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Someone who just wants to let their imagination run wild

[aquaticmercy]

dex leash/collar kink please 😔

Putting Dex on a Leash

WC 800

TW explicit sexual content (no anatomical detail), BDSM dynamics, collar/leash kink, dom/sub dynamic, power play, mentions of violence, Fem!reader, sub!dex, established relationship. 

Totally works as a one shot but in my head this reader is the same reader from No Absolution and Snap Out of It!

Mr. Charles slid the file across the table and looked between you and Dex with the patience of a man who had accepted that sending the two of you anywhere together was a liability. But then again, you two were the most effective killers the black ops program had, so…

“It’s a surveillance job,” he said. “Surveillance. In and out. Means no bodies unless necessary.”

Dex, leaning forward on the table beside you, gave him a flat look. “When are they ever unnecessary?”

Charles sighed through his nose. “This is exactly what I mean.”

You bit down on your smile.

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose and turned to you. “Please keep that boyfriend of yours on a leash.”

Dex went completely still.

Leash.

His heartbeat picked up so fast it almost resented him.

Because all he could think about was the night before, when there had been no mission, no handler, no fluorescent lights in some CIA black site. You were both in the same hotel room, a leather collar buckled tight around his throat, and you were holding the leash like you had every right in the world to own him.

Dex had been on his knees first, then you had pushed him lower.

You weren’t even that rough, and that was almost more humiliating. All you had to do was look at him and tug once, and he followed. Before he knew it, he was down to his hands, on the floor. His dark eyes fixed on you, chest rising quickly, the leash pulled taut from your fist to the ring at his throat.

He looked filthy between your heels, still trying to pretend he was composed while his mouth was wet with drool and his face was flushed and his hands were curled into fists because you hadn’t told him he could touch you.

You stepped closer until the pointed toe of your heel brushed beneath his chin.

His eyes lifted first, then his chin, obedient to the pressure, tilting up exactly where you wanted him. His throat shifted against the leather collar.

Oh fuck, the sight of  Dex, staring up at you from the floor like he had been made for nothing but this.

You dragged the tip of your stiletto slowly beneath his jawline.

“Look at you,” you murmured.

Dex swallowed, mouth parting. He had no smart answer, then, and you could see the visible effort of keeping himself still.

You tugged the leash and he crawled closer.

He wanted to be guided. He wanted to be pulled around by your hand, wanted to be placed exactly where you needed him and praised when he got it right.

You sat on the edge of the bed and spread your legs and gave another tug.

He came forward so quickly he looked ashamed of it, mouth pressing hot and open against the inside of your thigh. You let him kiss his way up slowly, pretending to be patient. You let him breathe against you, while your fingers tightened around the leash and your heel stayed planted beside his hand.

When his mouth finally found your heat over the underwear, his hands stayed flat on the floor, mouth shameless, tongue dragging a wet patch on the fabric like he was starving for it. He groaned against you when you pulled the leash tighter, the sound vibrating through your whole body, and the way his eyes flicked up to check your face.

He needed to know he was good.

You kept him there until his chin was slick and his breathing was ragged, until his hips were shifting uselessly against nothing and his fingers were digging into the carpet. Every time he got too eager, you tightened the leash and felt him force himself to calm down.

“That’s it,” you breathed, when he bit the cloth to the side. “Good boy.”

Dex’s eyes nearly rolled back.

He looked caught between humiliation and worship.

Then you pulled him up just enough to kiss him.

He came eagerly, rising on his knees, mouth messy against yours. You tasted yourself on him and he made another broken sound when you bit his lower lip and dragged him backwards by the leash, guiding him onto his back on the floor.

Dex went down without a fight.

His hands finally found your hips when you climbed over him, and you let him have that much. You let him grip you, hard and shaking, while you sank down on him slowly enough to make him suffer. His head tipped back against the carpet as the  leash pulled taut in your fist. 

You rode him like that, still in your heels, one hand braced on his chest, the other wrapped in his leash.

Now, in the briefing room, Charles was still talking.

You shifted beside Dex, one heel clicking against the floor.

Dex’s eyes dropped to your shoes, then to your hand, then away, his throat moving under his collarless skin like he could still feel the leather there.

You smiled down at the mission file.

Charles frowned. “Poindexter. Are you listening?”

Dex said nothing.

“He is,” you said sweetly. “And don’t worry, Charles. He follows my instructions very well.”

—

Any post from now on to the end of August will be queued. Look at the schedule here! I will be on from to time to check comments and messages but everything I post for the next month and a bit has already been written in advance 🫶

[aquaticmercy]

Snap Out Of It!

Summary : Dex finds your ex-boyfriend bleeding and crawling through your bedroom window.

Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Supersoldier! reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : fluff!!! Angst!!! established relationship, jealous!Dex, possessive!Dex, blood/injury, gunshot wound, knives/guns, violence, handcuffs used non-sexually, Bucky Barnes is mentioned to be your ex but you do not have feelings for him anymore (Let me know if I miss anything!) set after DDBA Season 2.

Word Count : 15.9k

Notes : Took me so long to write this but oh well. The title is taken from AM song. Enjoy!

Could be read as a one-shot, but is technically a sequel to No Absolution. All you need to know is that Bucky rescued reader from Siberia during the events of Civil War and they broke up before the events of Thunderbolts*. Dex and reader got together after Mr. Charles assigns them on the same mission post-DDBA season 2.

Boyfriend was a stupid word.

Dex hated and loved it at the same time.

It had once been a word that made a chasm of hunger open up inside his chest. Back before he had you. He wanted that word so badly, back when wanting you had been a private habit he fed in pieces, in glances, in the sound of your voice through comms, in the days you woke up after “casual sex” that didn’t feel casual at all. Back when you were just his work partner, his fuck buddy, his fixation in the safehouse hallway, and he had wanted the word boyfriend so much it had started to feel pathetic.

Your boyfriend.

It sounded normal. 

He had imagined you saying it casually to someone else during a mission. He had imagined you introducing him as My boyfriend. Like he was not Benjamin Poindexter, like he was not a weapon Mr. Charles kept pointing at problems, like he was just a man who came home to you, who knew how you liked your tea, who had a side of the bed and a toothbrush beside yours and permission to touch your waist when passing behind you in the kitchen.

And then he got it. He got you.

He was your boyfriend now. 

And somehow, it was not enough.

Girlfriend was what people called the woman they brought to weddings. Girlfriend was dinner reservations and spare hoodies and lazy Sunday mornings. Girlfriend was small enough to fit into people’s mouths without scaring them.

You were not small. You were not mild.

You were the hand around the back of his neck when he was one bad second from a bad decision. You were not his girlfriend like a cute title. You were his alibi, his home, his open wound, his last nerve.

You were his collar, though you only called yourself that when you wanted to watch him lose focus for you.

And Dex wasn’t your boyfriend in any ordinary way either.

He wasn’t all about flowers and movie dates, though he had brought you flowers once and then spent thirty-seven minutes rearranging them in a vase because he decided the florist had done a lazy job and nothing could ever possibly be good enough for his girl. He wasn’t normal morning kisses, though he kissed you every morning like he had to prove you were still his. He wasn’t good at easy affection, except when he was, and then it was almost worse, because his gentleness always had teeth around it.

So yeah, boyfriend and girlfriend sounded a bit too tame for what you were to each other, but you’ve been together for six months.

Six months was not a long time. 

Six months was nothing.

Six months was barely a “serious” relationship to normal people. Six months in a relationship was still pretending you didn’t notice each other’s flaws. Six months was still acting like you had boundaries, hobbies, independent lives, and a reasonable amount of emotional distance in case of a breakup.

You and Dex had skipped all of that.

Dex moved in officially by month three, which was funny, because unofficially he had moved in after month two. First it was a spare shirt, then a toothbrush, then a drawer, then three drawers. Then, he started hiding his knives under your bed, his gun taped beneath your kitchen table, his boots by your door, his shampoo in your shower, his body in your bed every single night like he would rather peel off his own skin than sleep somewhere you were not.

By the time he actually started paying bills (two weeks of staying around), it felt less like a milestone and more like paperwork catching up to the fact that he obviously lived there.

He belonged there. He belonged to you.

And fuck, you liked it.

You liked that he was insane about you. You liked that he wanted to know where you were, who you were with, how long you would be gone, whether you had eaten, whether anyone had looked at you wrong, whether anyone had said your name in a way he needed to correct. You liked the way his devotion took all the space out the room. You liked that loving Dex felt less like dating and more like being worshipped.

It was important to understand that you weren’t just the poor, helpless, naive girl who knew nothing better of his obsession. Please. You were a supersoldier with a body count. You could have snapped his wrist the first time he got too possessive. You could have kicked him out the first time he started acting like your apartment was his if you didn’t want it.

Instead, you bought his favourite coffee and cleared space in your wardrobe. Instead, you let him fold himself into every corner of your life. Instead, when you found the tracker he inserted in your bracelet, you didn’t throw it at his head.

You just held it up between two fingers and said, “Dex.”

He had gone completely still. He didn’t look guilty. Instead like a dog caught with blood on its mouth, waiting to see if you were going to send him away.

You should have been furious. Maybe part of you was. But another part of you, the part that had been made in laboratories and freezers, made to go on missions by Hydra where nobody came back for you, looked at that tiny little tracker and thought: Aw. He wants to find me.

Because you know Dex didn’t want to use you. You weren’t an asset. 

He just wanted to find you. To know where you were. 

So you sighed, handed the bracelet back, and said, “can you at least make sure it’s waterproof?”

Dex looked at you like you had just handed him your heart and a loaded gun and told him to be careful with both.

After that, after confirming that the tracking chip was indeed waterproof (and shatterproof), the bracelet stayed on at all times.

Of course, you had a tracker on him, too. You put it in one of his knife holsters that he never left home without. 

It was probably, by any normal metric to any normal couple, unhealthy. But to you, it was sweet. 

And it worked because neither of you had to translate the ugly parts. Dex didn’t have to pretend he was less intense. You didn’t have to pretend you wanted gentle, normal, polite love. He wanted to crawl under your skin and live there. You would let him if you could.

You had gotten together on a mission, because Mr. Charles paired you and Dex together. You were a close combat specialist with terrible aim, so naturally, he became your partner. You had your similarities, of course. You both were weapons who had learned to talk back. You were both very, very good at making people disappear.

You were supposed to work together.

Instead, Dex watched you rip a door off its hinges with one hand and fell a little bit in love. You watched him put a bullet through three moving targets with one ricochet and thought, Oh, he’s dreamy.

By the end of the mission, he was bending you over every flat surface he could find. 

When you returned from that months-long mission, he was in your apartment.

Now it was his apartment, too, legally.

And today, you were late in coming home.

Not late-late. Not missing. Not in danger, according to the little dot on his phone that he had refreshed seven times in the last ten minutes.

You had texted him and said “the line in the DMV was way longer than I expected. Going to be 15 minutes late :(“

Which was fine. It was fine. You had let him know. You were doing exactly what you’d promised: communicating every tiny thing before his mind could turn it into a crime scene. Now, though, according to the app, you were four blocks away. 

Then three and a half.

Then the dot stopped.

Dex stared at the screen anxiously.

He zoomed in and realised it was your favourite Chinese place. 

You were probably picking up takeout. You had texted him earlier asking if he wanted the usual, and he had stared at the message for nearly a full minute because the usual made this warm and needy feeling curl warmly in his chest.

The usual meant you knew him. The usual meant he had routines with you. The usual meant he wasn’t temporary.

Still, you had stopped moving there for five minutes. Then ten minutes.

Dex refreshed the app.

You still haven’t moved.

He refreshed again.

You still haven’t moved.

His thumb hovered over your name in the contacts. 

He could call. He wanted to call. He wanted to hear your voice, wanted to ask who was near you, wanted to tell you to come home now, wanted to go to you himself and remove every variable between your body and his.

He didn’t. Because you had told him, very gently, very lovingly, that if he interrupted one more meeting by appearing silently behind you with a gun, someone was going to report the incident. And if that report escalates into legal matters, Charles was probably going to assign you both into different missions next time. 

So Dex stayed on the couch.

He had a gun within reach, a knife in his thigh holster, phone in his hand. His eyes were still locked on the glowing little proof that you were still there, still coming back to him.

Because knowing you were safe was not enough. Knowing where you were was not enough. Dex wouldn’t relax until he heard your key in the door, until he heard your voice saying his name.

He had become addicted to the proof of you. He became obsessed with your shoes next to his by the entrance. Your jacket over his, your mug in the dishwasher. Your blood on his sleeves. Your laugh in his lips. Your body under his at night, comfortable and alive and his, his, his in the only way that mattered.

He refreshed the tracker again.

You were moving now.

Good. Good.

He exhaled through his nose and looked toward the door like he could summon you by way of wanting hard enough.

Then, from the corner of his eyes in the living room, he could see through the doorframe that the bedroom window was now half open.

Dex froze.

Huh. 

The window slid higher, and this time, he could hear hard breathing in the dark.

And not in the familiar, tired little sigh you made when you came home after a long day. This was someone else. 

Besides, you had keys. Why would you go through the window?

Dex looked down at his phone. Your location blinked back at him. You were still two blocks away.

You were enough that his chest had already started relaxing. Not close enough to be the person forcing their way into your bedroom.

He put the phone down without locking it and went into the bedroom.

The gun was in his hand before the intruder’s first boot hit the floor.

A body dragged itself through the window, broad shoulders catching on the sill, one hand gripping the frame, hard enough to make the wood creak. Whoever it was landed on one knee with a rough sound of pain.

Blood painted the floor before Dex ever saw his face.

And there was a lot of blood.

The man stayed hunched for a second, one hand pressed hard to his side, breathing like the air had teeth. He had dark tactical gear, long hair half-fallen into his face. Then he saw a metal hand catching the city light.

Oh, fuck off. 

Bucky Barnes looked up from the floor of the bedroom, pale and bleeding and still somehow arrogant enough to look annoyed by the gun pointed at his head.

Of course, of all the people in the world who could crawl bleeding through your window, it had to be the ex, who you broke up on decent terms with, who you were still friends with. Of course it was the ex who rescued you from your cryo chamber in Siberia. Of course it was your ex who you called for work emergencies, because those emergencies were usually Hydra-related ones. Of course it was your ex who was a supersoldier, like you. 

There were a lot of things Dex had imagined saying to him. Most of them involved you not finding the body.

Instead, Dex forced himself to smile and clicked the safety off. “Rough night?”

Bucky blinked once, unimpressed.

“Oh,” he rasped, as if he was surprised he was here. “You.”

Dex forced himself to smile. “Me.”

Bucky’s eyes moved past him, taking in the room in detail for someone who was supposedly bleeding. He could see a second cologne on the dresser, an extra cabinet that wasn’t there before, two pairs of pyjamas folded nearly on top of the duvet.

Then Bucky looked back at him. “You’re the new boyfriend, right?”

Dex tilted his head. “You’re the trespassing ex-boyfriend.”

As if he had never trespassed before. 

“Sorry.” Bucky made a sound that might have been a laugh if his ribs were not actively leaking. “I was aiming for charming entrance.”

“You missed.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Dex stepped closer, gun steady. “You want to tell me why you’re bleeding in my bedroom?”

Bucky’s eyes lifted at that.

Huh. 

Dex could immediately see it in his eyes. Bucky clearly felt petty, exhausted, and jealous in a way he clearly hated himself for being.

“Yours?’” He echoed.

Dex’s finger shifted lightly against the trigger. “Our bedroom.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched as he scoffed. “That was quick.”

Dex almost shot him for the tone alone.

But even when injured, Bucky was fast. His metal hand knocked the gun aside. Dex was already too close for it to matter. He drove his fist into Bucky’s side, exactly where the blood was coming from.

Bucky’s breath snapped out of him. “Cheap,” Bucky grunted.

Dex leaned in, eyes bright. “Expect me to fight fair, old man?”

Bucky caught him by the shoulder and turned, driving him into the wardrobe hard enough to crack the door. Dex hit wood, bounced off it, and came back smiling with blood on his lip.

Dex lunged, driving Bucky back to the table. The mirror rattled.

A bottle of your perfume tipped over and shattered against the floorboards, spilling glass and rose scent into the blood-stale air.

Bucky caught his next hit badly. He was too slow on one side, too stiff on the other, blood slick under his fingers where he was still trying to keep pressure on his ribs. Dex slammed into him anyway, agitating the liquid on the floor until the scent rose.

And Bucky hated, genuinely hated, how fast that smell got under his skin.

For half a second, he was not in your bedroom with a gunshot wound and your new boyfriend trying to rearrange his face.

He was in a safehouse, a bathroom mirror fogged after a shower. Your towel abandoned over the sink. Your shoulder brushing his in a safehouse hallway because neither of you had ever been good at giving each other space. Your perfume on the collar of his shirt after you stole it and gave it back. Your neck against his mouth before everything went sour. Your laugh in the dark. Your hand on his wrist. Your voice saying his name when you still said it like it belonged to you.

Bucky missed you. The realization hit him, and it was almost worse than the bullet.

Bucky didn't miss the idea of you. He missed you. Your smile, your face, the smell of you in the room like a ghost that had not asked permission to haunt him.

Dex saw that tiny, stupid pause. The way Bucky’s eyes dropped for one second too long to the broken glass. The way his jaw tightened like he had just swallowed something sharp.

Dex’s face went cold.

“Oh,” he said softly. “That hurt.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped back to him. “Shut up.”

Dex smiled. “No.”

Bucky shoved him back, harder this time, using more strength than he should have. Dex hit the wardrobe, the wood splitting behind his shoulder, but he came off it laughing under his breath, blood bright on his lip and jealousy alive in every line of his body.

“You miss her.”

Bucky’s expression shut down.

Dex stepped closer. “You do. That’s funny.”

“Nothing about you is funny.”

“No?” Dex tilted his head, eyes flicking over him. “You crawled through her window bleeding, looked around my bedroom, smelled her perfume, and forgot how to breathe. Seems pretty hilarious to me.”

Bucky swung.

Dex ducked under it and drove his fist into Bucky’s side.

Bucky’s knees dipped.

The pain tore a raw sound out of him before he could stop it.

Dex moved in close, almost gentle in the way a knife could be gentle if it liked where it landed.

“You should’ve gone to a hospital.”

Bucky grabbed him by the shirt. “Her place was closer.”

Dex’s smile vanished.

“Our place,” Dex scowled under his breath. The correction was quiet enough that it shouldn't have hit as hard as it did, but Bucky’s eyes lifted to him anyway. Blood was leaking between his fingers now, dark and slick against the black of his tactical gear, dripping steadily onto the floorboards Dex had polished two weekends ago. You smiled at him and helped, because you said you liked spending normal, domestic afternoons with him between missions. Dex remembered the way you had smiled at him from your knees with a rag in your hand, wearing one of his shirts, and the memory made the blood on the floor feel wrong.

Bucky’s mouth curled. “Didn’t realize she was taking in strays now.”

Dex stared at him for one flat second. Then he smiled, and it wasn’t a smile you would have liked. “Funny, coming from you.”

It shouldn’t have pleased him, seeing Bucky like this. But really?

This was the man Dex had been threatened by in his own head for months? This was the ex-boyfriend with the history, the metal arm, the kind of name that came attached to wars and redacted files and the unreadable look you got whenever Siberia came up? 

He was weak, bleeding, breaking into your room because he had nowhere better to be.

Still, Dex knew that wasn't a fair assessment. Bucky was only manageable because he was injured. If he were whole, if his ribs were not torn open and one side of his body was not stiff with blood loss, this fight would go in favour of Dex’s side. Not here, at least. 

Close quarters were made for men like Barnes, men built like battering rams, men who could crush bone with one hand and keep walking. Dex was better from a distance. Give him a bullet, a blade, a coin, a shard of mirror glass, anything he could send across a room, and he would put Bucky down before the man could say your name.

But Bucky was here, bleeding in your bedroom, and Dex had never needed fair to feel righteous.

He moved again, driving his fist into Bucky’s wounded side with deliberate cruelty. Bucky’s breath broke out of him in a brutal, unwilling sound, his body folding toward the impact before his pride could catch up. Dex grabbed the front of his vest and shoved him back into the dresser now that he was getting weaker and weaker. The wood cracked against the wall, your little tray of rings and hair ties skittering over the surface. Bucky’s metal hand shot out and slammed into the dresser edge for balance, and the wood splintered under his palm.

There. There he was. Even hurt, even half-dead and leaking blood all over your nice floor, Bucky was still strong enough to split furniture by accident. Dex felt the danger, but jealousy made him step closer instead of away. Bucky swung with his human hand, and caught Dex across the mouth hard enough to snap his head sideways. Blood bloomed over Dex’s tongue. The room went bright for a second, white at the edges, and then he laughed under his breath because Bucky had finally hit him like he meant it.

Bucky hated that laugh. Bucky’s eyes narrowed, though his face flattened like he could turn himself into a wall if he just refused to feel enough things. It didn’t work. 

Dex had seen Bucky look at the broken glass. He had seen that humiliating pause, the grief flickering across his face before he wiped it. He missed you, and Dex hated him for it. 

So Bucky smiled back, faint and mean through the pain. “She still get fussy about the sock placement in her wardrobe?”

It wasn’t an innocent question. Nothing in Bucky’s face was innocent. He knew exactly what he was doing, knew that mentioning an intimate detail would get under Dex’s skin faster than any punch. He was ragebaiting him and bitter enough to make himself cruel just to stop feeling pathetic. Dex knew that too, and it didn’t help.

He approached him in two steps. Bucky tried to brace, but Dex dipped under the metal arm and slammed his elbow into the wound again, not hard enough to end the fight, just hard enough to make Bucky’s knees soften. 

Bucky grunted and caught Dex by the shoulder, throwing him sideways with enough force to send him into the ground. The door cracked behind his back. Hangers clattered down around his head, your dress slipping off one of them and brushing his arm as it fell. Dex saw Bucky’s eyes flick to it for one second too long.

Dex came off the floor with his knife halfway out before he had fully decided to draw it. Bucky’s metal hand caught his wrist mid-motion, fingers closing like a vice. Pain flashed bright up Dex’s arm, sharp enough that his fingers twitched around the hilt, but he refused to flinch. He pushed into it instead, smiling with blood on his teeth, watching Bucky watch him. For one long second, Bucky looked at the knife, then at Dex’s face, and thought…

Oh.

For that second, Bucky genuinely thought Dex was going to kill him.

Not threaten him or play jealous boyfriend in the bedroom of a woman they had both loved in violently different ways. He thought Dex was going to kill him. Put the knife and leave him bleeding out beside your dresser before you got home with takeout in a plastic bag. 

Bucky’s fingers tightened around Dex’s wrist, not out of confidence this time but calculation. He was deciding whether he had enough strength left to stop him. He was deciding whether you would forgive either of them for what happened next.

Dex saw the thought cross his face and smiled wider.

Bucky, because apparently pain had made him stupid, leaned into it. “Careful,” he rasped. “She might not like finding me dead in her bedroom.”

That was enough to make him falter. 

Dex saw the scenario too clearly: you walking in, your face changing when you saw Bucky on the floor and Dex standing over him with the knife. You rarely cried, and it was part of what made it unbearable when you did. But if he killed Bucky, you would, and Dex would rather stab himself a dozen times than be the reason you cried. 

You cared about Bucky. Dex didn’t understand it, not really, but you had reassured him it was platonic now, you had said it with your hands on his face with soothing shushes, as if jealousy was a wound you could press your palms over until it stopped bleeding. Platonic. As if that word meant anything when Bucky still came to your window when the world went wrong. Dex hated him for it. Dex hated that some part of you would hurt if Barnes died here. More than that, he hated that it mattered enough to stop his hand.

His grip tightened until the knife trembled once.

“Our bedroom,” Dex said, and drove his forehead into Bucky’s face instead.

The impact cracked through both of them. Bucky staggered back, blood bright at one nostril now, and Dex used the opening to twist free. He went low, sweeping into Bucky’s bad side, viciously accurate. Bucky went down hard on one knee. The floorboards shook under him. Blood splattered out from beneath his hand when he caught himself, and the smell of iron rose thick enough to choke on.

Dex was on him immediately, one hand fisted in Bucky’s hair, yanking his head back just enough to make it insulting. Bucky’s metal hand came up, but Dex angled away from it, staying too close and too awkward, forcing Bucky to spend strength he didn’t have. 

The fight became ugly in the cramped space beside the bed. Bucky was stronger, but he was slow on the wounded side. Dex was weaker, but he was precise. 

Bucky, breathing hard now, bared his teeth. “She tell you about the scar under her ribs yet?”

Dex’s grip in his hair tightened so hard it had to hurt.

Bucky knew it was cheap. He knew he was saying it because he wanted Dex to lose control, because rage made people sloppy and Bucky needed Dex sloppy if he was going to survive. But the cruelty had teeth because it was true: Of course Dex knew about your scar, but there were parts of you Dex hadn't been there for. There were wounds on your body and in your history that had Bucky’s fingerprints around them, not because he caused them, but because he had been there when Dex had not. 

He slammed Bucky sideways into the vanity. The mirror cracked behind him in a thin, branching line, splitting Bucky’s reflection into several broken versions of the same infuriating face. Dex grabbed the front of his vest and hauled him close, mouth near his ear now, voice poisonous. “You’re making a mess.”

Bucky gave a breathless, humorless laugh. “You started it.”

It was a juvenile insult, but it got to him anyway.

Dex hit him again, with pure and ugly anger. Bucky went with it, one hand clamped over his wound, teeth gritted so hard he looked like he might bite through the pain. For one second, he didn't get back up. Dex stood over him, chest heaving, knife fully drawn now, the blade angled down and catching the dim city light from the open window.

Don’t.

The thought cut through Dex’s thoughts so abruptly it almost felt divine intervention. Don’t, don’t, don’t. You’re going to disappoint her.

Dex’s hand tightened around the knife until his knuckles ached. He could still do it. He could still put Bucky down before the bastard got another word out. But then what? You’d walk in, see the blood, see him, see exactly what he had chosen to do in your home, and Dex knew with horrible clarity that you wouldn’t look at him like he was protecting you.

You would look at him like he had hurt you.

His teeth clenched.

You think she’s going to forgive you if you do this?

Bucky looked up at him from the floor, and the smile finally thinned into something quieter.

Dex could see him thinking it again. He could see the exact moment Bucky wondered whether he had pushed too far, whether needling the new boyfriend had been funny right up until the new boyfriend turned out to be a psychopath with perfect aim and no audience to behave for. Bucky’s metal hand flexed against the floor. His human hand pressed harder to the wound. He was too hurt to spring properly, too proud to crawl, too stubborn to ask for help.

Dex, somehow finding mercy, crouched slowly, knife in hand, eyes never leaving his face.

“Were you followed?” he asked.

For a second, all the jealousy and violence had nowhere to go. Dex leaned in, the knife close enough now that Bucky could feel the idea of it against his throat. This was not just possessive anymore. This was practical. 

Bucky swallowed, throat shifting near the blade. “No.”

Dex’s stare didn’t move. “Try again.”

“I said no.” Bucky’s voice was rough, irritated. Pain had made him pale, and the mention of being followed had dragged the soldier back through the jealous ex. “What do you think I am, an amateur?”

“Tonight?” Dex said. “You sure as hell look like one”

“I was shot,” Bucky sneered.

“Everyone’s got problems.”

Bucky huffed a laugh despite himself, then immediately regretted it when the movement tugged at his side. His face tightened, and he looked away toward the window, toward the city beyond it. “Hydra cell uptown. I lost them before I came here.”

Dex tilted his chin. The jealousy didn’t vanish; it compressed, hardened, became the point of a needle. 

Hydra was near you. Hydra was close enough that Bucky Barnes, bleeding and stupid and still half in love, had decided your apartment was the nearest safehouse. Dex wanted to gut him for that. Dex wanted to check the hallway, the roofline, the stairwell, the little black dot on his phone that proved you were almost home. Dex wanted to drag Bucky into the bathroom, stitch him badly, and throw him out the window he came through. Mostly, Dex wanted you behind him where he could see every door between you and the world.

He pressed the knife a fraction closer, enough for Bucky to understand that he was being allowed to keep breathing as a courtesy.

“If you brought them to our door,” Dex said, voice tender with threat, “I’ll kill you before they get the chance to disappoint me.”

Bucky looked at him, breathing through his teeth. The old bitterness came back, but weaker now, frayed by blood loss and the dawning awareness that Dex wasn’t bluffing for the romance. “She know you talk like that?”

Dex smiled. “She actually likes it.”

Bucky’s muscles twitched again, and Dex took such vicious pleasure in it that it almost made up for the blood on the floor. 

He could see Bucky trying not to look around, trying not to notice the proof of Dex everywhere: the shirt over the chair, the spare boots by the wardrobe, the second cologne on the dresser, the life he had moved into. 

Then they both heard it.

The lock turned.

The entire room held its breath. Dex’s hand tightened once in Bucky’s vest before he let go just enough to stand, knife still hidden against his thigh. Bucky stayed on the floor, breathing hard, blood spreading beneath him, eyes flicking toward the bedroom door like even he hadn’t expected the timing to be this catastrophic. From the hallway came the rustle of plastic bags, the kick of the front door closing, the familiar little clink of your keys landing in the bowl.

“Baby?” you called, tired and completely unaware. “I’m home.”

Oh, shit.

Dex moved first, but only because Bucky couldn’t.

Dex straightened, his mouth split, his collar torn, one shoulder pressed strangely forward like he was trying to block your view of the wreckage with the sheer force of boyfriend entitlement. Bucky was still half on the floor, one hand clamped to his side, breathing hard through his nose, looking less like the Winter Soldier and more like a man who had picked the worst possible window in New York to bleed through.

“Stand up,” Dex hissed.

Bucky turned his head toward him. His face was damp with pain, and absolutely furious at being asked to perform under these conditions. “How?”

Dex’s eye twitched. He glanced at the door, then at Bucky, then at the dark red spreading beneath his knee like this was inconvenient. “I don’t care. Just don’t look like I did this.”

Bucky stared at him.

Dex scowled. “Fine. Don’t look like I did all of this.”

That, unfortunately, made Bucky almost laugh. It came out more like a wounded exhale, but it was enough to make Dex bare his teeth. They both knew what this looked like. It looked exactly like what it was: your psychopathic boyfriend and your assassin ex-boyfriend caught in the middle of a territorial bloodbath in your bedroom. There was no version of this where either of them came out looking reasonable. Even Bucky couldn’t look you in the eyes and say: I definitely did not start trying to piss your boyfriend off the second I saw him.

So they tried.

Dex grabbed Bucky under the arm and hauled him up with the stiff, resentful care of a man moving a bomb. Bucky bit down on whatever sound nearly escaped him, metal hand catching the dresser hard enough to make the wood creak. For a second, they were stuck like that: Dex bracing Bucky upright, Bucky leaning too much weight on Dex because he had no choice, both of them breathing through pain and rage and the horrible dawning knowledge that you were going to open that door and see everything.

“Stop bleeding,” Dex whispered.

Bucky’s eyes cut to him. “I’ll get right on that.”

Dex’s grip tightened enough that Bucky’s mouth flattened. “Do you want her mad?”

That shut him up.

Bucky wasn’t afraid of many things.He had been tortured, frozen, shot. But you were different. You had a way of going quiet when you were truly angry, a way of looking at a person like you were deciding whether to forgive them or break them in half. Bucky remembered that look. Dex knew that look. Both of them, stupidly in love with you in their own awful ways, understood at the same time that getting punched, stabbed, or shot would be easier than disappointing you.

So Bucky forced himself higher. Dex shoved the knife behind his own thigh like that helped, as if you didn’t know him well enough to clock a hidden weapon from the angle of his wrist alone. Bucky wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and only succeeded in smearing blood across his jaw. Dex looked at him with disgust, then glanced down at his own torn shirt and bleeding lip, and seemed to realize he had no moral advantage whatsoever.

From outside the bedroom, your footsteps slowed.

“Dex?” you called, closer now.

Dex’s entire body changed at your voice. His face gentled by force, badly, like a wolf trying to remember how poodles behaved. Bucky saw it happen and, despite the blood loss, looked vaguely surprised by how quickly Dex rearranged himself to be somewhat sweet for you. Then Bucky did the exact same thing, standing straighter, pushing his pain down, pretending he was not half a second from sliding down the dresser.

You paused outside the cracked bedroom door.

There was a thin line of light between the frame and the wall. Through it, Dex could see your shadow shift as you looked at the damage visible from the hallway. 

You didn’t come in immediately. That was worse, because it gave them both of time to become acutely aware of every sound in the room: Bucky’s uneven breathing, Dex’s blood dripping from his mouth, and the plastic rustle of takeout bags settling somewhere in the living room.

“Uh,” you said slowly. “Dex, who are you talking to?”

Dex opened his mouth.

Bucky gave him a warning look, which was insane, considering he was the one actively trespassing.

“Work,” Dex managed to croak.

Bucky closed his eyes. That was really the best he could do?

You opened the door.

For one long second, you just stood there with your coat still on, one hand on the doorknob, taking in the scene with a calm that made both men instantly wish you had screamed instead. 

Your eyes moved from the open window to the blood on the floor, from the cracked mirror to the broken wardrobe, from the shattered perfume bottle to your ex. Then your eyes moved to Dex, and suddenly the room became very small.

Bucky, who had faced firing squads with more composure, gave you a faint nod. “Hey.”

Dex looked at him like he was going to kill him after all.

You blinked once.

“What,” you said carefully, “am I looking at?”

Dex immediately pointed at Bucky. “He came through the window.”

Bucky’s head snapped toward him. “He hit me in the gunshot wound.”

“You bled on her floor.”

“I was bleeding before I got here.”

You lifted one hand, and both of them stopped.

It was almost embarrassing, the speed of it. Dex shut his mouth so fast his teeth clicked. Bucky went silent too, looking annoyed that he had obeyed at the same time as Dex. 

“My perfume,” you said.

Dex’s face shifted with instant, tragic guilt.

Bucky looked down.

That was the first real victory of the night, apparently. Your perfume bottle, shattered on the floor, managed to frighten them both into shame.

“It was an accident,” Bucky said carefully.

Dex’s head turned toward him very slowly.

Bucky seemed to remember, at the last second, that angering your boyfriend in front of you while bleeding in your bedroom was not a survival strategy. His mouth closed.

You stared at them for another second. Dex stood perfectly still, and. Bucky looked like he wanted to sit down, pass out, and win the argument. Both of them were waiting for your verdict.

Finally, you sighed.

It wasn’t a forgiving sigh. It wasn’t even a tired sigh. It was the sigh of a woman who had left for forty minutes and returned to find her past and present trying to murder each other in her bedroom like unsupervised coyotes.

“Were you followed?” you asked.

Bucky hated that he had to answer that twice.

“No,” Bucky said, straighter now. “‘Was dealing with a hydra cell uptown and you were closer." 

You sighed, as if to say, good. Then, you saw your boyfriend's hand move behind him, and you could only shake your head. “Dex,” you said.

He froze.

“Don’t.”

His hand revealed the weapon, as if making it visible made it any better.

Bucky, apparently determined to survive only by accident, muttered, “Good call.”

Dex smiled without looking at him. “Talk again.”

“Boys!” you snapped.

You stepped into the room at last, carefully avoiding the glass, and looked around with increasing disbelief. The closer you got, the worse it became. There was blood on the dresser, blood on the floor, a dent in the wall, a crack through the mirror, one of your shirts knocked from its hanger and lying in the wreckage like a surrender flag. 

You stopped in front of them, and neither man moved.

You looked at Dex. “Knife.”

He handed it over immediately, handle first.

You looked at Bucky. “Gun.”

Bucky hesitated for half a second.

“I know you have one,” you tilted your head. 

It was then that he pulled it from his hidden holster and gave it to you. Dex’s mouth twitched like he was pleased Bucky had also folded. Bucky saw it and looked like he wanted to bite him.

You took both weapons, set them on the dresser and pressed two fingers to the bridge of your nose.

“I was gone,” you said, very evenly, “for three hours.”

Dex glanced at Bucky. Bucky glanced at Dex.

Both of them seemed to understand, at the exact same time, that blaming each other would technically be honest but also spiritual suicide.

So they said nothing.

That, finally, was smart.

You stared at the two of them for a few seconds longer, then exhaled through your nose like you had to physically, actively choose to protect your peace or whatever.

“I’m going to get water and plate up dinner,” you said, voice calm in a way that made both stand straighter. “Dex. Put Bucky on the bed and stitch him up.”

Dex’s face went blank. Bucky’s did too, but for completely different reasons.

“No,” Dex said before he could stop himself.

You looked at him.

He swallowed, eyes flicking once to Bucky, then to the bed, then back to you with the betrayed eyes of a man being asked to personally tuck a grenade under his pillow. You stepped closer before he could make it worse, cupped his face with one hand, and kissed his cheek.

“Dex,” you frowned, quieter. “Please?”

Oh, you ruined him.

Bucky saw it happen and immediately wished he hadn’t. Dex’s shoulders lowered by a fraction, his mouth tightening around whatever insane argument he had been building, and the affection in him clicked into place so visibly it made Bucky want to look at the floor.

“Fine,” Dex said, like it cost him blood.

Bucky made the mistake of looking amused.

Dex turned to him with murder in his eyes. “Move.”

Bucky looked at the bed, then at the blood on his hand, then back at Dex. “She said put me on the bed. Not throw me.”

Dex grabbed him by the collar before he could say anything else. It was not gentle, but it was careful in the resentful way only he could be. Bucky bit down hard as Dex hauled him upright, metal hand catching the dresser for balance, the strain pulling fresh blood through his fingers. Dex leaned close enough that you couldn’t hear him from the doorway.

“Smile,” Dex murmured, “and I’ll make the stitches uneven.”

Bucky’s expression went carefully blank.

You gave them both one last warning look before leaving for the kitchen. The second your back was turned, the bedroom became awful again. Dex half-carried, half-dragged Bucky to the bed, looking offended by every inch of contact. Bucky tried to help and hated that he couldn’t. When he finally sank onto the edge of the mattress, breathing hard, Dex spread an old towel underneath him with sharp, angry efficiency.

“Don’t get comfortable,” Dex muttered.

Bucky sank onto the edge of the bed, breathing hard. “Believe me, this isn’t my fantasy either.”

Dex, remembering that with the serum, you were still within hearing distance, shut up.

The stitching was silent after that. Dex took his shirt off and worked with clean hands, cutting away ruined fabric, wiping blood from Bucky’s side, pressing gauze down harder than necessary but never hard enough for you to come back in. Bucky could tell every sting was measured. Dex was not losing control; he was choosing exactly how much it hurt.

The first stitch went in neat and mean.

Bucky’s metal hand flexed.

Dex didn’t smile, even though Bucky could tell he wanted to. He kept his head down, eyes focused, fingers steady as he pulled the thread through. Every movement said he knew what he was doing. Every tug said he hated doing it.

“If you tell her you came here because you missed her,” Dex said under his breath, “and I’ll reopen it.”

Bucky stared at the ceiling, breathing through his nose, all the old bitterness dragged out across his face. For once, he didn’t rise to it. Maybe because he was tired. Maybe because you were in the kitchen. 

And when you came back with water and plates, Dex was wiping blood from his thumb with gauze. Bucky was stitched, furious, and silent on your bed.

You looked at the wound, then at Dex.

“Did you make it hurt?” you asked.

Dex paused, and Bucky stared at the ceiling.

Dex wiped blood with a square of gauze and said, very carefully, “A little.”

—

Bucky stayed for dinner because throwing him out with a fresh row of stitches would have made you feel guilty, and because Dex didn't want you to sulk all night.

So the three of you ended up in the living room like the world’s worst domestic painting. You sat cross-legged on the couch with your plate balanced on your knee, trying very hard to pretend there was not a bleeding supersoldier in the armchair and your boyfriend sitting beside you with the posture of a guard dog told not to bite. Bucky had one hand resting carefully near his ribs, still stubbornly upright. Dex sat close enough to your side that his thigh touched yours, his hand loose on your knee, thumb moving once every few minutes like he was reminding himself you were still there and not a hallucination caused by rage.

Dinner lasted seven minutes before it became a crime scene again, just with food.

You had tried. Fuck, you had actually tried. 

For a while, nobody said anything. Dex kept eating in small bites, fist tight enough to crack porcelain. Bucky kept staring at his plate like the noodles had disappointed him. You looked between them, took one bite of rice, and felt your patience leave your body.

“So,” you said, too brightly, because apparently you were determined to suffer. “Are we going to talk about the Hydra cell uptown, or are we all just going to chew angrily until somebody has an aneurysm?”

Bucky grunted.

Dex made a similar sound

You put your fork down. “Thank you both,” you said sarcastically, “Very productive.”

Bucky shifted in the chair and winced before he could hide it. “It’s handled.” which really meant, I wanted to catch up with you but your psychopath boyfriend is in the fucking way.

Dex looked up immediately. “You got shot.”

“And still lost them.”

“You ran here.”

“I came here because it was close.”

“No,” Dex said, his voice going small in the way that meant he had picked a vein and was about to press his thumb into it. “You came here because you knew she’d let you in.”

Bucky’s face hardened.

“I was bleeding.”

“You keep saying that like it makes this less pathetic.”

“Dex,” you warned.

He looked at you at once, and for half a second you saw him try. He really did try. His hand found your knee under the coffee table, not possessive this time but grounding, almost apologetic. Almost, sorry, I can’t help myself. Then Bucky laughed under his breath, one bitter little sound, and Dex’s eyes snapped back to him like a moth finding light.

“What?” Dex asked.

Bucky leaned back, mean with pain. “Nothing. Just funny watching you heel.”

The room went still.

You said, “Bucky.”

But Dex had already smiled.

It wasn’t his good smile. It wasn’t the sweet one he gave you in the kitchen when you kissed the corner of his mouth, not the private little pleased one he did when you called him baby in public. This was unkind and ugly and delighted to have been given permission to be cruel. “That bother you?”

Bucky’s hand tightened around his fork. “No.”

Liar.

“It does.” Dex’s thumb went still on your knee. “You hate that she can tell me to stop and I do.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “I hate that you think that makes you good for her.”

You felt yourself sit straighter. “Okay. No. We are not doing this.”

They didn’t hear you, or worse, they heard you and kept going anyway.

Dex leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, all that careful obedience peeling away under jealousy. “Better than disappearing and calling it noble.”

Bucky’s face changed so quickly it almost hurt to watch. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you left.”

“You know what she told you.”

“I know she doesn’t wake up looking for you anymore.”

That one landed too close too home.

You stood up. “Dex.”

Bucky stood too, or tried to. It was a bad idea. His side pulled, his face went grey, and he had to catch himself on the arm of the chair, but pride dragged him upright anyway. “Say that again.”

Dex rose with him,, one hand already half-reaching for a weapon you had taken from him. “She doesn’t wake up looking for you anymore.”

Your voice came out louder this time. “Enough!”

Bucky laughed, but there was nothing amused in it. “You think you won because you sleep in her bed?”

Dex stepped around the coffee table. “I know I won.”

As if it was ever about winning and not just a pissing contest between two men who cared about you so much, they didn’t know what to do with it half the time.

You moved between them before either of them could take another step,heart hammering with not fear exactly, but it close enough to make you furious. “Both of you shut up. Right now. I mean it.”

For one second, they looked at you. Dex’s eyebrows furrowed when he recognised in panic at your tone. Bucky’s mouth parted like he might actually apologise. Then Dex saw Bucky looking at you, saw the old familiarity there, saw the guilt and grief and care that had no business surviving all these years, and whatever fragile ceasefire you had forced together snapped cleanly in half.

“She’s not your safehouse,” Dex said.

Bucky’s head turned slowly. “Don’t talk about her like she’s a place you own.”

“She is my home.”

“She was mine before she was yours.”

You, by now, had long gone silent.

And not because you had nothing to say. You had too much. It filled your throat all at once, impossible to sort through. You stared at Bucky, then at Dex, and neither of them noticed immediately because they were too far gone. Two trained killers, standing in your living room and turning your life into a battlefield because neither of them knew what to do with the fact that you had existed before and after them.

Dex’s voice rose again first. “She’s not a territory you lost.”

“I was there when it mattered.”

“And where were you after?”

Bucky’s face twisted, souring. “Trying not to ruin her life.”

Dex laughed, loud and cruel now. “How’s that working out?”

They were shouting. Actually shouting now, voices overlapping, old wounds dragged out and thrown at each other like knives. Bucky’s voice was rough from pain and rage. Dex’s was colder, nastier, even when he was losing control. You stood between them for another few seconds, watching their mouths move, watching them say things that were not really about each other at all. They were talking about guilt. About who had failed you better. About who deserved to stand closer.

Then something inside you simply turned… off.

Bucky was saying something about Siberia now, about extraction, about choices made in difficult situations. Dex was throwing back something about staying, about not making abandonment sound like sacrifice. Their voices filled the living room, bouncing off the walls, ugly and masculine and wounded all the same, and you felt suddenly, violently tired. 

Not sad. Not even angry anymore. You were just tired in a way that settled behind your ribs.

You stepped back.

Still, they argued.

You looked at the cold food on the coffee table, at the stain of Bucky’s blood on your rug, at Dex’s split lip, at the two men who would kill for you but apparently could not stop talking over you. Your teeth pressed together until your bones hurt. Then you turned your head slightly toward the hallway, toward the bedroom that still had broken glass on the floor and your perfume drying into the wood.

Dex was the first to notice.

Not because he was calmer, but because some part of him always tracked you, even in the middle of his own worst impulses. His voice cut off mid-sentence. His whole body turned toward you by instinct, anger draining out of his face so quickly it left a hollowness behind.

Bucky kept going for half a second longer. “You don’t know what she—”

Then he stopped too.

At this point, you were not looking at either of them. You were standing very still, arms loose at your sides, face quiet in a way that made Dex look like he had been stabbed. Bucky’s eyes shifted more slowly, anger collapsing into guilt as he realised you had gone somewhere neither of them could follow with volume.

Dex said your name.

You didn't answer.

He took half a step toward you, careful now, all the violence gone from his hands. “Baby.”

“No.”

He froze.

You finally looked at him, and whatever he saw on your face made his mouth close.

“No, babe,” you said, trying to hold it together. “Pretend I’m not here. Go fight.”

Neither of them moved.

You gave a small, humourless nod, like that proved the point. “Right.”

Then you turned and walked toward the second bedroom that had been turned into an office.

Dex followed immediately.

He didn’t even look at Bucky. Dex, who had spent the entire night bristling at him, needling him, measuring him, hating him by default and by choice, didn’t even glance back. The second you walked away, Bucky stopped existing to him. Dex followed you down the hall with panic in his shoulders, saying “baby” once more, quieter this time, like he knew he had broken a thread and didn’t know whether he was allowed to touch it.

Bucky stayed in the living room alone.

For a long while, he stood there with one hand pressed to his side, listening to the muffled sound of Dex behind the office door and the absence of your voice answering him. Then his legs gave out enough that he had to sit back down in the armchair.

For once, he had nothing left to say.

—

Dex followed you into the office like he had been pulled by the throat.

Bucky could have stood up, stolen a weapon, climbed back out the window, or died dramatically on your rug, and Dex wouldn’t have noticed unless you did. You had gone quiet, and that was worse than shouting. 

You went straight to the office, pushed the door open, and stood in the middle of the room with your arms crossed like you had no idea what to do with your own hands. Dex came in behind you and stopped just inside, careful not to crowd you, which made it worse because he was trying so hard. There was dried blood at his lip, and he looked wrecked, keyed-up, guilty, furious, and terrified all at once.

“Baby,” he said.

You laughed once, but there was no humour in it. “Don’t baby me right now.”

He flinched like you had put your hand through his ribs. It made you angry all over again because of course that got to you. Of course the sight of him looking hurt made your own chest tighten, even when you were the one trying not to cry. That was the horrible thing about Dex. He could be violent and possessive and completely out of his mind, but the second you were upset, he went pliant in the most devastating way. Not calm or healthy, and not flinching like panic. He became pliant like worship. Pliant like he would rather tear his own heart out than survive you going cold on him.

You turned away from him, pressing your fingers hard against your eyes. “I am so tired.”

“I know,” he said immediately. “I know, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

You weren’t convinced, because you knew him, and you knew he would say anything to win you back, no matter the cost. 

“Are you?” you snapped, whirling back on him. “Because you were in there acting like he came here to steal me. He’s bleeding, Dex. He was shot. He came here because he trusted me.”

Dex’s nervous flexed at that, but he swallowed whatever first answer rose in him. You could see it. The jealous monster in him wanted to bite. The boyfriend in him wanted to crawl. The boyfriend won because you were crying now, your breath catching in your throat like you hated yourself for doing it.

Dex walked up to you slowly, like approaching a wounded animal, and lowered himself to his knees in front of you as if it was second nature.

“Don’t,” you said, but your voice cracked.

He looked up at you, hands hovering near your thighs without touching until you let him. “I can’t see you like this,” he said, voice low and ruined. “I can’t. Be mad, yell at me, hit me if you need to, but don’t go quiet. Please don’t go quiet.”

You were never going to hit him, of course, and that broke your heart. 

See, when you two fought, you fought so differently then when you did with Bucky. 

Because with Bucky, when it had been bad, it had always been explosive. The two of you had fought like weather systems, and then one of you would go silent. Sometimes him. Sometimes you. Whole rooms would be left full of things unsaid. You’d spend whole nights spent with your backs to each other.

Dex was not like that.

Sure, before you started dating, when you were just friends with benefits, you’d fight. But now that he had a title he could lose? Dex couldn’t bear distance. He could not sit in another room and wait you out. He didn’t know how to leave anger alone to cool. The idea of you lying awake furious at him while he gave you space would destroy him faster than a bullet. He would beg too early, apologise too fast, kneel before his pride even understood it had lost. He didn’t always understand how to be good, but fuck, he wanted to be good for you so badly it hurt to look at.

You covered your mouth, breath hiccuping.

Dex’s hands settled carefully at your hips. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m sorry I made it worse.”

“He’s my friend,” you said, and the words came out small despite how hard you tried to make them loud. “I care about him. He saved my life, Dex. He pulled me out of that chamber. He was there when I didn’t even know if I was still a person.”

Dex’s face soured, but not with malice. With jealousy he hated and couldn’t smother fast enough.

“I know,” he whispered.

“No, you don’t. You don’t get to make me feel guilty because I care about someone who mattered before you.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“You are.” You shoved at his shoulder, not hard enough to hurt him, but enough to make his hands fall away. “You are, and I can’t do this. I can’t have you two tearing each other apart every time you’re in the same room. Just get along. Be civil. Be normal for five minutes. Do it for me, you jealous prick.”

Dex blinked up at you. Then, very carefully, he said, “You’re jealous too.”

“Of what, Dex?” You spat. “You’ve never had a girlfriend before me.”

He didn’t say it like a weapon. He said it gently, almost sadly, like he was placing fragile blade between you because pretending not to see it would insult you both.

“Julie,” he said.

You looked away immediately, and that was answer enough.

Dex’s hands moved back to you, palms warm through the fabric of your trousers. “Baby.”

“Don’t.”

“You found out about her and stayed up until three in the morning asking me questions.”

You remembered that night with a humiliating clarity.

It had started so quietly, with you in bed beside Dex, both of you half-dressed and exhausted, his hand warm on your thigh under the blanket while the room sat blue and still around you. You had asked one question about Julie because you thought you could handle one question. Then one became five, then ten, then suddenly it was three in the morning and you were sitting upright with your knees pulled to your chest, crying like a stupid little girl over a dead woman who had never even been your rival.

Dex had looked devastated by it. Not irritated or defensive. Devastated, like your jealousy had hurt you first and him second. He kept trying to pull you back into him, careful and frantic at the same time, one hand cupping the side of your face while the other rubbed slow circles into your hip. “Baby,” he had said, over and over, voice wrecked. “It wasn’t romantic. It was never romantic. I don’t love her like that. I don’t think about her like that. I don’t think about her at all unless you ask me to.”

“But if she was alive,” you had whispered, hating yourself as soon as the words came out. “If she was still here, would you still be with me?”

Dex’s face had gone still in the dark, stunned that you could even ask him something so clear to him. Then he moved closer, both hands on you now, holding you like he could physically keep the thought from hurting you any more than it already had. “Of course,” he said, immediate and absolute. “Of course I would. That’s not even a question. You’re not competing with her. You’re not competing with anyone. I want you. I love you.”

You had cried harder then, because the answer should have fixed it and somehow it didn’t. It only made you feel pathetic, mean, ridiculous. Jealous of a ghost. Jealous of some old, lonely part of Dex that had latched onto the idea of a woman because he hadn’t known what else to do with his moral compass. And Dex, because he loved you, hadn’t made you feel small for it. He had just pulled you into his lap, pressed his mouth to your temple, and held you through every ugly question until you ran out of shame and fell asleep against his chest.

Truly, the two of you were a match made in heaven. Or hell. Definitely somewhere dramatic and poorly supervised.

Your throat tightened. “That was different.”

“I know,” Dex said quickly. Too quickly. “I know it’s different.”

You looked at him, breathing unevenly.

He swallowed, still on his knees in front of you like he was afraid you might pull away if he stopped touching you for even a second. “Julie was a fixation,” he said, voice low, urgent, trying so hard to make it better that he didn’t hear himself making it worse. 

You went still.

Dex kept going for half a second too long, because Dex, when scared, could be frighteningly honest. “Bucky was your boyfriend. He’s alive. He was with you. He knew you. He—”

Your breath hitched.

Dex stopped.

His face changed immediately. The argument drained out of him, all that desperate need to be understood collapsing into horror as he realized what he had just put in your hands. Bucky was alive. Bucky had been real. Bucky had loved you in a way Julie never had with him. Bucky could still walk into your apartment bleeding and make him sit down for dinner.

And Dex had said it like that was a wound he was allowed to press.

“Baby,” he said, softer now. “No. I didn’t mean—”

“You don’t have to remind me,” you whispered, and the shame in your voice made you sound younger than you were. “I know that makes me worse.”

You hated yourself for it sometimes, how Julie’s name had lodged under your skin. She was not an ex. She was not some woman Dex had kissed, loved, lost, and secretly measured you against. Julie was a dead girl Dex had fixated on in a way that did not fit neatly into romance or grief. You could resent a living woman. But Julie was a ghost.

“I can’t help it,” you admitted, tears spilling over before you could stop them. “I know it’s not fair. I know you don’t love her. I know you never loved her like this. But I still—”

Dex rose enough to gather you into him, careful and frantic all at once.

“I’m sorry,” he said into your stomach, arms tight around your waist. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be mean.”

You pressed your hands over your face, crying harder because he was right and because you were right and neither of those things fixed anything.

Dex held on like letting go would kill him. “What I meant to say is—,” he said, voice wrecked. “I know what it feels like. I know.”

Your fingers slid into his hair despite yourself.

He turned his face into your touch at once.

“I can’t help it, either,” he whispered.

You looked down at him.

“…But he saved my life.”

That, Dex didn’t have an answer to.

You made a broken little sound, and Dex rose just enough to wrap his arms around your waist. He held you carefully at first, then tighter when you folded into him, his face pressed against your stomach, his breath warm through your shirt. You cried harder then, angry and exhausted and humiliated by how much all of it hurt. Dex shushed you like it hurt him too, one hand rubbing slow circles at your back, the other gripping like.

“And it’s not like he still loves me,” you said into his hair.

Dex was silent for a beat too long.

You pulled back, wet-eyed and furious, knowing he didn’t buy it. “He doesn’t.”

Dex looked up at you with those eyes. “Baby.”

“He doesn’t,” you insisted, even as your voice broke. “And even if he did, I don’t care. I don’t love him that way. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“It is.”

“Then act like it.”

His eyes closed.

You touched his face, thumb brushing just under the blood at his lip, and the anger in you crested and fell despite yourself. “I want you to get along with him.”

Dex opened his eyes again, devastated.

“I know,” you said, before he could argue. “I know you hate it. I know it feels awful. But he’s my friend. He saved my life. He matters to me, and you matter to me, and I am not spending the rest of my life refereeing two guys who both think suffering quietly counts as emotional maturity.”

A faint, miserable twitch crossed Dex’s mouth. “I don’t suffer quietly.”

“No,” you said. “You suffer at me.”

He almost smiled, but then your eyes filled again and it died instantly.

“I’ll try,” he said. 

You looked at him for a long moment, searching his face. Dex let you. 

Dex meant everything when it came to you. Every promise, every apology, every awful possessive impulse, every desperate attempt to be better.

But I’ll try is not I will, now is it? 

You bent down and kissed his forehead. Then, you stepped away.

Dex’s hands fell slowly from your waist. 

You wiped your face with both hands and took a long breath. “I need air.”

His face changed immediately. “I’ll come with you.”

“No.”

Oh.

You walked past him to the office cabinet and pulled open the bottom drawer. Dex watched, confused and wary, as you took out the adamantium handcuffs Charles had given you for your next mission, along with the reinforced rope packed beside them. His eyes narrowed.

“I…,” he said carefully. “What are you doing?”

“Solving my problem.”

You walked back into the living room with Dex following close behind. Bucky was still in the armchair, plate abandoned on the coffee table, one hand pressed to his freshly stitched side. He looked up when you came in, saw your tear-streaked face first, then his gaze dropped to the adamantium cuffs.

His expression went flat. “No.”

“Yes.”

Bucky knew that look. He knew your stupid little get-along strategy because you had done it before, years ago, during the Flag Smashers ordeal, when he and Sam had been pretending not to hate each other so much it became everybody else’s problem. You had locked them in one of Sarah’s spare room, taken the weapons, and told them you didn’t care if they talked, fought, cried, or started a podcast, but they weren’t coming out until they stopped acting like divorced dogs.

Sam had called you messed up, which wasn’t false. Bucky had called you evil, even though he loved you then. Still, it worked.

So yes. He knew exactly what you were about to do.

Dex was a little slower, but not by much. He looked to the cuffs, to Bucky, to the dining chair, then back to your face. 

“Wait,” Dex said.

“Nope.”

Bucky tried to stand. He made it about three inches before pain and blood loss turned the attempt into something embarrassing, his metal hand catching the arm of the chair as his stitched side pulled meanly. Dex, still not fully accepting the plan but loyal to your orbit by instinct, caught him by the shoulder before he could tip sideways. The second he realized he was helping, his face went sour.

You dragged two dining chairs back to back, and pointed “Sit.”

Bucky and Dex stared at you.

You stared back, tear tracks still drying on your cheeks, cuffs hanging from one hand, absolutely done with both of them.

They sat.

It wasn’t elegant. Bucky was injured and annoyed. Dex was baffled and visibly trying to decide whether his obedience extended to being trapped with your ex. Unfortunately for both of them, you were a supersoldier and in absolutely no mood. They both knew you overpowered Dex, and Bucky in this state. So within  a minute, Dex and Bucky were back-to-back on the chairs, wrists locked in adamantium cuffs, rope looped around their torsos for good measure.

Bucky looked over his shoulder as much as he could. “Are you serious?”

Dex tested the cuffs once, then stopped when you looked at him. He said your name, but you didn’t respond. 

You put your coat back on.

Both of them went very still.

“I need some air,” you said, voice raw but steady now. “You better figure out your differences by the time I come back”

Dex’s face went pale with panic. “Baby, please—”

“No.” You grabbed your keys from the bowl. “You two want to fight so badly? Great. Use your words.”

Bucky shifted against the rope and winced. “This feels unnecessary.”

You opened the door. “You two are assassins. Bond.”

That shut him up.

Dex leaned forward as much as the cuffs allowed, eyes fixed on you like the leash had gone too long. “Don’t go far.”

You paused at the doorway, you looked like you were going to say something, but instead, you just closed the door and left. 

Dex stared at the door like he could will it open again, simply because he cannot remember the last time you left the house without a goodbye kiss. Bucky stared at the opposite wall, side aching, wrist cuffed to a man who clearly wanted him dead and loved you too much to move.

Finally, Bucky exhaled.

Dex said, very quietly, “I hate you.”

Bucky closed his eyes. “Yeah. I got that.”

—

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

The silence was not a peaceful one either. It had weight, heavy as blood drying into the rug. 

It felt like some humiliating group therapy exercise designed by a woman who had finally had enough. Neither of them tested the restraints for long. They both knew you. They both knew Charles, Val, and the likes of them. They both knew you hadn’t used anything either of them could break without tearing the chair, their shoulders, or each other apart in the process.

Eventually, Bucky shifted, just enough to take pressure off the stitches in his side.

Dex’s voice cut through the room immediately. “Stop moving.”

Bucky shut his eyes. His shoulders were stiff against Dex’s back, and every shallow breath dragged at the wound, feeling like punishment. “I’m bleeding through stitches because you put them in like you were sewing up a punching bag.”

“You’re alive.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m managing.”

Bucky breathed out through his nose, almost a laugh, but the movement pulled at his side and killed the sound before it became anything. The room went silent again, only meaner this time, because the adjustment had brought their backs closer together. Dex could feel the hard line of Bucky’s body against his, even tied down. Bucky could feel the cogmium steel in Dex’s spine, the tension locked through him like he was barely pretending to be human.

“You always treat her like she’s gonna disappear if you blink?” Bucky asked.

It was meant to be an insult. Bucky meant it as a jab at the anxious attachment, the codependency Dex seemed to have with you that Bucky never had. The problem was Dex didn’t see it as a flaw. Loving you meant watching. Loving you meant knowing where the exits were, where your coat was, how long you had been gone, what your voice sounded like when you were about to shut down.

Dex’s mouth hardened. “You would know something about disappearing.”

Bucky’s voice dropped. “You don’t know anything about what happened.”

“I know enough.”

Neither of them could move properly, but for a second, it felt like the fight might restart anyway, like they would throw their weight against the chair until something broke. 

“Why?” Dex asked eventually, forcing the words through.

Bucky said nothing.

Dex’s voice roughened. “Why did you leave her?”

The question didn’t come out of jealousy this time. It came out confused, almost offended, like Dex had found a hole in Bucky’s logic so stupid he couldn’t stop looking at it. He could understand fear. He could understand obsession. He could understand damage, violence, love so consuming it made a person distasteful to everyone except the one person who mattered. What he could not understand was having you in his arms, feeling you settle against his chest, hearing your breathing even out because you trusted him enough to sleep there, and then choosing to leave.

It made no sense to him! When Dex held you, there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. No mission, no freedom, no version of himself without you waiting for him. The thought of breaking up with you felt less like a choice and more like suicide. So what the fuck was Bucky’s excuse? How did a man get loved by you and still manage to walk away? Was he stupid? Was he blind? Was he just a fucking dumbass?

Bucky didn’t answer for a long time. When he finally spoke, the words came out flat, like he had scraped all the pride off them first.

“I started my campaign for Congress,” he said. “Sam talked me into it. She tried to talk me out of it. I thought it was the right thing. I thought if I chose office and a stable paycheck, I could take care of her.”

Dex listened unwillingly.

“When I got elected, I told her to stop the vigilante work,” Bucky continued. “Told her it was going to get her killed. She said the job wasn’t me. She said every speech made me look like I was burying myself alive and asking people to clap for it.”

“Was she right?” Dex asked.

Bucky didn’t answer straight away.

He could still remember a particularly bad fight like the back of his hand. 

You were in the kitchen of the old Brooklyn apartment,  one sleeve shoved up because there was blood on your wrist and you had sworn it wasn’t yours. He was still in his campaign shirt, collar open, tie pulled loose, standing between you and a stack of donor notes like any of it had ever belonged to him. You and Bucky had always been fire against fire. There was no Dex-like affection that turned into apology the second your voice cracked. Bucky loved you, but he fought you like someone who expected you to talk back. And you always did.

“You don’t care that it’s dangerous,” you had snapped. “Don’t lie to me, it’s insulting.”

Bucky sighed. “You think I don’t care if you die out there?”

“I think you care that it’s not good for your job,” you shot back, voice rising. “I think you care that future Congressman Barnes can’t have a girlfriend coming home with blood in her pretty little dress because it isn’t good enough for the cameras. It doesn’t fit the nice little “reformation” story they’re trying to sell about you.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” you demanded. “Because you didn’t have a problem with what I did when we were both in the mud. Now you’re wearing a suit and smiling for donors, and suddenly I’m the problem?”

“I’m trying to build something,” Bucky shouted back. “For us.”

“No,” you said, and your voice broke because you wanted so badly for him to understand. “You’re trying to make us presentable.”

You gripped the marble, then you shoved his speech draft off the counter and the papers scattered across the floor like the whole campaign had finally become as ridiculous as it felt.

“You hate this,” you said, furious and crying now, which only made you angrier. “You hate the speeches. You hate the cameras. And you want me to stop fighting because if I stop, maybe you can pretend you stopped too.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“That is exactly what this is.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“And you’re going to stand behind a podium and call that living?” you threw back, stepping closer, close enough that he could see the tears caught on your lashes. “I can’t stand there pretend this is your passion. Watching you do this is breaking my fucking heart.”

Really, maybe that had been the cruelest truth. You were different people by then, or maybe you had finally stopped pretending you weren’t. Bucky wanted peace so badly he was willing to sacrifice his life’s calling. You wanted him alive, but not hollowed out. 

It was never going to work out after that. 

“Yeah,” he said finally. “She was right.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “Yeah.”

Dex had expected a speech, maybe some self-righteous old-soldier bullshit about duty and sacrifice. Instead, Bucky just said it plainly, but Dex should’ve expected it. Of course you had been right. 

“She just had to scratch the itch,” Bucky said. “That’s what I thought then. I hated that I was trying to build something for her and she still didn’t want me in office. I hate the she didn’t want the life I thought I was making safe.”

Dex swallowed once, staring at the floor.

“I left,” Bucky said. His voice had gone lower now, stripped of rage and charm and anything that might make him sound better than he was. “Because I thought if I stayed, I’d start hating her for not becoming the person I needed her to be. And I thought she’d start hating me for asking her to change.”

Bucky’s shame sat heavily in the room. 

“So you were a coward,” Dex said, like it was the only possible conclusion.

“Yeah.”

Dex pictured you angry and exhausted, standing in front of a man in a suit who wanted peace so badly he tried to make you stop being who you were. “You had her,” Dex said. “And you left.”

Bucky tipped his head back against the chair. “Yeah.”

“She’s perfect.”

“She’s not,” Bucky said.

Dex went rigid. If he could throw something at him, he would’ve.

Bucky felt it immediately and exhaled, tired and pained. “I don’t mean it like that.”

“Then say it right.”

“She’s reckless,” Bucky said. “She’s brutal and she’s never been good at pulling her punches. She gets a goal in her head and won’t let it go even if it ruins her. She’s not perfect.”

Dex knew every word was true, and hated that Bucky knew it too.

Bucky’s voice lowered, “But she is. Somehow.”

Dex looked down at the cuffs around his wrists.

“By the time I figured out she was right about congress, it was too late,” Bucky said. “She didn’t want me back.”

Dex frowned. “What?”

“You didn’t know?”

Dex said nothing.

Bucky made a quiet, bitter sound. “She didn’t tell you.”

Dex hated the words before he even understood why. “Tell me what?”

“After I joined the New Avengers, I went back to her place,” Bucky said. “I brought flowers, gave her a speech about how I never should’ve run for office.”

Dex’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Flowers?”

“Shut up.”

“She hates being surprised with flowers after a fight. She says it feels like a cop-out.”

“I know that now.”

Dex went quiet again.

“I told her I loved her,” Bucky said. His voice was rougher now. “Told her I was wrong. Told her I should have listened. Told her I wanted to try again. I thought if I admitted it, maybe there was still something to save.”

Dex’s breathing slowed.

“She let me talk,” Bucky said. “Then she said she loved me—”

Dex tensed before he could stop himself.

Bucky felt it and didn’t comment. He forced himself to come out the rest of the sentence instead. “She said she loved me, but not in the same way anymore. Said she couldn’t go through the same heartbreak twice. She said if she let me back in, she’d spend every day waiting for me to decide I knew better than her again.”

Dex stared at the door.

“Then she told me to go home,” Bucky said.

Oh.

Dex didn’t know what he had expected. Maybe some part of him had always imagined Bucky as a door you had left open, a threat waiting to happen, a man who could come back and claim you by knowing the right scars. But that was not what this was. 

“You still love her,” he said.

Bucky didn’t answer quickly enough.

Dex’s teth tightened. “Don’t lie.”

Bucky looked at the wall. “Yeah.”

Dex’s voice went cold. “Then why are you sitting here pretending this visit was anything but wanting to see her again?”

Dex knew the Avengers Tower was not that far. If Bucky had wanted medical care, if he had wanted backup, he could have gone there. But he had come here, because the wound gave him an excuse to reach for the one person he was not supposed to want anymore.

“I’m not pretending anything,” Bucky said.

“You want her.”

“I don’t get to want her.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

Dex turned his face away, nostrils flaring once. He hated him. He still hated him. Maybe more now, because Bucky’s love was not clear enough to dismiss and not active enough to fight. 

“She’s happier with you anyway,” Bucky said.

Dex froze.

It sounded like it hurt Bucky to say that. He wasn’t being generous. He sounded almost angry, like your happiness had betrayed him by proving him unnecessary.

“She’s more relaxed,” Bucky said. “Even tonight. When you looked at her, yeah, she looked tired. Pissed off. Ready to kill both of us. But she looked… here. Like this is her life now. She doesn’t want to run away from this the way she wanted to run away from me.”

Dex didn’t move.

Bucky swallowed. “I think I loved her for the person she could be.”

Dex’s throat tightened.

“You love her as she is,” Bucky said, voice low with the humiliation of telling the truth to a man he still disliked. “You love the part of her I kept trying to talk down. You love her because she is who she is.”

Dex stared at nothing.

“Fuck,” Bucky managed a scraping laugh. “You’re perfect for each other.”

For once, Dex had no insult ready. He just sat there, back pressed to the man who had once loved you badly and still loved you enough to tell the truth.

You love her as she is.

Oh.

Of course he had known he loved you. His love for you was the central fact of his life now. But he had never heard it put like that. He had never understood that the thing Bucky had failed to survive was the exact thing Dex held onto with both hands.

He loved you now. As you were. Bloody, stubborn, brilliant. Too much, and yet never enough to scare him away.

Bucky shifted behind him and winced. “Don’t make that face.”

Dex blinked. “You can’t see my face.”

“I can feel it. It’s probably disturbing.”

Dex’s mouth tightened, but the bite was weaker now. “I still hate you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want you near her.”

“I know that too.”

“But she wants you alive,” Dex said, the words dragging out of him like a confession he resented. “And she wants you in her life.”

Bucky was quiet.

Dex shook his head. “So don’t make me regret not killing you.”

Bucky looked down at his bound hands, then toward the door you had walked out of. “I’m not trying to take her from you.”

Dex listened for the lie.

There was love, grief, want, regret. But not a plan. Not a claim.

“I know,” Dex said finally.

The silence after that was still uncomfortable. They were still tied together, still angry, still would probably never like each other, but the hatred had less room to move now. In its place was a human recognition that they had both loved you, and one of them had loved what you might become, while the other was waiting for you to come home exactly as you were.

Bucky tipped his head back, exhausted. “She’s going to be mad I said all that.”

Dex looked at the door. “I won’t tell her.”

Bucky turned his head slightly. “Why?”

“Because it would hurt her.”

Bucky sighed and said, “Good.”

Dex’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t approve of me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

Bucky almost smiled, then thought better of it because his side hurt and because Dex would probably take it personally. “Fine.”

They sat there in silence again, still waiting for your key in the door.

It was not peaceful, but it was kinder than before. The fight had burned down, leaving only the uncomfortable knowledge that you had been right to leave them there.

Eventually, Bucky shifted, careful of his stitches. “We’re supposed to get along, right?”

Dex stared at the front door. “I don’t want to.”

“Neither do I.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. “Find one thing, then. One thing we don’t hate about each other. That’s probably what she wanted.”

Dex’s mouth tightened. “That’s a stupid strategy.”

“It worked on me and Sam.”

“I’m not Sam.”

“No,” Bucky said dryly. “You’re much worse.”

Dex almost answered. He almost gave him a mean enough comment to make the room normal again. Instead, he stayed quiet for so long Bucky thought he was refusing the whole thing on principle. 

Then, Dex looked down and said, like the words had to be dragged out of him, “I admired you.”

Bucky went still.

“In the military,” Dex continued. “They taught us about the original hotshot World War Two sniper.” He sighed, recounting what he learned. “You were a benchmark.”

Bucky looked down at his metal hand.

For a second, the living room felt very far away. He was back France, younger, with a rifle settled against his shoulder and Steve’s voice behind him. He remembered having hands that felt like his. He remembered trusting the weapon without thinking about it. He remembered the  awful focus of a target through glass.

“Not anymore,” Bucky said.

Dex turned his head slightly, as much as the rope allowed.

Bucky flexed his metal fingers once. “My hands got too heavy.”

Dex didn’t offer pity, which was maybe the first decent thing he had done all night. He just sat with it, understanding the mechanics before the grief: hands were tools. Bodies were weapons. And sometimes the weapon changed and everyone still expected you to aim the same.

“You compensate,” Dex said eventually, “You’re still good.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched upwards. “That your version of comfort?”

“It’s an observation.”

“Right.” Bucky breathed out something close to a laugh, then stopped when his side pulled.

After a moment, Bucky said, “You’re good too.”

Dex’s eyes narrowed. “I know.”

Bucky rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Jesus.”

And just like that, there was recognition, only because lying would be disrespectful. They sat there with it, no longer pretending there was nothing in the other worth understanding.

Dex looked toward the door again.

“She’ll be cold,” he said.

Bucky’s eyes before he could stop it. “Yeah. She always says she won’t be.”

“She’d be lying.”

Bucky didn’t argue. For once, there was nothing to argue with. They both knew that about you: the stubborn little tilt of your chin, the way you would rather freeze than admit you wanted anyone to notice, the way you made needing care look like a personal failure. 

Dex stared at the floor, hating that Bucky knew things like that. But under the hatred, there was one truth Dex couldn’t make himself resent: you were alive because of him.

So, very quietly, he said, “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you pulled her out of that cryo chamber.”

The words landed harder, maybe because Dex meant them. Maybe because Bucky knew what it cost him to say it. Maybe because for a moment, all the hatred in the room had to make space for the fact that they both loved you enough to be grateful you had survived.

Bucky breathed in once, and did not trust himself to answer.

Neither of them spoke after that.

There was nothing left to say that would not make both of them feel worse.

—

When you came back, they were free.

For a second, you just stood there with your key still in the lock, cold air slipping in around your legs, staring into your own living room like it had rearranged itself while you were gone. The chair was empty. The rope had been loosened and coiled beside it. The adamantium cuffs sat neatly on the coffee table, gleaming under the lamp like evidence at a trial.

Bucky was standing near the armchair, pale but upright, one hand resting carefully over his stitched side. Dex was by the window with his arms crossed, his split mouth set in a hard little line, watching you with an expression so forcibly neutral it immediately made you suspicious.

You blinked.

“Uh.”

Neither of them moved.

You pointed slowly at the chair. “Did I not leave you two tied up?”

Bucky looked faintly embarrassed. Dex looked like he had been waiting for this question and still hated having to answer it.

“We worked together,” Bucky said.

Dex glanced to him. “He needed to piss. I wasn’t letting him do it on our floor.”

That was apparently the whole explanation.

Huh.

The apartment was kind of clean now. 

Even the bedroom, somehow, was as clean as it could be. The mirror was still cracked, the door still needed dealing with, and the ghost of your perfume still clung to the floorboards, but the blood had been wiped up, the glass swept away, the sheets changed, the ruined towel folded in the dirty laundry. Apparently, at some point between being handcuffed to the same chair and deciding not to murder each other, Dex had made Bucky help him clean.

Still, nobody was shouting. Nobody was bleeding more than they already had been. Nobody was dead.

The bar, unfortunately, was on the floor.

At one point, Bucky said he should go.

You nodded, but when he moved toward the door, you caught his sleeve before he passed you and drew him into a hug. He went still at first, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have that anymore. Then his arm came around you, gentle and familiar, his hand flatwarm between your shoulders.

“We’ll catch up,” you said quietly.

Bucky’s eyes closed for half a second. “Yeah,” he murmured. “We will.”

Across the room, Dex froze in a way that was technically progress because it was not murder.

His eyes fixed on Bucky’s hand on your back. Then on your cheek pressed briefly to Bucky’s shoulder. Then on the relaxed expression in Bucky’s face when he looked down at you. Dex’s jaw clicked once, twice, and you could practically feel the jealousy being dragged through his body by a leash made of your name.

He lasted exactly three seconds.

“Yeah, okay,” Dex said, voice tight. “That’s too long. Get off her.”

You looked at him over Bucky’s shoulder.

Dex’s mouth shut, but his eyes stayed huge and miserable, like a dog ordered not to bite while the mailman danced in front of him.

Bucky, because he valued his life a little more now than he had earlier, released you first. He looked at Dex once. Dex looked back, less murderous than before, but still with the promise that Bucky was alive on a technicality.

Bucky was alive because you didn’t want him dead. 

Bucky left after that, limping only a little, dignity held together by stitches. The door closed behind him, and the apartment went quiet.

You stood there for a second, coat still on, shoulders finally sinking now that there was no one left to manage. Dex stayed where he was then crossed walked towards you slowly. 

He looked at you with those wide, wounded eyes, and swallowed.

“I didn’t kill him,” he said.

Your anger thinned at the edges despite yourself.

He looked at you like that mattered. Like not killing Bucky had cost him real effort, real restraint. Like he wanted you to see that he had done it for you. Only for you.

You sighed, then reached up and touched his cheek.

“I’m proud of you, baby.”

Dex’s eyes gentled immediately.

“So proud,” you murmured, thumb brushing carefully near the blood at his lip. “My good boy didn’t murder my friend.”

His breath hitched, just a little.

“You’re making fun of me,” he said, but his voice had gone warm.

You sighed with a slightly amused smile. “A little.”

Dex leaned into your palm anyway.

You stepped closer, and that was all it took. His restraint broke as he wrapped his arms around you like he had been starving for permission all night, pulling you carefully into his chest, careful of his bruises, and even more careful of yours that you gained from your last mission. He tucked his face into your hair, his hands spread firm over your back, and for the first time since you had opened the door and found blood on your floor, he let himself breathe properly.

For the first time all night, he felt good about himself.

He wasn’t normal of course, whatever that meant. He was never going to be suddenly reasonable about Bucky Barnes existing within a five-mile radius of you. But good, because you were in his arms and you had called him baby and Bucky was alive and somehow Dex had managed to give you that. He had behaved. Barely, maybe, but barely still counted.

He kissed you then, carefully, like he was asking whether he was still allowed. When you kissed him back, his arms tightened around you, warm and helpless. The apartment still smelled faintly like antiseptic and takeout and broken glass. But you were kissing him, and your hands were on his face, and behind his skull, Bucky’s voice echoed again:

Perfect for each other.

Dex smiled into your mouth.

Yeah.

He could live with that.

—end.

Extra Note: Lowkey should I make this into a miniseries??? I love writing their dynamic so much. 

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[aquaticmercy]

No Absolution

Summary : Mr. Charles assigns Benjamin Poindexter a new partner: a super soldier who may not be over her ex. Too bad Dex has never been good at sharing, and he’s determined to make her forget anyone ever touched her before him.

Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Supersoldier! reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Slow Burn. Friends with benefits to lovers. Mostly hurt/comfort, jealous! Dex, sexual themes, sex in a church, praise/worship kink, religious imagery during sex, obsessive/possesive love, morally ambiguous reader, Bucky Barnes is mentioned to be your ex but you do not have feelings for him anymore (he doesn't physically show up in this either). graphic violence, blood and injury, Hydra trauma, mention of brainwashing and programming, PTSD/nightmares, dissociation, Hydra torture references, unhealthy coping mechanisms, reader is mentioned to be smaller, but stronger than Dex (Let me know if I miss anything!) set after the ending of DDBA Season 2.

Word Count : 20.8k

Requested by : Anons! This is a combination these requests: X X X

Notes : I think this is the longest fic I’ve ever written? Inspired by God Must Hate me by Catie Turner and Take me to Church by Hozier. Enjoy!

Keeping Benjamin Poindexter alive had never been the hard part. He had always been very good at staying alive, even when he didn’t want to be. He survived gunfire, broken bones, spinal trauma, institutional failure, and even the kind of loneliness that hollowed a man out. Survival was familiar to him. Survival had rules: Keep breathing, keep moving, find the exit. 

Keeping him employed, however, was a different matter entirely. That was where Mr. Charles came in.

He didn't come to Dex with pity, which was wise. He didn't sit across from him in some cold room and talk about redemption or recovery or all the other fluffy words people used when they wanted a dangerous man to feel grateful for being tolerated. Dex had heard those words before, and they always meant the same thing: behave, be useful, don’t make us regret leaving you alive. 

Charles, at least, had the decency not to pretend otherwise. He wore a plaid shirt under a vest (questionable fashion, but who was Dex to judge?), carried a leather folder, and looked at him like he wasn't a tragedy, nor a project, nor a rabid dog somebody had been foolish enough to feed. Instead, he looked at him as an asset with very specific applications.

Dex respected that, because the humiliating truth was that he needed a job.

Not a freelance gun-for-hire thing he got going on to fund his crusade against Fisk’s task force. He needed an actual, stable job. He needed money that came in regularly enough to pay rent. He needed a place with working locks, decent heating, and a refrigerator that contained more than condiments, protein bars, and eggs. He needed prescriptions filled before the bottles were empty. He needed ammunition that didn't come from old caches, stolen evidence rooms, or men who sold illegal ordnance out of storage units and thought calling him “buddy” was a good idea.

He needed structure.

Dex had spent so much of his life being pointed at things that he didn't entirely know what to do when no one was pointing. Freedom sounded good in theory, but freedom also meant waking up in a silent apartment with too many hours in the day and nowhere to put the violent itch crawling under his skin. It meant no orders, no parameters, no approved targets, no neat little box where the worst parts of him could be made useful. It meant his own mind, unattended, circling the same dark rooms until he started looking for a window to break.

Charles offered him work instead.

He said it was black ops, but clean enough. Government-adjacent, but deniable. There were forms, salaries, coded assignments, medical access, housing arrangements, travel papers, and weapons clearances. It was ugly in all the ways Dex understood, but it had a shape. It had a beginning, a middle, and, theoretically, an end.

Dex missed that.

Maybe.

He sat across from Charles in a windowless conference room. The table between them reflected the overhead lights in long white strips. There was coffee untouched near Dex’s elbow and a pen placed exactly parallel to the folder.

“So what?” Dex asked eventually, his voice flat. “I’m one of the good guys now?”

Charles chuckled. “You’re useful,” he shrugged. “Let’s start there.”

Dex stared at him for a second. Then, against his better judgment, he smiled.

It wasn't a friendly smile, but it was the closest thing to approval Charles was likely to get. There was something almost refreshing about not being lied to. At least one was asking him to hold hands with his past or apologize to a circle of strangers under fluorescent lights. Charles wanted him because Dex could do damage with precision, and after all this time, there was comfort in that kind of honesty.

After all, in Dex’s book, Charles might not be a good person, but he wasn’t a horrible one either. Unlike Wilson Fisk. Unlike Vanessa Fisk. 

He knew that because he saw who was funding the mission: Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Charles tapped the edge of the file once with two fingers. “She also bankrolls the Avengers.”

Dex’s expression didn't change.

“The new team,” Charles clarified.

“Yeah,” Dex said flatly. “I know who the New Avengers are.”

“Then you understand the nature of this operation.”

Dex looked back down at the file.

Sure, he understood enough. If Val was paying for Avengers, that meant she was funding heroism. If Charles worked for her, then Charles cannot possibly be that bad, can he?

The logic was stupidly simple, so simple a child could have made it. Dex knew that. He knew goodness didn't transfer through payroll. 

He liked it anyway. He liked clean lines. He liked being told where to stand.

He looked down again before Charles could read too much on his face. The next few pages were maps, photographs, shipment records, old Hydra symbols carved into walls and stamped onto yellowing documents. Europe had been marked in red: Germany, Romania, Austria, Italy, Poland, Norway.

When he flipped through, he found photos of safehouses, labs and weapons caches. The next page had details of facilities hidden under abandoned factories and bank accounts buried beneath shell companies and dead men’s signatures. There were names in multiple languages, some with photographs attached, some already crossed out.

Hydra, apparently, was like black mold. You could burn the house down and still find it growing behind the walls.

“They’re just remnants,” Charles said. “Y’know, splinter groups who aren’t really Hydra anymore, they’re just borrowing the name and the branding. Opportunists, mostly. Scientists who kept copies of files they were meant to destroy. Brokers moving old weapons systems through private channels. Buyers interested in serum research, cryogenic technology, asset conditioning protocols, enhanced human restraints, anything that survived the collapse of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the years afterward.”

Dex turned a page.

“This would be a seven-month assignment,” Charles continued. “Possibly longer, depending on what you recover. You’ll move through Europe, locate the caches, secure the weapons, and retrieve as much intel as possible before it disappears into the black market. You’ll have safehouses, false identities, medical support, and extraction options when necessary.”

“When necessary,” Dex repeated.

Charles’s mouth twitched. “You understand the kind of work this is.”

Dex did. He understood it so well that a now-ancient part of him had already begun arranging itself around the mission, routes, and sight lines. He wasn't a spy, but he would try his hand at a language he didn't speak and fake it long enough to get through a checkpoint. He would map the distance between cover and exit in every photograph. He would process the likely angle of fire through the windows of a Croatian warehouse shown on page six.

His mind liked having something to do.

“And the priority?” Dex asked.

“Weapons first. Intel second. People third.”

“Dead or alive?” 

“Alive if possible,” Charles said, adjusting his glasses. 

Dex glanced up, raising an eyebrow. Charles sighed, almost imperceptibly. “If practical,” he amended.

That was better.

Dex leaned back, the chair creaking softly beneath him. He turned another page, then froze.

The photograph clipped to the next sheet wasn't of a weapons cache, a scientist, or some grey-faced man in a tactical vest.

It was you.

Dex stared for a moment longer than he meant to.

The picture looked like it had been taken without your permission from a street corner. You were wearing a winter coat, one hand tucked into your pocket, the other holding a paper coffee cup like you were just another pretty socialite in another expensive European city, not something pulled out of Hydra’s worst nightmares.

Pretty was the wrong word, Dex realised. Pretty was too soft.

You were… intense in a way Dex didn't immediately trust. Your posture was careful, your stride was disciplined. Dex knew a little of what that’s like; he had seen it in mirrors.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

Charles’s eyes flicked down to the file. “Your partner.”

Dex’s smile disappeared. “No.”

“You haven’t heard the rest.”

“I don’t do partners anymore.”

“You do now.”

Disappointment moved through Dex’s eyes, but Charles didn't retreat from it. That made Dex dislike him again. Or respect him. Sometimes the two were close enough to be irritating.

“I work better alone,” Dex said.

“Uh uh. You survive alone,” Charles replied. “There’s a difference.”

For a second, he considered standing up and walking out, just to prove no one in that room could decide anything for him. He could go back to whatever came before this. Cheap rent, unclear income. Too much time. Too many thoughts. His talents were left without purpose, especially after Task Force agents were being rounded up and locked up one by one. 

Dex tapped one finger against the edge of the photograph. “What is she?”

The question was rude. Charles seemed unsurprised by that, too.

But Dex knew that a man like him would not be put to a mission with some other average agent. She must be equipped to handle him in some way, and he needed to know how. 

“She is a super soldier,” he said. “From the Siberian program. She might be smaller than you, but she is faster than you. Stronger than you. More durable than you.”

Dex’s knuckles flexed. Charles, annoyingly, looked amused by that. “Don’t take it personally. You're here because she’s strictly close quarters only. Her aim is dogshit. She can’t pin the tail to the donkey if it was the size of an elephant.”

Dex looked back down. The photograph changed with the information, though nothing in it moved. The pretty coat became a costume. The coffee became a cover. He knew enough of the infamous Siberian Program to know what it meant: cryo, programming, asset conditioning, and brutal compliance. You were a war crime with a pulse.

“Zemo killed them,” Dex said. Or so he’s heard.

“He missed one,” Charles said dismissively.

Dex’s eyes narrowed, but Charles just continued, “She was recovered at the end of the conflict. Barnes and Rogers found her before anyone else did. As far as our records show, Zemo believed the termination was complete.”

“And it wasn’t.”

“No.”

Dex looked at your face again. There you were, alive by accident. A cute little clerical error in the middle of a massacre.

“Is she deprogrammed?” he asked.

“Enough.”

Dex gave Charles a dry look. “She’s stable, then?” 

Charles tilted his head. “Are you?”

Dex huffed a laugh, short and humorless. Fair.

Dex knew this made sense: you probably knew Hydra architecture, internal coding systems, and old asset routes. For this assignment, there was probably no one more useful, save for the Winter Soldier himself. But then again, he was too busy pretending to be a public facing hero, which meant this probably read too much like grunt work to him.  

“When do I meet her?” he asked.

Charles’s eyes shifted by the smallest amount, just enough for Dex to understand that he had given the answer Charles had been waiting for.

“Tomorrow morning.”

Dex shut the folder, though he kept the photograph on top. Then, he agreed to the mission. 

—

As promised, Dex met you the next day on a rain-slick air base that didn't officially exist.

You were already waiting by the plane when Charles led him across the tarmac, hands in your jacket pockets, hair tugged loose by the wind, looking entirely too calm for someone being sent across Europe to clean up an evil organisation’s leftovers.

Charles stopped between you like a middle school teacher introducing two students he already knew would become a disciplinary issue.

“Benjamin Poindexter,” Charles said. “This is your partner.”

“Dex,” he corrected.

You tilted your head. “Do you correct everyone that fast?”

“Usually faster.”

Your mouth twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. You gave him your name, and he recognized it from the file. You took a sip from your cup, still watching Dex over the rim. “So. You’re the knife throwing miracle worker.”

“That what he called me?”

“No,” you rolled your eyes. “That’s me being generous.”

Dex felt the corner of his mouth lift before he could stop it.

He folded his arms. “And you’re the super soldier.”

Your face stayed mild. “Allegedly.”

“Allegedly?”

“I don’t like confirming things for strange men on runways.”

“Smart.”

“I try.”

Charles glanced between you like he had already decided this was as good as civility was going to get. “You’ve both read the operational brief.”

“Yes,” you said.

Dex said nothing when Charles looked at him.

Dex eventually said, “Enough.” He said it with a smile a little too charming for your peace of mind.

You scoffed and Dex’s gaze dipped over you once, interested. You noticed, because you were trained to notice changes in breathing, pupil dilation, heart rate, weight distribution. Instead of calling him on it, you gave him your sweetest, most harmless smile.

Dex stared at it like he wanted to peel it off you with a knife just to see what was underneath.

Charles cleared his throat and handed you both slim black folders. The paper inside was minimal, most of the real information tucked away behind encrypted devices and dead drops. You flipped yours open anyway, mostly to give your hands something to do.

“The two of you will have limited external support,” Charles continued. “You’ll have a plethora of assumed identities. You’ll share safehouses when necessary.”

Dex said, “When necessary?”

“Frequently,” Charles said.

You looked up. Dex looked at you.“I don’t snore,” you said. 

Dex’s eyes narrowed. “Congratulations.”

“I do steal blankets.”

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. “Any objections before departure?”

Dex opened his mouth. You interrupted before he could say something predictably unpleasant. “Nope. Bucky talked me into it, so technically if this goes badly, we can blame him.”

Charles looked amused; Dex’s flicked to you.

You kept looking at the file, not because you missed the reaction, but because you didn't entirely want to deal with it yet.

“Barnes?” Dex asked. His voice had not changed much. The word came out casual, almost indifferent, but his eyes widened, if only a little.

You lifted your head. “Yes.”

“As in James Barnes.”

“Do you know another famous Buckys?”

“No.”

“Then yes.”

Dex studied you.

You had expected curiosity. Most people got curious about Bucky. Some got reverent, others got afraid. Some got that awful pitying look, that suggested they thought they knew Hydra to imagine they understood anything at all. Dex did none of that.

“What did he talk you into?” he asked.

You shrugged, tucking the folder beneath your arm. “Working. Y’know. Doing something useful.”

Charles didn't interrupt. Coward.

You glanced toward the aircraft, watching two ground crew members load another case into the hold. “He said I couldn’t just sit around waiting for someone to piss me off.”

Dex’s mouth twitched.

“What did Barnes say?” Charles asked, tilting his head.

You sighed, and without meaning to, your voice shifted into an imitation of Bucky’s low, exasperated drawl. “‘You can’t keep breaking people’s bones and making me explain to the cops why they shouldn’t press charges.’”

Dex stared at you.

You smiled faintly, fond despite yourself. “He had a point. Apparently regular civilians get upset when you dislocate someone’s shoulder in a grocery store parking lot.”

“What did they do?” Dex asked. 

“They touched me.”

Dex only shrugged, as if it was a reasonable thing to do.

“Well,” Charles said, producing a small bag of peanuts from his coat pocket, “try not to kill each other before Germany.”

You looked at Dex. He looked back at you. Then your mouth curved up, entirely too pleased. “Don’t worry,” you said. “I have a feeling we’re going to be just fine.”

—

The first few missions were okay.

Dex had expected friction. He had expected you to get in his way, or slow him down, or make some sentimental speech about doing things cleanly because he’d expected a partner with principles. Instead, you were efficient. You were talkative, but quiet when you needed to be. You were quick in a way that made him understand, very quickly, that Charles had not been exaggerating about the super soldier thing.

Germany was a weapons ledger hidden behind a false wall in a private gallery. You smiled at the owner’s security like you were there to admire post-war sculpture, then put one guard through a locked door with your shoulder when the alarms tripped. Dex handled the cameras and anyone who would eventually get to you. By the time the police arrived, both of you were already three streets away, walking under one umbrella you had stolen from the cloakroom and laughing at how untrained these guys were.

Austria was colder. You had gotten intel of a Hydra courier in a ski town, three dead drops, one safe full of expired serum that didn't do anything except maybe get you high. Dex put a knife through a man’s hand before he could reach the panic button, and you raised a brow at him like you were impressed. Later, in the car, you told him his aim was annoyingly theatrical.

Taking it as a compliment, he told you that your melee skills were not too bad yourself. You smiled at the window and tried your hardest not to deflect it.

By the time you reached Romania, the process had become familiar. You took the left side of a room without being told. Dex took the high angle. You never walked directly in front of his line of fire. He never asked you to move. In safehouses, you cleaned weapons at the kitchen table while he checked exits and pretended he wasn't watching the way your hands worked. You drank terrible coffee. He made comments about it. You ignored him and made him a cup anyway.

You didn't talk much during jobs, but afterward, little pieces of you slipped out.

Unfortunately, a lot of them had Bucky fucking Barnes attached.

“Bucky hated safehouses like this,” you said once, standing in the doorway of a flat in Bucharest with peeling wallpaper and a radiator that knocked all night. “Said they all smelled like wet concrete and black mold.”

Dex looked around. “He sounds poetic.”

“He was mostly complaining.”

Another time outside Salzburg, you watched Dex hotwire a silver sedan and said, “Bucky used to do that one-handed.”

Dex didn't look up. “Congratulations to Bucky.”

You laughed like he had meant to be funny. He had not.

It was annoying, how he kept happening.

It wasn't a constant and definitely not enough for him to call it a problem without sounding insane. It was just often enough that Barnes became a third person in the room even though he had never met the man before, he found him irritating because he was apparently very good at everything.

Bucky had warned you about old Hydra storage locks. Bucky had taught you how to sleep sitting up without waking with a crick in your neck. Bucky had said Romanian winters were worse than Russian ones because at least Russia was honest about trying to kill you. Bucky had this dry little laugh when Steve and Sam got sentimental. Bucky, Bucky, Bucky.

Dex told himself he didn't care. It was obviously a lie, but it was a convenient one.

He didn't care that your voice changed around the name. He didn't care that you said it easily, like muscle memory. He didn't care that Barnes had known you before this, before Charles, before rain-slick bases and seven-month assignments and Dex learning that you hummed under your breath when you were stitching wounds.

He definitely didn't care that Barnes was the reason that you were here, with Bullseye, instead of the picture perfect ex-congressman, now leader of the most high profile superhero team in the world. Emphasis on hero.

The fourth mission was in Hungary, in an old textile factory outside Budapest that had been turned into a weapons relay point by boys too young to remember Hydra properly and too stupid to fear it enough. It went clean until it didn't. Someone burned the files before you could get to them. Dex shot out the sprinklers. You ripped the office door off its hinges. Together, you dragged what you could from the smoke and left six men zip-tied in the loading bay for Charles’s people to collect, not before killing twice as much along the way.

By midnight, you were in a safehouse above a closed bakery, both of you smelling like smoke and wool.

You sat on the floor with your back against the couch, cleaning soot from under your nails with the tip of a knife. Dex stood near the window, watching the street below through a gap in the curtains. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then you said, “Bucky once set an entire warehouse on fire by accident.”

Dex closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, his reflection looked annoyed in the dark glass. “What is he,” Dex added, “your boyfriend?”

He meant it lightly, mostly. It came out almost like a joke.

The room’s air seemed to change at that; but you didn’t flinch. You didn’t look wounded. You only looked back down at your hands, at the knife balanced between your fingers, and for the first time since he had met you, Dex saw the answer arrive before you decided whether to give it.

“He used to be,” you said.

Ah.

He waited for more but gave him nothing.

The knife moved again, scraping soot gray wasn’t there anymore. Your face had closed in that gentle, polite way he was starting to recognize as armor. And it wasn’t the super soldier armor. Not even the Hydra armor. It was more… personal.

Dex should have asked. He wanted to ask: How long? Why did it end? Did you love him? Do you still? Did he touch you? Did he know what to do with you? 

He asked none of it, mostly because that would have meant admitting he cared. So he only said, “Huh.”

You looked up. “Huh?” you repeated.

Dex shrugged, turning back toward the window. “Didn’t peg Barnes as your type.”

“And what’s my type?”

Dex seemed to consider it for a second. “Bad decisions.”

That got a small smile from you. “You’re not wrong.”

Dex stared out at the empty street, fist curled tight, his heartbeat skipping stupidly beneath his skin.

He told himself it was just curiosity. Barnes was relevant because Barnes had been Hydra, because Barnes knew the program, because Barnes had known you before Dex did. That was all: information, context, and nothing else.

But behind him, you went quiet again, and Dex could only assume and spiral about what you had not said.

He didn't want to know.

Ha! That was a lie.

He wanted to know so badly it made him angry.

You shifted on the floor, stretching one leg out, your boot nudging his discarded jacket.

“He’s a good man,” you said after a while.

Dex’s fingers tightened against the curtain.

Ugh. 

He didn’t know what that shift of note was in your voice. Was it longing? Did you miss him?

“Lucky him,” Dex said through gritted teeth.

You didn’t answer. When he glanced back, you were looking at the knife in your hand like you had forgotten why you were holding it.

—

The next mission went wrong.

At first, it was just another Hydra remnant with more confidence than sense, tucked beneath an old municipal archive in Prague, guarded by men who thought stolen weapons made them important. Dex took the cameras. You took the stairs. It should have been clean.

Then one of them said a name: Vasily Karpov 

Dex didn't know who that was at the time, but he would later learn that he was your old handler.

Still, he witnessed hearing it did to you.

He saw the split-second absence in your eyes— the way your face dropped first, almost blank, before an old and brutal version of you came up underneath it. The man laughed like he knew exactly what nerve he had touched.

He didn't laugh for long.

You hit him once and shattered his jaw.

Dex heard the teeth crack inside the man’s mouth before the body even hit the floor. Blood sprayed across the concrete in a hot arc, one of the molars skittering away into the dark like a dropped coin. The man tried to scream through what remained of his face, choking on it instead.

Then you hit him again.

Your fist came down with enough force to cave his nose flat against his skull. Bone gave under your knuckles with an ugly crunch. The back of his head smacked the floor hard enough to leave blood blooming beneath it, but you didn't stop.

The third punch ruptured his eye.

Dex watched as your knuckles sank into ruined flesh already turning unrecognizable, he saw red slick burst across your sleeve. The man’s limbs jerked once beneath you, involuntary, nervous system still firing even as his face stopped looking human. This was when Dex had to remember that you Hydra didn't just make a super soldier out of you; you were once a Winter Soldier, too.

You kept going.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Each hit sounded worse than the last. Your breathing had gone frighteningly steady, not angry or frantic, just mechanically brutal, like your humanity had slipped somewhere far away from yourself and left only an asset behind.

Blood coated your hands to the wrist.

One of the punches split the skin over your knuckles open. You didn't notice.

“Hey!” Dex barked, because this was brutal, even for his standards, which was saying a lot.

The body beneath you had stopped moving entirely now. One arm twitched occasionally from the impact, dead weight bouncing under the force of your blows. There was barely a face left. 

You hit him again anyway.

Dex grabbed you then, hooking an arm around your waist and hauling you backward with a grunt. “Stop.”

You drove an elbow back hard enough to bruise ribs. Dex barely held on. Your boots scraped through blood as you tried to lunge forward again, eyes empty, locked on the corpse like it could still speak.

“He’s dead,” Dex sneered into your ear.

Your fist clenched again.

For one horrible second, Dex thought you were going to tear free and keep going until there was nothing left on the floor but pulp.

Then your whole body jerked still.

The room went quiet except for your heavy breathing.

Slowly, your eyes dropped to the body. Or what used to be one.

—

In the safehouse that night, you took the bed.

You had made a rule three countries ago that the two of you would alternate between bed and couch because you both had trust issues and didn't want to compromise. Dex didn't argue. 

So, tonight, he took the couch.

It was too short. The blanket smelled like dust. His ribs hurt where you had elbowed him. He lay there in the dark, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling and listening to the old building settle around him.

He didn't sleep much.

That was why he heard you scream when you did. It was a full, blood-curdling scream that tore through the apartment like a mortician had opened you up.

Dex was on his feet before it ended.

He had a knife in his hand by the time he reached your door. He kicked it open, expecting an enemy.

But there was no one there. Only you.

You were standing beside the bed in the dark, barefoot, shaking, eyes open, and yet, you looked wrong. Your hair was loose around your face. One hand was curled at your side like it expected a weapon. The other was pressed against your own throat, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

Dex lowered the knife a fraction.

“Hey,” he said, smaller than he meant to. “It’s me.”

You turned toward him.

Then… you attacked.

This was what Dex had imagined Siberian-programmed Winter Soldiers to move like: a nightmare. 

Dex barely got his arm up before you struck him, the impact driving him back into the wall. Pain flashed white through his back, but it was fine. His back could take a hit now. He twisted away from the next punch, caught your wrist, lost it when you wrenched free. 

“Wake up,” he snapped.

You didn't. Instead, your fist cracked into the plaster beside his head when he ducked. He swept your leg; you went down and came back up too quickly. He had fought trained killers before. He had fought men who wanted him dead. This was worse.

Because he could tell, even now, that you were not trying to win. You were merely trying to survive something that wasn't in the room.

Dex said your name again. That got nothing out of you.

You lunged.

He caught you badly. Your strength drove both of you sideways into the dresser. A lamp shattered. His knife hand came up on instinct, not to strike, just to guard, just to keep space between you.

You twisted, and the blade sank into you in the form of a clean, ugly slice along the outside of your upper arm.

That was enough to wake you up.

Your eyes dropped to the blood welling against your skin. For a heartbeat, you only stared at it. 

“Oh,” you whispered.

Dex didn't move.

You blinked once, then again, like the room was assembling itself around you piece by piece. The bed. The broken lamp. The wall. Dex in front of you, breathing hard, knife still in his hand.

“Oh,” you said again, and this time it broke. “Oh.”

He understood before you explained, that this was what Charles had meant when Charles said you were deprogrammed enough.

Enough to pass evaluation. Enough to work. Enough to know your own name in daylight. Enough to sit in cars and drink bad coffee and pretend you were only dangerous by choice.

Not enough to stop a dead man’s name from reaching into your sleep and turning you back into his weapon.

Dex lowered the knife slowly.

Your eyes followed it. “I’m sorry,” you said.

He hated that. “Don’t.”

“I…” you choked, “I didn’t know where I was.”

“I know.”

“I could’ve—”

“You didn’t.”

“I could’ve killed you.”

That almost made him laugh, except nothing about you looked funny. You were standing in the wreckage of the little bedroom, barefoot and bleeding, trying to make yourself smaller when both of you knew you were not small at all.

Dex stepped closer, and you flinched.

For a second, the two of you just stood there with blood between you. Then, he said, “Sit down.”

You looked at him, eyes still adjusting.

His repeated, firmer this. “Sit.”

Maybe it was the tone. Maybe it was the simplicity in the command. Maybe you just needed instruction.

You sat on the edge of the bed.

Dex went to the bathroom, found the medical kit beneath the sink, and came back without looking too long at the broken lamp or the dent in the wall where your fist had landed. He knelt in front of you because the bed was too short and the room was too small and because, apparently, he had decided this was his problem now.

You watched him clean the cut, with hands folded tightly in your lap.

The antiseptic made you hiss through your teeth.

“Hurts?” Dex asked.

“No.”

“Liar.”

That got the smallest breath out of you. Not a laugh, but Dex decided it was enough.

He stitched you up quickly. You watched his hands instead of his face. Dex was grateful for that. He didn't know what his face was doing, and he didn't want you to see it before he figured it out himself.

When he finished, he tied off the last stitch and taped gauze over the wound. Dex sat back on his heels. “Do you know whose name he said?”

Your face went still. “Yes.”

He waited.

You didn't elaborate. He didn't push.

He stood and turned to clean up the kit, but your hand caught his wrist.

It was light and careful and so different from the way you had fought him that it made his chest lock up.

“Stay,” you said.

Dex looked down at your hand, then at you.

Your face was controlled again, but not enough. Your eyes were too bright in the dark, your mouth pressed too tight, your body holding itself together through sheer refusal.

“Please,” you added, a bit more desperate.

He should have said no. Boundaries, professionalism, all of Charles’ stupid rules and all. He should have gone back to the couch and pretended the sound of your scream wasn't still crawling under his skin.

Instead, Dex nodded.

You shifted back on the small bed, making room that didn’t really exist. It was ridiculous: the mattress was narrow and dipped in the middle, the sheets smelled faintly like laundry powder and dust, and there was no way for him to lie beside you without touching.

He did it anyway.

You lay on your side facing him, one arm tucked against your chest, the bandage stark against your skin. Dex settled stiffly beside you.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then your forehead lowered, just barely, until it rested against his chest.

Dex stopped breathing.

You whispered, “I thought I was back there.”

His hand hovered above your shoulder. Then he let it settle there. “I know.”

“You don’t,” you insisted.

The words were not cruel, but it was true.

Dex looked at the cracked ceiling.

No. He didn't know Siberia. He didn't know your handler’s voice. He didn't know the cold storage or the chair or whatever else had been dragged into the room with you when you screamed. He didn't know what cryo felt like. He didn't know what being erased felt like.

But he knew what it was to wake up and not feel like a person.

So he said, “Maybe not.”

Your fingers curled in the front of his shirt, and he found himself wanting to hold you a little tighter.

In the dark, in that too-small bed with your blood drying beneath his fingernails and the mission waiting beyond the walls, Dex realized he was jealous of Barnes for something even worse than having been loved by you.

Barnes had known how to comfort you because what was done to you was done to him, too. Dex didn't.

But you had asked him to stay anyway. So, he stayed.

—

After Prague, something changed between you.

The shift wasn’t dramatic, because let’s be real, neither of you were built for dramatic emotional breakthroughs. There was no late-night confession, no sudden honesty, no moment where either of you sat down and admitted that maybe the partnership had stopped being strictly professional somewhere around Austria.

Things just idly softened around the edges.

You stopped pretending the nightmares were rare. Dex stopped pretending he didn’t notice when you paced after missions instead of sleeping. Sometimes he would wake in the middle of the night and find you sitting on the kitchen counter of whatever safehouse you were in, wrapped in one of his hoodies with a mug of coffee gone cold in your hands, staring at nothing.

It was a mutual understanding: he never asked what you were thinking about and you never asked why he always woke up exactly three minutes before dawn.

It worked. Mostly.

And somehow, you became easier around him. You rolled your eyes more openly when he was being difficult. You stole food off his plate. You started sitting too close to him on trains and planes and safehouse couches, like your body had decided he was safe before your brain had caught up.

Dex noticed every little bit of it.

Unfortunately, you still talked about Bucky.

Bucky liked this kind of weather. Bucky hated old countryside safehouses. Bucky once broke three ribs falling through a church roof. Bucky said Eastern European plumbing was cursed. Bucky this, Bucky that.

Dex was beginning to suspect the ancient world war two fossil had opinions on literally everything.

He hated how irrational the jealousy felt. Hated that it existed at all. It was ugly and stupid and embarrassing every time the name left your mouth so casually.

But he swallowed it. 

Until Croatia.

The mission itself had been a disaster from the start. Charles had dropped a bad intel in the form of a wrong entry point in a Hydra splinter cell that turned out to be twice the size the files suggested. Dex got separated from you for exactly ninety seconds, which was apparently long enough for someone to nearly put a knife through your throat.

He found you in a collapsed stairwell with blood on your collar and three bodies around your feet. He had managed to cradle your face and slap your cheek twice to get you awake.

When you opened your eyes, though, he looked furious.

—

Dex tried to shoulder the safehouse door open, but the warped wood only groaned stubbornly against the frame, swollen tight from the rain.

Before he could hit it again, you shoved past him, “Move,” grabbed the handle, and yanked hard enough that the lock gave with a dull metallic snap, the door shuddering inward and banging against the wall. Cold air chased both of you inside as rain streaked down the back of his neck. Mud dragged across the floorboards beneath your boots. The cottage smelled like damp stone, stale smoke, and old wood that had spent too many winters rotting.

You stumbled in, one hand pressed briefly to your ribs because the movement annoyed whatever bruise was blooming there.

Dex saw it, refusing to take his mask off because he didn’t want you to see how frightened he had become. 

Worse, he saw more that you seemed to understand. He saw the split at your lip. The blood at the side of your neck, dried now, but still there in a dark line where that knife had kissed too close. He saw the way you were favoring your left side even though you were trying not to. He saw the notch in your sleeve where a bullet had passed close enough to cut fabric.

The second the door shut, the whole night caught up with him at once.

For one horrible moment back in that compound, Dex had heard the comm go dead and had thought, with a certainty so violent it had hollowed him out, that he had lost you. Not misplaced or separated. Lost. 

Asset unrecoverable kind of lost. Operative deceased kind of lost. 

He had not felt that kind of panic in years, and he didn’t like what it had done to him.

So by the time you were both inside the cottage, wet and bleeding and breathing too hard, he had nowhere to put it except anger.

“You broke formation,” he said.

You tossed your ruined gloves onto the kitchen table, one after the other, like you had all the time in the world. “You changed the route.”

“The route was compromised.”

“You didn’t say that.”

“You were off comms.”

“I was busy.”

Dex turned from the door to see that you were standing in the yellow kitchen light, hair damp around your face, jacket hanging open, blood on your throat like some deadly necklace. And you had the audacity to sound bored.

Busy, you had said, like you had missed a call. Like he had not spent the longest thirty seconds of his life tearing through five men and half a corridor to get to you.

“You disappeared.”

You looked at him then. Your stare sharpened, the same way they did before a fight when some poor man realized too late that the pretty woman in front of him had never been harmless.

“Oh my god,” you said, though you looked annoyed, not cruel. In your head, the mission had gone badly but ended fine. You were alive. He was alive. The intel had been recovered and bodies had been left behind. That was success, by every metric either of you had been trained to respect.

So why was he acting like this? You didn’t understand.

“You disappeared,” he repeated, louder this time. “And then I walk into a room and there’s blood all over you—”

“Not mine,” you reminded me. 

“I didn’t know that!” The words came thundering out of him before he could stop them. “You’re just so fucking reckless, are you?”

You barked out a small laugh, turning toward him, looking into his dark hazel eyes, the only part of his face not covered by fabric. “Oh, and you’re the picture of stability right now, Benjamin.”

Dex turned so fast you almost walked into him. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why?” Your eyebrows genuinely furrowed. “Do you not like your name?”

Still, there was no malice in your voice. You were being awful, yes, but not with the intention to wound. You didn't realize where the line was because no one had ever given you normal lines to stand behind. You were teasing him the way you tested knives: carefully, curiously, delighted when they were sharp.

Then, because apparently you had no instinct for self-preservation when it came to him, you added, “Bucky liked it when I called him James.”

Dex went still, but you didn’t notice immediately.

Not because you were stupid; you were not. You noticed threat, movement, weakness, exits, lies. You noticed the things that kept you alive. But this was different. This wasn't a gun drawn under a table or a man shifting his weight before a strike.

This was jealousy.

Dex hated how fast it rose in him. He hated that it didn't feel grown-up or controlled or even useful. It felt young, embarrassing, like a hot green pulse where his heart should be.

And you had no idea you had just fed it.

To you, it was a passing comparison. Bucky had been part of your life. James was a name he had let you use. It was a small domestic fact and nothing more.

To Dex, it was a door opening onto all the things he didn't want to picture.

Barnes smiling at you. Barnes letting you call him James. Barnes in your bed—

You caught the change in his eyes a second too late. “Dex?”

“Don’t.” His voice came out rough enough that even he heard the damage in it.

You stopped smiling, but that didn't help. 

Because Dex knew you had not meant it. He knew. He could see it in your face now: the faint confusion, the way your mouth parted like you were about to ask what you had done wrong. You were not trying to make him jealous. You were not playing Barnes against him. You were not cruel in that particular way.

You were just carrying another man around inside your memories and forgetting Dex could see the outline.

And the worst part was that this wasn't even really about Barnes. It was about the fact that you were standing there, acting like nothing was wrong after almost dying, telling him you were fine while blood dried on your skin like he had not spent the last hour with terror clawing down his throat. You had almost died tonight, and for a second Dex had not thought of you as his partner, or Charles’s asset, or the super soldier who would probably outlive everyone in the room.

He had thought:

No.

Not you.

And now you were standing there saying another man’s name while Dex was still trying to scrape that terror out of his chest.

Dex stepped towards you before he even realized he was moving.

When he got to where you were standing near the kitchen table, he had you shoved backward to the wall behind you.

Dex planted one hand beside your head, boxing you in. The other grabbed your waist hard enough to pull you flush against him. The impact jolted through both of you. Your body heat hit him instantly through layers of damp clothing.

You looked up at him with wide eyes, not frightened.

You were stronger than him. If you wanted him off you, he would already be across the room. If you wanted space, you would take it. Instead, you stayed exactly where you were pinned against the wall, fingers curling into the front of his tactical suit as he desperately took his mask off. 

God.

His grip tightened reflexively against your waist.

“I thought you were dead,” he said again, and this time the words cracked. “Do you understand that? You almost died.” Dex hated himself immediately for letting that much show.

“But I didn’t,” you murmured softly.

Dex looked down at you breathing hard against the wall, rainwater still dripping from your hair, blood drying at your throat, and suddenly the anger stopped feeling red and started becoming want.

Four months of tension crashed through him all at once. Every accidental touch in cramped safehouses. Every late-night conversation over bad coffee. Every time you had smiled at him after violence like the two of you shared some private language no one else understood.

And now you were looking up at him like this.

Your thumb brushed once against the front of his shirt where you still held him.

“You really don’t understand why that isn’t good enough,” he said.

Your eyes flicked over his face, and for half a second, the teasing left you. Then you tried to cover it, because vulnerability made you uncomfortable, too.

“Y’know,” you said, breath still uneven, “Bucky would’ve—”

Oh, fuck that. 

“—known what to do with— Hmph!!!”

The kiss came so suddenly you barely had time to make a sound.

One second you were speaking, the next Dex’s mouth was on yours, hard and immediate and furious enough to steal the rest of the sentence clean out of you. His hand tightened at your waist; the other stayed braced against the wall beside your head like he needed to keep himself from doing something worse, or kind, or both.

You froze beneath him for one shocked heartbeat.

Dex felt the hitch in your breath, the way your hand tightened in his shirt without pulling him closer yet, fingers twisting in the wet fabric like your body had reacted before your mind could catch up. 

He had kissed you to shut you up. That was the only explanation his brain could hold onto.

Not because he had wanted to do it for months. Not because the sight of blood on your throat felt like he had been skinned alive. Not because every time you said another man’s name, the hunger in him wanted to put his own there instead.

No.

He had kissed you because you would not stop talking.

Sure. That's why. 

When you sighed into his lips, his whole body locked up.

The kiss changed in the space of a breath. Your lips began moving against his, tentative for less than a second before the shock burned off and heat rushed in to replace it. Your fingers dragged higher in his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

Dex made a sound low in his throat, and that seemed to snap both of you back to yourselves.

He pulled away, far enough that the kiss broke. For a second, neither of you moved.

You stared at him. He stared back.

Your eyes were wide, Your mouth was parted, damp from his, your breath coming fast. 

He should have stepped back. He should have done anything except look at your mouth again.

Your eyes dropped to his lips at the exact same time.

That was all it took.

Dex barely had time to inhale before your mouth was on his again, harder now, more certain now. Your hands fisted in his shirt and dragged him down into you like you were done waiting for him to decide anything on your behalf.

He kissed you back immediately.

His hand slid from your waist to your hip, gripping there, pulling you against him while your back stayed pressed to the wall. The kiss turned rougher, open-mouthed and breathless, all teeth and heat and months of tension finally catching fire. You made a small whine against him when his body curved into yours, and Dex swallowed it whole.

Your hand slid up into his hair, and he nearly lost his mind.

Four months of looking and not touching, and now you were kissing him like it had meant everything.

Dex pressed in closer, chasing your mouth when you tilted your head, the angle changing. You kissed like you fought, he realized distantly: direct, no wasted movement, no mercy once you decided you wanted something.

Then you pushed him away, palm flattening against his chest. 

Dex was suddenly stumbling backward like gravity had changed its mind. His back hit the edge of the kitchen table with a dull thud, wood scraping against the floor under the impact.

He stared at you for half a second.

You had not even tried.

You looked at him from against the wall, breathing hard, mouth swollen, eyes dark and bright all at once. You looked amazed now, wicked and dazed and pleased by the realization that you could move him so easily.

Dex knew that already.

He had known from the file, the missions, from watching you tear through men twice your size without breaking a sweat.

But knowing it and feeling it were different things.

Feeling your strength turned casually on him, not to hurt, not to threaten, just to move him where you wanted him, made his brain go haywire.

For one dangerous second, Dex wondered what you would do to him if you were given free rein. The next thing he realized was that he would let you do anything to him.

When you walked up to him, Dex’s hands found your waist again, but this time you were the one pushing into him, trapping him against the table, kissing him like you had decided he had started something and now you were going to finish it on your terms.

He let you.

Fuck, he let you.

Your mouth moved over his, hot and demanding, your fingers sliding into his hair again and tugging just enough to make his breath catch. Dex’s grip tightened on your hips, then loosened, then tightened again, like even his hands could not decide whether to pull you closer or surrender completely.

Dex leaned back against the table as you crowded him, and the old wood creaked under both of you. You had his knee pressed between yours, and even then he could feel the damp heat between your legs even through your trousers. He wanted to tease, but when hands roamed up his chest with a kind of greedy curiosity, he forgot language altogether.

He kissed you harder.

You answered immediately, biting at his lower lip until he groaned into your mouth.

Dex felt your smile against his lips for half a second.

Cruel little thing.

Dex pulled his mouth away for a second. You were about to complain, but whatever whiny words you were about to say was silence when his lips dragged down your neck instead. His lips found the place beneath your ear, then the line of your pulse, then the blood-dark smear where the knife had almost cut too deep, and you had mewled like a kitten in response. 

This was fine, he told himself.

Practical, even.

You had both been wound tight for months. Too much blood, too many missions, and not nearly enough release. Wanting you didn't have to mean anything. Wanting to have you didn't have to mean he was already too far gone. This was just mutually beneficial stress relief, right?

Dex almost laughed against your neck at his own reasoning.

It was stupid.

He didn't care.

Your hands slid under the hem of his tactical shirt and dragged upward, impatient and clumsy. Dex pulled back only long enough to tear the fabric over his head and drop it somewhere behind him. He barely had time to breathe before your eyes were on him.

Then, without a word, you followed, fingers catching at the hem of your own shirt, lifting it over your head, tossing it aside.

Dex stared.

Your mouth curved up. “What?”

He stepped back into you.

“Nothing.”

His mouth was on you again before the word had fully settled, kissing you hard, kissing the answer into your skin instead of saying it. His hands moved over your sides, your back, your waist, like he still could not quite believe he was allowed to touch and needed to make up for every second he had wasted pretending he didn't want to.

You made a sound when his lips found your throat again. Your fingers curled around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

Dex obeyed before he could resent how easily he did.

He kissed lower, then back up, restless, greedy, unable to stay in one place because there was too much of you and he wanted all of it at once. Your hand slid over his shoulder, blunt nails dragging lightly over skin right next to his spinal surgery scar.

Then you shifted your weight, pressing closer, and the table knocked against his back again.

Wrong angle, some still-functioning part of his mind decided.

To fix this problem, Dex’s hands dropped to your thighs.

You barely had time to inhale before he lifted you.

Even knowing you were stronger, even knowing you could have taken control from him without trying, there was something inherently satisfying about the small gasp you gave when he picked you up and turned. Your legs caught around him by instinct, and for one brief second his face was against your shoulder and your breath was in his hair.

Then he set you on the table harshly because he knew you could take it. 

The old wood groaned beneath you.

Dex stepped between your knees immediately, one hand braced beside your hip, the other cupping the back of your neck as he kissed you again from the better angle, like he had been right to move you and was very smug about it.

And because you were as desperate as him, you hastily unbuttoned your trousers as he hooked his fingers under your panties and helped you take them off with your spit still dripping from his lips. 

He looked at you again, mouth swollen from kissing him. You looked wrecked already, but not ruined. He thought you were beautiful, but he already knew that. Here, you looked less like a weapon with a heartbeat and more like a goddamn miracle pretending she wasn't one.

And then, immediately, his mind supplied Barnes.

Bucky Barnes had seen you like this.

Dex’s jaw tightened.

Barnes had known this version of you. He had known you warm and bare and breathless, too. He had looked at you in private. Had heard the sounds Dex was only beginning to earn.

Dex hated him for that. He hated him with that unreasonable jealousy that made his grip flex against your hips.

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

Dex didn’t answer.

He didn’t want to say it. He didn’t want to admit that a man he had never met had crawled into his head again. He didn’t want to give that name space here, not now, not with you in front of him looking holy. So Dex leaned closer instead, eyes dark, mouth brushing your jaw as he laid you down on the wood. 

His hand slid along down your body, over your breast and your tummy, exploring and feeling and gripping until they settled on your thighs. 

He wasn't a super soldier.

Fine.

He could not match that kind of strength. He could not promise superhuman stamina or metal fingers or whatever mythic thing Barnes had been in your bed and your memory.

Dex had other talents.

Dex had perfect aim.

And he was determined to make his precision matter more than aimless brute strength. 

His hand slid closer between your legs, the other keeping it open, watching your face the whole time. Your breath caught before he even did anything. 

Your fingers curled into fists.

Dex’s mouth curved, before he peppered kisses on your collarbone, his finger having minds of their own. He touched you like he was mapping a weakness, like every gasp, every shift of your hips, like every sharp little inhale was information he meant to keep and use. You tried to stay composed. Tried to keep the upper hand. It didn’t work.

“Not so mouthy now, huh?” he teased, voice rough.

You glared at him, or tried to.

You wanted to pull him down. You wanted to push him back. You wanted to have him every way the tiny kitchen would allow.

“Tell me what you want.” he said, grabbing your chin with his remaining still-dry hand to make you look at him. 

You hated him for asking. You loved him for making you say it.

Your mouth parted, but nothing came out at first except his name.

It didn’t take long after you felt his fingers in your core for Dex to find what ruined you.

“There,” he said under his breath, a newfound glee in his voice.

That was the unbearable thing about him, the infuriating thing, the thing that made you want to curse his name and drag him closer in the same breath. Dex noticed everything. Every hitch in your breathing. Every tremor you tried to hide. Every tiny shift of your body beneath his hands. He had the focus of a sniper and the patience of a man who knew exactly when he had found his mark.

And right now, all of that terrible precision was on you.

Your back was pressed against the old wood, head only slightly lifted, looking at the ceiling as rain battered the cottage windows.

“Dex,” you breathed, and it barely sounded like a warning anymore.

“Pretty,” he murmured more to himself than to you, rough and pleased.

He curled a finger, and your head fell back against the table with a soft thud.

Your mouth was parted, your breathing uneven, your whole body tense with frustration and the awful realization that he knew exactly what he was doing to you. 

Then he leaned over you, kissed the corner of your mouth, and whispered, “Again.” 

You didn't know whether he meant his name or the sound you had just made.

Either way, you gave it to him.

—

Morning came thin and grey through the curtains.

Dex woke up slowly, which almost never happened. 

He was aware of the sheets first, then the ache in his shoulders, then the faint smell of rain still trapped in the cottage walls.

Then he became aware of you.

You were beside him, half-buried in the blanket, hair spread messy over the pillow, one arm tucked under your cheek. Your breathing was calm and even, one knee had slipped out from under the sheet (which you had stolen), and there were bruises already blooming there, dark against your skin.

Dex stared at them for too long.

He knew exactly where they came from.

You had been on your knees for him the night before, looking up like a fucking fallen angel crawling up from hell. He barely lasted at all, because no amount of training or discipline could have prepared him for you. 

Still, he looked at the bruises, and his chest turned over.

You stirred beside him with a sleepy little sound, blinking into the dull morning light. Your eyes found him, then followed his eyes down to your knee. For a second, you seemed confused, and then your lips curled with amusement.

“Don’t look so worried," you murmured, voice rough from sleep. “It’ll probably heal by sunset.”

Dex looked away. “I was assessing damage.”

You hummed, and for one ridiculous moment he wanted to put his mouth on that smile and keep it there. He wanted to ask if you were sore. He wanted to ask if he had hurt you, even though there was a statistically higher chance of you hurting him in such close quarters. He wanted to ask if you were going to regret it now that the sun was up and the mission was waiting.

He asked none of it.

You stretched under the sheets, lazy and unbothered, then rolled onto your side to face him. There was no panic in you, no awkwardness. No visible regret. If anything, you looked pleased with yourself, far too comfortable with the wreckage you had made of him.

Then you sighed happily and said, “Well. That was a successful evolution of our professional relationship.”

Dex looked back at you.

You were grinning.

“What?”

You propped your head on your hand. “I’m just saying. Good to know my fuck buddy has useful hands.”

For a second, Dex’s entire brain went blank.

Fuck buddy.

Fuck buddy?

You said it lightly, teasingly, like it was a joke between the two of you. Like it was cute. 

Fuck buddy.

After that?

After the wall, the table, the bed. After your hands in his hair. After his name in your mouth. After he had woken up beside you and, idiot that he was, felt at peace in his own mind? 

Fuck buddy.

He wanted to claw his eyes out.

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to ask if that was what he was. He wanted to say the words back to you, cruelly, just to see whether they hurt you, too. He wanted to get out of the bed, get dressed, put a gun in his hand, and see what the barrel felt like in his mouth.

Instead, Dex did nothing.

He did nothing because he understood that if he talked too much, he could lose this before he even knew what this was. If he asked for more, you might run away and give him nothing at all.

You were not trying to hurt him. You were smiling at him, sleepy and satisfied and completely clueless. To you, the arrangement was practical. A category: friends, partners, operatives, fuck buddies. 

Ugh. 

He wanted to tell you that if you called him that again, he might actually lose whatever was left of his mind.

Instead, he still said nothing, because he wasn't stupid.

Unstable, yes. Jealous, increasingly. Probably emotionally constipated beyond medical repair. But not stupid.

If he pushed too hard, you might make it a thing. And if you made it a thing, you might decide the arrangement was too messy and too complicated to continue.

Dex could not risk that.

“Useful hands,” he repeated eventually. His voice sounded normal. He was proud of that, in a distant, miserable way.

You grinned. “Mmhm.”

He gave you a sanitised look.

You laughed, nudging his leg beneath the sheet with your foot like you had any right to be that casual with him after detonating his life before breakfast. “Don’t be offended. That was a very good review.”

“Great,” he said flatly. “Should I expect a written evaluation?”

“I could make a rubric.”

“Don’t.”

Dex almost smiled.

—

Whatever had happened in the cottage didn't end there. It became a part of the mission, as much as false passports and burner phones were a part of the mission. The first time could have been dismissed as an accident. A one-time detonation after four months of tension neither of you had been handling well. But then there was the safehouse in Slovenia, where you came back from a mission with blood on your cheek and smiled at him across the hallway, and Dex knew that it was going to happen again.

Then Munich, against a bathroom sink in an apartment above a closed pharmacy. Then Warsaw, where you didn't even make it out of your tactical gear before dragging him down onto a mattress. Then a warehouse outside Lyon, because the extraction was delayed and apparently the two of you had lost all sense of professionalism somewhere around the fourth body. Then a supply closet in Milan, where he fucked you after you put his mask over your own face. An alley in Budapest. The back room of an abandoned train depot in Belgium.

And because Dex had the self-preservation instincts of a man chasing a moving target off a roof, he let it continue.

He told himself it was better this way. Casual meant stable. Casual meant you stayed. Casual meant you didn't have to examine anything too closely, and neither did he. It meant he got your mouth, your hands, your body in whatever safehouse Charles had arranged for the week, and all he had to do was not ask for more.

He even convinced himself it was more than he had any right to.

You reached for him. You kissed him first sometimes. You slept beside him when the safehouse only had one bed and, sometimes, even when it had two. You learned the scars on his body with your hands. You stole his shirts. You drank from his coffee. You called him by his name and it made him feel like it belonged to you now.

And then, in the morning, or in the car, or while cleaning a weapon at some tiny desk table in another country, you would say something that reminded him exactly where he stood.

“Don’t look so smug,” you told him once, adjusting the strap of your holster in a cracked mirror. “You’re still just my mission stress relief.”

You meant it as a joke, and Dex knew you did.

You looked over your shoulder at him with that wicked little smile, waiting for him to snap back. You expected him to say something dry, something cruel enough to be funny but not cruel enough to count.

He did.

“Good to know I have a job title,” he said.

You laughed and went back to your holster.

Dex stood behind you and wanted to break the mirror with his bare hand.

He had to remind himself over and fucking over again that you were not cruel, at least not like that. You were ruthless, yes. You were capable of killing a room full of people and then asking what was for dinner. But with him, you were not trying to wound. You were simply clueless.

You didn't understand that he had started listening for the way you called for him. You didn't understand that he noticed which safehouses made you sleep easier, which nightmares made you reach for him, which jokes pulled a real laugh out. You didn't understand that he counted every time you chose to sit beside him instead of across from him like a starving man counting coins.

And you really didn't understand what happened to him when you brought up Bucky.

You did it less now, as if you were just starting to get human customs: do not bring up the guy you used to sleep with to the guy you were currently sleeping with unless you were asked.

But when you did bring him up, it was clear as day that part of you loved being given the chance to talk about him.

See, you were guarded about everything else. You deflected questions about Siberia. You made jokes about getting shot. You went blank whenever Charles asked about your programming over the phone. You could talk for twenty minutes about tactical routes and never reveal one honest thing about yourself.

But if Dex mentioned Barnes, even casually, your face would change.

“Barnes teach you that?” Dex asked once, watching you bypass an old Hydra lock with a bent piece of metal and no visible effort.

You smiled immediately. “He tried.”

Dex should have stopped there, but because he apparently liked suffering, he didn't. “Tried?”

You glanced at him, pleased to have the thread. “He was terrible at explaining things. He’d just do it and then look at me like I was supposed to absorb it through proximity.”

Dex hummed.

You kept going. “He got so annoyed when I got better at it than him. He’d pretend he wasn’t annoyed. He used to do this thing with his jaw when he was trying to be mature about losing.”

You mimicked it without thinking. It was… fond.

Oh. Right. 

He watched your hands move over the lock and wondered how many doors Barnes had watched you open. How many safehouses had held the two of you. How many times you had looked over your shoulder at him with that same spark of amusement.

“That sounds annoying,” Dex said.

“He is,” you said. “Very.”

And there was that warmth again.

Sometimes, Dex brought Bucky up on purpose. He hated himself for it, but there was a sickness to his curiosity. He needed to open that wound over and over again to feel something.

“Barnes cook?” he asked one night in Vienna, after you complained about the contents of a safehouse freezer.

You laughed immediately. “Badly.”

Dex regretted the question before you even continued.

“It was tragic. He could survive in the wilderness, dismantle a rifle blindfolded, and break a man’s neck before breakfast, but give him a pan and he can’t make anything that doesn't taste like bland meatloaf.”

Dex stared at the vegetables you were chopping.

You were smiling at the cutting board.

Dex made a noncommittal sound as you talked about it for ten more minutes. 

It was unbearable. 

It was also the most relaxed he had seen you all day, so he let you.

That was the misery of it all. Dex hated hearing about Barnes, but he loved what talking about him did to you. He loved watching that stiff part of you ease when you remembered being loved by someone who had not used you as a weapon. He loved the sound of your voice when it had history in it. He loved that, for once, you were not pretending to be harmless or terrifying. You were just a person with memories.

He just wished the memories didn't belong to another man. Another man who had been your boyfriend.

Not fuck buddy. Not mission stress relief. Not a bad habit in multiple countries. Boyfriend was a real word. A word that meant Barnes had occupied a place Dex had not even been allowed to ask for.

Bucky fucked you and was a boyfriend. Dex worshipped you and was a fuck buddy?

In what fucking world was that even fair?

He hated that he was jealous of a man who had saved your life. He despised that he could not make himself noble about it. He hated that every time you begged him to touch you, some childish, vicious part of him wanted to ask whether Bucky had touched you there, too. 

He never asked, but he imagined plenty.

That was worse, because imagination didn't need evidence. It filled in everything: Barnes’s metal hand on your hip. Barnes’s mouth at your throat. Barnes in all the places Dex had put himself and still somehow felt like the original while Dex became the imitation.

And then you would turn around, clueless and bright-eyed, and ask, “You okay?”

Dex would say, “Fine.”

You would believe him.

That almost made him hate you, in the way a starving man might hate someone for leaving food just out of reach and not understanding why he was shaking.

The arrangement continued because Dex let it. Because he was too greedy to stop. Because having you underneath him, even temporarily, even without the label he wanted, was better than the alternative. Because when you reached for him, he forgot how much it hurt until afterward.

And afterward, there was always a moment that was too tender for his own good. You would button your shirt before going to infiltrate a gala. You would toss him his utility belt with a smirk. You would lean over a map like nothing had changed while Dex stood there with every nerve in his body still aware of the places your hands had been.

He would think, say something. He never did, because what could he say?

Don’t call me that. Don’t call me casual. Don’t talk about him like he still gets the best parts of you. Don’t make me ask for more when we both know you might say no.

So he kept quiet and kept his position, as miserable and humiliating as it was. And every time you called him your fuck buddy, your mission stress relief, your bad decision, Dex smiled like it didn't make him want to drown himself face first in a pool of starving piranhas.

Because for now, you still chose him. Not the way he wanted. Not yet, Maybe not ever.

But Dex had survived on less than scraps before.

So he took what you gave him, swallowed the rest down until it burned, and told himself that temporary was better than nothing.

Even if, some mornings, nothing would have hurt less.

—

Everything imploded during a mission in a church should have been empty.

That was what the file said. An abandoned stone church in a half-empty Italian village had an abandoned Hydra weapons cache beneath the crypt. Supposedly, there was no active civilian presence within a two mile radius, no active guard detail, no complication beyond an old lock. 

It was supposed to be a simple recovery: Secure the intel, secure the weapons for extraction, and leave before anyone in the village noticed the old place had been disturbed.

Dex should have known better by then, that nothing involving Hydra stayed dead just because the walls looked old.

The church stood at the edge of the village with its bell tower cracked down the middle, weeds climbing the steps, and cypress trees stood around the graveyard like black-green sentries. The sky had gone a red late-afternoon color, clouds pressing down over the hills. Inside, the air was cold and wet and stale. Broken saints watched from their niches with missing fingers and chipped faces. Light fell through the stained glass in fractured strips, magenta across the pews, blue over the altar, gold bleeding weakly across the floor like the church still remembered how to be holy.

You found the crypt behind the altar.

The stone slab had been disguised well enough for anyone normal to miss it, but you were not normal. You crouched in front of the mechanism with one knee on the floor, pushing aside a false piece of carved stone until the panel beneath exposed.

It was made of steel, and had a keypad. A half-dead little light blinked red right beside it. Hydra, but older than the other caches. Not Soviet standard. Not the Austrian sequence from month two. Not the lock you had cracked in Romania with a hairpin while Dex stood behind you pretending not to be impressed.

This one made you look… confused.

Dex noticed.

You were very good at focusing and most people mistook it for calm. Dex knew better by now. Your stillness was a sign of assessment, memory, and calculation. You were trying to remember a thousand old lessons while your face gave nothing away. 

But this time, there was no recognition. You only stared at the lock, teeth clenching once.

“You know it?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

Dex shifted his gun in his holster and looked toward the nave. The church doors were still shut, but the place had too many broken windows, too many side entries, too many shadows. It was bad news, because Dex knew for a fact that you were being followed on your way here.

“No,” you said finally.

Dex turned back, irritated. “No?”

You shot him a look over your shoulder, annoyed and beautiful enough that he hated himself for noticing in the middle of a church with a possible kill team closing in. “Do you want to try?”

“I shoot things.”

“Yes. I’ve noticed.”

Dex might have smiled if he had not caught movement through the broken stained glass at the far left of the church. 

“How long?” you asked, noticing it too.

“Maybe five minutes,” he said, preparing a throwing knife. “Less if they’re competent.”

You went back to the lock, fingers moving over the panel, testing seams, and possible reset catches. Nothing opened. Nothing even flickered. Dex could feel your frustration building like heat in a closed room. 

You hated not knowing. You hated needing anything. That was one of the first things he had learned about you in the early weeks when he still thought learning you would help him keep distance instead of making him want to crawl inside your lungs and live there.

Then you sat back on your heels, reached into your jacket, and said, “I have to call someone.”

No. No, no, no.

He knew. Before you said it, before you even looked at the phone, before your thumb found the contact you should not have needed and Dex absolutely didn't want to hear. He knew the way he always knew when the bullet had already left the barrel.

“Who?” he asked, and his voice was too flat.

You didn't look at him. “Someone who might know.”

“Barnes,” he said through gritted teeth, because who else could you possibly know?

You hesitated, not long enough for anyone else to call it guilt. But Dex saw it, because Dex saw everything, because God or the universe or whatever rotten thing had assembled him had given him perfect aim and absolutely no mercy where details were concerned.

“Really?” he said.

“I’m calling someone with Hydra experience,” you insisted.

“Your ex-boyfriend with Hydra experience,” he shook his head.

You scolded him. “Dex.”

“It’s fine.” His smile was brief and horrible. You only caught a glimpse of it before he put his mask over his head. “Actually, it’s great. Let’s bring him into the room. Why not? He’s practically here most days anyway.”

You looked up then, irritation flashing across your face. “This is not the time.”

“It never is.”

“You want the cache?”

“I want you to know literally anyone else.”

“That is not my fault,” you frowned.

“No, I’m sure nothing is.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Barricade the door.”

Dex laughed once under his breath. It had no humor in it. “I don’t need to barricade the door.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No,” he said, voice flat with fury, “I really don’t.”

“Dex,” you said, voice strained, “Please.”

He stepped back from the altar, eyes set ahead, every muscle of his body pulled tight. “I don’t need to barricade the door while you call your ex about a lock.”

You stared at him, phone already dialing. Dex hated that he could hear the line ringing.

One ring. Two. Each little tone felt like a finger tapping the inside of his skull.

Then the call connected, and James Buchanan Barnes spoke through your phone for the first time. “Hey, doll.”

Dex had thought he was prepared for it. He wasn't.

It was just a voice, just a man’s voice through a tiny speaker, softened by distance and familiarity and whatever history lived between the two of you. It should not have done anything. Dex had heard men threaten him, beg him, scream under his hands. He had been praised by superior, insulted by criminals, given orders by bad men. A voice was air. It should be nothing.

But Barnes said doll like he had earned the right to.

And you changed, though not much at all. Your shoulders loosened by the smallest fraction. Your face relaxed before you could stop it. Dex didn’t know if it was still romantic, and Dex could not even decide if that would have been worse or better. It was familiar and lived-in, like a door in you opening because the voice on the other end had knocked in a pattern you still recognized.

Dex felt like he was on the brink of yet another mental collapse.

“Hey,” you said. “Sorry. I need help.”

Barnes answered with immediate concern, gentle as your hand had been on his skin last night. “You okay?”

Dex wanted to shove his head through the nearest stained-glass window.

He wanted to laugh until his throat split open. He wanted to walk outside, stand in the graveyard, and let the incoming kill squad do whatever they wanted just so he didn't have to stand there and listen to Barnes care about you in real time. It was one thing to know the man knew you. It was one thing to know he had loved you, touched you, saved you, left you for reasons Dex didn't know. Knowledge could be abstract. This wasn't abstract.

This was Barnes’s voice filling the church while you crouched over a lock in broken holy light, letting him help you.

This was a man Dex had never met reaching through the phone and occupying space that Dex had been clawing at for months with bloody fingernails.

“She’s fine,” Dex said, too loudly.

Dex knew he should have kept his mouth shut the second Barnes went silent.

It wasn't even a real silence, but Dex heard the shift in it anyway, because he was him, because he caught things no one else caught, because his whole body had become one raw nerve around the sound of that man’s voice. 

“Who’s that?” Barnes asked. It wasn't panic, and not even jealousy. It was just a calm assessment. 

Dex’s mouth moved before he could stop it. “The guy keeping her alive.”

Your head snapped toward him and Barnes went quiet again. Then, he said, “That right?”

Dex smiled harshly under his mask. “That’s right.”

“Oh my God,” you muttered.

Barnes’s voice stayed low through the speaker. “She usually does a decent job of that herself.”

“She had a gun to the back of the head last week,” Dex said.

“She mention why?”

“Boys,” you snapped, eyes flicking between Dex and the phone like you could physically strangle both ends of the conversation if given the chance. “Can we focus?”

Dex stared at the phone, rage crawling hot under his skin. It should not have hurt, but it did. It hurt because Barnes didn’t sound threatened. He sounded like he knew exactly what you were capable of, exactly how much danger you could survive, exactly where concern ended and respect began. He sounded like someone who didn't need to prove he belonged in the conversation because he had been there first.

You exhaled and looked back down at the lock. “Dex, meet Bucky. Bucky, meet Dex. Don’t worry about it.”

Don’t worry about it.

You clearly didn’t mean anything by it. You were just irritated, distracted, trying to do your job. But the words hurt him. 

Don’t worry about it. Not he matters. Not he’s important. Not anything that could stand up against the familiar way that Barnes was calling you an old pet name through the speaker.

Barnes hummed once, unreadable. “Alright.”

Dex wanted to shoot the phone. He wanted to shoot the wall.

He wanted to walk outside and turn the incoming kill squad into a pile of meat just so he would have something to do with his hands besides stand there and feel pathetic in a church.

You pointed sharply at the side door without looking up. “Dex. Door.”

His teeth clenched.

Barnes said, almost mildly, “Might want to listen to her.”

Dex looked at the phone. Then at you.

“You alright?” Bucky asked when he was sure Dex was out of range. Unfortunately, he wasn't.

It was clear that he was going to say something again, but you shot him a glare to stop him. “We’re fine,” you said, “I have a lock.”

“A lock?” Barnes asked, and Dex hated the hint of humor there too, hated that he could hear the little frown in the man’s voice, hated most of all that you probably could picture his face when he made it.

“An older Hydra one,” you said. “It’s an Italian site with crypt entry. It’s not taking any of the sequences I know.”

Barnes went quiet, thinking.

Dex turned away. He could not stand another second of your face while you listened to him. He could not stand the concentration in your eyes, the trust. 

You trusted Barnes’s voice. You trusted him enough to call. Enough to ask. Dex didn't want to know what else you had trusted him with.

He stalked down the nave, past rotting pews and the saints’ blind plaster faces, knife, boots grinding dirt and broken glass into the floor. Your voice followed him. “No, I tried the lower sequence.”

Barnes, apparently, was patient and understanding. “Not that one. Check the left side. There should be a false panel under the carved edge.”

Your answer came after, almost pleased. “There is.”

Dex shoved the side door open and stepped into the graveyard.

The first man came over the wall in black tactical gear with his rifle raised. Dex threw his knife, and it sliced him through the throat.

He dropped backward over the stone wall with a wet, choking sound, his weapon clattering against the grave markers. Two more appeared at the corner of the church, moving in formation, disciplined enough to be annoying. Dex didn't give them time to become more than geometry. He put a round through the first man’s knee, watched him collapse mid-stride, then shot the second through the gap between helmet and mask as he turned toward the sound. The first man reached for his sidearm when Dex crossed the grass and drove his boot into the side of his head hard enough to silence him against the base of a weathered angel statue.

Inside, faintly, through the open door and stone walls, Barnes was still talking. “Don’t force it, doll. If it’s the one I think it is, it punishes pressure.”

Dex’s vision narrowed.

He reloaded while moving, hands steady despite the rage making a live wire of his spine. Another four came through the cypress line on the east side, sweeping toward the church doors. Dex moved between headstones, using them the way lesser men used cover and smarter men used angles. He threw an old stone before the man could fire, because he needed him to drop the weapon, then threw a knife into the second’s exposed thigh, deep enough to make him buckle. The third got close. Dex let him, and he caught the man’s rifle barrel, redirected the shot into the stone at his feet, and slammed the butt of his own weapon into the man’s face until the mask cracked and the body limped.

The fourth hesitated, so all Dex had to do was put him down with a shot to the chest, then another to the head before he hit the wet grass.

He could still hear you through the door. “Like this?”

Barnes said something too low for Dex to catch.

You gave a small laugh.

Dex stopped breathing for half a second.

Then a bullet cracked against the stone column beside his head, spraying old dust across his cheek.

He turned toward the shooter and became what he was good at being.

The kill squad came in waves, and Dex dismantled them one by one. Three from the road, two from the lower wall, another pair trying to circle around the sacristy entrance. He moved constantly, cutting through the graveyard, forcing them into bad angles, making the churchyard’s dead stone work for him. A man lunged from behind with a blade; Dex caught the wrist, twisted until the joint failed, and drove the man’s own knife under his jaw. Another tried to retreat toward the road; Dex shot him through the calf, stepped over him, and finished him only after taking his spare magazine. It was definitely meaner than necessary, maybe, but he had Barnes’s voice in his head and no interest in being merciful.

Blood darkened the grass. Rain began again, soft at first, then heavier, ticking over helmets and stone crosses and the bodies Dex left where they fell. He was breathing hard by the time the last five made a push for the front doors, their boots pounding over the church steps. Dex came at them from the side.

He shot the man with the fancy scope first. The second man reached for it. Dex put a round through his wrist, then threw his empty magazine at the third man’s face hard enough to make him flinch at the wrong second. That second was plenty. Dex closed in, drew his sidearm, fired twice, then slammed the barrel into the last man’s throat when he tried to tackle him. The man gagged, stumbled, and Dex drove him backward into the church door with enough force to make the wood boom from the impact.

The man slid down the door, and Dex stood over him, rain dripping from his hair, blood spattered across his face and collar, chest rising and falling.

Through the thick old wood, he heard Barnes again. “That’s it. Good. Now wait for the second light.”

Good.

Dex’s fingers tightened around the gun.

Good.

Barnes was praising you. Barnes was inside, with you without even being inside. Barnes was at your shoulder, in your ear, useful and alive in all the places Dex wanted him dead. Dex had just killed fifteen men in the graveyard and on the church steps, had turned a kill squad into cooling meat, and still he had not managed to get Barnes out of the room.

When he went back inside, the church swallowed him whole. His boots tracked blood and rainwater down the nave. He passed beneath the broken blue glass while your voice drifted from below the altar. “Got it.”

The crypt panel was open now. A cold blue-white light spilled across the stone, illuminating your face from beneath while you crouched by the mechanism, one hand still on the panel, the phone lying on the floor beside you on speaker. You looked relieved and a little flushed from the rush of solving it. Dex hated how beautiful you looked like that. Hated that Barnes got to hear it.

“Good job,” Barnes said.

You smiled, and Dex felt it like a gunshot.

“Thanks,” you said.

Barnes was silent for a moment, and in that silence Dex imagined him somewhere far away, metal hand maybe resting on a kitchen counter, brow furrowed, voice gentle because he knew exactly how to be gentle with you. Because he had practiced. Because he wasn't a fuck buddy in some safehouse bed waiting for permission to matter.

Then Barnes said, “I… good luck, doll. We’ll catch up when you get back, yeah?”

The rage in Dex went utterly still, like a calm before the storm.

You reached for the phone. “Yeah. I’ll—”

Dex walked towards you in three strides and you looked up too late.

“Dex—”

He snatched the phone off the stone before you could touch it.

Barnes’s voice crackled through the speaker, confused now. “What’s—”

Dex smashed it against the floor. It was loud, amplified by the echo of the hall. The plastic cracked and glass burst outward in glittering pieces. The speaker gave a shrill little whine, but not enough. It wasn't dead enough. 

Dex hit it again, harder, this time stomping it with his boots, the ruined device bouncing against the stone. A third stomp split the casing open. A fourth sent the battery skidding under the edge of the altar. He would have kept going until it was dust if your voice had not snapped him out of it.

“Dex!”

Dex froze over the pieces. For a second, the whole church held its breath.

Rain tapped against the shattered windows. Outside, one of the men he had left in the graveyard made a weak, wet sound and then stopped forever. The crypt light washed over you from below. Dex stood in front of you with blood on his hands, blood on his jacket, and the shattered remains of your phone between his boots.

You stared at it then at him as he took his mask off. 

You were not confused anymore. You were angry.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” you demanded. “We got the cache. The lock is open. We can go!”

Dex laughed. It came out wrong, scraped raw in his throat. “You can go,” he said. “Maybe he can talk you through that too.”

Your eyes narrowed and your mind clicked into place to see just enough.

Not all of it, though. You could never see the full, ugly, pathetic cathedral of feeling he had built around every careless mention of Barnes’s name. Not the months of swallowing down jealousy. Not the way hearing Barnes’s voice had made Dex feel like he was standing outside his own body watching another man touch what he had never been allowed to keep.

Dex looked away because if he kept looking at you, he might say something dumb.

You stood slowly from the crypt steps. “You destroyed our only secure phone because Bucky helped me open a lock?”

“No.” The lie was so bad it was almost insulting.

You stared at him. “No?”

Dex’s teeth clenched once.

He had killed fifteen men outside without hesitation. Had moved through a kill squad like violence was language and he was finally fluent again. But this, standing in front of you while you looked at him like he was unreasonable, like he was the problem, like Barnes had not just reached through a phone and put his stupid vibranium arm around Dex’s throat.

“What, then?” you asked.

He said nothing.

Because if he opened his mouth, all of it would come out.

Because he called you doll and you smiled. Because you trusted his voice. Because he knew the lock and I didn’t. Because he had you first. Because he gets to be James and I’m your fuck buddy. Because I just killed fifteen men in the rain and came back to find you making plans with your ex-boyfriend to "catch up”.

Because I want to matter to you so badly I’m starting to hate you for not noticing.

He could not say any of that.

So he stood there, breathing hard, eyes fixed to a random point over your shoulder while the broken saints watched from the walls and the graveyard outside held the bodies of every man Dex had killed because rage was easier than asking you to choose him over that other man.

You stepped closer, anger burning bright in your face. “Dex.”

He looked back at you, and whatever you saw in his eyes made your own falter for half a second. 

Then the mission reasserted itself. 

You swallowed, “We need to move.”

Dex nodded once. “Then move.” 

—

Turns out, Hydra had hidden enough weapons under the crypt to arm a small war, packed in old military cases and reinforced steel crates stamped with symbols half-scraped away. Some of it was familiar: guns, charges, vials long since gone dark inside cold-storage cylinders, and files sealed in polymer sleeves. Then there were the stranger things, things that made even you go quiet while you put them into inventory: crystalline components, serum stabilizers, old prototype tech sealed inside glass casings with warning labels in Russian and German.

Half of it was water-sensitive, which became a problem when the storm thundered.

It came down hard over the village, wind screaming through the cracked bell tower, rain hammering against the broken stained glass until the whole church seemed to tremble. Water sheeted down the outer walls and leaked through the roof in thin, shining threads. 

Extraction was impossible because moving the cache would stupid. Trying to carry it out through that much rain would ruin half of what Charles needed and possibly kill both of you if one of the more unstable components reacted badly.

So you stayed. You and Dex packed what you could, sealed the crates, and wrapped the sensitive cases in altar cloths and plastic sheeting from your field bags. You worked in silence for nearly an hour, both of you moving around each other.

Neither of you mentioned the phone.

By the time everything was secured, Dex was sitting on the altar steps, forearms braced on his knees, hands loosely clasped in front of him. He had washed most of the blood from his fingers in a rain barrel near the side entrance, but some of it still clung beneath his skin. His jacket was damp. His hair was wet from outside. The scar on his cheekbone caught a bit of dirt and he hadn't bothered to clean properly.

You stood in the center of the altar above him, leaning back against the old stone podium with your arms crossed. The blue-white crypt light spilled up from behind you. The stained glass threw broken color over your face. The church was ruined, filthy, half-flooded by rain and full of weapons, and somehow you looked like you belonged at the center of it.

Dex tapped his knee twice, because he hated being silent with you.

Silence gave him time to feel things. Silence let the church fill with everything he was trying not to say. Barnes’s voice. He hated that he still expected to see you after the mission, as if he had the right to imagine your return, as if he had some claim on you after he dumped you.

Dex looked down at his hands and hated them for shaking. He lifted his eyes to look at you. You were staring out into the nave, not looking at him.

He should have apologized for the phone. He should have said something practical about the cache. He should have asked if you were cold.

Instead, because jealousy had been chewing through him for months and had finally eaten its way to bone, Dex asked, “Did you ever fuck Barnes in a church?”

The question should have been crude enough to make you angry. It was crude; Dex meant it to be. He wanted you to be angry at him. He wanted you to roll your eyes or call him a dickhead or throw something at him so the two of you could turn this into an easier emotion.

You didn't answer. You only looked away, and that was answer enough. 

His face changed before he could stop it.

“No,” he said.

You stayed quiet.

The rain struck the windows harder, wind dragging it sideways against the glass in long furious sheets. “No,” Dex repeated, as if he said it again the universe might take pity on him and rearrange itself. “No.”

Your arms tightened over your chest. “Once,” you said.

A stake through the heart would have been kinder.

He stared at you from the altar steps, and the whole church seemed to gather to watch a wound open. The broken saints, the pews, the stone columns.He could see it without wanting to. You, in another church, another place, another mission, Barnes with you. Barnes, touching you where Dex had touched you. Barnes, hearing you gasp in a place people were supposed to pray.

Dex’s fingers curled against each other. “Where?” he asked.

He didn't want to know. He needed to know.

You hesitated. That pause was its own kind of mercy and its own kind of murder. “On a pew.”

Dex looked toward the old pews in the nave.

They were rotting, dusty, half-broken, washed in fractured color from the stained glass. Innocent objects, really. Nothing but dead wood. But Dex looked at them and hated every church ever built. He hated every prayer ever said. He hated every saint carved out of stone and every man forgiven by grace he had not earned.

Of course Barnes got to make sin romantic.

Of course Barnes got to be the good man and still have that with you. None who came out of Hydra clean stayed clean all the way through, and yet somehow Barnes had managed to become holy in your memory anyway. Saint James with the metal arm. They should really make him a statue just to give Dex the satisfaction of smashing it into million pieces. 

You looked at him in a new light now. “Dex.”

Your voice had changed, like you had finally realized he had gone past ordinary jealousy and arrived somewhere even worse.

He stood, slowly, as if every movement had to be chosen. He climbed the altar steps toward you, hands loose at his sides, eyes fixed on yours, making the space between you feel dangerously thin.

You didn’t move away. You never did when you should have.

He stopped in front of you. You were still leaning against the podium, arms crossed, trying to look unbothered when the pulse at your throat had started to beat harder.

Dex looked down at you for one long second, then lowered himself to his knees.

Oh. 

Your breath caught before you could hide it. Your perspective seemed to realign around the sight of Benjamin Leonard Poindexter kneeling in front of you on cold altar stone, not mocking, not joking, not pretending. His hands came to your waist, firm but not rough, as if he were afraid that if he touched you too carefully he might fall apart, and if he touched you too hard you might scare. But no, you didn't scare easy.

“Did he worship you?” Dex asked.

Your eyes darkened. “Dex.”

He hated the warning in your voice. “Did he?”

You swallowed. “That’s not—”

“Don’t.” His fingers flexed against your waist. “You know what I’m asking.”

You looked down at him, anger and affection warring across your face. He had seen you covered in blood, shaking from nightmares, laughing over terrible coffee, bored while fighting men who should have known better. He had seen you naked under safehouse sheets and pretending it didn't mean more than bodies passing time. But he didn't think he had ever seen you like this: trapped by sincerity.

You didn't know what to do with someone kneeling. Especially not him.

Dex leaned forward before you could answer and pressed his mouth to your stomach through your shirt.

The kiss was placed at the center of you like he was making a promise beneath the fabric, beneath the skin, beneath the version of you that knew how to survive but not how to be adored.

You went completely still. Dex closed his eyes. “I would,” he confessed.

Your hand hovered for a second near his shoulder like you didn't know whether to push him away or touch him.

“I would,” he repeated, and his mouth moved lower, another kiss to your hip, then the side of your waist, then just above the place where his hand held you. “If you stopped dragging his ghost into every room we’re in, I would.”

The words should have made you angry again, but all you could feel was endearment.

Dex looked up at you from his knees, and whatever mask he had been wearing was gone. There was no dry comment, no mean smile. Jealousy, yes, but not only jealousy. There was want, devotion, and hurt, tangled together until it looked almost like worship already.

“I don’t think there’s a God,” he whispered, just enough for you to hear.

Thunder rolled over the church roof as if answering.

Dex laughed faintly, eyes still on you. “No, I don’t. I look at the world and I think there can’t be. Not a good one. Not a fair one. Not if your handlers can make places like Siberia. Not if they can put you in that chair. Not if they can take someone like Barnes and hollow him out and then hand him back to the world like the world is supposed to know what to do with him. Not if they can make me and still expect me to be grateful to be alive.”

His thumb dragged slowly over your waist, grounding himself. “Most days, I think if there is something up there, it’s either blind or cruel.”

You should have said something, but you could not.

Dex was looking at you like he had started confessing and didn't know how to stop, like the church had brought out the darkest parts of him, and now all the things he had swallowed for months were spilling out at your feet.

“And then I think of him,” he said, the word bitten off with bitterness. “James Buchanan Barnes. And I hate him. I hate him so much it’s stupid. It’s pathetic. I know that. I know exactly how pathetic it is, and it doesn’t help.”

Your lips parted, but Dex shook his head once, not letting you interrupt.

“He gets to be the good one. The Winter Soldier who became a hero. He gets to have done terrible things and still be looked at like the tragedy belongs to him instead of the people he killed.” His jaw flexed. “And maybe that’s fair. Maybe he suffered enough. Maybe he earned whatever peace he found. I don’t know. I don’t care. I can’t fucking care.”

Your hand lowered onto his shoulder. Dex’s eyes flicked to it, then back up at you.

Your touch was light, but he looked like it nearly undid him.

“But I care that he got you first,” Dex said, and that was the confession beneath all his sorrows. “He got to know you before me. He got the history, the forgiveness. He gets to be James. I get to be Benjamin when you’re mad at me and Dex when you want me and fuck buddy when you’re trying not to think.”

You sighed. He was wrong, and you wanted him to know. He was wrong, but he would not let you talk your way out of this.

“That’s not fair,” he whispered, and he sounded so furious with himself for saying it that it hurt. “That’s the part that makes me think there’s no God. Because what kind of divine hand puts you in the world and lets someone else find you first?”

The storm crashed outside, hard enough to make the stained glass tremble.

Dex leaned in again, pressing another kiss to your stomach, then another along your belt line, then to the top of your thigh through the fabric of your clothes, each one less controlled than the last but still reverent. Then he looked up at you again, eyes dark and fever-bright.

“But then I look at you,” he said, “and I think I’m wrong.”

You stared down at him. “About God?” you asked quietly.

“About there not being one.” Dex’s hands tightened at your waist, not enough to hurt, enough to say he was holding on to the thought with both hands.

“Because you don’t happen by accident,” he said. “You can’t. I don’t believe that. I don’t believe the universe is that careless. I don’t believe a bullet just missed and that’s why you’re here. I don’t believe you survived because Zemo’s aim was off by half an inch. I don’t believe you happened by chance.”

Your eyes darted, tears welling on the corners. He saw the exact moment the words went under your armor and found skin. Because that had been the story, hadn’t it? The only reason you were alive was because someone had failed to kill you correctly. You had built yourself around that fact, maybe without meaning to. You had seen yourself as the surviving mistake, the remaining weapon. Dex looked at you like he wanted to tear that version of the story apart with his teeth.

“No,” he said, as if you had argued with him. “No. Some divine hand must have made you. Something had to. Because you’re too—”

He stopped, jaw working, searching for words and hating that none of them were enough.

“You’re too… perfect,” he said finally, almost angry with how mild it sounded. 

A faint, wounded sound escaped you.

Dex rose slightly on his knees, still not standing, still keeping himself below you.

“Hydra tried to turn you into a weapon,” he said. “That’s all they know how to do. But they didn’t make you. They don’t get credit. They don’t get credit for who you are. They don’t get credit for the way you taste like rain after a fight or the way you stand in this ruined church like the whole place was built just to make light fall on you properly.”

Your fingers tightened on his shoulder, and they shifted slower to his neck.

When he looked back up, his voice had gone lower. “You are part of some grand design I don’t understand,” he said. “You must be, because if you’re an accident, then nothing means anything. If you’re just what was left after everyone else died, then the whole world is worse than I thought.”

He put his forehead against your diaphragm just so he could feel you breathe. For a moment, he just stayed there.

You looked down at him, and your hand moved into his hair. Carefully, like he was the dangerous thing and you were the one trying not to startle him.

Dex shuddered.

“You’re not an accident,” he said against you. “You’re not someone’s failed termination. You’re not his second chance story either. You’re not proof Barnes got better. You’re not proof of anything but yourself.”

Your throat tightened.“Dex.”

He lifted his head, and the look on face made your chest ache.

“I would worship you,” he said. “Do you understand that? I don’t mean I’d say pretty things and get on my knees because it looks good in a church. I mean I would build my days around it. I would make a liturgy out of it. I would become unbearable about it. I would be so devoted you’d hate me for it.”

You tried to breathe evenly, but failed.

“I’d worship the weapon too,” he said. “That’s the part you never understand. You think people only get to love one side of you? I want all of it. I’d kiss the knuckles you break skulls with. I’d kiss the bruises that heal before sunset. I’d kiss the scar tissue and the places they put needles and your pretty mouth that keeps saying his name because you don’t realize what it does to me.”

Your hand tightened in his hair, tugging, simply just because you knew he liked it.

He smiled faintly, almost ruined by it.

“There,” he murmured. “See? That. I’d worship that too.”

You looked down at him, eyes dark now, anger and heat and desire moving through them all at once. The storm had swallowed the world outside. The church smelled like rain, stone, old incense, blood, and the cold metal of Hydra crates waiting below. It should have been an ugly place. Maybe it was.

But Dex was on his knees in front of you, talking nonsense about God and design and worship like a man bleeding out through his mouth, and somehow the ruined church felt less like a tomb than a threshold.

“You’re insane,” you whispered.

“Yes,” he said immediately, like it was the easiest confession in the world.

That almost made you laugh, but the sound tangled in your throat and came out uneven.

Dex’s hands slid slowly from your waist to your hips, then back again, like he could not stop reassuring himself that you were close. His mouth brushed the side of your thigh through your clothes, then your hip, then your stomach again, each kiss more desperate than the last because the words had only made the wanting worse.

“I would,” he said again. “I fucking would.”

“Dex,” you called. When he looked up, you said, “Don’t make promises you can’t survive.”

For a second, the devotion turned visibly dangerous. “Oh,” he said certainly. “I’d survive you.”

You should have pushed him away.

Maybe that would have been kinder. Maybe that would have given both of you a chance to step back from the edge of whatever terrible, reverent sacrifice he had just placed at your feet. 

Instead, your hand slid from his hair to the side of his face, your thumb brushing over the scar along his cheekbone. 

For a second, you only looked at him.

Then you pulled him up.

You caught him by the front of his damp shirt and dragged him to his feet like you had run out of patience with being adored from a distance. Dex came willingly, his hands sliding from your waist to your hips as he rose into your space. He stopped close, eyes dropping to your mouth the second he was level with you.

“You want worship?” you asked, voice barely above the rain.

Dex’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”

Your fingers fisted tighter in his shirt. “Then show me.”

Whatever restraint he had left vanished.

Dex kissed you hard, the force of it driving your back into the cold stone podium. Not like the cottage, not like that first furious interruption. This was worse: It had all the confession in it, all the jealousy. His mouth claimed yours like prayer and punishment at once, desperate enough to make you hiss into him.

Dex swallowed the sound like communion.

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer, needing proof that the woman he had just called divine was choosing him. The storm broke over the church in a roar, rain pouring through the cracks in the roof.

Before he could think better of it, he dragged you to the other side of the old stone podium, and your back hit the edge of it with a dull sound swallowed by thunder.

He turned you toward the pews. He knew exactly what you were. He knew that you could have thrown him halfway down the aisle if you wanted.

You didn't.

You let him guide you forward until your palms braced against the cold stone. You let him settle behind you. You grinded against him fully clothed, and he moaned anyway. His chest was your back, his breath hot in your ear. Let his hands move over you like he was both claiming and praying.

The empty seats stretched out before you in dark, rotting rows, facing the altar like an audience waiting for confession. Dex saw them over your shoulder, saw the ruined aisle, the broken glass, the blue glow from the crypt below. His imagination had the whole church watching. Every ghost, every ruined saint, every dead thing in the walls forced to witness the truth of what you had become to him.

His mouth found the side of your neck, then your shoulder, then the place just below your ear that made your fingers curl against the stone. 

Before you knew it, fabric shifted and zippers gave out. His touch grew greedier, less patient, dragging away layers of clothing like they offended him. 

“You’re perfect,” he said.

You swallowed hard. “Dex.”

“No.” His mouth pressed to your bare shoulder. You were naked now, your tactical trousers pooling at your ankles, while he was still annoyingly clothed. Surprisingly, it didn't feel humiliating. It felt thrilling. “You don’t get to argue with me about this.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You always do.” His voice was low, finally fumbling with his trousers. “You always act like it’s nothing, like you’re less than because you think you were made by them.”

His hands slid to your hips again. “But look at you.”

The storm roared overhead, and the church seemed to breathe around you. You could feel him behind you, all heat and muscle and restraint worn down to nothing. 

His hand came up to cover yours on the podium, fingers sliding between yours, pressing your palm harder to the stone. The gesture was grounding and possessive all at once. His other arm wrapped around your waist, holding you back against him, and his mouth found your ear.

“This is what worship feels like,” he whispered before bending you over to fuck you like you were delivering sermon.

—

An hour later, the storm had calmed down

Not stopped; not even close. Rain still sheeted against the broken church windows and slipped through the cracks in the roof in thin silver lines, dripping onto stone, into puddles. 

You sat together on the steps of the altar.

After wearing each other out, Dex had found the thermal blanket in your pack. He had pulled it free with hands that were still a little unsteady and wrapped it around both of you like the act of keeping you warm was something he could understand better than whatever had just happened between you.

You were tucked against his side now, shoulder pressed to his ribs, one of his arms around you beneath the blanket. Your clothes were still drying on the makeshift line you had made. Your hair was still a mess, your skin warm where his mouth had been. Dex had his chin tipped slightly downward, pressing his cheek to your temple.

He wasn't talking. This was how you knew he was still bleeding somewhere you could not see.

You shifted beneath the blanket, close enough that your knee brushed his. “Dex.”

His arm tightened slightly around you as a reply

You looked down at your hands, then out toward the ruined church. “You never had to worry about Bucky,” you said.

Dex went very still.

It was almost impressive, how completely he could vanish into his own body without moving at all. His breathing didn't change, but you felt something was off.

“I’m serious,” you added quietly.

He looked down at you then. There was no sarcasm in his face. There was only caution, like if he let himself want to believe you, it would become another way to get hurt.

You hated that a little. You hated that you had helped put it there.

“I don’t love him that way,” you said.

Dex’s brows furrowed.

“Not anymore, and I haven’t for a while. It got complicated towards the end, before either of us knew what to do with it.” You exhaled slowly, trying to make the words come out right. “But I don’t want him like that. I don’t think about him like that. I don’t want to touch him. I don’t want him touching me, not the way I want you.”

Dex blinked once.

I want you.

Did he hear that right?

His fingers tightened very slightly at your waist under the blanket.

You gave him a faint, humorless smile. “I know I talk about him too much.”

Dex looked away.

“I didn’t realize what it sounded like,” you admitted.

The rain filled the silence for a moment.

Then you said, “Bucky was... proof, I think.”

Dex’s eyes moved back to you.

You searched for the right way to say it. It was difficult. Not because you didn't know the truth, but because you had never had to explain it out loud.

“He was Hydra’s weapon,” you said. “And then he wasn’t. He was still damaged, but he was free. He chose things. He chose Steve and Sam, and the Wakandans and me. He chose to fight. He chose to stop being what they made him.” Your throat tightened around the next words. “I needed to know that was possible.”

You saw comprehension take form behind his eyes.

“When Steve was around, he was that to me, too,” you continued. “Not the Hydra part, obviously. But he was a super soldier who could’ve been used as a weapon by anyone with a flag and a speech, and instead he fought for what he believed in. He disobeyed when it mattered. He was made and still stayed his own.”

You looked out at the pews.

“And I never loved Steve like that. He was my friend. My irritating, Nazi-killing, righteous friend.” Your mouth curved softly. “And Bucky is my friend, too. Even now.”

Dex was quiet. You looked up at him again. “I think I talked about him because I didn’t know how else to explain what I wanted to become.”

Oh.

Dex stared at you like something had finally clicked into place.

Inside Dex, the jealousy loosened all at once.

It didn't disappear; he wasn't that kind of man. Jealousy didn't simply leave because it had been reasoned with. It would probably still bare its teeth the next time Barnes called you, because Dex was Dex and wanting made a monster out of him faster than anything else. But he understood now.

Bucky Barnes had not been a rival in the way Dex had imagined. Barnes had been a direction, a fixed point. He was your fucked up version of a North Star.

Dex knew what that was.

Eileen Mercer, and then Julie Barnes had been that for him once. It was never really romantic, but rather a proof of concept. A person he had turned into a map because he didn't trust himself to know where goodness was unless someone else stood there holding it. 

Dex looked at you then, with the blanket tucked around your shoulders and your face softened by the blue gloom from the crypt. You had made Bucky into something similar. Not a lover you were still reaching for, but a symbol. A blueprint. 

It made Dex feel better. It also broke his heart a little, because of course you had done that. Of course you had taken a person and turned him into proof you could survive. Of course you had mistaken a man for a conscience because nobody had ever taught you how to trust your own direction.

You were more alike than he had realized.

Not in the neat ways. Not in the ways Charles’s files could measure. In pathetic ways. In starving ways. In the way both of you had looked at someone else and thought, if I stand close enough, maybe it’ll rub off on me. It was almost funny that you had found vastly different people that happened to have the same last name to call a moral compass, and somehow still ended up in each other’s arms. 

Maybe that was a confirmation of a higher power, and that they had a sense of humour.

You watched him carefully. “Say something.”

His mouth curved faintly. “You’re asking the wrong man.”

“No, I’m not.”

That got him a little.

His eyes dropped to your mouth, then back to your face. “You really didn’t know?” he asked.

“That it hurt you?”

He looked away, and you felt awful immediately.

“Dex.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. His hand shifted beneath the blanket, fingers finding yours, almost awkwardly. Dex stared at your joined hands.

“You called me your fuck buddy,” he said.

You winced. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought...” You swallowed. “I thought making it casual would make it safer.”

He tilted his head. “For who?”

You didn't answer fast enough.

Dex’s expression softened in the smallest, most devastating way. He understood that too. You had not called him casual because he meant nothing. You had called him casual because he had started meaning too much.

Your hand tightened around his.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

Dex looked like he didn't know what to do with that. So you shifted closer, blanket rustling around both of you, and pressed your forehead against his shoulder.

For a moment, he stayed rigid. Then, his arm came around you properly.

“You’re not Bucky,” you said against him.

Dex made a faint, bitter sound. “Yeah, I got that.”

You lifted your head and looked at him. “I don’t want you to be.”

His face, when he looked back at you, was vulnerable the way you had never seen before

“I want you,” you said.

His eyes searched yours, suspicious of mercy, suspicious of happiness. Instead you gave him the truth plainly. “I love you, Dex.”

The words were not loud, but the church heard them anyway.

For a second, he looked almost frightened. Not of you, but of the fact that he now had something to lose. 

Your thumb brushed over his knuckles. “Dex.”

His eyes closed, just for a moment

When he opened them again, he leaned in slowly, giving you all the time in the world to pull away, and rested his forehead against yours.

“I love you, too,” he said. It came out almost broken.

You smiled, and Dex looked at it like the storm could take the whole church down around you and he would still be exactly where he wanted to be.

Then he kissed you, not to shut you up or to prove a point.

He kissed you because he loved you, and for once, you had said it first.

—end.

Sequel to this is out now: Snap Out Of It!

[yoursinfulurges]

My Woman

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.

[targaryenstar]

ugh i need to have soft sex with dex that leads to a midday nap

girl me too. dex having to take time away from work just to be with you. he would wake you up early, just to make the most of his time with you. clinging to you like a cat, having you sat on the kitchen counter as he makes you both breakfast. bringing you on his usual morning walk, stopping in the middle of the park to watch the sun rise, with his arms swallowing you into his chest. crawling back into bed just to be caged between dex and the mattress. soft giggles and playful shoves turn to hazed eyes and slow kisses. dex breathing softly into your neck as he pumps into you, telling you how beautiful you are. his hands stuck to the flesh of your waist, unable to look away as you jolted with pleasure beneath him. and once he'd finished inside you, not willing to part just yet, he'd fall asleep against your chest, hands still wrapped around your tummy.

[manonwillpower]

ʙᴇɴᴊᴀᴍɪɴ ᴘᴏɪɴᴅᴇxᴛᴇʀ ✦

ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ

Love Me Not - Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5 , Part 6, Part 7 coming soon.

ᴏɴᴇ ꜱʜᴏᴛꜱ

coming soon...

ᴅʀᴀʙʙʟᴇꜱ

FBI!Dex receiving a hug

[targaryenstar]

ok brat tamer!dex x brat!vigilante!reader?? she’s always getting herself into trouble and dex has to deal with it lol (bailing her out of jail, stitching up her cuts, etc.)

⋆.𐙚 ̊ brat tamer!dex keeping you out of trouble ⋆.𐙚 ̊

you and dex were formerly lone wolves. you preferred taking on your vigilantism alone, that way you only had yourself to look out for. but of course, you pushed your way into his life. whether he liked it or not. stealing his kills and waving from across the rooftops, making sure the fatal shot was your own. dex had no choice but to work with you, to keep you both out of trouble. and naturally, your relationship ensued.

but you made it hard. he would have to hold your mouth hostage with his hand, securing your back against his chest to hide from the fleet of avtf agents below you.

"would you quit your yappin'?" he whispered against your ear, his breath sending shivers up your spine.

and he had to hold his own tongue when you bit his palm, his hand now fastened within your hair, craning your head to look up at him. you had that familiar sparkle in your eye, your brain daring your body to act out. to piss him off. it brought you satisfaction, especially since you would ultimately be the one paying the price later on.

"keep fuckin' around, i beg you."

and of course, you did. succeeding your nightly duties, taking down clumps of agents and being carried home over dex's shoulder. to make it up to him, to stay on your knees and prove just how sorry you were for acting out.

the lessons never stuck. you would move recklessly, growing impatient and bothered by dex's plan of action.

"why do we have to wait?" you huffed, arms crossed with your forehead against his back in boredom. dex fiddled with the holster of his knives, securing it to his hips.

"killing multiple birds with one stone, baby." he spoke softly, as he so often did with you.

"but there's three down there. right now! so out in the open, so vulnerable. they're practically asking to be killed." you exclaimed, voice at a lower tone than it usually would be. you weren't totally void of survival instinct.

"patience." he spoke, eyes still fixed on his belt. so in tune with gearing up for the fight, that he hadn't heard you secure your grapple to the edge of the building, he hadn't heard you descend from the roof. it was only when he heard the manly grunts below, your limbs flying between each of them.

using their weapons against them and rifle butting the last to the ground. though not without a few scrapes of your own, hissing when dex had unknowingly taken firm grip on the bullet graze on your arm.

"what did i tell you?" he vexed, dragging you away from the roaring of the engines approaching. "jus' can't listen, can you?"

you giggled, despite the pain. "not when your plans are so boring."

"but efficient." he added.

though his temper never lasted, when you would be sat on his lap on the couch a few hours later. delicately tending to your bullet graze, having to stop to wipe your tears after every stitch.

"you're a real piece of work, hm?" he huffed, glancing up at you for a moment once he pulled the needle through. "such a goddamn brat."

"sorry." you cried.

"oh, you're sorry, huh?" his tone was mocking, but of course beneath it, he cared. "real sorry now, hm?"

you nodded. still he wiped your tears from your face, and of course he knew this would persist. it always had. you thrived on pissing him off, doing things deliberately to get under his skin. to be scolded and taught a lesson, to repeat the cycle once more.

[annelieseskisses]

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐖/ ANGEL!READER 𝐀𝐍𝐃 DEX

content; mdni (18+), early relationship, reader is referred to as 'angel', not proofread, female reader, unspecified legal age gap, reader has wings&healing powers, again this is probably super duper corny, naked sleeping, fingering, mentions of weapons&violence, they r losers of very few words and i luv them so bad٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

summary; a morning routine with dex&angel ( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ഒ

note; i haven't properly wrote like this for a while so sorry if this is awful& entirely ooc . i tried ( ˶°ㅁ°) !!

angel!reader masterlist

mornings were spent in angels apartment, sun dappling in through half-closed blinds. the light kissing over bare skin warmed by each-others body heat, limbs tangled in an unnatural way that only comes from a profound desire to be closer than what is humanly possible. you had awoken before him, eyes heavy and vision bleary. you could make out the swell of his cheek, and the deep scar set upon it. his lips were parted, soft breaths leaving them every so often. his heartbeat a steady rhythm, a calm backing track to the early morning buzz outside.

as you stared, you found it hard to believe that this was the same man who had neatly tucked knives beneath your cotton underwear in your bedside drawer, explaining that there's 'bad men' out there and he won't be here all of the time to protect you. a thought you have consistently had throughout your relationship: how could he, a man capable of murder, curl up to your side in his slumber like a puppy with its favourite toy?

you couldn't gauge whether you should be concerned over his infatuation with you or not. though, whatever second-thoughts you may have had over your relationship were wiped from your mind by him. he'd butter you up so well, pepper you with kisses, and shower you with love till you let your heart get all gooey, lashes fluttering, and cheeks heating up. you'd push him off of you, tell him that you hated him in that sweet dulcet tone. he knew he had you then, that you'd never leave.

he stirred, snapping you from the one sided staring competition you were having with his sleeping form. blinking awake with mussed eyelashes, grumbling something about the light being too bright before burying his head in the crook of your shoulder. the sheets rustling as his warm hands roamed your bare body beneath them.

strangely so, dex had convinced you to begin sleeping naked with him. your uncertainty to doing so at first made him sit you down with an article opened on his phone, reading out health benefits in an attempt to convince you. holding your hands in his whilst explaining how it will reduce stress whilst inadvertently improving your relationship by releasing oxytocin during the night. you were a reasonable woman, not one to argue with science, so you agreed. it'd be nice to let your wings to breathe for once, instead of being trapped beneath cotton all day.

in a weird way, you sort of liked it. you felt better in the mornings, refreshed. you had began to adopt the habit into your own routine, even on nights he wasn't sleeping over. you liked to roam your hands over the bare expanse of his back in the mornings, enjoying the way your fingertips dipped into the indentations of the sleep-lines over his skin.

whilst the science on its own was convincing enough for you, you couldn't help but believe that the main reason for the pep in your step throughout the day after he spent the night was down to the orgasm he seemed determined to give you in the mornings before you went off to work. though, you weren't going to argue with him over it. especially not now, with his lips attached to your neck and a hand nudging your thighs apart.

he'd have a hand between your thighs, thumb toying with your clit whilst two of his digits pumped in and out of you. dex was softer with you in the mornings, especially when you had work. he'd press his lips to yours, regardless of the morning breath, gently drawing your orgasm from you.

when your hips began to writhe, moving to chase his fingers, and the honeyed moans falling from your soft lips began to amplify, he had shushed you. using his free hand to press two fingers into your mouth, watching with awed eyes as you hollowed your cheeks and sucked on his digits. his pupils dilated, crows feet softening.

"shh, shh– angel. don't wanna wear that pretty voice of yours, huh? you've got work." he had cooed.

you only responded by whining around his fingers. he pulled them from your mouth, a string of saliva still connecting them to your lips. tucking your bottom lip between your teeth, moans now small whimpers. wings fluttering softly behind your back, something he found incredibly endearing. a tell besides the way you clenched around his digits, and the moans falling from your lips, that you felt good. that he was doing a good job.

"i know what you need, sweet girl. jus' let me do the work, yeah?"

like clockwork, as you reached climax, you jolted up, grasping onto his forearm. wings unfurling from behind your back as saccharine moans fall from your lips. dex swears its the most heavenly sight he's ever seen each and every time. watching those pretty wings sway as you ride out your orgasm on his fingers, walls spasming around the digits.

you'd attempt to shower alone afterwards, but dex would wander into the bathroom halfway through. he'd sit on-top of the toilet seat, just watching you or holding your hand. he liked to be close to you, never letting you stray too far. you thought it was sweet. he'd wrap you in your towel when you stepped out, you'd press your forehead to his before he got in the shower himself.

after you get ready, you'd make scrambled eggs and sourdough toast for both you and dex's breakfast most days. he'd come up behind you at the counter, burying his head in the crook of your neck to inhale the powdery perfume you had spritzed on your pulse points.

eating your breakfast on the couch, you'd sit side by side in silence whilst watching a documentary about fish behaviour. when you finished, you'd reach over and interlock your pinky finger with his, continuing to sit in silence until it was time for you to head to work.

dex would follow you to the door, helping you shrug your light jacket on before turning you around to face him. he'd press his lips to yours, slipping his tongue into your mouth to lick along your teeth. your incisors, the sharp slopes of your canines, the ridged edges of your molars. you didn't exactly know what dex did when you were at work, some days he'd call, others he wouldn't. he didn't tell you about anything to do with bullseye, you didn't know if you wanted to know.

i like this one so much more than the last!! i spent a lot more time on it so i think it’s better quality too … right … i’m so excited 2 continue their story!!!! i luv my freaks .

[decayingearf]

cause if it’s achin’, you have to rub it

( no cw bc im lazy 😬 heavyyyyyy petplay + praise kink)

i like to think that inexperienced!dex is v vocal when he’s eating you out.

his mouth is all sloppy and wet like a dog drinking from a water bowl. he’s getting encouraged by your lewd noises and comments; ‘right there..please baby keep going’ you’d breathe out lowly.

dex loved when your voice got all breathless and quiet. in his mind, it meant he was being a good boy.

speaking of which, he’s been hoping you’d call him that. he does any and everything he can to get that specific piece of praise out of you.

‘you’re doing so good’ god he looked so pathetic when he heard that.

‘mmphm’ he’d whine grinding against the mattress beneath him. he was so close to cumming just from pleasuring you.

you twitched under his reckless mouth while he mumbled more incoherent comments about how good he is for you—‘im being so good, eating your pussy for you. please tell me im being good.’

‘you are, you’re being-nghohfuck,’ you started as his nose nudged that spot you so desperately wanted him at.

‘tell me,’ after sucking your achy bud ‘please, tell me im being your good boy’.

he only ever wanted to make you feel good, he was new to alot of things and anything he’d done right, he’d want praise for.

before you could speak again, dex attacked your clit once more. this time with the hopes of getting his long awaited treat.

‘oh fuck, you’re such a good boy for me, dex.’ was the last thing said prior to you cumming in his mouth.

two treats in one night, he must’ve been a reallyy good boy.

[clawxmoon]

18+

touchstarved!dex who cannot wait to come home to you after literally murdering people. he's in the middle of violently slaughtering one or fisk's workers and all he can think about is you on the couch so he can lay on top of you and snuggle his head in the crook of your neck. his favorite spot. when he is finally done and steps a foot in the house - dex sees you napping in the living room while the tv is playing and it's a heavenly sight for him. he doesn't want to wake you but he's been thinking about you all day and can't control himself.

"goodmornin', baby." dex rolls your sleepy body so you're on your back and spreads your thighs wide so he can get comfortable between them. you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck and legs around his waist, barely awake and he smiles as he starts leaving trails of kisses on your neck. "missed my baby so bad." he coos in your ear, rubbing his face on your skin like a little cat. you feel him getting hard between your legs and it hurts because he's a big, heavy man laying on you with all his weight.

"dex..?" you're freshly out of a dreamworld as dex presses down his bulge on your clothed cunt with more force, trying to relieve himself. his hands go inside your shirt to aggressively grope one of your tits, his other hand wrapping behind your thigh to feel you even closer. dex hasn't left your neck yet, biting and leaving marks while you groan at the sensation - his movements perfectly rubbing on your sensitive clit. suddenly, he stops completely and picks you up to switch positions. straddling you on his lap as you balance yourself.

"think you can be a good girl f'me and ride it?"

[wolfythewitch]

Discounting the 10 year war

[chubbybuunyy]

could we possibly have more Bruce x Pregnant Reader please? the domestic fluff of this trope tickles me in a way i yearn for. (ಥ⁠_⁠ಥ)

𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 ──── relief .ᐟ

in which bruce provides just the right amount of relief!

( bruce wayne x pregnant!reader | fluff )

chubby speaks! : lmao someone in my inbox mentioned that i forgot to warn y'all that the reader was pregnant in my last bruce fic and it made me giggle mb!!

bruce was overprotective, you knew that from the moment you got involved with him—it all made sense when you learned of his story and especially when you learned that your some what normal boyfriend was actually the caped crusader that roamed the dangerous streets of gotham.

but when you became pregnant? oh it was a whole different ball game. if bruce had it his way you would never leave the bed until the day of the birth. yet you were restless, you needed to be active however you were nearing the end of your pregnancy and you desperately wanted to stay in bed.

but you were also petty and you didn’t want to prove him right.

so here you were, in the batcave, helping with files as your worrywart husband loomed over your shoulder. it didn’t matter where in the cave he was at—his eyes remanded on you. he cringed when you stood, winced when you hissed out in pain and he most definitely walked closely behind whenever you walked anywhere.

“almost done here mama?” he asked as he walked over to where you stood, waiting for some papers to finish printing. you just hummed, leaning your back against his chest—head resting on his shoulder.

“should be a couple more minutes” you yawned out. bruce watched as you shifted your weight from foot to foot as you tried to get comfortable with standing yet no relief ever came. so without much thought bruce wrapped his arms underneath your swollen belly and lifted your stomach.

you gasped in surprise, hands quickly shooting towards his wrist but instead of questioning what he was doing your body let out a shaky yet satisfied moan as the weight of your child had seemingly been passed on to bruce’s arms.

“holy” you breathed out “that feels amazing” he smiled, swaying the both of you from side to side as he held the weight of his world in his hands.

bruce would never admit that he learned of this technique due to a tik tok video dick had sent him the moment he had learned of your pregnancy but he was thankful nonetheless. especially since you seemed so relieved—he just wished he had done this way sooner.

“can we have brownies?” he laughed, a genuine laugh that came from the pit of his stomach “lets get you into bed and ill see what alfred could muster up”

[callsign-tangerine]

Help me, help you | Ben Pointdexter part 2

Summary: After kissing Bullseye, he’s been coming by to see you more.

Word count: 3.2k

Warning: Minors DNI, mentions of sex, implied sex, possessive!Dex, mentions of murder

Note: Got an idea for a part 2 so here it is. I really like part one so I hope this one does it justice!

Part 1

———

Since you kissed Bullseye, well Tony- no Dex, he’s been coming by your place more often.

And yes, he did buy you a pint of strawberry ice cream to replace the one that melted while you were too busy getting to learn each other’s bodies.

He comes by to get his wounds treated, but also to hang out or fuck. He’s great in bed. Crazy and rough, but great. He mostly gets in using the window when he comes to see you. Even if he’s not in the Bullseye suit, he prefers the fire escape to the inside stairs. You don’t react anymore when you hear the window slide open in your living room. You’re used to it by now.

You go out to grab lunch together sometimes. It’s one of the only occasions when he’ll come knocking on your door. That and to go for runs by the East River. He adapts to your work schedule to see you during the day. If he comes by in the evenings or at night, he comes by when he pleases.

You like to watch movies so he’s started joining you a few months back. You also have a tv series you watch only when you’re together. You’d binge-watch a few episodes without him sometimes, but you’re scared he’ll find out when you don’t react as you’re watching it again with him.

Sometimes he shows up with takeout for dinner, completely disregarding if you had plans already. Sometimes you make plans in advance to see each other, but most of the time, he shows up with no heads up and you go along with it. You make plans on the spot, or you don’t and just chill in your apartment.

You never went to his apartment. Even if he lives just a floor below, he doesn’t want you to come down. Maybe it’s for the best you think, cause you know the type of things he does. Maybe he doesn’t want to risk being attacked at home while you’re there. Anyways, you prefer to be in your home. You like being home, in your things, and you like Dex’s company. He makes every day a little better when he comes by.

You like talking about songs you’ve discovered recently, or making him taste one of the recipes you tried during the day. Occasionally, he’ll massage your neck and back. He always finds the knots in your muscles and makes you feel better. It always turns into sex, but you can’t complain.

So yeah, Dex comes by way more often now.

But he never stays the night. Ever. That seems to be his limit. It’s not like you’re a couple, you’ve never had that conversation. You see it more as casual dating than a relationship. You like his company. You like him. You don’t think he sees you as his girlfriend, but you don’t think he’s seeing anyone else. There’s no way to know for sure, but between the time he spends with you and his Bullseye adventures there isn’t that much time left to invest in another person.

Conclusion: You’re exclusive.

You don’t mind it, but you wouldn’t mind putting a label on the relationship either. It’s not like you’re interested in getting to know anyone else anyway, so making this relationship official wouldn’t do any harm. You actually want to take that next step.

If you were seeing anyone else, you’d just ask to define the relationship, but Dex isn’t just anyone. He’s got a different approach to doing things, a different approach to life. Everything needs to be a particular way- his way. You’ve learned that over the months. You truly don’t mind, it’s just one of those quirks that make you love-no, like him more.

Dex isn’t seeing anyone else. How could he? You’re the only thing he thinks about. Ever since choosing you to take care of his back wounds, he hasn’t stopped thinking, dreaming, and fantasizing about you. Dex has never had this type of relationship. A relationship where two people care for one another. He never thought he’d have one, after all he’s fucked up. He knows it, he’s accepted it. But so have you. You accepted him. Totally. And Dex doesn’t want to risk that.

He doesn’t want to risk scaring you by talking about his past, his stories, his missions and his dark thoughts. He loves your presence too much. So when you hang out, he’s always asking about you. How your day went, how you’re doing. If there’s something you’d like to try or do together. When you return the questions, he either shuts them down, changes the subject or gives you a classic “I’m good” or “nothing much”. He can’t risk what you have, whatever it is that you two have. It means too much for him. You mean too much to him.

That’s why he’s decided not to spend the night. Ever. He had marked that as his limit after that first night you spent together. That first night, you had fallen asleep first and he didn’t know if he should stay or go, so he left in the middle of the night. And that’s where he drew the line, setting his limit at sleeping over. And a limit is good, it dictates what he can and can’t do to keep what you built over the months together safe.

Watch a movie at your place? Can do.

Confess his darkest fantasies? Can’t do.

Buy you a little something- like a single flower, a pastry, or an album that reminds him of you- from time to time to show his affection? Can do!

Tell you he killed his baseball coach, not by accident, when he was younger? No.

Offer to wash your back in the shower and wash your hair? Yes.

Spending the night? Definitely can’t do.

To anyone else, those rules wouldn’t make any sense. But to Dex, it’s those limits that guide him through life with you.

For Dex, sleeping over would mean too much. If he starts spending the night, what will he do next? Follow you to work to make sure nobody attacks you? He’s thought of it many times but he always refrains from doing it. If he starts sleeping over, he’d probably start to slip up and express his emotions and what he feels -truly feels- inside. Would he tell you that he wants to kill every guy who looks at you a second too long when you go on a run? Would he tell you he almost killed the last waiter you had at the diner cause he openly flirted with you? Would he tell you he absolutely would kill your boss if you only implied you’d like him to. Would he tell you he’d love to keep you only to himself, not letting you see anyone else but him (not that you see many other people anyway)? What if he slips up and tells you he thinks this is love, but that he’s unsure cause he’s never felt it or experienced it before? What is he says or does something that makes you think he’s pathetic, nothing more than a loser? Or worse, what if he says or does something that scares you? He couldn’t live with that. Seeing you fear him would destroy him, it’d be the end of Dex. He can’t risk that.

He thinks if he opens that door, if he opens that can of worms, he won’t be able to stop himself. If he steps over the line, we will lose himself in the relationship.

He already is, but still, he’s fixed his limit and he’s respecting it. For now.

The thought of sleeping over has been on his mind for a while now. What would it feel like to cuddle with you all night, sleep next to you and wake up with you in his arms? He wonders. He wonders so much that he’s decided to try it. Just once. He decided that if it feels wrong, he’ll just go back to his limit and say it was a mistake. Of course it won’t feel wrong, nothing ever feels wrong with you. But still, Dex reassures himself by thinking he’s only bending that rule once. Just to try it. Once.

Dex came over last night, you watched a movie and you slept together. That’s not unusual.

You wake up in bed, a hand on your abdomen. A strong arm wrapped around you. That’s unusual.

You try to lift the arm from your body to get up.

“Don’t go.” His voice is hoarse, he clearly just woke up.

You whisper, “I need to go to the bathroom.”

He lifts his arm, “Be quick then.”

You get up and enter the bathroom. You register what’s happening. Dex is in your bed. Dex slept over. He never does. You don’t understand why he’s still here. Not that you mind, it’s just not what you’re used to. And you don’t want to get used to it, cause this is probably a one-time thing. A mistake. He probably just fell asleep as he was planning on leaving.

You don’t want to get used to it cause you know you’ll be sad if this is just a one-time thing, cause you like him. A lot. And you like having him in your bed. You remember cuddling last night, but don’t remember saying good night or bye to him. You fell asleep, assuming he’d leave like always, getting out using your living room window.

He clearly didn’t, cause he’s in your bed. Right now. You didn’t imagine it, cause when you get out of the bathroom, he’s there, lying face down on your bed. It’s 5:00 a.m. Yeah, you’re going back to sleep.

You’re not even fully lying down that his hand is on you.

“Come here”, he pulls you by the waist until your back is flush against his chest.

It’s 5, maybe he’ll leave before you wake up again. Does he sometimes stay but leave before you wake up? It would be the type of thing Dex does. It wouldn’t be out of character. You’re pretty sure he once came over during the night to watch you sleep. He didn’t touch you or anything, but you felt his presence. You never said anything, but you’re 99% sure he did.

You wake up again, this time at 8:00, and that strong arm is still around you, holding you close. He really spent the night. It’s not an accident.

He acts as if this isn’t the first time you’re waking up together in your bed. In any bed for that matter.

He starts kissing your neck. You can’t shake the thought of him sleeping over. This never happens. Why did he spend the night? Why did he suddenly decide he should? After months of drifting to sleep next to him only to wake up to an empty bed, why start sleeping over now?

You want to enjoy the kisses he’s planting on your shoulder now, but you want answers. You can’t think of anything else. You turn to face him, he immediately starts kissing your collarbone.

“You never stay the night”, the statement escapes your lips before you can think of a better way to approach this conversation.

He shoots his head up, his eyes meeting your septic ones. You look confused. His defences go up immediately, “Yeah- I know.” You don’t say anything. “Should I leave?”

You sit up in the bed. “No, I’m just stating a fact. You never stay the night. We’ve been seeing each other- or whatever you want to call what we’ve been doing for months- and you never sleep over.”

He doesn’t speak, but he sits up too, clearly giving you his undivided attention.

“I just want to know if I should expect this again or if this was a one-time thing”

He raises an eyebrow, “Do you want this to be a one-time thing?”

You mimic his facial expression, “Do you?”

You’re challenging him. You’re always the one giving your opinion first. It’s time he speaks his mind, instead of just agreeing with whatever you say. You don’t mind when it’s to choose a movie, a restaurant or to decide the time you go on a run, but now it’s important to you that he shares how he feels.

Dex realizes this will make or break what you have. Either he’ll tell you and you’ll jump in his arms and kiss him, or he’ll tell you and you’ll ask him to leave and he’ll oblige- heartbroken.

Since becoming Bullseye, Dex hasn’t been scared, not even for a second. He doesn’t feel fear when he goes out to fight, he doesn’t fear the unknown or the consequences of his actions. But right now, in this exact instant, sitting in front of you, looking into your beautiful eyes, he’s terrified. For a second, he remembers what he felt when Dr. Mercer told him she was gonna die. He remembers thinking he was gonna be all alone once she passed. And he was, until he found you. So yes, he’s petrified he’ll lose you, but he knows this is the time to tell you how he feels. It’s clear you want honesty from him in this moment.

So he takes the leap, “I don’t.”

When you don’t scream at him to leave, he continues. He figures he might as well say it all.

“I want to wake up next to you. I want to fall asleep next to you. I want to hold you in my arms as you tell me about your day. I want to make breakfast for you. I’ll make your bed before we leave for the day, I’ll fill up your water bottle, making sure you have everything. I want to make sure your work laptop is plugged in and that all the locks are secured before joining you in bed for the night. I want to care for you, like you do for me”

He releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding in. He looks at you and his shoulders tense up again. He just told you his peace of mind, now it’s time to hear what you have to say.

This is it- your response will change everything forever. Dex hopes it’ll change for the best. That he’ll get even more of you. That you want him as much as he wants you, even if he doesn’t think that’s possible. He thinks it’s not humanly possible to want someone as much as he wants you. At this point, it’s not even a want, it’s a need. He needs you. He needs you to survive, to feel alive.

“I want the same thing, Dex. I want you to tell me how you feel. I want you to tell me about your missions- your good deeds, as you call them. I want to know what goes on in your head, what you’re thinking about. I care for you Dex, I do, but I need more. I need you to let me in.”

You need more? He can give you that. You need him to let you in? He wants to, he really wants to, but he’s scared.

He confesses, “I want to let you in, but what if you don’t like what you see? What if you don’t like me anymore once you see the real me?”

“Dex, I’ve got a pretty good idea of what you do. You did threaten me the first night you came in, breaking into my apartment. I know you’ve done some things, some awful things, but I don’t care what you do. I care about who you are. About how you make me feel.”

He remembers that first night he broke into your apartment. You didn’t look scared of him, so why would you be now? Why would you be scared after months of being with him everyday? If you weren’t scared that first time, you’ll probably never be. Not now that you know him.

As soon as Dex realizes you feel the same way as him, his fear turns into cockiness. He’s still Dex, but with the confidence he possesses when he dresses up as Bullseye. He grins, “And how do I make you feel?”

“You make me feel…” Two can play at that game. “Good.” You say it as if you said: “average”.

Good? Just good?

He raises an eyebrow, “That’s all I get?” He sounds disappointed.

You smile, “Okay you got me, you make me feel alive, seen and loved. I feel great when you’re around!”

Loved? Yeah he loves you but he’s never told you. Should he tell you? No, not now. One thing at a time. This is already a big step, no need to add anything.

“Yeah, that’s better. You’re lucky I love you, cause that first answer almost made me leave.”

Well shit, he just did. Not that he realizes. He does, but too late. He realizes what he’s saying as the words leave his mouth. He hopes you don’t catch on. He hopes the words fly straight over your head.

But you stop moving for a second and it’s a dead giveaway. You registered what he just said.

You look at him, eyes wide. Your surprise turns into a smile quickly when you realize he didn’t mean to say it. It’s obvious on his face that he let it slip by accident.

You steal a kiss, planting your lips on his. You rest both your hands on his cheeks.

“I love you too, Dex”

He relaxes and kisses you again.

You say it again, you want to make sure he hears you. “I love you.”

He smiles, “I love you too.”

He grabs your waist, pulling you over him until you straddle him. You rest your hands on his shoulders.

“You’re mine.” He kisses your neck. “And I’m yours”. You moan as he sucks on the sweet spot of your neck.

He pulls back to look in your eyes, “Say it back,” his voice is low and demanding.

You smile at his possessiveness. “I’m yours Dex. And you’re mine. Forever.”

That makes his eyes sparkle. You kiss him once before pulling back to tease him.

You grin, “How about breakfast? You said you’d make me breakfast.”

You see his eyes go dark, “Breakfast can wait. I want to officially make you mine.”

The way he says it sends a shiver down your spine. You love it when he takes control.

He looks at you, as if asking confirmation that you’re okay with it. You are sure that if you tell him you’d prefer breakfast to sex, he’d jump out of bed in a heartbeat to get in the kitchen.

“Yeah, breakfast can wait.”

And that’s all he needs to go absolutely crazy in the sheets.

Did you imagine a vigilante breaking into your home would turn into the relationship you’ve always dreamed of? No. And is it truly the relationship you’ve always dreamed you’d have? Also no. But you wouldn’t change this for anything in the world. You don’t need anything else, Dex is your world. Just like you’re his entire world- no- his entire universe. You’re everything to him and now he gets to be everything to you.

——

© callsign-tangerine, 2026. Please do not post my work elsewhere, translate or feed it to AI.

[nicks-fowler]

indulgence

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

warnings: mob!bucky, soft dom!bucky, porn without plot, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, implied sex addiction, use of pet names (baby, sweetheart), no use of y/n, not beta read, all mistakes are mine

author's note: sometimes my brain just comes out with stuff and it makes me question things. i have had to delay this fic twice despite writing it all in one sitting because of others popping in my head. hopefully the next one will be one of my longer ones...

word count: < 2k words

credits: divider by designlikenonsense

The world felt a haze of delirium, your body bent over, legs spread, knees pressed against the mattress and your head pressed into the pillow.

The room’s air was heavy with the warmth of your body pressed against his. No sound other than the soft slapping of your bodies joining together.

Each thrust was slow, deliberate and measured only in a way the man behind you knew how to.

James Barnes had spent months memorising your body, committing you to memory. Any semblance of a thought that a mobster only sought his own pleasure had rapidly vanished within days of agreeing to sleep with the man.

Since he had taken advantage of every moment alone. Showering you in affection, slow kisses, fingers that lingered on your thighs, unmoving and teasing. Then finally, finally, you’d end up here, on his soft mattress, the midnight blue quilt thrown aside only to return later when he carefully covered your bare form in its warmth.

“Bucky,” your voice is no more than a whine. His hips grinding against your arse, pushing himself firmly against your walls.

“Shush,” you feel his skin press against your lower back, hands on your sides. The cool metal of his left hand soothes the sweaty warmth of your skin. “Just enjoy yourself.”

Your back arches off the mattress, head lurching up, fingers tight against the cotton beneath you as you feel him withdraw before snapping forward again.

“Fuck,” his voice is low, gravelly. A clear indication of his own arousal. His hands are tight against your hips and he repeats the action, sliding out slowly, building friction before snapping forward so fast the bed groans in protest.

“Need more,” he murmured to himself. Suddenly you feel lighter, his weight no longer against your lower back. Suddenly his hands are on your wrists, pulling them up behind you. 

Your body shifts up, his thumb and fingers holding your wrists together behind your back, pulling you until his chest was parallel with his.

“Better,” his lips were at your ear. “Can you feel that, baby?”

His flesh hand brushed your side moving forward between your hips where the pressure from him was continuing to build with the new angle.

“Can you feel me?”

You make a choked noise as he brushed a soft spongy spot inside.

“You can, can’t you?” He continues to goad you as your head falls back to rest onto his shoulder, seeking support. “Absolutely dripping for me. Holding me in place, like you don’t want me to go. Do you want me to go?”

“No,” your voice is broken, your throat catching at the end.

“Didn’t think so,” he is smug, and begins to move. His hips work you forward and backward, pulling in and out in a steady rhythm. Your body responded, arching further into him, your head laid back across his shoulder as you glanced up to the ceiling, your mouth hanging open helplessly unable to prevent the moans and soft exhales escaping you.

“James,” you plead. “Please.”

“I know,” his mouth runs over your cheek. His loose hair tickled your jawline. “You wanna cum.”

You squirm, a poor attempt to adjust yourself to ease the steady ache that was building.

“God, you’re desperate,” he chuckles. “Is this what I do for you, baby? Does your mob boss make you wanna scream?”

You whimper, your voice sounding pathetic. “Yes. Please, please.”

“Well, seeing as you asked so nicely—“

His hips now move faster, his dick driving into you, hard. Each thrust hitting that spot with incredible precision. His flesh hand moved down, catching onto your swollen clit allowing it to move between his fingers, rubbing it in time with his sharp thrusts.

Each thrust sent your spiral further, your body no longer felt under your control, and all you could do was feel what you were being given. You could hear yourself babbling incoherently as your body shook and warmth flooded you.

“Fuck,” his teeth clash together, continuing to plunge in and out faster, now seeking his own climax. He let out a groan, his hands indenting themselves into your hips. His body trapping your own hands between the two of you, as you feel the soft throb and the warm liquid flood your insides.

Abruptly, he pushed you down onto the mattress, withdrawing from you so quickly you found yourself flinching.

“Bucky?” You attempt to roll onto your back but feel this hands on you, holding you in place.

“Stay,” he instructs.

You hear the shuffle of feet, the running of a tap before the footsteps return.

“On your back,”

You automatically roll onto your back, head against the pillow, blinking at the sight before you.

He knelt between your legs, the faint light filtering through the long windows. His skin appeared white, almost ghostly, the metal of his arm shining slightly and the blue of his eyes seemed paler than usual.

In his hand, he held a warm flannel and began soothing the redness between your legs without a word.

“James—“

“Not a word, sweetheart,” his eyes remained on his task. “I’m busy.”

“You don’t need to—“

His eyes snapped up to you, fierce and focused.

“Don’t try and tell me what to do,” his lips twitched. “We’ve been over this. You’re mine. Including caring for your body.”

With a smooth motion, he throws the flannel aside and leans into your leg, pressing a kiss into your inner thigh.

“There, that’s better,” he hums and climbs to hover above you. “Had enough, sweetheart?”

Your fingers lace into his hair, running through its length from behind his ears to the back of his neck. Even now, with a slight sheen of sweat covering his skin and pieces of hair falling out of his usual perfect slick back look, your voice was caught in your throat at his beauty.

Bucky smirks, recognising the look on your face.

“Admiring your man again, baby?” He leaned down, his nose bumping yours.

“I—” you blink. “You make it hard to think.”

He laughs then, his head tilting back slightly, giving you a view of his neck that your eyes lingered on a little too long.

“Good,” he grins. “I don’t want you to think, when we are like this. I want you to feel.”

His lips brushed your a moment before speaking again.

“I want you to feel good,” his head falls to press his forehead on yours. “To enjoy every moment of this.”

“I do,” you promise. “It’s almost addictive.”

“Mm,” he ponders in agreement. “Yes, it is.”

His mouth falls on yours, kissing you with an intensity that makes you dizzy, then withdrawing fast.

“And that’s how my brothels make money,” he sits above you, towering, eyes dark. “Sex pays. In more ways than one.”

“Bucky?” You voice is hoarse.

“Would you try something with me?” Even in the dark room, lit only by that coming through the window, you could see how dilated his pupils were.

You nod.

Bucky leans over, swooping you up with ease and turning you until your neck hangs over the edge of the mattress whilst your body remains flat against the sheets.

His hands move lower, grasping your thighs to pull your legs around his waist.

“Perfect,” he murmurs above you.

You breathe unsteadily, the new position sends blood rushing to your head. Suddenly everything felt more intense, you could feel the his muscles next to your thighs, the shoulder blades that your fingers clung onto in an unnecessary attempt to stop yourself from falling.

“Now you will get addicted,” he rumbles. You feel him pushing at your entrance, hard already, still wet from the previous round and allowing his entry with ease.

Your back arches, as your choke on nothing at the sensation racking your body as he sinks in. He wasn’t quick nor painfully slow, he simply moved until he was fully seated.

“Fuck,” your head attempts to lift up to peer up at him.

“Stay down,” his voice is smooth, hands on your shoulders to keep you in place. “Just feel it.”

Your head slowly dropped back, a soft ache built in your neck as he began to move — gently rhythmic thrusts that stretched your sensitive skin. Your body reacts instinctively to each movement, greeting him with fervor as your nails dung into his skin.

“Yes,” he grunted. “Just like that.”

You let out a loud cry when he grinds his hips into yours, trying to push himself further into you.

“I’m gonna stay here,” you hear him speak through clenched teeth. “Can you do that for me, baby? You can keep me warm all night, can’t you?”

A soft moan escapes your lips in response, your mind is thudding from your position, your torso held a knot of tension in place that refused to snap, your legs and hands clung to him as though your life depended on it.

“I know, I know,” he gives a sharp thrust, metal hand reaching over to pet your head, running cool fingers over your sweaty forehead and through your hair. You cannot contain the breathy sigh of relief at the feel of the cool metal. “You’d stay like this all night if I asked you.”

His voice was soft, warm. The side of him he only showed the most intimate of moments.

“Maybe, some day I’ll allow it,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “You spread across me, my cock buried in you as you sleep on my chest.”

He hums softly in approval, his hands shifting again to grasp your calves from behind his back over his shoulders.

“With you there, I could sleep in peace,” he admits, carefully bending you almost in half. “We might wake up sore, but we’d be satisfied.”

Bucky takes a moment, pulling out gently.

“But there is more than one way to be satisfied,” his voice turns focused.

Suddenly, he builds momentum forcing your body to accept him with every hard thrust. Your voice grows hoarse as you cry out, until you find yourself making no noise at all. You head hung back, eyes rolled as you feel the knot of tension finally releases as your hips jerk up.

Bucky doesn’t speak, and merely continues. His teeth are clenched with concentration as he thrusts once, twice and then groans as you feel the throb of him as he joins you in bliss.

The room fills with the sounds of breathing, your eyes flutter shut, and you feel the cool of his hand against the back of your hand.

Even in pleasure addled state, you are vaguely aware of him lifting you back onto the bed, and the ache in your neck begins to each as you gently ar replaced on the pillows.

“Mmm,” you hear him hum, and allow your eyes to flicker open seeing naught but the ceiling. You shift onto your side, facing him and laying your leg on top of his.

You see the faint trace of a smile on his face, his arms welcoming you against the warmth of his chest.

“Don’t leave,” you whisper into his neck. “I just need you.”

“Okay,” you hear the tiredness in his voice. “We can have a bath… tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” you agree quietly, inhaling his scent through your nose and allowing your eyes drift shut for the night.

author's note: thank you for reading!!

[dollettenextdoor]

━ Dog Tags

Military!dex x reader

‎ꫂ᭪݁ Includes: (800 wc) ..... f!reader, mentions of violent thoughts & ptsd, pwop, p in v, missionary position, creampie, est relationship. takes place when dex was in the army as a sniper.

"Clank. Clank. Clank."

The sharp metallic rhythm of dog tags against the wooden floor pulled you from sleep. Dawn light filtered weakly through the curtains of the small off-base apartment you shared. There he was, on the floor beside the bed in nothing but low-slung gray sweatpants, muscles flexing and glistening with a light sheen of sweat as he powered through perfect push-ups.

Every controlled drop and rise of his body made those tags clank. The sound was familiar now, almost comforting. You knew what it meant. The adrenaline from training always mixed with the ghosts he carried from the field—long hours behind the scope, the weight of every perfect shot, the violent thoughts that never quite left him. Working out was his anchor. It quieted the noise from his childhood, the darkness that still lurked at the edges of his mind. He wanted to be better. For you. You were the only north star he’d ever had.

His sharp eyes flicked up as you stirred, rolling over to face him. The moment your gazes locked, his rhythm faltered for half a second before he pushed up smoothly to his knees. “Hey baby,” he murmured, voice rough from exertion. “Sorry if I woke you.”

You smiled sleepily, reaching out. “It’s okay… as long as you’re here with me.”

The months he’d been gone had been brutal. The worry never really left you—knowing he was the best sniper they had didn’t stop the fear that something in his head might finally crack under the pressure. But right now he was here, solid and real and looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered.

Dex rose to his feet and climbed onto the bed, crawling over you with that predatory grace. He slowly dragged the covers down, revealing the thin nightie that barely covered your chest and thighs. His gaze darkened, hungry but still carrying that fragile edge beneath it.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then lower—trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck and across your collarbone. One strap slipped easily off your shoulder under his fingers. He tugged the silky fabric lower, exposing your breasts, and groaned softly as he latched onto a nipple, sucking and licking until you arched into his mouth with a quiet whimper.

Dex didn’t waste time. He shoved the hem of your nightie up around your waist, yanked his sweatpants down just enough to free his hard length, and reached for a pillow. He lifted your hips and slid it beneath you, angling you perfectly.

Then he was on you, hands braced on either side of your head, caging you in as he pushed inside in one smooth, deep stroke. You gasped at the stretch, and he immediately started fucking you into the mattress. Every thrust hit deep and perfect, the pillow letting him grind even further.

His dog tags dangled right above your face, swinging with every powerful snap of his hips like a hypnotic pendulum. You reached up, grabbing the back of his neck to pull him into a messy kiss. When he pulled back for air, you tilted your head up and gently caught the tags between your lips.

Dex’s eyes widened, breath hitching. You held his stare—exactly the way he needed—and bit down softly on the cool metal, tongue brushing against it.

“Fuck…” he breathed, voice cracking with raw need. The sight made something in him snap. His hips drove harder, faster, pushing into you while he kept his eyes locked on yours. He couldn’t look away. He wouldn’t. You kept biting his dog tags, moaning around the metal, eyes glassy with pleasure as he fucked you exactly how you both needed.

The coil in your belly tightened unbearably fast. Dex’s rhythm started to falter, his control fraying at the edges. “Please don’t ever leave me,” he gasped against your mouth as he started to come, burying himself as deep as he could, hips jerking with every pulse.

“I won’t, baby,” you cried out, clenching hard around him as your own orgasm crashed over you. “I’m right here—Dex—right here.”

You trembled beneath him, tears of overwhelming pleasure slipping from the corners of your eyes. He stayed inside you, panting, forehead pressed to yours while the aftershocks rolled through both of you. After a moment, Dex reached up with shaky fingers and lifted the chain from around his own neck. Still buried deep in your pulsing heat, he slipped his dog tags over your head, letting them settle warm against your chest.

“They look better on you,” he whispered, voice thick with something dangerously close to vulnerability. His hand splayed possessively over the tags now resting between your breasts. “Stay right here with me.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him close as the early morning light grew brighter around you.

[anehlcia]

♯┆A fixed point .ᐟ

⋮ ⌗ ┆ Benjamin Poindexter (FBI!dex) x fem!reader ⋆.ᐟ

summary: Benjamin Poindexter x reader fic set before his fall into Bullseye. Y/N Hawthorne, a forensic psychology student in New York, finds herself becoming familiar with a quiet FBI agent who walks into her favourite coffee shop every morning. What begins as a simple routine slowly becomes something far more complicated.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ chapter 3/?

⋮ ⌗ ┆ wc: 4.8k

Two and a half weeks passed.

By then, the rain had become almost expected.

It drifted over the city in soft curtains as you finished your morning run, leaving the pavements dark and gleaming beneath the streetlights that had yet to switch off. New Yorkers hurried from doorway to doorway beneath umbrellas, coffee cups warming cold hands as another working day began.

You found Benjamin already inside the café.

He stood where he usually did, one hand wrapped around a paper cup while the other rested loosely in the pocket of his dark FBI jacket. Tiny droplets of rain still clung to the shoulders of the fabric, evidence that he'd only just arrived himself.

As you stepped through the door, he looked up.

"Morning, y/n."

You smiled before you even realised you were doing it.

"Morning, Benjamin."

It was the first time you'd ever said his name aloud.

Something about hearing it in your own voice felt strangely unfamiliar.

The barista glanced between the two of you with a knowing smile.

"The usual?"

"Please," you replied.

Benjamin looked towards you.

"How's university?"

You slipped your purse back into your bag.

"Busy."

"I imagined it would be."

"I've got two essays due next week."

He nodded once.

"You mentioned behavioural profiling."

Your eyebrows lifted. "You remembered that?"

"Yes."

The answer came so naturally that it almost caught you off guard.

Most people forgot the details of conversations after a few days. Benjamin, apparently, did not.

"We've started looking at interview techniques now," you explained as the barista prepared your drink. "How psychologists build rapport, recognise inconsistencies... things like that."

He listened with the same quiet attentiveness he always seemed to have.

"Do you enjoy it?"

"I do."

You laughed softly.

"It's probably the first module where I haven't spent half the lecture wondering why I chose this degree."

A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.

"That's good."

The barista slid your coffee across the counter.

"There you go."

"Thank you."

Benjamin collected his own cup at almost the same moment.

The two of you reached the door together.

"I'll get it."

He pulled the door open before you had the chance, holding it steady as you stepped out beneath the awning.

"Thanks."

He gave a small nod.

Rain fell steadily onto the pavement beyond, the sound mingling with passing traffic and the distant wail of a siren somewhere deeper in Manhattan.

You opened your umbrella.

"So..."

Benjamin glanced briefly towards the street.

"I should—"

He gestured vaguely in the direction he normally walked.

"Yeah," you said.

"I've got class."

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then Benjamin turned to leave.

"Benjamin?"

The name left your mouth before you could lose your nerve.

He stopped almost immediately. Turning back, he looked at you with quiet curiosity.

"Yeah?"

Your grip tightened around your coffee cup. You hadn't actually thought this far ahead.

"I…" You swallowed. "Could I get your number?"

The words hung between you.

Almost as soon as they left your mouth, you wished you could gather them back up again.

Heat crept into your cheeks.

"Not—" You let out a small, awkward laugh. "Not in a weird way."

Wonderful.

That definitely made it sound less weird.

"I just thought..." You rubbed your thumb against the cardboard sleeve of your cup. "I don't know... it might be nice to catch up outside the café sometime."

Benjamin blinked.

Not because he looked uncomfortable.

Because he seemed to be genuinely considering the question.

His lips parted slightly.

"I…"

A sharp vibration buzzed from inside his jacket.

He froze.

Another buzz.

His eyes dropped instinctively towards the inside pocket.

For a brief moment, he didn't move. As though trying to decide.

The phone vibrated again.

"...Sorry."

The word came quietly.

"I just..."

He stopped himself, almost frustrated.

"Excuse me."

He slipped the phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

"I have to take this."

"It's okay," you said quickly.

"Sorry."

There was something almost apologetic in the way he said it.

Then he stepped a short distance away, already lifting the phone to his ear.

"Poindexter."

His voice changed immediately.

Sharper. Professional.

You remained where you were.

One minute passed.

Then another.

You leaned lightly against the café window, watching pedestrians hurry past beneath umbrellas while Benjamin continued the conversation several metres away.

He paced once.

Stopped.

Listened.

Answered.

Every now and then, he glanced in your direction. Not for long. Just enough to confirm you were still there before returning his attention to the call.

Five minutes slipped by. The conversation showed no sign of ending.

You looked down at your coffee.

What were you still doing here?

He'd looked uncertain before the phone rang. Maybe he'd been trying to think of a polite way to refuse. Maybe asking for his number had been a mistake.

You sighed quietly.

Reaching into your bag, you found a folded receipt and a pen.

Balancing your coffee beneath one arm, you scribbled your name and phone number onto the back.

For a moment, you stared at it. Then, before you could overthink it again, you crossed the few metres separating you.

Benjamin looked up as you approached.

He was still listening to whoever was speaking on the other end of the call.

You held out the folded piece of paper.

His eyes dropped to it.

Then back to you.

"It's just my number," you said quietly. "If you ever... want to."

He reached out automatically.

Your fingers brushed for the briefest second as he took the paper.

"...Thank—"

The word caught in his throat. Whatever he had been about to say disappeared as the voice on the other end of the line spoke again.

He turned his head slightly.

"Sorry," he muttered into the phone, sounding momentarily flustered. "Go ahead."

You offered him a small smile.

"Bye, Benjamin."

Before he could answer, you turned and walked away into the rain.

Benjamin remained where he was, the folded piece of paper resting between his fingers. His gaze followed you for a second longer than it should have.

Then he looked down at your handwriting.

Carefully—almost instinctively—he folded the paper once more and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Not with his wallet.

Not loose in another pocket.

Somewhere he knew it wouldn't be lost.

—

The rest of the day passed in a blur.

By the time Benjamin finally returned to his apartment, New York had settled into that peculiar hour where the city seemed both exhausted and wide awake. Traffic still flowed beneath his windows in an endless stream of headlights, the occasional siren echoed somewhere in the distance, and rain continued to patter softly against the glass, carried sideways by the evening wind.

He locked the door behind him.

The familiar click of the deadbolt was followed by silence.

His apartment was immaculate.

Not because he particularly enjoyed cleaning, but because everything had its place. His keys hung on a small hook beside the door. His jacket was hung carefully on the same hook it always occupied. His shoes were lined neatly against the wall before he walked further inside.

Routine.

It settled his thoughts.

Most days.

Tonight, it didn't.

Benjamin loosened his tie as he crossed into the kitchen, switching on the light above the dining table. The warm glow filled the otherwise dim apartment, illuminating the sparse furnishings and the stack of unopened post resting on the counter.

His shoulders ached.

Hours spent wearing body armour had left a familiar heaviness between his shoulder blades, and the muscles in his neck protested as he rolled them gently. SWAT deployments rarely ended when they were supposed to. There was always paperwork afterwards. Debriefings. Reports. Meetings that stretched long beyond the point anyone remained fully alert.

Normally, exhaustion made it easier to quiet his mind.

Not tonight.

He filled a glass with water but left it untouched. Instead, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.

His fingers found the folded receipt almost immediately. He already knew it was there. Even so, he unfolded it with surprising care.

Your handwriting curved neatly across the paper.

Your name.

Your telephone number.

Nothing more.

He read it once.

Then again.

He remembered standing outside the café. Rain falling steadily onto the pavement. You shifting your coffee into one hand while trying to explain that asking for his number wasn't strange.

You'd looked embarrassed.

He'd been about to answer.

Then the phone had rung.

Benjamin exhaled quietly.

He should have thanked you properly. He should have explained. Instead, he'd answered the call.

Because that was what he always did.

Work came first.

It had to.

His therapist had once asked him whether he found it difficult to separate his professional life from his personal one.

At the time, he'd answered honestly.

"I don't really have a personal one."

The memory lingered unpleasantly.

He looked back down at the receipt. You had waited. Five minutes. In the cold rain. He hadn't asked you to.

You could have walked away.

Most people would have.

Instead, you'd waited until it became obvious the call wasn't ending, walked over to him, handed him your number and quietly said goodbye.

No frustration. No irritation.

Just... understanding.

Benjamin frowned slightly.

He wasn't accustomed to people being patient with him.

His thumb brushed absent-mindedly over the edge of the paper.

He reached for his phone. Unlocked it. Opened the contacts application.

For several moments, he simply looked at the blank screen waiting for a name.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Y/n Hawthorne.

He entered the name.

His thumb paused above the next field.

Telephone number.

He copied it carefully from the receipt, checking each digit twice before saving the contact.

The screen now displayed your name. That should have been enough. Instead, he remained seated.

The silence inside the apartment felt unusually loud. He opened the conversation window. A blinking cursor waited beneath your name.

He could apologise. That seemed appropriate. Or perhaps thank you.

No.

He should apologise first.

He began typing.

Sorry about this morning.

He stopped. Deleted it. Too abrupt.

He tried again.

I'm sorry I had to leave so suddenly.

He stared at the sentence.

It wasn't inaccurate. It simply didn't say what he meant.

Delete.

Another attempt.

Thank you for waiting.

Delete.

His jaw tightened.

None of it sounded right.

None of it properly acknowledged the image that kept returning to him—seeing you standing beneath the café awning, rain falling beyond the shelter, waiting while he remained on the telephone.

He rested the phone on the table. Perhaps calling would be better.

No.

Calling unexpectedly might inconvenience you.

He didn't know whether you were studying.

Working.

Sleeping.

His eyes drifted back towards the receipt lying neatly beside the phone. He realised, with faint annoyance directed entirely at himself, that he had spent far too much of the day replaying the conversation.

Not the words.

The timing.

If the phone had rung thirty seconds later...

He would have thanked you. He would have given you his number. He would have explained that work had interrupted him. Instead, he'd left you standing there wondering whether he'd intended to answer at all.

Benjamin leaned back in his chair, rubbing hand across his face.

He disliked unfinished conversations.

They lingered.

His phone remained on the table beside your contact. The cursor still blinked patiently within the empty message box.

Outside, rain continued tapping steadily against the window.

After another long moment, he picked up the phone once more. This time, he didn't start typing immediately. He simply looked at your name.

Then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth softened into the faintest hint of a smile.

Tomorrow, he decided.

Tomorrow, when his thoughts were clearer.

He would send the message.

He owed you that much.

—

Saturday mornings were supposed to be peaceful.

At least, that was the idea.

No lectures.

No rushing across the city.

No checking the time every five minutes because you were terrified of being late.

Just sleep.

That was all you wanted.

You had spent the previous night experiencing nearly every emotion a person could possibly feel within the space of a few hours.

Embarrassment.

Confusion.

Regret.

A strange kind of disappointment that you weren't entirely sure you were allowed to feel.

You had tried studying first.

That was always your default.

If something bothered you, you worked harder. If your thoughts became too loud, you filled the silence with something productive.

Except last night, you'd read the same page of your textbook four times without absorbing a single word.

Eventually, you gave up and moved onto something far less productive.

Eating.

Not because you were particularly hungry.

Just because having something else to focus on was easier than sitting with your thoughts.

Then came Pamela.

Your phone call had lasted far longer than either of you had intended.

You had explained everything.

The café.

The conversation.

The rain.

The fact that you'd asked Benjamin Poindexter for his number and immediately wanted the ground to swallow you afterwards.

Pamela had listened patiently.

Mostly.

"You do realise you didn't commit a crime, right?"

"I know."

"Because the way you're talking, you'd think you accidentally confessed to something."

"I just feel stupid."

"You asked a man for his number."

"I know."

"That's literally all that happened."

You had gone quiet. Because she was right. It wasn't a dramatic event. It wasn't some life-changing moment. He was a man you'd met in a coffee shop. That was all.

He was supposed to just be the coffee shop guy.

The quiet FBI agent who ordered the same drink every morning.

The familiar face you recognised before you knew anything about him.

You didn't know why you had suddenly wanted his number.

Maybe because talking to him had become easy. Maybe because you had become used to seeing him. Maybe because, somewhere along the way, he had stopped feeling like a stranger.

That thought had only made everything more confusing.

And, despite your best efforts, you had cried once. Only once. Mostly because you felt ridiculous for caring.

Pamela had immediately noticed.

"Y/n."

"I'm fine."

"You are crying."

"I'm aware."

"Okay, well, that's usually a sign you're not fine."

You had laughed despite yourself.

That was the annoying thing about Pamela. She always managed to make you feel better.

—

Now, several hours later, you were still in bed.

Your bedroom was exactly the kind of space you had always wanted.

Dark.

Comfortable.

A place that felt completely yours.

The black metal frame of your bed stood against the wall, surrounded by a black lace canopy that softened the sharpness of the furniture. Dark wooden shelves held stacks of books, some neatly arranged and others left open where you'd abandoned them halfway through reading.

Your vintage vanity sat in the corner beneath the soft glow of a lamp, the large round mirror reflecting the warm lighting scattered throughout the room.

Candles sat on almost every surface.Not because you needed them.

Because you liked the atmosphere they created.

The gentle flicker.

The quiet warmth.

The feeling of being somewhere separate from the rest of the world.

Ambient lighting had always been your favourite thing.

The kind of lighting that made everything feel calmer.

More manageable.

Your walls were covered with posters, photographs and little reminders of things you loved. A CD rack stood in the corner beside a small pile of albums waiting to be organised. Books were scattered across the floor, some opened face-down on the rug.

Your laptop sat abandoned nearby.

Open.

Completely dead.

You had forgotten to charge it.

You didn't care.

You didn't want to deal with the mess.

Not the physical one.

Not the mental one either.

You pulled the blanket slightly higher, sinking further into the mattress.

Your cat shifted somewhere near your feet, barely acknowledging your existence before settling back down.

Even she seemed to understand that today was a day for doing absolutely nothing.

You closed your eyes.

For a moment, you tried not to think about the café. Not about the rain. Not about Benjamin standing there with his phone pressed to his ear. Not about the way he had looked like he wanted to say something but couldn't.

You had no idea what he was thinking.

You had no idea whether he would ever message.

And, honestly, you weren't sure which possibility made you more nervous.

Your phone rested on the bedside table.

Silent.

You told yourself you weren't waiting for it. You were just tired. That was all.

You had a free Saturday.

You were allowed to sleep.

You turned onto your side, facing away from the phone.

"Five more minutes," you whispered to yourself.

The rain outside had finally stopped.

The city was beginning to wake up.

And somewhere across New York, Benjamin Poindexter was already at work.

But for the first time in a while, your usual Saturday routine had been interrupted by a thought you couldn't quite put away.

You wondered if he had kept your number.

—

Saturday mornings were usually predictable.

Benjamin preferred it that way.

Predictability meant fewer variables.

Fewer variables meant fewer things that could go wrong.

The café was one of those routines he hadn't thought much about until recently.

It was simple.

Coffee.

A few quiet minutes before work.

A familiar environment.

The same faces.

The same order.

The same corner of the city waking up around him.

Except this morning, something was different. You weren't there. He noticed immediately. He told himself he didn't.

He stepped inside the café, removed the rain from his jacket and joined the queue like he always did.

He looked at the menu despite already knowing what he wanted. He listened to the conversations around him. The music playing quietly through the speakers. The hiss of the espresso machine. The sound of cups being placed onto counters.

Normal things.

Routine things.

Still, his eyes moved towards the door every time it opened.

Every time someone walked in, his attention shifted automatically.

Not obviously.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But enough.

The door opened again.

A man carrying a briefcase.

Not you.

Another customer entered a few minutes later.

A woman with headphones and a takeaway order.

Not you.

Benjamin looked away.

He disliked the fact that he had been expecting you.

You weren't late.

You weren't supposed to be there.

You had your own life.

Your own schedule.

The fact that he knew you usually came in on Saturdays was irrelevant. Or at least, it should have been.

"Large black coffee. No room."

The barista began preparing it before he had even finished speaking.

Benjamin watched the familiar movements.

The same order.

The same cup.

The same routine.

Yet something about it felt incomplete.

His eyes briefly moved towards the table near the window where you sometimes sat.

Empty.

He looked away.

—

By the time he left the café, the coffee was already in his hand.

The city was brighter than it had been the previous evening. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets damp and reflective beneath the morning light. People moved along the pavements carrying shopping bags, walking dogs, heading towards whatever plans they had made for the day.

Benjamin stood outside for a moment longer than necessary.

He looked down the street.

No sign of you.

It was irrational. He knew that. You had never promised to be there.

You had never said you would message him.

You had simply handed him your number.

A small gesture. An invitation. Nothing more.

His fingers moved inside his jacket pocket. The folded receipt was still there. He had kept it safe. He wasn't entirely sure why.

Benjamin had spent the previous evening trying to find the right words.

Not a rushed apology. Not something careless.

You deserved more than:

Sorry about yesterday.

That didn't explain anything. It didn't explain that he had wanted to answer.

That he had appreciated you waiting. That he had been thinking about contacting you since the moment he left.

He wanted to say it properly.

That was the problem.

Benjamin had always been better with actions than words.

Actions had rules. Words didn't. Words could be misunderstood. Words could reveal things he hadn't intended to reveal.

He had spent most of his life learning control. Control over his reactions. Control over his emotions. Control over the things people saw.

But a simple message to someone who had been kind to him shouldn't have felt complicated. And yet it did.

His phone sat heavy in his pocket.

He had not had the right moment.

That was what he told himself.

During work, there was no time. After work, he had been exhausted. At home, he had rewritten the same message repeatedly until none of it sounded genuine.

He hadn't wanted to send something empty.

You had not treated him like a task to complete.

He didn't want to treat you like one either.

Benjamin looked back through the café window.

The empty chair near the window caught his attention again.

A strange feeling settled in his chest. Not panic. Not concern. Something quieter.

Disappointment.

He disliked that too. Because it meant he had been hoping to see you.

He finished the last sip of his coffee.

Then he pulled his phone from his pocket. For a moment, he simply stared at the screen.

Your contact was still there.

Y/n Hawthorne.

His thumb hovered over your name. He could message now. He should. He had a few minutes before he needed to leave.

Enough time.

He opened the conversation.

The blank space waited.

Benjamin stared at it.

Then he began typing. This time, he didn't delete it.

Good morning, Y/n. I wanted to apologise for yesterday. I should have thanked you properly before I had to take that call. I hope you got home safely.

He paused.

It was formal.

Too formal.

He frowned and added another line.

I would still like to take you up on your offer to talk sometime, if you meant it.

His finger hovered above send.

He read it once.

Twice.

Then stopped.

Because suddenly, he wondered whether you had changed your mind. Maybe you regretted giving him your number. Maybe he had made you uncomfortable. Maybe the silence was your answer.

Benjamin looked at the message again. For someone who could make decisions under pressure in seconds, this felt strangely difficult.

A notification appeared on his phone.

Work.

He closed his eyes briefly.

Of course.

He locked the screen and placed the phone away. Not because he didn't want to send it. Because he wanted to do it properly. He wanted to be certain.

As he walked towards his vehicle, the thought remained.

You weren't there this morning.

And for some reason, that absence stayed with him longer than it should have.

—

The afternoon passed slowly.

After speaking with Pamela, after replaying the entire situation in your mind far more times than you wanted to admit, you eventually decided that the only way to stop thinking about it was to stop sitting still.

So you cleaned.

Not because your apartment was particularly messy.

It wasn't.

You just needed something to do with your hands.

Music filled the room, loud enough that the neighbours would probably hear it if they were paying attention. You had abandoned any attempt at being graceful, dancing around the living room with a cloth in one hand while rearranging books and wiping down surfaces.

It was ridiculous.

And it helped.

Your apartment felt warmer with the music playing.

The candles were lit.

The lamps were turned low.

The city outside continued moving, cars passing beneath your window and people living their own lives without any idea that you had spent the last twenty-four hours overthinking a man you barely knew.

A man who was supposed to just be the coffee shop guy.

You moved another stack of books onto the shelf, quietly singing along before stopping to laugh at yourself.

This was better.

You were fine. You were going to be fine.

Then your phone chimed.

The sound was almost lost beneath the music.

Almost.

You froze.

The cloth in your hand lowered slowly.

For a moment, you stared towards the phone sitting on the kitchen counter.

You told yourself not to rush.

You told yourself it could be anyone.

Pamela.

A university email.

A notification.

Anything.

Still, your feet moved before you had consciously decided to walk.

You picked it up.

Your stomach dropped slightly when you saw the name.

B. Poindexter.

You stared at the screen.

He had messaged.

You opened it.

Good afternoon, Y/n. I apologise for not contacting you sooner. Yesterday got away from me. I should have thanked you properly before I had to take that call. I hope you got home safely.

Then another message below it.

I would still like to take you up on your offer to talk sometime, if you meant it.

You read it once.

You read it twice.

Then a third time.

Not because the message was complicated.

Because it sounded exactly like him.

Careful. Thoughtful. Almost too formal.

A smile appeared before you could stop it.

You sat down on the edge of the sofa. For some reason, seeing his name on your phone felt different than seeing him across the café counter. This was intentional. He had chosen to contact you.

You could text back. That would probably be normal. Most people texted. But you had always preferred calls.

Texting left too much room to overthink. Too much time staring at words. Too much time wondering what someone meant.

So before you could convince yourself it was a bad idea, you pressed the call button.

—

Benjamin was sitting in his vehicle during his lunch break when his phone began ringing.

He looked down.

Your name appeared across the screen.

For a second, he simply stared.

He had expected a message.

Eventually.

Not a call.

His thumb hovered over the answer button.

Then he pressed it.

"Hello?"

There was a brief pause. Then your voice.

"Hi."

Something about hearing you rather than reading your words caught him slightly off guard.

"Hi."

You immediately laughed softly. "Sorry. I know I could have just replied."

"No."

The answer came quicker than he intended.

He paused.

"You don't have to apologise."

You smiled despite yourself.

"Okay."

There was a quiet moment. Not uncomfortable. Just unfamiliar.

Neither of you were used to this yet.

"I'm sorry about yesterday," Benjamin said.

You leaned back against the sofa. "You already apologised."

"I know."

"Then why are you apologising again?"

Another pause.

Because he didn't have an easy answer.

Because the truth was that he didn't like the thought of you standing there in the rain because of him.

"I should have handled it differently."

You softened slightly. "Benjamin, you were working."

"That doesn't mean I couldn't have explained."

"You were on the phone with work."

"I know."

The way he said it made you realise he wasn't arguing. He was simply stating that he understood.

You smiled faintly.

"You're very hard on yourself, aren't you?"

Silence.

A longer one this time.

You wondered if you had gone too far.

Then:

"Sometimes."

It was quiet.

Honest.

You weren't expecting that.

"So," you said, trying to lighten the mood, "are you always this serious?"

A small pause.

"Yes."

You laughed. A genuine laugh.

And on the other end of the phone, Benjamin went quiet. Not because something was wrong. Because he had realised he liked hearing that.

"I was joking," you said.

"I know."

"You didn't sound like you knew."

"I did."

"You didn't."

A faint smile touched his face.

"No."

You smiled.

The conversation continued. Nothing dramatic. Nothing life-changing. Just two people talking.

You told him about your cleaning attempt and how you had been avoiding university work.

He asked questions. Not many. But enough.

He listened.

When he spoke, he was careful with his words.

When you laughed, he stayed quiet for a moment afterwards, as if committing the sound to memory.

Eventually, he glanced at the time.

"I have to go back."

"Right."

The disappointment in your voice was subtle. But he noticed.

"I'll see you soon?"

The words left his mouth before he could reconsider them.

You smiled.

"Tomorrow morning?"

A pause.

Then:

"Tomorrow morning."

And somehow, that simple agreement felt like the easiest thing either of you had said all day.

When the call ended, Benjamin remained sitting there for a moment longer.

The city moved around him. People walked past. Cars passed by.

His lunch break continued ticking away.

But for the first time that day, his thoughts felt quieter.

Not empty.

Just quieter.

—

next part — HERE

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[mrsdarkandyandere7]

The One | Dark Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

Pairing: Dark (FBI) Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter x (female) Reader

▶  Dead Dove Do Not Eat. This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

SUMMARY: Dex believes you to be the key to solve his problems. You think he has serious mental issues. Unfortunately that doesn’t prevent you from being held captive in his apartment.

WARNINGS: Captivity/Kidnapping; Obsession; Noncon (dry humping). Delusional Dex. 

AN: Around 11k, not entirely satisfied with it but here it goes. It would mean the world to me if you guys could just take a moment to reblog and leave a comment - if you liked reading this. Feedback is very much appreciated. Enjoy 🤗

--

The first thing Dex notices when he opens the door is how quiet the apartment is. 

The whole space is immersed in silence - or as silent as living in a city like New York can be, traffic sounds muffled down by the windows and the distant cry of a baby a few doors down the hall.

But the apartment itself is quiet. 

That’s a good sign, he thinks as he carefully sets his work bag in its respective place by the door and neatly sets the keys in the wall hook. That’s a good sign, he thinks as he makes his way to the bedroom and yet his skin prickles with anxiety. 

With a hand hovering just over the knob, Dex hesitates. 

His heart accelerates, thrumming against his ribcage as if attempting to escape. The buzzing in his head overwhelms him and Dex stumbles a step back, trying really hard to push away the thoughts that threaten to swallow him whole. 

Breathe in and breathe out.

Closing his eyes, Dex works on his breathing, focusing on the slow exhale of air, mimicking the breathing exercise doctor Mercer taught him. He can do this. He’s dealt with much worse. He can do this.

He can do this.

With a twist of the knob, Dex lets himself inside the bedroom. 

The small room is enveloped in absolute darkness, the curtains tightly closed just like he left them this morning before leaving for work - the last thing he needs right now is for curious neighbours from across the building to peep into his apartment.  

His knee bumps hard against the leg of the bed and Dex lets out a small curse, now moving with more careful steps in the darkness. It takes nearly ten seconds for him to finally get to the bedside table. He flickers open the small lamp and as soon as his eyes adapt to the yellow brightness of the light, Dex turns his attention towards the small figure curled upon the bed’s edge and just like that, everything gets better. It works like magic every time.

The moment his eyes land on you, his mind calms down, the buzzing dissolving away into a serene quietness. 

You’re deep into slumber, closed eyes and features softened by sleep. Dex watches you with something that borders admiration, watching you sleep as always has been precious to him. 

Despite the dampness that clings to your eyelashes, proof of the tears you must’ve shed a few hours or a few minutes ago, there’s a serene expression in your face. A gentle peace that has been lacking for the past few days.

Dex hesitates for a brief moment before he crouches down and brushes the hair away from your cheek.

His touch receives no reaction - no terrified flinch, no scared grimace - and Dex feels lighter, both in soul and body. With the back of his fingers, Dex gently strokes your cheek, feeling the soft skin under his stiff touch. A soft smile slowly creeps up to his lips and for a minuscule moment, his mind flees at how nice it would be if things were always like this, unrushed and peaceful.

Dex wants this moment to last forever. 

But of course, all good things must end - particularly soon when he is involved. So distracted marveling at the softness of your cheek, Dex is caught off guard when he realizes that your eyes are wide open, fear quickly pooling in them.

 Fuck!

He immediately snatches his hand away and stands up. 

“You were sleeping. I was just… the hair on your face.” he blurts out, as if whatever excuse is gonna magically erase the fact that you just woke up with his hands all over you. Great. Now in addition to kidnapper, you’re also gonna think he’s a pervert.

Just what he needed right now.

You look away from him mid-sentence and squirm, wincing a moment later when you’re pulled back by the cuffs latched onto your feet.

Right, he almost forgot about them. Dex takes that as his cue to remove the bindings keeping you in bed.

“Here, let me just- ” 

He reaches over, carefully as to avoid touching you too much, and begins to loosen up the cuffs keeping your feet chained to the bed and the belt from around your wrists. Your wrists are left indented and the skin irritated by the belt that was tightly clasped around them. 

You don’t move for a few moments, body too numb and weak from the countless hours you spend in bed with close to zero mobility, bound and chained to make sure you’re not running to the door the moment you get a chance.

Dex watches you wince before pulling at the cloth tied around your head, a weak substitute for a gag; just a precaution in case you remember to start hollering for help while he’s away at work. 

With a snail’s pace, you move to sit at the edge of the bed, breathing heavily as Dex expectantly stands to the side like a shadow. 

Dex opens his mouth to say something, maybe ask a stupid question ‘are you alright?’ but before he can even get a word out, you’re standing up with unsteady feet and limping your way to the en-suite bathroom without so much as glancing at him. 

His feet follow you on instinct, but the door that slams hard on its hinges stops him from going any further. The lock aggressively clicks into place, a repulsive sound that echoes in his head like a gunshot. 

Dex has to take a deep breath to ease up the impulse of putting his fist through the door. 

–

Your stomach growls as you eat the pizza slice.

It’s still warm, laced with extra cheese and tasting absolutely divine - although your opinion may be biased on the last part. Anything would taste delicious after a fast of nearly eight hours.

Dex - that’s what he called himself although you’re not too sure if you believe him - clearly isn’t prepared for the logistics that holding someone hostage involves because if he were, you wouldn’t be left to rot in bed the entire day without so much as a drop of water while he goes to work. For the past three days, you’ve been surviving solely on breakfast and dinner, without any snacks or lunch throughout the day.

The arrangement sucks, always leaving you with a mouth drier than the desert and with a stomach ache that doesn’t fully go away even after finally eating. 

Dex tries not to make it obvious that he’s looking at you, while chewing his own slice.

Seated right next to you on the small dinner table, he’s much closer than you'd prefer, his arm nearly touching yours every time he moves. The living room’s light shines on his face in a particular way, revealing the small patches of silver on the sides of his short brown hair, and the sharp angles of his face. There’s a small dimple in his chin and he’s clean shaved. Albeit tired, he looks… normal.

A normal-looking guy, living in a normal apartment with a normal life. But looks are often deceiving, aren’t they?

It’s not hard to understand that he has issues. Serious ones, the type that could easily secure him a place in a psychiatric facility - the assumption supported by the drawer full of meds you found in the bathroom cabinet the first night. 

In all honesty, you have a hard time understanding him. But so far Dex hasn’t done anything remotely weird to make you feel like you’re about to get jumped at and you’re grateful for that. He’s been polite enough to let you use the bathroom unsupervised and his eyes never linger towards where they shouldn’t. His hand hasn’t been raised against you and no explicit threats have been hissed your way. It’s almost like you’re roommates, of sorts. 

But the positive aspects don’t outweigh the negative ones nor do they alter the fact that he has kidnapped you and is currently holding you hostage.

He lies as well because you have serious doubts about him being an FBI agent, like he said that one time. The badge that is usually perched on his belt could very much be a fake and the gun on the holster an illegal one. 

You distractedly glance at him and for a moment, your eyes meet. 

You regret the eye contact as soon as it happens because Dex immediately takes that as a sign to strike a conversation. 

“How’s the pizza?” he eagerly asks, “It’s the same one you always ask for.” He’s right, it is the same pizza with the exact same ingredients you tend to order for yourself on a regular basis.

While this shouldn’t shock you, considering Dex has reluctantly admitted to following you around for weeks, you still can’t shake off how creepy it is for him to know the exact specifications of the food you find comfort in eating.

What else does he know about you that he shouldn’t know? What else has he seen about you that he shouldn’t have?

Your stomach answers for you, letting out an absurdly loud groan. 

“It’s fine.” your voice comes out hoarse and weird, not a surprise given this is the first time in the whole day you’re using it.

When you grab the glass of water in front of you, his hazel eyes flit over to your wrists and the marks engraved into the skin from how deep his belt dug in, the skin itchy and red. 

“I’m sorry ‘bout that.” Dex lowers his head, “Didn’t mean to tie them so hard. I’ll… I’m gonna find something better for your hands.” 

“Or maybe you could just not use them.” 

Your voice is low, barely above a whisper but Dex catches them anyways. He shifts in the seat, a wrinkle settling in between his brows. 

“Maybe one day. In the future.” he says.

“Why not now?” you press him. “You don’t trust me?”

“I do.” 

He doesn’t.

You know he doesn’t. Both of you know that. And he’s right not to because you’re bolting out of the door the moment you get a decent chance.

“I do. I trust you.” he repeats, this time with more conviction. He leans closer to you and you do your best not to push yourself off the chair and walk away. “I trust you more than you know.”

“But not enough to let me out of the bindings, right.”

He swallows hard, shaking his head. “It’s complicated.”

“Right.” you sigh, tearing your eyes away from him and back to the food. 

Dex sighs your name, slumping back on the chair. “I know this might be hard to believe in but this isn’t what I want either. It’s really not. I don’t want to keep you all cooped up like you’re a prisoner. You’re not one, anyways.”

He rubs his face with one hand, jaw set tightly. Your eyes notice the thickness of his arm, the subtle but defined muscle stretching underneath the shirt. An FBI agent, he said, a former army soldier too.   

“I just can’t take risks right now. Not until… we figure things out. I know this arrangement, if we can call it that, isn’t the most beneficial for you. But I need you. I need your help.”

You freeze, hand stopping mid-air with the remainder of the pizza slice. 

“My help?”

Dex nods, nudging his chair closer. His cheek ticks for a moment as he gathers his thoughts. 

“Yeah, I… how can I put this.” he breathes in deeply. One of his hands reaches forward, nervously fidgeting with the edge of the table. 

“I’ve seen the way you are around people. You feed the homeless. Help blind people cross the street. Bake cookies for your elderly neighbour.” his own lips curl into a smile at that, “You’re kind to people even if you don’t have to be. You listen to them and show them compassion. That’s… that’s something I really need in my life.” 

The confusion you feel has your thoughts scattering all over your mind. He thinks you’re kind. How is that enough reason to kidnap someone?

“I don’t understand…” you say, brows raised. 

Dex presses his lips together, rolling his shoulders tensely. “Being kind, compassionate like you are… it doesn’t come easy to me. Never has, not even back when I was a kid. So I do the second best thing and try to pretend it. It’s what I’ve been doing my whole life, pretend like I care about the good and the bad and hide who I really am.”

You hesitate, before asking. “And who is that? Who you really are.” 

His fingers still and when Dex answers, it’s with a shadow obscuring his face, his eyes focused on some distant point beyond the wall. 

“Someone who has killed before.” 

Your blood runs cold. Maybe you had a suspicion that there was something deeply wrong with him, but for him to admit it loudly is a whole new thing. 

“It’s part of why I joined the bureau and the army before that.” he reveals, with a cold voice and a hardness in his face. “I get to kill without feeling bad for it. It’s part of the job now, strictly professional and nothing personal about it but it fulfills more than what duty calls for. It scratches that itch that never really goes away.”

You swallow dryly, the knot in your throat refusing to go down. 

The fear and shock that flood you are hard to push down but you quickly mask them when Dex glances back at you. He visibly swallows, slightly shaking his head. 

“I’m sorry.” he apologizes, “I know this isn’t what you want to hear right now. But I promise that you’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you, I would never do that to you.”

Right. His words fail to reassure you after what he has just revealed, but you pretend otherwise. Maybe if Dex thinks you believe him then his guard will be lowered. 

“I’m aware that it’s wrong, I know that. But I just… I can’t help it, sometimes.” he swallows, fingers twitching. “I’m trying to do better. Trying to steer into the right path. That’s why I need you, I need your help.”

“Me?” you mumble, completely lost. 

Dex doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he stares, focusing on you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. 

“I do better when there’s a North Star to guide me.” 

–

A small, muffled sniff comes from inside the room, bed gently creaking as you adjust yourself. With an arm half-bent beneath his head, Dex stares at the ceiling. It’s nearly midnight and he has an early day tomorrow but sleep evades him. 

The couch is stiff under him, much too short to comfortably accommodate all of him but Dex doesn’t complain, he’s slept in much worse places before.

Compared to sleeping on the hard floor, no pillow or blankets, stones and dirt digging into his back with the obnoxious snoring of fellow army soldiers ringing in his ears, this is far from unpleasant. Especially with you sleeping just around the corner. 

The apartment is small enough that the couch sits just outside the bedroom and with the door wide open, Dex can hear the sound of your breathing. You’re awake, he gets that from the way your breathing keeps changing every now and then, the soft clink of the metal cuff on your feet as you shift once in a while, trying to get comfortable. 

His mind is calm now, no incessant buzzing or relentless thoughts.

It keeps drifting towards you instead. Details cling to him such as the way you smelled like him when you came out of the shower, having used what he owns - his soap, his shampoo, his moisturizer, his lotion. Even his clothes. With wet hair and dressed in his clothes, you looked like a dream.

He tried to not ogle much at the freshly moisturized, shiny skin of your legs; tried not to let his hands wander too much when closing the cuff around your ankle and securing the other end to the bed’s metal structure.

The small scowl on your face didn’t go unnoticed by him and part of him gets it. Sleeping cuffed to the bed can’t be easy and you deserve to be treated like a princess, not like a prisoner but Dex’s hands are tied for the moment being.

Giving you too much freedom when things are still slowly building between you two can be dangerous. He wishes things weren’t this way but right now he can’t afford to give you that amount of leeway. 

In theory Dex knows that what he’s doing is bad. Really bad. 

He has full conscience that this is far from healthy .

That what he’s doing falls on the exact opposite side of the spectrum of what he and doctor Mercer agreed he should do to keep him in the straight, narrow path and that if she were alive today, she’d be horrified at what he’s done. Kidnapping his North Star.

That sure would make her reconsider everything about him. Holding onto a good person isn’t the same as making one hostage and definitely not what she had suggested, not even in the slightest, before passing away.

If doctor Mercer was here, she’d be disappointed beyond measure and she’d force Dex to release you, to let you return back into your life. 

He supposes it’s a good thing that she’s dead. Because Dex isn’t sure he could give you up without a fight. You mean so much to him, more than you could ever know and enough for him to refuse allowing you the chance to just walk away like he means nothing. 

Everyone in his life - every single person - has abandoned him. Left him to fend for himself in the dark solitude of his mind, of the buzzing thoughts that plague him day and night. Dex refuses to let you do the same.

You’re good, kind and sweet. You’re the missing piece of the puzzle, the solution to his problems. You’re gonna help him get back on the right track, even if you aren’t sure about him.

You didn’t lash out at him after everything he revealed during dinner. You didn’t scream or call him a monster or push him away. No, you just sat there and patiently listened to him. Tried to understand him. Told him that you’d try to help him. 

He smiles, hope fluttering in his chest. 

So long as he has you, everything will be alright. 

–

Your stomach lets out a soft growl. 

Judging from the bright sunlight filtered out by the closed curtains and from how badly the pit in your stomach is starting to feel, it’s around lunch time. Not that it matters, you won’t be getting any food even if you want to. Not in your current position. 

You let out a sigh and move your head around, trying to find a better position.

By the end of week, you’ll be surprised if the bed doesn’t show a permanent dent shaped to your body given it’s where the majority of your days and nights are spent. 

Dex did follow through with his word and found some handcuffs this morning to use around your wrists instead of the circulation-cutting belt. The cuffs are nicer, looser than the belt, but still offering little to no opportunity to evade them. 

The more you think about it, the more helpless you feel. You have no plan, debunking each and every one given their potential of failure but mostly due to fear. Every time you begin to craft an escape plan, hesitation has you faltering. 

So far Dex has been nothing less than an exemplary kidnapper… what happens if you get caught trying to escape? The words from the other night are still bouncing around in your head, unwilling to let you forget who he truly is. 

Will he hurt you, or do worse, if you get caught - maybe as a lesson, maybe as a punishment or maybe because he wants to. You don’t want to find out what Dex can do and with your life on the thin line, reckless actions are what you can’t afford to do. 

Every single night, after Dex removes the chains, your body aches to act on the most basic survival instinct. Run. To lunge forward and reach for the door, to run down the hall and scream as loudly as you can.

Every night you fight against that impulse, nails digging into the palm of your hands every time Dex turns his back on you and the opportunity presents itself right there for you to seize.

Every night you have to control yourself, eyes flickering towards the door and adrenaline running through your veins. 

Think positive, is what you tell yourself.

A little hopeful voice whispers into your ear that maybe luck will be on your side and maybe you won’t have to do anything at all and that before you know it, the police will break down the apartment’s door and rescue you.

That’s one of the nice, comforting fantasies that keeps you entertained for a good amount of your days; distracted from the miserable turn your life has taken. 

The exhaustion you feel on a mental level adds up to the physical one. The tension accumulating in your body is hard to shake off, shoulders burning up at the uncomfortable position that allows your wrists to stay chained to the bed’s headboard. And you absolutely despise the sharp needling that occurs in your legs when you finally get to stand up. Ugh. 

Dex thinks you’re his North Star, someone kind enough to help him get into the right path. You genuinely don’t believe in it.

How are you supposed to help him? How can you possibly help him be a good person? For all you know, he might be lying to you, using some half-baked lie to get you to lower your guard. Maybe it’s a side-effect from the medicine he takes.

You don’t know, you genuinely don’t know. 

Closing your eyes, you inhale deeply. The music reaches the end and the announcer takes over, something about good weather these days.

Another song begins shortly after, some energetic tune you don't recognize. 

It was a nice gesture from Dex to leave the radio on. To keep company, he had said. And indeed it does keep you company although the radio station he tuned in keeps repeating the exact same playlist of old songs over and over again. But beggars can’t be choosers and you’re glad to at least have something to dull the static silence of your days. 

*knock* 

The sound startles you. 

For a moment you freeze, heart accelerating in your chest.  

You try listening in despite the interference of the radio that is still going on, the song playing on a low volume making it hard to listen properly. For the next few seconds nothing happens and your brain nearly convinces you to believe the door knock to be a product of your imagination. 

And then it happens again. 

Subtle and hard to listen to, but it’s definitely there. 

Without wasting another second, you scream as loudly as you can with the gag cloth around your mouth. Despite being laced with desperation, your voice comes out muffled down, the gag absorbing much of the sound and tears of frustration begin to build in your eyes. 

The cuffs securing your hands and feet rattle when you tug at them as aggressively as you possibly can with the hope that the clanking of metal can attract the attention of whoever is outside the apartment. 

Despite your best efforts, nothing happens.

There’s no more knocking on the door, no booming voice asking ‘is everything alright?’. 

Nothing. 

After excruciatingly long minutes, exhaustion wins and you give up, teary eyed and devastated. 

–

“Can I help? I don’t mind washing them.” you offer, eyeing the plates and silverware pilling on the sink.

Dinner is over and now it’s that weird time window where Dex handles chores while you just lurk around the apartment without any real purpose. Back in your apartment, this would be the time for you to pick the next day’s outfit and prepare your work bag while listening to your favorite podcast.

Here you don’t have any chores or obligations. No dishes to wash, no clothes to iron, no meal prep.

There’s nothing for you to do other than walk around in circles around the apartment and pretend you’re not counting the minutes until it’s bedtime and the cuffs are back on. 

“It’s okay. I got this.” Dex turns you down, rolling the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows and turning the faucet on. 

Your shoulders slump in the slightest as you awkwardly stand by the counter, watching the meticulous way in which Dex scrubs and re-scrubs every piece.

You were half-hoping to take advantage of a distraction moment to sneak away a knife. Or a fork. Anything sharp enough to be used as a weapon although to use under what circumstances, you’re not yet sure. You’re not sure of anything. 

Your nerves are rattling you on the inside tonight, the memory of the door knocking still lingering in your mind. Dex hasn’t mentioned anything about neighbours and you’re not stupid enough to bring it up. 

You don’t know what to do. All the ideas your brain conjures feel… risky. You can’t stop feeling scared, like one wrong move and you’re gonna mess everything up. If you attempt to escape, only to fail… 

Dex has blood on his hands, more out of pleasure than for his alleged job. Despite his promise, what guarantee is there that his hands won’t ever become stained with your blood?  

You nearly wince when Dex speaks, pulling you out of your thoughts. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, shutting off the faucet and drying his hands before turning towards you. “You look a little… I don’t know. Is something wrong?” 

Yes. Everything. Everything is wrong and it’s all his fault. 

Dex considers you with a little wrinkle between his brows. “Is it your wrists? I saw you touching them earlier. I can get something for them, if they are bothering you.”

You shake your head slowly. And then speak without meaning to, the words just slipping out of your mouth before you have the good sense of keeping them to yourself. 

“I need my phone.” 

You can tell the words takes Dex by surprise from the way he tenses up, shoulders straightening up. 

“Why don’t you sit down on the couch?” he stiffly suggests and then turns his back on you, opening and closing the kitchen drawers practically without looking at them too much. “I’ll make some of that tea you like so much.”

“I need to call my parents, Dex. They must be worried about me.”

“They know you’re fine. I already texted them on your behalf." Dex says, bumping against an open drawer with a hiss. “Said you’d be cutting back on phone time.”

A small incredulous sound escapes from your throat. 

“They won’t believe that.” you argue, crossing your arms. “We talk over the phone every week, sometimes even videocall. Please, Dex, just one phone call. I promise I won’t say or do anything suspicious. Please?”

Dex closes a drawer with enough force to rattle its contents. 

“We can talk about that later.” 

“Dex, c’mon, one call. Five minutes, on speaker. Please, it’s all I ask for.”

“Later.”

“Dex, please, just one-”

The knock on the door interrupts your argument. 

Both of you snap your heads towards the door and something twists inside you at the sound of voices in the hallway. But before you can even consider getting a word out of your mouth Dex moves with a speed so impressive that it startles you, cornering you against the counter with his palm firmly pressed against your lips. 

“Not a word.” he whispers, brown eyes focused on you intently. “Please.”

It’s suffocating to have him so close, body nearly molded to yours and trapping you against the counter, his breath fawning over your face and you can see every short, light-brown hair from his five o’clock  shadow. 

It’s only when you give a small nod that Dex finally looks away and turns his face to the door when another knock resonates and a chirpy female voice speaks. “Hello, Jehovah witnesses here. If we could just have a moment of your time…”

“Yeah, thanks but I’m not interested.” 

You glance at the door, eyes drawn to it like a moth to flame and heart thrumming at the fact that there are people on the other side of the door. People that might call the police if a commotion is heard… 

Almost as if tuned in to your mind, Dex glances at you and his remaining hand reaches for you with fingers slithering around your forearm, holding onto you firmly. 

“Oh, but sir, if you could open the door it would only take-”

“Not interested.” Dex loudly repeats, losing the polite tone from just moments ago. “Now get lost before I call the cops on you.”

Seconds drag by but the hand clamped over your mouth only slackens when the disappointed voices dim down into distance, footsteps scampering away from the apartment. 

Only when the coast is clear does Dex fully remove his hands from you, fingers brushing against your lips one last time and you let out a shaky exhale.

“Thank you.” Dex blurts, stepping aside and finally putting some space between you and you can see that the tips of his ears are blazing red. “For not….y’know. Making a scene.”

You nod, but can’t shake the nagging feeling in your chest that maybe you wasted an opportunity that might not appear again. 

–

It’s late when Dex comes back home the next night. 

That alone is enough to set alarms ringing in your head as Dex is never late. Punctuality is a trait of his, always adhering to consistnt routines and schedules.

It gets worse when you notice the heavy expression Dex wears, lips pressed into a tense line as he greets you. Something is off in the way he moves, tense limbs and a stiff spine. He tries to hide it, but the recoil that runs down his body when he bends down to release your cuffs and then again when he slams the radio’s off button reveals it. 

You slowly sit on the bed, rubbing your sore wrists and watching him storm into the bathroom. The sound of water running travels through the ajar door, but it's the pained hiss that catches your attention.

After a moment of pulling yourself together, you stand up and take small steps to the bathroom, supporting yourself using the wall as your legs slowly recover from a whole day of inactivity. 

Another distressed sound reaches your ears and you hesitate only for a brief second before pushing the door open. 

“Dex.” you call him, “Are you okay?” 

He’s hunched over the bathroom sink,  palms pressed against the small vanity and face hanging low between his shoulders. 

You can’t avoid the concern that prickles you when he turns around, face pale and dewy, looking more like a ghost than a human. Is he sick? 

“I’m fine.” Dex grits out and palms a hand through his face with a rough motion, cheeks hollowing as he exhales sharply. “Just give me a second.”

His face twists as he holds back a wince and this time his hand flies to press against his torso. You gasp when you catch sight of his ruined white shirt, horrified at the way the left side of the material is soaked in bright crimson. 

“Dex, you’re bleeding!”

“I’m okay, it’s nothing.” Dex rushes to say, one hand trying to hide the shirt with his coat but you’re faster than him and pull it away to get a clear view. 

“It doesn’t look like that.” you remark. “Let me see it.”

“You don’t have to, I told I’m-”

“Yes, you keep saying that. Just let me see, please.”

Dex sighs at the stubbornness you show but thankfully relents under the pressure, removing his coat and shirt while you attempt to help him.

When the shirt comes off of his body you freeze. There’s an injury on the side of his stomach, the skin torn and raw, blood trickling out of the wound.

Dex curses when he looks down and then glances at you.

“It was work.” he explains, “FBI had a raid today and this guy had a gun. The bullet grazed me for a second. I’m fine, really, I’ll put some bandages on and  get dinner started.” Dex tries to step aside but you get in his way. 

“Forget dinner, what you need is to go to a hospital.”

His answer comes quickly as lightning. “No.”

“Dex.” you cross your arms, incredulous. 

“I’m fine.”

“You got shot at, you definitely aren’t fine. That looks like it needs stitches.”

“I’ll survive.”

You shake your head, biting your lip. Maybe later when you’re back to being cuffed to the bed and spending your days rooting in bed you’ll regret this, but right now the humanity inside you refuses to let this go. 

“Let me help you.” you propose, “You don’t wanna see a doctor, fine. Let me do it instead. I once did a first-aid workshop for work, I know the basics. I can help.”

Dex looks at you, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and not looking entirely convinced with your suggestion. You sniff, glancing at the blood that now trails down to his waist, staining the top of his pants. God, you’ve never liked the sight of blood. 

“The other night you told me you watched me help people. You also said that I’m here because you need me and my help. My kindness, right?” you start, taking a step towards him with the back of your neck burning as Dex holds on to every word you say like it’s the gospel.

“Then don’t shut me out now, Dex. You’re not alone in this. Let me help you, okay? Let me show you kindness. Let me take care of that wound. Please.” 

You watch Dex gulp, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows like it’s the hardest thing in the world. You know the words hit the right spot when at last he nods with a small, shaky movement of his head. “Okay…”

The next forty minutes are spent in mental agony of blood smearing and dripping everywhere - and you mean absolutely everywhere: your hands, your clothes, the counter, the floor - as you do your best cleaning the gunshot wound and then having to steady yourself while holding a sterilized needle in your trembling fingers to sew up the split skin back together as Dex guides you through it, with his medical training from back at Quantico.

He is surprisingly calm as you sew him up at the best of your abilities, gripping the counter so hard his knuckles become pale, exhaling through clenched teeth. 

It’s only when you’re patting down a bandage over the stitches that it dawns on you how close you are to Dex, on your knees with face nearly pressed up against his bare torso.

The realization of the position’s intimacy suddenly has your heart racing and when you glance up, you find yourself to be the center of Dex’s attention.

He doesn’t look away when your eyes meet and his intense stare is penetrating enough to have shivers run down your spine and you freeze when his hand reaches for your cheek, thumb gently rubbing against your cheekbone. 

“Thank you.”

–

You’re folding one of Dex’s shirts when he speaks. 

“I bought some brownies, the ones with the caramel filling. From that bakery you like so much.” 

Spinning your face around, you glance at Dex, hiding your confusion with a smile. “Oh, thanks, Dex. That’s… really sweet.” 

The corner of his lips curl into a smile as he looks at you, stirring the pot of pasta that is meant to be your lunch without breaking eye contact. “Yeah, I know how much you like those things.”

The silence hangs awkwardly in the air when you turn around, focusing back on the small mountain of warm clothes fresh from the dryer waiting for their turn.

It’s a nice distraction from the boredom of having nothing to do, simple enough for you to handle and harmless enough for Dex to trust you with. That’s part of why you like the weekends so much. With Dex around the apartment the entire day, except when he’s running errands, you get to stay free of the cuffs and the bed.

Even if he’s looming and hovering over you at all times, like he’s unable to let you out of his sight at the risk of losing you in the minuscule apartment. 

As the days morph into weeks, things have started to change and you’re not sure if you like the shift.

Something changed that night you patched up Dex, though you can’t exactly put your finger on it. Since then, you’ve lost count of how many occasions you’ve catched him staring at you, when you’re drying the dishes or helping him vacuum the apartment. His eyes often find you even while he’s doing chores around the house, fingers finding excuses to brush against you and it’s beginning to bother you.

The lingering touches, the fixated gaze, the nice gestures, it’s all starting to make you uneasy. Despite how much you attempt to brush it off, you can’t avoid feeling a romantic undertone in his demeanour.

You wonder how truthful were his words when he said he needed your guidance and how much of that was a lie. And while maybe Dex has forgotten the nature of your relationship, you haven’t. Not for one second.

You know all about Stockholm syndrome and you have zero intention of falling for that bullshit. 

It’s only after lunch is over, when Dex takes out the small paper bag of brownies from the fridge and brings them over to the table, that you remember them. 

He takes out one of the pieces, chocolate sprinkled on top, and offers it to you. “Wanna do the honors?”

You stare at it.

“Maybe later. I’m full right now.” you lie. 

“C’mon, one small bite.” Dex insists, but you shake your head. You really don’t feel like playing into whatever fantasy he has. 

“Really I’m-”

“One bite.”

Dex opts to ignore your excuses and the chocolate delicacy is insistently pressed against your mouth, leaving you no choice other than to part your lips and begrudgingly take a small bite from the brownie.

Only then does Dex pull his hand away, watching you chew on the food. A dimple appears in his cheek, his eyes dropping to follow the movements of your lips.

Before you can wipe your mouth clean, his fingers brush against your lips, pulling away a dark crumb left behind. A knot curls tighter in your stomach when he pops his fingers into his mouth, tasting your leftover crumb with a hum. 

“Tastes delicious.” he nods, shoving the rest of the brownie into his mouth. “Knew you had good taste.”

You force out a smile. “Thank you.”

“Maybe next time we can try making these at home.” he suggests and your hands clench at the word he uses. Home. This isn’t your home. “Homemade is always better and you’ve always been good at baking, I’d love to try something of yours.”

“Yeah, sure. Whenever you want.” Maybe by then you’ll find some laxatives to slip into the food. 

You grab your glass and gulp down the water. Dex folds the paper bag with the brownies inside and stops you from grabbing your plate, taking it in his hands. His fingers brush against yours.  

“s‘okay, I got this.” 

“Thanks.”

Dex smiles. “Anything for you.”

–

There’s a rotten feeling taking root in Dex’s mind. 

He sets the paper sheet on the table in front of you before claiming the seat next to you. Your fingers immediately hold onto the paper, lip pulled between your teeth as you consider the words that are probably memorized by now. He insisted on practicing for an entire hour before finally pulling your phone from his pocket but even with your insistent promises, insecurity still gnaws at his mind. 

“Just stick to the script.” Dex repeats for the fourth time in less than a minute, “Stay calm, don’t say anything you normally wouldn’t say. And if they ask-”

“I’m just taking a break from technology. Yes, I know. We’ve been over this.” there’s a slight edge in your voice and that has Dex jittering his leg in an anxious bounce. 

“Okay.” he nods, dragging the moment for as long as he can. “Let’s get this over with then.”

Dex unlocks your phone and goes through your contacts, absolutely despising the long list of friends and family he has to scroll through til he gets to your mom’s number. 

The tense grip Dex has on your phone grows tighter by the second as the call rings. 

He’s not happy about this.

If he could have it his way, your phone would be hammered down and its pieces scattered in the bottom of a garbage dumpster. But that would undoubtedly cause you distress and Dex doesn’t want to see you upset. Especially after everything you’ve done for him. Not just the fact that you patched him up that other night or that you haven’t tried to escape in all these days you’ve been a ‘guest’ in his home, but your presence alone is enough to give him a sense of peace that usually escapes him.

You keep him sane. You make him be better. With you around, he feels less… lonely. He’s not alone anymore, you said so the other day, didn’t you. He’s got you now and you fill the void inside him with your warmth and kindness. You’ve been so kind and good and sweet and no one’s ever been like that to him. 

So he supposes that after everything you’ve done for him, a short two-minute phone call with your parents following a pre-prepared script is a small gesture of gratitude he can give you.

But that doesn’t mean his nerves aren’t burning him on the inside, an intrusive thought telling him to just crush the phone with his bare hands, throw that piece of shit through the window before someone answers on the other side of the line and be done with all of this. You don’t need to talk to your parents, you don’t need to talk to anyone other than him-

He stops himself before he gets too worked up. He can’t do that. He can’t be cruel to you, not after giving you hope. You’d be beyond disappointed and upset and then you’d definitely hate him for giving you false hope.

Dex wants to do better for you and that starts with this. 

But that doesn’t stop a frown from twisting his features, something ugly threatens to come out of his chest as he watches the genuine smile growing on your face at the sound of your mother’s voice. 

“Mom! Yeah, I’m doing fine. Just busy and….” 

Dex tenses up, fingers picking at the material of his pants, listening intently to every word that you say.

You don’t steep out of line, don’t say anything remotely suspicious or let your voice waver. You’re a good actress and don’t crumble under the pressure, which comes handy for this moment. 

Dex trusts you, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be tempted into taking your chances. You’re only human, same as he is. 

The numbers on the screen keep on increasing and Dex impatiently waits until it marks exactly two minutes and then signals you. That’s your cue to finish up the call.

Your shoulders slump and annoyance fills your face but you oblige. 

“...tell dad I love him. I have to go now, mom. Love you too-”

Dex thumbs the red across the screen and finishes the call as soon as you’re done with your goodbyes. The chair scrapes the floor as you get up on your feet and storm off to the bedroom, the bathroom door slamming shut a second later. 

Dex waits exactly one minute before he retraces your steps, making a small detour to turn off your phone and place it inside the safe in his closet.

His knuckles rasp against the bathroom door and he doesn’t wait for an answer before pushing the door open. He freezes at the sight of you leaning against the counter with watery eyes and you sniff, quickly cleaning your cheeks. 

“Hey. Everything alright?”

“Uh uh. I just miss them, is all.” you justify your reaction with a weak smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. 

“I’m sorry. That sounds… hard. Really hard.” 

Dex reaches for you and you move away, the smile fainting away from your face. 

“I just need a minute alone, Dex.”

“If you wanna talk about this-”

“I said I need a minute.” your voice rises and Dex frowns at that. You’ve never used that tone with him before.

He slowly walks out of the bathroom, the door shutting behind him with a harsh sound. He walks back to the living room like he’s in a trance. Pulling out a chair, he stiffly sits on the table with his hands crossed in front of him. 

Two minutes.

Two fucking minutes.

That’s all it took for someone else to steal your attention away from him and that’s all because of him. It’s his fault. He allows you a taste of freedom, offers you a good deed and now you’re pulling away. You’re shutting him out. Like he’s nothing. Like he means nothing to you. His hands clench at the unbearable thought.  

Things were finally starting to work out between you two and now this happens. He tries to be good, for once, and this is what he gets.

It’s his fault. It’s all his fault. Isn’t it always?

He always messes up and maybe that’s why no one ever stays around him, because he’s never enough for anyone. Everything about him is broken, unfixable and fucked up beyond repair.

He’s a fuck up. 

Time passes. Seconds, minutes. Maybe hours, he’s not sure. 

It feels like an eternity later when he’s pulled out of the buzzing that had taken over his mind with a gentle tapping on his shoulder.

It’s you, standing with eyes dried up and an apologetic expression. Dex stands up so fast he nearly knocks into you and his hand flies to your forearm to keep you from tumbling. 

“Shit, sorry.”

“No, it’s… I’m the one who has to apologize.” you sigh, lips pressed together. “I’m sorry about earlier, I didn’t mean to sound… ungrateful or something like that.”

The pressure in Dex’s chest eases up, like a heavy weight has been lifted from him. “You don’t have to apologize.” he forgives you right away because how can he not when you’re looking up to him with those pretty eyes of yours, giving him all of your undivided attention. “I could never be mad at you, I mean you… you’ve done so much for me. You’re very special to me, I don’t think you realize just how much.”

He notices the way you squirm and how your eyes flit down to the grip Dex has yet to let go off, but he makes no move to remove his hand. If anything his fingers tighten around your arm, pulling you closer. 

“Dex…”

“You’re the most important person in my life.”

Your eyes widen when he brings his other hand up to your face, cupping your cheek in his hand.

You nervously gulp and he can’t help but glance at your parted lips, slightly glowy from the lip balm he bought you a few days before you could ask for it. Same brand, same flavor you always used. 

“All this time you’ve been so good to me, no one’s ever been this kind to me before. You make it all better and you don’t even have to try.” he leans closer, a heartfelt smile breaking through. “You make this apartment feel like the home I never had and you make me so damn happy. My whole life, there was something missing and now it finally feels like I found that missing piece.”

“You mean the world to me. And I…. I love you.” he abruptly confesses and your eyes start getting teary again. Happy tears. 

Dex captures your lips with his and suddenly everything clicks into place, everything makes sense. You belong together. You’re every thought that consumes his mind, you’re everything he can feel, everything he can touch.

Pretty and so damn delicate in his arms, you’re all he needs. 

Not just his North Star, but you also own his heart, his mind, his body, his everything. 

You’re his. 

–

“Sweetheart?”

The knock on the door startles you.

Not even five minutes in the bathroom and Dex is already acting like you’ve been apart for hours. God, he has given the word clingy a whole different meaning after everything that went down the other night.

He’s been breathing down your neck ever since he kissed you and now you’re stuck playing along with his fantasy, acting as though you share his feelings and love him back.

Your suspicions were right all along. Dex is a liar.

The whole moral compass dilemma, the North Star thing, the keeping him on the right track, it was all one big lie and you’re so stupid because you should’ve seen that from the beginning. 

It feels like one of those insane dreams that have you waking up in the morning, feeling more exhausted than rested, where logic doesn’t exist and nothing makes sense. How the hell did you even end up in this situation, playing house with your kidnapper?

It’s only been three days since that happened and you still can’t wrap your mind around Dex’s confession and everything it involves.

You need a way out. Immediately. How many days until his hormones dictate him to do more?

While his newly proclaimed affection has granted you some benefits - you don’t need your hands cuffed to the bed anymore, which has been a relief for your chaffed wrists and sore shoulders - it doesn’t go without a few sacrifices on your behalf. For now, Dex is settling with kisses that don’t go beyond pecking on the lips and clumsy hugs, but how long until he decides that’s not enough?

The way he hesitates every night around the bed, kissing you goodnight with eyes fleeting to the spot next to you. How his hands sweep the entire expanse of your back and then back up when he hugs  you. You’re not stupid, you know how men are and what they want and in the present moment, you are very much stuck with one.

Dex is a ticking bomb and you’re at risk of being collateral damage. 

The knob rattling has you holding back a sigh. Still, you take your sweet time in washing your hands and drying them. Why must you hurry when you have to be around Dex all day?

When you finally come out, Dex has his back to you while standing by the window, phone to his ear and speaking in hushes. 

“... I’m off duty today, I told you. No, I can’t-” he hisses, hand on his hip as he looks outside. “Damnit, Ray, fine. Just drop the files and I’ll take a look at them. You know my apartment block, I’ll meet you downstairs.”

You wait until he’s finished with the call before making a show out of closing the bathroom door with an audible click. Dex immediately swirls around, shoving his phone in the back pocket of his pants and away from your sight, irritation vanishing from his face.

You barely get one step in his direction before he beats you to it, rushing across the room to meet you and you have to physically hold back a wince when his hands reach for you and he leans forward to peck at your lips.

He’s getting a lot more comfortable around you than you are with him, touching and kissing you and frankly, you’re not certain if he genuinely enjoys the affection or if he’s just reminding you that you’re still stuck playing house with him.  

“You okay?” he asks, “You spent a lot of time in there. Was getting worried.” 

His comment brushes you in the wrong way.

Dex’s attention to details sometimes borders on obsessive vigilance and the way he notices every detail about you, no matter how small and insignificant, feels like a violation of your privacy. Sure, the apartment is small and crowded, but you get the feeling Dex specifically monitors every action you take and finds satisfaction in doing so. Maybe control issues.  

“My head is feeling a little heavy, actually.” you lie, figuring you can dodge Dex for the better part of the afternoon. “Think I might lay down for a while.” 

The price you pay for such a small lie involves enduring with tremendous patience as Dex fusses and hovers over you as he gets you in bed, arranging and rearranging the blanket several times and having to refuse his offer of painkillers at least six times.

His hand caresses your head and it’s only when you close your eyes and pretend to fall asleep that he finally leaves you be, with a soft ‘rest well’ and a kiss to your forehead before quietly slipping out of the bedroom. At least he doesn’t put the cuff around your feet, a small comfort. The door doesn’t close all the way and so, you listen to the quiet clinking of glasses and metal as he works around the kitchen, drying them off as he always does after lunch. 

Minutes are slow to pass and you nearly doze off until the chiming of a phone brings you back to consciousness. 

“... yeah, I’m coming downstairs. Wait up.” Dex irritatedly hisses. The apartment door opens and keys clank before the door slams shut. 

Your ears twitch at the complete silence that submerges the apartment and it takes you a solid moment to understand that Dex stepped outside the apartment.

With your heart pounding in your ribcage, you push yourself off the bed and hesitantly peek into the living room.

He’s not there or in the kitchen.

He actually left the apartment without cuffing you.

You can’t believe it. An incredulous chuckle escapes you, but it quickly dies down when you run for the door only to find it locked from the outside. That’s not good, you need to leave now. Time is running out because Dex surely won’t be gone for long, you heard him on the phone.

The emergency stairs are the only option left so you sprint towards them, knocking your elbow against the wall in your haste. 

You waste precious time fumbling with the complicated lock but eventually manage to figure out how to open the living room window and push it all the way up, wincing when scraping your knees in the sill while getting out. Ouch. You’re so rusty you can’t even move straight. 

The cold wind blowing strongly has you freezing the moment you find yourself outside for the first time in weeks, goosebumps erupting all over your body as your lungs fill out with fresh air and you nearly tear up at the freedom of the moment, after so long of being held up in the four walls of Dex’s grim apartment, it feels surreal to be outside. 

The sound of the door shutting has your head snapping backwards, heart sinking. No, no, no. 

Dex is back inside, keys dangling as he locks the door.

Shit. You didn’t even hear the door opening. He hasn’t noticed you yet so maybe you can still… Your attempt to sneak down the stairs fails massively when the metal plate sharply creaks under your weight as soon as your bare feet touch the step. 

The moment processes like a slow motion frame of a movie and you watch with horror as Dex’s head snaps to the side, alerted by the sound as he takes notice of the open window and realizes that you’re standing on the emergency stairs like a deer caught in the headlights, instead of laying down in the bed he tucked you in, recovering from a headache.

The files in his hand carelessly drop to the floor, same as his keys, and the change in his expression is immediate and terrifying and it makes your blood run cold. 

He holds out one hand, taking one cautiously slow step towards the window. 

“It’s chilly outside, sweetheart, gonna catch a cold if you stay there.” he says with a normalcy that both confuses and scares you. “Why don’t you come back inside? It’s warmer here. C’mon.”

You don’t reply nor take your eyes off him, your grip over the handrail being the only thing keeping you steady.

You don’t run just yet, not just because Dex will easily catch up to you the moment you make a break for it, more because you’re scared down to your core. This whole situation is a ticking bomb and you’re just stalling - for what, you have no idea. 

Dex repeats your name like a warning, eyes narrowing when you go down one step and then another.

“Please. Just come back inside. Trust me, you don’t wanna do this, alright?” he pleads with a deep exhale, features twisting when you ignore him and his words in favor of descending one more step. “Come back and I promise we can just forget about this, act like it never happened. I promise, okay?”

Dex mirrors your movements, stepping forward just as slowly to keep you from evading his vision.

You don’t dare turn your back on him, terrified, but there’s no way you can reach the street if you keep this slow, hesitant rhythm. 

“Dex, please.” you gulp, blinking away tears that insist on clogging your eyes. Your voice wavers and you sniff. “I just wanna go home.”

“You are home, damnit.” Dex snaps. “This is our home, you and me, we belong together. Can’t you see that?” his jaw tightens, same as his hands. “After everything we’ve been through and you’re still… you still wanna abandon me. Just like everyone else. Yeah, well, I’m not letting you.”

The steel determination in his voice, the dangerous glint in his eyes is enough for your hands to turn clammy and sticky and you warily take another step down, heart thrumming in your chest when your foot nearly skips down that step.  

“Sweetheart. Not another step.” he growls, “Think this through, okay? You’re not leaving, we both know that. So, you can make things easier for both of us and come back inside on your own or we can do this the hard way, which none of us is gonna like. It’s your choice.”

His words may appear honest, but you know the truth behind them.

None of this was ever your choice. You didn’t choose this, didn’t choose him, didn’t choose to be his North Star or play whatever farce he’s been throwing at your eyes the whole time and yet here you are, forced to confront a situation you never imagined yourself in.

You’ve never really had a choice when it comes to Dex. 

All you know is that you can’t go back in there, living a mad man’s fantasy, caged in an apartment especially now that you’ve broken his delusions. Before your mind can fully process it, your legs make the decision for you. 

You spin around and take off down the stairs, feet slapping against the metal stairs as the muscles in your legs strain to keep up with the adrenaline that curses through your veins.

There’s clamour behind you, heavy steps resonating through the metal structure at an impressive speed and Dex shouts something you can’t quite understand but you don’t dare glance behind. 

The ground floor street gets closer the faster you run and there’s a hint of hope flourishing in your chest at the possibility of actually being able to reach freedom-

Something small collides against your back, harshly and with such a strength that it sends you tumbling forward, pain exploding in your vision when your forehead slams against the metal railing.

You crash and cry out when your knees land on the metal, one of your kneecaps ruthlessly bumping against one of the steps. There’s an agonizing hammering in your head and you go limp. Darkness takes over your mind but not before the dizzy, distant realization of being scooped up by firm arms.

–

"Fuck!"

A frightened sob escapes you as the tears overflow from your eyes and you push your knees to your chest and hide your face in the small space, though you find little comfort in the motion especially with the awkward stretch of the only hand cuffed Dex apparently remembered to cuff.

The painkillers somewhat helped with the pain that is splitting your head in two and the sharp throb in your left knee, but they do little to numb the blood-curdling fear that Dex’s erratic behavior is provoking in you.

Ever since you woke up, a while ago, it's been like this. 

There’s a trail of destruction in the bedroom, the contents of the bedside table scattered through the floor, broken and mutilated and you try not to stare at the fist-shaped holes decorating the wall.

The deafening sound of plates and glasses shattering against the kitchen floor makes you flinch, an animalistic holler following soon.

You don’t think Dex is upset. More like absolutely furious and livid and right now, you just want the floor to swallow you whole and make you disappear. There’s nothing you can do except to hope and pray his focus doesn’t turn towards you, even if you are the reason behind his violent crash out. 

You listen to him ravish and destroy the apartment for for what it feels like an eternity, objects violently crashing on the floor and his shouting bouncing off the walls until it progressively dwindles down. And then it finally ends. 

The silence feels oppressively quiet, in contrast to the loud destruction from moments ago, but it doesn’t make you feel any safer. Not that you’ve ever felt safe in this place.

The quietness feels dangerous in its own way but your energy drains quickly, exhaustion settling in after the events of the day. You close your eyes, intending only to rest for a few minutes if the pain allows you to do so.  

When you groggily blink your eyes open, you’re disoriented to find the entire room swarmed by the darkness of the night.

Only the small bedside lamp casts a dim, yellow light to the room and you nearly jump with fright at the tall figure looming by the bed’s edge.

It’s Dex, looking beyond miserable, messy up hair and red-rimmed eyes. He’s staring directly at you, vintage-looking headphones covering his ears as his unsettling focus remains on you, dark eyes clinging to you obsessively.

He looks somewhat calmer, despite appearing as pale as a ghost and the heavy breathing that shakes his bare chest and you only now do you notice how he’s only wearing his black shorts, his skin dewy with sweat.

Your eyes meet and Dex pulls the headphones away, throwing them onto the table. Weariness begins to grow in you when he climbs to the bed and reaches for you, your cuffs jingling as you try to back away from him. 

“Dex, I’m so sorry, please-” 

His lips crash against your with a vigor that sends him toppling you and you cry out when his weight presses you down, crushing you against the bed and putting awful pressure over your aching knee as your left leg gets trapped between his legs. 

Your hand, the only one who isn’t cuffed to the bed, flies to his chest and pushes against the humid skin but to no avail, Dex has always been stronger than what he looks like. His hands cradle your head with a tight hold, strong fingers framing your face and it worsens the pain in your skull until it feels like your head is gonna implode.

His kiss is forceful, his mouth pressing painfully hard to the point you can’t breathe, muffling down every sob and wail of yours. 

Something hard pokes your thigh and you dig your nails into his arm when Dex groans and presses harder against your leg till you can’t even move it away. Bile rises in your throat when he begins to move, humping your thigh with a pace that quickly becomes frantic enough to have the bed creaking.

There’s little you can do except to just shut your eyes and let your hand limply fall to the bed, knowing in your conscience that you’ll never be able to wash off the humiliation and disgust of this moment. 

Dex breaks the kiss, hovering over you as his mouth sucks desperate kisses over every inch of your tear-streaked face.

“s’okay, sweetheart, I forgive you.” he breathlessly growls into your skin, teeth grazing your cheek.

Dampness soaks through the thin fabric of his shorts and onto your leg as he moves faster, your leg having gone numb at this point. “I forgive you. Cause I love you and I know you love me back. Need me just as much as I need you.”

And when Dex finally reaches his peak, with an obscenely loud grunt by your ear, with his whole body collapsed on top of yours, with the wetness of his cum staining your thigh, it dawns on you that you’ll never truly escape him.