cw - stalking, depression, dex steals your clothes.
dex who notices you’re depressed before anyone else.
it’s easy to when he’s inserted himself into your life like an all seeing eye. watching from the rooftop across from your apartment. dex thinks at first that you’re just having a rough couple of days, then a funk, but soon he realizes how it doesn’t go away. it creeps into your life slowly. he watches it overtake your life.
it wears you down and you seem to fight less and less to the feeling.
late nights that you can’t sleep. mornings where leaving the bed seems like a monumental task. you move slower. dragging your feet and raising your arms slowly as if a weighted blanket had been thrown over you. you shower less, your hair tangles as dry shampoo cakes in it, your outfits go unplanned as you instead grab the laundry that smells the least.
you used to cook meals for yourself. joyfully dancing around your kitchen as you cooked but now takeout boxes seem to be piling up. if you eat, that is, because meals seem to be more scarce than before.
dex would know because he’d been synching the times he ate with yours, so when he finally involved himself in your life, he’d fit in as perfect as possible.
he sees how tasks take longer for you to complete. you get less done at work. it stresses you more. chatting with your co-worker over coffee becomes less of an event than it was before. turning into a few minutes of small talk that you seem to be barley able to smile through. there’s no pep in your step as you walk through the office.
at home it isn’t any better. dex watches as your apartment turns into a visual representation of your mind. a few dishes turn into a stack that molds. laundry overtakes the hamper and becomes an endless pile in the corner of the room that eventually falls. you don’t pick it up. the dust on your shitty tile floors is so apparent that even he can see it through his lens. nothing is in it’s right place.
the part that hurts him the most is how your smile fades. you put on one in front of others. your friends, your co-workers, and the cashiers or employees you interact with. dex sees how you really feel though. how quickly it drops when the person stops looking. how you look empty, staring off at things as if your trapped inside your head.
you can’t hide your true feelings from him. not as he watches over you. studies you. he’d never let you lie to him like that.
dex feels sick as he watches the light inside of you flicker away. almost a year he had spent following you like a lighthouse calling out to a sailor. but it’s growing duller day by day. at first, he was angry in a way. at you or maybe at the situation, he wasn’t sure which. he was confused too. how someone as full of life and goodness and sincerity and perfection, could ever struggle so much.
he settled on feeling in pain. aching alongside you.
at the fact that he knows exactly how you feel. he had spent so much of his life feeling the same way. like a dark cloud was hanging over him. like static noise played inside his head 24/7. weeks, months, and even years of his life that seemed to fade into nothingness due to the poison that swam around his head. no direction, no purpose. he had always found it in others - dr. mercer, julie, and now you.
but your light was dimming and he knows that he can’t watch you die out.
clearly the people in your life, the so-called friends who you seem to hangout with less these days, aren’t doing a proper job of taking care of you. maybe they just aren’t as attentive and keen as he is. regardless, dex can’t handle the helpless and panicked feeling he gets as he watches your condition worsen. before he knows it, he’s convinced himself that it’s time to take things into his own hands.
he decides to start with your apartment.
a better space will give you the room to begin feeling better. plus, it bothers him. dex prefers things neat and orderly. he likes knowing that everything had a place. it kept his head clear, and he hopes it’ll do the same for you.
dex tells himself that it doesn’t count as breaking and entering. this was for you, to help you, to ease the weight off your shoulders. he starts as soon as you leave for work. dex is a quick cleaner even in your overwhelming apartment. he wishes he had done it sooner.
when you come home that evening, your apartment is spotless. it would be unnerving, well it is, if it wasn’t for how good it makes you feel.
for the first time in months, every dish in your place was washed, dried, and put into it’s designated spot. the inside of your fridge has had all the very, very old food removed and replaced with meal prepped dinners. any and every surface glimmers under the lights from how wiped clear it’s been. the bathroom completely cleaned too, including all the hair out of the shower.
even mount laundry had been dealt with then neatly folded and put up. dex is glad to see that you don’t seem to notice some peices missing from your closet.
you get an email later from your apartment management saying that they had let cleaners into some of the apartments. something about free promotional work. weirdly, none of your neighbors seem to know what your talking about when you mention it later that week. you tell yourself that they must had not been chosen.
dex watches your confused but happy look when you first come home. smiling with pride that he had helped you in some way. he thinks it helps, you seem a bit lighter even if it doesn’t last much too long.
but that’s okay.
because this had proved to him that inserting himself into your life would be good for you. he was prepared. he had studied you enough. so much so that he was able to realize how under water you were getting. he could slip into your life and fit perfectly. at least he would once he got you back to normal.
now dex knows that he just needs to go further.
a stranger at your favorite coffee shop. he offers to pay for your coffee. it’s something small that makes your day a littl easier. it helps that he had a pretty face to go along with it. he’s there the next time you go in and the time after that. him buying your coffee turns into small talk that turn into you offering to sit with him. you don’t really want to talk, and dex knows that, but he also knew that you’d feel like you owed to him.
you were so kind like that. it’s all he needs.
dex had practiced this. practiced the questions, the conversations, and the facial expressions he’d need. staring into the mirror for hours as he went through the different possibilities. he wouldn’t let himself get caught off guard like he did with julie. this was too important. because to dex, this wasn’t just about getting into your life. it was about saving you.
he tells you his name is tony. gives you a soft smile. he asks you inviting, non-threatening questions at first. you’ll become more comfortable with him. you’re easy to talk to. he’s seems like he is too, it’s easy to when he’s assimilated all your interests into his life.
then he’ll tilt his head. narrow his eyes in a way that is kind and not threatening. he’ll ask you softly “you know, this might be weird for me to say, but i used to work a hotline call center. you just… you seem like maybe you’re going through a hard time. are you?”
it’s going so well.
you let him in. you’re too trusting like that, dex knows that’s something the two of you will need to work on. something for later. you admit to him that you’ve been struggling. you haven’t told anyone but, then again, no one but he had asked.
dex reaches out to you and you let him.
dex can’t stop his smile from widening when he touches your hand. he has to work hard not to let his thoughts drift away from the excitement of touching you for the first time. it feels surreal. dex, or rather tony, gently holds your hand.
“it’s okay. we all go through hard times,” he had remembered that line from the script they used at the hotline call center, “i can be there for you. if you’ll let me.”
you smile at him. a real smile. dex could tell it from rooftops away.
and just like that, another troubling thing had crawled it’s way into your life. this one capable of being even more suffocating and possessive than the other. on the bright side, dex was positive that his willpower would be stronger than anything troubling your head. he’d chase it away.
because to dex, the only darkness that deserved to bathe in your pool of light was himself.
*: ꔫ :* thanks for reading! if you’d like to see more of me use the links below!
masterlist. homepage.
Now that tumblr have added the feature to sort your likes from oldest to newest (on the app nonetheless), here's some more Bucky Barnes and Clark Kent and a dash of John Walker fics that I read since starting reading ff here up to date (and most of these are stuck to my brain and I still constantly think about.)
A Simple Favour by @metal-armed-muse
summary: Bucky Barnes is your senior. That’s how simple it should’ve been. But when feelings come into the mix, nothing is ever simple right?
Second Chances by metal-armed-muse
summary: one stolen night with congressman barnes leaves you with more than memories: a positive test and a man who's determined to prove he's worth a second chance.
A Torture Called Love by metal-armed-muse
summary: You and Bucky have history. History of hating each other. One messy fuck in a bathroom later, you’re both scrambling to pretend it didn’t change anything. What better way to save one’s heart than by breaking the other first?
Wildfire by @w1nter-fairy
summary: You were born to run the ranch, Bucky was raised to work the land. Somewhere between exhausting days of work, barn hookups and ten months of something neither of you dared to name you've crossed a line you can't uncross. But love doesn't mean the same thing to both of you. And when pride, class, and everything Bucky thinks he should be start pulling him away from you you realize loving him might not be enough to make him stay.
Draw Me Like a Secret by @danitecx
summary: Working as an illustrator and editor at the Daily Planet, you spend your days drawing Superman so often that his face feels more familiar than it should. What begins as harmless admiration slowly turns into secret late-night sketches hidden inside a private notebook—drawings no one was ever meant to see. But after accidentally losing that notebook to Clark Kent, your shy coworker starts acting strangely around you.
It's Not The Same River by @goldiwrites
summary: your life is forever changed after a tender night with your quiet, traumatised neighbour in bucharest. years later, you're living in brooklyn with your five year old daughter and run into congressman barnes. he's everything you remembered and more, and now he wants to be part of yours and jamie's lives.
Drive You Home by @navybrat817
summary: You’re Bucky’s favorite passenger. He knows your schedule by heart. The same day, time, and location. You’re kind. You talk to him like he’s more than just the man behind the wheel. You always tip well. He can’t help but fall for you. But he’s just a cab driver. You deserve better than that. Better than him. So, he keeps things professional… until you lean on him one fateful night when the world feels too heavy. He doesn’t just want to drive you home anymore. He wants to be someone you can come home to.
Guilt of the Quiet One by @fromsil
summary: your life was unraveling, little by little. bored and drained by your job, terrified of your brother, and silently denying the weight of your own depression. nothing made it easier, especially when one of metropolis’s most persistent reporters began digging into places he definitely shouldn’t have.
Jump Then Fall @mcrdvcks
summary: Clark starts to panic when his Ma and Pa ask him to come back to Smallville for a wedding. Why? He may or may not have accidentally implied he had a girlfriend. So he asks you to come with him as his fake girlfriend.
Longing in Lane Three by @sunday-bug
summary: You're spending your summer working at the local bowling alley and thirsting over your ex-best friend's dad, Bucky.
Manchild by @houseofhyde
summary: bucky can’t help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you.
I feel it Turning into Addiction by @sinner-as-saint
summary: He was too old for this. Crushing on his next door neighbour? Unbelievable. He should leave the poor girl alone. But fuck, he couldn’t. Could he? After all, you were so sweet, and gentle, and kind, and always baked things in the middle of the night and left boxes and baskets filled with sweet-smelling treats at his doorstep for him to find almost each morning. And what did he do in return? He imagined all the sinful ways he could make you whine and whimper for him. He was bad for you, he knew that. People called him all sorts of things: criminal, gang leader, outlaw. Bucky Barnes was bad news. But did that stop him? No. You being so forbidden just solidified his addiction. Bucky Barnes never claimed to be a good man, so he’d do whatever it takes to get whatever he wanted. And all he wanted was you.
good girl by sinner-as-saint
summary: You come home all sad and upset after a horrible date, and your two best friends cheer you up in the best way ever.
dark desire and tainted bliss by sinner-as-saint
summary: Hiring you as his assistant was the best and the worst thing Bucky had done. He knew he shouldn’t be doing the things he was doing. He knew he shouldn’t have offered you to just live in the tower because it’s easier. He knows that this obsession of his will only breed problems. But the heart wants what it wants. And what Bucky wants, he gets.
Declassified by @dreamwritesimagines (another fav congressman!bucky fic)
summary: Politics is a game that requires secrets, just like love.
Red Star Bruise on Tour by w1nter-fairy (rockstar bucky is my guilty pleasure)
summary: So, you've found your way to Backstage. This is the kind of tour that leaves marks: good, bad. Depends on the night, really (and how much of Bucky Barnes you can handle when the house lights go down and the after party's just getting started)
Different by @quiteamessbabes
summary: Clark is different. Different from your ex he can't stop thinking about, different from the men who couldn't make you cum.
It's not what you think by @alrisyl
summary: clark cancels on you again for ‘work’ but it was a lie..
but he doesn't like me, does he? by fromsil
summary: there was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain : clark kent didn’t like you. not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. but you could feel it. his body language and attitude gave everything away. your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you?
Partition by @kimoralov3
summary: bucky's campaign is going smoothly, or as smoothly as it could go for someone who technically was a former assassin. but the real crime is bucky standing in front of you and looking so good, when you couldn't get your hands on him yet.
Checks and Balances by @pellucid-constellations
summary: Your boss was an ass—you knew it, the office knew it, the entire country knew it. Working for Senator Brown was never easy, but you had managed it for the better part of three years and didn’t want to see your career go up in flames. Unfortunately for you, Bucky was slowly falling in love with you, and Congressman Barnes didn’t think managing it was enough.
If We Talked by pellucid-constellations
summary: After overhearing some choice words between Bucky and his best friend, you make the difficult decision to avoid him. For a week. Bucky loses his mind in the process.
who did this to you? by @buckysleftbicep
summary: bucky notices the bruises before you ever say a word. as the truth unravels, he steps in—not just to protect you, he makes sure you're never hurt again.
bent and bruised by buckysleftbicep
summary: you were built by HYDRA to please the soldier—then left for dead. years later, bucky sees your face again. but no amount of time can erase the way you once whispered his name through tears.
Washington's Finest by @flofaiiry
summary: Congressman Barnes has heard the stories from his colleagues on committee, he knows the stereotype that politicians in Washington often hire women to pursue their extracurricular activities- but he never expected to be the one to be in the need of such... services, much less the kind of man who'd actually seek them out
I Thought We Were Already Dating by @danysdaughter
summary: you thought you were spiraling over a situationship—meanwhile, bucky barnes had been acting like your very committed, very oblivious boyfriend the entire time. one public meltdown, a congressional office full of witnesses, and a very intense kiss later… you're officially his girl (and he never doubted it).
I think I Love You by danysdaughter
summary: You agreed to keep it casual—just sex, no feelings. But when loving Bucky in silence begins to break you, walking away is the only thing you can do… even if it destroys you both.
still yours by danysdaughter
summary: bucky lets his relationship slip into the background for the sake of duty and public image. but when the distance starts to break them, he realizes he’ll do anything to fight for the love he almost lost.
when the sun hits (it matters where you are) by @rosesaints
summary: it’s your name, written in the soft fog of his breath. and his name, traced endlessly across your skin. you've always been meant to cross paths this way. (soulmate au!)
reckless fever, lover girl by rosesaints
summary:you think it’s nothing—just a one-off, a fluke—when bucky softens at the sight of a baby in your arms during a cookout. but then it keeps happening. babies at airports. babies on recon. babies in vending machine ads. and every time, he looks at you like you’re the answer to a question he hasn’t asked out loud yet. he starts carrying gum “in case someone’s kid gets fussy on a flight,” stares too long at tiny boots in store windows, and once, unironically, asks if your hypothetical child would like goats. you’re not dating. officially. no one knows. but you’ve been sharing a bed for months and he makes you tea without asking and you’re starting to have dreams about pacifiers. he’s subtle about it. until he’s not. until he’s standing at a target, holding a baby hat like it cracked his ribs open, and says he wants a family—with you. not someday. now.
all mine, baby by @buckyseternaldoll
summary: You crossed a line to finish the mission. Bucky saw it. Now he’s going to remind you who that pussy belongs to—with his mouth, his cock, and his name on your lips.
use me. you're all mine. by buckyseternaldoll
summary: You were too sore to move. Too fucked-out to think. Good thing Bucky never minded doing all the work.
eighteen hours. by buckyseternaldoll
summary: Weeks apart on separate missions leave you and Bucky Barnes aching, desperate, and one heartbeat away from unraveling. The reunion? Eighteen hours of pure, breathless release.
Every Time We Almost by buckyseternaldoll
Summary: Every time you almost had a moment—life got in the way. Night shifts, missions, exhaustion, missed calls and missed chances. But tonight, the universe finally gave you the time. And Bucky? He’s not wasting a second of it.
sergeant's magic mouth by buckyseternaldoll
summary: You thought you were just his fling. He thought you were his girl. Then you overheard Steve teasing Bucky about his legendary skills in the bedroom—particularly his mouth. Bucky gets flustered. You get curious. A week later, he proved he’s still got it.
Dead-End Heat by buckyseternaldoll
summary: After his divorce, John Walker hides out at the end of a dead-end road — quiet, wrecked, and alone. Until his new neighbor starts dancing naked by the window. And he stops pretending he’s not watching.
We Couldn’t Stop by @societyfolklore
summary: During a sweep of a forgotten HYDRA lab, you, Steve, and Bucky trigger an old aerosol dispersal system. No one realizes what hit you until it’s too late. Now stuck in quarantine- burning, aching, and caged in with two dominant, unraveling super soldiers- you’re forced to ride out the drug’s effects together.
heavy in your arms by @buckytakethewheel
summary: Bucky has big arms. And you've been dreaming about losing yourself in them since you saw him for the first time.
research purposes by @cursedheartsclub
summary: What starts as “sex ed” with your shy, curious best friend turns into something neither of you can deny. He wants to learn. You want to teach. But somewhere between the videos, the moans, and the way he says your name—it’s not just research anymore.
bound to burn by cursedheartsclub
summary: You’ve never kissed Bucky Barnes—never even touched. Now you’re in his lap at a club in Romania, panties pushed to the side, grinding on his thigh while a voyeuristic arms dealer watches from the shadows. The mission said do whatever it takes—so you do. You moan for him. You beg for him. You come on his fingers in a mirrored room with someone else on the other side of the glass. And the worst part?
bad idea by @barnesonly
summary: Bucky can’t keep his eyes off you all mission and when you catch him moaning your name back at the safe house, you make sure to give him exactly what he’s been craving.
Yearning by barnesonly
summary: you and bucky have been together for a while now, but haven’t had sex yet—he’s insecure, afraid he forgot how. but one night, things finally happen…
me and my husband by @venusheartsyou2
summary: bucky asks a lot of you. like that time he asked you to marry him, no-strings-attached, of course.
Busy Woman by @wbellab
summary: You’ve always had a soft spot for Bucky Barnes. Shamelessly flirted just to see that annoyed look that made him look so good. He never gave you more than those quiet stares, jaw tight like he was holding something back. Fine by you. You had better things to do than wait around for a man stuck in the 40s. At least, that’s what you told yourself.
A Thousand Times Before @marvelstoriesepic
Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.
A Star Without a Sky by @vunblr
summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.
Wanted by vunblr
summary: She came to White Creek for a teaching position that didn't exist. He needed a wife but never expected to find one like this.
come back to me, please @little-miss-dilf-lover
summary: bucky would never return home late from a mission, not if he could help it anyway. he would always give you updates and little texts when he gets the chance. though tonight he doesn’t message and all your texts go undelivered. you immediately think the worst and are left to wallow in your made up grief for hours before he returns back home to you.
Wanna Be Yours by @daddyjackfrost
summary: Bucky’s been in love with you for longer than he’ll admit. But when a moment of clarity after a misunderstanding on his part cracks the tension between you wide open, he finally gets to show you just how much.
What's Left of Me is Yours by @pleasantlycrazyworld
summary: You didn’t want Bucky to know about the stalking. Not just because you were scared but because you knew what it could cost him. What it would pull out of him. But the second he finds out someone’s been watching you… he gives you a truth that chills you deeper than the fear ever could.
Firsts by pleasantlycrazyworld
summary: Bucky takes your virginity.
With All My Heart @street-smarts00
summary: You never thought Bucky was the sentimental type, until you found something hidden under his bed.
come back to me @peterparkive
summary: it’s been three years since you and Bucky called it quits. you learned to live without him, to stop waiting for a knock that would never come. until tonight, when he shows up at your front door with his team and tired eyes, asking for a place to crash. his presence, bathed in the soft light of your doorstep, stirs feelings long buried—ones you thought had vanished the night he did.
mrs. walker, if you're nasty by cursedheartsclub
summary: You never meant to fake marry your ex-fuckbuddy-turned-field-partner. But when the mission called for a believable couple, John Walker—with his old wedding ring still in a drawer and tension still in his jaw—was the only option Val had for you.
only you by cursedheartsclub
Summary: John Walker wasn’t looking for more. Not after everything. Not after the shield, the war, the wreckage. But then you showed up—hired by Val to watch his toddler son, Elijah Lemar—and somehow, without meaning to, you made yourself at home. You, with your snarky comebacks and soft hands. With your coffee mugs and folded laundry and the way Elijah lights up when he sees you. You were supposed to be temporary. But now you’re in his bed. In his life. And in his heart.
bucky trying to help you forget about your ex, but can’t hold back his feelings anymore by cursedheartsclub
where the quiet lives by cursedheartsclub
Summary: You were supposed to be on your honeymoon. Instead, you’re crashing at Bucky Barnes’s lake house—with his grumpy cat and no idea who you are without the man who asked you to give it all up. You went to the lake to forget your ex. You didn’t expect to fall for the man who owns the house.
say it by cursedheartsclub
summary: You were always so careful with him. Always asked before you touched. Always pulled back when he got too still. But Bucky never pulled away. Not from you. Then you saw Sharon Carter touch him. Completely innocently. Now your hands are on his thighs, your mouth is at his throat, and you’re making him say he wants you. (He does. He always has.)
outside by cursedheartsclub
Summary: Your ex used to talk shit about John Walker. You all ran in the same Army circle– never close, but you knew each other. Then one night at the bar, John saw you walk in wearing that dress… and decided that your ex didn’t deserve to say your name ever again.
sweetpea by @artficlly
summary: After the Riftborn War, Bucky Barnes seeks to retire from his past as a hero and settle down, you might just be the peace he’s been looking for all along.
the art of pretending by artficlly
summary: being mentored by bucky is nothing short of torture; he’s cold, infuriating, and impossible to please. but when a mission gone wrong leaves you stranded in a freezing safehouse together, you start to wonder if all that supposed hatred has just been hiding something else entirely.
Lust by @barnesonly
summary: You’re a literature student. He’s your English professor — brilliant, composed, and entirely off-limits. But the more you write, the more he notices you. And what begins as admiration quietly unravels into something far more dangerous.
need a ride? by @barnesandashes
summary: save a horse, ride a congressman. after waiting for congressman james bucky barnes to finish his emergency meeting— which lasted the whole night, he offers you a ride home, at the back of his motorcycle. like, what could go wrong?
SYNOPSIS ─•❥ AKA things I find really attractive trend w/ dex (credit to @dexdiaries for the idea!!)
WARNING(S) & A/N─•❥ Like one paragraph that’s freaky. Guys this is my first time writing for dex sorry if it’s rly inaccurate.
When he’s sensitive.
Some may say that Dex is a little insane but he’s just sensitive. He just feels too much too fast. Nothing wrong with that. As soon as he likes you, he becomes obsessed with you and he falls in love with you, in his own way. #hefellfirstandharder. He wouldn’t ask you to be his girlfriend, he figures it’s implied. He’s not great with words but he’ll try. “You’re very special to me.” he’ll say, choked up — the words are sweet but they sound more like a confession of love or a proposal of some sort. When you smile in response to his words, he’ll take it as “Yes, Dex, I love you too. I’m all yours.”
Actions speak louder than words.
As previously mentioned, he’s not great with words. He gets quiet when you compliment because his mind is too busy buzzing to come up with a solid thought to form into verbal language. So instead he’ll nuzzle into you, holding in his famous too-tight-grip and shaky hands. When you’re having a bad day or, god forbid, he does something to upset you. Reassurance isn’t a strong suit. But he’ll shower you with gifts, things you might not have even mentioned wanting but he knew. He always knows. He can’t talk you off a ledge but he can and will pull you down and kiss your worries away.
Adores quality time.
He can’t breathe without you. Literally. Okay, not literally but damn near. Dex wants to be wherever you are, whenever you’re there. Midnight bathroom trip? He’ll let you escape his grasp in bed but his feet are treading after you. Grocery run? He’ll push the cart and stare down anyone that looks at you too long in the aisles. Doctor's appointment? He’ll drive.
Likes to keep you close.
Wanna hear a secret? Dex has this silly fear that you’ll leave…so he takes the option away! If he feels like you’re at all upset with his he’s practically smothering you with physical affection. He is so not above dropping down to his knees and begging for forgiveness. When you’re sleeping in the same bed, he’s holding you a little too tight. He hates a closed door, closed doors prevent intimacy and closeness. There’s nothing to hide anyhow.
Fucks you like he wants to live inside you
Now Dex does a good job at keeping his composure. For the most part. But when clothes are off and your skin is bare for him…he’s not himself. Or maybe that’s when he’s the most himself. When he can slip a finger or two inside you and curl them just to hear you gasp, or when it’s his tongue — warm and greedy for your slick release to take you over. But when he finally slips inside you, all bets are off. He’ll hold you down, stare into your eyes and fuck you like a desprete slut. He likes the trust it takes to get you like this, so willing for him, he likes the magic that is the press of your body against him. The feeling of clenching around him while he makes you come again and again and again. Cries a little the first time he’s in it. He’s just so overwhelmed by how good it feels.
Summary : You tell Dex he needs to earn the right to kiss you. His efforts are… interesting.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Vigilante! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Romcom/dark comedy, Dex and reader being equally insane, canon-typical violence, stolen clothing, suggestive (sex implied), obsessive behaviour, you have a roommate called Mia. (let me know if I missed anything!) Set in DDBA S2!
Word Count : 5.6k
Requested by : Ko-fi request <3
Notes : This is so insane! A ko-fi request for a sequel that was originally a ko-fi request. Enjoy!
This could be read as a one shot, but was intended to be direct sequel to Little Monster
The second you told Dex he would have to earn the right to kiss you, his attention tunnel visioned onto the task.
You said it on your first date, if you counted sharing one terrible beer, killing Task Force agents together, and being walked home across rooftops as a first date.
Dex definitely did.
He walked you back to your fire escape afterwards, his shirt still hanging off your body beneath your jacket. You still had blood beneath your nails, and he still had your silver paint smudged beneath one eye.
At your window, he stopped.
Dex looked at your mouth, and for one brief second, he thought maybe this was it. Maybe walking you home like a gentleman would have been enough to earn you. Maybe you were finally going to lose that cruel smile and give him the only thing he had been thinking about since you kissed him through his own mask.
Instead, after handing the mask back, you placed one hand against his chest and kissed his cheek. “Goodnight, Dex.”
Then you climbed through your window and shut it behind you.
Dex stayed on the roof of your building for almost five full minutes, staring at nothing.
What was enough, then?
When he got home, he didn’t sleep.
Dex sat at his kitchen table until five in the morning with a notebook open in front of him, trying to work out how to earn you like it was a mission and a mathematical problem all at once.
He had never had this before, at least not romantically or properly.
He had wanted people before, sure. He had fixated and watched and needed. But he had never met someone he wanted to impress. This was different because it was you.
So Dex pulled up a notebook and started to brainstorm.
At the top of the page, in painfully neat handwriting, he wrote:
What can I do to earn it?
He stared at the sentence for a long time.
Then, because he had no idea what normal people did, he wrote the first thing that came to mind.
Jewellery?
He paused, but it seemed right. Women liked jewellery. He had seen his colleagues back at the FBI buy silver and gold for anniversaries, engagements, and apologies. He had seen men do it in restaurants, in movies, and in department-store advertisements with stupidly saccharine music every February.
Still, Dex knew you wouldn’t want something bought. That felt too ordinary, too impersonal. Anyone with money could buy a necklace, anyone could stand at a glass counter and let a bored sales assistant choose whatever they thought looked pretty.
That was not earning. To Dex, that was outsourcing.
Dex tapped the pen against the paper, before modifying it.
Stolen jewellery?
Better.
He underlined it once.
You liked flair, and a heist had flair. A heist required planning, timing, and risk assessment. It had alarms to silence, guards to drop, and glass to break.
Then he wrote:Necklace with red stones.
He paused, then kept brainstorming.
Clean first. Get a box.
He underlined clean first twice.
You would probably appreciate that he had been forced to kill his way through a collection of financiers, traffickers, and Task Force donors to get it. But you would appreciate the necklace even more if he cleaned every trace of their blood from it before he gave it to you.
See? He was learning.
—
A week later, you woke up to the report of a jewellery heist.
The story was already playing on the television in the kitchen by the time you wandered in, rubbing sleep from your eyes while the kettle hissed behind you. Blue police lights flashed across the screen, staining the marble frontage of some private gallery in a gray-ish intermittent colour. The windows had been shattered inward, glass glittered across the pavement like ice, and several black body bags were being wheeled past a row of reporters pressing microphones toward anyone wearing a badge.
Mia sat at the table with a bowl of cereal and the front page spread open beside her. She had placed an unloaded handgun across the article to keep it flat, which felt disrespectful to both journalism and breakfast but was hardly the strangest thing she had ever done in your kitchen.
You poured hot water over your coffee and leaned against the counter, only half listening as the reporter explained that the gallery had been used as a private showroom for a collection owned by three wealthy financiers. Between them, they had laundered money for traffickers, moved illegal weapons through shell companies, and funnelled anonymous donations into several Task Force operations.
Now they were dead.
The security team was dead too, although the report was careful to describe them as “private contractors,” which sounded much better than armed men paid to protect criminals and their stolen wealth.
Apparently, only one item had been taken.
The reporter’s image changed to an old catalogue photograph of a necklace laid against black silk. It was beautifully dramatic, set in dark metal with deep red stones that looked almost black before the studio light flashed.
You paused with the mug halfway to your mouth. “Huh.”
Mia glanced up from her cereal, spoon hovering near her lips. “What?”
“It’s pretty.” You looked at the necklace again.”
And that was the full extent of your interest.
That morning, it didn’t occur to you that Dex had done it.
Dex was many things, but he was not a thief. He took weapons when he needed them, and sometimes files, keys, evidence, ammunition. Those were practical things with a means to an end. You couldn’t imagine him breaking into private galleries for jewels. He had never shown any interest in luxury, money, or expensive objects for their own sake.
You finished your coffee, watched another body bag disappear into an ambulance, and thought no more about it.
—
Dex tapped on your apartment window shortly after midnight.
The sound was small enough that Mia didn’t hear it from her bedroom, but it pulled you out of the book balanced across your knees. You stayed still for a moment, listening.
Your hand went instinctively toward the knife tucked between the sofa cushions as you walked across the apartment. There was no shadow from the other side of the curtain, but when you saw Dex through the gap between the blinds you sighed.
Of course.
Dex stood on the other side, jacket zipped, his hair pushed back, and there was no visible blood on him anywhere. He held a small black velvet box between both hands with such care that, for a second, you wondered whether it might contain an explosive.
“Shhh,” you pulled a finger to your lips, and Dex only tilted his head.
You pulled back the window, his eyes found your face immediately, then flicked down toward your mouth before returning upward.
“What are you doing here?” You tried not to smile as you stepped into the fire escape and pulled the window back down behind you before Mia could wake up and discover Bullseye standing outside with what looked alarmingly like a romantic gift.
The metal steps were cold beneath your bare feet, and the night air smelled of rain, rust, and old brick. Traffic moved several storeys below, tyres whispering across wet roads while the glow from nearby windows softened the edges of Dex’s face.
For all you knew about him, he looked almost nervous.
The box remained cupped in his palms. When he finally offered it to you, his fingers lingered against the velvet for half a second before releasing it.
You looked at him, then down at the box, Dex watching your face like he was waiting for a verdict.
You opened it.
For several seconds, you didn’t understand what you were looking at. The stones were darker in person, a deep garnet red that seemed to hold light inside them. The metal had been polished until every curve gleamed. It was old, heavy, and far too beautiful to have belonged to any of the men who had kept it locked inside that gallery.
Then the television footage came back to you.
You lifted your eyes slowly.Dex didn’t look away.
“You did the heist,” you whispered, eyes wide now.
It was not really a question, but he nodded anyway, enough so that the cold air touched the back of your teeth while your thoughts rearranged themselves around the fact that Benjamin Poindexter had robbed a jewellery vault.
He had never been a thief before. Apparently, you had turned him into one.
The realisation hit you, so unexpectedly absurd that a tiny bit of laughter escaped before you could stop it. You lowered your head, one hand tightening around the box as the sound spilled into the alley below.
Dex’s face changed immediately. His shoulders drew in slightly, and for one second, he looked as if he thought you were laughing at him rather than the situation he had created. He had killed his way through a private gallery, stolen one necklace from an entire collection, cleaned it until it reflected fucking lasers, found a box, and knocked politely on your window.
All because you had told him to earn a kiss.
You pressed your lips together, trying to stop giggling long enough to speak.
“Dex,” you whispered, grabbing his arm, “I genuinely didn’t know this was you.”
His brow furrowed. “You didn’t?”
“You don’t steal jewellery.”
“I do now.”
That nearly started you laughing again.
You looked back down at the necklace instead. Up close, you could see the tiny details in the metalwork, dark vines curling around the stones like thorns. There was not a smear, fingerprint, or trace of blood anywhere on it. Dex must have cleaned it meticulously, working over every setting until nothing remained of the people who had guarded it.
You lifted the necklace carefully from the box. The chain slid over your fingers with a cool, satisfying weight. “It’s beautiful."
He was relieved all at once, you could tell when his jaw loosened and his shoulders dropped.
You turned the necklace over in your hands.
Of course he chose this one out of everything in the gallery.
His gaze drifted toward your throat, lingering there just long enough to answer the question you hadn’t asked: he had chosen it because he had imagined it on you in more ways than one, you were willing to bet.
You gathered your hair away from your neck and fastened the clasp yourself. The stones settled against your skin with a cold shock before gradually warming to your body. They rested directly over your collarbone, against your throat.
Dex’s eyes followed the necklace downward, tracing the chain and the red stones before returning to your face. His hands stayed still at his sides, but there was tension in every finger, as though not touching you required the same concentration as hitting an impossible target.
You had thought the gift was simply a gift, but then you saw the way he kept looking at your mouth.
Oh.
Oh.
How sweet.
You bit your lip. “This… was about the kiss.”
Dex’s face went still, and you could almost see him deciding whether denying it would help. He didn't bother.
“Did I earn it?”
There was something so painfully sincere in the question that your chest tightened. Dex hadn’t treated your teasing like flirtation. He had treated it like a task, or a standard he could meet.
You stepped closer.
The fire escape shifted faintly beneath your weight, metal creaking as you tried your hardest to still not make noise. You simply couldn’t bear to hear Mia fucking talk your ear off about manners anymore.
You touched the front of his jacket. His body went rigid beneath your palm.
For a second, you let him believe it.
You tilted your face toward his, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. His eyes dropped to your mouth, his lips parted slightly, and every single part of his consciousness seemed to narrow onto the tiny distance remaining between you.
Then you turned your head and kissed his cheek.
Again.
This time, you let it linger as your mouth rested against the scar on his cheekbone while the red stones he had stolen for you pressed coldly against your throat. Dex closed his eyes, his breath leaving him in a wounded exhale.
When you drew back, he looked dazed.
You smiled and touched the necklace lightly. “It’s incredibly sweet.”
His gaze moved from the stones to your mouth. “But?”
“But not quite.”
The disappointment flashed across his face before he could hide it. It lasted only a second, and he quickly replaced it with a familiar, frightening focus. Then, very quietly, he said, “I’ll do better next time.”
You probably should have been worried. Instead, you smiled.
“I can’t wait.”
—
The second attempt involved your cutting off your ex-boyfriend’s pinky finger.
Dex hadn't gone looking for him. At least, that was what he told himself. He had simply seen the man leaving a bar one evening while he was on his way back home. Unfortunately for your ex, he'd made the mistake of bragging about his ex being a dangerous and wanted vigilante, loudly enough for Dex to hear.
"I used to have her wrapped around my little finger,” He laughed loudly, as if that would impress the girl he was currently talking to.
Ugh.
The package appeared on your fire escape the following morning, wrapped in brown paper and tied neatly with butcher’s string, with anote that said : Though he shouldn’t have this anymore.
It was small enough to fit in your palm, though the dark stain beginning to spread through one corner gave away that it was definitely not jewellery this time.
You found Dex that evening on the opposite rooftop, watching your apartment with anticipation, waiting to hear whether a gift had been received. You should have been horrified. Instead, you kept thinking about the specificity of it. He had not killed the man, because apparently Dex had decided death would be too impersonal. He had taken the exact part of him that he had mentioned and removed it with surgical attention, leaving your ex alive to understand why.
When you met him on the roof, Dex straightened. Hope appeared on his face almost immediately, fragile beneath all that lethal stillness. You stepped into his space, rested your hand against his chest, and kissed his cheek in the same place as before.
Dex watched you leave with his fingers pressed against the place you had kissed, already reconsidering the scale of the gesture.
The third attempt happened during one of your outings together.
Calling it an outing was generous. You had spent most of the evening following a Task Force accountant through Hell’s Kitchen while Dex moved along the rooftops above you, appearing occasionally in dark windows and reflective surfaces like an omen. The job ended early, leaving the two of you walking without urgency through streets still wet from rain. You stopped for food from a cart, shared greasy hotdogs beneath the awning of a closed shop, and let yourself pretend for several minutes that this was what normal situationships did.
The man who ruined it came out of a bar angry. His shoulder struck yours hard enough to spill the drink in your hand, and instead of apologising, he grabbed your wrist when you turned toward him. His fingers tightened. He called you a bitch.
Dex knew you could more than take care of yourself, but instead of letting you deal with it, his head thought ding, ding, ding! This is your chance to earn it!
Without waiting to see what you would do, Dex killed him with his hands because the offence had been physical, and a primitive part of him apparently believed the answer should be too. By the time you reacted to them, the man’s face had already gone slack beneath the dirty wash of the streetlights. Dex remained crouched over him, breathing evenly, blood along his knuckles and the cuff of his sleeve.
He looked up at you without remorse, as if the man’s hand created a simple problem and Dex had solved it in the most direct way available.
You… looked disappointed, almost sad that you weren’t given the choice to end him yourself.
You should have scolded him. Instead, you crouched and wiped a thin streak of blood from beneath his eye.
His eyes dropped to your mouth before you had even begun leaning closer, and for a brief second, the hope on his face made you consider giving him what he wanted.
You kissed his cheek again.
This time, your mouth landed nearer the corner of his lips, close enough that Dex inhaled and turned his face by instinct, chasing an act you had already withdrawn. You smiled, tracing your thumb once over his bloodied cheekbone before leaving him kneeling beside the body with his restraint hanging by a thread.
His fourth attempt was less impulsive and considerably more elaborate.
Someone had begun watching your building. You noticed the same dark sedan twice in one week, though it always disappeared before you could approach it. Mia found a listening device beneath the kitchen windowsill, hidden so badly it was frankly insulting. T
Three nights later, an entire surveillance crew disappeared.
Their operation had been housed in a rented office two streets from your apartment. Dex dismantled it room by room. The people inside had worked for a private intelligence firm funded by Task Force donors, and Dex killed the ones who had apparently fucking photographed your bedroom, even if he had done the same himself. He left the technician who had installed the device alive with both hands broken and every hard drive stacked beside him.
Then Dex brought you the files.
He arranged them across your kitchen table while you slept, pages separated into neat categories: From the names of the donors, their addresses, their routines, and the amounts they had paid to look into your life.
You found him later that night when you stepped onto the fire escape, crouched between his knees, and held his face in both hands. This time, your kiss landed at the edge of his cheek, close enough to his mouth that the corner of your lips brushed his for less than a second.
He went rigid.
The contact on his lips had been so slight it might have been accidental, but both of you knew it wasn't. Dex followed when you pulled away, stopping himself only after his mouth had moved an inch toward yours. His eyes had gone unfocused, his breathing suddenly uneven as he stared at the tiny distance you had created.
You thanked him for the files, and told him not quite.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
—-
Dex ran out of ideas three days later.
The almost-kiss had destroyed what remained of his ability to think rationally. He could still feel the exact place you had pressed your lips to his skin, which he thought about often enough to become embarrassing.
You had been so close. Closer than ever before.
That would have meant he was improving, right?
Instead, he sat at his kitchen table until nearly dawn, staring at the same notebook he had used after your first date.
The original page looked almost childish now. Jewellery? was written in black ink, followed by notes about red stones, boxes, and cleaning off the blood. That had seemed like such a strong idea at the time. He had been proud of it. He had planned the heist meticulously, selected the necklace from an entire private collection, and polished every link of the chain himself.
You had loved it.
Still. It was not enough.
Everything he had tried afterwards filled the next several pages. Names, addresses, little reminders of things that bothered you and people who no longer had the opportunity to do so. Some of the ideas had been crossed out because they were too excessive, although Dex’s definition of excessive remained alarmingly generous. Others had been completed and marked with neat dates in the margin.
Beside each attempt, he had recorded the result.
Cheek.
Cheek again. Slightly longer.
Corner of mouth. Almost.
Pathetic. It really was fucking pathetic.
Dex stared at that final entry until the words began to blur.
He could do more, obviously. There were always more people to kill, more enemies to drag to your feet like a sad cat.
But Dex had begun to suspect that scale was not the problem.
He picked up his pen and wrote: bigger jewellery heist?
Then he crossed it out.
He wrote: kill Task Force Leader?
That one remained on the page for several minutes before he reluctantly crossed it out too. Powell definitely deserved it, but you had never mentioned him specifically. Killing someone you hadn’t complained about felt like guessing, and Dex was starting to understand that guessing wrong could push him farther away instead of bringing him closer.
He considered returning your ex’s other pinky finger.
No, he thought, too repetitive.
He considered finding every man who had ever frightened you and arranging them alphabetically in a warehouse.
Impractical, he thought. That idea had flair, but he could not work out what you would do with one.
By six in the morning, the notebook contained several increasingly desperate fragments and one entire page where Dex had written WHAT DOES SHE WANT? hard enough to leave the words embossed through the paper beneath it.
The answer didn’t appear.
For the first time since you had told him to earn the kiss, Benjamin Poindexter had no plan.
—
Mia discovered him outside your kitchen window at two in the morning.
She had come in for water wearing an oversized pyjama set, her hair twisted into a loose knot that had mostly collapsed. The apartment was dark except for the light above the stove, and she nearly walked past him before she noticed the shape crouched on the fire escape.
Dex tapped once against the glass.
Mia flinched hard enough to spill water over her hand. “What the…”
Within seconds, she had a pistol aimed directly between his eyes.
Dex had expected that.
Mia stared at him through the window, exhausted because she had repeatedly asked you to stop contributing to her life becoming stranger and had been consistently ignored. Her eyes moved from his face to his empty hands, checking for blood, weapons, packages, or severed pieces of anyone she recognised.
There was nothing, and that seemed to concern her more.
She unlocked the window but only raised it several inches, leaving enough space to talk without giving him room to climb through.
“She’s asleep,” Mia said quietly.
“I know.”
Her eyes narrowed. Of course he did.
Dex looked past her toward your bedroom door on the side, which was closed. He could picture you behind it, curled beneath the blankets, breathing into your pillow. He forced his attention back to Mia before the thought became distracting. “I need help.”
Mia’s grip shifted on the pistol.
For several seconds, she seemed unsure whether she had heard him correctly. Dex understood that he didn’t ask people for help. Help created debt and uncertainty, and it was usually more efficient to solve the problem himself.
Unfortunately, he had tried that.
Mia raised the window another few inches, though the gun remained.
Dex took the notebook from inside his jacket and passed it through the gap.
Mia didn;t lower the pistol as she took it. She placed the notebook on the counter, flipped it open with one hand, and began reading. Her expression changed as she moved through the pages: Confusion, followed by disbelief, then amusement.
Dex watched her read the record of his attempts, and when Mia reached the page headed POSSIBLE NEXT ATTEMPTS, she stopped.
The list beneath it included stealing a deed to a building, acquiring a tiger, and locating the person responsible for cancelling the brand of hot chocolate you liked three years ago.
Mia looked up. “A tiger?”
“She likes cats,” Dex shrugged.
Mia sighed. “That doesn't mean she wants a tiger.”
“I crossed it out.”
She looked at the notes again. “It says here you researched three private zoos.”
“I needed to know whether it was feasible.”
Mia shut the notebook and pressed her fingertips against her forehead. The gun was still in her other hand, but it had lowered toward the floor, apparently because exasperation had temporarily overtaken self-preservation.
Dex waited for her to provide an answer.
Instead, she looked at him through the narrow opening and began to laugh, and it was not the same laughter you gave him. Yours eventually made his chest warm. Mia’s laughter made him feel as though he had failed the test at every hurdle.
He thought about hurting Mia for making him feel humiliated, but then decided against it because you’d probably hate him for it.
“I’m serious.”
“That’s the problem,” Mia managed, keeping her voice down so she wouldn’t wake you. “You are thinking about this like you’re trying to overthrow a government.”
Dex didn’t see how that was relevant. Overthrowing a government required less guesswork.
Mia opened the notebook again and flicked through the pages, staring at each carefully planned act of violence. The laughter eventually faded, leaving behind a reluctant sympathy that Dex disliked even more.
“You’re thinking too much,” she told him.
The statement felt insulting. Thinking was how he avoided mistakes. “She told me to earn it.”
“I know. She told me everything.”
Dex’s attention sharpened. “Everything?”
Mia ignored the question. “You keep acting like there’s a secret combination of murder and theft that unlocks her mouth.”
He reached under the window for the notebook, but Mia pulled it back before he could take it. “She’s just a girl, Dex.”
He stared at her, because she wasn’t making sense.
You were not just anything. How fucking dare she insinuate that?
Mia seemed to read the objection on his face.
“I know she’s a fucking lunatic,” she continued. “I live with her. I’ve helped her sink bodies. Just… stop trying to earn the kiss by making her owe you.”
Eventually, she released the notebook back to his custody.
That had never been his intention. He didn’t want you indebted to him. He wanted you to be impressed, delighted. But perhaps those things were not as different as he had believed.
Perhaps the gesture had the undertone of the same question:
Was that enough? Do I get it now?
Mia had seen it. You probably had too.
Dex looked down at the notebook in his hands and the pages felt heavier than before.
Mia started lowering the window, apparently done with his bullshit for the night. She paused with only a narrow gap remaining. “Again,” She started, “She’s just a girl. Don’t overthink it.”
Easier said than done.
—
For once, Dex listened.
The next time he came to see you, nobody had died.
There was no breaking-news report waiting for you that morning, no stolen artefact displayed across the front page, no mysteriously vanished Task Force officials, and no parcel on the fire escape leaking through its paper wrapping. The day passed so uneventfully that by evening, you had started to suspect Dex was planning something truly catastrophic.
You checked the news twice. Nothing.
You glanced toward the window whenever a shadow shifted outside, but the fire escape remained empty. It was nearly eight when someone knocked on the apartment door.
You looked up from the sofa.
Mia looked up from the weapon catalogue spread across her lap. She was in her bedroom with the door ajar. “You expecting someone?”
“No.”
Mia turned another page. “Weird.”
There was no urgency in the knock, no coded pattern, and no scraping sound suggesting someone was trying to slide a body across the hallway carpet.
When you opened the door, Dex was standing beneath the weak yellow light with a bunch of flowers in his hands.
For a moment, you only stared.
They were not arranged professionally. The paper around them had been folded precisely in some places and crushed in others, as though Dex had spent far too long trying to hold them without damaging anything. There were no red stones, no bloodstains, and no expensive velvet box. Just a slightly unruly collection of pale flowers and greenery, fresh enough that tiny droplets of water still clung to the petals.
Dex looked almost painfully uncertain.
He had faced rooms full of armed men with less visible tension. His shoulders were held too squarely, his fingers carefully positioned around the stems, and his eyes kept moving between your face and the flowers as though he expected one of them to tell him what to do next.
Oh. this was new.
“You… brought me flowers.”
“I uh…” Dex nodded, “yeah.”
Your eyes narrowed with suspicion as you accepted them. The paper rustled beneath your fingers, damp where the stems had been wrapped. “Did you steal them?”
“No.”
“Threaten the florist?”
He had another pause, just long enough to become concerning. “No.”
“Dex.”
“I paid.”
You looked up properly at that.
His eyes looked… defensive, as if buying flowers had required more courage than stealing a priceless necklace from a fortified vault. Maybe it had. Violence gave him a shield to hide behind. This was only Dex standing outside your door with a simple gift and no proof of obsession beyond the fact that he had remembered you might like flowers in your favourite colours.
You looked down at the flowers again.
They smelled green somehow, faintly sweet but not overwhelming. A little piece of leaf had caught against the paper near your thumb. One stem was slightly bent, probably from Dex gripping the bouquet too tightly on the journey over and then attempting to straighten it before knocking.
The imperfection made it strangely charming.
There was no note demanding that you understand what he had done for you, though you had at least expected it. There was no list of names or severed pieces of someone who had wronged you. He hadn’t even brought them as evidence that he could protect you, avenge you, or remove inconvenience from your life.
He had brought you flowers because Mia had told him you were just a girl.
And sometimes girls liked flowers their will-they-won’t-they situationship brought for them.
Finally, after all his increasingly elaborate attempts, he had tried doing something… simple.
“They’re beautiful,” you smiled,watching relief pass over his face so openly you nearly melted.
Dex’s eyes flickered toward your mouth out of habit, but he stopped himself almost immediately. He didn’t ask whether he had earned it, he didn’t even step closer or look expectant. He only stood there in the hallway, hands empty now, waiting to see whether you wanted to invite him inside.
Oh, Dex.
You stepped into the hallway and placed the flowers carefully on the console table beside the door. Dex watched you do it, cautiously hopeful, but he still didn’t move.
Without any warning, you grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him down, pressing your lips to his.
His mouth was warm beneath yours, parted slightly with surprise, and for one suspended moment he did absolutely nothing.
Apparently, he had failed to consider that flowers might work.
Eventually, though, he kissed you back carefully at first, as if the kiss might disappear if he wanted it too much. His hand lifted toward your waist but stopped just short of touching, every part of him still suspended between hope and disbelief.
You pulled away.
Dex followed without meaning to, his mouth chasing yours by an inch before he caught himself. His eyes opened completely dazed, and the devastation on his face made your stomach twist.
At that moment, he seemed to think that was all he was getting.
Then you smiled, tightened your fist in his jacket, and pulled him back.
The second kiss was deeper, and Dex made a soft, wrecked sound against your mouth as his hands finally settled around your waist. The restraint he had been pushed down for weeks cracked beneath your fingers. He kissed you like he had memorised every near miss: every cheek, every corner, every cruel fraction of an inch you had left between you.
Behind you, Mia peeked out her bedroom door.
Mia took one look at Dex leaning down on you in the doorway, your hands gripping his jacket and the flowers abandoned beside the door, then silently reached around the frame and pulled the door shut again.
You laughed into the kiss, breathless against his mouth.
Dex felt it in his bones, not quite believing the fact that you were finally kissing him back without a tally to settle or another task waiting. When you eventually pulled back, he followed helplessly until his forehead rested against yours. His breathing had gone uneven, and his eyes kept dropping to your lips as if he still expected you to change your mind and put unbearable distance between you again.
“D’you wanna come in?” you asked.
Dex nodded far too quickly. “Mhm.”
It came out so pathetic and eager that you smiled, caught his hand, and pulled him through the doorway. The flowers stayed forgotten on the little table while you dragged him toward your bedroom, kissing him again before you had even made it down the hall.
Mia’s door was still shut, and Dex briefly considered knocking to offer her headphones.
Then your hands found his belt loops in his waist, your mouth moving hungrily against his, and he decided she could survive one noisy night after advising him on how to win your physical affection.
After all, she had been right.
You were just a girl, and all Dex had ever needed to do was bring you flowers.
—end.
NOTE : I genuinely love seeing all your requests in my asks, but I do get a lot and I physically can’t write every single one. I usually write the ones that catch my eye, and it’s probably every 1 in 5.
That’s why I have Ko-fi! If you request there, it’s pretty much guaranteed I’ll write it within a month of responding as a token of appreciation (keep this post in mind for July and August 2026). If I’m uncomfortable with the request or don’t think I can do it justice, I’ll let you know and we can brainstorm something else.
Please remember I run this blog for free, so any support means a lot, only if you’re able to give it! Love y’all and thank you for reading!!! <3
plot: all the things that happen between you and Bucky while falling in love with each other
warnings: FLUFF but there’s some angst and an hint of SMUT (but like a few phrases not too explicit)
word count: idk
author’s note: hey guys, umh this is something really easy that i kinda dreamed few days ago, hope you’ll enjoy, you have to imagine it as a sort of series of episode.
The glass doors of the Avengers Tower lobby slid shut behind you with a soft, clinical hiss, sealing out the damp, clinging midnight air of Manhattan. You stood frozen on the polished marble floor, your fingers white-knuckled around the handles of your suitcases. The ceiling soared stories above you, supported by sleek, metallic pillars and illuminated by recessed, cool-toned lighting that cast long, sterile shadows across the floor. The sheer scale of the space made you feel incredibly small, an interloper in a high-tech fortress built for gods and heroes.
Your chest felt tight, your breathing shallow. You had spent the last several hours traveling, your mind racing with a hundred different anxieties. You didn't belong here. You were just a normal person dropped into a world of legends.
"Welcome home," a smooth, disembodied voice chimed from overhead, causing you to jump. The sound echoed off the polished walls. "I am FRIDAY. Shall I summon Boss?"
"No! No, thank you," you whispered quickly to the ceiling, your face flushing as you looked around to see if anyone had witnessed your panic. "I—I can find my way. I think. Just... which way is the elevator?"
"You look like you're about to faint."
The voice didn’t come from the ceiling. It was deep, gravelly, and rough with sleep, carrying a low, rumbling resonance that seemed to vibrate in the quiet air of the lobby.
You spun around, your heart leaping into your throat. Emerging from the shadows of the wide, dark marble kitchen island at the far side of the lobby was Bucky Barnes. He was wearing a faded, worn-in gray t-shirt that clung to the broad frame of his shoulders, and loose dark sweatpants. His long, brown hair fell messily around his face, damp at the ends as if he had recently washed it. In his right hand, he held a glass of ice water.
Despite his relaxed, domestic attire, the sheer size of him and the piercing, hyper-observant intensity of his blue eyes made you take a subconscious step back, your boot heel clicking sharply against the marble.
Bucky paused instantly. He stopped in his tracks, his gaze dropping to your defensive stance, then to the white-knuckled grip you had on your bags, and finally back to your wide, anxious eyes. The guarded, distant expression he usually wore around the Tower melted away, replaced by a soft, cautious gentleness.
"Sorry," he said quietly, keeping his voice low and level. He raised his right hand slightly, showing he was unharmed, while keeping his metal left hand tucked securely in the pocket of his sweatpants. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, giving you ample time to back away if his presence made you uncomfortable. "Didn't mean to jump you. It's... a lot to take in at first, isn't it? The whole place."
"Just a bit," you admitted, your voice trembling as you let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding since you crossed the threshold. "I'm supposed to be on floor seventy-two, but I... I don't even know how to work the elevator. I don't want to break anything."
Bucky set his glass down on the edge of the kitchen island with a soft, glassy clink. "Let me help."
He closed the distance between you with slow, unhurried steps. When he reached you, he didn't crowd your space. Instead, he reached down and easily swept up your two heaviest suitcases in his right hand, lifting them as if they were filled with feathers rather than your entire life. He gestured toward the elevator bank with his head.
"Floor seventy-two is the residential wing," Bucky said, walking a half-step ahead of you to guide the way, his broad back a solid, protective shield in front of you. "It's quieter up there. Less of Stark's flashing gadgets. Less people, too."
The elevator doors opened silently, revealing a wood-paneled interior that felt slightly warmer than the rest of the lobby. You stepped inside, and Bucky followed, placing your bags neatly in the corner before tapping the button for seventy-two.
The ride up was quiet, but it wasn't the suffocating, awkward silence you had feared. Bucky stood near the control panel, keeping a respectful distance. He kept his eyes fixed on the changing floor numbers, giving you the space to breathe and adjust. You sneaked a glance at him in the reflective metal of the elevator doors. Even in the dim light, his profile was striking, his jaw clenched in quiet thought.
When the doors finally chimed and slid open to a softly carpeted, dimly lit hallway, Bucky led you down the corridor. The walls were lined with closed doors, the quiet hum of the building's climate control the only sound. He stopped in front of a door marked with your name.
He set your bags down gently beside the doorframe. He rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand, his metal left hand still hidden. He looked down at you, his blue eyes incredibly soft in the warm hallway light.
"Here you go," he said quietly, his voice dropping an octave as if sharing a secret. "If you ever get lost, or... or if you just need something. Anything at all. My room is just down the hall. Right at the end. You can always ask me."
"Thank you, Bucky," you said, the tension finally leaving your shoulders, a genuine smile touching your lips. "Really. I don't think I would have made it past the lobby without you."
He gave you a small, tentative nod, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Goodnight."
As Bucky turned to walk back down the corridor, a figure stepped out from the shadows near the communal kitchen area at the end of the hall. Sam Wilson was leaning against the wall, a half-empty mug of coffee in his hand and a massive, knowing smirk plastered across his face. He had clearly been watching the entire exchange.
"Well, look at you, Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood," Sam whispered loudly as Bucky approached. "Didn’t know the Winter Soldier offered a midnight room-service concierge. Do you get tips for that?"
Bucky’s ears flushed a bright, unmistakable pink under his long hair. He glared at Sam, his eyes narrowing as he shoved past him with a muttered, "Shut up, Sam."
"Oh, come on!" Sam chuckled, turning to follow him down the hall, his voice echoing slightly. "You even carried her bags! My back hurts just watching you be that polite! Since when do you carry anyone's bags?"
"I'm going to throw you off the roof, Wilson," Bucky growled back, though there was no real venom in it—just a desperate desire to hide the blush creeping up his neck.
_______________________________________________
Three weeks in, you had quickly learned that the easiest way to navigate the Avengers Tower was to live like a ghost. The common areas were constantly bustling with loud, larger-than-life personalities, and you felt like an interloper. To avoid the midday rush, you started setting your alarm for 5:30 AM, slipping out of your room to enjoy the quiet of the communal kitchen before the rest of the team woke up and filled the space with clanging pans, loud banter, and overwhelming energy.
But there was one major obstacle to your peaceful mornings: Tony Stark’s Italian espresso machine. It was a massive, chrome monstrosity that looked more like a spaceship control panel than an appliance. Every time you tried to use it, it hissed violently, beeped in harsh reprimand, or demanded a software update in a language you didn't speak.
On a Tuesday morning, you walked into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes, ready to battle the machine for a cup of tea. You were yawning, your hair messy, wrapped in a comfortable cardigan.
You stopped dead in your tracks.
Sitting on the marble countertop was your favorite ceramic mug—the one with the chipped handle you always chose. Next to it sat the kettle, silently steaming, and a small, neatly arranged plate holding two bags of your favorite chamomile tea and a single silver spoon.
The kitchen was completely empty, bathed in the soft, gray light of the dawn.
You blinked, looking around. "FRIDAY? Did you do this?"
"I am programmed for many tasks, but I do not curate tea selections," the AI responded smoothly from the ceiling.
You smiled, a warm feeling blooming in your chest. You made your tea, wondering who had been so thoughtful.
The next morning, it happened again. This time, the kettle was hot, and there was a small jar of raw honey sitting next to the mug, the lid already loosened so you wouldn't have to struggle with it. Beside it was a tiny post-it note with a hand-drawn arrow pointing to the honey.
On the fifth morning, your curiosity got the better of you. You decided to slip down ten minutes earlier, creeping quietly down the hallway in your thick socks.
The kitchen lights were dimmed, the city outside the glass windows still shrouded in pre-dawn blue. Standing by the counter, his back to you, was Bucky. He was wearing his usual gray t-shirt, his hair pulled back into a messy bun.
He was carefully placing a fresh mug on the counter. With agonizing slowness and absolute precision, his heavy, silver metal fingers picked up a single tea bag by its paper string. He placed it perfectly beside the cup, aligning it with the spoon. He looked incredibly focused, his brow furrowed and his tongue slightly poking out of the corner of his mouth as if he were defusing a bomb rather than prepping breakfast.
You leaned against the doorframe, folding your arms, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "You know, you could just invite me to breakfast."
Bucky jumped, his metal hand twitching and nearly knocking the silver spoon off the counter. He spun around, his eyes wide, his face instantly turning a deep, burning crimson. He looked at the mug, then at you, and quickly shoved both of his hands into his pockets.
"I—I wasn't..." Bucky stammered, his usual cool, stoic demeanor completely evaporating into thin air. "I just... I wake up early. Old habits. And I noticed you always fight with the espresso machine. It's loud. Thought I'd save you the trouble. And the noise."
"It's incredibly sweet of you," you said, stepping into the kitchen and approaching him, your eyes locked onto his flustered face. "Thank you, Bucky. Really. The honey yesterday was a nice touch."
"It's nothing," he muttered quickly, his eyes darting toward the hallway exit like a trapped animal. "Just... making some for myself anyway. I'll let you get to it. Enjoy your tea."
Before you could say another word, he practically bolted out of the room, his long strides carrying him away in a flash.
From the shadow of the kitchen island, a tablet was slowly lowered. Natasha Romanoff was sitting on a barstool, a mug of green juice in her hand and a smug, highly amused expression on her face. She had been sitting there the whole time, completely unnoticed.
She didn't look up from her screen, but as Bucky’s retreating footsteps echoed down the hall, she spoke smoothly.
"You know, Barnes," Natasha called out, her voice carrying easily through the quiet kitchen, "if you put that much attention into your target practice, you'd actually hit the bullseye occasionally."
From down the hall, the only response was the loud, embarrassed slam of Bucky's bedroom door.
Natasha looked at you over the top of her tablet, raising an eyebrow with a knowing smirk. "Cute," she murmured, taking a sip of her juice.
_______________________________________________
The rain was lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Tower library, creating a steady, rhythmic static that made the cavernous room feel incredibly cozy. The library was three stories high, filled with rows of old wooden bookshelves and comfortable leather furniture. You were curled up on the massive leather sofa, wrapped in a thick knit blanket, completely absorbed in a romance novel.
The heavy wooden doors of the library creaked open. Bucky stepped in, holding a dusty paperback. He stopped when he saw you, hovering awkwardly near the entrance, his shoulders slumping slightly.
"Oh. Sorry," Bucky said, gesturing toward the door. "I didn't know anyone was in here. I can go. Don't want to disturb you."
"No, stay!" you said, shifting your legs to make room on the massive couch. "There's plenty of space. It's nice in here today."
Bucky hesitated, his eyes lingering on the empty spot next to you before he walked over. Instead of sitting on the couch, however, he opted for the heavy armchair positioned directly across from you. He sat stiffly, his back straight, his book open in his lap. But he wasn't reading. His eyes kept darting over the top of the pages to watch you.
An hour passed in comfortable silence, the only sounds being the rain against the glass and the occasional turning of a page.
Then, Bucky cleared his throat softly. "Is, uh... is the light better over there?"
You looked up from your book, blinking. "Yeah, the reading lamp is right above me. Why? Do you want me to turn another one on for you?"
"Just... thinking I might get a headache over here," he muttered, standing up. He walked over to the couch, sitting down on the absolute opposite end. He was so far away he was practically resting on the armrest, his body angled toward his book.
You hid a smile behind your pages. "You can come closer, Bucky. I don't bite. I promise."
He gave a quiet, self-deprecating huff but slid a few feet closer, his posture relaxing slightly.
Another thirty minutes passed. The rain grew heavier, casting the room in a soft, dim light. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the distance between you shrunk. First, he shifted to get more comfortable. Then, he leaned back against the cushions, his shoulder drifting closer to yours. By the time the clock chimed 4:00 PM, Bucky was sitting close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his broad body.
He wasn't even looking at his book anymore. He was looking at yours.
"What's it about?" he asked softly, his voice low and intimate, so as not to disturb the quiet of the room. "The story."
You turned to him, your face lighting up as you began to explain the plot. You talked about the characters, the drama, the slow-burn romance, gesturing with your hands as you got excited. Bucky didn't interrupt once. He just rested his chin on his right hand, his blue eyes fixed entirely on your face, a soft, incredibly captivated smile playing on his lips. He looked completely mesmerized—not by the story you were telling, but by the sheer, unbridled joy in your voice and the way your eyes sparkled when you laughed.
Suddenly, a bright flash illuminated the dark hallway outside the glass doors of the library.
You both turned instantly. Tony Stark was standing in the corridor, his phone held up, a massive, devilish grin on his face. He quickly tapped his screen, his thumbs flying across the keyboard.
A second later, your phone buzzed on the coffee table. You picked it up, and Bucky leaned over your shoulder to look. It was a message in the group chat.
> Tony: Beauty and the Winter Beast. Shhh, don't scare him, he's actually socializing.
> [Image attached: Bucky looking at you with a look of pure, undivided devotion]
Bucky glared at the glass doors, his jaw clenching as his metal hand tightened into a fist. But Tony was already sauntering away down the hall, throwing a peace sign over his shoulder.
Bucky looked back at you, his face burning red, but he didn't move away. In fact, he slid a little closer, his arm brushing against yours. "He's an idiot," Bucky muttered, though he didn't deny the photo's caption.
_______________________________________________
It was a lazy Saturday afternoon, and the Avengers Tower was uncharacteristically quiet. Most of the team had headed out on a rare free weekend, leaving only a skeleton crew behind. You had decided to spend your afternoon baking, occupying yourself with a recipe for homemade cinnamon rolls that required a significant amount of kneading.
You were up to your elbows in flour, your hair pinned up haphazardly, hum-singing a quiet melody to yourself as you worked the sticky dough on the marble kitchen island.
The glass doors lids open, and Bucky walked in, carrying a basket of clean laundry he had just fetched from the residential level. He paused, his gaze instantly locking onto you. A soft, warm expression immediately settled over his features, his broad shoulders losing their habitual tension.
"Smells good in here," he murmured, setting the basket down on a nearby chair. He walked over to the island, leaning his hip against the edge, watching you work with a look of quiet fascination.
"Baking therapy," you smiled, blowing a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. Unfortunately, the action only succeeded in smudging a white streak of flour across your cheek.
Bucky let out a soft, low chuckle. He didn't say a word. Instead, he reached out with his flesh hand, his warm, rough thumb gently sweeping across your cheekbone to brush the flour away. His touch was incredibly light, lingering for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. His blue eyes darkened slightly as they dropped to your lips, before darting back up to your eyes.
"There," he whispered, his voice suddenly husky. "Got it."
"Thanks," you breathed, your heart doing a wild, erratic flip in your chest. You looked down at the dough, suddenly finding it very hard to concentrate. "Do, uh... do you want to help? The dough is incredibly stubborn today."
Bucky looked at his hands—his flesh right hand, and the heavy, silver metal of his left. A familiar shadow of hesitation crossed his face. "I don't think I'd be very good at that. Might crush it."
"Nonsense," you said firmly. You grabbed his right wrist, pulling his warm hand down onto the cool marble, placing it directly over the ball of dough. "Just press down with the heel of your hand, fold it over, and repeat. Like this."
You stood close, your shoulder brushing his chest as you guided his hand through the motion. Bucky held his breath, his chest expanding against your side. He worked the dough with agonizing, careful gentleness, his movements incredibly deliberate as he adapted his immense strength to the delicate task.
"See? You're a natural," you smiled, looking up at him.
Bucky didn't look at the dough. He was looking down at you, his breath warm on your forehead. "Only because I have a good teacher," he whispered, repeating your words from the gym weeks prior.
The moment stretched, thick and heavy with a quiet, domestic intimacy that made your knees feel weak. You realized then that these quiet, ordinary moments with him were fast becoming the anchor of your entire life.
_______________________________________________
It was a rare Sunday where absolutely nothing was expected of anyone. The sun poured through your bedroom window, painting bright geometric patterns across the rug. You were sitting cross-legged on your bed, a sewing needle threaded with dark gray string held between your teeth as you meticulously repaired a tear in the seam of Bucky’s favorite heavy-knit cardigan.
Bucky was lying lengthwise across the foot of your bed on his stomach, his chin resting on his crossed forearms, watching you work. His long hair was completely unbound, spilling over his shoulders, and he looked profoundly content just being in your orbit.
"You don't have to fix that," he said softly, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "I could've just asked Tony for a replacement. Or thrown it out."
You took the needle out of your mouth, casting him a playful, disapproving look. "Throw it out? It's perfectly good wool, Bucky. Just because you got it caught on a tactical rack downstairs doesn't mean it's trash. Besides, you look nice in this color."
Bucky’s gaze softened exponentially. He reached out with his flesh hand, his large, warm fingers lightly brushing against your ankle where it peeked out from your sweatpants. He didn't pull away, just kept his hand anchored there, absorbing the touch.
"My mother used to stitch things like that," he murmured, a rare, unprompted memory of the 1930s slipping out. "Sitting by the window in the apartment. She'd fix Steve’s trousers because he was always tearing them running away from guys three times his size."
You paused your needle, looking down at him with a tender smile. "Did she teach you?"
"A little," he admitted, a small, nostalgic smirk lifting his lips. "But my fingers were always too clumsy. Even back then." He shifted slightly, his eyes dropping to his silver metal hand resting flat against your duvet. "Definitely too clumsy now."
"Hey," you said softly, setting the cardigan down in your lap. You reached forward, sliding your hands beneath his large metal palm, lifting it up and turning it over so you could interlock your fingers with his cybernetic ones. "Your fingers aren't clumsy. I've watched you handle tea bags like they were made of spun glass. You are incredibly gentle, Bucky. Don't talk down about yourself."
Bucky stared at where your small fingers were woven seamlessly between his vibranium ones. He let out a long, shuddering breath, his chest expanding against the mattress. He didn't speak, but he pulled your hand up to his face, pressing his lips firmly against your knuckles, holding the kiss there for several long, breathless seconds. The sheer weight of his silent gratitude filled the sunny room, sweeter than any spoken promise.
_______________________________________________
The silence of the 3:00 AM corridor was shattered by a sound that made your blood run cold.
It was a muffled, choked gasp, followed by the heavy, metallic thud of something striking a wall, and then a low, desperate groan.
You dropped your glass of water onto the kitchen counter, the liquid splashing over the marble, and ran down the hallway. Your heart hammered against your ribs, the sound of your own breathing loud in the empty corridor. The sounds were coming from Bucky’s room at the very end of the hall. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of pale, cold moonlight cutting across the dark hardwood floor inside.
"Bucky?" you whispered, pushing the door open slowly.
He was sitting on the edge of his unmade bed, his chest heaving violently. He was shirtless, his broad back slick with cold sweat. His right hand was clawed tightly into his hair, pulling so hard his knuckles were stark white. His metal left arm hung completely limp at his side, a heavy, useless weight that he seemed completely disconnected from. His eyes were wide, staring blankly at the far wall, seeing things that weren't there. He was trapped in the past, drowning in a memory of cold snow, blood, and the metallic tang of fear.
"No, no, no," Bucky choked out, his voice cracked, raw, and barely recognizable. "Please... I can't... I don't want to do this anymore... please..."
You didn't run for Steve. You didn't panic.
Slowly, deliberately, you crossed the room and dropped to your knees directly in front of him on the floor. You kept your distance at first, ensuring he didn't feel cornered in his dark room.
"Bucky," you said, your voice steady, soft, and quiet, a gentle anchor in the storm of his mind. "Bucky, look at me. It's me."
He didn't hear you. He let out a ragged, terrified gasp, his body shaking violently as a tremor ran through his shoulders.
"Bucky, I'm going to touch you, okay?" you whispered, moving closer.
Slowly, you reached out and placed your warm hands over his bare knees, pressing down firmly to ground him to the physical reality of the room. "Feel the floor. You're in the Tower. You're in New York. You're safe. I'm right here with you."
At the warmth of your hands, Bucky flinched, his head snapping down. But he didn't pull away.
You slid your hands up, gently reaching for his left arm. You didn't avoid the metal. You didn't treat it like a weapon or a curse. Instead, you slid your warm palm down the cool, smooth vibranium of his forearm, eventually wrapping your fingers entirely around his metal hand. You squeezed his cold, rigid fingers with all the strength you had, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles.
"It's just me, Bucky," you murmured, leaning in closer so he could hear you over the rushing sound in his ears. "I've got you. Focus on my voice. Breathe with me. In and out."
A long, shuddering gasp broke from his chest, his shoulders dropping slightly. The blank, terrified fog in his blue eyes began to clear, slowly focusing on your face, your eyes, your hands. He looked down at his lap, his gaze landing on your small, warm hand completely encasing his cold, metallic fingers.
"You're... you're here," he whispered, his voice trembling like a child's.
"I'm right here," you smiled softly, squeezing his hand again, feeling the metal fingers slightly twitch, returning the pressure. "I'm not going anywhere. You're safe, Bucky. The Winter Soldier is gone. You're just Bucky."
You stayed on the floor with him for hours. You helped him sit up, made him a warm cup of herbal tea, and sat next to him on the edge of the bed in complete, comfortable silence, your hand never leaving his. As you watched him slowly drift back to sleep, his features finally relaxing in the soft light of the fading moon, a profound realization washed over you.
You were falling for him. You didn't just care for him as a friend; you wanted to protect him, to hold him, to be the one who pulled him out of the dark.
_______________________________________________
The following afternoon, the training gym was empty save for Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson, who were running a high-intensity tactical sparring drill. The air was thick with the dull thud of heavy strikes against hand-pads.
Bucky entered the gym quietly, his arms wrapped in white athletic tape, his jaw tight. He picked up a pair of heavy leather gloves but didn't put them on. He just leaned against the edge of the elevated boxing ring, watching them.
Steve paused mid-stance, catching the distinct, heavy weight of Bucky’s presence. He lowered his pads, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. "You look like you didn't sleep a wink, Buck. Everything alright?"
Bucky didn't answer right away. He stared down at his taped hands, his thumbs tracing the edges of the cloth. "She came into my room last night," he muttered, his voice dropping into a rough, vulnerable register that instantly made Sam stop his footwork drill.
Sam walked over, grabbing a towel from the corner turnbuckle. "The night terrors?"
"Yeah," Bucky rumbled, a slow, trembling breath escaping him. "The whole room went black. I couldn't breathe. I was back in the snow. I was screaming at her to leave, yelling that I was a monster, that I’d break her." He looked up, his blue eyes wide, glassy, and completely stripped of his usual defensive walls. "And do you know what she did? She didn't call for backup. She didn't back away. She dropped to her knees right in front of me and grabbed the metal arm. Both hands. Held it like it was just... part of me. Forced me to feel her heartbeat."
Steve’s expression softened exponentially, a profound, deeply emotional look of relief washing over his face. He walked over to the edge of the ring, leaning his forearms against the ropes to look down at his lifelong friend. "She stayed?"
"She stayed for hours," Bucky whispered, his voice cracking slightly. He looked at Sam, then back to Steve, his broad chest rising and falling as if he were carrying the weight of the world. "I don't understand it. I’ve spent seventy years being forced to tear things apart, and she looks at me and just sees... a man worth saving. The old noise, the programming—whenever she's in the room, it just goes completely quiet. I'd do anything for her, Steve. Anything. I'm entirely gone. I love her so much it feels like it's going to split my chest wide open."
Sam stared at him for three seconds, completely stunned by the raw intensity of the confession, before a massive, proud grin broke across his face. He threw his towel onto the floor and clapped Bucky hard on his flesh shoulder.
"Well, look at that," Sam said, his voice thick with genuine affection beneath his usual teasing tone. "The terrifying Winter Soldier is officially a goner. It’s about damn time, Barnes. She’s the best thing that ever happened to you, and frankly, we all knew it before you did."
Steve reached over the ropes, his large hand gripping Bucky's neck with the deep, protective brotherhood of Brooklyn. "She loves you too, Buck. You don't have to be afraid of it anymore. Let yourself have this."
Bucky let out a ragged, huffed breath, a small, incredibly relieved smile finally touching his lips as he nodded against Steve's grip.
_______________________________________________
The charity gala in the main ballroom of the Tower was a glittering, suffocating nightmare of flashing cameras, clinking champagne glasses, and hundreds of wealthy strangers laughing too loudly. The air was thick with perfume and expensive cologne.
You stood near the edge of the room, holding a glass of sparkling water, keeping a constant eye on Bucky. He was dressed in a sleek black suit that fit his broad frame perfectly, making him look incredibly handsome. But he looked like a caged animal. His collar was too tight, his shoulders were stiff, and his eyes kept darting to the exits as the press corps crowded around the Avengers table, the strobe lights of their cameras flashing rapidly and relentlessly.
A loud glass shattered across the room, followed by a sudden burst of startled, sharp laughter.
Bucky flinched violently, his right hand instantly clenching into a tight fist, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He was starting to spiral, his breathing hitching as the loud noises and flashing lights triggered his combat reflexes.
Before anyone else in the crowd could notice his distress, you weaved through the sea of socialites. You slipped your hand directly into his right hand, your fingers interlocking with his, offering a sudden, warm anchor.
Bucky looked down at you, his eyes wide and panicked, his chest heaving.
"Hey," you said, your voice a calm, steady whisper that cut through the roaring din of the ballroom. "I am absolutely starving, and the catering here is terrible. Come with me to the pantry? I want to steal some of those fancy chocolate desserts before Stark eats them all."
Bucky stared at you, his heart pounding, before a wave of pure, overwhelming relief washed over his face. "Yeah," he breathed, his grip on your hand tightening. "Yeah, let's go. Please."
You pulled him out of the ballroom, navigating the quiet hallways until you slipped through a side door into the dark, quiet prep kitchen and back into the pantry. The heavy steel door shut behind you, instantly cutting out the deafening noise of the party.
Bucky leaned his back against the wall, closing his eyes as he let out a long, ragged exhale. He looked down at you in the dim light of the pantry, his blue eyes soft and filled with a profound, quiet devotion.
"You didn't want chocolate, did you?" he asked quietly, a small, tired smile touching his lips.
"I mean, I wouldn't say no to it," you smiled, looking up at him, your hand still holding his tightly. "But I wanted to get you out of there more. You looked like you were about to punch a reporter."
Bucky let out a soft, genuine laugh, the tension fully leaving his shoulders. "You're amazing, you know that? You always know exactly when to pull me out."
Outside the pantry glass, Colonel James Rhodes watched the door close. He turned to Bruce Banner, nodding toward the hallway.
"Look at that," Rhodey said, a soft smile on his face. "He's got a guardian angel now. Best thing that ever happened to him. He's actually smiling."
Bruce smiled, taking a sip of his sparkling water. "Yeah. It really is. She's good for him."
_______________________________________________
The sun had long set, leaving the common room in a deep, peaceful quiet. You sat on the floor of the living room, a soft microfiber cloth and a small bottle of specialized, non-abrasive synthetic lubricant resting on the coffee table in front of you. In your lap lay Bucky’s spare vibranium hand-plate—the protective casing he had taken off earlier because the joint was clicking. He had left it on the workbench, and you had quietly brought it up to clean the stubborn grit out of the intricate gold filigree.
You were so focused on carefully wiping down the delicate grooves that you didn’t hear the elevator doors slide open.
"You know, those plates cost more than a high-end sports car," a voice remarked quietly.
You gasped, nearly dropping the heavy metal plate. Tony Stark was standing by the bar, holding an empty tumbler. He wasn't wearing his usual cocky armor; he just looked tired, his hair slightly disheveled. He walked over, his eyes tracking the cloth in your hand, then moving to your face.
"I'm just cleaning the seals," you said defensively, cradling the plate a little closer to your chest. "The dust from the upstate mission got into the tracking track. It was making a clicking sound that was driving him crazy."
Tony sat down on the armchair opposite you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He studied you for a long, quiet moment. The usual sarcastic glint in his eyes was replaced by a genuine, searching curiosity.
"Why do you do it?" Tony asked, his voice surprisingly gentle. "I mean, really. The guy is a walking museum of defense mechanisms. He's grumpy, he's quiet, and half the time he looks like he wants to disassemble my coffee maker with his bare hands. But you... you treat him like he's made of glass. You polish his armor, you make his tea, you sit in the dark with him. What is it?"
You set the cloth down, your fingers tracing the cool, elegant gold line of the vibranium. You let out a soft, steady breath, finally putting into words what you had been feeling for months.
"Because everyone else in this world looks at him and sees what he can do," you said quietly, looking Tony dead in the eye. "To the world, he’s either a threat, a weapon, or a legendary hero from a history book. Even to himself, he's just a collection of mistakes he can't undo."
You looked down at the plate in your lap, a soft, incredibly tender smile touching your lips.
"But when I look at him... I just see Bucky. I see the man who notices when I'm overwhelmed and quietly carries my bags. I see the man who takes ten minutes to carefully set up a tea bag just so I don't have to hear a loud espresso machine in the morning. He has so much gentleness inside him, Tony. He’s spent seventy years being forced to break things, and all he wants to do now is protect them. When I'm with him, I don't feel like an outsider in this giant tower. I feel safe. I feel seen. Caring for him isn't a chore. It's the easiest, most natural thing I've ever done."
Tony stared at you, completely silenced. For once, the fast-talking billionaire didn't have a witty comeback or a sarcastic quip.
He slowly stood up, nodding his head toward the plate in your lap. "The blue microfiber cloth works better on the gold joints," he said softly, a genuine, respectful smile touching his face. "Less static. Keep doing what you're doing. He needs it."
As Tony walked back to the elevator, you didn't notice the shadow standing in the darkened hallway just beyond the kitchen. Bucky had been standing there, intending to grab a glass of water. He had heard every single word. His hand was pressed against the doorframe, his chest heaving as your words washed over him, filling the empty, cold spaces of his heart with a warmth so fierce it brought tears to his eyes.
_______________________________________________
The communal living room was packed.
The giant flat-screen TV was playing a classic action movie, and the team was scattered across the massive sectional couch.
Bucky was sitting on the far end of the couch, leaving a respectful, wide gap beside him. He sat quietly, watching the screen but looking slightly isolated from the group.
You walked into the room carrying a bowl of popcorn. Instead of sitting on the empty armchair, you walked straight over to Bucky and sat down right next to him, closing the gap completely. Your shoulders brushed, and you could feel the instant, rigid tension in his body as he held his breath, terrified of crowding you or making you uncomfortable.
As the movie progressed, the air conditioning in the room kicked in, sending a cold draft through the space. You shivered slightly, subtly shifting closer to Bucky’s side, seeking his warmth.
He noticed. He didn't say a word, but he slowly draped his right arm over the back of the couch behind you. He didn't touch you yet, leaving his hand hovering, giving you the choice to lean in or stay put.
You smiled, leaning your head back against his broad shoulder and reaching over to rest your hand gently on his knee.
Bucky let out a long breath he seemed to have been holding for hours. His arm droped around your shoulders, pulling you securely against his side, creating a warm, protective cocoon that shielded you from the draft and the rest of the room. He rested his cheek against your hair, his grip firm and loving.
From the floor, Clint Barton was stuffing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. He blinked, nudging Natasha with his elbow, pointing a piece of popcorn at the two of you.
"Ten bucks says they’re holding hands under that blanket," Clint whispered loudly to Natasha, not even trying to hide his voice.
Without even taking his eyes off the TV screen, Bucky reached over with his metal hand, grabbed a thick throw pillow from the side, and launched it with perfect, superhuman accuracy directly into Clint's face.
You burst out laughing, the sound bright and clear, and Bucky’s arm tightened around you, a quiet, rumbling chuckle vibrating in his chest as he pulled you closer.
_______________________________________________
It was a freezing, miserable Thursday afternoon, and a brutal sleet storm was rattling the floor-to-ceiling glass of the common area. You had come down with a mild head cold—nothing serious, but enough to make you feel congested, chilly, and thoroughly miserable. You were huddled on the sectional sofa, wrapped in three different blankets, your nose a faint, irritated pink.
The glass doors slid open, and Bucky walked in. He had just finished a grueling physical therapy session down in the medical bay, his hair damp and his shoulders slightly stiff.
He took one look at your bundled, shivering form, and his stoic expression instantly morphed into a look of deep, focused concern.
"You're freezing," he said, walking over and kneeling by the side of the couch. He reached out, his warm flesh hand gently pressing against your forehead to check your temperature. His palm was incredibly soothing against your cool skin.
"Just a little cold," you mumbled, your voice congested. "And my throat is scratchy."
Bucky didn't say another word. He stood up and marched straight into the kitchen. For the next ten minutes, you heard the quiet, rhythmic sounds of him moving around—the soft click of the kettle, the opening of the pantry, and the distinct, sliding sound of a knife on a cutting board.
When he returned, he was carrying a single, massive ceramic mug. Steaming hot water was infused with fresh ginger slices, a thick squeeze of lemon, and a generous dollop of honey.
He sat down on the edge of the couch, gently pulling you up so you were leaning against his side. He held the mug in his right hand, blowing on the surface to cool it before holding it to your lips.
"Drink," he murmured softly. "It'll help the scratchiness."
You took a slow, warm sip. The spice of the ginger and the sweetness of the honey instantly coated your raw throat, making you let out a soft sigh of relief. "It's perfect. Thank you, Bucky."
You reached out to take the mug, but your fingers were shivering so hard the hot liquid sloshed near the rim.
"I've got it," Bucky whispered.
Instead of letting you struggle, he adjusted his position. He slid behind you, pulling you back so you were resting entirely against his broad chest, your back flush against his stomach. He wrapped his strong arms around you, his heavy, silver metal left arm resting securely across your lap to hold you steady, while his warm flesh right hand held the mug. Together, your hands clasped around the ceramic.
With his metal hand acting as a solid, unyielding brace and his body heat radiating through your blankets like a furnace, the shivering stopped almost instantly. He patiently held the cup for you, guiding it to your lips every time you wanted a sip, his chin resting gently on the top of your head.
"Better?" he rumbled, the vibration of his voice traveling straight through your back.
"Much better," you whispered, closing your eyes as you let the cozy, overwhelming safety of his embrace wrap around you.
By the time the storm outside began to clear, you had fallen fast asleep, completely secure in his arms. Bucky didn't move an inch. He simply set the empty mug on the table, tightened his grip around your waist, and let himself drift off to the steady, peaceful rhythm of your breathing.
_______________________________________________
The common room was a chaotic blur of laughter, clinking glasses, and the smell of sweet vanilla frosting. It was your birthday, and the team had gone all out. You stood by the coffee table, surrounded by a mountain of colorful wrapping paper and bows. You had already received some incredible, characteristically grand gifts: a sleek, custom-designed tablet from Tony, a beautifully restored vintage camera from Steve, and a gorgeous, tailored leather jacket from Natasha.
But throughout the entire evening, your eyes kept drifting to the back of the room.
Bucky was standing quietly by the bar, leaning his hip against the counter. He was wearing a soft, dark crewneck sweater that made him look incredibly cozy, his long hair pushed back behind his ears. In his right hand, he held a medium-sized box wrapped in simple, slightly uneven brown butcher paper, tied with a neat piece of twine. He looked incredibly nervous—his blue eyes darting to you, then down to the box, his thumb running anxiously over the rough paper.
When the crowd finally thinned and Tony dragged Steve away to argue about a playlist, Bucky took his cue. He walked over, his steps slow and deliberate, and stopped in front of you.
"Hey," he said, his voice a quiet, gravelly murmur that instantly cut through the room's background noise. He held out the package. "Happy birthday."
"Bucky," you smiled, taking the box. The weight of it was surprising, solid and steady. "You didn't have to get me anything. Really. Your presence is enough."
"Just... open it," he whispered, his cheeks flushing a faint, endearing pink. He tucked his hands into his pockets, his shoulders tense as he waited.
You untied the twine and peeled back the brown paper. Sliding the lid off the cardboard box, you pushed aside a layer of soft white tissue paper.
You stopped breathing.
Resting inside was a pair of shoes. But they weren't just any shoes. They were a pair of classic Mary Janes made of the softest, richest cherry-red leather. They had the signature delicate T-strap, a small silver buckle, and a perfectly rounded toe.
A sudden, sharp wave of nostalgia hit you so hard it made your chest ache. Your mind immediately flashed back to a quiet evening months ago...
The storm outside the library windows had been relentless, but inside, the fire was roaring. You were curled up on the rug with your back against Bucky’s shins as he sat on the couch, reading. You had been flipping through an old photo album your parents had mailed you.
You had stopped on a faded, grainy photograph of yourself at six years old, sitting on a playground swing. You were laughing, your head thrown back, wearing a bright yellow dress and a pair of shiny, scuffed red shoes.
"What are you looking at?" Bucky had asked, his deep voice rumbling above you. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees to look over your shoulder.
"Just... these," you smiled softly, tapping the photo. "My red Mary Janes. I was completely obsessed with them when I was little. I wore them until my toes curled and the soles literally fell off. My mom eventually had to throw them away in secret because I refused to take them off, even to sleep."
"Yeah?" Bucky let out a soft, low chuckle, his eyes warm.
"Yeah," you sighed, a little wistfully, tracing the tiny scuffed toe in the photo. "I've spent years—literally years—trying to find another pair just like them. But they’re never the right color, or the leather is too stiff, or the strap is wrong. I guess they just don't make them like that anymore. It’s silly, but... I really miss those shoes."
Bucky hadn't said anything for a long moment. He had just stared at the photograph, his blue eyes incredibly focused, as if he were memorizing every single detail of the stitching, the specific shade of cherry-red, and the shape of the buckle.
You stared down into the box.
You reached in, your fingers trembling as you lifted one of the shoes. The leather was unbelievably supple, smelling of high-quality craftsmanship, and the shade of cherry-red was exact. It was the precise, vibrant hue from your childhood memory.
"Bucky..." your voice was barely a whisper. You looked up at him, your eyes instantly bright with tears. "How... how did you...?"
"I remembered," Bucky said softly. He took a step closer, his eyes scanning your face, searching for your reaction with an anxious intensity. "I knew they had to be perfect. The right leather, the right strap. I... I had a cobbler in Brooklyn custom-make them. I gave him the photo you showed me. Took him a few tries to get the dye exactly right, but... I wanted you to have your red shoes back."
You looked at the shoes, then at Bucky, who was standing there looking at you like his entire world hung on your next breath.
It was the most thoughtful, deeply personal thing anyone had ever done for you. It wasn't a high-tech gadget or a luxury item; it was a piece of your childhood, a piece of your heart, brought back to life because he had listened to you on a random rainy Tuesday.
You let out a wet, breathless laugh. Without care for who was watching, you set the box down on the table, took a step forward, and threw your arms tightly around Bucky’s neck.
Bucky stiffened in surprise for a fraction of a second—always hyper-aware of his own strength—before his arms locked around your waist. He pulled you flush against him, lifting you slightly off your feet. His head buried itself in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin as he held you with a desperate, fierce tenderness.
"I love them," you whispered into his shoulder, squeezing him tighter. "I love them so much, Bucky. Thank you."
"Happy birthday," he murmured, his voice thick with a relief so profound it made his chest shake against yours. He didn't let go, holding you close in the middle of the crowded room, completely oblivious to the rest of the world.
Over by the bar, Wanda Maximoff watched the two of you, a soft, incredibly knowing smile on her face. She took a sip of her drink and nudged Natasha, who was watching with a rare, quiet fondness.
"You know," Wanda murmured, her eyes sparkling with mischief, "usually people buy rings when they want to show that level of devotion. But Bucky just went and raised the bar for every man in this Tower."
Natasha academic smirked, raising her glass in Bucky’s direction. "Stark is going to be furious that his multi-million dollar tablet got upstaged by a pair of red shoes."
_______________________________________________
The day after your birthday, the frantic energy of the party had settled, but the high-vibrational thrill of his gift still pulsed under your skin. It was just past midnight, and the Tower was completely dark. You couldn't sleep. The shiny, cherry-red Mary Janes were sitting on your rug, catching the moonlight. On an impulse that made your heart skip, you slid your feet into them, buckled the delicate silver T-straps, and slipped out of your room.
The polished hardwood corridors of the residential floor were a silent gallery of shadows. The only sound was the rhythmic, crisp click-clack of your new leather soles echoing softly off the walls.
You walked down to the massive panoramic observation deck, where the floor-to-ceiling glass overlooked a sleeping Manhattan.
Standing right at the edge of the glass, his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark trousers, was Bucky. He didn't look up when the glass doors slid open, but the moment your shoes made a sharp click against the metallic trim of the floor, his head snapped around. His eyes dropped immediately to your feet, and a remarkably soft, dazed look washed over his features.
"They fit," he murmured, his deep voice carrying a wave of fierce pride.
"Perfectly," you smiled, walking over to join him at the railing. The red leather gleamed under the city lights outside. "I couldn't sleep. I just... wanted to wear them. I feel like I'm six years old again, running around the backyard."
Bucky let out a low, rumbling chuckle, moving his broad frame just an inch closer so his shoulder brushed yours. "You look beautiful. The color is exactly how I remembered it from the photo."
"You have an incredible memory, Bucky Barnes," you whispered, turning your back to the glass and leaning against the rail, looking up at him.
"Only for things that matter," he replied instantly, his blue eyes dropping to your mouth before locking back onto your gaze with an intensity that made your breath hitch.
The silence stretched, no longer comfortable, but charged with a thick, heavy longing that made the air between you feel electric. You took a half-step forward, the click of your shoe sharp in the quiet space. Bucky’s hands slowly slipped out of his pockets. His right hand hovered near your waist, his fingers twitching as if he desperately wanted to pull you into his space but was holding himself back by a thread.
"Bucky..." you breathed.
"We should get some sleep," he muttered abruptly, his jaw clenching as he pulled his hand back, the old walls slamming shut in a flash of panic. "It's late. Happy birthday again."
Before you could reach for him, he turned and walked away into the shadows, leaving you standing alone by the glass, the crisp click of your red shoes the only sound left in the dark.
_______________________________________________
The training gym was empty, save for the rhythmic, heavy sound of Bucky’s metal hand striking a heavy leather punching bag. The air in the room was warm and carried the sharp scent of sweat and leather.
You walked in, wearing your workout gear, holding a roll of athletic tape. "Need a hand wrapping those?"
Bucky stopped his strike, the heavy bag swinging wildly on its chain. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling beneath his damp, grey t-shirt. He wiped his brow with the back of his arm, a soft, warm smile breaking through his exhaustion when he saw you. "Yeah. Thanks. Could use the help."
He sat on the edge of the elevated boxing ring, his legs dangling over the side. You stepped between his knees, unravelling the white athletic tape. You worked slowly, your fingers brushing against his warm skin as you wrapped the tape tightly around his knuckles, his palm, and his wrist.
The silence between you was heavy, thick with an unspoken tension that had been building for months.
"You're getting good at this," Bucky murmured, his voice low and intimate, his blue eyes fixed entirely on your hands as you worked.
"I have a good teacher," you replied, looking up to meet his gaze.
Your faces were only inches apart. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, see the deep blue of his eyes, and trace the slight stubble along his jawline. Bucky’s breath hitched in his throat. Slowly, almost magnetically, his right hand slid up to rest on your waist, his grip tightening just enough to pull you a fraction of an inch closer.
He looked down at your lips, his jaw clenching. His eyes were filled with a sudden, agonizing longing. For a second, you thought he was finally going to lean in. You held your breath, your heart hammering against your ribs, waiting.
But at the last second, Bucky closed his eyes, let go of your waist, and took a step back, running a hand through his damp hair. His voice was strained, thick with frustration and fear.
"We... we should take a break," he muttered, looking away at the floor. "I'm sweating. I don't want to... I should go. Clean up."
Before you could say anything, the heavy double doors of the gym swung open. Thor bounced into the room, his booming laughter echoing off the walls. He looked at Bucky’s flushed, tense face, then at your breathless expression, a giant grin breaking across his face.
"A break indeed, Friend Barnes!" Thor boomed, slamming his heavy hand onto Bucky’s back so hard the supersoldier stumbled forward. "Though I believe the only battle you are fighting here is with your own stubborn silence! Speak your heart before the lightning strikes, brother!"
Bucky groaned loudly, grabbing a towel from the bench and throwing it completely over his face to hide his embarrassment. "I'm going to throw you out a window, Thor," he muttered from beneath the terrycloth.
_______________________________________________
The thunderstorm outside didn't just rattle the glass of the Tower; it felt as though it were tearing the sky apart. Inside Bucky’s room, the only light came from the violent, erratic blue flashes of lightning cutting through the pitch black, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor.
Bucky hadn't left his room in over twenty-four hours. The silent, suffocating weight of his own mind had finally closed in on him, triggered by the raw, terrifying realization of how deeply he had fallen for you.
You overrode his door scanner and pushed the door open.
"Get out."
The voice didn't sound like Bucky. It was a hollow, dead rasp, coming from the corner of the room. He was sitting on the floor, his knees pulled to his chest. He was stripped down to a dark tank top, his metal left arm shaking violently, the gears clicking in a frantic, distressed pattern.
"Bucky," you said, your voice trembling but resolute. "I'm not leaving you like this."
"I said get out!" he suddenly roared, scrambling to his feet and backing himself into the wall like a cornered animal. "Do you have any idea what's in my head right now? What I'm seeing? I can't look at you without seeing the blood on my hands. I can't breathe!"
You didn't flinch. You closed the distance until you were standing only inches from him. "Then let me help you breathe. Let me in, Bucky. Stop fighting me."
"I am trying to save you!" he screamed, the sound raw and agonizingly painful. In a desperate burst of panic, he grabbed you by the shoulders with his flesh hand, shoving you back a step. "I don't know how to love you without wanting to touch you. And I don't know how to touch you without remembering what these hands have done. I am a weapon. You look at me and you see a man, but I look in the mirror and I see a monster that is going to break you!"
He collapsed back against the wall, sliding down until his knees hit the floor, his shoulders shaking with violent, broken sobs. "I want you so bad. But I am poison. Please... don't make me ruin you."
You dropped to your knees right in front of him. With absolute, unyielding force, you grabbed his shaking metal left arm, refusing to let him wrench it away. You pulled his heavy vibranium hand toward you and pressed it flat against your chest, right over your heart, forcing him to feel the rapid, frantic beat of your life beneath his metal fingers.
"Does this feel broken to you?" you whispered, your tears hot as they fell onto his silver fingers. "My heart is beating because of you. I am alive, and I am safe, and I am not afraid of you. I want you. All of you. Let me love you, Bucky. Please, just let me."
Bucky stared at his metal hand pressed against your chest. He felt the steady, warm thump of your heart beneath his cold fingers—a life he wasn't destroying, a life that was choosing him. A ragged, choked breath escaped him. The paralyzing fear collapsed, and he lunged forward.
His mouth crashed down onto yours with a bruising, desperate hunger. The kiss was wild, intense, and raw, tasting of salt and tears. His tongue parted your lips, claiming your mouth completely as his flesh hand tangled fiercely in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss.
A low, primal growl tore from his throat as the emotional dam broke entirely, turning the raw angst into an overwhelming, unquenchable physical desperation.
In a single, fluid motion, his heavy metal hand locked around your waist, lifting you effortlessly from the floor and pinning you against the wall. The contrast of the cool wall against your back and his scorching, massive body pressing into your front made your breath hitch.
"God help me," Bucky groaned against your lips, his chest heaving as he pulled back just an inch. His blue eyes were dark, stormy, and completely blown out with desire. "You're everything I think about. Every night. It’s driving me insane. I love you. Tell me I can have you."
"Yes," you whined, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist, your fingers clawing at the broad muscles of his shoulders. "Bucky, please."
He didn't wait. His hands slid under your clothes, his warm skin and smooth, cool vibranium tracing the curve of your hips, completely consuming you in a chaotic, breathless rush of pure, unchecked desire. He kissed your jaw, your throat, biting gently at the column of your neck until you were arching against him, gasping his name into the dark. Every touch was heavy, possessive, and thick with the realization that he didn't have to be afraid of his own strength with you—you wanted all of it.
"I've got you," you murmured against his damp skin as he buried his face in your neck, his body trembling with the sheer force of his release. "I've got you, Bucky. I'm right here."
"I love you," he gasped, his breath hot and ragged against your collarbone, his arms locking around you so tightly you felt entirely welded to him. "God, I love you so much. Don't let me go."
"Never I love you James…" you whispered, sealing the promise in the quiet dark of the fading storm.
_______________________________________________
The violent fury of the storm outside had finally settled into a soft, steady patter of rain against the glass, casting a serene, almost hypnotic quiet over Bucky's bedroom. The air was cool, but the space between the two of you was thick with a warm, heavy peace.
Bucky was still sitting on the floor, his back rested against the foot of his bed, his legs stretched out. He looked utterly exhausted, the emotional storm having drained every ounce of his supersoldier energy. His chest rose and fell in slow, quiet breaths.
You stood up quietly, your joints popping in the silence. Bucky’s eyes followed you instantly, a flicker of that old, anxious panic parting through his gaze as if he feared you were leaving.
"I'm not going anywhere," you whispered, reaching down to press a soft kiss to his temple. "I'll be right back. I promise."
You walked into his dark, spacious bathroom. You ran the tap until the water was comfortably warm, dipping a soft, clean cotton washcloth into it. You grabbed a small jar of soothing, lavender-scented skin balm—something you had bought him weeks ago to help with the irritation around his cybernetic ports, though he had been too stubborn to use it himself.
When you returned, you dropped back down to your knees between his legs. Bucky watched you with wide, vulnerable eyes, his hands resting loose and open on his thighs.
"What's this?" he asked, his voice incredibly soft and raspy.
"A clean-up," you smiled gently, folding the warm washcloth over your hand. "You're covered in sweat and tears. Let me take care of you."
You raised your hand, pausing to let him see what you were doing. Bucky gave a slow, tentative nod, closing his eyes as you gently pressed the warm cloth to his forehead. You wiped away the dried sweat, moving down to trace the sharp lines of his cheekbones, his jaw, and the bridge of his nose. Your touch was feather-light, incredibly deliberate. Bucky let out a long, trembling sigh, his entire body melting under your care.
"You're too good to me," he mumbled, his eyes still closed. "I don't deserve this."
"Quiet," you murmured affectionately, wiping a stray tear track from the corner of his eye. "You deserve everything."
You set the washcloth aside and opened the jar of balm, warming a small dollop between your palms. Bucky’s shoulders tensed slightly as you reached for his left side. The seam where his vibranium arm met his flesh shoulder—the angry, red scar tissue and metallic plates—was his deepest source of shame. He hated looking at it, let alone letting anyone touch it.
"Can I?" you asked softly, holding your warm hands just an inch away from the joint.
Bucky hesitated, a heavy swallow working its way down his throat. But he looked into your eyes, saw nothing but pure, unadulterated love, and slowly nodded. "Yeah. Okay."
You gently pressed your warm palms against the delicate, scarred flesh around his collarbone and shoulder blade. You massaged the balm in slow, circular motions, working out the tight, painful knots of muscle that had built up from hours of him clenching in panic.
Bucky gasped softly at the relief, his head falling back against the mattress. A low, rumbling groan of pure comfort vibrated deep in his chest. Your small, warm hands slid effortlessly over the boundary where flesh met cold silver metal, treating both with the exact same tenderness. You rubbed his cybernetic forearm, your fingers tracing the elegant, glowing gold seams of the vibranium, showing him that every single inch of him was safe in your hands.
"Does that feel okay?" you whispered, leaning in so your breath fanned his neck.
Bucky didn't answer with words. Instead, he reached out with his flesh hand, wrapping his fingers around your wrist, gently halting your movements. He pulled your hand up to his lips, pressing a slow, incredibly deep kiss into the palm of your hand, his eyes burning with an intense, quiet devotion.
"It feels like peace," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He pulled you up by your waist, guiding you to crawl up onto his lap. You wrapped your legs around him, burying your face in his neck as his strong arms locked around you, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in the entire universe. "It feels like home.”
"things i find extremely attractive" trend with dex
"c'mere" and pulls you towards him and tucks his face into your neck
it doesn't matter if you're in public or not for dex to do this. when he wants you near, when he needs to be close to you, he'll whisper "c'mere," sweetly to you as he's already yarding you towards him. dex'll tuck his face into you neck and inhale, softly kissing your hair/neck and hum.
fixing/playing with your hair
it started with dex tucking your hair out of your face to see more of you. over time he got more bold, running his fingers through your hair before gently tucking it behind your ear. when he noticed you shiver as he ran both hands through your hair as he made a makeshift ponytail is what decided dex to experiment. he loves listening to your little 'mm's as he played with the hair at the nape of your neck, and just simply adores how soft your hair is.
leaning down and the little "hm?" to talk to you
he is so tall, it's like second nature to dex to lean down a bit when he wants to focus his attention on you. when you mutter something, especially in public, he'll lean down into your space and hum softly, pretty head tilted to the side.
long eye contact in crowded rooms
he doesn't want to lose sight of you across the room. he'll look at you whether you're looking back or not. when you catch his eye the corner of his mouth might twitch for just a second, and he feeds on the way you stare just as intently back at him, ignoring the people or things around you/him.
messy makeouts
dex lives for messy makeouts with you. kissing you softly and with intention and it derailing into you pinned against something, both hands cupping his jaw as his hands roam. he doesn't even care if it leads to anything more or not, and doesn't make a move unless you do, but he's always painfully hard.
popcorn kisses
he loves your face. sometimes, when you're talking, he'll become so overwhelmed by the sight and sound of you he'll grab your face and kiss your face all over. his heart swells when you giggle and he'll kiss your face a few more times before giving you a rough kiss to your mouth.
carefully observing you when you're doing something
yeah okay we all know dex, do i even need to elaborate? it's one of his favorite things to do. he could watch you for hours, he could watch you watch paint dry. he loves to witness all the little way your face contorts when you focus, when you're frustrated.. the way you fidget, your favorite ways to fidget. he stores it all away in his mind for safekeeping.
rubbing their thumb on your hand while holding hands
dex likes to move his hands, he likes to fidget. when holding hands with you, it translates to rubbing soft circles on your skin. it comforts him, being able to gently squeeze your hand and feel your warm skin on his.
smiling as you do small things for them (tying their shoes, picking off lint, etc)
he loves when you pick a small piece of lint of his shirt mindlessly, as if you were almost unaware you did so until you see him smiling down at you. when you gently fix his hair and are slow to look back at him, making sure his hair looks just right.
standing close behind you
it's important to dex that everyone around you acknowledges that you are his, and his alone. he is so big and broad and warm it's impossible to not notice him standing so close behind you.
when they correct someone's perception of you or what you prefer "no she's allergic to that" / "her favorite color is green, not pink"
it irks dex when someone who claims to know you says something totally wrong. he keeps his anger in check, monotonal as he supplies the person with your actual favorite color, your proper pronouns. he also can't stand when someone is just so blatantly wrong about you. "what did you call her? hard to speak to? they're an introvert, and anyway i've always found them easy to speak with. you just don't know how to, i'd guess you're the harder one to converse with."
knees touching but not moving away
grrr ruff ruff.. he has to be touching you. it doesn't matter how. he will deliberately manspread to touch his large knee to your quaint one. it calms him.
scolding you but not stopping you
it's no secret dex is a brat tamer. he could easily get off on scolding you, making you pay, restraining you to stop you... but sometimes he likes to let you play, just a bit. you want to test your luck with him? okay, he'll scold and warn you but wants to see how far you'll really go.
lying for you
lies roll of his tongue for you easily. he doesn't even need an inkling of idea of why he needs to, he just simply does it. late for something and a friend is upset? 'they lost track of time studying for an important exam.' bruise(s) on your knee and embarrassed about it? 'slammed into the bedframe pretty hard, heard it from the living room.'
replying to you when you call their name with your name
his mouth curls upwards when you call for him. he'll call back to you with the same infliction and your own name on his lips while he makes his way towards where your sweet voice came from.
when they acknowledge it's wrong but they're too far in to stop
"baby, sweetheart..." he's breathing hard, fingers digging into your waist. "fuck, hun, we really shouldn't be doing this," but he can't help himself. "tell me to stop, baby." he can't stop, even if your soft voice begged him to.
Summary : Benjamin Poindexter was hired to eliminate you, a former Red Room Widow. Unfortunately, he keeps putting it off because he likes going on dates with you a little too much.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Black Widow! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : freak 4 freak (?), Violence, Explicit Content (Dex is a munch and kinda has an oral fixation), Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Manipulation, lowkey gunplay, crying during sex, The Red Room is mentioned to use food as a form of control, alcohol consumption. (Let me know if I miss anything.) set between DDBA s1&s2 (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 17.7k
Requested by : anon
Notes : This was written before I watched the season finale, and also inspired by a song of the same title by Gang of Youths. Enjoy!
Dex was trying to be good.
It sounded ridiculous, even in his own head. It was as if he had borrowed this part of his conscience from someone else’s life, someone who hadn’t been made into a weapon, manipulated and exploited over and over again. But still, he tried.
Being good, as it turned out, wasn’t something you could just decide. There was no moment where goodness just clicked into place, there was no sudden clarity where he understood how to live without the violence that had always defined him. He didn’t have the tools for that, so he simplified it.
He only knew how to aim, how to follow through, how to kill. So he told himself that if he pointed all of that in the right direction, it would count. It had to count.
Bad people existed. That much was obvious. And if bad people were gone, then… that had to count for something, right?
The Anti-Vigilante Task Force were easy enough to categorize as bad. They hunted vigilantes, tried to shut down the kind of people Dex had convinced himself were doing something close to good. And vigilantes were good. They had to be.
So if he removed the ones hunting them, if he cut those threads before they tightened around someone else’s throat, then that meant he was helping. It meant he was balancing something, somewhere, even if no one was there to see it. Even if no one thanked him. Even if the city didn’t change at all.
That was how he justified it. The only problem was that no one paid him for being good.
His rent didn’t care about intention. His bills didn’t pause because he was trying. The notice on his counter sat there, the very proof that the world moved even as he was laying down the foundations of whatever moral framework he was trying to build. Dex had been ignoring it for days, like it might disappear if he didn’t acknowledge it.
He was staring at it when his phone buzzed.
The sound was unsettling, mostly because Dex knew that people only messaged him for one of two reasons nowadays: to threaten him (best possible outcome, he could handle it) or to give him a job. When he looked at the notification, he knew it was going to be the latter.
The text came from an unknown sender. It was encrypted, of course. Dex picked it up slowly, thumb hovering for just a second. He frowned. He really shouldn’t. This was the part of his life he was supposed to be moving away from. He opened it anyway.
The file loaded quickly. As he suspected, it was an anonymous contract labeled high priority, with a bounty of… oh.
2.5 million dollars.
Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose as that figure settled into place. It was much more than rent or bills. This kind of money would give him… breathing room. It would fund his good deeds for years. It would help his progress, right?
His eyes moved down to the target profile: a Former Red Room Widow.
Objective: extract intel regarding active Red Room operatives.
Secondary objective: termination upon completion.
Dex’s knuckles shifted slightly as he kept reading, attention narrowing the deeper he went. This wasn't a surface-level hit, like the usual contracts pushed into his number. He usually got the odd job of eliminating a business man’s biggest competitor (he never took those anymore) or a mother giving most of her life savings to him to kill her abusive husband (he did those ones more often than not), but this wasn’t it. Whoever had put this together knew what they were doing. They layered intel, cross-referenced sightings, stitched fragments of reports into something coherent enough to act on.
And then there was the ledger. Not labeled that way, but Dex knew what he was looking at.
Target Activity Log (Condensed):
Kiev — 12 confirmed targets, political dissidents turned assets. Execution, no witnesses.
Istanbul — Arms broker extraction turned termination. 7 additional casualties during exfiltration.
Lagos — Undercover infiltration of rival weapons trafficking ring. Operation successful. Entire network eliminated. Collateral: high.
Madripoor — Unverified mission overlap with Yelena Belova. Outcome classified.
Buenos Aires — Diplomatic attaché poisoning. Death delayed 48 hours to avoid suspicion.
Moscow — Internal Red Room purge survivor. Multiple handlers eliminated.
Dex’s thumb paused against the screen as he read through it again. The pattern was obvious to him in a way it wouldn’t be to anyone else. This wasn’t chaos. This wasn’t someone losing control. On the contrary, this was someone who was terrifyingly in control.
This target was a dangerous killer, and Dex didn't arrive at the conclusion lightly.
He liked patterns, needed them. They made the world more predictable to the point where he could sort through without it splintering into noise. And this file was full of patterns.
He scrolled back up, then down again, slower this time, eyes catching on the details most people would skip over: the timings, the methods.
The target made clean exits where possible and didn’t care much about collateral. Every action fed into the next like it had been mapped out long before the target ever stepped into the room.
Dex’s jaw tightened slightly as he read through the Kiev entry again. Twelve victims. It was not a firefight. It was twelve decisions. Twelve moments where the target could have stopped and didn’t. Istanbul, seven more added during exfiltration. They were not part of the objective, but handled anyway.
He understood that, and that meant he also understood what it took to do it.
You didn’t rack up a body count like that by accident. You didn’t walk away from operations like Madripoor, with entire networks wiped out and “high collateral” written off like a footnote, unless something in you had already accepted the outcome before it happened.
Dex leaned back slightly, phone still in his hand, thumb hovering but unmoving now.
People liked to pretend there was a line. A moment where someone chose to be good or bad and stuck to it. But that wasn’t how it worked. It was smaller than that. It was in the repetition. And this file read like repetition, over and over. It might happen in different cities and to different victims, but it always had the same result.
Dex couldn’t find signs of deviation or hesitation. There was no indication that the target ever stopped to question it.
His eyes flicked back to the ledger, this time reading the latest additions, entries that hadn’t had time to settle into history yet.
Recent Activity:
Prague — Corporate intermediary tied to OXE shell accounts. Interrogation lasted 18 minutes. Target terminated. Two security casualties. No witnesses.
DODC Supermax Prison — Perimeter sweep. Three armed contacts neutralized before engagement escalated. Surveillance equipment disabled. Exit undetected.
New York — Intelligence courier intercepted en route to New Avengers safehouse. Package recovered. Courier terminated. Civilian exposure: none.
Right.
The target was still active.
“Yeah,” Dex muttered, more to himself than anything else.
That was what tipped it for him.
Because even now, even with everything he’d done, Dex felt the resistance. The part of him that tried, however poorly, to redirect what he was into a force for good. The file didn’t show that.
It showed someone who had been made into a weapon and never really tried to put it down. That meant the target wasn’t in the same place he was. This target wasn’t trying to balance the scales like he was.
And that made this person not a good person in a way he could act on.
His eyes looked to the image of the target, like he was trying to reconcile the almost fragile and delicate-looking features with everything he’d just read. It didn’t match. It never did. Faces rarely carried the weight of what they’d done. But the file didn’t lie. The patterns didn’t lie.
Dex exhaled slowly, and decided this person was bad.
Not because of one mission. Not because of one mistake. But because of all of it stacked together.
And at this point, in order to preserve what precious progress he had made, he’d rather kill a killer for rent than his landlord. That would be inconvenient.
His thumb moved, tapping the file open fully, letting the image expand across the screen.
And for the first time, Dex really looked at you.
—
Dex expected you to be harder to find.
Most people with a body count like yours didn’t settle. They didn’t usually stay anywhere long enough to be known, didn’t leave behind anything that could be traced twice in the same way. He expected burner phones, rotating safehouses, and multiple fake ids that dissolved the second they were used.
But you hadn’t done that.
You were… easy. He found your address almost immediately. He found your number, your card details, and your passport quite quickly.
It took him a couple of hours to accept that it wasn’t an error in the data. Financial records were always messy, layered under shells and proxies, but not impossible. He followed the money the same way he followed anything else— patiently, methodically, letting the inconsistencies stand out instead of forcing them to make sense too quickly. One payment turned into a trail, then into repetition.
But still, he found nothing out of the ordinary. You were just a regular person living in New York, paying rent on time. Unlike him this month.
He stared at the screen longer than he needed today. The more he followed it, the clearer it became that this wasn’t temporary, wasn’t a waypoint or a cover that would disappear in a week. You weren’t passing through. You weren’t hiding. You were living here.
The rest of the records only reinforced it. He found your utility bills, with groceries spaced out in a way that suggested routine. He found nothing excessive, nothing careless. It was almost jarring, how normal it looked on paper, for someone with a history soaked in blood.
Next, Dex visited your building and expected that to be where the illusion broke, maybe an indication that this was all a front.
There wasn’t anything.
It was just a building. Unremarkable, forgettable in the way most of the city was. There were no visible security upgrades, no controlled access beyond the standard high rise. There was nothing that suggested someone with your file should be walking in and out of it every day.
He watched long enough to be sure. You came and went at predictable times, no visible countersurveillance, no adjustments to your movements that suggested you thought you were being watched. You carried your own groceries up the steps. You held the door open for someone once, an older man who thanked you without hesitation, like you were just another tenant, just another face he recognized in passing.
Dex didn’t like that it didn’t fit the rest of you. So he kept digging, because if there was going to be a crack, it would be in the routine and… you had one.
It took him three days to map it out in full, not because it was complicated, but because it wasn’t. You woke early. You jogged through Central Park along the same route almost every morning at the same pace, like it was muscle memory. You didn’t scan constantly, didn’t treat every passerby like a potential threat. You just ran.
After that, you hadcoffee at the same place every time, the same order.
Dex watched all of it from a distance, writing it down in his little notebook. He told himself it was for this job, that he needed to remember things accurately if he was going to finish the job.
By the fourth day, he knew watching wasn’t enough. It never had been. Patterns only got you so far before they started turning into assumptions, and assumptions got people wrong.
The problem was, he didn’t have a plan for that. He wasn’t a spy. He didn’t build relationships, didn’t ease his way into proximity.
But standing across the street, watching you disappear into the crown like you’d done every morning that week, he understood one thing clearly enough: He didn’t know how he was going to do this. He just knew he had to get closer.
—
The next day, he “accidentally” ran into you on that jogging trail in Central Park.
He already knew the exact time your foot would hit the gravel. All he had to do was figure which way you were going: was it the route you’d take when you wanted to clear your head, or the one you’d take when you wanted a challenge?
He waited outside your apartment today and…. You were taking the hard route.
He followed, and his plan of taking you until you got to the cafè, where he would sit next to you, would’ve been perfect until… Dex timed it wrong.
He knew he did the second he adjusted his pace to match yours and felt the rhythm slip. He was too fast for a clean pass, too close for it to look incidental.
This wasn’t what he was good at. There was no distance. Only proximity and the vague, uncomfortable awareness that if you were anything like the file said you were, you’d clock him immediately.
You didn’t. You just kept running.
He tried to correct it, cutting slightly across your path like he meant to pass you, like he belonged in your space. The movement was off by half a second, just enough to turn clumsy. His shoulder clipped yours, momentum carrying him forward a step too far. You caught before you could trip and looked at him like, what the hell, man?
“—shit, sorry,” Dex said quickly, breathing unevenly. He turned back, forcing himself to meet your eyes. “I didn’t… are you okay?”
Up close, everything went a little sideways.
He’d seen your photo. But a still image didn’t account for the way you actually were when you looked at him. You were focused, yes, but there was no immediate suspicion or recalculation behind your eyes. He could tell you were doing a quick assessment and—
“You’re fine,” you huffed, brushing it off like it really had been nothing.
Dex blinked once, recalibrating, trying to drag himself back to the whole point of this endeavour: Intel.
Simple, right?
Except now you were standing there, waiting just long enough that it demanded a response.
Right. Say something. Anything.
“Uh… there’s a coffee place just up ahead,” he heard himself say, the words coming out before he could fully filter them. “I can make it up to you. Buy you one or something.”
There was a lull of silence where even he registered what he’d just done.
That wasn’t part of any plan. That was stupid.
Dex forced himself not to react to it outwardly, even as his chest tightened in irritation. This wasn’t how he should’ve handled a target like you. He shouldn’t’ve improvised like this. What was he thinking, basically asking you out like some idiot who didn’t know what he was doing?
But you were still just looking at him.
And up close, all he could think about was how… disarming you were.
That was the word his brain landed on, unhelpfully. You made him lower their guard without realizing he was doing it.
Dex swallowed, keeping his expression neutral, like this was intentional, like this was just another step in a plan he actually had control over.
This is for intel, he told himself, firmly. Just intel via proximity. That’s all this is.
You tilted your head slightly, considering him in a way that made him feel, for a split second, like he was the one being assessed.
“Coffee?” you repeated.
“Yeah,” he said, a little more steady now. “Least I can do.”
“For what?” you managed an amused chuckle, and Dex could’ve sworn that hearing you make that noise lit up the world around him. “bumping into me? Is this a line?”
“I just…” he stammered, and bit the inside of his cheek. “I’ve seen you around.”
I’ve seen you around??? He mentally slapped himself. What kind of fucking stupid explanation is that? What does that have to do with anything?
Surprisingly, though, all you did was tilt your head and said, “Okay.”
Oh?
Dex forced himself to nod once, like he’d expected it, like this hadn’t just gone completely off-script.
“Okay,” he echoed, turning slightly to fall into step beside you as you started moving again.
He kept his focus forward, matching your pace, already running through what he needed to ask, what he could realistically get without pushing too hard, how to steer the conversation where he needed it to go.
And still, somewhere in the back of his mind, something felt off. Dex ignored it, because this was a job. You were a target.
And this was just the easiest way to get what he needed. Nothing more.
—
The café was small, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat.
On the way there, you exchanged your names— he said he was “Tony,” and you, surprisingly, had given him your real name. You were easy to talk to, and you talked about the weather, the park, the surprisingly little snow last winter.
When you got to the café, Dex was relieved to see that it wasn’t too crowded, just a couple of people on laptops, a murmur of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine every so often. Fewer variables, Fewer eyes.
You ordered first: iced latte, like you’d done it a hundred times. He followed with an Americano, mostly because he panicked and it sounded normal enough.
Now he sat across from you, fingers loosely wrapped around the glass cup, watching the condensation bead along the outside of your glass as you stirred your drink with your straw. You looked… relaxed.
You took a sip, then glanced at him over the rim, and there was mischief in your expression. A second later, you let out a giggle, tapping the straw lightly against the lid.
“So,” you said, dragging the word out just a little. “Why does Bullseye want to take me out to coffee?”
Dex choked.
It wasn’t subtle. The coffee went down the wrong way, and he had to turn his head slightly, coughing into his fist. For a split second, he thought he might actually spit it out all over you, which—thank fuck—the café being mostly empty made slightly less of a disaster.
His eyes snapped back to you.
“…You knew?” he asked.
You blinked at him like that was the stupidest question you’d heard all day, then shrugged, taking another sip like this was a casual conversation. “Of course,” you said. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know me.”
There was no accusation in it. You said it as if it was a fact.
Dex just stared at you. His brain tried to catch up, running through possibilities, angles, trying to figure out where this had gone wrong. Had you clocked him earlier? On the run? Before that? Had he missed an obvious tell?
You didn’t look alarmed. You didn’t look like you were about to bolt or reach for a weapon. If anything, you looked… curious.
“Oh,” he said, because that was all that came out at first.
Great. Perfect. Real smooth.
He forced himself to take another sip of his coffee, buying a second to gather his thoughts, to shove everything back into place where it belonged.
She’s a target. This is a job.
“Yeah,” he added, steadier now, nodding once like this hadn’t just blindsided him. “I mean—yeah. I just…” His teeth tightened for half a second before he settled on the first thing that felt even remotely usable. “I’m a fan of your work.”
You didn’t react immediately. You watched him over your drink, eyes narrowing slightly.
Dex held your eyes, forcing himself not to overcorrect, to let it breathe. Let it land.
“Right,” you said finally. You didn’t sound entirely convinced, but you let it go.
The silence stretched, but not too uncomfortably. It was just charged. You knew there was no chance of going back to a civilian conversation as you leaned back slightly, exhaling.
“Alright. No, we’re not doing this version,” you decided, more to yourself than him. Then you straightened again, meeting his eyes properly. “Can we start over?”
Dex blinked, thrown just enough to answer honestly. “I… yeah.”
You nodded once, resetting playfully.
“Hi. You already know my name, so I’m skipping that part,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your cup. “I’m a former Red Room Widow. I live in New York now.”
You said it like a random woman introducing themself as an accountant.
Dex opened his mouth, then closed it to filter through the responses. “Hi,” he tried again, because apparently that was all he had today.
You waited.
“Hi,” he repeated, then dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. “I’m Dex. Not—” he made a vague, frustrated gesture, “not Tony, I don’t…”
Your lips twitched. “I got that.”
“Right. Yeah.” He nodded once, a bit too quickly. Then, as if he was forcing the words out his throat. “I’m… a good guy.”
The second it left his mouth, he knew how weird it sounded. You blinked at him. Then, to his surprise, you chuckled, and it was not unkind.
“Hi, Dex Not Tony,” you said, teasing him. “That’s a strong introduction.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line, but his shoulder reluctantly eased a fraction. “It’s… yeah,” he muttered. “Workshopping it.”
That earned him a small huff of laughter, and just like that, the tension changed. It was not gone completely, but it loosened enough to breathe around.
“Mm,” you hummed, tapping your straw against the rim of the glass. “Maybe workshop faster.”
That earned you the smallest exhale that might’ve been a laugh.
“So,” you went on, glancing at his drink. “Americano?”
He looked down at it like he’d forgotten it existed. “Mmm.”
“Do you actually like that,” you took a sip of your own drink, “or did you panic-order?”
Dex hesitated, but decided against lying. “Panic-order.”
You grinned. “Thought so.”
“Yours?” he asked, nodding toward your cup.
“Iced latte. Always.”
He nodded once, filing it away without thinking. “Predictable,” he said.
“Consistent,” you corrected.
“Same thing.”
“Not even a little.” Your smile tugged a little wider, and for a second, it made your whole face look gentle in a way that didn’t match anything he’d read.
The conversation after that was not awkward, even as it came in uneven starts. You both drifted out half-finished sentences, small corrections, circling around what you weren’t saying more than what you were. But eventually, it found a rhythm.
You talked about nothing, mostly. The weather again, somehow. The park. The café. You made an offhand comment about the coffee being great here but the pastries were better two blocks over, and Dex filed that away without meaning to. He asked a question that sounded almost normal, and you answered it like it was.
For some reason, he could not bring himself to ask about intel. Still, neither of you got up as time stretched right before your eyes.
“Okay,” you said after a moment, glancing at your drink, then back at him. “For the record, this is the weirdest coffee I’ve had in a while.”
“Same,” he said.
“And I’ve had coffee in worse places.”
“Same.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly, amused. “You’re just copying me now.”
There was that pause again. This time, neither of you rushed to fill it.
You checked your phone briefly, then sighed, like you didn’t actually want to say what came next. “I should probably…” you started, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “…go.”
Dex nodded immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”
You stood, grabbing your jacket, then hesitated just slightly. You looked at him, like you were weighing your options, then reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. “Give me your number.”
Dex tilted his head. “…What?”
You held it out, unfazed. “In case you decide to bump into me again,” you said. “Might as well schedule it next time.”
He stared at you for a second, like he was trying to find an explanation, a reason not to…
Then he took the phone.
“Right,” he nodded. “Yeah.”
He put it in and handed it back. After all, he had convinced himself that it was just so he could get the intel he was supposed to do today.
“See you around, Dex Not Tony.”
“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “See you.”
You turned, heading for the door. The bell chimed again as you left.
Dex stayed where he was for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the space you’d just occupied, the echo of your laugh still sitting somewhere in the back of his mind.
Something about that had gone very, very wrong. Or very right
—
That night, Dex had trouble sleeping.
The apartment was too quiet, the city noise bleeding faintly through the windows, the weight of the day sitting wrong in his chest. He laid there for a while, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in fragments: your voice, your eyes, the way none of it lined up with the file. Eventually, he gave up trying to sleep at all.
He sat up, reached for the notebook on his nightstand, and flipped it open. The logs he had on you were already there: Times, routes, and observations.
He stared at it for a moment, pen hovering. Then he added a new line, pressing just slightly harder than necessary:
Likes iced lattes
—
Two days later, Dex’s phone buzzed.
He didn’t get messages he wanted to open. He didn’t need another contract— he got his hands full as is. So for a second, he just stared at it from across the room, letting it vibrate once. Unknown number.
His jaw tightened before he picked it up and unlocked it.
There was a photo of a newspaper, slightly crumpled, held down by what looked like your hand. The headline was clear enough:
THREE ANTI-VIGANTE TASK FORCE AGENTS FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY
Below it, you had texted:
is this you?
Dex stared at the screen, figuring out exactly who it was. He read it again, trying to wrap his mind around this. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
You knew. Or you suspected. Or you were testing him. All three were problems.
Dex exhaled slowly through his nose and typed.
Dex: no. Why would you think that?
He was lying, but then again, he was the one who’s supposed to do the interrogation here. It would be stupid to give anything away.
He hit send before he could overthink it. Three dots appeared almost immediately.
You: just thought I’d ask
Dex frowned. That was it? No pushback? No follow-up? Did you not think he was interesting enough?
Dex: You just ask people that? “hey did you kill three people”?
There was a pause this time. Dex found himself watching the screen, shoulders slightly tense without realizing it.
You: not usually, but you don’t usually “accidentally” run into me either so
Dex’s grip on the phone tightened just a fraction.
Right. You weren’t letting that go.
Dex: I said I’ve seen you around.
He only had to wait a few seconds
You: sure
He could hear the tone in it. That same almost-amused voice from the café. Not hostile, but curious. Dex leaned back against the wall, phone still in his hand, mind already thinking about what you knew, what you were pretending not to know.
You sent another message before he could respond.
You: also for the record, if it was you, I know you’d say no anyway
Dex managed a smile.
Dex: Probably.
You texted back just as quickly
You: so I’m choosing to believe you 🙂
You: congrats
He huffed, a dry laugh catching in his throat. This was… strange.
You weren’t pushing. You weren’t backing off either. You were just… there, talking to him like this was normal.
Dex stared at the screen for a moment longer, then typed again.
Dex: Why’d you actually text me?
The typing bubble came and went once. Then, it stayed.
You: because I wanted to
You: ???
You: do I need a better reason than that
Dex frowned slightly. That answer didn’t fit neatly anywhere that his brain could categorize,
Dex: People usually have reasons.
This time your reply took longer. Long enough that Dex caught himself rereading the earlier messages, analyzing tone, punctuation, timing, looking for something he might’ve missed.
You: okay, fine
You: I was bored
You: and you’re interesting
You: better?
Dex froze.
Interesting. Was that what you thought of him?
Dex: You don’t seem like you get bored.
He could almost picture you rolling your eyes
You: wow. you are a fan
He stared at the screen for a second, then forced himself to snap back into place.
You were a target, he had to remind himself. Nothing more. He needed intel to pay rent, and he could only get that after he eliminated you, so…
Dex: if you’re bored, we could go on another date
He hit send and immediately had what did you just do moment. This wasn’t part of the job. This wasn’t… date wasn’t the word he should’ve used.
The typing bubble popped up, disappeared, and came back within three seconds.
You: is that what that was the first time? a date??
Dex blinked.
“…No,” he muttered under his breath, already typing.
No. It was—
He stopped. What was it?
Dex: maybe?
That was all he could send. Oh, he was never playing spy after this job was done. Not ever again.
You: right
You: with a guy who “sees me around”
You: very normal
Dex pressed his lips together.
Dex: Do you want to go or not?
During the wait, Dex felt something unfamiliar settle in his stomach. It was something he could only describe as butterflies.
You: yeah sure
His grip on the phone loosened slightly.
You: same place? or are you gonna “accidentally” run into me again?
Dex huffed.
Dex: how about the pastry place you were talking about?
Oh so now he was paying attention to your recommendations?
You: okay. Friday?
The only thing he had on his calendar was killing task force, and that could wait, so…
Dex: Friday works.
He tapped on his phone screen, anxiously waiting for confirmation.
You: cool
You: try not to kill anyone before then. It ruins the vibe
Dex stared at that one for a second.
Dex: No promises.
There was no reply after that.
That night, in his notebook, he wrote another thing about you:
Initiates contact.
—
The second date felt different before it even started.
You were standing at the counter of the bakery when he saw you, pointing at something in the display case, smiling at the cashier like this was the easiest thing in the world. “Hey, Dex.”
You ended up at a small table by the window, a couple of plates between you. A flaky and golden croissant, a banana-flavoured donut-like dessert dusted in powdered sugar (his choice), a molten-in-the-middle pain au chocolate, and one with custard that looked like it might fall apart if you breathed too hard near it.
Adorably, he knew you had picked too many things. Dex didn’t comment on it, but he noticed then, how you pointed without overthinking, how you changed your mind halfway through, how you added one more at the last second “just in case.”
It felt indulgent in a small, contained way. Like this was the only thing you let yourself have.
The plate between you looked excessive now, but you nudged it toward him anyway.
“Try that one,” you said, already reaching for another.
Dex picked it up without arguing. It was… good, but he didn’t say that out loud.
You watched his face anyway, like you were waiting for the reaction.
“It’s fine,” he said.
You snorted. “Liar.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t pretend it’s just fine,” you rolled your eyes, though you had said it with your mouth full, so it sounded more like downt pwetend it's jusft fwine.
“I’m not pretending.”
“You are.”
He hesitated, then let you win this one. “It is good,” he admitted begrudgingly.
“There it is.”
The conversation slipped into place easily after that. It was not smooth, but it didn’t catch as often. You didn’t circle each other as much. You just… talked.
You even went on for a good fifteen minutes about watching a squirrel in the park yesterday. You said something about how it would grab something, run halfway up the tree, stop, look around like it forgot what it was doing, then go back down and start over. You went on saying, it did this, like, five times, I think it lost the nut at some point but just committed to the bit.
Dex was surprised a former Red Room operative would even concern herself with things as trivial as a little rodent. He was even more surprised that he let you go on and on about it. It was as if he liked listening to you, no matter what you said.
You reached for the sweeter pastry next, taking a bite, and Dex’s eyes automatically tracking the movement. A small smear of custard caught at the corner of your lip.
You didn’t notice. You kept talking, mid-sentence about the squirrel again, something about it being “committed to chaos, like hoarding random park objects were its hobby,” and—
Dex raised his hand before he could stop it. “Hold on,” he said, almost a whisper.
You paused. “what…”
His thumb brushied lightly at the corner of your mouth, wiping the custard away, before licking the liquid off on his own tongue. The contact was brief and altogether too gentle for a man like him. For a second, neither of you moved.
His hand dropped back to the table. “You had…” he gestured vaguely. “Custard.”
“Oh.” You blinked once, then let out a small, surprised laugh. “Thanks.”
“Yeah.” Dex looked down at his hands. That felt… Unfamiliar.
He didn’t know when the last time he’d done something like that was. He didn’t know when the last time he’d wanted to.
There was this strange warmth sitting in his chest now, almost weightless. He didn’t even have a name for it.
And while he wasn’t sure he liked that, he definitely didn’t hate it.
You were the one to break the silence, coughing awkwardly like you couldn’t stand another second of silence.
“Ummm speaking of hobbies?” you echoed, wiping your mouth just in case. “You… don’t strike me as a hobbies person.”
“I had some,” he said, easing back into the chair. Thank fuck you could carry the conversation for the both of them, because his brain had just fully stalled.
“Past tense is concerning.” You leaned forward just a little. “What, like, knitting?”
“No.”
“Scrapbooking?”
“No.”
“Be honest,” you taunted, “I can see it.”
He almost smiled, and looked down when he said it. “Baseball.”
You paused, then nodded, like that made perfect sense.
“Yeah, I can see that,” you said, then added casually, “I used to do ballet.”
Dex blinked. He looked at you differently now. like he was trying to fit that into everything else he knew. “Oh,” he managed to say.
Oh, this was it. This was what he came for. This was the thread he needed. This was the confirmation that you had been trained in HQ, right? If you had survived it, then there were doors inside you that led back to places he couldn’t access any other way.
These were not guesses, not patterns he had to infer from distance, but direct proximity to the Red Room itself, to its methods, its remnants, its current reach. He just needed to keep you talking, keep you close, long enough to pull it apart piece by piece. So he asked, “What does that mean?”
You froze, as if a flash of memories ran through the back of your eyes. Then shook your head once. “Mm—nope.”
“What?”
“Not here,” you said lightly, but there was an immovable conviction underneath it now. “I’m not getting into that here.”
Dex watched you as held his hazel eyes. Then, just as quickly, you leaned forward, resting your chin lightly against your hand, expression shifting back from dark to a lighter tone. “Come by my place on Saturday,” you said, like it had just occurred to you. “We’ll call it our third date.”
Dex blinked. “What?”
You shrugged, completely unfazed. “If you’re really curious,” you added, a small tilt to your head. “There’s… fewer people.”
He stared at you, his eyes empty and calculating at the saw time, fingers anxiously tapping the underside of the table. This was… this was not in the plan. This was not one of his controlled outcomes. This was not…
“Okay,” he said anyway. The answer seemed to have left his mouth before he fully processed it.
“Okay,” you echoed.
And somewhere between the pastries, coffee, and conversation, he realized, a little too late…
This doesn’t feel like a job.
—
Dex had expected a decoy. A secondary location, maybe a shell apartment. He was expecting something stripped down and impersonal, designed to be burned the second it was compromised.
Not this. Not the exact place he had already mapped out in his notebook.
So yeah, you had given him your real address.
For just a second, he wondered if this was the play. If you knew how much he knew. If this was some test he hadn’t caught onto yet.
The building was exactly what he expected. It was a high-end high rise. The doorman glanced at him once, then nodded like he’d already been cleared.
“You’re expected,” he said simply.
Dex didn’t respond, already moving past him. The elevator took him straight up.
By the time he reached your door, he had an uneasy feeling in his chest. Was this… a trap?
He knocked, and the door opened almost immediately.
“Hi,” you said.
Dex opened his mouth to respond, but you interrupted his train of thoughts by pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, right at the scar.
Dex froze. By the time you pulled back, his brain still hadn’t caught up.
You smiled like nothing had happened, stepping aside to let him in. “Come in.”
He couldn’t find words to say, because apparently, his brain was on pause now.
Still, Dex stayed half a step behind you as you pushed the door open, his eyes already scanning past your shoulder and realised…
The place was… expensive.
Not in a loud, gaudy way. You had no gold fixtures or ridiculous statement pieces. It was intentional. It had floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across the far wall with a view that swallowed half the city. It had two bedrooms, if he researched it right.
“How…” he started, then cut himself off. What he meant to say was, how can you afford this? But decided against it.
You didn’t seem to notice. “Make yourself comfortable,” you said, already shrugging off your jacket and tossing it onto a chair like it wasn’t worth more than half the furniture in his apartment. “I just need the bathroom. I’ll be quick.”
And just like that, you disappeared.
Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, processing everything.
You lived here. And not as a cover, not temporarily. There were no signs of rotation, no packed bags, no readiness to leave at a moment’s notice.
“That’s stupid,” he muttered under his breath. Or reckless. Or you were just arrogant to a fault. Maybe you just didn’t think anyone could touch you.
Dex stood still for a second, listening to the water running. He heard the slightly delayed pipes and realised you weren’t rushing. Good.
His eyes tracked the room the way they always did, scanning for inconsistencies. He didn’t try to look for what was there, but what didn’t belong. Because people like you didn’t leave things out.
Which meant if anything existed, it would be hidden. His gaze slowed down and shifted… There. A section of the wall paneling near the shelving was barely misaligned. It was not enough for anyone else to clock, but Dex didn’t miss patterns like that.
He stepped closer, fingers brushing lightly over the seam. There must be a pressure point. Eventually the panel gave just enough of a click to confirm it. Dex didn’t hesitate before easing it open.
Inside was a compact hidden compartment.
The first thing he saw was a keycard, worn at the edges. The insignia was barely visible, but he didn’t need it to be clear. He knew what it was the second he saw it: Hydra.
“Of course,” he muttered under his breath.
Red Room had a historical overlap with Hydra. Old, but not irrelevant.
It surely was a small enough thing that you wouldn’t miss it, right?
He pocketed it and moved on to the only other thing hidden in the panel: Documents. It wasn’t exactly a full archive, but it was enough.
He flipped through them, scanning fast. Inside were names of Red Room operatives. The dead ones were labeled. He assumed the ones who didn’t have a red Xs on their files were still active.
You had annotated them too, with locations, partial intel, and movement patterns.
This was the kind of access people killed for.
His thumb moved, grabbing his phone. He flipped through quickly, taking a picture of each page, each note, each annotation. He made sure, of course, that it was legible.
This was high-level access, closer than anything he’d gotten from a distance. This… This was the job.
Then he heard the sound of water shutting off.
Shit. Dex froze. Then, he moved. He closed the folder immediately, sliding it back in.
Everything went back exactly as it was, the panel sealed until the seam disappeared into the wall again like it had never existed. By the time you stepped back into the room, he was already on the couch.
“Sorry,” you said, drying your hands casually, completely unbothered. “That took longer than I thought.”
Dex looked up at you. There was a split second, where something in his expression didn’t line up. The. it was gone.
“You’re fine,” he said evenly.
You nodded, like that settled it, and stepped closer. You dropped down onto the couch beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his, as if this was normal. As if he wasn’t here to dismantle you piece by piece. He didn’t even realise that you had a bottle of wine and two glasses on your hand.
You leaned back slightly, turning your head toward him, “…So,” you said, more direct. “What do you want to know?”
—
It can’t be this easy right? Dex thought.
Turns out, it was.
Which was weird, because people like you didn’t just… hand things over. So either this was the cleanest setup he’d ever walked into, or you really didn’t think he was a threat. Neither option sat right with him.
His fingers flexed slightly against his knee as he watched you pour two glasses of red. You handed one to him, and Dex took it quickly. “Thanks,” he said, smaller than usual.
He didn’t even usually drink anymore. He turned the stem slightly between his fingers, watching the liquid catch the light. For a brief second, his mind did what it always did: it ran through possibilities.
It might be a sedative. It could be poison. He could handle most of that, maybe. And if he couldn’t… Well.
He huffed quietly to himself. What the hell.
Dex took a sip. It burned a little on the way down. Not unusual, just normal wine.
The first sign that it wasn’t poison was that you were drinking it, too. The second sign was that you didn’t react; you didn’t watch him like you were waiting for something to happen. You just leaned back into the couch and tucked your leg under yourself.
It was cute, Dex thought. You looked like a bird, nesting. He liked it.
Then, he took a deep breath and started asking questions. At first, it was light, like where did you grow up? Where were you trained?
You answered, and you sounded detached for the first couple of sentences. It was as if you were testing the limits and throwing pieces out to see what stuck.
But when the alcohol kicked in and your cheeks turned rosy pink, you spoke more candidly. About the Red Room. About being taken. About being trained.
Even Dex, who was starting to feel more bubbly, didn’t interrupt.
At first, he listened like he always did. He filtered, sorted, and pulled out what mattered. But somewhere along the way, that changed. Because you started giving less intel and more… context.
“You don’t really realize it when you’re in it,” you said, staring into your glass like the answer might be somewhere at the bottom. “It just feels normal. Like this is what life is supposed to be. You don’t question it because there’s nothing else to compare it to.”
Dex’s grip tightened slightly, and you kept going.
“They don’t just train you. They… build you. Strip everything out first. Then put back only what they need.” You gave him a small laugh.“Honestly? It’s basically a cult. You have no idea what it’s like to be manipulated like that.”
Dex looked down, and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
You glanced at him then, and your eyes shifted. You were not shocked at all, but you recognised it as well as you would recognise kin. “Oh,” you looked down. “Right.”
Dex poured himself another glass without thinking. You kept talking, but slower now. It was less like you were explaining, more like you were… unloading. Like you didn’t have anywhere else to put it.
That’s when it clicked: This must not be a trap or a strategy, he concluded, because the reason you were telling him all of this on a third date was… because, like him, you had no one else.
You might have neighbors, maybe even actual friends. But surely, you had no one else who could possibly understand you the way he did, because who else could you possibly know in this line of work?
That was why you decided that he was the safest place to put it.
Dex stared at the rim of his glass for a second too long. That was stupid of you. And dangerous. And—
“…And you?” you said suddenly, nudging his knee lightly with yours. “C’mon.”
He blinked, pulled back into the moment.
“If we’re trauma dumping,” you added, a crooked smile pulling at your mouth, “we might as well commit. This is probably our only chance to say it out like.” You took another sip, then shrugged. “Doesn’t exactly look like either of us go to therapy.”
Dex huffed. “Yeah,” he muttered. His brain caught up half a second later.
He shouldn’t, though, right? He shouldn’t tell you anything about him that could possibly be compromising but… The booze was getting to him.
And, besides, what harm could trauma dumping to you be? The job ends one way: with you dead after he got all the intel. So did it really matter what you knew about him?
Dex leaned back slightly, exhaling a little.
And then, before he could stop himself, the extra bit of liquid courage bypassed his brain, and he told you everything.
The words came out flat at first. But the more he drank, the less he cared about what he gave away and what he did not.
You didn’t interrupt him. You just listened. And that, more than anything, kept him talking.
At some point, the wine started to blur the edges for you, too. Your shoulders leaned closer. Your knee stayed pressed against his. Your laughter came easier as he cynically explained being in prison, and because you felt bad when you did, you gasped and covered your mouth.
Dex didn’t seem to mind. He even smiled, the corner of his mouth warping the pronounced scar on his cheek. At one point, you tilted your head slightly, watching him with an understanding that hadn’t been there before.
“God,” you said, almost to yourself. “We’re so fucked up.”
Then, unexpectedly, you giggled. Dex, for once, cannot help but chuckle himself.
“Yeah.” He took another sip, “You more than me,” he added, almost immediately.
Your head snapped toward him immediately. “Excuse me?”
A faint smirk pulled at his mouth. “Y’know,” he said, “Child soldier and all.”
You stared at him for a second, before letting out a disbelieving laugh. “Really?” you shot back, leaning closer, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “I’m more fucked up?”
He lifted a shoulder slightly in a shrug.
You pointed at him with your glass. “Your boss broke your spine and you lived.”
Dex managed to roll his eyes.
“You got thrown off a roof and you lived,” you continued, leaning in further now, your voice picking up energy. “Sounds like you’re pretty far from normal.”
Dex huffed again. “Didn’t say I was normal.”
“Mm,” you hummed, satisfied. You sipped again.
The space between you closed without either of you noticing when it happened. Your knee pressed against his. Your shoulder brushed his arm. Neither of you moved away.
The wine kept going. Half a glass. Then another.Words came easier after that, less filtered, less controlled.
You interrupted each other more. You laughed more. You even talked over the ends of sentences like it didn’t matter who finished them. At some point, you were both smiling for no reason.
Dex didn’t realize when the room started to feel warmer. He didn’t realize when your voice started to blur slightly at the edges. He didn’t even realize when he stopped thinking about the job entirely. He just knew, at this point, that you were close. Really close.
And you looked… Pretty.
That was a stupid word. It was too simple. It didn’t cover the gnawing claws that were starting to take over his heart.
But it was the only word his brain gave him. You were smiling at something (he didn’t even remember what) and it made you look… harmless.
Dex felt a warmth shift in his chest. As unfamiliar as it was, he didn’t pull away from it. For a second, you looked at him, too.
Dex swallowed the last of the wine, mostly because it was the only distraction that could possibly take up all the space you had started to occupy in his mind.
The room had dimmed at the edges in that deceptive way alcohol always did. The lights seemed warmer.
Dex didn’t usually get to this point. He knew that with uncomfortable clarity. He also knew he should stop.
You were sitting too close, closer than before, closer than necessary, your shoulder pressed lightly into his as if neither of you had noticed the distance shrinking over time.
Your voice had gone gentler, words starting to come in slower waves instead of quick exchanges. There was less explanation, more confession disguised as conversation. And he was doing the same, even if he wouldn’t have admitted it out loud.
Parts of him he usually kept locked down were just… loosening, one by one, without permission.
You laughed at something he said, he didn’t even remember what it was, and the sound stuck in his head longer than it should have.
“You’re smiling,” you observed suddenly, tilting your head slightly like it was a fossil discovery.
“I’m not,” he said automatically.
You hummed, unconvinced. “You are.”
He should’ve corrected you. Instead, his eyes drifted without meaning to, down to your mouth when you spoke again. The way your words drooped at the edges when you were tired, or tipsy, or both. For the love of god, he could not get over you the way you kept licking your lip absentmindedly, like you weren’t even aware of it.
It made something in his brain go pop.
You noticed. “…What?” you asked, pouting adorably.
Dex didn’t answer right away. Because, really, there was no tactical reason for him to be looking at you like this. There was no intel angle. No extraction logic. No job framework he could hide behind.
It was just you. And him. And the space between you that didn’t feel like space anymore.
He leaned in before he could reassemble himself. He hadn’t planned on doing it. It wasn’t even a decision he consciously made, really.
It was, for lack of better word, gravity. As if he was a meteor falling into your orbit.
For a while, you didn’t move away.
Your breath caught in your throat, but you stayed there, watching him come closer instead of stopping it. Your eyes flicked down once, like you were considering it too.
Dex stopped just short of you. He wanted, no needed— to know you wanted it, too.
Still, he was close enough that he could feel your breath now. Close enough that if either of you moved even a fraction—
That would be it. The line would be crossed.
You lifted your hand slowly, but you were not pushing him away. You weren’t pulling him closer, either. Your palm was hovering for a moment against his chest like you were testing whether this was real.
Dex didn’t move. Neither did you.
You exhaled. It was a small, almost reluctant sound. “…Dex,” you murmured, and his name sounded different like that. His eyes flicked to yours again.
Too close. This was way too close.
Your eyes dropped again to his mouth again, and stayed there. For a second, he could clearly see that fraction of hesitation where neither of you could pretend anymore that you weren’t thinking the same thing.
Dex leaned in that final inch… but you didn’t meet him halfway. Gently, your hand pressed into his chest.
“Mm,” you murmured softly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself this was wrong. Then you pushed him back.
“No,” you said, breath hitching slightly, but your smile was still there, playful, light. “It’s only our third date.”
Dex blinked, still a little too close, like he hadn’t fully processed the words.
You laughed under your breath, giving him a small shove to create space.
“Besides,” you added, eyes flicking down to his mouth for just a second before meeting his again, “I want you to kiss me when you’re sober.”
Oh.
He leaned back this time, letting out a deep breath. There was only one way he could describe how he felt, and that was disappointment.
Oh, well. What else can he do?
“Yeah,” he managed to say. “Okay.”
Still, he didn’t move far, and neither did you.
And of course, his thoughts, intrusive as they always are, decided to ruin the only tender moment he had in years.
You have enough. Kill her.
Honestly, he had more than enough intel on the Red Room. Even the old Hydra keycard was a welcome addition to his anonymous employer’s request. It would most definitely make up for anything else they could have possibly wanted.
What are you waiting for? Kill her.
It was definitely more than what that had bargained for. So yeah, he could do it now.
He had clocked many sharp objects he could throw at you— from your vase to a cheese knife you left out on the island kitchen. He didn’t even need a gun.
Kill her.
And no, you wouldn’t even see it coming. His fingers flexed slightly against his leg.
Kill her.
But then he made the mistake of looking at you. And from there on out, all he could think was…
I want another date.
No. He shouldn’t want that, right?
Kill her.
He didn’t want that either.
But… he needed the money, and you had a body count higher than the Empire State Building. Killing you would make sense right? It would help balance the scales, right?
Right?
Would it still make sense, even after you laid your heart and soul to him? Would it still make sense, even after he realised you were brought up as an enslaved child soldier?
Kill her.
No, he told himself, Not yet.
I want just one more date.
And to Dex, that was reason enough not to kill you. Yet.
—
Dex didn’t go to rest when he got home.
The second the door shut behind him, he frowned, burying his head in his hands before pulling himself together. He had called forth the part of him that knew what to do, what this was, what it had to be.
He pulled the notebook out before he’d even taken his jacket off.
He sat down, pen moving across paper. It started the way it always did: Structured and efficient. Intel, in detail.
He wrote of the interior of your apartment; top floor, two-bedroom, open sightlines, minimal obstruction points. Entry points limited. Windows large but not easily accessible from exterior. Security: building-controlled, doorman compliant, prior clearance confirmed.
He flipped the page. He wrote about the hidden compartment: wall panel, right side of shelving unit. Pressure point activation. Contents: Hydra-era keycard, confirmed overlap with Red Room operations. Documents: active survivor list, partial intel, movement logs. Photographic evidence captured.
Another page. This was where he started writing about your routine vulnerabilities, your Behavioral patterns. Trust threshold: high. Counter-surveillance: minimal to non-existent. Open, disarming, prone to disclosure under informal conditions.
His handwriting stayed tight.
2.5 million dollars would only come after you were dead. That would fund his makeshift crusade for years to come. It was important work he was doing, balancing the scales.
Dex paused, just for a second. Then he kept going.
Timeline: Saturday meeting. Entry granted without resistance. Physical proximity established quickly. Target displays—
His pen slowed to a stop. It hovered there, a warmth blooming in his chest. Dex frowned slightly, staring at the page like it had changed on him.
Then, almost absentmindedly, he wrote… she kissed me on the cheek, right on the scar.
The pen froze again.
That wasn’t— He exhaled, teeth clenching. —this wasn’t important.
But still, he crossed nothing out. He just moved on.
Target displays lowered threat perception in close proximity. Conversational drift toward—
His handwriting had changed. Not messy, just less rigid.
… her past. She smells like vanilla. not perfume. Most likely clean laundry and sugar from baking.
Dex blinked. He looked at the lines then at the rest of the page.
What the fuck.
He flipped to the next page like that would fix it.
Red wine is her favourite.
His grip on the pen tightened slightly.
He should stop. This wasn’t relevant. None of the last couple sentences was relevant. Dex leaned back slightly in his chair, staring at the notebook in his lap.
He had everything he needed. He didn’t need to write anything else.
Dex scoffed quietly under his breath. Had he gone soft?
Then, without really deciding to, he added one more line underneath it…
She laughed when she said “we’re so fucked up.”
He stared at it for a second longer than necessary. Then he snapped the notebook shut.
—
The restaurant for the fourth date was nicer than most places he even bothered to go to nowadays. But if this was going to be your last meal, he might as well make it memorable.
It had soft blue lights, a low hum of voices, the whoosh of knives behind the counter. Dex noticed all of it the second he stepped in, cataloguing angles and exits, the reflective panel behind the chef that gave him a partial view of the room without turning his head.
You need to kill her today.
He exhaled slowly through his nose and followed the host to the table.
When you sat down across from him, smiling like you hadn’t just walked straight into the middle of your own funeral, the room blurred at the edges for Dex.
“Hi,” you said with a smile
Kiss her.
He blinked once, forcing his brain back into place. “Hi.”
You tilted your head slightly, studying him like you always did, like you were trying to solve a puzzle with a missing piece. “You look like you’ve been here for a while.”
“I haven’t.”
“You definitely have.”
“Maybe five minutes.” That was a lie. He had been there for more than ten, cataloging what he could possibly use to finish the job.
You smiled, pleased. “Knew it.”
She’s faking it. She actually likes me. Kill her.
Dex picked up the menu just to give his hands something to do. “You’re late.”
“I’m two minutes late,” you corrected, leaning forward slightly to peek at what he was looking at instead of opening your own. “And I brought personality, so it cancels out.”
He huffed, hiding a smile. “That’s not how that works.”
“It is.” You insisted, tapping the menu. “Also, you picked sushi? I didn’t think you were a sushi person.”
“I’m not.” He immediately said.
You blinked. “Then why…”
“Seemed efficient.” What he meant was; it’s a nice meal. You deserve a nice meal for the last day of your life. It’s efficient for him, who had an array of ceramic and silverware to kill you with.
You stared at him for a second, then broke into a grin. “You picked it based on efficiency.”
“Yes.”
“That is the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.
He didn’t do either.
“You’re still here,” he pointed out instead.
“Yeah,” you said easily, settling back in your seat. “Because I actually like you.”
Liar. Kill her.
Somewhere between you stealing sushi off his plate and laughing at how aggressively he held chopsticks, you asked, almost casually, “You know anything about the ports here?” Dex paused slightly at that, eyes flicking up to yours over his glass.
The question should’ve put him more on edge than it did, but you just looked curious, relaxed, like this was normal conversation. “Not much,” he admitted after a second. “Fisk uses them to move things through there sometimes.”
You hummed thoughtfully, listening closely, and Dex found himself talking a little more than he probably should’ve just because you kept looking at him like that.
After a while, though, he managed to change the topic. Work was getting a little old. He found himself wanting to talk about you. “You always order too much.”
You lit up like he’d just handed you a piece of chocolate. “Oh, we’re judging now?”
“I’m observing.”
“Rude,” you said, already scanning the menu. “Also, it’s not too much, it’s strategic.”
“Strategic how?” He tilted his head, genuinely curious.
You shrugged, but there was a stillness underneath it. “You ever go hungry enough that your brain just… rewires? Like you don’t trust ‘enough’ anymore?”
Dex had never felt that way before. He wondered if you were indulgent because you had gone through missions with little food. Would you have gotten days without it, a week maybe? Your Buenos Aires mission was six days, your Lagos mission was seven days. Was it those missions?
How did you even survive?
She’s a widow. She’s a weapon. She’s a person.
“…Yeah,” he said anyway.
Your eyes flicked up to his, and recognition passed between you. “Yeah,” you echoed. Then you nudged the menu toward him. “So I’ll over-order. It’s fine. We deserve it.”
We’re so fucked up. Kill her. Kiss her.
He nodded once. “Okay.”
You spent the next ten minutes ordering together, leaning over the table, arguing quietly over rolls like it mattered.
“Okay, this one,” you said, pointing. “We’re getting this.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It has too much…. whatever that is.”
“That is eel,” you squinted.
“Exactly,” he shrugged.
“It’s just eel,” you pointed out. “You’ve eaten weirder things.”
He paused. “That’s not the point.”
You grinned. “I have enough of an appetite for the both of us.”
Kill her. Kiss her.
“…Fine,” he said, pushing his intrusive thoughts away.
You beamed.
By the time the food arrived, the conversation had settled. You didn’t hold back when you ate, and you never did. You leaned forward, talking between bites, pointed things out like it mattered that he experienced them properly.
“Try this,” you said, holding your chopsticks out toward him without thinking.
Dex looked at it, then at you. You didn’t even realize what he was going to do to you.
Kiss her. Kill her.
He leaned forward and took the bite. Your eyes stayed on his face, waiting.
“It’s good,” he admitted.
“I know,” you said immediately, all too pleased with yourself.
He shook his head slightly.
She’s dangerous. She could kill you. Kill her first.
You wiped a bit of sauce off your thumb absentmindedly and kept talking. “We used to have this thing—training-wise—where they’d reward you with food if you hit certain targets.”
Dex’s attention shifted immediately.
There it is. Focus.
“Targets?” he repeated.
You winced slightly. “Okay, that sounded worse out loud.”
He didn’t respond.
You laughed, a little self-aware. “I mean—it was worse. But at the time it felt like a game, you know? Like ‘hit this, get that.’ Pavlov, but with putting bullets between your classmates' eyes.”
You popped another piece into your mouth like you hadn’t just said that.
She’s a monster. She’s a victim. She’s both. Kill her.
“Do you ever miss that?” he asked before he could stop himself.
You tilted your head, chuckling at the absurdity of the question. “The food or the brainwashing?”
“Either.”
You smiled faintly. “Sometimes I miss knowing exactly what I was supposed to be.”
That…. He understood.
Kill her. Ask her about OXE. Ask her about the DODC. Kiss her.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”
You didn’t make a big deal out of it. Instead, you just nudged his foot under the table. “Hey,” you said, lighter now. “At least now we get sushi instead of, like… boiled cabbage or whatever.”
His lips formed the ghost of a smile. “I didn’t get cabbage.”
“Oh, sorry,” you deadpanned. “Did your government program have better catering?”
“No.”
You grinned. “Then you get it.”
He did. He really, really did.
You started talking about stupid things again—bad takeout, a guy you saw trying to fight a pigeon, the way you animated everything just enough to make it feel real.
Dex found himself watching your mouth when you talked.
Kiss her. Kill her. She’s faking it. She actually likes me.
He picked up his chopsticks again, turning them slightly between his fingers. These would be a good weapon to finish you off. He had calculated the angle, trajectory, and distance. He could do it from across the table. It would be clean, straight through the throat.
You wouldn’t even—
You laughed suddenly, bright and unguarded, and it snapped the thought clean in half.
“Earth to Dex?”
He blinked, refocusing on the world around him.
You were looking at him like you’d caught his mind somewhere far away.
“What?” he said.
“You spaced out,” you said, narrowing your eyes slightly. “That was intense. Should I be concerned?”
Kill her. Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty.
“No,” he said, coughing a little
You leaned forward slightly, studying him. “You do that a lot. Go somewhere else.”
He held your stare, feeling like an utter fucking coward. “I’m here,” he said. It came out quieter than he meant it to.
Your eyes softened. After that, you kept talking, and he kept listening, but the thoughts didn’t stop.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed for corrupt governments. She’s taken down entire networks. She could kill you. Kill her. Kiss her.
He watched the way your fingers curled around your glass, the way you leaned closer when you got excited about a topic, the way your voice softened when you cared.
He imagined reaching across the table, but this time not to put a piece of cutlery through your windpipe.
Instead, he imagined reaching out with his hand, touching your wrist. He imagined pulling you closer, kissing you.
—
When the bill landed between you, Dex felt his chest pulled tight, like a thread being yanked too hard.
His hand moved first, grabbing it before you could even look properly. “I’ve got it,” he said, but it came out quieter than he meant, like the words had to push past thorns lodged in his throat. You started to protest, but he cut in, “I want to.”
That part slipped out, honest in a way he didn’t like. His fingers fumbled just slightly as he pulled his card out, a barely-there tremor that shouldn’t exist in a man like him, and he focused hard on the motion—insert, wait, sign—because that was simple, and that was something he understood.
Kill her.
He could do it after this. He would. After all, that was the plan. But when he glanced up, you were watching him. and it threw everything off balance in a way that made his chest feel too full.
His thoughts only sped up after that.
Kill her. She needs to go. She’s a monster. She’s a widow. She’s a fucking Black Widow. She could kill you. Kill her. She’s faking it. She’s dangerous.
He signed the receipt, but his grip was wrong. It was too tight, the paper crinkling under his thumb. When he set the pen down, his eyes betrayed him. They dropped to your mouth without permission.
It wasn't strategic. It wasn’t calculated. It was instinct, human and stupid all the same.
He imagined leaning forward instead of walking away, closing the distance instead of planning your doom, your lips against his instead of blood on his hands.
Focus.
His breath caught, and he looked away like that would fix it, like he could force himself back into the job he was supposed to do.
He needed to do it. Now. Outside.
He slipped a metal chopstick into his pocket.
But the idea of ending it before he knew what your lips taste like made him recoil.
Kiss her. Tell her she’s pretty. Kiss her. Kill her. She’s a bad person. She’s dangerous. She’s so fucking pretty. She actually likes you. Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.
He stood too quickly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor, and reached for his jacket like movement might help ground him. It didn’t. You stood too, close enough that your arm brushed his.
He could still do it but his eyes betrayed him again, flicking to your lips like he was starving for something he didn’t deserve.
The realization hit all at once: he didn’t want to kill you before he kissed you.
He needed that first. Just once.
“I’ll walk you home,” he said, and the words came out before he could stop them. You looked up at him, surprised. When you said “Okay,” it didn’t make anything easier. It just gave him more time to ruin himself, one step at a time, chasing something he shouldn’t want before he did what he came here to do.
Kiss her. Then kill her.
—
The street outside your building felt eerily quiet, like the world had thinned down to just the two of you and the glow of the lobby lights behind glass. The doorman had the day off, you mentioned. There were no footsteps. No interruptions.
Good. No witnesses.
Dex barely registered the thought this time. It flickered and passed, swallowed immediately by the thundering anxiety brewing in his mind.
Kill her.
“Hey,” you said. It was absurd, really, how shy you sounded.
He gulped. “Hey.”
His heart melted when a smile tugged at your mouth.
“I think,” you started, stepping just a little closer, your voice lowering like it was meant only for him, “you earned it.”
Dex didn’t get to ask what that meant, because you stepped in, closing that last inch of space like it meant nothing, and your lips met his…and everything in him just gave way.
His hand dropped from his pocket instantly, the weapon forgotten as his fingers caught your waist instead, pulling you closer like he was afraid you’d disappear. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was only warm for half a second before it deepened, before he leaned into it with a careful urgency that didn’t belong to him.
Kiss her like you mean it.
When you pulled back slightly, just to breathe, just to smile that pleased smile that made your whole face light up, he followed. He actually chased your lips, closing the distance again before you could get far, like he couldn’t stand the idea of it ending already. His hand slid higher, thumb brushing your jaw, tilting your face just enough to kiss you again. It was slower this time but no less hungry, like he was trying to memorize it.
You tasted… fuck! Sweet.
His brain latched onto it immediately, irrational and completely useless: Strawberries and cream. Probably lip gloss, but it didn’t matter to Dex.
Kiss her like you fucking mean it.
He smiled into it. It felt wrong on him, but he couldn’t stop it, not when you leaned into him like that, not when your fingers curled into his jacket like you wanted him just as much.
Kill her.
The thought slammed back in hard enough to almost make him flinch. His hand paused at your side. He knew the metal chopstick was still in his pocket.
Do it now.
He could, theoretically. You were right there. You were more than close enough. More importantly, you were trusting enough.
One movement, and you would be dead. He would cradle your lifeless body in your arms and the last thing you would ever do was… kiss him.
“I’ll see you soon?” you asked hazily when you finally pulled back, your voice carrying the echo of the kiss.
Dex froze.
You were smiling at him. You were not suspicious or guarded. You were just… hopeful. And all he could think about was the way you’d kissed him. The way you’d let him.
Kill her.
His fingers curled in his pocket, brushing the metal again. He imagined it: a quick thrust, handled efficiently…
No. Not like that. I can’t kill her like that.
It was too slow, too messy. You’d bleed. You’d feel it. You’d die a slow, painful death…
She didn’t deserve that.
That was it. That was his excuse this time.
You deserved to die a quick, painless death. Maybe a shot in the back of the head when you weren’t looking. Just… bang!
His chest ached at the thought. He was still leaning toward you, like part of him hadn’t caught up yet, like he might kiss you again if you gave him half a second more.
“I—yeah,” he said, voice, rougher around the edges. “You will.”
You smiled like that was enough. Like he hadn’t just made a decision that should’ve gone the other way.
Dex stood there for a second longer than necessary, like he was trying to memorize you again. He thought about your mouth, your eyes. the way you were still a little flushed… Then he stepped back, because if he didn’t—
Kiss her.
He almost did.
Instead, he let you go. And when he got home, all he wrote in the notebook was:
She tastes like strawberries and cream.
—
The park on a Sunday felt too bright for what Dex had come to do.
Sunlight filtered through the trees in shifting patterns, the grass warm and uneven beneath the blanket he had brought.
It was your idea, “a picnic!” said so casually over the phone, like it was something people like you did, like it didn’t involve him sitting across from you with a gun tucked under his shirt, pressed against his side like a second heartbeat.
He’d decided before he even got there, that today, he was going to kill you.
It ends today. Kill her.
Then you showed up. And the world tilted for him.
You were wearing a sundress that moved with you when you walked. It wasn’t tactical, it wasn’t anything like the person he’d read about in that file. You looked… beautiful.
Kill her.
He swallowed it down. “You look…” he started, then stopped, like the word wouldn’t come out right.
You tilted your head, smiling. “What?”
His eyes dragged over you again before he could stop himself. “Nice,” he settled on.
It was insufficient. He knew it.
You laughed anyway, pleased, like you hadn’t just undone him.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s a weapon.
He swallowed, hard, forcing himself to look away, to move, to do something before he stood there staring like an idiot. He dropped down onto the blanket he’d set up, hands already busy unpacking what he’d brought.
You noticed immediately. “You brought strawberries and cream?” You asked in disbelief.
Dex shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t thought about it too much. “You like sweet things.”
You went quiet for a second. “I…” you started, “I do.”
He didn’t look at you. If he did, he’d…
Kiss her. Kill her. Focus.
You sat across from him, smoothing your dress under your legs, and that was so normal it made his chest ache.
For a while it was just conversation, the kind that didn’t feel like work. You started with small things, normal things. Then, maybe out of morbid curiosity, you asked him about Fisk, almost casually, like it was something you were only half-remembering. Dex hesitated before answering, more out of instinct than suspicion.
Red Hook came up next, and that made him pause longer, because it wasn’t the kind of thing people usually asked about in passing. Still, he gave you what he had, watching you the whole time for a reaction that never really came. You just nodded along like it made sense to be talking about it like this, and that made him talk more than he should have.
But how could he focus on any of that when his mind…
Shoot her in the head.
“I’ve never done this before,” you said after a moment, glancing around. “A picnic, I mean.”
That caught Dex off guard. “What?”
You huffed a small laugh, a little embarrassed. “Yeah. Not like this, anyway.” You picked at the edge of the blanket. “We used to pretend, though. In the Red Room.”
You said it so lightly. Like it wasn’t something that should gut him. “In the basement of the facility I was raised in,” you went on. “Some of the girls would lay out scraps of cloth, call it grass.” You smiled, but it was fragile. “We’d share whatever we could steal from the kitchen and pretend it was… nice.”
Dex stared at you.
Kill her. She’s a Black Widow. She’s killed people. She’s—
“You deserved better,” he said.
You looked up at him, surprised. Then you smiled. “Yeah,” you said, after a second of consideration. “I think so too.”
Make it quick, coward.
He grabbed a strawberry just to have something to do with his hands, dipped it into the cream, and held it out toward you. It was an imitation of what you had done with sushi the other night.
You chuckled, then leaned forward, taking it gently, your lips brushing his fingers just slightly.
Kiss her.
He watched you bite into it, watched the way your mouth curved, the way your eyes closed like you were enjoying it. Cream caught at the edge of your lips, but you didn’t notice. And that was it.
Kiss her. Indulge.
He leaned in because he couldn’t help it. He did it slowly, like he was giving you time to stop him.
You didn’t.
Your lips met his, and it was not rushed, not desperate like before. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he tilted your face slightly, deepening it just enough to feel you respond, just enough to feel you lean into him.
You don’t deserve her. Kill her. Get it over with.
His chest tightened painfully as he pulled back, breathing uneven, forehead almost brushing yours.
You smiled at him, a little dazed, and he knew. He couldn’t do it here. Not like this.
He leaned back fully, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to put himself back together. “I don’t…” he started, then stopped.
You tilted your head. “What?”
He looked at you again, and felt his heart break in real time. “I don’t want to stay here,” he said.
You were now confused and a little unsure. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” he said immediately, more panicked than he meant to. “No. It’s not that.”
Kill her. Do it right.
He let out a deep breath. “Come back to mine,” he said.
Fucking coward. What are you waiting for? She’s a terrible person. She’s killed more people than you.
Your brows lifted slightly. “Your place?”
He nodded once.
If he did it there, it would be quiet. He would still make it quick and painless. And afterwards… he could mourn you in peace. He could hold your body as he cried into your neck. And maybe, some part of you would stay with him forever.
“Yeah,” he said, voice smaller now. “I just… want more time with you.”
That part wasn’t a lie.
You studied him for a second, then you smiled the same trusting smile. “Okay,” you said.
And just like that, you followed him home.
—
The walk should have been simple. It was a straight line, a familiar route, nothing Dex hadn’t done a hundred times before without thinking.
But inside his head, his thoughts were deafening.
Kill her.
It wasn’t a thought anymore. It was a command, pressing in from all sides until it felt like it might split him open from the inside.
Kill her. She’s dangerous. She’s lying. She’s done this before. You know what she is.
His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as he kept walking, forcing his steps to stay even. You were beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his every few strides, like you hadn’t noticed the tension winding tighter and tighter in him.
Kill her. Do it before she does it first.
The words didn’t fade after they came anymore. They repeated, layered and stacked on top of each other until they stopped sounding like language and started sounding like pressure.
Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.
But then, another voice cut through.
Kiss her.
It didn’t argue. It pulled.
Kiss her again. Don’t let this end. She chose you. She’s still here.
His breath hitched slightly, chest tightening as the two sides collided, over and over, faster now, louder now, until there was no space between them.
Kill her. Kiss her. KILL HER. KISS HER.
It built and built, escalating into unbearable noise. They clawed and scraped and demanded all at once. His fingers twitched at his side, curling slightly like they were reaching for an answer, like his body was trying to decide for him.
One pull of the trigger. That’s all it would take, that’s—
Then, he felt your hand slip into his.
And for the first time in a long time, his brain was… quiet.
It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t forceful. It was almost tentative at first, how your fingers trace his thumb lightly before settling into his palm like you’d done it a thousand times before. Like you hadn’t even considered that you shouldn’t.
Dex stopped breathing. His step faltered, just slightly, like his body didn’t quite know how to move without the noise driving it forward.
The commands that had been screaming seconds ago, the overlapping voices, the relentless pressure…they just ceased. As if you had reached inside his head and flipped a switch.
Dex stood there for half a second too long. His mind, which had been a constant storm of instruction and contradiction, felt… clear.
His fingers closed around yours slowly, almost cautiously, like he was afraid the moment would shatter.
You didn’t pull away. You didn’t even hesitate. You just… walked with him.
And the quiet stayed. Step after step, it stayed.
By the time you reached his building, a fact had already settled into place inside his chest. He didn’t have to argue with himself about it. There was no internal debate, no weighing of outcomes or consequences.
He just knew he wasn’t going to kill you anymore.
Not tonight. Not later. Not at all.
Good person be damned. Bad person be damned. Rent be fucking damned. Whatever fragile system he’d built to justify what he did, none of it held any weight here, not anymore.
He wasn’t looking for redemption, and he wasn’t chasing some shallow kind of bliss that killing you might give him. That had never really been the point, no matter how many times he told himself it was. He just wanted you.
And it was a primal, wild want.
He wanted your mouth on his again. He just wanted you to kiss him deeply and show him everything he’d missed, everything he’d never been given.
Dex slowed as he reached his door, keys already in his hand, but he didn’t unlock it right away. Instead, his eyes dropped briefly to where your fingers were still threaded with his. Then he looked at you. And there was nothing in his head telling him what to do anymore.
His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, a small, almost absent motion, before he finally unlocked the door. “Come in.”
—
His apartment was nothing like yours. In was just one open space, a bed pushed too close to the wall, a kitchen that barely separated itself from the rest of the room. No personality, no indulgence other than you.
You didn’t say anything, though. No teasing comment, no subtle comparison, just that same acceptance you always gave him, like this was enough. Like he was enough.
Dex barely gave you time to take it in. The second the door shut behind you, he lost any semblance of restraint.
His hand caught your waist and pulled you into him, his mouth crashing against yours with a kind of hunger that didn’t belong to a man who was ever in control. The kiss was messy, as if he was trying to take something he didn’t know how to ask for.
You gasped against him, your hands coming up to his chest, then his shoulders, leveling him and undoing him all at once.
He walked you backward without breaking contact. One step, then another, until the back of your knees hit the bed and you fell onto it with. He followed instantly, like space between you was unbearable.
His hands were everywhere, your neck, your sides, your thigh, like he needed to confirm you were real, that you were still here, that you hadn’t disappeared the second he let himself want you this much. And then you felt him shudder just a bit, shoulder shaking.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your breath uneven, your hands coming up to his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.
“Dex?” you whispered, concern threading through everything. “What’s wrong? ”
“Nothing,” he insisted, almost defensive. “Nothing.”
But his eyes were glassy. He swallowed hard, like he was trying to force it down, trying to push it away before you could see it. After all, he didn’t know how to explain it.
How would he even begin to explain that you made his head quiet? That just being near you feels like something he’s never had before? That he doesn’t know what this is, but it’s too much and not enough at the same time?
“I’m fine,” he added, but it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to himself.
You said his name again, gentler this time.
And that was it. That was the last thing holding him together.
“I wanna taste you,” he said honestly, almost reverently.
You were caught slightly off guard. A small, breathy laugh escaped you. “You’ve kissed me before.”
But he shook his head, his big hands already frantically bunching the fabric of your sundress with an urgency that didn’t feel casual anymore. It felt like a need. Like an instinct he couldn’t hold back even if he tried. One hand gripped on your ass as the other hooked on the waistband of your panties, tugging it down desperately.
“No,” he said, voice deeper now. “I want to taste you.”
Oh.
Your breath hitched, but you didn’t stop him. You didn’t pull away. You let him move closer, let him guide you, let him fall on his knees like he was praying to a goddess in the altar of an ancient temple. You let him take that space between your legs as he wondered how much sweeter you could get.
Here, he could at least pretend that he hadn’t been thinking about killing you not that long ago.
Dex sank lower, slower now, like he was trying to learn you, not take from you. His hands steadied himself against your thighs, his forehead dipping for just a second like he needed to breathe you in. He felt… wrecked.
His breath hitched softly as he leaned closer, the space between your heat and him shrinking until there was almost nothing left and then—
click.
It was quiet, but unmistakably the sound of safety coming off.
Every instinct he had lit up at once, snapping back into place so violently it almost hurt. His body froze, breath catching.
He lifted his head slowly. And there you were, with a gun pointed at his head.
It was small, and easy to hide, the red room insignia etched to the side. You probably pulled from that little purse you always carried like it was just an accessory.
Of course.
Dex didn’t reach for anything. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even try to put space between you. He just… looked at you.
And instead of anger, his chest folded in on itself. What he felt was closer to heartbreak than it was rage. Because for one stupid, moment he had naively believed you felt safe with him.
“…Oh,” he said softly.
The gun wasn’t the most horrifying part. It was the fact that even now, even with the metallic click of the safety still ringing in his ears, even with death staring him directly in the face, Dex could not stop looking at you.
You were sprawled beneath him on his bed, dress dragged up your thighs by his own hands, your breathing still uneven from the way he had kissed you seconds earlier. Your lips were swollen and puffy. Your chest rose and fell too quickly. One of your sandal straps hung loose around your ankle where he’d nearly pulled you apart getting you onto the mattress. And somehow… he still wanted you so badly it physically hurt.
How could he be this fucking stupid?
He should’ve known. Especially with questions about Red Hook. The ports. Fisk. That was why you kept asking.
Every little question over food and coffee and pastries. Every casual mention between laughter. Every moment he thought you were trying to know him better—
No. You were working. Just like him.
Your employer wanted information, and you had been sent to pull it out of him piece by piece while he sat there completely fucking mesmerized by you.
And now you had what they needed. Or maybe they realised he didn’t know enough to be valuable. That was worse, because it meant that he was just another loose end.
His stomach twisted hard enough to hurt. Not because you’d played him, because some pathetic, starving part of him had genuinely believed this had stopped being a job somewhere along the way. That maybe the way you kissed him outside your building had been real. That maybe when you held his hand and silenced every screaming voice in his head, it had meant something to you too.
Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
It you had looked cold, detached, amused, even cruel, this would have been easier. He would have known where to put it. Would have known how to hate you properly. But you looked devastated.
Your hand trembled slightly around the weapon pointed at him, and your eyes kept betraying you, flicking down to his mouth before snapping back up again. You looked like you hated this.
“I…” You swallowed. “You’re not useful to OXE anymore.”
He had known something felt off. He just hadn’t cared enough to stop. He just wanted you more than he wanted to survive.
Dex let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like laughter. “Fuck,” he murmured softly, and you twitched, feeling his breath on your naked core.
You flinched immediately. “No. Don’t do that.”
His eyes flicked back to yours.
“Don’t act like this was just me manipulating you,” you said, and your voice cracked slightly now. “I know there was a contract on me. I know you got sent it. I know about the gun under your shirt. Don’t you dare pretend like you weren’t planning to kill me too.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Because what could he even say? You were right.
The notebook was sitting in his apartment right now, pages and pages documenting your routines, your apartment, your vulnerabilities.
He had memorized the ways to kill you before he ever memorized the sound of your laugh.
And all this time, you had let him follow you, let him think he was in control in that “accidental run in” in Central Park, when you were planning to eliminate him, too.
And somehow, the two of you still ended up tangled together on his bed, half-dressed and breathing hard from kissing each other like starving people.
Dex’s gaze dropped involuntarily to your thighs, to the skin exposed beneath the ruined hem of your dress. To the way your body was still open for him despite the gun in your hand.
Fuck.
His fingers tightened unconsciously where they still gripped the fabric pooled around your hips.
You looked vulnerable.
And the absolute worst fucking part was that he still wanted to bury himself between your legs so badly he could barely think straight. Even now. Even knowing this was the end.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“You know what’s pathetic?” he asked quietly.
Your brows pulled together slightly.
Dex looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and wet and unbearably earnest. “I still want to taste you.”
Your breath caught audibly.
“There’s a gun pointed at my head,” he whispered in disbelief. “and all I can think about is that I never got to know what you taste like.”
“Dex…” you breathed shakily.
But he shook his head immediately. “No, listen,” he said quickly. “I know what this is. I know what happens next.”
You looked away for half a second. That almost destroyed him, because he realized then that you didn’t actually want to kill him either. And that made him want you even more.
God, I’m so sick.
“I know you’re gonna kill me because it’s the job,” he continued. “Fine. I get it.” His eyes dropped again helplessly to the way your thighs trembled around him, then back up. “But Christ…” His voice cracked. “Just let me have this first.”
Dex looked humiliated and ruined all the same. And still completely sincere.
“I could die happy,” he admitted. “Just… let me taste you first, sweetheart.”
Your hand trembled. Not enough to miss, but just enough that Dex noticed.
The barrel of the gun was pressed against the center of his forehead now, cool metal against flushed skin, and still he didn’t move away from you.
“Do it, then,” you whispered.
You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself, trying to force your hand not to shake while he knelt there between your thighs looking at you like this was the closest thing to worship he had ever known. Amazed that even like this, you were soaked for him.
“Fucking do it,” you said again, almost pleading now. “Before I…”
Before you what? Changed your mind? Cried? Dropped the gun?
Dex could see every possibility running through your brain all at once.
His hands slid down your thighs reverently. “You’re shaking,” he murmured quietly.
“So are you.”
That almost made him smile.
The apartment felt impossibly small around the two of you. The warm yellow light above the kitchen sink made you look divine, coupled by the sound of your uneven breathing. The mattress dipped beneath your weight every time you shifted. Dex tilted his head slightly against the gun like he was accepting his fate. Accepting you.
That should have terrified him. Instead, all he could think about was how beautiful you looked above him— dress ruined, eyes glossy with tears you clearly didn’t want him seeing.
He had wanted you from the beginning, even if he hadn’t admitted it. But this was something else entirely. This hurt.
Dex tilted his head just enough to press a slow kiss against the inside of your thigh, and the sound you made nearly destroyed him.
His eyes flicked up immediately, watching your reaction with awe. He couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this. Like he couldn’t believe you were reacting to him this way.
Dex kissed higher, and your hand flew to his hair immediately, fingers tangling there hard enough to pull a rough sound from his throat in return. He moaned against you.
The vibration of it shot through you so suddenly your back arched off the mattress, breath breaking apart, embarrassingly needy.
Dex's eyes kept fluttering shut every time you touched his hair, every time your thighs trembled around him, every time another helpless sound escaped you. He looked less like a man in control and more like a vampire feeding on his first prey. It was overwhelming.
Every time you twitched or gasped or tried to pull away from how intense it felt, he noticed immediately. He adjusted immediately, making you feel good mattered more than breathing. Like your pleasure mattered more to him than the gun pressed to his skull.
And fuck, did his tongue feel so fucking good. You could barely think straight. The room blurred at the edges, your thoughts dissolving one by one. Every nerve in your body felt lit raw, burning hotter and hotter every time he moaned pathetically against you again like he couldn’t help himself.
Dex sounded addicted to you already. He was too consumed by you and the sounds you were making now. They were small broken noises you clearly hated letting out but couldn’t stop anymore. Too consumed by the way your body kept reacting stronger and stronger beneath him despite your obvious attempts to stay composed.
Your hands tightened helplessly in his hair as another wave hit you, harder this time, your thighs trembling violently around his shoulders. “Dex—” you gasped brokenly.
He looked up instantly at the sound of his name. His eyes were blown wide. His lips swollen from kissing your skin. Hair ruined beneath your fingers.
Then he sank back down, a man eating his last meal. He needed it to be a feast.
Too much. It was too much.
Your body tightened all at once, every nerve pulling taut as pleasure crashed through you so hard it hurt. A sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, your entire body shaking as you finally came apart beneath him. Dex held onto you through all of it.
Your fingers slipped from his hair eventually, weak now, trembling as you tried desperately to catch your breath. Tears blurred your vision completely by the time the waves finally started easing enough for you to think again.
Dex pulled back immediately the second he realized you were crying harder.
“Hey,” he whispered instantly, breathing unevenly as he came back up toward you. His hands slid shakily to your waist, then higher, like he didn’t know where to touch to make sure you were okay. “Hey— look at me.”
You were still trembling beneath him, chest heaving as you struggled to come down from the drug-like high of the orgasm he gave you, the barrel of your gun on his temple now.
His thumb brushed shakily beneath your eye, catching tears against the pad of his finger. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, like the idea genuinely horrified him.
“Fuck—no,” you sputtered immediately, breath still wrecked as you stared at him through blurred vision. “Dex, fuck! How could you even say that?”
The concern on his face was so raw it physically ached to look at.
You were still shaking, your body trembling, your thighs dripping with spit and arousal like neither of you knew how to stop this anymore.
You could trace every conversation backward now, see all the moments you carefully guided him toward the information you needed while he sat across from you like some fucking idiot who came to the conclusion you actually liked him. Except…
You had fallen utterly in love with him.
Somewhere between the pastries and the wine and him writing down your coffee order in that stupid little notebook of his, the job had become real. Somewhere between him kissing you and him looking at you like your body wasn’t shameful or weaponized or ruined… you had stopped wanting this to end.
And now here he was. Kneeling between your thighs with your gun to his head and your taste still on his mouth, looking at you like he’d die grateful if you asked him to.
It was as if, somewhere deep down, Benjamin Poindexter truly believed that if loving you ended in death, then maybe that was simply the closest thing he would ever get to being loved at all. That thought almost made you vomit from grief.
Your breathing broke unevenly as you stared down at him.
He still had one hand on your thigh, so fucking gentle.
“I don’t understand you,” you admitted shakily.
A sad smile ghosted across his mouth at that. He was exhausted. “I don’t either.”
You let out this awful sound halfway between a laugh and a sob as tears spilled harder down your face. “Fuck, Dex,” you choked out, “you were supposed to be a job.”
“So were you.”
You swallowed hard enough it hurt. “I should kill you,” you whispered suddenly. The sentence sounded wrong coming out now, like it was collapsing under its own weight before it even reached his ears.
Dex lowered his forehead slightly more firmly against the barrel of the gun, offering himself to you. He readjusted it, making sure that if you shot him now, it would be painless, like he was going to do to you.
“Do it,” he whispered. “It’s what you were sent to do.” He sounded like he genuinely believed his life was worth less than your mission.
Your vision blurred hard. “I can’t,” you whispered.
He exhaled through his nose. “Yes, you can.”
“No!” You shouted out, panicked. “Don’t fucking… don’t even try to make this easier!”
When your finger jerked against the trigger, Dex still wouldn’t move. Fuck, he really trusted you to end it quick, did he? Even with doom pressed cold against his skin.
Your eyes squeezed shut hard enough to ache. You tried to force yourself back into training, back into discipline, back into the little girl who would get extra pieces of scrap food if she finished her mission well enough.
But all you could feel was him. His mouth on your skin. The way he’d looked at you while you fell apart beneath him. The way he kept loving you despite knowing exactly what you were. “I’m gonna…” you whispered shakily, but you couldn’t finish the sentence.
You didn’t want to kill him. And that was the first truly selfish thing you had ever wanted.
You pulled the trigger anyway, and the gun went off.
The sound exploded through the apartment violently enough to shake the walls, but the bullet slammed into the floor behind him instead. You had missed a point blank shot intentionally.
Your hand dropped. You stared at the damage of the splintering wood, breathing hard, horror rushing through your body all at once like ice water. “Oh my god,” you choked.
Dex thought he was dead.
For one longs excruciating second. He truly thought you had killed him. When he realised he wasn’t, he said your name immediately, climbing up the bed toward you “Hey, look at me.”
You genuinely couldn’t. Your entire body started shaking harder now, all the adrenaline and terror and grief finally catching up at once. “I can’t fucking do this,” you sobbed. “I can’t… I can’t—”
Dex cradled your face in both hands immediately.
“I’m a monster,” you whispered brokenly. “Dex, I’m a fucking monster.”
Dex said nothing. He only leaned forward slowly and kissed the tears from your cheeks one by one, like guilt itself had become holy.
And suddenly you understood something terrible about him: He does not love cautiously, nor rationally.
Every ounce of affection he gave came directly from the part of him that had been hurt the most. His soul had been beaten bloody and kept reaching anyway. The heart is a muscle, and his had torn itself apart trying to hold both of you afloat.
“You don’t get to say that like you’re different from me,” he whimpered against your skin.
Your breath hitched and that was when he kissed you like he was trying to pour every shattered piece of himself into your mouth before the world took it away again.
When his mouth parted against yours, you could still taste yourself on him. That made it more devastating. This ruined, trembling man was still carrying evidence of your pleasure on his tongue while he kissed you like you were worth saving.
Dex made a small sound against your mouth when you started crying harder, and suddenly his hands were everywhere, trying to hold you together physically because he didn’t know how else to do it.
His forehead dropped against yours when he pulled away. “We’re both monsters,” he whispered.
But it didn’t sound cruel. It sounded heartbreakingly close to love.
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