star writes about older men

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

You were not small. You were not mild.

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

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

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

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

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

Six months was not a long time. 

Six months was nothing.

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

You and Dex had skipped all of that.

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

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

He belonged there. He belonged to you.

And fuck, you liked it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were supposed to work together.

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

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

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

Now it was his apartment, too, legally.

And today, you were late in coming home.

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

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

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

Then three and a half.

Then the dot stopped.

Dex stared at the screen anxiously.

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

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

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

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

Dex refreshed the app.

You still haven’t moved.

He refreshed again.

You still haven’t moved.

His thumb hovered over your name in the contacts. 

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

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

So Dex stayed on the couch.

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

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

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

He refreshed the tracker again.

You were moving now.

Good. Good.

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

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

Dex froze.

Huh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blood painted the floor before Dex ever saw his face.

And there was a lot of blood.

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

Oh, fuck off. 

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

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

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

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

Bucky blinked once, unimpressed.

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

Dex forced himself to smile. “Me.”

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

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

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

As if he had never trespassed before. 

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

“You missed.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

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

Bucky’s eyes lifted at that.

Huh. 

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

“Yours?’” He echoed.

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

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

Dex almost shot him for the tone alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dex’s face went cold.

“Oh,” he said softly. “That hurt.”

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

Dex smiled. “No.”

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

“You miss her.”

Bucky’s expression shut down.

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

“Nothing about you is funny.”

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

Bucky swung.

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

Bucky’s knees dipped.

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

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

“You should’ve gone to a hospital.”

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

Dex’s smile vanished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

Dex saw the thought cross his face and smiled wider.

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

That was enough to make him falter. 

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

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

His grip tightened until the knife trembled once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t.

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

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

You would look at him like he had hurt you.

His teeth clenched.

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

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

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

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

“Were you followed?” he asked.

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

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

Dex’s stare didn’t move. “Try again.”

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

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

“I was shot,” Bucky sneered.

“Everyone’s got problems.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dex smiled. “She actually likes it.”

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

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

Then they both heard it.

The lock turned.

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

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

Oh, shit.

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

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

“Stand up,” Dex hissed.

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

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

Bucky stared at him.

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

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

So they tried.

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

“Stop bleeding,” Dex whispered.

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

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

That shut him up.

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

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

From outside the bedroom, your footsteps slowed.

“Dex?” you called, closer now.

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

You paused outside the cracked bedroom door.

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

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

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

Dex opened his mouth.

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

“Work,” Dex managed to croak.

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

You opened the door.

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

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

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

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

You blinked once.

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

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

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

“You bled on her floor.”

“I was bleeding before I got here.”

You lifted one hand, and both of them stopped.

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

“My perfume,” you said.

Dex’s face shifted with instant, tragic guilt.

Bucky looked down.

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

“It was an accident,” Bucky said carefully.

Dex’s head turned toward him very slowly.

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

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

Finally, you sighed.

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

“Were you followed?” you asked.

Bucky hated that he had to answer that twice.

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

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

He froze.

“Don’t.”

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

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

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

“Boys!” you snapped.

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

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

You looked at Dex. “Knife.”

He handed it over immediately, handle first.

You looked at Bucky. “Gun.”

Bucky hesitated for half a second.

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

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

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

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

Dex glanced at Bucky. Bucky glanced at Dex.

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

So they said nothing.

That, finally, was smart.

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

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

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

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

You looked at him.

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

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

Oh, you ruined him.

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

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

Bucky made the mistake of looking amused.

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

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

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

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

Bucky’s expression went carefully blank.

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

“Don’t get comfortable,” Dex muttered.

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

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

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

The first stitch went in neat and mean.

Bucky’s metal hand flexed.

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

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

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

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

You looked at the wound, then at Dex.

“Did you make it hurt?” you asked.

Dex paused, and Bucky stared at the ceiling.

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

—

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

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

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

You had tried. Fuck, you had actually tried. 

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

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

Bucky grunted.

Dex made a similar sound

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

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

Dex looked up immediately. “You got shot.”

“And still lost them.”

“You ran here.”

“I came here because it was close.”

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

Bucky’s face hardened.

“I was bleeding.”

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

“Dex,” you warned.

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

“What?” Dex asked.

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

The room went still.

You said, “Bucky.”

But Dex had already smiled.

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

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

Liar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know you left.”

“You know what she told you.”

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

That one landed too close too home.

You stood up. “Dex.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not your safehouse,” Dex said.

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

“She is my home.”

“She was mine before she was yours.”

You, by now, had long gone silent.

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

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

“I was there when it mattered.”

“And where were you after?”

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

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

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

Then something inside you simply turned… off.

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

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

You stepped back.

Still, they argued.

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

Dex was the first to notice.

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

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

Then he stopped too.

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

Dex said your name.

You didn't answer.

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

“No.”

He froze.

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

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

Neither of them moved.

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

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

Dex followed immediately.

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

Bucky stayed in the living room alone.

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

For once, he had nothing left to say.

—

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

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

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

“Baby,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dex was not like that.

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

You covered your mouth, breath hiccuping.

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

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

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

“I know,” he whispered.

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

“I’m not trying to.”

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

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

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

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

“Julie,” he said.

You looked away immediately, and that was answer enough.

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

“Don’t.”

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

You remembered that night with a humiliating clarity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your throat tightened. “That was different.”

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

You looked at him, breathing unevenly.

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

You went still.

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

Your breath hitched.

Dex stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your fingers slid into his hair despite yourself.

He turned his face into your touch at once.

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

You looked down at him.

“…But he saved my life.”

That, Dex didn’t have an answer to.

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

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

Dex was silent for a beat too long.

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

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

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

“It is.”

“Then act like it.”

His eyes closed.

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

Dex opened his eyes again, devastated.

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

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

“No,” you said. “You suffer at me.”

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

“I’ll try,” he said. 

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

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

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

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

Dex’s hands fell slowly from your waist. 

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

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

“No.”

Oh.

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

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

“Solving my problem.”

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

His expression went flat. “No.”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

“Wait,” Dex said.

“Nope.”

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

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

Bucky and Dex stared at you.

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

They sat.

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

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

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

You put your coat back on.

Both of them went very still.

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

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

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

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

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

That shut him up.

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

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

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

Finally, Bucky exhaled.

Dex said, very quietly, “I hate you.”

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

—

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re alive.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m managing.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I know enough.”

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

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

Bucky said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

Dex listened unwillingly.

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

“Was she right?” Dex asked.

Bucky didn’t answer straight away.

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s bullshit.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not what this is.”

“That is exactly what this is.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

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

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

It was never going to work out after that. 

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

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “Yeah.”

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

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

Dex swallowed once, staring at the floor.

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

Bucky’s shame sat heavily in the room. 

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

“She’s perfect.”

“She’s not,” Bucky said.

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

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

“Then say it right.”

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

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

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

Dex looked down at the cuffs around his wrists.

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

Dex frowned. “What?”

“You didn’t know?”

Dex said nothing.

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

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

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

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

“Shut up.”

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

“I know that now.”

Dex went quiet again.

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

Dex’s breathing slowed.

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

Dex tensed before he could stop himself.

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

Dex stared at the door.

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

Oh.

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

“You still love her,” he said.

Bucky didn’t answer quickly enough.

Dex’s teth tightened. “Don’t lie.”

Bucky looked at the wall. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

“You want her.”

“I don’t get to want her.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

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

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

Dex froze.

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

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

Dex didn’t move.

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

Dex’s throat tightened.

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

Dex stared at nothing.

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

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

You love her as she is.

Oh.

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

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

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

Dex blinked. “You can’t see my face.”

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

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

“I know.”

“I don’t want you near her.”

“I know that too.”

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

Bucky was quiet.

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

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

Dex listened for the lie.

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

“I know,” Dex said finally.

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

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

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

Bucky turned his head slightly. “Why?”

“Because it would hurt her.”

Bucky sighed and said, “Good.”

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

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Neither do I.”

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

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

“It worked on me and Sam.”

“I’m not Sam.”

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

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

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

Bucky went still.

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

Bucky looked down at his metal hand.

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

“Not anymore,” Bucky said.

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s an observation.”

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

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

Dex’s eyes narrowed. “I know.”

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

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

Dex looked toward the door again.

“She’ll be cold,” he said.

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

“She’d be lying.”

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of them spoke after that.

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

—

When you came back, they were free.

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

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

You blinked.

“Uh.”

Neither of them moved.

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

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

“We worked together,” Bucky said.

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

That was apparently the whole explanation.

Huh.

The apartment was kind of clean now. 

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

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

The bar, unfortunately, was on the floor.

At one point, Bucky said he should go.

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

“We’ll catch up,” you said quietly.

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

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

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

He lasted exactly three seconds.

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

You looked at him over Bucky’s shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t kill him,” he said.

Your anger thinned at the edges despite yourself.

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

You sighed, then reached up and touched his cheek.

“I’m proud of you, baby.”

Dex’s eyes gentled immediately.

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

His breath hitched, just a little.

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

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

Dex leaned into your palm anyway.

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

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

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

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

Perfect for each other.

Dex smiled into your mouth.

Yeah.

He could live with that.

—end.

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

Dex taglist : @itsdynotdaddy @diabolicallydownbad @doesanyonereadthis @meicore @pixie2k5 @bibiishin @starlitflora @pearlstiare @glorybeat @stardustworlds @castawaybarnes @supervampireflame @not-the-teen-witch @billybonesxx @ultimatewolverine @treetrees-world-of-imagiation @bitch-spaghetti-o @lostinthes4uce @cotton-eee @weallhaveadestiny @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @moonbug333 @yujyujj @mattdexx @lostfallenangelsblog @bloomsberryfairy @flimsysquid @abbotfan @leonetta2014 @ficcharsimpsblog @odairtrqsh @ugh-whytho @noonenuts @akiyhara @genya1617 @itzrachel04 @avidreader73 @quicksilver21 @lmg-stilinski24 @magnificentlymoltenpatron @natalia42069 @eaumyth @hxdxs @cemeterystardust @alligatortears87 @outpostsworld @scarlet48 @erina00 @tragicgirl23

You make your way to the front door, trying the handle and feeling stupid the moment you do. Your eyes connect with a small intercom beside you and you press it. There’s a small buzz, then silence.

A few beats go by, you debate pressing it again. You don’t want to be too insistent.

“Hello?” A voice comes through just before you reach up to press again.

“I, uh…” You stutter. Despite having many, many tattoos you somehow still feel like a poser every time you enter a new studio. “I have an appointment at one? With John?”

The man on the other side confirms your name before buzzing you in, the door letting out a loud click before you step inside. It both makes you more nervous and more relaxed - you can appreciate a closed storefront like that. Especially for something often as private as tattoos and piercings, but it still feels like you’re doing something wrong. Just a little bit.

The front room is lovely, though. The texture over the glass bathes the front room in a calm, iridescent light. There are a few waiting chairs, a low, black table piled high with books of flash. The front of the high counter is covered with posters and stickers from events going all the way back to the 90s.

The pretty man behind the counter repeats your name absently, obviously thinking about other things. Probably the half-finished design that sits abandoned on the iPad next to the appointment book he’s staring down at. You just nod in agreement.

“I’ll let John know you’re here.” He nods back, turning and pushing through a pair of saloon style doors to disappear down the hall. You take the time he’s gone to look around, flipping through yet another small book of designs on top of the counter. They’re good. Unique. Very gothic and interestingly detailed. Somehow both fine and bold simultaneously.

“Afternoon.” You jump, snapping the book shut and looking up to meet a pair of soft blue eyes and an easy smile. He looks you over briefly before extending his hand. “John Price.”

You murmur your name quietly, trying very hard to not stare at the incredible traditional work patched into a sleeve up his strong arm. Damn.

He leads you back to his work station - past a piercing studio and across from another room with the door shut and an IN SESSION sign on the door. The dull, buzzing sound of a tattoo machine drifts through.

“Now,” John says as he cuts down the extra paper around the stencil. “Just remember if you don’t like the placement we can move it. No problem.”

“Okay.” You nod, appreciative that he mentioned it. Sometimes these older men in the industry are gruff and have an attitude if you do anything less than treat them as if they are anything other than Absolutely Right and Perfect. Not that John came off that way. There’s a softness in his affect that relaxes your muscles and leaves you breathing easy.

“I know y’have several but I’m still going t’do a line and then see how you feel.” He murmurs, voice low.

It’s sweet, the way he’s walking you through it all despite the piece being small and you obviously having done with process several times. The sting of the needle is as expected and you murmur that it was fine before he really gets to work.

“Just let me know if y’need a break…” He mumbles, voice dipping even lower as he concentrates on his work. In any other situation that rumble would probably have you squirming in your seat. There’s a silence for a while before he speaks again, almost as if he forgot you were there. “This design have any significance?”

“I just wanted to get a new tattoo in my new hometown.” You snort - now at the point where most of your tattoos fall under the ‘because it’s cool’ category. “Probably stupid, seeing as I don’t have a job yet but… I don’t know. Feels like good luck.”

John grins. “Well then, thanks f’lettin’ me be your good luck charm.”

Your face heats at the rumble in his voice - glancing away nervously.

There’s another lapse of silence while he works, the only words exchanged are when he asks if you need a break and you decline. Eventually, toward the end you think, he asks another question. “What brought y’here then? If not a job?”

You would shrug, but you try to keep as still as possible while he works. “Just needed a change. Found an apartment easy enough - now I just need a way to make money.”

He hums in agreement. “What do you have experience in? Been around here a while - might be able to recommend somethin’.”

“Oh! Thank you!” You brighten up. “Receptionist work, mostly. Some admin assistant stuff.”

He pauses, cocking an eyebrow. “Y’know, we’re hirin’ right now.”

“Yeah?” You tilt your head. “I don’t have, like, a resume with me.”

“You’ve got enough tattoos I’m assumin’ you know how the industry works. My apprentice is going to start actually tattooin’ soon, an’ I hate t’ have him still pickin up extra duties at the front.” He sits back, carefully smoothing saniderm onto your arm before turning and reaching for the ink-stained sketchbook behind him. “Tell y’what, you write down a few references for me and your number. If they’ve got good things t’ say we can do a trial period.”

You blink at him. He’s awful forward, and insistent, but you suppose it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try. A temp job is better than no job. “Alright…”

Just like that, you gained employment by way of making a stupid financial decision.

John’s an incredible boss. He pays fairly (generously, but you know better than to accidentally negotiate your pay down). He gives you plenty of hours and trains you well - with the help of his apprentice. He doesn’t get annoyed when you ask questions, seeming content with your determination to do your job to the best of your abilities. The shop goes by appointment only - no walk ins and potential customers have to call to book. John keeps things old fashioned like that. All pen and paper and cash transactions. An ATM sits in the waiting area. The most complicated part of your job is changing out the cash box in it, and that only take a few days to learn. Not that you mind, it’s sort of refreshing to not deal with some fuckass new and “improved” register and appointment system.

Turns out part of the reason they operate in such a way (other than preference) is because John is a big name in the tattoo world. You hadn’t realized until he pointed out a couple of your flash tattoos were from his best-selling book of designs.

“Wait, you’re famous!?” You gasp, staring wide eyed at the old binder of newspaper clippings and book sales. ‘My Mum Wasn’t Impressed At First - Now Even She Has One’ reads the title of one of the older clippings - yellowed with age. John lacks his signature beard in the photo. It almost looks wrong.

John chuckles, crossing his arms and leaning back in his rolling chair. “You could say that. You really didn’t know about our shop before you booked?”

You shake your head. “Nah, I just saw y’all get recommended on Reddit.”

He barks out a laugh at that. It’s a low, pleased sound that sends a shiver down your spine. His beard only emphasizes the apples of his cheeks as he smiles. Yeah, that’s the other thing, having a hot boss is kind of fire.

Plus, he’s not the only one. The whole studio is full of hunks.

Kyle is easily the prettiest man you’ve ever seen. Like, run for Miss Universe pretty. Big doe eyes with a little scar on his cheekbone - small golden hoops glitter from both his earlobes. They frame his face so well, creating a perfect diamond from them to his sparkling eyes to his pretty smile; curled and genuine with perfect teeth. He walks you through the booking process step by step, that first day, a warm hand on your back and the other tracing down the columns of the physical appointment book.

His work is as beautiful as he is. At least, the ones done on fake skin. John hasn’t let him tattoo anyone for real yet - but his practice sketches are immaculate. At least to a layman. Kyle himself never seems quite satisfied with them. He gets such vivid color, though.

“Tattooing darker skin is an art form in and of itself.” He murmurs as he works on a piece of very dark fake skin. “I want people like me t’ be able t’ get exactly what they want, with just as much color as they want.”

You nod along, sipping at your coffee from across the street that you’ve taken up stopping at every day before work. Kyle has so much passion for the industry. The look he gets in his eyes while talking about it or designing a new piece makes your heart flutter.

Simon, the other resident artist, you’re the least familiar with. You can’t quite decide how to feel about him, or decipher how he feels about you. John introduced you a couple days after you started, but all you got was a perfunctory nod and a ‘good luck’. You couldn’t help but feel starstruck, despite his blunt nature. Both thick arms covered in full, detailed sleeves. High quality, ornate black work. A man of stature - six feet and some change with a breadth that a barn would envy. Pretty, blonde hair cropped just short of turning to curls and dark eyes that bore through you to the very core.

Sometimes, when he comes to ask about his next appointment, you let yourself indulge in the fantasy that he stands close because he likes you. That his knee briefly knocks against yours because he wants to touch you - not that you’re crazy enough to believe it. Just crazy enough to be a tiny bit delusional for the fun of it.

You meet their resident piercer on the weekend. Apparently, he’d been away visiting family your first week.

He leans up over the counter, grinning at you from ear to ear. A well-built man only a few inches shorter than the others with a perfectly groomed mohawk. “Well, hello there. Aren’t you a bonnie little thing?”

You frown, hackles raising instinctually. “Uh, can I help you?”

“Och, they dinnae tell ye about me yet? I’m hurt.” He pouts, thick brows emphasizing the puppy like nature of his blue eyes.

“Let her be, Soap.” Kyle sighs heavily, walking to his area of the front with a fresh sketchbook.

“Soap?” You repeat.

“Aye. Cause apparently I need my mouth washed out.” He pokes his tongue out, only to reveal a silver piercing. He holds a hand over the counter. “Johnny MacTavish.”

Johnny is the most egregious man you have ever met - always touching you in one way or another when he checks in about appointments and so on. His Scottish brogue rings in your ears, every word loud and confident. A hand finds it’s way around your waist, a finger poking under the band of whatever bottoms you wear that day. At any other job, you would have considered it harassment and tore him a new one.

Johnny’s different, though. If you shrug him off he steps away, if you flinch he pulls back. Plus, he does it to everyone else just as much as you. More, if you’re honest. If Simon is within arms reach they’re touching. You noticed Johnny pushing a hand under his shirt at one point, grabbing at the soft layer over Simon’s abs. (A great view for you, frankly.) Hell, you saw him casually hold Kyle’s hand while they were talking over lunch. Even John isn’t immune to the clinging. You don’t think much of it. Body modding attracts all sorts of people. If Johnny’s just a touchy guy then he’s just touchy. Besides, you don’t mind that much when he slips an arm around your waist or hooks his chin on your shoulder to talk to you. Warm breath tracing the shell of your ear with a quiet ‘bonnie lass’ punctuating ever other sentence. A slight pinch to your hip before he trots away to set up his station.

You feel nauseous when your trial month ends. John sits you down across from him in the back office. A practical space with not much more in it than a desk, computer and the large safe. None of you spend much time back here outside of counting down the cash and dragging the trash bags through the back door to the dumpster.

“Think you’ve done really well, dove.” He grins. You try to ignore the way the pet name looks warmth in your lower belly. “You’ve picked up quickly, you’re good on the phone. Kyle’s been very happy about the extra time to practice.”

You let out the biggest, most relieved sigh of your life, shoulders slumping slightly.

“You don’t seem to mind Johnny, but if he gets to be too much let me or Simon know, yeah? He means well but he can be… well, you know.” John says absently as he reaches for something across the desk. “How are you feelin’?”

You nod. “I, uh, feel good. I like this position a lot. Everyone’s been very welcoming.”

John nods along. “Good, good. I see no reason to not hire you on full time. Here.”

You hold put your hands as John drops a small, silver key into them. Holy shit! You get your own key! Up until now they’d been buzzing you in, but they’re trusting you with your very own key!

John must see the excitement on your face because he chuckles and extends a hand. “Welcome aboard, kid.”

Omni Mark

It was hard to believe that there was once a time where Mark would unwillingly flush when just your shirt would ride up, especially now when he has you reduced to a trembling, overstimulated mess, every thrust slamming the bed post into the wall. You at least appreciate his restraint, knowing he could have ruined another bed frame.

With your brain feeling like mush, the only thing you could do was push yourself up by the elbows and attempt to crawl away from his unrelenting pace, only for him to press his hand between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned as your moist cheeks rub against the covers.

You let out a noise of protest, Mark audibly scoffing in return above you.

He doesn’t falter, simply pressing down harder when you squirm, “Don’t back down now, you asked for this, after all.”

“It’s,” you gasp, burying your face into the sheets again when a particularly sharp roll of his hips has you blanking out, “too much! Mark—“

He hushes you, hand reaching out to brush against your forehead before moving down to grip your chin, fingers digging in your cheek as he lifts your face up to prevent you from suffocating yourself, “Breathe. We’re not done until I say we are.”

You whine pitifully, the ever present storm in your body growing, slack body tensing up.

“You still have more to give. You can cry and complain, but we both know that you want this; to be used by me until I’ve taken everything—“ his voices becomes more strained, cutting off into a shaky exhale when you tighten around him, “there she is…”

You jerk when his other hand slides down and draws taut circles on your clit, “I-I’m going to…die!”

He laughs, something you’d savour under any other circumstance, before pressing a kiss to the back of your head, “Then die.”

No Goggles Mark

If he wasn’t so unfairly good at sex, you’d have kicked the freak out ages ago.

Even after what felt like hours of him hammering his dick into you until you could feel him in your cervix, his eyes were still wide open, glued to your face, watching you pant and moan pathetically, legs straining and shaking from having them tossed over his shoulders.

“I’d fucking kill someone before I let myself be pulled away from you,” he grins, and if your mouth wasn’t already agape, you’d have groaned at the fact he was still saying crazy shit even while fucking you. “Are you into that? Feel proud you have a pussy that could start wars? Like Helen of Troy, but hotter—“

“Please,” you pant slapping a hand over his mouth, feeling him smile against your palm, “shut up.”

He only grabs your wrist, and presses his face against your hand harder, groaning into it with a satisfied look in his manic eyes. You try to glare at him, but his hand reaching down to press against your stomach as you writhing. Why does his dick have to be big enough to cause a tummy bulge? His ego is already insufferable enough.

He pins your trapped wrist to the mattress, stupid grin now fully revealed again, “After I’m done with you, you won’t even think about fucking anyone else because I’m not stopping until my cock leaves an imprint—“

He can’t even finish his rant before he succumbs to his urge to attack your mouth with his, licking and sucking until you’re even more lightheaded.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he whispers excitedly against your neck. Weirdo.

Omni mark…vote Omni mark the in the poll

Why are my top posts all for invincible, this was a dc blog😭

You, his girl, who even when he was gone, left him a sweet voicemail. Who made your little 2 bedroom Apartment a home. You, who made Toji give a damn about himself. You had blocked him, so there was no chance in him trying to call. And no, it didn’t take him two days for him to realize how much you mattered to him. It didn’t take an empty apartment.

It’s that he made you worry, and then he made you feel like your feeling were fickle and unnecessary. When, at the very least, you two were family. The closest and realest either one of you was going to get to it.

Truth be told, the man could’ve just up and found you. Made a couple calls and found you within a couple hours. But the older man knows it would just piss you off further, push you even further away.

So he waited around the place like a fucking dog. Eyes flicking to the front for every time he heard your neighbors or the delivery guy pass. The ashtray filled with cigarette buds, and it’s funny, he could almost hear you giving him hell as he took the ashtray to the balcony so the apartment doesn’t smell like cigarette smoke. The way your roll your eyes and shove his face away while he has that dumb ass smirk on his lips.

God, he missed you.

You, on the other hand, had been couch hopping. Told them there was a neighbor you were avoiding after doing something embarrassing. Not that you had been ignoring the man you’d been seeing. Of course you missed the man, you’d grown so accustomed to him being around that when he was gone it didn’t make any sense. And when he came back, you were never sure if he saw you as a joke. Just something that was around because it was convenient.

You wanted that older man to miss you like you did him, even if it was a little bit of the pain, the worry that filled you while he was away.

You caved when you realized you needed to at least pop buy your home and get some clothes or something. Maybe Toji wouldn’t be there, at some soba spot not to far away. You didn’t know if you had the heart to face Toji. Feign the stable girl you convinced everyone else you were.

You could feel the tension completely filling the space as soon as the door shut behind you. The TV was low, the faucet in the kitchen dripping, the light on the end table’s low hue illuminating the dark living room.

You rounded the corner, pausing your movements when you got in Toji’s full vision, his green eyes glued on you from the couch. An unlit cigarette is hanging from his lips. He puts it down slowly, as if that will be the thing to make a run.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

You can feel your heart beating, shifting from foot to foot, clearing your throat, averting your eyes from his dark green eyes. “I’ll be quick, just grabbing a few things.”

Toji’s eyes soften, gently tugging with his voice, “[+].”

“What?” You griped, cocking an eyebrow, “you gonna lecture me for bein gone?”

“I got the right to?” He gets up from the couch, tossing the remote to the side. Toji sighs, running his fingers through his jet black strands, searching for the right words to say. But no matter how many times he’s racked his brain since you’ve been gone, it’s like he can’t collect the right words to apologize. He’s never been good at it.

He finally speaks after a moment, “…About the other day-“

“—I was… being needy, ‘m sorry.” And the words come out like you’re forcing them out. Hesitant, like you’ve made the decision on your own without properly thinking it through.

“That ain’t what I said [+].”

“But you’re thinkin it.”

He opens his mouth to say something, jaw ticking. But he knows better, knows how you like to push when you so desperately want to be wanted. Want to be someone’s first choice, not to be brushed to the side, like hes done.

The older man lets out an airy snicker, inching closer to you, “Leavin you for so long without tellin you ‘nd then acting like it was nothing- it wasn’t right. I was being stupid doll, and I’m sorry.”

He has you backed up into the kitchen island, his large figure towering over you. The man closes you in between his arms as he leans on the counter, bending down to get face to face with you, his muscles flexing from the small movement. His eyes search yours, his deep voice getting softer, full of sincerity— 

“I’d never thought you were needy but Jesus, baby, if this is needy I should be spoilin you more. Tell me how much you want ‘f me, how you need me 24-7– I don’t care. I’d never get tired of you, can never get enough of you, my precious girl.”

Your shoulder slump at that, eyes glossed over, bottom lip trembling, you hiccup, “Don’t- ugh! don’t make me feel like shit for caring Toji.” You sob.

And he nods, taking your face in his hands, wiping away your tears with the pads for his thumbs, “I know kid, I know, ‘M sorry.”

Even if he apologized a thousand times it wouldn’t be enough, not right now when he’s had you running around in his mind for since he’s been gone, since you left.

He leaves a soft kiss on your lips, brushing your top with his thumb. “You forgive me doll? Hm?”

You don’t have the energy to say anything, leaning into his touch. He kisses you once more, then another, and another— each kiss getting longer, more desperate. His calloused hands going from your face slowly down your body, to the side of your hips. You wrap your arms around his neck, yearning for more, more, more—

“I got you mama, I got you.” The green eyed monster murmured against your lips, lifting you off your feet and toward the couch.

And it’s in no shape or form slow and sweet foreplay, it’s longing, yanking off different articles of clothes that end up scattered to the floor like this is the last time. Or maybe it feels like the first time, like you want to be closer than ever before. Hearts almost bursting so fast, clawing at Tojis scarred back as he thrusts two fingers into your hole.

He works them in and out of you, watching how your breath hitches and the way your face gets screwed up when he pumps his curls his digits inside you. He thrusts them inside your sopping pussy relentlessly, you can feel the cool metal of the ring he wears brushing your folds with every thrust.

“Fuuck- anh- right there!”

“Here?” He purrs, brushing against that spongy spot. Like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, like he hasn’t gotten every inch of your memorized.

“Come on, tell me what you need baby, need your words.”

You keen, bucking your hips into his hands, as you feel the butterflies in your stomach start to build. “Just- ahh- Toj-“

“Just Toji? Just me? That’s not a hard fix heh-“ he looks down, finding your plumped bud beneath the hood, rubbing small circle with his thumb. “But it’s not what you really want.”

You whine, whining and humping against him, “Shit- don’t- ack- don’t be an asshole Toji.”

The older man nibbles at your skin, sure to leave a little love bite, making shivers roll down his spine, “Then don’t be a fuckin brat, tell me what you need.”

You keen at the sensation, bucking your hips into his hand, “Wanna- aah- wanna cum! Please make me cum!”

Toji hums, head falling to your stomach and watching as his fingers disappear into you, over and over, faster than before, he plants a tender kiss on your hips, “Gooood girl.”

You toppled over with that, pulsing around his fingers as you gripped down on his shoulders. Toji is salvationing at the feel of you around his fingers, pulling them out and sucking them clean like they’re his last meal. Can’t help but yank you forward to suck your pretty little clit. Tongue running up and down your folds with vigor.

“Shit, ‘s sensitive!”

“I knooow, your poor poor cunt.” he condescendingly coo’s, lapping you up till your “clean” but you just get messier. You manage to pull away, plopping down on the couch beside him. You shiverly, eyes trailing from his hard on that’s held in his sweatpants, slowly up his abs give him a sultry look, “Come on Toji.”

Jesus, it makes something else in his head tick, pulling down his sweats just enough for his cock to spring out, smacking against his abs. The older man flips you onto your stomach without a second thought, dragging you to him by your ankles. He slowly eases himself inside you, the burn of him stretching you out so much yet so perfect.

His breath hitches, gripping the globe of your ass as he begins to move. “ Fuuuck mama you- hck- you don’t know how loooong I’ve missed you. Missed this.”

You moan, looking back at him and biting your lip, “Just this?”

He rolls his eyes, giving your ass a harsh smack, he grips onto your shirt, using it as leverage to slam you back on his cock while he fits into your slippery wet entrance. “Such a stubborn fuckin girl, Jesus- would’ve gotten back so much sooner hadn’t it been for Shiu. Hah- it was supposed to be a two month job.”

You’re head is spinning, not just from the information Toji’s giving you, but the way his length keeps rubbing inside your gummy walls, you claw at the cushion beneath you, “Wha-“

“—Think f’me kid, I needed to get back t’you fast. You think a regular assassin would’ve finished so fuckin fast? Couldnt- damn it- couldnt get you off my mind. Missed that silly laugh of yours, and those pretty brown eyes on me. Shit- the way you tell shit to me straight. Haaad to come back and make sure my kid was alright, hah- make sure you didn’t forget.”

“Forget?” You slur out.

The end of Toji’s lips where his scar lays twitches, eyes low from watching your ass ripple against hips then back to that stupidly gorgeous screwed up face. His grip on your waist tightens, sure to bruise and he he hums, “That I love you.”

And he finally, gives you all of his cock, bottoming out completely, his strawberry red tip nudging your sweet spot you. Your toes curl, pulsing around him and letting out a broken sob as you cum.

But he’s not stopping, eyes closing in ecstasy as you tighten around him. But he’s not stopping, giving yout frantic thrust after thrust, his cum filled balls ‘thwack, thwack, thwack’ against your cunt. His hair sticking to his forehead, sweat slowly beginning to glisten on the both of your skin.

The older man’s jaw clenched when he slips out, Roughly turning you onto your side and pushing both of your knees to your shoulder with his hand. Toji’s tip making such a mess as he smacks it onto your entrance. He hisses, “Shit, baby- gotta take this- fuck, need you to- take it, take me.”

Like he had to tell you, like he didn’t pound into you without a second thought. Feeling his cock even better, deeper from this angle— practically dropping it in your sore pussy from above, the weight of him on you is perfect. Toji groans, muscles flexing as he rolls his hips into you.

“Greedy fuckin pussy doll, practically made for me. Only I can fuck you like this- love you like this.”

You stupidly nod, jaw slack and only able to let out half of the words you want to say through sobs and moans, “I do too, I love- hnngh- I love- shiiit Toji!” It’s music to his ears.

You try to contain yourself, holding yourself, and pulling at your t-shirt. Toji snickers, bending down to your face, yout legs now over one of his shoulders he tsks, “Hold onto your old man kid, just like you always do. I got you.”

Your trembling arms wrap around his broad shoulders, Toji giving you a filthy French kiss as he slams into you. Sucking your tongue and holding you in his big tattooed arms. You gasp, lips smacking as you pull away, you smack at his back for some avail, “I-I’m gonna cum! Wait- Fuck-“

“Can fuckin feel it, milk my cock baby.”

You swear you see white as you cum, body writhed in his arms. Toji let’s out a wragged noise against your shoulder, cock twitching inside your guts. He yanks himself out, milky white cum falling onto your stomach.

Your eyes widen when you feel Tojis hardened cockhead smearing your cum together.

“Toji—“

He gives your a sleezy smirk, opening your legs and slowly rutting his cock through your folds,

“But doll- we gotta make up for lost time.”

─── GUY GARDNER !

!! The first time you supercharge his ring mid-fight, you grin and go, “You’re welcome,” and he nearly misses a punch because he’s staring at you instead of the enemy.

!! You absolutely boost his constructs just a little extra when he’s trying to show off. You deny it every time.

!! When he’s in one of his loud, over-the-top moods, you’ll float upside down in front of him mid-argument and kiss him just to shut him up. Sometimes you have to out-do the doer in his own drama.

!! You like standing close enough that your aura brushes his. It makes his constructs sharper, heavier, hotter.. and he knows exactly why.

!! “Stay close, Blue,” he says during missions, pretending it’s strategy. It is not strategy.

!! The first time he realizes you literally amplify each other, he smirks and goes, “Guess we’re a power couple, sweets?”

!! He once kissed you mid-flight just to see if the surge would boost him. It did. He has not stopped trying to replicate it.

─── HAL JORDAN !

!! You tease him constantly about ego compared to hope. “Careful, Hal, I’m the reason that punch worked.”

!! You like standing just behind him in battle, boosting his ring without him asking. Your favorite thing to do is play utterly dumb when he mentions it later.

!! He is insufferably smug about the fact that together you’re technically stronger than either of you alone. “You complete me,” he one time declared dramatically in the middle of combat. That earned a silent treatment for a little bit.

!! You absolutely pretend to withhold your power boost for half a second just to see him panic before you flood him with it.

!! When he gets reckless, your ring flares sharply and you snap, “I need you alive, asshole?”

!! The first time your rings resonate so hard they create a combined construct, he just stares at it like, “Okay. That’s hot.”

!! His favorite thing to bring up to people is that the two of you are made for each other. And if he says it to someone who has no clue what the hell he's talking about, he gets even smugger and you just have to smile and nod.

─── JESSICA CRUZ !

!! When she hesitates in battle, you reach for her hand and your rings flare together like synchronized heartbeats.

!! She gets flustered when she realizes your presence literally makes her stronger. “That’s not fair,” she mumbles. “This is basically cheating.”

!! When she spirals, you squeeze her hand and whisper, “Hey. I believe in you,” and it hits harder than any ring boost ever could. It leads to a hand squeeze before fights becoming a ritual that helps her through it all.

!! You absolutely leave little glowing blue heart constructs on her nightstand just to make her blush in the morning. Unfortunately for her, it works every time.

!! You hype her up shamelessly. “Do you even realize how powerful you are?” you wink right before she launches a construct the size of a building.

!! She’s shy about PDA, but she will absolutely rest her forehead against yours while your auras blend softly.

─── KYLE RAYNER !

!! Your hope doesn’t just make his constructs stronger, it makes them more stable. Kyle’s imagination runs wild, sometimes too wild, and when you’re near, the edges of his creations stop flickering

!! You’ll sit cross-legged on the floor of his apartment while he spirals about whether he’s “good enough” to carry a ring at all, and your own ring glows low and steady like it's assuring him without a word.

!! He gets ridiculously soft when your ring glows in response to his confidence instead of his fear.

!! Kyle loves painting you in civilian life. Everything candid instead of posed. He says hope looks different in every light, and he wants to capture all of it.

!! He once asked, half jokingly, if your ring reacts differently when you kiss him versus when you’re in battle. You tested it. The answer was yes.

!! Sometimes you power him without him realizing it. He’ll finish a fight and blink down at his ring like, “Okay, that was… better than usual,” and you just shrug and bump your shoulder into his.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

Dick Grayson (Roy):

Dick’s jaw drops when you walk into the bar, greeting your table of friends with a little wave before settling on Roy’s lap. Roy’s lap. His hand tightens around his glass.

The redhead raises his eyebrows, instinctively placing a hand on your hip to steady you. He tilts his head up, flashing you an easy grin. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you say casually, grabbing his glass of ginger ale and sipping on it. 

In your peripheral, you can see Dick’s jaw clenched, fingers digging into his palms. Roy rubs his thumb in circles around your hip, ignoring the inquisitive stares coming from your friends. 

You watch as Dick downs his whole drink and forces a smile. A breath, and then he’s back to normal, making conversation with Donna across the table.

The night is normal after that, laced with jokes and easy conversation. It’s so normal you’re beginning to think Dick’s forgotten about your antics now that you’ve moved from Roy’s lap to the seat between them.

It’s when you’re on your way out of the bathroom that shit hits the fan.

“So, you and Roy?”

He’s standing in the small nook where the bathroom doors lay, looking at you expectantly. His arms are crossed over his chest, muscles bulging out of his t-shirt.

You flinch at the sound of his voice, hand clenched over your chest in shock. You recover quickly. “Why do you care? We’re just friends, aren’t we?” 

“Friends? I—” He laughs incredulously. “Is this because of what I said?”

You scoff and shake your head, shoving past him only for him to catch you by the arm. 

“C’mon, don’t be like this,” he pleads. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You spin around to face him. “Then how did you mean it, Dick?” 

“I just meant that we aren’t dating.”

“So why does it matter so much to you if I flirt with Roy?”

He looks puzzled, brows knit together as he tries to find an answer for your question that doesn’t involve him confessing his feelings for you in the back of a bar. He doesn’t find one.

“I-I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair, “we’re not just friends, alright? It was—it was stupid for me to say that. Just, please stop flirting with my best friend.”

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Good to know.”

You retreat to the bar, getting another drink, while Dick returns to the table. You give it a few minutes, letting him stew before making your way back.

You’re about to sit back down on Roy when Dick catches your wrist, tugging you towards him. You stumble, falling into his lap. Your eyes widen, looking up at him curiously.

“No chance in hell,” he mutters into your ear, “nice try.”

Roy flashes you a thumbs up under the table. Mission accomplished.

Wally West (Kyle):

Wally’s clenching his glass so tightly it might break. 

Standing in the corner of the bar, leaned against the wall and watching you dance with Kyle of all people, he can’t help but wonder what it would be like to toss the glass at his head. It’s a tempting thought, Wally’s fingers wandering up the side of the glass.

It’s payback. He knows it is. He hurt your feelings and now you’re taking it out on him via grinding on Kyle. It’s whatever. He’s not going to fall for it. Whatever.

It’s when the song ends and you press yourself real close to Kyle, laughing in his ear about something he said, that Wally really loses it. One minute, Kyle has a hand on your hip, basking in the radiant sound of your laughter, and the next, you’re gone.

The cold night air is unforgiving, clinging to the sweat soaking your skin. You shiver, wrapping your arms around yourself.

You scowl at the redhead who dragged you out here. “What the hell, Wally?” 

He paces the alleyway in front of you, long strides casting dark shadows across the brick wall of the club. He has a hand in his hair, the other fidgeting nervously.

“Kyle? Really?” He laughs humourlessly, “he can’t even dance.”

“He dances better than you.”

Wally’s jaw falls open in offense as he clamps a hand over his chest. 

“Why do you care, anyway? We’re just friends.”

“Yeah, cause friends fuck the way we do.”

It’s your turn to be shocked, turning your head away from him to try and hide it. “You’re—” You take a deep breath, fighting the heat rising to your face, “you’re the one who said we’re friends.”

“That doesn’t mean you can just—just go and fuck Kyle!”

You shake your head. “We’re not fucking, Wally. We’re dancing.”

You turn away from him, starting to leave the alleyway to get back in the club. Still, you can’t help yourself. “But, now that you mention it…”

Wally’s in front of you before you’ve finished blinking. He’s breathing heavily, a dark look in his eyes. He presses closer to you, squeezing out all the space.

“Don’t,” he breathes, “fuck Kyle.”

Something in his tone tells you to tread lightly. Something in your core tells you to press him more.

“Yeah? And what if I d—”

Wally’s lips are on yours before you finish speaking, his hands settling into your waist like they belong there. They roam your sides, feeling every inch of you. His tongue slips into your mouth, marking his territory. 

He pulls away, looking at you seriously. “Come home with me, I’ll show you how friendly we are.”

Back in the club, Kyle smiles to himself. Your plan must have worked.

Roy Harper (Dick):

Roy almost faints when he walks in the living room, a necessary stop on his journey to grab a glass of water, and finds you and Dick snuggled up on the couch. He rubs his eyes, thinking this must be a result of a nightmare, but when the stars dissipate from his vision, the two of you are still laying there.

You’re face down in Dick’s chest, your head buried in his t-shirt. Dick’s laid down on his back, watching a movie while idly rubbing your back. It’s so domestic that it has Roy’s heart wrenching, his mouth suddenly dry.

Dick notices the redhead immediately, cheekily raising a finger to his lips to signal him to be quiet. He gestures to you with his eyes, putting emphasis on the fact you’re trying to rest.

Roy, with frustration bubbling up in his chest, does not give a fuck. “What are you guys watching? You look cozy.”

And just like that, your head is perking up, puffy eyes landing on Roy. There’s dried tears on your cheek, the skin around your eyes still wet and shiny from crying. Shit. 

“I didn’t—fuck, I’m sorry.” 

You push yourself away from Dick’s chest, untangling your body from his. “Can I speak to you for a minute?”

Roy only nods, not wanting to say anything else and risk upsetting you. You lead him back to your room, the gesture so familiar it has your heart hurting.

“Literally what is your problem?” Your voice is thick with tears, “can’t you leave me alone? Since we’re ‘just friends’.”

“You’re crying,” is all that he says, evidently stunned by your disheveled state. “Is that why you’re crying? Because of what I said?”

“Does it matter?”

His voice cracks. “You’re sad, of course it matters.”

You avert your eyes, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. Drawing your arms around yourself, you take a big step away from Roy. Like that will be able to keep this conversation from happening.

“It hurt when you said that, Roy.”

“So you go and cuddle up with Dick?”

“Jesus Christ.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, “he’s my friend. He was comforting me. And last I checked, according to you, friends do a lot worse than cuddle.”

He sucks in a breath. Touché. 

“You either care or you don’t, Roy. Make up your damn mind.”

“I care, okay?” He runs a hand through his hair, “I care too much to see my best friend using you as a blanket.”

“But not enough to date me?”

He takes a deep breath and for a moment, you wonder if he’s going to leave. If he’s going to storm out and leave you here and never speak to you again. Instead, he does something that surprises you even more.

He drops to his knees in front of you, looking up at you through his lashes. He says your name, reaching up for a hand. Reluctantly, you peel a hand from your shoulder and offer it to him.

“There is nothing I want more,” he says seriously, “than to be with you.”

Your vision blurs with tears. “You mean it? No more mixed feelings?”

He kisses the back of your hand. “Promise.”

Kyle Rayner (Guy): 

Kyle doesn’t think anything of it when you don’t respond to his good morning text. Barely even notices it when you choose to sit next to Guy instead of him. Forced himself to ignore the way you seemed glued to the ginger all day. But this? This—seductively biting your nail while rubbing a hand up Guy’s chest—cannot stand.

He stands in the corner and watches the two of you flirt, waiting for his time to interject. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, fingers clenched to his palms. Any minute now, there’ll be a lull in the conversation and he could pull you aside to talk this out. 

‘Any minute’ doesn’t come for at least another ten minutes, your rampant flirting with his partner only growing to annoy him more and more. He’s pacing now, twisting the ring around his finger.

“Jeez, Rayner, can you cut that out? You’re making me nervous.”

Guy’s voice grates on him, adrenaline pumping through his chest. Kyle forces himself to take a deep breath, to think reassuring thoughts and then—

“Ignore him, he doesn’t know what he wants.”

It’s something in your tone that sets him off, that has him creating a bucket of water and dumping it over the top of you and Guy. He’s barely even registered he’s done it until you’re turning on him with a scowl, looking like a wet cat.

“Really, Kyle?” You scoff, “real mature. I’m soaking wet.”

“Yeah, you are.”

You ignore Guy’s innuendo, rushing out of the room to go and dry yourself off in the bathroom. You’ve pulled off your shirt, holding it under the hand dryer, when the door swings open and Kyle’s coming in and stammering an apology.

He barely pays any mind to your half-naked figure, too busy talking himself in circles. “I don’t know what came over me, seriously.” He tugs off his sweatshirt, tossing it to you to cover yourself up. “I’m so sorry.”

You catch his sweater, your own ruined shirt dropping to the floor. “No you’re not.”

He opens his mouth to speak but you beat him to it.

“What do you want, Kyle?” You pull his sweatshirt over your head, “you say we’re just friends and then you get all weird and jealous when I try to move on. It’s bullshit.”

And Kyle’s at a loss for words because you look so fucking cute in his sweatshirt, hair still damp and messy from the water. 

“And you’re not even listening to me.” 

You shoulder past him, about to leave the bathroom when he suddenly grabs your hand and spins you around to face him. He says nothing, only tugging you into his chest and holding you tightly.

“I don’t want you to be with anyone else,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to be just your friend.”

You nod slowly, letting his words sink in. And just as he’s pulling away, you squish your hand into one of your wet pockets, gathering the water and wiping it on the back of his neck.

Kyle cringes, loosening his grip. “I deserved that.”

Barry Allen (Hal):

Six laps. Barry’s done six laps of the planet, changed in and out of his costume in the bathroom, and eaten an entire burger in the time you and Hal have been playing pool. It’s not the game that bothers him, really. It’s the way Hal has his hands on you, bending you over the table and pressing himself into you.

The sight ties Barry’s stomach up in knots, the deluxe bacon cheeseburger he just devoured threatening to come up again. He sits back, watching the two of you play a game against Ollie and Dinah and trying to keep the jealousy from rising to his throat.

It should be him down there. Those should be his hands wandering too close to your chest. He’s about to take another lap when Hal’s crotch is suddenly flush with the swell of your ass and he can’t take it anymore.

One minute, he’s sitting on a bar stool and the next, the two of you are standing on a beach somewhere far, far away from Hal Jordan.

“Barry?” You frown, adjusting to your surroundings, “where are we?”

“...Brazil.”

“Brazil? I—why are we in Brazil?”

“Because Hal isn’t,” he mumbles.

“What?”

“Because I need to talk to you.”

You blink. “And you needed to talk to me in Brazil?”

“Can you forget about Brazil for a minute?” He sighs, “can I—am I allowed to ask what’s going on between you and Hal?”

You burst out laughing. “Me and Hal?” “...yes? I don’t see what’s funny about this.”

You reach for one of his hands, kneading your thumbs over his warm palm. “Barry, nothing’s going on between me and Hal. What you saw—” You scrunch your nose, embarrassed, “I was trying to get your attention.”

“You always have my attention.”

“I don’t want to be ‘just a friend’, Barry,” you confess, looking at him through your lashes. “Friends don’t do the things we do.”

Realization dawns on his face, his lips tugging into a frown. “No, that’s not—I didn’t mean it like that. God, I’m an idiot.”

You think back to the conversation in question, wracking your brain to decipher what else he could’ve possibly meant by that wording.

He rubs a thumb over your cheek, leaning in until his lips are inches away from yours. “You could never be ‘just’ anything to me. You mean so much to me and I—”

You cut him off by kissing him, swallowing his words.

Hal Jordan (Bruce):

Of all the people Hal expected to find you flirting with, Bruce Wayne was the last on his list. Guy? Absolutely. Barry, Clark, Diana…he wouldn’t cross off the possibility. But Bruce? That would almost be as bad as if you were cozied up to J’onn himself.

You offer Bruce a radiant smile, resting a hand on his shoulder while he tells you and a few other stragglers from Oliver’s charity gala a story. You cling to his every word, nodding along eagerly.

Hal clenches his fist and raises his glass to his lips, downing the whiskey in one go. Adrenaline, or liquor, or maybe some unholy combination of the two rushes to his head. He finds himself stomping over to the little group that’s formed around Bruce.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting when he sidles up next to you and flashes the group a fake smile. “You guys don’t mind if I borrow y/n for a minute, do you?”

He’s already starting to tug you away when he’s met with resistance, Bruce’s other arm looped through yours.

“Actually,” he says, giving Hal an even faker, even shinier smile, “I promised I’d show everyone the pictures from my newest Gotham development.”

Hal yawns, addressing you directly. “You don’t really want to see that, do you?”

Bruce’s hand slides from the crook of your arm to the small of your back. A vein bulges in Hal’s forehead. His frown deepens when you pull yourself away from him, sidling up to Bruce.

“Actually, I’d love to see those photos, Bruce.”

Hal shrinks, defeated. He hates the sudden cold in your tone, he hates the way you barely regard him. Above all that, he hates how good you look on Bruce’s arm.

He slinks away to a far away corner, Barry waiting with a new glass of whiskey and a comforting pat on the back.

Hal finds you an hour later, half drunk with booze heavy on his breath. You’re just finishing up a dance with Bruce when the pilot saunters up to the two of you. You suck in a breath. Here we go.

“Mind if I cut in?”

Bruce looks at you, assessing every miniscule expression on your face in less than a second. He sizes up the pilot, a silent reminder not to fuck with you.

“Do you want a drink?” Bruce asks, posture much more relaxed talking to you. “I could use a drink.”

“Yes, please.”

And then he’s disappearing into the crowd, leaving just you and Hal.

“Really? Bruce?” 

You scoff at him, tensing when his hands find your hips and he guides you back onto the dance floor. “Keep your voice down, you’re gonna make a scene.”

“I’m not the one everyone’s been drooling over tonight.” His jaw tics, “of everyone, why Batman?”

“Bruce just wanted to help me take my mind off of things. Pissing you off was just an added bonus.”

He blanks.

“You can’t really be that dense, Hal.”

He thinks on it for a minute and you can practically see the exact moment the light goes off in his head. “Is this about what I said? The friends thing?”

Your silence speaks volumes.

“Why’re you so mad about that? I didn’t mean anything by it.”

You smile sweetly. “So you wouldn’t be mad if I went home with Bruce? I wouldn’t mean anything by it.”

His grip tightens, fingers digging into the meat of your hips. He pulls you closer until his face hovers close to your ear, breath fanning over the side of your neck.

“I will cuff you to me right now. Don’t even joke.”

You intentionally step on his foot. “Admit it, then.”

“Why does it matter so much to you what we are?”

You groan, pulling yourself away from him and starting on your way back to Bruce. He grabs you before you get very far, pulling you back to him and locking his arms tighter than before.

“Fine, fine. I’m sorry, okay?” His gaze softens, “I didn’t mean it. Please, please do not go home with him.”

You kiss his cheek. “That’s what I thought.”

Oliver Queen (Hal + Dinah):

Oliver thought things couldn’t get worse than seeing you and Hal hug after winning beer pong. Oliver thought wrong. 

Seeing Dinah kiss your cheek, her arms around your shoulders while the two of you pose for a photo, feels worse than any injury he’s ever received. It’s no help that the two of you look so damn good together, it’s near unbearable.

Dinah pulls away but the slight shimmer of her lipgloss is still visible on your cheek. Oliver can feel the envy bubbling up inside him like magma in a volcano. He tries to focus on something—anything—else.

He looks to Booster Gold and Blue Beetle, playing something on Ted’s Nintendo. He looks to Guy, currently having a very intense conversation with J’onn who looks like he’d rather be doing anything else. 

It doesn’t work, he always finds a way to come back to you. Always. 

You and Dinah are now wrapped up in a conversation with Hal and Barry, the smile on your face glowing brighter than the sun. He should be there, standing at your side, talking proudly. Instead, he’s lurking in the corner, watching from afar and trying to pretend his blood isn’t boiling.

And then Dinah’s hand rests on the small of your back and he can’t take it anymore.

He clears his throat, approaching you. “I need to talk to you.”

No pleasantries, no sugarcoating it, nothing. He doesn’t even bother to hide his annoyed expression.

Dinah flashes you a knowing smirk, nudging you towards him slightly. “Go on.”

Ollie leads you away from your gathered comrades, from the overlapping chatter and swell of bodies. He’s just barely gotten you out of view when he’s slamming you against the wall and pressing his lips to yours.

He can taste the remnants of your dirty shirley temple, along with something that tastes suspiciously like Dinah’s usual lipgloss. He thumbs at your waist, slipping a leg between your thighs and pressing his chest further into yours.

You gasp, shoving him off of you. “Ollie, I—what—I—”

He’s breathing heavily, feet planted less than a foot away from you. His cheeks are pinkened from your impromptu makeout session, his beard just barely hiding how flustered he is.

“What was that for?” You frown, “there’s people around.”

“And?”

“And?” You scoff in disbelief, “and you said you didn’t want anyone to know and that we’re nothing more than friends?”

“Fuck that,” he growls, reaching for you again. “You’re mine.”

Heat washes into your core, travels up your spine, floods your cheeks. You’re suddenly feeling lightheaded, unsteady on your feet.

“You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he admits. “Do you want me, or not?”

You sigh, beckoning him in. Defeated.

Guy Gardner (Booster):

Pretty much every hero you’ve worked with was confused by your relationship with Guy. It was clear the two of you had something going on, not that any of them were brave enough to inquire about it. No one thought too much about it.

That is, until you started cozying up to Booster Gold. As if Guy Gardner wasn’t bad enough.

Guy tried to ignore it. He really, really did. He tried to play it up to himself. At least this way he could see other people, too. He didn’t have to worry about hurting your feelings or dealing with jealousy. And yet, despite his sudden freedom, he couldn’t get you out of his damn head.

Maybe that’s what led him here, outside your house at two in the morning, banging his fist on the door.

Booster Gold answers the door, buttery hair disheveled and shirt nowhere in sight. “Hey, Guy.” He blinks, eyes shooting wide, “oh, shit.”

His jaw clenches, something snapping behind his eyes. Guy shoves past him, barrelling his way into your house. Booster rushes after him, trying to catch him before he slams open your bedroom door.

You wake with a start, rubbing your tired eyes to face your attacker. “Oh,” you say casually, sitting up. “It’s just you.”

Michael’s head pops over his shoulder. “I tried to stop him.”

“You tried your best, sir.” Skeets pipes up.

“Like you could,” Guy scoffs. “What the hell is he doing here, anyway?”

“Spending the night? What does it look like he’s doing?” Your response does little to quell the angry look on his face. Guy clenches and unclenches his fists.

“What are you doing here? I’m sure whatever this is could’ve waited til morning.”

He ignores you. “Are you guys fucking?” You laugh humorlessly.

Booster slinks away, “I think that’s my cue to leave.”

Your shoulders slump when you watch the familiar head of gold hair disappear back into your living room, presumably resuming his residence on your couch.

Guy crosses his arms, looking at you expectantly. “Well?”

“It’s none of your damn business, really.”

He closes the door behind him, stepping closer to you in the dark of your room. “Does he make you cum? I bet he doesn’t.”

“Jesus, Guy.”

“What? I’m just saying.” “We’re not fucking, for fucks sakes.” Your head is still fuzzy with sleep, “he’s crashing on my couch. We hang out sometimes. What’s the big deal? It’s not like we’re dating.”

He clocks the bitterness in your tone, the way your voice falters on those last words. A cheshire grin fights its way to his lips.

“So that’s why you’ve been so mad.” He’s standing at the end of your bed now, looking up at you, “cause I said we’re friends?”

“And what if it is?”

“C’mere.” Through the dark, you can just barely make out his hand gesturing you closer.

Despite your better instincts, you find yourself crawling towards him on the bed, kneeling just in front of him.

He grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him. “You’re really that upset about it?”

You can only nod.

He leans in, lips pressing against yours. You relax in his grip, letting the world fall away from you while he kisses you.

He pulls away, offering you a toothy grin. “Yeah,” he concludes, “still mine.”

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Not a wrinkle in sight. Broad beefy shoulders that you find your hands sliding along, thumbs pressing into the meaty cords of his upper trapezius muscles and he purrs. A low, rough sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

And you swallow.

"Here's a lot of tension here." Your mouth feels cottony as you lie. You don't give a fuck about the tension, all you can focus on is the thickly corded muscles beneath your fingertips. Your panties are already clinging to folds that haven't seen a man in a painfully long time. Your tongue feels like it weighs pounds, and you swallow hard again. "Do you have a stressful job?"

He hums. "Not really." Guy dismisses the thought with ease. "It's a breeze to me." The laugh he lets out is breathless and arrogant, gingery strands cropped and pushed back, still damp from the shower the parlour makes you take for utmost relaxation (and sanitary reasons but that doesn't sound as sensual as 'utmost relaxation').

"Not to brag or anything, but I'm kinda the shit."

Something about the way he talks. So unwavering confident, paired with the fratboy type of charm he had when he stepped into the room, flashing you a friendly wink. Emerald eyes twinkling and freckled cheeks sculpted like Michelangelo needed gooning material.

All of that. Coupled with the way he'd stepped out the shower with a soft, chubby cock (because he had deemed drying his hair more important), smiled when your gaze flickered down and proudly proclaimed himself a 'grower'.

You're soaking through your gusset.

"Oh, what do you do?" You question him.

You've never paid too much attention to your male clients before, lest they get the wrong idea. But you can't help the hope that Guy gets the wrong idea.

Because it'd be the right idea.

Because in the words of Colour Me Badd, you wanna sex him up.

"I can't be too specific," Guy muses, head lifting to peer at you over a glossy and sinewy shoulder, juniper gaze catching the golden lighting and twinkling from beneath short lashes and his lips curl into a grin, pointed canines and the slightest gap between his front teeth, "but the world kinda depends on me."

He's so masculine.

"Oh, like Batman?" Your question makes Guy's expression falter, eyes narrowing.

"No, not like fuckin' Batman." He huffs. "I'm better than Batman."

You raise your shiny hands in surrender, letting out the tiniest whistle. "Okay, my bad." You apologize but your heart's not in it. "Clearly nothing like Batman."

The backhanded compliment goes over Guy's head but you're extremely sure that he just pretends to take it like a compliment.

He seems like the kind of man to only hear what he wants.

"Okay, now you can turn on your back."

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His chest is broad and you feel his pecs pop beneath your warm hands. The subtle twitch of muscle urges to the corners of your mouth to twitch with a grin, but you bite back the smile, teeth sinking into your plump bottom lip.

Guy brings up his arms, folding them behind his head and you watch his biceps bulge as he unintentionally(?) flexes them. His eyes flutter shut, and his jaw unclenches, although the smallest and yet, the cockiest grin rests on his face. Freckled cheeks flushed just the tiniest bit.

The shadows play on his features, rockhard abs that flex beneath your fingers, carved hipbones that dig into the slightest bit of pudge and your throat tightens.

You opt to blame it on the scent of ginger that wafts from the coffee that's gone cold at your desk, maybe on the smell of the essential oil but if anything, all it makes you think of how good it mixes with his musk.

You try not to focus too much on the bulge beneath the towel. It's twitched quite a few times since you've started on his front. The towel shifting ever so slightly, the fabric sliding lower on his hips until it's showcasing that tuft of gingery strands at the edge of his happy trail.

You wouldn't be able to lie if someone asked you if you wanted to see what it leads to.

Your hands move to the back of his neck, and you press down into the muscle, hands slippery as you bring them to the front of his throat, thumbs pressing down against the sternocleidomastoid muscles of his neck. And Guy's breath hitches, stuttering in his lungs and his eyes flicker open.

You didn't think you were this close.

Close enough to make out the flecks of amber in the iris, close enough to watch the way his pupils dilate. Your breath fans over his skin just a bit and from the corner of your eye, you can make out the twitch beneath the towel. The fibres tenting.

His eyes move. Meeting yours, then lowering to your lips. Full, rosy and so, so tempting. That he's pretty sure his brain blacks out because a meaty hand's curling around the nape of your neck, and he's pushing himself up and his lips press against yours.

Hard and so, so messy.

Your lipgloss is smeared, his tongue's pushing past your teeth and your knees buckle enough for your hand to find purchase on the edge of the massage table. Your fingers curl around the edge, your lashes flutter against your cheeks and he groans into the kiss.

"You're so hot." He smiles against your lips, cheeks dimpling when he pulls back.

His lips are kiss swollen, his cheeks are flushed and his broad chest heaves.

"Can I hit?"

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Your pants are tossed somewhere, your thighs kept apart by his and your back's pressed against his chest and calloused fingers fuck into your drooling pussy.

Plump lips flutter around his fingers, slick pooling beneath you and you can feel the way his cock twitches in the crease of your ass, and you moan. Something soft and sweet, head lolling as he presses sloppy kisses to the curve of your neck.

"You're so pretty." He croons. "So fuckin' sloppy."

The lewd squelch of your cunt fills the room, slick pooling and soaking through the towel between you, and you whine at the emptiness when his fingers pull out of you. Your hole clenches around nothing but your legs threaten to clamp shut when he's dragging those soaked digits through your folds.

Pressing blunt tips circling your clit messily, while he keeps his mouth occupied, sucking marks into the sensitive skin of your neck.

The scent of essential oils, mixed with the smell of his musk, the flickering scented candles that line countertops and the sound of ambient music that plays from a small speaker... It's all too much and the burn behind your navel fizzles into something that has your legs aching to snap shut.

Your hips buck and your head tips back onto his shoulder, canines ghost over your throat.

"That's it," he croons, "you know you wanna come."

Your walls flutter, and your toes are curling in your socks when you come. Quietly, soaking him down to his knuckles, thighs kept apart by his knees and he smacks your glossy pussy.

Reveling in the way your tummy dips and your hips twitch, drool trickling down your plump bottom lip, and the wet slap!slap!slap! ring in your ears. Your lashes fluttering and your cunt squelching, pushing out shiny rivulets that trickle down the crease of your ass.

You allow Guy to manoeuvre your body with ease, guiding you to straddle his thighs, hands coming to purchase just above his knees and your nails dig into the sinewy and slick muscle when he's dragging a thick, mushroom-y tip through your sodden folds.

The divot of his tip sliding against your oversensitive clit before he's tapping it against your aching core, his free hand curled around your hip and Guy's teeth sink into his bottom lip, cheeks dimpling at the way the fat of your ass dips at the bone of your hips.

"Fuck, look at that..." He breathes out. "Pretty fuckin' pussy, drooling like that."

And he's feeding you each chubby inch, his head tipping back at the way you greedily suck him into you, sinking until you're flush against his hips, your body twitching at the feel of him prodding against the plug of your cervix.

Meaty hands paw at your sides messily, he's shifting and his jaw drops at the way your hips roll. You're leaning forward, giving him the perfect view to watch you take him.

Gummy walls cling to winding veins, slick soaks his happy trail and your nails leave long scratches down his thighs, your lips parted to let out saccharine moans that chub up Guy's ego in a way that makes his eyes roll back in his head.

"So fuckin' warm 'nd tight..." Meaty hands palm the fleshy mounds of your ass, spreading the cheeks to watch the way your furled hole twitches. Unbothered and inexperienced in a way that has him bringing a hand to his mouth, lathering his thumb in saliva.

Before he's tracing the rim so carefully, moaning at the way your cunt clenches at the surprise sensation and you peer at him over your shoulder, long lashes fluttering and cheeks flushed. Hot and rosy.

"Don't... Not there..." You're whining but your back arches deeper, honeyed slick glossing up your inner thighs, your hands still slippery with massage oil and you feel the way the ridge of his cock grinds against that spongy spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

"Guy...—hah—, just like— ah..."

You moan when his hips thrust up into you, your brows knitting and your body twitches, a mewl slipping past spit-slickened lips when the pudgy end of his thumb breaches the tight ring of muscle.

"Oooh, s'warm..." He taunts you, free hand sliding up under the front of your shirt, strong fingers curling into the softness of your breast, his thumb brushing over one of your pebbled nipples. "So fuckin' sexy."

You feel like you're having an out of body experience.

A thumb fucking into your ass, thick cock bullying your insides with a blunt tip grinding against that gooey spot each time your ass smack against his carved hips. And hands that paw at you with desperation.

"Take this off, baby." He breathes out. "Wanna feel you all the way."

You're discarding your top with lightning spread, mewling at the way his hands scale up your sides, palming your breasts and he purrs, chest rumbling against your back.

You're coming around him with shaky thighs, your tummy burning and tensing, creaming around him until there's a frothy ring at the base of his cock. You fall back against his broad chest, chest heaving and panting.

"What..— what're you..."

The words die in your throat when Guy's hooking beefy arms hooking underneath your legs, onto to lock his fingers behind your neck.

Your knees bump against his shoulders, pussy wide around his thick girth and he fucks into you like a man deranged.

Pounding into you from below, corded muscles flexing with each thrust of his hips, biceps bulging on either side of your head. You felt the fuzziness in your toes.

Your legs have never been in this position before, but the way you're drooling on your tits with each brutal buck of his hips show off how cockdrunk he's rendering you.

"You're so wet and nasty..." Guy moans, head lolling and emerald eyes remain half-lidded, "letting me bust this pretty pussy open."

The sound of flesh smacking against flesh, skin meeting skin and the lewd squelch of your sopping cunt swallowing each veiny inch is loud, filling your ears along with the sound of your blood rushing.

Guy's breaths are panted, hot breaths ghosting the shell of your ear before he's trailing his tongue along the cartilage. The sensation ticklish but sending heat down to your already oversensitive and stuffed cunt.

Sticky wads of precum smear against your walls, glossing up oversensitive flesh and pressing sloppy kisses against the plug of your womb.

"Can I come inside, baby?" Guy's voice takes on a quality that anyone else would have to strain their ears to hear. But he's so close and your cunt's squeezing him so perfectly that he finds it worth begging.

And he flinches at his own voice.

Because Guy Gardner never begs.

His ego won't let him.

"Please?" He breathes and you're nodding, lashes fluttering and eyes stinging because it's just so much. "Uh huh." You pant. "Come inside me —hah— wanna feel..."

Your common sense is nowhere to be found.

It's too busy bleeding out of your cunt in honeyed slick, gossamers clinging to swollen folds when his hips twitch up into you, veins pulsing and ruddy tip leaking copious wads of pre before he's stilling. Your ass flush, your toes curling and head lolling at the feel of the warmth that floods your cunt.

Opalescent ribbons painting your insides, twitchy walls milking him and you go limp in his arms.

Plush lips parting in the quietest whimper.

"Oh wow..." You breathe out. "That was..."

Guy hums, guiding your legs to lower at his sides and calloused fingers part your pussy lips just enough so he can catch a peek of his cum leaking out.

"Could Batman do that?" He brags and your lips purse, bleary eyes narrowing in contemplation but your silence is an answer enough.

"Oh, come on!"

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After hearing the news to stay inside as the attack of Invincible copycats decimated cities across the globe, you hid under your blanket, the light from your phone illuminating your face as you watched the broadcast for any sign of your Mark.

You could only hope that he was alright, that he wasn’t blaming himself, that he knew you were waiting for him to come back safe. He already has enough problems as is.

Your distress is momentarily tempered when you hear your window slide open and your floorboards creek. When you don’t hear Mark immediately greet you or tease you for being bundled up, any concern you felt for Mark becomes overshadowed by fear for yourself as you hear footsteps near your prone form.

You can only tremble, clutching your blanket close to your body until the room goes silent. You shakily exhale, becoming confused when another quiet beat passes. When your breath returns to normal, the blanket is ripped off of you, eliciting a scared yelp.

For a moment you only stare in confusion at the sight of your boyfriend’s estranged father before realizing it’s not Nolan Grayson that stands before you, but Mark clad in a costume similar to his father’s. His face is impassive, mouth a firm line, so unlike the expressive nature of your Mark.

He calls your name. Quietly, yet there was something heavy in his tone. Something you could almost delude yourself into thinking was longing.

His hand brushes against your cheek, moving down your face before resting on your shoulder, a finger pressed against your pulse.

“You sound healthy,” he comments, deceptively neutral in his delivery, but even behind his goggles, you could feel his gaze burning into your face, “In my world, you had cancer. By the time the Viltrumites reinforcements had arrived, it was too late. All that talk about life changing technology and medicine, but it ended up being utterly useless to me.”

Your breath hitches, but he continues, “But here there’s a me that rebelled and an you that never got sick. That got to live past high school. That’s just the way it goes, I suppose.”

His hand travels lower, brushing past your collarbone before resting on your breast, your heart hammering beneath his palm.

“Do you know why I came here?” He wonders, his free hand planting itself on your bed, as he moves his body to hover above yours until the only thing you can see is him.

“No,” you whisper, staring into black lenses.

“Because even after all these years, the only heart I wish to know, to hold, and to cherish is yours. I was willing to play human for you, to tolerate the presence of the idiots that breathed the same air as us, but then they all had the audacity to outlive you. And I can’t move on. So the selfish man that I am, I’m here to take you. To have you by my side again, no matter how much blood I have to spill,” He declares before pressing his lips against yours, muffling your gasp and cries, gripping your wrist when you try to shove at him.

He only pulls away when you start to feel lighthearted, looking down at you as you struggle to catch your breath.

“You can cry and protest all you want. You loved me once, you can do it again,” he asserts, bring your wrist to his mouth, leaving a kiss against your pulse point. “This world was doomed the moment your Mark decided to rebel. I won’t let you die because of his delusions.”

“…I’m not her,” you speak up. “I don’t know you, not really.”

“I know,” he responds, “but every inch of my body is crying out to you, and I’d rather kill everyone on this planet before I let you go again.”

He releases your wrist, instead sliding both hands under your shirt, gloved hands savouring the feel of your skin, your warmth seeping through the fabric.

“…you’re shaking,” he notes, throwing a glance at your discarded blanket on the ground, “I’m sorry, I’ll warm you up. I promise.”

“Mark,” you say, out of instinct more than anything else, your mind coming to a blank.

“Shh,” he hushes you, voice gentle but firm, “Let me take care of you. Like I always do.”

A part of you is relieved that he hasn’t taken off his cowl because you knew you’d crumble under the emotion that would undoubtedly be in his eyes. The same eyes that always held so much love and adoration towards you.

His lips press against yours again, more demanding and heated, as hands travel higher and higher until—

“Looks like I wasn’t the only one that thought to come here,” an amused but familiar voice drawls out, the Mark on top of you pulling away, body covering yours protectively.

Another Invincible sat at your window ledge, black and yellow costume starkly contrasting the rest of your room. He smiles at you when you peak around Mark’s arm.

“Honestly, you were acting so high and mighty earlier, but you’re pretty desperate, huh?” He mocks as the other Mark’s face becomes stonier. “But, really, you should fuck off somewhere else because that’s my girl you’re feeling up right now.”

Before he can respond, another voice interrupts him as you notice yet another Mark, floating behind the one at your window.

“Fucking seriously? How did you even get here before me? I bet you halfassed your locations,” The Mark with a mohawk that has you raising your eyebrow complains, “I literally called dibs on this one! Find someone else!”

Feeling the tension build up, you only hope that Mark checks in and saves you from the bullshit you’re witnessing as they begin to snarl and yap at each other like feral dogs.

Why me, you lament.

Shiesty Mark: hey, babe, it’s Big Dick Friday—why the fuck are you all here??

Why is there no Omni Mark content, he and that shiesty mark were my favourite…

I feel like omni mark is the definition of ‘quite literally hates everyone but you’