Of course they don’t like Milly Alcock’s Supergirl. She’s a grown ass woman with zero love interests who spends the movie saving her dog, casually dismantling a sex trafficking ring while she’s at it, and preaching the importance of being good, not nice or smiley or cheerful but good. I for one adored the movie and I really hope I’ll get to see more of Alcock’s Supergirl she’s now my favorite iteration of her and I love her so dearly.
Summary : Dex has a growing obsession with his neighbor. Little did he know, the feeling is mutual.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Neighbor! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Reader is a tattoo artist and has non-specific tattoos, Dex gets tattooed, sexual themes, nudity, Freak4Freak/stalker x stalker, alcohol and cannabis use, suggestive content, pain kink, obsessive/possessive behavior, morally ambiguous reader, references to murder, depiction of a panic attack, reader mentioned to be a daughter of a crime boss. Both reader and Dex take turns in being pathetic for each other, Dex commits some violent shit in your name, cursing (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 13.7k
Requested by : Anon
Notes : I think this is my favourite dark fic i have written with any character ever. Enjoy!
He was lying. And you knew he was lying.
You clocked that before he even spoke.
You’d just gotten back from the studio the day you met him. Your feet were aching, shoulders tight, the faint buzz of tattoo machines still ringing in your ears. The plastic bag full of groceries you just picked up dug into your fingers as you fished for your keys, climbing up the stairs.
That’s when you noticed the new guy moving into the apartment next to yours.
Moving might be an exaggeration. He had barely anything with him— just a duffel bag and a backpack like he hadn’t had a life before this at all.
“You new here?” you asked when you got to the top of the stairs.
He turned, and there it was.
You recognised him instantly.
Benjamin Poindexter.
Bullseye.
You didn’t know him personally, but you’d seen him enough times, in enough places. You saw him on screens, from news clips, in courtroom sketches on social media. After all, you kept tabs on a lot of dangerous people in NYC. Out of habit, more than anything, really.
Your expression didn’t change, though. You just shifted your groceries slightly higher on your hip.
“Yeah, I just moved in.” Then, after the tiniest pause, he introduced himself. “I’m Tony.”
A lie.
You almost laughed at how mundane Tony sounded. Still, you didn’t call him out.
You weren’t a snitch, and never had been. After all, grew up around men who made him look almost… refined. Your father would always tell you there were honour amongst thieves, he’d say.
In this case, murderers.
Still, you’d learn early how to mind your business and survive.
And besides… You’d heard what he’d been doing.
He’d been hunting Anti-vigilante task force agents, dropping them on the streets one by one.
You didn’t lose sleep over that.
So you pushed off the walls by the staircase, stepping a little closer like this was just a normal introduction. “Welcome to the building, Tony.”
His eyes were still on you. There was a sparkle there, as if interest formed before he could stop it.
You pretended not to notice, especially because your arm was starting to hurt.
“Hold on—” you muttered, shifting your grocery bag to the floor and digging through it. “Here.”
You pulled out an extra roll of paper towels and held it out to him.
He blinked, like that hadn’t been part of the script.
“For the pipes,” you said, pushing it into his hand when he didn’t take it fast enough. “They’re shit. They’ll leak, clog, make your life miserable. You’ll want backup.”
“Thanks,” he said as he took it, still looking at you, still so… focused.
You grabbed your groceries again, already turning back to your door.
“Don’t mention it,” you said, slipping your key into the lock. “And if you die in a pipe-related accident, I’ll tell management I warned you.”
“Very reassuring,” he said.
“Tell me about it.”
You pushed your door open, stopping just long enough to glance back at him. “Try not to flood the place, Tony.”
Then you slipped inside, leaving him in the hallway with a fake name, a paper towel roll, and a seed of obsession watered by conversation.
Like ivy finding its first crack in a wall, he knew it was going to grow.
—
A week passed before anything more than that happened.
Not that he didn’t notice you.
He did. Fuck, he did.
He noticed you every time your door opened. He logged every time your footsteps hit the hallway. He listened every time your laugh carried faintly through the thin, terrible pipes you’d warned him about.
But the interactions were small and contained.
You’d nod when you crossed paths. You’d say a quick “morning” on your way out of the apartment. Once, you smiled sweetly when you both reached the stairwell at the same time and you gestured for him to go first.
He didn’t.
“After you,” he said.
You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. A gentleman.”
That was it. Still, he thought about it longer than he should have.
Then, one morning, you stepped out into the hallway, to spot the other neighbour who lived on this floor. She was a lovely elderly woman, and she definitely loved you. She’d call you the “granddaughter she never had,” then proceeded to try and try to get you on a date with literally any guy she knew. She introduced you to the landlord’s son, the electrician, and even her own grandsons.
Her apartment door was propped open, and she stood there, gently ushering her cat into the hallway to stretch its legs.
“Well, look who it is,” she said the second she saw you.
“Good morning,” you greeted sweetly, passing her a brown bag with a mint chocolate chip cookie in it.
Her face lit up like you’d handed her gold. “Oh, you angel. I told you, you don’t have to keep doing this.”
“I know,” you said, smiling. “I want to.”
The cat stretched toward you immediately, paws reaching, and you obliged, scratching under its chin. It purred loud enough to echo. As you picked her up and cuddled your little furry friend in your arms, you coddled her and whispered a little “Hi, baby. When do I get to cat sit you again, huh?”.
That’s when another door clicked open.
You didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Dex stepped out into the hallway, pausing when he saw the little scene in front of him. His eyes landed on you first, then flicked to the older woman, then back again.
She followed your glance and her face lit up.
“Oh! Perfect timing,” she said, waving him closer. “Come here, come here.”
He stepped closer like he wasn’t in a rush to be anywhere else.
“Tony, this…,” she said proudly, gesturing toward you, “is the pretty girl I was telling you about. She always brings me cookies.” She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like it was a secret. “She is an excellent baker.”
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “We’ve met.”
The cat wriggled happily, and you set her down, watching it immediately circle your legs again. You turned slightly toward him, tilting your head. “Are you a cat person, Tony?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
What kind of answer was sure? Did he just see that you seemed like a cat person, and decided he simply would be, too?
The cat brushed against his leg, and he glanced down at her like he was trying to figure out the correct response.
It was slightly stiff, but you could tell that he was trying.
It was… weirdly cute.
“Anyway,” you shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “I need to go to work. I’ve got a client who wants a full sleeve done in one session and I really need to tell him it’s not happening.”
“You work all the time!” Your neighbour said, scandalised.
You scoffed fondly. “Oh my god.”
“It’s true,” she insisted, looking between the two of you like this was critical evidence in her case. “She’s never around long enough to meet anyone nice.”
You rolled your eyes, but turned away to go. If you let her, she’d keep you here all day and talk about all the nice boys your age she met in church. “I gotta go now,” you said, “I’ll come by later.”
You headed toward the stairs.
A second later, you heard footsteps behind you.
Of course, Dex was going out, too.
You didn’t slow down, but you didn’t speed up either.
“Pretty girl?” he said from a step above you, almost amused
You groaned under your breath. “Don’t start.”
He shrugged, completely unbothered as you let him catch up. “She’s not wrong, though.”
You almost missed a step.
“Wow,” you said, recovering quickly. “You’re laying it on thick this morning.”
You reached the bottom of the stairs, past the mailboxes. He followed, falling into step beside you.
“Don’t tell anyone,” you said abruptly.
He glanced at you. “About?”
You leaned in just slightly, lowering your voice. “The cookies?”
“Yeah?”
“They’re from the supermarket.”
He went quiet, before letting out a short chuckle, shaking his head. “So you lied.”
You nudged at him immediately. “I never said I made them. She just assumed.”
“And you never corrected her,” he pointed out.
“It makes her happy,” you said, shrugging. “She likes the idea of it. I’m not ruining that over a 3 dollar box of cookies.”
He watched you for a second longer than necessary. There it was again, that focus. That sharp, almost unsettling attention.
Softer, he said, “Fair enough.”
You crossed your arms lightly, smirking. “What? You’ve never bent the truth before?”
For a split second you could see his brain buffer, but it was gone just as quickly. “Maybe once or twice,” he said.
You huffed. “Right.”
Internally, you almost laughed. Talk about lying.
Outwardly, though, you just shook your head, nudging the door open to head your separate ways.
“I hope my secret’s safe with you,” you said, stepping out onto the pavement.
“Of course,” he replied.
You started walking, then glanced back at him once. “And if she asks, I spent hours baking them.”
The last thing you saw before turning was his smile.
He stayed there for a second, watching you go.
That day, he debated following you to your workplace instead of killing the two Task Force agents he knew were going to be by the bridge.
—
A week later, you found yourself in the basement, doing your weekly rounds of laundry. It smelled like detergent, damp concrete, and rust.
You were crouched in front of one of the machines, shoving a stubborn pile of clothes deeper into the drum with your forearm, when the door creaked open behind you.
Then, you heard footsteps. You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
“Hi, Tony,” you greeted with a small smile. But as you got up, you winced a little.
“You okay, pretty girl?” He asked, eyebrows raised.
Oh, so it was a nickname now?
You waved it off immediately, rolling your shoulders like that would fix it. “Yeah, yeah. Just…” you paused, stretching, “—work is trying to kill me. I’ve been hunched over a chair all day today.”
His eyes flicked over you as he put his basket down on the table. “What’s work?”
You snorted, grabbing your laundry basket and setting it on top of the machine. “Ink,” you said, glancing over your shoulder at him. “I work at a studio a few blocks over.”
He nodded like that was new information.
It wasn’t.
He knew your route down to the minute. He knew what time you left, what time you got back, which days you tend to stay late. He knew which shop you stopped at when you were too tired to cook.
You, on the other hand, just kept talking.
“Actually—” you turned a little, hooking your thumb under the hem of your shorts, tugging it up just enough to expose a small piece of ink on your upper thigh. “See this?”
His eyes dropped instantly to a small design, a little uneven if you looked closely, lines not quite as confident as your newer work, shading a touch inconsistent.
But it was… cute. Especially on you, Dex thought. It was definitely on theme with the other tattoos you had down your arms and legs.
“I did that,” you explained. “I don’t usually tattoo myself, but it was studio policy. Had to do it to get from apprentice to artist.”
“I like it,” Dex said, and for once, he was honest.
You glanced down at it fondly. “It’s a little wonky, but… yeah. It’s part of me now.”
He didn’t answer right away.
He was still looking, and not just at the tattoo.
He was looking at the way it curved with your skin. The way your fingers rested just above it. He was thinking about how you didn’t think twice about showing him something that permanent, that close, that personal.
He briefly wondered what you would do if he hooked his finger on your shorts, maybe dragging it higher…
You dropped your shorts back into place, completely unaware of the direction his thoughts had taken.
“You got any?” you asked, nodding toward him.
“No,” he answered.
You hummed, tilting your head like you were considering him from a new angle. “Would you ever get one?”
He almost said no again.
Tattoos were permanent. Identifiable. Stupid, for someone like him and his… line of work.
“You’d be a hell of a canvas,” you added, like that might sweeten the deal.
And just like that he said, “Yes.”
It was pathetic, really, how quickly he folded. All he could think about was how you’d be doing it, how you’d be marking him, how you’d be the one sitting him on a chair telling him to sit still, how you’d tell him he was taking such a good job resisting the pain when he would like it simply because it was you who was hurting him.
You blinked, then broke into a smile like that was the exact answer you wanted. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You nodded, like you’d already figured out the logistics in your head. “If you ever want one, you don’t have to go to the studio. I’ve got a setup in my apartment. It’s nothing crazy, just for friends and stuff. People who don’t want to pay the upcharge or deal with the whole… environment.”
His eyes flicked up to your face again.
“Noted,” he said.
You smiled, satisfied, turning back to your machine as it started its cycle. “I give a mean tattoo, Tony. You’d be in safe hands.”
He believed that.
You leaned back against the machine, folding your arms loosely. “So what do you do for work?”
You loved watching him squirm, even if his body language didn’t necessarily show it. His eyes darted a little, and you learned that it was as close as he got to a tell.
“Freelance,” he answered abruptly.
You raised an eyebrow slowly. “Uh huh.”
Still, you didn’t push. You didn’t call him out.
“Must be nice,” you said lightly. “Flexible hours and all that.”
He gave a vague shrug, but his attention had already drifted back to you, and to the ink peeking out from under your sleeves, continuing lines at your arm. He decided that you’d definitely have more hidden under your shirt.
He wondered how far it all went, how much of you was marked.
What it would look like if he could get you alone, without the distraction of clothing. He would trace every line, every curve, every piece of art embedded in your skin with his tongue, tasting and—
“Earth to Tony.”
He blinked. You were looking at him, amused.
“You just completely checked out,” you said. “I was saying, don’t overload that machine. It’ll make a noise so loud Mr. Ramirez from across the street is gonna file a noise complaint.”
“Right.” He nodded. Then, almost to himself, he added. “I was listening.”
You smiled, unconvinced but not pressing it. “Sure you were.”
The machines hummed between you, filling the silence.
For a second, neither of you moved.
“Well,” you finally pushed off the machine, grabbing your basket. “Have fun doing laundry, Tony.”
And just like that, you were gone.
—
You got so used to Dex being your next door neighbour that you almost forgot he was a convicted murderer.
After all, it was hard to even believe that when your interactions with him were so… wholesome.
You’d be halfway down the stairs, keys between your fingers, already running through your day in your head when you’d hear his door click open above you.
“Morning, Tony,” you’d call, not even looking back.
“Morning, pretty girl.”
That was it, at first. Eventually it became…
“Running late?” he asked one day, watching you juggle your bag and a half-zipped jacket.
“Shut up, Tony,” you shot back, hopping the last step. You were amused though, and pleased that he even gave you any attention at all.
He smiled.
A few days later, he “accidentally” ran into you on your way back, after the sun had dropped. You were tired, shoulders slumped, ink smudged faintly along the side of your wrist.
“Long day?” he asked.
You huffed, digging your key into the lock. “This girl wanted a tattoo of her boyfriend’s name. Bad idea.”
He laughed, cherishing every little interaction he had with you.
Some days, you’d offer him a bottle of water when the building’s pipes went weird again. He’d hold the door open when your hands were full. He'd give you salt when you ran out. He even helped you babysit your mutual neighbour’s cat once.
And then one night, it changed.
You got back late. Later than usual.
Thank god you were back, though. Dex was a few seconds away from breaking and entering into your shop to make sure no one had hurt you.
Still, your feet hurt, your back hurt, your patience was hanging by a thread. The second you stepped into your apartment you made a beeline for the window.
You shoved it open, letting the cool air hit your face, dragging in a breath like you hadn’t taken one all day. The city hummed below with distant traffic, music bleeding faintly from somewhere down the block.
You climbed out onto the fire escape without thinking about it. You’d done it a hundred times before.
You sat there with a beer, legs stretched out, back against the brick, letting the noise settle your brain.
Tonight was no different.
At least, it wasn’t supposed to be.
Little did you know, Dex had been watching you for a good five minutes.
And because he just really wanted to sit with you, he eventually pushed his own window open and stepped up to his own fire escape.
You didn’t look over right away.
He moved across the narrow divider between your sides (there was barely a gap at all), and that’s when your head tilted, just slightly.
“Y’know,” you said casually, “most people use the front door.”
Dex paused before stepping fully onto your side.
“Didn’t feel like it,” he replied.
You let out a small huff of a laugh out.
You lifted the bottle in your hand slightly. “Beer?” you offered to share.
Dex stared at you for half a second too long.
That was it? You let him into your space, just like that?
“Take it or don’t,” you said lightly. “But if you murder me, I’m gonna be really annoyed I wasted good beer on you.”
That almost made him laugh.
He took the bottle, and stiffened as your fingers brushed his for a second. “You trust me?”
You shrugged, settling back into your spot like the moment had already passed. “I figured if you were gonna kill me, you would probably be sneakier.”
He took a swig of the bottle. You were right, it was good beer.
“I might just be bad at it,” he said.
“Yeah,” you snorted knowingly. “You look real incompetent.”
Silence settled for a second, but not an awkward one.
You took the bottle from him and sipped, glancing sideways at him.
“So,” you said. “you always break into people’s fire escapes, or am I special?”
Dex leaned back against the brick. “Special,” he decided.
You hummed, clearly pleased with that answer. “Thought so.”
The conversation drifted after that. You talked about a client who tapped out halfway through a tattoo and blamed you for it. You complained about the landlord again. You pointed out which windows belonged to which neighbours, offering little pieces of your world like they didn’t matter.
Dex listened, of course. He logged everything. But for once, he didn’t feel like he was gathering intel.
He felt like he was… sitting. With you.
At some point, you laughed head tipping back again, and it echoed out into his skull and gripped his heart like a vice.
He only really snapped out of his little trance when you asked, “Same time tomorrow, Tony?”
—
It became a habit.
You’d sit cross-legged or stretched out along the fire escape. Dex would cross over, and then you'd pass bottles back and forth, talking about nothing and everything all at once. Work stories, complaints about neighbours, stupid observations about people on the street below. Easy things, safe things.
Dex told you just enough to keep it believable.
You didn’t push, not even when you smelled the lingering iron scent of blood on him.
Still, you’d bump your foot against his when you laughed. You’d steal his drink the way he stole yours. Sometimes you’d talk over each other, then both stop, then both say “you go first” at the same time and laugh about it like idiots.
It was dangerously normal.
Occasionally, though, you weren’t as upbeat as you usually were. Those nights, Dex tended to pry a bit more. He needed to know what was wrong with his pretty girl, and who was responsible for you being in a mood, right?
“You’re quiet today.” Dex said once.
You glanced at him, a little surprised, like you hadn’t realised it yourself. Then you gave a small shrug, curling your fingers tighter around your beer.
In the end, you just shook your head. “Wow. Okay.”
You nudged his foot lightly with yours, a habit by now, but there was less energy behind it than usual.
“…It’s stupid,” you added after a second.
Dex just waited for an answer.
You exhaled, tipping your head back before finally giving in. “I did this back-of-the-hand tattoo today,” you explained. “Like, really intricate. It was of a sun with fine lines, proper detail, the whole thing.”
As you talked, a little life came back into your tone, the way it always did when you spoke about your work.
“I genuinely think it’s one of my best pieces,” you went on, glancing at him briefly. “Especially for that placement. Hands are tricky as hell.”
Then your tone dipped again.
“Guy ran out and didn’t pay.”
Dex tilted his head, but didn’t interrupt.
You rolled your eyes, but it didn’t quite land as playful. “Honestly? I don’t even care about the money anymore.” You picked at the label on your bottle, peeling it slowly. “I just wanted a photo of it. It was my art, you know? But he won’t even return my calls.”
His fingers tapped once, lightly, against the glass bottle in his hand. He was thinking of every scenario, how he could handle this, when, and how he was going to tell you about it. He needed a plan.
“Does he have a name?” he asked.
You blinked, looking over at him. “Yeah,” you said, a little confused by how direct that was. “Jack Hargrove, I think. That’s what he signed in the form, why?”
Dex nodded once. “Okay.”
That was it, no more questions asked.
—
And then… there were the nights you got high.
Those were his favourite.
You had already grown into his favourite person by then, but when you were giggly and mumbly? He found you fucking adorable.
You’d show up already a little floaty, or you’d pull out a blunt halfway through the night like it was nothing.
The first time you did it, you asked, “Hey.” You nudging his arm lightly. “You smoke?”
Dex didn’t even hesitate before answering. “No.”
You blinked at him once. Slowly, your eyes narrowed just a little, almost amused.
“Wow,” you said, dragging the word out slightly. “That was fast.”
“I don’t,” he repeated.
You snorted, shoulders shaking as you leaned back against the wall, bringing your hand up to cover your mouth like you were trying (and failing) to contain it.
“Alright, officer,” you said, wondering how much you can bring up about his past without him being suspicious. “or is it… agent?”
Dex’s head turned toward you so quickly it almost hurt him. “What?”
You were already grinning, wide and lazy, eyes bright with mischief, ready with a lie to soften your statement.
“You just hit me with the most federal ‘no’ I’ve ever heard in my life,” you quickly backtracked, knowing you had just put him on high alert. “Like, no hesitation, no curiosity, no ‘what is it?’ Just… no.”
He stared at you.
You pointed at him with the blunt, still smiling. “That’s fed behaviour.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“Mhm,” you hummed, playfully.
After a while, you leaned a little closer, squinting at him like you were inspecting something. “Yeah,” you teased, trying to push little buttons. “You’d hate paperwork too much.”
Dex almost frowned. “You’re making a lot of assumptions.”
“And you’re being very defensive for someone who’s definitely never been a fed,” you shot back lightly.
There was a good five-second pause before you grinned again, gentler this time.
“Relax,” you added, nudging his arm again. “I’m kidding.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. You did enjoy toying with him.
Dex let out a deep breath, tension he hadn’t even acknowledged easing just slightly.
“I just don’t smoke,” he said.
You hummed to yourself, satisfied, and brought the blunt to your lips instead.
“Suit yourself, officer,” you murmured, the tease slipping back in just enough to make it light again.
The flame flickered briefly as you lit it, casting a warm glow over your face before fading. You inhaled slowly, like you’d done it a hundred times before.
Dex watched the way you exhaled, smoke curling into the night air. He watched the way your shoulders dropped, tension leaving you in real time.
“Okay,” you sighed, settling back against the brick, your knee bumping his again. “Now I’m fun.”
Dex didn’t look away. “You’re already fun,” he’d mumble under his breath.
Still. The more you smoked around him, the more he got used to it.
He already adored you before, but something about the cute string of laughter you only got when you were high would make his heart melt.
The way you shifted closer without thinking, your knee bumping lightly against his. The way you leaned back, head tilting until it rested briefly against the wall, eyes half-lidded but still bright.
Most times, you’d just trip over your sentences.
“You ever just…” you started, then stopped, laughing under your breath. “No, wait, that’s stupid.”
“What?” he asked before he could stop himself.
You turned your head toward him slowly, like it took effort, eyes landing on his face and staying there.
You didn’t sound intimidated. You sounded delighted.
“Am I?” he said.
“Yeah,” you nodded, completely serious for half a second before it slipped again. “But it’s okay. I like it.”
Your words would drift in and out, sometimes making perfect sense, other times, it meant nothing. You’d laugh at things he didn’t understand. You’d drift from one thing to another. Childhood stories that didn’t sound like childhood stories. You'd say things that sounded like names you never explained. You’d mention places that didn’t quite exist in any way he could trace.
Sometimes you’d say things that should have sounded serious, but you said them with a smile, with a laugh, like they didn’t weigh anything at all. You once even said something about sleeping next to a sawed-off shotgun when you were twelve “just in case.”
In case of what?
Dex couldn’t find anything abnormal about your day to day life, no matter how much he dug or how many times he followed you, so he assumed it didn’t mean anything.
Every now and then, you'd let him tuck you in bed. Tonight was one of those nights.
You blinked slowly, looking at him like you were trying to say something important.
“Tony,” you murmured.
He leaned in slightly without thinking. “Yeah?”
You smiled, soft and sleepy. “You’re… nice.”
The word came out like it surprised even you. Then you giggled again, like the effort was too much.
He didn’t correct you. He just watched as your eyes drifted shut for a second too long.
Dex stood before you could even try. You didn’t protest when he guided you up.
You didn’t question it when he helped you through your window, one hand steady at your arm, the other hovering just in case.
Inside, your apartment was dim and warm.
You barely made it to the bed before sinking into it, still half-laughing at something only you understood.
Dex pulled the blanket over you as you shifted slightly, face turning into the pillow.
“Night,” you mumbled.
He stayed there for a second, looking at you. At how soft you looked like this. How open. How completely unguarded.
But then… your eyes opened up again just a little. You traced the scar on his cheek gently.
“You don’t have to worry,” you mumbled. Your voice was different. Not quite giggly, but clear as day. “I’m not on anyone’s side anymore.”
—
That night, he left your apartment without a sound.
He came back over the fire escape, slipped through his own window, and closed it behind him like he had done many times before.
Dex moved straight to his laptop, already pulling it open, fingers moving before the screen fully lit up.
Not on anyone’s side anymore? That was a red flag, right?
He immediately looked up databases, records, everything.
He checked for you— your address, previous work history, licenses, financial trail.
He found nothing.
He refined his search. He tried running deeper pulls. He cross-referenced. He even systems.
Still… Nothing. No childhood records, no school registrations, no medical history.
No digital footprint worth anything. No tickets, no fines, no traces.
It wasn’t just clean, It was impossible.
Dex leaned back slowly, eyes still locked on the screen like something might appear if he stared long enough.
His jaw tightened slightly.
Because now those moments replayed differently.
The way you talked, the things you said, the way you never explained anything fully, the way you didn’t ask questions.
You weren’t just a tattoo artist with a strange past.
You had no past at all.
He stared at the blank screen again. “Who are you?”
—
The next couple of nights were normal. It wasn’t until Thursday that things began to unravel.
That night, you weren’t at your fire escape.
Most people would ignore it, maybe even justify it with she’s just busy, she’s just tired, it’s just one night.
Dex didn’t believe in just one night. Not with you.
You were consistent, and that made patterns easy. You came home at the same time, your lights turned on within minutes, your window slid open not long after that. Sometimes you were early. Sometimes a little late. But you always showed up.
So when he stepped out onto the fire escape and your window stayed dark, he immediately started running all the scenarios in his mind.
He stood there, one hand resting against the brick, eyes fixed on the blank glass like it might change if he waited long enough.
Still, nothing.
He told himself to leave after ten minutes. He didn’t.
He stayed longer than that, longer than he would’ve for anyone else, eyes flicking to your window every few seconds like it was a reflex he couldn’t shut off.
When he eventually he went back inside, the feeling didn’t go with him.
—
The next day he confirmed you weren’t at work.
At first, he was confused when you didn’t get out of your door at all. Then, he thought you might’ve gone extra early.
So he did what he did best— he went to your studio.
From across the street, he saw that your workstation was empty. No setup. No sketches. No you leaning over someone’s arm with that focused look you got when you were working.
Nothing.
By the time he got back to the building, he made a beeline straight to your door.
Dex didn’t knock, or call. He didn’t do things halfway.
He broke in, lock giving up in seconds. He slipped inside without a sound.
Your apartment felt… wrong.
Not messy or disturbed. Everything was where it should be. Your shoes were by the door, your jacket thrown over the back of a chair, a glass left on the counter like you’d meant to come back to it.
But it felt… stale. Like you hadn’t opened the window all day and all night.
Dex moved through it quickly, eyes scanning every corner, mind already working through possibilities.
Nothing in the living room. Nothing in the kitchen.
Then, he heard a faint sound from down the hall,
He stopped immediately. He heard a shallow inhale, followed by another, and another, like whoever it was couldn’t catch up with their own lungs.
Dex followed the sound to the bathroom. The door was barely closed, just enough to muffle the sound.
He pushed it open.
You were on the floor, folded into the corner like you were trying to disappear into it.
Your knees were pulled tight to your chest, arms wrapped around them so hard your knuckles had gone white. Your head was tipped forward, forehead almost pressed to your arms, your entire body shaking in violent, uncontrollable tremors.
You were breathing too fast, each inhale breaking halfway through, like your lungs were locking up on you. Your chest heaved, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.
Your eyes were wide, unfocused, glassy with panic, like you weren’t fully there anymore.
For a second, you didn’t even recognise him.
When you did, you shrank even more, as if you were embarrassed to be found.
“Hey…” he pushed the door away, “hey, I’m here now.”
“He’s here,” the words tore out of you eventually. “He’s here, he’s in town! I saw him-I saw him—”
Dex dropped in front of you, one knee hitting the tile hard, but his focus never left your face.
“Look at me,” he said, cutting through the chaos. “Tell me what happened.”
Your gaze flickered, struggled, then caught on his.
“One of my dad’s friends—” you choked, your breath hitching so hard it made your whole body jerk, “His old friends, he found me, he found me—”
Your hands went to your hair, fingers tangling, pulling just enough to hurt, like you needed a physical sensation to hold onto.
“He’s gonna tell him,” you rushed, the words tumbling over each other faster and faster, spiralling, “he’s gonna tell my dad and he’s gonna… he’s gonna get me, he’s gonna—fuck—fuck!”
Your breathing broke completely after that, a choking inhale one right after another.
Your body folded tighter in on itself like it was trying to shut everything out.
Dex grabbed your wrist. “You need to tell me who you saw and where you saw him,” he insisted, “I can’t help otherwise.”
You stared at him, chest heaving, like you were trying to force your body to cooperate.
“Marko,” you whispered, the name barely making it out. “Marko Kovač.”
Your breath hitched again, but you pushed through it, words spilling out uneven and desperate.
“I saw him on E-Eighth and 23rd, outside that liquor store with the broken sign… he was just standing there and he looked right at me, like he knew, like he recognised me—”
Your grip tightened on his sleeve without you even realising.
Just like that, he stood up like there wasn’t time to waste.
Your hand shot out, grabbing his sleeve before he could step away, fingers clutching hard, desperate.
“Don’t…” your voice broke so badly it barely sounded like you. “Don’t leave me, please—”
Dex stopped and looked down at you. He looked at the way you were shaking. He looked at the tears you didn’t even seem to notice. At how completely, utterly terrified you were.
You, who laughed at everything, who teased him, who sat on that fire escape like nothing could touch you…
You were breaking.
And you were asking him to stay, but it didn’t change what needed to happen.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, quieter now. “Okay? Stay here.”
Your grip didn’t loosen right away. Your fingers trembled too much.
“Okay,” you whispered finally, as he gently pulled free.
Because at the end of the day, you trusted him.
—
It took a while before you could even move.
For a long time, you just stayed there on the bathroom floor, curled into yourself, your breath still catching every few seconds like your body hadn’t quite figured out how to come down yet.
But slowly, it eased.
Not gone. Not even close.
But Dex being there, telling you that he’d help, it was enough that your fingers stopped shaking so violently. Enough that you could uncurl your arms without feeling like everything would fall apart if you did.
You wiped at your face with the heel of your hand, dragging in a shaky breath that actually finished this time.
In.
Out.
It was still uneven, but it was better.
“Okay,” you whispered to no one, voice hoarse.
When you moved, every motion felt heavy, like your body wasn’t fully yours yet. You pushed yourself up using the edge of the tub, legs unsteady, breath catching again when the room tilted slightly.
You waited it out. Then you made yourself keep going.
You washed your face with cold water over and over until your skin stung and your reflection looked less… broken.
It didn’t fully work, but it helped.
You pulled your favourite hoodie on like armour. You tugged the sleeves down over your hands, fingers disappearing into the fabric, as if you could hide in it.
Then you made it to the couch.
You curled up in the corner, knees tucked in again, but looser this time.
He said he’d be back.
So now, all you could do was wait.
—
The door clicked open so quietly it almost blended into the hum of your apartment, but you still heard it. You didn’t even question how he got the keys.
You didn’t move right away. You were still curled into the corner of the couch, hoodie pulled over your head, sleeves covering your hands, your body folded in on itself like you hadn’t fully decided it was safe to exist again.
You looked up as he stepped into the living room.
Dex stood there like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t left you shaking on the bathroom floor, like he hadn’t disappeared into the night with a name and a purpose.
“Hey,” he said casually, like he’d only gone out to grab dinner.
Your throat felt a little tight, but not from fear. Not anymore. “Hi, Tony.”
You watched his mouth twitch at that, like the name amused him now instead of hiding him.
Your eyes dropped to his sleeves and saw blood.
It was dried now, but you could tell it soaked into the fabric near his wrists and forearms. It was subtle. If you hadn’t seen blood on fabric before, you might have chalked it up to a stain.
Your gaze lingered a second longer than it should have. He followed it.
Then, almost like it didn’t matter, he lifted the plastic bag in his other hand slightly. “I got Chinese.”
Your lips curled up faintly.
He didn’t ask where anything was. He set the bag down, pulled containers out, found plates in your kitchen as if he’d done it a hundred times before. The fragrant smell filled the room and it felt almost surreal layered over the reality of him standing there with blood on his clothes.
You pushed yourself up slowly, legs still a little heavy, and drifted closer.
“Did you—” you started, then stopped yourself.
You were going to ask. You wondered, distantly, how long it had taken. If Marko had recognised him. If he had time to understand why he was dying, or if it had been quick and efficient, like everything Dex did.
You wondered where the body was.
The Hudson, maybe, weighed down. Or maybe somewhere no one would ever think to look. Dex didn’t seem like the kind of man who left loose ends.
Maybe he wanted someone to find the body, maybe as a deceleration of loyalty to you.
You decided against asking.
He glanced at you anyway, oblivious.
“I got your favorite,” he added instead, nudging a container toward you as he sat down.
You blinked at that. “You don’t know my favorite.”
“I do.”
You opened the container. He could tell by your smile that he was right.
You huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head as you scooted beside him.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
You bumped your shoulder lightly into his as you settled in. He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned into it just enough that you noticed.
You picked up your chopsticks, pausing for a second before actually eating. Your hands weren’t shaking anymore. That alone said everything.
“You don’t have to worry about him anymore,” Dex said.
You went still for half a heartbeat. Then you nodded. “Okay.”
You wondered again, briefly, if Marko had been scared. Then you took a bite of your food.
“Good?” Dex asked, watching you a little too closely.
You chewed, swallowed, then nodded again. “Yeah. Really good.”
He relaxed. It was as if he had been waiting for that exact reaction and didn’t quite know why.
And just like that, the moment settled into comfortable silence.
You leaned back into the couch, letting your shoulder brush his arm this time.
Your body felt different now. Not wired with panic anymore, not collapsing in on itself.
Against all odds, you felt safer because he was here.
Dex turned his head slightly, after finishing his meal. “Who was he?”
You knew what he meant. You nudged your food around with your chopsticks, eyes dropping. “My dad’s friend.”
You said it very flatly.
“Your dad has… very armed friends.”
You couldn’t hold back a scoff. You shook your head, unable to hide your cynical amusement. “Yeah,” you said. You hesitated, before reluctantly adding, “He was the one who armed them.”
That got his full attention. “Oh?”
Well, fuck.
You were assuming he killed a man for you. What more did you really have to hide?
“Ugh,” You exhaled, dragging a hand up over your face before letting it drop. “He was—is- an arms dealer.”
You leaned back further into the couch, head tipping slightly against the cushion as you stared at nothing in particular. “I ran away when I was eighteen,” you continued. “Just as he was starting to talk about how his empire was one day all going to be mine.”
You let out a small, humourless huff. “Guess I wasn’t into the whole… family business.”
You never really had a problem with what he did, it was just the world you grew up in. You learned early not to judge it. To each their own and all that shit. Survival didn’t leave much room for morals anyway.
But you didn’t love it.
You could do it. You would do it, if you had to. That part of you was there, shaped and grown exactly the way your dad intended.
Violence didn’t scare you.
You understood it, the same way you understood how to hold a pencil or steady a glock in your hand. If you were out in a situation where it could arise, you wouldn’t hesitate to dish it out. Even your mother considered you trigger-happy.
Still… it was never what you wanted.
You just wanted to draw.
And sometimes, that made you feel… pathetic.
Because the voice your dad left behind in your head never let it be simple. In your nightmares, he’d call you selfish and weak. He’d say that all you cared about was your own need for self-fulfillment. While everyone else carried the family legacy, you were chasing something as small and useless as art for art’s sake.
Safe to say, he wasn’t exactly a good father.
Not when he shoved a gun into your small hands at seven years old and told you to stop shaking and kill the son of a bitch already. Not when he pressed the barrel one to your head at thirteen because you were sketching during one of his “important meetings,” telling you that if you were going to survive in this family, you needed to learn what deserved your attention.
He called it tough love. He was preparing you for a bright future.
And maybe it worked, a little.
Because you didn’t run from violence. You just… didn’t actively seek it.
Dex didn’t interrupt. He just listened.
“He’s still looking for me,” you added, looking down. “Or was. I don’t know. I stopped checking.”
You lifted your shoulders in a small shrug. It looked casual, but there was a tired smile behind it. For a second, Dex wondered how much time you had really spent on the run.
“I just want to draw,” you finished, looking down at what was left of your food. Suddenly, your appetite vanished.
To Dex, everything made sense.
To him, it explained the missing pieces, your lack of records, your offhand comments, the way you never asked questions you should have asked.
He studied you for a second before asking, “You left all of that behind?”
After all, as an FBI agent, he’d seen heirs fight over an empire far less than what he could gather was your father’s. He’d seen people kill their own brothers over a small-town drug operation.
You managed a chuckle. “I could’ve been filthy rich,” you paused for a second. “But I don’t like paperwork.”
For a second, he just stared at you.
Then… he laughed.
It wasn’t loud, but it was real. It sounded abrupt and rough, like the sound surprised him. You glanced at him, a smile tugging at your lips in response.
Out of all people, he made you feel like you had normalcy.
You were just on your couch, eating takeout, laughing about paperwork… while a speck of his sleeve was still dark red.
You wondered, again, how it happened. What it looked like. If he’d been thinking about you while he did it.
The thought didn’t make your stomach turn. Instead, you felt more at peace knowing he had done it.
That Marko was gone.
That wasn’t coming to drag you back.
You nudged his arm lightly with yours. “Hey, Tony?”
“Yeah?”
“Come back when you’ve got time.”
He watched you, waiting.
“Think about what you want, and I’ll give you that tattoo,” you said, a warm smile forming. “It’s free,” you added. “As a thank you for helping with Marko.”
Dex held your gaze for a long second. Whatever he was looking for, he found it.
“Okay,” he said.
—
A couple of days later, he showed up at your door on your day off.
You let him in without a second thought.
“So,” you said, stretching your arms over your head as you turned toward your setup, “today’s the day. What are we doing?”
Dex stepped inside, eyes looking to the couch, now covered with extra fabric, the neatly arranged tools, the small table you’d set up.
“I don’t know what,” he said after a second.“But I know where.”
“Alright, Tony,” you nodded, grabbing a pair of gloves and snapping them lightly against your wrist. “Show me where you want it. We’ll figure the rest out together.”
He didn’t hesitate before he took his jacket off and reached for the hem of his shirt. He pulled it off in one smooth motion.
And… Jesus.
You knew he was built. You weren’t blind. You’d seen the way his shirts fit, the way he carried himself, the way fabric would ride up his stomach on the fire escape.
But this was different.
You could see his defined muscle, veins underneath, broad shoulders. His body didn’t just look trained. He looked like a biblical carving made by the hands of Michaelangelo himself. It was unfair really, especially when he had the face of a Caravaggio angel. Scars scattered here and there, some small, some not. Every inch of him looked… precise.
Your brain very helpfully went: oh my fucking god.
Then, you snapped your head back in the game before the heat between your legs could derail your train of thought.
And yeah. It almost did.
“Wow,” you said, casual, like it hadn’t hit you at all. “You’ve been hiding all that under those boring shirts on purpose, or…?”
He didn’t answer.
But you saw thoughts stalling behind his eyes, almost like a glitch. Soon, the faintest flush crept up the tips of his ears, just barely pink against his skin. His shoulders shifted, like he didn’t quite know where to put himself under your watch.
Dex, who could look someone in the eye without blinking while deciding whether they lived or died…didn’t know what to do with a compliment.
How adorable, you thought.
You just smiled. It was flirty, but it didn’t faze you nearly as much as it did to him.
Instead of acknowledging that, he turned slightly, presenting his back to you.
“See the scar?” he said.
You knew what it was, the raised skin that went from the bottom of his neck to right above the waistband of his trousers.
You knew about the experimental operation, the spinal damage— the whole story. But you didn’t say that.
You stepped closer instead, fingers hovering just above his skin. You weren’t quite touching yet, just tracing the air along the line of it.
“Surgery?” you asked casually.
“Yeah.”
You hummed, stepping around him to get a better angle. “You want to cover it, or… work with it?”
He considered for a second, but didn't seem to come to a conclusion “It’s up to you,” he said.
“Dangerous thing to say to an artist,” you murmured.
Dex managed a shrug anyway.
You gestured toward the couch. “Lay down. Face down.”
He did, no questions asked. You made sure the surface was clean with a fresh sheet, and then you got to work with a sharpie.
Dex could heat the scratch of your marker against his skin as you started sketching directly onto him, your hand steady, movements confident. You worked instinctively, letting the shape of the scar guide you.
Dex didn’t even move once.
You leaned back after a while, head tilting as you assessed it.
“Hold on,” you said. “I need a better angle.” You hesitated just a fraction before adding, “Mind if I climb up?”
After all, your couch wasn’t exactly a tattoo chair. Or a bed you could just go around. You had limitations, and you just had to work with it.
“Go on.”
So you did.
You swung a leg over, settling carefully against him, straddling his ass just enough to get the position you needed.
You ignored the way your stomach flipped.
You should be focused, professional. Mostly.
You adjusted slightly, bracing one hand against the back of the couch as you leaned forward to refine the lines. Your other hand moved with purpose, sketching, correcting, building lines that felt right.
It didn’t take long before you finished the initial sketch.
You pulled back again, grabbing your phone.
“Don’t move,” you said, already snapping a photo.
Then you climbed off him, stepping around to his side and holding the screen out.
“Alright,” you said. “What do you think?”
Dex pushed himself up just enough to look.
Oh. Wow.
You had drawn simple ivy vines winding up his spine, starting low and growing upward. It curled, twisted, and wrapped around the scar like it belonged there. Like it had always been part of it. Like life had taken root in a broken part of him and made it… beautiful.
Dex stared at it for a long second.
“It looks like it’s growing out of it,” he said quietly.
You nodded, watching his reaction. “That’s the idea.”
He looked at it again, then at your fingers, purple from the ink on the sharpie.
If he agreed, if he said yes to this, you would be part of him forever. He couldn’t imagine a better feeling than that, so he said, “It’s beautiful.”
Your lips curved up into a pleased smile. “Let’s prep you, then.”
—
You settled into your rhythm quickly after you put your gloves on. As the machine buzzed to life, you leaned over him.
“Alright,” you warned, steadying your hand against his back. “Let me know if it’s too much.”
The needle touched down.
Most people flinched. Some needed a second to adjust.
Dex didn’t.
If anything… Dex pressed into it.
Your eyes looked up for a second, then back down to your work.
He seemed to be chasing the pain. Interesting.
You dragged the line a little longer this time. Your voice was right there, focused on the task at hand when you said. “Your skin’s taking this really nicely.”
His breath hitched, and from the needle.
From how it felt.
Dex clenched his jaw shut immediately, forcing the reaction down, forcing his body still. The next needle drag came slower, more deliberate, and it pulled a pleasure out of him that he wasn’t prepared for.
It burned. It lingered. It made his spine feel too sensitive, like every nerve was suddenly awake and paying attention.
And he… liked it. He liked it a little too much. The fact that you were the one doing it to him made it worse.
His fingers curled into the couch as he swallowed hard.
Focus, Dex.
He tried to file it away, treat it like any other sensation, but then your gloved thumb brushed close to the fresh ink, grounding him just enough to make the next sting hit harder.
“Stay like that,” you said, encouraging him. “You’re doing really good.”
That… fuck. That made it so much worse.
Because now he wasn’t just chasing the pain.
He was chasing the reward: your praise and approval.
His body reacted before he could stop it, a sound clawing up his throat. He crushed it down.
But the next line came. And the next. Each one was slow and intentional, as if you were making sure he felt it.
“You’re sitting so well for me.”
For you.
The words tangled with the sensation, twisting it into the same vine he couldn’t separate anymore.
Dex’s grip tightened again, knuckles paling as another line burned up his spine, and this time, the sound almost slipped. It manifested in a small, strained breath that edged too close to a whine before he cut it off.
But you kept talking like you had no idea what you were doing to him.
“Most people don’t handle this like you are,” you said, dragging another line. “You’re taking it really well”
His breath broke again, quieter this time, but worse, because it didn’t fully go away when he tried to control it.
He wasn’t just enduring it. He was waiting for it, anticipating the next drag of the needle, the next burn, the next excuse for you to praise him like that.
“Looks so fucking good on you.”
Oh, that one went straight through him.
He choked it down so fast it hurt, throat tightening, breath uneven no matter how hard he tried to fix it.
Honestly, it was pathetic, the amount of moans and lewd whines he had to swallow simply because he was being marked by you.
Still, he wanted more.
—
The machine finally fell silent after what felt like hours, the buzz fading into nothing but the sound of both your breathing.
You leaned back slightly, flexing your fingers before grabbing a clean cloth and wiping gently over his back, clearing away the excess ink and plasma. The design came into full view: dark, clean lines curling up along his spine, wrapping around the scar like it had always belonged there.
“Good canvas,” you murmured, almost to yourself.
Dex didn’t respond right away. He was too busy feeling the absence of the needle, the strange numbness where the sensation had been, his body still humming.
“You didn’t even twitch,” you added, a little louder this time, clearly impressed as you reached for the wrap. You stepped aside, clearing a path to the full-length mirror at the corner of the living room, “it’s even more impressive that it’s your first tattoo.”
He pushed himself up from the couch, rolling his shoulders once before stepping toward the mirror.
And then he saw it.
The ivy climbed his spine in delicate, elegant lines, twisting around the scar instead of hiding it.
For a moment, he just stared. The scar looked… pretty. Pretty like a dewdrop from a leaf at dusk. Pretty like the sky’s reflection in the water at dawn. Pretty like you.
“You wear it well,” you said casually behind him, like it wasn’t a big deal, like you hadn’t just permanently changed the way he saw himself.
His fingers hovered near it, not really touching.
“Thank you, pretty girl.” he said, smaller than usual. The usual teasing edge with that nickname was dulled. He said it almost reverently.
You smiled a little at that, already focused on your next task as you stepped closer again. “Hold still.”
You smoothed the second skin carefully over the tattoo, pressing it down along his back with practiced hands.
“This’ll stay on for like a day or two,” you explained, your tone shifting into professional. “It’s basically a clear bandage. It keeps everything clean, helps it heal faster. You can shower with it, move around, whatever. Just… don’t mess with it.”
You stepped back, giving it a quick once-over to make sure it was sealed properly.
“After you take it off, wash it gently, no harsh soaps,” you continued, ticking a mental list off like muscle memory. “And don’t forget to moisturize.” You paused, then snapped your fingers lightly. “Oh, cocoa butter. That’s what I use.” You turned toward the hallway. “I’ve got a shit ton in my bedroom, let me grab you some.”
And just like that, you disappeared.
Dex was left standing alone in your living room.
For a second, he didn’t move.
Then he shifted, awkward in a way he never was anywhere else, glancing around the space like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself without you there to anchor his attention.
His eyes drifted to the couch and the table.
And then he saw it.
A sketchbook, sitting on the coffee table. It had a plain black cardboard for a cover, but even the edges were worn.
He would bet good money that you laid your mind out there. That the sketches you drew were part of you, that it would give him an insight to how you thought, how you felt, who you are.
He stared at it for a moment.
Looking wouldn’t hurt… right?
He sat down on the couch again, slower this time. The couch dipped beneath him, still warm from where he’d been lying earlier, and for a second he just stared at the sketchbook he’d just picked up his hands.
It felt like something he wasn’t supposed to touch. That thought didn’t stop him.
His thumb dragged along the edge of the cover before he opened it, the paper giving that worn sound that only came from books that were handled often.
The first pages were exactly what they should’ve been.
They were professional.
It was a string of roses meant to wrap naturally along muscle, thorns placed intentionally. The notes on the margin said the name of the client and the placement: forearm. He could practically feel where the needle would drag just by looking at the line weight. The shading was subtle but deliberate, gradients that would settle into skin instead of sitting on top of it.
Next page was a skull, split clean down the middle, like it had been cut open and arranged. Inside, instead of emptiness, there were peonies blooming out from the cavity, stems threading through bone like they’d grown there.
He turned the page.
This was a serpent coiled around a dagger, its body twisting. The scales overlapped in tight, careful patterns, each one slightly varied, like you actually understood what repetition was supposed to look like.
There were smaller pieces too; Fine-line constellations, minimalist script, coordinates. There were notes scribbled in the margins from placement ideas, sizing, reminders to adjust line thickness for certain skin types.
He flipped another page. Then another.
He saw a dragon stretched across two sheets, body flowing in a way that made it feel like it would move if you looked too long. A pair of hands reaching toward each other, fingers just barely missing contact. A moth with wings patterned like stained glass.
And then, somewhere in the middle of turning another page, that changed.
The lines loosened. The structure wavered. It felt personal, and the notes disappeared. You weren’t drawing to a prompt anymore; this was art for art’s sake— the view from your window sill, the cat from across the hall, the plants near the flower shop down the street.
The next page was a figure, a woman.
She was reclined on a chaise, her weight settled into one hip, body angled in a way that emphasized curve without exaggerating it. These were a little stylised, vintage sailor-inspired style tattoo.
She had high-waisted shorts hugging her hips, a tied cropped top slipping off one shoulder, exposing more skin than necessary, Her hair was pinned up, a few strands falling loose like they hadn’t been corrected.
Dex’s eyes lingered longer than they should have.
He turned the page to see the same figure in a different pose.
She was this time, one knee pulled up slightly, fingers hooked into the waistband of her shorts absentmindedly.
Her head was tilted seductively, and that smile….
He flipped again.
This time, she was one leaning back, arms braced behind her, chest lifted just slightly, the fabric of her shirt stretched in a way that felt… intentional, even if the pose wasn’t.
Oh.
He had suspected it on the first figure, but this one confirmed it.
That smile.
He knew that smile.
He’d seen it across from him on the fire escape, half-hidden behind a beer bottle. He’d seen it when you teased him, when you pushed just enough, when you knew something and didn’t say it.
He’d know it anywhere.
“…fuck.”
You were undoubtedly the reference to all these sailor girls.
Every page after that only confirmed it.
You, over and over again, translated through your own hand. The way you saw yourself. The way you chose to present yourself.
It only got more and more explicit and intimate as he flipped the pages, comfortable being looked at by your own eyes, leaving less and less for the imagination as he saw another page of you bent over—
Fuck, even his thick tactical trousers can’t hide his physical reaction right now.
He could imagine you sitting right here, in this exact spot, probably topless. The sketchbook would be balanced against your thigh, pencil moving in steady strokes. He imagined you glancing up at a mirror before putting it down on paper.
Dex wasn’t gonna lie to himself— he’s thought about you like this way too many times.
It would happen after long, stressful nights, alone, replaying the way you leaned into him, the way your voice dropped when you teased him, the way your knee bumped his.
He’d go into the bathroom for a hot shower, fist around himself as he thought about you. How you’d look under him, how you’d react to his touch, how you’d sound if only you’d let him…
His jaw clenched as heat crept up the back of his neck. His grip on the page shifted, fingers pressing harder like he needed something physical.
There was something about seeing it, about knowing you had made this, that made it worse. He felt possessive, in a way he didn’t bother examining.
He wanted this page. He needed it. He would at least something other than his own imagination to help.
He shouldn’t do it, but when has shouldn’t ever stopped him?
He tore the page, not even caring that the paper crinkled way too loudly in your otherwise silent apartment.
He just held it there, fingers tightening around the paper like it might be taken from him if he didn’t.
But then…
The page underneath caught his eye.
“…oh.”
That… wasn’t you.
It wasn’t your pinup sketches, not a personal drawing, not even a client drawing.
It was…. him.
Dex leaned forward slightly without realizing he was doing it, eyes narrowing as they traced over the lines.
It wasn’t stylized. It was accurate, down to the placement of his scars and the faint lines on the forehead. It looked like he was doing laundry.
You… had been drawing him?
Then, he turned the page again. That was when his heart dropped.
It was him again, but not Tony.
You had drawn Bullseye, mask on and everything.
His grip on the torn page tightened.
He flipped and another one.
It was him again, on a rooftop, rifle braced, body aligned with the shot. The environment was barely sketched in, just enough to ground it, but the focus was entirely on him.
He remembered that night. He had been tracking Task Force for hours.
He flipped again.
It was him, mid-step, tracking through a crowd, head slightly dipped.
Another.
Him throwing a knife between his fingers, captured right before release.
He flipped faster.
Page after page after page, all him. From different angles, different nights, different moments.
Some of them were rough sketches, quick captures like you hadn’t had time to refine them. Others fully rendered, detailed down to the smallest nuance.
There were dozens of these, enough to go back months.
You knew.
All this time, you were aware of him, what he had done, what he was capable of.
Dex let out a deep breath.
He realised now, what this meant.
He had been following you in broad daylight, keeping track of your habits, your pattern, your days.
But he hadn’t accounted for your nights.
So you must’ve been watching him then.
All those times he was doing his self-appointed mission, thinking he was alone in it… he wasn’t.
You had been there, too. Another presence just outside his line of sight. Watching him the same way he watched you.
He wasn’t creeped out; it would be hypocritical.
He was in awe. He was amazed that his pretty girl was capable of this. Perhaps he shouldn’t be— daughter of a crime boss and all— but if anything, it only made him fall deeper in love with you, if that was even possible.
All this time, the obsession was mutual.
And then, he heard footsteps approaching.
He didn’t move. He didn’t close the sketchbook, didn’t hide the torn page still in his hand.
He just sat there, surrounded by the evidence of crossing a line. He had a feeling you wouldn’t mind, though.
The hallway creaked faintly.
“Ah,” you said, setting down the tub of cocoa butter. “You found it.”
Dex stood up slowly. He didn’t rush you, didn't corner you right away. If anything, he was taking you in slowly. His eyes were locked on you like he was seeing you properly for the first time.
He set the sketchbook down.
“How long?” he asked again, like the answer mattered more now that he knew there was one. “How long have you known?”
“From the start.” You said it like it was obvious. Like it had never been a secret. Like you were almost surprised he had to ask.
“I might be pretty,” you added with an easy shrug, “but I’m not stupid, Dex.”
Dex.
Not Tony.
He lit up.
It was visceral, that switch up. He loved hearing his name from your mouth as if it belonged there.
A breath left him, almost a laugh, but rougher. His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to study you again.
“My girl’s been watching me,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
You huffed a laugh, suddenly shy. You weren’t expecting a confrontation, at least not today. “Oh, don’t start,” you said, but there was no real resistance in it.
He took a step closer.
“Following me,” he continued, piecing it together out loud now, realising just how much you had stolen from his playbook. “Watching my routes. Studying my patterns .”
He took another step, and you stayed where you were, wanting him to come closer.
“And I didn’t even notice.” He almost sounded impressed.
You tilted your head slightly, crossing your arms. “Yeah,” you said. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”
Dex let out a quiet breath through his nose, something almost like a laugh, but heavier.
“Mind?” he echoed, head tipping.
You held his eyes and didn’t back down, as he stepped in front of you.
“If you didn’t like it,” you shot back, “you wouldn’t be standing this close.”
You were right.
His hand came up firmly as it found your wrist, fingers curling around it gently.
“And you let me follow you,” he said under his breath.
Of course you knew. Denying it now would just be an insult to everyone involved.
“Seems rude to stop you having so much… fun,” you said.
Fuck, you were something, were you?
Dex moved, closing the last of the distance between you. He pushed, just a bit, backing you up against the wall. He didn’t do it harshly, but his movements were certain, like there was no version of this where you weren’t right here.
His other hand braced beside your head, boxing you in without forcing you.
For a second, he just looked at you, and not as the neighbor. Not as the girl on the fire escape.
You.
The one who knew about him all along. The one who watched him. The one who kept up with him.
“Admit it,” you said, breathing just slightly uneven now, “You like that I was watching you.”
His eyes dropped to your mouth for a fraction of a second before lifting again. He was still trying to wrap his mind around how you knew who he was, and you still—what? Invited him in? Sat next to him? Drank with him?”
“Yeah,” he said, no hesitation. “I do.”
You bit your lip as if you’d been waiting for him to say it.
“What else did you see?” he asked, beads of sweat trickling down his bare chest.
You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence, “What are you worried I saw?”
“Jesus,” he said, shaking his head. His mind was still tripping, even with his newfound confidence. “You’re—”
He didn’t finish it.
Your hand came up, fingers hooking lightly at his belt loop, pulling him just a fraction closer.
You leaned in closer, your lips just barely brushing near his, your voice conspiratorial. “I can hear it, you know,”
He froze.
“I love it when my name when you’re touching yourself, Dex,” you continued, tone playful. “Music to my fucking ears.”
His hand tightened at your waist, pulling himself flush against you, any space between you gone in an instant.
This was it.
This was all he ever wanted.
But it was you he was talking about, and what kind of man would he be it he just let his girl do all the work in the relationship?
“You talk too much,” he said, and that was the last thing either of you said before he kissed you.
It was hungry.
Like he had been thinking about it for too long. Like he already knew what it would feel like, had imagined it enough times that when it finally happened, his body just followed instinct.
You made a small, surprised whine, but you didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned into him harder, your hands coming up immediately, gripping his shoulders before sliding higher, fingers tangling into his hair and holding him there.
He gasped against your mouthlike feeling you pull him closer snapped whatever control he had left clean in half.
His hands explored, one firm at your waist, while the other came up to your chin, gripping harshly as he tilted your head, deepening the kiss.
It turned messy fast.
It started with breath breaking between movements, teeth catching his bottom lip for a second, neither of you slowing down long enough to make it neat. There was nothing careful about it, nothing rehearsed, just the way you liked it.
You felt him everywhere, from the press of his chest against yours to his grip tightening and loosening like he was testing his limit.
Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging just enough to get a reaction in the form of a low, reverberating groan.
When you caught your breath, you smiled, “Took you long enough.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he bit out immediately, as if every second your lips weren’t on him, the world was falling apart.
That almost made you laugh, but it dissolved the second he kissed you again, harder this time, like he didn’t like the break, like he was making up for it.
Your hands slid from his hair to his neck, fingers curling there, holding him in place, keeping him exactly where you wanted him.
And he let you.
Dex, who controlled everything, let you pull him, let you guide him just as much as he guided you.
Your back was pressed more firmly into the wall as he leaned into you, his body feeling inescapable in the best way.
Your fingers dragged slightly along the back of his neck, and he reacted again, his breath hitching, his grip tightening as he toyed with the hem of your shirt, palm splayed against your skin now.
He broke the kiss, but only just.
His lips lingered a fraction too long before pulling back, like he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to stop. His breath was uneven, his forehead against yours.
For a second, neither of you moved.
His eyes dropped to your mouth, like he couldn’t help it, like he was already thinking about doing it again.
Then they flicked back up to yours, darker now, heavier with a primal lust that hadn’t been there before… or maybe had, just buried under a mask he wasn’t bothering with anymore.
“Does my pretty girl want me fuck her stupid?” he whispered, so condescending it bordered on arrogance.
He knew the answer immediately when you pressed your legs together, desperate for any form of friction, but he wanted to make you say it anyway.
Your throat felt tight, eyes in a haze as you followed the trail of spit that still connected your mouth to his.
You nodded. And it was pathetic, desperate, and eager.
Unable to form words? Aw, how adorable.
“Yeah,” he breathed, almost to himself, like he was locking it in. “That’s what I thought.”
—
Morning came slowly.
The distant buzz of the city filtered in through the cracked window, light spilling in thin, golden strips across the room, catching on empty bottles, painting colours on your walls.
Dex woke to your touch.
You were so gentle this time, so different from the way you’d had them on him the night before. Now they moved carefully across his back, fingers gliding over his skin spreading cocoa butter along the fresh ink.
His eyes opened, blinking against the light as he shifted under you, enough to register where he was.
Your bed, your sheets, your room.
You were behind him, straddling the backs of his thighs, completely focused on his ink like nothing else in the world mattered.
Your hair was a little messy, falling forward over your shoulder as you leaned in. Your hands moved in careful strokes along the length of his spine, following every curve of the ivy you’d etched into him.
His teeth tightened slightly, a small exhale slipping out before he could stop it.
You noticed.
“Morning,” you greeted, not even looking up at first.
The second skin had peeled off sometime in the night from the overly strenuous activity he had called sex, and you’d made good on your promise to take care of it after.
You even reassured him that after it healed, you’d touch it up if needed.
Your fingers traced just along the edge of the tattoo, careful around the more irritated areas like you were memorising it all over again.
Like you were memorising him.
“That didn’t exactly last long,” you added, a hint of amusement slipping into your voice now.
Dex huffed out a laugh. “You said a day or two.”
You finally glanced down at him, lifting an eyebrow. “I didn’t account for you… being like that.”
He shifted slightly under you again, trying to decide whether to sit up or stay exactly where he was.
He let his head drop back against the pillow briefly, eyes half-lidding as your hands moved up his spine again one last time.
You kissed his shoulder, whispering close to his ear, “all done.”
At that, Dex shifted slightly beneath you, then pushed himself up onto his forearms, rolling his shoulders once to stretch.
He looked at you, at how cute you looked in the afterglow, wondering how he could possibly have underestimated his sweet girl.
That’s when he remembered.
“Oh,” he said, like it annoyed him he’d nearly forgotten in all the chaos of last night. “I got something for you.”
You blinked, still docile from the intimacy of the morning. “Yeah?”
“Can you grab my jacket?” He asked.
You frowned a little at that, head tilting. “Your jacket?”
“It’s in the living room.”
Weird request.
“…Okay?” you said slowly, sliding off the bed.
You didn't even bother covering up.
Why would you?
It was your apartment, your space. And after last night… please.
You stretched slightly as you walked out, feeling his eyes on you before you even turned.
You glanced over your shoulder, catching his unashamed drag of his gaze down your back, your hips, the curve of your ass.
You clicked your tongue. “Perv.”
There was no bite to it.
Dex didn’t even try to deny it. If anything, he smiled like he liked being called that by you.
You grabbed his jacket from the chair, and returned a second later, tossing it onto the bed without ceremony.
“There,” you said, climbing back up, settling beside him again.
He was already reaching into the pocket, pulling a small piece of fabric out.
Leather.
At least, that’s what you thought.
“What’s that?” you asked, leaning in.
Instead of answering, he held it out to you.
You reached out, your fingers brushing the surface before your eyes assessed it properly.
Oh.
Oh.
“That’s…” you gasped in disbelief.
It was the exact sun you had tattooed on the back of Jack Hargrove’s hands.
You traced the familiar details, the tiny imperfections that you knew because you had put them there.
Your fingers pinched it as your brain caught up with what you were holding.
Human leather.
You should be appalled. You should be horrified. You should be scared of him. You should feel sick to your stomach.
Instead, all you could think about was how this was the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you.
“…Dex,” you breathed, your voice reverent.
He watched you closely, watching you figuring out the implications in real time.
Not just that he killed him, but just how far he went.
He tracked him down, took his hand, skinned it, and preserved it. Just for you.
You turned it slightly under the light again, your thumb brushing over the ink.
Dex shifted a little beside you, like the silence had stretched long enough for him to fill it.
“I’m sorry it took so long,” he said.
You glanced up at him. That was not what you expected.
His expression didn’t change much, but there was the faintest edge of something almost… earnest there. Mild frustration, maybe. Not at you, but at the process.
“Making it was harder than I thought it would be,” he added, like he was explaining a minor inconvenience.
For a second, your brain just… stalled.
Then you laughed in disbelief. Not because you were afraid, but because you were delighted.
“You’re unbelievable,” you said, shaking your head, still smiling as you looked back down at it.
Dex watched you carefully, like he was checking whether that was the correct response. “I wasn’t sure if you’d like it.”
“Dex,” you said, smiling at him incredulously, “you literally took the time to make me art out of someone who pissed me off. Of course I love it.”
Instantly, his shoulder dropped in relief.
You leaned in without thinking, pressing a kiss to his cheek, right over the scar, lingering just long enough to feel his cheeks pull a smile.
When you pulled back, your hand was already reaching to take the leather properly, to keep it. Maybe you’d even frame it.
But he pulled it back just out of reach, teasing you.
You blinked at him, your mouth pulling into the most adorable pout he’d ever seen. “Hey,” you huffed.
He watched you for a second, clearly enjoying it. His eyes switched between your face and your mouth like he was deciding a game.
“I’ll give it to you,” he said casually. “if you promise me something.”
Your eyes narrowed slightly, but there was a smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, you’re negotiating now?”
He tilted his head just a fraction. “Tattoo me,” he said. “One of those pinups.”
Oh.
You knew which ones he meant.
You shook your head, laughing under your breath, but your eyes gave you away completely. “I thought you’d never ask.”
That was all he needed.
He leaned in again, closing the space between you, his mouth finding yours as he laid the leather on your bare thighs.
And this time, kissing him felt different. It felt like he was yours.
It felt so right in the way only things that were deeply wrong and perfectly matched could feel.
When you pulled back, you already knew he was going to be your favourite canvas.
I saw TONS of people doing these monthly fic recs so I decided to finally do one as well<33 thanks to every single one of these wonderful authors for blessing us with those masterpieces:) I hope y'all will have the best start in the new year
(I'm so gonna be sat at home binge reading fics)
I LOVE YOU ALL!!! NEVER EVER STOP WRITING!!
This collection contains a lot of Clark kent and Bucky Barnes and also some Steve Rogers and Robert Reynolds 💕
Hope y'all enjoy, it took forever to create this😭😭
Clark Kent recs:
⋆.𐙚 ̊Figure it out @marwrite
Summary: clark shows his love for your friendship in many ways. fetching your lunch, carrying your things for you, always being there when you need him- but who could have imagined it would include kissing you on the lips? every casual peck makes your head spin, your heart stammer; until one night, one lingering kiss finally answers all your questions…
-
⋆.𐙚 ̊Apple cider @hotelslutsylvania
Your brother's best friend, Clark Kent.
⋆.𐙚 ̊A million years of warmth @danitcx
Summary: A quiet winter evening turns into something unforgettable when you return home to find Clark Kent waiting for you. Between waffles, warmth, and the gentle magic of shared love, the night becomes a reminder that love does not need grand gestures—only presence, devotion, and the certainty of choosing each other, again and again.
⋆.𐙚 ̊Clark Kent x reader drabble @sugarbunnyluv
⋆.𐙚 ̊Christmas tears @sugarbunnyluv
Summary: you and clark go shopping for christmas decorations and it gets a little overwhelming
⋆.𐙚 ̊period days @lazysoulwriter
⋆.𐙚 ̊period @stevesabs
⋆.𐙚 ̊"My rose" @barbienextdoor
⋆.𐙚 ̊Cotton candy kisses @barbienextdoor
Summary: The county fair is all fun and cotton candy, until a few men mistake your wedding ring for decoration. Lucky for you, your cowboy husband doesn’t take kindly to competition, and he’s more than willing to remind you just how loved you are.
⋆.𐙚 ̊Pictures Clark has of you (nswf) @love-lilacs
✩°｡⋆ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐢𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐬 ⋆｡°✩ @clarkslvbug
Bucky Barnes recs:
⋆.𐙚 ̊p*rnstar — [camstar!bucky x virgin!reader] @superbassbuck
summary: you’ve never had sex before, still untouched and completely inexperienced. But when you stumble across Bucky’s porn channel—you quickly become his number one fan. You’re always in his comments, always in his chats, and never expecting it to go anywhere beyond the screen. Luckily for Bucky, your social media is linked to your account, making it easy for him to find you.
⋆.𐙚 ̊ Recalibrated @vanillacici
Summary: A relaxing evening with your boyfriend, falling asleep on the couch to a random movie while snuggled up to his chest has been the only thing getting you through this week. And it starts off that way, until his metal arm recalibrates when he drifts off to sleep and its, vibrating? click below to read about the perks that come with your boyfriend having a vibrator function.
⋆.𐙚 ̊All I've wanted was you @godmadeaterribleerror
Summary: You have an arrangement with Bucky. You sleep together, and nothing more. Every time is supposed to be the last time. You love him too much keep this up and pretend it's not killing you.
⋆.𐙚 ̊Behave @aquaticmercy
Summary : Bucky is an expert at taking your bra off. Putting it on, however? Not so much.
⋆.𐙚 ̊squished @aquaticmercy
Summary : You’re a little bit annoyed that reporters keep flirting with your secret boyfriend.
⋆.𐙚 ̊The woman you are @aquaticmercy
Summary : Sam sets Bucky up with you, a human ray of sunshine.
⋆.𐙚 ̊swatches @shotinthedcrk
⋆.𐙚 ̊Warm me up @xreader1989
⋆.𐙚 ̊A very Thunderbolts Christmas @xreader1989
⋆.𐙚 ̊ soft bucky @lasereyebucky
⋆.𐙚 ̊Can you lift my car with your hand? no..like can you? @buckyscaptain
⋆.𐙚 ̊Safe and sound @povbarnes
Bob Reynolds recs:
⋆.𐙚 ̊First fall of snow @abbottsdarling
Summary: You wake up to find New York covered in snow, and you're so excited! It's your first time ever experiencing it and you drag your unwilling boyfriend to enjoy the beautiful icy snow with you. You seem to underestimate just how cold snow actually is.
⋆.𐙚 ̊|| where i wanna be || @prettycalla
Summary: You've been avoiding Bob all day, but it's not for any of the (many) reasons he thinks.
⋆.𐙚 ̊Bob Reynolds x reader @wintersd3vils
Steve Rogers recs;
⋆.𐙚 ̊the man behind the shield @proof-that-tony-has-a-page
ᴅᴏɢ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ (ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇ ʀᴏɢᴇʀꜱ) @lunexiax
Summary: Everyone knows that yourself and Steve should never have been put on the same team; you fight like dogs and spark like live-wires. But maybe not all of that tension is hate.
Summary: Bucky tests out a theory he has about you that you like getting your hair played with.
Warnings: Basically none other than that reader has hair that Bucky plays with it, this is soft as a marshmallow.
Word Count: 647
A/N: ok so this is VERY self indulgent, but i just wanted to write this and… yeah hope you like it😭
MASTERLIST | requests are open!
You like getting your hair played with, Bucky thinks.
You most probably do.
He is 99% sure you do.
He notices it on your second week of dating, when everything is still as fragile as bubbles blown by a 3 year old at a playground, when he’s still walking on eggshells around you, when he still isn’t sure if he deserves you, or if he’s even good for you.
He wants to be good for you.
He wants you happy and in peace, just like how you brought peace back into his life that he doesn’t even remember the last time he had something remotely close to. And you don’t even know it.
You don’t know how often he thinks about ways he can get you to give him that soft smile, the one that makes his insides go all warm and content.
You don’t know it’s pretty much his life’s mission now.
You’d probably laugh it off if he told it to you, make a joke of it, not because you wouldn’t value what he said, but because he pretty much figured out how you are not ready to accept the gravity of his devotion to you just yet.
And that’s okay to Bucky, he doesn’t mind waiting for you.
But he realized how you play with your own hair whenever you are sad, or upset, or happy, or literally just making coffee, and he can’t get it out of his head.
He makes it about two days.
His voice is soft as butter when he says, “Come here.”
You look up from the book you’ve been reading for the past 20 minutes, glance at the sit-com playing on the TV that Bucky hasn’t been able to concentrate on, and smile. “Hm?”
He taps on his legs twice. “C’mere.”
You freeze for a good few seconds, enough to make the alarm bells in Bucky’s head start ringing.
But then you move, and Bucky can hear your heart suddenly start pounding. The sound has a half a smile forming on his face.
When your head lays on his lap, and you look up at him with hesitant yet glowing eyes, he can swear his heart skips a beat.
Beautiful.
His flesh hand comes up to your hair, gentle as if he’s trying not to spook a wild animal.
The part of himself that took over every inch of his body inside and out, the part that wants you content, starts humming the second his hand tangles in your hair and your eyes close with a relieved sigh leaving your lips at the same time.
The vibranium hand finds your jaw, caressing your cheek as his other hand plays with your hair.
And he can feel it on you.
Relaxed.
Happy.
He lays back on the couch, resting his head on the back of it, his hands not stopping their movements.
He doesn’t know how much time it’s passed when you finally speak.
“Buck?”
He looks down at you. Your eyes are heavy with sleep, a lazy smile on your face, and he thinks this is the most perfect you’ve ever looked.
“Yeah, baby?”
“You feel safe.”
He freezes for half a second before the humming kicks up, every cell in his body buzzing with joy because yes, you are happy, you feel safe, and he’s the one who makes you feel safe.
Before he has a chance to say anything, you murmur, “Can I sleep here?”
He takes a deep breath, and his chest is too full, in a way he hasn’t felt since… God, has he ever felt like this?
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he whispers back after a second. “I got you.”
Your smile grows, and you rearrange your position to get more comfortable, and while Bucky knows he cannot possibly deserve this, he also knows damn well he’ll do whatever it takes to keep it forever.
likes, comments, and reblogs keeps the fanfic authors going!💌
i think because of the whole "writers write for themselves" notion that's becoming increasingly popularized, people forget that we still thrive off interaction and kindness. i write for myself but kudos and comments and bookmarks and really any sort of interaction with my fics genuinely motivates me to keep writing and keep sharing my works.
✦ Pairing: Bucky Barnes × Reader
✦ Genre: Angst, Comfort / Hurt,Healing / Soft Reunion
✦ Summary: When the nightmares get worse, Bucky reaches for the one person he swore he’d stop calling. But this time, the line stays silent until there’s a knock at his door in the middle of the night.
✦✦✦✦✦✦
The first call came at 3:02 a.m.
Bucky didn’t mean to dial her not really. His hands were shaking, chest tight from the kind of nightmare that left him gasping. He’d sat up on the edge of the bed, drenched in sweat, and the apartment had felt too big, too empty. Before he could talk himself out of it, he hit her contact.
She picked up on the third ring. “Bucky?” Her voice was rough with sleep, soft but alert. “It’s three in the morning, what—are you okay?”
He took a long breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, I—just needed to hear a voice, I guess.”
There was a pause. “You had another one, didn’t you?”
He didn’t answer right away. “You didn’t have to pick up.”
“I wanted to.”
That made him close his eyes. For a second, he almost believed it was fine.
They talked for a few minutes nothing deep. The weather. Her cat. A joke about Sam’s cooking. And then he said, quietly, “Thanks, doll,” before hanging up.
She didn’t correct the nickname.
The Second Call
Two nights later, same time. “Bucky, this is getting to be a pattern,” she said, half teasing, half worried.
“Guess you’re on speed dial,” he tried to joke.
“You having the same dream?”
“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “Can’t shake it.”
“You should talk to someone.”
“I am.”
She sighed softly. “Someone who isn’t me, maybe?”
He didn’t respond. Just listened to her breathe until he felt like he could again.
The Week After
By the fifth call, she didn’t sound surprised anymore. “Hey,” she said as soon as she answered.
“Hey.”
“Rough night?”
“Every night’s rough.”
She hesitated. “You’re scaring me a little, Bucky.”
“I know. I’m scaring me too.”
The line went quiet, but she didn’t hang up “Do you want me to stay on until you fall asleep?”
“Would you?”
“Yeah,” she whispered. “I would.”
And she did. Stayed on the line for an hour, maybe two. He never said goodnight she just heard his breathing slow, soft and steady, before she ended the call.
The Night It Got Bad
He woke up with a gasp, heart pounding so hard it hurt. His body felt locked in place, the room spinning in the dark.
Without thinking, he reached for his phone same number, same reflex. But the screen blinked an unfamiliar message Number unreachable.
He tried again. Same thing. For the first time in months, the silence felt unbearable. The walls seemed to close in, the air thick and cold. He buried his face in his hands and muttered, “Come on, come on, please…”
And then, five minutes later, there was a knock at his door.
He froze. Another knock, firmer this time. “Bucky? It’s me.”
He was on his feet before he realized it, crossing the room in three strides. When he opened the door, there she was wrapped in a coat, cheeks flushed from the cold, hair messy, eyes wide with worry.
“You’re freezing,” he said, staring at her like he wasn’t sure she was real.
“I was asleep,” she said, voice trembling slightly. “You called twice. Then I tried calling back and your line was busy. I got scared, so…”
“So you came here,” he finished, his voice breaking a little.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “I came here.”
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The city hummed quietly outside sirens in the distance, wind biting at her coat.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he said softly, though his hand was already reaching for her sleeve.
“Yeah, well,” she murmured, “you’re terrible at pretending you’re okay.”
He almost smiled, but his throat was too tight. “I didn’t know what else to do. It just… it gets worse. Every night.”
Her eyes softened. “Then stop doing it alone.”
That broke something open in him. He stepped forward, hesitant at first, then pulled her into his arms. She stiffened for a second old habit, old pain and then melted against him, her hands fisting in his shirt.
“You still smell like coffee,” he mumbled into her hair.
“And you still shake when you’re trying not to cry,” she said quietly.
He huffed a laugh that was half a sob. “Guess neither of us changed much.”
“You did,” she said, looking up at him. “You called this time. That’s something.”
He held her tighter, forehead resting against hers. “I don’t want to keep calling just because I’m falling apart.”
“Then call because you don’t want to be alone.”
The words hung there for a long moment before he whispered, “Stay?”
She searched his face the tired eyes, the guilt, the fear and finally nodded. “Yeah. For a while.”
Later they sat on the couch, wrapped in an old blanket, his metal hand trembling slightly as she laced her fingers through it. He was quiet for a long time before saying, “I didn’t think you’d ever come back.”
“I didn’t think I would, either,” she said honestly. “But sometimes, the person who hurt you is the one who needs you the most.”
He looked at her then really looked and said, “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” she said softly. “Just don’t make me hear it in a dream next time.”
He smiled small, real and pulled her closer until her head rested on his shoulder.
For the first time in months, the apartment didn’t feel so empty.
And when he finally fell asleep, he didn’t wake up gasping. Just breathing.
fanfiction is getting less interaction, people barely reblog anymore, role players are getting pushed out of fandom, ai generated slop winning art contests
Warnings: Angst, Heavy angst, Smut, Angsty smut, Hurt no comfort, Bucky Barnes is TERRIBLE at feelings, Reader is a little desperate, but so is Bucky, bear with me for this one, No use of Y/N, i think that’s it, lmk if i missed or forgot anything!
A/N: alrighty! first of all, thank you so much for the love on my first fic, it means the world to me. this took way longer than i thought it would but it’s finally done, hopefully i won’t disappoint. pictures are only for the vibes, no description of reader in this one other than that she has hair. hope you like it! :)
P.S. i couldn’t really decide which bucky this was, you can decide for yourself but the closest to me was tfatws!bucky i think.
He won’t stay, you know it. He never stays.
You wait for it every time. You spend all the little time that you have together waiting for it, dreading it, never being able to fully enjoy a single second. You dread the moment that eventually comes every single time, that moment when you feel the instant shame surrounding his entire frame right before he gets out of your bed, gets dressed and leaves you while you watch him with tear-filled eyes.
As time passed, you got better at not crying. At least not in front of him.
You know he hates seeing you cry, more so when it’s him who is making you. Not enough to make him stay, but enough to hurt him too. So you simply try not to. You never want to make him feel bad, even though he holds your delicate heart in his strong hands and crashes it over and over again.
He tries talking to you, you’ll give him that. He tries to make you understand. You can’t. Or rather, you won’t. You don’t want to understand him, you want him, all of him. Not just the parts he thinks is worthy of you, which are very little, but anything and everything that makes him who he is. You want it all. And for the months that you have been sleeping together, he could never accept that.
You shouldn’t let him in. Every time he leaves, you make a promise to yourself. To not let him in, to not let him make you feel more miserable than he already has.
Then, you hear his voice. “Please, doll. Open the door.”
All your resolve crumbles in an instant, and you never succeed.
You open the door, lay your pride in front of him like a red carpet and watch him walk all over it to get to you. You don’t even think there’s any pride left in you to protect anymore. It sickens you.
One last time, you say to yourself, every time.
Your breath catches when you see him, all tired blue eyes and hunched shoulders. It takes everything in you not to throw yourself into his arms and hold him until your limbs melt into one. Instead, you stare at him, and he stares at you.
“I’m sorry,” he says after what feels like a lifetime. The first thing he said to you after not seeing him for a week.
You huff. “For what?”
His lips press together, head hanging low to look at his shoes instead of you.
You put him out of his misery, just as you always do, and take a step back so he could come inside.
He doesn’t lift his head while he steps in.
It goes the same way it always does. He waits a moment, maybe as long as he feels enough that you would feel somewhat respected by him, because he knows you’re upset, and that you know why he’s in your house, and how even if you are upset, you still want him because that’s just the way it goes, something that just is and something you can’t help, and how none of it will change anything for him.
He will still leave you at the end of the night.
After the short pause, he is on you, his lips crashing onto yours filled with the amount of desperation that almost matches yours.
You want to push him away, smack him, scream at him to stop doing this to both of you. You wrap your arms around his neck instead. You’ve missed him so much.
His vibranium arm sneaks around your waist to cage you to him, flesh hand holding your chin, covering your entire lower face. It’s so possessive, and you feel so safe, and you hate yourself.
He lifts you just a bit, starting to move towards your bedroom through the familiar path. His mouth is relentless on yours, not even giving you a time to take a breath, not that you want to.
He doesn’t turn on the lights when he reaches your room, he never really does. He doesn’t like you to see his scars.
You gasp as soon as his mouth travels from yours to your cheek, nuzzling his face to yours, leaving kisses to your eyes, nose, all the way to your neck. When he reaches the soft spot where your neck meets your shoulder and takes a deep breath, a sob you so desperately try to keep in wrecks through you. He tries to look at you when he hears it, but you hug him tighter to keep him there. You don’t want to talk, not when you know it won’t make a goddamn difference, but the words that come out of your mouth are not planned, they claw their way out of your throat in order to be freed. “You make me hate myself.”
He pauses, this time doesn’t let you stop him from looking at you. He sees your damp eyes, and you think he might be sick. You don’t want it to be a relief, but there’s not much you can take from him. So, it is a relief that he looks as guilty and as in pain as he does. Because you are hurting more than him. You must be, with the way your heart feels like it’s torn off by the seams and stitched together by shaky hands for a thousand times.
“Don’t stop,” you murmur when he doesn’t say anything. A tear rolls down your cheek. “Don’t stop.”
When he still doesn’t move, you do instead. With his eyes still on yours, you withdraw one of your hands from the back of his neck, slowly moving it south to his jeans. After a short fumble with the button and the zipper, your hand quickly reaches inside the soft material of his boxers, pressing your palm against his dick. His expression he tried to maintain so hard crumbles in an instant, eyes fluttering shut as his hips jerks forward against your hand.
He curses lowly as you move your hand up and down before freeing him and starting to properly move around him.
His blues find your eyes again, watching you for a second while you slowly move up and down. His breathing gets frantic quickly, and it doesn’t take long for him to grab your wrist to stop you, lifting you with comical ease and laying you down on your bed in mere seconds.
His hands do quick work of your sleep shirt and shorts, vibranium hand going straight to where you ache for him to rub you over your underwear.
Your moan makes his eyes flutter, his jaw ticking as his flesh hand coming to massage your breast.
He keeps the perfect pressure, at the perfect speed, shows you once again how he knows your body better than you do. His eyes never leave yours, and he watches with wide eyes and a slack jaw as your first orgasm hits you hard and fast, his hand never slipping inside the thin material, torturing you.
“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I need to be inside you.” He doesn’t give you a minute to recover. You can barely blink before your underwear is thrown away somewhere around the room, and he is already moving between your legs.
He is too desperate, too fast. Everything’s going to be over way too soon. And you need more time. This night of all nights, you need more time with him. Your heart clenches in your chest.
He is about to push in when you place your hand on his chest over his shirt. “Wait.”
He freezes. And when he looks at you this time, maybe for the first time, he looks panicked. Disheveled. You don’t know what exactly he is thinking, but you lift your hand to his face to soothe him immediately. You smile at the feeling his stubble leaves inside your hand.
“Can you go slow?” You see relief rushing through him like it’s something solid. His hands that are on either side of your legs move up and down as he looks at you with a softness in his eyes that make tears form behind your eyes.
When he speaks, it’s worse. It’s like the first time, when you weren’t this glass half version of yourself, when he didn’t break you just yet. “You okay?”
You nod, smile faltering but not leaving your face. “Yeah, just…” You don’t know what to say. Just what? Just I can’t stand the thought of you leaving so soon? Just I want you to stay a little longer?
“Just a little sensitive today.”
He smiles then, first time since he walked through your door, flesh hand coming up to cup the side of your face. “My girl’s sensitive.”
You whimper at his words, and his smile grows a little, still soft as silk. “Of course I’ll go slow, sweetheart. I’ll do whatever you want me to.” Except stay.
He does go slow.
He opens up your legs to make room for himself, but doesn’t lay on top of you yet. His hands, one warm and one cold, roam around your body, making you shiver. “How do you want me?”
You pause even though you’re not moving, and he senses it. Edge of his mouth ticks up a little. Your heart clenches in your chest.
He never asked you that before except for the first time you had sex, when you’d met just a couple of days ago.
Most of the time it feels like he knows you better than you know yourself.
You don’t know what to say for a good minute, but he is patient, he’s going slow, he waits for you.
Your mouth opens and closes for once or twice, but no words come out. Eventually, your fingers find his shirt, dragging it up and off. Your hands close around his shoulders, and he tenses when he feels your warmth around the scarred tissue of his left shoulder.
You pull him over your body in response, your legs caging him onto you by wrapping around his torso. You hold him to your neck, your mouth dancing over his ear, a small shudder leaves him as his forearms rest on either side of your head. “Like this,” you whisper. “Close, and slow.”
“Close and slow.”
You nod, and he copies you.
When he pushes in, it’s both heaven and hell.
Heaven because he’s here, he’s so close, as close as he can be. And he feels so good, filling you so well that makes you think he was made for you.
Hell because he’ll leave, he may be close but he’s always so far. He is breathing into your neck, inhaling your scent, grunting with every powerful thrust of his hips, and it feels like he thinks you are made for him as well.
After five or ten or twenty thrusts, you can’t even tell, you are gone again. You try to warn him while also holding onto him impossibly tighter before softly crying out. “Bucky- I’m-“
He nods, because he already knows. He always knows. “Go on baby,” he says without lifting his head, voice muffled. “I got you.”
You come with tears gathering in your eyes, burying your face in his neck and breathing him in.
His hips never lose their rhythm, instead gaining strength and speed. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Squeezin’ me so tight.”
He keeps going until the you come around him once again, the force of it catching you by surprise. You don’t even realize you are chanting his name until he starts caressing your hair and murmuring next to your ear. “I know baby, I know.”
He is losing control, you can tell. He still tries to go slow like you asked but his rhythm falters, his hips speeding up and slowing down like he’s at war with himself. You can tell he is close when he starts grinding into you every other thrust, almost making you climb that high again.
“You feel so good,” he says suddenly, voice higher than before. “Best thing in my goddamn life.”
Faster.
“Baby, my baby.”
You can’t breathe.
Faster.
“I love you, I love you, fuck. My baby.”
Your whole world narrows down to the sound of his voice, hands freezing where they were traveling around his shoulders.
You don’t even breathe when he collapses on top of you, and even though you can’t see anything in the now pitch black room, you can feel him. He’s so warm, his face still hidden in the crook of your neck, heavy breaths mixing with yours. He stays like that for a couple of seconds.
Your heart is hammering in your chest, not knowing what to do, how to react. You are terrified.
You try savoring the feeling of his strong frame enveloping yours, even though you almost choke under his weight.
You are afraid to move. You are afraid the second you move an inch, he will come to himself and realize what just happened. And you so desperately want this to last, for it to be real. But after a minute or two, you can’t stop yourself from slowly bringing your fingers to his hair and starting to play with the damp strands that curls a little around his neck. He lets out a soft breath and you can swear that for a moment, he relaxes into you even more.
It takes a while for him to raise his head from your neck and look at you, his eyes filled with so many emotions that you can’t quite name.
“Please, James.”
That seems to snap him out of whatever trance he was in, because he averts his gaze from yours, shame, again, winning over any other emotion on his face. You watch it happen like it’s a movie you’ve seen a hundred times.
You wince when he pulls out of you, and he steals a glance to make sure you are okay, but that’s it. He is on his feet, putting on his clothes again.
“J- Bucky,” you try one more time, your voice wavering. Pathetic.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds like he’s in a rush. “It was- I-“ He shakes his head, pulls on his pants.
“It was the heat of the moment, I- I got carried away. It wasn’t-“
He might as well struck you.
“It’s okay,” you manage to say, interrupting his rambling. You take the blanket hanging off the bed and cover yourself, feeling too exposed now that he wasn’t in the bed with you. “I know.”
You feel like you are about to throw up.
He pauses for a moment at your words, but doesn’t take it back.
And for the first time ever, you want him to leave. Because now, you are about to lose control. You feel on the verge of some kind of an anger attack, because of him, or yourself, you don’t know. You just want him to get the hell out of your house as soon as possible so you can cry until your body runs out of tears.
“Take care of yourself,” he says when he is dressed seconds later. You almost laugh. He rushes towards your door, lingering there for a second too long that causes your stupid heart to skip a bit and straighten up a little bit.
But then he is gone.
The low sound of the apartment’s door getting shut making you flinch like someone slammed it, and you find yourself where you always were. Crying, with his cum dripping between your legs, trying with every fiber of your being to not feel used.
IloveyouIloveyouMybaby
—
Bucky knows what it means to hate oneself. He’s hated himself for the better part of his life. He knows what it’s like to not be able to live with himself. Which is precisely why he cannot have you. Not in the way you and him both want. You don’t deserve this broken version of him. He did things in his life, terrible things, killed and tortured people, did things he can never forget or forgive himself for. But after meeting you? After leaving you over and over and over again? He didn’t know he could hate himself to the degree he does now.
Each time he leaves you with tears in your eyes, it feels like it’s the worst thing he has ever done.
And he knows it’s not fair, how he keeps coming back. He knows he isn’t letting you breathe, let alone move on. Yet he can’t stop.
Standing outside your apartment now, trying to stop himself from knocking on the door, knowing he will hurt you again, is a unique kind of torture.
A battle he always loses.
Because he needs you. He always needs you.
And he knows it’s selfish, so selfish that it makes his stomach turn, makes him unable to look in the mirror in the morning. But he needs you, and he can’t help it.
He knocks.
He hates himself.
The second his hand meets your door, he knows something’s wrong. He doesn’t know why, but it’s wrong. The sound of his knuckles against your door is wrong, the eerie silence of the building is wrong, and he can’t hear your footsteps coming towards the door. It’s just wrong.
His brows furrow. His heartbeat picks up.
He knocks again.
And again.
And again.
Nothing.
A rational part of him inside his head tries to reassure him, maybe you were out with your friends, maybe you just went to get some fucking milk. But no, he knows. Something’s not right. He can feel it in his bones.
He is panting now, staring at your door, eyes wide, trying to not let panic consume his whole being.
“Doll?” he tries desperately, heart pounding.
The door behind him opens, and it makes him flinch so hard that he needs to take a second to look behind him. An old lady, probably younger than he is, stands behind the threshold, looking at him with squinted eyes. “Are you James Barnes?”
Bucky’s heart drops. He doesn’t want to answer. He doesn’t want to know how she knows who he is or hear what she has to say. His mouth feels like he spent the last three days chewing concrete.
He nods.
“She’s gone.”
No.
“What?”
“She left,” the lady repeats. “She’d say you’d come by. Kindly asked me to let you know.”
Just like that, the earth is swiped away under his feet, his whole world is crumbled, crushed down upon him. Two words, and he feels like he’s dying.
“What- uh…” A humorless chuckle escapes his lips, flesh hand coming up to rest on his forehead for a second. “What do you mean she left?”
The lady looks at him with sympathetic eyes. Bucky wants to cry. “She moved away, it’s a shame. Such a nice girl. Told me to tell you.” When Bucky just stares at her, she gives her a tight smile like she knows. “Sorry, Kid. Have a nice evening.”
Then her door is shut.
He flinches again at the sound of it.
And Bucky is left in the hallway, your door not opening for the first time in seven months.
WELL! wasn’t that something? thinking about doing a second part for this with a more detailed smut section, but i think i’ll just see whether you guys want one or not.👀
thank you sm and i’m very ashamed to admit that i STILL haven’t finished part 2 for this… but i promise i’m working on it😭😭😭 and guess what??? your reblog just motivated me BIG TIME and i opened docs again after A WHILE. so stay tuned🤭🤭
please, please, please. stop writing only smut i'm so tired of this, i'm begging y'all.
don't get me wrong i LOVE writing and reading smut just as much as the next person but you know what i also love? writing and reading STORIES. i love me a good smutty story but i'm just so sick and tired of looking for something to read and stumble upon a thrizillion of blurbs of pure and plain generic smut.
i just had a thought sub!bucky using his safe word (or the color red) for the first time. he holds off of using it at first because he doesn’t wanna disappoint reader but he eventually uses it and apologizes when there’s nothing to apologize
it’s totally okay if you don’t want to!! (love ur writing btw)
im crying for him
-----------
You can tell something’s off before he even says it.
Bucky’s trembling, sweat glistening down his chest, his breath catching in little hiccups as he tries to push through another wave that his body clearly can’t handle. He’s always been the type to overextend himself — soldier instincts, submission instincts, all tangled into one beautiful, self-sacrificing knot.
“Bucky,” you murmur, fingertips brushing his jaw to bring his gaze to yours. His pupils are blown wide, the blue ring trembling. “Look at me. Where are you, baby?”
He swallows, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “’M here,” he pants, the words catching, shaking. His metal hand clenches in the sheets, the human one twitching at his side. “I can— I can keep goin’, doll, promise—”
You stop the movement of your hand immediately, the small vibrator that had been teasing along his inner thigh going still. His chest heaves as he blinks up at you, disoriented by the sudden silence.
“I didn’t ask if you could,” you say gently. “I asked where you are.”
His throat bobs. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, jaw working. You see it — that stubborn streak that makes him dig his heels in when his body is already begging for mercy. It’s the same stubbornness that once made him stay awake for three nights straight on mission because no one else could keep watch. The same one that now makes him bite his lip and whisper, don’t stop yet even when his muscles are trembling with exhaustion.
You know him well enough to wait. To breathe. To give him a moment.
And then it happens — so small, so soft you almost miss it.
“Red.”
It’s a whisper, barely there. Like the word itself hurts to say.
But it’s there. Clear. Honest.
You drop everything instantly. Toy off. Rope loosened. Your voice soft and grounding.
“Okay. Okay, baby. Red. I’ve got you.”
He breaks before you can even reach for him, the tension in his shoulders collapsing all at once as if that single syllable unlocked the floodgates. His chest stutters with a shaky exhale, eyes squeezing shut as a few stray tears escape.
“Hey, hey—” you murmur, already untying the last knot, brushing your thumb over his damp skin. “You did so good, Bucky. So, so good for me.”
He shakes his head, chest still heaving, voice breaking on the words:
“I’m sorry.”
Your heart aches. You climb onto the bed, pulling him gently into your lap despite the slick skin and tangled limbs. He resists at first — not because he doesn’t want to, but because he doesn’t think he deserves to. You can see it written in the downward curl of his mouth, the furrow of his brow.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, voice cracking. “I—I didn’t wanna ruin it. You were— you were enjoying it and— I should’ve been able to take more, I just—”
“Bucky.” You press a finger under his chin, coaxing his gaze to yours. “Hey. Look at me.”
When he does, it’s with eyes that look younger than you’ve ever seen them — blue and full of shame he doesn’t deserve.
“You didn’t ruin anything,” you tell him, slow and deliberate. “You saved something. You told me where your limit was. That’s what I need from you more than anything else.”
He blinks up at you, confused. “But—”
“Using your safeword isn’t failing, baby,” you whisper, thumb brushing his cheekbone where a tear has started to dry. “It’s the bravest thing you can do. It means you trust me enough to tell me when it’s too much. You can’t disappoint me by doing that.”
His breath hitches, the words catching in his throat. You can see the way he’s struggling to believe it — years of conditioning, the soldier in him whispering that endurance is strength, that surrender equals weakness. But you stay where you are, patient, a steady heartbeat against his chest.
You stroke his hair, untangling a few damp curls from his forehead.
“What color are you now?” you ask softly.
He takes a breath. Then another. “Yellow,” he says after a moment. “But getting better.”
You smile and press a kiss to his temple. “Good. We’ll stay right here ‘til it’s green again.”
He nods, a quiet, grateful sound leaving his throat. His body gradually melts against yours, his head falling into the curve of your shoulder. You feel the tremors fade, replaced by the soft rhythm of his breathing as you card your fingers through his hair.
Minutes pass like that — just the two of you, the rise and fall of his chest syncing with yours.
Eventually, he whispers, “Did I scare you?”
You smile against his hair. “You didn’t scare me. You worried me, maybe. Because I love you, and I never want you to think you have to push yourself just to make me happy.”
His body tenses again, almost imperceptibly. Then, slowly, he murmurs, “You love me?”
You still your hand, then hum softly. “Of course I do. I thought that was obvious, baby.”
He laughs — a broken, disbelieving little laugh that turns into something wetter at the edges. “You’re too good to me.”
“No,” you correct gently. “I just see you the way you deserve to be seen.”
He leans back enough to look at you, eyes red-rimmed but brighter now. There’s something new there — relief, maybe. Or peace.
“You really don’t think I messed it up?” he asks, voice smaller than before.
You shake your head and cup his cheek. “No, sweetheart. You didn’t mess it up. You did exactly what I’ve always wanted you to do: trust me.”
That earns you a trembling smile, his thumb brushing along your arm. “I trust you,” he whispers. “More than anyone.”
You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips — just enough to make him sigh, not enough to overwhelm. “Good. That’s all I need.”
When you pull away, he looks exhausted but safe. You guide him to lie down, pulling the blanket over both of you. His body curls instinctively toward yours, his head finding its usual place over your heart.
You whisper against his hair, “You can always say red, Bucky. Anytime. For anything. I’ll never be upset with you for that.”
He nods, already half-asleep, his voice drowsy and warm. “Promise?”
“Promise,” you say, pressing another kiss to his forehead. “You never have to earn your rest with me.”
He exhales slowly, his arm tightening around your waist as his breathing evens out. By the time the silence settles, he’s completely gone — safe, grounded, and still holding your hand.
You brush your thumb across his knuckles, smiling softly to yourself.
Because now he knows.
Red doesn’t mean failure.
It means trust.
And that’s everything.
fanfic writers have the power to write literally whatever they want, since they’re writing for themselves first and foremost
you as a potential reader have the power to filter out tags and avoid what you don’t like, since you’re reading for yourself first and foremost
you’d think this is a common sense, but somehow it’s still a hard-to-swallow pill for people who want to censor and enforce rules on art — when art has always been, and will always be, about the freedom to express and create anything the artists want
