kayla

If you asked Stephanie Brown who Batgirl was, she’d say it depends. 

Barbara’s Batgirl was strong, brave, and cunning. A pathfinder, a wonderful hero who saved countless lives and gave everything she had to the life. She was a pioneer, a champion who pathed the way for the rest of them.

Cass’s Batgirl was different, a fresh take on an old hero. Though she’s quiet, though she’s vicious in her fighting, she’s still heroic.  She brings a calm sort of comfort wherever she goes. 

But if you asked her about herself, she’s not sure what she’d say. She’s a civilian amongst gods, someone dressed in a knockoff costume playing pretend while the others do the real heroic work. A cheap imitation of the real thing.

As far as hero-ing goes for her, she already feels that she doesn’t have much going on. Not that she needs the reminder.

Entering the Batcave, already exhausted from her lack of sleep and the incredibly long day she’s had, she’s not sure what to expect. Maybe the usual arguing amongst Bats, Tim and Damian trading insults like a normal day while Cass sits quietly and reads in the corner.

Definitely not the scene that comes to play out in front of her—Barbara and Cass teaching someone new to spar, someone she’s never seen before who is very much dressed in a rendition of the Batgirl costume. She blinks, rubbing her eyes like the scene will disappear when she does.

It doesn’t.

Her lips purse into a frown. Another Batgirl? Something ugly twists in her chest. She’d fought like hell for this mantle, had done it all on her own against the will of pretty much everybody, and here’s someone new, wearing it with the support of both her predecessors.

She shakes her head, blonde hair bouncing. No, that’s not fair. She forces a smile, stepping up to the mat to watch.

She watches quietly for a few minutes while you trade blows with Cass, watches you fight as hard as you can to keep up with Cass who’s very clearly restraining herself. Cass sweeps a leg, taking you down to the mat easily, your mask bouncing off your face.

You squeak, sitting up and rubbing the back of your head where it hit the mat. 

Steph’s eyes widen slightly. You took that hit like a champ, and now, seeing you without the mask, she can’t help but think how pretty you are. That twistiness inside of her only grows heavier. 

“Hey, good timing,” Babs calls, waving her over.

Steph tugs down her hood and mask. “Hey, guys.” She strains to keep her voice as cheery as usual, “who’s this?”

Cass introduces the two of you, and Steph can’t help but note the way she already seems warmed up to you. How long has this been going on? 

You smile and step forward, offering her a hand. “I’ve heard so much about you!!”

“Hi.” She takes your hand, that same strained smile on her face, and shakes it. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

She can’t help but notice the softness of your palm against hers—not yet calloused by night after night of hard fighting and acrobatics—and the purple sheen on your nails, almost perfectly matched to her costume. Her hand lingers just a moment too long.

“She’s helping us with this drug trafficking operation at the docks,” Barbara explains, and Steph wonders if she can see through the facade she’s putting on. “Cass and I are helping her brush up on her fighting skills.”

She nods thinly, “right.”

“The Batgirl thing is just temporary,” you explain. “I just needed something to conceal my identity and Babs—”

Stephanie winces at the way the nickname rolls off your tongue, like you’ve always been friends.

“—just had this one laying around.” You finish.

You do a little twirl in the costume, the long cape splaying out as you do. Steph can’t help but look you up and down, examining the way the costume seems to fit and accentuate every curve on your body. Her eyes widen slightly. It fits you like a glove.

The three of you get back to your training, leaving Steph to watch on the sidelines. Slowly, she edges her way out until she’s back outside in the Gotham rain.

If you asked Stephanie now who Batgirl was—her version at least—she could only tell you one thing: replaceable.

The Batgirl thing, it seems, is not just temporary, and Stephanie can’t seem to escape you.

She’s gotten used to your presence now—the way you linger nearby on missions, the way you spend more time with Cass than without, the way your eyes occasionally meet hers only for you to look away quickly like it never happened. She’s never quite sure if you’re judging her, or trying to get her attention, or some other third thing she hasn’t thought of yet. 

It would almost be sweet, if it didn’t have her feeling so self-conscious. 

It’s after patrol one night, the summer sun just beginning to kiss the horizon of Gotham City, when you catch up with her.

“Steph, hey, Steph, wait up!” 

She’s tempted, if only for a moment, to speed up and pretend she hasn’t heard. And yet, for some reason, she can’t. You’ve never been anything but perfectly nice to her, and this jealous mean girl act of hers is so high school.

She tugs down her mask, turning to face you. “What’s up?”

“I think Cass and I were going to this cafe this morning for breakfast, do you want to come?” You smile awkwardly, tilting your head to the side, “they have amazing coffee.”

She considers it for a moment, gears whirring in her head. Some coffee and breakfast would be amazing right now, as well as some time with Cass. But you’ll be there, like a constant reminder of everything she isn’t, and she knows she won’t be able to keep up her positive mood the whole time.

She flashes you a weak grin, “I think I’m just gonna go to sleep.”

“Oh,” disappointment flashes behind your eyes. “No worries, sleep well.”

You turn on your heel to leave, approaching the edge of the old warehouse rooftop you’ve been standing on, when suddenly you look over your shoulder. The golden light of the rising sun reflects off your skin, making your eyes glow and your skin shimmer. You look so pretty like this, Steph can’t help but be a little grateful she only sees you at night.

“I’ll get Cass to text you the address,” you say, that familiar hope back on your face, “y’know, in case you change your mind.”

“Thanks.”

Despite what she said, an hour later Steph finds herself freshly showered and digging through her closet. 

She pulls out a casual pink sundress and tries it on, standing in the mirror and examining herself. She frowns at her reflection, smoothing her hands over the dress like that’ll make it fit better. It doesn’t.

Discarding it in the growing pile of clothes on her bed, Steph goes back to the drawing more. She pulls different garments out, trying them on only to drop them back in the pile. She always never struggles this much getting ready, least of all for a casual breakfast with friends.

Sighing, she lets herself flop onto her bed, sitting on her mountain of clothes. It’s just a casual outing, Steph, she tells herself. Just pick a damned outfit,

But she can’t, because all she can think about is what you’re going to be thinking. Are you going to look at her with those eyes like you usually do? She wonders what you’ll be wearing, if you’ll be dressed casual or cute or comfortable. Knowing you, it’s probably some perfect combination of the three.

Her eyes flutter closed as she pictures it. You, wearing some comfy practical outfit, hair perfect, sipping on some fancy drink from the cafe. She thinks about how your face will light up when she walks into the cafe, the way you’ll smile and wave at her when she approaches the table.

“Glad you can make it,” you’ll probably say, or some other line of the sort.

Her heart speeds up at the thought, stomach doing a whirlwind. You’re so…perfect, and here she is, sitting in her mess of a room, unable to pick a damned outfit. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair. 

Tears prick at her eyes. One minute, that’s all she asks. One minute where you’re not constantly on her mind, where she’s not constantly wondering about what you’re doing, who you’re with or how you’ll replace her next.

She doesn’t end up going to the cafe.

Steph’s not sure how she ended up here.

The two of you, trapped in a burning warehouse, surrounded by low level lackeys. She’s not even sure who they work for, their outfits a mess of colours and patterns that she can’t quite make out through the steadily thickening smoke.

Your back is pressed to hers, the warmth of your body seeping through both of your costumes, acting as a comfort. At least, it would be a comfort, if the two of you were in any other situation.

The masked men close in, the roar of the distant fire burning gets louder. Steph’s nerves catch fire, buzzing with the impending promise of action. She bounces on her heels, loosening up her muscles just like she was taught. One more step, one more step and she’s ready.

The heel of the closest man inches forward. Steph pounces. All hell breaks loose.

It’s a blur of action, of fighting her way through the seemingly neverending wave of goons. Her muscles ache, every punch and kick only making the burning under her skin worse. The warehouse gets hotter, the smoke rises, clogging her senses.

Behind her somewhere, the sounds of your own violence echo off the walls. You’ve always been a good fighter—probably better than her—but something in the back of her mind buzzes with worry. Like something bad is going to happen, like she needs to look out for you.

She shakes it away, diving back into the action, trying to ignore the constant nagging in the back of her mind.

She finishes off the last of her men, freezing at the sudden silence. She can’t hear you fighting anymore, can’t see you through the smoky haze. Her heart hammers in her chest. Where on Earth could you have gone?

One second. That’s how long she’s distracted for, maybe less. But one second is all it takes for someone to come up behind her, a forearm pressed over her throat and a leg hooking over her ankles. She’s taken quickly to the ground, back thudding hard against the hard ground.

Stars explode behind her eyes, the wind knocked out of her. Through the haze, she just manages to make out the masked goon above her and the gun barrel shoved inches from her face. She cringes, bracing herself to duck and roll, to do anything but lay here and take it.

And just like that, he’s gone, slammed into the ground by a familiar figure. You’re breathing heavily above Steph, eyes wide behind your mask as you reach a hand to help her up.

She grabs you, letting you tug her to the feet, and the way your hand lingers on hers reminds her of the day you met. Your jaw is slack, worry written across every feature. Steph blinks, letting the air come back to her lungs.

“T-thanks,” she gasps.

“We need to get out of here.”

Steph nods curtly, letting you tug her after you as you search for the exit, only dropping her hand when you brace yourself against the emergency exit and shove hard. Cold night air greets her, filling her burning lungs with sweet relief. 

She’s dizzy from the smoke, dizzy from the hit she took. Her lips purse into frown. It’s surely going to leave a big, ugly bruise. Goodbye sundresses.

Standing on the rooftop of the burning warehouse, she watches you approach the edge, scoping out the ground below for any sign of the goons who almost overwhelmed you.

You turn to face her. “Tim called the fire department, they’re on the way.”

She braces her hands on her knees, still lightheaded from the fall. The fall. She forces herself to stand up straight, peeling off her mask and hood. “Where did you go back there?”

“Huh?”

“You—you disappeared, it distracted me. Where did you go?”

She cocks a hand on her hip, waiting for an explanation. She was too busy worrying about you, about your safety, to take care of herself. If it weren’t for your impromptu disappearance, she wouldn’t be coughing her lungs up like an amateur right now.

You scratch the back of your neck awkwardly. “One of them tried to get away and—”

“You couldn’t have told me that?” She snaps, walking towards you, closing the gap until you’re inches away. “We’re partners, you’re supposed to tell me these things.”

“I didn’t think I had time!”

“Or you just wanted the glory for yourself,” she spits bitterly.

You pause, lips parting in confusion. She tugs at her hair. Even now, a slight cut on your cheek and sweaty from battle, you still look perfectly cute. She’s sure she must look a complete mess, sweaty and dirty and bruised.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She tucks a sweaty strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Nothing, just—nevermind.”

You shake your head. “No, what did you mean?”

“I mean it’s—it’s—” Frustration bubbles up in her chest, muscles pulling taut like she’s about to enter another fight. She’s not even sure where she’s going for it, what word vomit she’s about to shove in your face now. You’re inches away, staring at her like a deer in the damn headlights, and she’s the lone car on the road with the choice to hit you or not.

“It’s what?”

“It’s you! Always being so—so perfect about everything, being everyone’s favorite, having everything come naturally to you and—and—”

And that urge buzzes beneath her fingertips, that urge she’s always felt just beneath the surface. The one she felt that day you met, when she’d had that fear you’re replacing her. The one she’s felt every day since when you’re around, the same one she gets before a big fight.

She raises a hand and you don’t even flinch, looking up at her with those damn wide eyes. She’s not sure who’s more confused by what she’s doing—you, or her.

And then she’s kissing you, the taste of smoke heavy on both of you. Her hand reaches to cup your cheek, thumb swiping over the length of your cheekbone. It’s hot and tense and she feels more that she’s trying to eat you alive than kiss you.

She pulls away, taking a big jump back like she’s been burned.

“Steph,” you breathe her name.

She shakes her head, closing her eyes. “No.”

“Stephanie—”

“No, okay? I don’t—I don’t want to talk about it.” She’s shaking slightly, her voice breaking on the words, “I don’t even—I don’t want to see you right now. Okay? Just…just forget it.”

She spins on her heel, bolting over to the far end of the rooftop. She can still taste you on her tongue, like smoke and leftover chapstick and something else buried beneath. She wipes at her mouth and the taste still lingers, follows her down the fire escape at the edge of the roof, chases after her on the way home.

It’s only when she’s in the shower, desperately trying to wash it away, that she feels she can breathe again. What on Earth was that?

Your soap isn’t enough to wash away the smell of smoke on your body, or the taste of Steph’s chapstick lingering in your mouth. You stand under the water for what must be an hour, scrub every inch of your body twice, and still, it doesn’t help. Stephanie’s voice still rings in the back of your head.

You disappeared, it distracted me.

You just wanted the glory for yourself.

Always being so perfect about everything, being everyone’s favorite, having everything come naturally to you.

I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to see you right now.

Coming from Steph of all people, someone you’ve looked up to, pined after, tried to forge a friendship with, the words hurt. They leave you cold and numbed, a new weight in your chest that wasn’t there before the mission.

She’s always been the sun in your eyes, warm and scalding, bright and beautiful, painful to look at. You’ve always gravitated closer to her, done your best to accommodate her, and this is where you end up. With a bitter kiss and more distance between you than there was to start.

You blink the thoughts away, staring into the steam rising from your kettle on the stove. Your phone buzzes, an unfamiliar number popping up on your screen.

Hey, it’s Steph. Can we talk?

You pick up your phone, contemplating opening the message and answering, and yet you can’t. What do you even say to her right now?

You turn off your phone. Let her sit with it for a while.

A while turns into a week. A week of unanswered texts and calls, of attempts by Barbara and Tim and Cass to get the two of you to talk. You shirk your duties as Batgirl, spend as much time as you can locked away at home, far far away from your double life.

Still, Stephanie isn’t one to give up.

The knock at your door comes early in the morning, so early, it rouses you from your sleep. You rub the sleep from your eyes and sit up in bed, the pink hue of the rising sun greeting you.

Another knock at your door sends you stumbling down the hall, slippers barely on your feet. You squint through the peephole, stomach syncing when you see who it is.

Steph stands there, dressed in low rise jeans that suit her just a little too well and a baby tee. Her hair is still wet, curling slightly at the ends where it’s started to dry. She must have showered and ran over here right after patrol.

You sigh, turning away from the door, fully intent on ignoring her.

“I can hear you,” she calls.

You stop in your tracks.

“I know I screwed up,” she says, “please just hear me out.”

“I thought you didn’t want to see me.”

“You know that’s not what I meant, I almost just died, c’mon.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, taking a deep breath. Deep down, you know she has a point. You almost wish she didn’t, if only so you could stop seeing it from her side.

Despite yourself, you turn around and unlock the door, inviting her in.

She looks sad, undereyes sallow like she hasn’t been sleeping properly. She steps on the backs of her shoes, peeling them off before falling you inside.

“Do you want something to drink?”

She shakes her head, blonde strands falling into her face. You settle in on the chair in your living room, Steph settling in on the far end of your couch—the distance between you hurts, but you’re not sure you could take it right now if she was sitting any closer.

“I’m sorry,” she starts.

You nod, tight lipped.

“About everything.”

Everything. She doesn’t say it outright, but you can hear what she hasn’t said: I’m sorry for kissing you.

“I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have said what I said, I was scared and-and frustrated, and I took it out on you and it wasn’t fair.”

You always take it out on me, you’re tempted to say. It lingers on your tongue like her lipgloss from the other night, heavy and toxic and yet filled with something sweet.

“It’s hard, you know?” Her voice cracks on the word, pretty eyes brimmed with tears, “I’ve been Batgirl a while. I-I fought to be Batgirl even when nobody wanted me to be.”

You remember Barbara telling you about that, heard whispers about it from Tim. It was strange to you, you couldn’t possibly imagine a world where Steph isn’t Batgirl. Someone as wonderful and capable as her.

“But then you show up and it’s like, what’s even special about me anymore? And you do everything so well, you’re so—so perfect all the damn time, and everyone loves you and it’s like…what’s even left for me?” Tears brim at your lashes and Steph’s face drops. She frowns, reaching forward like she can stop them from coming. And then you’re laughing, the sweet feeling of relief flooding your chest.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make yo—”

“Do you think I don’t feel that way?”

Her lips part, shock clear on her face. “No,” she mumbles out.

“Do you think I don’t find you perfect and capable and honestly, really fucking intimidating?” You shake your head, “you left some big shoes to fill, Stephanie and—and it hasn’t been easy.”

She laughs, equally as wet and filled with emotion as your own. “You really think so?”

You rise to your feet, shuffling over to the couch and sitting down next to her. She’s so close, you can smell her strawberry scented body wash and the vanilla lotion she put over top of it. 

“Yes, god.” You giggle, and it tastes like relief, “I wish you would’ve just told me this before. We could’ve had this talk a long time ago.”

And she laughs with you, the sound like heaven and sunlight and everything you thought you could never reach, and her laugh makes you laugh more. You let your eyes flutter closed, leaning your head back on the couch, ribs starting to ache from the laughing you’re doing.

And then she’s cupping your face and kissing away the laughter, vanilla flavoured chapstick heavy on your tongue. She moves against you, body pressing to yours and pressing you further into the couch.

She pulls away, cheeks flushed. “Does this mean you forgive me?”

You press a hand on the small of her back, pulling her in again. “You might need to do that a few more times.”

dc masterlist | navigation

Dex had gone white.

Then he had walked very calmly into the bathroom with one hand over his mouth and vomited until his ribs hurt.

Because yes, he loved you too.

He loved you so badly it felt like his body had mistaken affection for a terminal illness. He loved you until being away from you made his skin crawl. He loved you so much it made him cruel to himself. He loved you so much he wanted to crawl out of his own skin because wanting to keep you felt like a crime. He had wanted to be loved his whole miserable life, and then when you came along and loved him, he wouldn’t fucking trust it.

Because there was no way you loved him back.

Not really.

Not if you were whole.

Not if he had not done something to you first.

Because the first time you met, he had broken into your apartment. After all, your window had the perfect sightline into the building across the street.

Because you had caught him in your living room with a mug in your hand and sleep shorts riding high on your thighs, and he had looked at you like you were a small obstacle.

“What the fuck—”

His hand covered your mouth before you could get any louder.

“I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely, because he was one of the good guys now. “I just gotta do this one thing.”

You bit his palm.

He hissed, then caught your wrist and handcuffed you to the exposed water pipe under your kitchen sink.

He flexed his bitten hand once. “I said sorry.”

You glared up at him.

That day, you should have screamed yourself hoarse.

Instead, you had talked for six straight hours. 

You. Fucking. Yapped. 

Like a pomeranian on cocaine.

You had insulted his boots, his posture, his insane audacity. You demanded coffee. You asked if the gun was compensating for something (you later found out it was definitely not). You asked if he always tied women up before breakfast or if you were getting special treatment. You even threatened to bite him again if he came too close, then immediately asked if he was single.

Dex had sat by your window with a rifle scope pressed to his eye. He was pretty sure he fell in love somewhere between the twelfth complaint that your ass was sore and the twenty-first threat to sue him.

So now, eight months later, with you under him, legs wrapped around his waist and your body taking him so well he could barely breathe, all he could think was…

He had done this.

He had broken something in you.

Still, he moaned your name. You were perfect beneath him, pleasing him so well that his own voice kept dying in his throat every time he tried to speak. He could barely form the guilt into words because you kept squeezing around him like your body wanted him closer than close, like every thrust dragged a sound out of you that went straight through his cogmium spine and lit him up from the inside.

“You don’t love me,” he suddenly rasped, because of course he had to bring it up again while he was inside you.

You laughed, but it broke into a moan halfway through when he moved again, and the stretch of him made your whole body seize. “Dex…”

He choked on the spit buildup in his mouth because he was drooling at this point, his hands fisting in the sheets beside your head. “Fuck,” he breathed, voice ruined. “Don’t—don’t say my name like that.”

You tried to answer, but he was too much, too deep, fucking you into the mattress hard enough to make the bed frame knock harshly against the wall like every thrust was an argument he was losing.

“You’re so… hmph,” His forehead dropped against yours. His voice cracked. “God, you’re so fucking tight. I can’t think when you— when you feel like this.”

You could barely hear what he was saying, you just dragged him down by the neck and kissed the scar on his cheek. You were practically making out with it, because hyperfocusing on it helped bring you back to earth. “Dex… fuck!”

His whole body jerked at the sound.

“Don’t,” he rasped, but he didn’t stop.

His hips kept driving into yours, deep and rough, punching the breath out of you until your hands pawing at his skin. “Don’t say it like that.”

You tried to laugh again, but it came out as a shaky gasp when he pushed deeper. “Like what?”

“Like you, hmm.” His head dropped now, his mouth dragging wet and open against your throat. “Like you love me.”

Your nails dug into his back, giving his back scar company. “I do.”

Dex’s brows furrowed like you had hit him.

His pace faltered for half a second. Then the panic caught up to him and he thrusted harder, like he could outrun the words by burying himself deeper inside you. “N-no.”

“Yes.”

“No,” he said again, and it came out so small it was nearly swallowed by the filthy sound of his body moving against yours. “You don’t know that. You don’t know what this is.”

“I know exactly what this is.”

“You don’t.” His hand grasped the sheets. “You can’t. You can’t love me.”

You were struggling to keep your eyes open. He was stretching you so much every thought came apart before it finished forming, pleasure dragging through you hot and heavy, making your thighs shake around his hips.

Still, you forced yourself to look at him. “I do love you.”

Dex looked like he might be sick again.

Every time.

Every fucking time you said it, even if it was a hundred times a day, his heart broke a little. Like his body wanted the words and his mind rejected them. Like being loved by you was too impossible to fit inside him without tearing a wormhole open.

“You hear y-yourself?” he demanded, breathless, furious, hips still snapping into yours. “You hear how insane that sounds?”

You moaned, head tipping back against the ridiculously expensive pillows he had bought you because his last one ‘made your neck a little stiff’ once.

He groaned at the feel of you tightening around him. “Fuck… don’t—don’t do that.”

“I… ahh, can’t help it,” you managed, voice shaking. “I fucking love you.”

“No, you don’t.” He sounded almost angry now, but all of it was pointed inward, all of it soaked in guilt. “I cuffed you to a pipe. I— Fuck— scared you. I held you hostage and now you’re here, telling me you love me while I’m—” His teeth clenched, his body shuddering over yours. “While I’m doing this to you.”

“You’re not doing anything to me,” you forced out, gripping his arm hard enough to make him hiss. “I asked for this.”

His eyes burned. “That doesn’t make it better.”

“It does, actually.”

“You’re sick.”

“So are you.”

He laughed once, but there was no humor behind it. He then buried his face in your neck as his pace got messier. “I think I gave you Stockholm syndrome.”

“You didn’t,” you insisted. It was barely a sound, it was a miracle he heard you at all.

“You’re not listening.”

“You’re not thinking.”

“I am thinking.” His voice cracked on the last word because you tightened around him again and his forehead dropped to yours, “Shit, you drive me insane.”

“Good.”

“No.” He kissed you hard. “No, not good. That’s what I mean. You make me like this. You make me want too much.”

“You already want too much.”

His hips stuttered, and you saw the guilt pass over his face at once.

Then he drove into you harder. You cried out, and his eyes went dark.

“There,” he said, voice ragged. “That. You should hate me for this.”

“No, Dex.” Your hands slid up, catching his chin, forcing his face close to yours while he kept fucking you breathless. “You didn’t give me Stockholm syndrome. I. Love. You.”

He shuddered. His mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. Then a broken moan as his body betrayed him again.

“You don’t,” he whispered.

“I do.”

“You can’t.”

“I can.”

“You’re perfect.”

“I’m not.”

“You are to me.” His voice sounded raw, almost boyish in its disbelief. “And if you love me, then I did something to you. I had to. I had to have broken something, because there’s no– hnggf— no other way.”

Your chest tightened.

He was still moving, still taking you apart with a rhythm so desperate it bordered on punishing, but his eyes were wet. His eyes filled with self-hatred. He looked like a man starving at a feast and hating himself for opening his mouth.

“Fine,” you gasped. “Have it your way.”

Dex went still for exactly one second. Not fully, and definitely not enough to pull out. Then his body reacted before his mind did and he thrust harder.

It was as if the sentence had scared him so badly he had to pin you beneath him with his weight, his mouth, his hands, his hips. Like if he stopped moving, the words would become real enough to take you away. “W-what?”

“Maybe— hm, maybe you did g-give me Stockholm Syndrome,” you said, voice shaking, half from pleasure, half from fury. “Now what?”

His breathing turned ragged.

“So what, huh?” Your nails dragged up his neck into his hair, combing his scalp “You gonna tell me to go?”

Dex’s face soured. “No.”

“You gonna leave me?”

“No.” The thought of it made him sick. You could see it. You could feel it. His whole body tensed, his grip tightening, his hips losing rhythm for a moment before coming back rougher, deeper, more desperate. 

Leaving you was the one noble thing he kept threatening himself with, and the second you suggested it, it destroyed him.

“No,” he said again, like he hated you for making him admit it. Like he hated himself more. “Don’t f-fucking ask me that.”

“But that’s what you’re… you’re saying.” You were so close now you could barely speak, words breaking apart every time he drove into you. “If you really think you ruined me, then stop.”

Dex’s eyes locked on yours.

Your mouth trembled into a cruel little smile. “If you really think, you— shit, you broke me, t-then stop fucking me.”

His breath hitched.

He didn't stop. 

You felt it in the way his body went even harder, even more frantic, like the command had gone straight into the darkest, neediest part of him and went feral.

“I-if you think you’re bad f’me, then get off me,” you whispered, mean and gentle all the same, by his ear, close enough to lick the lobe. “Then don’t touch me. Don’t kiss me. Don’t come in me, because we b-both know you’re— hmphh— planning to.”

Dex groaned, tortured, burying his face against your throat.

“No,” he rasped.

“No?”

“No.”

“Thought so.”

He kissed you then, hard enough to steal the rest of the taunt from your mouth.

It was perfect after that, fucking perfect and awful. Your bodies slick with sweat, his hands gripping your hips like he was trying not to bruise you and failing at restraint in every other way. He fucked you like he was confessing and denying the confession in the same breath, like every thrust said mine and every sound said I’m sorry.

“You should run,” he rasped.

“You’d follow.”

His eyes burned.

You smiled up at him, breathless and shaking. “And I’d let you c-catch me. I’m fucking into it.”

Dex looked ruined.

His rhythm stuttered, and for a second you thought that was it, that he was going to fall apart right there, but he grabbed your hips and flipped you with quick motion that left you dizzy.

Then you were on top of him.

Your thighs trembled on either side of his hips, your hands braced on his chest, and Dex looked up at you like you were killing him. His face was flushed, eyes wet, mouth parted as you sank back down onto him.

“Say it,” he said, voice destroyed.

You moved over him, thighs shaking, pleasure making you unsteady. “Say what?”

His eyes opened, furious and starving. “Say– fuck, baby— that you know you could leave and I’d let you leave.”

Your chest tightened. “Dex.”

“Say it.” His grip tightened, not forcing, just holding on. “Say you know the door isn’t locked. Say you know I’d let you go.”

You stared down at him. At the man who had wanted love so badly it made him monstrous with fear. At the man who still believed wanting you was worse than first degree murder. At the man underneath you, shaking, begging for proof that this was not captivity while his body betrayed how badly he needed you to stay.

You leaned down until your mouth brushed his.

“I know I can leave,” you whispered. “I-I know you’d let me.”

His breath collapsed.

Then you kissed the corner of his mouth without ruining your rhythm. “But I’m not.”

Dex broke under you.

His hands slid up your back, dragging you down against his chest as he thrust up into you, needy and completely undone. You could barely keep up, barely keep speaking, your forehead pressed to his as you rode him. 

“I love you,” you said again. and this time, he knew you meant it.

That was what did it for him. Not the heat. Not the filth. Not the way you tightened around him or the way he was losing himself inside you, though that helped.

That.

The idea that you had chosen him with all your mind intact.

Your breath hitched first, then your whole body seized, pleasure dragging you under so good that your words turned into a ruined little sound against his mouth. Dex’s eyes widened, his hands clamping around your waist as you went through it.

“There,” he rasped. “There she is.”

You came too hard to answer him properly, nails digging into his chest as he kept you there. “There she is,” he said again, almost broken. “That’s my girl.”

And then Dex broke completely.

He buried his face in your neck as he came after you, groaning your name like an apology, like a confession, like it was the only prayer he knew. His body trembled beneath yours, his arms locked around you while he spilled inside you, holding on as if letting go too soon might make the whole thing disappear.

Afterward, Dex held you like an apology.

His mouth fluttered gentle kisses over your temple, your cheek, your throat, frantic in little broken bursts. He kept whispering sorry so many times the word stopped sounding like language and started sounding like breathing.

You were half-asleep against his chest, your fingers tucked loosely against his ribs.

He kissed your forehead again. “Sorry.”

You breathed out, half asleep. “For what?”

Dex went quiet.

He didn’t know, not really. He was sorry for the pipe, for wanting you too much, for needing you in a way that still scared him. He was sorry for looking at your love and thought it must have been damage.

His arms tightened around you.

You opened your eyes just enough to look at him. His face was ruined, like he was still trying to decide whether holding you counted as selfish.

You giggled softly.

“Dex,” you murmured, eyes half-lidded, fingers lazy in his hair. “If I’m broken, then I was broken when you found me.”

His breath stopped.

You smiled like that was supposed to comfort him.

Instead, it crawled into him and settled under his ribs, sweet and infected. It made his heart thump hard against his ribs. It made the guilt twist, mutate, turn into a warm and fuzzy feeling. Because there you were, looking at him like he wasn’t the man that had ruined you, but the man that had finally made sense. Like whatever was wrong with you had looked at whatever was wrong with him and fuckin’ purred.

Dex stared at you, eyebrows relaxing.

You touched his face, thumb dragging gently over his cheek scar, and he leaned into it before he could stop himself. 

Pathetic. So utterly gone for you. 

“I love you,” he said.

It came out hoarse. 

You shrugged like you knew all along. 

“I love you,” he said again. His hand tightened at your waist. “I love you.”

And for the first time, Dex wondered if Stockholm syndrome could happen the other way around, to the captor instead.

There was probably a fancy word for it. Some clinical term made by people with normal hearts. Something he could look up, self-diagnose, dissect, pretend to understand.

But Dex didn’t care.

If that was what had happened to him, then fine.

He didn’t want it cured.

—end. 

As quickly as you can, you lift Bakugou's arm off of you, carefully inching towards the edge of the bed before finally stuffing a pillow under his muscled limb in your place. He stirs just as you let go of him, and you freeze with bated breath, letting out a relieved albeit low exhale when he eventually stills.

You don't waste another second after that, hurriedly collecting your clothes and underwear off the floor, choosing to clumsily shimmy into them as you walk out of the bedroom and gently close the door behind you.

The instant it clicks into place, a tidal wave of relief washes over you, your racing heart stuttering in repose—

—although you don't get to bask in it for too long before a particularly nauseating pang of guilt hits you.

You know you shouldn't be acting like this.

You shouldn't be acting as if Bakugou was someone you half-regret finally having had sex with, as if he was someone you needed to get away from, as if he wasn't the one person allowed to see you in this excruciatingly vulnerable state.

And yet.

Shaking your head, you pad your way towards your modest living room, plopping down on the sizeable sofa with a soft thud. You grab the nearest throw pillow you can reach, clutching it close to your chest as you mentally resign yourself to staring out of the sliding doors that lead to the small balcony.

You don't know how much time passes with you wrestling yourself into thinking of anything else but last night and spectacularly failing, but you would've probably ruminated yourself late into the evening if it weren't for a low, rumbling sound a few feet behind you, effectively startling you into attention.

Before you can stop yourself, you whip around and sure enough, a squinting Bakugou is standing in the middle of your apartment—ash-blonde hair unrulier than usual and decked in nothing but one of those flannel pajama pants he liked to keep in your closet for emergencies.

For a solid moment, you only gawk at each other—your mouth opening but failing to produce any form of sound. It's you, though, who recovers first—promptly breaking eye contact as you jump on your feet, barreling past him towards the kitchen.

"Great, you're up," you croak rather discordantly, reaching for the tap and soap mainly to give your hands something to do. "What do you want for breakfast?"

You can practically hear Bakugou's freshly-woken gears turning in slow motion before he finally responds with a gruff voice. "Uh—I'm fine with whatever you wanna eat."

"Okay," you retort as coolly as you can, keeping your back turned towards Bakugou while you go through the overhead cabinets for the ingredients to make waffles.

A tense silence follows shortly after—stretching for a beat—which is why you can't help but flinch when a voice suddenly emerges from right beside you. "How long have you been awake? Here, let me do it—"

"No, it's okay—" you quickly interject, lightly shrugging off his reaching hands, keeping your gaze trained on the bowl in yours, "I got it."

Bakugou is quiet for another beat, before—finally: "You sure?"

"I'm pretty sure I can manage at least waffles, Kats," you try to chuckle, although it comes out a bit stilted.

"That's not—"

"Would you mind setting up the table?" you cut him off once more, nodding to the space behind you, "This won't take too long."

At this point, you know the pro-hero well enough to sense his begrudging without having to look at him, gratitude blooming in your chest when he chooses to relent anyway. "Uh—sure."

No further words are exchanged as you go through the familiar motions of whipping up two servings of waffles, a routine that you would almost consider therapeutic if it weren't for the unsettling feeling of a pair of eyes fixed on your back as you moved around the kitchen.

As you promised, it doesn't take long for the dough to become a mouthwatering golden brown, your movements nearly automatic as you pile on both of your plates with generous portions. You try your best to ignore his unrelenting stare as you trudge towards your small dining table with the food and toppings in tow, making one last trip to fetch the pot of freshly brewed coffee before finally settling in the seat across from him.

To your dismay, Bakugou doesn't immediately dig in like he normally would in the rare instances of you offering him your cooking. Instead, he only continues to stare at you, an inexplicable expression etched on his otherwise impassive features.

Still refusing to meet his gaze, you gesture to his food in a silent invitation to start eating after swallowing your own first bite, but instead of a wordless acquiescence, Bakugou—sternly—says your name.

You stiffen for a millisecond—although you're quick to regain footing—quietly slicing away albeit with your eyebrows raised as a subtle indication that you're listening.

Unsurprisingly, that doesn't cut it for Bakugou. Still, you feel yourself tensing anyway when he speaks again.

"Babe."

This time, you make a small sound of acknowledgment but keep your eyes downcast, stabbing a piece of waffle with your fork.

The butter-laden pastry is about two-thirds of the way towards your waiting mouth when Bakugou decides he's had enough.

"Look at me."

Instantly, you still.

Then, lowering your utensil-clad hands on the table, you stare at your barely eaten plate of breakfast for a beat, before slowly forcing your gaze upwards to meet the crimsons you've been avoiding this entire morning.

One look at them and you know there's no point in feigning ignorance anymore.

You find yourself schooling your features into an expectant expression anyway.

Although—in hindsight—maybe you shouldn't have, because whatever restraint Bakugou had on his emotions a mere second ago instantly crumbles at the sight of it, leaving him with a scathing scowl and a look that reads a little bit too much like hurt.

Frozen, you scramble for something to say.

Bakugou beats you to it.

"Are you being serious right now?"

You blanch. "I don't—"

"You fuck me one second, and the next, you can't even be bothered to look me in the eye?"

Flaming, you sputter. "I-I mean, you fucked me, too…"

"Exactly," Bakugou spits without missing a beat, face now a prominent scarlet. "And do you see me looking at everywhere else but you?"

"I-I'm just embarrassed—"

"And you think I'm not?" Bakugou cries, incredulous. "That was the first time anyone has ever seen me like that—just as much as it was for you—and it was with you of all people!"

You frown. "What do you—it's just me—"

"It's because it's you that makes it all the more embarrassing! I swear—" Bakugou curses, shaking his head. "Jesus."

"I-I'm sorry, Kats. I just—" you falter, your hammering heart making it impossible to think of what else to say. You force out a shaky breath, letting your gaze fall back to your trembling hands, suddenly feeling utterly defeated.

For a prolonged moment, neither of you says a word.

It's you, though, who somehow dares to speak first.

"I was scared, alright?" you finally manage to say, voice barely above a whisper. "I was scared that once you finally managed to get one good look at me after last night, you'd realize I'm not all that you wanted after all."

You stare down at your hands, letting the silence hang heavily in the air. It doesn't take long for the telltale pinprick of tears to come, with you narrowly blinking them away before they can materialize into something that can embarrass you even further.

You're just about to accept his lack of response as unequivocal confirmation when Bakugou suddenly pipes up, catching you off guard.

"For someone so infuriatingly smart, you sure can be fucking clueless sometimes."

You jerk your head up, stunned. You're by no means trying to be funny—absolutely not now of all times—but whatever emotion that's palpable on your face must be rather amusing, because the corners of Bakugou's mouth turn upwards ever so slightly, just enough to betray his mirth.

You don't know why, then, but the mere sight of him smiling makes your chest tremor with relief, the profound anxiety from only a moment ago now but a strangely distant memory.

The relief must be evident on your face, because Bakugou's eyes soften when they eventually return to you, something akin to understanding dawning on his features.

Before you can reflexively shrink into yourself, however, he's already shaking his head.

"I can't believe you still need convincing, but I guess that's on me for not being clear enough."

Then, before you can even ask him what he meant, he fixes you with a stare, and suddenly there's nothing left for you to do but listen.

"I want you, you hear me? Always have, always will. And, after last night, I want you even more," Bakugou rasps before quickly looking away, seemingly unable to hold your gaze for far longer.

"Kats—"

"Didn't even think that was still possible, you know?" he huffs out a laugh, shaking his head once more. You feel your face twitch into a smile, eyes not once leaving his.

"…I should've known, though," Bakugou eventually finishes, smiling almost wistfully down onto the table that separates you. "Every single time I've convinced myself that I can't get further down, you've always pulled the rug under me, and I'd end up stumbling even deeper."

Another huff—this one, a little lighter. "I should've known this wouldn't be any different."

"If it's any consolation," you somehow find yourself responding, catching Bakugou off guard, "It's like that for me, too."

You chuckle to yourself, hoping the embarrassment that you're sure is written all over your face by now isn't too painful to witness, at least. "It scares me sometimes—how much I love you."

"And I want you, too," you hurriedly add on—gaze still averted—before your sudden burst of courage ultimately runs out. "Just so you know."

"Just as much," you finish quietly, then: "If not more."

"Psh."

You look up, horrified.

But then you see the face that Bakugou makes when he gets weirdly competitive, and you can't help but let out a startled laugh.

He shakes his head in mock offense, not even trying to hide his smile at this point. "You sure you wanna bet me on that?"

You laugh again, reaching for his hand across the table.

He mirrors you, meeting you halfway.

Eventually, the air settles into a comfortable lull.

You look down at your interlocked fingers and smile mournfully. "I really am sorry, Kats."

He squeezes your hand, and somehow that's enough to tell you everything's going to be alright. "Don't be," he replies easily, shooting you one of his boyish smirks. "Although, can we go back to bed now?"

Only then does it dawn on you that, in the course of having been swept into this morning's events, you completely failed to realize that it's way too early for your boyfriend to be awake, let alone be out of bed.

"Of course," you quickly retort—suddenly feeling guilty—but pause when you catch sight of the now forgotten breakfast sitting grimly between the two of you. "Uh—but can we at least finish eating first? It'd be a shame if these went to waste…"

Bakugou—who only seems to remember breakfast at your mentioning—wavers similarly, tossing his cold waffles an icy look before finally plopping back down, picking up his utensils almost petulantly. "Fine, but only because you make the best waffles."

You snort, reaching for the jar of maple syrup. "Now you're just gassing me up."

"’m not," Bakugou grumbles over a mouthful of dough, gulping it down with ease. "'Sides, that's not the only reason why I'm scarfing these down."

"Oh, yeah?" you chuckle, bringing a piece up to your mouth, "What's the other one, then?"

"One word," Bakugou replies without missing a beat.

Then—reminiscent of the devil—he grins.

"Stamina."

You choke.