(this is a list of informative sources, materials, stores, charities, books, documentaries etc to better help Palestinians, learn about the Palestinian struggle, and educate yourselves on us as a people. This list will be added on to with more links as they are recommended to me.)
Introduction to Palestine:
Decolonize Palestine:
Palestine 101
Rainbow washing
Frequently asked questions
Myths
Al-Nakba (documentary)
The Question of Palestine (book)
The Hundred Years’ War on Palestine: A History of Settler Colonialism and Resistance, 1917-2017 (book)
The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine (book)
IMEU (Institute for Middle East Understanding):
Quick Facts - The Palestinian Nakba
The Nakba and Palestinian Refugees
The Gaza Strip
The Nakba did not start or end in 1948 (Article)
Nakba Day: What happened in Palestine in 1948? (article)
Donations and charities:
Al-Shabaka
Electronic Intifada
Adalah Justice Project
IMEU Fundraiser
Medical Aid for Palestinians
Palestine Children’s Relief Fund
Addameer
Muslim Aid
Palestine Red Crescent
Gaza Mutual Aid Patreon
Books:
A New Critical Approach to the History of Palestine
The Idea of Israel: A History of Power and Knowledge
Hidden Histories: Palestine and the Eastern Mediterranean
The Balfour Declaration: Empire, the Mandate and Resistance in Palestine
Queer Palestine and the Empire of Critique
From Haven to Conquest: Readings in Zionism and the Palestine Problem until 1948
Captive Revolution - Palestinian Women’s Anti-Colonial Struggle within the Israeli Prison System
Palestine: A Four Thousand Year History
Except for Palestine: The Limits of Progressive Politics
Before Their Diaspora: A Photographic History of The Palestinians 1876-1948
The Battle for Justice in Palestine Paperback
Uncivil Rites: Palestine and the Limits of Academic Freedom
Palestine Rising: How I survived the 1948 Deir Yasin Massacre
The Transformation of Palestine: Essays on the Origin and Development of the Arab-Israeli Conflict
A Land Without a People: Israel, Transfer, and the Palestinians 1949-1996
The Iron Cage: The Story of the Palestinian Struggle for Statehood
A History of Modern Palestine: One Land, Two Peoples
Where Now for Palestine?: The Demise of the Two-State Solution
Terrorist Assemblages - Homonationalism in Queer Times
Militarization and Violence against Women in Conflict Zones in the Middle East
The one-state solution: A breakthrough for peace in the Israeli-Palestinian deadlock
The Persistence of the Palestinian Question: Essays on Zionism and the Palestinians
Fateful Triangle: The United States, Israel and the Palestinians
The False Prophets of Peace: Liberal Zionism and the Struggle for Palestine
Ten myths about Israel
Blaming the Victims: Spurious Scholarship and the Palestinian Question
Image and Reality of the Israel-Palestine Conflict, New and Revised Edition
Israel and its Palestinian Citizens - Ethnic Privileges in the Jewish State
Palestinians in Israel: Segregation, Discrimination and Democracy
Palestinian Culture:
Mountain against the Sea: Essays on Palestinian Society and Culture
Palestinian Costume
Traditional Palestinian Costume: Origins and Evolution
Tatreez & Tea: Embroidery and Storytelling in the Palestinian Diaspora
Embroidering Identities: A Century of Palestinian Clothing (Oriental Institute Museum Publications)
The Palestinian Table (Authentic Palestinan Recipes)
Falastin: A Cookbook
Palestine on a Plate: Memories from My Mother’s Kitchen
Palestinian Social Customs and Traditions
Palestinian Culture before the Nakba
Tatreez & Tea (Website)
The Traditional Clothing of Palestine
The Palestinian thobe: A creative expression of national identity
Embroidering Identities:A Century of Palestinian Clothing
Palestine Traditional Costumes
Palestine Family
Palestinian Costume
Encyclopedia of World Dress and Fashion, v5: Volume 5: Central and Southwest Asia
Tent Work in Palestine: A Record of Discovery and Adventure
Documentaries, Films, and Video Essays:
Jenin, Jenin
Born in Gaza
GAZA
Wedding in Galilee
Omar
5 Broken Cameras
OBAIDA
Indigeneity, Indigenous Liberation, and Settler Colonialism (not entirely about Palestine, but an important watch for indigenous struggles worldwide - including Palestine)
Edward Said - Reflections on Exile and Other Essays
Palestine Remix:
AL NAKBA
Gaza Lives On
Gaza we are coming
Lost cities of Palestine
Stories from the Intifada
Last Shepards of the Valley
Organizations and News
Boycott Divest and Sanction (BDS)
Defense for Children in Palestine
Palestine Legal
United Nations relief and works for Palestinian refugees in the Middle East (UNRWA)
𝑴𝑰𝑪𝑹𝑶𝑺𝑪𝑶𝑷𝑰𝑪 ? 𝑻𝑹𝒀 𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑺𝑰𝑽𝑬 You spent the night roasting Bucky’s dick like it was the size of a Tic Tac. He spent the night proving it’s a weapon of mass destruction. By morning, your throat’s wrecked, your legs won’t close, and the only word you can choke out is “big.”
author’s note : pls this is literally just a crack fic 💀💀 the two weeks of being sick finally caught up to me, I’m fully blaming the antibiotics for whatever this is.
You’d been poking the bear all goddamn evening, ever since Bucky swaggered into the Avengers compound lounge like he was the king of the fucking world. Fresh off a brutal sparring session, sweat dripping down his neck in rivulets that soaked into his tight black shirt, clinging obscenely to every carved ridge of his abs, those broad shoulders, that chiseled chest heaving just enough to make your mouth water.
His metal arm gleamed under the lights as he flexed it casually, popping the cap off a beer with a flick of his vibranium fingers. And yeah, you were staring, couldn’t help it, your eyes tracing the bulge in his grey sweats that hinted at something dangerous.
He caught you, of course. That cocky, wolfish smirk spread slow across his stubbled face, blue eyes darkening with pure filth as he lounged back on the couch, legs spread wide like he was daring you to climb on and ride.
“See somethin’ you like, dollface?” he drawled, voice low and rough like gravel dragged over silk, taking a long swig of beer that made his throat bob. “Or you just window-shoppin’ ‘cause you know you can’t afford the ride?”
You snorted, crossing your arms under your tits on purpose, pushing them up until your cleavage spilled over the edge of your tank top, petty little mind games, but fuck, it felt good watching his gaze drop there for a split second.
“Please, Barnes. It’s all smoke and mirrors with you. That super-soldier serum pumped up the muscles, sure, made you all big and scary but down south? Bet it’s a pathetic little shrimp. Tiny. Micro-dick energy. I’d need a fuckin’ magnifying glass and a prayer just to spot it hiding in those pubes.”
His laugh was dark, sinful, rolling out slow and unhurried as he set the beer down with a deliberate clink, eyes narrowing to dangerous slits.
“Oh yeah? Keep runnin’ that smart mouth, sweetheart, and I’ll haul your teasing ass over here, shove your pretty face right in my crotch, and make you get a real close-up inspection. Bet you’d be droolin’ and beggin’ to choke on it before you even finish your little measurement.”
You stepped closer, hips swaying slow and deliberate, chin tilted up in pure defiance, even as heat pooled hot and slick between your thighs.
“Drag me, huh? Big talk from a guy overcompensating so hard. Go ahead, Bucky, whip it out. I’ll squint real hard and be like, ‘Wait, is that it? Or just a wrinkle in your ballsack?’ Face it, tin man: massive ego, microscopic cock. Classic.”
That snapped it. His jaw clenched, eyes flashing like thunderclouds, and in a blur too fast for normal eyes, he surged up, towering over you like a goddamn predator. One massive hand, flesh and warm, clamped around your wrist in an iron grip, yanking you forward until you slammed against his hard chest.
“You got a fuckin’ death wish, brat? Or are you just that desperate to get your holes ruined by the ‘tiny’ dick you’re obsessing over?” He ground against you deliberately, that thick, hardening bulge in his sweats pressing insistently into your belly, hot, heavy, impossible to ignore, making your breath hitch and your pussy clench traitorously.
“Say the word, doll, and I’ll ruin that sassy little mouth first. Force you to choke on every veiny inch you’re pretending ain’t there. Bet you’d be gagging and crying pretty tears in seconds.”
You twisted in his hold, not really trying to escape just enough to feel the thrill of his superhuman strength pinning you. “Ruined? With what, your thumb? Come on soldier boy, prove me wrong. Show me the goods. I promise I won’t burst out laughing… much.”
“Fucking brat,” he snarled, voice dripping venom and lust, spinning you around like you weighed nothing and marching you backward until your ass smacked against the arm of the couch. His flesh hand fisted in your tank top, ripping it clean up and over your head with a savage yank, fabric tearing slightly for emphasis, leaving you in your skimpy sports bra, nipples already hard and poking through like needy little peaks.
Cool air hit your skin, goosebumps racing over you, but it was his gaze, hungry, feral, promising total destruction that had your core throbbing, slick dripping down your thighs already. “On your goddamn knees, now. Or I’ll flip you over first, spank that smart ass raw until you’re begging to suck me off just to make it stop.”
You dropped slow, teasingly slow, knees thudding into the carpet, the impact vibrating straight to your aching clit. Eyes locked on his, you hooked your fingers into his waistband, tugging those sweats down inch by torturous inch, savoring the way his breath hitched.
And then, holy fucking shit, it sprang free like a coiled beast unleashed. Heavy, throbbing, veined like ropes under velvet skin, the fat head flushed angry purple and already leaking a fat bead of pre-cum. Easily nine inches, maybe more of thick, girthy perfection, curving up with that wicked hook that screamed ruin, thick as your goddamn wrist, balls heavy and drawn up tight. Not small. Apocalyptic. Pussy-destroying.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” you whispered, breath ghosting over it, making it twitch. Your fingers wrapped around the base, barely fucking meeting and gave a slow, experimental pump, thumb swiping that salty pre-cum to smear it down the shaft, watching it glisten obscenely.
Bucky’s hand, metal one this time, cool and unyielding tangled viciously in your hair, yanking your head back hard enough to sting, forcing you to crane up and meet his smug, triumphant grin.
“What was that, doll? Cat got your filthy tongue? Thought you needed a magnifying glass to find it. Go ahead, inspect the ‘little shrimp’ that’s gonna split your tight cunt wide open later. Open that cocky mouth and suck it. Show me how fuckin’ hilarious it is now.”
You glared up through watering eyes, pulse pounding in your ears, but goddamn, your mouth was flooding with saliva, pussy clenching empty and desperate.
“Arrogant asshole,” you muttered, but leaned in anyway, tongue flicking out to trace the thick vein underside from his heavy balls all the way to the slit, salty, musky, pure Bucky and he hissed sharp, hips bucking involuntarily.
“That’s it- lick it like the desperate slut you are. Tell me how ‘tiny’ it tastes while it’s leaking down your chin.” His voice was pure filth, mocking and low, flesh hand joining the metal to grip your skull as he guided you closer, the cool vibranium sending shivers down your spine.
You parted your swollen lips, sucking the fat head in with a wet, obscene slurp, tongue swirling the ridge, tasting that bitter pre-cum as you hollowed your cheeks. He groaned deep, guttural, fingers tightening.
But you weren’t surrendering easy. You sank down halfway, throat already protesting the girth then pulled off with a filthy pop, spit strings dangling from your chin to his glistening cock. “Mmm. Okay, bigger than expected. But hey- could still be a fluke. Maybe it’s all show, no go. Jury’s still out, Barnes.”
“You- fuckin’- insufferable- little- cunt,” he growled, words punctuated by thrusts as both hands clamped your head like a vice, flesh and metal, and he shoved forward, feeding you inch after thick inch until your throat spasmed, gagging wetly around him.
Tears sprung instant, mascara probably running, as you braced on his rock-hard thighs, nails digging crescents into muscle. He didn’t ease up, rolling his hips in shallow, merciless pumps, the gluck-gluck-gluck of your stuffed throat echoing lewdly, spit bubbling at the corners of your mouth.
“Jury’s out? Look at you- drooling like a brainless whore, choking and crying on my fat cock, eyes all watery and desperate and you still got that smart mouth? Take it deeper, liar. Nose to my pubes or admit you’re full of shit.”
You gurgled something incoherent, probably “fuck you” but it vibrated down his shaft, pulling a ragged “Goddamn, yes, just like that” from him.
Saliva poured down your chin, soaking your bra, dripping onto your tits as you fought, relaxing your jaw, nose flaring for air until finally, lips stretched wide around the base, nose buried in coarse pubic hair, balls smushed against your chin, throat bulging visibly like a porn star.
You held it, defiant glare up at him through tears, throat convulsing in protest but begging for more with every flutter.
“Fuuuck,” he rasped, voice wrecked, holding you impaled a brutal second longer before yanking back only to slam in again, fucking your face raw now, hips snapping with super-soldier force. Wet slaps, gags, your muffled whimpers filling the room like a symphony of filth.
“Still think it’s small, huh? Can’t even breathe proper, tears streaming, pussy probably flooding your shorts and you’re humping the air like a needy bitch. Pathetic. Knew you’d crack the second I stuffed this ‘micro’ cock down your lying throat. Bet you’re soaked, aren’t you? Dripping for the dick you were mocking.”
You ripped off gasping, coughing up thick strings of spit that splattered his shaft as your hand jerked him furiously slick, obscene schlick-schlick sounds.
“Sh-shut the fuck up,” you wheezed, voice hoarse, but your free hand was already rubbing your clit through your shorts like a desperate slut. “It’s… it’s okay. Adequate. For a pity suck.”
His eyes went nuclear, dark, dangerous fire and he hauled you up by the hair, scalp burning deliciously, slamming you face-down over the couch arm. Your shorts and panties? Ripped down in one violent yank, fabric tearing, ass bared and jiggling as cool air hit your dripping, swollen pussy.
Smack, his palm landed hard on one cheek, sting exploding hot and sharp, jolting you forward with a yelp. “Adequate? You cock-drunk teasing whore.”
Smack, harder, other cheek, red handprint blooming instant. “I’ll show you fuckin’ adequate.”
“Bucky- fuck- you wouldn’t-” you cried out, arching back instinctively, pushing your ass higher like you were begging for more.
“Wouldn’t what? Shut that lying mouth for good?” He dragged the broad, leaking head through your soaked folds, teasing your throbbing clit with slow, torturous circles, up and down, coating himself in your slick until you were grinding back shamelessly, whining.
“Beg for it, doll. Get on your knees in your mind and beg for this ‘pathetic dick’ to wreck your greedy, lying cunt. Tell me how bad you need it stretching you out or I’ll edge this fat cock along your slit ‘til you’re a sobbing, humping mess.”
You bucked wildly, pride hanging by a thread, pussy clenching on nothing. “Make me, you overcompensating bastard. Bet you can’t even- oh fuck- God- Bucky!”
He didn’t wait, slammed in to the hilt in one brutal, balls-deep thrust that punched a scream from your lungs. Stretched impossibly, painfully full, walls burning around his girth, that hooked curve hitting spots you didn’t know existed, you clawed the cushions, toes curling, a broken wail escaping.
“Still small, brat?” he mocked viciously, pulling out slow, dragging every veiny inch only to ram back in, hips snapping with punishing force that shoved the couch forward. “Feelin’ that ‘nub’ splitting you open? Or you need me to fuck it deeper, rearrange your guts until you forget how to talk shit?”
The room filled with wet squelches your arousal coating him, dripping down your thighs the slap-slap-slap of his hips against your red ass, his grunts mixing with your babbling moans. “Asshole- it’s- huge- fuck, you’re too big- slow down, please!”
“Slow down? Fuck no- this is what mouthy little sluts get.” He draped over you, chest heaving against your back, teeth sinking hard into your shoulder, marking, rutting deeper, faster, metal hand pinning your wrists overhead while flesh fingers dove between your legs, pinching your clit rough, rolling it mercilessly.
“Look at you- creamin’ like a desperate whore, squirting already on my fat cock. Still microscopic? Huh? Lie again- say it’s tiny while I’m balls-deep and I’ll fuck you ‘til you pass out.”
Another brutal smack to your ass, and you shattered, orgasm ripping through you violent and vicious, walls spasming wildly, squirting messily around his pistoning shaft as you screamed his name, vision whiting out.
But he didn’t stop, fucked you through it, over it, dragging out every aftershock until you were sobbing, oversensitive, boneless, babbling nonsense. “Bucky- mercy- too much- it’s not small, fuck, it’s perfect- ruining me- please-”
“Damn fuckin’ right it is,” he grunted, thrusts erratic, voice strained. “Gonna flood this tight, greedy pussy, pump you full of cum ‘til it’s leaking down your thighs for days. So you never forget who owns this cunt.”
With a primal roar, he buried deep, cock pulsing hot and thick flooding you with rope after rope of cum, so much it overflowed instantly, filthy drips splattering the couch as he ground against your ass.
Finally he collapsed over you, both panting wrecks, his weight a grounding press as he nuzzled your neck tender now, in the afterglow. “Next time you wanna bicker,” he murmured, nipping your earlobe, “pick on my haircut. Safer.”
You laughed, hoarse and spent, twisting to nip his jaw. “Where’s the fun in safe, Barnes?”
He huffed a dark little chuckle against your skin, metal fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip. “Big words from a girl who’s gonna wake up unable to talk tomorrow.”
You were both too wrecked to move after that. He pulled out slow, groaning at the mess he’d left behind, then tugged you into his chest, blankets tangling around your legs as you passed out tangled together, the room reeking of sex and satisfaction.
Morning came too soon.
Sunlight sliced through the blinds, hitting your face like a rude alarm clock. Your body felt like it had been through a war, thighs sticky and sore, pussy tender in the best and worst way, every muscle humming with aftermath.
But the real kicker was your throat. It felt demolished. Raw, swollen, like you’d deep-throated a goddamn baseball bat all night, which let’s be honest, wasn’t far off.
You tried to swallow. Instant regret. A pained little rasp escaped as you shifted, burrowing deeper into the pillow with a whimper.
Bucky, the bastard, was wide awake beside you, propped on an elbow, sheet barely covering the ridiculous outline of his body, that smug, shit-eating grin already in place as he watched you suffer.
“Mornin’, pretty,” he drawled, voice gravel-rough and way too cheerful. “How’s that pretty throat doin’? Still got any of that fire left, or did my ‘tiny’ dick finally win the war?”
You opened your mouth to snap back, something sharp, something biting but all that came out was a cracked, pathetic croak that sounded like a chain-smoking frog. Your hand flew to your neck instinctively, eyes watering at the burn.
Bucky’s laugh was pure evil, low, filthy, delighted. “Oh, sweetheart. Listen to you. Can’t even talk back now, huh? All that big talk last night, callin’ it microscopic, and look at you- throat fucked raw, voice gone, probably still tastin’ me every time you try to swallow.”
He leaned in closer, metal arm sliding cool and possessive across your waist, lips brushing your ear as he mocked in that dark, teasing rumble.
“Bet it hurts so good, doesn’t it? Every little ache remindin’ you how deep I shoved it, how you gagged and cried and begged for more anyway. Go on, doll- try to tell me it was small again. I dare you.”
You glared at him through half-lidded eyes, cheeks heating despite yourself. Tried to form words. Tried real hard.
All that came out was a weak, hoarse whisper: “…big…”
Bucky’s grin went full victory, triumphant, filthy, proud as hell. “What was that? Didn’t quite catch it, baby. Wanna try again? Tell me how big it was while you’re lyin’ there wrecked and speechless.”
You swallowed again, winced hard and rasped out, barely audible, “…so… fucking… big…”
He laughed again, softer this time, pressing a mocking kiss to your forehead before trailing his lips down to your sore throat, ghosting over the tender skin like he was admiring his handiwork.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, smug satisfaction dripping from every word. “Finally admittin’ the truth. Now close those pretty eyes and get some more sleep. Save what’s left of that voice… you’re gonna need it later when I make you scream it.”
Exhaustion tugged at you hard, body too heavy, throat too ruined to fight. You let your eyes flutter shut, burrowing back into his chest with a final, faint mutter against his skin.
“…big…”
And then you drifted off again, his low, pleased chuckle the last thing you heard as he pulled you closer.
summary: due to your reputation as a renowned criminal psychiatrist, you're assigned to a difficult patient at riker's island. during a session, he makes an offer that tempts the boundaries of your professional curiosity.
a/n: I can't say enough how blown away I am that y'all loved the offer so much. it was just meant to be a slutty lil one off for kinktober, a way for me to play around with an idea that had been lingering in the back of my head for awhile, and a chance for me to try my hand at writing for dex. your excitement made me so excited, and i've been having so much fun with this. thank you thank you thank you again. 🖤
if you'd like to be notified for updates, feel free to join the taglist here!
»— anything marked with an astrik contains explicit content. minors dni.
»— all work is my own. please do not repost anywhere else without my consent.
summary: the loom of consequences make you reconsider giving into temptation.
warnings: swearing, explicit sexual content (minors dni)
word count: 3.1k
a/n: i've already said this, but I am still so blown away by how much y'all liked the offer and jump started a new passion project for me. dex is a character i've been wanting to write for, and I love that I get to play around with him now. as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!
For the past forty eight hours, all you’d been able to think about was what had happened in that office with Dex and the potential catastrophic fallout that could ensue. After he was taken back to solitary, you returned home to your own later that night, your stomach twisted in knots with the frayed ends of each boundary you’d crossed. The heat of the moment had long passed, leaving behind the lingering chill of consequences.
Walking down the familiar hallway of the prison towards your office on Friday morning, you bypassed pleasantries and avoided the usual morning greetings, afraid to look anyone in the eye, as if they’d be able to see your sin with one guilty glance. You still had no idea what Dex’s true motivation was for being “cooperative”. All you had to go on was his word, which wasn’t substantial coming from someone who could lie and manipulate with the effortless ease of breathing.
What if it was all a game, just to see what you’d do? A trap you’d voluntarily tangled yourself into for his own entertainment. He couldn’t brag about his victory to the other inmates, but he could to the guards. Would they believe him? Would they take it to the warden? Did he already know? Were you completely fucked?
The only person who had those answers was currently being led into your office, grinning like the cat that ate the canary. He didn’t take his eyes off you once as he was guided in and sat down, the chains rattling while he was being cuffed to the table. Not even a second after the door clicked shut behind the last guard, Dex leaned back in the chair and spread his legs, flashing you a cocky smirk.
“On the desk, Doc.”
Your eyes narrowed in annoyance at his audacity to give commands while he was the one bound.
“No.”
The smirk suddenly vanished from his mouth, a flurry of surprise, confusion, and something that almost resembled panic clearing the darkened clouds of lust from his eyes. He abruptly sat up straight, beginning to notice the closed off body language you exuded with your arms crossed over your chest, and the intentional decision to stand behind your desk to put a physical barrier between the two of you.
“What do you mean no? Why?”
“Did you tell anyone?”
He seemed further perplexed by your inquisition.
“Tell anyone what?”
Normally you were able to keep a level head and remain calm in any situation, it was essential in your profession, but the anxiety that had been compounding over the last two days had eroded your patience and left your nerves raw and exposed.
“Don’t fuck with me, Benjamin. Did you tell anyone what happened on Wednesday?”
His eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by your unprecedented outburst, and then it was like you could see a light bulb go off in his head, only you weren’t privy to his enlightenment. His shoulders relaxed as he leaned back in the chair again, arching one of his brows while an amused smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Is that what’s got you all amped up?”
The silent scowl you gave him seemed to be confirmation enough, and he let out a deep chuckle.
“Doc, do you think if I told anyone I was fucking around with my psychiatrist, I’d get to keep seeing you?”
A furrow of annoyance nestled between your brows and you placed your hands on your hips.
“No, because I’d lose my job, be stripped of all my certifications and licensing, and probably end up in the cell next to you.”
Dex let out another laugh that rumbled deep in his chest, which only aggravated you further.
“Sweetheart, getting eaten out by a patient isn’t exactly grounds for solitary confinement in a maximum security prison. Besides, even if anyone did find out somehow, I’d deny everything.”
Your aggravation dissipated quickly, painted over with streaks of curiosity and confusion. There was a familiar hint of conviction in his voice, the same one you’d heard when he said he wouldn’t hurt you.
“Why?”
Now it was his turn to look puzzled. His brows lifted for a moment before they knit together, and he spoke in a cadence that made it seem like the answer was obvious.
“I just told you. I wouldn’t get to keep seeing you."
Blinking a few times, you just stared over at him, like your brain couldn’t process the simplicity of his answer.
“That’s it? That’s all you want? Just…to keep seeing me?”
That familiar smirk spread across his lips, and he leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to an intimate volume as if he were sharing a secret, although it was just the two of you in the room.
“Well, I think I made it clear the other day that I want to do more than see you, Doc.”
He grinned at the way your body language and expression immediately changed, letting out another deep chuckle before he leaned back in his seat once again.
“You know, I realize that I’m not the most trustworthy person, but I’m a little wounded you think so low of me.”
“You’ve spent your entire life lying and manipulating your way into and out of every situation, can you blame me for being suspicious of your intentions?”
“I suppose not. But I’ve never lied to you, or tried to manipulate you. Why would I start now?”
“Limited opportunities for entertainment.”
Dex grinned again, letting his eyes wander shamelessly over you.
“Oh, but you’ve given me plenty of material to keep myself entertained with.”
A beat of silence passed where the two of you just stared at each other. Dex had evident hunger in his intense gaze, and your body was warming up from the heat of it, but he could still see the hesitation in your eyes. He let out a deep exhale through his nose and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk.
“Look, let me put this as plainly as possible so we’re on the same page. I want to keep seeing you, Doc. I want to keep tasting you, I want to keep touching you. I want whatever you’ll give me, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get it. Now, will you please sit your pretty little ass on the desk and spread your legs for me?”
You should say no. You should nip this in the bud now. Even if Dex meant what he said, every second you didn’t jump back to the right side of your moral and professional boundaries led you closer and closer to some kind of fallout, and since there wasn’t much left they could do to punish Dex, all the retribution would be placed on you.
But the thrill of it all was just so goddamn enticing. That unrestrained hunger he displayed, when had you ever experienced that before? You knew from his file he had a tendency to be obsessive, to fixate on someone and bind himself to them, to offer up whatever he had to in order to be rewarded with acceptance and praise.
And now that someone was you.
It was addictive to be craved so ravenously. To be the object of unrestrained and raw desire. Never had your pleasure been the sole purpose behind someone’s interest in you, but that was all Dex wanted. To please you. The epiphany that you could bring a man like him to his knees with a snap of your fingers was a rush that made you feel almost dizzy. You’d gotten a taste of forbidden fruit, and it was too delectable to not go back for another taste. But you weren't completely blinded by lust to not consider caution.
“I think we need to establish some rules.”
Dex eyed you in curiosity, and his tone betrayed his perplexity.
“Rules?”
“I think you need to remember that you’re the one in handcuffs. You don’t get to come in here and make demands. You get what I allow you to have, when I allow you to have it. If we do this, it’s on my terms, and I have conditions.”
Dex sat up straighter, his intense attention locked solely on you. There was no smug smirk, no mirth or defiance in his eyes, nothing but a serious portrait of focus.
“Tell me.”
“You still have to participate in these sessions. I can’t see you three times a week and have nothing to report. I have to show them we’re making some kind of progress. You also have to keep behaving and cooperating outside of this office. And I want you to promise me that everything that happens in this room stays between us.”
Without hesitation, Dex gave you a firm nod.
“I promise.”
When you didn’t immediately look relieved or come around your desk towards him, he arched one of his brows with a subtle amused smile, curling his thumb and first three fingers inside his right palm before extending his pinky out towards you.
“You want me to pinky swear, Doc?”
“Shut up.”
He laughed at the look on your face and the grumble in your voice. Your eyes dropped down to his juvenile offer before looking up at him again. Finally rounding the corner of your desk, you locked your pinky with his.
“These are sacred oaths. You’re not allowed to break them.”
“I’m aware.”
Dex’s eyes were sparkling with mischief as he tilted his head to the side.
“Anything else, Doc?”
“Yeah, don’t walk in here again smiling like you’ve seen me naked.”
Dex’s lips split in a wolfish grin, and his eyes dropped down to your skirt, licking his lips before looking up at you again.
“Technically I haven’t. I’d love to, though.”
He tapped his fingers on the desk, a silent signal for you to sit. But you had other plans. You wanted to see how far his obedience went. You did lift yourself up onto your desk, but off to the side of it instead of in between his spread legs.
“I want something else."
Dex’s gaze dropped down to your legs, and a flash of excitement struck in them like lightning before the clouds of lust darkened his irises.
“What do you want?”
Ever since he’d mentioned taking care of his needs with his imagination, it had sent yours running wild. You wanted to hear what kind of noises he made, wanted to see what he looked like when he pleasured himself. You wanted to watch.
“I want you to show me how you entertain yourself.”
Dex clenched his jaw, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed thickly. He let out a quiet breathy chuckle, and his voice was husky with want as he gave the chains a faint tug.
“I’m a little tied up here, sweetheart.”
“You can reach if you stand.”
He let out a sharp breath past his lips, and you could see that he was already half hard, the orange fabric straining against his growing bulge. He slowly rose to his full height, and you had to tilt your head back slightly to look up at him. The chains rattled as he stepped closer to the edge of the desk, until it was flush against his thighs. While your eyes dropped to watch him undo the bottom two buttons of his jumpsuit, he never took his eyes off of you.
Your lips parted slightly with a sudden inhale and your thighs pressed together watching him reach in to pull out his cock. A soft noise sounded in the back of your throat at the sight of it. You could almost see the veins throbbing insistently with need along his girth, the tip already leaking precum in anticipation.
When he held out his palm, breaking the bewitchment from his arousal, your eyes snapped up to his. He was breathing heavier, and there was a muddled look in his eyes of pleading and expectation. Looking down at his outstretched palm again, it suddenly clicked what he wanted from you. Lifting your gaze to his again, you leaned over as your tongue collected a generous amount of saliva from your mouth that you let slip past your lips into his eager hand.
He inhaled sharply, wrapping his hand around the base of his cock, using your spit as lubricant to start stroking himself. Your top teeth sank down into your bottom lip hard as you fell under his spell again, watching intently as he took his time, slowly gliding his hand upwards, swiping his thumb over the sensitive tip with a low noise in the back of his throat, giving the head a light squeeze.
“I’ve thought about you…everyday…for the last few months.”
He moved his hand slowly with gentle flicks of his wrist. The way he kept eye contact with you had your panties already soaked through, and you pressed your thighs together more firmly for any kind of relief.
“Especially after the other day. I haven’t stopped thinking about how good you tasted…how tight you were around my fingers…how pretty you look when you cum. And the way you moaned my name…”
He let out a low moan of his own, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment, letting out a shaky and heavy breath. He was stroking his cock a little faster now, applying more pressure with his hand, and your fingers gripped the edge of your skirt as you swallowed thickly. He was reliving it in his head, you could almost see the memory playing behind his eyelids. It was the same dirty reel that had been on repeat in your own head.
“Look at me."
You hadn’t noticed you’d closed your eyes until his voice made them snap open. It wasn’t a command. It was almost begging. He was lightly panting now, and his other hand reached out towards you.
“Let me touch you…please.”
Biting your lip, you scooted closer on the desk towards him, and you let out a shaky breath when his hand grabbed your thigh, his fingers dipping beneath the hem of your skirt.
“Are you wet?”
“Yes."
You answered in a breathy voice, almost surprised by your own shameless admission. Dex let out a quiet grunt and gripped your thigh a little tighter.
“Let me see.”
His voice was hoarse and dripping with need. Grasping the hem of your skirt, you tugged it up to your hips and spread your thighs. Your panties were so wet they clung to your dripping cunt, the outline of it visible beneath the light blue cotton that was nearly sheer now.
He was jerking his cock a little faster now, his breathing coming out in heavy pants. Between the concoction of your spit and his own precum, the slick sound of him stroking himself quicker was audible in an almost obscene way. Hooking your finger in the side of your panties, you pulled them to the side so he could see how drenched you were, a string of your arousal stretching between the soaked fabric and your clit. He let out a desperate whimper that made you shudder, and you could feel your wetness dripping onto the desk beneath you. You’d never been so turned on in your life.
“Fuck. Let me have a taste…please, sweetheart. Please.”
Slipping your hand between your thighs, you let out a soft moan as you swiped two of your fingers through your wet pussy, gathering a generous amount of your slick onto your digits before lifting them in offering. Dex immediately leaned in to take them in his mouth, his eyes nearly rolling when your taste hit his tongue. He moaned as he licked and sucked your fingers clean, stroking his cock even faster.
His lips were glistening with your juices and his spit when your fingers slipped from his mouth, and his breathing was ragged now, digging his blunt nails into your soft thigh while he jerked himself off fervently.
“Oh fuck…fuck I’m gonna cum…”
A sudden thought popped into your head that made you blush deeply due to its filthy nature, but it was also a practical solution. Hooking your thumbs in the waistband of your panties, you shimmied a little to push them down your thighs, leaning over slightly to slip them over your heels to take them off. Dex was watching intently, his cheeks flushed as he panted. When you held them out to him, and he realized why, he let out a groan that nearly made you cum yourself.
He swiped them from your hand quickly. Away from your warm cunt, the soaked fabric had cooled when it hit the air, and when he placed your panties over the head of his sensitive cock, he let out a hiss before a moan tumbled from his parted lips. His right hand was moving rapidly now, and his left darted back out to grip onto your thigh again. His eyes were hooded and full of desperation, and he was panting as he maintained his intense eye contact.
Your own hand reached out of its own volition, grasping onto the back of his neck to pull him down closer until his forward was pressed against yours and you could feel the heat of his heavy breathing on your lips. His pupils were blown wide open, and he turned his head to brush his lips against yours. But before either of you could steal a kiss, his eyes screwed shut and his face twisted up in pure pleasure. He let out a guttural moan as his hips stuttered, exhaling shuddering breaths. He came so hard it leaked through your panties and dripped down his fingers.
His skin was blazing to the touch, and your own forehead was damp from being pressed against Dex’s sweaty skin. He twitched slightly, his hips subtly jerking forward as he drenched your panties in his cum, letting out a relieved moan. Your imagination hadn’t even come close to how erotic the reality had been.
He suddenly dipped down to capture your lips in a kiss that left you nearly breathless with the force of its passion. His tongue parted the seam of your lips, and you could taste the gift of yourself you’d given him, letting out a quiet moan that turned into a gasp when he nipped at your bottom lip and gave it a gentle tug.
synopsis- due to your reputation as a renowned criminal psychiatrist, you're assigned to a difficult patient at riker's island. during a session, he makes an offer that tempts the boundaries of your professional curiosity.
starring- benjamin poindexter and psychiatrist!reader
rated- x (18+) for explicit sexual content, graphic nudity, and strong language
run time- 2.8k
“When’s the last time you got laid?”
Instantly your hand stilled, and your inked thoughts came to an incomplete halt on the page of your notebook. Lifting your head, you locked eyes with your patient, who was already watching you with a hint of mirth in his eyes.
“Excuse me?”
“You seem tense, Doc. Doesn’t seem like you’re doing much to relax-”
“This session is for you, Mr. Poindexter, not the other way around.”
Benjamin let out a quiet chuckle while leaning back in his chair, the chains connected to the cuffs around his wrists rattling.
“Sweetheart, I’ve told you my favorite ways to kill people. I think we’re way past formalities.”
He’d gone through several psychiatrists already. It was mandatory for his sentence, but he’d refused to participate. He was already in prison, and he had no delusion they would ever let him out. What could they really do if he just sat there and ignored everyone they assigned to him?
The entire time he’d been here at Riker’s Island, that’s exactly what he’d done. Every time someone new was brought in, Benjamin would sit there silently, sometimes barely blinking, and just stare them down. He never said a word. Until you.
You were lucky number thirteen.
You’d been made aware of Benjamin’s refusal to participate in therapy prior to being assigned to him. You had expected to have the same experience as your colleagues. But for some reason, he was different with you. He did talk to you. Sort of. He could be incredibly evasive, and sometimes he made comments just to see if they’d provoke a reaction, but he would participate just enough to keep seeing you and you hadn’t been able to figure out why. It was as puzzling to you as it was to everyone else.
Letting out a deep exhale through your nose, you gripped your pen and continued to write.
“I’d appreciate if you focused-”
“Little hard to do when you look like that, Doc.”
His blue eyes wandered appreciatively over the half of your body he could see sitting across from you, and a wicked smirk stretched across his mouth when he met your gaze again. His remark caught your attention. You weren’t wearing anything out of the norm. It was a dress you’d worn in a session with him before. He’d never made a comment on it before, or on your appearance, until now.
All of a sudden, a lightning strike of clarity cracked through the clouds of mystery that surrounded him, illuminating an epiphany that made you feel stupid for not considering it before. Pausing your notetaking once again, you lifted your head to look at him, tilting your head to the side as you narrowed your eyes in suspicion.
“Are you only participating in these sessions because you desire me sexually?"
Benjamin pursed his lips faintly with a casual shrug, that smug smirk of his never fading.
“If you’re asking if I wanna fuck your brains out, then…yeah.”
He’d never been anything but blunt and shameless the entire time you’d been around him, so you weren’t sure why that cavalier comment affected you the way it did, but it sparked something within you that made your cheeks feel warm. Attempting to appear nonchalant, you calmly set your pen down in your notebook and leaned back in your chair while holding eye contact with him.
“So that’s why you’ve been so well behaved.”
“Good boys get rewarded.”
“You’re not exactly a good boy, Benjamin.”
“Oh, but I can be.”
He didn’t bother to hide the hunger that darkened his eyes considerably, and it was audible in the sudden huskiness of his voice. He leaned in closer until his forearms were resting on the desk, loosely gesturing around with his hand, making the chains rattle again.
“See? A little good behavior, a little cooperation, and now we’re alone. No cameras, no nosy guards, no two way mirrors. Total privacy.”
Because of his cooperation, and decent behavior, he’d been given a few more privileges. The big cuff that covered both of his hands was reduced to just cuffs around his wrists. No more guard supervision was required, they now waited outside. And recently, your sessions were able to be moved to an office instead of an interrogation room.
Everything started to fall into place, and his revelation made you let out a scoff of disbelief. He’d planned this.
“And what exactly was your end goal, here? You thought you could just talk me into sleeping with you?”
Benjamin let out an amused laugh, his lips spreading into a tooth bearing grin.
“You don’t strike me as someone who can be talked into anything, Doc. I thought making an offer would be more realistic.”
“An offer.”
Your voice was dry as you repeated his words, sounding as uninterested as you looked.
He stared at you for a moment silently, and for some reason the intensity of his eye contact made something twist in your stomach. The ticking of the clock on the wall suddenly sounded louder, like it was right by your ear, a clandestine countdown you weren’t privy to. He didn’t look away, and you couldn’t. It was like you were stuck in some silent staring contest.
“Let me eat you out.”
Of all the things you expected to come out of his mouth, that was not one of them. Your shocked surprise must have shown on your face, because he smirked as he leaned in closer and dropped his voice to an intimate whisper.
“C’mon, Doc. It’s a mutually beneficial offer. You get to relax, I get to taste you.”
A dry incredulous laugh bubbled up in your throat, and you couldn’t keep it from escaping. Arching one of your brows, you crossed your arms over your chest.
“You really expect me to believe you’ve been playing the long game just to go down on me?”
“It’s not just for you. Like I said, it’s mutually beneficial.”
You couldn’t believe it. He was serious. As far as you could tell, he was actually serious. Very rarely did you find yourself speechless, but you genuinely had no idea how to respond to that. There was the entirely plausible idea that he was fucking with you, just to see how you’d react. He didn’t exactly have many opportunities for entertainment, and being in solitary confinement, you were the only person he “socialized” with.
Letting out a deep exhale through your nose, you attempted to redirect the conversation.
“Benjamin-”
“Again with the formalities. How many times I gotta ask you to call me Dex?”
“Nicknames are generally reserved for friends.”
“We could be friends. We could be very good friends, sweetheart.”
Leaning back in his chair casually, he clenched and unclenched his fists, making the metal of the chains connected to his handcuffs rattle once again.
“Look, I’ve been in prison for a while now, sweetheart. Certain needs I can take care of with a little imagination, but not that one. And I really miss pussy.”
You were supposed to be getting the conversation back on track and make him focus on the session. You should’ve threatened to end it early for how inappropriate he was being. But when he’d clenched and unclenched his fists, it had made his biceps flex, and you unexpectedly noticed just how taut the orange jumpsuit was over his arms and broad shoulders. Had he always been so…big?
“C’mon, Doc. I’ve been good, don’t I deserve something sweet? I promise I’ll make you come. You know I never miss a target.”
Flashing you a wink, Dex’s wicked smirk stretched wide across his mouth once again. That should’ve been the end of the conversation. You should’ve ended it before, honestly. But you’d been curious, and now your curiosity had put you in a confusing situation, because you should be getting up and calling the guards to come take him. But you didn’t. And he noticed.
“You’re considering it.”
“I am not-”
“You didn’t say no. You’re not walking out. You don’t even look offended or disgusted. As a matter of fact you look…interested.”
This time when he let his eyes wander over you with evident lust, you felt a shiver that straightened your spine despite there not being a draft in the room, and your skin prickled in response. He slowly tilted his head to the side, and it would’ve been menacing if he was threatening to harm you instead of offering to pleasure you.
“When’s the last time someone made you come with just their tongue?”
The heat that bloomed in your cheeks betrayed your silence, and his brows lifted, amusement breaking through the clouds of desire in his eyes as his words dripped with mock sympathy.
“Oh…no one ever has. Now that is a crime, Doc.”
A part of you felt ashamed for being attracted to him. You knew what he was, what he had done. Your brain was screaming at you for even entertaining the thought, for looking at him in anything but repulsion. But the guilt and shame that should’ve settled in your gut and made your skin burn was nowhere to be found. In its place was heat born from reckless curiosity, a carnal chemical demand, and a youthful thrill of doing something you weren't supposed to.
All at once you felt like a teenager again, sneaking out for the first time to meet up with someone you weren’t allowed to be with. What the hell was wrong with you? This was your patient, and he was a dangerous and violent criminal. This wasn’t just crossing a professional boundary, it was crossing a moral one too. But why did it feel so…exciting? Why did it have you pressing your thighs together and your body buzzing with anticipation?
Why did you want it?
“I won’t hurt you.”
His voice interrupted the flurry of conflicting thoughts and feelings he’d shaken up. He was still staring intently at you, but his smirk had faded into a more serious expression. There was a conviction in his voice that made you feel like he meant it.
“I don’t know that.”
“Trust me, Doc. You’re the last person I want to harm.”
Holding your gaze, he leaned forward again, dropping his voice to that intimate husky whisper that had a flame of desire igniting in your lower belly.
“It can be our little secret. You don’t have to take the handcuffs off. I won’t even touch you if you don’t want me to. All you have to do is come sit in front of me, take off your panties, and spread those pretty legs for me.”
You glanced at the closed door. It wasn’t locked. Anyone could come in unannounced, and that would be the end of your career. That should’ve been the moment the logical side of your brain took over and made you walk out. But instead you glanced over at the clock, noting that you had twenty minutes left with Dex, and your eyes fell on him again. The tension between you was like a dense invisible fog that made it almost difficult to breathe. He didn’t say a word, he just stared you down with his offer dangling in the silence.
You weren’t sure if it was even a conscious decision when you stood. It was like you were bewitched, your body moving of its own accord. Dex tracked you with his intense stare like a predator as you floated around your desk. He leaned back in the chair and spread his legs wide for you to fit between, and he eyed the hem of your dress hungrily. As you hauled yourself up onto the edge of your desk, you realized you’d never been this near to him before. He was even bigger up close.
He licked his lips as he watched you hike up your dress. Your fingers were trembling as you lifted your hips slightly to slip your lacy panties down your legs. When you slowly spread your thighs, Dex inhaled sharply, and his gaze zeroed in on your glistening cunt.
“Goddamn, Doc. You’ve been holdin’ out on me.”
He didn’t hesitate to lean in, dragging his tongue languidly through your drenched pussy, letting out a groan as he savored your taste. The warmth of his eager tongue and the vibration from his groan made your eyes flutter, and you gripped the edge of the desk with a soft whimper.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about how good you’d taste, how pretty you’d be.”
He took his time, taking another slow lick before turning his head slightly to gently nip at your inner thigh, earning another whimper from you. His pupils were completely dilated when he looked up at you from between your thighs.
“But I gotta tell you, sweetheart, the real thing is so much fucking better.”
Immediately his tongue found your clit, giving it a few swift flicks before suctioning his lips around it, and your eyes nearly rolled as you dipped your head back, your hand instinctively flying down to grip at his hair. He growled when you tugged at his roots, and the obscene sound of slurping was the only noise that combated your breathy panting and moans. The metal chains connected to his cuffs were cold against the backs of your thighs, digging into your skin in a way that was sure to leave indented evidence.
“Oh God-”
It was a subconscious reaction when you started to roll your hips, but he didn’t seem to mind that you were essentially riding his face. He groaned against your pussy, his tongue spreading you open and slipping inside you while you grinded your clit against his nose and clamped your thighs around his head.
You hadn’t realized you’d grabbed onto one of his cuffed hands until you felt him interlace your fingers together and squeeze your hand, a silent gesture of encouragement. You tried to be mindful of the fact that there were guards outside, but God it just felt so good. Dex was tearing noises from you that you’d never heard yourself make, and he made you feel things that only a battery operated toy had ever been able to conjure.
“Fuck…Dex…”
He pulled away just for a moment to glance up at you and growl out a command.
“Let me touch you.”
You were nodding fervently in an instant, and Dex hooked his hands under the backs of your knees to pull your legs over his broad shoulders. His reach was limited by the handcuffs, and the metal was biting into his skin as he pushed the boundaries of his restraints to be able to touch you, but he didn’t stop. One of his hands firmly gripped your thigh, and with his other he slipped two of his fingers inside you right as he wrapped his lips around your clit again.
Your mouth dropped open in a silent scream when his skilled fingers swiftly found that special spot inside you, stroking it in a ‘come hither’ motion while pumping his digits and suckling at your clit. Both of your hands were now tangled in his hair, and your thighs had started to quiver around his head while your breathing was reduced to choppy, staccato gasps.
“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck-”
Dex grunted at how roughly you tugged at his hair, tightening his grip on your trembling thigh. He was fingering you faster and harder, flicking his tongue over your clit like a metronome at high speed. When his teeth just barely grazed over your sensitive bundle of nerves, you completely shattered.
By the time you climaxed on his tongue, you were practically hugging his head between your shaking thighs, hunched over as a wave of raw pleasure cascaded throughout your body, leaving a tingling feeling of bliss behind. One of your hands had let go of his hair to clamp your own hand over your mouth to muffle a euphoric cry that was accompanied by wrecked whimpers as Dex kept licking your pussy, drawing out your orgasm, swirling his tongue like he was collecting sweet cream dripping down an ice cream cone.
“Dex…fuck…please-”
You begged for mercy with a whine as you pushed at his head, trying to escape his delectable torment. He still had his lips wrapped around your swollen clit, and the hum he let out that vibrated against the hyper sensitive bundle of nerves felt like getting shocked with a jolt. He chuckled against your core at how your body jerked in response. Releasing your clit with a soft pop, he finally leaned back to look up at you with a glistening grin. The lower half of his face coated in your wetness, and when he licked his lips, his eyes were almost as hazy as your own.
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.
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. That’s when you realised his lines were non-active. 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 fingers 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. “After he scared me, after he thought those things about you, after he came in so loud, when he was outside with you and he upset you, 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! 🫶💕❤️
ROUGH HANDS, STRAWBERRY KISSES & OTHER SOFT THINGS
farmer!bucky barnes x teacher!reader [26.2k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: navigating your first relationship feels overwhelming at times—every touch, every question, every new feeling makes you wonder if you’re doing things right. thankfully, bucky loves you with enough patience and gentleness to turn every new experience into a reason to hold you a little closer. or, a collection of moments in which your boyfriend teaches you that love was never supposed to feel frightening—not when it’s held in careful hands like his.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; pre-established relationship; older!bucky (he's just mentioned to be older than reader, but both age are unspecified); gentle!bucky; protective!bucky; insecure!reader; reader is mentioned to wear skirts & dresses; size difference (author likes her men tall & beefy); non-sexual & light d/s dynamic; pet names feast & praise festival; reader uses jamie a lot bc the author finds it cute & intimate; domestic fluff; tooth-rooting romance; light angst; one (1) small argument; discussion about dealing with arguments in a healthy way; toxic family dynamics (reader's parents mentioned); brief discussion about the future & having kids; smut; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); soft dom!bucky; scent kink & possessive behavior; nipple play; pussy pronouns; pussy inspection; oral (f receiving); fingering; sex in public places; unprotected sex (I imagined reader to be on the pill but nothing is mentioned); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; squirting; creampie.
A/N: so... I won’t lie, I’m a little anxious. this story is extremely self-indulgent and stems from a deeply personal place. I know it might not be many people’s cup of tea but writing this was actually therapeutic after my friend gave me a sort of reality check about my love life lmao. one last thing, the order is not chronological. hope you’ll enjoy!
series masterlist
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO WEAR MATCHING CLOTHES
Sitting cross-legged on your bed, your laptop is balanced precariously on your thighs. The cursor has been hovering over the same cream-colored sweatshirt for almost twenty minutes now, your eyes flicking uselessly between the product picture and the tiny sizing chart beneath it as if either one could help with the actual problem here.
Because unfortunately the problem is not the hoodie per se, but that Bucky owns the exact same one. Well, almost exact. His is a beautiful shade of forest green, faded slightly at the cuffs from use and permanently smelling like fresh air, and the cedar and rose body wash he keeps in his shower. You saw it weeks ago, the first time he picked you up to drive you to work because you had planned to grab dinner together later. His broad shoulders easily filled the doorway of your house, holding two coffees and wearing that stupid hoodie that somehow made him look even larger. You remember trying to subtly peek at it while he drove, only to end up staring shamelessly at the way the sleeves strained around his forearms every time he turned the steering wheel.
And now here you are, thinking about matching clothes like a sixteen-year-old girl with a Pinterest board titled someday. It’s embarrassing enough that you need to physically close the laptop for a couple of seconds, before opening it again with a sigh.
You don’t even know why this matters so much. You have never done this before—the soft, easy parts of a relationship. You have never had someone long enough to build small habits with, someone steady enough that you could easily picture yourself sharing jokes only the two of you could understand over morning coffee, or reaching for their hand in the grocery store without spending days working up the courage first. You are still learning how to ask for things without feeling guilty afterward. Still learning how to want openly. And Bucky... God, Bucky makes it so much worse by being so impossibly patient about everything. From the very beginning.
Your first date had barely even started before he showed up with flowers hidden awkwardly behind his back, his left hand rubbing at the back of his neck almost sheepishly when he handed them to you.
“Before you say anything, sweetheart, my mama raised me right and she’d come back from the dead to beat my ass if I showed up empty-handed.”
Your laugh was so loud and unexpected that he stared at you for a good moment like he had just been entrusted with a beautiful, precious gem.
Then there was the second date. And the third. And somehow every single time, he never failed to surprise you with his sweet thoughtfulness. Sometimes it was wildflowers from his property he’d personally tie together with twine. Sometimes big yet tasteful bouquets of stargazer lilies that you would immediately put in a vase and proudly display on your dining table. Once, peonies so full and soft they had shed pink petals all over the inside of his truck.
He opened every door without making it feel performative, always guiding you carefully with one warm hand on your lower back as if that had become instinct before he even realized it. And then came the night of your fourth day, when he walked you to your door, lingering awkwardly while you fumbled with your keys.
You remember smiling nervously. “So… what exactly are we doing here?”
Bucky had taken a long moment to look at you, blue eyes softening under the faint light of your doorstep. “I was hoping I could court you properly.”
Court you. Who even says that anymore? Apparently, James Buchanan Barnes.
You stared at him while your heartbeat climbed into your throat. And because silence had stretched a little too long, he had immediately stepped in to reassure you.
“Only if you want me to, sweetheart. No pressure.”
No pressure. As if he had not already made your entire understanding of men shift off its axis.
Sometimes, it frightened you how naturally Bucky fit into your life. It started with warm drinks and pastries between classes because, “my pretty girl shouldn’t have to survive on burnt coffee from that old thing in the staff room”; with calling you every night just to hear your voice before bed, and taking you out on dates every Friday. Yet he could not stand going the rest of the week without seeing you, which was how sunny Sunday walks around his property became routine, along with Wednesday lunches at the little diner where his aunt’s friend, Pat, worked and spent the entirety of your meals watching the two of you with the sort of fondness reserved for people who are obviously in love yet keep shyly tiptoeing around each other.
Bucky loves intensely in all the quietest ways, which somehow makes asking for things complicated. Because what if one day you asked for something silly enough that made him realize how inexperienced you really were at all this?
Your eyes land back on the hoodie again as you chew at the inside of your cheek. Before you can overthink yourself out of it, you click purchase.
The first time you wear it around him is for movie night next Saturday. You have been shaking with excitement for weeks over the special twenty-fifth-anniversary screening of The Lord of the Rings. Bucky had agreed to come with you without even letting you finish explaining why it mattered so much, only to follow it up with an amused, “don’t gotta sell it to me, doll. I’ll take you wherever you wanna go.”
You almost change three times before he arrives. By the time his truck pulls up in your driveway, your stomach is churning so badly you feel like throwing up. It’s a hoodie that just happens to be like his, so what? People wear hoodies every day, they’re such a common piece of clothing... This is not a confession of undying love.
Still, the moment you pull open your door and find Bucky waiting on the other side like he’s been standing there just long enough to start missing you, you realize the sweater has perhaps not been your most emotionally neutral decision. His eyes find your face immediately, his default frown melting at once. But before he can even say hi, his gaze drops on the cream-colored fabric. You watch with horror the exact moment recognition settles in.
There is a brief, heavy pause, and then that slow, familiar curve of his mouth appears—not teasing in any cruel sense, never that. Just quietly pleased, enough that heat crawls all the way up your neck. And because your brain seems biologically incapable of letting you experience vulnerability like most people, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
“I thought the color looked nice.” The words tumble over each other so quickly they barely sound coherent by the end of the sentence.
Bucky blinks, clearly caught off guard by your sudden defensiveness, before one dark eyebrow lifts, amusement flickering across his face in the gentlest possible way.
“Nobody said it didn’t, baby.”
You promptly look away as if the floor might offer some kind of mercy, pretending to be preoccupied with the sleeve of your hoodie while internally mourning what little dignity you have left. Bucky doesn’t let you sit in it alone for long, though. Taking a step closer, his warm presence is grounding enough that all the static noise in your brain fades. His hands naturally find your waist like they have always belonged there, before he softly nudges you forward.
“C’mere, sweetheart. Let me say hi properly.” He murmurs, leaning down to press a slow kiss on your lips, grinning at your unguarded, little giggle when his stubble tickles your skin.
The cold evening air makes you shiver, and you instinctively tug your sleeves further over your hands while Bucky leads you to his pickup truck, parked beneath a flickering streetlamp. You can sense his quiet amusement, though he is kind enough not to mention the hoodie outright. Still, every now and then you catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye with that same smitten expression reserved for you only.
Once you reach the passenger side, Bucky opens the door before you can even think about touching the handle yourself, one hand braced against the top of the frame while you climb inside.
“Watch your head.”
You duck obediently beneath his arm, trying very hard not to think about how quickly you have fallen into these tiny routines with him.
As Bucky rounds the hood and slides into the driver’s seat, your heart finally starts calming down. You might survive the evening with minimal humiliation, after all. But then, he just has to reach across and smoothly pull the seatbelt into place for you—the way his knuckles brush your thigh briefly through the fabric of your jeans still manages to send your thoughts scattering again.
“You’re fidgeting.” He mentions quietly, eyes flicking toward your hands where they are twisting nervously in the sleeves of your hoodie. “What’s going on in that pretty head, hm?”
You shake your head, far too quickly to look convincing.
“Nothing. I’m just a little cold.”
Bucky hums under his breath like he doesn’t believe you for even a second, yet doesn’t comment and instead lets his gaze fall on your sweater one more time before returning to your face. The smile that spreads slowly across his lips is so openly fond that your cheeks start burning.
In a careful movement, he leans over the center console and kisses you, his calloused fingers cupping your jaw with impossible tenderness.
“You look lovely tonight.”
That almost makes your heart explode out of your chest.
The next time he picks you up for lunch on your day off, your breath hitches as you freeze on the threshold. Because Bucky is leaning against the hood of his truck in his dark green sweatshirt, looking so boyishly handsome with his sunglasses pushed up into his long hair.
His expression loosens when he sees your features fall in realization. God, he looks so unfairly gorgeous when he gets that look in his eyes, the same one that suggests every sharp edge exists only for the rest of the world, never for you.
“There’s my pretty girl.”
Your stomach flips violently as he pushes himself off the imposing vehicle to cross the short distance, his hands easily settling at your hips the second he reaches you. He bends to kiss you hello, unhurried despite the cold, and your palms unconsciously come up to touch his chest.
“I missed you so much, baby.”
You are still too busy internally combusting to softly point out that you just saw each other two days ago for bowling night with your friends, Natasha and Darcy. Your fingers curl tighter in the fabric, and Bucky notices instantly.
His thumbs stroke once the curve of your waist. “You okay?”
You nod eagerly.
“You wore it.” The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them, gaze still lingering on the hoodie in pure wonder.
Bucky glances down at himself, and then at your own sweater before meeting your eyes, the right corner of his mouth lifting adorably.
“Thought we’d look real cute if we matched.”
You feel dizzy at his effortless answer, devoid of any trace of irony or hesitation. And that’s the thing about Bucky, you realize again as you stand there trying to steady your pulse: he doesn’t treat these moments like anything out of the ordinary. He simply folds them into the shape of his care for you.
Before you can collect yourself enough to answer, he is already guiding you forward with an arm around your shoulders, opening the passenger door ahead of you with that same practiced care. The warmth of the truck hits you almost dazedly after standing still in the cold.
“Heat’s been on for a bit.” He remarks at your blink of surprise as he settles into the driver’s seat, his chin lightly nodding at the backseat, where two of his heavier jackets are folded neatly, placed with deliberate care so they will not shift during the drive. Beside them a fuzzy blanket sits just as methodically arranged.
“I know it’s not the warmest of hoodies.”
When you look back at him, he sends you a small wink. At your stunned silence, his fingers gently move beneath your chin to have your complete attention, your heart already beating too fast for you to pretend otherwise.
“You alright there, doll?” He asks with a small crease between his brows.
You nod too quickly, not entirely sure what words would even hold up under the weight of everything you are feeling right now. Bucky lets out a low sound that might almost be a laugh if it were not so gentle, and then he is leaning in just enough to press a peck to the corner of your mouth.
“Y’know, I think I’m getting attached to this whole matching thing. Sends a pretty clear message.” He murmurs against your skin.
From that point on, it’s an unspoken agreement that has tenderly carved its rightful place between you both. It never turns into a conversation so much as it becomes a habit for the two of you. A jacket chosen to match the tone of your skirt, a top swapped for a darker color, small details that only make sense when you realize he’s genuinely paying attention to you, building your relationship one quiet choice at a time.
And months later, there are mornings when he is sitting at the edge of the bed with coffee in hand, his eyes lazily following you move around his room as you get ready. They eventually land on your shoes.
“You wearing the brown boots today?”
You glance down at your outfit, confirming it with a small nod as you keep applying your mascara. Bucky hums once in acknowledgment, already pushing himself up with a low groan to reach for his own pair in the shoe rack.
“Then I’ll wear mine.” He mumbles casually.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO TAKE A CUTE PICTURE TOGETHER
The local café is a half-forgotten hole-in-the-wall tucked between a bookstore and a florist, the kind that only feels busy because the tables are close enough that conversations blur into one another in a soft, overlapping hum. Today it’s warmer than usual for the season, sunlight spilling lazily across the pavement outside almost indulgently after days of grey skies and persistent rain. It coaxes people into lingering longer than they probably intend to as though no one is in any particular rush to leave.
You are sitting across from Bucky at a small round table on the patio, your cups half-full and an empty plate sitting between you, remnants of the slice of red velvet cake you shared earlier still scattered across it. He stepped away only a few minutes ago, murmuring something about the restroom and brushing his knuckles briefly against your shoulder as he left.
In an attempt to occupy yourself while you wait, you take out your phone, your thumb moving absentmindedly across the screen as you scroll through whatever comes up. Until a specific post catches your attention so suddenly it stops you entirely.
It’s one of those photos you have seen countless times while looking for outfit inspirations on Pinterest, clearly curated despite its effortless appearance. A girl sits on what you assume must be her boyfriend’s lap while the camera is angled downward just enough to capture their shoes together, his heavy worn boots resting beside her delicate heels. The entire image is framed in warm light that makes it look like wanting something and simply having it without hesitation.
The contrast is cute rather than discordant.
You find yourself stuck on that picture as your chest tightens, because there are still so many small things that you don’t know how to ask for yet, things that feel too silly to voice even though they linger in your mind longer than you would like to admit. A lap. A picture. His boots beside your pretty Mary Jane heels… It feels ridiculous to desire it this badly, yet you keep staring at your phone as if hesitation could soften the sting of being dismissed. Or worse, laughed at.
You don’t notice Bucky returning until the chair across from you shifts under his weight, the scrape of it pulling you sharply into the present as you instinctively place your phone back on the table a tad too quickly for it to look natural. He sits down pretending to not have noticed any of it, reaching for his coffee.
“Alright, lovely?” He asks, voice unbothered.
You open your mouth, then close it again almost immediately, your mind caught between embarrassment and the awareness of how easily he always seems to understand you. Bucky notices your uncertainty, but doesn’t push, instead loosely rests his forearms on the table to lean closer.
“Hey,” his voice lowers just enough to gently pull you out of your thoughts. “What were you saying before I got up? About yesterday’s meeting?”
It’s such a simple question yet it almost disarms you completely. People don’t usually do that—they interrupt you to start new conversations, change direction, lose track halfway through and then forget about it entirely. But Bucky is looking at you like your words were simply waiting there for him to return to them.
So you blink once, a little startled, then slowly exhale as memories come back with a sharp pang. About that stupid staff meeting. About Ms. Cox.
The words come out carefully at first, testing how much space you are allowed to take up, but the more you speak, the clearer Bucky can see frustration still fresh beneath your composure.
“There is this student, Mark. Ms. Cox keeps insisting that he’s lazy and just—” You exhale tiredly. “She believes he doesn’t care about school.”
His jaw subtly tenses as he nods for you to go on.
“And I tried to explain that it isn’t that simple,” you continue, your fingers fidgeting on your lap. “Because it’s true that he struggles with math, but he works really hard, always does his best. He just needs time. And she… well, she went off on me.”
His brows draw together. “Went off how?”
Your eyes fall on the table before you adjust in your seat, as if moving could shake off the discomfort.
“She accused me of inflating grades to make myself look like a good teacher.” You admit quietly, the accusation leaving behind an ugly taste of shame on your tongue despite your innocence. “Because students do well in English. Including Mark.”
You can practically sense Bucky biting back his irritation, his frown deepening as he watches you shrink just talking about it.
“And the principal just let it slide?” His voice roughens slightly at the edges despite his effort to keep it even.
You huff out a small breath that resembles a laugh, devoid of any humor. “She has been teaching there forever. They just don’t deal with her anymore. Alice described her as—ah, sorry. Alice is the—”
“The art teacher.”
You finally look at him, blinking in surprise.
“Yeah.”
He gives you a small nod, a brief smile crossing his features.
“I remember.”
“Oh.” You have mentioned your colleagues only once since you started going steady, your meager dating experience having taught you that nobody was really interested in your life—especially your job. They focused more on meaningless, polite conversations punctuated by some generic compliment about your eyes, or your dress, that could guarantee them some sort of reward at the end of the night.
“Um.” You clear your throat, trying to ignore the intensity of his gaze. “So, Alice described her as a vindictive woman and since she’s close to retirement, they let her do whatever she wants because it’s easier than arguing with her.”
You hesitate for a second. “Years ago, there was this new physical education teacher...” Your voice lowers a little as if she might appear out of thin air and point her condescending finger at you. “She refused to approve his one-day school trip unless it was on her day off, because she didn’t want her schedule disrupted.”
Your jaw clenches briefly. “He told the principal… and after that she kept filing complaint after complaint about his ‘lack of professionalism’, until the school ended up not renewing his contract the next year.”
“What the fuck?” He mumbles under his breath, his lips pressing together tightly. “Wait—and they just expect you to take it?” His nostrils flare with a slow exhale.
“Pretty much.” You shrug, though it feels heavier than you intend.
For a moment, Bucky just sits there with his jaw tight as he chooses to not push his annoyance outward yet, mainly because he is waiting for you to let it all out. It’s in that pause that your eyes move unconsciously to the side of the table. Your phone is still there, the screen dark now, but not locked properly. You realize it too late, when a notification from that stupid teachers’ group chat—the one filled with nothing but good morning texts, good night wishes, and painfully unfunny memes—briefly wakes it and reveals that picture again, bright and candid.
Bucky’s attention promptly lands on it too. He doesn’t comment, which only makes your stomach tighten further as you hastily reach for your phone, turning it face down with too much force.
“What was that?” He asks casually, quiet curiosity dancing in his eyes.
“Nothing.” You answer too fast and his eyes narrow slightly, more observant than suspicious.
“That didn’t exactly sound like nothing, sweetheart.”
You hesitate, then deflect again, weaker this time. “Just a random picture.” You shrug, hoping to appear disinterested. “I was on Instagram and forgot to close it.”
That earns a pause from him, his head tilting just a fraction as he studies you more carefully.
“A picture you don’t wanna show me?” He asks gently.
You shake your head, eyes shyly falling on his arms. At that, Bucky simply shifts in his seat, his hand crossing the small space between you—not to take your phone, but to find your wrist and gently guide it to his lips. When you peek through your eyelashes, you almost flinch at how close he is now, his thumb reverently stroking your knuckles before his other hand cups your chin deliberately.
“You can tell me anything.” His voice is steady in a way that doesn’t leave room for pressure, only reassurance. “Y’know that, right?”
You shiver at the proximity. You do know, that’s the problem, how could you forget when Bucky stands before you, always so careful and sweet? And still, you are never entirely sure how to stop the words from breaking in your mouth.
“I just… saw something,” you confess weakly. “That I thought would be cute to recreate together.”
Bucky’s expression softens instantly.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
You swallow thickly, fingers flexing once under his hand. Then, barely above a whisper, you manage it. “I’d like for us to take pictures like… couples do.”
He observes you silently, expression unreadable, until a small smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, patient and knowing all at once. He nudges his chair back a little farther to make room for you, patting his thigh once.
“C’mere.”
You blink. “What?”
He nods toward his lap.
“C’mere, doll.” He repeats quietly, reaching for your wrist before you can overthink yourself into refusing, to guide you around the table.
The realization of what you are doing hits in one overwhelming wave of self-consciousness the second your weight fully sinks on his lap. Bucky is bigger than you in every conceivable way, broader and heavier with muscle, solid where you are soft. His thick forearm dusted with dark hair keeps you close to the warmth of his chest, and his strong thighs spread comfortably beneath yours. When his palm settles on your knee to keep you balanced, the rough heat of his skin bleeds straight through the thin fabric of your stockings, and a small involuntary shiver runs through you. It’s humiliating how dizzy it makes you feel, because Bucky appears completely at peace behind you. You are trying not to implode from his touch and there he is, sitting back and holding you as if that’s exactly where you are meant to be.
Your unsteady hands finally reach for your phone, trying to angle it properly, breath catching a little when his fingers flex against your waist.
“You’re thinking way too hard.” He murmurs near your ear, his salt-and-pepper stubble faintly scratching your skin.
“I’m not.” You insist weakly.
Bucky hums low in his chest, unconvinced, the sound of it vibrating through his body into yours.
“Baby,” he calls out gently, mirth lying beneath his words. “You’ve taken six pictures of the table.”
Your face burns.
“I’m trying.” You mumble horrified, sighing in relief when you finally manage to frame your shoes correctly while he chuckles behind you.
“I know. You’re doing just fine, sweetheart. Take all the time you need...” He releases a slow exhale, then under his breath, “I’m definitely not complaining right now.”
The faint rasp in his voice and the way his thumb strokes the skin of your knee only make your pulse stumble harder. Finally, after another moment of fumbling and readjusting yourself against him, you manage to take a few proper photos.
The knot in your chest loosens gradually as you look through them. They are good. Not overly posed or awkward as you feared, but cute and intimate in that effortless way you had envied earlier. His scuffed work boots are beside your neat Mary Janes, your knees tucked between his jeans-clad ones, the edge of his large hand visible against your thigh like a quiet reminder that the man holding you is very much real, and that’s him.
A coy smile brightens your features. It’s a small, absent-minded gesture, yet Bucky is completely enraptured.
“There she is.” A comment under his breath, meant for himself.
You feel him lean closer to look over your shoulder, his chin brushing your cheek as his gaze settles on the screen, and the expression that crosses his face afterward is so openly proud that you feel the sudden urge to squirm out of giddiness.
“They came out pretty nice, huh?”
You nod before turning back to properly look at him, still smiling.
“Thank you, Jamie.”
The words leave your mouth instinctively, sincere. Still, Bucky furrows his brows at you. His hand leaves your knee to curl delicately around your chin, guiding your face until your eyes meet properly.
“You don’t need to thank me.” His voice low but firm—a fact rather than a suggestion. “I love spending time with my girl. Y’hear me, baby?”
Your next breath catches in your throat so fast you almost choke on it. His expression softens further at whatever he sees on your face, his thumb stroking once your bottom lip before he closes the distance between your lips.
“You ask me for something, I’m gonna give it to you if I can.” He adds quietly against your mouth.
You swallow thickly, answering with an imperceptible nod that makes him hum, pleased. For a while, it’s just you and him. Tucked against his chest with the phone still loose in your hand, you sit sideways on his lap, his arm tightening around your waist the more your body grows pliant. The initial embarrassment melts into pure bliss once his forehead comes to rest on yours, his blue eyes fiercely glinting with devotion as they trace your pretty features.
You would probably stay here all afternoon if you could: no talking needed, just the safety of his arms. Eventually, though, duty creeps back in enough that you stiffen slightly, and Bucky loosens his hold at once, watching you get up. The hand on your thigh lingers for one last meaningful squeeze, goosebumps prickling across your covered skin.
The second your feet touch the ground again, you suddenly become aware of your slow breathing; of how his touch made you completely forget that you were sitting in your boyfriend’s lap, making out in the middle of a café situated on the main street, for anyone to see.
“I should probably go.” You mumble, smoothing your flowy dress unnecessarily to avoid his eyes.
A small smirk tugs at his lips at your clumsy attempt to regain composure.
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
By the time you reach the parking lot, your embarrassment has faded into a fuzzy tingle in the back of your head. Bucky opens the driver’s side door for you without breaking stride, one large hand resting automatically against the top of the frame while you climb inside. Your movements are a little languid as you place your palms on his chest for another kiss—quick and sweet and still a little flustered—but before you can pull away fully, his fingers close gently around your wrists.
“Send me those pictures later.”
You almost flinch in surprise. “You want them?”
That earns you a look.
“Sweetheart,” he starts slowly, like the answer should be painfully obvious by now. “Of course I want the pictures we took together.”
You promise you will do that once you get home, and Bucky lets you go only after one last heated kiss that has you sighing dreamily the entire drive back.
Later that night, long after you have changed into pajamas and curled beneath your blankets, your phone lights up with a message from him. It’s a reel of a chubby orange cat dramatically rolling onto its back for belly rubs. The giggle that falls from your lips is immediate, because you know how much Bucky loves these silly videos.
Still smiling, you tap back to reply but your fingers freeze, because his profile picture has changed. And there, framed in a tiny circle at the top of the screen, are your shoes beside his boots.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WEAR HIS CLOTHES FOR THE FIRST TIME
Bucky’s bedroom smells like him. Not cologne, or any sharp, artificial department store fragrance sprayed onto stiff collars and wrists... but a scent warm and lived-in. Cedar and clean detergent tangle together with fresh air drifting in through cracked windows, traces of earth and hay and early morning breeze clinging stubbornly to heavy fabrics, no matter how many times they are washed.
The whole house smells like sun-warmed wood floors and open fields after rain. Like stepping onto his farm and understanding right away why he belongs there.
The shower is running somewhere down the hallway after a long day spent driving deliveries back and forth across town, leaving you curled near the headboard with the remote in your hand, halfheartedly scrolling through movies while waiting for Bucky to come back. Your attention drifts eventually, pulled away from the television by the sight of one of his flannels folded over the chair near the dresser. It’s clean, probably left there after laundry day, thick dark fabric softened with wear. Before you can really stop yourself, your gaze lingers.
There is something strangely intimate about wearing someone else’s clothes. Not just in the obvious sense. It’s like stepping quietly into the shape of their life, wrapping yourself in something that has spent time caressing their skin, that carries their warmth and scent and the evidence of their existence in every seam. And maybe that’s exactly why your heart flutters at the thought. You stare at the flannel for another few seconds before finally setting the remote aside and climbing off the bed, moving almost cautiously toward the chair like it might bite you halfway there.
With a meaningful glance toward the door, you listen to the muted sound of running water, before carefully lifting it from the chair. The moment you pull it closer, his scent fills your lungs completely, clean and grounding and unmistakably Bucky. Without thinking too hard about it, you peel off your own sweater and slip his shirt on instead. The sleeves hang long past your wrists as the heavy fabric settles warmly around your body, and suddenly you are standing in front of the mirror near his dresser, turning slightly from side to side while smoothing your hands absently over the front buttons.
You feel ridiculously happy. Safe, somehow. Because it reminds your body that it never needs to stay on guard if he is there.
For a moment, you simply stand there smiling privately at your reflection. You are so entranced by it that you barely notice the bathroom door opening.
“Hey doll, did I tell you that yesterday those sneaky ducks nearly knocked over—”
Bucky stops mid-sentence. The silence that follows is sharp enough to make your stomach drop.
You glance at him through the mirror with wide eyes and freeze. He is standing just outside the bedroom doorway with his hair still damp from the shower, a grey henley stretched across his chest while he drags a towel over the back of his neck, but all movement stops the second his eyes land on you.
On his flannel wrapped around your body.
His gaze languidly follows your curves like he is trying to commit them to memory, scared you might vanish like some beautiful, cruel dream. Because his girl is standing barefoot in his bedroom wrapped in pieces of his life. And Bucky looks at you like he just forgot how to breathe.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, heat rushing into your face as you turn around. “I’m so sorry, I—I saw it there and—”
The towel drops forgotten onto the end of the bed as he carefully shortens the distance. The closer he gets, the quieter you become, until the only sound left is the faint clucking of the chickens outside.
Up close, you swallow at his gentle eyes, though there is something else lingering beneath them, proud and possessive.
“Are you apologizing for wearing my shirt?” He lifts an eyebrow.
Your lips part unhelpfully, but they close again on a second thought. Bucky’s eyes flick toward the sleeves swallowing your hands before he reaches out, large fingers carefully rolling the cuffs back for you one at a time, movements unhurried and practiced despite the roughness his hands are used to.
“There,” he murmurs. “Better.”
When he finally glances back at your face, there is a spark of amusement dancing in his gaze. “You keeping this one, sweetheart?”
“What?” The question catches you off guard enough that you huff out an embarrassed chuckle.
“The shirt,” he nods at it, still delighted. “Think it’s yours now.”
“Bucky, no. I can’t just steal it.”
“Sure you can.” He shrugs easily.
Your eyes widen. “What—no!”
A real smile finally breaks properly across his face, devastatingly fond.
“Angel,” he murmurs patiently, hands warm against your waist. “You’re standing in my bedroom looking happier than you have all week. Think I’d be pretty stupid to ask for it back.”
You awkwardly tuck your chin down, studying your socks.
“You’re exaggerating.”
A quiet laugh falls from his lips. “You were twirling around in front of the mirror.”
Your head snaps up at that, your jaw dropping indignantly.
“I was not!”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was simply checking how it fit.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Before you can argue back, his hands slide a little more securely around your back to pull you closer, eyes dropping briefly to the flannel.
“Looks better on you anyway.” He murmurs.
“That’s a lie.” You focus on a spot on his neck, too shy to meet his gaze.
“Ain’t.”
“It’s your shirt.” You retort weakly.
“Not anymore.”
The certainty in his tone makes your stomach flip. Bucky watches the reaction happen in real time, something unbearably tender crossing his face at your attempt to further hide from his gaze, before he leans just enough for his forehead to touch yours.
“Y’know,” he starts casually, thumbs rubbing slow circles on your sides through the fabric. “I like seeing you in my clothes a little too much to complain about it.”
Your chest warms at the sincerity in his voice, yet you keep stubbornly staring at his chest, trying and failing to stop the grin tugging at your mouth.
“I think that would get out of hand very fast.” You mumble, finally meeting his eyes.
He smirks down at you. “Would it now?”
“You have a lot of nice flannels.” Your arms wrap around his neck, prompting him to get impossibly closer.
“Mhm.”
“And your hoodies are comfortable.” The tip of your nose brushes his.
“That so?” His brows shoot up playfully.
“And your jackets smell good.” You admit before you can stop yourself.
That finally earns you a proper grin. Far too pleased with himself.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls. “You’re in real trouble then.”
You groan tiredly, throwing your head back in despair but his arms don’t allow you to stray too far from him.
“Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not making fun of you.” His hands settle more firmly. “Just thinking I oughta start keeping extras around.”
His brows then lift as though he has just reached a very reasonable conclusion.
“Actually,” he corrects himself, voice thoughtful. “Might need to make a rule.”
You squint up at him suspiciously. “A rule?”
“Yeah.” He nods once, completely serious despite the subtle, teasing smile. “Think the second you walk through my front door, you’re legally required to put on one of my flannels.”
“Legally required?” You ask unimpressed.
“Mm-hmm.”
You shake your head pensively. “I really don’t think you can do that, Jamie.”
“Sweetheart, I own the property.” His expression turns impressively solemn, his lips grazing yours as he speaks.
“Means I make the laws around here.”
A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, bright enough that Bucky beams at the unguarded sound.
“No exceptions either, baby. Could be ninety degrees outside, I don’t care. Flannel goes on.” He hugs you tighter, his next words nothing short than a low murmur in your ear.
“Don’t even need to wear anything else underneath.” A squeak unexpectedly falls from your lips as his palms land briefly on your ass, squeezing the soft flesh before sliding back on your waist.
You sigh fondly despite the heat crawling up your neck. “This is the dumbest rule I’ve ever heard.”
“And yet,” his eyes drop briefly to the flannel before returning to your face. “Here you are.”
At some point, Bucky doesn’t announce it anymore. The moment you step inside the farmhouse, he’s already reaching for one of his flannels and holding it out—doesn’t matter if you’re staying for hours or just long enough to share a meal and a quiet evening that doesn’t demand anything from either of you. And then he’s crossing the distance between you in a few unhurried steps to pull you into his chest. He lowers his face into the slope of your neck, and breathes in deeply, again and again, like he needs the second breath more than the first.
Something unmistakably you—familiar, layered with the faintly sweet body cream you always use—mixes with his own scent that lingers in the weave of the flannel, worn-in and musky. His shoulders drop every time unfailingly, the tension he carries out in the world has no choice but to disappear.
His obsession for your scent doesn’t stop there, it only exacerbates when you are finally lying on his sheets, the two halves of the flannel crumpled at your sides as Bucky pants against your chest. He kisses you desperately, clutching your bare thighs until you are left warm and moaning under his roaming hands caressing your body with reverence. His palms map the dip of your waist, stroking along your ribs, until they encompass the swell of your breasts, gently kneading the skin as his lips trace a wet path from your mouth to that sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you whine so sweetly.
Your lips part around a breathy squeak the moment the calloused pads of his thumbs delicately circle your nipples, a low hum vibrates unintentionally in his chest at how fast they harden.
“Wanna hear you, princess.” He murmurs against your collarbones. “Let me hear how good it feels, c’mon.”
Bucky takes his time. You feel as light as cotton candy in his arms, sighing at every brush of his lips against your nipples. His mouth is hot and his tongue eager against the tender surface.
“Jamie!” You gasp as he starts sucking. His hand fondles the other breast, whimpers filling the dark room as his fingers playfully tug and flick your nub until your back arches so beautifully. His other hand grasps your thigh, leaving behind delicious reminders of his lust.
The gentle licks soon turn into harsher suckles, and your hands shoot forward to anchor yourself—one of them twists the sheets until your fingers hurt, the other sinks into his locks. Bucky exhales sharply at the light sting when your fingers pull at his hair, loving how the wet sounds bounce off the walls.
“Prettiest tits I’ve ever seen.” He growls.
“Jamie, it’s—oh my God.” Your head falls back when his lips take care of your other nipple, the one left behind now damp and tingling.
“Mhm, I know princess, they’re so sensitive. You gonna come in your cute panties?” You nod eagerly. Bucky’s dark eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features like a predator observing his prey, his mouth wicked on your poor abused nubs. Until the pressure in your belly is just too strong, and to your sheer surprise, your orgasm hits you out of nowhere. Your breasts are tingling with sensitivity, your hips frantically humping the air as your pussy throbs painfully at the lack of stimulation, clenching around nothing.
“That’s it, my needy girl. Look at you, coming just from having your tits sucked.” He grits out, giving your breasts one last, little smack a harsh squeeze.
Your skin is sticky and your lungs burning as Bucky finally moves between your shaky legs, peeling off your ruined panties with a swift, practiced movement. His calloused hands are firm on your thighs as they spread you open, silently watching your pussy as it pulses and drips, the unbearable ache mixing deliciously with the embarrassment of being this exposed for him—not a single ounce of shame in Bucky as he inspects it more thoroughly.
First, it’s his thumbs gently spreading your folds, his eyes devouring the way it tenses under his intense hunger. A shiver runs down your spine when his index finger slowly traces the tender slit, marveling at the way your slick sticks to his digit.
“Jamie...” You whine, your body—still so sensitive—lurching at his delicate teasing.
“Look at the pretty mess you made.” He whispers amazed, leaving a soothing kiss on your hipbone. You hear a sharp inhale as he buries his face into your core, his eyes rolling back at how strongly your scent hits his lungs. With blissful serenity written all over his face, his tongue starts lapping at your clit with lazy strokes. A strangled gasp falls from your lips at the sensation, your hips moving helplessly under the arm that blankets your stomach as Bucky hums satisfied at the drops of sweet arousal blessing his senses.
You almost choke on a delirious moan the moment a long finger slips inside, the hand grasping his sheets shooting down to grasp his wrist instead.
“Gonna bury my face here every morning, sweet girl.” He mumbles, a second finger joining the other inside you. “Make you soak my beard so I can smell your pussy all day at work.”
“Shit!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.
Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily nursing on your throbbing clit as his nostrils flare. It’s so messy, with his saliva dripping down his chin and the insatiable need to please you driving his hips wild against the mattress. You can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending biting sparks down your spine.
When he momentarily pulls away with a wet squelch, he groans in delight at the intoxicating taste. “C’mon princess, time to make a mess on my face.” He rumbles, mouth already latched back onto your clit, sucking with a steady rhythm as his fingers hit your sweet spot at the right speed.
Your body shakes from the unbearable pleasure washing over you, but Bucky refuses to stop, only pressing himself further into your clenching pussy, his tongue insistent as he pumps his fingers quickly.
“‘M gonna—Jamie!” You sob, hips jerking up as he pushes you right over the edge for a third time, this orgasm just as powerful as the others. Thoroughly consumed by him, you tremble and writhe, wailing when you squirt all over his face, soaking the sheets and your inner thighs as well. Bucky is not doing any better, resting his forehead on your mound. He tries to regain his breath after almost coming in his boxers as if touching a pretty, naked woman for the first time.
When he finally has a steadier grip on his self-control, he licks his lips with a low hum, shifting both of you until you are straddling him, your head lying limply on his chest as he plants sweet, little kisses on your forehead.
“Breathe, angel.” He murmurs, voice still rough with arousal. “You did so good for me, lovely.”
You blink, still spent and disoriented, but as his arms gently pull you higher, your sensitive core accidentally brushes against his erection. Bucky is still kissing you, noticing your little shiver but not thinking much about it—he knows you must be sleepy and tired. Yet he couldn’t be far from the truth.
Your hips gently rut against his thigh, squeaking under your breath when it finally touches your naked clit. Bucky’s body goes rigid for a heartbeat, suddenly catching on what’s going on in that pretty head of yours. You keep moving your hips, now thoroughly and shamelessly humping his thigh. His arms squeeze your waist hard, eliciting a surprised gasp out of you.
“What are you doing, doll?” He rasps out, his voice heavy with lust. He planned to take care of himself in the bathroom, maybe paint your tits with his cum if you insisted on helping... But how can he keep his composure with such a beautiful, sweet woman in his arms, so desperate for his touch?
Your head lifts enough for you to meet his gaze. “Please, Jamie.”
“Please what?” One of his hands grasps your jaw. “Use your words.”
You moan shamelessly, the warm tingle in your core impossible to ignore now. “Your cock... please.”
“You’re making a mess.” He mutters absently, his chest heaving at the sweet sight. And suddenly, his tongue is slowly tracing your bottom lip. A whimper escapes you, before his fingers tighten on your jaw as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he would with your pussy.
“You need my help, baby?” He reiterates, his gaze marveling at your fucked-out expression. At your eager nod, Bucky swallows thickly, fingers digging into your hips until you are forced to stop the desperate rocking motion of your hips.
It takes a single look at your big, shiny eyes and suddenly you are on your back, his cock so thick you start to tear up. “I know, I know. baby girl. It’s big, hm?” He coos, carefully kissing your cheeks and licking up the little tears like a ravenous beast.
“Eyes on me, princess… There you go, that’s a good girl.” Your mouth falls open into a perfect round shape, squeaking as his hips thrust forward leisurely. Bucky takes in the sight of your pussy stretched nicely around his length with pride burning hot in his chest. He would be lying if he said he isn’t getting impatient himself, unable to ignore anymore the fervent urge to see you unravel on his cock.
“Hold on to me.” You obey, eagerly wrapping your arms around his neck, your breasts pressed against his soft torso dusted in dark hair.
Once his cock slams right back into you, you gasp, nails digging into his back as he sets a brutal pace. The sounds of your skin slapping against his fill the room obscenely along your little whines of Jamie.
It only spurs him on because, “Fucking hell—yes, baby. Your Jamie.” Before searching your lips to pull you into a filthy kiss.
His calloused fingers dig into the plush of your ass, keeping you anchored to him just to see your eyes roll back at the delicious friction between your clit and his pubic hair.
“She’s so tight.” He grunts. “Keep clenching like that and I’ll make you leak for days.”
Your legs squeeze around his waist, drawing him impossibly deeper. “Please.”
He takes note of the way your eyes start to roll back as your pussy flutters eagerly, even if you do your best to keep them on him just like he told you... His pretty angel is always so good for him.
“Jamie...” You breathe out, body squirming between his sturdy arms built by years of hard work in the fields rather than gym. “’M so close—oh my God, yes right there!”
“I know, princess.” He mumbles, never breaking his rhythm. “Fuck, can feel her squeeze me so good, wanna keep me there forever, huh?” His lips twist smugly. “Don’t worry sweetheart, this cock’s all yours.”
Your breath stumbles in your throat as though there’s not enough air. Bucky is right there with you, brows pulled in concentration when he feels the familiar ache in his belly. His thrusts grow deeper, more purposeful, almost primal in their intensity, and you can tell by the tension in his jaw and the slight tremor in his arms, that he’s fighting for control. Even lost in pleasure, he is always putting you first.
“Tell me when you’re close.” He grits out, leaning down to steal a wet kiss that is more tongue than lips. “So I can fill my pussy up. That’s what you want, right princess? Wanna feel my cum drip out of you while you sit all cute watching me cook, hm?”
Your words come out in a warped, pathetic moan as he stuffs your mouth with two thick fingers. Your tongue is already playing with them, a sad whine clawing out of your throat when Bucky takes them out. It’s not even seconds later that you are tossing your head back, your words barely coherent as you tell him you are coming, his two wet fingers rubbing your clit at the right speed.
“That’s it.” He drawls through his teeth, his rhythm clumsily faltering at the thought of your pussy completely covered in his white cream. “Just like that, beautiful.”
Your vision blurs at the edges as pleasure consumes every single crevice of your body until your brain only knows how to scream your boyfriend’s name. Until there’s nothing but the delicious shape of his cock. You clench so tight his hips can barely move, pulsing and shaking around him as your hazy eyes cross, before rolling back.
Bucky follows moments later, pressing deep inside you as a full shudder travels down his body. His face is insistently pressed into your neck, trying to muffle the roaring groan that rumbles through his chest. The contact grounds him as his cock twitches and swells inside you, borderline animalistic in the way his fingers clutch your hips when he finally fills you up—the thought of leaving a part of himself inside you only prolonging his orgasm.
“Oh, my pretty princess.” Bucky pulls you tighter against him like he cannot bear the thought of letting go yet, both your hearts still hammering in sync as the aftershock pulses beneath your skin. His warm breath tickles your collarbones, and although his limbs are trembling with exhaustion, his hips still thrust lazily inside you to make sure not a single drop goes to waste.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU START REACHING BACK
By the time Bucky introduces you to his friends properly, you have already learned something important: everyone else gets a different version of him than you do.
You begin noticing the pattern before he ever points it out himself. People straighten when he walks into a room, some of his new employees still stumble over their words when he speaks to them, and children stare at him in open fascination because he is broad and carries himself with grounded confidence without appearing arrogant. And honestly, you understand it. Bucky looks like someone built to endure anything. His hands are coarse from years of work, permanently marked with small scars and callouses from repairing machinery, hauling feed, and spending entire days beneath brutal weather conditions without complaint. His voice settles low and gravelly in his chest, and whenever he frowns in concentration—which is often—he appears unapproachable to anyone who doesn’t know him well enough to recognize that his silences are rooted in reflection rather than coldness.
Then there is the version of him that exists around you, so quiet in its devotion that you only begin noticing it gradually, through dozens of tiny moments. He automatically slows his pace to match yours whenever you walk together—just enough that your shorter steps never have to hurry to keep up with him. On the nights you stay over, he reaches past you to test the shower water before you step under it.
And somehow, it extends to even the smallest, most ridiculous things. Like the time you gasp at the sight of a spider near the kitchen sink and instinctively dart behind him before you can stop yourself. Embarrassment burns on your cheeks at your own reaction as you quietly ask him if he can please take it outside instead of killing it. Bucky only glances back at you, visibly amused by the fact that you are clinging to the back of his shirt like the spider personally declared war on your bloodline. Then, he easily cups it beneath a glass, slides paper underneath, and carries it out onto the porch with all the patience in the world. And when he comes back inside, there is a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as you mumble a sheepish thank you from the safety of the hallway.
And maybe, the thing that affects you the most is how instinctive all of it seems for him. His care exists in reflexes. In the quick appearance of his hand over the sharp corner of an open cabinet before you can bump into it while bending down. In the way he reaches for your hand whenever a crowd grows too dense around you, thumb constantly stroking your knuckles in reassurance before you even realize you needed it. In the way he notices your social battery draining only by the slight slump of your shoulders, then gently finding reasons to get you home before exhaustion fully settles into your bones.
It feels less like being looked after and more like being... considered. Constantly. Carefully. Which becomes a problem eventually. Because the safer you feel with him, the more affection you want to give in return. And unfortunately, loving someone openly without constantly doubting yourself is still difficult for you.
Despite how naturally Bucky seems to exist inside your life now, there are moments where you feel painfully aware of your own inexperience. You want to reach for his hand first, sit beside him in diners instead of across from him, kiss his cheek whenever he starts rambling about the farm with that subtle enthusiasm that makes him look so unfairly adorable. You want to curl into his lap during movie night and play with his hair and bury your face into his chest whenever he hugs you.
Every little touch from him feels so dangerously addictive now that you know what it’s like to be handled with genuine tenderness. But every single time you think about doing any of it, your brain betrays you. What if he thinks you are clingy? What if you interrupt him? What if he only tolerates it because he knows you have never done this before?
So instead, you hesitate. But the thing about dating someone who observes the world as methodically as he does is that very little escapes him for long, especially when it concerns you. Therefore, he just starts making things easier. When the two of you sit together somewhere public, his hand begins resting palm-up beside yours on purpose—an open invitation without forcing you before you are ready. He starts pulling you gently against his side halfway through movies, and sometimes, while talking with Steve or Sam out on the porch, he pats his thigh absentmindedly without interrupting the conversation at all, silently inviting you closer. Eventually, sitting on his lap is expected and anticipated. And every single time he notices your hesitation before kissing him first, his head tilts downward before you can even decide whether to ask.
But it’s the first time you meet Steve and Sam properly that you understand how clearly his devotion to you reads to everyone else.
Dinner happens at a small place near the edge of town after one of Bucky’s longer delivery days, rain clouds gathering thick and heavy outside while the restaurant buzzes warmly around you.
You keep squirming nervously beforehand despite Bucky reassuring you the entire drive there.
“Baby, believe me, you’re worrying over nothing. They already like you.” He repeats patiently while turning into the parking lot.
You glance over suspiciously. “They’ve never met me.”
Bucky snorts under his breath, one hand settling on your thigh to give it a comforting squeeze.
“Sam’s heard about you so much he already acts like he knows you.”
“That’s not reassuring.” You mumble, sinking a little lower in the seat.
A beat passes in which the car slows as he searches for a parking spot, and you take the opportunity to dramatically exhale like your entire future depends on this night going well.
“You’re meeting my friends, not attending a parole hearing.”
“They could easily be the same thing.” You insist. “Meeting your partner’s best friends is basically like meeting... I don’t know—their adoptive parents.” Bucky snorts, shaking his head.
“Don’t laugh! I’m serious. There’s judgment involved. Silent scoring. Probably some kind of test I don’t know about yet.” You hastily list with your fingers.
That pulls a chuckle out of him, warm and low in a way that only worsens your dramatic suffering.
“Baby—”
“No, because what if they hate me?” You whine, already spiraling. “What if I say something weird? What if I accidentally make Steve uncomfortable? He looks like the kind of man who says ‘language’ unironically.”
Bucky laughs harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly.
“Steve absolutely says language unironically.”
“See? I’m going to swear once and he’s never going to recover from it.”
His grin only grows as the car comes to a stop, but he doesn’t turn it off yet. Instead, Bucky leans back slightly in his seat, head turned to watch you with that infuriatingly entertained expression that makes your anxiety feel personally mocked.
“You’re one to talk anyway.” You quip before he can say anything.
His eyes go wide. “Excuse me?”
“Because let’s talk about the first time you met Nat and Darcy.” You smile innocently, straightening up. “You kept me on the phone for forty minutes because you didn’t know what to wear.”
There’s a beat of silence, before his entire posture shifts.
“Hey, I wanted to make a good first impression.” He frowns.
“You were debating a tie,” you repeat slowly. “For bowling.”
“It was a new environment.” He shrugs.
Your eyebrows shoot up. “It was bowling!”
He simply shakes his head dismissively. “You don’t understand the social dynamics—”
“You were spiraling,” you cut in, now completely turned in your seat to face him. “I remember it very clearly. You kept throwing clothes on your bed that I’ve never seen you wear to this day.”
“I was being thoughtful.” He answers quickly.
“That’s anxiety.”
“That’s being prepared. And my first impression went fine.”
“Yeah, because I talked you out of the tie.”
You lean back in your seat, absolutely delighted now despite your earlier panic.
“I see how it is. I don’t need to worry about meeting your friends, but you needed a forty-minute emotional support phone call about whether you needed a tie for a bowling alley.”
Bucky exhales through his nose, clearly trying not to laugh at being exposed so thoroughly.
“It was a valid concern, I wanted to be respectful, sweetheart.”
“To who? A bowling ball?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, having run out of arguments to defend himself.
A grin takes over your lips as you nod in victory. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Bucky laughs properly at that, fondly shaking his head at you. The sound makes the knot in your chest loosen despite the anxiety, and when his hand eventually reaches over the console to intertwine your fingers together, you finally feel like you can breathe a little more easily.
“Steve and Sam are gonna like you. That’s not even up for debate.” He says anyway, quieter now.
You purse your lips, the teasing softening just a little.
“And neither is the fact that you’re still nervous about a tie.” You add gently.
His head briefly falls forward as he sighs dejectedly. “It was a good tie.”
And that, somehow, makes you laugh all the way out of the car.
Inside, Steve and Sam hug you instead of shaking your hand, and within less than twenty minutes, both men seem to realize something deeply unsettling about Bucky Barnes.
Namely that he becomes ridiculously, unbearably soft around you. For starters, his hand settles automatically against the back of your chair while you sit down. At some point, he subtly pushes your drink closer because he knows you forget to hydrate when too engrossed in a conversation, his attention entirely shifting on you whenever your lips part, no matter what topic.
And then there is the hand-holding “incident”.
You are talking about your disastrous attempt at baking banana bread last weekend, when your eye briefly catches Bucky’s hand resting near yours on the booth seat.
His large, warm palm tilted upward.
Your gaze keeps drifting toward it despite yourself, because you want to take it so bad. God, you need to feel his skin against yours. But... What if you are misinterpreting it and he is ashamed of being affectionate in front of his friends? What if Steve and Sam think it’s excessive?
Without looking away from Sam, who is now complaining about boat repairs, his hand moves another inch closer until his knuckles brush lightly against yours.
Your heartbeat quickens embarrassingly fast at how obvious he makes it for you.
Hoping nobody is going to notice how you keep squirming in your seat, your hand moves before you can change your mind. Bucky’s fingers close around yours like he had been eagerly waiting for you all night. His thumb strokes once over your knuckles as he replies to his friends, completely unfazed.
Across the table, Sam goes still. Steve, on the other hand, is trying very hard to hide a smile behind his beer. Because the thing is, they have both known Bucky for years. They know him as reserved and controlled and difficult to read most of the time. Yet, what they are witnessing now is essentially an imposing Anatolian Shepherd collapsing happily onto its back because someone finally understood that looking scary doesn’t mean hating cuddles.
Once you are back at the farmhouse, rain is crashing heavily against the roof, therefore Steve and Sam help Bucky move a few things into the barn before the weather worsens further. Afterward, everyone ends up scattered throughout the kitchen while you make lemonade because inside it feels warm from all the damp clothes and humid air.
You are standing near the counter slicing lemons when Bucky walks in, settling beside you after washing his hands.
His gaze automatically drops to the knife, then to you. Then back to the knife.
“You’re holding it wrong.”
Your chin snaps up, eyes blinking at him in confusion.
“What?”
Instead of answering verbally, Bucky steps behind you until the softness of his belly is touching your back. One hand covers yours around the handle while the other steadies the cutting board before showing you a safer angle to hold the knife.
“There,” he murmurs near your shoulder. “Less chance of slipping.”
The entire interaction lasts maybe twenty seconds, yet the butterflies in your stomach go absolutely feral. The worst is that Bucky doesn’t even seem aware of what he does to you half the time. To him, this is simply how he loves, through guidance and care.
A little later, after his friends disappear into the kitchen for more lemonade while loudly arguing over the score of some recent football match, you end up curled beside Bucky on the couch, on the brink of dozing off to the soothing sound of rain tapping against the glass. Your head rests on his chest while he absently rubs slow circles along your arm, and eventually your fingers find his hair without much thought.
You expect tolerance at most. Maybe amusement. Instead, the second your nails lightly scratch his scalp, Bucky goes completely still, before his eyelids flutter shut. A deep, slow breath leaves his nose, his posture slumped as he leans unconsciously into your touch. His expression is so devastatingly content that you feel a mix of pride and joy burn hot in your chest.
From the kitchen doorway, Sam witnesses the scene in horrified fascination.
“Steve!” He whispers sharply.
The other man can’t help but burst into helpless laughter because there, curled around you in complete bliss, sits the same man who once made a grown mechanic squirm just by staring at him too long during an argument over tractor parts. Meanwhile Bucky, fully aware you are being watched, slowly opens one eye to glare at them with pure annoyance.
“What.”
“Man, you know your imaginary tail is wagging so hard I can practically hear it from here?”
Bucky silently stares at Sam for exactly five seconds, and without any shame whatsoever, tightens his arm around your waist to pull you closer.
“Yeah,” he rasps out. “And?”
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU NEED HIM THE MOST
Bucky simply moves through your life with the quiet assumption that if something can be made easier for you, then of course he will do it.
One freezing morning in late November, you walk outside expecting the usual miserable routine of scraping ice from your windshield before work while trying not to freeze your fingers off in the process, only to stop short at the sight of your car already running softly in the driveway, pale exhaust curling into the cold air while warm light glows through the windshield.
And there he is, leaning casually against his pickup truck with two cups of coffee in his hands. Wrapped in his heavy work jacket, Bucky looks entirely unbothered by the bitter cold biting at his skin this early in the morning. You stare at him with wide eyes before glancing at your car. Then back at him.
“Did you come all the way over here just to start my car?”
His eyebrows pull together, genuine confusion touching his face.
“You hate being cold, sweetheart.”
Bucky never treats care as some grand romantic gesture that deserves applause. To him, love exists in maintenance, in noticing and remembering. It exists in the way he arranges himself around the sharp edges of your life without ever making you feel ashamed of needing help.
By the third month of your relationship, he already knows you forget meals whenever work gets too stressful, so he begins leaving containers of food in your fridge after particularly exhausting weeks, usually with little notes written in neat handwriting.
Eat something besides crackers today.
This one’s got vegetables in it. Don’t roll your eyes.
At first, a mix of embarrassment and old habits makes you protest.
“Jamie,” you sigh one evening while unpacking groceries he absolutely did not need to buy for you. “I can feed myself.”
“I know you can.”
The answer comes calmly, his attention never even leaving the frozen peas he’s putting away in your freezer.
“Then why are you doing all this?”
That finally makes him look at you, blue eyes steady and open.
“Because yesterday you had cereal for dinner and called it a balanced meal.”
Heat floods your face instantly. “It was one time.”
“It happened last Tuesday as well, baby.”
Your eyes squint at him betrayed. “You remember way too much.”
“You tell me things,” he shrugs lightly, shutting the fridge with his hip. “And I pay attention.”
Yes, Bucky pays attention. To everything. He notices the way your head starts to ache more than usual after difficult meetings at work; the moments you shrink because someone talked over you while discussing something important; the days you’ve had too much coffee and not nearly enough water before you’ve even registered it yourself. Once he recognizes a pattern, he simply starts building small routines around it—never demanding, or controlling. But guiding you so tenderly that by the time you notice, he’s already taken the weight you carry and made it easier to bear.
“Three coffees, baby.” He reminds you one afternoon after spotting the suspiciously large iced drink in your hand during lunch.
You promptly clutch the cup closer to your chest.
“This is tea.”
Bucky stares at you for a long moment, before his eyes lower meaningfully to the giant logo on the side of the cup.
“Sweetheart,” he starts patiently. “That thing smells like melted tiramisu.”
Your smile is sheepish. “It’s been a hard week.”
The teasing falls from his face at the exhaustion in your voice, concern replacing it so quickly it makes warmth bloom beautifully behind your ribs. He steps closer without hesitation, one broad palm settling on the back of your neck while his other hand cradles your cheek—a gesture so instinctively soothing that your entire body loosens before you can acknowledge it.
“I know, princess.” He murmurs softly. “Still need water though.”
And somehow—impossibly—you find yourself listening. He never makes care feel humiliating, because every reminder sounds far from correction and more like loving you so much it physically pains him seeing you not taking care of yourself the way you deserve. However, having someone pay attention to you this reverently is still complicated when, for your whole life, you’ve been used to being the responsible one, the accommodating one, the person who notices everybody else’s needs before they can become problems. Teaching only sharpened instincts you already had mastered long before adulthood: constantly anticipating, organizing, soothing, fixing. Somewhere along the way, taking care of yourself became secondary to making sure everyone else was never burdened by you.
Then Bucky arrives and begins undoing those habits piece by piece without ever criticizing you for it.
There is one particular parent-teacher night that leaves you painfully exhausted and miserable, so much that your eyes burn with unshed tears the entire walk to your car. One parent spends twenty minutes speaking over you every time you attempt to explain their child’s struggles in class; another openly questions whether you are “experienced enough” to manage disruptive students, because “you definitely don’t look like you are”. And Ms. Cox still finds enough energy afterward to criticize your “overly emotional teaching style” in front of half the faculty before finally leaving for the night.
By the time you make it home, you feel like an empty shell. You sway on your feet while eating half a granola bar in the dark, then drag yourself into bed wearing one of Bucky’s old sweatshirts—the same ones you shyly asked to have for particularly hard nights where his absence presses heavy on your heart. Yet, you spend nearly two hours staring miserably at your ceiling because exhaustion apparently does not guarantee sleep.
You and Bucky already said goodnight earlier. Normally he insists on calling before bed no matter how busy either of you are, but tonight he could feel how drained you were by text alone. Still, sometime after midnight, loneliness finally outweighs guilt. And even as you beg him to stay in bed and rest, insisting it’s late and he should be sleeping, he still replies with two simple words that make your heart flutter.
Already driving
12:22am
Twenty-five minutes later, headlights sweep across your curtains and you get out of your bed with a pained groan, your legs heavy as you shuffle into the kitchen in fuzzy socks. Bucky is already inside, carrying a paper bag in one hand, concern settling visibly between his brows the second you appear.
“Hey there, princess.” He whispers, leaving everything on the counter so he can pull you against him.
And that’s the moment your body goes frighteningly limp as you realize how badly you needed Bucky to hold you, knowing he would never ask for anything in return.
“I’m okay.” You quickly try to reassure him, but don’t do a very good job when your words come out slurred against his jacket.
His low hum expresses clear disagreement, one hand smoothing slowly over your back before he pulls away enough to cradle your cheeks.
“You ate dinner?”
The hesitation on your face answers for you.
His jaw clenches slightly. “Sweetheart.”
“I wasn’t hungry.” You blurt out, dangerously close to tears.
“I know, angel.” His voice turns to a whisper in front of your distress. “But you had a long day.”
There is no irritation in his voice, only concern wrapped in gentle firmness that somehow makes embarrassment crawl up your throat anyway. But before shame can take you away from him, Bucky leans down to press a long kiss on your forehead.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “I’m not angry.”
Your shoulders visibly lower a little.
“Sit down for me while I make you something warm, okay?”
And there it is again, that tingly sensation spreading low in your belly whenever he speaks like that, calm and assured and already prepared to handle things for you before you can break.
You curl beneath your favorite blanket on the couch while he heats soup and makes some chamomile tea. Watching him in all his composure as he takes care of you, moving around your house, and opening cabinets without needing directions because he already memorized where everything belongs months ago... Well, it nearly undoes you completely.
“You always think about me like that?” You ask feebly once he finally appears with a tray that he momentarily places on the coffee table.
Bucky glances at you from where he’s adjusting the blanket around your legs. “Like what?”
“Like… this.” You swallow, not liking how your throat is starting to tighten. “Taking care of things—of me, before I even notice what’s wrong.”
“‘Course I do, princess.” He answers quietly.
Tears dangerously sting at the back of your eyes, but your teeth promptly sink into your bottom lip before you can succumb to them. There is a brief moment suspended in time in which Bucky’s eyes search your expression, before he moves to kneel on the floor in front of you, palms already reaching for your jaw.
“You spend so much time looking after everybody else.” He starts under his breath. “I just want... somebody looking after you too.” His thumb strokes the skin of your cheek and that’s when you notice the lonely tear that escaped the last thread of your control.
“I wanna be your safe place. Want you to know you can come to me. Always. You don’t gotta hold it together with me.”
“And when it gets too much out there,” he adds after a beat. “Or here,” his knuckle gently brushes your temple. “I’ll be right beside you. I’ll catch you. Every time.”
You built a relationship based on care and mutual trust, something you never had before but deeply craved. For quite a long time, those sleepless nights spent wondering when it will finally be your turn, soon turned into cruel reminders that maybe, after all, you just were not built for that kind of love. So you kept running yourself into the ground for everyone else without anyone actually noticing how much that cost you. Some people though, Bucky said, weren’t even worthy of those pretty eyes looking their way, let alone your kindness. Still, a small flame of hope kept burning in your heart—the hope that someday, someone would truly see you. Nobody has ever tried to earn your trust enough for you to hand over your vulnerability. But with Bucky, you bloom so easily in the warmth of his love.
Rain has turned part of the farm path into thick mud after a storm, and despite Bucky repeatedly warning you to not wear your pretty shoes near the fields, you ignored him confidently right up until your foot sinks deep enough into the mud to trap you completely. Bucky turns at the sound of your horrified gasp, and immediately starts laughing.
“Bucky!” You whine while trying unsuccessfully to yank your shoe free. “Stop laughing.”
“Sweetheart,” he says through obvious amusement while walking toward you. “Why’re you wearing those heels out here?”
“I didn’t think it would be this bad.”
“Mhm.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re being mean.”
His grin only grows as he reaches you.
“Far from it, princess. C’mere.”
Before you can ask what he means, both hands settle firmly around your waist and suddenly your feet leave the ground entirely. A startled squeak escapes your throat as your boyfriend lifts you effortlessly out of the mud like one of those bags of fodder he so easily carries around the farm.
“Bucky!”
“You were getting stuck.” He smirks.
“I could’ve figured it out myself.” You mumble shyly.
“I know you could.”
His words are tinged with mirth as he carries you back toward solid ground, one arm secure around your waist while your hands instinctively clutch his shoulders.
“Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stand there watching you struggle.” Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with guilt anymore, your hands instinctively curling a little tighter into the collar of his jacket as the real meaning of it sinks deep in your heart.
This becomes another habit somehow. He lifts you onto kitchen counters while cooking because otherwise you “hover too much.” Carries you inside from the truck whenever you fall asleep during long drives home from town. Sometimes, after particularly exhausting school days, he simply hooks an arm beneath your knees and picks you up before you can properly protest.
“Jamie, I can walk.” You mumble sleepily against his collarbone.
“I know you can, baby.”
“Then put me down.”
“No.”
The answer comes calm and completely immovable while he adjusts you more securely against his chest.
He looks down at you. “You’re tired.” As if that is enough of an explanation.
You squint at him, but he raises one eyebrow before your overworked brain can elaborate something witty to retort with.
“You gonna keep arguing or you gonna let me hold my girl?”
Being with him has a way of quieting the constant vigilance in you as your body learns—gradually, unconsciously—that Bucky’s strength never asks you to fear it. All that’s left is a fuzzy, unfocused warmth you can’t quite name. And over time, you begin realizing that what affects you most is not the carrying itself, but what it represents. Around him, you are allowed to take up space without apologizing for it first. You are allowed to keep him company as he works, to cling to him through difficult days and cry without trying to make yourself smaller afterward.
The first time you break down in front of him happens after a bad argument with your mom. You spend nearly ten minutes apologizing between sobs. Bucky listens quietly the entire time before finally reaching up to tenderly wipe your tears with his thumbs, brows drawn together in soft confusion.
“Princess,” he asks gently. “Why’re you apologizing for being upset?”
You open your mouth, but then close it again helplessly. Because once again, you were about to slip back into the bad habits you are carefully working through together. Bucky’s expression morphs instantly in silent understanding.
“C’mere, baby.”
And just like always, you go.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO BE PART OF HIS WORLD
For a long time, you are convinced that helping Bucky with work will only make things harder for him. Not because he ever said that—quite the opposite, actually. But he moves through the farm with effortless capability, making everything look so easy. He knows where every tool belongs, which fence post is beginning to loosen before anybody else notices, the sound each engine is supposed to make—immediately catching when something is wrong.
Meanwhile, you once managed to stall your own car three times in a row trying to leave the school parking lot because your brain was too tired to function properly. So naturally, the idea of “helping” him feels laughable. Standing in the middle of his world feels strangely similar to trying to communicate in a language you don’t speak fluently yet. Still, that doesn’t stop you from wanting to try. Loving Bucky means wanting to understand the shape of his days and exist inside the life he built long before you arrived in it. You want to know what his mornings look like at sunrise, learn the routines his body slips into automatically after years of repetition, and more than anything, you want to stand there beside him without feeling like a guest.
His blue eyes catch the golden afternoon sunlight so prettily as he glances up from where he’s crouched in front of the fencing, near the south pasture.
“What’s up, lovely?” One corner of his mouth lifts when you linger there without answering right away, your hands fidgeting against the wooden post as if looking for something to ground you.
“What?” He teases lightly. “My girl misses me already?”
You huff a quiet laugh through your nose, eyes dropping briefly to the tools scattered beside him.
“Maybe a little,” you mumble. “I just wanted to see what you were doing.”
His expression softens instantly at that. “C’mere, then.”
You step closer without thinking.
“You wanna help?”
You hesitate under the weight of the question. “Only if I’m not gonna be in the way.”
The offended look Bucky gives you makes you chuckle lightly. He frowns, standing to full height while wiping his hands against his jeans.
“You being here is the opposite of in the way.”
And there it is again—that wonderful ache in your chest. You shift your weight from foot to foot, head ducking a little at the sheer love in his words. His rough fingers slowly hook beneath your chin to tilt your face back toward him.
“You wanna stay with me while I work?” He asks softly.
You nod silently.
“Then stay.”
Simple as that. No sighing. No tolerating your presence to avoid arguments. No making you feel like affection must be earned through usefulness.
After that, he begins finding small ways to pull you into his world. Nothing overwhelming that leaves room for you to panic about messing things up.
“Hold this for me.”
“Pass me that small wrench, pretty girl.”
“Sit over there where I can see you, and watch your step.”
At first, your help is mostly symbolic. You hand him tools, hold flashlights, keep him company while he works beneath trucks or repairs broken equipment in the barn. At some point, Bucky quietly sets up a small table near his workbench for you, sanding the wood smooth and making sure to buy a comfortable pillow for the chair so you can sit there for hours grading assignments and planning lessons while he moves around you.
One afternoon, while you are perched on the workbench as he works beneath the hood of his pickup truck, you accidentally hand him the wrong tool three times in a row. By the third attempt, you groan dramatically. Your face falls into your hands.
“I’m fucking useless.”
Bucky leans back enough to look at you, expression deeply unimpressed.
“Hey.” The single word lands firmly enough that your head snaps up at once. “You ain’t allowed to talk about my girl like that.”
You simply stare at him as he reaches out to squeeze your knee before taking the wrench from your hands.
“Besides,” Bucky adds casually. “You’re real cute when you boss me around with the wrong tools.”
You burst out laughing despite yourself, shyly looking away once you notice he has been busy admiring you with a smitten grin.
Every single time insecurity starts curling around your throat, ugly and uninvited, Bucky is there to loosen it with his careful hands before it can choke you. Dismissing insecurity is far too easy, yet that’s what most people do. It makes them uncomfortable and impatient, so they wave it away with empty reassurance. They joke about it, call it overthinking... They turn vulnerability into a shameful weakness. Because acknowledging it properly would require them to sit inside someone else’s discomfort for a while. But Bucky never treats your vulnerable moments like inconveniences he has to endure. He looks at them directly in the eye until they stop feeling quite so monstrous inside your head.
The way you feel warm all over has nothing to do with the late afternoon sun spilling gold across the land. He had sounded genuinely insulted, because loving you also includes protecting the way you speak about yourself. He cannot stand cruelty directed at you even when it comes from your own mouth.
Your pulse flutters embarrassingly beneath your skin.
His attention returns to the engine eventually, muttering something under his breath as he reaches deeper beneath the hood. Your eyes focus on the rolled sleeves exposing his strong forearms slightly soiled with grease, then slowly travel up the faded flannel stretching across his broad chest, before noticing the crease between his brows. The low hum he gives every now and then when something cooperates correctly makes your pussy throbs, your mind clouded with memories of your thighs around his head.
Your legs swing idly as you sigh, watching him work for another silent moment.
“You know,” you murmur thoughtfully. “For someone who says he likes having me around, you sure are ignoring me right now.”
Bucky snorts softly without looking up.
“I’m working , sweetheart.”
“Mhm.”
He glances at you briefly, one eyebrow lifting. “What?”
You exhale dramatically, leisurely looking around the shed. “I think you’re pretending to fix the truck because you secretly enjoy making me suffer.”
A low chuckle rumbles out of him at that, though he still turns another bolt calmly like you are not trying to derail him on purpose.
“You surviving okay over there, pretty girl?”
“Barely.”
“You’ll make it.”
The problem is that he sounds entirely too entertained by this. Your eyes narrow slightly at his tone. Then, after a moment of consideration, you shift a little closer along the edge and let your thighs part slightly, your hands landing on the wooden surface by your sides to slightly push your chest forward.
Bucky notices immediately from his peripheral vision, but all he gives you is a low, “Careful, doll.” Without any real heat in it.
You stare at the side of his face for another second, then toss your head back enough to deserve an award.
“Mhm...” You hum mournfully. “If my boyfriend really loved me, he would stop fixing stuff and pay attention to me.”
This time Bucky laughs unguarded, the sound rough around the edges as he finally leans back enough to look at you.
“Oh, so that’s what this is?”
You try to appear unbothered. “What?”
“You being a needy girl.”
Heat crawls immediately into your cheeks, still you keep your eyes on his.
“I am not needy.” You insist.
His mouth twitches, incredibly amused. “No?”
“No.”
“Mhm.”
You huff softly, crossing your arms while he turns back toward the engine with entirely too much satisfaction for your liking. And unfortunately—for the both of you—you are an incredibly stubborn woman. Which means your brain immediately decides to make things worse by jumping down the bench and silently approaching the vehicle until you are leaning down the edge of the hood, right beside your boyfriend.
“Maybe there are more interesting things you could be doing with your hands right now.” You murmur, eyes dragging slowly over the length of his body.
The wrench stops turning at once. For one very dangerous second, the entire world seems to go still with it. Bucky exhales slowly through his nose before straightening to his full height, wiping his palms across his jeans with deliberate calm that somehow feels infinitely more threatening than any other reaction.
“Oh, you’re trouble today.”
You try to hold his gaze without shrinking under it, but that becomes significantly harder once he starts edging closer to you, the stupid tool that confused you completely forgotten. The light teasing in his face has shifted into something heavier, a kind of seriousness that has your panties completely ruined.
“Looking at me like that while I’m trying to behave...”
You swallow. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”
His nostrils flare for a brief moment, one large hand sliding around your waist while the other braces on your hip, and before your brain fully catches up, he is backing you a few slow steps toward the side of the shed. The wall presses lightly against your back, Bucky’s frame crowding you back into stillness, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him through every layer between you. His thumbs stroke your sides rhythmically as he studies you with an expression that almost makes you forget how to breathe.
“You’re playing with fire, doll.”
You tilt your chin up despite the way your pulse stumbles. “I just wanted your attention.”
Bucky’s jaw flexes once. “Oh, you got it.”
His mouth claims yours like he is afraid you will disappear if he doesn’t, the hand on the curve of your waist tightening possessively while the other traces the length of your neck, until his fingers dig into your jaw to keep your head tilted exactly how he wants it. A small, unintentional whimper is muffled against his mouth as your fingers curl tight into the front of his shirt, and Bucky exhales softly through his nose like the sound nearly undid him too. It is rough, urgent... Too much and still not enough.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough for his forehead to rest briefly against yours. Both of you breathe a little unevenly, his palms still heavy on your skin, as though he has no intention whatsoever of letting you wander too far now that he finally has you pliant and whining for him.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, gaze frantically going back and forth between your hazy eyes and your lips glinting with his spit.
“I need you, Jamie.”
And he is kissing you again, slower this time but no less distracting, and you are just beginning to melt properly into him when his hands slide beneath your sundress, harshly grabbing the back of your thighs.
“Jamie—”
“C’mon, up sweetheart.” He rumbles in your mouth, already pushing you higher against the wall.
Your giggle dissolves into a wanton moan when his tongue slides back between your lips, fervent and eager, your fingers tangling into his hair while his grip tightens instinctively on your ass.
“Fuck.” He pants wrecked, his bulge pressing insistently against your covered core.
“Jamie, please.” You toss your head back as his lips frantically move over your neck and cleavage, more lapping and biting at your skin than actually kissing.
“So fucking sweet.” He grunts, humping you like an animal right in front of the open door of the shed.
See, Bucky is… well, particularly insatiable. It’s not enough to spend Sunday mornings slowly grinding into you until you are begging him to make you come, tears staining your cheeks as he coos at you. It’s not enough to bend you over the kitchen counter and thrust his cock into your pussy from behind, his warm and heavy body pressing you down as you hold onto the edge of the wooden surface for dear life. It’s also not enough for his fingers to not-so-subtly slip beneath the hem of the blouse you just spent ten minutes adjusting to your liking, just to squeeze your tits because “They’re missing me, doll”.
And he never seems to care if you are late for something, or how long it takes... or where you are. Like that time he pulled into the deserted parking lot of a random mall on the way back from your cousin’s engagement party because one of her friends had flirted with you a few too many times—even with Bucky standing just a couple of feet away, talking to your aunts while openly glaring at him. He growled an amused, “Try not making a mess on the seats, princess” before you ended up squirming and moaning in the backseat of his pickup truck, still fully clothed as his hand slid down the front of your unbuttoned pants. He was three fingers deep inside your pussy, his other hand gripping your jaw to keep your eyes on his as he whispered how good he was going to fuck you later in his bed, and how good he’d make you cream all over his cock. His dick was straining against the confines of his pants, painful and throbbing because you were so pretty with your lips parted around your little, unrestrained whimpers, your half-lidded eyes staring hazily at him, and then… the bright flash of red and blue lights blinded you both in an instant.
By the time the two police officers knocked on the window car, you were both just about composed—his jacket lay on his lap to hide the impressive bulge while you leaned against his shoulder, carefully performing a convincing enough bout of nausea to explain why you had been parked there so long. They told you that someone had reported a vehicle acting suspiciously nearby and Bucky quickly chimed in, matching their story just enough. However, the car in question disappeared down the road the moment you parked. A brief, measured silence followed, until one of the officers glanced at you. Then at Bucky. Then back at his partner, clearly deciding that whatever they might have walked in on was not worth pursuing further.
Or that time your first picnic date turned into Bucky keeping a hand on your mouth as he fucked you right in the middle of the blanket you had so carefully arranged, imagining quiet naps beneath the trees and lazy kisses. Instead, you had squirted all over it after Bucky had growled into your neck that you needed to be quiet, or else one of his employees might catch you. Still hard, he hastily lay between your thighs for his earned “dessert”.
You have always managed to get away with it before—never caught, never interrupted, always just out of reach of consequence. Until now.
The wall rattles with a particular hard thrust of his hips, loud enough that the sound travels straight through the large space, followed immediately by a sharp, unceremonious clatter from somewhere above your head. Before either of you has even processed what’s happening, something tumbles from the nearby shelf and lands directly on Bucky’s head with a force that makes you both flinch at the same time.
Your boyfriend jerks back instantly, a harsh curse slipping out under his breath as one hand flies up to the exact point of impact, while his other arm tightens around you, still holding you close out of reflex even as he recoils.
“Oh my God—” You gasp, eyes widening in horror as you register what just happened. “Bucky!”
“’M fine.” He grunts automatically, though the tight set of his jaw and the faint squint in his eye suggest otherwise.
You wriggle out from his hold with anxious urgency until he sets you back on your feet, quickly reaching for his wrists as though you can physically prevent any further damage. He keeps muttering under his breath about “fucking shelves” and “the motherfucker who put that damn thing there.”
“Sweetheart, it was just a flashlight, not a bullet.” He grits out to reassure you.
“Who cares, it hit your head!” You argue frantically. “Move your hand, let me see.”
There is a long, theatrical pause, during which Bucky clearly considers refusing out of principle alone, but eventually he exhales through his nose and lowers his hand with exaggerated reluctance, revealing nothing particularly dramatic beyond a faintly annoyed expression.
“There,” he sighs. “Still alive.”
You stare at him with genuine devastation shining in your eyes.
“Oh, baby.”
And that is the moment everything shifts. Because your tone changes completely, your panic dissolving into something softer and infinitely more dangerous as your hands come up to his face without hesitation, cradling him with careful precision while your thumbs brush lightly over his cheeks. You inspect him with big, worried eyes, pouting at him like he has just survived something far more dramatic than an ambush by a shelf.
Bucky, for his part, goes still in a way that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with your attention. It’s almost humiliating how quickly his entire focus narrows down to you. The way your thumb absently brushes his cheek. The way your voice drops into a gentle, breathy coo every time you ask if he is alright. The way you keep smoothing your thumb over the bruise like it physically pains you to see him like this. And somewhere in the middle of it, a thought forms with unsettling clarity—he really likes this.
“You poor thing,” you murmur mournfully. “Does it hurt?”
Bucky blinks once, twice. “A little...” He admits slowly, though the word feels less like an answer and more like an experiment he is conducting purely for the sake of seeing how you respond.
You frown. “Oh, Jamie.”
He leans into your soft palms without thinking, eyelids lowering in complete bliss.
“Mhm.”
“Do you feel dizzy?”
“... Think I might now that you mentioned it.”
The crease in your brows deepens at once, fingers sliding into his hair as you begin checking for other bumps, your touch careful and thorough in a way that turns his brain into pure mush.
“You need ice.”
“Mhm.”
“And water.”
“Probably.”
“And you should sit down for a minute.”
At that, something entirely too satisfied slips into his expression, subtle but unmistakable. Because you are standing in front of him on the verge of tears, treating this huge, rough man like a wounded woodland creature.
“You’re real sweet when you worry about me.” He murmurs, smitten.
You roll your eyes even as your hands stay on his face. “Someone has to take care of you.”
That’s all it takes. He is not going to discourage this behavior in any way, shape, or form.
Bucky lets you guide him toward the chair beside the workbench without resistance, lowering himself into it with slow obedience. The moment he is seated, you are immediately between his knees, hovering, checking, fussing, entirely focused on him as though nothing else in the world currently matters. Which, unfortunately, becomes the highlight of his entire week.
“There’s a bump.” You murmur to yourself, brows drawn together in concentration.
“Mhm.” He agrees gravely, as if this confirms a deeply unfortunate outcome for his future.
“You could’ve been seriously hurt.”
And Bucky just watches you, completely lost in the way you move around him with anxious care, your hands never quite leaving him. There is something recklessly addicting about being the center of your attention that settles into him far too easily, like it has always been waiting there for you to unlock it. It goes to his head faster than the flashlight ever could.
“Are you still feeling dizzy?” You fret.
Bucky tilts his head slightly as if genuinely considering it, though the truth is he could not care less about his symptoms.
“…Little bit.” He decides finally.
Your eyes widen. “You do?”
“Might need mouth-to-mouth.” He adds, entirely deadpan.
You stare at him in disbelief. “James.”
“What?” A pause, thoughtful. “I got a concussion, sweetheart. Have some compassion.”
“You don’t have a concussion.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” Your voice briefly cracks with amusement.
He sighs as though genuinely disappointed by the medical community. Still, he looks unbearably pleased with himself.
“Stay still,” you mutter pensively, already turning toward the small freezer tucked away nearby. “I’m getting ice.”
Bucky watches you go with an expression bordering on lovesick, his lips twisting into a soft curve. By the time you return, he has already shifted slightly, spreading his knees just enough to make space for you again. His hands find your hips as soon as you’re close enough, steadying you, holding you in place while you press the ice gently against the bump, your face still pinched with concentration.
“Too cold?” You ask softly.
“Nah.” Then, after a beat, entirely too casually, “Still think you should kiss it better, though.”
You roll your eyes, yet your small smile betrays you. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Can’t believe you’d say that while I’m injured.” He retorts, tone solemn. “I got hit real hard, doll.”
“You said it was a flashlight.” Your eyebrow raises skeptically.
“Still could’ve knocked loose my precious brain cell.”
That finally does it, a laugh slipping out of you despite the anxiety still lingering in your stomach. It’s soft and breathless and completely unrestrained, and Bucky’s hands squeeze your waist, as though he is physically anchoring himself to it.
“What am I going to do with you?” You sigh, fingers threading carefully through his hair. It occurs to you with a fond, helpless kind of clarity that you have accidentally created a monster. One who is absolutely going to treat every minor inconvenience like a life-threatening injury, if it means being doted on by you.
This time, there is no hesitation when he answers, voice quieter but absolutely certain.
“Keep spoiling me like this.”
The words come out lazy and teasing, yet they land heavier than either of you anticipate. Because he means it a little. Maybe a lot. Your expression softens in response, the final threads of panic melting away into something far more vulnerable. Then, much to his delight, you lean down and press a long kiss to the top of his head.
“There,” you murmur. “Better?”
Bucky goes still beneath you, before his arms wrap more firmly around you, pulling you just a fraction closer until his chin can comfortably rest on your torso.
“Yeah,” he whispers, reverent eyes looking up at you. “Way better.”
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU SPEND YOUR MORNINGS TOGETHER
The two of you are stretched across his bed after a late dinner and a movie downtown, the television flickering low pale light across the room. One of Bucky’s older hoodies hangs from your shoulders, and the comforter pooled around your legs still carries faint traces of that comforting earthy scent that always seems permanently stitched into everything he owns.
You are trying very hard to stay awake. The week has been horrible: your students restless from too many rainy recesses indoors, paperwork piling endlessly across your desk, and parent emails arriving faster than you could answer them. By the time Bucky picked you up earlier that evening, your body had already been aching with fatigue. Still, you are determined not to fall asleep here. Because despite the fact that Bucky has never once made you feel unwelcome in his space, there is still a nervous little part of you convinced that accidentally crossing invisible boundaries will somehow ruin everything. Falling asleep in his bed feels far more intimate than kissing him does, strangely enough, because it means trusting him enough to stop monitoring yourself.
So every time your eyelids begin slipping lower, you stubbornly force them open again. Unfortunately, Bucky notices the way your responses slow down halfway through conversations and the increasingly delayed reaction every time he asks you something about the movie. Your body keeps unconsciously curling closer and closer toward his warmth before you catch yourself and straighten again. At one point, your head dips toward his chest for too long you abruptly jerk yourself upright.
Bucky glances at you, his hand leisurely rubbing along your arm, and one corner of his mouth already threatens to lift.
“You don’t gotta stay awake for me, doll.”
His voice comes low and soothing beside you, yet your eyes widen abruptly.
You open your mouth but nothing comes out, your eyes fluttering shut in defeat when you realize you absolutely set yourself up for that.
Bucky’s chest shakes slightly with restrained laughter at your weak glare.
“I’m serious.” You slur, shifting upright again beneath the blankets with all the determination of somebody seconds away from losing consciousness. He hums patiently, still rubbing slow circles against your sleeve.
You try very hard after that. You focus on the movie, ask questions about the actors… You even sit up straighter just to prove you are perfectly fine. Then Bucky’s hand slides absentmindedly beneath his shirt to rub slowly along your bare hip instead.
And honestly, after that, you never really stood a chance. Bucky glances down after a couple of silent minutes and finds your body curled into his side while your breathing evens out gradually beneath the faint sound of the wind outside. And something about the sight hits him so deeply it hurts. Because he knows this is not easy for you yet. That you are still learning how to be yourself around another person without feeling like an inconvenience.
Your boyfriend slowly adjusts himself against the headboard so you can settle more comfortably on him, one hand pulling the comforter higher around your shoulders before he lowers the volume of the television. You stir faintly at the movement, brows pinching briefly in your sleep, but his hand promptly strokes your back with gentle movements.
“There you go,” he murmurs quietly. “Go back to sleep, pretty girl.” The tension melts from your muscles so quickly beneath his touch that Bucky’s eyes linger on you in silent wonder for a long moment. He presses one long kiss on your forehead, and sometime later, sleep finally finds him too, quiet and unguarded with you tucked safely against his side.
The next morning, you wake feeling unexpectedly well-rested. For several peaceful seconds, your mind drifts lazily through the hazy border between sleep and awareness. It’s only when your body stirs with a slow, languid stretch that you realize you are pressed against something solid.
Solid, pleasantly warm, and… moving?
Memories crash into you all at once—the dinner, the movie... Bucky’s bed.
Your eyes fly open.
Early sunlight catches along the broad expanse of his bare forearm where it rests heavily around your waist, like he fell asleep making sure you were always close throughout the night. Mortification hits you like a punch in the stomach. You can’t believe you were careless enough to fall asleep in his bed without discussing it first, the surprise quickly curdling into guilt as you picture him stuck with you there, too kind to wake you up.
Trying to not be swallowed by panic until you are completely alone, you carefully shift beneath the blankets only for Bucky’s hold to tighten automatically around you. A sleepy hum leaves him, followed by his voice a second later, raspy and deep.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
You turn carefully enough to find him already watching you through heavy-lidded eyes, hair messy from sleep and jaw still shadowed with yesterday’s stubble.
“I’m sorry.” The words come out before you can even think about it.
Bucky blinks slowly, his soft smile falling at once. “For what?”
“For falling asleep here.”
“You were tired.” He frowns.
“I know but… I didn’t mean to bother you.”
The second the words leave your mouth, something in Bucky’s expression morphs into painful understanding. You genuinely believe this inconvenienced him.
“You silly girl,” he murmurs fondly, pulling you closer by your waist. “You fell asleep during a movie. That ain’t exactly a crime, y’know?”
You stare down at the comforter instead, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “I just didn’t wanna impose.”
Long fingers are already sliding beneath your chin, guiding your face back toward him with impossible patience.
“You think I’d rather have you driving home exhausted in the rain at midnight? Hm?”
Your lips part slightly. “Well—”
“No, baby.” His thumb delicately brushes your bottom lip. “I’d rather have you here with me.”
It feels hard to breathe properly when faced with the certainty in his voice.
“I liked waking up next to you.”
The confession lands directly beneath your ribs.
“You did?” Your eyes observe him wide with hope.
“‘Course I did.” A sleepy little smile tugs at his mouth. “I...” He huffs out an abashed chuckle, and you recoil a little, completely caught off guard. Because Bucky has never once looked this flushed since your first date.
“I’d really like it if you stayed over more.”
“Really?” It’s nothing short of a whisper.
“Mhm.” His hand drifts slowly along your side as his gaze lingers on your face with devastating devotion.
“Don’t really like the idea of you driving home late all the time anyway, and…” He pauses briefly, almost thoughtful. “I wanna wake up with you in my arms.”
The room suddenly feels far too warm. Bucky shifts slightly closer again, his other arm coming under you to anchor your body to his, his nose teasingly grazing yours.
“Wanna have my mouth on you before either of us even gets outta bed, and be late because we inevitably get carried away with our little kisses.” He whispers lazily against the slope of your neck, pressing a peck on your collarbone that makes you shudder.
“Wanna make breakfast together and watch you steal half the bacon off my plate after you said you weren’t hungry.” His mouth barely brushes your cheek. “Wanna sit at the kitchen table while you talk my ear off about your day before it even starts.”
Nobody has ever spoken about wanting you in their life as a fantasy too fragile to touch. But Bucky has already made space for you in his future without hesitation.
And then he completely ruins you by adding under his breath, “You look good here, sweetheart. With me.”
The same hesitation holding you back melts completely after that.
“I liked waking up next to you too.” You whisper, cheeks warming up at your own brave confession. But the bright smile he gives you is completely worth it.
Staying over becomes less of an exception and more of a habit neither of you wants to break. Soon enough, pieces of you begin appearing around the farmhouse: a spare toothbrush beside his sink; a brand new box of your favorite strawberry lipgloss that Bucky bought for you to specifically use when you stay over; your favorite cookies tucked into one of the kitchen cabinets—because Bucky noticed you always look for them first in the mornings.
He never rushes you into the day. Even when he has technically been awake for hours already, he moves through the morning with a steady, unhurried ease, as though the world itself knows it can take a break around him.
Sometimes you wake to find him already watching you quietly from the pillow beside yours, one arm still draped across your waist while pale sunrays spill across the sheets between you. Most mornings, you simply cuddle closer for a little while, listening to him breathe, memorizing the warmth of his arms around you, letting yourself exist without urgency for once.
“Morning, baby.”
His voice still sounds rough around the edges from sleep when he leans to meet you halfway, pressing a slow kiss on your mouth that lingers far longer than necessary because neither of you is in any hurry to separate yet.
Downstairs, the kitchen already smells faintly of coffee he started earlier. You are halfway through pouring cream into your mug when dread hits you like a bucket of icy water. Bucky notices immediately from his seat at the kitchen island, where he’s reading the newspaper like every morning.
“What happened?”
You sigh softly, your head falling back with a groan. “I still have to finish prepping activities for today.”
Instead of looking disappointed that your attention has shifted elsewhere, Bucky simply studies you thoughtfully for a moment before setting his mug down.
“Show me.”
You turn in surprise. “What?”
“Show me what you gotta do.”
“You wanna help me lesson plan?” Your eyebrows raise in amusement.
“Correction, I wanna spend my morning with you.”
So eventually you spread everything across the wooden surface: worksheets, glue sticks, colored markers, laminated reading cards, paper cutouts for today’s classroom activity. Bucky watches the process unfold with intense concentration, a deep crease between his eyebrows while he studies your materials.
“This all for one class?”
“Mm-hmm. Reading exercise, drawing activity, vocabulary review…” You point at each group of items.
Bucky gives you a slow nod, despite still looking vaguely overwhelmed by the amount of paper involved. Without thinking much about it, you hand him a stack of cut-out shapes that needs to be organized by color. He takes them at once, no hesitation whatsoever. Several minutes later, you glance up and nearly snort out loud when you realize he’s sorting them not only by color, but by shade. After that, he busies himself with other simple tasks, like passing markers to you in color order because he noticed you unconsciously arrange them that way yourself, and flattening laminated sheets carefully beneath one rough hand while you cut around them.
At one point, Bucky picks up one of the worksheets and studies it with intense concentration, his brows slowly knitting together the more he reads through the page. You barely pay attention at first, too focused on cutting out paper stars for the reading activity, until silence stretches suspiciously long. When you are done, you find Bucky still staring at the paper as if studying a government document.
“These kids gotta circle the adjective?”
You blink once. “Yes?”
He glances down at the paper, then back at you. “They know what an adjective is?”
“Most of them.” You chuckle at his genuine curiosity.
Bucky shakes his head like the information has sincerely overwhelmed him.
“When I was their age, I was eating dirt behind the barn.”
“Bucky.”
“I’m just being honest, sweetheart.” His finger taps the worksheet once. “These little kids are out here identifying pronouns and shit at eight in the morning.”
You are laughing too hard now imagining a smaller, frowning Bucky eating dirt and running around the pasture hugging lambs probably larger than him. Bucky watches you with obvious satisfaction, until his eyes narrow at another page on the table.
“Is that a frog?”
You grin at him. “That’s the reading mascot, Sir Ribbits.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “The frog helps them read?”
“He encourages them.”
Bucky stares at the cartoon amphibian for another long moment before giving it a satisfied nod.
“Good for him.”
After hunching over papers for what feels like hours, you stretch your arms with a tired little moan. Bucky is already rounding the table to rub your stiff shoulders, and instead of flinching, you simply lean back into it.
By the time everything is finally packed away, the kitchen table is covered in marker caps and paper scraps. He gathers the last stack of worksheets into neat piles before you can even reach for them.
“You’re weirdly good at this.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you prop your elbow on the table and rest your chin against your knuckles.
Bucky glances up from the papers. “You let me into your world,” he says simply. “Figured I should learn it too.”
He never expected you to abandon pieces of yourself to fit into his life more easily. Instead, he stepped gently into yours, observing every detail with patience and the kind of love that makes ordinary mornings feel sacred without either of you even realizing it.
A strange heaviness weighs in your body on Thursday morning but Bucky is so warm, and still dozing beside you with one of his large hands resting on your stomach. So you yawn, lazily letting your eyes blink at the window just enough to not abandon that pleasant, fuzzy state of drowsiness. But then they accidentally land on the clock on your nightstand and the realization is like electricity in your veins.
“Oh no.”
The words catch painfully in your throat while you scramble upright so fast the mattress shifts violently beneath you.
“No, no, no, no—”
Bucky wakes with a jolt at the desperation in your voice, his brows pulling together while he pushes himself up on one elbow, still heavy with sleep but already alert.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
You are throwing the blankets aside, heart hammering painfully while you frantically open your closet. “I’m so fucking late.”
He glances once toward the clock and sits up fully.
“Okay.” He says calmly, rubbing one hand briefly over his face before standing. “Hey, sweetheart. You need to breathe.”
But your thoughts pile over each other in a chaotic succession to acknowledge the note of seriousness tinging his voice. Stumbling around your bedroom, you mentally list everything waiting for you at school, and fuck! You still need to print the spelling worksheets—
Suddenly your chest feels too tight for your lungs.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” you whine shakily while yanking open dresser drawers with far more force than necessary. “Why didn’t my alarm go off?”
Bucky watches you for approximately three seconds before deciding this has gone on long enough.
“Sweetheart.”
You barely hear him.
“Where are my tights? Fuck—”
The sound of your name in his low voice is like an arm dragging you out of the fog. You look up just in time to see him step directly into your path, his palms settling carefully on your upper arms before your nervous pacing can continue.
“Sit down for me.”
The words are not sharp, but there is enough firmness in his voice that your body pauses anyway.
“I don’t have time to sit down.” You argue weakly, still breathless.
“You got thirty seconds.”
“Bucky—”
“Thirty.” His thumbs stroke once over your arms. “Then you can go back to panicking all you want.”
And somehow, despite yourself, a tiny startled laugh almost escapes your throat. Your spiraling does not scare him, he has already decided he can handle it.
Reluctantly, you fall back on the edge of the bed, your right knee already bouncing anxiously. Meanwhile, your boyfriend moves around the room with military efficiency despite being startled awake not even five minutes ago, opening drawers you left hanging crooked and pulling out clothes with far more success than you had managed one minute earlier.
“This sweater okay?” He asks, holding up the brown-colored knit you wear most often to school.
You nod quickly. “Yeah.”
“What about bottoms?”
“The dark jeans. Not the—no, the other ones.”
A sleepy smile pulls at his mouth. “Doll, you own six pairs of those.”
“They’re different.”
“Mhm. I’m learning.”
He lays the clothes neatly beside you before his eyes meet yours.
“I’ll get the shower running.” You are already half-way up but he stops you promptly with a hand on your shoulder. “You stay put for one minute and focus on your breathing.”
Your body slumps back on the mattress dejected. “I don’t have one minute.”
“You do,” he calls back over the hallway. “You just decided you don’t.”
And annoyingly enough, hearing him say that steadies your heartbeat embarrassingly fast. Bucky never meets your panic with more panic, but with this quiet expectation that life will go on if you slow down to take a breath.
By the time you finally hurry into the kitchen twenty minutes later, still trying to button one sleeve, you stop short at the familiar sizzling of the pan. Bucky is standing near the stove in grey sweatpants and an old dark henley, hair still messy from sleep and posture relaxed while he slides scrambled eggs onto a plate.
“Sit.” He says after spotting you hovering on the threshold.
“Bucky—”
He turns toward you fully then, watching you with that deeply patient expression of his.
“C’mere.”
You comply with a sigh as he slides the plate in front of you alongside a toast, some jam and a travel mug of coffee already prepared exactly the way you like it.
“You need protein.”
You massage your temples to soothe the impending headache. “I’m gonna be late.”
“You’re already late,” he points out calmly, leaning against the counter. “Now, you can either be late and fed or late and miserable.”
You stare at him and he promptly raises one eyebrow. “You done fighting me on this or you got another argument ready?”
That finally pulls a reluctant laugh from you. “You’re bossy in the morning.”
He shrugs easily, now understanding why you arrive home every afternoon looking like somebody has been ruthlessly peeling pieces off you since sunrise.
He then helps without making a performance out of it. Your coat appears folded neatly over a chair, and your keys get placed directly beside your coffee as you try to eat faster. When your lunch bag nearly gets forgotten on the kitchen counter, Bucky simply hooks two fingers through the strap and places it near your coat.
“Every morning you skitter through this part like a startled little thing.” He murmurs eventually.
Your answer is a tired sigh. “Because I’m always running behind.”
“Nah,” he corrects gently, stepping behind your chair to put his hands over your shoulders and press a kiss to your temple. “You just got it in your head that if you ain’t running yourself ragged, you’re not working hard enough.”
The words hit uncomfortably close to home, leaving you staring down at your empty plate in silence. Bucky promptly kneels beside you, intertwining his fingers with yours.
“You hear what I’m saying, princess?” He mumbles softly.
“A little.” You nod reluctantly.
“You don’t gotta earn rest by wearing yourself thin.”
Your throat tightens unexpectedly, not used to have your exhaustion treated like something deserving tenderness instead of expectation. Before the moment can settle too heavily inside you though, Bucky glances toward your bag where papers are sticking halfway out.
“You got everything?”
You finally look up, straightening just a little. “I think so.”
“That usually means no.”
You groan softly. “Please don’t start.”
He chuckles under his breath before walking over to the bag for a checkup, clearly having observed this exact routine unravel before. Within seconds, he pulls out your half-empty water bottle.
“You forgot to fill this.”
“Oh.” You frown.
“And your portable charger.”
“Oh.” Your shoulders slump.
“And doll?” His eyes lift to you knowingly while he holds up the folder with all the notes for your lesson currently bent sideways. “This thing’s fighting for its life.”
Exasperated, you hide your face behind your hands while he fixes the folder carefully before zipping everything properly closed. But the bag is too full and when your fingers close around the handle a few minutes later, the zipper gives away anyway, and frustration spikes sharply enough that your eyes sting.
“Why won’t this stupid thing—”
Before you can fight with it further, Bucky steps in and takes the bag from your hands. One smooth motion and the zipper slides perfectly into place.
“There.”
Your entire nervous system settles slightly from that tiny act alone.
You finally make it to the front door—still flustered, still behind schedule, still trying to mentally catch up with the day waiting outside. But you are no longer drowning in it.
You grab your car keys, expecting some hurried goodbye while Bucky cleans the kitchen. Instead, he is standing directly in front of the door, and without a word, his hands reach down and fix your collar where it folded awkwardly.
“Text me when you get there.”
“I will.” His eyes search your face for another moment, cradling it between his warm palms.
“You did good.”
You stare at him incredulously. “I overslept by almost an hour.”
“And you still got up,” Bucky comments simply. “Still got dressed. Still ate breakfast. Still remembered your stuff. That’s what matters, baby.”
He never measures your worth through perfection, only through effort. Through whether or not you are being gentle enough with yourself while surviving difficult days.
He leaves a long kiss on your forehead, completely unbothered by the clock ticking loudly behind you.
“Now go teach your little gremlins.”
“They’re not gremlins.” You roll your eyes fondly.
His left eyebrow raises in skepticism. “One of ’em tried to lick glue yesterday.”
“He said he wanted to know if it tasted like blueberries because the bottle was blue.” You mumble defensively.
“Mhm.” He presses one last kiss to your lips. “Tiny gremlins.”
You shake your head, chuckling as you reach for the door. And while walking to your car, you realize with pleasant surprise that your breathing is a little steadier. Controlled. Because Bucky stood beside your panic and refused to let it carry you away.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU ARGUE FOR THE FIRST TIME
Pickup was already chaotic: one of the first graders had burst into tears after losing her glitter-covered pencil somewhere near the cubbies, a little boy had refused to put on his raincoat because he insisted it was “for babies,” and by the time the middle school students started flooding the shared hallway, you already felt like hiding beneath your blanket and sleeping for two days.
That’s when the shouting starts—two eighth graders near the front doors, chest-to-chest, yelling loud enough to make half the younger kids stop in place.
You don’t even think before stepping in.
“Hey!” You call sharply, moving between them before either could swing properly. “That’s enough.”
One of them backs off immediately. The other glares at you. He is taller by several inches, angry in the ugly, reckless way teenagers sometimes become when they realize they can intimidate adults physically now. His face twists the second you tell him to step away from the younger students.
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“I absolutely can,” you answer promptly, trying to keep your voice collected because several of your students are staring with huge frightened eyes. “Go cool off in one of the classrooms.”
He laughs, a sharp and bitter sound, before stepping closer.
“You think because you teach stupid little kids that you can boss everybody around?”
You ignore that part. “Watch your language.”
That only makes him angrier. “You gonna write me up?” He mocks. “Go teach somebody the alphabet or something.”
He starts talking over you, muttering insults under his breath, waving his hands too close to your face while you try to de-escalate things without frightening your students more than they already are.
And then Bucky walks in. He has come to pick you up because your car is still at the mechanic after the tire issue earlier that week. The second he steps through the school doors and sees some teenage boy towering over you while a crowd of scared children has shrunk back against the wall, something in him visibly sharpens.
Once the boy swings one hand again while barking the umpteenth insult aimed at you, too close to your shoulder this time, Bucky is there in seconds.
“That’s enough.”
His voice cuts through the noise so coldly that even the younger kids go quiet.
The boy freezes. Honestly, anybody would in front of a six-foot-something man wearing rough work clothes still dusted faintly from the farm, and a face that rarely softens around strangers.
“You’re done yelling at her, and you better start showing some respect to your teachers.” He continues evenly. “You understand me?”
The boy mutters something under his breath about you not being his teacher, prompting Bucky to take a step closer. The younger snaps his head up, before taking a step back.
“Try again.”
Silence.
Then finally, begrudgingly, “Yes, sir.”
The principal arrives not even a minute later after hearing the commotion, quickly pulling the boy away while apologizing profusely to you both, and the altercation ends as quickly as it started. At least physically. Emotionally, it’s heavy as a boulder on your shoulders, because the entire drive home, Bucky is quieter than usual, so tense that you feel the need to tentatively reach for the handle at your side and roll down the car window for some fresh air.
His hand still rests on your thigh, he still opens your door, and asks if you have eaten. But there is something bothering him underneath all of it. And eventually, while he is cooking dinner later that evening, it finally surfaces.
“You shouldn’t have stepped between them like that.”
You look up from where you are sitting at the kitchen island grading some assignments. “What?”
Bucky keeps stirring something in the pan, shoulders tight beneath his henley. “He was bigger than you,” he continues carefully. “And he was already angry.”
“He’s a kid.”
“He’s fifteen.”
“He’s still a student.”
His jaw clenches briefly. “And if he had hit you?”
With a slow sigh, you decide to put your pen down—these are all signs that you are not getting out of this conversation anytime soon.
“He wasn’t going to, I had it under control.” You rebut tiredly.
“Didn’t look like you did.”
The second those words leave his mouth, something ugly inside your chest twists painfully. His voice is controlled, far from cruel, but those words feel like a knife ruthlessly stabbing an old scar that refuses to heal properly. And suddenly, you are twenty-two again, standing in your parents’ kitchen while your mom frowns at your teaching degree paperwork.
Teaching little kids? What are you gonna do with that?
You’re wasting your time, this won’t pay bills.
“Well, I handled it anyway.” You look back at the paper in front of you, quietly.
Bucky exhales through his nose, still focused on the stove.
“Sweetheart, I know you were trying to help, but—”
“I did help.” You frown at his back.
“You can’t just jump between two angry teenagers.”
“I’m a teacher.”
“And I’m saying you don’t gotta throw yourself in front of people to prove that.”
That one hurts too. It tastes like doubt, criticism... disappointment.
“I know how to do my job.” You croak out.
Bucky finally turns then, brows drawn slightly.
“I didn’t say you don’t.”
But his voice is firmer now, frustration slipping through the cracks of his apparent composure despite himself, and when he gestures with the wooden spoon in his hand, his tone rises just enough to make you flinch before you can stop it. The movement is barely noticeable, more out of surprise than anything. Except Bucky freezes.
You don’t even realize your eyes have dropped somewhere on the counter in front of you until his voice changes completely.
“Sweetheart.” A soft, tentative sound, but you are already shaking your head.
“It’s okay.” Your voice sounds wrong and dismissive even to you and Bucky’s expression shifts into painful realization.
He sets the spoon down without another word, turns off the stove, then gingerly walks toward, still keeping his distance so you won’t feel cornered.
“C’mere a second, baby.”
You hesitate, because your body already knows the shape arguments are supposed to take, even if your mind is trying to remind itself that this is your Bucky. Your Jamie.
Still, somewhere deep inside you, disagreement has tied to punishment long ago, to that awful tightening in the air that used to settle over rooms after somebody got upset. You are used to conversations turning cold the second emotions become inconvenient; to silence stretching for hours or even days because you were the one expected to smooth everything over—apologize first, speak softer, take up less space. Growing up, anger always came with withdrawal attached to it. Simple disagreements morphed into slammed cabinets and heavy sighs and someone suddenly acting as though your mere presence had become irritating. And even though Bucky has never treated you that way, your instincts still brace for him to go quiet in that unbearable way that turns a home into a suffocating prison.
But his hand rests on your back as it gently guides you toward the couch, settling beside you but still leaving enough room to breathe. Bucky does not like the way you move cautiously around him, the way you slowly lower yourself onto the same couch that has held you both through late-night talks that stretched until early morning, and movie nights that ended in soft, unhurried kisses.
“We’re not doing silence, okay?”
Your eyes fall on the floor. “I wasn’t—”
“Yes, you were.” His voice stays gentle. “You started disappearing on me halfway through that conversation.”
“I was listening.” You stare at your fingers fidgeting on your thighs.
“No, angel.” He shakes his head once, his eyes never once straying away from you. “You got quiet because you thought I was gonna turn into somebody I’m not.”
The stinging pressure behind your eyes becomes unbearable. Bucky braces his forearms on his thighs, leaning forward with a slow exhale instead of pressing closer.
“I’m not mad at you.” He adds in a whisper. “I was worried for you.”
You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I know.”
“Do you?” His tone is impossibly feeble now, because suddenly this is not about the hallway anymore, but a habit that was acquired through mortification and fear. Bucky studies your face for another second before speaking again.
“Ain’t no reason for you to be scared to talk back to me, sweetheart.” His brows pinch faintly. “And if I say something that hurts you, I need you to tell me.”
You let out a shaky breath, your voice coming out weaker than you intend to. “It wasn’t just that.”
Bucky straightens at once at the first crack in your armor, unconsciously getting closer.
“Then help me understand.”
Eventually, with trembling hands and wet eyes, you open up. About your mom and how every time you came home exhausted during your first teaching year, she would look at you like you were failing at life itself. About how your dad used to scoff whenever you talked about your students, because “Teaching kids how to write their name isn’t a real career”. About how even the tiniest mistake sounded like proof you were incapable.
And the more you speak, the worse Bucky looks. By the time you finish talking, it feels like a weight has finally been removed off your chest, yet he looks genuinely sick with guilt.
“Baby,” he mumbles, reaching for your hand. “I wasn’t doubting you. I would never do that.”
You shrug weakly. “I know you weren’t trying to.”
“But I still made you feel that way.”
That’s what finally breaks you, because he’s not defending himself, nor minimizing it.
Tears spill before you can stop them, and your Bucky is already there with open arms to catch you.
“C’mere, babygirl.”
You climb into his lap without hesitation, burying your face against his neck as his arms wrap around you securely. One large hand slides slowly up and down your back, and you try really hard to swallow down your sobs, but you only end up making a bigger mess of his shirt.
“I’m so sorry, princess.” He whispers against your temple. “And I should never’ve raised my voice at you.”
“You weren’t yelling.” You answer shakily.
“You still flinched.”
The shame in his voice makes your heart ache. His hold tightens around you instinctively at your whimper.
“I wasn’t angry at you.” He mumbles urgently. “I was angry at the whole damn situation. At that kid thinking he could talk to you like that after nearly starting a fight in front of your students.” His jaw tightens briefly before he continues. “Couldn’t stand there listening to some mouthy little bastard trying to scare you in front of those little kids.”
Your eyes close in sorrow as the image of their startled faces comes back cruel and still fresh.
“They were terrified.” You sniffle and his arms squeeze you just a little tighter.
“I know why you stepped in.” he sighs. “You love those kids like they’re your own for eight hours every damn day, and you can’t stand the idea of any of ’em feeling helpless in a place that’s supposed to be safe.” His palms cradle your cheeks to slowly coax you out of his chest, the urge to see you so strong it pulls hard at his heart.
“You walk into that school every morning and spend your whole day teaching them how to read and write and believe in themselves. And you’re so fucking good at that, angel. You teach ’em how to be brave enough to admit when they don’t understand something. How to speak up without being scared of failing. How to be kind with each other when the world already gives them enough reasons not to be.” A faint, helpless sort of admiration softens his face then, like he still can’t believe he gets to love and be loved by someone as precious as you.
Your lips shake as you give him a pained smile, tears still sliding relentlessly down your cheeks.
“Years from now those kids probably won’t remember every worksheet you gave ’em, but they’ll remember how you were patient with ’em. That you listened.” His teeth clench when his voice wavers a little.
“So yeah, I know exactly why you did that. But that boy still thought he could stand there and talk to you like you were nothing.” He exhales slowly, forehead leaning against yours. “And baby… I got scared too.”
Your chest heaves, something akin to panic swirling in your stomach, because you have never seen your boyfriend look so devastated.
“You matter to me more than being right in an argument,” the words come out rough, his throat working hard around the tight knot lodged there. “So if I get scared and it comes out wrong sometimes, I need you to remember it’s only because the thought of something happening to you tears me apart.”
You nod slowly before folding yourself back against him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you bury your face in the warmth of his chest. And then you simply exist together for a long while, curled into him with your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt while his strong arms hold you safely close to his heart.
The living room has gone quiet around you, the stove forgotten for the moment, as your breathing gradually evens out. He is the one who breaks the silence first, clearing his throat lightly as his lips brush your forehead.
“We’re gonna argue sometimes,” he murmurs carefully, almost reluctantly, like the thought alone upsets him as well. “I can’t promise we’ll never get frustrated with each other.”
Your arms tighten around him at that.
“What I can promise you,” he continues softly, pulling back just enough to look at you properly, one hand coming up to cup your jaw with impossible tenderness. “Is that I’m not gonna stop loving you when things get hard.”
A fresh set of tears settles at the corners of your eyes, because that’s the part you never learned growing up—that the love of the people close to you was not supposed to be conditional.
Bucky’s thumb brushes beneath your eye. “And I’m really, really sorry, sweetheart.” His voice full of genuine regret. “I hate that I made you feel small for even a second.”
You shake your head urgently, not liking his expression. “You didn’t mean to, Jamie.”
“Yet I still did it.” He shifts slightly beneath you then, settling you more comfortably against his chest before continuing quietly.
“Next time one of us gets too worked up, we stop.” His tone is thoughtful now, already trying to build something safer for you with his bare hands. “Nobody keeps pushing the conversation just to win it. We sit down, we breathe, maybe hold each other if that’s what you need, and then we talk when it actually feels like us again instead of our anger. How’s that sound?”
You nod eagerly, before letting out the tiniest watery chuckle against his shoulder.
“That sounds very therapist of you.”
Bucky huffs a soft laugh of his own through his nose. “Probably because I’m thinking real hard how I never wanna be the reason my girl cries like this again.”
A sob threatens to spill out at the pain beneath his words, so you press your face against his neck insistently—as if that could physically stop your own anguish. Bucky plants a gentle kiss on your temple.
“And if I ever get loud again,” he continues with quiet embarrassment, brows pinching in guilt. “You tell me straight away, okay? There are no excuses for it. Don’t sit there holding it on your own while I’m thinking everything’s fine.”
You nod slowly. “I can do that.”
“Promise?” He mumbles, teasingly pushing the tip of his nose against yours.
“Promise.” You leave a tiny peck on the corner of his mouth and only then does some of the tension finally leave him.
His hand slides upwards, fingertips scratching lightly at your scalp just how you like, a soft sigh escaping him at the feeling of your body melting against his.
“You okay now, babygirl?” The whispered question comes out so sweetly, so sincerely worried, that it nearly brings you to tears all over again.
He gets a simple nod as an answer, and that’s enough for him to understand you are still quite overwhelmed to communicate with words. Bucky considers your body for a moment, his eyes moving carefully over you like he needs to be absolutely certain before he believes it. Your shoulders are no longer drawn up near your ears, and your hands have loosened, clutching lightly at his shirt instead of gripping it desperately. Your breathing has finally settled as well, slower and steadier against his chest. Even your eyes have lost their heat, no longer shiny with panic but tired and present in the moment. Only when he seems fully convinced that you are no longer bracing for something awful to happen does his expression finally ease.
“I got you,” he murmurs quietly against your forehead. “Even when we get things wrong, I still got you.”
Later that night, long after your chagrin has faded and dinner has finally been eaten cold straight from reheated plates, you lie on him with your ear resting directly over his heartbeat. Usually Bucky melts into the sheets whenever you cuddle him like this. Tonight, he stays strangely rigid beneath you.
Lifting your head slightly, you look at his handsome features kissed by the dim, warm light coming from the lamp on his nightstand.
“Jamie?” His fingers pause where they have been tracing absently along your spine, eyes fixed emptily on the TV screen.
“Hm?” He blinks once, hastily turning toward you, like your voice had suddenly pulled him out of whatever thought he had disappeared into.
“You alright?”
The silence that stretches afterward allows anxiety to creep onto the edge of your ribs, before he carefully maneuvers the both of you so you are lying on your sides, facing each other.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Always.” His jaw clenches before he meets your eyes.
“Were you scared of me?”
You almost flinch back. “What?”
“Tonight.” He grunts, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Or before. At any point.”
You stare at him in genuine disbelief. “Bucky—”
“I know I ain’t exactly…” He huffs. “Mr. Friendly with strangers.”
You snort softly because the statement sounds so painfully sincere.
“I’m serious, doll.” His gaze absently lands somewhere on your collarbone. “Most people think I’m angry before I even open my mouth.”
You frown at the tinge of sadness in his voice.
“And then tonight happened,” he continues quietly. “You flinched when I raised my voice and—”
“That wasn’t because of you.” You quickly correct him.
“But I can’t stand that your body reacted like that around me.”
You push yourself upward, cupping his face between your hands until he finally looks at you properly. “James Buchanan Barnes,” you whisper solemnly. “I have never been scared of you. And never will.”
His expression softens at the full name.
“You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel safe.” His eyes still refuse to meet yours, but from the blush settling high on his cheeks, you reckon it’s out of shyness rather than bitter insecurity.
“You know what I see when I look at you?” He shakes his head once. “I see a good,” you murmur softly. “Gentle, patient man.” Your voice lowers even further at that, warmth blooming through your chest when he finally looks at you.
“You always reach for my hand before we cross a street without even thinking about it. You remember which side of the bed I sleep better on; you peel oranges for me because you know I hate the smell on my fingers, and you always turn the porch light on before I get to your house so I never have to walk up in the dark alone.” An adoring grin tugs at your mouth then. “You look at me like I’m the prettiest girl in the world. All the time—even when I’m exhausted and cranky and covered in glitter glue from school projects.”
“So no, Bucky. I don’t think there’s anything about you to be scared of.” You sigh dreamily, lying back down. “You’re my Jamie.”
He swallows hard, jaw tightening for a moment as he fights for control over the tears threatening to spill.
“I love you.” He whispers abruptly, like he can’t hold it back anymore.
Your breath hitches, and then your smile breaks open so wide your cheeks start to ache. “I love you too, Jamie.”
The second the words leave your mouth, Bucky is pulling you over him for a feverish kiss that steals the oxygen from your burning lungs.
That night, he carefully rolls until he’s the one resting on your chest, his arms locked securely around your waist. And for the first time in your life, disagreement ends with someone offering silence as a space to settle instead of weaponizing it.
ᥫ᭡. WHEN HE THINKS ABOUT FOREVER
You are sitting with crossed legs on the couch in one of Bucky’s flannels and thick socks, Alpine dramatically sprawled on your lap as one tiny paw stretches lazily beneath your chin. Her purring is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs every time your fingers drag slowly through her white fur. She arrived in the middle of January wrapped inside one of Bucky’s old flannels, small enough that at first you mistook her for some white bundle of fabric against his chest. You still remember the way he had stepped through the front door that evening with rainwater clinging to the shoulders of his jacket and damp locks at the nape of his neck, one large hand carefully cupped beneath the trembling kitten like he was afraid she might dissolve if he held her too tightly.
“Found her near the south fence,” he had explained quietly while you fretted over them, your heart already breaking at the sight of the little thing. “No collar. Could barely stop shivering to eat.”
Alpine had looked miserable then, all wide blue eyes and soaked fur, but the second you reached for her, she had pushed her tiny face straight into your palm with a desperate little squeak that made Bucky huff a soft laugh. And that was it for you.
Months later, Alpine rules the farmhouse like she personally pays the mortgage. She follows Bucky everywhere when he is home, winding around his boots while he cooks or trying to climb directly into his lap whenever he sits down for more than five minutes. But with you she turns even softer, almost spoiled in the way she melts instantly against your affection. The moment you walk through the front door, she is meowing to be picked up, trotting across the hardwood floors before you even have time to take your shoes off. Sometimes she is eagerly waiting on the back of the couch like she somehow heard your car turn into Bucky’s lane.
He pretends to find it deeply offensive.
“Think she likes you more’n me now.” He had grumbled once while watching Alpine stretch shamelessly in your arms instead of his. You laughed, finding him extremely adorable.
“She sees you every day.”
“Exactly,” he had replied, narrowing his eyes at the cat like she had personally betrayed him. “And apparently that means nothing anymore.”
Tonight is no different.
“There’s my pretty girl,” you murmur as your hands delicately cradle her face. “Yes, there she is. Sweet baby.” Alpine answers by shoving her tiny face directly beneath your chin.
“Oh, you want more attention?” You gasp theatrically. “What a shocking development!”
From the doorway, Bucky watches the entire thing unfold in silence with the shadow of a fond smile lingering on his lips, one shoulder leaning against the frame separating the living room from the kitchen and thick arms crossed loosely over his chest. There is dirt still faintly smudged along one forearm from work outside, his flannel pushed up to his elbows, hair still slightly messy from where he dragged his fingers through it earlier. But all of that roughness fades beneath the look in his eyes. Because you are sitting there treating that tiny stray kitten like she hung the moon. Carefully kissing her head. Adjusting the blanket around her. Holding her with such tenderness, like this is the only language your body knows how to speak.
“Needy thing.” You murmur affectionately before pressing another kiss between her ears.
“You say that like you’re any better.”
The sound of Bucky’s teasing voice makes you glance up immediately. Alpine notices him too, her ears perking instantly before she lets out a tiny chirp of recognition. Still, she makes absolutely no attempt to leave your arms. The floor creaks softly beneath his boots as he finally pushes away from the doorway and walks toward the couch. You give him a sweet smile before your attention drops back to the kitten currently trying to chew on the sleeve hanging over your hand.
“Your daughter is biting me again.” Bucky snorts quietly as he lowers himself beside you, one arm immediately stretching around your shoulders.
“My daughter?” He repeats, pulling you closer. “That cat stopped being mine the second you started baby-talking her.”
“Mmh, that’s not true.”
“Princess, you carried her around this house for three hours yesterday because she sneezed once.”
You frown. “She was sick.”
“She had dust on her nose.”
You gasp softly in mock offense while Alpine flips onto her back, completely unconcerned with the argument happening over her custody. Bucky watches you scratch carefully beneath her chin, your entire face softening without restraint every time she purrs louder. Something in his chest pulls so hard it almost feels unfair, because you have no idea how gorgeous you look, and that he could stand there for hours just watching you pour your love out so freely.
Bucky reaches down then, scratching gently beneath Alpine’s chin until the kitten practically melts in your lap. “She sits in front of the door when you leave, y’know.”
Your eyebrows lift in surprise. “She does not.”
“Mhm.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Walks around crying for twenty minutes like her entire life just fell apart.”
“That’s dramatic.” You tell her with an exaggerated pout.
“Says the woman holding her like an actual infant.”
You look down instinctively. She has, in fact, moved to lie against your chest beneath the blanket with only her tiny head visible. “… Okay maybe a little.”
Bucky chuckles softly, the sound settling warm and deep inside your chest. You eventually notice his silence as somewhere deeper in the house the dryer hums low and steady. The air smells faintly like coffee and detergent and the water lily and sheer musk candle you lit earlier before sunset. When Alpine decides it’s time for the second round against the buttons of the flannel, your smile fades gradually as you become aware that Bucky’s still looking at you.
“What?” You ask softly. He blinks once like he has to pull himself back into the room.
“Nothing.” He murmurs automatically, though it’s very clearly not nothing.
Your eyes narrow a little. “James.”
His expression shifts then, softening even further until it almost looks thoughtful, his gaze drifting toward Alpine.
“I keep picturing something,” he breathes out absently. “Not in a big, dramatic way. Just… small things stacked together.”
Your breath catches quietly.
“Waking up,” he continues, almost like he can see it somewhere in front of him. “And not having to rush outta bed right away. Coffee that gets cold because neither of us remembers it’s there. A kitchen that’s too full of noise for how early it is.” His frame moves with the faint breath of amusement that slips through his lips, but it never breaks the softness of the moment.
“And coming home at the end of the day knowing it doesn’t matter how it went out there,” he adds more quietly, finally meeting your eyes. “Because there’s still you here.”
You can barely breathe now, your heart doing a strange little stutter. He says it so easily. Like these thoughts have existed inside him for a long time already. Like he’s visited them before and kept coming back to them over and over again.
Bucky shifts slightly closer on the couch without even seeming aware he is doing it, his free hand settling warm on your knee, his thumb brushing back and forth on your bare skin.
“I don’t know all the details yet,” he whispers, eyes moving from your eyes to your lips. “But I know it keeps coming back to the same thing. You being here. That’s the part my mind doesn’t change.”
Bucky leans closer until his forehead finally rests against yours. “If someday you decide you want kids, I’ll build something bigger for us. A place with too much noise, toys everywhere and muddy boots by the front door.” His smile grows almost boyishly giddy now, soft laughter warming his words. “Maybe a little boy with your eyes... and a little girl with your smile.”
Your chest rises sharply, your love for this sweet man soaring so suddenly in your heart it almost hurts. Tears burn hot behind your eyes before you can stop them.
“And if you don’t want that,” he continues gently, certain that every path still leads to you anyway. “Then we’ll keep the farmhouse just the way it is and spoil every animal we’ve got. Those damn ducks already act like they’re running the place anyway.” A watery laugh escapes you despite the lump in your throat, and Bucky smiles at the sound, his nose brushing lightly against yours.
“You wanna travel? We’ll travel. You wanna stay here forever teaching little ones while I complain about tractors and rain?” His hand squeezes your knee once. “Fine too.” Then the teasing fades from his expression entirely.
“Any future is right if you’re in it.”
Your vision blurs completely to the point a few small tears escape anyway, Bucky reaching up almost instinctively with his rough thumb to carefully brush away the wetness beneath one eye.
“I love you,” he whispers, thick with emotion. “I just need you.”
You stare at him for one helpless second before you finally cup his face.
“I love you too, Jamie.” You manage shakily, chuckling at how wobbly your voice must sound.
And yet, you couldn’t care less, because his lips are on yours—soft, reverent. One hand moves on your waist while the last rays of sunset spill warm gold across the walls around you.
Alpine promptly puts her front paws on your chest halfway through like she refuses to be excluded from this sweet moment. You feel Bucky laugh gently against your mouth at the feeling of fur brushing against his neck, but even then, he stays close enough that your foreheads still touch.
“Everything else,” he murmurs quietly, like a promise made as much to himself as to you. “Can figure itself out around that.”
— ⟢ END NOTES: as I mentioned in another post, nowadays it’s hard to find someone who is willing to put real effort into a relationship, but with this story I wanted to focus on the more positive side of dating—especially how someone like this reader, kinda insecure and with little relationship experience, might navigate certain situations for the first time + the degree of trust it takes to let yourself be vulnerable for the first time with someone. honestly there was so much more that I wanted to write, but because of the 1000 blocks limit, I had to cut out many scenes, shorten the smutty parts and make longer paragraphs (hope it doesn't look bad). I also intend to further explore the non-sexual d/s dynamic in other stories, because this one-shot was just a collection of moments so I thought it'd be better to keep it pretty tame. what was your favorite moment 🥰? thank you so much for reading 💕
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
summary: you need help getting one of J's asshole friends to stop hitting on you.
|| pope cody x reader || angst, heavy making out, touchstarved!pope, jealous!pope, fake dating trope, pope is v socially awkward (leave my baby alone!!), age gap, non canon timeline, no specific season but earlyish, mentions of drugs and alcohol consumption, character study ||
a/n: based on diet pepsi by addison rae - potential smutty p2?
wc: 3k
Pope wasn't sure if he hated the summer or loved it.
He hung out awkwardly in a chair by the pool, cold beer sweating in his hand under the glare of the early summer sun. San Diego had a habit of being hot nearly all year round, but there was something about the end of spring that had everyone and their mother calling the Codys for a party. Bikinis, drugs, old friends of his brothers he barely talked to. All in the name of summer. By noon the backyard already smelled like chlorine, sunscreen, cigarette smoke, and grilled meat from the burgers Deran was flipping on the grill. Music blared from the speakers mounted under the patio awning so loud it vibrated the large floor to ceiling windows of the house.
With J taking college classes too, there had been more people around. Pope always figured his nephew was more the loner type, same as him, even if girls seemed to flock to the kid anyway. But college had done something to J—it seemed to draw him out of his shell a little. He had more friends around the house, more nights out, more people filling Smurf’s backyard until Pope barely recognized half of them anymore.
That's how they'd met you, too.
You—just a friend of J's, you'd clarified more than once to Pope—who looked so fucking cute in that little red bikini you had on. He could just see the red ties of the bottoms poking from cutoff shorts with the frays brushing your thighs every time you moved. A can of Diet Pepsi sat in your hand with one of those little pink straws poking out the top so you wouldn’t ruin your lipstick. Pope always made sure they stayed stocked in the garage fridge, even if he didn’t spend as much time at Smurf’s house anymore. But when he knew the guys were throwing something, when he knew J would be here, he somehow always found his way back over. Because if J was here, there was a good chance you’d be trailing in behind him sooner or later.
But he often wondered what you and J truly were, no matter how many times you said he was a friend. Why were the two of you tied at the hip so god damn much? It made Pope's knuckles blanch when he thought of all the time his nephew got to spend with you.
Now you were standing across the yard with your head tipped back laughing at something J said while Nicky stood beside you smoking a shared joint, the end burning bright orange each time she inhaled. Smoke curled through the air around all of you, mixing with the sharp chemical smell of pool chlorine baking under the heat. Pope watched J lean down closer to hear whatever you were saying over the music and felt his jaw tighten hard enough to ache.
"Hey—"
He looked over to see Craig handing him a fresh beer. Pope hadn’t even realized the one in his hand was empty already, his knuckles white around the neck of the bottle.
He merely grunted, taking it from his brother.
"You look like you need something harder than a beer, but I know you better."
Pope's lip twitched, hardly stealing a glance at him.
Craig let out a low whistle. “What’s got your panties in a twist today, huh?”
Pope finally looked over at him then. Craig had his sunglasses shoved up into his hair, dark locks tucked behind his ears, blue eyes narrowed with curiosity and amusement.
"Go away." Pope said simply.
"Oh, now I really wanna know." Craig grinned as he sat down beside him.
Pope clicked his tongue against his teeth and twisted the cap off the beer, taking a long drink of the cold amber liquid while his eyes drifted back toward you again. By then the back gate was opening, and he watched your entire demeanor change.
First, it was your smile that slipped. Then your eyes flicked toward the guys coming through the gate, then over to Nicky beside you, and you murmured something to her, but Pope was too far away and it was so fucking loud out here to hear anything. His attention sharpened immediately anyway, ears pricking up like a mutt waiting for a command.
The guys spilling into the backyard were long and lean in only that college-kid kind of way. Floppy hair, muscle tees loose over wiry arms, sunburnt shoulders, a thirty pack of Bud Light swinging between them. Pope knew the type without ever stepping foot on a campus himself.
"Oh, shit." Craig muttered when he followed Pope's hardened gaze.
One of the guys had walked right up behind you, tossing an arm over your shoulders familiarly, and yet Pope saw your whole body go still under it. He couldn’t see your expression from here, only the way your head turned slightly toward Nicky. Across from you, J stood with his beer hanging loose in his hand, watching quietly, his face flattening out into that cold look he’d gotten better at lately. The Cody look.
"Easy, man. She's fine." he heard his little brother say beside him.
Pope felt like he was vibrating as he watched, ready to jump at any sign of this asshole giving you a hard time. He knew you could handle yourself too, but there was something about this guys confidence, how he thought he could come into his house and prey on his girl.
Pope stopped himself there. Not his girl. Not his house, really, either. He bit down on the inside of his cheek until his mouth filled with the taste of iron.
Then you slipped neatly out from under the guy’s arm, moving away from the group while lifting your drink toward the questioning looks they threw after you. Gotta get a refill. you called over your shoulder, as you walked away quickly.
But the second your back turned to them, your expression dropped. Plain annoyance sat across your face clear as day. Your shoulders folded inward a little while you crossed through the yard, weaving between people with your drink clutched against your stomach, making yourself smaller.
A little bit later, when you came back out into the yard with a new cold drink in hand, Craig was talking about some job he'd found—some mattress warehouse with a safe stacked with cash. Pope was only half listening. His attention snagged the second you stepped through the sliding glass door barefoot, little beads of condensation sliding down the side of your soda can onto your fingers.
You paused halfway across the patio, clearly intending to head back toward J, but the view of all those guys still talking around him seemed to make you pause. Your fingers tapped the side of the aluminum can in your hand, and then—to his surprise and horror—your head swiveled, and you were looking at him.
At Pope.
And now you were walking towards him. His heart lept in his chest.
Craig noticed immediately, straightening up in his lounge chair with that easy grin he wore around pretty girls.
"Hey—" Craig started, but you weren't even looking at him.
“Do me a favor?” you asked Pope quietly. He didn't even register the question—the answer would always be yes for you. He was nodding before he knew what you needed.
Your gaze flicked over your shoulder at the sound of footsteps coming across the concrete.
It all happened very quickly, and yet—he remembered it as if it was slow motion.
You bent toward him, fingers slipping around his wrist first, then into his hand—cold and wet to the touch from your soda—and his callouses scraped against your soft skin. You lifted his hand carefully, guiding his arm out of the way so you could turn yourself between and sit down onto his lap. The soft wash of your shorts brushed against the black denim of his jeans, your weight settling over his left thigh, and Pope stopped breathing for a second.
You—you were touching him. Sitting in his lap. In front of everyone.
His hand stayed where you’d moved it, hovering awkwardly over your hip, fingers flexing in midair, his brain choking on what to do next. He could smell your green apple shampoo when you leaned back into him, could feel the heat of your legs through his jeans.
Was this a joke? Had you planned to make fun of him? To show all your little friends how much of a freak he was?
"Just go with it," you whispered into his ear, your hand coming up behind his neck, manicured fingers delicately cupping his skin. Despite the heat, his flesh rose up in goosebumps. You were balancing your soda awkwardly in the other hand while reaching back for his still-hovering arm, guiding it around your waist yourself. Your fingers pressed gently against the back of his hand until he held you properly, as if soothing him.
Most of his palm landed against the rough denim of your shorts, but his fingertips brushed frayed fabric and warm skin underneath. The bare top of your thigh. He wouldn't let himself look at you properly— the skimpy red bikini top showing more skin than he could handle so close to him, bare shoulders shining with the glow of sunscreen and your chest dabbled with sweat. He swallowed thickly.
Your head turned towards the guys who were walking over, and the one in the middle—Asshole who put his arm around you—had stopped completely. His shoulders were tight, his glare ice cold.
But Pope was meaner. He knew how to do this, at least—how to play the guard dog, the meanest, eldest Cody brother. It was a role he slipped into easily, like second nature. The two of them stared at each other for a long minute.
Then J appeared beside the kid, clapping a hand onto his shoulder and saying something about putting their beer in the fridge. The group drifted away slowly after that, disappearing through the sliding door.
You let out a long sigh, your shoulders lightening as your fingers unlatched from Pope's neck. He missed the touch almost immediately.
"Thanks," you said.
Pope looked up at you. You were smiling gently down at him, casual as anything, but he soon realized that you weren't making any moves to get up. Your arm was still around his back, his still on the top of your thigh, but neither of you seemed eager to move away.
He just nodded stiffly. "Sure."
Your smile widened as the two of you studied each other. He watched you lift your soda, bringing the pink straw to your mouth. Pope did his god damn best not to let his eyes flit over your lips as you took a long sip.
He heard a huff of breath beside him suddenly.
"Well, that guy seemed like a dick."
You startled a little, turning your head like you’d forgotten Craig was still sitting there at all.
"Oh, hey Craig, I'm sorry—" you said, and you moved to finally get up, but Pope held on fast. He wouldn't let his baby brother take this from him.
When you looked back at Pope, your brows pulled together faintly in question. Something curious flickered there for a moment, but then your expression softened, like you understood anyway. You leaned down, lips to his ear, "Let me just switch sides, that okay?"
Pope's lips tightened. He suddenly became painfully aware of every awkward thing about himself. The way his hand probably sat too stiff against your waist. The fact that your breath sent a tingle down his spine, making his jeans suddenly feel too tight. And the fact he hadn’t said anything smooth this entire time. Anybody else would've known how to play this—smile, flirt a little, maybe make you laugh. But no, you were the charming one. The one who knew how to flirt, how to handle him.
So, he let go.
You kept your promise, only switching to his other thigh, letting his brother get an eye full of you now. You did the same thing again—bringing your hand around so you could take his, pulling it against yourself without even a moment of hesitation while you looked at the tallest Cody.
“Sick party,” you told Craig, lifting your drink in distant cheers. “How are you?”
Craig smiled back, all shiny teeth and charm as he held his beer up in salute, "I'm doin' good. What's up with your little friend?"
You rolled your eyes, "The guy has been trying to get me to go out with him for weeks." you sipped your drink again, eyes flickering over into the glass windows of the house, watching Asshole and his cronies from afar, "Except his version of taking me out is fucking me in the back his mom's BMW."
Pope was in the middle of taking a sip of beer when you said it, nearly choking.
"What the fuck did you just say?" he demanded. It was probably the most words he’d strung together to you all day. Hell, maybe all month.
But suddenly his head was making up different scenarios, none of them involving you in the back of Asshole's car, instead, he was wondering what the kid's head would sound like bouncing off the concrete when Pope's fist met it.
Your brows jumped a little at his reaction, but you only shrugged, unbothered. “He’s a dickhead. I’ve been trying to tell him I have a boyfriend, but he doesn’t believe me.”
"Do you?" Craig asked.
Pope thought maybe his little brother wasn’t completely useless after all.
He saw you shake your head in his periphery, and his heart, the traitorous thing, began to pound in his chest a little.
“No,” you admitted softly. “And I don’t think our little performance convinced him much either.”
Your gaze drifted back toward the sliding doors just as the group started filing outside again. Pope felt your body tense slightly on his thigh before you muttered a quiet, Oh, fuck my life under your breath. The asshole slowed when he passed, taking another long look at where you sat in Pope’s lap.
And Pope stared right back at him, lip curling.
Once they had gone towards the other side of the pool, he heard his brother say lightly: “I bet if you made out in front of him, they'd buy it.”
"Shut your mouth." Pope snapped, his hard glare turning on his brother.
But you barely seemed to hear either of them. You kept looking over your shoulder toward the yard, eyes skimming from Asshole to J and Nicky talking nearby, chewing lightly at your lip while you thought about something.
When you turned back to Pope and his brother, you had a funny look on your face.
Pope frowned slightly. “What's wrong?”
You hesitated, studying his face. You had lost that easy confidence from a moment before, fingers playing with your straw as you looked at him.
"Would that… ? No, no nevermind." you said, shaking your head. You cut yourself off by lifting your drink to your mouth again, shifting a little on his thigh in the process. The movement dragged your hip against him, making him painfully aware of just how much he was affected by your closeness.
Beside him, Craig made a strangled noise trying not to laugh. When Pope looked over, his brother was practically vibrating in his chair, eyebrows climbing halfway up his forehead while he grinned like a complete asshole.
"Get outta here, go—" Pope barked.
Craig finally lost the fight against his grin. He held both hands up in mock surrender while getting up from the lounge chair and walked away, shoulders shaking with mirth.
“Sorry,” Pope murmured once his brother was out of earshot.
He took another swallow of beer and leaned down to set the bottle carefully beside the chair, his movements slower now, more aware of you sitting there against him than anything else.
You shrugged, "It was…a good idea."
Pope's brows pulled together when he looked at you. God, you were so fucking close. The feel of your warm, soft skin against him, the smell of your apple shampoo mixing with sunscreen and the syrupy fake-sweet scent of the Diet Pepsi in your hand. He still couldn't believe you were sitting on his lap. Touching him. Pulling his arm around you as if it natural, like there wasn’t anything strange or dangerous about him to hesitate over.
And now you were looking at him with that look, something behind your eyes he couldn’t immediately sort out, and the fact he couldn’t sort it out made his stomach knot. As uncomfortable as he made people feel sometimes, Pope could still catch onto things. Patterns. He was always used to the way people acted, knew if they were lying because they started acting differently around him. But you never did that with him, and you never looked nervous around him like this before.
A thought occurred to him, one that made his stomach hurt even worse. Maybe you saw him for what he was—scary, mean; Smurf's dog made to heel and bark and bite when she commanded it. He became horribly aware of himself under your searching gaze—how tightly his hand was holding your thigh, how he could still just feel the top edge of your skin, your shoulder bumping into his chest when you'd shift.
And maybe you'd just realized whose lap you were in.
"Andrew…" you murmured, "Are you okay?"
He nodded.
You set your drink down in a hurry, cold aluminum knocking lightly against the concrete beside the chair before both your hands came up to his neck, fingers spreading against his skin as you tipped his face upward toward yours. Your touch was cold, wet from the soda.
"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I'm sorry."
You were touching him again. Both hands on his neck. Your face was so close to his. Noses nearly bumping. He could make out every clump of mascara around your eyes, your smudged lipstick. It made him nearly nauseous with want. Your eyes—they were worried. Why were you so worried to be around him now?
"I shouldn't have asked—or even—I don't know, Craig said it and for some reason I thought maybe—"
The gears in his brain finally started catching up after spinning uselessly for the last few minutes, thoughts grinding slowly into place one after another while he stared at your mouth moving so close to his.
What Craig had said… What had his brother said?
I bet if you made out in front of him, they’d buy it.
“You…” he managed finally, his mouth dry as cotton, heart thudding so hard it hurt. “Want to…?”
You licked your lips nervously, and the movement nearly derailed his thoughts again immediately.
"Not if it makes you uncomfortable. I just…” You sighed and glanced over your shoulder toward the yard. Your hair brushed lightly across his nose before you looked back at him again.
“I’m gonna lie to you and tell you it’s only to make this guy get off my back, okay?”
“What’s the truth?” he asked quietly, somehow finding enough nerve to force the words out.
Your teeth caught your bottom lip. “I just need you to tell me if it’s okay to do this—”
You leaned closer.
Pope’s hand moved before he could think better of it, wrapping carefully around your wrist to stop you there. So soft—the delicate bones of your joint in his rough hand.
"Y-yes but—what's the truth?" he echoed. He had to know. He had to.
You were hardly listening now, your attention splitting somewhere between him and the movement in the yard behind him, and Pope’s brain kept trying to grab onto something solid, some version of this that made sense, because he had to be out of his fucking mind to think maybe you meant what he desperately wanted you to mean. Maybe you actually—
But then your eyes flicked over his shoulder again, and Pope’s gaze followed yours automatically, catching the group of guys heading back across the patio towards you with J in tow, and suddenly your fingers tightened against Pope's face.
And then you turned into him, and kissed him.
You tasted like aspartame.
That syrupy sweet taste from the soda, like the waxy, cherry lipstick that you kept in your pocket. The smell of apple shampoo and sunscreen filled his nose while your lips pressed hard against his with a little gasp that went straight down his belly and into his dick. You didn’t kiss him shyly either. Pope could tell immediately you were trying to make a point, trying to push this far enough that anybody watching would understand exactly what they were seeing.
When he felt your tongue trace the seam of his lips, he didn't care anymore. He didn't care if this was some ruse to get Asshole off your back, he didn't care if you didn't actually like him, because fuck your tongue felt so good against his mouth. He was opening for you, tasting you back, and he could've sworn—under the noise of the music blaring, of the pool water splashing and people talking over one another—he heard a small, little helpless moan from your throat when he finally kissed you back properly.
His hands tightened around you immediately, both arms circling your waist to drag you closer against him until there was hardly any room left between you—your shoulder pressed tightly into his chest, a little awkward with the way you sat sideways across his thigh, but he didn't give a shit.
It felt endless and too short all at once, your tongues sliding together smoothly while you held his face so tenderly it made his throat tighten, and then little by little that tenderness started disappearing into want and hunger. Your fingers pushed into his hair harder now, nails scratching lightly at his scalp, making his breath stutter against your mouth.
“Holy shit.”
The voice cut through the air beside you like a gunshot beside him. The party seemed to rush back in all around at once—the sounds of people shouting scores for dives off the pool house, music blasting, the sliding door opening and closing.
And then you were pulling back, lips unlatching from his. To Pope’s immediate disappointment it was Deran standing there frozen beside the cooler with a beer halfway out of the ice.
He licked his lips automatically even as he glared at his brother, catching the lingering taste of you on his mouth, and when he looked up at you again your lips were swollen and shiny.
You glanced toward the group of guys across the yard, then Deran with a quick, oh-- hi, Deran, before looking back at Pope. Your hands were still around his neck, and you were leaning in again. But this time, your lips went to his ear.
“The truth is, Andy...” you murmured softly.
Pope felt another shiver move through him at the feel of your breath against his neck, and his grip tightened on your little denim shorts as you said, “…I've wanted to do that for a long time.”
And then, as if you'd merely said thanks, pope, bye! you were pulling away from him, brushing your thumb across his top lip, wiping away whatever lipstick you'd left him with, and you were standing from his lap and walking off through the yard like you hadn’t just detonated his entire fucking nervous system in front of half the party.
Deran let out a low laugh beside him before grabbing a pool towel from the chair nearby and tossing it at Pope’s chest.
“You’re gonna wanna sit there for a minute,” he said. “Wait out that, uh… problem.”
Pope glared at his brother over the towel clutched in his lap.
why am I literally so nervous and would you like a part two yes or no
Tags/warnings: Deran's friend!Reader, touch starved!Andrew (what's new), age gap (reader is mid 20s, Pope is almost 40), slow burn, friends to lovers, touchy reader, physical touch as a love language, injured!pope, a little angst cause it's Andrew, intox reader (she drinks and smokes at one of their parties and gets handsy [cute] with pope, he's a gentleman about it), Pope is just a big ol' simp, cuddling, unprotected piv sex, creampie, [inaccurate show dynamics, mostly cause I didn’t wanna deal with Cath (lover her though)]
Summary: Pope doesn't like to be touched...at least not until he met you.
a/n: my favorite touch starved boy <3
Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND, USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI OR USE AI TO TRANSLATE MY WORK. FUCK AI.
The first time it happens it's an accident.
There’s people in his house when there shouldn't be.
The music is too loud, the bodies too hot and sweaty.
He’s standing in the kitchen like a weirdo, even he can acknowledge it.
But he truly doesn’t know what to do. Where to go.
He’s been gone for three years. He doesn’t recognize anyone anymore. Where the fuck is he even supposed to start?
It’s your meek “excuse me” that breaks him out of the spell he’s under, gaze finally sharpening as he comes back down to the present moment.
Everything rushes back to him, overwhelmingly. He’s suddenly too aware of it all, especially your timid grip on his bicep as you try to move him out of the way.
The touch doesn’t linger. It’s fleeting, unlike the reality that Pope finds himself in.
You side step around his imposing frame, a shy smile on your lips, one that makes his head spin.
You shouldn’t be nice to him, hell, you shouldn’t be nice to any asshole you don’t know. Did no one teach you—
And then you turn on the kitchen sink, gently cleaning the glass you’ve been using unlike everyone’s disposable, plastic ones.
An air of familiarity courses through him. You’re…comfortable in his home. You’re taking care of the space that no one, not even his brothers, could give two fucks about.
He can’t help but stare, his thoughts rendering him unable to look the other way, to go back to being stoic and uninterested.
If you feel him glaring you don’t let him know it, your body language remaining relaxed all the way through wiping the glass dry and standing on your tip toes to place it back on the shelf above you.
That’s when he moves.
It’s instinctual. His mother’s voice clear in his ear, urging him to help a lady in need.
He steps up, crowds your personal space yet gives you room to escape if you feel uncomfortable.
You turn to him then, your bright eyes meeting his as your fingers barely touch. He instantly forces himself to look away, afraid that he’s going to let the glass fall if he loses himself in your gaze.
“Thanks,” you mumble, shooting him another smile as you settle back down on your feet, the movement shifting you closer against his chest.
It honestly makes Pope dizzy. Feeling your warmth, smelling the faint softness of your perfume.
You don’t turn to move for the millisecond it takes for him to finish pushing the glass into place, perfectly aligned with the others.
It’s only when he too settles back down that you turn to him expectantly.
“You’re welcome.”
Pope guesses that’s what you’re looking for and he’s proven correct instantly as you bless him with another blinding smile.
His stomach does another flip.
Who the fuck are you?
Before he can ask, what he believes to be your name is called because you instantly turn towards the sound.
He commits your name to memory, such a fitting one for such a—
“Angel! There you are!” Daren breaks through the crowd like a lifeline, one that you instantly take, stepping away from Pope and towards him like a magnet.
You settle against his side like you’re meant to be there, his arm leisurely draping over your shoulders in a familiarity that makes Pope’s blood boil with a flurry of emotions he simply cannot pinpoint.
“See you’ve met Pope,” Deran notes and you turn back to Pope with wide eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” you start, tone remorseful. “I had no idea you were Deran’s brother, I would’ve introduced myself.”
You genuinely mean it and it almost causes Pope to snap at you. You don’t owe him anything.
“’s okay,” Pope mumbles instead, his gaze piercing.
“Well it’s really nice to meet you,” you hold out your hand for him to take.
Pope’s jaw clenches. He makes no effort to move, to reciprocate your kind gesture. He can see the disappointment in your face, how it falls instantly. You’re not used to being denied, to being told no, and for a second Pope almost cracks.
But he can’t. He won’t let himself do it.
No, because he knows that the second you give him even an inch of familiarity he will devour you whole.
“Don’t take it personally, angel,” Deran practically glares daggers at him. “He’s not really into that.”
Your mouth curls into a silent oh and Pope shrugs in response.
It’s all he can do to not come across as a complete weirdo instantly upon meeting you, more than he already has.
You copy him, shrugging like you’re unbothered but he knows for a fact you aren’t as your hand instantly retracts back towards you, seeking Deran’s instead.
His fingers interlace with yours like it’s second nature, overly intimate. Pope’s brows scrunch in confusion, barely. Are the two of you…a couple?
“Anyway, I’ll see you around.”
Pope gives you one last grunt of acknowledgement before Deran is pulling you away, back towards the backyard where all the action is happening.
He obviously keeps his eyes trained on you as you leave, on how your jean shorts hug your ass, how your body is sun-kissed and a little burnt from the summer heat wave, how your hair flows effortlessly.
And then you turn to glance back at him for what feels like minutes, your eyes filled with nothing but curiosity.
His eyes force him to blink then and he loses you to the crowd.
Fuck.
The next time Pope sees you, you’re back at the house for a pool day with his family. It’s a small gathering this time around, just their inner circle which apparently now includes you too.
You’re in a striking blue bikini, the color contrasting beautifully against your skin. You’re sitting on one of the lounge chairs, your legs open so a hyper Lena can settle in between them.
You can barely contain your laughter as the young girl tells you a silly story from school, your fingers working overtime to braid her long hair in one of those fancy styles that Pope could never name so that it won’t get too tangled from the pool.
Your laughter hits him like a disorienting grenade. It’s like he's never heard anyone feel joy the way you do. It's infectious, making him wonder if he’s ever actually felt a real emotion in his life.
“There, all done,” you tie up Lena’s hair and give her back a little pat before the girl practically bolts from your embrace, yelling a swift thank you before cannonballing into the pool as everyone cheers.
Andrew’s about to move forward, to settle down beside you, a pull to be near you clouding his senses.
But then Craig has to go and ruin it.
“Me next,” the oaf practically towers over you, settling down between your legs like Lena had, taking advantage of how you haven't moved.
You roll your eyes playfully but don’t complain.
Pope watches as you take his hair out of the messy bun that he’s got it in, gently scratching his scalp. His younger brother moans, causing you to stop and smack the side of his head.
Pope’s lips quirk up into a smirk. Good, set his brother’s straight.
But Craig is not deterred, simply reaching back and squeezing your thigh cockily.
It takes everything in Pope not to lunge forward. He doesn’t understand it, how protectiveness practically flares up in his chest at the sight of someone else’s grubby hands on your soft flesh.
He honestly doesn’t know how Deran lets it happen. They both know his brother so why is he letting Craig be so chummy with you?
Unless…you’re not actually together, together.
Is it possible that you’re just like this with everyone?
You finish braiding his hair then, meanly tossing it over his shoulder so that the tail end of it smacks him on the face.
“There princess,” you tease. “All done.”
Craig flinches as the band hits him, bursting out into a fit of laughter as he stands up and follows Lena’s example, splashing into the pool so hard that he ends up soaking you completely.
Lena laughs as you gasp dramatically. “You meanie!”
“Payback’s a bitch—” Craig starts, quickly correcting himself as you glare at him. “Payback, angel.”
Deran snorts, taking a swig of his beer from his spot at the other side of the pool. A spark of something is set ablaze in your gaze, a playfulness that borders on mischief.
“Oh yeah?” It takes them a few seconds to process what you’re doing as you sprint towards them, throwing yourself in the pool as close to Deran as possible.
Pope audibly snickers as you drench his youngest brother.
The backyard is set ablaze with teasing soon after, every single member of his family sans him and his mother engaging in a water fight for the ages.
Pope settles on the lounge chair that you’ve vacated, your warmth still lingering on the fabric beneath him.
He’s transfixed by you. By the ease in which you can bring lightness to his family, as though you can lift the weight they all carry on their shoulders, even if it’s just for a little while.
Another thought crosses Pope’s mind then — is it possible that you could be like this with him too?
Laughter only turns even more boisterous as you enter the living room, a baking dish in hand.
“Angel!” Both Deran and Craig greet you, your smile beaming as you round the table to say hi to Smurf first. You know the rules of this house well by now, a genuine comfort to Pope who at least doesn’t have to worry about you with his family.
He watches intently as you chat with the older woman, handing her the dish, humble enough to tell her it’s not something as grandiose as the roast she has prepared but you didn’t want to show up empty handed.
His mother smiles at you, her ego fed enough as she stands up and goes to heat it up in the kitchen.
You don’t let her comments get to you, instead you go around the table, saying hello to everyone, your touch always lingering, always soft and playful.
Deran gives you a hug, Craig kisses your cheek affectionately, Baz only gives you a nod in acknowledgement and Pope can’t help but smirk satisfactorily against his beer. You ruffle J’s hair and give Nicky a kiss to her temple.
You’re comfortable, confident, secure in your place within their family. You don’t back down to his mother, you don’t shrink away to Baz’s hesitancy, you—
Your eyes catch him staring from across the room. He’s subconsciously backed away the second he saw you come in, practically hiding in the threshold.
You give him a shy wave over Nicky’s shoulder, a gesture he reciprocates with a grunt and a barely there head bob.
Fuck, he’s even worse than Baz.
But you don’t look at him with the same disdain as you do his half-brother. Instead, something else ignites in your eyes. A challenge, almost, to chip away at the ice around his heart. But little do you know that it’s already melting away, and neither of you can stop it.
You eagerly help Smurf bring the rest of the food out before the entire family sits down around the overflowing table.
You make it a point to sit next to him, to never once let him think that his presence is unwanted, even if he refuses to give you the type of relationship that you want, that you crave.
You fill up his plate without asking him and if you weren’t so damn adorable he’d be angry about it. But he simply cannot be. He just lets you, watching silently as you tell the room a story from a crazy class you had to experience the week before.
Your hands move in tandem with your voice, making it a point to not draw attention to what you’re doing, as if serving Pope food is somehow normal. And for a second he can let himself believe that it is, that you taking care of him is how things are meant to be.
It’s only when Deran whispers something to Craig that has the two snickering that Pope finally breaks free from your spell, mumbling a quick thank you under his breath before you settle down to eat as Lena tells the table what she got up to in school over the week now.
You hum in acknowledgement, listening to his niece intently, like you actually care about her babbling, because you do.
After lunch, the crowd disperses throughout the house, the kitchen settling into a comfortable silence where Pope can finally breathe again.
He’s always relegated to clean up duty, mostly because he likes it that way, it’s something he can control.
“Where do you want these?” You ask, causing him to turn to face you from his spot in front of the sink.
He stammers for a second, blinking away the brain fog that you always seem to bring with you every time you bless him with your undivided attention.
He crooks his head towards the left side of the sink and you move swiftly, placing the stack of plates you’ve gathered into the space.
You don’t linger this time, no, you make it a point to step away as soon as you can but not before Pope feels his body shifting towards you.
Oh, you definitely know what you’re doing.
He shakes his head as he returns to his task of dishwashing. You return periodically, bringing by glasses, cutlery, baking dishes and everything else his family could’ve thought to leave behind like the animals they are.
Once the entire table is cleared, you settle beside Pope, dish towel in hand and begin drying what he's just washed.
It’s…nice.
Pope’s not used to someone actually wanting to help him but he finds himself quickly falling into the rhythm of your comforting presence.
“I never really asked,” you start conversation after what feels like a small eternity, turning to face Pope curiously. “Do you prefer Pope or Andrew?”
You ask as if it’s not a loaded question. Well, to you it isn’t, there’s no way for you to know about the weight his name carries over him. To you it’s just about making sure you’re calling him by the name he wants to be called, nothing more, nothing less.
But to Pope it’s…euphoric.
He stays silent for a while, thinking, and you let him without an ounce of judgment. You return to your repetitive motions, to working side by side, in tandem, coordinated.
Meanwhile, a storm rages waste in his brain. He’s never allowed himself to want, to put himself first, and for the first time in his life, someone is allowing himself to do just that.
But is it real? Do you actually mean it?
It’s only when he’s finished washing the last plate, handing it over to you that he finally allows himself to look your way.
“Andrew,” he mumbles before he loses the courage to. “Call me Andrew.”
You turn to him, setting down the plate atop the mountain you’ve created, nodding your understanding.
“Andrew,” you repeat back to him. “It suits you more.”
He can’t help the blush that creeps up his neck and to his ears, the heat that blooms in his chest, the way his intense gaze falters like a lovesick teenager as his mouth devolves into a dopey smile.
You don’t make fun of him for it, don’t even acknowledge it. You just stay there with him, following through with your help and leaving the kitchen spotless.
A few hours later he finds himself protectively escorting you out to your car, much to the snickers and teasing of his brothers which, thankfully, you’re not privy to as you say your goodbye to Lena and Cath.
“Bye Andrew,” you call out to him, and like a moth to a flame, he can’t help but step towards you, almost expectantly.
You hugged everyone else in his family, maybe—
Your eyes sparkle with delight as his body leans towards your again, a reaction neither of you was expecting.
You close the distance without hesitation, getting back up on your tip toes to plant a soft kiss to his cheek.
It’s over as quickly as it started, no lingering, no invading his space more than needed.
He’s certain he stops breathing, his brain short circuiting as you settle into the driver’s seat and follow Baz out of the family compound.
You’re not special. He reminds himself. She’s like this with everyone.
And yet reason doesn’t quell the pounding of his heart, the way his breathing hitches as he finally wills himself to take in a deep breath, the need to see you again.
He doesn’t see you for a while, exam season taking over most of your time and planning a new job taking up most of his.
He’s just had a disagreement with his brothers, it’s the only reason why he finds himself out by the pier, supposedly clearing his head with a walk like normal people do, but instead the voices are just getting louder and louder.
“Uncle Pope!”
Lena’s voice cuts through the noise. His gaze sharpens towards it, his frame lowering, arms opening, making space for her.
She doesn’t shy away from him, embracing him lovingly because to her, he’s just her uncle, a little weird but never dangerous.
It’s only when she steps back that Pope notices you.
You walk towards them leisurely, not wanting to break apart the cute display happening before you.
“Hi,” it’s the only thing that flows from his lips.
“Hi yourself,” you reply, placing your hands on Lena’s shoulders to keep her close to the two of you. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a family meeting all afternoon.”
Pope blinks back the shock. How close are you to his family? How much do you know?
“Ended early.”
You nod, Lena squirming in your embrace, gasping as realization dawns on her.
“Can Uncle Pope get ice cream with us?”
You chuckle at her impatience, causing Pope to huff playfully at just how adorable his niece is being.
“That’s up to him, sweetie.”
And how is he supposed to say no when his niece looks up to him with the most adorable eyes ever. “Please Uncle Pope!”
He nods. “Okay.”
Lena practically jumps into him out of joy, her tiny hand wrapping around his as she drags him towards the boardwalk shops.
You laugh behind them, jogging to catch up as she pulls you towards them, wrapping her other hand in yours.
Lena’s a bubblegum flavor fiend, extra sprinkles and gummy bears. You’re classic, rich and decadent, chocolate in a cup. Pope almost feels bad for getting a simple vanilla scoop in a waffle cone.
“Tell them to dip it in chocolate,” you whisper to him. “Trust me.”
He doesn’t know how to answer, blinking at you in surprise.
Trust me. Such a simple concept and yet…there’s still something that doesn’t let him take that leap.
But what does he know about ice cream.
So he does, he tries something new.
You smile brightly as you turn to receive your sweet treats, making sure Lena’s sitting down on one of the benches before you go up to pay.
But Pope’s quicker, pulling out a bill from his pocket and taking care of it before you can even ask the cashier how much it’s gonna be.
You roll your eyes at him when she tells you you’re too late and he can’t help but smirk victoriously.
“Thank you Andrew,” you relent, accepting your cup from his outstretched hand, your fingers gently grazing as you do.
The spark of electricity that snaps down Pope’s body is life inducing.
“You’re welcome.”
You settle next to Lena who’s munching ecstatically at her sugary confection, pink already staining her shirt.
Pope takes a seat on the other side of his niece.
He settles into the simplicity of intimacy with ease again, the gentle waves crashing up ahead, the cool afternoon air filling his senses with the comfort of saltwater.
Existing has never felt as easy as this. As something pleasant and unhurried, not having to pretend to be anything other than who he is.
Pope can’t help watch the two of you in complete awe. How you dote on Lena and how she reciprocates the action, something he’s never seen her do in the months since he’s been back.
She feels free here, not like the little girl who’s quiet and reserved with her now estranged parents. No, she’s alert and alive, playful and aloof. It makes Pope’s heart soar as he watches the two of you so effortlessly blend together, his own ice cream melting and making a mess of him soon enough.
The house is uncharacteristically quiet.
He’s the only one there, he’s sure of it. Smurf left the second she got the call that the job had gone sour and they had to split up, rushing to Baz’s because she knows Pope is too spiteful to die on her. Meanwhile J has gotten really injured and Smurf’s new baby comes first now.
It doesn’t matter to Pope. At least he tells himself he doesn’t hate himself a little more the second he hears his mother’s heels retreat down the hall, her car soon only a phantom noise as she speeds off.
Alone in the house, the quiet gets to him quickly. The typically bright and spacious home constricting in on him as he struggles down the hall to his old room.
He tries not to think about how the rough concrete walls feel against his sensitive fingertips, how the familiar pain in his side hums with the pressure of painful memories, how he’s definitely not back in that tiny jail cell after he had another psychotic break in prison and got himself thrown in solitary for another week.
No, he definitely does not think about how he was left struggling with his sanity, floating aimlessly, stuck inside his own head trying to desperately find some comfort to cling to as he curled in on himself to find a position where it didn’t hurt him to breathe.
He swings the door to his room open without thinking twice about it.
It’s early in the morning, no one’s been home since the night before, and yet, the second he comes inside, he instantly notices the way the air smells different, sweeter.
He stills, his hand not clutched to his side slowly sliding to the back of his jeans to feel the comforting weight of his gun handle. Meanwhile his eyes rake over the room, the unmade bed, the clothes—his clothes—scattered on the floor.
“Andy?” Your sweet, sleepy voice calls to him from his ensuite bathroom and he turns to it like an idiot boy with a childlike crush, eyes wide and heart practically beating out of his chest as if he isn’t currently in such devastating pain but he doesn’t dare make you uncomfortable.
Fuck, why does he feel like such a creep?
A sharp inhale springs you into action, crossing into the unlit room to take him in, suddenly wide awake it seems.
He doesn’t have the heart to stop you as your soft hands come up to inspect the gash on his brow, the purpling under his eye. Timid fingertips trace a path down his chest, landing softly over the hand at his abdomen.
You don’t say anything, don’t lash out at him, don’t flinch back in fear as you slowly lift his palm, assessing the damage. He doesn’t know why he lets you, it doesn’t make any logical sense, and yet he just melts into your hands, lets you maneuver him however you desire as he finally lets the dam crack.
You remain silent as tears stain his cheeks, as you gently pull him into the bathroom and sit him down on the edge of the tub, as you wrap your hands on the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head.
He knows you feel the gun tucked into his pants but you don’t let the shock show on your face. Instead, when you turn to discard his shirt behind you, he simply pulls it out himself, placing it on top of the counter, safety on always.
You turn to assess him then. Luckily the switchblade didn’t do too much damage, just one long enough gash that has since stopped bleeding, deep enough to hurt but not deep enough to kill him.
You settle on your knees in front of him and he’s certain his heart skips a beat. You smile up at him, so unbelievably soft, like you’re trying to comfort him without touching him because you know just how uncomfortable it makes him.
And yet, he can’t help but crave your touch, like a reminder that he’s still alive, that he’s still here, with you.
He knows he can just ask. Knows he can put together a sentence, or not, just muster the courage and say please. But how can he? When not even his mother deigned him worthy of fussing over?
“You don’t have to—” another sob breaks through him and it takes everything in him not to curse and scream and scare you.
His body begins to shake, shame bubbling from his stomach across his body until he’s nothing but a quivering mess before you.
He wants to run, to hide away and never have you see him like this ever again. This was a mistake, staying here, letting you see him this vulnerable. He needs—
He’s turned to stone as you pull yourself up from sitting on your heels and lean up towards him, invading his personal space now, all the voices in his head suddenly quiet. Your hands come up to cup his face, thumbs dutifully wiping away the tears that fall.
He feels pathetic, disgusted with himself at the sight you’re beholden to. But then your sweet voice begins to shush him softly, to tell him that he’s okay, that you’ve got him, that he can let it all out, and for a second he allows himself to believe it.
Andrew Pope Cody allows himself to feel, to not hide behind what he’s been groomed to be all of his life. He breaks down and you patiently wait for him to finish so you can help him pick up all the pieces.
It’s only when you no longer feel the wetness drip against your flesh that you pull back enough to take him all in. He forces himself to make eye contact with you, to show you as much as he can that he’s alright, that he appreciates you.
You swiftly rummage through his bathroom cabinets, searching for the first aid kit you know he has. He watches you intently as you clean him up with a wet rag first, removing all the blood from his abdomen, his hands turning white as he holds onto the side of the tub for dear life.
Your tongue pokes out between your lips as you lose yourself to the task, using that glue Baz got them in Mexico to close his wound. He can’t help but smile softly at the sight, finally allowing himself to rake his gaze over your body.
For one, you’re clad in one of his old shirts, the ones that no longer fit him after prison hardened his body into a bigger size. Maybe he’s not special, but he’ll be damned if possessiveness doesn’t boil over at the mere sight of you in his clothes.
He’s already slowly losing his mind, desire threatening to make him take a leap over that invisible line he’s drawn between the two of you in his mind, and then you shift a little, showing off his boxers underneath, your bare things practically causing him to salivate.
The decision settles with him with ease, dragging him down into the depths comfortably, like a sailor that has accepted his fate because it means he’ll at least get to kiss the siren.
“There,” you hum, tracing the outline of the bandage with your fingertips before you turn to look up at him. “All done.”
“Thank you,” he manages to choke out.
“My pleasure, Andy.”
Letting you go is the hardest thing Pope has ever done. You’d insisted he needed to rest after the trauma that he’d experienced and, not wanting to be an annoying patient, he’d conceded, settling down where you had just been sleeping, the sheets still slightly warm and smelling of you.
For the first time in a long time, Pope actually slept and slept good. But the second he’d woken up, you were no longer in the house.
He thought about calling, about making sure he hadn’t scared you off, but part of him preferred it this way. He was scared of his feelings towards you, so he chose indifference.
His mood soured, however. Every little thing his brother did made him snap, every time they brought you up in conversation, every time your name entered his orbit but your body didn’t made him go crazy.
He’s aware that it’s all his fault for not checking in, for disappearing into radio silence. But in his defense, you’ve never texted before, you’ve never even given him your number for fuck’s sake! It would’ve been weird to contact you out of the blue right?
Summer is coming to an end when you finally deign him worthy of your presence again.
Deran and Craig are throwing a party. Big surprise.
The house is packed, hot and sweaty. Everyone is scantily clad, if covered up at all. Even Smurf has left the premises for the weekend so it’s just a cluster of debauchery and substance abuse.
He should’ve left, he thought about it many times. But he knows you’ll show, even if it’s just to say hello, see how quickly things are devolving, and leaving immediately.
His eyes have been trained on the entrance all night, impatiently waiting for you to walk in. It’s nearing eleven and his palms are starting to get itchy with anxiety. What if you don’t show? He hadn’t even thought about that possibility.
It’s been a few days since Deran’s mentioned you. Even longer since you’ve babysat Lena. Could something be wrong? Are you okay?
His entire body bursts with uncomfortable heat. He needs to find Deran right now, needs him to tell him your address so he can go check on you himself, needs—
A loud squeal catches his attention, swiftly turning towards the backyard to catch you swung over Craig’s shoulder, your tiny jean shorts riding further up your ass as he spins you around.
You giggle brightly, not attention seeking, just pulling everyone’s gaze towards you with the ease in which you feel joyful. He watches, entranced, as his younger brother puts you down.
Pope moves instinctively, stalking towards the living room to get a better line of sight on you. You’re at least wearing a shirt over your bikini, your beautiful skin covered from the hungry gazes of those around you. If you realize just how many men are salivating after you, you don’t let it show, not as Craig lights up a joint and passes it on to you instantly.
Something constricts against Pope’s heart as he watches you inhale deeply, a primal urge to burst through the doors, grab the joint from your hand and toss it away before bringing you into the house and hiding you away.
He settles for sitting down on the loveseat. He can keep you safe from in here, from far away, from a distance.
The house only becomes more crowded as the night goes on and he unfortunately loses track of you two hours in, only noticing the second that annoying couple in front of him moves out of the way, the warm summer air hitting him in contrast to the air conditioned interior.
He panics instantly, his eyes jumping through the hazy bodies outside as he desperately tries to find you again. He’s about to stand up, to finally make a move and search for you when your body plops down on his lap instead.
“Andy!” You shriek, an airy happiness enveloping you as you settle over this lap. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
Pope swallows thickly, feeling everything all at once, his brain having trouble processing your hands over his chest, your core pressed against the bulge in his pants, your hot breath on his face.
He’s certain he’s blushing crimson but maybe you’re too intoxicated to notice.
“Were you hiding from me?”
He doesn’t answer right away, causing your pretty little mouth to get upturned into a pout.
“I knew it,” you whimper. “You do hate me.”
“I don’t hate you, angel,” the words spill out of his mouth instantly, unfiltered since his stupid brain isn’t working anymore.
Wide eyes stare at him adorably. “You don’t?”
He shakes his head.
“Then…” you huff, clearly exhausted from all the mental gymnastics you’ve been doing too. “Why didn’t you call?”
He opens his mouth to answer.
I didn’t have your number.
I didn’t know I had to.
Why didn’t you call?
But he knows it’s all lies. He knows he deliberately didn’t call.
Didn’t text.
Didn’t anything.
Your eyes flicker down to his open mouth, your own hanging open as you stare hungrily at him, your hips grinding down against him involuntarily.
He hisses at the contact, the sound so broken and foreign to him. His brows scrunch in desperation, his head angling without him noticing. And so you take the leap for him.
Your lips settle on his like a sip of water after wandering in the desert for an entire lifetime.
It takes everything in him not to kiss you back, not to run his hands over your back, not thrust his hips up into you.
He knows how high you are, knows your actions, while yours, aren’t sober ones. And he’d much rather kill himself than take advantage of you.
“Andy,” you whine into his mouth again, needy and desperate. “Please.”
He stiffens beneath you, once again gripping the chair handles like his life depends on it. You frown as the wood creaks, a wicked smile curling your lips as you realize just how much he’s holding back right now.
“You can touch me, Andy,” you whisper, your lips starting their descent from his own down to his jaw and neck.
He shakes his head softly, not cruel, not rejecting, simply stating.
If anything, it spurs you on, determined to prove him wrong, to provoke him.
He can tell as your lips lock into the base of his neck, teeth nipping meanly at his skin, desperate to leave a mark on him.
He should stop you, should pick you up and tuck you into bed. But he doesn’t. He can’t.
Instead, his eyes close in pleasure, his fists practically snapping the wood between his fingers.
You’re hungry, having been kept from touching him for so long. He’s given you an inch and you’ll be damned if you don’t steal a mile. And he honestly doesn’t care, can’t care, when the realization that you were looking for him finally catches up.
You want him.
Desperately.
Your hands roam down his arms in tandem with your hip movements, your lips trailing back up to his mouth, but instead of diving in, taking the plunge, you hover above them, your hot breath taunting him.
“You’re so pretty, Andy,” you whisper. “Need you—” you huff, frustrated. “to touch me, please.”
He shakes his head again, this time accidentally brushing his lips with yours, groaning at the fleeting contact.
“‘M not gonna take advantage of you, angel,” he presses his forehead to your cheek, almost reverent.
You let out a sigh, deep and weirdly understanding, stopping your mindless torture as his words sink in. He stares at you, his heart finally pumping blood to the rest of his body normally as it sinks with your own, the raging storm calming into a consistent thundering.
“‘M sorry,” you mumble against his chest, settling down to rest your head against the crook on his neck. “I just…” you sigh, melancholic, the words not coming to you.
“I know,” he finally lets his hands break free from his self-imposed restraints, sliding them up your legs, taking his time feeling the warmth of your exposed thighs, the comforting weight of your clothes against your skin. You hum contently, like a cat finally being given attention, practically purring against him.
He settles his touch around your body, pressing you tightly against him as you slowly doze in and out of consciousness.
“Is this good enough, angel?” He’s never felt this soft with anyone before, his jagged edges usually too sharp, drawing blood instantly. But it’s as though you’ve smoothed him down, made him into someone that’s worthy of you.
You nod against him, fingers curling into his soft shirt, most definitely wrinkling the perfectly ironed fabric and he could not give two shits about it.
He’s acutely aware of how the two of you ended up asleep together.
All he wanted was to tuck you into bed, kiss your temple and then sit across from the bed, watching you sleep all night, like a messed up version of a guardian angel.
But you’d whined oh so loudly when he tried to peel away from you, your arms wrapping around his neck, your legs tightening around his waist. He couldn’t even get his shoes off, being forced down onto the soft mattress as you rolled over on top of him.
You settled down easy after that, your even breath soothing against his neck, the patterns he kept tracing over your back lulling you even further into the depths of rest.
He’s never fallen asleep this easily before, definitely not after the peak of adrenaline you’d just put him through.
But after exactly one thousand and sixty five seconds of watching your calm face, feeling your chest rising and falling steadily, something pulled him under, his eyelids becoming so heavy he could barely register as he stopped blinking altogether.
Your squirming wakes him up the next morning.
You’ve crawled on top of him, a comforting weight over his body. That is until you started to move, seeking something to put you out of your miserable restlessness.
“What’s wrong, angel?” His voice is deep with sleep.
You lift yourself onto a sitting position, straddling his hips once more, rubbing against the growing tent in his pants.
Part of him snaps awake at the mere inkling that you’re horny, now sober and wanting to torture him for denying you yesterday. But as his eyes focus on you, he finds an even deeper feeling he simply cannot name brewing in your pretty little head.
You scratch at your shirt, the fabric constrictive, your neediness for him overwhelming.
“’s too much,” you whine and he, for some divine reason, understands what you need.
He sits up, causing you to gasp as his erection thrusts up against you.
“Meanie,” you tease, pushing him to action.
He smirks as his hands gently trail over your exposed tummy. His hands grab the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head in one swift movement, quickly untying your bathing suit top and tossing the offending fabric to the floor. He doesn’t give himself the time to stare, not when you’re so desperate and time is of the essence, he’ll have time to properly worship you later.
Your nipples do harden as the cold air hits them, and he cannot fight the urge to take one into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the bud before he detaches so he can pull his own shirt off.
Your breathing gets caught in your throat as you watch him, brain already shutting off at the sight of his bare body. So much more real estate for you to touch, he thinks.
And touch you do, eager hands trailing the hardness of his chest and stomach all the way down to his pants. You make quick work of the button and his zipper and he lifts his hips so he can pull them off, hesitating with his boxers—
“All of it.” You answer for him.
“Yeah?”
“Mhmm,” you whine. “Please.”
And who is he to deny you now?
In one quick movement, he’s complete bare beneath you. But you’re still not content, no, you won’t be until you’re right there with him.
He takes care of your remaining clothes then, urging you up with two quick taps to your outer thigh and just as quickly hooking his thumbs underneath your bikini bottoms.
Your heat is so close to his face, so puffy and needy, he simply must lean forward and place a kiss over your hip bone. You hum contently, body buzzing with excitement as you practically tackle him back down on the bed and return to your earlier position.
At first you don’t want anything other than to feel him, your cheek pressed over his beating heart, legs spread over his lower abdomen, practically purring as his own hands wisp over your back.
You lay like that for a while, enjoying the gentle sounds of crashing waves and birds singing outside his window. But then you turn to look at him with those round, puppy eyes that he’ll be damned to cave to for the rest of his life.
“Andy,” you plead. “Need to be closer to you.”
He knows what you mean without you having to explain yourself.
There’s just one more thing to do.
So he does, grabbing a hold of his rock hard cock and slowly sinking himself into your entrance. You wince at the stretch, eyes quickly becoming watery as he settles inside of you. He shushes you gently, shifting you slightly so he can reach your lips, crashing them with his in a sloppy, wet kiss that has you instantly melting into him further.
It’s only when he’s sheathed within you completely that you finally relax. But while you’ve found euphoria with such a simple action, Pope is anything but.
He lasts fifty three seconds before his hips begin shifting involuntarily. Your brow scrunches in confusion, pleasure shooting up your body when all you really wanted to feel was peace.
He coos at you softly. “I need to move, angel.”
You sigh, dramatically so, and he can’t help but smile brightly at your theatrics.
“May I move?”
You bury your face in the side of his neck, going limp over him. “I guess.”
He rolls his eyes playfully, wrapping his arms around you before he lifts his hips off the bed and begins to piston in and out of you.
You’re so wet it’s absurdly easy, the room quickly devolving into a choir of wet, slapping sounds and his moans harmonizing with your little whimpers. You hold onto him for dear life, relishing in the closeness that he’s affording you, and he…he’s certain that you’ve just unlocked something he’d buried deep in his psyche long ago.
A desire to long for someone.
An allowance to feel.
A chance to love again.
“An—dy fuck,” you choke. “‘M so close.”
He turns his head to press his cheek against your temple, tightening his hold on your body, possessive and claiming.
“Come for me angel,” he urges. “Let me make you feel good, please.”
You moan loudly, your body responding diligently to his plea. He can feel your body convulse above him, your walls tightening around him as a jolt of electricity snaps and you’re coming undone.
You cry against his shoulder, panting feverishly as he continues to pound into you, seeking his own release while also extending you own.
“In me please, Andy, need you—”
He doesn’t need to be told twice, burying himself as deep as he can inside of you before he’s spilling, locking you tightly against him and enjoying the feeling of joy that washes over his entire body.
He can’t stop kissing your cheek, his lips lapping up the wetness that has streaked like a devout man worshiping a gift from the heavens.
You stay like this until both your heartbeats return to their normal, synced rhythm, your nails scratching deliciously at his scalp while his own return to their soothing patterns against your back.
“Was that okay?” You ask him, finally returning to your senses it seems.
Summary: You skip the med bay after a mission that left you bruised and bleeding to keep Bucky from finding out you’re hurt—not realizing he’s home early.
MCU Timeline Placement: Post TFATWS
Master List: Find my other stuff here!
Warnings: blood, injury, self-treated wounds, dislocated shoulder, medical trauma, mentions of nerve damage, panic responses, protective!Bucky
Word Count: 3.9k
Author’s Note: been running on caffeine, stress, and the vague memory of sleep the past few days and wrote this instead of doing literally anything productive. i’ll probably regret it tomorrow but i’m sure you all will thank me for this. do something gentle for yourself today!
The door clicked shut behind you, too loud in the hush of 3 a.m.
You winced, not from the sound but from the blooming ache along your ribs—a dull, thudding thing that had grown teeth somewhere between the quinjet and the car ride home. You hadn’t bothered with the med bay. You couldn’t. Not when you knew what it would trigger.
A simple scan, a single ping, and Bucky would know. No matter where he was. No matter what state or country he was in. The notification would be flagged priority, something about shared permissions and ‘partner alerts’. And you knew him, knew the way he’d abandon his own mission, skip debrief, tear across continents just to put eyes on you.
You couldn’t let him do that. Not again. Not after last time.
The scrape of your jacket zipper echoed through the apartment as you peeled it off. One shoulder dipped lower than the other, dislocated and popped back into place two hours ago with a groan and a tree trunk for leverage. Your shirt was tacky with blood. Not all of it yours, but enough that you didn’t want to think too hard about it.
The apartment was dark. Not just empty-dark, but heavy. The lights were off, blinds drawn, the kind of quiet that meant no one had touched the space in hours. Maybe days. You exhaled, shallow.
Good. He was still gone.
You padded through the kitchen barefoot, leaving a faint smear of red on the tile that you’d wipe up later.
You opened the fridge, grabbed a water bottle, unscrewed the cap with trembling fingers. Your grip was going. Blood loss, maybe. Or nerve fatigue. You weren’t sure.
You sipped. Swallowed. Braced your palm against the counter. Waited for the floor to stop tilting before heading to the bathroom.
First aid kit. Bathroom cabinet. Top shelf. You knew the drill.
The light over the bathroom sink flickered when you flipped it on. You stared at yourself in the mirror for too long, trying to make sense of what was staring back.
Dark circles. A bruised jaw. Dried blood crusted beneath your nose.
Not the worst you’d looked.
The pain flared as you bent down to grab a towel, wrapping it around your palm where a shard of glass had made itself a home just beneath the skin. Stupid mistake. Rookie mistake. You muttered under your breath, pulled open the bathroom drawer.
But the med kit wasn’t there.
Your brows furrowed. You checked the cabinet under the sink, then the one behind the mirror. Nothing. You opened the linen closet next, rummaging through shelves of folded towels and spare shampoo bottles, making too much noise—plastic rattling, wood creaking under your weight.
And then—
A sound pricked your ears. Soft, but unmistakable. A dull thud. Followed by the shift of a floorboard.
You stilled.
Every part of your body snapped back to attention, like it had only been waiting for an excuse. Your breath stilled in your chest. Blood surged hot through your ears.
Not an empty apartment.
You dropped the towel in your hand.
Your knife was still sheathed on your thigh. Part of you had forgotten it was there. But you reached for it without thinking, fingers locking around the hilt, thumb flicking the clasp. The steel was still warm from your body, the leather tacky with blood.
Another creak. Closer now.
You stepped back from the cabinet, blade drawn, posture squared—not wide enough to agitate any wounds, but firm enough to hold your weight. If someone had followed you home, if the mission had trailed into something worse...
A figure stepped into the doorway, framed by the soft glow spilling from the bathroom mirror.
Bucky was shirtless, barefoot. Half-asleep. Hair tousled. Eyes fogged with sleep but rapidly clearing. The moment he saw you—saw the blood, the blade, the way you were braced like an animal cornered—
He stopped short. Hands up, palms open.
“Hey, hey—baby, it’s just me.”
You didn’t lower the knife. You couldn’t move.
Because your brain couldn’t reconcile it immediately. Bucky wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t home. He was supposed to be halfway across Eastern Europe dealing with something messy and classified and very much not here.
He took a few steps closer, slowly, like approaching a wounded thing that hadn’t decided if it needed help or if it still intended to bite.
You didn’t realize your breathing had gone ragged until he was in front of you, reaching out slowly. His left hand came up first, the metal one, movements practiced and calm, palm open. No sudden movements. The kind of control that came from too many years disarming bombs.
“Sweetheart, can I take it?” he asked quietly, eyes locked on yours, not the knife. “Please.”
You hesitated but, slowly, your fingers began to unfurl. The blade shook once, then slipped from your hand into his.
He caught it with care. Set it down on the counter beside you.
You tried to speak. Swallowed instead. Your throat felt dry, the words caught somewhere behind potentially cracked ribs.
“I thought you weren’t home till Friday.”
“Got back yesterday.”
“You didn’t—why didn’t you call?”
“I was gonna surprise you. I thought…” He trailed off, gaze lowering to your shirt, your side, the blood. “Christ.”
He stepped back like he couldn’t stand seeing it up close. Ran a hand down his face. Metal fingers scraped against his jaw.
You didn’t say anything. You just leaned on the wall like the exhaustion was catching up.
Bucky stared for a moment longer. Then, quietly, firmly, “Sit.”
“What?”
“Please sit down before you fall over.”
His voice was gentler this time. Not just quiet, but low in a way that coaxed more than commanded, like he was trying not to shatter whatever thread was holding you upright.
The porcelain was cold against your thighs as you lowered yourself onto the closed toilet seat, hands braced on either side of you, breath sharp through your teeth when your ribs caught against gravity.
Bucky knelt in front of you, the light from the mirror catching the jagged scar that ran from the edge of his collarbone to the meat of his shoulder.
His eyes flicked across your body, cataloging damage. That precision never left him. One look and he knew what was surface-level and what was deeper. His jaw flexed as he looked at the soaked side of your shirt.
He stood, moved fast, but quiet. Like he was afraid if he took too long you’d vanish or pass out or both. You watched him go., the broad line of his back, the tension in his shoulders. He moved like he was still halfway in a war zone, even barefoot in your shared apartment.
He was back before you had time to think about closing your eyes. Med kit in one hand, a fresh bottle of water in the other.
“Drink.” He held it out, waited until you took it.
You cracked the cap. Sipped. It felt colder than before. Or maybe your hands had gone hotter. Shaking again, too.
Bucky crouched in front of you, laying out supplies like it was muscle memory. He didn’t speak right away. Not until he’d pulled a pair of shears from the kit and slid the blunt edge beneath your shirt hem.
“Gonna cut this off you.”
“S'fine. Didn’t even like this one.”
A small sound escaped him—half exhale, half broken chuckle. “Still. Hate seein’ you in blood.”
The blade sliced clean. Fabric peeled away. He didn’t flinch at the wound beneath. Just cleaned it, steady and efficient. No dramatics. Just careful hands and the occasional furrow of his brow when you hissed between your teeth.
You weren’t watching the injury. You were watching him.
The line between his brows. The way his lips pressed together like he was holding something back. How his hands never hesitated, but his eyes never lingered too long either. Like looking too close made it worse.
Finally, after he’d flushed the gash and applied a waterproof bandage, he sat back on his heels. Rested his forearms on his knees. Looked at you.
“Why didn’t you go to med bay?”
Not angry. Not demanding. Just…there. A quiet question hanging between you.
You swallowed. Didn’t answer right away.
“I asked Hill to scrub my exit from the mission log,” you said eventually. “Went out through a side hangar. Didn’t even file my return time. Just…got in the car and came home.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “That’s not what I asked.”
You pressed the bottle to your lips again. It gave you something to do. Something to anchor you.
“If I showed up at med bay, it would’ve triggered the system,” you said softly. “Partner alert. You would’ve gotten pinged. Would’ve seen the scan, seen the treatment order, the vitals. You’d have thought—”
“I would’ve known,” he interrupted, voice quiet but firm. “That’s the point.”
You glanced at him. “And what would you have done, Buck?”
He didn’t answer.
You let the silence answer for him.
“You would’ve left wherever you were. You would’ve dropped everything. You wouldn’t have slept, or eaten, or breathed until you got back here. And I—I didn’t want that.”
He exhaled slowly. Ran his hand down his face again. You could tell it was habit, a tell. One of the few he hadn’t trained out of himself.
“I get it,” he said finally. “I do. But, baby…you don’t have to protect me from your pain.”
Your throat tightened.
“I wasn’t trying to protect you,” you said. “I was trying to spare you.”
His gaze lifted. “Isn’t that the same thing?”
“No.” You shook your head. “One’s love. The other’s fear.”
He sat with that. Let the words settle. Then leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against yours.
“You don’t have to be strong when you’re home.”
“I wasn’t trying to be strong,” you murmured. “I was trying not to make you hurt with me.”
His hand came up, thumb brushing your cheek. The skin there was warm, too warm. Maybe a fever. Maybe just him.
“I’d rather hurt with you than without you.”
The words were quiet. Rough around the edges. But they landed.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his metal hand settling carefully over your thigh. The weight of it made something in your chest loosen.
“I know what this life costs,” he said. “I’ve paid it too many times. I just—” His voice faltered. “I don’t want to get a message at two in the morning and find out you’re three floors underground across the world with a code red next to your name.”
You nodded once. Just enough for him to see.
“Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know, Buck.”
That seemed to ease something in him. Not all the way, but enough.
You reached for his hand then, the flesh one. Twined your fingers through his. They were still a little cold from rinsing off the blood.
He squeezed back.
“Come to bed,” he said.
“I should shower first.”
“I’ll help.”
You arched a brow. “Are you trying to make it sexy?”
He huffed a dry sound, shaking his head. “No. ‘M trying to make sure you don’t pass out standing up.”
Fair.
He squeezed your hand again, firmer this time. Then released it to kneel beside you, one hand steadying your knee while the other reached behind you to turn on the shower. The spray stuttered to life, sharp against the tile, steam already beginning to curl at the edges of the mirror.
You didn’t move. Couldn’t, for a moment.
The idea of standing felt distant. Like something your body used to know how to do, but had since unlearned. Everything hurt. The kind of hurt that came with deep tissue damage, bone-bruising impact, whatever internal bruising you hadn’t dared look at too closely yet.
But Bucky was already moving.
He stood again, leaned over to the cabinet for a spare towel, then turned back to you with the kind of gentleness he never gave anyone else. Only you. Always you.
“Up we go.”
You braced your good arm on the counter and let him lift you—not because you couldn’t, but because fighting him on it would’ve taken more energy than you had. His arm wrapped around your back, careful to avoid your ribs. You leaned against him as he helped you to your feet.
The room felt too warm now. The steam was climbing fast.
“You got this?” he asked, voice low, right at your ear.
“Yeah.” You exhaled. “Just… slow.”
He nodded once and helped you shuffle toward the shower. He helped you peel what was left of your shirt off, eyes never lingering where they didn’t need to, hands always checking for resistance before moving again.
When your left arm jolted mid-lift, you hissed through your teeth.
Bucky stilled.
“What?” His voice sharpened, immediate.
“I—” You swallowed. “Popped my shoulder earlier. In the field. Had to get it back in before exfil.”
He went still.
“You did it yourself?”
You nodded. “Didn’t have a choice.”
Bucky’s jaw locked. His eyes dropped to your arm, the one you couldn’t quite raise above chest level now. You could see the gears turning in his mind—injury assessment, timeline, recovery window, potential complications.
“You could’ve torn the rotator cuff,” he said flatly. “Could’ve pinched the nerve. You dislocate at that angle and it severs the bundle near your clavicle, and you’re not just numb—you’re done. That’s a full paralysis risk.”
“I know,” you said, voice small. “I didn’t have another option.”
“There’s always an option,” he muttered, not at you, but to himself. “There should’ve been someone with you.”
“There wasn’t.”
You met his eyes. He looked away first.
He helped you out of the rest of your clothes in silence. Unbuckled the strap at your thigh. Peeled the blood-stiffened fabric down your hips, careful not to drag against any bruises. When you reached for the support bar to step into the shower, your fingers trembled.
Warm water slid down your spine. Over your ribs. Across the bruises you hadn’t seen yet. You stood there, letting it hit you, head tilted down, hair plastered to your skull. Blood spiraled at your feet. A rust-colored helix circling the drain.
“Here,” Bucky said quietly, stepping in behind you. His sweatpants were gone now, boxers too, but he kept to the far side of the stall until you leaned into him without needing to speak.
He took the body wash from the shelf, worked it into a lather with slow, circular movements. The scent was familiar—his, not yours.
He worked around the bandages he’d already placed, avoiding the raw edge of the worst wounds. But when he hit the spot beneath your ribs, your breath stuttered.
His hand stilled.
“You breathing okay?”
You nodded.
He waited.
“…Mostly.”
“D’you think anything’s cracked?”
“No.”
“You feel tingling anywhere? Pins and needles?”
You nodded once. “A little in the fingers.”
He exhaled, pressed a slow kiss to the curve of your neck—not for comfort, not for softness, but something deeper. Like an apology. Like sorrow. Like grief at what you had to do just to make it back to him.
“You need to let someone run a scan,” he said, voice low against your skin. “Nerve damage can build. It gets worse over time. You’ll lose strength, coordination—”
“You know I hate the med bay.”
“I know.” He kissed your temple this time. “But I’d rather you go willingly than when I have to carry you there.”
That silence between you rang louder than before. Steam coiled around your bodies. Water ran down your spine.
“I didn’t want to scare you,” you said quietly.
“Too late.”
You lifted a hand to his face. Touched his cheek, thumb brushing the scar there.
“I’m okay,” you whispered.
“You’re here,” he corrected. “That’s not the same.”
You didn’t argue.
Because he was right.
He reached for the shampoo next, squeezing some into his hands and carefully working it through your hair. Gentle, slow circles. He tilted your chin back beneath the stream when it was time to rinse. You kept your eyes closed the entire time. Let him take care of you in all the ways you wouldn’t let anyone else.
When the water turned cold, he shut it off, wrapped a towel around your shoulders. Dried your arms like you couldn’t do it yourself. You let him.
He guided you out of the tub, hand firm on your waist.
“I’m carrying you to bed,” he said.
“I can walk.”
“Don’t care.”
He toweled off your hair a bit, ruffled it gently, and bent to press his lips to your sternum. As if he had to physically remind himself you were here, alive, still warm.
And then he picked you up.
Lifted you with both arms like it cost him nothing, though you knew his back probably ached from his last op, that he hadn’t even finished unpacking yet. You didn’t resist. Your arms looped around his neck, tucking your face into the place just beneath his ear.
The bedroom was dark, just like the rest of the apartment. He hadn’t turned on a single light since stepping out of the bathroom.
He paused beside the bed, nudging the rumpled blanket back with one arm before lowering you gently onto your side. His touch was slow, like he was afraid too much movement might split something open again. Your breath hitched when your ribs protested the shift, and his hands stilled instantly.
He didn’t answer that. Just adjusted the pillows behind you, pulled the covers over you, then crawled in on the other side—not climbing over you like he might’ve on a normal night, not brushing it off with a flirt or a laugh. He took the long way around.
You felt the mattress dip under his weight.
Then, the weight of his arm—the metal one—sliding under you. A tentative pause. Then the warmth of his other arm curling around your waist, hand settling just above the bandages he’d wrapped himself.
You moved, leaned in, slow and instinctive. Let your head rest against his shoulder, your hand splay across the space between his ribs. He exhaled, and you felt it vibrate through his chest.
“Cold?” he asked quietly.
“A little.”
“‘Kay. Gimme a sec.”
He adjusted, drew you tighter, pulling the blankets closer around you both. His flesh fingers found the back of your neck and rubbed soft, slow circles there. He always ran warmer than you—something about his body trying to regulate the metal of his arm and the serum in his veins—and you leaned into it now, greedy for it.
Neither of you spoke for a long while.
“I didn’t like waking up to you not being there,” he said softly. “Didn’t like the quiet.”
You blinked up at him.
“I thought you were asleep when I came in.”
“I was.” A short breath. “Too deep. Think that’s what scared me. That I didn’t hear you come in at first. That I wasn’t ready.”
“You don’t have to be ready all the time, Buck.”
He stared at the ceiling, jaw tight. “I do when it comes to you.”
You shifted your hand across his chest. Felt the hard flutter of his heart. Too fast for a man lying still.
He swallowed. “You came home bleeding. And I didn’t feel it.”
“You were exhausted.”
“I was asleep.”
There was no self-forgiveness in his voice. Just something close to shame.
“You’re not a sensor,” you said gently. “You’re not a failsafe. You’re a person, Bucky. One who deserves rest.”
You nuzzled closer, burying your nose in the place just under his collarbone where the skin was softest. He let out a quiet sound when you did, like he hadn’t realized how much tension he was holding until you settled there.
You wondered if he ever truly relaxed when you were hurt.
“I didn’t want to come home like this,” you said quietly.
He didn’t answer right away. You felt him shift, just a fraction, enough that his hand could move from your waist to your back, the pads of his fingers drawing slow, idle lines across the blanket there.
“I know,” he said.
You let the silence return for a moment. Let it press down, warm and clean and unsharpened. There were no bombs in this bed. No shadows behind the door. No mission timers running out.
Just his heartbeat. Your breath. The soreness in your limbs. The whisper of fabric between you.
“You know what’s weird?” you said, voice thin and drifting.
“Hm?”
“That I didn’t even think about you until I got back here.”
He went still.
“I mean, of course I thought of you. Not like that. But in the moment. The worst of it. When I realized I was bleeding and alone and probably too far from help—I didn’t see your face. Didn’t flash to you like some cinematic dying thought. I just got practical. Tactical. Kept moving. Like that part of me doesn’t exist until I stop.”
You heard his exhale. Long. Slow.
“That’s not weird,” he said finally. “That’s how you stay alive.”
You tilted your chin slightly, enough to look up at him. His face was shadowed in the dark, but you could see his eyes—open, fixed on the ceiling, lashes still wet from steam.
“That part of me scares me a little,” you admitted.
He didn’t flinch.
“I like that part of you,” he said.
You blinked. “You do?”
He nodded once, chin grazing the top of your head.
“I like all your parts,” he said, and somehow it didn’t sound even remotely flirtatious. “Even the brutal ones. The ones that patch bullet holes in the dark and walk three miles with a sprained ankle. I don’t want that to be the only version of you, but I’m not afraid of it.”
You weren’t sure what to say to that. So you didn’t.
You just let the silence fall again.
It was strange—how quiet things got when you were together like this. How still he could be. For a man who used to breathe like every second was an apology, Bucky had become so good at silence. Not the brittle, tight-lipped kind. Not the silence that screamed with things unsaid.
This was something else.
This was simply presence.
His fingers drifted to your jaw. He traced a line up to your temple, brushed a damp strand of hair away from your cheek.
“You gonna let me take you to the med bay tomorrow?” he asked.
“Mmm.”
“That a yes?”
“It’s a we’ll see.”
He huffed out a breath. “I’ll take it.”
You shifted slightly, and the movement made something in your ribs twinge. He noticed. Of course he did. His hand immediately steadied you, thumb brushing the edge of your back.
“I keep thinking,” you said, “about how easily this could’ve gone the other way. That if I hadn’t found cover, if I’d been five seconds slower—”
“Don’t,” he said, quiet but firm.
You looked at him again.
“I do, too,” he said. “Every time you leave. I do. But if we live there—in the what-could’ve-happened—we won't make it back either.”
That shut you up.
Because he was right. And it was too true.
You curled tighter into him. Let your forehead rest beneath his jaw. Let his arms bracket you in completely. He didn’t hold too tight, didn’t smother. Just held. Like he’d learned exactly how to without squeezing the breath from your lungs.
“You gonna sleep?” he asked after a while.
“Not yet.”
He nodded. “Me either.”
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Summary: You didn’t plan to become a guardian overnight—and you never planned to ask Bucky for help. He wants a future you’re not sure you believe in, and now you’re both standing at the edge of it, trying to decide what comes next.
MCU Timeline Placement: Post TFATWS
Master List: Find my other stuff here!
Warnings: grief, discussions of parenthood, fear of commitment, emotional vulnerability, soft angst, happy ending
Word Count: 8.6k
Author’s Note: i think about bucky with kids constantly for someone who does not, under any circumstance, want kids of my own. this fic was born from that contradiction—what happens when someone who doesn’t want that life ends up face-to-face with the one person they might actually want it for. not in a dramatic “i’ve changed my whole personality” kind of way, but in the soft, accidental, deeply inconvenient way that sneaks up on you when you’re not looking.
this is for the emotionally constipated readers who would rather die than say “i love you,” and the fictional men who already know and love them anyway <3
The apartment smelled different now.
There was the lingering scent of your cinnamon soap and the lemon cleaner Bucky insisted on using when you were too tired to tidy, but now it was laced with something unfamiliar—something younger. Strawberry shampoo. Plastic doll hair. A forgotten juice box tucked somewhere it shouldn’t be.
The light hit differently, too. Brighter. Your niece—technically your cousin, but no one ever used that word; it was always just aunt—had insisted on opening every curtain earlier, claiming the place was “too dark like a villain’s lair,” and who were you to argue with that kind of logic when you’d just taken in an eight-year-old girl on less than seventy-two hours’ notice?
You were still in your work clothes—black slacks, boots scuffed from too many hours in the field, and a soft, oversized t-shirt with a faded Stark Tech logo, stolen from an old operations summit. Your badge was still clipped to your belt, forgotten. You’d been planning logistics for an upcoming mission, cross-checking Sam and the team’s travel with the jet availability calendar when the call came in: your aunt and uncle had been in an accident. Your niece, Elodie, had no one else.
You stood in the kitchen, elbow-deep in a cabinet of mismatched mugs and protein bars trying to find the one box of hot chocolate mix you swore you had. The one with tiny marshmallows, the kind you remembered your aunt always keeping on hand for Elodie.
You hadn’t even had time to think or cry about it.
You weren’t a parent. You organized mission briefings, coordinated tactical gear shipments, smoothed over UN red tape. You were not—had not been—planning to be anyone’s guardian. At least not anytime soon. And certainly not like this.
You didn’t even know if this would be permanent. That word hadn’t been used yet, not officially. There were still forms to sign and papers to be reviewed, social workers to talk to. You hadn’t unpacked your suitcase from last week’s on-site debrief, and now there were markers and crayons scattered across your rug. A third toothbrush in the bathroom. A fourth cup in the sink. A kid in your home who drew you with what appeared to be fire breath and a rocket launcher arm.
No one had answers. Only half-formed apologies and the kind of bureaucratic scramble that smelled like the same abandonment you’d been through before.
Elodie had been sent to one of those transitional holding centers. The ones with fluorescent lights and paper-thin blankets, tucked behind some nondescript county office downtown. You knew the kind. You still had dreams about them sometimes. Dreams that smelled like antiseptic soap and sounded like other kids crying through the walls.
The second the first call ended, you were already moving. Didn’t pack your work bag. Didn’t clear it with Sam. You just went. Because no matter how unprepared you felt, no matter how deeply this upended the rhythm of your life, you weren’t going to let that system lay its hands on her.
You’d left the office with your badge still clipped to your hip and your phone already pressed to your ear, fingers numb as you tried to call Bucky. Not once. Not twice. Three times before you gave up on catching him in real time and left a string of voicemails that got increasingly cracked around the edges. You didn’t explain everything. You couldn’t. The words wouldn’t line up.
When he finally called you back—somewhere between you signing temporary custody papers and watching Elodie trudge toward you with a trash bag full of her things—his voice was low, still sleep-rough, the kind of exhausted that only came from time zones stacked against bone.
You knew he was on assignment halfway across the world, somewhere humid and unstable, running point on something you knew he wouldn’t be back from for at least a week. You knew better than to call.
Especially when your head wasn’t clear. Especially when you were spiraling.
Because Bucky always assumed the worst. Always heard the silence between rings like gunfire. Late-night voicemails landed somewhere between a threat and a goodbye in his mind, and you knew that.
But you did anyways.
Because you couldn’t not. Because the words wouldn’t stay in your throat. Because somewhere in the middle of the paperwork and the fluorescent lights and the way Elodie didn’t ask any questions as she was handed over, you realized the only person you wanted to hear from was him.
You hadn’t meant to wake him. Hadn’t meant to drag him out of whatever two-hour pocket of rest he’d managed to find. You didn’t even really remember what you had said. What he’d said. You hadn’t said anything about how long she’d be with you. Hadn’t said anything about how this would change the shape of your lives.
And neither had he.
You’d known for a while that Bucky wanted a family. Not in a loud or impatient way. He never said it outright, but it lingered in the spaces between your lives—the way his hand would settle against your back in the baby aisle at the store, or the way he’d pause when you passed playgrounds on long walks, always watching the kids with this look that was equal parts hope and mourning.
You saw it, too, in the smallest shifts: the way he went quiet every time a leasing agent pitched the extra room as a nursery when you toured apartments on your lunch break.
He never said anything. You never asked what he was picturing, but you felt it radiating off him like heat. Not expectation. Just want. Tucked somewhere he thought you wouldn’t notice.
He never pushed. Never asked.
And you’d never given him an answer.
And you—honestly, you weren’t sure.
You’d seen too much. Lost too much. Grown good at things that didn’t belong in a home with children. You never imagined yourself built for it. Didn’t plan for carpool lines or permission slips or morning routines that didn’t start with encrypted briefings. You used to think people who had kids must’ve known something you didn’t. Like there was a moment—a click—where they felt suddenly qualified. Ready. Right.
That moment never came for you.
And yet now, there were tiny socks drying over the radiator. A unicorn backpack by the door. Crayons in the shape of bite marks on the table. A child-shaped echo in every room Elodie passed through.
You kept telling yourself it was temporary. That it didn’t mean anything beyond circumstance. That you were just holding space until the paperwork stopped stalling, until Elodie could get placed somewhere good. But your coat was already hanging beside hers. And that morning, when you found one of her barrettes snapped to the side of your boot, you didn’t move it. You just left it there. Like it belonged.
There was a knock on the door. Three short, deliberate taps. Then two.
Your heart skipped.
Only one person knocked like that.
Your hands froze where they were rummaging through the cabinets.
He wasn’t supposed to be back yet. Not for another three days. He’d said he’d check in when he could, that cell service was spotty and the extraction team needed time to move. You hadn’t expected to see him until the weekend, maybe longer if things went sideways.
You wiped your palms down the front of your shirt and pushed your hair behind your ears. And for one brief, flickering second, you wished you had more time. Enough to at least figure out what the hell you were doing. Enough to get past the part where Elodie’s things in your apartment still looked out of place. Enough to shove this strange, sudden, not-quite-parent version of yourself back into a box before he saw it.
Before you had to watch him walk into your apartment and be good with a child—your child, for all intents and purposes—because you knew he would. Before you had to see the look on his face—the one you’d been avoiding for months now. The one that said: I want this. I’ve always wanted this.
Because you didn’t know what you were going to feel when it happened. And worse, you didn’t know what he’d feel if you couldn’t meet him there.
Before you decided what scared you more, you opened the door.
Bucky Barnes stood on the other side, and for a second, it knocked the breath from your lungs.
He looked like he’d only just made it home. Not in the dramatic way—not bloodied or bruised or visibly wrecked—but in the way his shoulders hadn’t fully settled, in the faint smudge of exhaustion under his eyes, in the stiffness that still clung to the way he stood. His dark jeans were road-dirty at the hems, and his henley was creased like he’d pulled it from the middle of his duffel bag in a rush. His hair was pulled back loose, not neat, and he hadn’t shaved in days.
And still, he was here. Solid. Present. Eyes steady on yours like the world hadn’t shifted in the days since you last touched him.
His arms were full. Brown-paper-wrapped packages, all hand-tied with twine. Some flat and square like books. One longer, maybe art supplies. Every edge smoothed, every corner careful.
You blinked. “Bucky… what are you doing here?”
He swallowed, shifted the weight in his arms, then shrugged with one shoulder. “Got back early.”
There was more to it. You could see it in the tightness around his mouth. The way he didn’t say how early. Or why he came straight here. You hadn’t seen him in nearly three weeks, and now he was standing in your doorway, hands full of things for a kid he hadn’t even met.
You glanced down at the packages. “You brought gifts?”
His mouth twitched. “Bribes, technically.” His ears turned pink. “I went to that bookstore on Ninth on my way home. Picked up a few things. Chapter books. Stuff I liked when I was little.” A pause. “And a set of colored pencils. The good kind.”
You stared at him, the quiet sincerity of it hitting harder than anything else had that week. “Bucky…”
“I’m not trying to—” he started, then stopped himself. His mouth tugged downward. “I just thought maybe it’d help.”
“I know,” you said softly, stepping aside.
Bucky stepped past you—but not before brushing a kiss to your cheek, so brief it almost didn’t register. He lingered there for a beat too long, like he wanted to say something but didn’t have the shape of it yet. Then he moved fully inside.
He entered like he was stepping over a threshold into something sacred.
His movements were slower than usual, like the air was heavier here—like he wasn’t sure where he fit in this space anymore, or maybe he just didn’t want to disturb it. His eyes flicked once toward the coat rack, where a child-sized fleece hoodie hung crooked over one of the lower pegs. Then to the far corner of the living room, where your old side table had been replaced by a collapsible plastic shelf filled with coloring books, two stuffed animals, and a bottle of detangler spray.
He didn’t comment on any of it.
Instead, he crossed to the kitchen counter and set the stack of packages down with the same care he’d give a weapon—precise, balanced, respectful.
And then he just stood there, hand resting lightly on the edge of the counter, gaze sweeping the room again. Not like he was searching for anything. Just… absorbing. Mapping the new terrain.
The pink-and-silver sneakers by the door. The glitter glue drying on a paper towel near the windowsill. The way the coffee table had been shifted off-center to make room for a folding chair that didn’t match anything else in the room.
You didn’t speak. Neither did he.
But there was something in his expression, something quiet, stunned, and utterly unguarded, that stopped you cold. It wasn’t judgment. Not confusion. It was closer to reverence. Like he was witnessing the beginning of something he hadn’t expected to be allowed to see. Something he was already halfway in love with.
Finally, he spoke—low and even, like the hush of a church you didn’t believe in but still respected.
“She still up?”
You nodded. “Office floor. Marker battlefield.”
“Casualties?”
“A few caps and an entire throw pillow.”
He breathed a soft chuckle. Then, after a pause, “How’s she doing?”
“She’s adjusting better than I thought she would,” you said, which wasn’t really an answer.
He nodded like he got it. Like he understood there were griefs that cried through you, and some that just sat there, patient and unspeakable, like stones in your throat.
Bucky leaned back against the counter, eyes scanning your face. “And you?”
You hated the way your chest stuttered at the question. You weren’t the one who lost parents. You weren’t the child. You weren’t the victim. But his gaze didn’t flinch.
You offered a thin smile. “I’ve had worse deployments.”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “But you didn’t come home from those with someone depending on you to make dinosaur-shaped pancakes.”
“She'd probably say they were ‘too extinct,'" you muttered.
His laugh was soft and silent—shoulders moving, lips barely parting. You caught the glint of metal where his vibranium hand reflected the overhead light. And something in you softened. Bent toward him like muscle memory.
And then, from the other room—
“HELLO???” a voice called, sing-song and unapologetically loud. “I heard whispering. If someone is here, you have to announce them. That’s the rule.”
Bucky blinked. “That’s… new.”
“She made a rulebook,” you muttered, moving toward the office Elodie had taken over. “It’s seven pages long. One of the rules is no stepping on lava unless you have lava boots. Which, I would assume, you don’t.”
Bucky raised a brow. “Damn.”
You stepped just far enough to gesture toward the office.
Elodie sat cross-legged on a rug patterned in navy constellations. There was marker on her cheek. A juice box at her elbow. And about six open sketchbooks that had all been repurposed into epic fantasy storyboards involving unicorn battles and what looked like a tragic betrayal by a flamingo.
She looked up without moving her body—just the flick of her eyes, dark and unblinking, like she’d already figured Bucky out and was now waiting for him to do the same.
He didn’t sit right away.
He crouched near the edge of the rug, one hand splayed on the hardwood, the other resting loose on his thigh. He angled himself just out of her reach, like he was waiting for permission to exist in her orbit. You’d seen him crouch like that behind cover, in broken buildings with enemy fire overhead. And somehow, this felt more vulnerable.
Elodie didn’t blink. She studied him like she was memorizing weak points, a small commander sizing up a potential threat. Marker clutched mid-air in her hand like a weapon she hadn’t decided whether or not to use.
“Are you really my aunt’s boyfriend?” she asked, flat and sharp, like a line of questioning she’d been rehearsing.
He coughed. “Uh. That’s… complicated.”
She squinted. “So yes.”
Bucky turned toward you like he was asking for backup. Backup. Clarity. Maybe even comfort. You shrugged from where you were leaning against the doorframe, holding a mug of lukewarm tea you’d forgotten you’d poured and left on the hallway cabinet. Your other arm wrapped loosely around your waist, bracing for something you couldn’t name.
There was no label for the thing you’d built with him. No tidy word for the quiet way he slipped into your life and stayed. The dishes he washed without being asked. The way he remembered your schedule down to the minute and texted you to drink water after briefings. The way he never looked at you like you were too much or not enough—just you, like it was a privilege.
Bucky was your partner. Had been for a while now. Long enough that your toothbrushes lived side by side at your respective apartments, long enough that you fell asleep with your leg tangled in his more often than not. But you’d never once called him your boyfriend, and you were pretty sure if you did, it’d sound ridiculous. Like naming something wild just to make it feel tame.
Elodie huffed toward Bucky. “That’s what grown-ups always say when they’re trying to lie in a fancy way.”
Bucky looked back at her, lips twitching. “Well, I’m not lying. I just didn’t know I needed a job title.”
“You do if you’re gonna date her.” She turned back to her drawing. “She’s very busy and important.”
Bucky sat properly now, legs crossed, hands resting in his lap. “I know.”
You didn’t realize you’d stopped breathing until your lungs started to burn. Something about the way he said it—so matter-of-fact, no edge of teasing. Just reverent acknowledgement. Like he’d known all along how much of you was built from schedules and damage control and long, quiet corridors of never quite belonging to anyone.
There was a beat of silence. Elodie was coloring something with aggressive pressure. It might’ve been a unicorn. Or an explosion. Could’ve gone either way.
You wrapped your arm tighter around yourself and leaned against the doorframe, trying to steady the strange shift taking root under your ribs. Like a rope pulled taut, finally slackening.
“Your arm’s really loud,” Elodie said, glancing at Bucky from beneath her lashes.
He looked down at the vibranium with a half-smile, more weary than apologetic. “Yeah. It does that.”
“Can you hear it in your sleep?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you ever punch people with it?”
Bucky let out an exasperated chuckle. “Only when they deserve it.”
That earned him a slow nod. Like she was weighing the ethics of her own hypothetical robot arm.
She uncapped another marker, tongue poking out as she colored. You watched the two of them in profile—her knee bouncing with chaotic energy, his body unnaturally still, as though moving too quickly might break the spell.
Bucky leaned forward a little, peering at the paper. “What are you drawing?”
“It’s a princess in a battle suit.”
Bucky raised a brow. “With flamethrowers?”
“Duh.” Elodie rolled her eyes. “And a sword. But the sword’s also a guitar. That plays magic. That melts faces.”
Bucky nodded solemnly. “Obviously. Anything less would be unrealistic.”
She stopped coloring just long enough to stare at him like he’d passed some kind of secret test.
“Most people say I’m weird.”
“Well,” he said, lowering his voice like it was a secret, “most people are boring.”
You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. You just stood there in your own goddamn apartment, pretending to sip tea, trying to find your footing in the middle of something that felt suspiciously like a tightrope.
You knew Bucky wanted this. Not in the performative way some men said they wanted kids when what they really meant was they wanted to skip to the part where someone called them dad. No, Bucky wanted the whole thing. The messy, complicated, soul-splitting weight of it. He wanted the trust. The responsibility. The chance to become something no one had ever given him the space to be.
You’d seen it before. In the way he helped parents offload groceries at the bodega down the street. In the way he knelt to tie a stranger’s kid’s shoe without a second thought. In the way he’d once spent forty-five minutes talking to a five-year-old about dinosaurs in a waiting room while you filled out post-mission injury reports with your ribs wrapped tight.
It had never been a secret.
And the reason you’d been hesitant—it had never been about fear of softness, or the selfish desire for freedom. It was deeper. More twisted than that. You knew what it meant to love someone so much they were etched into the blueprint of who you were. You knew what it meant to have no protection against that kind of loss. Children were not maybes. They were not experiments. They were not things to try on like coats and discard when the weather shifted. They were permanent. Eternal. A vow you couldn’t take back once it was spoken.
And the idea of bringing someone into this world—this broken, unpredictable world—and watching them struggle to survive it without knowing if you’d be there for all of it… it was a fear that never really loosened its grip.
You’d always wanted your future with Bucky. That had never been the question. You would’ve married him tomorrow if he asked. You would’ve burned the world for him if he needed it gone. But this? A child? A shared life born of both of you?
You hadn’t known if you could make peace with the kind of courage that took. Not until now.
Because suddenly, here they were. Your person and your blood, though a few times removed, sharing air and markers and deadpan wit like it was second nature. And you weren’t even in the room, not really. You were just standing there, one foot in a life you’d planned and one foot in something you’d never let yourself hope for. Watching him wait for her trust. Watching her hand it over like it was hers to give, which it was. Watching them learn each other’s rhythms like it was nothing, like it was instinct.
Elodie considered Bucky for a moment longer, then gestured to the other wrapped packages on the counter that were just barely visible from the office. “Are those for me?”
Bucky tilted his head. “Maybe.”
“I mean,” she said, voice casual but eyes glittering, “you could give them to me now. And I might let you pick a crayon.”
“Might?”
“I have sparkle crayons.”
He chuckled under his breath, slow and warm. “Tempting.”
You blinked.
The room seemed to settle back into focus by degrees—the light from the floor lamp catching dust in its beam, the smell of Elodie’s strawberry shampoo baked into the couch cushions, the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen. Your fingers were stiff around the mug, half-drunk tea long gone lukewarm, and when you finally set it down on the side table, the ceramic tapped louder than you expected.
Your throat felt dry. Too much thinking. Not enough oxygen. You dragged in a breath that didn’t quite reach the bottom of your lungs.
Elodie was leaning toward Bucky now, all knees and elbows and determination, digging through her crayon box with a clear sense of ceremony. Bucky, for his part, watched her with the kind of unguarded attention he usually only reserved for you when he thought you weren’t looking.
You cleared your throat, voice emerging slightly lower than usual, like you were still half inside yourself. “El,” you said, stepping forward, slow and deliberate, “if you’re nice, maybe Bucky will stay for dinner.”
Her eyes went wide, then narrowed with suspicion.
“Can he cook?”
“I can,” Bucky answered, hand over his chest like he’d been insulted, “but I also know how to order takeout like a professional.”
“Pancakes,” Elodie said instantly. “With whipped cream. No fruit. Unless it’s chocolate chips. Chocolate is fruit.”
“That’s… not how that works,” you murmured.
“Chocolate comes from trees,” she said firmly, looking at Bucky. “Right?”
He lifted his hands in surrender. “She’s got me there.”
She beamed. Then, without warning, she shuffled closer to him, plucked a glittery purple crayon from the box, and held it out to him.
Bucky took it carefully, like it was made of glass. “This is a high honor.”
“Now draw something.”
He glanced at the paper. “Where?”
She pointed. “Right there. That’s where the evil queen’s lair is gonna go. She eats hearts.”
Your mouth dropped open. “Elodie—”
“It’s fine,” she said, all innocence. “She eats bad hearts. Like rude people.”
Bucky snorted and covered it with a cough.
He didn’t say anything else. Just lowered the purple crayon to the paper and began sketching the outline of a jagged cliff. His strokes were slow and deliberate, heavy-handed like he was thinking harder than he wanted to admit. Elodie watched him work, chin in her palm, like she was studying a museum exhibit. At some point, she shifted onto her stomach, legs kicking behind her in that idle, unthinking way kids did when they were fully relaxed—when they believed they were safe.
Bucky’s knees cracked when he adjusted his position. She didn’t comment on it, but you saw the corner of her mouth twitch.
He started narrating his drawing, quiet, offhanded, like he didn’t mean to, but it pulled her in all the same. Something about how the evil queen’s castle had a retractable moat. How the lava was sentient and grumpy. How her lair had its own snack drawer. You watched her light up like a fuse. She offered additions: a throne made of bones, a guard dog with seven eyes, a jukebox that only played cursed love songs. And Bucky went along with all of it, like he’d been inducted into a world where logic was second to whimsy and magic was just assumed.
He was so present. So precise in the way he listened. And it gutted you.
Because for all your planning, all your carefully orchestrated life, nothing had prepared you for this—for the deep, marrow-level ache of watching someone you loved step into a version of himself that felt like home. He’d never been lighter than he was in that moment. Never been more grounded.
There was no trace of the man who used to wake gasping from dreams, or the one who couldn’t look in mirrors for weeks at a time. This was just Bucky. Sitting cross-legged on your rug, holding a crayon like it was a weapon or a wand, letting a child who had lost everything build something out of nothing again, even if just for a moment. With him.
And it was devastating in the quietest way.
Because you hadn’t known it would look like this.
You hadn’t known the moment would come while your tea went cold and the windows fogged and the floor lamp buzzed faintly in the corner. You hadn’t known you’d be watching the man you loved win over the sharpest, strangest little girl you’d ever met with a story about a heart-eating queen and a magic guitar sword. You hadn’t known you’d ache in places you thought were already hollowed out. You hadn’t known how badly you’d want to freeze time.
And you certainly hadn’t known how much it would terrify you—that there might be something more terrifying than the idea of children.
Wanting this. Wanting them. Wanting to be the thing they reached for when the world turned unkind.
You pressed your hand against the edge of the counter and didn’t realize how tightly you were holding on until your knuckles paled. You knew you weren’t crying, but the feeling lived somewhere behind your teeth, metallic and old. You swallowed it down and let it burn.
Elodie cackled at something Bucky had said—some offhand comment about cursed muffins or killer bees—and he grinned, full and unguarded, a flash of joy that hit you square in the chest.
You didn’t move. You didn’t interrupt.
You just stood there in the kitchen while the light shifted around you, watching the two of them draw their evil castle in glitter crayon and nonsense. Watching them fill the room with color and laughter and something dangerously close to belonging.
It was well past ten.
The apartment had finally gone still, the kind of silence that only settled after small bodies gave up their fight with sleep. The kind of quiet that felt tentative. Earned. As though the walls themselves were exhaling for the first time all day.
You were sitting up in bed, back against the headboard, knees drawn slightly under the blanket. A book rested open in your lap—something literary you’d started last month and hadn’t touched since—but the words didn’t register. You’d been stuck on the same paragraph for ten minutes. Maybe longer. You’d reread it so many times you weren’t even sure what it said anymore. It might as well have been written in a language you’d forgotten.
The pages were too bright in the low light of the bedside lamp. You kept adjusting your grip, pretending to read, pretending that your thoughts hadn’t been looping the same two images over and over again:
Elodie curled on the pull-out mattress in your office, already half-asleep before Bucky had even finished a chapter of the book he’d bought her. And Bucky, sitting beside her on the floor, voice low and even, one hand braced on his knee, the other gesturing gently with the story’s rhythm like he was casting a spell and didn’t know it.
You’d told yourself you’d send him home.
You meant to. Really.
You’d even mentioned it, lightly, as you started cleaning up dinner—stacking syrup-sticky plates in the sink while Elodie sat cross-legged on the counter arguing about how chocolate was basically a breakfast food group. You’d told Bucky it might be better for her—safer, more comfortable—to keep things lowkey for a while longer. Her first week. Still new. Still tender.
But then she’d pulled him aside, all wide eyes and conspiratorial whispers, and asked if he’d stay.
Just until morning. Just until they could build the pancake fortress they’d designed at dinner. Just until he could draw her robot dragon riding a bike before you dropped her off at school.
And Bucky? He hadn’t even hesitated. He’d just looked at you, silent question flickering across his face like: is that okay? And all you could do was nod.
Because how could you say no?
Not to him. Not to her. Not when she was smiling like that for the first time all week, not when he was standing there like something half-hopeful and half-afraid, trying not to overstep even as a child made space for him.
But some small part of you had wanted to say no. Not out of resentment. Not even out of fear.
But out of the awful, creeping awareness that you couldn’t stop watching him around her. Couldn’t stop tracking the ease of it—the way he caught her juice box when she knocked it over without blinking, or how he crouched low to her level to ask what kind of syrup she liked like it was the most important mission brief he’d ever received.
You couldn’t stop noticing how natural it looked. How right.
And if he’d been even slightly uncertain, if there’d been hesitation or awkwardness, you might’ve been able to file the whole night away under temporary circumstances. Contain it. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t tentative. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. He was just there. Steady. Warm. Comfortable in a way that made your chest pull tight.
You hadn’t been prepared for what that would stir up in you.
The soft click of the bathroom door opening echoed through the room, along with the fog of steam that rolled in before dissipating into the cooler air. Bucky stepped into the bedroom, towel slung low around his hips, chest still damp, hair wet and combed back with his fingers. His dog tags caught the light briefly before he reached for the drawer where he kept spare clothes at your place—sweatpants, a couple of old t-shirts, socks that never matched.
You didn’t look at him, your eyes still locked on the page in front of you, but you felt the shift anyway. The moment he clocked it. Something about the stillness of your body before you could smooth it out. The fact that your eyes hadn’t moved in minutes. That you were sitting like a statue dressed in cotton and pretense.
“You alright?”
The question was quiet. Careful. Not intrusive, but heavy enough to weigh against the silence between you.
You blinked. Realized you’d been holding your breath again. You glanced at the page, then up at him. “Yeah,” you said. “’Course.”
Your voice sounded thin in your own ears. Not a lie. Not really. Just incomplete.
Bucky watched you for a moment longer, then tugged on a pair of sweatpants and let the towel drop into the hamper. He pulled a shirt over his head—one of yours, actually, which hung a little tight across his shoulders despite it being oversized—and finally walked over, barefoot, the floor creaking under his weight.
“You’ve been reading the same page since I got in the shower,” he said, settling on the edge of the bed, one knee bent up beside you.
“I’m fine,” you said, clearing your throat. “Just tired.”
“You’re a lot of things,” he said gently, “but you’re not a liar.”
That earned a faint smile, nothing more. You closed the book, laid it face-down on the nightstand, and folded your hands in your lap.
“You sure you want me here tonight?” he asked, and it wasn’t about logistics or politeness. You knew that. You heard the real question underneath: Are you okay?
You nodded, but it was too slow to be convincing. “Elodie asked you to stay. I think she would’ve cried if you’d left.”
“Yeah,” he said, and ran a hand through his damp hair, his gaze still pinned to you. “But I meant… do you want me here?”
The question didn’t come with accusation. Just that same soft steadiness he’d always used when it mattered. The kind of question that wasn’t really a question. The kind that had been hovering since the moment he stepped into your apartment hours ago, even if he hadn’t asked it then.
You glanced up. And the way he was looking at you—open, sure, already bracing for the worst with that quiet kind of dignity that made your ribs ache—you wanted to run from it. Not because it was wrong, but because it was too right.
You hadn’t asked him to come, to show. That was the part that kept catching in your throat.
Not when the call came in, not when you signed the temporary custody paperwork at a county desk that smelled like cheap coffee and mildew. Not even when you drove Elodie home with a bag full of her things that someone else had packed. You hadn’t asked when you texted him—half-panicked, half-numb—telling him she was here, settling in. And ou hadn’t asked him when she cried herself to sleep the first night in your office. Telling him, not asking. Because you hadn’t wanted to hear what he might say. Or worse, what he might not.
And maybe it was cowardice. Or maybe it was something worse: the quiet, selfish part of you that still believed your life with him existed in a vacuum. Clean. Separate. Tidy. Built on nights in and casual routines and a version of intimacy that didn’t stretch into futures you weren’t sure how to hold.
And yet here he was. Not asking for anything. Just… here.
You looked at him then, hair still damp, skin warm from the shower, that worn-in shirt of yours stretched soft across his chest. You thought about the fact that he was in your bed and Elodie was asleep down the hall and somehow it didn’t feel strange. It didn’t feel like a guest in the house. It felt like something that had already been happening.
And for a moment, you wanted to laugh at his question. Because of course you wanted him here. You always had. That was never the problem.
The problem was how much.
And how easy it had been to pretend that everything you had—this middle ground between safety and permanence—was enough. That there wasn’t more quietly waiting at the edge of the page you were scared to look at.
You shifted the blanket over your lap. You didn’t look at him when you spoke. You looked at your hands, curling into the fabric, unsure what to do with themselves.
“Can I ask you something kind of awful?”
He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
“Always.”
You nodded, eyes still fixed somewhere just left of him.
“Did you ever… look at what we have, and think—maybe we built it smaller than it could be?”
There was a long pause. You thought he was going to speak, but he waited. Gave you room. Let the air stretch out until you either took the leap or didn’t.
You exhaled, jaw tight.
“I think for a while now, I’ve had this version of us in my head,” you said, the words cracking loose. “A life that I built like scaffolding. Safe. Predictable. Two toothbrushes, joint laundry, arguing over movie night, that dog we keep saying we’d get when my lease is up and we move in together.”
You swallowed, finally flicking your gaze up to meet his.
“And I let that become the limit. I kept it manageable. Contained. Because if I didn’t look too hard beyond it, I didn’t have to admit that there was something more I wasn’t sure I could give you.”
His expression didn’t shift. No pity, no surprise. Just that same quiet presence. That same unshaken care. Like he’d been waiting for this—not to hear it, necessarily, but to carry it with you.
You opened your mouth like you might say more, but for a second, you couldn’t. You weren’t sure there was a word for this feeling: the unraveling of something you hadn’t even realized was knotted tight.
“And what’s that?” he asked, voice low.
You looked down at your hands again. The way they curled in your lap, before one of them loosely gestured to the door, to where Elodie was sleeping in your office. “The…rest.”
He nodded once, slowly. Then he said, with no edge at all, “You mean kids.”
You didn’t flinch. You just closed your eyes.
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“I’ve never asked you for that,” was all he said.
You laughed, soft and humorless. “No. But you didn’t have to. You’ve been carrying that hope in your back pocket since the day I met you. Like you didn’t want to jinx it. Like you’d rather hold it quietly than risk hearing me say no.”
There was a stretch of silence after that. Not awkward. Just long.
When you opened your eyes again, he was watching you with something unreadable in his face—something like pain, but not quite. More like recognition.
“Do you want me to tell you you’re wrong?” he asked.
You shook your head. “I don’t think I am.”
“No,” he said. “You’re not.”
He shifted a little, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loose between them. His voice stayed calm, quiet, even.
“I did want that. I still do. Not because it’s some checkbox, or some fantasy I’ve been clinging to since I was twenty. It’s not about proving anything. Not to you, not to anyone. It’s just…” He sighed heavily. “There’s a part of me that wants to give something good back to the world. Something real. And I think I spent so many years convinced I wasn’t allowed to have that—any of it—that when I started seeing it, even possible, I didn’t know what to do with it.”
You stared at him, heart beating so hard you could hear it in your ears.
“And the thing is,” he continued, still not looking at you, “you made me believe that maybe I could. You were the first thing that didn’t feel temporary. That didn’t feel like something I had to survive.”
You blinked, but he kept going.
“I used to look at couples, families, and feel like I was watching a movie I couldn’t be cast in. And then I met you. And for the first time, I didn’t feel like I was standing outside the glass. You made a place for me.”
Your voice came out small. “And now?”
He finally looked at you again.
“I’d still choose you. Every time. Even if you never want that. Even if it’s never part of the equation. You are my world. Everything starts with you and ends with you. Anything else is just stuff that happens in the middle. But I need you to understand something.”
His jaw worked as he tried to find the words. His fingers flexed once where they rested on his thigh, like he was bracing against something invisible. Then he let out a breath and shook his head—not at you, but at the space between you, like it was full of things he didn’t know how to carry anymore.
“I’m not here because I’m waiting for you to come around or change your mind,” he said finally, voice low, rough around the edges. “I’m here because I love you. All of you. Not just the easy parts.”
His gaze flicked up to meet yours, and there was nothing guarded in it—just this wide, devastating honesty.
“But that doesn’t mean it’s not hard sometimes. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t get heavy—wondering if this part of me, this quiet… want… is something I’m gonna have to put away and never touch again. I don’t…” He rubbed the back of his neck, like saying it out loud made it more real. Like it cost him something.” I don’t even know if it’s even possible with everything that Hydra did.”
The words hit with surgical precision. Not cruel. Not meant to wound. Just true.
And what hit even harder was the way he said them—not guarded, not hedging. Just here. Present. Raw. A version of him you used to think you’d never see.
Because there had been a time—not that long ago—when silence was the only language he trusted. When every feeling came out sideways: in too-tight grips, in the snap of a closing door, in his jaw locking tight around things he didn’t know how to name. You’d spent the better part of a year learning his moods by the set of his shoulders, by the way he stopped returning phone calls instead of saying he wasn’t okay.
You let the words settle. Let them burn. Then, finally, you spoke.
“I think,” you said slowly, “that I’ve been afraid of how much I’d lose if I opened that door. Afraid of how much of me would change if I said yes. And I didn’t want to be less… me in the process. I didn’t want to turn into someone else. Someone softer. Smaller.”
“You wouldn’t,” he said instantly.
“I know. I know. It’s just…” You dragged a hand down your face. “If I admitted I wanted that future, I’d have to admit I was never really in control of it to begin with.”
He nodded, understanding. Then reached for your hand. Not forcing it. Just open.
You took it.
“I’m not asking for now,” he said. “Or soon. Or ever, if that’s where we land. But if there’s even a version of you—five years from now, ten—who maybe wants it… If that’s someone you want to explore, I’m here with you, no matter what.”
You stared at him. At the man who should’ve run a long time ago. Who’d never once made you feel like a compromise. And all you could think was God, what would I have done if I never met you.
“I don’t know what I want,” you whispered. “But I think I’ve been closer to wanting it than I’ve let myself admit. And that scares the shit out of me.”
His thumb traced the edge of your knuckles.
“Good,” he murmured. “Means it’s real.”
He said it like it was simple. Like pain was proof of truth. And maybe for him it was. Maybe for you, too.
You nodded, but it was slow, distracted. Like your body knew to agree before your mind caught up.
You sat there in it for a moment. His hand still curled around yours, his thumb moving in slow, absent-minded arcs against your skin like he didn’t know he was doing it.
Then you shifted—just enough that your knees bumped his—and said, almost to the air between you, “It surprised me.”
He didn’t speak. Just watched. Waited.
You glanced down at your hands. “Watching you with her tonight. It… surprised me. Not because you were good with her—of course you were. I knew you would be. You’ve always been good with people, even when you don’t think you are. And kids? They get it. They get you. They always have.”
You paused. Picked at a loose thread in the blanket.
“What surprised me,” you said finally, “was how easy it was to picture you doing it again. Not just with Elodie. With someone else. Someone who’s… ours.”
The words hung in the air like smoke. Thin, uncertain. Dangerous.
Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
“I’ve spent so long building this version of my life that could weather anything,” you went on. “Something efficient. Contained. Strategic, even. Like a mission op. Like if I just accounted for every variable, nothing would catch me off guard.”
You let out a breath. “And then all this happens. And suddenly I’m in the kitchen, watching you draw a glitter castle with a girl who didn’t even know your name yesterday, and I’m… I’m thinking about crayon boxes. I’m thinking about pancakes with chocolate chips. I’m thinking about how it would feel to watch you hold someone tiny and furious with your eyes.”
Your voice went quieter. “And I realized I wasn’t scared of it. Not in the way I thought I’d be.”
Now Bucky did move—just slightly. His head tilted, not like he was shocked, but like he was listening closer.
You kept going.
“I wasn’t thinking about everything I’d have to give up, or everything I’d risk losing. I was thinking about what it would be like to have a life with you that keeps unfolding. One that doesn’t end where the door shuts. One that keeps… growing. One that I know you deserve.”
You looked at him now. Really looked. And you found him already watching you like he was memorizing every word.
“And that scared the shit out of me,” you added, half-laughing, half-shaking. “Because I thought—fuck, I killed that part of myself. I buried it under all the survival instincts. And now it’s just sitting there, alive and inconvenient.”
Bucky’s free hand moved then—metal palm over your knee, not gripping, just grounding, thumb resting there, solid.
“You didn’t kill anything,” he said. “You just stopped looking at it.”
A long pause stretched between you, heavy and humming.
“I’m not—This isn’t…” you tried. “This isn’t about you wanting something and me finally catching up. You never asked. You never pushed. You just waited. And that might be what broke me open more than anything else.”
His jaw shifted. That small, almost imperceptible movement he did when he was holding something in. But his voice stayed quiet.
“I never wanted to be the reason you changed your mind. I just… I hoped, maybe, you’d change it for yourself. And if that meant I got to be there when you did, then—yeah. That’s something I would’ve waited forever for.”
You shook your head, blinking hard. “You were always willing to take the version of me that didn’t want more. And I—I don’t know if I can live with the fact that I might’ve let you do that. That I might’ve kept you in a smaller life than you deserved just because I was too afraid to imagine a bigger one.”
His hand tightened gently on your knee. “Don’t do that. Don’t rewrite this like I settled.”
You looked up, throat tight.
“You think this—us—is a smaller life?” he asked. “Because to me, this is the only thing I’ve ever had that felt real. That felt mine.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but he stopped you with a shake of his head.
“Don’t. You’re allowed to want more. You’re allowed to change. But don’t call what we have less just because it came first.”
You reached out—hand sliding against his jaw, thumb at the hinge of it—and his breath caught like he hadn’t known how badly he needed the contact until you gave it.
“I just keep thinking,” you said, voice low, “what if I hadn’t watched you with her tonight? What if you didn't come over? What if I’d never seen it—never had this… moment? Would I have let the possibility pass me by without even realizing what it was?”
He leaned in then, resting his forehead gently against yours. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than breath.
“You didn’t miss it. You’re right here.”
You nodded, but it barely registered—your breath catching somewhere in your chest as his words settled in the space between your ribs.
And it was only then, when his fingers brushed featherlight across your cheekbone, that you realized you were crying.
Not in any dramatic way. Just quietly. The kind of crying that happened without asking. Slow tears that curved down your face like they’d been waiting a long time to fall. You hadn’t even noticed the sting at first—too busy listening, too busy holding the conversation like it might break if you looked away.
Bucky didn’t say anything about it.
He just swiped a thumb under one eye, then the other. Careful. Gentle. His hand lingered against your jaw for a second longer, callused fingers against skin, then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to your forehead.
Then he shifted, slow and careful, crawling beneath the covers like he’d done a hundred times before but still didn’t take for granted. You didn’t even think—your body just turned toward him, instinct pulling you into the curve of his chest before he was fully settled. He slipped an arm around your waist and pulled you in, like gravity had been waiting.
You stayed like that for a while. Breath slowing against him. His hand spread over your ribs, thumb tracing slow circles like he was grounding himself in the fact that you were here, you were warm, you were choosing him.
“I’ll help,” he said eventually. Quiet, but firm.
You blinked. “What?”
“Elodie,” he said. “Whatever you need. Mornings. Pickups. School stuff. I’ll take the early ones. You’re always slammed on Thursdays with ops calls anyway.”
You almost smiled. “You don’t even know her schedule.”
“I’ll learn it.”
He said it like it was obvious. Like it was already decided.
You were still tucked under his chin, so he couldn’t see your expression. Maybe that was why you said what you said next.
“There’s still a chance this won’t be permanent.”
“I know.”
“And if it is, I don’t know what that’ll look like. Not legally. Not financially. Her parents’ accounts barely had enough to cover the transfer forms. I’m fronting groceries right now on a card that was supposed to last me until next cycle.”
“Then we figure it out.”
“Bucky—”
“I’ve got savings.” His voice wasn’t defensive, just steady. “Pension from the VA. Stark made sure of that. I’ve got contracts from Sam’s team and hazard pay I never touched. I can help. I want to.”
You were quiet a long time. Then, “You don’t owe me that.”
“I’m not doing it because I owe you.”
He shifted back enough to look at you. Eyes clear. Certain.
“I want to be part of this. Not just when it’s easy. Not just when she likes me because I bought her crayons. I want the real thing. The tired mornings. The appointments. The science projects the night before they’re due. If this becomes a life... I want to be in it. All the way.”
You felt his words sink under your skin, slow and unrelenting.
He brushed a strand of hair back from your temple, fingers pausing just a second longer than they needed to.
“I know we haven’t figured out all of it yet,” he said. “I know this wasn’t the plan. But that doesn’t make it less real. Doesn’t make it less ours.”
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Summary: You’re bleeding out alone in the snow and your brain does the only mercy it has left: runs every version of Bucky Barnes you’ve ever known in hopes that the real one makes it in time.
Author’s Note: hi friends <3 i fell down that whole “pov: you’re dying in the snow” rabbit hole that was floating around online a while back and my brain said oh bet?? cue me listening to no surprises by radiohead on repeat and accidentally writing this beast. lmao i’m so sorry and also absolutely not sorry. this is also not proofread :'(
Snow had a way of erasing the world. It fell between breath and bone, layered over footprints, swallowed distance until the tree line blurred and the hills became one pale unbroken thought.
You watched it drift through the crosshairs of your vision, lashes spidered with frost, every flake a soft impact on the heat that poured from your side. The sky had been iron when you went in and now it was the purest white, a ceiling with no seam.
Your radio had died somewhere between the second perimeter and the drop to your back. You knew because the last thing you heard was static chewing through Bucky’s voice, a cut-off syllable that might have been your name.
Your hand pressed into the wound on your side. It gaped with a slow-warm intelligence, a second mouth opening and closing around your palm. Your breath steamed in uneven ropes as you struggled to blink.
In an unsettlingly clean way, you understood that if you closed your eyes you would not open them again, so you fixed them on the sky and let the snow find you, let it rest on your cheekbones where your skin still knew how to be skin.
The treetops were black wires against the white sky. A rook cawed once and then the forest went back to listening. You had always thought the snow would be silent if it came to this, a pillowed quiet, a gentle drift into nothing, but it was not.
It crackled where it landed on your jacket, hissed where it touched blood. You could hear the far low groan of ice shifting in the ravine. Your breath whistled at the edges, a thin reed instrument you could not quite control. Somewhere to your right, your rifle lay half-submerged like a sleeping animal. The scope glass had frosted over. The magazine was still heavy. Useless now.
You tried the comm again because that is what you would do. Thumb found the push-to-talk and held it, out of habit if not hope. The headset answered with the same blunt silence, the same small stutter of static that might have been wind crawling along the antenna.
You pictured the little red light on your vest, the one that had stopped blinking. You pictured the map in your head, the way Bucky had tracked it with a gloved finger over the hood of the truck, the way he had tapped the switchback that led to the outbuilding and said he would keep to your flank.
He always did that. Quiet promises. No showy heroics. Just the fact of him at your side when things went bad.
It had gone bad at the bend, where the cut barrels ringed the slope, where the snow hid the old razor wire and the men inside the outbuilding were faster than they looked. You heard the shots the way you might hear bees. You had not felt the first hit at all, only a sudden looseness in your knees, the ground reaching up, the smack of your shoulder on ice that felt like a door closing.
The second hit had been a flower opening under your ribs. There was maybe a third, but you couldn't remember. After that there had been movement and then there had not. Someone had shouted. You had returned fire and the fire had not mattered because the world had already tilted toward this.
He would be coming.
You believed that because it was true every other time.
Bucky Barnes did not leave people behind. He did not leave you behind.
He could move through a fight like a shadow that knew exactly what needed to be done. He could put his body where the bullets wanted to be. He had a way of speaking into your comm when you were about to do something reckless, a low note that slid under panic and clicked into place.
You could hear it then like you always did, the memory of his tone more than the words. Steady. Breathe. Two more steps. On your six. He never told you to be careful. He never told you to wait. He met you where you were and made all of this survivable.
The cold creeped into the wound on your side like unwelcome fingers. You felt it as a clarity first, as a kind of antiseptic truth. Then you stopped feeling the edges of it at all. Your fingers had gone rigid where they cupped your side.
You meant to dig in harder and there was no difference. You meant to curl your knees and they were heavy stone ovals under the snow. You had a thought about how you might look from above, the black of your suit like spilled ink, the red staining out around you like a map you had not intended to draw.
You did not like that thought, so you watched the snow again and let it occupy you.
Footfalls would sound, you told yourself once more.
He made no noise when he wanted to, but for you he would call out first. Bucky had learned that after the first time a year back in Russian tunnels when you put a round into the wall an inch from his head.
He had laughed later, head tipped back, teeth bright and quick in the dim light, but his voice had gentled when he came up on you after that. He would say your call sign before he said anything else. He would say it like a question with an answer built in.
You heard it now the way you wanted to hear it. The syllables hit the frozen minutes and shattered, nonexistent.
You couldn’t turn your head, so you turned your eyes. The world rimmed in salt-white. The wind barely moved and yet every flake fell as if purposeful, one after another. You counted them as if counting could keep you awake. You ran out of numbers and began again, and the counting became a hum that anchored you to the moment of your breath and the moment after that.
Your tongue had the taste of iron. Your throat felt lined with glass. You swallowed and the glass complained. You tried to cough and even that was too much. The cough lived inside your chest without moving the air.
On the edge of hearing, like a trick the brain plays when it catalogs what it misses, a radio chirped. You froze inside the body that could not move. The chirp became a crackle. The crackle opened like a curtain to a voice that was there and not there, a sound shaped like him.
You did not know if it was memory or mercy. You knew what he would say if it was real. You waited for the habit of him to arrive.
You had met Bucky Barnes in winter, which felt like a private joke you had never admitted out loud. He was winter the way a river is winter. Cold only to the touch. Underneath, the force of him moved dark and certain.
He wore layers like armor and then shed them like a man shrugging out of a story he did not want anymore. He stood with his weight balanced as if ready to break into motion with a breath and he could be still for longer than anyone else.
The first time he had handed you a thermos after a long, dead stakeout, his mouth had moved around the shape of a smile that pretended it was not one. That motion lived in your head even now, precise as a photograph. You let it play behind your eyes to distract yourself from the creeping quiet at your extremities.
Another minute slid past with the round edges that minutes have when they are running out. The treetops shifted. Somewhere distant, an engine coughed and went silent. You could not tell if that was the truck or a memory of a truck you had slept in once, shoulder to shoulder in the back while frost filmed the windows and the only warmth was breath and shared curses.
Bucky had said you snored. You had said he slept with his eyes open sometimes and it creeped you out. You had wanted to touch his knuckles where his flesh hand rested on his thigh. You had not. You were very responsible about some things.
Now you wanted a miracle and all you had was snow.
You wanted a hand to move the hair out of your face because it had stuck there, stiff with melted snow and blood, because it tickled in the way you could not reach. You wanted Bucky to cut through the tree line with that clean, predatory economy of his, to drop to his knees beside you and say your name like you had not wrecked him for weeks with an almost-confession you did not know you had made.
You wanted his breath in your ear as he told you to hold on, and you wanted to because he would say it.
But you did not have that.
You had the memory of his palm spanning your shoulder when he pushed you down behind a barrier two missions ago. You had the sound of his boots on concrete, always closer than you expected. You had the little ordinary things he did that felt like a prayer. He fixed the strap on your holster without comment. He handed you his spare knife when yours went skidding. He stood in the door while you fell asleep and then left to watch the hallway whenever the two of you were stuck in a safehouse.
He never made it feel like a favor. It was just that he was there.
You thought about how he would be angry at himself for not being faster, how he would scuff the snow with the heel of his boot while he gathered you up, how he would look at your face first and then at his hands to check for what he had missed.
He would allow himself that one loss of composure, that tiny tic of self-cruelty, and then force it down because there was work to do. He did not yell when it mattered. He moved. He made use of whatever he had.
He had you. And that had always surprised you more than it should have.
You let your eyes slide to the right as far as they would, just enough to catch the slope where the path cut through. You imagined the curve of his body as he dropped into a run. You imagined the precision of the vibranium arm, the way the plates caught light and gave it back in sharp pieces.
You had once watched him at a bench under a bad flickering bulb, oiling the joints with the concentration of a man tending a garden. You had wanted to ask what it felt like. He had looked up at you as if he had heard the question anyway. He had said it felt like a hand. He had said it felt like the rest of him. You believed him.
Snow settled in the hollow of your throat. It itched like a memory you could not place. You wanted to laugh because it was so stupid, to be bothered by that while the center of you opened into the cold.
Your breath clouded and thinned. You tried to flex your fingers and the signal did not travel. You tried to say his name and the sound stuck to your teeth. The wind shifted and brought you the faintest scent of gunpowder and sap. The outbuilding door slammed somewhere behind the drift and the sound was very small from here, like a door closing in another house in another life.
You knew you should keep fighting. You knew the list of things to do, the order in which to do them. You had given that brief yourself like a bedtime story before ops. Breathe. Pressure. Elevation. Communicate. Stay awake. Count. Catalog your surroundings. Find a landmark and fix on it. Feed yourself tasks so the panic has no room to move in.
You had been good at it because you were stubborn and because you wanted to keep coming back to the people who made the fight make sense. You wanted to keep coming back to him and the unspoken thing that sat between you like a live wire taped neat and tucked out of sight.
He had said your coat looked ridiculous that morning. He had said it in a way that meant he liked it. You had rolled your eyes and said his needed patching and he had allowed the insult because you were the one who did the patching. He had watched your hands move the needle through the fabric with a stillness that felt like being seen.
If you closed your eyes now you could see that exact thread shining between your fingers. If you closed your eyes now…
No. Your eyes stayed open. They burned. They watered. The world doubled at the edges and then sharpened again like a lens trying to find you. You focused on the nearest branch where a clot of snow thickened and slid in slow motion, fell without a sound, punctured the layer beside your ear. You tried again to drag breath past the weight in your chest and the breath went in like a reluctant guest.
When he looked at your headset later he would press it to his ear as if that could pull your voice back through. You saw that so clearly it might as well have been happening beside you. He would check the wiring, not because he did not know but because his hands needed a job.
He would track the blood you had left against the white and it would lead him here. He would call for you then, low and sure like he could will it into an answer. He would kneel and the snow would creak and the world would tilt back toward the side where you lived.
You wanted that. You had never wanted anything the way you wanted that.
The wind picked up. A veil of snow dusted across your face and your eyes blinked clean on reflex. It was getting darker in a way that had nothing to do with time. The clouds had thickened into a single sheet and the line of the hill melted into it.
You thought for a split second that you heard his boots. You thought for another that you saw a shadow detach from the trees and start down the path. You held yourself ready for the relief that would follow, for the way your body would answer that presence by remembering itself.
It was only the wind playing with the shape of the trees. It was only the little mean tricks the cold does as it settles into you.
You told yourself a story anyway, because that had always been how you kept the worst edges from cutting too clean. You told yourself he was close enough to hear your heartbeat. You told yourself he was swearing in that quiet way of his, the syllables clipped, the heat under them banked.
You told yourself he had the med kit out and the tourniquet ready. You told yourself his breath clouded the air above you and you turned your face into it because it was warm. You told yourself you would give him hell for taking so long and he would give it back, eyes crinkled at the corners, mouth a line he could not stop from lifting.
Your story could not move your blood. It could not knit flesh. It could only hold you in place while the world kept snowing.
Pain flared once, brilliant as a flare against fog, and then folded into itself and left a ringing quiet. You breathed into that quiet and felt something in you unspool, a slow ribbon, warm where it left.
If he had been here, you would have leaned into his chest while he got the bleeding under control. You would have let the lines of him hold the lines of you together. You would have listened to the steady drum of his heart like a metronome you could set yourself to. He would have said your name then. Not your call sign. Your name. He would have said it like a fact, like an anchor thrown into deep water that hits bottom and holds.
You thought you saw a figure again and you let yourself believe it this time without interrogating it. The snow had a way of making lies tender. You watched the shape come closer in the long patience of someone who had run out of choices and found, to your small surprise, that there was no fear in you at all. Just the strange, clean relief of not needing to move.
If it was him, he would kneel. If it was not, you would not have to know.
If he was coming.
You took another breath because breath was a thing you could still do. The snow touched your lips like hands would. Your vision narrowed its aperture. For a heartbeat the world clicked into focus with such precision it hurt. Every needle on the firs was an individual thing. Every flake was a star with a private trajectory. Every memory of how he looked at you slotted into place behind your eyes like rounds into a magazine.
You felt the heat of your blood where it pooled under your palm. You felt the stiffness of the fabric where it froze at the edges. You felt the small ceiling of sky press down and you pressed back by staying.
The figure did not resolve. The comm did not spark to life. The snow kept falling because that is what it does. You tasted iron. Your tongue was heavy. Your throat had learned silence and did not want to unlearn it.
You thought of the way he held the world together when he could. You thought of how he would hate this. You thought of his hands, one flesh, one forged, both equally careful when they touched what mattered.
You let those thoughts sit with you in the snow like companions. You let them be enough to keep your eyes open one minute more. Then another. You let them be the warmth you did not have, the promise the moment did not offer, the echo of a voice that had so often been the last thing between you and the dark.
Hold on, you heard, whether from memory or mercy you did not know. Hold on.
You did, the way you always had, with your teeth even when your hands had nothing left in them, with your attention fixed like a blade on the next small thing you could ask your body to do.
Breathe. Watch the snow. Wait for the sound of him. Refuse the easy closing.
The snow on your lashes blinked, and when your eyes opened, it was dust floating in the gym's fluorescent light.
You were still on your back, but the sky had become a ceiling, low and stained and hummed through with old wiring. The cold pressing into your spine softened into the thin ache of concrete that had stored years of footsteps. Your breath no longer streamed white; it fogged in front of your face in little bursts that smelled like recycled air and metal.
Somewhere nearby, a door slammed, the sound familiar in a way the crack of gunfire had never been.
You knew this room. You knew this version of the world like the inside of your own mouth. The compound. Early days. Before anyone trusted you with anything that mattered; before you believed them when they did.
You watched the dust drift between you and the light overhead and realized you were not lying on snow anymore but on the mat inside the gym, chest heaving, lungs burning from the last set.
"You good?"
Bucky’s voice came from just beyond your line of sight, lazy as if he already knew the answer and didn't trust it.
You turned your head and there he was, sitting with his back against the wall, knees drawn up, forearms resting across them. Hair damp at the temples, a darker ring on the collar of his shirt where sweat had soaked through. Dog tags winked once when he shifted, catching the light like a tiny, private snowfall.
"Pretty sure I'm dying," you had rasped, and the way your voice sounded then layered perfectly over the way it sounded now, raw and edged with something you hadn't named yet.
He huffed, that almost-laugh he did when something amused him but he refused to give it the satisfaction of a real reaction. The corner of his mouth tilted. His eyes dragged over you, fast and brief, like a scan for damage first and always.
"If you were dying, you wouldn't be whining about it," he said. "You'd be quiet. Terrifies me, remember?"
You remembered. You remembered the way he'd said it once after a mission, when you came back bleeding and making jokes, and his shoulders dropped like someone had cut a wire. Quiet, for him, meant missing. Meant gone. Meant tombstones with names that never should have had dates carved underneath.
He preferred noise. Preferred the way you swore when you took a hit, the way you grumbled when he pushed you too hard, the way you argued about tactics with hands moving in sharp little arcs.
You hadn't understood how much that meant, back then. You only knew the look in his eyes now, in this hallway, as he watched you fight for breath after another training session you insisted on taking too far. The look that said he was cataloging you into the part of his brain where things he couldn't lose got stored.
"You should've let me stop two rounds ago," you said, still trying to drag air into lungs that didn't want to expand.
"You said don't go easy on you," he reminded you, shrugging one shoulder. "You wanna take it back, now's the time."
"Not in front of a witness." You gestured weakly at the doorway to the gym, where the heavy bag still swung on its chain. "Gotta maintain my image."
He snorted, finally, a real sound. It scraped warm along your spine, an internal reflex you didn't have a name for yet. His metal hand flexed once against his knee, the plates catching the light in that soft ripple that fascinated you no matter how many times you saw it.
"Your image," he said slowly, "is the person that doesn't back down when a guy like me tells them to call it for the day."
Guy like me. You heard it the way he meant it, heavy with every history he still wore like old scars under his shirt, the ones no serum could smooth out. You pushed yourself up on your elbows, hands shaking, and looked at him full-on, your vision still rimmed in spots.
"A guy like you is the reason I'm not dead already," you said. "So if I wanna keep up, I can't tap out every time my muscles cry about it."
He watched you while you said it. Didn't look away. That was new; for months he had skated around full eye contact like it would reveal something he hadn't agreed to show. Now his gaze stayed on you, steady, thoughtful.
The blue of his eyes was darker here than it looked under the harsh lights of the briefing rooms. Closer, you could see every line at their corners, the little tightness that settled in when he was thinking too much.
"You keep talking about being dead," he said quietly. "Kinda makes me wanna wrap you in bubble wrap and lock you in a closet."
"Kinky," you had shot back, on instinct more than intention.
Silence, then, followed by a slow blink and a breath that might have been a laugh if he'd let it. He shook his head at you, hair falling into his eyes for half a heartbeat before he smoothed it back with his flesh hand.
"You're impossible," he said. "Get up. Hydrate. Before I end up explaining to Steve why you passed out in the hallway."
You remembered the way his hand had hovered for a moment before it caught your forearm to help you to your feet. The warm hand first, a firm grip, fingers bracketing bone. The metal one resting loose on his knee, deliberately not touching. As if he had made some kind of private rule about where each belonged when it came to you.
You let him haul you up, your legs wobbling, shoulder bumping his chest when you overshot your center of gravity. For one heartbeat you were pressed up nearly against him, every breath you took syncing with his, your cheek inches from his sternum. You remembered the way his heart had felt like a steady drum against your skin, even through layers.
He smelled like soap that had nothing to do with who he was and everything to do with who he was trying to be now. Coffee and gun oil ghosted under it. Something citrus, faint.
"Careful," he had murmured, reflexive, hand tightening on your arm.
"That's your job," you'd said, and then the hallway, the gym, the dust all shifted as if the whole compound inhaled and exhaled at once.
The air changed temperature. The fluorescent buzz smoothed itself into the softer hum of an old refrigerator. The light over your head yellowed, warm and uneven. Your back didn't ache from concrete anymore but from the unforgiving springs of a cheap mattress. The smell of metal and sweat thinned into the smell of rain hitting pavement outside a cracked window, exhaust and wet asphalt and cheap takeout.
You blinked, and you were on your side in a safe house bed, blanket tangled around your legs, shirt twisted, heart doing something reckless in your chest. The room was small, all peeling paint and mismatched furniture, but it felt too big with just the two of you in it.
The storm outside smeared shadows across the ceiling. A leak tapped somewhere in the corner. The warmth in the air was borrowed from an ancient space heater rattling in the corner.
Bucky was sitting on the edge of the bed, back to you. His metal arm reflected faintly in the gloom, the delicate seams between plates tracing their own geometry. He was rolling his neck like it hurt, head tipped back just enough to show the strong line of his throat.
You shouldn't have been awake. You should have been sleeping off the mission, letting the adrenaline seep out of your muscles. But he had been too quiet when you came in, too neat with his movements, and your body had learned to wake up when quiet wrapped itself this tight around him.
"You're thinking loud," you said, voice soft in the thick, late hour. The words arrived in this room and in the snow at the same time, as if they had never left your tongue.
He half-turned, enough for you to see the line of his jaw, the way his mouth pulled when he tried to decide whether to deny it. He didn't. He just shrugged one shoulder, the muscles there jumping, the metal arm resting on his thigh like an animal at ease.
"Can't sleep," he said simply.
"Nightmare?"
You watched the way his hand—flesh this time—tightened on his knee. The flicker at the corner of his eye. He didn't answer and that was answer enough. Your chest ached in that familiar way it did when you thought about all the nights he had lived through that had no decent ending.
"C'mere," you said, like you were offering him a glass of water instead of the mess of your own heart.
He hesitated exactly long enough for you to know this wasn't simple. And you knew it wasn’t.
Finally, he shifted, the mattress dipping under his weight as he turned toward you. The room was too small to pretend this was casual; when he lay down on top of the blanket, it was with a care that bordered on reverent.
He shoved his boots off, like he was taking at least one step toward comfort but refusing the rest. The metal arm stayed angled away from you at first, braced against the headboard, like a part of him was holding himself up off you even while the rest sank down.
You rolled onto your back to make room. The old bed squeaked. Your shoulder brushed his. The contact felt like it should have set off alarms. You stared up at the cracked plaster above you, tracing the faint water stains with your eyes.
"You know," you said, after the silence nested too comfortably in the room, "you are allowed to sleep. The world keeps spinning without you supervising it."
"Does it?" His voice was quieter here than it was on the field, as if the walls might tell on him. "Pretty sure every time I let my guard down, something goes sideways."
"The heater's the only thing going sideways tonight," you replied. "And if it explodes, at least we'll go in our sleep. Real mercy kill."
He made a sound that might have been a laugh or a frustrated exhale; with him, they were almost the same. You could feel the vibration of it through the mattress, through the few inches between you.
His gaze flicked over to you in the dark, catching just enough of your features to make them real: the curve of your cheek, the line of your mouth, the way you stared stubbornly at the ceiling as if refusing to look at him too much might save you from something.
"You got a real cheerful streak, you know that?" he murmured.
"I work with what I have." You let your hand rest near his on the blanket, not touching but close enough that the heat of him gathered in your palm. "You wanna talk about it?"
The storm outside filled the pause. Rain hit the window like thrown gravel. Somewhere far off, a car rolled through water, the sound dopplering away. He breathed in, slow and precise, like a man approaching a minefield.
"Same old," he said. "Faces I don't remember. Things I did. Things I didn't do."
"And me?" you asked, before you could tell your tongue to mind its business. "Do I show up in there yet?"
You had meant it as a joke. Light, deflecting. You had not expected the way it landed between you with weight.
His head turned, full-on now, eyes finding yours in the half-light. There was something like surprise in them and something like resignation, like he'd been waiting for you to ask and had hoped you wouldn't.
"No," he said simply. Then, after a beat, "You show up after."
"After?"
"Yeah." He let his gaze drop to the line of your shoulder, your throat, the rise and fall of your chest. "After I wake up. After I remember where I am. You're there. You sound annoyed. Tellin' me I'm hogging the covers or snoring or…something." He swallowed. "It's not like the dreams. It's quieter. Easier to breathe."
You could have said a dozen things. Any of them might have broken the fragile, careful balance of the moment. So you picked the least dangerous one and hoped it was enough.
"For the record," you said, voice softer than you meant it to be, "you absolutely snore."
"I'm a professional," you replied. "I observe. I report. I'm very thorough."
His fingers moved then, just a fraction. The metal ones, where his arm had been anchored to the headboard. They flexed like they wanted to close around something. Maybe around your hand. Maybe around his own throat.
You shifted your hand the smallest distance, letting the back of your fingers brush the cool plates where his wrist rested near your head. The contact was brief, accidental on the surface. It lit up a whole system in you that had nothing to do with nerves or blood and everything to do with the careful way he drew in his next breath.
"Gonna put that in the report too?" he asked, but his voice had gone lower, roughened at the edges.
"Only the important parts," you said. "Bucky Barnes: snores, hogs blankets, represses emotions, has decent hair."
He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling now, real and reluctant. He let the metal hand turn under yours so your fingers could rest in the thinner seam between plates, the place where warmth leaked through from the machinery underneath. You felt that warmth travel up your arm, lodging somewhere inconvenient behind your ribs.
"Decent?" he repeated. "That's the best you got?"
"Don't push your luck," you murmured.
The room held onto that, tucking it into its corners, into the creak of the bed, into the whisper of rain on glass. You had laid there, side by side, not touching more than that point of contact, and felt the entire axis of your life tilt by degrees you couldn't measure.
Outside, someone in the world was dying, someone was being born, someone was making coffee, someone was stealing a car. Inside that little room, the biggest thing happening was two people lying very still, pretending breathing wasn't a confession.
The bed beneath you now, in the snow that had become the gym that had become this safe house, gave one long, low groan, and you blinked again.
The warmth of his arm under your fingers cooled, the hum of the heater faded into the distant, steady roar of engines. The rain against the window turned into the shudder of metal walls under heavy wind. The mattress pitched, and you were strapped into a seat instead, shoulder harness biting into your chest. The air tasted like high altitude, thin and filtered, tinged with jet fuel and sweat and something like anticipation.
You looked up at the interior of the quinjet around you, all matte black surfaces and exposed wiring, the faint blue glow of instruments painting everyone in cold light. Across the aisle, Bucky sat with his forearms braced on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor between his boots. Gloves on this time. Strap secured. Weapon at his feet. The set of his shoulders said he was thinking too much. Again.
"You look like you're about to bolt," you said over the engine noise, because you had never really learned how to leave him alone when he folded into himself like that.
He lifted his head, eyes dragging up to meet yours, and the motion happened here in the jet and out there in the snow where you imagined it, where you waited. The duality of it made your lungs stutter. He frowned at you, familiar and fond.
"Remind me which one of us jumped out of a plane without a parachute once?" he called back, mouth quirking.
"Peer pressure," you shouted. "Terrible influence in my life."
"You volunteered," he said. "I remember."
"You asked," you shot back. "There's a difference."
He gave you that look then, the one he reserved specifically for you, where exasperation and something softer wrestled to a draw. His gaze flicked over you quickly, checking gear, checking weapons, checking the line of your mouth like it could tell him if you were lying about being okay.
"You don't gotta prove anything," he said, the words bending around the roar of the engines but still reaching you clearly. "Not to me."
"Maybe I'm not doing it for you," you said, but it came out gentler than you intended. "Maybe I like jumping out of planes."
"You're a menace," he muttered, but there was a hint of pride threaded through it. "You stick to the plan this time, yeah?"
"I always stick to the plan."
He arched a brow.
"Most of the plan," you corrected. "Some of the plan."
His eyes closed briefly, like he was making a wish he didn't believe in. When he opened them again, they were steady, all business, that sharp, clear soldier-killer-operative gaze that saw everything and revealed nothing. Except—when it landed on you, there was that fraction of a degree softer, that fractional tilt of world where you fit.
"Just…" he said, pausing, the word hanging between you. His hand lifted, then dropped, as if he'd thought about reaching for you and changed his mind at the last second. "Come back."
It wasn't an order. It wasn't even a request. It was more like a fact he was trying to negotiate with the universe directly. You felt something in your chest catch on it, like cloth snagged on a nail.
Before the feeling could settle, he added, "I am not writing a report on this mission if you die halfway through. That's paperwork I don't need."
"You too, Barnes," you replied, trying to keep it light.
He shook his head, lips twitching. Then, quietly, not quite over the noise but close enough that your brain filled in the missing pieces, he added, "Not planning on going anywhere."
The jet bucked slightly, turbulence or a shift in altitude. You remembered the lurch in your stomach, the way your fingers curled around the strap of your harness. You remembered thinking, let him be right. Let him be right this time.
The engines roared louder. The jet blurred. The straps bit a little deeper into your shoulder, then loosened like someone had cut them. The black interior faded to gray, then to white. The air thinned and sharpened. The metal floor under your boots dissolved into snow again.
You blinked back into your own body, the one lying on the slope, blood soaking into cold earth. The flash of his face in the quinjet flickered like a film frame over the blank sky. For a second you saw both at once: him across from you under humming lights, and the emptiness above you now where his silhouette should be.
The snow brushed your cheek. Your breath hitched, shallow, then steadied again in its fragile rhythm. Your mind, stubborn thing, refused to stay in the present for long. It reached for him again and found him somewhere else, somewhere softer.
The compound kitchen this time. Late enough that the overheads were dimmed. The fridge hummed louder than seemed reasonable. The world had shrunk down to the island countertop, the half-empty mug in front of you, and the way he leaned against the opposite edge like he owned the space without meaning to.
He wore a t-shirt that had seen better days, a line of text you couldn't quite make out in the low light, and sweatpants that told you he'd likely been asleep before a nightmare yanked him out of it. His hair was a riot, sticking out in directions that made him look younger, almost, if you ignored the tired etched into the corners of his mouth.
You had been raiding the cabinets for something with sugar in it, bare feet cold on the tile. The mission was over, debriefs done. Your formal mask was off. You were holding a spoon in one hand and a jar of Nutella in the other like they were standard-issue equipment.
"You know they make actual food here," he'd said from the doorway, surprising you but not really. He had a way of appearing wherever you were like the universe had assigned him the job of shadowing you.
"This is actual food," you answered, dipping the spoon. "It's got nuts. And…ella."
"That's not how that works." He pushed off the doorframe and came closer, eyes narrowing at your haul. "You plan on sleeping ever again, or you just gonna ride that sugar high 'til you pass out?"
"Bold of you to assume I sleep now," you said. "Besides, you drink coffee like it's a religion. At least my terrible coping mechanism tastes like chocolate."
He made a face like he wanted to argue and couldn't quite find a foothold. After a second, he extended a hand, palm up, expectant.
"What?" you asked.
"Gimme the spoon," he said.
"Get your own."
"I'm not stickin' my fingers in there like an animal," he replied. "Now share before I tell Sam you got caught double-dipping in the communal snacks."
"Coward," you muttered, but you handed over the spoon anyway, heart doing that stupid flip it did when he took something from you like it was the most natural action in the world. His fingers brushed yours in the exchange, warm and callused. He didn't seem to notice. You absolutely did.
He took a scoop and made a face like he wanted it to be terrible and it foolishly, traitorously, wasn't. The spoon clicked against his teeth. He handed it back with a little nod.
"Okay," he admitted. "Could be worse."
"High praise," you said. "I'll take that glowing review to my grave."
The word lodged in the air between you in this kitchen the way it was lodging in your throat in the snow now. Grave. You had meant it as nothing, throwaway hyperbole. A joke. As you always did. You hadn't known how literal it would feel later when cold seeped into your bones.
He set the jar down on the counter, closer to you than to himself. His metal hand rested on the edge, the fingers leaving tiny crescents in the laminate where the pressure concentrated. You watched his knuckles turn faintly white in the flesh hand.
"Don't talk like that," he said, quietly enough that the fridge almost drowned it out.
"Like what?" You took another scoop, feigning ignorance.
"Like your grave's a funny punchline all the time," he said. His eyes were on the spoon, not on your face. "Like you're not…" He exhaled, searching for the word. "Like you're not important."
Something inside you stilled. You leaned your hip against the counter, letting the spoon hover halfway to your mouth.
"Bucky," you said, because his name felt like a hand wrapped around your wrist, steadying. "I'm not—"
"I know what it looks like out there," he cut in, finally meeting your gaze. "I know how quick it can go bad. I know you think if you joke about it all the time, it won't get to you. But it gets to me."
The honesty in it landed like a blow. You swallowed, the taste of chocolate turning faintly metallic at the edges. The kitchen seemed too small to hold all the implications of that sentence.
"It gets to you," you repeated, because you needed to be sure you heard him right.
He nodded, once. Barely. "Yeah."
"Because…?" you prompted, the word gentle as you could make it.
He made a small, frustrated noise, like the problem wasn't what he felt but the fact of being asked to name it. His fingers tapped once on the counter, a little staccato rhythm. Finally, he shook his head and settled on the simplest version, the one that carried the least risk but still told the truth.
"Because I don't want anything else on my conscience," he said quickly. "And that includes you."
It wasn't the whole truth. You heard the missing pieces in the space between syllables. But it was enough to send a flush creeping up your neck, enough to make your chest feel like it had grown too small for your ribs.
"Well," you said softly, the jokes falling away one by one until only sincerity remained, raw and exposed, "for what it's worth, I don't particularly wanna end up dead either. So." You lifted the spoon in a mock toast. "I'll do my best not to traumatize you and ruin dessert for everyone."
He snorted again, but his eyes softened. You watched the tension in his jaw loosen by fractions. He reached over and, without comment, took the spoon back from you, scooping one last bit before setting it deliberately in the sink.
"Alright, that's enough," he said. "You'll be bouncing off the walls."
"Jealous?" you asked. "You could join me in the sugar high, stay up all night. We could make a whole thing of it."
He shook his head at you, fond and exasperated. "Go to bed," he said. "We move early."
"You bossing me around again?"
"Somebody has to," he replied, already turning toward the door. Then he paused, glanced back over his shoulder. "And hey," he added, tone lighter, almost tentative. "Try to get some actual sleep, okay? Just because you're up doesn't mean you gotta…think the whole time."
You stared at him, caught off guard by the care in the suggestion. "You too," you said, because it felt like something you owed him. "No brooding in the dark. Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor," he said, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
"Field medic," you shot back. "Close enough."
"Goodnight," he said, and it sounded heavier than the word should, like it was doing more work than just ending the conversation.
He left the kitchen smelling like sugar and something fragile. The overhead light buzzed once and then steadied. You had stood there a moment longer, hand wrapped around the jar like an anchor, feeling the shape of his concern settle over your shoulders like a jacket you weren't sure you had earned.
Now, in the snow, with your blood seeping out into the earth and your body growing too heavy to own, that jacket felt like the only thing keeping your mind from sliding off the edge. Every memory of him layered over the last—gym, safe house, quinjet, kitchen—until they formed a continuous film, running frame by frame behind your eyes.
You felt the shove of his hand between your shoulder blades when he pushed you behind cover. You heard the crack in his voice the one time he said your name like a plea instead of a warning. You saw the way his face had changed the first time you came back from a mission you were supposed to be too far away from, how shock melted into relief so intense it nearly knocked him to his knees.
All of it lived inside you now, playing on a loop as the present thinned around the edges.
You didn't want to die.
The snow kept falling. The sky kept being indifferent. But in your head, you were still in all those rooms with him, still laughing, still arguing, still pressing fingers to scars and pretending you weren't memorizing their map. You were still hearing his voice cut through static, through nightmare, through the heavy, dragging exhaustion of a life you hadn't expected to survive this long.
You realized, with a strange, quiet clarity, that if this was the last thing your brain chose to circle around—the shape of him in doorways, the weight of his gaze, the way his hand felt when he chose to touch you and when he chose not to—it wasn't the worst road to go out on.
You took another breath, thin and rattling and precious. The white above you blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again. Suddenly it was dark. You must've closed your eyes. Somewhere in the overlapping layers of your life, he was still sitting on the edge of your bed, still arguing with you in the quinjet, still stealing your spoon or mug in the kitchen. Somewhere he was still saying your name like a promise, even if he never meant you to hear what sat under it.
The corridor of memories snapped like someone cutting film.
All of it tore away in one sharp, white-hot jerk, and you were back in your body like slamming into a wall. Cold vaulted up your spine. The snow on your face was real again, not dust or rain or flickering fluorescence. Your lungs forgot how to work for a second, then clawed for air that burned going in.
Sound arrived in pieces.
First, the muffled crush of boots in snow somewhere above you. Then the ragged, too-fast drag of someone breathing hard, closer than your own, overlapping it. A voice, too low and blurred to make out at first, like the comm when it had started dying—static wrapped around syllables, desperation chopped into fragments.
Then, all at once, the volume snapped up. The world caught.
“—no, no, no—”
The words landed right above you, sharp and terrified and half-swallowed, and if you hadn’t known better you would have thought they belonged to someone else.
The weight in your side changed. Something pressed harder against the wound, firm enough to drag a rough sound out of your throat. It hurt in a way that felt almost bright, almost clarifying. Your eyes flew open on reflex.
Sky. Still white, still falling. But there was a shape cutting into it now, leaning over you, blocking some of the snowfall. A shadow with a familiar outline. Broad shoulders in dark gear, hair half-plastered to a sharp, pale face framed in the blurred halo of his breath.
Bucky.
You stared up at him through lashes crusted in frost and whatever your brain had left of coherence tried to reorder itself around the reality of him actually being here. He wasn’t a memory version this time. He wasn’t lit by kitchen fluorescents or quinjet LEDs. He was right there, real, close enough that flakes were catching in his hair and melting on his skin.
His eyes found yours like they’d been looking for that exact thing and nothing else.
“Hey,” he said, too loud, too rough, like the word scraped its way out of his chest. “Hey. Look at me. Stay with me, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. The nickname cracked something in you that pain hadn’t touched. He didn’t toss that one around easy. It slipped in the spaces when he was tired, when his guard thinned. Hearing it here, now, felt like your name and something more, stuffed into one, pressed into your ribs.
You tried to say his name and your tongue—or maybe your whole mouth, your whole fucking face—didn’t get the message. It came out in a broken exhale, more air than sound. You weren’t even sure it made it past your teeth.
His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a heartbeat like he was checking, like he was reading the shape of what you’d tried to say.
“Yeah,” he breathed, quieter, like you’d managed it anyway. “It’s me. I’m here. I got you.”
His hands moved at your side, all business, the familiar, efficient brutality of field triage. The pressure on your wound redoubled, making the edges of your vision bloom black and crowd in. You felt the firm, unyielding plates of the metal hand digging in over your own useless fingers, the warm clamp of his flesh one above it, like he was trying to compress not just skin and muscle and ruptured vessels but the entire situation down into something he could actually handle.
You made a sound. You didn’t mean to. It wasn’t a word, just a hoarse, wet choke that twisted up and out of your throat. The cold had lined you on the inside; every breath felt like you were inhaling razor wire.
“I know,” he said immediately, the words snapping down over your noise like a shield. “I know, I know. Hurts like hell. That’s good. Means you’re still with me.”
You focused on his mouth because his eyes were too much—too full, too bright, too terrified. You could see the line of concentration there, the way his lips flattened when he was doing a dozen calculations at once. Distance to extraction. Time to bleed out. Temperature. Your weight. His own stamina. Probability curves. You knew that brain. You’d watched it grind through worse.
He shifted his weight and your world rocked with him. The snow beneath you squelched, a wet sound that had nothing to do with melt. He peeled your hand away from your side—somehow, at some point, your fingers had gone numb enough that they didn’t even try to resist—and replaced it with a balled-up compress from the kit. Pressure. Constant. Unrelenting.
“Lost you on comms,” he said, hands working while his mouth did. “Went dead right as you hit the bend. Static, then nothing. You know what that does to a man with my track record?” His voice cracked once, just a fracture in the middle of a sentence that he pretended wasn’t there. “Drove me fuckin’ crazy trying to pick a signal outta snow and concrete.”
His movements were fast but controlled. Tourniquet pulled tight above the wound. Seal slapped over an entry you couldn’t see. Somewhere, he’d ripped your jacket open; you didn’t remember when. The cold had burrowed into every exposed inch of you, but where his hands were, it was just heat, just pressure, just the fierce, stubborn insistence of him refusing to let anything leak out that he hadn’t given permission to.
“Thought—” He cut himself off, jaw locking. You saw the muscle jump there, the tendons stand out. He swallowed hard and tried again. “Fuck. You weren’t where you were supposed to be. Trail was half-covered. You bled all over my damn map, sweetheart.”
There it was again. A soft name in a place it didn’t belong, said like he didn’t have time to filter anything. You latched onto it the way your body tried to latch onto oxygen.
You could hear other noises now, too. Distant, on the periphery. Voices over his shoulder—Sam, maybe, or whoever else had made it to the treeline with him. Footsteps crunching, the whine of a quinjet engine ramping up in the far-blue distance. Someone on comms yelling coordinates. But all of it sounded like it was happening underwater. He was the only thing in crisp focus.
Your lips moved again. It felt like dragging them through wet cement. You were trying for something simple. Two words. You came. It was a stupid thing to say, redundant and childish, but it was the only thought that had enough weight to make it to your mouth. You had pictured him not making it over and over in the snow. The fact of him kneeling here, cursing under his breath and leaving dents in the earth with his knees, felt like it needed acknowledging.
It came out a fragile stutter of consonants and air. “Y—you… c—”
His head dipped, forehead nearly touching yours as he leaned in, like he could catch the sound before it froze.
“What?” he said, and the word was gentler than anything had any right to be out here. “Say it again. I got you. I’m right here, I can hear you.”
You tried. You dragged breath in past the thick, heavy thing sitting on your chest and shaped it as best you could. “You… came.”
It barely existed. Not even a whisper, more like the ghost of one.
But he heard it.
Of course he did. This was the man who could pick out the click of a safety in a firefight. Who heard the difference between your footsteps and anyone else’s in the hallway. His eyes flared, a flash of something raw that made your pulse jump weakly in your throat.
“Yeah,” he said, voice going rough again in a whole new way. “Yeah, of course I came.” He let out a shaky, humorless huff. “Took you long enough to notice, layin’ here making snow angels in your own damn blood.”
You blinked up at him, slow and stupid, and for half a second his mouth actually curved. The expression was a mess: relief trying to be a joke, fear trying not to be a sob, anger at himself coated in that familiar exasperation he used to keep from unraveling.
“Had to make, you know,” you rasped, every syllable sandpaper. “Dramatic… entrance.”
“Yeah?” he said. “Almost made a dramatic exit, too. Overachiever.”
He slid his hand under your head, lifting it just enough to wedge something rolled—his jacket? your pack?—beneath it to keep you from sinking deeper into the cold. His fingers were warm against the back of your neck. Calluses pressed into skin. You felt the precise care in the way he moved you, every angle measured so he didn’t jostle the hole in your side any more than he had to.
“Stay with me, okay?” he said, and the steadiness in his tone did not match the frantic glitter in his eyes. “I know you’re tired. I know. But you don’t get to tap out on me now. We’re not done arguing about proper nutrition or whatever dumb thing you’re gonna pick next.”
You wanted to tell him you’d absolutely fight him about nutrition, about sleep, about whose turn it was to wash the damn mugs in the kitchen. You wanted to point out that if he’d wanted you to rest, maybe he shouldn’t have made breathing around his presence so difficult. Instead, all that came out was a small, wrecked noise that could have been a laugh in a better world.
“S’rry,” you breathed, though you weren’t sure what for. For bleeding on the snow. For dropping comms. For scaring him. For not being stronger. For all of it and none of it.
His face hardened, not at you but at the word.
“No,” he said, sharp and immediate. “No ‘sorry.’ You hear me?” He shook his head once, snow scattering from his hair onto your cheeks. “You got nothing to apologize for. I should’ve been closer. I should’ve—”
He cut off again, like he’d hit a wall inside his own head.
Should’ve. You knew the rest of that sentence without hearing it. Should’ve checked the bend myself. Should’ve stood in front of you instead of trusting the angle. Should’ve known the comms were about to die because everything that could go wrong tended to when he had something to lose.
You wanted to tell him to shut up. That it wasn’t his fault. That you never listened to perfect plans anyway. That if he’d been any closer, maybe the bullet would’ve gone into him instead, and that was a timeline you refused with a kind of exhausted certainty that surprised you.
Your lips tried to shape his name again, but your throat rebelled. Your lungs were working so hard on the simple inhale-exhale loop that adding consonants seemed rude.
He saw the effort and leaned in like he could carry some of it for you.
“I know,” he said, soft. “I know what you’re tryna say. Save your breath for yelling at me later, okay?”
The metal hand kept pressure on the wound with relentless, uncomplaining force. The other was everywhere at once—checking your pulse at your throat, brushing wet hair away from your face, adjusting the angle of the bandage, reaching back to gesture furiously at whoever was behind him.
“Med evac, now!” he snapped, hand coming quickly to his comms, without looking away from you. “I don’t care if you gotta land that bird on one engine, Wilson, you get it down here.”
“We're landing, as fast as we can” Sam’s voice crackled through faintly, far and tinny to your ears but apparently in his. “You just keep them breathing.”
“Working on it,” Bucky muttered, more to himself than the comm, his hand moving back to you.
You felt his thumb drag once along your jaw, an absent, grounding touch like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. There was a smear of red across his knuckles now, not all of it yours; he moved like he’d already gone through dozens of other people to get to you.
“Eyes on me,” he said. “Don’t look at the sky. Don’t look at the snow. That’s my job. Yours is just…” He hesitated, searching. “…just stay here.”
“I… am… here,” you mumbled, every word a separate, clumsy attempt. The syllables frayed at the edges, but you got them out.
“That’s right,” he said quickly, like he was rewarding a kid for doing something hard. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
The phrase detonated quietly between you. He seemed to hear it a second after he said it, because his mouth pressed into a thin line—and for half a breath his eyes flicked away, like he needed to look at anything else.
My girl. You would have replayed it a thousand times in your head if you’d had the spare oxygen. As it was, all you could do was let the resonance of it hum through the spaces pain hadn’t filled yet.
You swallowed, the action slow and foreign. It felt like the first time you’d tried to use your voice after a bad smoke inhalation mission—everything scraped, everything resisted. “Thought…” you managed, vowels dragging. “You… didn’t… like… paperwork.”
He blinked, thrown. “What?”
“Reports,” you slurred, vaguely proud of yourself for getting the word mostly intact. “If I… didn’t… come back… you’d… have… to…”
“You are not, not dying because I hate forms,” he said, incredulous, and for the first time since he’d appeared, something like real, rough amusement flickered through his panic. “Jesus. Only you would try to guilt-trip me from a bullet hole.”
“Tactic,” you whispered. Your chest hurt from this much talking, but you couldn’t make yourself stop. It felt important to crowd the air with anything but silence. “Weapon… of choice.”
“Yeah, well, it’s working,” he said. His hand slid from your throat to your cheek, thumb pressing lightly at your cheekbone as if to keep your eyes open by sheer force. “Don’t you dare check out on me, you hear? I’m not done givin’ you shit for this. You went off alone, comms dead, no backup on the blind side—”
“Backup…” you wheezed before thinking. “S’pposed… to be… you.”
He flinched like you’d hit him. Just a tiny jerk, barely there, the kind someone who didn’t know him would’ve missed. You felt it in the way his fingers tensed.
“It was,” he said, voice dropping low and rough, like gravel under tires. “It is. I’m here now. I’m sorry.”
You might have reminded him of his own rule about apologies. You might have told him you didn’t blame him. Instead, your body chose that moment to curl in on itself, a cough tearing up from somewhere deep. It felt like your lungs turned inside out. Pain stabbed through your side like a hot, clean blade, and for a second everything white-ed out, the world narrowing to a rushing in your ears.
You would have rolled if you could move. He stopped you before the impulse even finished firing.
“Whoa, hey, easy—easy,” he said, bracing you with one hand splayed against your sternum, the metal still clamped at your side. “You gotta breathe gentle, sweetheart. Little sips. In and out. Don’t fight it. Atta girl.”
His voice did something to the panic clawing at your chest. It cut through the animal urge to thrash, to escape the burn, and threaded command through the chaos instead. You clung to it. In. Out. The breaths were shallow, ragged, but they happened. Your vision stuttered, then steadied enough to find his face again.
“There you go,” he murmured, relief bleeding into the words. “There you are.”
You saw it then, in the tiny lines around his eyes, in the way his mouth kept trying to settle and couldn’t: he was terrified. Not the kind of fear that froze. The kind that sharpened everything until it cut him from the inside.
“Couldn’t—” You swallowed, tasted blood. Your eyes pricked. “Couldn’t… hear you.”
“At the bend?” he asked, knowing exactly what you meant. “Yeah. I know. Comms fried. Whole channel went dead. I was callin’ you for twelve full minutes, felt like two goddamn years.” His jaw clenched. “By the time I got eyes on this slope—”
He glanced down at the trail you’d left, the carved red path in the snow. You watched his throat work like he had to physically swallow something.
“—I thought I was too late,” he finished, quietly. “Thought I was gonna be diggin’ you out, not patching you up.”
“Almost,” you croaked, because honesty had never really left you a choice. “I… thought… you weren’t…”
“I know what you thought,” he said, and there was a rawness in his tone you’d only heard a handful of times. The night he’d told you about the first time he woke up in HYDRA hands. The time he’d confessed, in a roundabout way, how many names he woke up with on his tongue.
He leaned in closer, until his nose almost brushed your temple. You could feel the heat of his breath on your ear, the trembling in it he was trying so hard to hide.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, quieter. “For that. For that feeling. For every second you lay here thinking you were alone. You weren’t. I swear to you, you weren’t. I was coming. I was… I’m here now.”
Your vision blurred—not from blood loss this time, but from something hot that had no business existing in this cold. You blinked hard, lashes sticking.
“Didn’t… want…” You had to stop, breathe, gather what little strength you had left. “Didn’t want… you… to see.... if I...”
His head drew back a fraction so he could see your face. His brows pulled together.
“See what?” he asked, genuinely confused.
“Like this,” you whispered. It sounded pathetic out loud, but there it was. “You’ve… seen enough.”
The words hung between you, heavy with all the images you knew lived behind his eyes. War. Blood. The bodies he’d made and the ones he’d failed to save. You weren’t arrogant enough to think you’d be some special exception to that catalog. Still, the idea of your shape joining that crowd in his head made something in you rebel.
His expression shifted, something fierce and almost offended tearing through the shock.
“Hey,” he said sharply, fingers tightening just enough on your jaw that you had to look at him. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle. You hear me? You don’t get to take choices away from me ‘cause you’re trying to protect me.”
You would’ve laughed if you had the breath for it. “Hypocrite,” you rasped.
He barked out a strangled sound that might have been a laugh, might have been a choked sob. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Yeah, I know. But I mean it. You think I want my last image of you to be a fuckin’ radio going quiet? An empty patch of snow? No chance.”
His thumb stroked once along the hinge of your jaw, almost reverent. He looked at you like he was trying to memorize every line, every fleck of color in your eyes, every shape your mouth made—even while those eyes fluttered and that mouth barely moved.
“If this is what I get,” he said, voice low and rough, “if this is the moment I gotta hold on to if everything goes sideways, then I’m gonna be here for all of it. You don’t get to protect me from that. That’s not how this works.”
The if in that sentence sat in your chest like a stone. He’d said if, not when. He believed in some version where you walked away from this. You wanted that too. You wanted it so badly it felt like a second wound under the first.
“Bucky,” you whispered, and this time your mouth cooperated, got all the letters out.
His eyes shut for a second, just one. When they opened, they were bright in a way that had nothing to do with the snow.
“There you go,” he said, like you’d done something heroic by managing two syllables. “That’s me. I’m here. Look—” He shifted his grip, lifting your hand with his, guiding your fingers clumsily to press over the back of his metal knuckles where they pressed into your side. “You feel that? That’s me. Not going anywhere.”
The metal was warm, almost hot, from the constant work. Under your numb fingertips, the faint whir of servos thrummed, steady as a heartbeat. You latched onto it, on the pressure of his hand and the solidity of his arm, as if the contact alone could tether you.
“You’re… gonna be okay,” he said, like he could bully the universe into compliance. “We’re gonna get you on the jet, we’re gonna get you to a med bay with actual walls and not these goddamn trees, and then I’m gonna sit in the corner and glower at every doctor that comes near you until they’re too scared to discharge you before I say so.”
“Gonna… scare… them,” you breathed, a ghost of a smile twitching at your mouth.
“Good,” he said promptly. “They should be scared. You’re my favorite pain in the ass. I’m not lettin’ anyone half-ass your care.”
Favorite. The word slid in under your ribs. It fit with my girl in a way that made your chest throb for reasons that had nothing to do with trauma.
Somewhere behind him, closer now, you heard the heavy thump of the quinjet’s ramp hitting snow. Voices rose, clearer. Sam calling his position. Someone else—maybe a med tech—barking orders. The world expanded slightly, the edges of your focus dragging outward to include more than just Bucky’s face.
He didn’t look away.
“Okay,” he said, more to himself than you. “Okay, they’re here. We’re gonna move you now. It’s gonna suck. You’re allowed to hate me for it. You can yell at me later. Right now, you go limp, you hear? Don’t fight it. Let us do the work.”
“Bossy,” you muttered, the word slurring.
“Yeah,” he said. “Somebody’s gotta be. You’re terrible at following suggestions.”
Hands slid under you—Bucky’s, solid and sure, and another pair you couldn’t place. Maybe Sam’s. Maybe the medic’s. The moment your body lifted off the ground, pain screamed through you in an electric wave so intense your vision went fully white. You didn’t even realize you’d cried out until you felt your throat rasping.
“I know, I know,” Bucky’s voice cut through, right at your ear. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Breathe. I’ve got you.”
Your head lolled against something firm and warm. You realized it was his chest when the rhythm of his heartbeat crashed into your ear—fast but steady, a pounding drum against your skull. The world tilted as they carried you, the snow-sky trade flipping: white above, then sideways, then replaced by the dark maw of the quinjet’s cargo bay.
“Watch the IV line—no, we don’t have one yet, goddammit—just get them in and shut the door!” someone yelled.
The ramp clanged under booted feet. The air changed, the outside cold trading places with the metallic warmth inside. The thrum of the engines deepened, vibrating through the floor, up through Bucky’s legs, into your bones.
He didn’t put you down right away. Even when they reached the stretcher, he lowered you onto it like he was afraid you’d shatter. His hands never fully left you—palm on your shoulder while the medic worked, fingers brushing your wrist when they inserted a line, the metal still hovering near your side as if he’d punch anyone who got the tourniquet wrong.
“BP’s in the toilet,” a voice said somewhere to your left. “They need volume now. Who did this dressing?”
“I did,” Bucky snapped.
“It’s solid,” the medic said immediately, no challenge in it. “Good work. Let’s build on it. Hey—” A face swam into your peripheral. “Stay with me, alright? Can you squeeze my hand?”
You tried. Your fingers twitched weakly. The medic smiled like you’d just done a backflip.
“There we go. Keep that up. What’s their name?” they asked, presumably to Bucky.
He answered without hesitation, your name landing heavy in the air. Hearing it like that, in his voice, made you ache. Made you want to live out of sheer spite, just to hear it like that again without blood in your throat.
“Okay, Y/N,” the medic said. “I’m putting something in your line that’s gonna feel really warm. That’s normal. Gonna help your blood remember what it’s supposed to be doing. You’re doing great.”
Warmth spread up your arm, alien and strange, different from the dull, dead cold of the snow. This was sharper, focused, purposeful. It raced to your chest and blooming there, chasing some of the heavy fog back from the edges.
Bucky hovered at your head, his body between you and the rest of the world. He was a wall you’d never been more grateful for. He kept one hand braced on the stretcher as the jet shifted, like he didn’t trust the laws of physics to handle it alone.
“You still with me?” he asked, leaning into your line of sight again. His face was closer now than it had been on the ground, every freckle, every scar, every crease up for inspection. “C’mon. Gimme somethin’. Blink if you’re planning on ignoring my orders for another few years.”
You blinked. It took effort. Felt like pushing against a heavy door. But you did it. Once. Twice.
His mouth kicked up in a breathless, disbelieving grin that looked like it hurt him to make.
“That’s my girl,” he said again, softer. “God, you’re stubborn.”
“You… like…” you tried, the words slurring beyond recognition even to your own ears.
“Yeah,” he said, not even bothering to pretend he didn’t understand. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “I do.”
You didn’t know which part of that he was answering. Your weird half-formed accusation. Your blink. Your existence. It didn’t matter. The warmth of it threaded with the medicine in your veins, tangling until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
The medic rattled off numbers. Someone said something about ETA to the facility. The engines roared, then steadied as the jet leveled out. The pressure in your side settled into a brutal, throbbing ache rather than an active, tearing burn. Each breath hurt, but it was less like drowning now and more like treading water with bricks tied to your ankles.
“You’re doing good,” Bucky murmured. “Proud of you.”
You almost rolled your eyes at him. Proud of you, like you’d done anything but lie here and bleed. But you could hear what he meant under it: thank you for not dying. Thank you for still being here where I can see you. Thank you for not adding another ghost to the pile.
“Can’t… get rid… of me…” you forced out, the words thin but there.
The edges of the world dimmed again, but it was different this time. Less like slipping away into cold and more like someone gently turning the lights down. Your body had reached its limit. You could feel it in the way your limbs refused every command, in the heavy pull at the back of your eyes.
Sleep, your bones whispered. Just for a second. Just to stop holding everything together so hard.
You must have let some of that show, because Bucky leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours.
“Hey,” he said, and his voice had gone soft and dangerous, the way it did when he meant every word. “Listen to me. You wanna close your eyes, you can. You earned that. But you remember—this isn’t you checking out. This is you letting us carry some of this for a while. You get to rest because we’re not lettin’ go. You understand?”
You stared at him, at the lines of his face, at the snow still melting in his hair, and thought, wildly, that if this was the last thing you saw, it wouldn’t be the worst. But something stubborn and mean in you, something that had survived things it shouldn’t have long before you’d ever met him, reared up at the idea.
“‘Kay,” you breathed, because it hurt to argue even in your own head. “But… you’ll… be… there.”
It wasn’t a question. It felt like one anyway, hanging between you.
His eyes went glassy at the edges. He nodded once, like swearing an oath.
“Yeah,” he said. “You wake up, I’ll be the one you’re pissed at for letting the nurses poke you. I promise.”
You held his gaze for one more beat. Two. You watched his mouth press into a line that was half determination, half fear. You felt his thumb stroke along your cheekbone again, slow and almost absent, like he couldn’t stop touching you now that he’d started.
Then, finally, you let your eyes slip closed.
You woke up to the sound of something insisting you were alive.
A steady, thin beeping cut through the dark first, clinical and patient. It met the dull throb in your chest and the heavy ache in your side and negotiated with them, beat for beat. Light came next, too bright even behind your eyelids, pressing red against them like someone had laid the sun on your face. Your mouth tasted like cotton and metal and the ghost of plastic. Your throat ached deep, as if something had been there that didn’t belong and had been yanked out in a hurry.
For a second, you didn’t move. Couldn’t, really. Your limbs felt wrong—too heavy, too far away—as if someone had put your bones in the wrong gravity. Even trying to tell your fingers to twitch was like shouting down a long, empty hallway.
You cataloged what you could without opening your eyes. The air was warm and dry, smelling faintly of antiseptic, recycled ventilation, and the weird, overboiled tang of hospital food you hoped wasn’t for you. Sheets brushed your forearms, stiff and too clean.
Something tugged at the inside of your elbow—IV line, taped down. A cuff squeezed your bicep in steady pulses. There was weight across your midsection, not crushing but firm: heavy bandage, maybe a brace. Something cold and foreign sat against your ribs on one side, the ache around it deep and pulsing. Chest tube, your training supplied, clinical and calm. Good. Bad. Both.
You were in a med bay. Facility, probably—one of the ones with real walls and humming machines and doctors who glared at Avengers like they were walking malpractice suits.
You were not in the snow. You were not staring up at a white sky and waiting to find out if the last thing you saw would be nothing.
The beeping ticked on, counting heartbeats you had been very close to not having.
You pried your eyes open. Slowly. The world came in a messy blur—light overhead, pale ceiling. Peripheral shapes of monitors and hanging bags. The room swam once, then steadied. Your vision sharpened in increments until you could track lines and edges again.
To your right, in a hard plastic chair shoved as close to the bed as physically allowed, was Bucky.
He looked wrong in med bay lighting. Too human and too haunted at the same time. The overhead fluorescents bleached the color from him, highlighting every shadow under his eyes, every line carved into his forehead.
His hair was a wreck, pushed back in a way that spoke of frustrated fingers and zero regard for mirrors. Stubble darkened his jaw. He was slouched forward, elbows on his knees, metal hand braced around his own wrist like he needed the grip to stay anchored.
His eyes were closed. For half a second, you thought he was asleep. The idea of Bucky Barnes letting his guard down enough to actually sleep in a chair next to you made your chest lurch. Then you saw the way his thumb kept tracing the line of your wrist where your hand lay in his, skin to skin, as if he needed the movement.
Not asleep.
Your throat tried to clear itself and immediately regretted it. The cough you meant to be quiet scraped up like broken glass. You choked on it. Every muscle between your neck and hip spasmed in miserable protest. Pain flared white-hot along your side, radiating out from the bandaged hole like someone had poured acid into your nerve endings. Your lungs seized, then dragged in air too fast, too shallow. The monitor at your head sped up, a frantic little staccato.
Bucky’s eyes snapped open instantly.
“Hey—hey, whoa,” he said, already on his feet, the chair skidding back with a harsh squeak. “Easy.”
He was at your side before you’d even finished the first broken inhale. His hand left your wrist only long enough to hit the bed control, raising the head a fraction so you weren’t flat. The movement made your side scream again. You winced, teeth grinding together, fingers clawing at the sheet.
“Buck,” you rasped. Or tried to. It came out like someone dragging a shovel over gravel.
His gaze dragged up to your face. When your eyes met, a whole storm passed through his expression in about half a second—shock, relief, anger, something so raw and bright it almost hurt more than your side.
“Yeah,” he said, voice gone rough, like he’d been yelling or not talking at all for too long. “Yeah, it’s me.”
He put his flesh hand around the back of your neck, not lifting you, just steadying, thumb careful against the tender tendons there. The contact grounded you in a way the machines couldn’t. Your pulse thudded under his fingers, frantic but real.
“Slow,” he added, softer, eyes never leaving yours. “Breathe slow. They gave you some fun stuff. Your lungs are gonna feel all kinds of weird about it.”
You tried to listen. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Each breath dragged over the sore spot in your chest where the tube sat, but it settled, inch by inch, into something more manageable. The monitor agreed, its panicked blip easing back into a steadier rhythm.
“Where…?” you managed, glancing around, though moving your head even that much made black spots flirt at the edges of your vision.
“Med facility,” he said. “Off-grid. Good docs. Good equipment. Terrible coffee.” He hesitated a beat. “You’re okay.”
The word hung there. Okay felt like a stretch. You felt like you’d been run over by a truck, stripped for parts, then stapled back together. Your side burned in a deep, wet way that said serious internal damage, not just a flesh wound. The bandage pulled uncomfortably with every breath. Your chest ached in time with the IV pump.
But you were not dead.
You blinked, trying to fit that fact into your skull. Your brain snagged on another question instead.
“How… bad?” you whispered.
His jaw flexed. You watched him decide between lying and not. The lines around his eyes tightened. He hesitated for a moment, dragging the chair back with his free hand and sitting back down.
“Bad,” he said finally, because he respected you too much to sugarcoat. “Bullets went in shallow, but it hit all the wrong shit—ricocheted, tore through part of your liver, nicked your lung. Lots of blood. You gave the surgeons a real workout.”
You swallowed. Your mouth felt like sand. “And I…?” You had meant to ask something flippant—did I win? do I at least get a lollipop?—because that was how you handled this stuff. The effort of forming the words stripped the humor out of them.
“You made it,” he said. No joke in his tone. Just flat, stubborn certainty. “They had to transfuse you, patch you up from the inside out, shove a tube in your chest to help you breathe. They were talking about percentages for a while. I didn’t like their math.”
You pictured him, pacing like a caged animal outside an OR door, counting every second with his teeth. It did something ugly to your heart.
“How long…?” you asked.
He glanced at the cheap wall clock in the corner like it had offended him personally. “You’ve been out, off and on, for…about four days. Longer if you count the part where you were half-conscious in the snow and arguing with me.”
The fact that he was measuring time in arguments almost made you smile. Almost. Everything in your face hurt when you tried.
“Sorry,” you said automatically, because the idea of him stuck in this room that long, with nothing to do but watch monitors and think, made guilt crawl under your skin.
His eyes snapped back to yours, sharp. “What did I say about that?”
You frowned, brain moving slow through the fog.
“No ‘sorry,’” he reminded you, voice softening but not backing off. “You did your job. Didn’t exactly throw yourself in front of a bullet for fun.” He paused. “At least I hope not, ‘cause that would really ruin the ‘you’re not expendable’ speech I’ve been rehearsing.”
You huffed a tiny sound that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t felt like your ribs were full of knives. “You… rehearsed… a speech?”
He shifted his weight, suddenly looking almost…sheepish. It didn’t sit naturally on him, like the chair under him. “Yeah, well. Had some time on my hands.”
You let that sink in: Bucky Barnes, former brainwashed assassin, current pain-in-your-ass, sitting in a too-small med bay chair for days, crafting a lecture about your value. Because of course he did.
“You… didn’t have to…” you started.
“Yeah,” he cut in, “I did.”
The firmness in his tone made your breath stutter. His hand at your neck tightened fractionally, thumb resting in the hollow under your skull.
“You remember,” he went on, staring at you like he could pin your attention in place, “all those times you joked about not making it? About your grave? About going out in some blaze of glory?”
Heat flushed under your skin, embarrassed and defensive all at once. “That’s…just how I cope, Buck.”
“I know,” he said. “Believe me, I know about coping mechanisms.” His mouth twisted. “But seeing you lying in the snow after following a trail of your blood, looking at you half-frozen and half-gone, hearing you wheeze about how I ‘came’ like you were surprised I showed up? That wasn’t coping. That was…”
He broke off, eyes closing for a second. When he opened them again, they were too bright.
“That was you actually thinking I might not get there,” he finished, quieter. “That I might not come. And that? That’s not a joke I can live with.”
You stared at him, throat thick. You remembered it all too vividly: the snow, the silence, the distance between where you were and where he might have been. The way your brain had quietly considered the possibility that he wouldn’t make it in time, and how you’d tried to make peace with that by replaying him in your head.
“I didn’t…” you started, then stopped. Honesty tasted like antiseptic and fear. “I didn’t want you to see me like that.”
He let out a humorless scoff. “Newsflash: I’ve seen worse.”
“That’s exactly the point,” you said, voice scraping but gaining a little strength. “You’ve seen too much. Done too much. I didn’t want to be another—” You gestured weakly, the IV tugging. “Another body on the ground somewhere in your head.”
His jaw clenched. You watched the tendons jump.
“You’re not,” he said, firmly. “You’re not a body on the ground. You’re—”
He cut himself off again, looking abruptly away, like the words had gotten too close to something he hadn’t decided whether to say. His metal hand flexed at his side, fingers curling and uncurling with a faint whir.
“You’re loud,” he muttered instead, after a second. “Annoying. Stubborn. You steal my coffee. You hide my knives as a ‘trust exercise.’ You call me on my bullshit. That’s what you are in my head. Not…this.”
“Loud,” you repeated, trying to keep your mouth from shaking. “I almost died and that’s the best you can do?”
He shot you a look, exasperated and fond and utterly, painfully familiar. “Don’t start,” he said. “I’ve been nice to you for like seventy-two hours straight. I’m exhausted.”
You would’ve rolled your eyes if they weren’t already fighting to stay open. “This is you…being nice?”
“This is me not putting you in a medically induced coma myself so I can yell at you without anyone interrupting,” he said dryly. Then the humor drained, leaving something softer behind. “This is me telling you I’m glad you’re still here to piss me off.”
Silence settled between you for a moment, thick and humming. The monitors filled it with a steady, background reassurance: you’re here, you’re here, you’re here.
“You stayed,” you said, because it felt necessary to name it. “The whole time.”
He shrugged, as if he were answering a question about the weather. “Yeah.”
“You could have…slept. Showered.” You sniffed faintly. “You smell like jet fuel and bad coffee.”
“Romantic,” he murmured. “Look, they came in and poked you, and cut on you, and yelled about blood loss. You coded once.”
You blinked. “I…what?”
“For about eight seconds,” he said, voice going flat in that way it did when he forced his emotions into a box. “Heart stopped. They shocked you. You came back.” He inhaled slowly. “I did not feel like going to take a nap after that.”
Eight seconds. A tiny rip in time. Long enough for him to stand in a doorway and watch your monitor flatline. Long enough for every bad thing that had ever happened to him to line up behind that moment and wait its turn.
You swallowed hard. “Bucky…”
He shook his head once, like he could physically dislodge whatever memory you were about to apologize for.
“Doc says you’re past the worst of it,” he said. “Liver’s patched. Lung’s reinflated. They’ll pull the tube in a day or two if your numbers behave. You’re gonna hurt like hell for a while. You’re gonna hate physical therapy. You’re probably gonna try to skip half your meds and pretend you’re fine.”
“That sounds…accurate,” you admitted.
“And I,” he continued, “am going to be here, making your life miserable, making sure you do none of that.”
“You gonna…hover?” you asked, the word weaker and more hopeful than you meant it to be.
He huffed, eyes flicking heavenward like he was asking for patience. “I’m gonna make sure you don’t pull your stitches trying to prove something,” he said. “If that qualifies as hovering, then yeah.”
You let your gaze roam over him properly now, taking in the details you’d missed in the initial foggy panic of waking. The dark crescents under his eyes. The dried smear of something on his sleeve that looked like blood but might not be yours. His shoulders were hunched in that way that told you he’d been braced for bad news, arms crossed so tight over his chest earlier he might have left bruises on his own ribs.
He looked like something a storm had chewed up and spit out. And still, he was here.
“You look like shit,” you said, because that’s what you did when things edged too close to unbearable.
His mouth actually curled. “You always this charming after almost dying?”
“You always this…clingy after saving someone?”
“Only the ones who make fun of their own funerals,” he said. “Gotta keep an eye on you. Can’t trust you not to try and skip out on your own wake.”
A memory flickered: the kitchen, the jar of Nutella, the way his face had gone hard when you joked about taking what he said to the grave.
“Guess I’m not as funny as I thought,” you murmured.
He exhales through his nose, slow. “You’re funny,” he said. “You kill me sometimes. But maybe ease up on the death jokes for a bit, yeah? They hit different when I’ve watched you bleed out.”
You swallowed around the sudden lump in your throat. “Too soon?”
His gaze softened, the edges of his eyes crinkling in a way that always made you feel like the air had thickened. “Way too soon,” he said. “Gimme, like, ten years. Then you can start with the graveyard material again.”
You tried to laugh, then winced as the movement tugged your side. He caught the wince like it was his own.
“Okay,” you said, breathless. “No more…grave jokes. At least for a while.” You paused. “Maybe… just favorite patient jokes?”
He blinked, something flickering in his expression that wasn’t just relief. “You’re not my patient,” he said, almost automatically.
You raised a brow, or tried to. “I'm not?”
He looked at you for a long moment. Then his shoulders dropped a fraction, as if some invisible weight had shifted. His metal fingers flexed against the bed rail, a tell you’d learned to read like a paragraph.
“You’re more than that,” he said quietly.
The words slipped out too honest, too bare. He didn’t look away this time. He let them sit there between you, like a live wire.
Your pulse monitor ticked up a notch. You felt it. You were sure he heard it.
“Bucky…” you started again, for what felt like the hundredth time, and this time you didn’t know what you were apologizing for or trying to say. You only knew that the room felt too small for everything pressed into your ribs.
He beat you to it.
“Thought I was gonna lose you,” he said, the words coming out low and fast, like if he didn’t get them out now, he never would. “Out there. On that hill. In here. Eight seconds on a flatline feels a lot like every other time I watched somebody die. And I—I can’t—”
His voice cracked, just once, violently. He sucked in a breath like it hurt.
“I can’t go through that with you and pretend you’re just another teammate,” he finished hoarsely.
Your heart did something painful and grateful at the same time. “Good,” you whispered. “Hate to be…generic.”
He let out a strangled laugh that sounded a little like he might cry. “You’re the least generic person I’ve ever met,” he said. “You drive me up the wall. You scare the hell out of me. You make me…want things. For myself. That I thought I was done wanting.”
You stared at him, words gone.
“When I couldn’t reach you on comms,” he went on quietly, eyes fixed on the line of your shoulder now, like looking directly at your face might be too much, “all I could think about was every stupid joke you’ve ever made about not making it. About going out. About it not being a big deal. And I was—I was furious. At you. At me. At every bastard who ever made you think that maybe you were…not worth staying for.”
Your throat tightened. “Bucky—”
He looked up then, finally, and the intensity in his gaze pinned you to the bed more effectively than any strap.
“I would miss you,” he said. No hesitation. No deflection. “I do. When you’re gone for an hour on a run, I feel it. When you’re not in the kitchen at 2 a.m. raiding the cabinet, I notice. When you’re not bitching about my music or falling asleep on the couch with a book on your face, the whole place feels…wrong.”
The monitor tattled on you, speeding up again. He didn’t flinch.
“You’re in my day even when you’re not there,” he said. “So don’t you ever think for one second that I wouldn’t move heaven, hell, and every goddamn city left on this earth to get to you.”
You blinked hard, the world blurring in that way that had nothing to do with drugs.
“I only joked like that,” you managed, voice small, “because…if I said it serious, it would sound pathetic. Needy. Like I wanted…more than I should.”
His expression shifted—something pained and tender all at once.
“You’re allowed to want more,” he said. “Especially from me.”
That last part hung there, thick as smoke.
“You…want more?” you asked, because apparently you’d almost died and your brain had decided to stop filtering anything.
He let out a breath that sounded like surrender. “Maybe,” he said. “Yeah.”
He raked his flesh hand through his hair, like he was bracing for impact.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he said. “Didn’t go out and decide, ‘hey, let’s catch feelings for the one person on this team who actually has standards.’ It just…kept happening. Every time you rolled your eyes at me. Every time you patched me up without making it a big deal. Every time you made some awful joke about us going out in a blaze of glory but still checked my six before your own.”
He shook his head slightly.
“I kept telling myself it was just…combat attachment,” he said. “Buddy cop bullshit. Shared trauma. Whatever label made it easier. But the second you went quiet out there, it wasn’t tactical. It wasn’t about losing an asset. It was—”
He swallowed. The word stuck. He pushed it out anyway.
“It was personal,” he finished.
You lay there, heart pounding unhelpfully fast, trying to process the fact that Bucky Barnes was confessing he cared about you more than made sense, in a tone that suggested he’d been fighting it every step of the way.
“Funny,” you whispered, “that you think I have standards.”
His mouth twitched. “You do,” he said. “They’re just weird.”
A breathless laugh escaped you. It hurt. You didn’t care.
“You know,” you said, “I kept…joking about dying because…honestly, I thought that’s how it’d be. Quick. Messy. No warning. That nobody would…care enough for it to really…matter after the fact.”
His fingers tightened on your neck again, gently but firm enough to yank you back from that cliff.
“Wrong,” he said, simply. “On all counts.”
You believed him. Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe it was the fact that you’d seen the look on his face in the snow, the way his hands had moved over your wound with a desperation he hadn’t allowed into his voice. Maybe it was the way he was standing here now, like the only thing keeping him upright was the fact that you were.
“Bucky,” you said, letting his name hold everything you couldn’t fit into sentences yet. “I…didn’t plan on this either, you know.”
“On what?” he asked, voice cautious.
“You,” you said, because there was no point dancing around it anymore. “Getting under my skin. Making it…hard to breathe, and not just because I have bullet holes in my side.”
A soft, disbelieving breath of laughter escaped him.
“You’re really gonna make jokes in the middle of this?” he asked.
“That’s how you know it’s me,” you murmured.
He nodded, eyes damp at the corners. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, that tracks.”
You wet your lips, gathering what scraps of courage you had left. “I didn’t want to…say anything,” you admitted, “because I figured…if you didn’t feel the same, I could just…keep joking about dying and never have to deal with it.”
He winced, like he’d been physically hit.
“That,” he said, “is the worst plan I’ve ever heard you have. And you’ve had some terrible ones.”
“Hey,” you croaked. “I survived. Mostly.”
“Yeah,” he said. “In spite of your best efforts.”
You let your head sink a little deeper into the pillow, exhaustion pulling at your edges. The IV pump clicked. The monitors hummed. Somewhere outside the door, a cart rattled by, tires squeaking. The world felt weirdly distant, like you were wrapped in glass. The only thing that felt real was the way his thumb kept moving in slow circles against your skin, like he needed that contact as much as you did.
“So what now?” you asked softly. “We…pretend this didn’t happen? Go back to making morbid jokes and hiding in safe house kitchens?”
He took a breath, slow and deliberate, like he was bracing to step onto a minefield.
“No,” he said.
The word settled in your chest like a warm weight.
“I can’t go back to pretending I don’t…” He trailed off, searching for the right phrasing, as if every word was a potential trap. “That I don’t care this much. That you’re just another mission file. That I’d be fine if you didn’t come back one day. I’ve done enough pretending in my life.”
“Me too,” you admitted.
His gaze softened, something like pride flickering in it.
“So we don’t pretend,” he said. “We…figure it out. Slowly. Carefully. When you’re not on enough meds to take down an elephant.”
You snorted, the sound dissolving into a wince. “Are you…asking me out…or scheduling a…feelings debrief?”
He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “Little of both, maybe,” he said. “I’m sayin’…when you’re cleared, when you’re not held together by staples and sheer spite, I’d like to take you somewhere that isn’t a safehouse or a warzone. Get coffee that isn’t from a shitty machine. Maybe sit in a park like normal people and argue about something stupid.”
“Sounds dangerous,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” he said, eyes crinkling. “Terrifying. I’ll bring backup.”
“Sam?” you asked.
“Hell no,” he said. “He’d never let me hear the end of it.”
You smiled, small and wobbly. “I’d like that,” you said, and the simplicity of the words nearly undid you.
His shoulders loosened, just a fraction. You saw the tension bleed out of him like air from a too-tight balloon.
“Okay,” he said, like the decision had been a battle and he was finally letting himself believe he’d won. “Okay.”
The room seemed to breathe with you then. Everything felt a little less sharp, a little less precarious. The pain was still there, deep and insistent, but it had context now. It had a shape that wasn’t just fear.
“You know,” you murmured, because your brain refused to stop offering up mortifying honesty, “if this had gone the other way…you would’ve been the last thing I thought about.”
His face went very still.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I could see it on the hill. You were looking right through me like you were seeing everything all at once. I figured at least some of that was my charming face.”
“Always,” you whispered. “Annoying to the end.”
He huffed, but there was no bite in it. Only relief.
“Do me a favor?” he asked.
“Depends,” you said.
“Next time you wanna test-drive dying,” he said, voice dipped in dry sarcasm to hide the shake under it, “don’t.”
You nodded, or tried to. “I’ll…put in a formal request,” you said. “File it with…whoever’s in charge of…mortality.”
“I got connections,” he said. “Guy with a hammer owes me a favor. I’ll see what I can do.”
You snorted again, exhausted and weirdly light.
“Can I…sleep again now?” you asked, suddenly bone-deep tired. The drugs and the adrenaline crash and the conversation had wrung you out. Your eyelids felt like they had weights sewn into them.
He studied you for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, you can sleep.”
“You’ll still…be here?”
He didn’t even pretend to consider the alternative. “Yeah,” he said. “Right here. When you wake up, when you start trying to sign yourself out against medical advice, when you worry about the scars—I’ll be here for all of it.”
“That’s…a lot of Bucky,” you mumbled, already drifting.
“Well, get used to it,” he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
You smiled, eyes finally sliding shut. The darkness that rose this time was softer, edged in steady beeping and the low hum of the med bay. Somewhere in the middle of it, his thumb kept tracing that slow, grounding circle at the base of your skull.
Right before you slipped under, you heard him say it, voice barely above a whisper, like he was talking to himself.
“I love you,” he murmured. “So don’t pull that shit again.”
If you’d been any more awake, you might have grabbed his wrist, forced him to repeat it, teased him until he turned red. As it was, the words sank into you like morphine, warm and heavy and strangely clean.
You drifted, pulled under before you could shape even a half-formed answer. Maybe that was for the best. It gave you something to wake up to. Something real, not imagined in the snow.
no more taglists! tumblr’s @ limit said no 💔 follow @cheekybarnesupdates + turn on notifs for all fic drops!
Summary : Dex finds a getaway bag under your side of the bed and assumes the worst.
Pairing : Benjamin Poindexter x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Hurt/comfort, angst, miscommunication, abandonment issues, obsessive attachment, codependency, established relationship, obsessive devotion, implied suicidal ideation, protective!reader, clingy!Dex, anxious attachment, happy ending. (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 3.3k
Requested By : Anon
Notes : First Dex fic with a taglist! Please let me know if you would like to be added, but remember, the taglist only applies to fics over 2k words! My 1000-something word short stories won't have the taglist on them. This fic title is inspired by a Hozier song of the same title. Enjoy!
Dex accidentally found your getaway bag hidden under your side of the bed on a random Tuesday.
He wasn’t snooping. He was looking for the knife he knew had slipped under there this morning when you clumsily knocked it out of the dresser in your hurry to go to work. He was reaching blindly beneath the bedframe with one hand, already annoyed because it was out of place, because he hated when things were out of place, because every missing thing became a hook in his brain until he found it and put it back where it belonged.
And then his fingers brushed canvas.
Huh. What’s that?
Because Dex didn’t believe in minding his business if his business was you, he dragged out the duffel bag from under the bed.
The second he unzipped it, he was frozen in horror.
There was cash inside, and not a cute little emergency envelope. Not “oh, I have some spare money in case someone hacks into my bank account.” It was some serious running money in bundled notes, probably half your life savings if he remembered correctly. It was enough to disappear for a while if you needed to.
And because Dex’s brain was not a calm place, because Dex’s brain was basically a locked room full of alarms and broken glass and every person who had ever left him whispering see? see? see?, he did not think: oh, that’s a lot of cash. I'm gonna ask her later what it’s for.
He thought: She has an exit plan. She’s going to leave me.
He tried to shake the thought off his head, because it could be anything, right?
Nope, didn’t work.
Of course. Of course. Of course she was going to leave. Look at you. Look at what you are. Did you really think she would stay?
Fuck.
He stood up and left the duffel bag there. He didn’t tear it apart. In fact, it stayed mostly intact, sitting open on the floor like a confession. He was careful with it, because some awful part of him needed the evidence preserved. Needed to look at it and hate himself.
But he destroyed the room though.
He didn’t do it violently, but instead he did it frantically. Drawers were yanked open. Your nightstand emptied. His hands were under the mattress before flipping it, shoved them into the insides pillowcases, behind books, between folded clothes. He was looking for more proof. Looking for the backup bag, a hidden note, a passport he knew had to exist, something to confirm that he wasn’t going insane and you were actually going to leave him.
But the more he searched, the worse it got.
Every drawer he opened made another mess. Every shirt he threw aside landed in a place clothes shouldn’t be. The lamp was crooked. The blanket was hung by the door. The floor was covered. His breathing got too loud. The room started closing in around him, cluttered and wrong and bad, bad, bad!
And then that became his next spiral.
Great.
Fucking great, he thought as he looked around.
Now the outside matched the inside of his head.
A ruined room for a ruined man. A mess for a mess.
Dex stood in the middle of it, shaking, staring at all of it like he had done it from outside his own body.
This!!!! This is why she’s going to leave you!!!!!
He pressed the heel of his hand hard against his eye, breathing through his teeth, but it was too late. The mess was everywhere. The thought of you leaving was everywhere. He couldn’t put it back from wherever the hell it came from. He couldn’t make the bed right. He couldn’t get the image of you walking out of his life with that stupid fucking bag to stop replaying behind his eyes.
By the time you came home, he was a shell of himself.
Your keys were still in your hand when you stepped in and stopped cold.
The room was destroyed, but not smashed walls and broken glass and violence for the sake of violence. It was searched, gutted, turned inside out.
And in the middle of it was Dex, on the floor, his back against the bed.
The duffel was halfway open near his knee, untouched compared to the rest of the room… and he had a gun.
He had a gun in his hand, pointed at himself, on the underside of his head.
And he hated that too. He hated the neediness. He hated that even now, even like this, some starving part of him hoped you would come home and stop him. Which was pathetic. Which was manipulative. Which was exactly the kind of thing someone should leave him for.
Your blood went cold.
“Dex,” you said, trying to sound harmless; it almost sounded like a coo.
His eyes snapped to you, and it was red and wet with tears.
It was difficult to imagine him as Bullseye like this, because Dex had always been frightening to most people who knew. You had seen him after bad nights, after adrenaline.
But you had never seen this before. That was different.
Dex didn’t wreck rooms. Dex didn’t leave chaos behind him like some sloppy, careless animal. Even at his worst, he was controlled. So seeing your bedroom torn apart was not just frightening.
It just meant something was very, very wrong.
“You’re home,” he said, and his voice sounded scraped raw, like he had been arguing with invisible people for hours.
You didn’t move too fast even though you wanted to. Your heart was throwing itself against your ribs so hard it hurt. But you looked at him, at the arguably most dangerous man in New York sitting in the wreckage of your bedroom with a weapon turned inward, and all you could think was:
Sweetheart
Your sweetheart of a murderous boyfriend, terrified out of his mind.
“I’m home,” you whispered.
His eyes flicked to the duffel, then back to you, and whatever fragile little thread had been holding him together snapped. “You were going to leave.”
The words came out so broken they barely sounded like an accusation.
Your gaze dropped to the bag and saw the cash peeking out.
Oh.
Oh, Benjamin.
“Dex—”
“You were going to leave me,” he said again, louder this time, but it cracked halfway through. “You had money. You had a bag. You had—” He sucked in a breath that sounded like it hurt. “You had a life under there.”
You took one slow step forward. He flinched.
“You weren’t supposed to find it like this,” you said softly.
His face fell. “So it’s true.”
“No.”
“You just said—”
“No, baby.” Your voice shook, but you kept it gentle. “No. Not like that.”
He gave this horrible little laugh.
“Don’t. Please don’t.” His hand tightened around the gun, not threatening you, but himself. “You can’t make it sound sweet. Please don’t stand there and make it sound sweet when you’re planning to run.”
“I wasn’t planning to run from you.”
“You had a plan.”
“Yes.”
His eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck.”
“Yes,” you said again, stepping closer, careful, so fucking careful. “I had a plan. But not that one.”
He shook his head hard, like your words had reached a convinced resistance in his brain.
You looked around the room again, really looked this time, and understood.
He hadn’t destroyed it because he was angry. He had looked for evidence until the room became evidence of him.
It was a ruin made wrong by his own hands. An excuse to hate himself because the alternative was hating you. And Dex could never stomach that.
Dex followed your gaze and his face collapsed into shame.
“I fucked it up,” he said, barely audible. “I fucked everything up. It’s everywhere. It’s all wrong. I can’t—” His breathing hitched. “I can’t fix it. I made it worse. I always make it worse.”
“Oh, Dex.”
“Don’t,” he snapped, then immediately looked wrecked by his own voice. “You were going to leave me.”
The gun shook.
“I wasn’t.”
“Stop lying to me.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You had a plan.”
“Yes,” you said, frustrated now because he didn’t leave you space to get your point across. “I had a plan. So for once in your life, sweetheart, please listen to me!”
And that shut him up.
Horrible choice of words? Maybe. But you needed him to listen.
You lowered yourself slowly to the floor, not too close yet, keeping your hands visible.
“Dex,” you said. “Have you even looked in the bag?”
“I did.”
“No,” you whispered. “Really.”
He didn’t move.
So you reached for the duffel yourself and pulled out the first burner phone.
“One,” you said. Then the second. “Two.”
What?
You pulled out your fake passport. “Mine.” Then… a second one. “Yours.”
Dex’s face changed in stages.
Confusion first. Then disbelief.
Then a feeling of devastation made him want to crawl across the floor and cover you with his whole body.
You kept going, because he needed facts. He needed as much proof as you can give.
“Two sets of clothes. Two toothbrushes. Cash for both of us. Medical kit.” Your voice went small, almost sheepish. “I… fuck, Dex, forgot to tell you. You know how I am when I get distracted.”
He blinked. He knew— he knew more than more people what you were like when one too many things were in your mind. Sometimes the details just slipped, and he would never use it against you.
“I made it a week ago when you were out,” you explained. “I made it because one day you might come home and say you have to run. And I know myself, Dex. I wouldn't ask questions while you bleed on the carpet. I’m grabbing the bag and going wherever you need to go.”
He stared at the ID that you opened. It had his face on it.
You looked up at him from the floor, surrounded by all the proof he had misunderstood.
“I wasn’t planning to run from you, Dex.” You reassured. “I was planning to run with you.”
Dex stared at you. And his whole body just… gave up, like whatever rage had been keeping him upright finally dissolved and left nothing underneath but panic and shame and love so whole it made him sick.
The gun dipped, his wrist going slack like all the strength had drained out of him at once.
You put your open palm gently on his lap. “Let me have it, baby.”
Dex stared at your hand. You were asking for his gun as if it wasn’t a weapon turned inward, as if it wasn’t the shape every horrible thought currently chewing through his skull made real.
His fingers tightened once, and not because he wanted to keep it. It was because letting go meant trusting you with the part of him that was still trying to punish himself.
You kept your voice soft.
“Please, baby,” you whispered. “I’m going to put it on the table. That’s all.”
His eyes flicked to yours then, wet and ruined.“ You shouldn’t come closer.”
“I know.”
“I’m not—” His lips trembled. “I’m not right.”
“I know.”
Fuck.
You weren’t arguing. You weren’t denying that this behaviour wasn’t normal. You knew he was dangerous. And still, your hand stayed open.
“Give it to me, Dex.”
His breath hitched.
The room was still a mess around you. Dex’s eyes kept catching on it, dragging over every displaced object like each one was proof of his failure to be a good boyfriend.
You saw the thought move through him and softened your voice even more.
“Don’t look at the room right now,” you murmured. “Look at me.”
He tried. Eventually, his gaze dragged back to you like it physically hurt.
“That’s it,” you whispered. “Good. That’s good.”
Dex made a sound so small it almost disappeared in his throat.
You put your hand closer, not snatching, not treating him like a threat, even though your heart was hammering so hard you could feel it in your teeth.
“Let me put it down,” you said. “Then we can sit. Okay?”
He stared at you for another breath. Then, finally, his fingers loosened.
You took the gun from his hand with the gentlest touch you had ever used on anything in your life. You turned and placed it on the table behind you.
It was far enough away now
Then you came straight back to him.
The second your hands were empty again, Dex collapsed forward like the weapon had been the last thing holding his body upright.
You caught his face in both hands. “Oh, baby.”
His eyes squeezed shut.
“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I thought you were leaving.”
“I know.”
“I thought so little of you.”
His voice barely sounded like his own anymore. It was scraped thin and torn open.
“Baby,” you whispered. “Breathe.”
“But I did.” His hands caught you frantically, gripping your waist, your hips, the fabric of your shirt like if he let go, you would disappear right there in front of him. “I did. I saw it and I thought… I thought you were like everyone else. I thought you were going to get tired of me. I thought you finally realised.”
Your throat tightened. “Realised what?”
His eyes “What’s wrong with me.”
Oh, fuck.
You took his face in your hands, like you could hold the thought inside him still enough to kill it. “Nothing is wrong with you that makes me want to leave.”
Dex flinched.
His eyes squeezed shut, and the first real sob shook out of him, helpless and so human it made your heart ache. Because Dex could handle cruelty. Dex could handle being hated. Dex could handle people looking at him like he was a monster.
But this, he never knew how to handle.
“I love you,” he said, breathless now, panicked by his own need. “I love you. I love you. I love you so much. Please don’t leave me. Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
“Shut up,” you whispered, and it came out a little mean because you were crying too now. Because how dare he? How dare he look at you like leaving him was something you could physically do? “Please don’t say things like that.”
You kissed his forehead first.
“I’d never leave you.”
Then his temple.
“Never.”
His cheek, still wet with tears.
“Never, Dex.”
You gave more fluttery kisses to the bridge of his nose. The corner of his mouth. His other cheek, peppering small kisses one after another, until his breathing caught and his face tipped helplessly into your hands. Even now, even wrecked and ashamed and shaking, some part of him still wanted more.
He needed more.
So when you kissed the damp track beneath his eye, he grabbed you.
His hands caught your waist and dragged you closer, desperate and clumsy with it, and then his mouth was on yours.
It wasn’t a pretty kiss. It was too broken. Dex kissed you like he was trying to crawl inside you. Like your mouth was the only thing keeping him from slipping back into the horrible void his mind had made for him. His breath stuttered against your lips, his hands gripping your shirt, your side, your hip, anything he could touch.
And you let him.
You kissed him back with both hands in his hair, holding him there while he made that ruined little sound into your mouth.
His hand tightened at your waist.
“Ow, Dex,” you breathed, but it came out with a tiny chuckle against his mouth. Of course this man was having one of the worst breakdowns of his life and still holding you like a claw machine.
He froze for half a second, lips still parted against yours.
“Sorry,” he whispered immediately, voice rough.
But he did not pull away. He just loosened his grip, palm spreading wide and careful over the spot instead, like he could smooth the hurt away.
“Too hard?” he asked.
“A little.”
His forehead dropped against yours. He breathed out shakily, almost laughing, still crying.
“There,” you murmured, kissing him again. “Gentler.”
He tried. Fuck, he tried so hard it almost broke your heart. His palm opened against your side, broad and shaking, still possessive and needy, still Dex, but careful now.
Then he folded into you.
He put his face against your chest like he was trying to disappear there. As if he pressed close enough, he wouldn’t have to see the room behind you. Wouldn’t have to see the drawers, the clothes, the crooked bed, the evidence of everything he had done while his head was eating itself alive.
Fuck.
This man could kill half the city if you asked him sweetly enough. He could put a fork through a random person on the street if you only pointed. He could turn anything into a weapon.
But with you, he was on the floor, hiding his face in your chest because he couldn’t look at the mess he made.
Because you were so, so special to him, that the idea of losing you had gutted him thoroughly.
“I’ll fix it,” he whispered into your shirt.
You stroked his hair. “Baby.”
“I’ll fix it.” His voice caught. “I’ll put it back. I’ll clean it. I’ll do it right. I’ll fix it.”
“I know you will.” You kissed the top of his head. “But not tonight.”
He went tense immediately, panic sparking under your hands.
“I can. I can do it.”
You shook your head gently before he could spiral again.
“Listen to me. We’re going to get a hotel tonight, yeah?”
Dex blinked at you, breath hitching like the idea of stepping out of the ruined room had not occurred to him.
“And tomorrow,” you continued, keeping your hands on his face, “I’ll get a cleaner in here.”
His eyes flicked past you to the room, panic flashing. “No—”
“Baby,” you said softly. “Listen. I’ll get a cleaner in here tomorrow. They’ll do the big stuff.”
His throat worked.
“And then,” you said, kissing his cheek again, “after they’re gone, you can make a second pass at everything.”
Dex went still.
You saw the compromise land in his brain.
“You can put things back how you like them,” you whispered. “You can check the drawers. You can fix the bed. You can make it feel right again. But tonight, we have to leave the room alone.”
That… was a good idea.
“Okay,” Dex said finally.
It came out muffled against your chest, hoarse and exhausted. He nodded once, like he was trying to make his body accept it too.
You stroked his hair back from his damp forehead.
“There he is,” you whispered.
His eyes fluttered shut.
His arms tightened around your waist, but only for half a second before he remembered himself and loosened his grip. He looked up at you, eyes red, cheeks wet, mouth swollen from kissing you. Still wrecked. Still ashamed. But quieter now. Softer around the panic.
“You’ll be with me in the hotel?” he asked.
You cupped his cheek. “Of course.”
His breath left him shakily. “Okay.”
You kissed his forehead one more time. “Come on.”
You helped him stand, reaching out. The room was still messy around you, but he didn’t look at it this time. He kept his eyes on you at the door, his hand hovered near yours.
“Is this okay?” he asked, poking at your fingers while the duffel bag sat on his shoulder. Tonight was gonna barely make a dent on your stash, so there’s no reason to worry about anything, really.
You smiled and opened your hand. “Of course.”
He slid his fingers through yours carefully, like he was afraid of holding too tight again. Then he lifted your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles.
Pairing: andrew pope cody x girlfriend!reader
Warnings: fluff, established relationship.
The Orange Peel Theory is a relationship concept suggesting that a partner's willingness to perform small, unprompted acts of service is a strong indicator of their care, attentiveness, and overall emotional safety within the relationship
The California sun was doing its best to bake everyone alive, even with the constant splashing coming from the pool.
It was a quiet day at the Cody house, which just meant no one was currently bleeding or planning a heist in the kitchen.
You were lounged on a deck chair, the heat making you fee lazy. In your lap sat a stubborn navel orange. You’d been picking at the skin for a minute, but between your sunscreen slicked fingers and a lack of nails, you were losing the battle.
Without looking up, you felt a presence shift beside you.
Andrew.
He just sat there on the edge of the lounger, his eyes fixed on the water where J and Deran were arguing over something.
You didn’t even have to ask. You simply nudged your hand toward him, the orange resting in your palm.
His hand moved automatically. Andrew’s fingers were moving in seconds. He stripped the rind away in a few perfect spirals, his thumb digging in just enough to clear the pith without bruising the fruit.
He kept his gaze on the horizon of the backyard, his jaw tight in that way it always was, surveying the perimeter like he was expecting a strike team.
But his touch with you? Quiet. Attentive. Grounded.
Within seconds, he was nudging your hand back. The orange was perfectly cleaned, split into two neat halves, and placed back into your palm.
"Thanks, baby," you murmured, popping a slice into your mouth.
He finally looked at you then. His eyes softened, just a fraction, the kind of look he saved only for the people he’d decided were worth protecting.
It was his version of a love poem. He didn't need to be told you were struggling; he just saw a need and fixed it before it could become an inconvenience.
"Too much sun," he said. "Go inside soon."
"I will," you promised, reaching out to offer him a slice.
He leaned in, his frame blocking out the glare of the afternoon sun and shielding you entirely from the rest of the backyard.
His lips caught yours in a slow kiss that tasted faintly of citrus and salt. It was deliberate and grounding, his hand coming up to rest gently against the back of your neck.
When he finally pulled away completely, he took the orange slice from your fingers with a smirk, his fingers brushing yours for a second longer than necessary.
He ate the fruit, the two of you sitting in a small pocket of peace while the rest of the Cody brothers moved loudly around you.
He was a dangerous man but he was the man who made sure you never had to break the skin of an orange yourself.
°⋆ summary: in which clark kent has a little problem he can't control. specifically, every time he gets just a little turned on, he sets something on fire with his eyes. pair that with a beautiful girl who's already onto his secret? not a good match...
°⋆ warnings: fire, clark is an idiot, making out, its not graphic because idk how to write that, they get interrupted, not proofread (this is a trend now)
°⋆ wc: 2.1k
Clark hasn’t had to deal with this particular issue for… a very long time.
A couple of his powers have drawbacks. Most of them do, actually, that’s how superpowers worked! His super strength meant he needed to be super gentle with everything, super conscious all the time. For example, if he held onto a glass too tight, it would shatter in his palm. But for most of them, he’d learned how to control it. He was under the impression that this one was okay too.
When Clark had gone through puberty, he had a very specific issue with his heat vision. In the sense that every time he saw a pretty girl, it would go off, and he would set something fire. The first time it had happened, Clark was in biology class, and his new teacher was really very pretty. It wasn’t his fault the screen caught on fire after he stared at it too long trying to stop thinking about her! But the bottom line was, he had it under control now.
At least that’s what he thought.
But the Daily Planet has had three “false” fire alarms this week, and it was all because of the new reporter working there. She was Jimmy’s friend, apparently, and everyone in the office had taken to her immediately. A social butterfly. She was quick-witted, could write an article in the span of about 15 minutes under pressure. Every single day, she strolled into work in an outfit that could’ve made him pass out, her perfume immediately filling the air. Something distinctly sweet, like candy. All it took was one, “Good morning, Clark!” as she passed his desk and he could smell her all day. It sounds way creepier than it really is.
Most importantly, though, she is Clark Kent’s biggest crush of his whole life. And while that may not seem important to you, it was important, because it was seriously putting the entire building in danger. He had half a mind to find a new job.
Today was no different. Clark had woken up to something terrorising the city, and Superman had rounded it up just in time to get to work in the 5 minute window that Perry noticed nothing. Which meant he didn’t have time for coffee, which meant he needed to have break room coffee, notorious for being gross. He approached the machine with the demeanour not of a man who’d just saved Metropolis, but of a man who had many more hours until he was finished with his shift and desperately needed a coffee. Not that coffee really affected him, but it must be a placebo or something.
As soon as she walked in, Clark’s eyes narrowed in on the ground, for the two of their safety. He hears the toaster whirring to life and sees her heels coming into his vision. Then comes her voice.
“Morning, Clark. You ran late as well?” Her voice is sweet, not sickeningly so, but all it did was make Clark want to hear it more often. Like, when she’d said his name, he literally could’ve crumpled all the way down onto the floor. “I am so hungry. I literally woke up, like, a half an hour ago because I slept through my alarm. Had to take my breakfast so I could eat here.”
“Yeah. I had the same thing.” His voice is distant as he speaks, trying not to let his mind wander from the task at hand. Do not look at her. Do not look at her. The mantra repeated over and over in his head, because there was a lot of wooden furniture in the break room, all very flammable. Worse still, she is actually quite flammable, now that Clark is thinking about it. He could literally set her on fire because he can’t keep it in his pants (metaphorically, that is).
“Clark, is everything okay?” The tone, and the repetition of his name, is what makes him jerk his head up. Very big mistake. She does not look like she woke up half an hour ago. Her hair is perfectly done, outfit likely selected the evening before, makeup the same as every single day (not that she needed that. He’d seen her without it on one occasion, and it was safe to say he’d crumpled where he’d sat). He wouldn’t be at all surprised if she rolled out of bed like that. Perfect. “Clark?” Her eyebrow is raised now, with something like concern, and his attention has slipped, and suddenly his head feels very hot.
Oh gosh. No. Please no. Not right now.
Horrified, Clark is looking anywhere but at her, because he’d rather burn down this whole building than catch her very beautiful shirt on fire. Sure, he’s a gentleman, but he’s also a man with eyes…
He finds something that will probably be able to resist a little bit of heat - the toaster. His gaze fixes on it for a second, and it immediately pops her toast right out, steaming a little. “Oh my god, it has literally never gone this fast.” She laughs, breaking him out of his trance. He’s still staring at the toaster, but it must come off like he’s just staring off into space. He hears a soft hiss leave her lips, because the toast must be too hot to touch, but it ends up on her plate anyway.
Before he knows it, the back of her hand is approaching his forehead. “You look feverish, sweetie, let me see.” Then she’s touching him, and he really is hot, because she just called him sweetie, and he’s going to burn down the entire room- “You’re burning up, Clark. You should really go home. Or at the very last, take some medicine. I’ve got something in my desk somewhere, I think.”
He can’t talk. His throat is dry. And the toaster is smoking. “Watch out!” He squeaks, far less manly than he’d like to admit, plugging the toaster out before it can start sparking and grabbing a dish towel, fanning the smoke away. “Would hate for your hair to singe.” Where the heck did that come from?
“My hero.” She grins, grabbing the pot of coffee he’d started and pouring two cups. “Okay, wait, let me see if I remember. Three sugars. No milk.”
“Yeah, exactly.” He nods, looking down at her and willing the warmth building up behind his eyes to go back down, because now was absolutely not the time for that. She remembers the way he takes his coffee, gosh darn it. He is making serious progress.
“You know, Clark.” She starts, pouring sugar in his coffee before handing it to him, looking up at him like he was a juicy piece of news. “You’ve been awfully close to all these fires recently. A smart reporter might think you’re causing them.” She looks all innocent, but Clark’s heart sinks in his chest. She’s onto him. But is that so terrible? It’ll be easier to be honest with her about why he can barely ever look her into the eyes.
“I’m actually feeling a lot better now.” He clears his throat, running a hand down his face. He needs to leave. “Warmth went away.”
“Maybe you sensed the fire that was about to happen.” She smiles pointedly, running a hand through her perfect hair, not ruining the look at all. Curse physics. Or whatever was responsible for that. Hairspray? “Or maybe you caused it, and now the fire’s left your body.”
“Oh, that’s very silly.” He could feel his cheeks flushing, which was rather embarrassing. He was a grown man, for Krypton’s sake. He should not be flustered. “That’s not possible.”
“You never know, these days!” She shrugs in her own defence, having a sip of coffee and looking at him analytically. “Really strong, setting things on fire in the office… I’m onto you.”
She seems to think it’s very funny, because she laughs. Perhaps she’s joking. All Clark knows is he is absolutely nervous out of his mind. She could very easily find out he was Superman right now. Heck, if she asked, he’d probably just tell her outright. Then jump off a cliff, if she asked that of him.
“I have nothing to hide.” He shakes his head, finally meeting her gaze. The warmth is there, like a needle prick at the bridge of his nose, but he’s controlling it.
“Nothing at all?” She tilts her head to the side, and it’s a dangerous move, because Clark is this close to hoisting her up in his arms and attempting to do some very bad things. Well, if he’s thinking about it now, confessing his little crush might distract her from the fact she’s very close to uncovering his secret identity. She’s looking at the toaster.
“Okay, well, maybe I’m hiding something, but it’s not about me starting fires or anything. Because that doesn’t happen.” He laughs nervously, because suddenly she’s right in front of him, looking up at him with perfectly arched brows.
“Clark Kent has a secret.” She smiles that beautiful smile that he has grown to see in his dreams, showing him her teeth. “Well, tell it to me.”
He has two options now. Tell her about Superman, or tell her about the crush. Both are daunting, but one is less so than the other.
“It’s… you.” She blinks, stuttering a little, her face falling into confusion, but he needs to finish speaking. “I know, I ignore you during office hours, but it’s only because I feel like that toaster did about two minutes ago.” He’s confusing himself now. “I mean, like- like I’m going to spontaneously combust. Every time you pass my desk, my whole world tilts on its axis, and I can’t think, or breathe, or talk like a normal person, as you can tell right now, and it’s weird. I am really, really into you. That’s my big secret.”
“I like that secret.” She nods her head slowly, and a smile is pulling up her lips again. “And I don’t think you’re weird. Well- you are. A little. But in a good way, though.”
“A good way?” He asks, raising his eyebrows, glasses slipping down his nose. The reaction is overwhelmingly positive so far, and Clark is very pleased with himself. He’s done a good job of evading a big problem, and created what could be a great happiness.
“I mean, yeah. I didn’t think I had a shot with you, since you were always running away the second I came close.” She smiles, and both of them set down their coffee cups at the same time. They laugh, nervous, and her hands find the lapels of his shirt.
“Well, if it helps, I would run to you right now if you weren’t so… close.” He whispers, lowering the tone of his voice and glancing back at the door.
“Uhm- there’s still a little space.” She says, but the millisecond it leaves her mouth, there is no more space. Because Clark’s mouth is on hers in an instant, his hands respectfully cradling her cheeks, because he wouldn’t want to be presumptuous. At first, the kiss is gentle, and sweet, but then it becomes increasingly clear that they’ve both been waiting for this moment for a very long time. And then it gets a little more heated.
Her hands find themselves in his hair, and his are swooping under her thighs to lift her onto the counter, stepping between her legs. She lets him, pulling him closer, one of her hands gripping at the collar of his shirt softly. His brain is screaming, and he barely notices that he isn’t really feeling that hot anymore. His breathing isn’t really happening, and each time he can inhale, it’s something between a gasp and a prayer. It’s absolutely perfect, and ridiculously overdue.
“Go Clark!” There’s a whoop and a cheer from behind him, that could come from nobody else but Jimmy Olsen. “I owe Lois 20 bucks, holy shit.”
“Gosh darn it.” Clark exhales, dipping away from her, looking over his shoulder. Jimmy looks like an idiot, holding a half eaten muffin in one hand, his jaw slackened. Beneath him, she’s straightening out her shirt with flushed cheeks, turned away from the door.
“You know, I actually was gonna get my yoghurt, but, like- I’ll give you guys a minute. Or five. Or ten. Who knows?” There’s a nervous laugh, and then the door shuts behind him, and they’re alone again.
“Where were we?” He whispers, looking down at her and softly tilting her face towards him.
“Hm, somewhere on the way to committing a serious HR violation.” She whispers back, grinning up at him.
“Yeah, no, just checking.” He smiles, leaning down and kissing her again, because he can’t stay away now that he knows what it’s like to get a taste of her. He supposes he’ll have to deal with her figuring out about Superman when it gets there.
credits to @cyberbeat for the dividers!
clark taglist: @thankschef-blog (to be added)
i needed to get out of a writing slump and this was the blurb that came out of that... so please enjoy this even tho its probably slop </3 i love you all and thank you so much for the support on my last clark fic!! please please like and reblog if you enjoy and leave fic reqs in my inbox so i can keep writing <3 have lovely days everyone, hope you enjoy!!!
the blurb request is bucky with a praise kink, that's it. 😃
I remember you wrote a fic abt the reader who's a tattoo artist and bucky a long long time ago and I can't find it but that still lives in my head rent free.
I think it'd be funny if the dynamic was smth like bucky who's on the field during a mission and the reader that's watching through the cameras doing whatever those types of characters do and just throwing bucky random compliments and praises haha. and she's smug about it.
Bucky Has a Praise Kink and You’re Smug About It
TW suggestive, praise kink
word count : 1.9k (More of a short story tbh)
Bucky Barnes with a praise kink was not something you discovered in conversation.
Normal people found out things about the person they were sleeping with by having tender conversations in bed. Normal people asked questions. Normal people communicated.
You and Bucky Barnes had been secretly hooking up in the Tower for months with the subtlety of two mongooses trapped in an air vent.
Nobody knew. Or at least, you liked to think nobody knew.
In reality, Yelena probably knew because Yelena had the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a nosy aunt. John didn’t know because John Walker could be standing in a room that was actively on fire and still ask, “Does anyone smell smoke?” So really, your secret was only safe because half the team was polite enough to pretend and the other half was John and Alexei.
But you and Bucky thought you were being slick.
He would barely look at you during briefings. He’d give you absolutely nothing except the occasional glance so sparingly it felt like being dragged into a dark hallway by the throat.
Then, an hour later, he would be in your room with his mouth on your neck, acting like he had been starving all day.
The praise thing happened when you were both supposed to be training, which was already a lie, because the second Bucky walked in wearing that stupid black compression shirt, all functional thought left your body.
You had sparred for maybe ten minutes before it stopped being sparring.
His knee was between yours, his human hand around your wrist. His hair falling forwards mouth parted like he was trying very hard not to do exactly what you both knew he was going to do.
You smiled up at him. “Are you going to let me up?”
Bucky stared at you. “No.”
And that was that.
You didn’t make it to his room. You didn’t even make it to your room, which was on the same floor as the gym.
You barely made it to the lockers before his hands were on you properly, before your back hit cold metal and the sound echoed through the showers and tiles. His mouth was hot against yours, hungry and rough in that way that made you want to laugh because he spent all day acting like he had self-control. He didn’t, at least not with you. Not when nobody else was around.
He made this main against your mouth, all restraint stripped off, and pressed closer until there was no space left between you and the lockers and him.
His mouth dragged down your neck, and you, half-dazed because he was so worked up already, breathed, “You’re so fucking good, Bucky.”
His whole body locked up against yours.
His vibranium hand tightened at your waist. His forehead dipped against your shoulder like he had just taken actual damage.
You blinked.
Oh?
You touched the back of his neck, nails light at his hairline, and said, “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Terrible liar. His ears were pink!
“Bucky,” you whispered, and you were already grinning from ear to ear because you were a sly little fucker and he had just handed you a loaded weapon. “Do you like that?”
He lifted his head, his mouth was swollen and his eyes dark. “Don’t.”
He said your name like a warning, but really, it was too late for that. It was more like damage control.
He was just standing there, six feet of muscle and tactical competence, realizing too late that you had found the button.
The secret button. The forbidden button. And because you were a menace, because you had never once in your life been normal about having power, you leaned in close enough that your mouth brushed his ear kept pressing. “Good boy.”
Bucky’s hand hit the locker beside your head, and the metal dented.
You had the audacity to chuckle. “Oh, I’m gonna have so much fun.”
His eyes closed, but the tent in his annoyingly still-on pants wasn’t fooling anyone.
Of course you became unbearable about it.
You knew that if Bucky got too smug during sparring, you could murmur, “Good job, baby,” and watch his entire form collapse. You knew that if he was staring into nothing in the kitchen, all you had to do was brush past him and say, “You did so well today,” and suddenly the man forgot how mugs worked. You knew that if he was kissing you too rough, too desperate, you could cup his face and tell him, “That’s it, you’re good,” and feel him melt like something in him had been waiting decades to hear it.
It was dangerous knowledge. So naturally, as the designated comms person of the New Avengers, you took it into the field.
The mission was supposed to be simple. Val’s favorite lie. You were in the control van, with your headset on, cameras up, drones feeding you grainy footage of Bucky, Yelena, and John moving through the compound.
Yelena was on the roof. John was in the east stairwell. Bucky was in the lower corridors, all black tac gear that made your brain start chewing through drywall.
And you were doing your job. “Barnes, two ahead,” you said over general comms. “Left one has a rifle.”
Bucky moved.
The first guard went down before the camera fully adjusted. The second tried to swing at him. Bucky caught his wrist, twisted, and put him on the floor.
H You stared at the screen.
And then a little mischievous gremlin whispered devilishly in your ear and gave you a wicked idea!
Your thumb flicked from the general to private the private channel, just to Bucky’s ears.
“Good job, baby.”
On screen, Bucky stopped for a fraction of a second. His shoulders went tight. His head angled down. His metal hand flexed once.
He didn’t reply.
He didn’t flirt back even though he wanted to. He didn’t scold you. He didn’t say, “Now is not the time,” even though now was very clearly not the time.
He just took it, like the good boy he is.
Oh, you were done for.
Because Bucky Barnes being mouthy would have been fun, sure, but Bucky Barnes silently absorbing praise like a kinky sponge while on a mission? Bucky Barnes trying to stay professional while you dripped sweetness into his private comm? Bucky Barnes obeying every instruction silently because he knew Yelena and John were on the other channel and he could not risk making a sound he so often made in private?
That was art.
So you switched back to general like nothing happened.
“Yelena, west balcony. John, stop breathing so loudly.”
John snapped, “That’s just how I breathe.”
Yelena said, “You breathe like police siren.”
Bucky said nothing. You smiled at Bucky’s monitor, then switched back to private. “Turn left for me, sweetheart”
He turned left immediately.
“Doing so well for me.”
His almost pathetically tripped on a raised platform.
You bit your lip.
“Oh, you’re so easy,” you whispered.
His head tilted toward the camera like he knew exactly where you were watching from.
Stop, no reply.
Back to general. “Three hostiles moving toward the east stairwell.”
John groaned. “How many guys does this place have?”
Back to private.
“Duck.”
Bucky ducked as a guard swung a pipe where his head had been.
“There you go,” you murmured. “So good.”
He put the guard down hard enough that the body slid halfway across the floor.
Your eyebrows lifted. “Careful, Sergeant.”
His shoulders rose once with a breath.
Back to general. “Drive room is second door on the right. Security grid is cycling every twelve seconds.”
Yelena said, “Control, why does Barnes red? His cheeks looks like apple.”
John said, “He always looks like that.”
Bucky’s head snapped toward the nearest camera.
“Focus on the mission,” you managed to choke out.
You switched to private so fast your thumb slipped.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you whispered, delighted and panicking at the same time.
He mouthed, we’re gonna get caught.
You grinned. “Oh, but I bet you’d like that wouldn’t you?”
Beautiful silence. He went back to his mission.
Then he opened the door you had marked.
He didn’t kick that obedient little show-off. He simply showed you with his human hand, that a twist could break a lock. You would expect that hand to pin you down later.
This was the cycle now. This was the bit.
General channel: professional handler.
Private channel: a menace.
General channel: “John, move to cover.”
Private channel: “Look at you listening so well.”
General channel: “Yelena, eyes on the west roof.”
Private channel: “That’s my good boy.”
General channel: mission logistics, team coordination, survival.
Private channel: psychological warfare against your secret super-soldier boyfriend’s praise kink.
And Bucky just took every word while clearing rooms and stealing drives and pretending his heartbeat was not climbing on your screen. Took it while his breathing got heavier for half a second before he forced it steady again. Took it because he liked it, because you both knew he liked it.
The problem was that you got cocky.
You always got cocky.
Bucky secured the drive from the server room, tucked it into his vest, and turned toward the exit.
You meant to switch to private. You really meant to.
In your defense, your hands were distracted by your own evil.
You leaned into the mic, voice warm and pleased and absolutely soaked in the kind of tone you used when Bucky had you pressed against cold locker metal, and said, “That’s it, baby. Good boy.”
The silence was immediate.
Horrific.
Holy. Fuck.
You looked down.
General channel.
GENERAL CHANNEL!!!
Yelena stopped moving on the roof. John stopped moving in the stairwell. Bucky stopped moving in the hallway.
For a terrible second, nobody said anything.
Then John said, “Uh.”
Yelena said, “Oh?”
You closed your eyes.
John again, slower this time, like his brain was buffering. “Did you just call Barnes baby?”
Yelena gasped, delighted. “No, no, no. She called him good boy.”
“Yelena,” you said, voice strangled. “It was a comms error.”
“Sounds like foreplay to me.”
Bucky made the fatal mistake of not denying it.
He just stood there on the monitor, drive in his vest, blood on his knuckles, looking rosy in his ears
John sounded physically pained. “Barnes?”
Bucky’s voice came through low and flat. “Extraction point.”
Yelena laughed so hard her audio crackled. “This explains so much.”
“It explains nothing,” you insisted.
Yelena winked at the drone “mmhm. Sure.”
Bucky just continued moving through the facility with grim, wounded dignity after being publicly exposed by his secret girlfriend calling him a good boy over comms.
And when they finally made it back to the van, you knew you were in trouble.
Bucky climbed in last.
Yelena was grinning like Christmas came early. John was staring out the window like eye contact might legally implicate him.
Bucky handed you the drive.
You took it.
His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up.
You tried to smile like you had not just told everyone he liked being praised
“Good mission,” you said weakly.
Bucky leaned down just enough that only you could hear him.
“That right, doll?” he murmured.
Your stomach dropped.
His voice stayed low. “You keep saying stuff like that in my ear, sweetheart, and I’m gonna start expecting it when we get home.”
And then he sat back like he had not just made you squeeze your thighs together in front of a former red room assassin and murder Cap.
Yelena, unfortunately, noticed.
She looked between you and Bucky, smiled slowly, and said, “I hate that I understand the appeal.”
John groaned. “I am begging everyone to stop talking.”
And honestly, the mission did go well. Yelena and John did well. Bucky did especially well.
You definitely told him that later. Privately. In his quarters. Several times.
—
Note: I see all your blurb requests from this post, and keep them coming!! I will try my best to write most of them over the next few days but I might pass on a couple simply because I’m blanking on them 😭
I’m lowkey struggling to finish the Star Wars AU I might sleep on it till the weekend 😔
Summary : Dex is convinced that he‘s bad for you, but maybe you were made for each other.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Freak4freak!!!! Hurt/comfort(?) Major sex themes, dark romance, codependent relationship, obsessive attachment, Sex is very much described (explicit, but no anatomical detail), hostage backstory, handcuffs/restraint mention, Stockholm syndrome discussion, guilt, panic/anxiety, morally questionable romance, vomiting mentioned (not as a sex act), drug mentioned but no drug use, chase kink mentioned, cursing (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 2.9k
Notes : This was supposed to be an impromptu 500-word blurb I wrote while listening to “Free” by Florence and The Machine but I went overboard. This is probably my most explicit fic yet. Enjoy!
The first time you told Dex you loved him, he had thrown up.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
You had said it in his kitchen, half-asleep in one of his old FBI shirts, barefoot with love bites on your neck, reaching for the coffee like you had any right to look that adorable in a place he lived. Like his apartment was not a place where he planned to kill people. Like his hands had never done anything worse than skim under the hem of your shirt and pull you close.
“I love you,” you had said, casual as breathing.
Dex had gone white.
Then he had walked very calmly into the bathroom with one hand over his mouth and vomited until his ribs hurt.
Because yes, he loved you too.
He loved you so badly it felt like his body had mistaken affection for a terminal illness. He loved you until being away from you made his skin crawl. He loved you so much it made him cruel to himself. He loved you so much he wanted to crawl out of his own skin because wanting to keep you felt like a crime. He had wanted to be loved his whole miserable life, and then when you came along and loved him, he wouldn’t fucking trust it.
Because there was no way you loved him back.
Not really.
Not if you were whole.
Not if he had not done something to you first.
Because the first time you met, he had broken into your apartment. After all, your window had the perfect sightline into the building across the street.
Because you had caught him in your living room with a mug in your hand and sleep shorts riding high on your thighs, and he had looked at you like you were a small obstacle.
“What the fuck—”
His hand covered your mouth before you could get any louder.
“I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely, because he was one of the good guys now. “I just gotta do this one thing.”
You bit his palm.
He hissed, then caught your wrist and handcuffed you to the exposed water pipe under your kitchen sink.
He flexed his bitten hand once. “I said sorry.”
You glared up at him.
That day, you should have screamed yourself hoarse.
Instead, you had talked for six straight hours.
You. Fucking. Yapped.
Like a pomeranian on cocaine.
You had insulted his boots, his posture, his insane audacity. You demanded coffee. You asked if the gun was compensating for something (you later found out it was definitely not). You asked if he always tied women up before breakfast or if you were getting special treatment. You even threatened to bite him again if he came too close, then immediately asked if he was single.
Dex had sat by your window with a rifle scope pressed to his eye. He was pretty sure he fell in love somewhere between the twelfth complaint that your ass was sore and the twenty-first threat to sue him.
So now, eight months later, with you under him, legs wrapped around his waist and your body taking him so well he could barely breathe, all he could think was…
He had done this.
He had broken something in you.
Still, he moaned your name. You were perfect beneath him, pleasing him so well that his own voice kept dying in his throat every time he tried to speak. He could barely form the guilt into words because you kept squeezing around him like your body wanted him closer than close, like every thrust dragged a sound out of you that went straight through his cogmium spine and lit him up from the inside.
“You don’t love me,” he suddenly rasped, because of course he had to bring it up again while he was inside you.
You laughed, but it broke into a moan halfway through when he moved again, and the stretch of him made your whole body seize. “Dex…”
He choked on the spit buildup in his mouth because he was drooling at this point, his hands fisting in the sheets beside your head. “Fuck,” he breathed, voice ruined. “Don’t—don’t say my name like that.”
You tried to answer, but he was too much, too deep, fucking you into the mattress hard enough to make the bed frame knock harshly against the wall like every thrust was an argument he was losing.
“You’re so… hmph,” His forehead dropped against yours. His voice cracked. “God, you’re so fucking tight. I can’t think when you— when you feel like this.”
You could barely hear what he was saying, you just dragged him down by the neck and kissed the scar on his cheek. You were practically making out with it, because hyperfocusing on it helped bring you back to earth. “Dex… fuck!”
His whole body jerked at the sound.
“Don’t,” he rasped, but he didn’t stop.
His hips kept driving into yours, deep and rough, punching the breath out of you until your hands pawing at his skin. “Don’t say it like that.”
You tried to laugh again, but it came out as a shaky gasp when he pushed deeper. “Like what?”
“Like you, hmm.” His head dropped now, his mouth dragging wet and open against your throat. “Like you love me.”
Your nails dug into his back, giving his back scar company. “I do.”
Dex’s brows furrowed like you had hit him.
His pace faltered for half a second. Then the panic caught up to him and he thrusted harder, like he could outrun the words by burying himself deeper inside you. “N-no.”
“Yes.”
“No,” he said again, and it came out so small it was nearly swallowed by the filthy sound of his body moving against yours. “You don’t know that. You don’t know what this is.”
“I know exactly what this is.”
“You don’t.” His hand grasped the sheets. “You can’t. You can’t love me.”
You were struggling to keep your eyes open. He was stretching you so much every thought came apart before it finished forming, pleasure dragging through you hot and heavy, making your thighs shake around his hips.
Still, you forced yourself to look at him. “I do love you.”
Dex looked like he might be sick again.
Every time.
Every fucking time you said it, even if it was a hundred times a day, his heart broke a little. Like his body wanted the words and his mind rejected them. Like being loved by you was too impossible to fit inside him without tearing a wormhole open.
“You hear y-yourself?” he demanded, breathless, furious, hips still snapping into yours. “You hear how insane that sounds?”
You moaned, head tipping back against the ridiculously expensive pillows he had bought you because his last one ‘made your neck a little stiff’ once.
He groaned at the feel of you tightening around him. “Fuck… don’t—don’t do that.”
“I… ahh, can’t help it,” you managed, voice shaking. “I fucking love you.”
“No, you don’t.” He sounded almost angry now, but all of it was pointed inward, all of it soaked in guilt. “I cuffed you to a pipe. I— Fuck— scared you. I held you hostage and now you’re here, telling me you love me while I’m—” His teeth clenched, his body shuddering over yours. “While I’m doing this to you.”
“You’re not doing anything to me,” you forced out, gripping his arm hard enough to make him hiss. “I asked for this.”
His eyes burned. “That doesn’t make it better.”
“It does, actually.”
“You’re sick.”
“So are you.”
He laughed once, but there was no humor behind it. He then buried his face in your neck as his pace got messier. “I think I gave you Stockholm syndrome.”
“You didn’t,” you insisted. It was barely a sound, it was a miracle he heard you at all.
“You’re not listening.”
“You’re not thinking.”
“I am thinking.” His voice cracked on the last word because you tightened around him again and his forehead dropped to yours, “Shit, you drive me insane.”
“Good.”
“No.” He kissed you hard. “No, not good. That’s what I mean. You make me like this. You make me want too much.”
“You already want too much.”
His hips stuttered, and you saw the guilt pass over his face at once.
Then he drove into you harder. You cried out, and his eyes went dark.
“There,” he said, voice ragged. “That. You should hate me for this.”
“No, Dex.” Your hands slid up, catching his chin, forcing his face close to yours while he kept fucking you breathless. “You didn’t give me Stockholm syndrome. I. Love. You.”
He shuddered. His mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. Then a broken moan as his body betrayed him again.
“You don’t,” he whispered.
“I do.”
“You can’t.”
“I can.”
“You’re perfect.”
“I’m not.”
“You are to me.” His voice sounded raw, almost boyish in its disbelief. “And if you love me, then I did something to you. I had to. I had to have broken something, because there’s no– hnggf— no other way.”
Your chest tightened.
He was still moving, still taking you apart with a rhythm so desperate it bordered on punishing, but his eyes were wet. His eyes filled with self-hatred. He looked like a man starving at a feast and hating himself for opening his mouth.
“Fine,” you gasped. “Have it your way.”
Dex went still for exactly one second. Not fully, and definitely not enough to pull out. Then his body reacted before his mind did and he thrust harder.
It was as if the sentence had scared him so badly he had to pin you beneath him with his weight, his mouth, his hands, his hips. Like if he stopped moving, the words would become real enough to take you away. “W-what?”
“Maybe— hm, maybe you did g-give me Stockholm Syndrome,” you said, voice shaking, half from pleasure, half from fury. “Now what?”
His breathing turned ragged.
“So what, huh?” Your nails dragged up his neck into his hair, combing his scalp “You gonna tell me to go?”
Dex’s face soured. “No.”
“You gonna leave me?”
“No.” The thought of it made him sick. You could see it. You could feel it. His whole body tensed, his grip tightening, his hips losing rhythm for a moment before coming back rougher, deeper, more desperate.
Leaving you was the one noble thing he kept threatening himself with, and the second you suggested it, it destroyed him.
“No,” he said again, like he hated you for making him admit it. Like he hated himself more. “Don’t f-fucking ask me that.”
“But that’s what you’re… you’re saying.” You were so close now you could barely speak, words breaking apart every time he drove into you. “If you really think you ruined me, then stop.”
Dex’s eyes locked on yours.
Your mouth trembled into a cruel little smile. “If you really think, you— shit, you broke me, t-then stop fucking me.”
His breath hitched.
He didn't stop.
You felt it in the way his body went even harder, even more frantic, like the command had gone straight into the darkest, neediest part of him and went feral.
“I-if you think you’re bad f’me, then get off me,” you whispered, mean and gentle all the same, by his ear, close enough to lick the lobe. “Then don’t touch me. Don’t kiss me. Don’t come in me, because we b-both know you’re— hmphh— planning to.”
Dex groaned, tortured, burying his face against your throat.
“No,” he rasped.
“No?”
“No.”
“Thought so.”
He kissed you then, hard enough to steal the rest of the taunt from your mouth.
It was perfect after that, fucking perfect and awful. Your bodies slick with sweat, his hands gripping your hips like he was trying not to bruise you and failing at restraint in every other way. He fucked you like he was confessing and denying the confession in the same breath, like every thrust said mine and every sound said I’m sorry.
“You should run,” he rasped.
“You’d follow.”
His eyes burned.
You smiled up at him, breathless and shaking. “And I’d let you c-catch me. I’m fucking into it.”
Dex looked ruined.
His rhythm stuttered, and for a second you thought that was it, that he was going to fall apart right there, but he grabbed your hips and flipped you with quick motion that left you dizzy.
Then you were on top of him.
Your thighs trembled on either side of his hips, your hands braced on his chest, and Dex looked up at you like you were killing him. His face was flushed, eyes wet, mouth parted as you sank back down onto him.
“Say it,” he said, voice destroyed.
You moved over him, thighs shaking, pleasure making you unsteady. “Say what?”
His eyes opened, furious and starving. “Say– fuck, baby— that you know you could leave and I’d let you leave.”
Your chest tightened. “Dex.”
“Say it.” His grip tightened, not forcing, just holding on. “Say you know the door isn’t locked. Say you know I’d let you go.”
You stared down at him. At the man who had wanted love so badly it made him monstrous with fear. At the man who still believed wanting you was worse than first degree murder. At the man underneath you, shaking, begging for proof that this was not captivity while his body betrayed how badly he needed you to stay.
You leaned down until your mouth brushed his.
“I know I can leave,” you whispered. “I-I know you’d let me.”
His breath collapsed.
Then you kissed the corner of his mouth without ruining your rhythm. “But I’m not.”
Dex broke under you.
His hands slid up your back, dragging you down against his chest as he thrust up into you, needy and completely undone. You could barely keep up, barely keep speaking, your forehead pressed to his as you rode him.
“I love you,” you said again. and this time, he knew you meant it.
That was what did it for him. Not the heat. Not the filth. Not the way you tightened around him or the way he was losing himself inside you, though that helped.
That.
The idea that you had chosen him with all your mind intact.
Your breath hitched first, then your whole body seized, pleasure dragging you under so good that your words turned into a ruined little sound against his mouth. Dex’s eyes widened, his hands clamping around your waist as you went through it.
“There,” he rasped. “There she is.”
You came too hard to answer him properly, nails digging into his chest as he kept you there. “There she is,” he said again, almost broken. “That’s my girl.”
And then Dex broke completely.
He buried his face in your neck as he came after you, groaning your name like an apology, like a confession, like it was the only prayer he knew. His body trembled beneath yours, his arms locked around you while he spilled inside you, holding on as if letting go too soon might make the whole thing disappear.
Afterward, Dex held you like an apology.
His mouth fluttered gentle kisses over your temple, your cheek, your throat, frantic in little broken bursts. He kept whispering sorry so many times the word stopped sounding like language and started sounding like breathing.
You were half-asleep against his chest, your fingers tucked loosely against his ribs.
He kissed your forehead again. “Sorry.”
You breathed out, half asleep. “For what?”
Dex went quiet.
He didn’t know, not really. He was sorry for the pipe, for wanting you too much, for needing you in a way that still scared him. He was sorry for looking at your love and thought it must have been damage.
His arms tightened around you.
You opened your eyes just enough to look at him. His face was ruined, like he was still trying to decide whether holding you counted as selfish.
You giggled softly.
“Dex,” you murmured, eyes half-lidded, fingers lazy in his hair. “If I’m broken, then I was broken when you found me.”
His breath stopped.
You smiled like that was supposed to comfort him.
Instead, it crawled into him and settled under his ribs, sweet and infected. It made his heart thump hard against his ribs. It made the guilt twist, mutate, turn into a warm and fuzzy feeling. Because there you were, looking at him like he wasn’t the man that had ruined you, but the man that had finally made sense. Like whatever was wrong with you had looked at whatever was wrong with him and fuckin’ purred.
Dex stared at you, eyebrows relaxing.
You touched his face, thumb dragging gently over his cheek scar, and he leaned into it before he could stop himself.
Pathetic. So utterly gone for you.
“I love you,” he said.
It came out hoarse.
You shrugged like you knew all along.
“I love you,” he said again. His hand tightened at your waist. “I love you.”
And for the first time, Dex wondered if Stockholm syndrome could happen the other way around, to the captor instead.
There was probably a fancy word for it. Some clinical term made by people with normal hearts. Something he could look up, self-diagnose, dissect, pretend to understand.
But Dex didn’t care.
If that was what had happened to him, then fine.
He didn’t want it cured.
—end.
Extra note : I’ll start the Dex taglist in the next post, comment if you want to be added!
