#Over Feed For Hi-Tech

[the-insanity-of-mojiru]

Happy Birthday Mattsun! I love his stupid rice loving fish monger face!

[dakusan]

S U R P R I S I N G S K Z O N T O U R — B A C K S T A G E

stray kids ot8 x reader | post-show sweat. backstage chaos. and the person they missed more than sleep.

🌙 synopsis: they’ve been gone for weeks—sweating under stadium lights, screaming into mic stands, hearts beating to the rhythm of a thousand voices. they’ve given everything. every night. to everyone. and then—it’s you. standing in the hallway. soft smile. no warning. no cameras. just you. and suddenly, the lights aren’t the brightest thing in the room anymore. this isn’t just a surprise. it’s home. it’s you.

💌 a/n: welcome to Tender Tuesday™. yes i made sure it's tuesday this time not like last time!!! this was written under the influence of 1 delusional daydream in a dressing room mirror and the mental image of Han Jisung tripping over his own mic pack trying to hug you. p.s. reblog this like you’re the one showing up in their hoodie p.p.s. drink water or bang chan will fly home and force-feed you oranges p.p.p.s. do yourselves a favour and go listen to the song. it’s disgustingly cute. if you somehow haven’t heard it yet—first of all, how dare you. second of all, fix that. also. watch skz react to their own mv for it. it’s unhinged. they are unwell. you will be too. you're welcome ♡

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the dividers

🎧 » Your Eyes — Stray Kids « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:16 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Bang Chan // 방찬

The show ends in a blur of lights, sweat, and deafening screams. Chan’s still catching his breath, chest rising and falling beneath the drenched tank top clinging to his body, mic still clipped to his jaw. The rest of the boys are collapsing into couches or toweling off, high on adrenaline and crowd energy.

Chan’s scanning the staff in the hallway with that ever-present leader instinct—checking on everyone, nodding at sound techs, offering quick praise to dancers. He turns the corner near the dressing rooms.

And stops. Like, full stop.

Because you’re standing there.

In his hoodie. Holding a bottle of water. Smiling like you belong here. Which you do. But he wasn’t expecting you for another week.

“…No way.”

He blinks twice. Looks behind him, like maybe you’re a mirage conjured by exhaustion. Then his whole face shatters into the softest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Wait—no, wait—no way.”

You laugh, arms opening before he even moves.

And then he runs.

No hesitation. No chill. Just full-speed Chan, sweaty, glowing, chest heaving, launching himself into your arms like gravity gave up on him the second you appeared. His arms lock around your waist instantly, head tucked into your neck, and he just holds you.

Tight. So tight it’s like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go.

“You—” his voice cracks, and he laughs into your shoulder, breathless and slightly delirious. “You’re really here.”

You nod, arms around him. “Surprise.”

“Are you kidding?” he whispers, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes wide, glassy. “That was the best surprise of my entire life.”

You brush his hair off his sweaty forehead. “You killed it out there.”

“I missed you out there,” he says, no filter, no hesitation.

And then he kisses you. Hard. Fast. Desperate. Like he doesn’t have time to say everything he feels and this is the only language he has left. When he pulls back, he presses your foreheads together and murmurs, “Don’t leave. Not yet. I need you right here.”

So you stay. In the hallway. Wrapped in each other. As the rest of the world continues spinning—but he’s only looking at you.

Lee Know // 리노

He’s calm. Collected. Leaning against a wall backstage post-show, sipping from a water bottle and nodding along as someone from staff debriefs him on the schedule. Typical Minho—quiet confidence, unreadable eyes, dancer precision. He just performed for 30,000 people and still looks mildly bored.

Until his gaze shifts. And lands on you.

For a second, he doesn’t react at all. Just stares. Like you short-circuited his brain. Eyes flicking from your shoes, to your hoodie (his), to your soft little smile like:

No. No no no. That’s not real. She’s not supposed to be here—

Then—

“…You’re kidding.” His voice is flat, but his ears are bright red.

You open your arms casually, like this isn’t the most romantic ambush of his life. He blinks. Slowly. Then glances at the staff member, mutters a distracted, “Sorry, I gotta go fall apart real quick,” and walks straight into you.

No running. No drama. Just quiet urgency. Hands on your waist. Forehead against your shoulder. Breathing you in like you’re oxygen and he’s been holding his breath the entire tour.

“I hate you,” he mumbles.

You smile into his hair. “No you don’t.”

He squeezes you tighter. “I really do.”

You laugh. “Why?”

“Because you showed up looking like that and now I have to pretend I’m fine when I’m actually thinking about skipping every stop on this tour just to drag you home.”

Your heart stutters. And then, softer—

“…I missed you.”

He doesn’t say it loud. Doesn’t need to. It’s in the way he won’t let go. The way his jaw’s clenched and his fingers are shaking slightly. The way he presses a kiss to your neck like it’s instinct. He pulls back just enough to look at you, and for the first time in a while—he actually smiles. That rare, real one. The one he only gives you.

“You could’ve warned me,” he says.

You shrug. “Wouldn’t have been as fun.”

He rolls his eyes. Then leans in, whispers in your ear, voice low and warm: “…You’re not sleeping alone tonight. Not after this.”

And you know. Under all the chill, the deadpan sarcasm, the perfect stage face—he’s shaken. And he’s so happy you’re here.

Changbin // 창빈

He’s pacing.

Shirt stuck to his back. Sweat dripping from his neck. Still riding the post-show high—wired, panting, glowing. He’s halfway through retelling a moment from the encore to a staff member, hands flailing, voice slightly hoarse—

Then he sees you.

And it’s over.

The world tilts. The noise dies. And his eyes go wide—like someone hit the brakes on his heart.

“…No way. NO WAY—”

He stumbles forward like his feet can’t decide whether to walk or run. His arms are already out. You barely get a breath in before he scoops you up into the most chaotic, all-consuming bear hug of your life. Your feet leave the floor. Your lungs get crushed. He spins you in a full circle before collapsing against a wall with you still in his arms.

“You—” he breathes, “I’m gonna cry. I swear. I’m not joking.”

You laugh into his neck. “Cry, then.”

“I might! I literally—what the hell. You were supposed to be in another country! You lied to me!”

You look up at him, grinning. “Yeah. And I’d do it again.”

He stares at you, eyes shining with disbelief and affection and something deeper that lives in his chest just for you. And then, he kisses your forehead. Slow. Grateful.

“I missed you so much it physically hurt,” he mumbles, voice cracking.

Then, a beat later: “You’re not leaving. You hear me? You’re staying with me ‘til tour’s over. I don’t care what we have to cancel.”

He presses his forehead to yours, and for a second, he’s not Changbin from Stray Kids. He’s just Binnie. Yours. Sweaty, shaky, and so, so in love.

Hyunjin // 현진

He’s sitting in front of the dressing room mirror. Still in his stage outfit. Still glowing. Still breathing fast. His head is bowed, fingers twitching over his knees, lost in the afterglow of a stage that nearly tore his heart out.

And then—

He looks up. Sees the door open. And sees you. Standing there. Wearing his hoodie. Eyes glassy with emotion, like you’ve been watching him the whole time.

At first, he doesn’t move. Just stares. And then—his whole body shatters. He’s up. Fast. But not loud. Not running. More like a storm gathering itself—slow, trembling, dangerous in how much it feels.

You whisper, “Hi, baby.”

And he’s in front of you before you can finish the breath. Hands cradling your face. Eyes searching yours like you’re not real.

“You—” he whispers, voice hoarse, “—you came?”

You nod. “I couldn’t stay away.”

And his lips part like he wants to say something profound, poetic, worthy of the art you are to him—but instead, all that comes out is:

“…I missed you.”

Then he pulls you in and hugs you like a drowning man grabbing the surface. One hand fisting your shirt. The other buried in your hair. His body shakes.

You feel his breath hitch once. Then again.

“Jinnie,” you whisper, “are you crying?”

He laughs through it, wet and shaky. “Shut up.”

You hold him tighter.

“You always do this to me,” he murmurs against your ear. “You always show up and make me feel like I’m seventeen again. Like love isn’t terrifying. Like I deserve it.”

You cup his cheeks, wipe the tears from under his eyes with your thumbs.

“Because you do.”

And he kisses you. So softly. Like a secret he wants to keep safe. Like he’s terrified this is a dream he’ll wake up from.

Han // 한

He’s still bouncing. Literally. Post-show adrenaline, sweat-drenched tank top, mic still clipped, rambling to whoever will listen about the crowd’s energy like—

“Bro, when the beat dropped in ‘Topline’? I almost exploded. Did you hear them? They were SCREAMING—”

Then he sees you.

You’re standing near the monitors. Hidden behind a stack of towels and staff gear. You’re just smiling, waiting. No cameras. No dramatic intro. Just you, soft-eyed and glowing in his hoodie.

He stares. And then? Absolutely. Freaking. Explodes.

“NO. WAIT—WHAT. WHAT—?!”

He screams. Actually screams. Everyone turns. Staff flinches. Someone drops a water bottle.

“YOU’RE HERE?!!” His voice cracks mid-yell. “YOU LIED TO ME!! YOU ABSOLUTE—ANGELIC—GENIUS—LIAR!!”

He’s running toward you now, full anime-level sprint, and crashes into you like a human wrecking ball. Arms tight, body buzzing, face buried in your neck like he needs to smell you just to prove this is real.

You’re laughing. “Hi, Ji—”

“Don’t talk to me,” he sobs. “You’re not real. I’m dreaming. I died on stage. This is heaven.”

“You’re sweaty.”

“I’m in love.”

You giggle and hug him tighter. He pulls back just enough to cup your face, eyes wide, pupils dilated, voice very serious: “Do you realize what you’ve done? You just caused an actual chemical reaction in my body. Like—my heart rate? THROUGH THE ROOF.”

“You okay?”

“No. Absolutely not. This is the most romantic moment of my entire life. I’m gonna need to sit down or I’ll propose by accident.”

You lean in and kiss the tip of his nose. He melts. Literally folds in half. “I’m keeping you,” he mumbles. “Like. Forever. Tour wife. This is happening. Don’t fight me.”

Felix // 필릭스

He’s glowing.

Skin glistening, hair damp, cheeks flushed from the encore. There’s glitter on his shoulders and stars in his eyes. He’s still catching his breath, thanking staff one by one with the kind of gentle sincerity only Felix knows how to give.

And then he turns the corner and stops breathing entirely.

Because you’re there. Backstage. In his hoodie. Hands behind your back. Smile blooming like spring.

He freezes. No words. No movement. Just a single, whispered—

“Angel…?”

You nod, eyes already brimming with tears. “Hi, sunshine.”

And that’s it. His body moves before his brain catches up. He walks toward you slow, almost reverently—like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks. Then suddenly you’re in his arms. Pressed flush to his chest, arms wrapped tight, face buried in your shoulder as he sighs. Not out of relief—out of pure emotional collapse.

“I missed you so much,” he whispers. “Like—so much. Like every night I looked for you and had to pretend I was fine.”

Your hand runs through his hair. “I know, baby. I know.”

He pulls back just enough to see your face, cupping your cheeks with both hands like you’re made of porcelain and sunlight.

“You’re real. You’re here. You’re mine.”

And then—he kisses you. Soft. Long. Like he has nothing to rush. Like he’s home. When he pulls back, he giggles through a sniffle.

“Okay. No one tell the others but… this is the best part of tour.”

Seungmin // 승민

He’s standing by the water cooler, towel around his neck, completely sweat-soaked and still glowing with that quiet Seungmin-brand confidence. He’s mid-sip when he spots you—half-hidden behind some gear cases, just… watching him.

For a full three seconds, he doesn’t react. Just blinks. Tilts his head. Tries to process. Then you wave. And he chokes on his water. He coughs. Clears his throat. Wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Then squints like you have some explaining to do.

You walk toward him slowly, smiling like you didn’t just shatter his entire emotional equilibrium.

“You—what? You were—” He frowns. “You weren’t supposed to be here.”

“That’s the point,” you say softly.

He goes quiet. Eyes flicking over your face, your outfit (one of his shirts, because of course), the little hopeful twitch of your mouth. And something in him just… cracks. “...That’s really mean,” he mutters, eyes glassy. “I could’ve emotionally prepared. Now I look stupid.”

You smile, stepping into his space, hands finding his waist. “You look perfect.”

He scoffs. “Sweaty. Smells like a wet dog.”

“Still perfect.”

And that’s when he lets out the tiniest, tiniest sigh. Like all the fight went out of him. He tugs you into a hug, arms wrapping around your back, his chin resting lightly on your head. “Don’t let go,” he mumbles. “I’m not doing the rest of tour without this. Just so you know.”

You smile into his chest. “Noted.”

Then, softer, a whisper you almost miss:

“...Thanks for coming back to me.”

I.n // 아이엔

He’s doing his post-show ritual—sitting on the dressing room floor with his legs stretched out, sipping his drink, cheeks flushed from dancing and screaming, trying to act cool even though his adrenaline is still going crazy.

He’s giggling at something a member says when the door creaks.

He looks up. And freezes. Because it’s you. Peeking in, eyes soft, fingers curled around the doorframe like you were nervous to interrupt.

“...Hi, baby,” you whisper.

His jaw actually drops. He blinks once, twice, like his brain needs buffering time.

“…You’re joking,” he finally says.

You step inside slowly. “Not a joke.”

You expect him to run. Cry. Scream. But instead—

He just sits there, completely still. Like his soul left his body for a minute. “…You really came?” he asks, voice small.

You kneel in front of him, taking his face in your hands. “Of course I did.”

And that’s when it happens.

His whole body slumps forward and he buries his face in your neck—arms wrapping around your waist in this desperate, trembling hold like he’s afraid to break you. “I missed you,” he says, so quietly it makes your chest ache. “So much. It’s been so hard.”

You stroke his hair. “You’re doing amazing. I’m so proud of you.”

And then? He starts sniffling. “Noooo don’t say that, I’m gonna cry,” he mumbles, voice cracking. “I was literally fine five seconds ago. This is so unfair.”

You laugh gently. “Cry, Jeonginnie. It’s okay.”

He pulls back, eyes watery, lips trembling into a smile. “I love you,” he blurts out. “A lot. Just—so much.”

And then he hugs you again. Tighter. Softer. Like now that you’re here, nothing else matters. Like home isn’t a place—it’s you.

[blood-smiles]

𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇, 𝐈’𝐌 𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐖˚ ༘ 🌱⋆｡˚

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐂𝐎𝐖/𝐁𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐎𝐘 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 . MDNI . TW// Naked man . Yandere . Suggestive? . Darling is breastfed by yandere. Male lactation . Forced affection

𝐒weat dribbled down your forehead, your scratchy sleeve running across your skin hastily before any sweat got into your eyes.

The hay bale in your arms irritated your forearms but you pushed through, throwing it inside the loft of your classic red barn.

The horses neighed, a little greeting for you, making little circles in their stalls as if brimming with energy.

You mustered a smile, trying to ignore the aching pain at your temples. Your head felt like a watermelon wrapped in rubber bands, about to explode at any moment.

You turned, exiting out the other end of your barn, picking up a tin bucket and kneeling in front of your large collection of flora.

You grumbled as you picked fat caterpillars off your Bougainvillea and unceremoniously tossed into a bin.

A deep frown marred your face as you looked at the various bite shaped holes in the leaves of your pretty flowers.

You sent a scorching glare to the bucket full of caterpillars.

 “You handful of bastards better be grateful I’m not feeding you to the barn cat..” you hissed, voice filled with genuine resentment.

The loud thunk of a truck made you jump out of your shoes, accidentally dropping the bucket, the caterpillars flying into the luscious green grass.

You bit back a groan, knowing you would have to pick out the little creatures by hand later.

You lifted your head, peeking at the men in white lab coats, who were throwing something extremely large into a pile of dirt near your house.

Now what the hell? They have no right to be dumping their shit in your backyard! Not after you had busted your lower back to keep it clean!

You were about to stomp over and throw some hands, however the men got into their high tech van and disappeared in a cloud of black smoke.

You coughed as you approached the garbage site, seeing if there was anything to loot off of.

It looked like there was something massive swaddled tightly in styrofoam wrap. 

You prodded the cocoon with the tip of your timber, you let out a small scream as it pulsated under your foot.

You jumped back in fright as the thing inside started moving even more, all out of the sudden, a muffled voice yelled.

You raised your brows, a person? Was a person wrapped in that? You could just stand by and act as if nothing happened but.. cleaning the mess up would be annoying.

You scrambled to dig your nails inside the wrapping and pulled as hard as you could, ripping the tough material to shreds.

You fell back to the ground, a large, naked man emerging from the dirt, styrofoam doing a horrible job of covering up his.. bits.

You kept your eyes up.. sorta, his well endowed chest was the first thing that popped out to you. Quite literally, it had its own shadow and everything, they were definitely bigger than yours. 

He was tall, taller than any creature or human you had ever seen in your life.

You painstakingly tore your eyes away from his chest, mourning the loss of titties.

You scanned his head, his hair was light blonde with brunette highlights, curling towards his face at the slightly curly tips, a curl of hair covering his left eye.

His skin was tan with patches of lighter skin, resembling the spots of a cow.

A golden nose ring gleamed under the sunlight, you just barely noticed the stubs of horns on his head, along side the blonde cow ears.

..Wait hold on a minute, ears and horns? What in the nudist cosplay is this?

The man tilted his head, his ears flicking as he followed you movements, like a baby bird mimicking its mother’s actions.

You didn’t stick around a moment more as you watched the strange male’s strangely beautiful face light up with wonder.

“Master!” He lunged. Missing you only by a hair, you swore you felt his thick fingers tickling your back.

“Stop following me! I am not your master!!” You hollered, speeding up your pace as you tried to jump over the fence of your barn.

“Wrong!” He giggled, strong arms stretching out to grab you, making sure to take victory this time.

“(Y/N)!~” he called out sweetly, opening and closing his hands, resembling of a toddler demanding uppies.

“HOW THE HELL DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?!?!” You never got an answer, simply a jolly laugh.

You ran around for 40 minutes.

And the strange bull cow hybrid didn’t stop, he wasn’t even breaking a sweat, it wasn’t very long until you dropped on the ground.

The man plopped down behind you, grabbing you by your armpits like he would hold a cat. Only to begin having a cuddling session, he didn’t let you go.

You begged him to let you breathe, but he had gotten too attached to let you go, at one point you had decided to take the drastic measure to bite his arm,

Which was a failure.

Because he let out the most pornographic moan you had ever heard.

You slowly retracted your teeth from his arm, deciding to never do that again.

“Well.. Can you at least tell me who you are? Why you are here? Why me?” You bombarded him with question, he hummed, his tail wagging on grass while rocking you side to side like a baby.

“Mm~.. m’ name’s Briar.. I’m a gift for you! And.. Because I saw you first!” He finished with a wide smile, his simplistic answers not actually giving away anything.

He rubbed his cheek against the side of your head, your back cushioned by two very prominent pillows.

You glared at him, wriggling out of his beefy arms and rolling onto the grass.

“Let me stay with you!” He chirped, getting up to follow close behind you.

“No.” You didn’t budge, looking down to dust your jeans off, but when you looked up Briar was giving you the most sopping wet pathetic puppy eyes you had ever seen.

Your harsh glare softened for a moment, no! No! No! You weren’t going to get emotionally manipulated by a fucking cow.

He dropped to his knees, getting on all fours and dirtying his knees with soil. His hands wrapped around your calves as if they were the size of water bottles.

“Please…”

That disturbed you more than you would think, this thing dwarfed every aspect of yours, only reminding you of how quick and effortlessly he could rip an arm of yours off.

“..No!” You grumbled more defiantly, closing your eyes for a second as you looked away.

you curiously cracked an eye open and saw how large drops of tears welled in his eyes, his bottom lip trembled, threatening that he would cry if he needed to.

A strong gust of wind blew in your direction, to your dismay, sending the last piece of wrapping around Briar’s hips off into the breeze.

You almost screamed in terror at the sheer size of that thing, because there was no humane possible way you could call it a penis.

That thing was the fuckin’ size of your arm.

“Okay. Fine. Come inside.” You grabbed his arm roughly, dragging him into your cottage in a panic.

He cheered as he allowed you to throw him inside your room, you skimmed your closet for something—God dammit! Anything to cover his big ass up!

You shakily exhaled as you found the baggiest jeans you owned, your hands gripping the widest flannel you had.

You screwed your eyes shut. Not wanting to see more than you already had.

“Thank..you!” He beamed, you could already imagine the sparkles around him.

You picked up the rustling of clothes, opening your eyes to see how your clothes fitted him.

You didn’t have underwear for him for now, so you had to compromise with just hoping that your jeans would be enough to cover his shame just a little bi…

Nevermind, you could still see the outline of it.

The supposed ‘baggy’ blue jeans hugged his thighs sinfully. This is a stranger, you tried to reprimand yourself, a complete stranger that you should not be ogling at but.. holy cow.

That shit was juicy. The pervert inside you was foaming at the mouth, trying not to pounce and bite the flesh off his legs and ass.

The flannel was hanging onto a single button, the fabric stretched over his chest so disgustingly tightly.

You had to unbutton the very first few buttons to let him breathe properly, it was killing you slowly. The need to bury your head between those glorious, magnificent tits.

You covered your face with your sun hat in shame, wishing to slam your head against the walls.

“Just..Just go.” You fumbled with your words, flush climbing the back of your neck all the way up to your ears.

Briar held his arms pinned to his sides, fingers flexing as he stared at you in awe. How he just wanted to aggressively cuddle you, he wanted to squeeze you so bad.

He thought humans were weird and mean.. But when looking at you he just wanted to bite you, not to harm you per say, just to somehow cope with the warm feeling in his chest.

“Okay!” He skipped out the front door, leaving you in ruins as he waltzed into the barn where the cattle resided.

You watched him interact and play with the cows for hours upon hours, at one point stealing a bell and wearing it around his neck.

“I’m your belle now!” He said, brimming with excitement. He had now taken the title of being your.. helper from now onwards.

You really did try to get rid of him, you tried selling him, abandoning him— Hell, even tying him up.

But annoyingly enough, he always returned, it didn’t matter what method you used, he somehow evaded it.

So you just decided to keep him around under a condition, that he helps out around the place.

He mowed the lawn.. He milked the cows.. He did some weird type of trick on the plants so the caterpillars wouldn’t eat them.. He was magic.

You made the mistake of introducing him to a friend, thinking that since he was so docile towards you, he would be the same way with others.

Could you be any more stupid?

Sometimes your neighbors would show up to chat and exchange goods or take horse back rides around the lands, Briar didn’t like it.

He was possessive and hostile, you had to stop him from trampling your friend to ground meat, you had almost pissed your pants in fear, never had you ever seen Briar with such a hateful look in his eyes.

Luckily, it seemed like he learned his lesson after you gave him silent treatment for two hours. He was in tears, sobbing that he would never upset you again, clinging onto your feet while nudging your stomach with his horns.

He had went as far as tagging his own ear after he got envious of a calf, he saw you clipping the babies ear and immediately begun to pester you to do the same thing to him.

You tried to make him understand that it was solely for identification, that he was already pretty identifiable, but he kept insisting.

You caved in, letting him plop down in your very much weaker and skinnier thigh. You tried to warn him that it would hurt, but he shook his head, affirming that he would take it like a good boy.

You sighed, monotonously counting down from three, before snapping clips closed.

He didn’t even make a face, you told him it was done and handed him a mirror to look at his brand new piercing.

It was a yellow, blank tag. You didn’t bother giving him a number, he wasn’t a legit cow to be kept in the barns so it wasn’t necessary.

You watched with curiosity as he grabbed a alcohol pen from your nightstand and slowly wrote your name on his tag.

“Baby!” He clapped his hands, ears slightly raising to reflect his mood, his tail wagged like a dog’s as he let out a little moo.

“You’re heavy. Get off.” You pushed him off, hoping that this was the end of his strange behaviors and urges.

He whined and pouted but you eventually peeled him off of you, the warmth and squish of his chest against your face leaving and letting you breathe properly.

Well, you thought that was the end of it.

You didn’t ask any questions about his origins or what he was, because in your book ignorance is bliss.

That was until you couldn’t ignore that your pillows and clothes were beginning to go missing, appearing as if by accident in the barn loft.

Briar was beginning to disappear more often, appearing after a few hours and dropping unconscious on your bed.

You noticed that the flannels he usually wore began to look tighter around his chest, more of the buttons on his shirt beginning to suddenly fly off like bullets, narrowly hitting you in the head.

You whistled a little tune, small pebbles crunching under your boots as you walked into the cattle house.

You swung a tin bucket in your hand, turning to your fluffy little cows to milk them of their milk. You spoke in a high pitched voice to them, reaching out and kissing their furry foreheads.

“MnHgh!” A familiar voice suppressed his aroused sounds with their hand, hoping he had fooled you and had slapped a hand over his mouth quick enough.

You stopped petting your cows, walking towards a closed closet door behind you. Your hand wrapped around the doorknob, the metal being slightly warm, someone with overwhelming body warmth had just touched this.

You groaned, Briar. What the hell was he doing now?

You swung the door open, your figure casting a shadow over Briar’s crumpled body on the floor. Another sweet whimper escaped him accidentally, he tried to cover his chest with his arms, as if shielding a secret.

His tan patchwork skin gleamed with sweat under the dim lighting, his eyes were irritated and glassy, like he had been crying for hours before you got there.

“Briar.” You sternly called his name, causing him to look into your eyes, his ears drooped in embarrassment, attentively listening to what you were going to say next. 

“Show me your chest.” Your voice ordered, putting the tin bucket down by your feet. You watched as Briar slowly did as you said, looking away in shame as he revealed himself.

Your eyes widened as you glanced down at his swollen pectorals, his nipples cherry red and tender. His chest was significantly heavier than usual, and even that was saying a lot when it’s common knowledge that he is very much above average.

“What..What happened?” Your eyes darted to his face, worry slowly seeping into your expression.

His obscenely large hand grasped your own, putting it gently on his chest.

You looked down, trying to decipher what his intentions were.. That was until you felt something warm trickling down your hand.

Something white and watery, slowly dribbling down your hand at a steady pace. It was shameful, down right perverted— But you brought your hand to your mouth, licking the substance.

It hit you like a tractor, it was silky—Sweet, better than any liquid you had ever tasted, it’s taste was one too similar to.. Milk?

“Y..Y-You can do that?” You blurted without thinking, pulling the tin bucket under his chest to catch the liquid.

The slightest shy nod of his head, the most bashful smile you had ever seen of him confirmed all your suspicions.

..You actually had to milk him. 

Your face turned warm as your hands reached out to him, wrapping around his soft boobs, softly but methodically squeezing the milk out of him.

They produced milk steadily, squirting into the bucket, the sound of milk splattering against the tin making your gaze hazy.

You knew it was game over when the bucket was full, his chest didn’t seem that decreased in size by much.

You got off your knees to get a new bucket, only for Briar to cling on to you, making you fall between his legs and into his chest.

He didn’t wait, his nipple gently introducing itself into your warm little mouth, milk spilling onto your tongue in a moments notice.

You let out a strangled yell, trying to unlatch but Briar’s hand stopped you, pushing your head closer to his chest, forcing you to swallow the soft liquid.

“Hush, let mommy feed you..” he cooed, hearts forming in his eyes as he forced you to digest his milk.

“HMMPH.” You tried to protest, but didn’t make a move to stop Briar, he just shushed you, acting as if your protests were just a hissy fit.

He overpowered you, that sensitive shy act he put on before, being years light behind him. 

You closed your eyes, knowing there was no escape from bosom jail. Your throat was dry from dehydration and the warm milk being force fed down wasn’t the most unpleasant thing you had experienced.

He cupped the back of your head, a million dollar smile on his plump lips, you were embarrassed.

You pressed your nose close into the soft muscle of his chest, just letting yourself be smothered by warmth, milk dribbling from the corners of your mouth.

You could barely hear the overgrown cow’s deep voice over the sound of your heartbeat.

“What a sweetheart you are..” ♥

[teaboot]

I've never had a cat before and I'm hoping to get one soon. Do you have any advice?

Treat a new cat as you would a new roommate. Give them space and time to settle, establish a pattern and a rhythm, and in time they may choose to become friends and spend time with you. Dont force a friendship.

Use simple words and repetition to establish communication. Words like breakfast, treat, snack, lunch, supper, dinner, food, and eat all basically mean, "I am feeding you; expect to be fed", but it's a lot for a little guy to remember. I just say "Dinner" when I mean "cat food is coming", and so my boy knows exactly what I mean when I say it. As a plus, using only one word for snack time means he has no idea what the other words mean, so I can talk about food in front of him without ruling him up.

Pay attention to body language. Cats all have different personalities, and you'll learn their likes, dislikes, and messages over time this way. Son boy here loves anything with plumbing but dislikes getting wet- his favourite blanket to chew and snuggle goes on his favourite chair, and he gives me a specific gesture when he wants me to kneel down so he can jump onto my shoulder.

Read into problematic behaviour. Cats pee in weird places when they're hurting, in distress, or have insufficient of unclean litter box space. Biting, attacking feet , and knocking things off tables often means they're understimulated and need you to play with them, or at least need some kind of enrichment or puzzle to tackle. Tail flicking can be frustration or irritation. Purring is usually good, but may also be self-soothing behaviour to alleviate pain, encourage healing, and relieve anxiety, like over-grooming.

Like children, "bad" behaviour isn't malicious- it usually means there's something you aren't seeing.

Learn how your cat expresses love. Loads of people think cats are uncaring, cruel, and indifferent, but the truth is, they're just not dogs. Spending time near you, showing an interest in tools you're using or projects you're working on, sitting the way you sit, laying on their back, rubbing on your legs, wiping their face on your shoes when you get home- these are signs that your cat is enamored with you. You're their family, they feel safe and protected around you, they're curious about things you enjoy and want everyone to know you're family.

Set reasonable expectations. Again, cats are not dogs.We bred dogs to desire our approval- cats walked into our lives themselves. They have no human-programmed need to fulfill a duty or perform a task to your standards.

Training cats to do tricks isn't as hard as people say, but the willingness or interest in doing the trick is more heavily reliant on personality and mood. Some cats will refuse all but the most basic requests- I'm lucky in that Ollie understands and is willing to do several, provided I don't abuse his trust and he's not crowded or overwhelmed or just bored of doing it over and over in a short period.

Ollie, for example, knows Up to stand on his back legs and hold my hand, Down to get to a surface I indicate, Out to emerge from a closed space, Come to find me where I am, Help? when I'm offering to let him use me as an elevator, Dinner when I understand he's hungry and am getting food, and when I put on his collar he knows to climb into his carrier 'cause we're going somewhere. And he'll do any of these about 90% of the time, either ignoring me or phoning it in when there's something interesting somewhere else, or if he's feeling anxious.

Lead by example. If you dread taking them to the vet, they'll see the anxiety in your body language and behaviour and likely learn to hate it, too. Again using my guy an example, I starred taking him on walks long before his first vet appointment, just to get used to his carrier and leash. Then his first checkup was relaxed and informal, with plenty of treats, and I let him explore the examination room with permission from the tech. Now he loves going, so I'm not stressed about taking him, so I don't stress him out in turn, and the vest doesn't have to deal with a stressed out cat slowing things down and fighting with them.

Make sure your sources are good ones, and also good ones for you. I will recommend Jackson Galaxy's YouTube channel for cat advice because a lot of what he does matches up with what I've learned and know to be true. I don't personally recommend Ceasar Milan because I personally find his methods distressing to recreate regardless of efficacy, so even if that advice was useful, *I'd* be miserable, and it'd just be trading one issue for another.

Have a person who can help. You never know when you might end up out of town overnight unexpectedly, or when your place may need serviced or fumigated, or if you may be called out of town. Before getting a cat, research reliable pet sitters, house sitters, pet daycares, whatever, just in case.

Consider pet insurance. No long spiel here, just think about it. Especially if you don't know your cats ancestry or potenyial health risks. An on top of that, fucking vaccinate them.

Dont let them free roam. At all.

I grew up on a farm with free-roaming barn cats. Do you know how many times child-me cried over having to bury them? Illness, disease, pregnancy, vehicles, other territorial cats, ticks, fleas, litter, poisoned prey, malicious humans, local wildlife, predatory birds, scrap metal, extreme heat, freezing temperatures, tainted water sources, poisonous or venomous critters, getting stuck in small or high places, tapeworms, loose nails, old equipment, falling branches...

I've seen some truly body-horror slasher-movie shit- just truly nauseating visual fuckery- and I'm telling you not to let your cat free-roam.

Leash training isn't hard. Supervised walks aren't hard. Even keeping your cat physically fit and entertained indoors isn't an impossible feat. Don't let your fucking cat fucking free-roam. Fuck

Also read up on foods and plants cats can't do, like every houseplant in existence is toxic it's insane

Anyhow yeah that's like. A couple things I guess

Here, have an Ollie Pic

[meenaxskz]

when he gets sick (hyung line)

ot8 reactions | bf!skz x reader au genre: crack warnings: language a/n : sorry for the silence. life said ✨plot twist✨. but here’s something to distract you! ✧ hyung line | maknae line

bang chan

you walk into the room with tea in one hand and judgment in the other. chan’s in bed. sweaty. pale. wrapped in blankets like a sad spring roll. and of course… of COURSE. he’s got the laptop again. you stop. blink. “really?” he looks up, fake innocent. eyes glassy. lips dry. “what?” you squint. “why are you working right now?” he blinks slower. “…i’m not.” you glance down. ableton. open. project name: “BANG CHAN FINAL FINAL FINAL MIX ACTUAL FINAL I SWEAR” “christopher. bang. chan.” he winces “okay i was working but just for a minute—” “you have a FEVER. and a death wish.” he sniffles “my creativity doesn’t take sick days.” you sigh and set the tea down “wanna know where your creativity is gonna go?” he blinks. “IN THE CEILING. WHERE YOUR LAPTOP’S ABOUT TO BE.” he gasps. hugs the laptop to his chest like it’s his firstborn “don’t threaten her!! she has feelings!” you snatch it in one swift motion. “SHIT SHE’S FAST—” you unplug it. tuck it under your arm “you’re on rest mode. no tech. no work. no producing.” he groans. flops back dramatically. “you don’t understand. the project NEEDS ME—” “the project also needs you to be ALIVE.” five minutes later: he’s under three blankets. grumpy. arms crossed. you feed him soup. he pretends to hate it “what is this? poison?” “it’s chicken noodle, you absolute gremlin.” he slurps it anyway “…it’s pretty good.” you press a cold rag to his forehead. he sighs “you’re gonna leave me like this. laptopless. joyless. alone.” you stare “you’re gonna take a nap.” he groans. “will you at least sing to me?” “no.” “…hold me like a baby?” “…fine.” ten minutes later? he’s asleep. drooling a little. snoring soft. you check under the bed. just to make sure he didn’t stash a secret ipad or something. you find his phone. tucked into a sock like it’s hiding. you whisper “...i knew it.” bonus: the next day he wakes up feeling better. you catch him hugging his laptop and whispering, “i missed you, my love. she was so cruel to you.” you: “i will LITERALLY unplug your entire life.”

lee know

you walk into the kitchen and immediately stop. minho’s leaning against the counter like he’s doing a vogue pose on the verge of collapse. “you good?” minho (clearly not good): “never better.” he sneezes so hard he hits the cabinet. you raise an eyebrow. “you’ve blown your nose seven times in two minutes. you’re wheezing. your knees buckled when you poured orange juice.” “coincidence.” you step forward with a thermometer. he holds up a hand like you’re holding a weapon “i don’t need that. i’m not a CHILD.” “no. children usually listen better.” you try to press it to his forehead. he dodges like a ninja. you try again. he spins. you chase. he crashes into the couch. “STOP TREATING ME LIKE I’M FRAGILE—” “minho, you just fainted trying to open a yogurt.” he groans and lays back. dramatic. arm over his eyes. like he’s dying in a historical novel. “i’m fine. i’m a man. men don’t nap.” “men also die for no reason. lay down.” you drag him to the bed. he lets you. but grumbles the entire time. “this is humiliating.” you tuck a blanket over him. “this is degrading.” you bring soup. he looks offended. “…is this chicken flavor? i like beef.” “eat it before i shove it in your nose.” ten minutes later? he’s curled into the blanket. holding a warm pack to his stomach. soup almost gone. cheeks pink. “want more?” he mutters something. you lean in. “what?” “…yes please.” you grin “huh. what was that? i couldn’t hear over your PRIDE.” he glares. “don’t make me cough on you.” bonus: you catch him later whispering to doongie: “she tucked me in. like i’m some pathetic little—” he sneezes. “…anyway. i think i love her.”

changbin

you walk in to find changbin on the couch like a grumpy little burrito. blanket over his head. only his eyes and a single bicep visible. he’s watching cartoons. volume low. pout HIGH. you blink. “how are you feeling?” he sniffs. “strong.” you squint “strong like… ‘i’m good’ strong? or strong like ‘i almost cried trying to reach the remote’ strong?” he pauses. “i didn’t cry. i just grunted emotionally.” you sit down and feel his forehead. he doesn’t move. just stares dramatically. “am i dying?” he whispers. “you have a mild fever. you’re not dying.” he closes his eyes. “…tell felix to take care of my plushies.” you bring him water. he sips it like he’s been rescued from a desert. then cough suspiciously loud. “that cough was FAKE.” “was not. it came from my soul.” you hand him some sliced oranges. his lip wobbles. “…you peeled them?” “of course.” he turns away. sniffles harder “don’t look at me. i’m fine.” “are you tearing up because of fruit right now??” “no. these are just really… thoughtful citrus.” twenty minutes later: he’s in your lap. wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. cuddling a bunny plush. watching paw patrol. “i’m literally a tank,” he mumbles, full pout. “but like… a soft tank.” you kiss his forehead “my softest tank.” he sniffles again. “…don’t tell the others.” bonus: he gets better the next day and tries to act cool again. but you catch him sneaking the bunny plush into his gym bag. you: “strong again?” changbin: nods, flexing dramatically “back to beast mode, baby.” the bunny peeks out of his hoodie pocket. you say nothing.

hyunjin

you walk into the bedroom. hyunjin is face-down on the bed like he’s been defeated by life. blankets everywhere. a tissue stuck to his cheek. “…you good?” him, muffled: “no.” you bring medicine and tea. he doesn’t move. just dramatically points toward the nightstand like he’s too weak to lift a hand. “you’re so annoying.” “and sick. don’t forget sick.” you try to give him the pill. he stares at it like it’s poison “it’s huge.” “it’s literally the size of a tic tac.” “do you want me to choke and die right now? is that what you want???” he finally takes it after you bribe him with a popsicle. “you’re being so dramatic—” “WELL SOMEONE HAS TO BE.” you go to leave the room. as you turn to leave— ding-a-ling-a-ling you freeze. “…what was that.” you turn around. he’s holding A BELL. a literal. actual. fucking. bell. “where did you get that.” “my bag.” “WHY was that in your bag??” “i knew one day it would come in handy.” ding-a-ling-a-ling “stop.” “you said you’d take care of me.” “i didn’t say i’d become your room service.” “…i crave grapes.” “we don’t have grapes.” “…then cut a banana into circles and pretend.” your soul briefly leaves your body. “you are so lucky you’re cute,” you mutter, turning toward the kitchen. behind you, you hear the softest little "yay." a few minutes later, you return. plate in hand. banana. perfectly sliced. arranged in a damn circle pattern. sprinkled with cinnamon because you care, unfortunately. you set it on the nightstand. “your fake grapes.” hyunjin blinks at the plate. then at you “…you rolled your eyes so hard i thought they were gonna fall out.” “yeah. and yet here you are. fed.” he grabs the plate “i love you.” you sit beside him with a sigh “i know.” he pops a banana slice in his mouth. “…tastes like betrayal.” you throw a pillow at his face. --- twenty minutes later? he’s asleep, bell on his chest, lip poked out. you tiptoe over to take the bell. his eyes snap open. “i felt that.” bonus: you finally hide the bell. next day? he’s using the dog’s toy bell collar and shaking his whole head. “i’ve ADAPTED,” he announces, crown of tissues on his head. “you CANNOT silence me.” you sigh. “…i should’ve just let the cold take him.”

⤷ main m.list ❟

DISCLAIMER : This blog and all related content (fics, fake texts, headcanons, imagines, etc.) are entirely fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. I do not know Stray Kids personally, nor do I claim any of this reflects their real personalities, actions, or relationships. All characters and their personalities—including Meena King—are original creations.Please enjoy responsibly and remember : real people = real boundaries.

[backtothefanfiction]

Joaquin Torres x Stark!Reader | Grumpy x Sunshine

Summary: Joaquin and Sam take a trip to the Stark cabin to get something fixed on Joaquin’s suit.

Warnings: fluff, grief, angst, banter

Word Count: 2.6k+

A/N: Okay so I this is based on an ask that came through my inbox. I did make a couple adjustments, but over all the bones are the same. Hope people enjoy!

Joaquin always felt awkward when Sam dragged him out to the Stark cabin for a fix on their suits. Although he had never met Tony Stark himself, the Avenger was someone everyone knew and his loss was still felt all around the world. But the Stark cabin always felt like the nucleus of that grief. More importantly, the shed out back.

"I'm gonna head in and say hey to Pepper," Sam said as they made their way side by side down the path through the woods that lead to the old hunting cabin that had been turned into the Stark's main home during the blip.

"Okay, well I'm gonna- head-" Joaquin's voice trailed off as Sam made a left and began to head up the stairs to the front door, suddenly leaving him on his own, "to- the- uh shed I guess," he muttered to himself much quieter, looking between the cabin and the shed where he knew you would be.

He hesitated at the door to the shed. He knew you'd be in there, you practically lived in there since your Dad died. He knew it was bad for you to isolate yourself the way you did, throwing yourself into continuing his work as a way to manage your grief, but he also felt like he was invading your sanctuary whenever he stopped by.

"YO, FEATHERS! YOU GONNA STAND OUT THERE ALL DAY OR YOU GONNA COME IN!" Your voice called out to him and he took that as his queue to enter.

"How did you know I was out there?" he asked as he strutted in, his eyes scanning the space as he sought you out amongst the converted lab you and your Dad had built together during the blip. The two of you hadn't been too close before then, your Mom wanting you to keep your distance from the man she had accidentally conceived a child with during a drunken one night stand in her 20s, but when she became a victim of Thanos and the blip, you had no choice but to seek refuge with him.

"Cameras," you said, lifting a tablet in the air that showed a video feed of the front door and Joaquin used it as a marker to find you amongst the mess.

"You know I don't have feathers right?" he said as he approached the bench where you were huddled over a piece of tech, a soldering iron in hand as you fused different components together.

"And you two could literally go to anyone else at Stark Industries to fix your suites and yet, here you are." you said sarcastically as you finally met his eyes.

Joaquin took one look at the dark circles under your eyes and his heart ached. He hated to see you like this. He had developed a crush on you the first time he had met you. It was a couple years ago now. He had been brought in with Sam and Bucky for the debrief with Colonel Rhodes after the incident with the flag smashers. You had stopped by to have dinner with your Father's old best friend, turning up in a red floral sun dress and denim jacket and he had instantly fallen in love- not that he'd ever had the balls to tell you.

“You haven’t been sleeping.” Joaquin stated, his voice soft, but you hated the tone of pity that accompanied it. It was coming up to the anniversary of your Father's death and your dreams had been plagued with flash backs to the battle where you had watched him lose his life.

“Well thanks Captain Obvious.” you snapped at him resentfully.

As long as he'd known you, Joaquin knew your usual jaded demeanour and hostility was due to your inability to deal with your grief over your Dad, but he also knew this extra spiciness to your tone was due to the aforementioned lack of sleep. “You know I was never actually a captain.” he said, trying to lighten the mood, but it didn't help.

“Okay, then Lieutenant Obvious. Better?” You sassed as you forcefully turned him around to get to the access panel on the back of the wings.

“Remind me again why you’ve got to do this with the suit on me.”

“It’s so you can fly away the second I’m done and stop- annoying-me,” you grunted as you popped the panel. “Uuuhgg, this is a mess. Who the hell has been fiddling with this thing?” you asked, taking in the hazard of wires and switch boards inside.

“The US governement.” Joaquin laughed.

“That sounds about right," you gritted as you took your soldering iron from before and began adjusting and readjusting wires.

As you worked, Joaquin took a moment to look around the room again. There were empty cups, mugs and plates discarded in different places as you had refuelled on the go. The sofa in the corner had a blanket haphazardly draped across it, implying that when you had been sleeping, it had been in here and not in the house with Pepper and your half sister Morgan. It broke his heart.

"Y/N-" he said your name tentatively, wanting to broach the subject and help, but also not wanting you to completely shut down and shut him out and hate him forever.

"Don't." you said, reading his mind without having to look directly at his face as you focused on your current job. "There," you sighed, "try that." you said as you closed the panel again and sat back.

Joaquin turned around, shifting in his suit, his arms lifting as he prepared to let loose the wings at his back. "NOT IN HERE MORON!" you quickly said, fear rippling through you at the thought of the nano tech wings unfolding at his back and smashing into the machinery set up around the two of you. "Take it outside."

"Uh, yeah. Right." Joaquin stuttered nervously as he realised his mistake.

You reluctantly followed him outside for his test flight and was met with the sight of your younger sister running down the steps of the cabin and over to you both. "JOAQUIN!" the young girl beamed, taking him in. She for sure had a little school girl crush on him. And to be fair, you couldn’t blame her, he was good looking, you just weren’t interested in anything right now.

"Hey Kiddo!" he said, embracing her as she ran into his arms to greet him with a hug. "Your sister's just fixed my wing up. Wanna see?"

"Yeah! Of course!" she beamed and the way she smiled made you see all of the same awe and wonder in her eyes as your Father used to have. The look sent a new wave of grief to hit you and you had to turn away from her for a moment to compose yourself. It was so quick you had hoped neither of them had noticed, but when you looked back to Joaquin, it was clear to you he had.

"Well, go on then. Get this over with so I can go back to work." you said, folding your arms across your chest as you encouraged him to let his wings free.

His eyes seemed to linger on you for a moment, trying to find a way to penetrate your armour before he finally conceded. There was a click and a rippling schwing of metal as his wings unfurled seamlessly at his back, shorter at first, but then he pressed another button in the gloves of his suit and the nanobots shifted and extended the wings down to make them larger.

"Oooooooh," Morgan cooed in wonder as she took them in.

"Come on then feathers, you gonna fly or what?" you encouraged him. He sighed in your direction, but ultimately activated his helmet and thrusters and dramatically blasted off from the floor at such a force you and Morgan had to steady yourselves as you were hit with a blast of air.

You both watched from the ground as he began to do a sweep around the property, Morgan running down to the lakes edge to watch him closer as he dipped down to run a finger through the water as he glided above it. You stood there for another minute, watching to make sure there weren't any more problems, but when he started to show off, doing barrel rolls through the air to impress Morgan, you knew it was your cue to return to your work.

“You know, you should be a lot nicer to him,” Pepper’s voice startled you. You hadn’t noticed her when you first came in, but at the sound of her voice, you quickly found her collecting up some of your plates and mugs, ready to take them back into the cabin.

You didn’t respond to her, your body turning back to your work as you pretended like she wasn’t there. You didn’t want the lecture right now. Although she had married your Father and had technically become your step mom, not to mention she was your half sister’s actual mother, Pepper had always felt more like an Aunt to you. She had all the same maternal energy and instincts towards you, but she was more approachable like a friend.

“You know, I invited them to stay for dinner,” she said as she came up beside you. “We’re having cheeseburgers, in honour of your Dad.” she continued, trying to get any sort of reaction out of you, but you weren’t biting. “You know,” she said, after another pause, deciding to change tac, “I think he likes you.”

“What makes you say that?” you said instinctively and you instantly kicked yourself for responding, but you could feel the swell of pride coming off Pepper as she realised she had gotten you to break.

“Because I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” she said wistfully, her eyes looking out the open doorway towards the sounds of her daughter’s giggles as she played with Joaquin. “And no matter how mean you are to him, he keeps coming back.”

“Is that what happened with you and my Dad?” You asked, fishing for information about the origins of their relationship.

“Not quite. Me and your Dad were… a little more complicated. Your dad was always a lone wolf, but he,” she said, her gaze moving to the man outside again, “he’s more of a golden retriever. He may be a bit goofy and over enthusiastic at times,” she said, before turning her attention back to you, “but he’s loyal. And he knows how to have fun,” she stressed as she nudged your shoulder. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes about the way you needed to take a break from your Father’s legacy and just learn to let loose again.

You went back to giving her the silent treatment as she shifted the cups and plates in her hands again and went to leave. But as she reached the door, the small voice in the back of your head (you often liked to think was actually your Father living rent free in your brain), told you she was right.

“Pepper!” you called out to stop her. “Thanks.” you said, giving her the first smile that had graced your face all week. She didn’t say anything more back, just gave you an equally fond smile of acknowledgment. After all, Pepper Potts knew she had already said everything she needed to, to finally get you back out of the shed.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Nearly two hours later, you finally made your way up to the cabin for dinner. The sound of laughter and the sizzling sounds and smell of the burgers was almost overwhelming after spending a week alone out in the shed, but you quickly shook it off. Both Sam and Joaquin turned their heads at the sound of the door, but quickly became distracted again by your sister. She was stood in the middle of the living room giving a rather animated account to them of an incident that had happened to her at school. You couldn’t help but smile at the way she captivated them as you snuck through the house to the kitchen.

“Can I help with anything?” you quietly asked.

Pepper turned and gave you a smile. You watched as her eyes scanned you. You had changed since she had left you and even taken the time to run a brush through your hair. You could tell there was something hidden in her gaze, knew she was eager to tease you over it, but she quickly dropped it, not wanting to scare you off after finally being able to coax you back in.

“I’m almost done,” she said, “the burgers will just be another minute or two. Why don’t you lay up the table, ready for everyone.”

You didn’t give her a verbal response, instead headed straight to the draw to retrieve the cutlery and placemats. “Let me help you with that.” Joaquin’s voice came from behind you. You turned your head with a start. You hadn’t even heard him follow you in.

“Uh, thanks,” you said quietly as he took the handful of cutlery from you and followed you to the dining table.

You were both silent as you began to put down the placemats, Joaquin following close behind you and laying down the cutlery. When you had finished that, he followed you back to the kitchen to help carry in the salad and condiments, which you laid out in the middle of the table so people could help themselves.

“I’m sorry- uh I mean, earlier, this afternoon. Thank you for uh,” Your voice froze. Gosh this was awful. You desperately wanted to bridge the gap you had placed between the two of you, but you didn’t know how. “I’m sorry I was a dick!” you finally blurted out.

He let out a little snicker at your outburst, but quickly schooled his features, knowing you were trying to have a serious conversation. “It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

“I know, it just… I know I can be a bit…”

“Hostile?” He said, filling in the word you were struggling with.

“Yeah. Hostile.” you repeated.

“It’s okay. I know you don’t mean it. It’s not easy losing a parent. It’s not easy losing anyone.” he corrected himself. “Grief makes us do odd things sometimes. Just know that you’re not alone. Okay?”

“Okay.” your repeated.

“I’m here for you. Come rain or shine. Night or day. You don’t have to do this on your own.��

“I know,” you sighed, your head hanging, almost in shame. “I’ve just… never really been that good at asking for…”

“Help?”

“Yeah,” you sighed.

“Look,” he said, and you watched at he reached into his back pocket for his wallet and pulled out a bit of paper with his number on it. You hated to think how long he’d had it sat in there just waiting for the right moment to give it to you. “This is my number. Call me whenever.”

You took it from him and couldn’t help the small smile that danced on your lips as your fingers played with the piece of paper you had been handed. “Even in the middle of the night when I can’t sleep?” you asked him, both earnestly, but with a hint of suggestiveness you hoped he’d pick up on.

He was silent a moment as he analysed you. Wanting to check and make sure you had meant to imply what you had. When he realised you had, he hung his head in an attempt to hide the blush in his cheeks and the shit eating grin that adorned his face. “Yeah,” he sighed, finally looking back up across the table at you, an entirely new kind of tension between you now, “especially then,” he said and you knew that was one offer of help you were never going to turn down.

[sortagaysortahigh]

Lovefool | James 'Bucky' Barnes

A/N: Guys ive been writing ts for like four days and lemme tell you im so glad it's over. Ugh everyone say thank you to @anxietyandtacos for making me into a bucky girl, and thank you to @love-chx for feeding into my bucky dellusions and beta-ing this monster of a fic <3. I was gonna split it in 2 but I'm too lazy to edit that out so I prese,t idiots in love! Minor TB/CABNW SPOILERS

Summary: James Barnes is a terrible congressman, hence Sam sending you to be his assistant. You keep him on a tight leash, and you both do a horrible job at hiding your feelings for one another. Add jealousy and alcohol to the mix? what could possibly change?

Warnings: 2nd person POV, use of Y/N, being a D1 John Walker hater, mentions of bipolar parents/family trauma (minor), forced super soldier serum injections (mention, not depicted!), reader is also a super soldier lowkey but she's just a girl ok!, cursing, spelling and grammar errors probably idk fr, jealous!bucky and jealous!reader, SMUT: hair pulling, choking w that vibranium arm, spitting, hickies, kissing, oral (m receiving), fingering, unprotected P in V, creampie, swallowing, reader gets a facial (im going to hell guys), minor handjob, whimpering (MEN WHIMPERING UGH!!)

Word Count: 18k. PART 2

Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Secretary!Fem Reader (reader has vague descriptions regarding having STRAIGHTENED hair/curled hair, reader is shorter than Bucky)

UGHHHHHHHHH LET ME AT HIM! FUCK! anyways MINORS DNI!

James Buchanan Barnes is a terrible congressman.

How he managed to get elected to represent Brooklyn? You had absolutely no idea. Sure his campaign made sense, it aligned with his long-term goals of making amends for the tragedies he’d committed as the Winter Soldier, but outside of his initial campaigning,he hadn’t done much. 

He hadn’t had any major bills passed and he had a terrible media presence. Anytime anyone wanted to interview him or ask any major questions following a congressional session, he would mutter the same ‘yeah uh huh, it’s super important, oh I think we should care about this- blah blah blah’. 

It made zero sense.

That’s the entire reason you were hired. Then again, it was also because you owed Sam Wilson a major favor after he opted not to arrest you following the whole ‘Flag Smashers terrorism’ ordeal. It’s not like you were voluntarily involved with the group, but you were a major part of the brains behind the tech-based operations.Plus, you knew how to talk to people. Most importantly, you knew your ins and outs of politics and had a vast network of connections.

“Bucky, can you just listen to me for once! You’re gonna fuck up your entire career if you keep bullshitting responses to the press!” 

You let out a frustrated sigh, two fingers pinching your nose bridge as you shut your eyes. You’re doing your best to remain calm and avoid screaming at him for the fourth time this week—it’s only Tuesday. 

Working with Barnes was like your own personal hell. 

It made sense that he was over a hundred years old. He's stubborn and rude and since the beginning, it was apparent that he didn’t trust you. He even vouched for you to be arrested a few years ago following the takedown of the Flag Smashers, but that was mostly because you had kicked his ass and clearly bruised his ego.

Things were better now…well, if you didn’t count the constant arguments. He was just too nonchalant at times.

Bucky nodded his head, clearly ignoring you as he focused on buttoning up his white shirt. 

The both of you were in his Washington D.C. penthouse. It was a nice place all things considered, a luxury awarded to him by the government, and, of course, being a national ‘hero’ recognized by Captain America himself did come with perks. 

You lean against the island counter, arms crossed in front of your chest while you glare at him. Meanwhile, he was focused on his own reflection in the large circular wall-mounted mirror across the room. 

You were due for a briefing surrounding the Foreign Affairs congressional committee soon, but based on the way he couldn’t answer any of your questions, you knew he’d either be making a fool of himself or you’d have to swoop in and save the day again.

“Would you relax for five minutes? All you do is yell at me, I get you’re supposed to be my know-it-all secretary but Christ, you need to calm down.” 

Your right eye twitches at his response, then you grab the nearest item to you, a glass vase, and launch it in his direction.

Bucky caught it with ease, shaking his head at you as he eyes you from the reflection of the mirror.

Admittedly, Bucky had no issue with his wandering eyes when it came to you. His gaze trailed from your irritated expression, a smirk on his face at the sight of your ever-present pout, then he eyed the few thin gold chains you always wore tucked into your shirt. Today, you hadn’t buttoned your shirt all the way up just yet, leaving quite the eye-full of cleavage out. 

It didn’t help that you were practically pressing your tits together with your arms crossed below them. Bucky took in the rest of your outfit, one of your black pencil skirts that was deemed as work appropriate and modest--even though it hugged all of your curves perfectly and made your ass practically irresistible. Finally, he landed on your shoes, the pointed toe stiletto heels that he knew made your feet hurt, yet you always had a pair on.

They did wonders for your legs.

You ran a hand through your perfectly straightened hair. Usually every strand was laid perfectly and you’d spend too much time making sure it wasn’t frizzy in the slightest-which was like hell during D.C. summers. Now it was messy, but it was messy in a way that made Bucky’s brows raise slightly.

“Don’t tell me to fucking relax Barnes. Your political career is a direct reflection of my political career. I hate to break it to you, but us being two ex-enemies of the state already have us on thin ice constantly! Presidential pardons don’t mean shit in the eyes of the public—a public which you’re supposed to serve!”

You were raising your voice again, he shook his head at that, now finally turning around to face you while he grabbed his tie.

“Just come help me with this tie so we can go. I read the files. I get it, if I fuck up it’s a problem, blase blase blase. I’ve got speech writers, advisors, and most importantly—you.” 

You sighed again, hands now on your hips as you stared at him while clenching your jaw and shaking your head. You hated when he said things like that to you, things that were a little too sweet for a supposed strictly professional relationship.

Sure, you’d known him before he was a Congressman, but you weren’t close in the slightest. 

Then during the aftermath of the Flag Smashers, Sam had you in constant therapy sessions, and after pulling several strings, he had you working side-by-side with him. That’s what really launched your political career.

People liked to argue that Captain America wasn’t political, but he absolutely was. The mantle itself was propaganda, and honestly, you were glad it was Sam holding the shield, he was the best fit for the job regardless of what idiots thought. 

Sam brought you into the world of politics, and it was easy for you to build a network, plus you were able to spin your own narratives regarding your past, playing into people’s emotions, and sure, it was a little manipulative, but you were smart. 

Y’know what they say—work smarter, not harder.

You had started working with Bucky because Sam had cashed in on the ultimate favor after watching Bucky during his campaign trail. His speeches were all amazing, but then when anyone would ask him a candid question, he would struggle, or he’d be dismissive and it was evident he didn’t want to answer questions or be there.

That’s when you showed up, and following his election, you were at the forefront of his public appearances. Answering questions on his behalf, assisting in briefings, and even being with him during any congressional sessions, especially committee sessions. Most representatives didn’t have their assistants with them at all times, but things were different now, and as the world continued to adapt and change, so did the sphere of politics.

You rolled your eyes as you approached him, stopping less than a foot away, ignoring the ever-apparent butterflies you’d feel in your stomach anytime you had to stand in close quarters with him. It wasn’t that being next to him flustered you, it was being face-to-face with him. There was a height difference, but the heels helped with that.  

However, the heels did not help with his wide stature. Bucky Barnes is a wall of muscle, and some days it felt like his biceps alone were the size of your head.

You knew he knew how to tie his own tie. But you also knew he liked when you did it.

He looked down at you, a smirk on his face while he watched your hands work against his royal-blue tie. Your jaw was still clenched, and you were very clearly annoyed with him.

Bucky knew you had a soft spot for him. Just like he had a soft spot for you.

You know this because he’d already fired two assistants prior to Sam ushering you into the role.

You were the only person he’d ever let scream at him over anything. Admittedly, he kind of liked it when you yelled at him too, but he wouldn’t tell you that. It was attractive because, well, you were attractive. But you were also his assistant that was around eighty years younger than him.

“Can you at least pretend you want to be there today?” You glanced up at him as you finished adjusting his tie. Your faces were inches apart as you searched his icy blue eyes for an answer.

“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try for you.”

You nodded at that, moving away from him and walking towards the sofa to  grab his suit jacket and your purse. Then you glanced down at your watch, muttering a few curses at the time. 

He watched you walk towards the door, snapping your fingers a few times at him. He smiled and shook his head, grabbing his briefcase and keys as he followed you. Before the both of you could leave, you handed him his jacket, raising both brows.

“Put it on, Barnes.” 

He nodded at that, shrugging it on then buttoning it. You were quick to run your hands along the front of his chest, straightening out any potential wrinkles—the motion felt natural to you. The first time you’d done it, it left you flustered and blushing, but now it didn’t bother you. The quicker it was done, the quicker you’d actually be able to make it out of the building and to the car that had been waiting on you both for ten minutes.

Bucky didn’t like being driven around, it was something he was still getting used to. It wasn’t like he couldn’t drive himself. Then again, the drivers usually had bulletproof trucks to avoid any potential Kennedys happening.

Yeah, his career as the Winter Soldier was extensive and most likely resulted in several of the current governmental security measures. 

Besides, at least he knew you would be safe by his side in the blacked out suburban.

On the drive to the capitol building you were talking non-stop, running him through every agenda that had been previously reviewed and would most likely be circled back to today. You also went on and on about him needing to actually answer questions with real information, not his typical half-assed responses brushing everything off.

When the SUV was finally parked and stopped, you grabbed his forearm before getting out of the car. 

“Don’t piss me off today, Barnes.” 

He ran his tongue along his bottom lip as he nodded his head. “No promises, Sweetheart”.

When he said no promises he meant it.

The both of you hadn’t been in the hearing for longer than twenty minutes before he’d managed to irritate you. It didn’t help that this hearing was scheduled to last three hours. 

You prayed that the three hours would go by fast, especially with Bucky already brushing off another congressman. The entire reason he was on this specific committee was because of his experience overseas working with the former Avengers, and several foreign threats, plus his ‘stellar’ work with groups such as the Flag Smashers.

All he was asked to do was give his input on the current situation regarding Celestial Island. That was it. 

It was a simple question, with an even simpler response, and he’d manage to start his bullshit fiasco again.

You were quick to cut him off, a bright smile on your face as you leaned into his space, pulling the small microphone in your own direction.

“What Congressman Barnes means is that we’re very concerned with the potential threat of any foreign militant uprisings pertaining to the discovery and appearance of Celestial island. Alongside that, it’s evident that with the newfound and limited natural resources on the island, there are several concerns regarding the legal boundaries of mining on foreign territory.”

You sat back in your seat, glancing around the room while several officials nodded and took notes. Bucky was staring right at you, his eyes slightly squinted while he tried not to make a scene. He then subtly pinched your thigh, which led to you swatting his hand away. 

When he leaned into your space, you were practically enveloped in the smell of his cologne. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t relax you slightly. 

Bucky whispered into your ear, “Can you not shove me out of the way to correct me every five minutes.” 

Your jaw clenched at his words. His breath against your ear sent a shiver along your spine, and quite frankly you wanted to slap him. Not because he was wrong to address you in a private manner, but because he was making a fool out of himself and pissing you off.

As he pulled back you offered a smile that was very clearly fake. Well, at least to him it was fake.

“Of course, Congressman.” 

The rest of the hearing was spent the same way, you taking notes while he took half-assed notes. Telling him what to say and what not to say, and correcting him a few more times when he couldn’t provide enough detail on the matter.

Once the meeting was adjourned and the both of you were out of the room, the press were everywhere, surrounding each member, asking a million questions, and when they crowded around you and Bucky, you let out a deep sigh, glancing up at him as he smiled and nodded at the reported forcing microphones into his face.

“Congressman Barnes, what is your opinion on the ongoing Celestial Island expeditions and the potential interstellar crisis right now?” He glanced over at you for a brief few seconds. Then he looked around before clenching his jaw and taking a deep breath. He then leaned closer to one of the mics.

“No comment.” 

With that, he was quick to guide you through the crowd and out of the building.

The two of you stood at the top steps of the capitol building, your gaze focused on a series of notes that you’d taken, eyes trailing each sentence, trying to compartmentalize all of the major points of the meeting. Meanwhile, he was shooting the driver a text, letting him know that things had wrapped up.

“You said you wouldn’t piss me off today, Barnes.” 

He shrugged, now looking at you, eyes taking in the way that the sun practically radiated off of your skin. God, you were so beautiful—if only you didn’t talk so damn much. “I said no promises.” 

You shook your head, now squinting as you looked around, the sun brighter than ever. Without even thinking about it, you were using your free hand to fish in Bucky’s jacket pocket, pulling out his black aviator sunglasses before slipping them on and going back to your reading.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a little too comfortable?” 

You blinked a few times, shrugging the same way he always shrugged when people asked him questions. “You’ll be fine Barnes. Also, don’t forget we have a fundraiser to attend tomorrow, black tie event, I think Sam’s an honored speaker there. And if you’re bringing your team of miscreants, make sure to keep them on a tight leash.” With that, you started descending down the white stone steps, leaving him confused.

He watched as you walked off. At first he thought maybe you were messing with him, however, after you’d made it to the bottom and continued walking down the cement path, he knew you were on the way somewhere. It was a nice day outside, so maybe it made sense that you’d go for a walk on Capitol Hill? But that usually entailed you needing to get something, or speak with someone.

“Where the hell are you going?!” he called after you, leading you to pause and spin around, pushing his sunglasses to the top of your head, moving your hair out of the way.

“To get lunch, what am I supposed to photosynthesize?” 

He shook his head, following after you and ignoring the looks he was getting from tourists, locals, and other political figures.

It didn’t take long for him to catch up to you, his long strides quicker than yours as he descended the stairs. That and he wasn’t wearing a pair of four inch stilettos on. Some days when you moved too slowly he’d debate throwing you over his shoulder to get somewhere quicker.

But that was both unprofessional and embarrassing for the both of you. He knew for a fact that you’d make a scene, most likely shouting at him, switching between his military rank to his political title while hitting him.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair before glancing at you as the both of you walked in sync. He took a second to look around, observing the area to ensure there were no major threats. An old habit that always seemed to surface anytime he was with you in public. 

“So, where exactly are we going?” 

You shrugged, now holding a manilla folder above your face to further block the sun, squinting behind the black aviators before crossing the busy street. It wasn’t uncommon for secretaries to walk around the Hill, especially during lunch or recess. You knew your way around the city relatively well.

However, it was clear Bucky did not, considering you were guiding him in the direction of the Vietnamese restaurant that the two of you frequented during the first few months of working together. There wasn’t any point in trying something new, not when you had several pages of notes to sort through and reiterate to Bucky.

“To 54, y’know the cute little mom and pops place we used to go to all the time? Best summer rolls in D.C.” 

He nodded as you spoke.Truthfully, he had no idea what you were talking about. Sure, he knew that when you first started working for him you had dragged him to lunch, claiming that taking a break from the ‘seriousness’ of the job was important, but outside of that, he couldn’t remember half of the places you dragged him to.Usually the food was good, though.

After about ten more minutes of walking alongside Bucky, who was constantly grabbing you and pulling you away from incoming traffic when you’d been too focused on the hearing notes to actually look before crossing the street, you’d finally made it to the restaurant.

The second you opened the door, you spotted Ms. Minh, the older woman that owned the restaurant. Within a few seconds she’d noticed you and Bucky, a wide smile on her face as she approached the both of you with menus.

“My favorite customers! Tell me Bucky, are you two engaged yet?” 

You blinked a few times, eyes wide at the insinuation that you and Bucky were together. When you glanced over at him, his brows were knit together as his eyes met yours. 

Neither of you would acknowledge the rosy flush on his face.

“Now, Ms. Minh, you know we’re not together romantically. He’s my boss, and between me and you, the biggest grouch I know. Plus, he never listens to me! I can’t be with a man who doesn’t listen.” You spoke as you followed her to a table that was a bit more secluded in the back corner of the dining area. 

She shook her head, scoffing a bit before elbowing you, leaning closer to you.“Men never listen, but he’s a good one, can’t let him slip away.” 

You gasped at that, laughing and smiling at her as you sat down. He slid into the seat directly across from you and smiled at Ms. Minh when she handed him his menu, lightly slapping his shoulder and winking before walking off.

“I remember this place now.” 

You nodded your head, smiling as you read through the menu. You knew exactly what you were getting, but you also didn’t want to look into those baby blues right now. Not while you tried your best to ignore the butterflies—scratch that, it was like an entire team of olympic gymnasts were doing somersaults in your stomach.

You’d be a liar if you said you hadn’t ever thought of Bucky romantically. Outside of being an absolute moron in the realm of politics, he’s a genuinely good guy. He’s done the work to make amends, he understands empathy, he’s kind and giving, and in the words of the other assistants you had the displeasure of working with, he really was a tall glass of water.

“Are you gonna take the sunglasses off, Sweetheart?” 

You blinked a few times, finally registering that everything still had a dark blue-ish hue. You were too lost in thought to actually take off the aviators. He already had his hand out, waiting for you to place them in his palm.

Once you returned the glasses, one of the servers came around to take your order, and without any hesitation you were ordering for yourself and for him. When he opened his mouth to say something you quickly shushed him before finishing the order. “I know what you like, Barnes.” 

He nodded slowly, looking from you to the glass of ice water on the table. Sure, you did know what he liked to a certain extent. 

He also liked you, a lot more than he should’ve. But he was positive you didn’t know that, even if you were the biggest know-it-all on the goddamn planet.

You finally looked up at him, now stirring the thin plastic straw in your glass of water, taking a second to push the lemon wedge to the bottom of the glass, lightly squishing it with the straw.

“So, after the term is over, what’s next for you Congressman Barnes?” 

He shrugged, one hand reaching for his phone, the other on the tabletop, fingers tapping against the worn wood. The white, green, and red hues from one of the bright neon signs on the wall reflecting against his skin ever so slightly as he looked at you.

James Barnes needed to be painted. He was too handsome to not be preserved forever in art. Then again, anytime you’d ever mentioned anything about him being preserved, he’d make a joke about being in cryostasis that would leave your jaw dropped.

“I dunno, probably go back to being a hero or something, who knows. Got the whole ‘New Avengers’ thing to address. Maybe, keep working on the whole making amends thing. Not sure if politics are for me.” 

You tried to hold in your laugh but it easily slipped past the cracks in your stoic expression. “I’m gonna say this as your friend, not your assistant so don’t fire me. But you’re really shitty at your job.” 

He laughed at that, shaking his head lightly, his hair had a slight bounce that made you want to run your fingers through the chocolate locks.

“You’re probably right Sweetheart, but the Winter Soldier turned politician looks good on paper. Sam’s always talking about history remembering names, guess it was the best way to redeem myself. Y’know serving the people.” 

As the both of you spoke, your food was brought out. The two bowls of pho were placed on the table, alongside your side of summer rolls. You absentmindedly grabbed the few bottles of sauce on the table. Immediately adding some hoisin sauce and a dash of sriracha to his, the way he always liked it.

Then you moved onto your own, throwing bean sprouts, mint, and jalapenos into the bowl.

“Y’know I can do things on my own.” 

You shrugged, now raising a single brow. “Then I wouldn’t have a job.” 

He rolled his eyes, but the smile on his face was evident, a large toothy grin that was typically reserved for the people closest to him. Bucky let out a boisterous laugh as he picked up his chopsticks, mixing his pho. “Fine, you got me there I guess.” 

You nodded at that, then added, “Besides, I like doing stuff for you. Actually, I think I just enjoy doing things for people in general, I guess it’s my love language or whatever Joaquin says.” 

The mention of the new Falcon bothered Bucky, not because he didn’t like the kid, but because it had an angry green emotion swirling in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t envy, no it was blatant jealousy.

“Ah, how is Joaquin anyways?”

You raised a brow at him, swallowing the food in your mouth before answering. “Well, after crash landing into the Indian Ocean, his recovery is actually going really well. Been in physical therapy and rehab for a while, still doesn’t shut the hell up, and is constantly yapping Sam’s ear off—and mine—when he calls. I think he’s back in the air now too, last I heard from Sam at least.” 

He nodded as he ate. Then, he couldn’t help himself  “So…are you two still close?” 

Your brows knit together as your head craned back a bit. 

“It’s pretty unprofessional to ask about your assistant's love life, hmm?” you were teasing him, pointing the chopsticks in hand at him, both brows raised now. Then your smile cracked. “Good  thing we’re friends-ish. But no, me and Joaquin are a negative, sure we’re around the same age, but I dunno, he’s a great friend, but not my type y’know. I usually go for the whole tall, brooding, kinda mean, type.”

Bucky bit his bottom lip slightly as you spoke. Externally, he was focused on you and his meal. Internally he was jumping for joy at the fact that you weren’t remotely interested in Joaquin Torres. Plus, hearing your usual type, he was right up your alley. But once again, it was incredibly unprofessional to fraternize with your secretary.

“So, what about you, Barnes? Seeing any ladies when I’m not around?” You wiggled your brows at him. He shook his head, laughing while you practically stuffed your face with a summer roll. He was glad you were comfortable around him, but that comfort also fed into his delusions he liked to keep to himself.

Plus, you were annoying. But he kind of liked annoying these days.

“Yeah, no. All I do is work, don’t have much time for a social life, sure as hell don’t have time for a romantic one at this point. Besides, I’m a bit old to be going back into the dating scene.” 

You scoffed at that. “Not true at all! Sure on paper you’re like a century old, but I mean c’mon you’re like what thirty-six? Thirty-seven? And I mean this in the most professional sense, you’re not exactly ugly or unattractive. Sure you’re mean, a politician, and have a history of being a war criminal! But we all have flaws!” 

He blinked several times, head tilting slightly while shutting his eyes and pinching his nose bridge while taking a deep sigh. “You’re a terrible relationship coach.”

You shrugged at that, biting into the second summer roll before pausing, food clearly stuffed into your right cheek like a hamster. “That’s why I’m in politics, duh.”

Then your phone was ringing, and Party in the U.S.A. was on full blast, earning several looks from people around you both. You sighed, putting your spoon down before grabbing the phone off of the table and answering while looking directly at Bucky who had a single brow raised.

“Sam, please tell me this isn’t a work related call.” You sighed, as you listened to Sam speak, running a hand through your now frizzy hair. Then, you placed the phone between your cheek and shoulder, digging through your bag in the empty chair beside you until you were able to pull out your planner. The same planner which several people made fun of you for using, stating that you needed to just use google calendar or some other app.

The apps never worked for you, so you stuck to pen and paper.

Then you were flipping it open to this week, eyes scanning the different hearings, meetings, press releases, and scattered notes. Brows knit together as you dug out a pen.

“So, it’s mandatory? Like this isn’t one of those ‘oh we wish we could’ve made an appearance, so sorry for missing the fundraiser’?” You let out another sigh at Sam’s response, now looking up at Bucky who was focused on drinking his water and attempting to read all of your scribbled notes upside down.

“This is way beyond short notice Sam, y’know one day can you just call to invite us to one of Sarah’s cookouts again? Or maybe a fishing trip? Hell, even saving the world would be better.” 

Bucky groaned as he finally registered that you were making note of a charity fundraiser event happening in two days.

“Okay Sam, yes I’m fine! Yes I’m safe! Wha-what?! Don’t ask me that oh my god! Goodbye Sam!” You quickly hung up, a bit flustered over Sam’s last question, and as much as Bucky wanted to ask what it was, you were already focused on the schedule. Sometimes you were like a robot, immediately switching into work mode, hyper fixated on a task until it was fully complete.

This was one of those instances, or at least, from his end, that’s how it seemed.

Meanwhile, you were just avoiding his gaze after Sam had asked if you and Bucky and finally ‘dealt with that sexual tension’. It wasn’t like you had sexual tension! He was just your very attractive boss that fit right into your typical archetype of men that you’d go after, plus he was older, which was an added bonus. 

But he was also stubborn as ever, mean, unprepared, unprofessional at times, and obnoxious when he wanted to be. 

Everyone has flaws, you just had to fixate on his to remind yourself that Bucky’s your boss not your potential husb—boyfriend. The first option would be too far fetched, even if Ms. Minh was your biggest supporter in the matter.

“Okay Barnes, turns out we have a mandatory charity fundraiser to attend this weekend, and since today’s Thursday, I’ve gotta book us some flights for tomorrow to be back in New York. Turns out it’s in Manhattan, and apparently it’s at the old Avengers tower, also known as your future home.” 

He sighed, shaking his head at the reminder of Valentina’s ‘New Avengers’ scheme. He would be finishing his term before being fully acclimated into the misfit group of ex-criminals. But when the two of you were in New York, or he was needed, he would show up with you in tow. By technicality, you were also a part of the rag tag group of anti-heroes.

“You mean our future home?” 

Something about the way he emphasized the word ‘our’ sent heat along your neck and cheeks. 

“Please, I’m not a damn Avenger. I’ll probably stay in the political sphere, even after your stint as a Rep is over.” 

He shook his head at that, a ‘tsk tsk tsk’ leaving his lips. “That’s what you think, you were there at the press conference a few months ago. Plus, we’re still going back and forth with Sam about the whole Avengers fiasco. Pretty sure he’s just gonna form one gigantic group eventually, sift out the nutcases and move from there.” 

You reached across the table, lightly smacking his arm. “Don’t talk about Bob like that!” 

He sighed, shrugging again. “You’re always quick to defend him y’know that? You don’t defend Walker—” 

You cut him off. “Yeah cause he’s an asshole! But Bob is really sweet! He’s just, like, super bipolar. Besides, he reminds me of my mom, y’know, before she went totally psycho after the blip.” 

You cleared your throat at the mention of your mother, it was a sore subject, one that was typically only brought up in therapy.

“But you need to stop calling him a nutcase! And that also applies to Alexei! He’s also super nice! A bit much at times? Yes, but he cares! Don’t be so mean to your team.” 

He raised a singular finger, pausing your rant. ���Actually, you’re the only one on my team, literally and legally. But fine, you’re right I guess, I’ll be nicer to them. Even if they’re all in need of some serious court mandated therapy.” 

You smiled at that, now closing your planner and shoving it back into your purse.

“Good. Besides, not everyone gets to be like Sam and recruit a bunch of happy-go-lucky people who have aspired to be heroes their entire life. I mean Joaquin and Kate are always so happy, they’re like golden retrievers. Peter’s also pretty positive, granted he’s still grieving, but I’m glad he’s managed to see the good in people again. But Stephen Strange can count his days, next time I see him, I’m kicking his ass on principle—off the record.”

Bucky let you rant, it wasn’t necessarily an ‘in one ear, out the other’ situation, but you looked so pretty as you spoke, the sunlight beaming from outside highlighted the soft angles of your face, then the LED signs on the wall had small hues of color dancing along your features, and your smile was always so vibrant and full of life.

He was whipped.

Sam was completely right.

“I’m charging this to your card by the way, and I’m tipping the same as the bill. You can afford it.” With that you winked, now walking towards Ms. Minh who sat behind a small counter that blocked the entrance to the kitchen. 

The next day was a whirlwind for Bucky, he knew he had to travel today. He was used to the constant back and forth. It was his last year as a Representative, and because he represented Brooklyn, the both of you were always going back and forth between New York and D.C.

However, you were the one who always organized the travel plans, and usually you both avoided early morning flights because you didn’t live together, meaning you were likely to make it, and he wasn’t. At this rate he should’ve been used to the travel, but he wasn’t and you constantly reminded him that he was on thin ice.

Today he’d finally fallen into the frozen lake.

Yesterday at about seven thirty you’d sent him the flight details. You were set to take off at eight in the morning, meaning you had to be up around five and at the airport by six forty-five. That would’ve given the both of you enough time to actually make your flight, then head over to the tower early to help with preparations for the fundraiser, and to go over a few important details with Yelena about the impending galactic crisis, the same crisis that you’d gotten a plethora of information on from sitting through the Foreign Affairs committee meetings over the past two months.

Bucky woke up at eight forty-five with twenty-three missed calls, fifteen very angry text messages, and three even angrier emails. He tried to call you back, and you purposefully ignored the first two calls, finally answering on the third, thankful that you’d purchased the in-plane wifi as it gave you the opportunity to yell at him.

Then, you were texting him flight information for eleven in the morning, which led to him rushing to pack a bag, almost missing the pile of documents that you’d left on his kitchen island for him with a neon-pink sticky note on top that said ‘Take Me’, and rushing out of his townhouse.

He didn’t have time for a driver, so he opted for his motorcycle which he knew would piss you off once you found out. Especially because he also wasn’t in his typical suit and tie, no he was in his black jeans, a t-shirt, and his leather jacket. 

That would inevitably get him yelled at. He’d seen the schedule you emailed to him, specifically stating that the moment he got off of his flight, he needed to haul ass—your words not his—to the tower to be remotely present at a meeting regarding a potential impeachment hearing. It wasn’t his impeachment—thankfully.

Bucky would also probably have to deal with more press on the issue circulating who the ‘real Avengers’ were, which was also a previous major point of contention between him and Sam, to the point that Sam had threatened a full-on lawsuit, followed by a copyright of the ‘Avengers’ title itself.

But under your guidance, also known as you forcing him and Sam to sit down and talk things over like ‘real adults’, they were able to come to a temporary agreement solely based on the fact that the galactic threats, celestial island, and global terrorist movements were a bigger issue than who got to ‘play hero for the day’. Once again, your words not his.

To be fair, Bucky wouldn’t have missed his flight if you lived with him. But you were hellbent on not living in the same house as him, even if you were his assistant, you called it ‘highly inappropriate and fully unprofessional’. Which, in theory it was, but he didn’t really care about theory.

It made perfect sense to him, you were already always with him, what was moving in going to change? Or rather, what would moving in change, negatively.

Now, he had to figure out how to grovel for your forgiveness. He had a few ideas, but they were far from professionally appropriate. There’s that very obvious line that Bucky is well aware of, the line that he can’t cross, even if he’s constantly contemplating it.

He’d barely made it to the airport on time, and he’d paid extra to park his motorcycle, which pissed him off. Then he was practically sprinting through the airport to make his flight, which he somehow managed to board at the last possible minute.

By the time he landed in New York, you were already ready to curse him out. Now standing in the airport outside of his gate, arms crossed in front of your chest, foot tapping against the tiled floors while you stared directly at the crowd leaving the flight.

He spotted you before you spotted him. He knew he was in deep shit based on the way your jaw was clenched and your usually pristine hair was thrown into a hairclip, loose strands framing your face, frizzy bits and pieces sticking out of the clip, and you weren’t in your heels.Instead you had on a pair of flats. 

Flats were never a good sign. 

Plus you ditched the pencil skirt for pants, and a black blouse. 

“Listen, Sweetheart, I’m sorry—” 

You easily cut him off, immediately shushing him and taking a deep breath. “Let’s go before I cuss you out and lose my goddamn job.” 

He slowly nodded at your cold demeanor.

This was different.

You walked ahead of him, he wasn’t used to that. Usually you kept the same pace, but not today, not when you were in your angry flats and exhausted outfit. 

It wasn’t until the both of you were in a cab that you finally broke.

“Are you freaking kidding me, Barnes?! Can you not piss me off for one day? One day! It’s not like I asked something major, I sent you the flight last night at seven! You had more than enough time to set a damn alarm! And why the hell aren’t you in a suit?! Did you miss the fact that the millisecond we get back, you need to be present as a Congressman?! Not as yourself—” you took a deep breath, looking up at the roof of the car as you shook your head.

You looked over at him, and he finally noticed how stressed you really looked, his eyes trailing your fatigued features. This job was difficult, he knew that, but something else was clearly bothering you.

“I get it. You’re tired, your job is hard, okay fine. But Jesus Christ. You just act like shit doesn’t matter, and fuck—it fucking matters. Everything fucking matters, Buck—” 

His right hand was on the side of your face, pulling you closer to him as he leaned forward to kiss you. 

It took you a few seconds to process the fact that James Buchanan Barnes was kissing you. The same James Barnes that was your boss who you were incredibly irritated with. But you didn’t pull away, no, you kissed him back.

Your lips moved in sync, and for a second you let yourself slip into a land of delusion where this would work. But this was real life, and you were not about to risk everything you’d worked hard for to screw your boss. So you shoved him off of you.

“What the fuck!?” 

He stared at you, lips slightly parted as his gaze was focused on your lips for a few more seconds. You tasted like strawberry chapstick and mint. Then his eyes met yours.

“Uh, something came over me, I guess?” his nonchalance made your eye twitch. Then you were shoving a folder full of paperwork into his chest.

“Focus on that or something, Jesus. Once again, I’m your assistant and that just crossed so many boundaries it’s not even funny. It was a mistake, plain and simple, we’re not circling back to this ever again, got it?” 

He slowly nodded at you, taking the leather-bound folder from you while rolling his lips inward.

The rest of the ride was silent. It wasn’t your typical comfortable silence, it was tense and awkward and you did your best to not look at him. Your gaze focused on the moving traffic in the streets and anything that wasn’t James Barnes. 

“So, are you gonna tell me what’s wrong? Outside of your never-ending rage about my morning fuck ups—” 

You gasped slightly at the sound of him cursing. You knew he swore, but neither of you ever moved past words like ‘hell’ or ‘damn’ with one another, now you were both diving off of the deep end of cursing and kissing. This couldn’t possibly end well.

“Nothings wrong. I’m just tired.” 

He shrugged, flipping a few pages in hand, focused on the briefing notes that you’d reorganized. “No, something is definitely wrong, you have on one of your ‘having a bad day’ outfits. Down to the shoes.” 

You sighed, slumping into the seat with your arms crossed again. Eyes now on the street ahead. “My mom called.” 

He looked at you, noticing the way you were picking at the skin and cuticles around your thumb. It made sense, sure he knew you had a lot of pent up rage that was specifically reserved for him, but he was used to that, this was different. “Wanna talk about it?”

You shrugged. “Not much to talk about. She’s having one of her ‘high on life’ phases again. Told me she’s off the pills. Won’t take them.” 

He nodded, he knew you had issues with your mom, but he also knew you really cared about her, even if you had an odd way of showing that. Not everyone was raised with ‘I love yous’. “Y’know you can always take time off to go see her, the worlds not gonna end.” 

You shook your head at that, gaze now on your hands. “I’m not putting myself through that again. You can’t save everyone, I’ve learned to accept that. Guess it makes me as depressed as the rest of the Thunderbolts, hmm?” You tried to crack a joke, but your usual laugh and silly expression was missing. He placed a hand on your knee, giving it a gentle reassuring squeeze.

The rest of the ride was quiet. Once the two of you had arrived at the Avengers tower you were back in ‘work mode’ rushing Bucky into the building, rolling your eyes at some of the half-assed security measures on the first floor. More specifically the DNA based retina scan you were required to do in order to gain access to the higher levels where everyone lived.

You rushed him into a conference room, muttering a series of curse words that would for sure get you blackballed from politics if they were ever heard aloud. Especially in the context of cursing out other politicians.

Then, you were forcing Bucky into a seat, rolling your eyes at the sight of his appearance, sure he looked good in the leather jacket and fitted t-shirt, but that was the least professional thing he could’ve put on. You wanted to smack him with a book.

You didn’t need to be present for the impeachment proposal, so you gave yourself the hour to breathe. An hour of alone time, spent on the rooftop with your legs hanging over the edge, shoes already off and sitting to your side. At first you opted to put your earbuds in, listening to music as you glanced along the skyline, gaze moving across Manhattan, then you took them out.

Finding comfort in chaos was normal for you. It was easy. It’s the entire reason that you worked so well with the Flag Smashers in the first place—you were the brains they needed, and they were constantly on the move, constantly doing something. They never stood still.

Then, of course, they’d injected you with a super soldier serum against your will, but that was neither here nor there. Some days you missed working with organizations like that,they were fundamentally righteous and overzealous, but the people had passion, they cared. They had a problem and wanted to create their own solution, even if it was extreme.

You’d always wanted to do that, find solutions to the problems in the world. It made slipping into politics easier, especially at Sam’s side, and now at Bucky’s. 

But Bucky Barnes knew how to tick you off. 

Yet even on your shittiest days, he still managed to make you smile. Your fingers gently grazed your lips, as if they could feel the ghost of his against them. 

It was morally wrong for you to want to kiss your boss. Just like it was wrong to want to run your fingers through his hair, to trace his jawline, to feel his back muscles, and to imagine what it would be like to sleep with him beyond the realm of cuddling. Bucky kissing you was like opening Pandora’s box. 

You knew you were attracted to him, and he gave you butterflies from time to time, but now as you thought about him, you were thinking about more than just a simple kiss. 

The sound of your phone’s timer going off caught your attention, knocking you out of your sex-filled thoughts as you got up and slid your shoes back on. 

Once you made it back to the briefing room, he was no longer there, so you opted to look for him without screaming like a maniac. You’d run into Bob, Yelena, and Ava before finally finding him in one of the larger common spaces, now looking at his newest Winter Soldier tactical suit as it was laid out across a table.

“What, you wanna play dress up now?” 

He turned to look at you, shaking his head at the question. “Meeting went well, they asked me one question. I said yes to the trial.” 

You shook your head, cracking a small smile. One of the Texas representatives was going on trial for misconduct and for going against the constitution, he deserved to be impeached in your eyes, and after reading your very irritated notes on the matter, Bucky agreed with you.

“So, care to explain why you’ve got your gear?” 

He shrugged, now looking back at the black suit. “Well, turns out, I’m hanging up the mantle until my term is officially over. Talked it over with Yelena while you were decompressing. Besides, they seem to be doing alright without me all the time.” 

You slowly nodded, brows knit together as you moved to stand beside him, now looking at his suit as well. “That's it then? What if you end up severely out of shape and can’t run a mile?” 

He blinked a few times, shaking his head at the joke, then he lightly elbowed you. “Then I’ll have you to yell at me. Besides, I've already put on some weight.” 

You scoffed at that, responding without even thinking about it. “Barnes, you’ve got the dad bod that makes ovulating women foam out of their mouths. You’ve got that muscular frame that would keep someone warm at night.”

Your eyes widened when you looked up at him, he looked taken aback, lips slightly parted while he processed what you said. Then you had to process what you’d said as well.

“For the record, I mean that in a totally platonic, hype-woman kind of way. Oh and here—I found these, figured you might want them back.” 

He watched as you dug in your pocket, pulling out a thin silver chain, then he noticed the silver tags on them.

You held the necklace up, his military dog tags hanging from it. “Sergeant Barnes, you really should keep an eye on your things. They were in one of my purses. Honestly, not gonna lie, I had them on walking through TSA so I didn’t lose them.” 

He nodded at that, biting his bottom lip at the thought of you in his dog tags with nothing else on.

Then you snapped with your free hand. “Hello? Earth to Barnes? Take your tags. I don’t even know why I had them in the first place. Considering you almost never take them off.” 

He blinked a few times, shaking his head before running his hand through his hair. That brought your eyes to his hair, sure you’d made fun of the mid-length long hair a few times, but with the way his hair was parted down the middle, a bit voluminous, and managed to frame his face perfectly, he looked like prince charming.

If Prince Charming was a half-decent Congressman and former war criminal that managed to irritate you every twenty-seven minutes. 

“Keep them for me.” 

You raised a single brow at that, glancing between the dangling chain in hand and him.“Am I your closet or something?” 

He scoffed at that, shaking his head while placing his hands on his hips, the motion drawing your attention directly to his waist. It was a terrible thing to focus on, not because he was unattractive, but because it reminded you of every inappropriate thought and fantasy that had surfaced on the rooftop earlier.

“No, but consider them a good luck charm, besides, if I had taken them off and left them with you, clearly I trusted you with them. I’d be a liar if I said I remember the exact day that I left them, but I had to have a reason. Now c’mere—” he paused, gently taking the chain from you before facing you fully. 

He took a second to look down at you as you turned to face him. Then, he was slipping the necklace onto you, taking a moment to properly adjust the tags once they were dangling against your chest, the motion making you blush as his hand brushed against your clothed chest.

God, you felt like a bumbling virgin. 

This was his fault, all of it was his fault. If he hadn’t kissed you in the car none of this would be happening, you would’ve been able to keep any and all sexual thoughts about him locked in the deepest pits of your mind. Nothing would’ve changed, or shifted.

Hell, you weren’t even sure if something had shifted or if you were overthinking everything.

You made eye contact with him, getting lost in the ocean blue of his irises.The moment was intimate, too intimate. His tongue grazed his bottom lip as he held eye contact with you, a storm of emotions flowing through his eyes and wrecking his entire being.

Part of him wanted to kiss you again, the other part was afraid that if he did kiss you, you’d up and quit your job.

Bucky knew he needed you in his life. Not just because you helped elevate his political career in every sense, but because you kept him in check. You weren’t just his assistant, you were his friend, and even if he hated to admit it sometimes, he really did appreciate everything that you’d done for him.

The moment was interrupted by a door slamming, both of you jumping apart as you looked towards the far end of the room, Alexei walking in with Yelena in tow, the both arguing over her childhood soccer team’s sponsor once again. When they spotted how close you and Bucky were, they both paused, sharing a look before turning around and leaving the room.

You cleared your throat, glancing down at your watch. 

“I have to uh—shit sorry. I’m a little all over the place today, but I have to make a personal call. You don’t have much else to do today, there’s a few emails I need you to respond to though, and I forwarded you a request for a congressional scholarship. The kid lives in your old neighborhood in Brooklyn, and honestly, it’s a pretty convincing piece. I need your approval before moving forward in that process, lots of paperwork involved.”

You paused, pulling your phone out of your right pocket, glancing down at the screen while reading several text messages and a few subject lines from several emails forwarded to you.

“Turns out I have more than a few emails I need you to read. Oh, and I need to type up an outline for a briefing about the whole space war thing. I’ll forward everything over to you, and can you please,for the love of Christ himself, make sure to actually docusign the pdfs I send? Without your signature there’s no legality.” 

He shook his head, a small smile on his face as he watched you slip right back into ‘work mode’. It was all so natural for you, and your seriousness was adorable. 

“Are you even listening? I need to go call Sam and find out when he’s flying in. He should be here tonight, hopefully sooner than later. Also, Valentina’s been pissing Yelena off with her lawyers. I’ll be dealing with that fiasco today, honestly I’m probably just gonna threaten to blackmail them, works every time.”

“You talk a mile a minute.” 

You raised a brow at him, now looking back at him, slipping your phone back into your pocket. 

“You’re already on thin ice today, Barnes. Don’t start irritating me again. Oh and Mel wants to talk to you.” 

He noticed the shift in your tone at the mention of Valentina’s assistant. If he wasn’t so unsure of his feelings towards you, he would’ve been able to easily identify the jealousy in your voice. But, he was too busy internally debating whether or not kissing you again was a bad idea and simultaneously debating on resigning from his position as a Congressman.

Things would surely be a lot less stressful. 

Then again, you’d probably incinerate him.

“What’s she want to talk about exactly?” 

You simply shrugged, arms crossed in front of your chest as you tried to remain neutral. “I dunno, maybe call her back and find out, since she won’t tell me directly. She’ll only send me passive aggressive emails and texts about needing to reach you. I don’t even know who the hell gave her my number.”

Your irritation was seeping through, so instead of staying on the subject of Melissa Gold you chose to turn around, heading towards the doors, ready to head to your temporary bedroom (which Yelena said would be your permanent room once you settled into the tower) and work. 

He watched you walk away, eyes trialing your figure, stopping on your ass. Even in the wrinkled slacks it still looked good. Bucky’s head even tilted to the side a bit as your hips moved back and forth, 

“Call me if you need me, Barnes.”You hadn’t even turned back to look at him, then you were gone and he was still staring. 

Sam Wilson arrived at the Avenger’s tower at almost two in the morning. 

Naturally, you were still awake, sitting in an empty living room area.The only light in the room streaming in from the large floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Manhattan’s night-life. The room had a deep blue-ish purple hue to it, a few small golden lights shimmering around, emphasizing items that were plugged in or left out. 

Then there was your laptop screen that illuminated your features as you angrily typed up all of your unorganized committee notes into streamlined documents,not only your boss, but for the rest of his and Sam’s team. 

You recognized the footsteps in the room, three distinct sets, one lighter than the others—Kate’s, one with a bit of a wider stance and a slight sway as if their feet weren’t firmly planted on the floor—Joaquin’s, and finally, one that was louder, steps heavier—Sam’s. 

They hadn’t noticed you at first, not until the lights were turned on. Thankfully they were dim, not the typical bright fluorescents that would have driven you into a state of rage. Then the three of them saw you, seated on the large black sectional, a green knit blanket wrapped around your figure as your computer rested in your lap and one of the side tables had been pulled to your side, covered in files, paperwork, and pens. 

“Jesus kid, late night?” 

You sighed, nodding your head, not even bothering to turn and face Sam.“Working for the U.S. government is exhausting in an inexplicable way. But I’m glad you guys got in safe.”

Sam nodded at that “I’m gonna hit the hay, we’ll debrief in the morning? Actually, maybe in the afternoon. Gives you some time to sleep, I know you’ll be up for a while. Don’t worry about Buck either.”

You finally turned to look at him, a small smile on your face while you nodded at that. “I’d get up to hug you but I’m finally comfortable.” 

Kate laughed at that, moving to the couch, leaning over the back of it, wrapping her arms around your shoulders in a warm embrace. “I missed you! We’ll catch up tomorrow or the day after! But I gotta go find Yel. Pretty sure she waited up for me.” 

You used your right arm to hug her back.“Yeah, she’s on the eighth floor, go down the corridor, last door to the left. She’s most definitely waiting on you, earlier today she was talking Bob’s ear off about you, Bishop.” You both laughed at that, then she kissed the top of your head, a dramatic ‘mwah’ leaving her lips as she gathered her things and left the room.

Sam followed suit, saying his ‘goodnight’s’. It made you contemplate packing things up and trying to head back to sleep.

Truthfully, you’d fallen asleep at around seven, a distinct lack of sleep the night before causing you to crash. But of course, you weren’t able to sleep peacefully through the night, rather you jolted awake in a cold sweat at 11:23pm, eyes wide as you processed the very explicit dream about Bucky. Not only was it explicit, but it left a noticeable damp spot in your panties.

That pissed you off.

The cold shower that followed also ticked you off.

You wanted to stay in your room, however it was too hot in there, and you couldn’t figure out how to work the air conditioner, which led to you migrating to one of the living room-esque common spaces on the floor that held several guestrooms.

It was always cold.

“Well hello to you too!” Joaquin smiled as he rounded the couch, opting to sit right beside you, leaning into your space while he looked at the laptop screen, brows raised at the side-by-side page display showcasing a numerical outline with different bolded headings, subheadings, and specific details regarding each categorized issue. 

“Damn, sometimes I forget how smart you are.” 

You yawned while nodding. “This is literally my own personal hell. I hate organizing my notes, but I can’t just force everyone to read my scribbles. I only force Buck to do that.”

He elbowed you, earning your attention as he wiggled his eyebrows up and down, signature smirk on his face. “So…you call him Buck now I see?” 

You groaned, lightly shoving Joaquin. “Don’t even start! He’s my boss! That’s it.” You felt the heat in your cheeks as you attempted to lie to Joaquin. It didn’t help that the man was one of your closest friends, and could see right through you. He was quick to scoff, lightly elbowing you again, over and over.

“Yeah right, just your boss my ass! That’s like when I said my physical therapist was just my therapist. You’re full of shit and you know it!” 

You sighed, saving the document you were working on before shutting the laptop, placing it on the table in front of you, s.hoving him away to get comfortable again, you now face Joaquin with your legs criss-crossed on the large sofa cushion. “That is not the same thing!”

He nodded his head, scooting back some to face you, the positioning very familiar to you both. When you first started working with Sam, Joaquin had welcomed you with open arms. He hadn’t judged you, not after hearing your story, and after witnessing your peaceful surrender. Well, it was somewhat peaceful, you’d fought Bucky first, eventually managing to take him down—but that wasn’t important.

It was easy to bond with Joaquin, mainly because he never stopped talking. He’d easily gone from being just your co-worker to your friend, and now one of your best friends.

“Uh yes it is, we literally went back and forth for like years. Pretty sure I fell in love with her the moment I laid my eyes on her, then had to do the whole ‘this is strictly professional’ thing forever. Bullshited reasons to be around her, fought with her constantly, but in the end she was right—still is right most of the time, and we’re completely and utterly in love. Plus the sex is great? Wait—have you and him hooked up yet?” 

Your jaw dropped, eyes wide as shock painted your features. Then you were leaning towards him, smacking him on the bicep a few times.“Hell no! Once again he’s my literal boss. What the hell is wrong with you?!” 

Joaquin raised a single brow at that. “So something did happen. Your left eye twitched a little! What aren’t you telling me? Wait, are you still jealous of that other assistant that he talks to sometimes?”

You smacked him again.“Joaquin Torres, keep your freaking voice down! Jesus! And no I’m not jealous of Mel. What’s there to be jealous of?!” You were being too defensive, and your voice had gone up an octave.

“Stop bullshitting me! You’re so into him and you hate how caring he sounds when he talks to her, or do I need to pull the series of spam texts you sent me telling me how much you hated her and hated him. Or the drunken voicemail?” He held his phone up, staring at you while your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.“Now, tell me what happened between the both of you!”

You sighed, nodding your head, running a hand over your face before giving in and divulging him on everything that had gone on in the past forty-eight hours. Even letting him know about the car kiss, followed by the sexual tension that you knew was obvious, and finally, the most embarrassing detail being your wet dream about him.

Of course you didn’t go into detail about the dream.

“Damn, you’re more whipped than I am, and I’m in an actual relationship.” That earned another smack. “Hey! Okay, shit! Stop hitting me woman! Wait—what’s that—” he pointed to his neck, then to yours.

Your eyes widened as you reached a hand up, the blanket had fallen off of one of your shoulders, exposing the loose U Miami crewneck that you had on, except you’d cut the neckline so it sat off of your shoulder. It hadn’t occurred to you that you still had Bucky’s dog tags on. Then you felt around your neck and upper chest, hands finally grasping the tags.

“No way in hell he gave you those and you’re ‘strictly professional’.” He spoke with air quotations while watching you grasp the tags in one hand. “Yeah, that’s definitely your man, are you kidding me? The only person I’d ever trust with my tags is my girl. Here's some advice though, when you two finally go at it, and you’re on top of him make sure they’re in his fac-” 

He was hit in the face by a throw pillow. 

The two of you spent the next hour and a half talking. Joaquin kept trying to convince you that you were clearly in love with Bucky and vice versa. Meanwhile, you argued the entire time, and tried to turn the subject towards anything else.Eventually, the both of you settled on his current relationship, and it was nice to see him gush over his physical therapist turned girlfriend. 

You even told him that you were proud he’d managed to find someone who loved that he never shut up, the two of you in a fit of laughter after that.

The next afternoon had passed by fairly quickly, mostly because you were extremely busy.

You’d barely seen Bucky, only speaking with him during your debrief on the current galactic issues, but that hour and a half was mostly focused on answering Yelena and Sam’s questions based on the information provided by the U.S. government.

Sure, some of it was technically top secret, but you all technically were employed by the government, and did also hold the security clearance to know about the ongoing monitoring. 

He wasn’t in a suit again and you weren’t in your heels. Actually, you’d foregone any professional attire. It was a rare sight for everyone to see you in a t-shirt and sweats, not to mention the white fuzzy slippers. Your hair was pulled into two braids and you lacked any makeup, even wearing your prescription glasses that you usually left at home.

Bucky didn’t focus on a single thing you said during the briefing. His gaze was fixated on you and all he could think about was how comfortable and casual you looked, and that flooded his mind with domestic fantasies about you. Said fantasies almost spiraled into the thought of you with a ring on your left hand, a round belly, and a baby on your hip with eyes as blue as the clear sky.

He had to snap himself out of it several times. The fantasy was just that, a fantasy. You were still his assistant, and you’d already made it plenty clear that you were not interested in any semblance of a romantic relationship with him. Things were strictly professional, and once his term was over, you’d go your separate ways.

You’d practically sprinted out of the conference room once the hour and a half had passed, and he knew you were supposed to be helping in preparations for the fundraiser with Sam and Joaquin. He didn’t care that you and Joaquin were ‘just friends’, the thought of you spending your time with him irritated Bucky in ways he couldn’t comprehend.

By the time the fundraiser itself was starting, you were nowhere to be found and he was stuck making small talk with local politicians. Most of what they discussed surrounded Bucky’s future plans once the term had settled, he’d made a few comments about running for re-election and being an Avenger, stating that it might clash, doing his best to warm people up to the idea of him having to choose one over the other.

It was an obvious choice for him.

Well obvious outside of the fact that if he chose to be an Avenger, he might lose you, but then again, you were also technically an Avenger, whether you liked it or not. You’d been there that day in Manhattan, you were in the void, and you were at the conference, standing right beside him.

Then Mel had finally tracked him down, pulling him into a more secluded area, showing him a series of top-secret footage that Valentina had been trying to fully erase regarding the Sentry project. She was giving him useful information that would not only help Bob better understand who and what he was, but information that could be leveraged over Valentina if needed.

It was classic blackmail, something that you often shrugged off. It wasn’t that you were blackmailing people all the time, but you said it was part of politics, and he fully allowed you to do whatever you wanted. He trusted you to make the right decisions for both of your careers, and time and time again, you did.

“Oh, hey Y/n, you look beautiful tonight!” Mel’s chipper voice irritated you. 

You’d stumbled across them accidentally. You’d been looking for Sam, and instead you managed to find Mel and Bucky, leaning close together, in a quiet dimly lit area. You could clearly see the phone in her hand that she was showing to him, but she was too close to Bucky.

He turned away from Mel, gaze now on you, his brows raised a bit while his lips parted, eyes practically burning a hole into you while he took in every inch of your appearance from head to toe.

Your hair was voluminous and clearly curled, the now loose-waves framing your face perfectly and cascading along your shoulders and back. Your makeup was minimal, almost identical to your typical look, except your lips were a deep crimson and your waterline was emphasized with a black smoked-out eyeshadow look (courtesy of Yelena).

He bit his bottom lip while taking in your dress, the black silk practically hugging all of your curves perfectly. The swoop neckline leaving little to the imagination, and you had on his dog tags, the lengthy chain disappearing into your obvious cleavage, tags clearly in the valley between your tits.

You had on your heels again, black pointed toe stilettos with some golden designer logo for the heel. He didn’t care about the designers, all Bucky cared about in this exact moment was controlling himself. If Mel hadn’t been there he would’ve had you pinned against the wall with his lips on yours already. 

“Thanks Mel. Barnes, I’ve been looking for you” 

He slowly nodded, unsure of what to say, too focused on what not to say.

You were quick to grab Bucky’s forearm, pulling him in your direction before offering Mel a forced smile. “Mind if I borrow him? Got a few things to go over.” She nodded, giving you a tight lipped smile as you made eye contact. Then, you were dragging Bucky away from her, rolling your eyes the second you knew she couldn’t see you anymore.

“So what exactly do we need to talk about?” 

You shrugged at the question, finally letting go of his arm, then facing him.“Some district court judge told me that you’re debating on running for re-election and fully committing to the Avengers? The hell is that about?” 

You honestly didn’t care, but it was the easiest thing to come up with.

He wondered if you were jealous, but maybe he was reading too much into the situation. Usually you’d know that he was bullshitting, most of your job involved calling him on his bullshit, there was no way in hell Bucky was running for re-election.

“Gotta warm them up to the idea, you’re always saying it’s important to ease people into dramatic changes aren’t you?” he put his hands in his pants pockets, raising his brows while he waited on a response. 

“Okay…that’s actually a good point. I dunno, I just had to double check that with you. Sorry for pulling you away from Mel, feel free to go talk with her.” Then you spun around, heading in the opposite direction. 

Bucky knew you were jealous. That confirmed it. He wasn’t losing it, you were one hundred percent jealous of Mel and he had no idea why, anyone with a pair of eyes would know that he wasn’t remotely interested in the woman romantically. 

Sure Mel was pretty, but she wasn’t you. 

The open bar was a bad idea.

Two hours had passed since then, and you’d managed to do all of your networking within the first half hour. Kate and Yelena had peer pressured you into getting a drink, and one drink quickly turned into two, then three, then Joaquin was bringing you a drink, and it spiraled from there.

It took a lot to get you drunk. The whole ‘super soldier serum’ issue made your metabolism much, much faster. At the rate that you were drinking, any normal person would’ve needed their stomach pumped at the emergency room. But you weren’t a normal person, not anymore at least.

You were one hundred percent drunk. There wasn’t any debate on the matter.

Which led you to being a lot friendlier than usual, laughing and flirting with other guests, a playful aura to you while you mixed and mingled with everyone.

It wasn’t until you were laughing with Joaquin, head leaning against his shoulder while you sat near the bar, talking about his girlfriend, that Bucky had finally found you.

He knew that you were networking, what he didn’t know was that you’d been drinking. 

Then again, he’d also been drinking, and the typical spark of jealousy he felt when you mentioned Joaquin was now a raging forest fire as he took in the sight of you leaning into Joaquin, his arm wrapped around your shoulders, both of you smiling and laughing at something that Kate had said. 

Joaquin nudged you a bit, earning your full attention, a hazy smile on your face while you moved to look at him. His brows were knit together as he tried to look serious.“Your boyfriend is staring us down.” 

You blinked a few times, now glancing across the room, eyes scanning the crowd of people, only to land on Bucky who held a champagne glass in-hand while he stood in a group of four men, all of them clearly in a conversation. Except now his attention was fully on you, holding eye contact.

“Please, if he was my boyfriend we’d be having freaky sex all the time.” You both bursted into another fit of laughter, your gaze now on Joaquin, then on Kate who looked absolutely shocked.

“Wait?! What! You and Bucky?!” 

You shrugged, then shook your head at her. “There is no me and Bucky! He’s my boss who’s bones I can’t jump!” 

She laughed at that, shaking her head while sipping her long island.“Why can’t you do that again? I know he’s like technically your boss, but that man wants you girl, like, he’s always eye-fucking you. I think he’s eye-fucking you now not gonna lie.” She looked over at him, and you mirrored her.

His eyes met yours again. He didn’t care what you were talking about, nor did he care what the men around him were speaking about. The topic having gone in one ear and out of the other. 

Bucky Barnes’ sole focus was now on you.

You and that black satin dress that would look so much better on the floor.

You who sat smiling and laughing with Joaquin Torres. 

Bucky was beyond jealous, the liquor flowing through his veins easily letting his composure slip. He swore that if he watched you lean any closer to Joaquin that he’d storm over there and throw you over his shoulder.

Then you did just that, laughing again and rolling your head forward a bit, forehead resting in the crook of Joaquin’s neck while your body shook with laughter.

Bucky easily excused himself, mumbling something about having to speak with his assistant, which earned a few wolf whistles when the men noticed you across the room. Specifically, they noticed the way you sat up now, two hands on the front of your dress, grasping the fabric and adjusting it slightly-your very present cleavage now a bit more tamed.

It had taken him exactly forty-five seconds to get to you.

Joaquin noticed him first, slipping his arm away from you, offering Bucky a tight-lipped smile.

Then you made eye contact with Bucky again, his typical icey-blue eyes were a few shades darker, pupils a bit dilated while he looked directly at you.

“So, you’ve been drinking on the job I see?” His tone was laced in venom, your brows knit together at the harshness of it, sitting up a bit straighter, glancing at Kate, then Joaquin, just to make sure you weren’t losing your mind. They both gave a subtle nod, then you were standing up and grabbing Bucky’s right arm, pulling him with you.

He let you guide him, then you two were in a crowded hallway, taking a left turn, then a right, then finding the elevator that would lead you directly to your designated floor.

“What’s your problem, Barnes?” 

He scoffed at that.“Let’s see, my assistants drunk, not working. I’d say that’s enough of a reason to be irritated.” 

You blinked a few times, looking around as if you were on the Truman show, or maybe this was an episode of Punk’d and Ashton Kutcher would jump out at you.“Everyone’s drunk, what's the issue? It’s a charity fundraiser, we raised like ten million tonight. Can I not celebrate?! I’ve done my job for the night, I just want to spend the rest of it as me—not your fucking assistant.” 

You were getting loud now, angrily pressing the elevator button, a surprised gasp when the doors immediately opened. Then without any hesitation you walked right in, leaving him in the hallway. 

Bucky wasn’t having it, not tonight.

He followed right behind you. “You’ve never had an issue with being my fucking assistant before. It’s always about professionalism with you! Boundaries and shit like that!” 

You rolled your eyes again, hitting the button for your floor while shaking your head.“Because professionalism is important! We all can’t be you, Bucky! Not all of us can be America’s fucking sweetheart!” You didn’t even look at him as you shouted, gaze focused on the small digital screen above the elevator doors, the red numbers switching as the elevator ascended into the higher levels of the tower.

Then it stopped on your floor, and you were shoving past him, shoulder checking him while storming towards your room.

“Seriously?! That’s it, just gonna run away? What, suddenly all that bullshit about communication doesn’t matter?!” He ran a hand through his hair as he yelled after you, hot on your heels.

You turned on your heel, brows knit together as you stared at him, only a few feet from your room.“What the hell is the real reason you’re being a massive asshole tonight?! I know it’s not because I’ve been drinking. I’m a grown ass woman, Bucky! I’m not some little kid you get to yell at and fucking criticize and treat like shit! Or like a personal punching ba-” 

His lips were on yours. You hadn’t registered how close he actually was to you. He had a hand on your forearm, pulling you flush against his chest as he collided his lips against yours. 

Your hands were immediately on him, one hand grasping his suit, the other in his hair.

Then he was backing you up into the wall, his left hand on your jaw—holding you in place. You whimpered at the feeling, not because it bothered you, but because his vibranium hand was cold, a shock against your warm flushed skin. Bucky’s lips led yours, his head slightly tilting, giving himself the opportunity to get even closer to you, his hair brushing against your face.

His lips were soft, he tasted like champagne and mint with a hint of tobacco. 

It was almost soothing, but it also made you feel hazy.

Instead of asking for entrance, he pressed his thumb against your chin below your bottom lip, applying minimal pressure as he tugged in a downward motion. 

You easily parted your lips, letting him slip his tongue into your mouth, deepening the kiss while he swallowed your soft whimpers. 

It didn’t help that one of his thighs was directly between yours, pinning you against the wall. He felt your thighs clench around his, pulling back slightly, heavy breaths hitting your parted lips.

“Tell me to stop and I will—I swear.” He brushed his thumb along your bottom lip, thankful that the Wakandan technology in his arm and shoulder actually allowed him to have a sense of feeling. It hadn’t mattered to him before this moment, watching as you looked up at him, feeling your soft, swollen, and spit-slick lip. 

“What if I don’t want you to stop,” your words were quiet while you looked at him, hand grasping against his suit even tighter. The hand that had been in his hair now slowly grazing against his cheek, fingers moving to his jawline, tracing the sharp ridges before sliding down his throat.

“Y’can’t say shit like that to me Sweetheart—makes me think you care.” He let out a deep sigh, eyes moving from yours down to your lips again.

“James, I do care.” You’d said his name so tenderly, so lovingly. Then you leaned into him, now kissing him first, and that was all the confirmation he needed.

Both of his hands now on your waist, your bodies flush against one another while your lips move in sync. The kiss should’ve been angrier, should’ve had more teeth, but it was surprisingly soft, sweet, and even slow. He kissed you with passion and hunger, as if he wanted to leave the imprint of his lips against yours. 

You grinding yourself against his thigh had the both of you breaking apart, gasping for air, then he took a singular step back, doing a short half-squat, hands on the backs of your thighs before he scooped you up, holding you against his waist, lips back on yours as you locked your legs around his waist, hands in his hair.

The next few minutes involved more kissing and fumbling through your bedroom door. He kicked it shut before pressing you against it, lips moving from your own, to your jaw, planting open-mouthed wet kisses along your soft skin. 

Your entire body was on fire, and truthfully, you’d never been hornier. 

“Buck—as much as I want to go slow with you—I need you to fuck me.”

He laughed against your skin, teeth nipping a mark in the crook of your neck, earning a whimper. Then he licked a flat stripe along your pulse point, making you shiver.

“You’re always so mean and demanding, now you’re needy? C’mon, Sweetheart, you’ve gotta throw an old dog a bone.” His tone was so flirty, voice gruff and deep as he spoke between kisses. His hands sliding from your upper thighs to your ass, using his lower body to help stabilize you.

Then he was moving one hand, slipping it between your legs, below your bunched up gown. His rough fingertips moved against your inner thighs as he sucked on your pulsepoint. Then his fingers paused, lightly brushing against your clothed core, the motion making you whine, your hands tugging on his hair while he remained still.

“Ask nicely, baby.” He smirked against your skin.

You groaned, now looking at him, tugging harshly on his hair, practically ripping him away from your throat so you could look at him. Holding eye contact as you spoke. “Please fuck me, with your fingers, your tongue, your cock—I don’t give a shit—just please fucking fuck me.” 

He bit his bottom lip, still smirking at your request, then his fingers were gliding along the damp fabric of your panties, up and down—over and over again. Bucky was clearly teasing you, and it was driving you insane. But he caved when you moaned his name—not Bucky—no you moaned a low pitched ‘James-please’.

Bucky didn’t let anyone call him James, you were the only one that had ever really used his first name and usually it was on rare occasions, but clearly the liquid confidence and horniness brought out a different side of you. 

His hand slipped below your panties, finding your slick folds, two thick fingers teasing you, sliding along your cunt, spreading your wetness from your sopping hole to your sensitive clit, then back down again. The sounds of your moans were music to his ears, that in combination with your hands tugging at his hair and your hips grinding against his hand was sending him into overdrive.

Eventually he stopped teasing you, lips back on your own, swallowing your moans while his fingers rapidly fucked into you, two thick digits stretching you perfectly, the feeling had your toes curling, one of your heels already on the floor behind him. It wasn’t long until you were kicking the other one off as well.

You were rolling your hips into his hand, whimpering his name like a prayer while his fingers curled inside of you, reaching the spot that usually made you see stars. A spot that you could never quite hit on your own, meanwhile it took Bucky little to no effort to get to it. 

“Just like that Sweetheart, c’mon give it to me, I deserve it.” His voice was deeper than usual as he spoke.

You nodded desperately, back arching while your head leaned against the wall, loudly whining as your orgasm crashed through your body, all of your nerve endings practically on fire.

“That’s it baby, gonna have you creaming on my cock next.” He went back to kissing along your throat and any exposed skin he had access to, fingers still fucking into you, prolonging your orgasm and ushering in a wave of oversensitivity.

“Fuck me, please,” your breathy words were quieter than usual as you looked at him, one hand toying with the hair closest to the base of his neck, the other gripping his suit again. 

Bucky didn’t need to be told twice, in seconds you were laying flat on your bed as he unbuttoned his jacket, tossing it aside, then undid the buttons of his shirt. Your stare was driving him mad.

Then you were sitting up, now standing right in front of him, taking a moment to appreciate your height difference before shoving him onto the bed. He looked shocked at the motion, blinking a few times as he watched you slip out of the dress, the black fabric now nothing more than a pile at your feet. 

His eyes trailed your figure, practically memorizing every single detail of your bare body. 

The moment was much more intimate than either of you had expected.

Well, until you were practically climbing on top of him, straddling his waist and pulling him into a sloppy drunk kiss. This time it was all teeth and tongue, your mind already hazy enough from the first orgasm and all hesitation had been thrown away. Your hands were all over him, sliding along his bare chest, feeling the faint definitions of muscle along his abdomen.

He let out a strangled moan the second your hand moved into his pants, now palming his thick cock for a few seconds before sliding it out of his pants. His hips instinctively bucked into your hand, and for a second you debated on taking his girthy length down your throat.

“Fuck-don’t even try it-need to be inside you.” His words were strained, pulling away from the kiss slightly as you pumped your hand on his shaft, thumb spreading the beads of precum around his tip, smiling against his lips while he moaned.

Then you were pulling away, biting his bottom lip and tugging at it. “But I wanna taste you.” You trailed your tongue along his jaw before lightly biting against it, then trailing kisses down his throat. 

He watched as you kissed along his exposed chest and abdomen, eventually slotting yourself between his thighs. You were going to be the death of him, his eyes nearly popped out of his head at the sight of you arching your back, ass in the air, face inches from his throbbing cock. 

You spit on it, biting your bottom lip as you used both of your hands to jerk him off, moving in a twisting motion, spreading the mixture of your saliva and his precum along his veiny cock. 

“You’re so big Buck—or would you prefer Congressman? Since you want me to be your little secretary forever.” 

He moaned, running a hand through his hair, trying to catch his breath and control himself. It’d been a while since he’d had sex, and at this rate, he was about to cum all over your face if you kept your mean facade up.

“Can’t wait to feel you inside of me Congressman Barnes.” 

He squeezed his eyes shut, how you managed to sound so demeaning while fisting his cock was beyond his comprehension. He let out a choked moan the second your mouth wrapped around the flushed red head of his cock.

Then you were moaning around him, taking more and more of him into your warm, wet mouth. His metal hand was now in your hair, grasping the frizzy strands, pulling them away from your face as you hollowed your cheeks in and started to bob your head—only really taking half of him at once.

Your tongue swirled around his cock as you sucked him off, moaning at the saltiness of his precum coating your tongue. This was downright sinful, and it was everything you’d wanted over the past few months. When you finally decided to take him out of your mouth, you laughed, smiling as you caught your breath, a string of spit connecting his cock to your lips.

The sight had him moaning your name like a prayer.

“Shit baby—fuck you gotta stop ‘m gonna cum.” 

You bite your swollen bottom lip, looking up at him through your lashes for a few seconds. Then you were pressing a kiss to the tip of his cock, using the head to spread his precum along your lips before wrapping your lips back around it. One hand slowly moving along his thick shaft while you focused on the most sensitive part of his cock.

The way he was pulling your hair burned in the best way, the sting from your scalp plus the taste of his cock had you moaning and whimpering against him.

“Shit—fuck—oh shit, Sweetheart.” He was practically whimpering as he came, cum coating your tongue and mouth, and you swallowed, then moved back, now sticking your tongue out, jacking him off with one hand as thick ropes of cum shot from his cock onto your tongue. A few missing slightly, painting parts of your face.

This was downright sinful. Sure Bucky knew that if Heaven truly did exist then he’d most certainly be going to Hell, but this? This earned him a spot in the deepest layer of Hell.

He moaned your name as he came, watching as you drunkenly giggled and let him give you a partial facial. This was straight out of a porno, if you were a pornstar he wouldn’t be surprised.

You smiled at him, taking your thumbs and index fingers, dragging them along your cum-stained face, gathering his spend before licking it off, one by one. 

He’d sat up so fast he hadn’t registered it, not until he was pulling you further into his lap, his metal hand squishing the bottom of your face slightly as he grasped your chin, pulling you into a rough, sloppy kiss. 

“You’re fuckin filthy,” he spoke against your lips, hand now on your throat, the cold vibranium a stark contrast to your warm skin. It made your head fuzzy. 

One thing Bucky was thankful for was his stamina, he’d always had pretty good stamina, but post-serum some days he felt like he could fuck for hours on end.

He hadn’t registered your movement until your hand was grasping the base of his cock and you were easing yourself onto him, gasping against his lips. He bit down on your bottom lip, and he knew he’d broken a bit of the skin based on the taste of iron in his mouth. But you were so tight around him, if he hadn’t been drunk before, he sure as hell was now.

“F-fuck ‘ts so big,” your words had a slight slur to them as you sat flush against him, forehead now leaning against his shoulder while you let yourself adjust to his sheer size. After a few seconds you started grinding your hips on him, back and forth, whimpering against his skin.

“C’mon, Sweetheart, I know you can do better than that.” His hands were on your waist now, loosely holding you, slowly guiding your movements, helping you build a rhythm.

You nodded, now sitting up a bit straighter, slowly pulling your hips off of him, then sliding back, taking each inch of his cock until you were filled to the brim. 

He bit his bottom lip as he looked at you, then he was nipping and sucking marks into your chest, focusing on each of your tits as they started to move more and more the faster you bounced on his cock.

“Just like that, keep going baby, know you can take it.” 

You nodded, your head leaning back slightly as you placed your hands on his thighs, back arching even more, using his body for leverage to help ground yourself and build your pace. 

The mixture of your moans practically echoed off of the walls, alongside the sloshing wetness of your cunt and the sound of skin slapping as you continued to take his cock. All you could focus on was the feeling of his thick shaft deep inside of you, stretching you deliciously, and the head of his cock pressing against your cervix, not exactly bruising, but the pressure added another level to your pleasure that you hadn’t experienced in the past.

His lips were parted as he held onto your waist, hands moving down to your hips, fingers bruisingly tight as he kept your movements up, not letting you falter for even a second. Bucky’s eyes focused on your cunt taking him, a ring of your wetness evident on his girthy length each time you moved up, then slammed your hips back down.

It had him salivating. 

Bucky’s eyes were stuck on you, fixated on your every movement, but what really got to him was the sight of you in his tags, the thin metal moving with you, and in this exact moment he knew you were it for him.

“You’re so fuckin beautiful,” his voice was gruff and strained while, he felt himself teetering closer and closer to the edge, meanwhile you were lost in your own world of pleasure, taking everything you could from him—using him.

It made him delirious in a way he couldn’t describe.

“‘M gonna cum-fuck Bucky—oh my god-” you moaned and whimpered, words coming out as a high pitched whine. Your rhythm was faltering, but he kept you moving, your hands now leaving his thighs, instead they were overtop his own that were holding your hips. Your fingers gripped his hands, nails practically digging into his skin as you moaned his name.

“Bucky…Bucky…oh shit…Bucky!”

It was music to his ears. Then he felt you fluttering against him, clenching down on his cock, tight walls practically milking him as you gushed against him. Your body trembling slightly, still moaning a mixture between his name and curse words.

Then you said it, “Oh fuck—right there—James!” 

That’s all it took for him to let out a deep, guttural moan, your name slipping past his lips as he came. Warmth spilling inside of you, as he bucked his hips into you a few times, losing himself in the moment.

You both sat in a breathy silence for several minutes after. You didn’t even bother getting off of him, instead you shoved his upper body down onto the bed and laid right on top of him. You weren’t ready to leave and let the fantasy shatter. Not yet at least.

He traced small shapes into your back as you laid against him, your head resting against the right side of his chest, your fingers slowly gliding along the ridges of his arm, then you paused before hesitantly moving to the scars along his left shoulder leading into his arm. You always knew they were there, but you hadn’t ever seen them up close. 

“Did you do this to yourself?” your voice was quiet and soft, much softer than usual.

“I think so, it was so long ago, it’s all kind of fuzzy. I think I tried ripping the metal out, or digging it out of my skin. I wanted to read the records on it—on me. But I never could bring myself to do it” He let out a deep sigh at the vague memories, but before he started mentally spiraling, you moved again, this time leaving a soft kiss to his jaw.

“I’m sorry that you were put through hell and back Bucky.” 

“Don’t be sorry, I wouldn't have met you if that hadn’t happened to me.”

You didn’t respond, the intimacy of the moment finally getting to you, especially considering his cock was still inside of you. So you moved off of him, wincing at the soreness of it all. Then you were practically sprinting to your ensuite. 

He thought you’d be kicking him out, so he opted to start getting up, but when you walked out of the bathroom, hands now on your hips with an oversized grey t-shirt that read ‘ARMY’, he blinked a few times.

“Where the hell did you get my shirt?”

You shrugged, glancing down at the shirt. It had to be one of the few shirts he owned that wasn’t fitted. Honestly, you don’t remember when or where you’d gotten it, but it was most likely something that Sam had given you after a long night of sparring.

“Why are you getting dressed?” The question sounded almost meek, you internally cringed at how clingy it made you feel. If he wanted to leave, he could leave. It would hurt your feelings, but this wasn’t your boyfriend. Bucky was your boss, and you’d be internally scolding yourself for the next week about tonight.

“Uh, I assumed you wanted me to go,” he motioned towards the door.

“Don’t be an asshole and just ditch me after you fucked me.” 

His jaw dropped at your words, brows now knit together, head tilted slightly. “Don’t make it sound like this was more than just sex, Sweetheart.” Bucky knew he was being a bit harsh, but he had to keep his heart guarded, the risk of you completely rejecting him was still there, and he knew he couldn’t handle that tonight. 

You scoffed at that, arms now crossed in front of your chest as you glared at him. “Excuse me? Are you serious right now?! It’s not like I blatantly admitted to caring about you before you damn near fucked me in the hallway!” You were louder than expected, practically screaming at him. Anger coursing through your veins as you stared at him.

“You’re the one who always wants to be professional! Then you get drunk and things are different! What happens when you’re—when we’re sober! Then what?” He ran a hand through his hair, holding eye contact with you as his breathing picked up. Bucky braced himself for rejection. At least if you rejected him, he’d finally be able to move on—or that’s what he told himself.

Bucky knew for a fact he’d never be over you. Not while you worked for him, and even after his term as a Congressman ended, he knew he’d never be rid of his feelings for you.

You were a once in a lifetime kind of love, that much he knew. Anytime someone spoke about the love of their life with him, they’d ask if he knew what it felt like. If he knew what it was like to care so deeply for someone that none of their flaws mattered. It didn’t matter how angry you made him, or how annoying you could be, James Buchanan Barnes would forever be in love with you.

You’re the first woman that he’d met that had pissed him off within seconds of speaking to one another. Bucky would never forget the day that the two of you met for four distinct reasons:

The first being the long-winded chase that he and Sam had been on in attempts to takedown the Flag Smashers. They’d bickered the entire time, but it ultimately brought them much closer, to the point that Sam was family now. It also helped that they shared an equal dislike for John Walker, but that wasn’t relevant.

The second major reason was because the second he’d spotted you, he was taken aback, you stood beside Karli, attempting to calm her down, but it wasn’t working. Then you were arguing with her, and all he’d managed to catch on to was the fact that you knew Sam was right. He also realized how smart you were in that exact moment.

The third reason that he’d never forget that day—outside of you being incredibly beautiful—was the feeling of your fists colliding directly with his ribcage, followed by a swift kick to the gut that had him on his back. He tried to keep up with you, but he’d been a bit out of practice and with his ongoing struggle of making amends, the last thing he wanted to do was fight a woman he was eighty years older than.

The fourth and final reason though, was the blurry sight of you squatting next to him, asking if he was alright and apologizing profusely for knocking him to the ground. You’d grasped his face, taking in the damage, grimacing at the sight of his bruised and bloody features. You then proceeded to clean him up, calling him an ‘idiot’ for not properly fighting back.

Bucky stared directly at you, his brooding silence made your eyes water. Maybe this was it, maybe he really didn’t care as much as he let on.

That pushed you over the edge.

“I had to be fucking professional Buck! I’m so sorry that I have a job, and ambitions for a career that I don’t even think I want anymore! I’m sorry that I didn’t want to be known as the girl that fucked her way up!” Your voice was loud as you shouted at him, your voice started cracking and the tears started falling. You were quick to wipe them away, chest rapidly rising and falling as you shook your head.

“You don’t get it, Sweetheart. I know you have ambitions, I know you have goals, but I’ve spent the past year and a half swallowing my own goddamn feelings for you! I know you don’t want to be the girl that sleeps with her boss! God damnit for once—for once I just thought that tonight we could be us. Not a congressman, not a secretary, just two fucking idiots in love!” 

He was yelling back now, running both hands through his hair as he looked at you. The sight of you in tears had his heart breaking, he wanted to kick his own ass for making you cry. 

“Then why are you trying to leave?” You sounded so small, so weak. Then you looked down at the ground, avoiding his stare. You’d always struggled with vulnerability, and right now you felt as if you were about to explode.

You were so focused on the ground and tuning everything out that you hadn’t noticed him getting off of the bed and walking towards you. Not until he nudged your foot with his, even then you didn’t look at him, shaking your head a bit. “This is embarrassing, just go Bucky.”

“I need you to look at me, Sweetheart.” He was looking directly at you, ready to pour his heart out.

You slowly lifted your head, cringing at the closeness and intimacy.

He took a second to use his right hand to brush some of your tears away, now caressing the side of your face. “I don’t want to leave. I thought you’d want me out, thought this was a one night stand, never speak about it again, or as you would say ‘never circle back to this’ again.” 

Bucky tried not to laugh at you clenching your jaw, clearly cringing at your own words being used against you.

“Tonight we’re just us. You’re y/n and I’m Bucky. You’re not my secretary, I’m not your boss. We’re friends, hell we’re way more than friends. Tomorrow we can figure out the logistics of it all, but tonight—tonight I’m telling you that I’m so desperately in love with you that I go to sleep dreaming of you and wake up missing you.” 

He paused, thumb caressing your bottom lip slightly, running along the evident split he’d caused. 

“Everytime I see you with another guy I feel like I’m about to implode. That includes Joaquin and I know you feel the same way, I saw how you got with Mel. You make me crazy in the best way. I’ve never felt like this about anyone in my life—and don’t even think about interrupting me to call me an old man. I love you. I’m pretty sure I’ve loved you since the moment you called me an idiot after kicking my ass in Germany. I loved you when Sam sent your reluctant ass to be my secretary. I love you every second of every day and I don’t care about being professional or being anything other than yours. I’m yours.”

You blinked a few times, astonished at the confession, lips slightly parted as you looked up at him. Your heart was practically beating out of your chest. 

“You don’t have to feel the same way either, it won’t change anything. You’ll still be my mean, bossy, and obnoxious secretary tomorrow, and I’ll be your idiot boss that hates answering questions.”

That made you laugh, shaking your head and rolling your teary eyes. “If I’m being honest, I don’t want to be your secretary anymore—it’s not professional to be in love with your boss.”

He smiled at that, leaning into your space, connecting his lips with yours. The kiss was soft, sweet, and full of love. 

The next morning the sunlight streaming through your windows woke the both of you up, you rolled into his space, trying to bury your head on his chest, using an arm to block the sunlight. Your entire body was sore and your head was pounding.

“Morning, sunshine.” 

You blinked a few times, eyes widening at the realization that you were in bed with Bucky, the moment of shock easily wearing away at the memories of the night prior flooding in. Then you were picking your head up slightly, glancing at Bucky as he squinted, eyes adjusting to the bright light in the room before landing on you.

“I had a dream last night that would solve your professionalism debacle.” His voice was raspy and deep, it made you blush.

You nodded at him, “Okay, let’s hear it Buck.”

“You don’t need to be a Congressman’s secretary if you’re his wife.”

-

Thanks for reading sexies <3 as always feedback is appreciated!

[deltamel]

Big Man, Little Dignity

── MEMORISED ALL YOUR LINES, FANTASISE YOUR DEMISE. satoru is more likely to strip naked and stroll through tokyo tech like he owns the place—to risk a fine for public fucking indecency—than to submit, mind and body, to you. word count. 5.5k

CONTENT. MDNI. fem!dom!reader, manipulative!sub!gojo, (brief mention of reader having a cunt but otherwise no description), bratty sub gojo, manipulation, foot humping, degradation, light choking, no prior discussion of kinks or aftercare, toxic dynamic, existing relationship, friends with benefits, pwp

MEL'S NOTE: what began as a character study of manipulative!gojo devolved into sentencing him to come in the most deliciously humiliating way. title insp. is the namesake song by paramore. a massive thank you to my gorgeous beta @nyxomniax (nyx's ao3) <3

“I really don’t like your attitude.”

Although attitude is a crude euphemism—Satoru’s sharp gaze seems to penetrate even through his blindfold. If looks could kill, as the saying goes. 

You sigh. Tonight was supposed to be a taunt, a challenge, a plea—all rolled into one tight, conniving quip that would snake its way around Satoru until the tips of his ears turned red where he knelt before you. You shouldn’t be surprised, really, at how your words roll off him, as though they’ve physically hit his Limitless and have slowed to the point of non-existence.

“Well,” he starts, petulant. “I really don’t like how long this is taking.”

You scoff, crossing one leg over the other as you lean further back into the cracked leather of the sofa you're sitting on. It creaks beneath you in protest.

“So how about we skip to the good part?” Satoru grins widely at you, utterly unashamed even as your eyes dip down to the hard outline tenting his uniform slacks. 

You’re bored, you realise. Uninterested in acting out the same scene and reciting the same worn, tired script to a man who, to your knowledge, couldn’t give less of a shit if you were completely mute as you let him rut into you.

It is… strange.

Months of hushed, sweaty hook-ups flash through your mind, like some kind of slideshow that should be playing all of your favourite memories before you die. These are anything but; they’re a twisted amalgamation of simmering anger and bestial grunting way too close to your ear to be enjoyable.

Why had you let it get this far? Spin this far out of control?

“Oh sure, I have all day,” Satoru says, his voice laden with sarcasm. “Absolutely no rush whatsoever. Take your time, even!”

You press your lips together, unimpressed.

Shame burns through you like you are no more than bone-dry tinder unfortunate enough to be in its path. You wanted to lead tonight, to set the pace—and you believed forcing him to kneel at your feet and feeding him the command to behave would be sufficient. That he may finally take the bait. Naturally, you seem to have asked too much, and you’re utterly lost as to how you’ve deluded yourself into such a fictional image of him. One that is flushed and moaning and writhing beneath you. One that would beg you for more.

He’d never.

Satoru is more likely to strip naked and stroll through Tokyo Tech like he owns the place—to risk a fine for public fucking indecency—than to submit, mind and body, to you.

“Now, I may look the picture of youth, but if I’m sat on my knees any longer, we may have an issue when I finally fuck you.” He laughs, presumably imagining himself as a hobbled-sorcerer or something equally inane, hell-bent on clumsily thrusting into you. “And we can’t have that, can we? How will I satisfy that greedy cunt of yours?”

It’s an unconscious impulse as you kick hard at the centre of his chest, anger flaring at the hit to your own ego, only to be rebounded by Satoru’s Limitless. You never stood a chance.

“Fuck you, Satoru,” you snap. “I’ve never met anyone who loves the sound of their own voice as much as you do.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he tuts, admonishment smeared over his face. “Ask nicely.”

Breathing out through your mouth, you try to summon the patience that seems to be rapidly eluding you the more Satoru talks.

“‘Ask nicely’,” you repeat blandly.

“Yep,” he says, emphasising the pop of the p at the end.

“Like how I ‘asked nicely’ for you to behave?”

“I wouldn’t say you ‘asked nicely’...” he trails off, looking askance as though he’s working hard to recall the memory from only five minutes prior. “More like demanded and expected that I, bearer of the Six Eyes, would obey.”

“Huh,” you tilt your head, “that’s funny. I’m pretty sure you’ve been demanding to fuck me.”

Satoru rolls his eyes, heaving a labouring sigh, as though you’d told him that his favourite coffee shop—the quaint, crumbling building a few blocks away from the school run by an elderly couple, that you’re near positive Satoru only frequents because he can bat his lashes and they will give him free coffee—has run out of the sugary atrocity he usually drinks.

“Did you miss,” he waves his arms down his body, presenting himself, “the bearer of the Six Eyes part of my sentence? That was pretty integral info.”

Wishing you were surprised at the lack of gravity he’s giving the situation doesn’t come easily. He’s always been like this, since as long as you’ve known him anyway; years of dropping ill-timed jokes and unbothered banter in the face of national threats and almost always imminent death. It’s illogical. And above that, it’s quite frankly insane. So why would you be the exception to his whims? Why would he afford you real concern when it proves no benefit to him? You could tear at those towering walls surrounding him, brick by brick, until your bare hands are broken and bloody and unrecognisable, yet there’d hardly be a dent big enough to warrant his attention.

Before you have a chance at spitting back any lacklustre rebuttal, he speaks over you.

“So let’s cut whatever bullshit you’re trying to pull. Honestly. What are you trying to achieve with me down here and you up— wait.” He perks up, likely seeing you anew from behind his blindfold as he rambles. “Was this all an elaborate plot to get me to eat you out? Because baby, I do not have to be on my knees to have you on yours. Why didn’t you ask sooner?”

You launch forward, sinking a hand deep into his unpigmented hair—allowing yourself only a split-second of astonishment that he allowed you to make contact with the real him, not his Limitless—before yanking him forward to unbalance him. That’s all it takes. One slip-up, intentional or not, and you use the momentum to force his face down into the floor between your feet, pressing his cheek against the rough grain of the wood. The connecting thunk is the most satisfying sound you’ve heard from Satoru all evening.

Against the dark wood below him, Satoru’s alabaster skin is downright ghostly. Stark and obvious in every way that Satoru is himself. It’s fitting, really. You savour the colour rushing to his cheeks, the strands of hair fallen over his blindfold, the blood welling in his lip where he must have bitten himself on impact. You want to taste it. To draw more than just blood from his lips.

The bounds of his Limitless do not protect him from himself, you think. How ironic.

Satoru’s chest stutters where he’s bent over awkwardly, still kneeling. His hands are trapped underneath him like he meant to stop his fall. You know he could have. So why didn’t he? And why is he letting you hold him down, making no effort to brush your hand from his hair or sit up as you watch him try to regulate his breathing?

Hell, he’s not even said a word. Quiet as a field mouse where he’s pressed down between your heeled shoes.

“You want to eat me out?” you murmur, leaning over your lap to study the side of his face in interest.

Satoru exhales sharply, and at first you think you might finally have him snared—a hunter’s high when the bullet rings loud and sharp in the air, the elation when their prey drops to the ground like a stone. But then he angles his head further to the side, twisting as though to catch your eye through the blindfold, and he smiles.

Smiles.

A scoff bursts from your throat before you can help it—an ugly sound, perfectly complementary to the resentful look smudged across your face.

Well.

You tried, at least. But it’s beyond clear that Satoru Gojo is a lost cause—a fool’s errand—and you are no such thing, not for him. No matter how much you desire to see his pale skin painted with deep red want as he pleads for your touch, pent-up and desperate, an orgasm withheld tenfold until he’s panting and whining, bucking his hips up to knock his dick uselessly against your leg—how he would tip his head back, baring the smooth, unmarked column of his neck for your teeth to sink into and… god.

Your imagination is painting cruel washes of colour over the pallid picture before you, and you bite your lip in frustration, yearning for some kind of restraint to resist being his fool. Shifting his knees slightly, Satoru hums thoughtfully and shatters the illusion your mind has conjured. The sound fills you with dread. Nothing good comes from his premeditated words.

“I’m not sure anymore…” he trails off. Does he sound breathless? No—he can’t, right? No. You’re the one who wants this. He’s just messing with you. “You’re being kind of mean to me.”

And now he’s pouting. The revered six-eyed sorcerer is pouting against the floorboards. You tighten your fingers in his hair, relishing how it makes him hiss at the sharp pricks of pain. Again you wonder, why hasn’t he put his Limitless back up?

The harsh treatment doesn't, however, stop him from barrelling forward.

“I have feelings you know! I’m not some sex doll you can push around however you like—although you’d probably love that, thinking about it now… you know, I can probably find a guy for you. I’m talking someone real shady. Under-the-table type of deals. All I have to do is put up one ad on Craigslist—’hot single in urgent need of a man who won’t talk back’—and the offers will come swarming in. It’ll be uncomfortable, but for you…” he laughs. “Just for you, I’ll bite the bullet if you’ll consider shelving this stunt indefinitely!”

His mouth is moving a thousand miles a minute, like it’s replaced his heart and is running to keep him alive. To pump the very blood around his body. You know he has it. Blood, that is. Your eyes flicker to the beads of it that are shifting on his lips as he speaks, hardly taking a breath between each sentence.

“Satoru,” you say, interrupting him impatiently. “Please shut the fuck up.”

He grins, all teeth. There’s a smear of red on them.

You stare down at him. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah,” Satoru breathes through the ugly smile. “Probably. That would explain why I’m still hard, even with a psycho bending me over.”

You can’t even wipe the indignant expression from your face if you try, because your brain latches onto the fact that Satoru is still hard, and runs with it despite your protests. You try to form some kind of barb, a cruel insult at least—but you’re fighting a losing, bloody battle of the highest dishonour with yourself. You know every offensive and defensive move in your arsenal, and so you are defeated, your traitorous brain attempting once more to make the man underneath you submit.

“I’m the psycho?” you prompt.

He hums, his cheek still against the floorboards. You wonder if you’d be able to feel the reverberations of it under the soles of your feet were you not wearing heels.

“Huh, maybe you’re right,” you say, levelling your eyebrows and veiling the trepidation buzzing behind your features. “Hands behind your back.”

Your words are plain, and you hold your breath as he mulls over the request. His fingers flexing and flagging on the floorboards where his hands are tucked beneath his torso.

Please.

One of his hands moves to brace himself on the floor and you can feel the heat pulse in your core, expectant and hopeful, only to be slaughtered as easily as a curse in the face of his boundless power when he slowly pushes himself upright. He doesn’t dislodge the tight grip you maintain on his hair and you don’t bother trying to keep him pinned. Satoru has evidently decided he’s done with your little display of dominance and you can’t overpower him. Even if you wish fervently to have the ability to do so.

“I’m good, actually,” he says. Matter-of-factly and in a tone so chipper you want to strangle him just to hear his words wobble and break from the sure path they’re on. “But thank you.”

The flush you can feel creeping up your cheeks is humiliating, degrading you impossibly further when Satoru simply watches you. His face is an expressionless mask. Frustration wraps itself around you, coiling until you can’t breathe and you use your hold in his hair to shove him. Your palm forces his head to the side like it may give you a reprieve, but when you hand drops, his head simply swings back to face you a moment later. Bright eyes stare at you impassively, as though he’s watching a bug crawling by his stupid, shiny shoes. Too small to care about. Not worth the effort to catch, nor kill.

“Fuck you,” you say. But there is no anger in it, not anymore. You’re deflated, and the level tone you try to uphold barely masks the hurt you feel trembling through your words.

You’ve been a fool, after all.

Months spent convincing yourself 'one day’, while deluding yourself over scenarios that could never be—because you’re, well… you’re you, and Gojo Satoru is the Six Eyes. You’ve been kicking up circles of dust running from that very notion since the first time you slept with him.

“Come on,” he broaches, voice light as he shifts back to sit on his haunches more comfortably. “You still going to let me hit?”

You are nothing to him. You know that now—the ember is glowing bright and burning through you, sacrificial in every right—and you will only be saved if you are cleansed of Satoru.

“I’m done,” you mumble, eyes shifting to drink in the Tokyo skyline from your apartment. Thousands of minuscule lights flicker, each a person tangled in their cobweb of life as insignificant as your own. “I can’t do this anymore, Satoru.”

It’s ironic, really, that now seems to be the moment you’ve finally stunned Satoru. His mouth opens but no quick quip or joking response comes forth. He closes it again. You can see it in your periphery—the blinking lights call your name as you let your gaze drift over each building, every life, and the sun dipping slowly behind them.

“Hey,” he starts, voice guarded. “I thought this was all part of our give and take.”

An apology? No. An excuse? Hardly.

Of course he wouldn’t debase himself with atonement; you aren’t worth that. In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever heard Satoru apologise to anyone—not when he decimates acres of land fighting a curse, nor when he bumps into someone and knocks the coffee they held from their hand. Perhaps this should make you feel better, but it doesn’t. You inhale a deep breath.

“You take and take and take. There is no give with you— no—” you pause, eyes flitting over to Satoru but not lingering long enough to examine his expression before they drift back to the sunset. “I have nothing left to offer. You have wrung me dry.”

You don’t expect an immediate response. After all, when have you ever rejected his advances? When have you before had the courage to sever those threads trapping you both together? He may have a silver-tongue, but that does not mean he cannot falter.

“Okay.”

…okay?

Furrowing your eyebrows, you drag your attention to the man kneeling before you.

“Okay,” he repeats. “You want me to give or you leave.”

His tone is blunt, no trace of a question to be found where it should be. He’s got it wrong—as though reading the lines of your reaction backwards. Has Satoru ever tried to understand you?

“It’s not an ultimatum,” you say tiredly. “We’re done.”

We’re done.

You’ve never referred to what was going on between you and Satoru as we, and even as it rolls off your tongue, it feels strange; like an ill-fitting sheet with its seams stretched beyond repair just so that it may barely clutch onto the mattress. It feels fraudulent. But the words have been spoken and you cannot swallow them back.

“I can give.” Satoru implores, his large hands rest on his thighs, painting the very picture of composure.

“I don’t want what you offer.”

I want your submission.

You can’t say it, even now. Even with this goodbye between you forming the perfect stage for one last hurrah—an act he won’t forget. That he may even care about.

It won’t matter, you remind yourself.

The silence branches between you, pushing you further and further and further from Satoru with each passing second.

He won’t reply.

You have been his fool, through and through—played the part well enough one might think you’d been bred for such a role. Perhaps you do not want him to reply, because if he speaks, if he pushes, you don’t know what you will do—for better or worse. So, bringing your hands to the sofa underneath your thighs, you tense and begin to push yourself to stand—to leave—when Satoru moves all at once. Clumsy and disorganised in a way you’ve never seen from him before. Urgent in a way he never is. You pause.

Satoru shuffles forward on his knees, closer and closer, until he’s a hair’s breadth from your crossed legs. The peculiar twist of his mouth has your gut swooping, a foreboding feeling rising within you at the serious expression. The distrust must be plain across your face, but when you open your mouth to protest, he leans forward. Cautious, like the possibility of you striking him is a real one—like he wouldn’t just block you with his Limitless—and gently, he places his chin on your crossed knee.

You freeze, and the breath you were inhaling lodges in your throat.

A long, slender finger hooks under one side of his blindfold and lifts the corner up to reveal a wide, beseeching eye staring up at you. Your own widen in response. You’ve never seen him look like this before. He looks…

Harmless. Almost innocent. 

And then, as if you’re not preoccupied worrying over whether in the time you were looking out the window, Satoru had been somehow possessed, he speaks.

“This is what you want, right?” His voice is so soft. “You want control.”

He’s demented. There’s no other explanation. Not as to why he’s kneeling in front of you like an entirely different person. Not as to why his tone and his stupidly big eyes have heat rushing to meet you like it never left. How does he know? All this time you believed him to be oblivious, he’s—

You have underestimated him. Again. He knew.

“You want me to beg,” he continues, his eye glued to yours. “To ask to touch you. To come.”

The leather sofa creaks underneath your fingers, where they curl nervously into the material.

“I…” you trail off, unsure as to what you’re even trying to say—what you even want to say.

The heat from his chin is leaching through your trousers, penetrating the layer of fabric and you fear it may scald your skin, marring it permanently. You can smell his cologne. He doesn’t let you breathe before uprooting your entire world—destroying the threads woven through you both that have kept you safe, that have kept him happy. 

“Please,” he breathes. Breathes, not whines, because if Satoru Gojo just propped his chin on your knee, looked up at you with his pleading, blue eyes, and whined, you really would be convinced he’d been possessed.

The wave of heat that washes over you is so filthy you barely have the forethought to worry if Satoru can feel it radiating from you as you screw your eyes shut against it. Against his exposed eye and its analysing stare.

“Please.”

You choke on a sound at the back of your throat, scrabbling to keep it inside you. To not allow him to stoke the burgeoning fire threatening to engulf you. The smoke is thick and blinding. Why it has taken you near leaving for him to play along with a desire he’s clearly known about for god only knows how long baffles you.

You can’t think straight.

It’s like any semblance of logical, rational thought has fled you to safer grounds, abandoning you to deal with the consequences of your desires alone as though it’s what you deserve. Perhaps you do. Wanting to grind Satoru, a man who holds Six Eyes and the most powerful sorcerer the Earth has ever encountered, into mere dust beneath your heel cannot possibly be normal.

Gradually, as unassuming as the approaching tide, a sick curiosity calls out: would he let you? The urge to answer that question commandeers your mind, screaming and hollering for attention that you can’t help but grant it because… what if he does? Months of yearning for this very scenario are ploughing through your defences like they are no more than reeds swaying in a breeze. Is Satoru offering you a chance for the control you have been desperate for? What if this is it? Your one and only opportunity. A test.

Take the leap or never know.

Perhaps by permitting yourself to finally release the perverted desire—that which has simmered higher and higher each time you slept together—you may develop an addiction with no prospect of your next fix. But the screaming is reaching its peak—loud and distracting and you can’t think around the blaring curiosity to taste it regardless; to ruin your palette once and for all; to at least know. So you open your eyes again and unclench one of your fists from the leather sofa, raising it slowly, cautiously, to cup the side of his face and stroke your thumb over his cheekbone. Only then do you look into his eye.

“Okay,” you say, voice soft. Re-emboldened, you test the boundaries again. “Are you going to behave?”

Satoru leans his weight into your hand, so lightly you may not have noticed if your world hadn’t narrowed down to the sorcerer before you. He swallows before he speaks.

“Yes,” he breathes, shifting on his knees and pulling his bottom lip between his teeth before he lets it pop back out, slick and shiny with his spit. You can feel your heart thundering like a brewing storm in your chest. “I’ll behave for you.”

A switch has flipped. Satory hasn’t been this agreeable in any of the long years you’ve suffered his acquaintance, and you feel lightheaded knowing you may be the first person to see him like this. You nod, trying to disguise the way you shiver at the realisation.

“Hands behind your back.”

The blindfold slips back over his eye when he lets go of it, and you would mourn the loss of eye contact if not for how he immediately obeys. The pliancy sends you reeling. You want to see. Are his hands clenched? Relaxed? Fidgeting? But you stay. The novelty of your situation isn’t lost on you—the things you want to do to him are so great in number that it’s overwhelming. You’ve had practice, however; you’ve imagined Satoru like this enough times you may well have thought through every possibility as to how this night could go. You don’t hesitate.

“Good.”

He swallows.

Feeling suspicious would probably be a smart idea, one that would prepare you for the rug he may pull out from under your feet. Because the possibility that his actions are a means to an end or a new opportunity to laugh in your face before he flips you over and ploughs into you—like his submission was a mere hallucination—is real. But you can’t quite bring yourself to commit to the feeling for more than a few seconds before there’s an itch under your skin telling you to touch. Your other hand joins to cup his face, and you tilt his head away from your knee until his throat is entirely bared. His blindfolded eyes study the drab ceiling above you both.

“So pretty,” you mumble, eyes tracing the long line of his pale neck.

You want to lean forward and bite, but the night is young. There will be time. You do not have to rush something so precious. You must savour this like a woman on death row with her final meal.

Satoru’s mouth drops open slightly, baring his teeth, and you can see his chest rising and falling fast. Intrigued to test a hypothesis you’ve held close to your heart for months, you dip your thumbs down below his jaw and dig them into the soft skin there. He releases a breathy sort of ‘hah’ at the sensation, shifting again on his knees. You press harder, the skin turning white beneath your thumbs. His pulse is pounding, but it’s not enough—you want to hear him. Releasing the pressure, you study the irritated pink that frames two deep nail marks on either edge of his jaw.

Ever so slowly, your palms cup his nape and you drag your thumb nails down either side of his windpipe, hard enough to leave two trailing scratch marks. Satoru muffles a surprised noise that tapers off when your thumbs come to rest at the base of his throat, your hands collaring him.

Squeezing your hands against the base of his throat, you listen to how his breath chokes off at the pressure. The tip of his ears begin to redden as you hold his breath between two states. His mouth drops open further, desperate. You let go and listen to how he heaves in a deep breath before releasing it, controlled in an attempt to level his breathing. To keep the spots dotting his vision at bay. You can see the tears clumping at his lash line—a response no one can control in the face of being choked—but fuck, the power rush you feel as you study the tears threatening to spill over is hedonistic.

Slipping your fingers back up the sides of his neck, his jaw, his cheeks, you hook your thumbs underneath his blindfold and tug it off, dropping it on the ground by your feet. He doesn’t protest, eyes fluttering open. Leaning back in your chair, you sever the contact between you. After a few seconds, he drops his head down and looks at you, making a confused sound in the back of his throat.

“Why’d you stop?” he asks. 

Is his voice hoarse, or is that your imagination?

No.

His voice is hoarse—rough with a desire you’ve instilled into him.

You quirk an eyebrow and Satoru flushes in response, eyes darting around where you sit. Wordlessly, you uncross your legs, stretching one out until your foot rests against his thigh.

“You don’t want something…” You drag the toe of your shoe up the inseam of his slacks, voice low. “More?”

“I…” Satoru swallows. “Yes.”

Lifting your foot, you press the point of your heel into the meat of his thigh, hard enough you’re sure the pressure must be uncomfortable. He doesn’t do more than clench his jaw. Your lips purse and you nod silently, content to wait.

The lull stretches between you, thick and sticky like sap gathering at the wound of a tree.

“Uhm,” he starts warily, “please?”

The corner of your lip twitches.

“Can you touch me?” he asks, voice firmer now at your reaction. “Please?”

Satoru sighs in relief when you remove your heel from his thigh, but the calm is quickly shattered when your leg extends further, the ball of your heeled-foot coming to rest on his cock as you press gently against it.

“Ow,” he gasps, but he doesn’t sound very pained at all. In fact, the red flush creeping across his nose bridge is all-too incriminating. You smile.

Running your fingers through your hair, you push it back from your face before straightening your barely-wrinkled clothes, steadfastly focusing your attention on anything but the man in front of you. It doesn’t take long for Satoru to squirm, and you only increase the pressure of your foot in response. He makes a strangled noise through his clenched jaw.

“I don’t know what you’re waiting for,” you say, tapping your nails on your thigh impatiently.

Satoru’s bright eyes flick between your own curiously. When you don’t say anything further, he lifts his hips into your foot slowly, watching you. A breath escapes him at the pressure. His eyebrows scrunch up in concentration and he reaches out a big hand to wrap around the back of your calf, forcing your foot forward as he begins to gently roll his hips. You let him—the effort is not yours to expend.

“Surely you can do better than this?” you ask when he continues his cautious, slow thrusts, voice bored.

He huffs, eyes flitting up to meet yours before focusing back on where the bright lacquer of your heel meets his dark slacks, and the arousal slowly bleeding through. The hand clutching your calf is uncomfortably warm, yet the tightening fingers and low moans on every thrust command your attention.

“To think that I’ve let you fuck me,” you say through a sigh. 

Satoru bristles beneath you but the stutter of his hips gives him away. These cruel words you spill are a means of catharsis, months of bitterness rotted down to pure acidity—never would you have guessed he’d enjoy the taste. 

“This is as humiliating for you as it is for me, Satoru.” 

You’re lying—of course you’re lying. You would wear Satoru’s humiliation like a second skin if such a scientific feat were possible; something so intrinsically tied to your body it may never be taken from you. Satoru huffs a strained laugh, feigning indifference as though it could fool you.

“I’d hope— it is—” he says between pants.

Leaning further back on the chair, you spread your other leg, tracking how Satoru’s other hand is curled tight into a fist atop his thigh. Blood pools in his cheeks, infecting his face like a virus he can’t fight. 

“Bearer of the Six Eyes,” you drawl, letting the words hang in the air between his pants before you continue, “humping my foot like a dog.”

“Haah— shut— up—” he spits between each sticky press of his crotch against your shoe, fingers digging into your calf painfully in punishment.

It’s filthy—the way his thighs strain in his slacks as he moves; the way his baby hairs stick to his forehead; the way Satoru bites his lip to contain his noises.

“Why have you resisted this for so long?”

Satoru doesn’t answer, doesn’t even seem to acknowledge that you’ve asked him a question and your ego bruises. He’s too caught up in the chase of his high to bear you a second thought. You dig your foot into his cock cruelly.

Ignore me now.

“Oh fuck—” he gasps, his movements stuttering underneath you. “Ah— you’re— mean—”

You take in his reaction, humming. A moment passes before you deign to reply.

“I’m being mean?” you pout. “You seem to be enjoying it, though.”

Satoru moans aloud, harsh and tortured. You dig your foot in again just to hear his voice catch in his throat. The pace of his hips is frantic now, and he uncurls his fist, splaying it out on the wooden floor behind him so that he can roll into your foot faster, harder. Satoru’s head tips back at the new angle and he pants, open-mouthed, into the air. Barely-there moans escape on every exhale. You watch with fascination.

“You’re close, huh?” you tease, all-too pleased when Satoru nods his head rapidly.

“Yes— ah— yes.” His voice is thin and torn. Glassy eyes watch you carefully when he tips his head back down and you hum in recognition.

“I want you to say ‘thank you’ when you come.”

Satoru’s eyes flare wide, but he doesn’t protest. If anything, the roll of his hips grows unforgiving, his pace quick and punishing as he drives himself to the edge he’s so desperate for—the one that you’ve granted him. Enraptured, you increase the pressure on his cock, trapping it harder against his pelvis. Satoru groans as he ruts against your foot. The trembling wracking his body worsens, and he squeezes his eyes shut when his back bows towards you.

“Thank you,” he keens, mouth dropping open as he comes, hips still quietly rolling against your foot as he rides it out. “Thank you, thank you, haah— thank you, oh— thank—”

Leaning forward, you press your finger into his open mouth and pet it across his tongue to quiet him. His eyes flutter open to take in your dangerous grin. 

Satoru is finally human like this. Mortal, even. Skin flushed and damp. Breaths coming short and fast. At last, you can reach him. Hooking your finger into his cheek, you drag him closer before he has a chance to calm, until you can feel the warmth of his feverish-panting on your chin.

“You’re welcome, Satoru.”

thank you for reading, reblogs are always super appreciated if you enjoyed! <3

✦ masterlist ✦ ao3 ✦

© deltamel '25 — do not plagiarise, modify, translate, or repost my work onto any platform.

[somnoir]

Bats and Phantoms - Part 5

Part 4 | Masterpost

Jason and Phantom

Danny has noticed a pattern ever since he punched the Joker to death.

He's lost multiple things over the course of the past few weeks. Once, his laptop was smashed to bits during an attack by Bane (he really should have Tucker reinforce all his electronics). The next day, there was a new Wayne tech laptop on his counter.

When he visited his favorite cafe, his usual orders were paid for the next month. The barista refused to tell him who bought his month's supply of Living Dead. She was smiling a little too much in his opinion (he'd have to ask Tucker for a background check on Chelsea now. He liked her, but damn him if she was working with the crime lord.)

Danny knows very well that Gothamites either mug people or get mugged. And yet for the entire time, he hasn't gone through that BS... At all. It's almost nice.

He's done his best not to get caught up with the Bats, except for the fucking Red Hood. He tries to stay low, knowing that the Bats—especially Batman—was very strict on his no-kill-rule. Red Hood in the other hand... Unfortunately, he can't escape the bastard if all he wants to do is follow Danny around and gift him the most random shit. But if he's gonna deal with the Red Hood, then he's going to use it for good.

In other words, he was going to let the man feed him with godly food that he'd never been able to have. Danny's a decent cook but the Red Hood was almost godly when it came to cooking.

"You're never gonna leave me alone?" Danny doesn't even turn away from his laptop once he hears Red Hood slip into his apartment, shamelessly crawling through his window. He's so fucking sure there's a bunch of containers in his arms or maybe a reusable bag, but there's a bunch of containers. Filled with food.

"Someone's gotta keep you fed." Red Hood softly hums, passing Danny from where he was sitting on his floor while his dry eyes were watching instruction videos. By this point, Hood might be playing Tetris in his fridge with the containers. (Danny hopes there's chicken in there)

He doesn't move, doesn't want to.

Red Hood pokes his cheek.

Danny grunts in reply.

His cheek is poked again.

He might just bite the guy's hand off.

"Go away."

"Eat and then sleep."

"Perish."

"C'mon now, darling. You gotta take a break or whatever the hell you're studying for will go away."

"I will stab you."

But apparently, Red Hood isn't intimidated by his threats, already picking out one of the containers, heating it up, and then proceeding to make Danny suffer from the scent of something chicken. He's so hungry, he's sleepy, but he has exams! He has deadlines! A part of him wanted this handsome and sexy crime lord to pamper him but he'd drown in that contaminated ecto (Lazarus) than admit it.

And then his laptop is confiscated by a crime lord. Danny suddenly finds himself sitting on the Red Hood's lap and being forced to eat. At least the man isn't feeding Danny himself.

He was just enjoying the chicken casserole, sleepily trying not to stab a fork into his mouth while Red Hood has his hands on Danny's waist, caressing and cooing at him to keep eating.

The next day, he wakes up in his bed, tucked in, and the scent of freshly made coffee from his kitchen.

(God, his siblings are going to make fun of him for this)

Jason likes Danny. He'd actually tell himself that he legitimately adores the tired and unhinged college student. He wants that crazy little shit like he's gonna blow up the world if he doesn't. Because he wasn't just Joker's killer. Danny Fenton unknowingly became Jason Todd's avenger, the one person to actually avenge the second Robin. And he's just...

The infatuation would have been almost selfish, if not for the fact that Jason grew to actually fall for Danny after making sure the young man was okay. He's done his best to keep Danny away from the Bats. He didn't need Batman fucking this up for him.

Danny was so... strange. In a good and endearing way. He was dedicated to his studies, and tried to live his life but helped when he could. He's seen Danny stop by crime alley a couple of times just to help feed the kids, just to hand over blankets and what seemed to be his old clothes that nobody would be wearing. He was kind, and brutal if he wanted to be. Aside from the Joker, Jason had witnessed Danny almost drown a man for trying to kidnap a meta child in the same alley. The bastard was left for dead but survived when someone dragged him out.

Oh, Jason was in love. Horrifically so.

Honestly, he was kinda screwed at this point.

He's pretty happy that he doesn't share a class with Danny. If he did, he might not be able to focus on the lecture knowing that the very thing that calms the pits inside him was so close. The possibility of getting lulled into sleep was pretty high. But their schedules didn't even align and he barely saw Danny on campus. But he'd be lying if he wasn't trying to catch a small glimpse of him.

It's one of those days that he doesn't try looking for Danny when he's got some papers for Lit. But this was different.

Riddler is a maniac, even when he tries to be harmless. Anyone who failed to solve his riddles sometimes got blown up. Gotham U ends up becoming one of his targets. Jason just so happens to be there, waiting, watching, unable to operate out of his suit. The Waynes were not the Bats. They tried not to be to keep their identities face.

He needed to keep everyone away. He needed to keep them safe, even as Jason Todd. Fuck.

Riddles. Riddler liked his riddles, plagued the city with them. Barbara's voice is in his ears immediately, reciting Riddlers gods damned questions.

"I hold dreams cast by the desperate and bold,

My heart is silver, my whispers cold.

I’ve seen generations, yet I do not age,

A quiet witness to joy, love, and rage.

Though rooted in stone, I endlessly flow,

Reflecting the sky and the world below.

Look beneath where wishes sleep,

There lies a secret, dark and deep.

What am I?" Babs' voice is shaky, just a bit before she's hardened steel in seconds.

Jason cursed under his breath, trying to figure out the riddle. They weren't stupid. They've done this before and Nygma's Riddles were hard just for them, especially Tim and Bruce. But even so, Jason was raised by Batman. He could do this.

The words were complex, the poetic nature was irksome. But Jason took just a couple more minutes before he's identifying the answer.

"A fucking fountain. Gotham U has three of those." Jason responds immediately, sucking in a deep breath as he quickly evacuates his classmates and urges them out the building. "East, north, and south."

"Red Robin and Orphan en route to the south fountain. Robin and Nightwing to the east." Oracle quickly says, "Batman to north. Signal and Spoiler are evacuating everyone from the building. Hood, get out of there—now!"

No can do, Babs, he thinks to himself and goes running to the northern part of the campus. Batman can't do shit alone, even if he insists on it. They've learned not to let him.

He arrives before Batman, already rummaging through the fountain for the fucking bomb. If it was beneath the fountain then he'd have to destroy it, but if it was already attached to the water? Shit.

One second later, he's trying to find anything to destroy the cement, and then another passed. Jason is staring at a strange young man, white hair, green eyes—it reminds him of the descriptions of Wraith and Specter that Damian and Dick repeated. He blinks, meeting eyes with the maybe Ghost Hero. He flinched, looking into glowing Lazarus—a purer hue—eyes. "The bombs under the fountain?"

"Uh... Yes!"

The ghost nodded, phasing his hands through the fountain and a second later, he's dragging out a bomb. Fuck, it only had ten seconds to spare. Both of them stared at it, wide eyed as they panic on what to do. But the stranger doesn't seem to pay too much attention and proceeds to swallow the bomb.

"WHAT THE FUCK—"

An explosion—muffled and small—boomed through the courtyard and Jason stared at the smoke and flames covering the ghosts head. A coughing fit is heard through the smoke and the stranger is waving it away, whining about the horrible taste of burnt food.

Lazarus eyes look back at him, blinking before offering Jason a radiant smile. "Sorry about that! I'm Phantom, by the way. Was just passing by when I heard about the bomb." He offers Jason a hand, still smiling.

"Oh, uhm... Any relations to Specter?" Jason immediately asks, trying not to die from his own stupidity. Way to go Jay, immediately interrogating another guy that makes the pits all mushy and warm.

Fuck, fuck fuck. Was he going to fall for everyone that calms the pits? Fuck, he didn't want to cheat on Danny (Jayyoudelusionalidiotyou'renotevendating.)

Phantom tilts his head, before he's laughing loudly. "You've met my little sister?"

"No, but she saved my brother from a kidnapping."

"Is that so?" Phantom smiled, clearly amused. "Well then, I must bid you adieu. I can see that your city's knight has this all handled."

Just then, Batman drops just behind Jason. DAMNIT, B! GO AWAY!

Phantom just glances at Batman, amused before he takes Jason's hand and pressed a light kiss to it. Cold lips pressed against his hand and he's immediately blue screening. Fucking shit, this was the exact same scene he's read in those books about the heroine getting saved by the mysterious man who'd later on be her sexy enemy/lover. FUCK!

Phantom goes back to speak, but all Jason heard were a couple of trills and chirps, a language he couldn't understand but... It felt familiar.

"Ȋ̵̢̨͍̹̺̼̜͉̳͍̮̠̯͙̤͈̥͔̰̤̐͐͜ͅ ̴̡̤͔̪̠̗̤͉͙͓̥̺̗̎͒͒̔̎̑̀̑͜͝w̷̧̖͍̝̹̤̪̞̭͎̞͓̟̪̗̱͕̑̃̃̓̀̔̀̆̋͒͛̂͜ͅi̴̧̢̧̡̡̩̻̗̬̦͉͎̮̠̤̬̪͇̖̦̘͚̟̪̠̠̪̣̪̖͇̤̣̱̪̺̩̘̼͐̇̂̂͛̿̀͗̃͑̔͋̈́̐̽̿́͊̃̄̿̄̊́̔͘̕͜͠͠͝ͅļ̴̨̢̢̨̡̢̫̘͍͉̞̝̙̹̘̜͎̩̟̰̹̙̟͉̳̯̹̫̼͉̬̯̼̪̖̿̒ḷ̸̨̱̫̣̪͖̤̩̖̮̙̋͛͆̓͜ ̴̨̨͉̩͉̠̖̖̫̠̬̥̮̲̦͙̦̜̱̺̠̫̤̫̐̑͂́̇̆̐̋͂̈́͘ş̷̛̘͎̬͙̖̜̞̗̣͍̲̒̎̈͋̄̄͛̑̈́́̌̐́͋̃͑͑̈͛͋́̂̂̂͂̈́̌̄͊͂́̓̆̎͑̕̚͝ȩ̶̛̝̮̳̭̘̪̰͚̗̖̪̤̟͊̃̐͛͆̄̀͊̄̓̒͝͠e̶̡̢̧̨̢̨̢̛̞̖̤̲̱̯̘͇̖̹͖̻̱̜̼̹̠͙̺̞̽͌̍͗̿̒̃̍̆̽̓͂͗̽̈́̀͝ͅ ̵̢͚͔̦̹͚̱̝̪̗̽̕͜ỷ̵̛̲̘̟̭̬̩͇͖̮̉͋̑̽͂͛̆͆͂̃͋̀̎̆̑͊̃͛̐́̄̊͗̄̾͋̈́̕͝ỏ̶̖̹̦̭̱͇͔̲̝̜̹̹̗̗̮̪̗̬̥̜͍͉̻̍̍̈́̓͊̍͑́̀̈̇̄̐͐̔͛͌̊̀́̈́̍͑͆͑͒̈́̅̌́̄̉́̇͐̒̈̍̀̎̽͝͠͠͝͝ư̴̢̡͕̯̱̫̗̠̪͓̻̜̪̣̞̟̩͎̗̜̹̯̮̱͎̳̖̹͙̖̬̖͕̙͔̲͊̾͂̓̓̀͆̂̏̀̅̀̉̉͊̈́̅̎̍̇͋̽̿̒̓͐̄͛͊̄̉̽̏͛̋̓͗̍̎̆̒̄̕͘̕͝͝͠ͅ ̷̦̰͈͒̀̆̓̈́͑̂́̇͌̑͒̿̐̈́̅͋̎̄̎͒́̒͒̈́͊͛̚̚͠͝͠͠n̷̢̢̦̟͎͚̹̜̜̞͇̝̲̦̻̩͖̦̮̅̌̔̌͛̅̐̈́̋͌̂͋̈̋̎̈́̈̾̊̊͌̽̿̂̐͆͂̌͐̅́̌̚̚ȩ̵̨̧͔͔̩̭̦͈̪̟͉̦͚̘͚̥̰̰͓͓̤͉̫̳̜̲̲̖̘̜̮̠͉̪̤̤̮̣̫̼͓̦̣̤͖̘̹̉͐͗͆͆̉̐̂̀̄͑͑̄̈̒̀̈̀̀̎͘͜ͅx̶̝̘̼̟̜͎̲̪͎̥̖̠̼̀́̎̔͂͂͐̀̓̓̾̏̅̀̌̐̌̀̑̆̃͝͠ţ̵̢̭̫̫͇̟̣͓̲̦̩͉̞̞̳̬̞̘̙͈͓͈̺̱̮̮̘̠̤͔͍̼̼̳̳̳̦̼̣̼̹͍́͐̍͒͆̎͒͊̊̎͛͑̅̿͂̀̍̎͐́̋͛͗͗́̄͒̾͒͆̏̀̀̽͑͌̓͗̚͝͠͠͠ͅͅͅ ̷̨̧̡̮̝̜̟̠̦̳̼̝̭͖̭͚͎̦͕̦̩̺͓̺͚͈̺̤͋͌̔̏̒̾̓̈̅̃̑̏̓̂̚̚͜͝t̸̛̳̯̻͙̼̳̤͎̦̙̟͌̊͋͐̐͊́̑̈̽̎̎̾͂̓̉͆͗̐̇̏͋̕̚͝͝į̵̡̖̠̝̬̠̲̞̩̼͖̦̺͎͖̺͉̘̦̜̜̬͇̠̗̠̬̥͕̭̙̜̳͕̯͈͔̫̤̝̲̫̥͑̃͋̇̊̈́̍̈̉̑͛̈́͌̓̈̈̀̚͜͝͝͠͠ͅm̸̡͓̦͗͗̉͗̒̈́̂̆̿͒́͆ȩ̷̡͍̙͇̫͖̣͙̝̣̣̻͕͈͍͎̣̹̟͓̲̔̀̎̓͘͘͘͠,̶̢̨̨̧̧̢̖͖̠̲̞̮̘̮͉̩͔̭͕̻̝̤͚̻̭̘͈̮̥͉͎͙̜̭̿̿̆̑͗̌̈̈́͛͋̂̑̆̄̈́͋̈͐̑̍̆͂͆̂̌̍̅͊̍̌̓͘̕͝͝ͅͅ ̷̦̦͚̞̖̖̗̎̋̐́̍̆̾̑̾́͌̔́̀̿̀̓̂͒͐̑̋͊̒̈̕Ȑ̴̢̢͉̟̠͍̲̠e̷̢̡̢̡̡̨̨̢̨̛̝̰̪̠̥̠͓͍͔̗̩̯̺͕̬̮̳͎̩͈̼͕͙̯̟̦̺̣̠̺͔̓̉̈́̈̀͋̂̂̈́̆͑̏̅͌̌̂̓́̐͒̈͒̅͊̀̑̂̿̐̂̒̆̓̂̐͗̚͜͝d̶̢̧̛͇̙̰̺͉͔̼̘̩̟͎̖̪̻͖̥̳̠̣̖͎͈͓̳̯̤̲͔̻̱̝̿̈́̆͛́͛̆̄͛͒̿̈̊̉̈́̆̃̒͋́̽̒͐̀̃̑̂̔̋̈́̍̀̀̐̅̄̇͝͠ ̴̡̡̧̡̟̥̟̝̮̟̘̯̺̳̗͚̮̭͍̘̰̭̹͈͈̱̦͎̝͍̺͎͕̼̝̼̝̦͋̾̏́̐̍͌̍̋͒̕͜͠ͅḨ̵̡̧̧̤͓̖̺̭͕͉̖̝̲̖̙̣̳͚͙͚͇̙̼̻͖̺̼͉͖̞̤̞̝̭̂͐̒̑̓͂̈́́̉̽̇̀́̌͂͑͜ͅͅǫ̶̨̢̧̳̠̱̻͉̦̳͚̜͓̭̯̳̘͕͎͍͖̟͖̹̞̤̘̣̖̰͓̙̩͍̻͖̘͚̠͕̗͍̮͙̼͍̪̰̾̂͌̓͗̃̀͗̈́̚ͅõ̸̧̨̡̢̧̡͎̺̭̬̼̱̟̝͔̲̣͖͍̭̜̣͔̠̗͍̯̣̬̮͚̔ͅd̸̡̹̠̹͍̝̜̍̈́̄̇͋̈́́̈́̈̎̎̀̉̍̎̔̋̒͒̔̒̇͐̀̀́͌̊̉̓͌̕.̴̛̛̛̫̹͍̯̟͓̒̀̈́̑̈̏̓͊̽̈́͊͗͒͌͌̏̌̔͌̏́̄͊͒̽̏̏̏͆̅̐͋̐̿̿́̐̈͐͗̊̏̔̚͜͜͝͝"

(Later on, Danny gets one hell of a tongue lashing from his siblings for eating a fucking bomb. At least Red Hood comes to visit with some dessert to make the flavor of bomb go away.)

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Bossware is unfair (in the legal sense, too)

You can get into a lot of trouble by assuming that rich people know what they're doing. For example, might assume that ad-tech works – bypassing peoples' critical faculties, reaching inside their minds and brainwashing them with Big Data insights, because if that's not what's happening, then why would rich people pour billions into those ads?

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/06/surveillance-tulip-bulbs/#adtech-bubble

You might assume that private equity looters make their investors rich, because otherwise, why would rich people hand over trillions for them to play with?

https://thenextrecession.wordpress.com/2024/11/19/private-equity-vampire-capital/

The truth is, rich people are suckers like the rest of us. If anything, succeeding once or twice makes you an even bigger mark, with a sense of your own infallibility that inflates to fill the bubble your yes-men seal you inside of.

Rich people fall for scams just like you and me. Anyone can be a mark. I was:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/05/cyber-dunning-kruger/#swiss-cheese-security

But though rich people can fall for scams the same way you and I do, the way those scams play out is very different when the marks are wealthy. As Keynes had it, "The market can remain irrational longer than you can remain solvent." When the marks are rich (or worse, super-rich), they can be played for much longer before they go bust, creating the appearance of solidity.

Noted Keynesian John Kenneth Galbraith had his own thoughts on this. Galbraith coined the term "bezzle" to describe "the magic interval when a confidence trickster knows he has the money he has appropriated but the victim does not yet understand that he has lost it." In that magic interval, everyone feels better off: the mark thinks he's up, and the con artist knows he's up.

Rich marks have looong bezzles. Empirically incorrect ideas grounded in the most outrageous superstition and junk science can take over whole sections of your life, simply because a rich person – or rich people – are convinced that they're good for you.

Take "scientific management." In the early 20th century, the con artist Frederick Taylor convinced rich industrialists that he could increase their workers' productivity through a kind of caliper-and-stopwatch driven choreographry:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/21/great-taylors-ghost/#solidarity-or-bust

Taylor and his army of labcoated sadists perched at the elbows of factory workers (whom Taylor referred to as "stupid," "mentally sluggish," and as "an ox") and scripted their motions to a fare-the-well, transforming their work into a kind of kabuki of obedience. They weren't more efficient, but they looked smart, like obedient robots, and this made their bosses happy. The bosses shelled out fortunes for Taylor's services, even though the workers who followed his prescriptions were less efficient and generated fewer profits. Bosses were so dazzled by the spectacle of a factory floor of crisply moving people interfacing with crisply working machines that they failed to understand that they were losing money on the whole business.

To the extent they noticed that their revenues were declining after implementing Taylorism, they assumed that this was because they needed more scientific management. Taylor had a sweet con: the worse his advice performed, the more reasons their were to pay him for more advice.

Taylorism is a perfect con to run on the wealthy and powerful. It feeds into their prejudice and mistrust of their workers, and into their misplaced confidence in their own ability to understand their workers' jobs better than their workers do. There's always a long dollar to be made playing the "scientific management" con.

Today, there's an app for that. "Bossware" is a class of technology that monitors and disciplines workers, and it was supercharged by the pandemic and the rise of work-from-home. Combine bossware with work-from-home and your boss gets to control your life even when in your own place – "work from home" becomes "live at work":

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/24/gwb-rumsfeld-monsters/#bossware

Gig workers are at the white-hot center of bossware. Gig work promises "be your own boss," but bossware puts a Taylorist caliper wielder into your phone, monitoring and disciplining you as you drive your wn car around delivering parcels or picking up passengers.

In automation terms, a worker hitched to an app this way is a "reverse centaur." Automation theorists call a human augmented by a machine a "centaur" – a human head supported by a machine's tireless and strong body. A "reverse centaur" is a machine augmented by a human – like the Amazon delivery driver whose app goads them to make inhuman delivery quotas while punishing them for looking in the "wrong" direction or even singing along with the radio:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/02/despotism-on-demand/#virtual-whips

Bossware pre-dates the current AI bubble, but AI mania has supercharged it. AI pumpers insist that AI can do things it positively cannot do – rolling out an "autonomous robot" that turns out to be a guy in a robot suit, say – and rich people are groomed to buy the services of "AI-powered" bossware:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/29/pay-no-attention/#to-the-little-man-behind-the-curtain

For an AI scammer like Elon Musk or Sam Altman, the fact that an AI can't do your job is irrelevant. From a business perspective, the only thing that matters is whether a salesperson can convince your boss that an AI can do your job – whether or not that's true:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/25/accountability-sinks/#work-harder-not-smarter

The fact that AI can't do your job, but that your boss can be convinced to fire you and replace you with the AI that can't do your job, is the central fact of the 21st century labor market. AI has created a world of "algorithmic management" where humans are demoted to reverse centaurs, monitored and bossed about by an app.

The techbro's overwhelming conceit is that nothing is a crime, so long as you do it with an app. Just as fintech is designed to be a bank that's exempt from banking regulations, the gig economy is meant to be a workplace that's exempt from labor law. But this wheeze is transparent, and easily pierced by enforcers, so long as those enforcers want to do their jobs. One such enforcer is Alvaro Bedoya, an FTC commissioner with a keen interest in antitrust's relationship to labor protection.

Bedoya understands that antitrust has a checkered history when it comes to labor. As he's written, the history of antitrust is a series of incidents in which Congress revised the law to make it clear that forming a union was not the same thing as forming a cartel, only to be ignored by boss-friendly judges:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/14/aiming-at-dollars/#not-men

Bedoya is no mere historian. He's an FTC Commissioner, one of the most powerful regulators in the world, and he's profoundly interested in using that power to help workers, especially gig workers, whose misery starts with systemic, wide-scale misclassification as contractors:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/02/upward-redistribution/

In a new speech to NYU's Wagner School of Public Service, Bedoya argues that the FTC's existing authority allows it to crack down on algorithmic management – that is, algorithmic management is illegal, even if you break the law with an app:

https://www.ftc.gov/system/files/ftc_gov/pdf/bedoya-remarks-unfairness-in-workplace-surveillance-and-automated-management.pdf

Bedoya starts with a delightful analogy to The Hawtch-Hawtch, a mythical town from a Dr Seuss poem. The Hawtch-Hawtch economy is based on beekeeping, and the Hawtchers develop an overwhelming obsession with their bee's laziness, and determine to wring more work (and more honey) out of him. So they appoint a "bee-watcher." But the bee doesn't produce any more honey, which leads the Hawtchers to suspect their bee-watcher might be sleeping on the job, so they hire a bee-watcher-watcher. When that doesn't work, they hire a bee-watcher-watcher-watcher, and so on and on.

For gig workers, it's bee-watchers all the way down. Call center workers are subjected to "AI" video monitoring, and "AI" voice monitoring that purports to measure their empathy. Another AI times their calls. Two more AIs analyze the "sentiment" of the calls and the success of workers in meeting arbitrary metrics. On average, a call-center worker is subjected to five forms of bossware, which stand at their shoulders, marking them down and brooking no debate.

For example, when an experienced call center operator fielded a call from a customer with a flooded house who wanted to know why no one from her boss's repair plan system had come out to address the flooding, the operator was punished by the AI for failing to try to sell the customer a repair plan. There was no way for the operator to protest that the customer had a repair plan already, and had called to complain about it.

Workers report being sickened by this kind of surveillance, literally – stressed to the point of nausea and insomnia. Ironically, one of the most pervasive sources of automation-driven sickness are the "AI wellness" apps that bosses are sold by AI hucksters:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/15/wellness-taylorism/#sick-of-spying

The FTC has broad authority to block "unfair trade practices," and Bedoya builds the case that this is an unfair trade practice. Proving an unfair trade practice is a three-part test: a practice is unfair if it causes "substantial injury," can't be "reasonably avoided," and isn't outweighed by a "countervailing benefit." In his speech, Bedoya makes the case that algorithmic management satisfies all three steps and is thus illegal.

On the question of "substantial injury," Bedoya describes the workday of warehouse workers working for ecommerce sites. He describes one worker who is monitored by an AI that requires him to pick and drop an object off a moving belt every 10 seconds, for ten hours per day. The worker's performance is tracked by a leaderboard, and supervisors punish and scold workers who don't make quota, and the algorithm auto-fires if you fail to meet it.

Under those conditions, it was only a matter of time until the worker experienced injuries to two of his discs and was permanently disabled, with the company being found 100% responsible for this injury. OSHA found a "direct connection" between the algorithm and the injury. No wonder warehouses sport vending machines that sell painkillers rather than sodas. It's clear that algorithmic management leads to "substantial injury."

What about "reasonably avoidable?" Can workers avoid the harms of algorithmic management? Bedoya describes the experience of NYC rideshare drivers who attended a round-table with him. The drivers describe logging tens of thousands of successful rides for the apps they work for, on promise of "being their own boss." But then the apps start randomly suspending them, telling them they aren't eligible to book a ride for hours at a time, sending them across town to serve an underserved area and still suspending them. Drivers who stop for coffee or a pee are locked out of the apps for hours as punishment, and so drive 12-hour shifts without a single break, in hopes of pleasing the inscrutable, high-handed app.

All this, as drivers' pay is falling and their credit card debts are mounting. No one will explain to drivers how their pay is determined, though the legal scholar Veena Dubal's work on "algorithmic wage discrimination" reveals that rideshare apps temporarily increase the pay of drivers who refuse rides, only to lower it again once they're back behind the wheel:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

This is like the pit boss who gives a losing gambler some freebies to lure them back to the table, over and over, until they're broke. No wonder they call this a "casino mechanic." There's only two major rideshare apps, and they both use the same high-handed tactics. For Bedoya, this satisfies the second test for an "unfair practice" – it can't be reasonably avoided. If you drive rideshare, you're trapped by the harmful conduct.

The final prong of the "unfair practice" test is whether the conduct has "countervailing value" that makes up for this harm.

To address this, Bedoya goes back to the call center, where operators' performance is assessed by "Speech Emotion Recognition" algorithms, a psuedoscientific hoax that purports to be able to determine your emotions from your voice. These SERs don't work – for example, they might interpret a customer's laughter as anger. But they fail differently for different kinds of workers: workers with accents – from the American south, or the Philippines – attract more disapprobation from the AI. Half of all call center workers are monitored by SERs, and a quarter of workers have SERs scoring them "constantly."

Bossware AIs also produce transcripts of these workers' calls, but workers with accents find them "riddled with errors." These are consequential errors, since their bosses assess their performance based on the transcripts, and yet another AI produces automated work scores based on them.

In other words, algorithmic management is a procession of bee-watchers, bee-watcher-watchers, and bee-watcher-watcher-watchers, stretching to infinity. It's junk science. It's not producing better call center workers. It's producing arbitrary punishments, often against the best workers in the call center.

There is no "countervailing benefit" to offset the unavoidable substantial injury of life under algorithmic management. In other words, algorithmic management fails all three prongs of the "unfair practice" test, and it's illegal.

What should we do about it? Bedoya builds the case for the FTC acting on workers' behalf under its "unfair practice" authority, but he also points out that the lack of worker privacy is at the root of this hellscape of algorithmic management.

He's right. The last major update Congress made to US privacy law was in 1988, when they banned video-store clerks from telling the newspapers which VHS cassettes you rented. The US is long overdue for a new privacy regime, and workers under algorithmic management are part of a broad coalition that's closer than ever to making that happen:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/06/privacy-first/#but-not-just-privacy

Workers should have the right to know which of their data is being collected, who it's being shared by, and how it's being used. We all should have that right. That's what the actors' strike was partly motivated by: actors who were being ordered to wear mocap suits to produce data that could be used to produce a digital double of them, "training their replacement," but the replacement was a deepfake.

With a Trump administration on the horizon, the future of the FTC is in doubt. But the coalition for a new privacy law includes many of Trumpland's most powerful blocs – like Jan 6 rioters whose location was swept up by Google and handed over to the FBI. A strong privacy law would protect their Fourth Amendment rights – but also the rights of BLM protesters who experienced this far more often, and with far worse consequences, than the insurrectionists.

The "we do it with an app, so it's not illegal" ruse is wearing thinner by the day. When you have a boss for an app, your real boss gets an accountability sink, a convenient scapegoat that can be blamed for your misery.

The fact that this makes you worse at your job, that it loses your boss money, is no guarantee that you will be spared. Rich people make great marks, and they can remain irrational longer than you can remain solvent. Markets won't solve this one – but worker power can.

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[reiderwriter]

Flirting with the FBI

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Word count: 7.1k

Request: Hiiii!! This is my first time requesting anything on this app, but Spencer reid has me in a chokehold. So, I was thinking that the reader is the unsub, and she's like this very good hacker who keeps teasing the fbi cause she's bored or something so she keeps sending hints about who she is or where she is but they keep getting nothing on her. And all of this just keeps getting on Spencer's nerves. And so when Spencer finds her, she keeps teasing him and acting like a brat so he "disciplines" her and takes her roughly and maybe a bit of spanking???

Warnings: a lot tbh - mentions of case details, mentions of domestic violence and police brutality, reader is a possible target of a serial killer, bad tech skills from the writer who really couldn't be bothered to do anymore research than the actual CM writing team, rough Dom Spencer, brat reader, sexual innuendo, semi-public sexual play, spanking, dirty talk (good girl, brat etc.) fingering, raw sex/creampie, aftercare, slight dacryphilia (crying kink) and bimbofication.

A/N: My last fic was a heartwarming family fic, and now I'm back to being depraved. Apologies to anyone here for cute fluff 😭

Masterlist

You always thought hacking the FBI mainframe would be hard, but it's one of the easiest things you've done all week.

If they were going to sit around doing nothing while a serial killer ran around in their own backyard, then obviously, they needed a helping hand. Or a helping poem or two.

Getting into their security camera feed was just an added bonus.

You grabbed your bowl of popcorn and settled into your desk chair, clicking open the window to find which room exactly they would gather in to freak out together.

You made sure to get their attention, blacking out all the computers in the office as they ran to a backroom where a very distraught looking blonde woman was sat. She was evidently the go-to tech support of about six agents who quickly ran to her room to figure out what the issue was. It was show time.

“There once was a serial killer,

Who ate boys and girl both for his dinner,

He cut, diced and slashed,

Left the feds quite abashed,

So I leave this message to be clearer”

The poem scrolled onto their screen on a loop, flashing in and out quickly before you let the computer systems relax again.

You thought they'd panic, scramble for a pen or paper or something, but none of the agents moved until the flashing was over.

You watched curiously as an older man took charge of the scene, likely directing the woman at the desk to figure out who you were, where you lived, and what your social security number was. She got to work quickly, and he moved on to the other agents.

None of them had written the poem down. None had even taken a picture, but one man started talking, and for a while, all eyes and attention in the room were focused solely on him. His hands moved as his mouth did, as if he were casting a spell over the room as he spoke. Even more intriguing was the fact that he rarely seemed to make eye contact with any of them as he spoke. He wasn't conversing or giving directions. He was simply talking.

And you really wanted to listen in.

The younger man began to walk and you watched him quickly pace over to a whiteboard, switching from one feed to another as he made his way there, and pick up a pen before notating the poem perfectly.

Whoever this man was, he was making you feel more and more excited about the game of cat and mouse you had begun with the FBI. You weren't entirely sure if he was to be the cat or the mouse, though.

A few days later, they'd seemingly lost the motivation to work, so you again did their job for them.

With another accompanying limerick to help them along, of course.

“There once was a bullpen full of agents,

Who thought they were very surveillant,

But a simply code crack,

And there system did hack,

A young girl who lived quite adjacent.”

This time, you let the words linger on the screen longer, as you slipped your information into their files, leaving more bread crumbs they could follow to the real villain.

The Agent - Doctor, you had since learned - took up his pen once again and scribbled your first poem next to your most recent.

Doctor Spencer Reid. An IQ of 187, three PhDs and however many Bachelor's Degrees, a member of the Behavioural Analysis Unit, and, as you could somehow tell from the grainy security footage, incredibly attractive man.

He was calm, again talking with his hands as he notated, again drawing the rooms attention like he was the sun and everything needed to orbit him to sustain life. You wondered what it would be like to fluster him.

Typing something out quickly, you broke back into the FBI system. It was risky doing it again so soon again, knowing that their tech analyst was already actively hunting you down, cyber-wise. But you couldn't resist.

“The tall, dark and handsome employee,

How I do wish that he could enjoy me,

I would gladly submit,

we match wit for wit,

But he's trying his best to arrest me.”

The BAU team stood silent on the camera before the two women on the team burst into rambunctious laughter. The camera feed was archaic, black and white, and grainy to boot, but even you couldn't miss the red stain against Doctor Spencer Reid's cheeks. A bonus was the other gentlemen subtly posturing, trying to figure out exactly which of them was “tall, dark, and handsome.”

The payoff for that poem was so great that over the course of the next few days, you kept serenading him with love poems among your quick hints about the actual crime being committed.

You'd first suspected the man of being dangerous when you'd seen the state of his wife. 19 domestic disturbance calls in two months, 0 arrests, and 1 very cushy job as a police detective. You'd done some simple computer programming for your local precinct, inputting data from cases into an algorithm that helped track everything easier, so you'd been intimate with cases that he'd handled.

A pattern had emerged, a series of murders of “undesirables,” people the city didn't care about when alive and certainly didn't have the resources to allocate to after their deaths. Prostitutes, the homeless, and runaway foster kids. All missing or dead, all cases handled by the same officer. The officer that lived next door to you and was one beer away from beating his wife into submission 5 days a week.

After your third 911 call, you'd been notified of your contract termination with the precinct. After the tenth, you noticed parole cars driving by every hour.

By call number 19, you were sure it was a miracle he hadn't tried to have you arrested.

So you turned back to the FBI to see what they could do about a man who treated his wife, and basically everyone else, like scum of the earth.

“Please don't get sidetracked by my hacking,

I'm a good girl, your team I am backing,

the killer, you see,

Is right now hunting me,

You're the ones who can do better tracking.”

You watched the tension snap back into place in the office as, for the first time, Spencer Reid was silent at your message. They all got back to work quickly, going over the files you'd dropped in their servers.

That night, Spencer Reid stayed in the office late, reading through piles and piles of files and looking for the connection he needed. You watched in pity, feeling almost guilty that you'd placed this burden on him instead of just approaching them honestly. But you'd called the police before, and it hadn't worked, so getting attention anyway you could was the only way to go.

You watched for so long that you began noticing his small habits. Each time you sensed frustration, he would run a hand through his hair and tug it slightly. When he found something, he leaned in closer to the page, as if his proximity to the words would make them clearer. Finally, he stood and began clearing his files. But you weren't quite ready to sign off yet, the shouting already beginning in the apartment next to yours, so you quickly typed out the first thing that came to mind to get him to stay.

“There once was a doctor called Reid,

Who I simply and truly just need,

I would lie on my back,

And then let him attack,

Any inch of my body with his seed.”

He fumbled the files in his haste to remove your words from his screen, from every screen now in the building, face awash with embarrassment as he looked around for some sign that no one witnessed your words.

Luck was not to be had as the tech analyst - Penelope Garcia - came shooting out of her office to join him in the near empty bullpen, and the older team leader - Aaron Hotchner - also looked out over the bannister from his office as they bore witness to your seduction.

You were driving Spencer Reid crazy.

He'd spent the last two weeks tracking down a serial killer who may or may not exist based on the word of a set of limericks delivered to the BAU through illegal means that had begun unabashedly flirting with him.

This latest limerick was his last straw.

“The cameras are how I can see you,

I do find myself enjoying the view,

His hair is so fine,

I wish he was mine,

The agent with more PhDs than two.”

“Another score, pretty boy, it was about time someone noticed your good looks instead of your brain for once.” Morgan patted him on the shoulder, barely containing his glee and laughter.

“She's watching us through security feed, and that's all you have to say?” he grumbled, writing out this limerick again, the words to the others burned into his brain. “She's playing with me.”

“It sure sounds like she'd enjoy doing just that,” Emily laughed from her desk, “but I think she might be right, Spencer. Every case file she's given us has suspicious activity on it. They're all unsolved, but the victims aren't linked.”

“He's crossing race and gender boundaries, but he's hitting undesirables.”

They had a case because of you. It didn't mean he wouldn't enjoy handcuffing you and putting you in a cell once this was all finished.

“WE'VE GOT ANOTHER ONE,” Penelope shouted from her office, to no avail. If it was at one computer, it was on all of them.

“The agents grew closer by day,

As the killer wanted to escape,

He paced across the floor,

As I watched by his door,

Getting closer than the agents could say.”

He paused then for a second, thinking through each of the limericks in turn and the panic began.

“Closer than… Emily, the officer that took in all of the cases, what was his name?”

“Officer Falstaff, why?”

“I think he might be our killer. And I think he knows she's on to him, or if he doesn't, he will soon.” He stood suddenly, grabbing a file and sprinting to Penelope’s office, Emily and Morgan trailing close behind.

“Spencer, wait-”

“No time. If we want them both alive, we have to move now.”

Throwing the door to Penelope’s room open, he didn't even bother with niceties.

“Can you get her a message?” He demanded, panting from the short run.

“A wha-? Spencer, what are you talking about?”

“Can you send the hacker a message? Or leave her one so she can find it when she comes?”

Penelope swivelled around in her chair once again, doing who-knows-what to answer his question.

“There's no telling what she actually sees in our servers, Spencer, we didn't see any breach in classified files, the only thing she's done is read your personal file and drop us hints.”

His hands closed into fists as he nodded along. “So no?”

“No, Spencer, I'm sorry. Why? Are you starting to grow fond of our little helper.”

“She's not our little helper. She's a criminal. And she'll be dead soon if I don't confirm with her that we have the right guy - excuse me.”

The anger was washing over him now, as he left the room to get some air, getting only as far as the corridor before slamming an open palm into the wall and resting his forehead against it for a moment, just thinking.

The stress of the case was almost too much for him as he turned around and rested his back against the wall, sliding down it until he was sat on the floor. He may have despised you at that moment, but he didn't want you to get yourself killed.

Something nagged him, still, some stress or anger that hadn't yet surfaced, or some case fact he was missing. A glint at the corner of his eye had him looking up to the camera currently trained directly on him.

Computers are useless, he thought to himself, when you can send a letter.

The next time you sat down at your desk, you weren't exactly shocked to see an up close and personal shot of Aaron Hotchner - they'd turned your security stream into a one way facetime and you were sat directly opposite the big boss himself in an interrogation room.

“Checkmate, I guess,” you said, waiting for the man to move.

A signal from behind the camera let him know you were online and watching. He picked up a pen and paper and scribbled down something before holding the note out to you once more.

The name and location of the bastard next door. They'd done it, and now you simply had to drop your evidence, shut down your computer, and wait for the sirens to sound.

You felt slightly sad typing out your last message, knowing that you had no more reason to stay in touch with the team now. Still, you were only human and couldn't resist the chance to say something more.

“Aaron Hotchner and his clever team,

Working with you has been like a dream,

When Reid comes it is wet,

And my mind is all set,

Oh, I do wish that he'd make me cream.”

The camera turned seconds after your message was sent, and there he was, reading intently, frow creased in annoyance as he tried to remain calm. He, too, picked up a pen and paper.

“I have questions,” the paper said when he turned it around. Holding it up for a few seconds before returning his pen to paper. You typed out a message before he could finish dictating his, though.

“When you find me there's lots for me to say,

I can't help simply feeling this way,

Your profile I read,

Can't believe you're a Fed,

I yearn for you all night and day.”

Somehow, the lines between his brow deepened as he quickly scribbled out another message. This one wasn't a question, though. It was simply two words.

He'd written your name on that paper. He'd found you.

You weren't sure if the tingle that ran up your spine was fear or anticipation. One one hand, you'd likely committed multiple felonies in the pursuit of justice, and the SWAT team about to pick up the killer was going to knock for you, too. On the other hand, it was pretty much a given that you would be seeing Spencer Reid in person in the next few hours.

“The Doctor had finally cracked it,

The only identity that could fit,

The pretty young thing,

Who'd been flirting with him,

And was thinking of sitting on his…”

You sent a second message along with the first.

“I couldn't make this one rhyme, Doc. Come and get me.”

The sound of the FBI outside your neighbour's door had you stepping away from the computer finally. It was time to get ready to see him. You stepped out of your robe and into the shower as you waited to be collected and hauled into a police vehicle.

xxx

So far, you were a bit disappointed by the look of the BAU offices. It was smaller than it appeared on the CCTV, and you hadn't exactly given the tour. Unless the whole tour was the wall from the elevators, through the bullpen and straight to interrogation room one. You were also slightly embarrassed that you had yet to be greeted by any of your favourite characters yet. The lead swat officer had led you in some desk agents dropping by to have you fill out some simple documents - waiving your rights and all that. You'd seen not even a single member of the BAU since dropping in two hours ago, but you felt his eyes on you.

You faced the mirror, trying your best to stare straight through it and into the man beyond.

Spencer Reid was there. He had to be. He was too curious to be anywhere else. You smiled at him through the mirror and waited.

You were right, of course. Spencer stood on the opposite side of the one-way window and watched you look for him in every inch of the glass. He watched you squirm when you couldn't find anything, watched you pick at your nails as he made you wait.

He watched you cross and uncross your legs, the short skirt you'd slipped into just before you left providing just enough mystery to catch his eye and his breath.

He was annoyed, frustrated, a little bit impressed, anxious, and - to his peril - turned on.

“Spencer,” Hotch said, breaking the man's concentration. “We can't keep her that much longer. Go in and say something, or I'll cut her loose.”

Reluctantly, he pulled his eyes away and stepped out of the waiting room before letting himself into yours.

“Miss Y/N, my name is Doctor Spencer Reid, I'm a profiler working with the Behavioural An-”

“You're joking, right?” You asked, eyes lighting up, spine straightening as you looked up at the man. “I know who you are, Doc.”

“Please call me Doctor Reid,” he asked, setting down a file on the table and looking over the desk at you.

“Oh, I don't even get your first name.” You lifted your leg and ran it along the side of his until he moved his chair back, just out of reach. You pouted as he began reading through documents, asking you to confirm exactly which technical breaches you were responsible for.

“And the breach at 1:27pm on Thursday 5th-”

“Yes, that was me, too. They were all me, Doc, is that all? Are we finished now?”

“I don't know, are we finished? Can I leave?”

“No,” you shouted, just as he stood up to gather his things. “No, don't go. I want to talk to you.”

He sat back down, finally looking at you instead of words on a page.

“Do you enjoy attention, Miss Y/N?” He asked, voice cold but gaze burning like fire into your skin.

“As much as anyone does.”

“Do you enjoy my attention?” The words hung between you for a few minutes as you watched him carefully, searching for the right answer.

“What do you think, Doc?”

“Doctor Spencer Reid,” he repeated reflexively.

“I know your name,” you smiled, and he finally looked away, breaking contact to regroup for a second.

“We have reason to believe you used your backdoor into our system to access my personal file, is that correct?” It may have been asked as a question, but Spencer Reid already knew the answer.

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

You laughed at the simple question, sure that your behaviour until this point was evidence enough to answer it.

“Why? Because you're attractive and your smart and-”

“Why haven't you used the content of the files as leverage? I've been digging at you for the last half hour, and you have plenty of ammunition to throw back at me, yet you haven't. Why?”

For the first time in a while, you were speechless.

“Oh. Wow. Should I have said something? Would you have felt more comfortable if I were a horrible person using your background to make you feel vulnerable?”

“Why, Y/N?”

You sighed and looked back up at him.

“I'm interested in you. That's it. Honestly, there is nothing in your file more interesting than how you look running your hands through your hair.”

His jaw clenched and unclenched before he let out a sigh.

“So you're a compulsive liar.” He said it so finitely it was like a kick in the teeth.

“Or maybe you're just insecure. I can help with that.”

He shot you another warning look as a grin spread over your lips. Yes, it was very fun to mess with Spencer Reid.

“FBI Agents aren't allowed to sleep with suspects.”

“You want to sleep with me?”

His eyes went wide as he realized his mistake, mouth opening and closing as he tossed another annoyed look in your direction.

The door to the interrogation room opened, and Reid quickly bolted out of his seat as Aaron Hotchner entered. The two men shared a nod before the younger man left the room entirely.

“Such a shame, I thought we were really getting somewhere.”

To your surprise, Hotchner’s lips curled up in a laugh as he sat down, straightening his suit.

“Miss Y/N, we've reviewed the information you've given us and taken into account your motives, and the FBI has decided not to prosecute you for your actions.”

You sat for a minute, Hotch doing the same, the both of you caught waiting for each other to say something or continue.

“But?” You prodded, knowing there was more left to say.

“But, we'd ask for your cooperation on cases in the future that require technological man-power. In a consultancy role, of course. You wouldn't be given a badge or a gun or any clearance, and you'd need to be with an agent at all times.”

You tapped your fingers against the desk, trying to figure out if this deal was beneficial or not.

“I'll do it if I can pick the Agent.”

Now, the man was fully smiling at you or giving you what you assumed passed for a smile in his books.

“We had recommended Doctor Reid for the role. Of course, if you're more comfortable with another agent, you can-”

“Doctor Reid is perfect, thank you.”

The man nodded and stood, and you stood with him as he led you quietly out of the room.

A flustered Spencer Reid exited the adjoining room, hurrying to catch Hotch before he really signed his life away to you.

“Hotch, what is this?” He demanded, stopping the man in his tracks. They both paused, turning around and moved a few feet awaywfrom.you whispering out their argument.

You couldn't catch most of it, but you did happen to catch the phrases “man-eater,” “I'm not good with people,” and “Spencer, this will be good for you.” Victory in the end went to Hotch, who promptly turned on his heel and kept walking down the hall.

“I work here now,” you said, grinning up at Spencer.

“No, you don't.”

“According to your boss, I do. And you're my babysitter.”

“You're a criminal. You hacked into the FBI database to leave ominous clues to multiple murders.”

“If you call those ominous clues, I'm curious how people usually flirt with you.”

“They don't. Why…why are we having this conversation?”

He stormed off ahead of you, and you quickened your pace to catch up to him, following him down a familiar hallway to what was obviously tech central at the BAU.

“Spencer, seriously? You're walking around looking like that, and no one hits on you?”

He stopped abruptly, and you ran into his back before he turned around to scowl at you again.

“Can we keep this serious, please?”

“I'm very serious about flirting with you, and I'm stumped why more people aren't.”

“Okay, let's go somewhere and talk,” his hand landed on your waist, readying his grip to forcibly move you if need be.

“I thought that's what we were doing.” Instead of allowing him to move you, you leaned into his touch, stepping closer and raising a hand to his chest, as his head dipped to maintain eye contact.

“No, this isn't talking, this is some weird foreplay I've never heard of, and I'd like you to leave my office if you're going to continue,” the woman sat at the desk exclaimed, horror and amusement fighting a battle for her facial expressions. “I like to keep my office a no trauma zone, so please take a walk to the nearest bed or storage closet or car and you can shove your tongues down each other's throats in peace and out of my sight, please and thank you.”

Spencer tried to step away, but a hand on his tie kept him close and kept his eyes on you. You poked your head out around him and smiled at the other woman.

“Sorry to disturb you. I'm Y/N. Based on the tech, I assume we will be working with each other soon.”

“Oh my gosh, you were, like, my number one most hated person last week. Penelope Garcia, tech analyst.”

“I'm sorry about that. If it makes it any better, it was really hard to get past some of your firewalls. And I couldn't even touch the classified files.”

“Apology accepted, on the condition that you lead young Reid out of my office right now before he explodes.”

You grinned and grabbed the man's hand, sending Penelope a quick goodbye as you pulled him out of the room.

He stumbled behind you for a few moments before catching up and pulling you in a different direction, keeping your hands intertwined as he bee-lined for the elevators and pushed the button to go down.

It arrived, and he pulled you in, not releasing your grip until the doors were fully closed and you were alone.

“Getting me all alone, Doc? What do you have in mind?”

“I'm driving you home.”

“My apartment is a crime scene, and I have no family in the city.”

“What about friends?”

“I've been stalked by a homicidal police officer for the last month and barricaded myself into an apartment. Do you think I have friends?”

His gaze was somewhat softer as he looked at you again. You saw the math happening in his head as he tried to figure out what to do with you. You also saw his brain short circuiting when you wrapped yourself around his arm.

“We're friends now, Doc. Isn't that right?”

“What?”

“We're friends,” you repeated again, tone becoming a little defensive in a pout.

“We are not friends, Y/N. We've known each other for less than 6 hours, and we haven't engaged in any friendly conversation.”

“We've known each other for two weeks, and I've been more than friendly enough for the both of us.”

The elevator stopped, and the doors opened. Gesturing for you to go first, Spencer hurried you out of the elevator and into the parking garage.

“Trust me, Spencer, deep down, part of you really wants to be friends with me,” you said poking his chest with a finger. You couldn't resist flattening your hand against his surprisingly hard chest and letting the hand drop slightly.

“And an ever deeper down part of you doesn't want to be friends at all,” you smiled at him.

He caught your wrist before it could reach his belt buckle, your unconscious finish line, spinning you around and dragging you to his car.

The biting cold of metal cutting into your wrists was the first indication that maybe Spencer Reid wasn't as easy to mess with as you'd hoped. He closed the handcuffs around your wrists and handed you into the car as you gaped at him.

“Spencer!”

“Doctor Spencer Reid.”

“I’m not a criminal, Spencer, let me go.”

“I'll let you go when you prove to me you can behave.”

You pouted as he strapped you into the car and closed the door, walking around to the passenger side before letting himself in.

“What's next? Are you going to gag me?” You scoffed as he turned over the engine and began backing out of the parking lot.

“No. I think you'd enjoy that too much.”

The drive to Spencer's apartment was long and quiet as you sat pouting in the passenger seat. Every few seconds, you twisted and moved your arms, fidgeting left and right so he could see how much the restraints bothered you. Luckily, he'd handcuffed your hands in front of your body, so you still sat somewhat comfortably, but you didn't want him to know that.

He pulled up to the building and turned off the engine, pulling out his keys.

“Let's go,” he said, not even sparing you a look as he climbed out.

“Spencer, I'm handcuffed. How do I even get out?”

“You'll figure it out. You're a smart girl, right?”

He closed his door and began walking, and you quickly fumbled your way out.

“Spencer… Spencer, your neighbours are going to ask questions about you bringing a handcuffed girl into your apartment!” You whispered at him as you paced behind him, somehow running to catch up with his mere walk.

“I don't have neighbours like you, Y/N. They won't notice a thing.”

“Right, okay. And when you murder a dozen people over a six month period, they won't hack the federal government.” You rolled your eyes as he unlocked the door, taking your arm and finally handing you into the apartment.

It was dark and cold, and you shivered, feeling his body pushed in right behind yours, closing the door before he felt around for the light switch.

When the lights turned on, you blinked, adjusting to the light again as he walked you further into the apartment, hands on your hips as you slowly stumbled forward.

“Can you take the handcuffs off now?” You asked, looking over your shoulder at him.

“And let you touch my things? No.”

You shook off his hands and walked further into the room.

“You know I can still mess with your stuff with my hands tied up like this,” you said, walking to the nearest bookshelf.

“Whoops, look at that,” you said, pulling a book off the shelf and letting it fall to the floor between you with a thud.

“Y/N!” He exclaimed, voice pitched up in exasperation.

“Oh, this stack of books on the ground looks well organized. Oopsie!” You acted out tripping over the books, sending them flying in different directions.

“One more time, Y/N, mess with my stuff one more time-”

You didn't hear the words as you pulled yet another book off his shelf and let it tumble to the ground.

He was on you in seconds, lifting your wrists and pinning them to the top shelf, pressing his body against yours as he stretched you out.

You gasped at both the sudden contact and the tight grip he now had on your hands.

“Tell me, do you actually want to be in control, or do you just think you should want to be in control?”

“What's the difference?”

“The difference is how much you enjoy it. I think you're only being a brat to get a rise out of me. You're doing this because there's no one else in your life that will give you exactly what you crave."

"And what would that be?"

"Attention," he whispered into your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Great, thanks for the therapy. Are you going to show me how much I can enjoy relinquishing control now?”

“Brat,” he spat at you.

“Fed,” you spat back.

“You have a problem with law enforcement?” He asked, his breath hitting your ear as you tried not to shiver again at his touch.

“My neighbour was a serial killer whose day job was police brutality," you said, as if the answer was obvious, but Spencer still stared, waiting for true confirmation.

“Yes I have a problem with law enforcement. What, are you going to spank me?”

His eyes lit up, and you suddenly wondered if you'd made a mistake.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

“N-No.” You stuttered, but he'd already begun moving you over to his couch.

“It was a joke. Spencer, it was a joke, don't-”

You underestimated his strength as he flipped you around and guided you down over his lap. Keeping your hips raised, he used one hand to hold you down while the other pushed up your tight skirt.

“S-Spencer, I really don't think-”

“Then don't think,” he said, bringing his hand down hard on your ass as you cried out in shock and pain.

“Stop thinking. You think too much, let me do it for you.”

With each hit, your shock grew fuzzy, melting into pleasure as you felt wetness pooling between your thighs.

The doctor you thought would be an easy target was not sadistically returning every teasing word back to you with his hands, letting bruises blossom all over your ass as he delivered painfully arousing strikes.

His hand stopped and he rubbed your ass as you twitched at the gentleness, panties sticking to the folds of your cunt as you absent mindedly pushed up into his touch.

“See, now you're listening,” he said, fingers trailing down to touch you over the sopping undergarments.

With two quick fingers, the crotch of your panties peeled away from your skin and he was plunged deep inside you, fingers pressing in as his thumb found its way to your clit.

“Fuck, Spencer-”

“Doctor Reid. You can use my full title now or you don't get to cum.”

“D-Doctor Reid, please!” His thumb rubbed slowly over your clit bit his fingers didn't move as you shuddered and contracted around them.

“Please what?” He asked, voice light as if he wasn't two knuckles deep in you already.

“Please make me cum, Doctor Reid!”

“Good manners,” he said as he finally began pumping his digits in and out of you, spreading your legs wider as you clawed your hands into his couch cushions to ground yourself in the moment. His spare hands left your wrists, and you felt them again, delivering small, almost cute hits to your ass as you twitched around his fingers, shying away from the painful contact.

“That's it, Y/N, let yourself relax,” he whispered, shifting his weight underneath you as you became aware of the tent in his pants.

Your brain was jello as you tried to bounce back on his fingers, chasing your oncoming orgasm.

“Look at you, trying to cum on my hands. You're just an attention-seeking slut, right?”

His fingers continued ppimg as your tongue hung loosely in your mouth.

“Answer me, or I'll leave you here high and dry, Y/N. Tell me you're an attention seeking slut that's been fingering yourself to the thought of this for weeks.”

“I-I'm an a-atten…tion seeking s-slut,” you stifled a moan and bit back tears as he pressed another finger inside of you. “Spencer I can't I need to cum,” you cried, tears spilling down your cheeks pathetically.

“Say it.”

“I'm an attention seeking s-slut that's been th-thinking about this-”

“Fingering yourself,” he corrected.

“Fingering myself to the thought of this for w-weeks,” you cried, sniffing now as your thighs shook in anticipation.

“What a nasty little slut,” he said as you finally came, your cum running down his fingers as he kept his hands moving.

Your tears were falling freely now as you bit back little sobs and chokes of emotions, the pleasure from the orgasm almost too much to handle.

Underneath you, Spencer shifted, freeing himself from his position and laying you fully down on the sofa as your legs still shook.

“There once was a doctor called Reid,” he said, unzipping his pants as he took up his place behind you.

They were your words, and your body signalled warnings everywhere as his hands pulled your hips up once more, pulling your knees up too to bend under you, laying you face down ass up.

“Who I simply and truly just need.”

He pulled the panties down to the crook of your knees before leaning down over you so he could deliver the next few lines as whispers into your ear.

“I would lie on my back, And then let him attack, Any inch of my body with his seed.”

A weak moan escaped your lips as he sank his cock inside of you, lips still pressed against your ears.

“I don't want you on your back, though. I much prefer you like this.”

His cock slid out of you and returned with a speed and strength that had your eyes rolling back in your head.

He was thick, maybe a little longer than average, and he filled you perfectly using your cum as lubricant.

“Such a good listener, now, Y/N. I like you like this,” he said with a moan, thrusting hard and deep inside of you.

You didn't talk. You could only drool and moan into his couch as he emptied your brain one thrust at a time.

You didn't think about how he wasn't wearing a condom. You didn't think about how he'd spat your words back at you, ready to fill you with his seed. You just sat in a pool of your own pleasure and let Spencer Reid use your body as you'd been begging him to for weeks.

He raised your hips and gave one last thrust, stilling there for a second as he filled your empty body and mind with his cum and his entire being.

If you weren't obsessed with Doctor Spencer Reid before this, you certainly were now.

He pulled out of you quickly, wiping his cock on your skirt before hurrying off to the bathroom to clean up.

Your brain was still absent when he returned, cleaning you off and finally removing the handcuffs. He removed your clothes, replacing them with his spares as he threw the soiled ones into the wash.

When you regained your wits or what was left of them, you were laid out in his bed, wrapped in a blanket and stuffed into a sweater and sweats, fully covered from head to toe. Spencer was picking up his keys and trying his shoelaces.

“Where are you going?’ You asked sleepily, stumbling to the doorway. Your legs were still shaky, and your movement was already limited. You knew that tomorrow, the use of your limbs would be nonexistent.

“Back to the office. Now that you're not around, maybe I'll be able to get some actual work done.”

“Spencer,” you said, forcing him to turn around to look back at you.

Before he could say anything else, you pressed your lips to his, hot and needy, wrapping your arms around his neck as he kissed back, slipping his tongue into your mouth and pressed you into the wall next to the door.

When you both pulled away for breath, you detangled your limbs, smoothing out his shirt and readjusting his tie.

He looked down at you, waiting for you to say something else as you met his gaze, grinning at him.

“I look forward to working with you, Doctor Reid.”

[evilminji]

Been Watching Weird Fruit Explorer(?)... and I just...

W-Who let Bored Danny have BooTube?

Sorry, YOU-Tube. He has TWO Apps now. BooTube is bigger. Way more random, yet... somehow more niche? Meh. It's what happens when you get billions of billions of people who all have their own Obsessions to rant over, on a site.

Ember's channel is pretty lit, tho, ngl.

He stopped using YOU-Tube almost overnight. Too many ads, weird algorithmic pushiness. No thanks. It was too small and too "trying to take my money". You know?

Buuuuut? See.... TUCKER is the Tech guy.

Coding and that sort of stuff. HE does hands on work. You want a toaster? He can MAKE you a toaster! With LAZERS! Runs off The Goo! But a program? Eeeeeeeh? Hit it with hammer maybe? Monkey make fire? Hit with stick? Blergh.

Yeah, he can SORTA push through.

But he suuuucks.

And like... he had a headache, okay? His project had just, quiet literally, exploded in his face. So when he looked at his phone? All the apps were blobs. He clicked the one that LOOKED kinda right. Shoved his arm in his phone and brute forced a channel set up.

He figured he could ramble about Space!

It's not like he cared is anyone LISTENS or not! It's a "for him" thing, you know? Like a diary. But more... putting on a ☆~show~☆?

So he rambles from the floor of his Lair's Lab, crashs and wails in the distance, green sky occasionally visible as he lazily floats by windows. Dropping... juuuust past human knowledge understanding of Space. Talking like he's STUDYING somewhere. Referencing PAPERS no human will ever be able to find.

But a few they WILL.

Some of which, are currently? Only half written.

But then? Oh YEAH... he should eat! You know... Sam keeps bringing him fruits and veggies and stuff from her internship at that Botanical Lair. Stuff never seen before of Earth. Or hasn't been seen in centuries.

Again, like, a FEW that? Randomly? Have???

He picks up something sharply purple, bright orange insides. Crisp crunch. He makes a face. And starts to ramble about it, distracted from Space. "Weirdly mushroom-y" he notes. "Kinda bubblegum sweet? But like... CHEAP bubblegum. Like it hits you all at once and is kinda chemically. But it disappears real fast? Huh. Spicy too..."

It's the first video on the Playlist. One of hundreds. Two of the green Lanterns RECONIZE that fruit ad HIGHLY toxic to humans, can't recognize what planet they're seeing. Or how this alien teen got himself on YouTube.

He seems... unaware of how incredibly famous he's become.

But his strange techno Pharoah friend has not. HE is both perfectly aware and apparently amused. Has taken to feeding him rare and hazardous flora and fauna, to see if it tastes good.

....there have been an alarming number of plants from dead planets.

And the comments the kid makes? Alarming as hell.

Sam's just pleased everybody's getting their greens. Danny's glad him n tuck get to hang and do "try weird foods and fuck around, bro time". They've made lazers! Talked about stuff! Debated why Martian Manhunter is THE superior Justice League member.

Danny understands. Wonder Woman is a BAMF. But he's biased, Tucker. He doesn't CARE if she has a sword and flowy, impressive locks! Shape-shifting telepath! From MARS!!! *imaginary mic drop*

And Tucker? Is conquering the YouTube scene with this charming, weird, relatable young alien. Who rambles about Space, debates nerd stuff, eats weird plants and describes them, and makes sci-fi technology! Theme? WHAT THEME? Phantom is a weird channel, man. You never know what you'll find!

And no one can get rid of it.

Believe them, governments have TRIED. Censorship? Not possible. Not without removing the whole SITE.

[bugzzybabe]

Social Media [Steve Rogers x Reader]

Summary: Reader teaches Steve how to use social media and he sees her more provocative pictures.

Authors Note: This was written with the intention of a second part so let me know by the end if that sounds appealing. Enjoy!

WC: 1.2k

Steve might have been over a hundred years old but he did his best to keep up with the times. Over the past two years of being with the Avengers, Steve and you had fallen into routine of you casually keeping him up to date with societal standards and routines. Whether it was explaining to him hookup culture or ubers, he was always attentive during your lessons.

You hadn't recognized it, but the past few months, Steve had been taking extra care to impress you. Listening and being there for you was something he took extra pride in as he wanted you to know that he cared.

Little did he know, you had also grown quite fond off the talks you would share. The way his shoulder would brush yours would send shocks down your spine as you tried to ignore any type of non platonic feelings. You truly believed he could never feel that way about you, so you did your best to maintain the friendship.

It was especially hard to keep this act up though when he was staring at you with those bright blue eyes that peered straight into your thumping heart, as he was doing now.

"Please teach me how to use the online medias. Tony won't stop posting pictures of my butt and posting them on the bird app calling it 'America's Ass'." Steve shuttered as he recounted the memes the team would make of him when he wasn't looking. Tony did have a secret spam that he would use to often make fun of the team in a loving way. Everyone assumed it was Peter's doing until you walked in one day on Tony snickering while posting a photo of Clint having fallen asleep in one of the vents.

Looking back at the tall and brutally handsome man in front of you, you sighed and patted the seat on the couch next to you. Steve gave you that faint worthy smile as he politely sat within arms reach of you. The body heat he gave off made you want to melt but you brushed it off and gestured for his phone.

"Oh right!" He fumbled as he patted his pockets down for the phone under Stark Technologies. Steve was one of the only people who denied all the updates Tony would provide for all the team's tech. You always felt bad as using technology for Steve was hard enough without all the constant updates of flashy nonsense.

"So first I'm going to go to the app store and download some of the more common social media apps like Twitter and Instagram." You gently explained as Steve watched you maneuver throughout his phone. He was always left in awe of how natural it all came to you.

"And I don't have to pay for it?" He questioned as you shook your head.

"Nope! Some apps cost money but most don't. Either way, Tony probably would cover it no problem." You stated as the apps downloaded.

Once they were loaded, you opened Instagram and began to sign Steve up. Since there was already an account for Captain America, run by the team's press, there was no need to create a professional one.

"Now I'm gonna make you an account just for your personal use, not to promote any avengers things. Just for Steve!" He nodded along as you rambled, just in awe of you. Honestly you could say anything and he would probably go along with it.

"You can use this account to post or not post whatever. Some people use it for aesthetic pictures they take, photos of friends and family or just selfies of themselves."

"What do you post?" Steve asked as your rambling was cut short. You should've expected this question but you never thought your crush/friend/coworker would ever see your feed (seeing as Steve is clueless when it comes to the internet).

You blushed and stammered to answer, "Well I post pictures of my friends, food I really liked or photos that I look good in I guess..." You mumble the last part and internally beg he wouldn't request to see it. The reason for this being that you had a couple bikini pictures up that usually weren't a problem or shameful secret, but you just didn't want Steve seeing them.

"Can I follow you?" Steve asks with a soft look in his eyes. Your heart fluttered as you pretended to be chill and shrugged looking back at his phone. You proceeded to look up your account and followed it before quickly exiting before he had a chance to see anything.

Steve smiled at you before continuing the conversation, "Thank you for helping me with all this. I didn't want to ask the others and have them make fun of me." He shyly stated as you looked at the man with wide eyes. You didn't realize how comfortable he felt around you until you realized you were the person he came to for help with all of this.

"Oh Steve, it's no problem at all! Plus you're such a fast learner that it's no big deal." Plus you loved being around him so that made it easy. You weren't gonna tell him that last part though...

After another hour of explaining how social media worked, Steve gave you another genuine smile and excused himself to go finish up a last minute report. The second he left the room you let out an exhausted sigh and sunk back into the couch.

Everytime Steve was around you, you got so in your own head that he basically consumed your mind. Little did you know you had the same effect on Steve. The second he stepped into his office, he let out a sigh he didn't realize he was holding. The only real reason he wanted to get on social media was to see all the photos you always seemed to be posting. He saw one of your photos on Natashas phone the other day when she left it out and had never felt so compelled to steal something before.

Within the privacy of his office, Steve finally brought his phone back out and opened Instagram. Going to his following page like you taught him, he opened your account and almost passed out. Right there on your third latest post was a picture of you and Wanda from a hike you had gone on a couple days prior.

Looking at the blissful smile on your face, Steve felt himself falling even harder for you. He continued to scroll through your account until he landed on one of your posts from a couple months ago. You had gone with the girls on a beach trip (funded by Tony) and had a mini photoshoot at the beach. Steve's face flushed bright red as he tried not to look too hard at the photo. He couldn't help but admire the red one piece you were wearing and how it hugged each of your curves in a way that left his mouth watering.

Fumbling to exit out of the photo before he continued to think the lewd thoughts forming in his mind, Steve accidentally hit the like button. Actively trying to not mess up further, Steve threw his phone across the room, hoping it would turn off. Digging his nails into the desk, he took deep breaths as to try and erase the image of you looking so breathtakingly stunning in his mind.

Hesitantly going to pick back up his phone, Steve noticed a new message from you. He quickly opened it up to find a text that made his breath catch, "Come meet me in my room in 10". Holy shit. 

Authors Note: Comment if you want a part 2 with smut ;)

[lilazooo]

Jason Todd who is a big softie for animals. He’ll break a guy’s jaw but feed a stray cat like it’s royalty. He secretly fosters dogs through an anonymous rescue name.

Jason Todd who is sarcastic and blunt, but always says what needs to be said. He can’t stand sugarcoating or dishonesty.

Jason Todd who sleeps with a gun under his pillow and a book on his chest. Usually doesn’t sleep much though.

Jason Todd who is painfully self-aware. He knows his trauma, doesn’t always talk about it, but makes gallows humor jokes like it’s his love language.

Jason Todd who calls Alfred “Pops” or “Alfie” when he wants something.

Jason Todd who has a complicated but fiercely loyal bond with Dick. He’ll roll his eyes and argue with him, but would still throw a punch for him with no hesitation.

Jason Todd who loves teasing Tim, especially about coffee addiction and tech obsessions, but secretly checks in on him more than anyone else does.

Jason Todd who would die for Damian. He acts annoyed by him but actually loves mentoring him in his own messy, older-brother way.

Jason Todd who still calls Bruce “the old man” but deep down, he’s still the lost boy who wanted to make his dad proud.

Jason Todd who listens to rock, 90s hip hop, and classical music when he's in a broody mood (especially Chopin or Tchaikovsky).

Jason Todd who can cook. Mostly comfort foods like chili, grilled cheese, and big pasta dishes. He learned to survive on his own and secretly loves feeding people.

Jason Todd who wears beat-up leather jackets, combat boots, and fingerless gloves like a religion. Smells like gunpowder, sandalwood, and motor oil.

Jason Todd who has tattoos, probably a Shakespeare quote over his ribs and something symbolic on his shoulder. Scars, of course, are everywhere.

Jason Todd who falls hard, even if he doesn’t admit it. Love terrifies him because he knows how loss feels.

Jason Todd who uses the push-pull dynamic. He’ll draw you in with intensity, then ghost you the moment he realises he's feeling too much.

Jason Todd who is jealous, protective, and possessive—but subtle. He will glare at someone across the room, then pretend he’s totally unbothered.

Jason Todd who writes letters he never sends. For lovers, for Bruce, for the people he’s lost. Just so he can get it out of his system.

[reidmarieprentiss]

No More Misunderstandings

Summary: You have a big crush on Spencer, everyone can see it except for Spencer himself.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Tech Analyst fem!reader

Category: fluff

Warnings/Includes: crushing, (un)requited feelings, bad communication, Spencer trying to flirt, gay Elle, Rossi not Gideon, happy ending, Elle is out but reader doesn't know

Word count: 9.4k

a/n: if this man ever asked me to hang out i would say yes in two seconds flat

main masterlist

Every day, you settled into the hum of computers and the soft glow of monitors that painted the walls of the BAU's technical analysis hub, affectionately dubbed the "bat cave" by those who knew it best. Your role as a tech analyst found you working side-by-side with the brilliant and bubbly Penelope Garcia, a woman whose personality was as colorful as her wardrobe. Despite the comfort of being shrouded in the semi-darkness of your tech-laden sanctuary, a certain type of light seemed to elude you—the spark of acknowledgment in Dr. Spencer Reid's deep, thoughtful eyes.

You harbored a crush so palpable that even the air in the room felt charged with your nervous energy whenever Spencer was near. However, your shy demeanor cloaked these feelings in a veil of secrecy that somehow, miraculously, Spencer himself never managed to pierce through. Everyone else on the team had noticed, from the knowing smiles of Derek Morgan to the gentle teasing of JJ, but Spencer remained blissfully unaware, his attention often drifting towards Elle Greenaway with an intensity that tugged painfully at your heart.

Penelope, ever the observant friend, never missed a beat. "Oh, honey," she would whisper, "it’s like you’re sending Morse code with those blushes and he’s living in a blackout."

Her words were gentle, tinged with humor and affection, yet each jest felt like a pinprick to your already tender sensibilities. Whenever Spencer visited the bat cave to discuss case details or gather information, your heart raced as you tried to provide him with everything he needed without tripping over your words or, heaven forbid, your own feet.

"Hey, Spencer," you would start, your voice a careful mixture of professionalism and the warmth you couldn’t keep at bay.

"Hello," he would respond, his eyes scanning the screens filled with data. His focus was razor-sharp, dissecting information with the same precision he used on everything but the emotional currents swirling around him.

Each interaction was a dance. You would inch towards openness, leaning in to catch a whiff of his cologne or to appreciate the subtle shift of his hair when he ran his fingers through it in concentration. But as soon as he glanced up, those hazel eyes like windows to an enigmatic soul, you would recoil slightly, cheeks aflame, words retreating as quickly as they had dared to emerge.

Later, as the screen showed live feeds of the team moving through their environments, Penelope would nudge you gently with her elbow, her voice low and teasing. "You know, if we had a dollar for every time you fumbled around that man, we could retire and buy an island in the Bahamas."

You’d offer a small, embarrassed laugh, grateful for the low lighting hiding the worst of your blush. "I just... I don’t know how to act around him, Penelope. What if he doesn’t..."

"Feel the same?" she'd finish for you, her tone softening. "Sweetie, the heart’s a funny creature. It doesn’t play by the rules of logic that Spencer loves so much. But who knows? Maybe one day, he’ll surprise you and actually look up from those case files and see what’s right in front of him."

The comfort in her voice was soothing, yet each day ended the same—with you watching Spencer, Spencer watching Elle, and Penelope watching over you, a guardian angel clad in technicolor, armed with an arsenal of jokes and just the right words to keep you smiling through the uncertainty.

—

The day had been rolling along as usual in the BAU's bat cave, the rhythmic clicking of keyboards providing a steady backdrop to the glow of computer screens. Penelope had excused herself for a quick bathroom break, leaving you alone amidst the towers of technology. Just as the door clicked shut behind her, the shrill ring of the phone sliced through the quiet, startling you slightly. Calls from the field were usually Penelope’s domain, her cheerful voice a soothing constant for the team. Today, it seemed, you would have to step into her shoes.

“Y/N speaking, what can I do for you?” Your voice wavered slightly, anxiety bubbling up as you prepared for your usual toggle through databases and security feeds.

When Spencer’s voice responded from the other end, a different kind of alertness prickled across your skin. “Hi, Y/N, we need to cross-reference known associates of the unsub with recent flight records. Can you pull up the lists and cross-check for any matches?”

Your heart thumped erratically, his voice weaving through the receiver like a familiar song that never failed to stir your soul. You tried to maintain a steady tone, hoping your voice didn’t betray the sudden nervousness that his presence, even just over the phone, incited. “Sure, Spencer, just a moment.”

As your fingers danced across the keyboard, the professional mask you wore each day slid comfortably into place. You were adept at your job, a fact that never faltered, even under the weight of your emotions. Quickly pulling up the necessary records, you began the process of cross-referencing, your mind briefly detached from the flutter in your stomach.

“Looks like there’s a match. Michael Davidson, on a flight from Atlanta to D.C. this morning,” you reported, a trace of pride threading through your words at the efficiency with which you’d located the information.

“Great, Y/N. Thanks,” Spencer’s voice came through, a hint of relief palpable even through the static of the connection. His appreciation, simple and straightforward, filled you with a warmth that went beyond professional satisfaction.

Hanging up, you let out a breath you’d been holding. Penelope chose that moment to breeze back into the room, her presence as effervescent as ever. Catching the tail end of your smile, she quirked an eyebrow playfully.

“Spill the beans, buttercup. You look like someone just handed you a golden ticket,” she teased, settling back into her chair.

“It was just Spencer needing some quick info,” you shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant as your heart continued to beat a staccato rhythm against your ribs.

Penelope’s smile widened, her eyes twinkling with unspoken understanding. “Oh, just Spencer, huh?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, trying to brush it off casually. “Derek would never betray you by talking to me,” you teased, hoping to steer the conversation away from your flustered feelings.

Penelope’s eyes sparkled even more as she winked at you. “Oh, he’s allowed to have side pieces, my love. I’m a generous goddess.”

You burst out laughing, your nervousness momentarily forgotten as Penelope’s playful banter eased your tension. “I’ll let him know you said that,” you shot back, turning back to your screen, trying to focus on anything other than the residual warmth from talking to Spencer.

Penelope, never one to let you off the hook easily, leaned in closer. “Should I let Spencer know he isn’t allowed to have any side pieces then?” she asked, winking at you again, her tone as sweet as honey but with a hint of mischief.

“Penelope!” you gasped, feeling your face flush all over again. The blush you thought had faded returned with a vengeance as you turned away, hoping she wouldn’t see just how red you were.

She laughed, clearly pleased with herself. “I’m just saying, babe. The boy’s got options, but I think we both know his best one is sitting right here.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands as you let out a small, embarrassed laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“Just doing my part to make sure he doesn’t miss any signals,” Penelope sang, tapping her keyboard lightly, her grin as wide as ever. You couldn't help but smile too, secretly grateful for her teasing. After all, it was these moments that made the crush a little more bearable.

—

During one of Rossi’s famed pasta-making sessions, a relaxed atmosphere filled his spacious kitchen, with the rich aroma of tomato sauce simmering on the stove and the sounds of laughter mingling with soft Italian music playing in the background. Rossi, the consummate host, guided everyone through the steps of making the perfect pasta dough, his hands moving with the ease of long practice.

You found yourself stationed next to Spencer, who was diligently kneading a mound of fresh pasta dough. His hands, beautiful and dexterous, worked the dough with a precision that was mesmerizing. The veins on his hands stood out, accentuating every deliberate movement, and you couldn’t help but be captivated by the fluidity of his motions. It wasn’t just his intellect that drew you in; even his seemingly mundane physical actions had a way of catching your undivided attention.

Derek and JJ, who were partnered up on the other side of the kitchen island, caught your fixed gaze and shared an amused look between them. Derek’s smirk grew as he nudged JJ, whispering loud enough for you to overhear, “Looks like someone’s more interested in the handwork than the handiwork.”

JJ chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she joined in the teasing. “Yeah, I think Y/N’s planning on writing a thesis on the manual dexterity of certain geniuses.”

Flustered, you tore your eyes away from Spencer’s hands, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. You attempted to focus back on your own portion of dough, which had begun to stick to the counter more than it should. Spencer, oblivious to the exchange, looked up and noticed your struggle.

“Hey, you need to dust a bit more flour on the surface,” he said, his voice gentle, unaware of the reason behind your distraction. He reached over to sprinkle some flour on your dough and then on the countertop, his fingers briefly brushing against yours. The brief contact sent a pleasant jolt through you, further flustering you.

Rossi, ever the observant host, noticed the playful dynamic and decided to rescue you from your embarrassment. “Alright, everyone, let’s focus on the art of pasta! Y/N, why don’t you help me with the sauce?” he suggested, giving you a knowing smile as he handed you a wooden spoon.

As you helped Rossi stir the simmering sauce, carefully blending the herbs into the rich, aromatic mixture, you couldn’t help but cast furtive glances across the kitchen. There, Hotch had taken up the spot you vacated next to Spencer, now deeply engaged in the art of pasta making under Rossi’s enthusiastic instruction. While Hotch was methodically following Rossi’s guidance, Spencer’s attention occasionally drifted.

Across from them, Elle was rolling out her dough with a confident flourish, laughing at something Hotch had said. You caught Spencer's eyes as they met Elle's, a shared glance of amusement passing effortlessly between them. The ease of their silent communication was stark, their smiles syncing in a moment of private jest that seemed to exclude the world around them—including you.

That simple, silent exchange felt like a punch to the gut. The laughter and camaraderie around you suddenly seemed a bit dimmer, a bit more distant. It wasn’t just jealousy that twisted in your stomach—it was the aching realization of how much could be said in a single look when there was a real connection; a connection you feared might never form between Spencer and yourself.

You turned your attention back to the sauce, the spoon moving mechanically in your hand as Rossi continued to chat about the nuances of Italian cooking. He didn’t seem to notice your distraction, caught up in his culinary passion. But inside, your thoughts were swirling as tumultuously as the sauce you stirred.

Trying to shake off the sinking feeling, you focused on the positives—the laughter of your team, the comforting weight of the wooden spoon in your hand, the delicious smell that filled the kitchen. But despite the festive atmosphere, a part of you remained reserved, quietly nursing the tender hope that maybe, just maybe, one day Spencer would look at you with the same warmth and understanding he so effortlessly shared with Elle. Until then, you resolved to keep smiling, keep stirring, and keep hoping.

—

The BAU briefing room felt unusually empty without Penelope's vibrant presence, Elle's keen insights, and Derek's charismatic confidence filling the space. With them on vacation, the dynamic had shifted, and you found yourself stepping into roles that stretched beyond your usual behind-the-scenes expertise. The weight of Penelope's responsibilities now rested squarely on your shoulders, a challenge you accepted with both determination and a hint of trepidation.

As the team gathered for the briefing on the new case, Hotch turned to you. "Y/N, could you walk us through the case description and the current leads?" His voice was calm, authoritative, yet imbued with a supportive undertone that did little to ease the flutter of nerves in your stomach.

Nodding, you stood, remote in hand, feeling every pair of eyes in the room settle on you. Public speaking was not your greatest fear, but it was hardly your favorite endeavor—especially not with Spencer's intense gaze locked on you. It was as if his eyes were a pair of spotlights, illuminating not just your words but every minute reaction and emotion that flickered across your face.

As you began to outline the case, detailing the patterns and possible psychological motivations of the unsub, Spencer's scrutiny never wavered. His stare was not judgmental nor dismissive; rather, it was analytical, perhaps even a bit curious, as if he were trying to read the nuances of your presentation, to understand not just the facts but the person delivering them.

"Based on the geographical profiling and the behavioral pattern, we believe the unsub may be operating within a ten-mile radius of downtown," you explained, pointing to the map projected behind you. Your voice steadied as you delved deeper into the analysis, the familiar terrain of data and evidence providing a solid foundation beneath your initially shaky confidence.

Spencer's focus, rather than rattling you further, began to foster a sense of resolve within you. You found yourself speaking more confidently, your nerves tempered by the realization that this was still your team—your family in all but blood. They weren't here to judge; they were here to listen and to learn from what you had to offer.

As the briefing wrapped up, Hotch nodded in approval. "Good work, Y/N. Keep us posted on any updates from Garcia's systems until she returns."

You nodded, feeling a wave of relief wash over you. Glad it was over, you were already preparing to scamper back to your office when you heard a voice that sent a familiar shiver down your spine.

“Y/N?” Spencer's voice, calm yet inquisitive, caught your attention.

You spun around to face him, trying not to let your fluster show. “What’s up?”

“Can you put the map back up on the screen, please?” he asked, already standing by the large projection screen.

“Ye–yeah, of course.” Your fingers fumbled with the remote as you quickly reactivated the display, bringing the map back onto the screen.

“Here,” Spencer said, still not looking back at you. “Come look at this.”

You walked over to stand beside him, your eyes inadvertently drawn to his long fingers as they traced paths along the map, pointing out specific areas. The same hands that had mesmerized you earlier were now gliding over the screen, drawing you into his thought process.

Spencer started talking about the geographical profile, rattling off information with his typical rapid-fire brilliance. But what took you by surprise was how he spoke to you—not as the team’s tech analyst, but as if you were another profiler, someone he wanted to consult. This was new, and it left you momentarily stunned. He’d never done this before.

“Spencer?” you asked quietly, your voice barely audible in the spacious room. He hummed in response, still focused on the map as he tugged thoughtfully at his bottom lip—a gesture you’d come to adore and envy.

“Why are you asking me about this?” you continued, your curiosity growing along with your nerves. “Why not Rossi? Or Hotch?”

Spencer paused, finally turning to face you, his eyes filled with the same focused intensity he usually reserved for solving cases. “Because you see things differently,” he said softly. “You have a different perspective, and that’s valuable. Sometimes it’s not just about profiling. It’s about how we approach the data, and you… you understand patterns in a way that’s unique.”

His words caught you off guard, but they filled you with an unexpected warmth. You weren’t just the tech analyst who plugged in the data—they saw you, Spencer saw you, as part of the team, as someone with valuable insights.

Your heart fluttered in your chest as you held his gaze for a moment longer than you intended. “Thanks, Spencer,” you whispered, trying to suppress the blush creeping up your neck.

He smiled, a small but genuine curve of his lips, before turning back to the map. “Now, what do you think about this area here?” he asked, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for you two to be collaborating like this.

For once, you weren’t just lost in thoughts of him—you were part of the conversation, and it felt good.

After you felt you'd helped all you could, you excused yourself back to your office, ready to sink back into the more solitary part of your work. However, Spencer seemed to have other plans, as he walked alongside you, his footsteps synchronized with yours, indicating he wasn't quite done talking. His expression was one of mild concern, a usual precursor to his deep dives into various subjects.

As you walked, he continued to unravel his thoughts about the case, tying loose ends and circling back to previous points with a precision that was nothing short of impressive. It was typical of Spencer to thoroughly dissect each aspect of a case, often taking tangential routes in the conversation that surprisingly led right back to the main topic, a testament to his prodigious mind.

However, as engrossed as he was in discussing the case, his next words veered sharply from the professional to the personal, catching you completely off guard and momentarily stalling your mental gears. The shift was so sudden that it took a moment for you to register what he was actually asking, pulling you out of your case-focused mindset and into a more introspective space. This unexpected question not only showed his human side but also reminded you of the depth of his observational skills, not just in work but in personal matters as well.

"How is Felix, by the way?" Spencer asked, an innocently curious tilt to his head as he regarded you, his pace slowing slightly.

"What?" The name jolted you, an echo from a past chapter of your life you hadn’t opened in ages, and certainly not one you had expected Spencer to know anything about. You blinked, momentarily confused, trying to piece together the leap in conversation.

"Felix? How are they?" Spencer repeated, his interest seemingly piqued by your reaction—or perhaps just his natural inclination toward thorough understanding.

You paused, standing now in the doorway of your office, the background hum of computer servers providing a soft soundtrack to this unexpected moment. "Um, I don't know," you admitted, still trying to navigate the strange turn the conversation had taken.

"Oh, I’m so sorry, did you two separate?" Spencer’s tone was filled with genuine apology, his face reflecting concern.

You managed a small, somewhat awkward laugh, finding both the absurdity and the sudden intimacy of the conversation slightly overwhelming. "Well, yes. A long while ago." Your response came out lighter than you felt, the surprise of the question making your heart race for reasons other than your usual nervousness around Spencer.

As Spencer absorbed your response, his expression remained unreadable, a common trait when he was deep in thought or processing information. He nodded, perhaps filing away the conversation for later reflection, before excusing himself with a polite but somewhat distant farewell. His departure was quick, efficient, the way he typically transitioned back to work, yet it left a trail of questions in its wake.

You watched him go, a blend of relief and curiosity mingling in your thoughts. The inquiry into your personal life was uncharacteristic of Spencer, who usually maintained a strict boundary between professional and personal discussions, at least when it came to initiating such topics himself. The interaction lingered in your mind, an outlier in the usual pattern of your interactions.

"Maybe it's because Elle isn't here," you thought silently, turning back to your computer.

After leaving your office, Spencer quickly texted Elle to update her that you were no longer seeing Felix, contrary to their assumption. Elle replied enthusiastically with two thumbs up, urging him to ask you out soon or she would take the opportunity herself. 

—

Throughout the week, with Penelope, Elle, and Derek away, the dynamic at the BAU shifted noticeably. Spencer seemed to step out of his usual reserved demeanor, engaging more frequently, particularly with you. His attempts at conversation often appeared to teeter on the edge of something beyond mere professional interest, though it was so subtle that it often flew under your radar.

Tuesday morning, Spencer leaned against the counter, watching you struggle with the temperamental coffee machine that had decided today was the day to revolt. "You know, statistically, manual coffee presses have a lower failure rate compared to electric ones," he commented, a slight quirk to his lips.

You glanced at him, chuckling lightly, "Is that so? Maybe I should switch, then."

"Yeah, and they make better coffee. Maybe I could show you how to use one sometime?" His tone was casual, but there was a tentative note to it, almost hopeful.

As the coffee machine finally sputtered to life, producing a somewhat decent cup of coffee, Spencer’s offer lingered in the air, subtly altering the atmosphere between you. His suggestion about the manual coffee press had been light, almost playful, but it carried an undercurrent of personal interest that left you unexpectedly flustered. Despite this, you masked your reaction with a casual nod, trying to maintain an even keel.

"Sure, I could always use better coffee," you responded, your voice steady despite the slight quickening of your heartbeat. You focused on fixing your coffee, adding just the right amount of cream and sugar, using the mundane task as a moment to collect your thoughts.

Spencer watched you for a moment, perhaps sensing the shift in your demeanor but respecting the boundary you subtly enforced with your nonchalant reply. His smile was gentle, not pushing further, as he too turned his attention back to preparing his own drink.

Wednesday at lunch you sat in the break room flipping through case files, Spencer slid into the seat across from you with his own lunch—a homemade sandwich seemingly crafted with meticulous care. "I read somewhere that sharing meals can enhance group bonding and individual rapport," he began, looking directly at you with an earnest expression.

You looked up, smiling at the factoid, you loved hearing Spencer talk. He was always so endearing. "That sounds about right. Food does bring people together."

"Maybe we could test that theory. There's a new Thai place nearby that’s supposed to be great," he suggested, his voice smooth but slightly hurried.

"That would be an interesting experiment," you agreed, your thoughts inadvertently glossing over Spencer's subtle personal invitation. Instead, your mind wandered to the social dynamics of the team, or perhaps more pointedly, the possibility of Spencer going out with Elle without having to extend a direct invitation—an idea that stoked a twinge of jealousy, burning in your stomach like an ugly green monster. 

Spencer nodded, his expression shifting subtly as he detected the undercurrent of your thoughts, interpreting them as disinterest in a personal outing. He tried to mask any hint of disappointment, maintaining his typical composed demeanor. Internally, however, he wrestled with the sting of what felt like another missed connection, another attempt at reaching out quietly rebuffed.

"It would be a great way to explore some new flavors... maybe just the two of us first, to see if it’s worth recommending to the team?" His tone was measured, carefully modulating between casual and sincere, revealing his hope that this might pave the way to a more personal connection between the two of you.

Despite his clear wording, your mind twisted his intentions, clouded by the assumption that his ultimate aim was to impress Elle upon her return. This idea gnawed at you, the thought of being potentially used as a stepping stone in Spencer’s strategy to engage Elle more personally. It tainted the sincerity you might have otherwise perceived in his proposal.

"Yeah, that sounds like a good plan," you responded, trying to mask your feelings with a nod and a polite smile. "Testing it out sounds sensible... then we can tell Elle and the rest if it's good." Your voice carried a hint of forced cheerfulness as you inadvertently redirected the focus back to Elle, reinforcing your misinterpretation of Spencer's motives.

Spencer noticed the subtle shift in your tone, the slight stiffness in your smile. He paused, a flicker of confusion crossing his features as he tried to gauge whether his message had been misunderstood. "Yes, of course," he agreed, his voice faltering slightly as he picked up on your emphasis on Elle. Disappointment edged into his heart, sensing a barrier he hadn't anticipated—one that perhaps wasn't his to cross just yet.

He nodded slowly, offering a gentle smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll send you the details later then," Spencer added, stepping back to give you space, his mind busy piecing together where the conversation had veered off track.

Thursday while you were digging through old case files in the archives, Spencer wandered in, ostensibly looking for a book. He lingered by your side, helping to shift the heavy tomes. "You know, there's this book on cognitive science I think you'd really like. It talks about pattern recognition and emotional intelligence in ways I think you'd find fascinating," he offered, his fingers brushing against yours as he handed you a different file.

"Sounds intriguing," you responded, your attention still partially on the file in your hands. The hint of a smile played at the corners of your mouth, touched by the realization that Spencer was not only paying attention to your interests but was actively thinking about ways to engage with you on a more personal level.

"I could lend it to you. We could discuss it over coffee?" Spencer's suggestion came with a hopeful undertone, as gentle and tentative as the expression in his eyes.

Your reaction, however, was immediate and unexpected—a sudden choke on your spit as his words caught you off guard. A brief fit of coughing ensued, and Spencer's concern was quick to surface. He reached out instinctively, placing a comforting hand on your back with a gentle touch. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice filled with worry.

The unexpected contact made you jolt, a reflexive response to the sudden intimacy of his touch. Realizing your reaction, Spencer quickly withdrew his hand, a flash of disappointment crossing his features as he stepped back, giving you space.

"Yeah, I'm fine, sorry," you managed to laugh it off, though your cheeks burned with embarrassment. You tried to smooth over the moment, still recovering from the unexpected cough and the even more unexpected contact.

Spencer's response was gentle, a soft nod accompanying his words. "It's okay, I'll, uh, see you upstairs," he said, stepping back with a hesitant smile. His decision to not press the coffee invitation further reflected his respect for your comfort, but inwardly, he felt he might have missed his opportunity for the day.

As he turned to leave, the brief contact and your embarrassed reaction replayed in his mind, leaving him wondering about the right approach to take next time. His intentions had been straightforward, but the execution hadn't gone as smoothly as he hoped. The way your eyes had widened, the laughter that followed the cough—it all suggested a mix of emotions that he couldn't quite decipher.

Watching him walk away, you felt a pang of regret. His retreat made you realize that your reaction might have been misinterpreted as discomfort, rather than the surprise and nervous excitement you actually felt. The idea of discussing a book over coffee with Spencer genuinely appealed to you, and you wished you could convey that without the awkwardness of the moment overshadowing it.

Gathering your thoughts, you considered reaching out to him later to clarify your interest, maybe even suggest a specific day for that coffee. The day hadn't gone as either of you planned, but it wasn't over yet, and perhaps there was still a chance to turn it around.

Friday afternoon as you both waited for the elevator, Spencer tried again, this time a bit more directly. "Did you know that the probability of meeting someone compatible is surprisingly high within work environments?"

You raised an eyebrow, trying to steady the rapid thumping of your heart. "Really now? I guess we’re in the right place, then."

"Yes, exactly," Spencer agreed, a bit more eagerly than you expected. "It’s like... finding the right piece in a puzzle."

"Like solving a case?" you asked, your voice shrinking with uncertainty, afraid that, once again, he had someone else in mind—someone who fit into his world effortlessly, maybe a profiler like Elle.

"Yeah," he smiled warmly, his eyes soft as they focused on you. "Just like solving a case."

Your heart cracked a little at his words. You interpreted the metaphor differently, convinced he was searching for someone like the other brilliant profilers on the team—someone you believed you could never be. With a forced smile, you said quietly, "Well, looks like you need a profiler-shaped puzzle piece then."

Spencer’s brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his face as you stepped into the elevator. He stood there, frozen, not understanding the weight behind your words or why you seemed so distant.

As the elevator doors slid shut, he replayed the conversation in his mind, his heart sinking as he realized something wasn’t connecting. He had been trying to tell you, in his own way, that he was interested in you, that you were the piece he was talking about. But somehow, despite his best efforts, the message kept slipping through your fingers. Why weren’t you getting it? Why did every attempt seem to fall short?

Spencer watched the elevator descend, a sinking feeling settling in his chest. He had been so certain of his feelings for you, and yet, with every attempt, it felt like they drifted further away, lost in the unspoken misunderstandings between you.

—

When the freshly bronzed trio returned from their vacation, Spencer, seemingly on edge, wasted no time in seeking out Elle, his face etched with a mix of hope and frustration.

“So? Did you do it?” Elle asked eagerly as soon as they were within speaking distance, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Did she say yes?”

Spencer’s response was laden with disappointment. “Every time I try to ask her out, she thinks it’s a friendly suggestion, or—or she even mentioned you one time like I was thinking about you!” He ran his hand through his hair in exasperation, clearly puzzled by the recurring miscommunication.

Elle couldn’t help but laugh slightly, though her lips were closed, trying to mask her amusement at the situation. Spencer, on the other hand, whined in annoyance, “What?” He genuinely didn’t understand what he was missing.

With a fond smile, Elle prodded further, “Reid, how did you ask? And what did she say?” Her voice was gentle, coaxing him to unpack the details.

Spencer recapped all the moments from the past week—the coffee machine incident, the lunch invitation, the casual chat in the archives, and the awkward elevator conversation. Each retelling showcased his subtle, cerebral approach to what he thought were clear invitations.

“Oh, boy genius,” Elle said teasingly once he finished, her tone light but her words cutting to the heart of the issue. “I think I see the problem here.”

“What? What is it?” Spencer asked, desperation and confusion in his voice.

Elle placed her hand on his arm, a gesture meant to be comforting but one that did not escape your notice, intensifying the ache in your heart. “She thinks you’re interested in me!” Elle revealed, her insight sharp.

“Why would she think that?” Spencer asked, his bewilderment evident. The connection between his actions and your perception seemed utterly foreign to him.

Elle’s explanation was straightforward, “Because, Spencer, every time you make an attempt, it’s so subtle and wrapped in layers of intellect that it’s easy for her to miss the romantic intent.”

Her words seemed to pierce through the fog of confusion surrounding Spencer. The realization that his attempts at expressing romantic interest were getting lost in translation—or rather, lost in his own intellectual approach—was a revelation. He nodded slowly, the gears turning as he processed this new insight.

“Plus, if she’s mentioning me and no one else, she must think you’re looking for ways to take me out!” Elle added, emphasizing her point with a light chuckle, though her eyes remained sympathetic to Spencer’s plight.

The weight of Elle’s explanation settled heavily on Spencer. It dawned on him how his interactions, though well-intentioned, might appear to others, especially to you. His style, inherently analytical and often indirect, had inadvertently sent the wrong signals, steering your thoughts towards a narrative where he was interested in Elle rather than clarifying his feelings for you.

This misunderstanding struck a chord within him. Spencer had always prided himself on his communication skills when it came to the nuances of unsubs and case theories. Yet, here he was, stumped by personal emotions and interpersonal communications that veered off course.

“Okay, so... I’ve been too subtle,” Spencer acknowledged, almost to himself as much as to Elle. “And she’s misreading the subtlety as disinterest—or worse, interest directed at someone else.”

Elle nodded, squeezing his arm gently. “Exactly, Spencer. You’re thinking like a profiler trying to decipher hidden meanings, but sometimes, directness is key. Maybe it’s time to just tell her how you feel, plainly and clearly. No puzzles, no hints.”

“But—but what if she’s not interested?” Spencer stammered, the creeping sense of insecurity wrapping around him like a heavy blanket. His confidence from earlier was starting to erode. “I mean, she did turn me down on multiple occasions,” he added, his voice softening with self-doubt.

Elle sent him a playful glare, her expression one of disbelief. “Be serious, Reid,” she said, her tone firm but affectionate. “Everyone here can see that she’s into you. Ask anyone.”

Without giving Spencer a chance to stop her, Elle raised her voice, calling across the room, “Hey, JJ!”

Spencer's eyes widened in panic, his face flushing. “Elle! No!” His voice cracked as he tried to stop her, but it was too late.

JJ approached the two of them, a curious smile on her face as she looked between Spencer and Elle. “What’s up, you guys?” she asked, her easy going demeanor not yet aware of the situation she was about to walk into.

“Do you think Y/N is into anyone? Should we set her up?” Elle asked with a mischievous smirk, clearly enjoying Spencer’s discomfort.

JJ’s reaction was immediate—she burst into laughter, glancing between Elle and the now-mortified Spencer. “Are you kidding?!” she laughed, unable to believe the question was even being asked.

“No! Do you have anyone in mind?” Elle pushed, her smirk widening as she kept the act going.

Spencer looked like he wanted to sink into the floor, his mortification plain as he stood there frozen. His mind raced, desperate to find a way to steer the conversation away from himself. But JJ, still chuckling, fixed her gaze directly on Spencer, her expression turning to amused confusion.

“Spencer? Duh! She’s basically in love with you!” JJ declared, her blunt response leaving no room for misunderstanding.

Spencer blinked in disbelief, his mind stumbling over the directness of JJ's words. "W-What?" he stammered, his heart pounding in his chest.

JJ just shook her head, laughing softly. “Reid, it's so obvious. Trust me, you should ask her out.”

"Right," Spencer exhaled heavily, the weight of his nerves tangible in that single word. His eyes followed JJ as she walked away, her knowing smile and shake of her head a clear sign that she was rooting for him.

Elle, observing the entire interaction, turned back to Spencer with a look of determination. “Do you believe me now? You just need to be blunt,” she said firmly, reinforcing the advice with her unwavering gaze. Her stance was one of staunch support, wanting to push Spencer past his habitual overthinking.

Spencer nodded, feeling a bit more fortified by the support of his colleagues. Elle’s insistence on being blunt was exactly the nudge he needed. It was clear that subtlety had not served him well in this arena, and it was time for a change in strategy.

—

Throughout the week, Spencer made several more attempts to ask you out, each time with a bit more directness than the last, but somehow the message never quite landed. Each time deepening his frustration and your oblivious disappointment.

Spencer joined you at the coffee machine again, a site of many a casual encounter but today, he was armed with determination. "I was thinking," he began, carefully measuring his words, "that maybe you and I could try that new café downtown this Saturday."

You smiled, stirring your coffee absentmindedly, your mind on a deadline you were close to missing. "That sounds like a great break from work. It’ll be good to get the team out and about. Should I send an email to everyone?"

Spencer’s heart sank a little. "Uh, well, I meant more like a... never mind. Yes, let’s get everyone involved," he conceded, hiding his disappointment.

In the midst of discussing a particularly complex case, Spencer tried to weave in a personal invitation as naturally as he could. "And after we wrap this up, maybe you’d like to join me for dinner? I know a place that’s quiet, great for discussing... cases."

You nodded, focused intensely on the case details. "Oh yeah! I already told Pen I’d grab dinner with her after the case, do you want to join us?"

Spencer’s heart sank just a bit as he adjusted his glasses, a gesture that had become a telltale sign of his internal resignation. His intention of a quiet dinner, meant to create a private space for you and him, vanished with your invitation to Penelope. Still, he managed a smile, not wanting his disappointment to show.

“Sure, that sounds great,” Spencer replied, trying to keep his tone light and cheerful. Inside, however, he was strategizing his next move, wondering how he could ever convey his feelings without the constant backdrop of the team.

As the day progressed, his mind kept circling back to the conversation. He appreciated your inclusiveness—always making sure no one felt left out, a trait he admired deeply. Yet, he couldn’t help but wish for a moment where it could just be the two of you, away from the dynamics and distractions of the team.

As you both walked to the parking lot after a long day, Spencer decided to be as clear as he could. "I enjoy spending time with you," he said earnestly. "I was hoping we could maybe go out this weekend, just you and me. What do you think?"

You paused, turning to face him with a puzzled smile, unaware of the mounting frustration behind his calm demeanor. "Sure. What do you want to do? I heard of a nightclub that's supposed to have a disco on Saturdays, we could see if everyone is interested?”

Spencer’s patience, worn thin from repeated attempts, finally faltered. “That doesn’t really sound like my scene,” he replied, a note of desperation creeping into his voice as he motioned between the two of you. “Could we go somewhere more subdued? Just us?”

The simplicity of his request, paired with the intensity of his gesture, made you pause. "You want to hang out? With just me?" you asked, a hint of confusion lacing your words.

“Yes!” Spencer exclaimed, his voice echoing a bit louder than he intended in the quiet space between conversations around you. His hands were in the air, a gesture of his exasperation and earnestness. Realizing how his reaction might have seemed, he quickly lowered his hands and softened his tone. “I mean, yes, I would like to spend time with you. Just us. Maybe somewhere quiet where we can talk. Just... talk.”

Your heart was beating so fast you could barely contain it, “Just the two of us?” 

The realization struck you fully now, the words "just the two of us" hanging in the air, tinged with possibility. Spencer nodded, his eyes earnest and hopeful, watching for your reaction.

"Yes, just the two of us," he confirmed, his voice steadier now, filled with a quiet intensity. His gaze never wavered from yours, as if trying to convey all the sincerity he felt directly into your heart.

Your heart raced with the understanding of what he was asking, the implications of this simple request suddenly reshaping the narrative you had constructed in your mind about his feelings. The thought that Spencer, with his brilliant mind and shy demeanor, wanted to spend time alone with you, not for a case discussion or team outing but for something personal, sent a thrill of excitement mixed with nervous anticipation through you.

"Yeah, Spencer," you grinned, your heart still racing but excitement slowly overtaking your nerves. "That sounds nice. Um, I'm free Saturday."

"Saturday works for me," Spencer nodded, his own smile broadening with quiet confidence. "I'll call you?"

You nodded quickly, almost too eagerly, but you didn’t care. "Yeah, mhm, that sounds perfect."

For a moment, you both stood there, a shared anticipation buzzing in the air between you, neither wanting to break the connection just yet. When Spencer finally turned to leave, you found yourself smiling uncontrollably, the prospect of Saturday lingering in your mind, a warmth spreading through you that hadn't been there before.

—

Your excitement about the upcoming date with Spencer bubbled within you, yet you chose to keep it close to your chest. The thrill of it all felt so fragile, like a dream you didn’t want to jinx by sharing too soon with the rest of the team. This cautious optimism marked your days, turning ordinary moments into a series of hopeful glances at the calendar as Saturday approached.

Meanwhile, Spencer found himself seeking counsel from Elle, who was all too eager to lend her expertise, not just on potential date activities but on the more intimate aspects of dating as well, particularly women. Knowing Spencer’s limited experience—his only kiss having been with Lila Archer during a particularly intense case—Elle took it upon herself to offer some advice.

“Okay, Spencer, listen,” Elle began, her tone both serious and sisterly. “If the moment feels right and you think you want to kiss her, make sure you read her signals. It’s all about mutual understanding and respect, right?”

Spencer nodded, absorbing every word. Elle continued, “Make eye contact, see how she responds. If she seems receptive, maybe lean in halfway and let her meet you the rest of the way. It’s a two-way street.”

“Halfway,” Spencer repeated, mentally noting the advice. Elle’s directness and her willingness to discuss these details without any embarrassment provided him with a strange comfort.

“And, Reid, just be yourself. You’re a great guy. Let that show,” Elle added, giving him an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

Spencer felt nerves and gratitude at Elle’s advice, it was straightforward and practical, and helped ground him. He trusted her judgment, appreciating her sharing of her personal experience, especially when it came to navigating relationships—something he found infinitely more complex than the most puzzling cases.

—

The phone call on Saturday morning added to the bubbling excitement of the upcoming date. Spencer’s voice was clear and a tad nervous, which you found endearing. He promised a unique experience and asked you not to wear black, a request that piqued your curiosity and set your mind racing with possibilities. What kind of place would require such a specific dress code? The mystery only heightened your anticipation.

You quickly texted him your address, along with a playful note about your curiosity regarding the attire guidelines. Spencer replied with a simple smiley face, keeping the details of the date under wraps, which intrigued you even more.

As you prepared for the evening, you chose an outfit that was comfortable yet charming, avoiding black as instructed. The time leading up to Spencer’s arrival seemed to crawl by, each minute stretching longer than the last. You found yourself glancing at your reflection, adjusting your hair, and double-checking everything, ensuring you were ready when he arrived.

Finally, the sound of a car pulling up snapped you out of your reverie. Glancing out the window, you saw Spencer stepping out of his car, looking around with a nervous excitement that matched your own. 

As you stepped outside, your nerves fluttered slightly, but your smile was genuine when you saw Spencer waiting by his car. Waving shyly, you greeted him, "Hi, Spencer."

Spencer looked up, his eyes lighting up as he took in your appearance. "Y/N, you look great," he breathed out, his compliment wrapped in a warm smile that seemed to ease some of the tension between you.

"Thanks, I like your cardigan," you replied, noting the soft, well-worn cardigan he wore that somehow made him look even more approachable and endearing.

His smile widened at the compliment, and he seemed to relax a bit more. "Thanks! It's an old favorite," he admitted, holding the car door open for you. 

As you both stepped into the cozy, softly-lit space filled with the gentle sounds of purring and the occasional meow, Spencer immediately began sharing interesting facts about cats. “Did you know that ancient Egyptians considered cats sacred and even had a goddess named Bastet who was depicted as a lioness?” he said, looking into your eyes as you walked past a playful tabby.

Your response was a mix of admiration and amusement. “I didn’t know you were an expert on ancient cultures too,” you teased, feeling comfort and excitement as Spencer chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the opportunity to share his knowledge.

While playing with a particularly friendly cat, Spencer used the opportunity to flirt in his unique way. He gently lifted the cat, holding it out towards you. “It’s interesting how animals can facilitate social interactions, isn’t it? For instance, it's been found that people are more likely to engage in conversations in the presence of animals. They act as social lubricants.”

You laughed, reaching out to pet the cat and feeling a bit flustered by his proximity and the way he looked at you when talking about social dynamics. “Is that your subtle way of telling me you needed a furry wingman for our date?”

Spencer grinned, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Maybe, but it seems to be working, doesn’t it?”

“I don't know, say lubricant again,” you teased. Spencer's grin widened at your playful challenge, and the atmosphere between you sparked with a shared humor that made the moment light and enjoyable. 

He leaned in slightly, adopting a mock-serious tone, "Lubricant," he repeated, emphasizing the word, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

You laughed even harder, your eyes bright with amusement. "Hearing you say 'lubricant' is so funny!"

Spencer, caught up in your joy, couldn’t help but laugh along. “Why?” he asked, his own grin wide as your laughter proved infectious.

"It’s just... it can be a dirtier word," you giggled, trying to explain through your laughter. "And I can’t imagine our resident genius using the word lubricant!"

Spencer's laughter joined yours, ringing out genuinely as he caught the playful jab. The lightness of the moment brought a relaxed glow to his features. "I assure you, the application of the word was purely scientific," he teased back, still chuckling. 

The café around you seemed to buzz with the warmth of your shared amusement, creating an intimate bubble amidst the quiet hum of other patrons and the soft padding of cat paws. "I suppose," Spencer continued, his smile lingering, "I should be more careful with my vocabulary around you. You're giving me a whole new perspective on language."

Your laughter gradually subsided into a series of light chuckles, but your eyes were bright with delight. "I think I like this side of you, Spencer," you said, a playful sincerity in your voice. "It’s nice to see you in a different light, not just as the genius profiler but also someone who can joke around about...lubricants."

Spencer's eyes softened, clearly touched by your words. "I'm glad," he said softly, his voice carrying a note of appreciation. "It’s not often I get to show this side, and I’m happy to share it with you." 

As you observed the cats seemingly gravitate towards Spencer, who seemed both amused and delighted by their attention, an idea sparked in your mind. It was the perfect segue into a lighthearted flirtation, mixing your shared love for animals with a touch of mystical charm.

"You know, it’s said that animals, especially cats, have a keen sense of good and bad," you started, watching Spencer's reaction as a particularly fluffy cat chose his lap as its new throne. "They're often drawn to people with good auras. I guess they must sense something pretty great about you."

Spencer looked up, his expression a mix of surprise and pleasure at your comment. He laughed softly, a sound that warmed you to the core. "Is that so? Well, I must be on the right track then. Maybe they sense my excellent choice in company for this evening," he replied smoothly, his gaze locking with yours in a moment charged with a gentle intensity as a cat nuzzled its way into your lap as well.

Your heart fluttered slightly at his words, and you smiled, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks. "Oh, so we’re using cat behavior to gauge our decisions now?" you teased back, leaning in a little closer. "In that case, I think they’re on to something because I’m feeling pretty good about my choice too."

Spencer’s smile widened, and he reached over to gently nudge a playful kitten back onto the table, his actions thoughtful and tender. "I'll take that as a high compliment, coming from someone who clearly knows her way around cats and their mysterious ways," he said, his voice soft but filled with an underlying warmth that suggested he was as affected by the exchange as you were.

As the evening wound down, and the café began to prepare for closing, Spencer drove you home. The conversation flowed effortlessly, and you found yourself sharing little anecdotes from your childhood, while Spencer listened intently, always eager to learn more about you.

Before you knew it, you were standing in front of your home. The end of the evening had come too quickly, a sentiment you both silently acknowledged as you lingered at the doorstep, not quite ready to say goodbye.

"Y/N...I had a really nice time today," he said, his voice carrying a warmth that seemed to wrap the evening in a perfect close.

"Me too, Spencer, thank you for asking me. I was kind of shocked," you admitted, your words sincere and open. The evening had unfolded beautifully, but part of you had still been wrestling with the disbelief that it was all really happening.

"Really? Why?" Spencer's curiosity was piqued, his gaze intent on you, wanting to understand more.

You smiled shyly, a nervous habit kicking in as you rubbed behind your ear. "I just... liked you for so long, I never thought you were interested in me too," you confessed, the words tumbling out more easily than you'd expected. The truth had been a quiet companion for so long, and saying it aloud to Spencer felt both freeing and terrifying.

Spencer's expression softened even further, a gentle understanding coloring his features. "Y/N, I’ve been trying to ask you out for two weeks," he confessed. His chuckle was light, trying to ease the tension.

Spencer's revelation brought a mix of relief and amusement. "Really? I had no idea you were trying," you replied, a smile breaking across your face, reflecting both the surprise and joy of the moment.

He nodded, a bit of sheepishness showing through his usual composed demeanor. "Yes, it turns out I'm not as skilled in expressing personal interest as I am with criminal profiles," he admitted, his light laughter mingling with yours.

The air between you felt lighter, a shared understanding dawning that, despite the initial miscommunications, there was a genuine and mutual interest. "Well, I'm glad you kept trying," you said, your tone sincere. "And I'm sorry I didn't pick up on it sooner. I guess I was just scared to get my hopes up."

Spencer reached across the small space between you, his hand hesitating just a moment before gently taking yours. "No more missed signals, okay? Let's promise to be more straightforward with each other," he suggested, his gaze steady and reassuring.

You nodded, squeezing his hand in agreement, feeling a warmth spread through you at the contact. "It's a deal," you responded, your heart feeling both settled and exhilarated by the new promise laid between you.

“So... in honor of being straightforward…” Spencer began, his voice soft but steady, a shy smile playing on his lips. He stepped closer to you, his eyes searching yours, a quiet vulnerability in his gaze. Gently, he took both of your hands in his, his touch warm and reassuring. “Can I kiss you?”

Your heart raced, the moment feeling both tender and surreal. The way he held your hands, the genuine care in his voice—it was everything you'd hoped for, wrapped in Spencer’s uniquely thoughtful way. You felt yourself nod before you even spoke, your breath catching slightly. “Yes,” you whispered, smiling softly, your eyes never leaving his.

Spencer’s smile deepened with relief and excitement. Slowly, he leaned in, his movements deliberate and gentle, giving you every moment to close the gap as well. When your lips finally met, it was soft, sweet, and full of the promise that had been building between you for so long. The world seemed to pause, leaving just the two of you in that quiet, intimate moment, finally aligned in your shared feelings.

When you pulled back, there was a brief silence before you both laughed lightly, the tension melting away completely. "That was… nice," Spencer said, his voice low, his smile radiating warmth. 

"Yeah, it really was," you agreed, still feeling the butterflies in your chest as you held onto his hands just a little tighter. 

“Oh, and for the record,” Spencer chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he took in your reaction, “I don’t like Elle—romantically, of course. She’s my best friend.”

Your face flushed with sudden embarrassment, realizing he'd caught on to your earlier assumptions. “Oh, I—well, uh...” you stammered, struggling to find the right words.

Spencer's smile remained soft and reassuring. “It’s okay, Y/N,” he said warmly, squeezing your hands gently. “Elle is super gay, not sure how you missed that, and... I really like you.”

His words, so genuine and direct, melted away the last bit of tension you’d been holding onto. You laughed lightly, the awkwardness dissolving into relief. “Well, that’s good to know,” you said with a grin, finally allowing yourself to fully relax into the moment.

Spencer's grin mirrored yours as he added, “I just wanted to clear that up. No more misunderstandings.” His gaze softened as he looked at you, the weight of unspoken feelings now out in the open. 

“No more misunderstandings,” you agreed, feeling the warmth of his words and the certainty that everything between you was finally where it should be.

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[starmaidengarden]

Could i request a reader became a baby by alchemy accident, i want to see their feelings and how they deal with w/ Riddle, Leona, Idia and Sebek♥️♥️

contexts: where you accidentally turned into a baby via an alchemy mishap

— riddle : leona : Idia : sebek : x gn!reader. no cw/tw. Pic: Leo08ph on twt, dividers: uzmacchiato

Riddle Rosehearts༉⋆｡˚

He would panic! Rifling through rulebooks and stacks of alchemy books that are stuffed with complicated spells, trying to find a solution to the mess. Riddle isn’t really used to babysitting or being around kids, especially babies, so this was definitely going to be a challenge for him. Pacing around the room, trying to figure everything out while you, a sweet and curious little baby, just watched him with wide eyes. he would hold you snugly in his arms, worried that you might slip.  

Over time, you’d see a softer side of him. Even if he tries to stay composed, he can’t help but be gentle, especially when you giggle at his serious face or playfully tug at his red hair. And if you start to cry, he’ll do his best to soothe you by reciting bedtime stories from memory. It might come out a bit stiff and funny, but he’s truly trying to make you feel better!

Leona Kingscholar༉⋆｡˚

“Ugh, what a pain,” is his first response when Crowley dumps you in his lap. He tries to pass you off to someone else… but you grab his braids and giggle. Looking down at you with piercing emerald eyes, all the while you’re just staring up at him, giggling. Only for Leona to scoff and tell you to go play and not bother him, but instead you continue to mess around with him.

Low-effort parenting, he stretches out on a warm, soft blanket spread across the grass. As you curl into his side, he allows the gentle rhythm of sleep to envelop you both, offering nothing more than the bare minimum of care. However, the moment you let out a soft whimper or a cry, He grudgingly holds you in one arm like a sack of potatoes and tries bribing you with shiny objects. Surprising Natural Instincts, Despite his lazy attitude, he's actually calm with babies. When you fall asleep on his chest, he’ll pretend to scoff but won’t move for hours.

Idia Shroud༉⋆｡˚

Idia freaks out when he’s told he’s responsible for you. “What do I even do with a baby?! I’m not built for this!” He googles baby care and ends up deep in parenting forums, watching tutorials like it’s a boss fight guide.

Eventually sets up a baby-friendly tech area in his room: plushies, lullaby remixes, and a soft blanket pit. If you crawl toward his gaming chair, he lifts you onto his lap and lets you press glowing keyboard buttons while he talks to you in a baby voice only when no one's listening. Ortho offers to help and is the one who actually knows how to handle you, but Idia tries to keep up so he doesn’t look like a total noob.

Sebek Zigvolt༉⋆｡˚

Sebek is horrified at the thought of you being reduced to a helpless infant. Treats you like a sacred duty. He stands at attention while holding you in a baby sling. You cry every time he raises his voice, so he struggles very loudly to learn to whisper. (“I-I AM USING MY INSIDE VOICE!”)

Sebek was actually not bad at parenting. Yes, he might get a bit loud and forceful, but aside from that, he was actually a decent caretaker. He’s quite protective. If he were to take you out, he would ensure that other students maintained their distance, making it clear that he’s looking out for you. (Lilia secretly takes a photo of Sebek bottle-feeding you.)