summary: you and johnny are tasked with babysitting franklin for the evening, and it comes with a lot more revelations than either of you expected. (6.8k words)
pairing: johnny storm / f!reader
contents: established relationship, domestic bliss, lots of fluff, cw for swearing, mentions of having children, smut 18+ ft. fem receiving oral, dirty talk, slightly dom!johnny but also sub!johnny because obviously, breeding kink, unprotected sex, mdni!!
Johnny Storm best describes himself in tenses: previous most eligible bachelor on earth, current protector of the universe, future father to your children. He makes the stubborn argument that it can’t be arrogant if it’s a statement of fact, which he’d made abundantly clear the day you met.
“Future husband, huh?” you echoed beneath the pulsing bass of the discotheque. The Doors blared overhead, making it virtually impossible to hear anything that wasn’t shouted directly into your ear. You used that as an excuse to stay close to the pretty stranger, who’d only just introduced himself to you — “Hi, I’m Johnny Storm,” he grinned and shook your hand. “I’m the man you’re gonna marry.”
Smoke billowed from your mouth as you smiled up at the blonde boy, bathed in flickering neon hues. “And what makes you so sure, Johnny Storm?”
“I can see the future,” he quipped and plucked the cigarette from your fingertips.
“Oh, yeah?” you lilted. The boy nodded wordlessly in response, cheeks hollow around the stick as he took a brief hit from it. He fought back a cough, and your smokey eyes narrowed into thin slits. “Alright, then, Johnny Storm… What happens next?”
“I follow you into that crowd,” he answered, pink mouth curled into a shy, lopsided smile. “And I actually start to believe in love at first sight.”
Your fingers brushed when he passed back the cigarette. His hands were made of softer stuff than most men his age, smoother than silk and warmer than velvet. A primal part of your brain instinctively concocted a plan to touch him again.
“And what about me?” you asked and took a lengthy drag.
“You let me take a taxi with you back to your place at the end of the night… You don’t let me in, but you do tell me to meet you for coffee the next morning.”
“Did future me happen to mention Dolly’s Diner?”
“She did, actually,” Johnny nodded with wide ocean eyes, rainbow lights shining in his flaxen locks like a neon halo. He crossed his strong arms over his chest, and his biceps strained against the jacket sleeves. “She specifically mentioned Dolly’s Diner at 8 a.m.—”
“Nine,” you corrected with a knowing half-smile.
“Nine.”
“Well, then, Johnny Storm… I guess we’ll see.”
You handed the stranger the dwindling cig as you walked past him. He didn’t try to stop you when you headed towards the light-up dance floor, where all your friends waited for you on the other side. You made it to the very edge of the flashing neon squares before you turned to look at him over your shoulder. He lingered in place with the half-gone cigarette between his pointer and middle finger, pretty features twisted in a puppy-like pout.
“Well, future-boy?” you called to him. “You comin’ or what?”
Johnny Storm, you soon realized, was a lot of things. Confident, chaotic, and occasionally hotheaded — but a liar wasn’t one of them. His brazen introduction as your future husband wasn’t just a clumsy way of flirting with you, but a promise. And, somewhere down the line, you became Mrs. Storm; and Johnny was the smug sonofabitch who accidentally told the future.
Sometimes, he worries that he may possess certain powers beyond the pyrogenesis kind. That something deep in his brain can actually predict the future, and did somehow manipulate you into falling in love with him that night. As far as he’s concerned, it’s the only plausible reason for your being here.
How else could he have gotten you to wear his ring on your finger? Or sleep in the noisy headquarters of Manhattan that he also shares with the rest of his superpowered family? Or be excited about spending the night babysitting his nephew, over the billion other (arguably more interesting) things you could be doing?
Johnny met you as a party girl in a small dress and go-go boots, full of smiles and wit and cunning. You’re all of those things still, but also his wife. So, yeah, either he is far more powerful than he realizes, or he’s just too lucky for his own damn good.
As Sue and Reed exit their shared bedroom, having finally traded their baggy, milk-stained sweats for fancier dinnerwear, Johnny looks down and realizes you’re wearing those same boots from that night. The white vinyl of them zips up to your mid-calf; the platform heel is slightly worn from constant use. You’ve paired them this time with a patent matching skirt and a black turtleneck — still the same girl from all those years ago, just a little more mature and a lot more loved by him.
Reed’s voice knocks Johnny out of his own head. He shrugs on a pin-striped suit jacket and rambles, “The number to the restaurant and the hotel is on the fridge. Call there if you need anything, alright? I mean it. Anything—”
“Anything,” Johnny echoes with a nod from where he sits between you and Franklin at the dining table.
He digs a pale fist into the box of Lucky Charms in his lap and shoves a handful of dry cereal into his mouth. He exhibits the same sort of gracelessness Franklin does in his high chair, mashing at the chopped banana before him rather than actually eating it.
“Not unless there’s an emergency, obviously,” Sue corrects, half-distracted, with her hands beneath her platinum locks to clasp her necklace. She pairs her mid-length, boatneck dress with the silver F pendant she wears in honor of her baby boy. “If he gets really fussy and nothing can calm him down, just try playing the Beach Boys— He loves that.”
“You know where we keep the breast milk, right?” Reed wonders aloud, anxious hands struggling with his cufflinks. Johnny nods, but the man answers himself anyway. “They’re in packets in the freezer, so just heat ‘em up if he gets hungry. They’re in the exact right amounts, okay? I made sure of that, so make sure you only use one—”
Sue sweeps in then, fastening his silver cuffs for him with steadier hands. “We already fed and changed him, so he should be good to go until tonight.”
Reed flashes a pair of pleading brown eyes over his wife’s shoulder, brows pinched in a pained sort of look. “I’d prefer if you’d just call, though. Every hour on the hour, ideally. Just so I know he’s okay.”
Sue’s icy gaze hardens playfully over her shoulder at the two of you. “Absolutely do not do that,” she instructs with an amused smile.
Johnny blinks like an owl, ocean eyes darting between his older sister and her husband, who he’s only just starting to care for. “I… Don’t know who I’m supposed to listen to.”
“Me,” Sue and Reed respond simultaneously.
“It’s Sue,” Ben answers as he stomps across the kitchen, in a pair of khakis he’s paired with a navy sweater vest and a matching baseball cap. (Ms. Rozman complimented the outfit once, and he never quite let it go.) “It’s always Sue.”
He chuckles at the half-hearted glare he gets from Reed and presses the button for the elevator with a large, calloused finger. The doors ding, and he steps inside — broad shoulders taking up the majority of the narrow space.
“Dinner’s on the stove, kids,” Ben tells you and Johnny as he hits the switch for the bottom floor.
“Thanks, Benny!” you call to him when the doors of the lift start to shut.
He shouts back, “Don’t forget!”
Reed and Sue share a quiet look then. “Ready?” he murmurs quietly to her. The older woman takes a deep breath in and nods wordlessly. They’ve saved the world together a thousand times over, yet you don’t think you’ve seen them look as worried as they are right now.
“We’ll call if there’s an emergency. I promise,” you assure them. “But there won’t be because Franklin is, quite literally, the perfect baby.”
The boy babbles in his high chair next to Johnny, utterly enraptured in his smushed bananas. He reaches across his uncle and out towards you with a tiny arm, offering you the piece of fruit enclosed in his chubby fist.
“For me?” you lilt in a small voice. “Thank you, Frankie…”
You lean down towards him and pretend to eat it. You make a quiet num, num, num sound that makes Franklin grin with all of his two bottom teeth.
Johnny’s pink lips curl into an absentminded smile as he watches you with his nephew, always so effortless in the way you care for him, like you were made to do it.
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure between the two of us and the Beach Boys, we can handle it,” Johnny shrugs, then flashes you a blue, button-eyed look. “Right?”
You nod once with a tight-lipped smile. “Right.”
Reed and Sue leave with a smacking kiss pressed to their son’s chubby cheeks. They enter the elevator side by side and press the button for the main floor. “Try not to burn the place down while we’re gone,” Reed begs, only partly joking.
Sue smiles with an arched brow. “Literally.”
The double doors of the lift close before them.
Only when the parents are out of sight do you and Johnny exhale the pair of wavering breaths you didn’t even know you were holding. Franklin continues his babbling, playing with the mashed bananas on his high-chair table, while the two of you share semi-anxious looks.
“We can handle this, right?” Johnny wonders aloud, itching for an ounce of reassurance.
The two of you have looked after Franklin a thousand times before, during bathroom breaks and grocery trips and ninety-minute children’s movies, but never for a whole night. And never without Ben Grimm, the usual designated babysitter, more than one story away.
“Yeah,” you shrug. “We’ve done it before, kind of… What could go wrong?”
The answer to that, you soon realize, is everything.
And it happens far sooner than you expect.
You and Johnny lay Baby Franklin down for tummy time and get immediately enraptured in watching the boy experience the world on his stomach. So much so that you completely disregard the pasta Ben left simmering for you on the stove, which he blatantly told you not to forget.
The blonde boy sniffs once. “Do you smell smoke?” he asks.
“I think that’s just you, fire-boy,” you scoff.
Then the smoke alarm blares. The beep, beep, beeping is faint and faraway, but it startles Franklin nonetheless. The boy screams — a loud, teary, and grating scream — that’s a whole lot louder than the siren that had scared him to begin with.
While you rush to the kitchen to remove the smoking pan from the hot stove, Johnny scoops up his disgruntled nephew and brings him to his chest. He tries to soothe Franklin with one hand and start the record player with the other. With careful work, the Beach Boys crackle suddenly to life.
“—For I have the warmth of the sun…” the speaker croons. “Within me at night…”
It does little to quell Franklin’s screaming, despite his sister’s past assurance that it would. It’s entirely likely that he can’t hear the music over his pained shrieking, which pierces Johnny like a knife to the chest just now.
The blonde boy paces the length of the living room, bouncing the crying kid in his arms. Tears stream down his round, red cheeks in fat droplets that leave a dark stain on Johnny’s white t-shirt.
“Why isn’t it working?” Johnny strains through gritted teeth, hardly audible over the music and the subsequent screaming.
“It’s probably not the right song,” you answer, running past him in a flash and ducking for Ben’s record player. The record scratches faintly when you lift the needle from the vinyl.
“Not the right song?” he echoes incredulously, blinking at you with a pair of wide cerulean eyes. “He’s five months old, babe— He’s barely sentient. He can’t have a favorite song—”
You shift the arm slightly before setting it back in place. The needle hits the grooves of the record with a faint hiss. The music resumes again. “—Something’s bound to go wrong… But she looks in my eyes… And makes me realize…”
Franklin’s cries quieten instantly at the familiar music. He seems to forget, in that instance, what he’d been crying about in the first place. His pink mouth juts in a dramatic pout as he blinks up at his uncle with a pair of big, wet eyes.
Johnny grins down at him.
“Oh… Is that it? Huh?” the blonde boy coos, swaying the baby in his strong arms. He runs a wide palm up the length of his small back, and Franklin lets out a quiet hum of contentment. “You have a favorite song after all, don’t ya?”
The baby lets out a series of unintelligible babbles as you migrate to Johnny’s side. You rest your head on the boy’s broad shoulder, chest pressed to the outside of his bicep, while you run a gentle hand over the back of Franklin’s head. His still-growing tuft of dark chocolate curls is softer than cotton against your palm.
Franklin grins wide despite the tears still clinging to his round cheeks. Two tiny teeth poke from his bottom gums while his mouth opens and closes in unpracticed motions. He hums faint gibberish that you can’t quite understand, though it’s strangely in time with the crooning from the record player behind him.
“—Everything will turn out alright… Don’t worry, baby…”
It makes you laugh. “Are you singing, silly boy?”
Franklin’s babbling grows in volume at the acknowledgment.
He jerks in his uncle’s hold, tiny limbs failing with an excitement too big for his body. He reaches towards Johnny’s face, for the short flaxen strands just behind his ear. He wrenches the hair there into a tiny, unforgiving fist, and Johnny lets him. This raucous excitement is a lot easier on his heart than the screaming from before.
“Screw superpowers,” Johnny laughs, grimacing slightly when Franklin gives the strands a particularly hard tug. “We’ve got the next Beach Boy on our hands.”
His blue eyes glint with mirth when he turns his head to face you. The tip of his nose nearly grazes yours at the dwindling proximity between you. He kisses you instinctively then, pressing his smiling lips to yours in a chaste kiss.
Johnny’s eyes flutter shut. His long lashes dance over the tops of his flushed cheeks. In that fleeting moment, he feels a strange jerking at his chest.
The stars just beginning to speckle outside the floor-to-ceiling windows seem to align in that very instance. With you pressed so ardently to his side, and with Franklin still squirming in his hold, he feels a strange sense of nostalgia that he knows he shouldn’t. It’s strikingly familiar to him, but foreign all the same.
He gets a faint glimpse of his future then — of you and him and a baby, his baby — that he grieves when you pull suddenly away from him.
“You okay?” you murmur at the pinched look on the boy’s pretty face.
Johnny nods, still swaying softly with Franklin against his chest. “I think I just saw the future…” he tells you, playfully solemn as his brows raise to his hairline.
“Oh, yeah?” you hum, caging your bottom lip between your teeth in a feeble attempt to hide your smile.
“Mhm… And if I’m right, which let’s be real, I am right,” the blonde boy quips, only halfway joking. “Then… I’m gonna give you a baby.”
You meet his knowing grin with a deadpanned look. “Like, you’re gonna steal one off the street, or…?’
“I was thinking maybe we just kidnap Franklin or something,” he shrugs.
“Oh. Totally,” you hum with a slow nod. “I’m sure that won’t have any repercussions at all.”
Your gaze glitters with amusement despite the faux-serious look on your face. You couldn’t hide the way you feel for Johnny if you tried. You seem to carry all your love for him in your eyes. You think you always have. And Johnny sees it, too.
“I mean it, though,” he tells you. “I can see the future you, you know?”
“Oh, trust me,” you scoff. “I know.”
“So just… Prepare to have a baby soon.”
“How soon?”
When Johnny’s pink lips curl into a cheeky half-smile, you know he’s up to no good. He cradles Franklin’s bottom with one palm and smooths the other over the baby’s profile, cupping one ear and pinning the other to his chest.
“Tonight, if I’m lucky,” he quips in a low whisper.
Your face screws, and he laughs.
“You’re incorrigible.”
Franklin, now perfectly content, squirms like a wild little thing in your lap. With his chubby fist in his gummy mouth, he gapes incredulously at the black-and-white television across the room. As his aunt, you felt it was your duty to start him on chick-flicks while he’s still young. Tonight’s choice being Roman Holiday. He’s as enthralled by the moving picture as any baby would be, so you consider it a job well done.
You hold him carefully by the waist while he bounces up and down on your thighs. “Can you say Gregory Peck?” you coo in the baby’s ear, who responds with his own sort of gibberish. You repeat, slower this time, “Greg-ory… Peck…?”
Johnny laughs from where he stands in the kitchen.
The apartment has gone slowly dim with the late evening, lit only by rogue lamplight and the flickering television. He can just barely see your profiles from here, across the expansive apartment, where you and Frankie cuddle in the conversation pit.
“You are aware the kid’s basically a future genius, right?” Johnny laughs with a frozen pack of breast milk in hand. His palm glows a faint red color as the milk turns slowly into liquid. He pours the freshly warmed drink into a glass bottle and continues, “So if his first words turn out to be my sister’s first ever crush, Reed’ll have an actual aneurysm.”
“Sue and I are colluding to get Franklin to say ‘momma’ first, actually. And he’s almost got it, don’t ya, Frankie?” You grunt quietly as you spin the heavy baby in your hold. You grin instinctively when he faces you. “Can you say momma?” you coo to him. “Mom-ma?”
Franklin just babbles to himself, ‘cause he can’t seem to make the m sound quite yet. He just drools onto his onesie instead. You’re wiping the dribble from his chin with his bib when Johnny returns with the bottle.
“Here ya go,” the boy lilts.
“Thank you, honey—” you say, huffing as you shift Franklin in your arms once more. You cradle him in your lap and contort your limbs to check the temperature of the milk on your wrist.
Johnny’s face contorts in offense. He props his hands on his slim waist and frowns. “I tested it already, babe. It’s not hot.”
You look at the boy over your shoulder, eyes narrowed in a challenging squint. “You tested it on your skin?” you deadpan.
The blonde boy nods in response.
“Which has been known to be actively set on fire from time to time?”
Johnny thinks to himself for a moment, lips jutted and blue eyes flitted towards the ceiling.
“Exactly,” you giggle and turn away with the roll of your eyes.
Franklin grabs the bottle in a pair of strangely aggressive hands but still struggles to hold it on his own. You keep it propped up for him while he scarfs down his dinner. Johnny, meanwhile, descends the steps of the conversation pit and plops onto the plush sofa beside you. He sits with his legs spread and his arm thrown along the back of it. You melt instantly into his warmth.
While Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck slow dance to an unfamiliar song on the small, staticky screen across the way, Johnny feels a strange tugging at his chest.
“You know…” he starts with a sigh, cheek squished into your hair. “I think I could do this every day.”
“Watch Franklin?” you respond, half-distracted.
“Well, yeah, but… I mean, if we had our own kid, you know? I think we could do it.”
You turn your head slowly, half-expecting to find him wearing a cheeky sort of grin. Instead, you see something strangely sincere swimming in his round, ocean eyes as they flit back and forth between yours.
A laugh sputters from your lips before you can help it. “You haven’t even changed any diapers yet, Johnny—”
“I have!” he argues, wearing a pout that resembles his nephew’s.
“Or lost out on sleep for days because of sleep regression. Or because the baby’s gassy. Or colic—”
“I’m just saying we could handle it. That’s all,” Johnny shrugs with a shy smile. “There’s no one else I’d rather lose sleep with. Or change diapers with… Or clean up baby puke with.”
You falter for a moment.
It’s a more mature admission of love than you think you were expecting.
When Johnny approached you that sacred night in the smoky, neon dance hall — with the bold assurance that he would some day marry you — you figured you were just the prettiest, glittering thing that caught his eye. And you were okay with that, even more so when he started to love you for real. Far more than either of you was expecting.
Then you got married, and life got a little bigger. The laundry day, joint taxes, and choosing whose TV show gets watched on Wednesday nights, kind of bigger. Somewhere therein, you started to realize what it truly meant to love someone.
Love wasn’t always the prettiest glittering thing. Sometimes love was ugly. And that’s when it was best.
“How romantic…” you deadpan in response, lest you give away the warmth surging in your chest. But then you lean in to kiss him, chaste but lingering still, and Johnny feels all of it anyway.
He takes the empty bottle from Franklin’s tiny hands a moment later. You bring the boy to your chest, patting softly at his back for a few minutes more until his body jerks with a small hiccup. Johnny then laughs at the screwed look of concentration on his tiny features.
“What’s that face for, huh?” the blonde boy chuckles.
He inhales once and answers his own question.
The two of you wear similar looks of vague disgust at the baby’s obviously full diaper. You pass the full-bellied boy off to his uncle. “Here you go…” you mutter, half-strained as you hold your breath.
“Oh, god…” Johnny huffs in response, keeping Franklin at arm’s length as he rushes down the hall and towards the nursery. He hears your pretty laughter following him as he goes.
“I owe you one!”
Franklin’s nursery overlooks the Manhattan city skyline. The floor-to-ceiling window makes stars out of the yellow-lit buildings sparkling outside, like a personal nightlight for the sleeping baby.
You lean against the door frame while Johnny rocks his nephew in his arms. Your eyes follow his towering shadow as he paces the length of the dim, lamplight room. Franklin whines, trying hopelessly to fight his much-needed slumber. His attempts prove to be fruitless, though, when his uncle starts to sing.
“She told me, ‘Baby, when you race today, just take along my love with you…’” Johnny croons quietly, voice low and only slightly off-key. “‘And if you knew how much I love you, baby, nothing could go wrong with you…’”
Franklin doesn’t last long like that — not pressed to his uncle’s warm chest, swaying gently in his strong arms, listening to his most favorite song. Sleep lulls finally over him no more than a few minutes later, and Johnny makes the transfer into his crib with ease.
Franklin doesn’t move an inch when you slink out of the room with the baby monitor in tow. Johnny shuts the creaking door behind him, leaving it slightly ajar and exhaling a relieved breath he didn’t know he was holding.
You stand facing each other in the dim hallway, lit only by the kitchen light down the way. Half of your face is softened with dark shadows as you smile up at the boy. “You’re a real natural, you know that?”
“You are, too…” Johnny grins, pulling you closer by the belt loops of your skirt. Even in the dark, you can see the amused glimmer in his light eyes. “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” he murmurs quietly.
The bridge of your nose scrunches in response. “That it’s really late, and we should probably eat something before we starve to death?”
The non-answer only makes him smile wider.
“Yeah, I think I could go for something to eat…” His voice trails as he ducks down for your neck. He presses a warm, wet kiss just over your pulse. Your knees threaten to buckle underneath you when his tongue darts out to taste the skin there.
“Johnny?” you sigh, eyes fluttered shut.
“Mhm?” he hums into your skin.
“You… are incorrigible—”
You push him away with a pair of half-hearted hands against his chest. Johnny wraps his fingers around your wrists to pull you gently back into him, anyway. His pink lips are noticeably rosier and slick with his spit when he asks, “How about we compromise, hm? I make you something to eat— without burning it this time, hopefully— and then you give me something to eat, too.”
You meet his smug grin with squinted eyes. “We’re supposed to be watching your nephew, Johnny—”
“He’s your nephew, too, you know? And he’s passed out until morning… The others won’t be back ’til then anyway, so…” He trails off with his brows raised in a playful look. “You owe me one, remember?”
You give in far quicker than Johnny expects.
“Well, then you better get to cookin’, fire-boy,” you monotone, poking him hard in the chest. “’Cause I’m not doing anything on an empty stomach.”
Johnny abides without question. It’s in his nature to obey you, and to keep you full — all in more ways than one.
So it’s only right that you keep your promise, too.
You christen the guest room on the Richards’ hall. Johnny tells you that Sue and Reed wouldn’t mind — that they’d much rather prefer it if you stayed on the same floor as Franklin, rather than a story above where your bedroom sits. You lie in the center of the foreign king-sized bed, as half-naked as the boy above you, while Johnny kisses down your body.
“I think they’d prefer it if we kept our hands to ourselves, actually,” you correct with a pretty laugh, staring down your body at the boy disappearing beneath the covers.
You run your fingers through his short, blonde locks when he presses a searing, wet kiss to your bare stomach. His warm fingers curl under the hem of your panties, sliding them slowly to the side.
“I mean, you are capable of that, aren’t you?”
Johnny’s mouth drools at the sight of your similarly weeping cunt, made of silk and honey. He looks at you from beneath his long lashes, blue eyes dark and dilated with lust. “Do you want me to be?” he murmurs lowly.
The warm breath of his whisper fans across your pussy. It clenches around nothing accordingly, waiting and pleading for his mouth.
You roll your eyes at him despite all that. “Get to work, fire-boy—”
His mouth latches immediately to your cunt. Your quip dissolves into a pitiful whimper when his tongue lolls over your clit. You keep one hand curled in his hair and the other gripping desperately at the silk sheets, trying fruitlessly to keep yourself tethered while Johnny sucks the sin from your body.
He kisses your pussy the way he would your mouth, tongue sloppy and languid against you. He makes a total mess of your thighs and his mouth and the bed sheets below you. His fingertips dig bruises into the plush skin as he laps at you, savoring the honey you leak for him.
He works until his jaw aches, until his neck burns from the harsh angle, until he feels your thighs trembling on either side of his face.
“I’m gonna cum” you squeak suddenly above him. Beneath his low grunts, which send gentle vibrations to your swollen clit, he hears you exhale pretty little whimpers for him. “Fuck, Johnny, I’m gonna cum—”
Johnny makes no mention of how quickly your orgasm finds you. There is no snide remark or smug brag from the silver-tongued boy. His lips just curl into a proud smile against the velvety lips of your cunt, right before his mouth wraps around your sensitive button. He sucks mercilessly there until your hips buck off the bed — until your pulsing hole drools for him and a choked-back scream rises and dies in your throat.
He kisses away the remains of your orgasm until you’re pushing him away. Then he rises to his knees above you — cheeks flushed, lips rosy, chin shining with your cum. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and leans down over you, blue eyes lidded and glazed over.
“God, baby, I need to fuck you,” he slurs in a low murmur.
You smile deliriously at the ceiling when his mouth locks on your pulse point. His teeth graze over the skin there while you curl your arms around his neck. “Watching me with a baby got you this worked up, huh?” you tease — though judging by the swiftness of your previous orgasm, you’re hardly in a position to talk.
“You get me worked up all the time,” Johnny mumbles into your skin, before dragging his tongue over the bite mark blooming on your neck. “You’re gonna be the death of me at this rate—”
You hardly get a breath in before Johnny’s kissing the air from your lungs, licking fervently into your parted mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue, a foreign sort of salty-sweetness stained on his lips. With his elbows propped on either side of your head, he cages you beneath the weight of his hungry mouth and golden body. Your nails dig into his freckled shoulders to pull him impossibly closer.
He grumbles a dramatic groan of disappointment against you a second later. Your swollen, spit-slick mouths part with a quiet smack.
“Shit…” Johnny huffs. “I left my wallet in the living room—”
Your legs wrap around his slim waist when he threatens to roll off of you. His pinched look of confusion is met with your devilish grin.
“I— I gotta get a condom, babe…” he stammers.
“You can’t exactly fuck a baby into me with a condom on, can you, Johnny?” you lilt with an air of feigned innocence, fingers twirling at the blonde curls at the nape of his neck.
Johnny huffs, like your words have physically knocked the breath out of him. He exhales hard through his nose as his lips quirk into a love-drunk smile. “See what I mean? You’re gonna kill me, baby—”
He’s kissing you again before he can properly get the words out, fueled with a primal sort of hunger that makes not touching your borderline unbearable.
It’s all tongue and teeth. Sloppy and nothing short of ravenous. He bothers not to drag his underwear down his legs, lest he have to part from you for more than a moment. Instead, he tucks the hem of them under his balls before jerking his stiff cock in his fist.
“Want this?” Johnny pants against your mouth. “Want me to fuck you?”
You nod wordlessly, throwing your head back when he drags the weeping, strawberry tip of his cock over your glimmering pussy.
He smiles crookedly down at you as he presses, “Need to hear you say it, baby, c’mon.”
“Fuck me, Johnny,” you plead in a breathless whisper, head back and eyes shut. “Fuck me, Johnny, please—”
And Johnny does what he always does. He obeys you without question, sliding within the velvety walls of your shuddering cunt with a practiced sort of precision.
You share sharply inhaled breaths when he’s sheathed fully inside of you — balls pressed to your ass, coarse thatch of hair above his cock grating your soft clit. His thrusts are painfully languid, and measured in a way that drives you wild.
“Please, go faster,” you beg against the shell of his ear. “Please. I need it…”
He shushes you gently. “Just let me make you feel good, baby…” he slurs into your neck. “Let me hit that spot…”
He rocks his hips, tilting them slowly forward until he hits somewhere deep inside of you. Only when you make a pretty noise for him does he creep back out again. He never pulls all the way out of you, just keeps your hips caged beneath his own until the pressure on your clit makes you keen.
You wrap your legs around his hips with a choked-back whimper, heels crossed and digging into the base of his spine. Your cunt suckles him further inside as the angle shifts. Johnny grumbles a moan into your neck.
“Oh, yeah— There you go…” Johnny praises, tucking his fingers into the curve of your waist as he sits back on his haunches.
His golden wedding band presses against your burning skin and glitters in the low lamplight. Yours does the same, small diamond glinting where you fist at the silk sheets.
The measured, unhurried rocking of his hips never ceases. A feeble whine sounds in your throat. His praise makes you as dizzy as his cock, and he knows it. “Yeah? You like that?” Johnny grins.
You nod, hair wild on the pillow.
“What happened to all that mouth you had before, huh?” Johnny pants, smiling deliriously at your fucked-out face. “You don’t have anything else to say? Huh?”
You only moan in response. He knows you don’t have the words to answer him. He knows he’s fucking you far too stupid for any of that.
“No…. You just wanna cum, don’t you? Want me to fuck a baby into you?” Johnny continues to tease despite his own breathlessness. You nod again, pussy fluttering around his twitching cock. He has to remind himself to breathe. “Then cum for me.”
The thread at the pit of your stomach snaps at his permission. Your body tenses underneath him — legs trembling around his hips, nails digging crescent shapes in his shoulders. There’s a fleeting moment of numbness when your cunt clenches tightly around him. It ebbs into a more blinding, white-hot pleasure a second later when you cum for him, leaking around his cock and onto the bed sheets below you.
Johnny’s not far behind.
You watch his orgasm roll over him through fluttering lashes. His jaw clenches, his neck tenses, his flushed chest heaves with heavy breaths.
He always talks a big game when he gets you all sweet and pliable underneath him. He likes to play dominant from time to time, likes the rare moments when he gets to tear you apart. But when his own orgasm crawls up his spine, he loses all of that bawdy confidence from before and leans back over you again.
Johnny cages you beneath his warm weight and the mattress while his thrusts go messy and erratic. He buries each of his pathetic whines and whimpers into your sweat-slick shoulder, babbling a string of nothingness in your ear.
“Fuck, honey. Oh, fuck— I’m gonna cum— Gonna fuck a baby into you— Shit—”
He punches into you once, hard, and then stills suddenly over your body. His cock jerks within your pulsing confines, spitting three ropes of warm cum inside you. Johnny trembles through every single one of them, slow to relax on top of you.
His golden body, radiating with heat and hunger, softens over yours in time with his sensitive cock. You lay like that for several long moments — sweaty bodies twisted in the sheets, pressed and melting together. The quiet bedroom fills with the sound of your heavy breaths.
“We’re gonna have to wake up early to wash the sheets before they get back,” you whisper to him, breaking the honeyed silence.
Johnny nods against your shoulder until the words catch up to him. “I know…” he sighs.
He rolls off of your body and dissolves onto the mattress below. You waste little time leaving it, mourning his warmth as you squirm out from under the sheets and out of bed. You disappear into the adjoining bathroom, careful to keep your thighs together on the way there to prevent making a bigger mess than you already have.
You spend a few minutes cleaning yourself up, then return to the dim bedroom to toss Johnny a fresh rag for himself.
He wipe your slick away from his stomach, thighs, and still-sensitive cock, while you drag your panties up your legs. He flashes you a shy smirk across the bedroom and pulls his own underwear back over his hips. “Think it took?”
You shrug and pluck his t-shirt from the floor to drape it over your bare body. It just barely covers your ass. “I don’t know… Maybe.”
Johnny props his weight on his arms, sheets still twisted around his waist. His blonde locks are wild from your fingers as he blinks the remnants of bleary pleasure from his glassy ocean eyes.
“We can always keep trying if it doesn’t. We aren’t in a rush… Right?”
“Yeah…” you hum with a quiet grin, eyes glinting with mischief as you take slow steps his way. Johnny throws his legs over the edge of the bed, and you stand between his scruffy thighs. You drag your palms over his burning chest and hum, “The trying part’s pretty fun, actually…”
“You’re telling me,” he scoffs, obediently lifting his chin when you lean down to kiss him.
Your lips lock in something much more chaste and innocuous than before. Until a cry crackles from the baby monitor on the nightstand, anyway. It’s a garbled sort of whine at first, like Franklin’s just annoyed at having woken himself up. Then it turns into a full-blown wail the second he realizes he’s alone.
Neither of you says a word as you part from each other, leaving the sanctuary of the golden-lit bedroom to tend to the crying baby.
You head straight for the nursery while Johnny migrates to the kitchen. He retrieves another packet of milk from the freezer and heats it in his palm, all in practiced motions. He returns to you and his nephew with a fresh bottle in tow and finds you rocking the fussing boy in your arms.
He can’t shake the feeling that he’s looking at his future in the flesh.
Franklin takes to the bottle immediately when you give it to him, suckling at the milk like it’s the first and last time he’ll ever get to do it. You keep it angled for him with one arm and cradle him in the other. Johnny stands at your side and wraps his strong, golden ones around you. He keeps you pressed to his warmth as he sways you gently back and forth.
“I hope my sister knows she’s never getting this baby back,” he quips with his cheek pressed to your hair. Your giggling fills the dimly lit nursery, and he grins. “I mean it, babe. He’s ours now.”
You turn your head to flash him an amused look, eyes laced with a quiet sort of exhaustion. “You’re crazy, Johnny Storm, you know that?”
“Crazy for you…” he croons before pressing a smacking kiss to your flushed cheek.
Your subsequent laughter paints the lamplit room in flaxen shades of gold. Something about it pierces him deep in the chest. He loves you so much it hurts.
“How am I supposed to ever give this up, huh?”
“Well, we’ll have our own one day, right?” you ask him, smiling reminiscently at a memory that hasn’t yet happened. “We’ll give Franklin a cousin to run around with… And another baby to annoy Ben all the time.”
Johnny laughs at the thought of your baby climbing over the towering man like a jungle gym, the same way Franklin does. You feel the vibration of his chuckling against your arm. “The big softie,” he scoffs.
You cage your bottom lip between your teeth as you look at the blonde boy behind you. Your eyes go all squishy around the edges as they scan over his features, almost like you’re trying to memorize them.
“I hope our baby looks like you…” you confess in a honeyed whisper.
Johnny warms at the sincerity but hisses through his teeth all the same. “Well, now we’re in a dilemma, honey— ‘Cause I want a baby that looks like you. So… Now what?”
You shrug with a sardonic smile. “Guess that means we just have to keep trying until we get one of each, then, huh?” you lilt, all sarcastic and knowing in a way that makes him grin.
“Dammit, you read my mind.”
if you made it this far: thank you, i love you, and i'm giving you the biggest virtual kiss on the forehead right now!!! (▰˘◡˘▰)
summary: When choosing a female agent to send back in time to gain young Sergeant Barnes's trust, everyone's in agreement that it should be Sharon. Until Bucky, the man that you barely get along with, speaks up and lets everyone know that it could only be you.
warnings: angst, smut, profanity, pet names (only sweetheart & baby), mutual pining of sorts, enemies to lovers (kinda), jealous!Bucky, possessive!Bucky, one bed trope, teasing, masturbation (male & female), brief thigh riding, dry humping, nausea/vomiting (not graphically described and not a major part of the story, apologies to my emetophobic girlies), oral sex (female receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, MINORS DNI, 18+.
word count: 43.2k
a/n: Thanks again to @littlemiss-yeehaw for reading all of my shit and listening to my unhinged ramblings when I write, and for her amazing artwork. Thanks to @flowersforbucky for also reading my shit and for taking the time to tell me that it isn't as shitty as I think. Without them, this fic would be unreachable in the depths of my laptop's trash bin. Pics included in the title image for this fic are not representative of reader, location, etc.
Insufferable. Is that really the right word? Can someone be insufferable when all they do is mope around in silence, giving you looks of disdain? Maybe insufferable is a word better suited to describe someone who says more than five words at a time. And yet, you still feel that Bucky Barnes is insufferable.
Raindrops patter rhythmically against the roof of the car, making the all-too-quiet stakeout a little more bearable. You shift in the passenger seat, letting your eyes fall closed for a moment as you press your head against the leather headrest behind you. You’ve been sitting here for two hours. That’s two hours of listening to nothing more than the sound of your own breathing, Bucky’s occasional annoyed sighs, and the shitty audio feed of the abandoned storefront just up the street. You’re contemplating giving in and taking a nap when you hear the sound of gravel crunching beneath tires somewhere outside of your parked car, and your eyes shoot open. You catch a glimpse of the flashing yellow lights of a security vehicle in the rearview mirror and Bucky groans, quickly powering down the surveillance equipment and dropping it down to the floor at his feet.
“Just what we needed.” Bucky says sarcastically, with frustration edging his tone as the security guard pulls in closer and closer. He’s about twenty meters behind the car now, moving slowly. You’re sure he’s taking down the make and model of the car, the license plate, and noting the fact that it’s currently turned off. It looks suspicious as hell, you have no doubt. Your mind is moving a million miles a minute as you start shrugging your jacket off of your shoulders and mussing up your hair. “What are you doing?” Bucky asks, raising a brow in your direction.
“Getting us out of this.” You mumble, glancing back in the rearview mirror one last time. You see the security vehicle coming to a stop a few meters behind, so you move a little quicker. You’re climbing over the center console in a flash, placing your knees on either side of Bucky’s hips as you come to straddle his lap. You hover over him, with your ass pressing against the steering wheel so hard that it’s a wonder you aren’t honking the horn. “Move your seat back.” You whisper harshly, gripping his shoulders with both hands as you stare down at him. Bucky swallows hard and narrows his eyes at you as if he wants to throw you right back into your own seat, but he reaches down with his vibranium hand and starts sliding the driver’s seat backward.
Bucky can’t stand you. As you lower yourself down to sit on his lap, he keeps his hands stiff, with one resting along the driver’s side door and the other resting over the center console. His hands curl into fists when you lean in and press your lips against his neck. It’s soft and hesitant at first, as if you’re not really sure that it’s an acceptable thing to do. Bucky’s chin tilts upward and to the side instinctively, giving you more access and a clear go-ahead that has your second kiss coming in a little more desperate and firm against the column of his throat. Bucky tenses beneath you but the barely audible groan that slips past his lips has you wondering if he hates this as much as he’s trying to portray. You glance over his shoulder and see the security guard approaching the car now, his eyes scanning the rear windshield as he speaks lowly into a handheld radio.
“Barnes, I swear to god if you don’t put your hands on me and make this believable…” Your threatening tone has a roguish smile tugging at the corners of Bucky’s mouth, but he refuses to let it take full form. His hands move quickly now, grabbing onto your hips and tugging them downward. He realizes as he basically grinds your clothed center over the semi-hard front of his jeans that he probably shouldn’t have done that. When you feel his partial erection pressing against you, you falter for a moment, your lips stilling against his neck and your breath hitching in your throat. “And here I thought you couldn’t stand me.” You whisper against his skin.
“I can’t.” He responds dryly, sliding his hands up the sides of your waist and letting his fingers splay out over your ribs.
“Are you sure about that?” You ask teasingly, swirling your hips in a circle as you press down on his lap. He grunts and lets his right hand glide up your back, moving higher and higher until it’s tangled in the hair at the crown of your head.
“Pretty damn sure.” Bucky rasps as he uses his hold on your hair to tug your head back. He takes the opportunity he’s given himself to attach his lips to your neck, sucking a nice little red mark right below your ear before smoothing over it with his tongue. The whimper that leaves your lips at the feel of his tongue against your skin is enough to turn his semi-hard cock into a raging hard-on. The bright ray of a flashlight shining through the driver’s window catches your attention, and you feign surprise as the security guard taps on the window with his knuckles one, two, three times. Bucky’s letting go of your waist and hair and pushing the door open as a sly chuckle climbs up his throat.
“I told her we shouldn’t do this here.” Bucky says smugly, shaking his head as you place your hands on his chest and lean back, glaring down at him. “I can’t keep her off of me.”
“Could you uh, dismount? Ma’am?” The officer requests. You turn your head and take in the short, balding man. Blush colors his cheeks a deep shade of red and you wonder if this is the most action he’s seen all year. Moving off of Bucky’s lap, you come to stand just outside of the car, crossing your arms over your chest as the cool night air hits you. You regret taking your jacket off earlier.
“I’m so sorry.” You say ashamedly, hoping you look as faux-embarrassed as you’ve made your voice sound. The man offers you a shy smile, his eyes wrinkling around the corners as Bucky climbs out of the car next. You smirk at the way Bucky tugs his jeans down and adjusts himself, trying his best to disguise the tent beneath the fabric. He glances in your direction, his eyes briefly flitting down to where your arms are crossed over your chest, before shrugging off his leather jacket and tossing it to you. You’re still for a moment, until you realize that it would probably look questionable if you refused the kind gesture in front of the security guard, so you drape the jacket over shoulders and wrap it around your upper body. Your little act was so believable that Bucky only has to spend about one minute chatting back and forth with the security guard before he lets you both off with a warning. He didn’t even ask to see your IDs. Bucky’s pretty good at bullshitting, you’ll give him that.
Infuriating. As Bucky stands beneath the steady stream of hot water, letting it soak his hair and drip over the curves of his shoulders, it’s the only word on his mind. You’re fucking infuriating. How he continues to end up on missions with you is beyond him. He never thought he would miss the days of having Sam as his partner, but god, he misses them. He might even take Walker on as a partner if it means getting the hell away from you. Actually, he’d rather put up with you than with Walker. But anyone else? He’d happily work with anyone else out in the field.
Bucky’s just beginning to rinse the shampoo out of his hair when the sound of his bedroom door flying open registers in his mind. He freezes, both hands hovering at the sides of his head as you angrily rush through his room. The bathroom door is thrown open next, and he feels a whoosh of cold air floating over the top of his glass shower door.
“A hickey?” Your voice is laced with malice. The fiery rage inside of you is stoked by the sound of Bucky laughing behind the fogged-up glass. “Are you sixteen?”
“You made a pretty little sound when I gave it to you.” He points out, continuing to work the shampoo into his brown locks.
“I was playing the part.” You argue. You take a moment to glance around his bathroom, noting the way it looks exactly like yours except it’s devoid of any personality. He has dark gray rugs on the floor, a matching dark gray towel hanging over the shower door, and even a dark gray toothbrush sitting in a little white cup beside the sink. Is he allergic to every other color?
“The security guard couldn’t hear anything inside the car, you don’t have to lie to me. You liked it.” Bucky says coolly. He rinses the suds out of his hair and even with his eyes closed, he’s sure you’re standing there with your arms crossed. It’s your signature pose in his presence.
“I have shit to do tomorrow, Barnes. Now I have to worry about covering this up.” You complain. You snatch his towel off of the shower door and use it to wipe at the fogged-up mirror over the sink. You’re studying the sizable red mark below your ear in the reflection when Bucky turns off the running water.
“You have three seconds to put my towel back before I walk out of here without it.” His voice is low and threatening now. You roll your eyes before tossing the towel back up and over the shower door, he grabs it immediately. When he steps out a moment later, he has the towel wrapped firmly around his waist. As he steps into the view of the mirror, your eyes roam over his wet, toned body in the reflection. Your gaze follows a few drops of water as they drip from his hair and trail down the side of his neck. You stand still in front of the mirror, unmoving as Bucky meets your gaze and narrows his eyes, taking a few steps forward to close the space between you. He comes to a stop with his bare chest nearly brushing against your clothed back, and then he moves his hands to grip the edge of the countertop on either side of your hips. Leaning forward the tiniest bit, his lips graze the shell of your ear and every single muscle in your body tenses up. “Why cover it? You don’t want people to know that you like being marked up?”
“I can’t stand you.” You spit coldly, crossing your arms over your chest and glaring at him in the reflection. Bucky chuckles lowly before letting go of the edge of the countertop and turning away from you, leaving you alone in his steamy bathroom.
“I can’t stand you either.” He calls back to you.
When you stomp through his bedroom a moment later, he watches out of the corner of his eye as you disappear out into the hall and let his door fall shut behind you. He knows that on some level, you’re both liars. There are so many things that you can’t stand about each other, and yet, there’s an undeniable force that seems to keep you both coming back. You could simply stay away from each other when you’re in the tower. You live across the hall from each other but the place is so damn big that you could easily avoid each other anytime you’re not working together in the field. He’s sure that somewhere beneath the haze of false hatred and tension, you can feel that incessant pull just as much as he can. That’s why he can’t stand you. That’s precisely the reason why he finds you so infuriating. Because you act like you can’t feel it.
The Howling Commandos files have taken up nearly every waking second of your time for the past three days. You’ve read every word, combed through every grainy black and white picture, and taken enough notes to fill nearly twenty pages of the little notebook that currently sits open in front of you. And yet, you haven’t been able to formulate a solid plan. That’s why the conference room is packed full of people with varying skillsets and thought processes. Fury sits at the head of the table, leaning back comfortably in his chair as he twirls a black pen in his right. Sam sits to his left, staring down at the same files you’ve studied for hours. Beside him is Sharon, who looks equal parts bored and entirely over the situation at hand. Knowing the things that she’s been up to lately, she probably has more important places to be right now. A few people are littered around the room, leaning against walls and quietly conversing with each other as they try to come up with the best course of action to solve the present issue. You’re seated at the far end of the table, opposite of Fury, tracing the lines of your left palm with your right thumb.
Bucky stands near the door, with his back pressed against the smooth wall and his arms crossed over his broad chest. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t labeled a mandatory meeting. Hell, even with it being labeled mandatory, he considered skipping it. He doesn’t particularly enjoy watching everyone read up on his past life, even if it was the era that he considers his glory days. Being a part of the Howling Commandos was one of the few good things he ever did, but letting himself think about that time only leads him down a darker path. He thinks about how each Howling Commandos mission that he was a part of brought him closer and closer to getting captured, to losing his arm, to losing himself. Shaking his head, Bucky pushes away from the wall and stands straight, he wonders if anyone will notice him slipping out the door.
“I don’t like time travel.” Fury says evenly, keeping his eyes on the pen in his hand as he twirls it around just above the surface of the conference room table. Bucky freezes, his eyes narrowing as he looks to Fury. Everyone in the room halts, all eyes moving in the same direction to follow the commanding voice. “I don’t like time travel at all. It’s risky and it tends to fuck things up in the long run.” Fury takes a moment to cast his eyes around the room, taking in each and every person present. After making the first round, he turns his head to the right and focuses on Bucky. “Unfortunately, I think this situation calls for something risky.”
Goosebumps spread over the surface of your skin and you tense in your seat. You follow Fury’s gaze and your eyes land on Bucky, who stands tall beside the door. His arms hang still at his sides, and for once, his vibranium arm isn’t hidden behind a long shirt sleeve or leather jacket. The black and gold glints in the fluorescent lighting of the room, drawing attention like a bright red flower draws bees.
“The intel that we need from a currently non-existent HYDRA base doesn’t exist. The Howling Commandos weren’t tasked with collecting evidence or documenting what they found at each base.” Fury continues. Bucky swallows hard but maintains eye contact. He already doesn’t like where this is going. “So, we send someone back in time to get what we need.”
As tension rises in the room and the air begins to feel like its crackling with anticipation, Fury lays out the only two potential plans he can think of. The first plan is automatically a no, because of how risky it is to send a full team back in time. The first plan would’ve been to send someone back in time to infiltrate a specific HYDRA base moments before the Howling Commandos take it out, so the intel can be gathered and brought back to the present. But the second plan is the one that has discussion raging around the conference room.
“Steve wouldn’t trust someone he’s just met, we’d need to get through to Peggy first, then she can sway him and the rest of the Howling Commandos.” Sharon argues, leaning forward and clasping her hands together over the table. Your eyes flit over to her as her blonde hair falls over one shoulder and obscures the side of her face. She’s right, 1940s Steve Rogers wouldn’t even come close to trusting a new person in the midst of a war, let alone one who’s so obviously from the wrong time period. You see Sam laughing to himself further down the table and you’re sure he’s remembering the story Steve used to tell of his past self attempting to kick his present self’s ass during his time travel stint.
“Peggy wouldn’t be wholly trusting either.” Fury points out, barely looking up from the surface of the table before him. “We need to get Peggy and at least one of the Howling Commandos on our side for this to work. The rest will follow.”
“What if we go at this from a slightly different angle?” Torres asks. He stands a few feet behind your seat, leaning against the wall as his thumbs rapid-fire away at the phone in clutched in his hands. Everyone turns their attention to him and he finally looks up, blinking once before clicking the phone off and sliding it into the back pocket of his jeans.
“We’re listening.” Fury says, his interest clearly piqued.
“We pick someone that Peggy could relate to, someone she would like, maybe become fast friends with.” He starts slowly, letting his gaze roam over each person in the room as he speaks. His eyes stop when he reaches Bucky, and you don’t have to look over your shoulder to know that Bucky’s staring right back at him. “And that same person needs to be someone Bucky would like, someone he’d be drawn to. Steve would trust Bucky’s judgement, and at least by choosing to make Bucky the center of this, we have the advantage of having him right here.”
It’s silent for a beat as the idea is mulled over. You turn around and look back to Fury, watching as his face shifts from a blank, almost bored expression to a thoughtful one. He nods slowly before tucking the pen he’s been twirling around into the pocket of his jacket.
“Sergeant Barnes…” Fury’s eyes shift to his right, landing on the stiff super soldier who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here right now. “Does that sound like a feasible plan?” It feels as though everyone is collectively holding in a breath as Bucky remains silent. You can tell he’s thinking, you can almost see the gears turning behind his blue eyes as he zeroes in on Fury. A small nod from him is all it takes to get the conversation churning around the room again. He's in.
“I can be in and out and have this whole thing finished within just a few seconds of passing time here, I need maybe two days in the past.” Sharon says calmly, leaning back in her seat as she tucks a stray lock of blonde hair behind one ear. You really don’t even know why the discussion is still ongoing at this point. Out of everyone left in the conference room, the majority is most definitely in favor of sending Sharon back in time for the mission. It’s not like there were many other options. You didn’t exactly volunteer yourself and as of right now, you and Sharon are the only women on the team. Sure, Fury could’ve shopped around the agency a bit and found a few other suitable agents to screen for the task at hand, but Sharon seems pretty set on handling it herself.
“Okay, say you gain Peggy’s trust easily. What about Bucky? What’s your plan for getting him on your side?” Sam asks with a raised brow. The room grows quiet and all eyes land on Sharon as she filters through the possible methods she could use. Your eyes flit over to where Bucky is still leaning against the wall by the door, looking slightly less disinterested in the conversation than he was earlier. He’s studying Sharon with an unreadable expression painted on his face. Instinctively, your hand lifts up to the healing hickey that’s hidden beneath a layer of concealer and foundation right below your ear. For the briefest moment, he turns his head and tracks your movement, his eyes roaming down to the tips of your fingers as they brush over the skin of your neck. You drop your hand in an instant and his blue eyes meet yours. You can feel the arrogance radiating off of him and you roll your eyes before looking back to Sharon. You swear you hear Bucky chuckle under his breath, but when you glance around the room, no one else seems to have heard a thing.
“I just put on a pretty outfit and dance with him. It can’t be that hard to woo a soldier in his bachelor phase.” Sharon laughs out. A few softer laughs ring out around the table, but Torres’s next question quiets everyone.
“Bucky, what kind of girl would you have asked to dance back in the forties?”
You think it must be Bucky’s lack of an immediate response that sucks the air out of the room. It’s so quiet you can hear the sound of your own heart beating in your ears, even though it’s beating at a normal rate and rhythm. You steal a look at Bucky once again, who’s face is cast downward at the floor. He seems to find his shoes overly interesting all of a sudden. Everyone’s staring at him.
Bucky’s mind is churning, running through all of the girls he ever shared a moment with back in his golden days. He has a type in more ways than one. It’s not just a physical type. He’s always been drawn to women with certain personality traits, women with certain ways of carrying themselves, certain ways they flirt. One wouldn’t think he was picky with the number of girls he found himself in the company of back in the day, but he damn sure was. And he still is. That’s why his heart beats a little harder, vibrating against his ribcage as he lets out a deep breath and finally looks up. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, but he focuses in on the one person that he’s sure his younger self will trust. Bucky’s staring right at you.
“It needs to be you.” He says firmly, fixing his gaze on your face as the color drains from it. If the air hadn’t been sucked out of the room when Torres first asked a question, it sure as hell would’ve been now. Your breath is hitched in your throat and the skin over your hidden hickey suddenly feels like it’s on fire. No, scratch that. Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire. Color returns to your cheeks as quickly as it first disappeared, and suddenly, you’re flushed pink.
“Me?” The word leaves your lips as an unintended whisper, but you can’t be bothered to clear your throat and try again. You know he heard you. He nods slightly, looking quite sure of himself, but his expression is still unreadable and it’s driving you mad.
“Her?” Sharon questions, narrowing her eyes at you and pursing her lips. She’s looking at you in disbelief, but not because it’s questionable that you’d be someone’s type. She’s looking at you like that because she knows, like everyone knows, that you and Bucky are at each other’s throats more often than not. Why would that be any different with a younger version of himself? The last thing the team needs is you getting sent back in time to argue with yet another version of Bucky Barnes.
“Her.” Bucky shrugs, shooting Sharon a look that easily shuts her up. She leans back in her seat once more and crosses her arms over her chest, indicating that she doesn’t like where this is going.
“Are you sure?” Sam asks with a raised brow, his eyes flitting between you and Bucky. Bucky pushes himself away from the wall and turns to face the door that leads out into the hall. As his flesh hand wraps around the door handle, he finds himself biting down on the inside of his cheek. He’s sure that his younger self will be drawn to you, that he’ll trust you, yeah. Is he sure that this is a good idea? Hell no.
“It’s her.” Bucky confirms. Then, he walks out of the conference room as if he didn’t just drop a fucking bomb in the middle of the goddamn gunmetal table. What the hell does he mean it’s you?
Your silence is unsettling. Bucky thought you might come storming into the gym during his evening workout, ready to give him a violently worded piece of your mind after he left the conference room earlier, but you never did. Then, while a mix of sweat and suds spilled down the drain of his shower, he listened intently for the sound of his bedroom door flying open, but it never came. He sits on the side of his bed in the dim light of a lamp, thumbing through the little red notebook that once belonged to Steve. He isn’t digesting its contents. Really, he isn’t even skimming over the words that are written in pencil before him. He’s zoned out as he strains his ears to listen for you across the hall. He knows you’re in your room. It’s late, just a bit past midnight now, and you’re always tucked away in there by ten. But you’re not asleep, that’s for damn certain. He can hear the occasional sound of your footsteps against the soft rug you have spread over your bedroom floor. Every few minutes, he hears an uncharacteristic scuffling sound, following by a thud. What the hell are you doing over there?
He waits a moment longer before his curiosity and impatience get the best of him, and then he’s tossing the notebook onto his bed and taking long strides toward the hall. If you won’t come to him to argue about today’s conference room situation, about what’s now lingering on the horizon, then he’ll go to you. Arguing about it will be far better than sitting around while you do whatever the hell sort of noisy thing it is you’re doing over there right now, Bucky thinks.
In retrospect, he should’ve knocked. By the time he’s throwing your unlocked door open and taking the first step into your room, he’s already sporting a half-hard cock beneath the all-too-thin fabric of his sweats and boxers. The dog tags hanging against his bare chest give away the increased rate of his breaths as his eyes skate over you. You’re on your hands and knees in the center of the room, with your cheeks flushed pink and your oversized t-shirt making it look like you’re not wearing anything else. As you stare up at Bucky, both of you frozen in place, you’re acutely aware of the compromising position he’s found you in. You sit back on your knees quickly, dropping the last few stray rings into the small jewelry tray in your left hand.
“What the hell, Bucky?” You look up at him with a mix of confusion and annoyance in your eyes as the rings clink against the ceramic tray. Bucky swallows hard as he stares down at you, trying to figure out what the fuck you’re doing in the middle of the floor. His gaze lands on one single golden ring glinting in the low light of your room and your eyes follow his.
“You missed one.” He says lowly. You reach out and pick it up with your thumb and index finger before setting it on the small tray along with the rest. “What are you doing?”
“Rearranging.” You respond dryly. You stand carefully, making sure not to dump all of your rings out a second time, before crossing the room and setting the tray on your recently moved vanity. Bucky’s only been in your room once or twice before, but he notices the changes immediately. You’ve moved your vanity from the right side of the room to the left. The chair you used to have sitting near the window now sits in a corner near the bed. A few other small pieces of furniture are strewn about haphazardly, as if you haven’t quite decided where you want them yet.
“At midnight?” Bucky raises a brow, catching your eyes as you turn to face him once more.
“What are you doing in my room, Bucky?” In his peripheral vision, he sees the slight reflection of light in one last piece of jewelry on the floor. It’s just a foot in front of him, so he steps further into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him as he bends down and scoops the rose gold ring up in his palm.
“You haven’t said anything since the team meeting earlier today.” He points out. He studies the small ring in his hand, realizing for the first time just how much smaller your hands are than his. You don’t make a move to take it from him, so he continues fiddling with it as he stands in the middle of your room.
“You walked out.” You remind him. You turn your back to him and begin straightening up a few things on your vanity. It’s weird to have him in your room like this. Your skin feels warm while the air in the room feels cold. Your oversized t-shirt feels too small while his presence feels much too large.
“I didn’t have anything else to say.” Bucky takes a few more steps forward and turns, bending at the knees to sit on the foot of your nicely made bed. You watch him in the reflection of your vanity mirror, wondering why the hell he seems so comfortable in your room.
“And I should? What do you want me to say?”
“Anything.” His single-word response makes the air in the room feel even icier, and suddenly, you’re wishing you’d put on sweats tonight. A deep breath rattles in your chest before you turn around to face him.
“It’s not me.” You say evenly. You cross your arms over your chest and focus on his face as he stares back at you. He’s still fiddling with the ring, running the pad of his thumb back and forth over it mindlessly.
“It’s you.” He sighs. He almost seems tired with the conversation, which is frustrating considering he’s the one who came in here and started it.
“It’s not, and having me deal with two of you is a recipe for disaster. I can barely handle one Bucky Barnes in this century. Sharon’s the better choice.”
“It’s not Sharon.”
“Bucky—”
“It’s you. I don’t know what you need me to say or do to convince you, but it’s you. The sooner you accept it, the sooner we can start making a plan and preparing for the mission.”
His words swirl around in your head, bouncing off of the walls of your mind like it’s a fucking pinball machine. It’s not you. You’re pretty damn sure that what 1940s Bucky Barnes needs is anything but you. Maybe Bucky’s so far removed from his younger self that he just doesn’t realize how wrong you are for this mission. He’s gotten too used to working with you in the field lately and he doesn’t want to figure things out in the field with a new partner. Whatever his reasoning is, you need him to figure his shit out before you’re sent back in time to fuck up the op.
“You can’t convince me.” You reply stubbornly, narrowing your eyes at him. “Sharon is right for this mission and everyone sees that but you.” When he glances up at you this time, his eyes settle on the light pink mark beneath your ear. His mark.
“You’re my type.” The words slip past his lips before he can stop them, and he’s gripping the ring tightly in his flesh fist.
“What?”
“I’m not saying it again.” He decides, pushing himself up to stand. You’re frozen in stunned silence, your eyes wide. You’re sure you’re about to watch him walk out the door after dropping his second bomb of the day, but he turns to face you. He’s moving forward before you have a chance to do or say a damn thing. Bucky doesn’t stop until your arms are dropping down to your sides and his hands are resting on your hips. He walks you backward one, two steps, until your ass hits the edge of the vanity and a gasp parts your lips.
“There was this bar in London, the Whip and Fiddle. I went there with Steve and the guys a few times.” Bucky starts. His tone is low and gravelly and his lips are so close to yours that they nearly touch with every word he speaks. He’s looking down into your eyes with an intense look, a look that keeps you firmly in place, along with his hold on your hips and his muscular frame pressed partially against your front. A shiver runs down your spine, but you stay silent, waiting for him to continue. Bucky’s right hand glides upward, following the curve of your body until his fingertips are ghosting over the side of your neck. He presses his thumb against your healing hickey lightly, feeling you tense against him at the touch. “If younger me saw you walk into that bar, even with all of the noise and the low lights, he’d fucking swoon. It would all be over. The chasing girls around, only ever learning first names and hometowns, the bachelor shit. It would be over. He’d follow you anywhere.”
“Bucky—”
“It’s you. Not Sharon, not anyone else damn it, it’s you.” His vibranium hand tightens over your hip and his right hand slides further back behind your head. His fingers tangle in your hair but it’s a gentle, careful act. You tilt your head up and take in his serious expression. His brows are furrowed and his gaze heats your face as he stares down at you. He isn’t fucking with you. He isn’t trying to get in your head or manipulate you into being a part of this mission. He means every word of what he’s saying right now and it scares the shit out of you. You move quick, drawing your arms up between the two of you and pressing your palms flat against his bare chest. You shove him back hard, forcing him to take one big step away from you. He doesn’t look surprised at all, and his expression never shifts, the seriousness never leaves his face.
“You can’t stand me.” You remind him, though the words feel empty as you say them. You’re questioning the notion, as if he hasn’t said those words himself a hundred times before.
“I can’t.” He agrees, nodding slowly. You take a deep, shaky breath in and let it out through your teeth. “But for some reason, it’s still you.”
You stand still, with the edge of the vanity still digging into your ass and your chest heaving as Bucky turns his back to you and heads for the foot of your bed. You watch through narrowed eyes as he leans over and scoops up the ring he left sitting there. He straightens up and looks down at the small shiny object held precariously between his thumb and forefinger.
“Do you know how to dance?” The question rolls off of his tongue so casually that for a moment, you wonder if anything that just happened really happened. Did he not have you pushed up against the vanity only seconds ago? Was he not touching you and leaning in close like you meant something to him after months of acting like you’re nothing more than his shit-giving coworker?
“What?” You nearly choke on the word. Your throat is so dry after seemingly forgetting to swallow at all in his presence.
“Do you know how to dance?” He repeats, craning his neck to the side to look at you.
“What the hell does—”
“He’s going to ask you to dance, and you’ll have to say yes.” Bucky says matter-of-factly. You find it a little odd that he refers to his younger self as if he’s someone else, but you don’t comment on it. “I can teach you.”
“Fine.” Bucky freezes at your quick and unexpected caving. He raises an eyebrow at you, still fiddling with the ring between his fingers. “Help me move my dresser.” Your eyes dart over to the large piece of furniture across the room and Bucky’s gaze follows. He looks at it for a second as the realization dawns that you’re really asking for manual labor in exchange for agreeing to go back in time for this mission. The fact that you’re going to do it, that you’re going to be the one who does this with him, leaves an unfamiliar calmness settling inside of him and he lets out a deep breath.
The sounds of furniture scuffling around the room and soft thuds carry on for the next half hour as Bucky uses the serum in his veins to set your room up just how you want it. When everything is finished and you seem satisfied, he walks over to your vanity and drops the last ring into the ceramic tray. Your eyes rake over his bare back, taking in the way there isn’t even the slightest sheen of sweat present on his smooth skin. You should’ve asked him to move your furniture two hours ago when you first started doing it yourself. If you’d known it was so damn easy for him, you might’ve even said please.
“You should probably lock your door at night.” Bucky says as he heads toward it. He wraps his hand around the door handle and you watch as the muscles of his flesh arm ripple slightly.
“Why? Are you going to keep barging in?”
“You’ve done that a lot more than I have.” He points out, tugging the door open to reveal the darkened hallway beyond.
“So, start locking yours then.” You retort. He can hear you rolling your eyes. A small smile plays on his lips as he steps out into the hall and runs a hand through his messy hair, keeping his back to you.
“My door’s always open for you, sweetheart.”
“Fuck you, Barnes.” You say coldly, just as the door clicks shut between the two of you.
You can’t stand him.
Sam doesn’t let things go easily. Sure, if he was really pushing Bucky’s buttons, he might back off a bit, but he hasn’t gone too far yet. Yet.
“I just want to know how you can go from barely getting along with the woman to demanding that she’s the one for your little forties self.” Sam says through a smirk. He falls into step next to Bucky as the two of them jog through the heavily wooded trails behind the tower.
“If you’re going to keep talking about this, you can finish the run alone.” Bucky threatens, shooting Sam a deathly sideways glare.
“I’ve been telling you for months that there was something between the two of you, and you shot it down every time. I don’t get to gloat now?”
“There’s nothing to gloat about. There isn’t anything between us besides this mission. You’re reading too far into shit, Sam.”
“That super soldier serum didn’t teach you how to be a convincing liar, huh?”
“I’ll see you back at the tower.” Bucky says flatly, immediately picking up his pace to an ungodly speed and leaving Sam behind in literal dust.
Bucky’s ears are filled with the sounds of his feet pounding against the dry dirt path below and his own steady, even breaths as he speeds along the trail. The mission is the only thing between you, he tells himself. There isn’t anything else. As much as he wants there to be, as much as he feels something there, you fight against the tension like it suffocates you. You fight against it tooth and nail, pushing Bucky away every time you think he might be getting a little closer to you. Is it just him? If it was someone else running dangerous ops with you, saving your ass regularly, and sitting through stake-outs with you late at night, would you push them away just as hard? Or is it just because that guy is Bucky?
Thunder rumbles in the distance, tearing Bucky away from his troubling train of thought momentarily. He glances up through the crowded tree branches and catches sight of the gray sky above. He can smell rain in the air, so he picks up the pace a little more, intent on beating it.
He can still feel the curve of your hip against his vibranium hand and the way every muscle in your body tensed up when he pressed his thumb against the mark on your neck last night. Fuck. Bucky feels beads of sweat forming around his hairline, and it’s not from the hellish pace he’s bent on keeping. His mind falls even further back to that last stakeout. The memory of you moving over the center console of the car and seating yourself on his lap so effortlessly plays out in front of him like a movie. He doesn’t even realize how fast he’s running until the tower comes into view a whole lot sooner than he expected it to. With sweat dripping down the back of his neck, he tugs his shirt off and scans his palm at the back entrance to the gym.
He can feel the weight of your body settling over him, feel your thighs pressing against either of his hips as you straddle his lap. Bucky bites down on his bottom lip as he tugs the door open and glances over his shoulder for any sign of Sam. He lets the door fall closed behind him when he realizes that he’s probably still a couple of miles back in the woods. Lifting the t-shirt that’s hanging from his right hand, Bucky uses it to wipe the sweat from his brow and neck. Fuck you. Fuck you for acting like you’re oblivious to whatever the hell has been brewing between the two of you for months now. It’s right in front of your face and yet you act like you can’t see a damn thing, like you don’t feel a damn thing. Fuck you for giving Bucky just enough of you to fantasize about but not enough to feel satisfied. He heads straight for the locker room, shoving the door open hard as he uses one hand to untie the drawstring of his shorts.
He won’t let himself do what he needs to do. He comes to stand in front of the mirror, placing his hands on the edge of the sink as he drops his head and sucks in a deep breath. He won’t do it. Bucky lifts his head a bit, looking his reflection in the eye for a moment before flicking the faucet on and splashing a handful of cold water against his flushed face.
Fuck. He’s going to do it. He’s rushing for one of the showers within the next second, turning the hot water on just before he shoves his shorts and boxers down. He steps out of them, already mentally chastising himself for what he’s about to do.
He’s only been in the shower for a minute when heat begins to spread down his spine, sending a warmth over the surface of his skin and pushing him to lean forward. He rests his forehead against the cold tile wall of the shower, telling himself that this is pathetic. His flesh hand works quickly, moving back and forth while staying wrapped tightly around the shaft of his cock. A shaky breath snakes past his lips as his eyes flutter closed and his hips piston forward once, twice, three times. He fucks his hand roughly, letting out a low groan when the pad of his thumb brushes against the sensitive spot on the underside of the head of his cock. He hates that this is what he’s resorted to. Never once has he left himself do this with you on his mind. It feels shameful, even offensive. You’d kick his ass if you ever found out, he’s fucking sure of that. Still, he continues on, working himself up until he’s teetering on the edge of bliss. It’s the memory of you on his lap in that damn care, letting him tug on your hair and tilt your head back so he could suck on your neck, that almost finishes him. His movements grow sloppy and his breaths come out a little more ragged. He replays the sweet little sound you made when he left that hickey on your skin, when he left his mark on you.
“Shit.” Bucky groans, scrunching his eyes shut even tighter and stroking his cock a little harder. A shudder races through him and he bangs his vibranium fist against the shower wall just as his climax hits. He opens his eyes and watches as ropes of cum paint the tiles. The steamy shower water washes it all away and carries it down the drain within seconds. What a waste.
You’ve been lying on your stomach in bed ever since you woke up, watching every video you can find that depicts anything remotely close to dancing in the forties. It’s stressing you the hell out. How long do you have to learn this shit? Does Bucky even remember how to do this? You can’t picture him doing something so…lighthearted.
You roll over onto your back, tossing your phone to the opposite side of the bed before pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes and letting out a frustrated groan. Why the hell did you agree to this? Oh, right. The memory of last night starts playing in your mind on a loop. Bucky barged into your room like he had every right to. He sat on your bed. He pushed you up against the vanity and…and did absolutely nothing. So, why does your heart race merely at the memory? If it was nothing, why did it feel like something? You let out a louder groan and run your hands through your messy hair, tugging at it a little and feeling the slight stretch of your scalp. You’re thinking about pulling the covers over your face and going back to sleep for the rest of the rainy morning, but your train of thought shifts over to the contents of the communal fridge in the kitchen down the hall.
Bucky’s chosen to avoid you today. If what he did in the shower half an hour ago is any indication of the dangerous territory that he’s put himself in, he knows he needs to pump the brakes now. So, he stands in the kitchen, leaning against the edge of the countertop as he sips on a glass of orange juice in near-silence. The sounds of rolling thunder and heavy rain are all he can hear as he tries to ignore the guilt eating away at him. He really fucked his hand simply at the memory of being close to you last night. He’s in way too fucking deep and he needs to get a grip before this mission really starts. Maybe he should’ve just let it be Sharon. She probably could’ve pulled it off. Younger Bucky wasn’t really all that picky if he’d had a few drinks, and Sharon could’ve easily been coached to put on a personality that Bucky would’ve been drawn to. But no, he had to make sure it was you. God, he’s kicking himself for it all now.
He stiffens when he hears your door open down the hall, fighting against the urge to make a dash for the elevator just to avoid you. He glances at the time displayed over the stovetop. It’s still too early to get ready and rush off for his therapy session, but maybe if he drives really slowly Dr. Raynor won’t have to question why he’s there an hour and a half ahead of time. Bucky lets out a heavy sigh as your footsteps patter down the hall in the distance. He’s being dramatic. He knows that. He had a moment of weakness in the shower this morning and it was his own fault. He shouldn’t have let his thoughts carry him that far and he sure as hell shouldn’t have been in your room doing and saying the things he did and said last night.
When you appear in the main living area, you’re still wearing that damn oversized t-shirt and distinct lack of pants that you were last night, and Bucky stifles a frustrated groan. His eyes roam over your body so quickly that you don’t even notice the look as you enter the kitchen and give him a small nod. You tug the fridge open and rummage around for a few seconds as your mind races. Your heart is beating wildly in your chest, you can feel warmth creeping into your cheeks, coloring them pink. You hate this. Why the hell did he decide to flip a switch this week? You were fine barely getting along, just giving each other shit in the field and then coming home after missions and going your separate ways for the most part. Why did he have to say all of that shit about it being you that his younger self would want?
Your appetite dissipates more and more with each passing second, until suddenly you’re shutting the fridge and taking a step back. You see Bucky out of the corner of your eye, sipping on an almost empty glass of orange juice as he studies you.
“You’re manipulative.” You say lowly, crossing your arms over your chest as you turn to face him. He raises a brow at you and takes another sip from his glass, but says nothing in response. “What you did last night wasn’t fair.”
“Moving your furniture around?” He questions, keeping that one brow raised. You can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s being facetious and it pisses you off. Your tongue presses against the inside of your cheek as you look him over. He’s clearly fresh out of the shower with messy, damp hair. He’s dressed in dark gray sweats and a navy blue t-shirt that hugs the muscles of his upper body a little too snugly for your liking.
You could just respond to his question with a verbal answer, you know that. You could just open your mouth and remind him about what it was that he did last night that you’re referring to as being unfair and manipulative. But your feet carry you forward. You move slowly, giving him a multitude of opportunities to step around you and leave the kitchen unscathed. Bucky remains planted there, leaning against the kitchen counter with the glass in his hand. When you’re only a foot away from him, you reach out with your right hand and take hold of the glass. He watches you carefully, with his head slightly cocked to the side as your grip tightens and his loosens. When he lets you fully take the glass from his hand, you lift it to your lips and swallow the last sip of orange juice. Bucky’s cock twitches beneath the fabric of his sweats as he watches your lips retreat from the exact spot that his once pressed against the glass. He bites down on the inside of his cheek in an attempt to dissuade the hardening of his already tired cock.
“Do you really think I’m talking about you moving my furniture around?” You ask in a whisper, taking one more step forward until your chest is nearly brushing against his. You reach past him with your right arm and set the glass on the countertop behind him, holding your breath as your bottom lip comes within a centimeter of his chin. You keep your head tilted up, watching his eyes as the distance between you diminishes. “I couldn’t possibly be talking about you pushing me up against the vanity and putting your hands on me, right?” His eyes flutter closed and you smirk, feeling satisfied with the effect that you’re clearly having on him. You let both of your hands rest against the edge of the countertop on either side of him and suddenly you’re close enough that when you stop tilting your head upward, the tip of your nose is threatening to brush against the column of his throat.
“Did that do something for you?” His words come out slightly raspy and it sends an unfamiliar warmth surging low in your stomach. You pull your head back a couple of inches and look up at him through your lashes, tilting your head to the side.
“Not a damn thing.” You lie. He chuckles darkly and lets out a breath that fans across your face. A smug smile takes over his features and you feel your confidence wavering.
“Right.” He says absently, as his flesh hand begins to move. You can feel your heart rate doubling as you anticipate his touch, and it infuriates you. Since when does he get this kind of physiological reaction from your body? As his fingertips make light contact with the side of your neck, you inhale sharply and let your eyes fall closed. You want so badly to remain stoic, to look as unbothered as ever as his fingers ghost over the now mostly invisible hickey that he left days ago, but you fail.
Bucky knows that when he presses his thumb against that spot, just like he did last night, your body will tense up. Even with the alarm bells going off inside his head, with that little voice inside of him screaming for him to run, to do anything but the stupid thing he’s about to do, he can’t help himself. His wraps his vibranium around your waist and presses his cool metal palm against the small of your back before tugging you forward. The moment your chest collides with his, he pushes the pad of his thumb against that spot beneath your ear and revels in the feeling of your body tensing against his. Fuck. He’s in deep, but he wishes he was in so much deeper.
“Not a damn thing, hm?” He teases, looking down at you as your eyes flutter open.
“I really can’t stand you.” You retort, but you make no move to get out of his hold. You’re sure that he can feel the dangerously high rate that your heart’s beating at, but still, you stay there against him.
“I know.” He smirks. He lets his thumb trail down the side of your neck until it reaches your collarbone, and then he moves it right back up to the spot where he first marked you. “But you agreed to be a part of the mission anyway, so you’re stuck with me for now.”
“I still think it’s a bad idea.” You point out. You’re coming to your senses now, realizing just how compromising of a position you’re both in right now and how beyond stupid and careless this is. What are you thinking? You pull your hands up between your two bodies and place your palms against the soft blue fabric of his shirt, getting ready to push yourself away from him. He knows what you’re about to do so he tightens his vibranium arm around your waist and slides his flesh hand back to tangle in your hair.
“I didn’t convince you last night?” He asks roughly, narrowing his eyes at you as if he’s slightly annoyed. You shake your head and push lightly against his chest, not putting any real effort behind your movement. He holds you impossibly tighter against his chest before dipping his head down toward your neck.
“Bucky.” You breathe his name out softly, with no other words coming to your mind.
He’s feral. He’s fucking feral. He’s fighting with every ounce of restraint that he possesses to keep from leaving five more marks on the skin of your neck, just to replace the one that’s now faded from there. It’s as if he didn’t fuck his hand to completion less than an hour ago, because his cock sure seems to have forgotten. He bites down on his bottom lip before nudging the tip of his nose against the column of your throat. God, he wants to fucking taste you.
“You know where to find me if you need more convincing.” He says lowly, nipping at your neck one single time before releasing you from his grip and pushing past you. He needs to get the fuck out of here.
You spend the rest of Saturday morning in bed, just like you’d planned, though you didn’t get much sleep. You laid there under the covers, lazily scrolling through your phone, until you heard Bucky’s door opening, closing, and then locking right before he headed for the elevator down the hall. With him out of the tower, you finally felt like you could breathe. So, that’s what you did. You laid in bed and breathed. You took a nice, deep breath in as you rolled over onto your back and let your hand snake down beneath the waistband of your panties. You let a long breath out as you ran your fingertips through the wetness that had gathered along your folds. Then, you drew a shaky breath in as you circled your middle and ring fingers over your clit, using your own arousal as lube. You don’t feel good about what you did to yourself the moment Bucky was out of earshot. You don’t feel good about pretending that your hand was really his. You really don’t feel good about his name being on the tip of your tongue as an orgasm shook you to your core. But you feel good about the fact that you didn’t actually say his name out loud. That’s something, right?
As you put the final finishing touches on your makeup look for the night, you force yourself to push Bucky Barnes far out of reach of your mind. You know that you’ll have to deal with him enough come Monday, when there’s another team meeting about the mission, but for now, you tell yourself that he’s off limits. He’s off limits and you get to spend the night thinking about anyone and anything else. Maybe that’s exactly what you should do. Think about anyone else.
The bar that Sharon chose for tonight is dimly lit and overly full of patrons. You feel like you touch a minimum of three people every time you try to take a step in any direction, so you settle into a cramped booth with your drink and good company, hoping you can get away with sitting there for at least the next hour while the crowd thins out.
“You could’ve picked a busier place.” Maria remarks sarcastically, shooting Sharon an annoyed look as they both slide into their seats across from you. You take a long sip of your drink before setting it down on the wooden surface of the table and double-checking that nothing was swiped from your clutch on your way through the bustling bar.
“You need to get used to being around normal people, Maria.” Sharon wiggles her eyebrows. “No gods or mutants or super soldiers, just good old fashioned normal men.”
“I came here under the impression that this was going to be a girls night.” Maria says as she lifts her drink up to her lips. A mischievous look takes over Sharon’s face and her eyes glimmer as she looks between you both.
“A girls night where all the girls go home with a plus one.”
“Oh, fuck off, Sharon.” Maria scoffs, shoving her shoulder playfully. Sharon snorts and casts her gaze around the crowded bar, seemingly browsing the vast menu of eligible men. As you follow her line of sight, you notice that there are significantly more men than women here. Including the three of you, you count maybe a total of ten women versus at least fifty men.
“Sharon…” You start, narrowing your eyes as you face her.
“Maybe I chose a bar that’s currently having their weekly guys night.” Knowing that both you and Maria are ready to start in on her, Sharon raises a hand and closes her eyes. “But I did it with a good heart. You both need to get laid.”
As much as you want to kick her from underneath the table, you know she’s right. You shake your head as you take another long sip from your drink, and wonder just how many of these you might need before you agree to go home with one of the strangers in this bar.
“I don’t think I’m the one that needs to get laid tonight.” Maria says quietly, casting a pointed look in your direction. Your eyes widen at her insinuation.
“Why are you looking at me when you say that?”
“You’re about to spend a whole lot of time with not one, but two Bucky Barnes.” She responds. Sharon nods eagerly, suddenly leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table as she joins Sharon in staring you down.
“You need to fuck someone and clear your system before this mission takes off. Make sure you’re going into it with an empty tank, you know?” You’re sure that Sharon’s mostly joking, but there’s still an air of seriousness to her words.
“You both think that I’d be tempted by him?” You raise an eyebrow at both of the women before you. They share an indecipherable look between themselves before all eyes are back on you.
“Aren’t we all?”
Bucky doesn’t usually pick whiskey. Nowadays he’s more of a beer kind of guy. Especially when he wants to drink a lot and reminisce about the times when he could get drunk. The feel of a cold glass bottle in his hand and the lip of it pressing against his mouth with each sip reminds him of a time when just a few of those would do him in. But tonight, he’s drinking Four Roses.
As he swirls the amber liquid around in his glass, he scans the packed bar. The crowd is thick, with men heavily outnumbering and swarming the few women that are milling about.
“I didn’t take you three for the guy’s night type.” Maria’s familiar voice sounds from behind Bucky’s left shoulder. He turns in unison with Sam and Torres. When their backs are to the bar, they all come face to face with Maria Hill. Bucky gives her a subtle up-and-down look, feeling a bit odd seeing her in an outfit that doesn’t resemble anything tactical for once.
“I wouldn’t have taken you for the guy’s night type either.” Sam laughs out before taking a sip of his beer.
“Trust me, I’m not.” Maria responds with a slight grimace, casting a glance over her shoulder in the general direction of where she came from. Bucky follows her gaze and spots a few booths off to a side wall, but it’s too dim for him to tell which one she might be looking to. He focuses back on her as she pushes between him and Sam to get to the bar. She orders three different drinks in quick succession, but only the last one catches Bucky’s attention. It’s your drink. “Is that you guys that I feel staring or is it the rest of the sleazy men in this place?” Maria asks jokingly, looking over her shoulder again. Sam and Torres both laugh, but Bucky’s barely paying any attention. He’s scanning the room again, studying each face with a watchful eye as he searches for you. “They’re in the third booth against the far left wall.” Maria says reluctantly, when she catches the look in Bucky’s eye. She may find him attractive as hell, like everyone else does, but she knows he’s essentially off the market. He may hide it well with the constant bickering and brooding façade, but he’s so fucking into you. Maria knows it as well as anybody else. Well, anybody but you. Sometimes she wonders if Bucky himself even knows it.
Bucky shoots Maria a sideways look and she shakes her head.
“They won’t be happy that you guys are crashing girls’ night.” She clicks her tongue disapprovingly, just as the bartender starts working on her drinks.
“Oh, come on. They’ll be thrilled.” Sam jokes, immediately heading off in the direction of the booth Maria described. Torres stays with her, but Bucky follows Sam closely. He should be running in the opposite direction. He knows it’d be in his best interest to down the rest of his whiskey and run right out the door. And yet, his feet carry him forward like his entire goal since this morning hasn’t been to avoid you.
You were having a half-decent night before you laid eyes on Bucky Barnes. When he comes into view, wearing one of his signature leather jackets and dark gloves, your heart skips a beat. You’re sure it’s skipping a beat out of protest rather than anything more meaningful, but still, it skips a damn beat. You don’t even hear Sam’s initial greeting, or the immediate banter that he and Sharon get into the moment he’s within earshot of the table. In fact, every single sound in the bar seems muffled all of a sudden. He’s staring at you. Bucky’s looking right into your eyes as he hovers near the end of the table, with his expression as bored and unreadable as ever.
The intense eye contact is only broken when Maria and Torres appear, and she uses her shoulder to nudge Bucky out of the way so she can set the three drinks down. As soon as she slides the small glass in front of you, the din of the bar is loud again and you’re itching for a higher blood-alcohol level. You down the fresh drink in one long gulp, ignoring the burning in your throat as all eyes fall on you.
“I think I need something a little stronger.” You say flatly, after clearing your throat and setting your empty glass down on the table. Sharon raises an eyebrow at you but within a second, she re-engages with Sam. Maria and Torres are quick to take your side of the booth the moment you rise to your feet, and Sam slides in next to Sharon. As you saunter off toward the bar, you can hear the sound of Bucky dragging a chair over to the edge of the table to give himself somewhere to sit.
Bucky can’t seem to tear his eyes away from you as you make your way to the bar. You’re wearing a little black dress that hugs your curves and accentuates every part of you that he’s been trying not to think about all goddamn day. The heels you chose are surely killing your feet with every step you take, but god, they keep drawing his gaze down your legs and then the dress drags him right back up again. The front of Bucky’s jeans have started to feel a bit too tight and his mind is reeling. He wants to pour his glass of whiskey into his eyes. It may be the only way he can stop fucking staring at you.
Though you feel Bucky’s eyes burning a hole in the back of your head, you refuse to look back. He can stare all he wants, but you’ve decided not to give a shit. He messed with your head last night and manipulated you into being a part of next week’s mission. Then, he messed with your head again this morning, telling you to come find him if you need anymore convincing. What the hell did he mean by that? You swallow hard as you reach the bar, reaching out and grabbing onto the edge of it to steady yourself. You’re two drinks in now and starting to feel a little buzzed, but you sure as hell won’t be stopping if the guys are sticking around. You order something significantly stronger than your last two drinks and then start fiddling with a stray lock of hair that’s hanging over your shoulder as you try to look unapproachable. This place feels like a testosterone festival and although Bucky’s stare was the only one you felt at first, you’re acutely aware of quite a few more pairs of eyes on you now.
Bucky’s aware as well, so fucking aware. He watches with veiled frustration as you become the center of attention over at the bar. He can tell you don’t even want the attention simply by your body language, but that doesn’t stop men from ogling shamelessly. He knows you can handle yourself, so he bites down on his bottom lip and tries to return his attention to the table, choosing to pick his battles wisely. He tunes into a semi-heated conversation about who’s worse at holding their liquor amongst everyone at the table, but every now and then, his gaze flits back over to you.
Two minutes go by before Sam notices the tension seemingly rolling off of Bucky’s broad shoulders. The brooding super soldier sits stiffly in the wooden chair at the end of the table, gripping his whiskey glass so tightly in one gloved hand that Sam’s surprised it hasn’t shattered under the pressure. When he follows Bucky’s gaze across the room, he finds the source of all of that angsty tension. There you are, looking undeniably gorgeous in that little black dress of yours with a fresh drink in hand as some tall, charismatic guy tries his best to win you over. Sam chuckles under his breath and watches for a moment, noting the way the guy continues getting closer to you every time you lean away from him. He sees the fake smile painted on your face and the way you keep nodding your head in the direction of the table as you speak in short sentences, probably letting the guy know that you have a group waiting for you.
“Go get your girl, Bucky.” Sam finally says, lifting his half-empty beer bottle in your direction. “Haven’t you two been a fake couple at least a hundred times by now? Pretend to be her man and get her out of that.” Bucky winces at the idea. Conversation at the table dies down as everyone starts shifting to get a look at you.
“What do you want me to do?” Bucky asks dryly, taking a long sip of his whiskey as he analyzes Sam’s expression over the rim of the glass. “She can get out of that herself if she wants to.”
“Yeah, or you could make it easy for her.” Sam points out. Bucky turns his head to look at you again and he doesn’t like what he sees. The man takes one step closer to you, nearly closing the gap between your bodies entirely. He makes it seem as though he was pushed into you, which you seem to buy given how crowded the bar area still is. You let out a stiff but polite laugh, and then the man rests his right hand on your hip as he leans down and whispers something in your ear. That’s enough, Bucky decides. He downs the last of his whiskey before standing up and setting the empty glass on the edge of the table. He’s moving toward the bar before he has a moment to tell himself to stop. In an instant, his gloves are being tugged off one at a time and shoved into the pocket of his leather jacket.
Bucky could just shove the guy away from you. He could throw a punch and start a good old-fashioned bar fight, maybe get himself kicked out into the street along the way. He could even waltz up and call you some sweet little pet name, because maybe, just maybe, the guy would be respectful enough to ditch the moment he thinks you’re spoken for.
But as Bucky’s flesh hand tangles in the hair at the crown of your head and he tugs you back harshly, every other possible way to handle the situation is trampled under his feet. His movements are rough but calculated as he separates you from the guy and places his own body between you. Your lips part and you nearly spill your drink as Bucky uses his hold on your hair to tilt your head up so you’re looking right into his blue eyes.
“Bucky, what—” The. Fuck.
With his right hand still fisting your hair and his left moving to wrap around your waist, he pulls you flush against his chest and leans in. You don’t realize it, but even in your shocked state, you lean in to meet him. He tilts his head to the side and sucks your bottom lip in between his teeth instantly, barely even kissing you before he’s biting down on it hard enough to draw a gasp from you. He takes the opportunity to slide his tongue between your parted lips and taste you. Fuck. He didn’t mean to do it. He didn’t mean to put his tongue in your mouth, but now that it’s there? Fuck, he’s ruined. Bucky kisses you so intensely, so fucking passionately that for a moment, you’re convinced it’s real. It isn’t until his grip on your hip falters and he has to pull back to take a breath that you realize why he did it, that you realize it most definitely wasn’t real. You’re fighting to catch your breath as he lets you go and glances over his shoulder, making sure the guy is gone. When he looks back at you, you’re pressing your fingertips to your lips lightly, while clutching your drink in your other hand. Your eyes are wide and your hair messy from his touch. His eyes skate over your face, taking in the way your cheeks and nose are rosy and your pupils are dilated as you stare at him. Bucky runs a hand through his own hair and bites down on his bottom lip. Wait, is he…flustered?
“Stop looking at me like that.” He says lowly. As much as you want to give him hell for that stupid stunt, your brain only seems to be able to focus on one thing.
“You taste like honey.” Your voice comes out soft but raspy, and your fingertips still ghost over your lips as you speak. Bucky looks taken aback by your response, and he stills for a moment as he looks down at you, his eyes narrowing.
“You taste like strawberries.” His gaze darts down to your lips, but then quickly back up to your eyes. Shaking your head to snap yourself out of whatever trance you’ve found yourself in, you brush past Bucky, making a break for the table.
Bucky needs a fucking minute. With your scent swirling around him and the ghost of your mouth on his, he needs a minute to adjust the raging hard-on he’s sporting and gather himself. What the fuck did he do that for? He’s gritting his teeth as he turns on his heel and heads for the bathrooms off to the side of the bar. When he steps foot in the men’s room, he scans the floor of each stall quickly, making sure he’s completely alone before locking the door to the entire bathroom and moving to stand in front of the large mirror displayed across the wall of sinks. Strawberries. Bucky stares down at the ceramic sink in front of him as his hands move to grip onto the edge of it. He fights the urge to break it into a million little pieces as he licks his lips, picking up a hint of your taste. Lifting his head and catching his own gaze in his reflection, he bites down on his bottom lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. The twinge of pain is enough to snap him out of whatever the hell kind of haze he’s in, and he flicks the sink on with his flesh hand. After washing his hands, he splashes a bit of cold water on his face before drying up with a few paper towels. He doesn’t leave the bathroom without adjusting his cock, tucking the head of it beneath the waistband of his boxers and pants to ensure his unchecked arousal won’t be noticed by anyone.
With lively conversation passing back and forth across the table, no one seems to notice the thick tension brewing between you and Bucky. You haven’t glanced at him once since he came back from the men’s room looking utterly unbothered by the display of public deception that he’d put on just moments earlier.
Bucky steals looks at you throughout the evening as you go through three of your usual drinks and two shots of vodka with Maria and Sharon. He notices that you smile a lot more when you have some alcohol in your system. You also look at him a hell of a lot less, and he hates that. He can’t seem to go more than a minute or two without searching you out, while you don’t even seem to notice that he’s still in the bar. He watches with a knotted stomach as two other guys attempt to move in on you when you’re up at the bar with the girls, but the knot unties itself when he sees you quickly turn them both down. Why hadn’t you done that with the first guy earlier tonight? A weird sensation bubbles up in his chest as he wonders if maybe you’d actually been attracted to the man you were talking to before Bucky stormed over and stuck his tongue in your mouth. Did you only turn the last two men down because you were worried that Bucky would try to kiss you again?
As much as you would’ve liked to avoid looking at Bucky all night, your plan is thwarted when Sharon ends up a little past tipsy and Maria decides to Uber back to her apartment early. Not wanting to wrangle a semi-drunk Sharon in an Uber by yourself, you accept Sam’s offer for a ride. With Sam driving and Torres immediately sliding into the passenger seat, you push Sharon into the backseat on the passenger’s side and shut her door. You watch with a small smile playing on your lips as she promptly leans against the door and closes her eyes. You’re sure she’ll be asleep before Sam ever pulls up to her apartment complex.
You cross around the backside of the car to find Bucky standing, holding the other back door open for you. You glance inside, noting the small middle seat and shake your head.
“I’m not sitting in the middle.” You say stubbornly, crossing your arms over your chest. A small shiver wracks through your body as the chilly night air blows over your exposed skin. Bucky’s shrugging his jacket off before he even realizes it. When he holds it out to you, you look at it warily, but another cold breeze wafts by and you reach out and grab it. Draping it over your shoulders, you narrow your eyes at him. “I’m still not sitting in the middle.”
“Yes, you are.” He responds roughly, resting his left forearm on top of the open door as his right hand moves to rest on his hip.
“No, I’m not.” You’re aware of the fact that you sound like two children arguing over something so trivial, but still, you maintain your stance. Bucky bites the inside of his cheek before stepping back and pushing the door shut. You hear Sam shout something out of confusion, probably wondering what the hell you two are doing out there in the cold delaying the ride home, but you both ignore him.
“You kissed me back.” He says in a low, raspy voice, making sure no one in the car could possibly make out his words. Your eyes widen and you pull his leather jacket tighter around your shoulders, trying to ignore the way his scent is rolling off of it and surrounding you.
“You put your tongue in my mouth.” You respond stiffly, glancing over your shoulder at the car.
“I’d do it again if it would shut you up and make you get in the car.”
“Sounds like you’re looking for an excuse.” You say, letting out a fake laugh. Bucky rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed with your accusation.
“You really think I’d look for an excuse to do that again?” Bucky asks, taking a step toward you and reaching past your body for the door handle. When he’s close enough to you that his lips are nearly grazing against the shell of your ear, your eyes flutter closed. “I think we both know I wouldn’t need one.”
Bucky tugs the door open just as you open your eyes and look into his.
“Get in the damn car.” He says authoritatively, holding the door open as you glare at him. You want to dig in your heels and stand on the curb until the sun rises in the morning, but with how cold you are and how late it is, you know you’re fighting a losing battle. You give Bucky a look that could kill as you slide into the middle seat and let out a frustrated sigh. You use his jacket to cover your legs and maintain what little body heat you have left. When Bucky slides in after you and pulls the door shut, Sam’s driving off before either of you have buckled your seatbelts. Bucky fastens his own before noticing that you’re not making a move to buckle yours, so he takes matters into his own hands. He leans over you and grasps the seatbelt in his flesh hand as he brings his lips close to your ear again, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Always so fucking stubborn.”
With every little curve and bump in the road, Bucky’s leg brushes against yours and you tense up each time. You’re always quick to pull your leg away and back toward the middle of the floorboard, until you start to notice that he never pulls his away. You stare out of the windshield ahead as Sam weaves through the city, heading toward Sharon’s downtown apartment. When you turn your head and glance over at her, she’s sound asleep with her mouth wide open as her head rests against the door beside her. Another bump jostles the car and Bucky’s leg collides with yours, but instead of pulling away this time, you stay still. As the heat of his leg permeates the thick fabric of his jeans and warms your bare knee, you find yourself relaxing a little. It really is way too cold to be wearing such a tiny dress.
Bucky’s gaze is fixed outside of his window, but he can feel you letting your head fall back to rest against the headrest behind. He tries not to move too much, sensing that you’re somewhat thankful for his body heat warming your leg and side. It’s cold as shit tonight and you picked what has to be the thinnest dress in your wardrobe. If he didn’t love it on you so much, he’d have told you that you were fucking stupid for risking hypothermia by wearing it.
You let your eyes fall closed as goosebumps prickle across the skin of your arms and you lean back against the headrest. Sharon’s apartment is just another ten minutes away, and then the tower will be an extra thirty on top of that. If you clear your head and pretend like the man beside you is merely a stranger in a shared Uber, and not someone whose tongue was in your mouth only an hour ago, you might be able to get a little sleep before you’re home. But Bucky’s leather jacket sits heavy over your thighs, and his intoxicating scent swirls around the backseat, begging to be inhaled. He’s not a stranger. He’s a fucking coworker who left a hickey on your neck and what feels like a black hole in your gut after offering up some kind of half-baked confession of attraction a couple of days ago. Younger me would fucking swoon. Who the hell says something like that to a girl who thought she was the last person he’d ever be into? Does he get off on looks of confusion and bewilderment?
The car tires screech against asphalt as Sam slams on the brakes and the car struggles to meet his demand. You’re lurching forward in an instant, the seatbelt pulling coarsely across your chest as it locks and holds you in your seat. But it isn’t the sudden unexpected stop that has everything moving in slow motion. It’s Bucky’s hand gripping your mid-thigh tightly over the fabric of his leather jacket. As your back thumps against the seat and your eyes dart out toward the windshield ahead, you see that Sam narrowly avoided running a red light with a traffic camera posted on the street corner. He mumbles something about refusing to get another citation, but your ears are ringing as you cast your gaze downward. Bucky’s hand is still right there, his knuckles nearly turning white with how hard his fingers are digging into your leg. For a moment, a fleeting moment, you let yourself think about how nice his touch feels. You can feel the warmth of his palm even through the leather jacket covering your legs and the chill in your body begins to dissipate. In reality, he’s only been holding onto your thigh for two seconds, but it feels like it’s been two minutes. You let out a shaky breath as the stoplight turns green and Sam starts driving past it. Bucky’s grip loosens and he starts to withdraw his hand, but something within you stops him. You’re reaching out and grabbing his hand in yours, tugging it back to your thigh and resting it atop the leather jacket again. Neither one of you turns to look at the other. You both stare straight ahead, silently letting the moment play out.
It feels as though a fire’s been ignited deep in Bucky’s chest. As you move your hand away from his, he has to turn his head and look out the window to keep from looking down at where he’s touching you. If he gets a glimpse of where his hand is at right now, he won’t be able to scrub the image from his mind no matter how hard he tries. And his hand is only on your damn thigh. He takes even breaths through his nose as he watches the city lights dance around outside. He estimates that Sharon’s apartment complex is less than ten minutes away. What happens after those ten minutes? Will you push his hand away and pretend like the moment never happened?
Each passing minute feels longer and longer as Bucky’s hand remains heavy on your thigh. Two minutes go by before he starts alternating between squeezing your leg and letting his hand rest loosely atop the jacket across your lap. When you reach the third minute, your cheeks are flushed pink and sparks are igniting throughout your body at the slightest touch. There aren’t many thoughts floating around in your head now, which is probably why it’s so easy for you to slide your hand over his and quietly guide it beneath the fabric of the jacket. He doesn’t resist. He doesn’t pull his hand away or fight your movement, and when you feel the warmth of his palm pressing against the bare skin of your thigh, you withdraw your own hand and cover his with the jacket carefully. Bucky’s clenching his teeth as he grips your leg and scrapes his trimmed, blunt nails along the inside of your thigh. He feels you shudder against his touch, but then you seem to press into him a little closer and he can’t fucking breathe. The backseat of this car is suddenly feeling too damn small for either of you, and he wants nothing more than to drag you out at the next red light and find the nearest alley with a brick wall he can back you into.
She’s just cold. Bucky keeps reminding himself that that’s why you’re letting him do this, that that’s why you’re encouraging him to touch you this way. But are you really that cold? Your skin feels almost overheated beneath his hand. He grips your leg again and then starts drawing lazy circles with his fingertips along your inner thigh. He never once tries to move his hand any higher or lower than the exact spot that you placed it in. You’re having a hard time figuring out if that excites you or disappoints you, especially when all you can do is focus on keeping your breathing unnoticeable and eyeing the three other people in the car to make sure no one is the wiser.
The tension in the backseat of the car is so thick that you could cut it with a knife by the time Sam’s pulling into a parking spot in front of Sharon’s building. Bucky’s fingertips dig into the skin of your thigh one last time before he drags his hand out from underneath the jacket and back to his own lap. You start to unbuckle so you can help Sharon out of the car and up to her apartment, but Sam shakes his head at you in the rearview mirror and pushes his own door open quickly.
“We’re not going to make you walk her all the way up there when you’re in heels.” Sam tsks, signaling for Torres to hop out as well. “We’ll take her up and get her settled, just stay in the car.”
“Are you sure? I could do it, she can probably walk fine, she’s just sleepy.” You say softly, glancing over at Sharon as she begins to stir. She shoots you a sideways smile and starts unbuckling her seatbelt with sloppy movements.
“Don’t say that, let them carry me.” Sharon jokes, slurring nearly every single word she speaks. You laugh lightly before pushing a bit of her blonde hair away from her face and leaning over her to open the door on her side.
“Fine, but don’t give them too much trouble.” You concede, watching as Torres takes both of her hands and helps her out of the car. You find your heart racing as she straightens herself up and takes just enough steps forward for Torres to shut the door again, leaving you and Bucky alone in the dark car. You let out a shaky breath as you watch Sam, Torres, and Sharon all move further and further away from the car. You don’t move a muscle. You stay seated right there in the middle of the backseat, painfully aware of how your left side is still brushing against Bucky’s right side.
Bucky’s sitting stiffly in his seat, wondering if you can hear how hard his heart is thumping against his ribcage right now. His eyes flit downward to where his leather jacket has shifted off of your lap a bit and the skin of the thigh that he was just toying with is now exposed. Gritting his teeth, he reaches over slowly and pinches the edge of the jacket with his fingertips before dragging it back up to cover your lap entirely. Your head moves quickly, tilting downward to watch what he’s doing. You swallow thickly as thoughts start swirling around in your head. It’s a mixture of sane, rational thoughts about thanking him for the jacket and dirty, irrational thoughts about putting his hand back where it was before the car stopped here. Even as your mind is formulating a coherent sentence to spit out, you know you should sit here quietly and act like nothing happened. You know so much better than to speak when tensions are running this high, and yet…
“I did kiss you back.” The words roll off of your tongue so quietly that you fear Bucky might not even have heard them. But when he stops staring out his window and drops his gaze down to where his hands rest in his lap, you know he heard you.
“You did.” He says just as quietly, shifting in his seat a bit. You let out a soft sigh and glance over at the empty seat beside you. You know it’ll look a bit odd to Sam and Torres when they get back to the car and see you still sitting in the middle of the backseat. You’re thinking about sliding over and buckling yourself in when movement catches your eye. Bucky’s flesh hand reaches over slowly, and his fingertips take hold of the edge of his jacket just like they did a moment ago, but instead of making sure the fabric covers your thighs, his moves it further down your legs this time. Your breath hitches in your throat as he pushes it down just an inch, revealing the hem of your short dress and the tiniest bit of skin across the tops of your thighs. Goosebumps prickle across your skin, but it has little to do with the fact that you’re still a bit cold. “I put my tongue in your mouth.” He rasps. You’re frozen in place as he starts tracing the hem of your dress with the tip of his index finger. His words hang in the air, swirling around with the thick tension like a heavy fog early in the morning. Bucky leans in as you stare down at his hand. He leans in until his forehead is nearly touching the side of your face and his lips are ghosting around the shell of your ear. “Would I need an excuse to do it again?”
As your eyes flutter closed and you suck in a deep breath, Bucky can only think of one thing. He can only think about how fucking perfect it felt to have you kissing him back, to push his tongue past your lips and really taste you for the first time. Of all the times he’s kissed you for undercover missions, it was never like that. He never dared to let his tongue get involved, not until tonight. Now he fears he might be ruined.
You’re thinking about the same damn thing. You’re thinking about how he tasted like honey and citrus and vanilla all jumbled together. You’re replaying the feeling of him fisting his hand in your hair and pulling you toward him in a way that should’ve done nothing other than piss you off.
Neither of you realizes that you’re both glancing toward the apartment building entrance at the same time, both checking to see if Sam and Torres are anywhere nearby. Are you really about to do this? You finally turn your head to face Bucky, and find him already staring at you intensely. His blue eyes reflect the tiniest bit of light from a street lamp in the distance, and you swear you can see something akin to flames dancing around in his gaze. He stares back at you for one, two, three seconds before the tension hanging in the air between you both shatters. In a flash, you’re shoving the leather jacket onto the floor and moving toward Bucky just as he’s grabbing you by the waist and tugging you toward him. Your lips meet before your bodies do and you’re kissing him so desperately that you almost feel a bit of shame. You’re acting like a horny teenager having her first bit of alone time with a guy on prom night, but as your dress hikes even higher up your hips and Bucky settles you not over his lap, but over his right thigh, every trace of shame disappears. You’re straddling the toned muscles of his thigh as he curls his fingertips against your scalp and takes a handful of your hair in his fist.
“You like when I do this, don’t you?” He asks lowly, nipping at your jawline as he pulls on your hair just enough to tilt your head back. A soft whimper escapes you and you grind down on his thigh, feeling just the right amount of friction as the fabric of your panties meets his jeans. He falters for a second and looks down, his grip on your hair loosening as you grind against his leg again. “Fuck, don’t do that.” He growls, squeezing your hip with his vibranium hand to make sure you’ll be still.
“But it feels so fucking good.” You whisper, fighting against his vibranium hand and dragging your clothed cunt against his thigh again. A guttural sound crawls up his throat and he pulls you in for a kiss, sliding his tongue past your lips instantly. There’s that honey taste again. He doesn’t try to stop you this time when you grind down, so you keep doing it over and over again for a few seconds, giving your clit exactly enough friction to elicit a sense of pleasure. If his side of the backseat was bigger, you’d settle yourself over his lap and grind on the bulge that you know is hiding behind the zipper of his jeans, but you’ll take what you can get.
“Is that enough for you?” Bucky asks roughly, the second he pulls away from your lips and glances down at where you’re grinding on his thigh once again.
“They’ll be back any minute.” You whisper. You place your hands on his shoulders as you crane your neck to glance back at the apartment building again, ensuring Sam and Torres are still out of sight.
“Say it isn’t enough.”
“Bucky—” Both of his hands move down your back and he cups your bare ass beneath the fabric of your dress, squeezing hard enough to leave red fingerprints in your skin. He leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your neck before dragging the tip of his tongue up toward your ear and biting down on your earlobe softly. “It isn’t enough.” You moan out as your back arches and your chest presses against his. Bucky lets out a groan before reaching down with one hand and unbuckling his seatbelt. The thin strap moves between your two bodies quickly before clicking against the door, and then Bucky’s wrapping one arm around your lower back and moving to lay you down in the backseat. He hovers over you as your legs spread a bit to accommodate him, and then he sinks down on top of you. There’s something about feeling the full weight of a man over you that makes it hard to think rationally. That’s why when you feel the outline of his hard cock press against your damp panties, your back arches and his name leaves your lips in such a desperate, sultry moan. That’s why you let him grind and rut against you relentlessly for at least thirty seconds, listening to the sounds of his grunts and heavy breaths as he buries his face in your neck and moves his hips rhythmically. That’s why you let yourself get so dangerously close to an orgasm that you’re circling your own hips against his. It’s because you’re not thinking rationally, not one tiny bit.
You don’t hear it, but Bucky does. He hears the distant click as the door to Sharon’s apartment building swings open. He knows he only has a few seconds left before Sam and Torres will be close enough to see the car, so he presses his hips into you one last time, making sure you feel the entirety of his hard length against your clothed cunt before he looks down into your eyes and memorizes the look of pleasure on your face. He kisses you one last time, savoring the taste of your lips and letting his tongue dance with yours for one fleeting moment. Then, he’s pulling himself away from you and grabbing your hands to pull you back into a sitting position beside him. You’re in a daze as he leans down and scoops his leather jacket up off of the floor. The sound of Sam and Torres’ voices ring out in the distance and you move yourself to the seat Sharon had previously occupied, quickly smoothing out your dress and hair before buckling yourself in. Bucky holds the jacket out to you just as Sam and Torres are nearing the car, and you take it, draping it over your lap carefully.
Sam and Torres’ incessant small talk is the only sound to be heard as the car carries you all back to the compound. You’re keeping your legs tightly crossed and your hands folded neatly in your lap as you stare out your window and try to avoid thinking about what just happened. Adrenaline is still surging through your veins, almost cancelling out the alcohol in your system. On top of that, the sexual frustration that you feel from having not finished what you and Bucky so recklessly started in the backseat is giving you a bit of an attitude. You chew on the inside of your cheek as the damp panties trapped between your thighs begin to feel uncomfortable and the gravity of what you just did, what you would’ve done if Sam and Torres hadn’t showed up when they did, begins to set in. You’re compromising not just the upcoming mission, but your entire working relationship with a damn good partner. And for what? Not even an orgasm. He didn’t even give you that. You have no doubt that he would have if you’d had the time for it. Hell, you were pretty damn close to one with him grinding against you like that and those sounds he was making. Your mind starts to float back into dangerous territory and you bite the inside of your cheek a little harder, nearly drawing blood. You shudder at the sensation of pain, but continue staring out the window, wishing Sam would drive just a little bit faster.
He could cum right now. Bucky could actually cum in his jeans right now, and it’s been a solid ten minutes since he even looked in your direction. His cock is still painfully hard and fighting against the front of his jeans, threatening to pop the zipper if he doesn’t free it soon. He glances around Sam’s headrest to see that he’s already doing five over the speed limit. Still, it’s not fast enough. Not when you just did what you did, and you’re sitting only a foot away with Bucky’s scent all over you. Actually, that’s not even the worst of it. The worst of it all is the fact that you left wet spots on his thigh and over the crotch of his jeans, both of which hold the scent of your arousal. Bucky lets out a heavy sigh and shifts uncomfortably in his seat, adjusting the seatbelt over his lap so it won’t restrict his cock any more than it needs to. He catches you turning your head in his direction out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t dare look back at you. Screwing his eyes shut, he pinches the bridge of his nose with his flesh index finger and thumb as he presses his head back against the headrest. He can survive the last twenty minutes left in this car ride, but as soon as the car pulls up to the tower, he’s getting the fuck out of here.
Sam, ever the courteous and thoughtful designated driver, let you, Bucky, and Torres all out of the car right at the front entrance to the tower before heading off to park the car in the underground garage. Bucky almost decided to stay in the car and take the ride down to the garage with Sam, just to keep from being stuck in the elevator with you. However, it turns out that Torres is pretty damn good at icing over the fiery tension in a small space. Bucky is leaned against the back wall of the elevator, staring at the leather jacket hanging off of your shoulders as you stand a few feet in front of him. You’re so close to the metal doors that if you stuck your tongue out, you’d probably be licking them. Torres stands oblivious off to one side, scrolling through his phone absentmindedly as the elevator carries the three of you closer and closer to the main living quarters.
“Have you two gotten started on the dancing lessons yet?” He asks casually, without looking up from his phone. You say nothing. You stay still, staring at the metal in front of your face as the elevator continues on. Bucky clears his throat lightly and you hear him shift somewhere behind you.
“Tomorrow.” Bucky replies stiffly, offering no more than that single word. You turn your head the tiniest bit to see Torres nod, still looking down at the device in his hands.
“Saving it for the last minute?” He jokes. Your eyes dart upward and you see that you’re only a few floors away from the living quarters. “Fury wants you guys back in the past within the next two days.” You swallow hard at the reminder as an uneasy feeling settles in your gut.
“There isn’t going to be much to teach.” Bucky’s tone is flat, but still somewhat polite. You see Torres nod in your peripheral vision, and then the elevator is dinging and it’s slowing to a stop. You’re hurrying out the second the doors begin sliding open. You hear Torres’ phone ring and he mumbles something about taking the call down in the conference room, but you’re already halfway through the main living area. Your heels click against the hard floor as you make your way toward the dark hall, refusing to look back at the super soldier who can only be a few yards behind you.
“You don’t have to walk so damn fast.” Bucky mutters, watching you storm ahead. You’re still about ten feet from your door when you slow down and turn on your heel. Now you’re standing there looking at him as he continues walking toward his own door at a normal pace. You stand there and stare at the man you didn’t want to look at for another second tonight. He’s nothing but danger and bad decisions and you’re learning not to trust yourself around him anywhere but in the field.
“My feet hurt.” You say matter-of-factly, narrowing your eyes at him. You watch as he comes within a couple of feet of you and turns left to face his door that’s right across from yours. “I want to take off these heels and this dress and shower and just…” Your voice trails off and you catch Bucky looking over his shoulder at you with a raised brow. “And just sleep this off.” You finish, making it clear that you’re talking about whatever it is that’s between you right now. He turns to face you right as you’re turning your back to him and reaching for your own door handle.
“Sleep it off, huh?” He scoffs, noting that you’re still keeping his leather jacket draped over your shoulders. “Whatever this is, it’ll just be gone in the morning?” You keep your hand on the downturned door handle but you pause, not yet pushing the door open fully. You shrug your shoulders and Bucky watches as his jacket moves up and down once around your frame. “Kinda hard to forget what happened tonight if you wake up and see my leather jacket beside your bed in the morning.” You snort out an amused laugh before casting a glare at Bucky over your shoulder.
“Maybe you should take your jacket back then.” You respond calmly. As you’re facing your door, letting your head turn forward once again, you hear Bucky shuffling behind you slowly. A chill spreads beneath the surface of your skin as he grows closer and closer, until his body heat is enveloping you and his proximity has your hand faltering on the door handle. When he comes to a stop right behind you, so close that one deep breath from you would have your back pressing against his chest, he braces himself against your doorframe. Both of his arms are outstretched, his hands grasping the doorframe on either side of you as he leans in close to your ear, just as he’s done so many times tonight.
“But it looks so damn good on you.” He coos, taking a chance to inhale your sweet scent after he speaks. His breath tickles the side of your face as the wetness in your panties suddenly feels a little less uncomfortable and a little more exciting. You’d like to say your body is beyond your control when you draw in a deep breath and let go of the door handle. When you let your palms glide over the surface of your door and arch your back just enough to push your ass against the front of Bucky’s jeans. You’re met with the same hard-on he was rubbing all over your clothed cunt in the car just a little while ago and warmth pools low in your stomach. Bucky’s hips lean in, pressing himself against your ass a little harder as his flesh knuckles turn white and his vibranium hand whirs with exertion against the doorframe. He gives you a chance to open the door and disappear for the rest of the night, but when you circle your hips back against him a second time, his hands quickly move down to your hips and he pushes your front into the door firmly. He crowds in behind you, dragging his lips over the skin of your neck as you tilt your head to the side. He makes sure your bodies never part as he kisses down the column of your throat and bites down lightly on your collarbone. You grind your ass into him one more time and his control starts slipping.
“Keep that up and I’ll fuck you against this goddamn door.” Bucky rasps against your neck, tightening his hold on your hips to keep you from grinding anymore. You wriggle in his grasp, but he only curls his fingers against your dress even more, before dragging his lips back up toward your ear. “You’ll wake up tomorrow wondering why the fuck you can’t walk.”
“I’d blame the heels.” You whisper, surprising yourself at the fact that you’re going along with this. But everything he’s saying, everything he’s doing makes it hard for you to think straight. Bucky lets out a surprisingly gentle, genuine laugh before letting go of your hips and tugging his jacket off of your shoulders. He steps back suddenly, leaving you a bit cold and wanting for his touch. You turn around to watch as he walks over to his own door and pushes it open. “That’s it? You just walk away after that?”
“You can’t stand me, remember?” He replies. You can hear his smirk showing through his tone. “Should be easy for you to sleep it off.”
With that last line, Bucky’s shutting his door and you’re left in the dark hallway alone. You have half a mind to kick his door in and ruin your pretty heels, but the other half of you knows he’s doing the right thing. What did you really want him to do? If you’d invited him in and spent the night with him, you have no doubt that your professional life would’ve gone to shit before the end of the week. If he’d invited you in, or even worse, fucked you against right there in the hall like he’d said, the outcome would’ve been the same. You can’t mix work and play. You know that all too well. But why is it turning out to be so damn fun to blur the lines with him?
You take your time peeling off your dress and heels, soaking in a long, hot shower, and then getting ready for bed. By the time you’re flicking off the bathroom lights and pulling back the plush covers on your bed, it’s already a bit past one in the morning and the aching between your legs hasn’t ceased. You refuse to indulge your fantasies after having already made yourself orgasm once within the last twenty-four hours at the mere thought of the man across the hall. Twice would be too much, way too much when you’re actively trying to tell yourself that you need to start keeping things strictly professional with him. You choose to lie in bed and scroll through your phone for a bit, but still, Bucky remains at the forefront of your mind.
Bucky vows not to touch his cock in the shower ever again. Tonight was the last time. As he towels himself dry and avoids looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he’s surprised at the fact that he doesn’t feel so much shame this time. He has a feeling you might’ve even been flattered by just how much cum ended up being washed down the drain after he thought of nothing but you as he stroked himself. Okay, maybe that’s wishful thinking. But seriously, with the things you did to him…with him tonight, he knows that you wouldn’t have kicked his ass for what he had to do in the shower. He has a feeling you might’ve even been tempted to do something like that for yourself after you parted ways.
One text. That’s all you need to send to give yourself a little peace of mind and maybe set things back on the right track with Bucky. It’s why you’re staring at the typed out message on your phone screen and your thumb is hovering over the send button. It’s late. Maybe too late to be sending him a text. But you feel like you have to do it. You’ll clear things up now and tomorrow everything will go back to normal, or as normal as things can be before a mission like this. When you hit send, let out a deep breath and let your head fall back on your pillow a bit dramatically.
When Bucky’s phone vibrates on his nightstand, he’s rolling over and grasping it in one hand almost instantly. Holding it over his face and quickly dimming the brightness of his lock screen, he sees your name at the top of the notification and he narrows his eyes. How many times have you texted him since you’ve started working together? Once? Maybe twice? His heart thumps a little harder than it previously had been as he unlocks his phone and reads your message. You don’t need any more convincing? His tongue darts out and wets his lips as he sends his overly simple response through.
Two question marks. That’s all you see as you stare at his text. Heaving a sigh, you type out a slightly longer message, making sure you’re abundantly clear. You need to make sure that he knows he doesn’t have to keep going with whatever act this is that he’s been putting on the last couple of days. If he’s only been fucking around with you to convince you that you’re the one his 40s self would approach in a bar, he doesn’t have to keep doing it. You’re thoroughly convinced. It’s only a few seconds after you’ve sent your message that you see the little gray typing bubbles pop up on his end of the message window.
You watch those three little dots with bated breath as your thumbs hover over your phone screen. When his final text comes through, your heart rate nearly doubles and warmth rushes up to color your cheeks a soft shade of pink.
Shit. You exhale noisily, before clicking your phone off and setting it on your nightstand. Your mind starts rushing back to all of the missions you’ve worked together, all of the times you bantered back and forth or argued and yet, every mission was carried out seamlessly. Was the tension between you two something that you’ve been misreading up until now? Had you been mistaking it for the type of tension felt between two people who don’t really get along, when all of this time it was that kind of thick, suffocating tension that you only find between two people who are oblivious as to how right for each other they really are?
You wrap yourself up in your bedsheets and let the darkness of your room envelope you. No fucking way. You do not have feelings for James Bucky Barnes. And even more than that, he most definitely does not have feelings for you. There’s simply no way.
When you finally drift off to sleep, what happened in the car on the way back from the bar replays in your dreams on a loop, growing slightly filthier with each rerun. You wake up three hours in with a pillow wedged between your legs and your hips instinctively grinding down into it in search of friction. You wake up a second time just before sunrise and you almost can’t take the ache between your legs.
If you really couldn’t stand him, if this was really nothing, you would’ve been able to sleep it off. And that scares the shit out of you.
Glimmers of early morning sunlight peek through your curtains, casting your room in a hazy yellow glow. Stretching out your legs beneath the covers, you rub the sleep from your eyes and blink a few times. Your gaze settles on the white ceiling above and you notice a slight twinge of pain behind your eyes as a headache begins to set in.
The night before replays in your mind, almost like a highlight reel, as you push the covers back and move to sit up on the side of your bed. You see yourself being pulled away from that stranger in the bar, being pulled to Bucky’s chest as he kissed you like you belonged to him and no one else. You squeeze your eyes shut and massage your temples with the middle and index fingers of your right hand. You see Bucky’s hand on your thigh in the car, and then him lying you down in the back seat before crawling on top of you and…fuck.
Tonight had nothing to do with convincing you. His last text to you from just a few hours ago is displayed across a billboard in the forefront of your mind. You rush through pulling on an outfit for the gym, settling on a lazy hairstyle and light makeup to hide the dark circles under your eyes from the poor sleep you got last night. It might be Sunday and you might not have much to do today, but you know good and well that sitting here in your room is only going to send you straight into a spiral of thoughts you don’t need to be dwelling on right now.
You listen carefully through your door, straining to detect any sounds that might let you know someone else is up and about this early. When you’re sure the coast is clear, you make a dash for the elevator and ride it all the way down to the gym.
Sam’s sitting in the conference room with Fury and a very hungover Sharon just a little past eight. He’d probably be laughing if she didn’t look so miserable. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail and the dark circles under her eyes are aging her by about five years. He can tell her head must be throbbing by the way she keeps squinting at the bright lights overhead and glancing over at the light switch across the room. Maybe he should’ve made an effort to end the fun a little earlier last night, but in his defense, none of you really made an effort to do that. Besides, he had no idea Fury would want to see them first thing on a Sunday morning.
“We’ll be sending you in tomorrow to bring Peggy Carter up to speed and establish a safehouse for the mission.” Fury explains slowly, eyeing Sharon as he speaks. She nods along, keeping her hands folded in her lap beneath the table. “You’ll have one day to get it done.”
“It won’t be a problem.” Sharon affirms confidently, letting her eyes shift between Fury and Sam. “One day is plenty of time. What stipulations do you have for the safehouse?”
“As long as they have a place to sleep and a door to lock at night, I don’t care. Whatever Peggy can help you find is going to have to do. They’ll only be there for two nights.” Fury responds. His phone chimes and he quickly stands up from the table, pushing his chair in gently. He casts Sam and sideways glance as he heads for the door.
“Maybe don’t take her out drinking tonight.” Fury advises, letting out a half-hearted laugh as he reaches for the door handle. “And let me know how those dance lessons go later. If those two can’t get along long enough to make it through one song, I have half a mind to scrap the whole damn mission.”
“They got along pretty well last night.” Sam snorts, remembering the way Bucky kissed you in the bar. Sure, he was the one that encouraged him to do it, but Sam knows for damn certain that it was anything but fake. He wonders for a moment just how complicated this mission might end up being with the two of you being thrust into the past without backup readily available. You’ve always worked well on missions before, but this is so different. This is the kind of mission that’ll make or break a partnership, and he’s very much aware that your partnership is somewhere on a tightrope between being rock solid and completely falling apart at the seams. If he had to place a bet, he’d say neither of you come back from this one the same as when you went in. Something’s going to change.
It doesn’t feel real. As you stand on a platform that looks like something straight out of a sci-fi movie, wearing a quantum suit in the darkest shade of black you’ve ever seen, you feel a bit like an imposter. It should be Sharon in your position right now. You know she was just in this same spot yesterday, heading back in time to establish a safehouse and make the first contact with Peggy Carter, but still. Who the hell decided that you’re qualified not only to run ops in this century, but to send you back to the last one to run an op as well?
“Hey.” Bucky says quietly, drawing you out of your spiraling thoughts. You turn your head to the right and take in the sight of him as he takes the few steps up onto the platform. He moves to stand directly in front of you, taking in the apprehension written all over your face. You tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear and let out a shaky breath as you meet his gaze. “Just another mission.” He assures you, keeping his voice low so only you can hear it. You nod, but you’re sorely unconvinced. This is not just another mission. You know it and he knows it.
“It should’ve been Sharon.” You mumble, averting your gaze and choosing to watch Bruce, Scott, and Torres as they work seamlessly behind a table of screens and electronic devices. Bucky shakes his head and narrows his eyes at you, but you refuse to look at him again.
“Okay, let me hit a few main points before we do this.” Bruce says suddenly, clapping his oversized, green hands together as he approaches the edge of the platform. “You have one roundtrip each, please make every effort to come back from this together. You can come back earlier if you have to but for the love of all things scientific, don’t come back later than planned. What feels like five minutes to you might be fifteen years here.”
“Bucky, you’ll keep your watch on at all times in the past. Take that thing off and lose it and you’re stuck in the forties, which I get might not be all that unappealing to a man who’s over a hundred years old, but still…keep it on.” Scott says pointedly. You glance down at your own time-space GPS device. While Bucky’s does resemble a normal wrist watch, yours was made to look more like an inconspicuous necklace so you could continue wearing it in the forties and still be dressed for the time period. “Don’t let anyone take that off of you.” Scott directs his warning at you. You nod curtly, reaching up and running your fingers along the dainty device lightly.
“Try not to go changing the past.” Bruce takes over again, but he’s backing away from the platform now and moving back toward the table of screens and devices. “Stick to the mission. Get in with the Howling Commandos, get what you need from the HYDRA base, and then get the hell out of there on time. Are we all on the same page?” Both you and Bucky nod in unison, and you finally face forward to meet his piercing stare.
“It could only be you.” Bucky whispers across the short distance between the two of you. Warmth floods your chest and you barely hear the sound of Bruce beginning to count backwards from twenty.
“I told you I didn’t need any more convincing.” You remind him, matching his low volume. “I’m here, I’m doing this. I just think Sharon would’ve been the smarter choice.” Bucky shakes his head at you almost disappointingly as Bruce reaches the ten second mark. You see something flash in Bucky’s eyes, something passionate and intense as you ready yourself to activate the helmet and face mask on your suit. When Bruce calls out eight seconds left, Bucky rushes forward, taking two steps before grasping the sides of your face firmly in his hands.
His lips are soft and gentle when they meet yours, but in less than a second he’s kissing you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance to. It sucks the air right out of your lungs and sets a fluttering sensation off deep in your stomach, but then he’s pulling away and stepping back. You activate your helmets and face masks at the same time, right as Bruce is nearing the end of his count.
“Three, two, one…”
With a flash of light and an unusual feeling that the gravity beneath your feet has just increased by a hundred-fold, you’re being dragged through time and space, hurtling toward a period of time that you’re sure you don’t belong in.
Rain pours down heavily on the roof of the car as Peggy drums her fingertips along the top of the steering wheel. She glances down at the coordinates scrawled on a small scrap of paper for the fifth time, even though she knows she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be. She can’t help but feel a little on edge. The street light perched above her car gives off just enough light for her to lean over in front of the rearview mirror and reapply her red lipstick one last time. It’s a bit of a nervous habit really, because it’s not like she has much reason for her makeup to look perfect with the role she’s about to play. A glorified cab driver. That’s what she is tonight. A flash of light in the distance catches her attention, and it isn’t lightning. She turns the key in the ignition and watches as her headlights suddenly illuminate the alley ahead.
She isn’t quite sure what she expected the two of you to look like. She should’ve assumed that Sergeant Barnes would age well, but the fact that he’s barely aged has her raising a brow as she studies him from a distance. She notes the fact that he seems taller and much more muscular than the Sergeant Barnes she’s come to know through Steve and the Howling Commandos.
“Welcome to London.” Bucky mutters under his breath, as he raises a hand to shield his eyes from the bright headlights ahead. He squints slightly and catches sight of Peggy’s characteristic red lip and brown curls through the windshield of a dark Morris eight. You cut your eyes to the side and take in the sight of him, with his hair already soaked through and rainwater dripping down the side of his face. Before you have a chance to say anything back, he’s moving to stand behind you and placing a hand against the middle of your back, lightly guiding you toward the car.
The rain sends a chill racing from your head to your toes as Bucky reaches past you, tugs the front passenger door open and ushers you into the seat. He leans down before closing the door, letting his scent invade your space as he looks past you to Peggy.
“Peggy Carter.” He says with a soft smile, looking at her as if he’s seeing an old friend after so long apart. You’re stuck staring at him. You’ve never seen this look on his face before and it lets you see him in a slightly different light.
“Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy’s British accent is almost musical in a way. You finally turn your head and get a good look at her. She looks perfectly put together and polished with her bright red lipstick, styled hair, and navy blue pantsuit. “If you’d like to hop in and allow your partner here to close her door, we just might make it to your safehouse before you’re both thoroughly soaked.” A laugh slips past Bucky’s lips, but he listens to her and steps away from the door, closing it for you gently. Once he’s settled in the backseat, Peggy shoots a sideways smile in your direction before putting the car into reverse. “Does he always listen that well?”
“Not at all.” You respond honestly.
Peggy guides the car backwards out of the alley and onto the very sleepy, rainy streets of London. It’s an odd feeling to be in such a major city but see so little traffic or nightlife. You’re taking everything in with widened eyes, noting all of the little differences between the forties and the time period that you come from. Bucky’s soaking it in as well, but instead of exciting him, it relaxes him. He sinks into the backseat and lets out a deep breath, watching as the old buildings and signs roll past his window. He almost feels at home here.
The drive to the safehouse on the outskirts of the city doesn’t take anywhere near as long as it would’ve taken in the modern world. When Peggy turns into the long driveway of one of Howard Stark’s many homes, you’re starting to feel the effects of time travel. Your head feels a little fuzzy and you have a sensation almost similar to that of motion sickness. Peggy says something about the house being a bit small for two people, mentioning it being one of Stark’s occasional residences for when he travels alone.
“Everything you need will be inside. Clothes, food, a few choice weapons for the mission at hand. Please let me know if I missed anything, but I think I was rather thorough.” Peggy says cordially as she leads the way up the paved driveway toward the front door. You take a few steps away from the car but stop short, scrunching your eyes shut as a heavy wave of nausea hits. Bucky’s behind you in an instant, letting his palm press against your lower back as he stands at your side and leans over to look at your face.
“What’s going on?” He asks in a hushed tone with concern lacing his words.
“I’m good, it’s just the time travel thing.” Bruce made you both read an obscene amount of research on the potential physiological effects of time travel, but assured you that you probably wouldn’t experience any of them. Yet, here you are, experiencing a bout of time sickness before you’ve even made it into the safehouse. Bucky scrutinizes your expression, searching your eyes for any sign that you’re downplaying whatever’s going on with you. You wave a dismissive hand at him as rain begins to come down a little heavier.
“Are you two coming?” Peggy asks from the door up ahead, looking at you both with a raised brow. Bucky turns his head for a second to glance at her, but quickly looks back at you as his hand falls away from your back. He watches you carefully as you put on an unbothered expression and take a couple of steps forward. Shit. The nausea increases ten-fold and suddenly you’re rushing over to the edge of the driveway and leaning over with your hands on the knees of your quantum suit, losing the contents of your stomach all in one go. Bucky’s beside you within a second, gathering your hair up in both of his hands and holding it back behind your shoulders.
“Don’t say it.” Bucky warns as you turn your head to look up at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
“It should’ve been Sharon.” You groan, straightening up and tugging your hair away from his grasp. He shakes his head at you and you can already see an argument gearing up in his head, so you brush past him, feeling significantly better now that you’re completely empty.
Peggy can’t seem to stop herself from reading into the way you and Bucky interact. When she met Sharon just yesterday, it was made abundantly clear that you and Sergeant Barnes are partners but don’t always play nice with each other. From what she’s seeing now, Bucky wants nothing more than to play nice with you. She has to wonder if the bickering and constant tension that Sharon talked about is a façade, a thick wool blanket over what’s really at the core of your partnership.
You feel fine just long enough to run your fingertips over the green and cream floral wallpaper that covers the kitchen walls and admire the pristine white oven that anyone’s great grandmother would love. But the moment you turn your attention to the living area just a few steps outside of the kitchen, a fresh wave of nausea begins taking up residence in the pit of your stomach and you breathe in deeply through your nose. Bucky watches you apprehensively from the foyer, waiting to see what you’ll do. He can tell you feel miserable. He can tell you want to get a good look at the safehouse and settle yourself in, but you’re looking a little green and fatigued as you move toward a large dark green couch in the living room.
You sink into the couch and let your head fall back against the cushion behind you. As you reach up and wrap your fingers around your necklace, your quantum suit deactivates and you’re left in leggings and a black pull-over. Bucky glances around the house, noting the short hallway that leads to the master bedroom and what looks to be French doors leading to a study off to one side. He takes a few steps forward until he’s moving around the couch, and then seats himself in a dainty looking floral-patterned lounge chair that’s angled toward you across from a coffee table.
“Is this really just a time travel thing?” Bucky finally speaks. Your eyes flutter open and you take in the sight of him in that lounge chair. If you didn’t feel so shitty you might laugh at how out of place he looks in such a pretty little chair.
“What else would it be?” You ask. Bucky watches closely as you run your fingers through your damp hair and stare right back at him. He narrows his eyes at you and cocks his head to the side and you immediately know what he’s thinking. What is it with men always thinking that a woman is pregnant if she pukes? You just fucking time traveled and he still feels the need to rule it out?
“I’m not pregnant.” You sigh, letting your eyes fall closed again as you kick your shoes off and draw your knees up toward your chest. “I can’t be.”
“Can’t be?”
“I haven’t done the thing that you need to do in order to be pregnant in a long time.” Bucky finds relief in your words. He didn’t really think you were pregnant, but he sure as hell likes knowing that you haven’t slept with anyone recently. He leans back in his chair and lets his gaze float around the comfortable space. The homey kitchen makes him think of his mom. The wooden floor boards make him think of how carefully he’d have to tiptoe around his childhood home to keep from letting his parents know that he was awake past his bedtime. The slight chill in the air guides his eyes over to the fireplace that spreads across one wall of the living room. If it gets any colder he’ll have to start a fire.
“I kissed you.” He says evenly, turning his head back to you. You open your eyes and give him a hard stare, trying to read his indecipherable expression as his blue eyes zero in on your face.
“Yeah, you keep doing that.” Your nausea worsens and you draw your knees up even tighter against your chest before dropping your head down to rest on them. Bucky pushes himself out of his chair and heads for the kitchen. You listen as he opens and closes a few drawers, rummaging around for something. A few seconds later you hear the kitchen sink running and then it cuts off. Bucky stands there, wringing out a wet cloth as he purses his lips.
“You haven’t stopped me.” He points out. He turns on his heel and carries the wet cloth in your direction. When you feel his weight sink into the couch cushion beside you, you lift your head from your knees and find yourself face to face with him. He lifts the wet cloth to the side of your neck and dabs at it gently, watching as your eyes close and you take a deep breath in.
“I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Sarcasm drips from every word. Bucky slides the cloth to the back of your neck and holds it there for a moment.
“He’s going to try to kiss you tomorrow.” Bucky seems almost annoyed with his own statement and you steal a sideways glance at him as he moves the wet cloth to your forehead. He seems to almost resent the way his younger self behaved.
“He moves that fast?” Bucky nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he contemplates how much to tell you.
“You’ll meet and he’ll ask you to dance. You’ll dance and he’ll ask if you want to leave the bar. He’ll take you out into the city, try to show you a good time.” Bucky slides the wet cloth down the side of your face until it’s right below your chin. You look into his eyes, watching as his gaze darts down to your lips for the most fleeting moment. “He moves fast.”
“I can handle it.” You assure him, but your words come out a lot quieter than you intended. Bucky pulls his hand and the cloth away from your chin and dabs your neck with it again.
“I know.”
“Then why does it seem like you’re worried?” Bucky shrugs his shoulders as he focuses in on the skin of your neck. He’s staring at the spot he once marked with his own lips, dragging the cool cloth over it slowly.
“I don’t like the thought of him touching you.”
“Bucky…” Your stomach churns violently and you’re rushing off of the couch at lightning speed. Your feet carry you down the hall, into the master bedroom, and into the bathroom quickly. You’re lucky you make it in time to drop to your knees in front of the toilet before the last remnants inside of you start to come out. You hear Bucky step into the bathroom only a second later and he’s tugging your hair back just like he did in the driveway earlier. “Don’t say shit like that.” You groan, grasping the wet cloth that Bucky’s holding out beside your head. You wipe at your lips and reach up to flush the toilet as you stay in place, not trusting that your gut is finished betraying you.
“Like what?”
“You shouldn’t care if someone else touches me. We’re partners. We can’t keep blurring the lines like this.” You explain. Bucky’s hands stay firmly in your hair as he waits to see if you’ll get sick a third time.
“The lines have been blurred for a long time.”
“Doesn’t mean we should keep blurring them.” You assert. Though you don’t peer over your shoulder to look at Bucky, you can sense the look of frustration that’s written all over his face. He lets out a weighted sigh before moving away from you and reaching over to turn on the shower. As the sound of running water fills the room, you gauge the heaviness in your stomach and decide that you definitely feel better. You remember Bruce’s little pamphlets saying that the first hour after moving through timelines is when you experience the most side effects, and you’re nearing the forty-five-minute mark now. You lean away from the toilet and drop the lid down before pushing yourself up to stand. Though you feel a tiny bit wobbly on your feet, the nausea is mostly gone and the steam from the shower is making you feel a little less chilly.
“I’ll go grab you some clothes.” Bucky says quietly as he brushes past you and heads back into the bedroom. You take the free moment to search the contents of the bathroom drawers until you find a new toothbrush and some toothpaste. Bucky comes back in when you’re brushing your teeth in front of the fogged-up mirror. “I get the feeling you aren’t going to wear these.” He says with a smirk, dropping a deep red set of folded pajamas beside the sink. You give him a wary side-eye, tucking the toothbrush into the side of your cheek before reaching for the pile of fabric. As soon as you unfold the top, you realize it’s a long sleeve button down shirt with matching pants. It looks like the kind of pajamas you see families wear on Christmas day in lifestyle magazines. Shaking your head, you fold the top and set it back on the countertop. Bucky crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorframe as you bend over the sink and spit out a mouthful of water and toothpaste.
“That’s all there is?” You rinse off the toothbrush and set it along the side of the sink before reaching down and gripping the bottom of your shirt. You already have it pulled over your head by the time you realize what you’re doing. Bucky stands frozen in the doorway, staring at you with narrowed eyes as you drop the shirt to the floor at your feet. He tilts his head to the side, never letting his eyes stray from your face even as you stand before him in a bra.
“How is this not blurring the lines?” He questions, jutting his chin out at you. You narrow your eyes back at him and cross your arms over your chest, matching his stance. There’s a palpable heat in the air, and it’s not just from the steamy shower. As you and Bucky stand there staring each other down, each of you refusing to break first, tensions soar and you find yourself itching to push him out of the bathroom and shut the door. He can see the idea forming in your head so he speaks up before you actually have a chance to go through with it. “There was a floor-length nightgown if you’d rather wear that.” He says with another signature smirk. You shake your head firmly.
“Were t-shirts not a thing in the forties?”
“You’re going to wear a t-shirt when there’s only one bed?” Bucky asks, raising a brow. A genuine laugh erupts from your chest as you uncross your arms and run your fingers through your damp hair.
“The bed’s all yours, Bucky.” You say, raising your hands up in a gesture that makes it clear you don’t want the bed for yourself. “I’m taking the couch.” Bucky scoffs as he reaches over for the folded pajamas beside the sink. As he steps out of the bathroom, he gives you a look you can’t quite read. It’s something between longing and frustration and it makes your cheeks feel warm. He pulls the door shut behind him, leaving you alone in the steamy bathroom. As you strip your clothes off and step under the stream of water, so many things are stuck in your head. The way Bucky rushed over and held your hair back not only the first time you puked, but the second time as well. He cares. You know he cares. He cares and it scares the shit out of you. The way he pressed a wet cloth to your neck and sat with you on the couch, even if he was using the moment to warn you about his younger self and reveal a little hint of how he feels about you. I don’t like the thought of him touching you. Bucky’s confession may not have surprised you, but it wasn’t what you were expecting him to say. What did he think was going to happen when he insisted you be a part of this mission? He could’ve let Sharon handle it and he never would’ve had to deal with the jealousy or possessiveness or whatever it is that’s coursing through him right now. But no, it had to be you. It could only be you. As you scrub a sweet-smelling soap into your skin, your mind wanders back to that moment on the platform earlier today. He kissed you. He kissed you in front of some of your coworkers without a care in the world. The lines are so fucking blurred that you wonder if he even knows where they are anymore, or if he cares. You look down as soapy suds circle around the drain near your feet. Do you know where they are? Do you care?
Bucky rummages around in the bedroom until he finds a plain white t-shirt that he’s sure Peggy meant to be for him. It looks like it’ll probably be a bit oversized on you, so he tosses it onto the bed and stands still for a moment, listening to the sound of the shower running through the wall. He knows you feel the same thing he feels. Every time he’s kissed you, he’s reminded that you feel it. Do you try to deny it because you don’t want to feel it? Sometimes he just wants to grab you and ask what it is that keeps you from being real with him.
Bucky shakes his head, trying his best to clear all thoughts of you from his mind, before tugging his shirt over his head and dropping it on the bed. He leaves his tactical pants on as he moves through the house, searching for an extra pillow and blanket. He sure as hell isn’t going to let you take the couch, especially not a couch made eighty years before the couches you’re used to sitting on. You’ll wake up in the morning with a stiff neck and aching back. He’ll take the couch and leave you the bed.
It’s just a few minutes later that you’re stepping out of the bathroom, wrapped tightly in a towel as you pad across the bedroom floor quietly. You glance around but see no sign of Bucky. Eyeing the crisp white t-shirt on the bed, you can tell he left it for you. You run your fingers over it while clutching the towel around your chest with one hand.
“Is that what you wanted?” Bucky’s voice is low and gravelly as he speaks from the bedroom doorway behind you. Clutching the towel a little tighter, you turn to face him with the white shirt fisted in one hand. Your eyes roam over the expanse of his bare chest, coasting down to the ripples of his abs and the v-line that so prominently drags your gaze even further down to the front of his tactical pants. He smirks at the way you’re ogling him, but he doesn’t mention it. When you finally tear your eyes away from him, the dresser beside the doorway catches your eye. You move closer to it and rummage around in one of the top drawers until you find a pair of simple black panties. Bucky’s eyes follow your movements carefully. He leans against the doorframe just like he did in the bathroom earlier, keeping his gaze trained on your face as you lean over and guide the panties up your legs beneath the towel. You’re just careful enough to make sure not to flash Bucky, but you wonder if his eyes would even stray from your face if you flashed him.
“It’s fine.” You say, referring to the t-shirt. “Are you gonna shower?” You ask, trying to keep your gaze from drifting down his torso again. You turn away from the dresser and head back for the foot of the bed, dropping the shirt onto the mattress before peeling the towel away from your body.
Bucky stiffens in the doorway as you let your towel fall to your feet. He’s never seen you this way. As you stand there with your back exposed, wearing nothing but a pair of black panties, he has to bite down on his bottom lip to keep from saying something stupid. Who’s blurring the lines now? He wants to point out your hypocrisy, to make it blatantly obvious, but he stays quiet as you tug the t-shirt over your head and slide your arms through the short sleeves.
“Did you want to keep staring or were you going to shower?” Your voice rings out playfully as you cut your eyes at Bucky over your shoulder. He tamps down a groan at the way you look at him through your lashes, but then he’s moving toward the bathroom door.
“If I find you on the couch when I get out, I’m moving you myself.” He threatens, not daring to steal another look at you as he nears the bathroom.
“I already called it.” You shrug, bending over to scoop your damp towel off the floor.
“Take the bed, unless you want me joining you on that damn couch and blurring the lines even more.”
As you settle into the bed, letting go of your signature stubborn nature for the time being, Bucky’s all you can think about. It’s not the fact that he looked undeniably attractive standing there in the doorway without a shirt on. It’s not the fact that he insisted you take the bed and leave him with the surely uncomfortable couch. It’s every little thing he’s said and done in between that has your heart racing and your mind reeling. What if, just this once, you let yourself explore the tension? What if instead of waiting for the tension to snap like a twig, instead of waiting for him to lay you down in the backseat of someone else’s car in the heat of the moment, you took the initiative and tried to figure out what the hell this is between the two of you? He was right when he said that the lines have been blurred for a long time. Maybe instead of trying to tiptoe around and avoid blurring them, you should just shift them. Shift the lines and see if things end up crashing down in flames. If everything goes horribly, it’s not like you had anything to lose. But if things go well? A shiver runs down your spine and you tuck yourself in underneath the covers of the oversized bed. You sink into the pillow behind your head and let your eyes fall closed as you imagine a moment where your field partner becomes something more. You imagine a moment where all the stolen kisses and touches lately stop being so stolen, and instead are given and taken freely. You imagine what it might feel like to stop running and fighting against this thing that you feel so strongly. Warmth spreads through your body and you relax against the mattress.
When Bucky steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later and catches sight of you curled up in bed with your eyes closed and the covers pulled up to your shoulders, he lets out a quiet sigh of relief. He really thought you’d try to tough it out and sleep on the couch. He stands in the doorway between the bathroom and bedroom, fiddling with the dog tags around his neck and wondering if he should look for some pajamas of his own instead of crashing on the couch in just a pair of black boxers. When he glances over at you again and sees the peaceful look on your face, he can’t bring himself to go digging through the dresser or closet and risk waking you. Though it’s chilly in the house, he could make it through the night just fine by starting a fire in the living room fireplace and using the spare blanket he set out on the couch while you showered. As he starts moving forward, his dog tags clink against his bare chest and the wooden floor creaks under his feet on the second step. He stills and holds his breath, not even moving to look over his shoulder and see if he’s woken you with those little sounds. After waiting a second, takes another cautious step forward and the floor creaks a little louder. Fuck it. He makes it to the door quickly, with only a few more creaks of wood beneath his feet, but as he exits the doorway into the hall, he hears you stir behind him.
“Bucky?” Your soft sleepy voice stops him in his tracks. He exhales deeply, feeling a bit guilty about waking you but loving the way you sound when you’ve just woken up. He turns around in the doorway and faces you. You’re propped up on one elbow, squinting at him through the dark room.
“If I knew the floors were so loud I would’ve just slept in the shower.” He says halfheartedly, speaking quietly to match the sleepy mood of the house.
“I wasn’t really asleep.” You whisper back. Your eyes follow the curve of his vibranium arm down until you’re studying the black and gold fingertips that hang at his side. Bucky raises a brow at you.
“You were asleep.” He murmurs, cocking his head to the right. He glances over at the empty side of the bed, noting how little space you take up even when you have your legs stretched out.
“I was just thinking.”
“About what?” Bucky wonders aloud. He takes a step forward and leans against the doorframe like he’s done multiple times tonight. He crosses his arms over his chest as you let your head fall away from your hand and lay back on your pillow again. You stare up at the ceiling as nervousness begins to swell up in your chest. You bite down on your bottom lip and screw your eyes shut, holding your breath for a second before deciding to speak again.
“Blurring the lines.” As you lay there in the dark, refusing to prop yourself back up to look at Bucky, your heart starts beating wildly against your ribcage. He’s silent for a second too long and it has you regretting opening your mouth. When you hear the wood floor creak, you force yourself to open your eyes. Pushing yourself up on your elbows, you see Bucky moving toward the bed slowly. His dog tags swing with each step, clanging against his chest a couple of times before he reaches your side of the bed. You watch with bated breath as he nudges your legs through the covers. Getting the hint, you sit up and pull your legs in closer, drawing your knees to your chest. Bucky sits down on the side of the bed but keeps his face cast downward at the floor.
“That night you tried to sleep it off…” His voice trails off as he leans over and rests his elbows on his knees. He looks down at his hands as he presses his palms together. “Did it work?” You swallow hard but don’t hesitate to shake your head. You know he catches the act in his peripheral vision, so you don’t say a word. Bucky nods slowly, studying his hands as if he’s memorizing every detail of them. Your eyes drift to his shoulders as he takes steady, even breaths. They rise and fall rhythmically as moonlight from the window across the room filters in through the curtains and highlights them.
Bucky wants to say more, to ask you more. He can tell that you’re open to talking right now, probably more open than you’ve ever been before, but he has this sinking feeling that you’ll say something that’ll break him. He doesn’t know if he can handle hearing you say out loud just how one-sided you think this thing between you really is. Even though he’s sure it’s not actually one-sided, hearing you say that it is might really break him. He won’t give you the chance to do that yet. He wants to hold out hope a little longer. So, Bucky rises from the side of the bed and exhales deeply. When he turns to head for the door again, intent on settling into that stiff green couch in the living room for the night, every sensory receptor in his body fires at once at the feeling of your hand reaching out and grasping his flesh one. He drops his gaze quickly and sees exactly what he feels: your palm sliding against his and your fingers intertwining with his softly. His throat feels dry and every thought leaves his mind as you tighten your grasp and tug on his hand slightly.
“Lay with me.” You whisper. Your tone is so meek that he can tell exactly what’s going through your mind right now. You’re afraid he’ll say no. You’re afraid that he’ll reject you and continue on to sleep on the couch, leaving you here alone, feeling vulnerable and stunted. The tone of your whisper puts the tiniest crack in his hard exterior.
Bucky’s silent as you drop his hand and scoot closer to the middle of the bed, pulling back the covers for him. He moves slow as he settles into the warm spot you’d been occupying, inhaling your sweet scent as he pulls the covers over his body and rolls onto his side to face you. You’re just a few inches away, lying on your folded arm since he moved the second pillow to the couch earlier. He could get up and go grab the pillow. He’d only be gone for a few seconds. But he fears the moment he leaves your sight, you’ll change your mind about having him here and he’ll have ruined everything. That’s why he tugs the pillow out from under his head and moves it toward you, watching with a softened gaze as you accept it and slide it beneath your own head.
You’re falling asleep right in front of his eyes a few minutes later, when suddenly your eyes flutter open and you reach out for him beneath the covers. Your warm palm lands on his side, skating around to his back before you pull him toward you. He moves in carefully, apprehensively, until his chest is nearly pressed against yours. He watches as you drag the pillow until it’s in the shared space between you and both of your heads fall to rest on it evenly. With Bucky’s body heat keeping you warm and the light patter of rain on the bedroom window lulling you to sleep, your eyes are closed only a few minutes later and Bucky finds himself missing the heat of your stare until he too drifts off into an unusually peaceful slumber.
You awake in a tangle of limbs with lightning flashing through the curtains and illuminating the room with a ghostly glow. Everything looks a little scarier in an antique house at three in the morning. Thunder rumbles loudly just above the house, shaking the roof and rattling the glass window. As you fully come to your senses, you figure out just where your limbs are in relation to Bucky’s and your heart rate picks up quickly. He’s asleep directly in front of you, with his face looking more relaxed than you’ve ever seen it. But his legs and arms…
A shaky breath flows out through your nose as you close your eyes and try not to move. Bucky has one thigh wedged snugly between yours and an arm thrown lazily over your waist. You can tell that your t-shirt has ridden up above your hips and ass, with his forearm resting against the hem of it on your waist. Blurred lines. So fucking blurred.
You close your eyes tightly as a loud crack of thunder reverberates through the house. Bucky’s instantly awoken as the thunder rolls and you tense up against him. He focuses on your face, on your tightly closed eyes and the way you’re holding your breath. He moves the arm that’s draped over your waist slowly until his hand is ghosting over your hip. His fingertips just barely graze the hem of your t-shirt as thunder sounds again. You look into his eyes right as you move your left hand to clamp down over his, forcing his palm to press flat against your hip and his fingers to curl against your skin. As you stare into each other’s eyes and the storm rages on just outside, the tension rising between you feels just like it did in the car outside of Sharon’s apartment that night.
“I don’t want to keep blurring the lines.” Bucky rasps as he squeezes your hip once. Your eyes trail down to his lips as he speaks only inches from your face. He leans in slowly until he’s so close that one little shift of your head would have you kissing him. He lets the tip of his nose brush against yours gently before moving down and pressing his lips to your jawline. He leaves kisses in a row all the way back to your ear, moving at a torturously slow pace until he’s nipping at your neck in that way that always drives you crazy.
“Then what do you want?” You ask breathlessly. Bucky pushes the knee that’s trapped between your legs upward until he’s applying the tiniest bit of pressure against your clothed cunt. A soft moan escapes your lips as you squeeze your thighs around his and focus on the feel of skin against skin.
“I want to cross them.” He whispers against your neck. You tilt your head back to give him more access as his tongue swirls against the column of your throat. “I want to lay you down on the line and just…” Bucky tugs the neck of your shirt to the side and bites down on your collarbone lightly. “Fuck you on it.”
“Bucky…” His name is a whimper that floats from your lips and fills the space around you both. Moving his hand back down to your hip, Bucky curls his fingertips into it and pulls you down, making your grind against the firm muscle of his thigh. This time a sultry moan slips out and your back arches slightly, causing your chest to press against his.
“How am I supposed to keep my hands off of you when you say my name like that?” Wetness pools between your thighs and begins to dampen the fabric of your panties as he pushes his thigh upward again, at the same time that he pulls your hip down and applies pressure to your clit just right. You know you should have better sense than to lay here and let him do unspeakable things to you. You should remind him that you’re partners, that you’d be risking things professionally if you let things go on this way. You should remind him that you’re technically on a mission right now, but his name just falls from your lips again. You’re actively emptying your mind of any thought that would have you push him away when he attaches his lips to your neck again and pulls you in against his chest. You try to push his shoulders and force him onto his back so you can move on top of him, but he fights against you, rolling on top of you instead. He pins your arms down on either side of your head and lets his nose brush against yours a second time. He lowers his hips down slowly as your legs spread on their own accord, giving him the space to press his clothed erection against your wet panties.
“How do we keep ending up like this?” You whisper against his lips, staring up into his blue eyes as your question hangs in the air. Bucky presses his lips to yours in a short, shallow kiss. “I keep telling myself this can’t happen and we keep ending up here.”
“Let me have you.” He begs, dropping his forehead to yours. You look at him through your lashes as your breath hitches in your throat. “Let me have you just this once.”
“Just this once? That’s all you’re asking for?” The words come out airy and light as you struggle to take in a full breath. Bucky grinds against you, circling his hips slowly while he keeps your arms pinned to the mattress.
“I’d ask you for a lifetime if I didn’t think it would scare the shit out of you.” Goosebumps prickle across your skin and you bite down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
“We can’t fuck.” You say decidedly. The surety of your voice surprises you, with how malleable you feel having Bucky grind against you like this. You fear that if he really asked you for something specific, you’d say yes in a heartbeat. He circles his hips into yours impossibly harder and shakes his head above you.
“I wasn’t asking if I could fuck you.” Bucky takes in the confused look on your face and he can’t help but to lean in and kiss you. He envisions what he really wants to do to you. He pictures the way he wants to push your legs apart and eat you out like your pussy is his last meal. Then he kisses you like that’s exactly what he’s doing. His tongue delves into your mouth relentlessly, leaving you gasping for air when he finally pulls back. He lets go of your forearms and pushes the covers away from his back as he shimmies down. He kisses your neck, then your chest through the t-shirt. He leaves soft, gentle kisses all the way down until he’s settling himself between your legs and pressing his lips against the waistband of your panties. You look down at him through your lashes, wanting nothing more than to tangle your fingers in his hair and pull his face closer to where you need it. “I was asking if I could taste you.”
“You say you want to lay me down on the metaphorical line and fuck me, and then you get between my legs and ask if you can just taste me?”
“I’m not fucking you until I know I can do it without you running off and pretending like it meant nothing to you.” He plants an open-mouthed kiss right over your clothed clit. The warmth of his tongue seeps through the fabric, sending a jolt of pleasure dancing up your spine and a knot tightening low in your stomach. “When I fuck you, you’re not going to get all in your head about how you shouldn’t have let it happen. You’re not going to have regrets and feel like we ruined everything we had.” Bucky hooks a finger in your panties and gently pulls them to the side, but he never looks down. He maintains eye contact as he starts pressing the pad of his thumb against your now exposed clit. Him finding your clit instantly without even looking, without having your anatomy perfectly memorized, almost ruins you. “When I fuck you, you’re going to realize that you were just delaying the inevitable.”
“You keep saying when.” You point out between heavy pants. You can’t resist the urge to tangle your fingers in his hair any longer, not when he’s toying with your clit this way and looking at you so intensely. You reach down with both hands, carding your fingers through his hair and tugging on it lightly.
“Inevitable, sweetheart. Tell me what that word means.” He finally lets his eyes angle downward and settle on your wet cunt. You watch as his pupils dilate and his tongue darts out to dampen his lips as he admires you from just a couple of inches away. He starts circling your clit with his thumb, applying just enough pressure to have your back arching off of the bed and your fingers curling in his brown hair. Bucky inches closer to your pussy and you feel his tongue press against your entrance firmly, before he’s dragging it upwards and using it to replace his thumb. He pulls back abruptly, leaving you whining out in frustration. “If something’s inevitable, it’s certain. It’s unavoidable, it was bound to happen.” His warm breath fans over your pussy as he speaks in a low voice. Bucky sucks on your clit roughly before pulling back again. “When I fuck you, when the inevitable happens, you won’t be able to pretend like there’s nothing between us anymore.”
You’re torn between wanting to argue with him and wanting to clamp your thighs around his head and grind against his tongue. Bucky smirks up at you and you tug on his hair a little harder out of spite.
“It’s already happening, isn’t it?” He asks just before flattening his tongue against your clit and letting your circle your hips against him. Your eyes flutter closed as that knot in your stomach tightens more and more. “It’s getting harder to pretend.”
“Fuck you.” You moan out the insult, but it’s useless as he slides down and pushes his tongue inside of you. His thumb takes over stimulating your clit once again as he starts eating you out like he’s dreamt of doing it since he’s known you. His tongue works you up higher and higher, closer and closer to the edge of the cliff as a sweat breaks out across your forehead and you struggle to keep your ass on the bed.
“You’re getting close.” He groans against you. You whimper as he drags his thumb away from your clit and switches to rubbing it with his middle and ring fingers. He moves slow now, sliding those fingertips away from your clit and toward your entrance.
“Bucky…” You say his name in warning. You know what he’s about to do. He plunges both fingers into you, stopping when they’re halfway in and your back is arched inches off of the bed. Your fingertips scrape against his scalp as you hold in a moan that would’ve been damn near pornographic if you’d let it out. Bucky lets out a frustrated sigh before dragging his fingers out and then pushing them back in all the way. As he holds them inside of you knuckle-deep, you cry out loudly. It’s been so long since you’ve let anyone do something like this to you and he isn’t giving you much time to adjust, but god, it feels so fucking good.
“Breathe, baby.” He says as he presses a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh. He starts fucking you with his fingers slowly, almost gently. In and out they go, first just halfway each time, but then he starts thrusting them deeper and going a little faster with it. “I would’ve gone a little easier on you if you hadn’t held in that pretty little sound.”
“Just…fuck, Bucky.” You moan, hooking your legs over his shoulders as a loud crack of thunder sends the window rattling again. “I’m close.”
“Trust me, I know.” He groans, pressing a sloppier kiss to the inside of your thigh as he curls his fingers inside of you. You cry out again, but this time your hands leave his hair and go to grip the sheets on either side of your head. “Are you going to imagine you’re cumming on my cock when this orgasm hits?”
“No.” You say defiantly, shaking your head as he curls his fingers again. He laughs darkly, clearly calling your bluff.
“You know you squeeze the hell out of my fingers when you lie?”
“I do not.”
“That’s it, baby.” Bucky coos. He positions himself to attach his lips to your clit as he continues his ministrations with his hand. “Keep tightening around my fingers until you fucking cum.”
Some part of you wants to keep defying him. You want to be stubborn and refuse to give him this piece of you, refuse to give him one of your orgasms. It feels like if you let go and give it to him, you’re going to tumble right over the edge of a cliff and into the unknown. But why does it feel so damn good as you stand on the edge of that cliff? When you stop resisting and let your orgasm wash over you, when Bucky watches as your face contorts with bliss and your knuckles turn white against the bed sheets, he’s just as far gone as you are. You’re cumming around his fingers while he laps at your clit, and he’s cumming in his boxers without even having realized just how close he was to doing it.
There’s an odd feeling brewing in his chest as he puts your panties back in place and collapses beside you in bed. He can’t quite figure out what it is. When you catch your breath and look over at him, taking in the sight of Bucky Barnes with your arousal painted over his lips and chin, you feel your heart skip a beat. Bucky looks back at you, but he only gets a second to see your dilated pupils and flushed cheeks before you’re leaning in and swiping your tongue across his bottom lip.
As your lips move against his in a gentle, familiar way, his lungs burn and his heart is pounding in his ears. Because he knows what this is. He knows what that unusual feeling in his chest really is. Love. He’s in love with the girl who lives to ignore her feelings.
You’re in too deep. You can’t even try to reason with yourself. As you lie in a tangle of sheets, listening to the mixed water sounds of Bucky showering and rain falling lightly just outside the bedroom window, you feel utterly fucked. And not just because Bucky fucked you with his mouth last night. You let out a frustrated groan before rolling onto your back and fisting your hands in your messy hair. You can’t tell yourself to be professional because you’re so far past professional now that it’d be insulting to you both if you tried to revert. You can’t tell yourself to stop crossing lines with him because you know just how good it feels every time you do it. Bucky was onto something last night when he asked you if it was getting harder for you to pretend that there’s nothing between the two of you.
Your eyes float over to the partially closed bathroom door and you watch for a moment as steam floats through the space between it and the doorframe. Is it steam from the hot shower or is it just radiating off of the man that said your pussy gets tighter when you lie? Blush creeps into your cheeks at the memory of him saying such a filthy thing while his fingers were inside of you.
Bucky tenses up in the shower when he hears the bathroom door creak open the tiniest bit. When your bare feet lightly tap along the cold floor and he hears them stop in front of the sink, a small smile plays on his lips.
“You’re not coming in?” Bucky’s smirk is evident in his tone and you’re biting on the inside of your cheek as you reach for your toothbrush.
“You remember me saying we can’t fuck, right?” You ask, though even as you say it, it feels like a weak statement.
“Do you remember me saying it’s inevitable?” He retorts playfully. You should tell him to fuck off, but you only find yourself tempted to actually join him in the shower. As you spread a bit of toothpaste along the bristles of your toothbrush, you shake your head to yourself.
“I’m brushing my teeth in the kitchen.”
“That’s fine.” Bucky replies nonchalantly, seemingly unfazed by your slight rejection. He spends the next ten minutes lathering and rinsing for the second time in less than twelve hours. He isn’t normally someone who takes a shower both in the morning and at night, but after he came in his boxers last night, he fell asleep next to you and didn’t take the time to clean himself up. He woke up feeling like he’d had a wet dream.
Peggy sits on the foot of the bed, waiting patiently as you try on a third dress.
“Are you alright in there?” Peggy calls out politely, uncrossing her legs and readying to rise from the bed if need be. You laugh softly from inside the walk-in closet before pulling the door open and revealing the deep blue dress she picked for you to try a few minutes ago. It has cap sleeves, a high neckline, and an A-line style skirt. “I think that one looks wonderful on you, don’t you like it?” She asks, pushing herself up and coming to stand in front of you. She catches the pinched look on your face before you’ve even formulated a response. You didn’t quite like the first two dresses either, and at this point there are only a handful left to try. She has to wonder if maybe it’s the dissonance between forties-style dresses and modern dresses that’s throwing you off. “Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy calls for him loudly.
Bucky’s rising from the couch and heading down the hall as soon as he’s been invited into the bedroom. He was kicked out pretty much the moment he finished up his morning shower, with Peggy showing up and saying she just had to get started on your look for tonight. He was a bit skeptical about how much time it’d really take, but after hearing you try on three dresses and dislike every single one, he sees why she came so early.
“What do we need him for?” Confusion is written all over your face as you smooth down the blue dress and raise a brow at Peggy.
“He’s the one that needs to like the dress, isn’t he?” She questions, motioning for Bucky to come in. He takes a few steps into the room and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly as his eyes coast over the dress. It’s pretty, it’s definitely very forties-esque, but it’s not you. It’s not you and it’s definitely not for him. “Help her pick a dress for tonight.” Bucky stares at her for a long moment before she starts moving toward the door. She pats his shoulder as she passes him, leaning in to whisper in his ear just as you’re disappearing back into the closet. “She needs you for this.”
You feel Bucky’s presence in the closet without having to turn around and look at him. He stops just a few inches behind you, looking over your shoulder at the row of dresses that you have to choose from.
“It’s a little different than your closet back home.” He says softly, watching as your fingertips dance across the fabric of each hanging dress.
“You haven’t seen my closet back home.” You point out, tugging on the side of a dark navy dress. As soon as you see the front of it, you let it go. Your fingers continue on, looking for another dark fabric.
“If you’re looking for something like that little black dress you wore last weekend, you won’t find it in here.” Bucky replies. Thinking about that little black dress sends your mind back to the night in the bar, when Bucky kissed you in front of everyone. Then your mind wanders to what happened in the car after, and you have to shake the thought of it from your head. Your fingers brush along a bright red dress and you don’t even consider checking it out. Bucky steps up close behind you, so close that you feel his body heat permeating your skin through the blue dress you’re wearing. He reaches around you with his right arm and grasps the edge of the only black fabric amongst all of the dresses hanging there.
“Peggy said something colorful would be best.” You murmur as he removes the dress from the hanging rack and holds it out in front of you both.
“He won’t be paying much attention to the dress.” Bucky assures you. He leans in close to your ear before whispering his next words. “And you look good in black.” A chill runs through you but you reach out and grasp the hanger quickly before turning around and pressing a hand against Bucky’s chest.
“Let me change.” You push against his chest gently and he takes a few steps backward until he’s out of the closet. As he moves across the room to sit on the foot of the bed where Peggy previously was, he hears the sound of your blue dress unzipping but not the sound of the closet door closing. He takes a cautious look as he sinks down onto the edge of the mattress. There you are, slipping out of that deep blue fabric while giving Bucky an almost clear view of you in forties-style black lingerie. His cock is awake instantly and is hardening within the already sort of tight-fitting sweats he took from Stark’s dresser earlier this morning. Bucky leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees as he drops his line of sight to the floor.
You walk out only a moment later in the dress he chose. It’s all black, with off the shoulder sleeves and a fairly low-cut neckline. It hugs your body tightly. It’s quite similar to the shape of the red dress that Peggy wore when he first saw her in the Whip and Fiddle.
“Don’t look at me like that.” You say lightly, watching as Bucky’s eyes glide up and down your figure multiple times. He clears his throat and sits up straight before motioning with his flesh hand for you to come closer. You move forward until you’re a couple of feet in front of him, but then your eyes drop to his lap and you see his erection pressed against his sweats. Confidence rolls off of you in waves as you stop thinking and take a few more steps toward him. You don’t stop until you’re standing between his legs and he’s looking up at you. You let your hands rest on his shoulders as his move to ghost along the outsides of your thighs.
“Don’t go too far with him tonight.” Bucky’s tone is almost pleading as he searches your eyes, but his expression is unreadable.
“How far is too far?” You swallow thickly after asking your question. Bucky curls his fingers into your hips and draws in a deep breath.
“I don’t know.” He admits, but he does know. He knows that he doesn’t even want you to let this younger version of himself dance with you. He doesn’t want to let him lean in and whisper in your ear, he doesn’t want him to even get the chance to consider kissing you.
“You told me he moves fast, and we need him and Steve to be on board for this mission tomorrow. I can’t reject him.” You explain quietly, glancing over your shoulder to make sure Peggy’s still in the living room. When you turn your head forward again and look down at Bucky, he’s leaning in closer to you. You watch with your breath hitched in your throat as he lets the tip of his nose brush against your dress, just below your breasts. He moves slow, dragging his nose upward and letting his lips follow in their wake until he’s halfway up your chest. Your hands slide up the sides of his neck and tangle in his hair, tugging him back to look at you again.
“Why did you ask me to lay with you last night?” Bucky finally asks the question that’s been on his mind since he woke up this morning. You exhale slowly, absentmindedly massaging your fingers into his scalp while his thumbs rub circles against the front of your hips. He watches as you chew on the inside of your cheek, trying your best to come up with a safe answer.
“I wanted to know what it would feel like…to stop pretending.” You whisper.
“How did it feel?” His eyes stray from your face, taking in the swell of your breasts over the low neckline of the dress. Filthy memories of last night flood your brain and you clench your thighs together slightly. It wasn’t slightly enough, because Bucky catches on instantly and he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. While you’re remembering the feel of his kisses against your inner thigh and his tongue on your clit, he’s remembering the sweet taste of your cunt and the pretty sounds you made just for him.
“Good.” Your whisper is even quieter now, and your nerves are rising knowing Peggy’s just down the hall in the living room.
“Just good?” Bucky fishes for more. He tests the waters, letting his hands slide down your thighs, closer to the hem of the dress. You don’t move away, you don’t swat at his hands or tell him to stop.
“Just good, Bucky.” You answer. But as his fingers hook beneath the hem of your dress and he starts guiding it higher and higher up your legs, you know your resolve and will to pretend is crumbling.
“I think you’re lying.” He says calmly, staring up at you with those blue eyes as the hem of the dress nears the middle of your thighs. You squeeze his shoulders as he lets his flesh thumb graze the lace edge of your panties, close to where your thigh meets your center.
“Peggy’s here.” You whisper the reminder, but make no effort to break away from him. In fact, you find yourself leaning into his touch. Bucky’s quick as he slips one finger into your panties and drags it along the length of your folds, gathering the slick arousal that’s started collecting between them.
“Shh, I just want to see if you’re lying to me.” Bucky hushes you just as his gaze is dropping to your lower body and he’s nudging your feet apart with his right foot. You don’t stop him. You don’t do anything but close your eyes and dig your fingertips into his shoulders as he dips a finger inside of you. Your mouth falls open and you inhale sharply as he curls it against your walls. “How did it feel last night? To stop pretending for a little while?” He gazes up at you with what you think is a look of lust, but he knows is all fucking love. “Just good?”
“Bucky…fuck.” He pulls his finger out before plunging it in deeper than before, and then he curls it again.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It felt good…it felt, shit, Bucky.” He starts thrusting his finger in and out of you at a medium pace as you try to piece together your answer. “It felt right.” He slows to a stop as you say that last word. Though you’re tight as fuck, just like you were last night, he doesn’t feel that characteristic clenching when you give your answer. You’re telling the truth. Maybe that’s a stupid way to interrogate you, but his theory is proving true so far. He pulls his finger out of you and brings it to his lips, sucking it into his mouth and savoring your taste. You look down just as he's pulling it away from his lips and tugging your dress back into place.
“Black heels.” He says lightly, patting the side of your thigh as you step away from him. He rises in front of you and moves a stray lock of hair behind your ear with the same finger that was just inside you. “The third ones from the closet door.”
Bucky’s waltzing out of the room, tucking his hard-on into the waistband of his sweats as you’re left standing there dazed. Dazed and beyond aroused. Part of you wants to grab him by the back of his shirt and drag him back into the room, telling him to finish what he started. The other part of you knows better than to give him the satisfaction. So, you grab that pair of black heels from the closet and keep your mouth shut.
You feel uncharacteristically nervous for what should just be another mission on your long list of undercover ops. Maybe it’s because you have one version of Bucky Barnes listening through the in-ear monitor you’re sporting, while you’re moments away from meeting another version of the same man. Or maybe it’s because you’re trying to walk the very fine line between hating Bucky Barnes and loving him. Whatever it is, you’re nervous and it’s showing.
Peggy walks close to your side, leading the way down the busy street in her red dress and matching heels. You can hear the watch on her left wrist ticking away as you approach the Whip and Fiddle.
“You seem worried.” Peggy voices her observation softly as she slows her pace a bit and casts you a sideways glance. You let out a stiff laugh before pushing a curl over your shoulder. She did your hair and makeup in a way that has you feeling like something fresh out of a forties fashion catalog. “Is it the mission itself or the man involved?” You swallow thickly, knowing Bucky can hear the entire conversation through your in-ear monitor. You could reach up and turn it off, have a quick girls chat with Peggy while leaving Bucky in the dark. But you’re sure Peggy would instantly realize that you’re on comms and you don’t know how she’d feel about not being let in on it sooner.
“I’m fine, just not used to life in the forties I guess.” You respond curtly.
“Well, that wasn’t very convincing.” She huffs. When she slows to a stop beside you, you know it’s futile to keep walking toward the bar, so you stop and turn to face her. “He looks at you like he would’ve given you the world and his last name in any timeline.”
“Peggy—”
“Now you have to spend an evening flirting with a younger version of him when you don’t even know how you feel about your version of him. You don’t have to lie to me just because he’s listening in, he knows that you’re conflicted.” Your eyes widen as she lets you in on exactly how perceptive she is. You hear Bucky clear his throat through your ear piece and pink begins to color your cheeks, you’re sure it’s even showing through the blush Peggy applied for you earlier.
“I’ll be fine.” You assure her, though the words don’t come out sounding quite as convincing as you’d hoped.
“I’m sure you will be. Sergeant Barnes will show you an exceptionally great time tonight, but it won’t make your problem any easier to figure out.”
“My problem?”
“You’re in love with your partner and you don’t know how to handle it.”
“You just met us last night and you’ve already decided that?” You ask incredulously, crossing your arms over your chest as Peggy glances over at the door to the Whip and Fiddle. You see a few soldiers spilling out of the place with varying degrees of unstable gaits and boisterous laughs. You don’t recognize any of them as Steve or Bucky, so you turn your attention back to her.
“It doesn’t matter when I met you, I look at you and I see me.” That’s how Peggy sees your situation so clearly. She’s in the same one. She’s in love with Steve Rogers and she doesn’t know what to do about it. She doesn’t know how to handle it yet. You let out a deep sigh and let your arms fall to your sides. Bucky’s staying quiet on the other end of comms, so quiet that you can’t even hear him breathe. “I want to ask you how things end for me in the future…how things end for us, but I won’t.” You know that she’s referring to herself and Steve and your heart breaks a little for her. “Don’t let fear get in the way of the rest of your life. You could live a wonderful life with a man that feels what he feels for you, but you can lose it all by being too afraid to give him a chance.”
Your black heels are frozen to the sidewalk as Peggy’s words echo in your mind. When she turns and starts heading for the entrance to the bar, you stay still and quiet.
“They end up together.” Bucky’s voice plays in your ear so quietly that you think you’ve made it up for a moment.
“How do you know?” You finally ask, speaking under your breath as you start moving in Peggy’s direction slowly. Bucky lets out a long sigh, like he’s dwelling on a memory.
“It’s the only reason Steve would’ve stayed behind like he did.” Bucky listens to the slow, steady clicking of your heels against the pavement as he grows closer and closer to losing you to his younger self. He wants to say so much more. He wants to point out that you didn’t deny it when Peggy said you were in love with him. He wants to ask if you’re really afraid, if she was right about that. But it’s not the time. It’ll probably never be the time.
He leans back into the couch as he listens to the distant din of the Whip and Fiddle. The in-ear monitor won’t pick up much background noise, but he hears the sound of a bell chiming as the door opens for you and the sound of way too many soldiers clamoring around the space that you’re in. His eyes scrunch closed and his vibranium arm whirs as he curls his hand into a fist.
“Captain.” Peggy’s accent carries the title with an air of class as she approaches a man seated at the bar. You recognize the back of his head instantly. Steve Rogers. He turns around quickly, coming to stand only two feet in front of Peggy as his eyes quickly, and quite respectably, roam over her figure. The room slows and everything starts sounding muffled when the man seated next to Steve turns around and his eyes meet yours. Bucky. You stare at each other for a few long seconds, neither of you saying anything.
“Agent Carter.” Steve addresses her, breaking you out of your trance. You look over at the tall super soldier with his perfectly styled blonde hair and dress uniform, noting the way his eyes never leave Peggy.
“Howard has some equipment for you to try.” Peggy’s mouth is speaking business, but her eyes are saying something else entirely as they lock onto Steve’s and refuse to stray. You can feel Bucky’s eyes studying you intensely over Peggy’s shoulder as you avoid his gaze and watch the exchange that’s happening in front of you instead. “Maybe after tomorrow’s mission?”
“Sounds good.” Steve keeps his replies short, but every word is thick with tension. Peggy leans back a bit and glances across the bar, noting a particularly lively table of men. They lean into each other as they sing along to a tune someone’s banging out on a beat up piano in the corner of the bar.
“I see your top squad is prepping for duty.” She says facetiously.
“You don’t like music?” Bucky asks, tilting his head to the side and cocking a brow at her. Her gaze remains fixed on Steve as Bucky steps to the side to get a better look at you.
“I do, actually. I might even, when this is all over, go dancing.”
“And you?” Bucky directs his question at you now, nodding his head in your direction as Peggy steps to the side and gives you space to join the conversation. “Do you dance?”
“With the right partner.” You reply softly, trying hard not to get lost in his blue eyes. Though he’s younger and so much more naïve, you see the Bucky you know all over the man in front of you. You see him in every artistic feature of his face, you see him in the way he cocks his head to the side and flashes a smirk at you.
“Then what are we waiting for?” He asks playfully, nodding his head toward the more open part of the bar. You don’t rush to take his outstretched hand, but once your palm is against his, you get the same feeling that you’ve felt every time your version of Bucky has ever touched you. It feels electric. It feels like every nerve ending beneath your skin is on fire. It feels like you’re on the edge of a cliff and a strong wind is about to blow through and send you spiraling down.
Back at the safehouse, Bucky’s stomach is twisting into knots as he pictures you wrapped up in the arms of anyone but him. He knows it’s stupid. He knows that this guy, in some way, really is him. But it still feels wrong. He listens reluctantly as this younger, more charismatic version of himself flirts and banters with you through multiple dances. He listens as the young soldier leans in close to your ear and tells you how you took the breath out of his lungs the moment you walked into the bar. He starts to feel a little nauseas and wonders if he’s finally heading into his own bout with time sickness when he hears the sound of a genuine laugh slipping past your lips at whatever it was that the young soldier said to you.
It isn’t long before Bucky’s ripping the in-ear monitor out and tossing it on the kitchen table. He paces back and forth, focusing on the sound of his feet thudding against the wooden floorboards. Don’t go too far with him tonight. Bucky can still hear the way he pleaded with you earlier today. It was pathetic, but it was heartfelt. This younger version of himself would be completely on board with your mission even if you’d just flashed him a smile. Fuck. He runs his hands through his hair and curls his fingers into the soft brown locks, tugging them away from his scalp as he stops pacing. What the hell is he doing? You invited him into bed last night. You slept next to him. You let him slip between your legs and eat you out so thoroughly that he swears he can still taste you now. You let him finger your pussy just so he could find out if you were lying or not. You’re not going to let this younger version of him take things too far after all of that, right?
Bucky exhales through his nose as he sinks back into one of the kitchen chairs and stares down at the earpiece on the table. He takes it in his flesh hand and rolls it between his middle and index finger for a moment, knowing he has to put it back in. When did he turn into such a jealous guy?
The young Sergeant Barnes is captivated by you. He watches from the bar as you breeze through casual conversation with Peggy. You have a way of seeming so genuinely interested in anything that anyone says to you. You wholeheartedly hang on every word spoken and you get this look in your eye like nothing is more important to you than whatever’s being said. You seemed every bit as invested in Bucky’s spiel about Ferris wheels as you were when he leaned into your ear and told you about his family back home.
“She’s a lady, Buck.” Steve says lightly, lifting his drink to his lips and taking a short sip. Bucky swirls amber colored whiskey around in the bottom of his glass as his blue eyes glimmer in the low lights of the bar. “Don’t get any ideas, she works with Peggy.”
“You work with Peggy.” Bucky points out, casting him a disapproving glance before zeroing in on you again. “And you have ideas.”
“I have ideas.” Steve mumbles, nodding curtly in surrender. He can’t lie to Bucky.
“You don’t want to take your ideas over there and ask her to dance?” Bucky shifts his gaze to Peggy. He can almost imagine her proper accent as he watches her lips move in conversation with you. He has no doubt, just from the little interaction between Steve and Peggy when you girls first arrived at the bar, that Steve’s head over heels. Not only Steve, but Peggy’s envisioning a life with him too.
“It’s not the right time.” Steve replies, setting his mug down on the bar and turning to face the same direction as Bucky.
“If you keep waiting, you’ll miss the time entirely.”
“Can you miss fate?” Steve asks thoughtfully. Peggy lifts her gaze and turns her head slightly to the side, meeting his gaze across the bar for a fleeting second.
“I’m not going to wait around here with you and find out.” Bucky’s downing the last of his whiskey and heading for you just as Peggy’s heading for Steve. His eyes are all over you as he approaches, sending your confidence soaring and your nerves stirring in the pit of your stomach. When he steps in close and wraps an arm around your waist, letting his right hand rest on the small of your back, you melt into his touch.
“How much of London have you seen?” He whispers the question in your ear, letting his lips ghost so close to your ear that a shiver rolls through you.
“Not enough.” You admit, biting down on your bottom lip as he curls his fingertips against the back of your dress.
“Let me show you?” It’s a request. But when he pulls back and looks into your eyes, there’s no way you could deny him.
No. Bucky’s clenching his fists atop the safehouse kitchen table as he listens to the sound of his younger self pushing open some creaky door. The din of the bar fades into the background as your heels click against pavement. You’re outside of the bar now. You’re not going to see London, that’s for fucking sure. Bucky grits his teeth as his own voice plays through the earpiece. He’s never wanted to wring his own neck so damn bad.
“There are a lot of parts of the city that aren’t safe with the war going on, but if you work with Peggy, I’m guessing you’re used to that.” You stand still at the side exit of the bar, watching as Bucky carefully places his army uniform hat over his head. Somehow, the dark brick walls of the alley make his eyes seem more blue.
“Are we going somewhere dangerous, Sergeant Barnes?” You ask softly, looking up at him through your lashes as he straightens up his uniform jacket. You let your eyes coast down, taking in the sight of him in full uniform. Why don’t they still dress men this way?
“Sergeant Barnes, hm?” He repeats the name slowly, taking two steps toward you as you take one step back toward the brick side wall of the Whip and Fiddle.
“That’s your name, isn’t it?”
“You don’t like calling me Bucky?” Another step forward and the fabric of his jacket is brushing against the fabric of your dress as your back meets the brick wall. He leans in and raises his arms, letting his palms rest against the brick on either side of your head as he cages you in. Truthfully, you don’t like calling him Bucky. You’ve avoided saying his name all night. It feels weird, it feels wrong. Just last night you were moaning that name with a slightly different man between your legs. By calling this one something different, you can at least separate the two a tiny bit.
“You don’t like when I call you Sergeant Barnes?” You skirt around his question with one of your own. He chuckles as a smug look spreads over his features. He drops his head lower and lower until his lips are a mere inch away from yours and his blue eyes are staring so far into you that you’re sure he can see every thought in your spiraling mind.
“You can call me anything you want and I’m damn sure I’ll love it.” He whispers. Your eyes track the movement of his tongue as it darts out and wets his lips.
Your world shifts when you grab the front of his jacket and pull him in. His lips are soft as they part against yours and move in the way that only men named Bucky Barnes seem to move their lips. He kisses you like he’s done it countless times in every timeline that exists. Even as rain begins pattering down, soaking his uniform and your dress, you only tug on his jacket a little harder and angle your head to the side. As his tongue dances along your bottom lip, you hesitate for the shortest second. You can hear a voice echoing in your head, asking you not to go too far tonight, but his tongue is in your mouth and your guilt only multiplies when the taste of honey-tinged whiskey soaks into your taste buds.
You taste like honey.
You remember the first time your version of Bucky slipped his tongue into your mouth as the rain begins to pour down. You don’t mean to be so rash, but you’re loosening your grip on the uniform jacket and pressing your palms flat against his chest in an instant.
“What were you drinking tonight?” You ask in a raspy whisper. You let Bucky stay close enough that your foreheads are nearly touching as he sucks in a deep breath and bites his bottom lip. Shaking his head like you’ve just asked him the most out of pocket question he’s ever heard, he releases his bottom lip slowly.
“Four Roses.” He answers just as quietly. You nod to yourself as you commit the name to memory. He lets his left hand trail down the wet brick wall, moving it closer and closer to your face until you feel his warm palm press against your cheek. The fact that his palm isn’t a cool vibranium metal one contrasting with your heated skin makes you draw in a sharp breath and close your eyes. Why the fuck are you having so much trouble with this? You should be able to make out with the guy and put on a convincing act for five minutes. But no, he tastes like honey and you’re done for. You’re suddenly acutely aware of just how long it’s been since you heard even the tiniest noise through your earpiece, and your guilt increases tenfold. As if the man before you can read your mind, he lets his hand fall away from your face. “You’re not mine to kiss like this, are you?”
“That’s the problem.” You whisper shakily, curling your fingers into the coarse fabric of his jacket lapels one more time. Your eyes float upward and meet his as you fight the urge to swallow the words you’re about to speak. “I think I am, and that scares the hell out of me.”
Something changed for you at the Whip and Fiddle tonight. Peggy isn’t quite sure what it is, but she senses it. She senses it in the air in the same way she senses the coming rain. Even if she couldn’t see the dark clouds gathering along the edge of the city, if she couldn’t smell the rain in the air, she could feel the atmosphere changing as the storm approaches. Everything is set for tomorrow. The Howling Commandos are going to take down yet another HYDRA base, and now that you have an in with the forty’s version of Bucky, it shouldn’t be all too hard to use the connection to your advantage and slip inside of the base yourself. As far as he knows, you work with Peggy and you can hold your own pretty damn well. So, as you sit in the passenger seat of Peggy’s car staring straight ahead, why do you seem so off? If everything is going according to plan so far, what’s wrong with you?
“Sergeant Barnes seemed quite taken with you.” Peggy comments as she guides the car away from the city. You’re not really paying much attention to her words, not when you’re still mulling over the realization you came to when you kissed the young sergeant in the alley earlier tonight. You couldn’t stand the fact that his left hand was his own, or that he was missing that characteristic darkness around him. It was Bucky, of course, but it wasn’t really Bucky. It wasn’t the Bucky you know. Sure, when you kissed him he tasted the same, he even smelled the same. But you were kissing a version of Bucky that hasn’t yet experienced any of the things that made the man you slept next to last night. You feel like you’ve been carrying around a perfectly crafted piece of pottery, neatly sculpted and fired in a kiln. It’s been hardened and glazed with dark earthy tones, completely finished. Then, someone shoved that piece of pottery into the back of a kitchen cabinet and handed you a wet mound of clay. You don’t want the soft, unmolded version of Bucky. You want the hardened, finished version.
“He still drinks the same whiskey.” You don’t know why you’re dwelling on that little detail. You reach up with one hand and press your fingers against your lips, feeling a frustrating warmth awaken low in your stomach. Peggy looks over at you briefly, not letting her gaze linger for long before her eyes are back on the road ahead.
“Steve and I…we wait until it’s too late, don’t we?” Peggy’s question snaps you out of your thoughts and your hand drops to your lap quickly. You turn your head and stare at her, but she remains focused on the dark street that the car is rolling down.
“What makes you ask that?”
“I have a feeling.” She sighs heavily, pursing her red lips at the end of her sentence. “I have a feeling that we don’t allow ourselves that happiness in this lifetime, and you’re not allowing it for yourself either.”
“It’s different for me.”
“How so?” She asks softly, taking a right turn. The car begins coasting down a street you recognize and you know the safehouse is just a couple of minutes away now.
“It’s just different. I can’t just give in and see if things turn out okay. We work together, we live across the hall from each other.” You’re grasping for excuses.
“You trust the man with your life but you don’t want to trust him with your heart?”
Peggy has a way with words. You don’t have a response for her as she slows down and turns into the driveway of Howard Stark’s house a couple of minutes later. As the car idles in front of the house, you feel a heavy weight settling on your shoulders.
When you reach the front door, you find that Bucky’s left it unlocked for you. You slip in quietly, leaning against the wall of the foyer for a second to gather your thoughts. The house is mostly dark except for a small light glowing in the kitchen. Your stomach is churning as you tiptoe through the foyer and peer into the kitchen, careful not to let your heels tap on the floor. You see no sign of Bucky there. When you turn your eyes to the dark living room, you see him sitting in the middle of couch with his back to you.
“The mission is set for tomorrow.” Your words come out sounding meek and uneasy as you stare at the back of Bucky’s head. He’s leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees like he’s lost in thought. He doesn’t even move at the sound of your voice and nervousness starts to bubble up inside of you. “Bucky?” He visibly tenses at the sound of his name rolling off of your tongue.
“I stopped listening when you kissed him.” Bucky rubs his palms together slowly as he stares down at the living room carpet. He doesn’t move from the couch, and he can tell by the silence behind him that you’re not moving either. “Honestly, I didn’t think it would bother me that much.” Bucky lies, tracing the lines of his vibranium hand with his flesh index finger. It’s dark, but he has the golden crevices memorized.
“Bullshit.” You say flatly, crossing your arms over your chest. “You knew it would bother you, but you swore I was the right person for this op anyway.” You’re not going to let him act like you did something wrong, when you’re doing exactly what you were brought here to do. You watch the back of Bucky’s head as he nods slowly.
“Okay, that was bullshit.” Bucky agrees. Rain begins to patter against the roof, starting out slow and soft but quickly picking up until the sound of it is filling the house. “I knew it would bother me. I guess I just didn’t expect you to let him take things so far.”
“How far do you think he took things?” You ask incredulously, with offense evident in your tone. If Bucky stopped listening when the kiss first started in the alley of the bar, then he didn’t hear a damn thing. He didn’t hear the brevity of the kiss or the way you pushed back and stopped it. He didn’t hear you coming to the realization that you already belong to him. He didn’t hear shit.
“Pretty damn far, if he’s me.” You scoff at his answer and run a hand through your hair, leaving it looking a little tousled and messy.
“It’s 1943. If pretty damn far means we kissed and went back inside then sure, he went pretty damn far.”
“That’s it?” Bucky asks, pushing himself up to stand and turning around to face you. The couch and a few feet of distance stand between the two of you as Bucky raises a brow. He doesn’t believe you.
“He’s not like this modern version of you.” You say defensively, gesturing at him as you speak. “He didn’t want anything more than a kiss from me.” You know your words aren’t necessarily true, but you say them anyway. Bucky shoots you a pointed look before shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest.
“Yeah, he did."
“No, he didn’t.” You argue childishly, narrowing your eyes at him. “He was sweet and kind and we had innocent fun.”
“Innocent?” Bucky repeats the word and narrows his eyes at you in return. You bend one knee and lift your ankle up toward your ass as you start undoing your heels.
“That’s what I said.” You huff as your heels clatter to the floor and you push them over to the nearest wall with your foot.
“I was anything but innocent in the forties.” Bucky says lowly. When your eyes land on him, he’s approaching you slowly, moving around the couch but keeping his gaze trained on you. Something about the way he’s looking at you is dark, making your skin feel warm and your muscles tense up. Bucky runs a hand through his messy hair as he continues taking slow steps in your direction. “You’re really telling me he didn’t have you pushed up against a brick wall in some dark alley tonight?”
You swallow hard, feeling like a kid caught in a lie. Of course he knows exactly what happened. He doesn’t need comms or a surveillance team to know what he himself would’ve done with a pretty girl on a night out. You say nothing as Bucky moves around the couch and comes to stand right in front of you. You take a small step back as he invades your space, but he doesn’t stop. He presses forward until he’s backing you against the living room wall.
Bucky’s fighting to keep up the charade. He wants nothing more than to just be honest and tell you that he’s jealous. He wants to tell you that even though it was only another version of himself that you went out with tonight, he couldn’t fucking stand it. He needs you to know that he sat here for hours, thinking about nothing but you. He watches you with an intense gaze as your back collides with the wall and you look up at him through your lashes. He’s so close that he can see the wispy black mascara tinting them. It isn’t smudged in the slightest bit and that, at the very least, calms him a little. Bucky’s hands find your hips and he holds you still against the wall as he leans in and nudges the curve of your jaw with the tip of his nose.
“He didn’t touch you like this?” Bucky whispers against your neck, as his flesh hand glides around to your ass. He grabs a handful and curls his fingertips against the soft fabric of your dress. You offer no response, because although you didn’t let him touch you like that, you know Bucky won’t believe you now. Bucky groans as he nips at the column of your throat, taking your silence as confirmation. He kisses his way up to your lips and then drags his tongue up your chin until he’s letting it delve into your mouth. You tilt your head as he kisses you, feeling a burn in your chest from the lack of air. He pulls back suddenly, and cradles the back of your head with the same hand that was just grabbing your ass. “He didn’t kiss you like that?” He questions, already assuming the answer. You whimper as Bucky tugs on your hair lightly and moves his lips down to your neck again. Instead of simply kissing your skin this time, he sucks on it and scrapes his teeth down toward your collarbone. When he lets go of your hair and slides his hand down your thigh, your back arches off the wall and you swear you feel him smile before he pulls back and smirks down at you coldly. Curling his fingers behind your thigh, he hitches your leg up around his hip and uses his body to push you further into the wall. “He didn’t pull your leg up like this?”
It’s as if Bucky’s following a script. He knows himself so well that he’s able to carry out every single move his younger self would have made on you if you’d let things continue in the alley earlier. Bucky leans in and presses one last chaste kiss to your lips before he steps away from you entirely, leaving you struggling to catch your breath as he turns on his heel. You watch, thoroughly flustered, as he heads right back to the living room and takes a seat on the center cushion of that ugly vintage couch.
“That’s what I thought.” He says lowly, causing a pang of guilt to bubble up inside of you. You let out an exaggerated sigh before reaching behind yourself and undoing the back of your dress. Bucky listens as you let the dress slip off of your frame and fall to the floor. He’s still for a moment, refusing to look back as you stand there in nothing more than a lacy black bra and matching panties. You glare at the back of his head for a second too long before stalking off to find a t-shirt and some sweats to put on before you continue the conversation at hand.
“You don’t get to judge me for what he did tonight, for what you think he did.” You say coldly as you emerge from the bedroom a few seconds later. Bucky’s still sitting on the couch, now with both of his arms outstretched along the back cushions and an almost bored expression on his face. “You told me that your younger self would swoon and that’s exactly what happened. You knew what you were sending me into, you knew he’d want to do all of those things. So, if you want to be pissed, be pissed at yourself. Your current self or your former self, I don’t care. But stop being pissed at me.” Your feet thud against the hard floor, overtaking the sound of rain pouring down on the roof as you come to stand in front of the couch, facing Bucky.
“I’m not pissed at you.” He says plainly, cocking his head to one side as he studies you. You’re wearing an oversized white t-shirt that he assumes you pulled from his side of the closet, rather than picking any of the forties-style pajamas from your own side.
“Then why make me feel like I did something wrong? I did exactly what I was supposed to do on this mission.”
“I’m jealous.” His confession sucks the air out of your lungs and leaves you stunned.
“What?”
“I’m jealous.” He repeats calmly, looking you right in the eyes. “It took everything I had not to stop you from leaving earlier. I knew what he’d do. I knew that he’d kiss you, that he’d take every inch you gave him and ask for a mile more.” The fact that Bucky’s so calm and stoic as he confesses all of this has you shaken to your core.
“No, you don’t get to do this.” You say angrily, running both hands through your hair as you turn away from him. He’s sitting there with his arms outstretched along the back of the couch and his expression as unreadable as ever and it’s only making you more mad. “You don’t get to say shit like that to me. You don’t get to be jealous. You sent me into that situation even after I made it abundantly clear that I didn’t think I was the right person for this mission.” You turn back around and look at Bucky with a fiery rage burning in your eyes, but then your gaze settles on his calm, almost serene expression. He cocks his head to the side as you study him, with whatever angry words you were about to spit at him temporarily on hold. Your eyes float down his chest, passing over the dark t-shirt he’s sporting. With the way his arms are outstretched along the back of the couch, you can see the outline of his abs clearly through his thin shirt. When your eyes land on the front of his sweats, you notice two things. The first is that he's sitting with his legs spread in a way that tells you he’s comfortable as hell on that ugly couch. The second is that his cock is semi-hard and pressing against the fabric of those sweats shamelessly.
You want to leave. You want to head for the front door and run out into the rain, losing yourself somewhere in this city that you don’t know and this timeline that you don’t belong in. You don’t want to be in this house with Bucky for another minute. You can’t think straight when you’re around him. Here you are, angry as hell over something you can’t even recall in this exact moment, because when you look at him and he looks at you this way…you’re torn between wanting to run and wanting to straddle him right there on the couch. Bucky can tell exactly what’s on your mind when your eyes zero in on his lap. Even though the anger hasn’t dissipated from your features, he can tell it’s sitting on the edge of an abyss, ready to fall in and disappear if he says the right thing.
“Go ahead.” Bucky says firmly, narrowing his eyes at you.
“What?” You cross your arms over your chest like he’s seen you do a thousand times before as you stand in front of him. You watch as Bucky looks down at his lap for a moment, letting his gaze linger on his thighs before he lifts his head up and stares into your soul. Your heart begins to race as he tilts his head to the side slowly, the expression on his face never changing.
“Sit.”
The three seconds that you stare back at Bucky with your arms crossed over your chest feel like three hours to him. When you finally do take a step forward and let your arms reach out to him, he’s fighting to hold in a sigh of relief. You move slowly, lifting your right knee up to the edge of the couch first and letting it touch the outside of his left thigh. When your left knee lands on the couch beside his right leg, you carefully position yourself over his lap as your hands come to rest on his shoulders. Bucky’s fingertips curl into the fabric of the couch as he wills himself to keep his arms along the back of it, refusing to grab your hips and guide you to sit on his lap himself. You’re apprehensive as you stare down into his blue eyes and sink onto his lap at a painstakingly snail-like pace. Your breath hitches in your throat when you feel the outline of his erection pressing against the black lace panties you have on underneath the white t-shirt, but you don’t stop. You seat yourself firmly on his lap, with your knees bent on either side of his hips and your palms pressed against his opposing warm and cool shoulders. It bothers you that he doesn’t move his arms, that he doesn’t try to touch you. It really bothers you that his expression is still unreadable, as if having you on his lap doesn’t do a damn thing to him. If his cock wasn’t hardening more and more with each passing second, you’d truly believe that you weren’t having any sort of effect on him right now.
“You don’t get to be jealous.” You whisper, shaking your head just barely as Bucky studies your face.
“Why not?”
“Because this is just…” Your eyes flit down to where your legs are spread over Bucky’s lap, but his never leave your face. He knows what you’re about to say and he’s already wishing you wouldn’t. This is exactly what he’s been trying to avoid. “This isn’t real.” It feels every bit as shitty as he thought it would, hearing you say it out loud. The muscle along the side of his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth together. “It’s just tension. We let it build up too much and then we don’t know how to handle it, and we think it’s something more but—"
“But it isn’t.” Bucky finishes your sentence stiffly. You nod, but your eyes are searching his. You want him to convince you, you want him to tell you that you’re wrong like he has before. You need him to tell you that this isn’t just tension. But he stays quiet, staring at you like he doesn’t really give a shit what you need right now. So, you ramble on.
“Maybe if we take a break from being partners after this mission is over. We could let things cool off and give each other space.” The words tumble out of your mouth quickly, but they leave a bad taste. “But it’s hard to give each other space when we live across the hall from each other.” Bucky nods along, cocking his head to the side as he watches you scramble for other options. He doesn’t know why you’re still sitting on his lap if this is the direction you’re taking things, but he isn’t ready to push you off and end this just yet. Not if it might be the last time you let him get this close to you.
“Do you want space?” He asks lowly. You struggle to find a reasonable answer when his tongue darts out to wet his lips. You watch as it slides across his bottom lip slowly before disappearing into his mouth. He shifts his legs beneath you slightly and it causes his hard cock to press against your barely clothed cunt just a little more firmly than before and you inhale sharply, curling your fingertips into his shoulders as he stills once again.
“I want to stop thinking about you the way that I’ve been thinking about you.” Bucky’s heartbeat is rising steadily as your words sink in. You’ve been thinking about him. God, he wants to tangle his hands in your hair and pull you in closer, refusing to let go of you until you admit that you fucking want him. “I want to go back to when we had a normal, uncomplicated partnership in the field.” He wants to say fuck normal and uncomplicated and have his way with you, but he stays still. “I want to fuck.”
Bucky’s stunned. He blinks twice before squinting his eyes at you and letting out a long, slow breath.
“You want to fuck.” Bucky repeats under his breath, seeming like he doesn’t think he’s heard you right. You nod, coming to the realization that that’s exactly what you want.
“Maybe if we fuck, it would all just go away.” Bucky scoffs as soon as you’ve said it. He’s never felt as frustrated as he is right now. It isn’t just emotional frustration, but sexual as well. You’re fucking tormenting him. While you sit on his lap actively denying the fact that this thing between you is real, you’re simultaneously telling him you want to have sex with him. You tried sleeping it off once before and it didn’t work out for you, so now you want to fuck the feelings away. He’s pissed honestly. As he sits there, with his arms outstretched along the back of the couch and the girl he’s in love with on his lap, he’s pissed.
“Go ahead then.” He says roughly, jutting his chin out at you as his eyes flit down to where your legs are spread over him. “Go ahead and see if you can fuck it all away. It’ll work about as well as when you tried to sleep it off, but I’m willing to let you give it a shot.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance and rain patters against the windows as tensions rise all around you. It feels like the thunderstorm outside has somehow shifted through the walls and lightning could strike you at any given moment. Though your heart is racing and your breaths are coming in quicker than before, you don’t back down. You maintain eye contact as you lift your ass up slightly and then grind back down, dragging the fabric of your lace panties along the front of Bucky’s sweats. You feel his cock twitch in its confines, but his face never changes. Fuck him and his perpetually cold expression. You grind down again, harder this time, and watch as his hands curl into fists at the ends of his outstretched arms. What do you have to do to get him to put those hands on you?
Lightning strikes somewhere outside as you lean in and dip your head down, pressing your lips to the side of Bucky’s neck in an open-mouthed kiss. You feel his pulse thumping in his carotid artery as your tongue swipes over it. If you’re going to get this out of your system, you can’t take your time. You need this to be quick and dirty. Bucky senses that and isn’t surprised at all when your right hand starts tugging at the waistband of his sweats.
“I said go ahead.” He rasps, tilting his head to the side to give you more access to his neck. “Take what you want.” You take the encouragement and run with it, slipping your hand into the waistband of his sweats and boxers, quickly finding his length and wrapping your hand around it. He lets out a shaky but controlled breath as you start stroking his cock. He has to bite down on his bottom lip when you tighten your grip around the head and he feels his precum wet your palm. This is going to haunt him forever. He wants this, you, so fucking bad that he’s willing to take whatever he can get. And this is the most he can get. Your hand is around his cock with the sole intention of fucking around with him until you forget your feelings. He should feel used. He does feel used, but if you’re only okay with using him, then he’s fine with it. He’s fine with it because he fucking loves you.
You feel Bucky’s chest rise and fall at a quicker pace against your own as his cock twitches in your hand. Thunder shakes the house again and a tear slips down your cheek. It feels clinical when you push Bucky’s waistband down further and drag your lips along the curve of his jaw.
“He kissed me outside of the bar.” You whisper against the column of Bucky’s throat, hating the way he tenses up underneath you. You let your hand fall away from his cock and shift it between your legs, tugging your lace panties to the side beneath the oversized t-shirt. “And I couldn’t fucking stand it.” Your voice breaks and Bucky curls his fingers into the couch cushions so hard that he might’ve heard them rip if the storm raging outside wasn’t so loud. “You weren’t listening, so you didn’t hear me stop him.” Another tear falls as you rise up on your knees and guide the head of Bucky’s length to where it belongs. “But I stopped him.” Lightning strikes and you swear it nearly hits the house as you let out a shaky breath and start lowering yourself down. The sheer size of him makes your thighs ache and the walls of your cunt burn with the stretch. “I stopped him and he knew, before I said anything, that I wasn’t his to kiss.” Bracing your hands back on Bucky’s shoulders, you sink down onto him one slow inch at a time as he stares up at you. His expression isn’t so unreadable now. It’s showcasing the torment he feels, the torture you’re putting him through…the torture he’s enduring just because he loves you.
“Whose are you then?” He asks, his voice tense and strained as you seat yourself entirely on his cock. He can tell by the look in your eyes that you’re not going to answer his question. You know the answer, the tears rimming your pretty eyes and the pleading look taking over your face tell him that much. But you just can’t bring yourself to say it out loud. You’re his.
You didn’t give yourself any time to adjust to his size and you’re paying for it as you start riding him. You move slow at first, lost in the way he’s looking at you, wondering why the hell he won’t touch you. But as the storm picks up outside, so does your pace. Faster and faster you lift and lower your hips until it couldn’t possibly be more obvious that you’re trying to fuck your feelings away. Bucky’s pushing past the obscene sounds of skin against skin, past the rumbling thunder and heavy rain on the rooftop, until all he can hear is your heartbeat. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, but you’re timing each bounce of your hips with the steady beat of your heart. He focuses in on that when the walls of your pussy begin fluttering violently around his shaft, because if he lets himself focus on anything else, he’ll fall over the edge with you and he refuses to let it happen this way. Your goal isn’t to get him off, it’s to get something out of your system.
Bucky clenches his teeth when you start coming undone around him, he clenches his teeth and his vibranium arm whirs loudly along the back of the couch as you grip his shoulders and ride out your orgasm. It’s only a few seconds later when you blink your eyes open and let a few tears fall onto the fabric of his shirt.
“Did it work?” Bucky asks breathlessly, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around you and pull you against his chest.
“What?”
“Did you fuck it out of your system?” He narrows his eyes at you. He’s sure the answer is no, but he isn’t so sure that you’ll admit it. As you stare back into his blue eyes, he can tell you’re giving up and something akin to hope stirs in his chest. You shake your head gently, loosening your grip on his shoulders as the weight of your silent confession settles over you both. “Okay, let’s try again.”
Bucky doesn’t give you a chance to full catch your breath before he’s slipping his flesh arm around your back and rising from the couch, keeping his cock buried inside of you.
“Bucky—”
“You want it out of your system, don’t you?” He asks roughly, carrying you away from the couch and toward the kitchen table. You swallow hard as he skillfully uses his vibranium hand to shove a kitchen chair to the side before laying you down on the table. Still, his cock never leaves your pussy. “If we go at it from another angle…” Bucky’s voice trails off as he pulls his hips backward slowly until only the tip of his cock is left inside of you. You whimper at the loss of his length, hating the way your pussy fights to grip onto what he’s left you with. Bucky pushes your white t-shirt up until it’s sitting just below your bra. Though he doesn’t let himself get a glimpse of your chest, he has no problem with sliding his hands beneath the shirt and running his palms over your breasts. You arch into his touch and another whimper leaves your lips. “This might be the right angle.” He whispers, dragging his hands down until his fingers are curling into your hips roughly. You see stars when he pistons his hips forward so hard that the table shakes beneath the force and you feel him brushing against your cervix.
“Fuck.” You moan the word out as your tears begin to dry. Your hands circle around Bucky’s wrists as he holds your hips in place and starts fucking you relentlessly. Your mascara is smudged beneath your eyes but you still look so pretty that it hurts him to look at you. You wrap your legs around him as his head falls back a little and a guttural groan escapes him. It feels so damn good, you feel so damn good, but this isn’t how he wants you. Your whimpers and occasional swears turn into uninhibited, borderline pornographic moans as he fucks you until you’re lost in the bliss of it all.
“If you cum on my cock a second time, is it going to be enough?” He wonders aloud, slowing the pace of his thrusts and simultaneously deepening them as much as he possibly can. His balls press against your ass as a loud clap of thunder leaves the lights flickering. You’re shaking your head before your brain has a chance to reason with your heart. It won’t be enough. “You don’t think so? You seemed pretty damn sure of yourself when you said that this isn’t real. Cumming on my cock this time should be enough for you.”
“Shit, Bucky.” You let out a frustrated moan as he pulls his hips back slowly and starts giving your cunt the most shallow thrusts yet.
“This is so fucking real to me that I’d let you do it a thousand times if that’s what it takes to make you realize you’re wrong.” Bucky snaps his hips forward and hits your cervix again, admiring the way your body reacts to him as your back arches off of the table and your t-shirt rides up a little more. A tiny bit of the black lace of your bra peeks out beneath your shirt and Bucky lets out another groan before thrusting hard again. He wanted to slow down and make you feel even just a shred of the torment he’s been feeling tonight, he wanted to give you shallow, unrhythmic thrusts and delay your orgasm, but he’s already fucking his cock into you at an unforgiving pace and depth. His name falls from your lips in a breathless moan as your fingernails leave little crescent-shaped indents in the skin of his wrists and your pussy tightens around his shaft all over again. He has to bite down on the inside of his cheek, nearly drawing blood, just to keep from cumming with you. His own level of restraint is surprising himself. He hasn’t done something like this in decades and yet, he’s holding himself together pretty damn well.
“Bucky.” You gasp as your orgasm washes over you and he continues to pump his cock into you. He lets his thrusts slow more and more with each passing second until he’s just lazily circling his hips, giving you the faintest sensation of pleasure mixed with overstimulation.
“Did it work that time?” He asks between pants. He lets go of your hips as his eyes scan over the expanse of your skin where he had gripped you so tightly before, checking for marks. He can see his own handprints on each hip, but they aren’t red enough that he thinks he’s left bruises. You stare up at him as a sigh of relief slips past his lips. When his eyes finally meet yours, you know he’s waiting for an answer.
“It didn’t.” You admit. The lights flicker again, going out for a few seconds before coming back on. “I’m sorry I—”
“I don’t want to hear you say sorry.” God, that’s not at all what he wants to hear you say. He wants to hear you say you were wrong or that you were lying and this is as real to you as it is to him. He wants to hear you say that no matter how many times his cock slides into your pussy, the feelings aren’t going anywhere. As his hands find yours and your fingers intertwine, he tugs you up into a sitting position on the edge of the table and then slips his palms around to cup your ass as he lifts you once more. “We’re going to try this one more time and if it doesn’t work, if you can’t fuck the feelings away…” His voice trails off as the lights flicker one final time before shutting off completely. Bucky carries you down the hall and through the bedroom door in near total darkness. Every few seconds, lightning flashes and illuminates the house through the windows and sheer curtains, and you get a glimpse of Bucky’s serious face. “If this doesn’t work, you have to say it.” Keeping his flesh arm around your lower back, he lowers you onto the bed, hovering over you as his still-hard cock slips out of your sore cunt. You prop yourself up on your elbows as he stands at the foot of the bed and reaches back over his shoulders, grasping the fabric of his t-shirt and tugging it over his head in one smooth move. Lighting strikes again and you watch, with warmth pooling low in your stomach, as Bucky pushes his sweats and boxers down to the floor.
“I have to say what?” You ask, fighting hard to keep the stutter out of your question. Bucky wraps his right hand around the base of his cock tightly, but he doesn’t dare stroke it. He gives it a quick squeeze before moving that same hand down and palming his balls in an effort to slow himself down.
“You have to say that you’re mine.” He has no idea that you’ve already said it once tonight. He took his earpiece out, thinking you were having a heated moment with another man, when you were really telling that man exactly what Bucky wanted to hear.
“That’s how this works? You fuck me a few times and then I’m yours?”
Bucky can’t stop the dark, hair-raising chuckle that tumbles past his lips when you tilt your head to the side and narrow your eyes at him. He moves toward the bed slowly, placing one knee on the end of the mattress and leaning forward until both of his palms are flat on the bed. He’s hovering over you, his face only a few inches from yours when a burst of thunder rings out.
“You’ve been mine since the day we met, sweetheart. I just let you run around and deny it for too damn long.” Your breath hitches in your throat as he angles his chin toward the headboard, silently letting you know that he wants you to move further up on the bed. You scoot backward, keeping your eyes on him as the room grows impossibly warmer and goosebumps prickle over your skin. When your back lands flat on the bed and your head is laid comfortably on the only pillow there, Bucky’s over you in an instant, nudging your legs apart with his knee as he settles between them. The head of his cock, still dripping with precum, presses against the lace of your panties and he hisses at the contact. He hasn’t let himself cum yet and he’s dangerously close to losing control over his impending orgasm.
“Since the day we met?” You ask, scrunching up your face in confusion as you think of all of the missions you’ve been on, all of the senseless arguments and shit-giving. Did it all have a deeper meaning for him? Bucky nods as he stills above you and braces himself with his arms next to either side of your head. When he looks into your eyes you can tell that he’s straining to maintain his composure and it almost makes you feel guilty. Here you are two orgasms in and he’s hanging on by a fucking thread. You slide your hand down between your bodies, wrapping it around his length and giving it a few long, slow pumps as his eyes flutter closed and his head falls to your shoulder.
“I can’t stand you.” You say evenly, as he starts rutting into your hand carelessly. His small thrusts are sloppy and restrained, but he continues on as you stroke his cock and smear his precum around the length of it. He groans in response and bites down on your shoulder hard enough to make you inhale sharply. “I can’t stand the way you slept so close to me last night, because the next time I sleep alone, I’ll feel like something’s missing.” Bucky freezes, but you continue your ministrations with your right hand. He doesn’t lift his head, fearing that if he so much as moves an inch you’ll stop talking. “I can’t stand the way you say my name, because when anyone else says it, it doesn’t sound as good.” He lets out a shaky breath as he builds up the courage to move. Snaking his vibranium hand down between your legs, he starts tugging your panties to the side just like he did earlier. You move in tandem with him, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance as he clears the way. “And I really can’t stand the way you kiss me, because if I ever let anyone else kiss me, I’ll only ever be disappointed.”
Bucky pulls his head back and stares down at you with a furrowed brow, looking as though he’s thinking hard. The head of his cock notches into your pussy and he pushes his hips forward just enough to sink the first couple of inches inside of you, watching as your mouth falls open and your eyes close tightly. He’s staring at you with such an intense focus in his blue eyes that when you finally look back up at him, you feel like his gaze alone is burning a hole through your head. You spread your legs a little, bending your knees slightly to give him a better angle as he pulls his hips back slowly. When only the head of his cock is sheathed inside of you, he licks his bottom lip before snapping his hips forward and delivering one hard, deep thrust that forces the headboard to slam against the wall.
“I love you.” Bucky says the three words with conviction, with a confidence you’ve never heard before. You wait a few seconds, trying to recover from the earth-shattering sensations of your pussy being destroyed and actual bliss. His words sink into your skin and melt into your soul with an unexpected warmth as he drags his cock out of you and then pushes back in again. He loves you.
“You can’t stand me.” You correct, not even trying to hide the smile that’s beginning to spread across your lips as Bucky starts setting a rhythmic pace. He laughs, but then groans as you scrape your nails down his back roughly.
“I can’t, but still…”
“You love me.” You repeat smugly, finishing his sentence. He doesn’t need you to say it back yet. Just the fact that you didn’t shove him away and flee the house when he said it is enough for him right now. A few sultry moans play in his ears and he pushes himself up to sit on his knees, moving your legs so that one is over each of his shoulders before he starts fucking you so hard that he thinks Howard Stark might need to buy a new mattress, new headboard, and maybe even have the damn wall re-plastered.
The next few minutes consist of nothing more than filthy, pornographic sounds. With skin slapping against skin, the headboard snapping against the wall, your moans, and Bucky’s strained groans, neither of you can really hear the storm raging outside anymore. You focus in on Bucky as much as you can, watching as his abs ripple and the muscles of his flesh arm flex repeatedly. He catches you staring at him as he fucks you and he holds eye contact, letting his mouth fall open and his eyelids drop down halfway as he watches you watch him. Filthy. It’s filthy the way he's fucking his cock into you in someone else’s bed. You moan his name out in a raspy tone and it sends him over the edge. He guides your legs down, setting them back on the bed before crawling over you and fucking you missionary while he swallows every moan you let out. His lips brush against yours over and over again, but you don’t kiss. You breathe each other in until you feel his cock twitch and his thrusts grow sloppy.
“Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” Bucky groans, thrusting a little harder and deeper as he nears his release. You grip his sides and bend your knees as your own orgasm looms. “You’re so fucking tight and….fuck, you’re just…shit, baby.”
“Bucky, I love you.”
He loses every last remnant of control when you finally admit it. He can’t stop the flood of cum that starts spilling out of his cock and into you. Truthfully, he wouldn’t want to stop it. He thrusts as deep as he can and grinds his hips into you, watching your eyes scrunch closed and your mouth fall open as you take every last drop of his cum. It’s everything to him. Not you taking his cum this way, not you letting him have you like this, but you telling him the one thing he never thought you would. You love him.
His post-orgasm haze should last longer than yours. He should be collapsed next to you on the bed right now, but as you lay beneath him trying to catch your breath, he’s staring down at you with perfect clarity.
“If you go back to pretending you don’t feel anything after this…” Bucky’s voice trails off as he feels a good bit of his cum dripping out of you and back onto his shaft. He moves in a little closer and pushes his cock the rest of the way inside you as gently as possible, earning himself a whimper from your pretty lips.
“You’ll what? Fuck me on another table?” You tease, smiling up at him. He shakes his head and bites down on his bottom lip in an attempt to hide his own smile, but you catch it anyway.
“Why would I do that when there are so many other surfaces we haven’t tried out yet?”
“I hate you.” You retort playfully, sliding your hands up his chest and preparing to push him off of you. His cock hasn’t softened in the slightest bit yet and you don’t know if you can take another round tonight. His small smile turns into a hearty grin as his cock twitches again.
“That’s a lie.” He smirks, dragging his tongue along his teeth after speaking. You narrow your eyes at him as you realize he’s still leaning on his ridiculous theory that your pussy clenches down when you lie. “You love me.” He says slowly, dropping his head down and pressing his lips against yours. He kisses you gently at first, pecking your lips twice before going in for a longer one. After a few seconds, he slips his tongue into your mouth and the longer he kisses you, the more weight you feel lifting from your shoulders. You didn’t realize how exhausting it was to deny this for so long. But now that you’re here, letting it happen, you can’t stop the tear that starts rolling down your cheek. Bucky pulls back as soon as he feels it, searching your eyes to see what’s wrong. “What did I do?” He asks quickly, preparing to separate himself from you. You stop him, sliding your hands down his sides and curling your fingers against his skin to hold him in place.
“Nothing.” You answer honestly, smiling up at his look of concern even as that tear continues to roll down your cheek. “Peggy has a feeling that she and Steve wait too late in this lifetime, that they don’t let themselves have this kind of happiness.”
“I told you they end up together.” Bucky says gently, using the pad of his thumb to wipe the tear from your cheek.
“I know. I wonder if this is how they felt when they finally made it back to each other.” Bucky takes a moment, really thinking about it before he moves a stray lock of hair away from your face and lets out a deep breath.
“How do you feel?” He asks, speaking with a soft tone as he eyes you closely.
“Like if you asked me for a lifetime, it wouldn’t scare the shit out of me.”
As Bucky stares down at you, you can see that all of those times you thought his expression was so unreadable were because you didn’t really want to read what was there. All you see in his eyes is love. Love and probably some kind of half-assed plan to ask you for a lifetime while his dick is inside you, just so he can see if you’re lying or not.
blurred lines by @ellemj (43.2k, angst, smut, fluff)
When choosing a female agent to send back in time to gain young Sergeant Barnes's trust, everyone's in agreement that it should be Sharon. Until Bucky, the man that you barely get along with, speaks up and lets everyone know that it could only be you.
his and his only... for 24 hours by @salem-s (25k, fluff, smut)
The last person you would ever consider dating — much less touching with a ten foot pole — is Bucky Barnes. Yet somehow here you are: packing a bag to spend the night of the Fourth of July as his fake girlfriend, all to get his pestering family off his case. But admittedly you can’t help but lean into the bit. Just a tad. Especially when his ex-girlfriend makes it very clear she wants him back.
nine lives by @thebarneschronicles (9.4k, smut, fluff, slight angst)
Bucky Barnes drives you insane—in every possible way. The bickering, the reckless plans, the way he smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. But when a mission goes sideways, leaving you both bloodied and too close for comfort, the tension between you ignites into something impossible to ignore.
two tickets to iron maiden by @superbassbuck (two shot - 38.2k, smut, angst, fluff)
You're the picture-perfect popular pretty girl—all style, smiles, and social status. Bucky is the typical campus dirtbag—loud music, attitude, and bad decisions. You can't stand him, and he fucking hates your guts. That is, until one house party changes everything. When Bucky catches you headbanging to classic rock instead of pop, instead of hating your guts, he ended up being inside your guts. You’re desperate to keep your arrangement quiet for the sake of your reputation, but Bucky is growing tired of being your dirty little secret.
daily rounds by @to-cross-the-stars (9.4k, smut, fluff)
You thrive in your little routine, running the campus library like a well-oiled machine. Unfortunately, part of that routine includes seeing the face of a particular security guard who can't help but get under your skin.
page turner by @cursedheartsclub (10k, fluff, smut)
When you fall behind on your Avengers book club reading, Natasha suggests Bucky help keep you on track.
to have and to hold by @unificsation (8.8k, slight angst, smut)
as a one-year anniversary gift, you propose that you and your husband divorce. he decides to teach you a lesson: that the king of new york doesn’t give anything up, least of all his darling wife.
fatal attraction by @honeysucklewatr (2.35k, slight angst, smut)
he doesn’t have to explicitly say it but you can tell bucky doesn’t like you. he makes your life infinitely harder as the newest recruit. so when he purposefully sabotages your mission, tensions rise because you’re not taking shit from someone that’s not even your superior—no matter how hot he is.
this is (not) okay by @artficlly (9.1k, smut, fluff)
personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.
STEVE ROGERS
phantom limb by @crybabycabin (17.2k, angst, smut, fluff)
steve rogers has spent two years keeping you at arm’s length. but when a mission goes wrong and his skin meets yours, suddenly every wall he’s built starts crumbling.
dog house by @lunexiax (12.3k, smut)
Everyone knows that yourself and Steve should never have been put on the same team; you fight like dogs and spark like live-wires. But maybe not all of that tension is hate.
manchild by @miasvelvetvoid (10k, angst, smut, fluff)
“How am I supposed to not settle steve? When-when…” You groaned loudly in frustration, your hands huffing at your sides. “I’m never going to be able to find someone if you don’t just fucking leave me alone.”
mr. and mrs.... rogers?! by @blowingbarnes (10.5k, smut, fluff)
You and Steve are voluntold you're married for an undercover mission. Should be easy, except you hate each other.
how would y’all feel about neighbor! peter parker x reader where you’re secretly a huge spider-man fan and have no idea the awkward guy living across the hall is literally him… meanwhile peter remembers knowing you in high school before the whole world forgot who he was, including the fact that you used to have a crush on him.
you two used to be friends, you had this painfully obvious little crush on him that he realized way too late, and now he has to stand there and introduce himself to you like you’re strangers while remembering everything you don’t.
plus reader having her own little subplot involving the theatre she works at and some increasingly suspicious shit happening behind the scenes that eventually starts dragging spider-man into it…….. perhaps………
꒰ when you feel you are being led astray by the temptation of a falsely righteous man dressed up in sheep's clothing, that is when you call on God to help you . . . w.c. 2.5k ꒱
⤿ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 blasphemous themes , sheltered virgin!reader , messy cunnilingus , cook is referred to as ‘james’ , sexting , humiliation , corruption , dirty talk , choking , one mini kiss , protected p in v , mating press , light spit play , degradation , cook calls himself 'God' ! MDNI 18+ & mind the tags, this content is not for everyone.
⩩ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 he’s back by popular demand (everyone say thank you @flixpii) !! also sidenote, i love the title i used because i specifically remember people using the concept of a bible study to invite people into talking about ‘dirty’ things . . . idk i’m chronically online. likes, comments, and reblogs are highly appreciated ❤︎
ଓ link to the headcannons
You didn’t remember how you ended up in this position.
Fully naked with your legs stacked on the shoulders of the priest’s own son as his tongue lapped at your glistening cunt.
Your fingers dug into the soft sheets of your bed, your lips wobbling as you tried so hard to keep quiet. His mouth was just too good—strangely good for a man who went around claiming he was celibate and devoted to God only.
Your head was lying back against the pillows, staring up at your ceiling but ever so often drifting down to his face between the crevice of your thighs. He kept his gaze on you, intimidating and terrorizing. He knew what he did to you, and to not take full advantage of that would be a waste.
Ever since your last encounter with James Cook in the back of that church where he had you bent over some dirty table, defiling you with his fingers, you couldn’t stop thinking about how good it felt to disobey everything you were ever taught. Bless your dear parents, they really tried their hardest to keep you away from sin, but how could they have predicted the son of a priest would be the one to lead you away from a life of chastity?
So when you told them about wanting to invite him over for a proposed ‘bible study’, they were absolutely elated to hear that you wanted to further your relationship with the Lord. You never showed much interest in religion anyways, so they assumed it was James who had influenced you. Even when you told them that you were going to take him into your room, they didn’t bat a single eye. He was a pious man who could do no wrong, so what was there to fear when they had already instilled so much trust in him?
His fingers dug into the top of your thighs as he buried his mouth deeper, tongue bullying into your sensitive clit. His hair was messy from how hard you were gripping it before he forced your hand out of his hand, claiming he would stop right now if you didn’t keep still.
The idea of inviting him over came late one night as you were sending each other lewd images back and forth through text message. He would tell you what types of photos to take and what position he wanted you in, as if he was creating his own personal jerk off material. He especially liked photos of you in your nightgown, skirt lifted around your breasts and panties pulled to the side. Cook would send you photos of his cock in return, along with a description of how it probably wouldn’t fit inside you. It got you so pent up that without thinking, you asked him to come over and make it fit. He was at your doorstep the next day, heavy bible under his arm and his hard cock shoved up into his waistband.
“J-James—ough—s’too m-much!” you cried quietly, squeezing your thighs around his face.
He had been in between your legs for what felt like hours, when in reality it had only been 20 minutes and he’d already made you cum twice. He started out slow, giving you little kitten licks as a way to warm you up, but now he was being more aggressive, roughly lapping at your overstimulated clit.
You could feel yourself approaching a third orgasm, and your eyes kept drifting to the locked door of your room, praying internally that your parents wouldn’t come up looking for you two. Though, Cook was a master of manipulation. He could justify anything using his convincing tone, and it became something you admired about him.
Ignoring you, he pushed his tongue harder against you, making you buck your hips into him.
“Oh fuck!”
That good feeling was swirling back into that part of your body, and without warning, you were pushed over the edge. You pulled a pillow over your face as your body shook from the painfully pleasurable orgasm. Cook held onto your legs as he rode the wave, continuing to eat you out through the aftershocks, then finally pulling away.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he looked down at the puffiness of your cunt, the way your clit still twitched without any stimulation. He could’ve went for hours, but he wasn’t dumb. He knew your parents were home, and that this was meant to be a ‘bible study’.
When you first took him up to your room, he followed very closely behind you. Close enough that he got a whiff of the perfume you put on, the one that he once told you at church was the smell of angels. He sat down on your freshly made bed while you gently closed and locked the door, then you walked over to stand in front of him, hands behind your back nervously.
“Like a lamb to the slaughta’” he grins, leaning back on his elbows.
“Don’t tease me” you mumbled in a pout.
“I’ll do whateva’ I like wiv’ ya.”
You say nothing, just staring down at the carpet you were standing upon.
Cook shifts off the bed to stand in front of you, his stature looming over yours like a dark cloud.
“I don’t ‘fink you know how long I’ve waited for this. For you to fully let me in” he tilts his head down to look at you.
“You make it hard not to” you reply quietly.
“Yeah? You can’t stand it, can ya?”
You shake your head no.
He leans closer to your ear. “Poor girl. Tryin’ so hard to be good. What’d you reckon your parents ‘fink if they knew their daughta’ was so desperate for the cock of a priests’ son?”
His words make you shudder, but you couldn’t deny the pool of slick growing between your legs.
“W-Well…what w-would they think if—” you try to make a comeback to put the blame on him but he stops you.
“Ah ah, don’t try’n fight it now. You know what you want, and I know what I want, so…” he grabs your wrist gently, placing your hand over top his bulge. “Why don’t we help each ova’ out?”
He sits back on his knees, watching you slowly move the pillow off your face. He was so handsome just sitting there, fully dressed, mouth covered in your cum. It made you angry just from thinking about how much you would let him do to you.
“Such a sweet pussy” he says lowly, as if drunk off the taste of you.
You whine and clench your legs shut in embarrassment. He opens them with his hands, putting your core back on display for him.
“‘Can’t hide now, babe. I’ve already seen every inch of ya.”
His words embarrass you further, but he was right. You had sent him so many nudes now that there really was no point in hiding.
“N-Need more, James” you sniffle, insinuating you needed him inside you, which was the whole reason you invited him over in the first place.
“I could listen to you beg for me cock foreva’” Cook smirks to himself quietly as he unbuckles his belt.
You whine, pawing his thigh with the tips of your toes.
“Patience is a virtue, love” he says, and you roll your eyes at his audacity to speak on virtue.
He pulls his hardened cock out, and begins to slowly pump it through his fist in front of you with a sadistic smile adorned on his face. Naturally, you try to sit up so you could get closer to him, but he stops you when his other hand grabs your throat tightly and pushes you back down roughly. Cook stands on his knees, hovering over you. You breathing becomes shallow as you stare up at him, and as if he could smell your fear, he leans down to press a delicate kiss onto your lips. Then he pulled back, removing his hand from your throat and smirking at your dumbfounded expression.
“First kiss?” he teased.
You nodded slowly.
Cook just laughed. “Now ya really belong to me.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a condom. You watch as he rips it open and slides the thin, lubed material over his shaft. He takes both of your legs and pushes the backs of your thighs against his abdomen, encouraging you to rest your legs against his shoulders. Beneath the freshly pressed clothing and suits he wore, no one ever would’ve suspected just how muscular Cook was. You watched the way the muscles of his biceps bulged out when he would pick your legs up, or the way his abs were still visible despite the terrible lighting in his dick pics. Every little thought about him added to the abundance of slick between your legs.
“Will it hurt?” you mumble, eyes fluttering shut when you feel his tip bump against your clit.
“Yeah. ‘Might even bleed from it.”
“That feels sacrificial.”
“‘Cause it is.”
He looks down, head nestled between your calves as he slowly pushes in. The stretch of him burned, instantly feeling full of something foreign. You remembered how it felt to have his fingers inside you, nudging that sensitive spot over and over again. Cook groaned loudly when he bottomed out. He didn’t even care to be silent anymore. As he began to thrust, he laid more of his weight onto you, stretching out your hamstrings. The position was quite uncomfortable, but for some reason you trusted Cook. Besides, the angle he was hitting was beginning to feel close to heavenly.
“C-Christ, you’re fuckin’ tight. So t-tight for me” he groans, picking up the pace.
The sound of his hips snapping against your ass filled the room that once knew silence and prayers mumbled under the breath. You bit your lip just to cover your own sounds.
“O-Oh yes—right there, f-feels s’good right t-there, James!” you whimper quietly, completely engulfed in pleasure.
He was thrusting as fast as he could without triggering the creaking of your bed, and somewhere along the way, his cross necklace slipped out from under his shirt. It was quality gold, with an inscription on the back of his favourite verse.
‘Put to death the sinful, earthly things lurking within you. Colossians 3:5.’
It hung down in front of your face, swinging back and forth with every push of your bodies. You focused on it. You wondered why sex was considered such a deviance when it felt so fucking good.
Cook noticed his necklace had fallen, but he didn’t tuck it back in. Instead, he let you watch it, hypnotizing you while he pounded himself into your guts.
“Such a dirty g-girl. ‘Parents don’t even k-know they—agh f-fuck—raised a little cockslut.” Cook mumbles into your ear, nailing the degrading names into you as if he truly meant them.
You wanted to hit him. Tell him this was all his doing. But you didn’t, he was making you feel too good to talk back.
“Open up” he demands, and you do as he says.
He spits a fat glob of saliva onto your tongue. He growls at you to swallow it.
“So fuckin’ nasty” he laughs sadistically as he watches you swallow his spit.
It should have been humiliating, because that’s what he was trying to do, but it just turned you on more. Cook could tell, and he loved that you were just as messed up as he was.
The pain from how thick he was slowly washed away, and was replaced by a euphoric sensation that crawled its way up from your core to the entirety of your body. Your breasts bounced in tandem with his thrusts, and Cook could barely keep his eyes off you. Every punch against your cervix had you whimpering, eyes rolling back and mouth lolling open. You kept moaning the words ‘oh my God’, and Cook found it hard to not use that to his advantage.
“Y-Yeah, I’m your f-fuckin’ God. ‘Keep c-clenchin’ me like that, a-and I promise you’ll go to heaven” he hisses through his teeth as you squeezed around him, too fucked out to even register his words.
Cook’s pace was beginning to falter, a tell-tale sign that his orgasm was coming, and he didn’t know how quiet he could stay when it happened. He could tell you were close just by the furrow in your brows, and the way you dragged out your moans. He lowered himself onto you, positioning himself in a plank-like position with his forearms beside your head and knees pushed further down the bed. Now, he was driving his cock into you deeper than he had been before, and you swore you could see stars in your vision.
“J-James! Fu-fuck! Gonna—mmphmm—c-cum so h-harddd” you gasped when his tip hit that spongey spot from a different angle, accelerating your orgasm.
“Gonna c-cum for ya God? Huh? Yeah, cum on God’s f-fuckin’ cock.”
You’re pushed over the edge almost immediately, squeezing your sweaty palm against your mouth as your orgasm ran through you, a mind numbing pleasure you wished would never end. One more clench around his cock had Cook groaning into the crook of your neck, his hips seizing with every half thrust he could deliver. He felt the warmth of his own seed as he filled his condom to the brim. Cook collapsed on top of you, with the melody of light whimpering and breathing permeating the room as you both rode out your releases.
You wrapped your clammy arms around his back, almost in a hug. Cook chuckled into your neck. This was all he wanted—needed—since that first day your family began attending his father’s church. You looked so delicate that day, clad in your pristine white Sunday dress and little black dress shoes. He wasn’t going to let you get away from him, not with how you looked at him across the pew, just begging to be bent over the bench and taken by something worse than a demon. And here you were, shaking and fluttering around him like his prayers had been answered.
As you watched Cook walk down the steps of your porch, the heavy and unopened bible still under his arm, your blissfully unaware parents came out from the living room.
“That was quite a long bible study. How was it?” your mother asked, pressing a gentle hand against the back of your shoulder as Cook’s figure disappeared down the road.
summary: After spending years overseas with Doctors Without Borders, you finally come back home to Hell's Kitchen. When you meet a guy named Benjamin, you think things are finally going back to normal... except apparently your friends seem to know him, and not in a good way.
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, dex stalks you, fake identity/persona, violence, matt is an older brother figure to you, you and matt grew up in the orphanage together, matt is very overprotective of you (like suffocating really), ptsd/trauma (from doctors w/o borders), problems with eating, nightmares, you're a professor (and a doctor), did i mention dex stalks you?, matt and dex rivalry, slow burn (i absolutely mean that, like it's bad), dex is kinda obsessed with you (duh), dex only listens to you!, karen and foggy, angst, some fluff, light violence, takes place sometime after dd s3 and before ddba s1 but isn't really "canon" to ddba s1, more specific tags with each chapter!
notes: i had an idea when ddba s2 was on our screens every tuesday about dex becoming obsessed with matt's "sister" since he never had seen you before. then it became a full fleged slow burn series (no like slow burn, i don't think they kiss until like chapter 14 y'all) with all of the great qualities of dex - stalking, manipulating, obsession, and more! this is my baby, the only thing i was able to write for months, and i hope people love it as much as i do <3
(01, 01) - homam
(ho-mam'), (ζ) Pegasi, "the lucky star of the hero, or the whisperer."
(01, 02) - dabih
(dā'-be), (β) Capricorni, "the lucky one of the slaughterers," or "the slayer's lucky star."
(01, 03) - alula
(ah-loo'-lah), (ξ¹ and ξ²) Ursae Majoris, "the first leap, or the beginning of a journey."
(01, 04) - nashira
nashira, (γ) Capricorni, "the fortunate one, or the bringer of good tidings."
(01, 05) - algol
(al-gol'), (β) Persei, “the demon star,” or “the ghoul.”
(01, 06) - al rescha
(al resh'-ah), (α) Piscium, “the cord, the knot, or the binding rope.”
(01, 07) - sheraton
(sher-a-tan'), (β) Arietis, "a sign," or "the two signs."
(01, 08) - almach
(al'-mak), (γ) Andromedae, “the lynx, or the star at the turning of the chain.”
(01, 09) - alhena
(al-hee'-nah), (γ) Geminorum, “the brand, the mark, or the star of recognition.”
(01, 10) - sadalachbia
(sad-al-ak'-bee-ah), (γ) Aquarii, “the lucky star of hidden things."
(01, 11) - vega
(ve-ga), (α) Lyrae, “the swooping eagle, or the falling star.”
(01, 12) - zubenelgenubi
(zoo-ben-el-jeh-noo'-bee), (α) Librae, “the star of the false balance.”
(01, 13) - alphard
(al'-fard), (α) Hydrae, “the solitary one, or the star of growth in loneliness.”
(01, 14) - mebsuta
(meb-soo'-tah), (ε) Geminorum, “the outstretched paw, or the star of tenderness.”
(01, 15) - polaris
(poh-lair'-iss), (α) Ursae Minoris, “the North Star, or the star of guidance.”
series taglist: comment/send an ask to be added! if you're already in my dex/main taglist, you'll automatically be tagged in the series :)
❝ thunderbolts!bucky x assisstant!reader ❞
── when the new avengers' image needs repairing after the new york incident, you're tasked with organizing a massive coney island charity carnival. (un)fortunately, one forgotten booth assignment lands bucky barnes in the event's most popular attraction: the kissing booth.
⤷ tags: post thunderbolts (lowk is this a tower fic?), kissing booth, carnival/fair, slow burn, friends to lovers, coworkers to lovers, overworked reader, grumpy x sunshine, he falls first AND he falls harder, mutual pining, idiots in love, semi forced proximity, one sided pining until it isnt, some emotional constipation, accidental date, the date was real though, touch starved bucky barnes + soft bucky barnes, domestic yearning, office romance, workaholic!reader, author has journalism geek speak, career burnout, acts of service love language, what if someone noticed as a love language, softness after survival, brief mentions of trauma/ptsd, feelings confession, lots of kisses (its titled accurately) fluff with a happy ending ⋮ warnings: 18+ MDNI! valentina is a toxic boss #freemygirlmel, coercive workplace environment, eventual smut, p in v, unprotected sex, thunderbolts bucky is a softdom ill die on this hill, reader is a pillow princess #notsorry, specific tags to be added in each part!
˗ˏˋ ꒰ june’s note ꒱ ˎˊ˗
── BDAY FIC!!!! you guys dont understand... i LOVE this bucky i was literally like so obsessed with him i dreamed about him i thought about him while looking at the sunset i want to marry him forever and ever and ever. i hope you like it and as always thank you for reading!
── chapters + extras
💋 part one ⋮ one for the money...
💋 part two ⋮ two for the show...
💋 part three ⋮ three to get ready... now go, go go!
waited all night for you, i'll wait forever. ( johnny storm )
after an long coming arguement with your boyfriend at dinner, you leave, desperate for space. forty thousand missed calls and texts later, you come back in the morning when you've cooled off only to find johnny storm slumped against your front door where he's waited all night for and will wait forever too.
human torch! johnny storm x fem! reader
themes: fluff, mainly angst, reconciliation, johnny being an absent partner.
masterlist.
if you ask johnny, he thinks it starts during dinner.
he turned up fifteen minutes late, saw your back turned to him at a table positioned in the corner- away from all the main attention and pressed a soft kiss to your hair before he slumped in the seat opposite you.
he murmured a sorry, delved into some story about reed holding him back after the attack and before he knew it his apology had turned into a whole recount of his really exciting, really scary day.
you nodded, let out a few "wows" that landed offhandedly and he tried not to let the fact that you were slowly pulling away from him ruin the ambience. you two didn't get to go out too much, with johnny being recognised almost everywhere he went- he wanted some normalcy, some privacy and to shelter you from the nasty opinions of losers in the world.
he wanted things to be just his- you, to be just his. and you smiled, laughed when he left a gap for a reaction but something was still playing on his mind, taunting him as you stared. it wasn't your usual look of adoration, a glance so soft it liquidifies his whole body till he's left in a puddle of love. this look feels detached, like you're there but you're not here until he catches it- and freezes.
"fuck me," he whispers and you murmur in agreement.
"took you long enough to notice," you sigh, the bite doesn't land the way you hoped it to- leaving the taste of fatigue and pasta die on your tongue. his gaze is still stuck on his supersuit he wasn't bothered to change out of- the white and blues roaring under his red jacket he threw on in a hurry to come and meet you.
"baby, i'm so fucking sorry, shit i didn't mean-" he starts but you just raise your hand gently, a subtle peace offering and bow your head.
"johnny, let's not do this now," you meet his gaze and he dies at the fading light. he's really fucked this up, he opens his mouth to plead, to prove you wrong to apologise- because if there's one thing about johnny storm it is that he doesn't back down- not without a fight. however, the earth comes to a standstill, stepping on the cracks of his heart till he's left holding his last breath at the sound of a faint, "please," you add to the silence.
so he lets it go.
he eats painfully slow, hoping to drag out this moment of half-hearted peace, savour the calm before the storm but the tide is creeping in and coming for him. you eat in silence, combatting his attempt to lighten the mood with updates about sue's pregnancy and his excitement to be an uncle but the smile doesn't quite reach your eyes. it doesn't burn like sunshine and bleed into his rising sky. its hollow and johnny hates himself for it.
you don't bother with dessert, you didn't reach for a drink you settled with water and when the bill comes, johnny slams his card down onto the table and rushes to bring the car out front. its a cowardly escape he knows, but some part of him just wants to get home and settle this before he loses you to something bigger.
you don't even have the care to shrug your jacket on, letting the cold evening air bite at your bare shoulders. it was your first date out in weeks and you wore the little black dress you knew johnny loved on you almost as much as he loves taking it off of you. he hadn't even given you so much as a glance before delving into his day.
so where johnny thinks this has happened mid-dinner, you know the truth. this has started in the weeks before- the busier days, the less truthful nights where he doesn't completely open up, the missed dinner dates albeit he is late to a few and more than anything, it feels like he's so content on hiding you that it upsets you more than anything. you've loved him your whole life- before he became the human torch, before he started joining his brother in law in saving the world, before he became someone elses, he was yours.
and its hard to feel like you're on the same page when he's starting an entirely new different chapter.
he pulls up outside the restaurant and though you stand there now you can't help but feel like you've lost a piece of yourself in there.
the you that found this place hidden a few blocks out years back, the you that would reenact the lady and the tramp scene with johnny over spaghetti, even though it embarrassed you you knew he loved it, the you who would sit by his side in closeness and never opposite. the you who didn't have to hide in the corner and pretend like your love was diluted into the walls.
he gets out of the car, opens your passenger door and you gingerly get in. he curses as a recognition of camera flashes and a few women scream "johnny!" and shoots you a look of pure desperation and regret.
the only thing you grace him with is a small thank you and a sigh as you nestle into the seat, the feeling of familiar wrapping around you like an old friend. you think his car is obnoxious, but slowly it grew on you and its seen too many of your best memories to hate it.
johnny reaches across and he's suddenly so in your space. he's inches from your lips, his skin dangerously close to yours and your heart, despite the earlier tense confrontation (if you can even call it that), skips a few beats, stuttering in a childhood blush. it kind of reminds you when you first started seeing each other, how he would always have his hands on you, never let you go, how he could spend forever in your orbit but still look at you like you took his breath away for the very first time.
you think he actually might kiss you- it's been weeks and you hate yourself for actually getting excited, for leaning in a little bit closer on the edge of pure want and need when you feel a strap pull. he stretched the seat belt across your body and it clicks with a faint tick into the holder before he pulls back a few milimetres.
"fuck," it's your turn to repeat the earlier sentiment this time as you wipe away the tears that gather at your waterline. the sniffle tears his heart in two and he looks over in concern.
"baby- look, i'm sorry, i didn't mean to upset you tonight- i know this was important and i just forgot- i didn't-" he gets out and when you don't rush to forgive him he just stares.
"i don't think you know what you mean, johnny," you look over, your brows raising and falling as the sentence leaves your lips. "it's not about you being late, or not bothering to even just change- i mean who gives a shit about clothes? i dressed all pretty for you and did that get me anywhere?" you scoff lightly, pausing to press your fingertips into your eyes and blot the tears brewing.
"honey, i-" and you hold up your hand again, asking for a moment to just get out what you have to say whilst the courage still flows through your veins.
"i know you're busy now johnny, you're busy saving the world and i get that. i love that you have this purpose and you're doing so much good but," you breathe, "we haven't been ourselves in a long time. i'm second in whatever game this is and i just can't do it." you look at him, reach over to place your hand on top of his on the gear stick and press your eyes closed for a second.
"you didn't even ask me about my day; you didn't notice the dress i wore for you or that i cut my hair a few days ago- i waited for you, the same way i wait every single night for you to come to bed and hold me like you still love me," you cry, it's no use holding them back.
"i do love you!" he counteracts back immediately, desperately.
"not in the way i need now," you sniffle, "and what hurts is i have to tell you that- you didn't just see that yourself."
"honey, i,"
"please stop the car," you whimper and he looks over in concern.
"baby, i can't let you just leave- not when you're like this, it's late!" he pleads, a wild look settling into his eyes and reaching the pits of his stomach. he interlocks your hands from where you previously placed it on his and kisses your knuckles. you relish lightly in the touch but pull back.
"stop the car," you drop the formalities and establish firmly, your hands interlocking your own in your lap, almost holding you together steadily. and he does with great reluctance and worry, he pulls up on the side, watches you get out of the car- what's worse is you don't even slam the door behind.
you just shake your head with a heart-wrenching exhaustion at johnny and disappear. his eyes widen when he sees you've left your jacket behind and he gets out the car at lightning speed, taking off in your direction.
"don't follow me, johnny, i really can't do this right now," you plead, the tears just falling and falling.
"honey, it's cold and you're gonna get sick, please just at least take your jacket," you pause, pressing your lips together to stifle a sob and nod, letting him help you back into the soft knit of your cardigan that doesn't actually do too much to keep you warm- it just looked pretty with your outfit. what a waste, you want to just laugh at yourself.
"baby, i know you don't want to see me right now but please, come back to the car, please let me talk this out i can fix this," he tries to place a hand on your shoulder but you shrug it off, not wanting to make any eye contact with him either.
"i don't think you can- not tonight at least," you press.
"then i'll take you home and i will leave- but please i need to know you're safe," he begs, "please."
"no," you whisper lethally soft. "i need to not be anywhere that reminds me of you right now so please just- i have my phone on me, i will find a place to stay but i'm not going anywhere with you tonight."
and the fierce determination in eyes lets johnny know you mean it, you've meant everything you've said tonight. so he lets you go, he gets back in the car and waits for you to start walking again. he follows you gingerly and you pretend like you can't recognise the faint purring of the engine that follows you around each street. it stops in the corner of your vision when you disappear through the doors of a hotel but johnny doesn't leave until he gets a notification from his phone; a transaction from your shared account by the hotel to confirm you have a place to stay tonight.
he doesn't want to go home- he has half a mind to drink his problems away or turn to sue- his sister would know what to do but it feels like a betrayal. he hasn't showed up for you in a long time and he can start by making things right tonight. he pulls up to your shared apartment and lets the way his heart burns and pounds in his chest at the feeling of you missing- because he deserves to feel a fraction of the hurt he's caused you, it's the bare minimum.
he has to be home, in case you decide you want to come back- in case you need him to come get you, in case you need him- he is here. where he is always meant to be. the door unlocks with its usual ratty metal squeak and johnny doesn't fancy himself a crier- he's fun johnny, light-hearted, doesn't take himself too seriously johnny, but tonight he lets the persona fall as he slides down the wall.
your home feels like a house without you and he doesn't deserve to sleep in your bed where the smell of you surrounds him a gentle lull goodnight, he doesn't even deserve the couch, he decides. he braces his back against your shoe rack that's missing your favourite pair of heels and his blood roars in agony. the first tears of many falls and he tries to catch them in his hands but they overflow and he takes over in a straight bawl. he hasn't cried in years but the loneliness that suffocates him now, to know that you've felt this way for weeks and he had been too wrapped up in himself to realise, he cries and cries till the tears dry and he slips in and out of sleep. he doesn't know at which point his eyes finally close as his head hangs between his knees but sleep comes for him.
and even in his dreams, he still tries to reach for you.
. . .
"babydoll, fuck i'm so sorry, i shouldn't have been so careless with you. you must've felt so damn lonely and i have been the worst- the worst, and i wish you could come back and we could talk this out- you don't have to talk, you can listen but i've got things i need to get off my chest-"
"fuck, it cut off. but what i'm trying to say is i've been so wrapped up in myself i forgot that there's two of us in this team. it's not an excuse how things have started picking up so quickly, this is all my fucking fault and i'm sorry-"
"what you said back in the car- i know what i mean now, i know that i mean that i'm sorry, for all the times i took advantage and didn't put you first. you deserve so much better than me- than how i've treated you. and i love you, fuck, i'll love you so much better if you could just honour me another chance-"
"fuck- stop cutting me off! (growl) gorgeous i can't breathe- this feels wrong not having you here, i don't deserve you- i don't. if you don't want to forgive me- that's fine. if you dont want to give me a chance- fuck, i understand- fuck, ah, oh my god, that'll be fine, i will make it fine-"
"but please, don't give up on us. don't give up on me- you don't owe me a single thing but i love you and i'll work through this, i'll earn back your trust, i'll be here every single second of the day and i'll remind you why we work so well together- i'll be so good to you baby-"
"baby please-"
"please come home and be angry at me, please just come home, please-"
"(ten seconds of crying)"
"hey gorgeous, haven't heard from johnny this morning he was supposed to swing by, he's not answering his messages, could you get him to call back? thanks honey, love you, come by soon, reed and i miss you!"
"hey honey, it's ben. johnny rang, cried for a second didn't say anything then hung up. i mean, i'll give him shit on it later but it sounded serious. is everything okay?"
. . .
you open the door with a faint nudge, and when it traps halfway you furrow your brows in annoyance, pushing it with all your might. it sends you flying a few steps and straight into a warm body that's scrambling from the ground.
"johnny?" you pull back in confusion, he has his hands planted at your waist, holding you upright from your ambush and lets go suddenly. you miss the warm sensation immediately as he takes a step back, giving you some space.
the distance makes your heart ache but it's what you've asked for and what he tries to honour. he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly and waits for you to address him.
"did you sleep on the floor?" the little gasp that escapes you does not go unnoticed by him and he blinks slowly, sleep still creeping on his features as he flushes a faint shade of pink.
"it didn't feel right to be in our bed without you and i uh, i wanted to be ready in case you called and needed me to come to you," his admission softens something in your heart.
"you've been there all night?"
"all night and i'll wait forever for you if i have to," he nods with quiet determination and at the intensity you pause, last night's memories fresh at the surface.
"i listened to your voicemails, all 82 of them," you confess and you cross the distance, placing a hand on his heart. he leans into your air, the air that wavers and circulates around you- his entire world orbits around you.
"and?" he asks hopeful, his voice the smallest you've ever heard him and it does hurt something raw in you. johnny storm- the embodiment of confidence? shrinking as you speak? impossible- "i really want to fix things, i can't take back what i've done, but- i want to be with you, if you'll still have me."
"oh johnny," you sigh and extend your arms, he steps in them a little unsure, waiting extra confirmation for you which you reassure with a nod, "we start slow," you whisper into his neck as he holds you close. he murmurs into agreement, "anything you need."
and when you break apart and meet his gaze of pure hope and adoration, you press your forehead to his, "i mean it baby," you press, "you can't make me feel like a background character in my own life," and he hangs his head low in a nod.
"i'll prove it to you- i'll never- i'll burn myself whole to keep you warm doll, i'm sorry," his voice cracks and you squeeze him tightly.
"hey now, we do this one step at a time," you pat his back, soothing him gently. "i'm not forgiving you completely but i'm not saying no, either," and he presses his lips together, biting the lower in anxious thought.
"thank you," he breathes.
"by the way, sue's asking for you," and the scoff that leaves his lips surprise you for a moment.
"they can all wait, there's a lot i gotta make up for first and you're my priority," he sways you in his hold, hesitating before pressing a soft kiss to your temple as you lean into him.
it's a start for sure, but the end is not coming because johnny storm is never going to let you go again.
riya saying hi: hellooooo!! another johnny fic woop woop!!! hope you like, hope you love- let me know what you think, thank you so much for even reading <33 i have one more in the drafts, might get it out in the next few days and its a scientist x flirty johnny fic, strangers to lovers and alllll the vibes ugh anyways have a great one!
Heeyyy princess I was wondering if you could write about beefy college Bucky fucking doggy style while choking her and after finishing inside her he'd eat her out until she squirted all over his mouth
. ୨୧ ݁ ꒰ 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐘 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒 ⊹ . beefy!bucky x fem!reader. minors are prohibited from interacting.
𝔀arnings 18+ : rough sex, no use of y/n, choking, doggy style, creampie, cum eating, cunnilingus after creampie, overstimulation, squirting, multiple orgasms, possessive behavior, size kink
𝓪uthor’s 𝓷ote : so uh… yeah this is straight up nasty. like biblically inaccurate “my parents would disown me” type nasty. beefy college bucky is out here choking you, creampie-ing you, then eating his own kids back out like it’s a five star meal 😁😁😁
The dim light of Bucky’s off-campus apartment filtered through the half-drawn blinds, casting long shadows across the rumpled sheets. The place smelled like him, clean sweat, faint cologne, and that underlying masculine musk that always made your knees weak. College life had been a whirlwind of late-night study sessions turning into something far more heated, and tonight was no different. Bucky Barnes, the beefy athlete with arms like tree trunks and a smirk that could melt steel, had you exactly where he wanted you.
He’d started slow, all teasing touches and filthy promises whispered against your ear while you made out on the couch. But the tension had built like a storm. Now you were on all fours on his bed, knees sinking into the mattress, back arched deep as he knelt behind you. His massive frame loomed over your smaller one, the heat of his body radiating like a furnace. Bucky’s thick cock nudged against your slick folds, teasing, dragging up and down your dripping slit while one of his big hands gripped your hip hard enough to bruise.
“Fuck, princess,” he growled, voice low and rough, laced with that Brooklyn accent that thickened when he was turned on. “Look at you. So wet already. Been thinking about this tight little pussy all damn day.”
You whimpered, pushing back against him, desperate for more. “Bucky… please.”
He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through his chest. One hand slid up your spine, fingers tangling in your hair before he gripped your throat from behind. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel owned. His palm was huge, calloused from years of football and gym sessions, wrapping around your neck with perfect pressure. He squeezed just a little as he finally pushed in, slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch stretching you open.
“Oh god-” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut as he filled you completely. The stretch burned so good, his girth splitting you wide. You could feel his heavy balls resting against you, the coarse hair on his thighs brushing your skin.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Take it all.” Bucky’s hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed in the room. He didn’t give you time to adjust. He started thrusting, deep powerful strokes that made the bed creak beneath you. Each slam of his hips drove you forward, your breasts bouncing, nipples hard against the sheets.
His hand tightened around your throat, tilting your head back so he could lean down and growl right against your ear. “You feel that, baby? How deep I am? This pussy was made for me. So fucking tight, squeezing my cock like you never wanna let go.”
You were already a mess, moaning loudly with every thrust. “Bucky- fuck- harder-”
He obliged with a grunt, pounding into you harder. The force was relentless. He was stomping the shit out of you, hips slamming forward with bruising intensity, the sound of his pelvis smacking your ass filling the room alongside your broken cries. Sweat slicked your bodies, dripping down your back as he railed you. His free hand reached around to pinch and roll your clit, making you jolt and clench around him.
“Babygirl, you’re creaming all over me already. Such a greedy little thing,” he praised, voice strained with effort. His balls slapped against your clit with every brutal thrust. The pressure on your throat made everything sharper, the pleasure bordering on overwhelming. Stars danced behind your eyelids as he choked you just right, controlling your breath, making you lightheaded in the best way.
You were mewing, actual pathetic little mewls spilling from your lips as he destroyed you. “Ah-ahh- Bucky! I’m- fuck- I’m so close-”
“Not yet, princess,” he snarled, slowing his thrusts just enough to torture you, grinding deep and circling his hips. The head of his cock rubbed against that perfect spot inside you over and over. “You’re gonna cum when I say. Gonna fill this pussy first.”
He kept you right on the edge, choking you tighter when you tried to chase your orgasm, then loosening just enough for you to gasp for air. His body was a wall of muscle behind you, broad chest pressed to your back, abs flexing with every powerful snap of his hips. The scent of sex was thick in the air, your arousal coating his thighs and dripping down yours.
Finally, he let go of your restraint. “Cum for me, baby. Milk my cock like the good little slut you are.”
You shattered. Your walls clamped down around him like a vice, pulsing wildly as your orgasm ripped through you. Bucky groaned loud, hips stuttering before he buried himself deep and came with a guttural roar. Thick ropes of hot cum flooded your pussy, pulse after pulse as he emptied himself inside you. He kept thrusting through it, pushing his seed deeper, making sure you took every drop.
“Fuck yes… good girl. Taking my load so perfectly, princess.”
You stayed locked together for a long moment, both panting. Bucky’s hand loosened on your throat, sliding down to stroke your back almost tenderly. But he wasn’t done. Not even close. He pulled out slowly, watching with dark satisfaction as his cum leaked from your swollen, abused hole.
You collapsed onto your stomach, trembling, trying to catch your breath. But Bucky flipped you onto your back with ease, his massive hands spreading your thighs wide. He settled between them, staring down at your dripping, creamy pussy with hunger in his eyes.
“Wait- Bucky, no,” you protested weakly, cheeks burning as you tried to close your legs. The overstimulation made you sensitive, and the thought of him going down after he’d just finished inside you made you squirm. “That’s… that’s icky.”
Bucky paused, eyebrows shooting up. A wicked grin spread across his face. “What did you just say, babygirl?”
You bit your lip, voice small. “Icky. It’s… it’s nasty, Bucky. You just came in me. You don’t have to-”
“Fuck you mean nasty?” he interrupted, voice dropping to that dangerous, dominant tone that made your stomach flip. He grabbed your thighs harder, shoving them further apart and pinning them down with his broad shoulders. “You think I give a single fuck about that? This pussy is mine. Every fucking inch of it. My cum dripping out of you? That’s the hottest shit I’ve ever seen, baby.”
“Bucky- ah!” Your words cut off in a sharp cry as he dove in without warning.
His mouth latched onto your clit, sucking hard while his tongue swirled around the sensitive bundle of nerves. He groaned against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. The taste of your combined release didn’t deter him one bit, in fact it seemed to drive him wild. He licked broad stripes up your slit, lapping up his own cum mixed with your juices like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.
“Fuck, princess. You taste so goddamn good. Sweet and creamy and all mine.” His voice was muffled against your folds, but the words were clear. He devoured you, no mercy. His tongue fucked into your entrance, scooping out more of his cum before he swallowed it down and went back to your clit.
You were thrashing, hands flying to his hair, half trying to push him away, half pulling him closer. “Bucky- oh my god- it’s too much! I can’t- fuck-”
“You can and you will,” he growled, the vibrations making your hips buck. One of his thick fingers pushed inside you, curling right against your g-spot while he sucked your clit relentlessly. His other arm wrapped around your thigh, holding you open as you squirmed. The wet, obscene sounds of him eating you out filled the room, slurping, licking, moaning like a starving man.
Tension coiled tight in your belly again, faster than you expected. The overstimulation blended with fresh pleasure, building higher and higher. He added a second finger, pumping them in and out in time with his tongue.
“Look at you, whining like a little kitten,” he teased between licks, his chin and lips shiny with your mess. “Thought you said this was nasty? Now you’re grinding on my face like you can’t get enough, babygirl.”
“I- I didn’t- Bucky please- ” Your protests dissolved into broken moans. You were a complete mess, thighs shaking around his head, fingers yanking his hair as he stomped you with his mouth the same way he had with his cock, ruthless, relentless, perfect.
He doubled down, sucking your clit hard and curling his fingers just right. “Cum again, princess. Squirt all over my mouth. Give it to me.”
Your whole body seized, back arching off the bed as you screamed his name. Liquid gushed out of you, soaking his face, his tongue, dripping down his chin and onto the sheets. He didn’t stop, didn’t even pull back. He drank it all down, moaning loudly as you squirted again and again, flooding his eager mouth.
“Fuck yes, babygirl. That’s my good girl. So fucking pretty when you squirt for me.”
He kept licking you through the aftershocks, gentler now but still thorough, until you were twitching and whimpering, completely spent. Only then did he crawl up your body, pulling you into his strong arms. His face was slick, lips swollen, but he kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourselves on his tongue.
“You’re never calling my pussy nasty again,” he murmured against your lips, voice full of dark amusement. “Understand, babygirl?”
You nodded weakly, curling into his chest with a shy, satisfied smile. “Yes, Bucky.”
“Good princess.” He stroked your hair, holding you close as your heartbeats slowly synced. “We’re just getting started tonight.”
Reader who has a real job and actual bills. Reader who prioritizes her own peace over his feelings. Reader who has hobbies that don’t revolve around a man. Reader who actually has a life outside of him. Reader who says “no” and means it. Reader who isn't easily impressed. Reader who’s petty. Reader who has trust issues. Reader who chooses her girls every single time. Reader who has a body count and isn't ashamed of it. Reader who is exhausted by male fragility. Reader who holds grudges. Reader who’s a mess. Reader who’s mentally ill. Reader who makes mistakes. Reader who’s manipulative. Reader who’s selfish. Reader who’s morally gray. Reader who’s awful. Reader who genuinely doesn’t give a fuck.
: ̗̀➛ Summary: Having history with Bullseye might seem dangerous, but it’s not that bad. After all, he doesn’t remember you. However after a few “coincidental” encounters with him, you realize that he might remember more than you think.
AKA: Your ex-boyfriend, Dex, doesn’t remember dating you and finds himself drawn to you.
: ̗̀➛ Word Count: 19.3k
Warnings/Tags: Amnesia, lovers to kinda enemies to reluctant friends to lovers, reader is very conflicted on how to deal with Dex, the most unintentional intentional stalking ever, canon typical violence (heavy emphasis on this), some events of the show may happen sooner/later depending on how I need them to occur for plot reasons, eventual happy ending, don't be surprised by grammatical errors I proofread this at 3 AM
: ̗̀➛ A/N: Hiiii I’m back and writing for a new character, so forgive me if anything seems ooc. I gotta find my footing. Anywayy enjoy :)!
Masterlist
Mayor Almost Killed After Bullseye Escapes Prison
You blink slowly at the headline, wondering if the headache you had earlier that day was causing hallucinations. Clicking on the article proved that no, you are not hallucinating and Benjamin Poindexter was somehow on the street again.
Not that you are going to do anything about it. That ship has sailed, and you are okay leaving that ship—or more accurately, shipwreck—behind.
You reread the headline with a sense of detachment, only really noting that the caption says he used his teeth as projectiles to escape. You almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of it, but the reality of the situation stifled any real amusement.
You put your phone away, rubbing your temples before attempting to move on with your day.
The keyword being “attempting.”
It feels as though it had been ages since you last saw him, mostly because it has been. While it was true that it had been years, and you should’ve moved on long ago, the reality was more complicated.
No matter how much you tried to differentiate them, Dex and Bullseye, you could never entirely let go of him, any version of him. You didn’t dare to scroll back too far in your photos, and you couldn’t bring yourself to delete them. It was a twisted longing you held for a time that was long gone.
So maybe saying you’ve “moved on” is a bit of a stretch, but you haven’t actively sought him out. Part of you fears that he may look at you like a stranger, and you don’t know if your heart can take that.
So, as a result, you've kept your distance.
You didn’t try to visit him, but you thought about it. After hearing of the incident with Fisk and Daredevil, the real Daredevil, you wanted to.
You wanted to check on him the second it happened. You wanted to ask him what he had been thinking.
However, you never got the opportunity.
Sure, you had loved him. You had loved him so much that somehow his name still lingers on your tongue despite the fact he no longer knows yours.
But he killed so many people, so many good people. You did not know all of the intricate details of his life; you still don’t. Sometimes you wonder if carries guilt for those he wronged, or if he can even remember them. You certainly did. You could barely bring yourself to look Seema in the eye after he killed Ray.
You mourned Dex, yes, but you felt awful about it. The people who knew your history with him never directly asked, but you could see the question in their eyes. How? How did you love somebody like that?
It was so easy back then, back when he loved you. You wanted to believe it wasn’t all fake. You aren’t sure if it’s possible for somebody to pretend to love a person the way he loved you.
Being realistic though? You have no idea. You never got that closure, and it’s too late to get it. You can’t delude yourself into thinking that Dex loved you without faults or even understand the true scope of his adoration.
It was painful, so, so painful. It was an agonizing ache that you could never find a remedy for. The only remedy was him, but he couldn’t be both the solution and the problem.
Years have gone by and you still haven’t seen him in person. Sometimes you catch yourself staring at the blurry photos that you so rarely get to see. Now, they’re more common, courtesy of his time as Bullseye. However back then, he wasn’t making headlines inside a prison cell.
You exhale, grabbing your keys before exiting your apartment. You lock the door behind you apathetically, staring blankly through the door knob.
Ever since he killed Foggy Nelson, he had been haunting you, metaphorically speaking, of course. You went from not hearing a peep from him (not that he’d contact you anyway) to hearing him kill at least a dozen people in a single night.
You miss the peace his silence brought.
Him killing Foggy reminded you of that pain his presence brings, and after his recent failed attempt on Fisk?
You might have to block the word “Bullseye” from your phone.
Sad thing is, for a split second you found yourself rooting for him. You loathe him for what he’s done, but if he had succeeded in killing Fisk?
Well, that death certainly wouldn’t be on your conscience.
You're thrown out of your thoughts by your phone vibrating. Checking the caller ID, you frown at the unfamiliar number. Clearing your throat, you answer the call.
“Hello?” You greet cautiously.
“Hi.” A woman responds, her voice is unfamiliar. She confirms your identity, simply asking your name.
Hesitantly you nod, “Yes.” You sound more confident than you feel, “May I ask who this is?”
She releases an exhale, “I… We haven’t met. I believe you met Matt recently, right?”
You nod slowly, “That's correct.” You shift uncomfortably. You weren’t sure if it was a good sign that one of Matt’s friends is calling you.
After all, the circumstances you met him were… less than ideal.
“I’m Karen. I’m a friend of his.” She introduces. You nod slowly, and the name sounds familiar. Matt talked about her briefly, back when explaining his history with Nelson, Murdock, and Page.
“He has mentioned you.” You stop walking. “Is everything okay?” You frown.
Karen is silent for a moment. “You see the news last night?”
You inhale sharply, not caring if it was audible. Would Matt tell her about your past relation with Bullseye? You don’t think he would with strangers, but you aren’t sure with Karen. “With Fisk?” Your mouth feels dry.
“Yeah,” she whispers, “yeah, did you hear about Matt?”
You get the sense that something is wrong. “No… I didn’t—” you swallow, “I never read the article. I just saw the headlines.” You grimace.
“Oh,” Karen doesn’t sound surprised, only fueling your theory that Matt told her your history with Bullseye. “Well, he was there that night, at the gala.” She begins, and you feel your stomach churn in anticipation.
“Shit, is he okay?” Just your luck for Matt and Bullseye to both be trouble.
“He’s alright now.” Karen reassured you, “But last night he was the one who took the bullet meant for Fisk.” She sounds (reasonably) upset about this.
Your jaw drops slightly, and you take a moment to recompose yourself before speaking again. You had assumed that something must have happened for Bullseye to miss his target. “He what? Why would he do that?”
There’s a few things you know about Matt. One of which is his longstanding history with Fisk, not to mention, his hatred of Bullseye. You two are similar in that regard. Thus, it begs the question of why the hell he’d not only let Bullseye shoot him, but save Fisk.
“I…” Karen seems to be thinking about the right thing to say. “You’d have to ask him that yourself. Part of me wants to ask him too.” She huffs softly.
You hum, “Yeah,” you reply lamely, “I can’t imagine why he’d do something like that.”
“It’s Matt.” She replies, as if that’s enough of an explanation.
The two of you are silent for a moment, and you wait for the inevitable change in topic. You know where this is going. You know Karen was friends with Foggy, so it makes sense she has questions about you.
“I was wondering if we could meet, later tonight maybe? If you’re available.” She asks, and she sounds friendly enough. You imagine the invasive questions will come later.
“Sure.” You reply dryly, “You have a place in mind?”
“Yeah, I can text you the address.” She sounds just as enthusiastic as you do. “I…” She starts slowly, “I’m sorry about all of this.”
You shake your head, offering a small smile she cannot see, “It isn’t your fault.”
She remains silent for a beat, “Well, I’ll see you later then,” she says your name. You bid her goodbye before hanging up. You slowly put your phone away, taking a deep breath.
Matt has always had an interest in your history with Bullseye. He never pushed you, but you could see that he wanted to. You don’t blame him, after all, Bullseye killed his best friend.
It only makes sense that Karen would share that curiosity. You don’t blame her either, but you are so tired of being tied to him.
You walk into the diner just across the street from your building. You weren’t planning on getting breakfast, but after the sequence of events of the past hour?
It’s probably a good idea to prepare for the day.
You frown, looking at the boarded up windows of the address Karen gave you. It reads "Josie’s" in bolded letters. You haven’t been there yourself, but you knew of it. It’s where Foggy died.
You never really knew much about Foggy. Matt doesn't like to talk about him much. The only time he ever talked about him, he told you that Foggy would've liked you. He didn't elaborate as to why, and you didn't want to push him. He never mentioned it again.
You look around the building to see if anybody is nearby, and jump slightly when the door swings open. You stare at the woman for a moment, and you recognize her. You look each other up and down appraisingly. Her stare is less judgmental, and more asserting, as if trying to see whether you’re a threat.
“Hello,” you smile disarmingly, “Karen, was it?”
She attempts to mirror your smile, “Yeah,” she steps aside for you to enter. You watch as she closes and locks the door behind you.
She goes to take a seat at the bar. You follow slowly, still standing. The two of you don’t talk for a moment. “I’m assuming you’ve talked with Matt?” You begin the conversation. You won’t be the one to bring him up.
She huffs, “Not as much.” She sounds bitter about it. You nod slowly, taking the seat next to her. You both stare blankly ahead. “I… I had a couple questions I was hoping you could answer.” She begins.
You look to her, and she seems apologetic, but not enough to stop. You nod slowly, “I figured.” You tap your fingers idly. “If it’s about Bullseye. I really don't know anything.”
She furrows her brows in disbelief, “Nothing?” She turns to face you, “Forgive me, but I find that hard to believe.” Her words weren’t unkind, just honest.
You look at her for a moment before taking a deep breath. “I haven’t known him for years.” You tell her. “Sometimes I wonder if I knew him at all.”
She is silent at that, and it almost feels pitiful. She waits a minute before asking her next question, “When was the last time you saw him?”
You scoff, “I… I don’t know. That night Fisk got married maybe?” You look to her, “I haven’t exactly wanted to see him.”
She seems to understand that, nodding slowly, “Well, I can’t say I blame you.”
You smile wryly, not having a response for that.
“Has he attempted to contact you in the past? After he went to prison?” She asks, leaning closer to you.
You chuckle, “No,” you shake your head, “he won’t.”
She narrows her eyes, frowning, “How can you be so sure?”
You blink at her, and her intrigue is obvious. You haven’t even told Matt why Bullseye will never contact you. He just knows that you are oddly certain that he never will. It’s not that you like hiding it. It’s simply not something you bring up or find joy in discussing. It hurts less that way.
“He doesn’t know who I am.” You reveal. Karen stares at you, silently prompting you to continue. “After that night, I think during their fight Fisk slammed his head into a wall… or something like that.” You shrug, crossing your arms.
“I was informed he had some type of amnesia. He doesn’t know who I am.” You lean against the counter, a spark of wry amusement shoots through you seeing Karen’s astonished expression. “It’s not the worst ending I could’ve gotten, I suppose. I could be dead.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Karen holds her hands up, “he forgot you? Everything about you?”
You purse your lips, “I guess. I think he forgot some others too. I’m not sure who. They didn’t really let me ask too many questions.” You clench your jaw.
“Do you think there’s a possibility he does remember you?” She asks hesitantly.
You chuckle, “I… I really don’t know. They said there was a possibility that he’d remember over time, but not to count on it. He hasn’t ever looked for me, so I’d say that the chances are pretty slim at this point.”
Karen takes time to process your answer, and you prop your elbow on the table to lean on. “I am sorry you went through that.” Her words are spoken carefully.
You give her a small smile, “It is what it is. It’s probably for the best. I’m not exactly his biggest fan, and I know you aren’t either.”
She lets out a humorless huff at your comment, “That’s one way to put it.”
Your smile falls, “I’m sorry too. I know he has caused… irreparable damage.”
She nods slowly, “It’s not your fault.” She gives you a grateful yet resolute smile.
You aren’t sure how to respond to that, so you settle for a nod. Neither of you are “okay” with anything that has occurred, but you have each learned to accept the circumstances.
“Did Matt tell you?” You ask.
She tilts her head slightly, “Which part?”
“My…” you nod to her slightly, “My history with...” You trail off. The words are barely audible, but you know she heard them.
She purses her lips, something akin to guilt filling her eyes, “Something like that…” She says, and she doesn’t elaborate.
You hum noncommittally, “I figured. I don’t blame him for that.” You swallow, “You think that he’d tell anybody else?” You look towards her dubiously.
She sits up straighter, “No, no. Matt wouldn’t do that.” She vehemently shakes her head. “I may not always understand the choices he makes, but I know he wouldn’t reveal something that personal with other people.”
You nod slowly.
As if sensing your disbelief, she tacks on another statement: “He wouldn’t reveal anything that could put you in danger.”
You give her a weak smile. “You talk to him yet?”
She shakes her head, “Not yet.” She pauses for a moment, “Probably later though. There’s a lot we need to discuss.”
You chuckle, “You and me both.”
The two of you sit in silence for a moment, and it’s less awkward than the initial introduction. You find yourself relaxing a bit. “Do you think he could remember?”
Karen frowns contemplatively at the question, “Maybe." She doesn’t sound hopeful at the prospect. “Do you want him to?”
You chuckle, “Maybe once.”
“But not anymore?” She prompts softly.
You shake your head, “No,” you match her softness, “not anymore.”
You felt lighter after talking with Karen.
It was… nice. Something about the way that she handled the whole ordeal made you think that, on some level, she understood. She didn’t hate Bullseye any less, but she understood your pain.
The two of you agreed to meet more often, and not due to your mutual friend getting shot by your ex-boyfriend.
The weeks continued on as expected, and slowly dragged into months. As time went on, Fisk began to take more drastic action to “help make New York safer.” You scoffed each time that man made a new headline.
The ones that truly interested you were the vigilante headlines. The Anti Vigilante Task Force continued to see a lot of push back from heroes like Daredevil. Occasionally, you saw that even the Punisher and Spider-Man would aid in the fight against them.
The vigilantes were a strange topic for you.
Working in Hell’s Kitchen for as long as you have, you’ve developed a fondness for its resident hero. You haven’t encountered him before, but Karen has told you about him.
You harbor substantial respect for him. You had followed him briefly in his earlier days, and held a passing interest. However, you never researched him thoroughly.
Not until Dex, at least.
You had only found out after the whole ordeal that he had been masquerading as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen himself.
Somebody who had followed more closely might’ve realized that something was wrong when “Daredevil” started murdering people. You thought your lifestyle to be so distant from the chaos back then that you hadn’t truly thought about it.
After all, it’s not like your (at the time) boyfriend going around killing people in Daredevil’s suit sounds like a reasonable conclusion. Absurd didn’t even begin to describe it.
After the whole Dex situation, you had done more research. Now, you’d even dare to say that you’re a fan of Daredevil, the real one.
So meeting him in person is both exciting and terrifying.
“Hi.” You greet lamely, frozen in your spot staring at Daredevil himself standing in your apartment. “Is… there something you need?” You feel your heart sink at the idea that he may think you are still connected to Dex. You desperately hope that’s not why he’s here.
“No,” his voice sounds rough, and you can’t tell if it’s intentional for his identity, or if he normally sounds like that. “I came to check on you.”
You furrow your eyebrows, “On… me.” You slowly point to yourself.
“Yeah,” Daredevil sounds vaguely amused, like he’s in on a joke you’re not. He doesn’t smile though.
“Is this something I should be worried about?” You sigh.
“Just keep an eye out.” Daredevil continues, not helping you at all.
“Are we talking police? Task force? General criminals?” You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes at Daredevil. You feel your heart start to speed up.
“The first two most likely.” He responds.
Your lips part, surprised, “I haven’t committed any crimes, and I’m not doing anything vigilante-like.”
“They don’t care about that.” Daredevil shakes his head.
“Then what about me do they care about?” You ask incredulously.
Daredevil is silent for a moment, “You know Murdock?”
Your blink, surprised, “I… Yeah, but I haven’t seen much of him recently.”
Daredevils looks at you expectantly, “They might come for you to get to him.”
“I don't know where he is though.”
“That doesn’t matter to them.”
You both stare at each other for a long moment, “Do you know where he is?” You ask, and you can tell Daredevil didn’t expect that question. “You— I don’t know if it would be better for me to know where he is, but if you know, could you tell me whether he is okay?”
Daredevil stares at you, and you see his sharp posture soften ever so slightly. “He’s alright.”
You give Daredevil a small smile, “That’s good… What about Karen too? I imagine you paid her a visit as well.”
Daredevil lips twitch minutely as if you said something humorous, “She’s doing well.”
“Good.” You nod, “If you see them again, could you tell them I’m available if they need help and wish them well?”
Daredevil nods slowly, pacing around your apartment. “I can’t be everywhere at once,” he stops before your window, “but if you ever feel that something is off, call Murdock, he can contact me.”
Good to know that Matt has Daredevil on speed dial, as crazy as that sounds.
“I will, thanks Daredevil.” You smile at the vigilante. He offers another nod to you.
“And for the future,” he grabs the sill, “you might want to lock your windows.” He smirks, lightly tapping the glass, and leaping out before you get the chance to respond.
You are left standing in your apartment excited, terrified, and confused in that order. It’s not every day a vigilante pays you a visit in your home, so the rush of excitement is expected.
Then comes the dread.
As cool as Daredevil is, him paying your apartment is a bad omen. What could you possibly do against the police? Call Daredevil and pray that he finds you before you get stuffed into one of their tanks and “vanish under mysterious circumstances?”
The confusion is more akin to general shock than anything. How does Daredevil know where you live? How does Matt know Daredevil? Did Matt tell Daredevil to go look for you?
All of these are questions won’t get answered, at least not anytime soon.
You debated contacting Matt to ask what just happened, but ultimately settled for a single text.
Please don’t die.
He doesn't instantly respond, but you don’t expect that from him. You walk over to the window Daredevil exited through, locking it.
Perhaps it’s best to listen to the vigilantes advice.
Outside of locking your window (thanks to Daredevil), your routine didn’t change. Sure, your paranoia may have spiked through the roof, but you’d rather be paranoid than dead.
It was only a few days later when you almost called Matt for the first time. In fact, you had half-hysterically wondered if Daredevil truly was a bad omen and you were cursed.
You had gone to your normal coffee shop before heading off to work. The same coffee shop you’ve gone to for nearly a decade now. You had changed nothing in that routine. Stepping inside, you smile at the barista who greeted you by name and confirmed your regular order.
It was, by all accounts, an average morning.
And right now with New York’s current condition? Average was perfect. You had stepped aside to wait for your order, scrolling to see the recent news. A few task force busts, nothing to write home about. When they called your name, you walked up, thanking the barista before turning around to leave, taking a slow sip of your drink.
Then you froze.
You wish time had frozen or slowed down like in the movies because you needed at least one minute to process what you are seeing. Your drink went forgotten in your hand as you openly stare at Bullseye walking into the coffee shop.
Against your will, you note his appearance. He looks good, something you begrudgingly admit. He isn’t in his suit, but you can practically see a danger warning over his head. Noting the scar on his face, you find yourself unable to look away for what feels like an eternity but what is realistically less than ten seconds.
Dex had always been observant though.
As if sensing your gaze, his eyes meets yours.
You think your heart may combust from the sheer speed it pounds against your ribcage. He doesn’t outwardly react when he looks at you. There’s no softening in his eyes. His posture remains casual, but not in a friendly way. His face remains unchanged.
In his eyes, you’re just another stranger who might’ve recognized him as Bullseye.
It’s that realization that allows you to tear your eyes away from him; the action feels long and laborious.
You don’t immediately fumble for your phone. Part of you wants the reassurance that somebody could protect you if Bullseye decided that you looked at him the wrong way. You can only imagine how he interpreted your stare.
With measured steps, you make your way to exit the shop. The glaring issue being that you need to pass him to do so. You make a deliberate point to not make eye contact.
As you get closer, you realize with a horrifying twist in your gut that he is still looking at you. Not directly, but in the same way you’re still looking at him. It’s more of an awareness of his surroundings rather than blatantly staring. He looks straight ahead, but you can tell his focus is on you.
You try not to relish the fact you can somewhat read him. You shouldn’t be surprised that his mannerisms never changed.
His awareness doesn’t necessarily feel dangerous in nature, but you aren’t willing to try and deduce exactly what he is thinking about.
As you get closer to him, your heart begin to thump in your ears, quick and frantic. You try not to seem too hasty to escape him, for the last thing you want is his attention. The chances he’d take notice of you in more than a passing interest are low, but you aren’t willing to give him material to work with.
You open the door, and it chimes on your way out. The sound doesn’t seem as friendly as it usually does. When it closes behind you, you let out a shaky exhale before walking to your job.
On the way there, you debate whether you should contact Daredevil via Matt. Is this beneath Daredevil’s focus? He has bigger things to focus on, not you panicking over seeing your killer ex-boyfriend who doesn’t remember you.
Additionally, Bullseye didn’t even do anything. Sure, he stared at you, but you had technically been staring first—not that you're defending him. He is certainly dangerous, that you would not dispute, but his eyes didn’t light up with recognition upon seeing you.
You still weren’t sure how to feel about that, but you won’t deny that it feels safer that way. As the day continued, you didn’t hear about Bullseye killing anybody in a coffee shop and took that as a good sign.
In the end, you don’t contact Matt.
Part of it is, ironically, fear. You don’t want to risk Matt being put in more danger by making him contact Daredevil, and you don’t want to contact Daredevil over you overthinking.
Besides, he’s bound to run into Bullseye eventually. They certainly know one another. You doubt asking Daredevil to harass Bullseye over coffee is a productive use of anybody’s time, so you don't.
You avoid your normal coffee shop for a few days after your anticlimactic reunion. However, you eventually cave and go back because you miss the coffee, and you tell yourself that’s definitely the only reason.
The first day you return there, you swing your head over your shoulder every five seconds. The barista making your drink gives you a mildly concerned glance when they hand it to you.
You attempt to reassure them with a smile, but it feels more similar to a grimace.
The following days start out similar, but you eventually settle back into your normal routine. It becomes evident about a week later that your chance encounter with Bullseye was simply that: a chance encounter.
Of course, after settling down, fate throws a curveball at you and sends you into a panic. That curveball is him showing up to the coffee shop again.
You’re caught off guard, but much more prepared than you were the intial encounter (if you could even call it that). You don’t stare at him, for one. In fact, you don’t dare to breath in his direction. And what do you do in order to avoid looking at the man who you once loved, the man who is now a killer, served time in prison, and no longer remembers your face?
You stare blankly at the barista making your drink, or more accurately, through them.
“Could I have a black coffee?” You pretend you don’t hear his words. He doesn’t sound different. He sounds relaxed—well, maybe relaxed isn’t the word, self-assured would be more accurate.
You don’t entirely listen to the rest of his order. You try not to feel bothered by additional evidence that parts of him haven’t changed. First the mannerisms, now his taste.
You kind of hate it.
You only start giving your attention to him again when he begins to head in your direction. You cross your arms and avoid his eyes, hoping your closed-off body languages discourages conversation. You pray that maybe he’d sit down and wait for his name to be called. Instead, he decides to wait for his coffee while standing, just like you.
Great.
You tell yourself not to make any sudden movements, and then toss the irrational thought aside. Just act normal. It shouldn’t be difficult, it’s not like he should mean anything to you anymore.
You notice him shift offhandedly in your peripherals. He changes his stance, taking his hands out of his pockets. You wait to see if he does anything else. He doesn’t.
It’s odd.
You don’t feel the weight of his stare on you, but you are feel the prickling sensation of being judged.
A minute of silence passes by before you can’t take it anymore. You pull out your phone, not to use, but to appear distracted. You debate opening Matt’s contact. Once was a coincidence, twice could be the start of a patten. You shift apprehensively on your feet.
Then you make the mistake of looking up.
Your eyes find him, and you take in how normal he looks for a moment. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was another stranger starting his day with a cup of coffee.
Of course, since he’s not a normal stranger, he turns his attention to meet your eyes. Instead of being across a room, this time you two are less ten feet apart.
Part of you wonders if he was waiting for you to make eye contact.
Once again, neither of you saying anything. However, unlike last time, you see his face shift minutely. Last time, he was indifferent.
This time, he is contemplative.
You don’t have to think about what he is pondering. Most likely, he’s trying to figure out how (or if) he recognizes you. You don’t expect him to remember you from all those years ago, but he could remember you from that initial encounter getting coffee.
The exchange could barely be called an exchange, but Dex had always been observant like that.
Then, as if finishing his assessment of you, he reacts. His head dips down slightly. It could be a nod of acknowledgement to test the waters, but it could simply be a shift in posture.
For your sanity, you choose to believe it’s the latter.
Also for your sanity, you pretend you don’t see the gesture.
Hearing your name called for your drink could truly be considered a blessing. You immediately break eye contact with him before grabbing your drink and leaving. You’re offhandedly note that you were moving fast, almost suspiciously so, but you can’t bring yourself to care too much.
Your encounter with him felt noticeably worse the second time around, and not just because he was physically closer.
You left with a sense of forboding that something about that second encounter was what sealed your fate. Why?
Because third time around, he spoke to you.
You had been more prepared the third time, but hearing his voice directed at you?
You wanted to yell at him for forgetting everything you went through. You wanted to stare so intensely at his face that he would be incapable of forgetting you ever again. You wanted to burden him with the same pain you endured for far too long. You wanted to discover every difference between him and the man you knew. You wanted to ignore him and pretend that you’ve never heard the name “Bullseye.”
“The coffee is good, isn’t it?”
You slowly turn to face him, only to find he is already looking at you. Once your eyes narrow on him, he turns his head to face you.
“Yep.” You keep your reply short, detached.
He nods, his lips twitching microscopically as if he found your monosyllabic response amusing. You frown slightly, and you find yourself theorizing what he could possibly be thinking about. He probably thinks that you know that he’s Bullseye and is enjoying tormenting you.
Technically, not wrong.
“Have you tried their pastries here?” He continues, and you take a deep breath.
“Once or twice.” With him.
He turns his body to face you, rather than just his head. “And? Find them any good?”
It’s nigh impossible to avoid looking at him now, “Yeah, passable.”
His smirk widens, “Such high praise.” He drawls sarcastically.
You give him an unimpressed look, not deigning to respond.
You can see the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out if you’re usually this standoffish or if you just really hate him.
Thankfully, before he could come to a conclusion, your name was called. Grabbing your drink, you turn around and face him. His face is frustratingly blank. You see his eyes flicker to the coffee cup in your hands before meeting your eyes again.
You’re the first one to break eye contact, not bothering with goodbyes. You suppress the desire to look at him when you exit.
At this point, you should’ve said something to Matt, even Karen. You also should’ve stopped going to that coffee shop. It’d solve all of your issues. Plus, you got what you wanted. You now have confirmation that Dex no longer remembers you. You know that he just sees you as an apprehensive stranger at the coffee shop you both frequent in early mornings. You have your answers.
But you don’t stop going to the coffee shop.
You justified it by telling yourself if he wanted to hurt you or anybody in that shop by now, he would’ve done so already. Bullseye showing up to the same coffee shop, while terrifying, changes nothing. It’s something normal, and you remember how much Dex craved normalcy.
Part of you wonders if he still unconsciously wants that, even after his life has gone to shit.
“Hello,” you smile at the barista. Usually you follow a script when it comes to this shop: greet each other, confirm your usual order, you pay, and you thank the barista. Occasionally there is some small talk thrown in there, but aside from that, there is little deviation.
“Oh, hey, your friend already ordered for you.” She smiles at you, and you can see a teasing glint in her eyes.
You blink, “What?”
She turns her head over to the pickup counter, and you follow her gaze.
You sigh, of course.
“We aren’t friends. I barely know the guy.” You tell the barista, pulling your card out.
She purses her lips, “Uh,” she looks between the two of you, “he already paid for you.”
“I don’t want anything from him.”
She nods slowly, “I can ‘forget his order’ if you want.” She winks at you, and you have never felt more grateful.
You smile at her, “That’d be great.” Your smile grows as an idea pops into your head, “Actually, today can I get the vanilla latte?”
She smiles, “Something different?”
You chuckle, “Yeah,” you pay for the drink, apologizing for your “friend” inconveniencing her, but she waves it off casually.
Standing in your normal spot, you can tell he is watching you. You can also tell that he is attempting to hide that fact.
“Was the order wrong?”
You look at him in the corner of your eye, “Yeah,” you lie, he got your order right, but telling him that would not help you.
He tilts his head slightly, as if trying to understand how he got it wrong. He releases a quiet huff, offering a fake smile. “I’ll remember for next time then.”
You give him a placating smile, “Don’t worry about it. I order differently based on how I’m feeling.”
He hums in understanding, slowly nodding. “Do you?”
“Yep.”
“So what mood is the vanilla latte?”
“My current one.” You reply dryly.
His eyes light up intrigued and mildly amused by your answer, and you get the distinct impression that your attempts at being aloof have had the opposite effect you desired. For a moment, you think he gets the hint and stops talking. It makes you wonder, was he always this talkative with new people?
When you met, he wasn’t exactly forward. There was never really one instance where either of you had to explicitly start conversations like this. It was continued exposure over time, and so it didn’t feel as forced when your relationship had progressed.
“Black coffee and a blueberry muffin for Tony.” The barista calls out.
You furrow your eyebrows as he walks to the counter to pick up the coffee. Who the hell is Tony?
When he turns around, he blinks twice at you, “Something wrong?” He feigns innocence.
“No.” You grumble, and he goes to grab a few napkins. It was wishful thinking for that to be the end of the conversation.
“If you say so,” he sounds way too pleased for your liking. He breaks a piece off the muffin, taking a bite. You see his eyebrows shoot up slightly, “You were right, their pastries are passable.” He mocks your words from your last encounter.
You nod slowly, watching cautiously as he breaks off another piece. Neither of you say anything, and you find yourself wishing, once again, that he’d leave.
He breaks a bigger chunk off the muffin, and you cross your arms, avoiding his eyes.
“Want some?” He offers.
Why? Why does this happen to you? You turn to him, and his hand is holding the piece of the muffin. It’s a good chunk of it too.
He must sense your hesitation because he gives you what he must interpret as an appeasing smile, “It’s not poisoned if that’s what you’re worried about.” He doesn’t move, still offering the piece to you.
“It’s not.” You reply honestly. Poison doesn’t seem to be Bullseye’s style. “I’m not hungry anyway.”
He doesn’t immediately retract the offer, “Hm, breakfast already?”
“Yeah,” you lie.
The two of you stare at each other, and you have a hunch that you each know the other is full of shit.
“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, and you watch as he opens the napkin and places the piece onto it. His eyes flicker up to you, and you raise an eyebrow.
“What are you doing?” You find yourself asking before considering whether it’s actually a good idea.
“If breakfast wasn’t enough.” He takes a slow sip of his coffee, tapping the counter the napkin rested on, pushing it closer to you. You furrow your eyebrows, watching as he simply leaves. You don’t hold back your dumbfounded stare as he exits the shop, and you catch the smug vestige of a smirk on his face.
What the hell?
It took three more visits before you caved and accepted his offerings. You still eyed it as if it would explode in your hands, but he didn’t seem to take offense to it.
The next time after that, he orders two muffins.
You aren’t fazed anymore, and that’s how you know you’re past the point of no return. Upon entering the shop, he offers the muffin to you like it’s routine. You raise an eyebrow, walking over and taking the proffered bag, looking inside, “Coffee cake?” You’re surprised he chose something different.
He shrugs, “It looked good.” You had to agree with him, it looked divine.
You pick off a small piece, and your eyebrows shoot up. It was good. You turn to him, not shocked to see him staring intently at your reaction. “Good pick.”
You can see him carry himself lighter at your comment, as if being told that he made a good pick satisfied him.
“Figured you would like it.” He comments casually.
You raise an eyebrow, “Why is that?”
He smiles conspiratorially, shrugging, “Just a hunch.”
Frowning at the vague answer, you take another piece of the muffin. You notice him staring at it. “Want a piece?” The words leave your mouth before you have a chance to reevaluate how smart of an idea they are.
His eyes crinkle in a way that makes you feel like he somehow planned this moment. Which is kind of insane, but it’s too late to rescind the offer.
It’s not like he could plan for you to specifically offer him food anyway.
“Sure,” He replies, and you break of a piece before looking for napkins. You frown when you notice that they’re out. Dex watches your eyes scan the shop for a minute before he interrupts, “I’ll survive without the napkin.” You can hear the smile in his tone.
You blink at him before looking down at his hand. Then, you reach over to place the piece onto it. Your hands inevitably meet with your fingers lightly grazing his palm, attempting to keep the crumbs from spilling all over the table.
When he takes a bite, he hums contently. “It’s good,” he declares, “just like you said.”
Your heart speeds up, “Right,” you reply, attempting to mask your breathlessness.
In order to escape the awkward silence, you tell him you’re going to order your coffee. He nods, and you make your way to the front, ordering your regular drink.
It was surprisingly empty this morning, so your drink was ready by the time you finished your quick conversation with the barista.
When you return to him, you grab the leftover muffin you didn’t finish. “Thanks for the muffin.” You don’t offer to pay him back, and you internally berate yourself for feeling slightly bad about that.
He smiles at you, and it looks like the most genuine smile he has given you in a long time. “Of course.”
You offer a tentative smile before walking out the shop. You don’t turn around, but you know he is watching you because despite everything it’s still him.
The routine becomes concerningly normal.
He would wait for you at the coffee shop, and would buy you some pastry because “he insists.”
You stopped declining that long ago, and you were beginning to appreciate having a meal before going to work, not that you would admit this to him.
You didn’t contact Matt or Karen, and at this point you can’t really make an excuse for not doing so. Bullseye is dangerous. Bullseye killed Foggy. These are all simply facts.
Yet you don’t contact Matt. You don’t tell Bullseye that you are aware of who he is. You don’t tell him to leave you alone either. At this point, you’re digging your own grave, and part of you wonders if it’s only a matter of time before you must lie in it.
Morbidly, you wonder who will the honor of putting you out of your misery: Bullseye or Fisk?
It’s a few weeks after this odd routine has begun where you start to realize just how much you fucked up by interacting with him again.
Your favorite diner was supposed to be something that was exclusively yours. You may have introduced it to Dex a few times in the past, but it was your favorite before him and your favorite after him. You weren’t going to let your abysmal relationship tarnish the sanctity of this place for you.
It wasn’t truly anything that special, another diner in New York. The food was satisfactory. Sometimes you convinced yourself that it was even good, but you suspected that was due to nostalgia more than anything. The prices were reasonable. The ambiance had nothing unique that made it shine above the rest.
So, just like the coffee shop, you’re left wondering why the hell Benjamin Poindexter was walking in here like it was a routine of his. You were sitting in one of the booths, and you held the menu up to your face to cover the fact that you were blatantly staring because what the fuck?
Either you have the worst luck in the universe and he keeps showing up in places that are supposed to be safe for you... or he is stalking you.
Both options are a nightmare for you.
You don’t hear what he orders, but you find yourself attempting to listen anyway. Usually, he has a sixth-sense for when you’re in the area. He would always find you first whenever you arrive at the coffee shop every morning.
The fact that he hasn’t turned once to see you leads you to believe that you might just have the worst luck in New York, and that’s saying a lot.
You watch him pull out a phone before bringing it up to his ear. You can barely hear the conversation, but you do catch two details.
One: he said the name “Frank Castle.”
Two: he said, in the most apathetic tone imaginable, that he “has a gun.”
This becomes an issue when you scan the restaurant and don’t see Frank Castle or a gun in sight.
Now, perhaps at this point you should’ve approached him. Maybe even left because perhaps Frank Castle is on his way, and while Karen has spoken somewhat fondly of him, you aren’t exactly frothing at the mouth to meet him.
You do none of that, and simply watch as Bullseye chugs a milkshake in a display that leaves you equally impressed and mortified. That’s when the sirens start to ring across the street. It appears he notices this too because you see him put his gloves on.
Yep, that is your sign to get out of here.
You didn’t get your finish your meal, but you also don’t want to get involved with any task force activity. You grab all your personal belongings before heading towards the door.
“Get back inside now!”
You narrow your eyes as the agent points his rifle at you, forcing you back into the building. You didn’t even step outside the doorframe yet.
You hold your hands up in surrender, but you don’t feel scared so much as frustrated.
You watch as one of the agents continues to point their rifle at you as the others search the building. Do they seriously think you’re part of the problem here?
“Clear…” The last agent echoes the sentiment the last five have said.
Then they make a mistake.
“Hey, Milkshake.” That agent calls Bullseye out. He doesn’t immediately turn to him, but when he does, his hands are held up, straw in mouth.
You didn’t even see him load the straw with anything, and you were watching him for a while. You watch in horror as he shoots a toothpick into the agent’s eye. He whips around, pulling his mask on, and grabs the utensils next to him and launching them to the three agents near you. For a split second—after the forks find their target—his eyes land on you.
Somehow, despite the fact that he is about to be shot at, his stare lingers on you. However, it’s not for long, and he takes two more forks before launching it toward a booth. The utensils (somehow) avoid the innocent bystander before situating themselves into the eye of one agent and the neck of another.
At this point, the task force agents recompose themself before shooting towards Bullseye. You wince at the sound of gunfire, ducking behind one of the booths as bullets fly over the counter he was at.
You don’t have a clear view of Bullseye anymore, but you hear the distant cry of another agent. You can hazard a guess as to what that means.
Eventually, the gunfire slows to a stop, but you don’t dare to stand up. You hear Bullseye talk to one of the customers, something about bringing his dog into the restaurant and how that is unsanitary.
You take this opportunity to open your phone, and you pull up Matt’s contact. Just as you are about to send a message to him telling him that Bullseye is at Bel Aire Diner, you realize the light above you becomes obscured. You look up, noting that he isn’t wearing his mask anymore.
“What are you doing?” He looms over you, raising an eyebrow. He seems genuinely confused.
“Trying not to get shot.” You retort, gradually standing up.
“I meant before that.” He grabs a ketchup bottle off the booth you hid behind.
“Eating?”
“Oh.”
The two of you stare at each other for a long moment.
“Did I ruin the meal?”
“What do you think?”
He has the decency to look chastised. It doesn’t last long, “I didn’t know you’d be here.” He sounds genuinely surprised, “Do you come here often?”
You cross your arms, “That's your first question?” You ask incredulously. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
He doesn’t appear deterred by your words, “I’ve never…” He muses to himself, and you can see him attempting to figure out how you managed to get here.
He frowns, furrowing his eyebrows at you, “You…” The emotion behind the words is indecipherable. He pauses for a long moment before abruptly turning to stare at the fallen agents he killed less than a minute ago. The bewilderment on his face is evident, and you doubt it's from the task force. You wait for him to finish his sentence, but he doesn’t, not immediately. He stares at the agents, the floor, the booth, and then you.
“What were you thinking?”
What?
He sounds upset, genuinely upset. The shift from from mild exasperation to fury has your head spinning. “What?” You say your question out loud.
“You— Why would—” He looks at your befuddled expression, and it's like he has so many questions that he can't figure out which one to ask first.
You raise an eyebrow, “Why what?” You ask nonplussed.
The sound of sirens catch both of your attention. You both look at each other, and you open your mouth to speak, but he bolts out on you.
Eyes wide, you turn to survey the scene before feeling sick at the sight of dead bodies and looking away. For once, you weren’t the only trying to avoid him. Bullseye walked out on you.
As if this day couldn't get any weirder.
I think I messed up.
You tap your finger idly against your phone, staring at the message before pressing the send button.
It has been a few days since Bullseye killed the task force agents at the diner. You hadn’t seen him since, and that in itself was unsettling. When you entered the coffee shop the day after the incident, he wasn’t there. Even the barista commented on it. You scoffed, as if you knew where he was.
Your phone starts ringing, startling you. You sit up straighter on your couch, answering it. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Matt greets, and you can hear the tension in his voice, “are you okay?”
You let out a huff of air, “I’m fine right now.”
“Good,” he pauses, “good… Did something happen?”
You hesitate, but it’s too late to tell Matt to ignore you. You swallow, “You know that diner? The one that Bullseye killed those task force guys in?”
Matt is silent for a moment, “Yes.” He sounds even more tense. “Did he recognize you?”
You smack your lips, “About that…”
Matt says your name, disgruntled.
“He doesn’t recognize me from then.” You assure him. “I— He recognizes me from somewhere else.”
Matt curses and you grimace, “Damn it. Why— Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”
You shake your head, “I don’t know. I thought that—” you swallowed, “I didn’t think he’d notice me.”
“How’d you meet him?” Matt asks, ignoring your excuses.
You blink, “He began going to the coffee shop I go to every morning.”
Matt curses again, “This is the kind of stuff you tell me. You should’ve told me the second you saw him the first time.”
You know. “I know.” You whisper.
“He didn’t hurt you?”
“No.”
“Did he talk to you?”
You hesitate. Matt says your name again.
“Yes,” you shut your eyes.
“What did he say?”
You shrug, “I don’t know. We talked about coffee.”
“Coffee.” Matt scoffs. “You two talk about the weather too?” He comments sarcastically.
You narrow your eyes, “Want me to ask him next time?”
Matt says your name again, a warning. “Don’t. Don’t go back there to the diner or coffee shop or wherever you saw him for the first time.”
You pause, contemplative, “Okay…”
“I’m serious.”
“I know. I won’t.”
Matt is silent for a moment, deciding whether or not to believe you. “If you see him, let me know immediately.” He exhales. “I find it difficult to believe you seeing him is a coincidence.”
“Me too.” You reply honestly.
“I need your word that you’ll call me.”
You sigh, “Fine. I promise I won’t go looking for him, and if I see him I’ll call you.”
Matt exhales, “Thank you.” He doesn’t sound angry anymore, merely weary. “I’m sorry you had to get involved in this.”
You sigh, “It’s not your fault.” You reply sincerely, albeit slightly bitter. He doesn’t respond to that, so you continue. “Have a good night, Matt.”
“You too.” He says, and you hang up.
Groaning, you flop onto the armrest of your couch, flattening your face against the cushions. You try and ignore the emotion in your chest, the one you refuse to label as disappointment because you should be relieved. Matt knows your dilemma now, and Daredevil will know soon enough. You shouldn’t have to worry about a diner incident ever occurring again.
It apears that you’ll have to go back to your breakfast-less lifestyle once again it seems.
The following morning you forced yourself to walk past the coffee shop, and look away from their windows. He hadn’t been showing up at the shop either way, so no point in trying to search for someone who isn’t there.
Your life returned to something that that resembled a routine. You would wake up, go get coffee, go to work, eat, and come home. The routine should’ve been sufficient. However, something had undeniably shifted. No matter how resentful you were over Dex, seeing him—a version of him at least—stirred up feelings that you hadn’t had in years.
Part of you was angry at him because now those wounds feel fresh. All the progress you thought you made getting over him turned to dust in a couple weeks, regressing to a state of longing for something that you know you’ll never have again.
You grab your keys, giving your apartment one last look over before opening the door. Your eyes widen at the sight of a delivery guy at your doorstep.
He says your name and you furrow your brows.
“I didn’t order anything.” You look at the bag in his hands, it’s from a bagel place down the street that you used to go to for breakfast.
The guy shrugs, “Well, it has your name on it.” He turns the label for you to read.
You eye the bag dubiously, “I don’t have any cash.”
“Tipped through the app,” he responds, “so do you want it or not?”
Tentatively, you reach your hand out to grab the bag. You look inside, and it’s fresh. Your stomach rumbles at the sight. “Thanks?” You thank the man, but he doesn’t appear to care about your gratitude, seeing as he left the second you grabbed the bag.
You smell the bagels, and you have a suspicion who sent them.
It’s not like you have a way you have to contact Bullseye. What would you even say? “Sorry if I offended you at the diner after you killed a bunch of people, no idea what I did. Thanks for the bagel!”
You take the bag with you, exiting your building as you pull out your phone.
I think he sent me food.
You take a bite of the bagel, waiting for Matt’s response.
Matt calls you again.
“What did you do?” He sounds drained.
You make an offended noise, “What makes you think this is my fault?”
“Have you been in contact with him recently?” Matt wastes no time asking questions.
“No,” you scoff, “I told you I’d contact you if I saw him.”
“Right,” Matt replies, evidently skeptical. “Did you toss out the food?”
You look at the half-eaten bagel in your hands, “Yeah,” you lie. Now probably isn’t a good time to tell him about the muffins you’ve shared with Bullseye.
Matt sighs, “He might’ve tampered with it.”
“I figured if he wanted me dead he’d shoot me.” You respond wryly.
Matt huffs sardonically, “You’ll only encourage him.”
“Has Daredevil talked to him recently?”
Matt pauses, “Maybe, why?”
“Then can you tell Daredevil to tell Bullseye that while I appreciate the food, he has to knock it off. I can't exactly contact him and tell him to stop.”
Matt goes silent, not finding your request as humorous as you do. “Next time, toss out the food.” He pauses, and you hear some distant rustling on his side of the call. “You aren’t actively in danger right? I’m sorry, I have to go.”
“I’m alright. Go do what you need to do.” You smile, finishing the bagel.
You bid each other goodbye before hanging up, and you go to work as if nothing happened. Part of you wonders if Matt took you serious and will actually tell Daredevil to pass your message along. Matt was right telling you that you shouldn't accept the food Bullseye was “anonymously” ordering for you. You are aware that it’s a bad idea.
But it was nice to have someone who cared like that.
You hadn’t had that in a long time, and perhaps Bullseye was using that to his advantage to manipulate you. Because at the end of the day, you know he isn’t doing it out of the kindness of his heart. You aren’t that blind.
On your walk home, you pick up takeout from whatever is nearby, too tired to cook. You grimace at the sight of the task force across the street. Rushing into your building, you take the elevator up. You fumble for your keys, frustrated at the low lighting in the hallway. It’s been broken for years, and it makes it difficult to see where you’re looking at night with the constant flickering.
Entering your apartment, you take your shoes off before closing the door and locking it. You take a few steps into your apartment before releasing an undignified gasp and jolting.
“Shit,” you gasp, “what are you doing here?” You place the takeout onto the kitchen counter, never taking your eyes off of Bullseye. He has the mask off, but he is still wearing the costume. He is sitting on the corner of your couch as if this is normal.
“I wanted to see you.” His voice isn’t loud, yet it carries across the room.
“So you broke into my apartment?” You scoff, subtly reaching for your phone behind the counter.
“Yeah,” he replies, tone low and unbothered. Then, as if he knows what you're attempting to do, continues, “Without Daredevil, preferably.”
You pause, grip tightening around your phone, “Why would Daredevil be here?”
He turns to face you, “I don’t know. You tell me.”
You go silent at that, placing your phone atop of the counter for him to see, pushing it away. His eyes never leave your face. “What do you want then?”
He imperceptibly shakes his head, “I said I wanted to see you—”
“Bullshit.” You cut him off scathingly, “You’ve been seeing me at the coffee shop for weeks. You show up at the diner I go to. You have breakfast delivered—”
He raises an eyebrow, “—I thought you liked that place?”
“That’s not the point, Dex.” You raise your hands up wildly.
He readjusts in his seat, going silent at your words. “I wasn’t sure I was ever going to hear you say my name.” He says hoarsely.
You blink, taken aback. “How did you know I knew your name?” You narrow your eyes at him defensively.
“You made eye contact with me that… first time we met.” He rolls a coin over his knuckles casually.
You scowl at him, “Okay? Doesn’t mean I know your name.”
“You made a face when the barista said my name was ‘Tony.’” Dex tilts his head at you.
You shrug, “You don’t look like a ‘Tony.’ None of this is actual evidence.”
“You weren’t surprised to see me in the suit.” He looks down, a small smirk on his face.
You click your tongue, “Okay,” you admit, “fine. Maybe I recognized you online.”
He chuckles, “Online, huh?” He asks distantly.
You roll your eyes, “If this is what you came to talk to me about, then I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.” You cross your arms.
Dex blinks, setting the coin down, “Come back to the coffee shop.”
You snort, “Absolutely not.”
“Please,” he doesn’t quite yell, but the volume startles you.
“Please,” he swallows, and you watch him attempt to get his breathing under control, “we can pretend this never happened. I’ll pretend that you don’t know who I am.” He clenches his jaw. “Just please come back there. I need—” he falters, “I want to see you again… in the mornings.” His eyes train on you, “Every morning.”
Oh, this is not healthy.
“Dex…” You shakily inhale. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
He inhales sharply, eyes going towards you. “Did Daredevil tell you that too?”
You furrow your brows, “What does Daredevil have to do with this?”
His eyes narrow, “He did, didn’t he?” He laughs lowly, and you aren’t sure whether you’re supposed to answer that.
You grit your teeth, “Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t.” you shrug. Matt did tell you, multiple times, that this was a terrible idea, but that is not Dex’s business or problem. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what you’re about to do. It’s best that you end… whatever this is with Dex anyway. You’re getting too emotionally invested in something you shouldn’t, and you know you will get burned if you allow this to persist.
“And you’re just going to do what he says?” He scoffs.
“Again, I don’t see why that should matter to you.” You narrow your eyes, loosely gesturing to him.
“It shouldn’t, should it?”
“No, it shouldn’t.”
Dex’s jaw ticks, and for a moment you remember who you’re talking to. You take a step back, and he inhales deeply.
“Don’t— Don’t do that.” He sounds pained and aggravated.
“Do what?” You hold your hands up in mock surrender.
“Act like you’re afraid.” He spits out the word as if it disgusts him.
“You come into my apartment at night telling me to meet with you against my will all while wearing your suit.” You spit out the final word disdainfully.
He shakes his head, standing up, “I would never hurt you. You know this.”
“No,” you raise your hands up, “I don’t. Not anymore at least.”
He doesn’t have a response for that. He says your name quietly.
“You should leave, Dex. I’m going to call Daredevil.” You warn him, turning to face him.
He clasps his hands, his leg bouncing lightly as he turns to face the ground. You wait for him to make eye contact. When he does, he looks distraught.
He doesn’t say anything as he makes his way to the window Daredevil used. He stops before leisurely turning around, “You might want to lock your windows next time.”
“Don’t pretend like you weren’t happy that you could climb in.” You retort disapprovingly.
He tilts his head slightly, a wry expression on his face. He pulls the mask back on, and you turn around.
“I wouldn’t want other people climbing up to meet you too.” He replies, and when you turn to look at him, he is gone.
You rub your temples, unsure whether to cry or scream.
Your eyes burn, the low lighting combined with the vivid colors straining them. You aren’t even sure what’s happening on the TV anymore. You had played a series to distract yourself, but now your eyes hurt and you were stressed.
You weren’t bluffing when you warned Dex. You did call Daredevil—well, you called Matt who called Daredevil who…
Point is, Matt told you to expect Daredevil to check on you. Perhaps if you felt better, you’d make yourself look more presentable for the elusive vigilante. However, you couldn’t really bring yourself to care at this point. Matt hadn’t really given you a time, so you had settled yourself onto your couch with the intention of waiting until he popped in.
Half an hour passed, then an hour, then two hours, then three, and now it was two in the morning.
If this happens again, you’re asking Matt for a better time estimate.
You’re resting your eyes when you hear the faint knocking on your window. Blinking the sleepiness away, you watch as Daredevil lets himself in.
“Hey,” he greets, and you frown at him.
“It’s late.”
“I know.” He holds his hands up placatingly “I’m sorry.” He does sound apologetic.
You prop yourself onto the armrest, “How much did Matt tell you?”
“All of it.”
“All of it?” You repeat incredulously.
“The more I know, the better I can help you.” He justifies.
“So you know about…” You mimic a throwing motion with an airy whistle and eyebrows raised.
He doesn’t immediately respond, “Yeah,” he responds dryly, “I know about him.”
What the hell, Matt? First Karen, now Daredevil?
“Great.” You respond sarcastically.
Daredevil ignores you comment, looking you up and down, “You said Bullseye visited you?”
“Yeah,” you nod, crossing your arms, “climbed in through the window.” You gesture to the window he entered through
Daredevil frowns slightly, “He know I’m here?”
You shrug, rubbing your eyes, “I don’t know.”
Daredevil nods slowly, “Then it might be for the best that you don’t stay here, at least until the city is safer.”
That wakes you up, “What? Where would I go?”
Daredevil is silent for a moment, “You could stay with Murdock and Page.”
You frown, “Have you even asked them?”
“Yes, they’re alright with you staying.”
Your expression doesn’t change, and Daredevil notices this. “If you don’t leave, Bullseye will keep coming back.”
“What if he finds me and puts Karen and Matt in danger?” You rub your temples, shaking your head at the idea.
“He won’t—”
“How can you be certain?” You whisper, placing your hands on your lap and examining them.
Daredevil doesn’t say anything, and you feel uneasy by his silence. Then you hear his suit rustle lightly, and you look up to see what he is doing.
“You have to be kidding me…” You rub your eyes more intensely, maybe you’re still asleep?
“I’m afraid not.” He offers a remorseful smile, “And before you ask, yes, I am actually blind. I have a method that helps me see.”
Your wide eyes look him up and down, “This whole time…” You trail off, speechless.
He purses his lips, “I’m sorry about lying. I just need you to trust me when I say Bullseye is dangerous, and the safest thing you can do is stay somewhere else right now.”
You barely even process his words, still trying to connect the dots of Matt being Daredevil. Then you reach a sinking realization. “Wait,” you whip your head towards him.
“When we met… You bumped into me.” You recount the events, “This was after Foggy’s death…” You furrow your eyebrows, and now you don’t even know if he can see the action. “You did that intentionally, didn’t you?” You whisper.
Matt doesn’t interrupt.
“You… You befriended me because I knew Dex.” You narrow your eyes at Matt, betrayed. “How did you find out?” When Matt doesn’t immediately respond, you steel your tone, “How, Matt?”
He swallows, “Karen found out when we were… digging into his history.”
You scoff, “Unbelievable,” you mutter, standing up and pacing around your couch. “So all of this… Was this just a way to try and get me to talk about Dex?”
“No, God, no.” Matt interjects, holding his hands up as if the idea is preposterous. “At first, maybe we wanted information, but… but it became clear you were kept in the dark.”
You fight down the tears, “So it was pity?”
Matt places his hands on his hips, turning his gaze to face the ground, “It was understanding. We know what loss like that feels like.” He sighs. “I… I’m sorry for never telling you, but Karen and I, we didn’t befriend because of Dex. If that was the sole reason, then it wouldn’t have lasted. We befriended you because we liked you and thought you would like to know people who could understand what you were going through.” Matt gestures to himself.
Your heart pounds in your chest, and you bite your tongue to keep the tears from falling. “I… That doesn’t—” Matt suddenly tilts his head toward your window, “You lied to me—”
“Get down!”
Matt tackles you, and you both fall limply on the ground. You cover your head instinctively before looking up and seeing a knife where Matt’s shoulder would’ve been.
You and Matt, who already put his helmet back on, turn to your window. Bullseye narrows his eyes at the two of you on the ground. He lazily uses the window to hold his weight, one hand hidden from view and the other holding the bottom jamb to keep it open.
“Was I interrupting something?” Bullseye asks, looks between the two of you, eyes narrowing on Matt.
“Why are you here?” You mutter to yourself, using your couch as cover as Matt stands up, ready to fight. You take a peek to see where he is.
“Just needed to confirm something, that’s all.” He ignores Matt, focusing on you.
“Confirm what?” You ask, and Matt looms over you. Trying to shield you from Bullseye’s view.
“That you were talking to Daredevil.”
You straighten your posture against the back of the couch, “You’re attacking him because I’m talking to him?” You ask, befuddled.
“That among plenty of other reasons he has given.”
You look to Matt, who looks unfazed by this. He isn’t jumping to brawl with Bullseye, and you can see the uneasy combination of caution and restlessness in his stance.
“So why attack me too? Thought you said you wouldn't hurt me—” You scoff.
“—I wouldn’t.” Dex interrupts before you can finish the sentence.
“Then why are you throwing knives in my apartment?”
“They would never hit you.” He sounds offended that you even asked.
“How can you be sure?”
You sneak a glance, noting Dex’s bewildered expression. “I’m sure—”
“Are you two done yet?” Matt interrupts. You both turn your focuses to Daredevil.
Dex grimaces, disgruntled, as if only now remembering that Daredevil was witnessing this.
“No.” Both you and Dex chorus. You stand up, using the couch to push yourself off the ground. Matt moves to try and hide you again, and you glare at him. “I’m still mad at you.” You point a finger to his chest.
He tilts his head as if to say “Really, we’re doing this now?”
You rub your face, exasperated. “Fuck", you curse to yourself, but you know Dex and Matt heard you, “could you both just leave?” You gesture to the door, knowing full well that neither of them have ever used it.
Neither of them move. Matt vaguely looks in Dex’s direction, and Dex furrows his eyebrows, eyes flitting between Matt and you. The sentiment seems obvious on both ends: There’s no way I’m leaving you with that guy.
When it becomes clear that no progress will be made, you grab one of your jackets laying around, snatching your keys off the counter. Neither of them say anything, so you break the tense silence. “I would ask you don’t fight in here, but if you insist, then you both are paying for repairs and anything you break.” You slip your shoes on. “I’m heading out.”
“At this time?” Dex looks like he is about to follow, and he tilts his head slightly.
“Well, I’m clearly not sleeping tonight.” You pointedly glare at them both.
Matt calls your name, a final attempt to get you to return to him. Dex’s eyes don’t leave your own. You both stare at each other for a moment. You swallow, attempting to calm your racing heart. He doesn’t react, and you’re unable to read the expression in his eyes. Turning back to the door, you open it before slamming it shut.
You don’t break your stride as you make your way to the elevator. Once inside, you lean against the walls, closing your eyes and running a hand over your face.
You’re so tired of this. You should’ve just ignored Dex and never looked back. Now, Daredevil… Matt is involved.
Of course, Matt and Karen are a whole other issue.
You decide to make your way to the twenty-four hour diner across the street. You see a group people yelling at each other and try ignore them as you pass by. Thankfully, they don’t pay you any mind.
“Rough night?” The waitress at the counter asks as you sit down on one of the stools. You prop your elbow onto the table, resting your chin on your hand.
“You have no idea.” She snorts softly, sliding a menu to you. You take a moment to shut your eyes, the bright artificial light exacerbating the exhaustion you already feel.
You don’t feel hungry. You can’t feel hungry after everything that just happened, so you order some tea in an attempt to decompress.
You tap your finger idly against the counter, turning to the window. You frown, watching as a man is shoved against the glass, his hands pinned against it. Their yells are muffled from outside, and you turn away from them. The waitress brings the tea and you thank her.
You pull your phone out, and are slightly surprised to see zero notifications. Taking a slow sip of your tea, you search up the Bulletin’s recent headlines.
Unsurprisingly, a lot of them are about Fisk.
The remaining ones are about the task force or the vigilantes of New York. You scroll past them, and your thumb pauses when you see Bullseye mentioned.
You cannot escape him. You sigh, shutting your phone off and placing it on the counter.
“Everybody out.”
You whip your head around to see a line of task force agents entering the diner. You toss an alarmed look to the waitress, who looks just as confused as you do.
“We heard reports of vigilante activity in the area, so we're going door to door to see where they may be hiding.” He walks over to the waitress. Her eye twitches, but she doesn’t say anything.
Two other agents strut around the diner as if they own the place, and you bite your tongue to keep yourself from saying anything stupid. They make a couple rounds and just as you think they’re about to leave, the main one stops next to you. You make a point to sip your tea and avoid his eye.
“Do I recognize you from somewhere, ma’am?” He rests his hand on his pistol. You look at him from the corner of your eye.
“Don’t believe so.” You reply curtly, taking another sip.
He situates himself on the stool next to you to get a clearer view, “No… No I think I recognize ya from somewhere.”
Your hands clench around your mug, “You must be mistaken.” Your eyes flicker to your phone.
“Erickson!” The agent calls out without turning away from you. “Come take a look, doesn’t she look like one of the people we were informed Murdock runs with?”
Another agent walks over, Erickson you presume, narrowing his eyes at you. You casually rest your hand on your phone. “She does,” he notes thoughtfully. Your hands clench the mug so tightly that they shake.
Unceremoniously, you’re slammed onto the counter, and you gasp in pain. “Ma’am you’re under arrest for aiding a vigilante.” You stare at your phone on the counter as they cuff your hands behind your back.
They don’t read your rights as they grab your shirt, forcing you to stand up. One of the agents points their gun at you as the other two escort you to the truck outside.
Just as they’re about to shove you into the truck, they grab some goggles before roughly placing them on your head.
“I’d try catching some sleep on the ride there.” One of the agents whispers into your ear, you shiver in disgust. “The… others can get very noisy.”
You turn roughly towards where his voice was, glaring at him through the mask. “You guys won’t keep getting way with this.” You whisper back to him.
He chuckles lowly, pushing you into the back of the truck and slamming the door closed. You lurch forward as the armored tank starts to move.
Any attempts to figure out where you are going are lost. You are slammed against the walls of the tank more times than you’d prefer. You eventually find a corner, crouching down and remaining there for the rest of the ride.
Your only hope is that Matt finds you.
Your phone was left in the diner, and you don’t know if he’d ever track it—if he can track it. Hell, you don’t even know if the agents took it.
So you must have faith that Matt will realize something happened to you, and will come searching for you.
As the tank slows to a stop, you wobble slightly. You hear the back doors open, and blotches of color fill your vision.
“Out, let’s go.” A stern voice commands you, and you can’t tell if it’s the same guy who stuffed you in here. When you stand up, he clicks his tongue impatiently.
Firmly, he grabs your shoulder, squeezing it as he guides you. You remain quiet, attempting to focus on what little you can see. Distantly, you can hear the soft patter of rain outside.
He takes you through multiple twists and turns, giving no warning before roughly shoving you. Eventually, you slow to a stop and you feel the agent let up on your shoulder a little. You hear him search for something before a confirmation sound rings, and he squeezes your arm once again.
You hear sniffling, sobs, and yells echo across the new room you enter. Must be spacious. The agent guides you and you hear some people yell at him as you pass by. He stops, removing the goggles from your head. You wince at the bright light, and he shoves you into a cell.
Upon further examination, “cage” would be accurate.
“Don’t bother calling for help. Nobody can help you here.” He slams the gate closed and gestures for your hands. Begrudgingly, you stand up, turning your back to the gate. He grabs your wrist before removing the cuffs.
You grab the bars, pressing yourself against the cage to try and get a better view of your surroundings. There’s dozens of other cages identical to your own. Some are lined up in your row while others are on the opposite side.
You let out a long breath, slowly falling to the ground. Some of the other prisoners yell and attempt to spit at the task force agents, but they get ignored.
Judging by the states of some of them, they’ve been kept here for a while. You can only imagine how long you could be here for.
In fact, you realize morbidly, you could die here. Death seemed like such a distant concept mere hours ago, but now you aren’t so sure.
As hours passed, you didn’t see any new additions to the empty cell on your left, nor did you see any task force agents return after sticking you in your cell. Your hands clench around the cool metal of the bars.
Slowly, the other prisoners begin to fall asleep for the night. By this point, it's probably morning, but their sense of time is likely screwed up. The yells become less frequent, and the people pacing their cages began to settle down.
You examine the floor beneath you, leaning your head against the bars of the cage. It’s uncomfortable at best. For a while, you stare blankly at the floor beneath you. You aren’t sure how much time passed exactly, but it felt like hours before you fell asleep despite your prior exhaustion.
You jolted awake the next morning. Blinking rapidly as one of the agents banged his rifle against the bars of your cage.
“We have a few questions for you.” He holds up the goggles tauntingly.
Do you? You want to ask, but you settle for glaring at them instead. They gesture for you to put slot your hands through the bars, and you slowly comply.
When they unlock your cell, they situate the goggles over your face. You blink, adjusting to the disorienting view. “Move it,” one grunts, shoving you forward. One of the guards keeps an arm on you, guiding you around the vicinity.
The walk is shorter than yesterdays. Upon reaching your new destination, they open a door and push you in. You hear it close behind you, and they remove your blindfold.
Two of the agents make their way behind you, and you turn to watch them leave. If you had to guess, they’re standing watch in case you could escape.
“Sit.” A man across the table orders you. You turn to face him for the first time. You blink, looking him up and down. He is dressed professionally with a suit and tie, nothing like the task force guys. You narrow your eyes at him, and he looks unimpressed. “I won’t ask again.”
Hesitantly, you take a seat across him. “What do you want?” You ask, voice rough from disuse.
“I have been informed of your prior exposure to vigilantes.” He opens a manila folder, and you can see a file of yourself inside. He shifts, holding it out of your view. “Namely Daredevil.” He taps the pages lightly, “However, I did some more digging.”
He takes a photo out of the folder, “That’s you, isn’t it?” He slides it across the table. You don’t have to look at it to know what it is.
You clench your jaw, “How did you get this?”
The man shrugs, “It was easy enough.” He replies mildly, “Answer my question.”
You glare at him, refusing to look down at the photo of you and Dex. It was one of the first ones you had posted on social media long ago. You’d taken them down the night Dex went to prison the first time.
The man doesn’t appear deterred by your defiance, “That,” he points to a photo, “That is Benjamin Poindexter, otherwise known as 'Bullseye,' correct?”
You follow his hand to the photo before looking to him. What do you think? You don’t say anything.
“Your relations with Matthew Murdock and Benjamin Poindexter are well known by this point.” He continues. “When did you meet Poindexter?”
You glare at the man, not saying anything. He waits for an answer, hands folded on the table.
Then he slaps you.
He did not hold back, and you gasp at how it makes your head spin. You look towards him, aghast. “I will not ask again.”
You readjust yourself, “Go to hell.”
His eyes narrow slightly before slapping you again, even harder than last time. This time you can taste blood fill your mouth. You raised your cuffed hands to wipe it.
He adjusts his tie, waiting patiently, “I am not here to play games. Nobody will find you here, that is, if they’re even looking for you.” He sighs, “Answer my questions, it will make our lives easier.” He taps the photo again, “When did you meet?”
“… A few years ago.” You wipe the blood escaping your mouth, holding back a wince.
“How many exactly?”
“I don’t know.” You huff, “Like nine?”
He hums, “What was your relationship with Poindexter?”
“We were friends.” You lie.
The man pauses, giving you a long look. “And when did you meet Murdock?”
“A little over a year ago.” You still feel the sting of his hand against your skin.
“Did you aid Benjamin Poindexter in any of his crimes?” He leans forward, putting his weight on the table.
“No.” You reply truthfully.
He tilts his head, “When was the last time you two had communication?”
Yesterday. “Haven’t seen him since he went to prison after impersonating Daredevil.”
“So you knew him before that.” He muses. It’s not a question, so you don’t respond. “Tell me, did you suspect that he’d go down a path like this?”
You furrow your eyebrows, “How would I know? I’m not his psychiatrist.”
“Don’t get smart with me.” He shakes his head, unamused. “Now, about Murdock, did you ever aid his crimes?”
“What crimes?” You play dumb.
His lips twitch, and he leans back. “Don’t play dumb. We both know who he is.”
You place your hands onto the table, “I don’t, actually.”
The man narrows his eyes at you in disbelief, “Do you know where he or Daredevil is now?”
“No.” You wince.
“What about Bullseye?”
You scoff, “I said I haven’t seen him in years. How would I know where he is?”
“If you two were ‘friends,’” he does air quotes, “why had he never attempted to reestablish contact?”
You shrug, “I don’t know. He’s probably too busy being Bullseye to care.”
He narrows his eyes, “You see, I don’t believe you.”
Your mouth dries, “Well, then I don’t know what to tell you.” You shrug. “You’re better off asking him yourself.”
He looks at you before letting out a long sigh. “Let me be clear here when I say that you’re merely a piece in this puzzle. I truly do not care about your past relationship with Bullseye or Murdock.” He stands up, “All I care about is getting answers to their whereabouts.” You glare at him as he maneuvers himself around the table before grabbing your head and slamming it down onto the metal table.
You can’t hold back the cry of pain your release. He continues to pin your head down to the table, “With how many connections you have, you’re lucky that I want answers from you and not your death.” He releases your head, and you watch him knock on the door behind you out of the corner of your eye.
“Take her back. We got what we needed.” He tells the agent. He looks unmoved by your state, abruptly blindfolding you again and dragging you out.
When you make it back to your cell, you glare at him through the mask. His grip was so tight that you wouldn’t be surprised if he bruised your arm. Before he leaves, you meet his eyes. He seems amused by your suffering. “This is funny to you?” You whisper, sneering at him.
He sneers at your question, and you take a moment to memorize his face. He raises the keys in front of your face, outside the bars, jingling them. You keep your face purposefully blank, unwilling to give him the reaction he desires. When he leaves, you can hear his quiet chuckles.
Once alone, you slowly lay yourself on the ground, using your arm as a pillow. You attempt to keep your breathing steady as tears well up against your will. Your soft sobs go unheard, the cacophony of the other prisoners drowning out your sorrow.
You don’t think it would matter anyway. You wipe the tears, attempting to close your eyes once more.
Your lip trembles as you rub your eyes. It is freezing here. The sound of distant gunshots make you flinch, yet you aren’t surprised to hear them. The sounds of chaos had become normal in the past couple days.
At least you think it has been a couple days. It’s hard to gauge time without a clock or the sun.
You hadn’t been pulled out to be interrogated since the first morning. It was a small mercy, but one you were grateful for, nonetheless. Not that these monsters deserved your gratitude. However, the lack of action does make you a bit antsy.
Part of you hopes something… someone worse will come for them. You think if Frank Castle were to walk in you might just start cheering. After all, who knows how many victims the task force has unreasonably taken and killed?
You sigh, finishing the last of the water they provided. The gunshots haven’t quieted down yet, and you can only hope they aren't murdering an innocent prisoner.
Then, you realize with growing despair, that they are getting closer.
You turn to face the exit of this nightmare, expecting some task force guy to storm through angrily. Perhaps he would be yelling, dragging out some of the other prisoners, hopefully not you again. You move towards the back of your cell.
Then the door slams open, and every single prisoner, including you, turns their attention as a task force agent stumbles over himself. He raises his rifle to shoot the perpetrator, but before he can get a shot off he crumples to the ground, blood splattering from the wound directly on his forehead.
Well, that's not Matt.
You hear some prisoners cry out for help, and you move toward the front of your cell. Gripping the bars, you watch as the killer steps into view.
Your mouth parts in surprise, what is he doing here?
Bullseye looks to the cells on the left side first, evidently searching for something or someone. He ignores their pleas, and you see one of the prisoners reach out to him, begging him to set them free. He doesn’t linger on them. He strolls over to the right side, your side. He passes each cage leisurely, scanning left and right.
Then his gaze lands on you. You two stare at each other for a long moment before he approaches your cell.
“What are you doing here?” You rasp, narrowing your eyes at him. You clear your throat after speaking.
He tilts his head, “Helping you?”
You’re too tired to hide your startled expression, “I thought you were mad at me.” The words feel ridiculous the second they leave your mouth.
Despite the fact the mask covers most of his face, you can see the genuine befuddlement on his face. “And so you… you thought I’d leave you here?” His words are quieter.
You swallow, watching as he grabs the bars of your cell, testing their strength, “You seemed pretty upset when you saw me talking with Daredevil.”
He laughs, dumbfounded, never looking away from you. “So you thought I’d leave you to die?” His eyes are narrowed on you as if trying to figure out how you possibly conceived such an outrageous concept.
“I don’t know!” You whisper-yell, and the cell door swings open. “And I’m not dead yet.” You use the bars to help push yourself off the ground.
Bullseye watches as you slowly walk out of the cell. In the corner of your eye, you see the familiar task force vest. You open your mouth to warn him, “Dex—”
He throws a knife behind him without looking, and it bounces off another prisoner’s cell causing them to let out a scream before hitting the task force guard in the eye, knocking him to the ground. Your eyes widen, looking to Bullseye, lips parted in surprise.
“Is he even alive?” You ask, dismayed, looking toward the fallen guard.
“Does it really matter?” Bullseye responds, unperturbed.
You whip your head towards him, appalled. You hate the task force, but you aren’t sure if you can condone murder. Perhaps you were bluffing slightly earlier when you hoped for Frank Castle's appearance.
He crumbles under your stare slightly, “He’ll live.”
“You hit him in the eye.”
“Yeah?” He straightens himself, “He’ll live.” He loosely waves a hand in the guards direction.
You scoff, “What about the guy you shot when entering?”
Bullseye shrugs.
“Oh, so it’s like that?” You mock his shrug, pushing past him. He slowly trails behind you.
Dex chuckles lowly, “I can see why you and Daredevil get along.”
“Ah, you are still mad about that.” You can hear the strain in your voice.
“Hm,” he hums, not exactly disagreeing, “but I wasn’t going to leave you to die.” His voice turns more severe, catching your attention. You pause your stride.
Turning to face him, the retort dies on your tongue, not because of the words themself, but because of his delivery.
Despite the blood covering his suit, the countless weapons strewn across his body, and the many years that have passed, he still looks at you like Dex used to.
He looks like Dex. The words loop in your head. You stare at him, dazed. He looks like the Dex you once loved with all your heart. He is still looking at you like he holds the weight of the memories that you’ve solely beared for years.
“I…” You trail off, before shaking your head and dismissing the thoughts. “Thank you.” Your voice comes out smaller than intended. He continues to stare at you for a long moment before walking past you. “Where are you gonna go now?” You ask.
He pauses, looking towards you, then the exit, then back at you. “I thought we were leaving?” Dex sounds confused. You look towards the cells of the other prisoners, and you can see the imprint of a frown against his mask.
“We can’t just leave them here.” You gesture to them, and you hear a prisoner behind you frantically agree.
“I came here for you.” At your disapproving face, he hesitates. Neither of you seem to budge. Then, his shoulder fall slightly, and you know you’ve won.
You make your way over to him, and you grab his arm, catching him by surprise judging by the way his eyes widen faintly. “Come on, faster we do it, faster we leave.”
Dex looks between your hand and your face. Then, resigned, he allows you to pull him back to the cells. The two of you make your way around the room, breaking the locks off each cage. When you break the last one off, you turn to face him. You're unsurprised when you notice he’s already looking at you.
“We’re leaving.” He decides, grabbing your arm similar to the way you grabbed his earlier. It wasn’t rough, but it was firm in a way that told you he wasn’t going to be swayed anymore.
“How are they gonna escape?” You ask as he pulls you past the now empty cages. You note that some of the prisoners give him a wary look, and you don’t necessarily blame them.
Dex looks exasperated, but you can hear the hint of fondness in his voice. “We just broke them out. They can figure out the rest. I told you, I didn’t come here for them.”
“Yeah, but—”
You yelp in surprise as a billy club hits Dex in the chest, causing him to stumble and reach for his knives. Your eyes widen in recognition, “Daredevil?” You call out, watching as Matt emerges from the darkness shrouding the exit.
“Let her go.” Matt demands evenly.
Dex narrows his eyes at Matt, and you look between the two of them. “I didn’t take her.” He straightens himself, attempting to put himself between you and Matt, “I imagine the blame for that falls to you.” Dex grits out.
Matt scoffs, “Don’t try and act like you’re innocent.”
Dex clenches his fist, reaching into his belt, and you look between him and Matt. This was just what was needed. “Can we not do this here? There’s over a dozen hostages that don’t have a way out.” Matt doesn’t ease up, and Dex doesn’t either. “Do you have a way to help them?” You ask Matt.
He is silent for a moment, “We can figure a way out.”
“Alright,” you turn to Dex, “you said you came here for me. Does that mean you figured a way out?”
“Yeah,” he sneers, “for us.” He says slowly.
The conversation is interrupted as another guard comes running out, gun in hand. The three of you turn to face him. Instantly recognizing his face, you grimace, catching Dex’s attention.
“You know him?”
“Regrettably.” You absentmindedly rub the bruises he left behind, Dex’s eyes narrow on your arms before snapping towards the agent.
Matt, as if somehow sensing where this was about to go, extends his billy club, intercepting directly with one of Dex’s knives. You watch as it clatters to the ground, frowning. Then, you turn your attention back towards the agent.
Oh.
The agent collapses on the ground, one of Dex’s knives lodged into his temple. When you turn to Dex, there is not a single bit of remorse in his eyes. In fact, he turns to you as if waiting for approval. Matt curses on your left, and Dex’s posture loosens with a smugness that makes you wonder if he killed that agent for you, to aggravate Matt, or because he enjoyed it.
Probably all three.
“Back up is arriving.” Matt tilts his head slightly towards the door, and you wonder how he could possibly know that. He goes quiet for a moment, “We have to leave now if we want a chance.” He pointedly ignores Dex.
“Alright.” You nod, turning to Dex. He looks suspiciously apathetic to the development that has occurred. “Thanks for breaking me out.” You offer him a grateful smile. For once, it's genuine.
He stares at you for a moment, not giving a response before looking towards Daredevil. “Go.” Matt commands. Dex narrows his eyes at him.
“I’ll see you soon.” He mutters. He doesn’t move to leave, and you give him a confused look.
“C’mon,” Matt’s voice softens ever so slightly, grabbing your shoulder and turning you away from Dex. You give Dex one last look over your shoulder, and to your surprise he winks at you, a small smirk on his face.
You get a sinking feeling he is planning something, and not anything good.
Matt guides you to the rest of the prisoners, “Move!” He points to the exit, and the group scurries to follow his instructions. You turn to Matt before falling in line behind the last prisoner. They whisper to each other, and you can hear some people sobbing in relief that Daredevil has arrived.
Matt escorts them through the hallway, and you stay close to him the whole time. You turn around, frowning when you see an agent moving to get up, their radio seems to be on the fritz. You nudge Matt slightly, and he turns to face you. You nod your head over to the agent, and he returns the nod before making his way over to the floored man. He grabs the two-way radio, holding it up to speak.
“Fisk has people in here,” he puffs, “not just vigilantes. I’m bringing them out now.” He tells the radio before putting it down and raising his hand. “Follow me.” He orders. Matt guides you through another hallway before reaching a wooden door, he slides it open.
“Go,” he huffs repeatedly, and you can see that the door leads outside. He ushers them through, and you hear the familiar wail of sirens. Then, without warning, he freezes, “Down! Everybody, down!” He yells out, and all of you hit the deck.
You gasp as bullets rain over your head. You attempt to locate Matt, but between the low lighting and crowd of people, it’s a lost cause. You press your body against one of the crates that are shielding you from the bullets, heart pounding.
You hear Matt yell something inaudible before a knife lodges itself near your hand. You jolt, about to scream for Daredevil when you get a closer look at the knife. It reads the words: “OVER HERE.”
You try and retrace the trajectory of where it came from, and look up to see Bullseye waiting just inside the doorframe you exited. The way he has positioned himself makes it impossible for any of the task force agents to see him, or really, anybody who isn’t you. He tilts his head, giving a casual nod.
You scowl at him, grabbing the knife, and scanning the area. When you find a break in the gunfire, you crouch and run back inside. Upon reentering, you straighten yourself. “What are you doing? When you said ‘see you soon’ I didn’t think this is what you meant.”
He looks you up and down, “I did tell you that I was only here for you.” He shrugs, “Your fault you thought I’d actually leave.”
“Daredevil has it handled, I would’ve been fine.” You cross your arms, pushing him more in the building, paranoid that the task force or Matt would spot you two.
Dex nods slowly, “Yeah, being shot at sounds like he has it ‘handled’ to me.” You see his eyes narrow slightly. “We should go before he can stop us.”
“Are you serious?”
“Do you want to go back out there?”
You don’t have an answer for that, and he nods as if he knew you wouldn’t. “He’ll be fine.”
“He’s going to think I went missing.” You snap at him.
Dex says your name and you pause, “He probably already knows I’m here. If he wanted to stop us from leaving, he would try to.” His voice goes quieter, “I had to— I wanted to make sure you’re okay. All of the task force is focused on him right now. There are other exits we can take while they’re distracted.”
You cross your arms, feeling the exhaustion of the past two days catch up to you. “Fine,” you acquiesce, “but if anything goes wrong, you get to be the one to explain it to him.”
Dex huffs, but doesn’t disagree, “Yeah, I’ll be sure to mention it the next time we meet.” He starts walking down the hallway you came from, you follow him side-by-side.
Neither of you speak for a few minutes, but he, surprisingly, breaks the silence. “About the other night,” he begins, catching your attention, “I didn’t mean for it to go down like that.”
You raise an eyebrow, “Then how did you intend for it to go down?”
Dex doesn’t respond immediately, and you follow him up a set of stairs. “I… don’t know.” He replies measuredly. “I just…” he grunts, “I couldn’t stand seeing you with him.” He replies honestly, shaking his head. The two of you make it through another set of doors.
You process the information, grabbing the railing of another staircase. You descend downward, and when you reach the bottom you turn to him “You knew Daredevil was gonna show, didn’t you?” You ask, walking side-by-side with Dex.
He turns to face you, removing the mask off his face, and you catch yourself staring. “I suspected.” He shrugs.
You hum, “Is that why—”
“If you still want to talk about Daredevil, we can turn around.” Dex interjects sarcastically, tossing a glance behind you both.
Your eyebrows raise, and you let out a startled breath. “Huh,” you muse, pausing to turn around, causing Dex to stop too, “alright, well seeing as that was the original plan. I’ll see you later then, and not later as in five minutes—” You ramble, bluffing. You don’t get very far before Dex stops you, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you closer. You stagger over yourself, your hands falling to his shoulders.
You look at his eyes, scanning his face. Dex mimics the action, looking over your face. You can’t tell if he is examining you for injuries, or if he is trying to commit this moment to memory. Perhaps both. Your breath hitches at his intense gaze.
“I’m filthy.” You whisper, shivering as his hands come up hesitantly to touch your cheek, as if he is waiting for you to deny him the pleasure. Perhaps the nights spent caged made you delusional because you physically lean in, and he follows the motion.
He chuckles quietly, the sound for your ears alone, “And you think I’d care?” He whispers back.
You smirk softly, “Fair enough.” You laugh, and he leans closer to you, as if drawn in by the sound of your joy. Neither of you say anything before meeting each other halfway.
His shoulders drop instantly, and his hands pull you closer as if he physically cannot let go of you. You smile through the kiss, and you feel him mirror the action. His lips move with yours as if they can predict your every action and match it perfectly, as if he has done it a million times before. He kisses you with a desire that you haven’t felt in years. It is both the most heavenly and agonizing experience all at once, to be readily given what you’ve wanted for all this time. Slowly, you pull away to catch your breath. Dex doesn’t move, and when you open your eyes, his are still closed.
You let the moment linger before breaking the silence, it felt too familiar to not say anything. “You know who I am, don’t you?” You croak.
His eyes flutter open, flickering down to his lips before meeting your eyes again. “Hm?” He hums blissfully.
You chuckle softly to hide how exposed you feel at the question, lightly tapping your fingers across his chest, “You do, right?” You ask again.
He swallows, and you can see his throat move with the action. Then he says your name tenderly, reverently. “I’ve remembered for a while now.”
That surprises you, “Have you?” You ask, raising a hand up to his chin, gently brushing your fingers against the scarred skin.
He nods slowly, leaning into the touch. “Back at the diner.” Your lips part, and he blinks, patiently waiting your response.
“That’s when you remembered me?” You raise an eyebrow, and his hand idly rubs circles against your skin.
“You sound surprised.” He notes, clearly attempting (and failing) to bite back a smile.
“Forgive me, but you had walked into the diner, killed like ten task force agents, then asked if my meal was ruined.”
“Was it?” He sounds way more proud about murder than he has any right to. “You never did give a clear answer to my question.” He muses, thoughtful.
“Yeah,” you huff, “because I was upset at the crime scene I was witnessing.” You emphasize your point by pushing your index finger against his chest.
“Well, I gathered that.” Dex responds dryly. “I didn’t actually know you were there until it was too late.”
You raise an eyebrow, “I find that hard to believe. You just coincidentally visited the same diner I frequented?”
“I don’t know ‘bout a coincidence.” Dex shakes his head, “I… I think some part of me knew you liked that place.” His voice wavers a bit.
“So you visited it often because it reminded you of the life you couldn’t remember?” Your voice is solemn.
“…Yeah.” He whispers, almost vulnerable.
You frown, lip trembling, and your next question is filled years of pent up sorrow and fury, “You remember me, truly?” Your voice trembles, unable to meet his eyes as you ask him to reconfirm everything he just told you. “I don’t mean the coffee shop, the diner, or even the nights you visited me.” You feel the tears begin to well up in your eyes. Dex freezes the moment he notices them. “I mean before all of that.”
Dex waits for you to look up, and you blink the tears away. “I remember,” he begins slowly, “you told me that you didn’t like it when I vanished on those nights. You told me you were afraid that, with how Daredevil—how I—was acting back then, that I’d get killed.” He takes a deep breath, “I remember I told you that I’d make sure that you knew I was alive.” He smiles wistfully.
“If you forgot to eat dinner, I’d order Italian from that one place you liked down the street of our apartment.” You let out a quiet sob, “I remember that one time, you had a bad day coming home from work.” He inhales, “Fisk told me to go…” he shakes his head, “That part isn’t important, but all I remember is you telling me that you wanted me to come home that night.” He shakes his head slowly, “I remember you saying that so… so vividly. When I came home, you greeted me with the biggest smile, and for a moment I could forget everything else that wasn’t you.” Tears are openly running down your face, yet Dex doesn’t stop.
“I remember during the confrontation, before I forgot,” his eyes look from the ground up to yours, “before Fisk broke my spine, I thought back to what you said. That you wanted me to come home.” He blinks a few times, “All— All I could think about was the fact that I wouldn’t be coming home that night, and you wouldn’t know why. I would never be able to tell you myself.” You don’t bother holding back the sobs that wrack your body. “And I… I couldn’t help but hate myself in that moment. I hated him too. I was so upset that Fisk stole my chance to explain myself.”
You take in a deep breath, your chest shuddering, “And when I woke up, something was missing. I couldn’t remember you, but you haunted my life for years.” He admits, chuckling softly, but the sound is more troubled than anything. “Sometimes I could remember bits of what it felt like to be loved by you, but I could never remember your face. Not— Not until much later.”
“Dex…” You warble.
“Do you believe me?” You don’t get a chance to respond, “Please believe me. I…” His breathing begins to quicken, “I don’t know how else to…” he trails off, and you take the opportunity to pull him closer, wrapping your arms around his neck.
He falls into your chest, and you can feel his heartbeat fluttering underneath your fingertips. “I believe you, Dex.” You sniffle.
His glassy eyes meet your own, swollen and red from tears. “I never wanted to leave you. I never wanted—needed anybody as much as I need you.” He admits, and the words spill out. He licks his lips, meeting your eyes, desperation evident. “Finding you again was like taking a breath of air after drowning for so long.” He takes a deep breath, “I love you. I need you.”
You melt onto him, and Dex basks in your presence. Perhaps his words may be concerning, but part of you resonates with him. “I missed you so much.” You whisper. “Do you have any idea how much I missed you?” You ask. He blinks, and you continue: “All these years, I... hated that you left me with this burden where I remembered everything, but you lived on as if I didn’t exist.” Dex's eye twitches, but he doesn’t interrupt you.
“I was hoping that if I pretended you weren’t apart of my life, I could eventually convince myself that it was true.” You trace your fingers along his shoulders, and you watch him look down. “All these years, despite the fact that you had forgotten me, I could not erase my memory of you.” You laugh, wiping a few stray tears. “Life is cruel, isn't it?”
“Do you still wish you could forget?” He asks, meeting your eyes. His hands shake slightly in anticipation, and his breathing is unnaturally still.
“No,” you admit truthfully. “Not anymore, at least.” Dex exhales in relief at your words.
“I’m… I’m really sorry that you went through that.” The apology is clunky and pathetic—laughable even. You let out a tearful snort at it.
But it’s Dex, it’s so purely Dex that it hurts because you know he means it. He recounted memories of you as if they happened yesterday and told you he needs you.
He must see how unimpressed you are, “I know that doesn’t sound like much…”
“It doesn’t.” You quip coolly, and he winces slightly. “But I know you mean it.” You whisper softly. He exhales, and you feel his chest rise and fall. “I missed you.” You repeat the words, quiet, vulnerable, a confession in their own right.
He doesn’t say anything this time, as if afraid of saying something would mess everything up. Instead, he holds you tighter.
Neither of you let go and when you part, his eyes dilate upon looking at your face again, and no more words needed to be said.
A few days later, you were resting on the couch, his arm around you. You are scrolling through some articles before pausing and turning to Dex. He watches as you furrow your eyebrows at him.
“Did you ever tell Daredevil I was okay?” You ask.
He blinks once, “No,” he shakes his head slightly, “we don’t exactly talk if it can be helped.”
You frown, “So… You think he thinks I’m missing?”
Dex adjusts slightly as you lean closer to him, “I think he knows you left with me.”
You raise an eyebrow at Dex, “How could you possibly know that if you haven’t talked with him?”
“Call it intuition.” He smiles.
“Alright...” You blink at his cryptic response, “I’ll text him.”
Hey, just checking in, hope everyone is doing well. Wanted to let you know I got out of the whole Red Hook situation and am not missing.
“You think he’ll be mad?” You muse aloud. “Actually, he can’t be too mad at me. I’m still upset about how he went about meeting me.”
“If it was me, I would’ve just cut him off.” Dex comments helpfully.
“Of course you’d say that.” You deadpan before standing up, “You think he’ll be upset that we’re…” you gesture between you both.
Dex shrugs, frustratingly indifferent to the whole situation. “Probably.”
You hold your hand up to your mouth, contemplative. “How do I even tell him that?”
Dex is about to say something when your phone vibrates. Usually Matt prefers to talk on the phone rather than texting, so the fact that he texted you says a lot.
“What’d he say?” Dex asks, not bothering to hide his curiosity.
“Uh…” You trail off as you read his response.
Matt: I’m aware you left with Dex.
I’m sorry for not telling you sooner.
Matt: It’s fine. However, for future reference, you might want to wait until you’re home for conversations like that.
Like what?
Matt: Ask him.
“I think he’s mad.” You conclude. “He told me that I might ‘want to wait until I’m home for conversations like that.’” You turn to Dex, “He neglects to mention what ‘that’ is referring to.”
Dex slowly nods, his lips twitching in amusement, “Anything else?”
“He told me to ask you about it.” You put the phone down, “Do you know what he is talking about?”
Dex clicks his tongue, “He probably heard us.”
You blink slowly, “What do you mean?”
He raises an eyebrow, “Did he not tell you?”
You furrow your eyebrows, “Tell me what..?”
“He has super-hearing.” Dex explains slowly.
“What?” You stare at him blankly.
“He really didn’t tell you?”
“Clearly not.” You laugh, dazed. “…So you’re saying he heard our entire conversation?”
“Probably.” Dex doesn’t sound surprised by this world-shattering realization for you.
You stare at him for a long moment, and he watches as you silently settle yourself next to him. “I don’t think I can ever speak to him again.” You declare, appalled by this new information.
Dex’s eyes crinkle in amusement, “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
You chuckle, “Yep, it’s only us now.” You joke.
Dex nods solemnly, “Only us.”
You smile, snickering softly, and he smiles back at you. When you stop, you raise an eyebrow, “You aren’t joking, are you?” You ask astutely.
Dex’s smile grows in response.
: ̗̀➛ A/N: Matt being forced to listen when you and Dex finally reunite for real: “Please, God, make it stop.”
Yayyy I finished a fic!!! Anywayyyy, "I’m back" is a bit of a stretch but guess who just finished DDBA? Seeing Dex on screen sparked some motivation for me. Yes, you can expect more of him from me in the future, so lmk if you’d want to be on a taglist for him/fill out the taglist form. In fact, I’d also be willing to write for Matt too… so there’s that. Also, don't mistake Matt and Karen's inital treatment/intentions toward us in this fic being me hating on them, I love them both dearly.
Anyway, yes I will be actually answering asks again. I know I said on like four separate occasions I’d do that, but I MEAN it this time, look I even posted a fic :D! I’ll be trying to catch up on old asks for the next few days, but feel free to leave stuff in my inbox! I'd love to hear any of your thoughts on this :)
I also know I said “here’s some fics I have planned or whatever” and this was NOT one of them. I am still going to write those fics, but uh… just accept that whatever gets posted is purely based on motivation lmao. So I guess shoutout to Dex for getting me through a couple month long fic slump and making me write for Marvel for the first time in ages? I hope he wasn’t too ooc. I know I wrote him to be pretty tame in comparison to some of the stuff I’ve seen, and I say that knowing he stalked us and killed people for us in this fic lol.
I’ll try to crank some more fics out soon. They’ll probably be a mix of Dex and Batfam characters idk, maybe even a Bucky fic if I’m feeling it.
Okay this is getting WAY too long, I hope you all enjoyed the fic :D, lmk if you guys liked it cause I am absolutely willing to write for Dex if that’s what the people want!
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( content warnings : 18+ mdni , sexual content , swearing , literary gore , injury description , death , grief , angst (w/ comfort) , religion & religious trauma/ imagery/ guilt , abandonment issues , ptsd , sexual violence & assault , probable medical inaccuracies , cannibalism , pets in an apocalypse , selective mutism )
( minnie speaks : hi everyone! i’m just dropping all my apocalypse masterlists tonight because i started writing my alfie series on a whim, so im just posting them in preparation of anything being finished, which is still unlikely lol. a lot of content warnings within this one so please proceed with caution! xx )
Pairing: single dad, farmer!bucky x florist!reader
word count: 5.9k
mentions: 18+, enemies to lovers, slow burn, sexual tension, angst and hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, sex, f!reader, small town, mutual pining, daddy kink
synopsis:
After your grandmother’s passing, you inherit not only an empty house but also a failing floral shop teetering on the edge of closure. As you settle back in town, your bad day only gets worse after a horrible run-in with none other than the grumpy local farmer and single dad, Bucky Barnes.
Immediately off the get-go, you despise each other. You both made a silent vow to never cross paths again.
But this town is too small for the both of you. Especially after you reluctantly hire a moody teenager named Jamie to help around the shop… not realizing he’s Bucky’s son.
You pause for a moment, glancing over her shoulder. Bucky’s still busy with Steve, their attention locked on the drink setup. But that’s fine. You didn’t need Bucky or anyone else to back you up. You could handle a woman like her.
You weren’t his girlfriend, no, but the temptation to let her think you are was just too great to resist. So, for now, you don’t deny her question. Instead, you grazed it over.
“You must be Talia—Jamie’s mother,” you greet with a smile that’s sweet enough to give her a toothache.
She pauses, thrown off guard by the welcoming gesture. “That would be me,” she shakes your hand stiffly. “You must be the flower girl everyone is talking about.”
“Yup. I run a floral shop just a few streets down. I heard you came from the city,” you say, your eyes flicking down to her perfectly manicured hands, her expensive pointed toe heels that are sinking into the grass, and then back to her perfect-picture face. And it kills you to know that Bucky’s ex just had to be an infuriating attractive woman.
“It’s so nice of you to come all this way for your son’s birthday party.”
Talia gives you a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. When she retracts her hand, she subtly wipes it on the leg of her pristine black slacks. Bitch.
“Jamie can be very persistent,” she says with a laugh, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “The drive was long and exhausting, but I figured I owed him. So—here I am.” She smirks.
It’s bullshit. It’s merely a couple hours of drive, and after knowing that Jamie had to practically beg her to come only made you more upset.
You’re trying to be polite—for Jamie’s sake—but every word that leaves her mouth stretches your patience thinner and thinner.
“I’m sure four hours felt like nothing compared to the chance to spend time with your son,” you say with subtle passive aggressiveness. “Being his mother and all, I’m sure just seeing him makes it worth the trouble.”
Talia doesn’t seem to pick up the undertone in your words. Instead, she smiles at you like you’ve just given her a genuine compliment. She tosses her head back in a soft laugh, her fingers brush a piece of hair behind her ear.
“Oh, it’s nothing, really,” she says while waving you off. “Four hours isn’t that bad with the right podcast. Besides, Jamie can be so dramatic. You’d think the world was ending if I missed one birthday.”
Your brow twitches in annoyance as she takes a sip of beer, completely oblivious to how ridiculous she sounds right now.
She turns to you again, her eyes drifting over you in a way that isn’t even subtle. She’s deliberately judging you from head to toe, taking you in.
“You seem like a smart girl,” she begins again with that false warmth in her tone. “I’m sure you understand how exhausting all this can be. The small town, the dirty farm, teenage kids. I don’t know how you can do it.” Her eyes move up and down again on you, slower. “Being James’ girlfriend and all.”
You cross your arms defensively, raising your brow. “James?”
“Oh,” Talia’s eyes widened in an exaggerated surprise, “you didn’t know that’s his first name? Hm…” She points her perfectly manicured finger at her chin. “Then maybe you’re not his girlfriend after all.”
Your jaw clenches. The longer this woman is in your presence, the more your blood boils. You need an escape.
You clear your throat, forcing a tight smile. “I should go—”
As you move to walk past her, Talia’s hand snaps out and grabs your wrist, stopping you.
And right now, it’s taking every ounce of restraint to not whip around and smack her clean in the face for touching you.
“If you’re thinking about dating him…” she says, tilting her head subtly in Bucky’s direction. You glance over to see him still deep in conversation with Steve.
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” she continues with that annoyingly sweet voice. “All he cares about is the farm and Jamie. He won’t make the time and effort to care for your own needs.”
Your eyes bore into her eyes, and as you’re looking into her perfectly made-up face, you realize that she isn’t the clueless, oblivious woman you originally thought she was. Nope. She knows exactly what she’s doing. That forced soft tone and that fake sweetness in her smile was all an act—a performance to get under your skin. She’s not innocent. She’s manipulative.
And she’s good at it.
You open your mouth, ready to tell her off and knock that smug expression off her face, but you’re cut off by a familiar voice shouting from across the yard.
“Hey!” Nat calls, waving you over with a grin. “Come on, grab a bite to eat!”
You turn back to Talia with a tight-lipped smile. “I gotta go greet the rest of the party,” you yank your arm back from her grip. “It was nice talking to you.” Before she can utter a single word, you storm off in the opposite direction, your jaw clenched so tight it hurts.
Thank God for Nat. If she hadn’t spoken up, you’re pretty sure Talia would already be on the ground with a broken nose.
You slid into the empty seat beside Nat, groaning.
“She’s fucking terrible.”
Nat slings an arm over your shoulder, pulling you in and squeezing reassuringly. “We tried to warn you,” she grinned.
“Try not to let her get to you,” Vision adds calmly from across you. “She wants under your skin. Don’t give her the satisfaction.”
“Trust me. I’m trying,” you let out a heavy sigh, resting your chin on your palm. Your eyes start to drift absentmindedly towards Steve and Bucky’s direction again, now joined by Sam.
Bucky was deep in conversation with the both of them. He pushes his hair back as his eyes flickered towards your direction, meeting your gaze. When you two lock eyes, you both hold it for a moment, and for a second, he gives you a concerned look before Wanda appears beside you, sliding a paper plate of food in front of you.
“What’d that evil witch say to you?” Wanda questioned bluntly, settling into the seat across from you beside Vision.
“Some bullshit about the drive here,” you mutter, poking at the food. “And she warned me not to bother… getting involved with Bucky.”
Wanda leans in, confused. “Get involved how?”
You hesitate, glancing in Bucky’s way again. He’s still watching you, even in the middle of his own conversation. You quickly look away.
Letting out a soft sigh, you’re about to respond just before Vision cuts right through.
“Ah, she sees you as a threat,” he points out with a smile on his face. “She’s under the impression that you’re romantically involved with Barnes.”
You give Vision a look and subtly shake your head to try to get him to stop talking, but he breezes on through anyway without a care in the world.
“Which makes sense. Back when we went bowling for my birthday, he was harboring very intense sexual frustrated feelings—”
“Vision,” you groan, covering your face with one hand, mortified. “Would you quit it?”
Nat exchanges a look with Wanda—as they always do—before they both look back at you in surprise. “Wait a minute…”
“Not this again,” you warn quickly, holding up a hand. But even you knew it was futile.
“What happened between you and Bucky?” Nat leans in with that whisper-shout tone that’s barely whisper and all shout.
“Nothing happened—”
Wanda interrupts you, leaning in too. “Something had to happen. Talia wouldn’t feel threatened if there was nothing.”
You sighed as your eyes drifted over to Bucky yet again. Wanda and Nat follow your gaze and they give each other that look a second time before grinning widely.
“You two slept together?” Nat teased, wiggling her eyebrows.
You sat up straight, your eyes going wide. “What—no!” you sputtered, shaking your head furiously. “Jesus, no. We did not sleep together.” You sat there, flustered and embarrassed like a goddamn teenager while your friends stared at you with a raised brow—not buying your answer.
With a shaky exhale, you spoke again. “We didn’t sleep together,” you repeated. “We… actually—”
But before you could finish, you get interrupted by the sound of Talia’s aggravating voice cutting from across the yard.
“Jamie!” she yells out loud enough to catch everyone’s attention. “Get over here!”
The table turned towards her voice. Jamie tensed, casting a quick nervous glance at his friends before slowly making his way over. The group of boys around him awkwardly stepped back, trying not to look like they were eavesdropping. You frowned, glancing just in time to see Wanda, Nat, and Vision slouching back into their seats like this wasn’t anything new.
“Talia’s gearing up for one of her ‘lectures,’” Nat explains, resting her chin on her palm. “She always pulls this crap when she’s around. It’s her way of pretending to parent, like she’s proving something to Bucky.”
“Although,” Vision added, “it’s never actually helpful. She’s just needlessly harsh to Jamie to make a point.”
Your gaze flicked over to the drinks table again. Bucky stood there, arms crossed, his eyes now locked on his ex and son. His stance was stiff, guarded, and he looked ready to step in the second things turned south.
But you didn’t want to wait for things to turn south. You were already halfway out of your seat when Nat’s hand wrapped around your arm, stopping you.
“What are you doing?” she whispered sharply.
“What the hell does it look like I’m doing, Nat?” you snapped back in a quiet hiss. “I’m stopping her.”
“Don’t,” Vision warns you. “It’ll only make things worse.”
You furrow your brows. “And why the hell not? If we know she’s being cruel, why shouldn’t someone step in?”
Nat shakes her head. “Trust us, we’ve tried. It only makes things worse for Jamie and Bucky. It’s not our place to get involved.”
Wanda subtly tilts her head towards Bucky’s direction. “He’s watching. He’ll step in if it goes too far. Let him handle it.”
You take one glance back at Jamie who’s already mid conversation with his mom. Based on Talia’s hand motions and the way that Jamie’s standing—timid, shoulders hunched—even from here, it was obvious that it wasn’t going well.
With a one last hesitant glance over at Bucky, you see that he’s standing with a stern look on his face, carefully observing.
You remained standing for a second longer, looking at Jamie again. Everything in your gut screamed at you to move and protect Jamie, to say something, to stop Talia from whatever steamrolling she’s about to do to this poor kid. But with a reluctant sigh, you finally forced yourself to sit down.
As much as you hated it, your friends were right. You weren’t part of their family, even though deep down you cared for them like they could be—it wasn’t your place to get involved.
Nat frowns as she gives your arm a reassuring rub. “It’ll be okay. Bucky won’t let it go too far.”
You didn’t trust yourself to speak. You were already a firecracker ready to explode. One wrong word and you might just blow. So instead, you just give her a nod, jaw clenched, and turn your attention back to your plate, mindlessly prodding at the food just to keep your hands busy.
The conversation around the table slowly resumes, laughter and small talk picking back up. But you couldn’t help but stay tuned in to Talia’s voice that is barely out of reach.
“You’re wasting your potential out here, Jamie,” she said, her arms crossed as she stared down at Jamie. “This farm—” she gestures around her, “the flower shop... what is any of that actually doing for your future?”
Your brow twitched. Your fork scraped against the plate a little too hard as you kept poking at your food.
“Seriously? A flower shop?” she laughed bitterly. “You think that’s going to take you anywhere? You should be focusing on real options. Colleges, internships. Actual careers. None of that exists out here in the middle of nowhere. You should be in the city. With me.”
“I like working here,” Jamie muttered quietly.
Talia scoffed, rolling her eyes. “That’s because you don’t know any better. You’ve been stuck out here too long—with your father and his damn rust bucket of a truck.”
Your eyes snapped to Bucky with a sharp glare. He was still standing by the drinks table, watching, jaw tight.
Why the hell is he not stepping in?
“You have no idea what you’re capable of,” Talia continued, leaning in closer to Jamie. “But if you stay here, wasting time on this ridiculous farm and with those people, you never will.”
You glance over your shoulder, watching Jamie blink rapidly, swallowing hard like he’s trying to force down a cry. Your heart clenches in your chest. You hadn’t seen him like this before, and you already knew you never wanted to again.
Nat notices your tension. She rests a hand on your shoulder.
“Jamie can handle it,” she said softly, her thumb rubbing reassuringly. “He’s strong, just like his father.”
You frowned, turning your head slightly. “I don’t like this, Nat.”
Talia continues. “You’re acting like your father. You’re settling, staying stuck, letting life pass you by because it’s easy.”
She went on with a sharper tone. “You think being like him is enough? The man can barely hold a conversation without looking like he wants to crawl out of his skin. He buries himself in pointless labor and ignores what’s really best for you. That’s who you want to become?”
That was it.
Your chair scraped back and your body was moving before you even realized it. Your hands were clenched into fists at your sides, stomping across the grass towards the woman wearing the devil’s skin.
Nat reached her hand out, trying to stop you, but you were already gone.
“Oh, shit,” Wanda muttered under her breath.
Bucky’s eyes widen when he sees you stepping towards his ex. He calls out your name, but you were already halfway across the yard. It was too late. He should’ve said something. He should’ve stopped her.
But he didn’t.
And if no one else was going to protect Jamie, then it was going to be you.
Talia’s back was turned with her mouth still running, completely oblivious of what's to come. Jamie stood frozen in place, his eyes widening when he sees you standing behind her like a shadow.
“Excuse me!” you called out loudly to catch her attention.
Talia turned, startled. She blinked at you like she hadn’t expected to be interrupted, and definitely not by you.
“I think that’s enough,” you warned her, arms crossed tightly as your gaze pierced through her.
She raises her eyebrow, resting a hand on her hip. “I’m having a private conversation with my son—”
“Private?” you laughed bitterly. “You’re tearing him down in front of half the damn yard during his own birthday party. Nothing about that is private.”
Talia stands up straighter, offended. “I’m trying to help him. Someone needs to be honest with him and remind him about his future.”
“No,” you snapped, stepping forward until you were nearly nose to nose. “Someone needs to remind you that tearing him apart in front of his friends and family isn’t parenting—it’s humiliation. And while we’re at it, don’t talk about Bucky like he’s a deadbeat when he’s the one actually showing up for his kid.”
Talia’s face scrunched up in a sour expression. Jamie just stared at you—either in awe or pure shock. A few steps behind him, a couple of his friends were showing proud grins.
“You want to give advice on effort?” you continued, not backing down. “You can start by showing up more than once a year, and when you finally show up, how about you also try not making the day about you?”
Behind you, the party had gone quiet. The music still played faintly from the speakers, but no one was talking anymore. Everyone had their heads turned, staring at you and the scene unfolding.
Talia’s jaw was hung open, and for the first time since you’ve arrived, nothing came out of her mouth.
Her gaze bounced from Jamie, who looked stunned, to Bucky, as if expecting one of them to swoop in and defend her.
But none of them do.
She turned back to Jamie, her voice suddenly sharp and filled with betrayal. “So this is what I came all the way out here for? To get humiliated by some woman I don’t even know?”
Jamie doesn’t say a word.
Talia turns back to you and scoffs, shaking her head. She leans in, muttering to you. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“Get the hell out of here, Talia,” you snap back, holding her gaze and standing your ground. “You’re not welcome here anymore.”
There was a brief pause and it seemed like she actually might try to push back, but she saw the faces around her—all watching and all judging. With an exaggerated scoff, she rolled her eyes and turned on her heel, storming across the grass towards her pristine rental electric car parked just off the drive.
Because of course she rents an electric vehicle in the fucking countryside.
“Careful not to step in any manure on the way out!” you called after her, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Jamie snorted, trying and failing to stifle it by turning his head. He clamped a hand over his mouth, but the grin broke through anyway. All of your friends and his friends snickered too.
Once her car finally disappeared down the road, you turned to Jamie. You gave him a soft, reassuring smile as you placed a gentle hand against his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly along his skin.
“You okay, kid?”
He leaned into your touch without hesitation, like he'd been waiting all day for even a scrap of motherly affection, something he had been so blatantly missing.
“I’m okay,” he sighs, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks.”
“Don’t keep your crew waiting,” you give his cheek a playful pinch, nodding your head towards his friends. “Go hang out with them, birthday boy.”
Jamie turned and saw his friends waving him over. Camila gave him an encouraging smile, gesturing with both hands to come back.
“Yeah,” he nodded, a little more confident now. “I will.” He flashed you one last grateful smile before jogging toward them. Peter immediately pulled him into a side hug, ruffling his hair, while the others welcomed him back like nothing had happened.
Your chest eased a little seeing him slide right back into the party, watching the tension slowly drain from his shoulders.
But as you turned to head back toward your group, you paused. All eyes were already on you. Nat, Wanda, Vision, Steve, Sam—all of them staring at you like they had just watched a live soap opera.
But it was Bucky that made your stomach flip.
He was walking toward you now with an unreadable expression on his face. The adrenaline from earlier had completely drained out of you, replaced by a cold, creeping doubt.
Your hands were clammy, and you suddenly felt like you had done something you weren’t supposed to. You had just overstepped in a problem that wasn’t yours to begin with, and now you were going to hear an earful from Bucky.
Before he reached you, your feet moved on instinct. You turned and bolted towards the house. Bucky called your name, but you just waved a dismissive hand in the air.
“Bathroom!” you shouted over your shoulder, not turning back.
You actually did use the bathroom briefly. But afterward, you found yourself pacing circles in the living room, heart racing, biting your thumb as a flood of emotions churned inside you.
Guilt started to twist in your gut. You knew you’d crossed a line that wasn’t yours to cross. Everyone had warned you not to get involved. And still, you did, standing there in front of everyone, telling Jamie’s mother she wasn’t welcome.
God. What the hell were you thinking? What gives you the right to tell someone’s mother they weren’t welcomed here when you’ve only just returned back to town a few weeks ago?
Your eyes landed on a picture frame that you saw before—the one of Talia applauding baby Jamie taking his first steps, and your blood starts to boil again.
How could someone who looked so proud in that moment speak to her own son the way she just had? And not just him—she came after the flower shop, took a swing at you, and worst of all, made that heartless comment about Bucky.
You didn’t know why, but out of all the things, something in you just snapped when she started talking about Bucky. But what got you so badly, was the fact that Bucky just stood there and did nothing.
That thought had your jaw clenching all over again.
Why didn’t he step in?
How far would she have gone before he finally acted? Would he have said anything at all?
The longer you stood there in their living room, the more your guilt curdled into frustration.
The front door creaked open and you froze in place. “I’ll be right out—” you called instinctively, expecting Nat or Wanda to poke their head in.
But it wasn’t either of them. Instead, it was Bucky.
His eyes locked onto yours as he stepped inside, quietly shutting the door behind him. You heard the sound of the lock turning.
“Why are you still in here?” he asked in a rough voice as he started taking steps towards you.
You crossed your arms, ignoring the question entirely and getting straight to the point. “Why didn’t you say anything to her? Why didn’t you stand up for Jamie?”
Bucky sighs, getting closer. “Because he hates it when I do. He thinks I make things worse when I jump in.”
“So you just let her walk all over him, and let her walk all over you, too? How could you just let that happen?” you scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. “If I hadn’t stepped in, she would’ve continued raking you two through the mud—in front of everyone.”
He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “I know,” he muttered. “I heard you. And… thank you. For standing up for us.”
But you weren’t ready to let it go. Your jaw tightened, still upset. “I just—God, I can’t believe you actually dated someone like her,” you scoffed, shaking your head. “Do you have a thing for women who walk all over you?”
Bucky recoils. “Excuse me?”
You bit your bottom lip anxiously. That comment was petty, and the words flew out before you could even think about it. But you were just so upset. How the hell did a man like Bucky—strong, capable, handsome, and a caring father—get stuck with an awful city woman like Talia? At least her appearances check out.
“You heard what I said.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched, like he was trying to hold something back. He looked away for a second, then back at you. “It’s not that simple.”
“That I can clearly see,” another petty comment out of you.
He ran a hand over his face, exhaling heavily. “She still has partial ownership of the farm.”
Your brow furrowed, your arms relaxing over your chest slightly. “What?”
“When we split, before I really knew what kind of person she was, I let her buy in. She wanted to be ‘part of the future,’ and I was too tired to argue. She’s got a stake in it, and now she’s using it against me.”
He looks defeated, agitated, tired, and pissed off all at once.
“She makes more money than I do,” he continued with some bite in his tone, like he hated every word coming out of his mouth. “She’s got lawyers and all kinds of connections. She’s threatening to sell her share if I don’t agree to let Jamie go back to the city for college. She says that she can ‘give him a real life.’”
Your stomach flips.
“And she would do it, too,” Bucky added bitterly. “She’d gut the entire place just to prove a damn point. And I can’t afford to buy her out—not without losing everything.”
Your arms dropped to your sides. So this was why he didn’t say anything—this is why all your friends told you not to get involved. And now, the guilty feeling was hitting you all at once all over again.
By standing up for him and Jamie, you may have just handed Talia another weapon to use against them, fueling her vendetta, leverage to get back at Bucky. She could use her share of the farm to tear down everything Bucky had worked for, and you might’ve only made it easier.
You dragged a shaky hand over your face, guilt and shame pressing hard against your chest.
“Bucky… I’m… I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t,” he interrupts you, stepping closer. His fingers wrapped gently around your wrist, pulling your hand away from your face. “Don’t say that. None of this is on you. She had no right to talk like that, not to Jamie, and not about me.”
“She’s horrible,” you grit through clenched teeth, looking down at your sandals, avoiding looking at him. “I hate the way she talks to him… to you. It makes me sick. Everything that you have built is special. The farm, Jamie, the life you’ve made. Fuck, it’s all so sweet and beautiful. It makes me want it, too.”
Bucky’s hands move to cup your cheeks reassuringly, feeling a swell of pride over your words.
“Tell me again,” he tilts your head up so that you’re looking him in the eyes. “Tell me which part you want.” He mutters quietly.
And as you stared into those familiar blue eyes, the ones that had slowly pulled you in since the day you came back home, your guard crumbled away.
“I want all of it,” you whisper. “I want to be a part of Jamie’s life, I want Jamie with me at the flower shop, I want the oversalted burgers, I want that rust bucket of a truck, I want the farm…” you look deeper into his eyes, voice getting even lower and raspy. “And I want the daddy that owns it.”
His jaw clenches for a moment, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip slowly. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Say that again.”
“Which part?” you teased, leaning in closer. “The rust bucket of a truck?”
Bucky let out a low breath, like he’s holding something back. His hand lowered from your face to your waist, squeezing it slightly and possessively. He was walking you backwards, slow and steady until the back of your knees hit the couch.
“You know which part,” he says, eyes piercing through yours.
Your breath hitched. Suddenly, the atmosphere in the living room changed, and the air was filled with heavy tension and heat.
You try to deflect, teasing. “The oversalted burger part?”
But Bucky doesn’t bite.You let out a soft gasp as his hands tightened around your waist, grabbing you and spinning you around so that your back was faced to him. The action threw you off guard, causing you to brace your hands against the top cushions of the couch. His hand glides down your spine, stopping just above the curve of your hips.
His voice comes in deep and raspy, close to your ear. “Don’t play smart with me, girl.”
He continues. “You come charging across the yard with that mouth blazing, telling off the mother of my kid like she’s your damn problem to solve…” you can feel the stubble of his chin tickling your earlobe. “You look me in the eye and tell me you want it all—yet you can’t even give me what I want?”
He leans closer, his breath warm against your skin, and your whole body responds to him, a shiver running down your back.
“Well,” your voice was shaky as you slightly turned your head to look him in the eye. “What do you want, then?”
Instead of answering right away, he raises his hand and delivers a smack against your ass that’s covered by the summer dress. “You know what I want.”
You let out a yelp, squirming under his hold. Your face warms with heat. You know what he wants, but you don’t say anything—purposefully defying and testing him.
When you don’t answer, Bucky flips the hem of your dress up, delivering another smack to your ass as punishment. He leans over you again, rubbing the cheek smoothly—as if prepping you for another round.
“I’ll give you everything. The farm, the burgers, the truck, the kids,” he says, pressing a kiss to the side of your temple. “All you have to do is call me Daddy.”
“Fuck,” you groaned, your fingers digging into the couch. “Bucky—“
Another smack, and you whimper as you feel yourself getting wetter by the second.
He rubs your ass soothingly again. “Wrong name, babydoll.” He leans in again, spanking you one more time for good measure. “Come on, baby. Give me what I want.”
A soft moan escapes your lips as the same strong, calloused hands you once couldn't stop eyefucking—back when he was fixing your house—now glide over the curve of your ass.
“Daddy…” you whimpered softly, jutting your butt out to rub against his hips.
As you press against him, you immediately feel the hardness of him. Bucky lets out a groan at the friction, tossing his head back before delivering another spank to your red bottom.
“Again, baby,” he breathed, rubbing you in approval. “Say it again.”
“Daddy,” you moaned, arching your back into his touch. “I want it, I want it so bad.”
Another spank. His body completely hovers over yours, grinding his hips against your panty covered bottom. You feel the insistent and hard ridge of him through his own jeans, and you want nothing more than to see him finally free himself from these confines.
“Louder,” he groans, his other hand sliding up beneath you to gently knead your breasts through your dress, the strap falling from his movement. “Tell Daddy what you want.”
“Daddy!” you gasped as you felt his rough fingers rub against your hardened nipple through your dress. “I want everything. I want you. Please, Daddy.”
“You want Daddy to take care of you?”
“God, yes.”
“Fuck, baby.”
You hear the sounds of Bucky’s belt unbuckling and his jeans being pushed down. You want to turn around and look, but you’re frozen in place. The anticipation of waiting for it turns you on more than it should—
Before you could even finish your thought, Bucky’s rough finger pushes your panties to the side, baring your glistening pussy to him. You hiss as he rubs his leaking tip against your wet slit.
“Shit, baby,” he groans, pushing his tip more insistently against your entrance. “You’re so wet. Bet it’ll glide in so easily, just like this…”
Bucky starts to push past your entrance slowly, the crown of his cock disappearing inside you with ease as he enters in one slow and deliberate thrust.
“Ah!” you gasped, arching your back, trying to accommodate his size. “Bucky—”
Smack!
Another spank to your ass that causes you to jump slightly, causing Bucky to moan at the sudden friction while he’s deep inside you.
“Bad girl” he warns you, giving you another warning spank. Your ass is red and sore, yet the sting of it feels so good, especially being under Bucky’s mercy.
“Tell Daddy what you want, baby. Come on, be a good girl for me.”
You finally look over your shoulder, your hands still braced against the top of the couch. You flutter your eyelashes at him, breathing heavy at the fullness of Bucky’s cock buried deep inside you.
“Please fuck me, Daddy,” you beg. “Fuck me really good.”
Bucky groans at the sight and sound of you. He grabs your hips, your dress bunched up around your waist as he starts fucking you against him.
You gasp, moan, and writhe underneath him as he fucks you so good, the couch creaking at the force of his thrusts. The sound of skin against skin slapping fills the air, along with the rhythmic squelching of your pussy taking him in.
It’s almost embarrassing how responsive your body is to him.
“Fuck,” Bucky moans. “You’re mine, baby. All mine. You belong to Daddy.”
“Yes,” you hiss, throwing your head back as Bucky fucks you deep and fast, making your head dizzy and your body warm and fuzzy. “Oh, God. Don’t stop, Daddy, please.”
“Never,” Bucky mutters, his hands on your hips tightening as he watches your soft flesh bounce against him. “Can’t stop.”
He watches his cock disappear and reappear in and out of you. The sound of your wetness, the way you call him ‘daddy’ so sweetly, the way you’re arching your back so that his leaking tip can hit that delicious sweet spot of yours…
It’s too much for him to handle, embarrassingly so.
It’s been a while since he’s had sex with a woman, and since the day you arrived back in town, that same day he rear ended you, you were the only woman that’s been occupying his mind.
He’s never felt such a need before. It’s desperate, lustful yet loving, and all consuming.
“Fuck, baby,” Bucky moans, his hands, his thrusts, everything moving with more desperation. “Daddy’s close… gonna cum soon.”
Your moaning only gets louder as you feel yourself getting closer to the edge with him. “Me too, Daddy,” you breathe out.
You feel Bucky’s cock twitch inside you after being called ‘daddy’ again. His breathing is heavy and labored as he fucks into you, helping the chase of both yours and his release.
He leans over you, pushing a sweaty strand of hair out of your face so he can get a good look at you.
“Will you be a good girl and take all of Daddy’s cum?”
“Yess,” you nod frantically, your eyes glazing at him with lust and love. “I’ll be so good. Please, let me show you how good I can be for Daddy.”
Shit. Who knew that the once smart-mouthed woman who made it her life’s mission to get on his nerves could beg so sweetly and dirty like this?
“Fuck, such a pretty slut,” Bucky grits through clenched teeth, your words alone sending him over the edge. “I’m cumming, baby.”
You whimper as you feel yourself come undone, pressing your face against the couch cushions as Bucky thrusts one, two, three more times deep into you before filling you up completely with his warm seed.
Bucky stands behind you, his hold on your hips possessive and steady. He catches his breath for a moment, and when he finally does, he lets out a hiss as he pulls out slowly.
You let out a needy whine at the sudden loss of him and he chuckles deeply. He cleans you up gently before setting your panties back in place.
“That’s a good girl,” he mutters, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then to your lips.
“Such a good girl for Daddy. I’ll give you everything, baby. Just you wait.”
Benjamin Poindexter x F!Reader. - You're one of New York's best forensic photographers. You document each scene, every small seemingly insignificant detail, and do it all with far more respect and care than the investigators. It's a quality of your work that nobody seems to particularly care about. Until someone does...
Warnings: 18+, violence, graphic crime scenes, Dex stalking reader, slow-burn cat & mouse dynamic, eventual smut, subtle kn!fe play, slightly subby Dex if you squint, unprotected P!inV! (please wrap before you tap guys), implied voyeurism (??), Dex is kinda creepy but not pushy.
A/N: This is somewhat long guys, I'm so sorry, but this idea has been wracking my brain for months and I couldn't stop typing. I had to build up the plot before the sexy time, but it's there, I promise.
INSPIRED BY THE SONG - One Way Or Another - Until The Ribbon Breaks
The dead were always quieter than the living.
That was arguably the first thing you learned when you became a forensic photographer. The living wailed and screamed, contaminated crime scenes, cried into detectives' shoulders, and argued with police, begging for answers that nobody had yet.
The dead? They simply waited.
You adjusted the focus ring on your camera, waiting for the flash to recharge before taking another photograph of the apartment's narrow hallway. Blood had dried in a splatter across the chipping paint of the wall interrupted by a single handprint leading towards the front door. You had arrived to the scene earlier than usual at the request of the rest of the forensic team.
"Need anything?" A low grumble from behind you.
It was the lead detective, a rough man with an intimidating presence, one you'd grown all too accustomed to over the past few months. You had worked with him on murder after murder, all carried out in the same, calculated process, and no incriminating evidence to lead to the culprit. He was tired. You could tell by the dark sunken bags under his eyes. No doubt, he'd spent many hours in the night trying to solve these cases.
"No, not right now," You hum quietly in response, snapping another photo with a loud click.
Everyone on the scene was tired. This was the third one in two weeks. Any and all horror or sympathy was replaced by exhaustion and a sense of normalcy. Nobody cared about the grief: The sobbing family in the complex's hallway, the neighbors peeking through their cracked doors and covering their children's eyes, it was the same nightmare that everyone on the scene had lived through for months.
You tried to make up for it the best you could, not quite finding yourself at the point of numbness yet. You crouch down next to the victim. Middle-aged, thick wedding band, ink stains on two fingers. Someone who probably worked at a desk... Someone who had been alive yesterday...
You reached over, gently straightening the crooked picture frame that had fallen against his shoulder during the struggle with a gloved hand. A photograph of two little girls smiled back from the glass. Your heart ached at the sight. It was the normal for these victims to have families, but the thought of two little girls having to grow up without a father made your stomach churn.
"I'm so sorry..." You murmured, voice barely above a whisper, "I know this isn't how you'd want them to remember you..."
You stand up again, snapping one final photo of the body. As you clicked, the coroner approached, the same exhaustion on his face as the lead detective.
Nobody ever questioned your little ritual. They never would.
Across the street, four stories above the level of the crime scene on an inconspicuous rooftop, Benjamin Poindexter lowered the binoculars.
He'd expected the usual procession of uniforms and routine. What he didn't expect was you, apologizing to a corpse. Not out of policy or anything of the sort, but because you felt as if someone should.
It was a tenderness he'd never seen before from people like you, a quiet, gentle acknowledgement of a tragedy that has been seen time and time again.
He stayed on that rooftop far longer than he had planned.
***
The next morning, you sat quietly at your desk, sipping on a coffee that had long since gone cold. You supervisor appeared almost out of thin air, pale as a ghost, and dropped another case assignment on your desk.
"Brooklyn," She said, "Assumed homicide."
Your brow furrows and you let out a deep sigh, already reaching for your camera bag and badge.
"Busy week."
"It's New York."
By noon, you were already ducking beneath yellow crime scene tape, flashing your badge at the officer barking orders at the crowd of people and hungry reporters pushing against one another to get a better view.
It was a small condo, well kempt, rather lavish for being on the smaller side. One singular victim, as usual, with minimal signs of forced entry.
You begin the same routine you've had for a long time, using your camera lens to survey the scene quietly as officers and detectives' share quiet conversation around you.
Mid-range. Blood spatter. Entry wounds from a sharp object on vital points. Evidence markers. Nothing unusual from the scenes you'd inspected in the past. That was, until your lens caught something in the corner of the frame.
You lower your camera, eyes locking in on the focal point that you'd spotted through the lens.
On the windowsill, perfectly centered sat a white marble.
Something about it unsettled you. Not that marbles were impossible to find in a home, but because this one looked placed... deliberately. It caught the light of the window like it had been perfectly set for the camera.
You swallow hard and glance towards the evidence technician.
"Has someone marked this yet?"
He frowns.
"Marked what?"
You blink and point to the windowsill.
"The... marble?"
He glances to the windowsill for a millisecond, barely sparing a thought, furrows his brow, and then looks back at you.
"What are you talking about?" He murmurs, turning his attention back to the victim's body.
You gulp and settle your gaze on the windowsill again. It's still there, perfectly placed, waiting.
You take a deep inhale and lift your camera.
Click.
That photograph shouldn't exist.
You realized that before the image had even finished developing.
The print hung from the drying line by a tiny metal clip, swaying almost imperceptibly in the draft from the ancient ventilation system. One by one, the apartment came into focus. The entryway, the lamp overturned during the struggle, evidence markers 1-34, the blood pooled beneath the victim. And there...
On the windowsill, a white marble.
Your stomach dropped and you step closer, nearly bumping into the line of hanging photographs. Centered in the frame with impossible precision, bright against the dark paint of the windowsill.
It was small, of course. It was a marble for heavens sakes, but you couldn't make sense of the fact that the initial investigation team never saw it, especially because they were as thorough as it gets.
The logical side of you just presumes they missed it or deemed it as too insignificant to care about. Or perhaps, for some odd reason, someone on the team placed it there before you arrived, even though that was a complete violation of the policy.
At this point, however, policy didn't mean nearly as much to you. Because even with your logical side, something about this didn't feel right, and you do something you'd normally never even consider. You gently pull the photograph off of the drying line, gently tracing the edges as you survey it closely. As your eyes scan it over, that unsettling feeling only sets in more.
You can't reasonably explain why, but you slide the photo into your bag instead of the evidence folder, heart thudding against your ribs.
***
Benjamin Poindexter hated hospitals. They were too bright, too... chaotic. Too many people experiencing each and every emotion all at one time.
He exited through the emergency department without breaking stride, the nurse at the reception desk too involved with a screaming family member to notice him.
He glanced up as he walked. The security camera above the automatic doors had been facing three degrees too far left for almost six months and nobody had fixed it yet.
Normal people rarely noticed the little things like that. That was why they died.
He crossed the bustling street, disappearing into the late afternoon crowd. Three blocks later, he stopped outside an old camera shop, the outside noticeably rundown and sticking out like a sore thumb compared to the modern and refurnished buildings next to it.
He wasn't here because he needed anything. He was here because the display window reflected the sidewalk behind him.
You walked past exactly on schedule, camera bag over your right shoulder, coffee in your left hand, only one earbud in one ear.
You always adjusted the strap after crossing Seventh Avenue. Today was no different.
He watched your reflection intensely.
One.
Two.
Three.
Your hand reached up, tugging the worn canvas strap higher onto your shoulder as you walked, a mindless routine movement that nobody else would ever think to notice.
He smiled to himself.
You spent the rest of your boring afternoon trying to convince yourself you were imagining things. There had to be an explanation. It was misplaced piece of evidence or a child's toy overlooked by responding officers? Maybe the fatigue and stress had finally caught up to you? Anything.
By seven o'clock that evening, you'd almost succeeded. The trials of the day finally subsided, and you felt as if you could finally take a full breath.
That was until you unlocked your apartment door.
Stepping in, you felt exhaustion creep into your bones like every day, but this time, something felt different.
You looked around, eyes adjusting to the dark. Nothing was apparent. Everything was in the same spot as you left it this morning. There were no open windows or doors, truly nothing that would implicate some sort of forced entry or disturbance.
But yet, the hairs on your neck still stood straight up. You stood motionless for a moment, listening to the sounds around you. Save for the distant sounds of traffic and noises from other apartments, yours was silent. Not a gentle silence though, a silence that instead put you on edge.
You swept your eyes through the living room again, more focused this time. Nothing was abnormal. Bookshelf, couch, coffee table, everything in its perfect condition as usual. You let out a shaky breath and step further in, the shift of your body causing the light from the hallway to make something glint briefly in your peripheral.
You freeze, heart beginning to thud, as your eyes follow the glint.
In the center of the small table by your couch sat a single white marble.
You have never once owned marbles.
For several long seconds, you simply just stared, the thumping in your chest becoming audible now. Not taking your eyes off of the table, you fumble around in your bag, clutching your phone and pulling it out slowly, like a spooked animal.
You don't call the police. Instead, you open your camera app and quietly snap a picture. When the flash goes off, the marble gleams again, like an eye looking back at you in the dark.
***
You sat at your desk long after everyone else had filtered out for lunch. The marble rested inside an evidence bag beside your keyboard. You'd looked at it at least thirty times. Every single angle, every reflection of the light, mulling over every single explanation in your mind. Nothing made sense. There were no signs of forced entry when you did a sweep of your apartment, yet there was no possible way that marble found it's spot by itself...
After making yourself nauseous thinking about it all, you opened the department's digital evidence archive.
Case #24-1187
You enlarged every crime scene photograph, surveying every detail in every room. Nothing particularly unusual. Then, you get to the kitchen. You see the photos of the body at all different angles, and the blood spatter on the walls. Then, the photo of the window.
The marble gleamed from the windowsill, just like you remembered it. It made your nausea much more apparent, but you took a deep breath and kept moving through all of the archive.
You eventually reach the responding officer's body camera footage, and you click through the timestamps as procedure.
The responding officers enter, sweep every room, make contact with the body in the kitchen. The camera shakes as the officer walks to the window to look for signs of forced entry.
No marble.
Wait.
You rewound, pausing the video on the clearest shot of the windowsill.
No marble.
Your pulse quickened as you feel bile rise in your throat. You slam your laptop shut and stand up abruptly.
No marble.
The evidence photographs and the bodycam footage contradicted each other. Someone placed that marble in that spot before the forensic team arrived. Someone interfered with the crime scene. That wasn't supposed to happen.
Ever.
You stayed frozen in front of your laptop. The fluorescent lights above you hummed quietly, completely unaware that something had shifted.
That was the unsettling part.
The office looked exactly the same, the same stacks of weeks old case paperwork, the same half-empty coffee cups abandoned on desks, the normal quiet hum of computers running in the background.
But your understanding of the situation had changed.
This wasn't some strange coincidence.
Someone had entered a secured crime scene.
Someone had altered evidence.
And somehow, you were the person they wanted to notice.
You slowly sat back down, opening your laptop reluctantly and hovering your shaking hands over the keyboard.
Every instinct you had as an investigator told you to stop. You should close the file and report the discrepancy, bring someone more qualified in to examine everything.
But another part of you kept pulling you back all because of one question you couldn't ignore.
Why the marble?
If someone wanted to tamper with the crime scene, there were easier, less... nonsensical ways.
They could alter the body, clean up the blood, hide the signs of a struggle. Typical things that a calculated killer would do that you've seen plenty of times. Instead, they deliberately placed something there after the body was discovered. It was meant to be seen.
You scroll back to the photo of the window you had taken.
The marble came back into view, the same sight you had gone over in your mind hundreds of times. This time, your eyes moved away from it and you notice something else.
The angle.
You clicked open the image properties, opening a new window. Same with the crime scene floor plan. You return to the original image again.
The window where it sat wasn't facing toward the body, or any other significant part of the scene.
You zoomed out to look at the full picture again, the building across the road coming into view behind the marble. You pull up a map of the street and examine closely, eyes landing on the building opposite of the apartment. You... recognize it.
It used to be an old office for an insurance company that went bankrupt almost a year ago. You stare at the screen for what feels like minutes, your palms becoming increasingly clammier as your leg bounces nervously. It's a direct line of sight into the condo's window from any vantage point.
Your fingers begin to shake as your mouth falls open.
The marble was placed there because whoever left it wanted you to know where they had been standing, and you, the photographer, were the only one that could make the connection.
You should have stopped there. You should have closed out of everything, gone to the break room, and eaten your lunch in peace. Instead, you grab your coat and leave the building entirely.
This wasn't your job. Your job was to take photos of crime scenes and make reports of them. But, you had it all. You had a possible point of origin, a compromised crime scene, and evidence that someone had been watching. For weeks these murders had been going on, and for weeks nobody could make heads or tails of them. But now, you had a lead, and you couldn't pass it up.
The building was only a few blocks away from your office, a quick and chilly walk. Despite the nerves ravaging your body, you reassured yourself that you weren't investigating alone. You were doing this for the sake of your team and the victims that had their lives ripped away from them in the most gruesome ways. Besides, you weren't in any danger. You had a lead that you were following up with. What's so wrong about that?
The building was much smaller than you had remembered. The windows were all dark and the sign above the entrance was removed, leaving only the faint outline of letters contrasting the wear of the rest of the brick.
You approached the door slowly, shivering as a cold wind sent chills down your spine. It was locked of course, but as you stared at it, you notice something. The chain in front of the door was there, but the lock wasn't. It was broken off and laying on the ground a few inches away from your feet. Someone had definitely been in here recently.
As is your nature, you take a picture before slipping inside. It was dark, only the natural light of the outside gently sweeping over the lobby, which smelled of dust and old paint. Your footsteps echoed as you walked, the sound startling you.
You hastily made your way through every floor, finding nothing but abandoned cubicles and the occasional fallen ceiling tile. Eventually, you make it up to the rooftop, which was only a few floors high.
It was quiet up there. The city stretched endlessly around you, and wind rushed past your ears, carrying the sounds of people and traffic below you.
For a moment, you almost found a sense of peace. Nothing outwardly felt wrong, but as you walked forward towards the edge, you find a makeshift chair of cinderblocks, and a small knife laying on the ground next to them.
Your breath catches in your throat as you step closer, leaning over the edge. From this spot, the entirety of the original crime scene was visible. You could see the expanse of the neighborhood across the street, including the condo where everything had begun. You focused in closer, realizing that you could also see inside the window into the kitchen at a perfect direct angle.
Whoever was up here could have watched the whole thing unfold. The arrival of the police, EMS, the forensic team, and you.
Your chest tightened as you stepped back, realizing that this was never about the victim or the murder. It was a clue about whoever had carried this act out, along with all of the others.
But why now? Why start leaving clues now?
As you stepped back, something catches your eye that you hadn't noticed before, tucked behind the knife. You freeze entirely, already knowing what it is without having to look.
Slowly, you turn to the knife and crouch down. As you thought, there laid a marble. But it was different this time? Instead of the normal white sheen, this one was black, placed just for you to find, and underneath it was a crisp folded piece of paper.
Your natural instincts win you over before anything else. You take a photo of all of it. The viewpoint, the makeshift chair, the knife, and the marble. Only after snapping a hefty amount of pictures do you finally retrieve gloves from your bag and pick up the note.
You unfold it, being met with meticulous handwriting, perfect spacing, and the words,
YOU FOUND WHERE I STOOD
Your first thought was that you should be afraid. Maybe you were. But underneath that fear was curiosity.
Whoever this was, they weren't running from you, they were guiding you.
Across the street, blending in with a crowd of passersby, Benjamin lowered his binoculars. The same pair he had used to watch you many times before. He watched you stand in the same exact spot he did, studying your features and finding fear lace them slowly as you discovered everything he had left for you.
He expected you to be afraid, anybody would be. But they would run. You didn't. You studied, analyzed, documented, and searched every single detail, just like he hoped you would.
That's what interested him the most about you. You were so... careful. So tender and gentle with everything you came across. You never left anything untouched or unnoticed. He understood that. He liked that about you.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a notebook, flipping through it. The pages were filled with observations about you and your routine. Times, patterns, habits, all the simple little details nobody would ever think to pick up on.
He turned to a blank page and stared at it for several seconds before finally writing.
SHE FOUND THE THIRD ONE.
***
You didn't sleep.
Not because you were afraid. That would have been easier to digest. No, this was an overwhelming feeling of inquisitiveness.
The marble sat on your kitchen table. It was black this time, not white. A deliberate change.
You had spent the entire night replaying absolutely everything that unfolded throughout the week. The crime scene, photograph, the missing marble in the body camera footage, the rooftop, the note.
You found where I stood.
Not I was there, not I saw you, not I know who you are.
You found where I stood.
The wording bothered you for many reasons, but mainly because it wasn't about what happened. It was focused on perspective. Whoever this was wanted you to see what they saw exactly.
You looked at the marble again carefully, then at the photograph from the rooftop. You had taken over one hundred pictures and spent hours attentively examining each and every one of them, and there was one thing in particular that finally caught your eye.
You zoomed in closer on the photograph of the note in your gloved hand. Behind it was the view of the street below, and the crowd of people casually going about their daily lives. But in the middle of those people, in a small gap, was a figure. It was too blurry to make out any sort of details or features, but one thing was evident. This figure was looking directly at you on the rooftop.
This person was watching your every single move. They watched you put the pieces together, and you had no idea.
The next morning, you went back to the rooftop. You told yourself it was because you missed something. It was a reasonable excuse, people missed things all the time in investigations.
Deep down, though, you knew that wasn't the entire reason. In some sick, adrenaline-junkie way, a part of you wanted to know if he would come back. You hated that.
You hated that whoever this person was had managed to turn fear into fascination. It was a slippery slope into danger, and you knew that, but yet, you couldn't help yourself.
The rooftop was different. The makeshift chair was gone, along with the knife. You stood near the edge of the building and looked down where everything was the day before. There was nothing. No new marble, or note, or any other item.
A strange disappointment settled in your chest before you could stop it. You immediately pushed it away.
You turned and walked toward the door, biting your lip with frustration, then something caught your eye.
A small scratch in the concrete, a few feet away from where the chair had been. You were used to catching things out of the corner of your eye at this point, but a new feeling of excitement settled in your chest this time in place of paranoia.
You crouched down and looked closer.
There was a faint mark, almost invisible, in a curved line, like someone had rolled something across the rooftop hard enough to leave a tiny mark.
You followed the direction of the line, eyes moving toward the far corner of the roof right next to the edge. You walked over slowly, and there it was.
A small glass marble laying by the ledge on the ground. It was a deep scarlet red this time.
You didn't pick it up. Instead, you took out your camera and snapped a photo of it. You expected this.
You removed a small evidence marker card from your bag and turned it over, carefully writing a sentence on it before setting it beside the marble and walking away,
Benjamin expected you to take it. That was the point. The previous two had worked because curiosity always won eventually..
He watched from the building across the street. He figured you would find it. You were smart. He also figured you would take a photo of it. That was your routine. What caught him off guard was that you just... left it. That wasn't like you.
His brow furrowed as he watched you leave the rooftop. That wasn't supposed to happen. He waited until you were gone before crossing the street.
The rooftop was empty, except for the marble he had left and the note, which he hadn't expected either.
He picked it up, turned it over, and carefully read the words a few times. For several seconds, he simply stared at it. It was somehow completely different from what he had expected, yet perfectly fitting.
Why me?
Benjamin looked toward the street, a small smile on his face. You were already gone. Mostly everyone in New York City wanted to know who he was, what he wanted, what he has planned next. The normal things. But you... You wanted to play his game. You wanted to find the reason.
For the first time, it didn't feel like he was studying you. He felt like you were studying him, and that simultaneously excited him and unsettled him at the same time.
***
You started noticing him everywhere. Not him specifically, of course. You had no idea what he looked like. But that was the problem, you started noticing everyone. The man standing too still outside the coffee shop, the woman who kept looking over her shoulder on the subway platform, the person who walked the same route behind you for four blocks before turning away.
Your brain had become a surveillance system you couldn't turn off. You knew that was what he wanted. That realization bothered you more than anything, because it meant you gave him power over you, and that he changed the way you moved through the world more than any crime scene did.
The next marble appeared somewhere where you could have never prepared for. Not at a crime scene, not at your apartment, not on a rooftop.
Your office.
You found it sitting on your desk when you returned from processing photographs from an unrelated homicide. Your entire body went rigid when you laid eyes on it. You looked around the room, body trembling in fear. It was empty, but the precinct was loud around you, filled with the normal sounds of phones ringing and printers running.
You picked up the marble with shaking fingers. Red. The same exact one from the rooftop, except this time, it was warm. You froze, a sickening wrenching feeling in your gut.
Someone placed this here very recently.
Naturally, once you unfroze, you looked around the precinct. You started with the obvious places. Doors, windows, exits. When you found nothing in those spots, your eyes moved to the less obvious places. You looked at the reflections on the glass and black computer screens. Anything that may show someone standing where they shouldn't be, a trick you had learned from the police sheriff years ago.
And then you saw him.
Across the floor, by the evidence lockers. Tall, blonde hair, broad shoulders, and a neutral expression with eyes that weren't looking at you. It was as if he was looking at everything BUT you, like he already knew what you had discovered.
Your eyes narrowed and he turned. For half a second, your gaze met, and something in your chest tightened.
It wasn't recognition, not quite. It was something worse than that.
Familiarity.
Like you'd subconsciously seen him before, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't place where. And it wasn't his face or body that was familiar to you, it was his presence.
Before you could take your next breath, he looks away, just like that. There was no acknowledgment, no reaction, nothing but a shared glance that lasted for a hasty moment.
You look down at the marble in your hand, gently rolling it in your palm as you furrow your brow. When you look back up, he's already gone.
You spent the next hour trying to convince yourself you imagined it. You couldn't identify him off of his face alone, and you couldn't prove he was connected because he made your tummy feel weird. That wasn't how evidence worked. So you did the only thing you could.
You researched.
The first thing you searched was every person who had access to the precinct, all of the employees, detectives, forensics team, maintenance crew, visitors from the past week. No luck.
Then you searched something broader.
Recent incidents, unusual cases, odd patterns in the system. Your fingers slowed as one name kept appearing.
Not officially, not mentioned in reports or ever as a suspect, just mentioned briefly.
Benjamin Poindexter.
You stared at the screen. The name meant something. Not personally, but professionally. You had seen it many times before, everyone had. A man who was described differently depending on who was describing him. Sometimes he was a decorated FBI agent, other times he was a dangerous criminal. A person nobody could seem to categorize.
You lean in closer to the computer screen to look closer at his photograph, and your stomach drops. You recognized the way he looked at the camera. Empty... controlled... patient.
That evening, you didn't go home. You went back to the rooftop. You weren't sure why; your feet seemed to carry you before your mind could follow up. Maybe a deep part of you thought that maybe, if he was watching, you wanted him to know you weren't running. Not until you got answers. Maybe an even deeper part wanted to see if he would appear.
The rooftop was quiet, the twinkling lights of the city around you lighting up the night like stars. You stood where the chair had been, where he had watched.
"You wanted me to find you."
Your voice disappeared into the wind, a quiet murmur you couldn't stop yourself from saying. No answer.
You waited.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
"Not exactly."
Your entire body went still. The voice came from behind you. Calm, low, and undeniably close. You turn slowly, heart pounding in your chest as your eyes land on him. The man from the precinct stood several feet away.
His hands are visible. Not threatening, not relaxed either. Just... there.
"Benjamin Poindexter..." You say, eyes scanning over his large form.
He's terrifying. Large, muscular, eyes fixed directly on you. You think about how if he chose to harm you, you would have no chance of defending yourself. Somehow, you aren't scared. His presence is too calm and controlled to be afraid, yet.
"You did your homework," He states with a small smile on his face, taking one step towards you.
"You made sure I would..." You respond breathlessly.
His expression changes ever so slightly. Not guilt or shame, but interest.
You stare at him for what feels like hours, the pounding in your ribcage only accelerating.
"You've been watching me..." You whisper, your voice shaky and small.
He says nothing for a while, just stands there, eyes still locked on yours. That's confirmation enough for you.
"Yes."
His response catches you off guard, and your fingers curl at your sides.
"Do you have any idea how... insane that sounds?" You say, almost laughing.
"Yes."
Now, you feel afraid. You take a step backwards, stomach churning.
"You broke into my apartment! And the places connected to the investigation!" You exclaim, emotion heating up your cheeks.
"I left things behind."
Your eyes narrow at him.
"T-that's.... That's not an explanation! That's not an answer!"
"No," his eyes drift to the edge of the roof, "It's not."
The calmness of his words scares you more than anger would. You've studied and dealt with criminals before. You knew what guilt and fear and anger looked like, especially when a person is trying to convince themselves that they aren't a villain. But he wasn't doing any of that.
"You killed... all of those people..." You say, swallowing hard as he takes another step towards you.
His eyes shift back to you, no distinct expression on his face.
"You know who I am."
You swallow hard again, trying to regain your composure.
"Benjamin Leonard Poindexter..."
He pauses.
"That's not the only name people use..."
Your stomach dropped more than you thought it could.
Bullseye.
The name carried its own weight. A man who left bodies behind him, a man who turned violence into a signature, and he was standing three feet away from you.
You instinctively back up again, legs hitting the ledge of the rooftop.
"You understand why I am afraid of you, right?" You mewl shakily.
His expression shifts again.
"I understand why people are."
You let out a breath, eyes scanning over his figure once again. His eyes flicker.
"You aren't like them."
A bitter, fearful laugh escapes you.
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
He shakes his head no. You stare at him bewildered, hands clutching the edge of the ledge.
"Then why?"
The question hung between you. Why leave the marble? Why choose you? Why drag you into this? He looked toward the city beyond you again.
"I wanted to know if you would see it."
You frowned.
"See what?"
"Me."
The word landed heavier than you expected. You don't answer, instead, you allow him to continue.
"Everyone sees what they expect to see." His voice remains even, "A weapon. A monster..."
Your expression hardened.
"Because of what you've done."
A pause. The smallest crack of emotion.
"I know. I know what I am."
The wind moved between you, cold and unforgiving.
"And still, you thought leaving clues for me was a good idea?"
"No."
You looked at him.
"No?"
"No."
His eyes met yours.
"I knew it was a bad idea."
"Then why do it?"
A long silence passes.
"Because I wanted to."
***
The weeks that followed became something neither of you outwardly acknowledged. The marbles stopped appearing at crime scenes. The notes stopped being riddles. Instead, they became conversations.
Not normal ones. Not the kind built over coffee or casual text messages. Yours existed in the spaces between things, a photograph left somewhere only you would find it, a question answered days later, a conversation that lasted five minutes before he disappeared again.
You learned quickly that Benjamin Poindexter, or Dex, as he preferred for you to call him, was not easy to know.
He was precise, controlled, observant to an unsettling degree. He noticed everything. The way you bounced your leg when you were thinking, the way you stopped eating when you were stressed, the way you looked at exits whenever you entered a room.
At first, it bothered you. It felt like an unwelcome intrusion in your everyday routine. But as weeks passed, it became familiar.
You never forgot what he had done and you never let him forget either. You knew you should have exposed him, put him in jail, let the whole world know who he was, but he swore that he had reasons for killing who he killed, and that none of them were innocent. You tried to get him to explain numerous times, but he never elaborated, instead, he'd get a dark look in his eyes and go quiet.
There were arguments. There were moments when you reminded him exactly who he was and what he was capable of. There were moments when he went quiet because he didn't like hearing the truth, but he listened anyway. Each and every crime scene you went to, you knew it was his doing. It stole a piece of your soul each time.
But despite that, over the span of every interaction you had with him, directly or indirectly, you stopped seeing Bullseye more and more, until all that was left was Dex.
You knew something was wrong the second you opened your eyes. Your otherwise peaceful sleep was interrupted by the sound of gentle shuffling by your window. Your body instinctively freezes as your eyes lock onto the dark blur of the ceiling. You blink a few times tiredly, listening in to the sounds around you. You hear soft breathing, but it's not your own, coming from the other side of the bed.
Panicked, you suck in a sharp breath and lurch upwards, flipping the lamp on your bedside table on. What the light uncovers is Dex, standing at the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on you.
He's not in his typical clothing. Instead, he's in a tactical suit, adorned with weapons, and a mask covering his entire face save for his eyes. The look in his eyes was invasively calm, as if he didn't just break into your apartment. Despite the interactions you've had with him and the softness that you may have felt for him, seeing him officially as Bullseye caused a deep panic to set in your chest.
Your hand slides underneath your pillow, fingertips grazing the kitchen knife that you started keeping underneath it.
"Don't."
His voice was quiet, but stern. You freeze, and his eyes drop briefly towards the movement before returning to your face.
"You've got to be kidding me," You exclaim after a few moments of silence.
Through his mask, you see his eyes squint into a smile.
“Good morning.”
“It's two in the fucking morning.”
“I know.”
“You broke into my apartment.”
“I know.”
You scoff, clutching the blanket up to your chest and narrowing your eyes at him. You slowly pull back your hand from beneath the pillow.
“You're getting sloppy, Poindexter.”
His eyes flicked towards your hand, then back again to your face.
“No.”
The single word made something cold move through your stomach, a feeling that you were all too used to at this point.
“No?”
“I wanted you to know it was me.”
Silence passes. All those weeks you'd caught glimpses of him in your peripheral, across the street from the precinct, at the coffee shop you frequented each morning, standing beside his car when you'd left work. it began to feel like every time you had turned around, he'd been there, and every time you'd confronted him, he had somehow managed to make you question whether you had actually caught him at all. He had never denied it, not directly at least. You had assumed that was all part of his game, but now you weren't so sure.
“You wanted me to know?”
“Yes.”
Your fingers tighten around the blanket, a cold shiver running down your spine.
“Why?”
He looks at you for a moment then his gaze drifts around the bedroom. He notices your camera bag sitting on your desk and the half-empty glass of water on your nightstand. Your eyes narrow as you watch him catalogue every single detail.
“What are you looking at?”
“You leave your curtains open.”
Your blood ran cold at his observation.
“What?"
“At night,” his gaze fixes on you again. “Most nights.”
You stare at him, mouth slightly agape.
“You... keep track of that?”
“I keep track of a lot of things.”
Something about the way he said it made your skin prickle. Your thoughts begin to race in your head, and you furrow your brow.
"What are you doing here...?" You murmur quietly, debating on whether you actually want his response or not.
His expression goes blank. You'd seen this expression before, but never this close, never in a room this quiet, never with the understanding that there was absolutely nobody else between them now.
He straightens his posture and takes a step towards your side of the bed.
“You've been wondering how long I've been watching you.”
Your mouth goes dry as he takes another step
“You've been wondering if I know where you go after work.”
You say nothing.
“You've been wondering if I know which nights you stay late.”
Your pulse begins to pound.
“Dex...” You try to say as a warning, but it comes out as a shaky whimper instead.
“And you've been wondering,” he continued, almost conversationally as he steps again, much closer to you now, “whether I've ever followed you all the way home.”
Your eyes lock onto his above you. The room suddenly felt much smaller.
“You're fucking insane...”
“I know.”
His gaze doesn't leave yours.
“But you still kept looking for me.”
That silenced you, because deep down, you knew he was right. Every time you stepped outside the precinct, some part of you looked for him. Every time you parked your car, you checked the surrounding vehicles. Every time you walked home, you found yourself wondering whether you'd see that familiar silhouette somewhere ahead.
You told yourself it was vigilance, self-preservation that came with the nature of your job. But you started unintentionally looking for him even when you weren't afraid, and he knew.
You push the blanket away and swing your bare legs over the side of the bed, cold air prickling your skin. His eyes immediately dropped.
You notice. Of course you notice.
“Don't.”
This time, it was you saying it. His eyes return to yours, and something almost amused moves across his face.
“You don't like being watched?”
“Not when I'm asleep.”
“That's not what I asked.”
You freeze. He takes another slow step towards you, a heavy thud from his boots hitting your ears. You don't retreat or scramble backwards. Instead, you watch him carefully.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“You've spent weeks watching me back.”
Another step.
Your heartbeat thuds harder against your chest.
“You knew I was there," he says quietly.
“Sometimes.”
“You looked for me.”
You say nothing. His voice lowers.
“You wanted me to follow you.”
Your jaw tightens.
“That's a hell of an assumption," you scoff, body stiff.
“No,” He stops a few feet away. “It's an observation.”
You hated that word coming from him, primarily because of what you did for a living. You had spent weeks treating Poindexter like a mystery you could solve on your own if you just watched closely enough. However, now you were beginning to wonder whether you'd been the subject the entire time.
“So, what happens now?” You ask softly, voice shaking. His eyes stay on yours, scanning your features intently.
“That's up to you.”
You frown, brows furrowing again.
“You broke into my bedroom. You've been following me. You've apparently memorized how I keep my fucking curtains at night.”
A beat of silence passes.
“Yes.”
“Then don't stand there and tell me this is up to me.”
His expression changes. Something dark passes behind his eyes.
“I came here because I wanted to see what you'd do when there was no way for you to pretend I'm not there.”
Your breath catches in your throat, and he steps closer again. You can practically feel the heat radiating off of his body now.
“You can't go home and convince yourself you're imagining things, or that I don't exist outside of our interactions.” His voice dropps almost to a whisper. “I'm standing right here.”
You look up at him, and suddenly, you understood. This was the next move in the game.
“Why?” Your voice comes out smaller than you mean for it to.
Dex's gaze drops to your mouth, and when he answers, his voice is almost gentle.
“Because you've been daring me to come closer.”
Your breath hitches as your heart skips a beat.
“I never said that.”
“No.” His eyes met yours again, “You didn't have to.”
A man who had been watching you for weeks had broken into your apartment while you slept. You should be reaching for your phone, should be putting distance between you. Instead, you were looking up at him, half-naked in the middle of your bedroom at two-thirty in the morning, conversing with him like you'd done too many times before.
Your eyes drifted toward the bedroom window. The curtains were in fact drawn open, and you remembered what he'd said.
Most nights.
Your attention returned to him.
“How long have you been watching me from outside my window?”
His face went completely still. You immediately knew you'd hit something.
“Dex.” You whisper.
“Long enough.” He responds quiet;y.
Your pulse quickens.
“How long is ‘long enough’?”
“Long enough to know when you fall asleep.”
You swallowed hard.
“That's... fucked up.” You whisper again.
“I know.”
“Long enough to know when I come home?”
“Yes.”
“When I leave?”
“Yes.”
“When I have company?”
His eyes change, barely, but you catch it. You almost feel a smile creep into your cheeks.
“Ah.”
He says nothing.
“You don't like that question.”
“No.”
“Why?” You ask.
“Because I don't.”
You allow yourself to smile faintly. For the first time tonight, you finally felt like you'd gotten a little piece of the upper hand back.
“So you get jealous.”
His eyes narrow at you, deep and intense.
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.”
The words were a mirror of his own. Something dangerous flickered across his face. You could see it even through the mask. You lean in closer to his face, mere inches away from it.
“You were jealous,” you tease in a low tone.
“Careful.”
The word from him is quiet, not threatening. Your smile fades slightly as your heart thuds against your ribs.
“Or what?”
Dex looks down at you.
“Don't make me tell you twice.” His eyes moved over your face rapidly and he pauses. “You're not afraid of me.”
You almost laughed at the absurdity.
“That's a bold assumption considering you woke me up by breaking into my bedroom.”
“You're afraid.”
Your smile disappears.
“But you're not afraid of me.”
You stare at him through thick lashes.
“What's the difference?”
His answer came immediately.
“You're afraid of what I might do," your breath catches in your throat, “And you're not sure you want me to stop.”
The room goes silent. All your ears pick up on is the sound of your own hammering heartbeat.
“That's arrogant,” you whisper. “And if you're wrong?”
“I'll leave.”
You search his face, taken aback by his response.
“You'd actually leave?”
“Yes.”
“Right now?”
He doesn't move. That is what finally unsettles you. He was giving you a choice. You could say a few words, and he'd leave. You look at his form in front of you, then at the window behind him.
“You've been watching me and waiting weeks for me to tell you to leave?”
“No.”
Your brow furrows.
“No?”
“I've been watching you because I couldn't stop myself. And I've been waiting for you to tell me to stay.”
Your breath catches again. There is no smugness in his face now, just something almost frighteningly sincere.
You whisper, “And if I do?”
His eyes lower to your mouth as he lifts his mask off of his face.
“Then I'll stay.”
You lean in closer now, lips barely a centimeter from touching each other. You don't know why you are doing this. Why aren't you scared? Why aren't you calling for help? Why aren't you grabbing the knife under your pillow and chasing him off? Why are are you doing this?
Your hand finds itself gently resting on his forearm. He doesn't touch you. The restraint is almost maddening, but he resists. You huff gently at his hesitation, scooting closer to him, and closing your eyes as your face moves a hair closer.
"Do something..." You murmur under your breath, waiting for contact that never comes.
"Tell me to..." He responds, voice lowered almost to a whisper.
You bite your lip and pause for a moment, the thoughts in your mind becoming a dull blur.
"Kiss me."
And with that, those two simple words, he does.
The kiss wasn't gentle, but it wasn't careless either. It was the culmination of weeks of 'almosts''. Almost touching, almost admitting, almost allowing themselves to cross the line they'd been circling from the beginning.
You feel his hand slide higher along your back as you pull him closer. Your fingers slid beneath the hem of the collar of his shirt, brushing the warm skin at the base of his throat. He goes completely still, opening his eyes to look at you. Then his hand slides from your spine to beneath your hair and settles against the back of your neck. His fingers spread through the locks of hair gently. The touch makes you elicit a small sound from your throat.
He notices. Of course he notices.
You shiver as his lips find yours again, kissing you more fervently this time. Heavy breaths leave both of your chests as he pushes you gently back against the bed, straddling you with his legs. His hands work meticulously through your scalp as his mouth trails down to your neck, pulling your hair slightly to angle your throat for better contact.
You gasp as his lips leave wet kisses along your nape. You instinctively arch your back against his body, and you he grunts in response.
You've had sex before. Who your age hasn't? But this was the first time it felt like more than just a quick act of stress relief. The way he was palming your hair and touching his lips to your skin... It was so much different than what you were used to. It was like he was finally able to grasp something he had spent an eternity trying not to touch.
As his lips returned to yours, they began to get more desperate, crashing against yours like a starving man. His hand finds its way underneath your shirt, slowly rising as his fingertips find your breast. He pauses for a moment, unsure if he went too far, but you groan in defiance and arch your back again, forcing the contact. You can't think of anything else but him touching you right where you want it.
He takes the peak of your nipple between his fingers, gently rubbing it. The sensation makes you tremble as the slickness in between your legs begins to rapidly build. You buck your hips against his, feeling his hardened cock through his pants. The friction makes you mewl into his mouth, and you feel something in him snap.
With one swift motion, he pulls a knife out of his holster and slices through your night shirt, leaving your torso and chest bare to the cold. You gasp at the quickness of it and the feeling of metal against your skin, barely able to process what he had done, but he grinds his hips into yours and any coherent thought you had in your brain became a numbing hum.
His lips latch onto your breast, hand leaving your hair to trace against the waistband of your panties. He sucks gently on your nipple, the warmth of his tongue sending jolts of overstimulation to your core. You couldn't think. You wanted him to touch you. You wanted him to fuck you. You wanted him to do everything to you.
His lips trail from your chest down your stomach, until he eventually crouches down beneath your legs, face to face with your soaked panties. You hear a soft chuckle leave his mouth, and his fingertip gently traces the outline of your pussy lips. You squirm, desperate for touch yet simultaneously overstimulated at the same time. He takes that as a plea, and he leans forward, licking a slow wet line over your clothed folds.
A whimper unintentionally leaves your throat and your head falls back. He does it again, then again, then again, until his saliva and your wetness soak the cloth entirely.
"Fuck..." He whispers to himself, before grabbing the same knife he used to cut your shirt and doing the same to your panties. Again, the swift movement and the cold metal on your skin makes you gasp, and again, the overwhelming arousal you feel prevents you from caring at all.
He wastes no time latching onto your clit, running his tongue in circles around it with precision. You grip your bedsheets tightly, breath staggered and uneven. You writhe naturally, hips grinding away from his mouth on instinct, but he grips your thighs tightly with a warning squeeze, signalling for you to hold still.
"Don't start running from me now..." He asserts through laps of his tongue.
His low command mixed with the sensation of his mouth makes you cry out, legs shaking against his arms. As if you thought you couldn't feel more ecstasy, you feel a gloved finger enter your hole and pump in and out with a steady rythm.
Your hand finds his hair, lacing your fingers within his short blonde strands. You grind your hips against his mouth and finger, the familiar sensation of an orgasm rapidly building in your stomach. Your vision fades and the sounds that leave you are uncontrollable. He makes sounds of his own, low groans of pure pleasure. He was quite possibly enjoying this more than you were, as impossible as that seemed.
You're almost at your breaking point, and he could tell.
"Let it out... Give it to me..." He murmurs, finger pumping more rapidly in and out of you now.
Your orgasm hits you like a wave. You see stars, your legs tremble, and your mind goes utterly blank. He works you through it and steadies your trembling legs by rubbing them gently up and down, planting kisses on your inner thighs.
When you finally regain your composure, you look down at him, breathless. His mouth and chin are covered in a sheen of wetness, and he smiles, full of pride for what he's done to you. You try to muster up words, or a sound, or anything besides labored breaths, but your mind protests.
He stands up slowly, planting a wet kiss on your forehead and hands gripping your hips. You smile through your breaths, but before you can do anything else, he flips you over onto your stomach, and your face is buried into your pillow.
You exclaim, but don't protest. Instead, you arch your back slightly and wait for his next move.
He traces a gloved finger lightly on your spine, causing goosebumps to prickle your skin. You hear him mutter to himself, but you can't make out what he says.
After what feels like hours, you finally hear movement. First, it's his holsters hitting the floor, the metal of his various knives clinking on each other. Then, it's the sound of a belt being undone. Then, it's the sound of a zipper, followed by fabric sliding down skin. You wait, anticipatory chills running down your body.
He doesn't enter you immediately like you expect him to. Instead, you feel the head of his hard cock slide up and down between your slits. Its big. He goes slowly, like he's taking photographs in his mind. He leans down, the weight of his arms sinking into the bed as he reaches your ear.
"Tell me to stop..." He says in a strained voice, his last shred of control slipping.
You lean into him.
"Please... don't..." You whisper.
That's the last thing he needed before completely letting go. With one swift movement, he pushes his mass fully inside of you. The intrusion is painful at first, due to the sheer size of him, but it doesn't take long for your walls to adjust and for that whisper of pain to turn into an avalanche of pleasure.
He pumps into you steadily, going impossibly deep. The friction against your walls builds a whole new feeling of orgasm in your core. His precision and steady movements hit every spot perfectly, and you feel a sheen of sweat start to form on your skin.
"So good... S' so good..." He groans, gripping your hips tightly.
Your cries are muffled by your pillow, and he gently pulls your head up by your hair.
"No... Let me hear you... Please..." He begs, gently through gritted teeth.
You don't hold back. You let your moans echo like a sweet song. He pumps into you harder and harder, his rhythm faltering as he nears his climax. You follow suit, finding it harder and harder to resist cumming again.
It doesn't take long for you both to reach your climaxes. He goes first, pulling out at the last second and letting his cum spill out onto your back. You follow right after, shaking and practically screaming as another orgasm racks your body.
He backs up unsteadily, chest heaving as he tries to regain his breath. You struggle with the same thing, body so overwhelmed from the pleasure that you feel like you can barely move.
Through your breaths, you hear him shuffle behind you. You assume it's so he can gather his bearings and get ready to leave.
Imagine your surprise when you hear a loud click!
You look back curiously to see Dex standing there with your camera in his hands. You raise your eyebrows in surprise and bite back a smile.
"For evidence..." He says cheekily, lowering the camera to meet your gaze.
⌗ SUMMARY. Bullseye shows up bleeding in Matt Murdock’s arms. You have a clinic, a locked door, and a terrible habit of letting wounded things crawl into your hands.
WARNINGS ⊱ canon adjacent, wounded dex, mentions of blood, minor injury details and treatment, doctor/patient setup, emotional dependency, jealousy (dex is a jealous bitch), possessiveness, morally messy dynamics, matt murdock cameo, platonic matt, set after the events of episode 5 of DDBA S2, references to foggy’s and vanessa’s death, suicidal ideation/passive death wish from dex (canon😭), MDNI, explicit sexual content, praise, possessive language, riding, groping, tit play, unprotected pnv, creampie, soft aftercare, needy!dex, dex being a feral wounded dog of a man, no use of y/n.
KIE’S NOTES ⊱ I’ve been writing this on and off since episode 5 aired, and this is by far one of the hardest things I’ve ever written. Dex is such a complex character to write for holy fuck 😭 there are so many analogies to stray dog, like he just wants to be a good boy, you’ll see
⟡ READ ON AO3 ♰ DAREDEVIL MASTERLIST
A wounded dog will decide who counts as safe long before anyone else understands why it bites.
You learned that before medical school, before emergency rotations and back-alley sutures that made men in masks limp to you and bleed all over your tile at 3 AM. You learned it at eleven, crouched near an alley behind your old apartment, palm full of deli turkey your mother told you was for lunch, watching a stray with a torn ear bare his teeth at every adult who tried to corner him. Animal control had come with poles. A neighbor had come with a towel. Your mother came with her worried mouth pressed thin and her hands hovering near your shoulders, ready to snatch you back if the dog lunged. The dog had lunged at everyone except you. He had stared at you with yellow-brown eyes, ribs moving under filthy fur, every part of him made of pain and suspicion, and he had taken the turkey from your hand so gently that you cried on the spot. Full ugly tears, snot and all, as if tenderness from a ruined thing was the saddest miracle in the world.
Benjamin Poindexter reminds you of that dog every time he appears at your door.
Which is insane, clinically. Dex is a man. Dex is a killer. Dex is precise, lethal, too calm in ways that make the hairs on the back of your neck lift even when he is sitting on your exam stool with his shirt off and three cracked ribs under your palm. Dex looked at you with blood in his teeth and asked if you keep the good suture scissors in the second drawer or if you hide them from your 'less charming clients,' and he smiled when you stared at him too long. He is six feet of bad decisions and worse coping mechanisms, and yet the first thing your mind gives you when you think of Dex is that stray dog taking turkey from your fingers.
That knock at this time is unexpected. Matt.
Matt knocks like a man who hates needing help. Two firm taps, a pause, one more. Spiderman kncoks like he's not allowed to come in. Jessica once kicked the door and yelled your name until you opened. Dex, on his own, never knocks at all. He appears. He waits. Sometimes he bleeds on the mat. Sometimes he makes a small, polite comment about your hallway light going out.
You are across the room before the kettle finishes screaming. Your clinic is technically a closed flower shop with a fake lease and a drain installed under the center table, which makes you look deranged. Until someone comes in with a knife wound and then everyone suddenly appreciates plumbing. The place smells like antiseptic, old brick damp from rain, black tea, and the faint copper ghost that never fully leaves, because blood is part of everything. You unlock the deadbolt, undo the chain, tug the door open, and Matt Murdock nearly falls into you with Bullseye hanging off him like a corpse.
For one bright, stupid second, all your thoughts empty out into his name.
Dex.
His face is a mess. Blood has dried under one nostril and smeared across his mouth in a dark shine. His lower lip is split. One eye is swollen enough that it changes his whole expression, turning him younger in the ugliest way, all that sharpness buried under bruising and exhaustion. His suit is torn at the side, tactical fabric shredded into strips. When Matt adjusts his grip, Dex makes a sound so small you feel it under your bones.
Matt's mouth tightens. Blood mats his dark hair near his temple. Only consolation is that he looks a little better than Dex. "He needs help."
You stare at Dex. Dex stares back, or tries to. His good eye drags over your face with the slow, stunned relief of a man who expected darkness and got a porch light. The part of you with a medical license starts counting injuries in a list that stacks too fast. Facial trauma. Rib involvement. Possible abdominal injury. Scalp laceration. Possible pneumothorax. The part of you that has made the mistake of caring about him too much, looks at his lashes stuck together with rain and blood and wants to put his head in your lap.
With a gentleness reserved for skittish animals, you reach for his jaw, two fingers under his chin to angle his face toward the light. "Dex, can you hear me?"
Blood shines over his teeth, as his mouth twitches. "Hey, Doc."
Matt shifts him higher with a grunt, muscles in his forearms cording from the effort. Dex makes another small sound, angrier this time, as if the pain is just now surfacing. "He took the worst of it. I did what I could, but he kept telling me to leave him."
"Balanced the scales," Dex mumbles, head tipping back against Matt's shoulder. Rainwater slides from his hair down the side of his neck. "You had a city to save."
"Ma — you should come in." You catch yourself at the last second. It rises right up, soft from habit, and catches at the back of your teeth as Dex's good eye opens again.
He smiles at you through the blood. Barely. A broken curve of recognition, jealous even while half-dead, which is so Dex that something in you aches. "I know who he is, doc. You can call him Matt."
You close your eyes, breathe through your nose once, a fond sigh, which also is deeply annoying. "Of course you do."
Dex's smile widens enough to make the split in his lip bleed again. "Smart boy."
No. Nope.
"Table. Keep his neck aligned." You tell Matt, stepping back and sweeping one arm toward the center of the room. "If either of you tracked glass in here, I'm making you both sweep before sunrise." You add, not wanting to sound too soft.
Matt obeys with a silence that says he has learned, through years of being injured in your presence, that arguing only rises blood pressure. Dex tries to help. That is the horrible part. His fingers grip the edge of the exam table once Matt lowers him, knuckles white, body shaking with the effort of being useful. His legs drag a fraction of a second behind the rest of him. Your mind sees it, circles it, hates it. You pull trauma shears from the tray and cut through what remains of the suit before any panic can bloom large enough to slow your hands.
"Eyes on me," you tell Dex, softer than you mean to. "You do exactly what I say for the next hour. That's the deal."
His lashes flutter, and his ruined mouth quirks. "I'm always good for you."
Matt turns his head slightly, lips tugging on a frown half formed.
You feel it. Dex feels it too. They are both bleeding and somehow still measuring each other. Matt's face gives almost nothing away, but you have known him long enough to read the pauses, even the slight angle of his chin. He hears Dex's pulse change around you. He hears your answer. He hears the rotten little truth of it, warm and embarrassing under all the antiseptic.
You press two fingers to Dex's carotid and pretend the pulse under your skin is purely clinical. "That depends on your definition of good."
"Flexible," Dex breathes.
"Try alive."
"That's less flexible."
When you shoot him a look, he settles. It happens so fast Matt's brow pulls in, and despite the blood running down the side of his own face, despite the exhaustion in every line of him, you see him file it away. Dex does that for you. Dex, who would rather spit teeth than accept help from almost anyone, quiets under your hand like you found a switch under his skin.
You hate how much that means to you.
The shears bite up the side of Dex's suit. Rain-wet fabric peels away from him, exposing bruises already darkening over his ribs, long shallow cuts crossing his abdomen, a deeper gash near his left flank with slow, steady bleeding. You talk while you work, partly for him, partly for Matt, mostly for your own sanity. "Breath sounds normal. No deep lacerations. Two tiny blessings. Dex, if you lie about pain severity, I will find out and I will be extremely annoying about it."
His good eye trails over your face. "You already are."
"Funny. You get one joke per liter of blood loss."
Matt huffs through his nose, almost a laugh, then winces. You point at the chair by the wall without looking up. "Sit."
"I can take care of myself."
The room goes quiet enough for the kettle to click off in the corner.
You turn your head slowly, gloved fingers still pressed to Dex's side. Matt is standing near the exam table, one shoulder lower than the other, blood sliding past his ear, jaw set in that martyr shape you have wanted to smack off his face for years. "Sit down, Matthew."
Dex makes a low sound, a grunt, or an attemp at it. "Matthew."
Matt's eyes go over Dex, jaw clenching and unclenching. "This is a bad time."
"For you, maybe," Dex says, and then coughs hard enough that the joke breaks.
You lean over him fast, one hand at his shoulder, the other bracing his ribs. "Small breaths. Look at me." His eye finds yours again, frantic for a second. He would kill anyone else for witnessing this, but not now. Your voice drops even further. "That's it. You can hate me after."
He breathes the way you tell him to. Obedient.
When Matt sits, some ridiculous, childish part of you wants to clap. Another part wants to cry. You do neither, since your hands are full of a man who has decided your voice is a leash he can tolerate.
The first twenty minutes disappear into work. Blood pressure readings, pupils, pulses, lung sounds again, neuro checks, wound depth, rib stability. You listen to Dex's chest and feel him try to keep still under the stethoscope, sweat shining at his hairline while his fingers curl over the table edge. When you clean his lip, he keeps his eyes on you as if the room might vanish if he looks away. When you probe near the gash at his side, his breathing goes jagged, but he bites down on the inside of his cheek instead of jerking away.
"Hey." You catch his face in your hand before he can sink his teeth deeper. "Open."
He opens his mouth, shaking while he does it.
You can feel Matt's head turn again. You ignore it, cheeks heating as you slide gauze between Dex's teeth to keep him from chewing himself bloody. "Better. Bite this if you need to. No hero teeth."
Dex's gaze moves over you, half-lidded, feverish, words coming out mumbled over the piece of gauze. "Do you treat all your patients like dogs?"
You secure a dressing against his side and let the pressure hold under your palm. "Only my favourite strays."
His eye softens like he cannot control himself. It is small. A tiny failure of the mask. A starved thing hearing a bowl set down.
Matt hears that too. You can tell from his silence, from the careful stillness in his chair. When you finish with Dex, you cross the room with a suture kit for the cut at his temple. Matt turns his face towards you before your knees touch the edge of the chair. He smells like rain, blood, city smoke, and that faint soap he uses which you have always found unfairly comforting. You have stitched Matt under worse circumstances. You have dug glass out of his shoulder while he spit blood into your sink. You have fed him soup with one hand while keeping pressure on his dressing with another. That comfort is old. It sits between you now.
Dex watches it like it is a blade aimed at him.
You dab antiseptic at Matt's temple. "This is shallow. You are lucky."
Matt's mouth curves in that tired, self-punishing way. "People keep telling me that."
"Maybe try believing them once in a while."
Ignoring that, he dips his chin towards Dex. "How bad is he?"
You glance back at Dex. He has his head turned toward the ceiling now, but his eye is still angled in your direction. Watching. Always listening. "Bad enough that moving him tonight would be stupid. He's stable enough. But I need imaging he will never agree to. Possible rib fractures, soft tissue trauma, no obvious neuro deficit from what I can assess here, but I want repeat checks every hour. He needs observation."
"He wanted me to leave him," Matt says quietly, like his voice won't carry in the small room.
Dex speaks from the table, voice rough around the gauze and dried blood. "You should've. Still think you should."
You thread the needle through Matt's skin with more force than strictly needed, anger showing up in a different place. Matt says nothing, but his mouth pinches.
"No one dies in my clinic unless I say so," you call over your shoulder.
Dex exhales, a soft sigh followed by a start of a complaint. "You really —"
"Please lie down and stop talking."
Matt's hand closes around your wrist after you finish the last stitch. He does it carefully, fingers warm, thumb pressing once against your radius as if he is asking permission through touch. Comfort. Familiar, heavy with years of people trying to survive horrible nights. "Fisk is still moving," he says. "Karen..." His voice thins for half a breath. "Karen may kill him if I bring him anywhere near her."
Dex smiles at the ceiling. "Smart woman."
You look from Matt to Dex, then down at the blood-speckled gauze piled near your knee. "You want to leave him here."
"I think he is safer here than anywhere else tonight." Matt's mouth tightens, next words dragging through his teeth. "I think everyone else is safer too."
Your laugh comes out dry and humorless. "So I get custody of the homicidal puppy while you go deal with the rest of the apocalypse."
Dex turns his head toward you. Even wrecked, even pale, even with gauze stuffed in his mouth and bruises swallowing half his face, the look he gives you has teeth in it. Offended by the word puppy. Pleased by the word custody. Matt catches every ugly shade of it.
"He listens to you," Matt says.
"He has limited hobbies."
Dex murmurs, "You."
The word drops into the room with a wet little thud. One syllable dragged over broken lips, and still it finds some secret place under your ribs and presses. You hate him a little for that. You hate Matt a little for hearing it. You hate yourself most of all for wanting to go back to the table and touch Dex's hair until his eyes close.
Matt rises slowly. You stand with him, suddenly aware of how small the clinic is with three people and so many things no one should say. He reaches for the cowl, then stops. "Call me if he gets worse. If he loses consciousness, if he starts vomiting, if he says anything about numbness or weakness."
"I went to med school, Matt."
His mouth tilts, a small smile, the first real one from him tonight.
You can feel Dex watching you, clear enough to hurt. Pain pulls his face tight, yet jealousy sits in him like a second pulse, stubborn and alive. He has killed for balance tonight. He has decided dying would be neat, fair. Still, your hand on Matt's wrist bothers him. Your voice saying Matt's name bothers him. The fact that you can tease the Devil of Hell's Kitchen into sitting down while Dex lies cut open on your table bothers him so much that he has dragged himself back from the edge purely to be petty about it.
Trying to ignore him, you walk Matt to the door and keep your voice low. "You owe me."
"I do."
"No, you really do. This is beyond the usual owe me. This is pay my fake flower shop's electric bill for six months owe me."
His hand finds the doorframe. "Send the amount."
You blink at him, at his audacity. "I was making a point."
"I heard the point." His face softens toward yours, bruised and tired, but warmth nonetheless. "Thank you."
You almost touch his arm. You stop yourself, which is silly, since Matt would sense the hesitation anyway and Dex would read the shape of it from across the room. "Go. Try to keep your skull intact."
Before the door closes, Matt turns his head toward Dex. "If you hurt her, I will hear it."
Dex laughs once, and the sound turns into a wince. "If I hurt her, you can have what's left."
The clinic holds the echo of Matt's footsteps after he leaves. Rain ticks against the front window. Dex's breath is slow but uneven, the gauze in his mouth damp with blood and spit. You stand with your hand on the lock and try to make sense of this situation. A murderer on your table. A city outside eating itself alive. A man who wants to die looking at you like he would crawl back through hell if you asked him to stay.
You lock the door.
Dex watches the motion, tracking you. "You're awfully close."
You cross to the sink and strip off your gloves. The snap of latex feels too loud. "You were actively bleeding out fifteen minutes ago. Pick a smarter topic."
"Answer."
Water runs pink down the drain. Your hands shake only after the gloves are off. "Matt and I have history."
Dex's jaw works around the gauze. "So do we."
"You show up here, bleed on my furniture, say alarming things, refuse hospital transfer, and once asked if I had a membership program after your fifth visit." You shut the water off and look at him. His face makes you angry. But only a little. That hungry stare from a man who has no right to demand any part of you after deciding twenty minutes ago that death sounded fine. Yet under it is the dog with the torn ear. The animal watching every hand, every doorway, every flick of attention, trying to figure out who belongs to him, who might leave, who might choose some other dog with a clean fur.
You walk back to the table and take the gauze gently from his mouth. "You are exhausting."
Dex's throat move with effort, swallowing, saliva wetting his mouth. "Do you look at him like this?"
The question is quieter than the others. Worse. It has no blade in it. Only a man lying open under fluorescent light, too hurt to hide the wound he actually cares about.
Your fingers hover near his cheek. You let them settle at his jaw, light enough that he can turn away if he wants. He does no such thing. He leans into the touch so fast it ruins you.
"Dex."
His lashes lower, tickling your palm when he seeks the warmth.
"I am going to clean you up, give you fluids, keep you awake for neuro checks, and cuff you to the bed in the back room so you avoid doing some noble-suicidal assassin bullshit the second I blink." Your thumb moves once along the unmarred edge of his jaw. His skin is cold. "After that, you can interrogate me about Matt Murdock until I regret saving your life."
A sad smile curves his lips. "You already regret it."
"No." The word comes out so soft. "I really, really do not."
The clinic's back room used to serve as a supply closet, then you stopped having supplies. Now it holds a narrow bed bolted to the wall, clean sheets, a cabinet of emergency meds, and a chain you bought after a masked idiot with a concussion tried to wander into traffic with three fresh staples in his scalp.
Dex sees the cuff and laughs until pain takes the laugh away from him. You roll your eyes while helping him shift down onto the mattress, every inch a negotiation with his battered ribs.
"You chain all your favourite patients?" He asks once his uninjured ankle is secured with a padded restraint and the chain runs through the bedframe.
You tug the blanket over his waist. "Only the flight risks."
"Matt ever get the chain?"
Your hands pause, which already gives him a lot without meaning to.
Dex smiles without opening his eyes. "Interesting."
You secure the IV line, check the dressing at his side, and sit on the small chair beside the bed with your back against the cabinet. "Go to sleep, Dex."
"Can't."
"Then lie still and pretend. You're talented."
His fingers slide over the edge of the mattress until they find your sleeve. He grips the soft cotton near your wrist, clumsy but careful. He has enough strength left to hurt you if he wanted. He holds the fabric instead.
You let him.
Near dawn, after the third neuro check, after he has told you the year, the president, your clinic address, and the exact number of tiles in the ceiling section above him like an asshole, his voice comes out thin and drugged by exhaustion rather than meds. "I did it."
You sit up straighter. Hearing him talk through pain is something you don't want to go through, but have to. "Did what?"
"Balanced it. Vanessa for Foggy."
A chill moves through you so slowly it feels like a hand closing around your heart. Foggy. Matt's grief. Karen's rage. Dex's worst crime. The city's endless appetite for payment. You look at him and see, for one horrible second, a man lying at the bottom of a ledger with a red line drawn under his own name. "And now?"
Dex's fingers tighten in your sleeve, holding you closer. "Now I'm tired."
You reach up and press your hand over his. He looks at the place where your skin covers his knuckles. His expression is too human for the man the papers called Bullseye, and you hate every person who helped turn him into a weapon, including Dex himself. He leans toward the comfort like he never learned how to ask.
"Then be tired here," you whisper. "I can handle tired."
He studies you for a long moment. "Can you handle me?"
You should say something clinical. Something careful. Something with the kind of boundaries you teach medical students when they come through your legitimate daytime job, wide-eyed and terrified of liability. But, you tell the truth. "I keep opening the door, don't I?"
Dex's eye closes. His fingers stay wrapped in your sleeve until sleep finally drags him under.
By late morning, the rain has stopped. The city has that scrubbed-clean look it gets after a night of lying through its teeth. Pale sunlight presses through the frosted glass in the back room, turning the sheets gold where Dex's hand rests on top of them. You wake in the chair with your neck bent at an angle that will punish you for days, hair coming loose from its clip. For one muzzy second, you forget the night. Then the chain gives a soft metallic scrape, and you remember every part of it at once.
Dex is awake.
He is lying still, which is encouraging. Too still, which is irritating. His good eye follows you as you straighten. He looks better, at least in the way people look better when they are still severely injured but no longer actively trying to bleed into the afterlife. Less gray. More focused. The swelling around his eye has deepened purple. His mouth is still split and tender. Stubble darkens his jaw. His bare chest is bandaged in three places, bruises blooming under the tape like ugly weather.
"You stayed," he says.
Your back cracks when you shift, a grunt escaping you. "I live here during disasters now, apparently."
His gaze drops to your wrinkled shirt, the blanket you must have pulled over yourself at some point. "You slept in a chair."
"I have made worse choices." Liking him was one.
His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but the split in his lip stops him. "Name one."
"You, repeatedly." Apparently early morning you has no filter.
That pleases him far more than it should. He watches you stand, and when you come over to check his pupils, he tilts his face up before you ask. Trying to be good again. It is awful to your chest, that easy offering. Dex, who fights everyone, lets you put your fingers under his jaw and angle him towards the light, eyes tracking your face more than the penlight.
"Headache?" you ask.
"Not really."
"Nausea?"
"No."
"Vision changes?"
"Ugly curtains."
"Those are original to the building, and they have seen too much to be insulted by you."
Ignoring that, he looks toward the ankle cuff. "Am I still a flight risk?"
"You murdered someone last night, tried to die at least twice by my count, and keep making jealous comments about a blind lawyer. So, Id say yes."
Dex's eye comes back to you. Slower now. "You're bringing him up."
The audacity if this stupid, beautiful, injured man. "You were going to."
"I was waiting."
"That must have been hard for you."
His fingers flex against the sheet, head dipping once towards his ankle. "Take it off."
You fold your arms, and his gaze moves briefly over your chest before he makes himself look back at your face. The tiny effort, the discipline of it, should not be as intimate as it is. "Tell me why."
"So I can leave if I want."
"Wrong answer."
The old Dex sits up under the wounded one for a second, teeth showing in spirit, even if his mouth is too sore for the full shape. He exhales, irritated. "So I can stop feeling like you expect me to run."
That one is a better answer. He sees that getting to you, which is annoying. Your mouth softening by degrees, fingers loosening against your arms, he sees all of it. You crouch near the bed and unlock the cuff with the key on your necklace. His eyes follow it, the little brass thing sliding from between your breasts, then the lock, then your hand closing around his ankle to ease the padding away from skin.
The chain falls with a dull clink.
Half of you, the pessimistic half, expects him to lunge. But he just lies there and looks at you with wonder in his eyes, as if you have handed him a weapon and he has chosen, for this one morning, to set it down.
"If you run, I will find you and sedate you in public," you say.
"You promise?"
"Dex."
With effort, his hand lifts. The tremor is subtle, visible only because you have spent too many nights learning his tells. He reaches for your wrist and stops halfway, waiting.
You wouldn't have thought more about this if he'd just reached. The waiting is what burrows under your ribs.
When you give him your wrist, his fingers close around it with almost no pressure, thumb restinh over your pulse like he wants to feel proof you are still here, flesh and warmth, no trick. "Does he get this?"
He should feel your pulse jump under his thumb, as you sigh and look at him. "Matt gets stitches. Lectures. Soup if he looks starved."
Dex studies your face, eyes tracking every one of your features, scanning. "And me?"
"You get the chain."
He huffs out something close to a laugh, with whatever energy that's left in him.
"You get me missing sleep, changing your dressings while you say upsetting things. You get me pretending I don't worry when you vanish for weeks and then show up with half your side open like a wounded dog dragging itself under a porch."
His hand tightens around the hold, eyes darkening. They are fixed on you with concentration, feeling more like a touch than his actual hands.
Dex has always looked at targets with focus. You have seen him do it through security footage Matt once brought you, body still, gaze calm, all the world narrowed into distance and outcome. This is different. Messier. He looks at you like he wants to crawl into the space behind your ribs and sleep there where no one can reach him.
"Do you want him?" The question comes out blunt. Too wounded. Subtlety has been stripped from him. What remains is one battered man, waiting to hear if he has already lost something he never properly held.
You sit on the edge of the mattress, careful near his ribs. The warmth of his body seeps into yours. "Matt is my friend."
"He touches you like he has rights."
"He touches me like he trusts me."
Dex's eyes looks pained, his jaw tightening. When you lean closer, his gaze drops to your mouth. Your eyes cleanly capture that small betrayal. His thumb strokes once over your pulse, helplessly possessive. You could still walk away. Probably change his dressing, make tea, text Matt an update, maybe contact someone with imaging access who asks fewer questions than the hospital would. Your brain produces tasks in a neat row. Your body knocks the row over like dominoes.
"He doesn't get this look," you sigh. Hazel eye lifts to yours, stripped clean. You almost laugh at yourself for what you're about to say, too honest for this setting. "No one else gets this look."
His breathing changes. Shallow for a second, then controlled since his ribs hurt. He has to choose restraint with every inhale. It makes the want on his face worse. A man who can hit a target precisely even in motion, is trying to keep still under your hand. The effort has sweat gathering at his temples. His hand closed around your wrist tugs you towards him, wordless, but you don't think words are needed.
"You have bruised ribs, multiple lacerations, and an ego wound the size of Manhattan," you say, but lean towards him anyway.
"Your bedside manner was better last night."
"Last night you were closer to death."
His mouth curves faintly, the split lip threatening to open with themotion. "I'm improving. Reward me."
The nerve of him. The absurd, devastating nerve of him, lying in your bed bandaged to hell, asking for you like he has any right, like he has every right. He has learned the existence of a spot in you where affection, fear and desire knot together, and has decided to press his thumb there. This is medically stupid, ethically worse, emotionally catastrophic.
But his hand on your wrist makes you feel chosen by a creature who has bitten everyone else, torn ear flashing before your eyes once more.
You bend down and kiss him. You mean to make it careful. A little thing. A test. Dex makes a sound into your mouth, and the kiss opens wider before you can organize your thoughts. His lips are split, so you keep the pressure light, but he chases you anyway, hungry in a ruined, restrained way that sends a wave of heat through your skin. His hand rises to the back of your neck. You expect him to pull your closer, but he just holds you there, that being somehow worse. His palm is warm, fingers trembling slightly against your hairline, whole body focusing on the point where your mouth meets his.
You pull back first, breathing hard, sharing oxygen. "Pain?"
His eyes open slowly, hazel swallowed by black. "Yes."
"From the kiss?"
"No."
"Dex."
"Everything hurts," he says, voice rough, like he's holding on by a thread. "That felt better."
The thread is thin. Your forehead lowers to his temple for one second. Just one. But it's enough to smell antiseptic on his skin, blood in his mouth, rain still caught somewhere in his hair. Enough to feel him exhale like the thread has finally snapped.
"This stays slow," you whisper against his mouth. "You tell me if I need to stop."
His thumb moves along your jaw, soft, so soft. "I'll behave."
That word is so gentle, that he has no practice giving, and you kiss him again before you can lose your nerve. Dex kisses like survival has always been a contact sport. Even injured, even careful, his mouth has a desperate steadiness to it, as if he is memorizing the limits of what he can take from you without breaking the spell. His hand slides from your neck to your waist, then stops. Waiting again.
You place his hand over your hip.
A sound leaves him, too soft to be a groan, too hungry to be a sigh, and his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips. Your thighs press together, his eye tracking the movement with a precision that makes your skin prickle. "Doc," he murmurs against your mouth.
"Mm?"
"You're shaking."
"So are you."
"I have an excuse."
A laugh from your mouth, but it comes out breathy and uneven, not nearly as cool as you need it to be. "Shut up."
You don't have a comeback, no sharp thing to say. You're letting Ben Poindexter slide his hand up under your shirt. There's an awful tenderness in being wanted by someone who rarely wants anything without destroying it. So, no. No sharp comeback.
His palm spreads over your waist, careful of his taped fingers, of the bruises on his own knuckles, careful with you in a way that feels learned from watching rather than experience. His thumb brushes the lower curve of your breast through your bra, and your breath goes thin.
His gaze locks on that reaction. "Can I?"
When you nod, his hand moves higher, cupping you with an aching slowness that makes your hips shift on the mattress. Dex's eyelid lowers, mouth parting slightly as if the feel of you under his palm is enough to daze him more than his injuries. He squeezes once, gentle at first, then firmer when your fingers curl into the sheet.
"Tell me," he says.
"Half-dead, but still you demand."
He ignores your words. "Tell me what you like."
The command, irritating from any other mouth, only drags heat through every inch of you now. You cover his hand with yours and guide him, showing him the pressure, the spot, how your nipple tightens when his thumb rubs over it through cotton. His attention is unbearable. "Like that," you breathe. "A little harder. Yeah, like that."
"He ever hear you sound like that?"
You kiss him harder, stealing those words from his mouth. He absorbs it with a shudder, hand tightening around your breast while his other reaches for your thigh.
The position is so awkward, you help him a little to sit up. Two bodies learning each other in the small space of a spare room cot.
Jealousy is still there, you can feel it threaded through every question, but now it has heat behind it, a wounded need that makes him cling and challenge at once. You swing one leg over his hips before he can try to move too much, settling carefully over his thighs, your palms braced on either side of his shoulders so none of your weight hits his ribs.
For once, Bullseye looks struck.
You look down at him, at the swelling, the bruises, the blood cleaned from his mouth, the bandages you placed over skin you are now aching to touch.
A man who tried to die last night is now staring at you like your thighs around him might be a reason to reconsider.
"This okay?" you ask, voice soft, not to startle him.
Dex swallows as he nuzzles closer, as if it was even possible. "Better than okay."
"Hands stay where they won't pull stitches."
A faint smile, soft enough to pull your heartstrings, looks up at you as if you have given him an order he would follow through fire. "Yes, doctor."
Your fingers tighten in the sheet beside his hip at his words. His thumb keeps moving on the bare strip of your stomach like he has found a place warm enough to keep him, palm heavy with feverish want and restraint that looks painful on him.
When you reach for your shirt, his hand tightens at your thigh. "Slow… let me see."
You almost laugh at the nerve of him. When the shirt drags up your ribs, his eyes follow every inch as if the fabric itself has offended him by hiding you this long. You pull it over your head and toss it to your back. Your bra is plain, worn from too many overnight shifts, and the fact that he looks at it like lace from some altar makes heat crawl over your cheeks. "Say something," you murmur, fingers hovering near the clasp.
Dex's mouth parts, then closes again. The split along the lower one shines where he has worried it open with every kiss. "I'm trying to think like a man with blood left in his head."
"That bad?"
His thumb brushes under the curve of your breast, barely grazing the band of your bra. "Worse."
You unhook it before the embarrassment can make you hesitate. The straps slip down your arms, and Dex goes still. Your breasts fall free, nipples already tight from his earlier touch, and the look on his face makes you feel naked in a deeper place than skin. He reaches up with both hands, then winces at the pull across his ribs. His frustration flashes sharp in his jaw.
"Let me come to you," you offer.
He gives a tiny shake of his head, annoyed at himself. "I hate this."
"You hate being cared for."
"I hate having hands and not able to use them."
That almost makes you smile. You shift closer, one hand cupping the back of his head, other hand cupping your breast and guiding him towards it. "Then use your mouth."
Dex groans like that instruction broke him. His lips close around your nipple, careful for all of two seconds before the pull turns needy. His tongue works over you, slow at first, then firmer when your hips shift against his. He makes a sound into your skin, less like hunger, more comfort, like he has found some impossible warmth in you and intends to live there now.
One of his hands finds your waist. The other slides around to your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh he can reach. He cannot pull you hard without hurting himself, so he holds you in place and sucks like he needs the taste of you to steady him.
"Dex," you breathe, your hand tightening in his hair. His eye lifts without his mouth leaving you. "That's... yeah. Keep doing that."
He answers by drawing you deeper into his mouth, cheeks hollowing with a careful pull that sends a wet, aching spark down between your legs. The sound you make embarrasses you, and he hears it. Feels it. His hand slides lower, greedy over the curve of your ass. When you rock against him, his cock presses thick and hard under the loose pants you put on him hours earlier.
He releases your nipple with a soft sound, mouth shining. "Take these off me."
"Demanding, are we?"
His gaze drags up to meet yours. "Please. I need you closer, and these are in my way."
That is worse than anything filthy he could have said. Your fingers go to his waistband, tugging carefully, your focus split between wanting him and watching the tight pinch around his mouth whenever his ribs object. He helps as much as he can, lifting his hips an inch, hissing through his teeth. His cock slips free against his stomach, hard, already wet at the tip.
You stare for half a second too long. Even when he's injured, Dex notices everything. "Still want to scold me?"
"Constantly," you say, hating the softness in it, and wrap your hand around him.
His laugh turns into a groan, head dropping back against the wall while your thumb spreads the wetness at his tip down his shaft. He is warm in your hand, heavy, alive. The thought makes your throat ache, so you lean in and kiss him instead, messy and careful at once, your bare chest pressed near his bandages, your fingers stroking him until his hips twitch. "Stop moving," you whisper against his mouth.
"I barely moved."
"You moved enough." Your fingers don't stop their graze on his cock.
"I missed you." His voice comes apart on the last word. "Grant me a little mercy."
You rise onto your knees instead of answering the smarter way, tugging at your pants with one impatient hand while the other stays braced near his shoulder. The fabric catches at your knees, and for one stupid second you almost laugh. This is so ungraceful, far from the kind of fantasy you would have let yourself have about him. Dex does not laugh. His gaze follows the slow drag of your pants down your thighs like he is watching something holy and obscene at once. By the time you kick them off near the foot of the cot, your underwear is damp enough to cling, and his fingers flex against your hips like he is fighting the urge to help. "Those too."
"You're very annoying for a man who can barely sit upright, you know?"
"Please." There's just desperation.
You push your underwear down just enough at first, suddenly shy under his gaze, then give up and pull them off completely. Your slick coats your fingers when you touch yourself, and Dex's mouth parts like the sight has taken the last good thought from his head.
He watches entranced while you drag that wetness over his cock, making the slide easier, making a filthy shine of both of you. His hands flex against your hips, then still when you lower yourself over him.
The first stretch steals the words from both of you. You sink slowly, one hand braced on the wall over his shoulder, the other gripping his upper arm where the muscle tenses under your palm. Dex looks wrecked before you are even halfway down. His mouth hangs open, eyes fixed on your face, then dropping to where his cock disappears into you, then come back up as if he needs to see you take him more than he needs air. "Too much?" he asks.
Lowering anothet inch, you shake your head, thighs already trembling from the angle. "Just — just let me take my time."
"I'm yours," he says. "Take all of it."
The words do terrible things to you. You sink the rest of the way, cunt closing around him in hot, slick pulses.
Dex's hands clamp down on your ass with a force that almost breaks through his weakness. His forehead falls against your sternum. He breathes there, mouth brushing your skin, then he turns his face and sucks one breast back between his lips while you start to ride him.
The cot creaks under. Your thighs burn almost immediately, cramped from sleep in the chair and the span of his hips beneath yours. Still, you lift and sink, taking him deeper each time.
Dex tries to stay still. You feel the fight in him. His palms keep sliding under your ass, helping you rise, helping you drop, giving you just enough strength to keep moving without letting his ribs tear at him.
Then he thrusts up like he can't stop himself. A sharp little cry leaves you, pleasure striking so deep your knees almost give. Dex makes a pained sound in the same second, and your hand flies to his shoulder "Do that again and I swear I'll chain you back to the bed."
His face is tight, sweat shining at his temple. "I can take this."
"You are actively proving the opposite."
"Please." He says it into your breast, lips brushing the skin as he speaks, hands still cupping your ass. "Let me help. Sitting still while you do everything hurts worse."
Your scolding dies half-formed. If there's a tease, you could've gone through with it. But there's only need. Nodding your head against him, you let his hands guide you again.
He lifts as much as he can with his arms, careful of his side, and you ride the motion, cunt sliding down his cock with a wet sound that makes both of you shudder. His mouth finds your nipple again, sucking harder, and you feel him everywhere, under your skin, in your thighs, between your ribs. "I'm close," you tell him.
His hand leaves your ass, searching between your bodies. But when he twists wrong, pain catches him. You grab his wrist and press it back to your hip. "No. I'll do it."
"I want to make you cum."
"You are." You touch your clit with slick fingers and circle it the way you need, riding him in short, deep rolls. "Just stay with me. That's what I need."
His head drops back against the wall, watching your hand move, watching his cock fill you, then watches your face break open around pleasure. "Look at me. P-please. Let me see you."
When your eyes find his, your orgasm hits you you hard enough to turn your thighs useless, cunt clenching around him in tight, wet pulls.
Dex curses softly, hands locking on your ass as he spills inside you, hot and endless, body going rigid beneath yours while he tries to keep from thrusting. You keep your mouth against his, breathing into him until the shaking eases.
He says something too low for you to catch.
"What?"
His eye opens, glassy and spent. "Mine."
Your fingers slide along his jaw, careful around the bruising. "You don't get to say that unless you stay alive."
"I'll stay alive." The answer comes fast, hoarse, almost angry with how badly he means it.
Before you can respond, he catches the wrist of the hand you used on your clit and brings your fingers to his mouth. His lips close around them, sucking you off your own skin with a slow hunger that makes you clench again around his softening cock.
Like he cannot bear another second apart, he pulls you down and kisses you, your taste on his tongue, his hand weak but certain at the back of your neck. His pulse slams under your palm where it's holding onto his neck. Alive. Alive. Alive.
Getting off him is slow and messy. His cum slides down your thigh while you stand naked beside the cot.
Dex watches with a dazed, almost helpless look that follows you even when you grab a warm cloth. You sit beside him and clean his cock first, gentle around oversensitive skin, and he inhales like this care is harder to take than the sex. "I can do that," he mutters.
"You are injured. Shut up." You continue your path down his thighs.
"You like telling me what to do."
"I like keeping you alive." You check the bandage at his side next, still naked, still dripping, fingers clinical even while his gaze keeps dropping to the mess he left between your thighs. "Looks okay. Nothing opened."
When you clean yourself, he watches your hand move between your thighs with a frown that is almost offended. "That should be me."
"You can do that when you aren't fighting for your life."
His eye lifts to yours, begging, exhausted. "Next time?"
"Next time." Next time means he's planning on staying.
Your phone buzzes, the sound cutting through the moment. One small vibration against the metal cabinet, and Dex already knows. His eye shifts before yours does, tired and sharp at the same time, like the rest of him is sinking under but that sharp little blade in him still knows how to lift its head. "Matt," he says.
Offering him a bottle of water, you pick up your phone. Sure enough it is Matt.
"Tell him I didn't vanish." The bottle is unopened at his hands.
Sighing, you grab it from him, uncap and press it to his lips. Dex looks at you stunned, almost offended that you're holding a bottle to his mouth. "Drink."
Whatever response that was about to spill from his lips is interrupted by another buzz of your phone, currently on the cot beside him.
Dex's eyes drop to the screen. Bruised, naked under the too-thin blanket, barely keeping himself awake, and still he finds the one thing in the room pulling your attention away from him. "Persistent," he rasps.
"You're one to talk." The bottle stays at his mouth until he takes one grudging swallow, then another. His throat works, lashes lowering for a second.
The phone buzzes again.
Dex's mouth leaves the bottle. "Just — just reply him."
You pick up the phone with a sigh, and type back a response.
Still here. Stable.
Dex's eye tracks every letter. "That's all?"
"You want a performance review?"
His almost-smile tugs at the torn corner of his mouth. "Five stars. Charming. Didn't vanish."
You set the phone facedown beside his hip and lift the bottle again. "One more sip."
He groans, but drinks. This time he doesn't look offended. When a drop slips from the corner of his mouth, you wipe it with your thumb before thinking better of it. Dex catches your wrist before you can pull back. His grip has almost no strength left, but he holds you like letting go is the worst thing that could happen. "I behaved."
Just two words, like that wounded dog setting its head down because it has run out of places, but has finally found home. Your eyes sting so fast it's embarrassing. You settle your palm against his cheek. "Yes, you did."
Matt's reply comes through, unseen and ignored.
Dex's eyes close as he nuzzles deeper into your palm, your wrist still trapped in his loose hold. And all you can think is, stay.
MY MASTERLIST
EXTRAS. you can tell i almost gave up in the end. also… my man is so puppy dog. prove me wrong…
