#IF I SHOULD TAG THIS AS NUDITY BTW TELL ME

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 9

in which we find out how the morning after went for fem!reader. you finally share with spencer after unanticipated anxieties come up. you're continually shocked by his affection for you.

series masterlist

this series is 18+ (angst, fluff) warnings/tags: (preface none of the bad stuff is done by spencer) sexual harassment, slut shaming, non consensual voyeurism of sorts, blood + pain from losing virginity, talk of rape (nothing like that actually happens), implied nonspecific age gap (someone says he looks slightly older than you) non sexual nudity, showering together, intimacy, ewww being in love is embarrassing a/n: I honestly was not gonna post this today but I decided to bc it's just Tumblr its not that deep also you can probably tell I am just creating problems bc I don't wanna let go of them...... ik this is supposed to be a smutty series btw and trust good things come to those who wait!!!but anyways idk what I'm doing and I kinda hate this!! lolol!!!

Friday morning

The air is thick when you wake up—the angle of the sun through the window is lower than usual, and the binding weight of your limbs as you struggle to stretch in place all suggest that you’ve slept in. 

But you don’t check the time quite yet—for a moment, you simply lie there, studying the pattern on your ceiling, downloading the events of the previous night. 

Flashes of skin on skin, lips, breaths, whispers, promises. Phantom sensations. 

Was it even real?

Your apartment is deafeningly silent, you realize. And you have that sinking sense, which you can’t quite explain but know to be true—that you are alone. Spencer is gone. You can’t feel him like you’d be able to if he were simply on the couch or in the kitchen. He’s definitely not in bed with you, and the sheets have long gone cold. 

The truth of it renders about as slowly as your sluggish consciousness does, and you frown, not quite sure what to do with that information. Should you be angry? Should you cry?

Mostly you’re confused. 

As soon as you sit up, sore thighs and abs and a strange ache between your legs confirm that last night was not a dream nor a figment of your imagination. You’ll figure out what to do about your twinging body in a moment—for now you rub your eyes and blindly reach for the bedside table, knocking several things to the ground in your quest for your phone. 

It’s not there, you realize, once you actually try to use your eyes. It’s not in bed with you either as you pat the sheets, and it doesn’t materialize as you sit on your knees and shake out the comforter. 

From this venture, however, you learn two things. First, Spencer must’ve taken it upon himself to get you dressed last night, which you have no recollection of, but you doubt you sleepwalked your way into underwear and a big t-shirt; and second—you bled. 

It wasn’t something you were thinking about in the moment, but now, faced with all the evidence and none of the pleasure of last night’s activities, it’s jarring. A stark, unforgiving archipelago of red on a pristine sea of white. 

People say, at its best, sex brings couples closer. Spencer once told you it could facilitate feelings of deeper connection. But here you are, no longer a virgin, and what do you have to show for it? A stronger bond with your boyfriend? He’s not even here. 

All you have is this glaring red stain marring perfectly good sheets. It mocks you, like something you’ve dropped and can’t pick back up. You can’t think looking at it, and you need to think, and so in a fit of frustration you’re pulling the comforter onto the floor, leaning over your mattress and yanking the fitted sheet free. You ball it up in your hands, breathing heavily—and realize you bled through to the mattress. 

Wonderful. 

Spencer’s just at work, you tell yourself, grabbing the first pair of shorts you see and pulling them on before gathering the ruined sheet once more and stomping on aching legs through your apartment to the hallway, not even bothering with shoes. He can’t just play hooky because his clingy girlfriend lost her virginity and needs to be comforted like some previously celibate high school cheerleader.

But you miss him so much it’s making you angry, so much your eyes are stinging and welling with tears of frustration as you shove your bed linens down the trash chute at the end of your floor’s hallway. You’re supposed to be independent. That’s how you’ve always been. Since when does it bother you to wake up alone? It’s just sex. It’s not as big a deal for him as it is for you. Or for anyone. You’re the one overreacting, you’re the one who expects too much. He works for the FBI, for god’s sake. There are people dying, and here you are—

“What’chya got there?”

The gruff voice makes you jump, and you turn around just as the bundle is disappearing down into the hole in the wall. It’s your neighbor, Jerry—the one in the unit right next to you. You’re not happy to see him, especially like this. He’s got a blue 5 o’clock shadow despite the hour, and is clad in ill-fitting gray sweats and a pair of ratty slippers. His distended belly strains at the confines of an oil-stained white shirt, tied with a dingy checkered robe. You barely meet his drooping eyes before looking longingly back at your cracked door down the hall. 

“Just… garbage.” You shift your weight, hiding a wince as you try to find a comfortable position to stand in. Jerry notices this, and you wish his eyes wouldn’t linger on your bare legs like that. 

“Huh. Looks like someone had a late night.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s just noon and you’re still in your PJ’s.”

Disgusting. And who the fuck is he to judge? At least your pajamas are clean. 

You shrug. “Yeah.”

He scratches his bald head. 

“So that boy tired you out pretty good, huh?”

Your stomach drops. Your brain freezes. 

When you don’t reply, he takes the liberty of continuing on. 

“Saw him sneaking out of your apartment in the middle of the night. He looked a little older ’n you. You like ’em older?” His laugh is a cruel bark. “Yeah… He’s a lucky man. You know, it’s natural for a man to like a younger girl. Fresh meat, ’n all.” You try to speak and can only swallow a gag. Jerry adjusts his stance, hands in pockets like he’s telling you a local news story. “Heard some of it. Sounded like you were putting on quite the show. And sure, a young pretty thing like you? Hell, I would if I could. But I’ll tell you right now, you don’t wanna end up like my daughter. She wasn’t as pretty as you, but still—three kids with three men by the time she was 24. She should'a kept her damn legs closed. You know, she loved to cry rape, but you gotta ask yourself, if your legs are open all the damn time, what do you expect? Back in the day we all knew girls like that—” he bats the air dismissively. “Guess you can’t call ’em sluts anymore—they get what they’re asking for one way or another. See, I think everyone still knows it and they’re just too afraid to say it. So my advice: don’t let yourself get used up, you hear me? Not by men who are gonna ride you hard and put you away wet. So to speak. Men can smell a girl like that from a mile away, and they’ll take it as an open invitation. It’s just human nature.”

When he finally stops talking, the hallway fills with a vacuous silence. It makes your ears ring. Several moments pass, but you’re frozen. Your whole body feels intolerably hot but your blood is freezing. How are you supposed to react? 

“Hello?” He says, voice loud enough to hurt your ears as it echoes. 

Get out of here, your more rational self says to the rest of you, and you mumble something, you don’t even know what, excusing yourself to hurry on stiff legs back down the hall to your door. 

Once inside, you do up every lock on your door, and face your apartment, shoulders tensed practically to your ears and fists clenched so tight your arms are trembling. On autopilot you look around for something to do, but there’s nothing. More importantly, nobody.

I’ll call Spencer. He’ll know what to do. 

No, you won’t, your higher self reminds you. You lost your phone. And besides, it’s clearly not like he wanted to stick around last night. Maybe he doesn’t even like you anymore. 

So you’re stuck here. Stranded. Sharks can smell blood. 

Processing that information, you walk back to your bedroom and close the door behind you—before promptly sinking to the ground and burying your face in the duvet with a deep, silent sob.  

That goes on for a few minutes until you realize you’re too achy and you can’t breathe and you’re forced onto your side, curling up in your blanket on the floor like it’s a nest and not a burial plot. 

You shouldn’t get ahead of yourself. A relationship can’t implode twice in 24 hours.  You don’t have your phone. Maybe he’s texted you. 

But is that really all you’re worth? A text sent after the fact? He couldn’t sacrifice a few hours to sleep by your side? Couldn’t even wake you up to say goodbye? You think about the sweet things he’d said afterward—the way he held you, fingers dancing down your spine. Promises he made when you were half asleep in his arms, so sure he’d be there when you woke up. 

Even fucking Jerry the neighbor—who you think might have just sexually harassed you in the hallway—said Spencer should’ve stuck around. 

Fuck. 

No, don’t think about that. It doesn’t even matter. They were just words. 

Heard some of it. Sounded like you put on quite the show. 

Your skin crawls and your stomach turns as you hold yourself tighter. Something that was supposed to be private and special—and some random man not only had a front row seat to your deflowering but felt comfortable talking about it with you. It feels like a violation. Like he crashed a really important party. If you had known you had an audience last night, you never would’ve done it. 

The way he looked at you, tracing your legs with his eyes like he was touching you—

You scramble up from the floor and walk heavily on your knees to the dresser, digging up a pair of pajama pants and a hoodie. You should be showering, but you don’t want to deal with your body right now. You just want to hide. 

Friday evening—present

After your conversation, Spencer seems eager to make sure the car ride to his apartment is not reminiscent of the car ride to yours last night—he holds your hand, resting in your lap, bringing your knuckles to his lips at a red light. Every few moments he glances over at you, maybe to appreciate the view (though you doubt it’s especially scenic at the moment) or perhaps to gauge your mood. The further away you get from your apartment building the better you feel, and you try to focus on that. Sure—maybe you had a shit day, but Spencer’s here now, and he didn’t leave you after all. In fact, since finding your phone, you’ve seen the series of very sweet and highly concerned messages he sent over the course of a few hours. They almost make your stomach hurt. It would’ve been really nice to have those earlier. 

He doesn’t ask you any more of the hard questions, but you sense an inquisition in the works and getting closer with every curious glance he gives you. It’s like he’s unwrapping you, layer by layer, using his impressive cognitive faculties to drill through your skull into your brain and deeper still into your soul. 

Back in his apartment you sit awkwardly on the bed. Last time you’d been here, things hadn’t gone so well for you. 

The shower starts in the adjoined bathroom, and Spencer comes out a moment later, warm light seeping into the darkened bedroom. Purple and dark blue mixing with yellow, like a bruise. 

“Hey. Water’s warm.”

You hum, smoothing the material of his neatly made bed with your palm and watching the way it flattens. That had been your doing. You may have thought he was on the verge of breaking up with you last time you slept here, but you didn’t want to leave his home a mess. Didn’t want to leave any evidence of your having been here. 

A moment passes. You thumb at a thread and don’t look up. 

Spencer crosses the space without a word and crouches in front of you, hands coming up to cup the back of your legs, running knee to ankle and up again. 

“Can you tell me what’s going on? Please?” He asks softly. His voice wrings your heart out. Now that you’re in a completely different space, and you’re not so alone anymore, you’re struggling to sort out your feelings. It should be fine. You’re with Spencer. Presumably he still loves you. 

And you still feel terrible. 

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” you whisper. 

“I know,” he says, just as quietly. 

Spencer doesn’t say anything else. I know you don’t want to—and yet. Your lips twist to the side. He’s persistent. Even in his kindness. It’s not the kind of care that falters or buckles when you try turning it away. 

“My neighbor said he c—” 

You’re forced to stop, frowning by how overcome you are. It shouldn’t be such a big deal. Worse things have happened to you. 

“He said he could hear us. Last night.”

Spencer’s hands stop on your legs. You can’t meet his eyes. You’re afraid whatever you find there won’t be the right thing. 

“He’s in the unit next to you?”

You nod. “We share a wall.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation and your stomach sinks. He doesn’t understand. 

“What did he say?”

“Just… dumb shit,” you scoff, fiercely wiping away a stray tear. “He said he listened and it sounded like I was putting on quite the show. And then he—and then he told me not to let you… use me up, whatever that means. He called me fresh meat, and said I shouldn’t let you ride me hard and put me away wet, and bad things happen to sluts who can’t keep their legs closed.”

You finish with a sharp inhale, briefly leaning down and covering your face with your hands when you realize how upset you really are. You want to hide it. 

A fraught moment passes. Spencer reaches for your hands, no doubt to try and pull them away from your face. You spare him the trouble, sitting up with a cavalier sniff before he can touch you and brushing your hair behind your ears.  

His voice is uncomfortably quiet. You can’t look at him. “Baby…”

“Don’t. It’s fine. I only told you because you asked.”

It’s not his fault, but you’re mad at him anyway, and so you avoid eye-contact like it’s the plague. Maybe it’s just safe to be mad at him. Maybe he knows that. 

Regardless, you’re not in the mood for coddling. It’s borderline repulsive—like trying to mix oil and water. Anything good slides right off of you because maybe you’re not designed to be able to absorb good things.

Nothing changes for a minute—and then he’s standing, offering you a moment alone as he goes to crank the shower off. 

As soon as he’s gone all the air is vacuumed from your lungs and you crumple, heaving it back in silently as your head spins and your heart races. It’s like your mind is split in two—half is primal, overwhelming panic, and the other a cold observatory eye, full of disdain and scorn for what it deems a severe overreaction to a few nasty comments made hours ago. You’re so tangled up as you curl in on yourself on your side that you can’t even cry. You’re just trying to remember how to breathe, ignoring the crawling feeling up your spine and the tingling heat at the back of your neck. The shower stops on the downbeat of your staggered breath, and then it’s silent. He’ll come back at any minute and see what a mess you’ve become. 

You’ve ruined everything. If only you could’ve kept it to yourself. 

When Spencer reappears in the doorway, and sees you collapsed and curling like paper burnt at the edges, he’s quick to return to you. 

“I’m sorry,” you manage, trying and failing to brush away hair from your cheek, which is wet—so you were crying—and Spencer shushes you, pushing it away for you as he kneels. 

“Why are you apologizing?”

“I’m being dramatic, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Of course, at the end of that declaration, a sob wrenches its way from the depths of you, so bright and cleaving you half expect the smell of ozone to follow. You follow it with a blisteringly self-deprecating laugh.

“Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t minimize it.”

His hand is warm where it rests over your cheek, affectionate, but he sounds frustrated. You frown and sniffle. 

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Tell me his name.” 

It’s a quiet request, made as gently as his hand cards through the hair at your temple like it’s woven with fragile threads of gold.

“No, Spencer,” you beg, anxiety pooling in your gut and rising in your throat, “please, I don’t want to make it a thing, I don’t want you to talk to him. You’ll just make it worse, it’s fine.”

You look at him imploringly, eyes wide and still welling, hoping to god the gravity of your plead will sink in. His are a bed of coals—somewhere between furious and sympathetic, and you try to appeal to the sympathy. 

“It is not fine. Saying sluts get what’s coming to them is not fine, that is a threat, and I’m not going to talk to him. I’m going to have him fucking arrested.”

You scoff. 

“For talking to me? Yeah, good luck with that. Cops are really known for being helpful when it comes to sexual harassment.”

“Baby. Men who are comfortable violating your boundaries like that are exponentially more likely to commit an actual violent crime. That is not a safe person for you to be around.”

“He’s not gonna rape me, Spencer! He’s just a gross old man! This is why I didn’t want to tell you, because I knew you’d make it a bigger deal than it is! You did it last night and you’re doing it now—you think everyone is out to get me!”

To his credit, he doesn’t so much as raise his voice. 

“Of course it’s a big deal. You’re upset.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my own fault.”

Maybe it’s the wrong thing to say. Spencer goes silent for a moment. 

“It’s your fault?”

“Yes. It’s my fault because… because now everyone knows that I’m…”

His voice goes impossibly soft again. “Knows that you’re what?”

“I mean, what did I expect?” You sniffle. “It’s an apartment. If I didn’t want to deal with the consequences, I shouldn’t’ve done it.”

He says your name like it’s a ring he twists around his finger as he tries to think—to gather the right words. 

“The consequences for having sex do not involve punishment or sexual harassment.”

“It’s the result of my actions, so—”

“No, it’s the result of your neighbor being disgusting. I don’t care what he heard, he doesn’t get to talk to you like that.”

“He—”

“If you heard something you weren’t supposed to hear would you bring it up to the person the next day?”

“Stop interrupting me,” you plead. Spencer looks like he has something to say to that, too, but he swallows it. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. “I… understand that he shouldn’t have said those things to me. But that doesn’t change the fact that he did, and it was really, really uncomfortable and I don’t wanna—I don’t wanna go back now. Maybe that’s dramatic, but…”

You trail off, studying the ceiling as a fresh wash of tears dampen your cheeks. Spencer’s hand slides down your waist as you wipe your face. “I don’t regret the fact that we slept together. I just regret everything that’s happened since, and if I didn’t do it last night, none of this would’ve happened. I feel like he ruined everything.”

The words end on another cry and you put your hand over your eyes like you could stop it all from coming out. You sniffle. Spencer is quiet for a moment. 

“I’m sorry,” he eventually whispers, his own voice threaded with emotion. “I…”

He sighs. You push your hair back and look at him. 

“What?”

He studies you, chewing on his lip like a nervous tick you’ve never seen before. You sit up again, feet balanced on the edge of the bed frame. Spencer’s eyes remain stuck on you. Again, you ask, “What?”

“I didn’t think about it until you brought it up earlier, but—I did see someone. Him, I think, when I went out to my car to get my bag. He was smoking when I came out, and when I got back into the lobby he was waiting for the elevator. We took it up together, he—he said something to me, so I know he saw me going back to you. I don’t know why he made it sound like I left.”

You frown. “What did he say?”

Spencer hesitates. 

“He asked if I had a long night. He was obviously commenting on the fact that I was basically half-dressed and getting an overnight bag from my car at one in the morning, so he could probably gather from context what was going on, but… my point is, he knew I came back and it seems like he was almost trying to make you think I didn’t. So for whatever reason, maybe he was lying about being able to hear you, too. Maybe he just wanted to make you uncomfortable.”

“That’s a long shot, Spencer.”

“I know, but… it’s not that long. He obviously gets off on it—and besides, he said you were putting on a show, but you weren’t… you weren’t loud, last night.”

Heats blossoms in your cheeks and you look down at your lap. “Thin walls.”

“Have you ever heard your neighbors before?”

You have to seriously think about it. 

“I’ve heard them yelling…”

“Nothing else?”

Again, you consider it. The answer comes as a surprise. 

“No.”

“Okay, so… does that maybe help a little bit? I really, really don’t want you to feel like last night was a mistake in any way, or let anyone ruin it for you.”

You breathe deeply. “I know. It… it kinda helps, yeah.”

His hands come to the top of your legs. There’s so much genuine care and concern in his eyes. “Yeah?”

Only when you nod does he relax some. His hands skim your thighs, and you set yours on top of his own. For a few breaths, it’s quiet. And then you laugh. 

“What?” Spencer asks, a tentative smile curling his own lips like he doesn’t know if he should be concerned or participate in your mirth. 

“I—I don’t know how to say it without being cheesy,” you admit, sniffling the last of your tears away and smiling softly down at him. 

“I think you should say it.”

You link your fingers with his on your lap, watching the way they twine like it’s what they were meant to do. 

“I was just thinking about how I had, like, the worst day ever. And how much worse it would’ve gotten if you didn’t show up when you did—I would’ve completely spiraled. But you did show up. And how easy it is to kind of compartmentalize, because I have you, and when I’m with you… nothing feels as hard. You make the bad things feel smaller, I guess.”

By the end, it got a lot more real than you’d intended, and your face feels warm, and your stomach is sort of floaty—but you don’t look away from Spencer. You hold his gaze, though it makes you a little nervous, because you want him to know you mean it. 

He inhales, like he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t—only looks at you, like you’re beautiful and impossible and a defiance of everything he thought he knew, which was almost everything. To him, you’re expansive. A gorgeous anomaly.

And then he stands, holding his hands out for you. Without question you take them, and he pulls you to your feet, absorbing the momentum that threatens to topple you, and he wraps his arms around you tightly. So tight you have to laugh. 

“I love you,” he says against your shoulder, one hand coming to cradle the back of your head. 

Your humor softens, but doesn’t become inflexible—still tinges your words with the perfect amount of euphoria and relief. “I love you.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and your laughter flares again. 

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“But I’m grateful. I… I feel lucky.”

Always so earnest, so vulnerable, when you’re least expecting it—which should be always, you’re learning. You pull back to look up at him. You don’t want that concession to go unrewarded. 

“Me too,” you say softly. He’s doing that fond thing with his eyes, where they’re all soft and it’s like he’s trying to take in every millimeter of your face. This time when he goes to touch your hair, you have the wherewithal to dodge it. 

“You’re really brave for trying to touch my hair right now.”

“Why?” He asks, utterly bewildered, and the softness of the moment falls away easily, but not without leaving everything smudged and fuzzy around the edges. Everything is still okay. It’s still good. 

“Because it’s dirty,” you laugh, dodging him again and eventually ducking from the circle of his arms entirely. 

“Oh, your hair is dirty? Should we breakup?”

“Hm. I don’t really like when you take on that tone with me.” You’re still half-laughing, dipping and weaving past him toward the bathroom as he tries to get you in his arms again. And then you stop, toes just short of the tile. 

“What is it?” He asks after another moment. You blink, looking at the shower head as it drips. 

“Um—would it be okay if I had a five minute headstart in the shower?”

“Sure. Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine. I just… I need a minute.”

His hand skims your waist as he passes by you through the open door. “Okay. Why don’t you grab your stuff and I’ll get the water going again?”

Soon enough, you’re remembering how much better his water pressure is than yours as you stand under the torrent, eyes closed as if in prayer. You definitely could’ve stood to shower earlier in the day. But you had other concerns, earlier, and besides—you were afraid of what you might find. 

And you were right to be. The sex was nice. The aftermath isn’t quite as pretty. 

When Spencer taps on the bathroom door, you’re nervous. 

“You can come in,” you call. 

“You sure? If you want it all to yourself, that’s okay too.”

“No, no. It’s fine.”

The door creaks open, and gently clicks into place again, and fabric rustles as he undresses, and soon the shower curtain is sliding aside and he’s stepping in. Unsurprisingly, the space feels smaller with him in it—but not small in a bad way. It feels warmer. Again you’re awash in that safe feeling, which you didn’t realize you’d been missing so much today. 

“Hi,” he smiles, a teasing sliver of what you know to be the most brilliant light in the world, and stunning like the rest of him as you watch the water begin to darken his hair. 

“Hello.”

His smile flickers briefly wider like you’re his favorite thing and he just can’t contain his joy, and then it’s easing again, giving you a moment to catch your breath. 

“Is it okay if I touch you?”

In this alien context the idea has your heart pounding—you don’t really understand the concept of casual nudity yet, but you know he’ll respect your earlier wishes to keep it chaste and so you nod. 

Spencer doesn’t take you immediately in his arms like you’d expected—instead his hands find a rest at your collarbones and carefully push your wet hair back over your shoulders—but his eyes aren’t cast quite low enough to be indecent. They connect dots over your chest and neck, and he thumbs at one just over your pulse point. 

“Oh, man,” he laughs, and you think you detect a hint of self-deprecation. “That’s… wow, I didn’t realize I… sorry. They don’t hurt, do they?”

It’s your turn to smile as he’s suddenly over-concerned. 

“No, they don’t hurt.”

“Good.” He looks relieved, but it doesn’t last as his eyes trace lower—though you don’t sense any hunger in it. He’s just taking you in. “How about everywhere else?”

“Um… it’s not bad. Kind of, like… I don’t know. Sore. But it’s not bad.”

“Still?” He frowns, clearly unfazed by your evident embarrassment on the subject. You shrug and avert your eyes. 

“It’s fine. it was worse earlier, so.”

That does not have the calming effect you’d intended. 

“Worse? 1-10, how—”

“Spencer, it’s fine, I promise. It’s only when I—when I move certain ways, I notice. Honestly the… blood… was way more disconcerting to me.”

“Yeah, I saw your bed… sorry for ruining your sheets. I’ll buy you new ones.”

You shrug, watching the water run in rivulets down your arm and branch off into tributaries and waterfalls from your fingers. “You don’t have to do that. It was a collaborative effort.”

Normally this conversation would have you melting into an embarrassed puddle, but something about the tile cocoon of the shower, the humid fog, the proximity, feels safe. The white noise of water on porcelain, the warmth. You go to him at the same time as he comes to you—his arms around your waist, yours slung over his shoulders. Your eyes flutter shut. Falling asleep standing up has never seemed so plausible until now. 

He presses a kiss to your head. You sigh. 

“Ugh. I don’t want to deal with washing my hair.”

“I can do it,” Spencer immediately offers. You frown. 

“I was—you don’t have to. I didn’t mean to make it sound like I was asking.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“It’s a process.”

“I understand.”

“You would have to do it exactly how I say.”

“I am willing to learn. I like taking care of you.”

You’re glad for the hot water, then, and as he washes your hair. You’re not sure if you’re crying at the tenderness of his touch, or the way he loves you like you’re easy to love. You’re too tired to explain it. 

He doesn’t push you, because he never pushes you. 

He just washes your hair. 

[phantombl3u]

do you remember him? i dont

[ice-cream-nekogirl]

April Fools and a Red Jockstrap (Kirishima Eijirou X Reader)

Summary: You give your crush Kirishima a very interesting gift...

Hehe and you get to be kind of a tsundere in this one so enjoy! And I’m a day late to April Fool’s but better late than never! :3

I guess I should warn and say this is KINDA NSFW? I think, there’s some PARTIAL nudity so yeah I’ll give you guys that warning :3

BTW SORRY FOR ANY OOC-NESS!!

Featuring: Best Boy Kirishima!

Hey! Hey! Can’t you see I want you the way I push you away? Don’t judge me tomorrow by the way I’m acting today Mix the words up with the actions Do it all for your reaction, yeah! Hey! Hey! Get tangled up in me.

-Tangled Up in Me Skye Sweetnam

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4W27v2XdCFA

Today was the day.

The day you would finally give your crush the gift you had specifically brought for him. Your cheeks warmed a rosey shade of red as you held the present in your hands when you walked into class, almost shyly and hesitantly approaching him.

You were actually pretty nervous about this, because you weren’t sure how he would react to what you had gotten just for him…

But it was from the heart, and Kirishima was the sweetest guy you’ve ever met, maybe he would like it. And then you saw his friends Bakugou, Kaminari and Sero alongside him with Bakugou yelling at Kaminari for probably the 5th time today. It was still you guys’ break, so this was definitely the perfect time, even with his friends there.

“Kirishima…” You actually called him, and you lit up when the redhead turned to face you, a broad smile immediately crossing his face. “Oh hey (Y/N)! What’s up?” He asked you politely yet happily as you blushed a little more, trying not to giggle like an idiot as you quickly brought out your small present for him.

“T-This is for you!” That came out a little louder than you wanted it to, and Kirishima’s eyes widened in surprise. A small blush coating his tanned cheeks as he looked at the wrapped little box that had his name on the little tag. “You got me a present…?” He asked, obviously surprised since this normally wasn’t like you, and yet he was excited too that you actually went out of your way to buy him something as he started to smile wide.

“Y-Yeah… the minute I saw it… I just immediately thought of you and I thought… maybe you would like it…” In a gentle voice you managed to confess that, and Kirishima’s cheeks further reddened, like he couldn’t believe that you had actually gotten him such a nice-looking little present.

“Lucky!” Kaminari crossed his arms, almost pouting a bit since he could clearly tell that this was like a love confession of sorts. “Heh… I knew it…” Sero muttered discreetly with a smile. He always knew you had a thing for Kirishima, even if you did tease him from time to time.

However, Bakugou just scoffed and scowled in disgust, obviously not touched by the mushy-gushiness between you and the person he could call his closest friend. He wasn’t really fond of you, and you returned the feelings, even if Bakugou was really fun to tease too.

“Wow… thanks! Thanks so much (Y/N)!! Man you’re awesome! I’m gonna SO return the favor I promise!” Kirishima cheerfully thanked you, politely and gladly accepting the little gift you had brought just for him. He knew you had a soft heart despite the front you liked putting up. And although he knew he probably should have waited, he couldn’t help himself, he quickly opened it up with a big, anticipating grin as soon as the top came off. 

But then his eyes widened yet again as soon as his gaze fixed on what was in the box. The longer he stared, the quicker his smile fell as his entire face started to flush several shades of red that were darker than his hair…  

A red jockstrap. 

And with his name ‘Eijirou’ written on the very front…

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! April Fools you IDIOT!” You burst into raucous laughter and pointed at his flustered reaction, and even Kaminari and Sero began laughing their asses off as soon as they saw the provocative garment.

“AHAHAHAHA! S-She knows your favorite color at least!” Kaminari had tears in his eyes as you leaned against him and the two of you shared a high-five.

“And got it personalized!” Sero didn’t mean to laugh so hard, but he had to make some playful fun with his friend.

Although he hid it well, Bakugou was partially amused as he suppressed a snicker. He ALMOST felt bad for Kirishima when he saw how flushed the guy was. He knew if someone got him a gift like THAT, he without a doubt would have blown their ass into the next millennium.  

“Tch. You call THAT an April Fool’s prank? Moron...’” Despite that, Bakugou of course had to chide you on your childish pranks. April Fool’s or not.  Or at the very least, he was chiding you because he assumed you, the class trouble-maker, would do a better prank than that.

Kirishima eventually spoke, or rather stuttered, until he saw you pointing and laughing at him with tears in your eyes. His hot face burned even more as he tried to save his dignity by trying to laugh a little bit despite his embarrassment.

“Haha… that’s very funny (Y/N)…” He hid his disappointment. Kirishima’s always been kind of keen on you, but you were a trouble-maker and a joker at heart as you often relentlessly teased him and could even be a little mean to him sometimes. He never held it against you though, because he’s also seen your softer side. Of course, it didn’t mean that sometimes you didn’t hurt his feelings.

But you knew when you took it too far, so once again, you showed off your softer side and patted him on the shoulder, “Hee-hee~ I’m sorry bro I just couldn’t resist… I wasn’t lying though, I saw this at the store and thought of you.” You weren’t pretending to sound shy anymore as you told him the truth. But you wouldn’t tell him the truth about your feelings for him. You had a serious crush on this boy, and he had no idea, and golly it irritated you because how could he not see the way you loved him by the way you teased him?

Although you supposed that was okay because it gave you more chances to try and show him how much you loved him, and you had a ton of fun doing it because he was so fun to tease. Especially when he would blush so brightly like that, or whenever he smiled at you. God he was so cute it should have been illegal to be as cute as him, he’s the reason why you got so soft like this…

Kirishima couldn’t help but smile though when you softened up. There’s the softie he knew. 

“Really?” He sounded pleasantly surprised, “Heh, well ya know what? The jokes on you! A jockstrap is a just another symbol of manliness! So thank you!” Despite his earlier embarrassment, he found a brighter side to this, and he didn’t want to give you too much satisfaction of your little trick. There was some truth to his claim though. A jockstrap was a pretty manly piece of attire.

“Oh? Well you’re welcome…” Now that really surprised you, but you wouldn’t let him get off so easily, “Glad you like my gift, you need something to protect your manhood… what little you have at least.” Smirking, you crossed your arms and snickered when Kirishima flinched and gasped a little bit.

“H-Hey!” He blushed quite madly, if there’s one thing he didn’t care for it was those kinds of jokes but especially when it came from you. It was embarrassing, and it made him feel like you thought he was some kind of loser, and not to mention those were extremely unmanly jokes since they kind of emasculated him a little bit. He knew you didn’t mean it, but it stung whenever they came from you.

And once again, you giggled and then patted him on the head, kind of ruffling that spiky, yet strangely soft beautiful hair that you loved. “I’m just playing Kiri… I brought you this because I know you’ve got manhood, and a good pair of balls given that you’re brave enough to befriend this asshole.” You gestured to Bakugou as you reassured the redhead, and you nearly broke out into giggles when Kaminari and Sero had to hold back the screaming explosion boy.

Kirishima felt oddly flattered though, although he was still blushing he smiled at you. He knew you were a softie! “Ahhh he’s not that bad… but thanks!” He might have been oblivious to your deeper feelings for him, but he knew you could be nice to him when you wanted to.

“You’re welcome…” You almost sighed as you looked at him warmly, wanting to just touch that sweet face of his and give him a bunch of kisses. But you snapped out of those thoughts and blushed as soon as you realized that Kirishima was looking at you in confusion. “Whoa are you okay? Are you blushing…?”

“N-No doofus! Why would I be blushing? I’ve got no reason to, it’s just hot! It’s humid out cuz of Springtime, duh!” You kind of snapped and startled the poor redhead, but he just nervously smiled and tried to calm you down. “O-Oh okay sorry, sorry no need to get all mad...”

You weren’t mad though. Well, you WERE mad for him. But he couldn’t know that just yet, so you just resorted to teasing him again as you made yourself smirk. “You should try that on sometime actually… I think that’s something worth seeing.” You started to blush again though as soon as your more perverted thoughts took over and you imagined Kirishima wearing that semi-risque jockstrap that you had brought for him initially as just a joke. But since he wanted to keep it… that just gave you a sexy picture to think about. You’ve seen him in gym and during hero training, he had one nice ass…

“(Y-Y/N)! That’s pervy!” Kirishima actually laughed that off, kind of flattered yet also embarrassed at the thought of you seeing him in such a little thing. And you laughed along with him, patting him on the shoulder as he put the top back over the gift box so nobody else saw what you had gotten for him…

4 HOURS LATER Brought to you by ‘Bringin’ Sexy back~’

Kirishima stood alone in his room, his door closed as he had taken off his shirt and removed his pants, and his underwear as he stood naked in front of a mirror that he had gotten for himself last week. He held the red jockstrap that you had given him, blushing a little bit as he stared at his name that was on the tag. Pouting a little bit because of how that seemed to serve to toy with him a little bit.

That was just you though. You always teased him and poked at him just to get a rise out of him, but he didn’t hate you for that. He actually liked your energy and the fact that you liked to play with him more than the others did. He knew that had to have meant that you must have enjoyed him.

The thought of you laughing made him snicker and grin, thinking that there was something actually really cute about you despite all the razzing and jokes. So, he took the jockstrap and carefully put it on himself, just like he would put on any pair of underwear.

The pouch was surprisingly comfortable, and he was amazed how the straps fit his waist. This wasn’t his first time wearing a jockstrap, but this one was definitely the nicest and the softest one he’s worn so far. It was comfortable on his body, and he couldn’t deny that it was his favorite color. He looked himself in the mirror and how he looked with the jockstrap on, blushing a little bit at how he was pretty much half-naked if not for the jock. His ass was on full display too since jockstraps did nothing to cover up the rear.

Curiously, he looked back to observe his bare posterior, almost relieved to see that he hadn’t gotten fatter in the gluteal area. He grinned just a little bit proudly, rather liking how toned and firm his butt was. Kirishima wasn’t cocky (no pun intended) about his appearance, but at that moment he almost admired himself for a little bit.

Until...

“Hey Kiri, we’re gonna go out for ice-“ 

You casually opened your crush’s door, not at all expecting to see what was going on behind his door. As soon as you opened the door your eyes widened, your jaw dropped and your cheeks flushed as soon as you saw Kirishima standing in front of his mirror, wearing that jockstrap you brought him, and his perfectly toned ass…

It was only supposed to be a prank, and yet he looked SO sexy in it, and you realized that you were more or less staring at Kirishima’s legs and ass. As well as the rest of what the jockstrap was holding up, and like the pervert you were you couldn’t help but admire how physically fit he was at least til your wide (E/C) eyes met his horrified red ones and you both screamed in shock.

“(Y/N)!!” Kirishima shrieked very femininely, his face flushed a beetroot shade of red as he quickly threw his hands down to cover himself and turned away so you couldn’t see just how naked he mostly was. A weight of extreme mortification beginning to tighten his chest as he shook a little bit.

“I’m sorry!!” You instantly apologized, your face having heated up as red as his and you averted your eyes because you were feeling bad now for staring like a pervert.

“Why wouldn’t you knock?!” He shouted at you, but purely out of embarrassment and not anger. “W-Well why wouldn’t you lock the door?!” Despite that, you made a point that Kirishima hated to admit was true, but he was so embarrassed that he didn’t really care.

“G-Get out! Don’t look!” He exclaimed, his voice involuntarily going an octave higher as you hurriedly shut the door. Your eyes still wide as you panted a bit, trying to fan yourself from how hot you felt now. And it wasn’t humidity making you hot..

Now you were the one at a loss for words, trying to speak but it only came out as shaking stutters, “I-I’m so sorry Kiri… I-I had no idea you were… changing... but hey I-I didn’t see too much! Don't worry!” You tried to make him feel better, but it wasn’t really working.

“Yeah you did...” The poor thing sounded so defeated and humiliated that you instantly felt horrible. 

‘Oh Kirishima… there’s no need to feel so embarrassed... you’re the most beautiful boy I’ve ever met! There’s no other manly man that can make me as soft as you can and I just simply adore you for that!’

Was what you wanted to say but you felt way too embarrassed to even try to say that. Didn’t mean you wouldn’t try to help him though. “Okay I did… but it was just me bro! And… hey wow... if it uh means anything... you actually look REALLY good in that thing… Like... really good...” You chuckled rather shyly, scratching the back of your head even if he couldn’t see it.

You perked up however when his door opened, his cheeks still cherry red but he had his shirt and pants on now. “You... you think so?” Kirishima bashfully asked you, and you actually smiled at him despite your own red cheeks. “I legitimately mean that. This is no April Fool’s joke. You’re like... crazy attractive... and you do look good... really good...” You giggled and actually got shy as you looked away, blushing even darker.

But you actually boosted his confidence, and his ego a little bit as Kirishima cheerfully stepped out of his room, putting his arm around you in an affectionate manner, and you tried your best to not just melt right on the spot as you grinned widely.

“Thank you! I uh... I thought so too not to brag...” He kind of humble-bragged, scratching under his chin just a little bit, which made you snicker.

“Take it easy doofus, don’t want your head to get as big as your hair there... now... I was going to say, the rest of the squad... we’re gonna go out for ice-cream, and you should come. It’s no squad without you.” You smiled, and it grew when you saw that grin on Kirishima. The one you adored...

“Oh hell yeah! Yeah I’m coming! Let’s go!” He said cheerfully, already ready to go as the two of you walked together to go downstairs to find the rest of the Baku-squad.

But as you walked, you suddenly remembered something...

“Wait... are you still wearing that thing?” As you recalled, Kirishima had all his clothes on once he got out of his room....

And the blush beginning to redden over his face gave you away. “I-It’s comfortable! You... picked out a good one...” He somewhat nervously laughed, and that just made you smirk.

“Hee~... well you know how good I am when it comes to clothes... and by the way... nice ass.” You blatantly flirted, loving just how red Kirishima’s face turned; even redder than his hair.

“(Y/N)!” 

But you just laughed happily as you put your arm around him even as he pouted. He didn’t know it yet, but he was tangled up in you and you were tangled up in him.

[a-splash-of-stucky]

Priorities | Two

Pairings: Bucky x Reader

Summary: Bucky breaks his promise. 

Warnings: Implied smut, nudity, language. Angst. The ‘baby talk’

Word Count: 3.2k

Notes: Written for @buckyofthemyscira‘s 5k Disney Writing Challenge.

I said the angst would get worse and it does! Brace yourselves :D

Series Masterlist | My Masterlist | Tags are open, add yourself here

“Let’s have a baby,” says Bucky.

You’re about five minutes post-orgasm, still trying to catch your breath and calm your galloping heart, so it takes a few seconds for your brain to actually register and process what he’s just said. You lift your head from where it’s pillowed on his chest and look at him through narrowed eyes.

“You wanna what-now?”

“A baby,” he repeats, as he rolls onto his side, forcing you to scoot back and give him some space.  Bucky slings an arm over your waist loosely, fingers idly tracing the bare skin at the small of your back. You prop your head up one elbow so that you can look at him properly.

“Why?” you ask.

Bucky shrugs. “Maybe ‘cause we’ve been married for almost two years? I dunno, I just feel like...we’re in a good position financially, Tony’s all but guaranteed me a promotion, your business is thriving — maybe it’s time, y’know?”

You bite your lip as you mull over his words, not yet convinced. “I dunno,” you mumble, “Having a kid is a pretty big commitment.”

“I know, but—we’re in a good place, aren’t we?” he asks, shifting forward to press his forehead to yours.

“I guess so,” you reply hesitantly. “I just...I need some time to think about this, okay? I want that with you, don’t get me wrong but...I’m not sure if I’m ready, yet.”

Bucky smiles at you, soft and tender. For a moment, he looks exactly like the boy you fell in love with, all those years ago. “Of course, honey,” he murmurs, bending to press a gentle kiss to your lips. “I’m not saying we gotta do it now — whenever you’re ready, doll. It’s no rush.”

You flash him a smile in return, and pray that he won’t see past the mask that you’ve painted on your face.

Sensing that the conversation is over, you slump into the pillows, groaning in relief as you stretch out your pleasantly-exhausted muscles. Bucky rumbles low in his chest as he slides his hands down your naked back, stopping to cup the swell of your ass.

“Maybe...maybe we could start practicing, though?” he asks hopefully.

You bark out a laugh as you turn to glare at him playfully. “You’re insatiable, Mr Barnes,” you tease.

“Can’t help it, when I’ve got such a pretty wife,” he replies, moving to cage you in with his forearms, forcing you to roll onto your back. You hum as you loop your hands over his neck and tangle your fingers through his hair, bringing him in for a filthy kiss.

“Perhaps you should try your best to convince me — I might make up my mind, sooner,” you say huskily, as you nose along his stubbled jaw.

Bucky pulls back, eyes dark with lust and gleaming with promise. “Challenge accepted, sweetheart.”

—

a-sprinkle-of-sunshine posted at 2.36PM: Kids??

I know I don’t usually make posts on a Sunday, but something’s just happened and I’d really like some advice.

In my last post, I talked about the current status of my marriage (btw, many thanks to everyone who left a supportive comment/piece of advice!). Today, I’d like to share with you a further development.

This morning, my husband brought up the subject of children. Specifically, he brought up the subject of us having children. Basically, hubby said that he wanted to have them. I should also say that he wasn’t in any way pressuring me to have them soon, which I appreciate.

Why am I telling you this?

Well, you all know that I’d like to have some children of my own, one day. I want to raise kids with him, but I do have some reservations.

A friend of mine sent me an interesting article a couple of weeks ago (link), which it got me thinking. From observing my friends and acquaintances, I think that this is an issue that applies to many of us in long-term heterosexual relationships.

So many women are basically “married single mothers”. They’re single mothers, despite having a husband or male s/o at home.

Let’s assume that mom and dad are both working (as is the case for hubby and I). In most families, when dad comes home, he puts his feet up on the table and chills out by playing on his Xbox or phone or whatever. He doesn’t offer to help with the dishes, he’s not cooking dinner, he’s literally just sitting there. Sometimes, dad doesn’t even come home until it’s almost midnight.  

Meanwhile, mom’s there trying to make sure that dinner’s on the table, that the kids have done their homework, that they’re doing okay in school, that they’ve packed their bags for the next day — looking after the kids, basically. My point is, in most heterosexual families as I’ve described, there’s a clear gender split in terms of child-raising responsibilities.

I don’t want that. Yes, even though I work from home and could devote a lot of time to child-upbringing, that’s not what I want. I want my husband and I to raise a child together, to have equal responsibility, to share the burdens and joys. I don’t want my children to see my husband as a stranger, y’know?

But, with the way that hubby is getting busier and busier by the day, well — I think it’s quite likely that, if we have kids, I’m gonna end up as a married single mom. In my heart of hearts, I believe that our marriage will suffer if we have a baby now. I’m scared that my husband won’t be there to watch them grow up

I know, I know — I NEED TO TALK THIS OUT WITH HIM, and I will, I promise. I’m just...I don’t know what I’m gonna say. I need to think about it, for a bit.

Anyway. Any and all advice on this matter would be much appreciated, especially if you’ve been through a similar situation.

—

Sundays are for chilling out, but apparently, Bucky didn’t get that memo.

You’ve been trying to get him out of the house all day, to no avail. The two of you had rolled out of bed at around lunchtime and, after sharing a long shower, had wandered to the kitchen to cook up some pasta. In the middle of your meal, Bucky had gotten a call from Tony, which was filled with clipped sentences and terse voices. Since then, he’s stationed himself at the kitchen island, laptop open and papers spread out in front of him, frantically making last-minute changes to his designs.

“I’m sorry, honey — maybe later?” he’d said, when you’d suggested going out for a walk.

“Sweetie, I’m busy right now, I’m sorry,” he’d said an hour later, when you’d asked him if he wanted to watch a movie with you.

“Sorry, doll, this code’s got a major bug in it, I gotta try and sort it out, I can’t go right now,” he’d said, when you’d asked if he wanted to go somewhere for dinner.

You want to scream at him in frustration.

You know that you need to confront this issue sooner rather than later, but you don’t have the strength to deal with it right now. After ordering dinner from a nearby Chinese takeout place, you curl up in front of the TV for — yet another — quiet night in, alone. The fact that you’re having dinner by yourself is kind of ridiculous, given that your husband is literally sat twenty feet away from you.

Since you’re not getting much company from Bucky tonight, you decide to head to bed early.

You sigh as you curl up on your side of the king-sized mattress, frustrated by the fact that your husband just — doesn’t seem to have time for you, anymore. A part of you feels guilty for being angry at Bucky, given that he’s only working so hard so that he can save up more money and give you a good life. Nonetheless, you can’t help thinking that there must be a limit to how much he should be working.

It takes two to have a marriage, after all.

You lie in bed, dozing in and out of dreams whilst you wait for your husband to call it a night. Sometime after eleven, you’re awoken from your light slumber by the feeling of the bed dipping with Bucky’s weight as he climbs in. He presses a kiss to your temple as he slides under the covers and curls himself around your back, slipping an arm around your waist to pull you closer. You reach back to give his hip an affectionate squeeze.

“Hey, doll, sorry — didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers.

“S’okay,” you mumble sleepily. “You got your work done?”

“Yeah,” he replies, burying his face against the back of your neck. “Sorry our Sunday got ruined, though. Tell you what — my schedule’s free on Tuesday evening, why don’t I make a reservation at Giovanni’s and take you out for dinner, huh?”

You hum in agreement, lacing your fingers with Bucky’s where they lie over your stomach. “M’kay,” you murmur, “G’night, Buck.”

“Sweet dreams, doll.”

—

When Tuesday evening rolls around, you find yourself sitting at your dressing table, putting the finishing touches to your eye makeup.

You’re in a good mood, today — you had a productive meeting with Peter earlier this afternoon, and he’d gone away promising to look into some of the problems that you’ve been having with your website. Your supplier has gotten back to you with a reasonable price quote for the limited edition notebooks that you’re selling for autumn/winter, and you’ve scheduled the blog post that’s supposed to go up tomorrow.

All in all, a fulfilling day.

Despite being buoyed by your high spirits, there’s a lingering seed of worry in your gut. Your reservation for Giovanni’s is at seven, and Bucky still hasn’t texted you to say that he’s left work, even though it’s already half-past six.

You’ve dressed up nicely for the occasion, putting on a blue dress that compliments your skin tone and fits your body perfectly. You’ve paired the dress with some strappy heels, and have put a little extra effort into your hair and makeup too.

Your phone rings just as you’re swiping on your lipstick.

“Hello?”

“Hey, sweetheart,” Bucky says breathlessly. “I just checked the time.”

“Are you on the way?”

“Uh...no,” he says slowly, “I’m still tied up at work.”

You set your tube of lipstick down on your vanity, his sentence settling in like a boulder at the bottom of your stomach.

Of course he’d say that. Of course he’d have to go and ruin what was otherwise a good day.

“You’re coming home late?” you ask, voice a little shaky.

Bucky sighs. “Yeah, honey. I really can’t wriggle my way out of this one.”

You purse your lips. “Okay. I understand.”

“You do?” Bucky asks, sounding relieved.

“Yeah, of course. Your work’s more important than your wife, I see that,” you say sharply. It’s a low blow, but you’re pissed off, and you want your words to wound him deeply, just as he has hurt you.

His sharp inhale on the other end of the line tells you that you’ve achieved your goal.

“No, sweetie, c’mon, just try to understand what I’m—”

“No, you try and understand how I’m feeling, James,” you hiss, fighting to hold back the hot tears of anger brimming in the corners of your eyes. “Am I not — important to you?”

“No,” he says fiercely, “Sweetheart, don’t think like that, I’m just making sure that when we have kids—”

“Oh, when?” you say angrily, “It’s a ‘when’, now? We’re having kids, that’s confirmed, is it? Are you even gonna be there to watch them grow up?”

Bucky exhales harshly. “Honey, we’re not having this conversation on the phone—”

“No? Then when the fuck are we gonna have it, James Buchanan? Hmm? Because you’re hardly ever home, and even when you are, you’re too busy thinking about work to listen to me, anyway.”

“Doll—”

“No, don’t fucking ‘doll’ me. I just—just whatever,” you sigh tiredly, as you scrub your hand over your face, the fight suddenly bleeding out of your system. You’re tired of this. You don’t want to deal with this shit anymore.

“Our reservation’s at seven,” you say, “I gotta go, or I’ll be late. Bye.”

You hang up before he gets a chance to reply.  

You want to hurl your phone against the wall. You want to scream and shout and tear your hair out. You want to rip this fucking dress to shreds, all because of Bucky. He’s just so — ugh.

With an exasperated harumph, you turn back to the mirror and fish a tissue out of your makeup bag, using it to dab at your eyes. You won’t cry, right now; Bucky’s not worth your tears. You finish putting on your lipstick, spritz on a little more hairspray, then pick up your purse and flick off the bedroom lights.

Bucky might not be coming on this date night, but you might as well treat yourself. God knows you deserve it.

On impulse, you pull out your phone and speed dial Wanda. Natasha’s on a business trip to Milan this week, so she won’t be able to join you, but you haven’t caught up with Wanda for a while — this might be a good way to salvage a bad situation. You’ve known Wanda since high-school, and you consider her to be one of your closest friends.

“Hello?” she answers, after a few rings.

“Hey, it’s me,” you say, “Listen, I know this is kinda random, but are you busy tonight?”

“Uh...like now? No, why?”

“You wanna go out for dinner with me?”

“Uh...Wait, like now now? Where? Why?”

“Giovanni’s, and I’ll tell you why when we get there.”

Wanda pauses as she thinks over your offer. “Yeah, why not, they’ve got good wine — lemme just text Vis and I’ll be right over, ‘kay?”

“Cool. Reservation’s for seven, under the name ‘Barnes’.”

“Okay. See you in a bit.”

—

“So, you gonna tell me what this is about?” Wanda asks, as the server clears your menus and re-fills your wine glasses. “You’re all dressed up, but I have a feeling that that’s not for me.”

“Bucky was supposed to take me out on a date,” you reply, as you take a sip of your wine.

“And? What happened?”

You shrug your shoulders indifferently. “He got caught up at work.”

Wanda leans back, folding her arms across her chest as she looks at you critically. She’s wearing a black shift dress, and has piled her long brown hair into a loose bun on top of her head. In addition to her favourite lace choker, she’s also wearing her signature dark lip and smoky eye-liner.

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ in there somewhere. You’re not telling me something,” she says, after a long pause.

You chew on your lip hesitantly as you fiddle with the edge of your napkin. “It’s nothing, just—we kinda had a fight over the phone.”

Wanda clicks her tongue sympathetically as she leans forward to rest her elbows on the table. “What was it about?”

You shake your head, unwilling to talk about the fight when it’s still so fresh in your mind. “It’s nothing, forget about it.”

Wanda arches an eyebrow, clearly displeased by the fact that you’re bottling up your emotions. “I mean...if it was actually nothing, I wouldn’t be here right now, would I? Something’s clearly up. C’mon. Spill.”

You sigh, internally admitting defeat. “Well...okay. He’s been working on this big project, and — uh...actually, it’s not just that.”

She waits patiently as you try to find the right words.

“He’s busier lately...like, a lot busier. It’s been getting worse the last few months, but it all started about a year ago, I’d say. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for him, and I know that he’s doing this for both of us, but—I feel like I’m not the most important thing in his life anymore.”

You huff dryly. “That seems ridiculous to say, ‘cause if you think about it, he’s working so hard because he wants to give us a good life, but...I feel like he went and did this without me, y’know? Without talking to me, I mean. Like, I don’t need a fancy house with a backyard and a garden and whatever — I just want my husband, at home, with me.”

Wanda nods sagely. “He’s doing what he thinks is best, which — fair enough, that’s great, but that’s not necessarily what you want or need from him.”

“Exactly.”

Wanda hums thoughtfully as she takes a sip of her wine. “Sounds like you guys need to have a heart-to-heart.”

“I know, but he’s never home!” you whine, “How am I supposed to talk to him if he isn’t there for me to talk to?”

Wanda sighs as she shakes her head. “I dunno, babe, I can’t help you there.”

“I know you can’t,” you sigh, “It’s okay, we just need to work things out between us.”

She nods in agreement. “So was this date night supposed to be his way of making things up to you?” she asks.

“No. Well — kinda. He was busy doing work on Sunday, and he said he’d take me out tonight, but, well. I guess that didn’t happen, huh?”

“So that’s why you had a fight?”

“Basically,” you reply. Just then, the server comes over with your food. You get one whiff of the fragrant, delicious smell and already, your stomach rumbles in anticipation.

“Well, babe,” Wanda says, as she digs into her pasta, “If you ever need a place to stay — like, if you need to be away from him for a while or whatever, you’re always welcome to use our spare room.”

You smile at her gratefully. “Thanks, Wan. I hope I won’t need to, but thank you for the offer.”

“No probs. Are we getting dessert after?”

“Sure, why not. I’m paying for this using his card anyway, let’s cash out.”

She cackles gleefully.

—

Bucky doesn’t get home until it’s half past midnight.

He’s exhausted from a day dealing with catastrophe after catastrophe, but more than that, he feels like shit for not taking you out like he’d promised. You’d sounded really upset on the phone earlier, when he told you that he couldn’t make it. Bucky’s tried calling you about half a dozen times since then, and left you several texts, but you haven’t responded to anything.

He’s not sure what kind of mood you’ll be in.

When he shoulders open the door to the apartment, Bucky is greeted by pure darkness. With a weary sigh, he toes off his shoes and turns on the lights.

His eyes are immediately drawn to the blanket and pillows piled up at the end of the sofa, clearly meant for him. You’ve been kind enough to leave him a pair of sweats and a t-shirt to change into, but there’s no note or anything else with the items.

He knows that if he were to try the door to your shared bedroom, he’d find it to be locked.

Well then. A night on the couch it is.