pairing: steve harrington/f!reader
wc: 1.1k
tags: MDNI//SMUT spit kink, oral sex (f receiving), come eating, [unsafe] vaginal sex, lowkey breeding kink if you squint (steve is just like that idk), lil bit of nipple play
a/n: oops i did it again
&&
“steve,” you gasp out, reaching down your front to let your fingers drift over your clit, pressing hard but moving only a fraction of an inch up and down, not wanting to finish yet.
“y-yeah?” he manages to stammer, hips pounding into yours from behind, one arm curled around your waist, clinging tight to you, his lips pressing against your shoulder blade.
“wanna—wanna try some—fuck, something,” you barely manage to say, your orgasm so fucking close, too close to stop, too close to try something new right at this moment. thankfully, steve both could and would keep going as long as you wanted to, even if he found himself spent. if you wanted more, your wish was his command.
“wh—right, right now?” steve asks, intending to slow his strokes inside of you but not managing it, his rhythm not faltering, too close to his own release to actually attempt it.
you don't answer, instead pushing your hips back up into him, pressing your face into the pillow in front of you, letting your fingers move over your clit for real now—you hadn't asked soon enough, and that's fine. this was just the first one for both of you; you had a long night ahead, knowing steve.
he curls over your back, his breath warm on the nape of your neck as he kisses you there, and then you feel his hips stutter, filling you up, and the heat spreading inside of you spurs you on, your own orgasm wracking your frame, your knees sliding a little outward as your legs turn shaky, coming around steve's cock, milking his orgasm from him as he presses into you slowly, rolling his hips against your ass.
kissing the back of your neck, he whispers, “you ok?” and when you nod, he lets his lips brush the back of your shoulder, straightening up, hands on your hips as he eases himself out of you, his release mixing with yours and dribbling out of your pussy after him. gently, reverently, he brushes his thumb up over your loose slit, gathering his come up on the pad of his finger and pushing it back into you, humming quietly at the sight.
you let yourself flatten against the bed, and steve moves out of your way to accommodate you, his hand moving to rub at your ass.
“what did you want to try?” he asks, and you chuckle.
“ah, well,” you said, looking up at him over your shoulder before turning to hide your face in the pillow again. “only if you want to try it too.”
“what is it?” he asks, letting his hand dip back down between your legs, massaging the spunk escaping from your cunt back into you, thumb rubbing you slowly, eagerly.
“um,” you say, trying to think on how to word it. “like, spit.”
he screws up his face, eyes rolling a little to look up at the ceiling as he considers it. “you want me to spit on you.” it's not a question, but his intonation almost makes it one.
“kinda,” you squeak out, and he just moves his hands to the backs of your thighs, spreading them open a little.
“where?” he asks, letting two fingers drag up in between your folds, from your clit to your hole, curling inside your pussy, still sensitive from the fucking he just gave you. “here?”
“y-yeah,” you stammer. “or my tits,” you admit, “or in my.” you swallow, close your eyes, face still turned away. “my mouth.”
“can you look at me?” steve asks, and you take a deep breath, but roll onto your side. you can feel how sticky he left your thighs. he's smiling down at you, his cock still half-hard and you think the same thought you have every time you see him like this, post-sex-afterglow-eyes-lit-up: you've never wanted him more. “we can try it,” he says, assuaging your concerns before you can even worry again. he clocks your apprehension and smooths his hand over your hip. “i want to.”
with a gentle hand, he guides you onto your back, laying himself between your spread legs, wasting no time in leaning in to take your pussy with his mouth, licking through your folds like he's never tasted anything better and never wants to taste anything else again. you watch, rapt, as he pulls away from you with his own spunk on his tongue, pearly with it, swallowing it before he licks at you again. he buries his tongue inside you, eating you out sloppily, eating his own come from inside you, your hips twitching with oversensitivity, until he flicks his tongue against your clit, lets his eyes rise to meet yours, closes his mouth for a second, and then, without looking away from you, spits right back onto your pussy, the sound shocking for a moment, but you shiver as it hits you, cunt squeezing down on nothing.
steve leans in, tongue laving over you again, sucking at your clit before he pulls away, letting his thumb rub over the hardened bead, pulling the hood up to expose it before he moves in even closer, his elbow pressing a point into the bed beneath you, and spits again, right onto your clit. you feel the hot mouthful of saliva, running down your folds only for him to lean in and lick it up, drawing it back into his mouth, and then he's surging up your body, stretching himself over you, and without him needing to speak—he can't, anyway—you open your mouth wide enough and he does it again, spitting right onto your waiting tongue, watching in awe as you close your mouth, your eyes, swallow and loose a shuddering moan low in your throat.
“jesus christ,” steve says, mostly to himself, as you open one eye first, peeking at him before opening the other, bashful, a sheepish smile playing at your lips.
“yeah?” you ask, and he nods, leaning in to kiss you softly before pulling away, gathering your tits up in his hand, glancing down at them before returning his gaze to your face.
“yeah,” he replies, pushing your tits together. he leans over you, letting a thread of saliva drip down from his puckered lips to your perked nipple, flicking his thumb over it, and he feels the way you tense up in excitement.
you were right, of course—he'll go for as long as you want, and now you've decided: you're only just getting started.
prompt: “i saw someone saying on twitter about a woman who said that her boyfriend was so nervous when propose her that he forgot everything and ended up just getting on his knees saying “please”.” with bucky?
It’s not supposed to happen like this.
Bucky has planned it for weeks. Maybe longer, if he’s being honest, because the idea has been sitting in his chest, heavy and certain, long before he ever worked up the nerve to do something about it.
He has the ring. He has the speech. He has a whole stupid list in his head of things he’s supposed to say—how much he loves you, how you make him feel human again, how you’ve carved a home out of a man who never thought he deserved one.
He’s practiced it, too. Quietly. Under his breath. In the mirror once, which he immediately decided was humiliating and never did again.
He’s got it.
He has it.
Until he doesn’t.
---
You don’t know anything is different when he asks you to come with him.
“C’mon, doll,” he says, tugging on your hand, already halfway out the door. “Wanna show you something.”
You squint at him, suspicious, but you go anyway, letting him pull you along with that soft, insistent grip of his. The evening air is warm, the sky bleeding into that soft gold-and-pink stretch just before sunset, and he’s quieter than usual as he walks beside you.
You nudge him with your shoulder. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m always weird.”
“Yeah, but this is like… upgraded weird.”
He huffs, but there’s no bite to it. Just nerves. You don’t recognize them for what they are yet—just assume it’s one of those Bucky moods where he gets in his own head a little too much.
So you lace your fingers through his, grounding, steady. He squeezes back immediately.
Always does.
---
He stops when you reach the spot.
It’s nothing extravagant. Not some big, sweeping, cinematic place.
Just your place.
The quiet stretch near the water where you two end up more often than not—late nights, early mornings, stolen hours in between. The place where he’s watched you laugh, watched you cry, watched you fall asleep with your head in his lap while the world kept spinning around you.
It matters.
That’s why he picked it.
You turn to him, brow furrowed slightly. “Buck?”
And that’s it.
That’s the moment everything in his head just—
Gone.
Completely blank.
He knows he had words. He knows he had a whole damn speech lined up, something worthy of you, something that could even begin to explain the way you’ve changed his life.
But you’re standing there, looking at him like that—soft, curious, a little concerned—and suddenly every single thought just… disappears.
All he’s left with is feeling.
And it’s too big.
Too much.
His chest tightens, his pulse pounding in his ears, and before he can overthink it—before he can talk himself out of it—he just moves.
Drops.
Right there.
One knee hitting the ground hard enough that he barely registers it.
Your eyes go wide.
“Bucky—?”
His hands are already fumbling, pulling the ring from his pocket, nearly dropping the damn thing in the process. His fingers shake—actually shake—and he can’t even look away from you long enough to be embarrassed about it.
Because you’re staring at him.
Like you can’t quite believe what you’re seeing.
And he's panicking.
Not about the answer. Never about that.
Just—about getting it right.
About saying it right.
About making sure you know.
And he can’t find the words.
Not the pretty ones. Not the practiced ones. Not any of it.
So what comes out is—
“Please.”
It’s rough. Breathless. Barely more than a whisper.
Your face does something soft, something almost startled.
He swallows hard, chest heaving slightly as he tries—tries—to pull something else together.
“I—” He shakes his head, a broken little huff of a laugh leaving him. “I had a whole thing planned. I swear I did. I—”
Nothing.
Still nothing.
His throat works, his eyes burning just a little as he looks up at you, completely exposed.
“Please,” he says again, a little stronger this time, but no less raw. “Just—please.”
And it’s all there anyway.
Everything he couldn’t say wrapped up in that one word.
Please stay.
Please choose me.
Please let me spend the rest of my life loving you.
Please don’t let this be something I lose.
Your eyes shine almost immediately, tears welling up faster than you can stop them. You press a hand to your mouth, a breath hitching out of you as you stare down at him.
“Bucky…”
He looks terrified.
Not of you.
Of losing you.
And that’s what does it.
That’s what breaks you open completely.
You drop to your knees in front of him so fast he barely has time to react, your hands coming up to cup his face, grounding him the same way you always do.
“Hey,” you whisper, voice thick. “Hey, look at me.”
He does. Instantly.
“You don’t need a speech,” you say softly, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “You don’t need any of that.”
His grip on the ring tightens, like he’s still not convinced.
“You’ve got me,” you continue, tears slipping free now, but you’re smiling through them. “You’ve always had me.”
His breath stutters.
“Yeah?” he asks, quiet, almost disbelieving.
You laugh a little, wet and shaky, leaning forward until your forehead presses against his.
“Yeah, idiot,” you murmur. “Of course I’ll marry you.”
The relief that hits him is immediate.
His shoulders sag, a broken, breathless sound leaving him as his eyes squeeze shut for a second, like he needs it just to steady himself.
“Jesus,” he mutters, half-laughing, half-choking on it. “Thank God.”
You pull back just enough to look at him again, grinning now. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I know,” he says, still a little dazed, finally slipping the ring onto your finger with hands that are only slightly less shaky. “I had this whole—this whole thing, doll. It was good, too. Real good.”
“I’m sure it was.”
“I practiced.”
You snort. “Did you really?”
He groans, dropping his head forward until it bumps lightly against your shoulder. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not,” you say, laughing as you wrap your arms around him. “I think it was perfect.”
He huffs. “Yeah? Just ‘please’?”
You pull back, kissing him slow and soft, pouring every bit of your answer into it.
“Yeah,” you whisper against his lips. “Just ‘please.’”
Mr Hayward, I am heartened to see you out in public so soon after your... disappointment with Miss Baxter. The whole situation was so publicly played out. I would have hidden myself away for a year, at least, with the humiliation of it all.
hi ken!! can you please make something funny and fluffy bucky x reader drable like this video https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSxNj3oJk/ 😭😭
-🐰
It’s almost midnight when the bedroom door creaks open.
You and Bucky both freeze.
He’s half asleep, warm and heavy at your back, one arm slung over your waist like you might vanish if he lets go. The room is dim except for the sliver of hallway light spilling across the floor. You don’t need to look to know who it is.
Small footsteps. A dramatic sigh.
“Mom?”
You push up onto one elbow. “Ivy?”
Your daughter stands in the doorway clutching her stuffed rabbit by one ear, hair mussed from sleep, big green eyes blinking against the dark. She looks so small it makes your chest ache.
“I can’t sleep,” she says, voice serious in that way only five-year-olds can manage. “My room is too dark.”
Bucky groans softly behind you but doesn’t move his arm from around your waist. “Baby doll,” he murmurs, still half buried in the pillow. “You got the nightlight shaped like a unicorn. That thing could guide ships at sea.”
“It flickers,” Ivy says flatly.
You bite back a smile. “It does not flicker.”
“It flickers in a spooky way.”
Bucky lifts his head just enough to squint toward the doorway. “You tryin’ to negotiate, kid?”
Ivy doesn’t blink. “Yes.”
You swing your legs over the side of the bed and pat the mattress. “Come here, honey.”
She pads over, climbs up between you both without asking, immediately burrowing into your side like a tiny determined mole. Bucky’s arm instinctively shifts to accommodate her, draping over both of you like he’s shielding you from something.
You smooth Ivy’s hair back. “Sweetheart, you know we’ve talked about this. You’re getting big. You can’t sleep in our bed every time you get scared. You need to work on your independence.”
She stares up at you, expression unreadable.
Bucky makes a quiet offended sound. “Hey.”
You ignore him. “Remember what we practiced? Deep breaths, turning on your lamp, reminding yourself there’s nothing in your room except your books and your stuffed animals and the laundry you refuse to put away.”
Ivy narrows her eyes. “The laundry is suspicious.”
“It is not suspicious.”
She props herself up on one elbow and studies you with far too much calculation. You can practically see the wheels turning in her head.
“Well,” she says slowly, “what about Dad?”
You blink. “What about him?”
“When is he going to learn his independence and sleep alone?”
Silence.
Then Bucky sputters. “Excuse me?”
Ivy rolls onto her back and gestures vaguely behind her without even looking at him. “He sleeps next to you every night.”
Your lips press together hard as you try not to laugh.
“That’s different,” you say carefully.
“How?”
Bucky pushes himself up onto one elbow now, hair sticking up in every direction, blue eyes narrowed in exaggerated suspicion. “Yeah,” he mutters, “how?”
“You’re my husband,” you say, turning to him.
“And?” Ivy challenges.
“And grown-ups share a bed.”
Ivy tilts her head. “So you don’t need independence?”
Bucky’s mouth opens and closes.
You glance at him and see the exact moment he realizes he’s walked straight into a trap laid by a five-year-old.
“Listen,” he tries. “It’s different for me. I’m big. I can protect Mom.”
Ivy’s gaze sharpens. “From the dark?”
He hesitates. “Well.”
“You said there’s nothing in the dark,” she points out.
You bury your face in your hand.
Bucky looks personally betrayed. “You’re using her words against me.”
Ivy crosses her arms over her tiny chest and gives him the same deadpan expression he uses when Sam annoys him.
“So,” she says calmly, “when are you going to sleep alone to practice?”
You lose it.
A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, and Bucky shoots you a wounded look like you’ve sided with the enemy.
“Oh, that’s funny to you?” he mutters.
“She’s got a point,” you say, wiping at your eyes.
He huffs. “Unbelievable. I raise her to be clever and this is what I get.”
Ivy flops back down dramatically. “I think Mom should sleep in my room tonight. To practice independence.”
“That’s not how that works,” you say weakly.
“It is for Dad.”
Bucky leans over you to look at her. “Kid, I earned this spot.”
“Did you?” she asks.
You can’t breathe from laughing now, and Bucky finally cracks, a grin spreading across his face despite himself.
“Alright,” he says, pulling Ivy closer to him with his flesh arm. “You wanna know a secret?”
She squints at him suspiciously.
“I don’t sleep alone,” he admits. “Because I don’t want to.”
She pauses.
“You’re not scared?” she asks.
“Sometimes,” he says honestly, his voice gentler now. “But mostly I just like being close to Mom. Makes me feel better.”
Ivy processes that. “So you don’t have independence?”
“Oh, I do,” he says solemnly. “I just choose not to use it.”
You snort.
Ivy looks between the two of you, then nods like this information has been logged and categorized. “Okay.”
“Okay?” you repeat.
She scoots down under the blankets and wedges herself firmly between you both. “Then I also choose not to use mine.”
Bucky barks out a laugh and collapses back onto the pillow.
You open your mouth to protest—but then Ivy’s small hand slips into yours, warm and trusting, and Bucky’s metal arm settles carefully over both of you.
Your bedroom feels smaller now, but softer. Safer.
“Ivy,” you murmur gently, “we can’t make this a habit.”
“Mhm,” she says, already sounding drowsy.
Bucky leans over and presses a kiss to her messy hair. “Just tonight,” he whispers.
She nods against the pillow.
You glance at him over her head, raising an eyebrow.
He shrugs, sheepish. “I’m practicing not using my independence.”
You roll your eyes but shift closer anyway, tucking yourself against his chest while Ivy stays curled between you like the world’s most stubborn little buffer.
Within minutes, her breathing evens out.
Bucky’s thumb traces slow circles against your arm. “She’s too smart,” he murmurs.
“She learned from you.”
“Yeah?” He smiles softly. “Then she’ll be okay.”
You look down at your daughter, small and fierce and brilliant, wrapped in both of you.
“She will,” you agree.
Bucky tightens his hold just a little, pressing his lips to your temple.
In the dark, surrounded by the quiet hum of the house and the steady rhythm of the two people you love most in the world, independence feels overrated.
Hiiiii, love the “you’re not my boyfriend” trope and I raise you one further
You’re at a lil kids party and someone has taking a strong liking and it’s just Bucky and this child proving that they like you more. You should be a grownup about it but it’s so fucking funny seeing Bucky try to outsmart a kid
You should be a grownup about it.
You really should.
But instead you’re sitting on the edge of a folding lawn chair in the middle of a backyard full of screaming five-year-olds, a half-melted cupcake in your hand, watching your boyfriend attempt to politically maneuver against a child who has decided you are her favorite person in the world.
It’s Sam’s niece’s birthday party—princess theme, pink balloons, plastic tiaras, the whole thing. You volunteered to help with face painting because you’re good with kids and you didn’t mind glitter under your fingernails for a day. Bucky had tagged along, claiming he wanted to “support” you, which you’d translated to: stand around looking intimidating so no one’s weird uncle tries to hit on you.
What neither of you expected was Olivia.
Olivia is six. Olivia has a crooked ponytail and grass-stained knees and a missing front tooth. Olivia has decided you are her person.
It starts innocently enough. She wants a butterfly painted on her cheek and refuses to let anyone else do it. She holds your wrist with both hands while you work like she’s afraid you might evaporate. When you finish, she beams up at you like you’ve just handed her the moon.
“You’re the prettiest,” she informs you very seriously.
From somewhere over your shoulder, Bucky snorts.
You glance back at him. He’s leaning against the fence, sunglasses on, arms crossed over his broad chest. He looks like a Secret Service agent accidentally dropped into a kindergarten class. His mouth twitches when you catch him watching.
Olivia notices too.
She narrows her eyes at him.
“Who’s that?” she asks.
“My boyfriend,” you say lightly.
Olivia studies him with open suspicion. “He looks grumpy.”
Bucky pushes off the fence and strolls closer, crouching down to her level. “I’m not grumpy,” he says, voice low and smooth. “I’m… selectively friendly.”
Olivia gasps softly and steps closer to you. “He’s scary.”
You bite your lip to keep from laughing.
“I am not scary,” Bucky protests, offended in a way that is so deeply adult that it makes this entire situation ten times funnier.
Olivia slips her hand into yours.
Possessively.
Bucky’s eyes drop to your joined hands.
It begins.
For the next thirty minutes, Olivia refuses to leave your side. She drags you to the bounce house. She demands you watch her attempt a cartwheel. She insists you sit next to her during present time. Every time Bucky gets within three feet of you, she wedges herself in between.
It’s subtle at first. A shoulder nudge. A strategic lean.
Then it becomes blatant.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the blanket while Olivia opens gifts, and Bucky lowers himself down on your other side. His thigh presses warm against yours. You instinctively lean into him.
Olivia notices.
Without breaking eye contact with Bucky, she scoots closer to you until she’s practically in your lap.
Bucky arches a brow.
Olivia lifts her chin.
You press your fist to your mouth to stop yourself from cackling.
He tries diplomacy first.
“So, Olivia,” he says smoothly, “how about I show you a magic trick?”
Her eyes flicker with interest—then suspicion. “What kind?”
“The kind where I make this cupcake disappear.”
He reaches for the cupcake in your hand.
Olivia slaps his hand away.
You lose it.
Actually lose it.
A bark of laughter escapes you before you can stop it, and Bucky looks betrayed.
“She assaulted me,” he says.
“She’s six,” you wheeze.
Olivia folds her arms. “She was eating that.”
“I was going to give her mine,” Bucky argues.
Olivia narrows her eyes again, then turns to you sweetly. “You can have mine if you want.”
Bucky stares at her.
“Oh, it’s like that?” he mutters.
You are crying laughing now.
It escalates from there.
Bucky tries to win her over by pushing her on the swing set. Olivia accepts the push but only if you stand in front of her the entire time. She keeps shouting, “Higher! But only if she’s watching!”
Bucky jogs behind her, competitive even now. “I can push higher than that.”
“No you can’t,” she shoots back.
He pushes higher.
She squeals in delight and immediately looks at you. “Did you see that? He’s trying to impress you.”
Bucky nearly trips.
At some point, someone suggests a three-legged race for the adults and kids. Before Bucky can volunteer, Olivia grabs your hand.
“She’s with me.”
Bucky blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You can be with Uncle Sam,” Olivia informs him kindly.
Sam, who has been watching this entire thing with vicious enjoyment, grins. “Sorry, Barnes. She’s claimed.”
Bucky crosses his arms. “This is rigged.”
You shouldn’t encourage him.
You absolutely shouldn’t.
But you lean in close and murmur, “You’re losing to a first grader.”
His jaw tightens.
“Oh, I’m not losing,” he says quietly. “I’m gathering intel.”
He switches tactics.
Instead of trying to outshine Olivia, he starts helping her.
He ties her shoelaces before the race. He steadies her when she wobbles. When she gets shy lining up with the other kids, he crouches down and murmurs something that makes her giggle.
You watch his face soften in a way it only does when he forgets to guard himself.
And you feel something warm bloom in your chest.
The race starts. You and Olivia tumble spectacularly halfway through and end up in a heap of grass and limbs. She’s laughing so hard she can barely breathe. You’re not much better.
Bucky is there instantly, hauling both of you upright.
“You okay?” he asks, hands gentle on your shoulders.
“I won,” Olivia declares.
“You came in third,” he says.
“That’s basically first.”
He stares at her for a long moment, then nods solemnly. “You’re right. That’s on me.”
She beams.
And then—without hesitation—she throws her arms around his neck.
Bucky freezes.
Slowly, awkwardly, his arms come up around her small frame.
“Don’t be grumpy,” she tells him.
“I’m not grumpy,” he mutters, softer now.
“You can like her,” Olivia says seriously. “But I like her too.”
His eyes flick up to yours over her shoulder.
And there it is—the surrender.
He presses a kiss to the top of Olivia’s head. “Deal,” he says. “We can share.”
She considers this.
Then she turns to you and whispers loudly, “He’s okay.”
You laugh again, wiping grass from your knees.
Later, when the cake is gone and the balloons are deflated and Olivia has been scooped up by her parents, Bucky wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side.
“I could’ve taken her,” he grumbles.
“Sure you could’ve, big guy.”
He kisses your temple. “You enjoyed that way too much.”
“I did,” you admit shamelessly. “You were outsmarted by a six-year-old.”
He hums thoughtfully. “She’s got good instincts.”
“About?”
He squeezes you closer. “You.”
And just like that, the ridiculous competition fades into something softer.
Because the truth is, watching him try—and then watching him give in and be gentle—was the best part of the whole day.
another fun little hc because i am deeply unwell with keys fever rn
. * ✦ . ˚ ✦ .
Keys is, without question, the most attentive boyfriend you've ever had.
Sweet, kind, considerate—maybe a little introverted, not the type for grand gestures or constant PDA—but he always takes care of you in all the ways that matter.
He's the kind of guy who automatically switches sides so he's the one closest to traffic when you're walking together. The kind who remembers your favorite snacks after you mention them once; he somehow always has them waiting in his pantry whenever you come over.
If you fall asleep on his couch with your head in his lap, he'll sit there for hours with his leg completely numb before even considering waking you up.
And that carries over into the bedroom, too.
He’s attentive in a way that makes you feel so completely safe, so completely looked after. Always checking in, always tuned in to the smallest shifts in you. You think he genuinely likes taking care of you, making sure you’re alright, making sure you feel good, that you're enjoying yourself as much as he is.
He's open-minded—always willing to try something new if it interests you—though the two of you usually end up drifting back to your favorites. Missionary, lotus, anything that gets him close enough to brush your hair back from your face, to watch your face scrunch up in ecstasy. He's the type to lace his fingers through yours just so you’ll have something to hold onto when you let go.
With Keys, affection isn't loud.
It's the hand on your waist guiding you through a crowd, the jacket draped over you when you fall asleep on the car ride home.
He’s a sweet guy, is what you’re saying.
So naturally, about a month into dating, you decide surprising him at his apartment is a great idea.
You slip inside with the spare key because he told you weeks ago “it’s okay to stop by whenever.”
You think it'll be cute.
Maybe you'll sneak up behind him, cover his eyes, press a kiss to his cheek just to watch him go all flustered and pink for you.
You've got a soft plushie tucked under your arm—a teddy bear wearing a blue hoodie and tiny little glasses that looks exactly like him. Keys Bear, as you'd immediately named him in your head.
You're still grinning to yourself as you jiggle the door open.
Except the moment you step inside you hear:
“Motherfucker.”
You stop dead, the keys still dangling from your fingers, plushie nearly slipping from your arm, because...
Who the hell was that?
You know that voice.
But at the same time... you don't.
It sounded like Keys.
Except lower, rougher. Completely stripped of the soft-spoken warmth you're used to hearing.
“There’s no fucking way that hit me.”
Click.
Click-click-click.
“Where did this guy even come from?”
Click-click.
“Yeah, okay. Sure. That's bullshit.”
Your eyebrows slowly climb toward your hairline.
Keys swears?
Obviously he does; he's an adult, you've never assumed otherwise.
But around you, the harshest word you've ever heard him say is probably “damn.”
You inch down the hallway toward his bedroom, the door cracked open enough for you to peek through.
And you find your sweet, considerate, impossibly patient boyfriend sitting there, three inches from the monitor, headset on, shoulders wound so tight they're practically touching his ears.
His eyes are locked onto the screen with laser-focus, fingers flying across the keyboard faster than you can follow.
The same fingers that slip into yours mid-conversation.
The same fingers that patiently untangle your necklaces when they knot, zip up your dresses when you're struggling with the clasp.
The same fingers that help you fold laundry on lazy Sunday mornings because “it's faster if two people do it.”
The same fingers that once spent forty-five minutes researching heating pads online because he was not about to let you suffer through cramps with anything mediocre.
You've never seen him look this focused before.
Jaw set tight, a tendon in his neck standing out in a way you’re not used to seeing. His eyes are narrowed behind his glasses, the screen reflecting in quick, restless flashes of light across the lenses.
“Are you actually serious right now?”
Click.
“Push mid.”
Click-click.
“No—don’t stand there, move.”
Click.
“Yeah. That's what I thought.”
Your stomach does a strange little flip.
Because...
Is this your boyfriend?
Your sweet boyfriend?
Your “text me when you get home” boyfriend?
Your “hold still, it's cold” boyfriend?
Your “I saw this and thought of you” boyfriend?
Your “I made extra food because I knew you’d forget to eat” boyfriend?
The man who says “sorry” when he needs to squeeze past someone in a grocery aisle?
The man who once spent an entire afternoon helping his elderly neighbor move furniture because her grandson couldn't make it over that week?
The man who gets pink in the face whenever you compliment him?
Who still gets visibly flustered every time you kiss his cheek?
That man?
And what really gets you, about all this, isn't the swearing.
It's his tone.
Key’s isn’t shouting into his microphone or slamming his desk the way you’d expect from most gamers.
If anything, he’s speaking in this low, calm register.
Something a little degrading in his voice when he tells his teammates: “You wanna try that one again?” or “Nice job, buddy. Maybe hit something next time.”
A kind of cool, knowing arrogance that only comes from being completely certain he’s right.
Which, judging by the groans from the people in his headset and the score steadily climbing on his screen, he usually is.
You always knew your boyfriend liked being right.
When you first met Keys, you'd figured out pretty quickly that he was insanely smart. Competitive, too.
You just never realized he’d been holding himself back this whole time.
It's like discovering your golden retriever has teeth.
Because for the first time, it occurs to you that your boyfriend isn't nice because he lacks a backbone.
He isn't sweet because he's incapable of being mean.
He's sweet because he actively chooses to be.
Watching him now, it's obvious.
That quick wit, that confidence. That razor-sharp sarcasm and the ease with which he fires back cutting comments without missing a beat.
A side that clearly existed long before you met him.
It's always been there, just hidden underneath polite smiles and good manners.
That contrast, unfortunately, is making it very difficult for you to think straight.
And even more difficult to stand straight.
You shift your weight in the doorway, still clutching little Keys Bear against your chest as you feel heat pool between your thighs, growing wetter with each passing second—another low, mumbled comment from him, dry and just this side of mean, effortless in the way he says it and so different from the softness he shows you.
On screen, another defeat.
Keys lets out a long, suffering sigh, dragging a hand through his hair as he slumps back in his chair.
It swivels slightly with the motion, and his gaze finally catches on you in his peripheral vision.
You watch as those big, expressive puppy-dog eyes go round with shock.
And just like that, Gamer Keys disappears.
He jolts, the headset nearly flying off as he yanks it from his head, sending it clattering onto the keyboard.
“Baby! Hey!” The smile that spreads across his face is instantly familiar, warm and soft, albeit surprised. “When did you, uh, when did you get here?”
You blink, remembering to swallow the spit pooled on your tongue before you speak.
“Just now.”
Keys studies you for a second.
The slack-jawed, slightly dazed look on your face must give you away, because his brows pull together.
“Is... everything okay?”
“Yep.”
“You sure?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Okay, cause… I mean, you’re kinda just staring at me right now? So...”
Yeah.
Because ten minutes ago you thought your boyfriend was the sweetest man alive.
And you still do.
Except now you’ve discovered there’s an entirely different side to him underneath all that softness.
A side that's confident, quick-witted, ruthless, almost intimidating when the situation calls for it.
Mean.
You clear your throat, glancing down at the teddy bear still squished against your chest before holding it out.
“I brought you this.”
Keys blinks at it, then carefully takes it from you with both hands.
And the expression that breaks across his face is so soft, so fond, it makes you doubt whether the last few minutes were real at all.
“Wow, this is... he’s so cute,” he huffs out a quiet laugh, turning it in his hands, thumb smoothing over its head. He looks up at you, a boyish grin pulling at his mouth, his glasses catching the light. “Is this supposed to be me?”
You nod.
He lets out another laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, okay. I see it.”
He gently props the plushie up right beside his monitor, adjusting it once before letting it settle.
Then he reaches for you. It’s easy and instinctive—one arm slipping around your waist as he draws you closer, spreading his legs and guiding you into the space between his knees.
Your hands come up to rest on his shoulders, fingers carding through the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
He tilts his head up to look at you, still a little concerned, trying to figure out why you haven’t stopped staring at him.
“Hey, you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, quieter this time, thumb brushing against your side.
You lean down, palms gently holding him in place as you press a sweet, feather-light kiss to his cheek. You give his face a soft little squeeze afterward, pleased by the scrunch of his nose and the way his grin spreads.
His ears turn pink.
There he is.
Your Keys.
“Just missed you,” you mumble, then glance toward the glowing monitor behind him. “Can I watch you finish your game?”
His brows lift slightly.
“The game?”
“Yeah.”
“Uh, you sure?” he blinks, clearly thrown. “We can do something else.”
You shake your head.
“No. Keep playing. I wanna see.”
A slow, slightly confused smile tugs at his mouth before he nods.
“Okay, yeah, sure. Let me grab you a chair.”
You hum, then—much to Keys’ surprise—you turn around and plop yourself down, right into the space between his thighs.
His chest presses flush against your back, the familiar warmth of him wrapping around you. The sudden closeness seems to catch him off guard; you feel his breath hitch right by your ear, his lips grazing against your skin when he exhales.
You wiggle your hips, rubbing against his lap as you try to get comfortable, and immediately feel him go still behind you.
You bear just a little more of your weight down before turning your head, catching his wide-eyed gaze with a sweet smile.
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