam sucked air through his teeth, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ever heard of Apex Motors?"

Bucky promptly nodded; he was very familiar with the brand. Apex Motors was everywhere. Their parts were the gold standard. Their engines were the kind mechanics whispered about—if you hadn't seen them, you wouldn't believe they truly existed. Their logo showed up at every car show, every charity race, every community event that was always over-advertised.

"Of course, I know Apex. Who doesn't?" Bucky scoffed.

"Yeah, well, her father owns it, dumbass," Sam barked. "He doesn't just own it. He is Apex Motors. The founder. He's the one who elects to sponsor all those races we're lucky enough to attend. The one whose logo is clearly plastered on all the major drivers' cars and even bigger on the fucking banners outside those events."

Bucky's stomach dropped. "Fuck."

"Yeah, fuck is right." Sam dragged a hand down his face. "That man has enough influence in Brooklyn—hell, New York—that he could get us shut down. And forget about getting a job after that. Our names would be on everyone's blacklist."

"I didn't know."

"That's the problem, Bucky. You just don't know when to stop, do you? Not everything needs your input," Sam griped, then his voice softened. "Just pray she doesn't tell her dad, before you apologize."

Bucky's eyebrows knitted together in protest, but Sam raised a hand to stop him. "It's not up for discussion. Act like the adult you are, and apologize to the poor girl."

Poor girl.

Bucky couldn't help but notice the irony in his words; her purse likely cost more than his monthly house payments. However, he decided that it probably wasn’t the best time to laugh at the joke he had thought of, let alone say it out loud.

He spent the rest of the day mulling over his stupid mistake, and the constant side-eye from his friend didn't help.

The ballroom was grand, but at the same time, it was too congested. The weight of everyone’s piercing stares made it hard to breathe. You felt less like yourself and more like an accessory on your dad’s arm at these pointless, flashy events.

The marble floors seemed to glitter under the tasteful chandeliers above. Everything accented with gold looked like embers from a fire in this light. The Champagne flutes were polished to perfection, sparkling on the silver platters that waiters carried with ramrod-straight spines. Banners were strewn around the room, reading 30 years of Apex Motors.

You should be used to this scene by now. Used to the less-than-heartfelt speeches, the handshakes, the forced smiles, the way you tilted your chin just right to make it look like you were interested when you were anything but.

Tonight, that cracked mask felt heavier, and it was slipping.

You weren't sure if it was the series of fake grins and unwanted conversations, but it was overwhelming.

Your father must be so proud.

You look so much like him in this lighting.

Are you thinking about following in his footsteps and running Apex someday?

One too-polite statement after the next, and the pain of it began to ebb at you. The sting burrowed beneath your thick skin like an incessant sliver that refused to go unnoticed.

Or maybe tonight was different because of the feeling of being profiled. Again. You really should be used to that, too. But it never got easier. Living in your dad's shadow meant you were constantly being measured against him.

To your face, they might say that you'll fill his shoes perfectly. But behind your back, they whispered that you'll never be him. You'll never be as smart as him. You'll never amount to his achievements.

Because a girl in a pink skirt could never command a whole room.

Truthfully, it always rolled right off your shoulders. You didn't want to be your father anyway, so those words never struck you.

But now, those words tangled with a deeper voice.

It had been a week. A full week since you visited the auto shop, yet his words were just as loud in your head as the day he said them to your face, without guilt.

Bet you don't know what half the buttons in that car do.

Princess.

The words punctured deep, but what hurt worse was his expression. The certainty in his eyes, the way he looked at you like he’d already solved you. Like you were a simple equation he’d seen a thousand times before.

The thought of your walls—the ones you had so expertly built—crumbling under his penetrating gaze was baffling. How could a stranger know you?

You told yourself he didn't. That you weren't like half the people drifting through this ballroom. You were different. You had to be. Even if it was a thinly veiled lie, you were adamant in believing it.

Click, click, click.

Three snaps of a camera sliced through your train of thought. You glanced up, focusing on the photographer and the scene he was capturing. Your father was chuckling at something one of his business friends said, booming laughter traveling across all corners of the building. It made your jaw twitch; you hadn't heard him laugh like that in years. At least not when you were around.

He spotted you, laughter dying on his tongue as quickly as it bloomed. He muttered something to the man beside him that you couldn't make out, then he excused himself.

He crossed the room like royalty—small groups parted, and guests dipped their chins in acknowledgment. When he made it to you, he paused like he didn't know what to do. He eventually settled for an awkward side hug, the kind that felt void of affection. Hollow. Forced.

When he pulled back, he scanned you as if he hadn't seen you in a while. And frankly, he hadn't. The last time he saw you was when he picked up your car for its routine check-up.

Your regular mechanic had closed up shop and moved across the state, so you asked for recommendations on a new auto shop. He said he'd handle it.

His assistant handled it.

"You came," your father trilled.

"Wouldn't miss it," you said too hastily; it sounded like a lie. It was.

His eyes narrowed, searching for the deception in your words. He always noticed the cracks in your mask before anyone else did, but he didn't comment on it. Too many investors to please and cameras to smile at to break the facade that this was a happy pair—a dad and his daughter simply catching up.

Instead of voicing the slip in your guise aloud, he adjusted the sheer pink shawl over your shoulder. It could've been viewed as a tender gesture to any onlookers, but you knew it was a silent correction to fix your mask.

"Good. I wanted you here for the big speech," he started casually. "I was hoping you could take some notes on what points you'll need to touch on when you're up there."

You opened your mouth to object, but he was waving someone over a second later. "John," he called. "Come here a minute. I'd like you to meet my daughter."

A dirty-blonde, tall man broke away from a nearby conversation. It clearly wasn't as important as your father's needs because he was eagerly striding towards the two of you. He was refined—crisp suit and a nice smile, revealing his pearly white teeth. Exactly the type of man your father wanted for you.

Great.

John gave your father a firm handshake, exchanging pleasantries, then turned to you. You offered your hand, and he took it with a gentle touch as if you were fragile and couldn't risk breaking you. Leaning down, his lips brushed your knuckles. Something in you recoiled at the contact, but you kept your composure.

"I've heard so much about you," he said by way of greeting.

The grin you gave him didn't quite reach your eyes, but he didn't notice. Guys like him didn't notice much. He was too busy gliding his thumb over the back of your hand, like he was trying to convey something unspoken. You reclaimed your hand, gingerly prying it from his grasp.

Noticing the tension in your posture, your father interjected, “This is one of the drivers competing in the NASCAR Cup Series.”

Apex Motors had been sponsoring one of the NASCAR Cup races consistently for the past ten years. You started memorizing the competitors by name around the fourth year you attended. But you were out of touch with the more recent drivers.

This year, Pocono Raceway was hosting. Your father had invited you a month in advance; you still hadn't gotten back to him about whether you'd be joining him.

John nodded, adding, “Yeah, your father hooked all the drivers up with head-to-toe Apex gear and spruced up our rides.”

You forced down the bile rising in your throat. "That’s him all right. He's always been the generous type."

But you knew it wasn't generosity that drove him. It was selfish. Strategic. Anything for the good of the company. More advertisements meant more customers, which always led to more people talking about him. If it didn't benefit him or his company, it wasn't worth his time and energy.

"Maybe you could swing by and watch him drive sometime. You know, to get a feel for the kind of things Apex invests in," your father suggested. He reached toward John, gripping his shoulder tenderly—the son he always wanted. "He's very talented on the track."

"You honor me, sir," John murmured coyly, though the confident smirk on his face betrayed exactly how highly he thought of himself.

The corner of your mouth twitched, but you kept that same easy smile on your face. You leaned towards your father, lowering your voice. "Can I speak with you in private?"

Your gaze flicked to John, who instantly took a step back with a quick nod. "Of course."

You led your father a few steps aside, far enough that no one could overhear, but not so far as to draw attention. Your tone stayed light and casual, the kind you’d practiced and perfected, ensuring nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

"We talked about this," you said softly. "I don't want anything to do with Apex. At least not right now."

Something shifted in his expression, anger carving out the edges of his features. "Then, what are you going to do with your life?"

"I don't know," you muttered brokenly.

"Well, that's not an option."

You inhaled slowly through your nose, keeping your cool. "I'm just not ready to figure it out quite yet."

"You said that after your mother died," he replied, tone clipped. "I'm going to need a different excuse this time."

He rarely brought up your mother these days, so the words landed like a punch to the gut. It wasn't like he didn't include her in your conversations because her death still stung. No. Instead, it seemed like he didn't talk about her because it was better to ignore that she existed altogether.

"No daughter of mine is going to be unemployed the rest of her life," he added, voice rising. "The world doesn't wait for you just because you ask it to. At some point, you're going to have to catch up, and I can't stand here and hold your hand forever."

You didn't recall a time when he ever held your hand.

"I've given you ample time to screw around and grieve," he continued bitterly. "But you need to grow up and reevaluate your life."

You flinched, the words hitting like venom rather than offering sympathy to a daughter who was still mourning. Your breathing stuttered, and you tried to push down the tears welling in your vision.

He sighed, his voice going soft. "We can talk about this later."

Or never would be the better option, you thought.

"Go have fun. Mingle." Then, he hauled you into another uncomfortable hug, kissing the crown of your head.

This time, when he pulled away, he didn't look at you. He didn't notice the tension in your shoulders or the way your fingers curled into your palm, your nails leaving tiny crescent-moon shapes in your flesh.

He simply turned and walked back towards the guests, only to be instantly swallowed by the crowd.

You stood there, feet firmly planted on the ground. Frozen in time, while everything around you seemed to speed up. Maybe your father was right; you couldn't just will the world to slow down.

But there was also no reason for you to stick around here.

You slipped into the crowd, brushing elbows with investors and bumping shoulders with drivers who were probably begging for a sliver of your father's time. None of which made room for you to get through. A photographer said your name as you passed, but you ignored them and kept moving toward your exit.

When you finally made it to the front, you pushed open the door. You didn't even wait for the gentleman stationed there to hold it for you.

The city was calling for you to do something reckless, and that, you couldn't ignore.

The blaring music and strobbing lights inside the bar were enough to give someone a severe migraine or a trip to the emergency room. Thankfully, the former was what Bucky was dealing with as he stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk. The noisy contents of the bar spilled out of the door as soon as he opened it, and somehow it sounded exactly the same beyond the walls. He swore it even sounded louder, if that was possible.

He patted his pockets to make sure he hadn't forgotten his wallet in his rushed exit. Once he found the familiar square outline tucked safely in his leather jacket, he reached for his keys and started toward his truck.

He made it about four long strides before he stopped dead in his tracks. Loud, off-key singing. With the combination of drunken shouting and the thumping bass echoing behind him, he hadn't noticed the noise until he was face-to-face with the image of a very hammered girl.

Streetlights flickered above the woman as she threw her head back, belting out the lyrics to a song Bucky recognized. Yet, the way she was singing, made it feel as if he were hearing it for the first time. Her voice cracked on a high note, and it caused him to wince in response.

"Only the young can saaaaay," she screeched, tripping over her own heels.

His lips twitched upward before he could stop it. She was wasted, no doubt about it, but there was something…blissful about her. Completely carefree. Untouched by the world around her. Chaos incarnate.

She twirled, the night air getting caught beneath her silk dress and lifting at the hem slightly. Her legs twisted, her arms flinging out awkwardly, like a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest prematurely.

"They're free to fly away," she bellowed, a melody only she could hear.

Then, she teetered dangerously close to the curb, her heels wobbling. Snapping out of his trance, he stretched out his arms, lunging to her aid. He caught her right before she landed face-first into the asphalt.

"Careful," he rasped, firmly holding her arms as he guided her back to safety.

Her back hit his chest, and she giggled as if it were the funniest thing in the world. Craning her neck back, her head rested on his shoulder, leaning into his warmth. Soft hair brushed over his cheek as she shifted in his hold.

Too late, it hit him. He recognized that laugh. How could he not?

He gently turned her as she used him for balance. And his worst nightmare materialized in front of him.

You.

His smile instantly dropped.

"Of course," he muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.

You were still struggling to focus, your eyes locked on the letters of his shirt. Blinking, your gaze flicked up as your laughter faded into the wind. You tilted your head, squinting your eyes as you attempted to steady your vision.

"Hey, I know youuuu," you squealed, like he was a long-lost friend you hadn't seen in years, though it had only been a week. "I don't think I caught your name, pretty boy."

"'s Bucky," he sighed, already annoyed. "And don't call me that."

"You're the one who said you get paid to look pretty," you slurred, raising a manicured finger to poke his nose.

You broke away from his grasp, raising your arms to the sky while you stumbled backward. "You're just in time," you cheered, your voice carrying a block down the street. The thin shawl draped over your shoulders slipped during your celebration. Bucky scooped it up as he steadied you again, his metal fingers gliding across your warm skin.

"Stay still. You're gonna break your ankles and fall flat on your ass."

"Are you thinking about my ass, Bucky?" you teased, ending your question with a wink. "Is that part of your very serious itinerary? Does it usually fall in the afternoon, somewhere between your third cup of coffee and your ritual complaint about the sun being too bright?"

"I am not— I don't—" he stammered, pink creeping up his neck and blooming across his cheeks.

"Aw, you're all flustered," you cooed, sweeping a knuckle across the flush.

There was a gentleness to your touch and a sparkle in your eyes, as if you were just discovering the beauty of this world, and nothing could dim your joy. It made his expression soften faintly, and something in his chest twisted unbidden. He hated it. He hated that it took you so little to make his entire demeanor shift.

He grabbed your wrist, carefully dragging it away from his face. "Quit."

"Sorry, mister grumpy pants," you said, scrunching your nose.

"Anywayyyy," you sing-songed. "Aren't you going to ask me what you're in time for?"

"My own demise, hopefully," he whispered.

"What?"

"Nothin'. What am I just in time for, princess?"

"The," you paused, drumming two fingers on his chest. "Concert. It'll be the performance of a lifetime."

Bucky snorted, "Yeah, I caught the tail end of Journey before I saved your a—" He was not about to make the mistake of talking about your ass again. He restarted, "Before I saved you…The performance itself needs some work. You were a bit pitchy."

Feigning offense, you lightly smacked his chest, a frown finding a way onto your lips. "Asshole. If you're done mocking me, do you have a song request?"

He gazed up at the twinkling stars above thoughtfully. "How 'bout 'go home, you're drunk?'"

"Huh? I don't know that one."

His fingers lifted to his forehead, massaging in slow circles on either side of his temples. "No, 'm tellin' ya to go home."

You blinked up at him, swaying slightly. "Ohhh," you drawled, his true meaning finally clicking through the haze in your skull. "You meant that literally. How boring. The concert just started."

"This isn't a concert," he said bluntly.

"I'll have you know, this is a sold-out show. Very exclusive." You crossed your arms with a very serious expression, lifting your chin. It was…adorable. "You're lucky I haven't kicked your ass to the curb."

He leveled his gaze at you, a smirk lifting his lips. "We're literally standing on the curb."

You glanced down, as if this was your first time noticing. "And? Haven't you heard? Curbs are all the rage now. Very underrated venue. The acoustics are top tier."

A laugh slipped between Bucky's lips before he could catch it. It was a real, genuine one, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened the hard lines of his face.

Momentarily surprised by the sudden sound, you dropped your theatrics. You stared at him, unblinking.

"What was that?" you asked.

He forced the grin off his mouth, biting the inside of his cheek. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do," you insisted cheekily. "You laughed. You actually laughed."

"That's not what happened."

"I just made Bucky laugh," you screamed from the top of your lungs, like you just won the lottery.

His eyes widened in panic. "Shh…" He slapped his flesh hand over your mouth, scanning his surroundings. "Are you crazy? You're gonna wake up the whole city."

You mumbled something against his palm, vibrating his hand. The expression on your face could only be described as smug, mischief glittering in your eyes.

His eyes narrowed, pointing a single finger at you. "If you bite me, I swear—"

Peeling his hand away, you furrowed your brow. "I'm not a biter," you promised. He lowered his hand once he realized it was safe to do so.

"…Not unless you want me to be," you added flirtatiously.

Bucky shook his head in disbelief. "What am I gonna do with you, princess?"

Your smile softened into something warm and inviting, and he didn't mind the feeling that stirred in his chest. Maybe he really did misjudge you that day in the shop; you were nothing as he imagined.

You shivered, an imperceptible shimmy of your shoulders, but he noticed.

"Cold?" he asked, concern laced in his tone.

"A little," you replied, wrapping your shawl tighter around you. It did less than nothing to warm you, goosebumps spreading across your skin regardless of how well it covered you.

"Here." He slipped his wallet into his back pocket and slid out of his leather jacket. He gave you a look, silently asking for permission to touch. It felt appropriate, even though he touched you only moments ago.

You offered him a subtle nod, and he stepped closer, draping the jacket over your shoulders. His touch was light as he adjusted it over your arms, sliding his hands up the zipper. As he tweaked the collar around your neck, his fingers brushed over your bare skin. You shuddered again, but this time, he knew it wasn't from the chill in the air.

Locking eyes with you, he noticed your pupils dilate. He tried to rationalize it, thinking you might be drunk, or it was darker on this part of the sidewalk.

But rationalizing it didn't change the fact that the air around him felt thicker, and he could taste electricity on the tip of his tongue, as if he had just licked a nine-volt battery. An energy seemed to be swirling around the pair of you, drawing him in.

Bucky's fingerpads grazed over your pulse point, testing. He could feel the rapid thrum of your heart beneath his touch, and it made his breath catch. Because that right there was confirmation that he wasn't the only one feeling this.

Pulling away abruptly, he put some much-needed distance between you. You were still wasted, and he…obviously wasn't thinking clearly.

He cleared his throat after a beat.

"Listen, you're gonna forget all this 'n the mornin'," he began, rubbing the back of his neck. You gazed up at him, beaming, your eyes were a little squinty, and you were still very drunk. Oh, you definitely weren't going to remember this. "I wanted to apologize…for before."

Waving him off, you shook your head. "All is forgiven."

"But," he objected. "I was a complete dick to you."

"Yeah, you were," you admitted. "But I've dealt with worse."

Bucky pulled his eyebrows together, something washing over his face—guilt, or maybe irritation. "That doesn't make it okay."

You shrugged, indifferent. "I didn't say it did."

"I shouldn't've said what I did. I didn't know anythin' 'bout you."

"No," you agreed. "You thought I was some spoiled brat who had exactly two functioning brain cells." You giggled, mostly to yourself. "Which might be true as of right now." hiccup. "But I also made assumptions about you." You pointed a wobbly finger at him.

"Oh yeah?" he questioned, intrigued. "What were your assumptions, princess?"

"Grumpy."

"Fair."

"You hate fun."

"Hey, now—" he started, but you interrupted before he could say more.

"And you were only an asshole to me because you thought I'd bite first," you whispered, almost like you were afraid of calling him out. "If you bite first, you're less likely to get hurt, right?"

Bucky gulped, a little taken aback by your boldness. Racking his brain, he wondered how you obtained that information. He hadn't ever told anyone that. Not even Sam. Was he just that easy to read?

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tilted his head, not in annoyance but interest.

"I do that, too," you confessed. "Or, at least, I used to. I've gotten better about keeping my cool."

He didn't respond; he didn't know how to. Instead, he just looked at you—really looked—like he needed a second to take in this version of you he hadn’t expected.

"Well, 'm sorry," he repeated because he felt it was necessary.

"It's okay."

"Y'know," he choked on a half-laugh. "I didn't even know who your dad was until Sam said somethin'."

You sobered at that immediately. "Oh."

"He's intense, huh?" he asked, wiggling his hands into his front pockets casually.

"Um…yeah, you could say that," you mumbled, your expression suddenly blank. Your whole disposition had changed in an instant. "Is that why you apologized?"

His eyebrows twitched, confused. "No," he blurted out too quickly.

"It's okay if you did," you assured, but he could hear the tension in your voice.

"No," he restated, firmer this time. "'m genuinely sorry."

You studied him, looking for the lie you swore was hidden somewhere. "Let me guess, Sam said something like 'my father could shut down your shop.'"

Bucky's eyes widened slightly, the color draining from his face. The silence that followed was only confirmation.

You let out a bitter laugh, forcing a smile that didn't quite fit your face. "Right. Well…don't worry. Your shop isn't in jeopardy."

The hurt engraved on your face made his heart squeeze painfully beneath his rib cage because he hadn't meant to hurt you. And he truly didn't know how to fix it. Any response that came to mind didn't seem quite right. So, he just stood there, awkward and foolish.

"You were right," your voice cracked on those three simple words. "I should go home. It's getting late."

You reached for the collar of his jacket, attempting to shrug it off, but he stopped you. "No, keep it. You're cold."

"Thanks," you said stiffly.

The quiet that settled after was agonizing. He stared at you, and you stared right back. Bucky felt exactly how you looked—numb. And for some reason, this felt final.

Two chances. That's what he was so graciously given with you, and he squandered both of them.

You eventually turned on your heels and strode away without another word. You got as far as the crosswalk before he realized where you were headed. Your car.

"You're not thinkin' of drivin', are ya?" he called out, worry evident in his words.

Glancing over your shoulder, your expression was even more pained than before. "I would never," you scoffed, then you restarted, softer. "…I'm calling my driver."

Nodding in understanding, he gave you a tight-lipped grin.

When you reached your pink monstrousity, as he once not-so-lovingly called it, you yanked the door open and vanished behind it as it slammed shut.

And he was sure that was the last time he'd see you.

It wasn't.

Bucky saw you everywhere. Not you physically, but your presence was always there. The color pink. You. Anytime he smelled vanilla. You. A laugh on the wind while he was driving. You. Even the flowers near the checkout at the grocery store. You.

You were a ghost, haunting his every move.

A couple of days after the sidewalk incident, you sent your driver to return his leather jacket, dry-cleaned. It was still in the plastic covering, and the ticket dangled off the neck of the hanger. And even though it had been cleaned to perfection, he could still smell the faint trace of vanilla and grapefruit, as if you were now woven into the fabric.

He wasn't even embarrassed by how many times he pressed the material to his nose, breathing in your scent.

He didn't know how to shake you. He tried throwing himself into work, operating on the vehicles in the shop well into the night—elbow-deep in engines. He worked until his hand ached. Until the only thing on his mind was the soreness in his muscles.

That is, until Sam threatened to leave and lock the door behind him.

It was affecting his work. The way he interacted with customers was unusual; he was short, barely listening to a single word of their monologue of problems with their car. They rattled on about noises their vehicle wasn't meant to make—clunking, or sputtering, maybe both. He nodded at the right times, professional on the surface, but his mind was constantly far off.

It got so bad that on one tow job, he installed the tow hook on the front bumper the wrong way and nearly tore the whole thing off. The one task he used to nail with practiced skill, he botched completely.

The shop lost money that day. Sam gave him shit for it.

Maybe he wasn't the best at human interaction, or he didn't fully comprehend their minds—too difficult a puzzle to put together. But he knew cars. Cars were simple, predictable. He could do a full diagnostic of any vehicle just by hearing the engine purr. He understood them as if they were a second language, and he was an expert in communicating exactly what was being said.

And that was precisely why he royally messed up with you.

You weren’t a problem to diagnose or an engine to operate on. You weren’t some equation he could solve if he just stared at it long enough. But he kept treating you like one. Kept trying to force you into a mold—a predictable one. One he could understand.

And he couldn't get that through his thick skull.

So, no matter how loud the voice in his head got—the one telling him to just call and fix whatever he broke, he didn't give in. Not when he'd pull up a customer's information on the shop's computer, and your name would appear in the system, tucked neatly beneath your father's. Those ten digits sat there, blinking at him like a glaring reminder. Or…temptation.

But he gave you your space. Distancing himself was the best option for both of you…right?

Yet, it was as if the universe kept teasing him with you, like an owner waving a treat in front of a hungry pet. And a man can only be so strong.

It was late that night, legs stretched out on the couch with the blanket half-covering him. He didn't even know why his thumb was hovering over the app, but he found himself pressing it. He barely even used the damn thing, but Sam insisted it would be good for business. It wasn't. He never actually posted anything, except for a single picture of a car mid-repair, and another of Alpine perched by the window, with the sun warming her fur.

He had accidentally clicked the discover page—the little magnifying glass at the bottom of his screen. Twelve posts came into view, blinding him. Blinking, he adjusted to the brightness. He eventually started swiping through the posts. One after the other, depicting images and videos of cars and engines, all curated specifically for him.

Then.

You.

He sat up straight.

How you appeared on his Instagram, he had no clue. Before he could think better of it, he was tapping on the image. You were smiling, green straw between your teeth, and your eyes full of amusement. The arms of a pink sweater were tied around your neck, sunglasses resting on your head as you posed for your photo op.

He couldn't help himself; he pressed on your username. Pretty.in.pink. It suited you.

And, damn, did you have followers. 597.2k hovered between the number of posts you had and who you were following.

Scrolling through your feed, he glanced over your photos. Some showed you flaunting an outfit, pink checkered skirts, and white heels. You were adjusting the strap around your ankle in one. In the next image, you were holding a bouquet of daisies, pressed tightly to your chest, as you gazed up at the sky.

And he definitely didn't zoom in on your cleavage, hidden amongst the petals of the flowers.

You captured images of New York: skyscrapers, billboards, and the Brooklyn Bridge with the sunset as the backdrop. He noted some of the cafes and restaurants you visited, and the reviews that came with them. You had a very clear aesthetic that carried through your posts.

He kept scrolling. A mirror selfie. Pink makeup products on a white marble table. Mid-step off a sidewalk.

He felt like a stalker, looking at you like this. Like he was seeing something personal he wasn't supposed to. But he had convinced himself that this was for public viewing, and it wasn't like he was doing anything nefarious.

Well, that is, until he scrolled too far and saw your series of summer shots.

Sure, some were innocent, harmless. A cute one-piece swimsuit, hugging your curves. You had your hands on your hips, giggling. Or another with your legs dangling off the pier, bare feet kissing the surface of the water.

But most were tastefully suggestive. A floral bikini, barely covering your tits. You were toying with the strings of your bottoms, as if silently conveying that if you tugged just right, you'd be half-naked.

He wished he had stopped there. Because the next one he landed on filled his mind with every impure thought. "Fuck," he whispered under his breath.

You were on your stomach, legs folded behind you, crossing at the ankle with your feet in the air. His gaze dragged down the slope of your back to the curve of your plump ass.

He let out a low growl, his hand already finding the growing erection, pushing against his shorts. A feeling of depravity entered his body, even as he kept stroking himself through the fabric.

Scanning over your body, he noted the sparkle in your eyes as you looked over your shoulder playfully. The soft tilt of your lips. Your silky skin, and how it would feel beneath his fingers. The glimpse of your side boob, spilling out of the cup of the bikini top.

He stroked faster, biting his lip as the pressure built.

He told himself to stop. That this was wrong.

He didn't.

"You see what you do to me, princess," he groaned at the picture. "Y'know what you were doin' when you posted this, huh? Such a 'lil tease, aren't ya?"

Mind drifting, he imagined those same eyes looking up at him, a pout on your lips as he tapped the head of his cock on them. And the way those lips would feel wrapped around—

Hips jerking upward, he let out another low, broken curse. He was close. He could feel it in the way the vein on his neck stuck out, and his thighs tensed. Pressing the palm of his hand harder against his bulge, his breath stuttered.

He realized too late the predicament he was in. There he was, sprawled out on the couch, one hand curled around his phone, the other rubbing his dick through his pants. He came, his release blooming in his boxers and darkening the front of his shorts as your name fell from his lips.

Immediately after, he hissed, his eyes blown wide. Because he just came in his pants. Like a horny fucking teenager. Guilt and disgust flooded his body. He dropped his phone, as if it had burned him, sprinting to the bathroom.

He passed Alpine on his way there, and he swore she looked disappointed as she sat in the middle of the hallway, licking her paw. "Don't you dare," he scolded, but he knew he deserved it.

He banned himself from ever going on that stupid app. Because that couldn't happen. Not again.

After that, things settled. He still thought about you, of course, but he didn't have any more incidents. And the urge to call you faded.

It wasn't until he saw your face in the local newspaper that he almost broke that unspoken rule he had created, and finally called you.

It was dawn, and the sun had barely risen, just peeking over the horizon. The sky was a vibrant orange, and the clouds had a wispy quality that reminded him of the cotton candy he got as a kid on trips to Coney Island.

He was on his second cup of coffee as he reached for the newspaper that was thrown on the counter. Flicking out the paper with one hand, he attempted to right it as he raised his ceramic mug to his lips. The steaming dark liquid hit the tip of his tongue just as he saw you.

Setting down his cup with a sharp click, his eyes fixed on the image just above the article. It was a feature titled, "Upcoming Race in the NASCAR Cup Series: Apex Motors 500."

Your father was clearly the main focus, but that hardly mattered to Bucky. You were positioned behind him, and even slightly blurred, he could see those bright eyes of yours clear as day.

The photo seemed to be taken at some gala—a place he wouldn't be caught dead at. Too fancy and polished for his taste. He doesn't even recall the last time he wore a suit, let alone why he would've worn one.

Flipping the page, he was met with three more photos. Mostly with your father and his team. But there you were again. Another gala shot, but this one you were standing beside a tall man who was leaning in to kiss your hand. The caption read: John Walker, Two-time Lucas Oil Late Model Dirt Series Winner and NASCAR Cup Series Competitor, Seen Getting Cozy With a Potential Girlfriend?

The coffee settling in Bucky's stomach curdled.

John honestly looked perfect for you. Someone you could bring home to Daddy, and he'd have all the correct answers and say all the right things. Someone who fit flawlessly into the world you came from. And, of course, it helped that he was a NASCAR competitor, and in a race your father sponsored.

The smile you gave John wasn't genuine, though. He'd seen a real smile from you; it lit up your entire face. This one looked forced and uncomfortable.

"Buck?"

He jerked his head up, meeting Sam's narrowed gaze, the kind that said he'd called for Bucky more than once. Sam rounded the counter, peering over Bucky's shoulder to see what had so easily captured his attention.

"Man," Sam sighed. "You gotta talk to her."

After one too many of Sam’s knowing looks, the whole story spilled out. Everything that had happened between you and him. Sam had truly listened that day, without judgment or offering any unsolicited advice.

And if Bucky didn't want to talk about it, Sam changed the subject. But now Sam was fed up with it.

"'s…complicated," Bucky replied.

"From where I'm standing, it's pretty clean cut."

"Look at her," he pointed to your picture in the paper. "We come from opposite ends of the world."

"Do you really think she's so superficial that she wouldn't give you the time of day just because you have a different status?"

Bucky's face dropped. "That's not what I meant."

"No?" Sam shot back. "Then stop treating her like that. Stop assuming things you know nothing about." He didn't even wait for a response, just vanished into the garage and got to work.

A few days passed.

Bucky threw himself back into work, a wrench firmly in his fist as he tightened a bolt on an engine. Sam burst into the garage with a wild look in his eyes, panic written all over his face.

Somehow, Bucky already knew without hearing a word. Dropping the wrench, he wiped his hands on the nearest rag. Then, sprang to his feet, snatching his keys off the hook.

“Where is she?” he demanded, already moving.

The difference between the pouring rain and the tears blurring in your vision was indistinguishable. The tears were coming down your cheeks, hot and quick, before you could stop them. It didn't matter how many times you blinked or wiped the wet from your cheeks; they kept coming.

Why did this have to happen? Why today of all days?

The accident happened before you could prevent it. You swore that the family of raccoons came out of nowhere. One minute you were driving, the next you were slamming on your brakes as you yanked your wheel in the opposite direction. Your heart leaped to your throat, gripping the wheel so hard your knuckles had gone white. Swerving on a slick road like that one was always going to be a losing battle. With the combination of braking and swerving too hastily, your wheels locked, and you lost control. That was why the front of your car was curved around a telephone pole.

Now, you sat there with your hands trembling on the steering wheel as the rain pelted your windshield. Your breath was coming out heavy and uneven, fogging up the glass.

You weren't hurt, not really anyway. Your nose hit the top of the wheel from the impact, leaving a warm trickle of blood pooling above your lip. Your ribs ached from the brief constriction of your seatbelt across your chest—a whispering promise of bruising come morning. But you were fine.

After it happened, your hand was already curled around your phone, before you could properly register what you were doing. Anxious fingers flew across your keyboard, typing in the first person that came to mind. Your eyes were locked on ten digits, Barnes' Towing & Auto Repair hovering directly above them.

It wasn't the first time you had been in this predicament. You always talked yourself out of it before. Because you were embarrassed by the display you showed Bucky after he brought up your father. Because you couldn't muster the courage to talk to him.

But this time, as you stared at the phone number, you realized you really didn't know who else to call.

Luckily, Sam picked up the phone instead, so you still had ample time to think about what you were going to say to Bucky. Yet, your mind felt blank.

Weeks had passed, and you didn't even know if that spark you'd felt that night under the stars with too much liquor in your system was still there. Or if it even existed in the first place. You were so drunk that you could've imagined it. Did the laugh that echoed in your dreams ever even happen, or was that something you hallucinated as well? All a trick of the light.

Headlights flared in your rear-view mirror, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts. You squinted against the brightness until the beams dimmed. The truck eased forward, turning around before backing up toward you until there were only inches between your bumpers.

You rubbed the blood from your nose, and you swiped the tears from under your eyes. Adjusting your sweater and running a hand over your hair, you tried to look as presentable as possible.

The driver's side opened, and out stepped Bucky. All six feet of him strode towards your car, white tank top getting soaked as he got closer. You could see the definition in his abs through the thin material, and the flex of his muscles as he…knocked on the glass.

Shit. You'd been gawking as he waited for you to roll down your window.

You were so fucked.

Bucky rapped on the glass one more time as you stared up at him, blinking. Your shimmering eyes eventually met his, lashes fluttering. Fuck, he missed seeing those in person. Your fingers reached for the switch, lowering the window with a mechanical hum. The steady rush of rain began to enter your car, raindrops dotting the interior of the door.

You almost appeared frazzled now that the glass wasn't interrupting his vision. Were you still in shock?

Bucky propped his elbow on the roof, leaning into the opening. "Hey," he greeted. "You still with me, princess?"

"Y-yeah," you stammered.

Now he could see the streaks of dried tears across your cheeks and the smear of crimson right below your nose. His chest clenched, and his skin suddenly felt too tight around his rib cage.

He cleared his throat. "Sam said you assured him you didn't need medical attention…you gonna fight me on that, too?"

"I'm really okay. Just a minor nosebleed. Nothing serious." You offered him a stiff smile that didn't reach your eyes.

He didn't know how to push down the worry stirring in his chest, so he responded with humor instead. "We gotta stop meetin' like this."

"Like what?"

"You're drunk," he teased.

Straightening your spine, you knitted your brows together in offense. "I'm not."

"Just a joke. Bad joke," he admitted, grabbing the back of his neck. "How'd you get in this mess anyway?"

"It's raining," you said, shrugging, as if that alone was an answer.

"I see that, Sherlock," he deadpanned. "But I got 'ere just fine."

"There was a little family of raccoons. Just a momma and her babies crossing the street, and I didn't see them right away. And…well…this happened."

"Adorable." The word slipped before he could stop it. He stared at you, eyes wide, hoping you didn't hear him.

"What?"

"I bet the raccoons were adorable," he offered, too quickly. "And I bet they're thankin' you for sparin' their lives."

Nodding, you sighed. "I just wish I hadn't sacrificed my pink monstrosity in the process."

He softened at the nickname he gave your car. "Uh…before I pull ya out," Bucky started, tapping on the roof of your car. "I'd like to apologize…again. It was never my intention to hurt you, and 'm sorry it came across that way. Your father had nothin' to do with the apology."

You stilled, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. Then, you still didn't move, and the two of you continued to face off in a little staring contest.

But he was getting anxious waiting for a reply, so he kept going. "Listen, I could wait out in the rain all day, beggin' for forgiveness. 'm not afraid to drop to my knees 'n the mud f' you. In fact—"

Doing just as he said, he lowered himself, dropping to his knees. His knees sank into the mud, no doubt darkening his jeans with the sludge. The droplets were streaming onto his face now, hair getting soaked in the process. But he didn't care.

"'m not goin' anywhere 'til you know I mean it," he promised. "'m deeply sorry."

You peeked out of the open window, watching him with your eyes blown wide. "Are you crazy?"

"A 'lil."

"Get up before you ruin your jeans," you order, slightly flustered.

He could ruin a lot more than his jeans on his knees for you. But this was not the time, nor the place.

Realizing he looked like an idiot, he rose with an awful sucking sound as he attempted to free his knees from the mud.

"You did nothing wrong, so there's nothing to forgive," you admitted, gazing up at him as he leaned against your vehicle. "I have some issues to work through, and that's not your problem."

"It could be."

He hadn't even realized he said it out loud, but there the words hung in the air between you like a confession. Lips separating, you released a soft breath, but you appeared too stunned to say anything.

Promptly moving on, he asked, "Did you call anyone to pick you up?"

"Just you."

Bucky hummed. "I know you don't wanna hear this, but maybe you should call your dad."

You instantly looked panicked. "Are you kidding? He'll kill me."

"Okay," he drawled. "How 'bout a friend?"

Grimacing, you shook your head.

"Well, I don't want you to be alone tonight," he mumbled, then thought of the most ridiculous solution. "You can stay with me tonight. You take my bed, and I'll—"

"Yes," you interrupted.

He was taken aback by your immediate response, but nodded. "My house it is," he confirmed. "Now, how 'bout I get you outta this rain, princess?"

The car ride to Bucky's shop was mostly quiet, save for the occasional clinking of the wheel lift that was supporting the weight of your car as it dragged behind his truck. You kept glancing over your shoulder, a nervous tic, though he assured you multiple times that it was secured. It was also an excuse to catch his biceps in your periphery.

You were sitting on a bench seat, so the close proximity was something you hadn't expected. But you weren't complaining. But you didn't know what to do with yourself either. You started by fixating on two separate raindrops on the windshield to distract yourself. In your head, those two clear dots were having a race, and the one you were rooting for slowed as the other one began streaming quicker down the glass, as if it knew.

When that didn't fully shift your attention, you decided to just sit stiffly beside him. You folded your hands neatly in your lap as you tried not to let the faint scent of his cologne mess with your head…again.

You had a hard time sending his leather jacket back after he let you borrow it. Sure, it had undertones of grease and motor oil, but the most prominent scent was a mix of sandalwood and cardamom. You blamed that damn jacket for the reason why you couldn't get him out of your head.

After that night outside of the bar, you had come home and immediately flopped into bed, the jacket still wrapped snuggly around your shoulders. The next morning was torture. You'd draped it over one of your kitchen chairs as you made some coffee and swallowed down some Tylenol to help with your lingering hangover. You stared at the jacket over the rim of your mug until you couldn't take it anymore and started wearing it around the house. It was because of the draft circulating the house, you had told yourself.

And you swore the time your fingers traveled between your aching thighs as you breathed in his scent was only because the alcohol was still in your system. You weren't thinking clearly when you slipped your fingers inside yourself, and you certainly weren't thinking when you came on your palm, his jacket pressed to your nose as your mind drifted to what Bucky's head would look like between your legs.

That familiar scent was flooding your senses as you scanned his profile, following the sharp line of his jaw to the slow bob of his Adam's apple. Your gaze kept dipping to his saturated tank top and the way it clung to his chest. Your lip continued to find its way between your teeth. Because who the hell looks that good fresh from a day's work and a shower in the rain?

His human arm was casually resting over the back of the seat, his fingers kissing the nape of your neck. You hadn't figured out if he was doing it on purpose yet, but it caused a chill to travel down your spine, all the same.

When you reached his shop, it was an easy enough drop-off. He got your car into the garage without any problems, efficient and professional, everything your brain wasn't. The rain was still a wild downpour, and any time he'd had to dry off on the drive over was wasted. He was sopping-wet as he jogged back to the truck.

When he slammed the door shut, his breath was coming out in gasps, his chest heaving as he threw his head back against the seat. The water dripped steadily off his dark hair, and his tank top was plastered to his chest—practically sheer at that point. You couldn't take your eyes off of him, and with the noises he was making from the exertion, you were having a hard time not letting your mind drift to sinful things. If you just crawled over and straddled his lap…would he make the same noises?

Glancing over at you, a slow grin spread across his lips. "You'd think it'd slow down at some point, but 's only coming down harder out there. 'm soaked," he panted.

"Yeah, me too," you sighed before your brain caught up, then your eyes widened, blinking. "I mean— my clothes are still wet. From the rain."

His smile stretched, easy and knowing. You could see the spark in his eyes, but he didn't say anything about your slip-up. Dragging a hand through his hair, he let out a slow exhale. Before you knew what was happening, he was shaking his head frantically, like a dog straight out of the bath. Water went everywhere: the dashboard, the windows, and you.

You gasped, turning your face the other direction as he splashed you with water droplets. "Bucky," you screeched.

"What?" he laughed, a sound that rattled deep in his chest. "I was just helpin' you catch up."

You lightly shoved his shoulder. "You're a menace."

Before you could pull your hand back, he caught your wrist—playfully and unmistakably up to something. His eyes lit with mischief, and that alone should’ve been your warning to scramble away.

"Come 'ere," he teased.

His metal hand dropped to your waist, guiding you toward him into a soaking-wet hug. You squeaked, planting your free hand on his chest in a desperate attempt to get some distance. It was too late, though. His arm tightened on the dip of your waist as his opposite hand curled around the back of your neck, angling you exactly where he wanted you. Like an overgrown golden retriever, he rubbed his face across your cheeks.

The cold droplets smeared across your skin, making you shriek louder. "Bucky! Come on, you're—"

"Drenched?" he finished for you, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. "Hadn't noticed."

You wiggled in his hold, swatting his chest. "Okay, okay. I surrender."

He eventually released you, leaning back. His laughter faded into a gentle smirk, looking way too smug for his own good. Rolling your eyes, you wiped the water off your face with the back of your hand. You thought about scooting away, keeping that distance you so desperately wished for before. But now, as you watched him, the amusement softening his features, you remembered there were worse things than having your skin a little wet.

The ride back to Bucky's house was a stark contrast to the one to his shop. Words were easier. The conversation flowed. It simultaneously felt like no time had passed, and like you'd known him for years and were just catching up.

The pair of you shared soft stories, the kind that made you giggle and made the tension in his shoulders loosen. He shared the time that Sam dragged him to meditation in the park, and it went so poorly that the instructor kicked him out. You shared that time your dress accidentally got thrown in with your father's wash, and it turned all his white dress shirts pink; he had to wear them for a week before they were replaced.

After almost an hour of driving, he turned onto a gravel path surrounded by tall, lively trees. You hadn't seen this part of Brooklyn before. The cityscape slowly diminished, giving way to lush greenery. He passed a sign that read: Green Meadows Farm.

You briefly wondered what your life would've been like if your father had taken you somewhere like this in your youth. If he had just slowed down enough to give you the attention you deserved. Without the buffer of your mother, who was the glue that kept your family stable. But that was too much to ask.

The truck dipped over the rockier sections, but Bucky avoided any major holes. Until he ran over a bump in the road, and despite the seatbelt, you nearly flew out of your seat. But he was quicker, swinging his arm out to catch you and secure you against the bench. He whispered, "I gotcha, princess," then shifted his gaze to the road as if nothing had happened.

Though you were safely back in your seat, his arm lingered, bicep pressed firmly to your chest. When he finally moved it, his hand found purchase on your thigh, calloused fingers bending around your bare flesh. Not gripping, just holding, like he had a right to. Like it was natural.

Eventually, the trees down the path cleared, and his house came into view. The only reason you knew it was his was that it was very…him. There was no other way to describe it. A quaint cabin with a wraparound porch that overlooked the river.

The truck rolled to a stop as he shifted it into park. With the rain softening to an even patter, you could finally hear how quiet it was here. The rustle and bustle of the city felt like a distant memory. Nature was the only soundtrack here, the gentle rush of the river, and you could just make out the faint noises of an owl, high up in the branches of a nearby tree.

Bucky didn't waste any time. He leaped down from the truck, then helped you, offering you a hand. As you hopped down, the heels of your shoes vanished into the mud with a subtle squelch. He sighed dramatically beside you before leaning down and sliding his hands around your waist. With barely any effort on his part, he lifted and threw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

You let out a startled wheeze. "I do have two legs."

"Can't have your precious heels gettin' ruined," he cooed in an almost mocking tone. Trudging toward the door, he placed a protective hand over your ass as he smoothed out your skirt.

"I can walk," you ordered, but he was dead set on ignoring your protests. "I'm serious, put me down." You lightly pounded your fists into the dip of his back, but he only huffed a laugh in response. Flopping forward, you figured it best not to waste your energy arguing with a brick wall. Your arms dangled out in front of you as he carried you up the steps, the wood squeaking under the weight of his boots.

He gently set you down with a light click of your heels, reaching for the keys in his back pocket. "Better?"

You crossed your arms, tilting your head. "Thank you," you muttered, trying to sound annoyed, but failing miserably.

"Anythin' for you," he replied coolly. And even if he said the words as a joke, they made the corner of your lip lift.

Unlocking the door, he pushed in. He flicked on the light, bathing the interior in warm light, and you followed him in. You were immediately hit with the scent of cedar, and him. The inside was exactly what you expect—minimal decor, yet it had a lived-in feel. A worn leather couch in the living room with a black jacket draped over the arm. A wall of photos with unusual frames. A small fireplace. Everything was practical, but charming.

"It ain't much," he said, exhaling slowly with his hands on his hips. "But make yourself at home." He kicked off his heavy work boots, then disappeared down a dark hallway. A light flicked on as he entered a room, which you could only guess was his room. He closed it most of the way, but kept it open a crack.

You slipped off your heels, and they hit the floor with a gentle thud. You did a rough sweep of the room, then padded over to the wall of frames. You scanned the photos, some from his childhood, some of his shop, some of him and Sam.

But your eyes lingered on two, hanging beside each other. A navy blue uniform, neatly buttoned with a matching cap. Bucky and Sam stood side by side with perfect posture, saluting the camera. Metal arm. The other image was a solo shot, clad in an army green jumpsuit. No metal arm.

A set of dog tags dangled off the corner of the frame, twinkling under the light. They clinked as you twisted them in your palm. James Buchanan Barnes. You tested the name, mouthing it softly.

You peeked around the corner, ready to tell him what you uncovered. Instead, you were met with carved back muscles just as he was tugging up his sweatpants. You nearly choked on your own saliva, your cheeks warming from guilt of seeing something you weren't supposed to. He turned, pulling a dark shirt over his head, and flattened out the wrinkles in the fabric. His arm glinted, drawing your attention downward, and then your eyes drifted lower. And lower.

You caught the patch of hair above the waistband before disappearing beneath his grey sweatpants. You followed the trail. Fuck. Nothing could drag your gaze away from the subtle bulge against the material of his sweats. No matter how hard you tried to reason with yourself that this was wrong, that you were openly objectifying him, you continued to gawk.

"You can ask about it," Bucky said, walking towards you with a plush towel in his hands.

Shit.

You hadn't even noticed him step out of his room, and now you were caught with no possible way out of this one. But was he really giving you permission to ask about his dick size? Wait, maybe he wanted you to ask about the shape.

No, that's ridiculous…just…play dumb? Yeah. Some guys love that, right?

You've been staring for too long with no other excuse to use. Fuck it.

Play dumb. Play dumb. Play dumb.

You swallowed thickly. "What?"

"I keep catchin' you lookin' at my arm. If you're curious, you can ask. 'm an open book."

"Right, I've been wondering about your arm," you drawled. You mentally thanked yourself because, yes, sometimes playing dumb has gotten you out of some sticky situations. "How'd you get it?"

He motioned for you to turn around, and you scrunched your brows, but did it anyway. His hands moved to your shoulders, sliding your sweater down your arms, then hanging it on a hook by the door. Unfolding the towel, he glided it over your upper back, the nape of your neck, and anywhere else that was out of your reach.

"Sam and I were in the Air Force together. It feels like a lifetime ago," he began as he handed over the towel.

You took it, still a little stunned by how naturally he moved around you. As if he'd done it a thousand times. He guided you over to the couch, hand cupping your elbow. He nodded for you to sit as you started to pat down your hair, squeezing the dampness from the strands. Grabbing the plaid blanket from the back of the sofa, he covered your lower half, tucking the edges in. And he did it all without you ever needing to say a word.

Why did everything feel so natural with him? Why did it feel like he was reading your every thought before you even asked?

Lifting the blanket, he slipped under it, scooting closer until your legs brushed. His arm fell to the back of the couch, turning his full body toward you as he spoke. "That's how we met, actually. We served multiple tours overseas together. Got close in the process. Honestly, don't think I'd be 'ere without him."

The vulnerability in his tone cut you deeper than you expected. His gaze drifted, and he had this faraway look in his eyes that told you to let the silence breathe. So, you waited. You didn't force the conversation, just let him take his time.

He cleared his throat. "We had some aerial trainin' the day it happened. The other soldiers in the aircraft strapped on their parachutes. I was the last one to grab mine."

Bucky went quiet again, finding his words. "Y'know, everyone puts their trust in the manufacturers. You kinda have to have a 'lil blind faith that the equipment's been tested and retested. That they're suitable for jumps of high altitudes, or that 's even capable of carrying a large amount. That's why, when I jumped, I didn't even think twice. Just did it."

Your stomach dropped because you already knew the outcome of this story. You looked at him—really looked at him. It wasn't a look of pity, but understanding.

His eyebrows twitched. "I had a faulty parachute. It wouldn't deploy no matter how hard I pulled. Thankfully, I landed in a tree before I fully hit the ground, so the branches lessened the blow."

You felt your heart crack wide open, raw and exposed. Unfamiliar with this side of grief, you didn't know the procedure. You didn't know whether to reach for him or if he even wanted to be touched. You settled for a whispered apology instead. "I know this doesn't help, but I'm sorry."

Sighing, he offered you a small smile. "From you…it does."

You mirrored his smile, but he didn't dwell on the emotion for much longer. Correcting his posture, he coughed. "After that, I settled back in Brooklyn. Needed a job. Figured I've always been good at fixin' things, so I opened my own shop. Sam gave me a call not too long after, and we've been in business together ever since."

His expression softened, as if he were reminiscing. "Though some days I regret that decision," he jokingly added.

You hummed in amusement, easing into the couch as you shifted to face him. "You love him."

"I tolerate him. There's a difference," he said stubbornly.

"Right."

He rolled his eyes, but you knew there was truth to your words. "So, what's your story?" he asked, shifting the spotlight off himself.

You shrugged. "I don't have one."

Arching a brow, he bumped you with his knee. "Come on. Gimme somethin'. How 'bout why you were cryin' in the car?"

You stilled; you hadn't realized he saw that. "Just overwhelmed," you half-answered. Blinking slowly, he leveled you with a glare. Your head dropped back, puffing air through your nose.

"Fine," you murmured. "I was on the way to visit my mother's grave."

Bucky leaned in, not dramatically, but just enough to let you know he was listening.

"It's the anniversary of her death," you continued, quieter. "Which…ironically was because of a car accident." You nearly laughed, though nothing felt humorous about it. But you hadn't really reflected on the similarities until right now.

Your fingers tightened around the blanket, attempting to ground yourself. "Every year, my father and I make plans to honor her, and every year, he cancels. I guess I got sick of it. No, I am sick of it. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who feels the weight of her death."

Your voice wavered slightly, but you pushed on. "I know everyone grieves differently. But I expected…something. Glimpses of pain, maybe? But nothing. He ignores her very existence. And the one time I ask him to acknowledge her, even that's too hard."

Silence settled again, and under the blanket, his hand found your thigh—a grounding pressure you needed. As if to say, I'm here.

You exhaled slowly. "It was a drunk driver that killed her…That's why I got upset when you asked. That night, when I was singing on the sidewalk, was a rarity for me. I don't drink. And I especially don't drink and drive. It's irresponsible and stupid…and—"

Squeezing your eyes shut, you tried to keep the tears at bay. "I lost the most important person in my life because someone couldn't pick up the damn phone and call a taxi."

For a moment, the only sound was the soft patter of rain against the roof and the gentle wind whistling just beyond the windows. Just as you did for him, Bucky didn't fill the silence. He didn't try to fix it. He just offered a light squeeze to your thigh in comfort.

Releasing a shaky breath, you blinked back the threat of tears. "Sorry," you said brokenly. "I didn't mean to dump all that on you."

Reaching up with his metal hand, he tucked a stray hair behind your ear. "You never need to apologize for feelin' things, princess."

His gaze flicked over your features, as if he didn't know where to look. "I know it doesn't help, but 'm sorry," he echoed your earlier words.

You couldn't help the smile that grew on your lips. "From you, it does help," you repeated his earlier words.

The cool metal of his fingers dragged down your jaw, relaxed and measured, as his gaze drifted down to your lips. He inched a little closer, firmly taking your jaw in his hand. Lips parting, he hovered in your space. You felt that same electric energy from all those nights ago. Still present. Still charged.

Your eyes fluttered closed, certainty driving your actions.

Then.

You felt a sudden weight on your lap, causing your eyes to fly open. Backing away, you gasped. A white fluff ball with a pink nose and twitching ears sat on your knees, staring at you with its wide blue eyes. The cat tilted its head, assessing you.

Bucky rolled his eyes, huffing out a laugh. "I guess someone wanted an introduction." His flesh hand loosened on your thigh to scratch under the cat's chin. "Meet Alpine. She's…particular."

Alpine shut her eyes, purring as her owner gave her the attention she'd been missing. "She almost clawed Sam's face off the first time they met. So don't be offended if she isn't the biggest fan of you right—"

He cut himself off as Alpine moved out of the way of his hand. She crept up towards you, her front paws finding purchase on your chest as she lifted her head towards your face. Turning her head, she rubbed the side of her face against your jaw. She let out a long, low purr as she nuzzled into you. Lifting your hand tentatively, you carded your fingers through her thick fur.

"Hey there, pretty girl," you giggled. "I think he's painting you to be some kind of scary monster. You're not, are you?"

"Huh," he said, slightly baffled by the sight. "I don't know what I was worried 'bout. She doesn't usually click with anyone that quickly."

"Aw, just like her daddy," you cooed, winking at him.

Swallowing hard, his cheeks flushed faintly. The tips of his ears turned red, just like that day in the shop. He brushed it off, shaking his head as his hand found your thigh again.

Alpine blinked up at him, then you. Retreating from you, you swore she gave a subtle nod as if to say that she approved. Then she scurried off your lap just as quickly as she came, her tail flicking as she disappeared down the hallway.

A grin still plastered on your face, you let out a soft breath. "She's sweet."

"Don't let her fool you," he mumbled, gingerly rubbing your thigh. "She's opinionated."

The air shifted once more, warmth pooling in your stomach as he touched you. While his earlier grip had been innocent, this felt different. This was eagerness, as if he couldn’t wait another moment longer. The hunger in his eyes was undeniable, silently urging to resume where you’d left off before the interruption.

You forced your thighs together, your heart racing with desire.

"You're a flirty drunk. Did you know that?" he asked arrogantly, his hand still firmly pressed to your thigh, inching higher and higher in intervals so you wouldn't notice. But you noticed. Your body noticed. The space between your legs noticed, which only made you squeeze your thighs together tighter.

"G-guess that's another reason I don't drink very often," you stuttered.

"I dunno, I thought it was pretty cute. You said somethin' 'bout wantin' to bite me at one point?"

"I did not," you objected. "I said if you wanted me to, I would.

"So, hypothetically," he rasped. "If I said I wanted you to right now, you would."

"Bucky," you squealed, lightly slapping his metal arm, which probably hurt you more than him. "I was wasted."

"Yeah, but y'know what they say, drunk words are sober thoughts."

"Are you saying I thought about biting you the first day we met? Because that's as far as my sober thoughts about you went after our little conflict in your shop," you harmlessly teased.

Bucky sucked air through his teeth. "Oof, you wound me, princess." He placed his metal hand over his heart, feigning offense. "But yes, you looked like you wanted to bite my head off that day, so I wouldn't be surprised."

Then, he did something you least expected; he leaned closer. You figured this was all just teasing. That this back and forth was just innocent flirtation. But his lips brushed your ear as he whispered against the shell of it. "Bet that pretty 'lil head of yours is thinkin' real hard 'bout it now."

"Only because you won't shut up about it," you shot back breathlessly, lacking the bite you were intending.

"Ooh, she's got teeth," he chuckled, his warm breath fanning across your neck. He attempted to wedge his fingers between your thighs. A heat washed over your body, your cheeks warm with lust, and your head swimming with thoughts that were anything but pure.

The stubble of his beard grazed your jaw, and your breath caught. "So, when are we gonna stop dancin' around the fact that I've been tryin' to get between these thighs of yours?" he pressed boldly. "Are you ignorin' me? Because we know how well that worked out last time."

"I never ignored you," you said. "In fact, I couldn't get rid of you. You were like a pesky fly that was always there."

Bucky hummed in satisfaction, and you could feel his smirk against your skin. "You missed me then?"

"Yes," you blurted too quickly. "Yes, I missed you."

"I missed you, too," he muttered softly, and you could hear the truth in his words. The way his voice dipped into something gentle and earnest made your chest feel suddenly tight. Then, his tone dipped lower, deep and starving as he nudged your leg. "Lemme in, princess. Wanna show you just how much I missed you."

As if you were under his spell, your thighs parted. His fingers curled around your thigh, squeezing twice in quick succession. "There ya go. Keep 'em spread f'me."

Fingers danced up the inner part of your thigh until they disappeared beneath the hem of your skirt. They kissed the edge of your panties, his touch light as he circled your clothed clit. You sighed at the contact, your chin tipping back blissfully.

"Good girl," he praised, lips scorching the underside of your jaw. "Just relax."

Your breath stuttered at the combination of his lips trailing down your neck and the tantalizing patterns he was tracing over the dark patch on the seam of your panties. Metal-plated digits unexpectedly grazed the heated flesh of your shoulder, causing a shiver to ripple through you.

Bucky leaned back slightly, still keeping his close proximity to you, but needing to see your expression. "This still okay?" he asked, eyes flicking between yours, searching for any indication that you wanted to stop.

You nodded frantically. "Yeah. Please, keep going."

The smirk that graced his lips could only be described as downright smug. He moved your spaghetti strap over your shoulder, dragging it down your arm achingly slow. His mouth followed directly after, lips skimming over your collarbone.

All at once, he began nipping at the protruding bone as his fingers on your clit added more pressure. You moaned loudly—a long, elated noise that made him pause his ministrations.

The realization of how desperate it sounded hit like a force, and you could hear your heartbeat thudding in your ears, louder than before. "Oh gosh," you whispered, shame flooding your face. You raised your arm, concealing the embarrassment etched into your features.

"Ah-ah, don't hide from me, baby," he gently scolded as he pried your arm away. Bringing your wrist to his lips, he pressed them to your fluttering pulse. "Why're you all shy on me now?"

You didn't answer, your eyes sealed shut as the pang of humiliation echoed in your skull.

"What're you doin'?" he asked, planting another kiss on your palm.

"If I squeeze my eyes as tightly as humanly possible, I think I might disappear."

He chuckled, and even with your eyes closed, you knew he was showing off the creases beside his eyes. "No, you can't disappear on me this time. Y'know how long I've been waitin' to hear that?"

Cracking open your eye, you peeked up at him. "Why'd you stop then?"

"'Cause now 'm so hard, 's painful," he confessed, a little breathy. "I would fuck you 'til the ache went away, but 'm not done playin' with you."

You shivered, completely turned on by this bold version of him. If you were wet before, now you were soaked from his dirty mouth alone.

"You gonna lemme keep goin'?" he asked.

Nodding, you silently gave him permission. His hand traveled back between your thighs, running his fingers up the front of your underwear. Your hips jerked as his began rubbing in slow, captivating circles again.

His metal fingers grazed the side of your neck, curling around the nape as he pulled you closer. Leaning forward, his lips brushed the corner of your mouth, then the other. He pulled back a hair, studying your face. "Can I kiss you, baby?"

"Please do," you said, as if it were the most obvious answer.

His mouth was on yours in a second, your bottom lip getting caught between his. You sighed against his mouth, your hand coming up to cup his jaw and draw him even closer. The kiss was a lazy analysis of one another's mouths at first. Each slow graze of his lips elicited sparks coursing through your veins, like tiny fireworks exploding beneath your skin.

The urgency to fully taste you prompted him to force your chin up, his tongue delving into your mouth. He moaned against your mouth, eyebrows twitching as he found your tongue. Tongues swirled, teeth clashed, and your hold tightened on him. You felt light-headed from the kiss, breathing hard into his mouth.

The fingers on your clit picked up the pace as his lips began to move hastily against yours, as if he already couldn't get enough. You whined, your other hand finding his shoulder as your nails dug in. He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, then pulled back.

His mouth met your neck again as you struggled to catch your breath, lips dragging lower and lower. Tongue darting out, he licked along the top of your tank top. He tugged on the material, exposing more of your skin until your tit spilled free. His non-human hand reached up, cupping the underside of your breast.

Heated lips closed around your nipple, pulling a whimper from you. You wiggled under his attention. The dual pleasure was making your head spin and your heart pound. His tongue licked around the sensitive bud, then flicked it before sucking it into his mouth. Gazing up at you, he softly rolled your nipple between his teeth. You sucked air through your teeth, hissing. He switched back to trailing kisses across your skin in deep devotion, leaving no space untouched.

"Have you thought 'bout this as much as I have?" he rasped against your flesh.

"Yes," you mewled shamelessly.

Inclining back, he retracted his hand with a cocky grin. "Show me."

"What?"

"Show me what you did when you thought 'bout it."

Momentarily shocked, you stared dumbly at him. He lightly pinched your thigh, grabbing your attention. "Come on, princess. Wanna hear all those pretty noises you made when you were all alone," he pressed. Scooting to the edge of the couch, he dropped to his knees before you. "Lemme help you."

Spreading your legs further apart, his hands—one icy and the other warm—drifted up your thighs. His thumbs hooked in the band of your underwear, yanking them towards him. The blush pink panties slid down your legs without much resistance. Tossing them aside, his hands snaked under your thighs, sliding you down the couch. He lifted the hem of your skirt, resting it across your stomach, revealing your bare pussy to the chilled air.

"Fuck." Bucky's tongue grazed his lower lip, ravenous. "She's so pretty."

Bending down, he kissed the inner part of your knee. "Put on a show f'me," he urged gently.

Your hands trembled lightly at your sides, nerves curling at the edges of your mind. You’d never had anyone witness something so personal before. But with a deep breath, you steadied yourself, and for reasons you couldn’t explain, being with him felt strangely comforting.

Your fingers met the skin of your thigh, tracing patterns before they moved closer to the place he couldn't keep his eyes off of. Two fingers pushed between your slick folds, gathering wetness as they skimmed through. They found your clit, mirroring the same pressure and pace as he did.

"Just like that. Nice 'n slow," he instructed. "You're doin' so good f'me, baby."

Exhaling roughly, your mouth opened in a soft 'o' as your fingers swirled around the swollen bud. Your eyes stayed locked on him, and the way he was gazing up at you, his chin gently propped on your knee with a longing in his eyes, nearly made you come on the spot.

"Spread her f'me," he whispered gravelly.

Doing as you were told, you straightened your fingers, delicately spreading the lips of your cunt. With your fingers already damp with your arousal, they glistened right alongside your pussy in this lighting. His eyes darkened, his lip getting caught between his teeth as he diligently watched you.

Your fingers dipped, sliding down the length of your pussy, and toying with your entrance. Two fingers slipped right in from how soaked you were. The noise your cunt made in response had you and Bucky groaning in unison. Your fingers sped up, caressing and curling against your plushy walls. Your free hand lifted, covering your breast and massaging it.

"Do you like to watch, Bucky?" You don't know where your boldness came from. Maybe it was being in control of your own body, or the way he looked at you like you hung the stars. Either way, the question hung between you.

"Yeah, fuck," he murmured pathetically. "Yeah, I like to watch."

The obscene sounds of your fingers going in and out of your already weeping pussy filled the air, along with the moans you just couldn't hold back.

"Listen to her talk to me," he growled, his eyelids drooping as he followed the sight of your disappearing fingers. "She sounds so fuckin' good."

Eventually, his hand snatched your wrist, and he brought the saturated pair to his lips. They enveloped your fingers, sucking them clean. He hummed at the contact of your juices on his tongue, eyelashes fluttering. He released them with a soft smack of his lips.

"Tastes so fuckin' good," he said, licking the tips of his fingers, like he just consumed his favorite meal. "Think I need more."

His hands closed around the back of your knees, pulling you until only a portion of your ass remained on the sofa. Scooping your legs up, he settled them over his shoulders, immediately diving in. His tongue flattened, licking a long stripe up your center. You gasped, your fingers carding through his hair and holding firm.

Tongue flicking over your clit, he leaned down and tenderly kissed it. He pressed his face flush with your cunt, sucking the bud hard before descending upon your clenching hole. The tip of his tongue traced around your entrance until it plunged deep into your cunt.

He pushed his face further into you, practically submerging himself in you. As he devoured you, fucking you with his tongue, his nose steadily nudged your clit. Your grip on his dark strands tightened, your thighs squeezing tighter around his head. His eyes flicked up—a predator feasting on its prey.

"Yeah, fuckin' drown me, baby," he hummed against you, patting your thigh.

Then, that same hand vanished beneath you as his mouth returned to your clit. Two fingers pushed into your pussy without warning as he slurped on your swollen bud. You squirmed above him, your hips wiggling this way and that. Metal-plated fingers reached around your thigh, his palm flattening over your lower stomach.

"I know, I know. You're close, aren't ya? Just stay still, sweet girl," he ordered gently, tapping his fingers over your belly button.

His flesh fingers curled as his tongue spiraled, leaving you a whimpering mess. The tension in your gut coiled. Your free hand bent around the edge of the couch as your hips canted. Vision flaring white, the coil snapped. You came with a cry of his name, gasping as your cunt fluttered around his thick fingers. With trembling thighs and your eyes flashing open, you let the climax wash over you.

Prolonging your orgasm, he guided you through it. He softened his ministrations to a stop when you went limp above him. He planted a lingering kiss on your inner thigh, then removed your legs from his shoulders. They flopped against the floor, boneless.

"You don't realize how beautiful you are, do you?" he asked, awestruck. "Did you know your eyes get even brighter when you cum? I didn't know that was even possible."

Attempting to get you to meet his eyes again, he shook your leg. "You still with me, princess."

You kept your gaze to the ceiling, tracing the wood panels with your vision as you slowed your breathing. "I think I went to heaven," you panted, dazed.

Bucky chuckled, rising to his full height. Interrupting your view, he hovered over you, stabilizing himself against the back of the couch. His biceps bulged on either side of his head, muscles locking as he gazed down at your blissed-out expression.

"Yup, I bartered with the angels to bring you back," he teased.

A small grin tugged at your lips, eyes glinting. "And? What did it take to bring me back?"

"Everythin'," he whispered. "But it was so fuckin' worth it."

Your breath caught, butterflies erupting in your stomach that had nothing to do with the aftereffects of your climax. He leaned down lower, snaking his arm under the curve of your spine, and lifted you.

"You gonna lemme fuck you now, baby?" he questioned carefully, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist.

Resting your arms on his shoulders, your lips brushed his, voice coming out in a sultry purr. "Fuck me, Bucky. I need it."

Eager lips pressed against his, prompting him to let out an animalistic growl. He moved, blindly feeling around his living room. As your lips parted, your teeth sank into his bottom lip, lightly tugging on it. His knee bumped the corner of the couch, stumbling forward. Luckily, his instincts kicked in. Metal arm locking, he caught himself against the wall before it caused you any harm.

You giggled into his mouth, "Careful, pretty boy."

"Are you tryin' to kill me and get yourself killed in the process?" he scoffed, righting himself before continuing the short journey to his bedroom.

"What?" you said, feigning innocence. "You said you wanted me to bite you."

"You're lucky you're cute."

He tossed you onto the bed, the mattress squeaking subtly. The softness of the blankets briefly swallowed you before you propped yourself up on your elbows. Reaching behind his back, Bucky tugged at the collar of his shirt until it was off.

This time, when you looked at his muscles, you didn't feel any guilt. Openly, you traced the lines of his battle-worn body. Every scar that the years in the Air Force granted him, or the cuts that he received from long shifts at the shop, was thoroughly admired by you.

"You're perfect," you praised.

As if he'd never heard such a compliment, he tilted his head in fondness. Then, his thumbs hooked into his sweats, yanking them down. As he pulled the cuffs from his feet, you watched his cock bob gently against his stomach.

"Holy fuck," you breathed, eyes wide and mouth agape.

He was thick. Huge. Your little exploration in the hallway as he changed didn't do him justice. You followed the veins along his cock that led to his angry, red tip. A bead of precum dripped from the slit of his dick.

Crawling to you, he settled over you. You were still staring as he positioned himself between your legs. Gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger, he forced your gaze up.

"My eyes are up here, princess," he mocked lightly, then his tone softened. "I'll go slow, I promise. You're safe with me."

You nodded, but your mouth still felt desert-dry. "I have a confession to make."

"But 's not even Sunday," he jokingly replied.

"I wasn't looking at your arm earlier."

He hummed, amusement etching into his expression. "I also have a confession." His head dipped, mouth hovering beside your ear. "I knew."

Fingers curving around his cock, he pressed the head to your entrance, teasing it. You grasped his metal bicep, firmly planted by your head. You couldn't slow your breathing, your heartbeat galloping like a racehorse from nerves.

"Shh…" Bucky soothed. "Breathe with me. In 'n out. Yeah, that's perfect," he rambled as you matched his breathing.

The tip pushed through your folds, the thick head invading your pussy. The stretch was intense, stealing the air from your lungs. Even through his grunts of pleasure, he continued to guide you, talking you through the dull sting of his dick spreading you open.

"That's my good girl. Take it all," he groaned.

You whined brokenly as he bottomed out inside you; you'd never felt so full. Leaning back, he brushed a few damp strands out of your eyes. He pressed tender kisses to your slightly bruised nose—you were honestly so distracted by his presence that you hadn't thought about it since the accident. But he hadn't forgotten.

The attention he was giving your nose distracted you enough that by the time you had remembered the pain of him stretching you out, it had already faded. He pressed his forehead to yours, sighing in contentment.

With your pussy well-adjusted, he began rocking steadily into you. His metal hand found purchase on your hip as his other hand drifted up your arm that held the back of his neck. Securing your wrist, he drew it away, flattening your arm against the mattress. His hand glided up until he was intertwining your fingers with his. The intimacy of the gesture made it suddenly hard to swallow.

"I gotcha," he promised, squeezing your hand.

His hips picked up their pace, snapping up to meet yours. Setting a rhythmic pace, he gripped your hip with a more solid hold. Rapid breaths mingled in the space between you as the sound of skin slapping echoed around you.

The world around you fell away, and all you could see was him. He was invading your senses, leaving you completely connected to him. The worries of your personal life, everything that caused you pain, all dimmed in that moment. Because you were no longer letting those thoughts and feelings run your life.

Slamming into you, he groaned, his chin tipping back. "Baby, you feel so good. You're just perfect, aren't ya? Made just f'me."

You let out a loud, throaty moan as he hit that sweet spot deep inside you. The head of his cock bullied into your G-spot over and over until you were breathless. You arched into him, spine bowing.

Then, his hands slipped under you, lifting you. Your legs twisted as he adjusted you over top of him, straddling his thighs. Knees digging into the mattress, he thrusted up into you. Arms lifting to his shoulders, you held him. You moved with him, riding him at the pace he set. Your hips rolled, grinding against that spot that had you reeling.

A protective arm wrapped around the small of your back, fingers sprawled over your warm skin. His flesh palm rested over the back of your head as you buried your face in his shoulder. The next time he bucked up into you, your pussy clamped down hard around him. Like the force of a rising tide, you felt your climax ascend.

"'m right there," Bucky grunted. "I can feel her squeezin' me. That mean your close too, sweet girl?"

You nodded against him. "Come with me, please. I need it."

Moving in unison, the room filled with your combined sounds of pleasure. The wave came crashing down, your cunt pulsating around him. Your teeth punctured the skin of his shoulder as your second orgasm rippled through you. Hissing, his thrusts turned sloppy. Warmth spread through you, his release coating your walls as he spilled into you.

Slumping forward, your head rolling to the side. Breathing in tandem, his chest rose as yours sank. He nuzzled into your hair, inhaling your scent, and kissing the crown of your head.

You caught the teeth marks in his flesh, a flicker of concern overwhelming you. The emotion softened upon realizing you liked the sight of it. With a finger, you traced over each ridge.

"I know I said I'm not a biter," you slurred, still high on the experience. "But I have to say, it looks really good."

Bucky let out a gentle puff of air against your hair. "Oh yeah? I could get used to being marked up by you. As long as I can give you a matching one."

Lying you back on the bed, he moved over you and pressed his lips to your collarbone before sinking his teeth into the skin above it.

And though you knew there was not a soul around, you could have sworn your laugh carried for miles.

The sun appeared brighter this morning when you woke. You were drifting through Bucky's house with a pep in your step. The coffee was brewed, Alpine was fed, and you did it all while Bucky snored in the next room over.

But now with the sun sitting just above the treeline, everything felt dimmer than before. Frowning, you placed your phone on the kitchen counter. The white fluff ball, nudging at your hand, noticed your attitude change, as if she could smell it amongst the boldness of the coffee.

Your fingers carded through her fur, grounding yourself.

Warm arms enveloped you from behind, squeezing your midsection gingerly. "Mornin', princess."

"Morning," you parroted, but quieter.

Bucky stiffened behind you. "Hey, is everythin' alright?"

"I just got off the phone with my father."

"Oh," he muttered, turning you around so he could see your expression. "Judgin' by your face, 'm guessin' that didn't go well."

"No," you confirmed. "He said he was glad that I'm okay, but…" You trailed off, glancing at something over his shoulder. "He's not paying for the damages. Not unless I work for him. His wish for me to inherit his stupid company is finally coming true. I don't know why I even tried to resist it. He always wins anyway."

His brows knitted together in confusion, or maybe agitation. "Don't worry 'bout it," he said, framing your face with his massive hands. "I'll pay for it."

You scoffed, shaking him off. "No, I can't ask you to do that."

"You're not askin', 'm offerin'."

"No," you repeated more firmly. "I appreciate it, but I don't want that."

"Don't let him win," he muttered, eyes flicking between yours, searching.

"I'm trying not to," you insisted. "I guess I'll figure it out. I'll get a job, hopefully one I like, and I'll pay it off."

Bucky's lip lifted at the corner, giving you a look that could only mean trouble. "I know a place that's hirin'."

"Really?" You tilted your head, then it dawned on you what he meant. "No. Absolutely not. You were right, I don't know anything about cars. I can't work for you."

"I'll teach you," he said simply. "You don't gotta know everythin' right away. We can start slow. You can work at the front. Take calls. Schedule appointments. Take people's money…" His tone dipped into something teasing. "I know you won't have a problem with that one."

"Asshole," you chirped, slapping his chest. Then, your expression shifted into something warm. "I'll think about it."

"That's a yes," he murmured, as if he already knew.

"No, I said I'll think about it."

"Yeah, but your eyes said yes."

"You're ridiculous," you shot back, but you were grinning like an idiot.

He backed you into the counter, caging you in. "And you love it." Before you could even react, his lips were on yours, warm and inviting.

Five Months Later

The neon sign stood proudly outside Bucky's shop. It was a bright crimson that could be seen for miles, snagging just about anyone's attention. You suggested it. Because, of course, you did. You knew what customers liked, and you were right. The shop had an influx of people coming and going.

Your original suggestion was rejected. You wanted pink. He wanted blue. After bickering for half an hour, you both settled on red.

Sometimes he just had to stand there, leaning against his truck, taking it all in. The sign. The shop. His life…with you.

Eventually, he found his way to the front. His eyes scanned the poster hanging on the glass door, where the 'now hiring' sign had once lived. It read, 'Wrong Turn'—a foundation you were investing in. It was an organization specializing in drunk-driving awareness. Proud didn't even cover how he felt about it. About you, finding something that you were so passionate about. That you had poured your heart into.

Opening the door, the bell rang above him, announcing his arrival. Bucky was hit with a gust of warm vanilla layered with grapefruit, which he could practically taste on his tongue. He immediately heard the familiar sound of you singing. It was a little off-key, but unapologetically you.

Following the sound, he slipped into the garage, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. He watched you silently, a warm smile gracing his lips. You were tightening a bolt on an engine with a pink—yes, pink—wrench. In fact, your entire toolbox and tools were pink.

You finally glanced up from your task, offering him a small wave with oil-slicked fingers. "Hi, handsome," you greeted. Grabbing the rag hanging from the vehicle, you wiped the grease from your fingers.

Closing the distance, his hands found your hips, pressing a kiss to your nose. "Hey, princess." He glanced down and frowned. "What're you wearin'?"

"A shirt."

"I see that. Why is it like that?" he asked, scanning the shirt that had his logo on the front of it…but in blush pink.

"They just came in today. Isn't it cute?"

"No. Nope. I didn't agree to this."

"Buck," you drawled, a lilt to your voice. "Sam is wearing one. I have one ready for Joaquin when he comes in for work tomorrow. I even have one set aside for Alpine."

"After the pink bow incident, 'm not lettin' you put anythin' on her."

"She loved it, and she looked adorable in it. Just admit it," you muttered, poking him in the ribs.

She really did look cute in it, but he wasn't about to tell you that.

Sam stepped in then, wearing his new pink shirt, and the moment his eyes fell on the two of you, he started backing up. "Wilson, get your ass back in 'ere," Bucky called. Sam froze mid-step, turning with a guilty look on his face.

"Were you in on this?" Bucky inquired, pointing at your shirt.

"Will you dock my pay if I say yes?" Sam asked tentatively.

Bucky rubbed his forehead, groaning. "'m gettin' run out of my own shop."

"You love it," you cooed, and he only glared in return. You tried for a different approach, offering him a full, toothy smile as your eyelashes fluttered. "You love me?"

"You're lucky I love you," he corrected. "Alright, the shirts can stay."

Sam’s jaw dropped. “Wait, that’s all it took? All she had to do was bat her lashes, and you're just fine? I’ve been trying to get you to approve new uniforms for years.”

Bucky shot him a look. “Don’t push it.”

You just beamed, triumphant. "Thanks, baby," you cheered, pushing up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek, smearing some of your glittery lip gloss on his skin.

But he didn't mind. Because for the last five months, he was happy. Content. And it was all because he'd fallen for the rich girl, who strutted into his shop with pink heels and a smile. The one who turned his world upside down with one glimpse of those bright eyes. The one who caused him to prefer chaos to his normal quiet.

And he thanked the universe every day for dropping you into his lap.

me posting this because holy shit...this took a lot out of me:

💌 general taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @wherewinterblooms @wildflowersandvibranium @phoenix-in-writing @overwintering-soldier @wint3rbarnes @paankhaleyaaar @mysteriousmysticc @sergeantsebastian @canyon-moon-carly @ornateglass @sheriff-bodecker

💌 bucky taglist: @miraclediviner @stanmarvelous @metal-armed-muse @buckytakethewheel @bucksbby @wickedfun9 @galactict3a @buckyslove1917 @spo0ky-exe @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @phantom-wolf-girl @mariamorales1998 @cryinggarbagebag @spring-soldier @buckysbbydoll @erina00

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