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thebarneschronicles · 3 months ago

Text

Nine Lives

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 9.4k

Synopsis: Bucky Barnes drives you insane—in every possible way. The bickering, the reckless plans, the way he smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. But when a mission goes sideways, leaving you both bloodied and too close for comfort, the tension between you ignites into something impossible to ignore.

You can keep pretending. Keep fighting him. But Bucky isn’t one to back down—especially when he knows you don’t really want him to.

Trigger Warnings: Bullet wounds, unprotect sex (wrap it before you tap it!), p in v, dirty talk, BUCKY BARNES (he needs his own warning)

Author’s Note: I had been tinkering with a few scenes in this and the Thunderbolts trailer made me finish it. Hope you like it! B x

-- Bucky Barnes was going to be the death of you.

Whether it was because he got on your last nerve or because you were desperately, irrevocably, undeniably in love with him—either way, he’d be the reason your heart stopped beating.

And honestly? It might happen in the next five minutes. Because God help you, the man was insufferable.

The room smelled like burnt coffee and bad decisions.

Sam stood at the front, gesturing at a holographic map as he laid out the mission plan, his voice steady and patient—too patient, the way a parent speaks when they know their kids are about to cause problems.

You were paying attention. You really were. But out of the corner of your eye, you could see Bucky leaning against the wall, arms crossed– and looking bored out of his mind.

Every once in a while, he flicked his gaze to you, not saying anything. Just watching.

And you knew that look. That I’m about to do something reckless and you’re going to yell at me for it look.

You gritted your teeth.

“—we’ll go in through the east entrance,” Sam continued, pointing at the building layout. “Stealth is key. No unnecessary attention.”

Bucky made a quiet sound. It wasn’t quite a scoff, but it was close enough.

Sam’s jaw flexed. “Got something to add, Barnes?”

Bucky shrugged, like the whole thing was barely worth his effort. “I just think you’re overcomplicating it.”

Your brows shot up. Oh, here we go.

Sam closed his eyes, visibly counting to ten. “What part is complicated?”

Bucky shifted, pushing off the wall. “The part where we’re tiptoeing around like we’re on a damn field trip. We go in, take out the threats, get what we need. Done.”

You turned in your chair, slowly. “Take out the threats?”

Bucky smirked. “What?”

“What?” you repeated, voice rising. “You mean brute force? Like some kind of rabid raccoon?”

Sam sighed deeply, rubbing his temples.

Bucky grinned, which somehow made it worse. “I’d say more wolf, but sure.”

Your grip tightened on the edge of the table. “Barnes, if you go off-script, I swear to God—”

“Relax, doll,” he said, casual as anything. “I’ll mostly follow the plan.”

Your eye twitched. “Mostly?”

Sam exhaled sharply, muttering to himself. “I should start charging overtime for this.”

Bucky wasn’t done, though—he turned that damn smirk back on you. “You do love bossing me around, don’t you?”

And that? That was the last straw.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood, planting your hands on your hips. “We are sticking to the plan, Barnes. No improvising. No wandering off. No turning this into some solo hero death mission.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling through gritted teeth as you fought for patience you absolutely did not have. “Why is your solution to everything brute force? Sam has a plan. A good plan. A plan that does not involve you punching your way through every obstacle.”

Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, looking completely unfazed. If anything, he seemed amused. “First of all, rude. Second of all, my way works.”

“You mean it works when it doesn’t get us killed?” you shot back, voice rising. “Which, by the way, is not a guarantee.”

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to grin. “C’mon, doll, you’re overreacting.”

And there it was. That goddamn nickname.

You felt it like a spark in your bloodstream, a rush of heat you refused to acknowledge. Instead, you rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Don’t ‘doll’ me, Barnes. I’m serious. We are sticking to the plan.”

“I am sticking to the plan,” he said, far too casually. “I’m just… modifying it.”

Your jaw dropped. “Modifying it?”

“Enhancing.”

“You mean ignoring it?”

He shrugged and you had never wanted to strangle and kiss someone in equal measure more in your life.

God, this man was going to be the death of you.

You took a slow, deep breath, curling your fingers into fists at your sides. “Bucky. No modifications. No enhancements. No Barnes-ifying the plan.”

He tilted his head, looking irritatingly pleased with himself. “Barnes-ifying? Huh. I kinda like that.”

You threw your hands in the air. “Of course you do.”

Sam, who had been observing this entire exchange with the long-suffering patience of a saint, let out a loud sigh. “Are you two done? Or should we clear the room so you can work out all that tension?”

Your head snapped toward him. “There is no tension.”

Bucky, the absolute menace that he was, had the audacity to murmur, “Oh, there’s tension.”

Your entire body went rigid. Your face felt hot. You whirled back to him, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “I will kill you.”

His lips twitched. “I’d love to see you try, doll.”

You weren’t sure what infuriated you more��the way he said it— doll —like it was his own private joke, or the fact that you liked it. Loved it, even. That it sent a pulse of something traitorous through you, something that made you want to either punch him or grab him by the collar and—

No. Focus.

You squared your shoulders, planting your hands on your hips. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Barnes. You’re going to follow the plan. No making things up as you go along. Got it?”

His blue eyes glinted with something unreadable. “And what if I don’t?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then I’ll personally make sure you regret it.”

Bucky grinned, slow and wicked. “Kinda looking forward to that.”

Your breath hitched. Your brain short-circuited. You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because there was absolutely nothing appropriate to say to that.

Oh. Oh, that son of a—

Bucky chuckled, clearly enjoying the way he’d just rendered you speechless. Then he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to something low and smug.

“Face it, doll,” he murmured. “You’d miss me if I was gone.”

You scoffed, even as your stomach flipped. “I’d miss arguing with you. That’s it.”

“Mm-hmm.”

The knowing look on his face made you want to smack it off. But more than that, it made you want to—

Nope. Not going there.

You exhaled sharply, turning on your heel. “I’m done. Sam, let’s go before I change my mind and let him get himself killed.”

Sam snorted, giving Bucky a pointed look. “See what you did? Now you’ve pissed her off.”

Bucky only smirked, watching you walk away. “Nah,” he said, mostly to himself. “She likes it.”

—

You didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

And do you know why? Because you knew—knew—he wasn’t lying.

Bucky Barnes didn’t say things he didn’t mean. He wasn’t the type to play games with words, wasn’t the type to tease just for the hell of it. If he said there was tension, if he said you’d miss him, then he meant it. He knew.

He knew before you did.

And that was the worst part.

You had no idea when your constant bickering turned into something else, something deeper, something dangerous. One day, you thought you hated him—the next, you realized you couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.

It had terrified you.

So you fought.

You fought harder, argued louder, refused to let him see just how deeply he had burrowed into you. You clashed over the stupidest things—his reckless plans, his stubbornness, the way he called you doll like it was a secret between you. Because if you didn’t fight, if you let the walls slip for even a second, you weren’t sure what would happen.

And it infuriated you.

How dare he?

How dare he make himself at home in a corner of your heart you didn’t even know existed? How dare he take up permanent residence there, until that tiny space expanded into the whole damn thing?

How dare he make you want him when you were supposed to be angry at him?

How. Dare. He.

The memory took over before you could stop it…

It had been a disaster from the start.

The mission was supposed to be a simple recon—go in, get intel, get out. No unnecessary engagement. No close calls. No getting shot.

But Bucky Barnes? He didn’t believe in simple.

You were fuming as you dragged him into the safe house, your grip tight on his arm, ignoring the way his blood seeped through your gloves. He was bleeding all over the place, but of course, he still had the audacity to smirk at you.

“You’re manhandling me, doll.” His voice was rough, teasing. “If you wanted to get handsy, you could’ve just asked.”

You pushed him down onto the rickety cot in the corner, none too gently. “I swear to God, Barnes, if you don’t shut up, I will make your injuries worse.”

Bucky groaned dramatically as he flopped back, far too casual for someone who had just taken a bullet to the shoulder. “You’re so mean to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—should I be nice to the guy who just got himself shot?” You tore open the med kit, grabbing a pair of scissors and snipping at the sleeve of his tactical suit.

Bucky’s smirk vanished. “Hey, whoa—this is a perfectly good jacket.”

“You’ve bled through half of it, Bucky!” You glared at him, slicing the fabric open with zero hesitation.

Bucky scowled. “Still wearable.”

“Still ruined.”

“You’re ruining it more.”

“Oh my God—do you wanna keep arguing, or do you want me to keep you from bleeding out you reckless, metal-armed asshole?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, because of course he did, the sound painfully casual. “Little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Your hands shook as you tore open the med kit, fingers fumbling over the supplies. “Shut up.”

“Oh, come on, doll, it’s just a—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘scratch.’”

Bucky sighed, dropping his head back onto the cot. “I’m not bleeding out.”

“You got shot, you dick,” you snapped, peeling the fabric away to get a better look at the wound. Through and through, just above his bicep. A clean hit, but it would scar if you didn’t take care of it properly.

Bucky peered at the wound like it was barely an inconvenience. “It is just a scratch.”

Your eye twitched. You gritted your teeth, pressing an antiseptic wipe to the wound with zero mercy.

Bucky hissed, body tensing as he glared at you. “Jesus—are you trying to kill me?”

“Oh, now you feel pain?” You didn’t let up, pressing a little harder just for good measure. “You didn’t seem too concerned when you ran into a hail of gunfire like a rabid golden retriever with a death wish.”

Bucky scoffed. “Golden retriever?”

“You just charged in, Bucky! What part of ‘stealth mission’ do you not understand?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I had to.”

“No, you didn’t!” You grabbed a fresh gauze pad, pressing it against the wound. “Sam and I were handling it just fine before you decided to be stupidly heroic.”

“Doll, you were cornered,” Bucky argued.

“No, I was waiting for backup.”

Bucky gave you a pointed look. “You were outnumbered and had a jammed weapon.”

You locked your jaw. Because okay, maybe that was true.

But he didn’t have to jump in front of a bullet for you.

You cleared your throat, trying to sound unimpressed. “I was fine.”

“You were two seconds away from getting shot.”

“I know, Bucky!” You slammed the antiseptic wipe against his skin, not caring when he hissed. “But you didn’t have to—you didn’t—you— I told you not to do it!” you cried out. “But no, you just had to go full Terminator and jump in front of a goddamn bullet for me—”

You stopped.

Because suddenly, your throat was too tight, and your breath was coming too fast, and you hated that the panic was winning, that it was spilling over.

You weren’t just mad.

You were terrified.

Bucky blinked at you, actually looking concerned now, which only pissed you off more.

“Doll—”

“You think you’re indestructible, don’t you?” You threw the used gauze aside, grabbing another one, your hands shaking as you pressed it to the wound. “Just because you have the serum, you think you can—can take all these stupid risks—”

Bucky sighed, clearly exasperated. “I heal faster than you do, sweetheart. It’s not that deep.”

Something inside you snapped.

“Oh, fuck you, Bucky!”

His eyebrows shot up at that.

“You think the serum makes you invincible?” you seethed, eyes burning. “Is that why you keep throwing yourself into danger? Why you never hesitate before taking a hit? Why you jump in front of bullets like it’s your damn job?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t done.

“Guess what, Barnes? The serum doesn’t make you immortal! One day, your dumbass luck is going to run out! And what then?”

Bucky stilled, blue eyes searching yours.

But you were unraveling too fast to stop now.

“I swear to God, Bucky, I’m gonna lose my mind if you keep—” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice cracking. “I can’t—I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”

Something changed in Bucky’s face. The teasing, the smirking—it all vanished.

You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes.

You dropped your gaze, fingers moving on autopilot, taping the bandage down over his shoulder. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but you pretended not to notice.

You felt him watching you.

For the first time since the mission, Bucky was quiet.

The weight of it pressed against your chest.

You swallowed hard, clearing your throat. “Just—just try not to die next time, okay?”

Bucky let out a slow breath, something almost amused slipping into his voice. “Not really my style, doll.”

You snapped your head up, narrowing your eyes at him. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve got a real stubborn track record of coming back from the brink of death.”

Bucky grinned, slow and lazy, like he couldn’t help himself. “What can I say? I’m persistent.”

Your jaw tensed.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t want to be the one watching you zero out your nine lives.”

The smirk disappeared.

A flicker of something serious passed through his eyes—so fast you almost missed it.

For a second, you thought he was going to say something that would change everything.

But then, as quickly as it came, he shoved it away.

He exhaled a soft chuckle instead, shaking his head. “You worry too much.”

You clenched your jaw, standing abruptly. “And you don’t worry enough.”

Bucky watched you, his expression unreadable.

You grabbed the med kit and turned away, before he could see just how badly your hands were still shaking.

Because the truth was—

You weren’t sure what scared you more.

The fact that Bucky Barnes kept coming back from the brink of death—

Or the fact that, one day, he might not.

–

You exhaled sharply, shoving the memory aside.

No. Not thinking about that.

You couldn’t.

Because if you let yourself sit with it for too long—

If you let yourself acknowledge how much he meant to you—

You weren’t sure how you were supposed to breathe through it.

Bucky must have sensed the shift in you, because as you stalked ahead, fuming, he was suddenly there—keeping pace beside you, his presence entirely too much. Too close, too solid, too him.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured. “That’s never a good sign.”

“Maybe I just ran out of things to say,” you snapped, not looking at him.

He made a low sound, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “That’ll be the day.”

You whirled on him before you could stop yourself, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Do you enjoy driving me insane, Barnes? Is it, like, a hobby for you?”

His lips twitched, that damn smirk already forming. “I mean… yeah. Kinda.”

You let out a frustrated noise, turning on your heel, ready to put as much distance between you and that insufferable smirk as possible. But before you could take two steps, his fingers curled around your wrist—gentle, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

The warmth of his skin against yours sent a jolt through you. His grip wasn’t rough, wasn’t forceful, but it was steady, intentional. And for a split second, you couldn’t breathe.

When you looked up, his blue eyes were locked onto yours, unreadable, intense.

“I’m not trying to drive you insane,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with something heavier, something that made your chest feel tight. “I’m just trying to figure out why you won’t admit it.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering. “Admit what?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was searching for something, peeling back layers you weren’t ready to let him see. His gaze dragged over your face, lingering—too long—on your lips before flicking back up.

Your breath hitched.

He was going to say something else. You knew it. Could feel it. But whatever he saw in your expression made him change his mind at the last second. His features shifted, the quiet determination giving way to something smug, teasing. A deflection.

“That it’s a good plan.”

Your pulse stuttered.

This wasn’t what he wanted to say. Not even close.

But he was giving you an out. Letting you pretend, letting himself pretend, like this was still just another argument. Another round of your never-ending bickering instead of… whatever the hell this was becoming.

And that? That scared you more than anything.

“It’s not,” you shot back, seizing the escape he’d handed you. You took a step back, yanking your wrist free of his grasp. “It’s stupid. It’s reckless, and it’s going to get one or all of us hurt if we do it.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed, his smirk faltering for the first time. His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in them before he asked, voice quieter, but rougher—”Why do you never take my side?”

The question hit like a sucker punch.

It knocked the breath from your lungs, left you reeling in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I—” The words caught in your throat.

He wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t throwing out some cocky remark just to get under your skin. This was something real, something raw, and it left you woozy.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Second time I’ve got you speechless today, huh? Must be a new record.”

His voice was light, teasing again, but the look in his eyes said something else entirely.

Then, before you could recover, before you could shove something sharp and defensive between you, he turned and walked ahead—leaving you standing there, heart racing, breath unsteady.

Completely, utterly furious at him.

And even more furious at yourself.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t let him get to you.

Except he had. He always did. And the worst part? He knew it.

You glared at the back of his head as he walked ahead like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just thrown you completely off balance and left you scrambling for solid ground.

Why do you never take my side?

You hated that the question still echoed in your head. That it stung in a way you weren’t ready to unpack.

You stormed after him, your boots crunching against the pavement. “Barnes, we’re not done talking about this.”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. “Seemed pretty done to me.”

Your jaw clenched. “God, you are infuriating.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that once or twice.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, his smirk still in place, but his eyes? His eyes were still sharp, still waiting.

You caught up to him in two quick strides, grabbing his arm to yank him to a stop. “Don’t walk away from me.”

Bucky arched a brow, glancing down at where your fingers gripped the sleeve of his jacket. “Thought you couldn’t stand being near me, doll.”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped at the nickname. Ignored the way your traitorous hand lingered for a second before you let go.

“That plan of yours?” You crossed your arms, tilting your chin up. “It’s reckless. And you know it.”

His smirk faded, just slightly. “And what if reckless is the only option?”

“That’s bullshit, and you know that too.”

Bucky let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I get it. You think I’m some idiot who just punches his way through problems—”

“I know you are,” you shot back.

He glared at you, jaw ticking. “But maybe—just maybe—I actually know what I’m doing this time.”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but something in his expression stopped you.

There was no smugness, no teasing. Just raw frustration, something worn down underneath.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast, the words dying on your tongue.

“Right,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “Should’ve known better than to expect you to trust me.”

The words weren’t loud. He wasn’t even looking at you when he said them. But they landed like a slap.

Your breath caught. “That’s not—”

“Forget it.”

—

Shockingly, Bucky had followed Sam’s plan.

And—even more shockingly—it had gone wrong.

In the end, brute force had been the only way to get all three of you out alive.

You weren’t sure when the dust had settled, when the ringing in your ears had finally faded enough for you to hear your own breathing again. But when your vision cleared, Bucky was still standing.

Standing over a pile of bodies, bloodied and exhausted, his chest heaving with exertion.

There was a split in his lip, a gash across his forehead, and a bullet graze along his ribs, the fabric of his tactical suit dark with blood.

And you hated it.

You hated how your stomach twisted at the sight of him hurt. Hated the way your fingers curled into fists at your sides to stop yourself from running to him, from touching him, from grabbing his face and checking.

Most of all, you hated that you had doubted him.

Bucky Barnes had a century of combat experience. He had spent his entire life surviving fights he shouldn’t have walked away from, and still, you had dismissed him. Still, you had refused to listen.

And now? Now all of you were bleeding. All of you were shaken.

But the worst part—the part that made your throat tighten and your breath shudder—was that Bucky wasn’t even gloating.

No smirk. No I told you so.

Just silence. Just his sharp, assessing gaze, scanning the aftermath like he was still bracing for another fight.

By the time Torres had you all back on the plane, you were shaking.

The adrenaline should have worn off by now, but the weight in your chest only grew heavier. You knew—you knew—Bucky would heal faster than you or Sam. Logically, you understood that.

But logic wasn’t stopping the tightness in your throat when your eyes landed on the bruising around his temple.

It wasn’t stopping the way your fingers trembled as you grabbed the first aid kit and sat down in front of him, against every warning screaming in your head.

Bucky exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the seat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” you shot back, voice sharper than intended.

“So are you.”

You ignored that. “Just—hold still.”

For once, he didn’t argue. But when you reached for him, when your fingers ghosted over his skin, his gaze flickered—just for a second—to your hands.

He noticed.

Noticed the tremor in your fingers, the way they weren’t steady.

His brows drew together, just slightly. He didn’t say anything, but you felt his stare, felt the question lingering on the tip of his tongue.

Your breath hitched. You curled your fingers tighter around the antiseptic wipe, focusing too hard on dabbing at the cut on his forehead.

When he flinched, you huffed. “Big bad super soldier can take on twenty guys at once but can’t handle a little stinging?”

His lips twitched, but the teasing was half-hearted. “Not my fault you’re rough.”

You shot him a look. “I wonder why.”

His jaw flexed. “You do like making things difficult.”

“Oh, I make things difficult?” You shook your head, pressing a little too firmly as you cleaned the wound. “I don’t remember me running in headfirst with zero regard for a plan.”

Bucky scoffed. “Right, because your plan went so well.”

You froze, fingers stilling against his skin.

His voice hadn’t been sharp, but the words still landed heavy in your chest.

“You didn’t have to follow it,” you murmured.

Bucky let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Well. I did.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and weighted.

You forced yourself to move again, forced yourself to focus on the cut rather than the way his eyes lingered.

Your throat was dry when you spoke. “You were right.”

His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in the air.

“We should have done it your way,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s fingers curled over the edge of the seat. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you knew he was watching you.

Finally, he exhaled, his voice quiet. “Didn’t do us much good, did it?”

You pressed your lips together. “Would’ve gone a lot worse if you hadn’t stepped in.”

His eyes flickered. His jaw worked, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy for it.

“You don’t have to say that,” he murmured.

“I do.” Your voice wavered, but you swallowed hard, pushing through it. “Because I was wrong.”

Bucky was still. Unreadable.

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped lower. “That an apology?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real fire behind it. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.”

But his eyes? His eyes told a different story.

—

The hum of the jet was steady beneath you, the vibrations deep in your bones, but it did nothing to ground you. The cabin lights were low, throwing long shadows across the metal walls. Sam was already passed out in the back, his breathing even, the tension from the mission finally easing from his shoulders.

You should be doing the same. You should be closing your eyes, letting exhaustion take over, shutting out the memory of the chaos you’d just escaped from.

But you couldn’t.

Because Bucky was still watching you.

He sat across from you, silent and unreadable, his blue eyes darker in the dim light. He hadn’t spoken since you finished patching him up, but he hadn’t stopped looking, either.

It wasn’t his usual sharp-edged irritation or teasing smirk. No playful bickering, no cocky remarks about how he’d been right. Just this.

Something softer. Something heavier.

Something you weren’t ready for.

“You should get some rest,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.

You shook your head, fingers curling into your palms. “I’m fine.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, like he didn’t believe you. “Yeah? You don’t look fine.”

You hated that he could see it. The tremor in your fingers, the tension in your shoulders, the way you were still breathing too fast, like your body hadn’t realized the fight was over.

You hated that he noticed. That he cared enough to notice.

And then—because you were tired, because you were furious, because he had almost died and you were still trying to claw your way back from the sheer panic of it—you snapped.

“You could have died, Bucky.” Your voice was sharper than you meant, thick with something you didn’t want to name.

His brow twitched, but his expression didn’t change. His voice stayed infuriatingly even. “Yeah. That’s kinda what happens when people shoot at you.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing out there?”

“That’s not—” You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?”

The question hung between you, thick with unspoken things.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched you—his gaze steady, patient, like he was giving you the space to say it.

And God, you wanted to.

But the words sat like stones in your throat, impossible to force out. You clenched your jaw, tried to shove them back down, but they wouldn’t go away.

Because the truth was, you weren’t just shaken by the mission.

You were shaken by the way seeing him bleeding had made your stomach drop, by the way his pained groans had made your hands shake, by the way you had wanted—needed—to run to him, to wrap yourself around him and never let go.

You were terrified.

Because this wasn’t just anger or frustration or a heated argument in the middle of a mission.

This was Bucky.

And you couldn’t lose him.

So instead of answering, instead of trying to put words to the panic still rattling inside you, you did the only thing you could do.

You reached for him.

It wasn’t sharp or defiant, wasn’t out of frustration or anger.

You just—needed to touch him.

Your fingers brushed over his wrist, barely there, hesitant. A point of contact. Something to anchor you.

Bucky stilled.

For a second, he just stared at your hand, at the way your fingers curled against his skin like you weren’t even sure if you had permission to hold on.

Then, slowly, he turned his wrist under your palm, letting your fingers slide over his pulse point. His skin was warm, his pulse steady. Alive. Here.

Your throat went tight.

Bucky’s voice was quieter this time. Rougher. “You gonna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

You swallowed hard, but you didn’t let go.

Your thumb ghosted over his pulse, barely a whisper of touch, but it still wasn’t enough.

You didn’t know what you needed, what you were searching for beneath your fingertips, but the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat wasn’t easing the raw ache in your chest.

Your eyes flickered around the cabin.

Sam was still dead to the world, Torres nowhere in sight. The only two people awake on this jet were you and Bucky.

Something inside you snapped.

One second, you were gripping his wrist, tethering yourself to him like that alone would make this feeling go away. The next, you were moving before you could stop yourself—sliding out of your seat, crawling into his lap, wrapping yourself around him like holding on tighter would somehow keep him safe, keep him yours.

Bucky made a sound—something low, something confused—but his hands came up anyway, large and warm and steady as they settled on your hips, instinctive.

His breath hitched, and you felt it against your temple, the subtle shudder of his inhale.

You buried yourself closer, curling into his chest, fingers winding into the hair at the nape of his neck. His scent was everywhere—gunpowder and metal and something distinctly him—and you could have drowned in it.

“If you ever tell anyone I did this,” you muttered, voice muffled against his neck, “I will find ways to kill you.”

There was no bite to it. No real threat.

Just you—raw and exposed in a way you didn’t know how to take back.

Bucky let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t shove you off like he should have.

Instead, his arms shifted, wrapping around you fully, pressing you into him like this was what he had been waiting for, like this was something he had been needing just as badly.

Like he wanted to.

His metal fingers flexed at your waist, pressing against the fabric of your suit, a steadying grip. His other hand flattened against your back, tracing over the curve of your spine as if he was committing the shape of you to memory.

His touch burned.

His warmth was everywhere.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your fingers sliding from his hair to his cheek, brushing over the stubble there, the still-healing cut on his temple. And then—before you could stop yourself—you were tilting his face toward yours.

For the first time since the mission, since the gunfire, since you watched the blood dripping down his temple and felt your entire world tilt on its axis—you met his eyes head-on.

Bucky swallowed.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips.

It was enough.

Your resolve snapped like a frayed wire.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could remind yourself that this was Bucky, before you could convince yourself that you didn’t love him like this—

You kissed him.

It was desperate, messy—nothing like the slow, sweet build-up you had imagined in the deepest corners of your mind.

Your lips crashed against his, your hands fisting in his suit, pulling yourself closer, closer, closer, needing more, needing everything.

Bucky froze.

Didn’t move when your lips parted against his, when your tongue flicked against his bottom lip, when your teeth caught the cut there, tasting blood.

Didn’t react when you kissed him again, soft and searching, when your nose brushed against his, when you sighed against his mouth, the sound fragile and aching.

Didn’t kiss you back.

The realization hit slow, creeping in at the edges of your desperation, sinking its claws into your chest.

He wasn’t—

Oh, God.

The sting of rejection burned hotter than the wounds littering your body.

You tried to breathe, tried to steady yourself, but your lungs felt too tight, your hands shaking as you forced yourself to pull back, to put distance between you before you shattered entirely.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, a shaky breath washing over his lips. Your throat was tight, your vision blurring at the edges. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Your voice broke.

Bucky was still silent.

And that was somehow worse.

It took a second to register the weight of what you’d done, to catch up to you.

You had kissed him.

You had kissed him and he hadn’t—

Your stomach plummeted.

“I’m—” Your breath hitched, panic clawing at your ribs. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

You tried to untangle yourself, tried to scramble out of his lap, to preserve whatever dignity you had left, to put distance between you before you completely fell apart in front of him—

But then—

God.

Then his hands tightened on your hips.

Hard.

Before you could even get further, Bucky dragged you back against him, fingers digging into your skin, like he wasn’t about to let you go. He maneuvered you until your legs were astride his hips, your arms around his neck, your chest pressed to his.

Your breath stilled, eyes wide, heart hammering against your ribs.

His expression had changed.

The shock, the hesitation—it was gone.

In its place was something darker.

Something heated and unrelenting.

Something like want.

Bucky’s breathing was uneven, his lips parted, his pupils blown wide as his gaze flickered between your eyes, your mouth, back up.

Then—

Then his fingers traced up your spine, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His metal hand trailed over your ribs, up your arm, curling at the back of your neck, tipping your face toward his.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“Doll,” he rasped, voice wrecked and low. “Can you do that again?”

Your stomach flipped.

“I—” You swallowed, your pulse hammering against his fingertips. “You didn’t—”

“I froze,” he cut in, jaw tight. “I won’t now.”

Oh.

Your lips parted, heart stumbling over itself.

Bucky let out a breath, something between a laugh and a groan, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. His grip on your hips flexed, strong and sure, and for a split second, all he did was look at you.

Like you were something he didn’t know how to handle.

Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to devour you or worship you.

Then—slower this time, more sure—he leaned in.

And kissed you.

You had been right.

Bucky Barnes would be your undoing.

He’d kill you with the way he kissed, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to ruin you, like he wanted to take you apart with nothing but the sweep of his tongue and the heat of his mouth.

You felt it—every glide of his tongue against yours, every careful press of his lips, every sharp inhale between kisses—like a spark lighting up your spine, sinking deep, settling between your legs with a heat so intense you could barely breathe through it.

You shook on top of him, the way he touched you sending shockwaves through every nerve ending in your body. His hands were everywhere—tight, possessive squeezes against your hips, reverent drags of his fingers down your back and thighs, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

A whimper escaped you, completely unbidden, and Bucky groaned, a deep, wrecked sound that vibrated against your mouth.

Then, suddenly, his lips left yours.

You gasped at the loss—until you felt him move.

Felt the warm brush of his breath against your throat, felt his nose skim along the sensitive skin there before his mouth followed.

“Bucky—” His name left you in a sharp breath as he kissed down your neck, slow, teasing, his lips dragging over every inch of exposed skin he could reach.

The problem was—there wasn’t enough.

Your suit covered too much, kept him from truly touching you, and it was driving you out of your mind.

You arched into him, restless, desperate. “Take it off,” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Bucky stilled, his lips pausing against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. Didn’t continue.

“Take it off,” you begged, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit, tracing over the zippers, tugging uselessly at the buttons, trying to feel more. “Please, take it off.”

His breath was uneven, ragged. “Doll, there are people—”

“I don’t care.” You tugged at his collar, leaning in, pressing another desperate kiss to the corner of his mouth. “They won’t see.”

Bucky’s hands flexed against your waist, like he was warring with himself.

You kissed him again, lips parting over his, trying to convince him, trying to make him understand, to feel just how badly you needed this, needed him.

He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing to yours, his chest rising and falling unevenly beneath you.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please, before you change your mind—I need this. I need you.”

That did it.

Something snapped in him.

The hesitation vanished.

And then, suddenly, you were weightless.

Before you could even process what was happening, Bucky was standing, lifting you effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist as he carried you toward the back of the jet, moving with a singular, determined focus that made your breath catch.

Your back hit the cool metal wall of the jet, the impact sending a shiver down your spine, but you barely had time to react before Bucky was kissing you again—hot, rough, devouring.

You gasped against his lips, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding on for dear life.

His hands roamed down your back, over your thighs, squeezing, gripping—and then, finally, finally, he found the zipper of your suit.

“I’m not changing my mind,” he murmured, his voice thick, edged with something raw that made you shiver. His fingers curled around the fabric, tugging just enough for you to feel the weight of his words. “And you’re not changing yours.”

You nodded without thinking, without hesitation, without fear.

There was a faint awareness of the reality around you—the steady hum of the jet beneath you, the wall of gear shielding you from the others, the knowledge that Sam and Torres were mere feet away. The fact that you were both bloodied and bruised from the mission, that maybe this wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place.

But then Bucky moved, and all of that faded.

The zipper came down in a slow, deliberate slide, the rasp of it against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. His hands worked quickly, efficiently, but gentle, pushing the suit down your arms until you could shake it off completely. The moment it was gone, he pulled your arms around his shoulders, guiding them to hold onto him, like he needed you to keep him close.

“Hold on to me,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost reverent, before dropping to his knees.

Your breath caught, your pulse hammering as his hands gripped your hips, firm and unshakable, guiding the rest of your suit down your legs. His head dipped, his lips grazing the fresh bruise blooming along your hip. He kissed it once, then again—soft, lingering. Worshipping.

You swallowed hard, your fingers threading into his hair as he nuzzled along your thigh, your knee, before rising back to his full height.

“Not getting these off,” he muttered, his fingers ghosting over your soaked panties. You’d be ashamed if it weren’t for the way his lips parted, like he was desperate to get back on his knees, get his mouth on you, There was also something else. The look on his face - regret, you thought - like he wanted to take his time with you, but was disappointed he couldn’t.

His hands moved up your body, skimming over your waist, tracing along your ribs. You shivered at the sensation of warm and cold, flesh and metal. His eyes darkened at the sight of you trembling under his touch.

“We have to be quick.”

You nodded, obedient, but there was something clawing at your chest, something making your breath catch, making your hands shake as you reached for his belt, undoing it with frantic fingers.

“This—” You took a breath, sliding the zipper down, pushing his pants and underwear down in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip already slick with pre-cum. You ached at the sight of him. Ached to drop to your knees and taste him.

Instead, you swallowed hard and met his eyes. “This isn’t how I imagined doing this with you.”

Bucky let out a low, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Me either.” His voice was rough, wrecked, breaking apart at the seams. His lips brushed your ear as he groaned, deep and ragged, when you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him slow, teasing. “Fuck, sweetheart—”

A shudder rolled through him, his forehead pressing to yours, eyes fluttering shut.

“But I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, voice thick with something dangerous, something devoted. “I promise.”

His arms wrapped around you again, lifting you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your hips rolling forward to grind against him.

“Bucky—”

“You want this?” he asked, pressing you back against the cool metal wall, the contrast making you gasp. His mouth was everywhere—dragging down your jaw, across the swell of your breast, open-mouthed and hungry.

“I do. I—”

The words faltered on your tongue.

Your heart was hammering, your chest was aching. This was reckless. This was insane.

This was everything.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressed your forehead to his, your lips brushing his with every ragged breath. “I want you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “All of you.” Your fingers twisted into his hair, tugging just enough for him to feel it. “Please.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. “You have me.”

His words were iron, unbreakable, true.

Something cracked inside you.

And then—there was no more hesitation.

His lips crashed into yours again, raw and consuming, leaving no space between you, no air, no room for anything but him. His free hand slid down, tugging at your panties, dragging them to the side. Your own hand moved between you, wrapping around his cock, guiding him to where you needed him.

“Jesus, doll—”

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

It was one full thrust, his cock pressing inside you inch by inch, filling you completely, stretching you to the edge of pain. Your nails bit into his shoulders, your head falling back against the wall as a gasp tore from your throat.

You felt full. Too full.

Your legs shook around him, your walls clenching tight around his cock, the overwhelming stretch making your eyes slam shut, your mouth parting on a silent moan.

Bucky groaned, deep and wrecked, his forehead pressing to your temple. His body was shaking too, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps against your skin.

“Fuck,” he ground out, metal hand locking around your thigh, keeping you open for him. His other hand tangled in your hair, his grip tight, desperate. “Fuck, you feel—Jesus, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, your arms trembling as you clung to him. “I can’t believe you’re inside me,” you whispered, voice barely there, overwhelmed and ruined. “Oh my god, Bucky—”

He snapped his hips forward, and your world split apart.

The pleasure was sharp, blinding, a lightning strike surging through your veins. Your body clenched around him, gripping him so tight he groaned against your neck, his rhythm faltering for a beat. His hands tightened on your hips, metal and flesh both possessive, both desperate to hold on.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he choked out, voice strangled, roughened with something close to reverence. He thrust deep, his cock dragging against every nerve inside you, every sensitive place that made your stomach coil so tight you thought you might shatter.

“For you,” you confessed, arching into him, letting him feel it, letting him know. “All the time. Every time you look at me—”

Bucky snapped his hips forward, harder, deeper, tearing a cry from your lips.

“Shit,” he breathed, voice breaking, cracking at the edges. “Shit, shit—”

“You’re so deep,” you gasped, barely able to breathe. Your nails raked down his back, desperate, pleading, needing. “Bucky, I—I can’t—”

“I’ve got you, doll,” he groaned, pressing his mouth to yours, swallowing every sound you made as he ruined you completely.

Every thrust was a curse, every breath a kiss, and you were careening toward the edge so fast it was dizzying.

The pleasure ripped through you before you could warn him, before you could even process it. Your walls tightened, pulsing around his cock, body shaking so violently that he had to pin you to the wall with his hips, burying himself to the hilt, his hand cradling the back of your head, shielding you as you contorted in his grasp.

His mouth devoured your cries, catching every broken, pleading gasp as the orgasm tore you apart. It was an explosion that didn’t stop, that kept rolling through you, wave after wave.

You rocked against him, desperate for more, still chasing, still needing, barely hearing the way he rasped your name, telling you to slow down, telling you to look at him, warning you that he was—

“God, you’re heaven,” Bucky breathed against your ear, grinding deep inside of you, his voice wrecked, every syllable tinged with something broken, something beautiful. As you slowly came down, you could feel how close he was, how tightly he was holding on, trying to keep himself from falling over the edge. “I can feel you—fuck me, I should pull out.”

“No.”

It came out fast, urgent, a whisper laced with something dangerous. Your legs locked around his hips, keeping him trapped in your hold.

His entire body went rigid. His breathing stilled.

“Baby.”

Bucky’s voice was low, frayed at the edges, filled with disbelief. The word hung in the air between you, unspoken until now.

You froze.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew you shouldn’t have given that away. Shouldn’t have let it slip, shouldn’t have handed him something so fragile, something you couldn’t take back.

But what was a drop to someone who was already drowning?

Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. If he wanted to, he could have pulled you off of him without lifting a finger. You had always been painfully aware of how much stronger he was, how easily he could overpower you.

And yet, he stayed still, locked in your hold. Completely at your mercy.

You swallowed, your fingers shaking as they curled into his hair, pulling him closer, refusing to let him run.

“C’mon, doll,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours, stealing a kiss that felt like it was more for him than for you. “Let go.”

His hips rolled, his pelvis grinding against your clit, making you whimper. Your body was still trembling, still oversensitive, but fuck, if he kept going just a little longer—

“I want you to cum inside me,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, your nails digging into his skin.

Bucky froze.

The words echoed between you like a shot fired into the silence.

His hips stilled. His breath hitched. His hands trembled where they held you.

You had to bite your bottom lip to keep from crying out, from begging him to move.

“Doll,” he rasped, warning in his tone, his forehead pressed to yours. He looked wrecked, as undone as you felt.

“Stop arguing with me,” you shot back, voice shaky, grinding against him, dragging your soaked, sensitive heat over him, pulling a moan from his throat so deep it made every hair on your body stand on end.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his grip on you bruising.

“I want this.” You tightened your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer, wrapping him in you, cocooning you both in the moment. “I’m begging you, Bucky. Please.”

“It’s—” He swallowed thickly, voice strangled.

“Irresponsible, yes, but what’s a little irresponsibility?” A breathless laugh escaped you, but your voice broke at the end, too raw to keep up the teasing. You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply before forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m on the pill.”

His jaw clenched.

“I need this,” you whispered, the truth clawing up your throat before you could stop it. “I need you.” Your voice cracked, your breath hitched, emotion swelling too fast, too much. “You don’t get it, I—”

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he softened.

Something in his eyes clicked, something changed, and suddenly, his arms were wrapping around you tighter, his hands cradling your face like you were precious, like you were fragile, like he had to hold you together before you broke apart completely.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

And then he moved.

His thrusts were slower, deeper, his lips brushing yours between each movement. His hands wandered, soothing, worshipping.

“Giving you exactly what you want, yeah?”

You nodded frantically, breath labored, losing yourself in the way he felt, the way he surrounded you, consumed you.

“Don’t pull out,” you begged, voice barely there, a whisper of devotion, of desperation.

Bucky let out a shaky breath, forehead pressed to yours. “I won’t, baby,” he promised, voice breaking. His pace picked up, hips rolling against yours, pushing deeper, harder, dragging against your oversensitive clit in a way that had you whimpering. “Gonna fill you up like you wanted.”

Your toes curled at the words, at the image, your walls fluttering around him.

“Oh, please don’t stop,” you gasped, rolling your hips, needing, aching.

Bucky groaned, his head dropping back as his rhythm faltered, as he snapped his hips harder, chasing the end, giving you what you wanted, giving you everything.

“Fill me up, baby,” you pleaded, your voice a broken, desperate thing. “Make me yours..”

And that—

That was what finally broke him.

Bucky snapped.

A curse tore from his throat, his grip on you bruising, unrelenting as his hips slammed into you, chasing the inevitable, giving you everything. His rhythm turned frantic, needy, his body demanding what you had just offered.

And you took it.

You craved it.

Your body tightened around him, coaxing him deeper, begging for more. Every thrust was an answer to a question neither of you had spoken aloud, a declaration in the language of skin and breath and longing.

“Fucking hell, sweetheart,” he gritted out, his forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot against your mouth. His hand slid down between you, his metal fingers finding your clit and pressing, rubbing tight circles, dragging you back to the edge with him.

Your body shook, every muscle tensed, the pleasure sharpening into something unbearable, something deadly.

“Bucky—”

“I know, baby,” he groaned, his voice cracking at the edges, his own body trembling as he held himself back, as he waited for you. “Give it to me.”

You did.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, knocking the air from your lungs, blinding in its intensity. Your body locked around him, your hands clutching desperately at his shoulders as the pleasure ripped through you in violent, unrelenting waves.

And that was it. That was everything.

Bucky followed, slamming into you one last time before breaking, burying himself as deep as he could go, a shuddering groan torn from his chest as he spilled into you, filling you like he promised. You felt it as his warm cum Costas your walls, so much of it you weren’t sure there wasn’t some spilling out.

His body trembled, his arms locked tight around you, holding you close as he gave in, as he let go, as he let himself have this.

For a moment, there was silence.

Just the sound of your breathing, labored and uneven. The quiet, lingering shock of what you had just done.

Bucky’s forehead pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart hammering so hard you could feel it through his suit.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you moved.

You stayed like that—wrapped around him, his cock still twitching inside of you, his arms cradling you like you might disappear if he let go.

You let your eyes drift shut, your fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against the back of his neck, the weight of him comforting, grounding, even as reality started creeping back in.

You should let go.

You should move.

You should say something.

But when Bucky finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face gently, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones—

The words died on your lips.

Because he was looking at you like you had just ruined him. Like you had just changed something fundamental inside of him.

Like you had just made him yours.

And you had.

Slowly,, Bucky eased his grip, his arms still wrapped around you, his hands still mapping the shape of you, like he needed to memorize every curve, every ridge, every place he’d touched.

His lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw—soft, tender kisses that made your heart clench, made something deep inside you ache.

It felt too big.

Too much.

But you couldn’t stop touching him.

Your fingers traced the lines of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath your touch. You pushed damp hair out of his face, ran your knuckles down the slope of his nose, his cheekbone, memorizing him the way he was memorizing you.

A hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheek, his expression unreadable.

When he finally spoke, his eyes were soft, but serious.

“You meant it,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed, lips parting, breath hitching.

“Bucky—”

His other hand was still pressed to your lower stomach, like he could feel himself inside you, like he could brand this moment into your skin.

“I felt it,” he whispered, almost to himself. “The way you—” He exhaled sharply, like the words were too heavy to get out.

You closed your eyes, trying to give yourself some kind of reprieve from the enormity of it all.

“Don’t run from this.” His voice was so calm, but it cut through you like a knife. “Please, doll.”

Your throat tightened.

You weren’t sure if it was the aftershocks of pleasure or the overwhelming emotion of it all, but your body was still trembling—and Bucky felt every bit of it.

His arms tightened around you, securing you to him, anchoring you.

“I’m not running,” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to search your face, like he didn’t quite believe you.

And maybe you didn’t quite believe yourself.

Because what came next?

What happened after this?

There was you before Bucky Barnes.

There was you after Bucky Barnes.

And they weren’t the same.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #bucky x reader smut #bucky fanfic #sebastian stan

7K notes · View notes

corkinavoid · 3 months ago

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DPxDC Zero Gravity

Things Justice League knows about Danny Phantom:

He's dead (why, how, and for how long is unclear)

He's generally on the 'good' side (but contingency plans have been set up in case of 'future evil self' resurfacing, by Danny's own suggestion)

He's a figure of authority among other dead/neverborn/otherworldly/eldritch/magical beings (however, it's unclear to what kind of authority he holds and why)

He's dating one of the Bats (unclear to who, but none of them confirmed nor denied the fact, which is a confirmation on its own)

He absolutely hates only three things: toast, circus, and Christmas (neither of them explained)

His powerset is so wide that he can't even fully recount it (unclear if it's because he doesn't remember all his abilities or if he can't keep track of the new ones popping up spontaneously)

He's hot [whoever added this, you're not wrong, but I'm watching you - O.]

He has a grudge against Flash (unclear to why, but Flash seems to know the reason and won't budge regardless)

Of course, there are many more things to know about Danny Phantom, but they are mostly suspicions, rumors, and speculations. Like how sometimes the boy seems distracted and bored as if he is only going through a pre-written script; a sign of repeatedly going through the same day a few times too many, as the other time-travellers say. Or like how sometimes he knows too much - the boy is an expert in Kryptonian biology, to Clark's great surprise, and is more knowledgeable about Olympus politics than Diana herself.

There are also little things that are hard to notice and even harder to ignore once you do. How he never talks about family but likes listening to others talk about it. How he pointedly stays away from the medbay and any kind of medical staff. How he stops every time he passes one of the giant windows on the main floor of the Watchtower, smiling dreamily at the sight of vast, open space beyond it.

And then, there's The Thing that no one addresses.

When Danny Phantom doesn't pay attention, he unknowingly nullifies gravity.

The first time it happened, Bruce thought the Watchtower's artificial gravity collapsed. However, he very quickly realized that it was a local occurrence - only a few rooms and a hallway were affected - and, right in the center of it, was Danny, reading a book he borrowed (stolen) from the Wayne manor library.

The boy himself never noticed it. Which made sense, given that he defied gravity all on his own, always floating in the air above the floor.

But the others never acknowledged it either, treating the sudden absence of gravity as a sign of one, Danny appearing somewhere around, and two, him being in a good, if a bit absent, mood.

All in all, it's not the strangest thing that happens at the Watchtower on a daily basis.

And, besides, it's kind of fun.

¤¤¤

Danny, floating in the middle of the game room at Wayne manor, deeply engrossed in a video game: Eat this, sucker!

Tim, using his toes and knees to keep himself from floating up from the couch, not wanting to distract Danny from their match: Oh, you're going down.

Titus in the background:

¤¤¤

Bart, in the middle of a conversation with Kon:

Kon: ...

Bart, looking down at the cup on the floor: ... I guess he left?..

Kon: He literally went through a giant glowing portal two minutes ago, five feet away from you, but that's how you figure it out?

Bart: I have a short attention span, anyway-

¤¤¤

Barry, opening a bag of chips just for all the contents and himself as well to start floating: I swear he does this on purpose, I fucking swear.

¤¤¤

Red Tornado, coming into the training hall of Mount Justice: ...

Young Justice:

Red Tornado: I take it Danny is visiting. I'll leave you to it, then.

¤¤¤

Bruce, walking out of the conference room at the Watchtower to see this on the other end of the hallway, internally: He may be coming this way, I should warn the others in the room.

Bruce, a second later, because he is a little shit deep inside: On the other hand, it's a great surroundings awareness drill, so maybe I shouldn't.

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general-kenobis · 3 months ago

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never have i ever

Summary: You're playing the game "Never have I ever" at Dustin's birthday party and it surprises you when Eddie reveals a secret of his personal life.

Warning: 18+ MDNI, masturbation, oral (m receiving)

Word count: 3.1k

You're only at this party because it's Dusin Henderson's 18th birthday. He thinks he's old enough to drink, so he makes sure all of his friends are drinking too. Except, he's only adept at drinking beer. Not like you, though. You like anything strong. You can drink beer, cocktails, tequila, anything alcoholic.

As you sip on your piña colada, one made especially by Jonathan, you watch as the younger boys play D&D at the bar. On the other side of the table, Eddie is smoking weed with his friends as they watch their friends playing. You try not to be obvious with your glances that are being directed at the metalhead, but you might be failing doing so because of the drinks you had.

Steve is trying to get your attention as he talks about his date, and Robin can't seem to listen to him because she's too busy checking Vickie out. They've been going on dates, but she's too invested and doesn't hide it. He's babbling and rambling, not hiding his excitement, and you feel bad you're not exactly listening to him.

The Hideout was rented just for Dustin's birthday, so you're allowed to listen to whatever you guys felt like. You and your friends are old enough to drink, and you're all taking care of the younger group in front of you. Will doesn't drink and Eleven isn't fond of it. Max is the one along with Mike who likes to try on cocktails and Jonathan makes sure he adds enough ounces of alcohol.

"Okay, you know what? If they're going to play a boring game, let's just play our own game!" Robin says as soon as Steve shuts his mouth

You both ask her what game it is and she seems excited about it. "Never have I ever"

Steve rolls his eyes and mumbles something and you just snort.

It's not like it's a forbidden game, but it sure can be fun.

She gathers every adult, including Eddie, who clearly couldn't be bothered by the idea. His friends decided to stay and watch the youngsters playing. As you all sit around a bigger table, Robin and Nancy spread shot glasses to each one of you, placing a good amount of tequila on each glass.

You don't protest, you like the idea of playing something like that. And it's funny how some of them, like Eddie and Steve, look like they're afraid of doing it.

You nudge the curly haired man beside you and whisper "You seem pretty worried"

He nudges you back and mocks you, shaking his head softly "Nah, just not the biggest fan of these games"

"Okay! Listen. I'll start and the round goes on to the right. Don't bullshit us and don't be soft" Robin shouts from the other side of the table, preparing herself before starting it.

They're all telling off things based on their own experiences, until Argyle decides to be the greatest menace ever. He started saying specific stuff that weren't related to him, rather to find out if people have ever done anything. The tequila shots were smaller so you all wouldn't die from alcohol poisoning.

You started to feel giddy, your cheeks were burning red and every time Eddie would bump his arm against yours, you would feel squirmy in your seat.

"Never have I ever been given a blowjob" Jonathan said and the guys took their shots. Argyle wouldn't stop laughing at this point, but mostly because he was drunk and high on weed.

It took a few seconds for you all to notice the fact that Eddie didn't take his shot and all eyes were pointed at him. He was leaning against his chair with a bandana over his head, so he wouldn't feel hot from drinking. His t-shirt was wet from the drink he missed and spilled over it. From your point of view, he looked hot as fuck.

"What? Yeah, I've never been sucked before and I'm not ashamed. I've barely hooked up with girls before" He seemed unbothered from saying the truth and it took them by surprise.

At least Steve and Jonathan were. Argyle, not so much. They've been friends for a while and they've shared experiences before. Meaning they didn't have many, but the fact no one ever wanted to give Eddie a blowjob seemed kinda off to you somehow.

"Huh, it's their loss" You murmured but loud enough for him to hear you

"What's that?" He rested his elbow over the table and leaned his head against his hand, having your full attention.

Eddie was holding a smug on his face and his lips were curved upwards. He pretended he didn't listen to you, but he knows what he heard.

"Uh– I mean" You blew through your closed mouth, trying to disguise your temptation of complimenting him. "Ah, they're all just stupid for not doing that"

"Really?" He pushes, biting his inner lower lip as he still muses towards you.

As you cross your arms in front of you, Eddie laughs at the way you react to his teasing and sits back straight on his chair. The game doesn't take too long to end, especially when Nancy says she's feeling kind of sick, and Vickie is about to throw up on the table.

You all scatter around, getting up and collecting the shot glasses. You don't feel sick, but you sure feel funny and like you're about to float from the amount of tequila you just had.

As soon as you turn on your heels to go back to the table, Eddie is standing there in front of you, holding a bottle of water. He's still wearing the bandana and it makes him look gorgeous from how the lights are hitting him. Without his bangs, you can see him more clearly. How his eyes are blown from the weed he smoked, the way his eyebrows are perfectly shaped, just like the shape of his plump lips.

You don't think he wouldn't notice, but he tilted his head to the side and gave you a sided smile. The kind of smile you give someone when you're about to mess with them, when you want to taunt them.

"Why are you looking at me that way, sunshine? Something wrong with my face?"

He follows you as you start to walk towards the table and you shake your head, hiding your thoughts as you drink your water. Eddie doesn't even let you sit without pulling a chair for you. He sits next to you, facing you. He crosses his arms and slumps back.

When he does that, your eyes literally drop a few inches to watch how he just sits there with his legs spread open, almost an invitation to what you've been thinking about.

You almost choke on the water from drinking it too fast. He takes the bottle off your hand and closes it, keeping his previous demeanor.

"Okay, now you're just acting weird. What the hell happened?" He sounds a little concerned, but the fact he's sitting like that in front of you doesn't help it.

You shrug, taking a deep breath. You cross your legs and lick your lips playfully before opening your mouth to speak. This small action sends a shock wave through his own body but it lasts a fraction of time.

You pull your chair closer to his, your legs standing in the middle of his. Eddie shifts his eyes to your legs and the way you are looking at him.

"You wouldn't wanna know what it's like to get a blowjob, Eddie?" You try not to sound like you're enticing him, or even provoking him. But the context says otherwise.

He laughs nervously, diverting his eyes from you. He looks at the ceiling and sighs. You see him taking a deep breath, looking back at you.

"What is this conversation about, really? None of the girls I've gone out with would wanna suck a freak off. They just wanted to hook up because I'm sort of famous in town. And I've had sex like two times. So really, don't bother with the subject"

He played defensive, like he was offended. You didn't intend to sound as if you're joking and making fun of him for not having much sex.

"No– Eddie, I'm not trying to make fun of you. You're such a grumpy little man! Come here" You quickly get up and pull him by his hand, following to the back of the bar.

You knew the whole place. You've been at the bar a hundred times and he talked about the back of the bar where he and his band use as backstage. They had set up a few furniture including one couch.

One you pushed him to after you closed the door and locked it. He looked at you terrified but amused at the same time, because he had no idea what was happening.

You sat beside him, resting your arm on the back of the couch. His brows were furrowed and when you noticed how pretty his lips were you couldn't hold it back.

"We're friends, right? You trust me?" You ask, your voice a little shy and your tone a little lower.

He nodded and tilted his head, again. "Yeah, sunshine. If we weren't, you know I wouldn't let you fucking kidnap me and bring me here" He jokes.

It's the way he calls you sunshine. The way he looks tenderly at his friends and how he treats everyone. It's so fucking cute. It's not even the alcohol talking and you know that.

You also know sometimes he throws glances at you, but you know he wouldn't do shit about that. He's too afraid of committing, too afraid of being heartbroken. He just doesn't know what he's actually missing.

And then you laugh like you're embarrassed, your head is hanging low because you can't seem to face him right now. But he pinches your chin carefully, looking right at you. His fingertips aren't that soft and you know it's from playing guitar. They also smell like smoke.

"What is it?" He asks again, pleading chocolate brown eyes staring into your soul. You look back at him and move your face until you're just a few inches away from him. "Oh?"

At first, he seems confused and kind of lost. But it's only a matter of seconds until he's the one taking you in and kissing you softly. He tastes like tequila and cherry from the gum he was chewing. It's intoxicating, it's a mix of feelings for you. He's still holding your chin. He uses the other one as leverage and holds your neck. You're anxious to taste him, literally.

The euphoria hits you like a train wreck when he lets you pull his hair a bit. He tries not to gasp from the touch, and he instinctively bites a small bit of your lower lip. It sends you to a frenzy and your other hand flies up to his crotch. Obviously, he's hard. Not just from the touch, but from the kiss. From how you hold his hair.

Eddie never had a girl hold his hair like that, he barely had a girl that interested in him. And he likes the feeling of being desired, it's different. And knowing you, he feels like he can trust you.

So he lets you touch him. Both your mouths never leave, only adding more fuel to his fire. You notice his behavior and try to unzip his jeans without being concerned about breaking the kiss.

He helps you out lifting his hips so you can get rid of it, trying to focus on kissing him and touching him. You love the feeling of having someone this horny for you. You feel his hardness grow through the fabric and you can feel the dampness already.

"You're so hard for me, Eds" You whisper hovering your lips over Eddie's and he grunts in response.

Your little evil laugh makes him more turned on for you, and his first instinct is to pull your hair, but not with force. He pulls you back a little, enough for him to have a look at you, the way you stare back at him with lust in your eyes.

"You're so gorgeous" He mumbles, his eyes sparkly. When you grip his hard cock tight, he hisses at the touch and closes his eyes forcefully.

He's still holding your hair and when you do that again, he grips it tighter. He's playing your game. Only he's the one getting something out of it. At least today.

You hold his underwear and pull it down, watching as his dick springs free from the fabric. Red tip, already leaking and begging for more of your attention. Eddie doesn't let go of you, only enough for you to start sliding down the couch, kneeling in front of him. You look at him before looking at his cock, it's trimmed and it looks gorgeous. It's already begging for your attention.

The alcohol in your system seems to evaporate immediately. Eddie glances down at you with concerned eyes, like he's afraid you won't do it. But you glance up and nod, reassuring him you will do it, smiling just before you start giving him the pleasure he deserves.

You lick a stripe through his shaft, tasting him for the first time. He didn't know the feeling until then, and it made him pulse like he never did before. One hand holding your hair back and the other one gripping tightly on the edge of the couch.

Your tongue savors his precum until you reach the tip and give it a small kiss. You look at him again, he's trying to hold back his whimpers. You know it's hard for him to handle the touch as it is his first time. Usually something this provocative causes a man to last only a few minutes.

But you take your time, taking his cock inside your mouth until the tip hits the back of your throat. It's not your first time, so you don't gag anymore.

You bob your head up and down a few times, sucking him and the liquid coming off of him. You use one hand to grip his balls, and the other one you leave resting over his stomach. He seems to love it.

He watches you carefully, he looks at how your tongue roams up and down his length, reaching the tip again, swallowing thickly. You feel it pulsing every now and then, precum spreading all over it until you suck it in again.

"Jesus fuck" Eddie moans. He lets out a loud, unsteady breath. His hand is gripping your hair carefully and if you didn't know any better, he's just being gentle when you know he would pull it harder. He was almost melting from the feeling of your mouth.

You take him back and forth, rolling your tongue around it. You lick his cock down and reach his balls, sucking it until your mouth is full and he struggles to keep his eyes open because he wants to watch it all.

You hold his shaft with your delicate hand and pump him, your mouth helping out with the job. You sank back down lower, taking every inch of him, looking up at him. Your lips slid perfectly around his skin and it made him even harder. He starts to buckle his hip when he glances at you, seeing lust in your eyes again.

Your eyes are blown from pleasure and Eddie wonders if you’re feeling the heat between your legs as well. He wants to know if your pussy is wet from doing all this with him and he can’t help but thrust against your mouth. He starts slowly, until you’re feeling comfortable having his entire length in the back of your throat.

Eddie watches when you let him fuck your mouth mercilessly, feeling his tip hitting your throat. He can't hold back his grunts, letting his head fall back to the couch. His eyes are now closed and he's in a bliss of pleasure.

The quiet room is filled with the sound of his cock in your mouth, Eddie moaning huskily and you whimpering from your own pleasure. No one cares you're both there, no one even knows you're there. He holds your head and hits his length in a perfect spot that makes him shiver.

He stops his thrusts because he wants you to finish for him. You grip the base of his cock and grip it tightly, letting the blood rush to the tip, and you suck him hard. You hollow your cheeks and suck him hard enough for him to feel lightheaded.

“Godfuckingdamn” Eddie pleads.

It's how it makes his heartbeat fasten quickly and his cock is almost exploding from the pleasure. You know he's going to cum because his legs start to falter and shake. His hand is gripping your hair tighter than before and he's buckling his hips upwards.

It comes with the loudest grunt he lets out. He fills in your mouth and the warm liquid washes over your throat as you swallow all of it. His dick pulses incessantly and you don't let go of him for a second.

Eddie feels kind of drained, but in a very good way. He's still on a high, but he feels relieved. His entire body is shaking, his legs are weak and his hands fall on top of the couch. You take the last bit of his cum and let go of him.

You think it's cute to see his cheeks flushed, painted in red. He's breathing heavily and you can't quite describe how hot he looks right now. His dick is still a little hardened but less than before. You get yourself up and help him get his pants done and sit back on the couch.

Eddie looks at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's seen. And it's not just because of what happened. He likes the thought of kissing you, of having you blowing him. He kissed you without any hesitation, tasting a bit of himself in your mouth.

"That was mind-blowing" He heaves, resting his forehead against yours and you laugh softly.

"You wanna go back to the party?" You ask, getting up from the couch, ready to open the door. But he pulls you back and holds your hand.

He shakes his head, showing off a little bit of shyness in his features. "I wanna take you home and kindly fuck you"

It makes you laugh at how much he can still manage to be such a gentleman when saying something dirty. But you agree to that and you both leave, driving to his apartment.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x y/n #joseph quinn fanfic #stranger things fanfic #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson x fem!reader #joseph quinn imagines

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lenaswritingandstuff · 7 months ago

Text

Dating the Slytherin boys (+ Harry) ▪ HEADCANONS

Requested: No

Characters: Mattheo Riddle, Tom Riddle, Theodore Nott, Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Regulus Black, Harry Potter (+ y/n)

Warnings: NSFW mentions, English is not my first language

A/N: I'm not sure I like this but here we go. However I have to say I like Regulus' one so I might turn his version into a one shot one day (when uni won't be killing me slowly). This will include also the pre-dating/flirting stage as well. SORRY FOR THE TYPOS. Comments and feedback are always appreciated. Enjoy! ^^

Tag list: @helendeath @im-jesus

Tag list for this story: @anawritez-posts @pumpkinchee @alwayslatetothefandoms

Mattheo Riddle:

His feelings for you probably confused him at first

If he falls first, he either won’t let you know or will do everything to get your attention (‘Hey, y/n, come sit here, the seat is free!”, “y/n, do you mind helping me with the homework for Snape? I can’t bloody do it”, “How about we go to Hogsmeade, just you and me?”, “you look beautiful, y/n”)

Your love for him always calms him when he gets anxious or when he’s upset, especially after his father comes back

Will tell you things he never told anyone

Would rather spend time with you than with his friends

Is terrified something will happen to you because of his father

VERY jealous, but trusts you

Despite easily getting angry, he can’t get mad at you. Even during arguments

LOVES sleeping in your arms or when you just hold him

He's crazy about your body

Loves showering with you, and we both know how it often ends

HOT, passionate sex

Will randomly eat you out without expecting anything in return (doesn't mind if you return the favor, though)

100% calls you "baby" or "love" all the time

Doesn’t care about what anyone thinks of him as long as you love him

Your love makes him feel lighter and stronger

You're his whole world

Feels bad when he hears someone criticize you for dating him

Always makes sure you don’t overwork yourself, and makes sure you get enough sleep, water and food, and comforts you when you're anxious

Holds your hands when he's anxious or stressed

Will listen to anything you have to say

Crazy about your perfume

Theodore Nott:

Struggles to express his love or feelings in general, at least in the beginning

Has never done serious relationships before, and it may cause some trouble in your relationship, as you end up believing he doesn’t care about you

It causes many fights, and the last one will be the first time he says ‘I love you’

Always goes to you for comfort

Loves sleeping with you in his arms, or cuddling, and with time he can’t sleep without you

Loves watching you sleep

Loves having you on his lap

Always gets you great gifts (even randomly)

“Well, it thought it was pretty, and…it reminded me of you.”

Will fight any guy who is rude to you or acts like a creep

Very jealous (trusts you, doesn’t trust others)

Doesn’t mind PDA at all, will gladly hold your hand or kiss you in public

Always has a hand on your waist or his arm around your shoulders

Very supportive in everything you do, even when he doesn’t understand it/isn’t really interested in it

Isn’t very good with comforting people (mostly because he's not used to it), but will hold you and listen to you as long as you need, can even give you advice/reassurance

Every compliment/'I love you' you say melts his heart and means much more to him than he shows, same goes for anything you do for him

Loves doing fun things, even if it’s just throwing snowballs at each other during winter (which ends in loving kisses, just savouring the joy of being together)

Love getting in a pool with you and playing "childish" games during summer

Any form of intimacy means A LOT to him

He's used to hooks up and "fucking" but it takes him a bit of time to have sex with you (despite being crazy about you and your body) because you mean everything to him and with you it's really making love instead of just "fucking"

The first time is loving and slow yet passionnate (eye contact at all times, hands holding, desperate kisses from him), and it gets a bit rougher and passionate the next times (but aftercare, which he isn't used to, is always on point and keeps getting better)

Is secretly very insecure, and is terrified you will leave him (especially for another “better” guy)

Craves your touch and your love but won’t admit it

His boggart is probably you being dead alongside his mother

Will tell you sweets things in Italian

Very clingy in private - and also in public with time

With you he learns to be happier and discovers a happier side of himself he didn't know he had

Loves you much more than he actually shows at first

Will often say you're all he has (and means it)

But with time, you have no reason to doubt his love and he’s the perfect boyfriend

Blaise Zabini:

Probably will court you like the gentleman he is

He doesn’t trust people easily and might be a little distant (while always polite and kind) in the early stages of your relationship

But with time he becomes very warm and smiles a lot

Always kisses the top of your hand or your forehead

Doesn’t do much PDA except for holding hands and kisses on your forehead

However in private he’ll 100% cuddle you and hold you

Dates in parks or restaurants

Get you flowers at least once a month

Will always defend you against others

One of his love languages is acts of service

Lorenzo Berkshire:

You either were friends before dating or he fell in love with you at first sight, there is no in between

Takes you on fun dates (arcade, funfair, theme parks)

Can be shy at the beginning, which will make it a bit hard for him to talk about how he feels about you

Movie nights where you two eats lots of snacks and sweets while cuddling

Always smiles when you enter a room

So supportive

Loves when you're on his lap

He has no problem with PDA

Quickly willing to meet your family if you agree

He’s a great listener and mostly gives good advices

Loves taking naps with you

Always makes you sure you get enough sleep, water and food

Won’t let you get yourself into dangerous situations

Loves to go anywhere with you, no matter the activity and even if he just follows you around

Many pet names

If you're Muggleborn or grew up among Muggles, he will totally ask you questions about the muggle world

Passionnate sex, will get rough if he hasn't seen you in a long time or if it's angry sex after he got jealous

His aftercare is the best, and he's always thankful you trust him enough to have that form of intimacy with him

Draco Malfoy:

Won’t flirt at first with you but keeps wanting your attention

Tries to seduce you with expensive gifts, and is a bit taken aback when you say it doesn’t work

Continues to get you gifts, but will make sure they match your interests/tastes, and keeps expensive gifts for your birthdays and Christmas (even though he’d like to get them all year for you)

At first he doesn't show any weakness in your presence

With you he’ll learn patience and to focus of more positive things, and also to stand up to his father

Takes you on dates every chance he gets

Will ditch his friends to spend time with you

Probably makes Crabbe and Goyle carry your bags or do things for you

So proud to be dating you, it might even make him more arrogant

Gets grumpy when jealous but after a kiss on the cheek he’s back to his normal self

Will invite you to his home and write you nearly every day during holidays

Hates it when Harry or any Gryffindor boy tries to talk to you

Surprisingly has no problem with PDA

Loves when you come to see him play during Quidditch matches

Tom Riddle:

Oh boy

It started with him admiring/watching you from afar, for a reason he can’t understand

SUPER confused by what he feels for you and why

Will probably try to get closer to you through homework or through books if he sees you read one

Will know everything about you, and will secretly follow you, saving you if you’re in danger with you never knowing who saved you

Crazy about your perfume, so much so that it makes him steal one of your clothes just to be able to smell it anytime he wants

After a while, he’ll spend most of his time with you without ever admitting he likes it

Will probably let you know his feelings for you after he cast a spell on a guy for being a creep with you

Won’t let another man touch you

Will ask Mattheo for advice to be better or to make you fall in love with him

Will do your homework without hesitation, even if he pretends that he hates it, and will leave explanations so you understand his answers/his work

No PDA except for holding hands or your hand under his arm, but will make sure to stay close to you at all times

Is a surprisingly good listener

VERY jealous, but surprisingly isn’t mad or suspicious at you

“Did you enjoy having his attention? Do you wish for me to show you how my attention is better?”

He doesn't stress over homework or stuff like that, so he finds it ridiculous when you do (learns with time to be more understanding)

Will let flowers in your room with a note on it

Pretends to not care about the gifts you get him for his birthday or Christmas but it actually means so much to him as no one ever got him any gifts before

Nothing the others say about him gets to him, but he gets angry when he hears someone say that you deserve better than him

As book!Tom who grew up in an orphanage: he's secretly insecure about his background and the fact that he’s poor, and thinks you deserve better

As Voldemort: Might be torn between continuing his goals for power or spending a simple life with you; is aware you’ll leave him if he gets on a darker path

As Voldemort’s son: would do everything to protect you from his father, and if he’s forced to get the Dark Mark, he will makes sure you don’t know

Possessive kisses

Would hurt anyone who does you wrong

Borrows money from Draco to take you on dates or to get you gifts, as he feels like you deserve the nicest things, even though you keep telling him his mere presence is enough

May feel a little bit guilty that he can’t properly show you his love like “normal” boyfriends do

Won’t admit it but considers you the only good thing in his life, and if he ever lost you he’d get on a dark path

Won’t cuddle at first, but if you wake up first you’ll find him sleeping close to you, with at least one of his hands touching you

Always notices when you don’t eat, sleep or drink enough

You’re the first (and only) person he will feel romantic love for

He has a bit of sexual experience before, but with you it's completely different - once you guys have sex for the first time, he becomes obsessed with your body and how it makes him feel

Loves fingering you

"You like it, dove?"

Even if you guys don’t work out, he won’t ever be with somebody else

Would ask your parents for you hand in marriage, but honestly it's just out of politeness, the only answer that matters to him is yours

Regulus Black:

Like Blaise, he was raised the old fashioned way

Acts coldly towards everyone except you, his tone and eyes gets warmer and kinder when talking/looking at you, and you’re the only person he’ll smile at

You were his best (and only) friend and he has been in love with you for years

He hides his feelings very well, but one day you start dating someone else (thinking Regulus doesn’t share your feelings) but he can’t bear it and confesses his feelings

Always defends you

He’ll take you on restaurants or picnics dates, always bringing flowers

Mostly fine with PDA (holding hands, hands on your waist)

Thinks he’s very lucky to have you

Probably already starts thinking of marrying you during your last year at Hogwarts

A bit jealous, but can’t stand it when Sirius tries to talk to you

Will gladly do your homework with/for you

Loves it when you sleep in each other’s arms, loves feeling you close

Loves it when you call him “Reggie” (only you is allowed to)

Will literally do everything you ask him to

You’re everything to him

Can’t stay away from you for long

Will get worried if you’re five minutes late

Always calls you “sweetheart” or “love”/”my love”

Slow, romantic sex most of the time but sometimes he needs to be rougher

Thanks to you he’ll feel lighter and he will become kinder

You’ll even make him change his views on blood purity and stand up to his parents, and with time he gets closer to Sirius thanks to that (and you)

If that doesn’t change and he still joins Voldemort, he’ll leave you a letter before going to the cavern, saying how much he loves you and how much you mean to him

Harry Potter:

Don’t expect any pet names from him, but he might create a nickname with your name (like he calls Ginny ‘Gin’ in the Cursed Child)

His love languages are fierce protectiveness, loyalty and a patience he didn’t knew he had

Has no problem with PDA because he doesn’t care about what other people think

Loves cuddles

Rarely gets mad at you, and feels guilty when he does

Mostly gets mad at you when you hurt yourself (for example during Quidditch) but it's also because he was scared for you

Hot kisses in private

Will be jealous if he sees you with another guy

He’s passionate in a lot of things he does, and it includes you and everything you do

Will fiercely defend you again anyone, can even throw hands

Gets FURIOUS when Umbridge hurts you during detention, and will cuddle you for hours and do everything he can to make the pain disappear

Knows people are mean to you during fifth year because you're dating him and he hates it

During that year the only peace he feels is when he's holding you or when you sleep in his arms (it's also the only time he doesn't get nightmares)

Very supportive

Loves getting you gifts

You make him feel SO happy, he’ll just keep smiling for no reason

Gets more and more clingy with time

Always write to you during the holidays (you always invite him to come to your house)

I'm not sure about sex while you guys are at Hogwarts but he 100% feels lust for you, there will definitely be hot making sessions when you guys are alone in a dark corner of the castle and it often ends up with you against the wall with your legs around his waist while he kisses your neck and caresses your legs

However sometimes he just can't stop himself and will eat you out (even maybe finger you at the same time), and will be proud when you come

Any act of service you do for him means a lot

You're always worried about him when he's at the Dursleys but he reassures you that he's fine

Comes to you in the middle of the night if he has a nightmare and generally comes to you for comfort or to rant

Needs you more than ever after Voldemort comes back and after Sirius’ death

Misses you like crazy during his quest for Horcruxes, and he can’t bear the thought of something happening to you

Might struggle to show it, but he knows and is thankful of how patient and comprehensive you are with him, and that makes him want to be the best boyfriend he can be

Terrified Voldemort might hurt/kill you

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highdramas · 11 days ago

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ok but first or second year resident flirting with jack’s wife knowingly or unknowingly that she’s jack’s wife and jack is losing it over the whole thing and keeps giving the newbie death stares from across the room whenever the newbie is near is wife and dana sees this all go down from the nurses station and just prepares for jack to go ape if the newbie crosses a line

rookie mistake | dr. jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!attending!wife!reader

warnings: language, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), jack defends you because you are his lovely wife <3

word count: 1.8k

notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with my work or this fic. ANON THANK YOUUUU FOR THIS REQUEST <3 i adored this one <3 this is a continuation of ring of fire set in the future, but it's not necessary to read to understand this fic. if you would like to, though, you can find that here <3 not proofread so apologies for any errors!

on monday, you resign yourself to cut the newbie some slack. i mean, alex doesn't know, and if he did, you're almost certain that he would knock that shit off immediately. but... there's a small part of you that finds it a little bit amusing. and maybe you should be good and hold your hand up and say the words that would make any wise man run far, far away: "sorry, kid. you know your attending? yeah, that's my husband."

but that would just be too easy.

tuesday, you're ultimately surprised by the gumption that he has to continue to flirt with you. he says your name like he's purring it, and you can't help but scrunch your nose up slightly, looking up at the board to see where your skills are most needed. the amusement has mostly dissipated, being followed by a certain brand of annoyance that only a twenty five year old boy can draw out of you.

you roll your head to look at your forty nine year old man, coming out of the trauma that had come in thirty minutes ago, only to find that his gaze is already on you. his cheeks are slightly red, hands on his hips, eyebrows screwed up in that way that indicate to you that he's weighing his options about what the best course of action is, here. you wave at him with your fingers, and the new resident, alex, follows your gaze. he gives a big toothy grin to your attending and it takes everything within you to keep your face as neutral as possible. "man, abbot's a cool fuckin' dude," he says under his breath with a truly earnest reverence, and it almost makes you feel bad. almost.

"he's the best of us," you say, and it's entirely truthful. you can tell that jack is still cued in on your conversation. you slide your glance back over to him and wink before you look back to alex.

"yeah." he doesn't take a beat to look back at you with that unbridled hunger that he had been throwing your way through both of the shifts you'd worked together. "so. what're you doing after all of this?"

with raised eyebrows, you shrug your shoulders. "i have an idea or two." he looks just a hair too excited, and your face drops. "not like that. you know, if you want to be a doctor, you do need to actually have an attention for detail." you raise your left hand, revealing the gold band that you wear when you're working. “less flirting. more charting. go.”

when you look over at abbot with a slight exasperation, he just raises one eyebrow at you, and offers a tentative thumbs up– almost a question.

you give him a thumbs up back.

–

the next day, alex was going around to every person that you both worked with, attempting to get intel on you, and your love life.

dana scoffs when she hears the words come out of his mouth. “i mean, he can’t be all that. there’s no way he’s better than me. i was a diver at duke! i had a full ride!” the words are said with such true arrogance that even dana has to laugh.

“oh, kid, if only you knew.” she claps him on the shoulder and points her finger at him. “i’m only gonna tell you this once, alright– after that, you’re on your own. and don’t say i didn’t warn you.” she looks at him down the bridge of his nose– a remarkable feat, considering alex is nearing 6’1. “you don’t want to try your luck. you feel me?”

“but–”

“ah– what did i just say? you don’t want to try your luck. believe me.” she claps that same shoulder again. “and if you do, i knew nothing, and had nothing to do with it.”

you lean against the counter, very obviously eavesdropping, not like you really care– when abbot slides up beside you. he looks over his shoulder at alex, who is, of course, already looking at you. when he meets abbot’s gaze, his eyes go wide and he turns right around, going back to north-11 to finish up with the norovirus patient that jack had put him on. following jack’s line of sight, you can’t help but smirk as you watch alex take in a big gulp of air, slap a mask on, and step into what you’re sure is a hell made entirely of shit and vomit.

“you know,” you say lowly, your elbow brushing jack’s. “that is just mean.”

“all interns get a noro case when they come in,” he says seamlessly, looking between the board and the patient notes that he’s trying to wrap up. “it’s textbook.”

“his first day was three days ago. you usually give it at least a couple of weeks before you start sticking them on noro or food poisoning.”

“not all interns flirt with my wife, relentlessly, in front of me.” jack puts his undivided attention on you.

“oh my god.” you’re smirking. you’re smirking, wide, at your computer. when you look over at jack, you say, “you’re not seriously jealous of the kid?”

“it’s about respect.”

“i don’t think he’s even picked up on us yet. which is hilarious, in and of itself.” you finish up with your chart and put a hand on your hip. “no one’s telling him.”

“he keeps this shit up, he’ll be hearing it from me.”

you hum and pat your hand on his chest. he catches it, his thumb rubbing at the ring you wear. “you’re sexy when you’re jealous,” you say under your breath, close enough to him that you can get away with a little workplace flirting.

“i’m not jealous.”

–

he is jealous.

he’s jealous when he watches this kid– yeah, you may only be five years older than him, but he doesn’t linger on that fact too long– blatantly flirt with you. he gets jealous when alex leans in slightly towards you during shift, just a little too close than is friendly while you review patient notes and ongoing care. but then, he watches you do your little semi-awkward shuffle to the left, and he can’t even help his smirk. and then you look over your shoulder, make this face that says, can you believe this guy? and suddenly, it’s not that he’s jealous. it’s just that he loves you.

but then, on that thursday, alex touches you.

at first, you don’t even notice what he’s done. a little piece of hair has fallen into your eyes out of the tortoiseshell clip that you love so much– the one that jack picked up for you at a cvs because he knows how much you love tortoiseshell. and it’s so faint that you barely even register it. but it doesn’t matter. because you may not have realize, but jack certainly has.

alex’s hand hasn’t even dropped from where he’s tucking that loose piece of hair behind your ear when jack surges up, dana hot on his heels. “woah, woah, woah, let’s all cool it–” dana starts, but it’s no use.

jack puts a firm hand on alex’s shoulder, squeezing tighter than necessary. certainly firm enough to drive home his point. “hey, buddy,” jack says lowly, just enough so that alex can hear him loud and clear, without causing a scene that draws the attention of the entire emergency department. he has that sort of simmering intensity that always makes something swirl in your belly. “look, i’ve tried to be cool, man. i really have. but i’m only going to tell you this one time before i pull in a favor with gloria so that you complete your residency somewhere else. keep those grubby fucking hands off of my wife.”

mortification is an understatement for what you assume alex must be feeling. his face is beet red, eyes darting between you and abbot so fast you’d want to get him in for a head CT if he kept it up any longer. “i– holy shit– i did not know.”

“i know you didn’t,” jack says with a resolute nod. “but now you do. so keep your hands to yourself and we won’t have a problem.” he pats alex’s back once, and you cover your mouth with one hand and peer over at dana with wide eyes. she, can only shrug, roll her eyes, put her readers back on, and turn back to the charge desk. “go get a sandwich from the bin and take ten minutes. go.”

alex looks at you and you feel bad, almost. you smile at him and say, “next time, if a woman says she’s not interested… take it at face value, before jack abbot has to get involved.”

“yes, ma’am. it will not happen again.” alex gives one last nod to jack, like a nervous teenage boy, before he’s off running towards the staff lounge with his tail between his legs.

jack rubs a hand over his face. you bite down on your lip, look at him, and you start to chuckle. soon, jack’s laugh begins to mix with yours, coalescing until you’re leaning against the charge desk with tears clouding your vision, his dimples fully out and on display.

“man,” he says, shaking his head. “i feel a little bad.” he says, his laughter still holding him by the sleeve, begging to tug him back under.

“you should be. you’re scary,” you say while his thumb catches one of the stray tears on your cheek.

he snorts. “i’m about as scary as a kitten.”

“i dunno. i think our friend would beg to differ.” you lean into him and squeeze his arm before you force yourself to pull away– you like to exude some semblance of professionalism at work. even if the thing you want to do is drag your husband to the on-call room and ravage him for defending your honor.

“yeah, well. guess i reserve it for special circumstances.” he crosses his broad arms over his chest and looks you, up and down. they land on your face and soften. “i love you, kid.” the way he calls you kid, versus alex, makes your chest squeeze. an old habit from your residency, a reminder of where you were and how far you've come now.

the fondness that you feel for him never gets smaller. the longer you've been with him, from that time where you were his resident, smoking weed on his living room floor and wondering if there was a world where this could all work... the thing that always remained true and steady was how much you liked jack. right down to his bones, you liked him.

how can you capture that all in a sentence?

you don't know. but you settle on, "i love you," emphasis on the most important word there is.

#jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #jack abbot imagine #jack abbott imagine #jack abbot #jack abbott #the pitt fanfic #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt #dr abbot x reader #my writing

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reidmarieprentiss · 23 days ago

Text

Life With Spencer

Part One

Summary: Living life with Spencer, ups, downs, firsts, and hopefully -- lasts.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, mild angst, mild hurt/comfort, smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: choppy -- like real life lol, open ending, smut & suggestive content (18+), criminal minds cases & violence, sooo in love, people being mean to Spencer, reader is nervous, reader is also grumpy when woken up (real), virgin!Spencer, awkward/real-life scenarios, no real timeline - they been dating for like a year…

Word count: 20.4k

a/n: i just keep imagining what it would be like to be true, domestic partner's with spencer *sighhhhh* i would love to make this a series if anyone has any suggestions for real-life scenarios with our man!!! part two is already underwayyyyyyy

main masterlist part two

It started, of all places, in a post office.

Spencer was there to send a specialty package to his mom, carefully wrapped and labeled in his neatest handwriting and checked at least three times before approaching the counter. You were there picking up a fresh sheet of funky stamps for the biweekly cards you sent to your own mom. You caught him eyeing your stamps; he caught you noticing how he triple-checked the zip code, and before either of you knew it, you were both lingering by the door, pretending you weren’t waiting for the other to say something.

He didn’t ask for your number that day. He didn’t even ask your name. But you remembered his awkward smile, and he remembered how your laugh sounded like a punctuation mark at the end of his favorite kind of sentence.

Approximately two months later, after a few more accidental post office encounters—some real, some not-so-accidental on his part—Spencer finally worked up the courage to ask if you’d like to get a cup of coffee sometime. Nothing fancy. Just... coffee. You said yes without hesitation. Not because you loved coffee or anything—you didn’t even drink it that much—but because it was him.

About five weeks after that first coffee—after getting to know each other over steaming mugs, awkward pauses, and shared smiles that turned less awkward with every meeting—Spencer asked you on an official date. He said it like it was a formal event, and you agreed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Three weeks after the first date, you had your first kiss. He asked, of course—“Can I kiss you?”—softly, like a secret he wasn’t sure he could say aloud. You whispered “Please” and met him halfway.

One day later, he showed up at your doorstep, cheeks pink, breath short, and hands full of slightly wilted grocery store flowers. He blurted out, “I’d like to be your boyfriend officially. I wish I had more patience, but I don’t.” You laughed, said yes, and pulled him inside for some checkers and records. You both forgot the flowers on the kitchen counter until hours later when he gasped and apologized profusely for “botching the presentation.”

One month into dating, you finally had a proper make-out session. It happened on your couch after you watched an old movie you’d half-paid attention to. His hands were still a little unsure like he was afraid of taking up too much space, but you guided them to your hips gently, making room for all the ways he was still learning how to want.

Three months after that—after gentle kisses, warm touches, and whispered confessions—you started experimenting more fully. Slowly. Carefully. Clothes stayed mostly, but curiosity replaced fear. Hands explored. Bodies pressed close.

When you start experimenting, it’s clear right away that Spencer is a complete virgin.

Not in the accidental, whoops-it-just-never-happened kind of way. No—he carried this with him deliberately, quietly, like a fragile artifact wrapped up in careful layers of hesitation and logic.

He’d had a few kisses here and there—fumbling, fleeting moments of curiosity and awkward courage—but nothing past that. The most notable, of course, was the one in the pool with Lila Archer, which he mentioned to you once with a sheepish, barely-there smile and a lot of eye contact with the floor.

But what else could anyone expect? He was a child prodigy placed in public schools in Las Vegas—twelve years old, surrounded by kids over his age, twice his size, and with none of the social tools they’d already started to learn. By the time those awkward, formative years passed him by, he was in college. Then, the Bureau. Then, the field.

Life didn’t exactly leave time or space for learning how to kiss someone without overthinking it, how to touch someone like it was normal, or how to be touched without freezing.

So, with you, it starts very slow.

Very, very, painfully, reverently slow.

Not because he doesn’t want it. And not because you’re hesitant, either. But because he feels everything. Every brush of your fingers over his collarbone. Every time your thigh touches his on the couch. Every time your lips linger too long near the corner of his mouth, just waiting for him to close the gap.

And Spencer doesn’t want just to do things. He wants to understand them. Feel them. Memorize the lines of your body like poetry he’s afraid to get wrong.

So the first time your hand slips beneath the hem of his shirt, his breath stutters like a skipped heartbeat.

He doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t panic. But he’s so still.

Like his body doesn’t know yet what it’s allowed to want.

And you… you go slowly. Tenderly. You kiss him like you have all the time in the world and like he’s never been kissed quite right before. You let your hands rest on his chest, warm and grounding, not moving unless he shifts toward you first.

And when he finally does—when Spencer leans in, his lips parting slightly and his hands shaking just a little as they find your waist—you can feel the trust. You can feel how much it took for him to get there.

…

After all the slow touches, the careful kisses, the long silences that weren’t uncomfortable but sacred, it finally reached that tipping point. That moment when your hand, light and sure, drifted lower, brushing down the center of his chest, past his ribs, over the soft skin of his stomach—just warm skin beneath your fingers, taut with tension but never rejection.

You weren’t rushing. You would never rush him.

But he was trembling now, just slightly, beneath your hand, and when your fingers reached the waistband of his pants, pressing there gently like a question—Can I? Are we okay?—

Spencer’s breath hitched sharply in his throat, his entire body freezing like someone had hit pause on him mid-thought, mid-movement, mid-desire.

And then—

“Virgin!” he blurted out, like a siren going off in the middle of a church.

You blinked. Pulled back just a little, more surprised by the sudden volume than anything else.

He was already burying his face in his hands. “Oh my God.”

“Wait,” you said softly, trying not to laugh—not at him, never at him, but just at the Spencer-ness of the entire thing. “Did you just—did you just shout the word ‘virgin’ at me?”

His voice was muffled through his hands. “I panicked.”

You bit your lip, reaching out to gently tug his hands away so you could see his face, which was redder than you’d ever seen it.

“I figured,” you said with a small smile, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “That you hadn’t… done this before.”

Spencer stared at you, his eyes wide and embarrassed and pleading for you not to think less of him. “I didn’t want to lie. I just didn’t want to ruin anything. And then your hand was—you were right there—and I didn’t know what to do or say, and I—”

“Spence,” you cut in gently, placing your hand over his heart. “Hey. You didn’t ruin anything. I’m really glad you told me.”

He swallowed hard, trying to read your expression. “You are?”

“Of course,” you nodded. “I want all of you. That includes all the firsts, too. I don’t care how much or how little you’ve done. I just care that you’re here and that you trust me.”

He looked like he was still trying to compute that. His jaw flexed slightly, eyes darting from your mouth to your eyes and back. “I do,” he said softly. “Trust you, I mean.”

You smiled, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth, sweet and slow. “Then let’s take our time.”

—

It happened in the quietest moment, a few months in.

Not during a grand gesture, not in the middle of a kiss, or some cinematic slow dance under string lights. It happened while you sat on the couch with your legs draped over his, your shared dinner growing cold on the coffee table, and an old record playing in the background.

Spencer looked over at you—your hair a little messy, one sock slipping down, hoodie too frumpy, and absolutely the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen—and said it.

“I love you.”

Just like that.

No stutter. No warning. No long-winded buildup, though with Spencer, that in itself was a miracle. Just three soft, perfectly-formed words like he'd been thinking them every day and finally found the courage to let them go.

You blinked.

Your chest swelled instantly, and that kind of joy was so overwhelming that it felt like your heart might burst right through your ribs. Your whole body felt lighter like gravity itself had relaxed around you. You wanted to scream. Laugh. Cry. Dance. Climb into his lap and never get up again.

Because you loved him. So much. And hearing it from him—from Spencer, who measures his words with surgical precision, who doesn’t say things unless he means them with his entire being—meant everything.

And yet.

Your brain-to-mouth connection short-circuited.

Like… completely fried.

You opened your mouth to say it back, to tell him how long you’d wanted to say it, how long you’d wanted to hear it, how long you’d been feeling it—but nothing came out. Not one word. Not even a breath.

You could feel your face trying to smile or do something, but it wasn’t a smile. Oh God, it wasn’t a smile. It was… it was a grimace.

Not because of him. Not because of the words. Not because of the moment.

Because of you.

You were mad at yourself for freezing. For making this look like anything other than the greatest thing ever said to you—that’s ever happened to you.

Spencer’s face fell just a little—not much, just the faintest furrow of his brow, the tiniest flicker of uncertainty. He didn’t take it back. He didn’t apologize. But he noticed. Of course, he did.

And still, you couldn’t speak.

Inside, you were screaming I love you too, so loud the words echoed through your bones, pounding against your ribs like they were trying to break free.

But your lips stayed parted in useless shock, your eyes wide, and that half smile half grimace—God, that awful grimace—still hovering across your face.

And Spencer, sweet, brilliant Spencer, reached out slowly, brushing your hand with his fingertips.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, almost a whisper. “You don’t have to say it back yet.”

But you shook your head, once, twice—because no, that wasn’t it. That wasn’t why you couldn’t talk. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t hesitation. It wasn’t doubt.

It was love. Overwhelming, soul-consuming love. So big and deep it clogged your throat, tripped over every nerve ending, shorted out the parts of you meant to speak.

“Please just tell me what you’re thinking,” Spencer tried again, his voice barely above a whisper now, brittle at the edges with the kind of laugh that only shows up when someone is trying really hard not to fall apart. “I—” he looked down, smiled, almost like he was apologizing just for existing, “I can’t read you right now, and it’s… really scary.”

You opened your mouth again, but nothing came out except a soft breath that shook with the effort. You reached for his hands, squeezing them tightly in yours, grounding yourself, grounding him.

Inside, your thoughts were screaming:

I love you. I love you. I love you so much.

Why won’t the words come out?

You wanted to say it perfectly. You tried to mirror what he gave you. But your brain was betraying you in real-time, too caught up in the height of the moment to deliver the simple truth you’d been carrying around for weeks.

So you just stared at him—at the man who loved you, who chose you to say those words to first, who gave them to you without condition, without waiting for safety or the right moment. He gave them to you because they were true.

And the best you could do right now was squeeze his hand tighter and will your heart to speak for you.

But you saw the hurt flash across his face. Subtle. Quick. He blinked it away like it hadn’t happened, but it had.

Your silence was crushing him.

And still, the words wouldn’t come.

“Do you…” Spencer started, and you felt it in the way his hands tightened just slightly around yours, and his eyes searched your face like he was trying to read a language he suddenly didn’t understand. “Do you want to slow things down?”

He asked it like it physically pained him to say. Like the words had to be forced out through a throat full of thorns. Like he was terrified, they might be the match that set the whole thing on fire.

Your heart broke.

That wasn’t it at all. Not even close.

But from his side of things—from the outside looking in—it must’ve seemed like you froze because you didn’t want him to say it. Like your silence was a retreat. A signal to pump the brakes.

You shook your head so quickly that it blurred your vision, your voice finally punching through the barricade in your chest. “No.”

Spencer exhaled all at once like the breath had been stuck somewhere in his lungs since the moment he said I love you. His shoulders slumped, his expression softening instantly.

“Okay,” he breathed, a tiny smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “Okay… Do you, um—” he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, suddenly shy again—“do you love me?”

You nodded fast, almost too fast. “Yes.”

His face lit up—full and real. His grin was goofy and toothy and completely unguarded, like the question had been blooming in his heart for weeks, and your answer finally let it open.

“Did you forget how to speak?” he teased gently, eyes dancing now, the tension gone.

“Mhm,” you hummed, biting your bottom lip as you felt the heat rise to your cheeks.

Spencer laughed softly and leaned in, resting his forehead against yours, still smiling. “I’ll take unintelligible nodding,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, warm, teasing, and thick with affection.

Then he tilted his head just slightly and leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a slow, sweet kiss—unhurried, tender, the kind of kiss that didn't ask for anything, only offered.

It wasn’t desperate or rushed. It wasn’t about the fear of losing each other or the relief of still being here. It was quiet. Certain. Gentle in the way only love can be when it’s finally spoken aloud.

Your eyes fluttered closed, and your hand curled into the soft cotton of his shirt as you kissed him back, anchoring yourself to the moment and to him.

And just before you pulled apart, he whispered against your lips, “I love you,” again, like he’d never get tired of saying it.

You kissed him once more instead. Slow. Firm. Certain.

…

The exploration continued—sweet, slow, exploratory. Neither of you were in a rush to reach any finish line, and truthfully, there was something delicious about not rushing. About drawing everything out until the tension between you was so thick, it clung to your skin like humidity.

It started with kisses that deepened over time—long, open-mouthed, tongue-slow kisses that left both of you breathless and warm. Your hands started roaming more freely, lingering on his hips, his ribs, and the dip of his lower back, and when you slid them beneath his shirt just to feel the heat of him, Spencer whimpered like you’d done something forbidden.

And he loved it.

You touched over clothes for a long time, and somehow, that made it feel more intense. The layers didn’t mute anything—they made it better. More anticipation. More teasing. Rubbing, pressing, dragging your palm down the length of him through denim, through soft cotton pajama pants when he was sleepily pliant in bed—he’d gasp like he couldn’t believe how good it felt. Like you were magic, and he was still trying to figure out how.

But grinding?

Spencer really, really liked grinding.

The first time it happened, it hadn’t been intentional. You were in his lap, straddling him during a particularly intense makeout session on your couch, your bodies pressed so close you couldn't tell whose heart was beating faster. You shifted your hips without thinking, just adjusting your weight—and he whined.

A real, honest-to-God whine. High-pitched and needy, muffled by the kiss but unmistakable.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, lips swollen, your breath ghosting over his. “Oh,” you said, surprised and wickedly delighted. “You like that.”

His head fell back against the couch cushion, eyes fluttering shut, throat working hard around the truth. “Yes,” he breathed, like it pained him to admit it. “So much.”

From then on, it became a regular part of your experimentation. Clothes stayed on, but the heat between your bodies didn’t need anything more. You’d climb into his lap or pull him into yours, and slowly, so slowly, you’d move, letting your hips rock against his, coaxing out all those noises he barely knew he could make.

He’d grip your hips like you might float away, bury his face in your shoulder, and whisper your name over and over like it was a prayer. Sometimes, he’d tremble before anything even happened—just from the rhythm, the friction, the build.

And you loved watching him unravel.

You made it safe. You made it sweet. You made it good.

And Spencer? Spencer made it feel like no one else had ever touched you like this. Because no one had ever made him feel like this.

But the first time Spencer finished in his pants?

God, was he mortified.

It wasn’t even supposed to go that far—not technically. You’d been kissing in bed, bodies pressed close, your hands under his shirt, his on your thighs, your hips moving in lazy, deliberate circles against his. It was slow, indulgent, just another one of those experimental nights where nothing needed to happen, where the point wasn’t release—it was intimacy.

But his breathing had gone uneven, his hands had tightened their grip, and he had buried his face in your neck like he was trying to disappear inside you completely. You knew. You knew what was coming. You could feel it.

And then, with a gasp so quiet it sounded like he was shocked it happened at all—he came.

In his pants.

And froze.

Completely, totally, tragically still.

“Don’t,” he whispered hoarsely, his face still pressed into your skin, and you could feel the heat radiating from his ears. “Oh my God. Don’t say anything.”

You blinked, momentarily stunned, then slowly pulled back just enough to look at him.

His face was red. Not blushing. Not pink. Red. Like he was seconds away from dissolving into atoms and leaving this plane of existence entirely.

“I—” he stammered, already reaching for the edge of the blanket like he might try to escape from under it. “That wasn’t supposed to— I didn’t mean to—God.”

But you couldn’t even speak.

Not because you were embarrassed. Not because you were annoyed.

Because you were floored.

You had never seen anything so honest, so raw, so real in your life.

You bit your lip, watching him scramble, and you could swear to God you’d died and gone to heaven.

The man you loved had just lost control with you.

You could feel the mortification radiating off of him in waves. His entire body had gone still in that telltale Spencer Reid way like he was internally building a forty-page psychological thesis on his own perceived humiliation.

You sat back slowly, your hands still on his shoulders, grounding him, steadying him.

“Hey,” you whispered, leaning in to nudge his temple with your nose. “Look at me?”

He hesitated. Then he lifted his face just barely, just enough for you to see the blooming red flush across his cheeks and neck. His lashes lowered like he couldn’t bear to meet your eyes.

“I—” he started voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to. It just—you—and then—”

“Shhh,” you murmured, cradling his jaw in both hands. “You’re okay.”

His eyes fluttered shut again, lips pressing into a tight line, but then you kissed the corner of his mouth—soft, reassuring, no heat this time, just warmth.

When you pulled back, your smile was easy, teasing, but genuine. “Spencer… that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He let out a choked laugh—more like a groan, really—and dropped his hands over his face in total embarrassment.

And then—

“You’re evil,” he muttered, voice muffled by the back of his hand, but it didn’t have an ounce of venom. If anything, it was laced with disbelief. With wonder. With that particular kind of amazement, only Spencer could radiate after experiencing something that both shocked and deeply overwhelmed him.

You didn’t say anything right away. You just smiled against his skin, pressing lazy, lingering kisses along the edge of his jaw, then lower, to the slope of his throat—soothing, adoring. Reassuring him with touch, because you knew his brain was still spinning, his thoughts still racing, probably analyzing your tone, your face, your body language, checking for signs of judgment that would never be there.

“I mean it,” you whispered eventually, your voice warm and honest against the damp heat of his neck. “That was… incredibly hot.”

Spencer groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re going to keep saying that, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation, grinning. “Forever. I’ll probably bring it up at random moments. Grocery store. Your birthday. Funerals—”

“Funerals?!” he squeaked, lifting his head to look at you, horrified and helpless.

You shrugged, delighted. “If the memory hits, it hits.”

He dropped his head back onto the pillow with a dramatic thunk. “I’ve created a monster.”

“You created a very happy girlfriend,” you corrected, crawling up just enough to look him in the eyes. His were still wide, still a little panicked, but they’d softened now—especially under the weight of your smile.

Your hand came to rest against his cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath his eye. “Spence,” you said softly, seriously, “you didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t embarrass yourself. You didn’t scare me off. You let yourself feel, and that’s beautiful. It’s real.”

He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just… I’ve never—”

“I know.” You kissed him again, this time slow and deep and full of all the words you hadn’t yet said.

When you finally pulled back, his eyes were glassy in that way that always made your chest ache.

“I love you,” you said gently, almost like a secret. “Every part of you. Even the part that panics when things feel too good.”

Spencer let out a quiet breath, one that felt like a release, and turned his face into your palm.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

Then, after a beat—

“…But I do need to change my pants.”

You snorted, collapsing onto the bed beside him in a fit of laughter. “Deal. But I’m helping.”

“Of course you are,” he grumbled, but you could feel him smiling.

…

And approximately five months after that, he asked if you wanted to have sex.

He didn’t pressure. He didn’t push. He sat beside you in bed after a particularly long, drawn-out evening of tangled limbs, whispered names, and asked quietly, “Would you want to, sometime?”

You turned to him, brushing the hair from his forehead, and asked just as gently, “Do you feel ready?”

And when he nodded—just once, eyes wide and sure—you kissed him and said, “Then yes.”

—

You and Spencer had joined the team out for a night at O’Kieffe’s, the warm, slightly too loud bar just a block away from Quantico that everyone seemed to gravitate toward after a good case or a big change. It was the latter tonight—David Rossi had officially joined the BAU, and the team wanted to mark the occasion with drinks, stories, and maybe a little too much bar food.

Spencer had been hesitant at first. Bars weren’t exactly in his comfort zone—the crowd, the noise, the unpredictable lighting, the clinking of glasses, and the echo of music bouncing off the wood-paneled walls all tended to overwhelm him faster than he liked to admit. But when you gently placed your hand on his arm, reminding him that this wasn’t a night about chaos but celebration, he nodded.

He could do this—for you. And maybe even a little for Rossi.

Because the truth was, Spencer was excited. Really, truly excited. He wasn’t always great at expressing that kind of thing in the ways people expected—there’d be no loud cheers or performative toasts—but there was a particular brightness in his eyes as he adjusted his sweater cuffs and followed you into the bar.

Rossi was a legend. Spencer had read everything the man had written—twice—and the idea of learning from someone with field experience that rivaled Gideon's but without the same emotional volatility was, in his words, “an intellectually stabilizing opportunity.” You’d laughed when he said it, but you’d seen it for what it was: Spencer was hopeful. That was rare. And beautiful.

As for you, you were just happy to see the team again. The BAU didn’t often give space to breathe, let alone celebrate, and being surrounded by the people who lived in the trenches with Spencer—Derek with his teasing, Penelope with her sparkle, JJ already organizing everyone's drink orders, and Emily nursing a beer in her corner—made the night feel a little lighter.

You and Spencer had slid into the booth side by side, your thigh resting against his under the table. He was already reciting a fact about Italian wine in Rossi’s honor before you’d even removed your jacket, and you smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder for just a second as the bar's noise faded into the background.

“Hey,” JJ grinned as she approached with two menus and two drinks. “Look who came out of his cave tonight.”

Spencer blinked up at her, already mid-sentence about vineyard elevations. “Technically, I was in the lab today—”

JJ handed you a drink and ruffled his hair affectionately. “Uh-huh. Sure, genius. Welcome to the land of the living.”

You laughed softly into your glass. Spencer looked at you, eyes squinting like, is that supposed to be funny?, and you just leaned closer, whispering, “You’re doing great, baby.”

Spencer relaxed for the first time since walking in—just a little, but it was enough.

Predictably, Spencer asked for an Arnold Palmer—his go-to when he wanted to blend in at a bar. The bartender raised an eyebrow, as they always did, but he didn’t notice. Or if he did, he pretended not to, too focused on getting the ratio of iced tea to lemonade just right when he asked. You, on the other hand, simply shrugged when the girls offered to order something for you.

“Surprise me,” you’d told Penelope, sliding the laminated menu back across the sticky table. “Just nothing blue.”

Penelope gasped, one hand over her heart. “Blasphemy. You don’t like blue drinks?”

“I don’t like them when they come up,” you replied, and Emily, across from you, choked on her beer from laughing.

JJ leaned in. “I’m getting you something sweet but deadly. You’re welcome.”

You grinned. “I trust you with my life and my blood sugar.”

By the time your mystery drink arrived—pink, fizzy, and dangerously good—you were nestled between Spencer and Emily, your arm tucked behind Spencer’s back along the booth. He sat upright, knees a little too close together, fingers twitching over his glass as he listened intently to Rossi talk about his early days in the field.

He wasn’t talking much, but his eyes were wide and bright, darting between whoever was speaking and the condensation on his glass like he was cataloging every second of the conversation. Every now and then, he’d lean into you slightly when he heard something particularly interesting or particularly absurd, his shoulder bumping yours like a silent: Did you catch that?

You didn’t work for the BAU, didn’t know all the lingo, the history, the inside jokes that shot back and forth like rubber bands across the table—but it didn’t matter. You liked watching them. The way JJ would cover her mouth when she laughed too hard. The way Derek told a story with his whole body, practically reenacting the events across the table. The way Penelope reached for everyone’s arm when she got excited, physically incapable of holding her enthusiasm in place.

“I’m telling you,” Derek said now, pointing an accusatory finger at Emily. She dropped her badge into the sewer grate and then tried to fish it out with a police baton—in front of the suspect.”

“I still caught him,” Emily muttered, nursing her drink.

“Yeah, because he was laughing too hard to run.”

Everyone howled. Even Spencer, who usually reserved his laughter for niche jokes or obscure references, chuckled into his Arnold Palmer.

You leaned in, mouth near his ear. “You look happy,” you said softly.

He turned to you, his smile shy but steady. “I am.” He looked back at the table, then at you again. “I think… this is good. It feels good.”

And it did. There was something about the warmth of the bar, the laughter, the closeness of bodies pressed into booths and leaning across tabletops that felt more like a family reunion than a work celebration.

When Rossi raised his glass and toasted to “the next chapter,” everyone clinked their drinks together with grins and mock solemnity. You lifted yours, too, even though you didn’t know what chapter they were on.

Spencer clinked your glass gently with his own, then held your gaze for a second too long.

“What?” you asked, amused.

He shook his head, smiling softly. “Nothing. Just glad you’re here.”

“I’m gonna be sick,” Morgan groaned dramatically, clutching his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “Reid, you’re buying the next round for burning our eyes with your little love fest over here.” He fake gagged for good measure, head tilted back like he was in the final scene of a tragedy.

Penelope slapped his shoulder with a firm thwack, her bangled wrist jingling as she did. “Derek! He’s in love! Leave him alone!”

Spencer, mid-sip of his Arnold Palmer, choked slightly on the lemonade, the tips of his ears immediately blooming pink.

Across the booth, Hotch barely disguised his amusement, lips twitching toward a smile that never fully broke through—but his eyes gave him away. “It is Spencer’s turn,” he said, deadpan.

That was all it took.

With a quiet sigh and cheeks still flushed like he'd accidentally been assigned to deliver a TED Talk on romance, Spencer gave you a look that was half wish me luck and half I should’ve stayed home. Then, wordlessly, he scooted out of the booth, brushing your knee as he passed, and stood beside the table, preparing to memorize everyone’s drink orders.

“Okay,” he muttered, locking in. “Everyone… just… say it slowly. No overlapping. JJ, you first.”

It was a mess, of course. Everyone calling out orders with no respect for his system—Penelope wanted something sparkly and strong but not too strong, Derek wanted whatever beer came in a glass, not a mason jar, JJ changed her mind twice, and Emily was now teasing Spencer by naming obscure cocktails just to see if he’d recognize the ingredients.

He somehow caught it all with focused determination.

As he finally finished and headed for the bar, Rossi leaned back in his seat with the kind of casual flair that only came with age and absolute confidence. Without a word, he reached into his jacket pocket and slipped a black card between two fingers, holding it just low enough that only Spencer could see.

Spencer blinked at him.

Rossi gave a sly wink. “Go on, kid. It’s on me tonight.”

Spencer hesitated, brow furrowed, fingers curling slightly at his sides. “But—”

“No buts,” Rossi interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “You’re celebrating me, remember? Least I can do is pay for the honor.”

Spencer looked down at the card now resting in his palm, then back at Rossi. The older man was already returning to his drink as if the conversation was finished.

And, well, it was.

Spencer tucked the card carefully into his wallet and headed for the bar, still blushing, still flustered—but smiling all the same.

So he made it up there—shoulders slightly hunched, hands fidgeting with the corner of a cocktail napkin, cheeks still pink from Rossi’s gesture, Derek’s teasing, and the general social exhaustion that came with being Spencer Reid in a crowded bar.

He’d given the bartender the list in his soft, fast voice—apologetic but thorough. “One scotch neat, one whiskey sour, one gin and tonic, two beers, one cosmopolitan, one appletini, and—uh—an Arnold Palmer. Please.”

The bartender, to their credit, didn’t even blink. They just nodded and turned away, starting on the scotch first. Spencer exhaled, relieved, and stepped aside slightly to make room at the bar for someone else.

But apparently, someone had been listening.

And wasn’t impressed.

Behind him, a man snorted loudly—one of those exaggerated, performative sounds meant to be heard. “Jesus, what are you ordering for? A daycare?”

Spencer blinked, head turning slowly, confused. “I—what?”

The man was older, maybe in his late thirties or forties. He was tall and broad, with the overconfident stance of someone who had never once questioned his place in the world. He was nursing a Jack and Coke as if it gave him some kind of authority, his eyes rolling toward Spencer as if he were the one holding up the entire establishment.

“I said,” the man drawled, louder now, clearly looking for an audience, “if you’re gonna order drinks for the whole choir group, maybe let the rest of us get a round in first.”

Spencer stared, eyebrows pinching in confusion. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know there was a limit on group orders.”

The man snorted again. “Well, there should be. Who even drinks an appletini anymore? You trying to get your girlfriend drunk off juice boxes?”

Spencer's mouth opened, then closed again, a dozen facts about cocktail popularity and historical alcohol trends immediately loading into his brain, ready to be deployed like a defense mechanism. But something about the man’s smug grin—so certain, so pleased with himself—stopped him.

Because this wasn’t a conversation. It was a provocation.

Spencer shifted on his feet, visibly uncomfortable but unwilling to rise to the bait. “They're for my friends,” he said simply, voice low. “It’s a celebration.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay, genius. How about next time you call ahead for catering?”

At that moment, the bartender slid the scotch in front of Spencer, followed quickly by the whiskey sour.

Spencer nodded his thanks but didn’t look away from the man, who had turned back to his drink with a smirk, clearly satisfied he’d gotten in the last word.

But then, with a calmness that even surprised himself, Spencer murmured, “You know, statistically, men who police other people’s drink orders are often projecting latent insecurities about their own masculinity, particularly when in public settings designed to measure dominance, such as bars.”

The man blinked.

Spencer reached for the next glass being slid across to him. “But please,” he added, without looking up, “tell me more about how a fruit-based cocktail threatens you.”

It was clinical. Precise. Barely a jab at all—at least, not to most people. But to a drunk man with too much ego and not enough brain cells to process nuance, it was fighting words.

The stool next to Spencer scraped back with an ugly screech as the man stood, puffing out his chest like a cartoon character about to pick a bar brawl.

“The fuck did you just say to me?” he slurred, stepping in too close, looming over Spencer like that would somehow make him feel bigger, stronger, smarter.

Spencer stiffened immediately, his fingers tightening slightly around the rim of the next drink, his eyes fixed forward like if he didn’t make direct eye contact, he could defuse the situation with sheer avoidance.

“I didn’t insult you,” he said carefully, quietly. “I made an observation. Based on empirical data.”

“Oh, data?” the man sneered, leaning in now, the smell of cheap liquor wafting off him. “You one of those little trivia guys? That it? You think you’re better than me because you read a book?”

Spencer’s breath caught, his shoulders rising a little, defensively—familiar posture. You’d seen it before. Fight or freeze.

And this wasn’t Spencer’s scene. Not by a long shot. He could navigate conversations with senators, unravel a serial killer’s psychosis with a few words—but bar aggression? Drunk men with something to prove? That was another beast entirely.

“I’m just here to pick up drinks for my team,” Spencer said, holding the man’s stare now, standing his ground but not escalating. “I don’t want trouble.”

Unfortunately, the guy did.

He shoved Spencer’s shoulder hard enough to slosh two drinks onto the bar. “Then don’t go running your mouth like a smartass, Poindexter.”

The bartender snapped to attention. “Hey!”

And before the situation could combust any further—

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—”

Derek Morgan appeared out of nowhere behind the guy, voice low, controlled, but laced with threat. He placed one firm hand on the man’s shoulder and turned him just enough to get him out of Spencer’s space.

“This guy bothering you, Pretty Boy?” Derek asked without breaking eye contact with the drunk.

Spencer cleared his throat, stepped back, adjusting his glasses. “He had some… strong opinions about fruit-based beverages.”

Derek clicked his tongue, expression flat as he stared the man down. “Yeah, well, I have strong opinions about idiots starting fights in public places. You wanna keep going?”

The man blinked, unsteady on his feet now that he was no longer the biggest guy in the conversation. He mumbled something that might have been “not worth it,” and turned, staggering back to his bar stool further down the line.

Derek waited a beat, watching him go. Then he turned back to Spencer, his demeanor shifting instantly. “You good?”

Spencer nodded, still holding two drinks with extreme care. “Yes. That was… unpleasant.”

“You wanna head back with what you’ve got? I can come grab the rest.”

“No,” Spencer said, squaring his shoulders like he needed to prove to himself that he could finish the job. “I’m okay.”

Derek smiled, clapped a hand to his back. “Proud of you, man.”

Spencer sighed. “I was trying to de-escalate.”

Derek chuckled. “Spencer. You probably just told a drunk guy his manhood was tied to a cosmo.”

“…Statistically, it probably is.”

“Let’s just get these drinks.”

When the two men arrived back at the booth, arms full of drinks and expressions full of something, the mood shifted immediately. Whatever easygoing laughter had been drifting between the team members froze mid-air the second they saw Spencer’s pink ears and Derek’s look of guarded amusement.

You sat up straight, eyes narrowing instinctively as you scanned Spencer’s face—flushed, stiff around the jaw, very clearly trying to pretend nothing had happened.

Emily was the first to speak, her voice laced with suspicion. “What the hell was all that?”

“Yeah,” JJ chimed in, frowning as she took her drink from the line Spencer was meticulously assembling on the table. “What did Macho Man want with Spence?”

Penelope gasped. “Wait—was there drama?!”

Spencer sighed, softly and with great effort, as if this was the last thing he wanted to relive. Derek, on the other hand, leaned back in the booth like he was settling in for storytime.

“Oh, you should’ve seen it,” Derek said, grinning. “Reid here almost triggered a bar fight because someone took offense to him ordering an appletini.”

“It was not about the appletini,” Spencer muttered, sitting down beside you. “It was about the man’s deeply rooted insecurities surrounding masculinity and his inappropriate hostility in response to a completely factual observation.”

You turned to him immediately. “What did you say?”

Spencer gave you a look. The one that always meant you’re going to mock me but I’m not wrong. He folded his hands in front of him like he was testifying in court. “I asked him to tell me more about how a fruit-based cocktail threatens him.”

Emily slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. JJ stared at him, blinking in disbelief. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, he did,” Derek confirmed, shaking his head. “I got over there just in time to stop the guy from launching into him.”

“Is he okay?” Penelope asked, peering over Spencer’s shoulder as if expecting to find evidence of bruising or trauma.

“I’m fine,” Spencer said flatly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… a little overstimulated. I didn’t expect to be insulted over a beverage. And shoved.”

You frowned, reaching out to gently touch his arm. “Someone touched you?”

Spencer nodded. “It wasn’t hard. It was just… unwelcome.”

“That’s it,” you said, scooting back in your seat as if about to go confront the man yourself. “Where is he? I just wanna talk. Maybe throw an appletini in his face.”

Spencer caught your hand quickly, and despite everything, a small smile tugged at his lips. “It’s okay. Derek handled it.”

You looked at Derek, who gave you a look that said handled might be a mild way of putting it.

“I used my words,” Derek said innocently. “Mostly.”

The table burst into laughter, and the tension slowly unraveled.

But you leaned in close to Spencer, lowering your voice just enough so it was only for him. “Are you okay, baby?”

His eyes met yours instantly, the tension still clinging to the corners of his mouth but softening under your gaze. You could see how hard he was trying to seem fine for everyone else’s sake—keeping his posture stiff, his voice level—but here, with you so close, it cracked a little.

Spencer nodded quickly, that earnest little head bob that told you he was trying to be brave. “I am,” he said, almost like a question he was answering for himself as much as for you. Then, more gently, “Can we go soon?”

“We can leave whenever you want, my love,” you said without hesitation, your hand sliding to rest on his thigh under the table—a quiet, grounding touch, warm and solid.

Unlike the man at the bar, whose shove had left a static buzz of tension under Spencer’s skin, your touch had the opposite effect. His muscles eased almost instantly under your palm like a string had been loosened somewhere deep in his chest.

He exhaled. Really exhaled. Not one of those shallow, polite breaths he gave when people asked how he was—but a real, whole-body sigh.

Spencer reached down to place his hand over yours on his thigh, holding it there like a lifeline. “Thank you,” he murmured.

You gave him a small smile, one that said always and pressed your thumb against his leg in a slow, gentle circle.

The rest of the table carried on around you—Derek recounting the confrontation to Penelope with far more dramatic flair than necessary, JJ laughing into her drink, Emily shaking her head like she couldn’t believe this night was real—but all you could focus on was Spencer.

His hand in yours. His heartbeat slowing. The way his body leaned subtly closer to you now, like he knew he was safe again.

And soon, the two of you would be walking out of this place together, hand in hand, far from anyone who’d ever make him feel small.

—

You wanted to make tonight special for your man.

Spencer deserves so much. The world and more.

But tonight, you’ll start with a room—his room—lit soft and made sacred with intention.

So you get a little cheesy with it. Romantic. Old-school. The kind of thing people roll their eyes at in movies but secretly dream of. You plan.

You sneak into his apartment while he’s at work—not really sneaking, of course; you have a key, gifted in a quiet moment weeks ago when he pressed it into your hand like he was asking a question he couldn’t voice.

You let yourself in and begin.

First, the bed. His iron-framed, slightly squeaky, endearingly old-fashioned bed that he once admitted, reminded him of something he saw in a museum as a kid. You wind strands of fairy lights around the bars—golden and warm, gentle on the eyes, soft enough to keep the room dreamy but clear. You test them a few times, adjusting one crooked hook, unplugging, and replugging until they fall just right.

Next, come the flower petals—not just roses. You went for color. Texture. Variety.

Soft pinks, fiery oranges, cool lavender, pale yellows. A little chaotic. A little wild. Like your love for him. You scatter them across the sheets like confetti at a celebration. Because it is one.

You set out the unscented candles on his nightstand—small, discreet, and safe. You almost got the kind that crackles like a fire, but you remembered his sensitivity to noise as much as scent.

You want to indulge him, not overwhelm him.

On the foot of the bed, you place the box of condoms and a bottle of lube—both neatly arranged, unassuming, and respectful, but there. Like a promise, not a demand.

It’s not about seduction, not in the usual sense. It’s about care.

It’s about telling him without words, You are safe here. You are wanted. You are adored.

And it’s about readiness. His and yours.

So you sit on the edge of the bed when it’s all finished, looking around the room, heart full and nervous, because love like this—good love—always comes with a bit of fear.

Now, all that’s left is to wait for the man you love to walk through the door.

…

Spencer trudged up the steps to his apartment, every muscle in his body heavy with the weight of the day. His satchel strap bit into his shoulder, and the knot in his neck hadn’t loosened since 2:17 p.m. when the case had turned from frustrating to tragic. By the time he reached his front door, he was fully prepared to collapse, microwave something vaguely edible, and not speak to another human being until at least tomorrow.

But then—

He opened the door and paused.

Your shoes. Neatly placed by his coat rack.

You wore the same pair when you went to that used bookstore downtown and got caught in the rain on the walk back. They were the ones with the faint scuff mark near the toe where you tripped trying to race him to the car.

Spencer’s breath caught, and without even realizing it, his hand relaxed on the strap of his satchel.

“Y/N?” he called out, his voice already softer. Hopeful.

“In here, lover,” you sang back, your voice floating out from his bedroom, warm and amused and full of something deliciously mischievous.

Spencer blinked, confused for half a second by the nickname—it wasn’t your usual one. Then he laughed under his breath, his lips twitching into a smile that pushed away the rest of the day’s gloom like sunlight through storm clouds.

He slipped off his shoes, his heart pounding faster now—not with anxiety, but with anticipation.

He had no idea what was waiting for him. Only that you were here. And that was always enough.

He dropped his satchel carefully by the door, toes brushing his shoes into their usual corner, both out of habit and because he knew you liked when things were neat. And something about tonight—something about your voice and the way it lilted with that playful energy—told him this wasn’t a night for messes.

He padded down the hallway slowly, each step easing him further out of his work mindset.

You called him lover.

Lover.

His ears were still warm from it.

The bedroom door was open, but dimly lit from within, and when Spencer stepped into the doorway—his hand grazing the frame like he needed to steady himself—his breath left him in a stunned, hushed exhale.

“Y/N…” he said again, but it wasn’t a question this time. It was a reverent acknowledgment.

The fairy lights cast golden halos over everything—the iron of the bedframe, the petals scattered in a riot of color over his sheets, your silhouette seated calmly in the middle of it all, serene and radiant and waiting for him.

The room looked like something out of a book he hadn’t read yet. Like something meant to be unwrapped slowly. Like something dreamed about.

You looked at him with a grin that betrayed your nerves and your excitement all at once. “Hi,” you said, your voice gentler now. “Rough day?”

Spencer’s hand dragged slowly down his chest like he couldn’t quite believe this was real. He nodded, blinking at you like you were a mirage. “It… was. But this—” he gestured to the lights, the petals, you— “This is…”

“Too much?” you asked quietly.

He shook his head fast, walking toward you now like he remembered how to move. “No. No, it’s—perfect.”

You reached for him, and he came willingly, kneeling on the bed beside you, hands cautious as they cupped your face.

“I didn’t want to rush,” you whispered, your thumb brushing the slight furrow between his brows. “But I wanted you to know I’m still ready. If you are.”

Spencer’s breath caught, and he swallowed hard, his forehead leaning against yours like he needed the contact to hold himself together.

“I’ve never felt more ready for anything,” he whispered back, his voice trembling with awe.

But still, Spencer was nervous.

No, nervous didn’t quite cover it—he was trembling with a complex blend of anticipation, reverence, and a lingering thread of panic that tugged at him even as he stood in front of you, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest.

His fingers trembled slightly as you helped him out of his shirt, your touch so gentle, so patient, that it almost brought tears to his eyes. Every movement of yours said we’re okay. You’re safe. I want this with you.

And he did want it. He’d said yes with more certainty than he’d ever given anything outside of a statistical theorem. But the reality of it—being here, with you, about to cross that line—was almost too much. He didn’t know where to look. His gaze darted from your eyes to the sheets to the petals and back again, never quite settling.

You could feel how tightly he was holding himself together. Not out of fear but because he wanted so badly to get it right. To be everything you deserved.

You smiled gently, stepping close and running your fingers along his jaw. “Hey,” you said softly, your tone like silk. “You’re allowed to look at me, you know.”

He swallowed hard and gave a jerky little nod. “I know. I just—I’m trying to be respectful. And grounded. And not... combust.”

You giggled, your fingers trailing down to the hem of your own shirt. “Well, if you combust, I’ll stop.”

“Don’t combust,” he whispered, mostly to himself.

And then—without flourish, without teasing—you pulled your shirt up and over your head and tossed it to the floor.

And Spencer—

Spencer stopped functioning.

Whatever careful control he’d been trying to maintain, whatever self-soothing technique he was cycling through in his mind—it all evaporated.

His jaw quite literally dropped. His eyes widened like a Victorian gentleman seeing an ankle for the first time.

You had never seen anyone look more stunned.

And then he said it. Barely above a whisper. Like it was a scientific observation, a sacred discovery, and a prayer, all at once:

“…Boobs.”

You bit your lip, trying so hard not to laugh. “Yes, Spence. Boobs.”

He blinked, still staring. “Those are… incredible.”

You stepped closer, chest brushing against his, watching as his entire body stiffened, overwhelmed in the most delightful way. “You can touch them, you know.”

“I can?” he asked, eyes snapping to yours with something just shy of awe.

With your guidance, you nodded slowly, and his hands lifted, tentative but eager, warm palms grazing over your skin like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

And that was it.

That was when all of Spencer Reid’s encyclopedic knowledge, IQ points, and graduate degrees—just left the building.

His brain?

Off.

His mouth?

Open.

His dick?

Throbbing.

His hands cupped you with the kind of reverence usually reserved for priceless artifacts or first editions.

And you? You were beaming.

Because seeing Spencer lose his carefully composed mind over you—over something as simple and as yours as your bare chest—was everything you’d hoped for and more.

His hands, once tentative, were now resting firmly on your chest. Spencer had gone quiet, which wasn’t unusual for him—he was a man who could live inside silence with ease—but this was different. His mouth was slightly open, his eyes wide as he watched his own hands explore you, gently, like you were something fragile and sacred.

He looked up at you with wonder written all over his face, his cheeks flushed, curls hanging slightly over his forehead. “You’re so soft,” he whispered, almost like he was afraid saying it too loud would break the moment.

You smiled, heart thudding in your chest at the way he marveled at you like he’d never seen anything so beautiful. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “I didn’t know—I mean, I knew technically, but—” his eyes flicked back down, thumbs brushing slowly over your skin, “—this is better than any description I’ve ever read.”

That made you laugh, and the sound of it seemed to ground him, his shoulders relaxing just enough that you could see him starting to come back to himself. Not the nervous, overthinking version—your Spencer. The one who trusted you. The one who wanted this.

“You okay?” you asked, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone.

“I think I’m in love with your entire body,” he murmured, dazed and breathless. Then blinked. “And yes. I’m okay.”

You leaned forward and kissed him soft and slow, letting your fingers trail down his spine, pressing gently at the small of his back. He gasped a little when your hips shifted, brushing against him where he was already hard and twitching in his boxers.

He whimpered. You felt it rather than heard it—low in his throat, vibrating through his chest.

“Can I take these off?” you asked, fingers ghosting over the waistband of his pants.

He nodded quickly, breath shallow. “Yes. Yes, please.”

You moved slowly, tugging his pants and underwear down with care, and he hissed through his teeth when the cool air met his skin. He was already flushed, already leaking at the tip, and so sensitive that when you brushed your hand along him lightly, his whole body arched.

“God,” he gasped, burying his face in your neck. “I—I might not last long. I’m sorry.”

You smiled and turned your face to kiss his temple. “Spence. I want you to feel good. That’s the whole point.”

He nodded, clinging to you, one arm wrapping around your waist as if he needed to anchor himself. You made sure everything was slow. Gentle. The kind of slow that said there’s no rush, that said we have all the time in the world, that said I want you to feel safe.

Every touch was measured—not tentative, not clinical, but intentional. Like music played on vinyl, every movement had its own warm, human hum.

When you reached for the condom, he caught your wrist—not firmly, not to stop you, but just enough to pause you.

“C-can I… can I do it?” he asked, voice so quiet it cracked in the middle. “I—I read about it. I practiced.”

Your heart nearly burst.

You nodded immediately, smiling, letting the packet rest in his palm. “Of course, baby. I love that you did research.”

Spencer exhaled and nodded like you’d given him permission to breathe for the first time in ten minutes. His fingers worked the foil carefully, a little clumsy but deliberate. You saw the concentration on his face, the way he bit the inside of his cheek as he rolled it down himself with both hands, going slow and steady like it was an experiment he’d studied and was now conducting in real-time.

When he finished, he looked up at you, a little pink from embarrassment, a little proud. “I, uh… I read that using both hands gives you better control and minimizes breakage. And I didn’t want to fumble if I waited till the moment—”

You leaned down and kissed him before he could spiral. “You did perfect.”

He flushed deeper, blinking up at you like you’d just handed him the Nobel Prize.

Then you reached for the lube.

Spencer’s breath hitched.

He watched with fascination—his eyes dark and wide—as you popped the cap and squeezed a small amount onto your fingers.

“Okay?” you asked, holding his gaze.

He nodded slowly, lips slightly parted. “Yeah… yes. Please.”

You reached between your bodies and wrapped your slicked hand around him, and he gasped.

Not just a sharp intake of breath, not just a quiet sound—a whole-body gasp. His hips twitched off the bed, his fingers dug into the sheets like he was trying to stay grounded, and his head tipped back into the pillow with a groan that echoed in the quiet room.

“F-fuck,” he whispered, eyes fluttering closed. “I—I didn’t—I didn’t expect it to feel like that.”

You stroked him once, slow and careful, and his whole body shuddered.

You leaned close to his ear, voice low and teasing but full of love. “Too much?”

“No,” he rasped, shaking his head furiously. “Not too much. Just… a lot. I’m trying not to—”

You smiled, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “You don’t have to try so hard. Just feel it. I’ve got you.”

And he did. He let go.

Of the nerves. Of the pressure. Of the shame.

He let himself be exactly who he was—soft, flushed, wide-eyed, and open—yours.

And when you finally guided him inside you—after his hands had gripped the sheets, after you’d whispered to each other that you were ready—he gasped so hard you worried for a moment he’d stopped breathing.

His hands found your waist. His head tipped back. His lips parted, eyes squeezed shut.

“Oh my God.” Spencer squeaked more than said.

You stilled, letting him adjust, letting both of you adjust. You were warm and tight and Spencer was entirely overwhelmed. You leaned forward to kiss him, your hair brushing his cheek, and he kissed you back like he had nothing else to hold onto.

“Is it okay?” you whispered.

“Better,” he gasped. “So much better.”

You moved gently at first—carefully, deliberately—just shifting your hips enough to feel him deeper, to let your bodies adjust to each other, to the newness of it all. Spencer's breath caught in his throat, his eyes wide and glossy as he looked up at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Like he couldn’t believe this was real.

His hands gripped your hips—not possessively, but like he was grounding himself. His fingers trembled where they rested against your skin, his thumbs brushing mindless, reverent circles, like he was trying to memorize your shape through touch alone.

You leaned down slightly, brushing your nose against his. “Still okay?” you whispered, watching every little flicker in his expression.

His breath left him in a soft, unsteady sigh. “Yes,” he managed, the word barely audible like it had to travel through his entire body before it reached his mouth. “Yes, but I—God, you feel—”

He trailed off, not because he didn’t want to finish the sentence, but because he couldn’t. Because Spencer Reid—man of thousands of words, probably fluent in countless languages, master of articulation—had gone completely, blissfully, speechless.

You pressed your lips to his jaw, then his cheekbone, and then the corner of his mouth, letting your own breath warm his skin as you began to move again.

Slow. So slow it didn’t even feel like movement at first—just heat, friction, pressure, and presence.

You watched him like it was your full-time job, like nothing else mattered. The way his mouth trembled with every shallow thrust. The way his eyes kept trying to stay on you, but fluttered shut when the sensation overwhelmed him. The way his chest rose and fell like he was trying to breathe through something far more profound than pleasure.

His entire body was taut with restraint like he was terrified to let go.

“You don’t have to hold back,” you whispered against his lips.

He opened his eyes again, wide and fragile and desperate all at once. “I don’t want it to be over too fast.”

You smiled softly, brushing his curls back from his damp forehead. “Don’t worry about that, baby. We can go again later. Or not. But you don’t need to prove anything, Spence. Just let me take care of you.”

That undid him more than anything. His throat worked as he swallowed, and his hands dragged up your sides, shaking slightly. He nodded—almost frantically—but his voice was quiet. “Okay. Okay.”

You picked up the pace just slightly, just enough to build tension, just enough to draw a longer moan from his chest. It was low and raw like he hadn’t meant to let it out, but you kissed him before he could shrink away from the sound.

“You sound so good, baby,” you whispered.

That almost did it.

His head tilted back, jaw slack, brows furrowed like the pleasure hurt in the best way. His legs shifted beneath you, trying to find stability in a moment where he felt anything but stable.

And then he said your name.

Not just said it—moaned it.

Like it had been carved into the moment. Like it was the only word he knew.

Your bounces were deliberate, and your thighs were sore. His chest was flushed, and his breathing was uneven. And when your hands slid up his ribs, he reached for you—pulling you closer, needing the anchor of your body against his.

You buried your face in his neck, breathing in his scent and murmuring soft encouragements, each one laced with love. And he whimpered your name again, his hands tightening on your back.

“I—I’m close,” he whispered as if confessing a secret. “I—I don’t want to, but I—I can’t stop—”

You kissed the hinge of his jaw, your voice breathless but tender. “Don’t stop. Let go, Spence. I’ve got you.”

And he did.

With one last, desperate gasp—your name caught somewhere between a cry and a prayer—he came. Hard. His whole body curling into you as if the force of it broke something open inside him.

You didn’t move right away. You let him ride it out, breathing him in, one hand combing gently through his hair as his arms wrapped around you, holding on like he was afraid you’d disappear.

When he finally blinked up at you, cheeks flushed, lashes damp, his voice was barely a whisper.

“I’ve never felt anything like that in my life.”

You smiled, cupping his face like he was made of something precious. “I know, baby.”

“I… I love you.”

You kissed him, slow and full and deep. “I love you too.”

You collapsed beside him afterward, pressing your forehead to his, your hands still tangled in his hair.

Spencer was panting softly, blinking up at the ceiling with wide, glassy eyes. “I didn’t know it could feel like that,” he whispered.

You kissed him once, twice, as your fingers traced lazy patterns on his chest. “It’s not always like that,” you said honestly. “But with you? I hoped it would be.”

He turned his head to look at you, his expression open and unguarded, his smile small and unbelievably tender.

“I think I’m gonna love you even more now,” he whispered.

You laughed, soft and full, your chest aching with how much you adored him. “Good. Because I already do.”

Then—just as your breathing began to slow, your heartbeat settling into that warm, post-release haze of intimacy—Spencer suddenly shot up.

Not all the way, not jarringly, but enough that his arms unwrapped from around your back, and he was propping himself on one elbow, brows furrowed in frantic realization. His eyes, still glassy and dazed from everything you'd just shared, snapped open with a kind of panic so sincere it was almost endearing.

“You didn’t finish,” he said, voice high and tight, like he’d just remembered he'd left the oven on.

You blinked, a little startled, then broke into a laugh so warm and affectionate it made your chest ache. “Spence—”

But he wasn’t letting it go.

“No—I mean—you didn’t,” he said again, the urgency in his tone almost comical as he began searching your face, your body, trying to confirm with his eyes what he already knew. “I—I wasn’t paying attention like I should have—I was too in my own head—”

“Baby,” you cut in, reaching up to smooth your hand over his hair, which had gone wild in the most adorable way. “It’s okay. We’ll get there. You don’t have to—”

“But I want to,” he blurted, his hand already sliding to your thigh like he couldn’t imagine not finishing what he started. “I need to. Please let me—can I?”

You blinked again, caught somewhere between touched and incredibly turned on by how serious he was, how devoted.

“Spencer,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips, “you just lost your virginity about two minutes ago.”

“Yes, and you gave me the most incredible experience of my life,” he said without missing a beat. “And it would be a travesty if I didn’t do the same for you.”

You bit your lip, utterly undone by the sheer passion in his voice, the way his brow pinched like this was the most urgent mission he’d ever undertaken.

“I’ll be gentle,” he added, now trailing kisses along your shoulder, his hand dipping lower with increasing confidence, “but I’m not sleeping until you finish, too.”

You sighed, already melting beneath his touch. “You really are the sweetest man alive.”

“Statistically speaking,” he mumbled against your skin, “I hope to be the most attentive man alive.”

You laughed, warm and breathless, affection coloring your voice even as your body already started to respond to his touch. “Okay, but Spence—”

The rest of your sentence dissolved into a shaky moan as his fingers, always so long and graceful and careful, pushed gently inside of you with the kind of curious reverence only he could carry. It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t practiced—it was Spencer. Learning you. Exploring you. Honoring you.

“Yes?” he asked innocently, blinking up at you like he hadn’t just curled his finger in a way that sent heat shooting up your spine.

You tried to compose yourself, your hands fisting lightly in the sheets. “I don’t always finish—Jesus—even with proper stimulation. Sometimes it just—doesn’t happen.”

Rather than looking disappointed, Spencer tilted his head slightly, his eyes flickering with interest like you’d just given him an unsolved puzzle. “I read that some women can’t,” he said calmly, his voice low and thoughtful, still curling his finger slowly, watching your body respond with studious awe. “There are a variety of contributing factors—psychological, physiological, environmental. In fact, studies show that up to ten to fifteen percent of women may experience lifelong anorgasmia, meaning they’ve never had an orgasm, while others may experience situational or acquired anorgasmia due to stress, trauma, or hormonal imbalances.”

You were trying to stay focused, truly, but it was hard when he was speaking in that careful, clinical tone—that tone—while his finger was so very much not clinical.

“Some data also suggests,” he continued, utterly unbothered by your increasingly unsteady breathing, “that difficulty reaching climax can be compounded by performance anxiety or pressure, even in safe, loving relationships, which is why it’s especially important to prioritize pleasure over completion and—”

You whined. Loudly.

It tore out of you unbidden, high, and needy, and Spencer’s fingers stilled immediately. His brows lifted in alarm as he looked up at you, concern flickering in his eyes despite the obvious state of bliss you were in.

“Wait—are you okay?” he asked gently, the pads of his fingers softening their pressure but not withdrawing entirely. “Too much? Did I—”

“No, no,” you gasped, one hand flailing out to grab at his wrist again, grounding yourself. “Please don’t stop.”

He hesitated for a moment, scanning your face like he was recalibrating, and you managed a breathless, half-laugh, half-moan.

“Please keep telling me your nerdy shit,” you begged, tilting your hips ever so slightly toward his hand, needing more of him. “It’s working, baby.”

Spencer’s eyes widened like he couldn’t quite process what you’d just said. “It is?”

You nodded emphatically, lips parted, your whole body flushed with need. “So much. Talk to me. Please.”

And that was all the permission he needed.

His mouth quirked into a crooked, bashful smile—adorably smug now that he knew what effect he was having—and he cleared his throat like he was preparing to give a keynote address.

“Well… the clitoris has over eight thousand nerve endings, which is actually more than the penis,” he murmured, returning his fingers to their earlier rhythm, slow and steady, curling just right, “and it's the only human organ whose sole purpose is pleasure. Studies show that stimulation of this area often requires consistency and pressure—not necessarily penetration—and…”

You moaned again, louder this time, arching under the weight of both his fingers and his voice.

He kept going.

“…and many women experience heightened sensitivity when paired with psychological stimulation, such as auditory input or praise, which might be why you’re reacting so strongly to this right now—your mind and body are responding in tandem, which is actually ideal for maximizing the—”

You cut him off with a cry, your hand slamming down against the mattress beside you, voice breaking on his name as you got closer and closer to the edge.

Spencer's pupils blew wide, lips parted as he watched you unravel beneath him. “You’re amazing,” he whispered, his voice shaking slightly now. “You’re so responsive, you’re—God, you’re beautiful—”

“Don’t stop,” you panted, your voice trembling, high and thin, your body arched against the sheets as your thighs quivered around his wrist. “Please—”

Spencer's breath hitched, the seriousness in your tone lighting something molten in his chest. He didn’t stop—not even a little. His fingers kept their firm, deliberate rhythm, his knuckles glistening in the warm light, his eyes fixed on your face like he was reading your every reaction like scripture.

“Okay,” he whispered, lips parted, breath catching on every syllable. “I won’t. I promise. Just… breathe through it. You’re doing so good.”

But then, as if his brain couldn’t help itself—as if the next fact physically needed to be said or he might combust—he added, almost breathless with excitement, “You know, some evolutionary biologists argue that the clitoris evolved as a mechanism to promote pair bonding, not reproduction. Which would mean that your pleasure is literally coded into our species to keep us together—emotionally, and psychologically. It’s one of the few functions that exists solely to reinforce trust and intimacy between partners, which I think is just…”

You whimpered beneath him, your body shuddering. “Spencer—oh my God—”

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, but with a lopsided, flushed grin. “I can’t help it. You’re letting me touch you, and my brain is like, ‘Now’s the time to dump eight thousand years of evolutionary sexual research.’”

Your laugh cracked open into another moan as his fingers curled again—just right.

“I’m gonna lose my mind,” you gasped, hands clenching the sheets. “If you don’t make me come right now while quoting Darwin, I swear to God—”

“Technically it was Sarah Blaffer Hrdy who first—”

“SPENCER.”

“Right. Shutting up. But also not stopping.”

And he didn’t.

Your whole body was shaking, strung tight as a wire, teetering right on the edge—but you couldn’t stop him. Wouldn’t stop him. Because Spencer Reid, brilliant and so sweet and currently knuckle-deep inside you, was passionately info-dumping about sexual evolution and female anatomy like he was reading it straight from a journal he co-authored.

And it was the sexiest goddamn thing you’d ever heard.

“—and actually, there’s evidence in Bonobo communities that female orgasm plays a social role in maintaining alliances, which some anthropologists believe might translate to human behavior as well—oh, right there?” he asked mid-sentence, breathcatching as he felt your body clench around his fingers.

You gasped, gripping the sheets as heat coiled tighter in your belly. “Yes, yes, don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

He didn’t. If anything, he grew more focused, his voice dropping lower, rougher now with awe and affection. “You’re so responsive, it’s beautiful. The way your pelvic floor contracts during climax is—statistically—it’s just—God, I could write a thesis on this. You, I mean. This.”

That was it.

Something about the way he said write a thesis on this while his fingers moved in perfect rhythm, while his thumb gently pressed right there, while his wide, eager eyes stayed locked on your face like you were the most precious discovery he’d ever made—

It sent you crashing over the edge.

You came with a loud, stuttering cry, your body curling in on itself as Spencer kept his touch steady through the waves of it, like he knew exactly how to help you ride it out. Your orgasm pulsed hard and fast, and he felt it—his jaw dropping, his own breath shaky with awe.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, still stroking you so gently it nearly drove you mad. “You just came while I was talking about Bonobos.”

You nodded weakly, tears prickling the corners of your eyes from the intensity, your lips split in a wrecked smile. “Your brain is so hot, baby.”

Spencer let out a stunned laugh, curling beside you, hand now resting on your thigh as he kissed your temple with reverence.

“I feel like I should give a TED Talk after this,” he whispered, still a little breathless.

You giggled, voice still hoarse. “You just did.”

And somewhere in Spencer’s mind, he filed this away under Data Collection: Partner’s Orgasm Most Frequently Triggered by Academic Enthusiasm.

He was absolutely taking notes.

“See?” Spencer said softly, still flushed, still basking in the wonder of what just happened like he’d accidentally discovered a new element. His fingers brushed over your thigh, gentle and aimless, as he smiled down at you with all the smug pride of a man who had just scientifically rocked your world.

“Told you data is sexy.”

You let out a breathless laugh—a mix of exhaustion and affection—and rolled your head toward him on the pillow. “You have literally never said that before.”

His grin only widened, curls falling slightly into his eyes as he tucked one hand under his cheek like he was trying to play coy. “I’ve thought it. Repeatedly. Constantly. For years.”

You gave him a tired huff of a laugh, your hand lazily tracing circles on his chest. “Well… you might want to prepare some new information for next time, then. Maybe a bibliography. A few case studies. Something about… I don’t know—neurochemical bonding during prolonged foreplay?”

Spencer’s eyes lit up like you’d handed him a Christmas morning of erotically charged research prompts.

“I have articles on that,” he whispered, delighted. “I mean, obviously not for this exact context, but the neurobiological mechanisms of oxytocin release are actually—”

“Next time, baby,” you said, pulling the blanket over both of you with a giggle. “I need to regain function first.”

He chuckled, kissed your shoulder, and snuggled in close, already mentally drafting an annotated lecture for your next round.

Because if Spencer Reid had learned one thing tonight, it was this:

Your pleasure wasn’t just about touch. It was about trust and love… and, just maybe, a full-body response to the words evolutionary psychology.

God help you. You’d created a monster.

And you couldn’t wait for next time.

“Um… darling, I need to shower,” Spencer said suddenly, shifting slightly beneath the blankets, his voice soft but tinged with just enough awkward urgency to make you blink.

“Yeah?” you asked, glancing over at him with a sleepy smile, your cheek still resting against his shoulder.

He hesitated. “I… forgot to take the condom off.”

You sat up so fast the blanket fell from your shoulders. “Ew! Spencer!” you yelped, though your voice was laced with disbelief and laughter more than actual disgust.

He winced, scrunching his nose, clearly embarrassed. “I got distracted by your brain and your body and your orgasm and also your face, so—yes, I forgot.”

You flopped back onto the bed, groaning into the pillow. “Sometimes I forget that even though you are a very good, clean, above-average man—you are still, at the end of the day, just a man.”

“I deserve that,” he muttered, already standing and gingerly tiptoeing toward the bathroom like a child who just got scolded for forgetting to put away their science fair volcano.

“You go shower and I’ll go pee,” you called after him, swinging your legs off the bed.

“Peeing after sex is actually good for both men and women,” he called from the bathroom, his voice already returning to its usual scholarly rhythm, “because it helps prevent urinary tract infections by flushing out any bacteria that may have—”

You cut him off with a laugh, padding toward the hallway bathroom. “Save the dirty talk, please,” you teased, glancing over your shoulder with a wicked grin.

He poked his head around the doorframe, shirtless, blushing, and grinning right back at you. “I’m literally talking about hygiene—”

“And somehow,” you smirked, disappearing into the bathroom, “you’re still turning me on.”

You heard him laugh through the door, the warm sound echoing through your apartment like a promise of many, many more awkwardly perfect nights to come.

—

Spencer had been shot.

The words alone were enough to send the entire team spiraling, every muscle in motion, every decision sharpened by panic laced with practiced urgency. It had happened while Spencer was protecting a victim from the unsub, and then a single, deafening shot that echoed louder than anything else that day.

The bullet hit Spencer in the leg. Not a graze. A hit.

It wasn’t the worst-case scenario, not by a mile—not chest, not head—but it didn’t matter. Not to them. Not to people who had already seen this man bleeding and broken before, carried out on a stretcher but unable to leave the pain behind. The last time he’d been seriously injured in the field, it had left emotional (and physical) scars that never quite healed. So no, it wasn’t just a leg. It was Spencer. It was history repeating itself.

They got him to the hospital as fast as possible, local sirens blaring, uniforms parting like the Red Sea to make way for the gurney. Hotch barked orders with a clenched jaw, Rossi moved like a soldier who’d done this too many times, and JJ never let go of his hand until she physically had to.

Penelope wasn’t on the scene.

She was over two hundred miles away, back at Quantico, surrounded by her banks of monitors and softly glowing LED lights, but it might as well have been a different planet. When the call came in—that Spencer had been shot—her hands froze mid-keystroke. For a second, her entire world narrowed to the sound of Hotch’s voice crackling through her headset and the sharp, clinical way he’d said, “Reid’s been hit.”

She didn’t hear anything after that.

The room around her blurred as her fingers slowly slipped away from the keyboard, her chair spinning a fraction as she pushed back, needing space that didn’t exist. She wasn’t used to this kind of helplessness.

Because this time, she couldn’t run searches or hack into anything that would make a damn bit of difference.

All she could do was wait.

She sat in her chair like the floor had dropped out from beneath her, her fingers laced tightly in her lap—knuckles white, nails pressing into her skin. The BAU bullpen buzzed faintly behind her, voices low and moving fast, but she felt suspended in a slow-motion kind of grief that hadn’t hit its target yet.

Her screens were still lit up with the case. But she didn’t look at them.

She didn’t look at anything.

She just stared at the wall, heart thudding in her throat.

And then she remembered you.

You weren’t there. You hadn’t been on this case—you didn’t even know.

The thought nearly made her nauseous.

“I’ll call,” she told them before Hotch could speak. “You’ll be too clinical. Y/N deserves more than that.”

He didn’t argue.

Penelope stepped away from her desk, heart hammering as she pressed your name on her phone and held it to her ear. She expected tears. Gasps. Maybe even anger.

What she got instead… was calm.

“Hey, Penelope,” you answered on the second ring, voice groggy like you’d been napping or just getting in from something mundane.

“Hi, um… okay. Okay, don’t freak out,” she said immediately, pacing the linoleum tiles, hand pressed to her chest. “He’s okay. He’s going to be okay. Spencer’s alive.”

There was a pause.

“Okay,” you said quietly, no tremor in your tone. “What happened?”

Penelope blinked, caught off guard. “He was—uh, he was shot. In the leg. They’re still at the hospital in Detroit. He’s stable. He was awake in the ambulance. There was a lot of blood, but they think the bullet missed the femoral artery. He’s in surgery now.”

“Okay,” you said again, the word even and deliberate. “And he's… alive. Just to confirm.”

“Yes,” she said quickly, her voice cracking. “Yes, he is. I swear to you.”

Penelope waited, unsure what to say next.

You exhaled through the line. “Thank you for calling. Please text me the name of the hospital. I’m getting on a flight.”

Penelope nodded, even though you couldn’t see her. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll text you everything. And if you need me to help book—”

“I’ll take care of it, thank you, Penelope. Just… let me know if anything changes.”

“I will,” she promised.

And with that, the call ended, and Penelope stared down at her screen with tears in her eyes, already typing the hospital info into a message, already knowing you’d be on the next flight out.

You were a complete wreck while grabbing your stuff, arms moving too fast, heart pounding harder than your body could keep up with. Your fingers fumbled clumsily over zippers and drawers, not bothering to fold anything, not checking the weather, not even thinking about what you might need once you got there.

There.

Detroit.

Where Spencer was.

Dating Spencer had taught you many things—how to listen differently, be patient in silence, and decode the pauses between his words—but it had also taught you how to prepare. You had a go bag because of him. A real one. The kind people made fun of on TV, but the kind you knew might be the difference between being there when it mattered or showing up too late.

And you weren’t going to be late.

By the time you were out the door and in the car, you were already on the phone with the airport. You didn’t care about the airline. You didn’t care about the seat.

It was mildly irrational. Definitely not budget-friendly. But you couldn’t help it.

You weren’t dating Spencer when he was kidnapped. You hadn’t even met him yet. But you knew. You knew. Not all of it—never all of it—but you knew enough. Enough to make your stomach turn with what-ifs. Enough to know that field injuries like this weren’t just about bullets and blood loss. They were about fear. Trauma. Flashbacks. They were about the past coming back up through the cracks.

You didn’t know what state you were going to find him in.

And that’s what made your hands shake.

The flight felt like forever, even though you got lucky with timing and minimal delays. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t drank anything. You hadn’t spoken to anyone except for a rushed text to Penelope saying boarding now.

It wasn’t until the plane reached altitude—until the jolt of ascent settled into the hum of flight and the flight attendant started her quiet aisle shuffle—that you felt like you could breathe.

Not fully. Not deeply. But enough.

You leaned back into your seat, closing your eyes, the ache of your worry pulling behind your ribs like it had settled there for good. You hoped—God, you hoped—that maybe sleep would find you.

And if it did, you hoped your dreams would be filled with happy Spencer. The version of him who laughed too hard at his own obscure jokes. The one who sipped his coffee with both hands like it might fly away if he didn’t hold on tight. The one who woke you up by reading to you.

Not the one bleeding in an ambulance. Not the one in a hospital gown.

Just him. Just yours.

…

JJ was sitting with Spencer, perched on the small plastic chair beside his hospital bed, her legs crossed, one foot bouncing softly as she kept the mood light, steady—talking about whatever came to mind. She was recounting something Penelope had said on the phone earlier, something about a new case file font she’d tried out just to annoy Hotch, and though Spencer’s laugh was more of a soft exhale, his eyes crinkled at the corners. He was tired, yes, pale and sore and dressed in one of those thin, awful gowns—but he was okay.

The surgery had gone well. It was a clean removal with minimal damage. It would take time to recover, but physically, he’d be fine.

Still, the team wasn’t taking any chances. They were rotating in and out of the room, never leaving him alone—not just for his safety, but for his comfort. For the emotional fallout that might come later. No one said it aloud, but they all remembered what happened the last time Spencer returned from a hospital bed.

Meanwhile, out in the waiting room, Derek stood up from where he’d been leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes flicking up every time the elevator dinged. When he spotted you—wrinkled from travel, hair messy, eyes burning with the kind of tiredness that had nothing to do with sleep deprivation—he moved fast.

“Hey,” he said, walking quickly toward you.

“Is he—”

“He’s okay,” Derek interrupted gently, placing both hands on your shoulders as if to hold you up and reassure you simultaneously. “He’s really okay. Out of surgery, awake. JJ’s in there with him now. He’s a little loopy, but he’s fine.”

For the first time since Penelope’s call, your lungs actually filled. Not just shallow breaths or half inhalations, but real, full air. You closed your eyes briefly and nodded, a shaky sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh escaping your throat.

Without hesitation, you threw your arms around Derek, hugging him tight—tighter than he expected, but he didn’t hesitate to hug you back. He rubbed your back once, steady, and said, “He’s been asking about you.”

You pulled away, nodded again, and then took off, your footsteps fast and sure down the hallway as you followed Derek’s directions toward Spencer’s room.

As you pushed the door open, your fingers trembling just slightly around the handle, you couldn't help yourself. Even with your heart hammering, the sterile smell of antiseptic hitting your nose, and the distant beep of monitors echoing down the hall, your instinct kicked in.

“Knock knock,” you called softly into the room, a crooked smile tugging at the edge of your mouth even as your chest swelled with emotion.

You said it automatically now, like muscle memory. Because you knew it bothered him.

“Why do you have to say it when you’re already doing it?” he’d asked you once, eyebrows knit in frustration, voice laced with genuine confusion.

And you had just grinned at him with all the smug delight of someone discovering the easiest way to get under a person’s skin. Ever since it has become your thing.

Now, standing in the doorway of a bright white hospital room that smelled too clean and looked too sharp, the words felt softer than usual. They were familiar, a tether to normalcy.

JJ was the first thing you saw—her blonde hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, her eyes wide, already filled with a deep, quiet sympathy that made your stomach tighten all over again. She rose from her seat beside the bed, stepping back gently, making space for you without saying a word.

And then you looked at him.

Spencer.

Awake. Propped up against thin pillows in an oversized gown, his blanket drawn up to his waist. His curls were a little flattened, his face pale, but his eyes—those wide, soulful eyes—were fixed on you.

His expression shifted the moment your eyes met. Not relief, not even joy—fear.

Like he didn’t know what you were going to say. Like he was preparing for disappointment or maybe even anger. Like a part of him still hadn’t entirely accepted that you came. That you would always come.

You stepped inside without thinking, letting the door swing slowly shut behind you.

“Hey there, handsome,” you said with a grin, your voice all honey and lightness, doing everything in your power to wrap him in reassurance from the second you stepped inside. You needed him to see it in your face—it’s okay, I’m okay, you’re okay, we’re okay.

“Hi,” Spencer replied, smiling back, but the expression was small, a little hesitant like he still wasn’t sure he deserved your warmth just yet. His fingers fiddled with the edge of the blanket, and you could see it all—every flicker of worry, every ounce of vulnerability behind those eyes.

You didn’t let it linger. You walked fully into the room, letting the door shut gently behind you, and stopped at the foot of his bed. Then, very dramatically, you planted both hands on your hips and gave him your best mock-disappointed look, brows drawn, chin tilted.

“Now, Spencer,” you began sternly, “what are we not supposed to do?”

His brows furrowed immediately in confusion, and he looked to JJ for help, who shrugged back at him like don’t look at me.

You huffed, all theatrical sigh and exaggerated disappointment, before prompting him with the first few syllables: “Not… get… sh—”

“Not get shot,” he said quickly, nodding solemnly like a child admitting to having snuck a cookie. His lips twitched upward, and the sparkle in his eyes was back, even if just faintly.

“Exactly,” you said, stepping closer now. “And what did you do, Spencer?”

“I got shot,” he said, shrugging slightly, finally getting into the silliness of your game but still watching your face like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was in trouble or not.

“You got shot,” you repeated with a long, exaggerated sigh. “I suppose,” you added as you perched gently on the edge of the bed, “it’s probably for the best that it missed any major organs… or your chest… or your head…”

“Probably,” Spencer giggled, his voice light for the first time all day, the sound bubbling up like it surprised even him.

JJ let out a breath she’d been holding, smiling quietly as she excused herself from the room, giving you both the privacy you needed.

But you barely noticed. All your focus was on him—his smile, his soft laugh, the way his shoulders started to drop from around his ears, the tension finally easing under your presence.

You reached up gently, your fingers trailing over the small, scattered freckles on his cheek—the ones you always traced when you were trying to calm yourself as much as him. He leaned into the touch slightly, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he opened them again to meet yours.

“How’s your pain?” you asked softly, voice low and even.

“Tolerable,” he replied, pressing his lips together tightly in that way that told you it wasn’t exactly tolerable but that he didn’t want to dwell on it.

You tilted your head just a little. “Did you let them give you anything?”

“Only to put me under,” he said, shifting uncomfortably like he expected a lecture.

“Understood,” you nodded, not pushing, already moving on to keep him from feeling like he had to defend himself. “When can you bathe?”

Spencer’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you saying I stink?” he asked, genuinely scandalized, like you’d just called him unhygienic in front of a live audience.

“No…” you said carefully.

Spencer groaned, head falling back against the pillow, a dramatic whine escaping him. “Ughhh.”

“It’s not that, baby,” you assured him quickly, your hand stroking gently over his curls as you leaned closer, your smile widening. “Your curls are just a bit greasy, and I was going to offer to wash them for you…”

His groan cut off immediately.

“Oh,” he said. Quietly. Sheepishly. His cheeks turned the lightest shade of pink.

“Yeah,” you grinned, lowering your voice to something teasing. “You know I like taking care of you, right?”

He blinked at you, lips twitching up. “…Even when I stink?”

You squinted at him playfully, pulling back a few inches like you had to really think about it. “Hmm… so every morning then?”

“Y/N!” Spencer gasped, completely betrayed, his mouth hanging open as if you’d just published a scientific paper slandering his good name.

“I’m just saying!” you defended, raising both hands in a mock surrender. “You’re a sweaty sleeper, babe. I didn’t invent thermoregulation.”

He narrowed his eyes at you; lower lip puffed out in an almost comically perfect pout. “You’re supposed to be comforting me in my time of need, and instead, you’re making fun of me for bodily functions I can’t control.”

“Not quite,” you grinned, settling back in closer. “If I were going to make fun of you for bodily functions you can’t control, I’d bring up how often you prematur—”

You didn’t get to finish the sentence.

Spencer’s hand darted up and cupped your cheek, and in a split second, he pulled you into a kiss—not aggressive, but firm enough to make it very clear that this was an intervention.

He kissed you like it had been years instead of days. Like the pain, the fear, the sterile room, none of it mattered anymore because you were here, and he was still breathing, and this—your lips on his, the way your breath caught slightly in surprise—was the only thing that had felt real all day.

And yes, part of it was to shut you up. But mostly, it was because he’d been aching to kiss you since the moment he walked out of your apartment and onto that case.

So he did.

And you let him.

Until finally, you pulled back just slightly, your forehead still pressed to his.

“Okay,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “You’re forgiven for getting shot.”

He smiled, eyes still closed. “You’re forgiven for being the worst.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, letting it linger. Your lips barely moved as you mumbled against his mouth, “You need to brush your teeth.”

Spencer pulled back just enough to look at you, blinking in slow treachery.

“I hate you,” he said flatly, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him with the faintest smile.

You beamed. “That’s fair.”

He sighed dramatically, flopping his head back against the pillow like you’d wounded him more than the bullet. “Shot in the leg, emotionally abused by my girlfriend, and now I’m being accused of poor hygiene… what a week.”

You tucked yourself gently under his arm, careful of the IV and monitor wires, laying your head on his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ll still love you. Even if your breath could melt glass.”

“You’re lucky I can’t chase you right now.”

“You’re lucky I showed up at all, stinky.”

He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered, pressing a kiss into your hair. “I really am.”

…

Once Spencer had finally drifted off to sleep, his breathing deep and even, his hand still loosely curled around yours atop the blanket, you waited a minute longer—just to be sure. You brushed your thumb gently over the back of his hand, watching the subtle rise and fall of his chest, letting the steady beep of the monitor reassure you that he was still right there.

When you were sure he was out, you stood up carefully, placing his hand down with the kind of tender precision you only ever used on him, and slipped quietly from the room.

You found the rest of the team just outside in the family waiting area, spread out across plastic chairs and vending machines, all looking somewhere between emotionally drained and physically wrecked. JJ was the first to notice you, sitting forward slightly when she saw the door shut behind you.

“He’s asleep,” you said softly, and several shoulders visibly relaxed. “I’ve got him. You all can go. Seriously. Get some rest. I’ll stay and fly back with him when he’s cleared for travel.”

Rossi nodded first, reassuringly touching your shoulder as he passed. Derek gave you a tired smile and a gentle squeeze on the arm. Emily offered you her water bottle and a “Call us if you need anything.” One by one, they all filed out, grateful and exhausted.

JJ lingered.

She stood beside you for a moment, her arms folded loosely, her expression thoughtful. She looked at the door to Spencer’s room, then back to you.

“How are you so calm?” she asked suddenly.

You blinked. “Hmm?”

JJ’s gaze softened, but she looked genuinely curious. “You just… even when you first walked in there, you were joking around. Will would’ve been crying the second he saw me like that.”

You smiled a little at that, but it wasn’t teasing. It was quiet, knowing. A little sad.

You shrugged. “Spencer would only feel worse if he knew I was scared.”

JJ tilted her head, watching you carefully.

“He knows I’m worried,” you continued, your voice softening, “he knows I care. But taking his mind off the bad things for a bit… it always seems to bring him back to me.” You let out a slow breath. “He doesn’t need my fear. He needs my peace.”

JJ nodded slowly, her eyes glistening just slightly as she looked at you—not just as someone Spencer loved, but someone who understood him, down to the very thread.

“You’re good for him,” she said quietly.

“Thank you, I try to be,” you replied. Then, with a tired smile, “Please go home and rest, JJ. We’re okay.”

And you meant it. Even if your hands were still shaking. Even if you knew the actual processing would hit you later. For now, Spencer was sleeping. He was safe. And you’d be the calm. For both of you.

—

You stood up abruptly from where you were hunched over your laptop, notes, and reference books spread out like an academic battlefield. Spencer looked up from where he was quietly reading across from you, a slight crease in his brow as your chair scraped back a little too fast.

“Spencer.”

His eyes widened a bit, and he was immediately attentive. “Yes?”

You took a deep breath, squared your shoulders, and tried—tried—to channel some confidence, even as you felt your face go warm. “I think this is going to make you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry, but I think it’s time we… break a certain barrier in our relationship due to… pressing matters.”

Spencer closed his book slowly. “Okay…” he said cautiously, clearly preparing himself for anything from an emotional confession to a breakup to a shared trauma.

“I need to poop.”

There was a beat of silence. Just a breath, just a blink.

And then Spencer burst out laughing.

You gasped in protest. “Spencer!”

He tried to hold it in; he really did, but his shoulders shook as he pressed his hand to his mouth. “Darling,” he said through chuckles, “that is a perfectly normal and healthy bodily function without which you would die. I hardly think it’s uncomfortable to know you poop. I do, too. I wish you wouldn’t find it so embarrassing.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands, laughter muffled through your fingers. “Can you just like, put your headphones in please?”

Spencer paused, then blinked. “Oh! Yes,” he said, like he’d just solved a logic problem. He reached over for his headphones with a smile so sweet it made your stomach flip, even now.

As you shuffled toward the bathroom, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cloak of shame and dignity combined, he called after you with barely concealed amusement:

“Fan setting five!”

You groaned again—louder this time—but it was laced with affection and appreciation and the kind of mortification that only happens when you’re fully, disgustingly in love.

Behind you, Spencer chuckled softly to himself and returned to his book, utterly unfazed.

—

Healed and walking without a cane, Spencer Reid finds himself craving something beyond his lonely apartment after a long, taxing case. The case had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit—not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. The images were still fresh in his mind, too vivid and raw to shake off. He had returned to the BAU with the team, but instead of heading home to his own place, something—perhaps instinct or something deeper he didn’t quite have words for—drew him elsewhere.

He needed comfort. Not in the abstract sense but in the form of something familiar, warm, grounding. And his thoughts turned to you.

Maybe it was how you listened without interruption or how your presence made his pulse slow to something bearable. Maybe it was the memory of your hands brushing through his hair the last time he confessed a hard case to you or how you didn’t try to fix things; you just made space for him to feel. Whatever the reason, he found himself heading to your apartment without really making the decision to do so—it was simply where he needed to be.

You hadn’t been expecting him. In fact, you were fast asleep due to the late hour of the night. Usually, he wasn’t someone you ever needed to prepare for. He came as he was, and you let him.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t know yet—was how tightly he was holding himself together just outside your door. He hadn't texted or called ahead. Part of him wanted to, part of him worried it wasn’t fair just to show up. But the rest of him, the exhausted, rattled, overwhelmed part of him, hoped—needed—you to be there.

And so, now, he stands on the other side of your apartment door.

He hasn’t opened it with his key yet.

He hasn’t gathered the strength.

But he’s there.

Moments from walking through it.

Moments from letting everything he's been holding in finally fall apart in the one place he thinks he might be able to survive doing so—with you.

You’re typically a deep sleeper. The kind who can sleep through a thunderstorm, a neighbor’s dog barking, or even Spencer fidgeting beside you in the middle of the night when his brain just won’t let him rest. You’ve slept through him flipping through pages at 2 a.m., through him pacing quietly down the hallway while whispering to himself about theories and timelines. You’ve even managed to sleep through a bout of him reorganizing your bookshelf once—though, to be fair, you had threatened him with death afterward.

But when you are woken up, it’s never graceful. It’s never subtle. Your body feels it before your brain catches up, dragging you into the gray haze of almost consciousness with a heavy reluctance that makes every movement around you feel like a personal offense.

So, when Spencer walks through the door sometime past midnight, utterly wrung out from whatever horrors the case held, he’s doing his very best to be quiet. His best, which is, as you’ve come to know, not quite good enough.

The first offense is the keys. Instead of placing them down gently on the little wooden table, you bought specifically for this purpose—the one that lives inches from the door and makes not a sound when used properly—he goes for the hooks. Of course, he does. And the second the metal keyring clatters against the other keys already hanging there, it sounds like someone dropped a sack of cutlery in your skull.

You stir beneath the covers, brows knitting without opening your eyes.

Then it’s the lock. Not just the turn of the deadbolt, which would have been fine, but the chain. He slides the latch into place with the kind of finality that belongs more to vaults or prison cells, and your face scrunches tighter as a small, annoyed breath escapes you.

He doesn't hear it.

Next, he hangs his coat—and his satchel. Not one. Not the other. Both. They swing and tap against the wall and the hooks with a dull thud and a slight clang of hardware, as if he’s installing wind chimes instead of shedding layers.

You shift in bed, blinking against the dark, still too sleep-heavy to sit up but now fully aware that he's home.

And then—then—he kneels to untie his shoes.

He can’t just kick them off. Oh no. He has to bend, untie, straighten, and remove each shoe like he’s unwrapping a rare artifact. It takes forever. Or maybe only thirty seconds. But it feels like an eternity in your freshly awoken, vaguely grumpy haze.

You lie there, motionless except for the long exhale that slips from your lips, face buried into the pillow as your fingers curl beneath your cheek.

And from the other room, completely unaware that you’re already awake—and annoyed—you hear Spencer sigh. A quiet, heavy, weary sound. The kind of sound that has less to do with your frustration and more to do with the weight he’s brought in with him.

And just like that, your irritation flickers and begins to dissolve.

Because it’s Spencer. And if he’s doing a bad job at being quiet, it’s only because he’s holding himself together by threads.

Just as you begin to drift back toward something like rest, eyes fluttering shut again, there’s another sound—sharp, hollow, metallic.

Clang.

Your eyelids fly back open, face pressed flat into the pillow as you exhale sharply through your nose, teeth gently clenching.

That was the soap bottle. It had to be. You know that sound. It’s the specific, hollow bop of the plastic pump top smacking against the side of the sink—a sound that could only happen if someone, say, reached over a bit too carelessly and knocked it over with the back of their hand.

You know because you’ve done it yourself before, and you know because Spencer—you love him—does it every single time he washes his hands in your kitchen.

Which, naturally, is what he’s doing now. Of course, he is. Even in the dead of night, with half his mind fogged over and weighed down by a brutal case, he’s still Spencer—still meticulous, still compulsive, still so anchored to his rituals that he has to scrub the case off his skin before he can do anything else.

You listen to the sound of the faucet running muted splashes as he scrubs. Then, a quiet squeak squeak squeak from the way the old tap vibrates when it’s twisted shut. Silence again—for all of two seconds.

Then you hear the cabinet door open and the soft clink of glass—he’s getting a cup, which you expect. You anticipate it. You brace for it.

But your patience wasn’t strong enough to brace for the next thing.

The dishwasher.

That damn dishwasher.

It’s old. Loud. Temperamental. You’ve both talked about replacing it at least a dozen times, but somehow, it still hangs on, groaning through each cycle like a cranky elderly relative refusing to retire. Even just opening the door sounds like someone’s dragging furniture across a hardwood floor.

So when Spencer, dear, considerate, detail-oriented Spencer, finishes his glass of water and—rather than setting it on the counter or even tucking it into the sink like a normal sleep-deprived human—opens the dishwasher to place it inside?

You groan.

Out loud this time. A soft, pained, muffled groan into your pillow.

“Are you fucking serious, Spencer?” you mutter, barely audible, eyes still closed but now tinged with the kind of sleepy irritation only reserved for people you trust enough to hate momentarily.

He still hasn’t realized you’re awake. You know, because he hasn’t apologized yet. And Spencer always apologizes when he knows he's woken you up.

So you wait. Eyes closed. Limbs heavy. Ears sharp and honed like some kind of war veteran for the next sound he might make, wondering if he’s going to open the fridge for no reason or maybe alphabetize your spice rack.

Because at this rate, you wouldn’t put it past him.

By the time Spencer finally makes it to the bedroom—after clanging through the kitchen like a one-man orchestra, after the soap bottle debacle, after summoning the ghost of your dishwasher—you’re fuming. Not in a rageful, righteous kind of way, but in the profoundly exhausted, silently seething way that only someone who was sound asleep fifteen minutes ago and is now wide awake can truly understand. Every muscle in your body aches for the sweet relief of unconsciousness, your bones practically begging to sink back into the mattress, curled up against the person responsible for your current irritation.

You’re ready to cuddle your boyfriend. Feel his arms slip around your body, press your face into the soft cotton of whatever shirt he’ll wear, and fall back asleep surrounded by warmth and familiarity. That’s what you want.

But no.

Apparently, Spencer has other plans.

You hear the gentle sound of movement as he approaches. And for a blissful moment, you think maybe he’s finally going to settle. Finally, he’s going to be still.

And then—click.

A golden halo of light floods the room, piercing against your closed eyelids.

He turned on the fucking lamp.

“Spencer!” you groan, your voice thick with the weight of sleep and disbelief. You don’t even lift your head; just bury your face deeper into the pillow like maybe if you suffocate yourself fast enough, you’ll get some peace.

You hear a sharp inhale from across the bed, followed by the scrambling guilt in his voice as he fumbles to switch the lamp back off. “Oh—I’m so sorry, my love,” he blurts out in a rush, his words tumbling over each other like a toppled stack of books. You can practically hear the wince in his voice. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

You shot him a deathly glare, your eyes narrow and glittering with exhaustion-fueled fury, your cheek still pressed into the pillow.

“And you thought the lamp wouldn’t wake me up?” you snapped, voice muffled but cutting.

Spencer didn’t flinch. Instead, he smiled—soft, sheepish, and entirely too amused for someone who had just committed a domestic war crime.

“Angel, I’ve turned on the ceiling light and opened the blinds, and you slept through it,” he said with an unapologetic shrug, pulling off his cardigan like this was a perfectly rational argument.

You only rolled your eyes, dragging the covers over your shoulder and throwing your head back down dramatically, your silent message clear: you were Done.

But Spencer wasn’t. Of course, he wasn’t.

Now came the process of taking off his clothing items one by one—meticulous as ever—folding them neatly and placing them in a precise little pile on your dresser. Shirt, pants, socks. Each with a pause in between, as though he were entering a meditative state instead of preparing for bed at an ungodly hour.

You thought he would be done. He should have been done.

But no.

“Spence, baby, please come to bed,” you whined, voice thick and laced with misery so intense it bordered on theatrical.

“I can’t just yet, need to shower. I’ve been in the jet.”

You groaned again, long and guttural. “I don’t care!”

He froze in place, hands halfway to his waistband, and you could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. That neurotic, overtired, rule-following brain of his was calculating, weighing the comfort of a hot shower against the wrath of his barely conscious girlfriend.

Finally, you sighed. “Whatever. Just—be fast. And don’t get your hair wet.”

Spencer opened his mouth like he was about to protest—something about hygiene or flight germs or possibly the sanctity of scalp cleanliness—but one look at your face told him to cut his losses.

By the time he got out of the shower, the bathroom door creaking open quietly, towel slung low on his hips, and found spare clothes in the second drawer of your dresser (the one you'd unofficially reserved for him), you had already drifted back to sleep.

He moved gently, slipping on an old T-shirt and sweats and carefully easing into bed beside you. He tried to be careful, tried to match your breathing, tried not to jostle the mattress too much. He scooted behind you, winding an arm around your body, tucking his body against yours like a perfect puzzle piece.

Even in your sleep, you instinctively nudged closer, your head coming to rest on his chest, your body curving against his. It should’ve been a perfect moment.

But then—

“Did you sanitize?”

Your voice was slurred and drowsy but suspicious. Too suspicious.

Spencer stayed quiet.

He sanitized your fucking shower like he didn’t trust you to keep it clean yourself.

“I can’t—” you sighed, pulling away. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

And just like that, your warmth disappeared, taking with it the fleeting peace Spencer had hoped to find.

Spencer let out the softest, most pitiful exhale—half sigh, half whimper—as you peeled yourself away from his hold. The sheets rustled with protest as you threw them off your legs in a dramatic flourish that would've been funny if it weren't for the sheer, bone-deep fatigue clinging to both of you. You didn’t even open your eyes all the way. You didn’t need to. Your body was moving on instinct now, led by principle and pride.

He propped himself up on one elbow, watching helplessly as you dragged your sleepy form out of the bed with the kind of slow, exaggerated misery that only someone who’d just started to fall back into a good sleep could produce. Your blanket trailed behind you, caught on your foot, and when you reached down to yank it free, you muttered something under your breath that sounded like a curse aimed squarely at him.

Spencer stayed frozen, guilt draped over his shoulders like another weighted blanket.

“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” he finally said, his voice hushed but urgent, like he knew if he raised it even a little, you'd bolt. “Come on, that’s ridiculous.”

You were already halfway to the door. “So is you climbing into bed an unsanitized like a reckless public health risk,” you muttered sarcastically, rubbing your eyes as you shuffled forward.

Spencer groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I’m sorry I cleaned your shower, I just—you know I can’t help it.”

You sighed, hard and sharp through your nose, arms crossed tightly over your chest as though holding yourself together. “We can have this argument tomorrow,” you muttered, voice strained. “I’m too tired right now.”

Spencer nodded slowly, guilt still weighing down his features. “So come back to bed,” he pleaded, soft and hesitant like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to ask.

“No. I’m mad at you,” you huffed, your tone petulant but cracking at the edges. You turned your face slightly away from him as if even looking at him would break the last thread of your patience.

There was a beat of silence, tense and stretched. Then, quietly—too quietly—he said, “I can just go home then… I’ll come over tomorrow.”

That was it.

That was the thing that broke you.

The exhaustion, the frustration, the sheer emotional mess of being woken up, being irritated, feeling like your effort and your space weren’t enough for the person you love—all of it slammed into you at once no warning. You opened your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to tell him to do whatever he wanted—but instead, all that came out was a strangled, breathless sob.

Your shoulders shook as the tears slipped down, hot and fast. The kind of crying that happens when you’ve held it in too long when your chest tightens up and your throat closes, and suddenly you’re not just crying about one thing, but everything.

Spencer immediately scrambled out of bed, panic flooding his features. “Hey—hey, no, please don’t cry,” he said in a rush, crossing the room. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean to make you feel like I don’t want to be here—God, please don’t cry—”

He reached for you, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure if you’d swat him away. “I’m such an idiot,” he breathed, eyes scanning your face, helpless. “You clean your place better than I do mine, I just—after cases, I get weird, and I didn’t want to bring the jet germs into your space, and I overthought it and—”

You just kept crying. Silent now, but still unraveling.

“I love your shower,” he said desperately. “I love you. I want to be here. Please don’t make me go.”

Your face crumpled even more. You didn’t have the energy to yell. Didn’t have the willpower to keep storming off.

“I just wanted to sleep next to you,” you whispered through the tears, voice tiny and cracked. “That’s all I wanted.”

Spencer’s heart broke right there in his chest.

“Okay,” he said immediately, wrapping his arms around you. “Okay. I’ve got you. Come here. We’ll go to bed. No more disturbances. Just sleep. You and me.”

And this time, when he guided you back to the bed, you let him.

Well—for a second.

“Wait.”

Spencer froze mid-step, one arm still around you, the other half-lifting the blanket. He held his breath like the wrong response might send you spiraling again.

“Yes, baby?” he asked, soft and cautious.

You sniffled, then let out the tiniest, soggiest giggle through your still-wobbly breath. “I need to blow my nose now.”

He blinked. Then smiled, wide and helpless, pure affection melting across his features.

“Okay,” he said, already turning to grab the tissue box from your nightstand like it was the most urgent task he’d ever been assigned. “Emergency tissue protocol engaged.”

You laughed louder this time, the sound breaking through the remnants of your tears like sunlight through clouds. “Cover your ears; I’m going into the bathroom.”

Spencer furrowed his brows, confused but obedient. “Why?”

“I don’t want you to hear me!” you called over your shoulder as you hurried toward the bathroom, tissue clutched in hand like a weapon.

He blinked after you, then shrugged, deadpan: “...I’ve had worse fluids of yours on me—”

“EW!” you yelped from inside the bathroom, your voice muffled by the door you slammed behind you. “Why would you say that?! You absolute menace!”

Spencer chuckled to himself, crawling back into bed and tucking the blankets around him with a smug grin. “I was just saying,” he muttered under his breath, knowing full well you could still hear him. “Boundaries seem a little inconsistent.”

You groaned dramatically, the sound somewhere between scandalized and exhausted. “You’re so lucky I love you,” you shouted through a noseful of tissues. “If we were six months earlier into this relationship, I’d be drafting the breakup text right now.”

Spencer smiled, stretching out in the bed with his hands folded under his head like the little shit he absolutely was. “You’d never,” he called back, sing-songy and far too comfortable. “You’re too emotionally invested.”

You flung the door open so hard it could have bounced off the stopper. “Keep talking, Doctor Reid, and I will send you home just to prove a point.”

He sat up, eyes wide, all mock innocence. “I’m silent. I’m asleep. I don’t even exist. I’m vapor.” He dove under the covers in a ridiculous display of peacekeeping, burrowing himself down to the chin and blinking up at you like a chastised golden retriever.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed again. Not just a giggle this time, but an actual, warm laugh that curled in your chest.

You trudged back to bed, dramatically wiping your nose one last time before dropping the tissues in the little wastebasket by the nightstand. “You’re annoying,” you said as you climbed in.

“And yet, you let me stay.” He opened his arms wide, a smug little smile creeping in again. “Incredible.”

You glared at him but curled into his side anyway, letting your head rest on his chest with a huffy sigh.

“I cleaned your shower because I’m obsessive-compulsive and could only see in germs,” he mumbled into your hair. “Not because I think you’re dirty.”

“I know,” you whispered, already half-asleep. “But next time? Just… don’t make it sound like I live in filth.”

“I’d never.”

“You basically did.”

Spencer kissed your forehead. “You’re the cleanest person I know.”

“You’re not forgiven.”

“You’re literally falling asleep on me right now.”

“Shut up and hold me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He tightened his arms around you, and finally, you both fell asleep this time.

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amethystarachnid · 6 months ago

Text

BET

⤷ JAMES B. “BUCKY” BARNES

ᯓ★ Pairing: James B. “Bucky” Barnes x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, angst and fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: not requested but taken from MARVEL bingo

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 10k (damn this surprises me too)

ᯓ★ Summary: When Bucky Barnes suddenly starts talking to you you don't think much of it and when he asks you out on a date you couldn't be happier, Bucky truly is everything you could ever want in a man, a man that really loves you...At least that's what you thought until you discovered that it was real all just a bet.

ᯓ★ TW(s): mentions of virginity and virginity loss, small mentions of a smut scene

ᯓ★ AU: college au

ᯓ★ Request: not requested

ᯓ★ Comment if you want to be added to the taglist (specify if you want the everything taglist or for a specific character)

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo (requests closed)

ᯓ★ Masterlist

ᯓ★ If you are a Charles Xavier fan click on this link!

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language and this isn’t proof read

The music is loud, pulsing through the walls of the frat house as Bucky sits slouched on a couch, one arm draped lazily over the back. The night is already wearing on him, but he knows he’s going to be here until Sam and Steve call it a night, which��based on the collection of red solo cups by their feet—might be a while.

They’re all trading stories from the semester, voices buzzing with that blend of laughter and cheap beer. Sam is in the middle of recounting his latest dare when he nudges Bucky’s arm, catching his attention.

“Bet you couldn’t last a month with someone like her,” Sam says, nodding toward the corner of the room.

Bucky glances up, following Sam’s gaze until he spots you. You’re perched near the bookshelf, alone and fidgeting with your drink as you flip through a book someone left behind. He’s seen you around campus before, usually with your nose buried in a novel or surrounded by a pile of textbooks. There’s something unassuming about you, something quiet and untouchable. His friends know he’s more the type to go for a party girl—someone loud, someone who doesn’t ask too many questions.

“What, the bookworm?” Bucky scoffs, raising an eyebrow. But his friends don’t let up, and soon Steve and Sam are egging him on.

“You’re always chasing the same type,” Steve chimes in. “What are you afraid of, that she’d actually challenge you?”

Bucky laughs, rolling his eyes. He knows he should shut it down, but their teasing digs at him, scratching at that competitive edge that’s always lurking just beneath his smirk.

“All right,” Bucky finally says, shrugging. “I’ll do it. One month.”

His friends exchange knowing grins, slapping him on the back. But as soon as the words leave his mouth, Bucky feels a strange knot settle low in his stomach—a feeling he’s not used to. He brushes it off. It’s just a game, a challenge. It’s not like he’s actually going to care.

The next day, you’re tucked into your usual corner in the library, surrounded by a fortress of books. You barely notice him when he walks up, leaning against the edge of the table with a casual confidence that doesn’t match the usual quiet of the space.

“Mind if I join you?” His voice is smooth, low enough that you almost have to lean in to hear him clearly.

You glance up, surprised to see Bucky Barnes standing there, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You’ve seen him around campus—he’s hard to miss with that leather jacket and effortlessly messy hair, the type of guy who always has someone laughing beside him.

“Sure,” you murmur, unsure of what else to say as you move your books aside, offering him a seat. You’re used to people mostly ignoring you here. It’s your refuge, your sanctuary. So when he sits across from you, stretching out as if he belongs there, it feels jarringly out of place.

“You look like you’re buried in work,” he observes, nodding at the mountain of papers in front of you. “What’s got you so busy?”

You hesitate, but something in his easygoing manner convinces you to answer. “Just…assignments. Trying to keep up with everything.” You give him a small smile, your guard still up but feeling oddly curious.

“What’s your major?” he asks, and the question catches you off guard. Most people don’t bother to ask; they assume or don’t care enough to wonder. He listens as you talk about your studies, nodding, asking small questions. Before you know it, you’re telling him more than you intended, falling into an easy rhythm that surprises you.

It becomes a pattern. Over the next few weeks, he finds reasons to run into you—at the coffee shop, in the library, even in the quad between classes. Each time, he stays a little longer, asks a little more, his eyes holding yours with that subtle intensity he wears so well. At first, you’re wary, cautious of his attention. But Bucky is good, easing his way in like he has all the time in the world, his jokes and questions slowly weaving a thread of trust between you two.

And Bucky? He’s surprised at how much he finds himself drawn to you. Each time you laugh, he catches himself watching, feeling something strange and warm unfurl in his chest. There’s a gentleness in you, a quiet intelligence, that keeps him coming back even as he reminds himself this isn’t supposed to mean anything.

But the longer he spends time with you, the more he feels the weight of what he agreed to, creeping up on him every time he catches your smile, every time you look at him like he’s someone worth knowing.

He tells himself it’s just part of the bet. But deep down, he knows he’s starting to cross a line he never meant to touch.

It’s been a few weeks since Bucky started spending time with you, and against every reminder he gives himself, he’s found himself looking forward to it more than he wants to admit. He tells himself it’s harmless—he’s just getting to know you, just finding ways to pass the time. But he knows he’s lying, especially when he starts finding excuses to see you outside of the library or when he catches himself glancing at his phone, hoping for a text from you.

One night, back at the frat house, he’s lounging with Sam and Steve again, half-listening to their conversation when Sam nudges him.

“So, Barnes. How’s it going with the bookworm?” Sam asks with a knowing smirk. Bucky rolls his eyes, trying to brush it off, but Sam isn’t so easily deterred. “Don’t tell me you’re catching feelings.”

Bucky scoffs, forcing a laugh to keep the truth buried. “It’s going fine. Like I said, a month’s no problem.”

Sam exchanges a glance with Steve, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Let’s make this interesting then. If you really want to win this thing, you’ve got to take it further.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. “Further?” He has a bad feeling about where this is going.

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Come on, Buck. You’ve been hanging out with her, sure, but we’re talking about actually making her fall for you. Ask her out, and, you know—” He raises an eyebrow meaningfully.

“Sleep with her,” Sam adds bluntly, laughing. “Seal the deal, and there’s two hundred bucks in it for you.”

Bucky hesitates, that uncomfortable knot tightening in his stomach again. He tells himself it’s just a stupid bet. He’s done things like this before—gotten close to people just to prove he could, had plenty of meaningless hookups that never meant a thing. He’s Bucky Barnes, the guy who doesn’t do commitment or complications. But for some reason, picturing it with you makes him feel…off.

“Fine,” he says after a beat, his voice steady, betraying nothing of the uncertainty he’s trying to ignore. “Two hundred bucks. Done.”

The next day, he texts you, his fingers hovering over the keys a little too long before he finally sends, Hey, you free Friday? Let me take you out somewhere nice.

When you see his message, your heart skips a beat. It’s been a while since anyone has asked you on an actual date, and even longer since you’ve felt genuinely excited about someone. Bucky’s been different from the start—warm, attentive, and surprisingly easy to talk to. You’ve caught yourself looking forward to his company, replaying the moments he laughs at one of your jokes or leans in close enough for you to catch a hint of his cologne.

After a second, you type back, Yeah, I’d love to! You add a smiley face, feeling almost giddy as you press send.

The days leading up to Friday drag by, each one marked with bursts of nerves and anticipation. You spend a little more time getting ready than usual, finally deciding on a simple but pretty dress that makes you feel confident. When Bucky picks you up, his usual leather jacket replaced with a dark button-up, you feel a thrill of excitement. He looks genuinely happy to see you, his eyes scanning over you appreciatively as he gives you a lopsided grin.

“You look amazing,” he says, his gaze warm. There’s something softer in his eyes, something that makes you blush.

“Thanks,” you mumble, smiling as you walk beside him. He leads you to a small Italian place tucked away from campus, the kind of cozy, dimly lit restaurant you wouldn’t have expected him to know about. The conversation flows easily between you two, laughter spilling out as you talk about classes, hometowns, and childhood memories.

The night feels magical, almost surreal, and you start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s something real here. Every time his hand brushes against yours, a spark shoots up your spine. And when he reaches across the table, fingers lightly grazing your wrist as he laughs at something you said, your heart flutters in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying.

After dinner, he suggests taking a walk, and soon you’re strolling through the quiet streets, the chill of the night air making you shiver just slightly. Without a word, Bucky slips his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. It feels so natural, like you belong there.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been on a date this nice,” you admit, smiling up at him, your voice soft.

He chuckles, though it sounds slightly strained. “Really? I find that hard to believe.”

You shrug, trying to brush it off. “I guess I’ve just never…met anyone like you before.”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or regret. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced with that charming grin. He steps closer, his arm slipping from your shoulders, and you hold your breath as he cups your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin.

“You’re pretty amazing, you know that?” he murmurs, his voice low.

You feel like the world has stopped, your heart pounding in your chest. This is the moment you’ve been dreaming of, the moment where everything finally falls into place.

But for Bucky, something sharp and painful twists inside him. He can feel the weight of what he’s doing pressing down on him, can see the way your eyes look at him with such unguarded trust, and it’s enough to make his stomach turn. He’s never felt guilty over a stupid bet before, but right now, the idea of hurting you feels unbearable.

“Hey,” he says softly, his hand still on your cheek. “You trust me, right?”

Your eyes widen, and you nod slowly, too caught up in the moment to notice the tension in his gaze. “Yeah,” you whisper, a small smile forming on your lips.

He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours as he takes a steadying breath. “Good,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. Because if he’s going to go through with this, he tells himself he has to believe that none of it matters—that he won’t let himself care. But even as he kisses you, his lips soft and warm against yours, he knows he’s lying to himself.

The days after that first date drift into a series of moments that feel surreal, almost like they’re happening to someone else. You find yourself checking your phone at odd times, waiting for his texts, smiling down at your screen whenever his name lights up. Bucky is a part of your routine now, and it feels strange, thrilling even, like there’s this magnetic force that draws you to him despite every bit of caution you try to hold onto.

Every time you’re with him, the outside world fades. He makes you laugh with stories about his friends, leaning in close, his voice warm and low as if he’s sharing some secret just for you. You catch yourself stealing glances when he’s not looking—at the way his jaw clenches when he’s lost in thought or how his eyes soften when he looks at you, a mix of curiosity and something you can’t quite name.

It’s after one of your study sessions at the library that Bucky invites you over to his dorm room for the first time. He tells you he’s got some old movies you’ve probably never seen, and, honestly, he’s right—you’d never pictured Bucky as the type to own black-and-white classics, but that’s exactly what he has, a surprisingly large collection lined up on a low shelf near his TV. He insists you pick one, and soon you’re sitting side by side on his couch, your legs tucked up beneath you, feeling almost shy in the soft glow of the screen.

The movie starts, but his arm stretches along the back of the couch, barely brushing your shoulders. The faintest touch sends electricity through you, but you stay quiet, not wanting to ruin the moment. Then, halfway through the movie, he shifts, glancing at you.

“You can get closer, you know,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting with something mischievous yet gentle.

Your heart flutters as you scoot closer, until you’re tucked into his side, his arm draped around you in a way that feels possessive yet comforting. He smells faintly like cedar and something distinctly him, a scent that’s becoming familiar. Before you know it, your head is resting on his shoulder, his hand absently tracing patterns on your arm, and you feel like you could stay there forever.

Time slips by in a collection of small, perfect moments. There are more dates—little coffee shops tucked away from campus, a bookstore where he buys you a copy of a novel you mentioned in passing, a late-night diner where you both end up after laughing so hard that you can’t breathe. You never expected him to be so attentive, so eager to listen to your stories and learn every detail about your life. He even surprises you with your favorite snack on study nights, tossing it to you with a grin before leaning in close to steal a bite for himself.

One evening, after a long day of classes and a surprise text from Bucky inviting you over, you find yourself curled up on his couch once again. This time, he’s stretched out beside you, one arm tucked under his head while the other rests around your shoulders. His fingers brush against your arm absently, and you can’t help but notice how natural this feels. It’s terrifying, too, the way he seems to melt into your life so effortlessly, as if he’s always been there.

You glance up at him, catching him mid-laugh as he recounts an embarrassing story about Sam, who apparently tried to show off on a skateboard and ended up with a sprained ankle.

“You’re terrible,” you tease, nudging him with your shoulder, though you’re laughing too.

“Oh, come on. It was hilarious,” he insists, grinning down at you. He tilts his head, his gaze dropping to your lips for just a second, and your laughter fades as something shifts between you.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask softly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching in a faint smile. “I just…can’t believe you’re real sometimes.”

The words catch you off guard, and for a moment, you’re too stunned to reply. But then he leans down, his lips brushing yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. The kiss deepens slowly, each touch feeling like a promise, and you lose yourself in the warmth of his embrace, forgetting every doubt, every insecurity that ever kept you guarded.

As the weeks pass, you find yourself falling harder than you ever expected. Bucky seems to find every crack in your armor, every scar and hidden fear, and instead of pulling away, he draws closer, listening to your stories and letting you into his own in ways that leave you breathless. He’s there to listen on your tough days, wrapping his arms around you and murmuring words of reassurance. He’s there on your good days, too, laughing with you, pressing kisses to your forehead as if he can’t believe his luck.

One night, you’re back on his couch, cuddled up under a thick blanket as a storm rages outside, the rain tapping against the windows. You’re nestled against him, his arm holding you close, and he’s quiet, his fingers tracing patterns along your shoulder absentmindedly.

“Bucky?” you ask, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Hmm?” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to yours, his eyes soft and warm in the dim light.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “For everything.”

He frowns slightly, shifting so he can look at you fully. “You don’t have to thank me for that,” he says, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Being with you…it’s the easiest thing in the world.”

You smile, warmth spreading through your chest, and he kisses you again, slow and soft, like he’s savoring every second. It’s moments like this that make you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re finally safe with someone, that this is something real.

But for Bucky, each moment with you is a double-edged sword. He’s never felt this way before—this calm, this…connected. Every time you laugh at one of his jokes or lean against him, trusting and unguarded, he feels that awful twist of guilt, the memory of that stupid bet lurking in the back of his mind.

He’s supposed to ask for more. That’s what Sam and Steve were expecting, weren’t they? They wanted him to win the bet, to seal the deal and prove he could pull this off. But every time he thinks about going further, about pushing this relationship into a place where he can’t turn back, he feels that nagging ache, that quiet, gnawing feeling that he’s crossing a line he can’t uncross.

He knows he needs to tell you. He needs to come clean, but every time he opens his mouth, the words get stuck in his throat. You look at him with those bright, trusting eyes, and he can’t bring himself to shatter the way you see him. So he holds his silence, hoping that somehow, he can bury the truth forever, that maybe you’ll never have to know.

One evening, as you’re lying together on his couch, you let out a contented sigh, resting your head on his chest as his hand traces lazy patterns along your back.

“Bucky?” you whisper, your voice soft.

He glances down at you, his fingers pausing as he meets your gaze. “Yeah?”

You hesitate, then take a steadying breath. “I…I think I’m falling for you.”

The words hang in the air, vulnerable and open, and for a second, his face goes still, his eyes widening just slightly. Then, his expression softens, and he tightens his arms around you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek.

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. But as he kisses you, the warmth of his touch hiding the flicker of guilt behind his eyes, a single thought haunts him.

She deserves the truth.

That night, Bucky barely sleeps, lying awake with the knowledge that he’s in far too deep to ever come out of this unscathed. Every soft breath you take beside him reminds him of how much he’s risking by staying silent. He knows he has to tell you, but he’s terrified—terrified that this fragile, beautiful thing you’ve built together will shatter, that you’ll look at him with betrayal instead of trust.

In the morning, he makes a decision. He’ll find a way to tell you, he promises himself, but he wants one more day, one more memory before he risks everything. Just one last perfect day where he can pretend that none of it was ever a lie.

So he takes you out, leading you down to the pier just as the sun begins to set, casting the sky in hues of pink and gold. You laugh, leaning into him, and he wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, watching the waves lap against the shore.

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice soft. “It is.”

But as he stands there, holding you close, he knows that the beauty of this moment is fleeting, that the truth waiting in his chest is too big to ignore. And tonight, when he finally gathers the courage to tell you, he knows there’s a chance he’ll lose you forever. But for now, he lets himself savor this last quiet moment, memorizing the feeling of you in his arms, the warmth of your laughter as it fills the air.

For now, he holds onto the hope that maybe, somehow, you’ll understand.

The sunset fades, leaving the world painted in muted purples and blues, but neither of you seem ready to break away from each other. Bucky holds you close, feeling the steady rhythm of your breath against his chest as if it’s his own. He knows he should say something—that he needs to say something—but the words seem so impossible now, tangled up in his chest. The truth would ruin this moment, shatter whatever he’s built with you. And so, he tells himself it can wait just a little longer.

As the evening slips into night, Bucky leads you back to his dorm room, his hand intertwined with yours. You can feel the heat of his palm, the way his fingers wrap around yours as if he never wants to let go. The air feels charged, every touch electric, each shared glance simmering with something that feels fragile and exhilarating. Neither of you says much, as though speaking would break the quiet spell between you.

Once you’re inside, Bucky hesitates. He turns to you, his expression vulnerable, softer than you’ve ever seen it. "You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing against the back of your hand.

“I want to,” you say, the words escaping before you can even think. There’s no hesitation in your voice, only a gentle certainty that makes his chest tighten. The way you look at him, so open and trusting, makes his heart ache with a mix of guilt and longing.

Bucky’s eyes search yours, lingering for a moment that stretches into forever. He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before his fingers trail down to your jaw, cradling your face as if you’re something fragile and precious. Slowly, he leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s softer than any before. It’s unhurried, tender, as if he’s savoring every second.

The kiss deepens, and you can feel yourself melting into him, your heart pounding so hard you think it might burst. His hands move to your waist, steady and grounding, and he pulls you closer until there’s no space left between you. You can feel the strength of him, the warmth radiating through his clothes, and it makes your head spin.

Before long, you find yourselves tangled together on his bed, the world outside fading into nothingness. Each kiss is deeper than the last, each touch laced with a longing neither of you can deny. There’s a gentleness to Bucky’s movements, a quiet patience as he explores the curve of your shoulder, the softness of your waist, as if he’s memorizing every inch of you. He’s slow and careful, constantly looking at you as if to make sure this is what you want.

“Are you okay?” he whispers, his voice rough with barely-contained emotion.

You nod, feeling breathless but certain. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

His eyes darken, filled with a tenderness that makes your chest ache, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper this time, his hands skimming over your skin with a reverence that leaves you feeling cherished. You lose track of time, surrendering to the way he makes you feel—safe, wanted, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

When you finally fall back against the bed, your bodies wrapped around each other, you’re exhausted yet filled with a warmth that feels all-encompassing. The reality of what just happened settles in, but instead of feeling nervous, you feel at peace, secure in the quiet intimacy that has grown between you.

Bucky shifts beside you, pulling you closer until your head rests against his chest, his arm draped protectively around your shoulders. The steady thump of his heartbeat lulls you into a peaceful daze, and you feel his fingers trace small circles on your back, soothing and grounding.

You’re both quiet for a long time, the silence comfortable as you bask in each other’s presence. Eventually, though, you feel a need to tell him something you’ve been holding back, something you hadn’t planned on revealing but that feels right to share in this moment.

“Bucky,” you begin softly, lifting your head to look at him. He gazes down at you, his eyes warm and attentive, as if you’re the only thing he sees. “I…I want you to know that this was my first time.”

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, you’re afraid he’ll pull away, that he’ll think you were too inexperienced or that you should have told him sooner. But he doesn’t flinch or hesitate. His hand moves up to gently cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin.

“Your first?” he echoes, his voice filled with a mixture of surprise and something that sounds almost like reverence.

You nod, feeling your cheeks heat as you look down, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah…I wanted it to be with someone who made me feel safe. Someone I trusted.”

Bucky’s chest rises and falls slowly as he takes this in, his expression softening. He seems almost humbled, like he’s just been given something rare and delicate. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before resting his own against yours.

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. There’s a vulnerability in his gaze, as if he’s holding back a hundred things he wants to say but can’t find the words for.

You smile, the last traces of your nervousness melting away. “Thank you, Bucky…for making it so special.”

He pulls you close, wrapping his arms around you like he’s afraid to let you go. “I’d do anything to make you feel special,” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

You nestle into his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, feeling safe and cherished in a way you never have before. And as you lie there, drifting between sleep and wakefulness, you wonder if this is what it feels like to be truly, deeply in love.

But as you fall asleep in his arms, Bucky lies awake, his heart heavy with the weight of everything he’s kept from you. He knows he should be content, that he should just let himself savor this night and the closeness you’ve shared. But the memory of that stupid, careless bet gnaws at him, a dark cloud looming over everything.

He runs a hand through his hair, staring up at the ceiling, feeling torn between the desire to protect you from the truth and the fear that he’s already crossed a line he can’t uncross. The realization that you trusted him enough to give him something so deeply personal makes the weight of his lie even heavier, almost unbearable. He swallows hard, tightening his hold on you as he resolves to tell you the truth—soon, somehow, even if it means risking everything.

But tonight, he lets himself stay silent. He closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of your hair, the warmth of your body against his, and allows himself to believe, if only for a moment, that this can last.

The morning sunlight filters softly through the blinds, casting warm, golden patterns across the bed. You stir beside him, your movements gentle as you wake up, and Bucky watches you with a quiet awe, his heart racing as he takes in the peaceful expression on your face. For a moment, it feels like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

You blink up at him, your face lighting up with a sleepy smile that makes his chest tighten.

“Good morning,” you murmur, your voice soft and a little shy, as if the night is still too fresh, too beautiful to fully believe.

He grins, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Morning,” he replies, his voice low and warm. His fingers trail down to your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, and you squeeze back, a shared moment of silent understanding passing between you.

The morning stretches on in a gentle haze of quiet touches and soft words. Bucky makes you coffee, insisting you stay curled up under his blanket while he brings it over to you, and you laugh, watching him with a mix of affection and disbelief. This side of him—the playful, thoughtful side—is something you never expected to see, and it makes you fall for him even harder.

You’re both lounging on his bed, your legs tangled together, talking in low voices about everything and nothing. He tells you stories about his childhood, tales about him and Steve getting into trouble, and you share your own memories, laughing as he reacts with wide eyes and exaggerated shock.

It feels so real, so natural, that you almost forget about everything outside this room, about the possibility that this could be something fleeting. You feel like you’ve found a place that’s safe, a person who makes you feel more like yourself than you ever have before.

But in the quiet moments, when you catch him staring at you with that far-off look, you wonder if there’s something he’s not telling you, a hesitation lurking behind his gaze. You don’t press, not wanting to shatter the peace between you. But part of you wonders if you’re seeing a glimpse of something deeper, something you’re not yet ready to confront.

As you leave his dorm room later that morning, he kisses you softly, lingering as if he’s trying to memorize the taste of your lips, the feel of your hand in his. There’s an unspoken promise in his touch, a silent assurance that this isn’t the end.

Later that afternoon, you make your way back to the frat house, humming softly as you climb the steps to Bucky's door. You left your notebook there, a little blue book you’re pretty sure you’ll need for your upcoming assignment. You barely slept last night, too caught up in the warmth of his touch, the memory of his whispered words that lingered long after you left his dorm this morning. You’re nervous, too; you feel so much for him that it scares you.

As you approach his room, laughter drifts out into the hallway, low voices filtering through the partially open door. You recognize Bucky’s laugh, the familiar sound stirring warmth in your chest, but the laughter feels different, carefree and loud. And then you hear a familiar voice—Sam’s—cutting through, low and joking.

"Guess she fell for it pretty hard, huh?" Sam’s voice sounds amused, lighthearted, as if he’s talking about something trivial.

You freeze, your hand hovering inches from the door. Something about his tone makes you hesitate, a strange, unsettling feeling creeping into your chest.

"Come on, Bucky," Sam presses, “don’t act all innocent now. I saw you this morning, looking like you just won the lottery.” You can hear the grin in his voice, a laugh bubbling beneath it. “So? How was it?”

Bucky laughs, the sound uncomfortable, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, his voice casual, light. “It was… good.”

You feel a stab in your chest, a faint panic that tells you to leave, to walk away before you hear any more. But your feet don’t move, and you find yourself listening, every word driving another splinter into your heart.

Steve’s voice joins in, chuckling. “Well, you earned it, man. She had no clue, huh?”

“No clue,” Bucky murmurs, his voice softer now, almost unreadable. You can picture him there, maybe rubbing the back of his neck the way he does when he’s nervous. But the words are there, undeniable.

Sam laughs again, louder this time. “And hey, bet’s a bet,” he says, and then there’s a pause before you hear the unmistakable rustling of bills being exchanged. “Two hundred dollars, as promised. Can’t say you didn’t earn it, though—you even managed to get her into bed. Didn’t think you had it in you, but here we are!”

Your vision blurs, the words echoing in your mind, distorting into something raw and jagged. Every affectionate touch, every gentle kiss, every whispered promise from the past few weeks twists into something ugly, something unrecognizable. You feel sick, the image of Bucky’s earnest smile, his soft words about wanting to make you feel special, tainted beyond repair. Everything you felt for him, the trust you’d handed him so freely, crumbles beneath the weight of their laughter.

Slowly, you turn and leave, gripping the strap of your bag tightly as you make your way out of the frat house. You don’t let yourself cry, not yet, not when you still feel the echo of his betrayal throbbing in your chest, too raw, too painful to acknowledge fully.

Hours later, you’re back in your dorm room, your heart aching as you sit in silence, the truth settling over you in waves. Part of you wants to believe it was a misunderstanding, that maybe there’s an explanation you’re missing. But the memory of their laughter, the casual way Sam handed him that money, makes the truth impossible to ignore.

A knock on your door interrupts your thoughts, and your heart skips a beat as you hear Bucky’s voice calling your name softly from the hallway. It’s just him now, his voice hesitant, almost as if he senses that something’s wrong. You take a steadying breath, steeling yourself before you answer the door.

When you open it, Bucky’s eyes light up, and he steps forward, a soft smile on his face as he reaches for your hand. “Hey, you,” he murmurs, his voice warm. But when he sees the look on your face, he pauses, his smile fading. “What’s wrong?”

For a moment, you can’t bring yourself to speak. You can only look at him, trying to reconcile the gentle, caring person you thought you knew with the man who took a bet to seduce you. You pull your hand away from his, ignoring the confusion in his gaze as he watches you.

“Were you even going to tell me?” Your voice comes out quieter than you intended, a dull ache threading through every word. “Or were you just going to take the money and pretend it never happened?”

Bucky blinks, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Tell you what? I—I don’t understand.”

A bitter laugh escapes your lips, and you look away, wrapping your arms around yourself as if it’ll keep you from falling apart. “Don’t play dumb, Bucky. I heard you. I was at the frat house earlier, and I heard everything.”

He freezes, his face going pale, and you see the truth in his eyes, clear as day. He opens his mouth, stumbling over his words. “Y/N, I—I didn’t… I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.”

The admission twists the knife deeper, and you feel yourself trembling as you look back at him, tears stinging your eyes. “So, it’s true, then? All of it? This whole… this whole thing was just for some stupid bet?”

He reaches for you, his expression desperate, his hands hovering just inches from your arms. “Y/N, please. Just let me explain. It wasn’t like that, I swear. It started that way, but then… then it became real. I fell for you, okay? Everything we did, everything we shared—it was real.”

You shake your head, pulling away from him, the anger and betrayal simmering beneath the surface. “Real? You think that makes this okay? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Your voice breaks, and a tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it. “I trusted you, Bucky. I thought… I thought you cared about me.”

His face crumples, and he takes a step closer, his hand reaching out as if to wipe away the tear on your cheek. “I do care about you. More than anything, Y/N. That’s why I wanted to tell you, I just—”

“Wanted to tell me?” you interrupt, your voice shaking. “When, Bucky? After you cashed in your winnings? After I found out on my own?”

The silence stretches between you, heavy and unbearable, and Bucky’s shoulders sag as he looks away, guilt etched deeply into his face.

“Do you even realize how humiliating this is?” you continue, your voice a mixture of anger and heartbreak. “I trusted you with something… something I’d never given anyone. And the whole time, it was just part of a game to you.”

His eyes snap back to yours, filled with anguish, his voice barely a whisper. “It was never just a game, not after the first night. I swear, Y/N, I was going to tell you everything. I just… I didn’t want to lose you.”

“You didn’t want to lose me?” you repeat, laughing bitterly. “You lost me the moment you made that bet. You had no right to… to play with me like that, to make me believe that any of it was real.”

He looks at you, his blue eyes full of desperation, his voice breaking. “Y/N, please. I know I messed up. I know I hurt you, but I need you to believe me when I say I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“Just stop,” you whisper, the weight of it all crashing over you. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to make me feel sorry for you when you’re the one who lied.”

Bucky’s face falls, and he drops his gaze, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I know. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But please, just… give me a chance to make it right.”

Your heart aches, torn between the memories of every gentle touch, every whispered word, and the undeniable truth of his betrayal. Part of you wants to believe him, wants to believe that somewhere in all of this, there was something real. But the pain is too deep, the wound too fresh, and you don’t know if you can ever look at him the same way again.

“I can’t do this,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I can’t just forget what you did. You hurt me, Bucky. And right now, I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

He flinches, as if your words physically hurt him, and he nods slowly, a look of resignation in his eyes. “I understand. I’ll… I’ll leave, if that’s what you want.”

You nod, wrapping your arms around yourself as he takes a step back, his gaze lingering on you one last time before he turns and walks toward the door. Just as he reaches it, he pauses, his hand resting on the doorknob as he glances back at you, his voice soft, broken.

“For what it’s worth, Y/N… I love you. I know I don’t deserve to say that, but it’s the truth.”

You don’t reply, staring at him with tear-filled eyes as he finally steps out of your dorm, the door closing softly behind him. The silence that follows is deafening, and you sink to the floor, the weight of everything crashing down as you realize that the person you thought you loved never truly existed.

The days blur together in a haze of heartbreak and emptiness. You go through the motions, attending classes, completing assignments, and showing up to study groups, but it all feels mechanical, like you’re on autopilot. It’s as if something inside you has shut down, leaving only an echo of who you were before you met him, before he became the center of your world.

It doesn’t take long for your friends to notice the change. They ask if you’re okay, if something happened, if maybe you just need a break. But you give them the same answer each time—a nod, a small smile, and an assurance that you’re just tired. It’s easier than explaining the mess of emotions tangled inside you, the hurt that seems too big to fit into words.

Late at night, lying alone in your dorm room, you can still feel the warmth of his arms around you, the softness of his voice in the quiet hours when he’d whisper promises you thought would last forever. The memory feels cruel now, tainted by the knowledge that it was all built on a lie. And yet, despite everything, you miss him. You hate yourself for it, but you miss the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel safe, special, as if you were the only person in the world who mattered.

Bucky isn’t doing any better. In fact, he’s a mess. Days have passed, but the guilt, the emptiness—it lingers, gnawing at him, refusing to let him move on. He can barely sleep, haunted by the look in your eyes, the betrayal, the hurt he put there. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees you, hears the way your voice cracked when you told him you didn’t know who he was anymore. And the worst part is, he doesn’t blame you. He knows he did this, that he ruined everything, and now he has to live with the consequences.

Sam and Steve notice almost immediately. Bucky, the confident, charming guy they’d known for years, looks hollow, as if he’s carrying a weight he can’t shake. He barely speaks, keeps to himself, and they rarely see him at the frat house anymore. Instead, he spends most of his time shut up in his dorm, a shadow of the person he used to be.

One evening, as the sun dips below the horizon, Sam and Steve exchange a glance, silently agreeing that they need to intervene. They knock on his door, and when he doesn’t answer, Sam pushes it open, finding him lying on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Hey, man,” Sam says, stepping inside. Steve follows, closing the door behind them as they both approach Bucky’s bed.

Bucky doesn’t react right away, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling. But eventually, he sits up, running a hand through his hair, looking exhausted and defeated.

“What’s up, guys?” he mumbles, though his voice lacks any real curiosity.

“We should be asking you that,” Steve says, his tone softer than usual. “You haven’t been yourself lately. Ever since things ended with Y/N, it’s like… you’re a completely different person.”

At the sound of your name, Bucky’s face falls, and he lets out a long, shaky breath. “Yeah,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “That’s because I am.”

Sam frowns, studying Bucky’s expression, the guilt etched into every line of his face. “Look, man, we didn’t mean for things to get this serious. But if you cared about her, really cared… why didn’t you just tell her the truth from the start?”

Bucky shakes his head, his hands gripping the edge of the bed so tightly his knuckles turn white. “I don’t know,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I was scared, I guess. I knew I’d screwed up, and every time I tried to tell her, I just… couldn’t. I thought I could fix things, somehow, make it up to her without her ever finding out.” He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Stupid, right?”

Steve sighs, sitting beside him on the bed. “Not stupid, just… a mistake. A big one, yeah, but you’re not the first guy to mess up. You’re just… Bucky, this isn’t like you. I’ve never seen you like this over anyone before.”

Bucky looks away, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s because I’ve never felt this way before. Not like this. I love her, Steve. And I threw it all away over some stupid bet that meant nothing. I hurt her in ways I can’t even fix.”

Sam places a hand on his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “So what are you gonna do about it? You can’t just sit here, wallowing. If she meant that much to you, then maybe you owe it to her—and to yourself—to try and make it right.”

Bucky laughs, but it’s empty, hollow. “And how am I supposed to do that, Sam? She told me herself she doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t trust me. I don’t deserve another chance.”

Steve exchanges a look with Sam, and then he says, “Maybe. But you can’t just give up without trying. If you really love her, Bucky, you have to prove it. Show her that you’re not just the guy who hurt her, that you’re willing to fight for her. And if she doesn’t take you back… at least you’ll know you tried.”

Bucky sighs, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stares at the floor. “I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me. I don’t even know if I deserve it.”

Sam crosses his arms, his expression softening. “Look, man, I get that you’re hurting. But don’t you think she’s hurting, too? She’s probably out there feeling just as broken, wondering if anything between you was ever real.”

Bucky swallows hard, his chest tightening at the thought. He knows you’re hurting, knows you trusted him with something precious, something he didn’t deserve. And knowing that he’s the reason for your pain… it’s a feeling he wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Over the next few days, Bucky wrestles with himself, caught between the fear of making things worse and the desire to show you that he’s truly sorry, that he wants to be the man you thought he was. He writes and rewrites texts he never sends, shows up outside your dorm but never works up the courage to knock. He’s terrified, but he can’t ignore the way his heart aches for you, the empty, gnawing feeling that only seems to grow with each passing day.

Finally, he decides to try one last time. He doesn’t know if you’ll listen, doesn’t know if you’ll even give him a chance. But he has to try—to give you the truth, no matter how painful it might be.

And so, as the evening sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over campus, Bucky finds himself standing outside your dorm, his heart pounding as he gathers the courage to knock. He knows this is his last chance, that this is the moment that will decide everything. And he only hopes, as he takes a deep breath and raises his hand to the door, that you’ll give him the chance to show you that he’s not the man who hurt you—that he’s ready to fight for you, no matter what it takes.

The knock on your door is soft, almost hesitant, but it’s enough to pull you from your thoughts. You’ve been lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to find the strength to move forward, to somehow patch yourself up after everything that happened. When you open the door, you see him standing there, his eyes filled with an uncertainty that’s almost heartbreaking. He’s gripping a small notebook in his hands—your notebook, the one you left in his room—and his gaze is fixed on you with a desperation you’ve never seen before.

“Hi,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You don’t reply right away, the sight of him dredging up the familiar ache in your chest. Part of you wants to slam the door and hide, to keep yourself safe from any more hurt. But you don’t. Instead, you meet his gaze, forcing yourself to remain steady.

“Hi,” you reply, your voice guarded.

He shifts on his feet, glancing down at the notebook before offering it to you. “I, uh… you left this. Thought you might need it.”

You take it from him, feeling the familiar weight of it in your hands. “Thanks.”

A heavy silence hangs between you, one that neither of you seems willing to break. Bucky swallows, his face creased with an anxious, uncertain look that makes him seem vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before.

“Can we… can we talk?” he asks, his voice almost pleading. “Please. I know I don’t deserve it, but I just need to say a few things. If you don’t want to listen, I’ll understand, and I’ll leave you alone. I just… I need you to know the truth.”

You hesitate, but finally, you nod, stepping back to let him into your room. He steps inside, closing the door softly behind him, and takes a seat in the small chair by your desk while you remain standing, arms crossed protectively over your chest.

For a moment, he just looks at you, his gaze heavy with regret. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“I know you have every right to hate me,” he starts, his voice barely steady. “I know I messed up in ways I can’t even fix. And I know… I know what I did was horrible. I just—” He swallows, his throat tight. “I just need you to know that it wasn’t all a lie. When we started this… when we first got close, I didn’t expect any of this to happen. I didn’t think I’d feel the way I did.”

You look down, his words stirring a fresh wave of pain in your chest. “But it was a bet, Bucky,” you murmur, your voice trembling. “You… you did all of that just to win some money. To you, it was just a game.”

He flinches, guilt flashing in his eyes, and he nods. “I know. I won’t make excuses for it—I was stupid, and I hurt you. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being about the bet. It stopped being a game. And I started… I started caring about you, more than I’ve ever cared about anyone.”

You feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, but you force yourself to keep your voice steady. “Then why didn’t you just tell me the truth?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair again, his expression tortured. “Because I was scared. I was terrified that you’d look at me the way you’re looking at me now, that I’d lose you. I know that doesn’t make it better, but it’s the truth. I tried to find the right time, tried to find the right words, but I kept putting it off, thinking maybe… maybe I could make it up to you before you ever found out.” He looks down, his voice breaking. “But that was stupid. I should’ve just been honest with you from the start.”

You take a shaky breath, feeling the full weight of everything he’s saying. Part of you wants to believe him, wants to forgive him, but the wound he left is still fresh, still raw. “I trusted you, Bucky,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I thought… I thought what we had was real.”

He looks up at you, his eyes filled with a desperate sincerity that takes you off guard. “It was real. For me, it was real. And I know that doesn’t change anything, but I need you to know that. I never meant to hurt you, and I’ll spend as long as it takes to make it up to you if you’ll let me.”

You study him for a long moment, searching his face, trying to find some indication of sincerity, something to show that he’s truly sorry. And when you see the remorse in his eyes, the sadness that mirrors your own, you feel something in your chest soften, just slightly.

“Bucky,” you begin softly, forcing yourself to stay strong, “I can’t just go back to how things were. I can’t pretend this didn’t happen. You hurt me more than anyone ever has, and it’s going to take time for me to get past that.”

He nods, his expression resigned, but he doesn’t look away. “I understand. And I don’t expect you to forgive me right away. I just… I just want the chance to prove to you that I’m more than the guy who hurt you. Even if we can’t go back, I want to be there for you, even if it’s just as a friend.”

You let his words sink in, feeling a flicker of hope amidst the ache in your heart. Part of you still longs for what you had, for the closeness you shared, but you know that you can’t rush back into it. If Bucky truly wants a second chance, he’ll have to earn it, piece by piece, day by day.

“Maybe…” You hesitate, feeling vulnerable but determined. “Maybe we can start as friends. Just… friends. No promises, no expectations. If you’re willing to do that, to rebuild things from the ground up… then maybe, someday, I’ll be able to trust you again.”

Relief floods his face, and he nods, a small, hopeful smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll take that. Anything you’re willing to give, I’ll take it. I’ll prove to you that I can be better. I’ll prove that I’m worth your trust.”

You give him a tentative smile, and for the first time in days, you feel a flicker of hope. It’s small and fragile, but it’s enough to remind you that maybe healing is possible.

Over the next few weeks, Bucky becomes a constant but careful presence in your life. He shows up when you need help with an assignment, offers a listening ear when you need to vent about a long day, and joins you for coffee on campus, keeping the conversation light and easy. He respects your boundaries, never pushing for more, never expecting anything beyond friendship. You’re surprised at how attentive he is, how willing he is to wait, to prove that he’s serious about making things right.

Slowly, the walls around your heart begin to crack. You start to feel comfortable with him again, to let your guard down, if only a little. You catch him glancing at you sometimes, a soft, almost wistful look in his eyes, as if he’s seeing something precious he thought he’d lost forever. It’s in these moments that you remember why you fell for him in the first place, why his smile used to make your heart race, why his touch felt like home.

One day, as you’re both sitting on a bench by the campus pond, he turns to you, a hesitant smile on his face. “I know we’re just friends right now, and I’m okay with that. But I want you to know that I’m grateful for every moment I get to spend with you, even if it’s just like this.”

You feel a warmth spread through you, a sense of peace you haven’t felt in a long time. “Thank you, Bucky,” you say softly. “For not giving up. For being patient with me.”

He reaches out, hesitating for a moment before resting his hand on yours, his touch warm and steady. “I’ll wait as long as it takes. I’ll prove to you that I’m here for you, no matter what.”

And as you look into his eyes, you feel a flicker of something you thought was lost—a tentative, fragile hope that maybe things could be different this time. That he could truly be the person he’s trying to be, the person you wanted him to be all along. And though you know there’s a long road ahead, you’re finally willing to take that first step with him, trusting that maybe, this time, he won’t let you down.

The night is alive with music and laughter as you step into the crowded frat house. It’s your first time back here since everything happened, and you can’t deny the nervous flutter in your stomach as you take in the familiar scene. But tonight feels different—Bucky is by your side, watching you with a gentle smile as he guides you through the chaos of people, his hand warm and steady on your arm.

Over the past few weeks, things between you and Bucky have been slowly mending. He’s proven himself time and time again, showing up when it mattered, respecting your boundaries, and never pressuring you for more than you were willing to give. He’s become someone you can lean on, someone who’s earned back your trust bit by bit. And, to your own surprise, you feel something new blossoming between you—something deeper, stronger, and more genuine than before.

When you reach the main room, you spot Sam and Steve near the keg, both of them giving you a thumbs-up as soon as they see you with Bucky. You laugh, rolling your eyes, but Bucky just grins, shrugging as if to say, They’re harmless.

“Glad you came tonight,” he says, leaning closer so you can hear him over the noise. “I was worried you might skip.”

You shrug, glancing up at him. “Well, I figured it was about time I faced the frat house again.”

He chuckles, a warm, rich sound that sends a spark of something familiar through you. It’s the same feeling you used to get when you first met, when you were just getting to know him, before anything got complicated. Only now, it feels even better—because you’re finally on solid ground with him, without secrets or lies standing between you.

As the night goes on, you find yourself enjoying the party, laughing with friends, and even dancing a bit. Bucky stays close, his presence a comforting, steady anchor amidst the noise and chaos. He’s attentive, offering you drinks and glancing over every so often to make sure you’re comfortable. And every time you catch his gaze, you feel your heart race just a little faster.

At one point, as you’re talking with a friend, you feel Bucky’s hand gently touch your arm, and he leans in close, his voice soft and intimate against your ear. “Want to get some air?”

You nod, letting him lead you through the throngs of people until you step out onto the back porch. The cool night air is a welcome relief from the warmth inside, and you breathe deeply, taking in the quiet calm of the evening. Bucky leans against the railing, watching you with a soft, almost nervous smile, his hands tucked into his pockets.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you something,” he begins, his voice low and steady, as if he’s thought about this moment a thousand times. “I know we’ve been rebuilding things, and I know you wanted to take it slow. But, Y/N… being with you these past few weeks, even just as friends, has been everything to me. And I can’t stop thinking about you. About us.”

Your heart stirs at his words, and you feel a warmth spread through you, a sense of longing that’s been building quietly since the day he asked for a second chance.

“Bucky,” you say softly, stepping a little closer. “I… I feel the same. It’s been hard, letting go of the past. But I think—no, I know—I’ve forgiven you. You’ve shown me who you really are, and… I like that person.”

His eyes brighten at your words, and he reaches out, his hand brushing your cheek as his thumb strokes gently across your skin. He leans closer, his gaze searching your face as if to make sure you’re truly ready for this.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers, his voice barely audible in the quiet night air.

You feel your heart skip a beat, and you give him a small, almost shy nod, your pulse racing as he leans in, closing the distance between you. The moment his lips meet yours, it’s like the world melts away, leaving only the warmth of his touch, the softness of his mouth against yours. It’s gentle at first, tentative, as if he’s afraid of breaking the spell. But as you respond, his hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you a little closer, deepening the kiss with a quiet, aching intensity.

When you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, both of you catching your breath, sharing a smile that’s equal parts relief and joy.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice full of warmth, “I promise, I’m not going to mess this up again. I want this with you—for real, no games.”

You smile, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. “Good, because you’re stuck with me now.”

He laughs, pulling you into a tight hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder, feeling a happiness you haven’t felt in a long time. You’re finally ready to move forward with him, to start fresh, knowing that this time, it’s real.

maybe I should've made it more angsty? I love angst, request angst people! lol

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