I Write Stuff!

“No hospitals,” he said.

And because you were a good person, you swallowed hard and said, “Okay.”

You knew first aid, you volunteered in enough community centers not to. 

“Do you have a name?” you asked.

His teeth chattered a little. “Dex.”

You swear you’re a good person when you let him inside your apartment.

You swear you’re a good person when you clean the blood from his body and nurture him back to health.

You swear you’re a good person when you let him sleep on your couch, even after you realize the suit is familiar.

Even after you realize he’s familiar.

Even after you realise he’s Bullseye. Even if he’s the kind of man good girls are supposed to run from.

But you look at him, Dex sits on your couch under  your blanket, bruised and battered, and says, “I’m one of the good guys now” with absolute conviction and a lopsided grin, as if he was imitating you. 

You swear you’re a good person when you believe him.

Or maybe you just want to believe him. Maybe you decide wanting to believe in him counts as mercy.

You swear you’re a good person when he’s eventually well enough to leave.

You swear you’re a good person when you spend two weeks pretending you’re glad he’s gone.

In truth, your apartment feels empty. You keep looking at the place where he bled on your tiles longingly.

Then, like a lost cat, he comes back through the window.

His hair was streaked with blood, he has blood on his knuckles. His eyes are tired and fixed on you.

“Task Force is crawling my streets,” he says. “Can I stay here?”

You swear you’re a good person when you say yes.

You swear you’re a good person when he kisses you that night.

It happens in the kitchen, under the flickering yellow light, with rain tapping against the glass. 

His mouth hits yours hard. You gasp, and he swallows it. His hand cups the back of your neck, thumb pressing under the soft flesh of your jaw, holding you still while he kisses you deeper. His body pins yours to the counter, and you know you should be scared.

You swear you’re a good person when you kiss him back.

You swear you’re a good person when you pull him closer by his belt loops.

You swear you’re a good person when he tells you he’s been watching you since he left.

He said he was sure you got home safe. He was making sure nobody followed you. He was sure the man from 4B stopped looking at you like a creep. He was sure you were safe, because he was a good man, right?

You should tell him to leave. Instead, you cup his cheeks and press his forehead to yours.

“Don’t lie to me about it again,” you whisper gently, which is not the same thing as telling him to stop.

You know that. Dex knows that, too.

You swear you’re a good person when you basically forgive him for stalking you. 

You swear you’re a good person when he starts staying over.

Suddenly, he has a toothbrush next to yours. His shirts end up in your closet. 

You swear you’re a good person when his hands go under your shirt, groping and gripping and touching  like he can’t believe you’re letting him. He kisses your neck until you’re whining. He bites your shoulder hard enough to make you arch. He grinds against you, still clothed, like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin and into yours.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants.

You don’t. Instead, you drag him down.

You swear you’re a good person when he fucks you. When he gets you naked with desperate, clumsy hands and pushes your thighs apart like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he goes any slower. Your thighs are shaking so hard you have to grab his hair and mewl into his shoulders.

He fucks you deep and messy and stupid, hips pounding into yours, one hand gripping your thigh, the other braced beside your head. The bed hits the wall and nails tear down his scarred back. His mouth drags over your nose, your cheek, your lips, all open-mouthed and frantic.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice wrecked.

You just let out a helpless “hmpph!”

He laughs once against your mouth.

You swear you’re a good person when you let him fuck you silly in your own bed, even though you know what he is.

You swear you’re a good person when Task Force comes knocking three days later, when Dex is out.

The agent at your door is handsome, but not your type. 

“Ma’am,” he says. “We’re asking about a Bullseye sighting nearby.”

You blink up at him. “No, sir. I haven’t seen anything.”

You swear you’re a good person when you lie.

He doesn’t leave and steps closer instead, one boot over your threshold.

His gaze drops to your bare legs, and then to the oversized shirt you’re wearing. It was actually Dex’s shirt.

“You live alone?” he asks.

Your stomach turns upside down. “I think you should go.”

He shrugs, “I’m just asking questions.”

His hand catches the door before you can shut it. Then he is inside, too close, fingers brushing your wrist.

You freeze.

He looks at your mouth.

“You sure you don’t know anything?” he murmurs.

You swear you’re a good person when you lie again, this time through gritted teeth. “I said no.”

His hand slides to your waist and you shove him.

He laughs, but he tries to put his hands on you again. 

Eventually, you shut the door and get him out.

You wait for Dex.

You swear you’re a good person when you tell him everything, knowing exactly what Dex would do. 

“Name,” he says.

You tell him what you saw in the badges.

You swear you’re a good person when you don’t ask where he is going.

You swear you’re a good person when he comes back before dawn dragging the agent by the back of his collar. The man is crying.

His badge is gone, face is bruised, pushed to his knees  on your wooden floor.

Dex stands behind him with a gun in his hand.

“Apologise,” Dex says.

The agent sobs through it. He says sorry, says he didn’t mean it. Says he was just messing around.

Dex presses the gun to the side of his head and looks at you. “Can I?”

You swear you’re a good person.

You swear.

You swear.

You swear you think about mercy. You swear you think about laws. You swear you think about the literal human life Dex has put in your hands.

Still, you say, “Yes.”

Dex shoots him in the head. The agent drops, and blood spreads across your wooden floor.

He looks at you as if asking, are you proud of me yet?

You swear you’re a good person when you help him clean up the mess. You swear you’re a good person when you hold the bin bag open. You swear you’re a good person when you help him scrub blood from the floorboards. You swear you’re a good person when you help him bury the body.

What else were you supposed to do? Let him do it alone? After he defended you? After he did what you asked him to do?

You swear you’re a good person when you crawl into bed beside him that night.

You tuck yourself under his chin and whisper, “I love you.”

His arms close around you as he says, “I love you, too.”

You swear you’re still a good person.

Or maybe you’re just in love. Maybe you don’t know the difference anymore.

—

May I also introduce you all to Lady Loki.

And ANGELA. I am actually so mad I’m bad at flying characters because she is so 🫦

Also??? The summer skins??? Especially Nat and Johnny’s!

And y’all need to see this Daredevil summer skin animation…

I do genuinely love that NetEase seems committed to giving the men and women in this game equally slutty skins! because it probably makes them money 😭😭😭

( Added note: Look, NetEase is a Chinese company, so obv they still have to comply with Chinese censorship, and China is tough on anti-LGBTQ+ censorship. But the fact that they still paid homage to Loki’s gender fluidity with the Lady Loki skin, and even gave Angela her comic-canon trans lesbian wife Sera as her accessory, genuinely gives me hope that at least ONE person on that dev team is in the trenches fighting for their life and giving us crumbs 🫠🫠🫠🫠 )

He would never admit it like that. Obviously. If you said, “Hey, do you enjoy when I get almost murdered because it gives you a chance to feel like a good person?” he would probably start chewing through drywall and die of asbestos poisoning before saying yes.

And of course he didn’t enjoy seeing you in danger. Dex would tear the city apart brick by brick if it meant keeping you safe. Dex even treated a paper cut on your finger like it was a personal failure to protect you. Dex once nearly lost his mind because you burned your tongue on soup.

But after he saved you? Oh, that man was glowing.

He was happy, but not happy in a normal way. He wasn’t exactly smiling and fist-bumping himself because he did a good deed. Dex wasn’t emotionally stable enough for such a mild reaction 

He would look destroyed, doing that heart-eyes thing he did. He got to be the man who came for you. He got to be the man who carried you home. He got to be the man who tucked you into bed and cuddled beside you until sunrise, checking your breathing like your lungs expanding were his responsibility.

So yeah. Dex’s enrichment activity was rescuing his girlfriend. And you, being a generous partner, provided enrichment frequently.

The roofie incident was probably your worst offence.

Not morally. Morally, there were a lot of contenders. But logistically, that one was insane even for you.

Dex had told you not to go to that bar alone.

Which, obviously, meant you went to that bar alone.

You wore something cute but not too cute. Something damsel-in-distress-coded. Something that said, oh no, I’m lost and pretty and perhaps too trusting for this cruel world.

Meanwhile your internal monologue was just: okay, where are the worst men in this room?

You found one in thirteen seconds. You sat next to him and he bought you a drink.

You knew he spiked the drink even before the glass even touched your hand. You saw the stupid man put a tablet in and the drink slightly changed colours. Amateur.

Still, you drank it enough to make it convincing.

You didn’t drink  the whole thing, obviously. You were insane, not auditioning for a true crime podcast episode.

Eventually the drug kicked in enough that the lights blurred, and your body got warm and floaty. When he put his hand on your back and murmured, “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you some air,” you could wobble like a tragic Victorian widow and let him guide you outside.

Dex found you in the alley.

One second the man’s hand was on your arm, trying to reach under your skirt, the next it was not, and there was the noise of a sack of meat being introduced to brick with enthusiasm.

Then Dex was in front of you, hands on your face, eyes wild.

“Baby. Hey. Look at me. Did you drink anything he gave you?”

You blinked up at him innocently. “I don’t know.”

It was a fucking lie.

Dex believed you immediately. His face just… fell.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he cooed.

Sweetheart. 

You almost laughed. You did not, because again, craft, and you gotta commit to the bit, you know?

Then you apparently passed out, which was not ideal, but when you woke up you were in Dex’s lap on the couch with three blankets over you.

So honestly, it was a net positive.

He had blood on his jaw. His knuckles were wrapped. His eyes were red like he had been awake for hours, so you could assume the guy was dead and he got rid of the body. The second you stirred, he looked down at you like you were a miracle.

“There you are,” he whispered.

Fuck. You loved him so much.

“Dex?”

His whole body dropped with relief. “Yeah. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

See, this was the problem.

How were you supposed to stop when he said things like that?

The gun incident was worse because you were fully conscious that time, trying to piss off dudes with guns.

Which, in your defense, Dex had been sad lately. This would give him something to smile about. 

So when some guy with a not-so-concealed-carry gun outside a corner store called you something gross, you smiled.

You turned around and said, “Is that supposed to scare me?”

After a bit more back-and-forth argument, his hand went under his jacket.

And then, very suddenly, there was a gun pressed to your head.

Oops.

Still, the man did not even get to finish his threat.

A knife lodged itself to his wrist, the gun dropped, and Dex sank another knife to his neck.

Then Dex was on you.

“Are you insane?” he snapped, hands grabbing your face, your shoulders, looking you over like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you or bubble-wrap you.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded.

You blinked up at him. “He was rude.”

Dex’s eye twitched a little. Then, he pulled you into his chest and held you so tight you could barely breathe.

“My stupid girl,” he muttered into your hair, shaking. “My stupid, stupid girl.”

There he is!!! Cuddly, wrecked, I-almost-lost-you Dex.

You tucked your face into his shirt and smiled.

Worth it.

Then there were the kidnappings.

The first kidnapping was very cinematic. You were in a van, cuffed in zip ties. Because you told Task force agents you knew where Bullseye was and then proceeded to start ragebaiting them.

It was so clichè.

The agent kept saying things like, “You’re leverage.”

You know better.  You were bait.

Dex caught up before they even got out of the block. You heard the crash first, then shouting, then the van doors being sliced open like Dex was a horror movie monster specifically for guys who underestimated you.

Afterward, he cut the ties off your wrists with such care you nearly felt guilty.

“You’re okay,” he kept saying. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You leaned into his chest and sniffled a little.

The second kidnapping was when he started keeping supplies in the car. A little my-girlfriend-is-in-trouble supply.

The box consisted of: Water, your favourite pack of sweets, blanket, hoodies, specific scissors for zip ties, and a first aid kit.

You opened the trunk of the car and saw them arranged neatly and genuinely had to stare for a second because that was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done.

He made you a kidnapping kit.

You, his disaster magnet. His girlfriend who kept getting abducted because apparently New York had a quota and you were employee of the month.

Dex caught you looking and said, almost shy, “I can get you a spare change of clothes, too.”

You wanted to bite him. You wanted to marry him. You wanted to get kidnapped again immediately just to honour his preparation.

And Dex never suspected.

He never once looked at you and thought, hey, maybe my girlfriend has weaponised her own helplessness because she likes seeing me feel redeemable.

No, he just kissed your forehead, pulled you closer, and whispered, “You have to be more careful.”

And you, professional liar, would nod solemnly. “I know.”

“You can’t trust everyone.”

“I know.”

“You can’t keep ending up in places like that.”

“I know.”

In reality, you knew the opposite. You knew exactly which places to end up in.

Because honestly, Dex needed this.

Dex needed someone to save. Dex needed to feel good about himself. 

And you needed Dex to be happy; that was your higher purpose.

Was it healthy?

No.

Was it romantic?

A little.

Was it good for Dex?

…probably not?

But did he look adorable afterward, curled around you in bed, nose pressed into your hair, whispering, “I’ll always find you,” like he had just earned another little gold star on his soul?

Yes.

So really, who was the villain here?

Not you. For all you were concerned, you were just a girl providing enrichment for her boyfriend 

A girl who had been roofied, picked a fight with a man with a gun, gotten kidnapped twice, and still had Dex looking at her like, my poor baby, the world keeps happening to you.

So tomorrow, you were probably going to take a shortcut through the dodgiest alley in New York. For the sake of love, obviously. 

So, two days later, he was on your bed wearing it, and thank fuck the fabric had stretch because it was fighting for its life over his broad shoulders. The sleeves were biting into his arms. The hem had ridden up very high on his stomach, exposing more hard strips of muscle every time he moved. The letters were warped across his chest, obscene and ridiculous and so fucking perfect on him that you nearly lost your mind before you even touched him.

“Look at you,” you breathed.

Dex’s face was flushed, eyes dark and glassy, mouth already parted like he’d been waiting all day for you to ruin him. “You like it?”

You grabbed his hips and pulled him back onto your strap-on until he gasped. “I fucking love it.”

He shook under your hands.

He could kill a man with a paperclip, could make a room go dead just by stepping into it, could kill twenty people in under a minute without blinking.

But like this? With your hands on him? With you behind him, strap slick and buried inside him inch by inch while he clutched the sheets and tried not to sound desperate?

He fell apart so beautifully it made you want to be just a little mean to him.

“You wanted this, didn’t you?” you said, dragging your hand up the scar of his spine, under the stretched crop top, feeling his muscles jump beneath your palm. 

Dex made a broken sound. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I wanted it.”

You pushed in deeper, slow enough to make him feel every bit of it, and his elbows almost gave out.

“Fuck,” he choked. “Fuck, sweetheart—”

“No, baby.” You leaned over him, pressing your chest to his back, your mouth near his ear. “You don’t get to act surprised. You wanted to wear the shirt.”

He laughed once, breathless and ruined, and then the laugh snapped into a moan when you rolled your hips.

The shirt rode up again, abs clenching.

You looked down at him and nearly saw stars.

“You look so good taking it,” you whispered. “Big scary Bullseye, wearing my slutty little crop top, getting fucked like he was made for it.”

Dex groaned into the mattress.

You gripped his hip harder, setting a rhythm that made his whole body rock forward. It was slow at first, deep and grinding, just to hear the way his breathing changed. Then harder, because his hands were fisting in the sheets and his thighs were spreading wider and he kept pushing back like he couldn’t help himself.

“That’s it,” you said. “Take it. Good boy.”

His whole body shuddered.

“Oh, you like that?” You smiled, cruel and warm at the same time. 

Dex nodded fast, forehead pressed to the bed, voice wrecked. “Yeah. Yes. Please. D-don’t stop.”

You didn’t.

You fucked him harder, hips snapping forward, one hand locked on his waist, the other sliding around his front. The second your fingers wrapped around him, Dex made this awful, pretty sound like he’d been punched in the chest.

“There he is,” you murmured. “There’s my pretty boy.”

You reached around his torso to find him leaking over your hand, hot and helpless, twitching every time you drove into him. You stroked him in time with your thrusts, slow at first, then tighter when he started shaking too hard to hold himself up.

“I can’t,” he gasped.

“Yes, you can.”

“I’m gonna—”

“I know.” You kissed the scar on his back, right where the crop top had slipped off just enough to bare skin. “I know, baby. I can feel you getting close.”

Dex’s mouth opened, but nothing came out except a strangled moan.

You kept talking, because that was what destroyed him. Not just the fucking, and not just the pressure or the rhythm or your hand dragging him right to the edge. It was your voice in his ear, too, talking him through exactly what he was to you.

“You’re doing so well. Taking me so deep. Letting me use you like this. Wearing that stupid little shirt like you knew exactly what would happen.”

He sobbed your name.

Your grip tightened. “Come on, baby. You got this.”

Dex broke.

His whole body locked up beneath you, back arching, thighs shaking violently as he came hard into your hand. It punched the air out of him. He jerked through it, helpless, overstimulated sounds spilling out of his mouth while you kept your hips moving, slower now but still dragging it out.

“That’s it,” you whispered. “Mm, let me hear you.”

He did.

He couldn’t stop. Every little stroke made him twitch. Every shallow thrust made his breath hitch. He was still emptying himself when you leaned over him again and pressed your mouth to his temple.

“Look at you,” you said softly. “All fucked out in your little shirt.”

Dex made a weak, embarrassed noise and buried his face harder into the sheets.

You laughed, kissing his shoulder. “No, don’t hide from me. You practically begged me for this.”

He turned his head just enough for you to see his face, flushed and beautiful.

“I did,” he whispered.

You smoothed your sticky hand over his stomach, under the stretched-out hem of the crop top, feeling the aftershocks ripple through him.

“Good,” you said, the silicone strap still buried inside him. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Dex’s eyes fluttered.

And the shirt, stretched obscenely across his chest, still said it all.

His ears had gone pink. “Oh.”

Still, he was curious enough to try, and trusted you to be the one to do it to him. 

That was how he ended up like this, shaking under you, breath punching out of his chest every time your hips met his. It was too much and not enough at once. Too intimate, too filthy, too vulnerable. It was a new kind of pleasure for him; a new sensation he couldn’t grit his teeth through.

Fuck, it made him melt.

You leaned over him, one hand braced beside his head, the other sliding up his chest to feel the frantic beat of his heart.

“Still with me?” you whispered.

Bucky nodded, frantic and wrecked.

His voice barely worked. “Yeah.”

You kissed his jawline  and moved again, slow and deep, watching his mouth fall open to give way to a silent gasp.

“There,” you murmured. “That’s it. Taking it so well, baby.”

His eyes squeezed shut.

“Nuh-uh,” You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Don’t hide from me now.”

He opened them again, glassy now, and the sight went down to your core. Big, dangerous Bucky Barnes, the former Winter Soldier, your overprotective stubborn boyfriend, laid out beneath you and trembling because you had a strap-on in him and he liked it.

He liked it so much it almost startled him.

You could see it in the way his brow pinched, in the way his throat worked around words he couldn’t get out. His hips kept lifting to meet you even when his face burned with embarrassment.

“You’re so pretty like this,” you breathed.

He made a broken gasp and turned his face into your palm when you cupped his cheek.

“Don’t,” he rasped.

“Don’t what?”

His lashes fluttered. “Say stuff like that.”

You smiled and rolled your hips harder.

Bucky choked.

“Why?” you whispered. “Because it makes you needier?”

His metal hand twisted in the sheet until the fabric tore.

You kissed him before he could be embarrassed by it.

It was messy and filthy, his mouth open under yours, breath shaky against your tongue. You kept the rhythm steady while you kissed him, fucking him slow enough that he had to feel every slick drag, every deep grind. 

Then your hand slid down between you and wrapped around him.

“Oh—fuck.”

There he was. A real word at last, torn out of him like a confession.

You hummed against his mouth, stroking him in time with your hips.

His head tipped back into the pillow.

“Too much?” you asked softly.

He shook his head immediately, almost panicked.

“No. No, don’t—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. “Don’t stop.”

You kissed his throat. And you weren’t planning on stopping till you finished the job.

You kept him pinned under your weight, kept the strap buried deep while your hand worked him, dragging every last bit of pride out of him. Bucky stopped trying to be quiet as pretty sounds started slipping out of him anyway: rough gasps, breathless little groans, your name broken into a million pieces.

He looked ruined and flushed and sweaty and shaking, mouth wet from your kisses, hair stuck to his forehead, body helplessly chasing both your hips and your hand. He held onto your waist like he needed you more than oxygen, 

“You’re okay,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

His eyes found yours.

“Feels…” He stopped, teeth chattering.

“I know.”

He shook his head, desperate now, trying again. “Feels so—”

You pushed in deep, and the rest of the sentence disappeared.

His body bowed under you, thighs tightening hard around your hips. You kissed him through it, swallowed the helpless noise that left him, kept moving until he shattered completely beneath you.

Bucky came apart with your name in his mouth and his hands locked on you, shaking so hard the bed creaked under both of you. You slowed your hips but didn’t pull away, working him through it until he was trembling too much to take anymore, streaks of white painting his stomach and yours. 

Only then did you stop.

You kissed his cheek, his nose, then the corner of his mouth.

“There you go,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

For a long moment, he couldn’t answer.

He just dragged you down against him, arms wrapping around you, face buried against your neck. His body was hot and wrecked and utterly surrendered beneath you.

You stroked his hair away from his damp forehead.

“You okay?”

Bucky nodded against your shoulder.

Then, barely audible, ruined beyond repair, Bucky whispered, “Wanna do that again.”