pairing: jack abbot x f!night shift resident!reader
warnings: language, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), very tender and intimate, steamy but not explicit
word count: 3.5k
summary: pittsburgh is bracing for the worst winter storm in 40 years. you and jack are accepting the truth of your relationship.
notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with any of my work or this fic. long time no write <3 i pulled the title for this one from to be alone by hozier. i hope you missed these two as much as i have <3 this is a part of the ring of fire interconnected series, but it’s not necessary to read the prior parts to understand this fic. if you would like to, though, you can find the masterlist here <3 not proofread so apologies for any errors!
the strap of your duffel bag digs into your shoulder, slowing you down as you hobble from the bus stop towards the hospital. the worst of the storm hasn’t hit yet– not even close. honestly, when you look at your surroundings, you find it hard to believe that all of pittsburgh is bracing for the worst snow storm in forty years. everything feels so… peaceful. calm before the storm, and all that, blah blah blah.
you hate when you have to stay at the hospital, hate sleeping in the beds for longer than a couple hour nap in between a double. but you understand the importance, understand why you can’t be going back and forth. but, still. it doesn’t mean you’re going to go down happy about it. your phone starts buzzing in your pocket. you struggle to fish it out, with all of your various layers of coats, scarves, and mittens. you rip a glove off with your teeth so you can answer. “hey.”
“you close?”
“i’m moving at glacial speed, but, yeah, i’m theoretically close.”
“alright, be out in a sec.”
it’s futile arguing, because by the time you glance up, you can see a speck out in the distance that is abbot shaped. you can tell, just by the gait. hurrying towards you, head down, hands tucked in the pocket of his coat. you stop for a moment just to watch him, and he holds his hands out incredulously. “you makin’ this harder for me?” the words are laced with levity, making you tip your head back and laugh.
abbot is always making you laugh. big, full belly laughs– before you became friends with him, you had envied hearing the laughter that emitted from shen and ellis and abbot on the night shift. it felt so easy, like a warm hug and a cup of tea all in one. and it does feel like that. closeness with abbot really is that comforting.
“well i’m definitely not making this easy!” he trots up towards you and you tilt your head to the side. “this bag is heavy. can you handle it?”
“you poor thing,” he says under his breath as his hand slides under the strap, brushing your shoulder. he meets your gaze. “i can handle it.”
the smile on your face is equal parts delighted and sheepish, and you burrow slightly into your scarf, leaving only your eyes visible to him. but, his eyes still flick down to where your mouth would be, anyway.
things had changed between you. in subtle ways– but you could feel the difference. everything felt charged with a high level of energy, like at any moment, either one of you may just make the decision to throw yourself at the other. there’s a part of you, a prideful part that may be slightly avoidant, that has held yourself back from leaning into your whims in the way that you would truly want to. you don’t know why that is. if anyone would take proper care of your heart and your feelings, it would be abbot. he is particular about most things in his life– you don’t imagine he’d be reckless with your emotions.
but, still. dead wife, missing leg, adrenaline junkie who has worked through his shit, yes, but… there’s still work to be done. there’s always work to be done. you rationalize that that’s true for you, too. it’s why you and jack got along in the first place.
night crawlers. that’s what he always called you and your motley crew. the weirdest and the wildest. and it was true. it was true about you, ellis, shen, vivi, crus, mateo… you were all a little odd. during turnover, day shift usually looked at you a bit like a caged zoo animal– half fascination and half disbelief. you didn’t take it personally any more.
“ready for this shit show?” abbot asks as you begin your trek towards the hospital.
“yeah, i have miriam house sitting my place. told her i didn’t know how long yet.” a friend of yours– jack has heard all of the stories. even met her, once. not that anyone else at PTMC needs to know how interwoven jack has become into your life. not their business. “i slept for, like, five extra hours before coming. i hate sleeping here.”
“well,” jack looks over at you. he has a beanie tugged onto his head, little grey curls poking out at the sides around his ears. his scarf is a deep brown, and it looks expensive, like maybe his sister got it for him for a nice christmas or birthday gift. he looks good enough to eat. “i got dana to pull me a favor.” you raise an eyebrow at him. “she put us on our own floor.”
you can’t help it– you laugh. “you’re shitting me.” he shakes his head. “aren’t people going to be suspicious? like, where did we run off to?”
jack raises an eyebrow at you. “what do you think they’re gonna say?”
“what they’ve been saying.” you both stop in the ambulance bay. “that there’s something going on with us.”
abbot hums. “let ‘em talk.” he shrugs his shoulders. like it’s all just so easy. “and… are they so wrong, anyway?” he smirks, but there’s something else hidden in it. a genuine question. a seeking of confirmation. your jaw drops at him and you hit his arm, convincing yourself that he’s just messing with you. jack messes with you often. he catches your wrist, and his thumb slips under your mitten, rubbing at the soft skin of your wrist, where your veins are. “are they?” he asks, and his words are soft, earnest.
your mouth opens to say of course they are but you’re interrupted by the squeal of ambulance sirens and the flood of day shifters coming out to get started on a trauma. you and jack shuffle out of the way and into the ED, but you can still feel him glancing over at you.
once you’re inside, there’s very little time to stop him and say yes, i feel it too. i felt it in the shower with you a few weeks ago and i feel it every time that we smoke together and i feel it when we lay on your couch and i feel it when we’re on opposite sides of a person that we couldn’t save and i feel it when someone takes a gulping breath because we did save them.
once you break through into the stairwell, there’s a familiar quiet. and on the third floor landing, when jack is panting, just a bit, with the weight of your duffel bag on his shoulder, you stop him with your hand on his arm. “they’re not wrong.” you take the duffel bag back and take your turn shouldering the weight of it.
if jack was a hastier man, he might’ve kissed you in that moment. but he’s patient, and although he looks down again at your mouth, his eyes find their way back to yours. “gonna be a long couple of days,” he says. he swings open the door and pokes his head down the hall.
–
you take your time wiping down the room that you’re staying in. you know what goes down in these rooms– and, to be fair, you’d wipe down a room at the ritz-carlton. that’s just how you are. out the window, you see fat flurries falling from the sky, faster and faster. the news had projected that things would start amping up around this time. you wonder how long until the hospital is relying on the emergency generator– the rumor was the floors that were housing staff would be cut off from power, to conserve it for everywhere else. on one hand, you understand. on the other, you can’t help but feel it is a perfect reflection of how these hospitals treat their staff.
clad in your most comfortable and soft clothes, you peek out of your door and look down the hall. one room over, a faint glow emits from below the crack in the door, and you hear green day playing. you knock once on the door and it opens for you like he was just waiting for you. he puts a hand on his hip and smirks at you. “took you long enough. ready for our walk?” he reaches behind him and tosses a tube at you. you glance at it and grin.
jack puts his coat on and follows you back to your room where you grab your puffer. you’ve already put those ridiculous pink mittens on– and he takes it upon himself to zip you up into your jacket, to put a beanie on your head. his touches are careful and gentle, and it makes your heart turn over itself. “it’s like you’re wrapped in bubble wrap,” he says with a laugh under his breath.
“it’s cold!” you exclaim back.
jack leads you out to the smoking area. it’s not the best look for two physicians to be there, you know this– but you think you’re incognito enough that maybe it doesn’t matter. you huddle together on the stone bench, hip to hip. you shiver still and jack looks over at you with concern. “c’mere, get closer.”
“i don’t think i can get any closer without sitting in your lap.”
the implication weighs heavy in the air. jack’s mouth opens and for a moment you think he’s going to tug you into his lap– but he doesn’t. he just looks at you and leans in closer. “how do you expect to smoke with those monstrosities on?” he asks with a glint in his eye.
“what, you’re not going to help me?”
“i can help you.” jack takes the tube back from you and pops it open, putting the joint between his lips. he fishes out his zippo from his pocket and lights it, blowing out the first puff. once it’s got a good, burning cherry, he looks to you. you part your lips slightly and he places it for you. the ring of fire reflects in his eyes, that do nothing but stare at you with purposeful intent. you blow the smoke out over your shoulder. everything feels hazy and slow.
and then, everything goes dark.
the streetlights. the inside of the hospital– all of it. only for about ten seconds before the emergency generator powers up and resuscitates the most important parts of PTMC. when you drag your eyes to the third floor, where you and jack share a wall and will rest your heads tonight, you see that it has, as promised, remained dark.
“shit,” jack sighs. “that didn’t take very long, did it?”
“nope.” you lean a little closer into him, your head resting on his shoulder. “what was already going to be a shitty nights sleep just got worse.”
jack is quiet, and you look up to see him with the joint between his lips. he says around the smoke, “stay in my room with me.” he exhales fully.
you’re hazy from the weed and tired and ready to lay down and, yes, you’re ready to lay down beside him. it wouldn’t be the first time. “okay.”
he tips your chin up so that he can give you another hit off the joint. it’s all slow and easy, and you feel the anxiety that you’ve been having over staying at PTMC slowly dissipate. because, regardless, jack is here. the same jack that lets you sleep on his couch and pays for your breakfast when you go to the little diner you like. familiar jack.
the crunching of steps in the snow hit your ears. you lift your head, barely, and see princess and perlah with their arms laced. princess gives you a little wave and winks.
jack chuckles. “that didn’t take long.”
–
it feels like you’re getting ready for prom. that giddiness– the unknown of what’s to come, but the wanting for something grand to happen to you. jack has always made you feel a little bit like a girl with a crush. he has that effect on everyone. princess always loved to joke that a crush on dr. abbot was a rite of passage, and that everyone had to just ride the wave. you rode the wave, certainly. you’re not sure if you ever got off the wave, and that’s the problem.
there’s already a chill on your floor. when you come to his door, you’re holding a pillow and an extra blanket you had stuffed in your duffel from home. you have slippers on. he answers the door and looks you up and down. “you look cute.”
“shut up,” you grumble with warm cheeks, brushing past him. “the hospital air makes me feel gross. i swear i get ugly when i stay here too long.”
jack scoffs. “no, but it makes you crazy, apparently.” he shuts the door. someone had come by to drop off candles, and they’re burning all over the room. an almost certain safety hazard, but that’s the least of your worries now. “i’ve never seen you look ugly.”
“i wasn’t fishing for compliments.”
“you don’t have to fish. i’ll give them up freely.”
he watches you sit, tuck your legs underneath you on the bed and shiver. “it’s only going to get colder,” you remark, looking out the window. the snow is coming down and coming down and coming down. you suspect it’ll get bad, and soon. it’s only a matter of time before your pager goes off, a desperate cry for backup needed. you yawn and glance at the clock. 9:07pm. you don’t usually go to bed so early– of course not, being night shift. but it was your day off tonight, technically. and abbot’s.
“can i…” jack clears his throat. “we can lay down. might help stay warm.”
“yeah. yeah, good idea.” you pull the covers back and slide beneath them, and abbot comes to the other side of the bed and does the same. the candlelight flickers across his face and you swear that he’s not even breathing, not until he lays down beside you. he’s stiff, arms at his sides– but they’re warm. he’s warm, burning like a furnace, and it’s instant relief to the bonedeep chill that you feel.
“how are you so warm?” you ask. your hand runs down his arm and you fight the urge to pull him closer.
“i run hot,” he says simply. it’s so quiet in this room– you’re not used to such quiet. the pitt is a cacophony of sound, and it runs over into your dreams. but this floor is so hushed, and peaceful, that it feels almost like a dream. hell, maybe it is. jack lays his arm out. “come here.”
it’s a command, but it isn’t, at the same time– jack only does it because he understands that it’s what you want, but what you won’t ask for. you oblige immediately. your arms wrap around him, and he shivers when your hand skims his skin. “you are cold,” he murmurs, holding you tighter. one hand goes to the back of your neck and your eyes shutter closed. “c’mere.”
your legs tangle together, three flesh and one metal. you’ve slept in a bed together, but you’ve never intertwined yourselves in this way. the hand that doesn’t cradle your neck rubs circles into your back. you shiver again, but not because you’re cold. not this time. his hand dips beneath the hem of your shirt, just barely. “is this okay?” his lips are against your ear. “just want to warm you up.”
you nod, fervently. “yes.” there’s a desperation that you feel. his hand presses against your skin, sliding up your back. it lands in the center. your eyes can hardly stay open because it feels so good, but it feels like it would be a robbery of your pleasure to fall asleep with his hands all over you like this. you want to savor every last moment.
his hand travels to your hip, and he squeezes. you gasp and run your foot up his calf, the one that’s there in full. he freezes and pulls back, almost instantly. your pupils are blown and you put a hand to your hammering heart. “did i– did i do something–”
“no,” he swings his legs over the bed, and leans forward. you scramble up behind him, your hand to his back. “no, i just–” he sighs, and you can feel the frustration, and maybe, just maybe, insecurity. “a prosthetic isn’t exactly warm. i didn’t even think to take it off.”
“jack…” your hand travels up and to his shoulder. you settle, just behind him, positioned so as he turns his face to you, you’re right there. “i don’t mind. i don’t mind anything. i just– i just want you to be comfortable. that’s all.”
there’s something raw in his eyes. raw, wanting, and so real. he doesn’t say anything. he goes back to focusing on freeing his leg from the prosthetic, groaning once it’s off. he rubs for just a moment at it, before he turns back to you. warm cheeks, a hand on his back, face open and gentle and it breaks him down a bit.
he pushes you back down into the mattress. not forcefully. he’s careful as he does it.
he’s careful when he leans forward and he kisses you.
it’s slow. it’s methodical. it’s the kiss someone gives when they’ve thought about it for a very, very long time. your hand goes to the back of his head and you wish, more than anything else in this world, that you could freeze this moment in time and live in it for the rest of forever.
when he pulls back, he clears his throat. he’s hovering above you and you’re staring up at him like he’s just changed your life, which, it would turn out, he did. your hand goes to his face and your thumb skims the crows feet you love so much. he turns his face into your palm and breathes it in, kisses the skin there. “thank you,” he says, his voice a bit unsteady.
you breathe in deep. “come here,” you echo his previous sentiment. he goes back to the position you’d been in previously, and you feel a little bolder now– like the writing that was on the wall is now common knowledge. like a bubble has burst and neither of you have to pretend anymore. you don’t even have to speak the words, not really– you’ve always known and understand each other a little too well, when it didn’t quite make sense to. when you were just passing figures, before you got on night shift.
even then, you remember you would be pouring out your coffee cup in the break room while jack was filling up his. there were these little pockets of conversation that you two would get stuck in. whether you were talking about music or a case or whatever else it was– the ease of familiarity had been with you both for a long time.
that’s why there’s no grand confession on your lips. not right now, anyway– it’s just the quiet of you both together, the four walls of this recovery room, and jack’s hand back on your hip. your lips skim across his collarbone and you feel the sharp inhale. you laugh a little bit and press a kiss there, just to see what he’ll do. you feel the heat radiating off of his body, and you see the flush that is blossoming all over him, keeping him honest.
it’s exploratory. all of it is– you dance your finger along his side just to see what he does. he tugs a bit on your hair and smiles when you gasp a little bit. his lips kiss yours but they also trace down your jaw and to your throat, and when your hand claps against the back of his head, he takes satisfaction in knowing that he’s found one of the most sensitive parts of you.
“you feel so good,” jack says and it melts you into a puddle until you’re just a nodding head.
a pager goes off. you’re unsure if it’s yours, or his.
jack groans, deep from inside of himself, and you press your thighs together. he pushes his hair back and looks down at you, as though he’s been walking the desert for hours and finally found an oasis. “i don’t know if i can leave knowing you’re here, like this.”
“you’re sort of obligated to, doctor.” you pull him down, finding this new found familiarity of touch so easy to replicate over and over again.
he hovers above you and kisses you once more. it’s hot– it’s not as delicate as the first. he parts your lips with his tongue and he kisses you in way that’s not sloppy but not so demure– it’s just right.
if his pager went off first, yours goes off next.
jack rises from the bed and settles back into his prosthetic. the pair of you change into scrubs and are brushing your teeth at the same mirror, jack just behind you. you stare at each other in the mirror and he puts your stethoscope on your neck. you clip his badge to his pants, and his hands flex at his sides.
when you leave the small hospital room, you can’t fight the feeling that you’ve just walked into the rest of your life.
°˖𖣠⋆˚࿔ Summary: You have been shunned out your entire life because of your enhanced abilities and the need to feed on other beings to keep your power. Forced to hide in the shadows and act like a regular citizen. What if you find someone who is just as in need to break free from their societal expectations? What if that person was your next-door neighbor?
Or; a multi-part series that follow the reader and Dex understanding each other through their psychological and mental illnesses.
✧ ₊˚ - "Love us together / An eater, I need her / I'll feed her, I'll keep her." ~ "An Eater" by Matt Martians ✧ ₊˚
✧ ₊˚ - "Oh-oh, here she comes / Watch out, boy, she'll chew you up / oh-oh, here she comes / She's a maneater" ~ "Maneater" by Daryl Hall and John Oates ✧ ₊˚
✧ ₊˚ - "I could eat that girl for lunch / Yeah, she dances on my tongue / Tastes like she might be the one" ~ "LUNCH" by Billie Eilish ✧ ₊˚
✧ ₊˚ - "Don't be scared / I've done this before / Show me your teeth" ~ "Teeth" by Lady Gaga ✧ ₊˚
pairing: benjamin pointdexter x reader
warning: cursewords, kissing, mentions of blood, punches, kicks, murder, mentions of abuse, stalking, obssession.
word count: 5922
summary: running from the man you once loved, you find an affordable aparment in nyc, leaving your life in Lousiana. All you want to do is escape the man that taught you love is violent. You land a job in Nelson and Murdock and fourtantely meet Dex who shows you he's more than ready to do anything for you. Even going to murdering your ex-husband
A/N: purple lace divider by @mieluno
simple line divider by @starrliqhtt
Dex swears he’s a good person. He’s finally got his mind back and the first thing he wants to do is be one of the good guys. That's what he thinks is best.
That’s what he says as he settles on the rooftop in one of the towering buildings of Hell’s Kitchen, eyes patrolling the murky alleyway beneath his feet that’s overcrowded with a large amount of trash.
Dex swears when he stalked that man for a good couple of hours and found out things about him that family wouldn't even know, it was just to help him catch him just so he could have a little chat with the guy, not like he was going to do anything to the guy. He just used up half a notebook to memorise and write down the man’s schedule. All this just for justice. That’s what good guys do, right?
Dex’s mind explodes in happiness, a sense of overwhelming euphoria erupts in his mind as he spots a familiar, shadowy figure moving in the alleyway, whistling and unaware that a few metres up, lay the man who’d end his fate with a precise knife to the heart. Ha, got you!
Dex won’t let the man go that easy.
After escaping prison, Dex chose a worn-out apartment to reside in tucked in the corner of the city. It was nice, livable, which was the most important aspect of the flat really. Dex didn’t really make friends with any of his neighbors except the lady next to him with the cat. Everyday, Dex has the same routine, sleep, eat, work out, take a walk, and then repeat.
One morning, while he pets the old lady’s cat, she mentions a new tenant in the apartment on his left which had been tenantless for months. In response, he just hums, flashes the lady a charming smile and strides away down the stairs. He doesn’t meet the new tenant, you, until much later.
He learns that you live downstairs and come from Louisiana, possibly escaping family or something that young people do nowadays he jolts down in his notebook. Not that he made a notebook especially for you. He does that for anyone. You’re not special. Okay, maybe you intrigue him a bit, only because you don’t speak a lot like the weird lady next to him.
He observes you, observes the way you walk, the way you make small talk with the former veteran downstairs, and how you carry the groceries for the neighbor on crutches. To Dex, you are a mystery and he’s already obsessed.
One time, fate brings you together. You’re carrying hefty groceries up the stretching stairs, at the same time, Dex is going down for…a walk. When he goes down the stairs, he finds you having trouble carrying huge bags, so like a good guy he helps you.
You spot your neighbour moving towards you, before you can ask for help, he scoops some of the bags on his arms. God, his biceps! Makes you feel like a Victorian man seeing ankles for the first time. “You don’t have to do that.” You say as both of you take the stairs. “I want to.” He replies with a charming smile.
“Good thing my taxes are becoming of use!” You joke, but Dex doesn’t fully comprehend the joke, not reacting with a laugh or a smile like you expected. You both stand in uneasy silence staring at each other before you break and say:
“Sorry, that was a joke.” You awkwardly laugh, giving him your name with a soft smile.
“Uh, no problem. I’m Dex. Nice to meet you.”
A couple of stairs later, you find yourself in front of your wooden door. Dex drops the bag on the doorway as you look for your key through the pockets of your jeans. While you’re unaware, Dex’s gaze admires your face as it tries to catch the small details.
Dex’s eyes stare aimlessly at you, almost seemingly in a trance. The only thought in his mind was the fact that you were undoubtedly the most beautiful girl he ever saw in his life.
“Aha! There it is. Thanks, Dex. See you around.” You give him a small smile, waving at him before opening the door and pulling the heavy weight of bags with you inside. The door shuts softly, giving him the cue that you left obviously, but Dex’s feet are planted on the floor, unable, no, not willing to move. He finds himself staring at your door even after you left.
Dex makes it his mission to know you.
So, like any good person would do, he times your schedule with his. He knows exactly when you go for a run at the park and when you go to your favourite cafe for a coffee. He knows everything, not in a creepy way, but in more of an observable way.
He’s looking out for a friend, isn’t he? That’s what friends do.
You barely know the girl.
One fateful morning when the scorching sun was shining and the birds were chirping in content, he ran into you accidentally at the coffee. He spots you standing at the cashier ordering your usual, not that he memorised your order too, that’d be ridiculous! Okay, maybe only how you take your coffee. And how you like to order cookies with that. Only that, though!
To anyone outside, you seem like the typical shy, open girl that could apologise to a snail if she stepped on it by accident, but to Dex, it looks like an act…a coverup for something deeper no one has realised.
The way you positioned yourself the first time you met Dex was defensive, like you were waiting for something bad to happen and even the way your eyes kept flicking back to him while you were looking for the keys, like he was a ticking bomb that was going to explode in seconds if you didn’t find the keys.
He watches you take your order and perch yourself on the table next to the enormous window that gives a beautiful view of the towering, eerie buildings.
With all the act he could muster, he walks towards you and makes a surprised face.
“Oh, you’re the new tenant, right? Didn’t know you came to this cafe.” Liar.
Good guys don't lie.
“Yeah, it’s my favourite. Do you want to sit down?” You ask with an enchanting smile, your eyes glinting under the light of the cafe.
“Yes, sure.” He replies as you gesture to the chair in front of you. Sitting down, he looks at you, really looks at you, noticing the minor purple bruise on your neck that was barely covered by your turtle neck shirt. Dex furrows his eyebrows, maybe she’s clumsy, but he knows better than that. Why does he care anyway? It’s not like you’re friends. Heck, you barely know each other; this is your second meeting.
Unaware of his criticising gaze, you enquire, “so, you come here often?”
That seems to break Dex out of his haze, “yes, actually.” He retorts. Liar.
Why do you keep on lying, Dex?
“That’s good, guess we’ll see each other.” You flash him a grin, hands wrapped around the mug of coffee. He inspects your hand, and, unsurprisingly, finds you fidgeting badly, especially on the ring finger of your left hand, like it was a habit. Like there was something there that is now gone.
For the first time when he even heard your name from the neighbor next to him, he felt this inevitable pull between you and him, like he was destined to protect you. Like a good guy would do. From there, both of you chat about multiple things, such as how long you’ve been in Hell’s Kitchen and what you do on the weekends. You tell him about your life in Louisiana and how you are the eldest of your siblings. He doesn’t tell you much, which just makes you assume that he’s a private guy.
After that meeting, Dex keeps hoping to see you, but hope kills, so he just goes to the places you go. For example, one morning when the sun was still rising, he hears the sound of your keys, he deduces that you’re going for your morning walk; therefore, he waits for exactly three minutes before executing his mission.
Bumping into you in Central Park.
Dex fakes it flawlessly: bumping into you, then dropping his not-so-full coffee. He knows you’ll feel bad, then offer him another cup of coffee, and Dex will agree.
It works perfectly. Since when does Dex fail? Everything he does is precise.
At the coffee shop, the buzzing of the music playing softly above you accompanied by the chatter and laughter of the people around you is enough to calm you down. You like Dex, really. He’s one of the few friends you have except for Matt, Foggy, and Karen. They’re all very amiable people, but you feel like they have their own circle and by joining that circle, you’re just imposing on something personal.
Dex makes you feel comfortable, like you have nothing to worry about. And here you are sitting in front of him again at the cafe, staring at him in awkward silence.
“It’s weird we keep bumping into each other, right?” You manage a joke, but you’ve never been a person of great humor unlike your husband, no, your ex. He was always loved by your friends because of his superb humour, only if they knew what kind of person he was on the inside.
Thank God you escaped that hell.
“Yeah, like fate knows something we don’t.” Looking at his cup, he replies as nonchalant as ever. Your breath hitches, not expecting that answer, oblivious to the fact that this was not fate. This was a mission, all of it, with steps and many plans. Avoiding eye contact, you look at your paper cup.
“Listen, I-” Dex starts, almost desperate to get the words out of his mouth. However, the words die on the tip of his tongue as the roaring sound of a ringtone fills his ear. Embarrassment floods your face, the tip of your ears going hot.
“I’m so sorry, I have to take this. It’s my boss.” You apologise, pulling the phone to your ear. Your voice is muffled and under your breath as you answer, Dex catches something of ‘I’ll be right there, and sorry’.
“I’m sorry, it’s my boss he needs me,” standing up, you excuse yourself while grabbing your cup of coffee.
“It’s fine,” he stands up too, watching you walk out of the cafe, the door jingles. Without rethinking his idea, he catches up to you in quick strides, hoping to catch you before you leave.
“Wait!” He yells, stopping you in your tracks. “Dinner? Italian place next to the library? I’ll pay. 7? It’s a…date.” He acknowledges. Sweat falls on his forehead, his hands shaking next to his side. Don’t mess this up, Dex.
Nodding, you reply with a smile, “I’d love that.”
When you arrive at work, you’re out of breath, you’re barely there early. You’re sure Matt wouldn’t say anything about you being a couple of minutes late, but you need this job, you can’t, by any means, give them a bad impression about you or even give them the thought of firing you.
As usual, the office is packed with people. Before greeting anyone, you make sure to place the cup of coffee on the miniature, black desk covered in paper and in immense mountains of files. By the time you’re about to sit down, Karen appears at your desk like a menacing shadow.
“You’re late.” She implies, crossing her arms with a look and handing you a new file on your desk.
“I know, traffic.” You excuse yourself, groaning when you catch sight of the file, “already?”
“Yes, and have you finished the Jack Finnily file? We need it for court after tomorrow.”
“After tomorrow? Matt said court wasn’t until next Monday, today’s Tuesday!"
“The prosecutor demanded it to be changed. Just don’t forget, okay? And today we’re going to Josie's, are you coming?” She inquires with a hopeful glint in her eyes. Karen likes you. She thinks you’re smart and extremely clever all while being helpful and kind; a friendship like that is worth millions of dollars.
“Can’t, sorry! I, uh, got plans…?” When you reply, it comes out as a question instead. Grimacing, you correct yourself, “I have a date, just don’t tell anyone, please?” You beg Karen, hoping to keep it a secret.
Karen smiles with a knowing look in her eyes, “so Matt doesn’t know? Don’t act like I don’t see you staring at him all the time.”
With a face getting warmer, you defend yourself, “I do NOT like Matt! And, by the way, that’s extremely unprofessional.”
She scoffs jokingly, “whatever you say, sweetheart.”
Jokes aside, you don’t like Matt. Yes, he is handsome and bright, but he’s just not your type. You still have the dream everyday of finding your prince charming.
He’s just not Dex.
Cut it out! You do not like Dex. He’s just hot, with a cool scar on his face. You bet he’d make a great boyfriend though.
Okay, that’s enough thinking for one day.
The time passes sluggishly, the constant tick of the analogue clock beside you on the wall keeping you on edge. The day is mundane, nothing happens except the fight that starts between two clients. Foggy steps in to stop it though.
However, there was a cute, British guy with silver, gray eyes and sand coloured curls that fell on his forehead, with a jaw so sharp, it could be used as a cutter. His words were smooth and controlled with a deep, gravely voice that sounded so mellifluous that it was almost illegal. He kept on flirting with you nonstop to the point where Matt had to stop him twice as all of you sat together to discuss his case.
When work finished, you didn’t hesitate in breaking into a full sprint towards your apartment to get ready. You spent an hour doing an everything shower that includes shaving and applying cream, because a girl can only dream.
Also, you spent an hour choosing the perfect dress that would flatter you, curving at the right places and making you feel confident in your own skin. For makeup, you were a specialist, especially after what happened with your husband. You learnt to cover bruises, what specific foundation and concealer colour shades you should get to cover them up, which brands were water-proof just in case, what to do if you forgot to cover them just in case, because just in case was your life now. You were living on ifs just to survive, because he vowed to kill you if anyone found out.
But he’s not here anymore. You’re alone. It’s going to be okay. You’re safe!
In fifteen minutes, you reach the Italian place Dex chose. During the whole ride, you spent wondering, staring at the seat in front of you, because what if it was a mistake? What if I don’t move on? What if Dex doesn’t like me? What if, what if. You didn’t even realise the taxi came to a halt until the man pointed it out, “we’re here, ma’am. Have a nice day.”
With a deep breath, but a leaping heart, you exit the taxi, heels clicking against the concrete pavement. When you enter through the restaurant, you find Dex already resting on a table next to the window; his mouth explodes into a grin when he spots you.
“Hi,” you mutter softly, sitting in front of him as the waiter pours your drink in the glasses standing on top of the table. “Italian? Are you a spy for them or something?” You giggle. God, someone needs to tape your mouth because the jokes are getting worse everyday. How more awkward can you get?
In response, Dex gives an authentic laugh, something that warms your chest. Your gaze falls on him, before he motions for you to sit down. “I was going to sit down, wasn’t gonna stand the whole time, haha!” No seriously, someone needs to eliminate the gene or chromosome or whatever responsible for this.
The place is serene, softly dimmed light above you with non-scented candles on the table. It’s not enormous, but it’s quiet and lovely. The tables are covered with a white, lacy drape that creates a romantic theme in the restaurant.
You spend the rest of the date laughing and talking about your life back in Louisiana, but you keep one significant part out; he doesn’t need to know about it though, it won’t matter. Turns out, you and Dex have multiple things in common more than you predicted. It seems almost comical.
At the end of the night, well, obviously, both of you walk home together, because both of you live next to each other, but it’s comforting anyway. For once in a long time, you feel serene. You’re brain isn’t in flight or fight mode like you used to be.
While walking out of the place, you almost trip on the sidewalk.Almost immediately, he grabs your arm, but you flinch, hot white pain flooding your pain from Dex’s grip. Even though his touch was tender, bruises still lingered there.
He gives you a look, but you don’t look at him. Clearing your throat, you say, “that shocked me.” You force a laugh, but it comes out as a shaky breath instead.
His eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t comment. He just stares at you.
You hope he doesn’t see the shame on your face.
Stop it! What if you get too close and he finds out? What will be your excuse when he knows you’re a divorced woman?
The embarrassment!
This was a mistake
Both of you don’t talk the whole, opting to stay in silence. You don’t want him to question you or interrogate you like a suspect. No matter how much you deny it, you’re scared…of him? Of what he’ll say?
You’re scared you’ll scare him away.
In no time, the sight of the enormous house appears in your view. You almost trip again while taking the flight of stairs, which could almost be comical if you weren’t sweating beads on your forehead.
“Uh, yeah, this is me!” You joke as you and Dex stand in front of your door. “I guess I’ll see you around.” You just hope the ground would swallow you already.
“Night.” Dex replies gruffly which makes you worry that this is the last time you will be seeing Dex.
Both of you retreat to your apartments. Before you go to bed, you take a hot, steaming shower. You sit in your shower as the water gushes down your back in smooth rhythms. You don’t know when you start crying and you don’t know how long you sit there just staring at the wall. It has become a very bad habit.
When you awake, you take a look at yourself in the mirror. You look worse than you did in the marriage. Black under your eyes, bruises that somehow still linger no matter what. They stay like a silent reminder that you belong to him.
Dex, on the other hand, achieved no sleep last night. Not that he tried to, but he sat in the kitchen playing with the knife between his hands. He had only one thought in mind.
This man had to go.
The man who was laying his hands on you should be six feet under and Dex will make sure of that.
Dex has never felt this protective over someone. He just met you a few days ago, but his heart does jump every time he sees you. He hates the way you looked at him last night, like you were scared of him, like you thought Dex would ever dare raise his hand on you.
In the haze of fifteen minutes, you try to make yourself somewhat presentable for work. You arrive early for once, shocking Matt who was already there. Matt has a knack of arriving early to work, mostly arriving with foggy by his side, but today he was early.
“Are you working on a Guinness Record?” You laugh, placing your bag on your desk. Your attempt at a joke is successful as Matt’s mellifluous laugh fills your ear. Your voice, however, is gruff from crying all night which catches Matt’s attention.
“You sound horrible.” Matt comments. Damn his sensitive ears. Is this normal? You don’t think so. It’s like he has superhearing!
“Bad sleep last night. Bed bugs did bite unfortunately.” Oh my God, you need to stop with the jokes! They probably laugh out of pity. Your father is rolling in his grave from the amount of bad, unfunny jokes you’re telling.
“Ay ay captain.” You smile, “oh and brought you coffee by the way. Can’t believe I forgot to give it to you. The barista said it was…couples day, so they were handing out free pairs of coffee?” You say, handing him the paper cup.
This time, the day passes on rapidly, making it a very arduous and booked day. You don’t think you had time to breathe and take a moment for yourself. Your ankles are sore and red from the amount of pacing you did in the office.
At the end of the day, you’re still buried in your files when Foggy and Karen leave and even Matt does which is surprising considering he likes to stay late at work.
You don’t leave until past nine, walking through the lowly dim streets with nothing but pepper spray in your bag.
You feel watched. You feel someone watching you as you walk.
Alarmed, you clutch your bag tightly as if it could save you.
Suddenly, you feel yourself being pushed into a gloomy alleyway, falling on your side with a loud groan. You don’t know what’s happening. Everything’s happening too quickly
All you see are obscure movements. You blink once, twice. Ignoring the pain in your side, you try to stand up, but the man, you assume, kicks you hard in your stomach. Then, a rough slap to your cheek. It stings as hell.
You let out a loud cry, hands moving to your stomach to soothe the pain, but he grabs your hands with one of his hands and forcefully pulls them away from your body.
“You bitch thought you were gonna escape me? You’re stupid just like your parents.” He laughs and it almost sounds like a roar. You can recognise this voice from a mile away. There’s nothing in the world that can make you forget him.
You try to sit up, but he kicks your stomach again. With a loud cry, you land on your back. The tears come quickly like waves in a tsunami. They’re loud as you sob. You shouldn’t be crying. It gives him power, but what can you really do when you’re being beaten up in an alleyway by your ex-husband?
You can smell the beer on him. One sniff of it and it takes you back to your marriage.
You wish you hadn’t stayed late at work. You wish you could’ve accepted Murdock’s invitation to walk you home, but you didn’t.
He’s tipsy. You see from your restricted vision in the dark that he can’t even stand on his legs. You reach around you, trying to find your bag and reach for the pepper spray.
“You’re still my fa-favourite girl, don’t worry, sweet baby.” He slurs, trying to make his voice sound soft. He squats down to look at you, but you’re too busy sobbing in pain and waving your hand around in search of your bag. He caresses the side of your face with his free hand. Squirming, you try to move out of his grip, but it’s no use.
Fortunately, not all sad stories have a bad ending.
The silhouette of the familiar Hell’s Kitchen’s Hero appears in the sight of your ex-husband. Your ex-husband, not being a resident of NYC and not being familiar with the hero, squints his eyes like he can’t tell if he’s been drinking too much or if this is actually real.
You don’t notice the hero though, eyes shut as you try to sit up. You only hear him though, and when you do, you let out another sob, but this one was in relief.
“Move away from the lady, and I won’t have to hurt you badly.” Are Daredevil’s words. They’re ominous. Even though the words are quiet, the words land on your ex with a loud blow. They’re supposed to blow his ego away, but, unfortunately, he has the ego of a blue whale. It means he won’t back down without a fight.
You take this as a cue to leave. You don't look back, only hearing the sound of bones crushing and breaking. Groans fill the place. Your breath becomes short gasps, as you try to sit up. Leaning against the wall while standing up, you scurry out of this alleyway in the fastest way possible despite the fact of the way you’re injured.
You barely make it up the stairs of the house, the lights above you shining harshly in your eyes. The worst part is the way the dizziness kicks in. Black and white fills your vision.
You don’t know why you knock on his door instead of yours, but you can’t be on your own right now. It’s not that you can’t deal with this, you’ve fixed up worse bruises and wounds in the past that he has given you, but something inside of you tells you to trust Dex. That you could depend on someone for once. That’d feel good for once, wouldn’t it?
Gently, you knock on his door, hoping not to wake up the neighbors. You can barely stay up on your own feet anymore. While leaning against the door, you slide against his door, falling slowly to your knees. The tears come again. What if he’s not home? Where are the people when you need them most?
Luck’s on your side this time.
The door swings open.
Dex appears in the doorway like a guardian angel, the lighting shining from behind him. His eyes land on you. They look almost worried, but you’ve learned to read people. While other wives were giving birth to lovely children, going on dates with their husbands, travelling with their families, hosting holiday dinner, you were learning to read people like paper. You created a schedule of his drinking, you learned first aid kit, you learned how to become a good wife, because nothing could please him. You learned when to talk and when to stop talking, and most importantly you learned to never ask him for anything, he’d hit you with the glass cup immediately.
Dex’s eyes look like he knew something would happen.
Both of you don’t break eye contact. Then, he just carries you silently into his apartment and places you on his elastic couch that feels like heaven to your back.
You try to open your mouth to explain anything, but nothing comes out. You’ve stopped crying by now, mostly because you’re embarrassed of the way Dex’s sympathetic eyes are looking at you. He opts not to say anything, noticing how fatigue is written all over your face.
He just nods, gives you a glass of water with a painkiller, but you don’t ask what it is. You’re too exhausted to talk, you’ll tell him tomorrow about what happened.
But unknown to you, he’s pieced some of the puzzles together.
When you awake, the dim light filtering through the beige curtains catches your attention. Then, the smell of breakfast overwhelms your nose. Trying to sit up, a banging headache forms in your head.
“Ow, gosh, where am I?” Eyes fully shut while sitting up, you acknowledge. Your eyes fly open. You take a single look around, noticing Dex’s apartment. It’s bland, but not too bland. It’s only full of the necessities.
Turning your head to the side, you spot Dex standing in the kitchen cooking eggs in a pan. With weary bones, you carry yourself to where he’s standing.
“You gonna tell me what happened, or should I make my own theory?” He questions. It must’ve been his try at a joke, but you didn’t laugh or even chuckle. The words that were gonna come out of your mouth right now were going to either make him a close friend or you’d lose him.
“Do you know why I moved here? Did I ever mention it?” You ask with furrowed eyebrows. You sit on his kitchen counter. Dex shakes his head, turning off the stove and placing a plate in front of you with a mug of coffee as black as dirt.
“I was escaping something, someone. I used to be married, but I divorced him, because he was…hurting me. We divorced quietly, because he was trying to run for mayor at that time in Louisiana, and apparently hitting your wife doesn’t look good on a resume. So he talked to my parents, offered them money, and they agreed to keep it quiet. Last night, I left work late and he just pulled me into an alleyway, but Daredevil was there thankfully. I’m sorry, I should have said something.”
You feel a cold touch of a hand on your cheeks, forcing you to look in his eyes, “never, I mean ever, apologise for something like that. I don’t need you to say anything else, just give me a name.” Is his reply. You would’ve expected him to criticize you or tell you it was your fault, but he didn’t.
“Please.”
“Wh-why?” You stutter, “are you going to hurt him? Don’t- don’t do that. I’m…he won’t hurt me again.”
“I know that sweetheart. I won’t hurt him. It’s just for the future, y’know?” He tries to make up an excuse, what kind of bullshit excuse is that? Looking at you once, his rage bubbles in his throat. He’s sure that if he doesn’t take it out on something, it might make him explode like a balloon.
In a quiet voice, you give him his name.
He really looks at you for once, taking his time to admire your face. A black eye adorned your alluring face. He took his time to look at the way you pouted while eating the food he made you. You bit on your inside cheek, like you were trying not to sob.
Sighing, Dex starts to move his legs towards his front door. He wants to murder this man are all his thoughts, before you call out his name. He stops in his tracks, looking back to find you behind him; the space between you was so little it was almost non-existent.
“Don’t go. I don’t want to be alone, Dex.” You whisper. Your eyes were vulnerable and so clear he could see a line of tears forming. He couldn’t manage seeing you cry. What the hell was happening to him? Why did this woman that he’s only known for a week manage to make him wrapped around her little finger.
“Please, Dex.” In a surprising motion, you wrap your arms around him, an army of tears falling onto his shirt as you cry quietly.. His eyes widen, he doesn’t really know what he should be doing. In a half-effort, he wraps his arms around you awkwardly.
Dex tries to convince himself he doesn’t care about you, but it’s no use, but here you are, standing in his apartment, crying in his arms. You stopped crying, but your breath is uneven. You don’t remember the last time you cried this hard.
Dex does care about you.
He wishes not to, but he can’t stop, not now and now ever.
Breaking the hug, you look into his eyes, but you can’t help yourself as you close the gap between you and Dex. Your arms wrap around his neck, his wrapping around your waist as he gently pushes your back towards the kitchen counter. You don’t stop. The kiss is deep and full of hidden admiration. It’s a very passionate kiss for people who’ve known each other for a week. His muscled arms help you sit on the counter as he stands between your legs. His lips move from your mouth to your neck, leaving a series of scattered kisses. Both of you break apart.
For the rest of the hour, you and Dex lay on his couch, with your head leaning against his shoulder. Dex’s arm is around your shoulder and once in a while he looks down at your cuddling form.
A few minutes later, you fall asleep, softly snoring. Dex leaves your body asleep on his couch, closing his curtains and opening the TV to whatever channel is on. He’ll be gone for a while, so he wrote you a note that he placed on the coffee table.
And so, that’s how Dex found himself on top of the rooftop.
And that’s also how Dex found himself dangling the guy upside down on the rooftop while the man screams and begs for mercy, but Dex won’t let that man go easily. He has a whole plan planned out, because how dare he lay his filthy hands on you? He has fun watching the guy squirm and cry, it’s more of a hobby really. It makes him feel on cloud nine.
Killing him slowly would take the enjoyment out of the whole thing, so give Dex a reason why he would do that. Isn't it meant to be enjoyable? He punches him, but not enough to take him into unconsciousness. He has to be awake to experience all the pain. He made his bed, so he must lie in it.
And when Dex opens the door with blood thrown on his face and bruised knuckles, your thoughts are confirmed. The worst part is that you should be afraid of him, but you aren’t. You know exactly what he did, and you don’t care. You can’t help the feeling of happiness that lodges in your heart.
“You killed him, didn’t you?”
Dex’s eyes are full of pride as he nods. He doesn’t care if you leave him if you’re scared. The most important thing to him is the fact that the guy is long gone. He won’t be able to hurt you anymore and you won’t have to leave in fear forever.
“Okay…that’s…something.” Is your reply. You try to keep your emotions discreet; you don’t know why. With a soft smile, you hug him again. You hug him maybe due to the fact that you feel safe, or the fact that Dex did all of this just for you. Your heart leaps, not in fear, but in pleasure and joy.
For once, you feel safe. You’re sure you’re safe. That’s what you tell yourself, but why are your hands still shaking?
You sit down on his rusty couch. You expect him to sit down next to you, but instead he kneels in front of you and captures both of your hands in his in a tight but gentle grip. His loving eyes stare into yours.
“Tell me what you want me to do. I’ll do anything for you. Just love me. That’s all I ask."
Summary : Dex is starting to learn that his sweet girl is much more capable of taking care of herself than he realized.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x mutant! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Reader is a florist, and a mutant immune to all toxins. Dex is a stalker as per usual, sexual themes, nudity, obsessive love, morally grey characters, violence, poisoning, medical trauma, experimentation, injury and blood, implied murder, food, anxious attachment!Dex, reader has a pet octopus (I swear this is important to the story.) set between DDBA s1&s2 (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 16.1k
Requested by : Anon
Notes : This took so long for me to write, but I love writing a pathetically in love Dex. Enjoy!
Dex almost walked right past you the first time he met you. That happened earlier this year, on Valentine’s Day.
Which was ironic, because this holiday, to Dex, was nothing short of predictable and over-rehearsed choreography, hollow at its core. He thought love wasn’t something people felt; it was something they performed, especially today, draped in red and pink like a uniform they were told to wear. He saw it in the stiff way hands intertwined, in the calculated timing of laughter, in the flowers bought not because they meant anything, but because not buying them would be bad press. It was obligation disguised as affection, routine mistaken for devotion. A transaction, really, nothing more than attention in exchange for reassurance. And underneath it all, none of it would last.
But whatever. He’d already tuned most of it out. He was halfway through scanning exits and timing foot traffic when you stepped just slightly into his path, holding out a flower like you’d been waiting for him all your life.
“Hey,” you said, bright but not pushy. “You look like you could use one of these.”
Dex stopped. He blinked at you once, recalibrating.
Oh?
The first thing he noticed was that he thought you were pretty. For a second, he didn’t process anything beyond that.
Then the details followed: the faint dirt on your hands, the natural way you handled the stems, the open shop behind you breathing out the scent of fresh blooms. You had a bucket of red roses with you, probably giving it to everyone who would stop to listen. You were a florist, obviously. That was your shop, most likely.
“Do I?” He managed to say.
“I think so,” you admitted, tilting your head as you looked at him. “You’ve got the whole ‘I’d rather be literally anywhere else’ thing going on.”
Most people didn’t say things like that to him. Not casually. Not with that little hint of amusement in their voice, like you weren’t intimidated at all.
“I don’t celebrate this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the chaos around you.
“Mm,” you hummed, like that was fair. Then you lifted the flower a little higher, wiggling it slightly between your fingers. “Good news, you don’t have to participate. This one’s free.”
He didn’t take it.
“Why give them away?” he asked instead, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You’re losing money.”
You smiled, wider this time, like you liked the question. “Maybe I am.” Then you continued a little more playful, “Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to talk to cute strangers without it being weird.”
You thought he was cute?
Dex almost laughed, but then decided that would probably be perceived as mean, regardless of his intentions. “That’s your strategy?”
“Hey, it’s working,” you said easily, nudging the flower a little closer to him. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”
His eyes flicked from the flower back to your face, trying to find the catch, maybe some sign you didn’t mean it, some crack in the tone, but there wasn’t one. You just looked… sincere.
“Do you say that to everyone?” he asked.
You shrugged, shoulders lifting just slightly.
For whatever reason, he finally took the flower.
Your fingers brushed his, and you didn’t pull away quickly like most people would. You just let it happen, then eased back to take the next flower for the next person.
“See?” you said, satisfied, like you’d won a county fair grand prize. “Now you’ve got proof today wasn’t a total waste.”
Dex looked down at the flower in his hand, then back at you. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
You laughed, and he thought it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard. “Take care of it,” you said, “Or don’t. It’s yours now.”
He didn’t react. He just awkwardly stood there for a couple of seconds, spinning the rose in his hand.
“Dex,” he said instead, gesturing to himself like offering his name made sense here, like it belonged in this conversation.
Your expression brightened just a touch at that. “Dex,” you repeated, like you were testing it. “I’m guessing you don’t usually stop for random girls handing out flowers.”
“No.”
“Mm.” You smiled, just a little smug about it now. “Guess I got lucky, then.”
He stared at you for a second too long, because it didn’t feel like luck.
It felt deliberate. Like the world was pointing at you saying this one! This one is yours!
“Yeah,” he said, more to himself than to you. “Something like that.”
“Alright, Dex,” you said, stepping back slightly to let someone pass between you. “Try not to look so miserable, yeah? You’ve got a flower now. That’s a personality upgrade.”
He huffed a small smile.
And when he walked away this time, he didn’t throw the flower out. He held onto it, tighter than he needed to.
See, he’d been empty for a long time. Nothing ever held his attention for more than a passing second anymore. Everything just got reduced to patterns, targets, and white noise. So when his focus caught on you and didn’t immediately let go, it felt wrong, like his world slipped off-pattern.
Behind him, you were already smiling at someone else, giving someone another rose. But that didn’t make it feel less personal.
It just made him want your attention back.
—
A week later, Dex stepped into your shop like he’d already memorized it, as if he’d been there a hundred times instead of zero. The bell chimed softly overhead, and you glanced up from trimming stems, fingers faintly dusted with green.
“Hi! What can I do for you today?” you asked, like he was any other customer.
For a second, he just looked at you.
“You don’t recognize me?” he said, and it came out more earnest than he intended. He sounded… disappointed.
You blinked, then leaned forward slightly, studying him. There was a moment where he could see your mind working, trying to place him, and then your eyes widened, recognition clicking into place.
“Oh! Dex, right?” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “From Valentine’s Day.”
The panic that had clawed in his chest eased immediately.
You glanced down then, noticing what he was holding in his calloused hands: A small glass vase. Inside it, the rose.
The rose you gave him.
“How’s it doing?” you asked, going around the counter and stepping closer.
“I put it in water,” he said, watching you instead of the flower. “I did all I could.”
You leaned in slightly, examining it, your fingers hovering just short of touching the petals. “Mm,” you hummed, but you didn’t sound surprised. “It’s wilting.”
“It is,” he agreed, though his tone suggested that wasn’t the point.
You looked up at him then, a little apologetic. “Roses don’t last forever.”
He knew that. You knew he knew that, you weren’t stupid. But he wasn’t the first customer who was upset that a flower had the audacity to die. Living art has a way of turning sentimental to people, beyond logic or reason.
Dex’s grip on the vase tightened just slightly, his thumb brushing absently against the glass. “Can I keep it alive?” he asked.
The question wasn’t naive. Instead it was focused, as if he was asking, what else can we do? Are we exhausting all our options?
“I mean… not really,” you admitted, “It’s just its time.”
He held your eyes, unwavering.
“I want it to last,” he said, and there was an absolution in the way he said it: stubborn, but not childish. He said it like it mattered more than it should because it was from you.
You, who he’d followed home for the past seven days without a second thought. You, who stopped at the corner supermarket to get your favourite blend of tea, who took the subway just to get coffee just because you liked how it was roasted better. You, who kept a herb garden on your kitchen windowsill meticulous and alive, and hung a suncatcher in your bedroom window so the light would break into colors across your room in the morning. You, who slept with the windows open because you like waking up to natural light. You, who slept in the cutest silk slips that barely leave anything to Dex’s imagination. And you, who had a rooftop garden hidden above your apartment, where you spent hours tending to things that grew because you cared.
Oh, the garden.
Dex liked it most of all, because he found a high enough perch on a neighboring building to watch you without interruption, to stay still for hours at a time while you knelt among the plants and didn’t once look up, never once realizing your being followed, that your life was being studied by a very, very dangerous man.
Your eyes flicked between him and the rose again, and then you let out a sigh, shifting closer to the counter. “Okay,” you said, thoughtful now. “I’ve got an idea.”
You reached for the vase and slid the wilting rose free. You handled it carefully, even in its fading state.
Then you turned, plucking a fresh rose from a nearby bundle, and held it out toward him with an encouraging smile. “You can take a new one,” you offered. “If you change the water every other day, it’ll stick around for longer.”
Dex didn’t even glance at it. His attention stayed on the original, now resting lightly in your hand.
“I don’t want a different one,” he said, smaller now, but no less firm.
You hesitated. “You… don’t?”
“I want that one.”
Your brows lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise breaking through. “The dying one?”
“…Yeah.”
There was a certain vulnerability in his eyes that made you pause. Was he… attached?
You looked down at the rose again, then back at him. The lines in your face lowered like you were starting to understand, at least a little.
“Okay,” you murmured, thinking it through. Then, when you got an idea, you said, a bit brighter, “I could press it for you.”
Dex’s eyes shifted back to you.
“It’ll at least preserve it,” you added, gesturing lightly with the stem. “Flatten it, dry it properly. I know it’s exactly the same, but…” you smiled faintly, “it’ll last.”
He didn’t interrupt.
“You could come back to pick it up at a later date,” you continued. “I was already planning to press some gerberas anyway, so it’s not a big deal to add one more.”
Dex was silent for a moment, weighing not the practicality, but also its implication. Then he nodded once.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay.”
You smiled and turned to set the rose aside carefully.
Dex stayed exactly where he was, watching you move, already certain he’d be back long before the wait was over.
—
Twelve days later, Dex stood across the street from your shop for eight full minutes before going in.
He wasn’t pacing, not even fidgeting. He was just standing there, coffee in hand, watching the door like it might open on its own and solve the problem for him.
He had already timed how long you usually stayed behind the counter in the morning, how often you stepped out to rearrange the display, the pattern of customers drifting in and out, and when you disappeared into the back room for exactly three minutes and twenty seconds at a time.
Still, he stood there a second too long, staring through the glass at the familiar arrangement of flowers, the counter, at you.
The coffee in his hand was still warm. Not hot anymore, but not cold either. He’d made sure of that.
Finally, he crossed the street.
The bell chimed when he pushed the door open.
You looked up and smiled. This time, you recognised him immediately. “Hi, Dex.”
And just like that, you made his day. Maybe his week.
He stepped closer, more confident than he did before.
“Hi,” he said back. There was a second where he just stood there, looking at you like he’d forgotten why he came in at all.
Then, remembering, he held the coffee out. “This is for you.”
You blinked, surprised, but reached out to take it. “For me?” you echoed, turning the cup slightly in your hand. “You didn’t have to—”
You stopped to turn the cup slightly, reading the label, then glanced back up at him with a small tilt of your head.
“Oh my god,” you said, half-laughing already. “No way.”
Dex’s stomach dropped briefly before your smile widened.
“This is my coffee place,” you said, amused. “Like, my favourite cafe.”
He blinked, just feigning enough surprise to feel real. “Is it?”
“Yes,” you laughed, lifting the cup like evidence before you took a sip. “Dex...”
His shoulders tightened just slightly. “Yeah?”
“You got my order right.” There was a long second before you broke into a grin, bright and delighted. “That’s crazy.”
He let out a small, relieved breath through his nose. “I just guessed.”
“Insane guess,” you corrected, shaking your head as you took another sip, like you were still processing it. “You just nailed my entire personality in a cup.”
“I got lucky,” he said, shoving his hands in his pocket.
You glanced back up at him, still smiling as you sat the cup down to clean up the leaves from the counter, leftover from conditioning your antirrhinums for an event in a few days. “Well,” you said, “your luck just made my morning significantly better, so...”
“That was the idea.” It slipped out before he could filter it.
Your face shifted from amused to warm, just a touch more focused on him. “Yeah?”
Dex nodded once, like that was obvious.
A bout of silence settled, but it wasn’t empty. It stretched comfortably as you leaned a little against the counter, still holding the coffee between your hands.
“So,” you said, tilting your head, “what’s the occasion?”
“No occasion,” Dex answered, “Just… thought you’d like it.”
You shifted closer to the counter, resting your elbows there, facing him more fully now. “Do you do this a lot?” you asked. “Or am I just benefiting from a very specific moment of generosity?”
“Not a lot,” he admitted.
“Well,” you said, lifting the cup slightly toward him in appreciation. “I’m not complaining.”
Okay. Dex thought. This was the lull in the conversation he had been waiting for. It was a gap, a narrow, fleeting window, and he could feel it closing even as it formed. If he didn’t do it now, it would slip, reset, become another loop of almost. Ask her out. Now.
His heartbeat had gotten loud in his ears, his focus narrowing down to you and the space between you, to the way your fingers rested around the coffee he’d brought, to the way your mouth had just barely parted.
If he didn’t ask you out on a date, then he would just be the creep, right? If nothing came of these small visits, then you would just be a florist and he would just be a customer, right?
He had the words in the back of his tongue, he had practiced in the mirror all fucking morning. It was there, just waiting for him to catch up and say it out loud—
“You’re different today,” you said, interrupting his train of thoughts before it derailed.
“I…” he struggled, but then decided to play along. “How?”
“Less intimidating,” you said, smiling. “Last time you had this whole… intense thing going on.”
“I wasn’t trying to be intimidating.”
“But you kind of were anyway.”
He considered that, then nodded once, like he’d accept it.
You watched him for a second, then laughed softly to yourself.
“What?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” you said, shaking your head. “You’re just… not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
You glanced at him, smile tilting.
“I thought you’d be the type to take the flower and disappear forever,” you admitted. “Not appear with coffee and—” you gestured lightly toward him, “—actual conversation.”
Dex’s mouth shifted slightly at that.
“That’s a good thing, right?” he asked, almost proud of the achievement you pointed out.
“It is,” you said. “Because I was hoping that wasn’t just a one-time thing.”
“It’s not,” he said instantly.
You studied him for a second, then nodded, like you believed him. “Okay,” you said. “Then we should probably keep talking somewhere that isn’t my shop while I’m technically working.”
Oh. Were you asking him out on a date?
Dex’s eyes sharpened instantly. “Yeah,” he said.
You smiled, a little more playful again now that the words were out there. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You picked up your coffee again, almost absently.
“Dinner?” you suggested, like it was the most natural next step. “That feels like a reasonable escalation from coffee.”
“It does.”
“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” You drank the coffee again, a little ahh when you finished your sip.
“How about Saturday?” you asked. “I’m working a wedding, but I’m free after seven.”
“Yes,” he said, too quickly, too excitedly. “I’ll pick you up if you… uh, text me your address.”
As if he didn’t already know.
Your smile widened just slightly, already scribbling your number on the back of a receipt.
“Saturday it is,” you said, giving the paper to him.
And just like that, a plan settled into place.
Dex stayed where he was for a second longer, amazed at how everything had worked out in his favour.
He had planned this differently.
He thought it would take more. He thought he’d have to push it there himself.
But you… you had met him halfway without even making it feel like effort.
—
Saturday arrived quicker than you had expected.
You just got back from the wedding cocktail hour, and you barely had time to change from your blazer to a flowier dress before the doorbell rang. You checked your reflection one last time before heading downstairs, adjusting your bag just to keep your hands busy.
It was seven. Exactly seven.
Not early enough to seem overeager. Definitely not late enough to feel careless. It just felt… precise.
When you opened the door, he was already standing there with his shoulders squared, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, eyes finding you immediately.
“Hi,” you smiled, closing the door behind you.
“Hi,” he replied. “You look…” he started, then hesitated.
You tilted your head. “What?”
He exhaled faintly through his nose, a ghost of a smile pulling at his mouth. “You look good,” he settled on, like it was the safest word he had to a much stronger reaction.
You laughed lightly. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
That seemed to catch him off guard.
“I was thinking we could walk,” he said. “The place I had in mind is just a couple blocks over.”
“Walking’s perfect,” you nodded. “Lead the way.”
He stepped into pace beside you easily, adjusting without thinking so you stayed in sync. Your arms brushed once, then again, and neither of you rushed to create distance.
It was comfortable.
You pointed out a bakery you liked; he asked a few questions, just enough to keep you talking.
Then you turned the corner… and you froze in your steps. “Oh my god, wait.”
Dex halted immediately, “What?”
You looked up at the small restaurant in front of you, disbelief turning into a smile. “Dex,” you said, half-laughing, “this is my favourite Italian place.”
It was tiny. It had barely ten seats, warm light glowing through the windows. It was the kind of place you only found if someone told you about it or you got lucky wandering.
You looked back at him, still smiling. “How do you even know about this?”
“I’ve heard it’s good,” he simply lied.
He opened the door for you, his hand hovering near your back as you stepped inside.
The cozy warmth hit you immediately, along with the smell of garlic and tomato sauce.
“Hey! Back again?” the owner called out.
“Of course,” you smiled, glancing back at Dex. “Couldn’t stay away.”
You slid into one of the tiny tables, knees brushing his under the narrow space. He didn’t pull away.
“This is such a good choice,” you said, leaning forward slightly.
Dex watched you for a moment before answering, “I’m glad you like it.”
You met his eyes, and for a second, everything felt like a very happy coincidence.
—
The date went… really well.
Like, unexpectedly well.
You stayed longer than either of you planned, the tiny restaurant slowly emptying around you until it felt like the two of you had the place to yourselves.
And still, neither of you moved to leave.
You talked in that wandering way that only happens when you’re comfortable, jumping from one thing to another, doubling back, interrupting each other without apology. It didn’t feel like a “first date” anymore. It just felt like time spent together.
All that time, he couldn’t stop looking at you. It wasn’t too obvious, but everything kept circling back to the way your mouth moved when you talked about needing to check on bubbles when you got home or something (whatever that meant), the way your hands followed your thoughts like they couldn’t keep up, the way you leaned in like the space between you didn’t matter.
Dex had spent years studying people, reducing them to patterns, weaknesses, outcomes. You didn’t fit cleanly into any of it. You felt… brighter than that. So whatever you were, he already decided, it was something he wasn’t going to lose.
“Today was insane, by the way,” you said at one point. “The wedding I told you I was working today? Completely unhinged.”
“What was it?” Dex’s attention didn’t waver. “Bad planning?”
“Bad everything,” you huffed a laugh. “The bridesmaid was losing it over nothing, the timeline kept slipping, and the groom—” you paused, rolling your eyes slightly “—the groom was… a lot.”
Dex didn’t care about the groom, not really. He cared about the way your nose scrunched slightly when you said it, the faint irritation in your voice. Even when annoyed, you were still… perfect. It didn’t make sense to him, how consistent it was. Still, he would listen to you simply because it was you. So he tilted his head just slightly, as if telling you to go on.
You hesitated, not like you didn’t want to answer, but like you were deciding how honest to be.
“He was…,” you said finally. “Like, weirdly controlling. Not just with the schedule, but with her.”
“The bride?” he asked, picking up his glass of red, taking another sip.
“Yeah.” You nodded, your mouth tightening just a fraction. “Everything had to be his way. The food, the layout, even the order people walked in. And if something wasn’t exactly how he wanted it, he’d just…” you made a small, snapping gesture with your hand “… shut it down in front of everyone. His mom was almost worse. She’s just enabling him all the way.”
Dex’s eyes narrowed, though his expression stayed neutral. Then, just as quickly, you shifted the topic.
“But the flowers looked amazing,” you added lightly, leaning back again. “So, you know. At least something went right.”
Dex nodded once, like he understood that more than you meant.
Then, your phone lit up again.
You glanced at it again, for the first time that night. Dex noticed.
“You expecting something?” he asked, casual enough.
You looked up, like you hadn’t realized he’d caught that. “Hm?”
“You’ve checked your phone a couple times.”
You shrugged easily. “I’m looking out for follow-up stuff from the wedding. People always need something after.”
“Even after it’s done?”
You shook you head. “Especially after it’s done.”
He didn’t question you. If anything, his instinct leaned the other way entirely. You had your reasons, you always would. Whatever you did, whatever you said, he trusted without needing to understand.
A few minutes later, you stood up. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom.” You said, then you added playfully, “don’t disappear.”
“I won’t,” he said. As if he would run out on the love of his life.
He waited until you were out of sight, before absentmindedly reaching for his phone. He didn’t have much going on, just a police scanner app to track task force, a text thread with Mrs. Smithers in case her cat needed babysitting, and… you.
So yeah, it was mostly out of habit. He was going to lock it and put it back in his pocket before you came back, but the news app gave him a notification he could ignore:
Groom Dead at Wedding at The Plaza — Two Hospitalised.
His eyes moved over the words once. Then again, slower.
He looked at the name, the timing, the location. Everything aligned too… cleanly.
His thumb hovered for half a second before locking the screen.
When you came back, you slid into your seat like nothing had shifted.
“Okay,” you said, settling in. “What did I miss?”
Dex didn’t answer that. Instead, he turned his phone toward you. “Have you seen this?”
You leaned in slightly, your shoulder almost brushing the table as your eyes moved over the screen.
He expected you to be horrified. To gasp, to be shaken. But you didn’t react the way most people would.
You just leaned back, eyebrows furrowed.
For a while, Dex couldn’t get a read on you— and that was terrifying. Were you grieving? Were you in shock? There was nothing in your usually animated eyes that gave anything away.
“Oh,” you said.
Dex watched you closely. “That’s the wedding you worked, right?”
Your fingers found your glass again. You rotated it once, before answering. “Yeah.”
He didn’t look away.
You glanced up at him, then back down, your voice lowering just slightly.
“He did get sick during cocktail hour,” you said, as if it was a realisation. Your tone didn’t change, though.
“Food poisoning?” Dex speculated, his mind running through all the possibilities. Somewhere along the lines, he was also relieved that even though you told him you ate the canapés at the wedding, you weren’t taken ill at all.
You shrugged lightly. “That’s what they’ll say.”
Oh. Interesting.
Not that’s what it is. You said, That’s what they’ll say.
“And you don’t think that’s what it was?” he asked, biting the inside of his cheeks.
You looked at him then, properly. There was no panic in your expression, fear of saying the wrong thing.
“I think,” you said, dragging out the words, “that sometimes people end up exactly where they were always heading.”
You picked up your glass again, taking a small sip before continuing, almost as an afterthought. “I mean… She wanted to call it off.”
It was clear that you were talking about the Bride. Dex leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you now with a different kind of focus.
“She wasn’t going to get out on her own,” you continued, “and now…” you gave him the faintest shrug, “…she doesn’t have to.”
—
You saw him again a week later, when he came by the shop.
The bell chimed, and you glanced up out of habit, shears still in hand, a stem caught mid-trim between your fingers.
You didn’t expect it to be him.
But the second realised, your eyes lit up. “Hi, Dex.”
His shoulders eased, just slightly, like he’d been waiting for that reaction. “Hi.”
As he stepped further inside, his eyes moved over the shop. He studied the in the buckets lined along the walls, the arrangements you’d spent hours shaping, the little details most people skipped over entirely.
He was cataloguing it, learning it. Or, at the very least, he was pretending to.
You leaned lightly against the counter, watching him with a gentle smile. “Looking for something specific?”
“Maybe,” he said.
It wasn’t the most helpful thing a customer would say, but you chuckled anyway.
He moved toward a small arrangement near the front, a small spring bouquet you’d put together that morning, filled with yellow and whites and eucalyptus foliage. It wasn’t flashy, but it was balanced. It was thoughtful.
Dex picked it up, turning it slightly in his hand, ever so carefully, as if it required inspection.
You tilted your head. “That one?”
“It’ll do,” he said.
It’ll do.
You let out a huff of laughter at that, setting your shears down with a clink before stepping around the counter. “Wow. Glowing review. I should put that on a sign.”
He glanced at you, as if to say I didn’t mean it that way. “I need more decorations.”
You didn’t push as you reached for the wrapping paper and cellophane. You didn’t ask why a man who didn’t even know what to do with a rose suddenly cared about daisies and carnations and violet-tinted gypsophilas.
You just nodded and got to work, wrapping the stems neatly, your fingers moving with practiced precision.
He watched the way you tucked the stems in, the way your thumb pressed the fold flat. The tiny, unconscious movements that made everything you did feel trained and deliberate.
You had a feeling he didn’t really get flowers, it was pretty evident after your first date. He didn't seem to know what to do with them. He didn’t seem to care about arrangements or meaning or seasonal choices.
But he kept coming back.
And if flowers were the excuse he used just to see you, then you weren’t complaining.
The rustle of paper filled the room, followed by the faint drip of water somewhere in the back. When you finished tying it off, you lifted the bouquet and held it out toward him, a flicker of playfulness returning to your voice.
“So,” you said, “is this one going to need preserving too?”
His eyes dropped to the flowers, then back to you.
“Maybe,” he said.
It didn’t sound like a joke. And if it was, he didn’t deliver it like one.
Your smile softened anyway. “Good to know. I’ll start preparing.”
He took the bouquet from you and paid, sliding the money across without looking away for long, then gathered the bouquet carefully, holding it like it mattered more than he’d ever admit out loud.
But he didn’t leave right away.
Before you could say anything, he shifted the bouquet slightly in his hand, and then, almost absently, plucked a single daisy from it.
Your brows lifted, a quiet “hey” forming before you could stop it, maybe to playfully remind him that you worked hard on that arrangement, but you didn’t actually protest.
He stepped closer.
His hand came up to reach over the counter. Gently, he brushed a strand of your hair back behind your ear.
He did it so carefully, as if you were made of a million little crystals and might break at the wrong frequency.
Your breath hitched, only slightly.
Then he tucked the daisy there. His thumb lingered, rubbing a single slow circle under your ear. His hand dropped a little, only to rise again, this time under your chin.
He tilted your face up, just enough to catch the light properly.
His thumb rested lightly against your jaw, his pointer finger locking his hold. His gaze was fixed entirely on you now— on the flower, on your face, on the way both fit together like you’d been sculpted by the gods for his enjoyment, and that alone.
Then he smiled, lips pulling at the edges of his mouth just enough to draw toward the scar on his cheek. “Beautiful,” he muttered under his breath.
You weren’t sure if he meant you. Or the flower. Or both. You weren’t even sure if he meant to say it out loud, or if he meant for you to hear it.
Your heart did a stupid flip in your chest anyway.
“…thanks,” you said softly, suddenly very aware of the way he was looking at you.
His hand dropped, but not abruptly. He looked… satisfied.
“We’ll start planning a second date, yeah?” The way he said it wasn’t really a question. It was more like a conclusion he’d already reached, a decision you were simply being informed of.
You should’ve pushed back. Maybe teased him for it, made him work a little harder to get you.
But instead, you just smiled.
Because you didn’t feel the need to argue with it. Not even a little.
—
The second date came on a Friday, and it felt nothing like the first.
There was no careful planning, or buildup inside a restaurant, no structured beginning or end. It just happened.
It started late, later than most people would bother going out, when the city had already begun to be less crowded, less performative.
You met him with the same familiarity that had been settling between you.
You ended up just walking with no destination in mind; though he did steer you to a less crowded route. Before you knew it, you found yourself by the Hudson River, the air cooler there, touched with that faint edge of water and wind. The city lights stretched across the surface in long, shimmering lines, breaking and reforming with every ripple.
You walked side by side, close enough that you were always aware of him, his pace adjusting subtly to yours.
The conversation came without effort, drifting between small observations and half-finished thoughts, the kind of talking that didn’t need to impress or prove anything. You even talked about your personal life— mostly your flower pressing. You did mention, again, what he now assumed was a pet: “I need to feed Bubbles as soon as I get home!” Which was weird, because he was yet to see any signs of animal life in the apartment.
Before he could ask, you darted to a different topic.
But whatever. How could he focus on something so trivial when his girl was right in front of him?
At some point during the night, he stopped at a street vendor.
You didn’t even realize you were hungry until he came back to you with a sweet and sugary smelling food.
“Wait, what is this?” you laughed, peeking into the paper tray.
“Churros,” he said simply, then also pointed at the chocolate pot, like an offering.
You looked up at him, smiling. There was no point really, in telling him you loved churros. He seemed to always know what you were craving and what you wanted, that he was always somehow one step ahead of you. It’s as if he knew you better than you knew yourself. “You’re just making executive decisions now?”
“You didn’t object.”
Of course you didn’t.
You took a bite instead, the crisp sugar coating your mouth. You immediately let out a small, pleased sound before you could stop yourself.
“Good?” he asked.
“Very,” you admitted, already going in for another bite of your favourite dessert. “You’ve set a very high standard for future dates, just so you know.”
“I can keep up,” he said again, like that was the easiest promise in the world.
You walked and ate and talked, and you can’t help but feel like you’d skipped awkward and landed straight into comfortable.
You were out for hours, and it flew by as if it was just minutes.
By the time you circled back toward your place, the city had lulled even more. There were fewer people, quieter sounds. The only significant noise was the distant hum of traffic and the echo of your footsteps on the pavement.
You slowed as your building came into view.
Dex stopped just short of the door again, like last time, like there was an invisible line he was still choosing not to cross without permission.
You turned toward him, still holding the half-empty paper tray in one hand.
You looked at him, at the way his attention was always so focused when it landed on you, like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.
Then your eyes dropped, just slightly, to his lips. “You’ve got something there,” you said, you pointed out.
He tilted his head. “Where?”
You stepped closer before he could overthink it.
“Here.” Your fingers brushed lightly against his jaw, guiding his face just enough. Then, before you could think any better of it, you pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, tongue brushing his skin just enough to take pry sweet liquid off.
Dex went completely still.
You pulled away just quickly, thumb swiping the little wet patch you’d accidentally left behind, and Dex leaned into your touch without a second thought.
You smiled a little too casually for what you’d just done.
“Chocolate sauce,” you explained, tapping your own lip like that was the only reason. “Couldn’t just leave it there.”
“I…,” he said finally, almost stumbling over his words. “…right.”
You smiled wider, like you knew he had a soft spot for you, like you knew you would get away with it if you committed hard enough.
“Goodnight, Dex.”
And just like last time, you slipped inside before he could stop you.
—
He stood there for a while, longer than necessary.
His hand lifted briefly, brushing the corner of his mouth where yours had been, like he could still feel it there.
After a few seconds, he forced himself to snap out of it. He had somewhere to be, of course.
Not home, but it was somewhere he had grown to like more than home.
See, there was only ever one place he could go after a night like this.
He walked across the street, then around the corner, then up the stairwell he already knew too well. His body moved through it like routine, but his mind stayed exactly where you’d left it—
At your door, your lips. At that fleeting kiss that had lasted barely a second and somehow rewired the rest of his night.
See, he knew what you did on Fridays. You would go up to the rooftop and tend to your plants. You would check on them, do some maintenance, and sometimes, you’d even harvest them and put them in a mortar and pestle, crushing and storing them in a little bottle. Herbal remedies, Dex had assumed. It was adorable, how much care you put into your cute little garden.
When you were done with your plants, he would watch you through your naively opened bedroom window as you got ready for bed.
After your last date, he had even watched you lay there as you ever so slowly reached your fingers under your cotton panties. It wasn’t long before he realised you were touching yourself while mouthing his name.
If he was lucky, he’d get to witness that again today.
—
Dex had been watching from his perch for fifteen minutes.
You had changed into a comfortable black hoodie that swallowed your frame— he saw that much through the glow of your bedroom window.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting against the cold concrete.
You always went up to the rooftop after you changed. It was a pretty reliable pattern.
So when you didn’t appear on there, when five minutes stretched past where you should’ve been stepping into the open air, his chest tightened.
Dex didn’t move, but his focus heightened instantly, attention narrowing as he recalibrated. His eyes flicked once more to your window… and then the front door of your building opened.
You stepped out.
The hood was down, your hands tucked briefly into the pocket before you pulled one free, adjusting your sleeve as you moved.
Dex’s head tilted just slightly.
That… wasn’t part of your routine.
You wouldn’t go out at this hour alone. Especially not after a night like this.
“What are you doing?” he murmured under his breath, more observation than question.
He pushed off the ledge, already deciding he would follow.
After all, he had to keep his girl safe.
—
Distance was easy to maintain when you understood movement, when you could predict the rhythm of someone’s steps before they took them.
He stayed behind you, offset just enough to disappear into reflections, into shadows, into the gaps people never noticed. Your figure stayed in his line of sight the entire time, framed between streetlights and reflected storefront glass.
You didn’t look back.
You turned down a smaller street, then another, the noise of the city thinning out until it became distant. Your footsteps echoed here.
You were more exposed.
Dex adjusted accordingly, his own steps falling soundlessly into place.
Then you turned into an alley. He slowed down immediately, slipping to the edge before you disappeared fully from view.
When he shifted just enough to see, he realised… you weren’t alone.
A man stood waiting in the shadows, wearing a dark grey jacket. What was more interesting, though, was that he was wearing thick black rubber gloves.
Dex’s eyes narrowed as you walked straight to this stranger without hesitation.
What the hell?
You reached into your pocket and pulled an envelope out. The man handed you a small and unmarked box in return.
Dex’s mind ran through possibilities fast, each one worse than the last. A deal. This was a deal. A drug deal?
His grip tightened slightly against the brick beside him.
No. No, that didn’t fit. Not you. You weren’t…were you? His girl didn’t deal in things like this.
Did she?
The thought sat wrong in his chest, and he was starting to get irritated.
You took the box without a word, and left. Dex didn’t follow you this time.
The man was still there, and Dex had questions.
So he watched him from the shadows, counted the seconds, and waited for an opening.
Stupidly, the man decided to check the cash right then and there. That was when Dex reached down to a bit of rusted metal (probably fallen off someone’s fire escape).
He prepared for a precise throw…
And it drove straight into the man’s leg.
The sound that came out of him wasn’t a full scream at first, more like a strangled choke. It was horrifically cut off as his body folded, collapsing hard against the wall. His hands scrambled, one reaching instinctively for the bar buried in his thigh, the other bracing uselessly against the ground.
“What the…fuck—!”
Dex was already on him, closing the distance before panic could turn into a fight or flight response. He crouched just enough to bring himself into view.
“Don’t,” Dex said quietly, nodding once toward the bar when the man’s fingers twitched again. “You’ll make it worse.”
The man froze. “Who the hell are you—” he started, breath hitching.
Dex grabbed his wrist and twisted hard, bones cracking within seconds.
This time, the scream came out full.
It echoed off the brick walls, cut short only when Dex tightened his grip just enough to keep him grounded in it.
“You’re going to tell me about the deal you just made,” Dex said.
The man’s breathing turned ragged, eyes wide, darting like he was trying to find a way out that didn’t exist. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
Dex tilted his head slightly, then pressed down, just enough on the broken arm.
The man choked on the next sound, panic flooding in properly now. “Okay, okay! Fuck—okay!” he gasped. “I’ll talk, j-just stop—”
Dex eased the pressure. Not out of mercy, but out of efficiency.
“Talk,” he repeated.
“I’m just a courier,” the man rushed, words tripping over each other. “That’s it, I don’t make the deals, I don’t ask questions, I just move shit from point A to point B—”
“I don’t know everything, I-I swear!” The man’s voice cracked, eyes glassy now, pain bleeding into fear. “I just get told where to go, what to hand over—what to pick up—”
Dex didn’t blink as he listened to the man breaking under pressure.
“I think it’s plants, okay?” he blurted. “Restricted ones—imported shit, hard to get, I d-don’t… know! That’s all I know, I don’t grow it, I don’t sell it, I just carry it—please—”
Dex studied him, weighing the truth the way he always did, not through words, but through the way they came out.
Then, he let go.
The man dropped fully to the ground this time, clutching at his arm, his leg, his whole body curling in on itself like it might hold him together.
Dex stood and looked down at him, unmoved. Whether he bled out or crawled his way to help didn’t matter.
He’d already given Dex what he needed.
—
Even nearly two weeks after that, he had been thinking about the alley more than he cared to admit.
About the man. The deal. The box. But mostly about you.
He had turned it over in his head enough times to sand down the edges. Right, so it was restricted plants, rare imports, probably something you just liked. That tracked. You liked things that grew, things that needed care. It was… harmless. Endearing, even, that you would inconvenience yourself to a fault to satisfy a hobby.
Cute, That’s what he settled on. Your apparent hobby of collecting rare plants was cute.
So when your text came—come by the shop after closing?— thoughts shifted immediately, like a switch being flipped.
How could he say no to his girl?
By the time he stepped inside, the lights were already dimmed. It smelled stronger at night, but still faintly distinctly sweet underneath.
You were already there, waiting behind the counter.
“Hi,” you said, softer than usual, like the hour demanded it.
“Hi,” he echoed.
The second thing Dex noticed after you, were the chocolates.
It was a heart-shaped velvet red box, and it was open, ribbon pushed aside, a couple already missing.
It was a gift chocolate, not one you would buy for yourself. That alone was enough to get his chest hot with anger or jealousy, maybe both. It didn’t help that you were casually picking one up, inspecting it like it deserved your full attention.
You followed his line of sight, then smiled knowingly. “Oh.” You picked one up, turning it between your fingers. “These?”
“Yes.”
“Mm,” you hummed, popping it into your mouth without breaking eye contact. “They’re actually really good.”
It felt as if a rope had been pulled around his heart.
You chewed thoughtfully, completely unbothered. “Hazelnut, I think.”
Dex stepped closer, slower this time. “Who is it from?”
“From Daniel Harper,” you said, reaching for another one. “He’s the crypto guy who got flowers for Mother’s Day once and wouldn’t stop asking me out. But I think…” you tilted your head carefully, “I think he got the point now.”
“You’re eating them,” he pointed out, the entire world blurring into a haze. All he could think was that another man brought you gifts. Another man wanted you. Another man had the audacity to fucking try.
“I’m not wasting perfectly good chocolate,” you said, like it was obvious. Then you tilted your head, studying him as you unwrapped another. “Fuck, you’re so obvious right now.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” you smiled, like you were enjoying it. “You hate this.”
“I don’t hate it.” What a fucking lie.
“You do, a little,” you said, stepping around the counter, closing the distance between you. “Which is funny, because—” you held the chocolate up between your fingers “—you’re the one I invited here.”
Dex’s eyes dropped briefly to your hand then back to you.
“C’mon,” you said, voice turning playful again, nudging it closer to his mouth. “Spoils of war.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “War?” He echoed. Still, as much as he hated all of this, he couldn’t help but find your attempt to feed him endearing.
“Harper is a man who tried and failed to get me,” you grinned. “You’re benefiting from his loss. You’re welcome.”
He didn’t take it, mostly because he was stubborn— but so were you. You nudged it closer. “C’mon Dex,” you pouted, remembering how much he liked the chocolate sauce on the churros. “I know you like it. Don’t be difficult.”
Dex leaned in slightly, and instead of just taking the chocolate, his mouth closed around your fingers.
Your breath hitched.
His tongue brushed against your skin as he pulled away, like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Then he took the chocolate between his teeth, like nothing had happened.
You stared at him.
“I…,” you said after a beat, a little breathless now despite yourself. “That was—”
He didn’t respond. He watched you, an arrogant grin now playing on his face. If his sweet girl wanted to tease and taunt, he had to show you two can play at that game.
Your composure came back quickly, but your smile had changed. It was less teasing, more charged.
“Right,” you cleared your throat lightly. “Actually—” You turned, gathering your thoughts and reached under the counter. “I didn’t ask you here just to steal Harper’s dignity,” you added, glancing back at him. “I have something for you.”
You waited until he was close, closer than necessary, before you said, “Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so,” you shot back immediately, “don’t be so suspicious. It’s a flower shop, not a crime scene.”
His mouth twitched. “Is it?
“Dex.”
He sighed, quiet, but obedient, and let his eyes fall shut.
He heard you move closer, the shuffle of your steps, the faint clink of something being set down. There was a pause, like you were checking and adjusting your secret prize.
Then, you said, “Okay. Open.”
He did.
Oh.
It was the rose.
Maybe he had expected just a dried, pressed flower, but definitely not… this.
It was preserved and framed in a gold-planted wood, intricately carved. The petals were darker now, fragile-looking but perfectly intact, held in place.
Your smile wavered just slightly. “Okay, that silence is… concerning. Say something.”
He blinked once, like he was catching up to the moment.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he said.
“Well,” you huffed a small laugh, folding your arms loosely. “That was kind of the whole point of you leaving it with me.”
“No,” he shook his head once, stepping closer. “You… you didn’t have to do all this for me.”
Your eyes softened at that. He said it as if he truly believed he didn’t deserve it.
“I wanted to,” you reassured.
He reached for it slowly, like it might fall apart if he wasn’t careful. His fingers brushed the edge of the frame, then traced it.
“It’s better,” he said simple.
“Better than a fresh one?” you teased, tilting your head.
“Yes.”
“That’s bold.” You raised an eyebrow. “Florists everywhere just felt personally attacked.”
“I don’t care about them.”
You laughed a little, and his chest tightened in a familiar way. It wasn’t entirely jealousy anymore.
“I’m glad,” you said. “Would be awkward if you were secretly seeing other florists behind my back.”
His eyes flicked to yours, as if the implications were laughable. “I’m not.”
“I know,” you grinned. “You don’t seem the type.”
“What type is that?”
“The ‘casually shops around’ type,” you said, gesturing vaguely between him and the shop. “But… you actually like it, right?” you asked at the frame, smaller this time, just to be sure. As if you were anxious that you put so much effort in something he wouldn’t care about.
He didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”
Your smile came back, like that answer meant more than you were letting on.
You were still standing so close.
Dex noticed that neither of you had stepped back from the frame, like the space between you had just… disappeared.
“You’re staring,” you murmured, a smile tugging at your mouth.
“I know.”
That should’ve made you pull away.
Instead, your fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the frame still on the table. “If you break that," you teased. “I’m not making you another one.”
“I won’t break it.”
“You say that,” you said, glancing up at him through your lashes, “but you’ve got kind of a… destructive vibe.”
He frowned. “You think that about me?”
“I think,” you stepped just a fraction closer, “that you get intense about things you like.”
His eyes locked onto yours. And you could tell that hit a lot closer to home than he intended.
“And you like this,” you added, tapping the frame once more.
“Yes.”
“And you like… flowers?” you pushed, clearly enjoying yourself.
“No.”
You chuckled, almost a sweet giggle. “So it’s just me, then?”
He didn’t answer. That was your answer.
“Good,” you said under your breath.
Your hand slid off the frame, brushing against his fingers on the way down. Your eyes dropped, just briefly, to his mouth.
Dex noticed.
His grip on the frame loosened, setting it aside without looking, his attention already back on you like it had nowhere else to go.
“You’re still staring,” you whispered.
“Yeah.”
Your breath hitched, slightly. Then, before you could think twice, you issued a challenge, “Do something about it, then.”
That was all it took for all pleasantries and manners to fall apart. Not that it ever had any leg to stand on.
Dex closed the distance immediately, his hand finding your waist as his mouth met yours, like he’d already done this a hundred times before.
You didn’t hesitate to kiss him back.
Your hands were on him, gripping his jacket, pulling him closer as you kissed him back just as hard, just as certain. You were quick to match his intensity, biting a bit of his lip just to drag him back to the real world. You could tell he was spiraling, that he had been all consumed by the gesture.
When you broke for air, it barely lasted a second. “Dex—”
He kissed you again.
And this time, it deepened, slower but heavier, like he was learning you in real time and refusing to let go. Like if he could, he would fuse his bones into you.
You laughed softly into it, breathless. “Okay… okay—”
But you didn’t stop him. Whatever you were about to say got lost when his hands tightened at your waist and he lifted you like it was nothing, setting you back onto the workbench behind you.
The tools rattled softly, a pack of floral tape rolling off to the side, but neither of you cared.
Your legs shifted instinctively, pulling him closer by hooking it around his hips, and the kiss didn’t slow. It only got more insistent, like neither of you had any interest in stopping now that you’d started.
“Still think I’m intense?” he murmured against your mouth.
You smiled against his lips. “A little.”
He kissed you again like that was the wrong answer, and you let him.
When your fingers tangled in his hair, he let a sweet moan against your mouth. Interesting, you thought, as his grip tightened at your waist, pulling you closer, like there wasn’t enough distance in the world to satisfy him.
It was messy and overwhelming in the way neither of you tried to control.
His hand slid up your side, under the hem of your shirt, fingers brushing skin…
….and you snapped out of it.
“Dex—”
He hummed, trailing a kiss down your cheek, latching on your neck….
But then you pulled away softly, slow enough to not be abrupt, but out of place enough that he felt… confused.
What had he done wrong?
Your breath was uneven when breathed out. Gently, you pushed his hand from under your shirt. You were met with no resistance as his big palms splayed on your lap, kneading anxiously, as if he was itching to touch you again, to kiss you, to take you.
Then, you gently pressed your forehead to his. “I… we shouldn’t.”
For a second, he didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe.
“Oh,” he said quietly. His thoughts were spiralling, you could tell. I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up, playing over and over again in his head.
“No, hey, hey,” you rushed, hands coming up to his face, cupping his jaw. “Not like that. Not… not because I don’t want to.”
His eyes flicked back to yours.
“I do want to,” you said, more certain. “I just… I’ve got to work a baby shower early tomorrow, and I still need to finish a couple arrangements tonight, and if we—” you huffed a small, breathless laugh, “—if we keep going, I’m not getting anything done.”
Dex stared at you, processing.
“I…” he started but could not finish, as if he needed to say something, anything, to stop himself from falling off the deep end.
“I’m sorry,” you smiled sadly, a little apologetic.
He exhaled slowly, trying to recover, trying to place where you were in his mind.
“I like you, I really do.” Your thumb brushed lightly along his lower lip, where a string of moisture had collected. Dex’s eyes darted away, simply because like was not what he felt for you. What he felt was obsession, devotion, perhaps love that grew in such a short time. Still you reassured him. “I like you. I want you. Just… not right now, not here.”
Dex looked at your lips, almost still in a daze.
Then you added, a little more playful again, “Come over tomorrow? We can… continue this. Properly.”
And just like that, his brain rearranging itself, making space for a schedule.
It's okay. It’s okay. It's not the end of the world. She wants you, she still wants you…
Then, to quiet the storm in his mind, he leaned in again, kissing you once, shorter this time, but just as certain.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” you smiled against him.
“Yeah,” he said, breathless, discreetly wiping a tear from his eyes. “Yeah.”
—
That night, Dex didn’t go straight home. He found himself outside Daniel Harper’s building, hoping he could finish the job for you.
It wasn’t hard. The door wasn’t even locked.
Inside, Daniel sprawled on the couch, body slack, mouth parted with a thin line of foam dried at the corner, eyes glassy and gone.
He was already dead. He had been for a while, by the looks of it.
Dex stood there for a moment, taking it in: the stillness, the lack of struggle, the timing of it all, and tilted his head slightly, almost thoughtful.
“Huh,” he murmured to no one, cataloguing what mattered and what didn’t.
How weird.
—
Dex couldn’t wait for tomorrow. He spent the night thinking about you, and then the morning, and then the entire day in that same tight loop of fixation, until even the idea of distance felt like a grenade swallowed and exploding from the inside.
It wasn’t just want. It was compulsion, an itch under the skin he couldn’t stop scratching at no matter how much it bled.
So he did the only thing that still made sense: he went hunting for Task Force from the break of dawn, anything to keep his mind from turning fully toward you. Because when it did, he was just turned into a pathetic little puddle of emotions.
When it came down to going to your apartment, his nerves were practically buzzing off the roof.
The second you opened the door, he was already moving, one hand bracing the frame as he stepped in, the other finding your waist and then he kissed you, like the space between seeing you and touching you had been unbearable.
You laughed into it, surprised but not resisting, your hands catching on his jacket. “Dex—”
“I missed you,” he said against your mouth, already walking you backward as he nudged the door shut with his foot, his grip tightening just slightly at your side.
“You saw me last night,” you teased, breath catching as his lips found yours again.
“Hmm,” he dismissed, picking you up slightly at your feet.
“Careful—careful!” you suddenly laughed, twisting slightly in his hold.
Dex stopped instantly, setting you down like you’d burned him. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Watch out for Bubbles.” You were still smiling, a little breathless, pointing past him. “Don't wanna wreck her enclosure.”
“Bubbles?” He’s heard you say that name once or twice before. A pet, he assumed. A cat, maybe a small dog? Though he never saw anything through the window, so in the back of his mind, he had chalked it off to being a carnivorous plant.
But when he turned… he saw a small tank he didn’t recognise. After all, he had never been able see this part of your apartment from his perch.
Dex stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly.
An… octopus.
It was small, beige and yellow, though the second it clocked him, it flashed aggressive blue rings. Its limbs curled slowly against the glass. It had a maze in its enclosure, an enrichment of some kind, perhaps?
“Oh,” he said. That was the last thing he ever expected.
“She’s cute, right?” you beamed, coming up beside him like this was completely normal.
Dex watched it for a second longer than necessary. “…yeah.”
It blinked, beady eyes looking straight into his eyes. He blinked back.
“Okay. Come on,” you grabbed his hand, tugging him away with a grin. “I don’t want Bubbles to watch.”
He let himself be pulled, though his eyes flicked once more over his shoulder before following you down the short hall.
You passed a door, and heknew where it must go: the rooftop. Your rooftop— idle and calming. In all its domesticity, you were your happiest there. “Where does this go?” He feigned innocence.
You didn’t miss a beat. “Junk closet.”
He looked at you, and you smiled too quickly. “…right,” he said.
Why would you lie?
The thought barely had time to settle before you pushed him back onto the bed, climbing over him, straddling his thighs like it was second nature.
That distracted him immediately. He didn’t even have the time to take in the bedroom he had spent so long looking through.
Your hands found the hem of your shirt, and you pulled it off without hesitation, tossing it somewhere behind you like it didn’t matter.
Dex’s attention snapped back into place like a puzzle piece. Whatever question he had dissolved under his tunnel vision, his focus now on you.
“You think too much,” you murmured, leaning down, your hands braced on either side of him.
“I don’t.”
“You do,” you smiled, your nose brushing his. “Good thing I know how to fix that.”
His hands came back to your waist like they’d never left.
And this time, neither of you stopped.
—
Dex had been overwhelmed in the best way possible way
Not just by the way you’d pulled him apart piece by piece, with your hands, mouth, all of it; but by how easily you’d met him there.
How easily you matched him, pushed back. There had been nothing hesitant about you, nothing uncertain; every touch had felt intentional, every sinful sound felt like it belonged to him. The touch of your tongue lingered even now, under his skin. His body still felt too warm, too aware, even as the room cooled down.
He could still feel the faint press of your nails at his shoulders, how you had traced the scar on his back and not even question where it came from. He could still feel the heat of your breath against his throat, where it dragged down to his chest, then his stomach, then between his legs. You’d pulled him closer like you didn’t want even an inch of distance between you.
When he helped you chase each others’ bliss, it didn't feel casual, or even just physical. It had felt all-consuming, addicting, euphoric. And he would change a thing.
The shower hadn’t helped the nerves, though.
If anything, it had made it worse. It was your idea to clean up together, your hands sliding over him beneath the water, slower this time, exploratory, like you were learning him just as much as he was memorizing you. The steam had wrapped around both of you, turning everything hazy. Even now, lying beside you, he could still feel it, the imprint of your palm on his bare skin and his on yours.
Now, you were asleep.
You were curled into him, your leg draped over his like you’d claimed him without thinking. Your breathing was steady, lips slightly parted, completely unaware of the way he was looking at you.
Dex didn’t even try to drift off. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to.
His hand hovered just above your waist, then settled there lightly. His thumb moved once, almost absentmindedly, like he was testing if you were real, making sure you weren’t a fragment of his broken mind it made as a coping mechanism.
You shifted closer in your sleep.
Mine.
The thought came into his mind uninvited, but he didn’t push it away.
But still… like a weed going through cracks, he couldn’t help but think about the door.
Junk closet, you said.
His teeth clenched. No. That wasn’t right.
He knew the building— found the layout and structure long before he ever stepped foot in it. He knew exactly how space worked, how things connected. There wasn’t room for a “junk closet” there.
Which meant… you lied. Why would you lie to him?
The thought didn’t sit right. It didn’t settle, didn’t smooth over the way everything else about you seemed to.
You didn’t lie. Not really. Not about things that mattered. So why this?
His back tightened slightly, his thumb pausing where it rested against your waist. His eyes darted, involuntarily, toward the direction of the door again. Junk closet.
No.
His mind ran it again, as if to double and triple check. He could see it clearly, like a blueprint burned into the back of his skull. There was no space for that.
You had lied. You must’ve.
Why? To keep him out? To hide something? From him?
His chest tightened at that, a bitterness threading through his mind previously touched by your warmth.
Check it.
The thought popped up in his mind, clear as day.
Check it.
His eyes dropped back to you immediately. You, still curled into him, your breathing even, your face relaxed. You trusted him enough to sleep like that.
His hand shifted slightly against you, fingers pressing just a fraction deeper, like he could fuse himself to you.
Stay.
That was his next thought. After all, it felt stupid to leave you alone, in bed, defenseless, in favour of a theoretically imaginary junk closet.
Don’t move.
You looked… safe. Happy. Like having him here was enough to solve all his problems.
Check it.
Fuck, that thought came back unannounced, and it came back louder.
Check it. Check it.
His jaw clenched. His eyes squeezed shut for half a second, like he could shut it out.
You lied. Why would you lie? Check it.
His fingers flexed once against your side, restless now.
Check it.
His breathing slowed, but it wasn’t calm. He opened his eyes again, staring down at you like the answer might be written somewhere in the shape of your face. Still, he found nothing.
Check it.
His head tilted slightly, the thought settling in deeper this time: He needed to know.
A quiet sigh left him as he leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your cheek.
You stirred faintly, an adorable little snore slipping from you, but you didn’t wake.
Dex slid out from under you carefully, easing your leg back onto the mattress, making sure you stayed comfortable before he stood. He paused for a second, just watching you again, like it physically hurt to look away.
Then he turned, moving through the apartment soundlessly. As he wandered into the living room, he caught a bit of movement.
His head snapped toward the motion, and then relaxed when he realised it was just Bubbles, moving in her tank.
The small octopus had shifted the second she saw him, her body tightening, skin rippling. Suddenly, blue rings flashed brightly on her skin again.
Dex could’ve sworn, that for a second, they stared at each other.
There was something unnerving about the way her eyes locked onto his, unblinking, aware in a way that didn’t feel like an animal should be. Like she knew he was dangerous. Like she perceived him as a threat.
His head tilted slightly, studying her right back. “Hi, Bubbles,” he murmured under his breath.
Her color pulsed again, blue agitation flickering through her small body. For a second, he saw himself in her. For a second, he wondered if her blue rings were a sign of anger.
Dex’s mouth twitched, almost amused and a little irritated that he let an octopus the size of a golf ball get to him. “Relax,” he said quietly.
She didn’t, but he decided to look away anyway.
He reached for the door, hand resting on the handle. For a second, he didn’t move.
Then…
He opened it.
Part of him hoped he was wrong, that he had simply been mistaken somehow, that you had told him the truth.
But… all he saw was stairs.
Of course.
“Don’t judge me,” he muttered to Bubbles, letting obsessive certainty take over as he moved upward, each step soundless.
The door at the top gave way with barely a push. As he suspected, it was your rooftop.
It was… beautiful.
Bright moonlight spilled across the space, reflected on leaves and petals and glass, turning everything silver-edged and almost ethereal. Rows of plants, carefully arranged, meticulously kept, thrived under your attention. Vines curled where they were meant to. Blooms opened toward the sky.
Dex stepped forward slowly, eyes scanning, taking it all in with a kind of reverence he didn’t usually allow himself.
You spent time here. You cared about this.
So why?
Why wouldn’t you show him this? Why wouldn’t you tell him? Didn’t you trust him?
He would’ve listened. He would’ve understood— well no, maybe not understood, but he would’ve learned. For you.
You didn’t have to hide things from him. You didn’t have to keep parts of yourself away.
His eyes landed on the workbench to see a box, the same unmarked one he’d seen exchanged in that alley.
So it was that.
Next to it was a small juvenile plant, carefully potted. You had even given a handwritten label to it: Rosary pea.
Dex frowned slightly. He didn’t recognize the name. It sounded… almost gentle. Like everything else here.
Just a plant, right? Just you, collecting things that grew, things that needed care.
That’s all. That’s all it had to be.
He let out a sigh, tension still sitting tight on his shoulders. His eyes drifted again, unfocused now, thoughts spiraling faster.
Why didn’t you trust him? What did he do wrong?
He tried. He did everything right. He showed up. He listened. He gave you what you wanted, what you liked… Didn’t he?
His breathing slowed, but it wasn’t calm. It was tight.
His attention snagged on something else nearby, this time it was a spire of flowers. The plant was tall and slender, violet bells hanging delicately from thin stems, catching the moonlight like they were almost glowing.
Dex stepped closer without thinking.
His fingers reached out, brushing one of the petals. It was pretty, like you.
His chest tightened, and nothing could push his thoughts away:Why didn’t you tell him?
It looped, faster now, louder.
Why did you lie?
“Huh…?” he murmured under his breath, voice barely there now, strained.
His fingers lingered against the flower, tracing it absently. But something felt… off. First, he felt as if his fingers, the ones that touched the petals, were going numb.
Then, he felt a strange heaviness in his chest. He frowned slightly as his heart stuttered once, hard enough to make his breath catch.
Dex went still. “…what—”
The word barely formed before his vision shifted. The edges blurred, the rooftop tilting just slightly out of place.
Dex blinked hard, trying to steady it, but it didn’t stop. His breathing hitched, his hand gripping the edge of the workbench.
His heart skipped a beat again.
No. No, no—
His knees weakened without warning, his body suddenly too heavy, too slow to respond.
The world tilted harder this time.
The last thing he saw was your garden, blurring into streaks of green and violet under the moonlight.
—
Dex woke up slowly, like he was being pulled up from the darkest depths of his mind, his body reluctant to follow. The first thing he registered wasn’t the room, or the fading light of dusk bleeding through your windows. Instead, it was you.
Even half-conscious, disoriented, his senses found you first.
Then his eyes opened fully.
Where was he?
He was no longer in your garden. Instead, he saw your coffee table, a TV, and a couple of harmless houseplants. Oh. He was in your living room, on your couch.
As he got a better look at you, he realised you were slumped in the armchair across from him, unconscious, your head tilted slightly to the side, your arm stretched toward him.
You looked smaller like this, folded in on yourself. It didn’t match the version of you he remembered in his head— the one that laughed behind the counter, that handled petals like they might bruise under the wrong touch.
That’s when he saw an IV tube connected to a needle in his arm. He followed it… to you. It was a makeshift transfusion.
For a second, he just stared, his brain lagging behind the image, trying to catch up, trying to make sense of why you were connected to him like that, why your blood was in him, why you looked so… still.
His stomach dropped. This was desperate. This was you cutting into yourself, giving a part of yourself away just to keep him breathing.
Why were you so still?
It felt wrong. His body recognized it before his mind could catch up. Still meant a part of you had gone. And his chest tightened, rejecting the possibility before it could fully form.
“Hey—” his voice came out rough, barely formed.
You stirred awake.
Your lashes fluttered, eyes opening slowly, and the second they landed on his face, on the fact that he was awake, relief flooded your eyes.
“Oh,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep. “You’re awake.”
Dex moved too fast as adrenaline slammed into him, panic overriding everything else as he ripped the needle from his arm with no hesitation. Blood followed immediately, a thin line down his skin, but he barely noticed.
After all, he wasn’t thinking. Thinking was slower than fear, and fear had already taken over. All he knew was that something had been done to you—or because of him—and that was unacceptable.
You jolted upright. “Whoa, hey! Relax, relax—”
He was already pushing himself up, unsteady but determined. He needed to make sure you were real, that you were okay.
“What happened?” he demanded, breath uneven, voice tight
You blinked at him once, then twice, grounding yourself before answering. “You went into my rooftop,” you said, almost resigned, save for the hint of affection in your time. “Full of poisonous plants.”
Rooftop.
His jaw twitched at the confirmation that you had hidden it.
Dex frowned, trying to latch onto the memory. “What—”
“You touched my wolfsbane.”
He blinked, piecing memories together: The garden. The flowers. The dizziness.
You leaned back slightly, already reaching to remove the needle from your own arm, wincing faintly as you pulled it free, wiping the blood away like it didn’t matter.
“I’ve been selectively breeding them for five years,” you continued, almost absently. “That one’s about seven times more lethal than standard wolfsbane. Contact alone is enough.”
Dex stared at you.
“Most of the plants up there can kill you, actually,” you added, gentler this time. “That’s why I told you it was a junk closet.”
You said it so easily, like it hadn’t mattered, like it had just been a small, harmless deflection. But it wasn’t harmless. At least not to him.
“You lied,” he said, but it didn’t come out accusing. It came out… hurt and confused. Like he couldn’t reconcile it with everything else he knew about you.
You didn’t flinch, ambient interrupt.
“But I’ve seen you,” he pushed, stepping closer without realizing it, drawn in like he always was. “You touch them without gloves. I—I don’t—”
You laughed, but it wasn’t dismissive.
“I should’ve known you were watching me,” you said, glancing at him through your lashes.
And there it was again—that pleasure in your voice. This time it had reason for concern. You weren’t afraid, or disgusted at this newfound knowledge. If anything, you looked… flattered. It was as if you had suspected it, and just like the garden, you had lied through your teeth.
Dex’s chest tightened.
“If I almost died from touching one,” he said, rubbing his trail of blood away with tissues on your coffee table, “then you—” he choked at the words, as if he couldn’t physically say it. He tried again. “Then you should—“
“I should be dead?” you finished for him, noticing his struggle.
He swallowed hard. How could you even say it, when he couldn’t even let the idea sit in his mouth?
The image formed in his mind anyway, uninvited: You, collapsed the way he had been. You, unmoving in that chair, permanently gone. His mind rejected it so violently it made his lungs feel like it was collapsing.
Your eyes softened. “I’m… immune.”
“What?”
It didn’t quite make sense to him. It felt disconnected from everything he understood about you. About the girl who laughed behind a counter, who fed him chocolates, who pressed flowers into frames simply because she wanted to.
You shifted in your seat, like this part of you was just… a fact.
“My dad was a cocaine dealer,” you started, almost casually. “When I was five, I got into his stash. I ingested enough to kill little ol’ me twelve times over.”
Dex’s stomach dropped.
“But I was…,” you continued, “unaffected.”
Your fingers absentmindedly brushed over the velvet fabric of your chair.
“Doctors said I’ve got some kind of mutant gene. Means nothing really sticks in my system. I can’t get drunk. I can’t get high. Toxins don’t work the way they should.”
Dex didn’t look away from you once.
“When I was a teenager, I broke my arm,” you added an example, a faint grimace crossing your face. “They had to put pins in while I was awake. Anesthesia doesn’t work either.” You managed a sarcastic laugh. “That wasn’t fun.”
You said it lightly, like it was nothing, But he could see it anyway a younger you pinned down, awake, forced to feel everything.
You were different. A mutant, that’s the term you used. You were… oh, fuck.
You were more capable than he ever deemed you to be.
And that realization didn’t push him away the way it should have. It rooted him deeper. Because if you had always been this untouchable, then what he felt wasn’t built on fragility. You wouldn’t disappear under pressure. And he couldn’t seem to step away from you, no matter how much sense it would make to try.
Dex stepped closer again without thinking, like gravity pulled him there. Even confused, overwhelmed, heart still not fully steady, he needed to be near you.
“I… I didn’t know,” he said, as if he felt stupid for not seeing it sooner. There was even a shame in admitting it. In his mind, he had placed you in a gilded cage, easier to understand, easier to protect. But you had never belonged there at all.
You shrugged, like it didn’t matter.
Across the room, Bubbles shifted in her tank, the faint glow of her skin calm now, her earlier agitation gone now that you were here. Her limbs curled slowly, as if the fact that you were awake meant that there was nothing to worry about.
Dex barely spared her a glance. The room, the hum of life continuing outside these walls all flattened into background noise. His mind had already narrowed its focus down to one fixed point, and it was you. It had been you for longer than he wanted to admit.
“How did I live?” Dex asked, but it didn’t come out demanding. It came out raspy and rough.
His hand found your wrist without thinking, thumb brushing over the place where the needle had been, where a faint smear of blood still lingered. He wiped it away, almost reverently, like it mattered more than his own safety that you weren’t hurt.
He didn’t think about it. His hands just… adjusted in a way they never did anywhere else, like he understood, on a level deeper than thought, that you should not be handled carelessly, no matter how strong you turned out to be.
“You have a Cogmium steel spine,” you said, like you were reminding him of the obvious.
His brow furrowed slightly, confusion threading through the lines on his face. “How do you know that?”
Slowly, you smiled, almost shy.
“Oh, please,” you murmured, leaning back just enough to look at him properly, though your fingers came up to loosely curl in the hem of his shirt like you hadn’t quite decided to let him go either. “I knew who you were since after the second date, Benjamin Poindexter.”
That was… new information. At least to him.
“My rare plant dealer complained that his courier turned up dead,” you continued, almost idly. “I got curious and looked into it. It wasn’t long till I put two and two together.”
Dex exhaled faintly, a small ah leaving past his lips. It was not quite relief, but acceptance. Because of course you had figured it out. Of course you had seen through him, the way only you could.
And you were still here, as if nothing had changed. You were still looking at him like he hung the moon for you, regardless of how many people he had killed, how many mistakes he had made.
People usually changed the second they understood. He had seen it happen too many times, the mind recalibrating upon the realisation of how dangerous he was. But you… you were still looking at him like nothing in him needed to be feared. Like nothing in him needed to be fixed.
Your hand lifted then, resting lightly against his chest, right over his sternum, where his heart was still finding its rhythm again. “Your spine, I—” you went on, your voice dipping more intimately. “It bonds to you.”
Dex didn’t interrupt. He just watched you like every word mattered simply because it came from you. He didn’t follow every word—not the science, not the mechanics—but he followed you. You spoke about him like he was worth understanding.
“Blood cells are made in the bone marrow,” you said, your fingers tracing absent patterns over his shirt, “That’s your immune system, your oxygen transport, everything. The aconitine would’ve disrupted the entire process.” You tilted your head slightly, studying him like he was one of your raw poisonous plants. “But yours isn’t normal anymore.”
His hand came up to your wrist again, grounding himself in you as you spoke.
“The steel fused with your spine,” you continued, almost fond in the way you explained it. “So the blood you produce now is… stronger.”
Dex’s eyes didn’t waver as he rubbed absentminded circles on your skin.
“When you touched the wolfsbane, the toxin should’ve shut everything down almost instantly,” you said. “But it didn’t. Your modified cells slowed it down,” you said. “And while you’re not immune, it bought you time.”
Your thumb brushed lightly against his chest, like you were feeling the heart, measuring it.
“I didn’t have an antidote,” you admitted. “So I used what I had.”
His eyes flicked briefly to your arm again, to the faint mark. You shifted closer without thinking, your knees brushing his.
“I hooked us together,” you said, quieter now. “Your blood was slowing down, so I had to pump mine manually for the first couple of hours to keep the flow going.”
Dex’s hand slid from your wrist to your arm, fingers curling there. It was as if he needed to hold onto you to fully understand what you were saying.
“My blood doesn’t process things the way it should,” you continued. “It breaks them down and neutralises them. So once it got into your system…” You gave a small, almost playful shrug. “It did the rest.”
You smiled at him then, pride lighting your face.
“Ta-da,” you said lightly, kissing the corner of his mouth just to make sure his lips had warmed back up, “You’re alive.”
Dex didn’t pull away from you even when he was still processing everything. If anything, he leaned closer. His hands slid upward, as if he needed to map you again now that he understood what you were capable of. What you had done. What you had survived.
And suddenly, all the puzzle pieces started to fall into place— why death seemed to follow you, why you always seemed in control when you looked like you had so little power.
“The groom?” he asked, not accusing. He was just trying to understand.
When you nodded, his shoulders softened. That was the strange, almost painful thing about Dex. Every revelation, no matter how dark, only seemed to pull him deeper under your gravity.
“Foxglove tea,” you explained, your voice clinical. “His mother and brother getting sick were… collateral. But the bride came to me the night before, crying. She….” You paused. “She had marks.”
Dex brushed his absently over your skin, like he was grounding himself in your heart. Coming to terms that you were untouchable in ways he couldn’t quite grasp.
“Harper?” he asked next.
You nodded again, and there was the faintest flicker of irritation in your expression. “Oleander cake. He… tried to touch me.”
That set him off. Dex’s brows furrowed in anger, but still wounded and earnest and almost unbearably tender, over the fact that you didn’t go to him for answers. His hands moved to your face then, clumsy and urgent, like he couldn’t stand the distance anymore. His thumbs hovered at your cheeks before pressing in gently, as if you might disappear if he didn’t hold you there.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said, and an almost boyish hurt threaded through.
You didn’t flinch under his touch. You leaned into it, your fingers gently circling around his back. “Because I can take care of it,” you said simply. “I did take care of it.”
That answer hurt him more than anything else you’d confessed.
“I know you can,” he said, and there was no doubt in it. His forehead dipped to yours. “But you don’t have to," he added, barely above a whisper.
You could feel the way he held on to control, as if the word letting go didn’t exist for him when it came to you. It was in the way his fingers lingered at your jawline, the way his breath mixed with yours, the way his entire body seemed angled toward you like you were the only point of gravity in the room.
You, who needed no one. And him who needed you, so openly it almost hurt to look at.
His eyes searched yours then, and he wasn’t searching for danger anymore. That part of him had already settled. What he was looking for now was some indication that he still had a place here, that he wasn’t just… incidental to you.
His voice dropped, fragile in a way he never was anywhere else. “Is it because you don’t trust me?”
You sighed, pulling away completely until his fingertips were bare and cold where your skin used to be.
His chest tightened, a familiar spiral already coiling. Silence had never meant anything good in his life. Silence meant distance. And distance was always the beginning of the end. Before he knew it, everyone would slip just far enough out of reach that he couldn’t pull it back, no matter how tightly he held on.
But you didn’t leave him. You just stood up.
He watched you walk across the room as you approached the tank. The glow of it lit your face in shifting blue, and for a Dex stood up, caught between following you and giving you space.
You reached into the water without hesitation, lifting Bubbles from the tank, water slipping through your fingers as easily as breath.
You turned back to him, and Bubbles curled in your palm, deceptively cute and delicate, until she noticed him.
The second she saw him, the same electric blue rings from last pulsed across her body.
Dex tilted his head. The warning was immediate, and honest in a way people never were. He wondered, briefly, if that was what he looked like to the rest of the world.
“She feels… threatened by you,” you chuckled, like it was amusing, your lips curving up. “She thinks you’re going to take me away from her.”
Dex stared at the tiny creature, at the warning written so clearly across her skin. And yet, she stayed in your hand. She didn’t flee, nor did she strike.
“But you two are more alike than you think,” you continued, softer now.
You held Bubbles closer, and she curled into you. Dex knew that feeling— the feeling of needing you, the feeling of wanting to be close to you because you felt safe.
“She’s a blue-ringed octopus. One of the most dangerous creatures alive. Their venom has no antidote.” Your fingers shifted slightly, letting the little creature settle against your skin. “I rescued her from a lab. She was… experimented on. They wanted to use her, to extract her as a biochemical weapon. As a result, her venom’s thirty times more potent now. She can thrive out of water for hours. Her species’ average lifespan is 6 months, but she...” you gently rubbed a finger over one of her tentacles as naturally as you would rub the belly of a puppy. That's when he noticed that one tentacle was marked— almost as if acid was poured over it in the quest of making her a living weapon. The poor thing had a scar, one not unlike his own, “…is turning two years old soon.”
Dex swallowed. Everything you said felt too familiar.
“I’m the only handler she didn’t kill. I’m the only handler she has never stung,” you added, almost absently. “Not just because she can’t. But because she trusts me.”
Dex had a feeling you meant more than just her.
“Just because I can use her venom to kill for me,” you went on, your voice lowering, as you ran your hand through her squishy body, “just because she’s more dangerous than anything I grow upstairs… doesn’t mean I want to use her that way.” You exhaled. “She’s suffered enough.”
Dex watched intently as you leaned forward and returned Bubbles to the tank. She drifted for a moment, then settled against a rock, her colors fading, her body going docile again, simply because you were here.
Dex saw it then: the kinship, the invisible bond, the mirror that he had when he looked at the little creature that you cared so much about.
Like Bubbles, he was already dangerous before. But now, he could fall off buildings. He could take a hit. He could survive beyond the constraints of his species.
And like Bubbles, for the better part of the last decade, he had been manipulated, taken advantage of, and used as a weapon for agendas of more powerful men, a solution, a last resort. People didn’t want him. They wanted what he could do, what he could survive, what he could destroy.
You had never asked that of him. You hadn’t handed him your problems like weapons to solve. You had handled them yourself.
That feeling was… foreign and disorienting in all its kindness. It didn’t slot neatly into what he understood. There was no place to file it, no rule to attach it to. It left him… exposed.
Dex stepped towards you before he fully thought about it. He was close again, like he couldn’t stand the distance anymore. His hands found you desperately, one at your waist, the other sliding up your arm like he needed to make sure you were still here.
“You didn’t…” His voice caught. “You didn’t want to use me.”
It wasn’t really a question.
His forehead dipped toward yours again, his breath uneven. Dex had never known what it meant to be wanted without purpose. And it terrified him a little, because if there was no function or role, then there was nothing to hide behind. There was nothing to blame when it inevitably went wrong. He concluded, then, that you didn’t even think this could go wrong. It was the only plausible explanation.
His voice dropped, “you just wanted me.”
Dex stayed close. After all, distance had become unnatural to him where you were concerned. His grip on your waist had changed. It was less desperate now, more certain, like he was learning how to hang on instead of bracing for loss.
He looked at you like he was still catching up. Like every piece of you he uncovered only made him want to understand more, not recoil.
“You still could,” he said, eyes glistening in awe. His thumb moved in slow circles against your side, like he needed repetition. “I still would.”
You knew that. You knew he would burn the world down for you if you just asked.
You reached for his hand, not to steady it, but to hold.
Your fingers laced through his, almost disarmingly. His hand tightened around yours in a reflex.
“I don’t want to,” you said.
Dex’s breath stuttered out of him. Of all the things he’d expected, all the ways this could have gone… this was the one thing he didn’t know how to defend against: Care, without cost.
He shifted closer again, until there was no space left between you, your joined hands pressed lightly between your bodies. His forehead found your shoulder this time. He wasn’t collapsing. He wasn’t even breaking. He was just resting, letting himself exist in your orbit, without needing to prove anything.
It was almost shy.
“I don’t… know what to do with that,” he admitted, voice muffled against you, smaller than you’d ever heard it.
Your free hand came up, and settled at the back of his head. Your fingers threaded lightly through his hair, answering a question he didn’t know how to ask, “You don’t have to do anything.”
But how?
He had always been something done with. A weapon pointed, used, unleashed. An arrow for a stronger master to wield, and more recently, a servant to his own broken mind, searching for purpose in the world.
He didn’t know how to simply exist without rules or confines or borders or expectations of how he was supposed to be.
You, on the other hand, made it look easy. Effortless, even. It's as if that after spending a lifetime being a mutant, you had decided that being violent and gentle were not opposites, but two sides of the same coin.
Dex didn’t know how to do that yet, but he knew, that he wanted to learn.
He turned his head slightly then, not pulling away, just enough that his temple rested against you instead. His fingers shifted in yours, tracing lightly over your knuckles.
“I think I like this better,” he murmured, almost to himself.
And for once, there was no tension in him. No trigger to pull, no violent tendency waiting to be called on.
Maybe you had always been drawn to dangerous things because you could handle them. Or maybe, it was because you were one of them.
Both Dex and Bubbles, in all their blue-ringed, lethal glory, were remade weapons too strange, too deadly for anyone else to hold. But not for you.
They didn’t have to make themselves smaller in your hands. They didn’t have to be hidden or used.
They could just… be.
In Dex’s mind, it couldn’t simply be luck. You were a mutant, you had explained, your body had never had to adapt or learn anything— you were born already ahead of them. You were built to survive them. You were made by the powers that be to endure what should have killed anyone else.
And Dex latched onto that divine intervention with frightening certainty. You were a design, not a coincidence. It was different from the way Bubbles had been remade, different from the way he had been reshaped and reinforced. You hadn’t been altered. In Dex’s mind, you had been made perfect because you were born different.
It was as if the universe had accounted for him and then, carefully, built you around that problem. You were made to love him. It was written in the stars, he was sure of it, as sure as he was that the sky was blue.
It might not be the healthiest way to think, but at least it was his own.
And as if she understood his thoughts unfolding, Bubbles moved closer to the glass, seeing Dex in a new light now. She raised her marred tentacle like a wave, then drifted once more, almost languid now, like a reluctant concession:
Pairing: Thunderbolts!Dex x Thunderbolts!reader, starring Yelena Belova and Alexei Shostakov (with brief appearances from Bucky Barnes and Ava Starr)
Summary: You're away for five days on a mission and, predictably, Dex is miserable. Yelena and Alexei take pity on him and drag him along on their own "Treat Yo Self" day. Later, you finally come home and end up surprising him with something he's always wanted—something he'd never thought he'd get.
Word count: 6,900
Tags: parks and rec spoof; found family/friendship; splash of angst and hurt/comfort (Dex’s spa breakdown/implicit reference to SA); codependency; swearing; first ‘I love you’; smut (fingering, oral, piv); hint of freak4freak, mentions of knife + breath play; switch Dex, canon divergence (Dex’s new suit here is the DDBA S3 one)
A/N: The idea for this came while I was thinking of the reader trying to take Dex to a spa, and immediately picturing Ben Wyatt losing his shit during acupuncture and thinking that would 100% be Dex (maybe it's a Benjamin thing, lmao). And lo, this fic was born!! Also planning to make a series with this Thunderbolts! reader and Dex someday (former army with chaos magic and other witchcraft abilities)
Yelena hustled down the stairs and out into the living room, practically skipping over to Alexei.
"Ready to go, old man?" she asked, jamming her sunglasses down over her eyes.
But he didn't answer, frowning slightly as he stared out the glass doors and onto the outdoor patio.
She pulled her sunglasses back up, following his gaze.
"What are you looking at?"
And then she saw him: Dex.
He was outside, sitting by himself and eating at one of the picnic tables, one hand hovering near his phone like he was waiting for it to go off. As she looked at him, he tapped it and chewed at the corner of his lip, clearly checking it to no avail. He pushed it slightly out of reach, but then, 10 seconds later, he pulled it back.
“Lena," Alexei said, sighing, and when he turned to her, he had puppy eyes.
"No!" She said firmly, already knowing where this conversation was heading. "Absolutely not."
"Cолнышко, come on, now. Look at him! He is eating soup, alone, on a bench! And he has been glued to that phone for five days, waiting for Y/N's comms blackout to stop." Alexei shook his head. "He is tragic. We have to take him with us."
Yelena crossed her arms. “Those are his own depressing choices. This is our day!”
“It still is," Alexei replied, smiling. "But today is about being kind to ourselves, yes? Can you think of anyone else who needs that more than him?”
Yelena glared at her dad and then at Dex, who was now staring into his bowl of soup like he hoped he might somehow drown in it.
“Ugh, I hate when you are right,” she grumbled.
Yelena stomped over to the patio door, yanking it open.
Dex's head snapped up.
"Hello, Yelena," he said calmly, his previous misery now masked with a cool smile. "What brings you out here today?"
She marched over and snatched his bowl away from him, Dex raising his eyebrows in response.
"Benjamin! Pitiful, moping soup time is over. Get up. You are coming out with us.”
Alexei came sauntering over gleefully.
“It is Treat Yo Self day!!”
Dex just stared at them.
“Yeah … I don’t know what that is and I don’t want to," he replied, motioning for Yelena to give his bowl back. "I’ll pass.”
Yelena just backed up further, holding the bowl away from him. “Y/N will be happy that you hung out with usssss,” she said in sing-song.
Boy, that did it. At the very mention of you being pleased with him, his entire demeanor changed, his scarred face brightening like a puppy excited to get a treat from his owner.
“Good point. Where are we going?”
Alexei literally lifted Dex off the bench, pulling him into a side bear hug.
“Oh my friend, the question is not where are we going, it is where will we not go?!”
“Can't wait, bud," Dex replied cheerfully, and Yelena's eyes narrowed.
That was the thing about Dex that unsettled her, how what came out of his mouth always seemed earnest and yet, she couldn't quite believe that he wasn't lying. It wasn’t in a nefarious way, though, which was the part that threw her off—it was quieter, more desperate. It was a “if I say this like I mean it, then maybe I’ll actually mean it” kind of way—like he could manifest himself into the person he wanted to be if he just said the right things enough times.
Fake it ‘till you make it, right?
But still, she tried not to judge him too much—everyone on the Thunderbolts was off kilter, in their own ways. So, if he was willing to come hang out and wasn't trying to stab her dad for hugging him, well, then she could at least give him some credit.
But not too much.
—
As they wandered the mall, Dex was fairly quiet, occasionally drifting away to look at things that were clearly for you and only talking when Alexei asked him for his opinion on colors (to which his response was almost always “black” or “blue”) or when Yelena shoved two candles into his face.
“Too sweet,” he said to the first, nose crinkling. He turned to the second one, and after he had inhaled, his entire posture changed, shoulders relaxing.
“Yeah, that one’s better.”
“Why?”
“It smells like Y/N’s shampoo.”
Yelena rolled her eyes, placing the jar in his hands.
“You get this, then, and I will keep looking for one that will not make my room smell like your girlfriend.”
So they all went on like that for about an hour, using Dex as their sounding board when needed. But after Yelena saw him head to the register with yet another present for you (this time, a Lush face scrub) and nothing for himself, she stopped him when he came out.
“Are you ever going to get anything for yourself?”
Dex frowned, looking confused.
“I got that candle. And this banana smoothie," he replied, shaking the near-empty cup in his hand. "That’s a literal treat. I followed the rules.”
"Боже мой," Yelena muttered, shaking her head. "That is barely a treat. You are supposed to get things that are super fun for you, not just for Y/N. To, you know, live a little! Since we all were, like, barely living for so long.”
“Getting pretty deep there for a mall trip."
“Ugh, shut up, I am trying to be nice!” Yelena seethed at the smirk on his face, and she stomped forward, grabbing the cup out of his hands and hurling it toward the nearest trash can, where it bounced off the rim.
Dex just grinned wider.
“You know I would’ve made that shot, right?”
She flipped him off with a growl as she shoved it into the trash, Alexei stepping between them.
“Maybe you just have not found the thing that says ‘Dex’ yet,” Alexei interjected soothingly. He turned, spreading his arms wide near the store next to them. “But ahhhh, no one can resist the allure of the American spa experience! It's acupuncture time!"
Yelena was pleased to see the smirk slide right off Dex’s face.
"No."
“Why not? You love sharp things!” Alexei protested.
“Yeah, when I'm throwing them into other people.” Dex pointed at the display window, where there was a picture of a woman with needles sticking out of her face. "How the fuck does that look relaxing to you two?”
Now, it was Yelena’s turn to smirk. “Ohhhh, I see big, tough Bullseye is scared of a few needles." She patted Dex's arm and watched his face darken. “That is fine, you can stay here and wait where it is safe.”
Suddenly, Dex’s hands clamped down on her and Alexei’s shoulders like a vise, pushing them forward.
“You know what guys?” he said, a manic glint appearing in his eyes. “Let's have a fucking spa day."
—
Yelena had to give it to Dex, he really did try. He made it out of the locker room in one piece, even though he looked like he might hang himself from the belt on his fluffy white robe.
He dropped into the reclining chair between Yelena and Alexei, clutching his mug of tea so hard she was surprised it didn’t break.
The staff came over with cucumbers for their eyes, which Dex declined, and Yelena sighed happily as she placed hers on and laid back, listening to the gentle music playing throughout the spa.
Suddenly, she felt her arm being poked.
“What am I supposed to do?” Dex whispered, and she begrudgingly slid one cucumber off, taken aback by how anxious he now looked.
“You just chill out,” Yelena whispered back. “They’ll be over soon. Do you not know how to relax?” she asked jokingly.
Dex paused for a second before he answered.
“No.” Another pause, his voice going even quieter. “Not without Y/N.”
Oh.
She'd asked as a joke, but he was telling her the truth. And though she would never tell him, his response broke her heart a little bit.
Dex knew how to maim, incapacitate, torture, kill. But he didn’t know how to just fully be, to let himself just settle in his own skin. At least, not without you there to steady him.
And she knew exactly how it felt to feel that untethered—that broken.
Yelena gave him a soft smile, trying to be reassuring.
“Well, what would she say if she was here?”
“Uh. She’d probably tell me to breathe.”
“We can do that. Deep breath with me, yes?” He gave the briefest nod before he breathed in time with her.
Inhale for four. Exhale for four.
He still looked uncomfortable, but the panic on his face had at least lessened.
"You can do it,” she said quietly. "You deserve to unwind, too, ok?"
She closed her eyes again, trying to ignore the sounds of Dex shifting around every 20 seconds and Alexei’s snoring. After a few minutes, the staff came back, trays laden with an array of brightly colored needles.
Yelena watched Dex out of the corner of her eye, jaw set in a hard line and looking at his own tray like it was filled with live grenades. His head thumped back against the chair, seemingly summoning all his willpower to stay in place, his gaze flickering from the tray to the employees to the door.
Yelena was just about to tell him he didn’t need to stay, but then the first needle went into his face. He did it! He looked like absolute shit, but he did it.
Then, there were two needles. Then three. Then fou-
“Yeah, no, fuck this,” he said abruptly, ripping the needles out and tossing them onto the tray. Could've been worse—at least they didn’t end up in anyone’s trachea. He briefly turned to Yelena before he beelined back to the locker room. “See you later.”
“Ok, go get yourself something nice!!” she whisper yelled.
About a half hour later, Yelena walked back out into the concourse feeling mostly relaxed while Alexei paid inside.
She was only mostly relaxed because she found she was concerned about Dex. Ugh. The whole “caring” thing could be so annoying.
She found him about a minute later, sitting on a bench and swiping through his phone, looking at pictures of the two of you.
Yelena sat down next to him, but he didn't look up.
“Are you ok?” she asked tentatively.
“Yeah," he said, still avoiding her gaze. "Just not my thing.” He stared for a few more seconds at the current picture of you on the screen: one that you clearly took, laying next to him on a picnic blanket with an open-mouthed grin while he buried his head in your shoulder.
He locked the screen and finally looked up, staring straight ahead. "I don't like getting touched by people I don’t know."
His unexpected sincerity caught her off guard, made her feel like she'd been punched in the chest. Because there was no other way around it: Dex was trying to be vulnerable.
She felt the weight of his simple statement, knowing that there was more to it than that, the probable trauma buried underneath it. And so, she meant to respond with something kind, something sympathetic. But before she could stop herself, she heard herself parroting his own words back to him:
"Getting pretty deep for a mall trip, huh?”
Shit. She sighed, cursing inwardly and mentally readying herself to have to suck it up and apologize, but then Dex did something unexpected.
He laughed.
And not in a sarcastic way, not in a condescending way, not in a forced way.
In a real way.
"Touche,” he said, chuckling. “I had that coming.”
Yelena smiled back, but her tone grew serious.
“But really. Dex.” He finally looked directly at her. “You should've just said something.”
He shook his head.
“Nah, you were already giving me shit, I wasn’t gonna give you more ammo.”
Yelena’s eyebrows raised.
“You know I was just messing with you, right?” Judging by the blank look on his face, Dex did not actually know that, and Yelena sighed. “I can be an ass, but if I would have known this, I would not have pushed. I’m not that much of an ass.”
“Noted.” He was quiet for a few seconds, the next words coming out slowly. “Thanks. For … checking on me.”
“Sure. That’s what friends are for, right?”
"Friends?" He said it like was a new word in a foreign language, strange and unfamiliar on his tongue. But his eyes brightened, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
"Yeah. Dummy.” Yelena yanked the new shopping bag next to him toward her. “Now, onto more pressing matters."
“Oh yeah, help yourself,” he said dryly.
Alexei finally jogged over, peering into the bag alongside Yelena.
“Ooooo, let’s see, let’s see!!”
And the grand reveal was…
“A boring black sweatshirt?” Yelena sighed. “Well, this is slightly better than healthy drink. But wait," she narrowed her eyes, “isn’t this the one Y/N wears all the time? In grey?”
“Yeah, but it's mine. Now, she has two colors to pick from,” Dex said happily, clearly pleased with himself. “She said they’re cozier and she likes wearing them because they smell like me.”
Alexei and Yelena responded at the same time.
"That is precious!"
"That is disgusting."
“Lyosha," Alexei chided. "Yes, that is very thoughtful, Dex, but remember, it is treat yo self day, not treat someone else day! Come, come, come, there must be at least one special, big thing that you’d want just for you!”
Dex glanced at both of them, hesitating.
“I … already have it,” he finally admitted. “It came yesterday.”
Yelena and Alexei stared at him, confused.
“My new suit’s in.” He tried to say it casually, but clear excitement danced at the edges of his tone.
“What?!” Alexei yelled. “And you haven’t tried it on yet?!”
“I was waiting for Y/N.”
“Of course you were,” Yelena commented, rolling her eyes. “But no, we have to see it now! She will still see it when she comes home and she will still say you are so scary and handsome, blah blah blah, whatever gross things you two say to each other.”
Dex paused, looking unconvinced, and Yelena turned to her dad, both of them wearing identical grins before starting to chant in unison:
“Bullseye, Bullseye, Bullseye, Bulls-!”
“Ok, ok, fine.” He grinned back at them. "Let's go.”
—
Yelena and Alexei waited eagerly in the living room for Dex to come out of his room.
Alexei rubbed his hands together.
“Treat Yo Self day AND new suit day, this is very much the best day ever!” He smiled at Yelena. “You did a good thing for him.”
“Don’t forget, it was your idea.” She grabbed his hand in hers and squeezed. “You’re a good person, Dad.”
He kissed the top of her head.
“You are too, my Lyosha.”
Suddenly, they heard the thud of boots echoing down the hall.
They both spun around on the couch.
“Ooooooooh!!” they yelled in unison.
There he was: all 6-foot-something of him grinning like a maniac, decked out in navy and silver and black. He unsheathed one of the 15 or so new daggers lining his body, spinning it between his fingers.
He didn’t just look thrilled. He looked alive.
“You look amazing!!” Alexei yelled, walking over so he could get a better look. “So powerful! And ah, you even have your own logo! Lena, come see!” He tapped the cuff of Dex’s glove, emblazoned with the bullseye symbol, sighing sadly. “I wish I had my own logo."
Dex looked at Yelena.
“Thoughts?” he asked.
Yelena circled him slowly, her chin in her hand as she evaluated.
“Lots of spots for the knives, good, good, very practical. Reinforced knee pads, yes. Ankle holsters are also nice touch.” She clapped her hands together. “You have my approval, it is officially cool! How do you feel?”
“Great,” he replied, quickly flipping his knife in the air and catching it effortlessly. “Like I'm legit, now.” His voice grew quiet but firm, almost like he was reassuring himself. “Like I … belong here.”
"You do,” Yelena and Alexei replied in unison, and as he smiled again, softening the hardened lines of his face, Yelena realized this was the happiest she’d seen him since you left five days ago.
She heard a sniffle next to her and she turned to Alexei.
“Are you crying?!” she asked incredulously.
“What?!” he replied, brushing his eyes with the back of his hands. He gestured at Dex, the suit. “This is beautiful moment for him with friends!”
Dex nodded slightly.
"Thanks for today ... friends," he said, a half smile appearing on his face.
Suddenly, the unmistakable ping of a text coming in echoed from his room.
His face lit up with a wild, almost boyish happiness, and then he started sprinting—literally sprinting—down the hall to get his phone.
"Well, the suit is definitely aerodynamic!" Yelena called out after him.
After a minute, he wandered back out, whistling to himself and suddenly manically upbeat.
“Y/N's good. She said she’ll be back around 10. She said can’t wait to see me,” he added, grinning, like he needed to say it out loud because he still couldn't believe it.
Yelena waited for a second, but he didn’t say anything else.
“And Bucky and Ava? Your teammates?” she asked, waving her hands.
“Oh. Yeah. They’re fine, too.”
Yelena rolled her eyes.
“Fantastic. We’re gonna go get dinner. I would invite you, but I would not want to disturb your very fun plans to now pace back and forth until they are home.”
“I appreciate that," Dex replied, no trace of irony present.
Alexei held out his hand and Dex took it, letting Alexei pull him into a bro hug.
"Have fun with your girl," Alexei said. His tone softened, his face growing uncharacteristically serious. "I know today was not so easy for you. But it was good for you. We all need people, Dex."
Dex didn't say anything, just blinked rapidly before giving Alexei a small, slow nod. Alexei turned to Yelena, pulling her into his side.
"I want Indian."
"Why? Every time, you complain it is too spicy!"
"But the naan is so soft and pillowy, like a cloud!"
"Greek, then? Less spicy, but still, soft bread."
"Good idea."
Dex watched them head to the elevator before he walked back to his room to change, Alexei’s words echoing in his head:
“We all need people, Dex.”
Alexei was half-right. Because Dex didn’t need people—at least, not in the plural form. Sure, it was nice to feel included on the team, for the others to not make him feel like he was an outsider, a freak.
It felt nice to have ... friends.
But he didn’t need them—he only needed one person.
You.
—
Four agonizing hours later, you were finally home; Dex bolting straight up on the living room couch as he heard the familiar whoosh of the elevator doors opening.
First, out came a visibly exhausted Bucky, and then Ava, and then, finally, finally, you.
The second you saw him, you didn’t say anything. You just dropped your backpack and ran full speed at him; a radiant, excited grin clear on your face that made his heart want to jump out of his chest.
You crashed into him and he locked you into his arms, breathing you in, savoring the sound of your contented sigh against his neck, trying to push back the warmth building behind his eyes.
He was just so fucking relieved. Because you’re not his North Star, no, you’re his entire galaxy—the only constant source of light that manages to permeate through the darkness that swirls inside his head.
You were safe, you were home, you were back where you belonged.
With him.
He took your face in both hands and kissed you hard, starving for your touch again, the tangible confirmation back that you were his.
And you gave it to him easily, your hands coming up to tug at his shirt as your mouth moved quickly against his, laced with longing.
Finally, you pulled back.
“Hey, you,” you said breathlessly, beaming at him.
“Hey, pretty girl,” he murmured excitedly, matching your smile. “I missed you so fucking much.”
“I missed you, too.” Your eyes widened slightly. “I didn’t think five days would be that hard, but fuck, it really was." You gestured toward Ava, who was yawning and headed straight for the stairs to her room, and Bucky, now grabbing a tower of sandwich ingredients out of the fridge. "I drove them nuts talking about you. But I couldn't help it." You smiled. "I couldn’t wait to get back home to you.”
Dex brushed your hair back tenderly and then frowned, his fingers gently running over a fresh stitch near your hairline.
“Who?” he asked.
You shrugged.
“Some asshole with a butterfly knife. But I sent it back into his eye and cracked his sternum, so I’d say we were even.”
“Good. But no, I meant who did your stitches?”
“Oh. Bucky. Why?”
Hand still caressing your face, Dex glowered toward the fridge.
“Barnes?”
Bucky sighed audibly and turned around, grimacing as he dumped the food on the counter.
“What’s the problem?” he asked through gritted teeth, like he already knew what was coming.
Dex pointed at your stitches.
“Did you do this in the dark, bud?” He asked it lightly, but the danger still lingered in his eyes burning into Bucky’s blue ones.
“Metal hand, man,” Bucky replied with exasperation. “I did my best. And she didn’t complain about it.”
You smacked Dex's chest.
“He did fine, be nice.” The corner of your mouth twitched. “You can fix it later,” you added in a whisper.
“I heard that. Next time, you can ask Ava instead,” Bucky grumbled.
“You’re just out of practice, Congressman,” you replied with a grin.
“Ugh. I hate when you call me that.”
“I know,” you said cheerfully, intertwining your fingers with Dex’s and tugging him toward the hall. “See you later.”
“Bye, Congressman,” Dex added with a smirk, grabbing your backpack and hoisting it onto his broad shoulders. His comment earned an eye roll from Bucky and a laugh from you—just like he intended, flooding his whole body with electric, elated warmth.
As soon as you got into Dex’s room, you headed right for his dresser changing into his sweatpants and one of his t-shirts. You turned back to him and before you even asked, he got his quarter-zip up and over his head, tossing it to you.
“You know me so well,” you said, catching it with a soft chuckle. You pulled it on and inhaled the fabric near your throat, short-circuiting Dex’s brain in the best possible way, before you rolled the sleeves up slightly, bringing your arms around his neck.
“Better?” Dex asked, broad hands splayed out on your waist, and you nodded.
“So, you really missed me, huh?” you asked, one hand scratching through the back of his hair, just the way he liked it.
“You have no idea," he breathed out, bringing his mouth back to yours. When you both broke apart, he was pleased to see you looked a little dazed, forever enthralled and mystified by the effect his touch had on you.
"I have some surprises for you,” he said, his heart soaring as your eyes lit up.
“Oooo, yeah? What kind?”
Dex headed over to the side of his bed, grabbing the armful of shopping bags and plopping them in front of you on the mattress. You jumped up immediately, bouncing slightly as you clapped your hands together.
He'd never seen something so fucking adorable in his life.
He sat down next to you, watching your face closely, trying his best to memorize every detail in your reaction as you opened the first bag to find a floral, navy sundress—one that perfectly matched his new suit.
"That's really pretty," you said sincerely. "That'll be nice for date night." You gave him a quick kiss. "Thank you, you didn't need to do this."
"I wanted to. You deserve nice things. I hung out with Lena and Alexei today,” he added proudly, and you stopped in the middle of opening the next bag, your eyebrows raised. “We went shopping. It was Treat Yo Self day.”
“Wait, seriously?! That's amazing!" You pressed for more info, the genuine care and interest in your voice absolutely delighting him. “Where’d you go? Did you have fun? Do you now finally believe me when I say they’re your friends, too?”
“The mall. Yes. And … I think so. Mostly.”
“I’ll take it.”
"We also went to a spa. I tried acupuncture.”
You frowned at him, confused.
"But you hate being touched by people you don’t know.”
“Yeah, but Lena started giving me shit and I thought, how bad could it be? Turns out, uh, pretty bad. She helped calm me down a little, actually. Not as good as you, though,” he noted, placing one hand on your thigh and squeezing affectionately. “Made it through three needles and bailed. But I tried.”
You nodded, smiling, but Dex was startled to see your eyes filling with tears.
“What’s wrong, baby?” he asked, wrapping one arm around your waist.
You blinked quickly and shook your head, still smiling.
“Nothing. I’m just. I’m so proud of you. Of how much you try.” You took a deep breath, the next words tumbling from your mouth like you’d been dying to get them out. “You try more than anyone I’ve ever known, even before I met you, to just do good things, even when it doesn’t make sense to your brain or you really don’t want to or it’s uncomfortable. And I don’t think I’ve ever told you this outright, but I think that's really ... brave. That you're really brave."
You paused for a second, interlacing his fingers with yours as you gazed into his eyes, his pulse skyrocketing at the way you were looking at him.
“And, I don’t know, I just really fucking missed you. I had a lot of time to think on the plane about you, and how much you matter to me, and how happy you make me and just. You’re the fucking best.” You laughed softly, suddenly sounding strangely nervous. “So, yeah, what I’m trying to say is that … I love you.” You paused briefly, nodding your head and still smiling at him. “That’s it."
And Dex just stared at you, because all oxygen had apparently left his entire being and rendered him temporarily speechless.
Because holy shit.
Holy shit.
You loved him.
Pure shock and wild, dizzying, frenetic joy pulsed through his veins.
He fucking did it. He’d gotten you to love him.
It’s all Dex wanted since practically the day he met you, when the mangled remains of his heart started screaming at him to pay attention to the feeling in his chest, to chase after you with the fervor he normally reserved for hunting down targets.
And this, this love he knew he had for you and your admission of it for him, it was a thousand times better than the high of a fresh kill, a thousand times better than any shred of flimsy, fleeting happiness that he thought he’d ever experienced.
So why the fuck wasn’t he saying he loved you back?
Why did he feel so ecstatic, but also suddenly frozen? Why was he just sitting there, hesitant and pathetic and stymied?
In short: why was he acting like his old self?
Because that asshole—pitiful, anxious, restrained Dex—was supposed to be dead and buried, gone with the pills he stopped taking and the therapy tapes he burned.
He had picked one hell of a time to resurface.
You spoke again, snapping Dex out of his head to the present moment.
"Blink if you understand me,” you said, a teasing note entering your voice.
And despite the playfulness to your voice, Dex was now truly fucking terrified—terrified that his silence just ruined the most important moment of his wretched existence. Because, for all his inexperience around romance, even he knew that staring blankly at your girlfriend when she tells you she loves you for the first time is not the right move.
“Fuck, I'm sorry,” he said, panicking, hazel eyes widening.
“It’s ok,” you replied soothingly, but for once, the patient understanding in your voice that he normally relied on didn’t calm him down. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“Yes, I do,” he replied, so deadly serious that it almost came out angry. He took a shallow breath, tried to stop his voice from shaking. “Can you just, can you say it again? Please.”
If he was a good man, he wouldn’t ask for it. A good man would’ve told you shouldn’t love him, that you deserved far better than this scarred and stitched-together, barely passable version of a human.
But he's not a good man.
He’s just a man, probably a bad one, trying to be better. So he had to do this right, to give you the right response to your sincere, beautiful, life-fucking-changing statement.
“Sure,” you said easily. You squeezed his hand.
“I love you, Dex.”
“Don't miss the shot again, dumbass,” the scathing voice in his head warned.
And this time, he didn’t. He surged forward, mouth crashing into yours as one hand grabbed at the back of your neck, his other still interlaced with yours. He poured everything he had into the kiss, all-consuming devotion and care and obsession.
Because that’s how Dex loved—how he loved you.
He pulled back, shifting his hand to frame your jaw, thumb skimming over the skin.
"I love you, too,” he murmured, a wide grin finally breaking over his face, still half in disbelief. "More than anything.”
“I know," you replied, smiling. "You ok?,” you added softly, and Dex suddenly realized that his eyes were stinging.
He brushed his hand over the building tears quickly, bringing it back to cup your face.
“Yeah, I'm great, now. I’ve wanted to hear you say that for so long," he admitted. "And ... no one’s ever told me that before. Not that I remember, anyways."
You brought your forehead to his, your hand going to the back of his neck.
“Well, I've got to make up for lost time then, don't I?"
You kissed his left cheek.
"I love you."
You kissed the scar on his right cheek.
"I love you."
And then, you kissed him on the mouth, your hands framing his face as his own tangled in your hair.
That did it. He pushed you down onto the mattress, yanking the sweatpants off you along with your underwear in a practiced motion, tossing them carelessly off the bed as he came back down to crash his mouth, his tongue into yours.
Your hands ghosted over his abs as you helped push his shirt off before tugging down at his own sweats and boxers, which he gladly kicked off.
As soon as you got his sweatshirt over your head, you pulled him back down against you, sighing in satisfaction when he moved his mouth to your neck, his hand between your thighs.
His thumb found your clit while he slid two fingers inside you, his cock twitching, and started pulsing with a steady rhythm.
“Fuck, Dex,” you murmured. “Missed you so much.”
"Missed you too, baby." He grazed his teeth along your ear before they sank into the soft skin of your neck, heat rushing through him at the thought of the mark he knew it'd leave—a tangible, claiming reminder to that you were his. "All mine."
He lifted himself up to look at you, and you were so pretty like this—the pink flush building through your cheeks, lips parted slightly, growing wetter by the second as your hips rolled up against his hand.
He got you right where he wanted you—all breathy whines and fluttering eyelids—before he lined up at your entrance.
And, for a fraction of a second, he hesitated.
Because he knew he didn’t just want to tell you he loved you. He wanted to show you, too.
It wasn’t like he’d never done that before: to show how much you meant to him during sex. In fact, that was what he always tried to do, to make you feel good, to prove himself to you, to do whatever you wanted and cement the fact that you were everything to him. That he was the only one for you.
But there’d always been a kind of current humming inside his brain, telling him go, go, let’s fucking go, to not waste a single second of being granted the privilege to touch you, to make you unravel with him, to immerse himself in the the side of you that no one else got to see.
And there was also that gnawing, small part of him hissing that he had to move fast, because the other shoe had to drop eventually, right? That you'd eventually come to your senses and try to leave him?
So he had to make the most of the time he had with you, while you still wanted him, while the dream of being with you was still vivid.
Which meant that, on the whole, things in bed were usually pretty frenzied, pretty rough. But after hearing those three little words from you, that pressure and panic in his head had lessened a bit.
You loved him. You really weren't going anywhere.
So he pushed himself inside you, slower than usual, bottoming out and sliding his hand to the side of your face instead of your throat.
Now, he wanted to freeze time and savor this moment, fully connected with you in every way, boundaries blurring until you were just one, together; like the place where the ocean meets the skyline, fated and boundless and unbreakable for all time.
“Fuck, you're amazing," he breathed out, eyes fixed on yours. "I love you, Y/N.”
Your hands traced his forearms, and it seemed like you were both on the same page, because for once, you weren't digging your nails in.
“I love you, too.”
He started to move inside you, his hands finding yours and squeezing tightly as he found a steadier rhythm while still keeping the tempo slow.
He watched you intently.
“You like it like this, sweetheart?” he asked.
You nodded vigorously, biting at the corner of your lip, and he felt a surge of warmth and pride rush through him.
“Yes, fuck, Dex, just like that. You feel so good, baby, I missed you in me.”
“So fucking gorgeous, my pretty girl taking me like this. You needed it, huh? Needed me?"
“Uh huh, always need you. Only you." You pulled him down to kiss him, messy and desperate and sweet, and Dex could've happily died there.
You broke the kiss, his forehead resting on yours.
"Love how you feel in me, love you so much," you purred.
Dex groaned, hips moving faster. “Say it again.”
“Fuck, I love you, Dex,” you replied, voice breaking into the prettiest little whimper as he fucked you harder.
Then, he laid down flush against you, needing you as close to him as he could get without cracking your ribcage and crawling inside. His eyes rolled back with a moan as you wrapped your legs around his waist, helping him drive even deeper into you, hitting the perfect spot every time.
Your nails grazed lightly over the scar on his spine, sending shivers throughout his entire body.
It wasn't the same kind of sex, per se, but it still felt the same—intimate and passionate and real—and he knew you were going to send him over the edge soon, ruined in the best possible way from how you felt, the way your hands caressed him, the chorus of perfect “uh uh uhs” that started to fall from your mouth with every thrust.
From how much you loved him and how much he loved you.
“‘Mmm, baby, fuck, I’m close,” he grunted.
"Same," you gasped.
But for the first time since his first time with you, Dex came first, suddenly spilling out inside you with a low "fuck" and your name on his lips.
And before he could mentally annihilate himself for that, before you could even blink, he pulled out and hooked his muscled arms around your thighs, burying his head between them, tongue swirling eagerly.
His eyes were fixed on your face, but yours were closed, and he stopped suddenly.
That got your attention.
"Eyes on me, sweetheart," he commanded, and you listened, sending his brain haywire as you locked eyes while grinding desperately against his mouth, hands fisted in his hair.
“Oh my God, yes, yes, Dex, fuck, you're gonna make me cum so hard!"
He definitely did, holding your shaking thighs firmly in place as your orgasm ripped through you.
He licked you a few more times while you came down, smirking as your body jerked involuntarily again, your chest still heaving.
"Woooooo," you said with a dazed, breathless laugh, eyes sparkling.
He smiled back at you, eyes still on yours as he started to kiss his way back up your body—gliding his mouth over your inner thigh, your stomach, your neck—repeating the same three words just like you had as you kissed his cheeks:
"I love you, I love you, I love you."
Dex wanted to sear it into your brain, your body; to make it so you’d never forget for one single, solitary second that you were his and he was yours, completely and madly in love.
Forever.
He kissed your mouth, your forehead, and then laid down, wrapping his arms around you.
"Hi,” you said happily, a lazy smile on your face as you gently pushed back the dampened hair from his forehead.
"Hi,” he replied, pressing another kiss to your jaw. Dex breathed you in, salt from sweat mingled with the scent of his own his sweatshirt and sheets, the citrus of your favorite dry shampoo.
And he smiled at the visceral, tangible combination of him and you; a reminder that he wasn't actually dreaming—that you, the love between you both, was real. A love worth dying for, killing for, doing anything for.
You both laid there quietly intertwined for a few minutes, just reveling in each other's presence, until you spoke up.
“I know you got me a bunch of stuff, and it's super sweet, but honestly, there's no better 'welcome home' present than hearing you say ‘I love you’ and fucking me like that."
"Glad you liked it.” You chuckled and his hand slid to the curve of your waist, the other tilting your chin up to look at him. “And I need to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For everything,” Dex said simply. “For … loving me,” he added, unable to stop himself from smiling.
You shook your head, brought one hand to his face, your thumb running across the scar on his cheek.
“You don’t ever need to thank me for that, ok?” You kissed him again, pulling back with a smile and booping his nose. “It’s my genuine pleasure.”
You nestled into his chest for a few more minutes, Dex gently tracing his fingers across your back.
Then, you sat up, leaning over the edge of the bed to pick his sweatshirt off the floor, sliding it over your head with a contented sigh and snuggling back into him.
And then he remembered: the suit.
“Oh, shit, I almost forgot,” he said, shifting up off the bed. “Getting back to what you said about presents, I do have one more surprise. It's not for you, technically, but it still kinda is. So close your eyes."
"Alright,” you said with a slight giggle.
Checking to make sure your eyes really were shut, he grabbed the suit out of the closet and changed in the bathroom.
Heart pounding, he walked out.
“Ok, open.”
Your eyes opened and your jaw literally dropped.
“Holy SHIT!” you yelled, grinning as you bounded off the bed toward him. "It’s beautiful! You look incredible!
You ran your hands over his shoulders, fingers dropping down to run across the knife holsters, nodding approvingly. You patted his cheek with affection, his whole body humming at your praise, your touch. “Look at my Bullseye, all official and ready to destroy people. How do you feel?”
"Good.” He paused, eager for more of your validation. “You really like it?" he asked.
"That is the understatement of the year.” Your hand went to one of the holsters in a flash, drawing out a dagger and twirling it between your fingers. Your eyes roamed hungrily over him, and you pointed the knife toward the mattress. “Back to bed. Now.”
Immediately, he did exactly as you asked, laying on his back as you crawled on top, a wave of heat and excited anticipation rippling through him.
He knew full well by that smirk on your face and that dark, delicious look in your eyes that you were going to ride him, choke him out, use his own knife on him until he was absolutely fucking wrecked underneath you.
All while he was wearing his new suit for sanctioned violence.
you tell jack abbot you can’t cum without a vibrator and he proves you wrong. not proofread btw
“i didn’t sit through all those anatomy classes for nothing,” he grumbles, one hand holding your hip and the other keeping his dick in line with your pussy.
“that was what? like fifty years ago?”
he starts shoving himself in before replying, “very funny.”
“ah, ah! i’m—jesus—telling you, jack. it won’t work.”
“you know i have to try, at least once.”
he hasn’t let up on it ever since you told him. you can’t have an orgasm without some sort of toy. of course that simply can’t be true.
he always just assumed it was a preference. the few times you’d slept with him so far, you’d always had a vibrator ready on the nightstand.
“just—let me try, huh?”
there’s a pillow beneath your lower back, and your legs are tensed up around his hips.
“you need to relax, though, honey.”
you exhale a deep breath and nod shakily. “okay, i can try.”
“good, just listen to me. do you feel me here?”
he pushes down on your stomach, just above your pubic bone.
“sort of,” you say to be nice, appreciative of his efforts. you expect him to pull out and give up, suddenly decide you’re not worth the effort.
“okay, tilt your hips up towards the ceiling a little bit. good, hold it right there.”
he rolls his hips back and forward again, dragging against your upper wall and hitting something that makes you yelp.
you slap your hands over your mouth and stare at him with stupid, wide eyes. he ignores you, just keeps rolling his hips up into you with his hand pressing into your stomach.
“good girl, focus.”
one hand leaves your mouth to dig into the linen sheets. expensive sheets. the ones you liked in the store, that jack had to insist you buy.
the other hand stays covering your mouth to keep in all the noises you’d never made before.
“how’s that feeling?”
“pressure—there’s pressure, jack. i don’t know what—”
he shushes you, “you don’t have to do anything, just feel it. feel me taking care of you.”
he runs his big hands up and down your sides, keeping the same rhythm with his thrusts, not speeding up or going harder.
“jack, i think im gonna cum. i’m gonna—oh, jesus christ!”
you sit upwards, instinctively tensing your entire body up. jack pushes you back down with a hand on your chest that moves up to curl around your neck. no pressure, only a firm, reassuring warmth.
your stomach drops into that familiar buzz you thought you could only achieve with a toy.
“c’mon, breathe through it,” he grunts, letting himself go as you clench around him so tight he tips his head back and groans like an animal.
when all is said and done, you’re panting and glistening with a sheen of sweat.
“look at that. didn’t even have to play with her,” he says with a smirk, giving your clit a light slap.
DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT — non-con, degradation, humiliation, blood and injury, violence, forced orgasm, spitting, choking, coercion, masturbation, creampie
it’s filthy, disgusting
you’re too kind. gosh, you are. so willing to help strangers. especially the ones bleeding and broken. you just wanted to help. you really did. so now you’re on your own couch with your own panties shoved into your mouth, spread open beneath the man you patched up, while he fucks into your cunt like he owns it.
“see, that’s the problem with good girls like you.” his voice rasps against your ear, rough as gravel and just as cold. “you never check if the stray dog bites. you just open your door and roll out the bandages. real trusting.”
blood drips from his split lip onto your cheek. another drop, warmer, rolls from a wound on his side down your waist. you try to turn your head, but he catches your jaw, forcing you to look at him. his thumb brushes your tears away, smearing them across your skin like he's painting something. “i’m just paying you back for helping me.” he says it like a promise. mocking you. “next time, sweetheart, maybe check who you’re saving before you offer your couch.” then he slams into you deeper, and you muffle a scream against the cloth in your mouth.
he buries his face in your neck, kisses and bites until you’ll have bruises you can’t explain. your legs shake. you’ve lost count of how many times he’s made you come. one more gathers in your gut, hot and humiliating. you clench around him against your will. you turn your head away, face pressed into the couch cushion, but he fists your hair and yanks you back.
“if you scream, i’m going to make this night a lot longer for you. understand?” his tongue traces the shell of your ear before he pulls the panties from your mouth.
you don't scream. you sob. “p-please… I don’t like this- ”
“yeah?” he tugs your hair harder. “tell me how much you hate it. how disgusting i am. go on, pretty girl.”
“i fucking hate you- get off me- please-” the words come out broken, swallowed by tears. he laughs, low and dark. then he shoves your face into the cushion again, arches your back, and drives himself deeper. “i’m disgusting, baby? that’s what i am?”
“disgusting- you’re so fucking-” you gasp as he hits that spot. the one you hate and the one that betrays you every time. “disgusting- mmh…”
“yeah? am i?” his rhythm stutters. his breathless whisper made your cunt clench around him. you hated how your skin prickled, every hair standing up. he comes inside you, hot and thick.
“no- no, get off!” you beat your fists against his chest, slap his face, but he just laughs. the blood from his lips smears across your cheek as he catches both your wrists in one hand, grip bruising. with the other, he squeezes your cheeks, forces your mouth open, and spits. a thick gob of bloody saliva lands on your tongue. copper. salt. filth. you gag, try to spit it out. but he shoves his gloved fingers into your throat, pushing it down. you choke, kick, but he’s got you pinned. helpless.
but then,
a sharp knock at the door.
your eyes fly open. the fantasy shatters like glass.
you’re alone in your living room. legs spread wide on the couch. fingers buried knuckle-deep in your soaking cunt. panting hard. your panties are shoved halfway down your thighs, clinging to your skin, slick with shame. on the cushion beside you lies the blue mask. still damp and warm from your grip. the mask that you took that night he saved you, but you never saw his face. you wanted his face, his name, anything. the mask lay by your foot, warm with sweat and blood. you took it because you couldn’t let him vanish without a trace. you needed to have something of him. so you stole it, stuffed it in your pocket, and ran. cowardly? yes. you couldn’t let go of the only piece of a man who gave you nothing else. but you’ve put it to good use, haven’t you? good fucking use.
another knock. louder.
you yank your hand free. heart hammering, you scramble to pull up your panties, wipe your slick fingers on your thigh. you toss the mask onto the coffee table, smooth your hair, straighten your shirt. your legs shake as you force them to carry you to the door.
you open it.
tony stands there, holding a toolbox. your quiet neighbor with mysterious way of living. “tony?” your voice comes out raw, still thick from the moans you were biting back seconds ago.
“you said you needed help fixing your bed.” he smiles. small. easy. but his eyes flick past you for half a second, scanning your living room. something in the way he moves makes your stomach twist.
“right… yes. yes, of course. come in.” you struggled a bit. then he steps forward. the space between you shrinks. you catch his scent. sweat, something metallic, and somehow a strong perfume. something that makes your freshly-used cunt clench again. it’s like the same scent that clung to the mask. the same copper tang that filled your mouth in that filthy fantasy you had. you push it away. stupid. he’s just tony. a nice guy who fixes things. nothing like the man in your head. you’re just being too disgusting.
you turn and walk fast toward your bedroom, rambling about screws and measurements you don’t understand. nervous chatter to fill the silence. behind you, tony stays quiet. too quiet. his eyes are still moving. when you finally glance back, he’s stopped. standing by the coffee table. looking down.
at the mask. damp. spit-slick. a smear of something glossy on the fabric.
Reader is a vigilante with a healing factor, Dex is tasked to kill her as bullseye by order of Vanessa. She survives, heals up with help of Matt at a secret spot and after a few days comes back home and Dex is in her appartment waiting for her 🫣
Fatal Attraction
pairings: benjamin poindexter x vigilante!reader
warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, fighting, stabbing, blood, injuries, bestie matt murdock, sassy sarcastic reader, banter, dex whimpering, he's very vocal, pinv sex, cowgirl on the couch, service bottom dex??, dex is implied to be bit inexperienced but not really, the bullseye suit stays on 🫦.
word count: 6.4k
a/n: sorry for answering this late but all the asks will be posted soon. the pictures shown are not a description of the reader, only for aesthetic purposes. Requests are open!!!
closer- nine inch nails playing ▶️
bullseye masterlist main masterlist
Vanessa Fisk does not raise her voice when she gives an order, and that is somehow worse than if she screamed it at you across a boardroom table. She had folded her hands on the polished wood of her husband's old desk and told Dex, in that same even, cultured tone she used to discuss shipping routes and real estate acquisitions, that the vigilante operating in Hell's Kitchen with the healing factor needed to be removed from the equation before she became a variable Wilson could not control.
She did not say your name like it mattered. She said it like a line item, and Dex had nodded, because nodding was what he did when Vanessa spoke, and because some small ugly part of him had been waiting for an excuse to finally see what you were made of.
He finds you on a rooftop three blocks from the pier, crouched over a low level dealer you'd already zip tied to a vent pipe, your hood pushed back just enough that the streetlight catches the line of your jaw. You hear him before you see him, the particular quiet of a man who has trained his whole life to be quiet, and you turn with a knife already loose in your hand like you'd been expecting rain and this was just weather. He likes that immediately. He likes it more than he wants to admit, watching you clock him, watching you do the math on his silhouette and his stance and the way he holds himself like a coiled spring, and somewhere in that math you must have landed on the wrong number, because you smirk instead of running.
"Vanessa send the B team," you say, "or is Bullseye supposed to be a compliment?"
He doesn't answer with words. He answers by throwing the first thing his hand finds, a loose bolt from the rooftop vent, and it catches you in the shoulder hard enough to spin you half around before you've even registered he moved.
You hiss through your teeth, more surprised than hurt, and when you look back at him there's something bright and delighted in your expression that he was absolutely not prepared for.
"Okay," you say, rolling your shoulder like you're warming up rather than recovering, "that one actually stung. Ten out of ten, would get hit by a rogue bolt again."
"You're supposed to be running," he says, and his voice has that flat, almost bored quality that people who don't know him mistake for calm.
"And you're supposed to be intimidating," you say, "so I guess tonight's just full of disappointments."
The fight that follows is not clean, and it is not fast, and it is nothing like the tidy choreography of the fights you've had with lesser men who fold the moment they realize you don't fold back. Dex throws a knife and you take it in the side rather than let it find your throat, and you laugh, actually laugh, a short disbelieving bark of a sound, because the pain arrives and then arrives again a second later as your body starts knitting the wound shut in real time, muscle and vessel stitching themselves together with a deep internal burn that feels like someone poured lit gasoline directly into your bloodstream.
You've never gotten used to that part. You doubt you ever will. The healing is a mercy and a punishment delivered in the same breath, your body's insistence on survival paid for in a currency of pure agony every single time, and you grit your teeth and close the distance on him anyway because stopping to feel sorry for yourself has never once been useful.
He is good. He is better than good, he is the kind of good that comes from a lifetime of being trained like a weapon instead of raised like a person, and every throw he makes lands with a precision that would have ended a normal fight in the first ten seconds. But you are not a normal fight, and that seems to be dawning on him in real time, his expression shifting from clinical focus to something rawer and more interested with every wound that closes up in front of him.
You take a blade across your ribs and answer with an elbow to his jaw that snaps his head sideways. You take a hit that cracks two of your fingers and answer by grabbing his collar with the same broken hand, ignoring the way the bones grind, and headbutting him hard enough that he stumbles back tasting copper.
"You're insane," he says, spitting blood onto the rooftop gravel, and there's something almost admiring buried under the venom in his voice.
"You're the one throwing cutlery at strangers," you say, "so let's not start comparing diagnoses."
He drives you back with a series of throws that force you into a retreat you don't want to make, and it's the last one, a wicked curved blade he'd been saving, that finds the gap in your defenses and buries itself just under your ribs at an angle that makes your vision go white at the edges. You go down hard onto one knee, hand pressed to the wound, blood welling up hot and fast between your fingers, and for one long moment the two of you just look at each other across the rooftop, him breathing hard with his chest heaving, you kneeling in your own blood with your jaw set like you refuse to let this be the thing that finishes you.
"Stay down," he says, and it isn't quite a command, it's closer to something else, something that sounds almost like he doesn't want to say it twice.
"Not really in my nature," you say, and you push yourself back up onto your feet through sheer bloody-minded stubbornness, swaying, and he watches the wound at your side visibly begin to seal itself, the edges drawing together in a way that makes his breath catch even though he'd swear later he doesn't remember doing it.
"Vanessa wants you gone," he says. "Permanently."
"Vanessa can get in line," you say, "I've got a whole waiting room of people who want me gone. You'll have to take a number."
The end of that fight isn't a victory for either of you, not exactly. It's a near miss dressed up as a stalemate, a moment where Dex has you pinned against the low wall of the rooftop with a knife an inch from your throat, close enough that you can feel his breath and see the muscle working in his jaw, and instead of finishing it he just stares at you like he's trying to solve something. You use that half second of hesitation the only way you know how, driving your knee up hard into a place that makes even a man like him buckle, and you use the opening to throw yourself off the edge of the roof onto the fire escape below, half falling and half controlled, your body screaming the whole way down.
You don't remember much of the walk after that. You remember the wet warmth spreading down your side, the way your legs kept moving even when your brain wanted to stop giving them instructions, the particular clarity that comes right before a body decides it's had enough. You remember pulling out your phone with shaking fingers and typing a single word to the one person in this city who has patched you up more times than either of you likes to admit, and then you remember very little else until you're waking up on a cot in a space that smells like antiseptic and old brick, with Matt Murdock's hands moving carefully and methodically over a wound that is already half closed on its own.
"You need to stop doing this to yourself," Matt says, not looking at you, because he never really looks at anyone, but somehow always seeming to see you anyway.
"I didn't do this to myself," you rasp. "Some deranged human dartboard did this to me."
"Bullseye," Matt says, and something tightens in his voice, some old recognition. "You fought Bullseye and you're describing your injuries in a sentence instead of a body bag. That's not nothing."
"I'm aware I'm impressive, Murdock, you don't have to sound so surprised about it."
You wince as your body does its slow gruesome work beneath his hands, skin and muscle knitting closed millimeter by millimeter, and you grip the edge of the cot hard enough that your knuckles go white. "God, I hate this part. Everyone thinks healing factor sounds like a superpower and nobody mentions it feels like getting stabbed a second time, just slower."
"You should rest," Matt says, and he says it the way he says most things, gently but with an undertone that suggests he already knows you won't listen.
"I will," you say, and you almost believe it yourself for about four days.
You spend those four days in the dark, cramped little sanctuary Matt keeps for exactly this purpose, sleeping in long stretches that don't feel restful so much as necessary, waking every few hours to the low simmering ache of tissue still repairing itself somewhere under your skin. Matt checks on you when he can, brings food you mostly don't want, and doesn't push you to talk about the fight even though you can tell he's turning it over in that quiet analytical way of his, filing away every detail you let slip about the man who almost put a knife through your throat. By the fifth morning your ribs have stopped complaining every time you breathe, and the last of the deep bruising along your side has faded to something yellow and forgettable, and you decide, against every reasonable instinct you have, that it's time to go home.
"You're sure," Matt says, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, and it isn't really a question.
"I've got plants that need water and a bed that isn't a cot," you say, pulling your jacket on over the fresh bandages. "I'll live. I'm annoyingly good at that."
"That's not what I meant," Matt says, and there's a beat where you both know exactly what he means, the specific danger of walking back into a life where someone has already proven he knows your rooftops, your patterns, your face.
"Whoever Vanessa sent after you isn't going to just let this go. Men like that don't stop because they lost once."
"Then I guess I'll just have to win the next one too," you say, and you mean it as a joke, but it comes out sounding a little too much like a promise.
Your apartment key sticks in the lock the way it always has, a small stubborn detail of your life that feels almost sweet after four days spent somewhere that wasn't yours, and you have to jiggle it twice before the tumblers finally give. The hallway light is out again, which means the building super still hasn't fixed it despite three separate complaints, and you're already composing the aggravated voicemail you're going to leave him as you push the door open into the dark of your own living room. You don't turn the light on right away. Old habit. You stand in the doorway for a second just breathing in the familiar smell of your own space, and it's in that exact moment of quiet homecoming that you become aware you are not alone.
He's sitting in your armchair like he owns it, one leg crossed over the other, a knife spinning idly between his fingers with the kind of lazy competence that tells you this isn't the first minute he's spent in that chair. The streetlight through your window catches the sharp lines of his face, and for a second, just a second, you feel something that isn't quite fear and isn't quite anger, something closer to the electric jolt of recognizing an opponent you didn't expect to see again so soon.
"You know," you say, flicking the light switch because you refuse to have this conversation in the dark like it's some kind of ambush he gets to control the atmosphere of, "most people knock."
"Most people don't put a knee where you put yours," Dex says, and there's something almost conversational in his tone, like he's commenting on the weather rather than the fact that he broke into your home. "I've been sitting with that for four days."
"Aw, you missed me," you say, dropping your bag by the door with a deliberate carelessness you don't entirely feel, because your pulse is climbing and you're doing the math on every exit and every object in the room that could be a weapon, old habits refusing to switch off even as your mouth runs on autopilot. "That's genuinely the most romantic thing anyone's said to me all week, and I've been recovering from a stab wound, so the bar was low."
"I came here to finish the job," he says.
"You came here and sat in my chair for who knows how long instead of finishing the job," you say, folding your arms. "Which one of us is bad at this."
He stands up slowly, unfolding himself out of the chair with a kind of deliberate patience that feels more threatening than if he'd lunged, and you hold your ground even though every instinct screaming under your skin is telling you to put furniture between the two of you. He's close enough now that you can see the fading bruise along his jaw where you'd headbutted him, a mark you're absurdly proud of, and he studies you like you're a puzzle he's been chewing on for four sleepless nights and still hasn't solved.
"You should be dead," he says, and it isn't an accusation, it's something closer to bewilderment, the flat disbelief of a man whose entire skill set is built on the guarantee that his aim never fails to end a life. "I put a knife under your ribs at an angle that kills in under a minute. You should be dead, and instead you're standing in your kitchen making jokes about furniture."
"Sorry to disappoint," you say, though you don't sound sorry at all. "I'll try to die properly next time, really work on my technique."
"That's not—" He stops, jaw working, and for the first time since you've known of him, however briefly and violently, he looks almost frustrated with himself for not having the right words. "I've never had a job not finish. Not once. And you're just standing there like it's funny."
"It is a little funny," you say, stepping closer instead of back, because you've never once in your life been good at doing the safe thing when the reckless thing was right there available.
"You're Vanessa's attack dog and you got beat by someone bleeding out on a rooftop. If I were you I'd be having a real identity crisis right now, not sitting in my armchair brooding about it."
"I'm not brooding," he says, too fast, too defensive, and something in the way his eyes drop briefly to your mouth before snapping back up tells you that whatever is happening in his head right now is a great deal more complicated than professional frustration.
"You want to know what I think," you say, and you don't wait for permission before you say it, because waiting for permission has never once been your style.
"I think you've spent your whole life being told you're a weapon, a tool, something Vanessa points at a target and forgets about between uses. And I think you came here tonight because some part of you wanted to see if I was going to be scared of you, and the fact that I'm not is doing something to your head that Vanessa's approval never did."
His expression flickers, something raw and unguarded slipping through the careful blankness he wears like armor, and for a second you think you've cut too close, that he's going to close the distance between you with a knife instead of words. Instead he laughs, low and a little startled, like the sound surprised even him, and it's the first genuinely human noise you've heard him make since the rooftop.
"You talk a lot for someone who almost died four days ago," he says.
"And you break into a lot of apartments for someone whose job was supposedly done in one night," you say. "We're both a little pathetic, really, if you think about it."
"I'm not pathetic," he says, and there's an edge to it now, something wounded and defensive that tells you you've found a nerve worth pressing, the kind of nerve that says nobody has ever spoken to him like this and lived long enough to see his reaction.
"You're sitting in a stranger's apartment because you can't stop thinking about the one person who ever hit back," you say, softer now, watching him carefully. "That's not exactly a portrait of stability, Ben."
The way his name lands in your mouth does something to the air in the room, some shift you can feel more than see, his shoulders tightening and his grip flexing around the knife he's still absently spinning between his fingers. He takes a step closer, close enough now that you can feel the heat coming off him, close enough that you have to tip your head back slightly to keep looking him in the eye, and there's a dangerous, electric quality to the space between your bodies that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the same reckless current that ran through you on the rooftop when you laughed at a bolt buried in your shoulder.
"How do you know that name," he says, low, and it isn't quite a threat, it's closer to something raw and exposed.
"Vanessa's got a big mouth when she thinks nobody's listening," you say, holding perfectly still even as your heart pounds hard enough that you're sure he can probably hear it, given whatever strange senses a man like him has honed over a lifetime of aiming for soft, vulnerable places. "You're not the only one who does his homework before a fight."
"Careful," he says, and the knife stops spinning, held loosely now between two fingers like a promise he hasn't decided whether to keep. "I could still finish this."
"You could've finished it four days ago," you say, "and you didn't. So I don't really think that's what tonight's about."
He doesn't answer right away, and the silence between you stretches out taut and charged, full of everything neither of you seems willing to say out loud, until finally he reaches out, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted to, and traces two fingers along the fading pink line at your side where his knife had gone in four nights ago, the last visible evidence of a wound that would have ended anyone else. His touch is careful in a way that feels entirely at odds with the violence of how that scar was made, and you don't pull away, you just watch him, watch the strange, hungry fascination playing across his face as he feels the place where he genuinely believed he'd killed you.
"It's already healed," he says, quiet, almost reverent, and there's something in his voice that isn't quite awe and isn't quite obsession but sits somewhere dangerously close to both.
"Mostly," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you intend, because his hand hasn't moved and neither has yours. "It still aches when it rains. Healing factor doesn't mean painless, it just means persistent."
"I want to know what that feels like," he says, and it isn't a threat this time, it's something closer to genuine, unguarded want, the kind of confession that a man like him probably doesn't make twice in a lifetime. "Getting hurt and just... not staying broken. Getting to come back from it."
"It's not a gift," you say. "Every single time, it hurts exactly as much as the wound did the first time, and then it hurts again while it closes. People think it means I don't feel pain. I feel all of it. I just don't get to keep the excuse of dying to make it stop."
"That should scare me off you," he says, and there's a rough honesty in the admission that catches you off guard, "the idea that I could carve into you as many times as I wanted and you'd just keep coming back for more. Instead I've been sitting in that chair for four days thinking about it."
"That's deeply unwell of you," you say, though your voice has lost most of its bite, gone low and a little unsteady instead, "and also, if I'm being honest, extremely on brand for a man who throws playing cards at people's throats for a living."
"You're not scared of me," he says, and it isn't a question anymore.
"I'm a little scared of you," you admit, because pretending otherwise would be a lie and you've never seen the point of lying to a man who's already had his hand pressed to your ribs where he stabbed you. "But it's not the kind of scared that makes me want to run. It's the kind that makes me want to see what happens if I don't."
Something shifts in his face at that, some final piece falling into place behind his eyes, and the knife in his hand disappears into his jacket with a small practiced motion, tucked away like a decision he's just made and isn't planning to revisit. He's still close enough that you can feel every breath he takes, and the tension between you has curdled into something that isn't quite a fight and isn't quite anything either of you has a name for yet, charged and unresolved and humming under your skin like the moment right before a storm actually breaks.
"Vanessa's going to ask if it's done," he says, and there's a flicker of something almost like fear in it, the first time all night he's sounded uncertain of anything.
"So lie to her," you say. "You're apparently very good at getting close to people without them noticing. I bet you can manage one convincing story."
"And if she finds out I didn't finish it?"
"Then I guess you'll have a very interesting conversation with your boss," you say, "and I'll have a very interesting rematch with you, and honestly, at this point, I'm not sure which one of those I'm looking forward to more."
He looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable and strangely tender moving beneath the sharp planes of his face, the kind of look that belongs to a man who has spent his whole life being pointed at targets and has just discovered, apparently for the first time, that he might actually want to miss one on purpose.
"You're the only thing that's ever hit back and made me want to keep fighting instead of just finishing it," he says, quiet, like the admission costs him something.
"Careful, Poindexter," you say, stepping back just far enough to put a sliver of air between your bodies again, though neither of you looks particularly interested in that distance staying permanent, "keep talking like that and I'm going to start thinking you actually like me."
"Maybe I do," he says, and it sounds like it surprises him as much as it does you, raw and unpolished in a way nothing about him has been all night, "and I have absolutely no idea what to do with that."
"Well," you say, and you can't quite keep the smile off your face even though every rational part of you knows this is an objectively terrible idea, "for someone whose entire job is aiming for the exact right spot, you could try aiming for something other than my throat next time."
He almost smiles at that, something small and crooked that looks unpracticed on his face, like a muscle he hasn't used in a long time. "No promises," he says.
"Good," you say. "I'd hate for either of us to get predictable."
The silence that follows your challenge isn't empty; it's heavy, thick with the kind of static electricity that makes the hair on your arms stand up. Dex doesn't move away. Instead, he shifts his weight slightly, his massive frame casting a shadow that seems to swallow the space between you. The cocky retort you threw at him hangs in the air, but the usual sharp edge of his bravado has dulled into something far more dangerous: genuine curiosity.
His gaze drops. It isn't a casual glance. His eyes track downward, lingering on your mouth with an intensity that feels almost physical, like his stare has heat. He watches the way your lips part as you breathe, the way they move when you swallow, as if he's trying to memorize the exact shape of them. God, he's staring, you think, feeling a flush creep up your neck that has nothing to do with the adrenaline of the fight and everything to do with the way his pupils have blown wide.
Dex clears his throat, a rough, uncertain sound that betrays how badly he's off balance. He's a man who can calculate wind speed and trajectory in a heartbeat, yet here he is, looking like he's forgotten how to stand straight.
"Predictable is overrated anyway," he mutters, his voice dropping an octave, rougher than before. He takes half a step closer, closing that sliver of air you fought so hard to create. "But you... you're a problem. A real fucking problem."
The proximity is overwhelming. Up close, Dex smells like leather and something sharp like gunpowder, mixed with the clean, warm musk of his skin. You can feel the heat rolling off his massive body in waves, a furnace that makes the cool air of the room feel suddenly thin. His breathing has gone shallow, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matches the frantic pounding in your own ribs.
"What's the matter, Dex?" you murmur, tilting your head back to meet that hungry, unreadable stare. You let a slow, challenging smirk tug at the corner of your mouth, leaning in just enough to make the contact inevitable. "For someone who never misses his mark, you're looking pretty lost right now. Afraid you might actually enjoy something you can't control?"
The words hit him like a physical blow. His composure cracks completely the controlled assassin vanishes, replaced by a man who looks utterly undone by your proximity. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard, his hands twitching at his sides as if he's fighting the urge to either push you away or crush you against him.
"Fuck you," he breathes, but there's no venom in it, only a raw, desperate need.
Before he can finish the thought, you close the distance. When your lips finally crash against his, it isn't gentle. It's a collision all teeth and tongue and pent up frustration. Dex makes a sound somewhere deep in his throat, something halfway between a growl and a whimper, as his arms finally wind around your waist, pulling you flush against the hard planes of his chest.
His hands are unsteady as they find purchase on your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh with a desperate strength that suggests he's afraid you might vanish if he loosens his grip even slightly. The kiss tastes of adrenaline and something sweeter, something dangerously vulnerable. Dex isn't kissing you like a predator claiming prey; he's kissing you like a drowning man who has finally found air, his mouth moving against yours with an awkward, clumsy hunger that makes your heart ache.
A low, broken whimper escapes him when your tongue brushes against his, a sound so uncharacteristic of the lethal man you've known that it sends a shiver down your spine. He's massive, built of solid muscle and hardened sinew, but in this moment, he feels terrifyingly fragile beneath your touch. His forehead drops against yours when you briefly break for air, both of you panting, the space between your lips still charged with enough heat to burn.
"I can't " he starts, his voice cracking, rough and strained. He sounds completely out of his depth, his usual confidence shattered into a thousand pieces. "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing."
You can feel the tremor running through him, a fine vibration that travels from his hands up through his arms where they encircle your waist. It's almost surreal this mountain of a man, someone who could snap bone with a casual grip, is visibly shaking because you dared to touch him.
"A grown man scared of me?" you tease, your voice dropping to a playful, silken purr. You reach up, your fingertips grazing the stubble along his jawline, feeling the way his skin jumps at your touch.
His breath hitches, and he closes his eyes for a second, leaning into your palm as if he's trying to ground himself. "You don't understand," he manages to rasp out, his voice thick with emotion. "I don't... I don't do this. I don't do any of this."
"Relax," you whisper, stepping closer until there's no space left between your bodies, your chest pressing against the solid wall of his. You let out a soft, melodic laugh that carries no malice, only amusement. "I don't bite. Unless you want me to."
The implication makes him flinch, but not away from you. Instead, he makes a sound that's almost a sob a choked, needy noise that vibrates against your lips. His grip on your hips tightens, his large thumbs dragging across the fabric of your clothes. He looks down at you with such naked, unguarded desperation that it makes your own breath catch.
"Fuck," he breathes, the word broken and helpless. "You're going to be the death of me."
The momentum carries you both backward until the back of your knees hit the edge of the couch. With a grunt of surprise that sounds more like surrender than protest, Dex lets you guide him down onto the cushions. He's still dressed in his tactical gear the dark, reinforced fabric of his bullseye outfit creaking as he settles, the leather straps and holsters creating a rugged barrier between you.
You don't waste time with buttons or complicated laces. Instead, you work with practiced urgency, shoving his shirt up to expose the hard ridges of his abdomen and tugging your own clothes aside just enough to expose your skin. When you straddle him, your thighs parting to accommodate his massive frame, you feel the heat of him through the thin barrier of his trousers. You lower yourself slowly, guiding him inside with a soft gasp, feeling the stretch and the fullness as you begin to ride him in slow, deliberate circles.
Dex's head thunks back against the couch cushions, his eyes rolling shut as his entire body goes rigid. "Fuck, oh god, " he whimpers, the sound raw and unpracticed. His hands hover uncertainly near your hips before finally settling, his fingers splaying wide across your skin. He's hyper aware of everything: the way your hips roll, the friction, and the way your breathing has gone ragged.
"Wait hold on," he rasps suddenly, his eyes snapping open, dark with panic. His hands move from your hips to your ribs, his touch surprisingly gentle as he scans your torso.
"Your side. You're still you're still healing. I can't I don't want to hurt you." His voice cracks, the fear of causing you pain overriding his own desperate need. He looks genuinely terrified that his size and strength might undo the fragile progress your body has made.
"I'm fine, Dex," you whisper, leaning forward to press a kiss to the hollow of his throat, trying to soothe the tension coiling in his shoulders. "I'm not going to break."
But the gentleness only seems to fuel his desperation. The sight of you pale skin against his dark tactical gear, moving on him with such confidence despite your injuries snaps something inside him. The awkwardness doesn't vanish, but it transforms into something more commanding. His hands slide from your ribs down to your ass, his fingers digging in with a possessive grip that makes you cry out.
"You're not fine, you're stubborn," he growls, his voice dropping into something darker, more primal. "And if you won't take it easy, then I'm taking over."
He shifts beneath you, his hips bucking upward to meet your descent with newfound purpose. He's not asking permission anymore; he's guiding the rhythm, his movements becoming more forceful as he chases the friction that's making him whimper and groan in equal measure.
"Look at me," he demands, his breath hot against your ear as he drives upward, his massive frame straining against the confines of his gear. "Don't you dare close your eyes. I want to see you when I lose it."
His hips roll beneath you with a sudden, devastating precision, each thrust sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body. The tactical fabric of his trousers scrapes against your inner thighs, the rough texture adding a sharp sting to the overwhelming fullness of him. Dex isn't smooth he's all raw nerve and uncoordinated power but there is something achingly honest about the way he moves, as if he's trying to memorize every inch of you through sheer physical contact.
"Fuck... you're so fucking tight," he gasps, his head thrashing against the cushion. A broken whimper escapes him when you arch your back, your nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders.
"I'm gonna I can't " His voice dissolves into incoherent sounds as his pace quickens, his movements becoming more desperate, more urgent. The controlled assassin has been completely replaced by a man undone by sensation, his breathing coming in ragged, wet pants that echo in the quiet room.
Every time he bucks upward, you feel the strain in his thighs, the sheer mass of him threatening to overwhelm you. His hands shift from your ass to your waist, his grip bruising as he anchors you to him, demanding more, demanding everything. "Please," he chokes out, the word foreign and terrified on his tongue. "Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop."
The friction builds to an unbearable crescendo, the rough tactical fabric of his gear grinding against your sensitive skin as he drives upward with increasing ferocity. Dex's entire body is coiled like a spring, his muscles jumping beneath your palms as he fights for control, yet every time you arch against him, he loses another piece of himself.
His voice breaks into a high, needy whimper that vibrates through your own bones. His hips buck one last time, hard and desperate, and you feel the sudden, hot rush of him filling you as he shudders violently beneath you.
His eyes fly open, pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the irises, fixed on yours with a raw, terrifying vulnerability. He holds you there, pinned against his chest, his breathing coming in wet, ragged gasps that sound like he's just run miles. For several long seconds, the only sound in the room is the frantic rhythm of your shared breath and the creak of the leather beneath you.
Slowly, the rigid tension begins to drain from his massive frame. His grip on your waist loosens from a bruising hold to something almost reverent, his fingers tracing idle, unsteady patterns against your hips. He sags back into the cushions, looking utterly spent, his face flushed and damp with sweat. "I'm sorry," he mumbles against your neck, his voice thick and uncharacteristically small, the assassin completely gone. "I didn't I didn't mean to be so rough. Did I hurt you? Tell me if I hurt you." Even in the afterglow, his first instinct is to check, to make sure he hasn't broken the one thing he finally decided he wanted to keep.
You let out a shaky laugh, the sound muffled against the crook of his neck. "This is definitely not what Mrs. Fisk assigned you to do," you murmur, your voice still rough from the exertion.
Dex stiffens for half a second before he melts back into you, a sound that's halfway between a groan and a self deprecating chuckle vibrating through his ribcage. He buries his face deeper into the space between your shoulder and neck, breathing you in as if he's trying to memorize your scent to stave off the inevitable return to reality.
"Mrs. Fisk can die in a ditch," he rasps, his voice wrecked and gravelly. "Besides... she never said anything about what to do when the target starts hitting back."
He shifts slightly, trying to adjust his position without dislodging you, but his movements are still clumsy, still unpracticed in the art of post coital tenderness. His large hand moves from your waist to your back, his palm warm and heavy as he traces the line of your spine with surprising delicacy. "Besides," he adds, quieter now, almost as if he's afraid the words might escape if he says them too loud, "I think I've made my own decisions tonight. For once."
There's no cockiness in that admission, no assassin's bravado. Just a raw honesty that makes your heart flutter more than the climax did. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching yours with that same terrifying vulnerability. "You okay?" he asks, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone. "Really okay? I know you're still healing, and I " He cuts himself off, biting his lip as if frustrated by his own inability to articulate how badly he wants to make sure you're safe. "I don't want to be another thing that leaves a mark you can't get rid of."
His fingers linger at your jaw, his touch impossibly light for someone who just held you with such bruising intensity. The vulnerability in his expression is almost painful to witness; it's as if he's waiting for you to recoil, to realize that the monster who came to kill you is now the man who's terrified of accidentally breaking you.
"You're not going to break me, Dex," you reassure him again, reaching up to cover his hand with yours, pressing his palm more firmly against your cheek. "And you're not another wound. You're..." You pause, searching for a word that doesn't feel like a lie, but the truth is complicated. "You're a complication."
A ghost of that crooked smile returns to his lips, though it's softer now, tired. "Yeah," he agrees breathlessly, leaning down to press a chaste, lingering kiss to your forehead. "A complication I'm not sure I'm ready to solve yet."
notes: 18+ explicit [smut?], dry humping, dub-con, coercion, heavy persuasion of giving in & confessing, mentions of past voyeurism & stalking, shame, embarrassment, struggles with emotional availability, unhealthy behaviour/coping mechanisms, both of you are sad freaks, slight plot
follows the neighbour!dex series [blurring lines of platonic & romance this time], also kinda part 2 to: hold me closer – 4.5 k
Once again you succumb to your desires. Not in the way you had planned.
It clouds your mind, pooling around your abdomen, travelling downwards. It’s been like this all day and you don’t know what brought it on.
You can’t even recall when it began, maybe after you woke up?
You were only a little cranky, but that went away when you went on a walk around the park with your old neighbour.
Maybe it was during that walk? Or after, when you both had a late lunch just as rush hour was passing. Was it when you both had sat down in a booth opposite each other?
Was it his smug attitude after lodging a blade into a Task Force member’s neck for simply existing? Well he did more than that, the guy was being a rude prick to an old lady after all. It must have been that.
You both went your separate ways for a while, insisting that you needed to finish up a few errands and eventually he relented, making you promise to wind down together for the night. Not like you had any other plans. Still he made you pinky promise to be back home, like every other night.
You get lost into the crowd, finding your way to the old archive where you used to get your information from, old articles, leaflets, outdated case files that you could access without being questioned or monitored. It was a top notch source for you, many cases you worked on led you back here.
You like the smell, it was old, somewhat moldy but not in a revolting way, just an aged scent that filled the room from the decaying papers and the slightly moldy walls. How silent it was, apart from the odd sound of papers shuffling, or cabinets being shut closed.
You needed some time away from him, because eventually you had figured out it was him who was making you all hot and bothered for absolutely no reason at all. You couldn’t pinpoint why, but you knew it was him.
It was the worst thing ever, it may sound a little dramatic, but for now, in this situation, this was a pressing matter. You can’t focus at all.
And eventually you would have to head back and face him. He would most definitely know something was wrong, that you were a little off, because you would either act awkward as hell, unable to look at him, or you would just become quiet. Not engaging with anything.
He liked the attention that you gave him, that was clear. Gazing at him with your pretty lashes like whatever he was blabbing about was the most important thing, in need of all your attention. Now if you decided to disengage with his mere presence tonight, he would badger you all night until you relented, spilling your guts out of pure frustration.
That was something you really disliked. Being coerced into talking when in fact you didn’t want to. Preferring to drag it out, giving yourself time and distance to come to a conclusion yourself, to decide when you want to talk, not because of the other person’s impatience and insatiable curiosity.
That was something you had to deal with when it came to Dex. When he wanted to know, he would find out by any means, he’d draw it out of you eventually. In the end, you know the best outcome is if only one of you is frustrated, because when his mood switched, his impulsive behaviour came out to play.
So better you than him.
You’d never hear the end of it if he was annoyed due to you not talking to him, like you were keeping something from him. You think sometimes he felt like you rejected him if you decided to bottle up your feelings or thoughts from him.
It wasn’t a rejection though, it was just the way you functioned when it came to these kinds of things.
You wished he would understand, but you couldn’t expect that from him, not when he hovered around when you went all quiet, face void of any emotion. He made it up by following your lead when you decided to not talk much, helping you around, doing small things that lightened the load.
And he hated it, like watching a ticking bomb. He constantly asked if you needed anything, if you wanted to talk to him, but you’d just shake your head and ignore his advances. Instead you’d fixate on whatever was playing on the TV.
He’d huff and puff, sinking into the couch with his legs spread. Face contorted into something short of a pout, waiting for you to speak up. It may have been cruel but you just knew that the more he asked, the more he nudged you with his words, you would eventually flip.
The frustration bubbled, but you kept your mouth shut. He was so annoying, and so frustrating to deal with, but he was sweet, too sweet at times that you didn’t know how to behave.
The way to get him to stop sulking was to give him a little affection. Any contact would make him shut his mouth. So you’d just hook your arm around his, hoping it would be enough to let him know that you were fine and not upset at him.
Sometimes that worked, sometimes it didn’t. The times when it didn’t work was due to your aversion to touch when you became like this, because touch simply made you even worse, even more hot and bothered, because of him.
Today you don’t really know how it’s going to play out, you just hope you can keep yourself at bay, not wanting to worry him over something so small. It happens often, and usually you can release your energy elsewhere, but today it just felt different.
So by rifling through newer articles, giving you an insight about another raid that occurred a few months ago, and how it changed the city within that short time frame. That investigative nature that possessed you had never really left you. You would find some answers if you kept looking, and you are able to distract yourself for many hours, that is before you start receiving multiple texts from Dex asking when you’ll be back.
It was getting dark and you remember that you promised to spend it together, meaning eating together, possibly binging a show or doing your own things before turning in for the night. You prefer nights like that, getting to do whatever you want, be it crochet a little or watch a show, or simply have a deep conversation with him.
Another text asking you what you wanted to eat. If you wanted him to pick up some dessert on his way back. Then another one asking why you weren’t replying.
He was demanding in small ways that you didn’t mind, but when you required time and space, to be alone with your thoughts, it got overwhelming with the barrage of texts urging you to reply. If you didn’t message him back he’d call and call till you replied. And if you didn’t he’d find you before you have the chance to get back.
It was also about safety, both of you were living away from prying eyes, always covering your faces when you went out, or tucking yourselves away from the eyes of the AVTF or any street cameras, check-ins were therefore, important.
You send him a simple text, telling him to choose whatever he wants, and that you’ll pick up some cookies from the dessert place you both frequented.
You slow your pace down, soaking up the time you had for yourself. It would shatter the minute you got back, he would bombard you with questions once he sees you entering his apartment.
And bombard you he did. As soon as he hears you close the door. You swap out your shoes with some house slippers.
“You back so late? Why didn’t you reply to my texts?” He asks, taking the container of cookies from you, “I told you to check in with me.”
“I did reply to you. What are you on about?” you mumble, taking your jacket off and head towards the bathroom to change into comfier clothes, not giving him time to reply back.
He watches you emerge from the bathroom a few minutes later, face dripping from water after splashing yourself with it.
“You okay?” He watches as you fill two glasses of water and set it on the small dining table.
You nod. He takes a seat across from you. You both dig in. Neither saying much, and because you’re not as talkative as you usually are, he begins to pick up on it, wondering why.
If there was something truly wrong, you would have told him. Right?
Still, he watches you closely. Looks at how you eat, where your eyes move, the tension in your shoulders, how much you eat, the skin around your lips in case you’d been biting them again.
Anything. Anything that would indicate something, an answer, an explanation.
He can’t come to a conclusion when he explicitly knows what was wrong, he needs you to talk. That was the issue though, you weren’t saying anything at all.
“You like it?” You nod, chewing your food. That’s all he gets. No eye contact, no smile. Not even a hum.
He tries again after you both have settled onto the couch. With the dishes washed and dried, the food packed away, you can finally relax. Grabbing two plates for the cookies, turning the TV on and deciding to turn on an episode of a sitcom you had already re-watched.
After about ten minutes, he can’t handle it anymore, with eyes darting your way every few minutes, he receives nothing, not even a questioning look shot his way. He turns down the volume, you don’t react, simply waiting for him to say what was on his mind.
“You wanna talk to me now? Tell me what’s wrong.”
“No. Nothing’s wrong.”
It comes out flatter than you had meant it to. You almost regret it, he didn’t deserve such an apathetic response after thinking of you and getting the food all set out and ready to be devoured.
“Sorry, um…” you trail off, leaning forward to grab your plate and take a big bite of your cookie, avoiding answering him now that your mouth is full, hoping he diverts his attention after your small, yet strange apology.
His brow quirks up as he watches you take a bite. Eyes drop to your mouth and back up, you flush when you notice him doing that. You shuffle away from him to create some distance between you, some boundary that you felt needed to be established.
An offended look graces his face, almost baffled at you distancing yourself from him.
He tucks his lip into his mouth, then he grasps your wrist and with his other hand takes the plate away from you and places it back on the table before dragging you close into him.
Both his hands are on your shoulder, “now, speak. Or I’ll make you.”
You scoff, “make me?”
He looks expectantly at you, glad that you at least were replying to him. That doesn’t last when you turn your head away from him.
“I can’t stand it when you go all quiet on me. Is it because of me?”
You shake your head, squirming away from his hold. He doesn’t let up, so you try and move his hands off of you. He retaliates, using his other hand to make you stop, and that was how you were both wrestling around for a good twenty seconds before you huffed out when you’re inevitably pinned on the couch by him.
“What’s wrong with you? Can’t you leave me alone!” you jostle in his hold, groaning out out loud in agitation, only for him to push you down even further.
He waits, watches you until you get it out of your system. When you settle a little, “you won’t even look at me,” eyes sharper now, almost accusing as he says it, “whilst we were eating, you wouldn’t look at me. You've been off the whole day, wanna tell me why?”
You shake your head, "I don't know why, okay?”
“You do know. Think again.”
“I don’t,” you whine out, “I really don’t.” You wait for his grip to loosen, it doesn’t, “let me go now…please?”
He carefully observes your facial reactions, you gulp. He notices, your skin is hot, you’re frustrated, snippy too. Why? What happened when you were both separated for a few hours?
“You do know that I can tell when you’re lying to me. You are a lousy liar Star. I don’t like it when you hide things from me. You understand?”
You still, and look past him. “I’m not lying,” and it’s tears of frustration that prick the corner of your eyes.
He can’t ever let things go, can he?
The frustration has built up throughout the day, at its tipping point now. And once the tears begin to flow, you’re fucked, because that means something is actually wrong, and your body cannot hide it anymore with loose words and empty reassurances.
“You are,” his tone softens when he sees your wet eyes, taking one of his hands away from your wrist and laying it flat on your stomach, “you don’t wanna test me. I’ll be insufferable till you tell me and you know it.”
Instead of taking the usual approach of letting you be, what he normally does, but he can’t shake off the curiosity that has accumulated over the course of the months you two had been living together.
He chooses to fuck around and find out.
Maybe this way he can get you to open yourself up to him even though he meddled, not the way a healthy relationship functions.
But who said he was normal and healthy?
He strokes his hand up and down the fabric where your stomach is like he’s done so before.
It clenches, tightens at the feeling. Not your stomach that clenches, and your eyes widen when you realise. It pools downwards, you purse your lips, unable to stop your body from reacting that way.
It was him this whole time, you realise that now. It started sometime after this morning, when you left together before splitting up after a while.
And when he has you trapped underneath him like this, you feel like you’re somehow taking advantage of his affection. As if you were violating the terms of your friendship that was supposed to be pure, real.
It seems wrong to admit you really, really like it. The daunting feeling that you were actually seeking him out all day, most likely on other days too, and this was out of your control, the things that went on the inside were now not in your hands, but his.
Ashamed to admit that you want more from him, but it’s wrong. You can’t possibly want something so intimate, full of desire from him.
Do you even see him that way? Does he see you that way?
He’s your friend, he takes care of you, he keeps you safe. The thoughts you’re having at this moment borders on something you have never considered. Your relationship with him has never fallen into deeper intimacy, it’s always been a mutual transaction of affection, that was all. Nothing more, nothing less.
Yes, you depend on him for that surge of affection he provides without a second thought, in fact you are so starved of it that at times you attempt to get away from the overwhelming feeling of being held by another person.
This however, is completely different, you are so out of your depth that you cannot fathom the idea of viewing him as anything other than your friend, the one who keeps on coming back to you. In your mind, when you breach certain parts of a friendship, it changes things, it already has.
He cannot be your friend anymore, can he?
Then again, who are you to decide which actions are considered as a part of a friendship or not. Many people remain friends after doing things together that couples typically engage in. So how would this be any different?
You can’t want this, because you’ve never been in a position like this before.
“What do you want, Star? Tell me?” He murmurs to you.
You sniff, face still facing away. “I don’t know. I…I don’t want anything.”
“Yes you do. We can play this game all night,” his hand presses down instead of caressing the skin.
A soft gasp leaves you, mouth parting when you feel the air leave your lungs at the sudden press. Hand coming up to curl around his wrist.
“What are you doing?”
He smiles innocently, “nothin’ sweetheart.” His hand slides around your hip, squeezing the flesh over the material of your sweats.
You can’t. You can’t do this. Your unoccupied hand comes over your face, covering your eyes. You’re going to shut down in front of him or do something you're going to regret.
He pries your hand off, “no hiding, not right now,” he reprimands as if you had done this many times prior.
He pauses before choosing his words carefully, “you feeling a little frustrated today? Irritated?” Then he leans down to whisper, “here?” He pats your abdomen, not going further than that.
His face is almost shy of a smirk. It deepens the lines of his forehead, like he’s utterly amused.
He knows. He fucking knows. That is all that swirls in your head.
He can tell by now what was going on, he also knows he has to tread carefully, not wanting you to shut in on yourself from the embarrassment of it all.
You feel stuck, caged in with no way out. He won’t let you go, not until he deems it enough to have tortured you like this. Is he making fun of you? His tone is almost mocking as he asks you about your mood.
And all you can do is take his mockery of you feeling something so natural. He has the gall to laugh in your face. You frown, tears leaking out.
“Shh. It’s okay, Star. Don’t cry.” His hand comes up to wipe away your tears, “were you embarrassed because you couldn’t tell me?” A faux pout, “you know that you can tell me anything, even if it’s something like this.”
Your eyes screw shut at his implication. You shake your head, “I don’t wanna talk about this. Let’s just leave it, okay?”
He chuckles lightly, shaking his head, “no, we can’t. Not when you won’t trust me enough to talk to me,” his amusement turns into something you assume is disappointment, brows drawn in, “you know it hurts me when you keep things from me,” his thumb brushes your cheek, "did you know what?”
You gulp down the lump in your throat, you shake your head at his admission.
“Maybe some exposure therapy is needed here, hm? What do you think?” He’s serious as ever, no smile in sight, it makes your stomach churn. You breathe in at what he was suggesting. You don’t fully grasp what he’s meaning to say.
So you play along with him for the time being. You’ve calmed down enough to realise what he’s doing is wrong on so many levels. At least in your eyes, you feel a little icky with him holding you in such a compromising position due to the implications of it all.
You want to panic at what he said about exposure therapy. What does that even mean?
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“I’m sure it is, cuz’ you’ve made me all frustrated too. Think there’s a fix for that.”
He does seem frustrated. Though you understand the underlying meaning, especially the second he settles his hips over yours. The heavy weight of his body is leaning on your bottom half, pinned to the couch with no way of moving around anymore.
That constriction does not ease your nerves, but more like you have sealed your fate. Too late to argue with him, to tell him why you’re feeling the way you are, because he knows.
He knows and he won't let up.
Nothing you say will change his mind now. Be it a confession, the truth, whatever you say, he won't listen.
“Think I’m gonna let you get away now?” He leans down, forehead pressing against yours. He breathes heavily, like he’s so affected by the closeness, the proximity was downright dizzying.
You’re so transfixed by his actions that you almost feel the shame leave your body. Almost. It’s still there, enough that you are still aware of it.
He’s so near, so warm, and you can feel things that make you squeal on the inside. You shut your eyes tightly, when he rolls forward. He groans out loud, and your face burns, “look at me…please.”
And you do. What else can you do when he looks at you like this?
When you hesitate, his leg pushes your knee apart, granting him access so he can slot himself in between. Flush with your middle, then he stops.
“I saw you that day, before I took you with me,” you both gasp at the feeling of him punctuating his words with a rough grind that hits your core so pleasantly, “I watched you from your window.”
He carries on repeatedly pushing back and forth. Stimulating you so slowly, with the perfect amount of pressure where you need it, that it makes you want more, and more, and more and–
“You couldn’t even…and I shouldn’t have but I…m’sorry.”
Strange time to be confessing things. For now you overlook his timing. You can’t comprehend the severity of what he’s saying to you, but in the back of your mind there are alarm bells going off, urging you to question the man who keeps rutting into you like a dog in heat, whilst emptying out his stomach in the form of confessions.
“You watched me?”
“Watched you? yeah,” he nods, breathing heavily as a layer of sweat coats his temples, cheeks all red.
He has to tell you what he did, and to him right now seems to be the best time to admit he watched you get off to the thoughts of him.
“And then in the morning,” He shudders as he feels your fingers dig into his shoulder, “I found the photographs…” His voice pitches up a notch, and he rocks into you with intention, “...of me…of us,” his head moves to your neck, pushing it into the gap. You can feel his breath on your neck.
“Dex, I…why did you…” you reply, almost dazed when he hikes your leg around his waist, grabbing at the underside of your thigh to hold you there, as if he was trying to distract you from reacting, “...do that?”
“I swear, didn’t do anything, promise.” Words slurring slightly, half-hearted assurance that he really didn’t let his hand travel downwards.
“Why? Asked why you…uh…why you watched me.”
He ignores your question, breathing heavily into your neck, “did you think of me? Is that why you stopped that night?” his hand squeezes your thigh once, “did you?”
He pulls away from your neck, but his movements don’t falter. In fact the dragging pressure becomes more steady, consistent, never wavering as he waits for your reply. As if he would coax an answer out of you through the best form of communication he knows; with his eyes.
Confident in the way he moves, though his face tells you a different story. Face screwed up as his chest heaves up and down, “tell me…or I’ll stop.”
At this point even you know that to deny yourself this pleasure, coiling deep within your gut and all the way down to your core, and just this once you would allow yourself to have this despite the humiliation that came with Dex knowing you were pent up because of him.
Though you are concentrating on more things than you could count, the heat within, his touch that seems to be everywhere making you go all fuzzy, how he gives, and gives and gives.
Keeps on giving you what you desperately need.
You nod your head frantically when you hear his little threat.
“Use your…mhh…words, Star.”
It’s comical watching how much his words contradict his tone. Trying to come across all demanding, yet he’s not faring well from all the friction he’s creating. You don't linger on those thoughts much due to the impending release that is somehow so close, yet so far away.
“Yeah, I thought about you.” You whimper as he begins to speed up, “shouldn't have but… “
“You can…hah, y’can think bout’ me Star. Nothing wrong with…tha– fuck…nothing wrong with that.”
You don’t say anything after that, mind numbed in the best way possible due to the approach that keeps getting closer and closer.
His knee is digging into the couch, pushing you up towards your peak, dragging himself there right after you. The room fills with obscene sounds, downright filthy groans he was letting out, and the pitched gasps turning into whines that you had given up on hiding with the bite of your lip.
He loves having you like this, panting out his name while his own nonsensical pleads mix together, forming a language that communicates desperation for each other, sweet words slipping through, hands sweeping across any visible skin, heat spreading to places that connect you both.
Eyes rolling backward, pupils shaking as you writhe in his embrace, holding him tightly around his shoulders. It’s all so messy and desperate.
And he gets you to see you become undone like this; beneath him.
He made you face what you kept avoiding, he found your shyness, or rather the painful embarrassment you hid behind endearing; not that you could help it, but he just wanted you to confide in him, trust him since you never seemed to want to initiate anything remotely emotional. Even after everything you had been through with him, you still keep to yourself.
You try, you really do. He wants more, he always wants more from you. Maybe that’s a flaw in him that won’t ever be repaired. It’s up to you to give him what he tries to pry out of you, and it’s up to him to coax it out of you.
Breathy words whispered into his ear has him flushing a pretty red colour, they burn from the confessions that spill out of your mouth, unable to control his bodily reactions when you thank him so prettily as you cling onto him.
Dazed from the aftermath, he holds you close, sinking down onto your body. Letting his weight drop so that you’re completely flush against him. No gaps in between.
Almost crying at how good it felt, how he drove you to a point of bliss. Never had you been able to do this yourself, not to this degree. What a shame that was.
Well, at least you had him.
And he would happily provide, he would give you anything, and also because it was you who asked.
pairing: grumpy!trailer park!Bucky x fem!trailer park!reader
warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, smut (soft dom!Bucky, breeding kink, unprotected p-in-v, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, ass play, multiple positions, dirty talk, squint for daddy kink), age gap (r mid 20s, B late 30s), use of nicknames (ex: “kid”), mechanic!Bucky, semi-slow burn, so much angst, arguing, mentions of troubled pasts (ex: bad parents) mentions of prison, mentions of alcoholism, smoking, drinking, no use of y/n
words: 30.2k (WTF!!!!!!!)
summary: When your neighbor saves you from a tight spot, you go out of your way to thank him. You quickly find out that he doesn’t want your thanks — actually, he doesn’t want anything to do with you. The hurt stings while the curiosity burns, but the cracks begin to show when tensions rise. Is it a classic neighborhood dispute, or is there something bigger hiding beneath the surface?
sammy speaks: celebrating 1k+ followers by taking a trip to angst town. thank you for reading and following my blog, I love all you dearly!🤍 also rip to all the letter g’s that did not make it into this fic, you’ll see what I mean
“That doesn’t sound too good, hun.”
Through the windshield, you spot your neighbor standing in front of the hood with a full laundry basket against her hip. Donna’s eyes sweep suspiciously across your car, as if she thinks the ticking of your engine could double for a time bomb.
You groan, your forehead meeting the steering wheel with a dull thud. “I know.”
“What’s wrong with it? Battery dead?” she asks, coming over to your rolled down window. You crack an eye open at her.
“When I know, I’ll tell ya.”
Her answering look is sympathetic.
“Was never too good with cars myself. Harold did all the fixin’ when he was still around. You got somewhere to be?”
“Job interview,” you mumble, the leather digging into your brow; you’re trying not to focus on the sweat soaking through your best shirt, or your growing anxiety over your fast-approaching interview time. Donna shifts the basket to her other hip.
“Could try callin’ on Bucky. He works at Rogers’ garage down on Miner Street. It’s Sunday, so he should be home.”
Your forehead peels away from the sticky wheel. “Who’s Bucky?”
Donna nods toward the other side of the park. “Bucky Barnes. White trailer with the boots lined up all neat outside the door.”
“Have I met him?”
“Doubt it,” she replies. “He works mean hours, leaves before sun up, comes back when it’s dark. But he’s always ready to help a neighbor out when he’s here. Real sweet guy.”
You blow a stray hair out of your eyes. “You think he can fix whatever’s wrong with my car?” you ask, your doubt as strong as your hope.
Donna smiles like she knows something you don’t. “Bucky can fix anythin’ he gets his hands on.”
You turn in your seat, spotting the white trailer with the boots out front. It looks devoid of life, like it was plopped onto that spot of land by a strong gust of wind rather than by human design. The curtains are drawn, vines creep up the paneling, the gate on the far side of the yard swings in the breeze, but there’s a rusting brown pickup parked in front of it. Promising enough.
“Okay,” you say. “Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Got it.”
“Good luck,” Donna says with a grin, tapping your arm before walking away.
You step out into the scorching heat of the late July afternoon and make your way across the park, stepping over discarded children’s toys and overgrown flower beds. As you near the trailer, you see the pairs of boots your neighbor spoke about lined up with military precision, all well worn but still taken care of, not a speck of dust or dirt on them, which is rare in a place like this.
You knock three times on the plain brown door before taking a step back, holding your breath. Grasshoppers hum, the wind whips; you don’t hear anything inside the home for an agonizing amount of time, enough time to double the sweat pooling on your lower back. You’re about to try knocking again when the door finally creaks open.
Out steps a mountain of a man.
Big arms and bigger shoulders, broad chest and long, thick legs. He wears boots identical to the ones outside, blue jeans that are in desperate need of a wash, and a black henley that offers an intimidating glimpse into what those arms are capable of. His dark hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking up in all different directions, and underneath it is a face so unexpectedly handsome, you’re not sure how it ended up in a rundown park like this instead of somewhere on a billboard advertising cologne. Sun-kissed, weathered, and deadly serious, but striking in a way you could never forget, triggering a blush on your already flushed cheeks. And then you meet his eyes: electric blue and narrowed at you under furrowed brows, raising the hairs on the back of your sweaty neck.
“Can I help you?” he grunts, voice low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine.
“Hey,” you say quickly with a 1000-watt smile, showing off your nerves. “Hi. Uh, Bucky, right? I’m your neighbor. I live—“ You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “—back that way. The one with the pink door. Um…I was hopin’ you could help me out. My car, it’s — well, it won’t start. Makes a clickin’ noise every time I try turnin’ it over. Donna said you’re a mechanic and might be able to help.”
His expression doesn’t change. He stares unblinkingly at you.
“I, um—,” you can feel yourself faltering, your heart rate rising as the seconds tick by, “I don’t mean to barge in on your Sunday, but I’m pretty desperate. I have an interview in, like, twenty minutes, and I really need this job. Do you think you could take a quick look?”
He eyes you up and down, assessing. You try not to smile wider in case it leans too close to deranged. “You live here?” he demands. You nod.
“Moved in about a month ago. Sorry we’re only meetin’ now, I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”
You offer your name and stick out a hand. Bucky ignores this, staring past you in the direction of your trailer. You watch as his eyes narrow, like he’s weighing the honesty of your words.
“Look, I can pay you, if that hel—“
“Is it the little silver thing?” he cuts you off.
Your lips part. “Uh, yes. Yeah.”
Bucky grunts and turns back inside, shutting the door behind him. The shock of it leaves you frozen in place, reeling, until he reemerges as fast as he left, carrying a toolbox half the size of you; he holds it easily in one hand like it weighs nothing, but you can hear the stock of heavy tools clanking around inside.
“Let’s go,” he mutters, stepping past you. You struggle to keep up with him as he stalks toward your car, like a man on a mission that he’s already running late for. You sneak glances at him while trying not to trip on the cracked walking path, noting the faded scars on the back of his hands, the ticking jaw underneath his beard, and the very tip of a dark tattoo peaking out from beneath his collar. A feeling churns in your gut.
Everything about him screams rough. Rude. Even potentially dangerous — from his imposing figure, to his curt words, he seems like the furthest thing from what you would call ‘sweet.’
But regardless of Donna overselling his altruism, beggars can’t be choosers, and you’ll call him sweet all day long if it gets you to your interview on time.
Bucky lets out a heavy breath when he sets the toolbox down next to your car. He nods at you.
“Try it again,” an order, not a request.
Your limbs twitch into action like a bee flew under your skirt. Sliding into the hot leather seat, you turn the key in the ignition and are met with the same low ticking noise from before. The lights flicker on your dashboard in protest.
“Terminal clamp.”
You jump, finding Bucky almost cheek-to-cheek with you while he leans through the open door. He’s close enough for you to smell dirt, sweat and something heavier on him.
“Shit,” you hiss in surprise, but he’s already pulling away and moving toward the front of the car.
“Pop it,” he calls out.
You exhale slowly and do as you’re told. Sweet, your ass. Bucky lifts the hood and locks it in place before bending over the hot engine, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.
You step out of the car, hovering near the door but craning your neck to watch. “Terminal clamp?” you repeat.
Bucky takes a moment to respond, long fingers moving deftly through the cables and wires and plugs and bolts. He unscrews something, and steam leaks out.
“On your battery,” he grunts. “The part that connects it to the wires. It’s rusted down. Look.”
He beckons with two oily fingers crooked in your direction. It’s borderline crass, and you find yourself hurrying over without argument. Bucky’s mouth is set into a hard line as he watches you gaze down at the engine, looking without really seeing.
“There,” he points impatiently to a black box near the front. Your eyes catch on the rust growing over the top of it.
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he imitates you, high-pitched and sharp; your eyes snap back to him. He’s clearly not amused by your answer. “When was the last time you had your battery checked?”
“Haven’t had the time lately,” you answer, crossing your arms indignantly over your chest.
“Your daddy don’t check it for ya?” he prods, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans before opening his tool box. Irritation rears up inside fo you. Something about his tone, bitter and mocking, makes you think about hitting him over the head with one of his wrenches.
“My daddy hasn’t been sober enough to tell a battery from a brick since 2009,” you snap.
Bucky pauses while rifling through his tools, but only for a moment. “Batteries need replacin’ every four years. How old’s this one?”
You chew your lip, still thinking about the wrench. Bucky pulls out a small metal plate and a brand new cord, along with a screwdriver that looks like it’s seen better days. When he turns to you, his eyebrows lift expectantly.
“It’s…old,” you relent. Bucky snorts and leans over the car again.
“Define ‘old’ to me, princess.”
A zip of electricity runs down your spine at the pet name, angry and hot. “I don’t know,” you grumble. “It came with the car and I bought it five years ago. And don’t call me princess.”
A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Whatever you say, kid.”
You glare at him while he unscrews the rusted plate from the battery. Despite your growing frustration, and the nearing interview time, and the heat pressing down on you from all sides, you quickly become entranced with the way his hands move expertly with the replacement parts. It’s obvious he’s well-versed with the inside of a car.
“This will hold for a few days,” Bucky says, attaching the new cord to the engine. “But you need a new battery. Forget it, and you’ll be needin’ a new car. Am I makin’ myself clear?”
Something about the sternness in his voice creates a pressure on your chest that feels foreign and strange. “Yeah, new battery, got it,” you mumble.
He glances at you but says nothing, screwing in the clean plate. As he finishes up his work, you look back at your trailer, the paint on the front door peeling, the screens torn in most of the windows. You clear your throat. “Donna says you fix a lot of stuff for the folks around here,” you begin. Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You ever, uh…fix any showers?”
He pauses to look back at you, blue eyes sharp. “That a line?”
“What? No!” you sputter, cheeks on fire. “No, it’s — my shower pressure. It’s shit, it’s…not a pick up line. I’m askin’ if you can fix that, too.”
He grunts, satisfied with his finished product, and closes the hood with a snap. You step back, watching as he tosses the screw driver back into the box and wipes his hands on his jeans again. When he turns to you, his face is closed off, stoic.
“I’m busy,” he says, blunt and to the point. The rejection stings like a child daring to touch the point of a needle for the first time — sharp and surprising and oddly shameful. The embarrassment pulls your eyes away.
“But if I find some time, I’ll let you know.”
His gaze is steady and unreadable when you meet it again. You nod quickly.
“That’d be amazing,” you gush, hands clasped together, “thank you—“
“I haven’t even fixed it yet, save your thanks,” he cuts you off.
“Still,” you reply, taking a step toward him, “I’d owe ya big time. Oh, you’d be doin’ me a huge favor ‘cause I need all the help I can get on this place—“
“What’d I just say, kid?” He glares are you, hands on his hips. “Now go on before you start wastin’ any more of my time,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the car. You hesitate with your hand on the door, the smile on your face flickering doubtfully.
“Is it…safe?” you ask slowly.
Bucky scowls, mean and dark. “Don’t insult me.”
That gets you scampering into the seat. You twist the key, and after a breathless moment, the engine roars to life, the vents blasting you with hot air, but air nonetheless. You let out a whoop and pat the steering wheel proudly, the hope creeping back in. When you look out the windshield, you see Bucky’s already packed up his tool box and is making his way back to his trailer.
“Hey!” You scramble out of the car. “Hey, wait!”
He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his free hand over his head.
“Thank you!” you call out. He doesn’t respond. You watch him as he rounds his truck and disappears into his home. Then your phone buzzes.
“Shit—“
You’re peeling out of the park in seconds, leaving behind a cloud of dust and two blue eyes that watch you go from the safety of his trailer.
You take the keys out of the ignition and lean back in your seat, the smile on your face still as big as it was when the owner announced you got the job. In that moment, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds after years of rain.
It isn’t anything special, just a serving job at one of the many roadside diners in this small town, but what it stands for is more than you’ve had most of your life. Independence, stability, roots — everything you’ve been chasing after for the last few years now finally within your reach. No longer are you relying on the kindness of so-called friends that kick you out when it becomes inconvenient for them, or the generosity of low-life boyfriends that expect indentured servitude for a bed to sleep in; no longer are you couch surfing your way down highway 70, wondering what your next meal is going to cost you, or if your mother will pick up the phone when you’re too low on cash for gas. Just by getting the job, by finding your own little place to call home, you’ve broken free of the chains that have held your pitiful family lineage captive for years.
That’s worth celebrating.
You grab the six pack off the passenger seat before climbing out of the car. Thankfully, the evening air is much cooler now, and settles gently on your skin. Crickets chirp their congratulations, the breeze pats your back, and the light left on inside your trailer welcomes you home.
You sigh as you take it in, a soft smile on your face. Just this morning, you found the peeling front door, weedy garden and crooked paneling daunting; now it looks like a project you want to dive headfirst into, an opportunity to create something beautiful out of nothing, much like your own life.
You’ve got one foot on the steps when the wind grabs your attention. The large oak tree in the middle of the trailer park groans as it shifts, and you glance back to watch the leaves sway in the dusk, shadowed and haunting in a strangely beautiful way, until your gaze catches on a patch of light just beyond it. The white trailer with the boots out front has its curtains open now, and you watch as a shadow passes across a window.
Bucky.
The pressure returns to your chest tenfold, the same as before. Because of him, you get to cheers to a new life with a cold beer on your ratty little couch, and he walked away without so much as a thank you…
You adjust your grip on the six pack when you make your decision, sudden but resolute, and you’re crossing the park before you can think twice about it. A reward is reaped better with others.
As you approach, the shadows in the windows become clearer; wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands that set a mug on a shelf. Your breath goes a little shallow remembering how he towered over you. Stepping up the path, you watch as he pauses in front of the window, as still as a deer in headlights. Your knuckles just meet the door when the light inside flicks off.
You blink, eyes darting back to the window. The trailer is now dark. You can’t see inside, can’t spot movement — it’s pitch black where his figure was, where he stopped in front of the window right as you walked up…
You knock anyway. The beer bottles are cold against the skin of your leg as you wait, condensation dripping down your ankle. But the light doesn’t turn back on and you don’t hear weight shifting over cheap flooring. The crickets that sounded so nice before start to mock you the longer you stand there. You count to ten before trying again, a light rap on the wood.
Nothing.
Your heart sinks before you can stop it, the feeling painful and confusing. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, cheeks blazing in the soft light of the moon, then set the six pack in front of his door.
Bucky’s lights do not turn on when you make it back to your trailer, and they’re still not on when you spare one last glance out the window. The beers sit untouched on his front step.
Embarrassment courses through you like a summer fever, hot and alive and consuming. It eats away at all of the previous joy from your new job, and that bothers you more than you care to admit.
With a shake of your head, as if to clear the feeling out, you toss the keys on the counter and move to your tiny bathroom to turn on the shower. The nozzle sputters twice before the bare minimum drizzles out. You’re reminded of how you asked Bucky to fix it, the cryptic response he gave you, and how you nearly melted in response — the heat floods back to your face.
You really wish you kept those beers.
When the dried sweat has been scrubbed from your skin, and you’ve pulled on the softest sleep clothes you own, your mind has officially moved from denial to bargaining.
Donna said Bucky works brutal hours — maybe he has a strict sleep schedule. Like he can’t function unless he gets a full eight hours. Maybe it’s a ‘no visitors, lights off by nine on weeknights’ kind of thing. That makes sense for a fully grown man to have…right?
The reasonings filter through your head long after you’ve crawled into bed, some more believable than others. Eventually you decide that you just caught him at a bad time, and that it had nothing to do with him possibly seeing you through the window.
You’ll run into Bucky and explain the beers left on his door step; he’ll explain that he was tired, or he was busy, or something else completely normal and valid, and whatever lingering feelings you have over the whole thing will dissolve into nothing. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, maybe he’ll actually smile. Maybe the ice breaks and you’ll have another neighbor to call a friend in this new home.
You tell yourself this over and over until your restless mind finally fades to black.
You rise with the sun the next morning for your first shift. Your head is pleasantly empty of last night’s internal discourse, and you take it as a good sign.
Breakfast is pitiful — coffee and toast — but you’re too nervous to fill your uneasy stomach with more. When you pull on your uniform and spin every which way in the cracked bathroom mirror, though, the nervousness begins to fade. The dress is threadbare and half a size too big, but the color compliments your skin and emphasizes how bright and giddy your eyes are, bringing a light to your face that you haven’t seen in years. That tattered hand-me-down is a beautiful gateway opening up to a better future, a real future. You already love it.
When it’s time to go, you step out into a quiet, windless morning that promises to be a scorcher later. As you toss your purse into the passenger seat, you hear the rumbling of an old engine approaching, growing louder by the second. A familiar brown truck with the windows rolled down pulls up to the exit, just a few yards from where you stand.
Bucky sits in the driver’s seat, sporting an off-white t-shirt and dark sunglasses. He adjusts the radio, touches the rearview mirror, and pushes his shades up his nose before glancing up. Even behind the tinted lenses, you know that he sees you, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. But you still manage a smile, lifting your hand in a small wave.
He stares at you, an immovable statue except for his fingers white-knuckling over the wheel. A moment passes that feels like both a millisecond and a lifetime. You wonder if you should say something. But before you can, he looks away, the truck roaring once more as he eases out of the lot and into the street like he never saw you.
You watch his taillights drop beyond the horizon, your stomach dropping with them. The blatant dismissal sinks in, heavy and cutting, and it brings back all of the embarrassment from the night before. You fight desperately against a few angry tears stinging your eyes, but the hum of your fully-functioning engine does nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears.
You’re not sure which is worse: him ignoring you, or your reaction to him ignoring you.
You’ve dealt with disregard your entire life. Your childhood is a treasure trove of disappointment and neglect, carelessness and chaos, all of it later contributing to your steel-thick skin and low expectations of others. So you’re not sure why a stranger is affecting you like this — and a surly, intimidating stranger at that.
But something about him actively choosing to pretend you don’t exist presses on a bruise you’ve had covered for years. It rattles you more than anything.
Hands shaking, you put the car into drive.
The journey to the diner passes in a blur as you kick yourself mentally for the weakness. Your biggest mistake is that you went to him when you were too vulnerable — you were practically cracked wide open with need, and all it took was a helping hand for him to slip past your usual defenses. Were the sharp edges and sharper tongue not obvious red flags? What is it about Bucky that made you assume so quickly that he would be your friend? You taught yourself much better than that.
Despite the evidence, at the root of you, you refuse to accept it. Bucky’s lack of reaction was completely out of sorts; you know he’s far from friendly, but to completely ignore you is crazy work. So crazy that it just doesn’t make sense. There has to be some explanation for it, other than the obvious.
But unlike last night, your brain draws a blank on reasons for his behavior.
By the time you make it to the diner, you’re determined to figure this out. You need to see him again, to create an opportunity for an olive branch, and to learn if he’ll take it.
You get your first chance less than a week later, when you’re headed toward the mailboxes before the sun’s fully risen. You see a hulking figure already in front of them that you recognize right away. Bucky’s distracted while rifling through his mail, looking disheveled but still undeniably handsome in the pink light; he even looks relaxed, for once, instead of his usual guarded attitude.
“Good morning,” you say, smiling as you open your mailbox.
He tenses as he turns your way, shoulders taut and face creased. His jaw works as he stares you down, like he’s considering words and biting back the harsher ones. But instead of saying what’s on his mind, he grunts, short and crude, before turning on his heel and walking away. Your eyes follow him as he returns to his trailer and slams the door shut. It scares a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.
You stand there with a hand on the mailbox, jaw agape. The message couldn’t be any clearer. But for some reason, you shut your mouth with a snap and stand straighter, determined. His petulant, teenage antics are not enough to get you to throw in the towel yet.
So you try harder. You learn that you both leave the park around the same time, and when his truck rumbles past you, you wave, even if he isn’t looking at you (in a very obvious way.) You don’t care. You still try. He never waves back or throws you any acknowledgment, although you would bet your life on him seeing you each time, and eventually he starts leaving earlier, truck already missing from its spot when you’re headed to your car.
On the few days you’re both not working, you often see him mowing his lawn, mending his fence or washing his truck, domestic things that may trick passerby into thinking he’s a normal, pleasant guy. You fall victim to it as well, even knowing what you know, and head over with the intention of trapping him in a conversation. But as soon as you get remotely close to Bucky’s property, he mysteriously disappears, leaving you to feel like you just saw a ghost rather than your very alive neighbor.
You still don’t give in, but he continues to make it harder. When your car pulls up next to his at a red light, he’s theoretically interested in the SUV in front of him. When you’re passing out day-old pies from the diner to the neighbors, he doesn’t answer the door even though you can hear the TV on inside. When you’re taking a stroll around the park and he’s headed your way, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.
Frustrating is the politest way you can describe him, but your mind can’t seem to take the hint.
Until the delusion crumbles when you least expect it. You’re bone-tired after your shift, and even your purse full of tips can’t ease the pain from your back. Pulled up to your trailer, you notice a group of three people slowly making their way across the park. One quick look tells you it’s the Markhams, stooped and gray-haired, shuffling down the pathway, and in between them is none other than Bucky, carrying a dozen grocery bags on each arm that you know aren’t his.
You watch as he leans down toward Mrs. Markham, listening to something she says, and your eyes go wide when he throws his head back in a laugh, pure joy lighting up his face. The sound creeps into your car, oozing warmth and light that is at odds with the Bucky you know. Mr. Markham adds a comment that gets him laughing harder, lines crinkling around his eyes, nose scrunching up in delight. You greedily take in this new side of him while your stomach roils with something bitter and nauseating.
So the sweet side of Bucky does exist. You’re watching it in real time as he helps his elderly neighbors with their groceries, chuckling in amusement as they banter back and forth. He holds the door open for them, too, even with his arms full, making sure they cross the threshold safely before letting the door fall shut behind him.
This must be the Bucky that Donna spoke about. The Bucky that everyone but you, apparently, gets to see.
The realization settles inside of you like an anvil dropping from the sky. So it’s just you that he doesn’t like. It’s just you that he can’t bear to be a neighbor to.
Occam’s Razor strikes again.
You move mechanically out of your car and into your home, your body carrying you through the motions while your brain twists itself up into a painful knot. You comb through everything you did and said that Sunday afternoon when he fixed your car; did you offend him? Did you push an unknown boundary? Did you ask for too much? Did you say too little? Were you too loud or too quiet? Too slow to thank him for his help?
Yes, you snapped a few times, but you only ever matched his energy, and everything about him implied that he can take as good as he gives. So what happened? What did you do? Why is your neighbor so unconcerned with whether you live or die?
Whatever the reason, it’s done its damage. Bucky wants nothing to do with you, and that seems to be the way it is.
Later that night, when sleep evades you, and you’ve tossed and turned for hours on end, a terrible loneliness creeps in for the first time since you arrived at the trailer park. It’s familiar in the worst way, reminding you of all the horrible people you met and all the shitty pit stops you made on your journey here. You thought you left that feeling behind — you thought wrong.
It follows you around for the next few days, leaving you hollow and numb. You’re on autopilot most of the time: you smile at customers and make conversation with the neighbors, you gossip with your coworkers and play with the children next door. But it’s constantly there in the back of your mind, like a memory you can’t erase, and when you’re alone in your little home, you feel it wrap around you like a straight jacket.
You’re lonely. And Bucky’s indifference toward you brought it front and center. For you, companionship had always been fleeting and one-sided, transactional at best. You’d had enough of it to the point that companionship was something you began to avoid, even when it promised a warm bed and a free meal. You thought a place to call your own and a means to support yourself were enough to keep the grass greener on your side. Now a stranger who sees nothing to gain by being your friend has reminded you that you’ve never had anyone in your life that wanted to be there just because.
The grass slowly withers away to a dry, lifeless brown.
You think you’re hiding it well, but Donna asks about it when July has rolled into a rainy August.
“How’ve you been, hun?” she says around her cigarette, pushing back one of the many hairs falling out of her clip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been pickin’ up more shifts,” you reply automatically, pulling roughly on the broken piece of siding. Donna watches as you struggle with it, leaning against the far side of the trailer.
“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave if you keep that up. You leave at dawn and don’t come back ‘til dusk seven days a week. Young thing like you needs time to herself.”
“I’m tryin’ to save up,” you grunt, snapping the siding in half. The part connected to your trailer swings down dejectedly. You look her way. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is fallin’ apart, and it takes money to put it back together.”
She hums, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask Bucky for help?”
You pause from picking up the broken pieces of siding in the grass. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t wanna bother him,” you grumble, avoiding her eyes.
“Oh, please — Bucky would be happy to help.”
“Are you sure about that?” A sudden hint of irritation in your tone. Donna stands up straighter.
“Whaddya mean?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Something happen?”
You shake your head quickly. “No, there’s not — no. He just seems really busy, that’s all. No use askin’ for his time when he doesn’t have any.”
There’s a brief silence as Donna considers your words. “Something happened,” she repeats. You toss your head, eyes narrowing in her direction, but she keeps going. “Did he say no to fixin’ your car? Or was he mean? Like he’d rather be talkin’ to anybody but you?”
You let out an exhale, long and ragged, and debate answering truthfully.
“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but that ain’t nothin’ I’m not used to. He was actually—“ Your jaw clenches. “He was helpful. Ruder than hell — and bossy, but he got it fixed and told me to get a new battery and stuff. But ever since then…” You trail off, Donna waits. “It’s like he regrets doin’ it. I’ll see him walk by and his eyes pass over me like I’m not even there. I try startin’ a conversation and suddenly he’s got somewhere to be. He’s avoidin’ me, and I don’t know why. I’d be fine with it if I knew what it was, but I got no clue.” Knees in the grass, you watch as a caterpillar crawls over a leaf and onto a piece of siding; you pick it up carefully, watching as the insect runs circles over the plastic, nowhere to go, just as confused as you. “Why’s he like that?”
“Oh, hun,” Donna soothes quietly, stepping closer to your crouched position. “Is that what’s been botherin’ ya? Bucky not bein’ welcomin’?”
“Yes — I mean, no. That’s not what’s botherin’ me, it’s just — it’s hard to explain.” You set the caterpillar down and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from your knees. “And it’s a lot more than just not bein’ welcomin’. I could get hit by a semi right here on Pueblo Street and I don’t think he’d even blink.”
“Now I know that’s not true. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?” Donna asks patiently, putting her cigarette out on the broken siding.
You watch the ashes drop to the ground, fragile, crumbling, and still smoking. Your eyes scan the park, naturally pausing over the white trailer with the curtains drawn and boots out front; there’s no truck outside, so he must be working. Yet the empty house still stings a little to look at.
“I thought that the job and movin’ here meant I figured everything out,” you mutter. “Instead an old man decidin’ he doesn’t like me for no reason reminded me that I’m still on my own. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so I get along just fine by myself, but I’m only human. I still want someone to — to care about me.” You fight through the sudden lump in your throat.
“And Bucky doin’ you a favor brought that up,” Donna confirms. You nod reluctantly.
“Guess so. It was just nice to have someone care, even if he was grumpy as hell about it. Now he pretends I don’t exist and I keep rememberin’ all the times I thought I found someone who cared, only for them to just—“ You flick your hand like you’re waving off a bug, inconsequential yet inconvenient.
“Honey, we care.” Donna wraps an arm around your shoulders, warm and tight, holding you to her. “You got all of us now, and we watch out for each other.”
You open your mouth to point out that one of them does not, but she beats you to it.
“Bucky is a special case,” she sighs. You watch as she gazes at the white trailer, too. “It took him a while to come around to us. He was quiet, kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours…but eventually we wore him down. Kept inviting him in even when we knew he wouldn’t come. Kept offering our help even when we knew he wouldn’t take it. But then he did. I think Bucky was gone for a few days when a big storm came through — a tree fell and knocked out the left side of his trailer, crushed the roof. We got together and started patching it up just as he pulled in. Told us he could handle it but we wouldn’t take no for answer and did it with him anyway. He was real grateful, awfully sweet and apologetic, extra kind to everyone that helped out, but we told him it’s what we do for each other. After that, it was like living next door to a whole new person. I think he just needed to see that we cared for him no matter what, and that we’d be there for him even when things were tough.”
You huff, kicking the dirt at your feet. “Doesn’t explain why he’s got a problem with me. What’s his deal?”
Donna’s hesitant to answer, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. When there’s a cloud of smoke in the air between you, she says slowly, “He did some time at the state pen.”
Your eyes snap to her, but she shakes her head a little.
“He hasn’t said much, but from what I gathered, Bucky lost more than just his freedom when they handed him his sentence. Family don’t bother with him anymore, told him as much when he was paroled, and he had no choice but to make do alone somewhere else. That can mess a person up, make them suspicious of others, make them think bein’ alone’s the only way to go about this life.” She looks at you then, a soft smile on her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Her words feel like a sucker punch to your gut, but she waves a hand at you. “That’s all I’ve got, though, so if you’re curious about it, you’ll need to ask him.”
You chew the inside of your cheek, replaying the story, picturing Bucky in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. For some reason, the image seems wrong, but your curiosity begins to burn.
“I doubt I’ll get the chance,” you mumble.
“Give it some time,” Donna chirps. “He’ll come around. But you—“ She wraps a thin hand around your wrist, squeezing with intention. “—next time you’re feelin’ a little too sorry for yourself, you come find me. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna be beggin’ for some alone time.”
A smile reluctantly breaks across your face, the first genuine one in weeks. “Sure, Donna. Thanks.”
You’d think your talk with Donna would help ease Bucky Barnes from your head, but it seems to have the opposite affect.
While your cocktail of emotions towards him has been watered down by Donna’s story, the urge to understand him is stronger than ever.
You still see him occasionally, driving past in his truck, stalking toward the mailbox, trudging around his yard; you pick up where you left off with your routine, waving and smiling and wishing him a good morning even when he’s already halfway across the park. Nothing changes in his attitude toward you, but it only makes you more curious.
Between grueling ten-hour shifts at the diner, you capitalize on a specific tidbit you learned from Donna, how the neighbors’ generosity got Bucky to crack. You know you have better things to do than trying to win over someone who doesn’t want to be won over, but your stubbornness has always gotten the best of you in your weaker moments.
You choose to act when he isn’t home, aiming to lessen the pressure instead of amping it up. You spend an entire day baking ten dozen cookies for the neighbors and make sure to leave a few at his door with a note to come by if he wants more (he doesn’t). You suffer through sunburn and dehydration while sweeping the entire walking path around the park, paying special attention to Bucky’s portion so that the dust doesn’t settle over his boots. You sprint through a downpour to pull his clothes off the line, covering your trailer in his shirts and jeans and — gulp — underwear to air dry before folding them up carefully and delivering them to his front step in your laundry basket once the sky’s cleared up.
It’s waiting for you outside your door the next morning as you’re leaving for work. No note, no sign of a thanks. You blink when you see it, wondering how he knew it was your laundry basket in the first place.
Still, nothing changes. You try really hard not to obsess over it. And life moves on as usual.
One Friday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a cheap folding chair next to a handful of your neighbors; they caught you after a slow shift when your social battery hadn’t dropped below empty yet, calling you over with wide smiles like they’ve been waiting hours for you to show. The group is converged in a circle next to the oak tree, passing around beer and flasks of whiskey and shooting the shit. You’ve made quick friends with the girl two trailers down, Wanda, who isn’t much older than you but has a lightness to her that feels like a breath of fresh air. Her husband, who she calls Viz, sits with his arm draped around her shoulders and a look on his face like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. They ask you how you’re liking the park, how the repairs to your trailer are coming along, how your job is going. You feel a deep sense of gratitude forming the more you speak with them.
Neighbors filter in and out of the group like clockwork as the afternoon sun fades into the evening sunset. If they can’t stop for a drink, they still join in on the conversation, gossiping and commenting on the goings-on in town, or stirring up good-natured trouble before resuming their chores — Donna comes by to threaten you all with the hose if you don’t pick up after yourselves. You’re convinced you’ve met everyone in the park by this point, and you’ll need to make a list to get their names straight, but they all have one thing in common: they’re all pleased that you’re here.
The beer eventually begins to dwindle, but spirits are still high in the circle. Wanda’s in the middle of telling a story about a squirrel that got into the Markhams’ trailer when you hear the deep rumbling of an engine in the distance. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice it, but you know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, Bucky’s brown truck comes up the hill and pulls into the park as Wanda’s imitating Mrs. Markham’s screams from her standoff with the intruder. While the rest of the group roars with laughter, you watch as Bucky parks the truck in front of his trailer and steps out. That’s when Wanda spots him, too.
“Hey, Buck!” she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.
Bucky turns toward the group, his eyes sweeping across the faces. You swear they pause on you for a half a heartbeat.
“Come join us! We’ve got beer!” Wanda shouts, waving a hand over her head. A few others in the circle add their agreement, ushering him over and shaking their flasks. Bucky stares for another moment, as still as the trees behind him, before turning around without a word and heading for his trailer. The door shuts with a slam. A few grumbles go up around you, but Wanda just shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Eh, if I got off work early, I’d probably want some peace and quiet, too.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a sense of unease tainting the picturesque scene around you. “Does he…do that often?” you ask as casually as you can.
“Get off work early? Never. He works more than anyone I know—“
“No, I mean…” your finger points vaguely in the direction of the white trailer, “does he usually just ignore you when you ask him to hang out?”
She tilts her head, lips curving. “No, he’s usually at these things when he isn’t workin’. But if he’s home already, it probably means he threw out his back or somethin’. I know Steve threatens to fire him if he doesn’t go home and rest when that happens. Leave it to Bucky to take an order that seriously.” She laughs. “I swear those two were soldiers in a past life.”
You nod, your mind already dissecting the new information. He didn’t look like he was hurt…but you remember his eyes resting on you for a beat too long. The beer and whiskey combo in your stomach churns.
You fidget with your drink for the next half hour, barely hearing the conversations around you. An uncomfortable feeling has settled in your chest, tight and anxious, and your racing thoughts do nothing to help it. Finally, you can’t take it anymore, feeling restless and in pursuit of answers. You excuse yourself and head for your trailer, but when you’re far enough from the group, you take the long way around the park to Bucky’s, your heartbeat growing louder with each step.
You knock on the door before you can convince yourself otherwise, listening to the laughter of the circle as you wait. There’s a shuffling on the other side, then a soft grunt, and the door swings open.
Your lips part.
Bucky stands before you in nothing but his blue jeans. Your eyes jump to the wide expanse of his chest, the hard muscles of his abs. A smattering of dark chest hair tapers off down his stomach and disappears into his pants, right below his belt buckle. You forget how to breathe.
He stares down at you while bringing a beer bottle to his mouth and taking a hard swig. A drop of condensation lands on the dip between his collarbones, and your tongue subconsciously darts out to wet your lips. He shifts his weight to lean against the door frame, expression neutral. “What do you want?”
You realize you look like a fish out of water and shut your mouth with a snap, swallowing thickly as you feel an unwarranted heat bloom in your gut.
“Um,” you start, silently cursing the way your voice shakes. “Not sure if you heard Wanda, but we — uh, we were wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Patrick’s doin’ a run to the liquor store so there’ll be plenty of beer soon. Or we still have some whiskey. Unless you’ve got plans…” you trail off, eyes flicking to his shirtless chest.
Bucky’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t have plans.”
“Then you should drink with us.”
“Not interested.” You blink.
“…why not?”
He shrugs.
“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company.” He takes another quick sip from his bottle. Your eyes catch on the label and recognize it immediately from your own preferences; when you look back at Bucky, you find him watching you closely, blue eyes hard and unapologetic. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a strange feeling buzzing beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the undeniable thrill of seeing him shirtless, but you feel close to exploding.
“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company, or don’t feel like drinkin’ with me?” you say quietly, eyes ghosting over his frame.
A look crosses his face, something close to bewildered, before he hides it behind his usual expressionless mask. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
You flash him a tight-lipped smile though far from amused. “Sure, like you don’t know.”
“Kid, I don’t have a clue,” he grumbles, though the hand holding the beer bottle twitches.
“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap before you can stop yourself, a dangerous flush running through your body, “you know exactly what you’re doin’. What you’ve been doin’ for the last month. Avoidin’ me like I’m the tax man and you’ve got a debt to pay. You don’t like me? Fine. No problem. I don’t need you to be my friend. But I won’t put up with you actin’ like I don’t exist in front of everyone else anymore, and if you keep doin’ it, I’ll make your sad, lonely, little life hell. So just stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. Got it?”
Your words hang between you for a sour moment, and not even the cheerful sounds of the group can cut through the tension. Your chest heaves as you scowl at Bucky; he scowls right back, though you notice that the tips of his ears have gone a rosy shade of red and his grip on the beer bottle looks close to destructive. Your eyes scan his hardened face one last time before you turn on your heel and kick up a cloud of dust behind you as you march back to your trailer. This time, you slam the door.
Inside the trailer, the urge to throw something, anything, is too strong to ignore. Your vision zeroes in on the laundry basket Bucky returned a few days ago, and you lunge. Taking the cheap plastic in your hands, you hurl it against the floor with all of your strength, gritting your teeth while biting back a scream, watching as it breaks into a hundred different pieces with concerning ease on your linoleum floors. What follows is a silence so bitter, you can taste it in your mouth.
Your temper slowly fizzles out as you absorb the mess you made. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have let him get to you again. Now you’ve got a room full of shame and no laundry basket.
Exhaling heavily, you run a hand through your hair while peeking out the window to see if the circle of neighbors heard your crash out. Nobody’s looking your way, thankfully — instead, they’re cheering on Patrick as he emerges from his car with two new cases of beer. A pang of longing hits your chest, but you know you can’t go back out there now, not after this. So you resign yourself to picking up the remains of your laundry basket, piece by piece on your hands and knees until they ache from the pressure and you’ve cut your fingers on the jagged edges.
Later, when you’re nursing a small hangover with a cup of tea and an ice pack on your head, you wait for the regret to sink in over the heated words you threw at Bucky. But, strangely, it doesn’t. Now that the buzz from the alcohol and the leftover anger have vacated your body, you’re left with an odd sense of calm about it.
Sure, you got something off your chest that’s been weighing you down for weeks, but you had truly convinced yourself that you were optimistic over the Bucky situation. You had been foolishly hopeful that you could get through to him. Your outburst said differently. You should feel embarrassed, defeated, tired, but instead you feel…good. You handled it, just like you’ve handled every other hurdle in your life. Maybe not gracefully, but grace has never been your forte, and you don’t really mind.
You only wish that Bucky had shown some sort of reaction to being called out, a protest, a sigh, anything — but the man is as expressive as a bucket of cement. Knowing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t listen to half the things you said. He probably thought the whole thing was a waste of time, something to forget about as soon as he shut the door…
Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to lose sleep over your emotionally repressed neighbor anymore. You’re not going to spend another second thinking about him.
This turns out to be easier said than done.
You get to enjoy a peaceful week without seeing or thinking about Bucky, until Sunday rolls around. You’re doing laundry, which proves to be harder than usual without a laundry basket, leaving you to juggle armfuls of clothes while trekking back and forth between the park’s shared washing machines and your trailer. While the last of your wardrobe dries on the line outside, you’re moving around your little home in a faded pink tank top and an old pair of some ex’s boxers. The radio plays rock classics while you prep dinner, and you hum along as you man the stove and chop vegetables.
Then a knock interrupts.
You set down the knife and glance out the window, but whoever’s outside is hovering next to the door out of sight. You think it’s Donna, coming by with eggs after she borrowed some from you the other day, but when you open the door, you’re downright shocked to find who’s on the other side.
Bucky stands with one hand against your door frame, the other holding his toolbox, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his body in an ungodly attractive way. You take a step back in surprise when his eyes find yours. They’re bright, but guarded. He nods at you.
“You said your shower’s broken,” he says in greeting, voice low like he doesn’t want to be overheard.
Your mouth falls open. “Huh?”
His lips press together in an impatient line. “Your shower. You asked me to take a look at it the other day.”
Your mind feels like an old computer you had to reboot to get working again. You blink at him as it comes back to you.
“Yeah,” you answer slowly, “but that was before.”
He huffs, looking over his shoulder at the park behind him. “You want your shower fixed or not? I got things to do today.”
“Then go do ‘em.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying your best to look down your nose at him while being completely submerged in his shadow.
“Don’t be stupid,” is his retort, “I’m offerin’ you help.”
“Don’t need it. And don’t call me stupid,” you snap.
“You gonna fix the shower yourself?” Bucky challenges, tilting his head at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as his eyes sweep up and down your figure, taking in your thin tank top and rolled up boxers.
“Maybe,” you throw at him, though it lacks the previous bite. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up.
“Then at least let me watch.”
Your spine locks as a jolt of something new and strange spreads through your body. Your brain decides now is a good time to remember just how attractive he is beneath the oil and dirt and rough demeanor — especially when shirtless.
“That’s — I don’t — you—“ stammers out of your mouth. Bucky responds by pushing past you into your trailer. You stumble into your couch, still struggling for words as he fills your little kitchen with his wide shoulders and long legs, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. He sets the toolbox down on your table, briefly glancing at your half-made dinner.
“Smells good.”
His gruff tone is a sharp contrast to his casual words. You shake your head, though you feel like you could use a solid smack to the face. “Do you normally go around bargin’ into your neighbors homes?” you ask, slightly breathless. He looks at you, amused.
“When the neighbors are bein’ dumb, yeah. This the bathroom?” He points to the pocket door on his left.
“I told you not to call me—“
“Stupid, I know. I didn’t call you stupid, though.”
Your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, watching as Bucky pulls open the bathroom door and squeezes into the tiny room like it’s his house. The sound of the shower turning on comes a second later.
“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you grit through your teeth. “You got a hearing problem, old man?”
From the bathroom, Bucky chuckles, soft and deep. “Old man,” he mutters to himself before shutting the water off and reappearing, eyes pinning you in place. “I can hear just fine. Heard all of your cute little temper tantrum the other day.“
Your entire body flushes against its will. ”Then why are you here?” you demand. Bucky begins rifling through his toolbox.
“You asked me to fix your shower.”
“Yeah, a month ago,” you scoff. “And before I knew how big of an ass you are.” Bucky’s mouth does that half-smile again as he picks up a wrench. It might be the same one you imagined hitting him over the head with.
“That ain’t very nice,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. “You hardly know me.”
Your lip curls. “And you don’t know me, but you already decided I wasn’t worth your time.”
He exhales heavily, swapping the wrench for another one and weighing it in his hands. “This again?” But before you can let out the blood-curdling scream that’s been building up inside of you, he sets down the tool and turns your way, shoulders set and face stony. “Look, if I hurt your feelins by not takin’ your invite, then that’s on you. It ain’t personal, neighborhood bondin’s not really my thing as you could probably tell—“
“Unbelievable,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. “First of all, I know you’re lyin’ — Wanda said you’re always around when somethin’ is goin’ on. Second, you’re completely missin’ my point.”
“I was gettin’ to it,” he says louder, pointing a sharp finger at you. “But it seems you have a habit of jumpin’ to conclusions before hearin’ a person out.”
“Hearin’ a person out!” you cry, throwing your hands up; the sarcasm drips thick into your tone. “When would I ever be able to hear you out when you walk the other way when you see me comin’?”
He levels you with a hard look, blue eyes burning into yours. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, unwelcome and distracting, but you hold your ground.
“I don’t do friends,” he grunts, “I’m not good at bein’ one and I’m too busy for ‘em anyway. Fixin’ your car that day, I could tell that’s what you were lookin’ for, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea in your head.”
You laugh, dry and harsh. “Well, you certainly got your point across, Bucky.” His hand twitches, a quick clench and unclench of fingers; you observe it coolly, eyebrow cocked. “You know, for a guy who “doesn’t do friends,” there are a lot of people in this park who think you do.”
“That’s different,” he’s quick to say, brushing it off, “I’ve known ‘em for years. Thin line between familiar and friends, not my fault if they pick one and I pick the other.”
You scoff.
“Sure, okay. So what happens in, say, five years — when I’m still livin’ across the park from ya?” you ask, taking a bold step forward. “Will I get grandfathered in to your half-assed friendship, or will we still be goin’ at it like this? ‘cause I’m startin’ to think it’s less about you bein’ anti-friends, and more about you not likin’ me.”
“You won’t be here in five years,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “This place ain’t anythin’ more than a pit stop on your way to somethin’ else. You’re young — real young — still got most of your life ahead of you, some great, big future out there somewhere, but it ain’t here. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”
With an inaudible crack, something shifts inside your chest, something heavy and painful as memories of your past flood your thoughts, ruthless and relentless in their intention to hurt. You pull your arms in close to your body, feeling goosebumps on your skin.
“You don’t know anythin’ about me and my future,” you tell him quietly. He shrugs.
“Maybe not, but I know restless when I see it. And I know grit. You’ll want something better eventually, and you’ll go after it.”
The silence that follows is deafening. You look everywhere but him, unwilling to show him just how much his words got to you, but he keeps his eyes steadily on you, unblinking, unwavering, like he’s finally noticed you for the first time and needs to learn everything he can about you in this very moment. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his thick hair and frowning at the floor.
“But…I think maybe I was…doin’ too much. I didn’t see it that way before, but I do now,” he says, still gruff, but softer now. “Lemme fix your shower. To say sorry for bein’…for bein’ an ass. I know what it’s like to be ignored…and I should’ve realized how things might’ve come across to ya.”
You exhale shakily. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. You look away, struggling to separate the sting of his words from the peace offering in front of you.
“Alright,” you relent, packing up the pain and setting it aside. He nods before picking through his toolbox again. You shift your weight, feeling awkward and out of place in your own home. Clearing your throat, you bravely add, “Does this mean I can expect a wave in the mornings?”
Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat that could pass for a laugh. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Just because I’m sayin’ sorry doesn’t mean I take back what I said about bein’ friends.”
“Yeah. You’re a grumpy old man who likes to be alone. Got it.”
He tosses you a look over his shoulder, equal parts irritated and amused, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from acting on the hurt simmering inside of you. As the fight in you deflates, you take a few careful steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky sorts through a handful of knuts and screws. “So…” you start, searching for a stop to the thoughts inside your head, “what’d you end up doin’ that night?”
“What night?” Bucky grunts.
“The night we were drinkin’.”
He hums, pocketing the screws and picking up a screwdriver. “Finished up a couple projects,” he says slowly. “Got some chores done.”
“Really,” you state, brows furrowed. “Didn’t look like you were up to anythin’.”
He looks at you then and his eyes are unreadable. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you answered the door without a shirt. And you were drinkin’ a beer. The beer I left at your door when you were too scared to answer it, by the way.”
Bucky snorts. “You askin’ for a thanks? I had my head under car hoods all day. I think I deserved a cold drink.”
He turns for the bathroom again; this time, you follow, hovering in the doorway as he starts loosening the shower head from the pipe. “Do you always answer your door halfway to nude, or did I just get lucky that day?”
Bucky laughs, really, truly laughs. Whatever burdened expression you were wearing is wiped clean off your face as you bask in the sound of it.
“It’s called laundry, sweetheart. I smelled like a wet dog on an oil rig after workin’ twelve hours in the heat, and I didn’t care to sit in it any longer.”
“Still,” you mutter, watching as he catches the unattached shower head before it drops to the ground, “you could’ve put on a shirt before greetin’ me like that.”
“Like you’re much better,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you; again, his eyes rake up and down shamelessly, but this time it feels more concentrated, observant. The blue looks a shade darker than before. You gape at him.
“It’s — well, I’m just—“
“Doin’ laundry?” Bucky supplies quietly. You snap out of it when he turns back to the shower, pulling out his screwdriver.
“Whatever,” you grumble, feeling hot, “just let me know when you’re done.”
You leave him in the bathroom to pick up where you left off chopping vegetables. You should probably have a clearer head when handling a knife, but you’re too riled up to sit still and wait for him to finish. What was that look about? He says he doesn’t want to be your friend, then he stares at you like you’ve got something he wants. Is he waiting for you to snap at him again, or is it something else?
You’re silent while you work, just the radio and the sounds of Bucky working on your shower filling the trailer. Every now and then you’ll hear the water run, or a hushed curse under his breath. You’re just turning off the heat on the stove when he steps out of your bathroom and puts his tools away.
“Pressure’s fine now,” he tells you, snapping the toolbox shut. You turn to him, hands on your hips.
“Mind if I check?” Another half-smile from him as he gestures for you to go ahead. You shuffle past him, brushing his shoulder as you go. You’re shocked to feel how warm he runs, almost hot to the touch; your cool skin begs you to step closer. In the bathroom, you turn the handle and are pleasantly surprised to see water shoot out at a mostly normal rate.
“Nice work,” you call out before turning it off. Bucky’s waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the table with his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. “What?” you can’t help but ask, stopping in your tracks.
For the first time since meeting him, Bucky looks slightly put off, like a thought’s crossed his mind that he’s wondering if he should voice aloud. “Are you—“ He clears his throat. “Where were you before this?”
You blink. You haven’t heard that question in a while. “La Junta. But I grew up in Dodge City.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Got family there?”
“Maybe,” you shrug. “Couldn’t tell you where my daddy is. Mom’s got a new boyfriend, don’t know if they moved.”
“What about you? You got a boyfriend?” he murmurs, examining his dirty hands.
“I wouldn’t be askin’ you for help if I did,” you answer, blinking, and you turn back to your food to hide the heat crawling up your face. Bucky hums. Then, to your immense surprise, you hear him ease himself into the tiny chair at your table.
“So you’re on your own,” he comments, as if what he did wasn’t completely at odds with your earlier conversation.
Your shoulders tense instinctively. Well, isn’t this just ironic? The man who made you feel lonely wants to know how lonely you are.
“Could say that,” you respond slowly, “but Donna and the others have been real welcoming. They say the door’s always open.”
You hope he catches the barb in your words, the subtle call out, but Bucky just sighs. “Yeah, they’re like that. Would give you the clothes off their back in the middle of a snowstorm if you needed it. Good people — too good, sometimes.”
“Nobody can be too good,” you say, eyeing him over your shoulder. “I think the world could use a few more people like them.” He meets your gaze before dragging it down your figure again, but it’s softer this time, less analytical and not necessarily uncomfortable. You quickly turn back to the stove. “Didn’t take you as the type to chit chat,” you quip.
“Oh, am I bein’ too friendly now?”
“I thought you got things to do today.”
“I do,” he grunts. “I’ll get to them.”
It hits you suddenly that you’re not sure if you want Bucky to leave yet. When you chance another glance at him, you’re struck with how comfortable he looks sitting there. His broad frame takes up a whole side of the table, and he’s slouched down just enough in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he owns the place, like he knows the inside of your trailer well, like he’s familiar with the way you move around the kitchen.
A teasing smile makes its way onto your face. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re lookin’ for a friend to pass time with—“
“Don’t be difficult,” he mutters, head tilted as he crosses his arms; his biceps bulge, the golden skin stretching like an invitation for you to touch, taste, bite—
“You sure like givin’ orders, huh?” you remark, matching his stance. Those blue eyes find yours and don’t let go.
“Only when it’s needed,” he says, voice lowering to a pitch that could rumble the floors beneath your bare feet. To your chagrin, it goes straight to your gut, settling there with a deep heat that awakens something inside of you. You scramble to push it down, afraid of the truth showing plainly on your face.
“Bossy,” you mutter under your breath, looking away. Bucky chuckles, somehow making it worse.
“Somethin’ tells me you don’t do well listenin’ to others.”
Your hand tightens over the plate you’re pulling from the cupboard. “Yeah, well. Most people tell you to do things ‘cause it’s better for them, not for you.”
He hums. “You listened pretty well to me.”
Your cheeks flush. “Judgment error,” you mumble.
“Did you get the new battery like I told you to?”
“Uh…” You have the grace to look sheepish because, truthfully, you forgot. You close your mouth before telling him that if he hadn’t completely derailed all of your rational thinking with his avoidant behavior, you’d have remembered.
“I stand corrected,” he mutters, pushing out his chair. Bucky only needs to take two steps until he’s looming over you, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He takes your hand in his and places the card there before his fingers slide to your wrist, gripping tight. “Rogers’ garage on Miner Street. I want you in there this week for a battery change. Unless you’re tryin’ to blow that hunk of junk up.”
You gulp, looking down at where he’s holding you. “I have work,” you whisper.
“After work, then. I’ll be there.” He searches your face, waiting for your confirmation. You nod, but he doesn’t let go. A moment passes where it’s just the two of you breathing along to the soft melody of the radio.
“You’re helping me again,” you blurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into your flesh.
“And?”
You take a steadying breath, your brain picking through your words carefully. “Awfully friend-like, if you ask me—“
Bucky groans, pulling away and leaving sparks along your skin. He picks up his toolbox, giving you a quick glance. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you find yourself desperately wanting to know what it is. But he seems to think better of it and makes for the door, opening it up to the heat of the August evening. His eyes meet yours one last time. “Enjoy your dinner.”
He’s a step out of your trailer when you call his name. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you,” you say in a rush. “For fixin’ the shower.”
A pause, then, “No problem, kid.” The door swings shut. Through the window you see him traipse across the park and to his truck where he tosses the toolbox into the back, then he disappears into his home. Whatever things he had to do seem to be forgotten. Or nonexistent. A smile curls across your face before you can stop it.
The following weeks feel like a fever dream compared to the last month. You find yourself face-to-face with Bucky a number of times, some by coincidence, some by design.
A quick nod as he drives past you in the morning turns into a quick conversation at the mailbox the next day. It’s mostly you talking, but he stands there nonetheless, listening quietly to your unprovoked story of a difficult customer from the other week. Following that, you bump into him on a walk around the park with Wanda, where he manages to crack a smile when you recount how the little kid next door ran you over with his bike earlier that morning. He makes you promise to treat the patch of road rash on your thigh with rubbing alcohol, warning against infection and causing you to blush like a school girl being told off.
A storm rips through the town later that week, ripping off shingles and felling trees, making the lights flicker uncertainly from time to time as the wind batters the side of your trailer. After the worst of it’s passed, you step outside to assess the damage; you think it’s superficial, nothing that threatens the structural integrity of the outbuilding, but you don’t know the first thing about evaluating storm damage.
Luckily, Bucky materializes out of nowhere like he could read your mind from across the park, offering to check for leaks and punctures that could lead to greater troubles down the road. He claims he does it for all of the neighbors, waving off your word vomit of gratitude with a huff and a scowl, but once again, he either forgets about the others, or those intentions never existed, because when he’s finished fortifying your trailer, he sends you a small salute before crossing the park and disappearing back into his home.
A few days later, you find yourself at the mailboxes with Bucky after he came up behind you with a muttered, “mornin’”, and now he’s listening to you talk about your boss’ erratic revamp of the menu. You manage to pull from him that he’s partial to the danish pastries your diner sells, so you knock on his door later that night with a bag full of them and a smile on your face, watching as the tips of his ears glow bright red when you hand them over. He thanks you in that gruff way of his that doesn’t sound grateful at all, but it’s enough for you.
But to your shock, he repays the favor the next evening.
You’re curled up on the couch with a book, listening to the weak clicks of the AC unit in your window, when you feel your trailer give a sudden lurch. Your glass of water topples off the side table, your basil plant spills into the sink. You’re questioning the probability of earthquakes when it happens again — this time more powerful than the last.
When you open your door, the last thing you’re expecting is Bucky — shirtless again — using a hammer to extract the rotting pieces from the walls of your trailer. You call him crazy — it’s ten o’clock at night and he’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift, after all — but he just grunts and tells you that they were an eyesore, that he was getting too impatient not to do something about them. You’d be offended if your body wasn’t humming with a pleased rush of adrenaline from his attention, however workaround it may be.
You spend the remainder of the evening watching from your open door as he fixes up your little home. Despite the cooler night air, he still gleams with sweat from the effort, and you learn to appreciate this quickly; he looks like trouble and heaven wrapped up in the likeness of God’s surliest angel. By no means are you religious, but all other explanations for how a man that looks like that winds up in your yard seem to defy natural laws. Watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he tears the siding off its hinges, you’re convinced a higher power had to have intervened for this moment to happen.
You’re all too eager to offer him a beer when he finally finishes. He takes it before sitting down wordlessly next to you on your stoop. Then it’s silent except for the crickets and the bullfrogs, but you find it peaceful rather than charged like it usually is between you.
Up close, the tattoo that once teased you that fateful day that you met is on full display. It’s an intricate piece that extends across his back from shoulder to shoulder; black ink curls around three names written in elegant calligraphy: James, Winnifred, and Rebecca. The longer you stare at it, the more your fingers itch with the need to touch it, to trace the whorls from point to point.
You take a large sip of beer for courage.
“What’s this?” you murmur, the tip of your pinky barely grazing the ‘a’ at the end of Rebecca. You feel Bucky tense up beneath your touch, and you know right away that you’ve crossed a line, possibly tearing down what little you’ve built since he fixed your shower. You wait for the blow to come, for the other shoe to drop, for him to stand and leave you all alone in the dark.
But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. “My family. I don’t…see them much anymore.”
You let that sink in for a moment. “So you’re on your own,” you comment, using his words.
Bucky hears this and turns, unleashing the full force of those big blue eyes on you. Something flashes across them, and it could be anything: pain, recognition, anger, validation. All real emotions for a situation you’re only too familiar with.
“Yeah,” he finally mutters, looking down. Your gut twists.
Just from that one little word, you could glean all of the history behind him, the past that’s riddled with regret and hurt, and you push against the sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. Too much too soon for begrudging acquaintances. You settle instead for soft words in the form of a distraction.
“Well, except for Donna. She doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone.”
Bucky gives a half shrug, sipping on his beer. “You’re not wrong.”
“Y’know, everyone here kind of adores you.”
“I doubt that.”
“You should hear Donna talk about ya.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up as he glances at you. “That bad, huh?”
“She says you’re the sweetest guy,” you share with him conspiratorially. “That you help out a lot, actually. And that you’re quiet, but you’re really kind when you wanna be—“
“Alright, I get it,” he mutters, eyes scanning the park. “Easy to believe the lie when she says it like that.”
There isn’t any venom to his words, just a simple statement around a beer bottle. You tear your eyes away from watching his neck extend on a swallow, dazedly finding the oak tree. “I know it’s not a lie,” you say, picking at the peeling label of your drink. “I saw you the other day, helpin’ out the Markhams. All of you were laughin’, too. It was…sweet.”
Bucky’s quiet for a moment. He leans back until his forearms rest against the step behind him, stretching out his long torso like he’s asking you to count all six abdominals. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters darkly, and it sounds like a threat more than anything, but the little pout on his face negates whatever abrasiveness he was hoping for. It makes you giggle.
“Uh-huh, sure. I know a big softie when I see one.”
He rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink. “Believe what you want, kid, but I’m not the type to give flowers or sweet nothins.”
Your attention sharpens at his words, a spike of curiosity jetting through your bloodstream. “How else do you woo your woman then?” you tease, just enough to hide the neediness in your voice, the urge to know the answer.
Bucky turns to you, brows furrowed. Then — so quick, you almost miss it — his eyes dart to your mouth and back. The wind shifts, your fingers tingle, Bucky pushes up so that he’s brushing shoulders with you again; you feel like they’re fused together by some invisible, magical weld. He stares straight ahead, elbows on his knees, thumb running circles around the rim of the beer bottle. “Don’t have one,” he mutters.
You blink.
“Really?” His face twists into a scowl. “Huh. Guess it’s hard to believe a good lookin’ guy like you doesn’t have a few crawlin’ all over him. Unless it’s by choice.”
Bucky frowns impossibly deeper, it’s almost laughable. “Why would it be by choice?”
“Because apparently you can barely handle havin’ a friend, or so you say,” you point out.
“Doesn’t mean I’m a fuckin’ loner,” he grumbles. “I just don’t…get out that much.”
“I bet you’d do pretty well for yourself if you did, sittin’ all alone on a barstool with the sad guy look you got goin’ on.”
“I got what?”
“Y’know,” you start with a grin, “the sad guy look. When you’re all mysterious and unavailable. Add in broody, quiet and stares a lot, women will think it’s hot.”
Bucky goes so still, even his thumb pauses.
“Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, looking very thoughtfully at the oak tree. “Is it doin’ somethin’ for you, kid?”
The smile flickers off your face. Oh. Oh no.
“Uh…”
He eyes you sideways, and you know you’re as red as a stop sign. You gave yourself away before you could even go on the defense. You take a big sip to buy you time, but he’s there and leaning into the spot where you skin touches, and all the sudden your thoughts explode in a hundred different directions, because why is he still staring at you, and why is he actively getting closer, and why, for the love of all that’s good and holy, does he still not have a shirt on?
You think he’s never paid closer attention to you before now, and he’s destined to see through your lie when your face is there to direct him to the truth. So you gamble on a half truth.
“I think it’s a pretty universal thing to be attracted to,” you say with a shrug, giving a mediocre performance on playing it cool. He hums.
“But do you like it?” Bucky presses softly, and your stomach drops into a flip. The wind shifts again, and this time, you can feel something mysteriously close to electricity buzzing back and forth between your skin and his. Why does he care? you ask yourself, as if you know the answer.
“I…” your voice wobbles traitorously, but you know there’s no way out of it now, so you’ll go down swinging. You turn to him, and your eyes connect like a head on car crash: dangerous, devastating, impossible to look away from. “Yes,” you whisper.
He smiles faintly. “Thought so.”
“Please don’t,” you groan.
He chuckles but doesn’t look away, and you’ve already developed Stockholm Syndrome from being held hostage by his gaze. His reaches out to brush a hair from your face, natural, instinctive, and you’re holding your breath without even realizing, feeling the zip of chemistry from the tips of his fingers as they touch your cheek. You’re so close, you could lean in and brush noses with him if you had the nerve to. Or more, which you’re starting to think about—
“You might be the prettiest thing this town’s ever seen,” he murmurs, low and rough, and oh, does your heart try to leap out of your chest and drop into his hands.
You feel your cheeks flush, your sense of reality growing hazy, because is this really Bucky Barnes sitting in front of you saying that?
But he pulls back before you can even think of a response, chancing one last glance at your mouth before silently falling back into position next to you.
For a while, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t push him to. And when your finger brushes the ‘a’ again, he leans your way. Your mind is oddly free of thought as you trace the names gently — you’ve probably gone into shock over him letting you touch him like this. You’re not sure what compelled you to do it, nor what convinced Bucky to allow it, but for a few quiet moments, you feel yourself breaking through one of the walls he had up between you. You wonder if he feels it too.
Later, after he calls it a night and you’re lying in bed, watching as the patch of moonlight crawls across your ceiling, you feel like maybe he was right — maybe you weren’t going to be friends. Because maybe you were always meant to be something more.
Saturday arrives with a bang as thunderstorms roll through the county and soak everything in its reach, but by the time your shift ends, the sky has opened up to an endless portrait of oranges and pinks and purples. You take the scenic route home, windows down to let in the smell of earth and rain, and a smile on your face that hurts your cheeks and feels dangerously close to permanent. A stack of pastries sits in your passenger seat, boxed carefully and tied with a string to keep them from sliding.
When you pull up to your little trailer, Donna’s waiting for you outside your door. She descends on you immediately, taking the pastries from your hands and whisking them away to the middle of the park where the neighbors are setting up for a barbecue.
“Thanks, hun!” she calls out. “Now get outta that rag and put on somethin’ cute — we’re dancin’ later!”
By the time you emerge from your trailer, uniform swapped for something lighter that sways in the wind, the park party is in full swing. Donna’s taken up the mantle as the Chief of Staff of the buffet line, Viz is unloading cases of sodas and waters from the back of his truck, little Mrs. Markham tenderly sets up a s’mores station for the children, and Wanda’s tossing strings of lights through the limbs of the oak tree.
You rush forward when she gets tangled up in a line, stopping the threat of a hard tumble by unwinding it from her ankles. Wanda grimaces. “Thanks. Guess I can forget that career in the rodeo.”
Viz perks up from filling a cooler with drinks. “I wouldn’t say that, honey. You’re a hell of a cowgirl to me.”
Wanda blushes as red as her hair while you fight back a laugh. “Viz,” she mumbles, but her husband just sends her a wink before turning back to the cooler. “Sorry,” she says to you, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “He can be…pretty affectionate when he’s home.”
You shake your head, smiling. “No, don’t be sorry. I think it’s sweet.” Your fingers work with hers to straighten out a knot in the lights. “Is he gone pretty often?”
She nods. “Three weeks of the month, usually. Long-haul truckin’ definitely wasn’t our first choice. It’s dangerous, and the time apart can feel painful. But the pay’s decent and…well…” She looks around cautiously before leaning in. “We’re tryin’ to start a family.”
“Wanda,” you breathe, eyes wide. She hushes you gently, but she’s smiling now.
“I know. But you can’t tell anyone — especially Donna. She’ll make it a whole thing.” She scrunches her nose adorably.
“My lips are sealed,” you vow, miming a zipper closing across your mouth.
“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Now let’s get the rest of these figured out.“
After several more attempts at lassoing lights onto branches, the two of you end up abandoning that plan and decide to treat the trunk like a maypole; each of you take hold of a string and run circles around the tree until not an inch of bark is visible. Your side splits from laughter as you try not to trip over the exposed roots, chasing after your newfound friend. You collapse onto the grass after, knocking shoulders and gulping down air as the rest of the neighbors start to mingle around you. The smell of grilled meat and oil lanterns fills the air. Conversation is a constant hum that provides a comforting white noise. Children race across the grass, dragging bubble wands behind them and leaving a whimsical trail for the lightning bugs to follow. You take a look around the park, at your friends and neighbors sending you easy smiles and carefree waves. They don’t know the quiet impact it has on you, what it means to be on the receiving end of their kindness. It’s like they’re standing at the open door, waving you in and welcoming you home.
Viz comes over and hands you both a water. You take it with a muttered thanks, grateful to have something to distract you from the swell of emotions rearing up inside of you.
That’s when you hear it: the sound of an old engine revving up the hill. Your breath hitches as you watch the brown truck pull into the lot, Bucky’s figure shadowed by the setting sun behind him. Your lips part when you notice he isn’t alone.
The truck comes to a stop next to Viz’s. “Ah,” he says, pushing himself up from the ground. “Finally. Bucky’s here with the good stuff.”
Bucky jumps out of the truck with the ease of a seasoned cowboy dismounting from his horse. Dark shades cover his eyes, but he flips them up as Viz approaches; they shake hands, Bucky clapping Viz on the back. “Good to have you back,” you hear him say, a crooked grin on his face. In the back of your mind you know you’re blatantly staring, but this is new material that your curious brain is desperate to consume. His passenger comes around the other side of the truck, a tall, broad man with sandy blonde hair and oily jeans that give Bucky’s a run for their money. His face is weathered and chiseled like the driver’s, but there’s a softness to it that begs you to trust him, like all of your problems could be solved with just a look.
“Steve,” Viz greets, extending a hand. The newcomer shakes it, grinning.
“Good to see you again, Viz.”
You’re drawn back to Bucky as the other two catch up. His blue eyes sweep across the park, intentional and analyzing. When they fall on you and Wanda, he goes still for a moment. A part of you shrinks in fear, your heart racing in your chest when you remember the last time he picked you out of the crowd.
But Bucky’s hand comes up in a simple two-fingered wave. Wanda waves back. “Hey, Buck!”
“Wanda,” he says in that low tone of his, but his eyes never leave you. “Hey, kid.”
“Hi,” you answer, the faintest trace of a squeak in your voice. Bucky nods, an indefinable look on his face, before turning back to the truck and opening the back. Viz gives a whoop of delight when he sees the kegs waiting to be tapped.
“Right on time, Barnes. You did good.” Bucky shakes his head.
“This was all Steve. That red-headed bartender at Bruce’s is sweet on him.” Bucky’s companion chuckles, bashfully ducking his head.
“Nat’s just a friend.”
“Yeah, pal. Be sure to thank her extra nice for us when you’re at her place tonight.”
The party really takes off once the three men drop the kegs near the coolers. The rest of the group crowds around it like bees on honey. Wanda recruits you to set up a table of solo cups and sharpie markers, but you’re not much help for the urgency she needs. You’re finding Bucky lifting 160 pounds of beer like it’s a sack of feathers to be very distracting while trying to un-stack cups.
Viz christens the first keg with a spray of foam that everyone groans at, but his effacing smile tells you there’s very little that could dampen his spirits, including a botched keg. He quickly fills two cups (of mostly foam) for you and Wanda, and you laugh when she cheers you to “the rodeo life.”
You toss it back like medicine, hoping the alcohol clears your mind of the mysterious haze of self-awareness and poor attention span that Bucky brought with his arrival. The beer dribbles down your chin, and as you move to wipe it off, you glance up.
As predicted, your eyes find Bucky standing a few feet away; by all accounts, he’s locked into a conversation with Steve and Patrick that requires all of their heads to be pulled close together. But while Steve and Patrick exchange enthusiastic words, Bucky’s tight-lipped while staring at you.
You blush, an embarrassed smile flashing across your face while you use the back of your hand like a napkin. You expect him to look away, like a normal person does when they accidentally catch eyes with someone, but he doesn’t. He coolly takes a sip of his own drink, a muscle ticking in his jaw while he watches you. A ripple of heat runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather; it’s reminiscent of the feeling you had when his hand held tight to your wrist in your trailer, but it’s like it’s been cranked up to level 1000. When he swallows, you can see the tip of his tattoo curling at the base of his neck, and your fingers give an involuntary twitch as they remember the feel of it beneath them. Bucky shifts a half-step in your direction, and for one delusional second, you think he’s going to come over. But Donna wanders into your line of sight before the heat of his gaze can fully brand itself into your skin.
“Can I get your help with the salad? Mary went to get more plates.”
You’re dragged away before you can say a word.
Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky always seems to be on your periphery. Wherever you turn, he’s there, just a few feet away. Not close enough to warrant a conversation, but not far enough to be coincidence. You know the park isn’t big, but the proximity seems constructed, considered, careful, especially when you can feel his eyes on you at all times. When you refill your drink, he’s finishing his. When the line for the food forms, he’s three people behind you. When you pass by with a tray of desserts, he steps out of the way wordlessly, pulling Steve with him before you can excuse yourself. And he watches you go.
As the sunset melts into twilight, and Wanda’s lights begin to steal the show, you find a chair next to the speaker softly playing Fleetwood Mac. Across from you, Viz is coaxing Wanda into being the first ones to dance; she shakes her head, adamantly against it, but allows him to pull her from the chair anyway. Donna has a content look on her face as she oversees cleanup, which she shooed you away from almost immediately. Bucky’s coworker is doubled-over with laughter listening to Mr. Gonzalez’s tale of a fishing trip gone wrong. But Bucky is missing.
Your eyes scan the park instinctively, even delving into the dark corners between trailers or the full parking lot on the other side. You’re halfway out of your chair — to do what, you’re not sure — when you hear something drag across the dirt.
Bucky pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside you before you can blink. He has a fresh beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, which he tucks into the front pocket of his red flannel.
“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he murmurs in greeting, observing the party in front of him. You can smell traces of smoke on him, layered beneath the scent of oil and something that reminds you of the woods behind his trailer.
Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand. “Yeah, this is great. Never been to something like this before.” Bucky settles into the chair, his knees spreading wide until one just barely grazes yours. “Did you guys close up the shop for this?” you ask, nodding toward Steve.
“Have to. Otherwise Donna would have our asses.”
You laugh softly. “Yeah, I got the impression this is pretty important to her when she made me RSVP.”
A ghost of a smirk flits across his face. “Her and Harold used to host this every year. After he died, she dug her heels into keepin’ it a tradition since it meant so much to him. Hard to say no to her when she’s got her mind set on somethin’.”
“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I just thought she really likes barbecues.” Bucky laughs into his drink, and you nearly preen at the sound. “That’s really sweet, though. I wish I could’ve met him.”
“He was a good man,” Bucky agrees. “Had a lot of strong opinions about things I had no idea about. Most of it sounded crazy to me, but I ended up learnin’ my fair share from him.” He looks sideways at you. “Taught me how to use a lawnmower.”
“Really?” you laugh in disbelief. “When was this?”
“Maybe four years ago,” he says.
“Oh, shut up, you’re just lyin’ now. You build cars from scrap metal for a livin’ — there’s no way you didn’t know how to run a lawnmower.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t have a reason to until I moved here,” he says simply, like that explains the issue.
“Whaddya mean?”
He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of beer, looking past the party at the woods beyond. “There’s no grass where I come from.“
Your head tilts, eyes assessing his profile. The lined planes of his face remain as impassive as ever, but his shoulders don’t meet his ears like you expect. He seems relaxed — or at the very least, prepared — for your inevitable follow up question about his past.
“Where you from, Bucky?” you ask. He opens his mouth, but you quickly point a finger at him with a sudden burst of inspiration. “No, wait. Lemme guess…El Paso.”
The corner of his mouth curls up. “No.”
“Hmm,” you take a sip of your drink, pretending to take your time considering his accent like you don’t already have it memorized and catalogued neatly into a quiet corner of your brain. “Amarillo?”
“Nope — not Texas.”
You pout. “Gimme a hint.”
“East coast.”
You stare.
“Give up already?” he teases, but you wave him off.
“East coast, no grass, bad manners—“ Bucky snorts. “You from Jersey or somethin’?”
“Worse. Brooklyn.”
Your jaw drops. You weren’t expecting that answer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re not from Brooklyn.”
“Born and raised,” he mutters with a grin, amused by your response.
“But how do — where did you — you don’t sound like — what?”
“A story for another time.”
He’s still smiling, but there’s a shuttered look in his eye that doesn’t come from sitting next to you; it comes from revisiting ghosts in your mind while the world moves forward without you. You sit back, occupying yourself with another sip of beer while he comes back to the present.
“For what it’s worth, you can push a lawnmower like a sonofabitch now,” you venture.
He laughs, and your heart swells as you listen to it. It’s surprisingly high-pitched and breathless for a man as big as he is, but it contains something childlike that sounds tragically beautiful to someone who never laughed much as a kid. You count the lines around his eyes, you commit the scrunch of his nose to memory, you hold your breath as his knee knocks into yours and stays there.
“You watchin’ me mow my lawn, kid?” he hums into his drink, eyes flashing.
You balk. “I never said that—“
“You’re implyin’ it.” His husky voice encourages the color in your cheeks to saturate.
“It’s just somethin’ I noticed in passin’,” you plead. He takes mercy on you, for once.
Shaking his head, he mutters, “How’s the diner? It’s Tony’s place, right?”
“Yeah — do you know him?”
He purses his lips in thought, watching as the Markhams begin a slow sway on the makeshift dance floor while Wanda and Viz twirl around them. Several other pairings have joined in on the fun, spinning and dipping and waltzing along to Dire Straits.
“I know him…not very well, though. Friend of a friend, more like,” he adds, nodding at Steve. Then he clears his throat, offering you his drink when he sees that yours is now empty. “He a — he a good boss? He’s not doin’ anything he shouldn’t, right?”
“He’s fine,” you share, accepting his cup with a blink. You’re hyper aware of your lips hugging the rim exactly where his did as you take a sip. “Likes hearin’ the sound of his own voice, but that’s the worst of it.”
Bucky nods. “Good…good.”
Donna marches past then with a firm hand on the shoulder of a young teenage boy. The face beneath the crew cut is fifty shades of red, and his hands are covered in — what you hope is — melted marshmallows. Bucky snickers as Donna hauls the boy up to a group of middle-aged women chatting by the tree; one of them, who you can only assume is his mother, erupts into angry chastising as soon as she spots the teenager.
“Uh oh,” you mumble, watching the scene unfold. You can see how the boy takes after his mother as her face transitions to cherry red the longer she berates him. Bucky‘s still chuckling.
“Nate’s always been a trouble-maker, but he don’t mean much harm by it,” he murmurs in your ear. Donna watches with a sharp eye as the mother points a shaky hand in the direction of their trailer, and Nate slinks away, head bowed. “Oh, he’s gettin’ off easy,” Bucky says. “That’s a lot better than facin’ Donna’s justice.”
You grin. “No kiddin’. She runs this thing like the Navy Seals. I almost dropped the potatoes earlier, thought she was gonna spank me,” you giggle.
Bucky’s head whips around faster than humanly possible, the movement so quick it stops the laughter right in your throat.
“Can’t say stuff like that to me, kid,” he says, voice like silk over gravel.
You stare at him. In the low light of the lanterns, you can just see that the blue irises have changed shades into something darker, heavier; they’re locked on you with an intensity that doesn’t match the lightheartedness of the party. You gulp, he notices.
“Why not?” you whisper. And then his eyes drop to your lips, indisputable and poignant. Your breath hitches as the shape of him changes in front of you, as the delicate foundation of a relationship based on tolerance gets crushed to pieces by just one quick look.
“A man could get ideas,” he rumbles softly.
Your heart begins to pound in your chest, echoing faintly inside of your head. The noise of the barbecue fades. “What kind of ideas?” you push recklessly, and your eyes sink to his own mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if in answer.
“Ideas he shouldn’t be havin’ about his neighbor…who thinks he’s an ass.”
“I don’t think you’re an ass,” you breathe. He smiles faintly.
“No? All it took was a few weeks of bein’ your friend to change your mind?”
“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends,” you reply quietly. Something makes him pause, taking the time for a slow inhale and exhale to ground him. But underneath it is pure and unadulterated restraint — you can see it clear as day in the lines of his face, a sailor fighting valiantly against the storm.
“No, I don’t wanna be your friend,” he murmurs. But the words are not a rejection, they’re an invitation.
“Then what do you wanna be, Bucky?”
You bite your lip, and his eyes zero in on the tug of your teeth against the flesh. He leans in ever so slightly, like a magnet’s suddenly activated between your mouth and his, and your body hums with a desperate need to know what he tastes like—
“There you are!” Donna’s voice cuts in. She steps in front of you with her hands on her hips, and you jump in your seat like you touched an open wire. “Well, what are you doin’ sittin’? I told ya we’d be dancin’ later, and that dress looks too good on ya not to swing it around.” She looks at Bucky. “And whaddya know, you’ve got a partner right here!”
Your heart stutters in your chest as she points at him, anticipation already squeezing your lungs at the thought of Bucky’s hands holding you close while you sway gently to the music—
“Come on, Donna, you know I can’t dance. I’m not gonna make the poor girl suffer through me steppin’ on her feet,” Bucky answers gruffly.
The dismissal snuffs out the growing heat in your veins like a bucket of ice water on a candle. Your face drops, your eyes finding the dirt beneath your feet.
“That excuse is gettin’ real old, Bucky,” Donna counters, looking suspicious.
“Because it’s true,” he grumbles. “Not my fault you insist on there bein’ dancin’ every time you put somethin’ together.”
Exhaling shakily, you plaster an apologetic smile on your face as you meet Donna’s eye. “Yeah, actually Donna, I think I might turn in. I picked up a shift tomorrow mornin’ and I should at least try to show up sober.”
You see Bucky turn to you out of the corner of your eye. Donna frowns. “The party’s just gettin’ started, sugar, this ain’t the time for sleepin’.”
Chuckling dryly, you push yourself to your feet, the beer catching up to you momentarily as you take an extra step to steady yourself. You feel Bucky’s hand hover near your waist before you see it. You do your best to ignore it.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. But you know how it is. I got bills to pay and supplies to buy.” You roll your eyes like it’s not physically hurting you to be pulling away from her and the rest of the group, but you can’t be near Bucky right now. Not until you’ve reconciled all of the feelings you’ve felt tonight with the reality of your situation with him. You’ve learned the hard way how logic wins out over emotions, and you’re just sober enough to recognize you need a moment to align yourself with this self-inflicted mentality. You place a quick peck to Donna’s cheek, squeezing her arm. “The party’s beautiful, Donna. Truly, I’m honored to be a part of it. Thank you for hosting.”
She gives you a sad look, one meant to keep you in place, but your feet are carrying you away before you can let it pull you back in. You throw a wave over your shoulder at Wanda, but she’s too busy wrapped up in Viz’s arms to notice. You think some distance between you and Bucky will help to elevate your heart rate, but footsteps behind you put an end to your theory before it can be tested.
“Can I help you?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice light. Bucky’s stride matches yours easily, and he takes a glance at you.
“Thought I’d walk you back.”
You make a face. “It’s thirty feet away, Bucky.”
“Yeah, well, it’s dark out.”
“You can see my door from here.”
“Don’t be difficult,” he rasps like the back and forth is exhausting him. He takes half a step closer to you.
Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing as he walks you to your trailer, just out of reach of the lanterns and music and chatter. You step up to the door but turn sharply toward him when you feel his foot on the little stoop. “Alright, I’m home.”
“What happened back there?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing your face, probably reading right through you. “You were fine and then you weren’t.”
You gulp before bravely sticking your chin in the air. “Nothin’ happened. Just remembered I got work, that’s all.”
“You don’t work Sundays,” he says, shaking his head. Your back meets the door when he leans in. “Why’d you lie to Donna?”
“I didn’t lie, I picked up a shift to help a friend out. And how do you know I don’t work Sundays?” you ask, voice sharper than you intended for it to come out. At least it’s better than cracking on the tsunami of emotions you’re barely holding back.
Bucky blinks at you, going still. You’re not a mind reader, but you can hear the gears turning as his expression evens out into something you can only describe as inescapable resolution. Slowly, so slow you’re wondering if he even knows what he’s doing, he places his hand on the door next to your head; with his arm so close, you can smell how the sun’s baked into his skin, how metal seems to be an undertone all over him. And now his nose is an inch from yours.
“‘cause I watch you,” he murmurs, as soft as the evening breeze. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you can physically feel it, the pressure there, the charge of the unknown next step. Your hands flatten on the door behind you in an effort to hold yourself back.
Your mind plays over the different paths laid before you. Should you lean in? Change the course of this poor excuse of a friendship forever? Should you wait for him to make the move? Let him deal with the consequences of potential bad decisions in the morning? Should you pull away? Give yourself the time to cool off and clean up this mess of emotions following you like a shadow all night?
“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Bucky says. Your eyes refocus on his — his pupils are so wide, you’re afraid you’ll fall into them.
“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.
“Probably better if you don’t,” he answers, a hint of sadness in his tone. You search his face, but it reveals nothing; only his eyes offer any indication that he’s in control of what’s happening.
“You think that’s enough to stop me?”
Bucky’s mouth curves, but it quickly fades away. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”
Then, as quick as it was cast, the spell is broken. Bucky leans back, his fingers lingering on the door. “Have a good shift tomorrow,” he says, voice solemn as he steps down from your stoop. And then he’s walking away.
It takes you a minute to gather yourself. The night presses in around you, cool air replacing the heat of Bucky’s closeness from moments before. With a shuddering breath, you slip into your trailer, closing the door on the party, on your friends, on Bucky behind you.
Endless rain floods the countryside the following week. Roads close, streams overflow, leaks and cracks in the trailers are exposed. You unwillingly enter into a war with a certain corner of your roof, and an empty ice cream bucket takes up permanent residence underneath it as your counterattack.
But every time you have the urge to knock on Bucky’s door to ask for help, something stops you. Flashes of the night of the barbecue, of the suggestive pitch of his voice, of his face a breath away from yours, consume your thoughts until you’re frozen in place with indecision paralysis. The ‘almost’ of it all has you twisted up in ways far more complex than when he tormented you with his indifference.
You go over every interaction in your head like a DVD menu on repeat at three in the morning. You think your signals to Bucky couldn’t have been clearer, yet he pulled away, even after giving you every indication that he wanted it, too. Confusion is too simple of a word to sum up how you feel, and you’re still too riled up from Saturday night to dissect it all head on.
Work offers a necessary distraction — at first. The weather brings in a rush of people seeking shelter from the downpour, which means less time for you to think about where you left things with Bucky, and the hours leave you exhausted to the point of collapsing onto your bed and tumbling into sleep as soon as you make it home. Then you wake up and do it all over again.
Eventually your coworkers begin to notice the toll it’s taking on you. You’re still a novice while they’re veterans, fully acclimated to the ebbs and flows of roadside diner foot traffic, so they urge you to take the first cut of the day after already battling through four grueling shifts that week. You don’t have the energy to fight them. You’re ushered out the door with orders to take a hot shower and a nap as soon as you get home. The rain soaks your uniform instantly as you rush to your car, but it’s still warm enough outside to keep your lips from turning blue as you start the journey home.
While the diner had been bustling with activity, the roads are eerily devoid of other people and vehicles. Most likely due to the flood warnings, but unlike them, you don’t have much of a choice.
You haven’t seen another car in ten minutes when the lights on your dashboard flicker. Your eyes snap to it immediately, recognizing the warning signs that nearly derailed you almost two months ago. A soft whine escapes from your chest as you feel the car begin to shake.
“Come on,” you breathe, pressing on the accelerator. The engine whines back. The radio cuts out, your lights turn off, and the car slows to a crawl. It’s with tears in your eyes that you step on the brakes and put the car into park. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”
Your forehead meets the steering wheel. You get a sick sense of dejavú.
Sniffling, you turn off the car and wait before trying it again. You hear a familiar ticking sound over the patter of rain on your roof.
“Fuck,” you whisper as the first tear falls.
Your mind is too sleep-deprived to come up with solutions. Your cell phone died hours ago because you forgot to charge it overnight. Your body aches everywhere from being on your feet all day, and you think if you tried to walk home, you’d pass out in a ditch after fifty yards. You’re stranded — literally stranded on the side of the road.
So you let yourself cry, great heaving sobs that sound warped and hollow in your little car. While the release feels compulsory, it offers no relief, and that makes you cry even more. Outside, the rain persists its assault on the empty county road.
When your cries have turned into hiccups, you’re left shivering in your wet uniform. A chill has crept through the vents as darker clouds roll in. You hug your arms to your chest, breathing deeply to calm yourself down, but your body continues to vibrate past normal human function. You glance at the back seat, where an old sweatshirt lays crumpled and wedged next to the door. You crawl into the back, extracting the fabric with shaking hands and curling up underneath it. It provides some warmth, but not much.
You don’t know how long you lay there, fighting off exhaustion and self-loathing. You have no sense of time since the clock on your dash powered off with the car. The only things you register are the rhythm of raindrops and your slowed breathing.
And then you hear it.
It’s faint, almost like you’re imagining it. But it grows louder and louder the longer your ears strain to catch it. Your head lifts off the seat, and through the side mirror you spot headlights.
A brown truck with an old, rumbling engine drives past your car before slamming on the brakes. The red tail lights blind you momentarily. It quickly backs up a few meters until it’s parked right in front of yours. The driver’s door opens, and out steps Bucky.
You let out a whimper, your eyes squeezing shut. This isn’t real. It can’t be.
But he’s there pounding on your window, calling your name. You shoot up, shaking again, and lock eyes with him through the glass. Bucky’s dark hair is plastered to his forehead, beads of water dripping down his nose and off his beard. You watch as he takes in your wet uniform, your flimsy blanket, your trembling chin.
“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled through the window. Slowly, you crawl across the seat to open the door. He swoops in before you can say a word; large hands grasp your arms and pull you out of the car. He practically carries you to his, a hand shielding your face from the rain, before setting you down gently on the bench seat of his truck. His touch moves to your shoulders, your throat, then your face, thumbs brushing wet strands of hair from your eyes. “Are you okay?” he demands to know. “Are you hurt?”
You shake your head. “N-no, just c-c-cold. My c-car, it — it d-d-died.”
Bucky’s lips press into a dangerously thin line before he reaches across you to crank up the heat in the truck. “Stay here,” he mutters, then closes the door on you. You whimper again, your eyes following him as he runs to the back of the truck and grabs his toolbox. He reaches inside your car to pop the hood, and then he rolls up the soaked sleeves of his red henley before getting to work.
Burning hot shame floods your body. You don’t need to be a mechanic to know what’s wrong with your car.
Your gaze slides to the empty road past the windshield. The headlights reflect off the puddles of water accumulating on the gravel, creating distorted spots of light in your vision further warped by the sheets of rain. The heat from the vents touches your skin, but does little to permeate the cold that’s seeped into your bones. You slide into the center of the bench, sticking your numb fingers into the slats to warm them up faster. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Bucky’s already closed the hood of your car; he stands in the downpour rubbing his face with both hands. You scurry over to the far end of the bench when the door opens a moment later, and he drops into the seat, drenched and silent.
You don’t look at him, he doesn’t look at you. The rain continues to fall.
Bucky inhales. “It won’t start.”
You clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, inching closer to the heat. Your mind is a mess of fragmented responses.
His hand flexes on his thigh, the scars turning white against his skin. He exhales. “I told you to get the damn thing replaced,” he says, voice so low you can barely hear him. He turns to you, burning a hole into the side of your face with his stare. “I told you to come in to the garage.”
Your eyes sting with fresh tears, but whatever resilience is left within you refuses to let them fall. Not in front of him. “I kn-know.”
“But you didn’t.”
The barely suppressed anger in his voice triggers something in you like a fight or flight response. You meet his eyes and see the storm inside of them that rivals the one outside. Passion not so different from the kind you saw Saturday night.
“I didn’t have t-time,” you say, as calmly as you can. Bucky’s hand flexes again.
“Bullshit,” he counters.
“It’s the truth—“
“No, it’s not. I said to come in after your shift. I said I’d be there. And you still didn’t come.”
You shake your head. “I just — I forgot, okay? I was g-grateful for the help, I still am—”
“Kid, you got an odd way of showin’ your appreciation. Do you actually want the help, or did your deadbeat daddy fuck you up so bad that you don’t know how to accept it?”
There’s never been a louder silence than the one that follows his words. He recoils from it before you can, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world’s been dropped on them, a pained look slashing across his face. Your chin wobbles harder than before as the remark echoes in your head.
“Fuck, kid, I didn’t…” Bucky huffs. His hand crosses the distance of the bench, fingers grazing the skin of your thigh. You smack it away on instinct, but it doesn’t go far, dropping to the leather bench inches from you. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I went too far.”
A single tear rolls down your cheek. You brush it away quickly like it’s an open wound you need to cover.
“Please look at me,” he whispers. The fight in you balances on a razor-thin wire, one side begging you to explode on him, the other offering peace. You find your car in the side mirror, a lone figure of used and abused metal, struggling desperately to just stay alive.
Bucky lets out a heavy breath when your eyes meet his.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. You see the relief on his face mixed with the regret; it radiates off of him in waves. Slowly, you nod, your body trembling from the cold and something deeper. Bucky notices and draws back, his gaze tracing your figure.
“Come here,” he says gently, opening his palm to you.
You hesitate, the fire still burning in your eyes, and he waits.
But not for long. You slide into his arms with a soft grunt, too willingly, too easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, hands rubbing along your arms to bring heat back to them while yours land on his chest. Your head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, your nose skimming the wet skin. He smells like he always does, of oil and metal and pine. You inhale greedily, and it’s like a tonic to your frayed mind, clearing it of the scattered memories of a broken home.
“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers into your hair. Your eyes close.
“I know,” you whisper back.
This silence is softer, easier. You fall into it gratefully as your body slowly begins to relax against him. Bucky’s pure muscle beneath you, but it’s not uncomfortable; you mold to him like you were made to.
He shares his warmth by leaning into you, his nose dragging along your hair; the rhythm of his breaths is stable, even, and yours falls into sync with it naturally. He shifts closer, a hand curling around your waist. Because your history of push and pull dictates an eventual separation, you take the time to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scratch of his beard on your temple, the wet fabric of his jeans brushing against your legs, and you memorize it all, something to hold you over late at night when the loneliness howls at your window and begs to come in like a stray cat. You sigh as your fingers curl into his shirt with every intention of never letting go. Bucky responds with a deep, measured inhale, stabilizing, grounding, human. You soak in every ticking second of this temporary peace. And then his lips, impossibly warm, find the shell of your ear, and your eyes shoot open.
You wait for him to move, to pull away, to gruffly say he’ll handle your car and take you home. He’s done his job, you’re practically burning up by now, and you know he can feel it, too. But he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he holds you closer. Your heart begins to race — not from his actions, but from what you’re about to do.
You pull back slowly, just far enough for him to see the silent permission in your eyes, the wordless request for him to close the minimal distance between your lips and his. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, that steady rhythm halted.
And then he kisses you.
Softly, tenderly, delicately. Words that have never been tied to Bucky before. This hardened, uncompromising man moves his mouth over yours like it’s a gift from the heavens that could be ripped away from him at any moment. A low sound escapes from deep inside his chest, a strained variation of a sigh of relief.
You echo your relief back to him, a barely there whimper against his lips that reverberates down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you closer, while his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. You open for him, physically, mentally, emotionally. He tastes faintly of metal, of smoke, of coffee, of days spent eagerly waiting for him to return home, of long nights tangled up in old sheets, of oversized sweatshirts and stolen bites of food and messy toothpaste kisses. Of a gentleness you’ve craved your whole life. You’re instantly addicted to the brief taste of this improbable future.
His tongue caresses yours and he groans, his hands and lips quickly turning rougher, needier; you welcome it eagerly. A fire’s been lit inside of you, and grows with every stroke of his mouth. You pull at his shirt, he tugs at your waist. You follow his hands as they move you across his lap, your legs bending to straddle him in the tight space of the bench seat, your chest pressed to his. Bucky breaks away from your lips to gulp down air, but one look at you hanging breathless over him eradicates his need to breathe. He wraps a large hand around your neck and pulls you back down. Your hips roll on top of his instinctively as he ravages your mouth, earning you a soft grunt when your center meets the stiff bulge beneath his zipper. He greedily presses down on the small of your back, encouraging you to do it again. And again. And again.
The hand around your throat tightens imperceptibly when you drag your heat across his erection, whining as the jeans provide a delicious friction to your core. He thrusts up into it, as if he can feel it through the layers of fabric. He groans like a starving beast that’s just found the only thing that can satiate him.
“Bucky,” you pant against his lips, an implied request for more.
His eyes flutter open. He looks at you. You think he’s about to completely make you his.
And then he gently pushes you off his lap.
Your body goes cold immediately. From the loss of his warmth and from the sudden change in tension. He unhooks your fingers from his shirt and presses himself carefully against the car door, running a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.
“W-what did I do?” you whisper. He shakes his head, unable to meet your eyes.
“You didn’t—“ He swallows. “You didn’t do anythin’.”
“Then why did you stop?”
He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight white line. He’s mad. Or disappointed. Or something between the two. “Kid, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
You swear you can hear the sound of your heart cracking in two. “But I wanted you to,” you tell him, a tremble in your voice.
“I know. You shouldn’t.”
Your throat tightens. “What do you mean?”
He finally looks at you then, and you see his blue eyes are filled with agony, his face lined with regret.
“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens, but he cuts you off before you can say a word. “I’m old, and I’m poor, and I’m goin’ nowhere in this life. I can’t — I can’t be what you need.”
“You don’t know what I need—“ you start, but he shakes his head.
“Yes, I do. You need a man that can give you the kind of future you deserve for pullin’ yourself out of the shit. Gettin’ tangled up with someone like me will only hold you back.”
You have to bite down on the sob threatening to burst from your chest. Through gritted teeth, you say, “That’s not your decision, though. You don’t know the kind of future I want for myself.”
“Kid, I’m an ex-con with one too many skeletons in the closet. I live on the fringes because that’s the only place that’ll take me, and I’ve got no way out of it. There is no future with me.”
“Bucky, you’re not—“ your voice shatters and splits. “I don’t care about any of that, ‘cause that’s not how I see you. You’re more than your past. What you’ve done doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to want more—“
He barks out a humorless laugh.
“Fuck, I know a lot about wantin’ more. It’s all I do these days, and it’ll all your fuckin’ fault.” His eyes flash as they find yours, vicious with pain. “I’ve wanted you ever since you stood at my door yellin’ ‘bout makin’ my sad, lonely, little life hell. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how I wanted you to do it, ‘cause hearin’ you throw a fit at me was the first time I felt excited about somethin’ in years. And when I’m not thinkin’ about it, I’m dreamin’ about it. About comin’ home to your sweet smile waitin’ for me, and I wake up emptier than I ever felt sittin’ in a jail cell because I know it ain’t real. You got your claws in me so deep that I can’t go a minute without thinkin’ ‘bout you. And I can’t do nothin’ about it.”
All the air has left your lungs, and Bucky’s chest heaves like he stole it from you. He looks like he’s on the brink of imploding, or breaking apart, or jumping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. You reach for him, the only thing you can think of to do—
He flinches back, turning to the window. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“But it doesn’t have to be hard, Bucky!” you cry. “I want to be waitin’ for you, I want—“
“You don’t know what you want, but I promise it ain’t me.”
Tears prick your eyes, hot and painful. “Stop,” you whimper. “Stop tellin’ me what I want and don’t want. You’re not bein’ fair — you’re not even givin’ this a chance—“ He shakes his head quickly, meeting your gaze to deliver the death blow.
“You can argue all you want, but I won’t see it any different. I won’t trap you here with me. This can’t…this can’t happen.”
His words sting like a slap to the face; you reel back, pushing distance between you and him. Bucky lowers his eyes, as if he can’t bear to watch the fallout he caused. Another silence settles in the cab of the truck, this one heavier than the others, and thick enough to strangle you. You lean back in your seat, one hand on the door handle, the other pressing down on your chest, keeping you held together.
“I wanna go home now,” you whisper, blindly staring out the windshield.
He obeys instantly. Bucky’s silent as he shifts the car into drive, From the corner of your eye, you see his face is set in stone, a familiar look from the days he wasn’t speaking to you. You know what it means — he’s already shutting down, already pushing you out of his life again.
The drive to the trailer park seems to stretch endlessly; seconds feel like hours, minutes feel like months, ruthlessly challenging your inherent idea of time. When you crest the hill and pull up to your trailer, your body has gone numb from willing time to move faster.
Bucky avoids your eyes once the truck’s in park. “I’ll have your car brought into the shop,” he mutters, voice monotone and clipped. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”
Your lips press together to steady the tremble in your chin.
He fidgets in his seat, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”
Your jaw clenches, your heart aches, rejection is a slow-moving poison in your veins. And you’re angry.
“Maybe it’s best if you actually stay away from me this time,” you say, ice embedded in every word. He flinches, but you don’t care. You’re sliding out of the truck and shutting the door on him before he can respond, not daring to look back as you trek through the downpour to your home. When you’re safely inside, you stand very, very still, listening to his car idle listlessly before he slowly drives away, taking your heart with you.
The worst part of it all is that Bucky is right.
Never mind the confusion over how a man that shunned you for your kindness could look at you like you were his last hope. Never mind the embarrassment of making the neediest sounds for someone that refuses to hear them again. Never mind the terrible grief you feel for something that almost existed.
What hurts the most is that he’s right. You’ve felt it in your bones since the day you signed the lease to the trailer — your future wouldn’t stop here. The miles you’ve put behind you don’t exist because you were meant to settle.
Make no mistake, you love the trailer, you love the diner, you love everything they’ve given you and everything they stand for. They bought you freedom from a life condemned to shitty boyfriends and stacked pennies and a lingering taste of resentment at the bottom of every numbing bottle.
But there’s more out there that you ache for; still undefined, still obscure, yet it calls to you in the quiet moments between work and sleep.
And Bucky…
You’ve had enough time to reflect on his words that you can read between the lines of them. His life outside of prison started and ends where he is now, whether he wants it to or not. His future has concrete guardrails that won’t budge for a whim or an opportunity, and most certainly not for a girl lacking direction with a history of going where the wind takes her.
You understand what he saw when you hovered over him in the cab of his truck, that look in your eyes that dared him to follow you into the unknown.
His life is figured out. Your very presence urges him to challenge it.
He’s the rock to your balloon. Better to cut the string now than let you wear yourself thin trying to take him with you.
Your realization makes it easier to avoid Bucky, not that you see much of him anyway. Your car appears in front of your home before your shift the next day. No note, no knock on the door, no indication that it was even Bucky who brought it back. You don’t consider tracking him down to thank him, and you’re not sure how you would: he starts leaving for work before you wake up, returning home only when you’re tucked into bed, like he knows your schedule intimately enough to avoid you completely. Remembering what he once said about watching you, maybe he does.
On Sundays, he’s tucked inside his trailer with the curtains drawn tight, his once-pristine yard slowly becoming overgrown with weeds and disrepair that is so unlike him, it would cause you worry if you didn’t know better. When the probability gods smite you both and you’re walking towards the mailbox at the same time, you stop in your tracks, eyes meeting across the park like magnets drawn together. You turn around and walk the other way before you can do anything stupid — like beg him to reconsider. You’d think it would feel good to turn the tables on him, but it feels like ripping out the stitches on a wound that’s far from healed.
Following the mailbox incident, you both become hermits, which is a hard role to take on in a community as active as this one. Donna’s already forced her way into your home multiple times, demanding your participation in some neighborhood event or another. You think if she asks one more time, it might just kill you to see the look on her face when you tell her no.
You escape to work when you can, picking up enough doubles that Tony pulls you aside and asks in his signature beat-around way if you need a loan. For a moment, you consider taking it and getting the hell out of dodge, setting off in pursuit of whatever it is that you’re chasing. But you wouldn’t know the first place to go — it’s hard to find treasure without a map — and abandoning your boss after taking his money seems like a quick way to put the journey to an end before it even starts.
So you tell him about the repairs to the trailer, and he shrugs to hide his relief before approving your fifth double of the week.
The days roll into nights roll into days. Your brain works through a constant stream of food orders and the future and instant coffee and Bucky. Only in the silence of your room in between wake and sleep do you let yourself remember his charged admission to wanting you, or the fantasized future he dangled in front of your face before snatching it away. Sometimes you can barely breathe for the weight of it all pressing down on you, curling in on yourself like he took a tire iron to your gut instead of telling you it isn’t meant to be.
But you’re a resilient girl. So you carry on, always aware of the option of a next step but never knowing what it is.
You’re coming off a seven day bender of double shifts when the next step becomes clear.
The drive home from the diner is silent — you don’t bother turning on the radio these days, and the views of the mountains and forests that once made you feel alive hardly catch your attention anymore. You’re too tired, too preoccupied, caught between your car and an imagined life where you go home to a trailer that isn’t empty.
But an empty trailer is what you’re expecting when you pull into the trailer park. You tumble out of your car, exhaustion sitting heavy on your eyes.
“Where’ve you been?”
You jump a foot in the air, a tight breath tumbling from your lips as you look around for the source of the voice. Bucky’s sitting on your stoop with his knees bent and a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand; illuminated by the moonlight, you can see that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and his face is severe with apprehension. You breathe deeply to settle your racing heart, but the sight of him has skyrocketed the beat all over again.
“Bucky,” you sigh — you’re surprised you could find your voice so quickly. “What are you doin’ here?”
His gaze rakes over you, from your beat up shoes to your hair falling out of its clip, before he takes a large gulp of his drink. “You’ve been comin’ home late. Later than me.”
You stare back at him, wondering where this is going, and not oblivious to the fact that you’d have to crawl over him to get into your trailer. Casual intention at its finest — he’s making sure you talk to him.
“I’ve been workin’ doubles,” you tell him, glancing at the door.
“What for?”
“Because truck drivers make great conversationalists.”
He rolls his eyes and sets the beer down, unfinished. “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me.”
A rush of anger surges through you at the familiar words. “I think I earned the right to be as difficult as I want.”
Bucky stands, taking a step toward you that feels like more than just him closing the physical distance between you. Your breath gets caught in your chest when you see the storm brewing behind his eyes.
“I know you’re mad at me,” he murmurs. “I get it. You can be as mad as you want. But I’m just tryin’ to make sure you’re okay.”
Your chin lifts. “I’m fine.”
He scans your face, searching for the lie under the surface. “You in some kind of trouble?”
A breathless scoff escapes you. “No, I’m not in trou—”
“You need money?”
“What?” Your expression goes sour. “Bucky, no, what the fuck? I don’t need money, I’m just workin’ more, that’s all—“
“Why?” he presses. You growl at him.
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“It’s none of your business, Barnes.”
“Kid, just tell me why and I’ll leave you be—“
“Because it helps me to not think about you!”
The outburst catches him off guard; he leans back like he’s avoiding the blast radius, a frown creasing his face. He runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, and it sticks up at odd angles that a part of you desperately wants to smooth down.
“I didn’t…” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Okay.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding interest in the dried coffee stain on your shoes. Bucky shifts his feet in the dirt next to them. Neither of you move, but you can feel his gaze on you again. “You look tired,” he says.
“Gee, thanks.”
“I just meant…maybe a break from the doubles wouldn’t hurt. You look dead on your feet. You gotta take care of yourself.”
“Right, because no one else is gonna,” you shoot at him. “I think I got it handled.”
“Kid…”
“I can take care of myself, Bucky, you don’t need to check on me just ‘cause you feel bad.”
“That’s not why I’m here—“
“Oh, yeah?” you cut him off with a surge of venom in your voice, watching as he fails to meet your eyes. “Why are you here then? ‘cause I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you to stay away this time.”
Bucky stares past you at the oak tree, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his breaths. “Yeah,” he mutters quietly, “you did.”
“Obviously not, since you’re here.” You finally have the courage to step around him, taking care not to brush his shoulder as you pass him on your way to the door. “Maybe third time’s the charm—“
Bucky says your name, painful yet reverent, and it cuts through the calm of the evening like a knife.
You turn slowly to face him, the keys forgotten in your hand. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, but suddenly, he’s right there, a foot away and looking like the remaining distance is torturing him.
“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You could tell me a million times over and it still won’t work.”
You inhale sharply. “What are you sayin’?”
He shakes his head, testing a cautious step forward, and the little gap between you shrinks. “I’m sayin’ I can’t stay away from you.”
Your heart jumps to your throat. “Bucky…”
“I can’t stay away from you,” he repeats, firmer, more certain now. “I hate myself for it, for not bein’ able to do the one thing you asked of me, but I feel like I’m dyin’ every day I don’t see you. And that makes me hate myself even more ‘cause I know I don’t deserve you — and you deserve more than anythin’ I could give you — but I lose all my fuckin’ willpower when it comes to you.”
His words land like a blow to your chest and a kiss to your cheek. Sharp yet sweet, violent yet comforting. You stare at him, lips parted with a hundred questions and a million emotions.
Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he closes the last few inches between you, calloused hands reaching for your face hesitantly, afraid to overstep, afraid to spook you, afraid to worsen the devastation he’s done. You think about the last time he held you, what it cost you to be haunted with that feeling of forever thinking you’d never get it again, and for a moment, every cell within you screams to push him away. Danger, danger, danger, your instincts tell you, reducing him to nothing better than the boys that have come before him, the ones that let your heart go carelessly only to yank it back when it was beneficial for them.
But this is Bucky. Not the pathetic excuses for men that potholed your journey here. Even when he broke your heart, he did it for you.
His fingers are gentle as you let him cradle your face, a passing look of relief turning his eyes a softer blue.
“I know I told you this can’t happen, and you told me to stay away, but I don’t have it in me to see either of those through,” he whispers, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks. “I’ve had enough of my own restraint holdin’ me back. I spent the last seven years convincin’ myself that I don’t deserve a good life because I threw half of it away for people that don’t give a shit about me anymore.”
He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter shut at whatever memories haunt him. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer, steadier, like he quietly made a deal with his demons to leave him be for the night. His eyes drop to your lips, just a brief glance that could easily be missed, but it isn’t, because you can’t take your eyes off him. Not when you can practically hear his heart beat in his chest, can feel the heat of him beneath his top, the rough skin of his hands reminding you that this is very, very real and not some imagined scenario you’re still stuck in on your drive home. His fingers tighten around your jaw and Bucky leans in to press his forehead gently to yours.
“When you said you wanted me,” he begins, voice rough and hushed, “it was like comin’ up for air after bein’ under for too long. You’re a livin’, breathin’ example of going through shit and still comin’ out the other side of it, and for the first time in years I thought maybe that could be me, too. But I panicked — I pushed you away like I already knew you were gonna leave because everyone else did. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for hurtin’ you like that. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I’m a stupid old man.” He holds you closer, his grip on the verge of leaving marks. “But kid, I’ll give you everything I got, all the time I have left on this earth, whatever you want…if you’ll have me.”
The world tilts a little. You might have stumbled if Bucky wasn’t holding you like you’re the last light left before the armageddon. He’s so close that you can taste the beer on his breath, and you inhale deeply, drinking it in like it’s straight from the bottle. But a small voice is there in your head, providing clarity on the point of contention that drove him away in the first place…
“Bucky,” you whisper, pulling back. His eyes frantically dance over your face, brows furrowed. Your heart pounds painfully against your chest. “I think…I think you were right. What you said in your truck.” Your eyes fall shut. “About me wantin’ more than what I have now. There’s something else out there that’s meant for me and I…I realized I can’t leave it be. That I’ll do whatever it takes to have it.”
He inhales sharply, his large frame stilling against yours. You look at him then, and he’s stricken, balancing on a fragile fence between panic and hope. Your heart aches more for him now than it ever did while you kept your distance, for this rough, immovable, larger-than-life man. Despite the tears, despite the wicked words, despite it all, he calls to you. He calls…
You blink. “But it isn’t what you think.”
As you say the words, something aligns inside of you, a shifting of your soul. It settles comfortably, like it was waiting patiently for you to figure it out. What you’ve been chasing after all this time is no longer abstract or vague. It’s clear as day, as bright as a beacon, and it’s right in front of you.
Reaching up to cover his hands with yours, you thread your fingers through Bucky’s, appreciating the warmth and sturdiness of his grasp. He’s still looking at you frantically, like you might pull away at any second and tell him to get lost. You squeeze gently.
“This whole time I thought a better life meant gettin’ out of the cycle of hell back home. Leavin’ it all behind so I wouldn’t have the chance to become another sad statistic in that shit town, and makin’ my own way so I’d never have to rely on others who only saw me for what I could give ‘em.”
You shift closer to him, until your noses brush, until your lips are ghosting each other.
“And then I met you,” you breathe. “And I realized how lonely it is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved or taken care of or given kindness just because. I wasn’t searchin’ for it when I ran, because I didn’t think it mattered — as long as I could dig myself out of where they tried to bury me. But somewhere along the way with you, it all changed.”
Your hands slide up his arms, slowly, carefully, leaving goosebumps on his skin in their wake. The tension leaks from Bucky as your arms wrap around his neck, a soft sigh escaping from his parted lips.
“The trailer and the job — you’re right, they’re not enough. They aren’t gonna give me the future I want. Because the future I want is a place to call home with someone who can give me what’s been missin’ from my life. And I want it to be you.”
A pause. Heartbeats racing in sync. Your eyes meet.
Bucky’s mouth is on yours before you can register him leaning in, and there’s an urgency to his kiss that you sends a thrill down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, the other maps your body until it finds your waist and drags you closer as he pushes your lips open with his tongue. He moves differently than before, fueled by an emotion that doesn’t fall under a single name, but his determination is as tangible as ever. He’s taking what he wants now.
You pull away with a gasp, forehead resting against his. “Baby,” he murmurs, soft and husky, “it’s already yours.”
Your fingers find his lips and press lightly into wet skin. “You mean it?” you ask with wide eyes.
“I meant every word,” he promises. His hand tugs lightly at your hair, tilting your chin up just how he wants it. “No more stayin’ away. Couldn’t get me to if you tried.”
He seals it with a kiss, demanding and brutal, yet burning with his adoration. Your body’s pulled flush against his and it feels like coming home. Those hard planes fit against your soft curves like puzzle pieces that pledge a lifetime of coming together like this again and again.
You’re panting by the time you pull apart. Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded and full of dark intentions, but you can feel him holding back, testing his restraint, handing you the controls now.
It’s the easiest decision to make.
You pull at his shirt while slowly backing up the stoop. He follows, scooping up the keys you dropped before placing a gentle kiss to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, and unlocking your door. He pulls you into his arms once you’ve crossed the threshold, mouthing at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your breath hitches on little gasps and moans as his hands find your ass and massage it with interest.
Bucky walks you deeper into your little trailer like he owns the place, feasting on your skin and stopping only at the bedroom door. He pulls away to meet your gaze, and you see his pupils are blown.
“Kid, I’m not here just for this,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need you to know that.”
“I do,” you whisper while your heart swells from his words. “But I want this. I want you.”
He groans, backing you against the wall as his brow meets your temple, sighing against your ear as his thigh slides between yours. “I’ll be so good to you, baby, I promise. Lemme take care of you…”
Hands guide your hips down onto the rough fabric of his jeans, easing you across his thigh with a drag that sets off fireworks in your stomach. You breathe heavily as each pass of your clit over his muscled leg fuels the building heat within you. Bucky kisses the hinge of your jaw, the shell of your ear, whispering, “Fuck, I can feel you. Soaked already…drivin’ me crazy.”
“B-Buck— more,” you whimper as you roll your hips, searching for more friction. He grabs your jaw, something just short of gentle, and makes you meet his eyes as he presses you further into the wall. The arousal slides hot and sticky out of you, soaking your panties and sure to leave a mark on his jeans, making you glide faster on top of him. He groans when your mouth falls open in a choked gasp.
“You look too good like this, baby, gettin’ yourself off on me,” he breathes. “So goddamn pretty.”
Heat rises to your cheeks. You reach for him as you hit a new angle that makes your body sing, fingers curling in his hair to bring him in for a savage kiss, a lustful mark of new territory in your relationship; his thumbs dig into the crease where your legs meet your hips, and you can just feel the hard outline of his length straining against his jeans as it presses into your stomach, making your head spin. Bucky’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling a whine from you that he swallows whole.
It’s almost too much. Like jumping off the deep end and not knowing how far down it goes. It’s terrifying, it’s disorienting, it’s perilous. But you still want to touch the bottom. You still want to know where this goes. You want more.
“Bucky,” you exhale against his lips. He holds you tighter. “Make me yours.”
His eyes flash with possession, with desire, with an enduring need that is rooted in something deeper than the lust you share for each other. It’s trust in its purest form. An exchange of souls, an agreement of devotion. Bucky gathers you up in his arms until you’re pressed against him.
“All mine,” he swears, rough and low, and carries you into the bedroom.
Bucky tosses you on the bed quickly before kicking the door closed and leaving the moonlight as the only witness to what comes next. When he looks at you, something’s shifted — something that makes the heat in your core rise to dangerous temperatures.
“Off,” he demands, dark eyes falling to your uniform. You push up to a sitting position, fingers trembling in anticipation as you slide the dress down your body until it crumples on the floor in front of him. Bucky kicks it aside, unable to look away from the sight of you in nothing but your thin bra and panties.
“Jesus,” he breathes, voice rough, licking his lips while he gets his uninhibited fill of your body. “Look at you.”
Your self-consciousness is short-lived when he leans over to press a tender kiss to your mouth, cradling your jaw like it’s a priceless treasure.
“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers.
Your skin is set on fire when a large hand skims your bare thigh, pushing your legs apart until you can feel a cool breeze against the mark your arousal left on your panties. The vulnerability makes you gasp, but his touch is there to keep your legs where he wants them.
Bucky pulls back to watch as his knuckle drags across your center, teasing the ache just on the other side of the fabric that grows more insistent by the second. You’re throbbing for him, failing to hide your wanton moans as your pussy clenches around nothing but air. He moves his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it expertly.
“This mine now?” he asks you, lips hovering over yours. You nod desperately. You’ve never been so turned on it your entire life. “Say it.”
You gulp. “It’s yours, Bucky. All yours.”
“All mine,” he echoes, “been wantin’ her for too long.” He traces your folds until he finds your clit. You cry out, legs spreading wider for him like he pressed the magic button. He swears under his breath before capturing your lips in another bruising kiss.
“Perfect girl,” he rasps into your mouth. You melt beneath him as he plays with your clit through your panties, a pattern of soft circles and hard presses that makes your toes curl.
But just as the pleasure begins to crest, his hand is gone. A sound rips from your chest, half-growl, half-whine, as you’re edged for a second time with no relief. Bucky just smirks and slowly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he reveals his broad chest and tight abdominals, like a curtain being dropped for the grand finale. Immediately, your hands reach out to touch him, the sharp edges of his body, your lips pressing to the center of his stomach before you can help it, and you look at him as your mouth moves lower.
But Bucky cuts the trail off by sinking to his knees in front of you. “You can suck my cock like a good girl another time. Let your man eat first.”
His thumb sweeps across your jaw gently, then pulls at your bottom lip until you suck it into your mouth. He groans as you bite down lightly, tongue swirling its promises for another night. Bucky’s other hand finds the clasp of your bra, popping it open with practiced ease that should frustrate you but instead elevates your heart rate. Your bare chest is eye level with him, and he wastes no time admiring the way your body is illuminated by the moonlight.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and his thumb is tugged from your mouth so that he can cradle both breasts in his hands, the pads of his fingers stroking the delicate skin until goosebumps erupt under his touch and you’re arching into his hold. “Been hidin’ these from me,” he grumbles, thumb flicking your nipple. You whine when his teeth graze the other, soft and gentle, the bark before the bite.
“Bucky,” you whine, “touch me.”
“I am touchin’ you,” he says around your nipple, a smile in his voice as he sucks heavily at the skin. Your hips jerk up, seeking out some sort of friction that he’s not giving yet.
“More, Bucky, please.”
He mouths at your breast, confident, intentional, and mind-blowingly skilled, while his other hand squeezes tightly around the unkissed one.
“You beg so sweet, baby, but be patient f’me,” he mutters, switching sides. You’re inching closer to the edge of the bed, to grind against what, you’re not sure, but your core is dripping with arousal that snakes a heady trail down your thigh while your pussy throbs from the lack of attention. As he laves at your chest, you bury your hands in his hair, and he makes a small noise of satisfaction before moving his kisses lower, down your naval. He pushes you back slowly until your spine brushes the bed, a thin squeak leaving your lips as his hands find the juncture of your thighs and pulls them open wider to settle between them.
His teeth catch on the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you, and you’re outrageously close to coming just from the sight of it alone.
You realize he’s waiting for your permission, so you offer a frantic nod.
“Good girl,” he says through his teeth, pulling the fabric down your legs with swift efficiency until you’re completely naked before him. He sits back on his heels to stare.
“Don’t,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his thumbs rub tiny circles that get closer and closer to your leaking center with each swipe.
“What?” he answers. “Just lookin’ at what’s mine.”
You can feel his gaze like a physical caress on your folds. It makes your back arch, your hips jerk, and he hasn’t even fucking touched you yet. A man who wouldn’t even meet your eye two months ago can’t look away from the most intimate part of you, and it’s making you come apart in ways that should require psychic evaluation.
“Hold still, sugar,” he orders, voice stern and hold unforgiving as he pins you in place.
“But—“
“No.”
You bite your lip, daring to lift your head and meet his eyes. They’re still focused on your aching cunt, watching as it drools so easily for him. And then he leans in.
Bucky presses a kiss to your clit, just a whisper of a touch that has you twitching yet again. But before the first noise of frustration can slip out, his mouth moves an inch lower, then another inch lower, a line of gentle pecks until he reaches your entrance and curls his tongue into you.
Your mind blanks out while your body reacts, thighs clenching around his shoulders, fingers twisting into his hair, every muscle in your body locking up. Oh.
He eats like it’s his livelihood, tongue circling your entrance before digging inside with a precision so intense, it’s like he already knows exactly what you need. His mouth dances there before his tongue revisits your clit, small flicks before heavy strokes of his tongue to get you writhing until the cycle repeats itself. The tell-tale coil in your gut tightens, your orgasm on the horizon.
“Taste so sweet,” Bucky rumbles, his eyes shooting up to find you already watching him. A dark look crosses his face, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, before he buries himself back into your center. You whine, head falling back against the bed.
“How does it feel, baby?” His beard tickles the skin of your thighs. You pant and grip his hair tighter.
“S-so— so good—“
“Yeah? Can my girl take more?”
“…m-more?”
Bucky’s mouth is teasing your clit when you feel the blunt ends of two fingers circle your entrance. Your eyes pop open, and you manage to pull yourself onto your elbows in time to watch as his long fingers sink inside you, making your jaw fall open on a whimper. The feeling of them sliding against your walls immediately unlocks a new level of pleasure that is different from anything you’ve felt before, a level that you know only Bucky could have reached.
He curls his fingers, moving them in and out at a deviously slow pace while his tongue flicks faster and faster against your clit. A cry rips from your throat. The coil in your stomach grows tighter, hotter.
“Bucky,” you warn.
“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles between licks, meeting your eyes again. “Give it to me.”
A soft moan tumbles out of you. Pressure that is as cruel as it is generous snaps like a thread, and you come apart on his mouth like it’s the first time your body’s allowed you to feel alive.
“That’s it,” Bucky mutters into your core, easing you through it, “just like that, sweet girl.”
The pleasure strips you raw until you’re nothing but a live wire, twitching and moaning at every swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. He sighs deeply into your cunt, contentedly, like your release was his release, too.
“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he rumbles, forehead dropping to your thigh as his fingers slowly pull out of you. “Those sounds...Could make a man addicted.”
He pushes up from the floor while you struggle to catch your breath, watching you like a bird of prey that just found its next meal.
The golden skin of Bucky’s torso draws the gaze of your sluggish, post-orgasm brain. It grows closer and closer as he crawls over you, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Or to lick every inch of him. Either could apply here.
He settles between your legs easily, naturally, and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of you.
“Be a doll and get my belt, yeah?” he murmurs against your ear, brushing a kiss to the shell of it. You shiver, your hazy brain finally registering the feel of his jeans on your thighs, and reach down with trembling fingers to unclasp it slowly, the zipper following with a sound that splits through the tension of the hot night air.
He kisses you deeply then, a strong hand around your jaw, your name whispered against your lips.
Your hands drift up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the ends of his hair as he pushes his jeans down, his boxers with them. Your eyes gravitate toward the hardness now tucked against your leg, and all it takes is a quick glance to realize that Bucky is truly a big man in every way. A whimper slips from you as you catch the shiny red tip twitch with need.
“What is it, sweet girl?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s a light in them that suggests he already knows the answer to his own question.
You swallow thickly. “What if it doesn’t…”
He chuckles softly, brushing his lips to your cheek. “It will. You wanna be a good girl for your old man, don’t you?”
“Bucky,” you mumble shyly, cheeks tinted pink as something warm spreads through your stomach.
“I said I’d be good to you, and that’s what I plan on doin’.”
His hands move you effortlessly until you’re flush with him, just enough space for Bucky’s hips to rock with slow, shallow movements, his cock sliding through your folds and coating himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit, and his eyes snap to your face, watching intensely as the mounting pleasure begins to show.
You let out a shaky exhale when he notches his cock at your entrance, lashes fluttering.
“Eyes on me, baby.”
And in an inevitable moment of tenderness, Bucky’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he brings it up over your head. Then he pushes in.
You gasp, Bucky curses softly, a tension leaking from both of your bodies as he finds his sweet relief in your warmth. You’re stretched out right away, and he’s only halfway in, but it’s a fullness that makes you feel complete, rather than feeling intrusive. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer until he eases through your tightness and slides in to the hilt. Your consequential moan harmonizes with his.
With all the restraint left in him, Bucky holds still, feeling the walls of your pussy spasm around his cock. The pattern of pressure could make him blow his load right now if he eased up even an inch on his self-control, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the look on your face as you adjust to him. You’re so beautiful, even with tiny tears slipping down your cheeks, that little crease between your brow. And you’re such a good girl for keeping your eyes on him.
His good girl.
“You okay?” he whispers, kissing away the tear streak on your jaw.
“Yes,” you breathe, blinking. “It feels…you feel so good, Bucky. I didn’t…”
A sound rumbles in his chest as he tests out a soft grind. You squirm instantly, hips rolling to meet his for double the pressure. His cock touches something deep within you that makes the room blur, makes you cry out.
Bucky’s free hand pushes down on your hip. “Sweet girl, if you do that one more time, this is gonna be over before it even starts.”
The pout comes automatically. Bucky kisses it off your face with the eagerness of a teenage boy, sucking your lip and folding your tongue with his as he begins a snail’s pace of little thrusts. Your cunt still pulses around him like it did when he first slid in; it makes him shake as he tries pulling out, only to be sucked back in at the first chance. His hand tightens around yours.
“Oh, God,” you whimper when he gives you a harder thrust.
“Jesus Christ, baby,” he sighs, “so fuckin’ tight, tryin’ to kill me.”
“Keep goin’, Bucky. Harder.”
“Fuuuuuck…” He picks up speed, cock dragging heavily against your walls, hips snapping. You can hear it, the wet slick of your bodies meeting, and it makes your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.
“Perfect pussy,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for me. Can feel it.”
Bucky’s cock throbs while he pounds into your cunt, and the rhythm transitions into something deep and desperate and almost out of control. All the while, you can’t look away from him; even as your body jolts and moves with every thrust, your eyes are glued to the broken expression on his face, the raw vulnerability of him seeking out his pleasure in you while on a mission to give you yours.
“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot suddenly. His mouth descends on your throat, beard scratching at your skin.
The weight on your hip disappears when Bucky grabs your other hand, pulling it up beside the first. His thrusts get impossibly faster as he holds you down, determined to find the sweet spot again, and again, and again, until stars burst in front of your eyes, drool spilling from your lips while you mouth half-formed words that don’t exist.
Bucky pulls back enough to take it in, eyes roving from your face to where your bodies connect to the hands he holds down, and back. “You look so pretty like this, baby,” he pants between thrusts. “All dumbed out on my cock, like you should be. Takin’ me so well.”
You whimper when you feel your stomach tighten, your muscles beginning to lock up in that way only an earth-shattering amount of pleasure can create.
“Gonna cum,” you whisper, the first coherent sentence you can think of. Bucky groans, placing a bruising kiss on your lips as his hips pummel into yours.
“Do it,” he growls into your mouth. “Wanna feel you.”
Your body trembles as it explodes and puts itself back together just to explode again. The corners of your vision go blurry. Your orgasm crashes into you with a ferocity stronger than the last, your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock.
His pace slows as you come back down to earth, but you’re barely given enough time to catch your breath before he’s slipping out of you and turning you over onto your stomach. You whine softly when he pulls your hips up, settling behind you on his knees.
“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he mutters huskily, and you feel his warm breath fan over your lower back. A soft kiss is pressed to the swell of your ass before he palms roughly at it with a strong hand. “Should’ve taken you sooner.”
His hand slides lower until it cups your folds, fingers exploring and rubbing and circling freely, making you bury your face into the sheets when he brushes your sensitive clit. He learns what touch triggers the neediest sounds from you and capitalizes on it until you’re all but wriggling away from him. He catches your waist and pulls you back.
“No no no,” he soothes. “Lemme take care of you.”
Bucky slides a finger into your hole, then a second, just because he can, curling them up as if to hook you in closer. You cry out and he hums in response before his thumb brushes over your other hole, the one that’s tight and quivering from the pressure of his fingers working your cunt.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pushing on the muscle enough to get you careening back into him. “You’d let me take you here, too, wouldn’t you? You’d be so sweet to me, so fuckin’ tight around me where no one else has been…ain’t that right, sweet girl?”
All you can do is jerk your head in a nod. He plays with both holes like he owns them, and at this point, he does. The pleasure that hadn’t really died down from your last orgasm is already on the rise again, spiking and cresting in ways you’ve never experienced before the more he circles that second hole.
“Bucky,” you gasp as he presses down on it; not going in, but just enough to break through the rim.
“Next time,” he says wistfully, pulling his fingers out of you. His cock is there to replace them in a heartbeat, and then he’s pushing back into your pussy like he never left.
“Shit—“ you exhale.
Bucky’s length feels different in this position. Longer, bigger, heavier. You don’t have to look to know he’s making your stomach bulge. He lets you adjust for a moment before taking on a pace that’s steady yet intentional. He finds his grip on you, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your hip, pushing you when he pulls back, pulling you when he pushes in. Smack-smack-smack.
“J-J-Jesus, Bucky, it f-f-feels— t-t-too much—“
“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, grabbing your neck tighter. “Such a good girl.”
He grinds into you, reaching a new depth that has you sputtering on a dry sob, pussy clenching down on him. Bucky groans.
“I know, baby, she’s been waitin’ so long for it. Gonna fill her up…make sure you’re mine for good…keep doin’ it ‘til everyone knows whose bed you’re in…”
His hips jerk suddenly, sporadically, a powerful thrust that bullies the deepest part of you and pushes you up the mattress. A breath expels out of him that could almost be categorized as a whine.
“Fuck,” he pants, “I’ll keep goin’ ‘til it takes. ‘Til you’re mine in every way. Never lettin’ go of ya—“
Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, in your veins, in your ears. You barely hear his words, let alone process them, but they still send a jolt of pleasure straight to your gut. You can’t think of anything but the drag of his cock on your walls, the stretch of your entrance at this new angle, the hold of his hand on your neck that suggests he doesn’t plan no letting you go anytime soon. And why would you want him to?
“Fill me, Buck…please. I want it…” you whisper into the pillows.
Bucky comes almost as soon as the words leave your lips, with a couple of quick, stuttered thrusts before burying himself so deep inside you, you feel him in your chest. His groan is long and ragged as the sticky release leaves his body and enters yours, settling with a finality that leaves more than just a mark on your insides. You sigh deeply as you feel him slowly relax behind you, the last of the shockwaves making his cock twitch as he pulls out. His spend leaks from your entrance and down your thigh, but a quick swipe of Bucky’s thumb returns it to where it belongs.
“Ahh—“ you hiss, but Bucky moves with purpose, gently hauling you up by the neck until you’re cradled against his chest, arms wrapped around your middle. His breathing is heavy in your ear.
“You good?” he mumbles. You only have the capacity to nod, sinking into the sweaty warmth of his skin while he places chaste kisses on your neck. “C’mon, then.”
He picks you up off the bed and carries you to the bathroom, letting you be for a moment to clean yourself up, and you know the image of his bare ass walking away is burned into your retinas for good. He returns with a set of panties and the wifebeater he was wearing before, now dressed in his boxers. He helps the shirt over your head, holds the panties for you to step into, and the act is considerate and intensely intimate, something you weren’t expecting even after the endless devotion you just received from him. His blue eyes watch you closely, softly, still dark from the throes of passion, but free from any haziness and uncertainty. He is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to be doing; there’s no room for doubt, not when you see him look at you like that.
A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder once you’re dressed. He tugs you back into the bedroom, a possessive hand on the small of your back that guides you beneath the sheets. Bucky slips in behind you, enveloping you in his familiar scent of sweat and metal and evergreen, pulling you to him after so many days of pushing you away.
“Bucky?”
“Yeah?”
You bite your lip. “Was it really me yellin’ at you that did it for ya?”
There’s a small pause before you hear a soft chuckle, just a puff of breath on your skin.
“I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t. But…it was also the before, and the after, too. Still bein’ able to have a smile that big and pretty after all the hell life’s put you through. After all the hell I put you through…it’s hard not to fall for that. You’re a…good person to be around.”
Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your skin zings with electricity wherever he touches you. His words are exactly what your soul craves, so much so that it hurts.
“Careful,” you whisper, “this is startin’ to sound like the sweet nothins you say you don’t give.”
You can feel his smile against your spine. He tugs you closer. “Don’t be difficult.”
“Me? Never.”
A few beats of silence pass, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lie next to him without saying a word.
“I meant what I said,” he eventually murmurs, absentmindedly stroking your collarbone.
“What part?” you whisper, lips brushing his hand.
His voice is gruff in your ear, low and tentative. “‘bout not lettin’ you go.”
A smile cracks across your face. “Oh, yeah?…what about the other parts?”
He makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Y’heard that?”
You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s focused on a spot on your shoulder, smoldering intensity written across his face dulled only by a touch of sheepishness.
“I heard all of it,” you tell him softly. His eyes meet yours, dark blue storms drowning you in their path.
“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, licking his lips before placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the back of your neck. You bend toward him like a flower to the sun. “I want you waitin’ for me when I get home. I want you givin’ me hell for being late for dinner. I want you doin’ laundry in my underwear.” His lips brush your skin again, hands wandering beneath his shirt. “I want you keepin’ me up all night, lovin’ on me ‘til I know nothin’ but you. I wanna show you in every way I know how that I can be what you need.”
Your hand curls in his hair, forcing him to look at you. “You already are,” you whisper.
Bucky slots his mouth over yours with a groan, promising tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with his kiss.
sammy speaks again: if I told you this took me two months to write would you believe me? 30k words too like I could have shortened it sammy let’s be real, but I think my body physically rejects the idea of not providing an encyclopedia of a build up. which this seriously is, holy introspection and emotions like can I write normally for once? anyway idk what happened to me but I’m just grateful I’ve finally broken through the funk!
good news is I feel way more open and inspired to write my other wips after signing the dotted line on this one. let me get through a couple shorties and then I’ll be back with one of those!
as always I appreciate all the love and feedback, and thank you again for following this blog❣️
Th was a goddamn masterpiece. I’m utterly blown away by the writing, characterisation, how intricate all of the details were. I’m going to be thinking about this for a WHILE. Bucky fic hall of fame for SURE
pairing: grumpy!trailer park!Bucky x fem!trailer park!reader
warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, smut (soft dom!Bucky, breeding kink, unprotected p-in-v, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, ass play, multiple positions, dirty talk, squint for daddy kink), age gap (r mid 20s, B late 30s), use of nicknames (ex: “kid”), mechanic!Bucky, semi-slow burn, so much angst, arguing, mentions of troubled pasts (ex: bad parents) mentions of prison, mentions of alcoholism, smoking, drinking, no use of y/n
words: 30.2k (WTF!!!!!!!)
summary: When your neighbor saves you from a tight spot, you go out of your way to thank him. You quickly find out that he doesn’t want your thanks — actually, he doesn’t want anything to do with you. The hurt stings while the curiosity burns, but the cracks begin to show when tensions rise. Is it a classic neighborhood dispute, or is there something bigger hiding beneath the surface?
sammy speaks: celebrating 1k+ followers by taking a trip to angst town. thank you for reading and following my blog, I love all you dearly!🤍 also rip to all the letter g’s that did not make it into this fic, you’ll see what I mean
“That doesn’t sound too good, hun.”
Through the windshield, you spot your neighbor standing in front of the hood with a full laundry basket against her hip. Donna’s eyes sweep suspiciously across your car, as if she thinks the ticking of your engine could double for a time bomb.
You groan, your forehead meeting the steering wheel with a dull thud. “I know.”
“What’s wrong with it? Battery dead?” she asks, coming over to your rolled down window. You crack an eye open at her.
“When I know, I’ll tell ya.”
Her answering look is sympathetic.
“Was never too good with cars myself. Harold did all the fixin’ when he was still around. You got somewhere to be?”
“Job interview,” you mumble, the leather digging into your brow; you’re trying not to focus on the sweat soaking through your best shirt, or your growing anxiety over your fast-approaching interview time. Donna shifts the basket to her other hip.
“Could try callin’ on Bucky. He works at Rogers’ garage down on Miner Street. It’s Sunday, so he should be home.”
Your forehead peels away from the sticky wheel. “Who’s Bucky?”
Donna nods toward the other side of the park. “Bucky Barnes. White trailer with the boots lined up all neat outside the door.”
“Have I met him?”
“Doubt it,” she replies. “He works mean hours, leaves before sun up, comes back when it’s dark. But he’s always ready to help a neighbor out when he’s here. Real sweet guy.”
You blow a stray hair out of your eyes. “You think he can fix whatever’s wrong with my car?” you ask, your doubt as strong as your hope.
Donna smiles like she knows something you don’t. “Bucky can fix anythin’ he gets his hands on.”
You turn in your seat, spotting the white trailer with the boots out front. It looks devoid of life, like it was plopped onto that spot of land by a strong gust of wind rather than by human design. The curtains are drawn, vines creep up the paneling, the gate on the far side of the yard swings in the breeze, but there’s a rusting brown pickup parked in front of it. Promising enough.
“Okay,” you say. “Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Got it.”
“Good luck,” Donna says with a grin, tapping your arm before walking away.
You step out into the scorching heat of the late July afternoon and make your way across the park, stepping over discarded children’s toys and overgrown flower beds. As you near the trailer, you see the pairs of boots your neighbor spoke about lined up with military precision, all well worn but still taken care of, not a speck of dust or dirt on them, which is rare in a place like this.
You knock three times on the plain brown door before taking a step back, holding your breath. Grasshoppers hum, the wind whips; you don’t hear anything inside the home for an agonizing amount of time, enough time to double the sweat pooling on your lower back. You’re about to try knocking again when the door finally creaks open.
Out steps a mountain of a man.
Big arms and bigger shoulders, broad chest and long, thick legs. He wears boots identical to the ones outside, blue jeans that are in desperate need of a wash, and a black henley that offers an intimidating glimpse into what those arms are capable of. His dark hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking up in all different directions, and underneath it is a face so unexpectedly handsome, you’re not sure how it ended up in a rundown park like this instead of somewhere on a billboard advertising cologne. Sun-kissed, weathered, and deadly serious, but striking in a way you could never forget, triggering a blush on your already flushed cheeks. And then you meet his eyes: electric blue and narrowed at you under furrowed brows, raising the hairs on the back of your sweaty neck.
“Can I help you?” he grunts, voice low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine.
“Hey,” you say quickly with a 1000-watt smile, showing off your nerves. “Hi. Uh, Bucky, right? I’m your neighbor. I live—“ You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “—back that way. The one with the pink door. Um…I was hopin’ you could help me out. My car, it’s — well, it won’t start. Makes a clickin’ noise every time I try turnin’ it over. Donna said you’re a mechanic and might be able to help.”
His expression doesn’t change. He stares unblinkingly at you.
“I, um—,” you can feel yourself faltering, your heart rate rising as the seconds tick by, “I don’t mean to barge in on your Sunday, but I’m pretty desperate. I have an interview in, like, twenty minutes, and I really need this job. Do you think you could take a quick look?”
He eyes you up and down, assessing. You try not to smile wider in case it leans too close to deranged. “You live here?” he demands. You nod.
“Moved in about a month ago. Sorry we’re only meetin’ now, I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”
You offer your name and stick out a hand. Bucky ignores this, staring past you in the direction of your trailer. You watch as his eyes narrow, like he’s weighing the honesty of your words.
“Look, I can pay you, if that hel—“
“Is it the little silver thing?” he cuts you off.
Your lips part. “Uh, yes. Yeah.”
Bucky grunts and turns back inside, shutting the door behind him. The shock of it leaves you frozen in place, reeling, until he reemerges as fast as he left, carrying a toolbox half the size of you; he holds it easily in one hand like it weighs nothing, but you can hear the stock of heavy tools clanking around inside.
“Let’s go,” he mutters, stepping past you. You struggle to keep up with him as he stalks toward your car, like a man on a mission that he’s already running late for. You sneak glances at him while trying not to trip on the cracked walking path, noting the faded scars on the back of his hands, the ticking jaw underneath his beard, and the very tip of a dark tattoo peaking out from beneath his collar. A feeling churns in your gut.
Everything about him screams rough. Rude. Even potentially dangerous — from his imposing figure, to his curt words, he seems like the furthest thing from what you would call ‘sweet.’
But regardless of Donna overselling his altruism, beggars can’t be choosers, and you’ll call him sweet all day long if it gets you to your interview on time.
Bucky lets out a heavy breath when he sets the toolbox down next to your car. He nods at you.
“Try it again,” an order, not a request.
Your limbs twitch into action like a bee flew under your skirt. Sliding into the hot leather seat, you turn the key in the ignition and are met with the same low ticking noise from before. The lights flicker on your dashboard in protest.
“Terminal clamp.”
You jump, finding Bucky almost cheek-to-cheek with you while he leans through the open door. He’s close enough for you to smell dirt, sweat and something heavier on him.
“Shit,” you hiss in surprise, but he’s already pulling away and moving toward the front of the car.
“Pop it,” he calls out.
You exhale slowly and do as you’re told. Sweet, your ass. Bucky lifts the hood and locks it in place before bending over the hot engine, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.
You step out of the car, hovering near the door but craning your neck to watch. “Terminal clamp?” you repeat.
Bucky takes a moment to respond, long fingers moving deftly through the cables and wires and plugs and bolts. He unscrews something, and steam leaks out.
“On your battery,” he grunts. “The part that connects it to the wires. It’s rusted down. Look.”
He beckons with two oily fingers crooked in your direction. It’s borderline crass, and you find yourself hurrying over without argument. Bucky’s mouth is set into a hard line as he watches you gaze down at the engine, looking without really seeing.
“There,” he points impatiently to a black box near the front. Your eyes catch on the rust growing over the top of it.
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he imitates you, high-pitched and sharp; your eyes snap back to him. He’s clearly not amused by your answer. “When was the last time you had your battery checked?”
“Haven’t had the time lately,” you answer, crossing your arms indignantly over your chest.
“Your daddy don’t check it for ya?” he prods, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans before opening his tool box. Irritation rears up inside fo you. Something about his tone, bitter and mocking, makes you think about hitting him over the head with one of his wrenches.
“My daddy hasn’t been sober enough to tell a battery from a brick since 2009,” you snap.
Bucky pauses while rifling through his tools, but only for a moment. “Batteries need replacin’ every four years. How old’s this one?”
You chew your lip, still thinking about the wrench. Bucky pulls out a small metal plate and a brand new cord, along with a screwdriver that looks like it’s seen better days. When he turns to you, his eyebrows lift expectantly.
“It’s…old,” you relent. Bucky snorts and leans over the car again.
“Define ‘old’ to me, princess.”
A zip of electricity runs down your spine at the pet name, angry and hot. “I don’t know,” you grumble. “It came with the car and I bought it five years ago. And don’t call me princess.”
A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Whatever you say, kid.”
You glare at him while he unscrews the rusted plate from the battery. Despite your growing frustration, and the nearing interview time, and the heat pressing down on you from all sides, you quickly become entranced with the way his hands move expertly with the replacement parts. It’s obvious he’s well-versed with the inside of a car.
“This will hold for a few days,” Bucky says, attaching the new cord to the engine. “But you need a new battery. Forget it, and you’ll be needin’ a new car. Am I makin’ myself clear?”
Something about the sternness in his voice creates a pressure on your chest that feels foreign and strange. “Yeah, new battery, got it,” you mumble.
He glances at you but says nothing, screwing in the clean plate. As he finishes up his work, you look back at your trailer, the paint on the front door peeling, the screens torn in most of the windows. You clear your throat. “Donna says you fix a lot of stuff for the folks around here,” you begin. Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You ever, uh…fix any showers?”
He pauses to look back at you, blue eyes sharp. “That a line?”
“What? No!” you sputter, cheeks on fire. “No, it’s — my shower pressure. It’s shit, it’s…not a pick up line. I’m askin’ if you can fix that, too.”
He grunts, satisfied with his finished product, and closes the hood with a snap. You step back, watching as he tosses the screw driver back into the box and wipes his hands on his jeans again. When he turns to you, his face is closed off, stoic.
“I’m busy,” he says, blunt and to the point. The rejection stings like a child daring to touch the point of a needle for the first time — sharp and surprising and oddly shameful. The embarrassment pulls your eyes away.
“But if I find some time, I’ll let you know.”
His gaze is steady and unreadable when you meet it again. You nod quickly.
“That’d be amazing,” you gush, hands clasped together, “thank you—“
“I haven’t even fixed it yet, save your thanks,” he cuts you off.
“Still,” you reply, taking a step toward him, “I’d owe ya big time. Oh, you’d be doin’ me a huge favor ‘cause I need all the help I can get on this place—“
“What’d I just say, kid?” He glares are you, hands on his hips. “Now go on before you start wastin’ any more of my time,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the car. You hesitate with your hand on the door, the smile on your face flickering doubtfully.
“Is it…safe?” you ask slowly.
Bucky scowls, mean and dark. “Don’t insult me.”
That gets you scampering into the seat. You twist the key, and after a breathless moment, the engine roars to life, the vents blasting you with hot air, but air nonetheless. You let out a whoop and pat the steering wheel proudly, the hope creeping back in. When you look out the windshield, you see Bucky’s already packed up his tool box and is making his way back to his trailer.
“Hey!” You scramble out of the car. “Hey, wait!”
He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his free hand over his head.
“Thank you!” you call out. He doesn’t respond. You watch him as he rounds his truck and disappears into his home. Then your phone buzzes.
“Shit—“
You’re peeling out of the park in seconds, leaving behind a cloud of dust and two blue eyes that watch you go from the safety of his trailer.
You take the keys out of the ignition and lean back in your seat, the smile on your face still as big as it was when the owner announced you got the job. In that moment, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds after years of rain.
It isn’t anything special, just a serving job at one of the many roadside diners in this small town, but what it stands for is more than you’ve had most of your life. Independence, stability, roots — everything you’ve been chasing after for the last few years now finally within your reach. No longer are you relying on the kindness of so-called friends that kick you out when it becomes inconvenient for them, or the generosity of low-life boyfriends that expect indentured servitude for a bed to sleep in; no longer are you couch surfing your way down highway 70, wondering what your next meal is going to cost you, or if your mother will pick up the phone when you’re too low on cash for gas. Just by getting the job, by finding your own little place to call home, you’ve broken free of the chains that have held your pitiful family lineage captive for years.
That’s worth celebrating.
You grab the six pack off the passenger seat before climbing out of the car. Thankfully, the evening air is much cooler now, and settles gently on your skin. Crickets chirp their congratulations, the breeze pats your back, and the light left on inside your trailer welcomes you home.
You sigh as you take it in, a soft smile on your face. Just this morning, you found the peeling front door, weedy garden and crooked paneling daunting; now it looks like a project you want to dive headfirst into, an opportunity to create something beautiful out of nothing, much like your own life.
You’ve got one foot on the steps when the wind grabs your attention. The large oak tree in the middle of the trailer park groans as it shifts, and you glance back to watch the leaves sway in the dusk, shadowed and haunting in a strangely beautiful way, until your gaze catches on a patch of light just beyond it. The white trailer with the boots out front has its curtains open now, and you watch as a shadow passes across a window.
Bucky.
The pressure returns to your chest tenfold, the same as before. Because of him, you get to cheers to a new life with a cold beer on your ratty little couch, and he walked away without so much as a thank you…
You adjust your grip on the six pack when you make your decision, sudden but resolute, and you’re crossing the park before you can think twice about it. A reward is reaped better with others.
As you approach, the shadows in the windows become clearer; wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands that set a mug on a shelf. Your breath goes a little shallow remembering how he towered over you. Stepping up the path, you watch as he pauses in front of the window, as still as a deer in headlights. Your knuckles just meet the door when the light inside flicks off.
You blink, eyes darting back to the window. The trailer is now dark. You can’t see inside, can’t spot movement — it’s pitch black where his figure was, where he stopped in front of the window right as you walked up…
You knock anyway. The beer bottles are cold against the skin of your leg as you wait, condensation dripping down your ankle. But the light doesn’t turn back on and you don’t hear weight shifting over cheap flooring. The crickets that sounded so nice before start to mock you the longer you stand there. You count to ten before trying again, a light rap on the wood.
Nothing.
Your heart sinks before you can stop it, the feeling painful and confusing. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, cheeks blazing in the soft light of the moon, then set the six pack in front of his door.
Bucky’s lights do not turn on when you make it back to your trailer, and they’re still not on when you spare one last glance out the window. The beers sit untouched on his front step.
Embarrassment courses through you like a summer fever, hot and alive and consuming. It eats away at all of the previous joy from your new job, and that bothers you more than you care to admit.
With a shake of your head, as if to clear the feeling out, you toss the keys on the counter and move to your tiny bathroom to turn on the shower. The nozzle sputters twice before the bare minimum drizzles out. You’re reminded of how you asked Bucky to fix it, the cryptic response he gave you, and how you nearly melted in response — the heat floods back to your face.
You really wish you kept those beers.
When the dried sweat has been scrubbed from your skin, and you’ve pulled on the softest sleep clothes you own, your mind has officially moved from denial to bargaining.
Donna said Bucky works brutal hours — maybe he has a strict sleep schedule. Like he can’t function unless he gets a full eight hours. Maybe it’s a ‘no visitors, lights off by nine on weeknights’ kind of thing. That makes sense for a fully grown man to have…right?
The reasonings filter through your head long after you’ve crawled into bed, some more believable than others. Eventually you decide that you just caught him at a bad time, and that it had nothing to do with him possibly seeing you through the window.
You’ll run into Bucky and explain the beers left on his door step; he’ll explain that he was tired, or he was busy, or something else completely normal and valid, and whatever lingering feelings you have over the whole thing will dissolve into nothing. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, maybe he’ll actually smile. Maybe the ice breaks and you’ll have another neighbor to call a friend in this new home.
You tell yourself this over and over until your restless mind finally fades to black.
You rise with the sun the next morning for your first shift. Your head is pleasantly empty of last night’s internal discourse, and you take it as a good sign.
Breakfast is pitiful — coffee and toast — but you’re too nervous to fill your uneasy stomach with more. When you pull on your uniform and spin every which way in the cracked bathroom mirror, though, the nervousness begins to fade. The dress is threadbare and half a size too big, but the color compliments your skin and emphasizes how bright and giddy your eyes are, bringing a light to your face that you haven’t seen in years. That tattered hand-me-down is a beautiful gateway opening up to a better future, a real future. You already love it.
When it’s time to go, you step out into a quiet, windless morning that promises to be a scorcher later. As you toss your purse into the passenger seat, you hear the rumbling of an old engine approaching, growing louder by the second. A familiar brown truck with the windows rolled down pulls up to the exit, just a few yards from where you stand.
Bucky sits in the driver’s seat, sporting an off-white t-shirt and dark sunglasses. He adjusts the radio, touches the rearview mirror, and pushes his shades up his nose before glancing up. Even behind the tinted lenses, you know that he sees you, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. But you still manage a smile, lifting your hand in a small wave.
He stares at you, an immovable statue except for his fingers white-knuckling over the wheel. A moment passes that feels like both a millisecond and a lifetime. You wonder if you should say something. But before you can, he looks away, the truck roaring once more as he eases out of the lot and into the street like he never saw you.
You watch his taillights drop beyond the horizon, your stomach dropping with them. The blatant dismissal sinks in, heavy and cutting, and it brings back all of the embarrassment from the night before. You fight desperately against a few angry tears stinging your eyes, but the hum of your fully-functioning engine does nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears.
You’re not sure which is worse: him ignoring you, or your reaction to him ignoring you.
You’ve dealt with disregard your entire life. Your childhood is a treasure trove of disappointment and neglect, carelessness and chaos, all of it later contributing to your steel-thick skin and low expectations of others. So you’re not sure why a stranger is affecting you like this — and a surly, intimidating stranger at that.
But something about him actively choosing to pretend you don’t exist presses on a bruise you’ve had covered for years. It rattles you more than anything.
Hands shaking, you put the car into drive.
The journey to the diner passes in a blur as you kick yourself mentally for the weakness. Your biggest mistake is that you went to him when you were too vulnerable — you were practically cracked wide open with need, and all it took was a helping hand for him to slip past your usual defenses. Were the sharp edges and sharper tongue not obvious red flags? What is it about Bucky that made you assume so quickly that he would be your friend? You taught yourself much better than that.
Despite the evidence, at the root of you, you refuse to accept it. Bucky’s lack of reaction was completely out of sorts; you know he’s far from friendly, but to completely ignore you is crazy work. So crazy that it just doesn’t make sense. There has to be some explanation for it, other than the obvious.
But unlike last night, your brain draws a blank on reasons for his behavior.
By the time you make it to the diner, you’re determined to figure this out. You need to see him again, to create an opportunity for an olive branch, and to learn if he’ll take it.
You get your first chance less than a week later, when you’re headed toward the mailboxes before the sun’s fully risen. You see a hulking figure already in front of them that you recognize right away. Bucky’s distracted while rifling through his mail, looking disheveled but still undeniably handsome in the pink light; he even looks relaxed, for once, instead of his usual guarded attitude.
“Good morning,” you say, smiling as you open your mailbox.
He tenses as he turns your way, shoulders taut and face creased. His jaw works as he stares you down, like he’s considering words and biting back the harsher ones. But instead of saying what’s on his mind, he grunts, short and crude, before turning on his heel and walking away. Your eyes follow him as he returns to his trailer and slams the door shut. It scares a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.
You stand there with a hand on the mailbox, jaw agape. The message couldn’t be any clearer. But for some reason, you shut your mouth with a snap and stand straighter, determined. His petulant, teenage antics are not enough to get you to throw in the towel yet.
So you try harder. You learn that you both leave the park around the same time, and when his truck rumbles past you, you wave, even if he isn’t looking at you (in a very obvious way.) You don’t care. You still try. He never waves back or throws you any acknowledgment, although you would bet your life on him seeing you each time, and eventually he starts leaving earlier, truck already missing from its spot when you’re headed to your car.
On the few days you’re both not working, you often see him mowing his lawn, mending his fence or washing his truck, domestic things that may trick passerby into thinking he’s a normal, pleasant guy. You fall victim to it as well, even knowing what you know, and head over with the intention of trapping him in a conversation. But as soon as you get remotely close to Bucky’s property, he mysteriously disappears, leaving you to feel like you just saw a ghost rather than your very alive neighbor.
You still don’t give in, but he continues to make it harder. When your car pulls up next to his at a red light, he’s theoretically interested in the SUV in front of him. When you’re passing out day-old pies from the diner to the neighbors, he doesn’t answer the door even though you can hear the TV on inside. When you’re taking a stroll around the park and he’s headed your way, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.
Frustrating is the politest way you can describe him, but your mind can’t seem to take the hint.
Until the delusion crumbles when you least expect it. You’re bone-tired after your shift, and even your purse full of tips can’t ease the pain from your back. Pulled up to your trailer, you notice a group of three people slowly making their way across the park. One quick look tells you it’s the Markhams, stooped and gray-haired, shuffling down the pathway, and in between them is none other than Bucky, carrying a dozen grocery bags on each arm that you know aren’t his.
You watch as he leans down toward Mrs. Markham, listening to something she says, and your eyes go wide when he throws his head back in a laugh, pure joy lighting up his face. The sound creeps into your car, oozing warmth and light that is at odds with the Bucky you know. Mr. Markham adds a comment that gets him laughing harder, lines crinkling around his eyes, nose scrunching up in delight. You greedily take in this new side of him while your stomach roils with something bitter and nauseating.
So the sweet side of Bucky does exist. You’re watching it in real time as he helps his elderly neighbors with their groceries, chuckling in amusement as they banter back and forth. He holds the door open for them, too, even with his arms full, making sure they cross the threshold safely before letting the door fall shut behind him.
This must be the Bucky that Donna spoke about. The Bucky that everyone but you, apparently, gets to see.
The realization settles inside of you like an anvil dropping from the sky. So it’s just you that he doesn’t like. It’s just you that he can’t bear to be a neighbor to.
Occam’s Razor strikes again.
You move mechanically out of your car and into your home, your body carrying you through the motions while your brain twists itself up into a painful knot. You comb through everything you did and said that Sunday afternoon when he fixed your car; did you offend him? Did you push an unknown boundary? Did you ask for too much? Did you say too little? Were you too loud or too quiet? Too slow to thank him for his help?
Yes, you snapped a few times, but you only ever matched his energy, and everything about him implied that he can take as good as he gives. So what happened? What did you do? Why is your neighbor so unconcerned with whether you live or die?
Whatever the reason, it’s done its damage. Bucky wants nothing to do with you, and that seems to be the way it is.
Later that night, when sleep evades you, and you’ve tossed and turned for hours on end, a terrible loneliness creeps in for the first time since you arrived at the trailer park. It’s familiar in the worst way, reminding you of all the horrible people you met and all the shitty pit stops you made on your journey here. You thought you left that feeling behind — you thought wrong.
It follows you around for the next few days, leaving you hollow and numb. You’re on autopilot most of the time: you smile at customers and make conversation with the neighbors, you gossip with your coworkers and play with the children next door. But it’s constantly there in the back of your mind, like a memory you can’t erase, and when you’re alone in your little home, you feel it wrap around you like a straight jacket.
You’re lonely. And Bucky’s indifference toward you brought it front and center. For you, companionship had always been fleeting and one-sided, transactional at best. You’d had enough of it to the point that companionship was something you began to avoid, even when it promised a warm bed and a free meal. You thought a place to call your own and a means to support yourself were enough to keep the grass greener on your side. Now a stranger who sees nothing to gain by being your friend has reminded you that you’ve never had anyone in your life that wanted to be there just because.
The grass slowly withers away to a dry, lifeless brown.
You think you’re hiding it well, but Donna asks about it when July has rolled into a rainy August.
“How’ve you been, hun?” she says around her cigarette, pushing back one of the many hairs falling out of her clip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been pickin’ up more shifts,” you reply automatically, pulling roughly on the broken piece of siding. Donna watches as you struggle with it, leaning against the far side of the trailer.
“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave if you keep that up. You leave at dawn and don’t come back ‘til dusk seven days a week. Young thing like you needs time to herself.”
“I’m tryin’ to save up,” you grunt, snapping the siding in half. The part connected to your trailer swings down dejectedly. You look her way. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is fallin’ apart, and it takes money to put it back together.”
She hums, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask Bucky for help?”
You pause from picking up the broken pieces of siding in the grass. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t wanna bother him,” you grumble, avoiding her eyes.
“Oh, please — Bucky would be happy to help.”
“Are you sure about that?” A sudden hint of irritation in your tone. Donna stands up straighter.
“Whaddya mean?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Something happen?”
You shake your head quickly. “No, there’s not — no. He just seems really busy, that’s all. No use askin’ for his time when he doesn’t have any.”
There’s a brief silence as Donna considers your words. “Something happened,” she repeats. You toss your head, eyes narrowing in her direction, but she keeps going. “Did he say no to fixin’ your car? Or was he mean? Like he’d rather be talkin’ to anybody but you?”
You let out an exhale, long and ragged, and debate answering truthfully.
“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but that ain’t nothin’ I’m not used to. He was actually—“ Your jaw clenches. “He was helpful. Ruder than hell — and bossy, but he got it fixed and told me to get a new battery and stuff. But ever since then…” You trail off, Donna waits. “It’s like he regrets doin’ it. I’ll see him walk by and his eyes pass over me like I’m not even there. I try startin’ a conversation and suddenly he’s got somewhere to be. He’s avoidin’ me, and I don’t know why. I’d be fine with it if I knew what it was, but I got no clue.” Knees in the grass, you watch as a caterpillar crawls over a leaf and onto a piece of siding; you pick it up carefully, watching as the insect runs circles over the plastic, nowhere to go, just as confused as you. “Why’s he like that?”
“Oh, hun,” Donna soothes quietly, stepping closer to your crouched position. “Is that what’s been botherin’ ya? Bucky not bein’ welcomin’?”
“Yes — I mean, no. That’s not what’s botherin’ me, it’s just — it’s hard to explain.” You set the caterpillar down and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from your knees. “And it’s a lot more than just not bein’ welcomin’. I could get hit by a semi right here on Pueblo Street and I don’t think he’d even blink.”
“Now I know that’s not true. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?” Donna asks patiently, putting her cigarette out on the broken siding.
You watch the ashes drop to the ground, fragile, crumbling, and still smoking. Your eyes scan the park, naturally pausing over the white trailer with the curtains drawn and boots out front; there’s no truck outside, so he must be working. Yet the empty house still stings a little to look at.
“I thought that the job and movin’ here meant I figured everything out,” you mutter. “Instead an old man decidin’ he doesn’t like me for no reason reminded me that I’m still on my own. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so I get along just fine by myself, but I’m only human. I still want someone to — to care about me.” You fight through the sudden lump in your throat.
“And Bucky doin’ you a favor brought that up,” Donna confirms. You nod reluctantly.
“Guess so. It was just nice to have someone care, even if he was grumpy as hell about it. Now he pretends I don’t exist and I keep rememberin’ all the times I thought I found someone who cared, only for them to just—“ You flick your hand like you’re waving off a bug, inconsequential yet inconvenient.
“Honey, we care.” Donna wraps an arm around your shoulders, warm and tight, holding you to her. “You got all of us now, and we watch out for each other.”
You open your mouth to point out that one of them does not, but she beats you to it.
“Bucky is a special case,” she sighs. You watch as she gazes at the white trailer, too. “It took him a while to come around to us. He was quiet, kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours…but eventually we wore him down. Kept inviting him in even when we knew he wouldn’t come. Kept offering our help even when we knew he wouldn’t take it. But then he did. I think Bucky was gone for a few days when a big storm came through — a tree fell and knocked out the left side of his trailer, crushed the roof. We got together and started patching it up just as he pulled in. Told us he could handle it but we wouldn’t take no for answer and did it with him anyway. He was real grateful, awfully sweet and apologetic, extra kind to everyone that helped out, but we told him it’s what we do for each other. After that, it was like living next door to a whole new person. I think he just needed to see that we cared for him no matter what, and that we’d be there for him even when things were tough.”
You huff, kicking the dirt at your feet. “Doesn’t explain why he’s got a problem with me. What’s his deal?”
Donna’s hesitant to answer, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. When there’s a cloud of smoke in the air between you, she says slowly, “He did some time at the state pen.”
Your eyes snap to her, but she shakes her head a little.
“He hasn’t said much, but from what I gathered, Bucky lost more than just his freedom when they handed him his sentence. Family don’t bother with him anymore, told him as much when he was paroled, and he had no choice but to make do alone somewhere else. That can mess a person up, make them suspicious of others, make them think bein’ alone’s the only way to go about this life.” She looks at you then, a soft smile on her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Her words feel like a sucker punch to your gut, but she waves a hand at you. “That’s all I’ve got, though, so if you’re curious about it, you’ll need to ask him.”
You chew the inside of your cheek, replaying the story, picturing Bucky in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. For some reason, the image seems wrong, but your curiosity begins to burn.
“I doubt I’ll get the chance,” you mumble.
“Give it some time,” Donna chirps. “He’ll come around. But you—“ She wraps a thin hand around your wrist, squeezing with intention. “—next time you’re feelin’ a little too sorry for yourself, you come find me. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna be beggin’ for some alone time.”
A smile reluctantly breaks across your face, the first genuine one in weeks. “Sure, Donna. Thanks.”
You’d think your talk with Donna would help ease Bucky Barnes from your head, but it seems to have the opposite affect.
While your cocktail of emotions towards him has been watered down by Donna’s story, the urge to understand him is stronger than ever.
You still see him occasionally, driving past in his truck, stalking toward the mailbox, trudging around his yard; you pick up where you left off with your routine, waving and smiling and wishing him a good morning even when he’s already halfway across the park. Nothing changes in his attitude toward you, but it only makes you more curious.
Between grueling ten-hour shifts at the diner, you capitalize on a specific tidbit you learned from Donna, how the neighbors’ generosity got Bucky to crack. You know you have better things to do than trying to win over someone who doesn’t want to be won over, but your stubbornness has always gotten the best of you in your weaker moments.
You choose to act when he isn’t home, aiming to lessen the pressure instead of amping it up. You spend an entire day baking ten dozen cookies for the neighbors and make sure to leave a few at his door with a note to come by if he wants more (he doesn’t). You suffer through sunburn and dehydration while sweeping the entire walking path around the park, paying special attention to Bucky’s portion so that the dust doesn’t settle over his boots. You sprint through a downpour to pull his clothes off the line, covering your trailer in his shirts and jeans and — gulp — underwear to air dry before folding them up carefully and delivering them to his front step in your laundry basket once the sky’s cleared up.
It’s waiting for you outside your door the next morning as you’re leaving for work. No note, no sign of a thanks. You blink when you see it, wondering how he knew it was your laundry basket in the first place.
Still, nothing changes. You try really hard not to obsess over it. And life moves on as usual.
One Friday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a cheap folding chair next to a handful of your neighbors; they caught you after a slow shift when your social battery hadn’t dropped below empty yet, calling you over with wide smiles like they’ve been waiting hours for you to show. The group is converged in a circle next to the oak tree, passing around beer and flasks of whiskey and shooting the shit. You’ve made quick friends with the girl two trailers down, Wanda, who isn’t much older than you but has a lightness to her that feels like a breath of fresh air. Her husband, who she calls Viz, sits with his arm draped around her shoulders and a look on his face like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. They ask you how you’re liking the park, how the repairs to your trailer are coming along, how your job is going. You feel a deep sense of gratitude forming the more you speak with them.
Neighbors filter in and out of the group like clockwork as the afternoon sun fades into the evening sunset. If they can’t stop for a drink, they still join in on the conversation, gossiping and commenting on the goings-on in town, or stirring up good-natured trouble before resuming their chores — Donna comes by to threaten you all with the hose if you don’t pick up after yourselves. You’re convinced you’ve met everyone in the park by this point, and you’ll need to make a list to get their names straight, but they all have one thing in common: they’re all pleased that you’re here.
The beer eventually begins to dwindle, but spirits are still high in the circle. Wanda’s in the middle of telling a story about a squirrel that got into the Markhams’ trailer when you hear the deep rumbling of an engine in the distance. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice it, but you know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, Bucky’s brown truck comes up the hill and pulls into the park as Wanda’s imitating Mrs. Markham’s screams from her standoff with the intruder. While the rest of the group roars with laughter, you watch as Bucky parks the truck in front of his trailer and steps out. That’s when Wanda spots him, too.
“Hey, Buck!” she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.
Bucky turns toward the group, his eyes sweeping across the faces. You swear they pause on you for a half a heartbeat.
“Come join us! We’ve got beer!” Wanda shouts, waving a hand over her head. A few others in the circle add their agreement, ushering him over and shaking their flasks. Bucky stares for another moment, as still as the trees behind him, before turning around without a word and heading for his trailer. The door shuts with a slam. A few grumbles go up around you, but Wanda just shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Eh, if I got off work early, I’d probably want some peace and quiet, too.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a sense of unease tainting the picturesque scene around you. “Does he…do that often?” you ask as casually as you can.
“Get off work early? Never. He works more than anyone I know—“
“No, I mean…” your finger points vaguely in the direction of the white trailer, “does he usually just ignore you when you ask him to hang out?”
She tilts her head, lips curving. “No, he’s usually at these things when he isn’t workin’. But if he’s home already, it probably means he threw out his back or somethin’. I know Steve threatens to fire him if he doesn’t go home and rest when that happens. Leave it to Bucky to take an order that seriously.” She laughs. “I swear those two were soldiers in a past life.”
You nod, your mind already dissecting the new information. He didn’t look like he was hurt…but you remember his eyes resting on you for a beat too long. The beer and whiskey combo in your stomach churns.
You fidget with your drink for the next half hour, barely hearing the conversations around you. An uncomfortable feeling has settled in your chest, tight and anxious, and your racing thoughts do nothing to help it. Finally, you can’t take it anymore, feeling restless and in pursuit of answers. You excuse yourself and head for your trailer, but when you’re far enough from the group, you take the long way around the park to Bucky’s, your heartbeat growing louder with each step.
You knock on the door before you can convince yourself otherwise, listening to the laughter of the circle as you wait. There’s a shuffling on the other side, then a soft grunt, and the door swings open.
Your lips part.
Bucky stands before you in nothing but his blue jeans. Your eyes jump to the wide expanse of his chest, the hard muscles of his abs. A smattering of dark chest hair tapers off down his stomach and disappears into his pants, right below his belt buckle. You forget how to breathe.
He stares down at you while bringing a beer bottle to his mouth and taking a hard swig. A drop of condensation lands on the dip between his collarbones, and your tongue subconsciously darts out to wet your lips. He shifts his weight to lean against the door frame, expression neutral. “What do you want?”
You realize you look like a fish out of water and shut your mouth with a snap, swallowing thickly as you feel an unwarranted heat bloom in your gut.
“Um,” you start, silently cursing the way your voice shakes. “Not sure if you heard Wanda, but we — uh, we were wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Patrick’s doin’ a run to the liquor store so there’ll be plenty of beer soon. Or we still have some whiskey. Unless you’ve got plans…” you trail off, eyes flicking to his shirtless chest.
Bucky’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t have plans.”
“Then you should drink with us.”
“Not interested.” You blink.
“…why not?”
He shrugs.
“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company.” He takes another quick sip from his bottle. Your eyes catch on the label and recognize it immediately from your own preferences; when you look back at Bucky, you find him watching you closely, blue eyes hard and unapologetic. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a strange feeling buzzing beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the undeniable thrill of seeing him shirtless, but you feel close to exploding.
“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company, or don’t feel like drinkin’ with me?” you say quietly, eyes ghosting over his frame.
A look crosses his face, something close to bewildered, before he hides it behind his usual expressionless mask. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
You flash him a tight-lipped smile though far from amused. “Sure, like you don’t know.”
“Kid, I don’t have a clue,” he grumbles, though the hand holding the beer bottle twitches.
“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap before you can stop yourself, a dangerous flush running through your body, “you know exactly what you’re doin’. What you’ve been doin’ for the last month. Avoidin’ me like I’m the tax man and you’ve got a debt to pay. You don’t like me? Fine. No problem. I don’t need you to be my friend. But I won’t put up with you actin’ like I don’t exist in front of everyone else anymore, and if you keep doin’ it, I’ll make your sad, lonely, little life hell. So just stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. Got it?”
Your words hang between you for a sour moment, and not even the cheerful sounds of the group can cut through the tension. Your chest heaves as you scowl at Bucky; he scowls right back, though you notice that the tips of his ears have gone a rosy shade of red and his grip on the beer bottle looks close to destructive. Your eyes scan his hardened face one last time before you turn on your heel and kick up a cloud of dust behind you as you march back to your trailer. This time, you slam the door.
Inside the trailer, the urge to throw something, anything, is too strong to ignore. Your vision zeroes in on the laundry basket Bucky returned a few days ago, and you lunge. Taking the cheap plastic in your hands, you hurl it against the floor with all of your strength, gritting your teeth while biting back a scream, watching as it breaks into a hundred different pieces with concerning ease on your linoleum floors. What follows is a silence so bitter, you can taste it in your mouth.
Your temper slowly fizzles out as you absorb the mess you made. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have let him get to you again. Now you’ve got a room full of shame and no laundry basket.
Exhaling heavily, you run a hand through your hair while peeking out the window to see if the circle of neighbors heard your crash out. Nobody’s looking your way, thankfully — instead, they’re cheering on Patrick as he emerges from his car with two new cases of beer. A pang of longing hits your chest, but you know you can’t go back out there now, not after this. So you resign yourself to picking up the remains of your laundry basket, piece by piece on your hands and knees until they ache from the pressure and you’ve cut your fingers on the jagged edges.
Later, when you’re nursing a small hangover with a cup of tea and an ice pack on your head, you wait for the regret to sink in over the heated words you threw at Bucky. But, strangely, it doesn’t. Now that the buzz from the alcohol and the leftover anger have vacated your body, you’re left with an odd sense of calm about it.
Sure, you got something off your chest that’s been weighing you down for weeks, but you had truly convinced yourself that you were optimistic over the Bucky situation. You had been foolishly hopeful that you could get through to him. Your outburst said differently. You should feel embarrassed, defeated, tired, but instead you feel…good. You handled it, just like you’ve handled every other hurdle in your life. Maybe not gracefully, but grace has never been your forte, and you don’t really mind.
You only wish that Bucky had shown some sort of reaction to being called out, a protest, a sigh, anything — but the man is as expressive as a bucket of cement. Knowing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t listen to half the things you said. He probably thought the whole thing was a waste of time, something to forget about as soon as he shut the door…
Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to lose sleep over your emotionally repressed neighbor anymore. You’re not going to spend another second thinking about him.
This turns out to be easier said than done.
You get to enjoy a peaceful week without seeing or thinking about Bucky, until Sunday rolls around. You’re doing laundry, which proves to be harder than usual without a laundry basket, leaving you to juggle armfuls of clothes while trekking back and forth between the park’s shared washing machines and your trailer. While the last of your wardrobe dries on the line outside, you’re moving around your little home in a faded pink tank top and an old pair of some ex’s boxers. The radio plays rock classics while you prep dinner, and you hum along as you man the stove and chop vegetables.
Then a knock interrupts.
You set down the knife and glance out the window, but whoever’s outside is hovering next to the door out of sight. You think it’s Donna, coming by with eggs after she borrowed some from you the other day, but when you open the door, you’re downright shocked to find who’s on the other side.
Bucky stands with one hand against your door frame, the other holding his toolbox, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his body in an ungodly attractive way. You take a step back in surprise when his eyes find yours. They’re bright, but guarded. He nods at you.
“You said your shower’s broken,” he says in greeting, voice low like he doesn’t want to be overheard.
Your mouth falls open. “Huh?”
His lips press together in an impatient line. “Your shower. You asked me to take a look at it the other day.”
Your mind feels like an old computer you had to reboot to get working again. You blink at him as it comes back to you.
“Yeah,” you answer slowly, “but that was before.”
He huffs, looking over his shoulder at the park behind him. “You want your shower fixed or not? I got things to do today.”
“Then go do ‘em.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying your best to look down your nose at him while being completely submerged in his shadow.
“Don’t be stupid,” is his retort, “I’m offerin’ you help.”
“Don’t need it. And don’t call me stupid,” you snap.
“You gonna fix the shower yourself?” Bucky challenges, tilting his head at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as his eyes sweep up and down your figure, taking in your thin tank top and rolled up boxers.
“Maybe,” you throw at him, though it lacks the previous bite. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up.
“Then at least let me watch.”
Your spine locks as a jolt of something new and strange spreads through your body. Your brain decides now is a good time to remember just how attractive he is beneath the oil and dirt and rough demeanor — especially when shirtless.
“That’s — I don’t — you—“ stammers out of your mouth. Bucky responds by pushing past you into your trailer. You stumble into your couch, still struggling for words as he fills your little kitchen with his wide shoulders and long legs, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. He sets the toolbox down on your table, briefly glancing at your half-made dinner.
“Smells good.”
His gruff tone is a sharp contrast to his casual words. You shake your head, though you feel like you could use a solid smack to the face. “Do you normally go around bargin’ into your neighbors homes?” you ask, slightly breathless. He looks at you, amused.
“When the neighbors are bein’ dumb, yeah. This the bathroom?” He points to the pocket door on his left.
“I told you not to call me—“
“Stupid, I know. I didn’t call you stupid, though.”
Your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, watching as Bucky pulls open the bathroom door and squeezes into the tiny room like it’s his house. The sound of the shower turning on comes a second later.
“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you grit through your teeth. “You got a hearing problem, old man?”
From the bathroom, Bucky chuckles, soft and deep. “Old man,” he mutters to himself before shutting the water off and reappearing, eyes pinning you in place. “I can hear just fine. Heard all of your cute little temper tantrum the other day.“
Your entire body flushes against its will. ”Then why are you here?” you demand. Bucky begins rifling through his toolbox.
“You asked me to fix your shower.”
“Yeah, a month ago,” you scoff. “And before I knew how big of an ass you are.” Bucky’s mouth does that half-smile again as he picks up a wrench. It might be the same one you imagined hitting him over the head with.
“That ain’t very nice,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. “You hardly know me.”
Your lip curls. “And you don’t know me, but you already decided I wasn’t worth your time.”
He exhales heavily, swapping the wrench for another one and weighing it in his hands. “This again?” But before you can let out the blood-curdling scream that’s been building up inside of you, he sets down the tool and turns your way, shoulders set and face stony. “Look, if I hurt your feelins by not takin’ your invite, then that’s on you. It ain’t personal, neighborhood bondin’s not really my thing as you could probably tell—“
“Unbelievable,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. “First of all, I know you’re lyin’ — Wanda said you’re always around when somethin’ is goin’ on. Second, you’re completely missin’ my point.”
“I was gettin’ to it,” he says louder, pointing a sharp finger at you. “But it seems you have a habit of jumpin’ to conclusions before hearin’ a person out.”
“Hearin’ a person out!” you cry, throwing your hands up; the sarcasm drips thick into your tone. “When would I ever be able to hear you out when you walk the other way when you see me comin’?”
He levels you with a hard look, blue eyes burning into yours. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, unwelcome and distracting, but you hold your ground.
“I don’t do friends,” he grunts, “I’m not good at bein’ one and I’m too busy for ‘em anyway. Fixin’ your car that day, I could tell that’s what you were lookin’ for, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea in your head.”
You laugh, dry and harsh. “Well, you certainly got your point across, Bucky.” His hand twitches, a quick clench and unclench of fingers; you observe it coolly, eyebrow cocked. “You know, for a guy who “doesn’t do friends,” there are a lot of people in this park who think you do.”
“That’s different,” he’s quick to say, brushing it off, “I’ve known ‘em for years. Thin line between familiar and friends, not my fault if they pick one and I pick the other.”
You scoff.
“Sure, okay. So what happens in, say, five years — when I’m still livin’ across the park from ya?” you ask, taking a bold step forward. “Will I get grandfathered in to your half-assed friendship, or will we still be goin’ at it like this? ‘cause I’m startin’ to think it’s less about you bein’ anti-friends, and more about you not likin’ me.”
“You won’t be here in five years,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “This place ain’t anythin’ more than a pit stop on your way to somethin’ else. You’re young — real young — still got most of your life ahead of you, some great, big future out there somewhere, but it ain’t here. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”
With an inaudible crack, something shifts inside your chest, something heavy and painful as memories of your past flood your thoughts, ruthless and relentless in their intention to hurt. You pull your arms in close to your body, feeling goosebumps on your skin.
“You don’t know anythin’ about me and my future,” you tell him quietly. He shrugs.
“Maybe not, but I know restless when I see it. And I know grit. You’ll want something better eventually, and you’ll go after it.”
The silence that follows is deafening. You look everywhere but him, unwilling to show him just how much his words got to you, but he keeps his eyes steadily on you, unblinking, unwavering, like he’s finally noticed you for the first time and needs to learn everything he can about you in this very moment. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his thick hair and frowning at the floor.
“But…I think maybe I was…doin’ too much. I didn’t see it that way before, but I do now,” he says, still gruff, but softer now. “Lemme fix your shower. To say sorry for bein’…for bein’ an ass. I know what it’s like to be ignored…and I should’ve realized how things might’ve come across to ya.”
You exhale shakily. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. You look away, struggling to separate the sting of his words from the peace offering in front of you.
“Alright,” you relent, packing up the pain and setting it aside. He nods before picking through his toolbox again. You shift your weight, feeling awkward and out of place in your own home. Clearing your throat, you bravely add, “Does this mean I can expect a wave in the mornings?”
Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat that could pass for a laugh. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Just because I’m sayin’ sorry doesn’t mean I take back what I said about bein’ friends.”
“Yeah. You’re a grumpy old man who likes to be alone. Got it.”
He tosses you a look over his shoulder, equal parts irritated and amused, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from acting on the hurt simmering inside of you. As the fight in you deflates, you take a few careful steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky sorts through a handful of knuts and screws. “So…” you start, searching for a stop to the thoughts inside your head, “what’d you end up doin’ that night?”
“What night?” Bucky grunts.
“The night we were drinkin’.”
He hums, pocketing the screws and picking up a screwdriver. “Finished up a couple projects,” he says slowly. “Got some chores done.”
“Really,” you state, brows furrowed. “Didn’t look like you were up to anythin’.”
He looks at you then and his eyes are unreadable. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you answered the door without a shirt. And you were drinkin’ a beer. The beer I left at your door when you were too scared to answer it, by the way.”
Bucky snorts. “You askin’ for a thanks? I had my head under car hoods all day. I think I deserved a cold drink.”
He turns for the bathroom again; this time, you follow, hovering in the doorway as he starts loosening the shower head from the pipe. “Do you always answer your door halfway to nude, or did I just get lucky that day?”
Bucky laughs, really, truly laughs. Whatever burdened expression you were wearing is wiped clean off your face as you bask in the sound of it.
“It’s called laundry, sweetheart. I smelled like a wet dog on an oil rig after workin’ twelve hours in the heat, and I didn’t care to sit in it any longer.”
“Still,” you mutter, watching as he catches the unattached shower head before it drops to the ground, “you could’ve put on a shirt before greetin’ me like that.”
“Like you’re much better,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you; again, his eyes rake up and down shamelessly, but this time it feels more concentrated, observant. The blue looks a shade darker than before. You gape at him.
“It’s — well, I’m just—“
“Doin’ laundry?” Bucky supplies quietly. You snap out of it when he turns back to the shower, pulling out his screwdriver.
“Whatever,” you grumble, feeling hot, “just let me know when you’re done.”
You leave him in the bathroom to pick up where you left off chopping vegetables. You should probably have a clearer head when handling a knife, but you’re too riled up to sit still and wait for him to finish. What was that look about? He says he doesn’t want to be your friend, then he stares at you like you’ve got something he wants. Is he waiting for you to snap at him again, or is it something else?
You’re silent while you work, just the radio and the sounds of Bucky working on your shower filling the trailer. Every now and then you’ll hear the water run, or a hushed curse under his breath. You’re just turning off the heat on the stove when he steps out of your bathroom and puts his tools away.
“Pressure’s fine now,” he tells you, snapping the toolbox shut. You turn to him, hands on your hips.
“Mind if I check?” Another half-smile from him as he gestures for you to go ahead. You shuffle past him, brushing his shoulder as you go. You’re shocked to feel how warm he runs, almost hot to the touch; your cool skin begs you to step closer. In the bathroom, you turn the handle and are pleasantly surprised to see water shoot out at a mostly normal rate.
“Nice work,” you call out before turning it off. Bucky’s waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the table with his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. “What?” you can’t help but ask, stopping in your tracks.
For the first time since meeting him, Bucky looks slightly put off, like a thought’s crossed his mind that he’s wondering if he should voice aloud. “Are you—“ He clears his throat. “Where were you before this?”
You blink. You haven’t heard that question in a while. “La Junta. But I grew up in Dodge City.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Got family there?”
“Maybe,” you shrug. “Couldn’t tell you where my daddy is. Mom’s got a new boyfriend, don’t know if they moved.”
“What about you? You got a boyfriend?” he murmurs, examining his dirty hands.
“I wouldn’t be askin’ you for help if I did,” you answer, blinking, and you turn back to your food to hide the heat crawling up your face. Bucky hums. Then, to your immense surprise, you hear him ease himself into the tiny chair at your table.
“So you’re on your own,” he comments, as if what he did wasn’t completely at odds with your earlier conversation.
Your shoulders tense instinctively. Well, isn’t this just ironic? The man who made you feel lonely wants to know how lonely you are.
“Could say that,” you respond slowly, “but Donna and the others have been real welcoming. They say the door’s always open.”
You hope he catches the barb in your words, the subtle call out, but Bucky just sighs. “Yeah, they’re like that. Would give you the clothes off their back in the middle of a snowstorm if you needed it. Good people — too good, sometimes.”
“Nobody can be too good,” you say, eyeing him over your shoulder. “I think the world could use a few more people like them.” He meets your gaze before dragging it down your figure again, but it’s softer this time, less analytical and not necessarily uncomfortable. You quickly turn back to the stove. “Didn’t take you as the type to chit chat,” you quip.
“Oh, am I bein’ too friendly now?”
“I thought you got things to do today.”
“I do,” he grunts. “I’ll get to them.”
It hits you suddenly that you’re not sure if you want Bucky to leave yet. When you chance another glance at him, you’re struck with how comfortable he looks sitting there. His broad frame takes up a whole side of the table, and he’s slouched down just enough in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he owns the place, like he knows the inside of your trailer well, like he’s familiar with the way you move around the kitchen.
A teasing smile makes its way onto your face. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re lookin’ for a friend to pass time with—“
“Don’t be difficult,” he mutters, head tilted as he crosses his arms; his biceps bulge, the golden skin stretching like an invitation for you to touch, taste, bite—
“You sure like givin’ orders, huh?” you remark, matching his stance. Those blue eyes find yours and don’t let go.
“Only when it’s needed,” he says, voice lowering to a pitch that could rumble the floors beneath your bare feet. To your chagrin, it goes straight to your gut, settling there with a deep heat that awakens something inside of you. You scramble to push it down, afraid of the truth showing plainly on your face.
“Bossy,” you mutter under your breath, looking away. Bucky chuckles, somehow making it worse.
“Somethin’ tells me you don’t do well listenin’ to others.”
Your hand tightens over the plate you’re pulling from the cupboard. “Yeah, well. Most people tell you to do things ‘cause it’s better for them, not for you.”
He hums. “You listened pretty well to me.”
Your cheeks flush. “Judgment error,” you mumble.
“Did you get the new battery like I told you to?”
“Uh…” You have the grace to look sheepish because, truthfully, you forgot. You close your mouth before telling him that if he hadn’t completely derailed all of your rational thinking with his avoidant behavior, you’d have remembered.
“I stand corrected,” he mutters, pushing out his chair. Bucky only needs to take two steps until he’s looming over you, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He takes your hand in his and places the card there before his fingers slide to your wrist, gripping tight. “Rogers’ garage on Miner Street. I want you in there this week for a battery change. Unless you’re tryin’ to blow that hunk of junk up.”
You gulp, looking down at where he’s holding you. “I have work,” you whisper.
“After work, then. I’ll be there.” He searches your face, waiting for your confirmation. You nod, but he doesn’t let go. A moment passes where it’s just the two of you breathing along to the soft melody of the radio.
“You’re helping me again,” you blurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into your flesh.
“And?”
You take a steadying breath, your brain picking through your words carefully. “Awfully friend-like, if you ask me—“
Bucky groans, pulling away and leaving sparks along your skin. He picks up his toolbox, giving you a quick glance. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you find yourself desperately wanting to know what it is. But he seems to think better of it and makes for the door, opening it up to the heat of the August evening. His eyes meet yours one last time. “Enjoy your dinner.”
He’s a step out of your trailer when you call his name. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you,” you say in a rush. “For fixin’ the shower.”
A pause, then, “No problem, kid.” The door swings shut. Through the window you see him traipse across the park and to his truck where he tosses the toolbox into the back, then he disappears into his home. Whatever things he had to do seem to be forgotten. Or nonexistent. A smile curls across your face before you can stop it.
The following weeks feel like a fever dream compared to the last month. You find yourself face-to-face with Bucky a number of times, some by coincidence, some by design.
A quick nod as he drives past you in the morning turns into a quick conversation at the mailbox the next day. It’s mostly you talking, but he stands there nonetheless, listening quietly to your unprovoked story of a difficult customer from the other week. Following that, you bump into him on a walk around the park with Wanda, where he manages to crack a smile when you recount how the little kid next door ran you over with his bike earlier that morning. He makes you promise to treat the patch of road rash on your thigh with rubbing alcohol, warning against infection and causing you to blush like a school girl being told off.
A storm rips through the town later that week, ripping off shingles and felling trees, making the lights flicker uncertainly from time to time as the wind batters the side of your trailer. After the worst of it’s passed, you step outside to assess the damage; you think it’s superficial, nothing that threatens the structural integrity of the outbuilding, but you don’t know the first thing about evaluating storm damage.
Luckily, Bucky materializes out of nowhere like he could read your mind from across the park, offering to check for leaks and punctures that could lead to greater troubles down the road. He claims he does it for all of the neighbors, waving off your word vomit of gratitude with a huff and a scowl, but once again, he either forgets about the others, or those intentions never existed, because when he’s finished fortifying your trailer, he sends you a small salute before crossing the park and disappearing back into his home.
A few days later, you find yourself at the mailboxes with Bucky after he came up behind you with a muttered, “mornin’”, and now he’s listening to you talk about your boss’ erratic revamp of the menu. You manage to pull from him that he’s partial to the danish pastries your diner sells, so you knock on his door later that night with a bag full of them and a smile on your face, watching as the tips of his ears glow bright red when you hand them over. He thanks you in that gruff way of his that doesn’t sound grateful at all, but it’s enough for you.
But to your shock, he repays the favor the next evening.
You’re curled up on the couch with a book, listening to the weak clicks of the AC unit in your window, when you feel your trailer give a sudden lurch. Your glass of water topples off the side table, your basil plant spills into the sink. You’re questioning the probability of earthquakes when it happens again — this time more powerful than the last.
When you open your door, the last thing you’re expecting is Bucky — shirtless again — using a hammer to extract the rotting pieces from the walls of your trailer. You call him crazy — it’s ten o’clock at night and he’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift, after all — but he just grunts and tells you that they were an eyesore, that he was getting too impatient not to do something about them. You’d be offended if your body wasn’t humming with a pleased rush of adrenaline from his attention, however workaround it may be.
You spend the remainder of the evening watching from your open door as he fixes up your little home. Despite the cooler night air, he still gleams with sweat from the effort, and you learn to appreciate this quickly; he looks like trouble and heaven wrapped up in the likeness of God’s surliest angel. By no means are you religious, but all other explanations for how a man that looks like that winds up in your yard seem to defy natural laws. Watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he tears the siding off its hinges, you’re convinced a higher power had to have intervened for this moment to happen.
You’re all too eager to offer him a beer when he finally finishes. He takes it before sitting down wordlessly next to you on your stoop. Then it’s silent except for the crickets and the bullfrogs, but you find it peaceful rather than charged like it usually is between you.
Up close, the tattoo that once teased you that fateful day that you met is on full display. It’s an intricate piece that extends across his back from shoulder to shoulder; black ink curls around three names written in elegant calligraphy: James, Winnifred, and Rebecca. The longer you stare at it, the more your fingers itch with the need to touch it, to trace the whorls from point to point.
You take a large sip of beer for courage.
“What’s this?” you murmur, the tip of your pinky barely grazing the ‘a’ at the end of Rebecca. You feel Bucky tense up beneath your touch, and you know right away that you’ve crossed a line, possibly tearing down what little you’ve built since he fixed your shower. You wait for the blow to come, for the other shoe to drop, for him to stand and leave you all alone in the dark.
But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. “My family. I don’t…see them much anymore.”
You let that sink in for a moment. “So you’re on your own,” you comment, using his words.
Bucky hears this and turns, unleashing the full force of those big blue eyes on you. Something flashes across them, and it could be anything: pain, recognition, anger, validation. All real emotions for a situation you’re only too familiar with.
“Yeah,” he finally mutters, looking down. Your gut twists.
Just from that one little word, you could glean all of the history behind him, the past that’s riddled with regret and hurt, and you push against the sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. Too much too soon for begrudging acquaintances. You settle instead for soft words in the form of a distraction.
“Well, except for Donna. She doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone.”
Bucky gives a half shrug, sipping on his beer. “You’re not wrong.”
“Y’know, everyone here kind of adores you.”
“I doubt that.”
“You should hear Donna talk about ya.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up as he glances at you. “That bad, huh?”
“She says you’re the sweetest guy,” you share with him conspiratorially. “That you help out a lot, actually. And that you’re quiet, but you’re really kind when you wanna be—“
“Alright, I get it,” he mutters, eyes scanning the park. “Easy to believe the lie when she says it like that.”
There isn’t any venom to his words, just a simple statement around a beer bottle. You tear your eyes away from watching his neck extend on a swallow, dazedly finding the oak tree. “I know it’s not a lie,” you say, picking at the peeling label of your drink. “I saw you the other day, helpin’ out the Markhams. All of you were laughin’, too. It was…sweet.”
Bucky’s quiet for a moment. He leans back until his forearms rest against the step behind him, stretching out his long torso like he’s asking you to count all six abdominals. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters darkly, and it sounds like a threat more than anything, but the little pout on his face negates whatever abrasiveness he was hoping for. It makes you giggle.
“Uh-huh, sure. I know a big softie when I see one.”
He rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink. “Believe what you want, kid, but I’m not the type to give flowers or sweet nothins.”
Your attention sharpens at his words, a spike of curiosity jetting through your bloodstream. “How else do you woo your woman then?” you tease, just enough to hide the neediness in your voice, the urge to know the answer.
Bucky turns to you, brows furrowed. Then — so quick, you almost miss it — his eyes dart to your mouth and back. The wind shifts, your fingers tingle, Bucky pushes up so that he’s brushing shoulders with you again; you feel like they’re fused together by some invisible, magical weld. He stares straight ahead, elbows on his knees, thumb running circles around the rim of the beer bottle. “Don’t have one,” he mutters.
You blink.
“Really?” His face twists into a scowl. “Huh. Guess it’s hard to believe a good lookin’ guy like you doesn’t have a few crawlin’ all over him. Unless it’s by choice.”
Bucky frowns impossibly deeper, it’s almost laughable. “Why would it be by choice?”
“Because apparently you can barely handle havin’ a friend, or so you say,” you point out.
“Doesn’t mean I’m a fuckin’ loner,” he grumbles. “I just don’t…get out that much.”
“I bet you’d do pretty well for yourself if you did, sittin’ all alone on a barstool with the sad guy look you got goin’ on.”
“I got what?”
“Y’know,” you start with a grin, “the sad guy look. When you’re all mysterious and unavailable. Add in broody, quiet and stares a lot, women will think it’s hot.”
Bucky goes so still, even his thumb pauses.
“Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, looking very thoughtfully at the oak tree. “Is it doin’ somethin’ for you, kid?”
The smile flickers off your face. Oh. Oh no.
“Uh…”
He eyes you sideways, and you know you’re as red as a stop sign. You gave yourself away before you could even go on the defense. You take a big sip to buy you time, but he’s there and leaning into the spot where you skin touches, and all the sudden your thoughts explode in a hundred different directions, because why is he still staring at you, and why is he actively getting closer, and why, for the love of all that’s good and holy, does he still not have a shirt on?
You think he’s never paid closer attention to you before now, and he’s destined to see through your lie when your face is there to direct him to the truth. So you gamble on a half truth.
“I think it’s a pretty universal thing to be attracted to,” you say with a shrug, giving a mediocre performance on playing it cool. He hums.
“But do you like it?” Bucky presses softly, and your stomach drops into a flip. The wind shifts again, and this time, you can feel something mysteriously close to electricity buzzing back and forth between your skin and his. Why does he care? you ask yourself, as if you know the answer.
“I…” your voice wobbles traitorously, but you know there’s no way out of it now, so you’ll go down swinging. You turn to him, and your eyes connect like a head on car crash: dangerous, devastating, impossible to look away from. “Yes,” you whisper.
He smiles faintly. “Thought so.”
“Please don’t,” you groan.
He chuckles but doesn’t look away, and you’ve already developed Stockholm Syndrome from being held hostage by his gaze. His reaches out to brush a hair from your face, natural, instinctive, and you’re holding your breath without even realizing, feeling the zip of chemistry from the tips of his fingers as they touch your cheek. You’re so close, you could lean in and brush noses with him if you had the nerve to. Or more, which you’re starting to think about—
“You might be the prettiest thing this town’s ever seen,” he murmurs, low and rough, and oh, does your heart try to leap out of your chest and drop into his hands.
You feel your cheeks flush, your sense of reality growing hazy, because is this really Bucky Barnes sitting in front of you saying that?
But he pulls back before you can even think of a response, chancing one last glance at your mouth before silently falling back into position next to you.
For a while, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t push him to. And when your finger brushes the ‘a’ again, he leans your way. Your mind is oddly free of thought as you trace the names gently — you’ve probably gone into shock over him letting you touch him like this. You’re not sure what compelled you to do it, nor what convinced Bucky to allow it, but for a few quiet moments, you feel yourself breaking through one of the walls he had up between you. You wonder if he feels it too.
Later, after he calls it a night and you’re lying in bed, watching as the patch of moonlight crawls across your ceiling, you feel like maybe he was right — maybe you weren’t going to be friends. Because maybe you were always meant to be something more.
Saturday arrives with a bang as thunderstorms roll through the county and soak everything in its reach, but by the time your shift ends, the sky has opened up to an endless portrait of oranges and pinks and purples. You take the scenic route home, windows down to let in the smell of earth and rain, and a smile on your face that hurts your cheeks and feels dangerously close to permanent. A stack of pastries sits in your passenger seat, boxed carefully and tied with a string to keep them from sliding.
When you pull up to your little trailer, Donna’s waiting for you outside your door. She descends on you immediately, taking the pastries from your hands and whisking them away to the middle of the park where the neighbors are setting up for a barbecue.
“Thanks, hun!” she calls out. “Now get outta that rag and put on somethin’ cute — we’re dancin’ later!”
By the time you emerge from your trailer, uniform swapped for something lighter that sways in the wind, the park party is in full swing. Donna’s taken up the mantle as the Chief of Staff of the buffet line, Viz is unloading cases of sodas and waters from the back of his truck, little Mrs. Markham tenderly sets up a s’mores station for the children, and Wanda’s tossing strings of lights through the limbs of the oak tree.
You rush forward when she gets tangled up in a line, stopping the threat of a hard tumble by unwinding it from her ankles. Wanda grimaces. “Thanks. Guess I can forget that career in the rodeo.”
Viz perks up from filling a cooler with drinks. “I wouldn’t say that, honey. You’re a hell of a cowgirl to me.”
Wanda blushes as red as her hair while you fight back a laugh. “Viz,” she mumbles, but her husband just sends her a wink before turning back to the cooler. “Sorry,” she says to you, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “He can be…pretty affectionate when he’s home.”
You shake your head, smiling. “No, don’t be sorry. I think it’s sweet.” Your fingers work with hers to straighten out a knot in the lights. “Is he gone pretty often?”
She nods. “Three weeks of the month, usually. Long-haul truckin’ definitely wasn’t our first choice. It’s dangerous, and the time apart can feel painful. But the pay’s decent and…well…” She looks around cautiously before leaning in. “We’re tryin’ to start a family.”
“Wanda,” you breathe, eyes wide. She hushes you gently, but she’s smiling now.
“I know. But you can’t tell anyone — especially Donna. She’ll make it a whole thing.” She scrunches her nose adorably.
“My lips are sealed,” you vow, miming a zipper closing across your mouth.
“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Now let’s get the rest of these figured out.“
After several more attempts at lassoing lights onto branches, the two of you end up abandoning that plan and decide to treat the trunk like a maypole; each of you take hold of a string and run circles around the tree until not an inch of bark is visible. Your side splits from laughter as you try not to trip over the exposed roots, chasing after your newfound friend. You collapse onto the grass after, knocking shoulders and gulping down air as the rest of the neighbors start to mingle around you. The smell of grilled meat and oil lanterns fills the air. Conversation is a constant hum that provides a comforting white noise. Children race across the grass, dragging bubble wands behind them and leaving a whimsical trail for the lightning bugs to follow. You take a look around the park, at your friends and neighbors sending you easy smiles and carefree waves. They don’t know the quiet impact it has on you, what it means to be on the receiving end of their kindness. It’s like they’re standing at the open door, waving you in and welcoming you home.
Viz comes over and hands you both a water. You take it with a muttered thanks, grateful to have something to distract you from the swell of emotions rearing up inside of you.
That’s when you hear it: the sound of an old engine revving up the hill. Your breath hitches as you watch the brown truck pull into the lot, Bucky’s figure shadowed by the setting sun behind him. Your lips part when you notice he isn’t alone.
The truck comes to a stop next to Viz’s. “Ah,” he says, pushing himself up from the ground. “Finally. Bucky’s here with the good stuff.”
Bucky jumps out of the truck with the ease of a seasoned cowboy dismounting from his horse. Dark shades cover his eyes, but he flips them up as Viz approaches; they shake hands, Bucky clapping Viz on the back. “Good to have you back,” you hear him say, a crooked grin on his face. In the back of your mind you know you’re blatantly staring, but this is new material that your curious brain is desperate to consume. His passenger comes around the other side of the truck, a tall, broad man with sandy blonde hair and oily jeans that give Bucky’s a run for their money. His face is weathered and chiseled like the driver’s, but there’s a softness to it that begs you to trust him, like all of your problems could be solved with just a look.
“Steve,” Viz greets, extending a hand. The newcomer shakes it, grinning.
“Good to see you again, Viz.”
You’re drawn back to Bucky as the other two catch up. His blue eyes sweep across the park, intentional and analyzing. When they fall on you and Wanda, he goes still for a moment. A part of you shrinks in fear, your heart racing in your chest when you remember the last time he picked you out of the crowd.
But Bucky’s hand comes up in a simple two-fingered wave. Wanda waves back. “Hey, Buck!”
“Wanda,” he says in that low tone of his, but his eyes never leave you. “Hey, kid.”
“Hi,” you answer, the faintest trace of a squeak in your voice. Bucky nods, an indefinable look on his face, before turning back to the truck and opening the back. Viz gives a whoop of delight when he sees the kegs waiting to be tapped.
“Right on time, Barnes. You did good.” Bucky shakes his head.
“This was all Steve. That red-headed bartender at Bruce’s is sweet on him.” Bucky’s companion chuckles, bashfully ducking his head.
“Nat’s just a friend.”
“Yeah, pal. Be sure to thank her extra nice for us when you’re at her place tonight.”
The party really takes off once the three men drop the kegs near the coolers. The rest of the group crowds around it like bees on honey. Wanda recruits you to set up a table of solo cups and sharpie markers, but you’re not much help for the urgency she needs. You’re finding Bucky lifting 160 pounds of beer like it’s a sack of feathers to be very distracting while trying to un-stack cups.
Viz christens the first keg with a spray of foam that everyone groans at, but his effacing smile tells you there’s very little that could dampen his spirits, including a botched keg. He quickly fills two cups (of mostly foam) for you and Wanda, and you laugh when she cheers you to “the rodeo life.”
You toss it back like medicine, hoping the alcohol clears your mind of the mysterious haze of self-awareness and poor attention span that Bucky brought with his arrival. The beer dribbles down your chin, and as you move to wipe it off, you glance up.
As predicted, your eyes find Bucky standing a few feet away; by all accounts, he’s locked into a conversation with Steve and Patrick that requires all of their heads to be pulled close together. But while Steve and Patrick exchange enthusiastic words, Bucky’s tight-lipped while staring at you.
You blush, an embarrassed smile flashing across your face while you use the back of your hand like a napkin. You expect him to look away, like a normal person does when they accidentally catch eyes with someone, but he doesn’t. He coolly takes a sip of his own drink, a muscle ticking in his jaw while he watches you. A ripple of heat runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather; it’s reminiscent of the feeling you had when his hand held tight to your wrist in your trailer, but it’s like it’s been cranked up to level 1000. When he swallows, you can see the tip of his tattoo curling at the base of his neck, and your fingers give an involuntary twitch as they remember the feel of it beneath them. Bucky shifts a half-step in your direction, and for one delusional second, you think he’s going to come over. But Donna wanders into your line of sight before the heat of his gaze can fully brand itself into your skin.
“Can I get your help with the salad? Mary went to get more plates.”
You’re dragged away before you can say a word.
Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky always seems to be on your periphery. Wherever you turn, he’s there, just a few feet away. Not close enough to warrant a conversation, but not far enough to be coincidence. You know the park isn’t big, but the proximity seems constructed, considered, careful, especially when you can feel his eyes on you at all times. When you refill your drink, he’s finishing his. When the line for the food forms, he’s three people behind you. When you pass by with a tray of desserts, he steps out of the way wordlessly, pulling Steve with him before you can excuse yourself. And he watches you go.
As the sunset melts into twilight, and Wanda’s lights begin to steal the show, you find a chair next to the speaker softly playing Fleetwood Mac. Across from you, Viz is coaxing Wanda into being the first ones to dance; she shakes her head, adamantly against it, but allows him to pull her from the chair anyway. Donna has a content look on her face as she oversees cleanup, which she shooed you away from almost immediately. Bucky’s coworker is doubled-over with laughter listening to Mr. Gonzalez’s tale of a fishing trip gone wrong. But Bucky is missing.
Your eyes scan the park instinctively, even delving into the dark corners between trailers or the full parking lot on the other side. You’re halfway out of your chair — to do what, you’re not sure — when you hear something drag across the dirt.
Bucky pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside you before you can blink. He has a fresh beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, which he tucks into the front pocket of his red flannel.
“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he murmurs in greeting, observing the party in front of him. You can smell traces of smoke on him, layered beneath the scent of oil and something that reminds you of the woods behind his trailer.
Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand. “Yeah, this is great. Never been to something like this before.” Bucky settles into the chair, his knees spreading wide until one just barely grazes yours. “Did you guys close up the shop for this?” you ask, nodding toward Steve.
“Have to. Otherwise Donna would have our asses.”
You laugh softly. “Yeah, I got the impression this is pretty important to her when she made me RSVP.”
A ghost of a smirk flits across his face. “Her and Harold used to host this every year. After he died, she dug her heels into keepin’ it a tradition since it meant so much to him. Hard to say no to her when she’s got her mind set on somethin’.”
“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I just thought she really likes barbecues.” Bucky laughs into his drink, and you nearly preen at the sound. “That’s really sweet, though. I wish I could’ve met him.”
“He was a good man,” Bucky agrees. “Had a lot of strong opinions about things I had no idea about. Most of it sounded crazy to me, but I ended up learnin’ my fair share from him.” He looks sideways at you. “Taught me how to use a lawnmower.”
“Really?” you laugh in disbelief. “When was this?”
“Maybe four years ago,” he says.
“Oh, shut up, you’re just lyin’ now. You build cars from scrap metal for a livin’ — there’s no way you didn’t know how to run a lawnmower.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t have a reason to until I moved here,” he says simply, like that explains the issue.
“Whaddya mean?”
He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of beer, looking past the party at the woods beyond. “There’s no grass where I come from.“
Your head tilts, eyes assessing his profile. The lined planes of his face remain as impassive as ever, but his shoulders don’t meet his ears like you expect. He seems relaxed — or at the very least, prepared — for your inevitable follow up question about his past.
“Where you from, Bucky?” you ask. He opens his mouth, but you quickly point a finger at him with a sudden burst of inspiration. “No, wait. Lemme guess…El Paso.”
The corner of his mouth curls up. “No.”
“Hmm,” you take a sip of your drink, pretending to take your time considering his accent like you don’t already have it memorized and catalogued neatly into a quiet corner of your brain. “Amarillo?”
“Nope — not Texas.”
You pout. “Gimme a hint.”
“East coast.”
You stare.
“Give up already?” he teases, but you wave him off.
“East coast, no grass, bad manners—“ Bucky snorts. “You from Jersey or somethin’?”
“Worse. Brooklyn.”
Your jaw drops. You weren’t expecting that answer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re not from Brooklyn.”
“Born and raised,” he mutters with a grin, amused by your response.
“But how do — where did you — you don’t sound like — what?”
“A story for another time.”
He’s still smiling, but there’s a shuttered look in his eye that doesn’t come from sitting next to you; it comes from revisiting ghosts in your mind while the world moves forward without you. You sit back, occupying yourself with another sip of beer while he comes back to the present.
“For what it’s worth, you can push a lawnmower like a sonofabitch now,” you venture.
He laughs, and your heart swells as you listen to it. It’s surprisingly high-pitched and breathless for a man as big as he is, but it contains something childlike that sounds tragically beautiful to someone who never laughed much as a kid. You count the lines around his eyes, you commit the scrunch of his nose to memory, you hold your breath as his knee knocks into yours and stays there.
“You watchin’ me mow my lawn, kid?” he hums into his drink, eyes flashing.
You balk. “I never said that—“
“You’re implyin’ it.” His husky voice encourages the color in your cheeks to saturate.
“It’s just somethin’ I noticed in passin’,” you plead. He takes mercy on you, for once.
Shaking his head, he mutters, “How’s the diner? It’s Tony’s place, right?”
“Yeah — do you know him?”
He purses his lips in thought, watching as the Markhams begin a slow sway on the makeshift dance floor while Wanda and Viz twirl around them. Several other pairings have joined in on the fun, spinning and dipping and waltzing along to Dire Straits.
“I know him…not very well, though. Friend of a friend, more like,” he adds, nodding at Steve. Then he clears his throat, offering you his drink when he sees that yours is now empty. “He a — he a good boss? He’s not doin’ anything he shouldn’t, right?”
“He’s fine,” you share, accepting his cup with a blink. You’re hyper aware of your lips hugging the rim exactly where his did as you take a sip. “Likes hearin’ the sound of his own voice, but that’s the worst of it.”
Bucky nods. “Good…good.”
Donna marches past then with a firm hand on the shoulder of a young teenage boy. The face beneath the crew cut is fifty shades of red, and his hands are covered in — what you hope is — melted marshmallows. Bucky snickers as Donna hauls the boy up to a group of middle-aged women chatting by the tree; one of them, who you can only assume is his mother, erupts into angry chastising as soon as she spots the teenager.
“Uh oh,” you mumble, watching the scene unfold. You can see how the boy takes after his mother as her face transitions to cherry red the longer she berates him. Bucky‘s still chuckling.
“Nate’s always been a trouble-maker, but he don’t mean much harm by it,” he murmurs in your ear. Donna watches with a sharp eye as the mother points a shaky hand in the direction of their trailer, and Nate slinks away, head bowed. “Oh, he’s gettin’ off easy,” Bucky says. “That’s a lot better than facin’ Donna’s justice.”
You grin. “No kiddin’. She runs this thing like the Navy Seals. I almost dropped the potatoes earlier, thought she was gonna spank me,” you giggle.
Bucky’s head whips around faster than humanly possible, the movement so quick it stops the laughter right in your throat.
“Can’t say stuff like that to me, kid,” he says, voice like silk over gravel.
You stare at him. In the low light of the lanterns, you can just see that the blue irises have changed shades into something darker, heavier; they’re locked on you with an intensity that doesn’t match the lightheartedness of the party. You gulp, he notices.
“Why not?” you whisper. And then his eyes drop to your lips, indisputable and poignant. Your breath hitches as the shape of him changes in front of you, as the delicate foundation of a relationship based on tolerance gets crushed to pieces by just one quick look.
“A man could get ideas,” he rumbles softly.
Your heart begins to pound in your chest, echoing faintly inside of your head. The noise of the barbecue fades. “What kind of ideas?” you push recklessly, and your eyes sink to his own mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if in answer.
“Ideas he shouldn’t be havin’ about his neighbor…who thinks he’s an ass.”
“I don’t think you’re an ass,” you breathe. He smiles faintly.
“No? All it took was a few weeks of bein’ your friend to change your mind?”
“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends,” you reply quietly. Something makes him pause, taking the time for a slow inhale and exhale to ground him. But underneath it is pure and unadulterated restraint — you can see it clear as day in the lines of his face, a sailor fighting valiantly against the storm.
“No, I don’t wanna be your friend,” he murmurs. But the words are not a rejection, they’re an invitation.
“Then what do you wanna be, Bucky?”
You bite your lip, and his eyes zero in on the tug of your teeth against the flesh. He leans in ever so slightly, like a magnet’s suddenly activated between your mouth and his, and your body hums with a desperate need to know what he tastes like—
“There you are!” Donna’s voice cuts in. She steps in front of you with her hands on her hips, and you jump in your seat like you touched an open wire. “Well, what are you doin’ sittin’? I told ya we’d be dancin’ later, and that dress looks too good on ya not to swing it around.” She looks at Bucky. “And whaddya know, you’ve got a partner right here!”
Your heart stutters in your chest as she points at him, anticipation already squeezing your lungs at the thought of Bucky’s hands holding you close while you sway gently to the music—
“Come on, Donna, you know I can’t dance. I’m not gonna make the poor girl suffer through me steppin’ on her feet,” Bucky answers gruffly.
The dismissal snuffs out the growing heat in your veins like a bucket of ice water on a candle. Your face drops, your eyes finding the dirt beneath your feet.
“That excuse is gettin’ real old, Bucky,” Donna counters, looking suspicious.
“Because it’s true,” he grumbles. “Not my fault you insist on there bein’ dancin’ every time you put somethin’ together.”
Exhaling shakily, you plaster an apologetic smile on your face as you meet Donna’s eye. “Yeah, actually Donna, I think I might turn in. I picked up a shift tomorrow mornin’ and I should at least try to show up sober.”
You see Bucky turn to you out of the corner of your eye. Donna frowns. “The party’s just gettin’ started, sugar, this ain’t the time for sleepin’.”
Chuckling dryly, you push yourself to your feet, the beer catching up to you momentarily as you take an extra step to steady yourself. You feel Bucky’s hand hover near your waist before you see it. You do your best to ignore it.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. But you know how it is. I got bills to pay and supplies to buy.” You roll your eyes like it’s not physically hurting you to be pulling away from her and the rest of the group, but you can’t be near Bucky right now. Not until you’ve reconciled all of the feelings you’ve felt tonight with the reality of your situation with him. You’ve learned the hard way how logic wins out over emotions, and you’re just sober enough to recognize you need a moment to align yourself with this self-inflicted mentality. You place a quick peck to Donna’s cheek, squeezing her arm. “The party’s beautiful, Donna. Truly, I’m honored to be a part of it. Thank you for hosting.”
She gives you a sad look, one meant to keep you in place, but your feet are carrying you away before you can let it pull you back in. You throw a wave over your shoulder at Wanda, but she’s too busy wrapped up in Viz’s arms to notice. You think some distance between you and Bucky will help to elevate your heart rate, but footsteps behind you put an end to your theory before it can be tested.
“Can I help you?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice light. Bucky’s stride matches yours easily, and he takes a glance at you.
“Thought I’d walk you back.”
You make a face. “It’s thirty feet away, Bucky.”
“Yeah, well, it’s dark out.”
“You can see my door from here.”
“Don’t be difficult,” he rasps like the back and forth is exhausting him. He takes half a step closer to you.
Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing as he walks you to your trailer, just out of reach of the lanterns and music and chatter. You step up to the door but turn sharply toward him when you feel his foot on the little stoop. “Alright, I’m home.”
“What happened back there?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing your face, probably reading right through you. “You were fine and then you weren’t.”
You gulp before bravely sticking your chin in the air. “Nothin’ happened. Just remembered I got work, that’s all.”
“You don’t work Sundays,” he says, shaking his head. Your back meets the door when he leans in. “Why’d you lie to Donna?”
“I didn’t lie, I picked up a shift to help a friend out. And how do you know I don’t work Sundays?” you ask, voice sharper than you intended for it to come out. At least it’s better than cracking on the tsunami of emotions you’re barely holding back.
Bucky blinks at you, going still. You’re not a mind reader, but you can hear the gears turning as his expression evens out into something you can only describe as inescapable resolution. Slowly, so slow you’re wondering if he even knows what he’s doing, he places his hand on the door next to your head; with his arm so close, you can smell how the sun’s baked into his skin, how metal seems to be an undertone all over him. And now his nose is an inch from yours.
“‘cause I watch you,” he murmurs, as soft as the evening breeze. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you can physically feel it, the pressure there, the charge of the unknown next step. Your hands flatten on the door behind you in an effort to hold yourself back.
Your mind plays over the different paths laid before you. Should you lean in? Change the course of this poor excuse of a friendship forever? Should you wait for him to make the move? Let him deal with the consequences of potential bad decisions in the morning? Should you pull away? Give yourself the time to cool off and clean up this mess of emotions following you like a shadow all night?
“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Bucky says. Your eyes refocus on his — his pupils are so wide, you’re afraid you’ll fall into them.
“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.
“Probably better if you don’t,” he answers, a hint of sadness in his tone. You search his face, but it reveals nothing; only his eyes offer any indication that he’s in control of what’s happening.
“You think that’s enough to stop me?”
Bucky’s mouth curves, but it quickly fades away. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”
Then, as quick as it was cast, the spell is broken. Bucky leans back, his fingers lingering on the door. “Have a good shift tomorrow,” he says, voice solemn as he steps down from your stoop. And then he’s walking away.
It takes you a minute to gather yourself. The night presses in around you, cool air replacing the heat of Bucky’s closeness from moments before. With a shuddering breath, you slip into your trailer, closing the door on the party, on your friends, on Bucky behind you.
Endless rain floods the countryside the following week. Roads close, streams overflow, leaks and cracks in the trailers are exposed. You unwillingly enter into a war with a certain corner of your roof, and an empty ice cream bucket takes up permanent residence underneath it as your counterattack.
But every time you have the urge to knock on Bucky’s door to ask for help, something stops you. Flashes of the night of the barbecue, of the suggestive pitch of his voice, of his face a breath away from yours, consume your thoughts until you’re frozen in place with indecision paralysis. The ‘almost’ of it all has you twisted up in ways far more complex than when he tormented you with his indifference.
You go over every interaction in your head like a DVD menu on repeat at three in the morning. You think your signals to Bucky couldn’t have been clearer, yet he pulled away, even after giving you every indication that he wanted it, too. Confusion is too simple of a word to sum up how you feel, and you’re still too riled up from Saturday night to dissect it all head on.
Work offers a necessary distraction — at first. The weather brings in a rush of people seeking shelter from the downpour, which means less time for you to think about where you left things with Bucky, and the hours leave you exhausted to the point of collapsing onto your bed and tumbling into sleep as soon as you make it home. Then you wake up and do it all over again.
Eventually your coworkers begin to notice the toll it’s taking on you. You’re still a novice while they’re veterans, fully acclimated to the ebbs and flows of roadside diner foot traffic, so they urge you to take the first cut of the day after already battling through four grueling shifts that week. You don’t have the energy to fight them. You’re ushered out the door with orders to take a hot shower and a nap as soon as you get home. The rain soaks your uniform instantly as you rush to your car, but it’s still warm enough outside to keep your lips from turning blue as you start the journey home.
While the diner had been bustling with activity, the roads are eerily devoid of other people and vehicles. Most likely due to the flood warnings, but unlike them, you don’t have much of a choice.
You haven’t seen another car in ten minutes when the lights on your dashboard flicker. Your eyes snap to it immediately, recognizing the warning signs that nearly derailed you almost two months ago. A soft whine escapes from your chest as you feel the car begin to shake.
“Come on,” you breathe, pressing on the accelerator. The engine whines back. The radio cuts out, your lights turn off, and the car slows to a crawl. It’s with tears in your eyes that you step on the brakes and put the car into park. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”
Your forehead meets the steering wheel. You get a sick sense of dejavú.
Sniffling, you turn off the car and wait before trying it again. You hear a familiar ticking sound over the patter of rain on your roof.
“Fuck,” you whisper as the first tear falls.
Your mind is too sleep-deprived to come up with solutions. Your cell phone died hours ago because you forgot to charge it overnight. Your body aches everywhere from being on your feet all day, and you think if you tried to walk home, you’d pass out in a ditch after fifty yards. You’re stranded — literally stranded on the side of the road.
So you let yourself cry, great heaving sobs that sound warped and hollow in your little car. While the release feels compulsory, it offers no relief, and that makes you cry even more. Outside, the rain persists its assault on the empty county road.
When your cries have turned into hiccups, you’re left shivering in your wet uniform. A chill has crept through the vents as darker clouds roll in. You hug your arms to your chest, breathing deeply to calm yourself down, but your body continues to vibrate past normal human function. You glance at the back seat, where an old sweatshirt lays crumpled and wedged next to the door. You crawl into the back, extracting the fabric with shaking hands and curling up underneath it. It provides some warmth, but not much.
You don’t know how long you lay there, fighting off exhaustion and self-loathing. You have no sense of time since the clock on your dash powered off with the car. The only things you register are the rhythm of raindrops and your slowed breathing.
And then you hear it.
It’s faint, almost like you’re imagining it. But it grows louder and louder the longer your ears strain to catch it. Your head lifts off the seat, and through the side mirror you spot headlights.
A brown truck with an old, rumbling engine drives past your car before slamming on the brakes. The red tail lights blind you momentarily. It quickly backs up a few meters until it’s parked right in front of yours. The driver’s door opens, and out steps Bucky.
You let out a whimper, your eyes squeezing shut. This isn’t real. It can’t be.
But he’s there pounding on your window, calling your name. You shoot up, shaking again, and lock eyes with him through the glass. Bucky’s dark hair is plastered to his forehead, beads of water dripping down his nose and off his beard. You watch as he takes in your wet uniform, your flimsy blanket, your trembling chin.
“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled through the window. Slowly, you crawl across the seat to open the door. He swoops in before you can say a word; large hands grasp your arms and pull you out of the car. He practically carries you to his, a hand shielding your face from the rain, before setting you down gently on the bench seat of his truck. His touch moves to your shoulders, your throat, then your face, thumbs brushing wet strands of hair from your eyes. “Are you okay?” he demands to know. “Are you hurt?”
You shake your head. “N-no, just c-c-cold. My c-car, it — it d-d-died.”
Bucky’s lips press into a dangerously thin line before he reaches across you to crank up the heat in the truck. “Stay here,” he mutters, then closes the door on you. You whimper again, your eyes following him as he runs to the back of the truck and grabs his toolbox. He reaches inside your car to pop the hood, and then he rolls up the soaked sleeves of his red henley before getting to work.
Burning hot shame floods your body. You don’t need to be a mechanic to know what’s wrong with your car.
Your gaze slides to the empty road past the windshield. The headlights reflect off the puddles of water accumulating on the gravel, creating distorted spots of light in your vision further warped by the sheets of rain. The heat from the vents touches your skin, but does little to permeate the cold that’s seeped into your bones. You slide into the center of the bench, sticking your numb fingers into the slats to warm them up faster. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Bucky’s already closed the hood of your car; he stands in the downpour rubbing his face with both hands. You scurry over to the far end of the bench when the door opens a moment later, and he drops into the seat, drenched and silent.
You don’t look at him, he doesn’t look at you. The rain continues to fall.
Bucky inhales. “It won’t start.”
You clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, inching closer to the heat. Your mind is a mess of fragmented responses.
His hand flexes on his thigh, the scars turning white against his skin. He exhales. “I told you to get the damn thing replaced,” he says, voice so low you can barely hear him. He turns to you, burning a hole into the side of your face with his stare. “I told you to come in to the garage.”
Your eyes sting with fresh tears, but whatever resilience is left within you refuses to let them fall. Not in front of him. “I kn-know.”
“But you didn’t.”
The barely suppressed anger in his voice triggers something in you like a fight or flight response. You meet his eyes and see the storm inside of them that rivals the one outside. Passion not so different from the kind you saw Saturday night.
“I didn’t have t-time,” you say, as calmly as you can. Bucky’s hand flexes again.
“Bullshit,” he counters.
“It’s the truth—“
“No, it’s not. I said to come in after your shift. I said I’d be there. And you still didn’t come.”
You shake your head. “I just — I forgot, okay? I was g-grateful for the help, I still am—”
“Kid, you got an odd way of showin’ your appreciation. Do you actually want the help, or did your deadbeat daddy fuck you up so bad that you don’t know how to accept it?”
There’s never been a louder silence than the one that follows his words. He recoils from it before you can, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world’s been dropped on them, a pained look slashing across his face. Your chin wobbles harder than before as the remark echoes in your head.
“Fuck, kid, I didn’t…” Bucky huffs. His hand crosses the distance of the bench, fingers grazing the skin of your thigh. You smack it away on instinct, but it doesn’t go far, dropping to the leather bench inches from you. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I went too far.”
A single tear rolls down your cheek. You brush it away quickly like it’s an open wound you need to cover.
“Please look at me,” he whispers. The fight in you balances on a razor-thin wire, one side begging you to explode on him, the other offering peace. You find your car in the side mirror, a lone figure of used and abused metal, struggling desperately to just stay alive.
Bucky lets out a heavy breath when your eyes meet his.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. You see the relief on his face mixed with the regret; it radiates off of him in waves. Slowly, you nod, your body trembling from the cold and something deeper. Bucky notices and draws back, his gaze tracing your figure.
“Come here,” he says gently, opening his palm to you.
You hesitate, the fire still burning in your eyes, and he waits.
But not for long. You slide into his arms with a soft grunt, too willingly, too easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, hands rubbing along your arms to bring heat back to them while yours land on his chest. Your head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, your nose skimming the wet skin. He smells like he always does, of oil and metal and pine. You inhale greedily, and it’s like a tonic to your frayed mind, clearing it of the scattered memories of a broken home.
“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers into your hair. Your eyes close.
“I know,” you whisper back.
This silence is softer, easier. You fall into it gratefully as your body slowly begins to relax against him. Bucky’s pure muscle beneath you, but it’s not uncomfortable; you mold to him like you were made to.
He shares his warmth by leaning into you, his nose dragging along your hair; the rhythm of his breaths is stable, even, and yours falls into sync with it naturally. He shifts closer, a hand curling around your waist. Because your history of push and pull dictates an eventual separation, you take the time to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scratch of his beard on your temple, the wet fabric of his jeans brushing against your legs, and you memorize it all, something to hold you over late at night when the loneliness howls at your window and begs to come in like a stray cat. You sigh as your fingers curl into his shirt with every intention of never letting go. Bucky responds with a deep, measured inhale, stabilizing, grounding, human. You soak in every ticking second of this temporary peace. And then his lips, impossibly warm, find the shell of your ear, and your eyes shoot open.
You wait for him to move, to pull away, to gruffly say he’ll handle your car and take you home. He’s done his job, you’re practically burning up by now, and you know he can feel it, too. But he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he holds you closer. Your heart begins to race — not from his actions, but from what you’re about to do.
You pull back slowly, just far enough for him to see the silent permission in your eyes, the wordless request for him to close the minimal distance between your lips and his. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, that steady rhythm halted.
And then he kisses you.
Softly, tenderly, delicately. Words that have never been tied to Bucky before. This hardened, uncompromising man moves his mouth over yours like it’s a gift from the heavens that could be ripped away from him at any moment. A low sound escapes from deep inside his chest, a strained variation of a sigh of relief.
You echo your relief back to him, a barely there whimper against his lips that reverberates down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you closer, while his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. You open for him, physically, mentally, emotionally. He tastes faintly of metal, of smoke, of coffee, of days spent eagerly waiting for him to return home, of long nights tangled up in old sheets, of oversized sweatshirts and stolen bites of food and messy toothpaste kisses. Of a gentleness you’ve craved your whole life. You’re instantly addicted to the brief taste of this improbable future.
His tongue caresses yours and he groans, his hands and lips quickly turning rougher, needier; you welcome it eagerly. A fire’s been lit inside of you, and grows with every stroke of his mouth. You pull at his shirt, he tugs at your waist. You follow his hands as they move you across his lap, your legs bending to straddle him in the tight space of the bench seat, your chest pressed to his. Bucky breaks away from your lips to gulp down air, but one look at you hanging breathless over him eradicates his need to breathe. He wraps a large hand around your neck and pulls you back down. Your hips roll on top of his instinctively as he ravages your mouth, earning you a soft grunt when your center meets the stiff bulge beneath his zipper. He greedily presses down on the small of your back, encouraging you to do it again. And again. And again.
The hand around your throat tightens imperceptibly when you drag your heat across his erection, whining as the jeans provide a delicious friction to your core. He thrusts up into it, as if he can feel it through the layers of fabric. He groans like a starving beast that’s just found the only thing that can satiate him.
“Bucky,” you pant against his lips, an implied request for more.
His eyes flutter open. He looks at you. You think he’s about to completely make you his.
And then he gently pushes you off his lap.
Your body goes cold immediately. From the loss of his warmth and from the sudden change in tension. He unhooks your fingers from his shirt and presses himself carefully against the car door, running a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.
“W-what did I do?” you whisper. He shakes his head, unable to meet your eyes.
“You didn’t—“ He swallows. “You didn’t do anythin’.”
“Then why did you stop?”
He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight white line. He’s mad. Or disappointed. Or something between the two. “Kid, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
You swear you can hear the sound of your heart cracking in two. “But I wanted you to,” you tell him, a tremble in your voice.
“I know. You shouldn’t.”
Your throat tightens. “What do you mean?”
He finally looks at you then, and you see his blue eyes are filled with agony, his face lined with regret.
“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens, but he cuts you off before you can say a word. “I’m old, and I’m poor, and I’m goin’ nowhere in this life. I can’t — I can’t be what you need.”
“You don’t know what I need—“ you start, but he shakes his head.
“Yes, I do. You need a man that can give you the kind of future you deserve for pullin’ yourself out of the shit. Gettin’ tangled up with someone like me will only hold you back.”
You have to bite down on the sob threatening to burst from your chest. Through gritted teeth, you say, “That’s not your decision, though. You don’t know the kind of future I want for myself.”
“Kid, I’m an ex-con with one too many skeletons in the closet. I live on the fringes because that’s the only place that’ll take me, and I’ve got no way out of it. There is no future with me.”
“Bucky, you’re not—“ your voice shatters and splits. “I don’t care about any of that, ‘cause that’s not how I see you. You’re more than your past. What you’ve done doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to want more—“
He barks out a humorless laugh.
“Fuck, I know a lot about wantin’ more. It’s all I do these days, and it’ll all your fuckin’ fault.” His eyes flash as they find yours, vicious with pain. “I’ve wanted you ever since you stood at my door yellin’ ‘bout makin’ my sad, lonely, little life hell. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how I wanted you to do it, ‘cause hearin’ you throw a fit at me was the first time I felt excited about somethin’ in years. And when I’m not thinkin’ about it, I’m dreamin’ about it. About comin’ home to your sweet smile waitin’ for me, and I wake up emptier than I ever felt sittin’ in a jail cell because I know it ain’t real. You got your claws in me so deep that I can’t go a minute without thinkin’ ‘bout you. And I can’t do nothin’ about it.”
All the air has left your lungs, and Bucky’s chest heaves like he stole it from you. He looks like he’s on the brink of imploding, or breaking apart, or jumping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. You reach for him, the only thing you can think of to do—
He flinches back, turning to the window. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“But it doesn’t have to be hard, Bucky!” you cry. “I want to be waitin’ for you, I want—“
“You don’t know what you want, but I promise it ain’t me.”
Tears prick your eyes, hot and painful. “Stop,” you whimper. “Stop tellin’ me what I want and don’t want. You’re not bein’ fair — you’re not even givin’ this a chance—“ He shakes his head quickly, meeting your gaze to deliver the death blow.
“You can argue all you want, but I won’t see it any different. I won’t trap you here with me. This can’t…this can’t happen.”
His words sting like a slap to the face; you reel back, pushing distance between you and him. Bucky lowers his eyes, as if he can’t bear to watch the fallout he caused. Another silence settles in the cab of the truck, this one heavier than the others, and thick enough to strangle you. You lean back in your seat, one hand on the door handle, the other pressing down on your chest, keeping you held together.
“I wanna go home now,” you whisper, blindly staring out the windshield.
He obeys instantly. Bucky’s silent as he shifts the car into drive, From the corner of your eye, you see his face is set in stone, a familiar look from the days he wasn’t speaking to you. You know what it means — he’s already shutting down, already pushing you out of his life again.
The drive to the trailer park seems to stretch endlessly; seconds feel like hours, minutes feel like months, ruthlessly challenging your inherent idea of time. When you crest the hill and pull up to your trailer, your body has gone numb from willing time to move faster.
Bucky avoids your eyes once the truck’s in park. “I’ll have your car brought into the shop,” he mutters, voice monotone and clipped. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”
Your lips press together to steady the tremble in your chin.
He fidgets in his seat, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”
Your jaw clenches, your heart aches, rejection is a slow-moving poison in your veins. And you’re angry.
“Maybe it’s best if you actually stay away from me this time,” you say, ice embedded in every word. He flinches, but you don’t care. You’re sliding out of the truck and shutting the door on him before he can respond, not daring to look back as you trek through the downpour to your home. When you’re safely inside, you stand very, very still, listening to his car idle listlessly before he slowly drives away, taking your heart with you.
The worst part of it all is that Bucky is right.
Never mind the confusion over how a man that shunned you for your kindness could look at you like you were his last hope. Never mind the embarrassment of making the neediest sounds for someone that refuses to hear them again. Never mind the terrible grief you feel for something that almost existed.
What hurts the most is that he’s right. You’ve felt it in your bones since the day you signed the lease to the trailer — your future wouldn’t stop here. The miles you’ve put behind you don’t exist because you were meant to settle.
Make no mistake, you love the trailer, you love the diner, you love everything they’ve given you and everything they stand for. They bought you freedom from a life condemned to shitty boyfriends and stacked pennies and a lingering taste of resentment at the bottom of every numbing bottle.
But there’s more out there that you ache for; still undefined, still obscure, yet it calls to you in the quiet moments between work and sleep.
And Bucky…
You’ve had enough time to reflect on his words that you can read between the lines of them. His life outside of prison started and ends where he is now, whether he wants it to or not. His future has concrete guardrails that won’t budge for a whim or an opportunity, and most certainly not for a girl lacking direction with a history of going where the wind takes her.
You understand what he saw when you hovered over him in the cab of his truck, that look in your eyes that dared him to follow you into the unknown.
His life is figured out. Your very presence urges him to challenge it.
He’s the rock to your balloon. Better to cut the string now than let you wear yourself thin trying to take him with you.
Your realization makes it easier to avoid Bucky, not that you see much of him anyway. Your car appears in front of your home before your shift the next day. No note, no knock on the door, no indication that it was even Bucky who brought it back. You don’t consider tracking him down to thank him, and you’re not sure how you would: he starts leaving for work before you wake up, returning home only when you’re tucked into bed, like he knows your schedule intimately enough to avoid you completely. Remembering what he once said about watching you, maybe he does.
On Sundays, he’s tucked inside his trailer with the curtains drawn tight, his once-pristine yard slowly becoming overgrown with weeds and disrepair that is so unlike him, it would cause you worry if you didn’t know better. When the probability gods smite you both and you’re walking towards the mailbox at the same time, you stop in your tracks, eyes meeting across the park like magnets drawn together. You turn around and walk the other way before you can do anything stupid — like beg him to reconsider. You’d think it would feel good to turn the tables on him, but it feels like ripping out the stitches on a wound that’s far from healed.
Following the mailbox incident, you both become hermits, which is a hard role to take on in a community as active as this one. Donna’s already forced her way into your home multiple times, demanding your participation in some neighborhood event or another. You think if she asks one more time, it might just kill you to see the look on her face when you tell her no.
You escape to work when you can, picking up enough doubles that Tony pulls you aside and asks in his signature beat-around way if you need a loan. For a moment, you consider taking it and getting the hell out of dodge, setting off in pursuit of whatever it is that you’re chasing. But you wouldn’t know the first place to go — it’s hard to find treasure without a map — and abandoning your boss after taking his money seems like a quick way to put the journey to an end before it even starts.
So you tell him about the repairs to the trailer, and he shrugs to hide his relief before approving your fifth double of the week.
The days roll into nights roll into days. Your brain works through a constant stream of food orders and the future and instant coffee and Bucky. Only in the silence of your room in between wake and sleep do you let yourself remember his charged admission to wanting you, or the fantasized future he dangled in front of your face before snatching it away. Sometimes you can barely breathe for the weight of it all pressing down on you, curling in on yourself like he took a tire iron to your gut instead of telling you it isn’t meant to be.
But you’re a resilient girl. So you carry on, always aware of the option of a next step but never knowing what it is.
You’re coming off a seven day bender of double shifts when the next step becomes clear.
The drive home from the diner is silent — you don’t bother turning on the radio these days, and the views of the mountains and forests that once made you feel alive hardly catch your attention anymore. You’re too tired, too preoccupied, caught between your car and an imagined life where you go home to a trailer that isn’t empty.
But an empty trailer is what you’re expecting when you pull into the trailer park. You tumble out of your car, exhaustion sitting heavy on your eyes.
“Where’ve you been?”
You jump a foot in the air, a tight breath tumbling from your lips as you look around for the source of the voice. Bucky’s sitting on your stoop with his knees bent and a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand; illuminated by the moonlight, you can see that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and his face is severe with apprehension. You breathe deeply to settle your racing heart, but the sight of him has skyrocketed the beat all over again.
“Bucky,” you sigh — you’re surprised you could find your voice so quickly. “What are you doin’ here?”
His gaze rakes over you, from your beat up shoes to your hair falling out of its clip, before he takes a large gulp of his drink. “You’ve been comin’ home late. Later than me.”
You stare back at him, wondering where this is going, and not oblivious to the fact that you’d have to crawl over him to get into your trailer. Casual intention at its finest — he’s making sure you talk to him.
“I’ve been workin’ doubles,” you tell him, glancing at the door.
“What for?”
“Because truck drivers make great conversationalists.”
He rolls his eyes and sets the beer down, unfinished. “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me.”
A rush of anger surges through you at the familiar words. “I think I earned the right to be as difficult as I want.”
Bucky stands, taking a step toward you that feels like more than just him closing the physical distance between you. Your breath gets caught in your chest when you see the storm brewing behind his eyes.
“I know you’re mad at me,” he murmurs. “I get it. You can be as mad as you want. But I’m just tryin’ to make sure you’re okay.”
Your chin lifts. “I’m fine.”
He scans your face, searching for the lie under the surface. “You in some kind of trouble?”
A breathless scoff escapes you. “No, I’m not in trou—”
“You need money?”
“What?” Your expression goes sour. “Bucky, no, what the fuck? I don’t need money, I’m just workin’ more, that’s all—“
“Why?” he presses. You growl at him.
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“It’s none of your business, Barnes.”
“Kid, just tell me why and I’ll leave you be—“
“Because it helps me to not think about you!”
The outburst catches him off guard; he leans back like he’s avoiding the blast radius, a frown creasing his face. He runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, and it sticks up at odd angles that a part of you desperately wants to smooth down.
“I didn’t…” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Okay.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding interest in the dried coffee stain on your shoes. Bucky shifts his feet in the dirt next to them. Neither of you move, but you can feel his gaze on you again. “You look tired,” he says.
“Gee, thanks.”
“I just meant…maybe a break from the doubles wouldn’t hurt. You look dead on your feet. You gotta take care of yourself.”
“Right, because no one else is gonna,” you shoot at him. “I think I got it handled.”
“Kid…”
“I can take care of myself, Bucky, you don’t need to check on me just ‘cause you feel bad.”
“That’s not why I’m here—“
“Oh, yeah?” you cut him off with a surge of venom in your voice, watching as he fails to meet your eyes. “Why are you here then? ‘cause I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you to stay away this time.”
Bucky stares past you at the oak tree, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his breaths. “Yeah,” he mutters quietly, “you did.”
“Obviously not, since you’re here.” You finally have the courage to step around him, taking care not to brush his shoulder as you pass him on your way to the door. “Maybe third time’s the charm—“
Bucky says your name, painful yet reverent, and it cuts through the calm of the evening like a knife.
You turn slowly to face him, the keys forgotten in your hand. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, but suddenly, he’s right there, a foot away and looking like the remaining distance is torturing him.
“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You could tell me a million times over and it still won’t work.”
You inhale sharply. “What are you sayin’?”
He shakes his head, testing a cautious step forward, and the little gap between you shrinks. “I’m sayin’ I can’t stay away from you.”
Your heart jumps to your throat. “Bucky…”
“I can’t stay away from you,” he repeats, firmer, more certain now. “I hate myself for it, for not bein’ able to do the one thing you asked of me, but I feel like I’m dyin’ every day I don’t see you. And that makes me hate myself even more ‘cause I know I don’t deserve you — and you deserve more than anythin’ I could give you — but I lose all my fuckin’ willpower when it comes to you.”
His words land like a blow to your chest and a kiss to your cheek. Sharp yet sweet, violent yet comforting. You stare at him, lips parted with a hundred questions and a million emotions.
Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he closes the last few inches between you, calloused hands reaching for your face hesitantly, afraid to overstep, afraid to spook you, afraid to worsen the devastation he’s done. You think about the last time he held you, what it cost you to be haunted with that feeling of forever thinking you’d never get it again, and for a moment, every cell within you screams to push him away. Danger, danger, danger, your instincts tell you, reducing him to nothing better than the boys that have come before him, the ones that let your heart go carelessly only to yank it back when it was beneficial for them.
But this is Bucky. Not the pathetic excuses for men that potholed your journey here. Even when he broke your heart, he did it for you.
His fingers are gentle as you let him cradle your face, a passing look of relief turning his eyes a softer blue.
“I know I told you this can’t happen, and you told me to stay away, but I don’t have it in me to see either of those through,” he whispers, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks. “I’ve had enough of my own restraint holdin’ me back. I spent the last seven years convincin’ myself that I don’t deserve a good life because I threw half of it away for people that don’t give a shit about me anymore.”
He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter shut at whatever memories haunt him. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer, steadier, like he quietly made a deal with his demons to leave him be for the night. His eyes drop to your lips, just a brief glance that could easily be missed, but it isn’t, because you can’t take your eyes off him. Not when you can practically hear his heart beat in his chest, can feel the heat of him beneath his top, the rough skin of his hands reminding you that this is very, very real and not some imagined scenario you’re still stuck in on your drive home. His fingers tighten around your jaw and Bucky leans in to press his forehead gently to yours.
“When you said you wanted me,” he begins, voice rough and hushed, “it was like comin’ up for air after bein’ under for too long. You’re a livin’, breathin’ example of going through shit and still comin’ out the other side of it, and for the first time in years I thought maybe that could be me, too. But I panicked — I pushed you away like I already knew you were gonna leave because everyone else did. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for hurtin’ you like that. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I’m a stupid old man.” He holds you closer, his grip on the verge of leaving marks. “But kid, I’ll give you everything I got, all the time I have left on this earth, whatever you want…if you’ll have me.”
The world tilts a little. You might have stumbled if Bucky wasn’t holding you like you’re the last light left before the armageddon. He’s so close that you can taste the beer on his breath, and you inhale deeply, drinking it in like it’s straight from the bottle. But a small voice is there in your head, providing clarity on the point of contention that drove him away in the first place…
“Bucky,” you whisper, pulling back. His eyes frantically dance over your face, brows furrowed. Your heart pounds painfully against your chest. “I think…I think you were right. What you said in your truck.” Your eyes fall shut. “About me wantin’ more than what I have now. There’s something else out there that’s meant for me and I…I realized I can’t leave it be. That I’ll do whatever it takes to have it.”
He inhales sharply, his large frame stilling against yours. You look at him then, and he’s stricken, balancing on a fragile fence between panic and hope. Your heart aches more for him now than it ever did while you kept your distance, for this rough, immovable, larger-than-life man. Despite the tears, despite the wicked words, despite it all, he calls to you. He calls…
You blink. “But it isn’t what you think.”
As you say the words, something aligns inside of you, a shifting of your soul. It settles comfortably, like it was waiting patiently for you to figure it out. What you’ve been chasing after all this time is no longer abstract or vague. It’s clear as day, as bright as a beacon, and it’s right in front of you.
Reaching up to cover his hands with yours, you thread your fingers through Bucky’s, appreciating the warmth and sturdiness of his grasp. He’s still looking at you frantically, like you might pull away at any second and tell him to get lost. You squeeze gently.
“This whole time I thought a better life meant gettin’ out of the cycle of hell back home. Leavin’ it all behind so I wouldn’t have the chance to become another sad statistic in that shit town, and makin’ my own way so I’d never have to rely on others who only saw me for what I could give ‘em.”
You shift closer to him, until your noses brush, until your lips are ghosting each other.
“And then I met you,” you breathe. “And I realized how lonely it is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved or taken care of or given kindness just because. I wasn’t searchin’ for it when I ran, because I didn’t think it mattered — as long as I could dig myself out of where they tried to bury me. But somewhere along the way with you, it all changed.”
Your hands slide up his arms, slowly, carefully, leaving goosebumps on his skin in their wake. The tension leaks from Bucky as your arms wrap around his neck, a soft sigh escaping from his parted lips.
“The trailer and the job — you’re right, they’re not enough. They aren’t gonna give me the future I want. Because the future I want is a place to call home with someone who can give me what’s been missin’ from my life. And I want it to be you.”
A pause. Heartbeats racing in sync. Your eyes meet.
Bucky’s mouth is on yours before you can register him leaning in, and there’s an urgency to his kiss that you sends a thrill down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, the other maps your body until it finds your waist and drags you closer as he pushes your lips open with his tongue. He moves differently than before, fueled by an emotion that doesn’t fall under a single name, but his determination is as tangible as ever. He’s taking what he wants now.
You pull away with a gasp, forehead resting against his. “Baby,” he murmurs, soft and husky, “it’s already yours.”
Your fingers find his lips and press lightly into wet skin. “You mean it?” you ask with wide eyes.
“I meant every word,” he promises. His hand tugs lightly at your hair, tilting your chin up just how he wants it. “No more stayin’ away. Couldn’t get me to if you tried.”
He seals it with a kiss, demanding and brutal, yet burning with his adoration. Your body’s pulled flush against his and it feels like coming home. Those hard planes fit against your soft curves like puzzle pieces that pledge a lifetime of coming together like this again and again.
You’re panting by the time you pull apart. Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded and full of dark intentions, but you can feel him holding back, testing his restraint, handing you the controls now.
It’s the easiest decision to make.
You pull at his shirt while slowly backing up the stoop. He follows, scooping up the keys you dropped before placing a gentle kiss to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, and unlocking your door. He pulls you into his arms once you’ve crossed the threshold, mouthing at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your breath hitches on little gasps and moans as his hands find your ass and massage it with interest.
Bucky walks you deeper into your little trailer like he owns the place, feasting on your skin and stopping only at the bedroom door. He pulls away to meet your gaze, and you see his pupils are blown.
“Kid, I’m not here just for this,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need you to know that.”
“I do,” you whisper while your heart swells from his words. “But I want this. I want you.”
He groans, backing you against the wall as his brow meets your temple, sighing against your ear as his thigh slides between yours. “I’ll be so good to you, baby, I promise. Lemme take care of you…”
Hands guide your hips down onto the rough fabric of his jeans, easing you across his thigh with a drag that sets off fireworks in your stomach. You breathe heavily as each pass of your clit over his muscled leg fuels the building heat within you. Bucky kisses the hinge of your jaw, the shell of your ear, whispering, “Fuck, I can feel you. Soaked already…drivin’ me crazy.”
“B-Buck— more,” you whimper as you roll your hips, searching for more friction. He grabs your jaw, something just short of gentle, and makes you meet his eyes as he presses you further into the wall. The arousal slides hot and sticky out of you, soaking your panties and sure to leave a mark on his jeans, making you glide faster on top of him. He groans when your mouth falls open in a choked gasp.
“You look too good like this, baby, gettin’ yourself off on me,” he breathes. “So goddamn pretty.”
Heat rises to your cheeks. You reach for him as you hit a new angle that makes your body sing, fingers curling in his hair to bring him in for a savage kiss, a lustful mark of new territory in your relationship; his thumbs dig into the crease where your legs meet your hips, and you can just feel the hard outline of his length straining against his jeans as it presses into your stomach, making your head spin. Bucky’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling a whine from you that he swallows whole.
It’s almost too much. Like jumping off the deep end and not knowing how far down it goes. It’s terrifying, it’s disorienting, it’s perilous. But you still want to touch the bottom. You still want to know where this goes. You want more.
“Bucky,” you exhale against his lips. He holds you tighter. “Make me yours.”
His eyes flash with possession, with desire, with an enduring need that is rooted in something deeper than the lust you share for each other. It’s trust in its purest form. An exchange of souls, an agreement of devotion. Bucky gathers you up in his arms until you’re pressed against him.
“All mine,” he swears, rough and low, and carries you into the bedroom.
Bucky tosses you on the bed quickly before kicking the door closed and leaving the moonlight as the only witness to what comes next. When he looks at you, something’s shifted — something that makes the heat in your core rise to dangerous temperatures.
“Off,” he demands, dark eyes falling to your uniform. You push up to a sitting position, fingers trembling in anticipation as you slide the dress down your body until it crumples on the floor in front of him. Bucky kicks it aside, unable to look away from the sight of you in nothing but your thin bra and panties.
“Jesus,” he breathes, voice rough, licking his lips while he gets his uninhibited fill of your body. “Look at you.”
Your self-consciousness is short-lived when he leans over to press a tender kiss to your mouth, cradling your jaw like it’s a priceless treasure.
“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers.
Your skin is set on fire when a large hand skims your bare thigh, pushing your legs apart until you can feel a cool breeze against the mark your arousal left on your panties. The vulnerability makes you gasp, but his touch is there to keep your legs where he wants them.
Bucky pulls back to watch as his knuckle drags across your center, teasing the ache just on the other side of the fabric that grows more insistent by the second. You’re throbbing for him, failing to hide your wanton moans as your pussy clenches around nothing but air. He moves his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it expertly.
“This mine now?” he asks you, lips hovering over yours. You nod desperately. You’ve never been so turned on it your entire life. “Say it.”
You gulp. “It’s yours, Bucky. All yours.”
“All mine,” he echoes, “been wantin’ her for too long.” He traces your folds until he finds your clit. You cry out, legs spreading wider for him like he pressed the magic button. He swears under his breath before capturing your lips in another bruising kiss.
“Perfect girl,” he rasps into your mouth. You melt beneath him as he plays with your clit through your panties, a pattern of soft circles and hard presses that makes your toes curl.
But just as the pleasure begins to crest, his hand is gone. A sound rips from your chest, half-growl, half-whine, as you’re edged for a second time with no relief. Bucky just smirks and slowly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he reveals his broad chest and tight abdominals, like a curtain being dropped for the grand finale. Immediately, your hands reach out to touch him, the sharp edges of his body, your lips pressing to the center of his stomach before you can help it, and you look at him as your mouth moves lower.
But Bucky cuts the trail off by sinking to his knees in front of you. “You can suck my cock like a good girl another time. Let your man eat first.”
His thumb sweeps across your jaw gently, then pulls at your bottom lip until you suck it into your mouth. He groans as you bite down lightly, tongue swirling its promises for another night. Bucky’s other hand finds the clasp of your bra, popping it open with practiced ease that should frustrate you but instead elevates your heart rate. Your bare chest is eye level with him, and he wastes no time admiring the way your body is illuminated by the moonlight.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and his thumb is tugged from your mouth so that he can cradle both breasts in his hands, the pads of his fingers stroking the delicate skin until goosebumps erupt under his touch and you’re arching into his hold. “Been hidin’ these from me,” he grumbles, thumb flicking your nipple. You whine when his teeth graze the other, soft and gentle, the bark before the bite.
“Bucky,” you whine, “touch me.”
“I am touchin’ you,” he says around your nipple, a smile in his voice as he sucks heavily at the skin. Your hips jerk up, seeking out some sort of friction that he’s not giving yet.
“More, Bucky, please.”
He mouths at your breast, confident, intentional, and mind-blowingly skilled, while his other hand squeezes tightly around the unkissed one.
“You beg so sweet, baby, but be patient f’me,” he mutters, switching sides. You’re inching closer to the edge of the bed, to grind against what, you’re not sure, but your core is dripping with arousal that snakes a heady trail down your thigh while your pussy throbs from the lack of attention. As he laves at your chest, you bury your hands in his hair, and he makes a small noise of satisfaction before moving his kisses lower, down your naval. He pushes you back slowly until your spine brushes the bed, a thin squeak leaving your lips as his hands find the juncture of your thighs and pulls them open wider to settle between them.
His teeth catch on the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you, and you’re outrageously close to coming just from the sight of it alone.
You realize he’s waiting for your permission, so you offer a frantic nod.
“Good girl,” he says through his teeth, pulling the fabric down your legs with swift efficiency until you’re completely naked before him. He sits back on his heels to stare.
“Don’t,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his thumbs rub tiny circles that get closer and closer to your leaking center with each swipe.
“What?” he answers. “Just lookin’ at what’s mine.”
You can feel his gaze like a physical caress on your folds. It makes your back arch, your hips jerk, and he hasn’t even fucking touched you yet. A man who wouldn’t even meet your eye two months ago can’t look away from the most intimate part of you, and it’s making you come apart in ways that should require psychic evaluation.
“Hold still, sugar,” he orders, voice stern and hold unforgiving as he pins you in place.
“But—“
“No.”
You bite your lip, daring to lift your head and meet his eyes. They’re still focused on your aching cunt, watching as it drools so easily for him. And then he leans in.
Bucky presses a kiss to your clit, just a whisper of a touch that has you twitching yet again. But before the first noise of frustration can slip out, his mouth moves an inch lower, then another inch lower, a line of gentle pecks until he reaches your entrance and curls his tongue into you.
Your mind blanks out while your body reacts, thighs clenching around his shoulders, fingers twisting into his hair, every muscle in your body locking up. Oh.
He eats like it’s his livelihood, tongue circling your entrance before digging inside with a precision so intense, it’s like he already knows exactly what you need. His mouth dances there before his tongue revisits your clit, small flicks before heavy strokes of his tongue to get you writhing until the cycle repeats itself. The tell-tale coil in your gut tightens, your orgasm on the horizon.
“Taste so sweet,” Bucky rumbles, his eyes shooting up to find you already watching him. A dark look crosses his face, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, before he buries himself back into your center. You whine, head falling back against the bed.
“How does it feel, baby?” His beard tickles the skin of your thighs. You pant and grip his hair tighter.
“S-so— so good—“
“Yeah? Can my girl take more?”
“…m-more?”
Bucky’s mouth is teasing your clit when you feel the blunt ends of two fingers circle your entrance. Your eyes pop open, and you manage to pull yourself onto your elbows in time to watch as his long fingers sink inside you, making your jaw fall open on a whimper. The feeling of them sliding against your walls immediately unlocks a new level of pleasure that is different from anything you’ve felt before, a level that you know only Bucky could have reached.
He curls his fingers, moving them in and out at a deviously slow pace while his tongue flicks faster and faster against your clit. A cry rips from your throat. The coil in your stomach grows tighter, hotter.
“Bucky,” you warn.
“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles between licks, meeting your eyes again. “Give it to me.”
A soft moan tumbles out of you. Pressure that is as cruel as it is generous snaps like a thread, and you come apart on his mouth like it’s the first time your body’s allowed you to feel alive.
“That’s it,” Bucky mutters into your core, easing you through it, “just like that, sweet girl.”
The pleasure strips you raw until you’re nothing but a live wire, twitching and moaning at every swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. He sighs deeply into your cunt, contentedly, like your release was his release, too.
“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he rumbles, forehead dropping to your thigh as his fingers slowly pull out of you. “Those sounds...Could make a man addicted.”
He pushes up from the floor while you struggle to catch your breath, watching you like a bird of prey that just found its next meal.
The golden skin of Bucky’s torso draws the gaze of your sluggish, post-orgasm brain. It grows closer and closer as he crawls over you, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Or to lick every inch of him. Either could apply here.
He settles between your legs easily, naturally, and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of you.
“Be a doll and get my belt, yeah?” he murmurs against your ear, brushing a kiss to the shell of it. You shiver, your hazy brain finally registering the feel of his jeans on your thighs, and reach down with trembling fingers to unclasp it slowly, the zipper following with a sound that splits through the tension of the hot night air.
He kisses you deeply then, a strong hand around your jaw, your name whispered against your lips.
Your hands drift up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the ends of his hair as he pushes his jeans down, his boxers with them. Your eyes gravitate toward the hardness now tucked against your leg, and all it takes is a quick glance to realize that Bucky is truly a big man in every way. A whimper slips from you as you catch the shiny red tip twitch with need.
“What is it, sweet girl?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s a light in them that suggests he already knows the answer to his own question.
You swallow thickly. “What if it doesn’t…”
He chuckles softly, brushing his lips to your cheek. “It will. You wanna be a good girl for your old man, don’t you?”
“Bucky,” you mumble shyly, cheeks tinted pink as something warm spreads through your stomach.
“I said I’d be good to you, and that’s what I plan on doin’.”
His hands move you effortlessly until you’re flush with him, just enough space for Bucky’s hips to rock with slow, shallow movements, his cock sliding through your folds and coating himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit, and his eyes snap to your face, watching intensely as the mounting pleasure begins to show.
You let out a shaky exhale when he notches his cock at your entrance, lashes fluttering.
“Eyes on me, baby.”
And in an inevitable moment of tenderness, Bucky’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he brings it up over your head. Then he pushes in.
You gasp, Bucky curses softly, a tension leaking from both of your bodies as he finds his sweet relief in your warmth. You’re stretched out right away, and he’s only halfway in, but it’s a fullness that makes you feel complete, rather than feeling intrusive. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer until he eases through your tightness and slides in to the hilt. Your consequential moan harmonizes with his.
With all the restraint left in him, Bucky holds still, feeling the walls of your pussy spasm around his cock. The pattern of pressure could make him blow his load right now if he eased up even an inch on his self-control, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the look on your face as you adjust to him. You’re so beautiful, even with tiny tears slipping down your cheeks, that little crease between your brow. And you’re such a good girl for keeping your eyes on him.
His good girl.
“You okay?” he whispers, kissing away the tear streak on your jaw.
“Yes,” you breathe, blinking. “It feels…you feel so good, Bucky. I didn’t…”
A sound rumbles in his chest as he tests out a soft grind. You squirm instantly, hips rolling to meet his for double the pressure. His cock touches something deep within you that makes the room blur, makes you cry out.
Bucky’s free hand pushes down on your hip. “Sweet girl, if you do that one more time, this is gonna be over before it even starts.”
The pout comes automatically. Bucky kisses it off your face with the eagerness of a teenage boy, sucking your lip and folding your tongue with his as he begins a snail’s pace of little thrusts. Your cunt still pulses around him like it did when he first slid in; it makes him shake as he tries pulling out, only to be sucked back in at the first chance. His hand tightens around yours.
“Oh, God,” you whimper when he gives you a harder thrust.
“Jesus Christ, baby,” he sighs, “so fuckin’ tight, tryin’ to kill me.”
“Keep goin’, Bucky. Harder.”
“Fuuuuuck…” He picks up speed, cock dragging heavily against your walls, hips snapping. You can hear it, the wet slick of your bodies meeting, and it makes your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.
“Perfect pussy,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for me. Can feel it.”
Bucky’s cock throbs while he pounds into your cunt, and the rhythm transitions into something deep and desperate and almost out of control. All the while, you can’t look away from him; even as your body jolts and moves with every thrust, your eyes are glued to the broken expression on his face, the raw vulnerability of him seeking out his pleasure in you while on a mission to give you yours.
“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot suddenly. His mouth descends on your throat, beard scratching at your skin.
The weight on your hip disappears when Bucky grabs your other hand, pulling it up beside the first. His thrusts get impossibly faster as he holds you down, determined to find the sweet spot again, and again, and again, until stars burst in front of your eyes, drool spilling from your lips while you mouth half-formed words that don’t exist.
Bucky pulls back enough to take it in, eyes roving from your face to where your bodies connect to the hands he holds down, and back. “You look so pretty like this, baby,” he pants between thrusts. “All dumbed out on my cock, like you should be. Takin’ me so well.”
You whimper when you feel your stomach tighten, your muscles beginning to lock up in that way only an earth-shattering amount of pleasure can create.
“Gonna cum,” you whisper, the first coherent sentence you can think of. Bucky groans, placing a bruising kiss on your lips as his hips pummel into yours.
“Do it,” he growls into your mouth. “Wanna feel you.”
Your body trembles as it explodes and puts itself back together just to explode again. The corners of your vision go blurry. Your orgasm crashes into you with a ferocity stronger than the last, your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock.
His pace slows as you come back down to earth, but you’re barely given enough time to catch your breath before he’s slipping out of you and turning you over onto your stomach. You whine softly when he pulls your hips up, settling behind you on his knees.
“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he mutters huskily, and you feel his warm breath fan over your lower back. A soft kiss is pressed to the swell of your ass before he palms roughly at it with a strong hand. “Should’ve taken you sooner.”
His hand slides lower until it cups your folds, fingers exploring and rubbing and circling freely, making you bury your face into the sheets when he brushes your sensitive clit. He learns what touch triggers the neediest sounds from you and capitalizes on it until you’re all but wriggling away from him. He catches your waist and pulls you back.
“No no no,” he soothes. “Lemme take care of you.”
Bucky slides a finger into your hole, then a second, just because he can, curling them up as if to hook you in closer. You cry out and he hums in response before his thumb brushes over your other hole, the one that’s tight and quivering from the pressure of his fingers working your cunt.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pushing on the muscle enough to get you careening back into him. “You’d let me take you here, too, wouldn’t you? You’d be so sweet to me, so fuckin’ tight around me where no one else has been…ain’t that right, sweet girl?”
All you can do is jerk your head in a nod. He plays with both holes like he owns them, and at this point, he does. The pleasure that hadn’t really died down from your last orgasm is already on the rise again, spiking and cresting in ways you’ve never experienced before the more he circles that second hole.
“Bucky,” you gasp as he presses down on it; not going in, but just enough to break through the rim.
“Next time,” he says wistfully, pulling his fingers out of you. His cock is there to replace them in a heartbeat, and then he’s pushing back into your pussy like he never left.
“Shit—“ you exhale.
Bucky’s length feels different in this position. Longer, bigger, heavier. You don’t have to look to know he’s making your stomach bulge. He lets you adjust for a moment before taking on a pace that’s steady yet intentional. He finds his grip on you, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your hip, pushing you when he pulls back, pulling you when he pushes in. Smack-smack-smack.
“J-J-Jesus, Bucky, it f-f-feels— t-t-too much—“
“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, grabbing your neck tighter. “Such a good girl.”
He grinds into you, reaching a new depth that has you sputtering on a dry sob, pussy clenching down on him. Bucky groans.
“I know, baby, she’s been waitin’ so long for it. Gonna fill her up…make sure you’re mine for good…keep doin’ it ‘til everyone knows whose bed you’re in…”
His hips jerk suddenly, sporadically, a powerful thrust that bullies the deepest part of you and pushes you up the mattress. A breath expels out of him that could almost be categorized as a whine.
“Fuck,” he pants, “I’ll keep goin’ ‘til it takes. ‘Til you’re mine in every way. Never lettin’ go of ya—“
Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, in your veins, in your ears. You barely hear his words, let alone process them, but they still send a jolt of pleasure straight to your gut. You can’t think of anything but the drag of his cock on your walls, the stretch of your entrance at this new angle, the hold of his hand on your neck that suggests he doesn’t plan no letting you go anytime soon. And why would you want him to?
“Fill me, Buck…please. I want it…” you whisper into the pillows.
Bucky comes almost as soon as the words leave your lips, with a couple of quick, stuttered thrusts before burying himself so deep inside you, you feel him in your chest. His groan is long and ragged as the sticky release leaves his body and enters yours, settling with a finality that leaves more than just a mark on your insides. You sigh deeply as you feel him slowly relax behind you, the last of the shockwaves making his cock twitch as he pulls out. His spend leaks from your entrance and down your thigh, but a quick swipe of Bucky’s thumb returns it to where it belongs.
“Ahh—“ you hiss, but Bucky moves with purpose, gently hauling you up by the neck until you’re cradled against his chest, arms wrapped around your middle. His breathing is heavy in your ear.
“You good?” he mumbles. You only have the capacity to nod, sinking into the sweaty warmth of his skin while he places chaste kisses on your neck. “C’mon, then.”
He picks you up off the bed and carries you to the bathroom, letting you be for a moment to clean yourself up, and you know the image of his bare ass walking away is burned into your retinas for good. He returns with a set of panties and the wifebeater he was wearing before, now dressed in his boxers. He helps the shirt over your head, holds the panties for you to step into, and the act is considerate and intensely intimate, something you weren’t expecting even after the endless devotion you just received from him. His blue eyes watch you closely, softly, still dark from the throes of passion, but free from any haziness and uncertainty. He is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to be doing; there’s no room for doubt, not when you see him look at you like that.
A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder once you’re dressed. He tugs you back into the bedroom, a possessive hand on the small of your back that guides you beneath the sheets. Bucky slips in behind you, enveloping you in his familiar scent of sweat and metal and evergreen, pulling you to him after so many days of pushing you away.
“Bucky?”
“Yeah?”
You bite your lip. “Was it really me yellin’ at you that did it for ya?”
There’s a small pause before you hear a soft chuckle, just a puff of breath on your skin.
“I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t. But…it was also the before, and the after, too. Still bein’ able to have a smile that big and pretty after all the hell life’s put you through. After all the hell I put you through…it’s hard not to fall for that. You’re a…good person to be around.”
Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your skin zings with electricity wherever he touches you. His words are exactly what your soul craves, so much so that it hurts.
“Careful,” you whisper, “this is startin’ to sound like the sweet nothins you say you don’t give.”
You can feel his smile against your spine. He tugs you closer. “Don’t be difficult.”
“Me? Never.”
A few beats of silence pass, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lie next to him without saying a word.
“I meant what I said,” he eventually murmurs, absentmindedly stroking your collarbone.
“What part?” you whisper, lips brushing his hand.
His voice is gruff in your ear, low and tentative. “‘bout not lettin’ you go.”
A smile cracks across your face. “Oh, yeah?…what about the other parts?”
He makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Y’heard that?”
You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s focused on a spot on your shoulder, smoldering intensity written across his face dulled only by a touch of sheepishness.
“I heard all of it,” you tell him softly. His eyes meet yours, dark blue storms drowning you in their path.
“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, licking his lips before placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the back of your neck. You bend toward him like a flower to the sun. “I want you waitin’ for me when I get home. I want you givin’ me hell for being late for dinner. I want you doin’ laundry in my underwear.” His lips brush your skin again, hands wandering beneath his shirt. “I want you keepin’ me up all night, lovin’ on me ‘til I know nothin’ but you. I wanna show you in every way I know how that I can be what you need.”
Your hand curls in his hair, forcing him to look at you. “You already are,” you whisper.
Bucky slots his mouth over yours with a groan, promising tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with his kiss.
sammy speaks again: if I told you this took me two months to write would you believe me? 30k words too like I could have shortened it sammy let’s be real, but I think my body physically rejects the idea of not providing an encyclopedia of a build up. which this seriously is, holy introspection and emotions like can I write normally for once? anyway idk what happened to me but I’m just grateful I’ve finally broken through the funk!
good news is I feel way more open and inspired to write my other wips after signing the dotted line on this one. let me get through a couple shorties and then I’ll be back with one of those!
as always I appreciate all the love and feedback, and thank you again for following this blog❣️
summary: med school had gotten boring to jack abbot and michael "robby" robinavitch. in an attempt to liven things up, they settle on two things: serial killings and making you theirs no matter what.
tags: ghostface!medstudent!rabbot x reader, possessive!boyfriends!rabbot, med school scream au, dark!rabbot, ooc rabbot, no age gaps!, violence, medical inaccuracies, murder, improper use of medical tools, morally gray reader (idk fam she finds out but doesn't turn them in), 5.6k words of pure smut (threesome, coercion/slight dubcon, degradation, blood kink, fingering, piv-unprotected sex, blow job [when in Paris], sloppy seconds, overstimulation), small time skip at the end NSFW 18+ MDNI
notes: I feel like I am very qualified to write this as someone who has scream in their top 4 on letterboxd and has written stuilly x reader fan fiction before, so I am well versed, I also love horror and have been wanting to write a few more darker fics on the side (still throwing around the idea of a saw inspired jack abbot fic), MY TAG LIST IS CLOSED, please enjoy!
word count: 14.9k (making this the longest one shot I've ever written)
You set your coffee down with a small thunk on the long classroom table somewhere in the middle of the lecture room. Your binders and notebooks joined next, placed down more carefully to not tip the cup over, because spilling your caffeinated beverage before 8 am would have been a tragedy in and of itself. Your backpack sat nicely in the seat to your right, and to your left you placed one textbook exactly in the middle.
One for Jack, and one for Robby; just as you'd been doing since you met them during orientation of your first year. Because where one of them was, the other wasn't too far behind with you, their added third to their duo, falling somewhere in the middle.
Even though Robby was already an MS4 whereas you and Jack were MS1s, he'd known the curly-haired redhead during childhood and scooped you up right along with him. Now halfway through your second year where Robby wasn't as around as either you or Jack would like, he promised to at least sit with you when he got called in to assist during the few lectures of the ACLS provider course. Today happened to be one of those golden moments where all three of you got to be together again.
Normally, you liked to be the first one in the room to get a feel for the atmosphere and not be rushed to find a nice seat. Doing so had grouped you and Jack in Gross Anatomy and Histology last year, and you would have liked to keep the streak going, however, as you looked around the room, your eyes caught on a male student sitting front and center with his hands folded.
You fought the urge to scoff. Who fucking picks front row?
Taking a seat, your head ducked closer to your backpack, and your hands dug around to find at least one of your good pencils before Jack decided to use them all for himself.
"Are you looking for something?" the guy's voice echoed from the front.
You didn't even look up over the desk when you answered. "Just needing to find a pencil."
He fell quiet for a few moments, and you were sure he was watching you struggle to reach the bottom of your backpack, hoping that he'd stay quiet or at least look away. When you failed to grasp anything pencil-shaped, you straightened back up and squeaked when you came face to face with the guy, jolting at the sheer suddenness of his presence. He was holding a regular number 2 pencil out near your face, sharp end almost between your eyes. If you'd been any closer, your nose would have tapped it.
"You can have one of mine," he said, more insisting for someone you didn't even know.
You eyed him carefully. He was taller than you, you noted, and that even if you were still sitting down, he'd probably tower over you the way he was doing as he waited for you to take the yellow pencil. Your lips pursed together.
"I'll be fine," you answered. "My friends probably have extras."
"But I'm offering you mine. It'd be rude not to take it."
Your stomach flipped. This guy probably wasn't going to stab you with the pencil in broad daylight right before class was about to stop, but your mind went sailing right back to last night's news that yet another student had been murdered while studying in the top floor of the library, and a chill raced up your spine.
"You just go ahead and keep it; I think I'll wait," you muttered, eyes tearing away from him to look at your coffee, the steam rising steadily through the hole in the lid.
He scoffed loudly. "Well, if you're not going to take my pencil, can I at least get your name," he said as though you had to compensate him for "wasting" his time.
"Why would I give you my name if I don't even know yours first." You paused before adding with a smirk. "We're not supposed to give out our names to strangers."
From your peripheral as you turned to look toward the door, you saw him physically contemplate your words.
"Stephen with a ph," he pushed out, and you swore little droplets of his spit hit the cover of your binder.
You desperately wanted to drag a sleeve over it for good measure, but that would just open another can of worms.
His name didn't ring any bells. He certainly wasn't a part of your friend group, and you knew he wasn't the type of guy that Jack would go out of his way to befriend either.
"Now, tell me your name."
Your fingernails curled into your palms, mind willing for either Jack or Robby to walk right through the doors in some divine intervention. You were more than capable of telling the guy off, but why would you when either one could do it for you.
Women in STEM you always told them after you managed to get them to do something for you.
When you failed to answer and give up your name, Stephen hunched forward and placed both hands on the desk. Sadly, his weight and abruptness made the entire thing shake, and before you could reach out, your coffee tipped over and spilled in the opposite direction, right onto his shoes and pants. Your lip automatically slipped between your teeth in an attempt to not laugh as he yelped and cursed loudly. Yet, when he turned back towards you with fire in his eyes and out stretched hand with the pencil curled between his fingers, your face dropped.
"You bitch," he growled while shoving the pointed end in your direction. "You ruined my shoes!"
This time, you were the one to scoff. "You shouldn't have shaken the table like that, so really, you ruined your own shoes all by yourself."
His face flushed red, and his eyes practically bulged out of the sockets; he looked as though he were less than a second away from exploding and going off on you when the door opened wide, reviewing the two you had just been manifesting.
Your head whipped so hard in their direction that you winced at the twang in your neck, and your chest heaved in a sigh of relief.
"No, dude, I'm telling you, this class absolutely sucks," Jack loudly announced, hands gripping his backpack straps as he waddled in. "Just be glad we get here early because by 8 all these seats are fill—"
His words died in his mouth when he finally looked away from Robby and over to where you normally sat, and his expression dropped at the sight of Stephen still towering over you with the pencil in your face. He halted abruptly, causing Robby to follow his line of sight. You tried your best to smile and slightly wave when you met their hazel and deep brown eyes, but the damage had already been done.
Jack scowled something fierce, and his knuckles turned white. He took no time in resuming his walk over. Robby stayed close behind, height feeling more dramatic than normal.
"Heeeyyyy," you drew out before pushing up out of the seat.
Neither said nothing in return, opting to take their normal spots at your sides. Jack's hand planted in the middle of your lower back while Robby slung an arm around your shoulders, large hand squeezing gently when it rested against your upper bicep.
Jack's chin jerked out at Stephen. "Who're you?"
Stephen straightened slightly and puffed out his chest like that was going to do anything. "Stephen Miller."
"Stephen Miller," he echoed before turning to you, his eyes softening. "Do we have a problem here?"
"I was just trying to be friendly man—"
"He wasn't talking to you," Robby cut in. His eyes were darker than you'd ever seen them.
In response you raised your head slightly. "No problem. Just having a conversation."
"Didn't look like a very friendly one," Jack muttered. "You sure, sweetheart?"
"Yeah." The corner of your mouth twitched slightly, but you knew both of them could see right through you. "I'm sure."
Jack and Robby wanted to press more. Their chests had tightened the minute they saw this boy standing over you with what looked like intent to harm. For all they cared, they'd go straight to the dean and report him for violent tendencies, but the look in your eyes and normal want for no animosity kept them close. However, they did share a knowing glance over your head, something that you missed completely as you began to gather your stuff from their seats.
The door burst open a beat later, and students began filling the classroom. Stephen finally sulked back to his chair but not without one more heated glare in your direction.
"What the fuck was that about?" Jack muttered as he slung his backpack down to the ground.
You rolled your eyes. "I guess my search for a pencil was louder than I thought, so he asked if I wanted one of his. When I said no and that I'd probably just steal one of yours, he got . . . angry? I don't know; it was weird. And then he knocked my coffee over," you retold, the last little bit coming across as more whiny than you would have liked, but you were a second year med student for fucks sake.
Coffee kept you sane, and that asshole had taken your morning dose away from you.
"Sorry we didn't get here sooner," Robby stated while getting his papers out, and you fully turned his way.
This had been the first time in months that you got to see him. Between his countless hours as an R1 over at an ER a few towns over, about a two to three hour drive one way, and dealing with his own personal shit, he'd been gone long enough that a short beard covered his jaw and space between his nose and lips. You couldn't help yourself as you reached up and lightly scratched at it.
"When did this get here?" you asked, desperately trying to change the conversation.
His facial hair was soft beneath your fingers, and you felt the way he slightly leaned into your touch.
"I already gave him shit about it; don't worry, sweetheart," Jack announced loudly. "He leaves us for—what?—three months and comes back with a face blanket?"
Robby chuckled and leaned away to look at his friend over your shoulder. "Laugh it up, kid. You're just mad because all you can grow is that upper lip caterpillar."
"Please, let's save the bickering until the clock hits at least ten o'clock," you laughed.
Jack opened and closed his jaw while he made a talking motion with his hand, to which you lightly smacked hip upside the head before taking a seat. Almost instantly, Jack's left hand found the top of your knee.
"But seriously," he muttered, leaning closer so his voice didn't carry much, "are you okay, though? That guy . . ."
You placed your hand on top of his. "He's fine. I doubt he could do much damage with a pencil."
"You never know," Robby huffed. "I'll be back soon; gotta check in with Professor Barlowe." He leaned down and pressed a very light kiss to your temple, something he'd started doing recently, and then clapped Jack on the shoulder as he passed.
Your brows furrowed slightly when you noticed the way Jack let his eyes trail Robby, but you kept your thoughts to yourself. The two had always had a stronger bond than you would ever realize, and if they wanted to let you know if anything changed, you'd let them come to you first before asking invasive questions.
So, instead, you settled on asking about the homework. "Were you able to get it all done? I was up forever."
Jack pulled out a small stack of papers. "Yeah. I finished them this morning. Had a bit of a late night but managed to get a decent amount of sleep." He smiled widely, crooked teeth on full display. "How about you?"
"Uh, I don't know if you listen much to the radios but there was another stabbing last night," you murmured.
His eyebrows rose. "No shit?"
"Yeah." You swallowed thickly. "Miles Pennington. He was found by the janitors in the library. No one knows who did it since all the cameras have been out since last semester, but he had five stab wounds and thirteen clean incisions."
"How do you know all this?" he asked, shoulders hunching slightly.
"My friend works the late night desk. She's the one who called the police and stuff. I'm surprised you didn't know any of this Mr. I have a police scanner and listen to it for fun."
His head leaned back as he barked out a laugh before he looked back toward you, mischief gleaming in his eyes. "You're trouble; you know that?"
You let your eyes quickly trail the freckles that dotted his outstretched neck. "Yeah, yeah. Anyway, it kept me up most of the night, because—" You looked around before leaning in closer. "They think all the recent killings are all connected."
Jack choked on his spit. "What?"
"Every single one of them had calls from an unknown number on their hand-held mobiles that ranged from five to ten minutes."
Under the desk, Jack's fingers tightened and curled into a fist. Through the adrenaline high, they'd, once again, forgotten to grab the fucking mobile.
He hoped he was able to keep a calm expression to hide the way his heart was beating wildly beneath his sternum. However, his breathing must have quickened, because he watched the way your brows furrowed with concern.
"Are you okay?" you asked, scooching forward in your chair to give him a once over.
"Fine," he managed to get out. "Just . . . I think I forgot one of the questions."
"Oh, that's okay," you said, hand already sliding your copy of homework over without a second thought.
Jack's heart clenched at your kindness that he definitely didn't deserve. Not when he was the one to give Miles every single one of those incisions with a scalpel Robby swiped from work. The guy was so close to graduating and becoming a resident, but he just had to go and flirt with you last Christmas, blatantly asking if you had plans to "stay warm" during the break. He had almost killed him then, already envisioning the way the blade would sink deep into his gut, before Robby had given him a look, eyes screaming to be patient.
He only had to wait until midterms, get him alone, and have Robby make the call and give him what they dubbed "The Test" over a call before he could pin him to the ground. It had been easy with very little struggle, even with his vision clouded with that white opened-mouth mask they'd found in a going-out-of-business Halloween store. Cash payment; no trail, no evidence.
Jack was already starting to itch again, that vein deep need to spill blood instead of stopping it from flowing, to cause harm instead of protecting.
You snapped in front of his face, and he blinked rapidly.
"You're spacing out again," you said. "Do you need to take a break? I doubt we'll get in trouble if we sneak out to get more coffee."
He shook his head. "No, I'm fine." His finger tapped on your homework. "Thanks for this . . . again."
Your hand rose and covered your mouth as you giggled. "No problem. I cannot have you flunking this class, Jack Abbot. I don't think I'd survive without you."
"Nah, you're smart enough," he said after lightly flicking your temple. "You'll probably match your first try with whatever hospital you choose."
"You think so?" Shyly, you tucked a piece of fallen hair behind your ear.
Jack met your eye with a ferocity you hadn't seen. "I know so."
Heat flushed to your cheeks and spread down your neck into your top, and you quickly looked back down at your papers and binder. You took one glance toward the front, eyes locking onto Robby where he stood discussing something with your teacher.
"Guess I just need to survive the next two years and hope I don't get a phone call myself," you whispered loud enough for Jack to hear over your scratching pencil and the beginnings of the lecture.
It was almost like you'd been put under a trance every time the lesson began to not miss anything important. Because of this, you missed the way Jack locked eyes with Robby over the tops of the students' heads. His older friend barely glanced in the direction of Stephen, and the slight nod he got sent a pleasured chill racing over his skin.
Jack couldn't wait to feel the slick of Stephen's blood and organs against his black leather gloves as he cut him up once clean slice at a time.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The phone's cord tangled around your finger as you giggled into the chunky receiver while Robby told you about one of the pranks his attending played on him because he fell asleep in an on-call room.
"And then, they had the fucking audacity to page me, and I went running before I fell face first into the hub!"
"And then what?" you laughed breathily, leaning back until your head hit your pillow.
"Then so many casualties came in after, and I was stuck with the cast on and unable to help! I had to wait hours before they could get it off."
"Did it teach you not to fall asleep?" you questioned with a smile that he couldn't even see, but Robby could definitely hear it in your voice.
He smiled as well, lips practically kissing his phone. "For a bit, but then I managed to find an excellent napping place."
"Did Benton tell you off for it?"
"Nope." Robby looked down at the paper in his hand, fingers playing the frayed edge. "He actually woke me up with my acceptance papers."
You sat up straight and gasped loudly. "Michael Strausser Speer Robinavitch! You got accepted into their emergency surgery program, and you didn't fucking tell me in person! You ass!"
"It just slipped my mind."
A scoff flew from your lips and echoed in his ear.
"It just slipped my mind," you mocked, voice dipping into a lower tone that didn't quite match Robby's all the way. "Did you tell Jack?"
"Yeah," he breathed.
"And how'd that go?"
Robby pursed his lips at the memory of Jack screaming at him before kissing him right on the lips. "As well as you could imagine."
"He just . . . worries about you, I think," you tried to console with your lip between your teeth. "Worried about you several hours away, worried that he won't be able to catch up."
"Did he tell you about his plans after med school?"
You nodded on instinct before catching yourself. "Y-yeah, he did. He's brave for it."
"Only Jack could want to be an Army field medic," Robby grumbled while running a hand across his jaw. "He's insane."
A low hum rumbled through your chest in agreement. "He wants to help people, but I don't understand why he thinks he needs to do it under active fire."
For some reason, tears pricked at your eyes, and you rapidly tried to blink them away. To keep them away, you did your best to sniff quietly, but the sound was louder through the phone than you thought.
Robby frowned, and his brows pinched. "Hey, why're you crying?"
You chomped down on the inside of your cheek before replying, "I don't want him to get hurt, and he's going to be so alone over there. It breaks my heart every time he wears that stupid Army crewneck he got at the recruitment office."
He knew exactly which one you were talking about; he pulled the damn thing off Jack's freckled body earlier that morning right after he got back from slicing the kid in the library with blood still crusting at his shoes and at the stretches of skin the robe didn't cover. Robby had licked it all off before taking Jack's cock in his mouth.
"Did I lose you over there, Robinavitch?" you asked when you could only hear heavy breathing.
Robby raised his brows and smirked. "Oh, am I simply Robinavitch to you now?"
"It's what you get for keeping important information from me!"
"Okay, baby, okay," he mused, laying it heavy on the small pet name. “Have you decided what you’re wanting to do after school? We could always use you over at Sacred.”
Nervously, you twirled the phone wire around a finger. “Actually . . . I’m thinking about looking into an endo fellowship.”
Your words hit him right in the stomach. “What?”
You huffed. “Yeah, I know I said I might go into emergency med, but Robby, I don’t think I can keep up with that life. Seeing all those traumas would fuck me in the head.”
“So, Jack’s leaving me, and now you’re leaving me?”
“Don’t put it like that. You’re a big boy; you’ll be fine.” Your eyes glanced around the room before widening when you caught the time. "Fuck, Rob, I gotta go. I'm supposed to meet my roommate for breakfast tomorrow before my 8 am." You paused before adding. "Thanks for talking to me. I've really missed you, ya know?"
"I've missed you too," he confessed, "a lot."
"It's not the same without you. I have Jack, but I think I can say we both feel incomplete when you're not here."
"Feel the same out there," he whispered. "I'll let you go, but I'll give Jack a plan for lunch so we can all meet up, yeah?"
"Sounds good, Robby. Sleep well," you said before ending the call.
Your hands raised high above your head, and a soft moan slipped through your lips as you stretched. Needing to use the bathroom one more time, you softly slipped from the bed and padded toward the connected suite. You still had no clue how you managed to get a room with a bathroom, but you were never one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
However, only a few feet away, your phone screeched a loud shrill into the air. Your cheeks puffed as you blew out air, mind thinking that Robby probably forgot to tell you something important. Your hand curled around the receiver and raised it to your ear.
"Robby, I swear if you forgot about something again I'll—"
"Hello?" a distorted voice cut you off, and your stomach dipped ever so slightly at the unfamiliar caller.
"Um, hi?"
"Would you like to play a game?"
You frowned deeply. "No thank you. I think you have the wrong number. Goodbye."
The phone clicked back into the stand, and you turned away once more, ready to get peeing over so you could get some sleep. Yet again, your phone rang, and you jumped at the noise. This time, you stomped back over and ripped it right out and up to your ear.
"You shouldn't have done that," the voice tsked. "Because now, if you hang up again, I'll have to kill someone for you."
Your blood ran ice cold. "How is this?"
"Uh, uh, uh, I ask the questions here, sweets. And you still haven't answered my first one: would you like to play a game?"
"Fuck you," you spat. "Is this Stephen from class, because I swear if this is just some elaborate prank, I'm going to report your sorry ass to the dean."
"Oh, she has a mouth on her," he—because this had to be a man—laughed. "What fun you and I are going to have."
"I'm not going to play whatever stupid game this is, Stephen."
"Sorry to tell you, but this isn't Stephen," he growled, and the sound had you shaking slightly.
Knuckles turning white, you gripped the phone tightly. "Then-then who is this?"
"Can't tell you that or it'd ruin the surprise!" He sighed and clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Now, I will ask for the last time, do you want to play a game? Or should I start killing your friends? What are their names again? Jack and Michael?"
"If you hurt them—"
"You'll do what? You don't even know my name? But I know yours, Y/n."
Your skin itched, and you whirled around, almost like you swore that you felt someone's eyes on your body. You stepped up to your window and cracked the blinds open with a finger. When no one seemed to be standing outside, you let the slat fall back down.
"Will you play now?"
A thick glob of saliva fought back against your attempt to swallow it down. "Fine. I'll play. What are the rules?"
"If you can answer my questions, I won't kill poor Stephen here."
In the background, you heard muffled screams and cries that matched the student who had held a pencil to your face. Tears slowly streamed down your face as it fully settled that the man on the other end wasn't playing around, that a life was in your, a mere med student's, hands.
"Don't hurt him, please," you whimpered.
"Such big emotions for a stranger. Oh, you're going to be such a good doctor one day." He cleared his throat. "Question one: a twenty-three-year old comes rolling in after being involved in a motorcycle accident. Her BPs seventy-eight over forty, heart rate’s one-forty. She has absent breath sounds on the left, and her trachea’s deviated to the right. What kills her first?”
“How am I supposed to know that? I’m only a MS2, fucker.”
“You’re smart enough to know it. All that time spent with that emergency resident, and you can’t remember anything?”
“Just give me a second!”
“I fear Stephen doesn’t have ‘a second,’” he taunted, and in the next moment, a pain-filled wail muffled through your phone, causing a sob to rip right from your throat.
“Okay, okay, just—” You pinched your eyes shut as you tried to think through the question. “Tension pneumothorax,” you settled on before holding your breath.
“And your treatment to keep him alive?”
“A-a needle decompression followed by a ch-chest tube.”
The distorted voice paused on the other line. “Correct. See, I knew you would get it. You’re so smart, Y/n.”
You unsuccessfully tried to wipe the tears from your cheeks, but your eyes kept replenishing them. “Okay, I answered your fucking questions, now let the guy go.”
“I’m sorry. Was I not specific? We still have three more to go before I think of letting Stephen here see another sunrise. Next question: A trauma patient arrives talking to you. Five minutes later, they’re confused, then unconscious. What do you suspect is happening?”
A frustrated groan bubbled through your chest. “I need more information.”
“If your patient is unconscious, you don’t get more information. Tick, tock, sweets, Stephen’s counting on you.”
“It-it could be something like an epidural hematoma?”
“And what would be the classic artery?”
“The middle meningeal artery.”
“I’m so proud of you for getting that correct.”
Instead of feeling elated, you were so close to throwing up that you could taste the tang of bile on your tongue. “What’s the next one?”
“Feeling confident, are we?”
“Ask the fucking question.”
“You’ve got penetrating trauma just left of the sternum. Blood pressure is dropping. Neck veins are distended, and the heart sounds are muffled. What’s the diagnosis, doc?”
“Cardiac tamponade,” you answered instantly. It had been one of the homework questions from the ACLS provider course you had with Jack.
“Treatment?”
“Emergency thoracotomy if they’re crashing. Pericardiocentesis only if it’s the bridge.”
“I guess you really can stay awake during your classes. Now, for the final question: your last trauma patient just received a massive transfusion after losing too much blood like poor Stephen will if you get this wrong. All seems to go well until the monitor suddenly shows a widening QRS, peaked T waves, and then ventricular tachycardia. What is killing the man on your table?”
Your stomach dropped to your toes. This should have been the easiest one. You should know this.
“It’s hypocalcemia,” you stated.
The line went silent.
“Did I get it? I got it, you mother fucker,” you growled.
However, all you got was a click on his tongue. “Wrong.”
All blood drained straight from your face. “Wha-what? No, I’m certain it’s hypocalcemia. It’s the textbook definition of it.”
“The diagnosis you’re looking for is actually hyperkalemia. You would have needed to administer potassium instead. Well, the calcium would have been the protocol, but it wasn’t the answer I asked for.”
“N-no,” you stuttered out with another sob wracking your body. “Please don’t hurt him. Let him go.”
“I gave him a fighting chance like all good doctors do. But sometimes, in the real world, we can’t all save our patients. Say goodbye to Stephen. He’ll be missed in class.”
Your throat constricted in a gag as wet slashing sounds echoed through your phone speaker. You should have turned it off, but you stayed frozen to the middle of your room, mind fuzzy and close to dissociation as Stephen’s wails rattled and echoed in your brain. He gave a particularly loud screech that followed almost a ripping sound, something you’d heard before from medical tapes used in surgical classes, the tell-tale noise of someone wrongly cutting through skin and tendons.
In a few moments, he quieted before the line went fully quiet, save for the heavy, distorted breathing from the assailant. All you could manage to do was whimper and tremble.
“Thanks for playing, sweets. Better luck next time.”
The drawl of the dial tone echoed in your ear until the receiver slipped from your hand and landed in a loud thunk against your carpet. Your knees almost buckled as you tried to make your way back to your bed, bathroom break far forgotten. It didn’t even cross your mind as you sat shaking on the comforter, hands clenching the blanket.
All you could hear were Stephen’s moans and cries, and if you could get past those, the man’s words rang freely.
Say goodbye to Stephen. He’ll be missed in class.
The killer was in the ACLS provider course. One of your classmates just murdered Stephen and probably all the other guys too.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“What’s so important that we had to meet before your first class, baby? Thought you had plans with your roommate,” Robby’s voice sounded behind you, and you flinched violently at the suddenness. “Woah, it’s just me.”
Your red-rimmed wide eyes looked up at him from the empty space at the small coffee table in the on-campus cafe, and his cocky smirk dropped as he took in the paleness and horror that had been plastered on your face since that phone call late last night. Robby grabbed the top of the chair and dragged it out to sit. His knees bumped against yours while his hands gently rested on your cheeks, fingers tilting your chin in order for him to look you over, ever the doctor.
“What’s wrong?” he questioned. You sleepily watched his eyes flicker down your face in an obvious fashion. “What happened?”
You jerked out of his hold and looked back down to the table. “Let’s just wait for Jack.”
Almost as if he were waiting for you to say his name, Jack plopped down into the seat opposite of Robby, the three of you making a triangle around the table. He too was wearing a smile that dropped just as quickly as Robby’s had moments earlier. At least he didn’t start going full doctor on you, but his concern was evident in his pinched expression.
“What’s wrong?” Jack asked, eyes glancing over toward Robby.
“That’s what I asked,” the brunette responded without looking away from your shaking form.
“I-I wanted to tell you both before the n-news got out,” you stuttered between shaking breaths.
Jack leaned forward and placed both his hands on the table. “What news? I think you’re scaring us a bit, sweetheart.”
“Stephen wa-was murdered,” you squeaked, “last night, right after I finished talking to Robby.” Your pointer finger picked at your thumb, loose skin catching with every scrape.
“Did your friend have to call in another one in the library?” Jack asked.
You shook your head. “No. I did.”
“You did?” Robby echoed, and his concern morphed into confusion. “Was he murdered in the girls’ dorms?”
Another shake of your head. “No.” Tears welled in your lashline, and you squeezed your eyes tight as another wave of Stephen’s cries rang through your memory.
Jack licked his lips and leaned back in the chair. “Well, didn’t you say the killer calls his victims? So, unless you’re a ghost, you should have been far away from whatever happened.”
“You two don’t understand!” you screeched, not caring if a few people turned their heads toward you. “He called me. I had to listen to-to—” Bile burned up your throat as you slapped two hands over your mouth in case it decided to spew between your teeth.
“Jeez,” Robby muttered as he dragged a hand down his jaw. “You had to listen to him getting . . . ya’ know.”
“Murdered,” Jack filled in casually, like he wasn’t concerned at all about what you’d just confessed. Although, he did do a good job at looking a bit surprised. “But why would he call you?”
“I don’t know,” you whimpered, arms coming to wrap around your middle as you hunched in on yourself. “One minute, I thought I was talking to Robby, and the next I thought it might be Stephen because of the pencil incident, but then I tried to hang up again, and . . .” you trailed off right as you remembered what the distorted voice had told you.
“And what?” Jack pressed.
“He said if I hung up and didn’t play his game, he’d kill you two.”
From the corner of his eye, Jack looked over at Robby for the briefest moment before scooting his chair closer to you to wrap you in a hug. Your pliant, shivering body went willingly right into his embrace, and he couldn’t help the smirk that stretched onto his face.
Everything was going to plan better than they had expected. Sure, calling you hadn’t been their first line of action, but looking at you now, so scared, so terrified that they were in danger, made them feel like they should have called you first. Robby initially had been the one who wanted to call and hear your panicked little whimpers, but he’d been the last caller. At least Jack had the decency to record everything, and Robby didn’t remember the last time they had both cum so hard while fucking as they played your delicious sounding cries, its echos joining the perfect symphony of their moans. It was almost as good as having you there with them, but they had to get you willing.
And right now, you seemed on the verge of being just that. They’d planted the seed of doubt in your mind that they weren’t untouchable, that they might be the next victims.
Jack ran a hand up and down your back in soothing motions, and you pressed into his chest, eyes meeting Robby’s worried-looking brown hues across the table.
“Did you already give your statement?” he asked.
“Yeah; last night,” you sighed. “My roommate found me crying, and she was the one to call. Everything happened so quickly.”
Jack pressed his cheek into the top of your head. “Did you recognize the voice?”
“No. It was all distorted.” You tensed suddenly. “But he did say something weird.”
Robby eyed Jack wearily. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “He said that Stephen would be missed in class, but—I mean, wouldn’t that imply that the killer was in the same class as us?”
Jack mouthed a quiet fuck and closed his eyes. He hadn’t meant to say that; he needed himself as far from the scene and victim as possible. Robby normally got away with it since he was supposed to be three hours away while Jack made sure his alibi of being in his dorm room stayed air-tight.
“Did you tell that to the police?”
The corner of your lip turned downward. “I-I think? I don’t know; I can’t remember.” Your words started to slur into a whine, and a single tear slipped down your cheek in frustration.
“That’s okay, sweetheart,” Jack cooed, hand never stopping in soothing circles while he held you. “Tell you what. Why don’t you and I go down to the station after class if you’re feeling up to it.”
Your stomach gurgled at the thought of having to retell what you went through for the sake of adding one more detail, and you swallowed thickly even if your mouth had gone dry.
“I don’t think I want to go to class. Seeing the empty seat . . .” If you thought about it for long enough, you knew you’d start crying all over again. “Can we just stay here? Or go to the fountain outside?” You’d been looking at Robby, but you pulled back from Jack enough to look him in the face. However, when neither of them answered right away, your stomach sank. “Oh.”
Robby cupped a hand at his neck, a familiar thing you’d seen him do for a year straight when he got stressed or nervous.
“Jack and I promised that we’d help out with an advanced simulator today for the fourth year students after you two’s first lecture.”
That was utter bullshit; they hadn’t been asked at all, but they needed to get away from you for a couple of hours to really let you sink into helplessness and paranoia. The longer you went without them with the thought that any moment they might be stabbed and sliced, the more you’d run into their willing arms no matter how they decided to break the news about their late-night activities.
You pulled fully out of Jack’s embrace, and the freckled boy had to stop himself from bringing you right back in, hands already itching to grab onto your arms. But he pulled himself together; he would have all night with you once they got you right where they wanted.
“Will I at least see you both before Robby has to go back tonight?” you asked, finger going back to pick at your thumb, face wincing when a spark of pain shot up your digit. You looked down in time to see blood well under the flap of skin.
“Of course. I’ll be at Jack’s dorm after I finish up with the final night class,” Robby said and finally smiled. He leaned over and softly pinched your cheek. “I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye to my favorite girl.”
A rush of pleasure crept up to his chest at the sight of your heated cheeks, and somehow, evening couldn't come soon enough. After you stood and left, probably headed toward your dorm to try to get some sleep, Jack turned towards Robby with a flick of his head.
“Tonight?” he asked, lips stretching into a wide smirk.
Robby didn’t even look his way, eyes still planted on your figure. “Tonight.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Three raps of your knuckles against the wood door and a muffled Come in! from Jack had you pushing the creaky thing open and stepping right into his dorm. You eyed the small piles of clothes that you tried not to step on as you made your way toward his bed. Jack was leaned back against his headboard with a sleepy look on his face and pajamas on his body: a pair of much-too big sweats (that you guessed probably belonged to Robby) and that fucking Army crewneck.
“Would it kill you to clean once in a while?” you asked while taking a seat right at the edge of the mattress.
“There’s a system to it. Left side of the room is for clean clothes, and the right is for dirty,” he responded with a shit-eating smirk.
You rolled your eyes and turned to face him as much as you could without lying stomach down on the bed. “You’re such a boy.”
“At least my room’s not dripping in makeup,” he shot back, face scrunching in disgust. “It’s almost like I can smell it from here.”
“No, that’s your hairspray.” You reached out to ruffle his curls, but his hand darted out and wrapped around your wrist before it could get any further.
Jack pulled slightly, and you followed, knees digging into the comforter so he could bring you closer. “You know better than to touch the curls.”
“Then don’t make fun of my makeup,” you muttered before ripping your hand out of his hold. Using your hands, you pushed yourself further up the bed and mirrored Jack with your shoulder against his and back against the headboard. “How’d that simulator thing go?”
His lip curled. “As well as it could be. Fuck, I hope we’re not going to turn out to be like those stuck up know-it-all assholes. They think they know every damn answer.”
You nudged him slightly. “As long as we study and actually know the answers, we can act as asshole-y as we want to.”
He ran a hand through his hair and scoffed. “That’s the thing. We asked the question for the mock-up ER, and one of the guys in there—total douche—didn’t even know the protocol for hyperkalemia.”
“It’s potassium instead of calcium,” you rattled off mindlessly before pausing.
Jack turned slightly. “Yeah. How the fuck did you know that?”
Your eyes locked onto your feet. “It-it was one the question I got wrong before Stephen—” Your mouth quivered. “Fuck, it’s all my fault.”
“Don’t say that.”
“But it’s true, Jack,” you muttered. “I killed him.” Panic began to lick at the edges of your mind, and your chest started heaving in pants. “I killed him. I killed him.”
Jack pushed up off the headboard and hovered halfway over, hands raising like he didn’t know where he could touch you without sending you over the edge. “You gotta breathe, or you’re going to pass out on me.”
His words were like he was talking underwater, and you couldn’t even process what he was telling you to do. This was not a part of their plan, but Jack had to make due with what he could before Robby got back from killing one more student, a guy who had looked at you way too long in your pharmacology class. Before he could really think things through, Jack cupped your face, leaned in, and kissed you deeply.
The feeling of his lips broke you out of whatever hysteria threatened to take over, and you found yourself mimicking his movements as you kissed him back, lips moving against the other while your hands found purchase in his crewneck. Your eyes fluttered shut before snapping back open when Robby popped in your mind. You pulled back instantly and wiped your lips as though that would get rid of what just happened.
Jack took in your debauched look, you clearly liking that he kissed you, but the worried look you had sent his heart racing the wrong way.
Had they read you wrong the entire time?
“Jack,” you breathed. “We can’t.”
He cocked his head. “Why can’t we?”
“Robby.”
“What about him, sweetheart.”
You looked at him earnestly. “Aren’t you two . . .” You left words unsaid in case you were the one to get this wrong.
Jack almost looked bashful as he replied. “You’re always too damn smart. Catching onto things before we could even tell you.” He leaned back in though and pressed another kiss to the side of your mouth. “We are . . . together, but—” He dragged his eyes over your body with a heated look. “But we want you too.”
His words had you blinking rapidly. “What?” you laughed out, but one look from him said that he wasn’t joking around. “Are-are you serious?”
He clicked his tongue against his cheek. “Deadly.”
You weren’t too sure who moved first, but you met his mouth once more halfway. You moaned loudly at the feeling of his lips and teeth mushing against yours. His hands rose and planted on your hips, fingers curling into the small pudge against bone and pulling you into him, hips dragging along the blankets until you were seated on his lap. Your knees dug into the mattress on both sides of his thick thighs as you held onto his face.
Jack shivered with glee at the feeling of your grinding weight on top of him, cock already stiff below Robby’s pair of sweatpants hugging his legs. He bucked up slightly into your dampening core, and your jaw dropped enough for him to slide his wet tongue right into your hot mouth. He languidly licked around your teeth before playing with the tip of your tongue. You couldn’t help but think that if he was this into your mouth, you wanted to imagine what it’d feel like against your clit. At the vivid picture popping into your imagination, you ground down harder against his bulge.
Jack being large wasn’t surprising; not with the amount of tight pants he liked to wear, but you never imagined yourself being able to feel it nestled against your clit through your thin pajamas. As you continued to rock back and forth, he let go in order to play with the hem of your shirt before lifting it over your head and tossing it to the ground. His eyes widened slightly when he realized you’d foregone the bra.
“Fuck,” he muttered after pulling back to really look at them, hands rising to cup your breasts.
With his pointer fingers and thumbs, he pinched your nipples into soft peaks, drawing a higher-pitched whine from behind your teeth. By now, your underwear were soaked with slick arousal. Without warning, he leaned in right as your back arched and took one bud into his mouth. His cheeks hollowed, and a loud sucking noise squeaked out of his lips. You jerked at the feeling and sank your hands into his hair.
“Jack,” you breathily sighed.
“That’s me, sweetheart,” he retorted after letting your nipple go with a wet pop just to do the same to your other one.
You normally weren’t one to cum just from stimulation to your breasts, but the hazy feeling from grinding on Jack’s cock and his lips and tongue circling your nipples started to well in your stomach. Your jaw dropped again as a loud moan shuddered out of you after he bit down on the sensitive peak before running a soothing, wet stripe over it. He pulled back again to lightly blow on the heated flesh, and his cooled breath made goosebumps race up your skin.
He dropped a hand to play with the waistline of shorts, and you lifted your hips to allow him to get your sleep shorts and underwear off in one go. They quickly joined your shirt at the floor, and his hand had just started to trail between your thighs when his bedside phone gave off a loud shrill into the air. Jack acted as though he didn’t hear it, lips still suckling away at your chest.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” you panted between the grinds of your hips.
“Just let it ring,” he responded, but the sound had already ripped your attention away from between your legs.
With a smile, you reached over and picked up the phone, mind too full with pleasure to even think of the last time you picked up a phone without knowing who was on the other line. Really, you should have been more careful, but with Jack under your naked body, all caution was out the window.
“Jack’s busy right now,” you giggled into the phone, “but I can give him a message—”
“Hi, baby.”
Your hips stilled, and your blood froze at the sound of the distorted voice. A dizzying feeling replaced the warmth of pleasure in your system, and you could barely get out a response that wasn’t a small, terrified noise.
“Has Jack left you that speechless already?” he continued, voice sounding louder than it had last night over the phone. If you really thought about it, it felt as though he was right next to your ear. “Go on, baby. You were looking so pretty getting messy over him. I was really enjoying the show,” he growled, voice suddenly right over your shoulder instead of through the speaker.
You dropped the phone and whipped around right off Jack’s lap, and panic seized your chest, because right by the door, a tall man draped in black fabric and a hollowed-eyed white mask stared back at you. You started to scramble as a small scream ripped up your throat, but Jack was quicker. He grabbed your hips and brought you back to this lap, this time facing the masked intruder. His arms wrapped around your middle and held you through your struggles and tears.
“Jack, what the fuck!” you sobbed, hands wrenching and nails scratching at his arms. “Let me go! We’re going to die! Let me go, please!”
Instead of doing what you demanded, Jack tucked his chin onto your shoulder as the man started stalking toward the bed. With each step, your struggles grew. By now, Jack’s arms were littered with bleeding stripes from your desperation to get away, but that only added to his pleasure, cock never failing to fade into softness against your back. Your chest heaved and tightened the closer the man got before he stopped at the foot of the bed.
You watched with wide eyes as he raised a small box to where his lips would be under the mask before his empty gloved hand suddenly lifted the stretched-chin until the mask slipped from his face, and Robby’s dark brown eyes locked on yours.
His lips curled into a devilish smirk. “Surprise, baby.”
For a split second, you thought you’d pass out, suddenly overwhelmed with everything in a dizzy sensation.
“What?” you sputtered.
Jack hummed over your shoulder and ran a finger down your tear-streaked cheek. He pouted when you met his eye from the corner of yours.
“Aw, sweets, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Not enjoying our little surprise?” he taunted before a chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Awww, Mikey, look at her. The poor thing’s shaking.”
Robby let the voice modulator fall to the floor with a dulled thunk that kept your heart racing against your ribcage. In a desperate attempt to keep a distance between you and Robby, you tried to fling yourself to the side, but Jack just tightened his arms around you more.
“Not so fast,” he said. “Not when we haven’t gotten to the best part yet.” One arm let go so his hand could grip your chin to keep you facing Robby. “Go on and spread her legs for me.”
Without hesitation, Robby kneeled at the edge of the mattress and crawled until he reached where your feet planted against the comforter. His brown eyes, the hues almost black with lust, watched you intently as he placed his gloved hands on your naked knees. Yet, when he tried to part them, you swung a foot and connected it right between his legs, drawing a grunt from deep in his lungs.
He shuddered, his hand reaching down to palm himself over the long black robes he wore. His chest was rising and falling rapidly as he fought to get air back in his lungs. As his hand pressed down harder, he groaned, looking up at you through his eyelashes. The inky blackness of his pupils swallowed the brown of his irises entirely.
The motherfucker liked that.
Jack’s hand slid down from your jaw and wrapped around the front of your throat, and his fingers squeezed lightly against the sides of your neck, sending a fuzzy wave to your brain, and your breath hitched, body stilling in his grasp. His lips softly grazed your ear as he whispered, “Be a good girl and stay still for us. You’ll like it, I promise.”
He jerked his chin out towards Robby, and you could only watch him finally grip your knees. In one fluid motion, he wrenched your legs apart, revealing your glistening cunt to both of them. Robby hummed lowly in amusement.
“You’re so wet for us, baby,” he mused and lowered his face until he was inches away from your core.
An embarrassed heat flooded your face and neck when he inhaled sharply. If you bucked your hips to get him to move back, you’d just shove his nose right into your folds, and if you withdrew them, you’d grind right into Jack’s cock. You were stuck, and neither seemed to be concerned with how you felt.
“Please let me go,” you pleaded with a whimper and squeezed-shut eyes. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Jack tutted against your ear. “It’s not that we don’t believe you, sweets, but . . .”
“We’ve already waited this long to have you like this,” Robby finished his sentence, finally pulling back from between your legs to look down at you as he ripped the gloves off. “We can’t let you go after we’ve worked so hard to get you right where we want.”
“You fucking murdered people,” you spat, body beginning to shift unconsciously as a result of your fear . . . or something closer to simmering arousal that you didn’t even want to admit to. “And now you think I’m just going to sit here and enjoy this?”
“Well, yeah,” Jack smacked his lips. “Cause even though you’re putting on a big show of being brave even if you’re terrified—” He reached down and ran a fingertip through your cunt from hole to clit before holding it up to the light to show just how wet it was. “Your body is still begging for us.”
You shivered against him. “It’s not—I’m not begging.”
Jack sighed loudly. “That’s okay; we know you will once we get started.” His hazel eyes met Robby’s gaze. “Go right ahead, Mikey.”
“Robby, please don’t,” you whispered as he leaned back down, bare fingers coming to grip at the soft insides of your thighs. “Don’t do this. I—”
You bit down on your lip to stifle the first moan that threatened to burst out as Robby’s tongue began to lick at your puffy folds, fingers curling into Jack’s freckled forearms and thighs jolting at the feeling. He held them down. His tongue moved inward and stiffened into a point to drag upward to your throbbing clit, the texture of his tastebuds adding to the buzzy stimulation. He toyed with you, going from circular motions to biting down gently with his front teeth. As he tilted his face to get a better angle, his beard rubbed against your inner thighs, and the scratchiness of it added to the burning pleasure from your core.
If he continued, he’d leave a lasting reminder of beard burn for you to remember this night.
Above, you refused to look down at him, lip staying between your teeth as he tried to break you. Jack was having none of it, and the hand around your throat pressed harder into your pulse points, cutting off your circulation to flood your brain with a hazy feeling that made the pleasure from Robby’s ministrations grow tenfold.
It was only when he licked around your sopping entrance that a keel ripped from your throat, and the sound was like music to their ears.
“Good job, sweetheart,” Jack muttered as he let go to allow oxygen to rush back in. “That’s what we want to hear. Keep going, Mikey. I wanna hear more.”
“Just keep her steady,” Robby responded against you, and his words sent vibrations tingling through your cunt, drawing out another heady moan. He continued to go back and forth from your clit to your hole before the first finger breached the tight entrance. “Oh, fuck, she’s tight,” he groaned, cock throbbing as he imagined sinking deep into you.
“Yeah?” Jack breathed. “Saved yourself just for us, sweets?”
“No,” you moaned out, hips slightly rocking to alleviate the stretch. “Nooooo shit!”
Robby sucked your clit as he began to pump his finger in and out, your innermost muscles clenching in uncontrollable spasms around the digit. Slowly, he felt you begin to loosen and suck him back in. Your head tilted back against Jack’s shoulder when he curled his finger upward, expertly finding your soft spot. Your back arched, and your hips raised into Robby’s face, making his nose catch against your clit.
A wave of pleasure washed over you. Your once tense muscles had relaxed as endorphins fought to replace your terror, leaving you close to putty and pliant between them. Your legs widened instinctively when Robby added a second finger.
“Oh—fuck!” you wailed out when both fingertips rubbed along your walls, slick gushing out with each thrust. “Robby!”
“There we go,” Jack gleefully said, voice filled with nothing but content as he felt your body drape against him, all fight draining the closer they got you to cumming. “I told you that you were going to like it.”
Somehow, Robby managed to get his fingers to reach further, and stars dotted your vision by how deep you could feel him. You didn’t want to imagine how deeper he could get with his cock—wait.
You were giving in. You couldn’t; this was wrong. They killed people. You needed to get away fast.
“Robby!” you parroted and followed with a moan as your lower belly simmered with something that was about to snap. “Gonna cum! Wanna cum!”
Finally, you looked downward and met his lidded gaze through his eyebrows, lower face hidden behind your soft mound as he continued to lick and suck and graze your bundle of nerves with his teeth. He was close to sending you right over the edge, but there was one thing they both wanted to hear.
They wanted you to beg for it.
Jack finally unwrapped his arms from your middle to start palming at your breasts again. “C’mon, sweets. Mikey’ll make you cum, but you need to ask nicely for it first. Just say the magic words and—” He pinched and pulled and twisted your nipples, and a cry ripped right out of you, “—he’ll give it to you.”
Your eyes burned with unshed tears, and somewhere deep, the need to push back flickered before being doused with a rush of arousal. Robby added a third finger and quickened his thrusts, causing a squelching noise to fill the room.
Finally, after feeling the heat about to boil over in your core, you whimpered out the smallest, “Please.”
Robby groaned against you, and bit down hard on your clit while curling upwards with stiff fingers. You came instantly, walls clenching rhythmically while Robby kept his pace steady to draw out your high for as long as possible. He watched the way your thighs shook and the way your arched beautifully, stomach curved out high as Jack continued to pull and grab at your breasts.
You all but collapsed back against Jack’s chest when Robby finally pulled away, your sticky arousal coating his lips and chin and also the three fingers that he stuck in his mouth. He held eye contact with you as he swirled his tongue between the slots. Jack huffed behind you.
“I want a taste,” he demanded, and Robby quickly leaned over you, robes draping across your heaving chest, and kissed Jack.
The loud slurping noises coming from over your head made you groan when your hole clenched around nothing.
“Tastes good,” Jack muttered before licking across Robby’s lips. “Tastes so fucking good, sweetheart,” he addressed you even if he was currently occupied. He bit down, and Robby whined as a metallic tang filled their shared saliva.
You lied there, and for a moment, your mind caught up to the situation at hand. Robby and Jack were the murderer—murderers? One to make the call, and the other to kill the student. Through the initial shockwaves of your orgasm, your stomach dipped, and you pushed up slightly, hoping they were both too into the other to miss the way you tried to inch across the bed. Jack pulled away suddenly and reached across, hands planting on both sides of your hips. Air rushed from your lungs at the sheer amount of his strength as he flipped you in one fluid motion and put you on your stomach.
“No, fuck you,” you whined against the covers. “I’ve never—”
Jack’s hands maneuvered you like a personal doll: knees pushing into the mattress and hips high in the air. He used his knees to knock yours wider to fit behind. You tried to push up on two hands, but he sent you right back down with a strong enough push between your shoulder blades. He held you down and pulled down the waistline of his sweatpants just enough to pull his cock out, lips parting in a hiss at the cold air enveloping his heated flesh. He sighed when he got a hand around himself, and the tip spurted out a line of precum. He used his palm to spread it across his length before he notched it at your entrance.
Your body tensed at just the feeling of the large head already barely fitting even if Robby had managed to get three fingers in you.
“Wait,” you said and gripped the comforter. “No, no, please wait, please, Jack, I’m a virgin, wait—”
As though your pleas fell on deaf ears, Jack slowly started to sink into you. He shuddered when your warmth sucked in the first inch like your cunt needed him even if you thought you didn’t.
“Fuck, sweets,” he hissed. “Robby said you were tight, but fucking—can’t believe I get to be your first.”
You gasped at the stretch and intrusion, and he kept feeding himself into you even after the first bit of resistance. You’d mold perfectly around him soon enough. Your inner thighs shook and tensed as he pushed in further, and sweat collected at your brow line as your body heated under the pressure. You shut your eyes tight, but that only made it difficult to concentrate on anything but the feeling of Jack’s massive cock bullying its way into you.
Jack pulled back slightly, and the drag of the head along your walls had you gasping for air.
“Too much for you?” Jack cooed as your whimpers hit his ears. “Shhhh, it’s okay, sweetheart, you can take it; I know you can.” He slowly pushed back in. “Take a deep breath for me, yeah? Big streeetch,” he drew out until the entirety of his length sat inside you.
Your chest heaved as much as it could into the mattress, and your jaw dropped to take in lungfuls of air. You felt too full, like one wrong move and Jack would rip you in half. It only got worse when he started to thrust, and his tip started tapping against your cervix with no more room to push into.
“J-Jack, f-fuck,” you stuttered, and tears once again streamed down your cheeks. “Please—fuck!”
He rocked his hips against yours to the point that his balls slapped against your ass with every thrust. “You feel how deep I am inside you?” he grunted while his hands tightened around your hips. “Fucking taking all of me. Such a needy girl for my cock.”
You bit down on the comforter, muffling your whines in an attempt to keep how much he was affecting you to yourself.
“Oh, sweets, that won’t do,” Jack tutted and sank a hand into your roots, fingers curling around the strands and yanking your head upward with a yelp. Your hands scrambled to get under you to relieve some of the pressure, but Jack didn’t stop thrusting, and the motion had your breasts swinging in the air. “Mikey, give her mouth something to do.”
You eyes widened because under Jack’s fucking, you somehow completely forgot about Robby. But now as he shrugged off the robe and unbuckled his pants to get his cock out, you started sobbing once more.
“Please don’t do this. I loved you two,” you weakly confessed, mind warring against your needy body, but all that did was make Jack angle his hips on an upward thrust to hit that spot that made you wail.
Robby fisted his cock while he raised your chin up, and his eyes softened for a split second. “You’ll just have to learn to love this version of us, baby, because we love you just like this.”
His words hit you in the pit of your stomach, and suddenly his words broke something inside you.
This was Jack and Robby, your two best friends who’d do anything for you. You couldn’t keep fighting against them if you tried.
Your jaw chomped shut hard enough that your teeth clicked together, but both of them were one step ahead. Jack let go of your hair and snaked a hand between your thighs to start circling his fingertips against your clit as he continued to fuck into you at a slowed pace, really wanting to draw this all out.
You couldn’t help the moan that flowed freely at the double stimulation attacking your cunt, and your jaw unhinged enough to let Robby slip the tip of his cock between your teeth. Instantly, the salty tang of his precum coated your mouth. He held the sides of your face and pushed in deeper.
“Another deep breath, baby,” he groaned before he thrust into your mouth, giving you barely any warning to brace for his cock to fill your mouth.
Your throat constricted in a gag, but a flick of Jack’s fingers around your bud paired with a harsh thrust pushed you forward until your nose right into Robby’s navel, his wiry happy trail filling your senses with his deep musky scent. Above you, Robby arched into the feeling and groaned into the air. You were now filled on both ends as you desperately tried to breathe in through your mouth.
Robby’s cock nestled against your tongue and a few inches down your throat. He was definitely longer than Jack, but the redhead had a much thicker girth than the brunette. Jack planted both his hands on your shoulders and pulled you back until Robby almost slipped right out. You sputtered and coughed from the lack of air, and a string of saliva wiggled down from your mouth to the bed.
In just a breath later, they resumed, and you moved upwards and backwards on them like a pig on a spit. You felt dizzy between the white-hot pleasure Jack gave your cunt and the fuzziness that took over when Robby slipped down your throat. Both men moaned and grunted when you seemed to clench down on them at the same time.
“Fuck, you weren’t kidding when you said she was—shit—so fucking tight,” Jack moaned when your walls spasmed around him, nearly cumming from the feeling. “You any close, sweets? Wanna feel you cum on my cock.” His words went straight to your body, and your pussy tightened. “Oh, you like when I talk to you? Is that right?”
You whined in response and nodded. .
His fingers picked up against your throbbing clit to meet his thrusts, and your stomach flipped with the onslaught of never-ending ecstasy flowing through your lower half. He could tell you were close when you started leaking around him, inner thighs sticky and wet enough to transfer onto his when he pushed into you with wet plap, plap, plap, plaps.
At your front, Robby continued lazily thrusting into your mouth with jerky motions, knowing that once Jack filled you, he’d have his turn to sink deep into your pussy. His head leaned back when he managed to make you gag, and your throat constricted and caught his tip. His large hand basically covered the back of your head. He kept you tucked against his navel even when you tried to jolt back to get more air. His soul thrummed at your panic, and he wondered if you could feel him get harder between your teeth.
“Uh, uh, uh, uh,” sputtered around Robby with every draw and snap of Jack’s hips.
“Just give in, sweetheart,” Jack whispered into your ear after slotting his stomach into the dip of your back. “Let us know that we’re making you feel so good.” Using two fingers, he pinched at your clit just as his hips began to stutter, a tell-tail sign that he was about to cum as well. “Fucking—shit—give it to me.”
With a muffled cry, your body shook as your second orgasm ripped right through your body. Jack could barely fuck into you with how hard you were clamping down on him as your cunt wept and dribbled onto the bed.
“Good—fucking—girl,” he punched out with three forceful thrusts. His hands planted back onto your hips, and his fingers curled white-knuckled into the skin so hard that you knew you’d have his fingerprints bruised into you by morning. His lower stomach pulsed when you began to whimper from overstimulation, and the sound had his cock throbbing. “Fuck, gonna fill you up, sweets. Gonna cum, gonna—fucking shit!”
He thrusted hard once, twice, three times before he stilled, cock spurting release into your fluttering hole. He had squeezed his eyes shut, but he peaked through his eyelids to see Robby lean over with a hand between your legs. The air knocked right out of Jack’s lungs when your cunt clamped down on him again near the end, and he guessed that Robby had rubbed right against your clit. Jack’s chest heaved through his high.
“Good job, sweetheart,” he muttered, giving little rocks of his hips to prolong his own pleasure, dick already softening just a bit. “You took me so well; so well.”
His hands loosened from your shoulders, and without any strength left in your wobbly arms, you fell right back into the bed, body twitching in the aftershocks. A whimper climbed from deep in your chest when he finally pulled out. Your hole clenched and pushed out a thick glob of the mix of your rapidly cooling slick and his cum from your walls.
You felt his finger drag along your folds to catch it just to push the mess right back in, drawing a mewl from your lips. Too tired and fucked out to care about what they did next, you let your hips lower until they rested against the bed. You heard some shuffling through the haze, and the next moment, your body flipped over. Each of your limbs tingled with warmth, and you let out the smallest giggle.
You enjoyed that more than you’d ever admit to it.
“What’s so funny, baby?” Robby asked as he took off the rest of his clothes just as Jack was taking off his crewneck but leaving his sweats still on.
Your eyes fluttered shut. “Think it’s funny that you said you loved me, but you killed people,” you slurred.
Jack and Robby shared a look before the taller took his place near your feet.
“Stephen deserved it, baby,” Robby darkly muttered. “And all those boys who came before him.”
Jack ran a soothing hand up and down your leg. “You’re our girl. We couldn’t let them live after how they acted towards you.”
Like he did earlier, Robby parted your legs, leaning down for half a heartbeat to press a small kiss to your twitching clit before trailing open-mouthed kissed up your stomach until he reached your lips. As though all fight drained out of you with the last climax, you matched his advances and kissed him back, legs absentmindedly parting to let him hover over you.
You were the one to break the kiss when he rutted his cock through your sopping, overly-sentivie folds. Your breath hitched high in your throat before breaking to give way to a shuddering moan. You tried to push him off, but his lips stayed glued to your neck.
He reached down and positioned his cock head to your entrance, and he slipped in with no resistance, the added lubrication of Jack’s spend and your relaxed muscles adding to his eased thrusting. The back of your head pushed deep into the mattress, and you swore you could feel Robby all the way up into your throat. Through lidded eyes, you caught the sight of Jack already hard again in his hand, his hazel eyes watching intently as Robby started to fuck you.
“Hnnngggg,” you moaned through your teeth. Robby’s tip hit your cervix with each forward movement. “Oh my—fucking—please, Robby!”
“Only took two orgasms to get you begging, hm?” Jack asked, and he reached over to pet at your face while simultaneously fucking up into his hand. His fingers traced your lips before he plunged them into your mouth. His breath stuttered when you started softly sucking on his digits.
“Whatever you’re doing up there,” Robby grunted, hips snapping into the heat of your walls, “she likes it. Her cunt’s clenching—shit—around me like a fucking vice, man.”
Your high-pitched whine came out all muffled through Jack’s fingers. Without someone holding your hips down, you began to meet Robby’s thrusts in shallow grinds. Where Jack’s cock stretched you out to the point of bliss, you wanted Robby’s length to stay buried deep to constantly rub against your walls. He must have understood what you wanted, because he stopped with the full thrusts and ground against your hips. The thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubbed deliciously against your swollen clit, and you whined at the added stimulation.
After having climaxed twice so fast, it didn’t take long before you started to writhe under Robby’s frame, close to cumming without needing much.
“Gonna—” You gagged when Jack pushed his fingers in farther. “Gonna,” you warbled.
“Gonna cum already for us, baby?” Robby grunted. “Well, when you do, I wanna hear you cry my name, okay? Want your pretty mouth to spit it out.”
You nodded shakily and tried to respond, but Jack’s fingers were too deep for anything eligible to come out. After thrusting them a bit more and getting them slick with your saliva, Jack pulled them out of your mouth. You squealed loudly when his fingers rubbed between your clit and where Robby was rutting into you.
“Ooohhhh,” you breathed. “Jack! Feels good!”
“Yeah? Does it feel better when I do this?” Suddenly, the pressure inside your walls exploded as Jack nudged his pointer finger into your hole, digit brushing against Robby’s cock to make you feel fuller than you ever had. “I bet that feels really good for you, sweetheart. Got your hole all nice and filled to the brim.”
He tried to angle his wrist as best he could to press upward, and your thighs tried to close around his hand, but Robby’s hips kept them spread wide open. Needing to alleviate the pressure, you dug your feet into Robby’s lower back and arched into his chest. In one more movement to grind against Jack’s hand and Robby’s cock, you came instantly in a soundless scream.
Robby folded over as your walls suddenly clamped down on him without warning. Your chest shook in a deep sob as the pleasure almost became too much. But through the shivers and pinpricks of euphoria, you remembered what Robby had asked.
“Michael!” you screamed, hips jolting uncontrollably against him. “Micahel! Michael!”
Like some Pavlovian effect, Robby groaned loudly with stuttering hips, cock spurting with hot waves of cum deep inside and fusing his and Jack’s cum to your cunt. No matter who you else might fuck in life, they’d always know that their cum was in you first.
“Such a good baby,” Robby spat, mind barely keeping up with the feeling of your warmth entrapping his cock. “So smart for remembering. Fucking love it when you say my name. Fucking love you.”
Your eyes had squeezed shut yet again right before you felt splatters across your face and heard a plethora of curses and moans from Jack above you. Some of his cum painted across your eyes, and you could only lie there and take his spend to your face.
For a moment, you ceased to exist on the bed, mind floating blissfully somewhere else as you stewed in the slowing waves of your probably final orgasm. It wasn’t until you felt a warm, wet towel against your face did you open your eyes again. You blinked rapidly to clear them of the gloss that had taken over, and Jack cooed softly as he wiped his drying cum from your cheeks.
“There she is,” he whispered. “There’s our girl. You did so well for us, sweetheart. Can’t believe we got to finally do this with the girl we love.”
There it was again: their declarations of love.
You wondered if it was all a ploy, but with their soft touches and slow roll of your pliant body to settle between them as sleep licked at your body, something settled inside your chest. Sure, they’d killed people, but they’d been right about what they said. Stephen deserved it, deserved what they did to him along with all the other boys who’d made you uncomfortable before meeting their ultimate demise.
They’d done it all for you . . . because they loved you.
Your lip twitched into a soft smile as you relaxed into the blanket Jack tossed over the three of you.
“I love you both, too.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Morning light was the first thing to cause your closed eyelids to glow as your body slowly woke up. Instead of gently being lolled from your sleep, you became instantly aware of where you were and more importantly who you were between. Sometime after falling asleep, you’d managed to tuck yourself under Robby’s chin while Jack clung to your back, their shared heat making the bed feel like a furnace. You shifted. One leg slipping from between Jack’s, and your hips tilting away from Robby’s.
Yet, you’d barely moved a few inches when Jack was the second to wake up. He muttered something sleepily before tightening his arms around your middle.
“Don’t go,” he slurred, voice still thick with sleep.
“I need to pee,” you whispered back, but all you really wanted was to retreat to the bathroom to wrap your mind around what had happened last night: their confessions, them fucking you, you confessing your love for both of them. If you stayed any longer, the dream of last night might become reality, and you weren’t ready to face the possibility that you might become their next victim.
Robby shuffled slightly at your front and nuzzled his cheek into the top of your head. “Pee here. Pretty sure Jack’s into that,” he sighed, almost like he was seconds away from falling back asleep, however, his eyes shot open when Jack whacked him in the face with a spare pillow.
“I don’t have a piss kink,” the redhead groaned, not even opening his hazel eyes. “I just think it’s hot.”
“Then it constitutes as a piss kink, kid.”
Jack pushed up with one arm while rapidly blinking the sleep away. “Can we not kink shame your boyfriend, please? We get one morning with her between us, and you start spouting bullshit nonsense.”
“Guys,” you whined. “Enough.” Your head tilted down until your forehead connected with Robby’s chest. “Let’s just get this all over with.”
Jack paused with another pillow mid-way in the air, fingers letting go to let it drop down to the bed. He slightly curled around your shoulder and tried to meet your eye. “Get over with what?”
Robby twirled a piece of your hair around a finger. “What’s going on in that head, baby?”
“I already know what will happen next. You’re going to tell me that last night was a fluke, and I’m about to show up on the news as another dead body,” you spat. “So, please, make it painless and get on with it.”
Over your head, Robby and Jack shared a look of concern before Jack plastered himself along your back.
“No, sweetheart, no,” he cooed. “That’s like the exact opposite of what’s going to happen. We weren’t lying when we said we loved you.”
You shook your head and closed your eyes. You didn’t believe them. How could you after all they’ve done?
“Listen, baby,” Robby started as he pushed back to make you look at him, “Jack and I love you so much, and the thought of us never being able to have you pushed us over the edge. It’s like an itch we can’t scratch unless we get rid of the problems.”
“And the problems were all those boys who either thought they had a chance or made you uncomfortable by thinking you wanted them back,” Jack growled, and the noise went right to your core. “We fucking love you so much, and it was agony to see them hurt you, so we hurt them in return—like, take them out entirely.”
“No one messes with you unless they want to mess with us,” Robby stated. “But we’d never hurt you, baby. I think we’d both rather kill the other if we ever did.”
They both waited in silence for you to answer, and for a moment, they thought that you were able to push away, grab your clothes, and run out the door with how heavy you were breathing. But then, they both noticed the way your thighs shifted together, and it dawned on them that you were into this—them killing men just for you.
“You really mean that?” you finally asked, voice meek and scared for them to laugh and yell psych!
“We’d let you kill us if we didn’t, sweetheart” Jack said, voice steady and strong. “Our hearts beat only for the other and you.” He placed a kiss on your bare shoulder before lightly biting into your skin.
Robby inhaled sharply. “We’ll stop . . . if you want us to. No more games, no more murders—”
“Unless you want us to,” Jack added. “Say the word, and you’ll have a heart on a platter if you wish.”
A loud groan rumbled through your chest, and your hips jutted back against Jack’s front. “You two can’t say stuff like that.”
“Why not?” Robby asked, and you could hear the smirk in his words.
“Becasuse—” You squeaked when Jack suddenly palmed at your breasts under the covers. “Because it makes me feel . . .”
“Good?” Jack filled in, but you shook your head.
“Loved. It makes me feel loved, and it’s fucking crazy to say that, because you’re willing to murder people if I ask for it.”
Your thighs parted when you felt Robby try to prod between them, and a lazy sigh exhaled from your lips as he slowly started to circle your clit through your puffy folds that were still slick from last night’s activities.
“We’re willing to do a lot more than murder,” he muttered, lips pressing into every inch of your face. “But we have you now, and unless anyone thinks they can get through us, we won’t need to put any more bodies in the ground.”
“Promise?” you asked with a pant catching the end of the word.
“Promise,” Jack grunted, hips bucking into your ass.
“Promise,” Robby echoed.
“Okay, okay,” you said. “I was also telling the truth when I said that I loved you both. Just wanting to make it clear that this goes both ways.”
“Good,” Jack said as he placed two hands on both sides of your hips. “Now, flip on your front. I wanna feel your cunt cum on my cock again.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ ·
Night was not the best place to be hanging around a parking lot in the middle of Pittsburgh. Unfortunately for Brendon Park, he found himself doing just that around an hour after his shift ended at 9 pm, eyes narrowed at his slashed tires on his brand new Porsche. Someone had done this, and all he needed to do was wait for the stupid tow truck and security officer to come help him out. He could have left it for the morning and gotten an uber, but Park was a proud man.
And yet, what did they say about pride? It commeth before the downfall.
He was so busy huffing and puffing while stalking back and forth along his car that he failed to hear the twin footsteps rapidly approaching behind him. He didn’t even know he wasn’t alone until a white-hot pain in his side froze him in his tracks. His torso twisted, but that just dug the scalpel in deeper. He stumbled to get away, but all he was met with was another parallel stab to his other side.
Automatically, Park applied pressure over the blood already soaking through his scrub top. He looked down and hissed before looking for his assailant. He squinted into the dark, and his breath hitched when twin robed figures stepped out into the small bit of light coming from a close to burning out lamp. It was almost like the two were from a slasher movie in the 90s with their hollowed-eyed halloween masks and glittering robes that donned their bodies, keeping Park from knowing who had just stabbed him twice.
“What the fuck?” he hissed as he backed up into his Porsche’s driver door, hand trying to grip the handle but failing because of his blood’s slickness. “I’ll give you money or whatever the fuck you want but stay right over there or I swear I’ll call the cops.”
One of them tilted his head, and Park felt the dead eyes stare right through his soul.
He watched as the other—the taller one—raised a box to where his mouth would be behind the mask.
“You wanna know what we want, Brendon Park?” he asked, voice distorted through the modulator.
“I’ll give it to you,” Park grunted, the pain blooming up his sides and into his chest. They must have hit one of his kidneys and possibly an organ with how fast the anguish was spreading, making it hard to breathe in and out.
The taller looked down at the shorter, and their eyes met before they nodded. Park’s eyes widened when they both produced longer knives than the shorter ones they stabbed him with. The modulator rose again, and what he said next sent a chill right through Park’s stomach.
“We want to see what your insides look like.”
Without a beat, the two robed figures pounced on him, and in just a few minutes, Park slunked down to the concrete, leaving a painted bloodied smear across his car’s door. With satisfaction pumping through their veins, the two watched as he took his last wheezing breath before dying in a puddle consisting of almost all his blood. His body wouldn’t be found until the morning with stab wounds littering his body. His fault for parking away from everyone else in fear of his car getting scratched.
Only when the two were sure they were the only breathing beings in the lot, they ripped off the masks, and Jack huffed loudly.
“Murder was so much easier in med school when I wasn’t missing a fucking leg,” he grumbled while shifting his weight onto his real leg. He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked salt-and-pepper curls.
“Tell me about it,” Robby answered. “If he were any shorter, my knees would have given out if I had to bend down.” He kicked at Park’s leg and smirked when the body recoiled slightly. “But man did that feel good.”
“I’m kinda glad he decided to go off on her. Last mistake he’d ever make, but nothing beats the rush of this.”
The memory of Park berating you in the middle of their ER flashed through their minds. They'd seen the way you flinched under his words in a way they hadn't seen in decades. They'd wanted to kill him right then and their, but Robby and Jack weren't ones to break their promises, however, the next time all three of you had the day off, you told them what you wanted between moans as Robby sandwiched you between his and Jack's chest.
"I want him gone," you had whimpered out, forehead pressing into Jack's collar bone while Robby rocked you back and forth on his cock.
"Want who gone, sweets?" Jack questioned before grunting loudly when his tip notched against your clit.
"Park—shit—I want him gone."
You wanted them to kill Park, and they were never ones to disappoint.
Robby went to say something, but the shrill of his iPhone had him digging and floundering through the drapes of robes. When he managed to bunch the fabric, he reached into his pocket and took out his phone, answering it without a second glance.
“Hello? Michael Robinavitch speaking.”
“Do you want to play a game?” a voice answered from the speaker, and the two glanced at each other with devilish, knowing smiles.
“Depends on what type of game it is, sweetheart,” Jack responded, crossing his arms against his chest.
“I wanna know how much it’ll take to make you two scream.” Your small laugh followed, you not being able to take this as seriously as the two had back in school.
Robby brought his phone up closer to his mouth. “I don’t know the exact answer, but I think you can start with being naked and face down on the bed by the time we get back.”
“I think that can be arranged. Get home soon, or I might have to play the game myself.”
Summary : Benjamin Poindexter finds his North Star in a sweet librarian who probably should’ve run. Still, she wouldn’t have it any other way.
Pairing : Benjamin Poindexter x Librarian! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : North star! Reader, fluff (?), angst, hurt/comfort, obsessive love, unhealthy attachment, codependency, possessive behavior, stalking, morally grey reader, explicit sexual content (no anatomical detail as per usual), sex, orgasm denial, oral sex implied, voyeurism/exhibitionism themes, breeding kink, blip mentioned, conjugal visit, institutional abuse, canon-typical violence, murder, hostage situation, grief, food, pregnancy, towards the end you and Dex are mentioned to have a child called Leo. Dex isn’t the most traditional father in any sense but he eventually does love him for very specific reasons I won’t spoil. Starts two years before Daredevil season 3 and ends during DDBA season 1 (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 22k (whoopsie)
Requested by : A mix of these requests: X X X ( @faszomiskivan )
Notes : This story spans about nine years, so buckle up! Reader basically takes on Julie’s North Star role in canon, and yes, this story does explain how we get there. Enjoy!
Could be read as a one-shot, but you can read more stories in this universe here!
FBI Special Agent Benjamin Poindexter didn’t know what to do with pretty.
He understood attraction in the detached, observational way he understood most things. He understood what people found objectively attractive was symmetry, pleasing aesthetics. He would observe little changes in a room when someone “beautiful” entered it. He went through it like a list: people looked longer, their voices gentled, posture adjusted without realising it. Dex knew how to recognise attractiveness because other people gave themselves away around it, because the world was always telling on itself if you paid close enough attention. But pretty was different when it was you.
Pretty was not supposed to make him forget the next thing he meant to say. Pretty was not supposed to sit under his skin like a fever. Pretty was not supposed to be you, a school librarian in a pastel cardigan, with a pencil tucked through your hair and ink on your fingers, kneeling between two shelves while a little boy cried into your blouse because another child had laughed at him for reading too slowly.
Dex was at the school for an FBI community safety outreach visit. Nothing serious, nothing field-critical. It was just one of those public-facing assignments meant to make parents feel reassured and administrators feel prepared. He was supposed to stand beside the principal, nod at the right times, talk about emergency response based on a script made by the Bureau, and leave.
Instead, at the end of the day, he stood near the library doors and watched you lower your voice to soothe a child.
“Hey,” you said softly. “Don’t make yourself smaller because someone else was mean to you.”
Dex went still. The principal kept talking beside him. Something about lockdown protocols, fire exits, parent pick-up procedures, and perhaps thanking him for the visit. Dex didn’t hear any of it. He watched the little boy rub his face with his sleeve, watched you reach into your cardigan pocket and produce a tissue because of course you had one ready, because of course you had walked through life expecting the world to hurt these precious little things and had prepared yourself to help.
“Reading slowly just means you get to spend more time with the words,” you told the boy. “That’s not a bad thing.”
The boy sniffled, and you smiled at him.
Dex felt that smile land in his cold heart, somewhere it had no business being.
It would have been easier if you were only beautiful. That would have been manageable. Uncomfortable, maybe, but manageable. Beauty was a fact. Beauty could be observed, catalogued, eventually put away. You were beautiful in a way that seemed unaware of itself, unpolished and terribly human. The cardigan sleeves falling too far over your hands, the loose strand of hair stuck to your cheek, the worn soles of your cheap flats, you smiling so easily for children who probably forgot to thank you for it.
Dex thought you were gorgeous with an alarmed resentment, as if his own body had betrayed him by noticing before his mind had given permission. Then you looked up at him.
Your eyes met his across the library, and for half a second, Dex forgot what face he was supposed to be wearing. You smiled politely, like he was just another adult in the building, not a man with a gun under his jacket teaching staff how to react in case of a school shooting.
“Hi,” you said. “Sorry, do you need the library?”
The principal brightened. “This is our librarian.”
You gave Dex your name. He repeated it silently once. Then again. Then a third time, because it felt like something he should store somewhere safe, somewhere no one else could touch.
“Special Agent Poindexter,” he said, holding out his hand.
You shook it, and your hand was warm. Dex noticed that there was a tiny paper cut near your thumb.
You were still smiling at him. Not because he was FBI, and not because he was handsome, though he was. You smiled because you were kind.
Fuck. That’s inconvenient.
Pretty made him look, but good made him stay.
That first visit should have been the last. Dex knew that. There was no operational reason for him to return personally. The school’s safety review was a basic one. The principal had his notes, but the follow-up could have been handled by email. A junior agent could have dropped off the printed materials. Anyone could have gone.
But Dex went. That second time, he poked his head to the library, and said hi. You said hi back, right after you told two boys that no, the beanbags were not for wrestling, and yes, you were very impressed by the creativity of the attempt.
Dex couldn’t stop thinking about it for a week.
The third time, he told himself it was because the library’s rear exit needed another assessment. It was technically true. The lock was old, the corridor outside had basically no surveillance, and the staff entrance was too far from the main office. He made it seem like a legitimate concern, when really, it was a neat little justification. Dex was excellent at finding those.
You were reshelving books when he appeared in the doorway, balanced on the tips of your toes as you reached for the top shelf. The hem of your blouse lifted slightly at your waist. It was nothing indecent. Barely anything at all.
Still, his mind went briefly blank.
He cleared his throat.
You startled, turned, and smiled. “Agent Poindexter.”
Dex liked the sound of it from you. That was inconvenient too.
“Sorry,” you added, stepping down. “Am I in the way?”
“No.”
“Good. Because if you were about to tell me my fiction section is a security risk, I might cry.”
His mouth twitched before he decided to let it. “I’ll leave fiction alone.”
“Very generous of the DOJ.” That’s when he realised you were teasing him.
Dex looked at you and thought, you have no idea what a dangerous thing that was.
After that, the visits became a pattern.
Not obvious, because Dex was never sloppy when he could help it. He didn’t go every day. He didn’t stand outside the library staring like some lovesick idiot with no self-control. He knew how to make repeated contact look procedural.
His supervisor barely looked up from the file the fourth time it happened. “Poindexter, you handled the school outreach last week, right?”
“Yes.”
“They’ve got some updated compliance questions. I can send Nadeem.”
Dex immediately shook his head. “I’ll take it.”
His supervisor paused, but Dex kept his face still. “I’m already familiar with the layout,” he said, and what a good excuse that was.
The whole truth was that he had thought about you every day since the first visit. You came to him through triggers. When he saw children’s drawings in a hallway. A cardigan on a mannequin The smell of old paper. A mug with painted stars on it in a café window, because you had one on your desk.
You were good, and you were pretty, and that combination felt less like attraction and more like orientation. As if Dex had spent his whole life moving without a fixed point and then walked into a school library and found one.
So, yes, he came back to the school. And, yes, eventually, he followed you home.
The first time, he told himself it was because you were the last staff member to leave again and the car park lighting was poor, so he had to make sure you were safe. It had rained earlier, leaving the pavement slick and black. You walked out with a tote bag over one shoulder and an armful of books pressed to your chest, juggling your keys between your fingers.
Dex sat in his car and watched until you pulled out of the lot. Then he followed. He learned the route to your apartment in fourteen minutes. He cleared that you lived in a building with a front door that did not latch unless pulled hard, that the hallway light on your floor flickered, that your window faced the street and your curtains were thin enough to turn your silhouette suggestive when you moved past them with nothing on.
He hated your building immediately. The lock was bad. The street was worse. Your neighbours were careless. The man in 2B smoked on the front steps and watched women walk past like a fucking creep. The laundry room was in the basement. The side gate did not close properly.
Dex catalogued every vulnerability, then sat in his car for twenty-three minutes after your lights went out and told himself this was a reasonable concern.
He was trained to notice risk, and you just had so much of it. You were too open, too trusting, too underpaid to live somewhere safe enough.
He found out about the money without needing to try very hard.
He figured out your exact job title, your district, and salary ranges within twenty minutes. He knew what you could afford, what you probably couldn’t, what your grocery budget looked like if your car needed work or if the school asked you to buy supplies out of pocket again. And you did, apparently. He saw the receipts in your hand one afternoon when you came out of a discount store with construction paper, glue sticks, tissues, and children’s stickers paid for with your own money.
That bothered him more than it should have. It enraged him. Not because you were helpless. Dex didn’t think that. You were competent in the way good people often were, holding ten pieces of a room together while everyone else assumed the room simply stayed whole on its own. But you were tired and stretched thin. You loved your job, the children, the library with its peeling posters and overhandled paperbacks, but love didn’t pay rent.
I could, he thought. Dex could pay your rent without noticing. He could buy groceries without checking his account. He could fix the lock. Replace the car. Put you somewhere safe and close. That’s… a good reason to ask you out, right?
If he ever had the courage.
By the fifth visit, you laughed when you saw him. “Again?”
Dex stopped in the library doorway, because he insisted to the bureau that some of the teachers were security risks. “Again.”
“Should I be worried about the state of our emergency preparedness?”
“No.”
“Should I be worried about you?” That caught him off-guard. Your tone was teasing, but your eyes were warm and curious.
Should I be worried about you?
Yes, he thought. Probably.
Instead, he said, “No.”
You narrowed your eyes in mock suspicion. “I don’t know. Five visits to the school. Either we are extremely unsafe, or you really like laminated evacuation maps.”
Dex looked at the map beside your door. “It’s a good map.”
You burst out laughing.
Dex loved the sound immediately and started to memorise it so he could copy it when you made a joke. More than that, he wanted to be responsible for it. He wanted to know what your laugh sounded like in his car. In his kitchen. Against his mouth.
The thought came so suddenly that his teeth clenched.
You noticed. Your smile softened, and Dex had the devastating impression that you thought you had embarrassed him. “I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to make fun of you.”
“You didn’t.”
“Okay.” You tilted your head. “Good.”
Good. The word followed him home.
So did you, though not physically. Not yet. But your image, your voice, the way you said his name after he told you to call him Dex, the way you remembered he took tea plain after seeing him drink it once in the staff room. The way you handed him a paper cup and said, “I made too much,” as if generosity was just something that spilled out of you naturally.
And then there were the guys around you.
He had watched a math teacher who lingered at your desk too long after school, making you laugh over some stupid story about a parent email. A divorced father at pick-up who asked whether you ever took private tutoring work and then smiled in a way Dex didn’t like. A man you met for coffee one Friday evening, two neighbourhoods over, at a café with steamed windows and terrible parking.
Dex hadn’t meant to follow you there. That was a lie.
He had followed you there because you had worn lipstick, the kind you probably put on in your rearview mirror after work, thinking no one would notice.
The date was unremarkable. The man was unremarkable. He wore a blue shirt, laughed too loudly, and checked his phone while you were talking. Dex watched from across the street with his hands still on the steering wheel and felt jealousy move through him.
The man was wrong for you.
He was careless, dull, and too impressed with himself. He made you pay for your own tea. That alone felt like a crime.
You left to do some off-the-clock work, and your date stayed. Dex waited until the man left to use the bathroom, then walked into the café and passed close enough to his table to see the phone he had left face-up beside his plate. He saw a message from someone named Laura lit the screen with a heart attached.
Dex smiled. That was useful.
The next morning, he sent an anonymous message to Laura. The following week, you didn’t see blue-shirt again.
You looked a little sad about it on Monday. Dex hated that. Then he hated the man more for making you sad. Then he told himself it was better this way.
It became easier to scare off your dates after that. All it took was an inconvenient scheduling conflict, a resurfaced truth, a gentle nudge. One man had an outstanding warrant for unpaid fines. One was married. One was simply easy to scare with the right look from the right federal agent in a parking lot.
By the sixth visit to the school, there was no reason good enough to fool anyone but himself.
A “Penultimate walkthrough,” he called it, before the final walkthrough next week.
The principal seemed pleased, though you looked amused. “Penultimate?” you asked when Dex appeared outside the library.
“Yes.”
“Should I be honoured?”
“You should feel secure.”
“I do. The biography section has never been safer.”
He looked at you, and you smiled like you were proud of yourself. Dex couldn’t help but copy that smile back. Your expression changed when you saw it, going still for one second, like you liked him, too.
That day, he walked through the library with you while you pointed out doors and windows and places the children liked to hide during reading hour. This corner was where the overwhelmed ones went. That shelf had the books no one returned on time because they loved them too much. The lamp near the beanbag was too warm if left on all day, but you kept it anyway because the kids said it made the corner feel cozy.
“This is where they go when they need silence,” you said, gesturing toward a little space tucked behind a low shelf. A lamp. A basket of soft toys. Books with soft edges. A handmade sign that read: take a breath.
Dex looked at it.
You had made a place for children to be afraid safely. Of course you had.
“You did this?” he asked.
You shrugged, suddenly shy. “It’s not much.”
Dex looked at you. “It is.”
You met his eyes, and for a moment, the library noise faded behind you.
After that, he wanted to give you things. He wanted to give you better shoes. Better locks. A safer car. A warmer apartment. Groceries you did not buy with mental arithmetic running behind your eyes. A kitchen where your tea sat beside his coffee because it belonged there. A bed you didn’t have to assemble yourself. A life where you did not walk to your car alone. He wanted your life folded into his so completely that you never again had to stand unprotected in the world.
It was raining the day he finally asked.
The sky had turned the school windows grey, and the car park outside shone black under the streetlights. Most of the staff had already left. The corridors had emptied, and you were the last one in the library again.
Dex had lingered through a conversation with the principal he barely needed to have after the final walkthrough. He had checked the same exit twice. He had waited near the lobby until your light was the only one still glowing down the hall.
Then you came out with a tote bag sliding down your shoulder and a cardboard box of donated books pressed against your hip. Your umbrella refused to open, and you stared at it like it had stabbed you.
“Need help?”
You startled, then relaxed when you saw him. “Dex.” You laughed, breathless and embarrassed. “Do you just appear whenever I’m losing a fight?”
“Your umbrella is inside out,” he pointed out, before taking the box from you.
You tried to hold on. “I can carry that.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you take it?”
“Because it’s raining.”
You looked at him for a second, then smiled, soft and helpless and too fond for his sanity.
“Okay,” you said, as if letting him carry a box was nothing. As if it didn’t make a dark and pleased thought settle low in his chest.
He walked you to your car and put the books in the back seat. He noted the old jumper on the passenger side, the stack of overdue returns, the half-empty water bottle, the evidence of your life that was still not his.
You stood beside him under the broken umbrella, rain misting your hair.
You were gorgeous, he thought.
It struck him then in the stupidest way. No analysis or clinical separation. Just so pretty it made him feel young and strange and almost angry with himself.
“What?” you asked, smiling like you could tell he was staring.
Dex could’ve said nothing. He could have smiled, stepped back, wished you a good night, returned to his car, and come up with another reason to see you next week.
Instead, he looked at you and thought of your whole life together. Then he said it. “Have dinner with me.”
Your smile faded into surprise. The rain tapped against the broken umbrella between you. You blinked once. It wasn’t really a question, was it? “With you?”
“Yes.”
“As in…”
“A date.”
Your cheeks warmed. Dex watched the colour rise and tilted his head.
“Oh,” you said softly. Then, after a second, you smiled. “Okay.”
Just like that, he got what he wanted.
—
The first date was dinner at your favourite restaurant, though you couldn’t recall ever telling Dex that.
You paused outside the little place with the handwritten menu in the window, your hand tucked into the crook of his arm. “Oh,” you said, surprised. “I love this place.”
Dex looked down at you, calm as anything. “Do you?”
You laughed. “I come here all the time.”
“I didn’t know that.”
The lie was smooth, but Dex said it with such calm that you accepted it because you wanted to. So you smiled up at him and said, “Then we have similar taste.”
His eyes held on your face. “Maybe we do.”
“Maybe we belong together then,” you joked.
Dex’s brain went to a catastrophic halt.
You didn’t see it from the outside, not really. His face barely changed. Maybe his eyes went a little too still. Maybe his fingers pressed once, carefully, against your hand where it rested on his sleeve.
But inside him, his heart lit up white-hot. Belong together.
You had said it so lightly. Dex heard it like a verdict. Like the universe had leaned down and put a hand on his shoulder and said, yes, that one.
He opened the restaurant door for you and followed you inside with your words still burning through him.
You had no idea he had chosen this restaurant because he had followed you there three weeks before, parked across the street while you sat by the window with two friends and laughed over a bowl of pasta. You had no idea he had watched you order the same thing twice. You had no idea he knew which seat you liked, which dessert you split with your friend and pretended not to want more of, which route you took home afterward, how tightly you held your coat closed when the wind picked up.
But yeah, dinner was great.
The second date was coffee because you were trying to take things slower.
He was already there when you arrived, sitting by the window with your drink waiting in front of the empty chair. Your exact order, right size, right syrup. He claimed similar taste innocently again.
You should have been alarmed. Instead, you chuckled and sat down.
Coffee turned into a walk. The walk turned into him standing beside your car, close enough that your shoulder brushed his sleeve. He looked at your mouth once, then back at your eyes. “Can I kiss you?”
You didn’t even answer. You just stood on your tip toes and kissed him, carefully at first. But his hand came to cup your face, so you made a hum into his mouth and felt him unravel.
When he pulled back, his eyes were dark. You smiled, dazed.
The third date was dinner at his apartment.
He cooked for you, because apparently Dex did everything like it was a mission and feeding you was no exception. His apartment was neat and perfectly arranged, but then you were there with your jacket on the back of his chair and your laugh in his kitchen, and he kept looking at those little disruptions were worth you being here.
The food was good, so you smiled and pushed a little harder. “You’re very good at taking care of me.”
Dex went still, and you could’ve sworn his ears went pink.
After dinner, you kissed him on the couch. That was all it was supposed to be: A kiss.
Yes, maybe Dex made it feel a little too deep. Maybe it was too hungry. Maybe it was a little reckless, considering this was only the third date and you weren't the kind of woman who did things like this. You didn’t tumble into a man’s bed after three dates and let your body make decisions your brain would have to defend in the morning.
Your brain was trying, to be fair. The little voices there had formed a whole committee meeting about it.
This is too fast. This is insane. You have work tomorrow. You barely know him.
Unfortunately, Dex was kissing you, open-mouthed and desperate, his hands tight on your waist, breathing against you like every second of restraint physically hurt him, and your body didn’t seem particularly interested in attending the discussion.
You climbed into his lap because there was nowhere else you wanted to be.
Dex let out a breathy moan when you settled over him, his head tipping back against the couch. His shirt was still on, but you had already pulled half the buttons open, enough to get your hands on skin, enough to feel his chest rise under your palms every time your mouth found his again.
Your skirt was hiked high around your thighs, his fingers trembling at the hem of it.
Dex, who could easily take what he wanted, sat beneath you with his hands on your thighs and waited for you to tell him he was allowed.
You kissed him harder for it.
His mouth opened under yours immediately, wet and so eager that you felt your stomach twist. You threaded your fingers into his hair and tugged once, just to steady yourself, just to feel him closer.
Dex sighed into your mouth.
“Oh,” you whispered, breathless.
His eyes opened, fixed on you. You smiled because you understood then that Benjamin Poindexter liked being told what to do.
He wanted to be good for you. He wanted to earn every sound you made.
You shifted in his lap, and his whole body reacted. His fingers slid higher under your skirt, then stopped again.
“Dex,” you breathed.
His throat worked. “Tell me.”
You leaned down, your lips brushing his as you spoke. “Touch me.”
He obeyed so fast it made you gasp.
Your panties were pulled to the side with clumsy, shaking urgency, his pants shoved down just enough because neither of you had the patience anymore. It was filthy how desperate it was. There was no time for the bedroom, no careful undressing, no pretending this was slower than it was. It was you in his lap, his open shirt under your hands, your skirt bunched around your waist, both of you panting into each other’s mouths like you had been struck by fucking lightning.
He was so intense you expected him to take over. Because he could’ve flipped you under him. He could have pinned you to the couch and made you forget every thought you had ever had. He had the body, he had muscles, he had the skills.
Instead, he looked at you like he needed permission to breathe. “Like that?” he breathed.
You nodded, nails dragging over his chest nodding frantically. “Don’t stop.”
He didn’t.
Dex listened like obedience was devotion, like your pleasure was a commandment, like the only thing in the world that mattered was keeping you exactly like this: skirt up, mouth open, shaking in his lap while he looked up at you like you were holy.
You knew this was too quick. You never had one night stands. Even three dates was way too quick, by your standards.
But his hands were on your waist, his shirt was open, his breathing was breaking, and when you whispered, “Fuck, baby,” he shuddered so hard beneath you that all your remaining common sense died on the couch.
Afterward, you stayed folded against him, both of you warm and breathless, your face tucked into his neck.
Dex’s hand moved slowly up your back, careful now.
You lifted your head enough to look at him. His hair was wrecked. His mouth was red. His eyes were softer than you had ever seen them, though there was still a frightening stillness underneath, satisfied and hungry and already too attached.
You touched his cheek. “I should probably go home.”
Dex went still.
He looked at you from beneath those dark lashes, still flushed, still breathing hard, still beautiful enough to make bad decisions feel like fate. “Stay the night,” he said, trying not to say please.
You swallowed. “I have work tomorrow.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“My things are at home.”
“You can wear something of mine.”
“I need my toothbrush.”
“I have a spare.”
A laugh slipped out of you, helpless and fond. Of course he did.
Dex’s mouth barely moved, and it was always a smile.
He looked at you like he needed you to say yes and hated that you could tell. Like letting you leave after this would physically hurt. Like you had crawled into his lap and accidentally turned yourself into the centre of his orbit.
You should go home. Your sensible little inner committee was banging on the table now.
But Dex looked at you like he was unaware he had puppy dog eyes, and you couldn’t say no to that, right?
So you kissed him once. “M’kay, baby,” you said.
Dex held you tighter then, giving an upbeat little whine as he peppered kisses on your collarbone.
Little did you know, there was no going back now.
—
The next day, Dex picked you up from work, even though you hadn’t asked him to.
He had driven you that morning as promised, his hands on your waist while he kissed you goodbye like he was trying not to follow you into the school library.
You had spent the whole day after that with his shirt on, but it was terribly oversized on you. Still, you managed to make it look intentional under your blazer, tucked and adjusted just enough that no one could tell. You had pinned your hair neatly, put your librarian face on, and acted very normal. Very professional of you, honestly.
Then the final bell rang, the library emptied, and by the time you stepped out of the front entrance with your bag over your shoulder, Dex was already there, waiting by his car with a suit jacket on and badge hidden.
You stopped mid-step. “Oh,” you said, lighting up. Beside you, Jonathan stopped too.
Jonathan, the music teacher. Nice Jonathan. Harmless Jonathan. Jonathan who lived two streets away from you and always carried a canvas tote bag with an embarrassing number of reusable water bottles inside it. He had been walking with you because you didn’t have your car with you and he offered to drive you home because you were both headed in the same direction.
Dex’s grip tightened around his keys.
You were still wearing his shirt, and this man wanted to take you home? Cute.
“Dex?” you called, surprised.
Dex barely spared Johnathan a glance. He came to you instead, handsome in that frightening l way, his attention fixed you that it made the other man feel like background noise.
“What are you doing here?” you asked.
“Picking you up.”
You blinked, then laughed softly. “Why?”
Because you were wearing my shirt. Because I spent all day knowing you were out of sight. Because I don’t like it when you’re not with me.
“Your car’s not here,” he said, and that was reasonable enough, right?
“Oh.” You glanced back. “Jonathan was going to offer me a ride. He lives a few blocks away, so—”
“No.” The word came out flat.
You tilted your head, confused. You tried to recover, sweet thing that you were, turning half toward the man beside you. “Dex, this is Jonathan. He’s the music teacher. Jonathan, this is—”
Dex opened the passenger door. “You’re coming with me.”
Jonathan stopped with his polite smile halfway formed.
You looked at Dex for a second, and your sensible little inner voice probably tried to say something about how this was strange.
Then Dex looked at you, and you melted, because fuck! Some foolish, lovesick part of you found that endearing. He came all this way for me?
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jonathan,” you said gently.
Dex shut the passenger door after you climbed in and stood there for one extra second, hand still on the handle, the word burning through him. What did that mean?
He got into the car.
The drive started silent. You settled beside him, and Dex saw you cozy up one the corner of his eye and had to tighten both hands on the wheel.
“Tomorrow?” he asked finally.
You looked over. “Hm?”
“You said you’d see him tomorrow.”
A little smile pulled at your mouth. You leaned across the console and kissed his cheek, like you thought jealousy was cute when it came from him.
“We work together, Dex.”
Oh. Okay. Okay. That’s fine, right?
Normal boyfriends were fine with that, right?
Still.
Then, asked if you wanted to come over to his place again because he couldn’t help himself. Because having you in the passenger seat made it feel obscene to let you leave again. Because you were already dressed in his things and smelled faintly like his apartment and he couldn’t understand why the day had to end anywhere else.
You looked down at yourself and laughed. “Dex, I am literally wearing your clothes. I need to go to mine.”
He kept his expression calm, but his fingers went still on the wheel.
You noticed enough to furrow your brows. “I’ve got work stuff to do,” you said. “I’ll call soon, okay?”
He nodded. He could do that. He could be normal. He could drive you to your car and let you go back to your apartment with its bad lock and pathetic hallway light and no trace of him except the marks he had left under your clothes. He could.
He pulled up beside your car outside your building and watched you unbuckle your seatbelt. You said your goodbyes and were halfway out when he blurted out, “I love you.”
You stopped.
Fuck. Fuck!
He had not planned it like that. Not in the car, and definitely not with you leaving. But there it was.
You turned back to him slowly.
For a second, you bit your lip in shock.
It was quick. Too quick to say that. You’ve been going on dates for what? Two weeks?
You supposed he’d been around the school for two months now with the outreach program. But even that didn’t really make sense, right?
So now, your inner committee was no longer holding a meeting. It was pounding on the table, screaming that this was insane, that love wasn’t supposed to arrive between a third date and a school pick-up, that normal people didn’t do this.
But Dex was looking at you like you hung the stars for him.
So leaned back into the car and kissed him. Gently first, then deeper, because his hand found your jaw like he had been waiting for permission to touch you again since the school gates.
“I love you, too,” you whispered.
Oh. Oh.
You left before you could take it back.
Dex watched you wave from your door, hands resting on the wheel, mouth curved in a small, helpless smile he couldn’t seem to stop.
She loves me.
The thought repeated all the way home.
She loves me. She loves me. She loves me.
By the time he reached his apartment, he was still smiling.
Then he opened the door, and the smile vanished immediately because you were not there.
The apartment was exactly the same as it had been that morning, clean and perfectly ordered, but suddenly none of that mattered. The couch was empty. The kitchen was empty. The bed was empty. All those neat, controlled rooms had become useless because you weren’t inside them.
Dex stood in the doorway with his keys in his hand and felt his stomach in him turn over.
You loved him, so why were you not here?
The question sat in his head with terrible simplicity.
You loved him. He loved you. He could take care of you. He had the space, the money, the locks, the discipline. Your apartment was unsafe. Your building was bad. Your neighbours were careless. Jonathan from music lived too close. The world kept touching you and taking from you and making you tired.
Here was safer. Here, it made sense. Here, he could see you.
The thought came fully formed before he knew to stop it.
He could go get you.
He could get in the car. Drive to your apartment. Knock. Tell you that you should change your mind. Tell you the city was unsafe. Tell you your lock was bad. Tell you to pack a bag. Tell you you belonged in his apartment. Tell you until you believed him.
If you said no, he could still bring you back.
He was stronger than you. Faster than you. He was trained. He knew exactly how to move you without hurting too badly. He could overpower you, get you inside his apartment, lock the door, hide the keys, take your phone just for a while. He’d you keep warm. Feed you. Talk to you until the panic passed. He’d do that just until you understood. Because you would understand.
You loved him, so eventually you would understand that this was not cruelty, right? This was not punishment. This was him seeing the truth faster than you did. This was him making the hard decision because someone had to. This was him saving you from all the places that were not him.
It took him an embarrassingly long time to realise that was kidnapping.
Actually, legally, literally kidnapping.
Kidnapping. False imprisonment. Coercion. Felony. It was bad.
“Oh,” he whispered. Then, after a beat, “Shit.”
His breath went wrong. The heat in him snapped into panic so quickly he nearly staggered. He saw himself then, not as a man in love, not as someone protecting his girlfriend, but as exactly the kind of thing you would need protecting from.
No.
No, no, no.
He backed away from the door like it had opened onto a cliff.
He loved you. He loved you. He wasn’t going to make you afraid of him. He wasn’t going to put his hands on you. He wasn’t going to lock you inside his life and pretend that was the same thing as being chosen.
Even if some awful part of him wanted to. Especially because some awful part of him wanted to.
Dex went to the drawer with shaking hands and pulled out the tapes.
Dr. Eileen Mercer’s voice filled the apartment through a soft crackle of static. “Your internal compass isn’t broken, Dex. It just works better with a North Star to guide you.”
Dex sank onto the couch.
North Star.
That was what you were.
Of course you were. You, with your kind heart and your gentle voice and your stupidly good heart. You, making safe corners for children.
He had simply made the catastrophic mistake of falling in love with the star. Which complicated things.
Because you were supposed to guide him, not belong to him. You were supposed to be fixed above him, untouchable enough to follow. Not in his apartment. Not in his bed. Not wearing his shirt and saying I love you in his car like you had any idea what those words would do to a man like him.
Dex pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes and forced himself to breathe while the tape kept playing through the static.
The apartment was still wrong without you. His hands still shook. The need to leave and get you didn’t disappear just because he had named it correctly. The desire sat there, dark and patient, waiting for him to mistake it for devotion again. But he stayed where he was.
He stayed on the couch with his teeth clenched so hard it ached, listening to the tape like it was the only thing holding him in place.
He loved you. That had to mean something better than possession. It had to.
So Dex sat in the empty apartment and tried, breath by breath, to become the kind of man who could love his North Star without building a sky small enough to trap her.
—
Dex barely made it through the week by hearing your voice through the phone.
You were busy with the school, chaperoning a trip, dealing with children and permission slips and packed lunches and museum gift shops, so he did the good thing, the normal thing. He didn’t show up. He didn’t follow the bus route. He didn’t appear outside your apartment just because he knew you would be exhausted.
Well. Maybe he just did it once, but he didn’t even stop! He just took a quick peek around the block to make sure you got home safe.
After that, he took it one day at a time.
At night, he lay in bed with the phone pressed to his ear and listened to you talk when you called. You told him about the children, the chaos, the little girl who tried to correct the tour guide, the boy who cried because his sandwich got crushed in his bag.
He hated that he couldn't tell if you were warm enough. Hated that you sounded exhausted and he wasn’t there to put a blanket over your shoulders or press his mouth to your temple or make the world stop asking things of you for five minutes. But he behaved.
When you said, “I’m so tired, baby,” he closed his eyes like the world wrapped a hand around his throat.
When you said, “I miss you,” he pressed his fist against his mouth until the feeling passed enough for him to answer normally.
“I miss you too.” An understatement so violent it almost made him laugh.
Then you came back to regular life, and started spending more time with him.
And naturally, you started spending more nights at his place.
It was easy. His apartment was closer to the school. His shower was better. His fridge always had food you liked. Your tea was already in his cupboard. Your toothbrush was still in his bathroom from that first night, and the spare charger by his bed somehow became yours without either of you discussing it.
One night a week became two. Two nights a week became most of the week.
Your laundry ended up in his machine. Your favourite cardigan stayed folded in his bedroom. Your substitute teaching papers got graded at his kitchen table while he made dinner. Your commute became easier because he drove you when he could, and when he couldn’t, he made sure your car had petrol, the tyres were checked, and the weird noise under the hood had been fixed before it became a problem.
It was dangerous, how much easier he made your life.
Dangerous because you were a school librarian on a school librarian salary, and Dex had big boy FBI paychecks and paid for groceries without mentally rearranging the rest of the month around it.
You tried to argue about that once. He looked genuinely offended.
“I should help,” you said.
“You do.”
“I mean with bills.”
“You buy supplies for children who are not yours because no one else will. Let me pay for dinner.”
That shut you up, not because it was fair. But because it was kind. Or because it sounded kind. Or because, with Dex, the difference had started to blur.
Your car made a noise; he had it checked. Your shoes wore thin; a new pair appeared by the door. You mentioned once that you were out of your favourite cereal, and the next morning there were two boxes in his cupboard.
By five months, you were barely at your own apartment.
You still paid rent. You still had mail there. Technically, you still lived there. But most nights, you went home to Dex.
Then one night, while you sat at his kitchen table grading reading logs and wearing one of his shirts under your cardigan, Dex said, “You should move in.”
You looked up. “What?”
“You should move in here.”
He said it so calmly. Like he was pointing out the weather. Like he had not been waiting weeks to say it. Like he had not already measured the space in his closet, looked up your lease date, and made sure there was room for your books.
You felt your inner committee rise from the dead.
Babe. What the fuck. Five months. Are you actually considering this? What’s wrong with you? Huh?
So you pushed back, but not very well.
“Dex,” you said, looking around his apartment. “We’ve been dating for five months.”
“I know.”
“Moving in would be very quick.”
“I know.”
But would it? You were at his kitchen table in one of his shirts, your papers stacked on his coffee table, your mug in his sink, your shoes by his door. Half your life was already there.
Suddenly, Dex leaned down and kissed you before you could keep arguing.
He did it because he had seen men do it in movies when they wanted to calm the woman they loved.
That was how affection started with him, really. He imitated touch. He put a hand on your waist because that was what boyfriends did. He rubbed circles over your hip because that was what loving partners did.
But then you melted under his hands and sighed into his mouth. Your fingers curled lightly into the front of his shirt.
And Dex thought, oh. So that was what it was supposed to feel like.
So after the first time, it no longer felt like pretending. It was no longer fake, no longer a costume he wore to convince you he could be normal.
He liked this. He liked the warmth beneath his palms. Liked the trusting weight of you leaning into him. Liked that touching you made him feel whole. His thumbs kept moving in slow circles at your hips, more because he wanted to than because he remembered he was supposed to.
“I love you,” he murmured.
You closed your eyes like the words had done exactly what he hoped they would. “Dex…”
“You love me too.”
You laughed softly. “That is a terrible argument.”
“It’s my best one.”
Unfortunately, it was.
You hummed, but you were smiling now, and Dex felt his whole chest go warm.
He kissed you again, a little braver this time, still rubbing those gentle circles into your hips like he had finally found a love language that made sense in his hands.
You sighed, and he smiled against your mouth. It surprised him, even after five months, how much he wanted to be good at this.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Dex went very still.
You opened your eyes and looked up at him, soft and doomed and already half his. “Okay, baby. I’ll move in.”
—
People got weird when you told them you had moved in with Dex.
Your friends did that careful-smile thing. Your mother went quiet on the phone before saying, “Already?” like the word had three question marks and a police report attached. One coworker just blinked at you over her mug and said, “Wow. That’s… fast.”
You kept giving the same answers. My lease was ending. His place is closer. It makes sense financially. He takes care of me.
Jonathan was the most obvious about it.
You told him in the staff room, after he was complaining about one of his classes committing recorder-based psychological warfare. “I moved in with Dex,” you said, trying to sound casual.
Slowly, he turned around. “Your fed boyfriend?”
“He has a name.”
“Agent Intense?”
“Dex.”
“Right. Your fed boyfriend.” He stared at you. “That’s so fast.”
You sighed. Here we go again. “My lease was ending.”
“You’ve known him for six months.”
“If you count his school outreach, seven actually.”
“That’s not better.”
You crossed your arms, already defensive. “He’s not bad.”
“I didn’t say bad,” he shrugged, “I think more like… creepy.”
“Jonathan.”
“What? He once looked at me like I was trying to steal you because I offered you a ride home.”
“He’s just protective, that’s all,” you huffed.
“I’m gay.”
“I know that.”
“Does he?”
“He does now,” you said.
“Does he care?”
You opened your mouth and closed it. Because no, Dex didn’t care when you told him. Johnathan was still just another person standing between you and him, platonic or romantic or whatever. Jonathan could have been gay, married, celibate, and allergic to women, and Dex still would have watched him with that flat suspicion the second he stood too close to you.
Jonathan pointed his teaspoon at you. “Exactly.”
Your phone buzzed before you could answer.
Dex: Did you eat lunch?
You smiled and held up the phone like evidence. “See? He’s sweet.”
Jonathan looked at the message, then at you. “Sure,” he said carefully. “Sweet.”
You texted back yes, baby, and when Dex replied within seconds, Jonathan sighed. You ignored him.
After all, Dex cared. That was all.
—
The people who thought the move-in was quick were in for a treat, because one month after you moved into Dex’s apartment, he asked you to marry him in the back seat of his car.
See, you had shown up because summer holidays had made you stupid with missing him. You were bored. You had no school, no library chaos, no children asking where the glitter glue went. Just too much free time and the embarrassing realization that you had become the kind of woman who missed her boyfriend at eleven-thirty in the morning like an addict running out of nicotine patches.
So you brought him lunch and went to his workplace. That was a normal girlfriend thing, right? Except the lunch did not get opened.
Dex had barely gotten the car door shut before you were kissing him, and he had barely made it through the first breath of your mouth before his hand slid under your thigh and dragged you into his lap in the back seat.
“Dex,” you laughed into his mouth.
He made a low and lewd sound into his mouth. Then his hands were on you again, pushing your skirt up around your hips with a little too much force, a little too much need, until the seam gave with an unmistakable rip of fabric.
Dex stared at the torn fabric in his hand with the horrified focus of a man who had committed a federal offence against cotton blend. “I’ll buy you another one.”
“That is not the point,” you chuckled.
“I’ll buy you five.”
You should have been annoyed. But his eyes were black with want, and there was something so obscenely flattering about Benjamin Poindexter accidentally ruining your clothes because he needed you too badly to be careful. So you tightened your fist in his tie and pulled. “Later,” you whispered.
Dex obeyed, because liked it when you pulled him by it. He liked the pressure, the direction, the filthy little reminder that he was still half-dressed for work while you were undoing him in the back of his own car. His mouth opened under yours, hands clamped on your hips like he was trying not to lose the last piece of his mind.
Your inner committee, exhausted from the moving-in situation and still technically on unpaid leave, attempted to return to service.
Babe. This is his workplace. This is a federal garage.
Babe, your skirt is ripped.
Babe, we cannot keep replacing clothes every time this man gets horny and emotional.
Then Dex kissed down your throat and the committee immediately lost quorum.
By the time you were done and either of you remembered he had to go back inside, the windows were fogged at the edges. His hair was ruined from your hands. His tie was loose and crooked. His shirt was open at the collar, your lipstick low enough on his skin that he would need to button all the way up and pray no one noticed. His mouth was swollen.
You sat in his lap, skirt torn and shoved badly back into place, one hand still looped lazily around his tie. “You have to go back in,” you whispered.
His forehead rested against yours. “I know.”
“You look…”
His eyes lifted to yours.
You smiled. “Compromised.”
Dex’s mouth twitched. His thumbs moved on your thighs, circling through the thin fabric of your ruined skirt.
You tugged his tie gently. “I should let you go.”
His hands tightened, only barely.
“Marry me,” he said suddenly, as if he would die if he let you leave without saying it first.
For a second, you just stared at him. Somewhere inside your head, your inner committee walked back into the room, saw the situation, and immediately considered retiring.
Babe, no. Babe, absolutely not. Babe, stand up for yourself!
“What?” you managed to choke out.
“Marry me,” Dex calmly, like the idea had been sitting in him for weeks, waiting for the right opening, and apparently the right opening was you flushed and breathless in his back seat.
“Dex.”
“I love you.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Your inner committee sighed so hard the lights flickered.
“I love you,” he said again, quieter. “You love me. We already live together. It gives you legal protection. If something happens to me, you’re taken care of. If something happens to you, they call me first.”
“You are making a case,” you realised, though you shouldn't have been surprised.
He just shrugged. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t get married.”
There it was, the simple Dex logic of it: I love you. You love me. Why wouldn’t we?
It was reasonable if you ignored the fact that he was clearly halfway to losing his mind and had probably been planning this long before he said it out loud. Because sure, the practical reasons were true. But underneath all that, there was the darker, sweeter logic he kept tucked behind his teeth: If you were only his girlfriend, you could change your mind. You could wake up one morning, decide he was too much, pack a bag, and walk out before he had time to kiss you and remind you how gentle he could be when he was trying. A girlfriend could leave in one terrible conversation. A wife had to take steps.
And Dex loved steps. You’d have to go through lawyers, papers, and waiting periods. A marriage would buy him time, and time meant he could come to you, he could hold your face, and remind you that you loved him as much as he loved you. He would never hurt. But if the law could slow you down long enough for him to convince you that leaving was a mistake, Dex couldn’t help loving that, too.
He didn’t say that, though. He only looked at you with his hair mussed and his mouth ruined and said, “It makes sense.”
Your inner committee made one last brave attempt: Babe. Please. We JUST moved in.
But you banged the gavel at the head of your imaginary table and pouted. But look at him! He’s so hot!
In the real world, Dex was looking at you like you were already his wife, like the ring was only a formality. Then he kissed you, tenderly this time.
“I love you,” he murmured against your mouth.
The committee dropped their clipboard. Fine, you win, they seemed to say, Whatever you say, handsome.
You laughed weakly into the kiss, and Dex pulled back just enough to look at you.
“What?”
You touched his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, and felt him lean into it like affection was still new enough to surprise him.
“Yes,” you whispered, hand tightening in his tie. “Yes, baby. I’ll marry you.”
For a second, he looked almost scared by how happy it made him. Then his arms locked around your waist and pulled you close, his face turning into your neck, breath hot and uneven against your skin.
“But you really do have to go back inside,” you whispered with a chuckle.
Dex lifted his head. He looked ruined, happy, and possessive in a way that should have made you run but somehow only made you kiss him again. “I have ten more minutes.”
You giggled and pulled him in by the tie.
Your inner committee walked directly into the sea, never to be seen again.
—
Dex let you pick the rings.
The engagement ring first, because he said you were the one wearing it, so you should love it. Then the wedding bands, including his, even though he tried to act like he didn’t care what his looked like. That lasted until you slid a simple band onto his finger in the shop and watched his whole face go still, almost overwhelmed.
A month later, you married him at the courthouse.
It was too soon for anyone around you to feel truly comfortable about it. Your family came anyway. Your friends came anyway. Even Jonathan, looking like he had accepted his role as the last remaining voice of reason, and still failing anyway. On Dex’s side, there was a couple of coworkers standing near the back in neat suits, polite and reserved, present more like witnesses than family.
Dex had no parents, no siblings, no cousins, no childhood friends with embarrassing stories. No one who could say they had known him when he was young. No one who could reassure your parents he was a good person through and through. Just coworkers, Ray congratulating him as the rest of his coworkers stood on the courthouse hallway while your side filled the room with nervous affection and badly hidden concern.
You saw the way your mother looked at him. The way your friends glanced at one another when they realised there was no one on his side who really belonged to him. It made them uneasy, and because you loved him, you rushed to explain it in your head before anyone even asked. His parents were dead. He grew up alone. It was complicated. He didn't have people the way other people had people.
You said little pieces of that aloud, as if it explained half of it away. Maybe to you, it did. Maybe that was a teeny part of the reason you kept choosing him. Dex had no one, and then he had you. But it was also tender, in its own damaged way. He stood across the room in his suit, eyes finding you every few seconds as if checking that you were still real, still walking toward him eventually. He looked alone until he looked at you.
The problem was not that Dex didn't love you. Anyone with eyes could see that he clearly did. That was half the horror, really.
He loved you devoutly, too much for such a small courthouse. His attention followed you like a sniper scope. When someone hugged you, his eyes moved there. When Jonathan made you laugh, his face soured. When you looked at him, though, everything in him relaxed so completely that even your worried friends had to see it.
The ceremony itself was almost absurdly short, just a few legal words. A few signatures. Then came the ring that he slid on to your finger with a reverence that made your throat ache. His thumb lingered over the band once it was in place, brushing the metal like proof, like possession he was trying very hard to make gentle.
Your family saw it. Your friends saw it. Ray probably saw it too. But no one said anything anymore. They had tried to warn you. They had tried to tell you it was fast, intense, worrying. They had tried to point out all the red flags. But standing there, with Dex looking at your ring like the world had finally given him permission to keep the one good thing he had found, you knew why none of their warnings had worked.
Because you knew they were not entirely wrong. You just loved him anyway.
When Dex kissed you, it was gentle enough to make your mother cry. His hand came to your cheek, and his mouth touched yours like he was afraid of doing it wrong in front of everyone. But you felt the restraint beneath it, the hunger and devotion. The way he kissed you softly because that was what you deserved, even when every dark part of him wanted to hold on harder and bruise and mark his territory.
—
Two years later, Dex was in prison.
Jonathan tried not to say I told you so. To his credit, he really did try. He stood in your apartment after everything went public, arms folded too tightly, mouth pressed into a line while the news tore the FBI corruption apart in digestible pieces. Even family and friends looked at you like this was the ending they had feared from the start.
But you knew better.
Not because Dex was innocent. He wasn’t. You loved him too much to lie about that. He had done terrible things. There were parts of him that had always been hungry for direction, always been too easy for the wrong man to use.
And Fisk had used him perfectly.He had found every fracture in Dex and pressed his thumb into it. The instability, the need to be useful. The desperate, obsessive love Dex had for you.
Fisk kept you in a basement beneath one of his shell properties and let the world mourn you.
That was the cruelty of it: Fisk did not need you dead. Dead was final. Dead meant there was nothing left to use. But alive, hidden in a cold and windowless place? That made you useful. That made you leverage. Fisk could keep your body locked away while giving Dex a grief designed to break him.
So Fisk staged your death. He built the lie piece by piece. He staged an accident, a fire. The reports say that the body burned beyond recognition was yours, and even had an urn with someone else’s ashes in it with your paperwork attached just in case people started asking questions.
Dex believed it, because why wouldn’t he? Fisk made sure every piece fit. Even Matt believed it for a while. Everyone did.
So when Dex found it, he carried the urn like it was alive. He thought he figured out that Fisk was manipulating him, which was correct. He thought that Fisk had killed you, which was false.
He put the ashes in the passenger seat. He drove to the hotel with one hand on the wheel and the other reaching over sometimes, hovering near the metal like it might feel lonely. He talked to it in that broken voice of his, the one he would have been humiliated for anyone living to hear. He told the urn things. He apologised. He told you he loved you.
Then Dex’s spine broke.
And you were found by the cops shortly after, alive. Bruised, starved, shaking under a blanket in the basement Fisk had buried you in, still asking for Dex before your voice had fully come back.
So when they told you he went into surgery under guard, he had fought your way into that hospital room on the only ground no one could deny: you were his wife, his next of kin, his legal family. You should be allowed in, and you eventually got what you wanted.
During recovery, he looked wrong under hospital lights. The tubes and monitors and bandages made him look less like the terrifying thing the news kept replaying. Guards stood by the door. His wrists were shackled to the bed rails, his ankles too. You scoffed at that but couldn’t do anything about it, really.
When his eyes opened, he came back fighting. His hands jerked against the restraints, chains snapping taut with a hard metal sound that made one of the guards shift forward.
“Don’t,” you said quickly. “Dex, don’t.”
His head turned and saw you. Suddenly, thoughts halted to a stop.
You had seen Dex angry. Jealous. Focused. You had seen him desperate in your bed and gentle in your kitchen. You had seen him worshipful, frightening, almost boyish with love.
You had never seen him look like that. Like he was staring at a ghost and trying to decide whether believing in it would kill him.
His mouth parted, but sound came out.
You stepped closer, hands trembling. “Hi, baby.”
Dex’s breath broke. “You’re alive.”
Your chest caved in. “yeah.”
“No.” His voice cracked in disbelief. “No, I saw— Fisk said—”
“I know.”
“You’re alive,” he said again, louder now, almost frantic. “You’re alive. You’re alive.”
“I’m here.”
The chains snapped tight again when he tried to reach for you. Pain tore across his nerves, but he barely seemed to feel it. His eyes stayed locked on yours,wild and terrified, like if he looked away, you would vanish and the whole nightmare would become true again.
“I thought you were dead,” he whispered.
“I know, baby.”
You moved to him before anyone could stop you. Your fingers found his hand where the shackle allowed, careful around the bruised skin. His grip closed around yours instantly, weak but desperate, like even broken he could not help trying to hold on.
Your wedding ring caught the light. It was a reminder that he was still yours, you were still his, and whatever was left of him seemed to collapse under the proof.
“You’re alive.”
—
Dex was incarcerated after he healed enough to be moved.
Not rehabilitated. Not treated. Incarcerated.
They put him in solitary confinement like that could contain him. Like isolation would ever make him better. Like locking him away from voices and faces and human contact would somehow fix a man whose worst injuries had always come from being left alone too long with his own head.
You hated it. So for three years, you fought to get your husband moved somewhere that might actually help him.
Three years of forms, lawyers, psychiatric evaluations, and rejected petitions. Three years of people looking at Benjamin Poindexter and seeing only what he had done, three years of people looking at you, Mrs. Poindexter, as if you were insane because you still loved him. Three years of explaining, again and again, that solitary confinement was not treatment. And Dex had always been dangerous when he was quiet.
Your old school library job no longer paid enough to carry the life Fisk had torn apart, so you took a better job at a public library. It's a better salary, but longer hours. More responsibility. You now had to think about staff rotas, community programmes, council meetings, difficult patrons, funding cuts, late nights under fluorescent lights while you built displays and answered emails with your wedding ring flashing every time your hands crossed the keyboard.
Every other day, you went to the prison.
Sometimes straight from work, your blazer wrinkled, your tote bag full of library paperwork, your lipstick faded from too many cups of coffee. Sometimes on your days off, when you could pretend the visit was the centre of the day instead of an activity squeezed between legal calls and grocery shopping and a life you had never wanted to live without him in it.
Dex always noticed when you were tired before you said it. He noticed when your shoes were new. He noticed when you had cut your hair, even slightly. He noticed when you had skipped lunch and lied about it. Even in prison uniform, even under the dead light of the visiting room, Dex was still your husband in all the ways that made people uncomfortable and all the ways that kept you coming back.
You told him about your days. You told him about the elderly man who came into the library every Wednesday to read the newspaper and complain about the chairs. The little girl who asked for “a book with a dragon but not a mean dragon because mean dragons have bad vibes.” The teenager who pretended not to care about poetry and then checked out three collections when his friends were not looking. You told him about staff meetings, leaky ceilings, broken printers, new shelving systems.
There were visits where he barely spoke. But even then, his eyes stayed on you. Even then, his fingers moved toward yours. Even then, when you said, “Baby,” parts of him came back to the surface.
You kept fighting because he needed help.
Then one afternoon, after three years of pushing against walls that did not move, one finally gave. The blip, after all, freed some space up. Though you really shouldn't celebrate such a tragedy, it was hard to ignore the fact that this time, it worked in your favor. That day, you carried the news into the visiting room.
His eyes moved over your face, your hands, the folder tucked beneath your arm. “What’s that?” he asked.
You smiled, biting your lip, “I have good news.”
You reached across the table. This time, they let you hold his hand. It was a small mercy. His fingers closed around yours immediately, like he could feel the tremor in you and wanted to steady it without frightening it away.
“A facility we applied to reviewed your case,” you said. “It’s looking good. The transfer is pending final approval.”
Dex didn’t move. You kept going before fear could steal the words from you.
“It’s a secure psychiatric institution. It’s not freedom, I know that. But it’s not solitary. You’d have doctors, actual treatment, scheduled therapy, medication reviews. You wouldn’t be in shackles.”
His face remained controlled, but you knew him too well. You saw the tiny shift in his breathing.
“It’s going to be better,” you whispered. “Okay? Not perfect. Not easy. But better. You won’t be alone in a box, and we get longer visitation hours, okay?”
Dex was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded once. “That’s good.”
Your laugh came out broken, because part of you still found that endearing. “That’s good? That’s all you have?”
His mouth almost softened, guilty at the thought of offending you. “It’s very good,” he amended.
You squeezed his hand, and for one rare second, the visiting room didn’t feel quite so much like a cage. It felt like a door opening somewhere far away.Then Dex looked up again. “But I hope my request gets approved before I get moved.”
“Request?” You blinked. “For what?”
He held your gaze with the seriousness of a man discussing nothing more important than bills. “A conjugal visit.”
For a moment, your mind simply stopped. “What?”
“A conjugal visit,” he repeated, as if you might not have heard him the first time.
You stared at him. Of course he had thought of that.
In three years of legal petitions, medical reviews, prison visits, and fighting to have him treated like a person instead of a weapon, you had somehow not allowed yourself to think about that part. About being his wife in that way still. About how long it had been since he had touched you without guards and tables and rules between you. Dex had, though.
“Dex,” you said softly, rubbing slow circles on his hand.
“What?”
“You are in solitary confinement.”
“I know.”
“You’re probably not getting approved for a conjugal visit.”
“Probably not.”
His expression didn't change, but he squeezed your hand and your stomach turned over despite yourself. You leaned forward as much as the table allowed. The guard near the door shifted, but you ignored him. You kissed the edge of Dex’s mouth, brief and soft, but still enough to make his breath catch.
“Let’s focus on this, yeah?” you whispered.
His eyes stayed on yours. For a second, the hunger in him quieted, almost obedient. He nodded once. “Okay.”
Your hand stayed in his until the guard told you time was up. Dex didn’t let go until he had to.
—
He got approved. Somehow, Benjamin Poindexter got approved for a conjugal visit.
You read the notice three times in your kitchen, work bag sliding off your shoulder, lanyard still around your neck, your shoes aching from a long day on your feet. The letter was painfully plain and administrative. But it was approved nonetheless.
You stared at it until the paper blurred. “What the fuck?” you whispered.
Because there was no way. There was no reasonable, lawful way that your husband, a convicted killer, a high-risk prisoner, had been granted that kind of access.
You knew then that Dex had done something. Nothing obvious enough to get the request pulled. He might have threatened a guard. Maybe Dex had mentioned a name, a detail, some small piece of information he shouldn’t have known and let them do the rest.
You should have been horrified. Mostly, though, you pressed the paper to your mouth and laughed once, breathless and disbelieving, because all you could think was: That’s how badly he wanted me. That’s how much he loves me.
—
When the day came, you waited in the room alone.
You had done the paperwork, gone through twenty locked doors to get here. You came knowing you had a couple of hours with your husband. And for the first time in three years, there would be no table between you, no visitor chair bolted too far from his. No guards close enough to hear every word. No one telling you not to lean too far across the table when all you wanted was to touch his face.
A couple of hours was not enough.
You smoothed your hands over your blouse, then over your skirt, then clasped them together in your lap to make yourself stop fidgeting. You had dressed too carefully without really thinking about it. You had a white blouse, a nice skirt, because Dex liked seeing you in skirts. You were wearing the cardigan you were wearing when you met him.
You stared at your wedding ring until Dex stepped inside. For a second, neither of you moved.
He looked different. That was your first thought, blunt and stupid and immediate. He looked different, because of course he did. Years had happened. Prison had happened. Surgery had happened. His hair was shorter. His jaw looked sharper. But he was also bigger.
You noticed from your previous visits, of course, but seeing him a bit closer now, it was evident. His shoulders filled out the plain prison shirt. His arms looked stronger than they had in the hospital, muscle sitting heavy under institutional fabric, like all the recovery and physical therapy and whatever routines they let him have had made him sturdier.
You blinked before you could stop yourself. What were they feeding him?
Dex’s eyes found your face first, gaze locked onto you. For one fragile second he did not look like a prisoner at all.
He looked like Dex. Your Dex. Your husband, seeing you after being forced to miss you for too long.
“Hi,” you whispered.
His mouth parted slightly. When the door closed behind him, the lock turned, and whatever restraint he had used to walk in there like a normal person vanished.
You barely got to stand before his hands were on your face and yours were on his chest, and the first kiss was so clumsy it almost made you laugh. Your noses bumped. His mouth missed yours by half an inch and caught the corner instead. You made a tiny sound, half sob and half laugh, and Dex froze like he had done something wrong.
“No,” you said quickly, already smiling through the sting in your eyes. “No, come here.”
You took his face in both hands and kissed him properly, softly at first. Then again. And again.
These were little, ridiculous kisses. The kind you had imagined giving him in every prison visit where a guard stood too close. You kissed his mouth, the corner of it, his cheek. You kissed the line beside his nose, the skin under his eye, the edge of his mouth again.
Dex stood there and let you love him, as if he couldn’t believe you still did at all.
His hands stayed at your waist, almost uncertain, like after all this time he still didn’t fully trust that he was allowed to hold you without someone telling him to stop. But the longer you kissed him, the more his fingers settled. The more his body leaned into yours. The more the tension in his shoulders slowly started to melt.
“I missed you,” you said between kisses.
Dex’s eyes closed. “I missed you, too.”
“I missed you so much.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” You kissed his cheek again, because apparently now that you had started you couldn't stop. “I missed you in the kitchen. I missed you in our bed. I missed you when I had to fix the shelf myself because you would have been so annoying about doing it better.”
His mouth twitched. “You fixed a shelf?” he asked.
“I tried to.”
His eyes opened with attentive focus you had missed so badly. “What happened?”
“It’s currently leaning.”
Dex stared at you, then he laughed. It wasn’t loudly, or freely. It was small, rough, and almost startled, like his body had forgotten how to make the sound and needed you to remind it.
You broke a little. “Oh,” you whispered, smiling like an idiot. “There you are.”
His expression changed before he leaned in and kissed you again, not clumsy this time. A kiss that said yes, here, I’m here, I came back up when you called.
His arms moved around you properly then, and fuck, he was solid.
You had expected him to feel fragile, because part of you still remembered the hospital bed, the shackles, the bruised skin around his wrists after surgery. But this Dex was heavy and strong under your hands. When your palms slid over his shoulders, you felt muscle there making your stomach drop and go hot at the same time.
Still, he stayed sweet for a little while.
You had both expected the hunger. But before that, there was Dex touching your hair like he had thought about the texture of it more than once. There was you smoothing your thumb over his cheekbone, relearning him up close. There was him pressing his face into the side of your neck and breathing in once like he had been living on memory for years and memory had never been enough.
“I missed how you smell,” he said, voice muffled against your skin.
You laughed. “That’s creepy,” you said, but smiled into his hair anyway.
Your fingers drifted to the back of his neck, then lower, over the ridge of his shoulder. You felt him shiver when your touch found the edge of the scar beneath his shirt. You paused, but he shook his head against you. “It’s okay.”
So you kept touching him gently. Through the fabric first, then at the collar where your fingers could slip just beneath. The scar was there, and Dex’s breathing changed when you traced it. Not with pain, exactly. It felt more… intimate.
“My baby,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.
His hand flexed at your hip. This time, when his mouth opened under yours, the sweetness warmed.His body crowded yours a little more. His hands moved from your waist to your back, then down again.
“You got…” You swallowed, then laughed softly because there was no graceful way to say it. “You got big.”
Dex blinked. For half a second, he looked genuinely confused. Then his eyes dropped to where your hands were spread over his chest. “Big?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I had physical therapy.”
“That is a criminal understatement.”
His mouth twitched again as you dragged your palms over his shoulders, shameless now, because you had earned this. You had earned the right to be stupid about your husband’s arms after three years of prison visits and legal calls and sleeping alone.
“You’re very…” You squeezed his bicep lightly. “Recovered.”
Dex looked at you. “You’re flirting with me.”
You shrugged, but didn’t deny it.
The sound he made was almost an arrogant chuckle.
He kissed you again, and this time there was no mistaking the heat under it. Then, his hands settled on your blouse.
Not grabbing yet, but touching the fabric at your waist, thumbs moving slowly over the buttons as if he had only just realised there was something between his hands and your skin.
You were still smiling when his eyes dropped.
Suddenly, his eyes were fixed on the small gap where one button had loosened, where the fabric had shifted just enough to reveal a flash of black lace underneath.
Dex recognised it at the same time you remembered. “Is that…”
Your face burned hot as you nodded.
It was the black teddy he had bought you for your first wedding anniversary.It was sheer lace at the cups, delicate straps, a low satin-trimmed neckline. Dex remembered the first time you tried it on. You stood at the foot of your bed, pretending not to be shy, while he sat there ruined, looking at you like his brain had briefly stopped receiving oxygen. And now, you had worn it here.
Dex’s thumb brushed the edge of your blouse, right where black lace disappeared beneath it. His eyes darkened. “You wore my anniversary gift under your blouse,” he said.
Your stomach flipped. “When you say it like that—”
“How should I say it?” He demanded, and it was a little mean. But that always did turn you on.
“I don’t know,” you whispered. “Less like you’re about to lose your mind.”
Dex looked back up at you, too focused, too hungry. “I am.”
Oh.
Your hands tightened in his shirt.
The room felt smaller after that, less like a prison facility and more like the bedroom he remembered, the one with your knees pressed into the mattress and his hands shaking at your waist because he hadn’t known a piece of lace could make wanting feel that violent.
His grip settled firmer on your hips. “You have no idea,” he murmured, mouth brushing your ear. “What you do to me.”
Your eyes fluttered shut. There he was. Your husband, touch-starved, breathing against your neck like he had waited years to find out if he could still make you tremble.
You smiled, kind and doomed all the same. “Show me.”
Oh, he had a list.
Dex was undressed before you could blink, all broad shoulders and blown pupils, moving with a focused urgency that made the sterile little room feel suddenly too small to hold him. The white walls, the bolted table, the narrow bed, the chemical-clean smell of the sheets, and none of it stood a chance against the way he looked at you.
He had been counting down to this for years. Every prison visit, every supervised touch, every night alone in a cell had led into this exact moment.
His hands were already on your blouse, quick but not careless, tearing through buttons, ripping them off with a precision that would have been funny if his breathing had not been so rough. The black teddy appeared inch by inch beneath the fabric, lace and satin and memory, and Dex looked ruined.
First on the list: his mouth between your legs.
You understood that the second he dropped to his knees. Dex had barely gotten the teddy off before his hands were already under your skirt, gripping your thighs.
Then his mouth was on you, and every thought in your head broke apart.
“Oh,” you gasped, one hand flying to his hair, the other twisting in the clean white sheet beneath you.
Dex made a sound against you that was almost a groan, almost a laugh. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open for him, keeping you there like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. He was not gentle, like he used to be. He was focused, hungry, and touch-starved enough that every reaction you gave him seemed to make him worse.
“Fuck,” he breathed against you, voice rough and ruined. “You taste so fucking sweet.”
Your whole body went hot. “Dex—”
He didn’t let you finish. His mouth returned to you, and the room became nothing but the wet heat of him, the harsh sound of his breathing, the narrow bed creaking under the way your hips moved despite yourself. The sterile little room had no right to hold something this filthy.
He was still so good, it was unfair.
Dex had always been terrifying when he focused. When he learned something, he learned it completely. And you realised, breathless and shaking, that he remembered everything. Every place that made you gasp. Every rhythm that made your hand tighten in his hair. Every tiny, helpless sound you tried to swallow and failed.
You tried to move back once, overwhelmed, but his hands slid under you and dragged you closer with a low, possessive sound that made your stomach twist.
“No,” he murmured. “Stay.”
So you stayed while he buried himself there like he could spend hours between your thighs if time were not an issue. You stayed while his fingers dug into your skin, while his mouth made you forget the guards outside, the transfer, the years, the ugly world that had kept him from you. You stayed while he took you apart with the kind of devotion that felt less like softness and more like obsession given a mouth.
At some point, you said his name too loudly, and Dex groaned like that was the point.
Of course he wanted them to hear. Of course he wanted the men outside that locked door to know that whatever they thought they had taken from him was still his. You were still his.
When you finally broke, Dex did not stop right away.
He held you through it palms spread over your thighs, breathing you in like the end of the world had tasted sweet and he couldn’t make himself pull away.
Only when you tugged weakly at his hair did he lift his head.
Dex looked up at you like he had just crossed the first thing off a list and still had every intention of finishing the rest.
Number two on the list should have been obvious when he suddenly looked shy.
“Can I ask you something?” he murmured.
Your breath was still uneven. “Dex.”
His mouth pressed briefly to the inside of your knee, like he needed one more second to gather himself. “I want your mouth.”
Oh.
Your stomach flipped so hard you almost laughed. Who were you to deny this man anything?
You slid off the bed and onto your knees in front of him, and Dex went very still.
His hand came to your cheek, careful at first, thumb brushing your skin like he needed to touch you gently before letting himself want. His breathing changed when you looked up at him. His pupils were blown wide enough to make him look almost feverish.
“Baby,” he said, voice rough.
You smiled before giving him what he asked for.
Dex’s hand stayed in your hair, not forcing, not taking. His head tipped back. His throat worked. His eyes squeezed shut and opened again because he seemed to hate missing even one second of you.
He was big in every way you remembered and worse because you had missed him.
Too much, almost. Overwhelming enough to make your eyes water, enough to make your hands press at his thighs when you needed a second, and Dex stopped immediately each time.
His hand softened in your hair. “Too much?” he rasped.
You shook your head, breathless, stubborn, and a little ruined yourself.
Dex looked like that might kill him. Then you kept going, and he fell apart beautifully.
He moaned your name like a warning, like a plea. His hand stayed on your cheek against your cheek, his thumb brushing away the wetness at the corner of your eye with such tenderness that the gesture felt obscene in context.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”
You felt him getting close, and you wanted nothing more than feeling him down your throat, but he pulled back, stopping himself so abruptly you almost protested.
Dex stared down at you, chest heaving, eyes wild, mouth parted like he had just survived something.
You blinked up at him.
He gave a rough little laugh, almost pained. “No,” he said, voice hoarse. “Not yet.”
You smiled slowly. “Not yet?”
His gaze darkened again. He reached down, thumb brushing your lower lip, still shaking from the effort of denying himself.
“I have two more things on the list,” he reminded you, making your thighs pressed together.
Dex helped you back onto your feet with hands that weren’t quite steady, then kissed you so deeply you tasted the restraint he had forced himself to keep.
“Bed,” he murmured against your mouth.
Number three on the list was taking you from behind, of course.
He turned you toward the bed with hands that were still shaking his mouth at your shoulder, your neck, the back of your ear.
He moved slowly at first, because even like this, rough and ruined and half-mad with missing you, Dex was still Dex. He still listened to every breath, every shift of your body, every little sound that told him whether you were overwhelmed or wanting more. The stretch of him made your hands fist in the sheet, your body tensing around the sheer shock of having him again after so long without. His mouth pressed to your shoulder. “Breathe,” he rasped. “I’ve got you.”
He took his time even though you could feel restraint burning through him. The way he cursed softly against your skin when you finally relaxed into him, when your body remembered him properly and pulled him closer.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice breaking. “You’re so—”
He cut himself off with his mouth against your shoulder, like the words were too much, like saying them would make him less controlled than he already was.
Then he started moving. God, he hadn’t forgotten you, so of course you were loud almost immediately.
The first sound broke out of you before you could stop it, your whole face burning. Dex’s hand tightened at your hip, and the next lewd mewl came worse. He made a low sound behind you, smug and satisfied in a way that made heat crawl up your spine.
You bit down on your own wrist, trying to muffle yourself.
His hand slid up your body and gently pulled your arm away. “No,” he said, voice rough. “I waited three years to hear you.”
Your whole body went hot. “Dex—”
“Let me hear you.”
And then he made sure you did.
He got rougher, hungrier. His body covered yours, his mouth dragging over your neck while his hands held you exactly where he wanted you. The bed creaked under you. The sheet twisted beneath your fists. Your voice filled the room because he kept pulling it out of you, again and again.
At some point, there was a knock on the door, but unfortunately Dex didn’t have enough self control to stop.
You looked over your shoulder, cheek pressed flush into the sheets.
The little window opened and a guard looked in. They were worried, you realised. You had been so fucking loud.
The humiliation should have swallowed you whole. Instead, your stomach flipped.
“You okay?” the guard called.
You could barely speak. “Hmmph, Y-yes!” you managed.
Dex’s hand slid over your stomach, keeping you pressed back against him.
The guard moved away when he realised what he was seeing, face red.
The second the shadow disappeared, Dex’s mouth was at your ear. “You liked that.”
You shivered.
“You liked him checking,” he murmured, darker now. “Liked him hearing what I do to you.”
You should have denied it, but you could not bring yourself to lie, Dex made a rough, broken sound against your neck and moved again, deeper into the heat, rougher now because he was jealous, because some stranger had seen even a glimpse of your face like that and Dex couldn’t stand it. He kissed your shoulder hard and held you like he could erase the guard’s eyes from the room by making you forget anything existed except him.
“Mine,” he breathed.
You answered with his name, exactly how he wanted it.
Number four on the list started with him denying you an orgasm.
That was how you knew prison had changed him.The old Dex, the one who melted when you praised him, the one who went doe-eyed and obedient under your hands, had been buried under three of whatever this was.
Dex flipped you over before you could come undone.
Your gasp broke against his mouth as your back hit the narrow mattress, the white sheet twisted beneath you, your body sore in the best, most aching way. You were already too close and he knew it. Of course he knew it. He knew your body like he had studied it for a test he refused to fail.
“Not yet,” he murmured.
You made a helpless little sound, half protest, half plea. Dex’s hand slid up your waist, and he was inside you again in no time.
Oh. you realised, he wanted to look at you when you came. That was all. So sweet. So cute.
But then you felt him twitch, and you realised that he was close before he did. Or maybe he knew, and he was just too far gone to care about anything else.
“Dex—” Your voice caught. “Dex, I’m not— fuck, I’m not on birth control.”
He didn’t stop completely. His whole body stuttered above yours, rhythm faltering, breath punching out of him like you had hit him in the chest.
“Hmph—fuck.” His forehead dropped against yours. “I know.”
Your eyes snapped open. “You know?”
His hand slid over your stomach, possessive, and the sound that left him was almost pained.
“I know,” he said again, rougher. “I know, baby.”
The words should have sobered you, but you loved him, and you loved that he was still above you, still shaking, still so close you could feel every tremor of restraint tearing through him.
“Dex,” you gasped.
“I thought about it,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “Every night.”
Your body went hot. His hand pressed a little firmer over your stomach, not forcing, just holding there like the thought had been living in him for years.
“You in our apartment,” he murmured, words breaking between breathless little sounds. “My wife, wearing my old shirts. Sleeping alone. Fighting for me. Sitting across from lawyers and doctors while I sit in a– hmmphh— a fuckin’ box.”
“Baby—”
“And all I could think was… fuck—all I could think was I should have left you something.”
Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt.
A baby, he meant.
A living tether. Something that would tie you to him in a way no prison door, no court order, no transfer file could undo. And sure, if you were going to leave him, you would have done it already. No court in the world would blame you for divorcing a killer. No friend, no family member, no sane person would call you cruel for walking away.
But you stayed. And fuck, somehow, staying was still not enough for Dex. He needed proof that some part of him could still belong to you permanently.
In his mind, twisted and tender as it was, this was not a trap. It was a gift.
His eyes locked on yours, blown dark and terrifyingly attentive even through the haze.
His mouth was against yours, then your jaw, then your throat, never settling anywhere long enough to be gentle. He kept touching you like he could not decide what he needed more: your face, your waist, your hips, the heat of your body.
“You feel that?” he rasped, voice wrecked as you squeezed him a little. “How bad you want it?”
You did want it, but you could barely answer. Every breath came out wrong, caught somewhere between a moan and his name. Your thoughts had gone useless, scattered apart by the obscene tenderness of his palm resting low and possessive like he was already imagining the seed taking root there.
“Dex—” you sighed, trying to bury your face in his ned
“No, baby.” His mouth brushed your ear, rough and hot, as he pulled your hair back gently to look into your eyes. “Don’t get… shit— shy now. Not after that. N-not after the sounds you’ve been making ‘f me.”
Your face burned, but your hands only tightened on him.
His voice dropped lower, filthier, the words breaking between harsh breaths. “My pretty girl wants something from me, huh?”
Your whole body went hot.
Dex’s palm pressed a little firmer over your stomach. “S-she wants me to leave her with something.” His breath hitched, and for a second his voice almost failed him. “Wants to walk out of here carrying more than m-my… hmm— fingerprints.”
You made a helpless sound.
“There it is,” he murmured. “You like that, fuck! You like thinking about it.”
“Dex-please—”
“Yeah?” His mouth found yours, messy and desperate, before he pulled back just enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, his face flushed, his control hanging by a thread he was clearly ready to let snap. “My pretty girl wants my baby, huh?”
Your breath caught so hard it hurt.
Dex saw it the way your body answered before your mouth could.
His face changed, hunger folding into something sickly sweet, almost tender in the worst possible way. “Fuck,” he whispered. “You do.”
Your eyes stung.
You hated and loved how well he knew you all the same.
“Wants something of mine when they t-take me back,” he breathed, mouth dragging along your cheek. “Something they c-can’t put in a cell. Something that— hnghhh — still has me in it.”
You were shaking now, overwhelmed and aching and so far gone that language felt like a thing happening on another planet. Dex was talking to you like he knew exactly where every dark little want lived under your skin, like he had spent three years locked away with nothing but the memory of you and all the ways he wanted to make himself permanent.
“Say it,” he murmured.
You couldn’t, not properly. Dex’s eyes darkened further.
“C-can’t even talk,” he whispered. “That’s okay. I know you.” His thumb moved slowly over your skin. “I know what my wife wants.”
Your breath broke.
His forehead pressed to yours, and for one second, under all that hunger, he was shaking with the effort to hold himself back.
“But you gotta tell me,” he said, voice raw. “Tell me no and I’ll stop.”
The restraint from him was phenomenal. Your hands slid up to his face, holding him there, forcing him to look at you while you gave him the answer.
“D-don’t you fucking dare stop,” you whispered.
“Yeah?” he asked, like he needed it again, like one yes was not enough to survive on.
“Yes–Fuck! Yes, baby.”
His mouth crashed back to yours, swallowing the rest of your answer, and the room disappeared into heat and the terrible intimacy of choosing this with him. His hand stayed over your stomach the whole time, almost reverent, like the fantasy had become real the second you let him have it.
He kept talking against your mouth, the words coming apart as badly as he was.
How good you were. How much he had missed you. How he had thought about you every night. How he wanted to leave something behind. How you would be going home with him in a way no guard could take from you.
You clung to him through it, nails catching on his shoulders, then his back, then the scar along his spine. Dex shuddered when you touched it, a broken sound leaving him before he buried his face against your neck and held you closer, closer, closer, like he could press three lost years into the space between your bodies and make them disappear.
When he finally came with you, he did it with your name on his mouth and his eyes fixed on yours, like he needed you to see every second of what he was giving you.
His forehead dropped to yours afterward, both of you breathing too hard.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The guards outside were silent. The room was wrecked in small damning ways: twisted sheets, scattered clothes, your blouse half on the floor, the black lace halfway off the bed.
Dex kissed your cheek. Then your jaw. Then the corner of your mouth.“I missed you,” he whispered, and this time it sounded almost broken.
You closed your eyes and held him there. “I missed you, too.”
—
The knock came fifteen minutes later, and you hated it. “Poindexter,” a guard called, “Time.”
Dex was still against you, face buried in your neck, one arm locked around your waist like pretending not to hear it might make the door stay shut. For a second, neither of you moved. His breathing was still uneven against your skin, and your fingers were still in his hair, and the narrow bed beneath you looked absolutely ruined.
Another knock. You touched the back of his neck. “Baby.”
“I know.”
He didn’t sound like he knew. He sounded like leaving you there might kill him.
You both moved in a rush after that, half-dressed and breathless, trying to put yourselves back together before the guards came in. The sheet was twisted. Your skirt was crooked. Your blouse was missing buttons because Dex had been too impatient, so you had to clutch the fabric closed with both hands while smiling like an idiot anyway.
Then the guards stepped in. One of them looked at the bed, then at you, then at Dex. His face went carefully blank.
“Hands,” he said.
You stepped forward before Dex could turn around.
The guard sighed. “Ma’am—”
“One second,” you said.
Dex bent instantly, like he had been waiting for permission. You kissed him once. Then again. Then to his nose, because one kiss was not enough and never would be.
“I love you,” you whispered.
He looked like he might cry. “I love you, too”
Then they cuffed him.
You hated the sound of metal around his wrists. It meant the world taking him back. At the door, Dex looked over his shoulder, and you stood there still holding your blouse together, still smiling, still ruined.
The guard muttered, “Filthy animals,” as they disappeared into the hall.
Then you heard Dex chuckle, low and rough and proud. Like being filthy with you was the best thing anyone had ever called him.
You stood there for a second, and then you laughed under your breath, too.
Because you loved it. You loved being disgusting with him. Loved that the room looked wrecked. Loved that the guards knew. Loved that Dex would carry that insult back to his cell like a compliment, and that you would go home with the same stupid, shameless pride in your chest.
Filthy animals.
Yeah. You smiled to yourself, still holding your blouse together. Maybe you were.
—
You were pregnant.
You found out before the transfer, while Dex was still in prison, still waiting to be moved to the secure psychiatric facility you had spent three years fighting for. For three days, you carried the secret around yourself like a forcefield. You went to work, answered emails, helped patrons at the public library. You smiled politely at everyone while your whole body felt like it had become a locked room with a miracle inside.
When you told Dex, he knew something was different before you even sat down. His eyes went to your face, then your hands, then the way you kept pressing your palm nervously against your stomach. “What happened?”
You laughed once, shaky and soft. “Nothing bad.”
Dex didn’t relax, so you reached across the table and took his hand as much as the cuffs allowed. His fingers closed around yours immediately. “I’m pregnant.” For a second, it was like the whole visiting room lost sound. Then his eyes dropped to your stomach. “What?”
You smiled through the tears already coming. “I’m pregnant, baby.”
The chair scraped back before the guard could stop him.
Dex moved toward you on instinct, cuffed hands reaching for your face, not violent, not thinking, just desperate to touch. The chain between his wrists caught on the edge of the table, but he barely seemed to feel it. His palms found your cheeks, and then he was kissing you across the table like the whole room had disappeared.
“Poindexter,” the guard snapped.
Dex didn't hear him. Or he did, and for one dangerous second, he didn’t care.
You kissed him back, crying into his mouth, fingers gripping the front of his prison shirt because this was your husband, your baby’s father, and he was making this broken sound against your lips.
Another guard came over. “Back. Now.”
They had to pull you apart. Actually pull you apart.
They had one hand on Dex’s shoulder, another on his arm, dragging him back while his cuffed hands strained toward you and yours reached for him across the table. His eyes stayed locked on your face the whole time amazed and almost frightened by the size of what he felt.
The transfer happened not long after.
The institution was better than solitary. You reminded yourself of that every day. He had doctors now. Treatments, structure. He was not locked alone in a box anymore.
But he still was not free. He wasn’t there when your stomach first started to show, but the institution had better visitation rules than the prison, and the first time you came in visibly pregnant, Dex was allowed to touch you. His hand settled over the curve of your stomach so carefully it made your throat ache, like he was afraid the smallest wrong movement might cost him the privilege.
He wasn’t there when the baby kicked for the first time either, but later, during one of those visits, the baby kicked beneath Dex’s palm. Dex went completely still, eyes dropping to your stomach.
Still, he wasn’t there for the smaller, lonelier things. He wasn’t beside you in the maternity shop when you cried because nothing fit right and you wanted him there so badly it hurt. He should have been there making some too-serious comment about proper shoes, back support, and whether the changing room bench was structurally safe enough for you to sit on.
But even then, you told him everything. Every appointment. Every craving. Every scan. Every tiny development you could turn into words and carry to him.
Then Leonard was born. Leo, for short, named for his father.
Dex wasn’t allowed to be there.
That hurt him in a way he didn’t know how to hide. You didn’t know this, but one of the nurses told you he had become erratic after the call came through that you were in labour. Not violent, but frantic, pacing, asking the same questions over and over, trying to negotiate with people who had no authority to give him what he wanted. By the end of it, they had to force a couple pills down his throat so he could just calm down.
So when you finally called, exhausted and crying, with your son against your chest, the silence on the other end felt too careful.
“He’s here,” you whispered. “He’s here, baby.”
Dex didn’t answer right away. For a moment, all you could hear was his breathing, thin and controlled, like he was holding himself together by force. Then, very carefully, he asked, "Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yes.”
You could almost picture him sitting there, hand curled too tightly around the phone, trying to make himself calm enough to deserve hearing this.
“Tell me,” he said.
You told him Leo had blonde hair. You looked down at the baby curled against you, tiny and furious, with pale hair against his head and features that already made your chest ache because there was no denying whose child he was.
“He looks like you,” you whispered.
Dex didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice sounded stripped bare.
“He does?”
“Yeah, baby.” You smiled through tears, touching Leo’s tiny cheek. “He looks like his father.”
Still, after weeks, then months, then years of hearing about Leo through you, Dex began to know him in fragments.
Children were not allowed inside the institution, so Leo had never met his father. Dex knew him through the stories you told him in visitation rooms, through the photographs you were allowed to bring, through the change in your voice whenever you said his name. You gave him a picture of Leo asleep with one fist tucked under his cheek. Leo with blond hair and your eyes. Leo scowling at the camera in a way that looked so much like Dex it made him go silent the first time he saw it.
But he didn’t love Leo properly yet. How could he? He had never held him. Never felt the weight of him against his chest. Never smelled his skin, never rocked him through a cry, never watched him fall asleep in his arms. Leo was still partly an idea to him, a child made real through your love before Dex could reach him with his own.
But he loved Leo, in a way, because you loved him.
That was easier. You loved that baby, so Leo mattered. Your face relaxed when you spoke about him, so Dex learned to relax around the sound of his name too. And somewhere in the darkest, neediest part of him, he thought he owed Leo his life because he made you stay.
Leo was Dex’s gift to you, because he didn’t want you to be alone.
So Dex loved Leo in the only way he knew how at first: because Leo was yours, because Leo was his, because Leo looked like him, and because Leo kept a piece of him in your life while the rest of him was locked away. He loved him for your sake, before he knew how to love him for his own.
—
Leo was three years old when Vanessa Fisk made Dex kill Foggy Nelson.
He was three, serious-eyed, stubborn in the exact way that made your mother sigh and say, “That’s probably his father,” under her breath. Leo had Dex’s watchful stare, Dex’s unnerving ability to go quiet when he was thinking too hard. But he was still a toddler, so the quiet never lasted long. One minute he would be silently studying the wheels of a toy truck like he was investigating a crime scene, and the next he would be shrieking because his banana had “broken wrong.”
He loved dinosaurs, but only “scary ones.” He refused to wear socks that had seams in the wrong place. He called the moon “the night light” and cried once because you explained he couldn’t take it home. He had Dex’s face in miniature and your habit of talking to himself while concentrating, which meant you spent most mornings watching your tiny blond child line up toy animals on the floor and whisper, “No, no, you go there. No, you not listening.”
You were a good mother. You packed snacks. You remembered nursery forms. You cut grapes in half. You kept emergency wipes in every bag you owned. You sang the same bedtime song three times if Leo asked, even when your throat hurt and your body felt hollow from work and worry and loving a man the world had never stopped punishing.
Dex knew all of that through you. Leo liked peas this week. Leo hated peas this week. Leo asked why cats had no eyebrows. Leo threw a shoe at the wall because bedtime was, apparently, “a bad idea.” Leo had asked about Daddy again.
You and Leo had become the one fragile architecture that kept Dex going. Vanessa understood that because Vanessa Fisk understood devotion, even when it was ugly.
So when she found out about you and Leo, it was over.
She came to Dex with ammo in her metaphorical gun.
This was no way to live, she told him, taking away the meds. Was this what he wanted? To hear about his son in secondhand stories? To let you raise a child alone while other men opened doors for you, helped carry groceries, taught Leo to kick a ball, to ride a bike, to be brave? Raising a child was hard, wasn’t it? You were young. Lonely. Exhausted. Beautiful. How long before someone else started looking less like help and more like a replacement?
Didn’t he want to be a husband? A father? Didn’t he want to come home?
Then, she gave him a photo of you at home, hair tied back, Leo on your hip. How… did she get this photo?
Then she gave him structure: Kill Foggy first. Then he could go to you and Leo.
That was the order of how it went. It was a task, a reward, a way back to the only life he still cared about. And Dex had always been most dangerous when someone took his pain and turned it into a sequence.
So he killed Foggy Nelson. And afterward, when they dragged him back into court, you wanted to see him.
Not because you excused murder. Not because Foggy didn’t matter. But because you were his wife, and you knew that Dex didn’t kill like that out of nowhere.
He wouldn’t simply go on a rampage. He didn’t wake up one day and decide he would burn every bridge that led to you. He loved you too much for that. So you came to the conclusion that someone must've reached into the most frightened part of him, and aimed him again.
You knew that, but the court didn’t care. This time, the court issued an order. It was for your son’s sake, they said. An injunction, no contact. You and Leo were not to be in the same room as Benjamin Poindexter. Not in court, not in visitation, not anywhere a judge could prevent it.
You stood very still when they told you this.
Leo was at home with your mother, probably refusing lunch because the sandwich had been cut into triangles instead of squares.
You didn’t cry. Not when the injunction was read. Not even when Dex was sentenced for the second time. You just listened. Then you got to work.
Because crying would come later, probably in the shower, probably with one hand over your mouth so Leo wouldn’t hear. But right then, there were lawyers to call, motions to file, and records to request. You knew your husband. You knew what manipulation looked like when he was the one pointed like a weapon.
And after court, you went back to Leo. He was sitting on the living room floor in dinosaur pyjamas even though it was the afternoon, blond hair sticking up at the back, one sock on and one sock missing for reasons nobody could explain. He looked up when you came in, toy stegosaurus clutched in one hand.
“Mama,” he said seriously, “Nana said no more crackers.”
You knelt in front of him, your knees cracking with the exhaustion of the day. “Your grandma is probably right.”
Leo frowned like you had betrayed him on a legal level. “I need snacks.”
“You had a snack.”
“I need more snacks.”
“You need dinner.”
He considered that, then lifted the stegosaurus. “Dino needs crackers.”
“Dino can have pretend crackers.”
Leo stared at you with Dex’s eyes. For one awful second, you almost laughed and almost cried at the same time. Instead, you reached out and smoothed his hair down. It sprang back up immediately.
“Daddy has that face too,” you whispered.
Leo blinked. “Daddy?”
You had never lied to him. You told him Daddy was away. Daddy loved him. Daddy couldn’t come home yet. All true, and yet, none of it was enough.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “Daddy.”
Leo looked down at his dinosaur, then back at you. “Daddy like dinos?”
You smiled even though your throat hurt. “I think Daddy would like whatever you like.”
Leo nodded, satisfied by that, and shoved the stegosaurus into your lap. “Then Daddy like this one. He bite.”
You held the toy carefully, like it was evidence. “Yeah,” you whispered. “He bite.”
Leo climbed into your lap after that, all knees and elbows, and you wrapped both arms around him. He smelled like shampoo and the strawberry yoghurt he had somehow gotten on his sleeve. He pressed his face into your shoulder for exactly four seconds before wriggling away again because three-year-olds loved affection on their own schedule.
You let him go. You watched him return to his line of dinosaurs, babbling to himself, head bent in concentration.
You opened your notes app and started another list: Lawyer. Injunction appeal. Facility records. Contact restrictions. Dex’s medication logs. Visitor records.
You could be heartbroken later. Right now, you were Leo’s mother. Dex’s wife. And someone had used your family to turn your husband into a weapon again.
And you were going to find out why.
—
A year later, you were watching the news while Leo played on the carpet.
Not watching, really. You were letting it sit on in the background while you moved through the living room with half your attention split into a dozen places at once. Leo’s sippy cup was on the coffee table. His toy dinosaurs were arranged in a careful little line near your foot. A postcard Johnathan had sent from the Bahamas with his boyfriend on the fridge. There was a basket of laundry on the chair you had been meaning to fold since yesterday, and your laptop sat open on the sofa beside you, full of documents, court filings, old visitor logs, psychiatric reports, and all the research you had been collecting like ammunition.
You had been working for weeks. You had names, dates, transfer notices, facility records, connections that were too neat to be coincidence. You had followed the clues until your stomach turned. Dex was going to be moved into general population, and it was not an administrative error. It was not random. It had the Fisks’ fingerprints all over it, even if she was careful enough never to leave them where a normal person could see.
After all, it hadn’t taken you long to find out about the Red Hook charter. That part had been almost laughably easy. Child’s play, really.
The public library had a stack of old municipal records tucked away in the back, half-forgotten beneath outdated notices and donation forms. Someone had slapped a label on the box years ago — NEEDS TO BE SHREDDED — and then, by some miracle of underfunded bureaucracy, no one ever had.
So you had done the one thing you could think of and sent Matt Murdock an anonymous tip. You didn't give a signature or explanation. It was just enough information to make him look where he needed to look. It was just enough to prove to him that Dex was not acting on his own.
Matt went to see him that morning. You knew because you still had someone inside the prison willing to tell you what the official channels never would. A friend, barely. A contact, more accurately.
Then, that night, the news broke: Benjamin Poindexter had escaped from prison and attempted to assassinate the mayor.
Your husband’s name was on every channel again. Your husband’s face was dragged back into the world as a threat, a headline, a monster with a body count and no context anyone cared to say out loud.
You stood frozen in the middle of your living room, remote in hand, while the news anchor spoke over footage you could barely process. On the carpet, Leo lifted his plastic stegosaurus and made it bite the sofa cushion.
“Rawr,” he said seriously.
You looked down at him and how completely unaware he was that his father had just broken out of prison and tried to kill a man.
Leo was too busy frowning at the stegosaurus with Dex’s whole face in miniature, pale brows pulled together, mouth pressed into a stern little line. “No,” he told the dinosaur, pushing its plastic nose away from the triceratops. “No bully.”
The stegosaurus apparently disagreed, because Leo made it chomp again. Then he gasped, offended by his own storyline. “No. Bully bad.” He picked up the stegosaurus, turned it toward the triceratops, and shook it gently. “You say sorry.”
You stared at him.
Leo bumped the stegosaurus’s head carefully against the triceratops. “Sowwy,” he said in a deeper voice.
Then he made the triceratops pat the stegosaurus on the head. “Okay. Be kind now.”
Your chest tightened so hard you had to sit down.
Leo looked up. “Mama?”
“I’m okay,” you said too quickly.
He stared at you with Dex’s eyes, unconvinced.
You turned the volume down, but not off. You couldn’t make yourself turn it off. You sat there with Leo at your feet and the whole city falling apart on-screen, trying to understand the sequence. Matt’s visit. The transfer. The Fisks. Dex escaping. The mayor. None of it random. None of it was out of nowhere, and you probably were the one to set this into motion the second you gave the anonymous tip.
“Mama,” Leo said again, holding up a toy. “Dino hungry.”
“Dino is always hungry,” you whispered.
“Need snack.”
“Okay,” you said, because your voice was already too close to breaking and arguing with a four-year-old about a plastic dinosaur felt like the one thing you could actually survive. “Let me check what we have.”
You stood and crossed into the kitchen, still listening to the news. The fridge light came on cold and white across your face. You stared into it without really seeing anything: half a punnet of strawberries, Leo’s yoghurt, and Leftover pasta. A little container of cut grapes.
The news anchor said Dex’s name again. Your hand tightened around the fridge door.
You reached for Leo’s yoghurt, then stopped because he had asked for a snack for the dinosaur, not himself, and for one absurd second that distinction mattered enough to make you laugh under your breath.
Then you realised that Leo was… silent. He wasn’t babbling. He wasn’t talking to his toys. Is he okay?
Worried, you looked back into the living room.
Leo was standing in the middle of the carpet, one dinosaur clutched in his hand, his small body frozen in a way that made the back of your neck prickle.
He was waving at the window.
No. Not the window. The fire escape.
Beyond the glass, half-hidden in the dark metal lines of the fire escape, was his father.
Oh.
Little did you know, Dex had already been there for fifteen minutes.
Fifteen whole minutes of being half-hidden in the dark, one hand braced against the cold metal railing while he looked into the life he had only known through your stories. At first, he watched you, moving through the living room with the television flickering against your face, beautiful and alive, one hand absently touching your wedding ring while you tried to hold the world together through the sheer refusal to give up on him.
But when his eyes found Leo, Dex forgot how to breathe.
He knew what his son looked like from photographs. He knew he had blond hair, serious eyes, and that little frown you always said was his. But seeing Leo in person was different. It was jarring, how much he actually looked like him. Leo was now a real person to Dex, sitting cross-legged on the carpet in dinosaur pyjamas, scolding a plastic stegosaurus for biting another toy.
Dex watched Leo make the dinosaur apologise. He watched Leo say that bullying was bad. He watched his son choose kindness with no one guiding him toward it.
Oh. Leo looked like him, but he was good in a way Dex had never been able to be without help. Dex had always needed a North Star, someone outside him to point toward right when his own internal compass spun uselessly in the dark. He would always need you that way, always look to you when the world blurred at the edges and everything started to feel lost.
But Leo did not need a North Star. Leo had one inside him. Leo had a functioning moral compass in a tiny body with Dex’s face and your kindness. Dex’s focus, but not his emptiness. Dex’s intensity, but not his fracture. Dex, if someone had loved him correctly from the start.
And that was when Dex understood that he loved him. And not in the distant, complicated love he had forced himself to. Not just because Leo was yours, or because Leo was his, or because Leo had kept you tethered to him while the rest of the world tried to take him away.
Now, he loved Leo because Leo was a good version of him. Because protecting Leo suddenly felt a lot like self-preservation. Like if Dex could keep this child safe, if he could make sure the world never reached into Leo and broke the compass before it had a chance to grow, then maybe some part of himself could be saved too.
Then Leo noticed him.
Dex saw the exact second it happened. Leo’s head turned, eyes lifting past the kitchen table, past the window, to the dark shape crouched on the fire escape.
For one breathless second, Dex couldn't move. He had been caught. Not by the police. Not by guards. Not by Daredevil. By a four-year-old boy.
Leo didn’t scream. He didn’t cry. Of course not. He was your son, too. He was brave, like you.
He only blinked, then lifted one small hand and waved.
Because Dex didn't want to scare him, because he did not know how fathers were supposed to wave at sons they had never held, Dex lifted his hand and waved back.
That was when you noticed.
And fuck, he couldn’t wait to be in your arms again.
The second you got the window open, Dex came through it, one hand catching the frame, the other already reaching for you. The sniper rifle was still strapped across his back, cold against the warmth of your apartment.
You barely had time to say his name before his hands were on you.
He pulled you into him so quickly your feet left the floor, spinning you half across the living room with a strength that startled a laugh out of you before it broke into a sob. His arms locked around your waist, your hands flew to his shoulders, and then his mouth was on yours. The kiss was clumsy in the way only grief and longing could be clumsy. He kissed you like every locked door, every court order, every year stolen from you both had narrowed into this one second.
He tasted like blood and rain. His lip was split. One of his teeth was missing. There were stitches along his forehead and dirt at the edge of his chin, but he was here. Your husband was in your living room with his body against yours and his hands on your back like he was trying to convince himself you were not another trick his mind played against him.
“I missed you,” you breathed against his mouth.
Dex made a broken sound and kissed you again. “I missed you.”
“No, baby,” you whispered, laughing and crying at the same time as you pressed kisses to his mouth, his cheek, the corner of his cheekbones, the scar you’ve yet to trace there. “I missed you. I missed you so much.”
His forehead dropped to yours. For a second, he just held you there, eyes closed, breathing you in like he had forgotten the world. His fingers moved at your waist, not quite gripping, not quite letting go, that old helpless need in him trying so hard to be gentle and failing only because there was too much feeling in one body.
Then a small voice behind you said, “Mama?”
It went through him all at once, the way a person remembered fire after touching a flame. His hands stayed on you, but his whole body locked up, breath caught, eyes opening with a kind of fear you had never seen in him.
Because no, Benjamin Poindexter had no defence against a four-year-old boy in dinosaur pyjamas.
Slowly, you turned in his arms to see Leo stood in the middle of the carpet with one sock missing and his stegosaurus tucked under one arm. His round little face was serious, sleepy, and curious. He looked much like Dex, it made your chest hurt, but he was smaller, untouched by every cruel thing that had made his father into a weapon.
“Mama,” Leo asked, pointing the dinosaur toward Dex, “who’s this?”
Dex’s breath hitched, you felt it under your palm.
For a moment, you couldn’t answer. You had imagined this introduction a hundred different ways over the years. Maybe in a supervised visitation room. Or through a phone call. Maybe one day in some future where paperwork finally gave way and Leo was old enough to understand more than he should have to. You had not imagined Dex standing in your apartment with a rifle on his back, blood at his mouth, wanted by half the city, looking down at his son like the universe had placed his missing pieces in a boy that looked like a mirror.
You swallowed.“Leo,” you said softly, voice shaking. “This is Daddy.”
Dex inhaled like the word had gone straight through him.
Leo blinked up at him. “Hi daddy,” he repeated, testing the shape of it.
Dex was still trying to keep himself held together with force and habit and whatever discipline had survived. But a foreign emotion moved across him as you felt your own eyes fill again.
“Hi, Leo,” he whispered. His voice was wrecked.
Leo studied him with the grave suspicion of a child encountering an adult who looked both interesting and badly assembled. His eyes moved over Dex’s face. Then his little brows pulled together.
“Your teeth is missing,” Leo said.
You made a small sound, half laugh, half sob.
Dex blinked at him. “What?”
Leo took one step closer, stegosaurus still tucked under his arm like backup. “Your teeth is missing. Are you okay?”
And that was what broke him.
Not the years he had lost. Not even the word Daddy, though that had nearly taken his knees out. It was the concern in his son’s voice, the immediate, unprompted softness. The way Leo saw something wrong and, instead of flinching from him, asked if he was okay.
Dex lowered himself slowly to one knee, as if sudden movement might shatter the moment.
The rifle shifted against his back, so violently out of place beside your son’s little bare foot on the carpet. Dex seemed to realise it too. His hand moved as if to take it off, then stopped, uncertain, afraid to do anything too fast with Leo so close.
“I’m okay,” Dex said carefully.
Leo looked unconvinced. “Mama has plasters.”
Dex looked up at you.Your hand went to your mouth, and you cried properly then, because Leo had no idea what he was offering. No idea that his father had come through the window carrying a weapon and a history no child should have to understand. No idea that asking about a missing tooth and suggesting a plaster was the kindest thing anyone had said to Dex all year.
Dex looked back at him, and saw a person. A tiny person with Dex’s hair and Dex’s nose and Dex’s mouth, but he was human, in the way he never was. He was kind.
Leo was everything Dex had wanted to be and never knew how. Leo was a good version of him.
For the first time in Dex’s life, he looked at someone smaller than him and thought, with stunned humility, that he might have something to learn.
From his son, his better self.
Leo tilted his head. “You want Dino?”
Dex looked at the stegosaurus like it was sacred.
Then he held out both hands, slowly, carefully, letting Leo decide.
Leo stepped closer and placed the dinosaur into his palms.
Dex took it as if it weighed more than the rifle on his back. As if this battered little plastic toy had more power to undo him than any weapon ever made.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Leo nodded, satisfied by the manners, then moved closer. His small hand lifted and patted Dex’s cheek, not quite where the scar was, gentle in the imprecise way of toddlers trying their best.
Dex’s eyes snapped to yours. There was panic there. Wonder. A silent, helpless question: What do I do?
You sank down beside them, one hand on Leo’s back, the other reaching for Dex’s face. “You’re doing okay,” you whispered.
Leo patted him again, then leaned forward and, with the sudden trust only children could offer, pressed himself into Dex’s chest.
Dex stopped breathing. Then, slowly, so slowly it made your heart ache, his arms came around your son.
Leo fit against him like he had always belonged there, his same-colored hair tucked beneath Dex’s chin. Dex held him as if the whole room might punish him for wanting it too much, as if any wrong movement would prove he didn;t deserve this.
You watched his hand spread carefully over Leo’s back. The same hand that had hurt people. The same hand that had held weapons. That same hand that now shook from the effort of touching his son gently enough.
Leo looked up from Dex’s chest. “Are you cold?”
Dex swallowed. “A little.”
Leo considered that, then turned to you. “Mama, Daddy need blanket.”
You laughed through tears. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Maybe he does.”
Dex closed his eyes.
His face bent toward Leo’s hair, and for a second he didn’t quite kiss him, He only breathed there, close enough to smell the child he had made and never held. Shampoo. Crackers. Life. His son smelled like life.
When Dex opened his eyes again, they were wet. He looked at you over Leo’s head, and the room seemed to fold around the three of you.
“I missed everything,” he whispered.
You moved closer, pressing your forehead to his shoulder, one hand covering his where it rested on Leo’s back. “You’re here now.”
It was not enough, you both knew that. It was nowhere near enough.
But Leo wriggled in Dex’s arms and said, “Daddy, Dino hungry,” with the complete seriousness of a child who had accepted this new adult into his world and immediately assigned him responsibilities.
Dex looked down at him. Then at the dinosaur. Then back at you, for instruction. You tilted your chin like, go on.
“What does Dino eat?” he managed.
Leo gasped, scandalised that his own father didn’t know. “Crackers.”
Dex looked at you, and you nodded, so he also nodded, “Okay.”
Dex knew now that he was meant to love Leo because Leo was his second chance in miniature.
And Leo had no idea his father would burn the world to keep him safe. Because in the end, that's what makes him a good man, right?
—end.
Extra note : I keep getting distracted from my Dex x reader / ex!Bucky fic, but I promise it’s on its way. In the meantime, my immediate thought after writing this is a sequel where Reader and Dex finds out Leo has powers (is a mutant) and that’s why Dex starts killing anti-vigilante task force. Because he wants to protect his son. (No promises, but let me know if anyone’s interested!)
Dex taglist : @itsdynotdaddy @diabolicallydownbad @doesanyonereadthis @meicore @pixie2k5 @bibiishin @starlitflora @pearlstiare @glorybeat @stardustworlds @castawaybarnes @supervampireflame @not-the-teen-witch @billybonesxx @ultimatewolverine @treetrees-world-of-imagiation @bitch-spaghetti-o @lostinthes4uce @cotton-eee @weallhaveadestiny @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @moonbug333 @yujyujj @mattdexx @lostfallenangelsblog @bloomsberryfairy @flimsysquid @abbotfan @leonetta2014 @ficcharsimpsblog @odairtrqsh (Let me know if I missed anyone. If you want to be added, please ask/messege! it gets lost in the comments sometimes!)
Benjamin Poindexter x F!Reader. - You're one of New York's best forensic photographers. You document each scene, every small seemingly insignificant detail, and do it all with far more respect and care than the investigators. It's a quality of your work that nobody seems to particularly care about. Until someone does...
Warnings: 18+, violence, graphic crime scenes, Dex stalking reader, slow-burn cat & mouse dynamic, eventual smut, subtle kn!fe play, slightly subby Dex if you squint, unprotected P!inV! (please wrap before you tap guys), implied voyeurism (??), Dex is kinda creepy but not pushy.
A/N: This is somewhat long guys, I'm so sorry, but this idea has been wracking my brain for months and I couldn't stop typing. I had to build up the plot before the sexy time, but it's there, I promise.
The dead were always quieter than the living.
That was arguably the first thing you learned when you became a forensic photographer. The living wailed and screamed, contaminated crime scenes, cried into detectives' shoulders, and argued with police, begging for answers that nobody had yet.
The dead? They simply waited.
You adjusted the focus ring on your camera, waiting for the flash to recharge before taking another photograph of the apartment's narrow hallway. Blood had dried in a splatter across the chipping paint of the wall interrupted by a single handprint leading towards the front door. You had arrived to the scene earlier than usual at the request of the rest of the forensic team.
"Need anything?" A low grumble from behind you.
It was the lead detective, a rough man with an intimidating presence, one you'd grown all too accustomed to over the past few months. You had worked with him on murder after murder, all carried out in the same, calculated process, and no incriminating evidence to lead to the culprit. He was tired. You could tell by the dark sunken bags under his eyes. No doubt, he'd spent many hours in the night trying to solve these cases.
"No, not right now," You hum quietly in response, snapping another photo with a loud click.
Everyone on the scene was tired. This was the third one in two weeks. Any and all horror or sympathy was replaced by exhaustion and a sense of normalcy. Nobody cared about the grief: The sobbing family in the complex's hallway, the neighbors peeking through their cracked doors and covering their children's eyes, it was the same nightmare that everyone on the scene had lived through for months.
You tried to make up for it the best you could, not quite finding yourself at the point of numbness yet. You crouch down next to the victim. Middle-aged, thick wedding band, ink stains on two fingers. Someone who probably worked at a desk... Someone who had been alive yesterday...
You reached over, gently straightening the crooked picture frame that had fallen against his shoulder during the struggle with a gloved hand. A photograph of two little girls smiled back from the glass. Your heart ached at the sight. It was the normal for these victims to have families, but the thought of two little girls having to grow up without a father made your stomach churn.
"I'm so sorry..." You murmured, voice barely above a whisper, "I know this isn't how you'd want them to remember you..."
You stand up again, snapping one final photo of the body. As you clicked, the coroner approached, the same exhaustion on his face as the lead detective.
Nobody ever questioned your little ritual. They never would.
Across the street, four stories above the level of the crime scene on an inconspicuous rooftop, Benjamin Poindexter lowered the binoculars.
He'd expected the usual procession of uniforms and routine. What he didn't expect was you, apologizing to a corpse. Not out of policy or anything of the sort, but because you felt as if someone should.
It was a tenderness he'd never seen before from people like you, a quiet, gentle acknowledgement of a tragedy that has been seen time and time again.
He stayed on that rooftop far longer than he had planned.
***
The next morning, you sat quietly at your desk, sipping on a coffee that had long since gone cold. You supervisor appeared almost out of thin air, pale as a ghost, and dropped another case assignment on your desk.
"Brooklyn," She said, "Assumed homicide."
Your brow furrows and you let out a deep sigh, already reaching for your camera bag and badge.
"Busy week."
"It's New York."
By noon, you were already ducking beneath yellow crime scene tape, flashing your badge at the officer barking orders at the crowd of people and hungry reporters pushing against one another to get a better view.
It was a small condo, well kempt, rather lavish for being on the smaller side. One singular victim, as usual, with minimal signs of forced entry.
You begin the same routine you've had for a long time, using your camera lens to survey the scene quietly as officers and detectives' share quiet conversation around you.
Mid-range. Blood spatter. Entry wounds from a sharp object on vital points. Evidence markers. Nothing unusual from the scenes you'd inspected in the past. That was, until your lens caught something in the corner of the frame.
You lower your camera, eyes locking in on the focal point that you'd spotted through the lens.
On the windowsill, perfectly centered sat a white marble.
Something about it unsettled you. Not that marbles were impossible to find in a home, but because this one looked placed... deliberately. It caught the light of the window like it had been perfectly set for the camera.
You swallow hard and glance towards the evidence technician.
"Has someone marked this yet?"
He frowns.
"Marked what?"
You blink and point to the windowsill.
"The... marble?"
He glances to the windowsill for a millisecond, barely sparing a thought, furrows his brow, and then looks back at you.
"What are you talking about?" He murmurs, turning his attention back to the victim's body.
You gulp and settle your gaze on the windowsill again. It's still there, perfectly placed, waiting.
You take a deep inhale and lift your camera.
Click.
That photograph shouldn't exist.
You realized that before the image had even finished developing.
The print hung from the drying line by a tiny metal clip, swaying almost imperceptibly in the draft from the ancient ventilation system. One by one, the apartment came into focus. The entryway, the lamp overturned during the struggle, evidence markers 1-34, the blood pooled beneath the victim. And there...
On the windowsill, a white marble.
Your stomach dropped and you step closer, nearly bumping into the line of hanging photographs. Centered in the frame with impossible precision, bright against the dark paint of the windowsill.
It was small, of course. It was a marble for heavens sakes, but you couldn't make sense of the fact that the initial investigation team never saw it, especially because they were as thorough as it gets.
The logical side of you just presumes they missed it or deemed it as too insignificant to care about. Or perhaps, for some odd reason, someone on the team placed it there before you arrived, even though that was a complete violation of the policy.
At this point, however, policy didn't mean nearly as much to you. Because even with your logical side, something about this didn't feel right, and you do something you'd normally never even consider. You gently pull the photograph off of the drying line, gently tracing the edges as you survey it closely. As your eyes scan it over, that unsettling feeling only sets in more.
You can't reasonably explain why, but you slide the photo into your bag instead of the evidence folder, heart thudding against your ribs.
***
Benjamin Poindexter hated hospitals. They were too bright, too... chaotic. Too many people experiencing each and every emotion all at one time.
He exited through the emergency department without breaking stride, the nurse at the reception desk too involved with a screaming family member to notice him.
He glanced up as he walked. The security camera above the automatic doors had been facing three degrees too far left for almost six months and nobody had fixed it yet.
Normal people rarely noticed the little things like that. That was why they died.
He crossed the bustling street, disappearing into the late afternoon crowd. Three blocks later, he stopped outside an old camera shop, the outside noticeably rundown and sticking out like a sore thumb compared to the modern and refurnished buildings next to it.
He wasn't here because he needed anything. He was here because the display window reflected the sidewalk behind him.
You walked past exactly on schedule, camera bag over your right shoulder, coffee in your left hand, only one earbud in one ear.
You always adjusted the strap after crossing Seventh Avenue. Today was no different.
He watched your reflection intensely.
One.
Two.
Three.
Your hand reached up, tugging the worn canvas strap higher onto your shoulder as you walked, a mindless routine movement that nobody else would ever think to notice.
He smiled to himself.
You spent the rest of your boring afternoon trying to convince yourself you were imagining things. There had to be an explanation. It was misplaced piece of evidence or a child's toy overlooked by responding officers? Maybe the fatigue and stress had finally caught up to you? Anything.
By seven o'clock that evening, you'd almost succeeded. The trials of the day finally subsided, and you felt as if you could finally take a full breath.
That was until you unlocked your apartment door.
Stepping in, you felt exhaustion creep into your bones like every day, but this time, something felt different.
You looked around, eyes adjusting to the dark. Nothing was apparent. Everything was in the same spot as you left it this morning. There were no open windows or doors, truly nothing that would implicate some sort of forced entry or disturbance.
But yet, the hairs on your neck still stood straight up. You stood motionless for a moment, listening to the sounds around you. Save for the distant sounds of traffic and noises from other apartments, yours was silent. Not a gentle silence though, a silence that instead put you on edge.
You swept your eyes through the living room again, more focused this time. Nothing was abnormal. Bookshelf, couch, coffee table, everything in its perfect condition as usual. You let out a shaky breath and step further in, the shift of your body causing the light from the hallway to make something glint briefly in your peripheral.
You freeze, heart beginning to thud, as your eyes follow the glint.
In the center of the small table by your couch sat a single white marble.
You have never once owned marbles.
For several long seconds, you simply just stared, the thumping in your chest becoming audible now. Not taking your eyes off of the table, you fumble around in your bag, clutching your phone and pulling it out slowly, like a spooked animal.
You don't call the police. Instead, you open your camera app and quietly snap a picture. When the flash goes off, the marble gleams again, like an eye looking back at you in the dark.
***
You sat at your desk long after everyone else had filtered out for lunch. The marble rested inside an evidence bag beside your keyboard. You'd looked at it at least thirty times. Every single angle, every reflection of the light, mulling over every single explanation in your mind. Nothing made sense. There were no signs of forced entry when you did a sweep of your apartment, yet there was no possible way that marble found it's spot by itself...
After making yourself nauseous thinking about it all, you opened the department's digital evidence archive.
Case #24-1187
You enlarged every crime scene photograph, surveying every detail in every room. Nothing particularly unusual. Then, you get to the kitchen. You see the photos of the body at all different angles, and the blood spatter on the walls. Then, the photo of the window.
The marble gleamed from the windowsill, just like you remembered it. It made your nausea much more apparent, but you took a deep breath and kept moving through all of the archive.
You eventually reach the responding officer's body camera footage, and you click through the timestamps as procedure.
The responding officers enter, sweep every room, make contact with the body in the kitchen. The camera shakes as the officer walks to the window to look for signs of forced entry.
No marble.
Wait.
You rewound, pausing the video on the clearest shot of the windowsill.
No marble.
Your pulse quickened as you feel bile rise in your throat. You slam your laptop shut and stand up abruptly.
No marble.
The evidence photographs and the bodycam footage contradicted each other. Someone placed that marble in that spot before the forensic team arrived. Someone interfered with the crime scene. That wasn't supposed to happen.
Ever.
You stayed frozen in front of your laptop. The fluorescent lights above you hummed quietly, completely unaware that something had shifted.
That was the unsettling part.
The office looked exactly the same, the same stacks of weeks old case paperwork, the same half-empty coffee cups abandoned on desks, the normal quiet hum of computers running in the background.
But your understanding of the situation had changed.
This wasn't some strange coincidence.
Someone had entered a secured crime scene.
Someone had altered evidence.
And somehow, you were the person they wanted to notice.
You slowly sat back down, opening your laptop reluctantly and hovering your shaking hands over the keyboard.
Every instinct you had as an investigator told you to stop. You should close the file and report the discrepancy, bring someone more qualified in to examine everything.
But another part of you kept pulling you back all because of one question you couldn't ignore.
Why the marble?
If someone wanted to tamper with the crime scene, there were easier, less... nonsensical ways.
They could alter the body, clean up the blood, hide the signs of a struggle. Typical things that a calculated killer would do that you've seen plenty of times. Instead, they deliberately placed something there after the body was discovered. It was meant to be seen.
You scroll back to the photo of the window you had taken.
The marble came back into view, the same sight you had gone over in your mind hundreds of times. This time, your eyes moved away from it and you notice something else.
The angle.
You clicked open the image properties, opening a new window. Same with the crime scene floor plan. You return to the original image again.
The window where it sat wasn't facing toward the body, or any other significant part of the scene.
You zoomed out to look at the full picture again, the building across the road coming into view behind the marble. You pull up a map of the street and examine closely, eyes landing on the building opposite of the apartment. You... recognize it.
It used to be an old office for an insurance company that went bankrupt almost a year ago. You stare at the screen for what feels like minutes, your palms becoming increasingly clammier as your leg bounces nervously. It's a direct line of sight into the condo's window from any vantage point.
Your fingers begin to shake as your mouth falls open.
The marble was placed there because whoever left it wanted you to know where they had been standing, and you, the photographer, were the only one that could make the connection.
You should have stopped there. You should have closed out of everything, gone to the break room, and eaten your lunch in peace. Instead, you grab your coat and leave the building entirely.
This wasn't your job. Your job was to take photos of crime scenes and make reports of them. But, you had it all. You had a possible point of origin, a compromised crime scene, and evidence that someone had been watching. For weeks these murders had been going on, and for weeks nobody could make heads or tails of them. But now, you had a lead, and you couldn't pass it up.
The building was only a few blocks away from your office, a quick and chilly walk. Despite the nerves ravaging your body, you reassured yourself that you weren't investigating alone. You were doing this for the sake of your team and the victims that had their lives ripped away from them in the most gruesome ways. Besides, you weren't in any danger. You had a lead that you were following up with. What's so wrong about that?
The building was much smaller than you had remembered. The windows were all dark and the sign above the entrance was removed, leaving only the faint outline of letters contrasting the wear of the rest of the brick.
You approached the door slowly, shivering as a cold wind sent chills down your spine. It was locked of course, but as you stared at it, you notice something. The chain in front of the door was there, but the lock wasn't. It was broken off and laying on the ground a few inches away from your feet. Someone had definitely been in here recently.
As is your nature, you take a picture before slipping inside. It was dark, only the natural light of the outside gently sweeping over the lobby, which smelled of dust and old paint. Your footsteps echoed as you walked, the sound startling you.
You hastily made your way through every floor, finding nothing but abandoned cubicles and the occasional fallen ceiling tile. Eventually, you make it up to the rooftop, which was only a few floors high.
It was quiet up there. The city stretched endlessly around you, and wind rushed past your ears, carrying the sounds of people and traffic below you.
For a moment, you almost found a sense of peace. Nothing outwardly felt wrong, but as you walked forward towards the edge, you find a makeshift chair of cinderblocks, and a small knife laying on the ground next to them.
Your breath catches in your throat as you step closer, leaning over the edge. From this spot, the entirety of the original crime scene was visible. You could see the expanse of the neighborhood across the street, including the condo where everything had begun. You focused in closer, realizing that you could also see inside the window into the kitchen at a perfect direct angle.
Whoever was up here could have watched the whole thing unfold. The arrival of the police, EMS, the forensic team, and you.
Your chest tightened as you stepped back, realizing that this was never about the victim or the murder. It was a clue about whoever had carried this act out, along with all of the others.
But why now? Why start leaving clues now?
As you stepped back, something catches your eye that you hadn't noticed before, tucked behind the knife. You freeze entirely, already knowing what it is without having to look.
Slowly, you turn to the knife and crouch down. As you thought, there laid a marble. But it was different this time? Instead of the normal white sheen, this one was black, placed just for you to find, and underneath it was a crisp folded piece of paper.
Your natural instincts win you over before anything else. You take a photo of all of it. The viewpoint, the makeshift chair, the knife, and the marble. Only after snapping a hefty amount of pictures do you finally retrieve gloves from your bag and pick up the note.
You unfold it, being met with meticulous handwriting, perfect spacing, and the words,
YOU FOUND WHERE I STOOD
Your first thought was that you should be afraid. Maybe you were. But underneath that fear was curiosity.
Whoever this was, they weren't running from you, they were guiding you.
Across the street, blending in with a crowd of passersby, Benjamin lowered his binoculars. The same pair he had used to watch you many times before. He watched you stand in the same exact spot he did, studying your features and finding fear lace them slowly as you discovered everything he had left for you.
He expected you to be afraid, anybody would be. But they would run. You didn't. You studied, analyzed, documented, and searched every single detail, just like he hoped you would.
That's what interested him the most about you. You were so... careful. So tender and gentle with everything you came across. You never left anything untouched or unnoticed. He understood that. He liked that about you.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a notebook, flipping through it. The pages were filled with observations about you and your routine. Times, patterns, habits, all the simple little details nobody would ever think to pick up on.
He turned to a blank page and stared at it for several seconds before finally writing.
SHE FOUND THE THIRD ONE.
***
You didn't sleep.
Not because you were afraid. That would have been easier to digest. No, this was an overwhelming feeling of inquisitiveness.
The marble sat on your kitchen table. It was black this time, not white. A deliberate change.
You had spent the entire night replaying absolutely everything that unfolded throughout the week. The crime scene, photograph, the missing marble in the body camera footage, the rooftop, the note.
You found where I stood.
Not I was there, not I saw you, not I know who you are.
You found where I stood.
The wording bothered you for many reasons, but mainly because it wasn't about what happened. It was focused on perspective. Whoever this was wanted you to see what they saw exactly.
You looked at the marble again carefully, then at the photograph from the rooftop. You had taken over one hundred pictures and spent hours attentively examining each and every one of them, and there was one thing in particular that finally caught your eye.
You zoomed in closer on the photograph of the note in your gloved hand. Behind it was the view of the street below, and the crowd of people casually going about their daily lives. But in the middle of those people, in a small gap, was a figure. It was too blurry to make out any sort of details or features, but one thing was evident. This figure was looking directly at you on the rooftop.
This person was watching your every single move. They watched you put the pieces together, and you had no idea.
The next morning, you went back to the rooftop. You told yourself it was because you missed something. It was a reasonable excuse, people missed things all the time in investigations.
Deep down, though, you knew that wasn't the entire reason. In some sick, adrenaline-junkie way, a part of you wanted to know if he would come back. You hated that.
You hated that whoever this person was had managed to turn fear into fascination. It was a slippery slope into danger, and you knew that, but yet, you couldn't help yourself.
The rooftop was different. The makeshift chair was gone, along with the knife. You stood near the edge of the building and looked down where everything was the day before. There was nothing. No new marble, or note, or any other item.
A strange disappointment settled in your chest before you could stop it. You immediately pushed it away.
You turned and walked toward the door, biting your lip with frustration, then something caught your eye.
A small scratch in the concrete, a few feet away from where the chair had been. You were used to catching things out of the corner of your eye at this point, but a new feeling of excitement settled in your chest this time in place of paranoia.
You crouched down and looked closer.
There was a faint mark, almost invisible, in a curved line, like someone had rolled something across the rooftop hard enough to leave a tiny mark.
You followed the direction of the line, eyes moving toward the far corner of the roof right next to the edge. You walked over slowly, and there it was.
A small glass marble laying by the ledge on the ground. It was a deep scarlet red this time.
You didn't pick it up. Instead, you took out your camera and snapped a photo of it. You expected this.
You removed a small evidence marker card from your bag and turned it over, carefully writing a sentence on it before setting it beside the marble and walking away,
Benjamin expected you to take it. That was the point. The previous two had worked because curiosity always won eventually..
He watched from the building across the street. He figured you would find it. You were smart. He also figured you would take a photo of it. That was your routine. What caught him off guard was that you just... left it. That wasn't like you.
His brow furrowed as he watched you leave the rooftop. That wasn't supposed to happen. He waited until you were gone before crossing the street.
The rooftop was empty, except for the marble he had left and the note, which he hadn't expected either.
He picked it up, turned it over, and carefully read the words a few times. For several seconds, he simply stared at it. It was somehow completely different from what he had expected, yet perfectly fitting.
Why me?
Benjamin looked toward the street, a small smile on his face. You were already gone. Mostly everyone in New York City wanted to know who he was, what he wanted, what he has planned next. The normal things. But you... You wanted to play his game. You wanted to find the reason.
For the first time, it didn't feel like he was studying you. He felt like you were studying him, and that simultaneously excited him and unsettled him at the same time.
***
You started noticing him everywhere. Not him specifically, of course. You had no idea what he looked like. But that was the problem, you started noticing everyone. The man standing too still outside the coffee shop, the woman who kept looking over her shoulder on the subway platform, the person who walked the same route behind you for four blocks before turning away.
Your brain had become a surveillance system you couldn't turn off. You knew that was what he wanted. That realization bothered you more than anything, because it meant you gave him power over you, and that he changed the way you moved through the world more than any crime scene did.
The next marble appeared somewhere where you could have never prepared for. Not at a crime scene, not at your apartment, not on a rooftop.
Your office.
You found it sitting on your desk when you returned from processing photographs from an unrelated homicide. Your entire body went rigid when you laid eyes on it. You looked around the room, body trembling in fear. It was empty, but the precinct was loud around you, filled with the normal sounds of phones ringing and printers running.
You picked up the marble with shaking fingers. Red. The same exact one from the rooftop, except this time, it was warm. You froze, a sickening wrenching feeling in your gut.
Someone placed this here very recently.
Naturally, once you unfroze, you looked around the precinct. You started with the obvious places. Doors, windows, exits. When you found nothing in those spots, your eyes moved to the less obvious places. You looked at the reflections on the glass and black computer screens. Anything that may show someone standing where they shouldn't be, a trick you had learned from the police sheriff years ago.
And then you saw him.
Across the floor, by the evidence lockers. Tall, blonde hair, broad shoulders, and a neutral expression with eyes that weren't looking at you. It was as if he was looking at everything BUT you, like he already knew what you had discovered.
Your eyes narrowed and he turned. For half a second, your gaze met, and something in your chest tightened.
It wasn't recognition, not quite. It was something worse than that.
Familiarity.
Like you'd subconsciously seen him before, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't place where. And it wasn't his face or body that was familiar to you, it was his presence.
Before you could take your next breath, he looks away, just like that. There was no acknowledgment, no reaction, nothing but a shared glance that lasted for a hasty moment.
You look down at the marble in your hand, gently rolling it in your palm as you furrow your brow. When you look back up, he's already gone.
You spent the next hour trying to convince yourself you imagined it. You couldn't identify him off of his face alone, and you couldn't prove he was connected because he made your tummy feel weird. That wasn't how evidence worked. So you did the only thing you could.
You researched.
The first thing you searched was every person who had access to the precinct, all of the employees, detectives, forensics team, maintenance crew, visitors from the past week. No luck.
Then you searched something broader.
Recent incidents, unusual cases, odd patterns in the system. Your fingers slowed as one name kept appearing.
Not officially, not mentioned in reports or ever as a suspect, just mentioned briefly.
Benjamin Poindexter.
You stared at the screen. The name meant something. Not personally, but professionally. You had seen it many times before, everyone had. A man who was described differently depending on who was describing him. Sometimes he was a decorated FBI agent, other times he was a dangerous criminal. A person nobody could seem to categorize.
You lean in closer to the computer screen to look closer at his photograph, and your stomach drops. You recognized the way he looked at the camera. Empty... controlled... patient.
That evening, you didn't go home. You went back to the rooftop. You weren't sure why; your feet seemed to carry you before your mind could follow up. Maybe a deep part of you thought that maybe, if he was watching, you wanted him to know you weren't running. Not until you got answers. Maybe an even deeper part wanted to see if he would appear.
The rooftop was quiet, the twinkling lights of the city around you lighting up the night like stars. You stood where the chair had been, where he had watched.
"You wanted me to find you."
Your voice disappeared into the wind, a quiet murmur you couldn't stop yourself from saying. No answer.
You waited.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
"Not exactly."
Your entire body went still. The voice came from behind you. Calm, low, and undeniably close. You turn slowly, heart pounding in your chest as your eyes land on him. The man from the precinct stood several feet away.
His hands are visible. Not threatening, not relaxed either. Just... there.
"Benjamin Poindexter..." You say, eyes scanning over his large form.
He's terrifying. Large, muscular, eyes fixed directly on you. You think about how if he chose to harm you, you would have no chance of defending yourself. Somehow, you aren't scared. His presence is too calm and controlled to be afraid, yet.
"You did your homework," He states with a small smile on his face, taking one step towards you.
"You made sure I would..." You respond breathlessly.
His expression changes ever so slightly. Not guilt or shame, but interest.
You stare at him for what feels like hours, the pounding in your ribcage only accelerating.
"You've been watching me..." You whisper, your voice shaky and small.
He says nothing for a while, just stands there, eyes still locked on yours. That's confirmation enough for you.
"Yes."
His response catches you off guard, and your fingers curl at your sides.
"Do you have any idea how... insane that sounds?" You say, almost laughing.
"Yes."
Now, you feel afraid. You take a step backwards, stomach churning.
"You broke into my apartment! And the places connected to the investigation!" You exclaim, emotion heating up your cheeks.
"I left things behind."
Your eyes narrow at him.
"T-that's.... That's not an explanation! That's not an answer!"
"No," his eyes drift to the edge of the roof, "It's not."
The calmness of his words scares you more than anger would. You've studied and dealt with criminals before. You knew what guilt and fear and anger looked like, especially when a person is trying to convince themselves that they aren't a villain. But he wasn't doing any of that.
"You killed... all of those people..." You say, swallowing hard as he takes another step towards you.
His eyes shift back to you, no distinct expression on his face.
"You know who I am."
You swallow hard again, trying to regain your composure.
"Benjamin Leonard Poindexter..."
He pauses.
"That's not the only name people use..."
Your stomach dropped more than you thought it could.
Bullseye.
The name carried its own weight. A man who left bodies behind him, a man who turned violence into a signature, and he was standing three feet away from you.
You instinctively back up again, legs hitting the ledge of the rooftop.
"You understand why I am afraid of you, right?" You mewl shakily.
His expression shifts again.
"I understand why people are."
You let out a breath, eyes scanning over his figure once again. His eyes flicker.
"You aren't like them."
A bitter, fearful laugh escapes you.
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
He shakes his head no. You stare at him bewildered, hands clutching the edge of the ledge.
"Then why?"
The question hung between you. Why leave the marble? Why choose you? Why drag you into this? He looked toward the city beyond you again.
"I wanted to know if you would see it."
You frowned.
"See what?"
"Me."
The word landed heavier than you expected. You don't answer, instead, you allow him to continue.
"Everyone sees what they expect to see." His voice remains even, "A weapon. A monster..."
Your expression hardened.
"Because of what you've done."
A pause. The smallest crack of emotion.
"I know. I know what I am."
The wind moved between you, cold and unforgiving.
"And still, you thought leaving clues for me was a good idea?"
"No."
You looked at him.
"No?"
"No."
His eyes met yours.
"I knew it was a bad idea."
"Then why do it?"
A long silence passes.
"Because I wanted to."
***
The weeks that followed became something neither of you outwardly acknowledged. The marbles stopped appearing at crime scenes. The notes stopped being riddles. Instead, they became conversations.
Not normal ones. Not the kind built over coffee or casual text messages. Yours existed in the spaces between things, a photograph left somewhere only you would find it, a question answered days later, a conversation that lasted five minutes before he disappeared again.
You learned quickly that Benjamin Poindexter, or Dex, as he preferred for you to call him, was not easy to know.
He was precise, controlled, observant to an unsettling degree. He noticed everything. The way you bounced your leg when you were thinking, the way you stopped eating when you were stressed, the way you looked at exits whenever you entered a room.
At first, it bothered you. It felt like an unwelcome intrusion in your everyday routine. But as weeks passed, it became familiar.
You never forgot what he had done and you never let him forget either. You knew you should have exposed him, put him in jail, let the whole world know who he was, but he swore that he had reasons for killing who he killed, and that none of them were innocent. You tried to get him to explain numerous times, but he never elaborated, instead, he'd get a dark look in his eyes and go quiet.
There were arguments. There were moments when you reminded him exactly who he was and what he was capable of. There were moments when he went quiet because he didn't like hearing the truth, but he listened anyway. Each and every crime scene you went to, you knew it was his doing. It stole a piece of your soul each time.
But despite that, over the span of every interaction you had with him, directly or indirectly, you stopped seeing Bullseye more and more, until all that was left was Dex.
You knew something was wrong the second you opened your eyes. Your otherwise peaceful sleep was interrupted by the sound of gentle shuffling by your window. Your body instinctively freezes as your eyes lock onto the dark blur of the ceiling. You blink a few times tiredly, listening in to the sounds around you. You hear soft breathing, but it's not your own, coming from the other side of the bed.
Panicked, you suck in a sharp breath and lurch upwards, flipping the lamp on your bedside table on. What the light uncovers is Dex, standing at the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on you.
He's not in his typical clothing. Instead, he's in a tactical suit, adorned with weapons, and a mask covering his entire face save for his eyes. The look in his eyes was invasively calm, as if he didn't just break into your apartment. Despite the interactions you've had with him and the softness that you may have felt for him, seeing him officially as Bullseye caused a deep panic to set in your chest.
Your hand slides underneath your pillow, fingertips grazing the kitchen knife that you started keeping underneath it.
"Don't."
His voice was quiet, but stern. You freeze, and his eyes drop briefly towards the movement before returning to your face.
"You've got to be kidding me," You exclaim after a few moments of silence.
Through his mask, you see his eyes squint into a smile.
“Good morning.”
“It's two in the fucking morning.”
“I know.”
“You broke into my apartment.”
“I know.”
You scoff, clutching the blanket up to your chest and narrowing your eyes at him. You slowly pull back your hand from beneath the pillow.
“You're getting sloppy, Poindexter.”
His eyes flicked towards your hand, then back again to your face.
“No.”
The single word made something cold move through your stomach, a feeling that you were all too used to at this point.
“No?”
“I wanted you to know it was me.”
Silence passes. All those weeks you'd caught glimpses of him in your peripheral, across the street from the precinct, at the coffee shop you frequented each morning, standing beside his car when you'd left work. it began to feel like every time you had turned around, he'd been there, and every time you'd confronted him, he had somehow managed to make you question whether you had actually caught him at all. He had never denied it, not directly at least. You had assumed that was all part of his game, but now you weren't so sure.
“You wanted me to know?”
“Yes.”
Your fingers tighten around the blanket, a cold shiver running down your spine.
“Why?”
He looks at you for a moment then his gaze drifts around the bedroom. He notices your camera bag sitting on your desk and the half-empty glass of water on your nightstand. Your eyes narrow as you watch him catalogue every single detail.
“What are you looking at?”
“You leave your curtains open.”
Your blood ran cold at his observation.
“What?"
“At night,” his gaze fixes on you again. “Most nights.”
You stare at him, mouth slightly agape.
“You... keep track of that?”
“I keep track of a lot of things.”
Something about the way he said it made your skin prickle. Your thoughts begin to race in your head, and you furrow your brow.
"What are you doing here...?" You murmur quietly, debating on whether you actually want his response or not.
His expression goes blank. You'd seen this expression before, but never this close, never in a room this quiet, never with the understanding that there was absolutely nobody else between them now.
He straightens his posture and takes a step towards your side of the bed.
“You've been wondering how long I've been watching you.”
Your mouth goes dry as he takes another step
“You've been wondering if I know where you go after work.”
You say nothing.
“You've been wondering if I know which nights you stay late.”
Your pulse begins to pound.
“Dex...” You try to say as a warning, but it comes out as a shaky whimper instead.
“And you've been wondering,” he continued, almost conversationally as he steps again, much closer to you now, “whether I've ever followed you all the way home.”
Your eyes lock onto his above you. The room suddenly felt much smaller.
“You're fucking insane...”
“I know.”
His gaze doesn't leave yours.
“But you still kept looking for me.”
That silenced you, because deep down, you knew he was right. Every time you stepped outside the precinct, some part of you looked for him. Every time you parked your car, you checked the surrounding vehicles. Every time you walked home, you found yourself wondering whether you'd see that familiar silhouette somewhere ahead.
You told yourself it was vigilance, self-preservation that came with the nature of your job. But you started unintentionally looking for him even when you weren't afraid, and he knew.
You push the blanket away and swing your bare legs over the side of the bed, cold air prickling your skin. His eyes immediately dropped.
You notice. Of course you notice.
“Don't.”
This time, it was you saying it. His eyes return to yours, and something almost amused moves across his face.
“You don't like being watched?”
“Not when I'm asleep.”
“That's not what I asked.”
You freeze. He takes another slow step towards you, a heavy thud from his boots hitting your ears. You don't retreat or scramble backwards. Instead, you watch him carefully.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“You've spent weeks watching me back.”
Another step.
Your heartbeat thuds harder against your chest.
“You knew I was there," he says quietly.
“Sometimes.”
“You looked for me.”
You say nothing. His voice lowers.
“You wanted me to follow you.”
Your jaw tightens.
“That's a hell of an assumption," you scoff, body stiff.
“No,” He stops a few feet away. “It's an observation.”
You hated that word coming from him, primarily because of what you did for a living. You had spent weeks treating Poindexter like a mystery you could solve on your own if you just watched closely enough. However, now you were beginning to wonder whether you'd been the subject the entire time.
“So, what happens now?” You ask softly, voice shaking. His eyes stay on yours, scanning your features intently.
“That's up to you.”
You frown, brows furrowing again.
“You broke into my bedroom. You've been following me. You've apparently memorized how I keep my fucking curtains at night.”
A beat of silence passes.
“Yes.”
“Then don't stand there and tell me this is up to me.”
His expression changes. Something dark passes behind his eyes.
“I came here because I wanted to see what you'd do when there was no way for you to pretend I'm not there.”
Your breath catches in your throat, and he steps closer again. You can practically feel the heat radiating off of his body now.
“You can't go home and convince yourself you're imagining things, or that I don't exist outside of our interactions.” His voice dropps almost to a whisper. “I'm standing right here.”
You look up at him, and suddenly, you understood. This was the next move in the game.
“Why?” Your voice comes out smaller than you mean for it to.
Dex's gaze drops to your mouth, and when he answers, his voice is almost gentle.
“Because you've been daring me to come closer.”
Your breath hitches as your heart skips a beat.
“I never said that.”
“No.” His eyes met yours again, “You didn't have to.”
A man who had been watching you for weeks had broken into your apartment while you slept. You should be reaching for your phone, should be putting distance between you. Instead, you were looking up at him, half-naked in the middle of your bedroom at two-thirty in the morning, conversing with him like you'd done too many times before.
Your eyes drifted toward the bedroom window. The curtains were in fact drawn open, and you remembered what he'd said.
Most nights.
Your attention returned to him.
“How long have you been watching me from outside my window?”
His face went completely still. You immediately knew you'd hit something.
“Dex.” You whisper.
“Long enough.” He responds quiet;y.
Your pulse quickens.
“How long is ‘long enough’?”
“Long enough to know when you fall asleep.”
You swallowed hard.
“That's... fucked up.” You whisper again.
“I know.”
“Long enough to know when I come home?”
“Yes.”
“When I leave?”
“Yes.”
“When I have company?”
His eyes change, barely, but you catch it. You almost feel a smile creep into your cheeks.
“Ah.”
He says nothing.
“You don't like that question.”
“No.”
“Why?” You ask.
“Because I don't.”
You allow yourself to smile faintly. For the first time tonight, you finally felt like you'd gotten a little piece of the upper hand back.
“So you get jealous.”
His eyes narrow at you, deep and intense.
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.”
The words were a mirror of his own. Something dangerous flickered across his face. You could see it even through the mask. You lean in closer to his face, mere inches away from it.
“You were jealous,” you tease in a low tone.
“Careful.”
The word from him is quiet, not threatening. Your smile fades slightly as your heart thuds against your ribs.
“Or what?”
Dex looks down at you.
“Don't make me tell you twice.” His eyes moved over your face rapidly and he pauses. “You're not afraid of me.”
You almost laughed at the absurdity.
“That's a bold assumption considering you woke me up by breaking into my bedroom.”
“You're afraid.”
Your smile disappears.
“But you're not afraid of me.”
You stare at him through thick lashes.
“What's the difference?”
His answer came immediately.
“You're afraid of what I might do," your breath catches in your throat, “And you're not sure you want me to stop.”
The room goes silent. All your ears pick up on is the sound of your own hammering heartbeat.
“That's arrogant,” you whisper. “And if you're wrong?”
“I'll leave.”
You search his face, taken aback by his response.
“You'd actually leave?”
“Yes.”
“Right now?”
He doesn't move. That is what finally unsettles you. He was giving you a choice. You could say a few words, and he'd leave. You look at his form in front of you, then at the window behind him.
“You've been watching me and waiting weeks for me to tell you to leave?”
“No.”
Your brow furrows.
“No?”
“I've been watching you because I couldn't stop myself. And I've been waiting for you to tell me to stay.”
Your breath catches again. There is no smugness in his face now, just something almost frighteningly sincere.
You whisper, “And if I do?”
His eyes lower to your mouth as he lifts his mask off of his face.
“Then I'll stay.”
You lean in closer now, lips barely a centimeter from touching each other. You don't know why you are doing this. Why aren't you scared? Why aren't you calling for help? Why aren't you grabbing the knife under your pillow and chasing him off? Why are are you doing this?
Your hand finds itself gently resting on his forearm. He doesn't touch you. The restraint is almost maddening, but he resists. You huff gently at his hesitation, scooting closer to him, and closing your eyes as your face moves a hair closer.
"Do something..." You murmur under your breath, waiting for contact that never comes.
"Tell me to..." He responds, voice lowered almost to a whisper.
You bite your lip and pause for a moment, the thoughts in your mind becoming a dull blur.
"Kiss me."
And with that, those two simple words, he does.
The kiss wasn't gentle, but it wasn't careless either. It was the culmination of weeks of 'almosts''. Almost touching, almost admitting, almost allowing themselves to cross the line they'd been circling from the beginning.
You feel his hand slide higher along your back as you pull him closer. Your fingers slid beneath the hem of the collar of his shirt, brushing the warm skin at the base of his throat. He goes completely still, opening his eyes to look at you. Then his hand slides from your spine to beneath your hair and settles against the back of your neck. His fingers spread through the locks of hair gently. The touch makes you elicit a small sound from your throat.
He notices. Of course he notices.
You shiver as his lips find yours again, kissing you more fervently this time. Heavy breaths leave both of your chests as he pushes you gently back against the bed, straddling you with his legs. His hands work meticulously through your scalp as his mouth trails down to your neck, pulling your hair slightly to angle your throat for better contact.
You gasp as his lips leave wet kisses along your nape. You instinctively arch your back against his body, and you he grunts in response.
You've had sex before. Who your age hasn't? But this was the first time it felt like more than just a quick act of stress relief. The way he was palming your hair and touching his lips to your skin... It was so much different than what you were used to. It was like he was finally able to grasp something he had spent an eternity trying not to touch.
As his lips returned to yours, they began to get more desperate, crashing against yours like a starving man. His hand finds its way underneath your shirt, slowly rising as his fingertips find your breast. He pauses for a moment, unsure if he went too far, but you groan in defiance and arch your back again, forcing the contact. You can't think of anything else but him touching you right where you want it.
He takes the peak of your nipple between his fingers, gently rubbing it. The sensation makes you tremble as the slickness in between your legs begins to rapidly build. You buck your hips against his, feeling his hardened cock through his pants. The friction makes you mewl into his mouth, and you feel something in him snap.
With one swift motion, he pulls a knife out of his holster and slices through your night shirt, leaving your torso and chest bare to the cold. You gasp at the quickness of it and the feeling of metal against your skin, barely able to process what he had done, but he grinds his hips into yours and any coherent thought you had in your brain became a numbing hum.
His lips latch onto your breast, hand leaving your hair to trace against the waistband of your panties. He sucks gently on your nipple, the warmth of his tongue sending jolts of overstimulation to your core. You couldn't think. You wanted him to touch you. You wanted him to fuck you. You wanted him to do everything to you.
His lips trail from your chest down your stomach, until he eventually crouches down beneath your legs, face to face with your soaked panties. You hear a soft chuckle leave his mouth, and his fingertip gently traces the outline of your pussy lips. You squirm, desperate for touch yet simultaneously overstimulated at the same time. He takes that as a plea, and he leans forward, licking a slow wet line over your clothed folds.
A whimper unintentionally leaves your throat and your head falls back. He does it again, then again, then again, until his saliva and your wetness soak the cloth entirely.
"Fuck..." He whispers to himself, before grabbing the same knife he used to cut your shirt and doing the same to your panties. Again, the swift movement and the cold metal on your skin makes you gasp, and again, the overwhelming arousal you feel prevents you from caring at all.
He wastes no time latching onto your clit, running his tongue in circles around it with precision. You grip your bedsheets tightly, breath staggered and uneven. You writhe naturally, hips grinding away from his mouth on instinct, but he grips your thighs tightly with a warning squeeze, signalling for you to hold still.
"Don't start running from me now..." He asserts through laps of his tongue.
His low command mixed with the sensation of his mouth makes you cry out, legs shaking against his arms. As if you thought you couldn't feel more ecstasy, you feel a gloved finger enter your hole and pump in and out with a steady rythm.
Your hand finds his hair, lacing your fingers within his short blonde strands. You grind your hips against his mouth and finger, the familiar sensation of an orgasm rapidly building in your stomach. Your vision fades and the sounds that leave you are uncontrollable. He makes sounds of his own, low groans of pure pleasure. He was quite possibly enjoying this more than you were, as impossible as that seemed.
You're almost at your breaking point, and he could tell.
"Let it out... Give it to me..." He murmurs, finger pumping more rapidly in and out of you now.
Your orgasm hits you like a wave. You see stars, your legs tremble, and your mind goes utterly blank. He works you through it and steadies your trembling legs by rubbing them gently up and down, planting kisses on your inner thighs.
When you finally regain your composure, you look down at him, breathless. His mouth and chin are covered in a sheen of wetness, and he smiles, full of pride for what he's done to you. You try to muster up words, or a sound, or anything besides labored breaths, but your mind protests.
He stands up slowly, planting a wet kiss on your forehead and hands gripping your hips. You smile through your breaths, but before you can do anything else, he flips you over onto your stomach, and your face is buried into your pillow.
You exclaim, but don't protest. Instead, you arch your back slightly and wait for his next move.
He traces a gloved finger lightly on your spine, causing goosebumps to prickle your skin. You hear him mutter to himself, but you can't make out what he says.
After what feels like hours, you finally hear movement. First, it's his holsters hitting the floor, the metal of his various knives clinking on each other. Then, it's the sound of a belt being undone. Then, it's the sound of a zipper, followed by fabric sliding down skin. You wait, anticipatory chills running down your body.
He doesn't enter you immediately like you expect him to. Instead, you feel the head of his hard cock slide up and down between your slits. Its big. He goes slowly, like he's taking photographs in his mind. He leans down, the weight of his arms sinking into the bed as he reaches your ear.
"Tell me to stop..." He says in a strained voice, his last shred of control slipping.
You lean into him.
"Please... don't..." You whisper.
That's the last thing he needed before completely letting go. With one swift movement, he pushes his mass fully inside of you. The intrusion is painful at first, due to the sheer size of him, but it doesn't take long for your walls to adjust and for that whisper of pain to turn into an avalanche of pleasure.
He pumps into you steadily, going impossibly deep. The friction against your walls builds a whole new feeling of orgasm in your core. His precision and steady movements hit every spot perfectly, and you feel a sheen of sweat start to form on your skin.
"So good... S' so good..." He groans, gripping your hips tightly.
Your cries are muffled by your pillow, and he gently pulls your head up by your hair.
"No... Let me hear you... Please..." He begs, gently through gritted teeth.
You don't hold back. You let your moans echo like a sweet song. He pumps into you harder and harder, his rhythm faltering as he nears his climax. You follow suit, finding it harder and harder to resist cumming again.
It doesn't take long for you both to reach your climaxes. He goes first, pulling out at the last second and letting his cum spill out onto your back. You follow right after, shaking and practically screaming as another orgasm racks your body.
He backs up unsteadily, chest heaving as he tries to regain his breath. You struggle with the same thing, body so overwhelmed from the pleasure that you feel like you can barely move.
Through your breaths, you hear him shuffle behind you. You assume it's so he can gather his bearings and get ready to leave.
Imagine your surprise when you hear a loud click!
You look back curiously to see Dex standing there with your camera in his hands. You raise your eyebrows in surprise and bite back a smile.
"For evidence..." He says cheekily, lowering the camera to meet your gaze.
Benjamin Poindexter x F!Reader. - You're one of New York's best forensic photographers. You document each scene, every small seemingly insignificant detail, and do it all with far more respect and care than the investigators. It's a quality of your work that nobody seems to particularly care about. Until someone does...
Warnings: 18+, violence, graphic crime scenes, Dex stalking reader, slow-burn cat & mouse dynamic, eventual smut, subtle kn!fe play, slightly subby Dex if you squint, unprotected P!inV! (please wrap before you tap guys), implied voyeurism (??), Dex is kinda creepy but not pushy.
A/N: This is somewhat long guys, I'm so sorry, but this idea has been wracking my brain for months and I couldn't stop typing. I had to build up the plot before the sexy time, but it's there, I promise.
The dead were always quieter than the living.
That was arguably the first thing you learned when you became a forensic photographer. The living wailed and screamed, contaminated crime scenes, cried into detectives' shoulders, and argued with police, begging for answers that nobody had yet.
The dead? They simply waited.
You adjusted the focus ring on your camera, waiting for the flash to recharge before taking another photograph of the apartment's narrow hallway. Blood had dried in a splatter across the chipping paint of the wall interrupted by a single handprint leading towards the front door. You had arrived to the scene earlier than usual at the request of the rest of the forensic team.
"Need anything?" A low grumble from behind you.
It was the lead detective, a rough man with an intimidating presence, one you'd grown all too accustomed to over the past few months. You had worked with him on murder after murder, all carried out in the same, calculated process, and no incriminating evidence to lead to the culprit. He was tired. You could tell by the dark sunken bags under his eyes. No doubt, he'd spent many hours in the night trying to solve these cases.
"No, not right now," You hum quietly in response, snapping another photo with a loud click.
Everyone on the scene was tired. This was the third one in two weeks. Any and all horror or sympathy was replaced by exhaustion and a sense of normalcy. Nobody cared about the grief: The sobbing family in the complex's hallway, the neighbors peeking through their cracked doors and covering their children's eyes, it was the same nightmare that everyone on the scene had lived through for months.
You tried to make up for it the best you could, not quite finding yourself at the point of numbness yet. You crouch down next to the victim. Middle-aged, thick wedding band, ink stains on two fingers. Someone who probably worked at a desk... Someone who had been alive yesterday...
You reached over, gently straightening the crooked picture frame that had fallen against his shoulder during the struggle with a gloved hand. A photograph of two little girls smiled back from the glass. Your heart ached at the sight. It was the normal for these victims to have families, but the thought of two little girls having to grow up without a father made your stomach churn.
"I'm so sorry..." You murmured, voice barely above a whisper, "I know this isn't how you'd want them to remember you..."
You stand up again, snapping one final photo of the body. As you clicked, the coroner approached, the same exhaustion on his face as the lead detective.
Nobody ever questioned your little ritual. They never would.
Across the street, four stories above the level of the crime scene on an inconspicuous rooftop, Benjamin Poindexter lowered the binoculars.
He'd expected the usual procession of uniforms and routine. What he didn't expect was you, apologizing to a corpse. Not out of policy or anything of the sort, but because you felt as if someone should.
It was a tenderness he'd never seen before from people like you, a quiet, gentle acknowledgement of a tragedy that has been seen time and time again.
He stayed on that rooftop far longer than he had planned.
***
The next morning, you sat quietly at your desk, sipping on a coffee that had long since gone cold. You supervisor appeared almost out of thin air, pale as a ghost, and dropped another case assignment on your desk.
"Brooklyn," She said, "Assumed homicide."
Your brow furrows and you let out a deep sigh, already reaching for your camera bag and badge.
"Busy week."
"It's New York."
By noon, you were already ducking beneath yellow crime scene tape, flashing your badge at the officer barking orders at the crowd of people and hungry reporters pushing against one another to get a better view.
It was a small condo, well kempt, rather lavish for being on the smaller side. One singular victim, as usual, with minimal signs of forced entry.
You begin the same routine you've had for a long time, using your camera lens to survey the scene quietly as officers and detectives' share quiet conversation around you.
Mid-range. Blood spatter. Entry wounds from a sharp object on vital points. Evidence markers. Nothing unusual from the scenes you'd inspected in the past. That was, until your lens caught something in the corner of the frame.
You lower your camera, eyes locking in on the focal point that you'd spotted through the lens.
On the windowsill, perfectly centered sat a white marble.
Something about it unsettled you. Not that marbles were impossible to find in a home, but because this one looked placed... deliberately. It caught the light of the window like it had been perfectly set for the camera.
You swallow hard and glance towards the evidence technician.
"Has someone marked this yet?"
He frowns.
"Marked what?"
You blink and point to the windowsill.
"The... marble?"
He glances to the windowsill for a millisecond, barely sparing a thought, furrows his brow, and then looks back at you.
"What are you talking about?" He murmurs, turning his attention back to the victim's body.
You gulp and settle your gaze on the windowsill again. It's still there, perfectly placed, waiting.
You take a deep inhale and lift your camera.
Click.
That photograph shouldn't exist.
You realized that before the image had even finished developing.
The print hung from the drying line by a tiny metal clip, swaying almost imperceptibly in the draft from the ancient ventilation system. One by one, the apartment came into focus. The entryway, the lamp overturned during the struggle, evidence markers 1-34, the blood pooled beneath the victim. And there...
On the windowsill, a white marble.
Your stomach dropped and you step closer, nearly bumping into the line of hanging photographs. Centered in the frame with impossible precision, bright against the dark paint of the windowsill.
It was small, of course. It was a marble for heavens sakes, but you couldn't make sense of the fact that the initial investigation team never saw it, especially because they were as thorough as it gets.
The logical side of you just presumes they missed it or deemed it as too insignificant to care about. Or perhaps, for some odd reason, someone on the team placed it there before you arrived, even though that was a complete violation of the policy.
At this point, however, policy didn't mean nearly as much to you. Because even with your logical side, something about this didn't feel right, and you do something you'd normally never even consider. You gently pull the photograph off of the drying line, gently tracing the edges as you survey it closely. As your eyes scan it over, that unsettling feeling only sets in more.
You can't reasonably explain why, but you slide the photo into your bag instead of the evidence folder, heart thudding against your ribs.
***
Benjamin Poindexter hated hospitals. They were too bright, too... chaotic. Too many people experiencing each and every emotion all at one time.
He exited through the emergency department without breaking stride, the nurse at the reception desk too involved with a screaming family member to notice him.
He glanced up as he walked. The security camera above the automatic doors had been facing three degrees too far left for almost six months and nobody had fixed it yet.
Normal people rarely noticed the little things like that. That was why they died.
He crossed the bustling street, disappearing into the late afternoon crowd. Three blocks later, he stopped outside an old camera shop, the outside noticeably rundown and sticking out like a sore thumb compared to the modern and refurnished buildings next to it.
He wasn't here because he needed anything. He was here because the display window reflected the sidewalk behind him.
You walked past exactly on schedule, camera bag over your right shoulder, coffee in your left hand, only one earbud in one ear.
You always adjusted the strap after crossing Seventh Avenue. Today was no different.
He watched your reflection intensely.
One.
Two.
Three.
Your hand reached up, tugging the worn canvas strap higher onto your shoulder as you walked, a mindless routine movement that nobody else would ever think to notice.
He smiled to himself.
You spent the rest of your boring afternoon trying to convince yourself you were imagining things. There had to be an explanation. It was misplaced piece of evidence or a child's toy overlooked by responding officers? Maybe the fatigue and stress had finally caught up to you? Anything.
By seven o'clock that evening, you'd almost succeeded. The trials of the day finally subsided, and you felt as if you could finally take a full breath.
That was until you unlocked your apartment door.
Stepping in, you felt exhaustion creep into your bones like every day, but this time, something felt different.
You looked around, eyes adjusting to the dark. Nothing was apparent. Everything was in the same spot as you left it this morning. There were no open windows or doors, truly nothing that would implicate some sort of forced entry or disturbance.
But yet, the hairs on your neck still stood straight up. You stood motionless for a moment, listening to the sounds around you. Save for the distant sounds of traffic and noises from other apartments, yours was silent. Not a gentle silence though, a silence that instead put you on edge.
You swept your eyes through the living room again, more focused this time. Nothing was abnormal. Bookshelf, couch, coffee table, everything in its perfect condition as usual. You let out a shaky breath and step further in, the shift of your body causing the light from the hallway to make something glint briefly in your peripheral.
You freeze, heart beginning to thud, as your eyes follow the glint.
In the center of the small table by your couch sat a single white marble.
You have never once owned marbles.
For several long seconds, you simply just stared, the thumping in your chest becoming audible now. Not taking your eyes off of the table, you fumble around in your bag, clutching your phone and pulling it out slowly, like a spooked animal.
You don't call the police. Instead, you open your camera app and quietly snap a picture. When the flash goes off, the marble gleams again, like an eye looking back at you in the dark.
***
You sat at your desk long after everyone else had filtered out for lunch. The marble rested inside an evidence bag beside your keyboard. You'd looked at it at least thirty times. Every single angle, every reflection of the light, mulling over every single explanation in your mind. Nothing made sense. There were no signs of forced entry when you did a sweep of your apartment, yet there was no possible way that marble found it's spot by itself...
After making yourself nauseous thinking about it all, you opened the department's digital evidence archive.
Case #24-1187
You enlarged every crime scene photograph, surveying every detail in every room. Nothing particularly unusual. Then, you get to the kitchen. You see the photos of the body at all different angles, and the blood spatter on the walls. Then, the photo of the window.
The marble gleamed from the windowsill, just like you remembered it. It made your nausea much more apparent, but you took a deep breath and kept moving through all of the archive.
You eventually reach the responding officer's body camera footage, and you click through the timestamps as procedure.
The responding officers enter, sweep every room, make contact with the body in the kitchen. The camera shakes as the officer walks to the window to look for signs of forced entry.
No marble.
Wait.
You rewound, pausing the video on the clearest shot of the windowsill.
No marble.
Your pulse quickened as you feel bile rise in your throat. You slam your laptop shut and stand up abruptly.
No marble.
The evidence photographs and the bodycam footage contradicted each other. Someone placed that marble in that spot before the forensic team arrived. Someone interfered with the crime scene. That wasn't supposed to happen.
Ever.
You stayed frozen in front of your laptop. The fluorescent lights above you hummed quietly, completely unaware that something had shifted.
That was the unsettling part.
The office looked exactly the same, the same stacks of weeks old case paperwork, the same half-empty coffee cups abandoned on desks, the normal quiet hum of computers running in the background.
But your understanding of the situation had changed.
This wasn't some strange coincidence.
Someone had entered a secured crime scene.
Someone had altered evidence.
And somehow, you were the person they wanted to notice.
You slowly sat back down, opening your laptop reluctantly and hovering your shaking hands over the keyboard.
Every instinct you had as an investigator told you to stop. You should close the file and report the discrepancy, bring someone more qualified in to examine everything.
But another part of you kept pulling you back all because of one question you couldn't ignore.
Why the marble?
If someone wanted to tamper with the crime scene, there were easier, less... nonsensical ways.
They could alter the body, clean up the blood, hide the signs of a struggle. Typical things that a calculated killer would do that you've seen plenty of times. Instead, they deliberately placed something there after the body was discovered. It was meant to be seen.
You scroll back to the photo of the window you had taken.
The marble came back into view, the same sight you had gone over in your mind hundreds of times. This time, your eyes moved away from it and you notice something else.
The angle.
You clicked open the image properties, opening a new window. Same with the crime scene floor plan. You return to the original image again.
The window where it sat wasn't facing toward the body, or any other significant part of the scene.
You zoomed out to look at the full picture again, the building across the road coming into view behind the marble. You pull up a map of the street and examine closely, eyes landing on the building opposite of the apartment. You... recognize it.
It used to be an old office for an insurance company that went bankrupt almost a year ago. You stare at the screen for what feels like minutes, your palms becoming increasingly clammier as your leg bounces nervously. It's a direct line of sight into the condo's window from any vantage point.
Your fingers begin to shake as your mouth falls open.
The marble was placed there because whoever left it wanted you to know where they had been standing, and you, the photographer, were the only one that could make the connection.
You should have stopped there. You should have closed out of everything, gone to the break room, and eaten your lunch in peace. Instead, you grab your coat and leave the building entirely.
This wasn't your job. Your job was to take photos of crime scenes and make reports of them. But, you had it all. You had a possible point of origin, a compromised crime scene, and evidence that someone had been watching. For weeks these murders had been going on, and for weeks nobody could make heads or tails of them. But now, you had a lead, and you couldn't pass it up.
The building was only a few blocks away from your office, a quick and chilly walk. Despite the nerves ravaging your body, you reassured yourself that you weren't investigating alone. You were doing this for the sake of your team and the victims that had their lives ripped away from them in the most gruesome ways. Besides, you weren't in any danger. You had a lead that you were following up with. What's so wrong about that?
The building was much smaller than you had remembered. The windows were all dark and the sign above the entrance was removed, leaving only the faint outline of letters contrasting the wear of the rest of the brick.
You approached the door slowly, shivering as a cold wind sent chills down your spine. It was locked of course, but as you stared at it, you notice something. The chain in front of the door was there, but the lock wasn't. It was broken off and laying on the ground a few inches away from your feet. Someone had definitely been in here recently.
As is your nature, you take a picture before slipping inside. It was dark, only the natural light of the outside gently sweeping over the lobby, which smelled of dust and old paint. Your footsteps echoed as you walked, the sound startling you.
You hastily made your way through every floor, finding nothing but abandoned cubicles and the occasional fallen ceiling tile. Eventually, you make it up to the rooftop, which was only a few floors high.
It was quiet up there. The city stretched endlessly around you, and wind rushed past your ears, carrying the sounds of people and traffic below you.
For a moment, you almost found a sense of peace. Nothing outwardly felt wrong, but as you walked forward towards the edge, you find a makeshift chair of cinderblocks, and a small knife laying on the ground next to them.
Your breath catches in your throat as you step closer, leaning over the edge. From this spot, the entirety of the original crime scene was visible. You could see the expanse of the neighborhood across the street, including the condo where everything had begun. You focused in closer, realizing that you could also see inside the window into the kitchen at a perfect direct angle.
Whoever was up here could have watched the whole thing unfold. The arrival of the police, EMS, the forensic team, and you.
Your chest tightened as you stepped back, realizing that this was never about the victim or the murder. It was a clue about whoever had carried this act out, along with all of the others.
But why now? Why start leaving clues now?
As you stepped back, something catches your eye that you hadn't noticed before, tucked behind the knife. You freeze entirely, already knowing what it is without having to look.
Slowly, you turn to the knife and crouch down. As you thought, there laid a marble. But it was different this time? Instead of the normal white sheen, this one was black, placed just for you to find, and underneath it was a crisp folded piece of paper.
Your natural instincts win you over before anything else. You take a photo of all of it. The viewpoint, the makeshift chair, the knife, and the marble. Only after snapping a hefty amount of pictures do you finally retrieve gloves from your bag and pick up the note.
You unfold it, being met with meticulous handwriting, perfect spacing, and the words,
YOU FOUND WHERE I STOOD
Your first thought was that you should be afraid. Maybe you were. But underneath that fear was curiosity.
Whoever this was, they weren't running from you, they were guiding you.
Across the street, blending in with a crowd of passersby, Benjamin lowered his binoculars. The same pair he had used to watch you many times before. He watched you stand in the same exact spot he did, studying your features and finding fear lace them slowly as you discovered everything he had left for you.
He expected you to be afraid, anybody would be. But they would run. You didn't. You studied, analyzed, documented, and searched every single detail, just like he hoped you would.
That's what interested him the most about you. You were so... careful. So tender and gentle with everything you came across. You never left anything untouched or unnoticed. He understood that. He liked that about you.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a notebook, flipping through it. The pages were filled with observations about you and your routine. Times, patterns, habits, all the simple little details nobody would ever think to pick up on.
He turned to a blank page and stared at it for several seconds before finally writing.
SHE FOUND THE THIRD ONE.
***
You didn't sleep.
Not because you were afraid. That would have been easier to digest. No, this was an overwhelming feeling of inquisitiveness.
The marble sat on your kitchen table. It was black this time, not white. A deliberate change.
You had spent the entire night replaying absolutely everything that unfolded throughout the week. The crime scene, photograph, the missing marble in the body camera footage, the rooftop, the note.
You found where I stood.
Not I was there, not I saw you, not I know who you are.
You found where I stood.
The wording bothered you for many reasons, but mainly because it wasn't about what happened. It was focused on perspective. Whoever this was wanted you to see what they saw exactly.
You looked at the marble again carefully, then at the photograph from the rooftop. You had taken over one hundred pictures and spent hours attentively examining each and every one of them, and there was one thing in particular that finally caught your eye.
You zoomed in closer on the photograph of the note in your gloved hand. Behind it was the view of the street below, and the crowd of people casually going about their daily lives. But in the middle of those people, in a small gap, was a figure. It was too blurry to make out any sort of details or features, but one thing was evident. This figure was looking directly at you on the rooftop.
This person was watching your every single move. They watched you put the pieces together, and you had no idea.
The next morning, you went back to the rooftop. You told yourself it was because you missed something. It was a reasonable excuse, people missed things all the time in investigations.
Deep down, though, you knew that wasn't the entire reason. In some sick, adrenaline-junkie way, a part of you wanted to know if he would come back. You hated that.
You hated that whoever this person was had managed to turn fear into fascination. It was a slippery slope into danger, and you knew that, but yet, you couldn't help yourself.
The rooftop was different. The makeshift chair was gone, along with the knife. You stood near the edge of the building and looked down where everything was the day before. There was nothing. No new marble, or note, or any other item.
A strange disappointment settled in your chest before you could stop it. You immediately pushed it away.
You turned and walked toward the door, biting your lip with frustration, then something caught your eye.
A small scratch in the concrete, a few feet away from where the chair had been. You were used to catching things out of the corner of your eye at this point, but a new feeling of excitement settled in your chest this time in place of paranoia.
You crouched down and looked closer.
There was a faint mark, almost invisible, in a curved line, like someone had rolled something across the rooftop hard enough to leave a tiny mark.
You followed the direction of the line, eyes moving toward the far corner of the roof right next to the edge. You walked over slowly, and there it was.
A small glass marble laying by the ledge on the ground. It was a deep scarlet red this time.
You didn't pick it up. Instead, you took out your camera and snapped a photo of it. You expected this.
You removed a small evidence marker card from your bag and turned it over, carefully writing a sentence on it before setting it beside the marble and walking away,
Benjamin expected you to take it. That was the point. The previous two had worked because curiosity always won eventually..
He watched from the building across the street. He figured you would find it. You were smart. He also figured you would take a photo of it. That was your routine. What caught him off guard was that you just... left it. That wasn't like you.
His brow furrowed as he watched you leave the rooftop. That wasn't supposed to happen. He waited until you were gone before crossing the street.
The rooftop was empty, except for the marble he had left and the note, which he hadn't expected either.
He picked it up, turned it over, and carefully read the words a few times. For several seconds, he simply stared at it. It was somehow completely different from what he had expected, yet perfectly fitting.
Why me?
Benjamin looked toward the street, a small smile on his face. You were already gone. Mostly everyone in New York City wanted to know who he was, what he wanted, what he has planned next. The normal things. But you... You wanted to play his game. You wanted to find the reason.
For the first time, it didn't feel like he was studying you. He felt like you were studying him, and that simultaneously excited him and unsettled him at the same time.
***
You started noticing him everywhere. Not him specifically, of course. You had no idea what he looked like. But that was the problem, you started noticing everyone. The man standing too still outside the coffee shop, the woman who kept looking over her shoulder on the subway platform, the person who walked the same route behind you for four blocks before turning away.
Your brain had become a surveillance system you couldn't turn off. You knew that was what he wanted. That realization bothered you more than anything, because it meant you gave him power over you, and that he changed the way you moved through the world more than any crime scene did.
The next marble appeared somewhere where you could have never prepared for. Not at a crime scene, not at your apartment, not on a rooftop.
Your office.
You found it sitting on your desk when you returned from processing photographs from an unrelated homicide. Your entire body went rigid when you laid eyes on it. You looked around the room, body trembling in fear. It was empty, but the precinct was loud around you, filled with the normal sounds of phones ringing and printers running.
You picked up the marble with shaking fingers. Red. The same exact one from the rooftop, except this time, it was warm. You froze, a sickening wrenching feeling in your gut.
Someone placed this here very recently.
Naturally, once you unfroze, you looked around the precinct. You started with the obvious places. Doors, windows, exits. When you found nothing in those spots, your eyes moved to the less obvious places. You looked at the reflections on the glass and black computer screens. Anything that may show someone standing where they shouldn't be, a trick you had learned from the police sheriff years ago.
And then you saw him.
Across the floor, by the evidence lockers. Tall, blonde hair, broad shoulders, and a neutral expression with eyes that weren't looking at you. It was as if he was looking at everything BUT you, like he already knew what you had discovered.
Your eyes narrowed and he turned. For half a second, your gaze met, and something in your chest tightened.
It wasn't recognition, not quite. It was something worse than that.
Familiarity.
Like you'd subconsciously seen him before, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't place where. And it wasn't his face or body that was familiar to you, it was his presence.
Before you could take your next breath, he looks away, just like that. There was no acknowledgment, no reaction, nothing but a shared glance that lasted for a hasty moment.
You look down at the marble in your hand, gently rolling it in your palm as you furrow your brow. When you look back up, he's already gone.
You spent the next hour trying to convince yourself you imagined it. You couldn't identify him off of his face alone, and you couldn't prove he was connected because he made your tummy feel weird. That wasn't how evidence worked. So you did the only thing you could.
You researched.
The first thing you searched was every person who had access to the precinct, all of the employees, detectives, forensics team, maintenance crew, visitors from the past week. No luck.
Then you searched something broader.
Recent incidents, unusual cases, odd patterns in the system. Your fingers slowed as one name kept appearing.
Not officially, not mentioned in reports or ever as a suspect, just mentioned briefly.
Benjamin Poindexter.
You stared at the screen. The name meant something. Not personally, but professionally. You had seen it many times before, everyone had. A man who was described differently depending on who was describing him. Sometimes he was a decorated FBI agent, other times he was a dangerous criminal. A person nobody could seem to categorize.
You lean in closer to the computer screen to look closer at his photograph, and your stomach drops. You recognized the way he looked at the camera. Empty... controlled... patient.
That evening, you didn't go home. You went back to the rooftop. You weren't sure why; your feet seemed to carry you before your mind could follow up. Maybe a deep part of you thought that maybe, if he was watching, you wanted him to know you weren't running. Not until you got answers. Maybe an even deeper part wanted to see if he would appear.
The rooftop was quiet, the twinkling lights of the city around you lighting up the night like stars. You stood where the chair had been, where he had watched.
"You wanted me to find you."
Your voice disappeared into the wind, a quiet murmur you couldn't stop yourself from saying. No answer.
You waited.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
"Not exactly."
Your entire body went still. The voice came from behind you. Calm, low, and undeniably close. You turn slowly, heart pounding in your chest as your eyes land on him. The man from the precinct stood several feet away.
His hands are visible. Not threatening, not relaxed either. Just... there.
"Benjamin Poindexter..." You say, eyes scanning over his large form.
He's terrifying. Large, muscular, eyes fixed directly on you. You think about how if he chose to harm you, you would have no chance of defending yourself. Somehow, you aren't scared. His presence is too calm and controlled to be afraid, yet.
"You did your homework," He states with a small smile on his face, taking one step towards you.
"You made sure I would..." You respond breathlessly.
His expression changes ever so slightly. Not guilt or shame, but interest.
You stare at him for what feels like hours, the pounding in your ribcage only accelerating.
"You've been watching me..." You whisper, your voice shaky and small.
He says nothing for a while, just stands there, eyes still locked on yours. That's confirmation enough for you.
"Yes."
His response catches you off guard, and your fingers curl at your sides.
"Do you have any idea how... insane that sounds?" You say, almost laughing.
"Yes."
Now, you feel afraid. You take a step backwards, stomach churning.
"You broke into my apartment! And the places connected to the investigation!" You exclaim, emotion heating up your cheeks.
"I left things behind."
Your eyes narrow at him.
"T-that's.... That's not an explanation! That's not an answer!"
"No," his eyes drift to the edge of the roof, "It's not."
The calmness of his words scares you more than anger would. You've studied and dealt with criminals before. You knew what guilt and fear and anger looked like, especially when a person is trying to convince themselves that they aren't a villain. But he wasn't doing any of that.
"You killed... all of those people..." You say, swallowing hard as he takes another step towards you.
His eyes shift back to you, no distinct expression on his face.
"You know who I am."
You swallow hard again, trying to regain your composure.
"Benjamin Leonard Poindexter..."
He pauses.
"That's not the only name people use..."
Your stomach dropped more than you thought it could.
Bullseye.
The name carried its own weight. A man who left bodies behind him, a man who turned violence into a signature, and he was standing three feet away from you.
You instinctively back up again, legs hitting the ledge of the rooftop.
"You understand why I am afraid of you, right?" You mewl shakily.
His expression shifts again.
"I understand why people are."
You let out a breath, eyes scanning over his figure once again. His eyes flicker.
"You aren't like them."
A bitter, fearful laugh escapes you.
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
He shakes his head no. You stare at him bewildered, hands clutching the edge of the ledge.
"Then why?"
The question hung between you. Why leave the marble? Why choose you? Why drag you into this? He looked toward the city beyond you again.
"I wanted to know if you would see it."
You frowned.
"See what?"
"Me."
The word landed heavier than you expected. You don't answer, instead, you allow him to continue.
"Everyone sees what they expect to see." His voice remains even, "A weapon. A monster..."
Your expression hardened.
"Because of what you've done."
A pause. The smallest crack of emotion.
"I know. I know what I am."
The wind moved between you, cold and unforgiving.
"And still, you thought leaving clues for me was a good idea?"
"No."
You looked at him.
"No?"
"No."
His eyes met yours.
"I knew it was a bad idea."
"Then why do it?"
A long silence passes.
"Because I wanted to."
***
The weeks that followed became something neither of you outwardly acknowledged. The marbles stopped appearing at crime scenes. The notes stopped being riddles. Instead, they became conversations.
Not normal ones. Not the kind built over coffee or casual text messages. Yours existed in the spaces between things, a photograph left somewhere only you would find it, a question answered days later, a conversation that lasted five minutes before he disappeared again.
You learned quickly that Benjamin Poindexter, or Dex, as he preferred for you to call him, was not easy to know.
He was precise, controlled, observant to an unsettling degree. He noticed everything. The way you bounced your leg when you were thinking, the way you stopped eating when you were stressed, the way you looked at exits whenever you entered a room.
At first, it bothered you. It felt like an unwelcome intrusion in your everyday routine. But as weeks passed, it became familiar.
You never forgot what he had done and you never let him forget either. You knew you should have exposed him, put him in jail, let the whole world know who he was, but he swore that he had reasons for killing who he killed, and that none of them were innocent. You tried to get him to explain numerous times, but he never elaborated, instead, he'd get a dark look in his eyes and go quiet.
There were arguments. There were moments when you reminded him exactly who he was and what he was capable of. There were moments when he went quiet because he didn't like hearing the truth, but he listened anyway. Each and every crime scene you went to, you knew it was his doing. It stole a piece of your soul each time.
But despite that, over the span of every interaction you had with him, directly or indirectly, you stopped seeing Bullseye more and more, until all that was left was Dex.
You knew something was wrong the second you opened your eyes. Your otherwise peaceful sleep was interrupted by the sound of gentle shuffling by your window. Your body instinctively freezes as your eyes lock onto the dark blur of the ceiling. You blink a few times tiredly, listening in to the sounds around you. You hear soft breathing, but it's not your own, coming from the other side of the bed.
Panicked, you suck in a sharp breath and lurch upwards, flipping the lamp on your bedside table on. What the light uncovers is Dex, standing at the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on you.
He's not in his typical clothing. Instead, he's in a tactical suit, adorned with weapons, and a mask covering his entire face save for his eyes. The look in his eyes was invasively calm, as if he didn't just break into your apartment. Despite the interactions you've had with him and the softness that you may have felt for him, seeing him officially as Bullseye caused a deep panic to set in your chest.
Your hand slides underneath your pillow, fingertips grazing the kitchen knife that you started keeping underneath it.
"Don't."
His voice was quiet, but stern. You freeze, and his eyes drop briefly towards the movement before returning to your face.
"You've got to be kidding me," You exclaim after a few moments of silence.
Through his mask, you see his eyes squint into a smile.
“Good morning.”
“It's two in the fucking morning.”
“I know.”
“You broke into my apartment.”
“I know.”
You scoff, clutching the blanket up to your chest and narrowing your eyes at him. You slowly pull back your hand from beneath the pillow.
“You're getting sloppy, Poindexter.”
His eyes flicked towards your hand, then back again to your face.
“No.”
The single word made something cold move through your stomach, a feeling that you were all too used to at this point.
“No?”
“I wanted you to know it was me.”
Silence passes. All those weeks you'd caught glimpses of him in your peripheral, across the street from the precinct, at the coffee shop you frequented each morning, standing beside his car when you'd left work. it began to feel like every time you had turned around, he'd been there, and every time you'd confronted him, he had somehow managed to make you question whether you had actually caught him at all. He had never denied it, not directly at least. You had assumed that was all part of his game, but now you weren't so sure.
“You wanted me to know?”
“Yes.”
Your fingers tighten around the blanket, a cold shiver running down your spine.
“Why?”
He looks at you for a moment then his gaze drifts around the bedroom. He notices your camera bag sitting on your desk and the half-empty glass of water on your nightstand. Your eyes narrow as you watch him catalogue every single detail.
“What are you looking at?”
“You leave your curtains open.”
Your blood ran cold at his observation.
“What?"
“At night,” his gaze fixes on you again. “Most nights.”
You stare at him, mouth slightly agape.
“You... keep track of that?”
“I keep track of a lot of things.”
Something about the way he said it made your skin prickle. Your thoughts begin to race in your head, and you furrow your brow.
"What are you doing here...?" You murmur quietly, debating on whether you actually want his response or not.
His expression goes blank. You'd seen this expression before, but never this close, never in a room this quiet, never with the understanding that there was absolutely nobody else between them now.
He straightens his posture and takes a step towards your side of the bed.
“You've been wondering how long I've been watching you.”
Your mouth goes dry as he takes another step
“You've been wondering if I know where you go after work.”
You say nothing.
“You've been wondering if I know which nights you stay late.”
Your pulse begins to pound.
“Dex...” You try to say as a warning, but it comes out as a shaky whimper instead.
“And you've been wondering,” he continued, almost conversationally as he steps again, much closer to you now, “whether I've ever followed you all the way home.”
Your eyes lock onto his above you. The room suddenly felt much smaller.
“You're fucking insane...”
“I know.”
His gaze doesn't leave yours.
“But you still kept looking for me.”
That silenced you, because deep down, you knew he was right. Every time you stepped outside the precinct, some part of you looked for him. Every time you parked your car, you checked the surrounding vehicles. Every time you walked home, you found yourself wondering whether you'd see that familiar silhouette somewhere ahead.
You told yourself it was vigilance, self-preservation that came with the nature of your job. But you started unintentionally looking for him even when you weren't afraid, and he knew.
You push the blanket away and swing your bare legs over the side of the bed, cold air prickling your skin. His eyes immediately dropped.
You notice. Of course you notice.
“Don't.”
This time, it was you saying it. His eyes return to yours, and something almost amused moves across his face.
“You don't like being watched?”
“Not when I'm asleep.”
“That's not what I asked.”
You freeze. He takes another slow step towards you, a heavy thud from his boots hitting your ears. You don't retreat or scramble backwards. Instead, you watch him carefully.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“You've spent weeks watching me back.”
Another step.
Your heartbeat thuds harder against your chest.
“You knew I was there," he says quietly.
“Sometimes.”
“You looked for me.”
You say nothing. His voice lowers.
“You wanted me to follow you.”
Your jaw tightens.
“That's a hell of an assumption," you scoff, body stiff.
“No,” He stops a few feet away. “It's an observation.”
You hated that word coming from him, primarily because of what you did for a living. You had spent weeks treating Poindexter like a mystery you could solve on your own if you just watched closely enough. However, now you were beginning to wonder whether you'd been the subject the entire time.
“So, what happens now?” You ask softly, voice shaking. His eyes stay on yours, scanning your features intently.
“That's up to you.”
You frown, brows furrowing again.
“You broke into my bedroom. You've been following me. You've apparently memorized how I keep my fucking curtains at night.”
A beat of silence passes.
“Yes.”
“Then don't stand there and tell me this is up to me.”
His expression changes. Something dark passes behind his eyes.
“I came here because I wanted to see what you'd do when there was no way for you to pretend I'm not there.”
Your breath catches in your throat, and he steps closer again. You can practically feel the heat radiating off of his body now.
“You can't go home and convince yourself you're imagining things, or that I don't exist outside of our interactions.” His voice dropps almost to a whisper. “I'm standing right here.”
You look up at him, and suddenly, you understood. This was the next move in the game.
“Why?” Your voice comes out smaller than you mean for it to.
Dex's gaze drops to your mouth, and when he answers, his voice is almost gentle.
“Because you've been daring me to come closer.”
Your breath hitches as your heart skips a beat.
“I never said that.”
“No.” His eyes met yours again, “You didn't have to.”
A man who had been watching you for weeks had broken into your apartment while you slept. You should be reaching for your phone, should be putting distance between you. Instead, you were looking up at him, half-naked in the middle of your bedroom at two-thirty in the morning, conversing with him like you'd done too many times before.
Your eyes drifted toward the bedroom window. The curtains were in fact drawn open, and you remembered what he'd said.
Most nights.
Your attention returned to him.
“How long have you been watching me from outside my window?”
His face went completely still. You immediately knew you'd hit something.
“Dex.” You whisper.
“Long enough.” He responds quiet;y.
Your pulse quickens.
“How long is ‘long enough’?”
“Long enough to know when you fall asleep.”
You swallowed hard.
“That's... fucked up.” You whisper again.
“I know.”
“Long enough to know when I come home?”
“Yes.”
“When I leave?”
“Yes.”
“When I have company?”
His eyes change, barely, but you catch it. You almost feel a smile creep into your cheeks.
“Ah.”
He says nothing.
“You don't like that question.”
“No.”
“Why?” You ask.
“Because I don't.”
You allow yourself to smile faintly. For the first time tonight, you finally felt like you'd gotten a little piece of the upper hand back.
“So you get jealous.”
His eyes narrow at you, deep and intense.
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.”
The words were a mirror of his own. Something dangerous flickered across his face. You could see it even through the mask. You lean in closer to his face, mere inches away from it.
“You were jealous,” you tease in a low tone.
“Careful.”
The word from him is quiet, not threatening. Your smile fades slightly as your heart thuds against your ribs.
“Or what?”
Dex looks down at you.
“Don't make me tell you twice.” His eyes moved over your face rapidly and he pauses. “You're not afraid of me.”
You almost laughed at the absurdity.
“That's a bold assumption considering you woke me up by breaking into my bedroom.”
“You're afraid.”
Your smile disappears.
“But you're not afraid of me.”
You stare at him through thick lashes.
“What's the difference?”
His answer came immediately.
“You're afraid of what I might do," your breath catches in your throat, “And you're not sure you want me to stop.”
The room goes silent. All your ears pick up on is the sound of your own hammering heartbeat.
“That's arrogant,” you whisper. “And if you're wrong?”
“I'll leave.”
You search his face, taken aback by his response.
“You'd actually leave?”
“Yes.”
“Right now?”
He doesn't move. That is what finally unsettles you. He was giving you a choice. You could say a few words, and he'd leave. You look at his form in front of you, then at the window behind him.
“You've been watching me and waiting weeks for me to tell you to leave?”
“No.”
Your brow furrows.
“No?”
“I've been watching you because I couldn't stop myself. And I've been waiting for you to tell me to stay.”
Your breath catches again. There is no smugness in his face now, just something almost frighteningly sincere.
You whisper, “And if I do?”
His eyes lower to your mouth as he lifts his mask off of his face.
“Then I'll stay.”
You lean in closer now, lips barely a centimeter from touching each other. You don't know why you are doing this. Why aren't you scared? Why aren't you calling for help? Why aren't you grabbing the knife under your pillow and chasing him off? Why are are you doing this?
Your hand finds itself gently resting on his forearm. He doesn't touch you. The restraint is almost maddening, but he resists. You huff gently at his hesitation, scooting closer to him, and closing your eyes as your face moves a hair closer.
"Do something..." You murmur under your breath, waiting for contact that never comes.
"Tell me to..." He responds, voice lowered almost to a whisper.
You bite your lip and pause for a moment, the thoughts in your mind becoming a dull blur.
"Kiss me."
And with that, those two simple words, he does.
The kiss wasn't gentle, but it wasn't careless either. It was the culmination of weeks of 'almosts''. Almost touching, almost admitting, almost allowing themselves to cross the line they'd been circling from the beginning.
You feel his hand slide higher along your back as you pull him closer. Your fingers slid beneath the hem of the collar of his shirt, brushing the warm skin at the base of his throat. He goes completely still, opening his eyes to look at you. Then his hand slides from your spine to beneath your hair and settles against the back of your neck. His fingers spread through the locks of hair gently. The touch makes you elicit a small sound from your throat.
He notices. Of course he notices.
You shiver as his lips find yours again, kissing you more fervently this time. Heavy breaths leave both of your chests as he pushes you gently back against the bed, straddling you with his legs. His hands work meticulously through your scalp as his mouth trails down to your neck, pulling your hair slightly to angle your throat for better contact.
You gasp as his lips leave wet kisses along your nape. You instinctively arch your back against his body, and you he grunts in response.
You've had sex before. Who your age hasn't? But this was the first time it felt like more than just a quick act of stress relief. The way he was palming your hair and touching his lips to your skin... It was so much different than what you were used to. It was like he was finally able to grasp something he had spent an eternity trying not to touch.
As his lips returned to yours, they began to get more desperate, crashing against yours like a starving man. His hand finds its way underneath your shirt, slowly rising as his fingertips find your breast. He pauses for a moment, unsure if he went too far, but you groan in defiance and arch your back again, forcing the contact. You can't think of anything else but him touching you right where you want it.
He takes the peak of your nipple between his fingers, gently rubbing it. The sensation makes you tremble as the slickness in between your legs begins to rapidly build. You buck your hips against his, feeling his hardened cock through his pants. The friction makes you mewl into his mouth, and you feel something in him snap.
With one swift motion, he pulls a knife out of his holster and slices through your night shirt, leaving your torso and chest bare to the cold. You gasp at the quickness of it and the feeling of metal against your skin, barely able to process what he had done, but he grinds his hips into yours and any coherent thought you had in your brain became a numbing hum.
His lips latch onto your breast, hand leaving your hair to trace against the waistband of your panties. He sucks gently on your nipple, the warmth of his tongue sending jolts of overstimulation to your core. You couldn't think. You wanted him to touch you. You wanted him to fuck you. You wanted him to do everything to you.
His lips trail from your chest down your stomach, until he eventually crouches down beneath your legs, face to face with your soaked panties. You hear a soft chuckle leave his mouth, and his fingertip gently traces the outline of your pussy lips. You squirm, desperate for touch yet simultaneously overstimulated at the same time. He takes that as a plea, and he leans forward, licking a slow wet line over your clothed folds.
A whimper unintentionally leaves your throat and your head falls back. He does it again, then again, then again, until his saliva and your wetness soak the cloth entirely.
"Fuck..." He whispers to himself, before grabbing the same knife he used to cut your shirt and doing the same to your panties. Again, the swift movement and the cold metal on your skin makes you gasp, and again, the overwhelming arousal you feel prevents you from caring at all.
He wastes no time latching onto your clit, running his tongue in circles around it with precision. You grip your bedsheets tightly, breath staggered and uneven. You writhe naturally, hips grinding away from his mouth on instinct, but he grips your thighs tightly with a warning squeeze, signalling for you to hold still.
"Don't start running from me now..." He asserts through laps of his tongue.
His low command mixed with the sensation of his mouth makes you cry out, legs shaking against his arms. As if you thought you couldn't feel more ecstasy, you feel a gloved finger enter your hole and pump in and out with a steady rythm.
Your hand finds his hair, lacing your fingers within his short blonde strands. You grind your hips against his mouth and finger, the familiar sensation of an orgasm rapidly building in your stomach. Your vision fades and the sounds that leave you are uncontrollable. He makes sounds of his own, low groans of pure pleasure. He was quite possibly enjoying this more than you were, as impossible as that seemed.
You're almost at your breaking point, and he could tell.
"Let it out... Give it to me..." He murmurs, finger pumping more rapidly in and out of you now.
Your orgasm hits you like a wave. You see stars, your legs tremble, and your mind goes utterly blank. He works you through it and steadies your trembling legs by rubbing them gently up and down, planting kisses on your inner thighs.
When you finally regain your composure, you look down at him, breathless. His mouth and chin are covered in a sheen of wetness, and he smiles, full of pride for what he's done to you. You try to muster up words, or a sound, or anything besides labored breaths, but your mind protests.
He stands up slowly, planting a wet kiss on your forehead and hands gripping your hips. You smile through your breaths, but before you can do anything else, he flips you over onto your stomach, and your face is buried into your pillow.
You exclaim, but don't protest. Instead, you arch your back slightly and wait for his next move.
He traces a gloved finger lightly on your spine, causing goosebumps to prickle your skin. You hear him mutter to himself, but you can't make out what he says.
After what feels like hours, you finally hear movement. First, it's his holsters hitting the floor, the metal of his various knives clinking on each other. Then, it's the sound of a belt being undone. Then, it's the sound of a zipper, followed by fabric sliding down skin. You wait, anticipatory chills running down your body.
He doesn't enter you immediately like you expect him to. Instead, you feel the head of his hard cock slide up and down between your slits. Its big. He goes slowly, like he's taking photographs in his mind. He leans down, the weight of his arms sinking into the bed as he reaches your ear.
"Tell me to stop..." He says in a strained voice, his last shred of control slipping.
You lean into him.
"Please... don't..." You whisper.
That's the last thing he needed before completely letting go. With one swift movement, he pushes his mass fully inside of you. The intrusion is painful at first, due to the sheer size of him, but it doesn't take long for your walls to adjust and for that whisper of pain to turn into an avalanche of pleasure.
He pumps into you steadily, going impossibly deep. The friction against your walls builds a whole new feeling of orgasm in your core. His precision and steady movements hit every spot perfectly, and you feel a sheen of sweat start to form on your skin.
"So good... S' so good..." He groans, gripping your hips tightly.
Your cries are muffled by your pillow, and he gently pulls your head up by your hair.
"No... Let me hear you... Please..." He begs, gently through gritted teeth.
You don't hold back. You let your moans echo like a sweet song. He pumps into you harder and harder, his rhythm faltering as he nears his climax. You follow suit, finding it harder and harder to resist cumming again.
It doesn't take long for you both to reach your climaxes. He goes first, pulling out at the last second and letting his cum spill out onto your back. You follow right after, shaking and practically screaming as another orgasm racks your body.
He backs up unsteadily, chest heaving as he tries to regain his breath. You struggle with the same thing, body so overwhelmed from the pleasure that you feel like you can barely move.
Through your breaths, you hear him shuffle behind you. You assume it's so he can gather his bearings and get ready to leave.
Imagine your surprise when you hear a loud click!
You look back curiously to see Dex standing there with your camera in his hands. You raise your eyebrows in surprise and bite back a smile.
"For evidence..." He says cheekily, lowering the camera to meet your gaze.
Introduction: You had always been inexperienced when it came to life, it wasn't until you met your next door neighbor that you began to realize just how much you were missing out, and how intoxicating belonging to a dangerous man can be.
Request
CW: SMUT, No use of Y/N, Readers features are never described, Implied that reader is smaller than Dex but he's so broad that most people are, He's a freak, You're a freak, Knife play, Clothes Ripping, Unprotected sex, Porn WITH a lot of plot
Word Count: 11.5k (4k of this is just smut lol)
AN: I love the diner scene so in this story I based Dex’s characterization off of that. Reader has mommy issues and trauma but it's build up for smut. Somehow I managed to outfreak Touch Me!Dex with this one, enjoy!
The threshold of the small, one bedroom apartment felt less like a physical boundary and more like the precipice of an entire world. To anyone else, the compact square footage, open-concept kitchenette, and the isolated bathroom were simply standard urban housing. But to you, standing perfectly still with your palms flat against the cool frame of the doorway, it was everything. All that you had spent years praying for, laid out in front of you.
You took a single, heavy breath, inhaling the sharp, unfamiliar scents of fresh paint, old plaster, and the distant, metallic tang of the city outside. You made it here to your new life. You arrived despite everyone's prediction of your failure, every quiet doubt whispered in the dark, and every loud, toxic absolute hurled at your head before you left. You crossed an entire continent with nothing but five thousand dollars in your pocket and a beat-up car crammed to the ceiling with your entire life. Somehow, the fragile hope of your survival had held together, delivering you straight ownership of this apartment in New York.
Your feet moved on their own volition, carrying you across the space as you began to map your new home. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath your weight, full of knots and individual character. Your gaze tracked the deep bay window that overlooked the elevated train tracks. Watching the late afternoon sun pierce through the glass, illuminating a slow, rhythmic dance of dust mites suspended in the air of your empty space. This was a life you could get used to loving, perhaps the life you should have been promised since the very beginning. One filled with serenity and the promise of stability within these walls. A life where you didn't have to balance on a tight rope on a daily basis, where home could foster growth and ambition rather than squander it. This is what it should have been like, not the terrible cards life had dealt you.
Suddenly triggered by the calm, an immense, suffocating sensation flooded the center of your chest. Your throat tightened to a painful knot, and your heart began to hammer against your ribs with a relentless, frantic tempo. It was a volatile, agonizing cocktail of pride and still resonating, white hot anger. Your fists clenched at your sides, your knuckles turning white as your eyes locked onto the pathetic, sparse collection of cardboard boxes sitting in the center of the empty room.
Fuck everybody.
The words echoed in your mind like a mantra. Fuck them all.
Your jaw locked so tightly your teeth ached. In the sudden silence of the room, the memory of your emotionally incompetent mother’s voice flooded back, louder and more invasive than the rumble of the subway outside the glass. Years of belittling, of being told you were useless, of being overlooked and treated not as a daughter, but as an unwanted burden. None of it held any leverage over you anymore. Because you were free. You were thousands of miles away, while they remained entirely stagnant, rotting back home, working themselves into an early grave at the same exact, unfulfilling job your mother had held for fifteen miserable years.
For over a decade, you had navigated the landmines of an emotionally abusive parent who viewed her own flesh and blood as direct, threatening competition. But the war was over. In a way it felt like victory. You won your freedom.
And that single realization should have been enough to calm the internal storm, but the peace felt incomplete as you stood there. Perhaps it was the empty space that left you wanting more. A deep, visceral part of you still craved violence. The quiet, dignified exit of the "being the bigger person" narrative society forced down your throat, felt unsatisfying compared to the scale of the damage. You felt a raw need to physically tear that woman apart with a knife, to make her feel the exact same pain she had inflicted upon your childhood. The concrete image of it flickered in your mind, vivid and bloody, because being better wasn't a currency that bought back the years that had been stolen from you.
Her lingering voice was still a tenant in your head, she was the internal structure that spoke and criticized every waking minute of your day. Yes you had gotten away but in some ways she was still here. The heaviness settled right back over your shoulders, bringing the anger and a deep, nameless starvation along with it. You couldn't even identify what you wanted at this moment as you stewed. Did you want validation? Did you want happiness? Or did you simply want the dark daydreams of shoving a cold knife into her body to finally become real? And were you regretting not doing it before you left…
"That's interesting," a voice muttered from the hallway.
The sound shattered your trance immediately, pulling you back from the depths. Your head snapped toward the doorway, your gaze averting to the apartment door you had left wide open. Cussing yourself out silently for it as you schooled your expression and kept the emotions at bay.
Standing across the narrow, dimly lit corridor was a man. He had been in the exact middle of unlocking his own door before your rigid posture caught his eye. His sharp brows parted slightly as his cold eyes took in the sight of your moving boxes, your tightly clenched fists, and the mean, hostile frown you didn't even realize you had been wearing as you zoned out.
Dex studied you for a fraction of a second. To his hyper acute mind, you were a sudden, unregulated pawn in his clean, quiet hallway. He made the deliberate decision to pocket his hands, leaving the keys dangling on his lock as he began to walk directly toward your open door.
Your mind scrambled to re-engage with reality, your feet carrying you forward to meet him halfway at the threshold. Dex's focal moved with precision, immediately logging the sparse contents of your life: exactly four small boxes and a half-disassembled mannequin laying on the bare hardwood. His focus honed in on the heavy packing tape sealing the cardboard shut, explicitly stamped with a small, red maple leaf.
"Hi, I'm your new neighbor," you said.
Dex’s internal wiring instantly analyzed the pitch. Your words were incredibly tense, the register high enough to suggest performance of pleasantries, but there was a distinct strain underlying the syllables. He tracked the rigid alignment of your shoulders, noting how the tension made your collarbones stand out sharply beneath your skin.
"Not from New York?" he asked, raising a single brow. He already knew the precise answer based on the tape, but his programming needed him to hear the confirmation roll off your tongue.
"No," you shook your head, your posture remaining stiff.
"You sew?" Dex nodded his chin down toward the dress form resting on the floor.
"Um... yeah," you offered, your response clipped and protective. You had absolutely no desire to delve into how that purpose was the singular anchor of your soul, or how you had abandoned the little shred of safety back home just to pursue it here.
"Hm. Keep the noise down past ten. Thin walls," he said plainly.
You eagerly, rapidly nodded your compliance. Dex lingered for a moment, his body weight shifting. By all accounts of his daily routine, he should have walked away. Conventional human interactions were a tedious, exhausting ordeal that rarely benefited him unless they served a specific purpose. But the absolute immediacy of your agreement, the way you submissively shrunk back under the order, made his mind pause. He sees people afraid on a daily basis as Bullseye, yet you, for some odd reason, were already on edge before he even made his presence known.
"I'm Tony," he quipped, the introduction sounding just a fraction too rehearsed, a carefully selected line from his mental archives. His eyes flicked back down to the foreign maple leaf on the box before a low, quiet intensity crept into his voice. "But my friends call me Dex."
"Dex," you tested the name, the word falling softly between you.
A faint hum of genuine satisfaction vibrated in his chest. It had been an exceptionally long time since he had heard his actual name spoken by someone who wasn't a target or a handler.
"Don't let Mrs. Smithers hear you call me that," he said, offering a sudden, sharp grin that didn't quite reach his dead, unblinking eyes. There was an invisible, dangerous undercurrent to the words, a hidden threat wrapped in domestic clothing. "I'm serious, or else she's gonna start thinking we're not as close."
His delivery possessed a sudden, calculated charisma, a charm that successfully baited a small, hesitant half-smile from your lips.
"Knock at my door if you need anything," he added, throwing in a brief, practiced wink before he turned on his heel. He didn't truly understand the psychological impulse that had driven him to offer the concession, but his research on human integration had taught him that these specific gestures effectively relaxed women. He had already decided you wouldn't be a problem for his daily structure.
In the weeks that followed, you went to extraordinary lengths to avoid apartment 20B. It wasn't that the initial interaction had been explicitly unpleasant, but an invasive, persistent nervousness had settled deep in your stomach whenever you heard his footsteps in the hall. Dex’s presence made you feel extremely anxious, exposing a raw, aching deprivation of basic social interaction that you weren't ready to face.
But the avoidance strategy completely collapsed on a Tuesday evening over a remarkably stubborn jar of marinara sauce.
You had spent twenty-five agonizing minutes exhausting every trick in your arsenal. You had sandwiched the thick glass between your thighs, twisting until your skin was raw; you had hammered the metal lid with the heavy handle of a butter knife, praying for the vacuum seal to pop. Nothing worked. Looking back at your tiny kitchenette one final time, at the pathetic pot of rapidly cooling noodles and the messy counter, your feet began to move toward the hallway before your brain could protest.
You stood before apartment 20B and knocked once.
The sound had barely dissipated before the door swung wide open. Dex stood beneath the frame, wearing a plain white muscle shirt and a pair of loose gray sweatpants. His broad, heavily muscled shoulders completely blocked the view of his interior. He raised a single, questioning brow.
You pathetically shook the glass jar once in front of his chest. "Open," fell from your lips in a flat, monotone whisper.
Dex blinked, his gaze dropping to the jar.
"I mean- um, can you please open this? Please?" you tried again, your voice cracking with embarrassment.
Without a word, his large, calloused hand reached out and took the glass from your grip. With one smooth, effortless twist of his wrist, the metal lid popped open with a loud snap. Your eyes involuntarily darted to the thick expanse of his bicep, watching the muscles flex and shift beneath the skin with the casual display of strength. A sudden, suffocating feeling of intrusion washed over you, making you feel entirely out of place.
You frantically snatched the opened jar back into your possession, attempting to execute a rapid speed-walk back to the safety of your home before he could engage.
Dex watched your skittish retreat, a faint flicker of amusement piercing through his usual apathy. Conventional neighbors were loud, unpredictable nuisances, but you were different. You stayed entirely within your perimeter, exactly how he preferred it. You made no noise, you never slammed your doors, and you never returned home late. In fact, Dex had realized he almost never saw you leave the building at all. You treated apartment 20A like a hiding hole, a sanctuary against the outside world.
Perhaps that was the exact reason his mind felt inclined to participate. To actively engage and solidify the illusion of "Tony" as a real breathing person that cares about others.
"What're you making?" he asked, his voice a low interrogation that stopped you in your tracks.
"Um, one-pot pasta?" you murmured over your shoulder.
Dex's sharp brows furrowed instantly, his gaze narrowing into a harsh, hyper-focused line. You instinctively clutched the marinara jar tighter against your ribs.
"What the fuck is that," he cussed out, the sheer lack of culinary skills genuinely offending his sense of order.
"It's... pasta you make in one pot," you shrugged, your voice defensive.
The concept thoroughly grated on his compulsive need for proper sequencing. Before you could offer a verbal protest, Dex stepped over the boundaries of his apartment, his tall frame moving right past you and directly into your private space. You stood frozen for a second before silently trailing behind him.
His linear, tracking eyes scanned your apartment, and a cold weight settled into his chest. My god, it was sad.
In the center of the kitchenette sat the offending, solitary pot, filled with starch and water. Your bed wasn't even a proper piece of furniture; it was merely a single mattress dumped onto the floor, heavily dressed up in expensive duvets and a mountain of pillows to overcompensate for the lack of a frame. A small lap-table sat on top of the blankets instead of a proper dining set. Five long, perfectly level shelves lined the walls, crammed with meticulously folded fabrics. By the bay window sat an ancient, cast-iron sewing machine that looked at least a century old, positioned next to the dress form wearing a stunning, intricate gown that looked entirely too beautiful to exist within this depressing space.
"You're not okay," Dex deduced immediately, turning his rigid frame around to face you.
A nervous, fractured laugh broke from your throat. "What?"
"You're not okay," he repeated, stating it not as an insult, but as an absolute fact as he walked back over to the stove to inspect the cursed pot.
"I'm fine," you muttered, peaking through the kitchen archway, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. Jar forgotten beside you, a bystander in this weird conversation.
"Then why do you live like this?" His tone was sharp, accusatory, mildly insulted that any functional human being would willingly subject themselves to such a lack of domestic structure. It bothered him. It bothered him an extraordinary amount. Too much for him to resume his usual disregard of others personal business.
"Um, for the record, I live fine," you raised a single finger to defend yourself.
"Your bed is on the floor," he countered, his expression entirely unamused.
"There's a rug! And it's cozy!" you pointed down to the plush pink faux-fur rug stretching beneath the mattress.
"It's sad," Dex noted flatly. He deeply disliked the specific deregulation this room was forcing onto him. Without asking permission, his hands began to move, instantly taking ownership of the kitchen, determined to fix the failure of your meal. And you could only do nothing but watch in bewilderment as your next door neighbor moved with clear certainty in your home.
"What's that about," he asked after a moment, jerking his sharp chin toward the elaborate gown by the window.
"Someone's paying me to make it," you offered softly.
"So you're a designer?" he questioned, his large hands efficiently raiding the contents of your refrigerator. You tried your absolute best to ignore the terrifying reality that an exceptionally attractive, intimidating man was currently taking control of your life.
"No. Designers get people to buy their clothes because of their name. I just... I just make clothes." You clarified, shifting your weight on your feet.
"You have people buying your clothes for how they look. How's that any different?" Dex questioned, because truthfully your logic made no sense.
"It just is, okay!" your voice finally spiked, a sudden rush of raw, defensive emotion breaking through your shy exterior. "They have degrees, and money, and connections, and I just have a bed on the floor!" You pointed a trembling finger at the mattress.
Dex stared at you for a long second before a low, genuine laugh slipped past his lips. He bit down a smile, turning back to the stove to completely salvage your atrocious food. You amused him. Your strange, combative nature hidden beneath your meek form was fascinating enough to make him stay. So he kept cooking in the silence, letting you calm down from your outburst. For a while the only sound echoing the room was rhythmic cutting as he minced garlic with efficient speed.
"How'd you get that scar?" you blurted out suddenly when you decided to speak again, your eyes tracking the pale line slicing through his features. It was a brave question to ask, perhaps the wrong one, but it'd been the only thing you could focus on since the minute you met him. And you decided on impulse, that if he got to invade your life, you at least earned the right to ask an equally invasive question.
Dex’s muscles tensed for a solitary second, his fingers tightening around the kitchen knife. His mind instantly executed recalibration, regulating his breathing just as he had rehearsed a thousand times in institutional therapy. He locked the bloody, violent memories away in a vault, forcing a normal, charismatic mask over his face.
"It's New York," he said plainly as if that was enough of an explanation, which in a way it was. "What I wanna know is why you chose here over Canada?" He turned his head, his gaze drilling straight into your eyes.
"I didn't like it there anymore..." your voice dropped into a hushed, incredibly heavy register. The sheer, concentrated depression radiating from your small form filled the room like dense fog. It irritated him. It irritated him because a creature with your specific, meticulous talent shouldn't be radiating the scent of a wounded animal. He hated the lack of coordination between what you were capable of creating and how you viewed your own worth.
"Taste," he ordered softly, lifting the wooden spoon directly to your mouth.
Your lips parted in a slight hesitation, your eyes locking onto his as you slowly leaned forward. Dex watched with a hyper-focused intensity as your mouth closed over the wood, taking in the rich, perfectly balanced sauce.
"That's really good," you nodded, your cheeks flushing a brilliant pink as you stepped back, suddenly shy.
“Isn't it," he murmured in that attractive, playful lilt of his. The gesture and tones of his voice are a characteristic you'd come to associate with your odd neighbor. Without a hint of hesitation, Dex slid the exact same spoon into his own mouth, tasting the leftover sauce, his eyes never leaving yours.
That night he left you standing there in the center of the kitchen with a perfectly prepared plate of fresh food, not even bothering to sit down or have a meal with you. His mission for the day had been executed, leaving you thoroughly confused and breathless in his wake.
The confusion only deepened when the exact same sequence repeated itself the following morning. You opened your door at nine o'clock, only to be firmly pushed aside as Dex hauled a heavy canvas bag of groceries directly into your space.
"What're you making for breakfast now?" His voice carried a dry, biting edge as he interrogated you.
"I don't normally eat breakfast," you muttered, leaning against the counter.
Dex’s brows furrowed deeply. Wrong. That was incorrect in every preferable scenario to him. The human brain required proper nutritional fuel the precise moment it transitioned into an awake state in order to function throughout the day. And yet you skipped breakfast regularly.
"I brought proper food," he noted, emphasizing the word proper. Safe, balanced foods that didn't emerge from an aluminum can.
You paused, staring at the broad expanse of his chest, then down to the fresh produce, and then back up to his sharp features. "Why?" you asked, your voice small, genuinely confused why this terrifying neighbor cared enough about your life. Maybe he did care, or maybe the sheer lack of order in your existence simply violated his internal programming in an incomprehensible way. It didn't take much for you to realize that Dex most likely had OCD, judging by what you've observed from him, he was a very one track minded man.
"Why're you doing this shit," he countered, his hand gesturing vaguely to the fabrics, the mattress, the entirety of your isolated world.
Your brows knit together, trying to parse the exact thing he was attacking. You made an educated guess that he was referring to the fundamental reality of all of you.
"I moved here because I believed in myself," you said, trying to sound firm.
But the delivery was a far cry from actual conviction. To Dex’s tracking eyes, you looked like a frail, hyper-vigilant thing that was merely surviving the days rather than actively living them. It didn't look like belief; it looked like an escape. But Dex could respect the raw, stubborn determination underlying the performance. He had recognized your immense talent within the first sixty seconds of entering your apartment. You were a creature of singular focus, prioritizing the creation of a beautiful dress over basic human comfort. He wasn't one to judge an obsession. You possessed the spark required to carve your name into the stone of the city; you simply weren't fully convinced of your own gravity yet.
It reminded him entirely of his old, fractured self, desperately searching for a script to prove he was allowed to exist. Maybe that was the exact reason he couldn't just let you go. He tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing as you visibly squirmed under the pressure of his gaze.
"But you still sleep on the floor," he said slowly, taking a deliberate step into your orbit.
"But I still sleep on the floor..." you confirmed, your voice hitching as you took a small step backward. He continued to advance, completely abandoning the grocery bags on the kitchen island.
"You should be sleeping in a bed made for royalty. Not that," he noted, a faint trace of dark amusement in his voice as he watched you try everything in your power to avoid his proximity.
"That requires princess money," you countered with your chin held high, your heel catching slightly on the edge of the faux-fur rug.
"That's not how the story goes. Isn't the fairytale answer to marry a king?" He crossed his massive arms over his broad chest, blocking out the light from the window with his form.
You stopped moving, taking a long, deliberate look at the rigid picture of his features. "Are you mocking me?" you asked after a heavy silence. "Is this a joke to you?"
"What? No,” he spat out with equal conviction.
“You are not a joke," the concept genuinely offended the man. You were everything but.
"I don't need help, Dex," your voice suddenly cracked, an exasperated, rushing tide of buried rage spilling through the seams of your composure. He had unknowingly poked at a raw, unhealed wound you didn't even know you had. "I don't need anybody. I've made it this far entirely on my own, and I-"
"I didn't say you needed it," the words rolled off his tongue like velvet, cutting through your fervor. "I'm offering it."
"Why?" your eyes narrowed into suspicious, defensive slits. You were a guarded little thing.
"Because you're alone. In a dangerous city," he pointed it out as if it were a fundamental law.
Truthfully, his conscious mind didn't fully comprehend the psychological reasonings driving his desire to intervene; he simply knew that his system demanded it. Perhaps it was merely basic human nature to seek out a companion. Or perhaps he decided that for "Tony" to maintain his flawless civilian disguise, he required a friend. Tony was a good citizen. Tony helped his neighbors; Tony fed the old lady's cat on the third floor; Tony fixed the plumbing for the single mother upstairs. Tony was a pillar of the community. Though it wasn't just that. Dex knew you had resonated with him, with your awkward self and unpredictable outbursts hooking him. Despite how it looked, he wasn't trying to fix you, he was in no position to be handling another person, instead he felt the urge to provide you with the support he never had.
"Sit down," he ordered simply, turning his back to you as he began to masterfully prepare the fresh ingredients he'd brought.
"You have talent," he said twenty minutes later after the silence got too heavy, his hands efficiently wiping down the counter space while you consumed the meal he made. You sat up a fraction straighter at the validation. "But talent without exposure doesn't mean anything."
You almost flinched at the sharp accuracy of the statement.
"You should be out there. Not locked in here all the time," he continued. By now, Dex’s surveillance of your habits had mapped your highly dysfunctional sleeping patterns. You remained awake through the entire night, whenever he left for an assignment or returned in the pre-dawn hours, the golden light from your windows were always visible. You spent the daylight hours sleeping, unless you were forced to leave for your underappreciated assistant position at the Daily Prophet.
He turned his head to look at you, tracking the way your soft lips parted slightly as you absorbed his assessment.
"You're a pretty woman. Here in New York, that's enough to open most doors," he said. The words weren't delivered as a compliment or a cheap attempt at flattery; it was simply a cold, structural fact.
A fact that caused you to violently choke on your eggs, a brilliant crimson blush detonating across your cheeks.
"You okay there?" he asked, his hand pausing its polishing over the mug in his hand. You urgently nodded your head, frantically reaching for a glass of water. Dex kept wiping the porcelain clean, a dark, thoroughly amused smirk settling onto his features.
Life with a man in your orbit was an entirely surreal reality, especially when that man was a massive, hyper-stabilizing force looming permanently in your background.
Dex had helped you source a proper, high-backed "princess bed" frame, assembling the heavy wood with a silent, terrifying efficiency. In return, you began to prepare your meals with his specific caloric needs in mind. You found yourself dressing in the mornings with the absolute certainty that you would be looking into the cold watchful eyes of your neighbor before the day concluded. No longer donning old sweats with thread stuck onto them, instead you chose more curated lounge wear. Nothing that suggested you were trying too hard but cotton sets and satin shorts that helped remind you that you were a girl. A girl with a very attractive man coming to her apartment on a daily basis. By the third month of this unspoken arrangement, Dex possessed a key to your apartment. You couldn't recall the exact moment he acquired it, nor did you feel any concern that he had it. Dex had proven himself to be so utterly dependable, so fiercely protective of your sanctuary, that you never once questioned the breach.
You simply allowed him to appear. Sometimes you would open your eyes in the morning to find him silently reading by your bed; other times, he wouldn't slip through the door until the dead of night. He had informed you, in his flat register, that his operational hours were highly dysfunctional as well due to his past employment with the FBI and his current status as a private contractor. It was the explanation that perfectly accounted for the jagged, violent scars lining his well maintained body.
The routine fractured slightly on a stormy Thursday evening. A violent thunderstorm had completely knocked out the power grid across your section of Brooklyn, leaving your apartment illuminated by the flickering, amber glow of a dozen candles. You sat across from him at the small table, the ambient silence magnifying the heavy, intrusive thoughts you normally managed to suppress. Without the distraction of your sewing machine or the television, the ghosts of your past were entirely too loud to ignore. It was better with Dex around, but tonight it was oppressing.
"You still with me?" His quiet, gravelly voice sliced through the dark.
"Yeah. I'm sorry," you nodded quickly, your shoulders drawing inward.
Dex’s eyes tracked the movement. He often wondered why that specific word, sorry, dropped from your lips with such automatic frequency, even when you committed nothing wrong. He had analyzed the way your entire system would shut down, retreating into a silent, unreadable fortress whenever you perceived even a flash of tension in his tone. He had logged it during his first critique of your mattress, and again when he regulated your breakfast habits. You would instantly succumb, allowing him to rewrite your parameters without an ounce of resistance.
It didn't align with the true matrix of who you were. It didn't fit the woman who possessed the fierce, unyielding determination to cross a continent alone for her art. You had been systematically programmed by someone else to react this way. It was a defect in your confidence, and it bothered him. He wanted to understand the code, but his lack of conventional empathy made the vocabulary invasive. He didn't know how to ask how you had been broken. He only knew that over the past five months, his motivation for being around you had completely evolved from a selfish need for a civilian disguise into an undeniable reality: he thoroughly enjoyed your company. You were awkward in a specific, quiet manner that made his own internal fractures feel normal. It was almost funny.
He searched his mental archives, selecting a play designed to foster emotional trust. Because he wanted you to trust him, he needed you to.
"You say that a lot. You okay there?" he asked, his chin gesturing toward your tense form. He worried the phrasing was either too forward or completely off the mark.
"Um, yeah. Sorry. It's just that..." You took a long, ragged breath, the amber candlelight catching the wet sheen of your eyes. "I grew up in a reactive home… and quietness kinda makes me uncomfortable" You nodded to yourself, tasting the bitter, familiar poison on your tongue as your throat tightened. Growing up was like navigating an active minefield. You were always criticized rather than praised. Everything you did was wrong. At some point, you just learn that it's safer if you shut down completely and don't engage.
Even now, miles away from the source, the conditioning remains a permanent tenant in your nervous system. It was an agonizing process trying to dismantle years of trauma; when you were raised by a monster, accepting genuine care or praise felt like a trap. You would hyper-fixate on every single micro-mistake you made throughout the day until isolation felt like the only true sanctuary available to you.
Dex offered a slow, deliberate nod. He lacked the capacity for conventional comfort, but he forced himself to try.
"My parents weren't really that involved," he offered, his voice a flat line of history.
Before he could expand on his own dark childhood, you cut through the quiet. "It was just me and my mom." You paused, your fingers tightening around the edge of your napkin. "But sometimes... I really wished it was just me."
Dex’s brow raised a fraction, a sudden spark of intense interest flaring in his irises. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean... I've definitely imagined pulling the trigger on her fucking head more times than I've said 'I love you,'" you said, a sharp, dark laugh breaking from your lips.
Dex’s jaw involuntarily ticked, smile flicking though his eyes remained ever dead.
Huh.
He never once suspected that you possessed such a beautifully morbid, violent architecture within your mind. You were laughing, your head tilted back, but Dex’s hyper-calibrated focus recognized the truth instantly: you were only partially joking. He knew that specific, cold look in a human eye; he had seen it in the mirror, and he had seen it in the field. He knew with absolute certainty that if a weapon were placed in your hand in that exact moment, you would have executed the directive without an ounce of hesitation.
This was an extraordinary development.
"Was she that bad?" he tested, his voice dropping into a low, predatory register.
You took the bait instantly, your fingers wrapping around the handle of your silver dinner knife with a white-knuckled, bruising grip. "She's an emotionally immature woman who never accomplished a single thing with her life, and she chose to take her anger onto me. She's a fucking bitch who was entirely content being the other woman to some married man rather than-"
You cut yourself off abruptly, your chest heaving as you realized you had allowed the floodgates to open entirely too wide. But Dex didn't pull back in horror. Instead, his focus was completely locked onto the violent, white-knuckled grip you maintained on the knife handle.
"Sorry," you whispered, trying to force your features back into a polite, submissive mask. "That was too much."
"It's alright," Dex murmured, his voice incredibly steady as he leaned across the small table, his shadow completely enveloping your form. "I wanna hear whatever's bothering my woman."
The phrase fell from his lips with an absolute, seamless finality. Your entire body locked up, your breath catching in your throat, but you didn't offer a single word of protest. My woman. You didn't argue the timeline; you didn't ask when the boundary had shifted. Instead, you slowly lowered the knife, took another quiet bite of your dinner, and tried your absolute best to suppress the small, genuine smile forming at the corners of your lips. You were somebody's woman!
To Dex, the word girlfriend was inadequate. It belonged to the fragile narrative of normal society, and absolutely nothing about Benjamin Poindexter was normal. He had initially categorized you as a necessary component of his disguise, but you had evolved into something infinite. The transition into ownership had been effortless, occurring somewhere between the hours he spent selecting your furniture and the quiet moments he spent watching you create. Girlfriend was a childish title. His woman possessed posture. It possessed permanence. His woman was a creature he took exquisite care of; his woman was an asset he would dismantle the entire world to protect if she asked. And now, he realized with a sick surge of adrenaline, that his shy but explosive woman might actually possess the exact same dark, violent streak that lived inside his own ribs.
He made the decision to test that thought on a violent, rain-slicked Saturday night.
The window to your fire escape rattled violently before swinging wide open, and Dex tumbled into your bedroom, his broad frame covered in dark fabric, heavily smeared with fresh, steaming blood.
"Oh my god! Dex!" You instantly bolted from your sewing machine, rushing across the hardwood without a single second of hesitation. You didn't scream; you didn't question the firearm strapped to his chest or the array of lethal tactical knives lining his thighs. Your system immediately engaged in operational mode. "What can I do? Tell me what to do."
"Need those hands of yours," he groaned through his teeth, his face pale as he collapsed onto the edge of the bay window, his large fingers frantically tugging the heavy curtains shut to kill the view. "My girl's amazing at sewing, yeah?" It was a desperate, raw plea masked as a casual question as he violently yanked his dark shirt upward. "Need you to deal with this for me."
Your eyes locked onto the jagged, deep gash splitting the skin over his ribs, the blood welling rapidly. You offered a sharp nod, your voice entirely steady. "I'm gonna clean it first, okay? I need to see exactly what I'm fixing up."
"Do what you gotta do, baby," he sighed, his head falling back heavily against the covered glass pane as his eyes closed.
Your small, nimble fingers moved with an extraordinary, professional efficiency. You didn't have medical-grade thread, but you swore by the integrity of your heavy-duty Guterman spool. You guided the needle through his flesh, weaving a series of incredibly precise, perfectly spaced navy-blue stitches to seal the breach. Dex remained entirely silent, watching your face through a haze of acute physical pain. His compulsive mind felt an immense, soothing wave of gratification at the perfect symmetry of your stitches. He found it incredibly, beautifully intimate that you had chosen a deep navy thread to match his clothes.
"So," you whispered, your fingers snipping the excess nylon. "Is this a common occurrence for a private contractor?"
"It's not normally this bad," he graveled out, his breath hitching. "But I ran into the devil tonight."
"And did you leave him looking worse?" you asked as you peered up at him, wiping the remaining copper from his skin.
Dex let out a low, ragged laugh, a fierce surge of pride warming his chest. It was an extraordinary response; a normal person would have demanded an explanation, but his woman's primary concern was the dominance of his performance.
"Mhm," he hummed in deep satisfaction.
From that exact night onward, you became a non-negotiable axiom in his existence. You were the absolute anchor of Dex's reality. Your domestic skills were remarkably useful, but more than that, he liked you. He liked you in a manner he had never experienced with another living entity. It boarded on enamored infatuation now. You remained your quiet, skittish self during the daylight hours, but Dex noted that your defenses dropped significantly whenever he returned bloody and damaged. You became infinitely more generous with your physical touch when he was vulnerable.
Yet, the conditioning of your childhood still dictated your movements. Whenever you sat on the velvet sofa together to watch the news, you automatically maintained a strict, ten-inch barrier between your bodies. Whenever you walked down the crowded concrete stretches of Brooklyn, you never reached for his hand; it was always Dex who had to reach out, wrap his massive arm around your shoulders, and physically drag your frame against his side to close the distance.
Dex began to wonder if your mind truly comprehended what it meant to be his woman. You didn't have to exist on the defensive; you didn't have to carry the weight of the world in isolation because his weapon was entirely at your disposal. But your broken programming prevented you from understanding intimacy. Reading your desires was like parsing ancient hieroglyphics, he was forced to rely entirely on your micro-expressions. Because apparently you would rather die than verbally articulate what you wanted. But at the same time you'd get silently pouty whenever he couldn't read your mind, which was almost never but it has happened once or twice. And that was more than enough times for Dex to start picking through your preferences.
Dex knew with absolute certainty that you liked his hands; your eyes would track their movement whenever he was using a blade to prepare food. And his hyper-calibrated focus had noted the way your demeanor changed when he altered his training regimen to bulk rather than cut. You liked his size. You liked the security of his weight.
The realization reached its zenith on a quiet Monday evening. You were hand-sewing an intricate, embroidered bodice, completely ignoring his repeated words, that strayed too closely to whines, to abandon the work and rest with him while he cooled down from the high adrenaline of a recent assignment. Your nimble fingers reached across the coffee table, casually grabbing one of his tactical throwing knives to cleanly slice your thread.
Dex watched the interaction with an intense, quiet focus. You were comfortable with the weapon. Though you had always been unbothered by his brutality.
"Have you ever used one before?" he asked, his voice a low vibration in the silence.
"No," you hummed, your eyes never leaving the fabric in your lap.
"Ever wanted to?" he pushed, a split second later.
"Yes," you answered truthfully, the syllable rolling off your tongue without a hint of hesitation.
A profound, intoxicating wave of pleasure flooded Dex’s chest at the confirmation.
"Stand up. I'll show you how," he ordered, his body instantly shifting into motion.
The command broke your creative trance, but your body automatically complied with his authority. You watched as he stalked into the kitchenette, his large fingers fishing an empty soda can out of the recycling box. He placed the aluminum on the far edge of the island, turning to trail back to you.
Dex stepped directly behind your frame, guiding your body to stand perfectly parallel to the target, exactly twelve feet away. The moment his large palms settled firmly onto the soft skin of your hips, your entire spine went completely rigid. With a hitched breath, your focus momentarily shatters as he holds out the cold steel.
"Hold it like this," he whispered against your ear, his large fingers wrapping over yours to adjust your grip on the hilt. The metal was ice-cold, perfectly balanced, and terrifyingly thin.
You didn't wait for the final instruction. Driven by a sudden, volatile surge of adrenaline and need to please, your arm snapped forward, hurling the blade across the room with a terrifying amount of force. The knife sliced through the air, striking the exact center of the aluminum can, knocking it to roll tarnished on the floor. If Dex had been satisfied before, his cerebrum was now operating at absolute capacity. A low, feral sound of pure delight escaped his lips as he prowled across the hardwood, inspecting the absolute ruin of the can before plucking the blade from its body. He turned, his whirlpool eyes raking over your flushed, trembling form.
"Impulsive," he murmured, his voice dropping into a dark, heavy register as he slowly stalked back toward your position. "I bet if I gave you a gun, you'd be a trigger-happy little thing..."
You didn't utter a word. You stood completely frozen, your chest heaving as you stared up into the dangerous, unblinking intensity of his face. There was nothing left to say. Without a doubt, he enjoyed what you had done, it was evident in the way the corner of his mouth threatened to pull.
"Should I?" Dex asked softly, stepping into your immediate personal space. He lifted the throwing knife, using the flat, ice-cold plane of the steel blade to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The contrast of the freezing metal against your hot skin sent a violent, electric shiver straight down your spine.
"Should you what?" you breathed out, your posture straightening in raw anticipation.
"Give you a gun," he nodded, his gaze tracking the frantic pulse fluttering in your throat. "You're my girl now. You have to know how to handle yourself." He tilted your chin upward with the spine of the knife, forcing your eyes to lock onto his. "What if someone takes you when I'm not here?"
The question was heavy with an invasive paranoia that constantly plagued his mind. The mere possibility of an external threat having access to your sanctuary was enough to deregulate his entire system. His breathing grew ragged, his self-control straining at the seams as you stepped back against the wall. He feared for a microsecond that his darkness had finally shattered your views on him.
But you didn't look terrified. Your eyes were wide, dark, and obviously earnest. You wanted more, but didn't know how to ask for it.
The knife in his hand moved with instantaneous precision. Before your brain could process the movement, the razor-sharp edge sliced cleanly through the left strap of your tank top, the fabric snapping away from your shoulder. You let out a sharp, gasping breath. With a flick of his wrist, Dex flipped the blade within his palm, the steel flashing once more as he severed the right strap, letting the material pool at your waist.
Your hands immediately moved to cover the view, only to stutter hesitantly when Dex decided that he didn't like that. Brows knitting in disdain like you had offended every fiber of his being. His armed body moved, tapping the blade once over the shield of your hands before guiding it back down with the weapon. Hunger invaded his irises as his pupils dilated, taking in the portrait of you in a baby blue bra, top irrelevant and ruined around your waist. You watched as his head imperceptibly weighed side to side, as if he was conversing with the devil and angel on his shoulders.
And as always, the side that benefited him the most won.
In a blink, the knife had slipped beneath the center of your bra and with a firm grip Bullseye had sliced it in half. An audible sound of shock broke from your lips as you stammered back slightly. At that he took a moment to observe you, looking for the silent cues of your discomfort and was pleased to find none. Though the wide eyed expression on your face didn't distract him from the way your thighs pressed together, and how your stomach clenched in flutters to try and suppress the butterflies panicking.
A melodic hum escapes him as he uses that damned blade to push the scraps of your bra aside to expose and show off your skin. His focal trained on the bare swell of your chest, sharp metal purposefully grazing over one hardened nipple and your breathing sucked in. Dex’s eyes snapped back to your face, taking in the way you refused to look at him or down at yourself, instead paying very close attention to the overhead light. He watched your parted lips exhale with baited breaths, how your shoulders caved in an attempt to shrink into yourself and disappear.
Though, contrary to your demeanor, your core gave you away. Direct in the way your hips angle towards his, pressing into him despite how very hard you tried to avoid acknowledging the situation. Dex knew you'd never outwardly say what you wanted due to your own personal struggles expressing your needs. You two weren't there yet, not until he builds consistent intimacy to disassemble your preconceived notions.
So instead of teasing you, his lips moved forward, peppering affection on the skin beneath your ear before claiming your lips. Kissing was not a thing between Dex and his woman. A flaw in the architecture that he eagerly wanted to change the very moment he decided you were his. It was extremely grating in ways that he didn't understand. Poindexter had never been interested in the idea of sharing saliva with another human being, sure he's kissed women before, not many, but enough for him to decide that kissing was pointless. Yet when you became his, it was all that he could think of. Being near you wasn't enough, he needed to be on you, in you. All over, everywhere, connected in every possible way.
An invasive need that grew tenfolds when you melted because of his touch, reciprocating in a skittish dance of squirming away and pressing back onto his lips. His large hands held you in place by your waist, forcing you still as his kisses migrated. Your body was electric, writhing from him and anxiety, mind desperate to form any thoughts that weren't: my man, my man, my man. But his next action only made it worse and an actual, involuntary, moan echoed out of you as his hot tongue licked a slow path up your neck. Your head anchored back against the wall, biting down the sounds that threatened to sing again. With eyes blurred and focused on the surroundings as you tried to compose yourself, only for you forced them shut as Dex does it again.
“Stop doing that,” he whispered with no conviction, the words dancing the thin line between a plea and playful attempt at banter. Though his easy tone did little to calm the building anxiety. Stop doing what? Stop being so fucking needy and desperate and–
“Stop denying yourself,” he clarified.
“I know, it's new, I know you feel weird. And I know your brains talking” Dex rasped out into your ear, pressing himself impossibly closer to you as his hand reached to adore one breast. He didn't offer any following words of reassurance, and you silently thanked him for it. God, you couldn't handle the embarrassment from being comforted because of your own inability to express yourself.
“I'll make it feel good.” He nodded a promise as he stared into your unsure eyes. “So good that it all shuts up.”
With certainty in his tone, Dex gently tugs you towards the bed, brushing the remnants of your bra off your shoulders before tearing the fabric of your disgraced tank top off your body. Your eyes immediately locked onto his biceps as he exuded force, yet with the gentleness of a true man, he laid your body down as if you were fragile. Large hands roaming your body, tugging at your shorts till they were stolen from you. Every ounce of security you had now gone with them.
He noticed almost immediately the crease settling home in your brows and he moved to balance out the scale. Removing his own shirt to display equal vulnerability in the hopes that it'll calm you. Your fingers at your side twitched once, unsure and hesitant, before your open hand raised, heel of your palm still planted on the mattress but you were indicating that you wanted touch. Dex complied, pushing your thighs apart to settle between them. The broad form of this man comfortably laid over you, chin resting on your abdomen as he laced his hand with yours.
He stayed like that for a moment, breathing with you. The analytical voice in the cortex of his mind knew that he was asking a lot from you, to be so open and bare when all your body had ever known was to hide and shrink. Dex wanted to make sure that your nervous system had calmed down enough to embrace what he gave you without fear of overthinking. In a rare human moment of easy sentiment, he brought your intertwined hands closer, planting a small kiss over the back of yours. The gesture soothed the tempest wake of your internal storm and you subconsciously parted your legs around his laid form wider. It was a barely there action but an entirely unavoidable movement for Dex as he took it as a welcome.
With firmness embedded in his bones, his other hand crept up to your inner thigh. Two fingers sliding up barely an inch beneath the elastic of your underwear. A raw, strangled exhale forced its way out of you as glossed irises darted down to meet him. Watching as he just laid there, playing wth your underwear as his fingers glided along the thin elastic. Up and then back down, too close to your soaked entrance but never touching, when he'd get too close his rhythm would change and you tried to ignore the way his knuckles brushing against your pelvis made you go insane.
Dex’s eyes watched you, rapt as the war on your face played out. Maybe he was doing this to try and soothe you, but he knew it in his heart that he wasn't that pure. He was absolutely doing this to fuck with you. He wanted to see if you were capable of getting over yourself, if that explosive nature of yours would finally appear if you were frustrated enough. And judging by the way you looked at the ceiling like it was the sinner, he knew he was getting close.
You blinked once at the myriad of thoughts, chewing on your bottom lip. The monster that he was, grew green with jealousy when he decided that your attention strayed far enough. Fingers drawing back to snap the elastic of your cotton blue panties against your inner skin where thigh met heat. A fraction of a second was all it took for you to pin the smug image of him with your gaze and the dam broke the self conscious overthinking.
“Oh for fucks sake!” You groaned, ripping your hand out of his and burying your face in your palms. Frustration and something you don't dare to name blossoming in your soul.
A sinister laugh corrupted the air, insidious and dark. “You gotta tell me what you want.” He shook his head, his fingers still doing that criminal trail. For a man who had such little regard for your clothing earlier, he sure treated your underwear like some sacred thing to devout himself to.
You huffed, eyes avoiding him. “I want you… but I feel terrible being naked,” Dex tried to suppress how absolutely adorable he found you right now, stubborn and pouty, like voicing your wants was such a painful task.
Maybe he should've thought the moment out some more, pick apart your statement and the context clues of your precise wording. But instead he found himself crawling over your body before his hand moved on its own accord, pushing his sweatpants down, along with his restrictive boxers. Hearing you say that you wanted him was the only incentive his veins needed.
“You don’t have to be naked,” A purr invades your ears as your jaw slacks when you feel him. The hard tip of his length pushing up against your entrance, through the barrier of your drenched underwear.
Your gaze travels down finally, watching as he rubbed his hard length on your clothed cunt. Blinking in an attempt to regain focus, you never thought about that… You didn't have to be completely bare. And secretly you thought the sight of Dex playing with you like that was the most erotic thing you've ever witnessed. For a man as condemned as yours was, God was certainly very generous with all of him, and his cock was no exception. Solid with intimidating girth that made you equally nervous as you were excited.
Your hips responded to the pleasing revelation, moving to match him despite your anxiety.
“There she is, that's it….” He groaned out as he rutted onto the soaked fabric, your lustfilled eyes darting to lock onto the scar on his cheek. It was one of the things you found so devastatingly attractive about Dex, save for his broad shoulders. Maybe you were drunk off the liquor of your own pleasure induced stupor. Hive mind calming as you reigned control over the tempest anxiety. Whatever had become of you was needy, leading with your chest as your tongue darts out to lick at his marred cheek. Copying the same sanctified ardor he had with your neck.
The sound that left him was barely restrained, if at all. Your focus is drawn to the way his biceps strained around your form and how his large palms gripped at the pillow beside your head. It was honest, an uncontrolled groan as his hips staggered once, followed by one hard grind before that incisive obsession in his genes demanded more. Ears perking at the curse he spat, and you saw it there, barely a second appeared that pensive expression that came when he weighed out the consequences of his actions. That one you'd come to know as Tony , Tony was good, Dex was questionable. As he once worded it, Tony was the structure whereas Dex was the wild card. It was a never ending impulse for him to switch between the two.
Before you could question who had won, Dex’s volatile, steadfast precision tipped the scales, pulling back away from you. And as concern began to take its hold on your features, his deadly hands took what they wanted, ripping the drenched fabric and security of your panties apart. You gasped, a startled wail that blurred the lines between fright and thrill, gaping at the torn scraps around your thighs. Peering up at the heaving man but his attention was locked onto your gleaming cunt, exposed and waiting for him. No longer hidden as the last bit of safety you had was reduced to a sorry excuse of a shield, torn hole evidence of his ferocity.
Dex’s calloused hand moved, palm pushing one thigh back as his thumb stroked your clit once. With starved gentleness that wasn't there before, he touched you with fondness. Preening at the pretty sight as he took note of how your thighs would flutter when he applied a certain amount of pressure.
Despite your debilitating infrastructure that had deduced you into a stubborn woman, you could only handle so much of his analyzing gaze. You knew he meant well, taking in the image of you and committing it to flesh till it was root memorization but fuck it was insanity.
“Dex….” A shy request that made him focus on you.
“Please…. Just…… fuck me already…” Muffled in embarrassment as a heat kissed your cheeks, he didn't say anything more, knowing that it'll only make things worse for you. He didn't dwell on the adorable mess that you were for too long. Not when his woman had given him an order.
He sat back on his knees, hand knowingly fishing into the pocket of the forgotten sweatpants loose on his thighs. Pulling out the condom wrapper Dex made sure to carry with him all times when he entered your apartment. A little thing that had earned its way on the check list of items he required on his body along with his knives. The act was fueled by preparation rather than the perverse idea that sex was his intention every time he crossed the threshold. Although sex was nice it was never his mission, you were. He rolled the rubber on, hands stilling half way when he took in that forming expression he categorized was your pout. It was a mean scowl but so fucking cute in a way that made him admit weakness. With your brows pulled, gaze narrowed and bottom lips so inviting, he raised a brow in question.
“Why do you need that?”
You said it with such distaste in your tone that the sheer vigor of it made Dex blink. Society had instilled in him that a condom was expected, it was the right course of action when you're with a woman to be a gentleman and always protect her body. But your words indicated absolute certainty that you didn't want him to use protection.
“I'm on birth control,” you nodded.
He blinked again. Dex didn't know that, and he knew everything about you, he had made sure to learn all that there is to. And yet he was unaware of this very important knowledge.
“Since when?.” He asked slowly.
“It doesn't matter, fuck me….” You let out a bold whine and his gaze turned piercing. It did matter. If it was a fact he didn't know thoroughly well about you, it mattered more than anything.
“It does, when?”
He repeated firmer, his mind wondering when you'd managed to slip pass your shared schedule long enough to maintain it. Wondering if there were gaps in the day or if he wasn't paying close enough attention to you.
“3 years ago, I have an IUD,” you murmured under your breath, arms crossing over your bare chest and Dex's eyes momentarily drop down to your cleavage.
Okay, that was a much better answer. He wasn't neglectful or blind, and relief dispelled his nerves. Though the calm was cut short when your nimble fingers suddenly found its way on his cock, pulling at the rubber with deliberate slowness causing his head to lull to the side. He'd never seen that look on your face in the kaleidoscope of pretty expressions he'd cataloged.
Your eyes were pinned up, defiant and dead in a way that almost mirrored his own. The ones he's come to intimately know, only ever seeing that assertiveness in the throne of the mirror, never on you. Dex's internal world halted as a groan rumbled in his chest caused by whatever the hell you were doing with your hand. Looking down to watch you pull at the condom, only to roll it back up when you stroked him. Again and again, for minutes too long.
Fucking hell you were vengeful.
Stubborn and shy, harboring immense emotions in your little body, and now you wanted revenge for his game earlier. Dex tries to suppress the smile that threatened to break free because my god weren't you just perfect.
You pulled the condom off with a snap, throwing the useless thing for him to catch mid air before he was on you again. Peppering kisses along your cheeks, causing you to squirm and laugh at the attack.
Though the sweetness of the moment only lasted half a second as a sharp audible gasped that sounded remarkably too close to a moan escapes you. Mouth parted wide with your head thrown back as Dex fucked into you with no warning. His face morphs into something unrestrained as he buries himself to the hilt, deep and unforgiving. Eyes locked onto the sight of your tight cunt fluttering around him, soft fabric still framing your skin.
“Dex….” You whined out a plea.
“What? You wanted me to fuck you raw and now you can't handle it?”
His hips moved, accentuating his spat words with thrusts so leisurely that it all but melted and ruined you. The heat between your legs intensifies at the feeling of him. Maybe he should have given you a warning, eased himself into you inch by inch till you got used to the stretch of him. But Dex was so far gone pleasantries at this point, not when you asked him so earnestly to fuck you raw.
And God did the thought stroke something greedy inside him. All he ever wanted was to be close to you in every possible way, and to know that you wanted that as well fed something insatiable in him.
Your moans were a hiccup of an orchestra as Dex maintained a bruising pace, fucking into you with a hungry force, expertly angled to dismantle your body. His thrusts were harsh and drawn out, almost pulling out all the way save for his tip kissing at your entrance before sliding back into you again. The sheer duress of his movements filled the room with lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin and your thighs quivered.
Dex forces them to stay put, large hands gripping at the torn fabric of your underwear and using them to pull your cunt close, forcing you to meet his thrusts. You were a mess. A beautiful, vocal mess that struggled against the sheets. Hands trying to find anything to stabilize yourself as you writhe beneath him. He didn't know which sight pleased him more, your tits bouncing to the rhythm of his thrusts or your leaking sex.
You were far beyond drenched, your slick spreading with every thrust in a way that was shockingly satisfying. Dex was a man that prided himself in strict cleanliness, evident in his spotless apartment, but in this moment he wanted nothing more than to make a heap of you. He didn't really understand it, this revelation that fueled his avaricious hands as they gripped at the fabric tighter. A covetous need that called to him like a siren song to see your cunt painted with his cum. As if somehow, someway, it laid his claim over you. He groaned out at the thought, picturing it as he watches you swallow his length whole. Strings of your liquor sticking to his pelvis with every movement back and the obscenity of it only made him want to fuck you harder, if that was even feasible.
“D-Dex….”
You mewled out and his focus was on your face instantly, only to snap back down to where you both connected. Your heat clenching around him in beats.
“I know baby, I know,” he breathed out, heart pounding in his ears as he readjust his angle, your body involuntarily arching as a loud whimper left your lips. You were close, the pressure in your stomach threatening to snap and he wasn't far behind either. Fuck he should've just done this from the start instead of wasting time teasing you, maybe if he had the pretty sight of your pussy would've been covered in his cum by now before he even got the chance to fill you.
His hands migrate from the makeshift handles of your ripped panties, finding home on your hips as he leans down to take one nipple in his mouth. You cried out, arching into him, hands finding place on his shoulders as he nibbled and sucked. That action was the last bit your self restrain needed to devastate. Ecstasy floods you in white-hot waves as you came without warning around him, your hips moving on their own accord to meet his movements. Your muscles tensed as your nails dug into his skin, baiting a loud groan from Dex. His hips stilling deep inside as his cock twitched, mouth still on you as he watched you get lost in your own pleasure. Hips locked against each other as ropes of his cum filled you.
Only when your breathing calmed did he decide to pull out gently. The serenity that had taken hold of you shattering when Dex groans, opening your eyes in alert. Though his attention was only onyour heat, wet and abused with his cum spilling out of you. His hands moved, thumbs caressing your folds once before he pushed the dripping mess back into you. Body giving out in exhaustion at this point as you collapsed back down onto the pillow, letting him do whatever his hyper acute mind demanded of him. Even if it meant lazily finger fucking his cum back into you.
Poindexter delivered a heavy, velvet-lined case to your kitchen island the next afternoon. Still motivated by the absolute high that came with being with you, his gaze was a fond sentiment as he waited for you to approach. Inside rested a custom, matte-black semi-automatic firearm, its weight perfectly balanced for you. Engraved into the reinforced steel of the handle, rendered in a brilliant, metallic pink that perfectly matched your sewing spools, were two distinct words: My Woman.
You took the weapon into your hands, feeling the cold, lethal weight of his protection settling permanently into your palm. You liked the feeling infinitely more than you were ever willing to admit. Smiling up at him as you got on your tip toes to shyly press a kiss over his scarred cheek.
That evening, the apartment was quiet once again, save for the rhythmic, comforting click of your ancient sewing machine. Dex sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, his broad shoulders relaxed, one large hand resting flat on his knee as he watched you work. The other however, was outstretched and playing with your hair, lazily twirling a strand around his finger. Since yesterday, a new habit of his began to form, embedding itself deep in his bones, flooding him with the need to constantly be touching you. You were not so different as you found yourself craving for his touch since the very first second you woke up this morning.
You stopped your machine for a brief moment, your eyes drifting over to the vanity where the matte-black firearm rested directly beside your pastel spools of thread. You looked at the weapon, then turned your head to meet the unblinking, intensely possessive depth of Dex's gaze.
"Thank you, Dex," you murmured softly.
"Anything for you" he replied, his voice a low, steady register that filled every corner of your empire.
You smiled, turning back to your fabric, completely filled with a profound, unyielding sense of safety. Gleaming that you had found a beautiful, eccentric savior, a man who simply loved you enough to build a fortress around your dreams. You sat in the warm, golden light of your home, entirely unaware of the psychological reality of the danger beginning to form between you. Because Bullseye had found himself his twin moon, no longer a north star galaxies away, but rather a beautiful equal that orbited together. You didn't know that he didn't view your love as a choice, but as a permanent assignment. And that gun was the first promise of many, the first test as he knew instantly that you liked it, unaware of what you could become.
You didn't know that he had already cataloged every exit of your building, or that his mind had already mapped out the exact tragedies required to execute anyone that ever dared to come near you. You were his sanctuary, his absolute identity, and as Dex watched your nimble hands guide the thread through the needle, his dark smile widened in the shadows. You were completely free, entirely safe with him, and he was never, ever going to let you go.
AN: This was a long one! If you made it to the end I appreciate you! Please let me know what you think! I promise in the next story reader won't be a seamstress lol, but I can't help myself I just loved sewing so much.
