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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

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."

I love Bucky 🥰

The Soldier and His Mission

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 1K

Summary: When a trigger sends Bucky back into the grip of the Winter Soldier, he shadows you with an unyielding protectiveness that leaves the team on edge, though he doesn't harm anyone. After days of tension and careful steps, Bucky finally breaks through the icy barrier, returning to himself in a quiet, tender moment, finding solace in your presence.

You should’ve known something was wrong the moment Bucky went still.

One second, the mission was wrapping up—just another Hydra facility wiped off the map, just another set of goons taken down. The next, something triggered him. A phrase muttered in Russian over a radio, the faintest crackle of a long-dead handler’s voice. You saw the shift in his posture before he even turned around, the telltale tightening of his jaw, the blankness overtaking those usually warm blue eyes.

Bucky Barnes was gone.

The Winter Soldier stood in his place.

And yet—he didn’t hurt you.

Not when he turned to face the team, his body language bristling with danger. Not when Steve hesitated before stepping forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. And certainly not when you cautiously called his name, your voice softer than the others.

Instead, the Soldier moved between you and everyone else.

A shield.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Back at the Tower, you thought the episode would pass. That maybe, after a few hours, after enough familiar sights and sounds, Bucky would shake it off like he always did.

But the Soldier wasn’t leaving. And he had decided you were his mission.

Not to eliminate.

To protect.

At first, it was just hovering. You moved—he followed. You sat—he stood at your back, ever watchful. The others gave him space, exchanging worried glances when they thought you weren’t looking. Steve was tense, obviously trying to figure out how to break through, while Tony was less patient about it.

“This is a problem,” Stark declared after the first few hours, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. “I mean, I hate to be the one to say it, but we have a fully armed, brainwashed assassin in the Tower again, and we all know how that went last time.”

“He’s not attacking anyone,” Natasha pointed out.

“Yet,” Tony shot back.

You ignored the argument as best you could, focusing instead on cooking something for Bucky—something normal, something familiar, something that might ground him. His eyes tracked you the entire time.

Then you miscalculated the heat on the stove.

The oil in the pan hissed and spat, and a second later, you hissed too as a sharp sting bloomed across your palm. You barely had time to react before there was a sudden blur of motion.

Bucky was on you instantly.

His flesh hand gripped your wrist, his metal one hovering protectively over the stove, as if it had personally attacked you. His face was unreadable, but his grip was firm, his hold gentle as he examined the burn.

“I’m okay,” you assured him, but he wasn’t listening.

Instead, he took the cold pack you hadn’t even reached for yet and pressed it carefully to your palm, his jaw tight, his brows furrowed in focus. You exchanged a look with Steve over Bucky’s shoulder, and the Captain exhaled, something like relief flashing in his eyes.

He was still in there.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Soldier continued shadowing you for the next two days, much to Tony’s frustration. But as Natasha had pointed out—he wasn’t hurting anyone.

Unless they posed a threat to you.

That was something Steve learned firsthand during a sparring session. You had barely landed a hit before Bucky, watching from the sidelines, had moved. The next thing you knew, Steve was on his ass, blinking up at the ceiling, while Bucky stood between you like a human wall, eyes cold and calculating.

“For the record,” Steve grunted as he sat up, rubbing his ribs, “I was letting her win.”

Bucky wasn’t convinced.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It wasn’t until you needed a medical checkup that things really came to a head.

“Barnes, I have to actually examine her,” Dr. Cho said patiently, eyeing where Bucky stood between you and the med bay’s equipment.

“No,” he replied flatly.

“Bucky—” you tried.

“The room is secure.”

“That’s not the—”

“She does not require assistance.”

“I do require assistance,” you corrected. “Because I burned my hand and twisted my shoulder thanks to a certain super soldier overreacting in the gym.”

Bucky didn’t move.

You exhaled slowly.

“Okay,” you said, shifting tactics. “Then stay.”

That got his attention.

“If you want to make sure nothing happens to me,” you reasoned, “then you can stay here. But you have to let the doctor check me out.”

His expression was unreadable for a long moment. Then, after what felt like an eternity—

“…Understood.”

Progress.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

When it finally broke, it wasn’t dramatic.

There was no grand trigger, no huge revelation.

Just a moment of quiet.

You had fallen asleep on the couch, exhaustion finally winning after two days of Bucky’s overprotective hovering. When you woke up, it was to warm hands gently brushing over your wrist—both flesh and metal, but softer this time, as if relearning the feeling of touching you.

And then you heard it—his breath hitching.

A tiny, barely-there sound, but one filled with something raw.

You blinked sleepily, looking up.

Bucky was staring at you. Not the Soldier. Bucky.

His face was pale, his jaw tight, his eyes wide—his real eyes.

“…Doll?” His voice cracked over the word, like it had been caught in his throat.

You smiled sleepily, shifting so your fingers curled around his. “Hey, Buck.”

His exhale was shaky. His shoulders sagged. And when you tugged him down to you, he didn’t resist.

He just buried his face in your neck and held on.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“You scared the hell out of me, you know,” you murmured later, your fingers absentmindedly running through his hair as he rested against you.

“I know,” he admitted, voice rough.

“You threw Steve like a ragdoll.”

“…Yeah.”

“…Kind of hot, not gonna lie.”

A laugh. Quiet, but real.

And just like that, Bucky Barnes was back.

I love him so much, this is so adorable 😭

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGeTkmpNy/ SPENCER MF REID 🙏🙏 can I pretty please request a one shot based on that video ITS SO CUTE

dewey decimal system | S.R.

in which spencer does the most spencer activity first thing in the morning - reorganizing your bookshelves

(tiktok link)

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: i'm fairly certain there aren't any word count: 619 a/n: the beauty of this being my account is that, even though my requests are closed, i was able to exercise free will and write it anyway. because reorganizing your bookshelves unprompted is so something spencer would do.

The other side of the bed was cold when you woke up. Your desire to roll over into Spencer’s arms before getting ready for the day squashed by his absence. Aimlessly patting your bedside table for your phone, you checked your notifications.

You hadn’t received a text, there was no note left on his pillow.

Sitting up in bed, you frowned before climbing out of bed. Cringing at the cold laminate under your feet, you hugged your arms around yourself and mourned the feeling of your comforter over your skin.

To your surprise, Spencer was wide awake, standing in front of your bookshelf like he was an opponent ready to strike. Padding across the living room, you approached him from behind and wrapped your arms around his waist, depending heavily on his body heat to give you the courage not to run back to bed.

“Good morning love,” he murmured, voice gruff from lack of use. With a morning slowness, he skimmed his palms along your arms, swaying gently to the soft sounds of dawn. “Are you alright?” He asked you when you didn’t respond, too caught up in the feeling of him to speak.

Pressing your cheek to the fabric of his plain white t-shirt, you sighed, closing your eyes and breathing in the scent of him, the scent of your laundry detergent on his clothes.

“What’s wrong, angel?” He whispered, softly squeezing your arms before turning himself around while trapped in your arms.

You didn’t let up, forcing him to twist himself within the circumference of your limbs just to see your face. The maneuver was so notably ungraceful that you couldn’t hold back your smile, “Nothing’s wrong,” you mumbled, now pressing your cheek to his chest while he tenderly cupped your head. “What are you doing up?”

Spencer dropped a kiss to the crown of your head, keeping his arms casually slung around you while he nodded at your bookshelves, “I was reorganizing your bookshelves.”

Furrowing your brows, you looked at your previously unruly shelves. They had now been adroitly redone, no longer having books stacked horizontally and being put off for another day, “What do you mean you were reorganizing my bookshelves?”

“Well, initially I had planned on using the Dewey decimal system, which is how my books are organized at home, but you had such an uneven ratio of each category that I ended up doing it alphabetically,” he explained to you, lazily using a hand to gesture to your collection.

Catching a glimpse of the titles, you asked, “By title?”

He shook his head, “Author’s last name,” he responded as if it should’ve been obvious to you. Spencer’s arms tightened around you as he craned his head to nestle his face in the crook of your neck, “Did you sleep well?”

You hummed contentedly at the proximity you had to him, “Right up until I woke up and you weren’t there.”

“I was reorganizing your books,” he emphasized, reminding you what he had spent his morning doing.

Nodding, you shut your eyes, savoring the feeling of his fingers as they now skated their way along your spine, “It looks nice, Spence.”

“Did you want to read a book together?” He asked you, continuing his ministrations on your back.

Pulling away slightly, you rested your palms on his shoulders as you looked up at him, “What?”

He jutted his chin in the direction of your shelves, “There are some books that I shelved, I think we could have a good time reading one together.”

You raised your eyebrows, “You’ll finish way before me though,” you hinted at his reading speed.

“Then I can read aloud to you,” he offered, beaming down at you.

𓊆 . ໋ 𝜗ৎ DEREK MORGAN & FOX! READER ˚ ୭ . ⊹ ۫

au work content, female! readers race not specified, dark content ( BAU content ), some nsfw content.

DEREK MORGAN & FOX! READER who had only been together for a couple months before his colleagues were sniffing at his clothes and giving each other knowing looks. of course, the looks don’t go missed by derek himself but he simply chooses to ignore them and let your smell cling to his shirt for the next couple weeks.

DEREK MORGAN who fully intended on keeping you to himself for a while—not out of shame, never that—he’s just not quite ready to give up the privacy of having his little secret yet. he intended on leaving it at small teasing and “needing to meet the misses soon.” a couple of grins, some smooth diversions—that had been enough. until one day, on the plane.

their places were already assigned by hotch, and there had been maybe two seconds of silence before emily broke it. “m’ just gonna ask what everyone’s been wondering—who’s the vampire?” emily teases, pointing at derek’s neck, her eyes bright with mischief. derek’s brow furrows until he mirrors her motion, his fingers brushing over the faint mark on his neck. then he remembers you—the way you’d smiled at him that morning, kissed him soft and sleepy before leaving him with a playful nip—and his mouth stretches into a wide, satisfied grin.

everyone is watching now, waiting. “none of your business. focus on the case,” derek says, his voice low and pointed. they all groan in unison. “ohh,” emily sings, eyes wide with mock scandal. “okay, mr. hit-it-and-quit-it.”

derek’s head snaps toward her, offended. “for the record, i am not hitting and quitting.” he points a finger at her. “It’s more of a hitting it and keeping it.” he gestures to spencer. “tell ’em, spence.” spencer immediately stiffens, wide-eyed. he looks at emily, caught. she’d had been interrogating him about for months. “i— i just found out like two days ago!”

emily’s mouth drops open. “so you did know!” she laughs, tossing a napkin at him. spencer looks down at it like it’s betrayed him. “wait, so you’ve seen her?” jj asks, shifting forward in her seat, suddenly a little too invested. derek’s eyes narrow. “hey—”

“you’re always worrying about who we’re interested in,” jj shrugs, shifting the file in her hand. “she’s got a point,” rossi chimes in with a shrug. “hey!” derek’s tone is all faux-offense, but his grin is sharp. “alright, alright, let’s stop harassing morgan and focus,” hotch’s voice cuts through the playful noise, his tone completely contrasting his slight grin.

“thank you,” derek sighs, settling deeper into his seat. but the low sound of soft laughs and teasing smiles linger.

DEREK MORGAN who is more than a little selfish about you even though he has no real reason to be. maybe because you have nothing to do with the BAU—and he likes it that way—or even though you don’t, you’re always keeping him on his toes and very much entertained. you make him work for it without even realizing you are, and derek? he wouldn’t have it any other way.

FOX! READER who always gives derek the illusion of control. he’s used to chasing—thrives off it—and the fact that you don’t even seem to notice you’re being chased just makes him want you more. you’re the sweetest to everyone on the team—always polite, always warm—but with derek, you’re different. you give him a hard time, whether on purpose or not, and derek loving this is an understatement—he adores it. he lives for the playful push-pull, the teasing edge you give him. and when he needs it—when the weight of the day is sitting too heavy on his shoulders—you don’t hesitate to be soft for him. no teasing, no resistance. just quiet warmth and your touch, grounding him instantly.

FOX! READER walks with grace in every step, always in loafers or thick-heeled shoes that click against the floor with quiet confidence. derek’s eyes track you every time. he adores your legs—always finding an excuse to slide his hand along your thigh, or press his mouth to the back of your knee when you’re curled up together. he’s obsessed with the necklace you always wear—the delicate chain resting just above the neckline of whatever low-cut shirt you’ve chosen—and he’ll trace his thumb over it absently as he kisses your throat, lazy and lingering. you’re quietly confident, showing it in the way you move and the way you speak—not cocky, just assured.

FOX! READER who lets derek carry all the jealousy on his own because you almost have none. you know where his loyalty stands and you’re sure no one’s taking derek from you. sure, you might give a hard glance to someone who’s getting a little too close, but you don’t need to say anything. derek handles it.

“thought she was gonna kiss you if you moved over an inch,” you say, amused as you lean back in your seat, eyes sharp. derek’s mouth twitches. comically, he shifts a little closer, arm resting along the back of your chair. “do I get a kiss?” you raise an eyebrow, lazy smile playing on your face. “sure you don’t want to try her first?” derek’s eyes darken, his hand sliding to your thigh. “i’m damn sure.” and of course, you give him that kiss.

work goes here . . will be filled soon!

asks are open for these two! read guidelines before submitting or i’ll just delete you’re ask lol.

🤍🤍🤍

I love this sooo much

in infinite universes

in which spencer reid picks up uni!reader from a party. you're drunk, and he's in love with you

fluff:) warnings/tags: established relationship, fem!reader, university!reader x professor!spencer but you're not his student, unspecified age gap, um statistic about deaths from drunk driving, spencer is a nerd a/n: this is accidentally so romantic I'm gonna puke

The night is chilly—a still, dry type of cold that comes before snowfall. It’s quiet, like the world is preparing for that heavy blanket of white. Even the pounding bass from the frat house doesn’t make it very far before falling flat at the end of the yard. By the time Spencer gets you to his car down the block, it’s a thready pulse. 

“Thanks for walking me,” you say, giving him a saccharine smile as he opens the passenger door for you. His scoff is a thick white cloud, crystallizing against cold, shining skin, slightly pinkened from the temperature. Spencer is glowing like a star tonight. You don’t know if it’s the blurriness from the alcohol in your system smudging the edges of him, or if it’s just that incandescent halo that always seems to follow him around.

“You know I wasn’t going to let you walk down frat row by yourself at one in the morning.”

You pout and look up at him, leaning close. 

“So you don’t want me to say thank you?” 

Spencer’s mouth is curved in absent-minded affection as he takes advantage of the opportunity to study you up close with darting eyes, entertaining your girlish flirtation, and you in turn get to admire the starlit flush of his cheeks, the way his hair falls around his face and thick eyelashes frame irises that could melt ice. You’re not entirely conscious of the huge grin that cracks open your face, but you suspect its presence when his own lips part, still smiling, like he’s maybe going to say something sweet. Or teasing. 

“You’re drunk.”

At this absolute and unarguable truth, you frown. He’s grinning now as he adjusts the thick scarf around your neck, shielding your ears and neck further from the chill that the open car door can’t block. 

“No I’m not.”

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and before you can process it he’s leaning down, so of course your eyes are going to flutter shut and of course you’re going to kiss him back. The gentle ferocity of it only has you stumbling in place a little bit, and he steadies you with hands around your waist. It’s over entirely too soon. You blink up at him, your shock and fluster betrayed by the visible huff of air dispelled as soon as he pulls away. He’s smiling even wider now. Vindicated. Eyes sparkling. “Gin? Wow. You are drunk.”

It takes you a moment longer than it usually would to decipher how he figured this out. 

“So you just kissed me to prove your theory right?”

The sparkling satisfaction from his indictment softens around his eyes. 

“I knew you were drunk when you almost fell down the stairs a minute ago. The kiss was purely selfish.”

“It’s icy,” you defend, and your heart flutters as he comes in for another kiss. It’s soft and still shockingly deep for being on the street, where anyone could see—although everyone smart is inside, and anyone else is too drunk to care that his mouth is open against yours and the heat of it is translating deep in your stomach. You’re dizzy by the time he laughs quietly against you. 

“What college student is pounding gin and tonics at a frat party?”

The thick wool of his coat bunches under your searching fingers. 

“Me,” you whisper. “I was classing up the joint.”

The final kiss he presses to your lips is sweeter and half smile. “Drunk.”

The murmured accusation shouldn’t make you feel so giddy. Maybe it’s all the gin. 

“Not.”

Another little chuckle warms the tip of your nose and your lips as he breathes it out.

“So you’re good to drive us home?”

You itch to kiss him again, but instead, you respond, “One person dies every thirty nine minutes in America from drunk driving.”

“Good job. You passed.”

The praise is accompanied by a thumb rubbing at your hip through denim. He probably thought you weren’t listening when he’d spouted that particular statistic a few hours ago. 

“Do I get a gold star?”

He kisses your head. 

“We’ll see. Get in.”

On the way home, that last shot hits you. You slump down in your seat and hide your face in your hands. 

“Oh, Spencer. I’m… I’m drunk.”

You feel him glancing at you before he sets a concerned hand on your thigh. 

“You okay?”

Morosely you nod. 

“Yeah. I took a shot with this… Delta Phi Epsilon guy, right before you got there. I wasn’t gonna, but he was like, no, you have to! And now I realize that was dumb.”

Spencer’s hand finds the back of your head, stroking your hair. 

“Do you know what I’m going to say about frat boys pressuring you to drink?”

“It wasn’t like that. He was really nice.”

“I’m sure he was,” Spencer says dryly. “Lots of men become really nice when they think they might have something to gain.”

“I thought he was gay!” You laugh, uncovering your face. “Sorry, dad. I won’t drink alcohol or talk to boys anymore.”

Spencer makes a face and you know you’ve successfully traded pounds of flesh. 

“If you call me dad again I’m making you take an abnormal psych class.”

You give him a lazy smile which he only takes his eyes off the road for a few seconds to admire. 

“I’d take abnormal psych if you were my professor.”

That perpetual upturn at the corners of his perfect mouth flickers wider. 

“Wow. Does gin make you sexually frustrated?”

“It makes me lazy. The professor-student thing is really low hanging fruit.”

“Yeah, it is. You know I’ll expect better material from you once you’ve sobered up.”

You sigh and let your head loll to the front again, studying the tunneling road through the windshield. A few flakes slash the headlights. Your mind wanders. You don’t bother reeling it in. 

“I’m really glad I’m not your student. I’d have the worst crush on you.”

Spencer casts you another side-long glance before adjusting the rear-view mirror. 

“You don’t have a crush on me now?”

“Of course I do. But you like me back. If I was your student you’d never look at me like that. I would just have to pine after you and fall in deep unrequited love like all your other female students.”

He hums skeptically. 

“I don’t know what I’d do. I can’t imagine not being in love with you.”

“There are universes where you’re not. There are infinite realities where I am your student and you don’t like me back and you’re dating other girls who aren’t me and you’re saying this exact stuff to them.”

“True. There are also infinite realities where I find you and I fall in love with you.” Spencer reaches over again, taking your hand and settling them, joined, in your lap. “For each trillionth of a billionth of a second of the life I’ve lived thus far, there are infinite universes which exist solely so I can fall in love with you in a new way. Over and over again. There’s not a choice I could make in any timeline, or in any universe, that doesn’t lead an infinite number of me’s to an infinite number of you’s.” 

The engine hums. The tires roll. 

Other than that—it’s dead silent. 

Because how could he ever expect anyone to respond to that?

You slink low in your seat and bring his hand to cradle your face, warm against your cheek. 

“I hate you,” you mumble. Spencer strokes your jaw absentmindedly, not at all concerned by your dramatics. 

“You hate me? I just said I love you.”

“No, you did not. You said th—I don’t even wanna call it romantic. Romantic doesn’t—I don’t even know what that was. You can’t just say things like that, Spencer! You can’t just casually say stuff like that to me, and especially not when I’m drunk, because I’m gonna start crying!” 

The last word pitches up and perfectly illustrates your point as tears begin to roll down your cheeks—still nipped by the cold. 

Spencer quickly pulls the car off to the side of the abandoned road. 

He’s all affection as he twists to face you and take your face in his hands properly, thumbing away tears. 

“What? What’s wrong?” 

“You j-just love me so much,” you sob.

“Yes,” Spencer laughs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I do. I love you so much. I didn’t mean to make you cry, sweetheart.”

“You—you don’t even realize, that you said the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to anyone, and you love me more than anyone’s ever loved anyone, and—and—”

You cut yourself off with another hot wave of tears and a shuddering cry. 

“Oh, my girl,” Spencer coos through an adoring little laugh as he pushes hair out of your face. “You are so drunk, baby. Come here.”

You let him undo your buckle and pull you across the console-less seat (thank you, vintage car) into his arms. For a minute or two you can hardly speak, crying into the warmth of his jacket as he holds you. 

Eventually, you manage to raise your head and pull back enough to look at him. Immediately he’s assessing you with those soft eyes, watching how you wipe away whatever tears didn’t soak into his clothing. Under his watchful gaze, you exhale a sniffing laugh. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

It’s so immediate you’re knocked off balance again. “Well—you were just being nice, and I—”

“I do love you more than anyone has ever loved anyone.”

Usually, you dislike being interrupted. 

In this instance, you’ll let it slide. 

It’s simply too earnest, too honest as his eyes dart between yours like he couldn’t contain it. Like you said it and the thought struck him right in the face—an obvious truth he hadn’t considered before. 

“In infinite universes?” You sniffle. 

“In infinite universes,” he agrees. 

Both of you notice the snow has started to come down outside. Over the course of a few silent minutes, it gets heavier and heavier—a soft hail, sheets of whispering white. 

You’ve never been afraid to break the silence with him. 

But maybe if you weren’t drunk you could keep your questions to yourself. 

“How many snowflakes are we looking at?”

Spencer hesitates, drawn from some kind of hypnosis. 

“Hard to be sure. Heavy snowfall like this could easily put us at six inches within the hour. In that case we’ve watched around point two inches fall. Visibility is probably reduced to about a quarter mile… point two inches across a square quarter mile is a hundred and seventeen thousand five hundred square feet of snow, average density of flakes at this temperature being about three kilograms per cubic foot of snow, and a snowflake weighs maybe… point zero zero zero zero zero two kilograms, so, roughly… very roughly… we’re looking at one hundred and forty two million snowflakes. That’s my best guess.”

You look up at him from where you’d been resting your head on his shoulder. 

“You’re the coolest person ever.”

He blushes. 

Tries to reply. 

Looks back out the window and huffs a nervous laugh, like you’ve flustered him. 

“Lots of people could do that. The math isn’t too complicated. It’s also probably wrong.”

A slow smile blossoms on your face. 

“You’re never wrong. So… what percentage of infinity is a hundred and forty two million?”

“Uh… undefined,” he laughs, looking back down at you. “But… in tangible terms, which is inherently contradictory because infinity is completely intangible, and actually pretty meaningless to mathematicians—more of a philosophical concept than a numerical one… it is a very small fraction. It’s nothing.”

“I don’t want philosophical,” you murmur, reaching up to graze your knuckles along his cheekbone. “I want hard numbers.”

He catches your hand and holds the tips of your fingers to his lips as he thinks, watching hundreds of millions of snowflakes falling from the wide black heavens through narrowed eyes. 

“A googol is written as a one followed by a hundred zeros, and a googolplex is a one followed by a googol of zeros. That’s the largest named number we have. It surpasses the estimated number of atoms in the universe. It’s too large to conceptualize. Mathematicians don’t really have any practical use for numbers above one trillion, but the largest number you’ll find in a dictionary and which might be formally accredited is a centillion, which is a one followed by three hundred and three zeros. It’s bigger than a googol but hardly a fraction of a googolplex. But—okay, we’re setting aside the conceptual numbers. What was your question?”

Your head spins as you laugh. 

Too much gin. Too many IQ points. 

“Infinity divided by, uh… the number of snowflakes I can see right now.”

The engine is still on—heat blows steadily, warming your arm through a coat and sweater, and whatever it can’t reach is warmed by Spencer. 

“Right. Okay. Well—to put it into perspective, with snowflakes, you have around one septillion that fall each year. That’s twenty four zeros, so… a lot. Are you with me?”

“No.”

“Great. So, a hundred and forty two million is basically infinity.”

This earns a clumsy, drunken laugh from you, and he smiles like he’d been hoping for that. 

It’s so warm in the cab of his car. It’s so warm under his gaze. 

Outside, the snow continues to fall. 

For each flake, there is a world where you and Spencer fall in love. And in the grand scheme of things, you’re not looking at very many. 

In infinite universes, you’ll find each other. For eternity. 

You’d be happy with just this one. 

I love him 🤍🤍

summary — spencer goes easy on you in a game of chess

pairings — s1!spence x shybaufem!reader

a/n — part 2 of this also requested so thank u! also when they talk they sound so nerdy so just smile and nod

The gentle hum of the jet engines had become a familiar soundtrack to these impromptu moments with Spencer. This time, the battlefield was a chessboard, the pieces miniature soldiers poised for strategic combat on the small pull-down table.

"Your move," Spencer said softly, his gaze steady across the board.

You considered your options, a nervous flutter in your stomach mixing with a spark of anticipation. He had a remarkable ability to make you feel both challenged and completely at ease, though the former often made your cheeks flush. You moved your knight, a calculated risk, your gaze flicking up to meet his shyly before quickly returning to the board.

Spencer’s eyes flickered over the board, a thoughtful pause before he responded. His move was swift and precise, countering your advance while subtly positioning his own pieces. You couldn’t help but notice that he seemed less intensely focused than usual. Almost indulgent.

"Interesting," you murmured, studying the new configuration. "Are you perhaps taking pity on my distinct lack of chess prowess, Dr. Reid?" The question was soft, laced with a hint of self-deprecation.

A faint smile touched the corners of his lips. "Pity? My analysis indicates that you possess a developing strategic mind. Though perhaps lacking in aggressive tendencies."

"Aggressive?" you echoed quietly, fiddling with the base of your queen. "I prefer a more cautious approach. Less confrontational."

He chuckled softly, a low rumble that made you jump slightly. "A pacifist on the chessboard. A novel approach." His eyes flickered up to meet yours, a hint of amusement in their depths. "Though sometimes, a well-timed offensive can be surprisingly effective."

"Perhaps," you conceded, a small, shy smile gracing your lips. "But I find a well-defended position rather comforting." You moved your rook, a safe, predictable move.

"Comforting, perhaps," Spencer replied, making his next move. "But comfort rarely leads to victory."

"Maybe not victory in the traditional sense," you countered softly, your gaze lingering on his thoughtful expression. "But perhaps a quiet draw has its own merits."

"A draw," Spencer echoed, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "An interesting proposition. Though I confess, I find the pursuit of a decisive outcome rather compelling."

"I can imagine you do," you murmured, your cheeks warming slightly. "You do seem to have a… decisive nature."

"I believe in efficiency," he corrected gently. "And in identifying the optimal solution."

"Even if the optimal solution involves letting me one across the board almost capture your knight?" you teased softly, your gaze finally meeting his with a touch more confidence.

A genuine smile now touched Spencer's lips. "Sometimes," he said, his voice softer than usual, "the optimal solution involves a more nuanced approach."

@sleepysongbirdsings @spencerreid66 @starrii-sturns @khxna @raysmayhem-72

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. 

💋💋💋

the science of kisses ; spencer reid

synopsis: during a make out session, you & spencer explore the concept of erogenous zones.

warnings: established relationship with fem!reader, mentions of kissing & slight sexual suggestive content, spencer being smug af because he’s confident in your relationship, reader matching spencer’s vibe!!!

note: i just had to write this after having a psych lecture about it, so this is hella indulgent but i hope y’all enjoy 💋

minors dni with this post!

“did you like that?”.

nodding your head, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, but it sounded more like a mewl as it escaped your lips.

it was late.

both you & spencer were well aware of the how the time had dipped from the late night to absurdly early morning, but neither of you cared. at least, not when his body was draped over yours like this, lips moving across your neck in languid strokes like a painter.

“feels nice” you said real breathy & cute, causing spencer to press another kiss to the same spot just at the side of your neck below your ear, smiling into your skin when your hands gripped his sides a little tighter.

he couldn’t help but feel giddy at the thought of him being the reason why you were falling into bliss like this.

“do you know why it feels nice there?” he asked in a hushed tone due to the close proximity of his mouth to your ear.

you almost groaned in response because surely spencer knows what effect his words have on you, right?

“because it’s an erogenous zone?” you asked, shutting your eyes when his teeth lightly grazed your pulse point as if he was giving you a reward, feeling his thumb press harder into your hip on top of the mattress.

“good answer” he pulled back to get a good look at you, lips slightly swollen with pride as he looked down at you.

the way your chest rose up & down a little quicker, the hazy gaze in your eyes—you were enjoying every minute of it.

“erogenous zones feel so nice because the stimulation in those areas increase feelings of pleasure” your eyes stayed focused on the way his lips moved as he spoke, how they curled into a knowing smile when he realized your attention was locked in on them.

humming in response, you lifted a hand to cup spencer’s cheek, dipping your thumb to smooth over his bottom lip after a moment, relishing in its softness. “you’re real cute when you talk like that”.

latching a hand to yours, spencer pulled your hand back before pressing a few kisses to the inner part of your wrist, inching his way to your palm & back all innocently.

your jaw went slack as he maintained eye contact.

“everyone has multiple erogenous zones on their body, some are more heightened than others,” he spoke slowly as his lips touched the heel of your palm, noting how tightly you continued to grip his shirt.

that’s another one, he noted in his mind.

“why do you think that’s the case?” spencer pulled your hand away, gently placing it back onto the mattress before leaning closer to your face again, humming when your hand run through his hair, scraping his scalp in just the right way to make him preen.

you smirked with satisfaction.

“because the skin is the body’s largest organ, so it makes sense why there’d be multiple spots with—oh—uhm, heightened sensitivity” you tried keeping your composure as he made his way to the right side of your neck, continuing his kisses across you skin before sucking on a few spots, humming when you finished your sentence.

“i should give you a gold star for that one”.

“you basically already are”.

“you’re right”.

“i kno—shit, spence” you exhaled sharply when his lips sucked just above your right collarbone, aiming to leave a sweet mark as a memory.

you were sure you’d feel the slight bruise in the morning, but you didn’t mind.

not when it felt so good.

“you were saying?” he lifted his head up, ignoring the way you rolled your eyes & how your eyebrows were pinched together in relief.

“shut up” you let a smile slip loose, shoving him away weakly before reeling him back in, letting his nose nudge yours. “you’ve got a mouth on you, reid”.

“so i’ve been told. but i don’t think you mind it much, sweetheart” he said all suave, drifting a hand down to the crevice of your right knee to let him pull your thigh taut to his hip, caging him into your form without any protest.

spencer was turning you on with science, & you were falling for it. but what else were you supposed to do?

“if i say i like it, will you kiss me?” you asked, lips ghosting his own, his eyes trained on the way you bit your lip in anticipation for whatever is to come.

spencer shrugged his shoulders playfully, “i wouldn’t be against that”.

“okay, i like it. kiss me—“ he stole your breath away eagerly, chests pressed against the other as you sucked his top lip between yours, moaning at the feeling of his tongue swiping your mouth like he’s done so many times before, but the feeling never failed to send shivers down your spine.

“baby—“ you breathed, hands gripping his hair like a vice the longer he kissed you back, tummy flipping when his hips pressed firmly into yours in response to the pet name.

“yeah?” spencer licked his lips once he pulled away, pupils blown wide as his heart raced, staring at you like you were the woman only alive.

“show me where your erogenous zones are, please?”.

you’ve never seen his head nod so fast.

I love this so much

Patron Saints of Nightmares

Summary : Bucky needs to go on a mission, so he asks the rest of the team to take care of his girl.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) / Platonic!Thunderbolts x reader

Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers!!!!!!! Established Relationship. TOWER FIC!!! Fluff, angst. Cursing. trauma. Death, nightmares, sleepwalking, hurt/comfort. Sam and Bucky aren’t mad at each other in this one (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 4.1k 

Note : This story is based on my own experiences with sleepwalking. If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

The New Avengers weren't as polished as their predecessors. You weren’t even close to the universal beacon of hope they used to be — you flickered and survived.

This team was a patchwork of second chances and shattered pasts, proof that good people came with scars — that good people might have done things that kept you all up at night. It was a miracle anyone got any sleep at all. 

Least of all you. 

Ever since your first kill, you barely got a full night’s rest.

By the time you joined the team, it had already been years of fragmented rest— twenty-minute naps stolen on ships here, an hour of sleep on dirty cots there. And when sleep did finally drag you under, it was rarely ever peaceful.

Sometimes, the worst part wasn’t even the nightmares. Sometimes it was waking up in the living room, not even in control, your feet bare and your skin clammy from a sleepwalk you didn’t remember beginning.

You’d warned Bucky when you started dating him. 

One night, you sat him down while your fingers nervously pulled at the threads on your sleeve and handed him a list. Not a literal one, but it felt like that—“If I start talking in my sleep, don’t wake me up too fast. If I’m not in bed, check the bathtub or the closet. Don’t try to hold me down if I fight in my sleep. Only wake me if it becomes dangerous. But most of the time, it passes. I promise.” And worst of all, “Don’t be scared of me.”

You’d braced yourself for rejection then, for an excuse or another that said “you’re too much.” But Bucky had only taken your hand in his, metal fingers brushing gently against your palm like he understood in a way that no one else ever had.

One night, after you’d had a particularly brutal episode—screaming in your sleep, flinching from his touch even though he’d tried to soothe you—he didn’t say a word. 

He just pulled you close once you’d woken, let you curl into his chest with your face pressed against his skin.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he whispered into your hair.

That night, you cried into him until your breathing slowed, and for the first time in a long, long while, you stayed asleep.

Over time, you found a kind of peace with him that you’d never had before. It didn’t fix everything— Bucky would be the first to admit— but it eased your nights. You rested better because he made you feel safe. 

On bad days, he’d lie beside you, his arm around your waist, his thumb brushing circles into your side.

And sometimes, when sleep came like a gentle tide instead of a crashing wave, you’d open your eyes in the morning light and find him already awake, watching you protectively. 

“You slept,” he’d say with a proud smile, as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

For a while, things almost felt normal again. Maybe not perfect, but better— until you and Bucky got dragged to be part of the New Avengers. And just like that, for convenience's sake, you both moved in the Watchtower.

It wasn’t awful. There was always someone around, always laughter coming from the common room. But adjusting was hard. 

The bedroom felt too large, the ceilings too high, the Watchtower too big. It was… unfamiliar. Uneasy. Still, with Bucky lying beside you, it was manageable.

But some nights… some nights were worse than others. You’d still find yourself drifting barefoot through the corridors, your eyes glassy, your fingers twitching restlessly. You’d pull open drawers, rearrange cabinets, and unconsciously line pens up in perfect gradients. Once, Bucky found you curled in the closet with a granola bar clutched to your chest. You didn’t remember getting there. You only remembered waking up in his arms, sobbing so hard even though you couldn’t explain why you were upset.

That night, when Yelena peeked out of her room to see what all the commotion was about, Bucky smiled and said, “She’ll be okay, Lena. She just needs some peace and quiet, right, baby?”

You gave a small, hopeful smile. “Y-yeah.”

Because with him there… it really was easier to breathe.

—

The next morning, you asked Bucky to tell the rest of the team of your condition, and he waited until you were in the shower to gather the team in the kitchen. Ava leaned against the counter with her arms crossed, John was already halfway through his second cup of coffee, Bob dropped his book, Alexei was drinking a glass of milk, and Yelena sat on the counter with a knowing look in her eyes.

Bucky didn’t pace or shift or stall. He just said it.

“She sleepwalks, sometimes. Worse when I’m gone. It’s not… always random. It’s tied to stress. Or nightmares.” His voice was gentle. “You might hear her moving around at night, maybe see her organizing weird stuff or… I don’t know, in a closet. Don’t freak out. Don’t wake her up unless she's in danger, Don’t make it a thing.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was understanding.

Yelena gave a small nod and muttered, “I’ve done weirder.” John just said, “Got it, man,” and reached for another coffee pod.

Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He didn’t want pity for you. He didn’t want tiptoes or whispers. He just wanted you to have a little space to exist without explaining yourself.

And when you wandered into the room an hour later, eyes still a little hazy, no one stared. No one asked questions.

They just said “Hey,” like it was any other morning.

And somehow, that made all the difference.

—

Still, no one got involved... yet.

Bucky was the only one who knew how to reach you. The only person who could read your silences like sentences, who knew exactly when to speak, and when to hold you so tightly the pieces couldn’t fall apart again.

So when Sam reached out to Bucky for help with an intel recovery mission in Madripoor, your heart dropped. You didn’t tell him not to go, but Bucky saw the way your hands twisted in the hem of your sweater, the way your mouth stayed open like you were trying to find a reason to make him stay.

He found you in the kitchen the night before he left, staring blankly into a cup of tea you hadn’t touched.

“Sweetheart,” he said, stepping behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. “Look at me.”

Your eyes slowly found his, and he knew. 

“I hate this,” you whispered, the words brittle.

“I know,” he said, cupping your face in his hands. “I’ll be gone for two days. Three, tops. I swear.”

You leaned into him, “I sleep better when you’re here.”

“I know, honey,” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “I hate leaving you. But he needs me just for this one thing. And I promise I wouldn’t go unless I knew you’d be taken care of.”

You looked up at him, “I don’t want to be a burden to the team.”

“You are never a burden,” he said firmly, his voice a low rasp. “Never. And while I’m gone, they’ll keep you safe because they want to, not because they have to.”

Before he left, he gathered the others in the main room.

“Keep an eye on her,” Bucky said quietly. “She’s strong — don’t let her tell you otherwise — but she doesn’t always ask for help.”

They all nodded, some more solemn than others.

“If she does, don’t wake her unless you have to. It can be… disorienting. But if she’s not safe — if she’s near stairs or rooftops or anything like that — then wake her up gently. No yelling. No shaking her. It’ll only make it worse.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow. “What if we throw a blanket on her and pretend she’s a ghost?”

Bucky gave her a pointed look.

She raised her hand in defeat. “Fine. No blankets. Understood.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said, quieter now, looking over each of them. “Just… She means everything to me.”

They nodded again. Even John offered a pat in the back, and Ava gave a flickering smile.

That night, he kissed you once more at the door. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

But time always moved slower without him. And sleep — if it came at all — would bring with it the ghosts you couldn’t outrun.

—

The first night without Bucky was the worst.

You didn’t sleep. Not even for a minute. You paced the compound like a spectre, wearing one of his oversized Henleys and a pair of mismatched socks. The halls were quiet but your mind was unbearably loud.

What if something happened to him? What if this was the one time he didn’t come back?

You were awake in the kitchen at 2 a.m., your fingers trailing along the countertops. You made tea and forgot it on the counter. You folded a blanket you didn’t remember picking up. You stood in front of the window for forty-five minutes, watching shadows move across the landing pad like you were trying to count sheep.

Yelena followed you silently, not intruding. She was nearby, perched on the kitchen island, tossing a grape between her fingers.

She didn’t ask you to sit down. She didn’t ask what you were thinking. She just waited.

“Can’t sleep?” she finally said casually.

You shook your head. “If I try, I’ll just end up with a bad dream.”

“Then don’t try. Come,” she said, patting the spot beside her. “Sit. Eat terrible snacks with me. I stole jerky from John .”

You offered a smile, and for a moment, it felt almost normal — like you were just friends pulling a late night, instead of trauma survivors outrunning your past. 

—

The second night was harder in a different way.

Your body gave in, just barely, around 3 a.m. 

You collapsed on the couch in the common room and curled into yourself. The others left you be — glad to see you resting at all.

But two hours later, you screamed in your sleep.

Bob got there first.

He found you thrashing in, tangled in the blanket like it was strangling you. Tears streamed down your face, and your hands clawed at the air as you whimpered words no one could quite make out.

“No—please—don’t take him—don’t—!”

Bob dropped to his knees beside you. He didn’t try to wake you — remembered Bucky’s warning — but he said your name softly, voice like pattering rain on glass.

“It’s okay. You’re safe,” he whispered, over and over. “You’re not alone.”

Eventually, your screams died into sobs. Still asleep, you curled toward him, burying your face in his shoulders. Bob let you cry against him.

He didn’t know if you’d remember any of it. 

John had stood nearby the whole time, sleepy when he was woken up by the noise. When Bob looked up at him with tired eyes, he invited John to sit next to you both. 

He did, because perhaps he thought he could help keep you both safe.

—

The third night was deceptively calm.

You seemed better. You’d eaten half a piece of toast that morning. You’d even made a small joke at Alexei’s expense, and everyone had taken that as a good sign.

Still, the team took care of you closely.

That night, after the motion sensors in the living room went off because you started sleepwalking, Alexei, Ava, and John took the unofficial nightwatch duty— all of them too alert to sleep anyway. You shuffled into the hallway around 1 a.m., eyes half-lidded. You looked straight through Alexei, who had been sitting on the floor playing chess against himself. 

He didn’t say a word, just stood up and followed you at a distance.

You wandered into the kitchen and opened the same drawer four times in a row. Flipped the light switch on and off, on and off. Then you just… stood there, staring at the fridge.

John found you a little while later, drifting into the laundry room. He didn’t panic. 

“Hey,” he said, blocking the doorway, “this isn’t your bedroom.”

You blinked slowly with foggy eyes, but didn’t respond.

“Come on, let’s go back,” he said, not touching you, just using the calm voice he’d been practicing since Bucky left. 

“Couch sounds better than tile, right?”

You followed him without protest, your feet shuffling over the floor. He guided you gently to the common room and helped you sit on the couch, draping a blanket over your shoulders.

Ava came to relieve him an hour later.

No one told the others to watch you. No one needed to. It had simply become understood — an agreement among people who’d known isolation too well to let anyone else suffer it.

You were never left alone for long.

—

The fourth night, things only got worse.

Bucky's message came in just past midday — the mission was running longer than planned. What was supposed to be three days had stretched to four, maybe more. They were holed up in a safe house, radio silent except for brief check-ins. Your already-bad anxiety only spiked.

So, of course, it manifested in your sleeping habits.

You were beyond exhausted, though. Somewhere between 2 and 4 a.m., your body gave out before your mind could. And that's when the sleepwalking started again. 

Yelena noticed first when the motion sensor on the jet landing pad pinged, lighting up the communicator on her bedside table. Her eyes snapped open in panic. 

One glance at the screen by her bed and—

Oh.

Oh no.

“Blyat,” she cursed, already half out of bed.

The security feed showed you barefoot and draped in one of Bucky’s shirts that hung past your thighs, drifting forward in a dreamy gait.

You were headed straight for the edge of the roof.

“Ava!” Yelena barked into the intercom by her door. “She’s up—she’s on the roof!”

Ava didn’t even answer. She was already phasing halfway through her bedroom door before the words had finished transmitting. 

Her molecules blurred as she sprinted through walls and the glass doors leading to the edge. 

She found you on the rooftop, barely more than a silhouette, the wind tugging at your hair and the cold bit at your bare feet.

You were standing at the edge. Right at the ledge.

The skyline sparkled as your fingers trembled to reach for something invisible in the air in front of you.

“He’s gone,” you mumbled into the wind. “I have to find him…”

Ava didn’t shout your name. She didn’t touch you too fast. She knew better.

She forced herself to become solid again and circled herself around your torso from behind.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

You didn’t react — not really. Your muscles twitched, but you didn’t pull away.

John was next, thundering up the stairs with bare feet and wide eyes, stopping short the moment he saw you on the ledge. 

His instincts wanted him to act, to tackle you into safety, but he didn’t. Not when he saw how still you were. Not when he saw how gently Ava held you. He lifted both hands, palms out, staying back, like he might catch you if anything went wrong.

“Easy…” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. 

Alexei arrived just after. One look at the scene stopped him in his tracks. “Bozhe moi…” he whispered. He took a cautious step forward and dropped to his knees, trying to be less threatening.

“Druga,” he said gently, kneeling just to your side. “You’re dreaming, okay? Just a dream. We’re here. No need to find anyone — you’re already home.”

Bob drifted up moments later. He didn’t say a word. He just hovered nearby.

And then Yelena burst through the door, breath hitching as her eyes scanned the perimeter.

“Is she—?”

“She’s okay,” Bob answered quietly, “We’ve got her.”

Yelena let out a shaky breath and moved closer.

You whimpered softly, your whole body trembling in Ava’s arms. Your hands curled into fists, then relaxed again. Tears slid down your cheeks even as your eyes stayed closed. Even asleep, you were breaking.

You were inching closer to the ledge, your toes just brushing the edge of now.

“I have to find him,” you mumbled again, voice cracking. “He’s not safe. I have to find him.”

Alexei looked at Ava. At Yelena.

“She’s not coming out of it,” Yelena whispered. “She’s too far under.”

“Do it,” John said, tense. “Now. Before she—”

Alexei nodded once, then reached forward, placing one palm on your shoulders. It was him who finally made the call. “Time to wake up now. You’re safe. You’re dreaming.”

Your body stiffened immediately. The moment your nervous system registered something was wrong, your fight-or-flight instincts kicked in.

And they kicked hard.

Coming back into consciousness in panic, you bolted— or tried to.

Ava held you still, even as your eyes snapped open, and you screamed.

“No! No, no, no! Let go of me! Let go—“

“It’s okay, it’s okay—” Ava said, tightening her grip, keeping you away from the ledge.

You thrashed. Alexei backed off, hands up, trying not to crowd you.

Yelena stepped forward and crouched, her voice firmer than the others. “Look at me. You’re here. You’re home. We have you.”

But your body didn’t believe her. Your eyes were darting wildly, trying to make sense of noise and faces, adrenaline pumping so hard it made your vision blur.

John, who managed to grab a blanket, wrapped it over your shoulders while muttering, “It’s okay, you’re okay,” on repeat like a prayer, even though your eyes weren’t processing him yet.

Bob moved in slowly, hoping just being there would help.

Eventually—eventually—your eyes found something familiar.

The logo on the roof. 

The view on the edge. 

The ledge.

Your legs buckled the moment your body remembered gravity.

Ava and Alexei caught you instantly — Ava’s arms looping under your shoulders, Alexei scooping beneath your knees, reminding yourself he was a man who once threw tanks for fun.

“I—I didn’t mean to—” your voice broke, and you curled in on yourself, clutching the sides of Bucky’s shirt like it could protect you from your own confusion. “I don’t remember what I was dreaming. I didn’t mean to come up here. I didn’t mean—”

“We know,” Yelena said firmly. “It’s okay.”

“No one’s mad,” John reassured, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You swallowed, and with a shaky breath, nodded once.

You weren’t fully okay — not even close — but you were with them.

“Let’s get you out of the cold, druga,” Alexei said. 

You didn’t fight the suggestion.

The rooftop door swung behind you as Bob pushed it open. 

All of you managed to walk back in. 

No one said the obvious — how close you’d come to falling.

No one had to.

You reached the common room without question, because none of them wanted to put you back in your room alone. You wouldn’t sleep, and none of them would, either.

They laid you gently down on the oversized couch in the center of the room. You blinked up at the ceiling, eyes still dazed, until Bob appeared beside you with a warm cup of tea. He placed it in your hands.

You didn’t drink it. You just held it, palms wrapped tight around the mug, as if the warmth alone was enough to anchor you.

“I’m sorry,” you said, finally

“You don’t have to be,” Ava replied immediately, sitting beside you on the couches.

John sat on the floor in front of you, back against the coffee table, hands dangling over his knees. “We’ve all had bad nights. This just happened to be one of yours.”

Alexei brought in two more pillows and tossed one over your legs. He tucked the second by Yelena, who tried to wave him off before giving up with a sigh and letting him fuss.

Bob curled into an armchair nearby. “We’ll keep watch,” he said. “We always do.”

And then, something remarkable happened.

The exhaustion hit all of you at once.

One by one, you all stopped pretending you weren’t tired.

Yelena curled up beside you, legs tangled with yours, chin resting on the pillow between you.

John slid down to lie on the carpet, arms crossed over his chest like a soldier who could still sleep with one eye open.

Ava stretched out beside the couch, back against it as she put a hand over yours.

Alexei lowered himself onto the other couch with a dramatic groan, mumbling something about “too old for this” as he tucked a pillow behind his head.

Bob’s head tilted back and his breathing evened out.

And just like that, the common room became a patchwork nest of sleep. And it was some of the best sleep every one of you have had in a while. 

—

An hour, maybe two, slipped by. Then, the elevator dinged.

You stirred, still in a haze, but some part of you registered the familiar sound of heavy boots followed by a duffel bag hitting the floor with a gentle thump, carefully placed rather than dropped.

“Hey, sweetheart,” came Bucky’s voice.

Your eyes blinked open, just enough to catch a glimpse of him standing in the spill of hallway light. His hair was damp, rain clinging to the ends. His jacket bore flecks of concrete dust and char near the seams. 

He looked like a man who hadn’t stopped running home since he left.

“Bucky…” you whispered, the name tangled in a yawn. “Baby… you came back…”

Your words were fragile, barely more than breath, and already fading into the fog of dreams again.

Bucky stepped over John — who was still passed out on the floor, snoring like a freight train — and made his way to you without a sound. He crouched down by the couch and wrapped his hands around yours — the one not held by Ava— and brought it to his lips to kiss your knuckles. 

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice cracking at the seam. “I’m so sorry I left.”

You made a nonsensical sound in response — half a word, maybe a memory. Something about rooftops, tea, jerky, his shirt. Nothing coherent, just the drift of half-dreams spilling from your lips. He knew you wouldn’t remember any of this come morning.

But still, Bucky leaned in and kissed your forehead, letting his lips linger there. For the first time in days, he let himself breathe.

Then he looked up — and finally took the full picture in. 

They were all there. The whole team, scattered in sleep around the living room like an improvised fortress. His girl — you — nestled safely in the center of it, wrapped in the arms of friends who had clearly refused to leave your side.

They looked worn down, but peaceful and content. Like being here, with each other, was exactly where they wanted to be.

So he moved quietly around the tower, opting for a quick shower and change of clothes. Then he walked to the hallway closet and gathered every spare blanket he could find.

One by one, he tucked them in.

He threw a thick crocheted navy blue throw over John, who mumbled something but didn’t wake. A quilt draped gently across Yelena and Ava. One across Alexei’s legs, already half off the couch,

Bob didn’t even stir — just sighed, as Bucky knelt, and carefully tugged a fluffy yellow blanket under his chin. It was like Bob somehow knew Bucky was there.

On the coffee table, Bucky found a scrap of paper and scrawled a quick note, placing it where they would see it in the morning.

Thank you for taking care of my girl. – J.B.B

Then he returned to you.

He stood there for a moment, watching you sleep — curled up in the middle of everyone who had held the line while he was gone. 

He was so in love with you — god help him — because all he could think about after the long mission was taking you back, holding you close, and not sharing you with anyone tonight.

So he picked you up in his arms effortlessly, like you belonged there, like he’d done it a thousand times and could do it a thousand more.

You stirred just a little, your cheek pressing into his chest.

“You’re home…” you murmured again, barely awake.

“I am,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to your temple. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

He carried you back to your shared room, the weight of the world finally lifting from his shoulders.

There, he laid you down and pulled the covers up over you both, sliding in with one arm around your waist, the other across your chest like a shield.

You were finally asleep in his arms, and he wasn’t about to give the world a single piece of you until morning.

-end.

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 @rIphunter

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst @wingstoyourdreams @lori19

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23 @fan4astic

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia 

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125 @buckybarneswife125