I Love This So Much, It's So Cute. 🤍

💋💋

Hands-On Learning

Summary: Reader is deep in preparation for her finals, much to Spencer’s frustration. When she creatively incorporates him into her anatomy review, it turns into a pleasurable experience for them both.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warning: f!receiving oral, face sitting, face riding, f!masturbation, softdom!spencer, but he's needy and desperate, anatomy terms that may have been used incorrectly (sorry), slight dry humping, overstimulation, yearning.

Word Count: 3.3k

Masterlist

Finals season. 

The ever-dreaded, ever-disliked period between the end of April to June where every student you know is scrambling to absorb roughly four months of material in a matter of weeks.

All bets are off in this lawless space of time. Coffee at 2 AM? Completely advised, go right ahead. Hundreds of dollars spent in food delivery? Sure. Anything to keep the grind going, right? Major papers that should’ve taken weeks to write being done in a frantic three hours? It’s a rite of passage, really. And luckily, you get to spend a much-needed summer break afterwards, recovering from all these horrific decisions you’ve put yourself through. 

Needless to say, your current setup involved many textbooks, flashcards scattered about, and highlighters in the most random of places, all in the name of preparation for this beast of a week. 

And of course, it was all set to the sounds of a very needy Spencer Reid, who’d been begging for your attention since he’d gotten here.

“You’ve studied so much already, I swear. Can’t you take a break?”Spencer questions petulantly, sitting on the bed adjacent to your desk, where you were currently hard at work memorizing the thirty-one pairs of nerves that made up the spine. 

You’d been studying intensely for this semester's finals. By making a couple of well-informed choices beforehand, you were actually quite on track when it came to your learning and retention of material.

For the most part, it seemed like you were on track to sail through all your classes without a hitch. That held true, until you brought up Introduction to Anatomy. 

Anatomy was fun, by all means. Interesting labs, interesting people, interesting content. However, what daunted you more than anything in pertinence to the material was the enormity of the terms and vocabulary you were expected to know in time for the exam.

“I haven’t studied enough.” Is your quick response, a small smirk finding its way to your lips. Despite loving your boyfriend, there was a certain pleasure in seeing him so desperate for you, a power-rush that felt unbelievably good.

And to your credit, you really were hard at work memorizing these terms. As much as you enjoyed his company (and the sex he wanted to engage in), it simply could not take precedence over the task at hand. 

“You know, multiple studies recommend at least twenty minutes of a break for every hour you study, for peak brain efficiency, and you-” He checks his watch, mentally calculating how long you’d been at that desk. “You’re due for at least an hour’s worth of break at this point.” 

You finally look up, your finger halting on the paper it’d been tracing over. “Spencer, you know I’d love to take a break but-” 

He sighs heavily. “I’m aware. This is important. I get it.” He grumbles, flopping onto the bed in a slightly dramatic fashion. 

You giggle at the scene. For all his propriety, there was never a more amusing sight than your boyfriend reduced to base desire and instinct. You take pity on him though, and smile gently at him. 

“Look, why don’t you get out? Go have lunch, do whatever, and come back. Hopefully I’ll be closer to finishing then, and we can hang out then?” You offer, hope in your voice. 

He sighs and nods, lifting himself off your bed. “Yeah, sounds good.” He murmurs, coming over to the desk to place an affectionate, chaste kiss upon the top of your head. “Good luck.” He says, cracking a half smile as he leaves, which you return with a smile of your own. 

The door closes, and you’re left with nothing but silence, and the lateral cutaneous branches looking up at you from their place on the page. Time to work at it, you suppose. 

It’s about two hours later, when you hear the tell-tale knock of your boyfriend at your door, presumably back from his excursion away from you. Your place at your desk is momentarily abandoned in favor of letting him in, and there’s instant delight in your eyes, considering the two cups of coffee he presents to you. One is iced, one is not. Without any words exchanged between either party, the iced coffee is grabbed and you grin. 

“Thank you.” You say, taking a sip. Of course he’d remember your order perfectly. 

“You know, that could’ve been my coffee, for all you know.” He teases, striding into the room. 

You roll your eyes fondly whilst you close the door. “Spencer Reid drinking iced coffee? I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

“Coffee is supposed to be hot!” He protests, immediately, this being an obvious subject of passion for him. “Hot brewed coffee contains far more antioxidants, and doesn’t risk being watered down by ice- oh, and another thing-” 

You stifle a chuckle whilst watching him. This had been an ongoing debate for you two, essentially since the day you met. Your first date had been at a coffee shop. When he'd asked for your order, he looked almost appalled at the prefix of “iced” you’d tacked onto your statement.

Nevertheless, he still ordered it, and did his best to educate you on why hot coffee was “clearly” superior.

Somewhere between lecturing you on caffeine effectivity and nutritional information, you were head over heels. 

“Anyway.” He says, breaking your thoughts, and seemingly done with his argument. “How far are you into studying?” 

You make your way back to your desk, biting your lip as you stand over the material.  “Pretty far.” You murmur, reluctantly. “I dunno. I know I know this material, but I feel like it hasn’t solidified in my brain, you know? Like I need to keep hammering it in until it’s basically muscle memory for me.” 

He moves slowly to be behind you, his hands coming to rub your shoulders gently, soothing the worn out muscles on your back. His touch is warm and reassuring, a quiet way of saying, “You can rest.”

“You know.” He murmurs, softly. “You’d probably do better with a break. Take a breather, let your brain relax for a second.” 

There’s a pause, before he adds in a quiet voice, “Maybe spend some time with me?” His hand comes to move some hair away from your neck, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the side of it. 

You melt into the movement. He always knew exactly where your weak spots were, where you’d falter and give right into his ministries.

But you know you can’t. You force yourself to breathe and look away, as though that simple act might help you forget how his hands had lingered on you just a moment ago.

“I want to, I swear. But I won’t feel good about taking downtime until I’m absolutely sure I’ve got this.” You say, firmly extricating yourself from his grasp.

He gives another one of his heavy sighs, accepting his fate quietly, knowing he won’t be able to convince you outside of your own accord. 

“Alright then. I’ll just hang out here then.. For however long that might take.” 

You give a small, pained smile. “Thank you. I know I’m being difficult.” 

“You’re not. You could never be difficult.” He responds, immediately, returning your smile with one of his own. “It’s just finals season. I know your  performance will be wonderful, and we’ll have all the time in the world afterwards to spend time together.” 

Your heart melts. You were beyond lucky to have him, and that adoration and knowledge is displayed plainly through your expression. “Thank you.” You repeat, unable to verbalize just how much his support meant to you. “I hate finals.” 

“You and I both.” He shoots back, cracking a grin. “You’re going to do great.” 

There’s no trace of doubt in his tone at all. 

For the next hour or so, you both quietly coexist in the same space, the names of musculature and types of fibers muttered under your breath. After a while, the terms click into place, and with a quiet breath, you let the tension go. The final step in your preparation involved practicing the newly learned terms on a human model. Ideally, it would be one of the fake skeletons in the anatomy lab. Your gaze, however, drifted to your boyfriend on your bed, sprawled out, reading your physics textbook for fun. 

Nerd. 

An almost evil plan enters your brain, and your voice goes sickly sweet as you call out his name. 

“Spence?” “Mm?” He murmurs, looking over the book. 

“Can you strip down to your underwear, please?” A harmless smile plays on your lips as you ask.

Spencer’s all ears as he hears that, and in record time his clothes are shed. “Are you-” “Lie back on the bed.” You order. 

He’s so obedient and eager, immediately complying with what you’ve asked of him without question. You smile, and discreetly grab a washable marker before making your way to where he was laid out. 

“God. I’ve been so insanely needy for you all day. I’m so glad you’re done.” He says, his expression reeking of starvation as you straddle him. You can feel him harden under your touch, and choose to ignore that. 

You lean down, your head at about his chest. His breathing quickens in anticipation, already so turned on from the minimal contact between you two.

Before he can make a move of his own, you pull out your marker and mark the space between his clavicle and shoulder.

“Brachial plexus.” You murmur, much to his utter confusion and dismay. 

“You have to be kidding me.” He says, his look of confusion quickly morphing into one of realization. “I thought you were done-” 

“I’m not.” You say, with a small smirk on your lips. “But I will be, if you’re quiet and let me work on you.” 

He groans. “You’re evil, this is evil. I won’t-” 

“The faster we get through this, the faster I’m all yours.” You interrupt, mostly ignoring him, because you know he’ll do anything if it means touching you by the end of it. 

He takes a pained breath and tries to relax while you work on top of him,  his obvious erection straining against the fabric of his briefs.

The pen drags down his chest, as you move down on him to better position yourself in accordance to the medial pectoral nerve you were marking.

“Baby, please.” He groans out, his hands fisting in the sheets below him in an attempt to not grab you and take you right then and there.

The slightest bit of friction seems to set him off, and you can tell he isn’t playing it up in the slightest. He truly was, well and gone for you within this moment.

“Sorry.” You murmur. “Just marking your.. anterior cutaneous branches.. of the thoracic nerves.” The pen drags against a spot on his chest, and he shudders. 

“Won’t this stain my skin?” He says, a slight whine in his tone, doing absolutely anything to free himself from the absolute torture of this predicament he’d found himself in. 

“Nah. It’s one of those pens they use for surgery.” You respond, dragging it along his sternum to mark a few more necessary terms. “It’ll come right off in the shower.” 

You know exactly how to push his buttons. You lean in closer and whisper against his ear enticingly, “We can get clean together.” 

He squeezes his eyes at that, the feeling of your lips brushing against his earlobe triggering an involuntary response, a low moan escaping him. “This is.. so unfair. I just want to touch you. Please.” 

“Not until I’m done.” You fire back. “C'mon. You can be good and wait, right?” 

“Easy for you to say.” He grits out. “You’re not the one, half naked and hard and having to watch you be..” He trails off.

“Be what?” You ask, a bit distracted as you mark another nerve of importance.

“Be.. sexy.” He mumbles out, clearly embarrassed by his own musings. 

A small, wry smile comes upon your mouth. You lean back, a breath of laughter slipping free. “You think I look sexy?” You say, a teasing lilt in your tone.

He rubs a hand over his face, clearly mortified. “Yes. Yes, okay!” He grumbles out, clearly self-conscious by just how much he’s managed to be affected by you. “You’re on top of me, drawing on me, and I’m aware they’re just anatomical terms, but God the way you say them.” 

His voice devolves into a near whimper, pitiful and aching. “It’s killing me.” 

You hum, pleased with yourself. “Killing you, huh?”

“Yes.” He mewls. “Killing me. I want you so much, please. You’re so smart. Please. I know you’re going to do so good on this final. Just please, please, let me touch you.”

He collapses into his words, into you. No pride left, just need.

“Yeah? You think I’m smart?” You murmur teasingly, tracing the plastic of your marker along the side of his neck. 

“Yes.” He moans, lowly. “So smart. You’re so hot when you’re working so hard. Makes me want you so bad.” 

Your head turns back, and you can see the wetness of precum leaking from his cock on his briefs. He wasn’t faking it to get your attention. He yearned for you, plain and simple.

Your eyes find his, and they’re full of need, his expression absolutely shameless and desperate. “Please.” He repeats. “Please let me touch you. I don’t care how. Just- god. I can't do this. Please.” 

It’s enough to make you yield. You slide off of him, and he lets out a soft, needy sound, already missing the press of you, until his breath catches at the sight of you stripping, your clothes landing somewhere off the edge of the bed without a second thought.

“You wanna touch me?” You murmur, crawling up the bed a little. 

“Yes.” He whispers, nodding.

The way he looks at your naked body, eyes fixed, hungry, reverent.. it’s almost too much. You feel dizzy from the weight of it.

You straddle his face, a thigh on either side of him whilst you hover over his face, and then you look down. “Touch me then.” You murmur.

He practically growls as his hands wrap around your thighs. “With pleasure.” 

He pulls you down entirely, effectively forcing your core against his mouth, his tongue lapping against every inch of your wet folds.

You moan, your hands coming to grasp the headboard in front of you. There’s absolutely nothing he could be thinking about, besides the taste and smell of you flooding and overwhelming his senses. 

He devours you with a single-minded focus, his tongue expertly alternating between flattening  and lapping you in slow, deliberate strokes, and quick flicks against your clit. It’s all done in service to you, Spencer thinking of the fastest way to unravel you, desperate to taste your release against his tongue– to hear you moan his name and shake above him. 

He gets his wish when another stroke of his tongue finally causes you to come, your sweet release flooding his face, and him eagerly drinking it in. He moans as he attempts to pull you even closer to his mouth (if that was even possible). 

You let out a breathy laugh as he seems to slow down, indicating the end of your session. “Spence.. Oh god. That was so good.” You try to get off him, but his grip on your thighs is iron-clad. 

“Again.” He moans. 

“What?” You ask, not sure if you heard him right. 

“Again, please.” He begs, voice broken. “I need you.” 

The absolute depravity and torment in his voice lulls you into complacency, as you assume your previous position above him. 

“Okay. Okay, baby. We can go again.” You murmur, soothingly.

He wastes no time going right back in, his tongue albeit, a little slower now, keeping in mind that you’d just orgasmed, and that you were probably still sensitive. 

He’s right to do so, little high-pitched moans and drawn out of you as you get comfortable again, despite the overstimulation.

His tongue circles your clit slowly, never properly touching it, delaying your next release. After a while of this teasing, you finally moan out his name, your hips shamelessly rocking against him. 

“Spencer, god. Please. Need to come.” You beg, feeling yourself at the edge of a small death. 

Spencer responds in kind, rapidly flicking his tongue against your swollen bud, and in record time, you’re coming again, much to his delight.  He doesn't let up until he's absolutely sure he's lapped up every single drop, not letting any of it go to waste.

“Okay, baby. I gotta get off. Gotta breathe. So do you.” You pant out, as you get off from your seat on his face.

He shakes his head, tugging you closer. 

“Please, wanna keep touching you.” He pleads, eyes teary, your release practically dripping off his chin. His hand digs into your arm with a lustful urgency.  “Please. We can go again. I know we can.” 

You yield to his request, because honestly, who could deny him right now? His hair messy, lips shiny and his voice, fractured and full of ache, barely held together. 

You nod, lying down, on the bed, motioning for him to roll on top of you. 

He rolls over and kisses you, and it’s absolutely sinful. You can taste yourself on him, moaning as your lips easily part and make way for him, the wet warmth of his tongue sliding against yours. There’s nothing held back between the two of you as your lips connect and reconnect, as his hand slowly slides down the expanse of your skin, finding your clit and beginning to rub slow circles against it. 

“Oh god, Spencer.” You moan bonelessly, feeling the effects of your previous two orgasms and the one you were hurtling towards currently taking over you. 

“Yeah?” He mumbles. “That feel good?” 

“God, yes.” You moan. “You always know how to touch me, always know how to make me feel good- oh-” 

He groans in delight as he dives in for another kiss, his fingers sliding across the slick bud even faster now, determined to make you fall off the edge for him one last time. He humps your thigh, practically desperate for some relief for his aching cock as well.

“Say my name.” He murmurs against your lips. 

“Spencer.” You wail out, in response. 

“Louder.” 

“Oh god, Spencer, please!” You groan, your body beginning to tense up with the tell-tale signs of an orgasm, your body taut like a bowstring. 

“That’s right, come for me.” He whispers, placing a sweet kiss against your collarbone, his hips continuing their rut in an attempt to chase his release as well.

And with a shout, you come, your body seizing up and succumbing to his touch, your hands wrapping around his neck in an attempt to ground yourself as you experienced the intense pleasure that could only result from being with him.

He seems to follow shortly after to the sound of your moans, a wet patch appearing on the front of his briefs.

You whimper as you come down for your orgasm, Spencer stroking your skin soothingly, peppering little kisses wherever he could reach. 

“You doing okay?” He pants out.

“Better than okay.” You murmur, folding into his embrace, feeling as if you were floating on clouds, or some other poetic description of just how light you felt in this moment. 

“I pushed you pretty hard, huh?” He mumbles, his voice tinged with a slight bit of concern. 

“Don’t worry. I deserve it for teasing you so hard." You mumble.

"Thanks for helping me study, by the way." You tack on, already feeling yourself drift off into a quiet, peaceful slumber in his arms. 

He chuckles a bit, and places a kiss against your forehead. “Glad I could make the lesson... hands-on.”

woah!!! hello!! so unfortunately, much like reader, i have also been swamped by finals :( but, this idea came to me and i decided to write it and try to make my way back to writing even a little bit more regularly. as usual, please like, reblog and comment if you enjoyed this fic. reblogs are basically the lifeline of tumblr, and if you'd like my work to reach more people, i would 10000% appreciate it so much. thank you so much for reading regardless, and i hope it was enjoyable. thank you thank thank you for all your support!!!! <333

What about cutie first season Spencer Reid who is desperately in love with his coworker and is kinda blind sided when Lila kisses him🥺 He wants to make it really clear that the kiss was one sided but his soon to be girlfriend is jealous jealous🩷

jealous — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader being jealous , mention of lila ( obviously ) a/n: hiii !!! i hope you like this :)

When you read in books the phrase “jealousy boiled in her veins,” you never quite understood it. Sure, you’d felt jealousy before, in fleeting moments of insecurity or longing.

But boiling jealousy? That had always seemed like an exaggeration. 

Not until four days ago. 

Though, boiling wasn’t the right word for it. No, what you felt then was explosive jealousy.

A kind of heat so intense it made your skin prickle, your throat tighten, your hands curl into fists at your sides. It was the kind of jealousy that made your stomach churn and your heart pound with something dangerously close to heartbreak. 

Because four days ago, you saw them. 

Spencer and Lila. In the pool. 

The images were burned into your memory, tattooed on the inside of your eyelids like a cruel joke. Every time you closed your eyes, there they were—her arms wrapped around his neck and their faces too close.

You had barely slept since. 

And work? Work was even worse. 

Two days ago, when you walked into the BAU for the first time since that dreadful moment, you told yourself you’d be fine. You could be professional. You could pretend it didn’t bother you. 

But you couldn’t even look at Spencer. 

Every time he stepped near you, all you could see was her in his arms. Every time he spoke, all you could hear was the laughter they shared in that damn pool. You forced yourself to act normal, to keep your voice steady and your posture composed.

But it was so, so hard. 

Elle had noticed. She kept shooting you those pointed glances, raising an eyebrow in silent question. Are you okay? 

Of course you weren’t. 

How could you be when you had been crushing on Spencer for so long, you could barely remember a time when you hadn’t been? How could you be okay when the sight of him with someone else had nearly shattered you? 

Spencer noticed too. Of course he did. 

He wasn’t oblivious—not when it came to you. He saw the way you avoided his gaze, the way your once warm smiles had faded into stiff nods and clipped responses. He saw the way your shoulders tensed when he entered the room, how you kept your distance like even standing next to him was unbearable. 

And it was unbearable. 

He wanted to talk to you, to explain. 

To tell you that what happened was one-sided. That he hadn’t meant for it to happen. That he hadn’t wanted it to happen. That it had been unexpected and overwhelming and, ultimately, meaningless. 

That he was in love with you, not Lila. 

But how could he say that when you wouldn’t even look at him? When every time he tried to get close, you turned away? When the words on the tip of his tongue kept dying in the silence you forced between you? 

Today, when you walked into the bullpen, the first thing you noticed was Derek. He was leaning against Spencer’s desk, a smirk playing on his lips as he held a paper in his hand.

The moment he saw you, he straightened, casually tossing the paper into the trash, his expression softening as he placed a warm hand on your shoulder. 

“Morning, sweetheart,” he greeted smoothly. 

“Morning,” you replied, offering him a small, tired smile. 

You already knew what he had been holding. The pictures. The ones of Spencer and Lila in the pool. The same ones Derek had undoubtedly been using to tease Spencer with before you arrived. You also knew why Derek immediately threw the magazine away.

Because Derek, just like the rest of the team, knew exactly how you felt about Spencer. 

And how Spencer felt about you. 

Everyone with eyes and ears could tell. The way you gravitated toward each other, how you always seemed to seek each other out, how Spencer’s face lit up when you laughed. It wasn’t just friendship. It had never been just friendship. 

Spencer glanced up from his desk as you passed by, flashing you a hesitant, almost hopeful smile. 

You only nodded, forcing yourself to keep walking. 

You settled into your chair, taking a slow breath as you forced your hands to stay busy, flipping through the files on your desk. You could feel Spencer’s gaze lingering on you, like he was trying to gather the courage to say something. 

Spencer missed you. 

He missed the conversations, the inside jokes, the way you used to nudge his shoulder whenever you walked by. He missed the way your voice softened when you said his name, the way you actually listened to his rambles instead of tuning them out like most people did. 

And he wanted—needed—to explain. 

But every time he opened his mouth to speak, the words tangled in his throat. Because what if he ruined everything? What if trying to explain just made things worse? 

He had been so close before all of this happened.

Just a few days ago, he had been sitting right here, talking to Elle, asking for advice on how to ask you out. He had been nervous, but excited. He had a plan, one he had been going over in his head a hundred times—something simple, something meaningful. He just wanted you to know how much you meant to him. 

But then Lila happened. 

And now, instead of planning a date, he was trying to figure out how to make you look at him again. 

He couldn’t take it anymore. 

Spencer stood abruptly, pushing back his chair with a quiet scrape against the floor. He hesitated for only a second before crossing the room, stopping just beside your desk. 

“Can we talk?” His voice was quieter than usual. 

You didn’t look up right away, your fingers tightening around the file in front of you. A moment passed before you finally let out a slow sigh and nodded. 

“Okay.” 

Spencer felt his heart stutter in relief. 

The two of you walked to the breakroom in silence. 

Spencer closed the door behind him, the soft click sounding much louder in the quiet space. He hesitated, shifting from foot to foot, fingers twitching slightly at his sides. 

“I—” He stopped, inhaling sharply. Then exhaled. Then hesitated again. 

You leaned against the coffee counter, arms crossed, waiting. Your heart pounded a little too fast in your chest. You felt awkward—just a tiny bit. Because Spencer wanting to talk to you meant he had noticed your behavior. Not that you had been subtle about it. 

But it also meant he had noticed your jealousy. 

And that was almost worse. 

Finally, Spencer spoke, his voice quiet, careful. Earnest. 

“I miss you.” 

Your head snapped up and you just stared at him, wide-eyed. 

You didn't expect him to be so direct.

Spencer was blushing, a deep red creeping up his neck, dusting the tips of his ears. He looked like he wanted to disappear, like saying those three words had been the most terrifying thing he had ever done—which, knowing him, it very well might have been. 

But the way he was looking at you, like he was afraid he had already lost you, made something twist painfully in your chest. 

“I—” You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “You… what?” 

Spencer gave a small, nervous laugh, running a hand through his hair. “I miss you,” he repeated, voice softer this time. “And I—I know you’re upset. I know why. And I just… I need you to know that what happened with Lila, it—it wasn’t what it looked like.” 

You pressed your lips together, your fingers gripping the counter behind you. “It looked like you were kissing her,” you muttered, unable to stop the sharp edge in your voice. 

Spencer winced. “She kissed me,” he corrected quickly. “I—I didn’t expect it, and I definitely didn’t want it. I pulled away as soon as I—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “It wasn’t what I wanted.” 

You stared at him for a long moment. He was shifting anxiously, his hands half-raised like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he could. His brows were drawn together, his lips pressed into a tight line, like he was bracing himself for you to tell him you didn’t care. 

But you did care. That was the problem, wasn’t it? 

You looked down, inhaling deeply before meeting his gaze again. “Then… what do you want, Spencer?” 

His breath hitched. 

For a moment, he said nothing, just looking at you like he was memorizing every detail of your face, like he needed to get this right. Then, finally, he took a small step forward, eyes locked onto yours. 

“You,” he said simply.

Your heart stopped. 

And then it started again, thundering against your ribs, because Spencer Reid had just admitted—out loud—that he wanted you. 

The jealousy that had been burning inside you for days was suddenly replaced by something else entirely. 

Hope. 

“I—what?” Your ability to form sentences had seemingly vanished. Your mouth hung slightly open as you stared at him, heart hammering against your ribs. 

Spencer, for his part, was barely looking at you. His eyes flickered to yours for a second before darting back to the coffee pot behind you, like it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. 

“Me?” you finally managed to say. That was it. That was all your brain could come up with. Me? 

Spencer nodded, still not quite meeting your gaze. 

Silence stretched between you, thick with unsaid words.

Then, finally, he spoke again. 

“I was—I was trying to figure out how to ask you out,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, more uncertain. “I was talking to Elle about it, actually. Trying to…to make a plan.” His hands twitched at his sides, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “And then Lila—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Everything just got messed up.” 

“Really?” you asked, your lips curving into the smallest hint of a smile. 

Spencer finally looked at you again, his expression both relieved and vulnerable all at once. “Yeah,” he breathed out. 

The heaviness in your chest eased, just a little. 

You took a slow step toward him, close enough that you could see the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers curled slightly like he was stopping himself from reaching for you. 

“So…” You tilted your head, your voice softer now. “How were you going to ask me?” 

Spencer let out a short, nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… I had a whole thing planned. Something about books and coffee and, um, statistics on first-date success rates…” He trailed off, his face burning. “It was probably a bad plan.” 

You bit your lip, your smile growing. “I don’t know,” you mused, your heart pounding. “I think I would’ve liked it.” 

Spencer blinked at you, hope flickering across his face. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward this time. It was warm.

You took another step forward, and this time, Spencer didn’t move away. He was still nervous, still hesitant, but he didn’t look away when you reached out and brushed your fingers against his. 

“I still would,” you said quietly. 

Spencer swallowed, his fingers twitching against yours before he finally, finally curled them around your hand. His grip was unsure at first—like he was waiting for you to change your mind—but when you didn’t pull away, his shoulders relaxed. 

“Then,” he said, his lips curving ever so slightly, “would you maybe want to—” 

“Yes,” you interrupted, grinning now. 

Spencer smiled, a real, relieved smile, and you felt something settle in your chest—something that had been in turmoil for days. 

This was so fucking good

NOT LIKE A FRIEND

summary: y/n overhears something that sends her on a spiral and harry has no idea

7.6k words

warnings: friends to lovers, a smidge of angst. this was requested months ago but here she is! it might not be exactly what the request was asking for but… there’s angst so enjoy <3

(Y/N) wished she’d walked down the hallway ten seconds later. Maybe then she wouldn’t have heard what she did. 

All of the bridesmaids and groomsmen were at the fitting at the same time and before everyone went their separate ways to try on the dresses and suits to make sure everything fit just right, Harry had stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. 

“Let me see you when you’re dressed.” 

At that, she rolled her eyes but smiled and nodded. She wanted to see what Harry would look like in the suit he’d been asked to wear, so she didn’t mind too much. She had a flowy sage green dress that she couldn’t wait to slip into so after parting from him, she followed the other bridesmaids down the hall to where their dresses were being held. 

Their good friends Jesssica and Landon were getting married and they asked both (Y/N) and Harry to be in their wedding. It was an honor and (Y/N) was almost brought to tears when they asked her. 

It was the final fitting just before the wedding that would happen a month or so later. 

One of the other girls who (Y/N) is certain is Landon’s younger sister, helped her with the zipper on the back of her dress and she did the same for her before finding an empty mirror to look herself over in. 

Of course, she wasn’t quite done up yet because this was just a fitting but the dress was beautiful. It exposed her shoulders and fell all the way to her feet. The fabric was smooth and it clung to every curve of her body. She really couldn’t wait to show Harry. He’d love it. 

The dressing room for the guys was on the other half of the building, so it was a little ways down the hallway, but she didn’t mind the walk. 

Harry and (Y/N) had been best friends for just about ten years. She’s not sure when it happened but they just suddenly started incorporating each other into their daily lives and they realized that they really enjoyed the company. It’s strange when she thinks about it now because now there is no way that she’d let anyone know her the way Harry does. 

He always knows what she wants before she does. He calls her everyday, she’s sure of it. He sends her silly photos that remind him of her, he’s knocking on her door every Sunday morning to take her to breakfast. Wherever she goes, he does too. She’s never been closer to someone in her entire life and she loves the support he gives her for everything and anything. 

She stopped at the doorway before the guys’ dressing room, just about to announce her presence when she heard something. 

“I know your type, Harry, and she is not it.” 

“You don’t know shit,” She heard Harry laugh. “(Y/N)’s not my type at all, actually, thank god.” 

“She’s cute though, isn’t she?” 

“She’s like a sister to me, Matt, come on.” 

Her listening was interrupted by the other girls coming down the hallway to show off their dresses. She wasn’t sure why Harry’s words seemed to have hit her so deeply. Her stomach dropped when she heard what he said but she doesn’t quite understand it right now. If she was feeling a little less lightheaded, she might follow after the others and force a smile to get through the rest of the fitting but she doesn’t. Instead, she makes her way back to the room with her clothes and changes back into them. The dress fits nicely. That’s all she needed to know. 

“Did you even try your dress on?” She heard behind her. In the mirror, Harry is in the doorway, dressed in his suit. He looked like a dream, if she was being honest. The suit fit to his shoulders perfectly and tapered at the waist. Whoever took his measurements really wanted to do him justice. 

“Yeah,” She answered, trying to keep a casual expression as she zipped the dress back into a garment bag. “I just feel a little sick suddenly.” She shrugged, watching as his eyebrows drew together in concern. 

“Oh, no,” And then he was in her personal space, feeling her forehead with the back of his hand, searching her face over intently, like he’d be able to figure out what was wrong with her just by looking at her. “I can get changed and we can get you home. Give me five minutes.” 

He left the room and she sighed, finding a seat to sit down for a second. 

She’s not sure why it makes her stomach churn in such a way. To hear that. She’s not Harry’s type? Not that it matters much because she never ever thought about him that way. Maybe right before she falls asleep when she’s in between consciousness and not but it’s never gone so far that she’s felt awkwardness with him. It’s just little what ifs. But hearing him completely shut down even the suggestion of it, made her heart drop. 

Harry is probably as attractive as attractive gets. She can’t believe he gives her the time of day sometimes. And she’d never want anything to ruin the friendship they’d been nurturing for the past ten years, so lines were never blurred between them. Strictly friends. Best friends. 

He couldn’t even call her cute though. Or attractive. Or pretty when Matt asked him. He just said she’s like a sister. And that should be fine. (Y/N) isn’t sure why she’s feeling nauseated at the thought of it but it ruined her day. Flat out. She’d just decided that. 

The other girls came back, dressing into their clothes and chatting amongst themselves but (Y/N) felt frozen. She hates the way that got to her. It doesn’t matter. Harry doesn’t think she’s his type. He’s right. She’s seen his type too and (Y/N) checks none of the boxes. The way that he was so sure and so quick to answer is really what’s nagging on her. Like he’s thought about it before and already deemed (Y/N) not good enough for him. 

She said goodbye to the other girls before making her way to the front of the building with her dress. She’s not certain she’ll be able to stand the sight of Harry. Not today at least. She needs time to ruminate and figure her feelings out. Why does it feel so weird to hear what she already knew? 

Before she could reach the doors, Harry was behind her, holding it open for her and then following her out. 

“I think I'm just going to head home on my own. I don’t want to get in the way of your plans.” She spoke up, already swiping on her phone screen to call herself a ride. Harry picked her up earlier and they were meant to go to dinner after the fitting but she can’t even think about eating at the moment. She just needs to be alone. 

“My plans were with you, (Y/N). I can take you home and make you something there if you want.” He offered, his hand rubbing down her back in a comforting gesture. She stepped away from him so he could no longer touch her and tried to remain calm. 

“It’s okay, Harry. Seriously. I just need to sleep, I think. And that would be boring for you.” 

“Well, I need to sleep too, so let’s go.” He took her phone right from her hand and slipped it into his pocket with a smirk. 

Harry is stubborn and as soon as he doesn’t get what he wants, he’s an annoying little shit and somehow the cards are always already in his favor anyway. 

So, she followed him to his car and let him shut her inside. The drive wasn’t too long but he kept the car quiet, like he was waiting for her to speak up and tell him what was really wrong but she didn’t. She just kept her eyes out the window and tried to keep her mind off of what he said only just shy of twenty minutes ago. 

“I’m just going to run a bath and go to bed, Harry. I don’t need a babysitter.” 

He’d helped her inside and was set on making her dinner and spending the night but she wasn’t feeling like being in his company right now. For the first time ever. 

“But you don’t feel good, (Y/N), and someone should be here with you,” He kicked his shoes off by her door, telling her that he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. “I’ll run the bath. You get comfortable.” 

She huffed as he walked down the hall to her bathroom and flicked on the light. See what she means? Stubborn. 

That was a month ago. And she hadn’t been able to get it out of her head the entire time. When she first wakes up and when she’s about to go to sleep, she’s thinking about what he said. She’s always had a hard time with letting things go. Even the smallest things. So she knows that conversation will be with her for a long, long time. 

She’s probably seen Harry five times since then. And she is positive he knows that something is going on now. She tried to be normal around him but it was too hard. He’d wrap his arm around her shoulders when they were sitting with friends at the pub and she’d make an excuse to get up and from under his arm. But he noticed, he just hadn’t said anything yet. 

The wedding is three days away. Jessica and Landon wanted to be married on the beach or near it anyway, so everyone would have to drive about an hour to get to the coast. It wasn’t a big ask, (Y/N) wanted to visit the beach first thing when they got there because it had been a while since she’s been. 

The wedding party was arriving two days before the ceremony so they could all help get things in order before the big day. (Y/N) was meant to drive down with Harry and Jessica had put them in the same room in the hotel because neither of them minded at the time. They’d shared a bed more than a handful of times so it wouldn’t be anything unusual. But now that (Y/N) knew what she knew, she had secretly asked Jessica if she could book another room, under the guise that there had been an extra room and to not tell Harry a word of it. Jessica was a little puzzled but didn’t ask and agreed. 

She wanted to hitch a ride with someone else but she doesn't want to hurt his feelings. Even though he unknowingly obliterated hers. For a reason she’s still not sure of. 

So, Friday after work, Harry came to help her finish packing and then they’d set out for the hour drive. 

When her doorbell rang, she was filled with dread. For the first time since she’s known him. But still, she opened the door for him and accepted his tight hug that he always gave her when he saw her. 

“Almost ready to go?” He pulled back, squeezing her shoulders and smiling down at her. 

“Almost.” (Y/N) stepped back so his arms fell away and started back toward her bedroom. He followed of course, and sat on her bed as soon as it was in sight. She was done packing for the most part, she just had a few things to shove in her bag and then they’d be ready to go. 

“Hey, babe?” 

She hummed because her back was to him as she finished stuffing a smaller bag with her toiletry items. 

“Who exactly are these for?” 

She turned, seeing her skimpy pair of black panties wrapped around Harry’s finger. Gasping, she stomped toward him so she could snatch them away. 

“Stay out of my bag!” Her hands shook as she shoved them down further into her bag where he wouldn’t be able to see them or get a hold of them again. He only laughed, relaxing further into her bed. 

“It’s cool. Can show me what they look like when they’re on. I think I’d like that more.” His smirk lessened none when she shot him a mean look before turning back to her other bag. 

“In your dreams.” She muttered, zipping the bag shut and tossing it on the bed. 

“Every night.” 

(Y/N) ignores him when he makes comments like that. He’s just a guy and they’re only friends, so she takes none of it to heart. Especially now that she knows what he really thinks of her. 

Once everything she could possibly need is in the duffle, Harry offered to carry it out to the car for her. She lets him, only because it’s heavy and he wouldn’t let her lift a finger for it anyway. 

They get comfortable in the car for an hour-long drive as soon as her house is locked up and everything is situated in the car. He always let her pick the music and this time was no different than any other. She connected her phone to his car and shuffled one of their usual favorite playlists before leaning back into her seat and shutting her eyes. 

There’s no talking until they get about fifteen minutes from the hotel. They both prefer the quiet sometimes and are totally always okay to sit in silence, nothing but music playing, and just be. Especially after a day of work, it’s nice to just mindlessly watch the scenery go by and not worry about much. 

Jessica and Landon arrived at the hotel hours ago, so the plan was to meet them in the lobby so they could get their room key. Jessica and (Y/N) had already smoothed over the plans for going about the extra room. It would just be a happy coincidence that there was another room and (Y/N) didn’t mind taking it. That’s how easy it would be. 

Harry, holding both of their bags on his shoulders, texted Landon and both of them met them in the lobby. Jessica hugged (Y/N) tightly and thanked her, once again, for agreeing to come all the way there for her special day. 

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Jess.” She parted from the hug and from the corner of her eye saw Landon hand the key card to Harry. 

“Oh, right! We have an extra room if one of you wants it. It’s paid for so use it if you need to.” Jessica passed the other key card to (Y/N) and she smiled in thanks at her, trying not to look so relieved. 

“We don’t need that, but thanks.” Harry went to grab it from (Y/N)’s hand and give it back but she pulled away. 

“It’s paid for. I’ll use it.” She forced a convincing smile at him before nodding at Jessica again. 

Landon and Jessica left the lobby to go to the beach right across the street, leaving (Y/N) to get in the elevator with a now grumpy looking Harry. She paid him no mind as she pushed their floor number and hummed to herself. That was seamless. She really will have to thank Jessica again. 

“You’re really going to take that room?” 

“Why not?” (Y/N) can tell from the tense way that his jaw is sitting that he’s not exactly happy with the arrangement but she doesn’t think too hard about it. “It’s not that big of a deal, Harry. We’ll be right next to each other anyway.” 

He only huffed in response, grumbling something under his breath as he followed her out of the elevator to her door. 

“What if someone else needs it?” 

“Jessica wouldn’t have offered it then,” She shot back, trying not to seem so defensive about it. “Plus, it’ll be nice to stretch out.” 

“You do that every night anyway.” 

“Most nights, yeah.” She clicked the card in and pushed the door so she could step inside. 

“What do you mean most nights? Who the fuck do you have in your bed then?” He kept his grip tight on her bag when she tried to take it from his shoulder to set it down. 

Her eyes widened at his tone of voice. She’s never seen Harry like this and she’s not sure what to call it. But instead of asking, she laughed at him. 

“Set my bag down and let’s go to the beach.” Gently rubbing her thumb over his wrist like she liked to do sometimes, he released her bag, his face falling neutral again. 

“You expect me to go in that other room?” He pointed. “Because I’m not. I’m right here with you, I don’t want my own room, I don’t want to stretch out, I want to be here.” 

(Y/N) is unsure why he’s so adamant about it. She really thought he wouldn’t care and this would be her chance to get even more distance between the two of them. But Harry is unwavering in his declaration to not leave her room, so she sighed. 

“Fine. I guess you can stay in my room.” 

“Funny.” He dropped his bag before sifting through it to find his swim shorts. 

It’s evening now and they probably would need to stop somewhere at some point to get something to eat but she guessed Harry wanted to go to the beach first. She changed too, in the bathroom, into the orange bathing suit that she knew Harry was a fan of. He said the color went well with her skin and maybe it did, but she didn’t put much thought into those words either. 

(Y/N) put an oversized tee shirt on before she left the bathroom. She wasn’t sure they were actually going to swim since it was getting late, so she wanted to have something to cover up with. 

Harry led her back down through the hotel and out the doors that allowed you to step right into the sand. His hand brushed hers, earning him a look. 

“You don’t want to hold my hand?” 

“My hands are sweaty.” 

“So?” He chuckled, holding his hand out for her this time. The sand was a little hard to navigate in her sandals but she really doesn’t want to hold his hand either. She could manage on her own. 

“I’m okay.” She answered, thankful that they just reached Jessica and Landon so he wouldn’t force an explanation out of her like he often did with little effort. 

(Y/N) decided to just dip her feet in. That way, she didn’t have to take off the tee shirt and get wet. She’d much rather find something to eat after this and not be soaked while she does. 

Landon occupied Harry while (Y/N) got to whisper with Jessica for a little bit. 

“He refuses to stay in the other room.” She muttered, rolling her eyes. 

“What’s the issue with the room anyway? I thought you didn’t mind sharing a bed.” Poor Jessica. She should’ve given her a bit more information but she really didn’t want to explain to other people that Harry doesn’t find her attractive in the least. She’s already embarrassed, she doesn’t want anyone else knowing. Even though the entire room full of groomsmen heard. 

“We just need some space, you know? He doesn’t realize it now but…we do.” 

The water was calm at the moment. It just reached her ankles when it came up the shore and that was all she needed. The sun was just dipping past the horizon and everything was bathed in an orange glow. It’s beautiful and (Y/N) is so happy for her friends. And to be a part of something so special. 

“Aren’t you going to take this off?” Harry stepped beside her, his hand tugging on the end of her tee shirt. 

“I don’t want to get wet.” She kept her eyes on the sky. If she looked at Harry now in this light, she’d be a goner. And she needed to stay strong. He doesn’t want anything to do with her and that should be fine. She shouldn’t be wondering day and night what if things were different. What if Harry did think she was pretty? Would that change anything? 

(Y/N) knows that he enjoys her company. That part is evident. Her brain just won’t let the idea rest. Harry doesn’t think she’s good enough for him. It was as simple as that but it was a hard pill to swallow. 

There was little conversation between the two. (Y/N) knows he’s very aware that something had shifted, he just hadn’t brought it up yet. But Harry is not one to let things go either. He’d bring it up eventually. She tried to keep her eyes on the view in front of her. It was beautiful and it allowed her to relax for a moment and clear her mind. 

They said goodbye to Landon and Jessica on the beach and went to find something to eat. Harry suggested room service since a lot of the restaurants around the hotel were beginning to close. 

After eating, (Y/N) took a quick shower and snuggled into the sheets while Harry went off to take his own shower. She wanted to be asleep before he got back, but apparently, he wasn’t interested in being in the shower longer than five minutes. He was back before her eyes could shut so she was forced to interact with him. 

“Feel alright?” 

“Mhm.” She hummed, keeping her eyes sealed shut as he slipped into the bed beside her. 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’m sure.” She felt his body shift closer to her under the blankets. He’d moved so close that his chest was pressed to her back. Normally, this would never be a problem but now that she knows what she knows, she doesn’t feel as comfortable as she once did.

His arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her even further into him. 

“Goodnight then.” He said before settling his hand over her stomach. 

“Uh,” She interrupted the quiet after his goodnight. “Would you mind like…giving me a little bit of space?” 

“Oh,” His hand pulled away quickly. “Sure. I didn’t realize that…yeah. Okay. Goodnight.” He moved back toward his side of the bed, laying on his back now. 

(Y/N)’s not sure why, but she feels like she’s being mean to him. Even though she really did want the space between them, it wasn’t something that she was saying just to hurt his feelings. But she knows she did anyway. 

At the moment, it feels necessary, so she doesn’t apologize or curl up next to him like she’d normally do. She just shut her eyes again and tried to get to sleep. 

***

The next day, (Y/N) and Harry were rushing around, trying to make the final arrangements for the wedding before the rehearsal dinner. 

There wasn’t much time spent with Harry actually, she was too busy doing things centered around Jessica. She figured Harry was doing the same for Landon but hadn’t yet responded to his text asking if she was as tired as he was. She was busy. At least that would be her excuse when he pouted and asked her why she was ignoring him when they met at the rehearsal dinner in just shy of an hour. 

She made it to the hotel room, showered, changed, and left again before he ever made it back. So, she didn’t have to deal with his questions quite yet. 

(Y/N) tried to keep herself surrounded by bridesmaids while Jessica and Landon’s families went on with speeches and toasts. And then Jessica and Landon themselves had a few words to say. So, she was able to sip her wine and pretend like she didn’t feel Harry looking at her every few seconds. When he walked in, she did send him a wave but didn’t get out of her seat to go join him at his table near the back. It was full now, so there really wasn’t a reason to go over there. At least, that’s what she thought. 

When everyone broke up to get dinner at the small restaurant right across the street from the venue they were in, the same one that would be used for the reception, Harry caught a hold of her arm. 

“Fuck’s sake. Where have you been? Don’t you know you’re supposed to sit next to me at something like that?” His smile was still bright and playful like he didn’t mind much that she was practically avoiding him. Or he hadn’t noticed. Or he was just pretending he didn’t at the moment, she’s not sure. 

Dinner was good. Sitting next to Harry was as it always is. His arm was splayed over the back of her chair and he was making jokes the entire time only for her to hear. He made her genuinely laugh a few times but most of it was her rolling her eyes and nudging him with her elbow. Things almost felt normal. Until one of Jessica’s cousins who was gorgeous sat in the empty seat next to Harry and she had to listen to them talk for thirty minutes and she wasn’t invited into the conversation once. Those same feelings of self-doubt and not feeling good enough came hurtling back at her. And then she couldn’t even look him in the eye when the girl finally did saunter off after slipping him her number like she didn’t want (Y/N) to see or something. And that just made her sick. 

Jessica and Landon were completely occupied with their family and they probably wouldn’t need her anymore tonight, so (Y/N) considered just going back to the hotel to get rest for tomorrow. Plus, the time that she’s supposed to meet Jessica and the other bridesmaids is early enough for her to want to go to bed now. 

“Hey. Take a walk with me?” Harry rubbed his hand over her shoulder. She nodded, agreeing even though she shouldn’t have. She just thought it’d get her back to the hotel quicker. 

In minutes, (Y/N) and Harry are on the beach, walking side by side in the sand. They kicked off their shoes in the grass before stepping into the sand and they hadn’t said a word since. 

“You’re stunning,” He said all of a sudden. “I mean…truly. You’re beautiful, (Y/N).” 

She wanted to shoot him a look and tell him to stop lying to her but she didn’t. Instead, she shrugged, trying not to take him too seriously. 

“Thanks.” 

“I missed you today.” Another bright smile was sent her way. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” He sighed, reaching for her empty hand. “Weddings are always fun, huh?” 

“Sure. It’s a lot of work though. But Jess and Landon are so good together.” It was true. (Y/N) had never really seen anything like it. How in sync the two of them are and how in love they seem to be. 

“I’d like to be married one day, I think.” His hand squeezed hers. 

“Me too, I guess. Just because.” 

“Really?” 

“Eventually.” 

“Can I be honest for a second?” Harry stopped where he was in the sand, causing her to do the same. She’s not sure what he’d want to be honest about. She thought he was always honest with her. 

“Yeah.” 

“You’re my best friend, (Y/N),” Suddenly, his expression was serious, something that (Y/N) seldom sees. “And…I love you.” 

“I love you too, Harry.” It was something they’ve said to each other for years. But he shook his head as soon as she said it back. 

“No. Like, I like you.” 

“I’d hope so with how much time we spend together.” She chuckled. He grabbed both of her hands, another unamused look on his face. 

“(Y/N). Listen. I love you. I like you. I want you. Not like a friend. Not even close to a friend.” 

She snatched her hands away, taking two steps away from him. 

“Can we just go back to the hotel now? This was a waste of time.” 

“A waste of time? I just told you how I feel about you.” The very vulnerable expression he had is long gone now, replaced by something close to hurt and disbelief. 

“God, what did you do? Make a bet with Matt or something? Just to pull one over on me?” 

“What are you talking about?”

“I heard what you said to him.” (Y/N) is ready to confess and get this entire thing over with. She can finally tell him that she heard what he said and confront him about it. 

“To who?” 

“Matt!” She took another few steps away from him but he followed. “Is this fun for you? Messing with me like this? This is why I didn’t want to share a room with you.” 

“I’m so lost—”

“Of course you are.” Turning, she wanted to make her way back to the room, collect her belongings, and beg one of the other bridesmaids to stay in their room for the night. Surely someone would take pity on her. 

“(Y/N), just fucking talk to me! What’s going on?” He gripped her arm, spinning her to face him once again. “What did I say?” 

“How could you forget?” She laughed, ripping her arm from him. “You’re just so thankful that I’m not your type, aren’t you? I’m just your best friend, like your sister, and you’d never even take a second look at me. Because I’m not worth your time.” 

Maybe she added in a few bits that she’d been stewing over in her own mind. He didn’t outwardly say most of that but to her, it all fell in line anyway. 

“When did I—” He started to ask but stopped himself, as if he suddenly remembered when he said those things. “You’ve got it all wrong. I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“How else could you mean that? I’m not your type. Sounds pretty straightforward to me, Harry,” He looked helpless for a moment, like he didn’t know what to say to make it better. For the first time in his life. “And then that girl! She’s your type! Go get her since you seemed so interested earlier.” 

“What girl, (Y/N)? Christ, what are you on about?” Now he looks frustrated by her lack of answering his questions but she really doesn’t feel like talking. 

“Jessica’s cousin. She gave you her number, I bet you loved that.” 

“I didn’t take her number, (Y/N). I was just being nice!” 

“You’re always just so nice, aren’t you? So fucking nice all the time!” She hated that. He was too afraid to tell someone to fuck off, so he just put up with anyone that decided to to talk to him even if it was the last thing he wanted to do. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t bother me. It’s just the fact that you dragged me out here to try and lie to me. You like me—love me—I don’t buy it for a second. I’m done with this conversation. Goodnight.” 

It would be almost impossible to avoid him like she wanted to but maybe she’d find another ride home. They do have to walk down the aisle together but she doesn’t have to talk to him, she can just try to keep her face pleasant as she walks beside him. It shouldn’t be longer than a minute. And then she can ignore him for the entire reception and when they get home, she can consider figuring all of this out. After plenty of time, of course. 

“You misheard me. It wasn’t like that.” He reached for her but before he could touch her or say much more, she was on her way back to the hotel. After grabbing her sandals in the grass. 

She felt like crying. But there was no reason to. Yes, technically she’s in a fight with her best friend and they’ve never really had one before. They have disagreed a few times but never anything like this. He’d never made her so mad or hurt her so deeply. Talking about something like that to someone neither of them really knows just crossed the line. Matt is far outside of their friend group, he shouldn’t have gotten any information like that. (Y/N) just wonders why Harry offered it up. 

Harry doesn’t have to like her or think she’s attractive. It would almost be strange if he did, considering how long they’ve been friends. But hearing it from someone who looks like him cuts deep. She wishes she could brush it off because Harry isn’t someone she ever thought of as a possibility. But now that she knows there’s not one, it stirred something inside of her. All of her insecurities came right to the forefront of her mind and no amount of self-soothing has been able to fix it so far. 

She was lucky that she caught one of the bridesmaids in the hallway on her way back to the room. She explained very vaguely that it wasn’t quite working out in her room anymore and she’d sleep on the floor if she had to. The girl was nice and very reassuring and even helped her grab her things from the room. And the best part: she asked no questions. She was just nice and they briefly talked earlier when they were all assigned tasks to do before the rehearsal dinner so she didn’t mind at all. 

She’s also lucky Harry didn’t catch her in the hallway. He wouldn’t have let her go anywhere until he said his piece but she’s not sure he’s made it back to the hotel yet. 

(Y/N) just wants to go home. She hates to be so down during what’s supposed to be one of the happiest days of one of her best friend’s life. But it was hard to think about anything other than Harry. 

That night, she had to force herself to sleep. After thanking the girl ten more times. 

She just hoped that, even though she was upset with him now, everything would work out and they could put this behind them. 

****

(Y/N) ignored the messages on her phone for the time being. She was too busy getting herself ready and doing a few last minute things for Jessica. So, while she maybe wanted to see what he had to say, she didn’t give herself time to dwell on it. She’ll see him at the end of the aisle. 

He was there before she really knew it. Across the room, looking stressed. Like he tossed and turned all night. Like he wanted to run to her now and say a million different things. But he didn’t. He stayed put in line with the other groomsmen and sent her pitiful little looks occasionally when she’d catch his eye, while she kept a stoic expression, not wanting to give him any kind of false hope. She honestly didn’t know how things would be when she decided she wanted to talk to him again. 

Unfortunately for her, that time came too soon. She was already walking down the aisle with him. Their arms interlocked and pleasant smiles on both their faces, like they weren’t not talking at the moment. Like everything was fine. 

When they were meant to let go at the end of the aisle, Harry hesitated, but decided to do nothing more than give her another longing look. He was sorry about something. Or regretful. Something like that. She’d never know unless she talked to him. 

(Y/N) is almost certain that Harry didn’t hear a word of the ceremony. His eyes were locked on her the entire time. Every time she accidentally met his gaze, he was already staring right back. And that would make her force her focus back on the two people in front of them, only until she let her eyes wander his way again. 

The reception was only a short walk away, but she wasn’t sure she’d make it that far. He’d definitely catch up to her before she made it inside.

When the ceremony was over, Jessica and Landon walked back down the aisle and everyone else dispersed and made their way to the cocktail hour that was supposed to immediately follow. 

“(Y/N)?” 

There it was. 

“Can we talk, please?” A hand touched her arm, gently turning her toward him. She had no choice but to look at him and as soon as she saw just how sad he looked, she didn’t care about how mad she was yesterday. Maybe it was true. 

What if he did love her? What if he did want her, but not like a friend? Would that be so bad? She spent the past month making herself believe that she never stood a chance. Not that she has ever wanted to before now, but the idea was just so jarring. Him? With her? It didn’t seem possible. 

But here he is now, almost begging to make things right. 

“Yeah. We can talk.”

The relief that overtook his face made her own shoulders relax. It was only Harry, there’s nothing to be afraid of. A lot had been revealed in the last day but it’s only him. And she knows him. The fact that he’s willing to talk means that he cares a little bit about how upset he’d made her yesterday. Of course, he would though because that’s just who he is. He’s an amazing friend and he’s always there for her no matter what. Even when she completely overreacts and brushes off his feelings. 

They found a semi-private area away from all the wedding guests with the most gorgeous view of the beach with the sun setting behind it. In different circumstances, she’d comment on it, tell him to take her picture right here so she’d be able to remember this day. Right now, she’s not sure she wants to. 

It was quiet for longer than she thought it would be. He was thinking and she didn’t want to rush him, but the time for cocktail hour was ticking down and plus, she just really, really wanted to know what was on his mind. 

“How could you not believe me?” He spoke up suddenly, turning to look at her. “I told you I loved you and you just…blew me off. That took…that took a lot and I don’t understand how you couldn’t see it.” 

He put her on the spot. Did she really want him to know just how insecure she was? And couldn’t he see that they’re not each other’s type? At all. 

“I..I don’t know, Harry. I wasn’t expecting it and when you said it, it just reminded me of that time at the fitting. You were saying what I already knew, so I just didn’t think that you’d change your mind.” 

“What did you already know?” He asked, his eyebrows furrowed. She took a deep breath. 

“That you’re not interested in me. I mean, we’re supposed to be friends, so I don’t know why it mattered so much to me, but it hurt to hear you say that and I was so angry at you.” Looking back, she wants to roll her eyes at herself. It was pathetic how she acted. Why couldn’t she just talk to him? This could’ve been cleared up weeks ago. 

“But I am interested in you. I think I’ve said that six times by now,” When he stepped closer to her, he grabbed her hand, and she let him. That one night being on uneasy terms had really done some damage. She felt so lost without him when he wasn’t there for her to run to. He was such a support for her and she didn’t realize to what extent until he wasn’t an option. “I’m sorry that what I said upset you. I was pissed that day. Matthew wouldn’t stop talking about how hot you were and it just fucked with me…he asked me what I thought and I just…I said that. And none of it was true. I don’t know what I was thinking but I also wasn’t going to tell him of all people that I’ve had a crush on you since I met you.” 

She didn’t mean to do it, but she snatched her hand out of his to put it over her mouth. 

“You don’t mean that.” She shook her head. How couldn’t she have known? He chuckled, grasping her hand again and holding it to his chest, right over his heart.

“I do. It feels so good to finally tell you. I guess I didn’t do a good job at dropping hints, did I?” He squeezed her hand. 

She tried to recall every conversation they’ve ever had. And nothing came to mind. Nothing he did or said ever made her think that he might be thinking of her as more. In all their ten years together. 

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” She asked, letting him pull her closer to him. 

“I did. Every time I told you I loved you I meant it. Every day for ten years.” 

That almost made her weak in the knees. None of it made sense. Either he really is the worst at dropping hints or she’s blind. Maybe a healthy balance of the two is what kept them apart. 

“But I thought…none of your girlfriends have ever looked like me. I’m so far out of your league.” She wasn’t expecting him to wrap his arms around her back and press their chests together, but she didn’t exactly mind it either. 

“You are so out of my league. Never thought I deserved you. And of course they didn’t look like you because…you’re you. No one can compare.” 

“You don’t mean that.” Her hand swatted his shoulder before she wrapped her arms around his neck and let herself melt into him. 

“I’d never lie to you and I would never play with your feelings either. You mean so much to me. I couldn’t not tell you yesterday on the beach when you looked like that…like this. You drive me insane,” He pulled them closer together, though it was almost impossible with how they were already standing. “Tell me what you’re thinking.” 

What was she to do? She had never given it much thought, but over the last month, convincing herself that she’d never be good enough for him, was torturous. But he’s here now, making all the wrongs right and making her chest feel tight. In the best way. She couldn’t help it. 

A tear hurried down her cheek and he gently wiped it away, shaking his head at her, telling her not to cry. He always said he hated that. 

“I’m so sorry,” Her eyes squeezed shut and she shoved her face into his shoulder, forgetting about her makeup that was probably going to be ruined by the time they were done. “I wish that I just talked to you so we didn’t have to do this right now. I’m sorry.” 

He shushed her, leaning his head against hers. 

“It’s okay. We’re here now, right? And you obviously don’t hate that I have a crush on you. Have a crush on me or something?” He nudged his nose against her temple. “Hm?” 

“Maybe. Now that I think of it.” She muttered, not moving from his shoulder yet. 

“Maybe? Come on, I know you love me.” 

“I do love you.” She pulled back, meeting his eyes again. He was smiling, looking relieved. She felt it too. This conversation had been a long time coming and now that they’re both on the same page, all the tension has left her body. She can relax and finally enjoy the wedding. 

“Then, kiss me.”

That had her freezing, looking up at him in shock. 

“What?” She breathed out, suddenly short on breath. Kissing him would make it all true. Not that she still didn’t believe him but it would mean it’s real. And that might just be too much for her. 

“You’ve never thought about kissing me? Now I know you’re lying.” He laughed when she shot him a look. 

“No, I just didn’t know you wanted to do that now.” 

“Well, I do. Right this minute.” 

“Really? Right here?”

“I think I’m speaking pretty plain English, yes. Right here, right now. Kiss me. I’ve been waiting for years, no exaggeration.” One of his hands left her back to tilt her chin toward him. 

“Wait. What if it’s a bad first kiss? I’ll probably ruin it because I’m so nervous. And then you’ll change your mind.” She didn’t mean to say all of that all at once but all her worries came pouring out of her when she really didn’t want them to. 

“How could it be bad? Are you stalling? Please, cocktail hour is almost over and I need to tell Landon that you love me and all that.” He tapped her chin, leaning down toward her, but she turned her head just in time. 

“Landon knows?” 

“Everyone knows. But you, my love. And maybe Matthew. Fucking idiot.” He rolled his eyes.

“How could I be the only one who doesn’t know? That doesn’t sound—”

He grew impatient with her and pressed his mouth to hers, effectively cutting her off and effectively making her forget any doubts she’d ever had. 

While it was a long time coming, it happened at just the right time. 

They pulled away, trying to catch their breath. 

“Fuck me. I think that’s my new favorite thing,” He pecked her lips two more times and then he checked his watch. “One more kiss and then we’ve got to get to cocktail hour. You can kiss me all you want back in our room.” 

****

I had this finished a week or so ago but I decided to wait because last week was a lot. I hope you are all doing well and I hope you like this one!! 🖤

tags: @vamprry @sunflowersloverr @tenaciousperfectionunknown @caynonmoondreams @elidoho @peterbenjaminparke07 @daydreamingofmatilda @kissitnhekitchen @amberbambridge @danaehldy @straightontilmornin @forgetdelaney @harrysonlylover @me-undiscovered @80s-outsiders @littlenatilda @outofthisworl-d @butdaddyilovehim-hs @cherrys4suckers @harrystylessslut @hssunflowervol6 @indierockgirrl @satellitelh @daphnesutton @opheliaofficial07 @nathalielovesonedirection @velvetballaspark @watermelonlover @kathb59 @harrysolaf @szoszi2004 @ellaorchard @trooooye @daylighthazzz @prettytulips @stylesfever @mayamonroem @slut-for-artists @in-omn1a-paratus @lunaharrygurl @uncassettodiricordi @a-strange-familiar @sassamanda77 @fangirl509east @voniikg @adore-you-hs2 @m0mmyfromtarget @savannahwendel @babyyhoneyyy @mrschanandlerb @illicitverstappen

*I had more than 50 tags so I had to take out the ones that weren’t working ☹️☹️ sorry*

This is perfect 🤍

okay but when the team actually starts calling the reader and aaron mom and dad behind their backs and one day someone lets it slip out in front of them??

i just… aaron’s reaction?????

the parentals

i love this dynamic SO MUCH cw; fem!bau!reader, established relationship, fluff <3

as you and aaron entered the bullpen, you were both quick to notice the others huddled around spencer's desk, surely for a new session of physics magic.

a smile immediately twitched at aaron's lips, tossing you a mischievous look. as long as it didn't make a mess, or a disruption - per his and reid's previous discussions - he really didn't mind the recurring demonstrations.

but would he ever miss an opportunity to get the blood rushing in this scenario - never.

"be nice." you teased, laughing softly under your breath as you followed him over.

"i'm always nice." aaron playfully insisted, those brown eyes flickering in that way that just melted your heart. "what do you mean?"

"better be careful," emily's warning came into earshot as you neared, completely oblivious to the two of you - the timing just perfect. "or else dad's gonna ground you."

aaron's expression quirked at the title, his eyebrows lightly furrowing.

"oh please," spencer said, his fingers making quick work of whatever the experiment happened to be. "he's too busy with mom-"

jj's eyes happened to lift right at mom, made direct eye contact with you, and immediately choked back a laugh. some horror timidly filled her eyes, and she didn't cover up her sound too adequately. it caused the others to instantly look up too, and freeze.

"busted." jj mumbled, her gaze finding the ground.

aaron's smile resurfaced, crossing his arms. his tone was playful, yet confused and utterly amused nonetheless. "dad?"

spencer flushed. "uh..."

"oh c'mon. cut the crap." emily interrupted with an eye roll, looking between the two of you. "like it's not shocking at this point. just look at what the two of you were about to do, lecture us-"

"hey no," with a laugh you cut in, arching an eyebrow. "i don't lecture."

"exactly. he does," emily crossed her arms also with a smitten smirk - her point thoroughly exhibited. "you're the flexible one. see, mom and dad."

"i always thought rossi was dad." aaron expressed openly, a small chuckle shaking through his chest.

"no, you were always dad," jj shook her head, "rossi was mom, until," once again, her eyes found yours, smiling softly this time. "until someone else came around, and took on the role wholeheartedly."

you grinned, exchanging a quick, loving glance with aaron. "what's dave now, then?"

"old."

hiyaa, cold reader series is so so amazing i just read it all in one sitting again but i was wondering if you could do one where she's jealous of a woman who starts flirting with spencer on a case maybe? maybe she's pissed because it's "unprofessional" but really she's pissed because he's being flirted with

AS IT SEEMS — SPENCER REID!

a local detective seems to hang on spencer’s every word. the unprofessionalism of it all really frustrates you.

spencer x cold!reader | 3.3k | flangst | cold!reader masterlist.

main masterlist.

a/n — is this… progression?

The flashing red-and-blue lights of the local PD’s vehicles paint shifting patterns across the asphalt as the BAU team steps onto the scene.

The air is thick with the scent of damp pavement and something acrid—gunpowder, maybe, or the lingering remnants of a nearby dumpster fire.

Officers mill about with that particular brand of tension that comes from knowing the FBI has been called in, half-relieved, half-defensive.

You take it all in quickly, the details slotting into place in your mind like a well-practiced routine. The weight of your badge clipped to your belt, the holster pressing against your hip—everything is familiar, grounding. But then she appears.

Detective Elena Foster is sharp-jawed and self-assured, the kind of woman who wears authority like a second skin. Her strides are long, purposeful, the confidence in her posture making it abundantly clear that she knows exactly how competent she is.

And she’s looking at Spencer like he’s fascinating.

You stand slightly off to the side as introductions are exchanged, arms crossed over your chest, expression unreadable. You’re practiced at this—at keeping your face neutral, your tone cool, your presence sharp enough to command respect without ever needing to raise your voice.

It’s always been easy. But right now, as Foster’s hand lingers just a little too long in Spencer’s when she shakes it, something tightens in your chest.

“Dr. Reid,” she says, eyes flicking over him with open appreciation. “I read your paper on statistical anomalies in serial offender data last year—brilliant work,”

Spencer, to his credit, looks momentarily startled. “Oh—thank you,” he says, blinking. “That was actually an extension of some previous research on—”

“That’s impressive,” she interrupts, flashing him a smile. “I’d love to pick your brain about it later, if you’ve got time,”

You watch as her fingers graze his forearm in a way that is entirely unnecessary.

He doesn’t seem to notice, too preoccupied with processing the compliment, his mind already spinning with whatever information he had been about to share. You, on the other hand, notice everything. The deliberate lean-in, the way her voice dips just slightly when she speaks to him, the way her eyes linger.

It’s unprofessional.

That’s what irritates you. Not the fact that her attention is singularly fixed on him, or that he’s being flirted with in the middle of a crime scene. Certainly not that she’s touching him when she doesn’t need to be.

It’s the principle of the matter. This is an active investigation, and Foster should be focused on the case, not Spencer’s academic credentials and whatever else has caught her interest.

Your jaw tightens as you glance toward Hotch, who doesn’t seem to care about the interaction as long as it doesn’t interfere with the briefing. Morgan, beside you, exhales a quiet chuckle under his breath, like he’s picked up on something amusing. You ignore it.

“I assume we have a body to look at?” you say, voice even.

Foster blinks at you, as if only just remembering your presence. You don’t react, don’t shift under her assessing gaze, don’t give her anything to work with. Eventually, she nods.

“Of course,” she says smoothly. “Right this way,”

She turns, and Spencer follows, already mid-sentence about some statistical deviation he had noticed in the case file. And you?

You stay exactly where you are for half a second longer than necessary, exhaling slowly through your nose before following after them.

—

You follow the team through the cordoned-off area, past uniformed officers and the murmuring press lingering at the edges, searching for scraps of information. The crime scene is up ahead—an abandoned warehouse, dimly lit and rank with the scent of stagnant water and decay. It should have your full attention.

But instead, you feel your focus splintering.

Just behind you, Spencer is still speaking, his voice carrying that familiar, eager cadence he gets when discussing something intellectually stimulating. “It’s interesting—well, not interesting in the traditional sense, given the context, but rather statistically significant—that the unsub’s victim selection aligns with a pattern previously seen in—”

“Oh, I love that you talk like that,” Foster’s voice is warm, teasing, admiring. “Most people dumb things down, but you don’t. That’s rare,”

You stiffen.

It’s unprofessional.

That’s what you tell yourself as you watch the way she tilts her head slightly when he speaks, as if absorbing every syllable. As if he’s the most fascinating thing in the room. She leans in a fraction closer—just enough to make it noticeable, just enough to make your stomach twist.

It’s unprofessional, you think again, but the words don’t sit quite right in your mind anymore.

Because the truth is, you shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t be noticing the way Foster looks at him. You shouldn’t be hyper-aware of the way her fingers brush the edge of his sleeve again, so light it could almost be accidental. You shouldn’t be waiting for him to pull back, to shake off the attention like he does when social interaction becomes too much.

Except he doesn’t. He just lets it happen.

And that irritates you.

So you do what you always do when something threatens to knock you off balance—you shut it down.

“Reid.”

Your voice cuts through the air, sharper than you intended. The team stops, turning toward you. Even Foster straightens slightly, blinking at the sudden shift in tone. Spencer glances over, his expression a mixture of mild confusion and concern.

You exhale, tightening your grip on the case file in your hands. “We’re here to solve a murder,” you say, your voice even but firm. “Not to make friends.”

Foster’s eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn’t comment. Morgan, who had been watching the interaction unfold with barely concealed amusement, makes a low sound in his throat—something close to a chuckle. You ignore it.

“I wasn’t aware discussing case patterns was off-limits,” Spencer says, tilting his head. His tone is neutral, but there’s a hint of something else there.

You meet his gaze, keeping your own unreadable. “It’s not,” you say. “Just keep it relevant.”

It’s not a lie. You are focused on the case. You do want to keep things professional. That’s all this is. That’s the only reason your patience is stretched thin.

Except.

Except you can still feel the ghost of Foster’s laugh curling around Spencer’s words. Except your shoulders haven’t relaxed since the moment she touched him. Except your own thoughts are turning against you, pressing in like a vice, asking the question you really don’t want to answer—

If you’re so unaffected, why do you have to convince yourself of it?

—

The investigation continues with the same steady pace, but your attention keeps wandering.

Every time you glance toward Spencer and Foster, you find her leaning in a little too close, her voice a little too sweet as she asks him to clarify some trivial detail. She’s careful—always careful—never quite crossing a line, but the way she speaks to him, the way she looks at him, it grates at you.

The word “unprofessional” loops endlessly in your mind, but each time you tell yourself that, something inside you pushes back.

You’re not jealous. You just want her to focus. This is a case, for God’s sake.

But the more she smiles at him, the more he just stands there, absorbed in the conversation, oblivious to the subtle dance she’s performing, the more that uncomfortable twist in your stomach tightens. Every laugh, every overly familiar gesture, stirs something inside you that you can’t quite name.

You can feel your teeth grinding as they talk, your gaze hardening on the two of them. You’re trying to focus on the case, you’re trying to ignore the nagging irritation building in your chest, but the more they interact, the more annoyed you become.

She’s practically flirting, and Spencer isn’t doing anything about it. Or, if he is noticing, he’s pretending it doesn’t bother him.

But it bothers you. Why does it bother you?

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the evidence bag in your hand, and before you know it, you’re standing too close to them, watching as Foster tries to steer Spencer away from the group to discuss something you know is irrelevant to the case.

It’s not urgent. You know it’s not urgent. But when you hear the soft cadence of her voice inviting Spencer to join her for a “quick chat” away from the others, the words explode out of you.

“Reid.” you say sharply, the sound of his name a snap. The words feel harsh even to your own ears.

Spencer’s head jerks around, blinking at you in surprise. His lips part, but you cut him off again, your voice colder than you intended. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

Foster stops mid-sentence, blinking in confusion at the sudden interruption. Her eyes flick to Spencer, and then back to you. The tension in the air thickens, but you don’t care.

You don’t care.

Except you do. And that makes it worse.

Spencer’s gaze softens as he turns back to you, the furrow in his brow deepening, something akin to concern flashing across his face. It only makes you more frustrated.

“I’m not finished yet,” Spencer protests quietly, but there’s a careful note in his voice, the kind that suggests he’s trying to be diplomatic, to avoid upsetting you.

You blink, realising you’ve taken another step too far. Your heart skips a beat at the softness in his voice, and for just a moment, you feel guilty. He’s just trying to help, trying to be professional. And yet, the only thing you can focus on is her.

You don’t let the guilt linger long. “Then stop getting distracted.” you snap, then force yourself to look away, eyes darting back to the scene as if it somehow holds your attention now. You’re already backing off, leaving the words hanging in the air.

Spencer stares at you for a beat longer than necessary, confusion and concern still flickering in his eyes, but he doesn’t press it. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t question you further. Instead, he shifts back toward the group, muttering something to Morgan about a pattern in the evidence, and you hear the subtle shift in his voice—he’s letting it go.

But you don’t feel relieved.

The knot in your chest tightens again. Why did you say that? Why did you let her get to you?

You tell yourself it’s about professionalism. It’s about the case. You don’t have time for distractions, not when the clock is ticking. And you definitely don’t have time to unravel this feeling that’s spreading through you like an infection.

Spencer doesn’t argue. He doesn’t snap back at you, doesn’t give you the defensive posture that you might expect from anyone else. Instead, he does something that immediately pulls the rug out from under you.

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

For a moment, the world around you blurs, the noise of the crime scene and the murmurs of the team fading into the background. It’s just Spencer’s eyes, filled with something you can’t quite place—concern, maybe, or confusion, maybe a little of both. But it’s soft. Too soft.

Your pulse spikes, and for a split second, it feels like the floor is tipping beneath you. It’s so disarming, the quiet concern in his gaze, and it makes the frustration building inside you flare even higher.

“Are you okay?”

The question is simple, unassuming, and it cracks something inside you. It’s not a challenge, not a reprimand—it’s genuine, and that’s what makes it harder to brush off.

No. You’re not okay.

You’re furious, but you can’t explain why. You’re hurt, but you can’t pinpoint the cause. You’re jealous, and the idea of admitting that to yourself is enough to send your thoughts spiraling. And all the while, Spencer’s standing there, oblivious to the storm building inside you, just waiting for your response.

You can’t look at him anymore.

“I’m fine,” you mutter quickly, not meeting his eyes. You swallow, forcing your chest to loosen, fighting the sudden weight that presses down on your shoulders.

Your words come out stiff, rehearsed, and even to your own ears, they sound like a lie. But you say them anyway. Because it’s easier than admitting the truth.

You don’t wait for him to say anything else. You turn abruptly, your boots echoing on the concrete floor as you walk away, away from Spencer and away from the nagging feeling that he might see through you if you stay.

But you’re not running. You’re not hiding. You’re just… focused.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

As you round the corner, your mind keeps racing, fighting to keep everything in order. You tell yourself you don’t care about the detective’s attention.

You tell yourself it’s unprofessional, it’s inappropriate. And you tell yourself that you’ve seen it all before, that Spencer’s just being Spencer—oblivious to the subtle ways people gravitate toward him.

But none of that feels convincing anymore.

By the time you’ve reached the far side of the warehouse, your hands are trembling slightly. You push them into your pockets, trying to centre yourself. You feel the familiar coldness wrapping around you again, your professional mask sliding back into place like armour. It’s easier this way.

A sharp breath escapes your lips as you lean against the wall, your head pressed back, eyes closed for a moment. Focus.

You force yourself to take another breath. You’re here for the case. That’s all.

But as the minutes pass, the tight knot in your chest refuses to loosen, and all you can think about is the way Spencer’s face looked when he asked you that question. Are you okay?

And, just for a fleeting second, you wonder if he knows more than you think.

—

The rest of the case proceeds, but something has shifted.

There’s an undeniable tension now—both around you and within you. As you walk through the newest crime scene, examining evidence and speaking with witnesses, Spencer doesn’t give you the space you’d expected.

He stays close, hovering just behind you, always near enough that you can feel the warmth of his presence even when you’re too busy to glance at him.

He’s speaking to you more than usual, asking for your input first, even in situations where it’s clear he already has the answers. It’s as if he’s checking in with you constantly, gauging your reaction before making any decisions of his own.

The subtle shift doesn’t go unnoticed by anyone. Foster, who had been so eager to claim his attention earlier, is starting to back off, visibly frustrated by his sudden disinterest in her suggestions. She tries a few more times to pull him away for a “quick chat,” but Spencer doesn’t respond to her advances the way he did before.

Instead, he looks to you.

“Hey, I think we might need a second look at the victim’s phone records,” he says, voice casual but with an edge of expectation, like he already knows you’ll agree. “What do you think?”

You pause, the request startling you slightly. Spencer doesn’t usually ask for your opinion on the more technical aspects of a case, but you don’t have time to process it. The words come automatically.

“Yeah, definitely. It might give us a window into the unsub’s next move.”

Spencer nods in approval, his face softening slightly as he absorbs your response. But there’s something else there, something unspoken—a quiet acknowledgment.

He doesn’t say anything, just continues to stay close as the investigation progresses, as if he’s subtly keeping his distance from Foster without even addressing it.

You’re still frustrated—at him, at the detective, at yourself—but there’s a tiny, almost imperceptible shift in your chest. That small part of you that feels like you’ve been seen. That he noticed.

Every time Foster attempts to direct him away from the group, Spencer brushes her off with a polite but clear, “I’ll be right with you,” his eyes flicking to you before he moves to stand closer. You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you even want to acknowledge it. But it’s there—an undercurrent you can’t ignore.

Your mind still races with frustration. You can’t shake the gnawing feeling that something’s off, and you can’t decide if it’s the case, the detective, or yourself. But every time Spencer looks to you for direction, every time he positions himself just a little too close, your frustration starts to dull, replaced by something else.

He’s noticing you. He’s listening.

When the team breaks for a quick huddle to discuss their next steps, Spencer stands beside you. Not next to Morgan or Hotch, not pulling away to talk to Foster. He’s deliberately close, his shoulder just grazing yours as he flips through his notes.

“You alright?” he asks again, in that soft, concerned tone that makes you almost uncomfortable. It’s like he’s waiting for you to admit something, like he already knows there’s something you’re not saying.

You want to brush him off, to tell him to stop worrying about you, but the question catches you off guard. For a brief moment, the irritation—toward him, toward Foster, toward everything—subsides, and you're left with something unspoken hanging between you two.

"I’m fine," you mutter again, a little more convincingly this time, even though it’s not true. But you can’t find the words to explain it. Not when you’re still trying to convince yourself that none of this should matter.

Spencer doesn’t push. He just nods, the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at his lips before he pulls away to engage with the team, but he keeps an eye on you, always just a little more attentive than usual.

You try to shake off the feeling that this—whatever this is—matters, but it’s hard to deny. The connection between you two is there, unspoken, and for some unknown reason you’re feeling a lot more vulnerable than usual.

And that, more than anything, is what frustrates you the most.

I love this so much

mixup- o.piastri

summary: oscar gets a bit jelly when you and franco get close

pairing: oscar piastri x fem! reader

a/n: for the person on my last post who wanted the photo of mark webber with his grippers out (just put the fries in the bag) here is two!

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When Oscar saw you for the first time, he was slightly stunned into silence. He knew who you were, everyone in McLaren did. You were one of the board member’s daughters, and you knew everyone. You were friends with everyone, you knew every driver on the grid, everyone. Except Oscar. He’d somehow side stepped your friendship despite you knowing every other driver on the F1 grid, F2 grid, and F3 grid. 

Anyway, he was in love with you, and that’s all that mattered. You befriended him in his first year, but you’d only been around sporadically in the 2024 season, and when you were there, all of your time was spent catching up with all the other drivers, and Oscar could only steal so much of your time. That didn’t mean that you two didn’t text though. You and him had months and months of ‘friendly’ texts, and on more than one occasion he’d almost be driven to send the dreaded ‘what are we?’ text, but thankfully, Logan usually stopped him. 

He did not like the way you were talking with Franco and had been for a while. He was touching your arm, you were laughing at something he said, and Oscar couldn’t control the frown on his face. 

“Jesus christ mate, he’s actually going to get hurt if you don’t stop staring daggers at him,” Lando joked. 

“I’m not,” Oscar huffed, getting on with eating his lunch. 

“Have you asked her out yet?” Lando asked, and Oscar just… avoided eye contact. “Come on mate! She’s never going to say yes to you if you don’t actually ask her!”

“Well, she’s also never going to say no, if I don’t ask her,” Oscar pointed out, purposefully waving a piece of salmon much too close for Lando’s comfort. 

Lando pushed his fork back. “She’s not going to say no!”

“Hey Y/n!” Zak called, sitting at the table next to them. 

“Hey Zak,” you smiled. It was an easy, gentle smile, the kind that drove Oscar crazy. 

“Where have you been all day?” he mused, an eyebrow raised as he looked between you and Franco, who was slowly walking abc to Williams. 

“I was with Franco, actually,” you explained. “I told him I’d never been at the circuit before so he gave me a tour of the entire paddock, and of Williams. I met all of his mechanics and all, it was great!”

He chuckled. “So when’s the wedding?”

You scoffed. “It’s not like that, well… it kind of is. We’re apparently going on a date so, we shall see!” you admitted, a nervous smile on your lips. 

Oscar and Lando locked eyes. Oscar’s were full of shock and panic, whereas Lando’s were full of amusement. 

“Y/n!” Lando called, alerting half the canteen. “I thought you were with Oscar?”

Oscar had one thought:

Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop.

But he didn’t. Oscar buried his face in his hands as Lando stood there, digging him a deeper hole. He would’ve rather just lived out his friend-zoned life and still be your friend, but with the way Lando was rambling on, he would be lucky fi there wasn’t a fucking restraining order. 

“And like… all the texts and stuff! I thought you two were hitting it off, they seemed pretty flirty to me! And I’m an expert on that type of thing. And he’s like… in love with you or whatever, and you like him too! Isn’t he pretty! You told me he was pretty once when you were drunk, don’t deny that!”

You stood there with an amused smile on your lips. “I think if Oscar was actually in love with me, he would’ve made a move by now,” you chuckled before walking off, but not before ruffling Oscar’s hair. Oscar was bright red. Bright red. Once you were out of ear-shot, the entire canteen was laughing at the situation. Mark clapped a hand on his back. 

“That went over about as well as a dead horse,” he chuckled. Oscar shook his head, smiling despite himself. 

“I’m fucked,” he sighed. “I fucked it up. She’s going out with Franco.”

Mark shook his head. “Not if you confess now.”

Oscar stared at him, waiting for an explanation. 

Mark rolled his eyes. “The girl is mad about you!” Oscar groaned but Mark shushed him. “Seriously! She adores you. You just need to ask her out! Fuck Franco, he’s a newbie, you’ve been his friend for 2 years now, and Lando isn’t wrong, those texts are flirty!”

Oscar looked at Mark, unimpressed, but then turned to Lando (who had a very big smile on his face, awaiting a ‘thank you’) with a scowl. He got up and brought his lunch with him. “Neither of you are helpful!”

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Somehow, he ended up in your hotel room at the end of the night, his lips on yours. He hadn’t told anyone about this. Whatever it was, he wanted it to be his and yours only. No teasing comments from Lando, no ‘advice’ from Mark. It had started a few months ago, one drunken night that led to too much, but neither of you stopped. Neither of you were drunk the second time it happened, and since then you’d been hooking up every now and then, just to relieve stress. 

“Osc,” you mumbled against his lips. He smiled. You'd been making out for about 40 minutes, and the nights either ended with mind blowing sex (with the girl he was in love with), or a movie and sleeping in your bed. Win-win either way. You straddled him against the headframe, his shirt already off and you in your bra and sleep shorts, he was kind of hoping for the first one.

“Hm?” he muttered, never pulling away. Having his hands on you, your hands on him, it felt good. 

You pulled back with a nervous expression, and he stilled. Had he done something to upset you? Had he gone too far? 

“You weren’t upset today,” you stated. 

He stared at you, slightly confused. “Yes?”

You frowned. “You really don’t actually like me, do you?” you chuckled, but it wasn’t a real chuckle. It was too sad to be your chuckle, and the way you pushed yourself off his lap and held your legs to your chest. 

He panicked. How was he supposed to explain the 2 years of yearning he’d partaken in? “I’m in love with you,” he blurted out, and your eyes widened, so he just buried his face in his hands again. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean-”

You laughed. Your real, gorgeous laugh. “I love you too.”

He ripped his hands away from his face. “But Franco-?”

“I was trying to make you jealous!” you scoffed. He rolled his eyes. 

“Why didn’t you just talk to me?”

“Why didn't you just talk to me?!” you accused, and you both just started laughing at how stupid you both were. 

“Come here,” he told you. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close as he pressed soft kisses to your neck. “I’m really fucking glad you tried to make me jealous today.”

“Did it work?” you giggled.

“Very much so,” he admitted, biting into the side of your neck hard enough to make you let out a squeak, which made you both laugh. 

You turned to him, running a hand through his unruly hair. You pressed your lips to his. 

“I love you,” he confessed (again). You smiled. 

“I love you too.”

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navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

I'm in love with this fic

this is (not) fine [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x personal assistant!reader

personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, oral (f receiving), public (ish) sex?, wall sex (?), okay they fuck in an elevator guys, kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, insecure/self-conscious reader undertones, reader is an overthinker, reader is horny lol, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.1k

A/N: hi, hopefully this will keep you all fed while i work on part five to lessons in lovemaking. finally getting around to some of these requests in my inbox. this one is based off this request, but i changed it up so the reader is a PA instead of an avenger. lmk your thoughts thanx for reading <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You’d never pegged Natasha as the type who enjoyed flowers.

No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.

You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.

You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.

And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to. 

Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.

There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.

He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.

And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.

As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.

You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.

And then there was Bucky.

With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.

Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.

So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.

And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower. 

So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.

—

Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.

Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all. 

“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.

You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day! 

The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.

Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.

You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.

You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.

But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.

It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself. 

You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.

But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”

You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”

He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out. 

“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”

You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged. 

But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.

“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”

He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”

You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”

“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.

“Correct.”

He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.

You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.

“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”

“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”

That felt like a punch to the gut. 

You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands. 

His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”

You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.

“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”

You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?

“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.

“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.

“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.

“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further.  “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”

“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.

—

Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.

Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.

In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.

There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.

You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.

And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.

You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around. 

But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.

You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.

You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.

It was a nightmare. And a daydream.

A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.

So you steeled yourself.

Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.

You nearly made it.

But of course, he noticed.

“Hey, wait—”

His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve. 

He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”

A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.

“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”

The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.

It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.

God, you were pathetic.

Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—

He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.

“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”

“I’m running a bit behind today.”

“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”

He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem off.”

There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.

Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.

Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.

Maybe then he’d be yours.

Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.

“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”

His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”

“I’ll survive.”

Would you, though?

Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?

He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.

“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”

You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”

Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.

You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.

You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”

He paused. You could feel him thinking again.

Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity. 

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.

—

If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.

It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.

You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.

The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...

Of course he did.

Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.

“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.

Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.

“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—

You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.

It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.

This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.

“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.

Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”

“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”

“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”

He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.

Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.

You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Only going to get longer.”

You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.

And then your brain stopped working.

Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.

He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”

“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe? 

“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”

The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”

Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.

“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”

You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”

She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”

You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”

The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”

Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.

“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.

“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”

The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”

You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.

From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.

“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.

The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.

Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush. 

You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.

You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.

“Need a hand?”

You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”

You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”

“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”

You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.

You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.

“Sure,”

A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch. 

The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.

He was savouring it.

His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.

“You’re trembling,” he commented.

You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response. 

When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.

He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck. 

“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.

You leaned in.

Only a fraction. Just enough.

He noticed.

You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.

And then he was gone.

He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.

The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.

You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.

—

Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).

You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.

The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?

No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.

Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.

You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.

Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.

The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—

Then someone slipped through at the last second.

Him.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.

Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.

You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”

“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

Shit.

He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.

“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.

“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”

“Bucky…”

“Please. Just tell me.”

You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”

And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.

“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”

He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.

“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”

Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”

“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”

“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”

His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”

“The bouquet you gave her.”

“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”

You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”

Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”

You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hey—”

“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”

He snorted. “You’re not serious.”

You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”

“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled. 

“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”

His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”

“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”

As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.

You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”

But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.

And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.

The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.

Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”

“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.

“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.

He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”

You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.

And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.

He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.

“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”

Your breath hitched.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”

Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.

“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Bucky…”

“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”

“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”

Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.

It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect. 

“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.

But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.

Right there. In the goddamn elevator.

You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.

Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit. 

You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.

“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”

You whimpered.

And then, he peeled your panties to the side.

The groan that tore from him was obscene.

“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”

And then, his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.

“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”

Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.

His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.

He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”

His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—

Bzzzzt.

A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.

“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”

You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.

Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.

He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.

Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”

Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.

There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.

“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”

You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.

Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.

You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”

Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.

A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.

“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”

The line disconnected.

The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.

Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”

You shattered.

It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.

Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament. 

You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—

“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.

You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.

“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”

Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.

You nearly combusted on the spot.

“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.

You nodded quickly and wordlessly.

He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.

---

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Glasses Reid is elite and Emily in this is fucking iconic

i NEED anything with glasses reid or munch reid i’m literally frothing at the mouth 🙏

ty for ur request :D fem!reader

"Emily," you say weakly. "What is that?" 

Emily looks up from her desk, clearly desperate for a distraction, the lip of her coffee mug against painted lips. "What's what?" 

"That." You point. You feel sick to your stomach. "That right there." 

"Oh," Emily says happily. "You finally noticed. Yeah, Spence forgot to renew his contact prescription. He has to wear glasses for two weeks." 

Spencer stands by the photocopier with a perturbed frown, clicking a button, then another. His brow is furrowed and his hair is falling into his eyes. He has the stupidest, dorkiest, prettiest face, and practically every expression he makes has you weak in the knees.

"That long?" you ask. 

Derek looks up in concern at your pained tone, following the line of your eyes. When he realises what it is that's hurt you so, he skirts around the desk to shake your shoulder. "You could always tell him how you feel. I'm sure he'd keep the lenses forever if he knew you liked them." 

"I don't like them," you say. You sound faraway to your own ears. You hate them. They're gonna be your demise. 

Spencer runs a fingertip across the photocopier's screen, in his own world as the machine finally begins to chug out whatever it is he'd been wanting a duplicate of. The frames of his glasses sit snug on his nose. You can tell from even this distance that the lenses make his eyes look a tiny bit smaller. You could probably point out a misplaced freckle if he asked you to.

"Don't be cruel, he looks cute," Emily teases. 

Spencer collects his papers, shuffling them into a straight line as he makes his way back to the bullpen. You pretend to take interest in Emily's things. She sips her coffee too nonchalantly. Derek doesn't even bother pretending. 

"What?" Spencer asks, swift to spot your suspicious behaviours. "Is it the glasses?" 

You wince. "Of course not. You look… you look really nice, Spence." 

"You know he used to wear 'em every day?" Derek asks.

You would've died. "Before I joined?" 

"For a few years," Spencer says, looking you over. "You're unhappy. Is something wrong?" 

He looks to Derek and Emily for confirmation. Emily stutters for an answer while Derek laughs in the background, "She– you know. She just– She missed breakfast!" 

Spencer pushes his glasses up his nose by the leg and drops his copies onto the desk. "I have dried apricot in my bag. Two seconds." 

He bends over his chair to retrieve his bag from under the desk. Your eyes blow wide at his position, the sudden demonstration of well-fitted pants. Derek's laugh echoes up to the eaves. 

"And he has that twenty four seven," Emily says against the rim of her coffee. 

You scrunch your eyes closed and tilt your head back. After a few seconds, a hand touches your elbow gently, a hesitance that comes with only one member of the BAU. "You okay?" Spencer asks. 

"I'm okay. Headache," you lie. 

Spencer presses the apricot into your hands. "Maybe you should see an optician. You know they can tell if you have a brain tumour from one photo of your sclera?" He smiles morbidly, his glasses slipping down his nose. "They measure the size of your optic disk. It takes less than a minute. I can give you the name of my doctor, if you want. She's nice. Not as nice as you." 

Your throat is so dry you can't form words to answer him. He doesn't judge your rigid nodding. 

"I'll write down the number for you. And, Y/N?" 

"Yeah?" you choke out. 

"You look really nice today, too." 

Emily has to kick you in the leg to bring you back to earth. Stupid Spencer. Stupid lovely glasses. 

Fucking Perfection.

Jackass

Summary : Everyone is horrified that Bucky is flirting with a married woman, but then they realise there's a reason why. 

Pairing : Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x florist!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Secret wife trope. Cursing, Injury. Featuring the Thunderbolts*. Bucky kinda gaslights the entire team. Fluff!!!!

Word count : 3k

Note : The next chapter of spoils of war is almost here, but I just need to go over a couple of paragraphs! In the meantime, enjoy!

The Thunderbolts knew a few undeniable truths about Bucky Barnes.

One: He was grumpy.

Two: He was a private person.

Three: He never, ever let anyone see where he lived.

That last one bothered them the most. They’d pieced together the general area; a quiet neighborhood with old brick buildings, modern cafés, and just enough charm to make it feel… vintage. But no one had ever set foot inside his home, no one had even seen him unlock the door to his sanctuary, since he dodged every casual suggestion to hang out at his place with a variation of “I got plans” or another. And, curiously, every time they stopped for coffee in this part of town, Bucky would mysteriously slip into the tiny flower shop beneath a brick apartment building.

That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.

What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.

With the florist.

With you.

“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside. 

They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.

“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.

Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.

Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”

Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”

“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”

They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.

That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”

As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”

Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”

“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”

Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“She was literally wearing it—”

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.

Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.

Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.

What was the world coming to?

—

Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ. 

Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib. 

She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”

Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.

“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase

Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”

From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”

Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.

Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”

Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”

Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”

Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.

Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”

John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”

“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”

John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”

“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”

Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”

Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”

“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”

His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.

She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.

“You’re lying,” she snapped.

He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”

Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”

Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”

He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.

And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.

—

Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.

And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.

It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets. 

Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.

“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”

“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.

Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”

John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”

Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”

Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”

Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”

Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.

John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.

“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.

“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway. 

It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— ​​It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.

But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.

They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.

It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.

To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.

“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”

Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”

John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”

Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.

And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.

The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.

“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”

Yelena and John froze in their tracks.

James?

James?

No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.

Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”

Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.

Honey?

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”

Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.

You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”

Oh.

Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated

John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”

Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.

John let out a wheeze.

Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”

Bucky nodded. “Yup.”

“Like—actually married?”

“Mhm.”

Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”

Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”

“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.

Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”

“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”

“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”

“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”

Bucky could only nod again.

Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”

You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”

Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.

John looked like he was about to have a stroke. 

“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”

John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.

“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”

Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”

Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.

John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.

But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”

You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.

You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.

Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.

You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.

“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”

John scoffed, “A while?”

You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped.

“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”

John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”

Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."

Bucky only shrugged, unbothered. 

You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”

John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.

Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.

“How did you meet?”

“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”

“Does he ever actually smile?”

At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”

John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”

You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”

And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.

You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges. 

Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.

“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”

John choked.

Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”

Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut. 

For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.

And then, without thinking, you leaned in.

It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.

Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you. 

John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.

You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him. 

“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.

Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.

“Off,” you said simply.

Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.

Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say. 

John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.

You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.

“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.

Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”

And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.

The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.

A ring.

A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.

She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.

That’s why he always played with it.

Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.

Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.

-end.

Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

I love Luke so much 🤍🤍

Luke Alvez x Reader: It's About Time

Prompt: The reader and Luke pretend to be dating so that the rest of the team will stop trying to set Luke up on blind dates.  

Word count: 3k

Warnings: none

You've really done it now, Alvez, Luke thinks to himself.  

Of all the names he could have blurted out, he just had to choose yours. God, the Queen of England would have been better.  

He thought back to the conversation in the bullpen that had started this whole mess.

"I-I can't go out with your friend," Luke stuttered, wishing his coworkers would stop pushing him to go on all these blind dates just because he was single.

"C’mon, Luke-” Tara pressed. “She’s smart and accomplished. I think you two would really hit it off-"

"Because I'm seeing someone," he blurted out spontaneously, mind racing to come up with a name.

Tara and JJ all looked taken aback, then suspicious, their eyes narrowing in unison. Tara raised her brows, "Oh? Who?"

Luke’s mind went blank, his brain nearly sizzling as it worked fast to come up with something. He should have chosen someone random- the girl who always walked her dog by his house, or the one who made his coffees in the morning. Someone the team didn’t know.  Hell, a completely made up girl would’ve been better.  

Suddenly, a warm smile and deep, sparkling eyes flooded his mind, and Luke couldn't stop himself. "Y/N."

JJ’s jaw dropped, a gasp escaping her lips. "Y/N?"

Instantly, Luke’s entire insides flood with regret.  

You worked in the Counter-Terrorism division of the Bureau. Luke first met you in training at the Academy when he joined the FBI. You had become quick allies, before graduating and moving on to your assignments.

There had been a time, in the Academy, when Luke had a thing for you, quickly reigned in by your charm. He admired your work ethic and constant ability to make him laugh.  

But everything changed once you finished the Academy.  You remained in Quantico while Luke traveled with the Fugitive Task Force, gradually losing touch.  

It was only recently, with Luke joining the BAU, that you two were able to reconnect. Now that he was stationed in Quantico full time, you actually saw each other quite frequently. At first, just in passing- a consequence of your offices being so close to one another.  But, as time went on, you started rekindling during work gatherings and even meeting for drinks after hours.  Your friendship with Luke was easy and natural.  You even were introduced to his team- who all took a quick liking to you.   

Sometimes Luke thought you were closer to Penelope, Tara, and JJ than you were to him. He cringed realizing they would never buy it. "Yeah," he confirms anyway.

"Luke," Tara said slowly, "why haven’t we heard anything about this?"

"We... wanted to take things slow,” Luke lied. “It just... sort of happened."

“Well, I mean, it’s about time. I think Pen called this months ago,” JJ said. 

Luke’s face flushed bright red. 

"We have to tell her," Tara agreed. 

“Yeah, Luke, you should bring her to Garcia’s house party this weekend. I’m sure Matt would love to meet her.”

Great. 

Luke slid off the desk he was kneeling on and nodded in confirmation, “Yeah, great idea,” he lied again. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans; positive this whole thing was going to bite him in the ass.

...

The next morning, Luke arrived at the Bureau early. He needed to talk to you before anyone else could.  

He had a hunch that he might be murdered today.

You were heading for the elevators when it happened. You had your head down and were 20 minutes early to work, per usual. Normally, you didn’t encounter anyone on your way inside of Quantico. But you let out a startled squeal when suddenly, someone threw their arm between the closing metal doors, forcing them to reopen. Breathless from the scare, you quickly turn to realize it was Luke. You let out a sigh of relief before playfully shoving his shoulder. 

“God, you scared me,” you said. 

But Luke didn't laugh. Instead he tugged on his shirt uncomfortably, an awkward smile on his face. 

“What’s the matter with you?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at him. 

“So, uh-” how the hell was Luke supposed to casually bring this up?  “It’s a funny story really..”

“Spit it out, Alvez,” you said, you immediately could tell something was up.  Luke was never this fidgety. 

He bit his lip harshly. “The entire BAU may or may not think we’re dating-” he spit out quickly. “That’s not true-” he corrected.  “The entire BAU definitely thinks we’re dating.”

You gawked at Luke, not entirely processing what he had just told you. “What?” Your cheeks were growing hot with embarrassment. “Why?”

Luke offered a brief, cheeky smile, one that was layered with guilt. "See, now that's a funny story-"

"Spit it out, Alvez."

“-Because I told them we were.”

Without even thinking you turned and pressed the stop button on the elevator, locking the two of you into place. This conversation was going to take a lot longer than the minute it took to bring you to the fourth floor. 

“You what?” You gasped.    

“Like I said- it’s really, kind of a funny story-” 

But you cut him off. "You have ten seconds to explain before I strangle you to death in this elevator.”

Luke’s eyes widened with shock, even though that was exactly the reaction he expected.  

“Talk. Now.” You demanded, cornering him.  

"Tara was trying to set me up with one of her friends- and to get out of it I told her I was already seeing someone. When she asked who, I panicked and said you."

Your nostrils flared and Luke thought he could almost hear your teeth grinding. "Why wouldn’t you just say no to the date?" You asked. “Instead of lying?”

“Because it never stops- every gathering, every party, they’re trying to set me up.  It’s like I scream lonely or something.”

Your mouth tightened but you stayed quiet.

“I needed something that would shut them up for good.  Or at least a little while.”

"And so you said you were dating me..." 

Luke sighed. “I know it was stupid. But I’m tired of going on meaningless dates that never turn out good. I just needed a break... I mean, it's exhausting, really- and never ending. But I get it- I mean, I get it's not fair to you. But I panicked- and just reacted." God, he was blabbing. "But I’ll tell them it was a lie, I’ll go on the date-”

You crossed your arms. "You done?"

Luke nodded. You waited a moment, mulling the whole thing over in your head.

It shouldn’t be that big of a deal, right? Except, it was. Because back at the Academy, when you and Luke first became friends, you had developed a small, barely-there, tiny crush on Luke. However, now that he was stationed in Quantico and you two were seeing each other more often, your crush had only grown into a full fledged, real-life feelings.  

But the thought of Luke going on another blind date made you cringe, so without giving yourself a chance to do the responsible thing here, you blurted out a quick, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Luke said in disbelief. 

“What would I have to do?”

“Uh-” Luke stammers, like he’s still in shock. “Garcia’s party-  You could come to Garcia’s party with me.”

"Garcia’s party then," you declared. "We pretend to be together for the party."

Luke’s eyes met yours and he gave you a convincing smile. “Are you sure?”

You shrugged before pushing the button to start the elevator back up again. “Yeah, what the hell?”

…

You pulled into the driveway of Garcia’s home and both of you sat in the car, tensed.

“I’m sorry again about this. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this mess. I owe you one. I just… didn’t want to do the blind date thing and you’re the only person I’d feel comfortable doing this with and-“ 

You cut Luke off and slid your calm hand over his shaking one. You hope the small admission was lost somewhere in Luke’s rushed, jumbled apology.

“Luke, it’s fine. I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t want to say yes.” You squeezed Luke’s hand, gently demanding for him to look up and into your eyes.

Luke obliged.

“I’m happy to be here with you. There’s no one else in the world that I’d rather be in a fake relationship with.”

Luke thought that, ‘or a real relationship’ was hanging somewhere in the air between them. But neither of you had the courage to admit it.

You squeezed Luke’s hand again before hopping out of the passenger’s side, going to the backseat to collect the bottle of wine you’d brought.  

To say Garcia was excited to see the two of you holding hands on her doorstep was an understatement. 

“Oh my gosh,” she said, looking shocked. “Oh my gosh. You guys are so beautiful together. I always had a feeling about this. Made for each other, you two. I called this.” 

“Hi Penelope,” you said through a smile.

She waved you in excitedly, and you and Luke exchanged glances before following her into the house.

Luke carried the bags in and you carried the wine. Luke couldn’t help but think that this is probably how it would go if you two were really dating. Luke doing all the heavy lifting of the bags, and you letting your friends whisk you into the kitchen to chatter about something.

Luke shook the thought out of his head.  

...

“So tell me about how you guys got together,” JJ asked later in the night.  

Penelope’s eyes widened and she hurried to set down her glass before flailing her arms. “Oh, oh, oh!” she bounced excitedly. “I want to know too!” 

Everyone in the room’s attention turned to you. You opened your mouth to speak, but hesitated. 

While you floundered in your explanation. Luke wished he could go to you, wrap an arm around your waist, steady you and remind you that it was okay.

Luke was midway through the thought when he realized that oh… he could actually do that right now.

He crossed the room in a hurry before wrapping a steadying arm around your waist. He pulled you into his side, smiling at you as he felt you lean into his body, one of your arms snaking behind him to grip his hip. 

Luke could get used to this. 

But he won’t be getting used to this. Because this is just for the party and then you and him will go back to being just friends. 

“It uh-” Luke fumbled with his words, too distracted by the way your fingertips felt against the flesh of his hip. 

But you swooped in to save him, jumping into your story quickly. “It happened after work a little while ago. We were riding down in the elevator together and he finally just asked me out.” Luke squeezed your arm, as your voice trailed off. You looked up at him, smiling. “It was an easy yes from me, I’d been waiting for him to do that for a while- pretty much since the day we met.” You let the moment carry you through the story, let your real, raw feelings show, for once. And you hoped that Luke was listening to every word. You hoped it registered to Luke that not all of this was for show.

It took a small whimper of a sob that came from Garcia's mouth to snap the two of you from your trance. 

“Oh, you guys. I’m so happy for you both. This is wonderful. From the way Luke’s always talked about you, I figured that he was just in his own head again… he’s been head over heels for you for quite some time –“

“Oh wow, Garcia,” Luke choked on his words, his eyes wide. “That reminds me, we brought your favorite wine! Let’s get that opened, yeah?” His skin was the same shade as the Pinot Noir he was currently reaching for.

Garcia smiled and nodded, clapping her hands together before shuffling off to grab three wine glasses from the cupboard. But you were looking up at him with a blinding grin.

Just for show, Luke thought. Just for show.

Penelope returned with a handful of glasses, which she filled with a generous serving of wine and held hers up like she was about to give a toast. Luke groaned. He hadn’t anticipated how much his team would dote over his fake relationship. 

“To you, Y/N. For making my Luke the happiest I’ve ever seen him, and for so many years to come.”

You all clinked your glasses and sipped (in Luke’s case, chugged) before Garcia led them into the living room.

Luke found himself sitting on the couch listening to Rossi tell stories about his early days with the BAU.  Somewhere during the story your fingers laced together.

Luke wasn't sure when it happened or who initiated it.

But he certainly wasn’t complaining.

…

“God, how he drooled over you. I swear, his jaw dropped to the floor anytime you entered a room.”

Luke was going to kill Rossi. 

You, on the other hand, were laughing hysterically on the couch next to him. Luke was far past the mortification of it all at this point. His team had graciously taken it upon themselves to test if he could actually die of embarrassment. He assumed they’re about halfway there.

Somewhere between the stories of Luke’s desperate pining over you and your fond smiles, Luke had refilled his glass of wine.

He wished he had something stronger, because wine wasn’t exactly cutting it for him in this mess of a conversation.

You, however, looked happy.

Your second glass of wine had caused your cheeks to gently flush, while your full grin was on display. 

“Time for cards!” Garcia announced as she waved everyone into the kitchen. 

Before standing up, you leaned into Luke’s side. “You okay?" 

Your voice was soft. Luke pressed closer to you without thinking about it.

“Yeah. I-I’m fine, just… don’t listen to them, okay? JJ and Rossi are trying to wind me up, and Garcia’s just happy that I’m with someone. I promise I’m not some… some like.. I didn’t… what they said-" 

There was no way to explain what the team had said that wouldn’t result in Luke lying to you. All of those stories were true, they just sounded more pathetic when they were told all together like that.

You shook your head and grinned.

“It’s okay. Besides, if we were actually dating, I think I would be a little angry at you right now for not making a move sooner.” You winked before standing up, holding your hand out for Luke to take. 

Luke pushed himself up from the couch and linked his fingers with yours again, grabbing his glass of wine because he would probably need that to get through this night alive.

…

“She’s good for you, Luke. I’m glad that you finally mustered up the courage to ask her out.” Rossi clapped Luke on the back as he and you gathered up your things at the end of the evening.

All Luke could do was nod and smile in return.  

You, on the other hand, were in the middle of a shockingly long hug from Garcia, who was making you promise that you’d visit soon. 

Luke bites his lip, wondering if maybe this whole thing had gone too far. How was he supposed to keep up this facade when he showed up at work the next day and everyone asked about you? 

He was still thinking about it when the two of you got into the car.  

You exhaled a breath of relief as soon as you sat down. When you look over, Luke’s staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched. 

“What’s wrong?” you asked. 

Luke shook his head, chuckling uncomfortably. He stared down at his lap for a moment. 

You shifted in your seat, angling your body so that you were facing him. 

“Tell me,” you urge, your voice softening. 

Luke met your gaze, his lips turned into a small smile. “I’m just thinking about what I’m going to tell the team tomorrow.”

Your confused face urges him to continue. 

“I don’t know, I mean they love you- I think more than they love me. They’re gonna be asking about you all the time.  Do we fake a breakup now?”

Without thinking, you reached out to cup Luke’s cheek before leaning in and kissing him, softly and gently. 

You didn’t want to pull your lips away, and suddenly, Luke was kissing you back.  Only when you were desperate for air did you pull away.  

“Were they looking?” Luke asked quietly, still keeping his soft brown eyes locked on you. 

Narrowing your eyebrows, you shake your head. “No,” you tell him.  “No, they weren’t looking.”

Luke’s mouth formed into an ‘O’ shape, his jaw dropping slowly. 

“Luke-” you said slowly, hoping that you weren’t painfully misjudging the situation. “I think we both know that tonight wasn’t fake. Tell me if I’m wrong.”

You both looked at each other in fond silence before Luke nodded slowly, too shocked to speak. 

“Am I wrong?” you asked, your confidence fading quickly. 

Luke shook his head, “No,” he blurted out. “No, you aren’t wrong.”

With a grin you just couldn’t wipe off of your face, you nodded again.  “Good,” you whispered.  

Luke licked his lips, only now realizing how dry they were. “So maybe we don’t have to have a fake break up?” His sentence finished as a question. 

“Luke Alvez,” you said, scooting even closer towards him.  “Are you finally asking me out?”

Luke nodded while simultaneously closing the gap between the two of you, pressing your lips together in a sweet kiss.  You were both smiling into each other’s touch.  

When you finally break apart, your face was flushed and you were out of breath. You smiled, little tears gathering in your eyes that Luke swiped away gently with the pad of his thumb. 

“It’s about time,” you told him smugly.