Memes

He feels the grief of it in his chest - the white hot sting of this treachery slicing at his lungs.

He's almost not surprised that his father would do such a thing, but he could have never anticipated such a thing from his mother.

From Frigga.

Not the woman who had taught him everything - who made him feel special and understood as a child when he had been ashamed of how different he was from Thor. 

It was all a lie.

Something cracks deep within him, an agonised howl ripping from his chest as he throws his wine glass.

It shatters somewhere he doesn't see, the harsh sound splintering him further until the rage floods his eyes crimson. He sends furniture hurtling into the wall, flashes of magnificent green bursting apart mirrors and vases as his mind spins out like a loosening screw. 

Who else was in on it? How many people looked at him and whispered behind his back. Did they pity him - mock him? The monster pretending to be royalty.

Had Thor known before he was banished? Was he to lose his brother all over again to this discovery. 

And what about you?

Loki stops dead then.

The violent rasps of his breath piercingly loud in the sudden silence. 

He had longed for you for as long as he could remember, the beautiful warrior with a mind sharper than her blade and a hidden appetite for mischief.

But you had always been distant with him, only ever professional, wary even of being too friendly with either of the princes. Choosing instead to watch their antics rather than joining in so you could spot potential danger and put a stop to it before they could even cause it. 

There was nothing that ever got by you.

That's why Odin had trusted you as he did, why he sought your opinion on matters when others would have dismissed you.

And that makes his gut twist.

It had been Odin who had taken it upon himself to introduce you personally to him, a sly twinkle in the old man's eyes as he'd not so subtly nudged Loki towards you. 

He had found it strange back then, the allfather playing matchmaker for his youngest son, but now it makes sense, a perfect, sickening sense that sends him crashing to his knees as the grief swirls and chokes him. 

You knew.

** 

And of course you lie beautifully, flawlessly even. Of course each word drips from your tongue like silk, morphing into the sweetest dagger to slash what remains of his heart to ribbons. 

He's avoided you until its no longer possible.

The confrontation with Odin had left a part of him broken, a tear in his heart that could only grow with every unforgiving pull on that bitter thread. He had then nearly unravelled completely when he'd faced Frigga, and though it shames him, he knows that facing you would be his ruin. 

But you refuse to be ignored or to ignore the whispers that he's become something dark and twisted, that he's the reason for Odin's fall and Thor's banishment.

The prophesied tale of the second son bringing the downfall of Asgard, beginning to come to fruition. 

You come to him despite all of his efforts, his orders to bar your entry from the throne room where he's locked himself away, eyes shining with a concern he desperately wishes to believe comes from a place of love if only he doesn't know better. 

‘Loki, my love, what is wrong? Don't shut me out, talk to me, I beg you.’

He wants to hate you, to rage and seethe as you stand before him with the audacity to continue this charade of caring but the truth is he is more furious with himself, his self-hatred unfurling with a vengeance. 

How foolish could he be to believe you had ever truly loved him, of course it had all been a ruse carefully crafted by Odin to keep him clueless, to keep the beastly side of his nature content and subdued until it could be of use. He has always been destined to be the villain, a dark stain on Asgard's legacy. 

You would never love someone like him. 

"Just leave... please." 

"Loki-"

"LEAVE!"

"Not until you tell me what has happened to make you like this!" 

He snaps then, a furious snarl caught in his throat as he surges from the golden throne to loom over you with eyes wild and sharp like shattered ice.

"You, darling girl." He spits, teeth bared. "You have made me like this - you and Odin and the treacherous little scheme you cooked up to keep me as a pathetic, docile pet."   

There's a bloated stretch of silence, weighed heavy with his laboured breaths and the palpable tang of your confusion.

Loki watches the furrow of your brow, the slight gape of your mouth as you shake your head, disturbed. 

"Keep you as a pet." You echo quietly, dumbfounded as you blink at him. "Loki, what in the nine realms are you talking about?"  

He studies you carefully, narrowed gaze like he's trying to figure out how best to break you, the quickest way to make you crack and confess, before he shakes his head as his lips tug into a cruel smirk. 

"There's no need to be so humble, little dove." Loki purrs, voice lowering to a dark grit as he circles you slowly. "You're a clever little actress, you know. You had me completely fooled. How much was Odin paying you for such a talent, I wonder?" 

You glare at him, the subtle twitch of your hands betraying your waning patience. "I haven't been paid for anything. You aren't making any damn sense." 

When he chuckles, it's humourless. Packed with ice as he strides forward to clasp your chin between cold fingers, the edge of his thumb ghosting the curved pillow of your mouth. 

You're still so beautiful even as you stare at him worriedly, a pang of longing spearing through his gut that he stamps down before leaning in close, close enough that your eyes flutter like you're expecting him to kiss you. 

"Aren't I?" He muses. "Then allow me to speak plainly. What did Odin have to offer such a righteous warrior to become the whore of a monster?" 

You reel back like he's struck you, like he's buried one of his daggers deep between the hollows of your ribs and yanked it through those soft, vulnerable parts of you. 

His brow pinches when his eyes rove over your face. There's no shame, no guilt, you look hurt.

The bright sheen of tears hazing over your eyes before you blink them away for fury to take their place when realisation blooms across your face. 

"How could you?" You gasp, chest heaving, breaths snagged in the suffocating tightness of your throat before they can fully be exhaled. "How can you accuse me of being bought, of lying to you about my intentions, when I have done nothing but love you and have given you everything I am. How can you claim to love me if you would believe such a thing?" 

His wrath bursts then, it ignites hot and ugly in his chest as he lunges to grasp your wrists in a bone crushing hold and shakes you until you cry out in shock. 

His tone is a scathing hiss, but beneath it all there's something jagged, something irreparably broken slicing through his rage. "Do not try and twist this on me, you are not the one who has been betrayed!"

"You were not made to believe you were so much more than a disgusting monster, a nightmarish beast parents warn their children about, only to have it cruelly ripped away by the few people you thought actually cared for you!"

You try and yank yourself away, hands shoving at cold leather when he growls and snatches you tighter to his chest and then you lose it. A sob rips past your lips and your words come in tatters, shredded like they've been dragged over glass before falling from your tongue. 

"I don't know what you're talking about Loki, I haven't fucking betrayed you! And you haven't ever been a monster either - at least not until now!" 

If you hadn't been so close to him you would have missed it, the pain that flared bright in his eyes before they bleed to the colour of spilt rubies, the tremor of his breath before he flexes his jaw and croons dark through gritted teeth. 

"You think you've seen me be a monster? Oh darling, I'll give you a monster."

**

The room grows cold immediately.

Webs of ice branching along the window panes and the fog of your ragged breath misting in the air. Time seemingly halts like in a dream, those last few seconds of peace before the jump scare of panic in a nightmare.

He stares into your eyes, watches the way they round and widen as the blue crawls over his skin. 

"Oh my gods." You whisper.

And he should know then that something is wrong, that he's missed something vital before this moment. Your voice is fragile, tender and sad like your chords are ready to collapse from the strain of just those three words. 

But Loki's too far gone. 

Too lost to his pain and craving for vengeance, for the chance to snatch back some of his wounded pride.

He thinks of that funny little saying, it is better to be feared than loved, and well if his supposed family's and your love had all been a pretence, he'll make sure your fear is all too startlingly real.

He buries his fingers into the soft giving flesh of your arms, allows the frozen chill of his touch to seep just deep enough into your skin that you wince and clamp your teeth down on your lip to muffle a whimper. 

He could make you run screaming, he thinks, fill you up with such horror that you flee from these halls, from Asgard itself, from him.

He could make you beg, make you bleed beneath his sharpened teeth until your golden tears paint the marks upon his skin.

"Still want to try and pretend that you love me? That you aren't disgusted." He spits and he hates the way his voice trembles, stained with shame. 

He expects you to fight him, to claw and gauge at his flesh, to try and snap his bones with your bare hands so you can reach for your famed blade to skewer him where he stands. 

But there's nothing, no violence bursting through your veins.

The look on your face is heartbroken, your body limp in his hold instead of poised to strike out at him to defend yourself, and when the faint touch of your fingertips whisper over his jaw followed by a sad sigh of his name, he jerks away from you as if scorched. 

This is wrong. 

You shouldn't be looking at him like that.

Like you're grieving for him, like you'd give anything to reach into his chest and take his pain for yourself just to ease his suffering. You shouldn't look like someone you love is hurt, and so by extension, you are too. 

It knocks him off his axis, the cruel shadow of his features softening to something boyish and confused, something lost until he realises his devastating mistake. 

He stares at you in horror, his heart plummeting like lead dropped into the wide, open mouth of the ocean as reality viciously slams back into him.

"You didn't know, did you?"  

You don't even have to answer him, he can see it, the raw honesty in your eyes, in the emotions you'd laid bare with the trust in him to be able to decipher what is truth and what is lie as is his nature. 

And he'd failed. 

He'd allowed paranoia and insecurity to bleed into the wound Odin had created, to fester within it until it grew poisonous little seeds that once planted in his head, nearly made him hurt the woman he loves and destroy the only good thing he has in his life. 

How can you stand there and tell him he isn't a monster?  

"I'm sorry," He croaks, chokes on the words as his throat closes like a fist and a fierce pressure builds rapidly behind his eyes. "I'm so sorry, darling." 

He feels distraught, stricken with a violent kind of shame that is tearing at his already muddled head until it's all just too much.

His heart spasms painfully in his chest and his body simply gives as a sob tears from his aching throat and then for the second time in a matter of days, Loki falls broken to his knees. 

The tears flood down his cheeks, turning to ice that clings to his skin and glitters in the sharp light of the throne room.

He tries to focus on your face, the battle of shock and agony that ripples across your features as you hesitate to throw yourself down at his side.

Or flee from his presence entirely.

And though he can't blame you for wanting nothing more to do with him, he all but shatters when you turn on your heel and begin to stride towards the large doors.

“No no no! Don't leave. Don't leave me, please!”

He's practically blind with it, deafened by the pain and fear ravaging his body that he doesn't realise the words weren't being screamed in his head but that he'd cried them out into the open, into the seemingly vast space between you until you freeze and whirl back around to look at him in disbelief. 

Taking advantage of your surprise, he’s in front of you in an instant, pride be damned as he snatches at your sleeve, clutches your hand in the clawed cradle of his own more gently than he’s ever held anything in his life and places it over his pounding heart whilst he all but begs.

“Please. Punish me as you see fit, damn me to a year of your silence or the fury of your blade, but please don’t leave me. I’ll spend as long as I must earning your forgiveness just don’t go. I love you.”

You look at him alarmed. “Loki– hey, hey– look at me."

He does, drinks in the sight of your face softening in response to his panic and swallows hard as you reach up to palm his cheek. 

“I wasn't going anywhere, Loki. I just wanted to bolt the doors so we could have some privacy.” You soothe, a sad smile pulling at your lips before you murmur. “I could never leave you, you know that.”

“You should.” He mutters regretfully, an uncontrollable flare of self hatred spearing through his head as images of what he could have done to you if he had realised too late flash through his mind. “I could have killed you.”

A soft chuckle jarrs him out of it, his gaze narrowing as he glances at you to find the beginnings of a hesitant grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. 

“You could have tried.”

He nearly laughs, nearly takes you in his arms and kisses you senseless in his awe of your sweet, forgiving heart and the dizzying burst of relief it offers. But then his gaze falls upon your entwined hand pressed against his chest - the shock of ridged blue so glaringly different from your smooth skin and the sharpness of his claws softly denting the flesh. 

“You cannot possibly still want to be with me like this.” He whispers, shamed and distraught. “How can you even bear to look at me.”

Your expression twists into something unreadable, a jumble of emotion all flashing too quick for his blurry vision to track but when he attempts to pull away, to disentangle his hand from yours, you hang on tight. A sharp pull of strength, sending him stumbling back into you before you grip him by the collar and crush your mouth to his. 

It's a messy kiss, a frantic collision as you force everything you have into it and he swallows it all down like a desperate man dying of thirst. 

He should be stopping you he thinks, he’s not in control, the frigid planes of his skin could be harming you with every second that he’s pressed flush against you but when you moan into his mouth, Loki is utterly lost. 

There’s no way of stopping him from pinning you to his chest, his tongue thrusting past lips to lick into your mouth as his fingers sink into your hair and demand you tilt your chin to allow him better access to the sweet taste of you.

He follows every inch you attempt to draw back, a fire igniting in his belly as you breathlessly tell him in between each bruising kiss. “I’m looking at you the same way I’ve always looked at you - like you’re the man I love. And I’ll kill anyone that tries to say different.”

He drags you closer until he’s almost wrapped tight around you, his heart taking up a chaotic gallop against his ribs and a shaky exhale blowing past his lips as your words sink in and the iron-like grip of fear and self loathing are drawn out of him like poison bled from a wound.

“Gods, I fucking love you.” He groans raggedly before his lips are fused desperately to yours once more. 

You smile into his kiss, and then you're sinking into him, digging your nails into the soft buttery feel of his leathers and sighing airily as he sweeps you up and lowers you to the floor. 

He spreads you out beneath him, stretches your arms above your head and nudges your thighs open wide so he can press himself flush against you and he wants to so badly take his time and show you just how much  you mean to him but then you’re looking at him with wide, glassy eyes shaded in lust, the lush warmth of your love blooming beneath it’s heat, and he can’t help himself. 

Your clothes are gone in a burst of green, the soft rush of his seidr stirring your hair as he gently strokes the curve of your cheek and watches nervously whilst you drink in the sight of his other form naked above you. 

“You're so beautiful, Loki.” You breathe, tone dipped in awe as your fingers ghost over the length of his arms like he’s something sacred. 

He chokes, his eyes trailing over your face in stunned blinks as he searches for something to say, something clever, something worthy of his silvertongue title that will distract you from the way you’re cracking him open. 

But there’s nothing. All he has left is this feeling of being so messily stripped bare with nowhere to hide and your gaze boring down to the furthest reaches of his soul. 

And Loki’s struck then with just how much he wants to be seen by you, how much he needs your love and your battle-scarred hands sunk deep into his own heart, that maybe he can live with this side of himself if someone like you can still look at him like the wonders of the universe exists within his very veins.

“You're not scared?” He checks cautiously, dropping his head to nuzzle against the heat of your palm and press a soft kiss there when you reach for him, his eyes growing dark whilst he gently skates his claws along the warm slope of your waist and your lashes flutter as your body shudders.  

“Of you? Never.”

You pull him down on you, reach between your bodies to grasp and stroke him until he croaks your name and his teeth draw flecks of blood from where they’ve sank into the pillow of his lower lip. “I want you.”

And when he finally buries himself deep inside you it’s cataclysmic, it’s the soaked, fever-hot clench of your cunt stretched tight around him and your breathless gasps in his ear snatching the air from his lungs as his vision swims. 

He can barely pull out of you, his mind scattered like a burst star because it all feels so much more intense like this.  

The burn of your skin scorching him to his bones and your tongue laving over sensitive the marks on his neck, your nails rake down his back and his hips lurch with enough force that you slide up the floor and then he’s pulling you back to him and pinning your hips to the stone like he’s attempting to bury you in it. 

“Loki!” You sob as your back arches and his lips bruise over the sweat slicked column of your throat and your jaw to find your own, to drink down the noises spilling from your mouth whilst he curls his tongue around yours. 

He snaps into you over and over and angles his hips so he can knock up against that spot that makes you grow endlessly wet for him. Peels a hand from your side to press his thumb to your clit before grasping the hinge of your jaw with the other so he can force you to meet the possessive gleam of his eyes as he drops his forehead to yours. 

“Beautiful girl, look at how perfectly you take me like this.” He husks. “I know your close darling– I can feel it, I can taste it on your skin– cum for me.”

You whimper and then he feels you, your flushed hands grabbing his ass, pushing him deeper as your cunt clamps tight around his cock, body growing rigid before it spasms under the unrelenting force of your climax. 

“Oh god–Loki–fuck–”

It makes him slam his hand into the floor, his skin splitting and spilling red through the cracks he’s made in the stone. The slight burst of pain like gasoline thrown upon the flames of pleasure scorching up his spine as his pace grows sloppy and he slams into you one final time to spill himself deep. 

Then there’s silence, a peaceful quiet in his head and his chest. The throne room echoing the quickened pants of your humid breaths as he skims his nose across the swell of your cheek and pulls back so he can look in your eyes. 

And you must see something in his own, the extent of the vulnerability he’s given to you, because you suddenly cradle his face, your thumbs brushing over the ridged adornments of his cheeks as you draw his forehead to rest upon yours. “I love you, Loki - no matter what form you take.” You murmur. “I will always choose you.”

ex!matt who keeps the sweater you accidentally left at his apartment folded in the back of his closet. he tells himself he’s forgotten it’s there, but he knows exactly where it is every time he opens the door.

ex!matt who could have another relationship if he really wanted one, but every attempt dies quietly after a date or two because he catches himself comparing tiny things to you - the cadence of their voice, the questions they ask, the way they reach for his hand and nobody ever comes close.

ex!matt who still remembers the exact way you liked your coffee and orders it by reflex when he stops at your favorite café, only realizing his mistake when the second cup is set on the counter and there’s no one waiting beside him to take it.

ex!matt who can pick your heartbeat out of a crowd without even trying. hundreds of people pass him every day, but yours settles into his ears like it belongs there. the first time he realizes he can still recognize it after months apart, he stands completely still on the sidewalk and lets you walk away because following you would only hurt more.

ex!matt who catches himself listening for you whenever he’s in your neighborhood. he’ll tell himself he’s only taking the quickest route home, but his senses reach farther than his feet ever do, searching for the rhythm of your breathing, the scrape of your shoes against the pavement, anything that says you’re close.

ex!matt who knows the exact moment you enter a room he’s already in. his posture changes before anyone says your name, his head turning just enough that foggy notices and sighs quietly to himself. you think you slipped in unnoticed. matt knew before the door had fully opened.

ex!matt who pauses outside your apartment building some nights, listening only long enough to hear that your heartbeat is slow and even, that you’re asleep and safe. once he knows that, he turns around and walks home without ever knocking.

ex!matt who can tell when you’re exhausted just from the way your heartbeat drags and your breathing shortens. without ever revealing he knows, he has coffee delivered anonymously to your office.

ex!matt who hears the hesitation in your heartbeat whenever the conversation drifts toward the two of you. he knows the sound of hope, fear, and certainty, and yours is painfully clear. you care about him. you might always care about him. but you’ve made peace with the breakup in a way he hasn’t.

ex!matt who accepts that you won’t come back long before he stops hoping you might. he respects your decision enough never to pressure you, never to guilt you, never to show up asking for another chance. he simply carries the love with him, quietly, treating it less like something to fix and more like an old scar that never really stopped aching.

your boyfriend is incredibly intense when it comes to love. intense in a way like dex doesn’t know how to function without you, like he doesn’t know how to draw a breath without knowing you’re with him, like he his entire world gets put on hold when you’re not there. like he’s living just for you. it scares you a little, sometimes, his way of loving. it’s a little… too intense. but in the beginning, you didn’t mind. after all, you had to beg for crumbs of love in your other previous, failed relationships, so getting showered with affection and drowned in love wasn’t so bad. it was all in the details. it was sweet at first, innocent even, but turned out to be too scary in the end.

whatever you liked was always in the fridge. your cookies, your favourite brand of chips, the chocolate you always binge-ate when you were feeling down… it was nice to have someone know so much about you and care. it was a bit… surprising, let’s say that, that dex knew all these details about you one month into your relationship, some of those things you hadn’t even ever mentioned to him. but he was observant, a good listener and never failed to pay attention to whatever nonsense you were babbling, so even if you hadn’t explicity said it, he might have noticed it some other way anyway. it became a little… weird, when he would know things you were doing before you had told him, though.

like when you were late to your promised dinner date because you had fallen into your bed so exhausted and so tired from work that you had accidentally taken a three hour nap. one that had caused you to arrive half an hour later to the restaurant you had agreed upon, your outfit a mess and your hair an even bigger mess, but dex hadn’t been angry. he hadn’t been… worried, as well. he had just looked at you fumbling and stuttering around, trying to explain how much work had been draining you and how you had accidentally fallen asleep, and had simply said, “i know.”

which could have meant different things. after all, you had said “i’m sorry” after every second sentence, and he could have simply been saying that he knew you were sorry, or, an option you had never considered before, that he knew you were sleeping. for whatever reason, you didn’t look at it too closely. you were afraid of what conclusion you would arrive to if you thought on it too hard, and besides, things were good, things were going incredibly well and you thought yourself a fool to try and ruin it all. after years of failed relationships and dating, you were content to let things be. to let turn a blind eye once or twice, here and there, whenever something else that was weird would happen. whenever else he would drop predictive statements that would make him a clairvoyant in someone superstitious’ eyes.

but you ignored it. kept ignoring it, all of it. you didn’t care—you were madly in love with him, and he was madly in love with you. who were you to complain about it? so when you saw your friends less and less, you told yourself this was what happened when you got into a relationship. your life started revolving around dex and you, and it was even scientifically proven that women in a relationship would start spending less time with their friends. this all soothed you. except when you did meet your friends once after months, and they kept telling you dex was no good for you, that he was ‘isolating you’. you had gotten so upset you arrived home much earlier than you had told dex you would, bursting out in tears and becoming a mess as soon as you stepped over the threshold, and dex and been so understanding. back then, you hadn’t realised it. his words of comfort had mattered more, mattered more than the fact he had said “you don’t need your friends. you have me now, always.” like he had already known what had happened before you had even told him about it.

in hindsight, more creepy things had happened. and happened more than once. but it became too much one fateful night, when everything had turned into ashes and your relationship had ended.

you were quite a friendly person. someone extroverted and sweet, someone who was so nice to strangers it almost bordered on naivety, someone who liked to talk other people’s ears off. it was inevitable that you would make new friends wherever you went. like, at work. after all, dex had personally witnessed the fact you could talk to him for hours and hours and never tire. he had never been bored. he liked it, in fact. liked it when you were telling him about his interests, your passions, what you disliked about other people. he soaked it all up like a sponge, never tiring of knowing more about you. he wanted to know everything there was about you. he had been so pleased with himself when you had opened the fridge and everything you liked was there, and you had cast him a glance full of adoration as you had said “sometimes i think you know me better than i know myself”. dex had been so happy. still was, he cherished every minute with you. every moment spent together, every word breathed to each other. dex knew he was intense. and that this intensity made you uncomfortable sometimes. he had feared that you would leave him because of it. had feared that you would tire of him, tire of his worshipping. but you had ignored it. and to dex, this was nothing short of a love confession, really. finally. he had finally found someone who would take him as he was, who saw him as the person he was, who loved him despite his shortcomings. finally, he had thought, my true north star. there she is.

dex is anxious, especially about you. he didn’t tell you about the surveillance cameras in your apartment, where he had seen you all curled up on the bed, deep in slumber. he hadn’t minded sitting at that restaurant for thirty minutes. for a moment, when ten minutes had passed and you still hadn’t arrived, he had been afraid that he had scared you away, that his intensity had become too much, that you were leaving him. dex had been sick to his stomach, sweat had pearled down his forehead, and all of a sudden, his shirt had become so tight it wouldn’t let him breathe as he had fumbled around in his pocket, fishing out his phone. his heart had settled when he had clicked on the surveillance app, and an indescribable amount of weight had fallen off his shoulders when he had seen you there, on your bed. you weren’t going away. you weren’t leaving. you were just sleeping. and his heart swelled with obsession, loved you for this even more.

imagine his surprise when something happened he didn’t know about. lunch, you with your coworker. a male coworker. a male coworker who was much younger than him. your age. a male coworker who was… objectively speaking, handsome, he supposed begrudgingly. dex had tried to ignore that unpleasant rousing in his stomach, that nasty, ugly feeling of jealousy. you weren’t one to keep secrets from him. and the few that you did, he already knew about. nothing to be ashamed about, dex already knew about your long string of boyfriends and failed relationships and booty calls, but was pleased to see that you hadn’t contacted any booty calls or ex boyfriends ever since you had met him.

dex trusted you. but he was also insecure. so he followed you. you had told him about the dinner with your male coworker, but had conveniently left out the fact he was good-looking, your age and single. yes, dex had checked. it wasn’t any harder getting into that guy’s digital life than it was to hack into yours. it had made him nervous, seeing the location this guy had texted you to meet him. how did dex know about that? some might say he had the unhealthy habit of checking your phone, he called it precaution. it was a romantic restaurant—fairy lights, menus with meals for two, this guy was obviously trying to get into his darling’s pants.

he had stayed far, far in the back of the restaurant, cap covering most of his face, as he observed you, reading your lips. the way he was sitting, he only saw the back of the guy, but he had a full view on you, and you were relaxed, talking freely. you didn’t seem to notice the ill intentions your coworker habited toward you, and you were laughing at something he said. dex felt his body going still. intimidatingly still. not quite unlike the way he would go still during his ‘assignments’, when his heartbeat would start slowing down and the world would go calm and quiet.

dex contemplated murder. he went through the first two steps, but decided that if his intensity hadn’t scared you away yet, murder definitely would. you were a sensitive soul, after all, vulnerable and soft and not quite ready for the harsh realities of the world. he could never do that to you, traumatise you like that. but not only that, dex was pretty certain he wouldn’t get caught, but if he did, he couldn’t do his watching over you and protecting you very well from a jail cell. so he restrained himself, and your poor coworker hadn’t even realise he had drawn the ire of a very murderous, dangerous, dangerous man. that was obvious from the way your coworker then dared to put his hand above yours.

a look of surprised had crossed your face immediately, and although you had removed your hand from underneath his the very second you had felt it, the damage had already been done. all of dex’s patience had flown out of the window when he had dared to put his hand on you. you were his, his, his, and his only. he had made his way over to your table, restraint be damned.

it happened so quickly you didn’t even register it fully—something just flew against your coworker’s head with such a force that his entire body dipped forward, and before you knew it, a hand was grabbing him by the neck. by the time you looked up, he had been thrown against the bar of the restaurant next to your table, and only then did you realise just who exactly was throwing him around: dex.

that was when you broke it off. it seemed like such a long time ago, when the two of you had walked back to your flat in absolute silence, no words exchanged. you remembered dex sneaking glances at you, like he was trying to evaluate your reaction after the security guards had seperated dex and your coworker, and how he had cursed and held his bleeding nose. dex, on the other hand, had come out of the fight entirely unscathed for some reason. all there was were a few splatters of blood adorning his cheek, and it wasn’t even his blood. you hadn’t known what to say. he had followed you there, which was such an invasion of privacy. besides, nothing had even happened; you didn’t have any feelings for the guy, and the dinner was friendly. or supposed to be friendly. apparently, you had misinterpreted some of the signals your coworker was sending.

you decided to take a break. which had been a hard decision to make because dex had looked at you like a kicked puppy, but you knew it was for the best. you needed time to think… time to contemplate which steps to take from this day forward, time to think about whether this was a dealbreaker for you or not. one week turned into two, two weeks turned into three… for you, time had passed by quickly. work had kept you booked and busy, you hadn’t even noticed the time ticking by so fast. in those weeks, you had made it a point to not break the ‘no contact’. which meant: no phone calls, no texts, nothing. dex, on the other hand, was slowly going insane. he didn’t cope well without you. in fact, he didn’t cope without you at all, which led him to a radical idea: if you weren’t coming back to him, then he would just have to take you.

you woke up disoriented that day. you had gone home like always, more tired than usual, showered, slipped into your pajamas… everything was as usual. everything was normal. until you had turned around and suddenly seen nothing but blackness, and then something that smelled oddly like—

when you gained your consciousness, there was a face to greet you. dex, head tilted like a hawk watching its prey, was watching you as your eyes blinked away the sleep lazily. for a moment, it was like nothing had changed. during your relationship, moments like these had happened often: you would always wake up later than dex, and he would wake you up after. your brain didn’t register all that was wrong—like the fact your hands were tied to the bed, the fact there was a gag between your lips and the fact that you were… not home. no, you were somewhere else.

“you like?” dex whispered softly to you, crouching next to your bed as his fingers played with your hair. “it’s my vacation house. our vacation house.”

something in your stomach curled.

“welcome home, baby.”

You’re barely standing, crimson-stained knuckles clutching onto the edge of the doorframe like a lifeline. Your dark clothes bear sporadic slices and rips, blood clearly visible underneath and soaking the fabric that now clings to your skin. He hopes that most of it isn’t yours, but with how pale your face looks, he can’t count on it.

“Hey, Dex,” you murmur, trying to smile but it comes out as a grimace. “Hope it’s not a bad time.”

He doesn’t answer, just surges forward and scoops you up into his arms, your own wrapping around his neck instinctively.

Rage, white-hot and corrosive, floods through him—rage for whoever dared to do this to you, that they warped your first visit to his place into something filled with shock and horror. That they tried to destroy the only light in his darkened life.

Whoever “they” were, he would make them pay. Not with his normal expediency, oh no, their demise would be drawn-out; choking on their own spattering blood and pain while he watched. And he was going to enjoy every goddamn second of it.

You curse under your breath and it snaps him back to the present. Then, he does what he spent so many years perfecting: he shoves the rage down and buries it, ignores the metallic buzzing in his brain ordering him to punish, punish, punish.

He gently lowers you onto the couch, treating you like the most precious artwork he’s ever seen. You don’t wince too badly as he does it, though, which he takes as an encouraging sign.

“What’s the worst of it?” he asks as calmly as he can.

You sigh.

“Pretty sure I cracked a rib, maybe both, I’m not sure.” You tap your shoulder. “Got stabbed here. And I think my hip got grazed on the way out, but I didn’t have the luxury of time to check. Doesn’t feel like the bullet’s in there, though. You chuckle. “My lucky day.” You pause, shaking your head as you stare up at the ceiling. “And I’m just … tired.”

Dex drops to your level, wanting to do so many things at once.

Part of him wants to hold your hand, part of him wants to lick every last drop of blood off you, and part of him also wants to scream at you—that you should’ve been more careful. Because didn’t you know how special you were, how utterly irreplaceable you were to him? Sure, you’d had injuries before—a natural job hazard—but nothing like this. He could’ve lost you.

That thought cuts through the vestiges of the remaining anger, flooding his veins with ice. He can’t lose you, he just can’t.

“I know it’s really hard. But you’re safe now,” he says, nodding vigorously, trying to adopt the steady, soothing tone he learned back at the Suicide Hotline. “I’m gonna make sure you’re ok. I’ll be right back.”

“And I’ll be right here,” you deadpan, giving him a flicker of a smile through your split lip. A glimmer of relief ripples through him—if you can still smile, your injuries probably aren’t immediately fatal.

He jogs into his room and rips down the medical kit from his closet. He’s used it on himself plenty of times, sure, but this is the first time he’s grabbed it for someone else.

And then the truth suddenly dawns on him:

You needed him.

In the most primal, intimate way imaginable: to keep you alive. And you trusted him to do it.

Him. You chose him. No one else.

He gives himself a second to savor that truth, a wide grin breaking over his face as his eyes close. Was it fucked up to feel happy right now? Absolutely. But how could he not?

It might not have looked like anything he’d envisioned, but … maybe your arrival was better than that. Of course, he didn’t want you hurt, but he couldn't deny there was no better opportunity to prove to you that he was worthy, that he was valuable. That he could be good and that he was good for you.

And he sure as hell wasn’t going to blow it.

Taking a second to rearrange his features back to a look of focused concern, he walks back out into the living room.

“Shoulder first,” he says, popping open the kit and sliding on the latex gloves. He’s rooting around for antiseptic and when he looks up, his heart nearly stops at the sight of you there, bare skin and sports bra exposed as your hoodie now hangs half on and half off.

You've only gotten one arm free though, wincing as you start to raise the other.

“Goddammit,” you huff, and then your eyes meet his.

Dex's pulse immediately quickens, seeming to reverberate straight through his whole body.

“Can I …” He swallows, mouth suddenly dry. “You want some help?”

You nod without hesitation, so Dex slowly scoots forward, trying to keep his breathing even.

He’s so close to you. So, so close. It’s not fair—how can you still be so fucking pretty when you’re covered in blood? And are you somehow even more attractive to him because of it? The vivid, scarlet remnants of chosen violence across your face; clear, undeniable proof that, in some way, your internal wiring was twisted up like his.

No time to unpack all of that right now, though. So his hands—feared weapons in all other circumstances—go feather light on your wrist as he lifts your arm up, gently sliding the sleeve forward. He guides the blood-stained fabric up and over your head, an electric current flooding through him as his fingertips brush against your ribcage.

For the two seconds your vision is obscured, he can't help himself. His eyes flicker down, roaming across the contours of your chest, the bright colors of tattoos no longer hidden, scars and fresh wounds alike.

He drags his eyes back up as he tosses the sweater over the couch. Now, there you are, bruised and battered and half-undressed about a foot away from him. And somehow, you never flinched at his touch. And your eyes are still trained on his.

"Thanks."

"No problem," he replies, his chest tight. Seconds pass but it feels like an eternity to Dex as you both sit there in the stillness, and it feels like he's hovering at the edge of something more, something real, something that both scares and enthralls him far more than bullets or blades ever have.

He drinks you in, practically hypnotized at this point, and it's only when his eyes betray him, flickering down to your split lip, that he remembers what he's supposed to be doing.

“Right," he says, clearing his throat and turning you slightly to get a closer look at your shoulder.

"You'll need stitches, but I've seen worse," he says, and you hum in acknowledgement. He grabs some antiseptic and a cloth, brushes it over the wound, and watches for your reaction: you frown slightly but don't move.

Then, onto the scissors, needle, and thread, lining his hands up at the start of the wound. "You ready?"

You nod and Dex gets to work, finding a rhythm as he sews you up, skilled fingers moving with ease. It only takes a few minutes before he finishes and snips off the remaining thread.

“Done,” he says, gently brushing his thumb under the stitch, relishing any excuse to touch you.

You turn and look down.

“That was fast.” You smile. “Nice work, Dr. Dex.”

“Well, you’re a good patient,” he replies, and he’s not lying. You barely shifted as he wove the needle through you. “Give me two seconds, ok?”

You nod again and he walks to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with the coldest water he can.

He walks back over and hands it to you, being sure to brush your fingers with his.

“Drink.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Aye aye, Doc.” You take a sip and start to shift up slightly on the couch, a low hiss escaping your throat.

Dex is there in an instant, one hand wrapping around your waist to guide you up further as the other places the cup on the side table next to you.

"Let me look at the rest, now." His fingers pause for a fraction of a second, hovering just above your torso, deep bruises blooming like indigo flowers. It's unusual for him, being so tentative. He's not used to it, the hesitation, the nerves, of trying to be delicate for anyone.

You're the exception.

Slowly, he pushes in against your bones, feels the slight crunching underneath his touch. Your body pulls away reflexively, and for the first time, you flinch as your eyes shut tight.

“Yeah, that’s definitely broken,” he says.

“Mm." Your eyes are still closed, but there's now a strained grin on your face. "I think the proper medical term you’re looking for is ‘totally fucked,’ Doc.”

And Dex can’t help himself—he laughs. And so do you, the bright sound reverberating inside him, filling up all the empty spaces.

It's short lived though, your laughter morphing into a pained cough as you grab your ribcage with one hand, his forearm with the other.

It's not like your grip is anywhere close to hurting him, but part of Dex wants you to. To dig your nails in, draw blood, leave bruises; to let him absorb your pain as his own.

"Give it all to me," his brain begs. "Let me take it."

"Jesus Christ,” you mutter, your fingertips loosening against him. But before he can get too disappointed, instead of pulling away, your hand stays, and warmth surges through his entire being.

He looks downward toward your hip. You're right, you got lucky—it's a shallow graze, no remnants present. Reluctantly, he slides his arm out from under yours, quickly repeating the same process as before: antiseptic, needle, thread, stitch. He's just about done when you speak up:

"Do you have any Vicodin?”

He frowns, feels a twinge of panic. He doesn’t.

“No. But I can go get you some," he quickly adds.

“From where?” you ask, amusement evident in your tone. “Mr. FBI's got a narcotics plug?”

Dex shakes his head. “There’s always medicine cabinets. Hospitals. I’ll find some."

“And people say chivalry is dead," you say lightly, and then your tone shifts, gives way to something more sincere.

"Thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you today.”

“Probably collapse in the street,” he says dryly, hoping the joke will make you smile. It does, and he melts.

God, he is so fucked. Absolutely, pathetically, fucked for you. And he doesn't mind it.

“That’s fair," you reply. "But really, Dex. Thank you.”

“Yeah, of course." His eyes meet your own. "I’d do anything for you.”

Your gaze burns back through him.

“Do you mean that?” you ask quietly.

Dex nods, his heart racing. It feels like he’s moving through water as he decides what he’s about to do, and then, somehow, he just does it; places his hand on your thigh and draws slow circles with his thumb.

You lean into the touch, moving even closer toward him, your leg now grazing his own, fully igniting something deep and buried within him.

“Well, in that case, I have a request.”

Dex swallows, tries to remember how to breathe, how to think, but it’s hard—really hard—because how is he supposed to function properly when you’re there with that voice and that look and that goddamn half-undressed body of yours?

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice slightly strangled. “Name it.”

“Kiss me.”

Finally.

And so he does, grabbing the hinge of your jaw as he brings your lips to his, desperation and want drowning out the usual din in his head; obscuring everything that isn’t you, you, absolutely fucking perfect you.

You’re right there with him, nails scratching at the back of his hair as you coax his mouth further open with yours, sliding your tongue in to taste his. There's the faintest tinge of iron, and his body hums with a strange exhilaration as he realizes he’s tasting your blood—tasting you from the inside out.

It’s everything all at once: hard and soft and sweet and fast, too fast for Dex’s brain to keep up with, and so he reacts to your touch without thinking, grabbing your hips and yanking you onto his lap because he needs you closer, needs all of you, now.

But it all comes to a screeching halt as you pull back from him with a gasp, not from pleasure, but with pain.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” you hiss, grabbing at your ribcage, and the last syllable is laced with faintest whimper that floods Dex with dread, his emotions spinning on a dime.

He hurt you. He had one fucking job: to make you feel good. And he couldn’t even do it right.

“Pathetic,” his brain hisses at him. “You ruined your chance. You always ruin everything.”

“Shit, I’m so, so sorry,” he says, panicking. “I wasn’t thinking, I just-“

Your voice overlaps with his.

"No, no, it’s ok, it’s not your fault. I was, uh, I was definitely all for it.” You smile, brushing some of his now-disheveled hair back from his forehead, and his anxiety lessens.

“I'll just have to make it up to you when I’m not falling to pieces.” You trace his jawline with your nails, sending shivers through him, your eyes reflecting back the same hunger that fills his own.

“I'm nowhere near done with you yet.”

Thank fucking God. He hadn't ruined everything.

“I’m counting on that,” he murmurs. He pauses, biting at the corner of his lip.

Dex has never done drugs before, convinced that they’d just fuck up his mind further (and the FBI tends to frown on illicit substances). But now, sitting here next to you, he wonders if this is what addiction feels like: this insatiable, pulsing current through him demanding more, more, more; willing to do anything at all if it means he can keep the high going. Even if it’s just a small taste.

“If I’m more careful though … can I kiss you again?”

You smirk slightly, propping your head on your arm against the top of the couch.

“How long have you thought about this? About me and you?”

Dex chuckles.

“It's, uh, gonna sound like a shitty cliche, but probably since the day we met."

“Good. Me too.” You shift forward, your tone softening. “Now, come here.”

Dex does just what you ask, kissing you gentler and slower this time as he savors you more fully—the feel of your lips against his, your face cupped in his hand, burning it all into his memory.

You pull back first, grazing your lips against his neck as you turn to rest your head there, nestling into him like it's the most natural thing in the world.

His hand finds yours and you sit there like that, together in the quiet; taking in the sounds of the city drifting in from his open window.

"You ... you need anything else right now?" he asks.

You shake your head against him. "Right now, just you."

Just you.

Dex could laugh at the absurdity of it—just him? Who's ever needed him before? Who's ever chosen him before?

"Actually, I lied." You sit up. "There's one more thing I need.”

Of course, there it is. You need to leave, you need to tell him this was a mistake. You need someone else.

"Yeah?" he asks and his hand squeezes yours, subconsciously trying to keep you close.

"Can I shower and borrow some clothes?" You smile. "I'll do my best to keep the stitches dry, I'm not gonna ruin all your hard work."

Oh. Relief floods through him. You're staying. You're staying. He didn't fuck everything up.

“Yeah, yeah, of course you can.”

You follow him down the hall as he grabs you a towel from the closet. Then, he switches on the light in his room, opens the dresser drawer.

"I, uh, I'm not sure what you're looking for, but you can pick whatever you want."

Your hand runs over the neatly folded clothes, settling on one of his old FBI t-shirts and some grey sweatpants.

"These work." You stand up on your tiptoes and kiss his cheek, his skin immediately heating up underneath.

"Thanks, babe."

Babe. You say it so easily, like it's nothing, but it's everything. You're speaking like he's something precious, something familiar.

Like he's yours.

"You're welcome," he replies, voice barely above a whisper, and he sits down at the edge of his bed as you walk into the bathroom.

As soon as you shut the door, he falls backward onto the mattress. He stares up at the ceiling and lets himself grin, runs his hands down his face in utter disbelief.

Then, he notices the red tinge on his fingertips, your blood staining his skin and parts of his shirt. He gets up and changes into a dark grey one—the same color as the one you took—and heads to the kitchen to wash the rest off, telling himself he should probably work on cleaning off the couch, too.

And yet, even with his OCD, he hesitates. Because those crimson splotches are a visceral, tangible confirmation that this wasn't all in his head, that he's not going to blink and find you've disappeared.

But, on the other hand, he’s also just sane enough to recognize that keeping your blood as some kind of a fucking souvenir is probably not a good look.

So, to the sink he goes.

He washes his hands and dries them, then starts to work on the couch. He's pretty much gotten it all out when he hears your footsteps, and he looks up and stops mid-scrub.

Your hair is wet and tousled, standing there with his shirt and rolled-up sweats loosely hanging on you. He surreptitiously pinches his forearm, double checking to make sure he's not hallucinating, but the scene doesn't change.

You're really there. Whatever this is between you and him, it's real.

“Hey," you say, then gesture at the couch. "Sorry about that."

He tries to give you a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, it comes off easy."

He grabs the rag and cleaning supplies, tosses them under the sink, and washes his hands again.

You walk over next to him.

"Do you have an ice pack I can borrow? Or frozen anything, I'm not picky."

"Yeah, I got it." He walks over to the freezer and gently tosses you one, which you throw between your hands.

"Thanks.” You pause for a second. “I’m gonna go get some sleep."

"Ok." Dex frowns. "Wait, you still need Vicodin."

You wave him off.

“I’m ok. Really.” You grab his hand, skimming your thumb across his knuckles. “Kissing you and taking a shower brought me up like 40%." You look up at him.

“You coming with me?”

If his brain wasn’t already short-circuiting, it sure was now.

"Yeah, I’ll be right there.” But then he stops himself, suddenly unsure. “That’s what you want, right?”

You squeeze his hand and give him a look he can’t quite read. It’s not pity exactly, it’s more like … understanding. Like somehow, you can see straight through him, right down to the deepest parts of himself he’s tried to hide.

“Yes, that’s what I want.”

You walk back down the hall into his bedroom while he stands there in his kitchen. He leans over the sink and closes his eyes.

He hears Mercer’s voice, reminding him gently of how alone he’d been in his childhood. He hears you saying “kiss me,” the way you called him "babe." He thinks of the way you just looked at him, without horror or confusion or anger.

You looked at him like you knew him, really knew him—and somehow, you were still here.

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Don’t fuck this up,” his brain warns.

Then, he turns and walks down the hall to his room. Logically, he knows you’ll be in there, but taking in the sight of you already half asleep in his bed still feels surreal.

You look up sleepily and pat the mattress next to you. Carefully, he climbs in next to you, lets you slowly shift to lay on his chest. He’s sure you can feel his heart hammering there, but if you do, you don’t say anything.

Until you do.

"Are you ok?" you ask softly, looking up at him.

Dex swallows and nods, lies through his teeth. “Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"You just seem ... intense. More than usual.” For the first time that night, apprehension enters your tone. “Was this too much too soon?”

And he almost laughs because it's so absurd, the idea that anything to do with you could be "too much." "Too much" to most people was barely scratching the surface for him. He wants it all, to capture every single thing about you, in every way and every minute and every shade and color in between—how you laugh, how you cry, how you feel underneath him; empty it all into the hollow expanse in his chest and carry it with him forever.

“What? No, no, absolutely not,” he says, shifting so he can look you in the eyes, to make sure you know he means it. He brings one hand to your face, strokes away some of the damp hair clinging to your cheek.

“You are perfect,” he says firmly. “And I just. You're so special and funny and beautiful and I ... I want you to be happy … with me.” His voice quiets. “I don’t want to fuck this up.”

"I know,” you murmur back. “But let me ask you something. Who did I come to tonight when I needed someone I could trust?"

Dex gives a half smile.

"Me."

"Who did I summon enough energy for to make out with on the couch even though my body was beat to shit today?"

"Me."

You spread your arm out wide.

"Whose literal bed am I laying in right now?"

He can’t help it, he smiles for real this time.

"Mine."

"Right. Those were all my choices. All you.” You bring his forehead to yours. “And I don’t plan on that changing any time soon. Ok?"

"Ok."

You kiss him again, slow and sweet, before you tuck back into him.

"Night, Dex."

"Night."

Your eyes close immediately but his stay open, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, grounding himself in the warmth of your body against his.

After a while, he checks his watch and realizes he's been watching you sleep for over an hour. He knows he could do it all night, but he also knows he needs to be functioning in the morning.

After all, he's got a plan to execute: he needs to pick up your favorite Starbucks and make breakfast before you wake up, figure out where he wants to score your Vicodin from, set up Netflix so you can watch whatever you want.

Anything to make you stay.

So he brushes his lips against your hair and finally lets his eyes close, the humming in his mind starting to slow.

When you started dating Matt, you'd made sure to buy pure silk pajamas so you could cuddle with him without it setting off his sensitive touch receptors. The physical reminder of how much you care makes his body ache with love, as if he can feel your affection seeping into him, filling the cracks of his own self-hatred and making him feel whole in a way he's searched for his entire life.

You have a book balancing on his back, your fingers flipping to the next page periodically. The book you're reading is a sci-fi, something you'd picked out on the date he'd taken you on not too long ago, he knows this because you'd been talking about it— the plot, ins and outs of the world-building, and complexity of the characters.

But he didn't mind listening, in fact, he enjoyed it thoroughly.

"Sweetheart?" Matt's tired voice breaks through the comfortable silence of the room quietly, breaking your concentration. He hears you reply with hum.

"Would you mind reading to me? I want to hear your voice," He requests, sinking further into you.

Matt can almost hear the smile that graces your face, your heart-rate picking up ever so slightly before it settles back down.

"'Course I can, honey," Your reply is thick with tenderness, your love for him palpable.

One of your hands drifts up to his head, fingers beginning to thread through his soft locks, short nails lightly scraping against his scalp. Your voice is soft and smooth, melting into his ears pleasantly. The words flow out of your mouth flawlessly, not a single pause of hesitation or crack. He is completely pliable under your touch, softening at the sensation of your hand in his hair and the sound of your sweet voice.

It isn't long before you feel Matt's body go limp in your grip, his breathing an even inhale and exhale. Your fond smile only deepens as you close the book and carefully lean over to place it on the nightstand, flicking off the bedside lamp within the same movement. You lean down and press a chaste kiss to his forehead, to which he leans into before nuzzling back into you.

Matt doesn't think heaven could compare; or maybe this is his heaven, forever with the person his heart beats for, safe and sound.

☆

gambit ; strip poker ..

"you sure you're up for this one, chere? pretty intense game .." remy sorts a deck of cards in his hands, nimble fingers moving faster than your eyes can track. he doesn't watch the cards so much as he watches you. his eyes are doing that thing. the thing where he looks you up and down nice and slow. the thing that feels more than friendly.

but no, remy and you were just friends.

friends played strip poker together, right?

right?

"it's not my first time playing." you reply, the lie slipping past your lips easily.

"is that right? you some kind of daredevil, then?" he leans back to crank up the stereo before you can respond.

a slow, jazzy tune fills the room, honeyed saxophone floating gently through your ears. your foot taps idly to the beat as remy passes you a few cards and flips three face up onto the table.

you look at your hand. a two and three of hearts. on the table is a king of spades, eight of diamonds, and queen of clubs. you try not to wince.

you're pretty sure remy is cheating by the time you get to the third round. you've already kicked off your boots - he let you pick the first item, and you couldn't muster the courage to say anything more than shoes and socks - and your jacket. the top you're wearing feels too small and too thin. the room feels too hot.

remy has relaxed into his seat, having helped himself to a few shots of whiskey. he's leaning over the table, cards held idly in one hand and the other elbow propped onto the table so he can rest his head on his knuckles. you know he's cheating because he hasn't looked at his cards a single time. even in that half-there, drunken state, remy only has eyes for you.

"aw, too bad." he says, placing down another winning hand.

that jerk.

"you're cheating," you accuse, hitting your cards off the tabletop in an exasperated fit.

"mmhmmm.." remy hums, blinking slowly at you, "you can lose the shirt."

"seriously?"

"thought you played this game before."

"thought you had manners."

remy laughs, his voice easing into a sultry drawl, "take off your shirt, [name]."

you try not to shiver. you avoid his gaze, staring instead at a spot on the wall as you lift the hem of your shirt. you tug your top over your head, letting it fall to the floor beside your chair. even though you're not looking at him, you know remy is drinking you in.

"it's not fair that i have to sit here, half naked, while you're fully clothed!" you finally snap, daring to glance at him.

he has the audacity to smile at you, all innocent, "you're right. should i start with my pants, or would you rather -"

"okay, stop. i get it."

"you're beautiful."

the sincerity in which he says it gives you pause, and you finally meet his eyes, holding your breath. remy's sitting up now, not entirely sober but much more serious.

"i .. uh .. i don't go 'round playing this game with just anybody, you know?" he adds, swallowing thickly as he eyes you again. and again. and again.

you know what he's saying. you don't know if you believe it.

"that's why you're cheating? is this some kind of fantasy of yours?" you ask, trying for some bite.

he bites his bottom lip to hold back a grin, "hah." you watch, entranced, as he runs his tongue over his teeth, "sorta. but it ends a little different."

"what? i guess you want me to ask -"

"you see, chere, dis is the part where i kiss you, and you either punch me silly, or ..."

trailing off, remy is suddenly halfway across the table, a hand snaking around your neck to pull you in.

he tastes like whiskey. you think about punching him, pulling away and pretending this never happened. pretending he was still just a friend. but then he slides his tongue into your mouth and you can't think of anything other than him. his smell. his taste. his touch ..

it's safe to say you forgot about poker. and remy has never just been friendly.

johnny storm ; in the rain ..

"what? i don't understand why you're running away!" johnny scrambles after you, his shirt soaking through and sticking to him all over. he's uncomfortable. he hates being wet, but he doesn't slow down, staying right on your heels as you storm off.

"i'm not running!" you shout back.

it's true, you aren't running. but you are aggressively walking. and you're fast when you want to be.

you can't explain it. you don't want to explain it. seeing him kiss that other girl just irked you in all the wrong ways. you still have goosebumps, the bad kind, from just thinking about it. his hands on her waist, his lips on hers.. it made you want to scream. it makes you want to scream.

how do you explain that? how do you say 'oh yeah, johnny, i'm fine. i just want to rip out my hair when i see you with another girl, that's all' without sounding out of your damn mind?

"[name]! - [name] - stop! wait up, okay? let's talk about this!" he bolts out in front of you, sending you skidding to a stop.

your only inches away from him, having barely missed ramming straight into his chest. that same chest she was all over - ugh! what is wrong with you?

you stare furiously at the ground, and he ducks his head to meet your eyes. his blonde hair is sticking to his face and he's not wearing shoes, having run out after you on a whim, but his hands are still warm when they grasp your wrist.

his voice is gentle when he says, "[name]. what are you doing? don't run away from me.." he mumbles, eyebrows knitting together.

you can't bear to see him looking like a whimpering puppy, so you force your gaze onto a building over his shoulder, "is she your girlfriend?" you say the words through grit teeth, your hand flexing against his grip.

he lets you go, recoiling. for a second, johnny just looks at you, like all the cogs in his head have finally clicked into place, "that's what this is about? you're .. jealous?"

"no! yes! i don't know! is she your girlfriend?"

"no! i just kissed her to make you notice!"

".. what?!"

he winces, bringing a hand up to rub the back of his neck. he has the decency to at least look chagrined as he takes in your newly irritated expression, "look .. i didn't mean to .. i just wanted to make you jealous, alright? i guess i got what i wanted, but -"

"i'm not jealous!''

"okay, you're not jealous," he holds his hands up, "but you did storm out. heh. storm. get it? okay - sorry - don't hit me -" he grabs your hands again, mostly to keep you from beating his sorry ass to a pulp, "so it did bother you, yeah? that i kissed her?"

"obviously, you dimwit!"

"yeah, dimwit. i know." he squeezes your hands, finally moving closer, and closer, until his chest brushes yours. he tilts his head at you, "i'm sorry. i didn't want to hurt you," he pauses, letting go of your hand to instead brush his knuckles over your cheek, "i like you. but you wouldn't look at me. so .."

"so you went off with a another girl?" you snap.

he grimaces, "it was one kiss. i can give you a lot more. i want to give you a lot more .." he trails off, eyes darkening for a moment as he bites his lip.

"you - hey, you can't just .. we're not done talking -"

he swallows your protests with a kiss, his hands sliding around your waist and tugging you closer. the rain soaks through you, and though it should have chilled you, you've never felt hotter.

peter parker and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad first date

he hadn't called it a date, when he first asked you out. he had meant to, but when he finally got the courage to talk to you, what came out was -

"let's go out! as friends, i mean! totally friendly, just friends. two friends, hanging out. alone. haha .."

and somehow, that wasn't enough to scare you off.

what should have scared you off, though, was the partially dead flowers and muddied outfit he showed up in. you considered yourself lucky no one else was home when peter knocked at your door, because they would have refused to let you out and probably called the police on the squatter trying to seduce their kid.

peter's hair had been soaked, he had a splotch of dirt on his cheek (which he wiped away furiously once you pointed it out), his pants were ripped at the knee, and his sneakers were tearing at the seams.

for some reason, you found it endearing.

"hey! hi! oh - um." he shoved the flowers toward you after you opened the door - a bouquet of partially crushed and dirtied lilies - "these are for you. in a friendly way - stop saying that, peter .." he trailed off, slowly glancing down at himself, "right! oh! so. i fell. right into a puddle, actually. a muddy puddle. mud puddle."

you gave him a pitying, if a little amused, smile, "do you want to come inside? i think i have something that'll fit you .."

peter lingered awkwardly in your doorway until you were able to put the dying flowers in a vase and wrangle up a clean pair of pants and a hoodie for him to wear. he blushed pink to the tips of his ears on the way to the bathroom.

the clothes were a little small on him, and he was more than a little bashful about it all, but you made it work.

you thought that was it. but then came the actual date (not date? friendly hang out? it was unclear).

peter insisted he make it a surprise. but the arcade was closed, the funfair rides made him sick, and the food truck made you sick. he apologized profusely through the whole thing, muttering to himself on occasion.

he was silent as he walked you home. silent and embarrassed and beating himself up.

"peter?" you asked, stopping in front of your door, "you okay?"

he scuffed the toe of his shoe against the concrete, running a hand through his brown hair, ".. i'm really sorry, [name], i -"

"come on, it's not your fault the arcade was under maintenance."

"but -"

"or that you get sick on rides."

"still -"

"or that i'm allergic to pineapple."

"yeah, i know. but, look, i had this whole thing planned, alright! i was going to win you a prize, and then we'd go on the ferris wheel, and i could finally confess how much i liked you -" he stops himself, clamping his mouth shut with owlish eyes.

"you .. like me?" you echo. you're more startled by the fact that he actually said it - peter had never been subtle, "i thought this was just a friendly hangout? for friends?"

he lets out a rueful chuckle, nodding his head like he's accepting defeat, "guess i made a pretty big fool out of myself, huh?"

you step closer to him, ignoring the way he stiffens, "i think it was really sweet. and, peter? i like you, too."

with that, you leaned up and kissed him. for a moment, he was frozen, and you thought you made a mistake. but then, his hands come up to frame your face gently, and his lips moved against yours. it felt like fireworks burst all around you two.

you felt peter's shoulders relax under your hands, and he pulled back just to pepper kisses all over your face, leaving you to duck and run for cover, laughter fading into your house as peter gives chase.

wolverine ; only one bed

"you have got to be shitting me," you hear logan's disappointment before you see it. he's already shouldered through the door and paused just past the threshold.

the motel is sketchy enough that you don't really want to linger in the halls, so you nudge him forward and shut the door behind you, before turning to see what has him stomping around like an angry bull.

oh.

one bed. one very small, very cramped bed for the two of you.

okay, you could handle this. not like he's your lifelong crush or anything. you're too old for crushes, anyway. just two adults and a twin bed.

"i'll sleep in the bathtub." logan says before you can get a word out.

you step past him to peek into the bathroom, "yeah, there's no bathtub, just the shower." you point out, eyeing a spider as it crawls into a crack in the wall.

"i'll sleep on the floor."

"it's hardwood." you protest, frowning.

"what d'ya want to do then, share?"

"yes."

he pauses from where he's rummaging through his bag and turns over his shoulder to give you a perplexed look, "really? i'm a big guy, sweetheart. might not be a lot of room left for you."

"i'm a kicker."

"swell."

with that settled, you place your bag on what you are claiming as your side of the bed, sifting through it to pull out a phone charger and a few other things you place on the nightstand. logan marches past you to the bathroom, and you hear the sound of water rushing as he turns the shower on.

you take a tentative glance over your shoulder to find the door had been left open a crack, probably to let the steam out. you can just barely see logan pull his shirt off, and, consequently, get an eyeful of his back. his muscles contract when he moves, and you stare, transfixed by his scars and finely textured skin. the way his bicep swells when he reaches up to comb a hand through his hair.

you look away before he takes his pants off.

you're curled up, half asleep on a small sliver of the bed when logan comes out. donning only a pair of sweatpants and no shirt, he casts you a lingering glance as he pads past you to slide under the covers. you force your eyes shut for a moment as you take in the warmth of his body next to yours.

you feel him shift a little, grunting as he settles onto his back, and you match his position. with the bed so small, you have no choice but to lay with your shoulders touching. it feels like his bare skin is burning you. you swallow.

"do you always sleep shirtless?" you ask, trying not to sound too discombobulated.

you catch him raises an eyebrow, "it's hot." he responds with an unbothered shrug.

you turn onto your side, facing him, and rest your head on your forearm. he does the same. if you moved just a little bit closer, you're pretty sure your noses would touch.

"i saw you." logan murmurs the words quietly, laced with a little bit of smugness.

your eyebrows shoot up - shit - "what? what do you mean?"

"you were watching me change." he lays the words out cleanly, all too aware of how it makes your face heat up.

"come on, no i wasn't," you try weakly.

"there's a mirror in the bathroom."

you wince, caught. "alright, sorry, i just .."

"'s alright," he gives you a grin, one of those feral, wolfish smiles he only gives every once in a while, "i liked it. didn't leave the door open for no reason, y'know?"

oh.

oh.

"so, you .." you pause. did you dare say it? yeah. with the way he's looking at you, you'd probably say anything to keep him talking, "you wanted me to .. watch you change?"

he smiles again, canines flashing, "sure. i got a better idea, though - why dont'cha come on over here and get a feel, instead?"

logan takes one of your hands, tugging it up to slide over his chest as he closes the distance. you don't protest when his lips meet yours, melting into it.

you run your hands up and down his chest and abs, falling back against the mattress as he rolls on top of you.

sleep is the last thing on your mind, especially with him touching you like that.

he stares at you for a second before looking down at his hands. the coin is still moving.

“oh my god.” his face immediately turns pink. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

“a little.” you laugh. “dex, that thing hasn’t stopped moving since you got here.”

he groans and drags a hand down his face. “great.”

“it’s cute.” you smile.

his expression somehow becomes even more horrified.

“don’t call it cute.”

"are you nervous?” the question makes him pause. for the first time all evening, the coin stops moving. he looks down at it, then back at the coin.

"I really wanted this to go well.” the honesty in his voice catches you off guard. suddenly the coin, the fidgeting, the awkward glances - it all makes sense. your heart feels strangely warm.

without thinking much about it, you reach across the table and gently take his free hand. dex freezes. completely. the coin slips forgotten into his other palm as his eyes widen slightly.

"you know,” you say, tracing your thumb across his knuckles, “this date was already going well.”

there’s a softness to him now that wasn’t there before. the coin hasn’t moved in nearly ten minutes. instead, his thumb has started brushing absentmindedly against yours. when he realizes what he’s doing, his blush somehow deepens.

"sorry.”

"for what?”

"I don’t know.” he laughs nervously. “everything.”

you shake your head fondly before leaning across the table. before you can second-guess yourself, you press a quick kiss to his cheek. it’s brief, sweet, barely lasting a second. dex immediately stops functioning. his eyes go wide. his mouth opens and closes twice. the poor guy looks like his brain has completely crashed.

you ask, trying and failing not to laugh. “you kissed me.” his voice comes out breathless.

"I did.”

his face is bright red now. for a moment he just stares at you before a shy smile appears. “thank you,” he says softly.

"for the kiss?”

"for making me stop being nervous.” your chest melts. you squeeze his hand gently beneath the table, and this time when he smiles back, there’s no tension left in it at all.

You come to the Tower after a HYDRA clean-up operation in Bucharest.

Former intelligence analyst.

Temporary consultant, Fury says.

“Temporary” becomes six months faster than anyone expects.

You’re clever enough to keep up with Tony, sarcastic enough to survive Sam, patient enough to tolerate Bruce’s nervous rambling, and somehow stubborn enough to call Natasha out on her bullshit without fear.

The team likes you immediately.

Bucky doesn’t.

At first.

Mostly because you’re too observant.

You look at him carefully.

Not fearfully.

Not pityingly.

Just carefully.

Like you’re trying to understand him without taking him apart.

He hates that.

Then he starts noticing things.

You don’t flinch around him.

You don’t stare at the metal arm.

You don’t ask questions about the Winter Soldier.

But sometimes he catches you watching him when you think he isn’t looking.

Not because he’s dangerous.

Because he’s alone.

That’s worse somehow.

The touch thing becomes impossible to ignore after a mission in Prague.

It’s ugly from the start.

Explosives.

Gunfire.

A narrow hallway collapsing before Clint can get civilians out.

You get trapped beneath part of a shattered support beam.

Nothing life-threatening.

Just enough to pin you awkwardly until Bucky and Sam can move it.

You laugh afterward.

Brush dust off your jeans.

Tell everyone you’re fine.

But your hands shake for almost an hour.

Bucky notices because he notices everything about you now.

Which is already a problem.

Then Natasha walks by and squeezes the back of your neck absentmindedly.

And you nearly melt.

It’s subtle.

Most people wouldn’t catch it.

But Bucky does.

Your eyes close for one second.

Your shoulders loosen.

Your breathing evens out instantly.

Relief.

Immediate and devastating.

Like your nervous system has been waiting for permission to settle.

Bucky stares.

You realize he saw.

Embarrassment flashes across your face so fast it hurts to witness.

You pull away immediately.

“I’m okay,” you say too quickly.

Bucky says nothing.

But something ugly twists in his chest afterward.

Not disgust.

Not judgment.

Something worse.

Recognition.

He starts testing theories after that.

Not intentionally.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

You’re sitting on the couch during one of Tony’s terrible movie marathons, half asleep beneath a blanket while everyone argues over which “Die Hard” movie counts as the best one.

Your feet are tucked under you.

Your head keeps drooping.

Without thinking, Bucky reaches over and brushes your hair away from your face.

Just once.

A small movement.

Barely anything.

You freeze.

Not frightened.

Just stunned.

Then slowly—carefully—you lean into his hand.

Like it’s instinct.

Like your body chose before your brain could stop it.

Jesus Christ.

Bucky pulls his hand back immediately.

You blink yourself awake, suddenly aware of what happened.

“Sorry,” you mumble automatically.

Sorry.

Like you did something wrong.

The word slices straight through him.

“For what?” he asks quietly.

You stare at the television instead of him.

“Nothing.”

Bucky doesn’t sleep that night.

After that, it gets worse.

For both of you.

Because now Bucky knows.

And now you know he knows.

The tension changes shape.

It becomes something alive.

Something breathing between you.

Bucky starts finding excuses to touch you.

Tiny things.

A hand at your lower back guiding you through crowded rooms.

Brushing shoulders in the kitchen.

His fingers tapping against your knee during briefings.

He tells himself it’s harmless.

Friendly.

Normal.

But he notices the way your entire body softens every single time.

And you notice that he notices.

One night you fall asleep in the common room while reading.

Bucky finds you there around two in the morning.

Curled sideways on the couch.

Blanket slipping off your shoulder.

Exhaustion written all over your face.

The Tower is quiet.

Everyone asleep.

He should leave.

Instead he kneels beside the couch and carefully pulls the blanket back over you.

Your eyes flutter open immediately.

Panic first.

Then recognition.

Then something softer.

“Sorry,” you whisper groggily.

Again.

Always apologizing for existing.

Bucky’s jaw tightens.

“You gotta stop saying that.”

Your brow furrows.

“For what?”

“For wanting things.”

The room goes completely still.

You look at him like he just reached into your chest and pulled something out barehanded.

Bucky realizes too late how honest that sounded.

You swallow hard.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

He almost lets you get away with it.

Almost.

Instead he says quietly, “Nobody touches you enough.”

Your face crumples.

Not dramatically.

Not crying.

Just—

wrecked.

Like no one was ever supposed to notice that.

Bucky feels suddenly, horribly protective.

You look away first.

“I’m fine.”

“No,” he says softly. “You’re not.”

The silence afterward feels intimate in a way that terrifies both of you.

Then, carefully—slow enough for you to pull away—Bucky rests his flesh hand over yours.

Warm.

Steady.

Gentle.

You stop breathing.

And then—

you turn your hand beneath his and hold on.

It ruins everything.

Because after that, neither of you can pretend anymore.

Touch becomes dangerous.

Addictive.

You start gravitating toward him unconsciously.

Sitting beside him.

Leaning against him during briefings.

Falling asleep against his shoulder during quinjet rides.

And Bucky—

God.

Bucky becomes obsessed with taking care of you.

Not in a controlling way.

In a reverent one.

Like he’s trying to make up for every year nobody held you gently enough.

He tucks blankets around you.

Rubs your back when anxiety hits.

Lets you thread your fingers through his metal hand because you like the coolness of it against your skin.

One night after a nightmare, you end up outside his room at three in the morning.

You look mortified to be there.

“I can go,” you say immediately.

Bucky opens the door wider.

“You can stay.”

You hesitate.

“Only if you’re sure.”

He almost laughs at that.

Like you still don’t understand he’d hand you every broken piece of himself if you asked.

That night you sleep beside him for the first time.

No sex.

No kissing.

Just sleep.

Your head against his chest.

His arm around your waist.

You fall asleep in less than five minutes.

Bucky stays awake almost all night.

Because nobody has ever trusted him with softness like this before.

And because he realizes somewhere around four in the morning that he’s completely fucked.

The team notices eventually.

Sam notices first, obviously.

“You got heart eyes,” he tells Bucky over coffee.

“I’ll kill you.”

“You brush her hair behind her ear like she’s in a Jane Austen movie.”

Bucky glares at him.

Sam grins wider.

“She looks at you like you hung the moon, man.”

That shuts Bucky up.

Because that part scares him too.

You do look at him differently now.

Like he’s safe.

Like he’s home.

And Bucky has spent almost a century being neither of those things.

The first kiss happens accidentally.

Which is a lie.

Nothing between you has been accidental for months.

It happens in the kitchen.

Late.

Rain against the windows.

You’re wearing one of his henleys because you left your clothes in the wash downstairs.

Bucky is trying very hard not to think about that.

You’re standing close enough that your socked feet brush his.

Talking softly about nothing important.

Then your hand lands absently on his chest.

Just resting there.

Warm.

Trusting.

Bucky looks down at it.

Then at you.

And something in his expression must change because your breathing catches.

“Buck,” you whisper.

He gives you every chance to walk away.

You don’t.

You step closer instead.

His metal hand settles carefully against your waist like he’s afraid too much pressure will break you.

You tilt your face up.

And Bucky kisses you like a man dying of thirst.

Slow at first.

Disbelieving.

Then deeper when you make that tiny sound against his mouth.

The kind of sound that tells him this means something.

Your fingers clutch his shirt.

His heartbeat goes completely feral.

When he finally pulls back, your forehead rests against his.

Neither of you speaks.

You don’t need to.

The devastation is already complete.

Loving Bucky Barnes is not easy.

Loving you isn’t easy either.

You’re both too damaged in complementary ways.

Bucky gives touch like it’s survival.

You receive it like oxygen.

Sometimes that becomes dangerous.

There are nights he holds you so tightly it borders on desperation.

Nights you cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in the universe.

You become each other’s comfort too quickly.

Too deeply.

But somehow—

somehow—it works.

Because neither of you asks the other to be healed first.

Months later, after a mission gone sideways in Madripoor, Bucky comes back bloodied and furious and shaking with leftover violence.

You find him alone in the Tower gym at two in the morning.

His metal fist has cracked one of the punching bags clean open.

“Buck.”

“Don’t,” he says immediately.

Like he can’t bear for you to see him like this.

You walk toward him anyway.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

You stop directly in front of him.

His breathing is ragged.

Eyes wild around the edges.

Still halfway in combat mode.

Everyone else in the world might fear him like this.

You don’t.

Very gently, you take his flesh hand first.

Then the metal one.

“You came back,” you say softly.

The anger breaks instantly.

Just—

gone.

Bucky folds around the grief of it with a broken sound in his throat.

And suddenly he’s holding you so hard it almost hurts.

His face buried against your neck.

You stroke your fingers through his hair.

“It’s okay,” you whisper.

No one has ever held the Winter Soldier through his terror before.

No one except you.

Bucky thinks, not for the first time, that this is probably what love actually is.

Not grand gestures.

Not fireworks.

This.

Being known completely.

And held anyway.

The proposal happens almost a year later.

Quiet.

Private.

Perfect.

You’re half asleep in bed, tangled together beneath soft sheets while rain taps against the windows.

Bucky’s tracing lazy patterns along your spine.

Your fingers are linked with his metal hand.

Comfortable silence.

Home.

Then suddenly he says, very seriously, “Marry me.”

You blink up at him.

“What?”

His expression turns nervous immediately, which is honestly absurd considering this is James Buchanan Barnes.

“I’m serious.”

“You’re asking me while I look like this?”

“You look beautiful.”

“I’m wearing an old Stark Industries shirt and one sock.”

“You still look beautiful.”

You laugh softly.

Then realize he isn’t joking.

Your chest aches instantly.

“Bucky…”

He brings your joined hands to his mouth.

Kisses your knuckles carefully.

“I spent a real long time thinking I was too broken for this,” he says quietly. “Then you walked in and started looking at me like I was worth something.”

Tears sting your eyes immediately.

“You are worth something.”

His thumb brushes beneath your eye.

“And you deserve to be loved out loud. Deserve to be held whenever you need it. Deserve somebody who notices.”

Your breath shakes.

“Buck—”

“I notice everything about you.”

That does it.

That destroys you completely.

Because he does.

He notices when you’re overwhelmed before you say anything.

Notices when you need quiet.

Notices when you’re touch-starved and crawling out of your own skin from loneliness.

Notices when you need his hand on the back of your neck to ground you again.

He notices.

And he never makes you feel ashamed for needing.

“Yes,” you whisper, crying now. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you.”

Bucky exhales like he’s been holding that breath for decades.

Then he kisses you.

Slow.

Tender.

Certain.

The kind of kiss that feels like being chosen.

And afterward you curl into him instinctively, your face tucked against his chest while his arms close around you immediately.

Automatic now.

Natural as breathing.

Bucky presses his mouth against your hair and thinks, with something dangerously close to peace, that maybe ruin isn’t always a bad thing.

Because figuring out you were touch-starved ruined both of your lives.