thechaoslibrarian

[thechaoslibrarian]

Weakness

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You use Bucky’s only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass.

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: feigning injuries; a sprained ankle; bruises; hiding injuries; combat fighting training; sparring sessions; mutual pining; Bucky being a doting sweetheart; Bucky being smug; Bucky being worried

Author’s Notes: This idea has been sitting in my drafts as a rough outline for months lol and I finally got the inspiration to make something out of it. I hope you will enjoy this! ♡

Masterlist

You love sparring with Bucky.

Maybe because you love the man.

But there is so much more to that, honestly.

You have basically sparred with anyone out of the team.

Steve is methodical. Always a teacher, always Captain. He calls out corrections in a way he does orders, his patience long-practiced. His strikes are accurate, economical, as if he calculates the exact amount of force necessary to bring you down and delivers it precisely, nothing wasted. But you always know he is holding back. He does not say it but you feel it in the way he controls every movement, never quite giving you the full weight of his strength. You learn from him, but there is always a ceiling to what he will allow you to take from the fight.

Natasha is sharp. She doesn’t coach you, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t hold back. She fights you like she fights anyone. You feel the sting of a bruise blooming before you even realize she struck you. And yet, when you get a hit in, when you shift fast enough to slip past her guard, her smirk is quicksilver - pleased, challenging, like she has just discovered something worth sinking her teeth into.

Wanda fights like she plays. Some days, she keeps her powers at bay, working only with what her body allows, light on her feet, swaying rather than striking. But she is not used to this. Not using her powers in a fight. So most of the time, she teases, powers tugging at your wrist mid-swing, a flicker of scarlett at the edge of your vision before she is suddenly behind you.

Sam is solid. He fights with his whole body, never wasting energy on anything that doesn’t serve his goal. He takes up space, keeps you on the defenses, his moves seamless. But he is generous too, throwing you a verbal lifeline mid-fight - “too slow, come on,” - challenging you in encouraging you. And when you get him down, he grins, bright and wide, like he wants you to win.

Clint fights like someone who doesn’t need to win, just needs to keep moving. He is slippery, dodging rather than blocking, grinning rather than growling. He makes a game of it, laughing at your frustration, forcing you to loosen up, to adapt, to try something unorthodox. He doesn’t spar to overpower. He spars to frustrate, to outlast, to make you think three steps ahead.

But Bucky.

Bucky watches you. Always. Even when he isn’t facing you directly, even when he’s standing in the shadows at the edge of the gym, you have his attention. It is something you have learned to steady yourself beneath. Because it never really seems to waver.

He is mindful. Of your form. Of your tells. Of how far he can push you. He does not go easy on you. Despite the obvious differences in height and weight and him being a super soldier. But he fights you like an opponent worth fighting. He fights you like himself. Precise. Controlled. Thoughtful. When he corrects you, it is not instruction, just a simple adjustment with the brush of his metal fingers nudging your wrist into a better angle, a small nod when you adapt.

And when you take him down - when you surprise him, when you shift your weight at the last moment and send him to the mat - there is that laugh breaking out. He is not stunned at the way you overpowered him. Not disbelieving. He merely laughs. A short burst of warmth, rare and genuine, something boyish in the way it escapes.

You live for that laugh.

Because Bucky knows your competence. He does not gift you victories because he knows you don’t need them in the first place. He expects you to win. He knows you can. And will. He does not say it outright, but you learned to read the subtle body language in the years of knowing him - the glimmer of something pleased in his eyes, the upturn at the corner of his mouth.

And when he helps you up - fingers gently curling around your wrist to pull you to your feet - he lingers just a little too long.

So yes, you love sparring with Bucky.

Basically, on the first day as an Avenger it was drilled into you that knowing your enemy is everything - know what you are up against, who you are fighting, how they move, what makes them weak.

You are good at this. At observing. You know how to study people, how to pick out patterns, how to find the smallest crack in an otherwise impenetrable wall and press until it splits wide open.

Still, Bucky Barnes is not an easy person to read.

But perhaps it was just a little too much fun figuring out what exactly his weaknesses are.

He doesn’t have many. His body is conditioned for war, his mind sharpened, his instincts too honed to give much away. If he has vulnerabilities, they are subtle. Nearly imperceptible to anyone who isn’t looking closely enough.

But you have been looking closely. For the better part of a year.

And then, about five months ago, something clicked.

Bucky Barnes does have a weakness.

A glaring one, in fact.

One so obvious you nearly laughed out loud when you finally pieced it together.

It’s you.

You are his weakness.

Bucky is a creature of routines.

The kind that keep him grounded in a world that still feels like shifting sand beneath his feet. And somehow, you have become part of them.

You don’t remember when it started, exactly. But you know that when you stumble into the kitchen in the morning, still half-asleep, Bucky is already there. Always. Sometimes with coffee already poured for you, sometimes just sitting at the counter like he’s lost, waiting like he’s been expecting something. You.

You tested it, once. You woke up later than usual, wanting to see if he still lingered. And sure enough, when you finally stepped into the kitchen, he was there, nursing a long-gone cup of coffee that was somehow still halfway filled, gaze fixed on the entryway even before you entered. Like he hadn’t been planning on leaving until he saw you. It’s when he loosened his grip on the poor mug. Flexing his fingers, as if he was close to shattering it.

Bucky is not a fan of crowded spaces.

He likes corners, walls at his back, exits in view. He keeps a respectable distance from most people, moving on silent feet, always aware of what’s around him.

Except when it comes to you.

You began to notice that in the common room. How he lets you sit closer than he does with anyone else, how he doesn’t shift away when his knee bumps his. How, when you walk side by side, he moves to make space for you without thinking. How he stops standing near the door when you are in a room, like some unconscious part of him doesn’t feel the need to watch his six when you are there.

And then there are the small things.

The way his arm comes up instinctively when you reach past him for something, like he is preparing to steady you or get it down for you if it is something you can’t reach. The way he steps in front of you if something startled him, body moving before anything else.

Little things. Automatic things.

And the most endearing part is, that he genuinely does not seem like he knows he is doing all that.

Bucky is strategic on missions.

He follows the plan without a hitch, keeps his cool and executes flawlessly.

Until you are in danger.

Then he gets frantic. He even tends to snap at Steve. He gets tighter, sharper, more lethal. It seems like instinct.

Just last month, you got cut along your thigh that you managed to patch up before the mission was even completely over. But Bucky was stoic and brooding. Frown on his face the whole time. He saw the blood, saw the way you had a limp in your step and something utterly cold settled in his eyes.

Sam later mentioned to you with a weird wiggle of his eyebrow that the man whose knife slashed you never had the chance to land another hit on anyone.

You started testing him in small ways. Seeing if he moves when you move. If he adjusts his strategy to keep you in his line of sight. If he listens to your voice above all others in a debriefing, even when Steve is talking.

And he does. Every time.

Bucky got mad at Clint once because he ate the last donut that was meant for you. Clint was genuinely terrified. He even went out to get you new ones.

Bucky picks up stuff from the common room he knows belong to you and takes it to your room.

Just yesterday, there was a book on your nightstand. One you had mentioned offhand in conversation weeks ago, something you said you wanted to read someday. And you know for a fact that Bucky got dragged into the city by Sam and Steve the day before.

After years as an Avenger, you learn to fool people.

You know how to smile when you need to, how to shake things off, how to deal with missions gone wrong or people unsaved.

But you can’t fool Bucky.

He just knows when something is off. He notices the way your voice shifts, the way your shoulders carry tension differently. You don’t have to say anything. He just knows.

And he never pushes. He lingers. He makes himself available. He sits beside you in silence when you don’t feel like talking. He glares at everyone who wants something unnecessary from you in times like those.

And then he would just go, come on, let’s go do something.

It is basically just watching a movie or cooking a dinner or baking cookies, but everything is more fun with him, and soon enough your smile touches your eyes again.

Bucky does not share.

He does not share his food. He does not share his belongings.

But he does with you.

When you are out and freezing, he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over your shoulders without a word.

He lets you take fries off his plate and lets you drink from his cup, much to Sam’s surprise and disgruntlement.

Bucky does not talk about his nightmares.

Not to anyone.

But on certain nights, when sleep refuses to hold him and his mind is drowning in things long past but never gone, he finds you.

You were in the common room when it first started. Months ago. Nursing a mug of tea, when he wandered in, looking lost and exhausted.

With a single glance at him, you nodded to the couch, shifting over to make space, and he came sitting down without a word.

He let you talk. He even seemed to relish it. Intertwining his hands at his front and laying his head back against the backside of the couch, closing his eyes and listening to your mocked aggravation at the fact that Sam left a half-eaten sandwich on the counter again.

He stayed until the sun crept in through the windows, slight snoring making you smile.

It happened again. And then again.

After a while, you started recognizing the signs when his nightmares are getting worse again. The way he drifts into whatever room you are in and stays locked in his own when you are gone on a mission or out with the girls. How he leans against the doorway for a second longer than necessary before stepping inside, like he is debating whether he has the right to be there.

Sometimes, he’d pretend he’s just passing through. He would linger in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t drink while you are having your conversation with Wanda and Natasha.

One night, he even came to your room. Knocking and standing there with his hands fidgeting at his sides, eyes shamefully lowered, looking so much like a puppy in search of some love.

He didn’t pretend. He didn’t offer excuses. He just stood there and you saw it in his eyes.

You took him in your arms and then you took him in.

First, he sat down on the floor beside your bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. He didn’t say anything for a long time. You just sat beside him on the ground, laying your head on his shoulder.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, head falling onto yours.

He would fall asleep like that. Until you managed to get him to lie down in your bed beside you. He usually sleeps like a baby when he’s with you.

You are not stupid. Neither are you naive. You have always been good at reading people, at knowing them, at watching them, and deciphering the things they do not say.

And you know what this might mean.

You certainly know what it means to you.

The way your pulse picks up when Bucky walks into a room so casually because you are there. The way your stomach flutters when his gaze lingers on you. The way your chest gets so unbearably full when he does all those smallest things for you.

But you think you also might know what it means to him. He seeks you out for everything, on instinct or not. Smiling seems to come so easily to him when he is with you. You are the only person he lets into his personal space - the only person he doesn’t startle away from when it comes to accidentally touching.

But Bucky Barnes is not a man who allows himself to want things easily.

So, you will not force yourself upon him. You will not push. You will not demand. You will not take what he does not freely offer.

Because you understand that he does not fear pain, or war, or perhaps even death.

But he fears something real, something good, something that cannot be fought off with fists or buried beneath old ghosts.

Because he does not think it is something he deserves yet.

But you are willing to wait. Until he is ready. Until he is sure. Until he knows that this is what he wants.

And if he never is, if he never comes to you with certainty in his hands, if he never crosses the space between you - then you will wait anyway.

Because for him, you would wait forever.

****

“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

There’s a smug grin on his face as he’s circling you.

And you know why it is there.

Because you are currently three losses deep into a losing streak against Bucky. And that just won’t do. You need a win.

You move first, closing the distance fast, testing his defenses. He blocks. A quick jab - he dodges. A feint - he doesn’t bite.

He knows your patterns, how you move, how you think. But you know him, too.

You go low, aiming for his legs, but he anticipates and shifts out of reach. “Getting predictable there, doll,” he drawls, smirking.

Yeah, you’re gonna wipe that off.

Rolling your eyes, you adjust. A punch goes up that isn’t meant to land, just to see how he reacts. He blocks high, but his balance shifts and there is a brief opening. A second and you are too late.

You strike fast, sweeping low again, and this time, you actually catch him. Not enough to take him down, but a start.

Bucky huffs, rolling his neck. “Not good enough, but better,” he teases, smirk still in place.

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, lunging again.

He meets you halfway, and for a moment, it’s just movement - sharp and fast and fluid, but you keep your balance. You duck, weave, block.

You land a hit, but it barely fazes him. He grabs your wrist, twisting - flipping you, but you are prepared, rolling and springing back up.

“That all you got?”

“Come find out.”

He laughs brightly before going in for attack. You block his strike, twisting out of reach.

It’s definitely not all you got.

He is not expecting you to cheat.

Not that you call it cheating anyway.

You decide that it’s time to take advantage of that weakness of his.

After all, it has worked before. And it will work again.

Bucky feints left. You dodge, pivot, but let your foot catch just so against the mat to send you off balance. The stumble isn’t exaggerated - it doesn’t need to be. You land on your side, letting out a sharp breath as if this is not exactly what you were expecting, and grab your ankle, wincing.

Bucky stops immediately. Just like always. It’s the first time you feign your ankle getting hurt but he reacts all the same.

His shift is instant. His whole body tenses. Taking a step toward you with his brows furrowed tightly, he scans you like he’s already running through every possible way to help you. Carrying you to the medical wing, for example.

“Shit, doll. You okay?” His voice is softer now. Concerned. So genuinely worried, you might actually feel bad.

He crouches without hesitation, without a thought, eyes so intensely fixed on you. And that smug grin is as predicted wiped cleanly off his face.

“Lemme see-”

He reaches out to you but that is when you strike.

You twist up, leg sweeping out and knocking his feet from under him. His surprised noise is so satisfying as he goes down, flat on his back, sprawled across the mat.

Silence.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Bucky groans loudly.

You are kneeling beside him, grinning, chest heaving. “Kinda needed that win, Barnes. No bad feelings, yeah?”

Bucky just stares at the ceiling for a long moment, one hand scrubbing down his face. He exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath, something that sounds suspiciously like every goddam time.

The last time you used your little trick on him, you had sold a jab against your side, staggering back and exhaling sharply as if he hit some sensitive point. He froze instantly, eyes wide. And you spun him into a flawless takedown.

The time before that it was your shoulder. All you needed was a slight grimace in fake pain and his whole demeanor changed in an instant. His hands went up slightly, a step in your direction and that was your opening to duck under his arm, and bring him down with a precise twist.

Yeah, alright, people might believe that that technique is a little mean and it certainly wouldn’t help you at all in the open field, but Clint did tell you to try something unorthodox.

You stretch, still smirking, and tilt your head at him. “You know, you’d think after falling for this multiple times, you’d have learned by now.”

Bucky’s head rolls to the side and he glares at you. Not in anger, not even close. Just that specific kind of exasperation that you have come to learn is something only you get to see from him.

He huffs. “Should’ve known you’d pull this shit again.”

“Should have. And here I thought I am predictable.”

He gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“Can’t believe I was worried.”

“Aww, you were?” you say sarcastically, lightly. Almost in a sly sing-song voice, because is is always worried. That’s the whole point of this.

Another hand drags down his face, but there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

****

You exhale deeply, rolling your shoulders, as you make your way down to the gym.

Your muscles are stiff. Everything aches in that dull, stubborn way that promises it will get worse before it gets better.

The bruises that paint your ribs throb with your pulse. You remember the sharp, biting crack when you hit the ground.

It was a mission for Steve, Nat, and you, though you definitely could have used some backup.

You feel terrible.

And you hadn’t told Bucky any of that when you came home yesterday, sometime late.

Instead, you sent him a quick I’m fine. Training tomorrow? and buried yourself in sleep before he could pry. You know how he gets, after all. How his worry manifests, his eyes linger and his mouth tightens when you brush him off. You did not have the energy for it last night. And you don’t have it now. He does not have to know what hits you have taken due to your own recklessness. You already got a lecture from Cap. Don’t need it from his best friend.

So you show up. Because, if you don’t, he will know something is wrong.

Bucky is already waiting for you, standing loose and ready on the mat. His eyes snap up the moment you enter, scanning you the way he always does. Checking.

You ignore his gaze.

“Ready to get your ass kicked?” you say, tossing your water bottle onto the bench, forcing something light into your voice.

He smirks, arms crossed. “That what’s gonna happen?”

You step onto the mat, careful not to wince, careful to keep your breath even despite the sharpness pulling at your ribs. “Don’t sound so doubtful, Barnes. I’ll let you eat the mat.”

He snorts, tilting his head. “I sure like to see you try.”

He raises his hands, shifting into a stance, watching you closely. Too closely. There is something probing in his gaze today.

“How’d the mission go? Steve mentioned you guys ran into some-”

You don’t give him time to finish - time to think.

You move, fast, hoping to catch him off guard.

He sidesteps, but you strike again.

And immediately regret it.

Your ribs scream. Punishing. Your breath stutters, but you grit your teeth and keep going, keep pushing forward and attacking because if you pause, he will most definitely notice.

It goes on for perhaps a minute and you think you might actually be able to bite away the pain your whole body is consumed with, but then you stumble.

It’s a half-second of hesitation, a misstep that normally wouldn’t happen. But it causes you to trip away a few steps. Sharp pain courses through your ribs and a hand instinctively shoots up to your side. A hiss slips past your lips. Loud enough for him to hear.

But instead of reacting the way he always does - immediately stopping, immediately reaching - he just huffs amused, shaking his head.

“Bad time for trying that trick again, sweetheart. Shoulda known better.” There is that smugness in his tone.

His voice is light, teasing. His eyes are sharp, watching.

You grit your teeth, saying nothing.

He thinks you’re faking.

Which - fine. You have done this a few times. But now, with every movement grinding against the ache in your ribs, you wish he would just stop you.

Because it’s getting harder to hide.

It’s getting harder to see.

Bucky seems confused for a second when you don’t react to him at all, but doesn’t have time to act on it as you are going in for the next hit.

And Bucky dodges you too easily like he doesn’t even need to try. You swing again, slower than you should be, weaker than you should be - and he sidesteps, frowning.

“Tryin’ a new strategy?” he asks, but his voice is careful. His eyes are assessing.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just go again, ignoring the way your body protests, ignoring the way you are moving wrong like you are just a second behind yourself. You hope maybe muscle memory will carry you through.

It doesn’t seem like it.

Bucky stopped throwing punches himself, only staying in defense mode and he won’t stop fucking looking at you.

And then you pivot too fast - twist wrong.

White-hot pain flares through your side so fiercely, it rips the breath from your lungs. A harsh, unsteady sound falls out. You can’t catch it. You stagger, grip tightening into fists, trying to push through.

But Bucky’s expression now definitely shifted. Amusement gone. Smugness gone. His face is hard.

You ignore that and try to go in for the next hit, but Bucky steps in fast, too fast for you to counter in your state, hooking an arm around you, pressing your back against his chest. He doesn’t throw you - he could, easily, he would - but he just halts your movement, stopping you clean in your tracks.

The pain spikes again and you gasp sharply. Your knees nearly buckle and Bucky’s grip on you tightens.

His hands are firm around you. Steady. But his breathing is not. It’s fast, strained, the muscles in his arms locking as he keeps you upright.

“What the hell happened?” His voice is so low, so serious. There is an edge to it, teetering on loosing control.

“It’s not a big deal,” you grit out.

“Bullshit.” Now he sounds harsh.

But his fingers still press so gently into your side, checking you out.

You whimper, flinching.

And Bucky freezes.

“Shit.” He shifts his grip, an arm around your waist, moving you to face him and still trying to support you without making it worse. His heartbeat is fast. You can feel it. Even in his hands on you.

He grabs the hem of your shirt and lifts it enough to see your torso. A breath hitches. It’s not yours.

The bruises are bad. Worse than they were yesterday. Dark and sprawling across your ribs, blooming in ugly purples and reds. You feel the shift in him, the way his whole body goes still.

You watch his tense features in discomfort. His eyes are turbulent, filled with a wildness stemming from something dark that writhes beneath his skin and causes his hands to shake against you. A tremor passes his jaw.

He curses under his breath.

“You didn’t tell me.” His voice drags low.

“I didn’t think it was that bad.”

He lets out a deep and rumbling sigh. Trying to compose himself. “It is bad, Y/n! How come you thought it’s a good idea to train like this, huh?”

He meets your eyes. There is a sternness in his expression. His eyes are heavy.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

Bucky lets out a humorless breath. Closes his eyes for a moment until he takes a breath in again.

“I was already worried, doll. I always am. You know that, no?” he speaks solemnly. “You think not telling me makes this better?”

You open your mouth, then close it.

He shakes his head, exhaling profoundly through his nose. His grip tightens, but not enough to hurt you. He holds you carefully.

You take in a deep breath. “I- I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t wanna talk about it. I’m sorry, Bucky.”

His jaw is clenched and he bites his bottom lip, staring at the bruises littering your skin for a moment with eyes so dark they make you shiver.

“How did that happen? Who did this?”

You scoff half-heartedly. “Got a little messy. Pretty sure that guy’s not doing that well either.” You aim to get even the tiniest bits of amusement out of him but he might have gotten even more grim.

His touch is slow, a careful sweep of his finger across your skin, studying you for reactions.

He opens his mouth. Something on his tongue he wants to get out, but he hesitates. He swallows. Waits a few seconds. His voice is a rasp. “Don’t do that again.”

“Getting hurt on missions is kind of a normal occurrence, Buck. Not much I can do about that-”

“No, I mean-” he interrupts, voice quieter. “Don’t hide it again. Not from me. I- Just please.”

There is something in his tone that makes you stare for a while longer.

Then, you nod. Just once. But you mean it.

****

It took weeks for you to properly heal.

But finally, earlier today, you got the clearance of Dr. Cho - and Bucky, because he somehow told himself he has a say in that kind of thing - to step onto the mat again and resume training.

There is still a phantom pain in your ribs but it’s locked somewhere in the back of your mind.

But Bucky still would not stop fucking looking at you.

And it never is in a casual way. Bucky always watches you like he is waiting for something. Like his body is ready to move before his mind even has to tell it to. Like he is memorizing you, making sure nothing slips past him.

He is currently standing in front of you on the mat, rolling his shoulders, the stretch of muscle under his shirt shifting with the movement. The tension in his frame hasn’t faded, no matter how much you’ve reassured him. His fingers flex, then curl into loose fists.

Then his eyes find yours.

“Alright,” he says, voice low and edged with something firm, something not up for debate. “Don’t ever pull that shit on me again. You’re good enough as it is. No need for all that, yeah?” There is something heavy in his tone. “I'll even let you win this time if you need it so badly, doll,” he adds with a hint of humor that his voice lacked earlier, bouncing right back into your easy friendship.

You huff out a laugh and stretch your arms over your head, feeling the pull of muscles that have gone a little too long without use. “Trust me Bucky, I’ve learned my lesson.” Your voice is rather light, but it carries an edge as well.

Bucky’s jaw ticks.

There is something like guilt crossing his eyes for a second. Gone as fast as it came but you catch it. His lips are pressed together tightly and he seems to hold back an uncomfortable cough.

You’ve talked about this already. Plenty, in the weeks of your recovery. You told him you wouldn’t have believed him either after the many times you feigned injury during matches. That if anything, it was your own stubbornness that got you hurt and not him.

He only agreed with the stubborn part but he stopped bringing it up.

Still, you see he hasn’t let it go.

He carries too much guilt as it is. You don’t want him to carry more. So, you definitely won’t question his weakness during fights again. It was kind of funny, though, at least you’ll hold onto that.

You roll out your shoulders, shaking off the stiffness, then take your stance. “C’mon Barnes. You gonna fight me or just stand there looking pretty?”

His mouth twitches, a ghost of a smirk, maybe even a ghost of pink at the tip of his ears, but his eyes stay sharp.

He steps in, closing the space, moving with the same impossible control he always does.

You block his first strike, but it shakes through you. The force of it reminds you just how much power he’s holding back.

His eyes snap to your face. He doesn’t stop watching.

Studying.

Testing how you move, how much strain you can handle.

You feel yourself get into it again. The movement, the impact, the swiftness. The gym is filled with the sounds of breaths and footwork against the mat.

Bucky tests you, pushes you.

And you give as good as you get.

Your body remembers even if it’s been weeks. Your muscles adjust, wake up in a way they haven’t in too long. You move on instinct, dodging, striking, thinking, even pulling a move that you copied from Nat. One that Bucky didn’t see coming.

And it honestly looks pretty good for you, until your foot catches.

It’s nothing at first, a simple shift in weight, an uneven pivot that causes your balance to tip slightly off center. But a dizziness suddenly overcomes you and it’s too late to catch you. Your ankle twists, your knees buckle and the floor comes rushing up to you.

You hit the mat hard, landing awkwardly on your side, the jolt of pain snapping through your ankle up your whole leg, sharp enough for you to wince.

Shit.

You suck in a breath, already dreading what this looks like, what Bucky must be thinking. The timing couldn’t be worse. After everything - after the fights weeks ago, after the conversations, after the promise you just made to never feign getting hurt again - what else would he think?

But before you can lift your head, before you can force out some half-hearted quip, Bucky is already there.

Not hesitating. Not wary.

Rushing. Fast and frantic.

He’s at your side, crouching so fast his knees nearly hit the mat.

And you find yourself blinking at him stunned.

You expected him to pause. To hesitate. Maybe even get angry - to assume, even for a second, that you are feigning again, that you had just promised him not to pull that anymore but here you are.

But there is none of that.

Only the same panic from every other time you’ve dropped yourself to the ground on purpose. But this time it is real. There just was no way for him to know that. He still reacts the same.

“Where does it hurt, doll? Talk to me.”

His voice is calm, but his face is tight. His brows are drawn together, tension lining his mouth. The breaths he lets out are just a little too measured.

You blink at him, still baffled at the way with how fast he was there, how fast his reaction was.

“Just my leg,” you say, exhaling slowly. “It’s nothing. I just got dizzy and fell.”

That makes him frown, deeper than before. His hand moves so gently as he lifts the fabric of your training pants to get a look, taking your calve into his other hand. The touch sends a pulse of pain through you but you manage not to let it show on your face. You’ve had worse. You’re an Avenger, after all.

But Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly at the sight of the swollen bone and the deepening flush of color on your ankle as if it is serious.

“Might have sprained it,” he mutters gruffly, and the displeasure in his voice is so clear.

“Think I’ll live, Buck,” you quip lightly and shift, trying to stand up but his hand doesn’t let up on your leg and he presses just lightly against your shoulders to make you sit back down.

“You still feelin’ dizzy?” he asks, basically ignoring what you said, voice dipping lower. His gaze locks onto yours. Intense.

You shake your head, trying to show him how casual this whole thing is but his eyes won’t stop searching you and it makes your stomach churn.

“I’m fine, Buck.”

His eyes don’t move. He doesn’t let go.

“Why did you even believe me?” You voice it light, but there is something cautious underlining it, you can’t shake. “Could’ve faked again.”

Bucky rakes a hand through his hair with a long breath. He averts his eyes.

“Saw you go down,” he says with a shrug that seems just a little too exaggeratedly indifferent. “S’ enough for my head to go straight to hell.”

That’s certainly not something you expected him to say and you are stunned once again. But you can’t help the way your belly does some delightful flips.

“And you promised me you wouldn’t,” he adds, shoulders straightening, like he is trying to shift your attention from the words he said before. From the admission he made.

“I’m really not going to do it again,” you promise again. But you won’t forget his words.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says sweetly, certainly, but the tension of your current situation lingers.

His touch on you is so damn careful, checking and rechecking, making you tell him what and how something hurts and you almost laugh out loud at his fussing.

“Buck, it’s not like I broke it,” you point out, a laugh in your voice. “I can still-”

“You’re not gonna walk around on that.”

You lift your brow at him, at his tone, an amused smile on your face but he just stares back. Without the smiling part.

Then he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before standing to his full height, adjusting his stance before crouching slightly again.

“Alright, come on.”

You blink but his hands already settle, one beneath your legs, the other bracing your back, and you barely have time to react before he is lifting you, arms locking as he pulls you against his chest with an ease you could only dream of.

“Bucky-”

“Not a word,” he warns with a grunt.

You sigh, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Don’t care.”

****

A sprained ankle takes anywhere from two to six weeks to heal properly, depending on the severity. You’ve had a few sprained ankles in your career already, so you would know.

But yours sits on the longer end of that spectrum and it frustrates you to no end because what the fuck. You were just done healing and now you got to do it all again.

The first week, Bucky barely lets you breathe without hovering close. He is always there, catching you if you wobble because you are too damn stubborn and rather hop around the compound than use a clutch. Because that would make it too easy, wouldn’t it?

The second week you get snappish. Tony makes sure to leave the room when you enter, Sam gets defensive, Natasha just smirks what frustrates you even more, Vision is a fucking robot only answering in a robotic voice way that drives you up the wall when he gives you a list of stores around New York that sell kettle fries but you only wanted to know where they are in the compounds kitchen. And Bucky endures every tiny bit of it, only that he is entirely unmoved by your attitude. At one point you just taped your ankle and tried to go down to the gym but Bucky stopped you before you could reach the elevator. He already stood there, brow quirked, arms crossed, unimpressed but amused.

By the third week, he sat next to you during team training, watching, studying. You criticized movements, talked about strategies, and laughed at Sam when Nat made him faceplant onto the mat.

Then the fourth week rolled in and you could finally put weight on your foot without wincing. For you, that meant you were good to go train again. But not for Bucky. So that meant another week of waiting.

But now you are back on the mat. Fucking again.

And you promise yourself, you will not fall this time. Not on purpose, not by accident.

Bucky stands across from you, arms loose at his sides, weight balanced, watching as you roll your shoulders and move through your warm-up.

“Got any last words before I kick your ass, Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. That half-smirk, something smug but fond, something that flies through his blue eyes like a spark.

“I dunno, sweetheart. Wouldn’t wanna land you on the sidelines again.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“Bite me, Barnes.”

The moment you move, he matches it.

His reflexes are quicker than yours - always have been, always will be - but your advantage is that you know that. You know him. His patterns, the way he shifts his weight, the way his left shoulder always tenses a fraction of a second before he throws a punch. You don’t need to match his strength to win. You just need to read him.

The first strike comes low, an attempt to test your footing, but you pivot fast, avoiding the sweep of his leg with a practiced step-back. You counter with a jab - not meant to hit, just to distract - but he reads it immediately, catches your wrist, yanks you forward.

You twist, using the momentum, your free hand shooting up - Bucky dodges, barely, but you are already adjusting, using your own imbalance to push into him.

His hands are always steady, whether he’s attacking or defending. He uses his strength not to hurt you, but to push you, to remind you that you can take it.

And you do.

Blow for blow, counter for counter.

You refrain from looking at his face because he looks distractingly hot with his hair falling into his eyes and all, whipping around with his movements.

The moment his weight shifts forward, you are already countering. Stepping out of reach just as his arm sweeps for your waist. Your breath comes sharp as you turn and aim a well-placed jab that he sidesteps.

Bucky’s eyes gleam. Thrilled.

“Not bad,” he calls, already throwing another feint.

“Not trying to be”, you fire back, ducking, moving with him like it’s a dance. Like your bodies know this better than your minds do.

You push - he counters. You feint - he laughs, quick and breathy. You strike - he blocks.

Fuck, you missed this.

But then, he shifts.

And something changes.

It’s in his stance. The way he adjusts - not a mistake, but a decision. And in the half-second, before you react, before you catch on, you realize you don’t know what he is planning.

Your body is moving, a reaction before thought, but he is quicker - and you only feel him wind his arm around your waist, spin you around, and crash his lips against yours.

You stagger, letting out a surprised grunt against his mouth, caught completely fucking blindsided, because - what?

His mouth is firm, demanding - and it sears straight through your skin, your ribs, right into your bones, into your pulse, because Bucky Barnes is kissing you.

It’s not soft.

Not hesitant.

Not careful.

It’s everything it shouldn’t be in the middle of a fight.

It’s so unexpected that you don’t even notice the moment your back hits the mat. Don’t notice the way he takes you down like it’s nothing, like it’s unpredictable, because you weren’t ready.

You didn’t see it coming.

By the time you blink, by the time your brain catches up, he is already above you. Hovering.

His weight is balanced, both arms braced on either side of your head, and he is looking at you like he just won the fucking lottery.

Smirking. So damn smug.

Because Bucky finally found out your weakness. And he used it to his advantage.

Because what else could it be than him?

“You cheated,” you breathe out. Where has all the air gone?

“You kinda started it, sweetheart.” Bucky grins so wide, so proud, so happy. He pants above you. His eyes are shining.

And then he ducks down again.

He kisses you once more.

Slower, this time. Deeper. With something that lingers, something that presses into you as his hand slides along your jaw, something that feels like it has been waiting far too long for this exact moment.

And you don’t fight it.

Because it seems, you no longer have to wait for Bucky Barnes.

“You’ll know… not just in the way they look at you, but in how they’re not looking anywhere else.”

- butterflies rising

[thechaoslibrarian]

Love me Tender

Summary: When you finally tell him about your struggles with sex, Spencer proves to be the most understanding and gentle boyfriend anyone could wish for 

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader 

Category: Comfort, Fluff, Smut

Content Warnings: (18+, minors DNI) Reader struggles with painful sex/penetration, implied medical issues (not specified), implied negative past sexual experiences, feelings of insecurity and frustration, nervousness, crying, heavy kissing, grinding, oral (both receiving, including 69), handjob, fingering, attempted penetrative sex

Word count: 4.6k

Author’s Note: Me? Writing a completely self-indulgent fic yet again? It’s more likely than you think. I hope this little story finds its way to people who need it <3

Masterlist

Heavy breaths. Heaving chests. Tongues intertwined and bodies so entangled it became impossible to tell them apart. 

Yet again you had found yourself on Spencer’s couch, his weight trapping you beneath him, while you got lost in the haze of longing. Albeit still being protected by some layers of clothing, it felt like you might melt together. Ever so slightly you rolled your hips against him until you could feel his desire burning for you. 

The lust you felt was overwhelming, yet the further things progressed, the more reluctant you became. That had happened before and Spencer sensed your hesitation. A sigh left his throat and you caught it with your lips. His kisses became more innocent until he was only softly pecking your lips. 

The word sorry burned on your tongue but before you could voice it, Spencer hushed you. “It’s okay. Don’t apologize.”

He sat up and you mirrored his motion until you were sat beside him on the couch again. Gentle fingertips found the side of your face, caressing your cheek and ghosting over lips plump from kissing. 

“You’re so incredibly beautiful,” Spencer breathed.

With heated cheeks you looked at him, his eyes dark and filled with yearning, staring at you like you were some kind of miracle he was witnessing. It was comforting to see his adoration for you. However, a part of you still believed he’d run out of patience with you soon. 

It had been many weeks of you kissing and cuddling on his couch, acts that were innocent the first time quickly turned into something more sinful. A moan escaping his throat when he felt some friction against his hardness, a desperate sigh from your lips when you ground against him. And then you’d ask him to stop. 

He never once complained when you voiced your wish to slow down, always content with any ounce of affection you’d grant him. But how could it be enough? 

Spencer noticed the glistening in your eyes before you could even feel the tears forming. 

“Hey,” he cooed. “Hey, what’s wrong?” 

The first tear rolled down your cheek and Spencer pulled you into his embrace. “I.. I just..,” was all you could mutter before the dam broke and you just sobbed against his chest. His heart was beating erratically against his ribcage, the panicked sensation he must have felt was very familiar to you. 

“Shh, it’s okay,” he mumbled. “It’s okay, you did nothing wrong.” 

After several moments of silence, you wiped away the saline droplets from your face and shied away from Spencer’s touch. 

“I’m sorry, you must be so frustrated with me,” you sobbed and Spencer’s eyes widened. “I’m really not trying to be a tease, I swear.”

“What are you talking about?” His voice was laced with concern and confusion. “That’s not what I’m thinking. And I’m not frustrated with you.” 

More tears spilled from your lashes. His words were sincere. Maybe it was time to be honest with him. 

“I know you want to have sex with me.” Your words almost sounded like an accusation but that wasn’t your intention, so with a softer tone you added, “And I want to sleep with you, too.” 

His facial features were soft when he said, “It’s okay if you’re not ready. There's no rush.”

“It’s not that,” you tried to explain. “I can’t have sex.”

His brows furrowed. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand?” 

“It hurts. I can’t have sex because it’s too painful for me.”

Spencer's eyes widened but only for a second. Then, after he encouraged you to speak, he just sat there and listened while words began bubbling from your mouth. Stories about advice from medical professionals and experiences with past lovers all spilled from your lips. 

“There are good days,” you finally concluded. “But most days it's a struggle. And sometimes I think it will work but then it doesn't.” 

Relief washed over you when you had finally told Spencer about this. It had been bothering you for weeks and you were glad it was finally out, whatever that would mean for your future together.

Staring at him, you suddenly felt your heart beating loudly inside your chest. His face still looked soft and understanding but you weren't entirely sure how he'd react.

“I'm very sorry you have to deal with this,” he softly spoke. “I can imagine how difficult this must be for you.” 

Your sight fell to the floor when you muttered, “I would understand if this was dealbreaker for you. I'm sure you expected something else when we started dating.” 

“Don't be ridiculous,” he said before gently touching your cheek to turn your head until you'd look at him again. Then, he continued, “I care about you and I really like you. I am grateful for any amount of physical proximity you'll grant me, whether sexual or not. I just want to be close to you in any way you're comfortable with.” 

His words warmed your heart and made you smile. “Just for the record, I was very comfortable with what we did before,” you snickered. 

“Yeah?” He purred as he leaned closer. “Good to know.” 

His lips captured yours in a kiss that turned from sickenly sweet to breathtaking within moments. It didn't take long until you found yourself in your previous position lying on the couch with Spencer on top of you. 

Within minutes you felt the heat rushing through your body again until this familiar tingling returned to your core. A slight shift of your legs and you had Spencer’s thigh pressing against you in the best way possible. It wasn't enough for you, though. 

“Spencer…,” you mumbled into the kiss. 

He leaned back slightly to look at you and whisper, “Do you want to slow down?” 

Staring up at him, your heart skipped a beat. He looked so beautiful with unruly curls hanging into his face and his lips plump from kissing.

“No, I wanna do more,” you confessed. In an instant, your hands flew to his shirt, getting a hold of the first button. “Want to feel your skin.”  

The sweetest smile spread over his face. “I want that, too,” he whispered and brushed over the hem of your shirt. 

A little too enthusiastically, you tried to sit up to get rid of your clothes and almost threw Spencer off the couch. Ungracefully, he grabbed the armrest of the couch to avoid losing his balance and colliding with the floor. 

“I'm so sorry!” You giggled as you helped him back onto the couch. He joined you in your laughter and placed several innocent pecks on your lips. 

“It's okay,” he chuckled. “I didn't expect how eager you'd be to get me naked.” 

“I have waited for too long,” you whined. 

“Come on,” Spencer said as he stood up and took your hand. “We'll be much more comfortable in my bed.” 

For a brief moment you hesitated but then you got up and followed him. You knew you could trust that he would be nothing but gentle and patient with you. If anything, it would probably be you who'd expect too much of yourself. 

At his bedside, curious hands began pushing and pulling on fabric until both of you stood in front of one another in nothing but underwear. Gently, you pushed Spencer onto the mattress before you found your place on top of him, straddling his lap. 

His clothed erection pressed against the lace of your panties and it almost drove you insane. As your sight travelled over his skin, you felt your cheeks heating up. You couldn’t decide whether to focus on the warm amber of his eyes, his saccharine smile, his heaving chest or the softness of his tummy. 

He was just so pretty.

You noticed his sight dropping to the swell of your chest at the same time his hardness twitched against your covered heat. “God, you're so beautiful,” he whispered before his hands cradled your cheeks to pull you down for another kiss. 

He didn't wait to deepen this kiss, his tongue begged for entrance right away. It became obvious how aroused Spencer was, a realization that only turned you on more. Tentatively, you began rocking your hips against his hardness, creating some much needed friction between your legs. The moan that escaped his throat sent shockwaves right through your body. 

His hands travelled down your shoulders and over your back until they found the clasp of your bra. Skillfully, he undid it before you briefly broke the kiss to toss away the piece of clothing. Spencer cupped your breasts, gently exploring your skin before taking your hardened peaks between his fingers. Caressing you this way made your head spin and had you grinding even harder against his cock. 

The lace of your panties became soaked with your arousal as the tension in your core only grew. The sounds of pleasure that made it past your lips were swallowed by him as he didn’t allow you to break the kiss. 

When you ground over Spencer’s sensitive tip, a desperate “Fuck!” was mumbled against your mouth. It was then that you decided this wasn’t enough, you needed more of him. Your lips left his to kiss along his jaw and down his neck instead, nipping on his neck until you felt his throat vibrate with a content hum. 

Sitting up, your hands wandered along his chest, caressing his skin before following the line of hair from his navel down to the waistband of his underwear. A smirk was painted over your face when you found his eyes again. 

“I want to touch you,” you murmured and as if to answer you, you felt him throb against the confines of his boxers. 

“Please…,” he breathed, watching your every move. 

Spencer whined when you got off his lap and you mourned the loss of pressure as well. But you had other, even more fun things to do. With a swift motion, you hooked your fingers under the waistband of his underwear to pull it down and throw it on the flow to join the rest of his clothes. 

His cock laid on his stomach, swollen and thick with a weeping tip that begged to be touched. Everything about this man lying in front of you was so aesthetically pleasing, it let heat rush through your veins. 

Then, a very silly thought crossed your mind. Nothing you intended to say out loud but of course Spencer noticed the change of microexpressions in your face. 

“Everything okay?” He said, having you tear your sight away from his body to look at his eyes again. 

“Yeah sorry,” you awkwardly stammered as you laid down beside him. “I don’t want to kill the vibe, I just had a silly thought about something.” 

He raised his eyebrows as he said, “Now I’m curious.” 

“You’re very beautiful and so, so perfect, Spencer,” you said with the utmost sincerity in your voice. With a more light-hearted tone, you quipped, “It’s so silly but I kinda hoped you had a small penis. It would have made things a lot easier.” 

When you heard Spencer laugh at your words, you were relieved and chimed in with your own giggles. He briefly looked down at himself. 

“I’m pretty sure it’s just average,” he chuckled. 

“Nothing about you is average, Dr. Reid,” you cooed before capturing his lips once more, feeling him smiling into the kiss. 

One of your hands travelled down his body with a clear goal in mind. When you found his cock, you let your fingertips travel along his length. His skin felt like velvet under your touch. Spencer trembled when you finally wrapped your fingers around him to give him a gentle squeeze. The droplets on his tip were collected by your thumb and used to glide up and down his length with slow and precise motions. 

When he dared to look down to watch you taking care of him, he downright growled at the sight. “Feels so good!” 

Then, with greedy hands he grabbed your hips and drew circles into the lace of your underwear. He looked at you again, a soft expression on his face, and purred, “Can I touch you, too?” 

His question made you sigh and retract your hand from him. Spencer apologized immediately, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep.”

However, there was nothing to be sorry about. The truth was that you were burning for his touch and longed to find relief. Aware that your feelings of restraint were a result of previous experiences and didn’t have anything to do with Spencer, you wanted to give him a chance. He deserved to get the opportunity to show you the care you needed. 

“Don’t apologize. I want you to touch me, Spencer,” you told him as you pulled down your panties, revealing yourself to him. “Just be gentle, please.” 

His hand wandered over your breasts and gently brushed over them before it descended further down. His fingertips danced along your hips and your thighs before they wandered closer to your heat. 

You were sure he could sense your nervousness when he whispered, “I’m going to touch you now, okay?” 

You nodded and he placed his warm palm over your slit, holding it still for a moment. Despite your nervousness, you were so turned on you could feel your own heartbeat drumming against his hand. “Still feeling alright?” He wanted to make sure. 

“Yeah,” you confirmed. 

Gently, he let his fingertips glide along your seam, collecting the wetness that had dripped from you already. With the same amount of carefulness, he parted your folds with his forefinger to find your swollen pearl and started circling it with slow motions. Shockwaves travelled through your body and you could feel how your thighs trembled slightly. 

He kissed your cheek and murmured, “How does that feel?” 

“Feels good,” you sighed and instructed, “add a bit more pressure.”

When he did, your entire body shook and a broken moan made it past your lips. Spencer hesitated to continue moving his hand. “Too much?” he wanted to know. 

Shaking your head, you whimpered, “No, it’s perfect.” 

He smiled at you and continued this motion. Then, he let his fingertips glide through your folds to collect more of your arousal from your entrance. Without intending to, you flinched when you felt him at your opening. Not because it was actually painful, but because you expected it to be. 

In an instant, he retracted his hand. Concern was written all over his face when he looked at you. “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” 

“No,” you said and took his hand in yours. “I just thought it might hurt.”

You placed his fingers back on your sensitive nub to encourage him to continue before you wrapped your hand around his cock again. When you began stroking him once more, Spencer started moving his hand as well. Weeks of built-up tension begged to be released as you brought one another closer to the edge. 

Closing your eyes, you focussed on this magnificent sensation of being at ease. Facing this wonderful man, your body pressed against his, you felt so safe and cared for. It only took a few more moments until you let yourself come undone, your thighs quivering and core pulsating as you ground your swollen bud against his fingers. 

When you came down from your high, you shied away from his touch to focus back on him. His cock felt hot and heavy against your palm and even harder than just a moment earlier. Spencer tensed his entire body while panting some curse words right before relief washed over him. As he throbbed against your fingers, his essence spilled over your hand and onto his stomach. 

Curling into his side, you placed a soft kiss on his cheek as you waited for him to catch his breath. It was hard to leave the comfort of his embrace but the two of you had to get up to get clean eventually. 

Soon enough you were cuddled up under the blanket again, basking in each other’s warmth. Spencer held you safely against his chest while his fingers danced over your skin ever so slightly. 

“That was fun,” you finally broke the silence and tilted your head to look at him. 

Spencer smiled at you. “Yeah, it was.” 

Even though Spencer seemed content, you still couldn’t quite tune out this nagging voice of insecurity inside you. Feeling brave for once, you decided to address it. “Can I ask you something?” 

Spencer nodded, “Anything.” 

After taking a deep breath, you wondered, “Are you disappointed that we didn’t …do more?” 

The man beside you seemed surprised by your words and raised his eyebrows at you. He thought about his words for a second before he responded, “Absolutely not. I think what we did was plenty.”

That was all that you needed to hear. Spencer, however, had more to say about it, so he started one of his ramblings, “Did you know that studies show that the majority of women cannot reach climax from penetration alone? So if you think about it, it’s actually odd that what most heterosexual couples define as sex focusses so much on that. According to one study I read–”

As fun as it was to learn that Spencer apparently read sexual research papers, it wasn’t really the kind of pillow talk you needed right then, so you shut him up with a peck on his lips. He didn’t seem to mind and kissed you back in a same sickenly sweet manner. It didn’t take much longer until the both of you dozed off together. 

Within the next few weeks you grew more comfortable around one another, exploring each other’s bodies whenever you were alone. That first night together was repeated in similar ways several times until Spencer confessed how much he craved to taste you. From then on you found his face buried between your thighs more often than you could count. 

There was not much you could complain about and Spencer seemed happy, too. But still, whenever you caressed his throbbing cock you longed to feel him inside of you, to fill your emptiness and create a connection unlike anything else. 

The next time you found yourself in Spencer’s bed again, clothes already shed and limbs entangled, you felt confident and comfortable and your pain was nothing more than a distant memory. 

Spencer’s breath was hot against your cheek when his hand made its way between your legs. Desire was dripping from your folds as his fingers carefully glided through them. At the same time he began circling your most sensitive spot, you started stroking his hardened cock. You imagined how it would feel to have his swollen tip press into you and you instantly clenched around nothing. 

Your free palm found Spencer’s hand between your legs and guided it further down until his fingertip was at your entrance. 

“Inside,” you breathed

Your boyfriend hesitated. “Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.” 

With widened eyes you looked at him and nodded. “Please,” you added. 

Slower than necessary, he pressed his middle finger against your opening and stopped when he sensed some resistance. After taking a deep breath, you focussed on relaxing your pelvis. Once your body allowed him to continue, Spencer pushed his finger further in. 

“Does that hurt?” He wanted to make sure. 

The pressure was unwonted but not uncomfortable. You shook your head and noticed how Spencer curled his finger inside you, reaching a particularly tender spot. A gasp fell from your lips and you throbbed around his digit. 

“Feels good,” you breathed. 

Without any rush he worked his hand against your core until you were sure you'd float away any minute now. Your hand around his erection trembled as your imagination ran wild. 

“I want your cock,” you finally whimpered, surprising the both of you. 

Spencer looked at you with widened eyes and his mouth agape. Before he could say anything, you added, “I mean… I want to try if that's okay?” 

Carefully, Spencer removed his hand from you, making you sigh at the loss of contact. 

“That’s more than okay,” he breathed as he reached for the nightstand, taking out a condom from the drawer. 

Intently, you watched as he opened the foil and rolled the latex over his cock. You motioned for Spencer to lean against the headboard of the bed before you swung your leg around his hips to straddle him. 

Looking down at his hardness, your heart started fluttering. You couldn’t wait to finally be filled out by him. After wrapping your hand around his shaft, you tentatively let his tip glide through your folds. 

Spencer watched you patiently, his hands resting on your hips. 

“Take your time,” he purred before placing a soft kiss on your lips. 

Positioning his tip at your entrance, you hovered over him and took a few deep breaths. 

“Sorry, I'm really nervous,” you murmured as your cheeks heated up. 

“That’s okay,” Spencer whispered. “You’re the one in charge here. We can stop at any point. I won’t be disappointed, I promise.” 

You tried sinking down on him but once you felt the pressure of the head of his cock against your opening, you stopped.

“Can we maybe add some lube?”  

“Yes, of course.” Spencer said as he reached for the drawer again. “I'm sorry I didn't think of that right away.” 

You took the bottle of lube from his hand and softly spoke, “Let me do it.” 

After squirting a fair amount of the liquid into your hand, you leaned back slightly to be able to spread it over his latex covered erection. Spencer moaned at the sensation and twitched against your palm. 

When you were satisfied with that, you took in your previous position, hovering over his cock. One more deep breath and you began sinking down on him. 

Half an inch in and the pressure was almost overwhelming. You stopped, took more deep breaths and noticed how you could feel Spencer's heartbeat inside you. 

You took in a little more and the pressure morphed into a stinging that you were far too familiar with. A frustrated whine made it past your lips and Spencer stilled your hips. 

“Please stop if it hurts,” he almost begged you. 

In hopes your body would adjust to the intrusion, you kept still for another moment.  It didn't though. The sting turned into a burn that made you yelp. Quicker than you probably should have, you lifted your hips again and plopped down on the mattress beside your boyfriend. 

Your voice was already breaking when you said, “I'm sorry, I really hoped it would work.”

Spencer immediately wrapped you into his arms, just in time for the dam to break that let tears stream down your face. 

“Please don't apologize,” he mumbled. “It's okay.” 

His kindness only made you sob more and he pressed your body tightly against his. It wasn't the pain or any sadness that made you cry but the frustration over not being able to do what you yearned for. 

When you had calmed down a bit, Spencer took a tissue to wipe away your tears while cooing, “I love you. You know that, right?” 

“I love you, too,” you snivelled. “Thank you for being so kind and understanding.” 

“Of course.” 

With a sweet smile painted over his cheeks, he placed a tender kiss on your forehead. 

After cleaning up a bit, you continued cuddling in bed. Many moments and innocent kisses later, the longing inside your chest returned.

Your kisses turned more urgent while one of your hands sneaked down Spencer’s body to dance over his hip and thighs. Your tongue brushed over his at the same time your fingertips found his dick, quickly hardening under your touch. The sensation of him growing inside your palm let shockwaves run through your body. 

Spencer’s hands greedily brushed over your chest and down your body until they squeezed the curve of your backside. 

When you began kissing down his body, Spencer threw his head back into the pillow. You wanted to feel him inside you, one way or another. As you kissed down his stomach, you took his erection into your hand. 

He felt hot against your fingertips as you brushed over his velvety skin, making Spencer shudder when your thumb moved over his leaking tip. Leaning down, you started kissing along his shaft until you were sure that your lips had brushed over every inch of him.

You pressed your lips against his tip before opening them to let him slide into your mouth slowly. When he hit the back of your throat, you swallowed around him, eliciting a deep moan from your boyfriend. 

With precise motions you began to move up and down, your hand covering what you couldn't fit into your mouth. The room filled with the sinful sounds of your mouth moving against his length and the moans falling from his lips.

“Wait,” he suddenly whined. “I wanna taste you, too.” 

It took you a moment to understand what he meant. With a soft pop you released him from your mouth. 

Smirking at him, you wanted to confirm, “You want me to… sit on your face?” 

With more confidence than you had anticipated, he said, “Yes. That's exactly what I want.” 

Shifting your position, you moved up the mattress before swinging one leg over his face until you were hovering over his face. Without wasting any time, Spencer showered your inner thighs with kisses and pulled you down so he could reach your core. 

Like a man starved he let his tongue run through your folds and you couldn’t help but rock your hips against his tongue. For a moment you just sat there, revelling in the pleasure before your sight fell down on his cock, lying thick and hard on his stomach. 

Spencer had such a tight grip over your thighs, you failed to lean forward. 

“Spencer,” you snickered as you tapped his hands gripping your thighs. “You gotta let me go, I want to finish what I started.” 

His hold on you lightened and you leaned forward until you could reach his hardness. After peppering him with kisses and tasting the little bead of precum that had spilled over his tip, you took him into your mouth again. 

It was difficult to move with a rhythm, your own pleasure rushing through your body forced you to stop and moan around him every few moments. When he focussed his attention on your swollen pearl, you had to take a break. You released his cock from your lips and instead moved your hand lazily up and down his length. 

Moans and sighs fell from your lips as you ground your hips back against his tongue, chasing that exhilarating sensation you so desperately longed for. When you finally came, Spencer became more gentle but didn't let you move away from him. Instead he lapped up your release before he let his mouth move over your folds carefully. 

Once you had stopped panting erratically, you took his hardness back into your mouth, keen on granting him the same blissful feeling. It only took a few more skillful motions until he fell over the edge and released his warm essence on your tongue. 

A few more soft kisses were placed on his tip, his shaft and at his base before you moved off of him to lay down beside him instead. His lips were glistening with your arousal when you kissed them, your own taste clearly perceptible. 

You found your place inside his arms, your head resting on his chest. The comfortable silence was interrupted by your words. 

“I love you so much.” 

Tenderly, he kissed the top of your head. 

Thank you for reading! Please like, reblog and leave a comment to show your support and help me stay motivated to write more stories!

“I love you more.” 

Taglist: @adoredfromafar @grumpyy-bearr @frickin-bats @pleasantwitchgarden @cynbx @xserenax-13 @alexxavicry @samuel-de-champagne-problems @evvy96 @reidsbookclub @lover-of-books-and-tea @sebs-oxygen @nomajdetective @kobaltdragon @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @castiels-majestic-wings @spensreid @silversprings-mp3 @person-005 @kittyisick @siriuslyval03 @sleepysongbirdsings @brownbunnyb @thegoodwitchs-blog

[thechaoslibrarian]

MORNING WOOD. 18+

bucky barnes x fem!reader

wc. 1.3k synopsis. literally what the title says. bucky has a morning chub on, you help take care of it, he returns the favour. bish bash bosh, bob's your uncle warnings. 18+ only. mutual masturbation, teasing/ edging, little bit of piv but neither of you last long (got that magic kitty) creampie, cockwarming, general filth. mdni

⎯ ☆ ⎯

There's not much that can beat a slow Sunday morning in bed: to lay peacefully under the sheets, the birds chirping just outside the window. It’s the kind of thing you look forward to all week.

You've not long been awake, your eyes only just beginning to adjust to the spring sun through the curtains. You roll over, turning to face Bucky on your right who isn’t quite as awake as you — still set in slumber, head propped up on a bent vibranium arm behind his head. He looks so calm, ever so gentle. 

Your eyes close to the rhythmic sound of his breathing, the slow inhalations and exhalations acting as white noise, almost easing you back to sleep. But you hear a particularly heavy intake of air beside you and your eyes fling open. Bucky’s head tilts to face you, eyes seeming to find yours almost immediately. 

“Morning,” you smile at him, arm reaching to drape around his sternum.

He leans closer to you and presses a kiss just beside your nose, the awkward angle intercepting any chance of getting to your lips. 

“Mornin’,” he repeats, voice thick and sleepy. 

You prop your head on the edge of his chest, keeping it there for a moment as a means to simply keep close. You peer towards the window briefly, spotting something –perhaps a bird– fly past, and when you glance away, you take notice of something else. A tenting in the bed’s sheets just below your lover’s middle. Your attention captivated, maybe even more so than any kind of bird.

You slowly drag your hand down his stomach, your pinky finger leading the way along his happy trail and towards his pubic bone. His breathing grows heavier, deeper, just beside your ear — the featherlight touches seeming to catch up with him.

He props his head higher by scrunching the pillow, using it as elevation to watch what’s going on between his legs more clearly. His gaze growing all the more entranced by the creeping of your hand under the sheets, focus locked quite like a cat with a laser pointer.

You press a kiss to the scar band near his armpit, peering up just moments after. “Want me to take care of it?”

The corners of his lips turn downwards as he smiles, an amused small chuckle following suit. “Your hands are softer than mine,” he entices, pretending to give the matter a second thought.

Your fingers drag through his pubes briefly, the faint twirling motion only a means to work him up that bit more. As you reach for his cock, you lift your head and reposition your arm from underneath you, resting your cheek on your fist. You keep your attention cast on Bucky, watching the visual response on his face as your nail drags up the underside of his shaft. 

Raising your hand, you hover it atop his cock, singular fingertip beginning its faint swirling over the head — drawing a messy figure of eight through his precum. You press a light kiss to his lower cheek, just beside his lips, the act of affection a silent direction; wordlessly getting him to face you. 

He turns to you and you lean in, lips ghosting his as if your goal was to torment him that much more. You initiate kisses, though you never follow through with them — each brushing of your lips on his being only that. Just breathy half whines as your mouths merely meet.

He throws his head back frustratedly, not seeming to be enjoying your games at this current moment in time. And you can’t help but find amusement in his annoyance, taking pleasure like the way he often does with you when he’s the instigator of such games. 

The hand on his dick is faint, like it’s barely there, languidly pumping his cock as if time were no such issue. The motion of your hand being seen rather clearly though the sporadic bobbing of the bed sheets. 

And with your attention caught on the lewd view below, Bucky becomes eager to reinstigate kisses — the fleshed hand at his side moving to cup your face. Thumb and index squishing into the hollows of your cheeks as he turns you to look at him, taking matters into his own hands. Quite literally. He pulls your face in towards his, kissing you slow and deep. A complete juxtaposition to those dozen half ones before. 

It serves as a distraction to your teasing and tormenting, and you each grow more entranced in it. His hand that’s clasped to your face begins its mindless wandering, trailing leisurely down the dips and dents of your nude side. Touches continuing over your hip and across your thigh, slowly sliding inward and to what's between.

You muffle something indecipherable into his mouth, and you yourself were not overly certain about what was said. Maybe a concoction of a curse and a moan, you weren’t sure. But whatever it was, it seemed to egg him on. 

While you continue your gentle pumping of his cock in your hand, he makes an effort to reciprocate some of the pleasure. He trails upwards through your slick folds, starting at your entrance going up — the obstructed angle becoming somewhat of a hindrance. And so you lift your leg slightly, mind still just about capable of thought despite the tizzy feeling within it. The new position allowing more of him to get to more of you.

He begins to mirror the motions on you that he is receiving from you, lazy half-hearted strokes and drags of his fingers over your pussy — mirroring the teasing on you. As if he was subtly using it as time to get his own back, purposely avoiding the places you want like you did him. 

“Come on,” you muffle into his mouth. The rather pathetic sound an audible indication of how bothered you’re growing, his delicate touches making you all the more frustrated. 

He parts from the kiss and simultaneously retracts his hand from between your thighs, though his lips remain close as he speaks. “Not so nice, is it?” 

“No,” you murmur, feeling disheartened by being left hanging off the edge of that metaphorical cliff. 

And when you itch forward to rekindle the lusty makeout, he pulls back, head shaking softly — almost like a playful mocking. So you too pause, snatching your hand from around his cock, allowing him to also dangle on the brink. Similar dissatisfactory groans following promptly.

The arm supporting your head grows weak, becoming practically limp and you resume your prior laid position. And like you anticipated, Bucky moves to hover atop you, the heavy –prominent– weight of his cock briefly resting along the crease where your cunt meets thigh. 

He anchors himself on one hand beside you, the other reaching between to guide himself to your pussy. Giving his dick one last preparatory pump, he eases it into you. The reminder that these antics were to be cut short lingered in either of your minds, the pair of you mere moments from letting go. 

Bucky’s eyes momentarily flicker across your bare breasts below, attention somewhat occupied before he finally meets your eyes. You hold onto the visual contact as he feeds his cock into you — each of you watching the lusty expressions form within each other. 

Though neither of you can last long –one and a half thrusts exactly– before he’s spilling into your jittering cunt. Your climaxes following within seconds of each other. 

All strength in his neck is lost and he presses his forehead against yours, each of you using the pause to even out your breathing. His cock comfortably rests inside you, the only form of communication between you being that of looks — wordlessly conversing through your eyes. Silently telling the other that the small dose was not enough to thoroughly satiate the need. 

Luckily, both of your schedules are free for the day.

⎯ ☆ ⎯

[thechaoslibrarian]

*goes feral*

hii i absolutely LOVE your writing,, its just so perfect🤭

may i please request a story with spencer realizing he has a crush on reader and so he starts getting nervous and stutter-y around reader. so then reader gets a little upset thinking she did something wrong and they end up talking about what’s happening and it leads to a confession + kiss

thank you!!💖💖

crush — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: a tiny bit of angst bc reader thinks she did something wrong a/n: hii !! this request is so cute <3 i hope you like this <333

Spencer had it bad. 

Like, really bad. 

It wasn’t even up for debate anymore—he was completely, undeniably, and overwhelmingly crushing on you.

Right now, he was sitting at his desk, staring at you as you leaned casually against it, deep in conversation with Emily at her desk across from his. You were animated, gesturing with your hands as you made a passionate argument. 

“No, look, the movie sucks,” you insisted, pointing a finger at Emily. “You have to read the book. It’s so much better.” 

Emily rolled her eyes but smirked, clearly enjoying the debate. “I don’t know, I think the movie has its moments—” 

“Absolutely not.” You cut her off, shaking your head. “The book has so much more depth. The movie just—” You let out a dramatic sigh, exasperated. “It butchers it.” 

Spencer wasn’t even listening to Emily. He was too busy watching you, completely entranced. 

Two days ago, he’d come to a life-altering realization. 

He liked you. 

Not in the casual, oh-she’s-nice-to-be-around kind of way. No. This was the heart-racing, brain-melting, can’t-think-straight-when-you-smile-at-him kind of way. 

And it had all started with a cup of coffee. 

You had placed it in front of him, your fingers brushing his for a fleeting moment as he reached for it. A harmless, everyday interaction—except that it wasn’t harmless. Because then, you had smiled at him. Soft and warm. 

“New tie?” you had asked, tilting your head slightly as you pointed at the green tie he was wearing. 

Spencer had looked down at it, momentarily forgetting how words worked. “Oh—uh—yeah. Yeah, I got it yesterday.” 

You had grinned. “Looks good on you. I like it.” 

And then, as if your words hadn’t already short-circuited his brain, you had reached out—just for a second—adjusting the fabric between your fingers before turning away and heading back to your desk. 

That was the moment. The exact second Spencer knew he was doomed. 

And now? Two days later, he was struggling. 

Struggling to focus. Struggling to act normal. Struggling to not stare at you like you were the most fascinating thing in the entire world—which, let’s be honest, you were. 

“Spence.” 

Your voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he blinked, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you were. You had turned to him now, one hand resting lightly on his arm as you smiled. 

“Tell her the book is better than the movie,” you said, tilting your head toward Emily. “Back me up here.” 

Spencer knew, logically, that he had said those exact words to you a few weeks ago. He agreed with you. He had data, facts, and literary analysis to support the claim. It was an easy argument. 

And yet— 

He was completely, entirely tongue-tied. 

You were looking at him expectantly, your touch burning through the fabric of his sleeve like a brand. 

“I—uhm—I think—” He swallowed, feeling his face heat up. 

You frowned slightly, confused by his sudden inability to form a coherent sentence. 

He needed to get it together. 

“Yes,” he finally forced out, clearing his throat. “Uh, the book is—definitely better. Than the movie.” 

You grinned, triumphant. “See? Told you.” 

Emily just smirked at Spencer, amusement flickering in her eyes. 

You, then , watched as Spencer quickly withdrew his hand from your touch, avoiding your eyes like it physically pained him to look at you. 

And over the next day, it kept happening. 

It was subtle at first—small moments that could’ve easily been brushed off as coincidences. But then they started piling up. 

Like when you were working on the geographical profile together. You had been standing close to him, pointing at a section of the map, asking for his input. But instead of responding immediately, Spencer had frozen. 

Completely. 

You had glanced up, expecting one of his usual rapid-fire responses, filled with statistics and insightful observations. But nothing came. Instead, he stood there, his jaw slightly clenched, his fingers gripping the edge of the table.

You had frowned, waiting. 

A long, awkward silence stretched between you until someone else had walked by, snapping him out of it. He mumbled a quick, barely audible response before abruptly walking away. 

Then there was the night the team went out for drinks. You had slid into a booth at the bar, expecting Spencer to take the seat beside you—like he always did. It was a habit. Something that just was. 

Except this time, he didn’t. 

He sat at the far end of the table, wedging himself between JJ and Rossi, not even acknowledging you. 

That was when the doubts started creeping in. 

Had you done something wrong? Had you said something to upset him? 

You replayed the past week in your mind, searching for anything that might have caused this shift. But there was nothing. At least, nothing you could think of. 

Still, it didn’t stop the sinking feeling in your chest every time Spencer avoided your gaze, every time he hesitated before answering you, every time he refused to sit near you. 

And now, back at Quantico, the case closed, reports needing to be filed, you sat at your desk, watching him. 

The office was quieter than usual—most of the team had taken the morning off to rest, leaving only you and Spencer to handle the paperwork, just as you always did. 

Except this time, Spencer wasn’t talking to you. 

He sat across the room, his eyes fixed on his files, his pen moving rapidly across the paper. And still—not once—did he look up at you. 

Your fingers curled slightly against the report in front of you, a dull ache settling in your chest. 

The silence between you was suffocating. 

Hours passed, the only sounds filling the room were the scratch of pens against paper and the occasional shuffle of files. It was unnatural—terribly unnatural. The two of you were never this quiet around each other. 

Spencer wanted to talk to you. He always wanted to talk to you. But every time he opened his mouth, he managed to embarrass himself. So, he just... stopped trying. 

And then there was the other problem—his newfound hyper-awareness of you. 

Every touch, no matter how small, felt like an electric current running through his skin. Like when the two of you were sitting in the back of the SUV on the way back from a case, and your knee had accidentally brushed against his. It had been nothing to you, a completely normal, casual thing. But to him? To him, it had set his entire body on fire. 

Or when you touched his arm , casually, the way you always did—except now, it wasn’t just casual to him. Now, it was overwhelming. Too much. 

So he did what he thought was best—he avoided it. Avoided you. 

It was time to leave, and coincidentally, both of you started packing your bags at the same time. 

Somehow, despite everything, you still moved in sync. 

It was a habit at this point. You always left work together, falling into step beside one another like second nature. Some nights, you’d end up at the movies, where Spencer would hesitantly—almost shyly—share his food with you. Something he never did with anyone else. Not with his germophobia. Not even with the team. 

But with you it had never been a problem. 

Other nights, you’d wind up at his apartment, curled up on his couch, just hanging out. Just you and him. And in hindsight, Spencer supposed he should’ve seen this coming. 

Should’ve realized that whatever this was—whatever you were to him—wasn’t just friendship. 

Maybe he’d been crushing on you all along. 

The two of you walked to the elevator, the air thick with awkwardness. You exchanged shy smiles, unsure of what to say or do.

Finally, you both spoke at the same time. 

"Are you okay?" 

The words tumbled out of your mouths in perfect unison, and for a moment, you both froze, staring at each other. Then you both chuckled awkwardly, the sound breaking the tension, just for a second. 

“Go ahead,” Spencer nodded at you, pressing the button to call the elevator.  

“You—just... I feel like I haven’t talked to you properly in ages,” you admitted, a nervous laugh escaping as you fiddled with the strap of your bag. 

Spencer looked away quickly, a guilty blush creeping up his neck. 

Oh god, why couldn’t he just act normal around you? 

“Did I do something wrong?” You blurted out, suddenly worried. "Because I—I’m not entirely sure what it was, but you haven’t been looking at me, or talking to me, and I’m just—” 

Before you could ramble on any longer, Spencer cut you off. His voice was a little too loud, too eager. 

“No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong!” He shook his head quickly, almost desperately, as if trying to reassure you. His wide eyes met yours, and there was a softness in them. “I promise.” 

The elevator doors slid open, and the two of you stepped inside. 

You pressed the button to the ground floor, still watching him, trying to make sense of everything. 

“So, what is it then?” you asked, your voice more hesitant now, as the elevator began its descent. 

Spencer bit his lip, his fingers nervously tapping against the strap of his bag. What was he supposed to say? That he had a huge crush on you, but he couldn’t even stand to be near you without fumbling through his words and avoiding your gaze? It sounded so stupid when he thought about it. 

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, staring at the doors in front of him as the elevator descended slowly. His mouth opened, but no words came out. 

“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” you pointed at him, a hint of teasing in your voice, but the concern still lingered. “You’re acting like this because something’s going on, and I’m just—I don’t know what it is.” 

Spencer’s heart raced.

The doors finally opened, and you both headed towards the exit , where you stepped out into the chilly night air. You instinctively pulled your jacket tighter around yourself, waiting for him to speak. 

Spencer hesitated again. His mind was spinning.

“No, I swear it’s not you,” Spencer muttered, tugging on the strap of his satchel, trying to buy himself some time. “It’s just I—I…” 

You waited, eyes fixed on him, your breath fogging in the cold air. You were getting impatient, and the more time passed, the more you started to worry that whatever had been going on was something you had no control over. Something that was maybe your fault. 

You were now standing by your car, watching him. Spencer looked torn, his fingers gripping the strap of his satchel tightly, his body tense like he was debating whether to run or stay. His lips parted slightly, and then, as if he couldn’t hold it in anymore, the words tumbled out. 

“I like you.” His voice was quiet.

For a moment, you just stared at him, confusion flickering across your face. 

“I… didn’t realize you disliked me until now?” You frowned slightly, your voice uncertain, trying to make sense of what he was saying. 

Spencer’s eyes widened in panic. “Wait—no!” He rushed to correct himself, shaking his head frantically. “That’s not what I meant—I didn’t mean that.” 

His breath came out in a nervous puff of air, his cheeks burning red as he struggled to find the right words. 

“I mean—I like you. Like, like like you.” His voice dropped to a mumble, the last part barely above a whisper. “Like, I have a crush on you.” 

He swallowed hard, his heart hammering in his chest as he finally said it. 

And then, silence. 

His eyes darted to you hesitantly, searching your face for a reaction, his stomach twisting with anticipation. 

You stood frozen. Did he just say what you think he said? 

“I… what?” you blinked, your breath hitching. 

Spencer’s face was already bright red, his hands fidgeting nervously at his sides. He looked like he wanted to disappear into the pavement, like he regretted saying anything at all. His voice had been so quiet at the end, barely above a whisper, but you heard him. 

He liked you. Like liked you. 

“I have a crush on you,” he repeated, this time slightly louder, but his voice was still laced with hesitation. His eyes flickered between yours and the ground, as if he was trying to gauge your reaction but couldn’t bear to look for too long. “That’s… that’s why I’ve been acting so weird.” 

A rush of emotions hit you all at once. Relief. Surprise. And something else—something warm, something thrilling. 

You let out a small breathy laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “Spencer, you’ve been avoiding me for days because you have a crush on me?” 

He winced slightly. “Yes?” 

A smile tugged at your lips. The pieces started falling into place—the nervous stammering, the awkward silences, the way he’d flinched at even the smallest touches. You had spent the entire week wondering if you’d somehow upset him when, in reality, he was just… flustered. 

Over you. 

It was almost funny. No—it was funny. 

Spencer watched you carefully, his anxiety spiking at your silence. He had just spilled his feelings to you in the most awkward way possible, and now you were just standing there, staring at him with this unreadable look. He braced himself for rejection, for you to awkwardly brush it off, for you to tell him that you didn’t feel the same way— 

Instead, you smiled. 

And then you laughed. 

Spencer blinked. “Are you—are you laughing at me?” He sounded both confused and slightly horrified. 

You quickly shook your head, even though you were still grinning. “No! No, I swear, I’m not laughing at you.” You bit your lip to stifle another giggle, but it wasn’t working. “It’s just—you’ve been torturing yourself over this ?” 

Spencer huffed, looking away. “I wouldn’t call it torture—” 

“You literally stopped making eye contact with me.” 

“That’s—okay, that’s fair.” He sighed. “I just… I didn’t know how to act. Every time I tried to talk to you, I ended up embarrassing myself, and I figured it would be easier if I just… didn’t.” 

You softened at that. 

“Spence,” you said gently, reaching for his hand before he could overthink it. The second your fingers brushed his, you felt him stiffen. But he didn’t pull away. “You know you could’ve just told me, right?” 

He let out a breath, finally meeting your eyes. “I was afraid that if I told you… things would change.” 

You squeezed his hand lightly, feeling a rush of fondness for him. His brain was the most brilliant one you’d ever known, but sometimes he made things so complicated. 

“Well, things are going to change,” you admitted, watching his expression closely. 

His heart stuttered. “Oh.” 

A flicker of panic flashed across his face, and you quickly squeezed his hand again before he spiraled. 

“Not in a bad way,” you reassured him, stepping a little closer. You tilted your head, smiling softly. “I like you too, Spencer.” 

Spencer’s breath caught. “You…?” 

“Mhm.” 

He blinked rapidly, like he was trying to process your words, as if he hadn’t even considered the possibility that you might feel the same way. 

And then—oh. 

Oh. 

His entire body relaxed, the tension melting from his shoulders. He let out a breathy laugh, running his free hand through his hair as he shook his head. 

You smiled as you leaned back against your car, watching the relief wash over Spencer.

He stared at you, his eyes flickering between your own and your lips, and you could practically see the thoughts racing through his mind.

Spencer swallowed, his hands fidgeting at his sides. And then, as if the rush of confidence from his confession hadn’t completely worn off yet, he asked, “Can—can I kiss you?” 

Your stomach flipped at his words, your smile widening. “Thought you’d never ask.” 

Spencer exhaled something that sounded like half a laugh, half a breath of relief, before you reached for him, your fingers curling gently around the fabric of his cardigan as you tugged him toward you.

He let out a shaky breath, his hands hovering for only a second before settling on your cheeks. His fingers were warm despite the cold air.

His fingertips barely grazing your skin like he was memorizing the shape of you. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, and for a second, he just looked at you—like he wanted to take his time, like he wanted to remember everything about this moment before it even happened.

Then, finally, he leaned in. 

The first touch of his lips was soft, almost tentative, as if he was giving you a chance to pull away. But when you didn’t—when you kissed him back just as eagerly—he let himself relax. His hands cupped your face more firmly, his body leaning just slightly into yours.

You sighed against him, your hands sliding up to rest against his shoulders, your fingers gently threading into the curls at the nape of his neck. That was all it took. You felt him shiver slightly under your touch, a quiet hum of contentment vibrating in his chest.

When you finally pulled away for air, your foreheads rested together, both of you breathless but smiling.

Spencer opened his eyes, his pupils slightly blown, a soft, dazed smile tugging at his lips.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” he murmured.

You chuckled, your hands still resting against his neck. “You really thought I didn’t like you back?”

He huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t want to get my hopes up.”

You brushed your thumb along his cheek, tilting your head playfully. “Well, you should’ve. Because I really like you, Spencer.”

His smile widened, something utterly adorable in the way his entire face lit up at your words.

“I like you too,” he said again, as if he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to say it out loud.

You grinned. “Yeah, I think I got that part.”

[thechaoslibrarian]

Brb, screaming

Where the Wildflowers Grow [Aaron Hotchner x Florist!Reader]

Florist!Reader Masterlist|| Main Masterlist [I need to update this, sorry!]|| Ao3||Word Count: 2.6k|| AN:  My crazy week is over--I have missed my Hotch x Florist Universe!! We're so back, baby! Tags/Warnings:  confessions of love, first 'i love you', reader is a little pessimistic, angst (if you squint), canon-typical themes, Female!Reader, Florist!Reader, Non-BAU!Reader, pre-relationship, pre-established relationship, Sassy!Reader, Flirty!Reader, Aaron Hotchner loves to love, 'Just because'!Aaron Hotchner, Simp!Hotch Summary: As a florist, you've seen a lot of negative occasions for flowers. You've become quite cynical about love, quite honestly. Aaron Hotchner is seemingly changing that.

You were elbow-deep in hydrangeas when the bride canceled.

“Sorry,” she’d said on the phone, voice hollow and embarrassed. “The wedding’s off. He…well. It doesn’t matter.”

You could only read between the lines. A tale as old as time. Something you’d heard a thousand times once over. Maybe he had a wandering eye for her best friend. Or maybe there was a secret family, like the bride who cancelled years ago who’s deposit was on twelve dozen cala lillies.

It did matter.

It always mattered.

You offered the polite condolences you were supposed to. Told her you understood. You always did.

You hung up, leaned against the counter, and let your head fall into your hands. It was barely noon, and already you’d:

Arranged three casket sprays.

Witnessed your regular Tuesday customer order a third round of “I’m sorry I cheated” carnations--soooo tacky.

Had a grown man throw a tantrum over “too many filler greens.”

And now, lost an $800 order you’d already started prepping.

This was the part people didn’t see.

The underbelly of beauty.

You loved your work--

Truly.

But there were days when the petals felt heavy.

When it was hard not to see flowers as bandages.

Temporary distractions over bruised apologies and broken promises.

And as much as you wanted to believe in happy endings…

You did. You were also surrounded by happy endings, but somehow the weight of death and heartbreak seeped into each day. It was hard to wrap a bow around a congratulatory bouquet when the next order slip is one for, “I’m sorry you lost your job.” 

Some days made it harder than others.

The bell over the door jingled.

You didn’t even lift your head.

“We’re closed for emotional collapse,” you muttered, crumpling up the order slip and tossing it into the waste bin. 

There was a pause.

Then: 

“That bad, huh?”

Your eyes flicked up.

And there he was.

Hotch.

Still in his suit. Tie loosened, coat folded over one arm. A brown paper bag in one hand. And in the other?

A crumpled fistful of wildflowers.

Wrapped haphazardly in newspaper.

Dandelions. Queen Anne’s lace. A few purple blooms you didn’t even have a name for. 

All wrapped in the front page news. Black and white and read all over. 

He held them out, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Picked these on my lunch break.”

You stared.

Then blinked.

Brain sort of…malfunctioning. Trying to picture him, suit and tie and all business on the side of the road picking weeds. Beautiful weeds. Wildflowers of sorts. 

Then let out a laugh--a real, startled, exhausted laugh--as you wiped your hands on your apron and stepped forward.

“You brought me weeds?”

“They reminded me of you.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Resilient,” he clarified. “A little wild. Hard to overlook.” He gave you a smile one that made your belly warm and your pulse quicken, “Saw them on my drive after grabbing your favorite for lunch and had to stop.” 

Your chest ached.

God. This man.

This. Man. 

You took the bouquet from him gently, handling it like something sacred. There was dirt still clinging to some of the stems. One bloom was missing half its petals. They smelled like grass and heat and summer air.

The newspaper wrapped around it with good news for once. A headline that wrote, “Miracles do Happen,” written in bold font. 

Huh, the irony. You looked at the bouquet, a tiny red lady bug crawled from one of the leaves. 

It was the most beautiful thing anyone had brought you all week.

Maybe ever.

Day in and day out, you’d receive deliveries of traditional roses, carnations, and baby’s breath. Every now and then you’d buy Protea and watch as it sat on the shelf in your cooler, begging to be picked by a patron, but always ending up wilting and eventually in the garbage. 

It was the different--rare--flowers that went unappreciated. 

As if people didn’t know how to hold them--

To arrange them. 

“You trying to get out of the doghouse?” you teased, placing them in a glass jar by the register.

“Didn’t know I was in it.”

You looked at him, really looked--he was tired too. You saw it in the corners of his eyes. The tight set of his jaw. But he was here.

With you.

“Then what’s this?” you asked softly, gesturing to the flowers.

He shrugged, setting the lunch bag on the counter. “You popped into my head.”

“And?”

“And I didn’t want to wait until I had a reason.”

You said nothing.

Just stood there, your fingers loosely gripping the counter, as something cracked open in your chest.

No one had ever brought you flowers just because.

No apology. No ask. No occasion.

Just you.

Existing.

Being loved, even if he hadn’t said the words yet.

He pulled out the sandwiches--your favorite--and passed you one without asking

You sat together at the back table, half the shop still a mess, your hands still stained with chlorophyll. He didn’t comment on the smudge on your cheek. You didn’t ask about the cut on his knuckle.

You just...sat.

Shared food.

Soft glances.

Easy silences.

At one point, you glanced at the jar of wildflowers catching the afternoon light, and something warm and terrifying moved through your chest.

What if he was different?

What if this didn’t burn out after the shine wore off?

What if this was what it looked like--

Love.

Before either of you were brave enough to say it out loud?

But it was the little things with dating Hotch that was different. The things that didn’t need to be said out loud. 

The date cancellation didn’t bother you.

Truly.

Hotch had called that morning, voice heavy with apology, telling you that a case had just come in--out of state, high priority. Jet was already being fueled. You barely had time to say, “Stay safe,” before the line went dead.

You got it. You really did.

You had weddings where the bride changed the color scheme three hours before setup. You had grieving families who wanted the casket spray to be perfect with no time left on the clock. You’d dropped everything more times than you could count.

So no, you weren’t upset.

You understood.

More than understood. This is what you signed up for and were completely okay with it. This is why…this is why you were falling for this man. His dedication. His drive. 

Still, it had been one of those days where everything felt just a little off. Customers were short. A shipment came in late. The flower fridge started humming too loud. Even your favorite floral shears kept disappearing on you.

You were wiping your hands on your apron when the tablet by the register dinged.

New online order.

You moved to check it without thinking, eyes skimming the screen.

Sunflowers.

Simple arrangement.

Delivery to: Your Shop (ATTN: You).

Paid in full.

Customer Note: I know you’ll probably have to arrange these yourself (unless you want someone else to), but I saw a vase of them in the hotel lobby and thought of you. Couldn’t bring myself to order them from another shop. Sorry again for tonight. Wish I was there. – Aaron

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then you let out the tiniest, stunned laugh.

Because of course he did.

Of course Aaron Hotchner submitted a paid order to your own flower shop, just to make you feel seen.

You stood there, rereading the note three times, feeling your throat tighten.

This man.

He wasn’t just a good partner. He wasn’t just thoughtful.

He was…real.

He meant things.

You’d seen men do far worse with far less remorse. You’d made arrangements for the same man three times in a month, once for his wife, once for his girlfriend, once for “a friend from work.” You knew exactly how little some men were willing to give.

But Hotch?

He paid you to send yourself flowers.

Just so you’d feel thought of.

You picked up your phone without even thinking.

He answered on the second ring. Ever the professional, Hotchner,” he said, his voice lower, quieter than usual. You could hear background chatter. Hotel hallway. Maybe the jet.

“You,” you said, not bothering to greet him. “You placed a paid order at my shop?”

“…Is that a problem?” He sounded slightly unsure of himself. It was quite amusing to picture a man as big and worldly as Hotch seem hesitant or questioning of himself. 

You let out a short laugh, one hand braced on your hip, warmth blooming in your chest despite yourself. You looked over to the bucket of fresh trimmed sunflowers beaming up at you. 

“No, it’s--no, it’s not a problem, it’s just--” You sighed. “Aaron, you could’ve just called. Or texted. You didn’t have to pay for anything.”

“I wanted to.” Simple. Like it was obvious. 

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I didn’t want you to think I forgot.” Again, here was the man who seemed and sounded nervous. As if he was grasping onto you. Afraid you might leave. 

“I never thought that.”

“I know,” he said, softer now. “But I thought…maybe if you saw them, it would feel like I was still showing up.”

You didn’t speak for a second.

You were afraid your voice might give you away.

So you cleared your throat and leaned back against the counter, eyes drifting to the still-unmade sunflower arrangement sitting in the back of the shop. Waiting.

You said, quietly, “They’re beautiful. Just the idea of them. Thank you.”

He exhaled, a sound that bordered on relief. “I hate missing time with you.”

“I know. But you don’t have to prove anything. I’m not keeping score.”

“You should be,” he said. Almost like a warning for what was to come. Something you knew already. “I’d lose.”

That made you laugh again, and God, you needed that. That warmth. That certainty. That ease.

There was a pause--

One of those quiet, meaningful ones that stretched like a bridge between people who were afraid to step too far.

You could hear the words sitting there.

Waiting.

But instead of saying them, you said, “I’ve got a brand new pair of jeans I can’t wait to wear out with you when you get back.”

Deflect. What you know best! 

Hotch chuckled, low and warm. “That might actually kill me.”

“Good,” you said. “I like having that power.”

“You always have.”

Another beat of silence.

You could hear it in his breath. You were sure he could hear it in yours.

That almost-love humming between you.

You smiled softly. “Come back to me soon.”

“I will.”

You didn’t say I love you.

He didn’t either.

But God, you could feel it.

And it was more than enough.

For now.

This almost-love was blooming so wildly in your chest now every waking moment you saw him. From the sun staining his cheek in the morning hours of your apartment to the sweet texts you would get back from him (despite his poor texting skills). 

You’d almost said it dozens of times.

When he brought you coffee just the way you liked it, scribbled with your name in his messy FBI handwriting.

When you caught him watching you in your shop like you were made of sunlight and not soil and flower petals.

When he fixed a broken hinge on your cooler door without being asked.

When he’d kissed you under a thunderstorm, one hand in your hair, the other on your cheek, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

You’d almost said it--

But didn’t.

And he almost had too.

You felt it when he lingered in your doorway a second too long.

 When his thumb traced your jaw like it was fragile.

When his voice caught on a soft “Be safe,” as you headed into another busy day.

When he looked at you like you were more permanent than his job, than the jet, than the danger that lived in his orbit.

You didn’t need the words to know.

But you wanted them.

You wanted him to have them.

To hear them.

To feel them, unfiltered and undiluted, before anything could take the chance away.

So when your phone rang that day--late afternoon, with the shop smelling of eucalyptus and lemon balm, a soft storm tapping against the windows--you didn’t expect it.

You didn’t expect his voice.

Didn’t expect how wrecked it sounded.

“Hey,” you said softly, automatically smiling as you wiped your hands on your apron. “Shouldn’t you be haalfway through an interrogation right now?”

There was a pause.

A too-long one.

Then his voice came through--

Tight, raw. 

Shaken.

“Something went wrong.”

You froze.

“What do you mean?”

“The case. It got…bad.”

Your stomach dropped.

You weren’t used to this.

Your job didn’t come with guns and unsubs and tactical gear. You dealt in blooms and beauty and people on the brink of celebration or grief.

Not danger.

But this? This was his world. And now, you could hear it in his voice.

Shaking.

“I’m okay,” he rushed out, as if he was saying it to himself as well. “I’m okay. I swear. But I--God, I needed to call you.”

You leaned hard into the counter, heart racing. “Aaron, what happened?”

“There was a house. A hostage situation. We thought we had the perimeter clear but--we didn’t. It was close. Too close.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the table. You could feel your breath catch.

“They’re fine. We’re fine,” he continued, like he needed to say it aloud to believe it. “But I was pinned for a second and I couldn’t reach my comms and I thought--just for a second--”

He went quiet.

You closed your eyes, trying to breathe through the panic threading into your ribs. All of the mess around you--

The flowers, the orders, the stack of to-do’s seemingly melted away. 

“I thought about Jack,” he said quietly. “And I thought about the team.”

Another pause.

Then his voice dropped--

Lower, hoarser. 

Vulnerable in a way you’d never heard.

“And then I thought about you.”

Your throat tightened.

“About how I hadn’t told you yet.”

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard him right.

“Told me what?”

He exhaled, a shaky sound on the other end of the line.

“That I love you.”

You didn’t breathe.

He kept going, like he had to get the words out now or lose them forever.

“I should’ve said it sooner. I should’ve said it a hundred times already. But today, when I thought--”

He cut off, jaw clenched audibly even through the phone.

“I love you,” he repeated, like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. Like he’d been preparing his whole life how to say it.  “I don’t want to wait for perfect moments or good timing or whatever stupid rule I thought I was following.”

You stood still in the middle of your shop, surrounded by flowers and petals and a hundred unsaid things--

And whispered, “I love you too.”

It came out broken. Bare. But so full of truth you could feel it in your bones.

The other end of the line went silent for a beat.

Then he exhaled--

Like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

“You do?”

You let out a shaky laugh, brushing tears from your cheek.

“I think I’ve been loving you since the day you showed up with wildflowers wrapped in newspaper.”

Another pause.

Then, softly, “I think I started the first time I walked into your shop and forgot how to breathe.”

You smiled, teary, heart pounding like it finally had permission to.

“I wish I could see you right now.”

“I’ll be home tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll come to the shop.”

“You better,” you whispered.

Because suddenly, everything you wanted was on the other side of that door.

And this time, you weren’t going to let love stay unsaid.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @Sweethotchlogy @softtdaisy @stilestotherescue @midnghtprentiss @thebestqueenoftheworld @Bookaddictlatina  @superlegend216

[thechaoslibrarian]

seriously - johnny storm x reader

synopsis: you and johnny take advantage of an empty baxter building. but you don't expect sue to catch you in the act.

word count: 0.9k

warnings/tags: fem!reader, a lil bit smutty but nothing too explicit, established relationship, getting caught (almost?)

a/n: i watched the original fantastic four when i was eight and that is all i'm going off on. don't know what compelled me to write this, but here we are :)

Johnny loves sneaking you into the Baxter Building despite there being absolutely no need to. You're practically part of the family. You have a spot at the dinner table, your toothbrush resides in the bathroom, and H.E.R.B.I.E. asks about you when you're gone too long. But Johnny still gets a thrill from the hushed voices and tiptoeing around as if you were some forbidden outsider.

It's winter in New York, and the city is covered in a thin blanket of snow. The building is empty when you and Johnny arrive, except for H.E.R.B.I.E. wandering around the living room. The other three are out doing errands and won't be back for a while.

Recognising the potential of your situation, Johnny takes your hand and leads you to his room. Once inside, he shuts the door and lays you down on his bed. His body immediately covers yours. He pulls the duvet over the both of you, shielding you from the cold as he settles in the space between your legs.

He leans in and begins peppering kisses anywhere he can reach. His hands interlock with yours as he relishes the feeling of you. Your skin feels cool against his. Your soft sighs only fuel his desire. Your body is perfect beneath his. He kisses over your cheeks and along your jaw, paving a path towards your lips.

You turn your face to the side to dodge his kiss. "Johnny, wait."

He pouts as he pulls back slightly. "Wait? For what?"

"I just got here. Don't you want to do something else first?" you ask with an innocent smile. But it's clear you're teasing him.

"No, baby. Want you now," he murmurs, finally capturing your lips with his.

Your stomach tingles as he kisses you languidly. He takes his time to savour your taste, exploring your mouth as if it was the first time he's been given the privilege. He pins you down harder, his body a tantalising presence against yours. You let out the softest moan in response. But he hears you. He feels it throughout his entire body.

He breaks away to trail kisses down your neck again. Releasing your hands, he begins making his way down, moving under the covers. His hands map a path down your arms and over your body. When he reaches your stomach, he lifts your sweatshirt just high enough to kiss the sensitive skin of your belly.

His fingers play at the waistband of your pants, teasing you for just a moment before undoing them. He pulls your pants and underwear down together. You watch your clothes fly out from under the duvet, landing somewhere on the floor.

He settles again between your legs, hooking his arms around your thighs to hold you in place. He trails his lips along the softness of your inner thighs, humming against your skin as he takes in the scent of your arousal. You lift up the covers to get a peek at him.

He meets your gaze, grinning. "Still wanna do something else first?"

"Shut up," you mumble, lowering the covers again.

He chuckles, and you feel his breath against your warmth. Your body burns with anticipation as his lips inch closer and closer.

But just as he's about to reach his destination, the door suddenly opens, and a voice rings through.

"Hey, Johnny. Have you-"

Sue walks in, her eyes immediately landing on you. She makes a face of bewilderment at the sight. Fortunately, you're unexposed, still wearing your sweatshirt and covered by the duvet. However, the suspicious heap on the bed makes the situation obvious.

You stare back wide-eyed, shocked into silence. Johnny clambers up from his spot. He sticks his head out from under the covers, appearing just above your chest.

"Jesus, Sue. Ever heard of knocking?" he chastises her.

Sue raises an eyebrow. "Ever heard of locking the door?"

Johnny huffs in response. "What are you doing back so early?"

"We finished early," she replies. "Did you sort out the package like I asked?"

"Uh… no," he answers.

"I need you to do it now," she says.

"Seriously?" he asks. "I'm kinda in the middle of something."

"Yes, seriously," she insists. "I needed it done this morning."

Johnny groans, turning back to you. "I'm sorry. I gotta go deal with this."

"No worries. I'll wait for you here," you reply.

He maneuvers out from under the covers, careful to keep you hidden. He lovingly lays the duvet over you again and kisses you on your forehead.

Johnny heads towards the door. "Alright, let's go."

Sue nods, before turning to you. "It's good to see you again."

You swear you can see a smirk on her face but decide to respond civilly. "Good to see you too, Sue."

"Go!" Johnny reiterates, ushering his sister out of his room.

Despite the predicament, Johnny's frustration amuses you. Sue finally leaves, and Johnny casts one last glance back at you. He gives you a smile before closing the door.

You let out a sigh as you lie back, now alone in the bedroom. You decide to stay tucked into bed, watching the city from the window as you waited. About twenty minutes pass before Johnny returns.

"Hey, baby. Sorry about that," he says, entering the room again. He locks the door this time.

"It's alright," you tell him, putting your phone down. "Is everything good?"

He sits down on the edge of the bed as he looks over you. The sight of you nice and comfy in his bed warms his heart.

"Yeah," he replies. "There's just been a lot to do lately."

You nod. "Any other disturbances I should be aware of?"

He grins. "No. No more disturbances."

He crawls under the covers, positioning himself over you again. He wastes no time to close the distance with a tender kiss. His hands find yours as he presses you against the mattress.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips. "Now, where were we?"

➸

[thechaoslibrarian]

New Tricks

Pairing: Virgin!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count: 9.5k

Summary: After your brother has to cancel movie night, you’re ready to resign yourself to an uneventful evening back at your dorm, alone and dejected. But what you didn’t count on, is your brother’s best friend and roommate, bursting through the door and asking you to stay; to spend the night with him, instead

What unfolds, however, while you spend time with the star football player, both shocks and astounds you — one confession in particular. 

Bucky Barnes, the Prince Charming of campus, the man you have been crushing on for an eternity, is a virgin.

Warnings: first kisses, fluff, smut, grinding, making out, big brother!steve, college!bucky, shy bby bucky, mutual pining, swearing, pet names, huge ton of reassurances, lots of praise, big hints of subby bucky

Author’s Note: beta’d by my baby @rookthorne

Okay, so where to start with this… the idea for this fic sprung from a certain someone 👀 and I just had to write it. Thank you to my girl for being a huge support through this, I love you 💗

These two have my whole heart and who knows? Maybe more will come of them 😌 for all my playlist lovers, you’re welcome - new tricks playlist ❤️

New Tricks Masterlist

I hope you enjoy this as much as I’ve loved creating it 🥹

Standing outside of your brother’s apartment, your impatience starts to wane thin. For ten whole minutes, you have been waiting for Steve to open up. And knocking like a crazed woman is beginning to get old; so is waiting on the doorstep to his front door. 

“Oh, for–” You grumble, and you lift your arm up to bang against the door for the umpteenth time,  when your hand misses it entirely, owing to the fact it swings open to admit you with such enthusiasm, it creaks and threatens to bounce back off of the wall.  

Bucky — your brother’s roommate, best friend, and your crush — sheepishly smiles and scratches the back of his neck. 

The line of his shoulders slump when he lowers his arm, and you notice (and appreciate) just how broad and muscled he is. He must have just been working out, or you interrupted him — nonetheless, you’re thankful for the sight before you, and how it makes the crush you harboured for the brunette for years roar to life all over again. 

Excellent, you inwardly sigh.

“Buttercup,” Bucky says — the affectionate nickname born from his sappy personality always makes you swoon, and his hesitant smile morphs into a wide one. You’re left fighting  internally to keep your giddiness at the sight of him to a respectable level.  “Hey, you. Sorry I didn’t hear you; I was listening to music.” 

Your gaze continues up to his hair, finding it tied back with an elastic at the nape of his neck.  Oh, how you wished you could run your hands through–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, furrowing his brows. 

Embarrassment floods you and you realise far too late that he probably has asked you a question, or several, while you were daydreaming. “Sorry, Buck,” you squeak, praying that the heat crawling up your neck was not as obvious as it felt. “What was that?”

His soft, puppy-eyed expression brightens when you meet his gaze. “It’s fine, doll. Everything okay?” 

No matter how badly you want to stand and unashamedly stare at your brother’s best friend and roommate, your true intention behind your visit comes to mind. 

“Can I come in?” you ask, lifting the bag of snacks you brought up higher. Bucky’s eyes glance down at the bag, and then back up to your face. “Stevie planned our movie night and he isn’t answering his phone — I told him I was on my way and I asked him if he wanted anything else.” 

The confusion that creases Bucky's brows and downturns his lips in a small frown makes you narrow your eyes. 

“Surely he didn’t forget,” you accuse, still staring into Bucky’s face. “I make the trip down from campus every two weeks. It’s been two weeks.” A sudden, encompassing guilt fills Bucky’s eyes, and he starts to worry his bottom lip with his teeth — a sight far too hard to ignore. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Um– I just–” Bucky stutters, and you watch as his fingers twitch and fidget — a nervous tic. If he didn’t look cute while stumbling over his words, you would feel sorry for being so blunt. “I just thought that– Uh, I thought it was cancelled. The movie night, I mean.” 

You step forward slightly, and Bucky opens the door wider. A wordless invitation. 

Bucky rushes to clear a space on the entryway coat rack for you, when he suddenly says, “You know, because of his date, an’ all.” His words falter at the look you shoot him. You stop taking off your coat, and you drop the bag of snacks to the floor, ignoring the crinkle and rustle of plastic. 

“What do you mean date, Barnes?” The use of his last name causes a flush of deep red to pattern his cheeks, but you don’t let up. There’s music playing from down the hall of the apartment – right where Steve’s bedroom is. “What’s going on?” 

Bucky skittishly fidgets and glances around the apartment, before meeting your heated gaze. “I– Look, I didn’t know–” 

You silently mouth a curse, beyond frustrated with your older brother, and with yourself for taking just a second to indulge and admire just how sweet Bucky is when he is unsure. “Fine,” you huff, and you turn to walk straight towards the source and to investigate it yourself.

Bucky’s frantic footsteps behind you don’t deter your haste. “Wait, stop — Buttercup, wait!”

Forgoing a courtesy knock — having had enough of banging on his front door — you barge straight into the room with as little as a greeting call or warning. 

“What the shit–“ 

The door to Steve’s bedroom slams against the wall, and you come face to face with the blond in the middle of a dance off with himself in the mirror. “Sis! Hey,” he gasps, holding his hand over his heart in fright. “What’re you doing–?” 

In lieu of an answer, you cross your arms and stare at him, unimpressed and exasperated with his antics. “Don’t you hey sis me.” The fear in Steve’s eyes as you stomp towards him almost vindicates your indignation of being uninformed. “What do you mean you’re going on a date? It’s movie night!” 

Steve has the decency to look ashamed. “Flower, I swear, I’m sorry,” he rambles, and he takes your hand, directing you to sit down on his bed. “I would’ve called to let you know but everything was so last minute.” 

The grip he has on your hand is firm, assuring you of his true intentions, even when he turns the Roger’s charm up to an eleven to worm his way back onto your good side. “I swear sis, I wouldn’t bail on you without a good reason.”

“Okay,” you say, staring into his face — still not wholeheartedly convinced of his graces. A line of questioning is in order, you decide. “So, who is this good enough reason?”

“Natasha Romanoff.” The dreamy, love-struck sigh that leaves Steve’s lips after her name is uttered has you reluctantly trying to hide your giggle; the righteous anger and frustration slowly leaves your body in his admittance.  

The fact that he has been obsessed with the college’s most popular redhead since forever, was a balm to the annoyance. You truly did feel happy for him underneath it all. 

And, in the end, it’s how you decide to let him off the hook — though not without teasing him, first. “No way, the Natasha Romanoff? How the hell have you managed that one?” 

Steve pushes your shoulder, and the force of his shove knocks you sideways onto the covers of his bed. “Fine,” you grouse, sighing heavily and resigning yourself to a night on your own. “I’ll let you off this time.”

“I’ll make it up to you, Flower,” Steve promises. And you believe him. He has always kept his word; ever since the two of you were kids. 

“Good,” you say, smiling softly. “I expect an apology at my door in the next few days, though.”

Laughing, Steve nods, and then he stands from his bed. 

“I’ll leave you to it then, I hope you have fun, bro.” 

It is an impossible task for you to hide your dejected hurt from Steve, though. Clever and perceptive as he is, he detects the subtle sombre undertones underlying your reassurances, narrowing in on them like a dog to a bone. 

You get to your feet with a quiet sigh, and as you move, you miss the thoughtful expression on his face; the perk of his ears at the almost indistinguishable shuffling of feet just outside of his bedroom. “How about you have a movie night with Bucky, instead?” 

You stop in your tracks, frozen in shock at the sudden and downright surprising suggestion. “Stevie,” you admonish, “Bucky does not want to waste a Friday night with me–“

“I don’t mind!” Bucky shouts eagerly from the doorway, and you spin around to face him. The nervous fidget of his curls his fingers and hands around one another, over and over. 

Had he been listening that whole time? 

Guilt begins to flood you. Imposing on any plans Bucky  may have made was a burden you did not want to bear,  and you couldn’t fathom who would want to spend the night with their best friend’s little sister. “Thank you, Bucky, that’s really sweet of you,” you placate, smiling at him. “But I know you’ve probably got better things to do on a Friday night than be with me.”

Bucky seems to swell in the doorway, his chest puffing up and he sets his jaw, a determined glint in his eyes. “Actually, Buttercup,” he retorts, crossing his arms in a decisive move. “A movie night with you sounds perfect.” 

The confidence in his tone takes you by surprise, and you flounder for a second while you stare into his steel blue eyes. “Really?”

“‘Course,” he replies easily, shrugging his shoulders. “It’ll be fun.”

His words, and charming smile, ultimately win you over.  

With your attention wholly focused on Bucky as he begins to talk about what movies to watch, you miss the knowing, victorious smirk that curls Steve’s lips.  

“Okay,” Steve calls from the doorway, looking back at the two of you, and you can’t help but be frustrated by his stalling. “Be good and behave while I’m gone. Oh, and, no staying up past your bedtimes — Bucky, her bedtime is ten o’clock sharp.”

The scowl on your face only serves to make him laugh, and you huff your exasperation before your hands grip his biceps; the only way to get him out the door is brute force. “Get out, Stevie,” you grunt, pushing with all your might, but it is to no avail. Steve is as immovable as a statue made of marble. “Don’t you have to go see Natasha?”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, and you hear the rustling sound of fabric. “Don’t you?”

Instinct tells you to duck, and you do so, just in the nick of time to avoid the pillow Bucky launches across the room from his place next to the couch. The pillow hits Steve square in the face with a comical thump. 

You burst into laughter at the stunned look of disbelief on Steve’s face, and you look over at Bucky, who is leaning against the sofa; a smug grin pulls his lips up and scrunches his nose.  “Get the hell outta here already, punk.”

With Steve distracted by Bucky’s betrayal, you take the chance to shove him out of the front door and watch delightedly as he stumbles in the hallway. “Hey–!” The door slams shut behind him, cutting him off. 

Giggles shake your shoulders as you put your back to the door, leaning against it with all of your strength as Steve turns the handle — evidently not finished in the war of quips. 

Bucky’s laughter from his place by the sofa makes your stomach flutter, and he walks closer, just as Steve stops attempting to break down the door. 

With the end of Steve’s attempts to forcefully open the door, you turn and face the wood and peer out of the peephole. A blond mop of hair is just within view. “Bye Stevie!” you call through the door, “Have fun, wear protection!”

Steve’s reply is muffled by the wood, and he flips you off before walking away.  

Shaking your head, you turn back to face the living room, and you see Bucky fussing around the sofa and coffee table. The strong aroma of a sweet, spicy scent fills your senses and you inhale deeply, letting the tantalising smell fill your lungs, before you ask, “Bucky, what are you doing?”

He sends you a furtive glance before looking back down at the snacks laid out on the coffee table, neatly placed next to two already filled glasses of drink. A bag of popcorn threatens to spill from his arms. “I’m, uh– I’m setting up? For the movie–?”

You could not help but notice how fast the bravado and confidence he displayed in the presence of Steve vanishes when he was with you, and you alone.  

“Oh, sweetie,” you coo, walking closer. “I thought we could watch the movie in your room, instead of out here. It’ll be more comfortable, at least, and we can spread out. Is that okay?” 

The popcorn bag that threatened to spill from his arms bursts instead, scattering the popped kernels all over the floor, making him yelp. “Ah! Uh– Okay, we… We can if you want?”

You nod once. “Absolutely. I’d rather be in your bed any day, then out here,” you tease, amused by the way Bucky’s eyes bulge and his cheeks flush. Then you look down at the popcorn all over the floor, and add, “But first, let’s clean this up.” 

Bucky starts to clean up the mess, and he tells you to grab the movies you agreed upon from the collection in the bookshelf. 

The selection to choose from is packed, as it always is. “Why don’t I grab a couple?” 

“Sure,” Bucky answers, sweeping the popcorn into a dustpan. “I mean, why not? May as well go all out.”

You grin and grab a couple of cases. “Do you need some help–”

“No, I’ve got it, Bubs,” Bucky interrupts. You look over your shoulder at him to see the blankets bundled high in his arms, and before you could protest and insist you help carry them, he shuffles off in the direction of his bedroom. 

Then, you glance down at the coffee table to see that the snacks and drinks are missing. “Did you grab the snacks?”

“Yeah!” Bucky calls back, muffled by the walls between the two of you. 

A fond sigh falls from your lips and you follow after him, DVD cases in hand.  

The tension in the air of his bedroom is charged with something you could not quite describe, and the butterflies in your stomach roar to life for it. You square your shoulders, and smile through it. “It’s no different, it’s no different,” you mutter under your breath; a mantra for confidence. 

Though, it is short lived. 

Bucky throws the blankets onto his bed with a grunt, and both the TV and DVD player switch on, ready to accept one of the disks you held in your hand. 

A shuddery breath falls from your lips, and you make your way to the player to place the first disc in. It whirrs to life as you turn to look at Bucky, who is placing the snacks on a tray table, his tongue between his teeth as he works. 

“Okay,” he hums, turning to face you, a shy smile on his face. “You ready, Bubs?” Without waiting for an answer, he walks past you to the light switch, his index finger poised to flip it off. 

You look down at your body, the warm outerwear you had thrown on to get to Steve’s apartment suddenly becomes scorching hot against your skin, and an idea comes to mind — flustering him has given you a rush of confidence before… 

“Almost,” you say, a hidden smirk on your lips. The layers of warmth are soft in your hands while you take them off, and you’re left in a thin tank top and soft, cotton shorts. “Now I am.”

A faint choking noise comes from the doorway behind you when you place the warmer clothes on Bucky’s desk chair. Inwardly, a coy smirk lifts the corner of your lips; outwardly, you look over to him, concerned and ever curious. 

His face, normally soft and kind whenever he looked at you, is taut with embarrassment; blotchy and red. His eyes are frantically looking anywhere, and everywhere around the room but at you. 

“Buck?” you say, getting his attention. His eyes meet yours. “You okay?”

The fidgeting is your first clue that he is struggling with something, and it is a battle to keep the teasing smile off your lips when his hands run constantly through his long hair and or come to a stop in the pockets of his grey sweats. 

Patiently, you watch while he repeats the same actions several times, each pass of his hands only serving to make him even more flushed. “Yeah. Yep,” Bucky coughs. “Mhm. Just great, thanks.” He looks up to the ceiling and gulps loudly. “You’re really wearing those? Uh– Just those, I mean?” 

You thin your lips to try and hurriedly fight off a smile as you grab your warm, fluffy socks from your bag. “Of course, silly,” you tease, shaking your head once. “I always wear my comfy clothes on movie night.”

The room turns deathly silent when you bend at the hip to pull the socks up your feet. 

Peering up from your task, you see Bucky staring at your legs, evidently thinking he hadn’t been caught and his eyes begin to trail upwards, towards your chest. The slackjawed expression amuses you, though you feel the beginning sparks of your own shyness come to life.

“Buck?” A nervous laugh bubbles in your chest, and you play with the hem of your tank top at the heat in his gaze. “Bucky?” you try again, “Are you ready?”

“Uh– Yeah, yes,” he rushes, quickly flicking the light off so his face is cast into shadow. You could have sworn he looked like a kid getting caught stealing a cookie from the cookie jar — wide eyes and a deepening blush that spread down his neck.  

Bucky had always been a little shy in your presence, this you knew. Whenever you come over to visit Steve, or you bump into Bucky on campus, you always notice a remarkable difference in his normal, unwavering charm that he had in familiar company. 

This lack of swagger gives you the impression that you unfasten the young, boyish version of him; the one ruled by nerves, and hindered by a severe lack of confidence. 

Sure, you enjoy spending time with him here and there when you hang out at your brother’s apartment, but never before have you been this close to him, and alone. 

“Why don’t we–?” You gesture towards Bucky’s bed, and before he could either protest or agree, you jog to the edge and jump onto the plush mattress with a squeal of laughter. The blankets cover you easily as you roll yourself in them. “This is perfect,” you sigh, happy and content. 

“And where am I meant to sit?” Bucky laughs, appearing in your eye line with a bright, amused expression. “You blanket hog.”

“Fine,” you drawl, and you disentangle yourself from the cocoon of blankets. 

“Why, thank you, madame,” Bucky says, extending his hand in a mock salute, and he sits down in the now available spot, before sidling up the mattress, to rest his back on the headboard.

The broadness of his shoulders don’t leave much room between the two of you, and you decide to snuggle up to his side in a bid to get comfortable. You feel him tense with the proximity, but he doesn’t push you away or say anything.

“Are you ready now?” you ask, reaching for the remote. “For the movie?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” he rasps, nodding quickly.

Despite his initial nerves, Bucky settles comfortably in your presence — half of the movie goes by undisturbed with only the occasional shuffling to get comfortable after getting a snack, or a drink.  

That all changes the moment Bucky becomes restless,his leg twitching against yours constantly, and he repositions himself every couple of minutes. From the corner of your eye, you see his mouth opening and closing; the courage building within him to speak up. You bite your tongue against the urge — let him speak first, you chided yourself. 

“So,” Bucky eventually says, his voice quiet. “How are your classes going, Buttercup?” 

You take your eyes off the screen and face Bucky, but he’s already looking at you, his eyes bright from the glow of the TV. 

“They’re going good,” you reply, just as quietly. “Yeah, they’re busy — hectic, even, but good.” 

The fabric of the comforter ruffles as you turn your body towards him — your shorts ride up with the movement, and your bare thighs brush against his sweats. Bucky tenses while you settle in and only relaxes when you stop shifting in place. “This time of year is always busy, the coursework and exams,” you continue, shrugging your shoulders. “But I’m managing okay, thanks.” 

Bucky nods his head thoughtfully. “Yeah, all those art projects you’ve gotta finish, it must be tiring.” 

Shock slackens your features and you reel back — you could not recall telling him what you studied. “How do you know what major I’m taking?”

“I– um,” Bucky stutters, suddenly overwhelmingly shy. “I hear you talking to Steve about it. Y’know, when– When you come over, on movie nights, and other nights.” 

You can sense Bucky is not done explaining; he licks his lips and stares at his lap, where he fidgets, again. Quietly, as if embarrassed, he continues, “I see you lugging your big canvases across campus sometimes, too. From class, and– And from the window, when I’m actually studying.”

Warmth creeps up your neck again and you blink rapidly. You hadn’t noticed that he took so much notice of you before now, and you couldn’t help but feel endeared over it. 

Desperate to shift the attention away from yourself, you blurt, “How’s, uh– How’s training going for football season this year?”  

Bucky freezes for a second, then trips over his words, “Oh, it’s good– Yeah, it’s great. Coach says I’m progressing well, so I’m doing alright, I guess.”

“So modest, Buck,” you tease. It was common knowledge on campus that Bucky is the star player of the college football team, while also being scouted to join the professional leagues. You place your hand on his arm and squeeze his bicep reassuringly, lending him a bit of your confidence. “Don’t you sell yourself short, I’ve seen you play — you’re amazing!” 

He inhales sharply and grimaces, an expression that contorts his handsome face. “You really think so?” 

“Bucky,” you say slowly. The tense line of his body is obvious as you shuffle closer, but you are determined to prove your point; assure him of his talent and abilities, for all of a shy puppy that he is.  

“Listen to me, honey,” you continue, and Bucky refuses to meet your gaze, instead focusing on his hands. “Everyone can see it, all of us — all of the women in the crowds, all of the kids that watch you from the sidelines. We’re all screaming for you.”

His skin is warm under your palm, but you don’t remove your hand. Instead, you grip his arm and shake it a little. “You’re amazing.”

Bucky stays silent — contemplative of your words, and you take the opportunity to think over the reason why Bucky chooses to stay in on a Friday night. 

There is no questioning the fact that Bucky Barnes could pull anyone he wanted, whether it was to party, or to fuck, but to your recollection — and from what Steve had slipped in the past — no one has ever witnessed Bucky bringing anyone home, drunk or otherwise. No partner he could call his own, either, and he didn’t brag about the obvious charm he held over the many women on or off campus. 

Cautiously, you venture towards the subject of your curiosity. “Speaking of, shouldn’t you be going out on dates on a Friday night, like Stevie? Surely you’ve got tons of girls lined up for you.”  

Bucky’s silence turns deafening, unnatural. His body becomes stiff and he looks to be barely breathing. 

“Buck?” You sit up and look into his face. It’s pulled taut with what you could only guess as shame, but that made no sense, and with a mounting, swelling horror, you realise you may have pushed him too far; teased beyond the point of what is acceptable between friends. “Hey, did I say something wrong? I’m so sorry–”

“No! No– I… fuck.” Bucky throws his head back against the headboard and covers his face. “Oh, God,” he groans, muffled by his hands. “Shit.”

“Bucky–” You hesitate, unsure of what to do or what to say. You’ve never seen Bucky behave like this, so anxious and uneasy. “I– I’ll go, it’s alright, I’m sorry,” you say quickly, and you start to shuffle off of the bed when you hear his muffled voice say something behind his hands. “What was that, I didn’t–?”

A heavy sigh lifts his shoulders, and they slump back down as he exhales. “Ihaventevenhadmyfirstkissyet.”

“Sweetheart,” you say quietly, and you shift back towards him. The curtain of hair he’s so fond of covers and conceals his eyes from view, but you refrain from tucking it behind his ear. “I did not understand a word of what you just said.” 

Bucky clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably, looking up at you with a great effort. “I– uh.” His hands land on his thighs with a finality not unlike the final siren at his football games, and he utters a reluctant, “I haven’t even had my first kiss yet.” 

His bedroom is quiet enough you would hear a pin drop. The TV had long powered off, since the movie finished while you talked, and the tension was palpable; a living, breathing encumberment that could not be cut with a knife. The flickering light from the still burning candle on his bedside drawers makes shadows dance across Bucky’s face. 

Okay, you think privately, so what? 

Bucky hasn’t kissed anyone before. It was justifiable — too busy with life, training and keeping up his GPA. You didn’t have to make a big deal out of this. “That’s okay–” Then the reality of the situation hits you, and your mind screeches to a halt. 

If Bucky hasn’t had his first kiss… “Does– Wait, does that mean–?”

“Yes.” Bucky squeezes his eyes tight and refuses to look at you — it is obviously a painful confession, yet he still forces himself to spit it out, putting voice to the doubt in your mind. “I’m a virgin.”

Now that catches you off guard. 

Bucky… is a virgin? 

Bucky, the star football player; built like a Greek god with the charisma to match. 

Sweat beads on his forehead and he looks like he is about to bolt from the room in his fear, and you realise all of your thoughts had shown in your expression. 

“Oh,” you manage, blinking slowly. The hand that was gripping his arm had moved without you realising, and you hastily place it back on his bicep. “Oh, Bucky.”

No other words come to mind. 

When you came to visit Steve for movie night, a calm, easy tradition in your routine, you never expected to end up in this kind of situation; on the other side of a confession that has left you speechless with shock, all while a strange confliction brews deep within your guts. 

You had been there once, and what you wouldn’t have given to have the opportunity to experience it with someone you trusted wholeheartedly — like you did Bucky, your mind supplies not-so-helpfully. 

The realisation hits you harder than you expect, and you gasp quietly, still gripping his arm to reassure him. 

Bucky moves his hands to cover his face again, and his chest rises and falls with a sharp hitch. The nervous pants for air that part his lips bring you back down to earth and away from that revelation. You know he’s embarrassed; ducking his head to his chest and glancing up as though you had scolded him. The entirety of his toned body is rigid with fear, each muscle clenching and poised to run, to save what dignity he feels he has left after such a confession. 

It’s difficult not to stare at the veins that line and bulge from his forearms down to his deft hands,  and you almost feel guilty for it; he’s in distress, fretting over the reveal of his lack of sexual prowess, but you cannot help the lingering gaze over his body. He just looks so pretty. 

From the get go, ever since you had met the star football player, you have always fantasised about him. The silent crush on Bucky had developed into such a deep attraction you almost couldn’t bear it any longer. 

Having convinced yourself of the non-existent reciprocation kept your tongue at bay, in the past.  And while Bucky’s virginity is a surprise, it did not hinder or lessen your feelings for him, quite the opposite; the heady weight of it settling over your mind like a blanket. 

What was stopping you now? What would be the harm in testing the waters?

To hell with it, you decide. The springs of the mattress creak as you move to shuck the blanket off of your body, then your legs. 

Bucky audibly gulps behind his hands when you move closer, and he positively freezes, like a deer in headlights, as you lift your leg up and over his thighs to straddle him. The soft brush of his sweatpants over your legs sends a shiver up your spine, and you sit down, settling your body comfortably on his thighs, just above his knees. 

“What– What are you doing–?” Bucky whispers, and his words are muffled behind his palms. You grin, unseen by your quarry, and you shuffle up his thighs to his hips, your clothed cunt just below the seam at his crotch.  

The sound of Bucky choking on his own spit is comical. 

You pull his hands away from his face, the urge to kiss each palm overwhelming; feather-soft brushes of your lips against the soft skin sends the pulse in his throat racing. “Buttercup, please– This is embarrassing enough–”

“Bucky,” you whisper, cutting him off. “Look at me.”

Blue eyes meet yours, and you pour all of the unspoken words between you both in your soft gaze, willing him to feel the yearning. “Kiss me.” 

“But–” He hesitates, a fish out of water again. His mouth hangs slack from the shock of such a bold request, and you place your pointer finger over his lips, shushing him before he can carry on protesting. 

You pout, placing a hint of pleading in your tone, “Please?”

He looks at you as though you’ve grown two heads. “I– What, I mean,” he flounders, arms hovering at his sides, hesitant to touch you — terrified of taking it a step too far. “I don’t know–“

“Aw, Buck,” you coo, smiling softly. Carefully, you shuffle further up his lap until your knees brush against the headboard of his bed. Gently, you place your palms on Bucky’s toned chest, just above his beating heart hammering away — not wanting to frighten him. “I’ll show you, okay?”

“Yeah.” The tremble in his voice makes your heart ache, but you smile encouragingly.

“Here we go,” you soothe. He smiles weakly back, eyes still wide with shock. “I’ve got you.”

You slowly and steadily move closer to Bucky’s face. A shudder racks through his whole body when he feels your breath against his neck, and you peck his stubbled cheek before sitting back upright to face him.

“Okay,” Bucky shakily says, fisting the blankets in his hands. “Okay. That was okay.”

“See? It’s not so bad,” you tease, and you tilt your head to the side, sticking out your cheek. “Your turn.” From the corner of your eyes, you watch his eyes sweep across your face, still hesitant and nervous, but a slither of curiosity now shining through. 

Broad, strong shoulders lift in tandem with his deep, grounding breath, and he steadily leans in before he second guesses himself. He resolutely does not touch your body, but he manages to find the confidence to gently press his lips against your skin, kissing your cheek. 

This time, he sits back and looks up at you for direction and reassurance. 

You consider it, ignoring the fluttering of your heart. His touch was sweet, but polite; a kiss on the cheek that you would give a friend after such a long time apart. And, in the end, you want Bucky to gain more confidence and actually enjoy kissing — he shouldn’t have to be ashamed to want it. “Good, that was good,” you say, keeping your tone mellow so as to not spook him.

He is making good progress, and gentle encouragement is the way to ensure it continues, you reason with yourself. “Now, I want you to do the exact same thing, but start gradually moving towards my lips.”

“Oh– Okay, okay,” he breathes, and his eyes widen slightly before they dart down towards his lap. 

That needs to be rectified immediately, before he shuts down, you hastily think, and you react swifty, your hands roaming from his chest and up to the sides of his neck, adding a little pressure to bring him back down to earth. 

There was an innate need for him to know that he could trust you; that you would treat him with the respect he deserves. 

Gently, you lift his head up, forcing him to look at you, and the downturn of his lips makes your heart ache. All you want to do is soothe the fear and rid the worry from his pretty eyes that pierce you, even through the strands of hair that have fallen in his face. 

“You’re okay, Buck,” you soothe, rubbing your thumbs over his warm, rosy cheeks. The movement and assurance seem to do the trick. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

A minute passes, and you watch as the confliction flitters across his face; an inward battle to assemble his courage to bridge the gap between you both.

There is another minute of silence, when he slowly advances, leaving his palms flat on the covers of his bed as he kisses you on the cheek. 

“That’s it,” you praise, sitting still in his lap, but smiling softly in encouragement.

Bucky hesitantly returns the smile, and he doesn’t move away, rather, he decides to stay close. “You did good,” you say, still smiling, and he takes you by surprise when he moves forwards again to place another tiny kiss even closer to your lips. “Oh–”

The soft brush of his lips makes you freeze, and he takes his time, building his confidence with each peck he makes. 

Finally, he reaches the corner of your lips, and he stalls; confidence wavering and faltering with the daunting task. You go to part your lips to speak on instinct, to encourage him, when he suddenly moves even closer to your face, making you hastily shut your mouth and brace for what was to come; willing for your heart to slow down the tattoo it beats against your throat.  

“Okay,” Bucky whispers more to himself, and he clears his throat before licking his lips. “Okay, okay. Just–” His lips connect with the curve of you own, the brief and fleeting connection enough to tell you that his lips are plump; ripe to swell and redden with a passionate make out session. 

Hastily, Bucky withdraws, but not all the way back — he lingers and only allows the tiniest space between your faces.

“You did it, sweetheart,” you coo, keeping your voice low. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Th– Thanks,” he stutters, and the rosy blush he sported turns a splotchy crimson. Interesting, you think.  

You turn your head to look at him, and the proximity of his face makes both of your lips brush against each other. The intoxicating softness consumes you, and you cannot deny the reality that Bucky is there, he is right there. A torture that intensifies in the billowing silence, while a burning, reckless spike of adrenaline rushes through your veins.

“Do you want more?” you ask quietly, breaking the silence and shattering the tension. 

A harsh breath falls from Bucky’s lips, and he presses forward to kiss you properly for the first time. 

Whatever you had been expecting for a first kiss from the inexperienced, sweet, charming man beneath you, flew out the window. Your lips slot perfectly over his, a chaste kiss that held enough need and want to be something far more; it could not hold a candle to the sex you had with past flings.  

The kiss, unexpected as it was, lasts only for a couple seconds longer before Bucky pulls back from it, panting lightly — puffs of air fanning over your slightly parted lips. He lingers, bumping his nose into yours to keep close. 

But eventually, Bucky pulls all the way back to rest against the headboard. 

The silence is not deafening — not like it was before, and you open your eyes, blinking slowly. 

Bucky is already staring at you. His eyes are glazed over with hunger, and he's out of breath, the rise and fall of his chest faster than before. 

You fare no better. Your heart pounds heavily in your chest, but it still feels like it’s lodged in your throat. No words are spoken between the two of you; just an invisible string that keeps you entwined to one another. 

It’s difficult to find the words to say, especially after something so raw and vulnerable; so new and budding. You want him to feel safe, like he had done good, though; you want to tell him he has nothing to worry about, not with you. 

And just as you open your mouth to speak, to praise him for how well he had done, Bucky slides his hands up your thighs, over your waist, and up to your neck, cupping the back of it in his large palm. “I want–” 

To your utter shock, he drags you closer, his lips greedily slotting over yours for a far deeper kiss.  

Bucky can’t get enough of you; already addicted and demanding more. You can’t be mad for it, not when he’s a sensational kisser — he’s good, far too good. The basics have you dizzy with want, and you decide on a whim to challenge him, to push him a little further and test the boundaries. 

You part your lips as Bucky pulls back, and before he could kiss you again, you tentatively tease your tongue against his lips. The sensation makes him sit rigid again beneath you, and he chases your tongue, the surprised moan he lets slip vibrates into your mouth.

The power of such a move has you smirking into the kiss. 

You only plan to stoke the fire by pushing him into the deep end a little — the prospect of overwhelming him too risky, but when you feel the effortless slide of Bucky’s tongue entering your parted lips to dance with your own, it leaves you physically stunned and unable to move. 

Bucky compliments you perfectly, as though he is a natural, and someone so timid should not be capable of that — it’s dangerous. 

It escalates — tongues dance and lips clash, and Bucky’s breath is heavy on your lips, as yours is on his, when he pulls back for air. There’s a pull that you can’t ignore, not any longer, and you bring your hands up from his neck to his hair, threading your fingers through it, making him moan quietly against your lips, “Bu–”

Your nails scrape against his scalp while he speaks, and you squeak in shock as Bucky’s hips surge upwards, forcing his hard cock against your clothed cunt. “Oh, fuck–” he gasps, and his body turns rigid with fear again while he pleads for forgiveness. “I’m so sorry, so sorry, Bubs– I–”

Quickly, you place your index finger over his lips. “Hush, you. It’s alright. I loved it,” you reassure, and suddenly, it turns into a game for you — you are desperate to see how Bucky plays along, how close to the edge you can get him. “Let it go, it’s okay.”

Bucky’s breath hitches as you grind down hard against him, and his hands rush down from your neck to grip your waist. The unabashed moan he lets slip is sinful; a delight to be the cause of, and a Cheshire Cat grin splits your lips. You’ll be damned if you don’t get more from him, you decide.

“Fuck,” he grits out, the grip of his hands on your waist turning painful. “Fuck, yes.” 

You moan and allow him to move your body where he wants it — predictably, he perches you straight on his crotch and his hands wander, slipping beneath the tank top you wear to brush against your skin. 

The resolve he had held onto so strongly is starting to slip, and you inwardly scream with joy at the dilation of his pupils, the heavy pants of his breath — a poor, virtuous man is melting into a puddle at your feet. 

The position of your body gives you an impression of just how big Bucky is, and with his cock hard, you can feel the girth and the size of him against your cunt  — a crime, you think, that it wasn’t inside you.

Your motions of grinding down into him have the tip of his cock catching on your clit through your shorts, and the thin material has no pretence of protectiveness, and you greedily lap every single, last sensation up while shamelessly taking more.  

“Bucky,” you whine against his mouth, and in turn, he nips at your swollen bottom lip before sucking on it. “Fuck– S’good.”

“Buttercup, baby,” Bucky slurs, and his fingertips dig into your skin, unknowingly marking you in his lust-fuelled haze. “Fuckin’ feel good, please,” he whimpers, unable to keep kissing you with the way his moans and litany of quiet cries fall from his lips, longing for more; too far gone, he can’t help himself anymore. “Need more, please.”

You’re all too pleased to listen to his cries for you; begging would taste so much sweeter, though. Next time. “Okay,” you soothe, pecking him on the nose. “I’ll give you more, sweetheart.”

The bed creaks as you shuffle up Bucky’s lap, and you move your hands to grip the headboard. “Don’t keep quiet on me,” you warn. 

“Wha– Fuck!”

You pant as you grind down on Bucky’s cock, the effort of making your hips work this hard and fast steals your breath, but the sounds — oh, the sounds falling from his pretty lips make it all worth it. 

The added friction of your lace panties against your soaked clit only amplifies the pleasure for you, and it’s all you can do to keep going.

Bucky throws his head back and groans to the ceiling, but you follow him, leaning over and panting into each other's mouths and kissing messily, barely able to put anything behind them as you work the both of you closer to release. 

You pull back to look at him, and the slope of his neck is too tempting to leave alone — the  loose strands from his hair are sticking to the sweat gathering on his skin, and you watch a bead of it roll down a curve of corded muscle. 

Of course, you weren’t going to let it go — you want him to crack.

Bucky moans, his breath stuttering as your tongue chases the bead of sweat, and you latch onto his skin, sucking steadily at his pulse point. “Baby– Baby, please, fuck,” he babbles, forcing his head back further to expose more of his neck. 

You oblige, all too willingly and with a giddy enthusiasm; the bow of your lips trace over his Adam’s apple and down to his collarbone, where you bite down gently. 

“Shit, shit,” Bucky suddenly exclaims, his words slurring together. “No– No, please, I ca– Can’t,” he begs, and you pull away from his neck, brows furrowing in concern. “Please, I don’t want to– To, shit–”

Words seem to be out of his grasp, and you wait patiently for him to gather his thoughts while you watch the thread of his restraint wearing thin, so close to snapping when he’s this overwhelmed with the pleasure you are giving him. 

You can’t have that, though. 

Bucky was torturing himself, not allowing himself the pleasure of giving into his base desires - what he needs. “Can’t what, sweetheart?” you ask. “You can’t cum?”

Bucky nods his head frantically, his eyes widening. You consider him, the sweat on his brow and upper lip, the way his eyes plead for something more; he’s so desperate to not cum, to let go. 

It’s plain as day that he is holding himself back, when you knew deep down that he is itching to relinquish control and give in. 

You decide then to push, to throw caution to the wind and make him take it. “Why not?” you whine, grinding back and forth, back and forth, over his painfully hard cock. “Doesn’t my pussy feel good, baby?” 

Bucky whimpers and scrunches his face up, cock throbbing as he grows closer to finishing. You don’t think he realises how he rambles to himself, “Fuck, yes! It does—fuck, it does baby.” 

“Think for me, sweetheart,” you say, leaning close to his face. “Just think for me, how good being inside my pussy would be.” The lure of being inside your cunt cracks the last of his resolve; control slipping through his fingers before he can grasp hold of it.  

You smirk, watching how his brows furrow and his eyes squeeze shut. “Just think, Bucky,” you repeat, “How wet and tight I’d be for you. How I would scream for more; beg for more of your cock and what you give me.” 

The sound Bucky makes is close to a wounded animal, and his grip on your waist is sure to leave bruises. “Oh, sweetheart,” you coo, mouthing softly up his neck until your lips brush over the shell of his ear, and you whisper, “Doesn’t that sound good, baby?”

Something snaps within him. 

The headboard of the bed thumps against the wall as Bucky tumbles over the cliff, his restraint long gone, and he wraps his arms tightly around you, curling them around your waist to hold you impossibly close. You feel something wet on your neck, and you realise belatedly that Bucky is crying silently, overwhelmed with the pleasure. 

To reassure him, you thread your fingers through his hair again to scratch at his scalp. You feel his lips move up and down your neck, placing open mouthed kisses over the skin “Are you okay?” you ask softly, careful to not move in his hold. “Bucky, baby?”

“Mhm,” Bucky hums, and he buries his face further into your neck, nodding frantically. “Pleasepleaseplease.”

A victorious smirk pulls the corner of your lips up. You know you have him — Bucky’s too far gone to come back down now, and he won’t be able to stop. 

“Go on,” you purr. Bucky hungrily grinds up into your heat, seeking it out and forcing a gasp from your lips with the pressure. “That’s it,” you push, and your last deadly blow has the dam breaking, once and for all: “Cum for me then, pretty boy.”

“Oh, oh, fuck– Baby–” Bucky moaned, but you keep steady pressure over his cock, and his hips start to stutter in rhythm. “Shit!” 

“That’s it, that’s it, sweetheart,” you coax, just as a damp patch stains the crotch of his sweats, and his legs tremble under your thighs. There’s a loud thump as his head hits the headboard of his bed. 

“Fuck–” Your own climax begins to mount, the tension of it unbearable, and just the band snaps, you cry out to the ceiling, “Bucky!”

The room is full of pants for air, the synchronised rise and fall of your chests in tandem with the twitching muscles of your body; the rushed gasps for breath a symphony to your ears.

“Holy shit,” you murmur, and you finally look at Bucky — only to be taken aback with the awestruck expression on his handsome face. His lips are stretched wide in a dopey grin, and his eyes, while normally so bright and soft, are glazed over with post-orgasm bliss. 

“You’re so beautiful, baby,” he whispers. You feel the brush of his fingers over your waist and thighs, a soothing touch that in combination with his words sends another wave of heat up your neck. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

You smile nervously, suddenly speechless with the earnestness and fondness in his voice. Instead, you shuffle down his thighs to rest your arms on his shoulders more comfortably, and you play with the hair on the nape of his neck — the soft locks damp with sweat. 

The two of you stare into one another’s eyes, then, you rest your forehead on his to whisper, “Well, handsome, not so bad for your first kiss.”

Bucky starts to laugh, then giggles take over as he faceplants into your chest, nuzzling himself against your tits in shyness. 

After a while, Bucky starts to shift in place, and you start to rise up off of his lap, when his sudden stiffness alarms you. “Bucky? What’s the matter?”

“I— I don’t, I didn’t mean to—“ He stutters, looking down at his crotch. You follow his gaze, utterly confused — there is nothing abnormal, only the wet patch of cum staining the material. 

Your confusion only increases, and you look back to Bucky’s face. It’s blotchy and red from embarrassment. “Bucky?”

“I– Oh, goddamnit,” he mutters, and he looks down at his lap again pointedly.

The realisation washes over you; a lightbulb suddenly going off in your head. He was embarrassed over coming in his pants. “Bucky, sweetheart,” you say, moving to cup his cheeks and force him to look at you. “Listen to me, okay?”

Blue eyes meet yours, his gaze pensive. You muster the warmest, kindest smile; no judgement apparent in your own eyes as you stare at him. “There is no need to feel ashamed.”

“But–” Bucky tries. 

“No, listen to me,” you interrupt, and you lean in closer, bumping his nose with yours before reassuring him, “There's no need to feel ashamed, sweetheart.”

His pure, innocent gaze doesn’t fail to make you swoon even more over him. “It doesn’t?”

“Of course not, you know why?” Bucky shakes his head, eyes wide and intent to listen to anything you have to say. Your lips hover over his as you whisper, “Because I love you making a mess for me, baby.”

The weekend passes by swiftly, a tangle of bedsheets and limbs; kisses and fleeting touches that turn into passionate embraces. 

It was only when Steve came home on the Saturday night did he kick both you and Bucky out of the apartment with a yell of, “Bye! Have fun, kids!”

You decided to take Bucky back to your dorm-room — an easy decision when you get to watch how his eyes trail over your body as you walk down the halls holding hands. 

And on Sunday morning, bright and early, a series of knocks on your dorm-room door wakes you out of your slumber. “Damn,” you grumble, blinking slowly into the dimly lit room. The curtains are drawn, but a slither of gold peeks from behind the fabric; right over Bucky’s face and the mess of his hair. 

You sigh and tiredly throw the covers off you, mentally preparing yourself to get out of bed, but before you can get up, two arms curl around your waist and tug you backwards into a muscled chest. The warmth of the embrace makes you sigh contentedly.

“No,” Bucky groans before burying his face into your neck and smothering you with his body; trapping you with his arms and winding his legs around yours. “Dun’ get up.” 

You giggle as he starts kissing your shoulders and nibbling at your neck — the stubble of his jaw tickling the soft skin while his lips soothed over it. “I have to,” you say quietly, and you grab his arm to pull it off, only– 

“Nuh-uh. Where y’think you're goin’, Buttercup?” The deep rumble of his morning voice has you inner self trembling, memorising your antics of your weekend together. “Can’t leave me.” And to solidify his claim, Bucky clings onto you like a koala. 

“Bucky, you big goof.” You slap his arm, but he just grunts his protest, clinging to your body tighter. “Come on,” you say, wriggling — it’s met with no success of him releasing you. “Get off of me so I can answer the door.”

But you should have known that he is far too stubborn to let up that easily — a stubborn puppy that refused to give up his treat. “No. Tell ‘em to fuck off.”

“Fine.” Your only hope is an attempt to bribe him, you decide, and you look at him to find he’s staring at you through a half-lidded eye, the other eye obscured by his pillow. “How about you let me go, and I promise to give you unlimited cuddles for the rest of the day, no moving whatsoever?” 

That gets his attention, and he perks his head up to lean closer to yours. “I wan’ unlimited kisses, too,” he negotiates, pouting his lips and narrowing his eyes. 

You cannot help but chuckle. “Deal, handsome.”

Bucky plonks backwards onto the bed, star fishing in his sulking — the treat now successfully taken away. 

With your newfound freedom, you sit up and stretch, ignoring the grumbles and quiet whines of, “Bein’ left alone ain’t right,” and, “Tell whoever it is to fuck off, I mean it.”

The bedsheets rustle under you when you scoot to the edge, the warmth of Bucky’s body and the softness of the covers already sorely missed, especially when you stand up and slip into your fluffy, warm gown and slippers. The brush of Bucky’s shirt over your skin makes you smile, the fabric soft and worn but oh so perfectly Bucky. 

“Hurry back, Buttercup,” he calls after you as you walk slowly out of the room. “Please—don’ leave me too long.”

“Drama queen,” you whisper, quiet enough he wouldn’t hear. The knocking comes again and you curse the cause — if it’s your friend from class asking to borrow your notes again, you were going to slam the door straight back in their face. Aloud, you say, “I’m coming, I’m coming. Don’t bust the hinges.”

You prepare the speech to scold your friend as you walk to the door, and you grab the hand;e — the metal of it cold from the chill overnight. The door swings open with a loud creak, and you start saying, “What are you–”

The lack of a presence, or anyone at the door, stops you short — not even a shadow of someone running away down the hall.  “Fucking door dashers,” you groan, and you turn on your heel to go back inside when the toe of your slipper bumps into something on the ground. “What–?”

A gift basket, filled to the brim with an assortment of chocolates and scattered gift cards to your favourite stores, is innocuously sitting there. In the middle of the basket, poking its head out next to a bouquet of your favourite flowers, is the head of a stuffie Golden Retriever, the fur irresistibly soft and the eyes bright — much like Bucky’s. Its mouth held a note scrawled in messy cursive. 

“Okay,” you mumble, and you kneel down to look at it closer, worried that there had been a mix up or confusion of a dorm number. As you near the letter, you realise that the messy scrawl spells out Flower. “Wait.” 

That meant only one person was responsible. 

Your fingers tore open the letter and unfold it; the messy scrawl continues on the inside, too.  

Flower, I’m sorry for bailing on our movie night. 

I know you’re pissed, but I hope this and the beefcake attached to your back makes up for my mistake. 

Love ya squirt, 

Your big bro.

“Stevie,” you say, eyes darting over the lines of script. “You sneaky bastard.” There is a post script just below his sign off, and you continue to read.

P.S. Date went well, tell you all about it on movie night next week? I’m sure we’ll have guests joining us x 

Shaking your head in amusement, you place the note back with the stuffie, and pick up the rest of your basket. “What am I going to do with you,” you mumble, stepping back into your dorm to place the basket on the entry table to admire it again. 

“Wha’s happenin’?” a voice rasps behind you, and sure enough, the aforementioned beefcake in the letter from Steve plasters himself to your back; arms around your waist and his face tucked into your neck again. “Back to bed, c’mon.”

Bucky drags you backwards, chuckling deeply at your squeal of laughter that echoes down the hallway to your bedroom. “You made me a promise,” he grunts, and he pulls you back into bed and underneath the covers, intent on making sure you fulfil your end of the bargain. 

Part Two, Part Three

[thechaoslibrarian]

Filthy

Summary: After a long mission, Bucky needs you.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger F. Reader

Warnings: Smut. Minors DNI. 18+ ONLY.

See my Masterlist Here

"Would it be too crazy if we slept together?" Your sweet voice replayed over and over in his mind. He hadn't flat out refused your offer, but he hadn't said yes either. Now as he laid under the rubble of the bomb Hydra had detonated, it was all he could think of.

You were friends, one of the only people besides Steve to make him feel welcome on the Avengers. The others were wary of him, and he didn’t blame them. He had done unforgivable things as The Winter Soldier. Now he was fighting for the right cause. He couldn't help the reoccurring nightmares of the horrors he encountered in his past. He didn't want to get too comfortable in his new life, the one Steve helped him obtain because he was scared The Winter Soldier was still lurking around in his brain somewhere.

That's why he never dated. Sam would tease him, telling him he could have anybody he wanted, but he settled for his hand every night. Bucky couldn't afford to get too close to anyone. Especially someone who was weaker than him like the opposite sex. He was scared he would lose control while being intimate and hurt or even kill his partners. So he never let anyone get too close, until you.

You came bouncing into his life unexpectedly. You were brought on the team shortly after him. He would never forget your first day. Steve introduced you to everyone at the morning meeting. You were all smiles, your bubbly personality instantly drawing him in. The others were making comparisons between the two of you immediately. You were so happy, so upbeat all the time and Steve was the only one who could get Bucky to crack his cold exterior and actually smile.

Despite your differences, you got along great. Which was a bonus since Tony liked to pair you together for missions. You worked well together, complimenting each other in ways you had never thought of. Who knew almost dying together every week can cause you to form close bonds? You were spending all your free time together. You introduced him to your favorite films, some of them were awful, but he would never tell you that. You would stay up late together watching old reruns of 90's sitcoms for comfort after long missions. Bucky would go shopping with you, holding every bag you had and never complaining.

The team thought something was going on between you. Why else would the cold super soldier follow you around like a lost puppy? They put Steve up to asking about it, but Bucky denied anything but friendship. There had never been anything happen in the whole year you knew each other. You never sat too close or crossed any boundaries, never thought about it until a month ago.

One of the longest, most dangerous missions you had ever been on finally came to a close. There had been too many casualties and you were upset. Even the comfort of your warm pajamas and favorite movie didn't ease your mind. Bucky thought you needed to be alone, so he told you goodnight and headed for his room. You called after him pleading him to stay with you. You couldn't be alone, not after that.

He hesitated, he never stayed the night with anyone because of his nightmares. Tony even gave him a pass when a mission required room sharing. He was the only one who didn't have to pair up. He was afraid he might hurt you or scare you during his sleep. He tried to tell you, but you couldn't be swayed. He found himself under your fluffy pink comforter on heart shaped pillows, surrounded by a mountain of stuffed animals but he felt oddly at home.

You tried to cuddle up to him, but he scooted away. He didn't want you too close to him while he was asleep just in case he had a nightmare. But you didn't care. You told him if he attacked you in his sleep, you would blast his dick off. That made him a little less worried. "How do Tony and Clint do it?" You asked as you wrapped your arms around him, trying to snuggle the grumpy super soldier. "Do what?" He relaxed a little under your touch. "The whole normal family thing. They have a wife, kids, the works, and they are the only ones. The rest of us can't keep a relationship for more than a month, and some only do one night stands. It's hard being a hero when you have to give up stuff like that."

Bucky considers your words carefully. "Is that something you want?" You throw your leg over him, trying to get comfortable. "Eventually, I want to settle down. I'm thinking at least ten years from now, not any time soon. It's just hard to tell who is asking you out for the right reasons or because you're famous. I can't tell you how many phones I've destroyed after dates because they were trying to live stream the whole thing. Is that why you don't date?"

Bucky tenses, explaining how his past as The Winter Soldier scared him away from anything like that. "So you haven't been having sex because you're scared you will hurt someone?" He nods and you giggle. Bucky looks at you like you've grown a second head. "I'm sorry Bucky, that's ridiculous. Your arm must be so tired! Oh my God! Do you use the metal one?" His silence makes you laugh harder. "Bucky there are super powered women you could have been sleeping with this whole time. People who could at least put up a fair fight if something like that happened, but you're okay now right? I thought the code words didn't work anymore." You rub his back soothingly.

You gasp as an idea hits you. "Would it be too crazy if we slept together?" It was like word vomit. You didn't mean to say it out loud, but you couldn't take it back now. Bucky is so still that you think he's fallen asleep. Thankful he didn't hear your unhinged suggestion, you lay your head down to go to sleep.

"You mean that?" Bucky asks after a few minutes of silence pass. "If it wouldn't hurt our friendship then, why not? I trust you. And I could hold my own if things went sideways. Plus, I'm a lot hotter than your hand, you have to admit that." The quip earned a chuckle from him. "Can I think about it?" He asks, his seriousness taking over. "Of course." You snuggle back into him, sleep finding you more quickly than you would've liked. That was a little over a month ago, neither of you brought it up afterward. You figured he didn't want to hurt your feelings, so you let it go.

Steve grabbed Bucky’s hand helping him to his feet. "I thought we lost you back there." He says leading him to the quinjet. On the ride home, Bucky thought about his life, how unhappy he had been lately. He thought of you and how he kept you at arm's length to protect you from himself. You were always so open to him, always letting him know what was on your mind. When you suggested the two of you sleep together, he was shocked. Of course, he wanted to but he couldn't. You were too sweet, he was jaded. He would end up hurting you somehow, he was sure of it. But you weren't scared of him, you trusted him.

Bucky thought of all the times he laid alone at night, masterbating when he could have went home with someone instead. He always turned them down, he couldn't risk it. He lived too dangerously. He could lose his life any moment saving the planet from the next alien attack. Wasn't it time he started living for himself? He had his mind made up when the quinjet landed. Steve told him to go get the cuts on his face and arm examined but he ignored him.

He almost ran to the elevator, not bothering to wait for Steve to get on before pressing the button to shut the doors. When it finally stopped on his floor, he walked by his room, stopping three doors down right outside of yours. He should have cared that it was three in the morning, that he would be waking you up, but he didn't. He tapped on the door loud enough to wake you.

He regretted coming straight here as he waited for you, he should have went to his room to shower first. His leather jacket was dirty and torn. There was a small gash on his arm that had finally stopped bleeding. His face was filthy and according to Steve, he had a cut there too. He probably looked terrifying. He thought about leaving to clean up, but then he heard the pitter patter of your feet as you approached the door.

You pull it open slightly at first, to see who is outside, opening it wider when you see him. He steps inside as you shut it back, locking it behind him. Bucky looks around the dark room noticing the glow from your tv. Your hair is messy, you must have been sleeping fitfully. His gaze drops to your body, you're wearing a black t-shirt that stops at your hips and black lace panties.

"Are you okay?" You ask taking in his disheveled appearance. You turn to get something to clean his wounds, his vibranium hand catches your wrist. "Bucky? What hap-" He picks you up with one arm, holding you close to his body as his lips crash into yours. He walks you to the edge of your bed, tumbling on top of you as your back hits your fluffy pink comforter.

"Do you still want this?" He asks, his voice rougher than he intended. You can't think clearly, not with him on top of you, caging you in like this. His blue eyes search your face as he waits for an answer. Your panties grow wetter with each second that passes. Your nipples are peaked under your shirt, desperate to be touched as you press your chest to his dirty leather jacket. "Yes" You somehow manage to whisper your confirmation.

His mouth is on yours again, rough and demanding, almost desperate. You cup his face with your hands, "Slow down, I'm not going anywhere." You assure him, breaking the kiss. He groans, hating the loss of contact. "Can't" He rasps, his face nuzzling against your neck. He nips and kisses the sensitive skin there, his tongue licking from your shoulder to your jaw.

His flesh hand travels to your chest, rubbing his thumb over your clothed nipple. He keeps kissing his way back down your throat until he reaches the collar of your shirt. His metal arm grabs the top, slipping underneath to get a good grip on it. He rips it down the center with little effort.

You gasp as the cold air hits your now exposed chest. But you're not cold for long, Bucky's lips capture a nipple between his lips tugging and sucking like his life depends on it while his flesh hand toys with the other one. You're not sure what has gotten into him, you never expected it to be like this, like he needs you.

He kisses a trail down your stomach to your panties. They aren't exactly see through, but they don't hide anything either. His vibranium fingers dig into your hip as he lowers his face, his pink tongue licking up the center of your soaked panties. You whimper underneath him, your fingers sliding in his hair, pulling at the short strands.

He grunts as he licks you through the lacy material. You try to close your legs around his head, hoping to bring yourself more relief. Bucky's steel grip on your hip tightens as he brings his flesh hand to your thigh, pulling it off him. He opens you wide, continuing his desperate assault on you. "I need more, please." You whine, needing to actually feel him against you.

He thankfully takes mercy on you, removing his hands to grab both sides of your panties. "Lift your hips for me." You do as your told, and he slides the unwanted garment off of you. He drags you to the edge of the bed, lowering himself on his knees in front of you. He parts your thighs, metal hand returning to its rightful place on your hip. You place your leg over his shoulder, taking a deep breath as the anticipation makes your skin prickle.

His hot breath on your soaked core makes you tremble. You feel him smirk against you. "I havent even touched you yet and you're shakin' like a leaf." A dark chuckle escapes him and he dives in. His tongue flat against you as he gathers your slick, bringing it to your clit and swirling it around. He moans, loving the way you taste. He wraps his lips around your most sensitve part, drawing you in, causing your hips to buck upward.

His grip on your hip tightens, a bruise beginning to form under his thumb. "Be a good girl for me. Stay still." His voice is soft, gentle, a complete contrast to his actions. He alternates between sucking you roughly and licking you slowly. You squirm underneath him, you're so close. He suddenly stops, removing his face from you.

His flesh hand rubbing your stomach, before laying his arm on you forcefully to keep you from moving. "I said stay still." He growls, his tongue swiping your clit before he sucks it between his lips once more. It takes every ounce of concentration you have to not writhe against him. You've never seen him like this so needy, almost feral. He's like a wild animal slurping you down like you're the first thing he's eaten in weeks. You don't dare to disturb him. So you lie as still as you can, letting him have you.

He needs this. He needs you. He flicks his tongue expertly over your clit, sendng you spiralling. He holds you down as he takes all he wants from you. He's not satisfied until you come three times. Your legs are wobbly, you couldn't get up if you had to. Tears stream down your face from how intense it was. He finally stands, unbuttoning his pants, sliding them down just enough to free himself.

He adjusts himself between your legs, filling you up. You gasp, grabbing onto his grimy leather jacket for support. You wonder why he didn't bother with getting undressed, but you don't mind. You love how dirty he is. How the filth on his jacket rubbing against your bare chest is the sexiest thing in the world right now. How you can see the cut on his arm, dried blood on his sleeve. You don't know if it's his or some Hydra asshole's, and you don't know which is hotter.

His hair is disheveled. His face is scraped, dirt from the mission caked on him, remnants of your arousal still on his mouth. He fills you completely over and over, holding you as close as he can. His pants rub the back of your thighs as he pounds into you. You caress his face, "Can I be on top?" You ask quietly, afraid you'll offend him some way in his feral state. He flips you so his back is on your mattress. Normally you would be upset that your sheets were getting dirty, but you didn't mind at all. You place your legs on either side of him, sliding down his length. Your ass hits the fabric of his jeans as you take all of him.

You look behind you noticing how big he looks on your bed. His leather boots covered in mud, hanging off the edge. A gush of arousal floods his lap, his hands hold your thighs, pulling you closer. You begin to lift yourself up and down on him, your legs still shaky from your earlier orgasms. Bucky notices you won't be able to keep it up for long, so he clutches your hips, taking over. He thrusts underneath you, your hands land on his shoulders needing to steady yourself. You love that it's giving the illusion that you're in control, your body on top of his, but he's calling all the shots, moving your body like he owns it.

You've never felt so full. It's as if Bucky can read your mind, his flesh hand pressing on the bulge he's making in your stomach. He works you harder now, his vibranium thumb coming between you to swirl your clit. Your vision goes blurry, stars bursting behind your eyelids. You come with a loud cry of his name. He follows shortly after, spilling inside you. He holds you close, as you listen to his breathing slow down as he drifts off to sleep while still inside you.

Tags in the comments! ❤️

[thechaoslibrarian]

bucky barnes + prone boning. 18+ fem!reader, mdni. 420 words. 'old man' mention bc im me and I can't not include it watched thunderbolts yesterday, im still feeling lots so get a load of this

⎯ ☆ ⎯

the position he’s got you in is comfortable, quite lazy really: laid flat on your stomach, the side of your face resting on tightly crossed arms. the scrunched pillow sitting under your stomach acting as a prop of elevation for bucky, your slightly raised hips aiding the opening of you.

he cages over your back, arms bent beside yours, lips ghosting the shell of your ear from the closeness. his slow and laboured rhythmic breathing matches the pace of his leisure fucking — the focus of each thrust on depth and feel, rather than speed. every full wind of his hips produces the faintest of exhales from you both, your blissed sounds merging and muffling into the darkness of the room.

every time he rolls into you, you each move in fluid motion against the mattress, like you’re both synchronised waves. you bend your knees, ankles crossing and lifting as they hover above the cheeks of his ass.  another point of elevation tightening your pussy’s hold on bucky. 

he lustfully groans at the new feel, muttering indecipherably into the lobe of your ear. “can’t last,” he adds between a couple pumps, pressing a needy litter of kisses to where he just spoke — stubble grazing across the sensitive spots along the base of your neck.

his pace quickens ever so slightly, barely noticeable really. but it becomes apparent that he’s chasing the edge. his chest begins to brush briskly up and down the blades of your shoulders, skin skimming yours with the increased speed. 

“you gon’ come with your old man, sweetheart?” he asks, the question practically rhetorical — no need for vocal response. voice low and tone thick as he whispers directly into your ear. “hm?” he nips at the lobe, holding it carefully between his teeth.

you nod, the motion rather haste. a measly whine accompanies the action and your eyes flutter closed. with his metal hand planted just in your view —his fingers only a short couple inches away— you reach for him. and when he spots your touch, he’s lifting a palm to place atop the back of your hand. vibranium fingers lacing into yours, lips hovering the patch of skin under your ear.

you clench around him intermittently, your breath hitching and growing all the more strained with every rock of his cock. 

“you’re right there, aren’t you?” he muffles into your hair, his forehead resting on the side of your head — strength seeming to be lost in his neck. “I can feel it.”

“yeah.”

“then let go.”

⎯ ☆ ⎯

[thechaoslibrarian]

40s Sergeant Barnes with a nurse and a Sergeant kink (and breeding and house wife kink, virginity loss). This was supposed to be a pure smutty drabble but then I got in my feelings and added some fluff and angst but I promise Bucky is still a dirty, nasty little fuck in this. Just with a sweeter ending. The one he deserves.

Listen just imagine what a cute, sexy menace Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes would be just waking up from an injury when his eyes flutter open to the pretty nurse he’s been eyeing from the day he started. You’re not a shy, dainty little thing, nope. Not at all.

You bark out orders like a drill Sergeant and one glare from you is all it takes to get everyone in line and on task without a second thought. Even his superiors are scared of you, biting their tongue when you stitch them up and send them on their way before running off to your next patient.

Bucky was in love.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes” he rasps, throwing you a charming smirk while you roll your eyes in response, shaking your head. "How'd I get so lucky, got a my little angel tendin' to me"

“I see your injury hasn’t stopped hurt that mouth of yours Sergeant" You quirk an eyebrow while he playfully huffs as you change the dressing covering a gash on his abdomen. You swab the area clean and he doesn't flinch even though you know it must burn like hell, his muscles tensed while he continues to watch you with heart eyes. "Now you know I'm not your little angel, I got 20 other men to fix up, you better be out of this bed as soon as you're all healed up"

“C’mon sugar, you're breakin' my heart" Bucky gives you a little pout with those perfect lips and you catch the twinkle in his eye as he looks over your form with complete admiration. He loved your sassy, take no shit attitude and it's taking everything in him to calm himself down so he doesn't get a hard on right there in front of you.

"You'd tell that to a cat with three legs if it was in a nurses outfit" You try your best to not give into his flirty comments and puppy eyes, knowing damn well he's a heart breaker but he makes it so difficult when he continues to woo you with his boyish charm.

He can't help but chase after you; catching the way your eyes always dart around with anxiety when his group returns from an operation, relief flooding them when you finally spot him. He loves your indifferent attitude, patting him down to make sure he's uninjured but your furrowed brows and the tiny pout on your lips give away that you're worried.

How can he just let you go. Every time you check over him, he needs you closer.

So much closer.

-

"Ms. y/l/n, Sergeant Barnes is requesting you in his tent, he says it's urgent"

You shake your head looking over at the time, quietly making your way over to the tent he's stationed at, thankful that a number of troops were sleeping so you wouldn't be seen as you quickly slip inside.

“And what hurts now” you sass with your hands on your hips seeing the soldier in perfect health, doing your best to assess him without letting him know.

"Always checkin' over me" Bucky chuckles, seeing what you're doing; his words making your cheeks heat up, "Knew you cared about me sugar"

"Well what am I doin' here" You give him an unconvincing huff, struggling to keep your voice steady, refusing to meet his eyes, keeping your gaze on his silver dog tags instead. It doesn't help that he's handsome as hell with a light dusting of scruff covering his cheeks. Bucky's never seen you flustered before and it evokes something in him, all the blood in his body rushing south seeing your fingers twitch.

All he wanted to do was kiss you but now-

“Help your Sergeant out doll” He whispers, taking another step forward till his chest brushes against yours, his hand coming to tilt your chin up, "Will you?"

You gasp feeling his hardness press against your thigh, your heart fluttering wildly as his thumb traces your lips, any semblance of control you had slipping away feeling the warmth of his skin.

“Y-yes Sergeant Barnes”

His lips press against yours, soft and sweet, a stark contrast to the way his body was screaming for him to pick you up and toss you onto his cot.

"Sweet like sugar" He lets his hands fall to your waist, pulling you flush against his body while your arms drape on top of his shoulders. You stand on your toes chasing more of his lips and he chuckles at the needy whine you let out when he pulls away for air.

Now let's say your first night together was actually quite tame. He kisses you again and you swoon when he repeatedly checks in with you before going any further. His hand slips under your skirt, letting his fingers toy with places no on else has touched. With each night, he needs you more and more until he can't hold off any longer and neither can you.

-

You sneak into his tent and this time he doesn't hesitate to undress you completely, not when he needs you bare with nothing separating you both. You feel your heart race as he lies on top of you, draping a thin sheet over himself when you shiver at the chill night air. You feel his body heat instantly warm you up, his heavy cock resting between your soaked folds.

"Are you sure, sugar?" He asks, his hand cupping your cheek and stroking your skin.

"Please Sergeant" You whisper and the way you say his title makes his cock twitch. There's something so different about you when you're in his bed, a sweet little bunny giving herself to him completely. It drives him feral with a need to make you feel good, make you cry for his cock and his cock only, to keep you nice and full of him.

You don't look twice at anyone else and here you are completely naked in his tent with your tight little virgin cunt, your legs spread open so he can put his dick in you; there was no way he was ever going to let you go.

"You tell me if it's too much, alright?" His lips tickle your neck as kisses your skin while rubbing his heavy cock through your folds, coating it in your slick, "Breathe for me"

He slips his tags into your mouth as he starts to press in, the initial sting making you bite down hard onto the metal feeling a mix of pleasure and pain. You whine at the way he stretches you open, your thighs squeezing around his waist, nails digging into his shoulders.

"Shhh, that's it love, doin' so good for me so good for your Sergeant, look how you're takin' all of me baby" He looks down to where you're both connected as he continues to slowly push himself in till hes fully sheathed inside you. He gives you time to adjust, slipping his tags out of your lips and letting his tongue lace with yours instead, his balls already throbbing with how tightly you were squeezing his cock.

"Please-Sergeant" your heels press into his ass desperate for him to move, gasping when he starts to slowly roll his hips, barely pulling out.

"I got you love-don't worry" Bucky moves as slowly as he could not wanting to hurt you, taking just as much care of you as you had with him countless of times.

But he can only keep up at that pace for so long. Your muffled whines and moans don't help the way his mind is already spiraling. His pretty little nurse all spread out just for him, taking his raw, bare cock in her soaking pussy, squeezing him so tight, he was only a few strokes from cumming.

If it were up to him he would've proposed on the spot, thinking about making love to you on your wedding night, seeing you all shy and sweet wrapped up in soft white lace. If you were his wife, he'd take you apart every which way, not giving a fuck about traditions, taking you right on the dining room table.

You'd be the prettiest little thing for him to come home to, such a good wife all dirty just for her husband. Only he'd know the way your mouth would slobber all over his cock like your life depended on it. The way you'd moan at the taste of his cum. Bucky's eyes rolled back at the thought of you with nothing but some heels and a string of pearls he'd put around your neck while he stuffed you with cum and emptied his balls in you.

"S-Sergeant-I-oh god" You whimpered feeling his cock grow harder, your pussy pulling him right back in, feeling the coil low in your belly pull tighter and tighter as he hit that spot.

Meanwhile Bucky's jaw clenched as he felt his balls pull tight to his body, the tip leaking steadily in your pussy. His mind spiraled into places he didn't think would exist before he met you, rogue thoughts he only entertained when he had his dick in his hand. The harder he fucked you the more he thought about how gorgeous you'd look with a swollen belly.

Fuck, imagine if he got you pregnant right then and there. That nurses uniform would no longer fit you. Everyone would know he knocked you up, your perfectly round tummy carrying Sergeant James Barnes' baby, breasts heavy with milk, God, he wasn't going to last-

“Gonna let your Sergeant pump you full of cum?” He pants, letting his hands grip onto your hips like his life depends on it, the wiry hair at the base of his cock rubbing against your clit.

“Yes!!” You sob, biting down onto his shoulder to keep your cries down while he continues to fuck you into oblivion. You don't understand how such filth can spew from that pink, pouty little mouth of his. "Please-please-need-youI-I'm gonna-"

"M'yours sweet girl, m'all yours, go on, cum for me love, cum on my cock, it's all yours" He gazed into your eyes, cooing at your parted lips and sweat slicked skin. It didn't take long for you to shatter around him his lips smashing against yours to swallow your moans.

"Want your cum Sergeant" You beg , desperate to have him claim you from the inside.

"Oh fuck baby, y-you can't say that, m-gonna, oh fuckkk" Your words throw Bucky right off the edge as he lets out a deep groan stilling his hips and shooting endless ropes of his spend into you. You both lay in comfortable silence, your fingers playing with his hair; his usual kempt brown locks now disheveled .

“Y’know m’gonna marry you” his scruffy cheek nuzzles into your neck as he continues to stay deep inside you as his cock softens, “after all this is over. Gonna put a ring on that finger”

His words send a different wave of emotions over you, feeling more safe than ever, clinging onto him as tightly as possible. You let a whimper slip out and he pulls away from your neck with an expression of concern.

“What is it love” Bucky coos, wiping away the tears that slip you, stroking your cheek while you bite back a sniffle.

“Do you mean it? After this is all over?” You weren't sure what Bucky would want-there was still a war going on. Anything could happen. Perhaps this was just to keep his bed warm. Something to keep him calm, you were just someone to-

"Of course sugar" Bucky presses a firm kiss to your forehead, silencing the thoughts that tried to run wild. "You're mine"

-

And of course he gets his happy ending. Because when it's all over, he gets the ring for the girl he loves. He's on one knee, proposing to you with the sweetest words. He treats you like a princess on your wedding night, making love all night long until the sun is up.

There isn't a surface in the house he's left untouched. Nothing makes him more feral than moaning for his pretty wife, constantly taking her hand and wrapping it around his cock, watching that diamond glint with each stroke.

It doesn't take long for you to feel a little squeamish, knowing all the tell tale signs.

The day you tell him he's going to be a dad is one of the happiest days of his life. There isn't a single night that goes by where he isn't nuzzling his face into your tummy, talking to your little one.

Everything was perfecttt.

[thechaoslibrarian]

hi lovely,

is there a way you could do one where all the members of the bau are talking about relationships (so like rossi talking about his 3 wives etc.) and the reader talks about how toxic her past relationships were and spencer mumbles something like “i could do so much better” and morgan hears it and exposes him? and it mayyybbeee ends with them kissing somewhere that they think is secluded but actually isn’t and everyone sees and becomes really proud of spence for finally making a move? i feel like it would be really cute :)

thank you so so much you’re awesome !!

- 🐚

offer — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: mention of boyfriends forgetting anniversaries and forgetting to text back , a/n: ELE !! this is so so so so old ohmygod i just found this in my drafts </3

“I’ll have you know that I was not the problem in my marriages,” Rossi declared, his tone defensive as he stood next to Emily’s desk.

It was late—far later than any of them should have still been at the office—but for some reason, the entire team had collectively hit a wall of boredom. What had started as chatter had somehow devolved into what could only be described as a group of high schoolers gossiping in the cafeteria.

Derek, leaning back in his chair with that signature smirk plastered across his face, raised an eyebrow. “Three divorces, and you weren’t the problem?” he said, his voice dripping with skepticism. “Come on, Rossi.”

You couldn’t help but laugh under your breath, the sound barely audible but enough to draw Rossi’s attention.

His eyes landed on you, and he pointed an accusatory finger in your direction. “You seem to be enjoying this a little too much,” he said, his tone offended. “What about you, huh? You’re telling me you’ve only had flawless relationships your entire life?”

You shrugged, leaning back in your chair with a playful grin. “No, but I didn’t have three divorces either,” you shot back, your tone light but teasing.

“Touché,” Rossi said, raising his hands in mock surrender.

Garcia, who had been perched on the edge of Spencer’s desk, immediately leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Ooh, gossip! Nice. Tell us,” she said, clapping her hands together. “We need details. Spill the tea!”

You glanced at her, then around the room, suddenly feeling like you were under a microscope. Spencer, who had been quietly flipping through a book at his desk for most of the conversation, finally looked up, his gaze flickering toward you with mild interest.

You hesitated, feeling a little put on the spot.

“There’s nothing to tell,” you said, shrugging your shoulders in an attempt to downplay it. “Just, you know… the usual. Missing anniversaries. Forgetting Valentine’s Day. Not texting back. That kind of stuff.”

“The usual?!” Garcia exclaimed, her voice rising an octave as she leaned forward, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Honey, no. That’s not ‘the usual.’ That’s just… bad boyfriend behavior.”

You glanced at her, shrugging half-heartedly as you tapped your fingers on the table. “I guess so,” you said, your tone nonchalant but your cheeks warming.

The last thing you wanted was for this to turn into a full-blown interrogation about your love life—or lack thereof.

But before you could steer the conversation elsewhere, Derek suddenly chimed in.

“Reid,” he said, drawing out the name like he’d just stumbled upon the juiciest piece of gossip. A smirk was already spreading across his face, and you didn’t like the look of it one bit.

Your eyes darted between Derek and Spencer.

Spencer froze, his head snapping up like a deer caught in headlights. His face turned an impressive shade of red, and he shot Derek a desperate look that screamed, Don’t you dare.

Derek, of course, ignored him entirely. “Aww, pretty boy over here just mumbled that he could do so much better than your old boyfriends,” he announced, his smirk widening.

The room fell silent for a beat, everyone’s attention shifting to Spencer, who looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor.

You stared at him, your eyebrows shooting up in surprise, while Garcia let out an audible gasp, her hands flying to her mouth. Even Rossi raised an eyebrow.

Spencer, for his part, looked like he was having an internal crisis. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out. “I—” he started, his voice barely above a whisper, before trailing off entirely.

His face was now so red it practically matched the color of Garcia’s latest neon headband.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Spencer,” you said, your tone teasing but gentle, “did you really say that?”

He glanced at you, his eyes wide and panicked, before quickly looking away. “I—I didn’t mean it like that,” he stammered, his hands fidgeting with the edge of his book. “I just meant that… that you deserve someone who… who…” He trailed off again, clearly flustered, and you could see the gears turning in his head as he tried to find a way to dig himself out of this hole.

Derek, of course, wasn’t about to let him off the hook that easily. “Oh, he meant it,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin. “Pretty boy’s got a crush.”

The room erupted into laughter. Spencer, meanwhile, looked like he was seriously considering fleeing the building.

His face was practically glowing at this point, and he was avoiding eye contact with everyone—especially you.

You, on the other hand, were torn between amusement and something else—something warm and fluttery that you weren’t quite ready to examine too closely.

“Well,” you said, your tone light but your cheeks feeling suspiciously warm, “I guess I’ll have to hold you to that, Spencer.”

He glanced at you again. “I—uh—” he started, but before he could say anything else, Rossi clapped his hands together, effectively cutting off the conversation.

“Alright, alright,” Rossi said, his tone amused. “Let’s give the kid a break before he spontaneously combusts. Coffee run, anyone?”

The team agreed, wanting a reason to leave the office, as everyone began gathering their things.

You stayed seated for a moment, your eyes lingering on Spencer, who was still looking thoroughly mortified. But as you watched him, you couldn’t help but smile.

As the rest of the team filed out of the room, chattering and laughing as they headed for the elevators, Spencer remained at his desk, his head down as he shuffled papers and books into his bag.

He was so caught up in his embarrassment that he didn’t seem to notice anything around him—including the fact that you were still sitting there, watching him.

When he finally looked up and saw you, he flinched slightly, as if he hadn’t realized you were still in the room. His eyes widened for a moment before he quickly looked away, his cheeks flushing an even deeper shade of red.

Without a word, he stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and made a beeline for the door, clearly eager to escape.

You stayed seated for a moment longer, your pen clicking absently against the table as you watched him go.

He paused briefly at the door, his hand on the frame, and muttered a small, barely audible “Bye” without meeting your eyes.

That was when you decided to follow him.

Grabbing your bag, you jumped up from your chair, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the now-empty bullpen. “Spence, hold on!” you called out, your voice carrying down the hallway.

Spencer's hand instinctively reached out to stop the elevator doors from closing as they began to slide shut. He held them open, as he waited for you to catch up.

You reached the elevator just as the doors started to ding in protest, and you slipped inside with a breathless “Thanks.” Spencer nodded, his cheeks still tinged with pink, and stepped back to give you space.

“That was nice of you,” you said after a moment, breaking the silence. Your voice was soft, almost tentative, as you glanced at him. “What you said back there.” You paused, your fingers nervously twisting the strap of your bag. “If you meant it,” you added, your tone unsure.

Spencer didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stared at the elevator buttons, his fingers fidgeting with the strap of his satchel. The silence stretched between you and for a moment, you wondered if you’d made a mistake bringing it up. But then, after what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke.

“I did,” he said, his voice quiet. He turned to look at you, his hazel eyes meeting yours. “I meant it.”

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “Okay. Good,” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper.

You realized that neither of you had pressed the button for your floor. The elevator hadn’t moved.

Spencer seemed to notice it at the same time you did. He hesitated for a moment, then leaned forward, his arm reaching past you to press the button for his floor. His movement brought him closer—close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body, close enough that your breath mingled in the small space between you.

For a moment, he didn’t pull back. Instead, he stayed there, his face inches from yours, his eyes searching yours as if he were trying to find the courage to say something—or do something.

Your heart was racing now, your pulse thundering in your ears, and you couldn’t tear your gaze away from his.

“Well,” you said, your voice barely audible, “I’d like to take you up on that offer.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you felt your cheeks flush.

But you didn’t regret it.

Not when Spencer’s eyes softened, not when his breath hitched ever so slightly, not when he leaned in just a fraction closer.

And then, before you could overthink it, before you could second-guess yourself, his hands dropped from the elevator buttons and came up to cradle your face. His touch was gentle, his thumbs brushing lightly over your cheeks as he tilted your head up to meet his.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as if he were afraid you might pull away. His lips brushed against yours, warm and hesitant, and you felt a shiver run down your spine.

But then, as if he could sense your response—the way your hands instinctively gripped the front of his sweater, the way you leaned into him—he deepened the kiss, his movements growing more confident.

You melted into him, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his sweater as you kissed him back, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

And then, just as Spencer deepened the kiss again, you heard it—a loud ding, followed by a chorus of gasps.

You froze, your eyes snapping open as you leaned back slightly, turning your head toward the sound.

There, standing in the open elevator doorway, was the entire team. Garcia’s hands were clasped over her mouth, her eyes wide with shock and delight. Derek was grinning like he’d just won the lottery. Emily was trying—and failing—to hide a smirk behind her coffee cup, while Rossi simply raised an eyebrow.

Spencer, however, seemed completely oblivious. His hands were still cradling your face, his eyes still closed, and before you could stop him, he leaned in again, pulling you back into another kiss.

“Spencer,” you mumbled against his lips, your hands pushing lightly against his chest. “Spencer, stop.”

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes still dazed. “What?” he murmured, his voice low and breathless.

You gestured weakly toward the doorway, your face burning. “Uh, we have an audience.”

Spencer blinked, his expression shifting from confusion to realization as he finally followed your gaze. His eyes widened, and he immediately dropped his hands from your face, stepping back so quickly he almost tripped over his own feet.

His cheeks turned a deep, unmistakable shade of red.

“Oh,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Oh no.”

The team, meanwhile, was still staring at the two of you. Garcia was the first to break the silence, clapping her hands together with a squeal. “Oh my god,” she exclaimed, her voice high-pitched with excitement. “This is the best day of my life!”

Derek let out a low whistle, his grin widening. “Well, well, well,” he said, his tone teasing. “Looks like someone finally made a move.”

Emily smirked, taking a sip of her coffee. “About time,” she said, her voice affectionate.

Rossi simply shook his head, though there was a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Kids these days,” he muttered, though there was no real annoyance in his tone.

You, on the other hand, were torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to disappear into the floor. Your face felt like it was on fire, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look at Spencer, who was still standing frozen beside you, his hands awkwardly hanging at his sides.

“Uh,” you said, your voice squeaking slightly, “this isn’t what it looks like?”

Garcia let out a delighted laugh, clapping her hands again. “Oh, honey, it’s exactly what it looks like,” she said, her tone gleeful. “And I am here for it.”

Derek stepped forward, slapping Spencer on the shoulder with a grin. “Nice work, pretty boy,” he said, his tone teasing but not unkind. “Took you long enough.”

Spencer, for his part, looked like he was having an internal crisis. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out. Finally, he managed to stammer, “I—uh—we—it’s not—”

He closed his mouth instantly, looking even more mortified, and you finally couldn’t help it—you laughed.

“Well,” Garcia said with a grin, “I think this calls for a celebration.”

“Or,” Spencer muttered, voice still hoarse with embarrassment, “a full-scale relocation and change of identity.”

You turned to him, still grinning, and nudged him lightly. “Sorry, genius,” you teased. “No take-backs.”

Spencer ran a hand through his already messy hair. “Wasn’t considering that,” he mumbled, his eyes flickering down to your lips for the briefest of moments before he seemed to remember that you still had an audience.

He quickly looked away, his cheeks flushing red.

The team, of course, didn’t miss a beat. Derek let out a low whistle, his grin widening. “Oh, he’s gone,” he said, his tone teasing. “Look at him. Absolutely smitten.”

Garcia gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. “I’m framing this moment in my mind forever.”

You and Spencer exchanged a look, both of you clearly on the same page: it was time to make an exit.

Without a word, you both started walking down the hallway. The team’s laughter and commentary followed you, their voices carrying down the corridor.

“Don’t think this is over!” Garcia called after you, her tone gleeful. “I expect a full debrief tomorrow!”

Just as you thought you were in the clear, Spencer’s hand reached for yours, his fingers intertwining with yours. You glanced at him, surprised but not unhappy, and he gave you a small, sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice low. “I just… wanted to.”

You smiled back, your heart skipping a beat. “I’m not complaining,” you said, your voice soft.

For a moment, it felt like you were in your own little world, the rest of the BAU and their teasing far behind you. But then, just as you were about to relax, you heard Garcia’s voice echo down the hallway.

“I saw that!” she squealed, her tone triumphant. “Hand-holding! This is happening!”

[thechaoslibrarian]

The Next Door Neighbor

Bucky x fem!reader

Prompt: A mysterious neighbor moves next door and the more you get to know him the more you begin to fall for him

---

The apartment next door had finally been occupied. For months, it had sat dark and silent, a blank space behind a closed door. You’d almost gotten used to the quiet, but still, you hoped that whoever moved in would be… calm. Quiet. Preferably not the kind of person who threw loud parties until 3 a.m. like the last tenants had.

It had been nearly a week since the new neighbor arrived, and despite your curiosity, you hadn’t crossed paths with him yet. Sometimes you’d hear the soft thud of a door closing or the muffled sound of footsteps echoing through the hallway, but it wasn’t often. Whoever he was, he was low-key—and that was fine by you.

This afternoon, a notification buzzed on your phone: your package had finally arrived. You slipped on your shoes, grabbed your keys from the bowl by the door, and headed out toward the mailboxes, hoping to beat the usual afternoon rush.

Just as you stepped into the hallway, the door next to yours swung open. A tall figure emerged, and your eyes met for the first time.

He had striking blue eyes—bright against the contrast of his dark hair—and an expression that hovered somewhere between tired and guarded.

“Hi! I’m Y/N,” you said with a friendly smile. “I live next door.”

“Nice to meet you,” he replied, his tone neutral but not unkind. And then, without another word, he turned and started walking down the hall.

You blinked after him. What the hell?

Without thinking, you headed in the same direction. After all, you still had a package to grab—but your pace quickened, trailing just a few steps behind him.

He glanced back, arching a brow. “Are you following me?” he asked, a teasing note in his voice.

“No,” you replied, holding back a laugh. “I’m just trying to get my package.”

He gave a small, amused shake of his head as he stopped in front of the elevator, pressing the down button. You came to a halt beside him, trying not to make things any more awkward.

“I don’t bite,” he said with a grin, flashing a hint of charm that hadn’t been there before.

You rolled your eyes, though the corner of your mouth tugged upward in response. The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.

“Lobby?” he asked, stepping aside so you could enter first.

“Yeah.”

He pressed the button and moved to stand next to you, his shoulder just a few inches from yours.

“I’m Bucky,” he said after a moment.

“It’s nice to meet you, Bucky.”

Silence followed, filled only by the soft whir of the elevator and the distant hum of the building. The air felt thick with something unspoken. Not quite tension, but awareness.

“So… been in the city long?” you asked, breaking the quiet.

“Just got in last week,” he replied, eyes fixed on the doors. “Still figuring things out.”

You nodded. “Well, if you ever need tips or directions, I’ve been here a while. Happy to help.”

He looked at you then, just briefly. “Thanks,” he said, and though it was soft, it sounded sincere. “Might take you up on that.”

The elevator slowed, then opened to the lobby. You both stepped out and walked side by side toward the row of mailboxes. Your package—small, rectangular, with your name scrawled in thick black ink—was waiting right where it should be.

To your surprise, Bucky stopped at a box just two down from yours. He fiddled with his key, then cast a glance your way.

“You always that friendly to new neighbors?” he asked, a subtle smirk playing on his lips.

You grinned. “Only the ones who don’t throw wild parties.”

He chuckled—a low, warm sound that made your stomach flip unexpectedly. “Guess I pass, then.”

----

Over the next few weeks, you and Bucky ran into each other more often. Casual hellos turned into longer glances. You began to notice the little things: the way he always wore the same worn leather jacket, how he disappeared for hours and came back looking a little winded, the quiet way he moved through the building as if trying not to draw attention.

Before long, you found yourself timing your trips into the hallway to line up with his. Maybe it was coincidence at first… but eventually, you had to admit it: you’d developed a bit of a crush on your mysterious, handsome neighbor.

There was something about him—something that lingered just outside your memory. As if you’d seen him before. As if you knew him from somewhere.

But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t quite place it.

-----

You tried not to overthink it. People looked familiar all the time—maybe you’d passed him on the street before, or seen him in a coffee shop. Maybe he just had one of those faces.

Still, it nagged at you.

One evening, you found yourself standing at your stove, half-distracted as pasta boiled over. You grabbed your phone and opened your messages, staring at the blank space where you'd thought—maybe—about texting someone about Bucky. But what would you even say? "Hey, do you know the guy who moved in next door? I think I might have seen his face in a dream." Yeah, that wouldn’t sound unhinged at all.

A soft knock on your door snapped you out of your spiral.

You turned down the burner and crossed the small apartment to answer it. Standing there, holding a paper bag and looking a little sheepish, was Bucky.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you, uh… like Chinese?”

You blinked. “Are you asking me out, or trying to unload leftovers?”

A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Bit of both. I may have ordered way too much.”

You stepped aside, gesturing him in. “Lucky for you, I was just about to burn dinner.”

He walked in, careful not to track in dirt from the hallway, and set the bag on your counter. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just got a mix of stuff.”

“You’re already doing better than the last guy who tried to feed me,” you said with a smirk. “He brought instant noodles and thought it was romantic.”

Bucky laughed under his breath. “Ouch.”

The two of you settled on the couch, balancing takeout containers on your knees as an old sitcom played quietly in the background. Conversation flowed easier than you expected. He told you a bit about moving to the city, how the pace was different from where he used to live, though he didn’t say where that was. You got the sense he was still adjusting, still figuring out how to be here.

You didn’t push. Instead, you told him about your job, the weird neighbors down the hall, the best place to get coffee nearby. He listened more than he spoke, but when he did talk, he was thoughtful. Wry. Honest in a way that made you feel like you didn’t have to try so hard.

At one point, you caught him watching you—not in a creepy way, but with quiet curiosity, like he was trying to memorize the way you moved or spoke. You looked back at him, and for a moment, the air between you stretched taut.

“What?” you asked, pretending to sound casual.

“Nothing,” he said, but his voice was lower. “You just… remind me of someone.”

There it was again. That something.

You tilted your head. “Yeah? Anyone good?”

His smile faded just a little. “Yeah. Someone good.”

The moment passed, but it left something behind. A question neither of you asked out loud.

By the time he stood to leave, the sky outside had gone dark, and the half-eaten containers sat forgotten on your coffee table.

“Thanks for the food,” you said, walking him to the door.

“Thanks for not slamming it in my face,” he replied, grinning again.

You hesitated. “Hey… Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever feel like you’ve met someone before, even if you’re sure you haven’t?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to yours, something unreadable in them.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I do.”

Then he nodded once and disappeared into the hallway, leaving you standing in your doorway with your heart doing an annoying little flutter behind your ribs.

----

After Bucky left that night, you didn’t bother cleaning up the leftover takeout. You just stood there for a long moment, staring at the door, heart still thudding in your chest like it didn’t know what to do with itself.

There was something about him. Not just his face or that quiet charm he didn’t even seem to realize he had—it was deeper. Like your paths were meant to cross. Like maybe they already had.

The next few days passed with more of the usual: work, errands, passing hellos in the hallway. But everything felt a little more charged now. You were more aware of the way Bucky’s eyes lingered on you when you talked. The way his arm brushed yours when you passed in the narrow corridor. The way he smiled at you—hesitant but real, like he was still trying to decide if he was allowed to enjoy it.

One night, close to midnight, you found yourself standing on your tiny balcony with a blanket around your shoulders, staring out at the city lights. It was one of those warm spring evenings where the air felt like a soft whisper on your skin. You didn’t hear the door next to yours open, but you heard him—the sound of Bucky stepping out onto his balcony, just a few feet away, separated only by a wrought iron divider and the hush of midnight.

“Couldn’t sleep either?�� he asked, voice low, like he didn’t want to wake the world.

You looked over. He was in sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt, blue hoodie, hair messy, eyes soft in the dark.

“Nope,” you said. “City’s too loud tonight.”

Bucky leaned on the railing, glancing over at you. “Funny. I thought you said you were used to it.”

“I am. Doesn’t mean I always like it.”

He was quiet for a second. Then: “Want some company?”

You hesitated, just long enough to feel your heart skip, then nodded. “Yeah. Come on over.”

Moments later, he stepped through the door and onto your balcony, pulling the blanket from your shoulders and wrapping it around both of you without asking. His arm brushed yours as he stood beside you, the warmth of him bleeding into your skin.

“Is this okay?” he asked, glancing down at you.

You looked up, met his eyes. “Yeah. It’s more than okay.”

The city sprawled out below you, but you barely noticed it anymore.

“You’re not like most people I’ve met,” he said suddenly.

You laughed softly. “Is that a good thing?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Most people… talk too much, want too much. You don’t push. You just… let things be.”

“I don’t want to scare you off.”

His gaze dropped to your lips. “Maybe I wouldn’t run.”

The air between you changed, turned heavy and sweet. He stepped a little closer, one hand lifting to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your skin, lingered there for just a second too long.

Your breath hitched.

“I should probably ask if this is okay too,” he murmured.

You smiled, heartbeat thundering. “It is.”

And then his lips were on yours—slow, deliberate, like he wanted to remember the way you tasted. You leaned into him, hands resting lightly against his chest as the blanket slipped slightly, forgotten, pooling around your elbows. The kiss deepened gradually, not rushed, not frantic. Just… real.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads pressed together, both of you breathless and blinking like you weren’t quite sure what just happened—but neither of you wanted it to stop.

“Okay,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “Definitely more than okay.”

Bucky smiled then—really smiled—and you felt something unfurl in your chest. Something new, but familiar. Like you’d been waiting for this moment and didn’t even know it.

[thechaoslibrarian]

Spencer and a Single Mom!Reader always has my cuteness aggression acting up

To Have and To Hold — Chapter 3

Summary: After a quiet night message turns into a soft promise, Reader invites Spencer to the park. A toddler’s breakdown nearly derails the day, but it’s Spencer who meets her exactly where she is — and suddenly, they’re all a little less alone.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+)

Content Warning: Emotional toddler meltdown, real awkward ending, plus so much fluff (it hurts).

A/N: I meant to post this earlier this week, but I've had a shitty week so sorry about that. anyway, this one is really cute and kinda awkward towards the end, but still.

Word Count: 5.8k

The apartment was quiet—finally.

Maddie’s hand rested over my heart like always, warm and sticky from the bedtime banana she’d refused to finish. Her little fingers curled and uncurled with every soft exhale, grounding me more than the weight of any blanket ever could. She never meant to anchor me. But somehow, without even trying, she did.

I shifted just slightly, careful not to wake her as I reached into my nightstand drawer. Wet wipes. My saving grace since day one. There’d been too many late-night messes, too many diaper blowouts and milk spills and crayon smudges on my pillowcases. I’d learned better than to be caught unprepared.

I dabbed gently at the tacky spot on my chest, trying not to laugh. That girl could turn anything—fruit, felt tip pens, an empty laundry basket—into a memory. She should’ve been asleep in her own bed. Usually, she was. But tonight she’d asked to stay with me. Something about how happy she was, how the day had been “like ice cream in the sun.” Whatever that meant. All I knew was that her smile hadn’t faded since we’d come home.

Maybe it was the Library, or the Cafe. Maybe it was the way he’d made her laugh. The way he looked at her with such fondness.

I blinked against the dimness, trying not to think about it. About him.

But then my phone buzzed softly under the pillow.

I slid it out with one hand, careful not to jostle her. The screen lit up the room in a faint glow, barely illuminating the messy bun I’d half-heartedly tied at the crown of my head.

Unknown number.

I blinked at it.

[23:19] Unknown Number: Hi, it’s Spencer.

I sat up a little. Thumb hovering.

[23:19] Unknown Number: Just wanted to let you know, I had a good time today.

A pause. Then another message followed.

[23:20] Unknown Number: Thank you for lunch.

That one made me smile. Not because it was overly sweet or bold or flirty—but because it was him. Direct. Polite. A little awkward. Very much him.

I stared at the screen longer than I meant to, rereading each message like it might offer more if I tilted the phone or looked closer. It didn’t. But it did make my chest feel weird—tight and warm at the same time.

I typed out three or four different replies, deleting each one.

Then finally:

[23:22] Y/n: It was nice seeing you again. I think Maddie had more fun than she does on her birthday.

Send.

It took less than a minute.

[23:23] Spencer: She’s... really great.

I smiled. And then, because I couldn't help it:

[23:23] Y/n: So are you.

I hovered over the unsend button.

But didn’t press it. Instead I deleted it.

The message disappeared, swallowed by the screen like it had never existed. Still, the words hung in the air like breath on a mirror.

So are you.

Too much. Too soon. I wasn’t sure if I meant it platonically or not—and that uncertainty was a little terrifying.

Before I could spiral further, my phone buzzed again.

[23:25] Spencer: She’s... really great.

My heart softened.

So he was still thinking about her. About today. About us.

I smiled and let myself reply, more confident this time.

[23:26] Y/n: She hasn’t stopped talking about “The great wizard Spencer”

The bubble popped up almost immediately.

[23:27] Spencer: That’s a pretty solid title. I might put it on a business card.

That made me laugh. Like, an actual out-loud laugh that made Maddie stir against my arm. I stifled it quickly, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead.

[23:27] Y/n: I’ll let you know if she starts asking for autographs.

Another pause. Longer this time.

[23:29] Spencer: Would it be alright if I saw you both again sometime?

My heart did that fluttery thing it hadn’t done in way too long.

[23:30] Y/n: Of course. We’d like that.

[23:30] Y/n: She’s obsessed with the park by the old church. The one with the ducks. We’re probably going next week.

A beat.

[23:32] Spencer: Let me know when. I’ll bring more magic tricks.

I smiled down at the screen. Warm. Stupidly warm.

[23:33] Y/n: Maddie’s gonna love you if ducks and magic are involved.

[23:33] Spencer: I’m okay with that.

The reply hit harder than I expected.

I didn’t dare move Maddie—her head was still tucked against my chest, one hand limp across my ribs—but I did kick my feet a little beneath the blanket. A stupid little wiggle like I was fifteen again and someone had just texted “I like your smile” between classes.

I bit down a grin and locked the screen, hugging the phone to my shoulder like a secret. Like I could fold myself around it.

Like maybe I already was.

Then, I tucked my phone away and curled myself around Maddie. Her breathing deepened again, steady and small.

And this time, when I closed my eyes, I didn’t feel so alone.

═══════

“Mommy! Mommy! I want to feed the ducks!”

She was already running before I could finish tying my shoe. Hair bouncing, little legs wobbling across the grass like she’d been launched from a cannon.

“Hold on, Maddie!” I called after her, one hand digging for the crusty ziplock bag of old sandwich bread I’d shoved in my coat pocket. “Wait for me!”

We’d barely been at the park for ten minutes. I'd imagined a peaceful morning—sunlight on the pond, maybe a moment to sit and breathe while she ran around chasing butterflies or scaring pigeons. But no. We’d seen one cartoon episode of Peppa Pig where they fed ducks, and suddenly this was a mission.

By the time I caught up, she was already pressed against the wooden railing by the water’s edge, bouncing on her toes.

Her whole body thrummed with purpose. And maybe it was ridiculous, how serious she looked in her little sneakers and her sparkly hair clips. But I knew that look.

She took ducks seriously. Like, seriously.

Ever since that one spring we got caught in the rain walking home from daycare, and took cover under the big oak near the pond. She was barely two, still in that phase where she called umbrellas “brellas” and clung to me like I was her only anchor in the world.

We sat on a bench under my jacket while the rain came down, and out waddled this duck. So calm. So… bold, really. Like she was the one letting us take cover in her park.

Maddie was mesmerized.

She pointed and whispered “duckie” like it was holy. And then the duck quacked—loud, short, ridiculous—and Maddie burst into laughter so hard she hiccupped. She talked about that duck for weeks. Drew it. Named it. Told anyone who would listen about that duck. Even though back then all she could say about the situation was “duckie” and “rain”,

She loves ducks.

And I should’ve known—should’ve remembered—that with Maddie, joy is always right on the edge of disaster.

“I need the bread!”

“Here,” I panted, pulling out the bag and handing her a crust. “One piece at a time, okay?”

She nodded like she was listening. She wasn’t.

The first piece went fine. A duck quacked. She squealed with glee. I smiled—right up until she tried to rip a second slice in half and it crumbled entirely in her hands.

Her face froze.

“Oh no,” she whispered, staring down at her hands.

The crust had crumbled. A soft, torn mess now instead of the perfect piece she’d carefully picked. She blinked down at it once, twice—then her lower lip started to wobble.

“I didn’t mean to break it,” she said, her voice shaking like a cup about to spill. “It was for the baby duck.”

That was all it took.

Her shoulders curled inward, little fists tightening around the useless crumbs. She wasn’t loud—not really. Just crushed. Her eyes filled fast, lashes clumped with tears that slid down before I could wipe them.

“Maddie, hey,” I murmured, already crouching beside her. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You can still give it to them. The ducks don’t mind if it’s—”

“But I wanted to do it right,” she choked. “It was supposed to be a big piece. For the littlest one.”

I felt my chest ache. Because of course it wasn’t just about the bread. This was about doing it right. About getting the moment just the way she imagined it in her head.

Maddie wasn’t the kind of kid who melted down often. She didn’t throw things or stomp or scream. When she fell apart, it always looked like this—quiet, crumpled, like she thought she’d ruined something important and couldn’t figure out how to fix it.

Sometimes I feel like she’s too much like me… and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

That soft kind of perfectionism, the one that doesn’t make a scene but still bruises you from the inside out—that’s mine. She must’ve picked it up without me even realizing. And now here she was, four years old and already trying to carry disappointment like it was her fault.

I rested a hand on her back, rubbing gently in small circles.

“It’s still a gift,” I whispered. “They’ll still love it. You were being really thoughtful.”

She sniffled, trying to blink away the tears. But she was still trembling, overwhelmed in that way only a little kid can be—feeling everything all at once with no place to put it.

I exhaled through my nose, brushing hair from her face as she started to sob.

“Mads, I know it’s hard. It’s just bread, baby. The ducks are still going to love it, okay?”

She wasn’t hearing me. Not really. She was too deep in it now—splotchy cheeks, hiccupping breath, the kind of cry that meant her logic center had officially left the building. I sat back on my heels and rubbed a hand up her arm, unsure if I should wait it out or—

“Hey.”

The voice was soft, careful. I turned.

Spencer.

He was walking toward us slowly, hands tucked in his coat pockets, eyes trained on Maddie like she was something fragile—like he didn’t want to step too hard and shatter her.

He crouched beside us, not directly in front of her, but angled. A little to the side. Not taking up too much space. Not pushing. Just… there.

“Did you know,” he said, voice low and steady, “ducklings sleep in a line, and the last one watches for danger?”

Maddie hiccupped mid-cry.

Spencer glanced at her. “They take turns. The one at the back is like the brave little lookout. And when that one gets tired, they all shuffle around and a new duckling takes over.”

Her breathing slowed.

Not stopped—but slowed. She looked at him. Her brows were still pinched, lips still trembling, but her eyes were on him now.

“Really?” she sniffled.

He nodded solemnly. “Mm-hmm. They’re very organized. I don’t think they cry when their bread breaks.”

Her bottom lip twitched—almost a smile, almost a sob. She wiped her face on her sleeve and looked down at the crumbs in her palm.

“I was gonna give it to the baby duck,” she whispered.

Spencer reached over, gently gathering the soft little bits of crust from her hands like they were something worth keeping.

“I think the baby duck will still like it. Maybe even more.”

She didn’t answer. Just nodded slowly, eyes darting to the pond where the ducks were still floating, completely unfazed by the emotional crisis unfolding beside them.

I looked at him—at this man with too-long sleeves and a napkin in his back pocket and somehow, somehow, the exact right words for her. He met her where she was. Not above her. Not behind her. Right there.

My throat felt tight, watching them. Not romantic, not yet. Just… grateful.

He glanced at me.

“She okay?” he asked quietly.

I could only nod.

She was still sniffling, but the storm had passed. And he—he had been the one to calm it.

Spencer leaned back on his heels and looked down at her gently. “Come on, Maddie,” he said, his voice low. “Let’s go sit for a bit.”

She nodded solemnly, still clutching the now-crumbled crust in her palm like it was important. Like she’d earned it.

The three of us made our way to a sun-warmed bench just off the path. Maddie plopped beside me for all of thirty seconds before spotting a stick and toddling back into the grass with renewed purpose.

“Stay where I can see you,” I called after her automatically.

“I am here,” she chirped, not looking back—already dragging her stick through a patch of mud like she was etching runes only she could read.

I smiled, shaking my head, then glanced at Spencer. He was sitting beside me now, arms resting on his knees, eyes still half-watching her.

Maddie had wandered a few feet off the path, turning slow circles in the grass. Her cheeks were still blotchy, her nose pink, but her energy had returned with that stubborn, sunlit determination only kids seem to have. She hummed softly to herself, poking at a leaf like it owed her an explanation.

The quiet between us wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt… earned.

“Thanks again,” I said gently. “For what you said to her. I don’t think I would���ve gotten through to her like that.”

Spencer shook his head, eyes still following Maddie’s slow loops through the grass.

“Of course you would’ve,” he said, like it was fact. “You’re her mom.”

There was no teasing in his voice. No patronizing edge. Just this calm certainty, like he didn’t even question it—like being her mom meant I had all the answers, even on the days I felt like I was making it up as I went.

I didn’t say anything at first. Just watched Maddie squat to poke a stick into a puddle, her brow furrowed in deep concentration.

“She really wanted to do it right,” I murmured.

“She did.”

His tone was so sure, so full of quiet admiration that I had to glance over at him.

“You’re good with kids,” I said.

He shrugged. “I read some parenting books. Once.”

I laughed under my breath. “You studied parenting?”

Spencer nodded, like that wasn’t a strange thing for someone without kids to do. “I thought… maybe, one day.” He paused, then looked down. “And it helped. Knowing things, I mean. Back then.”

Something in the way he said back then made my smile falter. Just a little.

There it was again—that curiosity I can’t seem to shut off. The kind I usually try to smother when it comes to strangers. But he wasn’t a stranger, not really. And he didn’t owe me anything. He’d only met me twice. But still… the way he spoke around things, softened the edges of certain truths—it made me lean in.

The parts he was awfully vague about glowed to me, and as always, I was attracted to that glow.

“Maybe one day?” I pry. God, I hate myself for it, but I can’t help it.

He looks taken aback for a second, like he didn’t expect me to ask. Then his gaze drops again, quieter this time.

“I just… always thought I’d have kids someday. I guess it just won’t ever happen.”

There’s a shrug at the end of it, but it feels forced—like he knows better than to hope, so he’s trying not to want. Like wanting hurts too much.

I don’t answer right away. Because what do you say to that? You still could? Never say never? None of it would land right, and I’m not sure I’ve earned the right to reassure him.

So I just sit with it. With him. Letting his words settle like dust between us while Maddie hums in the distance, dragging her stick across a tree root like she’s solving a puzzle only she understands.

I turned my eyes back to Maddie. She was trying to balance her stick on a rock now, humming to herself like she hadn’t just had a meltdown fifteen minutes ago.

That’s the thing about kids. They rebound faster than the rest of us ever learn to.

The silence stretched between us, but it didn’t feel empty. It felt like something was being carefully made—not spoken, but built all the same.

The breeze picked up, rustling through the trees, scattering a few dandelion tufts past our shoes. Maddie tried to catch one, missed, and laughed like she hadn’t missed at all.

“Maddie, come here sweetheart,” I called gently, not because she was far, but because I wanted her a little closer. She looked up, blinked, and came skipping back without hesitation, stick still clutched in one hand.

She settled on the grass by my feet, twisting the hem of her shirt, perfectly content.

I looked at her. Then at Spencer.

“Mads,” I said, brushing a bit of hair behind her ear, “why don’t you take Spence on a hunt for dandelions?”

Her head popped up, instantly intrigued.

“The one who brings me the most wins.”

It was a lighthearted prompt, but I meant it. Not the game itself—but what it could give him. A small piece of something I could tell he thought he’d lost.

I didn’t know what he’d say. But part of me hoped that maybe if he felt just a little needed—if she looked at him with that wide-eyed kind of wonder only she could pull off—then maybe it would lift the weight he was carrying. Even just a little.

Maybe it would help soothe whatever part of him still ached from wanting more.

Maddie gasped like I’d just handed her a treasure map. “Come on!” she squeaked, grabbing Spencer’s hand with both of hers.

He barely had time to react before she was tugging him toward the grass, already scanning the lawn like a detective on a mission.

Spencer stumbled a step, startled, then let out a soft laugh—more breath than sound—as he glanced back at me with wide eyes, like Is this normal? Am I being kidnapped by a preschooler?

I just smiled and waved them off. “No mercy, Spencer. She plays to win.”

He shook his head, still smiling as Maddie dragged him deeper into the dandelion hunt—stick in one hand, Spencer in the other.

I watched them go—his long, unsure stride trying to match her bouncing steps, her chatter already spilling out in enthusiastic bursts. Something about which flowers counted and which ones were didn't have enough fluffy petals as if that were a rule.

Spencer looked completely out of his element and, somehow, like he belonged there anyway.

It did something to me.

Something warm. A little sharp around the edges.

Because I hadn’t expected to see that look on his face. Not so soon. Not here. But there it was—genuine, soft, and just the tiniest bit overwhelmed in a way that made me ache.

He didn’t even notice he was still holding her hand.

And Maddie didn’t either.

She just pointed excitedly to a patch near a tree and pulled him along with that same relentless certainty she had when she knew exactly what she wanted.

And for a second, I let myself wonder what it would look like—really look like—if that image in front of me wasn’t temporary. If this wasn’t just a moment, but a beginning.

That image is quickly scratched off when my brain comes back to the real world, and remember this is my third time seeing him.

I leaned back on the bench and closed my eyes for half a second, letting the sound of her laughter and his quiet responses drift through the breeze like music I didn’t know I’d been missing.

That softness barely had time to settle in my chest before reality tugged it back out. Because this was only the third time I’d ever seen him.

I let out a breath and leaned back on the bench, closing my eyes for half a second—just long enough to take in the sound of Maddie’s laughter and Spencer’s soft replies. It all drifted in on the breeze like music I didn’t know I’d been missing.

Their voices got louder before I opened my eyes.

“We found so many!” Maddie announced, bursting back toward the bench like she was returning from war with trophies. Her hands were full—dandelions, leaves, a stick or two for good measure.

Spencer followed behind, looking slightly winded and holding his own handful of flattened stems and dandelions with missing petals. His hair was a little messier now, a leaf stuck to his elbow, and he looked... happy. A little confused by it, but happy.

“I think we cleared out half the park,” he said, glancing at me as he approached.

“She said we have enough,” he added, gesturing to Maddie. “Her exact words were, ‘This is too many for a crown.’”

Maddie dumped her collection into my lap like a florist with no concept of restraint. “You have to pick the best ones,” she said seriously.

“I’ll try,” I smiled, already sorting through the tangle of greens and golds. “But I might need a caffeine boost first.”

Spencer hesitated. Not dramatically. Just for a beat—long enough that I noticed.

Then: “Do you want to grab a coffee? There’s a place just across the street. I mean—if you’re not in a rush.”

He said it casually, but there was something hopeful tucked inside the words.

I looked at Maddie, who had now moved on to weaving blades of grass together like she was inventing rope.

“I think we’ve got time,” I said, glancing back at him. “Especially if they have chocolate milk.”

Spencer smiled—really smiled—and offered his hand to help me up.

“Then it’s a date.”

He blinked, like maybe he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

I didn’t correct him, just smiled.

The café was familiar. The kind of place I used to seek out during long layovers and quiet Saturday mornings. Warm lighting. Muffled conversation. A low hum of espresso machines. It should’ve made me feel grounded.

But nothing about being around her ever felt grounded.

Y/n ordered Maddie’s warm chocolate milk like it was second nature—“just a little foam, please, not too hot”—and I couldn’t stop watching the way her hand hovered protectively near her daughter’s back while she spoke. Easy. Confident. Effortlessly cool, in that way people are when they don’t know you’re watching.

I stepped up to the counter, said my order too quickly, and regretted it immediately. Black coffee. Four sugars. I should’ve asked for something else. Something less... revealing.

We moved to a table by the window. Maddie climbed into her seat like it was a jungle gym. Y/n slid into hers with a kind of fluid calm that made me hyper-aware of how long it took me to sit down.

The moment I touched my cup, I was already wrapping a napkin around it. I always do. It wasn’t even about the heat. It was the texture. The condensation. The smudges. I didn’t like the way paper cups felt.

Across from me, Y/n was watching.

“That’s a lot of sugar,” she murmured with a smile. I couldn’t tell if she was mocking me or just amused.

I should be better at telling the difference. I’m a profiler, for crying out loud… but I just couldn’t.

It didn’t help that her voice was so gentle. Or that her smile wasn’t mean—but it wasn’t entirely neutral either. It lingered in this space I couldn’t read. And I hate not being able to read people. Especially when it’s her.

I looked down at the cup, at the napkin crinkled under my fingertips. “Four and a half,” I said quietly. “Sometimes five.”

“Wow,” she replied, leaning back with wide eyes that might’ve been mock-horrified, but still kind. “You don’t strike me as a sugar guy.”

I shrugged, bracing for the joke. “You’d be surprised.”

She didn’t laugh at me. Just took a sip of her drink and tilted her head like she was trying to figure something out about me. And it made me want to explain it. Like if I could just offer enough context, maybe I wouldn’t feel so exposed.

“It’s just… it balances the bitterness. I don’t like sweet drinks, but straight black coffee is too acidic. Sugar dulls that. And it’s not like I drink a ton of it—just… every morning.”

She smiled again. “Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to justify liking your coffee weird. I drink mine with a little too much milk. It's okay for it to be weird.”

I blinked. “It’s not—”

She raised an eyebrow.

Okay. It’s weird.

I flushed and looked back down at my cup, fingers tightening slightly around the napkin.

I glanced to the side—Maddie had gotten up and was now twirling slowly near the edge of our table, holding her warm milk in both hands like it was some sort of magic chalice.

Her voice was soft and distracted as she spun, “This is a potion… for frogs and wishes and—and sparkles—”

I smiled without meaning to.

Y/n did too.

And for a moment, I thought maybe this wasn’t so strange after all. Maybe this little pocket of normalcy—this table, this coffee, this conversation—was something I could belong in.

“I think it’s endearing,” she added after a beat. “The sugar. The napkin. The whole—” she gestured vaguely at me, “thing.”

The whole thing.

I wasn’t sure what that meant. But she said it like it wasn’t bad.

And that... that kind of terrified me.

She didn’t allowed me to overthink it too much, because she quickly switched the subject.

“What do you do for a living?”

I blinked.

It was such a normal question. One I’d answered a hundred times. But for some reason I felt like answering it would make her run for the hills.

Because this—whatever this was—felt like the first thing in a long time that I didn’t want to screw up.

And telling people what I do usually has a way of screwing things up.

Not immediately, not always. But there’s a shift. Their eyes go a little wider, their questions get more cautious, the air between us starts to carry weight. They picture blood and bodies, serial killers and endless darkness. They imagine me as some hardened version of myself—someone who can’t possibly fit into a soft, ordinary world like this one.

They don’t see the way it costs something. Or how much of myself I’ve had to wall off just to keep doing it.

And maybe the worst part is, I don’t even blame them.

So yeah. I hesitated.

Because Y/n doesn’t feel like someone passing through. And I don’t want her looking at me like I’m another thing to be careful around.

I just want her to keep looking at me like this—curious, a little amused, like I’m someone she actually wants to know.

“I, uh...” I hesitated. Then frowned slightly. “Why are you asking?”

She raised an eyebrow, sipping her drink. “Just curious.”

Before I could respond, there was a sharp gasp and the scrape of a chair leg against the floor.

I turned just in time to see Maddie—spinning, laughing—bump full force into a woman carrying a tray.

The tray jolted. A to-go cup teetered. A lid flew.

Coffee sloshed dangerously close to the edge before the woman caught it, steadying everything with an almost superhuman reflex.

Maddie froze mid-spin, eyes wide. Milk dripping from the rim of her cup.

I stood up without thinking, already reaching for the napkins.

Y/n was faster. She was by Maddie’s side in a second, one hand bracing her daughter’s arm, the other already offering an apology.

“Oh my god—I'm so sorry,” she said breathlessly. “Maddie, hey—baby, slow down, remember?”

The woman blinked, then laughed. Not sharply—kindly. Like someone who’s been there.

“It’s okay,” she said, smiling at Y/n. “I’ve got three at home. They’re always so hyper.”

Then she crouched slightly, looking Maddie right in the eye. “Just gotta be careful with coffee, sweetheart. Grown-ups get very dramatic when their caffeine disappears.”

Maddie gave a quick, serious nod like she’d just been handed ancient scrolls.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“No harm done.” The woman stood, tray still in one piece. Then she looked up—at me, at Y/n, at all three of us standing around this tiny table like something sacred had just been spilled.

“You guys make a cute family,” she said.

Y/n opened her mouth—just slightly—like she might explain. But nothing came out.

I didn’t say anything either.

Our eyes met. Just for a second. Maybe two.

But it felt longer.

She didn’t smile. I didn’t, either. There was no soft laugh, no quick deflection—just that look. Still, quiet, sharp at the edges. Like we were both holding our breath under it.

I should’ve laughed. Said something. Cleared the air before it turned into something neither of us was ready to touch. But my throat felt tight. My mouth didn’t move.

And the worst part?

I didn’t want to correct the woman.

Because in that moment—just for that fleeting, fragile second—it didn’t feel wrong.

It felt like something we’d almost earned. Like a dream I hadn’t let myself have, standing there, looking at her holding Maddie so gently, like this was their rhythm and I’d just... joined in.

Her eyes were the first to flick away.

But not far. Just down—to Maddie. To the hand still curled lightly around her sleeve.

She didn’t say we’re not. She didn’t laugh it off either. And I knew Y/n, Well, at least I knew enough. She was quick-witted, sharp. She always had something to say.

The fact that she said nothing? That spoke louder than anything else.

My grip on the napkins tightened. I didn’t realize I was still holding them.

I wanted to ask what she was thinking. If she felt it too—that strange pull between us, like a truth neither of us had the right to claim yet.

But Maddie broke the silence before I could.

She looked up at both of us, blinking slowly. Her voice came out in a whisper, fragile and curious.

“We’re a family?”

It hit me like a pin to a balloon.

And that was it. The moment fractured.

Y/n’s expression changed instantly—like someone had flipped a switch. That softness in her eyes vanished, replaced by quiet panic. Her voice came quickly, too quickly.

“No, sweetheart…” she said, crouching slightly beside Maddie, her hands smoothing down the child’s arms as if that might ground them both. “Spencer’s our friend.”

She smiled as she said it. Gentle. Reassuring.

But it was the kind of smile you put on when something needs to be undone.

And she was right. Of course she was right.

We weren’t a family.

I had only just met her. Twice, technically. Maybe three times, if you count the bookstore. And already I was letting myself entertain some ridiculous narrative like I belonged in this picture—like I could fold myself into their life without warning or invitation.

God. I really should’ve said something.

I should’ve corrected the stranger. Should’ve stepped in before Y/n had to. Should’ve done something to stop that little ache in Maddie’s voice before it landed in the middle of us like that.

Instead, I just stood there. Silent. A napkin still balled in my hand like I didn’t know what else to hold.

I wasn’t her dad. I wasn’t her partner. I wasn’t even really their friend.

I was just some guy who got too comfortable in a moment that didn’t belong to him.

We eventually sat down again. Maddie was calm now, sipping what was left of her milk and humming quietly to herself, as if the moment had never happened.

But I could still feel the tension clinging to my spine like static. Y/n didn’t look at me. She just wiped her hand on a napkin and sat back in her chair, her face unreadable.

Then—too casual, like she was trying to smooth the silence with a joke—she said, “Most dads would’ve panicked with a spill like that.”

It hit harder than it should have.

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to imply that you were implying that I was. I just—sometimes people assume things, and I didn’t want it to sound like I thought—”

I stopped. Inhaled. Shut my eyes for half a second.

God. Stop talking.

Y/n didn’t say anything right away. Just stirred her drink with the little wooden stick, slow and unbothered.

“I wasn’t implying anything,” she said finally. Calm. Simple. Kind, but not comforting. “It was just a comment.”

Right. Just a comment.

And I’d made it weird.

I nodded, even though it didn’t feel like enough. I didn’t know how to say I didn’t mean to get weird about it because the truth is I wish I belonged in that picture. So I didn’t say anything.

I just folded the edge of my napkin tighter and stared at my coffee like it had the answer I’d missed.

“She’s funny,” I said instead. My voice came out quieter than I meant.

Y/n finally glanced over.

“She likes you,” she said. And her tone had changed—not playful, not distant. Just… honest.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Because I liked her too. Too much. Too soon. And I had no idea what to do with that.

So I didn’t do anything.

Not when she looked away. Not when Maddie reached for her hand. Not even when I thought, for the briefest second, about reaching for it too.

I just sat there, fingers fidgeting with a damp napkin, trying to act like I hadn’t already imagined what it might feel like to belong here.

To be part of their little world.

To be hers.

Maddie giggled at something only she understood, milk still clinging to the corners of her mouth. Y/n smiled at her, soft and real, and I felt it hit me in the chest—how easy it came to them.

How hard it was to sit across from that and pretend I didn’t want in.

The sunlight had shifted, hitting the table just right. I watched the reflection of her hand on the glass.

And let it stay there, just out of reach.

Previous Chapter

taglist : @smithieandy @kspencer34 @person-005 @diffidentphantom @23moonjellies @reidssoulmate @imaginationfever13 @measure-in-pain @Reidrs @un-messed @rhinelivinglife @Skye-westwood @xxfairyqueenxx @alrat13

[thechaoslibrarian]

DUDE! SHE LIKES YOU BACK

spencer reid x fem! reader

synopsis: in which reader has returned from a field injury and Spencer surprises her.

Being shot wasn’t the badass experience all those cop shows made it out to be. It hurt, like a bitch and the recovery made you feel weak and useless. You werent allowed to work and were limited to doing paperwork from home.

However, today was the first day Hotch had allowed you to come into the office and work. Everything remained the same, the vending machine in the hall still required a good kick for it to actually give up the food inside, the ladies bathroom still had that one out of order stall and all your employees hadn’t changed one bit.

The thing that did catch you by surprise was the sight of beautiful spasms of colour put into a glass full of water.

Flowers.

They looked way too particular to be the generic $5 bouquet that had been bought from a supermarket. There were pink tulips, a few stems of lavender, peonies and a delicate sunflower in the middle of them all and the stems were wrapped in a white bow which was now drenched into the water but was further proof for its individuality.

You took a seat at your desk picking up the flowers and inspecting them closely, an attempt to see if anyone had left a note- a clear sign as to who sent them but your question was soon answered when a familiar voice sounded behind you.

“Oh! Do you like them?”

Spencer.

Before you could even say anything to him he started rambling

“I read up about botany and found out many believe that pink tulips symbolise affection and care, lavender represents healing and that peonies present good luck.” He paused his explanation by pulling his lips into one of his straight lined smile and nodding his head nervously.

“Oh! And the sunflower was just because I thought it looked pretty and you have Van Goughs portrait in your apartment.”

You smiled laughing at the clear thought he put into them. He looked like he want to say something else but you interrupted him by pulling him into a hug pressing your head into his neck. He seemed surprised at the hug but willingly reciprocated and wrapped his arms around your lower back. You both ignored the wolf whistle clearly made by Derek.

“Thank you, Spence, they’re beautiful.”

He blushed at the gratitude, “It’s the least I could do after your injury. Speaking of can I help you with anything?”

You laughed sitting down, ”God no. Thank you. But seriously, everyone is making this way big of a deal than it actually is. I’m not running a marathon I’m just writing files.”

He laughed again the blush still evident on his cheeks. You stood up and announced you would be right back - fleeing to grab more files from Hotch. The coworkers who saw all began heckling Spencer at what just happened.

“My man! Who knew pretty boy had this much game?” Derek hollered slapping Spencer’s back. Whilst Penelope almost jumped up and down in delight. “Oh my god they’re gonna have baby geniuses.”

“Garcia I gave her flowers not an engagement ring.” Spencer stated.

“Who’s getting an engagement ring?” Emily asked finally arriving for work.

“Nobody…yet” Penelope answered wiggling her eyebrows and walking back to her lair.

Spencer was so pleased with himself but a question Emily asked made his blood run cold.

“Yikes! Who got L/N flowers?”

“Me. Why? Is that a problem? Oh god is she allergic? I should have known!”

“No it’s just she hates flowers. I offered to get her some after she told me her had cat passed but she told me not to and that although she was grateful she couldn’t imagine a worse gift.”

Spencer’s eyes were practically gouging out of his head with anxiety and Derek couldn’t help but laugh as he joined the two.

Spencer looked between them rapidly and stuttered out, “What? But she gave me a hug and said they were beautiful? Do, do you think she lied?”

Emily raised her eyebrows mouth opening as she let out a knowing laugh. Derek looked at her and soon reacted similarly.

“What?” Spencer asked growing annoyed feeling like a child being left out of a game by their peers.

Derek offered an explanation. “You know how you’re a germaphobe but had no problem making out with Lila Archer that one time in the pool?”

Spencer blushed with embarrassment, “Why do you always bring that up?”

Emily rolled her eyes brushing him off and added to the point. “Spencer I think this is one of those situations.”

He furrowed his eyebrows confused. And Emily leaned in waiting for him to get it. His brows remained furrowed as he spoke again.“I don’t get it. Is this supposed to mean something?”

Derek rolled his eyes all concepts of being subtle gone out of the window.

“Dude! She likes you back.”

[thechaoslibrarian]

part one: alert synchronicity

— ★ spencer spends a day surrounded by small reminders of you—and finally understands that he's already lost his heart to you.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing!

masterlist. - part two

Something shifted.

It wasn’t just a minor change, a fleeting blip in the rhythm of his day—no, this was something bigger. It was subtle, almost imperceptible.

Whether it was a trick of the mind or a deeper instinct trying to get Spencer's attention, he didn’t know.

He woke that morning with an odd heaviness in his limbs, the kind that made the simple act of opening his eyes feel like a monumental effort.

The space beside him was empty. Cold.

And for a long, disorienting moment, he stared at the undisturbed sheets, his mind caught between sleep and wakefulness, reality and the lingering traces of a dream he couldn’t quite recall.

You weren’t there.

Of course you weren’t. You had left hours ago, after the movie credits rolled and the apartment had settled into silence.

You had laughed at something he said, before gathering your things and slipping out with a quiet "Bye Spencer."

That had been the plan. That’s how it always went.

Yet, for twenty minutes, he lay there, motionless, his gaze fixed on the vacant space beside him as if expecting it to offer answers. His mind was a paradox—simultaneously blank and overcrowded, thoughts swirling like leaves caught in a gust of wind, too fast to grasp, too numerous to ignore. It was as though a hundred thoughts were scrambling for attention at once, but none of them quite made it to the surface. He couldn’t grab onto anything.

All he knew was that something didn’t sit right.

Was it just exhaustion? The residual effects of too many late nights and too many cases blurring together?

Because the truth was, he had felt it before. That eerie, inexplicable tug of fate, the universe nudging him toward something he couldn’t yet name. And today, it was stronger.

Today, it refused to be ignored.

The sensation clung to him like static, prickling beneath his skin even as he dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror looked tired—more than usual.

His eyes landed on the toothbrush—the one that wasn’t technically yours, but might as well have been. A soft pink handle, sitting next to his own.

He’d bought it months ago, after the third time you’d stayed over and sheepishly admitted you’d forgotten yours. It had been a practical decision at the time—a small, logical accommodation for someone who kept ending up in his space, in his life, for longer and longer stretches.

His fingers hovered near it, not quite touching, as if it might burn him. A strange warmth spread through his chest, fluttering and restless, but beneath it was something hollow, something aching.

He didn’t understand it. Didn’t want to understand it.

Shaking his head slightly, Spencer wandered into the kitchen. The fridge door groaned as he pulled it open, half-hoping for inspiration, half-hoping to distract himself.

He frowned at the nearly empty shelves. A few containers. Half a bottle of almond milk. Some leftover takeout he wasn’t entirely sure was still safe.

He pouted, just a little. That soft, childlike disappointment that slipped out before he could mask it.

And then, out of nowhere, a thought sparked:

Your cookies. The chocolate chip ones.

The kind you never used to bake until you learned he liked them more than your usual vanilla batches .

The first ones you made had been slightly burnt on the edges, the chips off balance, but you kept trying. Adjusting the recipe, tweaking it each time like it was a science experiment. The way you’d squint at the oven timer and mutter about ratios—it made him smile more than he ever let on.

Over time, they’d gotten better. Perfect, even. To the point where Spencer had started associating the smell of melted chocolate and brown sugar with you—with the way your nose scrunched when you laughed, with the flour dusting your sleeves, with the way you’d always leave a few extra in his freezer "just in case."

Now, the absence of them felt like a physical thing.

He closed the fridge door slowly and let out a long sigh, his back pressing against the cool metal as he leaned there for a moment.

But then his eyes caught something on the counter and his breath caught.

There, on the counter—your box of cookies. The very ones he’d just been craving.

The universe had a cruel sense of humor sometimes, dangling the answer to a thought he hadn’t even fully formed. A coincidence? Maybe. But the way his pulse jumped at the sight made it feel like something more.

A slow, disbelieving smile tugged at his lips as he reached for the box, his fingers brushing over the familiar creases in the cardboard—the same way you always folded the edges to keep them fresh.

On top, a note in your unmistakable handwriting:

“For my favorite genius. I know you probably don’t have anything to eat for breakfast. And you need to stop living off coffee.”

Next to it, a lopsided smiley face, the kind you always drew when you were teasing him.

And beneath it, another slip of paper—this one with a quote:

“I hate people who are not serious about meals. It is so shallow of them.” —The Importance of Being Earnest.

His book. The one he’d lent you months ago, dog-eared and annotated in the margins with his cramped scribbles. You’d not only read it, you’d remembered it. Enough to pluck this line, this line, the one he’d laughed at when he reread it next to you.

Something warm and unnameable curled in his chest.

He gently traced the smiley face with his index finger before carefully peeling the note off the box and walking to the fridge. He smoothed the edges against the metal and stuck it there. Right in the center, right beside the magnet he never used. The quote followed, aligned just so.

Two little pieces of you.

He fully enjoyed the cookies—more than he wanted to admit. One turned into two, two into five, and before he knew it, he was staring at the bottom of the box, only two left. He hesitated, tempted to finish them off, but something made him stop. Maybe he wanted to save them. Maybe it felt symbolic somehow—leaving just a little behind.

He set the box aside with a quiet sigh, realizing it was probably time to face reality. If his breakfast consisted of cookies and the last splash of coffee from yesterday’s pot, then yeah—he needed groceries.

The thought alone was exhausting.

Reluctantly, Spencer went to get dressed. As he rummaged through his dresser for a sweater, his fingers brushed against something soft in the corner of the drawer. He paused, then slowly pulled it out.

The scarf.

The one you’d given him last winter, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, a little handwritten tag that simply said “For when the cold gets into your bones.”

He hadn’t worn it much. Not because he didn’t love it. He did. Too much, maybe. He was worried he’d ruin it, spill something on it, or catch it on a subway door or lose it in a moment of distraction.

So instead, it became a part of his quiet morning rituals—he’d look at it while choosing what to wear, smile to himself, then fold it back gently, like preserving something sacred.

It became a small, secret reminder of you that never failed to make his lips twitch upward.

But today, something tugged at him. Wear it.

He paused, hesitating. There was no case today. No flights, no crime scenes, no risk of ruining it in some chaotic whirlwind of work. It was just grocery shopping. A quick errand. No danger. No reason not to.

Before he could overthink it, he looped the scarf around his neck. The wool was warmer than he expected, carrying the faintest trace of cedar and vanilla—your perfume, maybe, or just the ghost of memory.

He slipped on his shoes, grabbed his coat, and stepped outside into the crisp morning air. The cold hit him immediately —but the scarf helped.

You helped.

And for once, Spencer didn’t feel quite so alone.

The drive to the grocery store should have been routine—just another mundane task.

Spencer flipped on the radio out of habit, his fingers automatically tuning to his usual station: the one that dissected quantum physics and debated the ethics of emerging technologies in monotone, academic voices. It was comforting, familiar. He usually looked forward to it. Even if he already knew most of the facts being discussed, there was something soothing about hearing others speak his language.

There was comfort in the predictability of it.

But today, the voices grated.

He listened for maybe a minute, maybe less. The words blurred together, sounding hollow in a way they usually didn’t.

He stared ahead at the red light, fingers tapping rhythmically on the steering wheel. Restless. Unsettled.

His gaze drifted to the radio display. Without really thinking, he pressed the button to change the station.

Click. Static. Then a beat.

And then—your favorite song.

It took him a second to register it, but once he did, his breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t a popular song, not one that played often. In fact, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard it on the radio.

But here it was. Blasting softly through his speakers like the universe had handpicked the moment.

The same song you’d hum under your breath while baking, the one you’d insisted on playing three times in a row that one rainy afternoon when he’d pretended to complain but secretly memorized every lyric.

His breath hitched.

For a heartbeat, he just stared, as if the universe had reached into his chest and plucked out a thought he hadn’t even fully formed. Behind him, a horn blared—sharp, impatient—jolting him back to reality.

“Oh. Sorry,” he muttered, flushing as he hit the gas, the car lurching forward a second too late.

He didn’t change the station.

The rest of the drive passed in a haze, the music wrapping around him like an echo of your voice.

By the time he pulled into the grocery store parking lot, the song had faded into something else, but the melody lingered, tangled up in the wool of your scarf and the ghost of flour on your hands.

Once he stepped out of the car, Spencer paused and looked up at the sky. Heavy clouds loomed overhead, dark and swollen with the promise of rain.

He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and muttered to himself, “Alright. Just in and out. Quick.”

October weather was unpredictable. He quickened his pace toward the store, shoulders hunched against the cold. The last thing he needed was to get caught in another downpour.

Like last night.

The memory surfaced unbidden: you, standing in his doorway, drenched and shivering, your hair plastered to your forehead while rainwater pooled at your feet. He’d panicked—of course he had—fussing over the cold you’d surely catch, the inconvenience, the unnecessary risk you’d taken just to watch some movie with him.

And then you’d grinned, wide and unrepentant, before launching yourself at him.

The hug was instantaneous, your arms locking around him, soaking his shirt through in seconds. He’d stiffened—“You’re getting me all wet!”—but you’d just buried your face in his shoulder and mumbled, “We’ll be sick together, Spencer.”

He hadn’t stood a chance.

You’d spent the rest of the evening wrapped in mismatched towels, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch, your laughter warmer than any blanket. And if a cozy evening like this with you made him get sick? Who was he to care? If anything, he had used the rain and the cold to scoot even closer to you on the couch, mumbling a small "My apartment is cold" as an excuse to press his thighs closer to yours.

Now, standing in the grocery store parking lot with the wind gnawing at his scarf—your scarf—he realized something with startling clarity:

He missed you.

Not in the abstract, distant way he missed people when they were gone. But viscerally, like a pit in his stomach, that couldn't be filled with anything but the sight of you standing infront of him with a smile.

The clouds overhead rumbled softly, like the sky missed you too.

Spencer turned toward the store, tugging his scarf a little tighter, and stepped forward, but something caught his eye.

Next to the grocery store, nestled between a laundromat and a pharmacy, was a new coffee shop. That in itself wasn’t unusual. But the name?

His breath caught slightly in his throat as he read the sign above the door.

Drip Drop Brew.

His eyes widened. He blinked, like maybe he had read it wrong. But no—those words stared right back at him, painted in playful script across the front window in soft red and black.

His breath stuttered.

“Drip drop drip drop,” you had murmured just last night as he made you tea, still damp from the rain.

You had stood beside him in the kitchen, doing absolutely nothing useful, your hair still curling with leftover stormwater. You never offered to help—and he never minded. You just liked being near him while he moved around the kitchen.

“Drip drop?” he’d repeated back, bemused, pouring hot water over chamomile leaves.

“The rain,” you’d said, as if it were obvious, tilting your head toward the sound. “Listen.”

And he had. Not to the weather, but to you—the way your voice softened around mundane things, how you found rhythm in the ordinary. It was ridiculous. It was perfect. It was such a you thing to do, finding magic in something as ordinary as the sound of water hitting glass.

Now, standing frozen on the sidewalk, the memory wrapped around him like the scarf still knotted at his throat.

A coincidence. It had to be.

But the way his pulse jumped said otherwise.

He took a slow breath, torn between stepping inside and continuing to the grocery store. He didn’t need coffee.

Groceries were forgotten the moment he pushed open the coffee shop door.

The place was you—cozy and vibrant, with mismatched armchairs in deep red and black , shelves lined with well-loved books, and the scent of freshly ground coffee.

He could already picture you here, curled up in that corner nook by the window, a half-finished report abandoned in favor of people-watching.

You both had a habit of doing reports in cafés—something that started as convenience and turned into tradition. A small ritual between the chaos of the job. He could still remember the first time you'd convinced Hotch to let it happen.

It had been on a slow day, paperwork piling up, everyone dragging. You'd walked into the bullpen and said, “What if we were… slightly more productive in a cozy public setting with caffeine and pastries?”

Complete with your best “convince-Hotch” smile.

Somehow, it worked.Honestly, most of the team had a hard time saying no to you. Even Hotch, who wasn’t exactly known for bending rules.

But Spencer? Spencer never stood a chance. He wasn’t even sure the word no existed in his vocabulary when it came to you.

Truthfully, he wasn’t sure he’d ever truly said no to you. The word dissolved in his throat whenever you smiled at him.

He ordered a coffee—black, simple, but he let the barista add a drizzle of cinnamon syrup, just because it reminded him of the way you'd order his drinks when you thought he needed “spicing up.”

Then he settled down in the corner seat, back against the wall, giving him a view of the whole shop. It should’ve felt peaceful.

Instead, the absence beside him was deafening.

He let his eyes wander, taking everything in. The handwritten menu on a chalkboard. Cute drawings of animals, such as ladybugs. The tiny potted succulents lining the windowsill. A basket of dog treats by the door. A stack of used books by the counter with a handwritten sign that read: “Take one, leave one, love always.” C

Time slipped through his fingers like sand.

What should have been a thirty-minute grocery run had stretched into nearly two hours—first the coffee shop, then the quiet absorption of his book (of course he’d brought one; he’d sooner leave the house without pants than without reading material).

Eventually he forced himself to leave.

With a full bag of groceries and a head full of thoughts, he made it home. The sky had darkened even more, a low rumble of thunder in the distance echoing through the streets. Rain hadn’t started yet, but it was only a matter of time.

He unpacked everything robotically, stacking the pantry and fridge, then tossed his coat aside and curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped loosely around him.

He traced the spine of the book in his lap, his thumb brushing over the slight crease near the top.

Your book.

The one you’d pressed into his hands last week with theatrical solemnity, your brows furrowed in mock severity. “This one is my favorite,” you’d said, voice low, as if entrusting him with state secrets. When you’d jabbed a warning finger in his face, he’d barely suppressed a grin. “If anything happens to it—”

He’d waited, eyes bright with amusement, until you’d leaned in close, your voice dropping to a theatrical whisper: “You will know my rage in ways you’ve never known before.”

The threat was absurd—he’d seen you genuinely angry exactly once, and even then, you’d mostly just frowned harder—but he’d played along, snatching the book from your grip with exaggerated defiance.

“Terrifying,” he’d deadpanned, already flipping to the first page.

That was another one of your rituals: swapping books every week, your version of a love language. You’d once called it “literary matchmaking.” Every Friday, without fail, a book would be passed between you—sometimes annotated, sometimes dog-eared, always loved.

This book had been your favorite.

Now, tracing the dog-eared corner of page 111—your favorite passage—he realized with a quiet ache that he could almost hear your voice between the lines.

He’d read three chapters today, but the words blurred together, his focus frayed by the day’s odd synchronicities—the cookies, the scarf, the song, the café.

And now this: your favorite book in his hands, your phantom laughter between the lines.

Spencer exhaled, tilting his head back against the couch.

The universe, it seemed, was determined to remind him of you.

Thirty minutes later, he turned the final page.

The book was finished, and God, he understood now why you loved it so much—the way the prose curled around his ribs like smoke, the underlined passages that felt like secrets shared between just the two of you.

Your notes in the margins had been his favorite part: little exclamation marks beside plot twists, sarcastic commentary in the corners, the occasional doodle when you’d clearly gotten distracted.

With a quiet sigh, he set the book on his lap, but the spine—well-loved and cracked from years of your hands holding it—fell open again of its own accord.

And there it was.

A single line, highlighted in soft yellow, framed by a constellation of pink hearts you’d drawn with the same care you reserved for frosting cookies or arranging flowers in his too-empty apartment:

“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.”

The air left his lungs in a rush.

It hit him with the force of a bullet train—no warning, no gradual buildup, just the devastating certainty of it.

The cookies. The scarf. The radio station. The coffee shop. The way his chest ached when you laughed. The way he’d memorized the cadence of your voice without meaning to. The way every road, every book, every breath seemed to lead back to you.

Oh.

Spencer Reid was in love with his best friend.

And the terrible, beautiful truth was—he’d been in love with you for a long, long time.

[thechaoslibrarian]

I guess it’s never really over

mechanic!steve harrington x fem!reader exes to lovers

summary: Convinced by your best friend to return to Hawkins for the summer, nothing is like how you left it five years ago, including the boy you’ve done nothing but try and forget.

warnings: 18+ for smut, each chapter will have their own warnings, exes to lovers, drinking, smoking, angst/hurt, comfort, late/80’s early 90’s, no upside down, Robin is your best friend and Steve’s too 🙄, also featuring mechanic!eddie.

📻 series playlist

Late arrivals and big asks

I might kill my ex, not the best idea

This has got to be the longest crush ever

Honey, on your knees when you look at me

Kissin’ and I hope they caught us - coming soon 🌻

You could do damage

Slow dance these summer nights

Just because it’s over doesn’t mean it’s really over

[thechaoslibrarian]

never second best

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: after a run-in with his ex, steve reassures you that you'll never be second best, proving it in a way he knows will stick

warnings: 18+ this is smut, graphic depictions of sex, p in v, oral (f receiving), tears, insecurity

a/n: part 5 but can be read as a standalone. half of this is super long, pure filth, AND my first time writing smut so pls feedback is welcome. thank you @andvys so so much, hopefully, i didn't let you down <3

series masterlist

Steve perched on the edge of his neatly-made bed, hair painstakingly combed into that signature swoop, the red knit jumper hugging his broad shoulders just so. The sleeves are pushed up to reveal his forearms—a look he recently realised drives you a little wild, and one he now makes an effort to wear often. 

He liked to catch you staring. 

He’s wearing his go-to faded jeans, and every time he glances your way, his eyes take on a softer appearance. You’ve already spent some time in his room before, but every time he sees you there, he still can’t believe you’re in his space.

He’s trying—really trying—not to grin too widely. If he breaks into the excited smile he’s been fighting all morning, he worries he might come off too eager. But truth be told, he is too eager. Hosting Dustin’s birthday party is one thing, but now he has the honour of introducing you to everyone. Officially. 

He’s practically bursting at the chance to show you off, the very thought turned his mind all giddy. Knowing that you would be the one with his arm around your waist for everyone to witness. 

The idea distracted him from the real drama occurring not four feet away from him. 

From your spot by the mirror, you can see him watching you, and it sets your stomach off again. You’re not sure why today feels so monumental. You’ve met Dustin in passing, shared a few laughs with Robin over coffee after she basically saved your relationship a few weeks back.

But tonight is the full show. Everyone. All at once. And for some reason, your carefully chosen outfit no longer feels quite right. You tug the hem of your top self-consciously, tilt your head, and scrunch your nose at your reflection.

“I look awful,” you say, voice laced with the sort of frustration that’s all nerves. “This looked so much better in my head.”

His brow furrows, and he pushes off the bed in a single fluid motion. “That’s nonsense,” he replies, crossing the room to you in three quick strides. He rests his hands lightly on your shoulders, gaze flicking to meet yours in the mirror. "You look beautiful, sweetheart. Always do. You know that."

You huff out a breath, trying not to get lost in the warmth of his praise—easier said than done.

“No, I don’t,” you insist, staring critically at your clothes. “I should’ve brought something else.”

“Well…do you have anything else here?” He asks gently.

There were little traces of you scattered around—a few forgotten items here and there, most notably, the new toothbrush sitting beside his. Still, nine times out of ten, you took your clothes home, leaving behind only your pajamas.

“A set of pajamas.” You sigh dramatically, cursing yourself for not packing more than one option. “That’s about it.”

“Hey, that could work,” he teases, eyes crinkling with amusement. “That’s one of my favourite looks on you.” His hands slide down your arms, his grin growing as he watches your reaction.

Under normal circumstances you would lean into his teasing, but this was not the time. You turn to give him a shove, but he catches your wrist before it can make an impact.

“Steve,” you whine, trying to see the humour in this the way he is.

“What? I’m just being honest,” he says, eyes dancing. “Would you rather I lie?” 

Truth is, he does love you in those pajamas—almost as much as he loves you wearing his old shirts. Honestly, you could throw on a trash bag, and he’d still think you’re stunning.

“Please stop,” you groan.

You’re not smiling the way you usually do at his jokes—no little giggle, no playful roll of the eyes. 

The shift clicks for him: you’re actually stressed. 

Concern crosses his features, and the jovial edge in his voice softens. He lowers his tone, warmth flowing through each word, and slides his hands down to cradle your waist.

“Alright,” he murmurs, thumbs drawing gentle circles against your hips. “Talk to me. What’s not working here?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, exhaling as you sink into him. “I just feel… unprepared. I mean, I’m meeting everyone. Should I have brought something? I should’ve baked. Everyone likes baked goods.”

A breathy chuckle escapes him, and he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. 

Like you’re not already sweet enough.

“Angel, Robin is bringing the cake. And you”—he squeezes your waist a little firmer—“are a guest here. Your only job is to relax and look pretty. Can you do that for me? Please?”

The earnestness in his voice steals the protest right out of your throat. You look up at him, heart thumping in that heady way it does whenever he turns on the charm full-blast. 

Damn those big, stupid brown eyes. 

You turn back to the mirror, pulling at your shirt once again. There’s a crease here, a wrinkle there—things no one else would ever notice, but to you, it’s just off. You can feel his eyes on you, his concern and affection practically radiating from behind. 

He’s been so excited, so patient, and yet you can’t shake the last bit of anxiety churning in your stomach about today.

In the reflection, you watch him hover, trying to be casual even though you can see every thought flit across his expressive face. He wants you to be happy and comfortable. He wants to show you off and make sure you feel like a million bucks doing it.

“Can I wear something of yours?” you ask softly, turning to meet those wide, hopeful eyes. “I want something more comfortable.”

Comfortable.

His heart practically leaps at your request. He’s not sure why that single sentence sends a jolt of excitement through him, but it does—and it’s powerful. He tries to school his expression into something normal, but the eager beam that spreads across his face betrays him.

“Absolutely,” he says far too quickly, glad to be of use. “Knock yourself out. Have at it—any one you want.”

He opens the wardrobe, stepping aside like he’s unveiling some prized collection. You slip past him, still self-conscious, but the warm brush of his hand on your lower back comforts you. 

Leafing through the soft fabrics, you finally find one that matches the rest of your outfit—a cosy, oversized number that’s equally stylish and undeniably Steve’s. You hold it up, glancing back at him for approval.

He grins—big, unabashed. “Fantastic choice,” he declares, in an exaggeratedly formal tone meant to make you laugh.

It works—you giggle. The sound washes over him like a balm, chasing away the worry in his eyes. 

He lives for that sound.

Then, your focus shifts back to the mirror. You pull off your shirt in one smooth motion, baring your bra and the long, graceful stretch of your spine. 

The air feels cooler against your newly exposed skin, and you instantly sense the spark of awareness coming from the boy behind you.

He goes still. A part of him wants to look away, to be respectful, yet he can’t stop his eyes from drifting along the curve of your waist and the softness just above your navel.

He’s had the privilege of touching your bare skin before—tentative, lingering caresses that never ventured too far. He’s wanted more, of course he has. He’s human—he’s got a pulse. 

But you deserve slow. You deserve a careful pace, no pressure. He’d beat himself up about it for weeks if he even thought he made you uncomfortable.

But that didn’t stop his mind from running. 

He wanted to trail his fingertips down every inch of your body, to feel you melt under his touch. Imagining the way you’d arch into his palms, voice breathless as it tickled his ear, egging him on. Images of pressing you up against the mirror, sliding his hands across your hips, your ribs, your chest, discovering every inch he’s been dying to explore. 

He tears his eyes away, cheeks heating at his own explicit thoughts. 

You slide his jumper over your head, letting the fabric fall into place. Instantly, you’re enveloped in the faint smell of him: cologne, fabric softener, a hint of hairspray. 

You turn, a playful, knowing smirk on your face, you catch the flush on his cheeks—his pupils slightly dilated, his posture taut with the effort of keeping his hands to himself.

“More comfortable?” he asks, managing a wobbly smile.

“Yeah,” you smooth the jumper over your sides, nodding. “Much better.”

A smile spreads slowly across his face, relief flooding his features. He steps closer, gently adjusting the jumper on your shoulders, as if making sure you’re perfectly bundled in his warmth. His knuckles skim your collarbone, the gesture sends a pleasant shiver through you.

“Good,” he murmurs. In the silence that follows, you can almost hear the unspoken thoughts swirling behind his eyes. He drops his hands, brushes a quick kiss to your temple, and lets out a breath. “Come on, let’s get downstairs before the others barge in. The peace isn’t gonna last once the party kicks off.”

The house was buzzing with the kind of kinetic energy that made the walls hum. You can feel it reverberating through the soles of your feet the moment you step back into the living room. The cosy space was adorned with colourful streamers and a Happy Birthday! banner—Dustin’s own insistence, of course.

Steve had nearly suffered a heart attack watching you put it up single-handedly earlier, bursting into the room just in time to steady the wobbling chair beneath you.

I mean, Jesus, were you trying to take years off his life?

You had been blissfully unaware of the impending disaster, balancing precariously as if gravity was a suggestion. 

He had been right there. You could have asked for help. But no—apparently, terrifying him was just part of the fun.

None of that mattered now the party was in full swing, chatter overlapping, laughter weaving in and out of a sweetly melancholic track Max had just dropped onto the record player.

He had introduced you with obvious pride, making sure to state—loud and clear—that you were his girlfriend. Watching you greet everyone with a tender smile. His attention lingered on each reaction, quietly noting how they took in the girl he was lucky enough to call his.

It felt like unveiling a winning hand in a game he never expected to play so well—like holding onto something rare and knowing, deep down, that he’d beaten the odds.

You quickly spot your host—your boyfriend—hovering near the stereo console, running a hand through his hair, trying to appear unruffled while Max and Lucas sift through his precious vinyls. And in typical Steve fashion, failing at appearing calm, because he can’t quite hide his grin when he sees you looking. 

From across the room, he gives you a gentle wave, checking that you’re still alright. His eyes stay on you as you maneuver around the coffee table and dodge a crumb-strewn plate that might have once held cake but now looks suspiciously empty.

“Hey,” he greets, sliding an arm around your waist the second you’re within reach. His hand settles warm and comforting at your side, fingertips lightly pressing into the soft fabric of the borrowed sweater. 

“Hey yourself,” you reply, leaning into the contact without a second thought.

He seems to shine in a way you haven’t seen before. Surrounded by the people he calls family, he’s the best version of himself, brimming with confidence and a natural leadership that emerges when he’s trying to make sure everyone else is okay. 

You see it in the way he’s just handed Max the next record she was eyeing (despite complaining it’s not appropriate music for a birthday party), the way he’s offered Dustin a refill on his drink twice in the last ten minutes, and the way his entire face softens whenever he looks at you.

You hear Will’s loud gasp behind you—apparently, Jonathan just teased him about some underground album you had never heard of. The brown-haired boy claps a hand on his brother’s shoulder, spinning him into an ongoing argument about what to play next. 

Meanwhile, Robin’s perched on the arm of the couch, describing some comedic fiasco at work with her trademark flair for dramatics. You catch only snippets—something about a misfiled horror movie in the kids’ section, a frantic parent demanding a refund, and Steve heroically stepping in to salvage the day.

He rolls his eyes at that particular story, mouth curving in a half-smile. “She’s gonna exaggerate it,” he mutters to you, “just watch.”

You grin, nudging him gently. “Hey, maybe it’ll make you look good.”

“What, me saving the day?” He shakes his head. “Sweetheart, I already look great,” he says in a faux-arrogant tone, then immediately flushes when he realises how that might’ve sounded. But you know him well enough to catch the joking glint in his eye, so you laugh.

“C’mon, Steve,” comes a voice from the left—Nancy, stepping forward with a cautious smile. Her hair is pinned back, a few strands framing her face, and she looks surprisingly at ease despite the chaos around her. “Give yourself some credit. You’re basically running a daycare every shift the amount of times the kids are there,” she teases, though her tone is warm, not biting.

“Yeah, well, if it keeps me from being bored outta my mind, guess it’s worth it.” He snorts.

You shift, letting Nancy into the conversation fully. She meets your gaze with an inviting smile, and it strikes you how nice she is. 

Steve had mentioned her coming, and at first, it rubbed you the wrong way. Not in a dramatic, soap-opera kind of way, but in that small discomfort that settled in your stomach before you could talk yourself out of it.

You didn’t want to be that person—the one who couldn’t handle a little shared history, who needed their partner to rewrite the past just to make the present more comfortable. But still, the thought sat with you longer than you liked.

Steve had noticed, of course. He was too perceptive when it came to you, reading the tension in your jaw before you even had the words to explain it. So he reassured you—gently, patiently, with that soft-eyed sincerity he always had when something really mattered.

Without hesitation, he’d offered to uninvite her. But you shook your head because that wasn’t fair. If they were all part of the same friend group, who were you to come in and break it apart? Nancy was part of his history, but that didn’t mean she had to be an issue in his future.

And if he could move forward without looking over his shoulder, then so could you.

She was not the intimidating figure you’d somewhat imagined— the girl he had cared about so deeply in the past. Instead, she’s approachable, her eyes bright with curiosity as she acknowledges you.

“Hi,” she says, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I don’t think we’ve had a real chance to talk yet. I’m Nancy.” She offers her hand, and you take it, noticing the gentle, firm shake.

“It’s really nice to finally meet you properly.” You tell her, giving your name in return. “Steve’s told me a bit about you.”

She arches a brow at him, a playful glint there. “All good things, I hope?”

“Nothing but the best.” He raises both hands, half-defensive. 

She laughs quietly, then turns that inquisitive gaze back to you.

“So, I heard you’re, um… you work in—”

“Journalism,” you supply with a small nod. “It’s not as glamorous as it sounds, but I really like it. Kinda took your place at the Hawkins Post.” You joke. “They treat me a lot better now though. It’s not anything huge, but I get to read new articles, help shape them a bit, get the occasional coffee run… it’s fun and sometimes totally insane.”

Steve leans in, beaming with pride. 

It had gotten easier—less and less often did you show up at his house on the verge of tears after a shift. Turns out, grown men get pretty uncomfortable when you call them out on their bullshit directly. And damn, was he proud when they finally started taking you seriously.

He always knew they would. You’re a smart girl, after all.

“She’s underselling it.” He says, without the slightest bit of shame, gently nudging your shoulder. “She’s great at what she does.” 

“That sounds so much better than when I was there.” She shakes her head, reminiscing about her experiences. “I still do a lot of writing myself. I’m working at a local paper in Massachusetts right now.”

Something about her tone clicks into place for you, like a puzzle piece sliding in. 

“Right, Steve mentioned. You like it?”

“Yeah. It’s… challenging, to say the least.” She nods, crossing her arms loosely. “Still a small paper, still small stories. But I’m building my portfolio, hoping to maybe do bigger pieces eventually.” 

A warm sense of camaraderie blooms in your chest. You completely understand that hustle, that feeling of needing to push through the drudge work to get to the fulfilling stuff. 

“Oh, absolutely,” you say. “I used to think I’d be working on these huge headlines right off the bat, but it was mostly basic editing work. Still,” you add, “I’m kind of a sucker for persevering.”

Her eyes crinkle with a real smile, and for a moment, it’s just you two, connecting over the rollercoaster that is words. 

“I know exactly what you mean. It’s exciting to be at the start of something, you know?”

“Makes the early mornings and late evenings worth it,” you tease, and she laughs. 

This was easier than you thought.

The conversation flows so smoothly that you almost forget the context—that this is Steve’s ex you’re talking to, that the only reason you even worried about her presence was because of that shared history. But here she is: easy to talk to, friendly, and—if you’re honest—reminding you a bit of yourself in how she lights up when discussing her work. You could understand how Steve fell for her in the first place. 

And that’s when it happens: Dustin bounces by with a half-eaten cake slice, eyes going wide as he sees you and Nancy chatting. He glances between you, leans in—crumbs falling from his mouth as he finishes eavesdropping. 

“Whoa, you guys are so alike.”

“Took you long enough to notice.” Erica chuckles, passing behind him.

Steve nearly chokes on air. “Excuse me?”

“I told you—” Dustin smirks at Steve, “both super nice, pushy in a good way, and way too into all that reportage stuff.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Patterns, man. I see them.”

Nancy, amused, shakes her head but doesn’t deny it. Meanwhile, you feel a curious prickle in your stomach. 

Even though you haven’t felt threatened by Nancy at all, it’s… interesting, hearing Dustin phrase it that way, noting how similar the two of you are.

Before you can dwell on it, Steve is in full damage control mode, waving Dustin away. 

“All right, all right, that’s enough outta you, birthday boy.”

Dustin, unbothered, snickers, then scampers off to deposit his napkin onto Jonathan’s pile of party rubbish. You catch Nancy’s eye, and she looks like she wants to say something, but a flush of colour creeps across her cheeks instead. You wonder if she’s embarrassed at the topic or if she’s also noting how the conversation just positioned you and her in the same category.

“Anyway,” Nancy says softly, clearing her throat, “it was really nice talking to you. And I do want to chat more about writing. Would be great if our paths were to cross again.”

“Sure. ” You nod, smiling. “Anytime.”

She dips her head in a polite goodbye, departing to rescue Mike from an argument with Lucas. That leaves you and Steve standing there in the aftermath of Dustin’s remarks.

“Uh… sorry about that,” he mumbles, glancing down at you. “Dustin’s always been, like, embarrassingly direct.”

A wry smile tugs at your lips. “It’s okay. I’m not offended.”

The evening drifts into its final hours with a soft sun lingering in the corners of Steve’s living room windows. Most of the balloons have deflated a little, and the noise has died down into pockets of lingering conversation. 

Dustin’s boisterous laugh echoes one last time as he heads out the door, hauling an armful of presents. Max trails behind him with the rest of the kids, carrying a few he couldn’t manage. She pauses to give you a small nod and a grin—her quiet way of saying, I like you.

You thought at first she was a tad standoffish, but her actions made you feel accepted into the small group. And if they approve of you, that's a sign that maybe you do belong here, in this makeshift family. 

Not that you’re getting ahead of yourself or anything…

Robin departs next, hooking her arm through Erica’s at the last second to drag her into some half-joking conversation about finally getting a break from babysitting Steve. Which she wholeheartedly agreed with, even if she was multiple years his junior. 

Nancy laughs, glancing your way as if to share the humour, and you wave goodbye with a soft smile. Jonathan, her hand in his, offers you a polite nod. They looked so in sync, bodies unconsciously angled toward each other, moving as a unit. There’s no tension, no leftover drama—just two people who found their other half. 

The thought made you more anxious than relieved. 

When the door finally shuts, the hush that falls over the house is unsettling. You can still hear the faint crackle of the record player, the needle resting in a quiet groove before you switched it off. Now, there’s just the quiet clink of dishes in the kitchen and the soft hum of Steve’s voice—he’s singing along to the old radio as he stacks up the glasses. He told you he had it under control, and knowing you didn’t like the feeling of leftover food in the sink, he took this job for the team.

You’re left gathering discarded wrappers and balled-up napkins, your mind spiraling in circles you really don’t want to follow but couldn’t help yourself.

Nancy is lovely. Infuriatingly so. 

In fact, she was so kind, so pleasant, that it almost stings more than if she’d been cold. Because it means you can’t hate her. Not that it was your goal to do so, but you couldn’t just dismiss her as some memory in Steve’s past. 

She was right for him once, and the knowledge of how closely her life aligns with yours—similar ambitions, the same drive for success, the spark of curiosity—makes your throat feel tight.

What if Steve also sees her in you? What if every moment you thought was unique and special was just him trying to relive something he used to have with her?

You can’t stand the idea, but the rational side of your brain doesn’t seem to be cooperating. 

Steve isn’t cruel. You know that. 

He’s never been anything but considerate, thoughtful, patient with you. Hell, the amount of times he was there for you—without hesitation, without needing to be asked. Holding your hand when you were nervous, pressing a kiss to your temple when you overthought, making you laugh when you wanted to cry.

He had never once made you feel like an afterthought. He was all in. And yet, the thought gnawed at you—was he here because he chose you, or because he was still reaching for a shadow of the past? Was he even aware he was chasing her ghost?

Your fingers tighten around a crumpled paper plate, and you swallow against the lump forming in your throat. You wonder if you really are just a Nancy 2.0 as you step into the kitchen, tossing the rubbish in the bin and retreating back to the now clean living room. Not wanting to talk to him just yet. 

The water stops running, the tap squeaking as Steve turns it off. You hear him dry his hands on a dish towel, then he appears in the doorway, face lighting up for a moment—until he sees your expression.

“Finished in the kitchen,” he starts, voice warm and a little proud, then pauses. “...What’s wrong?”

He settles beside you on the couch, the cushions dipping under his weight. Your shoulders tense a little—his proximity normally soothes you, but tonight, your mind won’t quiet down, and every small gesture feels magnified. He notices immediately.

“Nothing,” you say, forcing a small, tight smile. “I really liked your friends. They’re all super sweet. I can see why you get along so well.”

“Oh yeah?” There’s a warmth in his tone, a hopeful rise.

You nod, dropping your eyes to your hands. He slides closer, until his knee brushes against yours. 

“You even got Erica to like you,” he points out, sounding genuinely impressed. “It took me weeks to win her over, and you waltz in and manage it in a few hours? So not fair.”

You can’t help the soft laugh that escapes. “I’m sure she’s just being polite.”

A quick scoff breaks from Steve’s throat. “Erica doesn’t do polite unless she means it.” He places his hand lightly on your arm, and despite the tension coiled in your chest, you feel a rush of affection at the contact. “No, seriously—I loved having you here, angel. Made the whole day so much better.”

“Really?” you ask, voice wavering just enough that he picks up on your uncertainty.

“Well, yeah,” he answers, brow creasing. “I’m just glad they didn’t scare you off.”

Your lips form a weak smile. “Oh, they didn’t.”

But there’s something about your tone—some waver you can’t quite hide—and his eyes sharpen. 

“Okay, spill,” he says, leaning in. “What’s going on?”

“Huh?” You try to keep your expression neutral, but his gaze pins you.

“I know you,” he insists, a furrow carving between his brows. “You’re stressed about something.”

“I’m so not,” you counter, folding your arms tight against your chest.

“Yeah, you are,” he replies, undeterred. “You have tells.”

“Tells?” you echoed.

“Yes, tells.” He shifts forward, voice low. “So tell me—what’s on your mind? Did someone say something? Because I swear to god—”

“Steve,” you cut him off, irritation sparking. “Nobody said anything.”

“Then what is it? Was I too much? I swear I just wanted people to know how much I—”

“Steve,” you say again, louder this time, frustration rolling through you in a hot wave. “I’m fine. Drop it.”

His expression crumples the instant your sharp tone slices through the air. It’s like someone yanked the rug out from under him, and he sits there, quiet and unsure, those warm eyes losing some of their usual shine. It kills you to see him look so hurt, and you can practically feel the guilt creeping up your spine.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs at last, voice soft and almost hesitant. “You… you don’t have to come to the next one. If it wasn’t fun, or if it was too much—”

“That’s not it,” you say, cutting him off. You watch the confusion linger on his face, and it only makes the ache in your chest worse. 

He just wanted to have a good time, to share his world with you. 

And now here you are, turning what seemed like a perfect day into something heavy and complicated.

“Then—what?” His shoulders sag. “I don’t know what else could’ve gone wrong.” His gaze flits over your features, looking for answers you haven’t yet spoken.

You swallow, steeling yourself. 

“It was just… Nancy.”

“Nancy?” Steve’s eyes widen in surprise. “I thought you two got along really well tonight.”

“Yeah,” you admit, speaking around the lump in your throat. “We did.”

He pushes a breath through his nose, like he’s sifting through every possible explanation and coming up empty.

“I thought you’d, I don’t know, bond over books or something. I mean, I know you were anxious before, but you’re both so… nice. She’s already with Jonathan, you’ve got me—”

“Steve.” You cut him off again, trying not to let your voice waver. “We’re similar. That’s the problem.”

He blinks. “What d’you mean?” His tone is gentle, even though you see the concern in his eyes.

You rake a hand through your hair, fighting for the right words. He shifts forward, bracing himself.

“Steve, we’re really similar,” you say at last, voice low. 

“Okay?” He nods, urging you to continue. “So you have some shared interests. Where are we going with this, sweetheart?”

A shaky breath escapes you, and you force yourself to look him in the eye. 

“Are you sure you’re not still… looking for her?”

He frowns, confused. “Looking for her? I don’t—”

“Yes, Steve. Searching for someone like Nancy because you couldn’t have her. Like I’m just the next best thing. Even the kids picked up on how alike we are.” Your voice cracks, and you hate how vulnerable you sound. “I don’t want to be some bullshit replacement, filling up the space she left behind.”

All it takes is that one word—bullshit—and the floor drops out beneath him. 

You’re looking at him, voice trembling with hurt, and the realisation that you think you’re not enough guts him. Because he knows that feeling too well. He’s been there, on the other end, wondering if he was any good for anyone. But this? This is a thousand times worse. Because it’s you—and if there’s one thing in this world he’s certain of, it’s you.

He can’t stand the heartbreak in your eyes. Can’t stand the idea that he might be the one making you feel that way. His mind scrambles for something, anything, that might put your mind at ease—words to counteract that awful notion of being not enough. 

Then, suddenly, clarity strikes. He can’t think of anything else but to go full-force, stern, direct, because you’re far too precious for soft reassurances that could be mistaken or ignored.

“Hey,” he says, voice firm enough to startle even himself, “listen to me and listen to me good, all right?”

He can see how shocked you are at the tone he’s using; you go still, your gaze locking on him in a way that assures him every word will sink in. It has to.

“Never—and I mean never—are you some kind of half-ass replacement. You hear me? So get that thought out of your head right now.”

He’s never spoken to you quite like this before, but desperation thrums under every syllable. 

I can’t lose you. Please believe me.

“I don’t care how long it takes or how many times I have to say it—you are not second place. You are not a replacement. I didn’t settle for you, I chose you. You think I’d waste my time with someone I didn’t want wholeheartedly?”

He asks the question as though there’s no logical answer except the truth: Of course he wouldn’t. And he can’t stop now; your silence pushes him to continue. He needs you to know.

“God, if you could see yourself the way I do, you’d never think this again. You would never doubt how much I love you. How stupidly lucky I feel every day just to have you. You are not some ghost of my past. You are my future. And nothing—no one—could ever change that.”

There’s a ringing in his ears from the intensity of his own words, and he breathes hard, every muscle coiled with tension. Your eyes are wide, shining with an emotion he can’t decipher—shock, relief, maybe both. He hopes to God his message got through.

And then—amid the silence—your voice comes out soft, almost a whisper. 

“You love me?”

The question slices through him like lightning. He falters, suddenly off-balance. 

Fuck.

Because he’s just laid bare his entire heart, more than he’s ever dared to before. But there’s no taking it back. No gentle way to hedge now.

“Yes.” He swallows. His voice is steadier than he feels inside. “I do... Simple as that.”

That was all it took.

The words barely leave his mouth before you surge forward, meeting him in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue, messy and urgent, the taste of each other a heady mix of relief and need. 

He gasps when you grip the collar of his sweater, tugging him closer, refusing to let a single breath of space linger between you. In response, his hands slide down your waist, pulling you tight against him until he can feel every curve, every line of your body against his.

“God,” he rasps against your mouth, already sounding relieved. “You—fuck.”

You hum a soft, breathy laugh escapes as he hauls you closer, helping you out as you sit and straddle his lap. His mouth is trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat as you sink your fingers into his hair, tugging, making him hiss against your lips.

He’s so desperate he doesn’t know where to touch first—fingers skimming over the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, sliding boldly beneath the hem of your—his—jumper to feel the heat of your skin. 

Everything about you feels like an invitation, a promise he’s craved for far too long. And each gasp, each little whimper you give him, only fuels that growing ache inside of him.

“Steve,” you whisper, voice cracking with urgency. He glances up, eyes dark, pupils blown. There’s something unbridled there—devotion, longing, raw determination to make sure you never doubt him again.

He pulls you closer, one hand curling around your waist, the other sliding around to grip your ass, pulling you flush against the growing hardness in his jeans. 

Then, as though a last spark of caution flickers through his brain, he stills, pulling back just enough to look at you—really look, eyes darting between yours. There’s a flush high on his cheeks, lips reddened from your kisses. But behind that is a tenderness, a protective streak that roars beneath his surface need.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, voice so low it practically reverberates through your chest. He needs to hear you say it. Needs to hear you tell him it’s alright. “I want to make sure you’re positive, because I—I want this more than anything—to show you, to make you feel so fucking good, but…”

You let out a noise that’s both a laugh and a moan. 

“Steve,” you repeat, more breathless this time. “I want this. I want you. Please.”

He groans, eyes squeezing shut. Thank God. 

“Shit, you have no idea how long I’ve—” He takes a breath as he shudders against you, every nerve ending on fire. “Angel—fuck—wait, just a sec.”

You blink, momentarily dazed. “What—did I do something?”

He just about melts at the concerned look you’re giving him, hands immediately cupping your face as he presses his mouth against yours as he mutters reassurances. 

“No, sweetheart. You didn’t—you’re perfect.” He wills his brain to formulate a coherent sentence. Easier said than done when he has you sitting on his lap. “But, if I’m going to make love to you, I’m not going to do it on the living room couch.”

A glint sparks in his eyes, but there’s nothing playful about the way he suddenly gathers you up into his arms, hands cupping beneath your thighs, hoisting you effortlessly against his chest as he stands. Your squeal of surprise echoes in the now-quiet house as you cling to his shoulders, heart pounding.

You laugh out his name and his only response is to tighten his hold on you, a grin tugging at his kiss-swollen lips, before he turns and starts up the stairs, carrying you like you weigh nothing. 

Your arms wrap around his neck, your lips brushing the line of his jaw, and his low groan vibrates in your ear, spurring him to climb faster.

He kicks the bedroom door open with his foot, all too eager to finally have you in his arms, in his bed. He sets you down on the edge of the mattress, his hands lingering at your hips as though he can’t bear to lose contact. 

You’re about to tease him for being so careful, but the sight of him—flushed cheeks, hair a disheveled mess from your fingers, lips reddened—steals the quip from your tongue.

“You okay?” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. As urgent as he feels, there’s that undercurrent of protectiveness, that need to check you’re here with him for all the right reasons.

Your smile is a little breathless. “I’m more than okay.”

He exhales slowly, like your reassurance is the only permission he needed to keep going. Then he nudges your knees apart so he can step in closer, pressing your bodies flush. The warmth of him is addictive—solid arms, broad chest, that steady heartbeat thrumming beneath your palms.

A shiver runs down your spine when he bends to brush a slow kiss along the side of your throat, teeth just barely grazing your skin. Your head falls back, and he uses the moment to trail more kisses along your jaw, your collarbone, mapping the curve of your shoulder as if memorising every inch.

“Lie down for me,” he whispers, voice trembling with the effort it takes to keep it gentle.

You slide back onto the bed, propping yourself on your elbows, and he kneels near the edge, guiding your legs up so you’re fully on the bed. His hand glides beneath your clothes, pushing it slowly upward, knuckles skimming the bare skin of your waist. His gaze locks with yours as he slips it off over your head, making sure you’re still okay with each inch of exposed skin. You can’t help the small, playful grin that tugs at your lips. 

“Careful, Harrington,” you tease, breath hitching when he plants a soft kiss at the center of your sternum. “At this rate, it’ll be sunrise before you get these clothes off.”

He huffs a little laugh against your skin, the warm puff of air sending a tingle racing across your flesh. 

“You deserve careful,” he says, words muffled by the increasingly desperate kisses he’s leaving along the tops of your breasts, your clavicle. “But don’t think for a second I’m not dying to tear everything off you, angel.”

His fingers drift to the waistband of your jeans, undoing the button and zipper with a focus that makes your stomach flip. He eases them down your hips, helping you lift so he can slide them all the way off. Then, with a featherlight touch, he glides his hands up your thighs, sending sparks of electricity racing through you.

“Steve,” you breathe, voice catching when he leans down to kiss your newly bared skin. He starts at your calf, working his way leisurely up, each press of his lips driving you a little bit more insane. By the time he reaches your inner thigh, you’re trembling—desperate for him.

“Look at you,” he coos, voice shaking with something close to awe. His fingers slide along the band of your underwear, and he gently pulls them down, letting them join your jeans on the floor. With each inch, he leaves more of you uncovered, and the intensity in his gaze leaves you feeling bare in more ways than one.

You try to close your legs, feeling slightly exposed with the way he is gazing at you, but his hand is firm as it grips your thigh, holding you open. You hold your breath as his fingers skim over your folds, head falling back as his thumb circles your clit slowly. 

“Shit,” he breathes out, second hand joining to gather some of your wetness on his fingers. “You’re fuckin’ soaked, angel.”

“Steve,” you murmur, voice quivering with need. Your fingers thread into his hair, urging him closer, your body already winding tight from the warmth of his breath against you.

“God,” he mutters, words muffled by another kiss to your thigh. “I’ve wanted this—wanted to do this—for so damn long.”

He shifts, situating himself more comfortably. Then, with a half-lidded glance in your direction, he leans in and presses his mouth against your clit in a way that shatters every remaining thought in your head. 

A soft cry tumbles from your lips, and he groans at the sound, pulling you in deeper, his grip on your thighs tightening.

He moves carefully, learning your reactions, letting your gasps and moans guide him. Each flick of his tongue, each gentle suck, is a question: Is this good? More? Show me. And every time you arch your back or let out a ragged whisper of his name, he answers with another fervent, deliciously slow pass of his mouth.

"Fuck, angel, I could do this all night.” He dives back in. “Keep you here, keep you shaking over and over on my tongue."

He’s so tender in his insistence, balancing the sharp edge of hunger with a profound concern for your pleasure. One of his hands slides up to lace your fingers together, and he squeezes—almost like he’s grounding himself in the moment, sharing each pulse of sensation so you know he’s right there with you. The other hand strokes up your thigh and curls around your hip, keeping you anchored against him.

“Oh, God,” you gasp, voice pitching higher when he drags his tongue across your pussy with a pointed languidness. Your thighs tighten around his shoulders, and he shudders, his fingers reflexively pressing into your skin.

He pauses just long enough to rest his forehead against your thigh, breathing hard. His voice comes out in a low rasp, intense in its sincerity. 

“You taste so fucking good,” he mumbles dazed as he returns to his ministrations. Lapping against you like he couldn’t possibly get enough. 

A wave of warmth crashes over you at his words—any lingering insecurities vanish beneath the heat of his devotion. You tug lightly at his hair, guiding him back, and he happily obliges. His tongue moves in slow, deliberate strokes at first, building you up in a dizzying ascent, then quickens when your moans become urgent.

Your heels dig into his back, and you choke out something unintelligible—his name, a plea, a broken sob of bliss. He groans in response, the sound reverberating through your entire body, heightening the sensation until you think you might shatter from it. 

There’s something almost reverent in how thorough he is, like he wants to memorise every reaction, every hitch of your breath.

“You’re making the sweetest fucking noises, baby.” He murmurs. “Driving me insane.”

Tension coils in your stomach, winding tighter with each measured flick of his tongue. Your grip on his hand is borderline crushing, but he just grins against you, absolutely thrilled by the desperation in your touch. 

That’s all the encouragement he needs to push you closer and closer to the edge. His name tumbles from your lips again, a breathless entreaty, and he groans, the vibration sending sparks skittering across your skin.

He can tell you’re close—he can feel it in the way your hips jerk, the way your pussy clenches, the way your voice climbs. And he wants it for you, wants to be the reason you come apart so completely that you’ll never doubt his devotion again. 

“Come on, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” before diving back in with a perfect, rhythmic swirl that makes your entire body tense.

The tension snaps. A rush of pleasure bursts inside you, and you let out a cry that would embarrass you if you could think about anything but the ecstasy roaring through your veins. 

Your hands grip his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, and he moans like the taste of your release is exactly what he’s been dying for. He works you through every pulse, every aftershock, with gentle flicks of his tongue until you’re quivering in oversensitivity, pushing lightly at his head to let him know you can’t take another second.

When he finally straightens up to see you—lying back against his pillows, clad in just your bra—you spot a flicker of pure hunger crossing his face. He swallows hard and you see your release glistening against his chin as he does. He’s trying to keep himself tethered to sanity, but it’s a losing battle.

“Not fair that I’m the only one so… exposed,” you breathe out, hooking a finger into the hem of his jumper.

 “Impatient, huh?” He lets out a shaky chuckle as he licks his lips.

You roll your eyes in faux annoyance, tugging firmly at the fabric. He gets the hint. In one smooth motion, he yanks his shirt over his head and tosses it somewhere behind him. You catch a glimpse of toned arms and the lean planes of his chest, and it steals your breath all over again.

But he’s not done—he pops open the button of his jeans, sliding them down until they pool at his ankles, stepping out with a sense of urgency that has you biting your lip. For a moment, he just stands there, letting you take in the sight of him, hair messy, eyes blown wide with desire, wearing only his boxers.

“Better?” he asks, eyebrows lifting.

You drag your gaze up and down, unrepentant in your ogling. “Much.”

Steve’s eyes glitter with raw need as he hovers over you, his body pressed so tight you can hardly breathe. Every breath you take is steeped in the mix of his cologne and the sweet, desperate scent of your own arousal. 

“God, you’re so fuckin’ gorgeous,” he mutters under his breath, his gaze roaming over your curves with a barely restrained hunger. One of his hands grips your thigh, dragging it higher around his waist. “Don’t know how the hell I got so lucky.”

You can’t manage a reply—your breath stutters as he runs his other hand up your side, fingers skimming your ribs, his thumb grazing the underside of your breast in a fleeting touch. The contrast between how tender he’s being and the way his voice drips with a filthy promise makes you whimper, arching into his touch.

He leans in, teeth nipping at your lower lip before he kisses you slow and deep. It's messy and you can taste yourself on his tongue. 

“Fuck,” he whines, “I need you, sweetheart. Need you right now—can I?” His voice cracks with urgency, and you feel every syllable reverberate through your body.

“Yes,” you whisper, voice trembling with anticipation. “Please, Steve. I—”

He cuts you off with another kiss, sliding his hand between your thighs, which have only got stickier. He groans at the way you shiver, so worked up that you feel like you might combust if he doesn’t fuck you this instant.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “So wet for me.” Then, in a lower tone. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby—gonna make you forget anything else exists except how good my cock feels inside you.”

His words took you by surprise. Your usual sweet boyfriend was downright obscene with his words.

You knew he had a sharp tongue, but you had no idea how damn filthy he could make it. 

He reaches into the bedside table and tears the condom wrapper off with his teeth, making quick work of sliding it over his length.

The moment he lines his cock up at your entrance, you can feel the tension in his body—like he’s holding back a tidal wave of desire, absolutely determined not to hurt you, to make sure you’re comfortable.

“You good?” he rasps, voice tight.

“Yes,” you pant. “Steve… please.”

He exhales a ragged breath and pushes into you, inch by inch, until the stretch of him draws a moan so raw from your lips that he answers with a guttural “Fuck.” 

Your head falls back, the sensation an exquisite combination of pleasure and the ache of being so completely stuffed. He stays there a moment, trembling arms caging you in, nose brushing yours as you grip him like a vice.

“Angel,” he chokes out, voice thick, “You—you feel so fucking perfect. Look at me.”

You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze, and the ferocity of his desire sends another wave of arousal flooding through your veins, clenching around his length. 

“You feel that, sweetheart? Feel how deep I am?”

All you can do is nod dumbly as his hand presses on your lower stomach. He knows you can feel him there.

He starts a slow rhythm, hips rolling, each thrust calculated to bring you higher. And for all his filthy talk, there’s a sweetness in the way he cups your cheek, kisses your jaw, your collarbone, like he can’t decide which part of you he loves most.

“God, yes,” he groans, each thrust picking up in intensity. “You like that? Tell me you like it.”

“I love it,” you gasp, fingers clawing at his back. “Steve, you feel—God, you feel amazing.”

He lets out a breathless laugh that ends in another throaty moan as he angles his hips just so, making you keen against his lips. His pace quickens, every stroke hitting deeper, sending sparks of pleasure through every nerve.

“Fuck—baby, you’re so tight,” he hisses, his mouth at your ear. “So damn tight for me. Never want this to end—wanna keep you like this, under me, always on my cock—cumming so hard you forget your own name.”

Jesus, if you knew this was how he was going to talk, you would have given him the green light weeks ago.

He punctuates the filthy promise with a particularly deep thrust, and your toes curl, a cry spilling from your throat as you cling to him. You’re quickly losing yourself in the haze of his words, his body, his everything.

You utter his name in a choked sob, and it’s like a starter’s pistol. He shifts his angle just enough that the strokes perfectly grind against that sensitive spot inside your walls. The pleasure mounts in a dizzying spiral, your body tensing as you hover on the brink of release.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, voice gone ragged, snapping his hips more insistently. “God, cum for me, sweetheart. I need to feel it—want to feel it so bad.”

And with one more roll of his hips, you do—crying out, body arching as the orgasm shatters through you. Every nerve in your body lights up as you clamp down, and his guttural moan tells you he’s right there with you, grinding through your climax until he’s spilling himself into the rubber, breathing your name over and over like a prayer.

For a moment, you’re both lost in the aftershocks, hearts pounding, bodies tangled in the sheets. Then he sags against you, pressing lazy, tender kisses to your shoulder and murmuring small, breathless praises that make your cheeks burn with warmth.

The afterglow is still pulsing between you—soft, warm, and intimate. He leans down to press feathery kisses to your shoulder, your chest, up the side of your neck, murmuring words of reassurance and awe.

“You did so good,” he breathes, voice low and reverent. “So perfect.”

Heat flutters in your chest at the praise, and you can’t help but giggle, reaching up to tangle your fingers in his hair and guide his face to yours. Your lips meet in a searing kiss, slow and sweet. When you finally pull back, you find him watching you with those big, earnest eyes.

“Was I… okay?” he asks, cheeks turning pink in a bashful sort of way. “Like, everything good for you?”

“More than okay.” You let out a satisfied sigh, your body still humming with pleasure. “That was perfect.”

“Yeah?” he echoes, a shy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Yeah.” You brush a thumb across his lower lip, feeling a spark of amusement as you remember the filth he whispered moments ago. “When were you gonna tell me you had such a dirty mouth?”

Instantly, his face flames. He cannot be blamed for what he said in the heat of the moment. It was hard to have a filter when he had you mewling underneath him.

“Hey, well, uh… I don’t… I mean, I—”

“Shh.” You chuckle, placing a finger over his lips “I loved it.”

“Oh yeah?” He exhales, relief and pride mingling. “Well, I’ll keep that in mind—my girl likes it a little dirty.” 

“C’mon, lover boy.” A fresh wave of laughter bubbles out of you. You let him help you up, your legs still a bit shaky. He steadies you with a strong arm around your waist and guides you to the bathroom so you can rinse off the sheen of sweat and bliss.

The shower is warm and comforting, the water sluicing away every last trace of tension as you help each other soap up and rinse off. When you emerge, toweling your hair and feeling the pleasant ache of satisfaction in your muscles, you notice Steve holding out one of his old T-shirts for you to slip on. You beam, tugging it over your head before crawling into bed next to him, the soft cotton drowning you in his familiar scent.

He pulls you close, cradling you against his chest. The hush of the room, the warmth of the covers, and the steady sound of his heartbeat lull you into a sweet, sleepy contentment.

“Hey,” he murmurs, turning so his nose brushes yours.

“Mmm?” you reply, lashes fluttering.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

Your heart clenches at the simple sincerity in his tone. “I love you too, Steve.”

And with that, his arms tighten around you, and you drift into a peaceful sleep, knowing that in the morning, you’ll both wake up in the same bed, same sappy looks on your faces, same lovesick smiles as you bask in the golden morning light. Steve will probably be watching you already, grinning like a fool, fingers tracing lazy patterns over your back, because he’s just that smitten.