Summary: Everyone is convinced you're dating Mattheo Riddle- except for you
Content: Oblivious!Reader, Fem!Reader, Downbad!Mattheo, romance, humor, fluff, reader is friends with the Golden Trio, reader is alluded to not be in Slytherin
Warnings: Swearing, ass ending
Note: I took way too long to write this considering how much I enjoyed it.
W/c: 4.1k
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It started with miniature snowmen in Third year.
Mattheo was walking back from turning in a late assignment to Hagrid when he saw you. And he realized, he'd never truly noticed you before. Y/n L/n, the girl who spent time with everyone but him and his mates.
Your back was to him, and you were crouched down in the snow. The snow- it was drifting lazily then, each snowflake fat, falling and adding to the coating of it on the Hogwarts lawn.
When he walked closer, confused as to why anyone was willingly outside in the dreadful cold, he expected you to be sulking or shaking.
Instead your gloved fingers were rolling around small balls of snow and stacking them into snowmen.
There were four of them already, in a half circle where you seemed to have made a round table.
Your cheeks were rosy, eyes bright despite the chill.
"What are you doing out here?" He asked, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He couldn't resist- even though he knew he was supposed to be a scary Slytherin.
You looked up at him, surprised to see someone else- especially surprised to see it was Mattheo Riddle. He was the one Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the other Gryffindors hated because his dad was You-Know-Who.
"I got locked out."
You said it like it was obvious. That anyone would settle down to make snowmen after getting locked out of the castle.
"You got locked out?" He asked, incredulous. Why the hell hadn't you walked around to a window or different entrance? Why hadn't you pulled out your bloody wand and used magic?
You nodded.
"You're going to freeze," he stated, unable to just walk away and ignore you. You frowned at that, as if finally considering the real possibility of getting sick. Looking at your snowmen once more, you stood, brushing snow off your knit gloves.
"We should go inside then," you suggested, already turning to approach the door that had been locked earlier. When you tugged, it gave the same result. You looked back at him, as if to say, 'told you so'.
Mattheo watched you, startled. You really didn't care who he was, did you? Shaking his head, he walked over and knocked.
It was only a few moments later that the doors were pushed open, and Professor Sprout started at you two, horrified.
"See? Easy," he murmured low to you. It must've looked odd to Professor Sprout, seeing the sweetheart Miss L/n with Mattheo Riddle, both of you flushed from the cold, snowflakes in your hair and on your coats.
"Dear- why were you two out there so long?" She fussed, grabbing her wand, casting some charm that automatically warmed both you from the inside out.
You smiled, honest, genuine. "The door was locked."
"Oh, Peeves," Sprout complained, turning around to try and catch the poltergeist.
But Mattheo couldn't stop looking at you.
You were smiling. Honestly, truly smiling despite being frozen and stuck outside. He would've been livid if he'd had to sit in the snow storm for so long.
And he didn't stop looking at you then. That moment was only the beginning of Mattheo Riddle's crush.
By fourth year, all of his mates knew.
They'd seen their friend staring at you from across classes, how'd he'd purposely bump into you in the hallways, apologizing and helping you pick up any dropped items up.
One afternoon, he was blatantly staring at you from across the Great Hall- the room cleared of tables, students lining the walls.
He was on one side and you were on the other, your arm linked with Hermione Granger's as you chatted, smiling. McGonagall was standing in front of all you fourth years and older, something about not embarrassing Hogwarts in front of the other schools.
Before Mattheo knew what was happening, Theo was tugging him forward as everyone spread out in the room. People were partnering up, and Mattheo had no idea why. He'd been thoroughly distracted.
"Dance lessons, you prat," Theo sniggered, already leaving his side to walk over to a beckoning Tracey Davis.
Dance lessons?
You saw him then.
He was standing near a great big window, his curls falling into his eyes as he looked around. No one was approaching him- which was odd honestly- he was very handsome.
Ignoring Hermione's confusion, you walked over to him.
His chocolate eyes slid over to you as you neared. You weren't deterred at the lack of welcoming in them.
"Would you like to dance together?" You asked, smiling at him.
There was a long pause, almost long enough to make you feel awkward. But he finally shrugged, straightening and extending his hand.
"Sure."
You took his hand, stepping closer.
"Have you danced before?" You asked him, copying those around you and settling a hand on his shoulder while he hovered his over your waist.
He nodded, and you watched his throat as he swallowed. "I have."
McGonagall waved her wand and music started up. Everyone turned to watch her dance with Ron. Soon after, the other students were mimicking their steps.
Mattheo was telling the truth, he had obviously danced before. It took a moment, but he finally held your waist properly, and he guided the dance while you followed.
After that, you were nearly friends.
People reminded you very often who he was. They always wanted you to be sure who you were inviting to sit with you in the Library if he walked in without Theodore Nott. He was Mattheo Riddle, son of You-Know-Who. He was scary, mean, unafraid to talk back to a teacher, or hex someone who got on his nerves.
But you ignored those warnings. He wasn't scary. Sure, he constantly looked like he was cross, but he wasn't scary.
Your friendship solidified in fifth year.
Everyone noticed it. Their eyebrows would raise and their eyes would widen when you'd walk around with him and his mates in the hallways. They were all shocked to see you chatting away with him while he listened- actually listened with a slight smile and his head ducked to hear you better over the other people in the hallways. They were shocked he didn't tell you to shut up or fuck off.
The two of you would go to Hogsmeade together, you explaining to Hermione that he had no one to go with, or that he offered to walk you.
He had also started inviting you to sit with him too, and you accepted more often than not, ignoring Harry's sharp words of friendships with fucking monsters.
Mattheo would invite you to sit with him in class, the Library, or outside while he, Theodore, and Lorenzo lazed on the wall of the Viaduct Bridge.
You were doing just that one Saturday in October. Theodore had cast a charm to keep the rain off the four of you.
"You have to visit sometime over break," Lorenzo said, leaning against the wall you sat on. He was telling you all about his families estate and how the others boy often came over to stay there. "We'll play Dragon's Hoard- you'll probably be on Mattheo's team anyways and him and Blaise are the best at it."
"That's the one where you have to capture the other teams egg, right?" You asked. Mattheo was sat next to you then, his hand resting next to yours as you listened to Lorenzo. "Where it gets heavier the further you move it away."
Lorenzo nodded, setting off on a story of all of them playing it one time. He was interrupted halfway through by Hermione stomping over, wind whipping her curly hair. You frowned, noticing her glare over at Ron and Harry who were huddled close by, watching intently.
"'Mione?" You asked, looking down at her as she got close, stopping. You didn't notice the wariness in her expression as she glanced at the boys you were hanging out with.
"Want to keep me company while I watch Harry and Ron's Quidditch Practice?"
"Oh!" You smiled, nodding, scooting off the wall. "I'd love to."
"Careful, pretty girl," Mattheo said as you reached for the bridge below with your toe, climbing down from where you sat.
Hermione shot him a look while you brushed off you backside. Before you stepped outside of the shimmering bubble Theodore made, you quickly cast your own, turning to face Mattheo.
"I'll see you in class on Monday," you said, smiling at him. He smiled back, the sight of it no longer rare to you, but warming your chest nonetheless.
You waved goodbye to the others before setting off with Hermione back to Ron and Harry.
"Pretty girl?" Hermione asked once you were out of ear shot. You laughed in amusement at her disgusted tone.
"He's nice, 'Mione," you explained, rolling your eyes good naturedly. "You guys all say he's mean, but he really is just nice."
She scoffed. "Yeah. Mattheo Riddle is 'just nice'."
Mattheo's crush had only worsened since third year.
He found every excuse to be near you. And he hated it when someone else had the pleasure of your company.
Despite how he found Harry a pompous-fucking-prat, he could look past the time you spent around him and Weasley. He was also fine to see you talking to Blaise, Theo, or Enzo. But anyone else made his head hurt and caused an urge to pick you up and keep you next to him at all times.
He fancied you- everyone knew that.
The worst part was you didn't even notice half the people he was hating. It got to the point where he noticed some sixth year talking to you during breakfast and he'd completely forgotten to eat.
And when you asked about his lack of appetite, sliding into your now regular seat beside him in Ancient Runes, he just said his stomach was upset.
"Do you need to go to Madam Pomfrey?" You asked, concerned. Mattheo had to remind himself you were just being a good friend.
"I'm okay, pretty girl," he assured you.
You eyed him for a moment before sighing. "Make sure to drink water. Maybe you're dehydrated."
He laughed, earning a frustrated side eye from you. "Okay, I will." He reached out as you bent over your books, pushing your hair behind your ear.
"Thank you," you said, your tone suggesting you saw it as nothing more than him being helpful.
"No problem," he murmured, watching you as you focused on writing down the date on a piece of parchment. And he knew right then, he was either going to end up marrying you or die trying to get you to notice him.
Finally, in sixth year, everyone at Hogwarts assumed you and Mattheo were dating.
You spent nearly all of your time together, and anyone could see it. He began carrying your books in his bag after you complained once that your shoulder was sore. You'd sit with him at meals and in classes without a second thought. He'd lend you his jumper whenever you were cold.
One Monday morning when you were mid conversation with Blaise, Mattheo sidled up to you, his arm already finding its place around you shoulders. You response to Blaise's remark on the House hierachy didn't break when Mattheo pressed a kiss to the top of your head, your response to the greeting being to lean into his side. It was familiar, a comfortable show of friendship between the two of you.
Blaise let out an unimpressed laugh at the gesture before turning to Malfoy.
Smiling, you looked up at Mattheo. "Good morning," you said.
"Good morning, pretty girl," he replied, returning you smile, his eyes softer than usual. You huffed suddenly, glowering at his throat.
"Your tie, Mattheo- honestly," you complained, pulling away from his side. His green and silver Slytherin tie was done poorly, lopsided and half tightened. Sighing, you undid it, straightening both ends of the fabric. He paused for half a breath before a warmth spread through his chest. The same warmth he felt every time you paid him extra attention.
He never said it out loud- but he purposely messed up his tie a lot more often after that.
"Are we still studying tonight?" He asked once you were finished, a small, satisfied smile on his mouth.
"Yes- I might be late though," you explained with a frown at the obvious disappoint in his brown eyes. "I promised Mibby to help her press those flowers her and I picked the other day."
He sighed dramatically, arms circling around you as his chin rested on your head. "So you can't get out of it? Mibby reallyyyy needs you?"
"She reallyyyy needs me," you confirm, automatically hugging him back, laughing.
Mibby was your favorite house elf, the one you befriended in second year. The same Mattheo had also been friends with around the same time- before you two were even on speaking terms.
"Can I come then?" He asked, pulling back as the Bell Tower sent its musical chimes through the castle, signaling first period.
Your smile brightened immediately at his words. He was already starting to steer you towards your first period- Herbology- which he unfortunately didn't have with you. "Of course! Meet me outside the kitchens at seven."
Having already been in Central Hall, it wasn't a long walk, and he stopped outside the Greenhouse Doors.
"I'll see you then, pretty girl," he promised, squeezing your hand that he had been holding.
For him- seven couldn't come early enough. He had to sit through classes- only one of them he shared with you- imagining being silly with you the kitchens. He pictured getting flour on your robes or cheek so he could brush it off.
And finally, outside of the fruit bowl painting, you showed up. He'd been waiting there for some time, embarrassingly enough, leaning against the cool stone walls.
"Matt-" You startled when you saw him before grinning. You didn't think he'd be so early. "You're on time."
"Missed my favorite pretty girl," he said simply, putting an arm around your shoulders. He reached out with his wand, tickling the pear on the painting, and it swung inwards. The two of you walked into the kitchens, immediately greeted with the scent of comforting foods. Roasts, gravy, and yorkshire puddings. The elves were still sending supper up to the Great Hall, leaving the kitchens smelling of dinner foods.
Mibby hurried over to you two immediately, a smile on her tiny elf face. "Mibby has hot cocoa waiting for Miss l/n and Master Riddle," she declared, standing in front of the two of you. "Mibby thinks they are a wonderful pair."
You laughed, not unkind, smiling. "We are not a pair."
You saw as Mibby tilt her large head, confusion dampening the edges of her beaming smile. "Oh. Then why does Master Riddle always ask if Miss l/n has eaten?"
"You ask about me?" You turned to look up at Mattheo.
"Yes," he shrugged, honest. Because he wasn't embarrassed. He would be shocked if this was the thing that made you catch on. "Because you've passed out outside of Charms before after skipping breakfast, and I'd rather not have to lug you up to Madam Pomfrey again."
That bit was a lie. He had no problem carrying you anywhere.
"Oh right." You laughed, flushing ever so slightly, your chest warming. Peeling away from Mattheo's side, you approached the barrels that had been shaped into a small, but cozy village for the house elves down here. "Mibby, should we get started?"
And then one Thursday while you're waiting for Mattheo outside the Slytherin changing rooms- his quidditch practice having just finished- it all changes.
You lean against the wooden stands that tower above, your eyes unfocused as you wait. Other people are around you, waiting for their own mates, or just chatting and sitting on the soft pitch now that practice is over.
Too zoned out, you don't notice the Slytherins have started emerging from the locker rooms. And it's a few moments later that you see Mattheo talking to another Slytherin girl.
She must be younger than you two because you've never seen her in classes before. She's pretty, sharp eyes, black hair sleek down her back. You watch as she gives him a smile. Not some soft smile, she's confident, admirable. Her eyes hold his before you see their focus slip down towards his mouth.
You realize that she's flirting with him. Flirting with your Mattheo. No one ever flirts with Mattheo.
But from the way his lips move, he's obviously giving short answers. His eyes are detached, almost cold. He's not mean, but he's far from interested in this girl.
Frowning, you think for a long moment. Isn't he like that with everyone? Even with Pansy and Daphne who are in his friend group. He's never been awfully warm with girls.
Except for you. And it all suddenly hits you.
He only smiles at you and maybe two other people.
He carries your books everywhere.
He always just happens to be waiting outside of your classes.
He gives you his gloves or coat whenever you seem to be cold.
He remembers what treats you like best and never fails to buy them at Hogsmeade- saying he forgot he wasn't a fan of them.
He lets you hold his hand and trace the scar cutting across his palm and over half the back of it.
He always seems a tad bit moodier after you talk to a boy who isn't him.
He calls you pretty girl.
And he's being doing it for years.
For years you realize that the boy who puts his arm around your shoulders, who kisses your head as a good morning every day at breakfast- has been doing it out of more than being a good friend.
You realize that all of your own reactions and feelings had been deeper than appreciation.
The warmth you'd feel whenever he did something thoughtful- you see now that it wasn't because you thought he was a good friend. You liked that he was the one doing it.
There was always disappointment whenever he missed something. Breakfast, a study session, your late night chats that almost got you caught after curfew many times. It wasn't because you were lonely- you just missed him.
If something exciting happened- he was the first person you thought of. It was always, "I have to tell Mattheo." It stopped being your roommates who got it first, or Hermione. It became him every time.
You've always felt safer around him. It didn't matter how many people told you he was dangerous. That he was cruel and a monster. You knew him. You knew that Mattheo was kind to the people he cared for. And you know now that whenever he was close, any anxiety or fear you felt was calmed. Because you were with him.
Every feeling you've had for Mattheo- it wasn't just gratitude and friendship. It was affection. It was attraction and butterflies. You just never properly realized that the past few years, you've wanted him just as badly.
And now some pretty girl is flirting with your Mattheo.
"Y'alright?"
A familiar voice breaks your thoughts. Theo, changed out of his quidditch uniform, leaning against the wall next to you. He studies your face, your wide eyes, your parted lips.
"Theo," you say, before pausing. "I think Mattheo has been flirting with me for three years."
You see the slow smile curl on his lips, hear the way he lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh.
"You've only just now worked that out?"
You always thought that love would declare itself.
You thought it would be loud and dramatic.
But you hadn't expected it to feel like this- like comfort. Like looking for him in every room. Or smiling when he hadn't even finished speaking. Or saving seats for him without even considering he might sit somewhere else.
You had mistaken your love for comfort and familiarity. And mistaken that, in turn, for friendship.
It was never just friendship. You've loved him for a long time, your friendship and those feelings mixed until you couldn't tell them apart. The happiness and safety and comfort you've associated with him run so much deeper than plain friendship.
Awestruck, almost horrified at how dense you must've been, you stare at Mattheo's side profile. He's still talking to the Slytherin girl. And now suddenly you understand every mean look girls have given you. They were all jealous you had the attention of the most intimidating boy at Hogwarts. The most handsome boy at Hogwarts.
He was never lonely. He was just picking you.
"Oh, Theo," you groan, covering your face. "I am so thick!"
Theo laughs again, not mocking, he's genuinely amused you caught up. "It's all right. I'm just glad you finally see it- we were all a little in pain watching you two."
That's the moment Mattheo decides to leave the pretty Slytherin girl, walking over to you and Theo.
You are completely mortified.
Theo just smirks. He pats Mattheo's shoulder wordlessly before walking off.
Mattheo, as always, notices something is off. "You okay, pretty girl?"
Somehow, you manage to nod and get a few words out. "Can we go on a walk?"
"'Course." He nods slowly, taking your hand and leading you off the quidditch pitch and down a path towards a stream. His hold on your hand feels different now, more deliberate, warmer.
When the two of you finally stop, you can't even manage to look at him. You haven't ever properly flirted with a boy- at least not intentionally.
But you make yourself speak anyways. You can't make either of your wait any longer.
"The past couple years.. have you been flirting with me?"
The words sound horrible out loud- ridiculous and you fear he might laugh despite knowing he would never be that mean to you.
He sighs.
And you force yourself to look at him, at how he's already searching your face.
"Yes."
You take a breath. "I thought you were being kind."
He lets out a laugh, similar to Theo's, but filled with the affection you'd misunderstood for years. "Merlin, pretty girl."
Your stomach tightens, warms, as he steps closer.
"I've been trying to court you."
You swallow. "For how long?"
"Fourth year. Since the beginning of it when I saw you at the start of term feast." He says it simply, honestly.
"Everyone knew," you manage to mumble. A smile finds his mouth, and slowly, waiting for your silent permission, his hand lifts. You let it, let him cup your jaw, tilting your head up to meet his eyes properly.
"Yes, everyone knew."
"Even Mibby."
"Mibby was one of the first," he says, still smiling. "Behind Theo, Enzo, Blaise, and Granger. Then the whole school followed."
"Everyone but me." You frown, embarrassed and upset you wasted so much time. "That is so irritating- for you as well," you complain.
He shook his head, his free hand finding yours and lacing your fingers like you've done countless times. "It was never irritating. I lasted this long, didn't I? I was never upset with you. I always thought it was cute- maybe frustrating at times when all I wanted to do was kiss you- but never irritating."
You feel your cheeks heat, and his smile widens.
"Now," he says, talking carefully "I can tell all of Hogwarts that we are dating?"
It's not a statement. He's asking you. And you can manage is a soft, "yes," and a nod.
His thumb swipes over your cheekbone. "Brilliant," he murmurs, eyes sliding lower than where they usually meet yours. "Because I have been surviving off their assumptions and praying people don't try and fancy you."
Carefully, just like how he cupped your jaw, he ducks his head closer. And you let him, your empty hand finding the fabric of his jumper, clutching it.
His kisses you. He kisses you slowly, and your eyes flutter shutter. You pour every bit of love you've felt for him into how you respond, you mouth meeting his. This is much different from when he'd feed you something off his utensils or share a drink with you. You're kissing Mattheo Riddle.
After that, things don't change much. He still kisses the top of your head, still carries your books and lends you his coat.
He's still your Mattheo from fourth year.
But now you're openly called his girlfriend, now he kisses you properly or pulls you into his lap simply to be close to you. And you recognize your love for him as what it is.
Heâs never ever heard of that word associated with him in his life.
Probably.
Did he get you pregnant on purpose? Not this time. The man was eager to fuck, 7 months out of divorce, heâd been fooling around with you for a month or so. You were more than ten years younger than him, hot and ready on a silver platter, nice, had that sweet look in your eyes that John couldnt get enough ofâ not a chance heâd ignore your advances.
Everything was fine and dandy till you stopped taking his calls. Then his texts. You arenât answering the door to your flat. Not posting on social media anymore. He doesnât investigate.
Well, not for the first couple of months.
See the man doesnât take too well with being left in the dirt, doesnât not do relationships either.
Not after you so shyly asked if he could stay a little longer after your first one night stand. Not after he basked in your afterglow. Ever so tempting, got mystified in every inch of you, from youâre pretty face, every messy curl on your head, your breasts, to your stomach, your thighs your heat between themâ that voice that was purring his ear about how thankful you were that he stayed because youâd never in your life been screwed like that.
âM sorry, that was too much.â
âNo,â his hand caresses your face, âthat was just enough. Ta dove.â
He intended on finding a spot into your life.
So when he finally sees you passing the street, curls high and out of your face, round stomach peaking out of the off shoulder cropped sweater youâre wearing, breast starting to get larger and swollen, a certain glow about you in the flowing beige skirt you woreâ he knew for a fact the baby growing inside your womb was his and you would be his for the rest of your lives.
You didnât know it yet, didnât know it until he popped up at your new place with your favorite cake from your favorite bakery in hand. Cupped your face and murmured, âWas worried about you dovie.â And your stupid heart fluttered.
Baby Daddy!Price is a good soon to be father, he joins you at the appointment and the baby classes, so adamant about you eating healthy but also helping you eat what you and the baby want. Rubs your feet and your shoulders, may or may not have given your cunt half of his manhood when you were desperate to cum, buys everything the baby may need and even curses out some family members because you wanted the baby shower to be small and intimate, not some big bash where everyone but you is drinking.
But the man doesnât persuade you to move, you are, in fact, moving. Got you a bigger house so you could even have your own room (you werenât redy to get back together yet), claims itâs all for the baby. The baby needs the family to be together. The baby needs to see his parents on good terms, the baby needs to be close to his grandparents, the baby likes his voice and his touch so John needs to keep his hands on you in some shape or form.
Lies.
But heâs tame for you. The old man adores you, loves the joy and experience youâre giving him that no one else on the planet has given him. And heâs sharing this experience with you. It canât get any more perfect than that, can it?
Itâs when youâre on the phone with your friends John may or may not block after he hears them trying to get you back into the dating feild.
Why would you need to date anyone else but Price? Who else would marry you when youâre already dependent on him, John may or may not have lead to a few men getting in an accident before your planned dates. No deaths, nothing serious (thankfully).
But it has you worried, completely oblivious to the fact that Johnâs physically blocking any potential prospects from coming your way, maybe youâre not pretty enough anymore. Maybe they donât actually find you interesting.
Pure Blasphemy leaving your mouth. Sexiest thing on the planet, and he reminds you. Fucks you right against the mirror so you can see him splitting you open, how beautiful you look all disheveled. John holds your legs wide and your back to him. Can see the exact way heis cock is filling you to the brim, Sledgehammering into your slippery walls thatâs gushing either way your mixed fluids, his pre weeping into your needy cunt, threatening to get you pregnant.
âWould look even prettier with a rock on yâ finger birdie, mm- have you all stuffed full âf me with a rock on your hand. âS what you need.â
And your pussyâs trembling, gasping for air into your lungs because you can imagine the sensation. John used to cum in you all the time when he found out you were on the pill, how warm it felt inside you, makes your mind swirl and put the balls of your feet right in the dovey of his back as he could be deeper, till it was dripping out of youâre hole and your body was limp, and heâd dip his tongue in to plug it up. Smear his tongue all against your sensitive clit and suck your cum up. But you got pregnant, came to your senses that even with the pill, you could end up in the same situationâ
âYou canât-â youâre keening, head rolling back on his hairy shoulder, grabbing at his calloused hands to put you down but he only fucks more of himself inside you, fasterâ harderâ âOh fuck John- nngh!â Heâs doing it on purpose, widened mushroom tip knocking right against your cervix.
You can feel him smirking the way his beard prickles against your skin, sucking a love bite onto you, the bastard, âI canât what honey?â
âYou canât cum inside- you canât!â Youâre shaking your head but your cunt is gripping him tighter with every rough thrust. His breeder balls are slapping against your cunt with every sloppy roll of his hips, lucky he pulls out just as your walls start to spasm. His cum dripping to the floor as he holds you so close. He lets you down to your feet and hold you close, humping against as you both come down from your highs, his hands squeezing your tits.
He lowly groans, flushed forehead pressing against your messy curls, âFuck, but youâd look so good pregnant again dove.â
You got lucky.
Lucky you didnât get pregnant but there was a scare. Almost as if your body had been achin for it, for this man and only man to knock you up right after fucking you silly.
ââS a shame.â He exhaled his cigar when you give him the news.
Youâre more than relieved, and John understands that. Youâre still young. Youâd atleast want some of your life to yourself before having anymore kids. You make your way over to him, falling into his arms on the lawn chair. You wrap your arms around him first for once, because at the very least you know heâs safe. This is home. You mumble into his neck, âMaybe when the baby turns four or five we couldââ
ââWhatever you want sweetheart, God itâs whatever you want.â He hums, pressing his lips against your temple. Hand running up and down your back as he presses you into him.
Youâd definitely be married by the end of the year.
Omg please girl do a fic with either charlie x meeks x reader (idk if you ship them or not) or maybe with charlie x Knox or whatever ship is your fav where they're all studying (dont know where but đ) (and if charlie x meeks meeks is helping them and stuff) but charlie just can't be bothered so he starts like kissing on reader and (whoever you decideđ) and being kind of teasing and annoyingly distracting (as charlie is) if you want you can make it smutty but if you don't want to you can totally just keep it fluffy
Omg I love love love this idea!! Iâm super excited to write it for you and I hope I do it justiceđ (half proofread, bear in mind.)
(College/University AU!!)
Warnings: Smut, 18+ MDNI!! Pet names, dirty talk, oral f!receiving and giving, fluff, a lot of kissing, intimate/sensual
Charlie Dalton x fem!reader x Steven Meeks- âStudy Buddiesâ (Fluff/Smut)
âSo, this is how we find the hypotenuse..â Steven trailed off, adjusting his glasses with a clack as he entirely focused on tutoring you and Charlie. âCharlie, focus.â He narrowed his eyes.
Of course, Charlie wasnât listening, he never did when it came to academic studies. He was too busy daydreaming or looking at you. In his eyes, you were the only thing he needed; and despite his focus, Meeks thought entirely the same thing.
âI love you.â Charlie mused with a lovesick expression.
You chuckled softly, âI love you too, but I really have to focus-â
âBut why?â Dalton whined, cutting across you.
Meeks spoke up, âYou could really benefit from this too Charlie. Youâre not exactly Einstein.â
âI could be Einstein.â
âOh, shut up.â You giggled.
Charlie smirked, taking it as an invitation, âMake me, pretty girl.â
Steven simply rolled his eyes, despite the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. You looked back down at your textbook, trying to make sense of the math, leaning slightly into Meeksâ side.
Suddenly, a gentle graze of Charlieâs lips danced down your neck, âCharlie,â you sighed, ânot nowâŠâ
âIf not now, then when?â He mused intimately.
She shared a knowing look with Steven. In the end, tilting her head on Stevenâs shoulder to give Charlie more access.
âThatâs it..â he purred, âjust let me love you.â
Meeks played with your hair as he kissed the top of your head, âHead up, sweetheart.â He instructed.
You lifted your head from his shoulder, wondering why. Before you could even think, his lips attached to the other side of your neck. Steven inhaled your scent as he kisses up your jawline, âMm.. you wearing that perfume we got you?â
You nod sheepishly. Meeks hums appreciatively, his breathing a little laboured, âSmells good, baby.â
Closing the textbook, you decided to give into your boys with a blissful sigh. Charlie gently nibbled at your pulse point, causing you to let out a soft moan.
âWhat have we got here?â He grinned, his voice husky with desire, âSuch pretty noises, from such a beautiful girl. Our girl.â
Daltonâs hand slid slowly up your thigh, as Meeks continued making out with your neck. Your breathing hitched slightly, âIâm going to fail this math test.â She whispered with need.
Charlie pressed a loving kiss to your lips, âYeah well, who needs trig anyway?â You kiss him back feverishly, your hand resting firmly on the nape of his neck.
Meeksâ hands begin to wonder in synchronicity with Charlieâs. You reacted to every kiss, pinch, and rub with small gasps or whimpers.
âSheâs so receptive, donât you think?â Meeks huskily asks Charlie, feeling you up eagerly. Charlieâs fingers ghost over your shorts, and against your core, earning another needy whine from your lips.
Dalton kneeled in front of your chair, his hands eagerly kneading your thighs, âCâmon baby, I know you need it. I know you need us.â He practically growled. He had a primal look in his eye that drove you and Steven crazy.
She happily parted her legs for her boyfriend, letting Charlie pull down her lounge shorts. âNo panties?â He wickedly smirked, âNaughty baby.â He began to slowly lap at your heat, causing you to moan loudly.
Meeks instantly turned your head to kiss you passionately, swallowing the sounds of your pleasure. âThatâs a good girl,â He groans as his eyes flickered to Charlie between your legs. He began to palm himself over his sweatpants, âGod, canât get enough of you.â
Your hand found its way into Charlieâs hair, pulling him against you as you bucked your hips; causing him to groan and growl between your legs, âCâmon, darling.. let go.â He encouraged, massaging two fingers against your g-spot.
âCharlie,â you whimpered, âIâm so close.. fuck, so close!â You mewled, one hand gripping his hair and the other held Meeksâ hand.
Charlie lapped up your release with a satisfied grin, âAttaâ girl.â
Once remotely recovered, you kneeled in front of Meeks. He raised a brow, âWhat are you doing there, sweetheart?â
âWe canât have our study buddy being left out.â
Summary: Spencerâs changed, but JJ hasnât realized it or the aftermath of JJâs confession and how it shouldâve gone [3.3k]
Warnings: Fluff, Spencer being in love with you, angst
âĄ
JJ never saw it coming. Â
Not at first. Â
She had seen every version of Spencer Reidâthe awkward genius, the baby profiler, the grieving man who had lost so much. She had seen him at his highest and his lowest, and through it all, she had always thought she knew him better than anyone else.Â
So when you entered the picture, she didnât think much of it. Â
You were fresh meat, eager to prove yourself, and naturally, you gravitated toward Spencer. Everyone did, at first. His mind was a magnet for curiosity. He was brilliant, fascinating, full of facts that would bore most people into the ground Â
But you werenât most people. Â
JJ noticed that much early onâhow you never seemed annoyed by Spencerâs ramblings, how you never cut him off or rolled your eyes the way some of them did when he rambled on for too long. You actually listened. You asked questions. You encouraged him. Â
At the time, JJ thought you were just kind. She appreciated it, really. Spencer had been lonely since Morgan left, and he needed someone. She assumed that was all you wereâsomeone filling a space, a way to keep him from retreating back inside himself the way he had after Maeve. Â
She didnât realize it was anything more. Â
Not when Spencer began seeing more of you outside work.
Not when you were the first person he asked for after a case.Â
Not even when he hugged you a little too tightly after a tough day. Â
â
She convinced herself it was just a close friendship.Â
And then prison happened. Â
JJ had cried in response to the verdict, but you were broken. Â
She found you in the hall after they carried Spencer away. You were propping yourself against the wall, eyes on the floor, hands trembling at your sides. When she called your name, you didnât look up at first.Â
"You okay?" JJ asked, echoing her question to Spencer from the night before.
You let out a short, humorless laugh. "No." âHe didnât deserve this,â you croaked, voice heavyâwith emotion.
âI know,â she said. Â
âHeââ You took a deep, shuddering breath. âHeâs not going to be okay in there.â Â
She stood beside you. "Heâs strong. Heâll get through this."
You shook your head. "You donât get it, JJ." Your voice cracked. "I canât lose him."
JJ didnât understand. Not then. She had always been protective of Spencer, but the way you said it was different. It wasnât just concernâit was something deeper, something raw. And for the first time, she wondered just how much Spencer meant to you.
â
Then he got out. Â
And the first person he hugged was you.
JJ had been right there, had reached for him instinctively, but before she could even take a step, Spencer had gone straight to you. Â
He buried his face in your shoulder, arms wrapped tightly around you, like he needed to feel you to believe this was real. And youâGod, the way you held him, whispering reassurances, grounding himâJJ had never seen anything like it. Â
That should have been her first clue. Â
But it wasnât. Â
Not until she told him she loved him. Â
The moment the words escaped her lips, she saw the way his whole body froze. He didnât look at her the way she had hoped, the way people do in movies when they realize theyâve been in love all along. Â
He looked shocked.
And maybeâjust maybeâ a little disappointed.Â
After they were rescued, after the chaos, after everything settled. He had gone straight to you. He didnât come to her. Not to ask how she was doing. Not to talk about the confession. Not to do anything.
That, more than anything, sent a burning, ugly rage surging through her. Â
Then, not long after, she saw him kiss you.
Before she could look away, his hands were on your face, and he was kissing you like he had been waiting his whole life to do it. Â
JJ felt something crack inside her. Â
It wasnât just the kiss. It was the way he kissed youâthe certainty, the desperation, like he couldnât bear to go another second without showing you how he felt. Â
She had never seen Spencer like that before. Â
Not with Maeve. Â
Not with anyone. Â
â
So when Spencer finally came to find her, she was already bracing for a fight. Â
"You shouldnât have told me, it wasnât fair" he told her the second he walked into the BAUâs empty break room, his voice strained with tension. Â
JJ blinked, caught off guard by the directness. "What?â Â
"You shouldnât have told me you loved me," he said again, firmer this time. "It was selfish, JJ."Â Â
She scoffed, crossing her arms. "Oh, so now itâs selfish to tell someone how you feel?"Â Â
"Yes!" Spencer snapped, stepping closer, his eyes dark with something she couldnât quite name. "Because I didnât need to know that. You didnât need to say it. What did you think was going to happen? That Iâd justâwhat? Drop everything? That Iâd throw myself at you?"Â Â
JJ flinched. "Spenceâ"Â Â
"You donât get to do that," he cut her off, a sharp edge to his voice. "Iâm not your backup plan, JJ."Â Â
"Thatâs not what this is about!" she shot back, feeling the heat rise in her chest. Â
"Then what is it about?" Spencer demanded. "Because as far as I can tell, you dropped this confession on me after years of nothing, when I finally found someone who makes me happy. And nowânow what? Iâm supposed to apologize? Iâm supposed to feel guilty?"Â Â
JJ exhaled sharply, her fingernails digging into her arms. "I didnât know I was going to say it, Spencer. I didnât plan for this, I didnâtââ. "I donât know what I expected!â She yelled, tears of frustration stinging her eyes. "But I didnât expect you to justâjust disregard my feelings like this! I didnât expect you to move on so fast!â Â
"Fast?" Spencer laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Fast? JJ, I have spent years thinking I wasnât good enough for anyone. I have spent years being alone, thinking no one could ever love me the way I wanted to be loved. And now, when I finally have someone who does, you think I should justâwhat? Erase that? Drop everything? Forget that you have a husband and a family? To wait for you?"
JJ swallowed hard, the words hitting her like a blow. Â
"You never even gave me a chance to begin with," Spencer said, his voice soft, but still fierce. "And maybe, maybe there was a time where I would have jumped at thisâwhere I would have given anything to hear you say you loved me." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "But that time has passed, JJ. And youâyou need to be happy for me. The way Iâm happy for you and Will."Â Â
JJ felt something in her snap. Â
"Youâre choosing her over me," she accused, her voice breaking. Â
Spencerâs face twisted with something like disappointment. "JJâ"Â Â
"You are!â she insisted. "Iâve known you longer than she has, Spencer! Iâve been there for you! Iâve seen you at your worstâ"Â Â
"And yet you never saw me at all."Â Â
The words stopped her cold. Â
"You may have known me longer," Spencer said, his voice quiet, more raw. "But you never really knew me. You never cared to understand me."Â Â
JJ opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Â
Because she knew, in that moment, that he was right. Â
â
JJ didnât go straight home after the argument.
She sat in her car for a while, gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white, Spencerâs words repeating over and over in her mind.
"You may have known me longer, but you never really knew me. You never cared to understand me."
She had never seen him that angry before.
JJ wasnât even sure what she had been expecting when she confessed to him, but it wasnât that. Not the sharp edge in his voice, the sheer finality in the way he spoke. Like whatever bridge that had once existed between them was now burned to ash.
Eventually, she made herself drive home, even though she didnât feel ready to face her family.
But the moment she stepped inside, Henry sprinted into her arms, and Michael wasnât far behind, chattering excitedly about something he had done that day.
JJ swallowed the lump in her throat and crouched down, hugging them both tightly.
Will was in the kitchen, finishing up dinner, glancing over his shoulder with that easy smile of his. "Hey, babe. I heard from Emily, Are you okay? Did you get checked out?"
JJ hesitated. Then she nodded. "Yeah, just feel like shit."
Will didnât press. He just wiped his hands and walked over, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Go sit, I got everything."
She watched him as he moved through the kitchen, effortlessly balancing cooking and keeping an eye on the boys. He had always been like thatâsteady, reliable, taking care of things before she even needed to ask.
She had never doubted Willâs love for her. That he would always put her and their family first.
And she had always wanted that for Spencer, too. She wanted him to be happy, to find someone who would love him the way he deserved.
On the drive home she tried to convince herself thatâs all this was. That she was just watching out for him. Making sure he didnât get hurt again.
But now, standing in her warm, bustling home, with Will taking care of dinner and the boys playing at her feet, she felt something ugly crawl up her spine.
Because Spencer finally had a chance at happiness- happiness with someone else, someone that wasnât her.
And she was jealous.
She thought about how Spencer had gone straight to you after his release. The way he held you. The way he kissed you. The way he chose you.
Did he take care of you the way Will took care of her?
When you had a bad day, did Spencer know exactly how to comfort you? Did he cook for you? Hold you? Brush your hair out of your face, without a second thought, the way Will did for her?
If she and Spencer had gotten togetherâif she had realized her feelings soonerâwhat would they be doing right now? Would Spencer be standing in the kitchen, making dinner, smiling at her like she was his whole world?
JJ clenched her fists.
She had no right to feel this way.
She had a family. A husband who loved her. She had made her choices, and she had never regretted them.
So why did it feel like she lost something?
Why was there an ache inside her she couldnât quite name?
Maybe because, for the first time, she was coming to terms with the fact that she and Spencer were never going to happen.
And it was her fault.
â
JJ tried not to let it get to her.
She and Spencer had years of friendship between them. A bond that couldnât be broken so easily.
One nightâone argumentâdidnât change that.
And yet, things between them hadnât been the same since.
There was an awkwardness now, something heavy that settled between them in the quiet moments. It wasnât that Spencer was avoiding herâif anything, he was trying. She could see it in the way he made an effort to talk to her, the way he still offered her those random tidbits of information he knew sheâd find interesting, the way he searched for cracks in the wall she had built.
But JJ wasnât sure if she wanted to let him back in.
Because every time she looked at him, she remembered the fight. His words, sharp and unforgiving. The way he had looked at herânot like a friend, not like someone he trusted, but like someone who had failed him.
She knew Spencer well enough to know he wasnât trying to hurt her. But that didnât change the fact that she still felt angry.Â
At him.
At you.
You, who knew nothing of the pastâwho had no idea about her history with Spencer or the complicated web of feelings she had buried so long ago that she convinced herself they didnât matter.
And yet, she couldnât escape you.
You were everywhere.
Weeks had passed since that night. Since Spencerâs words cut deeper than she cared to admit.
The way Spencer gravitated toward you in the bullpen, how he always seemed to position himself near you, even when there was plenty of space elsewhere. The way he looked at youâsoft and unguarded, as if you were something precious and rare.
She realized, with a strange sort of ache, that she had never seen him look at anyone like that before.
And it wasnât just him.
You never seemed exasperated when Spencer launched into one of his long-winded rants, the kind that had even the most patient members of the team zoning out. Instead, you listened intently, nodding along, asking questions, actually absorbing the information.
JJ had spent years learning how to keep up with Spencer, but you? You made it look effortless.
Then there were the subtler things, the things that spoke volumes even in the silence.
Spencer had always been fidgety, his mind moving a mile a minute, his body following suitâbouncing his knee, tapping his fingers, shifting from foot to foot. But she noticed now that whenever his leg started bouncing under the table, all it took was the briefest touch from youâa gentle hand on his arm, a slight brush of your fingersâand he immediately stilled, his entire body relaxing.
JJ wasnât sure if you even realized you did it.
But Spencer did.
And he let you.
He wasnât a huge fan of pda, at least not in front of the team. But lately, it seemed like the distance between you two had disappeared. She wasnât sure when it had happened, but he seemed to be doing little thingsâthings she would have never imagined him doing with anyone else.
She noticed it now: the way his fingers casually brushed against yours when you passed him a file, the way he gave you a soft smile when you caught his eye, the way he kept looking at you like you were the only person in the room.
And the others had noticed, too.
Luke had raised an eyebrow when Spencer absentmindedly reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Emily had smirked when Spencer leaned down to whisper something in your ear and you laughed, nudging him with your elbow. Even Rossi had made a passing remark about how Spencer seemed different lately, more at ease.
But what struck JJ the most was the way you and Spencer seemed to exist in your own little world, oblivious to how obvious it all was.
It was frustrating, the way she kept catching herself looking for somethingâsome proof that she still knew Spencer better than anyone else. That he wasnât really different, that you werenât the only one who saw him.
She wasnât sure what she was looking for. Maybe she was just trying to remind herself that she still knew Spencer, that there was still some part of him that was hersâeven if it wasnât in the way she had once imagined, but in the way that came from years of friendship, of understanding each other in ways no one else did.
But it was getting harder to fool herself of that.
Because the way Spencer was with you⊠it was different.
JJ had spent years convincing herself that she and Spencer had a connection that no one else could touch. But now, she was starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe, she had been wrong.
And the worst part?
She wasnât sure what to do about it.
â
The three of you were stationed at a table, going through case files late into the evening. JJ had barely said a word to Spencer that didnât pertain to the case, and she knew he noticed.
âDo you want something to drink?â Spencer asked after a while, his voice tentative, another olive branch extended her way. âCoffee? Water?â
JJ glanced up at him, her expression unreadable. He was trying, she knew that. But it still didnât sit right with herâthe way he was acting like things were fine, like they could just slot back into place without addressing the damage that had been done.
Before she could answer, you spoke up.
âIâll get it, Spence,â you said, shaking your head lightly as you stood. âI need to stretch my legs anyway. Both of you relax for once and stop thinking about the case, at least until Iâm back.â
Spencer hesitated, but at the slight nudge of your hand against his arm, he gave in, slumping back into his chair.
JJ watched the exchange in silence.
It was so easy for you, the way you just knew what he needed before he even did.
The awkwardness was palpable, even as you walked back into the room, three cups in hand. The atmosphere between her and Spencer had been tense, but now, it was like everything had shifted.
You placed a cup of coffee in front of JJ, a cup of tea in front of yourself, and a cup of tea in front of Spencer, your movements careful, but sluggish from the lack of sleep.
âTwo teas and a coffee,â you said lightly, your back to them as you made your way over to the board, eyes scanning the case notes.
JJ blinked, her gaze drifting from Spencer to you, then to Spencer again.
âYou donât drink coffee anymore?â she asked, trying to sound neutral.
Spencer shifted in his seat, his posture suddenly stiff. âNot really.â
JJ swallowed. âSince when?â
Spencer didnât look at her immediately. Instead, his gaze was on you, the familiar soft smile that had been reserved for so few people now spreading across his face. His gaze lingered on you for a moment before he shrugged, a subtle but unmistakable affection in his posture.
âI donât know. A while, I guess,â he answered simply, his voice low and easy.
JJâs stomach twisted in a way she couldnât quite explain. Sheâd seen itâthe way Spencer looked at you, the way he sounded when he spoke to you. He was different now, and the realization hit JJ hard.
She hadnât been paying attention. She hadnât been listening, hadnât truly seen what had been right in front of her.
And suddenly, it felt like the weight of her frustrationâthe anger that had been building for weeksâwas slipping away. Maybe, just maybe, she had been looking at the situation all wrong.
JJ looked at Spencer for a long moment, realizing just how wrong sheâd been. She had let her own bitterness and hurt cloud her judgment, had let the past define their friendship, when what really mattered was the present. And she wanted to fix that.
With a deep breath, she smiled at Spencer, the tension in her shoulders easing.
She stood up, walking over to where you were standing at the board. You looked up briefly as she approached, and JJ could see the soft warmth in your eyes.
âI was thinking about the timeline,â JJ began, standing beside you now, glancing at the board, eager to refocus on the task at hand.
You nodded. âYeah, the key thing is we need to tie everything togetherâlook for patterns in the victimâs movements.â
As JJ stood there, side by side with you, she knew now that Spencer was right. And as she watched you bothâwatched you understand him, steady him, love himâshe realized something painful. There had never been a chance for her. Not really. Not since you walked into his life. Maybe, if you had never entered the picture, there would have been a future for her and Spencer. But thatâs all he was to her now.
Spencer is in constant awe of your beauty. Tonight, with you dancing in the middle of the bar, he is not the only one. But between the pulsing music and the neon lights, it's clear that you only have eyes for him, and you make sure he knows it.
BUD Chronicles | gif by @reidgif
Contents: 4.7k words, SMUT & FLUFF 18+, MDNI, fem!reader, established relationship, early seasons Spencer, alcohol mentions, Spencer is down bad for reader (no like it's actually sickening how much he loves you), misogynistic language (not from Spencer), protective Spencer, PDA, r wears a skirt, whiny Spencer, car sex, fingering, size kink, protected p in v, Spencer comes too soon poor guy.
A/n: return of BUD dedicated to @whisperedmeg belated happy birthday megara you are so creative and endlessly thoughtful and intentional in everything you do my love for you transcends oceans and timezones i am so so so grateful and happy to share this corner of the internet with you!!!!!
mostly proofread but it is 2am where i live, i'm sorry if i missed anything
Spencer avoids alcohol, as he always does. Nobody questions it anymore. Nobody pretends to pressure him, nobody teases. As is the norm of these nights out, Rossi generously offers to pay, and Morgan always makes sure Spencer has a glass of cider or iced tea so he doesn't go thirsty.
Said glass currently sits on the table, haloed by rings of condensation, completely untouched. He hasn't had anything to drink. Can't quite bring himself to do something as simple as bringing an object to his mouth, too distracted by you.
On good days, he's reverent. Who wouldn't be, if they have someone like you in their life? Reverence seems like the bare minimum. But that reverence does not interfere with his daily functions, or impede his sense of judgment. In fact, it's often the oppositeâhe loves you to the point of betterment, of motivation, doing more stuff just to make himself worthy of your affections.
Tonight, he's sad to say, is one of his bad days.
Tonight, he is so overcome with his devotion he's practically dripping in it. Convinced that every pore of his body is leaking with I love my girlfriend pheromones and that the whole bar can smell it.
Tonight, he can't move for every clumsy action seems offensive to you and your presence.
And, despite consuming zero alcohol, he still feels so utterly inebriated. Swaying on his seat, dizzy with want, eyes trained on you and you alone. Hazy neon and blinking flashes do nothing to dim your appearance, only serving to highlight your beauty, the way you spin and shimmy on the dance floor without a care in the world.
He had declined your multiple invites to dance. On another night, perhaps he'd muster up the courage to join you, but he doesn't trust his own body right now. Not that you'd ever complain about his graceless dance moves, but he's convinced any sense of coordination will disappear the moment you press into him.
Worse, Spencer knows, with a thousand percent certainty, that he would not be able to control any bodily reactions if you start dancing the way he knows you likeâswinging your hips flush against his. Sensual. Torturous.
He'd rather not be arrested for public indecency tonight. Or ever, actually. Imbecilic as he is right now, he's got enough presence of mind to at least avoid that.
So he contents himself with watching. You are angelic in this light, transforming even the pounding, fast paced music into something he'd enjoy, all because now he associates the song with the memory of your smile, the sheen of sweat on your forehead that glints neon pink when you twist your head just so.
Beside him, Emily yells with a flashing smile. Something teasing, no doubt. He's used to it, being on the receiving end of jokes (playful and told with love, of course), but somehow he's much more relaxed when he's with you. Anxieties of being too weird, or too smart, or too scrawny, all seem to collapse because the entire time he's dated you, you've never made those things seem like flaws.
So he grants Emily a sheepish smile, and a shake of his head. She laughs and calls him 'Lover boy' and he doesn't bother disputing it. He's proud of it. It feels like a badge of honor, especially after years of thinking he'd never be the kind of man to have this sort of love in his life.
In fact, he'd wear a physical badge of it, if such a thing existedâPenelope probably would make one if promptedâsimply because it's true.
And then Emily says 'Uh oh' and her face shifts enough to make his spine stiffen. Spencer follows her gaze and frowns.
He's always known you're beautiful. Had always admired how you bore itâproudly, never shrinking from the attention, always taking up the space like you owned it. He knows you're beautiful, knows that other people are aware of it too. Rightfully so.
But sometimes, they make it too obvious.
The man on the bar would be subtle, if Spencer isn't trained to watch out for signs like this. Body language, profiling training paired with his heightened senses in everything about you, all lead him to the same conclusion: you're being hit on.
And you, sweet perfect angel you, are doing everything in your power to reject the man.The stern line of your mouth, the arms crossed over your chest, body angled from this stranger.
Spencer doesn't like imposing himself in your space. Doesn't consider himself to be someone possessive, or a savior. He believes you to be strong enough to handle this without his intervention.
But the man lingers. Reaches, drags his unworthy fingers down the length of your arm, and finally Spencer moves, his brows furrowed.
He's shouldering his way through the crowd when you smack the man's hand away. Even through the pounding music, Spencer can hear your voiceâsnapping and testyâand the man's indignant exclamation of bitch. He pushes through and puts himself between you and the man before anything else escalates.
"Is there a problem?" he snaps, glaring at the stranger, "You want to explain why you're calling my girlfriend a bitch?"
The man sputters.
Behind him, Spencer feels you press closer, chin resting on his shoulder. He can feel your smugness emanating in waves.
"I told you, I wasn't interested. Now look, you've pissed off my honey."
Your breath tickles his neck. Spencer has to suppress a shudder, but manages to maintain his intimidating stance. He finds it surprisingly easy, channeling everything he's learned from his coworkers and his job to ward away this stranger.
The man holds up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right, jeez. Thought you were just lying about the boyfriend."
"Uh, no. And even if I didn't have a boyfriend, I still wouldn't be interested."
"Oh please, you're not evenâ"
"Watch your mouth." Spencer doesn't think he's ever sounded so angry as right now. He's faced impudence of many kind, and only a select few had ever been at the receiving end of this. But he finds himself ready to pull whatever stops for you. "Unless you want a problem."
"Whatever, man, I was just talking to her." with a scoff, the man finally turns and stomps off.
The tension in the air turns lax, but Spencer keeps an eye on the man until he's swallowed by the crowd. He feels your laugh before he hears it, feels the hitch in your breath, the shuddering shoulders against his side that tells him it's one of those laughing fits that overtake your entire body.
He glances down and instantly brightens at your giddy expression, free hand cupping your cheek.
"Hey."
"Hi, handsome."
All the anger he's felt eases from him from those words, simple and sweetly uttered. Just for him. Only ever for him. At once, he feels the effects of alcohol despite avoiding itâlightheaded and trippy and effervescentâall from the sight of your smile.
He presses his forehead to yours. "You okay? He didn't try anything else, did he?"
"I'm perfect. You came just in time."
"I hate that I had to," a muscle ticks in his jaw, "he shouldn't have pushed after you said no."
"Well, that's just how a lot of men are."
There's nothing he can say to that. He knows it's true, has seen several versions of the aftermath of an offended man. Spencer moves behind you and wraps his arms as if that act alone could protect you from any more harm.
At least it signals one thing: you're taken; everyone else back off.
He feels you sink into his chest, soft and content, hair tickling his chin.
"That was really hot, by the way."
He chuckles. "What was?"
"You getting all pissed off and protective. Didn't think you had it in you."
"Excuse you, I'm in the FBI! I've interrogated worse people."
"Really? I couldn't tell. You don't ever act like that around me."
"It's important to keep a work life separate from my personal life, you know that. I already study cases at home, I shouldn't bring that energy when I'm around you as itâ"
Your giggle tells him he's being baited into a reaction, and he sags against your back. "You're mean."
"Me? I just said you were hot, how is that mean?"
"You know how."
"Explain it to me, genius."
He huffs. "I hate you."
You twist to face him, gasping dramatically. "You what?"
"Nothing."
"Not nothing, you said you hated me. Apologize!"
Spencer answers with a kiss to the tip of your nose and an acquiesce. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."
"Hmm, not convincing. I need compliments."
"You possess an incredible ability to still look fresh after being in a dance floor surrounded by forty other people."
You giggle and tilt your head up for another kiss, which he eagerly grants. Sticky, artificial sweetness clings to your lips, a mix of your lip gloss and whatever drink you have been nursing. Your next words are uttered into the kiss, muffled and teasing. "How'd you even come to that number, you nerd?"
"Capacity estimation based on the width and length of the dance floor." he answers without a beat, grinning when he earns one of your full-bodied laughs. "Am I forgiven?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, good. You look like an angel." he adds. Not for good measure; just because he wants to. Because he can. Because it's true.
"I've already forgiven you."
"I know. I just thought I'd say it anyway." he watches, somewhat smugly, as you fluster, chin tipping down and fighting a smile.
He won't ever get enough of thisâthe weight of you, the way his angular body feel less disjointed when it's doing its job to hold up yours. Not completing himâneither of you believe in the idea of another person completing someone else. But being with you somehow augments his existence. Adds to who he is, what he can do.
He cups your face again, tips your chin up and captures your lips in a kiss. Slow and deep and completely inappropriate for the setting, judging by the pointed coughing from the bartender.
There's matching sheepish looks on your faces when you pull back.
The bartender looks unamused.
Spencer tucks his face in the crook of your neck, partly in shame, but mostly so he can keep peppering your skin with kisses. The longer he spends time with you, the more his earlier hypothesis is proven: his body is traitorous in its reactions. Already, his pants are beginning to feel strained and all he's done is share a few kisses.
Still, he can't stop. Finds any excuse to keep touching his lips to the sweat-slick softness of your neck, your shoulder. Something earthy and herbal hits his nose, the notes of your perfume melting into your skin, fusing with your natural musk. Chemical reactions have never been sexier.
He bares his teeth, nips at your ear. Your shiver reverberates right through his chest, straight to his heart, and all he can think is good, good, more.
"Excuse me, can you put this on David Rossi's tab?"
Spencer blinks, pulling back enough to stare at you, confused. There's a knowing smirk on your face, and he feels dizzy, undone by just the mischievous curl of lip. You aren't even addressing him; the words had been said to the bartender.
His heart stutters in anticipation. That smile is a promise; he will be remade before the night is over.
The bartender punches several buttons on the register, before lifting his thumb in affirmation. Successful.
You slip off the stool, lacing a hand through one of his. "Come on, baby, let's get out of here before the entire bar notices your raging boner."
Spencer sputters, but doesn't deny nor protest. It's all true.
It knocks air from his chest, this casual familiarity. How you've memorized his tells enough to make a decision for both him. How well you just know him. Your acceptanceâencouragement, evenâof his oddities. Sometimes questioning them but not to judge. Only to understand, to learn parts of himself that he thought had been hidden, but were really simmering right past the surface. No one has just bothered to dig before. Until you.
It should make him shrink back. Should make him feel like a topic of study, like one of the profiles he pores over, academic and impersonal.
Instead, Spencer welcomes it. It's scary, being seen in this light, but your gaze is always so full of adulation, and so the intimacy never feels violent or intrusive. Only sacred.
He follows you with single-minded focus, his vision myopic, singular, honed on the sway of your hips, the way your hair flutters when the late night breeze hits it after the two of you spill out the exit.
He moves to the sidewalk, intending to call a cab, but is stopped by a tug and a laugh.
"Spence, honey, you drove us here, remember?"
Oh. Right.
He chuckles, stumbling with you to the direction of the parking lot. His arm wraps over your shoulder, and your form melds into his side. Head tucked against him, strides in perfect sync, magnets snapping in place.
His car comes into view, but his attempts to unlock it is impeded by your mouth. Soft, lazy kisses along his neck, and already his hands are trembling.
"Angel," he croaks, gone, and you laugh, taking pity on him. Back off enough to let him open the passenger's side, slide in. Spencer rounds the vehicle and climbs to the driver's seat, and you're on him the moment the door slams shut.
Leaning over the console, your mouth finds his. Spencer returns it like he's been expecting it. Instantly, the kiss is messy. Full of greed and desperation, the tension from the bar culminating right here. In his vintage car, at a public parking lot.
Well, at least it's in semi-privacy.
At least there's no one around.
He's a little too far gone to make rational judgments. All he knows is you, you, you.
He kisses you with a low, throaty moan, hands everywhere, mapping out the familiar contours of your body, so warm and pliant under his ravenous palms. He squeezes handfuls of you through your clothes, one hand on your ass, the other on your thigh, guiding you from the passenger's side and straight on his lap.
You straddle him with ease, the action almost reflexive after how many times you've done it. Both your legs planted by his thighs, never breaking the kiss as you sit balanced on the tops of his knees like you belong thereâand you do.
He'd be whatever you want of him, be the throne, altar, and object of your affection. All three things have converged in his mind anyway; entire linguistic and symbolic fields fracturing at the power of your hands and heady kisses. Meanings warp because he says so, because he's convinced that preexisting ideas are not nearly sufficient enough to describe you and the way he feels for you.
You moan into his mouth, and he responds with a needy thrust upwards. Your hips are too far for any proper friction, so he holds the span of your waist in both hands and hauls you closer until you're positioned over his crotch.
"Oh, you're a little aggressive tonight," you giggle, fingers threaded through his hair.
A soft whine of protest fills the car when you pull away from the kiss.
Another giggle. "Ah, there's the Spencer I know."
He laughs too, barely more than a choked breath misting over your chest. "S-sorry. If it's making you uncomfortableâ"
"Oh, baby, it's doing the exact opposite." You grind down on his straining erection lazily. He fights back another whimper; he knows you can tell. In the darkness of his car, your teeth gleam, bared in a smile that's bordering on feral. "I told you earlier, it's hot. Not really aggressive, just more⊠assertive."
"It-it's hot?"
"Uh huh. I like when you get all confident." You lean in for another kiss, slow and deep like you have all the time in the world. Like the threat of getting caught isn't looming over both of your shoulders.
He feels your hands on his belt, hears the metals clanging softly as you unbuckle the leather.
"Y-you kind of help," he admits. His fingers flex anxiously into your skin, and he hopes he doesn't accidentally give you bruises, "it's easier to⊠just be⊠like I never have to second guess myself when I'm with you. I get to just⊠exist."
He feels your hands pause. For a brief moment, he wonders if he said something wrong, but your eyes are glimmering when they meet his, little sparkling bits clinging to your lashes.
Tears, Spencer realizes. You're crying. Or about to, at least.
"Angel." he breathes, cupping your face with both of his large hands and kissing away those tears before they have the chance to spill.
"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
Despite his attempts to prevent your crying, your voice still gets choked up in sobs. He kisses you through those too.
"It's true. It's true, you just⊠You make me lose my mind sometimes, but in a good way. I can get so in my head, but with you, I just am." He whispers with a breathless chuckle, holding you flush to him, as if eradicating distance will help his words sink bone deep.
"Don't lose your mind too much, though," you sniffle, and nuzzle into the side of his neck sweetly, "You also need to think to be, or whatever it was Descartes said."
He laughs. This time, when your lips meet, it's a slower tangle of tongue and teeth. His hands move from your hips to slip under your skirt, higher until his fingertips skim over soaked lace.
You shudder and rock into his grasp, seeking friction through fabric, and he lets you have it for a few languorous moments. Watches with bright eyes as you find pleasure from the gentle circles of his thumb, catalogues the way your lashes flutter like delicate wings over your cheeks.
When he feels like you've had enough teasing, he slides two fingers under your panties, slipping one past your entrance.
The familiar flutter around his digits is a welcome feelingâyour body gently accepting him. Human anatomy never ceases to amaze him. The way something so tight and small can open up with a few simple caresses, the right attention. And Spencer intends to shower you with all of his focus right now.
Another finger joins the first, stretching you further, curling up until he finds that familiar spot deep inside you.
Your whole body trembles on his lap, and Spencer can't hold back a moan.
Foreplay is necessary, both of you realized early into your relationship, not just to keep you wet, but also to get these muscles to relax. He'd never fit inside you otherwise, and he'd rather be celibate for the rest of his life than to ever hurt you deliberately.
So he finds a rhythm with his fingers. Watches every reaction with large, honey eyes, committing every hitch of your breath to memory. He's hard under you again. Hell, he's afraid he'd come just from thisâthe exquisite friction of having you on his lap and taking in your reactions while he gives you pleasure. He wouldn't complain if that's how he comes, actually, would be perfectly content to fall apart just from pleasuring you.
But you've other ideas and he's utterly beholden to you. So when you whisper, "Stop, stop, I don't want to finish yet," Spencer halts every action.
He keeps his fingers buried in your warmth as you lean in for another kiss. Somehow, you still taste sweet after making out with him. He marvels at that, at you. But then you're rocking into his palm again, and he knows that you wantâneedâmore.
"Condom's in my left pocket," he mutters against your lips, laughing when you pat the wrong side, "No, angel, my left."
You giggle, shoulders shaking uncontrollably until you finally pull the packet out. The unmistakable sound of a zipper being undone fills the car, and then finally he feels relief as the length of him is freed from his boxers. He's hard, so red it looks almost painfulâand it had been, tenting under layers of clothes though he's not about to complain now.
Spencer's forced to pull his fingers from you in favor of tugging your panties down. It's awkward and messy, with you contorting just to get the panties off, and by the time it's gone, you're both giggling.
"Maybe we shouldn't have done this in a car." he says, nipping at your lower lip.
"Would you have been able to wait until we got home?" you retort. The foil tears open in one clean yank, a testament to your resolve.
"Honestly, I would wait for you forever."
"Okay, Orpheus." your sarcastic tone is blunted by the hint of giddiness, the slight lift at the corners of your lips. You reach down, patting along the side.
"Angel, my seats don't recline." he reminds you.
"Fucking hell," you groan, glaring at him as if it's somehow his fault. He rubs circles into your thighs and waits patiently while you contemplate whether or not to continue. "Whatever. Condom's already open."
He laughs and lets you roll the condom on, groaning when your hands wrap around his girth. He's so large that you can barely fit your palm around it, squeezing slightly at your teasing strokes. Spencer moans, his head already thrown back against the headrest.
You silence him with another kiss, tongue sweeping hungrily into his mouth, and he surrenders. Any amount of his assertiveness you claimed to find hot vanishes. Spencer is always ecstatic to give away control, let you take over.
You part for air, although he's convinced the car is running out of it, that it's getting so thick and heavy with tension that you'd both end up suffocating. Oh well. Not a bad way to go.
He helps you lift up, skirt bunched up to your hips and pinned there by his palms. With a confident grip, you glide the length of his cock over your folds, gathering slickness, and offering a glimpse of what's to come.
After a few teasing passes, it becomes evident that you're both desperate for this, because you finally line him to your entrance and sink down. Gravity does its job, but he keeps you steady with his hands, nails carving crescent moons into your skin.
You're tight. That shouldn't come as a surprise, but he whimpers all the same, brows furrowed in concentration as he fights every instinct to just buck up and take. But no. Not while the broadest part of his cock is barely past that tight ring of muscle.
He feels your walls flutter, then tense, and he's reaching between your legs and thumbing gentle halos over your clit. Your heaving breaths warm his skin, but he feels you beginning to relax again.
"Fuck," you groan, face buried in his neck. "God, this first entry is always soâoh!"
Spencer mirrors your groan as he finally breeches your entrance and he's surrounded by the most heavenly, velvety warmth.
"You okay?" he asks, raining kisses to your temple, your cheek like a shower of starlight. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"No, thisâmhm, fuck." you're already grinding on top of him, chasing your pleasure.
Spencer gasps, expecting a little bit more adjustment time, but he isn't about to complain. Not when you're mewling above him, sweaty and dazed and all his. Already, you're whispering filthy words in his ear, crude and just on the verge of blasphemous.
He moans and nods and shifts. Mutters broken little yeses like he's substituting them for hail Mary's. When your hips start moving up and down in earnest, Spencer swears his vision whites out. He sits back, slack jawed and rapturous, blinking up at your figure. The pace you've set is quick and sloppy, perhaps because you've realized as well that this is being done in a public parking lot.
Distantly, he registers that the windows of his car have fogged up. That the creaking metal is directly caused you bouncing on his lap. That if anyone were to pass by, they would know exactly what's happening inside his vehicle.
For some reason, it's that thought that makes him shudder and hurtle straight to his orgasm. The recklessness of it all, the threat of being caught. It's thrilling. Kinks and fetishes had always seemed so abstract to him, but now, he understands them with frightening clarity.
And then, on top of it all, the fact that he never would have done this with anyone else. Just you, only you, oh god.
"That's it, baby," you pant, grinning at his every whine and whimper. "God, I can feel you throbbing."
He is. And it isn't just his cock. Every single part of him is overcome with tremors, so out of his control that his hips jerk up into you. He breaks your rhythm by mistake, hears a sharp gasp, followed by a moan.
"God, Spence, yes, just like that."
"Yeah?" he repeats it again, head still cloudy from the aftershocks, and eager to get you there as well. "Like this, angel?"
He thrusts up, again and again, eyes and ears perked for any shift in your tone or breathing, afraid to get too rough and hurt you. But you've turned to putty in his hands, body slumped against his chest, face buried in his neck.
Feeling bold, Spencer gets a firm grip on your hips and starts moving you with him. His cock is sensitive, and the tips of his fingers feel electric, but he doesn't stop. Keeps thrusting up into you despite the tears gathering in his lashes from over stimulation.
Your legs are trembling around him as you find the rhythm and move without the help of his hands, teeth sinking into his neck to muffle your desperate moans. He has no such restraint, his head titled back and whining, loud and shameless.
There's a familiar clenching around his length, telling him you're close, almost there, and he doubles his efforts. Feet planted firmly on the floor, he moves with more confidence, taking cues from your trembling body to keep himself in check.
The car's rocking is obscene.
And then you're crying out, shuddering, a rush of slickness coating his cock. Spencer locks his arms around your waist and breathes you in. Lets you ride out the waves in the firm comfort of his embrace.
"My god." he mumbles. Soothing kisses run down your neck, along the curve of your shoulder. "Are you okay?"
You can only nod, legs feeling delicate and immovable. Spencer is content to keep you on his lap while you recover, nosing through the tendrils of hair plastered to your temple. He feels elated, content, and mildly disbelieving.
"Angel," he breathes, sheepish and worn out, "I don't think I can drive."
Your laughter is bright, slurred, and so, so angelic. You are the picture of ruin when you finally emerge from his neck and look up at him. "Maybe I should have let you call us a cab earlier."
He tilts your chin up, grinning and so in love. "Really? I'm glad you didn't."
He watches you laugh again, and he swears that's enough to help him recover feeling back to his lower body. Just the sight of you and the sound of your laughter.
Spencer leans in for another kiss. The last for right now, in this car, but definitely not for the night. In fact, the first of many, forever, if he could help it.
thank you to that one anon and @oorchidea for peer pressuring me into finishing this lol I missed this pairing a lot. Please reblog if you enjoyed!!! We fought to get that button back, we should utilize it.
summary: spencer accidentally let it slip that he has a wife, but he thought that they knew
The bullpen is louder than usual.
A case just closed â messy, exhausting, emotionally draining â but closed. And that always brings a certain kind of restless energy to the team.
âAlright,â Derek announces, spinning slightly in his chair. âWe deserve a drink. Real one. Not whateverâs been fermenting in the break room coffee pot.â
Emily snorts. âSeconded.â
âThirded,â JJ adds, already grabbing her bag.
Spencer doesnât look up at first. Heâs reorganizing his go-bag with that meticulous focus he gets when heâs trying to decompress.
Hotch gives a small nod. âOne hour. Then home.â
Morgan leans back in his chair and eyes Spencer. âYou in, Pretty Boy?â
Spencer finally looks up, blinking like he just remembered heâs in a room full of people.
âOh, um.â He glances at his watch. âI actually should probably head home.â
Morgan frowns dramatically. âSince when do you skip celebratory drinks?â
Spencer shrugs. Casual, almost too casual.
âMy wife doesnât love when I get back too late after a case. It messes with our routine.â
Silence.
Not the normal end-of-shift shuffle silence.
The kind where the air changes.
Emily freezes mid-zip of her purse. JJ slowly turns around. Morganâs smile drops.
ââŠYour what?â he asks carefully.
Spencer blinks at him, âMy wife.â
Morgan stands up fully now. âYour what?â
Spencer looks genuinely confused. âMy wife? Why are you repeating it like that?â
âReid,â Emily says slowly, âyou donât have a wife.â
Spencer stares at her, âYes, I do.â
JJâs eyebrows shoot up. âSince when?â
Spencerâs forehead creases like theyâre the ones being ridiculous, âSince 2012.â
Morganâs mouth actually falls open. âTwo thousand andâ Reid that was years ago.â
âYes,â Spencer says patiently. âThatâs generally how time works.â
âSpencer,â JJ says gently, âwe would know if you were married.â
Spencerâs lips press together in mild disbelief, âI assumed you did know.â
âHow?â Morgan practically shouts.
Spencer gestures vaguely. âI wear a ring?â
All of them look down. He does. A simple silver band. Always has. They just never clocked it. It blended in with his watch and the ink stains and the everything else that is Spencer Reid.
Emily steps closer. âYouâre serious.â
Spencer exhales softly. âOf course Iâm serious. Why would I joke about that?â
Morgan runs a hand over his head. âOkay, okay. Hold up. Youâre married. To who?â
Emily crosses her arms. âSo let me get this straight. Youâve been married for over a decade and weâve never met her?â
Spencer blinks. âWell⊠yes.â
Morgan points at him. âThatâs insane.â
Spencer looks offended. âItâs not insane.â
âItâs a little insane,â JJ says gently.
Spencer shakes his head, standing now, suddenly protective in a way theyâve never seen before.
âSheâs not a secret,â he insists. âI just⊠I donât bring her into this.â
Morgan narrows his eyes. âWhy not?â
Spencer goes quiet for a moment.
And when he speaks again, his voice is softer. Not defensive anymore. Just honest.
âBecause this job takes things.â
The room stills.
âShe met me when I was just starting at the BAU. Before any of the⊠really bad stuff.â He swallows. âSheâs seen what this job does. To all of us.â
Emilyâs expression softens.
Spencer continues.
âShe was there when I couldnât sleep after my first execution-style case. She sat with me and read out loud because I couldnât get the images out of my head.â
JJâs eyes glisten.
âShe was there when my momâs condition got worse. When I didnât know how to handle it. She learned about schizophrenia just so she could understand what I grew up with.â
Morgan shifts, quieter now.
âAnd when Iââ
Spencer stops.
The prison memory hangs heavy in the air without him even saying it.
His jaw tightens.
âWhen I was in prison,â he finishes softly, âshe visited every week. Even when I told her not to.â
Emily inhales slowly.
Spencerâs voice steadies, âShe wrote to me every day. She memorized the visitor protocols. She advocated for me when no one else could. She never once doubted that Iâd come home.â
Morganâs teasing expression is completely gone now.
âShe kept our apartment exactly the same,â Spencer continues, almost like heâs replaying it in his mind. âShe said she didnât want me walking into something unfamiliar.â
JJ wipes at her eye discreetly.
Spencer looks down at his ring, âSheâs been there for every version of me. The anxious twenty-something. The grieving son. The addict. The inmate. The profiler who canât always leave work at work.â
His lips twitch faintly, âSheâs the only constant Iâve ever had.â
The room is completely silent.
Morgan finally speaks, softer than theyâve ever heard him.
âWhy didnât you tell us?â
Spencer hesitates, âBecause this job makes enemies,â he says quietly. âAnd I could never forgive myself if something happened to her because of me.â
That lands harder than expected.
Hotch nods once. He understands that logic more than anyone.
Emily steps forward slightly. âSo you just⊠what? Go home every night and we never knew?â
Spencer gives a small shrug, âYes.â
Morgan exhales slowly. âReid, thatâs not something small.â
Spencer tilts his head, âItâs not small to me.â
Thereâs no arrogance in it. Just certainty.
âShe makes me dinner when I forget to eat. She leaves sticky notes in my books when she knows Iâll be stressed. She reminds me that Iâm more than my IQ and my trauma.â
His voice softens again, âShe married me when I was still figuring out how to exist in the world. Thatâs not small.â
JJ smiles through tears. âDoes she know what you do?â
âYes.â
âAnd sheâs okay with it?â
Spencer nods, âShe worries. But she says sheâd rather love me in a dangerous world than not love me at all.â
Morgan shakes his head slowly, âReid, thatâs real.â
Spencer is in constant awe of your beauty. Tonight, with you dancing in the middle of the bar, he is not the only one. But between the pulsing music and the neon lights, it's clear that you only have eyes for him, and you make sure he knows it.
BUD Chronicles | gif by @reidgif
Contents: 4.7k words, SMUT & FLUFF 18+, MDNI, fem!reader, established relationship, early seasons Spencer, alcohol mentions, Spencer is down bad for reader (no like it's actually sickening how much he loves you), misogynistic language (not from Spencer), protective Spencer, PDA, r wears a skirt, whiny Spencer, car sex, fingering, size kink, protected p in v, Spencer comes too soon poor guy.
A/n: return of BUD dedicated to @whisperedmeg belated happy birthday megara you are so creative and endlessly thoughtful and intentional in everything you do my love for you transcends oceans and timezones i am so so so grateful and happy to share this corner of the internet with you!!!!!
mostly proofread but it is 2am where i live, i'm sorry if i missed anything
Spencer avoids alcohol, as he always does. Nobody questions it anymore. Nobody pretends to pressure him, nobody teases. As is the norm of these nights out, Rossi generously offers to pay, and Morgan always makes sure Spencer has a glass of cider or iced tea so he doesn't go thirsty.
Said glass currently sits on the table, haloed by rings of condensation, completely untouched. He hasn't had anything to drink. Can't quite bring himself to do something as simple as bringing an object to his mouth, too distracted by you.
On good days, he's reverent. Who wouldn't be, if they have someone like you in their life? Reverence seems like the bare minimum. But that reverence does not interfere with his daily functions, or impede his sense of judgment. In fact, it's often the oppositeâhe loves you to the point of betterment, of motivation, doing more stuff just to make himself worthy of your affections.
Tonight, he's sad to say, is one of his bad days.
Tonight, he is so overcome with his devotion he's practically dripping in it. Convinced that every pore of his body is leaking with I love my girlfriend pheromones and that the whole bar can smell it.
Tonight, he can't move for every clumsy action seems offensive to you and your presence.
And, despite consuming zero alcohol, he still feels so utterly inebriated. Swaying on his seat, dizzy with want, eyes trained on you and you alone. Hazy neon and blinking flashes do nothing to dim your appearance, only serving to highlight your beauty, the way you spin and shimmy on the dance floor without a care in the world.
He had declined your multiple invites to dance. On another night, perhaps he'd muster up the courage to join you, but he doesn't trust his own body right now. Not that you'd ever complain about his graceless dance moves, but he's convinced any sense of coordination will disappear the moment you press into him.
Worse, Spencer knows, with a thousand percent certainty, that he would not be able to control any bodily reactions if you start dancing the way he knows you likeâswinging your hips flush against his. Sensual. Torturous.
He'd rather not be arrested for public indecency tonight. Or ever, actually. Imbecilic as he is right now, he's got enough presence of mind to at least avoid that.
So he contents himself with watching. You are angelic in this light, transforming even the pounding, fast paced music into something he'd enjoy, all because now he associates the song with the memory of your smile, the sheen of sweat on your forehead that glints neon pink when you twist your head just so.
Beside him, Emily yells with a flashing smile. Something teasing, no doubt. He's used to it, being on the receiving end of jokes (playful and told with love, of course), but somehow he's much more relaxed when he's with you. Anxieties of being too weird, or too smart, or too scrawny, all seem to collapse because the entire time he's dated you, you've never made those things seem like flaws.
So he grants Emily a sheepish smile, and a shake of his head. She laughs and calls him 'Lover boy' and he doesn't bother disputing it. He's proud of it. It feels like a badge of honor, especially after years of thinking he'd never be the kind of man to have this sort of love in his life.
In fact, he'd wear a physical badge of it, if such a thing existedâPenelope probably would make one if promptedâsimply because it's true.
And then Emily says 'Uh oh' and her face shifts enough to make his spine stiffen. Spencer follows her gaze and frowns.
He's always known you're beautiful. Had always admired how you bore itâproudly, never shrinking from the attention, always taking up the space like you owned it. He knows you're beautiful, knows that other people are aware of it too. Rightfully so.
But sometimes, they make it too obvious.
The man on the bar would be subtle, if Spencer isn't trained to watch out for signs like this. Body language, profiling training paired with his heightened senses in everything about you, all lead him to the same conclusion: you're being hit on.
And you, sweet perfect angel you, are doing everything in your power to reject the man.The stern line of your mouth, the arms crossed over your chest, body angled from this stranger.
Spencer doesn't like imposing himself in your space. Doesn't consider himself to be someone possessive, or a savior. He believes you to be strong enough to handle this without his intervention.
But the man lingers. Reaches, drags his unworthy fingers down the length of your arm, and finally Spencer moves, his brows furrowed.
He's shouldering his way through the crowd when you smack the man's hand away. Even through the pounding music, Spencer can hear your voiceâsnapping and testyâand the man's indignant exclamation of bitch. He pushes through and puts himself between you and the man before anything else escalates.
"Is there a problem?" he snaps, glaring at the stranger, "You want to explain why you're calling my girlfriend a bitch?"
The man sputters.
Behind him, Spencer feels you press closer, chin resting on his shoulder. He can feel your smugness emanating in waves.
"I told you, I wasn't interested. Now look, you've pissed off my honey."
Your breath tickles his neck. Spencer has to suppress a shudder, but manages to maintain his intimidating stance. He finds it surprisingly easy, channeling everything he's learned from his coworkers and his job to ward away this stranger.
The man holds up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right, jeez. Thought you were just lying about the boyfriend."
"Uh, no. And even if I didn't have a boyfriend, I still wouldn't be interested."
"Oh please, you're not evenâ"
"Watch your mouth." Spencer doesn't think he's ever sounded so angry as right now. He's faced impudence of many kind, and only a select few had ever been at the receiving end of this. But he finds himself ready to pull whatever stops for you. "Unless you want a problem."
"Whatever, man, I was just talking to her." with a scoff, the man finally turns and stomps off.
The tension in the air turns lax, but Spencer keeps an eye on the man until he's swallowed by the crowd. He feels your laugh before he hears it, feels the hitch in your breath, the shuddering shoulders against his side that tells him it's one of those laughing fits that overtake your entire body.
He glances down and instantly brightens at your giddy expression, free hand cupping your cheek.
"Hey."
"Hi, handsome."
All the anger he's felt eases from him from those words, simple and sweetly uttered. Just for him. Only ever for him. At once, he feels the effects of alcohol despite avoiding itâlightheaded and trippy and effervescentâall from the sight of your smile.
He presses his forehead to yours. "You okay? He didn't try anything else, did he?"
"I'm perfect. You came just in time."
"I hate that I had to," a muscle ticks in his jaw, "he shouldn't have pushed after you said no."
"Well, that's just how a lot of men are."
There's nothing he can say to that. He knows it's true, has seen several versions of the aftermath of an offended man. Spencer moves behind you and wraps his arms as if that act alone could protect you from any more harm.
At least it signals one thing: you're taken; everyone else back off.
He feels you sink into his chest, soft and content, hair tickling his chin.
"That was really hot, by the way."
He chuckles. "What was?"
"You getting all pissed off and protective. Didn't think you had it in you."
"Excuse you, I'm in the FBI! I've interrogated worse people."
"Really? I couldn't tell. You don't ever act like that around me."
"It's important to keep a work life separate from my personal life, you know that. I already study cases at home, I shouldn't bring that energy when I'm around you as itâ"
Your giggle tells him he's being baited into a reaction, and he sags against your back. "You're mean."
"Me? I just said you were hot, how is that mean?"
"You know how."
"Explain it to me, genius."
He huffs. "I hate you."
You twist to face him, gasping dramatically. "You what?"
"Nothing."
"Not nothing, you said you hated me. Apologize!"
Spencer answers with a kiss to the tip of your nose and an acquiesce. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."
"Hmm, not convincing. I need compliments."
"You possess an incredible ability to still look fresh after being in a dance floor surrounded by forty other people."
You giggle and tilt your head up for another kiss, which he eagerly grants. Sticky, artificial sweetness clings to your lips, a mix of your lip gloss and whatever drink you have been nursing. Your next words are uttered into the kiss, muffled and teasing. "How'd you even come to that number, you nerd?"
"Capacity estimation based on the width and length of the dance floor." he answers without a beat, grinning when he earns one of your full-bodied laughs. "Am I forgiven?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, good. You look like an angel." he adds. Not for good measure; just because he wants to. Because he can. Because it's true.
"I've already forgiven you."
"I know. I just thought I'd say it anyway." he watches, somewhat smugly, as you fluster, chin tipping down and fighting a smile.
He won't ever get enough of thisâthe weight of you, the way his angular body feel less disjointed when it's doing its job to hold up yours. Not completing himâneither of you believe in the idea of another person completing someone else. But being with you somehow augments his existence. Adds to who he is, what he can do.
He cups your face again, tips your chin up and captures your lips in a kiss. Slow and deep and completely inappropriate for the setting, judging by the pointed coughing from the bartender.
There's matching sheepish looks on your faces when you pull back.
The bartender looks unamused.
Spencer tucks his face in the crook of your neck, partly in shame, but mostly so he can keep peppering your skin with kisses. The longer he spends time with you, the more his earlier hypothesis is proven: his body is traitorous in its reactions. Already, his pants are beginning to feel strained and all he's done is share a few kisses.
Still, he can't stop. Finds any excuse to keep touching his lips to the sweat-slick softness of your neck, your shoulder. Something earthy and herbal hits his nose, the notes of your perfume melting into your skin, fusing with your natural musk. Chemical reactions have never been sexier.
He bares his teeth, nips at your ear. Your shiver reverberates right through his chest, straight to his heart, and all he can think is good, good, more.
"Excuse me, can you put this on David Rossi's tab?"
Spencer blinks, pulling back enough to stare at you, confused. There's a knowing smirk on your face, and he feels dizzy, undone by just the mischievous curl of lip. You aren't even addressing him; the words had been said to the bartender.
His heart stutters in anticipation. That smile is a promise; he will be remade before the night is over.
The bartender punches several buttons on the register, before lifting his thumb in affirmation. Successful.
You slip off the stool, lacing a hand through one of his. "Come on, baby, let's get out of here before the entire bar notices your raging boner."
Spencer sputters, but doesn't deny nor protest. It's all true.
It knocks air from his chest, this casual familiarity. How you've memorized his tells enough to make a decision for both him. How well you just know him. Your acceptanceâencouragement, evenâof his oddities. Sometimes questioning them but not to judge. Only to understand, to learn parts of himself that he thought had been hidden, but were really simmering right past the surface. No one has just bothered to dig before. Until you.
It should make him shrink back. Should make him feel like a topic of study, like one of the profiles he pores over, academic and impersonal.
Instead, Spencer welcomes it. It's scary, being seen in this light, but your gaze is always so full of adulation, and so the intimacy never feels violent or intrusive. Only sacred.
He follows you with single-minded focus, his vision myopic, singular, honed on the sway of your hips, the way your hair flutters when the late night breeze hits it after the two of you spill out the exit.
He moves to the sidewalk, intending to call a cab, but is stopped by a tug and a laugh.
"Spence, honey, you drove us here, remember?"
Oh. Right.
He chuckles, stumbling with you to the direction of the parking lot. His arm wraps over your shoulder, and your form melds into his side. Head tucked against him, strides in perfect sync, magnets snapping in place.
His car comes into view, but his attempts to unlock it is impeded by your mouth. Soft, lazy kisses along his neck, and already his hands are trembling.
"Angel," he croaks, gone, and you laugh, taking pity on him. Back off enough to let him open the passenger's side, slide in. Spencer rounds the vehicle and climbs to the driver's seat, and you're on him the moment the door slams shut.
Leaning over the console, your mouth finds his. Spencer returns it like he's been expecting it. Instantly, the kiss is messy. Full of greed and desperation, the tension from the bar culminating right here. In his vintage car, at a public parking lot.
Well, at least it's in semi-privacy.
At least there's no one around.
He's a little too far gone to make rational judgments. All he knows is you, you, you.
He kisses you with a low, throaty moan, hands everywhere, mapping out the familiar contours of your body, so warm and pliant under his ravenous palms. He squeezes handfuls of you through your clothes, one hand on your ass, the other on your thigh, guiding you from the passenger's side and straight on his lap.
You straddle him with ease, the action almost reflexive after how many times you've done it. Both your legs planted by his thighs, never breaking the kiss as you sit balanced on the tops of his knees like you belong thereâand you do.
He'd be whatever you want of him, be the throne, altar, and object of your affection. All three things have converged in his mind anyway; entire linguistic and symbolic fields fracturing at the power of your hands and heady kisses. Meanings warp because he says so, because he's convinced that preexisting ideas are not nearly sufficient enough to describe you and the way he feels for you.
You moan into his mouth, and he responds with a needy thrust upwards. Your hips are too far for any proper friction, so he holds the span of your waist in both hands and hauls you closer until you're positioned over his crotch.
"Oh, you're a little aggressive tonight," you giggle, fingers threaded through his hair.
A soft whine of protest fills the car when you pull away from the kiss.
Another giggle. "Ah, there's the Spencer I know."
He laughs too, barely more than a choked breath misting over your chest. "S-sorry. If it's making you uncomfortableâ"
"Oh, baby, it's doing the exact opposite." You grind down on his straining erection lazily. He fights back another whimper; he knows you can tell. In the darkness of his car, your teeth gleam, bared in a smile that's bordering on feral. "I told you earlier, it's hot. Not really aggressive, just more⊠assertive."
"It-it's hot?"
"Uh huh. I like when you get all confident." You lean in for another kiss, slow and deep like you have all the time in the world. Like the threat of getting caught isn't looming over both of your shoulders.
He feels your hands on his belt, hears the metals clanging softly as you unbuckle the leather.
"Y-you kind of help," he admits. His fingers flex anxiously into your skin, and he hopes he doesn't accidentally give you bruises, "it's easier to⊠just be⊠like I never have to second guess myself when I'm with you. I get to just⊠exist."
He feels your hands pause. For a brief moment, he wonders if he said something wrong, but your eyes are glimmering when they meet his, little sparkling bits clinging to your lashes.
Tears, Spencer realizes. You're crying. Or about to, at least.
"Angel." he breathes, cupping your face with both of his large hands and kissing away those tears before they have the chance to spill.
"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
Despite his attempts to prevent your crying, your voice still gets choked up in sobs. He kisses you through those too.
"It's true. It's true, you just⊠You make me lose my mind sometimes, but in a good way. I can get so in my head, but with you, I just am." He whispers with a breathless chuckle, holding you flush to him, as if eradicating distance will help his words sink bone deep.
"Don't lose your mind too much, though," you sniffle, and nuzzle into the side of his neck sweetly, "You also need to think to be, or whatever it was Descartes said."
He laughs. This time, when your lips meet, it's a slower tangle of tongue and teeth. His hands move from your hips to slip under your skirt, higher until his fingertips skim over soaked lace.
You shudder and rock into his grasp, seeking friction through fabric, and he lets you have it for a few languorous moments. Watches with bright eyes as you find pleasure from the gentle circles of his thumb, catalogues the way your lashes flutter like delicate wings over your cheeks.
When he feels like you've had enough teasing, he slides two fingers under your panties, slipping one past your entrance.
The familiar flutter around his digits is a welcome feelingâyour body gently accepting him. Human anatomy never ceases to amaze him. The way something so tight and small can open up with a few simple caresses, the right attention. And Spencer intends to shower you with all of his focus right now.
Another finger joins the first, stretching you further, curling up until he finds that familiar spot deep inside you.
Your whole body trembles on his lap, and Spencer can't hold back a moan.
Foreplay is necessary, both of you realized early into your relationship, not just to keep you wet, but also to get these muscles to relax. He'd never fit inside you otherwise, and he'd rather be celibate for the rest of his life than to ever hurt you deliberately.
So he finds a rhythm with his fingers. Watches every reaction with large, honey eyes, committing every hitch of your breath to memory. He's hard under you again. Hell, he's afraid he'd come just from thisâthe exquisite friction of having you on his lap and taking in your reactions while he gives you pleasure. He wouldn't complain if that's how he comes, actually, would be perfectly content to fall apart just from pleasuring you.
But you've other ideas and he's utterly beholden to you. So when you whisper, "Stop, stop, I don't want to finish yet," Spencer halts every action.
He keeps his fingers buried in your warmth as you lean in for another kiss. Somehow, you still taste sweet after making out with him. He marvels at that, at you. But then you're rocking into his palm again, and he knows that you wantâneedâmore.
"Condom's in my left pocket," he mutters against your lips, laughing when you pat the wrong side, "No, angel, my left."
You giggle, shoulders shaking uncontrollably until you finally pull the packet out. The unmistakable sound of a zipper being undone fills the car, and then finally he feels relief as the length of him is freed from his boxers. He's hard, so red it looks almost painfulâand it had been, tenting under layers of clothes though he's not about to complain now.
Spencer's forced to pull his fingers from you in favor of tugging your panties down. It's awkward and messy, with you contorting just to get the panties off, and by the time it's gone, you're both giggling.
"Maybe we shouldn't have done this in a car." he says, nipping at your lower lip.
"Would you have been able to wait until we got home?" you retort. The foil tears open in one clean yank, a testament to your resolve.
"Honestly, I would wait for you forever."
"Okay, Orpheus." your sarcastic tone is blunted by the hint of giddiness, the slight lift at the corners of your lips. You reach down, patting along the side.
"Angel, my seats don't recline." he reminds you.
"Fucking hell," you groan, glaring at him as if it's somehow his fault. He rubs circles into your thighs and waits patiently while you contemplate whether or not to continue. "Whatever. Condom's already open."
He laughs and lets you roll the condom on, groaning when your hands wrap around his girth. He's so large that you can barely fit your palm around it, squeezing slightly at your teasing strokes. Spencer moans, his head already thrown back against the headrest.
You silence him with another kiss, tongue sweeping hungrily into his mouth, and he surrenders. Any amount of his assertiveness you claimed to find hot vanishes. Spencer is always ecstatic to give away control, let you take over.
You part for air, although he's convinced the car is running out of it, that it's getting so thick and heavy with tension that you'd both end up suffocating. Oh well. Not a bad way to go.
He helps you lift up, skirt bunched up to your hips and pinned there by his palms. With a confident grip, you glide the length of his cock over your folds, gathering slickness, and offering a glimpse of what's to come.
After a few teasing passes, it becomes evident that you're both desperate for this, because you finally line him to your entrance and sink down. Gravity does its job, but he keeps you steady with his hands, nails carving crescent moons into your skin.
You're tight. That shouldn't come as a surprise, but he whimpers all the same, brows furrowed in concentration as he fights every instinct to just buck up and take. But no. Not while the broadest part of his cock is barely past that tight ring of muscle.
He feels your walls flutter, then tense, and he's reaching between your legs and thumbing gentle halos over your clit. Your heaving breaths warm his skin, but he feels you beginning to relax again.
"Fuck," you groan, face buried in his neck. "God, this first entry is always soâoh!"
Spencer mirrors your groan as he finally breeches your entrance and he's surrounded by the most heavenly, velvety warmth.
"You okay?" he asks, raining kisses to your temple, your cheek like a shower of starlight. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"No, thisâmhm, fuck." you're already grinding on top of him, chasing your pleasure.
Spencer gasps, expecting a little bit more adjustment time, but he isn't about to complain. Not when you're mewling above him, sweaty and dazed and all his. Already, you're whispering filthy words in his ear, crude and just on the verge of blasphemous.
He moans and nods and shifts. Mutters broken little yeses like he's substituting them for hail Mary's. When your hips start moving up and down in earnest, Spencer swears his vision whites out. He sits back, slack jawed and rapturous, blinking up at your figure. The pace you've set is quick and sloppy, perhaps because you've realized as well that this is being done in a public parking lot.
Distantly, he registers that the windows of his car have fogged up. That the creaking metal is directly caused you bouncing on his lap. That if anyone were to pass by, they would know exactly what's happening inside his vehicle.
For some reason, it's that thought that makes him shudder and hurtle straight to his orgasm. The recklessness of it all, the threat of being caught. It's thrilling. Kinks and fetishes had always seemed so abstract to him, but now, he understands them with frightening clarity.
And then, on top of it all, the fact that he never would have done this with anyone else. Just you, only you, oh god.
"That's it, baby," you pant, grinning at his every whine and whimper. "God, I can feel you throbbing."
He is. And it isn't just his cock. Every single part of him is overcome with tremors, so out of his control that his hips jerk up into you. He breaks your rhythm by mistake, hears a sharp gasp, followed by a moan.
"God, Spence, yes, just like that."
"Yeah?" he repeats it again, head still cloudy from the aftershocks, and eager to get you there as well. "Like this, angel?"
He thrusts up, again and again, eyes and ears perked for any shift in your tone or breathing, afraid to get too rough and hurt you. But you've turned to putty in his hands, body slumped against his chest, face buried in his neck.
Feeling bold, Spencer gets a firm grip on your hips and starts moving you with him. His cock is sensitive, and the tips of his fingers feel electric, but he doesn't stop. Keeps thrusting up into you despite the tears gathering in his lashes from over stimulation.
Your legs are trembling around him as you find the rhythm and move without the help of his hands, teeth sinking into his neck to muffle your desperate moans. He has no such restraint, his head titled back and whining, loud and shameless.
There's a familiar clenching around his length, telling him you're close, almost there, and he doubles his efforts. Feet planted firmly on the floor, he moves with more confidence, taking cues from your trembling body to keep himself in check.
The car's rocking is obscene.
And then you're crying out, shuddering, a rush of slickness coating his cock. Spencer locks his arms around your waist and breathes you in. Lets you ride out the waves in the firm comfort of his embrace.
"My god." he mumbles. Soothing kisses run down your neck, along the curve of your shoulder. "Are you okay?"
You can only nod, legs feeling delicate and immovable. Spencer is content to keep you on his lap while you recover, nosing through the tendrils of hair plastered to your temple. He feels elated, content, and mildly disbelieving.
"Angel," he breathes, sheepish and worn out, "I don't think I can drive."
Your laughter is bright, slurred, and so, so angelic. You are the picture of ruin when you finally emerge from his neck and look up at him. "Maybe I should have let you call us a cab earlier."
He tilts your chin up, grinning and so in love. "Really? I'm glad you didn't."
He watches you laugh again, and he swears that's enough to help him recover feeling back to his lower body. Just the sight of you and the sound of your laughter.
Spencer leans in for another kiss. The last for right now, in this car, but definitely not for the night. In fact, the first of many, forever, if he could help it.
thank you to that one anon and @oorchidea for peer pressuring me into finishing this lol I missed this pairing a lot. Please reblog if you enjoyed!!! We fought to get that button back, we should utilize it.
your alien boyfriend is just so alien in the sense that his anatomy is just slightly different and off putting but you kinda love it.
youâve noticed his heartbeat doesnât really sound like a heartbeat, and heâs so fascinated by the way yours beats so rhythmically.
or maybe his irises get slightly wider than a normal personâs would when he sees something he likes, making them seem darker than what they usually are.
he doesnât drink, like at all, which is fine, but he tells you itâs because alcohol doesnât effect him. you think heâs just realizing heâs a heavy weight but youâve seen him take ten consecutive shots back to back and not even flinch once. but funnily enough he does act a little tipsy at the smell of your perfume.
heâs also weirdly light on his feet. like, you can barely make out his footsteps half of the time and he tends to scare you sometimes because of it. you can only tell when heâs approaching is if the door creaks, or he knocks something over or he trips on his own feet or something along those lines.
he can also hold his breath for an concerningly long period of time. whenever the two of you are at the beach or the pool and he dives in, he spends an uncomfortable amount of time underwater. and when you start to worry, even the lifeguard (if there is one) starts to blow their whistle, he resurfaces casually, barely breathless.
he also kisses you like he doesnât really need oxygen to breathe, itâs almost as if he can breathe through you, quite literally taking the breath from your lungs. heâs always looking at you like a kicked puppy whenever you pull away, telling him you need a minute for air. he doesnât really get that you donât breathe the same way he does.
‷ âĄËË Â Ä±l. synopsis. âĄËË while working late at the lab, an unknown assailant kidnaps you, stealing you away from the team (and bucky).
ıl. content warning. kidnapping, paranoid and super protective buckyÂ
Masterlist áŠ
The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound in the otherwise silent lab. You leaned over the workbench, brows furrowed in concentration as your fingers traced the strange etchings on the alien weaponâs surface. Tony had asked for your expertise, but even you werenât sure what you were dealing with yet. The metal pulsed faintly beneath your touch, as if it were alive.
You exhaled, rubbing at your tired eyes. It was well past midnight, and you knew Bucky would be worried. He always was when you worked late. You smiled at the thoughtâyour grumpy soldier turned soft for you. He was the only one who could pull you away from your work with just a look, the only one who could convince you to rest.
Just as you reached for your communicator to send him a quick message, the lights flickered. A deep, guttural growl echoed through the lab, freezing you in place. The air turned thick, heavy with the presence of something unnatural.
Slowly, you turned.
A towering figure loomed in the doorway, eyes glowing a sickly yellow. The weapon vibrated violently beneath your hand, reacting to its true owner.
âOh, shit.â
Before you could move, the alien lunged.
The compound shook with the force of the blast.
Bucky was in the common room with Steve and Sam when the alarms blared, a cold dread seizing his chest. He didnât need to be told where the explosion had come fromâhe already knew.
â(Y/N),â he breathed, already sprinting toward the lab.
The sight that greeted him made his stomach drop.
Shattered glass, overturned tables, and a gaping hole in the labâs reinforced walls. But the worst partâthe part that made his blood run ice coldâwas the pool of blood staining the floor.
âNo,â he whispered, voice strangled.
His hands shook as he crouched down, fingers brushing over the still-warm blood. Your blood. His vision blurred, heart hammering wildly in his chest.
Steveâs voice was distant, muffled, as he barked out orders. Sam was already scanning the security footage, but Bucky couldnât move. Couldnât breathe.
Sheâs gone. They took her.
Heâd let himself love you. Let himself believe he could have something good. And nowânow he might have lost you.
The alienâs ship was located two hours later. It wasnât soon enough.
Bucky had barely let the Quinjet land before he was leaping out, sprinting toward the structure where the signal led. The others barely kept up, but he didnât care. He had to get to you.
They found you strapped to a metal slab, restraints biting into your wrists. Blood coated your torn shirt, fresh wounds marring your skin. You were barely conscious, eyes fluttering weakly as the alien loomed over you, preparing to strike again.
Bucky saw red.
The alien barely had time to react before Bucky was on him, metal fist colliding with bone with a sickening crunch. He didnât stopânot when the creature roared in pain, not when Steve yelled for him to stand down.
It was only when he felt your weak fingers brush his own that he froze. Steve must have freed her when he had the chance.
âB-Bucky?â your voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. You were hunched over, on your knees.
His heart clenched painfully at how broken you sounded. He turned to you immediately, cradling your face with shaking hands. âIâm here, doll. I got you.â
You tried to smile, but it quickly turned into a wince. âTook you⊠long enough.â
Bucky let out a strangled laugh, pressing his forehead against yours. âYou scared the hell outta me.â
Your fingers curled weakly around his wrist. âDidnât mean to.â
His throat tightened. âYou're never working on one of Tony's projects again. Ever.â
You hummed softly, eyes slipping shut. Bucky panicked, shaking you lightly. âHey, no, stay with me. You hear me? Weâre going home.â
He quickly scooped you up, letting your head rest on his shoulder. Bucky's heart ached at the sight, and he subconsciously pulled you closer to him, vowing to never let you out of his sight.
Back at the compound, it was hours before you woke up. Bucky never left your side, metal fingers intertwined with yours as he watched the steady rise and fall of your chest. Steve had tried to lighten to mood by joking that Bucky was far too overprotective, that he was too much like a lost puppy; but he quickly realised that Bucky was not paying attention, and he left.
When your eyes finally fluttered open, he exhaled deeply, relief washing over him like a tidal wave.
âHey,â you croaked, voice still weak.
Bucky leaned in, brushing his lips over your knuckles. âHey yourself.â
âYou look like hell,â you teased weakly.
Bucky huffed a laugh, but his eyes were still clouded with worry. âYou almost died.â
You squeezed his hand, offering a tired smile. âBut I didnât.â
His jaw clenched, emotions warring in his gaze. âI canât lose you,â he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. âI wonât lose the only person I know I can trust, I know I can love.â
You tugged on his hand until he hesitantly leaned down, resting his forehead against yours. You sighed, reveling in the familiar warmth of him.
âYou wonât,â you promised. âIâm right here.â
Bucky swallowed hard, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. âYeah,â he murmured. âAnd Iâm never letting you go.â
Summary: You can hold your ownâalways have. But that doesnât stop your husband from going full Winter Soldier mode when he sees someone laid a hand on you.
Warnings: Language, injuries, soft-but-intense husband!Bucky, protective behavior, possessiveness, comfort, fluff, violence mentioned (not graphic), "who did this to you?", lots of banter.
Word count: 1.3k+
A/n: this fic is from my poll where husband au and who did this to u prompt won. I will do the enemies to lovers in my next fic. Thank you for reading <3.
Divider credits: @saradika
Night- 1:47 AM
You turned the front doorknob with all the delicacy of a trained assassinâwhich, to be fair, you were.
No sound. Good.
You stepped inside, sliding your shoes off silently and tiptoeing like the floorboards might narc on you. You could practically hear your heartbeat in your ears.
Heâd be asleep. He had to be.
You could get to the bathroom, clean up, hide the worst of it. He didnât have to know. You didnât want him to worry, to spiral. Not again.
You made it three steps down the hallway.
Thenâ âDonât move.â
Shit.
His voice cut through the silence, low and lethal. It came from the living room.
You closed your eyes. "Hi, honey. I'm home."
A light flipped on.
Bucky stood by the couch, arms crossed, half in shadow. The sight of himâbarefoot, hoodie loose over his broad chest, hair tousled from waiting upâwouldâve been comforting, if not for the look in his eyes.
His gaze traveled from your face to your arms, your ribs, where blood had started to seep through your shirt.
He didnât say a word.
You tried to play it off. âBefore you say anything, it looks worse than it isââ
His voice dropped to a whisper.
âWho did this to you?â
You exhaled slowly. âBuckââ
âDonât. JustâŠâ His jaw clenched. âStay right there.â
âBucky, itâs fine. I dodnât even need stitchesââ
âYouâre bleeding.â His voice trembled with something dangerous. âYouâre limping. You snuck into your own damn house like a thief because you knew Iâd lose it if I saw you like this. And guess what? You were right.â
He was in front of you in three long strides.
His handsâwarm, shakingâcame up to cup your face, careful to avoid the bruises.
âYou werenât supposed to see me like this,â you whispered. âYouâd only worry.â
âI worry when youâre five minutes late for lunch. You think this is gonna lessen that?â
âIâm not made of glassââ
âYouâre made of everything I live for.â
Your breath caught.
He scanned your injuries with haunted eyes. âWho did this?â
âItâs not important.â
âIt is to me.â
You sighed. âI didnât want you to spiral. Last time you saw me with a busted lip, you threatened to drown a guy in the Hudson.â
âI shouldâve.â
âBuckyââ
âTell me his name.â
You met his eyes. âIf I do, youâll find him.â
He didnât deny it.
âAnd if I donât?â you added.
âIâll find him anyway.â
You groaned. âYou are the most dramatic man Iâve ever met.â
He lifted you into his arms like it was nothingâlike you didnât have two working legsâand carried you down the hall.
âIâm intense,â he corrected. âNot dramatic.â
âYou literally brooded in the dark waiting for me to get home.â
âYou really thought I wouldnât notice? Like my wife could come home hurt and I wouldnât feel it in my chest?â
You let out a weak laugh. âGod, youâre annoying.â
âYou married me, doll. Thatâs on you.â
Twenty Minutes Later...
You sat on the bathroom counter while Bucky dabbed antiseptic over the cuts along your ribs, his brows furrowed like each mark physically hurt him more than it hurt you.
He hadnât stopped touching you.
Even now, his thumb rubbed soft circles into your thigh as he worked.
âDoesnât even sting,â you said.
âThatâs not the point,â he muttered, placing another bandage carefully. âYou came home bleeding. You flinched when you took your shirt off. You snuck in.â
âI didnât want to see your sad little kicked puppy face,â you teased.
He glared. âYouâre lucky I love you.â
âNo, youâre lucky I love you. Youâre high maintenance.â
âSays the woman who took on a six-foot mercenary solo and got cracked in the jaw for it.â
You raised an eyebrow. âYou think I didnât win?â
He paused. âWait. You won?â
âCracked three of his ribs and made him cry.â
He stared.
Thenâslowlyâhe grinned.
âThatâs my girl.â
You tried not to bask in it, but you totally basked in it.
Still, he wasnât done.
As he finished wrapping the final gauze, he stood between your legs and stared at you like you held gravity in your hands.âI breathe for you,â he said, voice barely a whisper. âThatâs it. Thatâs the only reason I get up in the morning.â
Your throat went tight. âBuckyââ
âYou come home hurt, and it feels like the worldâs off its axis. I canât think. Canât function. Youâre not fragile, babe. Youâre the strongest person I know. But the thought of losing you? Iâd lose everything.â
God.
You buried your face in his chest, arms tight around him.
âIâm sorry,â you whispered. âI didnât mean to scare you.â
âToo late. You did. You always do.â
You looked up. âYouâre a menace, you know that?â
âYou love it.â
âUnfortunately.â
He grinned and kissed your forehead.
Next Day â 2:00 PM
You woke up to an empty bed and a note on the pillow:
Had to step out. Be back soon. Donât move too much or Iâll find out and carry you around like a baby until you learn your lesson. I love you more than oxygen.
âB <3
You rolled your eyes.
And sighed.
And smiled.
He came back at sunset. Calm. Too calm.
You didnât even have to ask.
âYou found him, didnât you?â
He dropped his jacket. âYeah.â
âAnd?â
âHeâs not gonna be walking straight for a while.â
âBuckyâŠâ
âAnd probably wonât be talking much either.â
You stared at him.
âHeâll live. Probably,â Bucky said with a shrug. âI was nice. For the first ten seconds.â
âJesusââ
âHe laid a hand on you. You really think I wasnât gonna rearrange his face?â
You huffed, arms crossed, but you were secretly touched. And maybe a little turned on.
âYou are so dramatic.â
âNo. Dramatic is you sneaking past your literal super soldier husband with blood dripping down your shirt.â
âFine,â you muttered, walking toward him. âYou win.â
He caught you easily, arms pulling you in.
âI always win, doll,â he murmured, kissing your bruised temple. âEspecially when it comes to you.â
The Next Morning â 9:07 AM
Sunlight filtered lazily through the curtains, painting golden stripes over the bed where you were curled up like a cat. One leg over the sheet. A little sore. A little achy. But warm.
Bucky stirred beside you, his metal arm slung protectively over your waist.
âYou awake?â you mumbled.
âWas watching you breathe,â he rasped, voice still sleep-rough. âYou twitch your nose when youâre dreaming.â
âYouâre creepy.â
âYou married me, sweetheart. This is your fault.â
You snorted, rolling to face him, wincing a little. He was already awake, already watching you with that look. Like you were sacred. Untouchable. His.
âYou hurting?â he asked immediately, shifting to sit up. âNeed painkillers? Water? I can carry you to the bathââ
âBucky.â
He blinked.
âIâm okay. Itâs just a bruise, not a broken limb. Stop hovering.â
âIâm not hovering.â
âYouâre three seconds from spoon-feeding me cereal.â
ââŠIs that an option?â
You groaned and buried your face in his chest.
âYouâre insufferable.â
He chuckled, warm and smug, tucking you tighter under his chin. You stayed like that for a while. Tangled limbs. Warm sheets. His fingers trailing soft patterns on your back like he couldnât stand not touching you.
âDonât do that again,â he whispered finally.
You didnât pretend to not hear it. âOkay.â
âI know youâre strong. I know you can take care of yourself. But if something happens to youâI stop breathing. You get that?â
You swallowed hard. âI get it.â
âI love you so much it makes me a little insane.â
âOnly a little?â
âI toned it down for your sake.â
You giggled. âYouâre cute when youâre crazy.â
âGood. Because youâre stuck with me.â
You looked up, brushed the hair from his forehead, kissed him slow.
summary : you run into some trouble on your way home, but of course your boyfriend will always be there when you need him
pairing : bucky barnes x reader
word count : 1.3k
cw : mugging, unwanted physical touch, knife, state of panic, minor injury, canon typical violence, lots of comfort, bucky being sweet and caring with his girlfriend, pet names (darling, sweetheart, baby), established relationship
prompts : "a necklace" and "knife to throat"
a/n : i actually asked my friend to choose one number from two prompt lists and this is what i came up with so hope yâall enjoy !
english is not my first language so feel free to correct me if you see any mistakes !
"Bye Ava", with a wave of your hand you took your bag before leaning towards her and whispering teasingly "And good luck with the old Joe"
"Funny, she deadpanned, I hope youâll laugh as loudly when I donât clean his puke and leave it for the morning shift, which you happen to cover if I remember right.", she shot back, but failed at containing her smile and waved back at you before you disappeared behind the employee exit, leading to a poorly lit alley that seemed to get more and more invaded by trash bins each day.
It honestly wasnât much worse than your entire walk back to your apartment but you had grown accustomed to it and the acrid smell and dark corners were just routine by now.
Youâve been working at this small diner in a not-that-safe neighborhood for a few years now. The pay wasnât crazy and the hours not the best but you enjoyed the comfort of the routine and you loved your usual costumers and colleaguesâAva mainly.
You were now only a few blocks away from your home and could already feel the knots in your shoulders disappear at the thought of Bucky waiting for you at home.
Deep in your thoughtsâand left neglectful by years walking the same road to and from work at ungodly hours- you failed to see the man that has been following you for the past block and that was now only a few steps away.
When you heard the rushed footsteps it was already too late.
Suddenly, you were pushed against a brick wall in a dark alley, your head spinning from the force at which you had hit it.
Heart in your throat and the words stuck on your tongue you did the only thing you could remember Bucky teaching you for situations like this.
You pressed the panic button hidden on the side of your watch.
The sound of a blade being drawn brought you back to reality and you pressed yourself even further against the wall if it was possible.
When you managed to look the man in the eyes all you saw was a manic glint in his irises.
"Do you have something for me sweetheart ?", he rasped out, his hot breath drowning you in his smell.
His hand stilled low on your stomach, holding both your hands as the other drew the blade against your body, through the layers of clothes. You shivered in fear as he dragged it higher on your chestâslowing there disgustingly and letting his gaze linger where your work uniform had dipped with all these movements.
And when something grabbed his attention you whimpered as the knife settled on your throat.
"I donât have anything on me I swear", you blurted out, you voice breaking on every syllable.
"And what is this ?" he hummed as the blade picked up the chain adoring your neck that slipped under your shirt. The blade picked it up, the steel rattling against the chain in a noise that made your teeth grind.
Finally, the pendant slipped out of your cleavage and he lifted it higher, letting it catch the moonlight.
Buckyâs dog tag.
"Please- please let me go." you whispered desperately, you chest was raising and falling more and more dramatically with each second.
Oh how you regretted not agreeing when Bucky asked you if you wanted him to pick you up today.
At the thought your eyes watered but you were interrupted by the man who were seemingly not interested anymore by your necklace.
"You want me to let you go" he mimicked, letting out a raspy laugh. "But what about what I want huh ? Nobody cares about what I want." The blade was now resting against your throat and he was just rambling about things you couldnât make out but he was growing agitated and-
The sound of footsteps running toward you.
And suddenly-
A jaw- breaking. The crunch of the bones resonating in the now less empty alley.
Bucky.
The relief made your vision blurry and as the man fell unconscious you flinched when a cold hand settled on your elbow, a broken whimper leaving your throat.
But then your eyes set on a pair of blue eyes. Rugged skin. Brownish hair. A small scar above the left eyebrow.
"Bucky..?" you let out breathlessly.
"Yeah baby, itâs me. Itâs me, youâre alright. Can I-" you fell into his arms answering his question before he could even get it out.
Your shoulders shook relentlessly as you gripped his shirt with unclenchable fists, struggling to ground yourself despite all your willpower.
"Come on sweetheart. Youâre alright, youâre safe." he squeezed you as hard as he allowed himself without hurting you. "Iâm sorry, Iâm sorry, youâre alright. Look at me baby."
He leaned back just enough to catch your gaze and scan you for injuries, his hands lingered near your throat were a trail of blood flowed down slowly. And when he whipped his thumb across your cheekbone he realized his hand holding the back of your head was already bloody his jaw clenching at the thought.
"You did perfect baby, you were so brave and perfect." he whispered against your skin again and again. "Iâm gonna carry you now alright ? Just so we can get you home fast and get you nice and clean. Okay sweets ?"
He waited till your head moved into the tiniest nod before starting the walk home.
Everything passed in a blur and only did you realized you had made it home when a hand settled on your chin.
You felt the green sofa -one you had both picked out in an antique shop one afternoon that felt an eternity ago- under your hands and lifted your eyes to see Bucky who had seemingly been waiting to have your attention for a moment now.
"Huh ?"
"I asked you if it was okay if I left you here just for a sec, just to get you warm clothes and draw you a bath ?"
You hummed in answer, lost in your thoughts but when his hands left you and he got up only did the words register.
"No ! Wait whe- where are you going ?" you stammered, your hand flying to grip his.
Something broke in his eyes but he simply answered, ever so softly : "Iâm just going to grab you some clothes so you can shower and relax baby. But you can stay with me while I do that. Would you prefer that sweetheart ?"
"Please." you mumbled, your voice small even in the quiet of your apartment.
"Of course baby."
And you followed him like his shadow as he made sure to never let go of your hand.
You breathing was much more calm now. And in the absurd normality of your home you could almost forget the event that unfolded earlier. Almost.
The warm hand on your side moved slightly higher bringing your attention back to him. Your eyes fluttered open and caught his stare on you.
"You okay ?" he whispered against your forehead, pressing a kiss there.
"I think yeah. I just.. need you to hold me." you whispered lifting your gaze to his.
One of his hand shifted from your waist to your hip to stroke his thumb there, as the other travelled up to your cheekbone slowing slightly at the gauze on your throat.
"You were so so brave. Iâm so proud of you." He brought your face to rest on his neck as he continued to whisper into your hair, punctuating his words by kisses. "My beautiful strong girl, Iâll make sure you never have to use that button again. But if you do, I want you to know that Iâll always -he stopped to press a kiss to your hair- always come for you."
"I know."
And that you did. Because no matter what you were facing he had -and always would- be standing beside you.
first time writing for Bucky.. hope I didnât write him too ooc đ
feedback is always appreciated !! requests are open !
Summary: A winter mission goes sideways, forcing you to cross a frozen lake under fire. The ice doesnât holdâand when you go under, Bucky is the only thing between you and the dark.
MCU Timeline Placement: Post Thunderbolts*
Master List: Find my other stuff here!
Warnings: THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS, hypothermia, near-drowning, descriptions of drowning, blood, injuries, limb trauma, hospitalization, PTSD symptoms, emotional vulnerability, protective behavior, team banter, soft angst with resolution!
Word Count: 9.5k
Authorâs Note: had so much fun with this request!! this one really reminded me of no way but through, which holds such a special place in my little cold-weather-loving heart. i loooove icy mission settings, hypothermic chaos, and painfully soft bucky barnes, so this was basically a dream to write. also couldnât help myself and had to bring in the full thunderbolts/new avengers crew at the end. i am nothing if not predictable <3
The wind off the lake bit harder than it had twenty minutes ago.
Not that it mattered. Youâd stopped registering the cold a while back, after the second ridge, where the frost had started creeping into the inside seam of your gloves. Or maybe when you heard the first round of gunfire echo through the trees, half-muted by the thick snow-laden branches overhead.
Your teeth werenât chattering. That wouldâve meant your body had enough energy to waste on something so useless. Instead, everything inside you was pulling inward. Tightening. Conserving. Slowing.
âKeep moving,â Buckyâs voice snapped, low and close behind your left shoulder, and you did.
Not because he told you to. Because you had to.
The mission had gone wrong in the kind of way that didnât leave room for debriefs. No secure exit point, no external comms, no second wave coming in behind you. Just you, Bucky, and the last evac flare tucked in Yelenaâs pack two klicks eastâacross a frozen lake, through the trees, past whatever was still hunting you from the west ridge.
You hadnât seen what hit the quinjet. Just felt the shockwave under your boots, then the plume of smoke curling over the horizon. Yelena had been the one closest to the treeline. She moved faster, covered more ground when it mattered, and she was carrying the extraction beacon. So when everything went to hell and the team scattered, it was you and Bucky left circling back to pull recon on the ones who shot your ride out of the sky.
Bucky walked behind you now, a half-step slower than usual. Calculated. Watching your six, probably watching your feet, too.Â
âNortheast ridge is clear,â Yelenaâs voice crackled softly in your comms. âFound an evac point. Iâll hold position.â
âCopy,â Bucky muttered. He was closer now. You could hear the rough edge in his voice, the constant scrape of concern just underneath it. âLet us know if anything shifts.â
There was a pause, a soft click, and then silence.
It had been thirty-two minutes.
Thirty-two minutes of sprinting across a frozen forest, every breath burning in your lungs. Thirty-two minutes of feeling Buckyâs presence hovering behind you like a shadow stitched to your spine, keeping pace, always watching. Watching your six, probably watching your feet, too.
âWeâre near the lake,â Bucky said quietly.
You nodded once. Didnât slow.
The lake had shown up on recon, a massive spread of black and silver on the satellite map, completely iced over and ringed by skeletal trees. You hadnât planned to get near it. No cover. No depth perception. And the iceâŠ
There were warnings. Cracks. Inconsistent freeze. The warm weeks earlier in the month had made it unreliable. Solid in places, dangerously thin in others.
Your fingers flexed around your weapon. You could still feel the scabbed-over cuts along your knuckles from the last mission. You hadnât even gotten the blood out of the gloves. It had frozen stiff.
âTheyâre pushing,â Bucky said, eyes scanning the treeline. âTrying to flank.â
âWe keep moving.â
âYouâre hurt.â
âNot bad.â
âThatâs not what I asked.â
Your jaw locked.
There was blood soaking into the seam of your left leg, trailing down to right where the fabric met your boot. You didnât look down. Couldnât. It hadnât slowed you down yet. If it did, youâd think about it. Not now.
You didnât tell him how deep the cut went. You didnât need to. He could smell it by now, metallic, sharp, slicing through the scent of ice and pine. It left a trail behind you, carved like a signature across the snow. If any of the hostiles had dogs, you were as good as marked.
The lake came into full view as you crested the ridge. It didnât shimmer, didnât glintâit was too dark for that now. Instead, it stretched wide and waiting, flat as glass and just as merciless. A wound in the landscape, glossy and black, veins of fracture spidering out across the surface where the snow had been blown off by the earlier blast wave.
Bucky said nothing, but he stopped just behind you. You could feel the weight of his silence.
âWe donât have time to go around,â you said, voice thin. âTheyâll have us before the trees thicken again.â
âThereâs no cover out there.â His tone wasnât harsh. It was worse, quiet, steady, resigned. âIf they catch sight of us, weâre open. Sitting ducks. You know that.â
âThey wonât.â You adjusted your grip on your weapon. The trigger guard was sticking, your blood had frozen at the seam. âThereâs mist coming off the surface. Itâll give us some visual buffer if we move fast.â
âYouâre bleeding.â
âWhich is why I canât climb another fucking ridge.â
Your voice barely made it past your lips. It felt thinner than the air you were pulling into your chest. You didnât need to look at Bucky to know he was staring at you againâsharp, narrowed, assessing you the way he did before a breach. Not checking for weakness. Measuring the cost.
But there was no time for costs anymore.
The crack of gunfire ricocheted off the ridge behind you.Â
Not the echo of distant threat, but close. Immediate.Â
Bark splintered off a tree trunk ten paces from your position, and Bucky moved instantly, grabbing your arm and yanking you down into a crouch behind the lip of an ice-encased boulder.Â
You landed hard on your knee, your injured leg screaming in protest. Warm blood surged and stuck to the inside of your pants, and it was only then that you realized the muscle was torn. Not grazed. Torn.
Bucky didnât flinch at the impact, but you caught the way his jaw clenched. âTheyâve got fucking elevation,â he muttered under his breath. âHow the hell did theyââ
Another round cracked off a rock to your left. You ducked lower.
You didnât answer him. You were trying not to pass out.
The second ridge. That was where theyâd circled back. They mustâve doubled back around while you were sweeping east, using the wreckage and smoke trail from the quinjet as cover. You shouldâve clocked it. Shouldâve seen the trail crossing itself on the HUD.
But youâd been too busy bleeding.
A comms stutter broke through your earpiece. Yelenaâs voice, brittle and curt: âMultiple heat signaturesâtracking southeast. Six or seven. Aggressive push. Fast. You need to move.â
âNoted,â Bucky muttered, and clicked off.
He turned toward you, and there was something behind his eyes now. Not fear. Urgency. That hard-edged tension youâd only ever seen once before, when heâd carried your unconscious body out of a compound fire and spent the next forty minutes in complete silence.
âWeâre not getting around the lake,â he said flatly.
Another shot cracked the air.
You flinched. He didnât.
âTheyâre herding us,â you said quietly, barely audible. âDriving us into the open.â
He nodded once. âThey want the intel. They donât want to kill us. Not yet.â
âCouldâve fooled me.â
More shouts. They were getting louder. You heard the low whine of an engine somewhere, a snowmobile, maybe. Not yours. Yours was ash.
âWe need to split,â Bucky said suddenly.
You turned sharply. âNo.â
âIâll draw them off. You follow the lakeâs edge. Keep to the trees.â
âTheyâre tracking us both. They know thereâs two.â
âThey donât know where you are,â he said, already rising to his feet. âNot exactly. You havenât fired since the breach. Youâre harder to trace. Let me pull them west, andââ
âNo.â
It came out louder than you meant it to. It silenced the forest.
You were breathing too hard. The edges of your vision had started to smear. Your leg was going numb.
âBuckyââ
Another shot. Close. Too close.
He didnât hesitate.
He turned and hurled a flashbang toward the sound. The white light ignited against the snow with a violent hiss, smoke billowing out and momentarily masking your position.
Thenâ
Movement.
From your left. Fast.
You turned, raised your weapon, but it was too late. Something barreled through the trees and tackled you full force, body slamming into yours and driving you back, pain blooming white-hot in your thigh where the wound tore wider.
You hit the ground hard, your weapon flung into the snow. The hostile landed on top of you, mask fogged, breath rapid. He went for your throat. You reached for your boot knife, fingers numb, clumsy.
The lake was right there. Ten feet behind you. Maybe less.
You heard Bucky shout your name.
The knife slid into your hand. You didnât think. You just moved.
You drove the blade up under his jaw, hard and clean, and rolled him off you before he could finish choking.
You were on your feet againâlimping, half-hopping, gun lost, blood pouring down your leg nowâand the others were coming.
You saw five through the smoke. At least five .
Too many.
You could try to crawl back to Bucky. Hope they didnât shoot you in the open. Hope he could carry you.
Orâ
Or you could do the thing you shouldnât.
The thing that would buy you time.
The thing that would probably kill you.
You turned and ran toward the lake.
Bucky was still shouting, but his voice was muffled now, lost to the scream of your pulse and the way the air changed as you broke through the treeline.
Your feet hit the ice, and it sang beneath you.
A deep, haunted groan that vibrated up your legs and through your spine. The kind of sound the earth makes when it doesnât want to be touched.
You didnât stop.
The mist coming off the surface curled like fingers, wrapping around your boots, your knees, your breath. It shielded you, just enough. You heard the men behind you shouting, confused, uncertain. Theyâd lost you in the fog. For now.
But theyâd find you again if you stopped moving.
You didnât expect to make it across. That wasnât the point.
You werenât stupid. Youâd seen the fractures on recon. Knew the freeze was uneven, knew the surface tension wouldnât hold under sustained weight, and certainly not without punishing you for the arrogance of trying. You also knew there were at least four men behind you, maybe more, and you werenât going to outrun them through another ridge. Not on a torn leg. Not dragging blood like breadcrumbs.
But you could give Bucky a chance. A window.
You werenât going to last much longer anyway. Your sidearm was gone. Your rifle was jammed. Your limbs were starting to seizeânot from fear, not from cold, but from simple math. The cost of staying alive had begun to outweigh what your body could give.
So you played the only card left.
If you could get two of them on the ice. Maybe three. And if you timed it right, kept your distance, baited them into giving chase, made them run heavier than you walked, there was a chance the lake would decide who stayed topside and who went under. You werenât built like them. Smaller frame. Lighter gear. You knew how to move soft. They wouldnât.
They were cocky. Angry. Trigger-happy and armored to hell. That kind of weight broke tension in seconds. Youâd seen it happen. Watched it once during a training exercise, how a man with sixty extra pounds of ammo sank in four seconds flat when he tried to follow a sniper across a riverbed in spring thaw.
It might kill you too. But it might not. And if even one of them went inâ
That was one less gun Bucky had to deal with. One less bullet in the air. One less thing clawing for your neck.
That was something.
Your breath came faster, colder. The cut in your leg had gone numb, finally, but you could feel the wetness inside your boot. The weight of it. The imbalance.
You didnât know how far out you were.
The fog was thicker now, curling up your spine, swallowing the tree line. You couldâve been ten meters from shore or two. Couldâve been standing over solid ice or the thinnest patch on the lake.
Didnât matter. You had to keep going.
There was shouting again. Closer. Heavier footsteps now, rapid and uncoordinated. Theyâd spotted your prints. One of them yelled to the others. Someone fired, blind and stupid, too far to your left to matter. The shot cracked across the lake and echoed, turning the world sharp and brittle.
You heard the ice answer.
A moan beneath the surface. A shift. A warning.
Still, you didnât stop.
Another shot hit near your feet, spitting a web of cracks like a warning flare. You stumbled. Went to one knee. Pain flared up your hip. You hissed through your teeth and scrambled upright.
Behind you, closer now, another shout.
And then, footsteps on ice.
They were following you.
You felt the lake notice. The way it strained. The way it listened.
You started weaving, not running, but changing angles. You knew better than to move in a straight line. Spread the pressure. Make them adjust their balance. You could almost hear their weight dragging the surface down. Could hear how reckless their strides were. One of them slipped, boots sliding, cursing and shouting, and the others answered in angry Finnish.
You adjusted again, shifting your weight to the balls of your feet as you zig-zagged across the ice, lungs straining, vision speckled with spots. The cold had crawled under your skin nowâmade a home in the corners of your elbows, the hollow between your shoulder blades, the soft hinge of your jaw. You werenât shivering anymore. That would have required your body to care whether it was dying.
Behind you, the men had begun to split. Two followed your path directly, weapons raised and boots clumsy across the frost, the third veering wide, trying to cut off your arc. You didnât know where the fourth had gone. You didnât have the capacity to guess. Youâd passed beyond the edge of tactics and into instinct.
The ice beneath you moaned again, longer this time, a groaning, glacial sound that rippled underfoot like a living thing. The cracks spidered wider at the edges of your vision, faint lines of fracture glowing pale beneath the frost-dusted sheen. You counted every step in your head, each one a wager against weight and water.
You needed them closer. Just a little closer. You needed them to get stupid again, greedy for the kill.
And they did.
One of them shouted something guttural in Finnish, laced with adrenaline and mockery, and opened fire. The shot missed your side by inches, skimming the air close enough that you felt it kiss your ribs. You dropped hard into a crouch, used the momentum to pivot left, and rolled back into a full sprint. The surface answered with another shriek of pressure.
You couldnât tell if it was a warning or a promise.
Then another sound, behind the gunfireâsomething real, something known.
Buckyâs voice.
Low at first, almost lost in the chaos. Then sharper, clearer, a shout that carved through the storm like a blade. He was yelling your name. You didnât turn. Couldnât. You could barely see anymore, and the fog curled tighter now, clouding everything but the space directly in front of you.
A second burst of fire came from the opposite edge of the lakeâsharper, faster. Controlled. You recognized it immediately. Not hostile. That was him.
He was flanking.
You caught the flicker of movement through the mist just ahead and to your right. Bucky breaking the line of trees at a full sprint, a blur of black and gunmetal, eyes fixed on you like he could will you to stop. He was shouting again, but your ears had gone dull. All you could hear was the ice. The awful, pulsing hum of it underfoot, vibrating with your heartbeat.
And then one of the hostiles did what youâd hoped. He fired while running.
The recoil jolted his center of gravity, boots sliding out from under him as he fell sideways. He hit the ground hard, and the impact buckled the surface beneath him, cracks detonating outward like glass under a hammer. It sounded like thunder.
The other two tried to stop, but it was too late. One went down to a knee, skidding, scraping across the slick, and the third barreled into him, toppling them both in a tangle of limbs and shouted curses.
For a breath, you thought it had worked.
But it didnât matter.
Because the fourth man, the one you couldnât see, had circled wide, just like you feared. You didnât hear him until he was right behind you. There was no gunshot. No shout. Just the thud of weight as he tackled you square in the back.
You hit the ice with a sickening crack, elbows slamming down first. The pain stole the breath from your lungs. Your vision whitewashed. Your cheek scraped frozen mist and split open.
He tried to roll you, get leverage to pin you down, but you were already moving. Already driving the knife from your belt up under his ribs, your fingers so numb you couldnât tell if it connected.
It did. You felt him grunt, deep and surprised, before he staggered back, and you surged to your feet, butâ
But the ice had had enough.
It screamed beneath you. A seismic groan, deeper than the others, wrong in every register. You felt the surface ripple like a muscle torn mid-strain. Your knees bent automatically, weight shifting light, trying to disperse, but it was too late.
The cracks burst outward from where the hostile had landed. The seams raced under your feet, intersecting, multiplying, fracturing the world beneath you in real time.
You heard Bucky shout your name again.
Closer.
Desperate.
And then he was there, just at the edge of your sightline. His face was bloodless, teeth bared, feet skidding to a stop as he reached out like he could catch you from twenty feet away.
âDonât move!â he barked.
You didnât.
Didnât breathe. Didnât blink.
But the ice moved anyway.
It bowed beneath you.
Then split.
The water came up like a hand and yanked you under.
Bucky saw the ice go before he heard it.
Not the split, but the way your knees flexed, just slightly, the way your arms went out as if your body knew before your mind did. That half-second of weightlessness right before everything collapsed. Bucky knew that look. Heâd seen it in jump footage, in buildings on fire, in the eyes of people who understood they werenât getting out unless someone came back for them.
He was already running.
Not thinking. Not planning. Just moving. Snow churned under his boots, breath barely fogging the air. He heard your name tear out of his throat, loud and raw and useless.
You were looking right at him. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open. But you didnât say anything. Didnât scream. Didnât even move.
You just dropped.
The ice beneath you opened like a mouth.
He reached the edge just in time to see the water close back over you.
The sound was sickening. One second you were there, the next you werenât. The lake swallowed you whole, and all that remained was mist and the soft sound of new cracks racing toward him.
Bucky didnât hesitate.
He launched himself forward, boots slamming into the ice, the weight of his landing enough to make the surface whine under him. He dropped into a slide, knees bent, palm out to brace, momentum hurtling him across the ice toward the place youâd gone under.
The cold didnât register. Not the air, not the wind, not the water as it seeped through the cracks already kissing the soles of his boots. The serum kept his blood from reacting the way a normal manâs would. No immediate shock. No burning in the lungs. But it didnât make him immune to the knowledge of what cold did to you.
You had maybe ninety seconds before the water started convincing your body to stop trying.
His hand was already going to his comm.
âBelova, she fell through,â he said, voice sharp, clipped. âThe lake. Northwest section. Iâm going in.â
Yelenaâs reply came fast, static, then her voice, tight with urgency. âThat lake is thirty meters deep in the center, Barnes. If you lose herââ
âI wonât.â
âYou better not. Iâll find a snowmobile. If youâre still breathing, Iâll come get you.â
He reached the hole, just barely visible now. It was a jagged, black wound in the surface, already sheeting over at the edges with a thin glaze of refreeze. He dropped to his knees, leaned over, peered inâ
And saw nothing.
Just black.
No movement. No sound. No trace.
âNorthwest,â he repeated, already stripping his rifle off one shoulder and driving it into the snow at the edge of the break. âTell evac. Weâll need heat. And a med kit.â
âCopy,â she said. âDonât die.â
He could feel the press of his heartbeat in his teeth.
âShit.â His voice cracked out of him like a whip.
He stripped the rifle from his shoulder, shoved it into the snow behind him, and without another thought, threw himself in.
The lake gripped him like a vice.
It wasnât like diving into water. It was like diving into a vacuum. It swallowed him. Crushed him. Everything disappeared at once. Sight, sound, weight. He didnât kick. Didnât thrash. He let himself drop, arms out, the metal of his left dragging him faster. One breath in his lungs. Thatâs all he allowed.
He opened his eyes.
There was nothing.
Only black, smeared with silver light from the hole above him, already shifting, narrowing. Snow-dust had drifted across the opening. It would vanish in seconds. He needed to find you now.
He rotated once. No sign of you. Kicked again, deeper. The pressure increased, the cold turning the skin of his right arm to fire. He ignored it. Turned again. Sawâ
Movement.
To his left.
A flicker. A shape. Limbs caught in the waterâs drag. No fight in them.
He pushed toward it.
You werenât moving. Your arms floated loosely, your legs bent at strange angles, one boot still half-trailing a blood-red ribbon through the current. Your head was tilted, hair haloing out in the dark.
For a split-second, something in him broke.
He reached you in three kicks. One arm wrapped around your chest, hand braced under your jaw, holding your head above your shoulders. Your face was waxy, mouth parted, lashes spiked with ice. He pulled you in, curled his metal arm across your ribs, and angled upward.
The surface was gone.
The hole was gone, nowhere near.
He turned in a tight circle, one-handed, dragging you with him. No openings. No shadows above, no light. The ice was seamless.
His vision tunneled.
He launched upward, fist first, and when his knuckles hit solid, he didnât stop. He punched.
The sound was muffled underwater, more sensation than noise. The vibration hit his bones, the resistance of ancient ice refusing to yield. He drove his arm up againâonce, twiceâuntil the metal met fracture.
The ice split.
The hole widened just enough. He kicked upward and shoved you ahead of him, breaking the surface with a gasp you didnât make.
The air burned. The cold above was nothing compared to below.
He hauled himself out of the water, grabbing you under the arms and dragging you with him, the both of you half-dead and slick with lakewater, steam rolling off your clothes as the air hit them.
You werenât breathing.
âNoââ he rasped. He dropped to his knees, pressed two fingers under your jaw. Nothing. His hand flattened against your chest. Still nothing. He tipped your head, cleared your mouth, and without pausing, sealed his lips to yours and breathed.
Twice.
Again.
Your body jerked, but only from the force.
He pressed down hard. His hands trembled, just slightly. Not from the cold.
âCâmon,â he muttered, voice cracked and low, barely human. âDonât you fucking dareââ
Another breath.
You coughed.
Violent. Wet. Your whole frame arched up before collapsing into him, lungs sputtering lakewater and whatever else youâd swallowed, mouth opening to drag in air like it hurt to exist.
Buckyâs arms locked around you the second your head tilted forward.
You were shaking now. Not convulsing. Not yet. But the kind of full-body tremor that said your blood wasnât moving fast enough. That your skin was freezing from the inside out.
âI got you,â he whispered, over and over, voice half-strangled as he pulled you close, as close as he could get without hurting you more. âI got you, I got you.â
He didnât realize he was rocking you until your fingers clenched in his jacket. A tiny, involuntary twitchâno force behind it, no awarenessâbut it was enough. Enough to tell him you were still here. Still fighting. Still fucking breathing.
âEasy,â he whispered against your hair. âJust stay with me. Iâve got you.â
You made a sound. Barely anything. A cracked whimper caught in the wreckage of your throat. He pressed a hand to the back of your neck, fingers splayed wide, trying to shield as much of your skin as he could from the wind.
Your body was ice. Every inch soaked through. Your gear, your boots, the back of your neck, all of it was clinging to you like a second skin, each layer working against you now, not for.
The low snarl of a snowmobile engine cut through the trees, carving hard across the frozen ground. He didnât look up. Didnât shift. Just curled tighter around you and angled his body between yours and the open lake.
The engine cut off twenty feet away, skidding to a halt. Snow crunched under boots. Thenâ
âShit.â Yelenaâs voice dropped the usual smirk. âSheâs hypothermic?â
âFull submersion,â Bucky said, barely audible. âAt least a minute. Maybe longer.â
Yelena was already moving, yanking her pack off and crouching beside him. âThen we need her out of those clothes, now. You too. Youâre soaked.â
âIâm fine.â
âYouâre wet,â she snapped. âYouâre not immortal.â
âSheâs freezing.â
âExactly why we strip her down and use whatâs dry. I brought a tarp rig for the backâget her on it. Weâll wrap her, Iâll drive.â
Bucky didnât argue. He peeled his jacket off one arm, then the other, movements sharp and economical. It hit the snow with a wet slap. His gear vest followed. Then he reached for the zipper at your collar, fingers already numbing where they met the icy fabric.
âHey,â he said softly, tipping your chin. Your eyes fluttered open for a breath, then closed again. âI know itâs cold. But we gotta get you out of this stuff. Alright?â
You didnât answer. Just let him move you, limp and loose like your bones had gone slack. He tried to be fast. Careful. Stripped your coat first, then the soaked thermal underlayer, exposing your shoulders to the air. You flinched. He wanted to curse out loud. Wanted to punch the goddamn lake.
Yelena shrugged off her own jacket. âHere.â
He took it without looking and shoved your arms through the sleeves. It was warm. And dry. It didnât matter if it was hers or his or stolen off a corpse. Heâd have wrapped you in skin if it meant getting your body temp up fast enough.
But it wasnât enough.
Your pants were soaked through. So were the boots. And your left legâfuck.
He saw the blood pooled inside the boot as he started to peel it off. Frozen red around the seams. Your thigh was still bleeding, sluggish now from shock, but still enough to be dangerous.
âYelena,â he barked without turning. âGauze. Whatever youâve got.â
âMed kitâs in the sled,â she called, already unrolling the tow platform and yanking the thermal tarp open. âField wrapâs on the side.â
He ripped the second boot off, tossed both aside. The pants clung like wet parchment. He muttered something sharp under his breath and took the knife from his belt, slicing the fabric clean up the seam to the waistband. He didnât pause. Didnât look at your face. Just cut them free and tossed them into the snow.
Your leg was a mess. Torn muscle, ragged edge, blood sluggish but still weeping. He didnât have time to be gentle. He grabbed the wrap from Yelenaâs outstretched hand and packed the gauze into the wound, fingers fast and precise. Then he cinched the bandage tight just above your knee.
You groaned, weak and hoarse, but it meant you were still responsive.
âI know,â he muttered. âI know it hurts. Just hang on.â
Yelena was already back at the sled, lifting the flap on the side and unfurling the padding. âWeâve got maybe ten minutes before she drops out completely. Help me get her in.â
He moved without answering. One arm behind your back, one under your legs. You were a deadweight bundle of wet limbs and heatless skin.
Together, they settled you into the tow rigâpadded, shielded at the sides, thermal canopy overhead. Standard evac mod. But it still looked like a coffin.
He hated that it looked like a coffin.
Yelena threw him a blanket roll, and he tucked it tight over your chest and shoulders, then your hips and thighs, arms crossed low over your ribs. Your skin was damp, your hair frozen at the ends, lashes rimmed in ice. He didnât let himself stop moving. He kept one hand pressed just over your heart, the other ready to shield your face from wind.
His hand stayed there.
Just a second too long.
She didnât call him on it.
âYouâre going with her,â Yelena said instead, already climbing back onto the snowmobile. âI can drive. You monitor her breathing. Try and get her talking if you can. If she fully passes outââ
âShe wonât.â
âIâm just sayingââ
âShe wonât.â
His voice was steel. He wasnât yelling. He wasnât pleading. He just knew.
Yelena didnât argue again. She gunned the engine, and the machine roared to life.
He climbed into the tow sled, kneeling beside you, one hand on your chest, the other braced against the frame. Wind blasted past them as they launched forward, but he didnât feel it.
All he felt was the shallow rise and fall beneath his hand.
You surfaced slowly.
Not all at once. Not in a cinematic wayâno gasping, no full-body jolt, no sudden realization that you were still alive. Just pressure. First behind your eyes, then in your chest. A tightness, dull and deep, like your lungs had been filled with stones and someone had stacked their weight across your ribcage to make sure they stayed there.
Your mouth was open. You hadnât meant it to be. Something cool and artificial was feeding air through your nose, down your throat. Plastic tubing, you realized after a beat, half-formed thoughts dragging behind sensation. An oxygen cannula.Â
Your head ached.
Not a sharp pain. Not even pain, really. Just distance. Like your skull had been filled with static and your thoughts had to crawl through it on hands and knees to reach you. When you tried to move, just a twitch of your shoulder, your body didnât respond. Not fully. Your nerves were slow, reluctant. Your arms felt like they belonged to someone else.
Then, light. Soft, not blinding. White above you. Clinical. Cold. You tried to blink and felt the dry pull of your lashes against skin that had been left too long without moisture.
There were sounds now. Somewhere in the periphery.
Muffled voices. Beeping.
A hiss of something mechanical resetting. Maybe a vitals monitor, maybe a heat unit.
The next thing you noticed was your skin.
Your entire body felt like it had been peeled back and glued together wrong. Your legs ached. Not in the sharp, obvious way of a gunshot or blade, but deeper. Bone deep. Joint deep. There was a dull, pulsing throb in your left thigh that you couldnât place, and you realized after a moment that you didnât want to.
You were alive.
You werenât supposed to be.
A slow breath pulled through your chest. It hurt. Not like youâd broken anything, but like your lungs had fought too hard to keep you, and they were punishing you for it now. You could feel the heaviness in them, the stiffnessâresidual fluid, probably. You werenât coughing, but your chest was tight, and something wet shifted faintly every time you inhaled.
The words filtered in one by one like files retrieved from a burned cabinet.
You didnât remember the evac. Just ice. The smell of pine. A scream half-swallowed by the wind. The weight of water crushing your body into stillness. And then, heat. Arms. Metal against your ribs. Something solid that refused to let go.
Something youâd stopped fighting for before it found you.
There was a voice outside the room, beyond a curtain surrounding you. Sharp. Familiar.
Yelena.
ââtwo hours max. Thatâs what the doc said. She needs rest, not another round of brooding Bucky Barnes breathing exercises.â
A grunt. Quieter. Male.
âDonât look at me like that.â
A beat.
âOh my god. Youâre already doing it.â
You tried to turn your head toward the sound, but your body was too heavy. The world tilted and dragged behind you. Then, footsteps. Two sets. One softer, reluctant. One clipped.
They didnât come in.
Their voices faded just enough to let the quiet crawl back in. Only the monitors kept humming, a soft rhythmic count of your survival, like the room was measuring every second you stayed alive and wasnât convinced yet that you would.
You lay there, still and heavy, unsure if your body would obey you at all. Everything felt wrapped in gauze. Muted. Far away. But your chest remembered. The weight, the pressure, the water. The ache that lingered behind your ribs told you the lake hadnât really let go. Not completely.
You tried again.
It wasnât even a word at first. Just a shift. A breath caught too sharply in your throat. Your fingers twitched against the blanket. Or maybe they didnât. Maybe you imagined it. You turned your head, just barely, toward the voices outside the curtain, and let your lips part.
âBuckââ
Your voice wasnât a voice. It was air dragged across a raw throat, shredded in the middle, collapsing before it made it to sound. But it was enough. Enough to make the effort real. Enough to make your pulse spike on the monitor. Enough to send a tremor through your lungs.
The curtain shifted instantly.
Then opened.
Buckyâs silhouette filled the space between the light and the noise. For a second, he didnât say anything. Just looked at you, jaw clenched, shoulders set. His face didnât change, but you saw it anyway. Relief. The kind that didnât need expression to be known.
âYouâre awake.â His voice was low. Too steady.
You swallowedâor tried to. It scraped. Burned. Your throat felt flayed.
He crossed the room in two strides, dropping into the chair beside your bed like heâd been ready to launch himself forward the whole time and was only now allowed. His hand hovered near yours, not quite touching.
âDo you need the doc?â he asked. âIâll go get them. Just hold onââ
You moved before you could think.
Not much. Not even fast. But your hand lifted, weak and trembling, and curled around his wrist as he started to move. The motion cost everything. Your arm dropped a second later like it had been cut loose, but it did its job.
Bucky froze.
You tried to speak again. The word caught halfway up your throat and crumpled. You coughed instead, once, hard enough to burn, and his hand was on you instantly, palm flat against your sternum like he could keep you from falling apart just by holding you still.
âYouâre okay.â His voice was different now. Thinner. âYouâre okay. Just breathe.â
You tried.
Your chest shook with it. Your lungs were still too tight. Too full of memory. But the oxygen tubing helped, and eventually the coughing stopped. Your body settled back against the sheets, exhausted from the effort of existing.
His hand didnât move.
âIâm fine,â you rasped. Or tried to.
The word sounded nothing like a word.
It scraped the back of your throat and shattered. You winced. He shook his head once, almost imperceptible.
âDonât,â he murmured. âYou donât have to talk. Not yet.â
You blinked up at him.
He was too close. Not in a way that made you uncomfortable, never that, but in the way that made you aware of how much space he took up without saying a word. The way his presence made the machines quieter. The way the lines around his mouth looked carved from stone. The way his hand hadnât left your chest.
âYou scared the hell out of me,â he said, softer now. âI thoughtââ
He didnât finish.
You didnât need him to.
You felt it in the way his shoulders curled forward. In the way he kept watching your pulse monitor like it owed him something. In the way his eyes kept returning to your mouth, to your neck, to the shallow rise and fall that proved you were still here.
You opened your mouth again.
The words didnât come. You werenât sure they could. Your throat felt like someone had taken a wire brush to the inside of it. But you moved your lips anyway, slow, deliberate, shaping around the simplest thing you could mouth.
How long?
Bucky blinked.
For a second, you thought maybe he hadnât caught it. Then his hand left your chestânot completely, just enough to curl around your wrist again, warm and solid, anchoring.
âSeven days,â he said quietly. âYouâve been under for seven.â
You let that sit. Let it press.
Seven days.
Not just unconscious. Unresponsive. Monitored. Kept warm. Intubated, probably, if your throat was any indication. You were certain thereâd been a moment, maybe more than one, where they werenât sure you were going to come back at all. Where your body might have decided to give up on the rest of you even after the lake let you go.
You let your head tip, eyes dragging slowly across the room. The motion made your neck ache. Even that, especially that, felt like a small defeat.
There was a table beside the bed. Narrow. Stainless steel. You hadnât noticed it before.
It was cluttered.
Not with the usual medical shit. Not gauze or tubing or pill cups. Something else. Something⊠softer.
There were a few folded paper cranes, wings dipped in bright marker ink. A knitted square of fabric, uneven at the edges, with a giant uneven âWâ stitched into the center in dark blue yarn. A cheap plastic snow globeâBranson, Missouriâwith fake snow and a peeling label. A tiny flickering LED tea light. A single packet of hot chocolate. A folded sketch torn from someoneâs notebook paper.
You stared at it. Confused.
Your brow furrowed, unsteady, and you felt Buckyâs eyes move with yours.
He shifted in his chair, the leather creaking faintly under him.
âThose are from Bob.â He nodded toward the cranes. âHe said paper folding helps with anxiety. Sat outside your room for two hours trying to get that red one right. Said youâd like it because it was ugly. Had character.â
Your lips twitched. Or tried to. He saw it.
Bob had tried to teach you once, back when missions were lighter and your hands steadier. Heâd brought a pack of neon origami paper into the rec room like it was contraband, all sheepish grin and muttered instructions, and youâd spent an hour cursing under your breath while he quietly folded a perfect flock beside you.Â
You never managed a proper crane, just a deeply cursed paper lump with uneven wings, but heâd kept it anyway. Called it your âbattle bird.â Said it looked like it had been through something. Just like you.
âThe tea light is Avaâs,â Bucky continued. âShe said you always lit a candle on briefing nights. Figured youâd want one burning when you woke up.â
You did. Always the same squat little votive, tucked on the corner of your desk, flickering through every debrief while the rest of the team pretended not to notice. Ava had, thoughâsaid the sound and smell helped her keep her pacing in check, the rhythm of it steadier than her own breath some nights.
Bucky pointed at the snow globe, grimacing. âWalker. No note. Donât ask.â
You made a rough sound, not quite a laugh, and regretted it immediately. Your chest ached. You swallowed it down.
Of course he brought Branson, Missouri.
The man had one week of leave and spent it sending you unsolicited selfies from a dinner theater called âYakovâs Last Laugh,â wearing a cowboy hat two sizes too small and arguing over text about whether Silver Dollar City technically counted as âhistoric.â
Youâd told him Branson wasnât a real place. Just a Midwest fever dream built entirely out of unlicensed Elvis impersonators and knockoff Dollywood energy. Heâd called it âAmericaâs soul.â
Youâd called it âa cry for help in gift shop form.â
And now it sat beside your medical chart, a tiny, glittering monument to the worldâs pettiest inside joke.
God help you if it made you smile again.
âThe sketch is from Alexei,â he went on. âItâs supposed to be you in the snow, fighting a bear. Or dancing with one. He wasnât clear.â
You blinked slowly. That tracked. Heâd once told you, entirely unprompted, that your âferocity under pressureâ reminded him of a Siberian she-bear. Youâd assumed it was a compliment. Probably.
âAnd that,â he added, gesturing to the hot chocolate, âYelena. Said hospital cocoa was an abomination and if she caught you drinking any sheâd pull your IV herself.â
You smiled faintly. Yelena was the one who started it. Midnight cocoa in the mess when neither of you could sleep, hands still shaking from whatever dreams you'd clawed your way out of. No talking. No questions. Just heat, sugar, and silence until your pulses evened out again. A truce in a mug.
Your throat was still raw. You didnât dare try a full word, but the question was thereâin the slow blink, the glance toward the yarn.
âThatâs from Walker too,â Bucky said, deadpan. âHe learned to knit. Apparently.â
Your eyes drifted back to him. He hadnât looked away from you once. Not really.
There was one more thing on the table. You hadnât noticed it before. Smaller than the rest. Set slightly apart. A small matchbox-sized tin. Dark blue. Metal. Worn at the corners.
Bucky followed your gaze. His jaw tightened.
You looked at him.
He didnât speak.
Just reached over slowly, picked it up, turned it once in his palm like he wasnât sure if he regretted leaving it there.
Then he held it out to you. Didnât press it into your hand, just let it rest there, cradled against his fingers, waiting.
You tilted your head toward it, but your muscles were still too slow, coordination still too shot. He noticed. Said nothing. Just flipped the lid open himself.
Inside, nestled into the tinâs base on a folded strip of linen, was a tiny object. Barely bigger than your thumb. Faintly metallic. Dull silver at the edges, matte black at the center.
It was a music box cylinder. A fragment. Something old, worn smooth. The kind used in hand-crank playersâthe ones tucked inside the little wind-up boxes you used to fidget with as a child, flipping them open and closed like they were meant to be solved.
You blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Bucky was watching you. Carefully. Like the weight of your reaction might crack him open.
âYou said,â he said quietly, âa few months ago⊠that you had one when you were a kid. Broke in a move. Said you remembered the sound but not the song.â
You remembered. You hadnât thought he had.
You hadnât thought anyone had been listening.
âI found that in a market in Riga,â he went on, voice low, roughened at the edges. âThe guy didnât know what it played. Didnât have the housing. Just this. It was rusted shut. Took me a few days to clean it.â
He paused.
âI was gonna wait to give it to you. But I didnât know when the right time was.â
You tried to speak again. Your throat clenched. No sound came.
Stillâyou pushed the air up, forced it out like it owed you something. Like you had to say it, even if it burned.
âWhy?â
It rasped out of you like broken glass dragged across stone. More breath than voice. But the word made it past your lips this time, and that was enough.
Bucky didnât answer right away.
Didnât look at you, either. Not at first. His eyes had dropped back to the tin, as if the shape of it might tell him how to start.
The silence stretched.
You didnât push him.
âI didnât know if youâd want it,â he said finally. The words came low. Barely above a whisper. âDidnât know if it meant anything coming from me.â
He shifted in the chair like he didnât trust it to hold his weight. Like he was trying not to lean too close.
âYou said that thing about the music box and it justâstuck. I donât even think you realized you said it. We were talking about⊠something else. Some mission. I canât even remember which. You were just fiddling with your comm and you mentioned it. How the song used to help you sleep, but now you canât remember the tune. Just that it made you feel⊠safe. Back then.â
He rubbed his thumb over his knee, like he needed something to ground himself.
âI remembered,â he said again, quieter this time. âAnd I kept looking. For months. In every market, every junk bin, every fucked-up antique shop we passed through. Most of them were trash. Broken. Stolen. Or the wrong kind. But then I found that one. Just the cylinder. No box. No sound. JustâŠpossibility.â
His jaw twitched.
âI figured Iâd give it to you when⊠I donât know. When things slowed down. When we werenât bleeding every week or crawling through wreckage or losing people left and right. But things donât slow down. Not for us. So I waited.â
He finally looked at you.
And the look in his eyesâGod. It made your breath stutter beneath the oxygen tube. It wasnât pity. It wasnât soft, either. It was sharp. Too sharp. Like the only way he knew how to look at you was like he was still checking for exit wounds.
âI thought I missed my chance.â
He said it so plainly you almost didnât feel it at first. But it settled in your chest like a weight. Like truth.
âI thought you were gone,â he went on. âOn that lake⊠when I couldnât find the surface, when I finally got you out, when your bodyââ He stopped himself. Shook his head. âYou werenât moving. You werenât breathing. You were just drifting. And I remember thinkingâthatâs it. Thatâs the end. Thatâs where I lose you.â
Your chest tightened. Not from pain. Not from cold. Just the sound of him.
âI donât lose people like that anymore,â he said. âNot like I used to. Not if I can help it. And sure, Iâve said that before. But this timeââ His voice cracked, just once. âThis time it was you.â
You blinked. Hard.
He leaned forward now, elbows braced on his knees, voice lower than before.
âYou donât get it,â he said, rambling on like the words were exiting his mouth before he even thought about them. âYou think youâre just⊠part of the team. That youâre one of us. And you are. But itâs not the same. Not for me.â
He exhaled, sharp and tired and fraying.
âYou get under my skin in ways that nothing else does. You keep me tethered when shit goes sideways. You ask questions no one else asks. You call me on my bullshit without making it feel like Iâm back in some shrinkâs office getting dissected. You make space. And I didnât know how much I needed thatânoâwanted it. Until I thought Iâd lost it.â
You didnât know youâd started crying until you tasted salt at the edge of your mouth. Just a few tears. Silent. Clean. Your throat hurt too much for sobbing. Your eyes hurt too much to keep them open.
But he noticed.
He sat forward quickly, hand reaching for the call button. âShitâdo you want the doc? I can get them, they said to page if youââ
You lifted your hand again. Just barely. Just enough to curl your fingers around his wrist.
âNo,â you whispered. Barely there. Barely sound.
His hand hovered an inch above the call button, frozen. You felt the way his wrist flexed beneath your fingers, the way the tendons in his forearm pulled tight like he wasnât sure whether to move or stay. His eyes searched your face again, sharp and clinical for one secondâchecking your color, your breathing, your pupilsâand then he exhaled, quieter this time. Sat back.
Didnât pull away.
You swallowed. The effort scraped down your throat like sandpaper, but you did it anyway. Forced air past the ruined edges of your voice until it shaped something. Small. Crooked. Yours.
âI didnât⊠know you remembered,â you rasped, each word a dry scrape across something bruised and tender. âThe music box.â
Bucky exhaled. Short. Quiet. Almost a laugh, except there was nothing funny in it.
âI remember everything you donât think I do,â he said. âYou always think no oneâs paying attention. But I see it. All of it. The way you cover for people when theyâre tired. How you pass your dessert off to Bob when he pretends heâs not hungry. That little stretch you do before every mission.â
Your lips parted, breath caught halfway to forming something else. But your throat cracked mid-inhale, so you let it go. Let him keep speaking.
He leaned forward again, this time more gently, his forearms braced on either side of your legs, like he was trying to fold himself smaller. Make himself quieter. Like he didnât want the rest of the world to hear what came next.
âI see you,â he repeated, quieter now. âEven when you think youâre blending in. When youâre holding it together for everyone else.â
You blinked slowly. The tears had stopped, or maybe your body had just run out. Your eyes burned from the effort of keeping them open. But they stayed on him.
âI thinkâŠâ You paused, tried to clear your throat, but it made it worse. You grimaced through it, blinked hard. He moved like he might reach for you, or call again, but you shook your head, barely.Â
âLet me,â you croaked, voice shot to hell, every syllable catching like thread pulled through torn cloth. âI think I⊠do the stretch⊠because Iâm scared.â
His eyes didnât widen. He didnât flinch. Just watched. Still. So fucking still.
You blinked again, slow and raw. âNot of dying. Not really.â
That earned a twitch of his mouth. Not amusement. Something darker. Sadder. Knowing.
âOf what, then?â he asked, voice low.
You swallowed hard. The air in your lungs felt too thick now, heavy with what you hadnât said before the lake took you. âOf⊠getting close. Of being⊠close. And then it ending.â
Something in his expression fractured. Not broken, not open, just bare. Like youâd peeled something back without meaning to. Like youâd stepped too close to the place he kept boarded up with silence and mission reports and one-liners that didnât quite pass for humor.
He nodded once. Not like he was agreeing. Like he understood.
âYouâre not the only one,â he said quietly. âYou think I didnât notice how long it took you to unpack after the Bataysk job? You kept your bag zipped by the door for three weeks.â
You almost laughed. Almost. But it came out too soft, caught on the edge of a breath.
âYou knew?â
âI always knew.â
You looked at him again. Really looked. His hands werenât covered by gloves like they normally were. They were bare, calloused, fingertips nicked and bruised. His left hand rested beside your blanket, the metal dull and wet-lit under the fluorescents, motionless.
Your hand moved before your brain caught up.
Weak. Slow. You lifted your fingers and reached for the edge of his sleeve, but your arm shook with the effort and dropped short. He caught it before it fell completelyâhis flesh hand, warm and scarred and carefulâand guided your palm over the metal one like it wasnât strange at all. Like youâd done it a thousand times. His jaw ticked.
âItâs cold,â you whispered.
He nodded. âI know.â
âI donât mind.â
He let his thumb brush across the edge of your wrist, slow and grounding. Not a stroke. Not comforting. Just there. âI didnât think Iâd get to tell you any of this,â he said. âWhen I pulled you out, when you werenât breathing, Iââ He cut himself off again, jaw tightening. âI thought you were already gone.â
You wanted to say something, anything, but the only sound you made was breath.
It was enough.
âI wasnât ready to lose you,â he said. âNot like that. Not ever. But especially not without⊠you knowing.â
Your throat pulled tight.
âKnowing what?â you whispered, wrecked.
He didnât hesitate.
âThat I give a damn. That I think about you more than I should. That youâre not just some mission partner I cover in the field. That you matter.â
You opened your mouth again. Closed it. Your lips trembled.
Bucky moved closer, just slightly, head still bowed low like the words had weight. Like if he spoke too loud they might splinter.
âYou matter to me,â he said. âMore than I ever planned for.â
Your eyes burned. Your hand twitched in his, a pathetic excuse for a squeeze, but he felt it. He held on tighter.
You swallowed again, painful and raw. âMe too,â you said, barely audible. âYou⊠matter.â
Something broke in his face. Not his composure. Not his strength. Just the smallest trace of distance, pulled away. A breath he hadnât been able to take until now.
You saw it in his eyes.
And maybe that wouldâve been enough. Maybe in another worldâone with less noise, less bloodâyou wouldâve stayed like that for another minute. Maybe you wouldâve reached for him again, said something more, pulled the words from the ruin of your voice just to hear him say your name in that same, low, wrecked way.
But this wasnât that world.
And the curtain tore open before you could even draw your next breath.
âMY BEAR CUB LIVES!â
Alexeiâs voice exploded through the medbay like cannon fire, and before you could brace for it, before Bucky could so much as turn in his seat, there were arms. So many arms. Warm, clumsy, massive arms wrapping around you like a weighted blanket made of noise and Soviet linen.
You wheezed. A sharp, involuntary gasp you couldnât help as Alexei crushed half your torso in a rib-cracking hug.
Bucky was on his feet instantly. âHeyâhey! Easy! Watch it, sheâs stillââ
âBah!â Alexei cut him off with a wave of one enormous hand. âShe is strong! Like small elk! Look at thisâalready upright, already beautiful, skin like ice sculpture!â He reached out and cradled your jaw for a second, then kissed your forehead in a way that nearly knocked the oxygen cannula askew. âYou do not die on me. You are not allowed to die on me. I would never forgive you.â
âI tried to stop him,â Yelena muttered dryly, appearing behind him with arms crossed and absolutely no remorse. âI tackled him in the hallway. Didnât matter. He just kept bounding.â
She was flanked by three more figuresâBob, shifting awkwardly and clutching a bouquet that looked like it had been stolen from a funeral arrangement, Ava hovering beside him with a look of cautious relief, and John leaning just far enough into the room to smirk.
âLook who decided to rejoin the land of the living,â Walker called, voice light but eyes sharp. âDonât do that again. Itâs bad for team morale.â
Bucky hadnât moved far from your bedside, just enough to make room, to stop Alexei from inadvertently crushing a vein or breaking an already-bruised rib. He was still watching you, eyes flicking between your face and your vitals monitor like he couldnât help himself.
Alexei finally released you with a thud and an affectionate slap to the shoulder that nearly dislocated something. You blinked hard through the swirl of motion, coughing once as your lungs protested the sudden influx of people and oxygen.
âCareful,â Bucky muttered again, more to himself than anyone else.
But you caught his wrist before he could move back.
Just a small touch. Nothing demanding. Just enough.
He didnât say anything. Didnât need to.
The others kept talkingâYelena launching into a commentary about how ugly the paper cranes were before realizing Bob made them and immediately changing the subject, Ava threatening to install a lock on the medbay door, Bob quietly asking if you wanted him to adjust the light overhead, Walker declaring heâd brought âreal foodâ and pulling a suspicious-looking bag from behind his back that Yelena immediately swatted out of his hands.
It was chaos. Loud and jagged and human.
But you didnât look at them.
You looked at Bucky.
And he looked at you.
And in that small, quiet momentâunder the hum of machines, under the curtain pulled halfway back, under the noise and the mess and the aching throb in your chestâyou felt it settle. All of it. The tension. The fear. The distance youâd both kept because you didnât know what would happen if you crossed it.
He stayed exactly where you needed him. Elbow resting on the frame of your bed, hand lax in your grip, eyes never leaving yours even when someone bumped the curtain again or when Yelena started swearing in Russian under her breath because she had opened the bag Walker had and apparently it smelled.
You didnât speak.
Neither did he.
But your fingers stayed curled around his wrist, weak and unsteady, still trembling from the cold that still lived somewhere in your bones, and he didnât pull away.
Didnât shift.
Didnât give you some line about rest or recovery or needing to take a break from all this noise.
He just stayed.
Not because you asked.
But because thatâs what he did.
What heâd always done, quietly, behind the chaos.
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