"pretty boy," you softly murmur into spencer's ear, your hand sliding along his length at an agonizing pace. theres not a single thought in his head as you pump him, pressing kisses into his neck and jaw that only make the hot length of him twitch into your hand as it twists around the head. his hips jump, push upwards into your fist. one of your legs rests just over his, the wet patch on your underwear growing as you rock against his side every now and again. the soft breaths, gasps, gentle moans that spill from his mouth are music to your ears. hes so pretty like this, when he lets go completely, and lets you see every reaction, hear every noise. you nip at a sensitive part of his jaw, just as the movement of your hand comes to a stop around the head of his cock. he whines, but tries not to move as you feel the pulsing against your fingers. you know hes ready, and so you give him what he wants, giving a little extra attention to the head before pumping your fist down his length, and it takes no time for him to choke out a delicious sound, just before his cock pulses even harder, covering his own chest and your hand in his cum. your name spills from his lips as his hands reach for you, unable to even grip as hes held at the mercy of his orgasm taking over his body. you suck a gentle mark into his neck, and as you work him through his orgasm, he grunts, pulling your face up as he kisses you, still groaning as you work him past his pleasure and into something more twisted and delicious.
"pretty boy," you softly murmur into spencer's ear, your hand sliding along his length at an agonizing pace. theres not a single thought in his head as you pump him, pressing kisses into his neck and jaw that only make the hot length of him twitch into your hand as it twists around the head. his hips jump, push upwards into your fist. one of your legs rests just over his, the wet patch on your underwear growing as you rock against his side every now and again. the soft breaths, gasps, gentle moans that spill from his mouth are music to your ears. hes so pretty like this, when he lets go completely, and lets you see every reaction, hear every noise. you nip at a sensitive part of his jaw, just as the movement of your hand comes to a stop around the head of his cock. he whines, but tries not to move as you feel the pulsing against your fingers. you know hes ready, and so you give him what he wants, giving a little extra attention to the head before pumping your fist down his length, and it takes no time for him to choke out a delicious sound, just before his cock pulses even harder, covering his own chest and your hand in his cum. your name spills from his lips as his hands reach for you, unable to even grip as hes held at the mercy of his orgasm taking over his body. you suck a gentle mark into his neck, and as you work him through his orgasm, he grunts, pulling your face up as he kisses you, still groaning as you work him past his pleasure and into something more twisted and delicious.
the first time steve sees your boobs he's over the moon. he's like a child being taken to a candy store; he can't look away, doesn't want to look away. he knew how you felt about your body, how you covered yourself up, but with him... you felt safe. you were wearing a sweater, one of his, and had removed your bra through the sleeve. this amazed steve. it was like witchcraft. watching you take it off without showing so much as a glimpse of skin. he stares, bewildered. he could see how nervous you were, your fingers playing with the hem of the sweater as you try to stall him, but he pulls you close, hands wrapping around your waist, "it's me, baby. it's just me." the sweetness in his voice surely convinces you and matched with the softness of his dewy brown eyes, how could you say no? heaving a sigh, you slowly begin to pull the material up your tummy, revealing more skin than steve had ever really seen of you, and the second your breasts are free, he stiffens in his seat. his eyes are immediately drawn to your nipples, the small cherubs of skin hardening and he swallows hard. his hand instinctively lifts to touch them but he stops before looking to you for confirmation, which you give through a shy nod. his thumb rolls over the bumps, soft against your breasts as he encapsulates them in his hands. "don't know what you were so nervous about, baby" he pulls his gaze away from them to look at you, "they're so pretty."
"Oh, god-" you moan, hand gripping the flesh of Bucky's thigh as you lean back, hips still rutting against him. His hands against your hips help you ride him, and suddenly a higher moan rips from your throat, forcing his attention back up to you. Your cunt squeezes around him, pulsating as you buck harder, nudging the head of his cock right where you need it the most. "Fuck, fuck, fuck-" your voice gets a little higher each time. Bucky's pupils dilate, his lips falling open as he watches you cum on his cock. Your body spasms, shaking, uncontrolled sounds of pleasure spilling from your lips as you desperately grind your clit against pubic bone. Through his shock and awe, he feels his own orgasm beginning, and his body kicks back into action as you lean forward, hands bracing against the thick of his chest. It only takes a few thrusts for his cock to twitch, filling every inch of you with hot cum. As you collapse against his heaving chest, he presses a kiss to your temple, burying his nose into your hair to inhale you as he tries to catch his breath. He feels himself softening inside of you, but can't help but twitch as he replays your orgasm in his mind. It must have been one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen. And maybe the only thing he'll be able to think about for the foreseeable future.
The pace at which you rocked your hips against Steve's was enough to drive anyone absolutely crazy. You lean back, palms making contact with the flesh of his thighs as you try to maneuver your hips a little differently. Steve was so fucked out, muttering quietly to himself. Through your pleasure, you heard it, the little, "Please," slipping past his lips. It prompts you to readjust, hands resting against his chest as you grind a little harder than before. His whole abdomen quivers as he inhales shakily, "please, please, god, please-" he's so far gone he doesn't even know what hes begging for at this point. You lower yourself, hand trailing up his sweaty neck and into his damp hair, "Steve," you murmur gently into his ear as the desperate pleas continue to spill from his lips. "You have me. Im yours. You don't need to beg. But you sound pretty when you do," you strain to speak, pressing a kiss to his jaw, to the spot below his ear. You feel his stomach jump, his hips pushing upwards into yours. You slide your hand up to his jaw, gently guiding his head to the side to look at you. His pupils were blown wide. You smile and he squeezes his eyes shut like its painful. "what?" You ask, feeling yourself tipping closer to the edge of your orgasm. "I cant," he strains, hips moving. "Cant what?" You inquire, teeth nipping at his neck. "If I look at you, Ill-" he shudders out a breath, eyes opening and landing on your face before his orgasm rips through him, his hips jumping as you follow him over the edge. You both keep moving through the pleasure. When his body finally goes lax, you relish the high, startled whine that rips through his throat as you rotate your hips again slowly, the threat of overstimulation too tempting to resist when he reacts like this, immediately a mess, hands using the last of their strength to grip at your thighs.
pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader
summary: you think you’re friends who occasionally kiss, but bucky thinks the two of you have been exclusively dating for a while now. it only takes one post-mission debrief for the whole team to realise someone’s missed a memo.
tags: one of you thinks you’re just friends the other thinks you’re dating trope, avenger!reader, friends to lovers, alpine thinks you’re her other parent, everyone is alive and happy because i say so
warning(s): reader wears jeans and a t-shirt, reader wears workout leggings, suggestive content
word count: 5.1k
note: i’m working on a personal challenge to write some shorter/medium length fics for the people who don’t always want to read 9k slow burns, so please let me know if you enjoyed this!!
masterlist
You’d lost count of how many times you and Bucky had ended up like this. Not that you were keeping score. If you were, it would be a very respectable number. Top-ten life decisions, easily.
The couch in his room creaked softly as you shifted higher onto his lap, knees bracketing his hips, the hem of your T-shirt tugging a little higher with every slow drag of movement. His hands, one warm and one pleasantly cool, rested at the small of your back, thumbs rubbing lazy circles through the cotton.
You kissed him again, deep enough that it made your stomach jolt like that weightlessness you feel at the top of a rollercoaster. You felt the familiar brush of his stubble against your jaw.
This was exactly what it looked like. Exactly as uncomplicated as it sounded.
Friends who kissed. Friends who sometimes stayed a little too long in the doorway after a movie night, who sometimes let a conversation dissolve into mouths pressed together until the occasional little sound escaped when Bucky did something particularly good with his tongue.
And why not? Kissing was fun, and fun was the whole point.
Bucky hummed low in his chest. You smiled against his mouth, tilting your head to steal another kiss, slow and deliberate. He tasted faintly of the coffee you’d shared earlier. When his hands slipped under your shirt, flesh and metal fingertips trailing across bare skin, you couldn’t help the moan that escaped you.
You liked kissing Bucky, Bucky liked kissing you, and the world hadn’t ended yet.
Friends, you reminded yourself as he nipped lightly at your lower lip, sending a spark down your spine. Good friends, even. Friends with extraordinary kissing chemistry. It was the kind of arrangement that let you enjoy all the perks without any of the drama; basically, hitting the jackpot.
Bucky’s metal hand shifted to the back of your thigh, cool through the denim of your jeans. The delicious contrast made you shiver and laugh simultaneously. He pulled back just enough to watch you catch your breath, blue eyes bright and a little smug.
“Cold?” he asked, voice rough with amusement. “Or is that just the effect I have on you?”
You grinned, brushing your nose against his. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
Bucky’s smile was small but certain, like he already knew exactly how to make you sigh again, before he leaned in for another kiss.
It all started months ago, back when Bucky officially joined the Avengers.
Not the awkward probationary period when everyone still half-expected him to vanish into the night with a duffel bag and a handgun. This was after he’d settled in, started cracking jokes with Sam, and started trusting people enough to stay for movie nights instead of just lurking in the hallway like a cryptid with perfect hair.
Somewhere in all of that, you and Bucky had landed in the “pretty good friends” category. The kind of friends who could spend an afternoon sparring in the gym and still grab take-out after, sweaty and laughing. The kind who could sit on the roof and trade sarcastic commentary about Tony’s latest gadget, or drop down into a serious conversation about nightmares and past mistakes without it getting weird.
And, apparently, the kind of friends who made out. A lot.
It wasn’t complicated. Sometimes, missions were rough, and adrenaline was high, and you both needed a way to blow off steam. Sometimes a late-night movie ended with you leaning a little too close. Sometimes—like tonight—you just happened to find yourselves kissing because it felt good and you both wanted to, and that was reason enough.
No strategy, no hidden agenda. Just two adults enjoying themselves in a world that rarely handed out simple pleasures.
You were good friends who kissed when the mood struck them. That was it. No strings, no labels, no looming “what are we” talk. A perfectly modern arrangement for a perfectly modern pair of friends.
You liked the way things were. Bucky was warm, solid, and dependable. He had this way of making you feel like the only person in the room, which was a dangerous kind of magic when paired with a mouth that good. But things never got complicated, and in your stressful line of work, you appreciated that.
It was easy, light, and made you feel like the universe could occasionally be kind.
Bucky shifted beneath you, the couch groaning as he settled a hand more firmly at your waist. His metal thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle against your shirt, the cool contrast sending a fresh shiver up your spine.
“Comfortable?” he asked, voice low, rough-edged from kissing.
“Mmhmm.” You didn’t bother opening your eyes, just leaned in for another slow, unhurried kiss.
Bucky smiled against your mouth, a satisfied curve like he’d just confirmed something important. He always kissed slowly and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and knew you’d give it to him.
You melted a little—fine, a lot—into the steady press of his mouth. “You’re really making me work for it after leg day,” you mumbled against his lips.
Bucky hummed, a warm vibration you felt in your spine. “Maybe I just like having you in my lap, doll.”
You rolled your eyes, managing a smirk. “The feeling’s mutual, Barnes. But I could use a break.”
He chuckled, a low sound that made you want to drag him even closer. The couch groaned as he shifted, metal hand sliding beneath you in a smooth, practised motion. One minute you were sitting on his lap, the next you were stretched out along the cushions, Bucky braced above you.
The world tilted pleasantly, the weight of him sinking into your bones.
“Better?” he asked, breath brushing your cheek.
“Comfier,” you admitted, trying very hard not to sound like someone who had just been given the universe’s best weighted blanket. “You’re heavy. In a solid, heroic kind of way.”
Bucky’s grin flashed, quick and boyish. “Heroic heavy. I’ll take it.”
He dipped his head again before you could muster a comeback, mouth sliding against yours in a kiss that was both careful and possessive. His flesh hand cupped your jaw, tilting you just so, and the combination of soft pressure and cool metal tracing lazy paths along your waist sent heat pooling low in your stomach.
His nose brushed yours as he broke for air. “You taste like that sugar and espresso,” he murmured, voice rough. “My coffee, the one I made for myself.”
“It was a communal coffee,” you protested, fingers finding the hem of his T-shirt and giving it a cheeky tug. “Sharing is caring. Also, I’m a growing woman.”
Bucky smirked, clearly unbothered, and dipped back in. It was the kind of kiss that made you forget the world outside the four walls of his room and forget your own name if you weren’t careful.
His metal hand slid to your waist, tracing a line just under the edge of your shirt and approaching the buttons of your jeans. The cool touch jolted through you, sharp enough to register as a warning and a dare all at once.
“Tell me to stop,” Bucky said quietly, forehead resting against yours. His thumb pressed a slow circle against your bare skin, a gentle reminder that going further would tip past kissing for the first time.
The softness of it made something tighten behind your ribs, but you managed a grin. “You first.”
His mouth found yours again, slower still, and you decided that this was the best friendship upgrade you’d ever signed up for.
You tasted like sweat and a hint of something sweet, somehow.
Bucky let his back hit the wall of the training room with a low thud, the sound swallowed by the rush of your breath against his mouth. You were still in your usual sparring gear, hair sticking to your forehead, T-shirt damp at the collar. He hooked his flesh hand around your waist and pulled you flush against him.
You made a sound—half-laugh, half-sigh—that went straight to his chest. God, that laugh. Low and warm and a little breathless. He’d chased it for months.
His metal palm slid over the small of your back, cool against overheated skin. You shivered and pressed closer, hips tilting just enough to make his breath catch. The thin barrier of fabric did nothing to hide the heat of you.
“Good match,” you managed between kisses, voice bright with the last of the adrenaline.
“Mm.” Bucky’s answer came out rough. Talking felt pointless when he could taste you instead.
You tugged at the collar of his T-shirt, nails grazing the back of his neck. Bucky groaned, deep and quiet, and let his hand drift lower until his fingers brushed the waistband of your leggings. Not pushing. Just there. Asking.
You didn’t pull away. You only shifted closer, thigh sliding between his.
Christ. Bucky angled his head, deepening the kiss. This was new. Closer. The kind of slow grind that carried a promise.
He’d been patient about romancing you—old-fashioned, even. The Bucky treatment, Steve would call it with a grin, which entailed absolutely no funny business until you were exclusive. Dinner after missions, walks back from the market, letting the thing between you build at its own pace.
At first, Bucky worried that it was too slow for you.
After all, you were a modern woman, and dating had escalated into something he barely recognised these days. He’d spent nights lying awake, half convinced you’d get bored and wander off before he figured out the new rules. People swiped left and right now; they didn’t wait weeks to hold someone’s hand.
But you never once pushed. You were happy to linger after movie nights, to kiss until the streetlights clicked off, to let the quiet stretch between you without demanding anything more. Every time you smiled at Bucky across a dinner table or leaned against his arm during a walk, he felt a clean rush of relief—proof that slow wasn’t scaring you away.
Eventually, he’d worked up to what he thought was the big step: exclusivity. He’d asked in what he still considered a perfectly obvious, twenty-first-century way. Over take-out noodles one night, he’d nudged your foot under the table and said, “Guess we’re making this official, huh?” You’d grinned, clinked your chopsticks against his, and said, “Pleasure doing business with you,” before launching into a story about a disastrous mission briefing.
For Bucky, that was it. You were official, exclusive. He’d walked you back to your room that night, floating three inches off the floor, certain the air between you had shifted into something solid. He’d even texted his group chat with Steve and Sam the next morning—asked her to be exclusive. she said yes.
And now, weeks later, the ease of it still steadied him. Because you’d let him take his time, because you’d agreed to be his without hesitation, he could finally let himself imagine the next step.
Not a leap, just a careful slide forward. A hand under your shirt, the warm weight of you against him. Little things that meant trust, not just desire. You knew he was serious; you knew this wasn’t a fling. And because of that, Bucky could touch you like this and know he wasn’t crossing a line.
It was worth every second of taking it slow.
He’d wanted tonight to be a reward. You’d wiped the floor with him in the last sparring round, and he’d loved every second of it. A kiss in the corner of the gym before you both hit the showers. A private victory lap. But the way you moved now—hips rolling, fingers sliding under the edge of his shirt—made the idea of stopping feel cruel.
You broke the kiss just long enough to breathe. “You’re dangerous, Barnes,” you murmured, eyes bright.
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh. “You started it.”
Your grin flashed. “Pretty sure you tackled me first.”
“I’m not the one wearing the sexy workout outfit.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, a small claim that felt bigger than it should. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
You answered by catching his bottom lip between your teeth.
Every sane thought disappeared from his head.
Bucky had been planning your next date all afternoon. Real food this time, something nicer than the take-out containers you both pretended were meals. Maybe that little place Natasha kept raving about.
Afterwards, he’d walk you back to the Tower, maybe stop by the rooftop garden where you liked to lean on the railing and tell him funny stories. He wanted to see you there again, sweater sleeves pulled over your hands, laughing at his deadpan jokes.
A relationship, exclusive dating after months of doing it casually and slowly. That’s what this was.
Bucky had been careful, giving you space, but the signs were obvious. Movie nights that ended with you asleep against his shoulder. Early morning texts about coffee orders. The way you started wearing one of his hoodies and never gave it back. People didn’t do that if it wasn’t serious.
And now, the way you fit against him, warm and trusting, made the truth feel solid enough to lean on.
You shifted again, a slow drag of hips that sent a jolt of pleasure through him. Bucky tightened his grip, metal fingers spanning your waist, holding you steady while you moved.
“Easy,” he murmured, voice breaking low. Not a warning. More of a plea to give him a second to keep it together.
You only smiled, wicked and sweet, and stole another kiss.
Bucky’s heart hammered a steady backbeat, climbing higher every time you shifted against him. He felt young again, as if the world had tilted toward something good and he was allowed to stand in the middle of it.
He thought of Steve and how he used to talk about simple pleasures, about not waiting too long. Maybe this was what he meant.
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Your pupils were blown wide, a question shining there.
Bucky smoothed his thumb along your jaw. “Tell me if I’m pushing,” he said quietly.
Your smile softened. “You’re not.”
He leaned in, forehead against yours, and let the next kiss start slow. A promise disguised as a reward. He’d wait as long as you needed, but tonight felt like the start of something bigger.
His girl, his doll, his future.
Bucky’s room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and cedar, the clean scent that comes from someone who actually follows the instructions on a bottle of fabric softener. Show off.
The lamp on his nightstand was turned low, casting a warm light over the bed where Alpine, a small white cloud with whiskers, was already perched as if she paid rent. You’d been in here enough times to know the lightbulb was the soft kind that made everyone look ten times kinder, which felt on brand for a man who pretended to be grumpy while secretly rescuing cats.
“Movie night with a critic,” Bucky said, toeing off his boots. “She likes to meow at the plot holes.”
“You’re just jealous she’s smarter than you,” you teased, settling cross-legged on the edge of the mattress. The comforter dipped beneath you, soft and heavy. It smelled faintly of clean cotton and something warm—Bucky, probably.
He shot you a look of mock offence while fishing for the remote on his bedside table. “Careful, doll. I can still veto your pick.”
Bucky queued up the movie and slid down beside you, long legs stretched out and arm braced on the mattress, brushing your thigh. A barely-there touch, but enough to make your nerve endings sit up like they’d just had a double espresso. The screen lit up with the opening credits of your favourite movie.
Alpine gave a chirp, turned a slow circle, and then—betrayal of betrayals—padded across Bucky’s lap and plopped squarely into yours.
“Oh, c’mon,” he groaned. “Every time!”
You grinned, scratching behind Alpine’s ears as she head-butted your palm with the force of a tiny, determined marshmallow. “Face it. I’m her favourite.”
Bucky leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed in dramatic suffering. “I rescued her from a busted fire escape. Nursed her back to health. Bought the fancy grain-free food. And this is the thanks I get?”
“Maybe she appreciates quality company,” you said, wiggling your fingers to make Alpine’s tail swish in delight. “I have sparkling conversation and adorable charm. What do you bring to the table?”
“Trauma and good cheekbones,” Bucky deadpanned.
You snorted, nearly startling the cat. “Wow. Irresistible package.”
“She used to sleep on my chest,” he went on, ignoring you. “Now she hears your voice and suddenly I’m chopped liver.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” you said, though you were enjoying every second of his mock sulk. “You’re still her giant food dispenser.”
“Thanks, doll. Real boost to the ego.” Bucky tilted his head toward Alpine, who was now purring loud enough to be heard over the movie. “You hear that, snowball? Dad’s feelings—obliterated.”
Alpine flicked an ear and nestled deeper into your lap like a queen receiving tribute. You gave Bucky a wide, innocent smile. “Maybe she just senses my aura.”
“Your aura?” He arched a brow.
“Yeah. Cats can tell when someone’s a good person. Or at least when someone’s not secretly plotting world domination.”
“Guess I should’ve hidden the plans better,” Bucky said, eyes glinting.
The banter slid back and forth like an old routine—effortless, balanced, as easy as breathing. You’d fallen into this rhythm months ago: Bucky’s dry humour, your quick jabs, both of you quietly delighted whenever you managed to crack the other wide open.
He laughed now, a low, warm sound that vibrated through the mattress and settled somewhere under your ribs. You filed it away with all the other Bucky details you weren’t supposed to notice: the way his laugh always started in his chest, the tiny crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the ridiculous fact that it made you feel lighter every single time.
Halfway through the movie, Alpine stretched a paw across your stomach, claiming more territory. Bucky reached out, fingers brushing yours as he pretended to coax her back.
“Traitor,” he whispered.
“She’s perfect,” you whispered back, though your focus snagged on the tiny graze of his metal knuckles against your skin. Cool and smooth, a contrast sharp enough to send a little electric zing racing up your arm.
Bucky caught the flick of your eyes and smirked like he’d felt it too. “You’re spoiling her.”
“Maybe I just have a magic touch.”
“You don’t say.”
On screen, the hero made a questionable decision that earned a disgusted chirp from Alpine. You and Bucky burst out laughing at the same time, the sound overlapping until you couldn’t tell whose laugh belonged to whom. He nudged your knee with his, just a small bump, but he didn’t move it away.
The rest of the movie blurred in a haze of shared snacks and whispered commentary. Bucky pointed out continuity errors. You defended the cheesy dialogue. Alpine purred as if she were personally invested in the debate.
If happiness had a sound, it might have been this: a cat’s rumble, a soldier’s laugh, and your own heartbeat trying to keep up.
By the time the end credits rolled, Bucky stretched with a satisfied groan, his shoulder brushing yours. “Not bad,” he admitted. “A couple plot holes, but the cat critic seems pleased.”
Alpine yawned and pressed her head into your palm.
“Five stars,” you said, giving the cat a final scratch. “From the only opinion that matters.”
Bucky’s eyes softened as he watched you. He didn’t say anything, just reached over to gently lift Alpine from your lap and set her on the pillow. But his fingers lingered for a beat, like he wasn’t quite ready to break the contact.
With Alpine safely out of the way, Bucky leaned in and kissed you, slow and deep, as if he’d been waiting all night for the chance. It was the kind of kiss that felt inevitable, like the next logical step in a perfect night in.
The debrief wrapped with Steve’s trademark mix of stern professionalism and sweet encouragement. “Good work out there,” he said, setting the file down like it hadn’t just survived three explosions and a questionable landing courtesy of Peter. “Take the night off. Dinner’s on me.”
A chorus of cheers and applause rippled around the conference table. Chairs scraped back, jackets were shrugged on. The post-mission buzz was alive and well in the collective joy of finally getting to sit somewhere that wasn’t a Quinjet.
You stretched, rolling a knot out of your shoulder as Bucky fell into step beside you. His hand brushed the small of your back for half a second.
“Dinner?” Natasha asked, leaning against the table with the confidence of a woman who already knew everyone would say yes. “Pizza? Burgers? Anything that involves carbs and regret?”
“Carbs are a therapeutic necessity,” Steve said dryly.
“Carbs keep me sane,” Kate added, slinging her bow case over one shoulder. “I vote for pizza.”
“Seconded,” Peter said, already halfway to his phone, texting Joaquín. “I’ll find somewhere with those giant garlic knots.”
The group hummed with agreement, overlapping suggestions flying. Ava and John debated deep-dish pizza versus thin-crust pizza with the seriousness of a nuclear treaty. Yelena quietly pilfered the last of the conference room snacks, unwrapping a protein bar like it had wronged her.
Sam’s eyes flicked to Bucky and then to you, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Buck, you bringing your girlfriend or what?”
Yelena snorted so loudly it should have counted as a war crime. “Ha. Good one.”
You blinked. “Wait—what?”
Bucky’s frown was immediate and sharp. “Why is that funny?”
Your laugh came out higher than intended. “Oh, uh… I think she meant—”
“Meant what?” Bucky asked, still frowning. “Why would that be a joke?”
Across the table, Steve froze mid-water bottle sip. Ava’s eyebrows shot up.
“Because it is funny,” Yelena said, pointing to you with a grin. “She is not his girlfriend.”
Sam looked suddenly, violently confused. “But… she is Bucky’s girlfriend?” He turned to you for confirmation. “Aren’t you?”
Your heart jumped. “No,” you exclaimed, while Bucky declared, “Yes.”
A silence followed so heavy you could practically hear your heart drop to your stomach.
“Interesting,” Natasha said, stealing Yelena’s protein bar with the calm of a woman watching a soap opera unfold in real time. “Please, continue.”
Bob’s eyes ping-ponged between you and Bucky like he was watching the world’s most stressful tennis match. “Um. Did we miss something?”
“We’re—” you started.
“We’re dating,” Bucky said, voice firm, like he was reciting mission intel.
You gaped at him. “We are not dating.”
Ava arched one perfect brow. “This is going to be good.”
Bucky turned to you, confusion etched deep. “What do you mean we’re not? We’ve been—” He broke off, gesturing vaguely with both hands, as though the universal sign for making out on couches would help.
Your face went hot. “That’s not dating, that’s us letting out some steam once in a while. Friends with very occasional, very PG-13 benefits!”
Sam’s mouth dropped open. “Occasional? You two are attached at the hip. You leave missions together. You do grocery runs together. Bucky refers to the both of you as a ‘we’ like he can’t bear to do anything alone. I thought that was relationship-level stuff.”
“That’s just… logistics!” you protested, which sounded weak even to you.
Kate leaned forward, delighted. “Okay, but the movie nights?”
“Friends have movie nights,” you said.
“With tongue?” Yelena asked flatly.
You flailed. “Sometimes!”
Bucky stared at you, blue eyes wide and wounded. “You thought this was friends with benefits?”
Your stomach twisted. “You thought we were in a relationship?”
Sam rubbed a hand over his face, muttering, “Unbelievable.”
John was trying not to laugh and failing spectacularly. Natasha wore an expression that suggested she was mentally drafting a memo about emotional communication for the next team briefing.
“Wow,” Ava said, grinning. “This is like watching two different movies at the same time.”
“Alternate universes,” Peter murmured. “One where Bucky’s a committed boyfriend. One where he’s a very dedicated situationship.”
“Okay,” you said, holding up your hands before the word situationship could set the room on fire. “Let’s all just take a breath.”
Bucky’s jaw flexed. “I asked you to be exclusive.”
Your brain replayed the sentence like a faulty recording. “When?”
“That night after we got Chinese food,” he said, voice rising slightly. “I said, ‘I don’t want to share you.’”
You stared. “I thought you were talking to the spring rolls!”
Sam made a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Bob buried his face in his hoodie to avoid second-hand embarrassment. Natasha bit into Yelena’s protein bar as if it were popcorn and she was at the cinema.
Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “I meant you. And then I asked if we were official, and you said something about being happy to do business with me.”
“Oh.” Your voice squeaked on the single syllable. “That… does clarify things.”
Steve, who had been silently observing like a patient kindergarten teacher, finally cleared his throat. “Maybe the two of you should talk privately.”
“Great idea,” Kate said brightly. “Before Sam combusts.”
“I’m fine,” Sam said, clearly not fine.
The room erupted into overlapping chatter—Sam defending his assumption, Yelena narrating every awkward beat, Peter mumbling something about how communication is key. Through it all, Bucky kept his eyes on you, a mix of hurt and hope twisting behind the blue.
You swallowed hard, heart pounding like it was trying to hammer out a coherent sentence.
So much for perfectly normal friend behaviour.
“Okay,” you said finally, meeting his gaze. “Maybe we do need to talk.”
Bucky nodded once, slow but certain, like a man accepting a mission. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “We do.”
Steve and Natasha began shepherding everyone out of the conference room. When the door clicked shut behind them, the room felt too silent all of a sudden. The scent of burnt coffee and adrenaline clung to the air, a reminder that superhero drama apparently came with office-breakroom ambience.
The rest of the team’s laughter echoed faintly down the hall.
Bucky stood near the table, arms crossed but not in a threatening way. More like he was trying to keep all his pieces inside. Your stomach did a neat little backflip.
“So,” you said, voice wobbling toward cheerful. “That was… fun. Nothing like a room full of superheroes arguing about your love life to keep a mission debrief lively.”
His mouth twitched. “Could’ve been worse. Sam could’ve made a powerpoint.”
You laughed—short, nervous. “He probably has one ready. Charts. Graphs. Pie slices of evidence.”
Silence settled again. Bucky uncrossed his arms, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, doll, I’m sorry. I should’ve— I don’t know. Made things clearer.”
You stepped closer, shaking your head. “No, I should’ve—”
But he ploughed on, words rushing. “I just thought— hell, I assumed. We do everything together. You stay over half the week, Alpine’s basically picked you as her human. I figured you were happy to take things slow for me, but then I assumed we made things official. And tonight—” His voice cracked. “I feel like an idiot. Like I set myself up for this.”
“Bucky—”
“I should’ve said something. I should’ve asked. Instead I’m standing there like a chump while half the team thinks I’m your boyfriend and the other half thinks I’m delusional—”
“Hey!” You caught his sleeve before he could spiral farther. The fabric was warm from his skin; the metal of his arm cold through the seam. The contrast shot straight to your heartbeat, a reminder of how many contradictions made him Bucky. “Bucky, stop. This isn’t a one-sided screw-up, okay? We both failed at communicating what we thought we were.”
Bucky finally looked at you, eyes stormy and searching.
You took a breath, steadying the racing pulse in your throat. “I didn’t think we were dating because we never said we were. But that’s on me too. I never asked, never clarified. I just liked what we had and didn’t want to scare you off.”
His shoulders eased a fraction. “You liked what we had?”
You rolled your eyes affectionately. “Obviously. Have you met you?”
That earned the tiniest smile.
“I like us,” you continued, softer now. “I like movie nights and bad diner coffee and the way you always walk on the street side. I like how easy it is to talk to you, even when you’re grumpy and pretending not to care. And yeah, maybe I wanted more, but I didn’t want to risk losing the friendship that’s basically my favorite thing in the world.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked down, then back up. His voice came out low, careful. “You’re my favourite thing too.”
Your chest squeezed in equal parts terror and relief. Apparently, your ribcage had decided to moonlight as a vice. “So maybe we stop assuming and actually start communicating.”
He stepped closer until the air between you warmed. “Communicating,” he echoed. “Like, I want to be your boyfriend. Present tense. Clear as day.”
You grinned, heart hammering. “Exactly like that. Because I want to be your girlfriend. Also present tense, clear as day.”
The grin softened into something else as Bucky reached up, fingertips brushing your cheek like a question. You answered by leaning in, closing the space. His lips met yours in a slow, careful press, the kind of kiss that asked for trust instead of taking it.
His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, steady and warm, the faint scrape of calloused skin sending a quiet thrill through you. You angled closer, a subtle pull that left you swaying toward him until your chest met the solid line of his.
His thumb traced a small circle against your jaw, patient and deliberate, like he wanted every second to count.
When you pulled back, breathless and a little dizzy, Bucky rested his forehead against yours. His eyes stayed half-lidded, the corners soft with something that made your stomach flip all over again. “Worth the public humiliation,” he murmured.
The door banged open.
“Please tell me I’m not interrupting more feelings,” Tony said, strolling in with a tablet. “Steve just told me you—” he pointed at you “—thought you weren’t dating the Hot Topic Terminator over here. Congratulations, you are officially the least perceptive spy I’ve ever met.”
You groaned. Bucky chuckled against your hair.
Tony smirked, already tapping on his tablet. “Great. Now that the sitcom subplot is resolved, can we schedule the next mission?”
You buried your face in Bucky’s chest, laughing despite yourself.
can I PLEASE request steve and shy!reader’s first time?? he practically begs her to make noise and when she does he’s just DEAD
ty for requesting!! — steve teaches you how to use your voice in the bedroom (new relationship, shy!reader, smut 18+)
“Is that the spot?”
You only vaguely hear Steve’s voice, low and honeyed in your ear, as his kiss-bitten lips trace over the shell of it. You’re suffocated beneath the weight of his golden body, and the pleasure he punches into you with relentless, measured thrusts. Steve keeps himself propped on his sinewy forearms on either side of your head, watching with attentive eyes as your pretty face screws with pleasure every time he fucks himself into you.
It’s hard for him to know exactly what you like when you aren’t really telling him anything. Your silence is not entirely expected — you’re always a quiet little thing, and now is no exception — but it’s hard for him to know if you feel good.
He’s grown too used to the wild types; the girls that scream and writhe and make sex an Oscar-worthy performance. He likes how quiet you are in your pleasure; how your pliable body reacts so loudly to his touches despite how shy you are.
He’s already found the spot that makes you keen. With one especially languid thrust — which had pierced the deepest parts of you and caged your sensitive clit beneath his coarse pubic hair — your wild head tipped back against the pillow, in time with your arching back and your clenching fists that reach blindly for the navy sheets below. The sudden stroke of pleasure, like lightning down your spine, makes you feel like a woman possessed.
Steve’s rosy mouth, slick with your honey and spit, curls into a crooked smile at the sight.
“Yeah?” he coos, half-breathless, when your velvet walls clench around him. “You like this, don’t you, honey?”
All he gets from you is a soft and airy moan, but it makes his stiff cock jerk in your quivering confines anyway.
“Then tell me.”
His words fall over you like summer rain. You don’t know if it’s a command or a plea — and he doesn’t, either, really — but he just wants to hear you.
Your mouth parts in a silent moan when his hips rock back and forward again, never quite pulling all the way out of you before fucking into you again, inch by agonizing inch. Your nails dig crescent shapes into his shoulder blades, and Steve revels in the distant burn.
“C’mon, sweet thing…” he pants above you. The breath of his words fans warm against your chin as his broad nose nudges against the side of yours. “Tell me… Tell me I’m making you feel good…”
A flicker of panic dashes across your fucked-out features at the simple command — you wouldn’t know what to tell him, how to tell him without sounding utterly un-sexy. But then his hips tilt back between your parted thighs, dragging his stiff cock out of you until your drooling pussy clenches around the bulbous tip, and then pushes slowly back into you again.
He forces you to feel all of it — every inch of his cock as he fills you once more. The thatch of hair above his happy trail that ruts mercilessly along your swollen clit, more so when your hips buck on their own accord. The scruff of his chest that brushes your sensitive nipples when you tighten your hold around his shoulders.
You couldn’t make out the words if you tried.
You cage your bottom lip between your teeth and squeeze your eyes shut tight, missing the look of worry that flashes across Steve’s scruffy face. His measured thrusts falter at your silence, lean hips stilling between your thighs.
“Does it… Does it not feel good?” he mumbles awkwardly into the quiet of his bedroom.
Your eyes fly open then, heavy-lidded and swimming with a leftover pleasure. You almost can’t believe he’s asking you that. Like you aren’t already so close to your orgasm, like you haven’t already drenched the sheets below you.
“Yeah… It— It feels good…” you tell him through panted breaths, quiet and hardly audible. Your eyes dart back and forth between his chocolate ones. Something short of agony twists at your pouting features. “Why— Why’d you stop?”
Steve grins all over again, though it wavers at the edges with a lingering worry.
“You got all quiet on me…” he murmurs, smoothing one wide hand over your cheek. The skin there is slightly sticky from a thin layer of sweat as he smooths rouge tendrils of hair from your temples with a softly calloused palm. His touch is as warm and firm as his heavy balls still pressed against your ass. “I wanted to make sure it was good for you, too…”
You shift slightly, caged beneath his golden body and the mattress below. You shrink into yourself instinctively, though there isn’t anywhere to go with you pressed so intently against him.
“Sorry…” you whisper.
Steve shakes his head. The chestnut tresses hanging over his forehead sway over his eyes, which go squishy around the edges when he smiles down at you with a melted chocolate gaze.
“You don’t have to apologize… I get it. It’s okay.”
He punctuates his reassurance with a kiss. His lips taste like spearmint, nicotine, and the sweet-salty tang of your cum when they press against yours. Your mouths slot together in a lingering, longing thing like they were meant to do it — like he was made to kiss you, like his only purpose was to kiss you.
Your lips smack when you pull away.
“Can you…” you hear yourself ask, then trail off a second later when you catch yourself.
“Can I what?” Steve hums knowingly. His lips curl into a lazy smile moments before he leans down to press them to your cheek. He doesn’t really kiss you there, but rather brushes the plush skin along your sweat-slick one. The breath of his words fans across your jaw and sends chill bumps pebbling across your bare body. “Use your words for me, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”
My cock, he means. Or the world. Or the ocean. Whatever you could possibly ask for, he’d fight like hell to get.
Your breath catches when his wet mouth meets your pulse. You wonder if he can feel the thrumming of your rapid heartbeat there. “Can you keep going?” you plead in a breathless whisper.
Steve grits his teeth to fight back a moan when your words make his cock twitch inside you. The scruff of his chin scratches your shoulder when he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, baby, I can… I do that for you…”
The process starts all over again, the merciless rocking of his hips. He pulls out just enough to make you sigh at the empty feeling, then he fucks back into you until his balls slap the plush skin of your ass. Your back arches off the mattress as your nails dig into his golden shoulder. Your moan gets buried in your throat, in a hardly audible whimper.
“Let me hear it, baby,” Steve pleads through labored breaths as his fists ball into the pillows on either side of your head.
His lidded gaze, glassy with a layer of honey, flits across your fucked-out features — eyes squeezed shut, head tossed back, bottom lip caged between your teeth. The sight of you below him is heaven alone, especially compared to how demoniacal your cunt feels wrapped around him.
“Let me make you feel good. C’mon.”
You vaguely feel his right hand squeeze between your sweaty bodies as he continues his measured thrusts. His finger brushes over your stomach, and past the thatch of hair above your pussy, before finding purchase on your clit — already sensitive from your previous orgasm, which he had given to you with nothing but his mouth.
Your body reacts before your mind does. Your hips buck with a shock of electricity. Your thighs clench around his lean hips. Your mouth parts to exhale a broken whimper.
“Right there,” you hear yourself say. “Oh, my god— Right there.”
The praise makes Steve’s even thrusts falter for a moment. A groan rumbles in the depths of his throat. “Yeah… There you go,” the boy slurs. “You sound so pretty for me— Fuck. I knew you would…”
His words make you keen. “Steve…” you whimper when you feel your orgasm suddenly approaching, like a knot in the pit of your stomach that’s growing tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment.
He tries not to burst entirely at the way you say his name.
“What is it, honey?” he coos. “You close?”
“Yes…” you sigh.
“I know you are, baby— I can feel it,” he says through gritted teeth, as his own pleasure starts to build. “You’re getting so tight around me, baby, I can— shit. I can barely move—”
Your pussy clenches tighter around him, all but weeping for him now. Steve’s fingers on your swollen clit only add to the ache, which feels borderline overwhelming now. Your face screws in a pained sort of look as your thighs tremble on either side of his waist. You writh beneath his golden body, trying to both chase your orgasm and run from its intensity at the same time.
“Please, please, please…” you hear yourself begging, though for what, you couldn’t say. “Please, Steve…”
“I’m right here, baby,” the boy coos, words slurring from his own encroaching orgasm. He keeps one merciless hand on your clit, which swells beneath his fingers, while his other shifts to hold you. He keeps himself propped up with his elbow while his palm settles over the crown of your head. His fingers curl gently in your hair as he murmurs to you, “I’m right here. Take what you want. You know I’ll give it to you. You just gotta… holy shit— You just gotta fucking take it, baby—”
Something about his words sends you over the edge. The way he says them to you so softly, maybe, or the way they come out slightly strangled as he fights back his own pleasure.
“There you go…” Steve sighs when he feels you cumming around him, velvet walls clenching through the silk you leak for him. He watches through the haze of bliss clouding his vision as you finally succumb to your orgasm, twitching and writhing behind him through every wave of pleasure. “Take it, baby. Take it—”
His voice breaks. A pain sort of groan sounds deep in his throat as his own orgasm threatens to unravel him. He punches into you once, hard, and then buckles down over you. He suffocates you beneath his warm, heavenly body while his aching cock jerks within the pulsing walls of your pussy, spitting several ropes of warm cum deep inside of you.
“Fuck, baby,” he whimpers into your neck, where he hides his flushed face that screws in a pained look of overwhelming pleasure. “Fuck—”
He stills against you with one last, shallow thrust. The remaining tension floods from his body as he sinks heavily onto yours, with every intention of melting with you there. It’s the closest to heaven he’s ever felt — hell, probably the closest to heaven he’ll ever get — with his sweat-slick skin sticking so deliciously to yours.
“Stay…” he hears you whisper when he goes to pull out of you.
The soles of your feet press into the back of his scruffy thighs. Steve pulls just far enough to see your face, and finds you wearing a pleading, pitiful sort of look — brows scrunched, eyes wet, mouth pouted from his kisses.
“Don’t pull out,” you beg through heavy breaths. “Please. I… I wanna stay like this for a while…”
Steve’s pink lips spread into a lopsided grin. His eyes are made of melted chocolate as they dart between both of your glassy ones. Rogue tendrils of chestnut hair fall over his forehead as he nods. And when the words of a promise finally catch up to him, he grins, “Yeah. Whatever you want, baby…”
KINKTOBER ‘25 ❤︎ DAY TWELVE phone sex → spencer reid !
like what you see? check out my kinktober 2025 masterlist!
warnings: fem!reader, sub!spence, guided masturbation, male masturbation, nipple play, long distance yearnerrrrssss, loser spence, pathetically obedient spence (wait im drooling), spencer reid using technology regularly???, mentions of f masturbation, mentions of pillow humping..., teasing, voice kink, very corny dialogue + repetitive tbh writing this felt awkward...
wc: 3.1k
div: animatedglittergraphics-n-more, toastray
lowercase intended, no use of y/n
spencer reid was the kind of boyfriend who couldn’t stand to be away from you for too long. distance, for him, was a quiet torture, an ache that nestled itself deep in his chest and refused to fade.
some might have called it clingy, maybe even bordering on obsessive, but you only viewed it as it was: enternally endearing, a gentle devotion.
you could never get tired or annoyed of the way he’d call you at odd hours just to hear your voice, or how he’d text you little fragments of his day—a half-thought, a quote he’d read, a random observation, just to remind you that even in the middle of his whirlwind life, you were always there in the back of his mind.
he’d send you messages written hastily in the moments between briefings, in breaths he stole while hastily writing up a geographical profile, or during a coffee break in some nameless town. sometimes, it was just a simple wish i was with you right now or a quote from a book he’d read on the flight.
for someone who had once loathed technology, he’d suddenly found himself tethered to his phone. you hadn’t asked him to change his old–fashioned, nearly prehistoric ways—he simply couldn’t stand the thought of not hearing from you, not seeing you, not knowing you were okay.
even the grainy photo of you saved on his screen became something sacred, a digital version of you he could carry anywhere.
and when he was buried in a case—far from home, the nights long and the work heavier than it should ever be, your voice became his sanctuary. he’d sneak away from the chaos, phone pressed to his ear, eyes closed as he listened to you speak.
it didn’t matter what you talked about. you could tell him about what you made for dinner, or how the rain sounded against the windows, even how you accidentally spilled coffee on your favourite sweater—he wanted to hear all of it.
the sound of you breathing, laughing softly, filling the quiet between your words... that was the only thing that could ease his mind after hours of darkness.
you didn’t always realize it, but to him, those conversations were everything. they were proof that there was still light somewhere in the world, proof that despite the things he saw, the things he carried, there was still you. still warmth. still home.
at night, when the motel rooms grew too quiet and the weight of the day pressed down on him, he couldn’t fall asleep unless he heard your voice one last time. you’d talk about the smallest, most ordinary things. like what you’d read before bed, a song that reminded you of him, the way the moonlight spilled though the gaps of your curtains, and he’d listen as if every detail mattered. because to him, it did.
every moment, every story, every breath you took on the other end of the line reminded him that he wasn’t alone.
most nights, spencer would fall asleep mid-conversation, phone still clutched loosely in his hand, your voice spilling softly through the speaker. you could always tell when it happened—his responses would trail off, words slowing until they were simply quiet breaths.
it made your chest ache in the sweetest way, knowing he couldn’t fall asleep without you there, without the gentle rhythm of your voice guiding him into rest.
while he slept, the tension he carried all day would fade from his features, leaving behind a peaceful stillness you wished you could see in person. and though miles stretched between you, knowing he found comfort in your voice, that your words could hush the noise in his mind, made the distance feel just a little smaller, just a little softer
spencer had been away from you for far too many days, and it was nothing short of torture. the case had completely wrung him dry, mind, body, and spirit.
even your sweet texts and late-night calls, the ones that usually steadied him, had started to lose their power against the ache of missing you.
he needed more. he needed you—in front of him, within reach, your skin warm against his, alive and real.
when he finally returned to the hotel room he’d been calling home, exhaustion hit him like a wave. it crawled into his body and settled deep in his bones, turning every movement heavy.
he dropped his go-bag by the door and collapsed onto the springy bed, the dim light casting tired shadows across his face. his hand slipped into his pocket, fingers fumbling for his phone. he didn’t even think—he just called.
after a few rings, you picked up.
“spence?”
Your voice came out soft, a little groggy with sleep but already warming as you spoke his name.
for a moment, all you could hear was his breathing—uneven, quiet, hesitant, before his voice finally broke through, low and rough with exhaustion, yet full of something achingly tender that only spencer reid could carry. .
“hey… i didn’t wake you, did i?”
you could hear it in his tone, the kind of weariness that went beyond the physical. it was emotional, heavy with the weight of his long days, energy stretched thin with the load of casework on his shoulders.
but he didn't call to talk about that.
“you didn’t,”
you whispered, though maybe you had been sleeping.
“are you okay?”
there was a pause. a silence that held everything he didn’t know how to say. when he finally spoke, his voice cracked just slightly.
“i just needed to hear you.”
your heart squeezed. you sat up in bed, pulling the blanket closer around your shoulders as if it could close the distance between you.
"i'm right here.”
you murmured.
you heard him exhale, a shaky, quiet sound, and you could picture him sinking back into some worn motel pillow, eyes half-closed, phone resting against his ear.
“i missed you,”
he admitted at last, the words small but so full of truth they made your throat tighten.
“more than i can explain.”
“i missed you too,”
you said softly.
“it’s been too quiet without you.”
spencer's breath caught in his throat as the weight of your voice echoed through the phone, a sound that seemed to caress his skin.
truthfully, he missed you, in more ways than one, and his longing for your touch was undeniable.
he felt a rush of heat, a flush that crept up his neck and spread across his face, a silent reaction to the intimate thoughts that had begun to unravel in his mind.
his fingers, seemingly of their own accord, had slipped past the confines of his slacks, palming his length that strained against the fabric. a jolt of pleasure coursed through his veins, sending shivers down his spine.
your voice, a just barely a whisper, snapped him back to reality.
"spence?"
your voice was laced with the quiet concern of his silence, he hadn't realized the extent of his distraction, the way his hand had slipped past the waistband of his boxers, seeking the heat of his own flesh.
"y—yeah, sorry, i'm just tired,"
he managed to stammer, his voice a strained whisper. his fingers, slick with anticipation, traced his sensitive slit, spreading the growing beads of precum.
spencer's mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. this was wrong, he knew, a taboo that he should resist.
yet, the allure of your voice, the echo of your presence, made it impossible to ignore the yearning feeling that consumed him.
his body ached, you set off primal need deep inside of him, one that demanded satisfaction.
the room seemed to close in around him, the air thick with the scent of his own arousal. he could almost feel the ghost of your touch, of your hands on his skin. it was a taunting illusion, a promise of pleasure that he craved with every fiber of his being. yet couldn’t have.
"can—you maybe, uh—tell me about your day?"
he asked, his voice tight with the effort of maintaining control. the words were a desperate attempt to distract himself, but the fire within him refused to be extinguished.
“of course.”
your voice carried a warm smile, misinterpreting the tenseness in his voice for distracted exhaustion.
“well, work was pretty slow today,”
you began, your tone casual, recounting a day that was averagely mundane.
“i tried a new lunch spot my coworker suggested. it was... alright, nothing spectacular. but the coffee was great, you’d probably like it.”
as you spoke, spencer was only listening to the sound of your voice, not quite the words. the soft, breathy tone that captivated all of his senses.
he was entranced by the yawns you tried to mask, the gentle rustling of the speaker as you stretched and rolled over. each movement, so innocent and routine, was magnified by his deep infatuation.
he got distracted, letting a whimper slip past his tightly wound lips, though, he honestly didn’t notice, not when he was picking up speed, cock twitching between his fingers as he worked his length in his hands.
spencer cursed himself silently for tainting such a sacred ritual between the two of you. these nights had always been something special, where the world fell away and it was just the two of you, connected by the intimacy of shared words and silent understanding.
yet, he had soiled this space, allowing his desires to override his better senses.
it was pathetic, he knew, this inability to control himself, yet he still persisted.
“spencer, are you… touching yourself?”
in a second, his thoughts were cut off, your question hung heavy in the air, and he froze mid-stroke, his breath catching as he frantically tried to formulate a response, a defence. but his mind was empty, and he waited, bracing for your anger, expecting you to hang up.
but you surprised him. instead of outrage, you indulged him.
“naughty boy…”
the shift in your tone was electric, drawing a deep moan from him. the playful mockery in your voice was undeniable, he swore he could almost hear your smirk through the screen.
“go on, answer me.”
the sudden edge in your voice sent a shiver down his spine. just moments ago, you’d been softly recounting your day—and now, the entire atmosphere had flipped, twisting into something commanding and sharp.
even from miles away, you still held him in your grasp, completely under your spell.
“y—yes… i’m sorry.”
you giggled, rolling onto your side. your hands reached up beside your head, brushing against the familiar silk fabric you’d grown attached to during spencer’s absence—his pillow.
your fingers traced the seam before you lifted it to your face, breathing in deeply. for a moment, it felt like he was right there with you.
his scent lingered—warm coffee, old books, and the faintest trace of that cologne he rarely wore. the distance was wearing on you, creeping beneath your skin when you woke to an empty bed, echoing in the silence when you returned to your vacant apartment. you ached for him.
yet still, your playful streak couldn’t help but surface; even across many miles, you loved testing the limits of how far you could push spencer, you wanted to hear him break.
“are you still touching?”
spencer's hand remained wrapped tightly around his length, sensitive enough that even without movement, he would find release, especially with you speaking to him like that.
he could barely remember the last time he heard you spoke with such fervor, such dominance, you were running him up the wall with just a few simple words.
“yes…”
his voice was barely audible, a small, mouse-like whisper.
“hands off.”
His whine echoed through the phone, but he obeyed, his length slapping against his clothed stomach and twitching in the sudden absence of pleasure.
“good boy.”
your praise made him whimper, cock aching, screaming pathetically for his touch, but he wouldn’t indulge, even from across the country, he obeyed you.
“are you thinking about me, spencer?”
his breath hitched as he nodded, before realizing that as close as you felt, you couldn’t even see him.
“always.”
he breathed, though it escaped him high pitched and whiny, only further proving to you how badly he craved your touch.
“i know, its so hard being far isn’t it? poor baby must be so worked up.”
spencer sighed, dragging a trembling hand through his sweat-damp curls. the weight of your voice lingered in his ears, low, teasing, almost ridiculing.
it sent a pulse straight through him. it was the kind of tone that made his breath hitch, that forced his bottom lip between his teeth until he tasted the faint trace of salt on his skin.
“mmhm.”
the sound left him in a rough groan as his fingers twisted in the sheets, gripping until the thin fabric strained beneath his hold.
his chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, the air thick with a tension that clung to him like humidity. you were tormenting him—he knew it, and so did you. you were perfectly aware of how easily you could unravel him, even from a distance, each word you spoke was a deliberate tug at the frayed edges of him.
“take off your shirt for me, spencer.”
his fingers, trembling with a mix of exhaustion and anticipation, fumbled with the buttons of his dress shirt. the fabric, stiff from a day of wear, brushed against his skin, sending shivers down his spine.
the room was quiet except for the rustling of fabric and his own ragged breaths, each inhale and exhale a evidence of the turmoil within him.
“so good for me, spence. you listen so well.”
your praise was like a physical touch, sending waves of warmth through him. it was as if your words had a life of their own, weaving a spell that clouded his mind and heightened his senses.
the pressure in his lower abdomen throbbed, a relentless reminder of his need.
“do you remember what i do before i touch you?”
the question hung in the air, a heavy weight that pulled him back to memories of your hands, your lips, your breath against his skin. his chest heaved with the effort of holding himself together, his body trembling on the edge of control.
“i could never forget.”
his voice was a faltering whisper, barely audible, but laced with a raw honesty that spoke volumes. you could hear the strain—the desperation, the way he was unraveling, all because of you.
“can you do that for me, spencer?”
your voice, a sickeningly sweet pitch, sent his thighs trembling. he was spiraling, caught in a vortex of desire and submission, where every fiber of his being was attuned to your commands.
“mm–mhm!”
his voice was a rasp, a sound of surrender, as his hands began to explore his own body.
the pads of his fingers grazed his hardened nipples, teasing the sensitive peaks. each touch was a jolt, a spark that ignited a fire within him, a fire that only you could quench.
you listened, savoring every moan, every gasp, every whimper that escaped his lips. it was as if you were drinking him in, quenching a thirst that only he could satisfy.
his nails, barely touching his skin, traced a path down his taut belly, teasing, taunting, always just a breath away from where his touch was needed most.
“feels good, baby?”
his groan was a deep, guttural sound, a primal expression of pleasure and pain. it was an answer in itself, a confession of his need.
“’s not enough.”
the words were a sob, a plea, a desperate cry for more. hot tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill over, a product of the intensity of his emotions.
“i know, baby. i’m sorry, i shouldn’t be so mean.”
your voice was a coo, a soothing balm to his ragged edges. you shifted, easing your own tension, and he could almost feel the heat of your desire, the pressure building between your thighs.
“you’ve been so good. i think you deserve a reward, don’t you?”
his gasp was sharp, a whiny sound that was so utterly him. it was a sound of surprise, of hope, of a desperate longing for release.
“god, yes—please!”
“alright, go ahead, pretty boy.”
he allowed one hand to curl around his stiff cock, and it was like touching a live wire, electric and raw. the sounds that poured out of his mouth were primal, no doubt leaking through the thin walls of his hotel room.
“gentle, baby.”
he slowed his motions, each stroke a caress, a whisper of your name. his thighs shook uncontrollably, his breath coming in ragged gasps. his fingers tangled in his curls.
“sound so pretty, spence. keep going for me.”
your words were a command, a gentle push that sent him spiraling even further. and he wouldn't have it any other way.
“that's it.”
your voice was a gentle nudge, urging him deeper into the abyss of pleasure. he complied, his hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes, each one a reflection of his obedience. the sensation was overwhelming, a mix of ecstasy and agony that left him breathless.
“tell me how it feels, baby”
his voice was a hoarse whisper, barely audible over the pounding of his heart.
"feels...good—sosogood... tha—thank you."
you chuckled, clearly amused at how quickly his brain melted when he was at your disposal.
"mm, you getting close?"
"y—yes..."
spencers breath faltered with the fear that you'd disrupt his relief right when it reached its peak, it wouldn't be the first time.
"why don't you pick up the pace a bit? hows that sound?"
his breath hitched as he increased the pace, his hand moving with a newfound urgency. the sound of his skin against his heat was music to your ears, a rhythm that matched the pounding of his heart.
"good—ah! so...good!"
each stroke sent waves of pleasure coursing through him, a pleasure that was almost too much to bear.
“keep going, don't stop,"
you gasped, the soft cushion in your arms had made its way nestled between your thighs, twitching just slightly at every flex of your hips.
“go ahead, finish for me."
with your permission, he let go, his body convulsing with release, his form shook uncontroably, squeaking against the cheap mattress. his face was wet with salty tears, dripping down his chin, causing his skin to shine in the dim yellow light of the hotel room.
"thank you! thankyouthankyou—mm!—"
his hand slapped over his mouth as he rode out the waves of his release, suddenly aware of the volume of his cries. it was as if he could take back the echoes that had slipped into the hushed night—yet still, they lingered, now etched into the walls, permanent evidence of the intimacy you shared.
as he came down from his high, the room dissolved into a comforting silence, broken only by the mixed heavy breaths of both of you, connected over the line.
"god spence that was..."
your voice was a husky whisper, laced with a mix of satisfaction and longing. your eyes, now glazed with desire, traveled downwards, taking in the sight of silk, now slick with the evidence of your own arousal.
you chuckled, almost amused at your lack of resolve in his absence.
"you need to hurry up and come home, okay?"
um ok so this is highkey very messy and im not sure if i even like it... but its finally done!!! ill try to edit it a bit more tmr! im so sorry this is late and a bit sloppy, thanksgiving (and my laziness...) is definitely to blame... whoops! still, i hope all of you are enjoying a relaxing holiday weekend with your families!! (please reblog if you enjoyed!)
sexy september scribbles’ prompt 22: “Feel this? It’s just for you.”
warnings: suggestive
The emerald silk draped over your body looks as though it's painted on every curve, accentuating all of Bucky's favorite slopes.
"Zip me up?" you ask with a backwards glance at him, hands holding the delicate straps at your shoulders.
He steps forward, a soft smile — the one reserved only for you — tugging at the corners of his mouth. Gentle hands guide the zipper up your back, sealing it with a tender press of his lips to your shoulder.
"Christ, doll," he murmurs, "Look at you."
And his eyes are glued to your reflection before you — the way your hair falls, that shade of green against your skin, how your eyes flick to meet his in the mirror.
"It's not…" you wonder aloud, smoothing your hands over the fabric on your thighs, "too much?"
"You look perfect."
His voice is certain, unwavering. Yet doubt manages to creep in, and Bucky notices — he always does — when you tug at the bodice of the dress, adjusting it to cover some flaw you imagine. He steps closer still, until you feel the heat of his chest against your back, trailing kisses along your shoulder and up the bend of your neck.
"Perfect," he repeats.
A vibranium hand falls low on your stomach, urging your hips back to settle against his own. You gasp at the feeling — him, his trousers tight around the bulge straining against his zipper.
"Feel this?" he asks, nipping at your earlobe and soothing it with a flick of his tongue. "It's just for you."
when reader gives spencer a little too much attitude, he punishes her by confining her to her room and anchoring her to the bed with a full bladder.
genre: SMUT!
wc: 1.8k
warnings: reader's ankle is attached to the bed by handcuffs, OMORASHI!!!, pee desperation, pee holding, peeing, teasing, fingering, unprotected piv, use of 'sir', dom/sub dynamics, reader technically tells him to stop, brat!reader, blowjob, cum swallowing, finger sucking, and reader wears a skirt
a/n: this was inspired by @cherrriesinthespring and a request that @esote-rika received!! this is the kinkiest thing i've ever written so um..
Spencer likes to say you’re a contrarian, that you like to argue just because you can. He says that, even if someone made a statement so obviously true, you’d still say they’re wrong.
That’s often your downfall.
You’re too stubborn, too argumentative. It leads you to places and situations like this. It makes Spencer take matters into his own hands. He doesn’t usually do things this extreme, however.
He suggested punishment, you had no room to fight.
He put you behind the closed door of your bedroom in some form of a timeout. But timeouts are easy to slip out of. You simply turned the knob and, only a sliver away from freedom, you were rudely blocked by Spencer.
He knows you, knows you don’t take his forged consequences seriously. Instead of letting you step out of the punishment again, he took his cuffs and attached your foot to the leg of your bed.
And then he left you there.
Your foot lifts from the floor, pulling on the chain. Your eyes watch the clock on the wall. Tick, tick, tick, every second feeling slower than the last.
“Spencer, I’m sorry!” you call into the empty room. It’s not that you care or feel remorse, you’re just bored. “I’ll be good!” Except he knows you can’t promise that. Every time you do, you break it within twenty minutes. The steel rubs against your ankle when you attempt to take a footstep toward the door holding you hostage. It clanks harshly, bouncing off the walls. Your heart jumps when you hear Spencer approaching.
The door creaks open to reveal him entering with a plate. He looks down at you, eyes then lowering to your foot. He pictures the indent from the cuffs he’s sure is hiding under your white socks.
“What’s that?” you ask in a mutter, gesturing with your eyes to the food in his hand.
“I brought you some dinner,” he lowers closer to your height, “do you have anything you want to say?”
You pause, his amber eyes boring into you. “No,” you deny plainly.
“No?”
“Nope.”
“Nothing you want to say?”
His brows raise.
“I have to pee,” you respond.
“Too bad.”
His back is turned to you in an instant. He takes the food and heads to leave you again.
“Spencer,” you whine.
“Hold it.”
You hate how that makes your thighs clench.
“I’ll do anything,” your voice escapes strained, “please…”
He takes a step toward you and cups your cheek with his hand. His thumb pulls your bottom lip down, the plush skin compressing under his touch.
“Give me one reason why I should let you.”
Your mind betrays you rudely, fogging up the moment you try to fight for a single argument. “I…”
His eyebrows lift in a sign that he’s listening, waiting for your response. Except he’s smug. Because he knows you don’t have one.
“I don’t know,” you mumble.
Spencer nods, slipping his thumb past your lips to keep you quiet. “I see.”
“Please?” Your plea vibrates around his finger.
Almost sympathetic, he shakes his head. His digit leaves your mouth.
“I know you can hold it.”
You whine, “I can’t!”
“I know you can… I thought you said you’d be good?”
“I never—”
“You don’t think I heard you through the door?”
You pout. “I can’t.”
The big hand that was just on your face drags down your body. His fingers find your belly, right over your bladder. “You can. I promise.”
“What are you doing?” you shake nervously as he softly toys with the waistband of your skirt.
Again, smug, fake oblivion when he says, “what do you mean?”
And then he kisses you as a manipulation. He knows you can’t form thoughts like this. It’s intentional the way he slides his tongue against yours. It’s all a tactic to get you to turn dumb.
You hate how you do.
“Spencer…”
He sits you on the bed, spreading your legs apart. “You heard my answer.”
Between your thighs aches. “Please,” you pathetically whimper.
As cute as he finds it when you beg, he doesn’t fold, keeping his stern rule. Spencer kneels and looks up at you, eyes shiny. You frown, “it hurts.”
“Where does it hurt, angel?”
You’d melt if he meant it.
“You know where…”
A fake grin spreads across his face. “You give me too much credit.” His hands smoothly slide up the bare of your legs, under your plaid skirt. “Here?” his fingers brush against your panties.
You squirm, thighs squeezing shut, “Spencer!”
He gives you an opening, looking up at you expectantly.
“Sorry,” you mumble.
“Good.”
His digits drag up your slit with purpose and you gasp. Your cunt throbs as he gives your clit attention with his thumb. You struggle to not close your legs.
Warm pressure builds in your lower tummy. You wonder whether you should fight or not. Fighting never bodes well for you but you do it anyway. You don’t want to give in immediately, you want him to work for your submission. He might call you a brat, but you prefer strong-willed. It would also be easier to push back if you weren’t about to piss yourself.
“No, please… Spencer, stop.”
He doesn’t. His efforts are simply moved to taking off your panties.
He slides them down your legs easily and without a reservation. You shudder when he brushes your clit again. Like it’s the first thing he’s ever seen, he takes in your wetness with eagerly wide eyes.
Shakily, your breath comes. “Please—” you try once more.
With only a look, he warns you. You don’t want him to punish you further so you obey.
His fingers stuff you full and you stifle a gasp. Two of his digits curl upwards, making your cunt tighten forcefully. You bite down on your lip to stop yourself from begging further.
Tiny and weak, your bladder fights for some—any—release. You attempt to push away the unwanted feeling.
Spencer grins, “better?”
Wildly, you shake your head. “It hurts,” you whimper.
His fingers only drive harder into your g-spot. A long whine leaves you, a whine that's intention was to be a complaint. It ended up sounding closer to a cry for more.
More, more, more, you try not to let slip. You could never tell Spencer how good this feels. What you do tell him, though, is that you really need to pee.
“I can’t—” you gasp out.
“Can’t what?”
“Spencer.”
“Come on, use your words.” His pace slows.
“I’m gonna—”
He nods. “It’s okay.”
Fluttering intensely, your pussy gushes without your permission. You feel a wave of relief and guilt simultaneously. You look down to see your skirt, sheets, and his hand covered in your urine. Cheeks, hot to the touch, turn visibly red.
You squeeze your legs together around his hand, the handcuffs scratching your ankle. Your tummy still burns.
Your boyfriend’s palm presses against your lower stomach. “Still full?” he asks complacently. You nod sheepishly.
With barely any thought, (although, you doubt that) he stands and his hands reach for his belt. His fingers move unrushed but swiftly.
Practically licking your lips, you fail to hide your eagerness. The minute his pants are down, you lean down to lick the precum already threatening to leak over his tip. A surprised mix of a whimper and a moan leaves him before he tilts your head to look up at him from your seat on the bed. You swallow roughly.
“You know that’s not what I want.” His thumb finds your mouth and you swirl your tongue around it. He forces you to nod.
The sound like a pop, his thumb slips out from your lips. He lays you on your back and, while he aligns himself with your entrance, you pull your skirt further up your hips. The pressure of his cock stretching you wide makes your eyes roll back, far into your head. The tip bumps your cervix.
With barely any time to adjust, he sets a quick pace that he’d say turns you dumb.
Your full cunt throbs around him, struggling to withhold another accident.
You make incoherent noises that you’re unsure are even coming from you. Maybe they’re fragments of his name or a plea. The only word that falls from your mouth that’s decipherable is the word sir.
He grunts as he continuously fucks into your sensitive cunt. “Say that… again.”
Brain foggy and stupid, you obey blindly. “Sir,” you mumble.
The chain connected to your ankle clanks against the bed with every one of his thrusts. Soft moans fall in sync with his rhythm.
You watch his face, unkissed lips parted and eyes closed. His cheeks are flushed from exertion. The sight makes your heart race, the pressure from your full bladder pushing your orgasm closer and closer.
Spencer’s hands grip the bottom of your thighs, pressing your knees against your chest—and your bladder. Sharply, your teeth sink into your bottom lip.
“I don’t wan- make mess,” you cry.
He meets your gaze and utters, strained, “I know, I know…” He lays a gentle peck to your cheek. “It’s okay, just let go.”
As if your body heard him, your cunt flutters while releasing the entirety of what you’ve been trying to hold in. You feel yourself throb from the intense relief. It’s so good that with the relief comes extreme pleasure. It hits you all at once, building to a high peak before plummeting. You figure your dignity went with it.
Shudders shake your body as you come down from your high. With horror, you take in the mess you’ve created. Spencer stills, then pulls out of your soaked cunt. Silently, you look at him in question.
Your question is answered when he sits you up and says an uncomplicated, “open.”
Your tongue falls out of your mouth to immediately serve his cock. He rests it there so you close your lips around it. His hands tangling in your hair is used for Spencer to gently bob your head to his liking. Taking into account what you know he likes, you hum against him.
He lets out an indistinct curse under his breath. You can feel him throbbing.
A few quicker thrusts and the sound of you gagging ultimately throws him over the edge. Greedily, you swallow all that he gives you.
His eyes are full of adoration as he proudly watches you.
You let his cock fall out of your mouth as you grin up at him. “Told you I could be good,” you mutter smugly.
Once he’s tucked back into his pants, he leans down, whispering, “you obviously didn’t learn your lesson.”
You’re about to be your contrarian self and do what you do best, argue, but your plans are ruined when he turns around to leave.
“Wait—”
The cuff around your ankle makes a clanking sound.
𝓣hinking about dad!Bucky fucking you while your baby is sleeping
The house is finally quiet. The soft hum of the baby monitor fills the bedroom, its little green light glowing on the nightstand. You’re curled under the blankets, already half-asleep, when you feel Bucky slide in beside you. His arm comes around your waist, pulling you close until his chest is pressed to your back.
“You asleep, doll?” he murmurs against your hair, voice gravelly from exhaustion.
“Mhm. Almost,” you whisper, though you can’t hide your smile.
He kisses your shoulder, slow and lingering. “Been waitin’ all day just to touch you.” His hand slips under the hem of your shirt, warm fingers splaying across your stomach. He’s careful, almost reverent, like he’s still in awe of what your body has done, the little life sleeping down the hall.
You turn to face him, nose brushing his. “Bucky…” you whisper, a warning laced with longing.
“I’ll be quiet. Promise,” he breathes, kissing your lips softly, then again, hungrier the second time. His thumb strokes your cheek, as though he’s both savoring and apologizing. “Missed you so damn much.”
Your heart aches at the desperation in his voice, at how his body trembles slightly as he presses closer. You can feel him, already hard against your thigh, but he doesn’t rush. He takes his time, kissing you slowly, whispering praise between every brush of his lips.
“You’re so beautiful, doll. My perfect girl… mother of my baby…” His words melt into kisses along your cheeks.
“Bucky, the baby-”
“Fast asleep,” he cut you off, lips ghosting over your jaw. “I swear I’ll be gentle, doll. Just… need you.”
He pushed your shorts down with trembling hands, his mouth moving over your collarbone, your neck, your ear. Every touch felt like worship, like he was savoring every second.
By the time his fingers slipped between your thighs, you were already wet for him, and the quiet curse that fell from his lips made you shiver. “That’s my good girl,” he whispered, sliding his fingers through your slickness, teasing your entrance before circling your clit in slow, careful strokes.
You bit your lip to hold back a moan, burying your face in his shoulder. “Bucky…”
“Shh, I got you. Always got you,” he soothed, kissing your temple while he worked you open with his fingers, taking his time even as his breathing grew ragged.
When he finally eased himself inside you, he had to stop, forehead pressed against yours as a groan slipped out. “Fuck… you feel so good. Always so perfect.”
His thrusts were deep but unhurried, his body moving against yours in a rhythm that had you clinging to him. Every roll of his hips was matched with soft praise, his lips brushing your ear.
“That’s it, sweetheart… takin’ me so well… my girl, my love…”
The bed creaked softly, muffled by the wet sounds of him moving inside you. Your nails dug into his back as you tried to hold back the whimpers threatening to spill out. He kissed you through it, swallowing your cries, one hand sliding down to rub your clit just right.
The pleasure built fast, overwhelming in the quiet. You came with a soft gasp against his lips, trembling under him as he murmured, “That’s it, baby, let go for me… so beautiful when you come.”
He followed moments later, burying himself deep as his release spilled, his whole body shuddering as he held you impossibly close. His moans were low, broken, muffled against your neck.
When it was over, he stayed there, wrapped around you like he couldn’t bear to let go. His chest heaved against yours, lips pressing lazy kisses over your damp skin.
“I love you,” he whispered hoarsely. “Love you, and love our little one. My family.”
You smiled, kissing his jaw softly. “We love you too.”
And in the quiet, with the baby sleeping peacefully down the hall, Bucky finally let himself drift, still tangled with you, still holding on.
Spencer's curls are soft in your hand, his eyes fall closed as you scratch against his scalp, lips falling open before he presses his cheek into the flesh of your thigh. "So, so pretty." You coo softly, as his hips keep up their grinding against your leg. "Thank you," he murmurs, fingers digging into your flesh as he chases his high. You hum, press your leg a little firmer against the pulsating tent in his pants. It makes his head spin. "Thank you," he moans, pressing as much of a kiss as he can to your skin. "So polite, too." You reply, tilting your head and smiling as you fist some of his hair, giving it a light tug. He cries out softly, body shuddering as his eyes roll back. "Such a good boy. You gonna cum for me, too?" He looks up at you, half lidded eyes already glazed over, "Please?" Its barely audible. His thighs are shaking with the effort, now, body aching for release. You push your hand through his hair again, and his eyes almost fall closed. You lean down, pressing a warm kiss to his forehead before whispering "Cum for me." Like magic, his hips buck wildly. A few hard thrusts is all it takes for his body to seize, fingers digging into your skin as his mouth falls open, curses, gratitude, and your name spilling from his lips. When he finally comes down from his high, he collapses into your lap, nose nudging at your zipper as he breathes in. "Thank you," he whispers one more time. You smile, "I love you," you reply softly, hand pushing through his curls, again. He presses his nose a little further into your zipper, arm wrapping around your waist. He was so good, so he's hoping maybe you'll indulge him just a little more.
warnings: early middle seasons! Spencer Reid x Gf!Reader, not much plot i fear, sexy ass consent, basically no plot, multiple orgasms, piv, zero protection, oral r!receiving, soft dom! Spencer, nipple stuff, fingering, no use of y/n, not spell checked
summary: js read the warnings 💔
spencers knife and fork clatter to the table as he chokes hearing your words. "Sorry?" He asks as if he could've somehow misheard you. "all I said was you can eat me for dessert!" you answer back as innocently as you can, as if you didn't just offer the poor man his hopes and dreams. "I'm finished" he declares getting up from the table, chair screeching against the hard wood floor but neither of you seem to notice as his large hand engulfs yours and pulls you upstairs.
As your lips meet, Spencer's self restraint crumbles completely, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against him as his mouth moves hungrily against yours. His hands roam your body, exploring every curve and contour possessively. The rational part of his brain has officially taken a backseat, and now there's only the fiery desire that clouds his mind. He guides you towards the bed, his lips never leaving yours. you fall back onto the bed, bodies tangled together as Spencer pins you down beneath him. He breaks the kiss briefly to take a moment to look at you - your flushed skin, heavy-lidded eyes, and swollen lips. You're irresistible right now, and he can't hold back anymore. He kisses your neck, trailing a path of soft, wet kisses down to your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands slip under your shirt, pushing it up slightly as his fingers graze over your bare skin.
"God, baby... you have no idea what you do to me..." he murmurs between kisses, his voice low and gravelly. His fingers trace the outlines of your ribs, his touch both rough and tender at the same time.The heat between you is almost palpable, the room growing warmer with each passing moment. Spencer's hand finds the hem of your shirt again, a silent question in his eyes: "Can I take this off?" And a breathy plea falls from your lips in return.
Spencer doesn't need to be asked twice. He swiftly lifts your shirt over your head, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of you lying beneath him, half-naked. His gaze roams over your exposed flesh, his eyes wide with desire. He leans down again, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss before trailing his lips down your neck, nipping and sucking gently at the sensitive skin. His hands roam your body, touching and exploring every inch of you as if memorising your shape, the soft curves of your waist, the smoothness of your stomach. His fingers slide down to the waistband of your pants, toying with the edge, as if begging for permission to go further. He breaks the kiss, panting slightly, his eyes locking onto yours."Princess... is it alright if I...?" he asks, the question hanging in the air, the tension thick between you. He wants you, more than he ever thought possible, but he won't proceed without your consent. you nod but it isn't enough "words baby" he commands, voice soft as silk and your reply is instant; "Yes"
Spencer lets out a shaky breath, relief and desire written all over his face. He tugs gently at the waistband of your pants, slowly pulling them down your legs and discarding them on the floor. His hands slide back up your thighs, his touch feather-light, teasing at the edge of your underwear. He glances up at your face, searching for any sign of hesitation, but all he sees is unabashed desire."Are you sure about this, Baby?" he asks again, his voice barely above a whisper. He needs absolute confirmation that you want this just as much as he does.
"please... need you"
Those three words are all the confirmation Spencer needs. They ignite something primal within him, a burning desire that he can no longer hold back. He hooks a finger under the edge of your underwear, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly starts to slide them down your legs. The air in the room seems to crackle with tension, the anticipation almost unbearable. He tosses your underwear aside, moving over you once more, his body pressing against yours. His hands continue to roam over your exposed skin, touching and caressing every inch until he finally whispers, "I want you..."
"you have me" you affirm and the words send a shiver down Spencer's spine, igniting a fire within him that's too strong to ignore. He crashes his lips against yours, the kiss hungry and desperate, a manifestation of all the pent-up desire between you. His hands find their way to your hips, gripping them almost possessively as he grinds against you, his body moving in a rhythmic, almost primal way. He breaks the kiss just long enough to whisper against your ear, "Mine." as you break away just long enough to pull the shirt over his head and toss is haphazardly across the floor.
Spencer's lips tug into a slight smirk his muscles flexing in the process. He helps you discard the offending fabric, his gaze darkening as he looks at you, drinking in the sight of you lying there beneath him, wearing nothing but a bra .His fingers trace the lace strap, his touch both gentle and possessive. He leans in, his lips finding your neck again, kissing and biting the sensitive skin there. "You're gorgeous, baby," he murmurs against your throat, his voice hoarse with desire. Your body melts into his touch, your breath coming in ragged gasps as he worships your skin with his lips and hands. The feel of his bare skin against yours is intoxicating, a heady combination of heat and electricity.His mouth moves downwards, his kisses growing more urgent, more insistent, as he nipped at the strap of your bra, teasing at its edge, silently asking for permission once more.
"Go on" you gently urge and he doesn't need any further coaxing. He reaches behind you, undoing the clasp of your bra with deft hands, discarding it on the floor to join the growing pile of clothes scattered on the ground. His eyes darken as they rake over your bare chest, his breathing ragged as he takes in the sight before him, committing every detail to memory. "God, you're beautiful..." he whispers, his voice ragged with awe. He leans down, his lips brushing against the soft skin of your chest, trailing soft kisses across your collarbone before finally taking one of your hardened nipples into his mouth, sucking and teasing gently with his tongue. His free hand caresses the other side, mimicking the same tender treatment. Each movement is both careful and hungry — like he's savoring every second but can't get enough.
Your moans send a surge of power through Spencer, his ego swelling at the sound. He groans against your skin, loving the way your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling slightly. He switches sides, giving the other peak equal attention — nipping gently before soothing it with soft licks. His hand slides down your stomach, fingers teasing along the edge of your underwear once more."Still okay?" he murmurs between kisses, voice thick with desire but still checking in — because even now, half-consumed by passion and lust, you matter more than anything else.
"yes- yes!" You manage to get out in-between gasps and the urgency in your voice sends Spencer over the edge. He slides his tongue down your body, his hands spreading your thighs gently as he takes a moment to admire you—completely exposed, completely his. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss just above where you want him most. "Tell me if it's too much," he murmurs, though his own breath is already unsteady. Then, slowly—he traces the wet heat with his tongue, teasing at first before finally giving you what you’ve been craving.
His touch is gentle but insistent, his tongue exploring every inch of you with a precision that's almost scientific—but the way he groans against you, like he can't get enough, proves this is anything but clinical. Your hips arch off the bed at the first real contact, a sharp moan tearing from your throat. Spencer grips your thighs to steady you, his fingers digging in slightly as if afraid you might slip away. He doesn’t stop. Can’t stop. Each flick of his tongue pulls another gasp from your lips—and every sound drives him wilder than before.
"God, princess," he groans, pulling back just long enough to look up at you. His lips are damp, his eyes dark with desire, his hair unruly from where your fingers have tangled into it. "You taste…." He doesn't finish the thought, instead diving back in like a man possessed, like he's afraid he'll forget this moment if he stops for even a second.
His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, a plea and a prayer all at once. Each time you arch higher, he answers with deeper strokes, his tongue relentless in its pursuit of your pleasure. And then—just when you're teetering on the edge—he shifts slightly, adding pressure exactly where you need it most. A sharp cry tears from your throat as the wave crashes over you, violent and sweet. Your body trembles beneath him, fingers tightening in his hair like an anchor. Only when you start to come down does he finally ease up—pressing soft kisses along your inner thigh before crawling back up to meet your eyes. His voice is rough with emotion: "Still with me?"
"don't stop" your voice rings clear between pants and the desperate note in your voice sends a shiver down Spencer's spine, and he smirks against your skin as he feels you arch against him, begging for more. "You're greedy." he chides gently, but the low growl in his voice betrays his own hunger. "You think you can handle more?"He leans up, positioning himself above you once more, his eyes never leaving yours as he waits for your answer.
"need it" you pant, not quite having caught your breath just yet. Spencer lets out a ragged breath, his resolve crumbling completely. The way you look at him—flushed, trembling, needing is more than he can resist. He reaches down to the edge of his jeans, swiftly kicking them off along with his boxers. For a heartbeat, he hovers over you—bare and trembling—not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of this moment.
"Look at me," he murmurs, voice rough with want.When your eyes lock onto his—glassy with desire—he slowly presses inside you. A choked moan escapes both of you as he sinks deeper, until there's no space left between their bodies.He stills for a moment, forehead resting against yours. "Still okay?" His voice is barely there—a whisper tangled in heat and need—but it’s so him.
You nod, words failing you. There is only the feel of him, the overwhelming pressure building deep within—and the look in his eyes. It's intense, focused—but also so open. Vulnerable in a way you've never seen him before. You reach up, tangling your fingers into his hair once again, and pull him down for a kiss. The angle changes slightly, and a shiver ripples through you as you both gasp against each other's lips.
Spencer breaks the kiss, breathing hard as he begins to move—slow at first, testing your rhythm. Each thrust is measured but full of pent-up longing, like every inch of him wants to memorize this moment.“baby… God, you feel…” He can’t even finish the thought—just groans against your neck as his hips roll deeper. His fingers lace with yours and pin them above your head, his body now moving with a quiet urgency.He’s losing control—and for once in his life… he doesn’t care.
Your breath comes in short, desperate gasps, matching his rhythm. With every thrust, you feel yourself being pulled closer to the edge again—faster this time. His name spills from your lips like a mantra—pleading, worshipful—and it drives him wild. He shifts slightly, changing the angle until you cry out louder than before. “That’s it,” he growls into your ear between ragged breaths. “You take me so perfectly… God, I’ve wanted this all day... you have no idea what you do to me”
His words send a sharp pang of longing through you, and you tighten your legs around him, pulling him even closer. You can feel him everywhere—the heat of his skin, the beat of his heart, the taste of sweat at the hollow of his throat—and you want it all. His hand leaves yours, slipping between your legs instead, fingers finding your clit and circling with familiar, steady pressure. His mouth finds yours, tongue licking deep into your mouth. It's almost like he's trying to devour you. He swallows your gasps, his tongue tangling fiercely with yours. Just when you think you can’t take it anymore—his fingers twist, and the pressure builds to almost dizzying heights. Your nails score down his back, and he groans into your mouth."I need you to come for me," he pants, teeth nipping sharply at your bottom lip. "Can you be good for me, princess? Just one more time?"His words are both a request and a demand. You can practically hear the please in his breathless tone.
You’re trembling beneath him, already so close from everything he’s doing. The way he's touching you, talking to you—that rough edge in his voice, the desperation like he needs this as much as you do—sends a firestorm through your veins. You can’t speak. Just nod fast and bite down on your lip. Spencer grins darkly, "Yeah? Then take it," he whispers before grinding against you harder, faster—his thumb pressing in tight circles while his hips snap forward with new urgency. And just like that—you break apart again. A cry tears from your throat as the orgasm rips through you violently, leaving your body quivering and spent beneath him. He doesn't let up—not yet. He rides out every spasm around him until only soft whimpers remain in your throat... then finally slows… breathless… overwhelmed... With a shuddering groan, Spencer buries his face against your neck and comes undone right after.
For a long moment, neither of you can move. You're both trembling from the aftershocks, hearts racing, skin sticky with the evidence of what you just did. Spencer slowly loosens his grip on your hands and pulls back to look down at you, panting hard. His hair is messy, his eyes darker than before. In the dim light, the lines of his lean body gleam with sweat.He presses clumsy, lingering kisses to your forehead, cheeks, and jaw, and finally the corner of your mouth.
"Baby..." he groans against your skin, voice shaking a little. "You... Christ, you're amazing." He rolls off you and onto his back, chest heaving as he stares up at the ceiling. "That was..." He shakes his head, unable to find words. You roll onto your side, facing him. You're too tired to move much, your body still humming with the afterglow. He glances sidelong at you, cheeks flushed. He looks both sated and shy—and somehow, impossibly endearing.
summary: you’re finally about to sleep with your boyfriend spencer, but for some reason, he can’t seem to stop talking. you shut him up the best way you know how.
genre: fluff, smut-adjacent word count: 0.6k
tags/warnings: glasses!reid, giggly makeout in bed, yapper!spencer, undressing each other, (implied?) dry humping lol, spencer is kinda giving inexperienced vibes, fade-to-black smut, no use of y/n. 18+ MDNI
prompt: here a/n: this fic was written as part of my 1k celebration event! enjoy xo 😚
main event post ༄ whisper week masterlist
You don’t mean to laugh into Spencer’s mouth, but his glasses fog when he exhales and suddenly, you just can’t help it.
“Sorry,” he says, already breathless, pushing them up his nose with the inside of his wrist. “It’s just—there’s a temperature differential and the humidity, it—”
“Spencer.” You tug him back down to you by his tie. “Just kiss me.”
He does, eager and sweet, all soft lips and careful hands. The edge of his frames taps your cheekbone and you grin against him. He pulls back a millimeter.
“Should I—um, glasses off or… I mean, I can see you better when wearing them, which is frankly a very compelling argument for keeping them on, but they’re kind of in the way and at risk of smudging and also—”
“Spence,” you interrupt again sweetly. You slide the glasses off, fold them neatly, and set them on his nightstand. “Problem solved.”
He blinks, wide and adoring. “You’re very blurry,” he confesses. “But somehow still unbelievably attractive.”
“You’re impossible,” you giggle.
His thigh slips between yours and you make a sound you weren’t planning on at the added friction. He goes very still, eyes darting to yours.
“Okay?” he asks. “We can stop or slow down or pause and talk about literally anything, like the physiological and neurological reasons for why you just—”
“Don’t you dare stop,” you interrupt breathlessly as you roll your hips up to meet his. The contact makes his brain temporarily short circuit.
“Oh,” he whimpers. “That’s—uh—so that sound was probably caused by dopamine and norepinephrine and also you, obviously you, and—” He kisses you in the middle of his sentence, like he can’t help it. You fist your fingers in his shirt and pull him closer until you’re chest to chest.
He breaks away to look at you, cheeks pink, voice wrecked. “You’re so beautiful. Just so…” He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “I can’t find a better word than that to describe you with right now. I think you might’ve broken my brain.”
“That word works just fine,” you giggle, tugging the last few buttons of his shirt open. He helps clumsily, and then your top joins his somewhere by the end of the bed. He skims his hands over your stomach like he’s memorizing every inch, slowly, a little stunned.
“I can’t believe this is—I mean, I can believe it, because we’re both here and it’s empirically happening, but also there’s this sense of unreality and I know I’m talking too much but my brain just keeps—”
You kiss him to shut him up. He smiles into it, laughing a little, hips rocking helplessly against you. You bite his lower lip lightly and he makes a sound you want to bottle up and save for a rainy day.
“You’ll tell me if you want me to stop, right?” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours.
“Promise, but I don’t want you to stop.” Your thumb traces the edge of his jaw. “Keep going.”
“Okay,” he whispers. He finds your hand and laces your fingers together, squeezes once, and then you’re moving again — kisses and heat and the soft, breathless kind of giggling that only happens when it’s brand-new and you both know exactly what comes next. Your pants come off, then his, then you’re skin to skin and pushing a lock of hair behind his ear.
He noses at your cheek before bracing himself up on his elbows and looking down at you. “For the record,” he murmurs, “I’m going to find my words again later, and they’ll all be about you.”
“Later,” you agree, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him back down to your lips. “Talk later. Kiss now.”
ᝰ.ᐟ
PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!
this ficlet was written for my whisper week 1k celebration event! follow along from September 7-13 for more 🫶🏼
summary: hiding your relationship with spencer isn’t easy when the hotel walls are thin and the sex is giggly.
genre: smut, fluff word count: 1k
tags/warnings: secret relationship between coworkers, stupidly in love spencer & reader, oral (f receiving), p in v, trying and failing to be quiet during sex, nosy BAU team, no use of y/n. 18+ MDNI
prompt: here a/n: ahh the final whisper week fic! thanks for hanging out with me all week long 🫶🏼
main event post ♡ whisper week masterlist
The hotel is hushed in that late-night way that makes even your heartbeat sound suspicious, so when you hear a soft knock at your door, it nearly startles you. You’re halfway to it when a whisper slips through the frame:
“FBI, open up.”
You bite down a laugh, unlock the latch, and Spencer’s there, already smiling.
“You’re late,” you whisper, tugging him in by his tie.
“I was being stealthy,” he murmurs, then kisses you before you can say anything else.
It starts easy — giggly and soft — but you feel the switch when he exhales against your mouth. He presses you back against the door, one hand cradling your jaw, the other skimming your waist as if to confirm you’re really here.
“We have to be extra quiet,” he whispers. “This hotel has particularly thin walls.”
“Then don’t make me laugh,” you respond, immediately giggling again when he starts dotting your face all over with kisses — the tip of your nose, your cheekbone, your hairline, the corner of your mouth.
It’s a practiced routine by now: Spencer’s tie loosens, your shirt buttons surrender, and he lifts you into his arms before laying you down on the crisp hotel sheets that suddenly feel way too formal for the way he’s looking at you.
Kisses trail down your throat, careful where he knows you’re ticklish. When you gasp his name, it’s too loud and you slap a hand over your mouth, scandalized by yourself. He makes a dying-man noise, eyes bright with something fond and feral. “I said to stay quiet,” he teases, then presses two fingers to your lips. “I can help with that, you know.”
You go lightheaded at the implication and take them in, a slow, ridiculous suck that frays his composure. “You’re impossible,” he whispers adoringly. “Perfect, but impossible.”
He withdraws his fingers and continues his descent down your body, his mouth finding you quickly, almost too gently at first. You fist the sheets, then his hair, then the headboard behind you when it’s too much and not enough all at once, and he just… stays. Keeps going. Lifts his head only to breathe out praise before dipping back between your thighs, intent and unhurried.
When you start to pull away from how good it is, he keeps you steady, soft grip at your hip, humming like a promise against you. The sound vibrates straight through your bones. He slides two fingers inside, careful, and you come apart against him within moments. It’s not loud — you swear it isn’t — but you feel him chuckle against you when you clamp a hand over your mouth again, just in case.
“Hi,” you breathe when the room finally puts itself back together.
He kisses your knee, your thigh, the edge of your stomach. “Hi.” He’s flushed and undone and, quite possibly, the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
You pull him up your body and kiss him with what’s left of your composure, feel the hard line of him against your hip. You thumb his belt open and he goes very still, checking your eyes the way he always does. You nod. Yes. Always yes.
“Look at me,” he whispers, fitting between your thighs. One hand cradles your jaw; the other laces your fingers above the pillow. The first push steals your breath and he hushes you with a kiss you feel all the way down your spine.
“God,” he mouths against your cheek, and you hook your leg over his hip in answer. He shifts an inch, angling your knee exactly where he wants it with his palm and groans into your throat. You both shush each other, laughing helplessly into a kiss like teenagers.
It crests fast because it’s him and because the night is short and because the way you feel about each other has never been a subtle thing. You fall apart around him with his name in your mouth and his hand tight around your fingers. Spencer follows a heartbeat later, lips and teeth against the curve of your neck to keep from waking the whole floor. He stays inside you for a long second that feels like forever, then eases out and gathers you close, leaving an open-mouthed kiss at your jaw.
“So stealthy,” you whisper with a giggle.
—
Morning puts both of you back in suits at the local precinct. In the conference room, you and Spencer review the crime scene map with straight faces like you weren’t just memorizing every inch of each other’s skin in a hotel bed six hours ago.
The team watches from across the room, smirks barely contained.
Emily doesn’t look up from her tablet. “I spotted Reid sneaking back into his room at 5am.”
Morgan shakes his head, grinning. “She was wearing a cardigan that looked suspiciously like one from Pretty Boy’s collection when I saw her in the lobby this morning. And he keeps tugging his collar up to hide whatever the hell she left on his neck last night.”
Hotch caps his pen, the corner of his mouth almost curling. “As long as it doesn’t affect their work,” he says mildly, “we can be happy for them.”
“Happy for who?” you ask, appearing with a stack of witness forms, all wide-eyed innocence.
“For the local PD,” Emily covers smoothly. “They finally fixed their copy machine.” You shrug and get back to work.
JJ leans in. “Do we tell them we know?” she whispers.
“Absolutely not,” Emily says. “The illusion is half the fun.”
Morgan grins. “Ten bucks says they get married and still try to cover it up.”
Hotch cuts in: “Stop gambling on your coworkers.”
Spencer re-appears with two coffees, setting one down in front of you, and you thank him without looking. He reaches to untwist your lanyard, and both of you freeze for a half-second — muscle memory betraying you — then step apart in perfect sync.
Across the room, JJ and Emily trade a look, and Morgan’s grin widens.
Profilers know a tell when they see one — and they also know when to leave it be. Not secret so much as quiet, and for now, that’s enough.
ᝰ.ᐟ
PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!
this ficlet was written for my whisper week 1k celebration event! follow along from September 7-13 for more 🫶🏼
tldr;; mentor!bucky guides you through a wet dream.
(warnings: new avenger!reader, implied age-gap, bucky calls the reader kid but she is a fully grown adult!, pseudo-somnophilia bc he doesn't directly touch her, dry humping, ab riding?, coming untouched, unrealised feelings. idk dude, it came to me in a vision and i had to get it out)
thinking about how mentor!bucky let’s you grind on him in your sleep. it’s a time that can only be described as stupid-o’clock. three, four, maybe even five am — the kind of hour where you can’t quite call it night, yet the sky is still too dark to claim it’s morning. naturally, bucky is awake.
he can’t sleep, and for once it’s for reasons other than the memories of winter.
the mission had gone awry, comms had been dropped, the team had been scattered. amidst a hailstorm of bullets, bucky had managed to grab you and haul you out of there, vibranium fingers clutching your forearm in a vice that refused to give way. a part of him felt guilty for how easily he abandoned the scene, only pausing to think of where the others could be once he was far enough away to safely check you for any injuries… it took your own worried eyes to have him realise a bullet had grazed his arm.
yelena and the rest can handle themselves just fine, however. you, on the other hand, are still new to field work, to being a hero instead of a lab experiment. you don’t know protocols, that’s why bucky had been so focused on getting you out of there.
refuge comes in the form of a road-side motel, flickering neon lights calling out to you both in the dark. rest here, it’s safe! bucky had been the judge of that, ushering you both out of the harsh wind and telling you to wait while he spoke to the clerk behind the desk. three rooms were available: two singles, and a double. the singles were never an option; bucky would not tolerate a night like this separated from you by wall-plaster and chipping paint. he snatched up the key to the double room, strode back to you, and proceeded to mumble out a pitiful lie: only one room, kid. looks like we’re bunking together.
which leads him to this: eyes staring up at the ceiling, heart pounding in his chest, nausea in his throat, and you at his side.
unlike bucky, you’re sleeping like a baby. bundled in more than half the blanket — he put up no fight when you tugged it from his grasp — cheek smushed against your pillow, lips parted with the slightest tease of drool at the corner of your mouth. each shallow breath of yours is a lullaby, gently rocking bucky’s wandering mind away from wondering how much worse the mission could have gone, how he could have found you strewn along the warehouse floor, blood staining the fabric of your suit, eyes void of that light that leaves him frozen, a dear caught in the headlight that is you.
but that’s not what what’s keeping him awake.
it’s your leg.
see, minutes ago it was in safe territories — ie. right next to your other leg — but now it’s wound it’s way between his. like an anchor fixes itself to the seabed, you’ve pierced yourself into his skin and proclaimed ownership of his space. all whilst the angel of sleep and bucky watch over you.
at first, the contact shakes him to the core.
you’ve always been a more touchy-feely kind of person than he has — a feat that is hardly a surprise — liberally throwing your arms around walker and alexei, patting down the fly-away hairs on bob’s head, linking arms with yelena or ava despite the feigned glares they cast your way.
but with him, you’re careful, measured, restrained. not in a way that conjures offence, but comfort; an unspoken acknowledgement of his aversion towards contact that reassures him you’re more than willing to adapt your method of giving affection to his manner of receiving: proud looks across the jet, coffees made with no request, company in the chaos of silent nights sitting side by side out on the watch-tower’s balcony and watching the flickering of the city lights.
bucky barnes is not used to feeling you, nor is he used to the ache that feeling you conjures in his chest. his nerves go from a calm river to a brutal riptide with so little as your foot brushing over his calf. his heart from steady to stuttering over beats. his mind from thinking about the troubles tomorrow (today) will bring to focusing solely on right now, on your leg bending at the knee and hooking itself over his hip, on the heat of your pressing against him.
his pillow has become yours, the first ‘ours’ that has ever existed between you. the breath of you brushes his right shoulder and the hairs at the back of his neck raise. you mumble something, an incoherent babble born from your dreams, and shift closer, arm draping over his chest and laying a palm flat above his heart.
for a moment, bucky panics.
what if the force of his heartbeat wakes you up? it’s not clear what would be worse: you catching yourself in this position, or you fleeing from him just as he grows used to the weight of your touch. fortunately, your slumber is steadfast and your limbs are fully lax. in the greatest escape plan of his life, the soldier manoeuvres his arm from between you both. mid-air, he pauses and waits for you to wake. when you remain the same, he lays it to rest at your back and tucks you fully into the space against him, pillow traded for the cushion of his bicep.
“sleeping real steady there, kid,” it’s a whisper directed at you, yet kept for himself. too tired to fight, he can feel the bloom of adoration taking over his face.
it’s been too long since he felt safe — not in himself but for others, a figure to be leaned on and trusted in moments of vulnerability. yet here you are, seeping yourself into the gaps of his body and trusting him to watch over you while you rest. you might not be conscious, yet your body seeks him out all the same, like it is your natural instinct to want bucky barnes at your side.
you mumble again, incoherent, and bucky registers you brush against his waist. you’re fussing, hips wriggling in search of the most comfortable position while the hand at his chest fisting at the fabric of his shirt. he’s content to let you wrestle against him, to let you find what position works best for you to sleep peacefully, until the hitch in your breath scratches at his ears.
at first he worries and tries to get a glimpse of you, but between the dark of the motel room and the way your face is turning into his arm, it’s impossible for him to get a good glance. another noise departs from you, a whimper akin to something pained, and bucky feels his heart lurch. you must be having a nightmare. though the thought of watching you in distress stings at his soul, bucky knows better than to wake you.
so he decides to guide you through it. a metal hand lands on your back, encourages you to coil deeper into his hold while both hands soothe over spine in slow, cautious movements. you’re fortunately receptive yet the nightmare seems to persists, another whimper caught in your throat as you fuss once again and roll your hips against his-
“please,” it is barely a mumble. but the cadence of it, the way your voice breaks around it in not a cry of fear but a cry of ecstasy, has bucky freezing.
solid as a rock, he lays there as the truth registers in his brain. you’re not having a nightmare, and you’re certainly not scared. you’re caught in nature’s gift of a wet dream, and you’re turned on.
while bucky is still trying to compute what’s happening, you continue to squirm against him, a movement he no longer mistakes as you searching for comfort but, instead, for friction. the cotton of your shorts is thin, barely a real scrap of clothing that even a man who hasn’t had his blood altered by super serum would be able to feel the heat radiating from your core through it.
your whimper becomes a whine, a sound that sinks into bucky’s ears and shoots right down his bloodstream, following the rush of it that aims directly towards his crotch. guilt creeps in alongside an untamed lust, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment as he feels his cock stir to life beneath his boxers. he’s lived so long like a machine, he sometimes forgets he’s just a man.
a man who currently has the most beautiful thing he’s ever held curled in his arms, rubbing her pussy against him in search of external stimulation.
not even the most virtuous of men could prevent the appearance of a boner, and bucky is far from virtuous.
another hitch of your breath is met with a groan in the back of his throat as your thigh slips down against his cock, pressing against it for the blink of an eye before settling back over his hip.
“you’re acting like a liability,” the chastising is pointless, you only seem to rut harder against him at the sound of his voice. “rubbing up on an old man and expecting me to just lay here.”
but he does just lay there. doesn’t dare to flinch a muscle, or breath too deeply, or edge too far where the roll of your desperate hips won’t find him. this is wrong, on so many levels, and bucky knows it. he’s your mentor, the person who was assigned to get you ready to join the team. the person who has watched you go from malleable on the training mats to a fighter capable of knocking him on his ass in a matter of three kicks. the person trusted to not let someone corrupt you into using your powers to commit any wrongdoings…
yet here he is, feeling like he’s somehow corrupted you into using him to get yourself off.
the fact you’re blissfully unaware, fast asleep in the throes of your pleasure, only makes him feel worse. more dirty, more depraved. not an inch of him is unaware of the lust brewing in his guts, a lust directed at you, with a cock that aches for bucky to tug your shorts to the side and give you something real to grind on. but he resists, by some miracle, and holds off on the temptation to pay attention to either of your desires.
until, “mmhm, please, bucky.”
his name.
fully formed, fully spoken.
your eyes are still shut but your lips are parted and he feels the swipe of your tongue brush against his skin as you wet your lips.
“wanna repeat that for me, kid?” the nickname takes on a new flavour in his mouth, no longer something to position himself as a figure of authority but, instead, a sickly reminder of the years he has on you — mentally and physically, the greys in his beard seemingly doubling every time he looks in the mirror. by all accounts, bucky should not want this, you. yet nothing and no one has excited him this much in years. “only ever hear you say my name with frustration, didn’t think you could sound so sweet.”
like you can hear him, you obey, another whimper of his name following the bump of your clit against his hip bone.
you’re practically mounting him with each renewed grind of your crotch, and so bucky takes matters into his own hands: for your sake and his own.
gripping at your waist, he guides you over his torso and settles you down against him. both your legs are now bent at the knee, pushing your crotch even deeper against him. bucky needs to breath, lungs screaming at him for air as he turns lightheaded, but it’s suddenly so much harder because he can smell it on you: the sticky wetness between your thighs, leaking out your hole and begging him to make use of it, to cover his cock in your slick, all so he can split you open on it that much easier.
he’s still cradling your waist before his hands slip down to find purchase on your hips. in perfect rhythm, he guides you over the expanse of his torso as you rut against him.
“atta girl,” his praise goes out into the night, so different to the way he so often critiques you. “grind on me. let your mentor guide this little pussy over him.”
your moans sounds almost as good as your cunt smells, rolling bucky’s eyes back in his skull as his hips jerk up against nothing. his tip is sensitive, weeping pre-cum in a cry for your body, and the shift of cotton against it is enough to have him groaning your name back at you, hands clutching tighter.
“fuck, that’s it, there we go,” you’re letting loose against him, crying out while your clit grinds down into the defined lines of his abdomen. if you would just wake up, bucky would happily sit you down on his cock and bounce you atop him until all you can both do is whine and beg for more of each other. “my pretty protégé, my good girl. finally listening to your mentor, huh?”
you don’t last much longer, lost in whatever filthy actions the version of him in your dreams is doing, while the real bucky barnes aids your quest to ride over his torso, soaking yourself through your shorts and staining his shirt in your pleasure. when you cum, it’s with a string of unintelligible words that have bucky’s head tilting back and his hands fighting the urge to grip you even tighter.
when the dust settles, you’re slumped fully against him, now using his chest as a mattress and his neck as a place to hide away from the world. your orgasm clings to your breathing, shaking it even minutes after you fall back into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. his own breath shakes too and another realisation dawns upon him.
he just came untouched, the thick heat of his cum now clinging to his skin beneath the fabric of his underwear.
“how the hell am i ever supposed to look at you the same, kid?”
