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artficlly · 17 days ago

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lessons in lovemaking [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, dry humping, grinding, soft dom vibes reader, soft sub vibes bucky, bucky is touch starved, premature ejaculation, reader has dubious methods of emotional control, vague mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, mentions of red room, very consensual, safe words, kissing, panic attacks, bucky barnes needs a hug, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, mentions of past violence, death and war, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8.4k

A/N: hey guys, i'm a woman possessed. i've had so much motivation to write recently, so here is a quick one-shot. i'm sure this concept has been done before but i just couldn't stop thinking about touch starved bucky :( ! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

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You never would’ve agreed to this mission had you known Barnes was going to be this squeamish. You’d seen the man slit throats without a sound, drop bodies with cold efficiency, and unload an entire chamber of bullets without so much as flinching. He hadn’t even blinked when aliens from outer-fucking-space rained hell upon Earth. But holding your hand? Letting his fingers brush your waist? Anything a devoted ‘husband’ ought to do? The super soldier looked like he’d rather swallow glass. He couldn’t even meet your gaze, for god’s sake.

What the hell had Fury been thinking?

You had to yank him away before anyone noticed the strained—Help me, I’m being held hostage by this incredibly attractive, incredibly capable woman who, might I add, is supposedly my wife—look on his face.

This gala, a weeklong jerkfest for the wealthy and villainous, was meant to be a stroll in the park. Your bread and butter, even if the Red Room had been... regrettable and against your consent, it had taught you an array of useful skills. Yet Barnes was ruining it, turning what should have been a simple infiltration into a goddamn babysitting job. The plan was airtight: pose as a glamorous Russian couple, collect incriminating evidence, and dip at the end of the week. Except Barnes wasn’t holding up his end of the deal. Instead of charming your way through the crowd, you were covering for his stiff, awkward pauses and the fact that he looked less like a besotted husband and more like a man being forced at gunpoint to stand beside you.

By some miracle, you managed to drag him away to one of the empty floors, a tucked-away space littered with stacks of unused tables and chairs. He was wound tight—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, eyes flicking across the dimly lit room like he was expecting death itself to emerge from the shadows. You didn’t bother with subtlety. Tearing the small recording device from between your tits, you fumbled with the button until the tiny red light blinked off. Whoever ended up reviewing the footage later wouldn’t need to hear the verbal onslaught you were about to unleash.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you hissed, keeping your voice low, though the sheer force of your frustration was enough to strip paint off the walls.

Barnes clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring as he refused to meet your eye. It reminded you of a scolded dog, all pouty and pathetic. You might’ve found it cute under different circumstances. “You’re making this incredibly fucking difficult.”

“I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal—”

“Because it’s our cover, Barnes.” you snapped, incredulous. “We’re supposed to be married, not some fucking timid virgin couple. PDA makes people uncomfortable; they look away, and we have less eye on us to, I don’t know—do our fucking job?”

Barnes looked down at his clenched fists, swallowing hard. You rolled your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief. The dangling diamond earrings you had hanging from each lobe tinkled slightly, and you ran a hand through your perfectly styled hair, resisting the urge to throttle him.

“You’re unbelievable. Fury should’ve just sent me alone—” you muttered, but the words barely left your lips before your eyes caught movement.

A group. Heading straight for you. Purposeful.

“Fuck.”

With haste, you tucked the small recording device back into your cleavage. Barnes noticed immediately, clocking your distress. His brows knit together, hand twitched toward the hidden knife tucked into his suit jacket.

“No.” You scolded. Catching his wrist, you guided it elsewhere—your hips. He stiffened instantly, making a noise of protest, but you kept him locked in place, pressing in until your chests brushed. Too close. Not close enough.

“Play along,” you murmured. “Kiss me. Now.”

“Wha—” His breath hitched, barely enough time to form a response before you rose onto your toes and sealed your mouth over his.

Barnes froze. Stiff beneath your touch, lips rigid like you’d just planted one on a slab of granite. He still tasted like toothpaste—spearmint—and the faint trace of his aftershave clung to his skin. If you’d been trying to salvage some believability, some small thread of natural chemistry, it was impossible now. It was like kissing a statue.

An aftershave-scented stone statue.

The passing group chuckled, one of them murmuring, amused, “Ah, young love.”

Maybe it was the murmured chuckles of the passing guests, or maybe Barnes had finally remembered how to act, because his grip on your hips suddenly tightened, fingers digging into the fabric of your dress with unexpected force. The silk pulled taut against your skin, trapping heat between you, and then—

A sound.

Low. Strangled. A rasping, utterly pathetic groan against your lips.

You barely had time to register it before something else stole your attention. In the tight press of your bodies, you felt it—hard, insistent, pressing against your pelvis.

Oh.

The realisation sent a flicker of shock through you, but you schooled your expression, keeping your face composed as you lingered just a second longer—just enough to ensure your audience was convinced. Then, finally, you pulled back.

Barnes didn’t move.

For a moment, he just stared, pupils wide and unfocused, a blissed-out haze dulling the sharp blue of his eyes. But then, like a lightning strike, awareness snapped back into him. Horror overtook his dazed expression, his breath hitching as he seemed to realise—

Did he just—?

You both looked down at the same time.

And there it was.

The medium grey of his suit pants betrayed him entirely, darkening at the crotch with an unmistakable wet patch.

You gaped, lips parting in stunned silence. No fucking way.

Barnes didn’t wait for a reaction. With the sheer force of a man fleeing for his life, he ripped himself from your grasp and marched away, stiff-backed and utterly silent, leaving you standing there, speechless.

—

It had been twenty minutes, and Barnes still hadn’t left the goddamn bathroom.

It had taken you all of thirty seconds to track him down, but the moment you found the door, it was locked. Of course it was. You twisted the handle, rattling it in frustration, then resorted to pounding your fist against the heavy wood—subtly, of course, but with enough force that he knew you weren’t going anywhere.

“Barnes.” You hissed his name through gritted teeth, pressing closer to the door. Nothing. Not a shuffle. Not a breath. Absolute fucking silence.

You exhaled sharply, trying to keep your expression neutral as a pair of guests passed by, casting you a curious glance. Yeah, you knew exactly how this looked—lipstick smudged, breath uneven, standing outside a locked men’s bathroom like a woman scorned. You must’ve looked thoroughly debauched.

Your pulse hammered in your throat. This was insane. A simple, fake kiss had made him short-circuit so hard that he fucking came in his pants? Twenty minutes ago, he looked repulsed by the mere idea of touching you, and now he was hiding away like some panicked virgin?

You let out a long, slow groan, dropping your forehead against the door.

“Barnes,” you muttered, knocking again—your patience wearing thinner by the second. “Open the damn door.”

Silence.

You straightened, glaring at the wood as if you could will it into splintering apart.

“Barnes, I have been patient.” You gritted your teeth, knocking harder. “If you don’t open this door in the next five seconds, I will break in.”

Silence.

Motherfucker.

"Alright, I’m coming in," you announced, your voice low but firm.

You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, ensuring no one was watching, before slipping a bobby pin from your hair. Years of practice made the process effortless; your fingers worked quickly, blindly, jamming the pin into the lock and feeling for the mechanism. A few precise twists, a satisfying click, and—

"Make sure you're decent, Barnes—"

The words were halfway out of your mouth when you pushed the door open, but whatever half-hearted joke you'd meant to make withered before it even reached your tongue.

Barnes was not decent.

Not in the way you’d expected.

He sat hunched on the closed toilet lid, head in his hands, his entire body drawn in tight like he was trying to fold in on himself. His knee bounced erratically, the rapid motion almost violent in its rhythm. He had ripped off his suit pants, leaving himself in nothing but his boxers, his bare thighs tense, twitching. His fingers dug into his hair, gripping at the strands like he wanted to rip them out, and when his bloodshot eyes flicked up to you—

You felt your stomach drop.

Panic. Raw, unfiltered, choking panic.

Tears welled along his lash line, his chest rising and falling in uneven, barely contained pants. He looked like a man caught in a cage, seconds from tearing himself apart just to escape it.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry, and stepped in, shutting the door softly behind you before flipping the lock.

"Hey, Barnes…” Your voice was hesitant, softer than before.

He shook his head, eyes fixed firmly on the floor, his hands trembling as he dragged them down his face.

“I don’t—” His voice cracked, breaking on the words. "I don’t want you in—"

You moved before he could finish, lowering yourself to the cool bathroom tiles in front of him, as if making yourself smaller would make you any less intimidating.

"Hey," you murmured, tone careful but steady. "Look at me."

“No.” It came out sharp, like a whip, a defence mechanism honed over decades. His entire body went rigid, his breathing ragged.

“Barnes, you need to breathe.”

Your voice was steady, firm without being harsh, each syllable carefully measured as you crept forward on the cold tile floor. The dress, the dirt—none of it mattered. It wasn’t your dress, anyway. Tony Stark could foot the bill for a replacement if this one got ruined, all this fancy wear was on his dime.

“In through the nose,” you instructed, voice softer now. “Out through the mouth.”

By some miracle, Barnes listened.

He sucked in a ragged breath, chest expanding beneath his half-unbuttoned dress shirt, and then exhaled through parted lips. It was shaky, uneven, but it was something. You watched in silence, waiting. His limbs still trembled, his fingers clenching and unclenching against his thighs, but the worst of the violent, full-body tremors had eased.

“There you go,” you murmured, voice barely above a breath. “Keep breathing, just like that. You’re doing so well.”

Slowly, you inched forward, shifting across the tiles until you sat in front of his knees. His skin was warm, radiating heat even through the thin fabric of his boxers.

“Barnes,” you hesitated, watching his face carefully. “Can I touch you?”

His whole body tensed.

“What?” His eyes darted up, sharp and startled, as if the very question had knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Is it okay,” you rephrased, slower this time, gentler, “if I touch you?”

Barnes hesitated. His gaze flickered away, jaw clenching like he was at war with himself. But then, after a long, tense beat, he gave a small, stiff nod.

You inhaled, steadying yourself. Then, with slow, deliberate care, you reached out and cradled his face between your hands.

The moment your fingers touched his skin, he flinched.

Not violently. Not like he was afraid of you. But enough that you felt it—felt the way his muscles coiled beneath your fingertips, the way his throat bobbed in a hard swallow. The cool metal of your fake wedding ring grazed his cheek, and his breath hitched, like he had just been burned.

“Keep breathing,” you reminded him, voice low and steady. “Nice and slow.”

Barnes obeyed, dragging in another breath, and you felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. The hard lines of his face softened just slightly as he leaned into your touch, nuzzling—actually nuzzling—against your palms.

“There you go,” you murmured, your thumb stroking in slow circles over his cheek. “Look at me.”

His eyelids flickered, resisting for a moment, but then those storm-blue eyes finally met yours. He looked exhausted. Frayed at the edges. But grounded, at least. Present.

“Tell me one thing you can smell right now.”

Barnes blinked. A hint of confusion crossed his face. “Smell?”

“Yes, smell.” You nodded, keeping your voice soft, coaxing. “Just one thing. Keep breathing and tell me.”

He hesitated but then took a deliberate inhale through his nose, his bouncing knee slowing. “I guess… whatever shitty fucking chemicals they use to clean this place.”

A quiet laugh left you, your thumb tracing a swirling pattern along his cheekbone. “Good. You’re doing good, Barnes. Now, tell me two things you can feel.”

His breathing had steadied, his inhales and exhales falling into rhythm with yours. For the first time since you’d walked in, he wasn’t shaking as badly.

“This suit jacket,” he muttered after a pause. His metal fingers twitched against the fabric at his arm. “It’s too fuckin’ tight. They always are with my arm—”

His breath stuttered, his body tensing again. Immediately, you leaned in, close enough for him to feel your warmth. “Just breathe, remember? You’re doing so well. One more thing you can feel.”

Barnes swallowed thickly. His gaze flickered down, just briefly, before settling back on your face.

“You,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “I can feel you. Touching my face.”

“Good.” You nodded, thumb gliding over his cheek again. “Are you okay with that?”

“Yes.” He exhaled, and for the first time, it wasn’t shaky. “It feels… it feels nice.”

Something in your chest clenched at the confession, but you pushed it aside. You smiled at him, soft and small, and kept going. “Now, three things you can see.”

Barnes’ eyes scanned over your face, searching.

“You,” he said, still quiet, still certain. His gaze lingered on your mouth. “Your lipstick is smudged.”

"Two more," you breathed, keeping your voice calm and steady, resisting the urge to comment on why your lipstick was smudged in the first place. No need to remind him of that right now.

Barnes' gaze flickered across the small, dimly lit restroom. His body had almost fully relaxed now, his mind preoccupied with the task you'd given him.

"Uh…" He scanned the space, brows furrowing in concentration. "The awful wallpaper… and the sink, I guess?"

You nodded approvingly, finally withdrawing your hands as you eased back onto your knees. The cold tiles bit through the fabric of your dress, but you barely noticed.

"Well done," you murmured. "Now, how about we keep breathing and get you sorted, huh?"

At that, Barnes stiffened slightly. The panic that had been receding just moments ago flickered in his eyes again, his hands twitching where they rested on his thighs.

You reached out, grounding him with a gentle touch to his knee. Your voice softened even further. "I’m going to turn around and face the door. I need you to clean yourself up—use the sink, use the soap."

His throat bobbed. "But my—my boxers, they’ll get all wet—"

"There’s a dryer on the wall, see it?" You tilted your head toward the small, dingy dryer meant for hands. "Use it to dry them. Then get dressed, and we’ll head back to the hotel early, okay? Order some shitty takeaway, watch bad TV. Just forget about all this for tonight. How does that sound?"

Barnes blinked as if thrown by the simplicity of the offer. His mouth parted, closed, then opened again, his voice small. "Yeah. Okay."

"Good." You flashed him a reassuring smile before pressing your palms against the sink, pushing yourself to your feet with a small wobble in your heels. "I’ll be right here. Just let me know if you need anything. Keep breathing, alright? Everything’s okay."

Turning, you crossed your arms over your chest and faced the door, giving him the privacy he needed. You tried not to listen too closely. Tried not to glance at the mirror reflecting the scene behind you.

The rustle of clothing filled the quiet, then the tap sputtered to life. You leant your forehead against the cool wood of the door, closing your eyes as you focused on the steady stream of water, the faint squeak of the soap pump, and then the soft sloshing and scrubbing of fabric.

The sound of fabric wringing out echoed softly against the tiled walls, followed by the steady hum of the hand dryer sputtering to life. You kept your forehead against the door, listening as Barnes manoeuvred through the motions, drying his boxers first, then his suit pants. The wet fabric slapped lightly against the metal dryer as he held it up, shifting awkwardly as he worked.

You didn’t rush him. Didn’t make a sound. Just stayed where you were, giving him time.

Eventually, the rustling stopped. A sharp inhale, then the familiar slide of fabric as he pulled his clothes back on. The quiet click of a belt buckle being fastened. The creak of leather shoes shifting against tile.

Then—

Barnes cleared his throat.

You turned.

He stood stiffly, suit now back in place, though the fabric still carried faint traces of dampness. His jacket was slightly askew, his tie loosened just enough to be noticeable. You took a slow step toward him, scanning him up and down with a careful eye. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move—just stood there, watching you warily, as if expecting a comment.

You didn’t give him one.

Instead, you reached up, grasping the edges of his tie. He stiffened but let you work, your fingers smoothing the silk fabric, tightening it properly against his collar. His pulse thrummed beneath your fingertips as you brushed against his throat, and though he remained still, you caught the way his breath hitched slightly at the contact.

“There,” you murmured, satisfied.

You turned towards the mirror, angling yourself slightly to the side. Your reflection was a mess—lipstick smudged, hair slightly dishevelled. You sighed, wetting your thumb with your tongue before dabbing at the edges of the stain, then reached into your clutch to pull out a small tube of lipstick.

Barnes hadn’t moved.

You could feel him behind you, his body heat pressing against your back in the cramped space. His gaze was heavy, following your movements as you leaned closer to the mirror, carefully reapplying the pigment to your lips. You didn’t look at him. You just smoothed the colour in place, pressed your lips together, then capped the tube and tucked it back into your bag.

Finally, you met his eyes in the mirror.

“Ready to go?” you asked.

There was a pause. A hesitation. His jaw clenched for half a second before he gave the smallest of nods. “…Yeah.”

You turned fully, flashing him a small, knowing smile before reaching for his arm. He didn’t resist when you looped yours through his, guiding him towards the door. With an easy tug, you led him forward, your heels clicking softly against the marble floors. His arm remained tense beneath your touch, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t let go.

You glanced at him briefly, lips twitching into a small smirk. “C’mon, sergeant. Let’s get out of here.”

Barnes exhaled through his nose, shaking his head ever so slightly. But when you reached the bottom of the stairs, he followed without question, letting you steer him towards the exit, away from the crowded room—away from prying eyes.

—

A small, muffled whine stirred you from sleep. You blinked groggily, rolling onto your side as the cool sheets tangled around your legs. The plush hotel mattress dipped beneath you as you buried your face into the pillow, willing yourself back into slumber.

A low, panting groan cut through the silence, soft at first, then growing in volume. Your brows knit together, heart thrumming uneasily. Something about the sound was… strange. It wasn’t just a groan—it was strained, needy. Erotic.

Your eyes snapped open.

The room was cloaked in darkness, save for the dim red dot of the fire alarm and the faint reflection of the turned-off TV. You remained frozen for a few beats, your ears straining to catch the noise again. It came, louder this time—a choked whimper thick with desperation.

Was someone in the room? Adrenaline slammed into your veins as you rolled off the bed in one swift motion, bare feet hitting the floor without a sound. You had heard stories of creeps breaking into hotel rooms, preying on women while they slept. Had one made the mistake of picking yours?

Another sound. Low, breathy, utterly wrecked.

Your hand darted to the bedside table, fingers curling around the hilt of a knife, its leather grip smooth beneath your palm. Not even yours, Barnes’—

Barnes.

Your breath caught as your gaze snapped towards the couch, knife slipping from your grip and landing on the carpet with a soft thud.

There, bathed in shadows, was the writhing mass of the super soldier. His blankets lay discarded on the floor as though he’d tossed them off in his sleep. The two of you had agreed to take turns—one in the bed, the other on the couch—to keep up appearances. A stupid arrangement, courtesy of Fury and Stark’s meddling.

You flicked on the bedside lamp. The warm light spilt over the room, casting soft amber hues onto Barnes’ form. His face was twisted in torment, and his lips parted around quiet, breathless whimpers. Sweat clung to his skin, catching the glow of the lamp and highlighting the sharp lines of his body. His metal arm whirred faintly as he twitched, fingers flexing against the cushions.

Your stomach dropped when your eyes drifted lower. He was shirtless, his broad chest rising and falling erratically. The thin fabric of his boxers did little to hide the evidence of his dream—more than half-hard beneath the cotton. Was he really that big?

The realisation hit like a freight train.

He was having a sex dream.

Jesus.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. You should’ve looked away, should’ve given him privacy. But then his hand twitched, drifting downward—

“Barnes.” Your voice was sharp, cutting through the haze like a blade.

He jolted awake, body seizing as his eyes snapped open. For a moment, he was utterly lost, chest heaving, pupils blown wide with confusion. Then his gaze landed on you—standing there in your thin nightgown, face unreadable.

His eyes flickered downward.

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath, panic flickering across his face as he yanked a pillow over his lap, shifting awkwardly as if that would somehow erase what had just happened. A string of curses left his lips, voice still wrecked with sleep.

You tilted your head, studying him. His expression wavered, part shame, part something else, something raw and vulnerable. You exhaled slowly, pressing your fingers into your temples. There was a pattern here. A man whose body wasn’t his own, whose skin felt foreign, whose touch-starved existence had left him unravelling at the seams.

What in God's name was Fury thinking sending him on a mission like this—or did Fury not know? How could he not? That one-eyed bastard had a habit of knowing everything. Hell, he probably knew the colour of your underwear before you even picked it out for the day, the all-seeing prick.

“H.Y.D.R.A really did a number on you, didn’t they?” you muttered.

Bucky flinched. The words struck deep, sinking into something fragile beneath the surface. He didn’t say a word, just recoiled, fingers gripping the pillow so tightly his knuckles turned white. A moment later, he was scrambling off the couch, making a beeline for the bathroom.

“Barnes, we’re not doing this again. Let’s just talk—”

The door slammed.

Then, the soft click of the lock.

You exhaled through your nose, arms crossing over your chest as you stared at the wooden barrier now separating you. Asshole. You knew you should’ve been more sympathetic. Should’ve handled it differently. But after a long, exhausting day, dealing with Bucky Barnes’ second puberty was not on your list of priorities.

You stepped closer, pressing a palm against the door; your voice quieter now. “I know how you’re feeling.”

Silence.

You could picture him inside, hunched over on the edge of the bathtub, fists clenched, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. “I understand what it’s like to be in a body that doesn’t feel like your own.”

A pause. No response.

“It must be hard,” you continued softly. “Not knowing who you are. Not recognising yourself anymore. And then... feeling things you don’t understand.”

Another pause. This one stretched longer.

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of trying to navigate that.” The silence that followed was heavier than before. You didn’t push, didn’t say anything else. Just rested your forehead against the doorframe, waiting.

You had spent the better part of your life under the Red Room’s control, under Dreykov’s control. Every breath you took, every move you made, had been dictated by someone else. Orders given. Orders followed. It was all you had ever known. And then, one day, it was gone. Just like that.

You remembered the moment with eerie clarity: standing in the open air, staring out at the horizon, the sunset bleeding colour into a sky that suddenly felt too vast. The question had gnawed at you, quiet but insistent. What comes next? Who comes next? Because you didn’t know. You didn’t know who you were beyond a weapon, beyond a machine engineered for death and seduction. Two decades of programming, of conditioning, of being nothing more than an asset to be wielded and discarded at will. And then, without warning, you were handed something you were told was freedom.

But what did freedom mean when you didn’t exist?

There were no real records of your birth, no true identity to reclaim. The Red Room had scrubbed that away long ago, erasing every trace of the girl you had once been. No family. No home. No belongings that weren’t issued to you by those who had owned you. And yet, you were expected to smile—to accept this newfound autonomy without question, to embrace the illusion of a life you had no blueprint for.

But how could you, when you weren’t sure if the body you inhabited was even your own?

So even if Barnes thought you were bluffing and just trying to relate for the sake of kindness, he was wrong. Because you understood.

Terrifyingly well.

The difference was that you had refused to let it consume you. You had forced those feelings into the farthest corners of your mind, locking them away where they couldn’t touch you. Because if you let yourself linger on them for too long.

“Go back to sleep.” Bucky’s voice finally broke the silence, muffled through the bathroom door.

You sucked on your teeth, exhaling sharply through your nose. “Yeah, not happening.”

“I know the others give you crap about not dating, but you don’t have to let them pressure you,” you continued, keeping your tone light. “You don’t have to force yourself into a role that makes you uncomfortable. It takes time.”

“Back in the day..." His voice was quieter this time, tinged with something that almost sounded like regret. “I used to be a real flirt.”

A humourless smirk ghosted across your lips. You could picture it, all smooth charm and effortless confidence. The kind of man who could wink at a girl across a dance floor and have her swooning in seconds. But that wasn’t the man behind this door. That man had been stripped away, piece by piece.

“I just don’t know anymore,” he admitted, voice raw. Your chest tightened. You could almost hear him weighing his words, picking them apart, and deciding how much of himself he was willing to give away.

“When I was the Winter Soldier... they made me do things.”

A slow, twisting knot formed in your stomach.

“It’s all… fractured in my mind,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “Scattered. Broken.”

You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply.

“I’m sorry,” you said, and you meant it. “I understand that. More than anyone. The Red Room… they didn’t just use us for assassinations and espionage.”

There. You had said it. Pulled a piece of yourself from the grave and placed it between you.

For the first time, the door cracked open.

Bucky stood there, dishevelled and breathless, still only in his boxers. A faint sheen of sweat clung to his skin, catching the dim hotel light, while his metal arm twitched slightly at his side. His hair was a mess—damp and curling at the ends, sticking to his forehead. His chest rose and fell unevenly, as if he hadn’t quite caught his breath, muscles taut beneath the weight of exhaustion.

“Why are you being kind to me?” he asked suddenly. His voice was rough, tinged with suspicion, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

You tilted your head, studying him.

“Because you’re hurting,” you said simply. “And obviously, you haven’t fully processed any of this.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Without another word, he turned and stalked past you, out of the cramped bathroom and into the main space of the hotel room. You followed at a slower pace, arms crossed as you watched him sink onto the couch, scrubbing a hand down his face. He was hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, his metal fingers tapping restless patterns against his flesh palm. His body had settled now, no longer betraying him with signs of arousal. That part of the moment had passed, but the turmoil in his head remained.

With a quiet sigh, you slid down to the floor, settling against the base of the bed across from him. Your legs stretched out in front of you, arms loose at your sides as you let the silence settle between you.

“Have you spoken to Steve about this?” you asked after a moment, voice soft but firm. “Sam?”

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “God, no.”

“Why?”

“I dunno,” he muttered, fingers threading through his damp hair. “It’s just... awkward. I feel like a fuckin’ schoolboy.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “I could teach you.”

His eyes snapped to you, wary. “What?”

“I could teach you,” you repeated, voice steady. “How to make love. Fuck. How to gain control over your life again. You’re just sensitive; you need a bit of exposure therapy.”

Bucky’s expression darkened, jaw clenching. “Why the hell would you do that?”

You exhaled slowly, gaze drifting to the patterned carpet beneath you. “Do you know how many men I’ve fucked and not felt a thing?” you said quietly, barely above a whisper.

“I wasn’t just an assassin or a spy. Not like Natasha or Yelena. I was a swallow, Barnes. A honeytrap.” His expression flickered, eyes scanning your face as if searching for something, some hint of insincerity.

You swallowed, pushing forward. “It’s why Fury sent me on this mission with you. This is all I’ve ever known.”

Bucky’s breath hitched slightly, his hands curling into fists against his thighs. “Fury knows what they did to you, and he still continues to—”

“I agreed to it,” you cut in, your tone clipped, controlled. “He just wanted our sham marriage to be believable. He wasn’t asking me to fuck you, just to perform. That’s what I do. Perform.”

Bucky huffed a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

“Look, I don’t know you,” he muttered, voice low, rough. “I don’t want your baggage, or for you to fuck me out of pity or... I don’t know, self-sabotage.”

The words hit like a slap, sharper than you expected. You recoiled—actually flinched—before you could stop yourself. It wasn’t just what he said, it was the venom in it, the way he threw it at you like a blade meant to wound. And damn it, it did.

Bucky saw it, too. The way your shoulders stiffened, the flicker of something raw crossing your face before you forced it away. His breath hitched slightly, fingers twitching at his side, but he didn’t take it back. Didn’t soften the blow. Maybe he regretted it, maybe he didn’t, but either way, the damage was done.

Your expression hardened like cooling steel, every crack that had formed between you quickly sealing shut, any semblance of vulnerability buried beneath layers of carefully placed armour. It was instinct—second nature, really. You’d spent years perfecting the art of locking yourself away, of making sure no one could reach the parts of you that still bled. You’d built it, brick by fucking brick, until you were fully encased, isolated from anything that might harm you.

Bucky wasn’t the first to speak to you like that. Wouldn’t be the last.

You swallowed down the sting, inhaled slow and deep through your nose, and then let it out in a steady breath. When you spoke again, your voice was quiet, devoid of emotion, a perfect imitation of indifference. “It was just an offer.”

Nothing more. Nothing less.

You held his gaze for a second longer, searching for something, anything, that might suggest he regretted it. But Bucky just stared back, face unreadable, jaw tight. Then, without another word, he turned away, stretching out on the couch with his back to you.

Fine. Message received.

—

The rest of the week had been nothing short of torturous. After the argument, the air between you and Bucky had turned to ice. The two of you barely spoke. Not outside of necessity, not outside of the roles you had to play. At the gala, he did what was required—he held you close, leant into your touch when needed, murmured sweet nothings in your ear to sell the lie. But you felt the restraint in him, the hesitance in the way he brushed a thumb over your knuckles, the barely-there tremors in his fingers when he smoothed a hand over your waist. It wasn’t as if he was walking on hot coals anymore, but there was still that same, underlying hesitation.

Back at the hotel, the silence stretched long and unbearable. Shower, eat, sleep—repeat. Conversations were reduced to one-word exchanges, curt and impersonal. At least by morning, this miserable charade would be over. You’d gathered the intel you needed at the gala, and in a few hours, you’d be free of this place. Free of this suffocating, awkward tension. Free from Bucky’s constant, looming presence.

God, the man had a staring problem.

You had noticed it before, how he always seemed lost in thought, his gaze heavy with some unreachable burden. You had assumed it was just brooding, the kind of silent, empty-headed angst that men like him fell victim to. But now you realised—he wasn’t staring through you. He was staring at you.

You saw it when you dressed for the gala, slipping into silken dresses and heels, when you pinned your hair into elegant styles, when you traced the lines of your lips with lipstick, perfecting the illusion. You’d catch his reflection in the mirror, eyes fixed on you, dark and unreadable.

Once, he had been so caught up in his daze that he nearly left without putting on his suit jacket. You had to press it into his hands, dragging him out of whatever spell he was under. He had taken it stiffly, mumbling a quiet ‘thanks’ but the heat in his face was unmistakable.

And now, as you sat cross-legged on the bed in a loose nightgown, the fabric riding high on your thighs, the same damn stare was drilling into the side of your face.

The TV flickered before you, an incoherent blur of colours and sound. You weren’t even sure it was in English. It didn’t matter. You weren’t watching it anyway. You were too focused on not focusing on Bucky, who stared at the side of your face like he intended to burn a hole through the flesh.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, running your thumb over your knee. The sheets were soft, the mattress more forgiving than the couch you’d been forced to sleep on last night. At least tonight was your turn back on the bed, though ideally, you’d be back in your own apartment by now, wrapped in high-thread-count luxury courtesy of Tony Stark’s absurd wealth.

God, you missed Egyptian cotton.

Bucky was still staring at you. You couldn’t help it, annoyance, filthy and venomous came pouring out of your mouth before you could stop it. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Bucky startled, his whole body tensing as if you had physically struck him.

“Nothing—” he stammered.

You arched a brow, unimpressed.

“No. There’s obviously something you want to say.” You shifted on the bed, your frustration mounting. “Go on, spit it out.”

He hesitated, his jaw working like he was biting down on whatever words were lodged in his throat.

You didn’t let up. “You sure had a lot to say earlier in the week. What, do you want to dig the knife in further? You might as well just call me a whore while you’re at it—”

“I’m sorry.” Bucky cut over you, his head dipping. You paused, momentarily stunned. He was doing that thing again, where he looked like a scolded dog. Adorable, but not the fucking time.“I shouldn’t have said that, it was inconsiderate of me, especially after... after all you’ve done.”

You frowned. “You don’t owe me anything, Barnes.” The words left your lips quieter this time, but still firm.

“I snapped at you. And I shouldn’t have.” he admitted. His voice was low, restrained.

You let out a slow breath, pressing your fingers to your temple.

“It’s okay. I understand,” you said, a little softer. “I haven’t exactly been… the kindest either.”

A bitter chuckle escaped him, his fingers twitching against his knee. Then, after a long pause, he asked, “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Act like everything is okay. Like it’s normal.” His voice was strained, like he wasn’t even sure if he believed in what he was asking.

You let out a short, almost nervous laugh. “I’m probably not the best person to ask about this—”

“But you get it, right?” He looked at you now, something almost desperate in his gaze. “To not know… who or what you are? Sometimes I… I just want to be normal again.”

You frown deeply, weighing his words carefully. You understood his sentiment, but you knew it was futile. There had never been anything normal about your life—not anything you could remember, at least. The Red Room had seen to that. Your earliest memories were of drills, of ballet, of suffocating discipline, and of the erasure of self. Even now, you weren’t normal; you were an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D for fucks sake, a woman barely pardoned of her crimes, existing in a liminal space. The world's governments couldn’t quite confirm you existed. You were a ghost, a fucking shadow of a person.

“I don’t think people like us get to be normal,” you said finally, choosing your words carefully.

His expression twisted slightly, like he had already known that answer but had hoped for something different.

“But I think,” you continued, “it would serve you a world of good if you let people in. Steve… Sam. You don’t have to face this all alone—Natasha, Yelena, and I look to each other all the time to process it all and patch together the missing pieces. There’s no shame in it.”

Bucky’s face creased, his body drawing in on itself slightly. You moved before he could shrink further, slipping off the bed and kneeling before him.

“It’s okay,” you reassured, voice steady. “Just tell me... what is it you need right now?”

His lips parted slightly, then pressed into a thin line. He fidgeted, his fingers clenching and unclenching as if struggling to force out something that had been sitting at the edge of his tongue all week.

Finally, he exhaled, jaw tight.

“I want to take you up on your offer.”

You tilted your head. “My offer?”

Bucky swallowed, eyes flickering to the floor before darting back to you. His voice was hesitant, low—like he was worried some invisible presence might have overheard. “Lessons. Lessons in… love-making. I want to be able to look at a girl without... you know. This fucking week has been torture seeing you—”

He cut himself off, warmth flooding to his cheeks. A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it—light, amused, genuine.

Bucky stiffened, eyes widening slightly, horror flashing across his face as if he thought you were mocking him.

You shook your head quickly, reaching out to place a hand on his knee.

“Of course,” you murmured, smiling. “Thought you’d never ask.”

—

“Is this okay?” you asked softly as you swung your leg over, settling onto Bucky’s lap. The mattress dipped beneath you both, the quiet creak of the hotel bed the only sound between you for a moment. He sat beneath you, legs slightly spread, his hands hovering uncertainly at his sides. You dug your knees into the bed on either side of his thighs, anchoring yourself against him.

His breath hitched, sharp and uneven. “Yes,” he murmured, though there was a noticeable tremor in his voice, like he was still convincing himself.

“Just breathe,” you encouraged, smoothing your hands over his broad shoulders. His muscles were tense beneath your fingertips, wound tight like coiled steel. He swallowed hard.

“What’s worrying you?” You asked gently. “Is there something I can do to make this more comfortable for you?”

Bucky shook his head, a shuddering breath leaving him as his hands finally found purchase on your hips. His grip was hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to hold you. “No,” he said, his voice rough.

“This is great, I—” He cut himself off, pressing his lips together in frustration.

You tilted your head, studying him, before offering a reassuring smile. Your fingers kneaded into his shoulders in slow, soothing motions, attempting to melt away some of the tension knotted there. “Talk to me,” you coaxed.

His gaze flickered downward, shame creeping into his expression. “I just… don’t want to embarrass myself. Again.”

Your heart clenched at his vulnerability, but you refused to let him linger in self-doubt. Instead, you leant in, your lips curling in a playful smile.

“You’re cute when you say things like that,” you teased, running your tongue over your lower lip before continuing. “Don’t worry about any of that. Just stay here, in this moment, with me.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he obeyed, focusing on the warmth of your body pressed against his. Slowly, his grip tightened on your hips, fingers kneading into the flesh more firmly this time. His thumbs traced cautious circles against the fabric of your clothing, testing. You let your hands drift from his shoulders down to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

“Now,” you murmured, keeping your tone soft but steady, “if you get overwhelmed, or if you need to stop, what do you say?”

“Stop,” Bucky answered without hesitation.

“Good,” you praised, smiling warmly. “And if you can’t speak? If the words won’t come?”

His fingers flexed on your hip before he squeezed in a deliberate rhythm—three distinct beats. You nodded in approval. “Perfect.”

His blue eyes flickered up to meet yours, searching.

“What about you?” he asked, his voice quieter now, more earnest. “If you want to stop?”

You demonstrated by tapping three times against his chest, just over his heart.

“I’ll do the same thing,” you assured him. “Just like we discussed.”

For a moment, he just breathed. His lashes fluttered as he exhaled a slow, measured breath, his hands steadying against you. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, he whispered, “I’m… I’m ready. I think.”

You smiled, fingers tracing a soft, reassuring path along his jaw.

“Okay. I thought we’d start with kissing, since you seem worried about it. Nice and simple, no pressure,” you murmured, your voice low and reassuring as your fingertips ghosted along his jawline. Bucky swallowed thickly, his adam’s apple bobbing as he leaned into your palm without thinking, nuzzling it like a touch-starved thing. His blue eyes, dark as the ocean in a brewing storm, flickered with something hesitant, something fragile.

“I’m sure you kissed plenty of girls back in the day,” you teased, lips curling as you brushed your thumb over the sharp edge of his cheekbone.

“Oh yeah,” he exhaled, the words dipped in self-deprecation, “until Steve became… well, the Steve he is now. None of the girls spared me a second glance after that.”

You let out a soft laugh, breathy and genuine, and felt the way his body tensed beneath you at the sensation. It was funny how a man who could tear through steel and strike terror into the hearts of the world’s deadliest enemies could turn so shy at something as simple as your laughter.

“You know…” he hesitated, voice quieter now. “You were my first kiss since… well, everything.”

Your teasing grin faltered slightly. You tilted your head, gaze flicking between his eyes and his lips, close enough now that you could feel the steady heat radiating from his skin.

“Well,” you murmured, the ghost of a smirk curling your lips as you shifted closer, “now I’ll be your second too.”

And then you kissed him.

It was slow at first, a testing press of your lips against his, feather-light and coaxing. Bucky inhaled sharply through his nose, his breath hitching as though he was bracing for impact. But when you didn’t pull away, when you lingered just a little longer, he melted into you—hesitant at first, but eager.

His hands, large and trembling slightly, hesitated at your waist before gripping your thighs as if he wasn’t sure whether to hold you or let you slip away. The warmth of his palms bled through the thin fabric of your nightgown, spreading across your skin like wildfire.

You deepened your kiss, tilting your head to slot your lips more firmly against his, and a quiet sound rumbled in his chest—halfway between a sigh and a groan. Encouraged, you shifted, rocking your hips, the new position pressing your bodies flush together.

Bucky tensed beneath you, fingers digging into your flesh instinctively as you settled against him. His own hips bucked in response, and you could already feel him growing hard against your inner thigh. He pulled back slightly, panting, his lips swollen.

“Am I doing… okay?” he asked, his voice rough.

You smiled, smoothing a hand through his dark hair, tugging him gently forward again.

“More than okay,” you whispered against his lips before capturing them once more.

This time, he kissed you back without hesitation. His hands gripped your hips, anchoring himself to you as he parted his lips, following your lead. You swept your tongue into his mouth, slow and purposeful, teasing along his lower lip before deepening it. A groan rumbled in his chest, muffled against your mouth.

You rolled your hips, grinding against him with a slow, deliberate rhythm, savouring the way his breath hitched and stuttered beneath you. Even through the layers of clothing, you could feel him—hard, straining, likely aching for more. His fingers dug into your skin, a bruising grip that only added to the heat blooming in your core.

You pulled away from his lips, shifting your attention lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, down his neck. You could feel his pulse hammering beneath your lips, quick and erratic. He tipped his head back, surrendering himself to your touch, a quiet curse slipping from his mouth as you sucked at the sensitive skin below his ear.

“You’re doing so well,” you hummed against his skin, your voice warm and indulgent, laced with soft praise. His body trembled beneath you as he bucked his hips up to meet yours, desperate for more friction, more of you. You rewarded him with a soft, breathy moan, letting him know just how much you enjoyed this too.

“I—” He tried to form words, but they crumbled before they left his lips.

The tension in his body coiled tighter and tighter, like a bowstring pulled taut, ready to snap. His hands clutched at you, grounding himself in the sensation, like the overwhelming pleasure was building too fast for him to control. His breath came in short, needy gasps, his hips stuttering as he lost the rhythm.

“I’m gonna—” His voice broke, his head tilting forward as his entire body tensed beneath you. A strangled moan escaped him, deep and wrecked, as he came undone. His grip on your hips tightened, his thighs trembling slightly beneath yours as his climax overtook him. His body fell back against the sheets, a soft exhale leaving his lips as the last waves of pleasure wracked through him.

You perched above him, still straddling his hips. For a moment, he just lay there, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to catch his breath. His eyes were half-lidded, dazed, and his lips parted as if he had more to say but couldn’t quite form the words.

“I didn’t mean to finish so early—” he started, his voice hoarse, cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and lingering pleasure. Leaning over, you flipped your hair to one side as your face hovered over his. You silenced him with a lingering kiss, slow and reassuring. He groaned softly into your mouth, still sensitive but already melting into the warmth of your lips. When you pulled away, his shoulders had loosened, the rigid tension gone from his body.

“You did so well,” you murmured, brushing your fingers through his hair. “How do you feel?”

“Good.”

You grinned, sliding off him and stretching languidly before settling back onto the bed. You exhaled, content. Bucky turned his head to look at you, still slightly frozen in place, as if unsure what to do next. His brows furrowed slightly. “What… what about you? Don’t you want to…?”

You snorted. “That doesn’t matter. This was about you, not me.”

He hesitated, clearly still unused to receiving something without feeling obligated to return it. “But I feel bad leaving you—”

“I’m fine, trust me.” You hummed, closing your eyes as you nestled into the warmth of his arm. “We have a long way to go before you need to be thinking about that.”

Bucky went quiet. You could feel his gaze lingering on you, unreadable.

For a moment, you weren’t sure if he would say anything at all. But then, after a beat of silence, you felt him shift beside you. A hesitant hand—warm and slightly calloused—ghosted over your arm before settling on your waist, drawing you in closer.

“…Thank you,” he murmured at last.

#bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes smut #bucky fanfic #beefy bucky #bucky smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #winter soldier #marvel fic #marvel au #marvel

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kathani-bridgerton · 8 months ago

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Colin ‘charmed and charming’ Bridgerton came back from his eat pray love European tour convinced he was going to be a player all season only to fall in love with and get married to the baddest undercover baddie in the ton, find his life’s purpose, gets to live the rest of his life as a kept husband, AND have his first born son be given a title.

For a third born son he basically won the regency upper class lottery.

#bridgerton #bridgerton s3 #polin

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flwrkid14 · 3 months ago

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Tim Drake’s Unhinged Power Move (ft. Marriage, Ra’s al Ghul, and an Uncomfortable Batfamily)

No one really understood how it started. One moment, Tim Drake was Red Robin—tired, overworked, and fueled by caffeine. The next, he was dropping a bombshell in the middle of a routine debrief:

“Oh, by the way, I married Ra’s al Ghul.”

The room froze.

Dick’s dumbbell hit the floor. Jason choked on his beer. Damian’s sword slipped from his hand. Bruce, staring at Tim like he’d grown a second head, barely managed a strangled, “Tim. What did you do?”

Tim took a sip of his coffee, utterly unfazed. “It’s a power move.”

Jason, wheezing with laughter: “Oh my god. You married Ra’s out of spite? Replacement, I’ve never been prouder.”

Tim smirked. “Something like that.”

-----------

It wasn’t really spite.

Ra’s had been obsessed with him for years. The offers of succession, the constant attempts to lure him to the League—it was never-ending. Tim was tired. Tired of being hunted, tired of the games. So, one day, he called Ra’s’ bluff. If Ra’s wanted him so badly, he’d have to deal with all that came with it. Including Tim’s unrelenting need for control.

Ra’s agreed.

And just like that, Tim Drake became the most terrifying in-law the batfamily had ever seen.

-----------

Talia didn’t know what to think at first.

She’d seen it all before—people manipulated by Ra’s, twisted into tools for his will. But Tim? He didn’t play by those rules. He sat at Ra’s’ desk, sifting through League reports like they were Gotham case files. He didn’t bark orders; he made suggestions. And then, the soup happened.

Talia returned from a mission, bruised and exhausted. Tim, barely looking up from his paperwork, said, “Sit. You’re hurt.”

She scoffed. “I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity. It’s soup.”

Talia stared. “Why?”

Tim shrugged. “You looked like you needed it.”

It became a routine. She’d return from missions, and Tim would be there. Not with judgment. Not with manipulation. Just quiet support. He listened. He offered advice. He treated her like a person, not a pawn.

Somehow, they started having regular bonding time. Shopping trips. Quiet conversations on the balcony. Tim became a person Talia could trust—a concept she hadn’t believed possible.

-----------

Damian was losing his mind.

“Drake!” he hissed, cornering Tim in the Batcave. “You’ve… corrupted my mother!”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Corrupted? She’s thriving.”

“She smiles at you!”

“I’m very charming.”

Damian’s finger trembled as he pointed. “This makes you… my grandmother.”

Tim smirked. “Respect your elders, grandson.”

“I REFUSE!”

-----------

Bruce was spiraling.

“Tim, this is dangerous.”

“Relax,” Tim replied, sipping his coffee. “I’ve got it under control.”

“You married one of our greatest enemies!”

“Think of it as an undercover op,” Tim said, voice calm and unyielding. “I’m playing the long game.”

Jason, from the sidelines, grinned. “He’s playing 4D chess, and you’re still on checkers.”

-----------

The Real Chaos?

Tim didn’t marry Ra’s to make him happy. Hell no. If anything, it made Tim sick to his stomach knowing Ra’s was smug about it. But if putting up with Ra’s al Ghul meant protecting Talia, stabilizing the League, and giving Damian a family that didn’t break apart at the seams?

He’d endure.

Because Talia was healing. Damian’s mother was smiling. And Ra’s… well, Ra’s thought he’d won.

But the real winner? Tim Drake.

Gotham’s most unhinged vigilante had just become the League of Assassins’ terrifying step-parent. And honestly? It suited him.

-----------

Damian, whispering to Alfred: “I need… therapy.” Alfred: “We all do, Master Damian. We all do.”

#tim drake #batfam #talia al ghul #ra's al ghul #grandma tim drake #league of assassins #tim drake power moves #damian in a crisis #tim joins the league in the most unhinged way possible #I want to see tim and talia bonding #tim would be the greatest step parent ever and you can't convince me otherwise #he literally raised bruce out of his grief #talia deserves to be cared for and tim is going to be the greatest step dad for her because she deserves so much #tim helps talia be more present in damian's life and somehow ends up parenting the rest of the bat kids as well #with the exception of tim of course #brain rot and silly post moment

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callmeagardengnome · 2 months ago

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✗ mob mentality ✗ | ATEEZ (series masterlist)

pairings ✃ individual! mafia! ateez ot8 x fem! reader

genre ✃ mafia au, one-shots, angst + hurt/comfort here and there, romance, potential yandere behaviour, romance

details ✃ a collection of (unique…?) mafia one-shots WITH NO SMUTTTT created by yours truly. (all are standalone)

۶ blood in the clouds ৎ

[mafia leader! hongjoong x flight attendant! fem! reader]

it’s finally your last day as a flight attendant. you wanted nothing more than to laze on your couch and watch netflix - just to find out that one of your passengers blew out the brains of your pilot with a gun.

in which hongjoong hijacks a plane that his rival’s daughter is on.

poll | deleted scenes

۶ sugar and sin ৎ

[mafia! seonghwa x fem! reader]

seonghwa goes above and beyond to eliminate his targets: going undercover in places they go to most. when you happen to spend your time in a secluded bakery, seonghwa decides to bake your treats with doses of poison - yet somehow, you keep surviving.

in which you thought you made a new friend in your local bakery, when in reality - your ‘baker’ keeps mistaking laxatives for poison.

deleted scenes

۶ marathon extravaganza ৎ

[mafia! yunho x rival! fem! reader]

yunho has been a professional shooter for all of his life. he’s killed lawyers, federal agents and even highly-protected politicians. so why does his shots keep missing you?

in which you and yunho become obsessed in a stalking game of cat and mouse.

۶ under the hood ৎ

[mafia! yeosang x car mechanic! fem! reader]

as a mechanic, you tend to see clients on the daily - some new, some old. but when one of your regulars leave a $100,000 bag of cash on your counter, it seems like you’ve turned from ordinary citizen to wanted criminal.

in which yeosang accidentally gave you the bag of money he stole instead of a ten dollar tip.

۶ fries in the bag ৎ

[mafia! san x fast food employee! fem! reader]

san’s most effective method of killing is by using his looks to lure his enemies - making many powerful women (and men) fall for him. but when a regular person seems to be unfazed by his charms, san decides to do anything to make you fall in love with him.

in which you finally got through your 2am shift, only to find the severed head of your abusive manager at your doorstep.

۶ voice of crime ৎ

[mafia! mingi x anime VA! fem! reader]

when you entered the voice acting industry, you knew that there would be people that either loved you or hated you. but what you didn’t expect was to get shot at an anime convention by a weeb in cosplay.

in which mingi accidentally shoots his favourite voice actress instead of her boyfriend that was beside her.

۶ money makers ৎ

[mafia! wooyoung x fem! reader]

day and night, you work in a shitty multi-million dollar corporation that doesn’t care about you. and to make matters worse, you had to find out that the whole company is in debt to a mafia gang by getting kidnapped during office hours.

in which wooyoung tries to torture information out of you, only to realise that he’s found his kryptonite: a suicidal intern.

۶ siren’s call ৎ

[mafia! jongho x jazz singer! fem! reader]

as the newest addition to the mafia, jongho got assigned to the boring task of scoping out a random bar in town. annoyed, he decided to leave early. or so he tried. when the singer stepped on stage and sang into the mic, her voice pulled jongho further into the bar than out.

in which you begin to notice a regular in your gigs, though you can't ignore that your male audience seems to be disappearing one by one.

hi yall! i initially only wanted to make one hongjoong oneshot until i realised how much i love mafia aus. there will be no smut in these stories and at most, there will be a detailed kissing scene. also do not expect regular updates!

if you want to be added to the taglist, feel free to ask!

series taglist [OPEN] - @hanoishere @scuzmunkie @sinfullygay @arusio @midnightrebel1028 @neemaxx @seungminsrighthand @arilevenatz @ateezswonderland @beabatiny @lemirabitur @sunnyhokyu @frzzenfrxg @cylovesmg @txtsoobean @seonghwasslytherin @sundaybossanova @sweetinsaniiity @cybrnaya @choisanchwego @mrskill2 @devilzliaison @scary-thingz @gaonashi @jonghosbrainrot @mintchocoyum @justconniez @shiningpaint-marbleheart @stercul1a @sophrxsyne @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes @hii-hawaiiu @inkpot-winters

spec one-shot taglist [OPEN]:

yunho: @hoe4yunho

other fics

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bywons · 3 months ago

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YOU'RE A SUNFLOWER! 🕷️ SPIDERMAN!JAKE FALLING FOR YOU

𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗘𝗟𝗬──── your superhero love story with spiderman jake

❪ 𝑃𝑅𝐸𝐶𝑖𝑆 ❫ ｡ spiderman!jake x f!r 211Owc 𖥔 fluff spiderman au ── 𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 mentions of fighting injuries kissing skinship 愛／ CATALOGUE

する ܃ this was supposed to be out a long time ago, but practicals said no TT

reb𝑙ogs& ˊᗜˋ 𝑓eedbacks

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who is your caring, obliging and hilarious roommate, with a secret.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE, your endlessly sweet, slightly chaotic, and hilariously dorky roommate, who always seems to be juggling late nights and suspiciously “urgent errands.” you’ve noticed his habit of disappearing at the oddest times, but jake always comes back with an excuse and that charming, slightly guilty smile of his. what you don’t know is that his “errands” involve swinging across the city in his spider-man suit, battling villains, and saving lives.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who quickly changes into his normal civilian clothes before you can walk in and catch him red handed in his spiderman suit. he prays you wouldn't make too much of the still open window, his sparsely webbed fingers and the cold beads of sweat forming on his neck and forehead, as you walk in through his door, greeting him.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who always seems to know when you're low, when you need him. it's uncanny really, you don't know how he always shows up with his pretty face and that boyish, contagious smile, knocking on your door with chocolates and an impromptu movie plan. “rough day?” he smiles so warmly at you, as you welcome him in.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE sits next to you in every class, it's like you're becoming best friends with him. and sometimes, he's extremely late to class and the students giggle at his funny excuses to the professor— “my alarm clock broke” or “got in a fight with my window,” he jokes, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly as the class bursts into laughter. but when SPIDERMAN!JAKE runs up to you after those awkward excuses to be allowed into the lecture, he plops down next to you and pulls out a sweet treat everytime, an apology gift for being late, you must have missed him all this time!

SPIDERMAN!JAKE, who disappears at the weirdest times. you’ll be in the middle of a conversation, and suddenly he’s mumbling something about an errand and bolting out the door. “be back in a few!” he shouts, leaving you confused and a little suspicious.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who's your one call away. just a missed call or single concerning text from you and he drops everything, everything to be by your side and make sure you're okay. he doesn't care if he's in utmost danger, he'll always find a way back to you, “i’ll be there in a minute,” he promises, and within moments, he’s stumbling through your door, still catching his breath, hair disheveled, making up some vague excuse about losing track of time.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who's just so kind to the point it's infuriating. he always carries your bags and books after each class, brings you sweet treats and buys you soft plushies when you're feeling low, he offers to do your assignments at times when you're overworked. even at the perfect times, jake always has a granola bar inside his pockets when you're hungry.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who has had nothing but heart eyes for you since the day that he laid his eyes on you.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who tries not to let out a sly grin whenever he’s surrounded by faint whispers and giggles from his classmates or strangers about impressive rescues from the amazing spiderman. he loves his undercover state at times when his friends come up to him all excited, “bro did you news last night? spiderman was awesome!” , “yeah he's my hero!” and jake feels utterly proud and content with what he does to keep his city safe. but then there's you.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who first noticed you in the hallway, laughing with your friends, casual and confident, seemingly unimpressed by all the talk about the city’s newest hero. “what's so special about spiderman anyways?” you scoffed and rolled your eyes, as you walked by, your tone so nonchalant it made jake pause mid-step. he could see the others around you giggling and excited, but you? you didn’t even bat an eye at his name.

it stung SPIDERMAN!JAKE in a way he wasn't used to. everyone else idolized spiderman, a token of hope and strength of the city. but you? you were indifferent to it all, and he couldn't help but feel butterflies in his stomach. he would love a little chase.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who would start to have a little crush on you, and being a hopeless romantic and being a mildly awkward, superpowered guy— he did what he could, appearing all so suddenly when you would least expect it. “bump into you” at random times like when you were collecting your books from your locker for the next class, and just when you close it, SPIDERMAN!JAKE is already leaning against it, a coy smirk playing on his lips. he tries to act nonchalant, as if his heart isn't beating a million miles per hour right now, as if he didn't take down a villian last night. “hey” he’d greet you with a grin, eyes shining with curiosity. “you said something about spiderman earlier. got an opinion on him now?” you glanced at him, raising an eyebrow at him, “what? you're his biggest fan?” SPIDERMAN!JAKE would giggle nervously, rubbing the back of his neck as he mumbles out, “nah, just wondering if maybe you’ve changed your mind. you know, given all the... cool stuff spiderman does.” “still seems overrated to me!” you reply, shooting him a quick smile before returning to your class.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE couldn’t help it—his heart skipped a beat. you didn’t idolize spiderman. you didn’t worship him. you didn’t need to. and yet, that simple lack of interest made him want to know more about you.

and so fast forward to now SPIDERMAN!JAKE has developed relationships with you, and developed feelings about you at bay. he never thought of sharing a room with you, laughing and spending time after class with you or sometimes, sharing a tense eye contact with you. the one which wants him to kiss you right then, right there.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who in the middle of the night, stares up at his spiderman mask, feeling guilty for keeping you in the dark for so long.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who prays and prays that you will finally take a liking to spiderman, and that you will like the real, superhero him.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who's so overprotective of you, and he doesn't even realize it. you always wonder how he arrives just in 5 minutes after you just sent him a, “stuck at a party, come pick me up?” text. maybe he's just too fast? or maybe he's beating up creepy guys who tried to hit on you just to the next alley, you just don't know yet.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who comes late at night one day, adamant to go meet with your lousy, insufficient ex. and when you know about it, it's already late. jake’s already made him learn a lesson right after his mission. he looks at with puppy eyes, his glossy and sorrowful eyes reciprocating your worried, upset ones. “was it really necessary?” you whisper, gently tending to his wounds all over his face, as you look down at jake. “sorry, you didn't deserve that from him, that's all,” jake sighs, already too mesmerized by your face staring at him, too addicted to your honey touch on his skin. and as you see jake getting all guilty for his actions, you don't think much about it and press a quick, feathery kiss on his cheeks.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE whose eyes become wide and jaws hang low as you kiss his cheeks. you, kissed him? “thanks jake,” you mumble, a mellow blush creeping onto your cheeks. “d-dont thank me,” jake stutters as his whole face flushes up, he moves his hand up to capture your wrist, softly pressing it against your cheeks.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who swings around the city in joy the next day, who's so confident to confess to you now. he's super sure you'd like him back. maybe as spiderman too.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who spots you easily when returning home one night, still in his spiderman suit. you're alone, looking uncomfortable as you walk down the street. but there's no one around you, maybe you're just cold? but he doesn't think about it much before he swings down, gathers you in his arms and makes his way to your shared dormitory with him.

you gasp as SPIDERMAN!JAKE takes you along with him in the air, you feel like you're almost flying. he blushes under his mark as he feels you holding on to him. “but i didn't want…your help,” you mumble as he puts you down on your balcony. “a pretty girl like you shouldn't be cold outside, and it's my job to keep you safe!” you see the superhero giggle, patting his shoulder all by himself. “but how'd you know where i live?” you question, eyes narrowing. oh well, jake wasn't prepared for that. he clears his throat, “well, spiderman knows everything!” “well maybe not everything ‘cause…this is my roomate jake’s room not mine.” SPIDERMAN!JAKE gulps.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE tries to say something, but words are caught up in his throat. but before he could even comprehend, you step forward, and pull up his mask, revealing the handsome face of your roommate indeed.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who is stunned, didn't expect to reveal his true identity like this.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE, who’s now standing frozen on your balcony, watches as the realization dawns on your face. his heart races in his chest, a mixture of panic and anticipation swirling within him as you look at him, then back at the mask in your hand. “you really are terrible at keeping secrets, you know that?” you say, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. jake stammers, his usual confidence gone. “i-i can explain,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “it’s just... i didn’t mean for you to find out like this. its not exactly how i planned—” “you planned for me to find out?” you interrupt, stepping closer. his blush deepens, and he’s never been more thankful for the night sky to hide the embarrassment creeping up his neck.

“not really. i mean, yes. no. i don’t know!” SPIDERMAN!JAKE groans, running a hand through his hair. “i just... i wanted to tell you eventually. it’s not easy being spiderman and your roommate, okay?” you can’t help but laugh softly at how flustered he looks. “you’re ridiculous, you know that? swinging me around the city like some kind of superhero, and then you drop me off here, your balcony, not even realizing it.”

SPIDERMAN!JAKE’s eyes widen. “wait—did you at least enjoy the swinging?” you hesitate, biting back a smile. “it wasn’t terrible, i guess.” “not terrible,’ huh?” he teases, a bit of his usual charm slipping back into his voice. “that’s practically a glowing review coming from you.” you roll your eyes but step closer again, the space between you almost nonexistent. “you’re lucky you’re cute, jake.” jake blinks, momentarily stunned, his mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to form words but failing miserably. “wait, what?” “don’t make me say it again,” you murmur, and before he can even process it, you grab the front of his suit and pull him down, pressing your lips to his.

for a moment SPIDERMAN!JAKE is too shocked to react, but then he melts into the kiss, his hands instinctively finding your waist, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss. the world seems to fade away—the late-night city noise, the cool breeze brushing against your skin, even the fact that you’re standing on a balcony. it’s just you and jake, and for once, he feels like he doesn’t need to hide. when you finally pull away, his face is flushed, his lips slightly parted as he looks at you with a dazed expression. “wow,” he breathes, blinking rapidly. “so, uh... does this mean you forgive me for the whole secret spiderman thing?” you smirk, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. “i’ll think about it. but you owe me, big time, spiderman”

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who just can't believe you kissed him, and that you're his now.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who visits you in the middle of the night when he says he'd be away, surprising you, both with his presence and a kitten he just saved.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who takes you out on dates but in a special way, swinging all around the nightlife of the glowing city with you in his arms.

SPIDERMAN!JAKE who loves you, and only you, who promises to fight everyone just for you.

taglist────open tags in the reblogs ! network tag. @/k-labels @k-films @k-nets CLICK ME

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nereidprinc3ss · 9 months ago

Note

early seasons spencer and bau reader undercover at a club and it’s just like. he is so flustered but also weirdly confident and do with this what you will

in which spencer reid and BAU fem!reader have to pose as a couple at a club. she's more than a little flirty. the conversation actually gets quite suggestive. he's cute when he gets flustered.

warnings/tags: discussions of sex, reader wears a tight dress and makeup and heels, discussions of blushing but r's skin color is not implied to be light, i just needed a reason to talk about sex flush LOL, if u don't visibly blush this will still read fine

a/n: I LOVE EARLY SEASONS SPENCER X FLIRTY READER OH MY GODDD thank you for this request angel from heaven I hope you all like this as much as I do teehee

The bass buzzes through the floor and vibrates your teeth. House music has never really been your thing. Neither have tight dresses and high heels while on the job—but you’re willing to objectify yourself just a little if it will lure yet another loser who likes to chop up young couples into the awaiting arms of the American correctional system.

Or to the wrong end of Emily's Glock. Whatever comes first.

You scan the club—it’s not your usual scene, and you can only imagine how Dr. Reid is faring. As far as you can tell this is essentially his nightmare. It’s sensory overload central even for you.

Your eyes catch on him at the bar, tucked away from the writhing crowd. He’s standing near the end, one arm resting on the surface while the other hand is jammed in his pocket. He seems completely unaware of the several women circling closer and closer. The whole earnest and dorky but still handsome thing seems to work well for him. Or, it would, if he had any interest in utilizing it. He’s dressed a little sharper than usual—no doubt styled by Morgan and Prentiss. Hell, the earnest dorkiness and the well fitted dark suit is working for you if nobody else.

Sometimes he just looks… edible.

And self-discipline doesn't always come naturally to you.

“Doctor,” you purr in greeting, grazing the forearm propped up on the bar with white-tipped nails as you insert yourself in front of him. His fingers twitch under your light touch.

Spencer doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes sink down your frame, sticking to every highlighted curve like you’re dripping honey. Or maybe he just doesn’t realize that you can see that’s what he’s doing.

“Hi. You look nice.”

“Aw,” you smile, dulling the salacious edge to your voice, “you didn’t have to say that. Someone’s improvising.”

“I meant it. That dress looks nice on you,” he says, simply, and you hate his specific brand of charm because it’s not intentional. It’s not something he puts on. It comes out of nowhere and always knocks you on your ass when it hits—even in the smallest doses. His eyes narrow and he leans closer. You can feel the energy rippling around him like a force field as he examines you. “You’re wearing more makeup than you normally do.”

“Do you like it? Penelope ordered the wrong shade of blush and gave it to me. Supposedly it’s meant to make me look like I just had an orgasm. I don’t know if I believe it.”

Much to your disappointment, Spencer leans back, scanning the crowd for your target and speaking as if he’s only half-interested.

“That’s not what you would look like. Sex flush deepens the color of your entire face and chest, not just your cheeks.”

Your brows knit as you contend with unwelcome butterflies.

“Buy me a drink before you start telling me what I’ll look like after I orgasm.”

That catches his attention, and his suddenly wide eyes snap to you. If he had a drink, he’d be choking on it.

“I wasn’t—it was a general you, I’d never—that would be inappropriate. It was. It was inappropriate. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

You lean with your back to the bar, elbows propped on black granite, and swing your hair over your shoulder. Spencer’s eyes dart back down to your décolletage and then up to the ceiling like he regrets being born. You smile wickedly. Much better. This is the way God intended for you to interact with Spencer Reid.

“I’ll consider forgiving you. And I don’t blush. Not when I orgasm, not ever.”

Admittedly, you just want to milk the whole talking about you orgasming thing to see how pink you can make him. It’s not often you’re gifted with an opportunity to be so candid about your sexuality or flirt this unabashedly. But you are supposed to be posing as a couple. Maybe you’re just feeling extra in character.

Instead of stumbling over his words some more, Spencer smiles with a degree of bemusement like he’s caught you in a white lie.

His smile is so nice. His teeth are perfect, and his lips—

“Yes you do.”

Always so convinced he’s right, this one.

It’s annoying. And kind of hot.

“Uh, I promise you I do not.”

“Everyone blushes. It's a sympathetic nervous system activation response wherein blood rushes to your face. Your blood vessels dilate when you get flustered or anxious. Your face gets hot and your undertone changes.”

You raise your brows. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was challenging you.

“Yeah? Wanna bet?”

“Actually, no,” he mutters, losing any bravado and casting his eyes downward subserviently. “You have a habit of proving me wrong.”

“That’s right,” you gloat, smiling wide. Someone bumps into you, and you turn around, highly unprofessional insult locked and loaded—but it’s just a drunk girl who apologizes and stumbles off. The encounter does, however, remind you that you’re supposed to be finding a killer. “Do you think this is the best positioning? He might not be able to find us way over here.”

“You think we should move?”

You look back at him and nod, holding your hand out. He looks at it uncertainly. You waggle your fingers and infuse your words with sugar.

“Oh, come on. I don’t want to lose you. And we’re supposed to look like a couple, remember?”

Gingerly he accepts your hand. His is bigger than you’d have thought. Not nearly as freezing as your own perpetually are. It occurs to you as you grab his hand that his bone structure really is bigger than yours. He’s… tall. He is, at the end of the day, a real life adult man. His presence is palpable behind you and you enjoy the weight of his hand in yours as you tug him through the crowd, perhaps not taking the most direct route through the throng just so you can savor being able to touch him like this for a little longer.

Miraculously you spot an empty booth and slide into it. It’s a deep alcove, shadowy and secluded at the back. That’s where you settle, against black vinyl, and where you wave at Spencer to join you.

He lingers at the edge of the table, glancing around at the groups of dancing and drinking young adults.

“I don’t know. Can you even see the dance floor from back there?”

“Part of it. But I’m sure he’ll be looking in the booths for couples. He’ll come to us.”

Spencer faces you again and sighs ruefully, a begrudging smirk playing at his lips as he slides into the booth and joins you against the back wall. His side is warm against yours. He smells nice. Clean. Almost herbal, like patchouli or vetiver.

“What? You really hate sitting next to me that much?”

Spencer’s lips part wryly before he speaks, like he almost thought better of it but decided to anyway.

“I think you just wanted a reason to get me alone and secluded so you can finally accost me.”

Your knees bump. You lean into it.

“Accost you? That seems harsh,” you pout, leaning toward him clandestinely to undo his top button.

“I don’t see how. You are literally trying to take my clothing off as we speak.”

“I’m just increasing your sex appeal. It’ll be good, trust me. Maybe you’ll even end up taking one of those girls from the bar home. Or—back to the hotel, I should say.”

Spencer covers your fussy hands with his own sweetly, like he can sense the true jealousy simmering underneath the sarcasm, and places them in your lap. The touch lingers.

“Are you always like this?” He murmurs, voice lower than you can recall ever hearing it and twisted into the shape of a smile.

“Only with you, Dr. Reid. Speaking of, how about you? Do you flirt with many other FBI agents on official business?”

“Just the one. She’s kind of a full-time job.”

“Shut up. I’m basically your babysitter. If anything, I should be paid extra for dealing with you.”

“Attempting to seduce your charge seems like a bad business model. There are definitely some ethical issues there.”

His hands still rest on yours. You lace your fingers with his and speak sweetly, meeting his eyes best you can in the dark.

“I wasn’t aware I was seducing you. Do you feel seduced?”

He’s the first to look away after a few seconds pass—pulls your hands apart gently, politely arranging them back on your lap.

“I think you’re incorrigible and a terrible influence. In all honesty, you terrify me and more often than not I walk away from our interactions a little confused.”

You clap a hand to your heart, the bare skin revealed by your low cut dress warm under your fingers.

“Spencer… that kind of turned me on.”

He just looks at you for a moment, a hint of a smile on his pretty face, long enough to make you feel a bit nervous.

Then he’s leaning forward, and unconsciously so are you, almost forgetting to breath when you’re practically pressed against him in this booth and he’s whispering so low and sweet into your ear.

“He’s watching us. Right across the floor, next to the girl in the blue dress. White button up and a leather jacket.” His hand slides over yours, fingers skimming your collarbone in the process as he interlocks your grasp once more. “Keep your hand right here and lean closer. We need to maintain his interest.”

“I don’t think I can lean any closer,” you breathe, hoping it doesn’t register as nervous as it really is. You’re supposed to be the confident one who teases him. “But if you want me to sit on your lap, just ask. I won’t say no.”

He chuckles, too loud to be amorous. It’s clearly genuine. It sounds like the way his reddened cheeks always look. It almost does more for you than the bedroom voice.

“You… you are beyond help. I don’t think you could be appropriate if your life depended on it.”

Slowly you pull back so you can look into his eyes—much closer than you normally have an excuse to. They dart wildly over your face, partially obscured by the dark which cuts shadows deep into the dramatic hollows of his bone structure. He really is so pretty.

You glance toward the man, who’s pretending not to watch you. When you focus your attention back on Spencer, sliding your hand up the curve of his jaw, you find yourself making a dangerous wish. You find yourself wishing that you didn’t have an audience. That this wasn’t all for show. That neither of you had earpieces in.

His pulse hammers under your little finger, and his lips part slightly as he doesn’t have the wherewithal to not glance at yours. He’s so unaware of how obvious he’s being. It’s cute.

You run the tips of your fingers through the hair in front of his ear, the one sans bluetooth, pushing it back, before leaning in close once more to whisper.

“Good thing we’re not going for appropriate. Actually—your hands could stand to wander a little more, Dr. Reid. Let me know if you need me to tell you where to put them.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic

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gold-onthe-inside · 2 months ago

Text

greylist

verb (transitive): to hold (someone) in suspicion, without actually excluding him or her from a particular activity

who? spencer reid (s6, post-JJ, pre-Doyle) x tech analyst!reader summary: when your celebratory drink with penelope is disrupted, you end up at a bar with the person you famously cannot get along with even if you were paid... until you do. based on: request by @brownbunnyb: I’m thinking something along lines of me being Penelope’s best friend and coworker and she sees how much me and Spencer bump heads and she sets me up on a blind date and the guy end up being Spencer (she does it on purpose) and we get a little too tipsy and he invites me over to his place and I stay the night and he confess his feelings bc he assumed I was sleeping word count: 3.4k a/n: r is an intelligence analyst for the counterintelligence division, and roommates with penelope, famous for not having any of the pleasance and charm that penelope does (the grumpy to her sunshine) and for not getting along with men, including spencer. i may have gotten carried away with it.

You don't get many off days in counterintelligence, but when you find a chain of coded messages about a military officer in Alaska trying to sell classified documents to the Russians, and manipulate him right into the hands of an undercover operative, you have to celebrate somehow. There aren't many easy wins in your line of work, not like Penelope who comes to your shared apartment with an arrest on her belt almost every week, and when you hear the front door close, Penelope walking in with her heels in hand, you have no doubt that she's on a high from a solved case.

"Hey, so I figured we'd leave in 15," you said, stepping out from the bathroom in a sleek black dress with a cut out by your hips, your walk stuttering at the sight of Kevin in the doorway behind Penelope, who was wincing. "And you forgot," you said, unsurprised, your hands falling from your ear where you had just fixed a gold hoop.

"I'm so sorry," Penelope cried, rushing towards you. "I swear, I swear I had it written somewhere that we were going out, but this reservation opened up at L'Auberge, and you know we've been on the waitlist for months--"

You held up your hand, stopping her. "Go," you said, with patience that seemed to be bottomless when it came to Penelope.

"I swear, I will make it up to you right now," Penelope said and you frowned instantly as she pulled out her phone.

"You don't have to--"

"Ba-bup, nothing out of you," Penelope interrupted, picking up the phone. "You're going to a bar. I don't wanna hear any excuses, you still owe me for Friday. You will be there by 7." She looked to you. "7?"

You shrugged helplessly, glancing at Kevin who just seemed amused by his girlfriend.

"Where are you going?" Penelope repeated the question, then looked at you.

"Crown and Crow," you said, knowing better than to get in Penelope's way, watching her as she repeated it to the phone, then snapped it shut, looking at you with a giddy smile.

"Okay, have fun, don't be mean, and have a cute cocktail on me," Penelope said, kissing your cheek, leaving a smear of lip gloss. "You deserve the win," she said, then promptly disappeared off to the bathroom to change for her own date.

You looked at Kevin. "Home by midnight, no more than three drinks, capiche?" you said, firmly and he held up his hands in surrender to you.

"I couldn't afford it," he said and you nodded, satisfied. You slipped into your classic black pumps, grabbed your purse, keys, and a black coat before stepping out, the door closing before you remember to ask Penelope who your date for the night was.

You're on your first drink when he arrived, almost spitting it out at the sight of Spencer as he searched the bar for Penelope. If you rush into the bathroom, maybe you don't have to deal with him tonight… but then he spots you, and frowns as he raised a hand before walking over. "No Penelope?"

"Date with Kevin," you replied, not hiding your sourness. Don't be mean, my ass. This is her making it up to me?

"Oh," he said, looking confused. "So… why am I here?"

"Evidently, Pen's playing matchmaker tonight," you said, keeping your voice even and he sighed.

"Should've figured," he said quietly, then gestured to the empty seat beside her. "May I?"

"Since you're here," you replied, sipping your rum and coke.

"I take it I'm not who you expected," he said as he flagged the bartender for a soda.

"Given the history of our interactions, no, you're not." You watched his arm fall to the oak bar, his hazel eyes on you, sparkling darkly in the low amber light.

"Disappointed?" he asked and you took a breath in.

"It's not all you," you said, tipping the glass as you take a sip. "Supposed to be celebrating an op, but Penelope bailed."

"Criswell's case?" he asked and you sighed, his question stinging like the back of your throat.

"Criswell's case," you scoffed. "I do all the work and he's the one they credit? I swear to God, you Special Agents--"

"It's hardly my fault that Criswell's name gets put on the report. He was the arresting officer--"

"Only because I led the guy right to him," you argued, looking at Spencer and then you just sighed. "You don't get it. You're not an intelligence analyst."

"No, I do," he insisted. "I know you think we all come home with wins every week, but it's not me, or the BAU, or even the FBI that gets the credit. It's the local police department who can't pull their heads out of the asses, sorry, long enough to realise that all they need is to empathise to catch their killers."

You looked at him, with a mix of surprise and respect, and a little amusement at his apology after saying 'asses', and he ran out of steam at your look. "T-The point is, I get it," he continued. "You probably don't sleep for days, and if you do, it's not enough. You're probably going to suffer from debilitating eye strain in your 70s, and all for some half-wit tactical analyst to get the credit. You're right to be pissed, but getting mad at me isn't gonna get you anywhere."

You wet your stained lips, downing the rest of your glass, and stare at it for a moment. "I've been kind of unfair to you, haven't I?" you asked, looking at him.

Spencer looked at his clear glass, bubbles of soda rising to the surface. "Kind of feels diminutive," he said and you laugh, a brightness in your eyes that wasn't there a minute ago.

"Be grateful I admitted anything at all," you said and he nodded graciously.

"Of course. Thank you for the bare minimum," he said and you huff.

"Look at that, the robot knows sarcasm," you teased and he made an offended noise before watching you snicker. "So, just the soda or are you gonna drink something stronger?"

"Just the soda," he said and you know better than to ask as you order yourself a mojito. "So, how did you do it?" Spencer asked. "How'd you track him down?"

You shrugged, not particularly in a bragging mood. "It wasn't that hard, really. I already had an alert set up for requests for encryption keys, and there was no reason for this military officer in Alaska to request them. He didn't have the clearance or approval from someone who did to have eyes on it. All I did was figure out what he wanted access to and fudge it and put a code in so I could track the user before giving him the encryption key. Then it was just a matter of posing as a buyer for the intel."

"Child's play," Spencer remarked dryly, his lips curling and you shrugged.

"If you can learn sarcasm, I can learn humility," you said, sipping your mojito and it was his turn to laugh quietly.

"It's a new look on you," he said, meeting your gaze, and you're not sure if it's the rum, but there's a moment of tension, and you're half-convinced he's leaning in to kiss you when your phone beeped and it shatters like you've dropped your glass. You fumbled through your purse for your cell, pulling it out to find a text message from Penelope.

Penny: Kevin's staying the night.

How was this night getting worse by the minute?

You: Can't you go to his place?

No reply. It turned out your bottomless patience wasn't so limitless, and Spencer could tell.

"Problem?" he asked, raising his soda to finish it.

"It appears I'm homeless for the night," you replied, downing your entire mojito in one go.

"Hey, hey, slow down," he insisted, pulling the glass away from you, but it was just mint and ice now. "What do you mean?"

You grasped Spencer's shoulder. "See, Data, when two people go out on a date, which is a kind of human mating ritual, one of them offers their habitat to copulate in, never mind the other females who maybe sharing said habitat," you said, mocking and he swatted your hand away, knowing you well enough to know you were just projecting your irritation on to him.

"You could just say that Garcia was taking Kevin home, you don't have to be so--"

"Mean?" you asked hollowly and Spencer pursed his lips.

"Hostile," he replied and you nodded.

"It's fine, I'll just flirt with someone and let them take me to their place," you said, slipping off your seat.

"Hey, no," Spencer said firmly, his hands loosely grasping your arms. "A) you're drunk--"

"I had two drinks--"

"And B) Penelope would kill me if I let you become one of our cases. You can stay with me."

"What? No," you protested. "I'm mean and unfair to you, why would you--"

"Because no matter how much disdain you hold for me, I'm not actually a bad guy," he said patiently. "Can you honestly tell me you trust anyone else in this bar to not take advantage of you?"

You sucked your cheek in and sighed. "No," you said petulantly, and Spencer stood up, holding your coat up for you to help you into it.

He doesn't drive and you share Esther with Penelope who needed it tonight, so you're on the Metro back to his place, Spencer's hand on your waist keeping you standing until there's a place to sit. You realise, rather dully, that if you weren't wearing your coat, his hand would have found the cut-out of your waist, and you wonder what it feels like. "I'm never drinking rum again," you murmured. Clearly, it was poisoning your mind.

"Sure, you won't," he said dryly, standing in front of you and you have to look up at him to see his eyes.

"You're really tall," you said, distastefully. You don't like having to crane your neck just to look at him… not that you like looking at him. It's easier to be mean, you decide, when you can look him in the eye.

"I'm sorry, the doctor said there's no cure for it," he replied, clearly mocking.

"I could always lop your knees off," you said helpfully, smiling up at him and he snorted.

"I think they've been through enough." He watched the frown form on your forehead, and, stupid impulse, he moved his hand to smooth it out. "I was shot in the knee a couple years ago," he explained. "Reconstructive surgery."

"Must make kneeling hard," you said without thinking and he tilted his head at you, his hand returning to your waist.

"Was that a joke?" he asked and you shook your head.

"No, I'm just--" The train jolted and Spencer grabbed your hips before you could fall, your hands on his arms. "Embarrassing," you finished as he righted you, then guided your hands to the pole. He was warm, smelling like Irish espresso. It must be nice, being his girlfriend, smelling that all the time. What is wrong with me?

The rest of the ride is silent, and then he's guiding you out of the carriage and onto the station closest to his apartment. He tapped both your metro cards, which you don't remember giving to him, before walking out of the subway with his hand on the small of your back, and you're out of quips and clever things to say. You didn't think that was possible, but maybe the train jolted it out of you. Or maybe the rum did. But you're silent all the way to his apartment, and a little curious about how he lives.

He lets you in, letting go of your waist, and you don't see how his hand clenches, too busy taking the apartment in. The wall's a lovely green and he has lamps that remind you of old libraries with the green steel shade, and he has bookshelves everywhere, nothing with a contemporary cover on it. They're all old hardbounds that you're compelled to touch reverently, foreign titles that you're able to decipher. "Of course you have War and Peace in the original Russian," you scoffed, tracing the golden Russian letters while he set your purse down on his coffee table.

"You can read it?" he asked, surprised and you look at him with narrowed eyes.

"How do you think I posed as a Russian buyer of international secrets?" you asked and he held his hands up in surrender.

"My bad," he admitted, trying not to look impressed. But it was the truth, you were impressive. It was impressive enough how skilled you were at coding and creating algorithms, able to take over for Penelope without complaint from anyone but Derek who would get shut down every time he tried to call you baby girl. In a lot of ways, you were like Penelope, always ready with a pop-culture reference and a barb, preferring steel over sexual innuendo. In the early days, he had been sensitive to it, avoiding you when he could, but he'd seen your softer side when Penelope had been shot, how you'd been unafraid to yell at Rossi for pushing the boundaries of interrogation with her. He knew you were kind, really, you just weren't very generous with it.

He filled up a glass of water, walking over to you, doing his best to keep his gaze off your waist as he passed it to you, noticing you perusing the Art of War… in the original Chinese. "Don't tell me… Chinese too?"

"Kind of a prerequisite for counterintelligence," you said, swapping the book for the water, and an uncomfortable expression flashed across your face, shifting in your heels. He was an idiot, he should have noticed it. You were standing for so long in the train. You frowned as he knelt silently, hand grasping your ankle and you lifted your heel so he could take it off. One, then the other. "Thanks," you said quietly, unused to his kindness.

"It's not that hard," he said, standing up, putting your heels by your purse.

"What is?" you asked and he looked back at you.

"Kneeling," he said simply and it's stupid but your heart stops for a second, caught off-guard. "I'm gonna get you something more comfortable to wear. Finish that."

Oh, this was not good. You were not going to catch feelings for a man you've told everyone you know, which is mostly Penelope, and by association Kevin, that you hate. Your phone beeps and you pick it up.

Penny: Talked to Emily, you can stay at hers.

Escape. Emily can pick you up, you get along with Emily just fine, Emily's not a tall brunet with hazel eyes and makes butterflies erupt in your stomach. Emily's safe. You could be safe… or you could be with Spencer.

You: Don't bother, I'm already at Spencer's. You owe me so big.

You simply hope it sounds more casual and unbothered than you feel.

"So, I couldn't find anything that fit-" he started and you flinched as he walked back into the room, holding sweats and a t-shirt, almost dropping your glass, and he looked at you with wide eyes. "Sorry, carpeted floors," he said, assuming that was why you were so startled, and walked over, swapping your empty glass with the clothes. "They'll have to do, I'm afraid."

You nodded. "Bathroom?"

"Inside, on your left," he said, frowning as you rushed away.

You have to roll up the legs of the pants so you can actually walk in them, too afraid to ask for shorts for the fear that he might just hand you a pair of boxers, and then you really would crack, just like that.

You stepped out eventually, finding him setting up the couch with blankets and pillows, and he looked at you, his expression unreadable in the low light. "I know, they're baggy and I look awful."

"No," he said quickly, sitting on the couch. "You don't. Look awful, that is. Even if they are baggy."

"Right," you said, if only to move on to something else. "Um… do you have any cotton balls or something? I have all this make-up--"

"Sure, yeah," he said, moving and almost tripping over the coffee table in his rush to service you.

"--wouldn't want to ruin your pillows," you said to deaf ears, following him with a frown as he retrieves a cosmetic bag from his dresser. "Why do you have that?"

"Uh…" He looked at you with a wincing expression. "Halloween," he said, hoping it would suffice, and it did. You've seen him come into work at the end of every October with props and gimmicks. Emily ended up pawning off a Baba Yaga head to you that still hangs in your cubicle. You've named her Meredith.

"Right," you replied and he handed it to you.

"What, no clever retort?" he asked and you shook your head.

"No, I think the cosmetic bag speaks for itself," you said, showing him the pumpkin shaped cartoons on it, and he sighed.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," he said dryly and you snickered as you headed to the bathroom.

"Does Morgan know about your clown make-up?" you asked and he lingered in the doorway.

"Please don't," he begged, watching you dab removal cream on the pad and wipe your make-up away. You're teasing and mean, hostile and snappish, but you're not cruel. You've kept secrets for him before, like the magazine cover of him and Lila from 2005 that Emily almost finds if not for you distracting her with a linguistic question, your hand stealthily picking it out of his drawer, and then tossing it to him when she turned her back.

"Depends, do you have clown shoes somewhere in your closet?" you asked, smiling as you ridicule him.

"No, the shoes I rented, the nose I own, the hair I spraypainted," he said and you look at him.

"Seriously?" you asked with a giddy grin. "Please tell me there are pictures."

"What? No!" he retorted, in that high pitch where you know he's lying, "Even if there were, why would I show you?"

"Because you know I can find them anyway," you retorted.

"Not if they're not digital," he snapped back, thinking he's pulled a fast one until he sees your devious grin. "No. Absolutely not."

"You've made a horrible mistake letting me into your home," you said, grinning giddily.

"You're a terrible person," he said, blocking your way bodily. "Sadistic, twisted, horrible--"

"I'm gonna find it," you said, stepping towards him.

"Not if I lock you in here all night," he said, but it was weak, he knew it was. He'd cave the minute he heard your pleading voice, or pretending to vomit. You tilt your head at him.

"Show me the pictures, Spencer," you said and his shoulders sag.

"Alright, come on," he said, resigned, leading you to the bedroom and pulling at a locked drawer in his desk before picking up the album. You plopped onto the bed, curling your feet up underneath you, Spencer sliding into bed beside you with the album on his thighs. "Please don't be mean," he asked, looking at you with a pleading look.

"If I don't have something nice to say, I won't speak," you promised, and he opens it up, knowing it's the best you can offer. You instantly clap a hand over your mouth at the sight of ten year old Spencer dressed like a Russian gymnast. So, he was that extra as a kid too.

"You… dressed like that all night, and you survived?" you asked, looking at him and he shrugged.

"I didn't actually do much trick-or-treating. But my mom would help me make my costume and I'd watch scary movies when she was asleep."

There's a Ghostbuster's costume, a vampire costume, a Frankenstein costume, all creative and handmade, and you watch Spencer age through the photographs, until he's 14 and you're half-asleep on his shoulder.

A fondness warms his chest as he tucked hair behind your ear. He's never seen you unmade like this. You weren't as flamboyant as Penelope (you once said Bowie wasn't as flamboyant as Penelope), usually in greys, browns and blacks, with plain jewellery and simple make-up, and tonight had only gone up in tone by your eyeshadow, grey and silver, with black eyeliner.

But now? You looked vulnerable and pretty, unarmed, and he carefully laid you against the pillow. Maybe he thinks he'll get over it if he says it, or 'manifest' it like Penelope says, and it's not exactly a heavy thing he says, but he whispered it as he stroked your hair back in place.

"I wish you liked me as much as I like you."

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