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“Small facts lead to great knowing” - Patrick Rothfuss (2011)

“I can’t believe anybody would do something like this,” you commented whilst looking down at the two documents in your hands—your thoroughly highlighted case dossier and your finished report. Every new case always exhibits unimaginable horror and unfortunately, there will always be something worse than your current worst. 

You turned to Spencer whilst perched cross-legged on the edge of his table.

The corner of the genius’s mouth curled at your words. They were the very same ones that sprouted daily despite the nature of your job. But to Spencer, there was a strange comfort in such small repetitive murmurs of disbelief.

“I gotta agree with Rossi. This job really includes some of the worst lunatics out there.” You sighed before straightening up at a sudden thought. “Actually, fun fact…” You noticed the way your words peeled Spencer’s attention from his report. He finally glanced up, eager for the second half of that sentence. 

“The word lunatic was invented based on the belief that mental illnesses were affected by moon phases.” You beamed at the idea of potentially providing your genius friend with new knowledge. 

“Yeah, and it actually originated from the Latin word ‘lunaticus,’ which means moonstruck or influenced by the moon. The word was first used for conditions like epilepsy or overall just madness,” Spencer replied, perking up at the thought of a potential conversation about this.

The excited smile on your face instantly faltered and you groaned in feigned annoyance. Perhaps you should have known better than to think you could out-fact Spencer and say something he had not already known.

“Is there anything you don’t know, Spence?” you glowered jokingly.

“Well, it’s hard when you’re a child prodigy and genius.” You let out a scoff-like laugh at Spencer’s cocky admission, but you knew he was joking. Despite his IQ of 187, Spencer rarely ever announced himself a genius. It was a title dubbed by those around him. You knew if you had Spencer’s brain, though, you would hardly ever stay as humble as him.

“I’ll get you someday.”

Your declaration drew a snort from another work desk and you twisted around to face the source of such a faithless sound.

“You don’t believe in me, Derek?” You arched a brow, your competitiveness rising to the surface.

“Sweet girl, I believe in you for many things, but this is just not one of them.”

“But surely there is one single fact out there that Spencer doesn’t know about.” Penelope piped up from next to Derek, defending you.

“We’re talking about the same Spencer, right? Spencer Reid? Three PhDs and an IQ of Einstein?” JJ spoke as she made her way down the bullpen.

“Actually, there is no way of measuring Einstein’s IQ as he never took the test, so to say that—” Derek quickly interrupted Spencer.

“Come on, pretty boy. She’s backing you up.”

“Sounds like grounds to start a betting pool going,” Rossi spoke up as he approached the whole group, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other. “$20 says she’ll do it within four months.”

“I think she can do it within three months.” Emily chimed up from her desk.

“I’m placing my bet on eight months,” Penelope added confidently.

“Alright, and if she can’t do it within one year, JJ and I will split the win,” Derek announced before directing his next words to you, “Stakes are on, sweetheart.” He winked.

“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” You rolled your eyes before turning towards Spencer, declaring to him with exaggerated cockiness, “I’m gonna get you real soon, just wait.”

“You’re welcome to try.” The challenging glint in Spencer’s eyes met your own. Again, you knew better than to think that you would know something Spencer did not already know. He was practically the master of facts. But, unfortunately, you were incredibly bad at quitting.

So, let the challenge begin.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know that Australia is wider than the moon?” you questioned the second you saw Spencer enter the office the next morning. “Fun fact.”

“Yes, diameter-wise. Australia is almost 4,000 kilometres wide, while the moon’s diameter is nearly 3,500 kilometres. However, in terms of their masses, the moon is still larger.” You sighed dramatically at Spencer’s reply before spinning your chair towards your computer, turning the device on.

“And day one status: unsuccessful,” you grunted to yourself, catching Spencer’s grin from your peripheral vision.

“Oh? It’s gonna be daily?”

“You bet your ass it’s gonna be. There’s a betting pool and I’m unfortunately too competitive for my own good.” You caught the amusement dancing in Spencer’s gaze. 

“Well then, good luck.”

“Won’t need it.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know a cloud can weigh like a million pounds?” You crossed your arms while peering at the cotton candy-like objects floating amidst the bright blue summer sky. “Fun fact.”

Both of you had your bulletproof vests on, leaning against a car while waiting for JJ to finish speaking to the press before driving back to the precinct. Another case wrapped. Another unsub locked up.

Under the nice weather, you had your cap and Spencer’s sunglasses on, having forgotten yours. He had heavily insisted so, even after you had declined a handful of times.

You turned and looked at Spencer briefly. Though, for a split second, your body stilled as the sun played in his favor, casting nice highlights to his woodsy colored locks. The light crinkle of his nose and his squinting eyes made your lips curl, cause once again, it showcased just how self-sacrificing Spencer can be when it came to the people close to him.

“Yeah, because they contain different states of matter like trillions of condensed water droplets and ice crystals. Its weight is equivalent to the world’s largest aircraft working at full capacity. Though despite its heaviness, clouds have lower density in comparison to the dry air around them, enabling them to float in the same way as oil floats on water.” Spencer tried to maintain eye contact with you despite the blaring sun shining into his eyes.

“Hmm…” you pursed your lips before removing your navy blue cap and placing it on your friend’s head. This cast a shadow over his eyes, blocking the harsh sun from blinding his vision. “Beautiful weather to fail at winning this fun fact thing again.”

Spencer didn’t reject the clothing item.

Some time in the history of human beings, the act of sporting others’ clothing items—especially of the opposite gender—had been made to seem important. Spencer has never understood the significance in such a small exchange. But as your hat landed on his head, Spencer felt an added weight that was beyond the small clothing item. 

Neither did he have it in him to adjust how you had left the cap on him, even if it didn’t sit on his head perfectly.

“I still have time to get you,” you continued after a moment of silence.

“359 days left.”

“More than enough.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

The clock was close to hitting 11pm. The whole team was taking a short break for a fresh perspective. Most were on their phones or taking a quick nap, but Spencer and you were playing a round of cards.

“Did you know ketchup used to be medicine? Fun fact.”

Both Emily’s and Derek’s watchful gaze panned from you to Spencer, anticipating his reaction to your daily shot at winning the bet.

“Around the 1830s, yeah. They marketed it as a cure for various ailments such as indigestion and diarrhea.” 

Emily instantly groaned at Spencer’s reply while Derek snickered. Once again, Spencer already knew the information you provided, just like the 13 previous times.

“See? Not a single thing he doesn’t know,” Derek chirped up, earning him a glare from the co-worker beside him.

You finally placed your next card down, instantly eying Spencer, wanting a read of his reaction to your play. There was a distant look in his eyes, a clear indication that he was taking this game just as seriously as you were.

Your eyes swept over the rest of your opponent. The un-neat edges in his usually tidy work attire and the way his hair stuck in different directions had your lips curling. They were details that only unveil during late work hours after a long day. But strangely enough, there was something endearing about the slight tiredness in his eyes and the way his cardigan hung disheveledly on him. 

“I won.”

Your eyes snapped to the pile of cards on the table at Spencer’s declaration.

“What?! No way. You must have cheated.”

“Now, now, don’t be a sore loser just because pretty boy over here won,” Derek teased you, despite also highly suspecting that Reid had cheated.

“Are we talking about the same pretty boy who is banned from many Vegas casinos because of his expert skill in counting cards?” JJ countered, placing her phone down. 

Your co-workers’ discourse began fading out of your focus as Spencer took out a ticket from his bag and handed it to you with a cheeky grin. With hesitation, you took the paper begrudgingly. You knew you had to hold your end of the deal. You had lost, after all.

You glanced back at the winner of the card game, catching his toothy grin at your sulking manners. Against all maturity, you poked your tongue out in petulance, but such childish action had Spencer laughing quietly in his spot, eyes gleaming with fondness.

“Sore loser.”

“Cheater.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

Hotch halted in his tracks upon spotting you and Reid in the break room.

Both of your heads were side by side, just a hair short from touching, fighting to have adequate sight of the newspaper that the two of you were sharing. Each of you also sported a pen in hand, scribbling hastily onto the delicate paper with vigorous competitiveness.

The unit chief entered to refill his coffee, though his eyes continued investigating you two. In the narrow gap between your heads, Hotch caught sight of Spencer rapidly filling out a crossword puzzle. Meanwhile, just as fast, you were solving a Sudoku piece that resided on the same page.

“Did you know, like fingerprints, people also have unique tongue prints?” you murmured, eyes still glued onto the puzzle in front of you. “Fun fact.”

“Yeah, humans have unique color, tongue shape, and textural features, therefore making it a great form of identification. However, we currently do not have the suitable technology to capture intricate surface details of tongue prints. Also, switching costs are high partially because the idea of having to stick one's tongue out in public for authentication can be seen as rather awkward, unhygienic, and undignifying.”

You pursed your lips at another unsuccessful day. But such expression vanished when you dropped your pen on the table and declared with unadulterated joy:

“Done!”

Your victory drew a defeated noise from Spencer.

“Imagine though, having to stick your tongue out at airport immigration and place it onto a public scanner or something like that.” You cackled at Spencer's grimace and the way his body slightly shivered from such a mental image. Eventually though, your laugh reduced to a teasing smile.

Spencer’s gaze lowered to the little crinkle that appeared around your eyes as you smiled, before holding eye contact with you. Spencer knew there was no such thing as “eyes twinkling,” but you had him doubting that scientifically established truth for a second. It was lighting and he knew that, but he had to admit that he could finally somewhat understand why poets and writers were so obsessed with dedicating lines towards such a tiny detail. 

Because even though there was no reason for him to, his own lips began to curl, mirroring the smile on your face.

From behind you both, Aaron Hotchner took a sip of his coffee before departing the room. Though on his way out, his eyes glinted a knowing look, while his lips lifted just the slightest bit before schooling back to a neutral expression again. 

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Did you know that back then, when raising a toast, people would literally drop a piece of toast into their wine?” you blurted out the second you slid yourself into the empty seat opposite Spencer at his breakfast table. Never have you ever skipped free hotel breakfast and today was no exception.

“Well, hello to you too.” Spencer grinned at your straight-to-business behavior. 

He carefully placed the coffee he made for you into your hand—a casual daily routine. You took a good whiff of the comforting aroma before humming at the first taste. It was exactly how you liked it: a dash of milk along with two and a quarter teaspoon of sugar.

To date, Spencer has never asked how you liked your coffee. 

He simply has always gotten it right.

It was not hard to guess that he had learnt your preferences from watching you make your coffee in the past. But you could not help but wonder if he took mental notes on others the same way he did with you. However, like every other time, you dismissed it as an occupational habit. Every member has been trained to be observant and notice little details. Spencer probably knew everybody’s coffee preferences.

“It actually originated from Ancient Rome, and back then, toast was an act to honor the gods and people would pour wine onto the floor. However, the custom evolved in many ways over time, depending on geographic regions. Around the 1600s, it became a common custom in England and this is where people would put a piece of spiced toast into their wine. They did it to improve the flavor of their beverage and also to “toast” to good health.”

Spencer caught your hum of satisfaction at the coffee and instantly felt pleased.

Science has long documented humans as naturally validation-seeking creatures. Your existence often humbled him from thinking he was not a recurring participant in that particular human instinct.

His eyes fell from you to your coffee—a particular mix that has ingrained itself into his memory since your first meeting. Funny that some time since then, he could no longer look at the beverage without ever thinking of you.

Neither could Spencer for the life of him recite the coffee order of anybody else at the BAU.

“36 days down…” you murmured, already picturing yourself rummaging the internet for more fun facts tonight.

“Maybe tomorrow.” The words came out softly, almost encouragingly. You hummed before matching his tone.

“Maybe.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Flies rub their hands as a sanitizing act, rather clean for an insect commonly associated with dirty places, no?” you murmured before peering up from your book whilst curled up in your seat on the BAU’s jet.

“Yes, it’s a self-grooming act. They do this primarily for two reasons. First and foremost, it’s because their legs are their flavour receptors, so they rub their front legs to ensure they can taste when eating. The other motivation is to remove dust and debris, therefore, ensuring survival.”

Your bottom lip jutted out slightly at another unsuccessful attempt.

“I’ll get you tomorrow…” you murmured with a teasing smile before re-immersing yourself in the fantasy world of your current novel.

Reading has become your escapism and method of self-grounding prior to any case. You tried to plunge into fictional worlds while flying to prepare yourself for the terrible realities that accompanied upcoming cases. Though at one point, Spencer started joining in. But instead of having his own book, he would lean over and scan your current page with unrealistic speed while you leisurely let each letter sink in. It became a routine that occupied your journey from Quantico, whereas on the way back, Spencer and you maintained your tradition of engaging in chess matches. 

Spencer spotted your finger flipping the page once more and his eyes instantly swept over the printed words hastily.

Twenty thousand words per minute. That was Spencer’s known reading speed, which meant in merely two seconds or three, he was already done with the two pages in front of you both. As always, you were still reading at your own pace, unhurried. He knew he could adopt a slower speed to enjoy your chosen fictional literature. But lately, he found himself in a hurry, rushing himself to finish pages in a way that made him think maybe he was now above his previously established reading speed. 

Why?

His gaze flicked over to you, mulling over the familiar details that made you, you. He studied the way your fingers trace the fore-edge of the book mindlessly, lingering on the way you tease your lips with your teeth as you registered the adventure that the story was taking you on. Spencer caught the slight shift in the space between your eyebrows and how they slightly twitch according to plot progression, displaying your commitment to your reading content.

Spencer would not classify himself as a people watcher, despite his necessary observant and analytical traits as a profiler. Yet, somehow, watching you had become one of his favorite quiet activities. In your little habits were his comfort. In moments when cases were overwhelming, his eyes have made a tendency to land on you. The spike in his heartbeat would normalize, whilst rapid thoughts would regulate. It was only in moments when Spencer would get caught by you that he would tear his gaze away sheepishly, before attempting to pretend that he was looking elsewhere instead.

The sound of paper rustling pulled Spencer out of his mind, and he instantly plunged himself into the same self-established cycle again.

And despite his fondness for literature, for once, it did not hold a candle in his eyes.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Cows have best friends, how great is that?”

Spencer stopped eating his ice cream the second he spotted someone passing the two of you in a cow onesie, giving away why you decided on that particular fun fact. His eyes fell back on you, glimmering with amusement. 

“Yes, cows do have a ‘best friend’ who they tend to share spaces and rest side by side with. Research shows that when separated, these cows would show signs of stress and anxiety with higher heart rates.”

You hummed at that. By now, you were used to his immediate expansion on your facts, no longer surprised or disappointed every time he added onto your words. 

In fact, you fondly looked forward to hearing what he had to say about whatever fact you would sprout. There was a deep sense of appreciation that you have grown for this challenge. You felt like, intellectually, your general knowledge had expanded immensely, both from researching fun facts to tell Spencer and also from the informative responses that you would receive from him.

“You know, cows also can develop what some may refer to as ‘accents.’ Research observed variations in their moos based on different regions and herds.” Spencer leaned closer to you before adding cheekily, “Fun fact.”

“Nuh uh, don’t go stealing my line. You’re not allowed to put me out of business.”

This tore a laugh out of Spencer, and you immediately bit back a smile at such a sound. 

If humans have the ability to bottle noises for keepsake, you know now what sound you would try to capture.

Surprisingly, this was only the second time that Spencer and you had spent time together one-on-one out of work. 

With the working hours at the BAU that forced you and all your co-workers to be in close proximity for an extensive amount of time, you tend to allocate your scarce free time to those who were outside of your work circle. But something about spending time with Spencer today had struck you with an epiphany:

You really, really wanted to see Spencer outside of work more often.

Both your phones started ringing at the same time.

“Penelope, is everything okay?” you answered quietly.

“Emily?” Spencer whispered at the same time into his phone.

After a few seconds, you both ended your respective phone calls before slowly turning to face each other again. You scanned yours and Spencer’s outfit before sighing.

“There’s not enough time to go home and change.” The devastation in your voice was imminent.

“I know.”

A few minutes later, both of you entered the office, and almost instantly, the noise level declined significantly as the whole team paused their actions. You winced, knowing immediately that you two were about to be the butt of many incoming jokes.

“Whoa, what time period did you guys travel back from?” Emily teased.

“We were at a convention, okay?” You huffed, picking up your go-bag from under your desk for a change of clothes.

“And you two are dressed up as…?” Rossi crossed his arms, undoubtedly amused.

The team scanned over both of your outfits. Spencer was wearing a brown fedora hat, an oxblood colored corduroy jacket, and grey pants. Despite the only semi-chilly weather, he also sported a colorful striped knitted scarf around his neck. As for you, you were in an all pink attire, but what stood out was your long pink coat, high pink boots, and long white scarf.

“The fourth doctor and Romana II, from Doctor Who,” Spencer answered, grabbing his go bag.

Derek’s eyes comedically bulged out at that, and he immediately spun his chair towards you. “Blink twice if Reid is blackmailing you with something to make you go to this convention with him.” You laughed at his remark.

“Listen, remember the card game I lost two months ago? That’s why I had to go, but when I actually started the show, I really enjoyed it.” You raised your hands in surrender.

“Oh, we lost another one. She got Reid-ified,” Derek exclaimed dramatically before placing a hand on his chest in jest heartbreak, grinning at your eye roll.

By now, Spencer had returned to your side with his go-bag. Though just as you two turned around to head off and change, an abrupt flash halted you both in your steps. Blinking away the after-effect of the blinding light, you saw Penelope with her phone facing you two and a cheeky grin on her face.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Delete that,” you immediately instructed, hands on your hips while your brows furrowed in fussiness. You then sucked in a deep breath and used your hand to comb through your hair before a smile broke your feigned annoyed expression. “I was not ready.”

Then, with dramatic flair, you posed properly for the camera, grabbing Spencer’s scarf exaggeratedly with both hands while tugging him lightly. 

Spencer was unsure if his knees had buckled due to a slight loss of balance or from your proximity. He glanced at the camera, face slightly flushed, before witnessing another flash go off, evidencing his blush and putting it on record.

Your hands were gone from his scarf like a breeze. 

“Alright, I’m gonna go change now.” By the time Spencer registered your words, you were already gone. All that was left at the spot you previously occupied was his attention. Spencer's eyes eventually moved when he heard a quiet giggle from Penelope, who was indescribably entertained by the dazed look on his face.

The tech expert slowly angled her phone towards Spencer to show what she had captured, and she carefully observed Spencer’s contemplative gaze. His eyes landed on you first, and they softened at the sight of your beaming face. They then traced the slope of your smile and the crinkle of your eyes before reluctantly trailing down to your hands and the way they bossily clung onto his scarf. 

The sentiment of pictures has always been just a concept to Spencer Reid. He does understand the logic behind people’s attachment to colored captures of moments and why people have ‘important’ photos in their wallets or have framed physical copies. But personally, he rarely ever practiced it. Yet, in this precise moment, he suddenly wanted to begin.

Without even looking at himself in the photo, Spencer murmured to Penelope:

“Can you send that to me, please? Thank you.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Where is she?” Derek’s gaze darted up to his friend. One glance at Spencer and the man already knew who he was referring to.

“Garcia said she called in sick this morning. Why?”

“Nothing.”

Derek scanned over Spencer from head to toe properly this time. Realisation flashed through his eyes before the man smirked as he looked back down at his work. 

Ah, the perks of being a profiler.

“Sure, pretty boy.”

“What was that loo—” 

The sound of Spencer’s phone ringing interrupted his question. He took the device out of his pocket, and the phone almost flew out of his hand when he saw your name flashing on the screen. He immediately picked up and placed the device beside his ear, breathing out your name in greeting.

Instead of your usual cheery tone, Spencer was met with a muffled voice and snifflings.

Immediately, his body stiffened.

“Are you okay?” He was by his desk within seconds. His fingers grazed over his jacket, as if prepared to scoop the clothing up and dash out of the office if your answer indicated any distress. 

“My nose is blocked. Both sides. It’s horrendous,” then came a dramatic sigh, “I’m becoming a mouth breather, Spence.”

Your melodrama tore a laugh from Spencer’s throat.

Derek’s lips curled discreetly at the noise.

“Anyway, don’t think you can escape your daily fun fact just because I’m not physically in the office.” Spencer was glad you were not physically with him, because if you were, you would have seen the idiotic grin stretching his face. But how could he not smile at your stubborn resilience, and the cute sound of your nasally voice that was slightly more high-pitched than normal. 

“You’re sick, and you took a day off work, but not off the fun fact thing?”

“In sickness and in health, as they say.”

Spencer accidentally snorted at your words and immediately cleared his throat in an attempt to cover it.

Derek’s brows scrunched at that.

“Apparently, while wired to specific scientific machines and whatnot, two lucid dreamers can have two-way communication in real time. How cool is that?” Spencer hummed fondly at your words before sitting down, his plan to flee from office hours long gone.

“That’s quite a recent fun fact. The study was recently concluded just about two years ago,” his voice came out soft as he focused on any sound that the technological device beside his ear could carry over from your end. 

He caught your hum, though the sound resembled the same one you always did while sitting next to him on the jet as the team flew back to Quantico. The noise that often preceded the soft landing of your head on his shoulder and the way he’d sit straighter up to accommodate you entirely despite his germaphobia-led touch aversion.

“You should sleep and rest,” he whispered, despite wanting to hear your voice for longer. But selflessness came easy when you were in consideration.

Spencer carefully began listing all the things you ought to do later to get better. But halfway through, he noticed the lack of noise from the other end, except for your rhythmic breathing, signaling your sound asleep state. Spencer sighed before removing the phone from his ear. He stared at the device in long contemplation before clicking the end call button.

Finally placing down the device that signified his only contact with you today, Spencer flipped open today’s case dossier. However, he found himself re-reading the first sentence over and over again. His eyes kept scanning over the same words, and he felt the way they slid past his comprehension the same way small external details occasionally would escape his notice whenever he spent time with you. 

Spencer’s mind kept trailing back to the phone call and to you.

It’s familiarity—he tried to tell himself. Humans were, afterall, creatures of habit, and considering you have been swirled into his daily routine like a necessity, it made sense that the lack of your presence had set him off balance. 

Eventually, Spencer got up and went to the break room for coffee. But the second he opened the cupboard and his eyes landed on your mug, he felt his mouth run dry. 

For the past one and a half years, he has always made two cups of coffee instead of one at the start of each day.

His eyes darted to his mug right next to yours. The idea of separating them sent some sort of ache in his heart, even if logically they were just ceramic vessels.

Perhaps he had mislabeled what missing someone meant all along, because your absence was bringing a hollowness that nobody had managed to carve out of him before. It was the kind of emptiness that made him feel incomplete, as if a piece of himself was not with him. Yet, as opposed to the expected numbness that often accompanied such a feeling, Spencer felt every second of your absence with a constant stinging ache that felt too akin to withdrawal symptoms. 

Eventually, Spencer shut the cupboard and returned to his desk, coffee-less.

That evening after work, Spencer made a detour instead of going straight home, missing the way his friends huddled together, exchanging hushed whispers about his departure.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

Twenty two hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty one seconds.

Spencer witnessed as time quietly slipped through the cracks of his remaining strength. 

The whole bullpen lacked the life his work family usually colored in. The janitor had long shut off the main lights, so the only thing illuminating the space near Spencer was his desk lamp. Everybody else had gone home except for Hotch, but the unit chief was in his office, leaving Spencer as the last man standing in the bullpen.

After a few more ticks, Spencer finally tore his gaze from the timing instrument and glided his vision back down to the pen in his hand, forcing it to ink his unfinished report, but words refused to string together. 

Spencer’s free hand began tapping his desk rhythmically in a pathetic attempt to comfort himself.

Twenty two hours, fifty one minutes, and twenty one seconds.

Spencer wanted to say that it didn’t matter. Why should it? But he knew damn well that the answer was because the team mattered to him. 

However, perspective was truly a funny thing. Someone could be your number one priority, and you barely just made it in their list.

Spencer averted his gaze from the unfinished report to the brand new photo frame on his desk, where a captured version of the recent memory of you two as Doctor Who characters resided.

It did not take a genius to see that you two were closer to one another than with others on the team. However, the fun fact challenge had truly unlocked another level of bond. It was the kind of connection that meant he had started placing you above the others, a position that implied he also expected more from you, cause perhaps he thought you had also valued him just as much as he treasured you in his mind. 

So as much as the whole team was the source of his dismay, there was a spotlight reserved for your absence, one that was beyond glaring and punched his guts in ways that others could not.

His eyes traced your face in the photograph again, like they had done every morning since he had gotten the picture framed. 

Oftentimes, you could never be absolutely sure where you stand in someone’s life.

Twenty two hours, fifty nine minutes, and ten seconds.

A resigned breath escaped the narrow gap between his lips.

With more effort than it usually took, Spencer got on his feet, hoping that another cup of coffee would be the cure for his inefficiency. He slowly placed more weight on one side of his body to turn around. At the same time, Spencer began rubbing his face in hopes that exhaustion and melancholy would push themselves aside for a brief moment so that he could finish this impending task. 

When Spencer finally reopened his eyes to navigate the darkness, he froze at the sight that was once behind him.

Eight steps away was you, looking like a deer caught in headlights. 

Then came your escaped nervous laughter, like you were scared of screwing up, but that was only because you were unaware that you could almost never do wrong in Spencer’s eyes. His heart—which Spencer’s brain has been having a harder time controlling lately—provided you with a much larger margin for error than anybody else.

Your gentle tone filled the fragile silence that was intertwined with suspense.

“Fun fact, birthday cakes are traditionally round as an Ancient Greek tradition to resemble the moon for the goddess Artemis.” Your eyes crinkled as your lips curled into that familiar smile that had previously held Spencer powerless on numerous occasions. “Happy Birthday, Spence.”

There you were, cake in hand after a long day of work on a gruesome case.

There you were, with a homemade cake after a long day of him thinking everybody had forgotten his birthday, or more importantly, that you had forgotten.

But maybe his probability was not entirely against him. 

“I know I’m quite late, but trust me, there’s an explanation. When I got to the office this morning, I realized that I had forgotten your cake at home. I was planning to grab it after work, but the case kept us all back so late, and then traffic was super bad because of a concert today. But hey, I got the cake now, and I really hope you like it.”

You peered down at your own baking product and the slightly wonky penmanship before turning your eyes back onto Spencer.

“Also, since it’s your birthday, I’ll give you a bonus fun fact. There are roughly 30,000 people who have their birthdays on October 12th in the States, but…” 

Your voice fell quiet as your eyes diverted back to the cake again. 

“You’re my favorite October 12th.”

And right at that second, all of Spencer’s previous attempts at rationalising his feelings via scientific explanations collapsed. For once, science could no longer shield him, because as much as it was a field built on facts of concrete evidence, there was also an undeniable truth: he liked you.

It might not be rational, but it was still a fact, and that alone terrified Spencer. 

And while he was your favorite October 12th, you were his favorite every day.

Spencer glanced down at the handmade cake and the singular purple candle pierced in the center. The tiny flame provided just enough light for the space between you both. His eyes then flicked back onto you, and they softened.

God, you were so clueless about the effect your actions have on him and his whole world.

One breath extinguished the fire, and grey smoke fluttered into the air.

Then, for the first time since he saw you five minutes ago, Spencer managed to form the only words he felt were worthy enough of your time.

“Thank you.”

Even if the significance behind those words didn’t reach you today, it was okay. But they carry the weight of his whole heart and every unspoken reason behind his gratefulness. 

Thank you for not forgetting about him today. Thank you for always being so kind and paying attention to the details about him. Thank you for being such an important part of his life. Thank you for choosing the exact career path that you did to lead you to him. Thank you for existing. 

And someday, maybe Spencer Reid will gather enough courage to tell you all of this.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

You halted in your step, and almost immediately Spencer followed suit. His eyesight followed yours, and he instantly knew what you were gonna ask from him.

“Come on, can you play for me? Please?” you urged, and it didn’t take more than your pleading face to make him approach the instrument that lay abandoned in the corner of the hotel where the whole team was staying.

Saying “no” became a significantly harder task for Spencer ever since he realised what kind of position his feelings were in when it came to you. It especially felt like an impossible task when your words came in that pleading tone and the smile that had him wishing stopping time was one of his abilities.

You followed Spencer and leaned against the instrument eagerly. You observed as he lightly cracked his knuckles, eying the mixture of ivory and ink-dark keys with a calculative gaze before placing his fingers delicately on them while his foot pressed gently on one of the pedals at the base.

For a moment, you wondered what Spencer would play. Maybe one of the classical pieces he liked a lot. Perhaps Bach? Or—  

A familiar tune overtook the pleasant quietness in the empty hotel lobby, and recognition struck you with every flawless execution of each note.

First off, you knew he was a liar, saying he only dabbled in piano. But what caught you off-guard was hearing the piano version of your favorite song. 

It was things like this that made you conclude that Spencer Reid was one of the sweetest individuals you have ever had the privilege to know. From making you coffee daily to hunting down first editions of your favorite books (the most recent one in which he handed over along with soup the day you got sick and were off work). Now, he was learning your favorite song on the piano. 

Lucky felt like an inadequate word to describe your position in life when Spencer was in the equation.

Only when he finished the very modern composition did you speak up.

“I thought you only listened to classical?”

“I…did,” was all that came out of Spencer’s mouth, but it was enough for you to catch his implication that he had learnt this song specifically on the piano for you.

Spencer sniffled, diverting his gaze from you shyly as he inspected the keys in front of him again.

Ever since his birthday, Spencer could constantly feel the urge to confess right on the tip of his tongue while his lips trembled in self-control to keep them to himself for now. According to the internet and its various articles, he should try to ‘woo’ you first, and hence these actions instead of confessing right away. He wondered if you got his message. He wondered if you could tell this was his version of flirting. However, Spencer also knew that he had accidentally portrayed himself as an extremely sweet friend from your perspective, so thoughtful actions with the aim of impressing you romantically were most likely ruled as platonic gestures. 

You began toying with the ring on your middle finger, the flattery from his sweet action manifested itself through the heat beneath your cheeks. For the first time in your almost three years of friendship with Spencer, you were struck by a minor nerve-wracking sensation. There was also a fleeting stutter in your chest that you decisively ignored.

You moved on with a quiet murmur.

“You know, humans owe squirrels a lot. They have planted at least thousands of trees.” You gave him a soft smile when his eyes met yours again. “It’s accidental, but no less a noble act contributing to the environment.”

“Yeah, they would bury nuts for later usage, but forget their locations. Many forgotten nuts can grow into trees, therefore, contributing to forest regeneration.” 

“Anddd another fun fact failure.” You groaned, though your expression melted into a smile when you heard Spencer chuckle at that. 

“We should head up. It’s getting late.”

You nodded in agreement and began walking, but looked back briefly at Spencer. “But it’s not too late for an episode of Doctor Who, right?”

An outstretched grin spread across Spencer’s face at your words.

“Never.”

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“No way.” You were speechless as you made way out of Spencer’s car, staring at the building in front of you in disbelief. “Don’t tell me…”

“Yeah, it’s for your favorite film,” Spencer confirmed your suspicion.

“So, it didn’t matter that I had lost, huh?”

Shortly after your Doctor Who convention together, Spencer had invited you to this event that was two and a half months after. Though he insisted on keeping the details a secret, relaying only the dress code—smart casual, but whatever you were most comfortable with.

The secretive factor of the whole ordeal had you guessing in suspense for the entire two months, but now that you were here, you fully understood why.

This was the event that you both would have gone to instead of the Doctor Who convention if you had won that game of cards.

An orchestra movie concert of your favourite movie.

Spencer sucked in a deep breath, fingers toying with the loose threads of his cardigan. There he went again, attempting to present to you that he was an option—the best one, at that—and giving signals that he was pursuing you. He has read at least five hundred online articles on the art of flirting in the past week alone. If Derek ever found his online searching history, Reid would never live it down.

“God, this is the best thing ever.” Seeing how pleased you were with his action made Spencer want to physically preen with pride.

Once you two had settled down inside, you took a couple of photos and observed your surroundings. You looked around at your neighboring audiences before averting your gaze to the empty chairs that were soon to be filled by instrumental experts. Your body was flooded with excitement at the prospect of finally being at this event. 

You decided to chime in with your daily fun fact just minutes before the concert was due to start.

“Did you know that there’s a planet that is ⅓ made of diamonds?” you whispered.

“55 Cancri e, right?” he matched your volume, shifting in the chair beside you to make himself comfortable.

“Yeah, that one,” you confirmed, turning your head back to him. “Go on, I know you have details on it.” You encouraged, shifting yourself into a comfortable position as well.

“55 Cancri e is a super-Earth exoplanet, approximately twice the size of Earth, though roughly eight times heavier in terms of mass. First sighted and discovered in 2004, scientists have found that it is a very hot and rocky planet with a molten lava ocean surface due to its incredibly close orbit to its star…”

You were leaning into your palm while listening to him, clinging onto every word as they absorbed into your brain. The space you left in between you both out of consideration for Spencer gradually lessened as he leaned in closer the more he talked. His tone, too, grew more quiet as he went on, as if the information he was telling you did not exist in some cyclopaedia, but a secret passed in full trust. 

The corners of your lips curled at the twinkle in Spencer’s eyes as he detailed out knowledge that previously sat in the corner of his brain, collecting dust.

Spencer’s intellectual rambling will always be one of your favorite things about him. You loved hearing him talk and the way he enunciated each syllable so clearly, as well as his wordings and his tonal patterns. You should have gotten used to it by now, but it marvelled you every single time that you had the chance to listen to him talk about things you would rely on an internet search to know. Just like usual, today was no different.

Spencer Reid was remarkable. It was almost impossible to take your eyes off him when he talked. He was a bundle of many things that made him an individual worth a lifetime of getting to know.

You wondered if you were looking at him a little bit too fondly right now. But how could you not when he was whispering sweet facts to you as if he only wanted you to know of it? It felt almost as if this fun fact challenge had turned into a sacred tradition between you two. 

“Even though it is widely said that the planet is ⅓ of diamond, this is actually still only a theory and yet to be proven. So, to dub it the Diamond Planet when they’re not even sure if there are diamonds on the planet itself is like…suspecting you are a quarter or half French and then introducing yourself as French to people anyway.”

Your laughter burst out unfiltered, and you instantly grounded yourself by clearing your throat and pulling yourself away from Spencer slightly, putting yourself on timeout.

That was kind of embarrassing. 

The joke was slightly funny, but nowhere close to warranting that kind of laughter.

It sort of reminded you of the videos you have seen on the internet about the kind of laugh that people would let out in reaction to their crush’s jok—

Oh.

You subtly slid deeper into your chair as thoughts shot in your mind at a hundred miles per second. Your fingers immediately curled into your palms to dig at it. You could not look back at Spencer in fear that he would notice that something was wrong. 

Oh God. 

But were you really surprised though? 

A part of you had seen it coming, because as much as you adore all your co-workers, you knew in the bottom of your heart that Spencer was the only one you were willing to lessen your sleeping hours to prolong hanging out and conversing with. Also, to be immune to such sweet actions, you would have to be some statue made of stone. For years now, Spencer had intently taken time to know you and go out of his way just to make you happy. If anything, you were grateful that your heart had picked someone so kind and worthy to give itself away to.

You glanced at Spencer from the corner of your eyes, and just the sight of him alone had your heart hiccupping in a way that you had become familiar with for the past month. It was the kind of stutter that you had outright been trying to ignore and written off as nothing. But unlike all the previous times, you knew you could no longer deny that man next to you was the reason for such palpitations.

And maybe it was also time to face it: you like Spencer Reid, your genius of a friend and very much also a profiler.

Your eyes snapped away from him the moment you realized the significance of playing it cool. You could not have him picking up the signs and figuring out that you have feelings for him. But then again, you have seen how clueless he was around women who were hitting on him and failing to pick up their signals. So, maybe he would not notice your current body language either.

Before you could think more on the matter, the lights dimmed and instruments began stringing together in a well-rehearsed manner. It was only then that you began breathing again, relieved that you had two hours to collect your thoughts and come to terms with the newly attained knowledge about yourself.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏

“Alright, what’s the fun fact of today?” you heard Spencer’s voice before peering up and seeing him behind your chair, hands on the back of the furniture, looking down at you with a shy smile. The sight of his adorable expression made your cheeks heat up, and you had to avert your gaze to prevent him from spotting signs of your flustered state.

The other members just boarded the jet as well, settling into their own spots after a tiring case. You were much less the same, sporting the now more noticeable eye bags that matched Spencer’s. Yet, that does not deter his gaze from the warmth they hold.

You gestured to Spencer’s usual seat right next to you. Once he had settled down, you made your next move on his chessboard, resuming your current ongoing match with him. You could see the instant way the cogs in his brain started spinning. At that, you provided your fun fact of the day, hoping it would serve as a distraction.

“You know, I read that there are more possible variations of chess games than the number of atoms in the universe.”

“Yeah, it’s known as the Shannon number—the number of possible chess games, I mean, which is 10 to the power of 120. Meanwhile, the estimated number of atoms in the observable universe is 10 to the power of 80, to 10 to the power of 82.”

He made his move, catching your discreet yawn in the corner of his eyes.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” The weight behind your eyes turned them half-lidded. They landed on the chessboard, trying to formulate the next best move, but your brain refused to cooperate as a fog of sleepiness overclouded your judgments.

“You don’t have to play now, you know. We can just play next time.”

“No, no. Give me a second, I’ll make my move.”

“You’re tired.”

You slowly turned your head towards Spencer, and there it was again. You caught the concern leaking from his gaze, and it instantly reminded you just how caring Spencer was to those in his life and especially you. Your mouth formed a tired yet grateful smile at his expressed worry.

You felt sorry for those who have never had the opportunity to be the subject of his affections.

For a split second, you pondered the kind of doting that Spencer would do if he were pursuing someone romantically. You have never seen him express interest in any woman during your time at the BAU, despite the advances he has gotten from various good-looking women. But if he was already this sweet platonically, you were fairly certain your heart would give out at what he had in mind as romance.

Your shoulders finally slumped before a truthful sigh escaped from you. “Yeah.”

Unlike usual, where you would fall asleep and land on his shoulder while you were knocked out, he outright shifted to sit up straighter for you, offering his shoulder.

Spencer never admitted it out loud, but he had foolishly started wanting the friction of your skin against his or the fabric of his belongings. It was an impossible he thought would never occur, but here he was, anticipating the next rare moment of physical touch beside the one where his shoulder would become your pillow. 

Of course, he had noticed it—your lack of touch when it came to him. He was devastatingly aware of your mindfulness of his germaphobia, and Spencer was grateful, he really was. However, your reservation to accommodate his tendencies had begun feeling like deprivation. In fact, Spencer could count on one hand the amount of times you had ever touched him deliberately, with the last one being one hundred and sixty three days ago.

But it was that particular initiative factor that Spencer deeply yearned for. He craved and awaited for a touch made with purpose. 

He wanted you to mean it.

You stilled at such a small action, gaze stopping on his shoulder. You did not want to over-interpret such a simple movement, but knowing Spencer, there were implications and significance in that little offering. 

You knew it had become a recurring thing. As embarrassed as you were, you could not help the fact that you were the type to move around a lot in your sleep. You had tried using an airplane pillow, leaning against the wall, and so many other methods. However, most of the time, you would still wake up on Spencer’s shoulder before instantly jolting up and freeing him from the physical touch.

But the certainty on Spencer’s face left your rejection stuck in your throat.

Hesitantly, you began shifting closer, giving Spencer just enough time to retract the offer if he wanted to. But he stayed confidently still as your head started leaning down before finally landing on his shoulder.

One single small action had Spencer questioning how much longer he could go on like this. How much longer could he keep these feelings tightly locked and concealed? Because Spencer was utterly gone for you. Gone in the kind of way where one casual compliment from you about the cardigan he was wearing had him immediately putting the item into his clothing rotation a lot more frequently.

“I’m gonna get you some day, Spence…” Spencer watched as you drifted to sleep before closing his own eyes, all while he wished the flight back would last forever.

Unbeknownst to you both, the team exchanged knowing looks and discreet smiles at the sight they were witnessing. There had been nothing more obvious to them than this, but instead of intervening, they decided to let things play its course. 

Because, despite the uncertain nature surrounding the occurrence of events in life, this was the one thing everybody was sure was inevitable.

﹏ ﹏ ﹏

The jet finally arrived back at Quantico around 11pm. Spencer had finished his report a few minutes before you did, but lingered behind as usual to wait for you. About two weeks ago, he had established a new routine between you both. 

“Ready?” Spencer carefully peeled your bag from your hand, checking his watch to see that it was already past midnight, marking a new day.

“Yeah…” you breathed out tiredly, eager to collapse in bed. “More than ready.”

You like to think you have kept it cool well, in general. But Spencer’s new routine of walking you to your car after work had you a nail tip away from laying all your cards bare and revealing your feelings. Even on days when you finished your report first, he would walk you to your car before returning to the office. But the thing was:

Spencer Reid rarely ever drove to work, which meant he was going to the employee parking lot every day with you for no reason. 

Well, for no reason but you.

The elevator began making its descent from the sixth floor with both of you inside. You were listening carefully as Spencer discussed an academic paper he had read last night. The doors soon jerked open, revealing the fairly empty parking lot. At the sight of your car, you subtly began slowing down your steps, biting back a smile when you noticed him mirroring your change of pace. 

You observed as he animatedly gushed about the methodology of the research paper, paying particular attention to the tiny detail of his body language. The way his hands were passionately waving around, exaggerating certain points Spencer was trying to make. The flutter of his eyelashes as he blinked a bit faster than he usually would—a habit that often occurs when he speaks quickly, as you have learned. The smooth movements of his lips as his mouth tried to rush out words to match the pace of his incredibly brilliant brain.

Now that you were looking at his lips, you have to admit that it was kind of hard to look away.

Suddenly, an idea brewed in your mind, and it felt like the holy grail had finally landed in your lap. Who would have known that a random Thursday would be the day you ought to finally win this challenge and put Spencer in checkmate.

“Spence?” Your lips curled mischievously, observing the way Spencer halted in his steps at your tone. 

God, despite being subjected to harsh and unflattering parking lot lights, Spencer still had the audacity to look good in a way that tugged at your heartstrings. The sight had you questioning if he was capable of ever looking bad. His warm eyes colored with interest as he eagerly awaited your next words. You took a couple more steps forward, wanting to hide the plotting expression on your face. 

“Fun fact…” You paused before peering back at him. At those two words, you instantly caught the anticipation rolling off him. There was also a subtle confidence from him that signalled he was sure he already knew whatever you were planning to tell him. But you knew that this time, things would be different. 

With a competitive glint in your eyes, you finally divulged today’s fun fact, your voice calm and stable.

“I like you.”

Just as you predicted, Spencer froze while his mouth fell agape. No words fell out of those talkative lips, a stark contrast to how fast he was speaking a couple of seconds ago. You practically beamed in victory at such a reaction. You wanted to celebrate, you really did. But you decided not to gloat about your win yet. Instead, you prioritised the better option: teasing your friend.

“I recalled you mentioning once that kissing spreads fewer germs than shaking hands?” You winked playfully, expecting nothing from it. It was simply a joke to make Spencer flustered for your entertainment, and there was zero expectation that he would somehow miraculously confess that he had been secretly liking you too and would actually kiss you at your workplace’s parking lot at 1am.

Because there was no way Doctor Spencer Reid liked you, right?

You observed as his lips slowly curled up in amusement as your words sunk in, and that partially made your shoulders relaxed. Well, at least your joke landed, and your friendship would make it out intact despite your confession.

But then, out of nowhere, that closed-mouth smile stretched into a full-on grin before a chuckle of disbelief escaped from Spencer. 

Now, you were on alert. Instantly, you tried to read his reaction—was he in disbelief that he was finally stumped by a fact he had not yet known of? Was he amused by your clever trick of using your own feelings as a fun fact? But the elation on his face and the awestruck look in his eyes hardly aligned with someone who had just lost a long-term challenge.

Your lips parted as you continued assessing the man, but you caught the way his eyes flickered down at that small movement before he sucked in a deep breath.

Oh…?

Suspicion crept in, but confirmation came quicker.

In the blink of an eye, Spencer had completely eliminated the two steps between you both, sealing you two in a proximity that was closer than you had ever been with him. His palms found your face, and they cupped your cheeks in a careful yet certain way.

Spencer’s eyes darted all over your face, searching for all the clues that you were okay with what he had next in mind. He could see that your pupils were slightly dilated, as well as feel the way you were leaning into his touch and the heat that was transferring from your cheeks to his hands. Though it was only when you did not pull away and instead, had your tongue dart out to wet your lips, did Spencer kill the remaining space between your faces.

His lips slanted against yours in a desperate manner that outmatched his need for oxygen, kissing you like it was long overdue. He swallowed the gasp escaping your throat and the surprised noise that followed. There was an urgency he could not hide as his straining self-control snapped from your green light. 

You began kissing him back just a second or two after, and almost instantly, you heard a sigh of relief. Your lips curled, but any trace of smugness vanished when his thumb began rubbing your cheek fondly. Suddenly, you were aware of just how close you two were. Every point of contact was sending a searing heat through your body, because despite his fears of germs, Spencer was touching your skin like it was a need, rather than an obligation for moments like these. 

You pressed your lips harder against his.

Good lord, Spencer could do this forever. 

He might have been able to count the number of times you have touched him on one hand, but even with the whole team, there were not enough fingers to account for the number of times he had glanced at your lips this week alone.

Your own hands touched the sides of his waist, and you instantly caught the longing noise that escaped from Spencer’s throat, echoing onto your lips. At such an encouraging sound, you curled your hands to the back of his body and snaked them up his back. Your lips smirked against his at the way he arched into your touch. 

One hundred and sixty three days—Spencer reminded himself again, humming in utter satisfaction at the way those numbers spun down to zero. Finally, you were touching him on purpose and with purpose. He practically melted at the way your hands roamed so confidently without any trace of guilt that he was uncomfortable, because he was far from that.

In fact, he eagerly wanted to keep the number of days since the last time you touched him at zero permanently. 

You picked that precise moment to pull away, documenting the way his eyes fluttered open and dawned into existence the unadulterated glimmer of yearning in them. 

You have always thought he was gorgeous, but how he looked right then rendered the word inadequate. It was a vision exceeding all your daydreams, and to be the reason behind the look made you feel like you were an award winning fashion designer who had just invented a magnificent masterpiece. But unlike most, you had no intention of sharing this artwork with the world or with anybody else.

Spencer felt his heart squeeze at the sight of you again. Was it possible to miss someone so badly from not having a visual on them for approximately a minute? Maybe he was more screwed than he thought.

Breathlessly, he finally whispered the confession that he had long to say for a month.

“Despite all the facts I already know and have learnt during my whole entire life, you’re my favorite thing to study and know more about, and have been since you stepped into my life. Nothing I learnt after felt like it could outrank anything I learnt about you.” It was true.  Every speck of information about you gets the forefront of his memory’s line-up, taking priority over every other knowledge. Spencer licked his own lips for remnants of you before continuing, “You’re my favorite fun fact, you know that?”

Your heart tugged at his words. You had no idea how you managed to compete with the vast amount of interesting information that existed in the world, but under Spencer’s stare, you truly could see he meant every word.

“But…” The smile on your face instantly dropped at that single word from Spencer. Good rarely ever followed that three-letter conjunction.

“But?”

“I do have to admit that, uhm…” The familiar sheepish glint in his eyes had one of your eyebrows shooting up. “I kinda already know that fun fact already, that you liked me.” Your hands on him stilled their movement before falling onto your sides in disbelief.

“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.” He resisted the urge to whine at the lack of physical touch from you. “But you looked shocked.”

“I was shocked you actually said it. I didn't think you’d do it today…or tomorrow…or maybe ever–” You slapped his arm, but he gladly welcomed that contact. Anything was better than nothing.

“I thought you’re like highly oblivious to romantic signals? I’ve seen you being completely clueless and not picking up on the fact that women were flirting with you.”

“I think I wasn’t clueless when it came to you because my eyes were always on you.” Those words came out shamelessly. In fact, Spencer almost sounded proud of himself. You tried not to let his words make you flustered.

“When did you figure it out?”

“That you like me? At the orchestra.”

“How? I barely figured it out myself that I liked you then.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” Your huff drew a chuckle from him.

You finally peeled yourself completely away from Spencer, grabbing your bag from his hand before making your way to your car. As you unlocked the vehicle and swung the driver’s door open, you could hear his footsteps following. You crouched to lean into your car and place your bag onto the passenger seat. You could feel Spencer’s presence stopping just behind you, standing much closer than he had ever before tonight.

As you bent back up and leaned against your car, you didn't miss the way Spencer’s fingers twitched, giving away his urges for physical contact. You crossed your arms before tilting your head back teasingly.

“I’m still gonna get you someday.”

Spencer’s gaze melted to an even softer look than before at your declaration. There was a freeing component in his eyes, showcasing the joy from being able to openly look at you in the way he had really wanted to for a while. His voice lowered to a sweet, promising whisper.

“I’m counting on that.”

With that, Spencer leaned in again, wanting a second run of things before the two of you had to part ways for the night.

You grinned into the kiss and quickly wrapped your arms around him again. Quietly, your mind logged in today’s score. 

Day 187 status: unsuccessful. 

But it hardly matters when you think you’ve already won something a lot better.

link to: epilogue/bonus bit

・┈・┈・┈・┈・┈・

⟡ navigation ⭒ masterlist

⟡ spencer reid masterlist

"Georgia college." He sighed and passed a file across the table, "Four students from the same philosophy class have been murdered. All of them found dead in their dorm, poisoned."

"Jesus, that's brutal." You sigh, "Can the local police not interview everyone in the class?"

"They have, no one has flagged any concern. So they believe the unsub can either blend in or is another student on campus." He explained, "So they asked us if we had an agent we could send in. Morgan calls you baby bird for a reason." He smiled, a rare Hotch smile.

"So, we're sending you in as a college student. And Reid as a professor."

You choked back a cough. "Reid?"

It wasn't like you didn't like Reid, but he did not like you. He had a reputation, smart, genius that doesn't like newcomers in his unit. He never let you get away with a slip of the tongue, constantly correcting your every word. It was infuriating.

"He's an experienced profiler and he has lecturing experience." Hotch said, "Plus he will have a view of the whole room."

"I don't need hand holding Hotch." You pursed your lips, flipping the file closed and pressing it onto your legs.

"I know you don't. It's for everyone's safety." He sighed and huffed with a tone that told you there was no point in arguing back.

Sinking into the chair, you cross one leg over the other. "Do I need to do the assignments?" You asked.

"We aren’t sure yet. Come on, Garcia is about to debrief the team." He held the door open for you and you ducked under his arm.

The round table chatter stopped as soon as you stepped into the room. All of them trying to look busy as they did whenever they were gossiping.

"Do I really look like I could still be in college?" You sigh and throw yourself into your chair in between Morgan and JJ.

"Yes." "Yes." "A little." "We call you baby bird for a reason."

"I hate you guys." You grump, and shove your elbow into Morgan's ribs. "I do not look twenty two. I'm almost thirty."

"Actually," You roll your eyes as you hear Reid's voice cut across the chuckling. "You're actually three years, seven months and eleven days away from thirty. So not almost. Also due to your slightly larger eyes and your affinity to wear pink makes people believe you are younger than you actually are." He rattled off, fiddling with his fingers.

You opened your mouth to spit something back when Penelope came into the room in a flurry. She had bags of shopping bundled into her grip, dumping them down the floor and swooping in with the remote in hand.

"Morning, my superhuman crime fighters. I'll get right into it! At Georgia college four students have recently been killed in their dorm rooms." She clicked on the button and four pictures popped up. "James Gripe, Lucy Brown, Issac Nike and Cara Smith. At first, they thought James Gripe had died from caffeine overconsumption and stress from finals. But then, Lucy, Issac and Cara were found in the concurrent weeks." She sighed sadly, looking at their faces in sympathy.

"Crossing both race and gender lines is rare." Rossi stated, scribbling down the names in his journal.

"The police already looked into the other students in the class right?" Emily asked and Hotch nodded.

"No one caused them any concern." He confirmed, "And as far as the students know they all have died of an overdose and stress related causes. The local ME is currently checking the bodies for signs of poison."

"The media is going to have a field day if this gets out." JJ sighed, running a hand through her hair.

"Alright. Wheels up in 30, the sooner we get started the better. We'll discuss the undercover operation on the jet." Hotch said, striding out of the round table and back into his office.

Everyone else filed out, Derek pulling Reid to the side and mumbling something about "Getting better at talking to women." and Pen yanked you to the side before you could step out.

"I got you some things!" She rummaged around in the bag and shoved some clothes into your arms.

You held up a dress against your body. "Why the hell did you buy me a club dress?"

"You're going to college! And you're like my little sister and I couldn't send you off without a hot dress" She said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Oh, and a shirt and a mini skirt." She held them up.

"Thanks Pen." You smile and pull her into a tight hug. "I'll send you a picture if i end up wearing it." She gripped back onto you tighter.

"Come back to me safe, Baby Bird." She whispered into your hair.

"I will." You nod and peck her on the cheek, shoving the clothes into your go bag and getting ready to hit the tarmac.

"Wait!" Pen shouts across the bullpen and runs toward you as fast as she could with her too high heels. "I forgot to give you these."

----

Hauling your go bag into the overhead cabin, you sit down opposite Hotch. He slides your new ID across the table and you put it straight into your wallet.

"Everyone in that class is a potential victim." Derek sighed, flipping over the papers in his file.

"What that's like forty more potential victims?" You scoff, shaking your head.

"Forty six. Well, forty seven including you." Reid cut in, not even looking up from the book his face was buried in.

"Close enough." You grit out, teeth clenched.

"Not exact." He spat back.

Rolling your eyes and turning away from him, shoving a middle finger his way and huffing towards Derek. He smiled towards you cheekily, "Did you get Penelope's gifts?"

"Yeah. A tiny shirt, a mini skirt and a barely there dress." Derek let out a low whistle. "Oh, and about five million condoms." You pull the box from your pocket where you'd shoved them in with your cheeks turning red, hoping that no one in the bullpen saw.

"You could go through half of Georgia with those."

Ripping off a strip and threw it, hitting him square in the chest. "And you can go through half the police department with those." You joke and nudge him with the tip of your shoe.

"That was one time man!" He exclaimed.

"Actually, there were the two in Colorado." Emily piped in.

"One in California, and another in Florida." JJ continued.

"Don't forget police chief Jones in Texas." You teased, counting on your fingers.

"And the nurse in Oregon." Rossi finished.

"And that was all in the last six months." Hotch put the nail in the coffin, never usually joining in on the team banter. But he was smirking over his file at Derek's mock glare.

"C'mon we've all gone home with someone once. Well apart from babybird and pretty boy over there." He defended, throwing his hands up.

You scoff, "Hey, I don't want to become a case. Look at half of our cases, they all go home with their killers." You shake your head and climb out of the seat and into the plane aisle.

"At least I'm not thirty year old virgin over there." You snort, pulling open the small blue curtain to the kitchenette with a loud screech.

"Thirty two." He corrects, having now moved on to another book. Flipping a page in between words, the whole page completed.

"I like how that's the part you correct." You purse your lips, snorting and closing the curtain behind you, the kettle beginning to bubble. You knew he was thirty two, you were there at the party Pen made him have at Rossi's. But sometimes, you liked to push. To see how far you could take it before he couldn't resist and correct you. Usually, it just took you rounding up or down to make his patience to tip over.

You sigh quietly as you sit down with a scalding cup of coffee, the bitter taste burning your tongue as you sip it down.

"Looking forward to doing assignments again?" Emily asks, clasping her hands together on the wooden table.

"Definitely not, I'm not that well versed in philosophy so I better get reading." You smile, trying to lighten her worry.

"I suspect Professor Reid will mark you highly." She laughed, her eyes darting over your shoulder to him.

You follow her gaze and quickly glance over, hoping he wouldn't notice. But he was already looking at you. Probably from hearing Emily mention his name. It takes you a second to pull away from his intense stare. Emily cleared her throat, yanking you back to reality.

"I think I'll be his least favourite student." You roll your eyes, still feeling his eyes glaring at the back of your head.

----

You never thought you’d be back at college. But now, you were walking through the hallways of Georgia college with a backpack filled to the brim on your back. Thick textbooks and laptop weighing you down, or was it the nerves of trying to blend in?

It was far too early in the morning for most of the students around you, all dragging their feet and murmured complaints due to the previous late night.

Slowing, in front of the lecture hall. Coming to a stop in front of a group of girls standing and chatting amongst themselves.

“Excuse me,” You start. “Is this Professor Wright’s philosophy?”

They quiet, and turn to you. “Yeah! but he’s on leave so another professor is standing in. Are you new?” The dark haired girl asked, a soft smile on her face.

“Yeah, I just transferred from Arizona. Something to do with the credit amounts for graduation.” You shrugged. “I’m - Ivy." The name stumbles out unnaturally, like it doesn't belong to you. Because it doesn't. The introduction feels foreign in your mouth and heat pooled in your cheeks.

“Marie. And this is Chloe and Sarah.” She points to the girls staring behind her, they both give a wave.

The door to the lecture hall swings open. And everyone starts to file in. The plan was to sit at the back, keeping your head down and being able to view the whole room.

“Come sit with us!” Marie smiled, waving you over to the front row.

Descending down the stairs of the lecture hall, long hair bouncing, you slide into the seat on the end of the aisle. Pulling out your laptop and loading it up.

“I wonder what the new professor will be like,” She whispered into your ear. “Professor Wright was great, but he was basically a dinosaur.” She giggled.

“Hopefully good. I really need this credit.” You sigh, opening your mouth to speak again when the door swings open.

“Sorry, I’m late. I couldn’t find the hall.” Reid came spluttering into the hall and throwing his shoulder bag on the desk and uncapping the whiteboard marker and scribbling his name now. “I’m Professor Gardener, and I’ll be here while Professor Wright is on sick leave. I assure you he is feeling OK and has started his recovery.”

But you knew Professor Wright wasn’t sick, he was sat in his cushy lakeside home. Getting paid time off to lounge around and read through his library.

It had allowed Professor Gardener or as you knew, Doctor Reid pacing around in his element. He had slid into the professor role like a second skin. Hotch had mentioned he had guest lectured before, but the confidence was surprising.

“I’ve been told you were about to start Kantian ethics. So into Kantian ethics 101!” His hands clap and his voice fades into the background as another voice whispered in your ear, pulling you away from the lecture.

“He’s so hot.” Marie said, your head darting toward her.

“What?” You whisper back, slightly alarmed, “Don’t you think he’s like a bit, I don’t know, nerdy?”

“But like a hot nerd.”

Reid’s rambling pulled your attention back to the front of the room. He wasn’t hot, he was all knitted cardigans and wool ties. Stupid facts about Doctor who and how the physics was dodgy. He talked with his hands, waving them around with every unnecessary word. Long fingers that could solve a rubix cube in seconds. His facial hair had started growing in, a shadow coating the bottom half of his face. And standing up there as he lectured, the way the words slipped from him with ease. Maybe, he was hot.

But he was Reid. And Reid was your annoying co worker. The only person on the team who still didn't believe in you as an agent. And there he was standing, as Professor Gardener. And he looked hot.

----

And apparently, half of campus also thought so. Walking into the lecture hall that had been half empty was almost full. The sight makes you trip over your feet and almost tumble down the stairs.

A hand grabbed your bicep and pulled you back and into a chest. You don't need to turn around to know who it was. You knew his cologne, the scent of books and coffee also a hint of mint. You steady yourself and spin around to look at him, he was closer than you thought he would be.

"Professor Gardener. Uh, thank you." You nod and start to head down the stairs where Marie had saved you a seat with her handbag.

"You're also new, Ivy right?" He said, falling in step next to you.

His casual small talk takes you back, you can never recall a time Reid had spoken to you casually. "Yeah, I had to transfer. Graduation credits, you know how it is." You shrugged, stopping at the row. "And thank you again."

Sitting down next to Marie, she immediately grips onto you. "What was that?" She almost gasped.

"I tripped, he caught me." You responded.

"It was straight out of a romcom! I think half of the people in here want to kill you." She giggled.

"He was just being polite." You glaze over the interaction and start to pull out your laptop and textbook.

"People are already calling him Gorgeous Gardener." She continued, and your breath stuttered. This case was going to be a lot more difficult than you thought.

You knew you were staring, ogling even. You were supposed to be looking at him, it was normal to keep your eyes on the professor. But the nickname was true. He was gorgeous. It had wormed it's way into your head, you couldn't escape the thought. Like a bad smell, the thought of Reid being attractive had spent it's time racing around your brain.

He looked like Reid, the same slightly grown out hair do. He moved like Reid, waving his hands around and fiddling with his fingers as he spoke. He dressed like Reid, a dark blue sweater vest and brown blazer. And he even smelled like Reid, the memory of his scent as he pulled you into him. Nevertheless, he wasn't making you feel like Reid.

But a sharp elbow jutted into your ribs.

"Ivy." He was standing at the front of the lecture hall with an expectant raised eyebrow.

"Sorry, what was the question?"

"Could you give us a quick summary of Kantian ethics?" His face hadn't changed.

"Uh, yeah." You tried not to stumble over your words and sent him a glare. "Developed by Immanuel Kant, deciding whether actions are right or wrong depending on duty and moral rules, not the consequences."

"Thank you. Pay attention next time." He span around on his conversed feet and back to the whiteboard. The same condescending tone he used on every case when he felt the need to correct your every word.

At the end of the day. He was still Reid.

The rose coloured glasses that Professor Gardener had grown over your eyes wilted away in an instant. Rose had deepened to red and you were glaring at him the way you had a million times before.

"Kantian ethics teaches that we should always act according to moral duties and universal rules. This creates a fair and consistent moral system." He explained, pacing between his desk and the whiteboard. "Does anyone have an argument against?"

His eyes darted around the room, nodding towards a girl in the middle of the room.

"Uh, I'm just auditing this class." She said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She flashed a smile at him.

"Oh. Is anyone else auditing this class?" He asked, and a sea of hands raised and your lip curled up in slight disgust. "Hmm, ok."

Your hand shot up into the air. He nodded towards you a sign for you to speak, not before looking desperately for someone else to answer. "But life is more complicated than simple rules. What if it causes harm to follow a rule?"

He looked surprised at your rebuttal. "Kant would argue that the moral rules should be followed regardless of consequences. Otherwise, people would make exceptions when it suited them."

"But take the famous example. Lying to a killer to save someone’s life. Telling the truth would lead to the death of an innocent person."

"Morality becomes subjective if we start making exemptions." He clicked his tongue.

"We can still have moral principles while recognising that consequences matter. A rule that leads to preventable harm does not seem truly moral." He tried to shoot an argument back.

"Morality should also help people and reduce suffering. If a moral theory ignores the real effects of actions, it can produce unfair outcomes." You hide the look of satisfaction on your face.

"That is the most common critique of Kantian ethics." He nodded, turning to the whiteboard and uncapped the pen with a pop. "As it's a Friday, I give you an essay."

Everyone in the room groaned, arms hanging heavy by your sides as your eyes follow his letters. "Is Kantian Ethics correct? You can argue for or against. I expect them to be on my desk by next Friday. Have a good weekend." Just as everyone was about to run out of there at the speed of light. "My office hours are the same as Professor Wright's, so see the paper on the door."

----

The weekend for you didn't mean going out partying and scrambling to plan your essay. Instead, you were sat in the back of a local police precinct. The taste of cardboard and burnt coffee peeked through the burning in your mouth.

You were sat with your head held up by your chin. The door opened and the rest of the team filed in.

"How was class?" JJ asked a joking lilt in her voice, sliding an actual, smooth cup of coffee across the desk.

"Professor Gardener treating you well?" Emily snorted.

Glaring at her but thanking her for the coffee. "I have an essay due next Friday." You fix your glare on Reid, "Oh, and there's about twenty more people auditing the class."

"Nineteen." He corrected.

"And that's nineteen more potential victims." Morgan sighed, "Has anyone in the class come up? Nothing has come up on our end."

"For me, no not yet. Everyone seems like a regular student so far. But I've been keeping my eye out." You explain, notepad and textbook open with the arguments you had chosen highlighted.

"Well if you had spent your time actually looking, rather than gossiping with the girls at the front. You would have seen something." Reid snarked, turning his body away from you and started to address the rest of the team. "There's a guy at the back of the class.-"

You take a deep breath before speaking, "I know that you spent all of your school years sat in the class with no friends. But I didn't, and I'm not going to sulk in the back of the class." You were shoving things back into your bag. "Fuck off, Reid." Your backpack smacked into him as you stormed out of the precinct, the door slammed loudly behind you.

Raging as your feet slammed along the pavement, hands balled into fists, held tightly at your sides. "Ivy, Ivy!" It takes a few seconds for the name to register before you turn around with a smile on your face. "Are you ok? Why were you at the station?" Marie asked, worry painted on her face.

"I just had to change my address to get my mail." Rolling your eyes, you lean all of your weight onto your back foot. "The college said they had handled it, what a way to spend your weekend huh?"

"Oh my God! You should come out with me, Chloe and Sarah!" She grabbed the tops of your arms, shaking you back and forth.

"Um." You pretend to pause in thought. "Not this weekend, we have that essay due in. But next weekend, count me in!"

Marie's face lit up with a large smile. "I'm so excited!" She linked arms with you, leading you away from the station. "There's this bar, they have themed cocktails every single week. They’re a tad expensive but soo strong so it's worth the money!"

She reminded you of Pen in a way, the happy go lucky attitude. The way she took you in like a stray, forcing you to go out for drinks. She brought a slither of normal in your facade, and well there was no stopping Reid from being, well Reid.

----

You had gotten the call that morning. They had found another body. It was a guy, Harry Jones. He sat in the middle of the class, he never spoke. He just sat with his friends and took notes whenever was necessary.

Penelope had managed to work out every victims average grades. They had all been in the top half of the class.

You were slumped in your chair, not listening to a thing Reid was saying. Your ears were tuned into the rows behind you, listening in for any mention of Harry's name. You could tell he was profiling too, eyes constantly scanning the rows, talking on autopilot.

No one was talking about anything of note. Marie, Chloe and Sarah were talking about what they were going to wear to the bar later. The people a few rows behind were talking about what grade they thought they were going to get. Not a mention of Harry. No one realised he was gone.

You could tell Reid was profiling too, eyes constantly scanning the rows, talking on autopilot. Professor Gardener was long gone, you were looking at Reid. But it seemed he was coming up empty too.

"Right." He clapped, casually strolling over to the desk. Resting his hand atop the essays he had collected at the start of class and patted them gently. "Have a good weekend, no homework this week. See you on Wednesday!"

Marie linked arms with you once again, asking you what you were going to wear that night.

"Ivy!" His voice called as you got to the door.

"Hmm? Yes, Professor Gardener." You responded, leaning on the doorway.

"Could you come by my office later? I scanned your essay and there’s a couple points I think we could discuss in depth." He held up the paper, and Marie excuses herself. Lingering right outside.

"Sure, I'll swing by later." You run your finger across the paper on the door. "7pm?"

He nodded. "Sounds good."

Marie pretty much dragged you from the lecture hall. "You should so wear that dress you sent me a picture of." She giggled.

"I cannot wear that to my meeting with Professor Gardener." You deadpanned, hitting her lightly on the arm.

"I meant the bar. Your mind went there." She smiled, "But you should do that too, ugh I want him to go in depth with me." Groaning, she leant her head on your shoulder.

"Marie!" You exclaimed, jaw hanging open in shock. "You need to get laid girl, you should totally look for someone tonight."

"I was already planning on it." She smirked. "You better wear that dress."

----

You did wear the dress. The sparkly red fabric glittering as you snapped a picture for Penelope. It stopped at the top of your thighs, constantly pulling it down as your heels clicked on the pavement. It was too short, and had too much cleavage in your opinion, but it wasn't your opinion. It was Ivy's.

The halls were desolate and slightly chilly as you made your way to Reid's office. Well, Professor Wright's office. The golden plaque shined in the dim lighting. Checking over your shoulder, before you knocked on the door. You could hear shuffling behind the door before it swung open.

"Come in." He said, head sticking out of the door and looking down the hall.

"I wasn't followed." You rolled your eyes, your hand hitting his chest and kicking the door closed. Reaching behind you, clicking the lock shut you look around the office and step further in. "What do you want Reid?"

Standing across from him, hands resting on the back of the armchair opposite his desk. He looked up from the papers on his desk.

"What are you wearing?" It tumbled out of his mouth and his eyebrows scrunched together.

You matched his look of confusion. "A dress?" It wasn't like he hadn't seen you in a mini dress before. You always wore one when you went out with the team. Maybe not one this short or low cut, but a minidress nonetheless.

"Does Hotch know you're going out?" He asked, brows still furrowed.

"Yes, Professor Gardener." You snarked, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms across your chest.

He sucked in a breath, "I wanted to talk to you about your essay."

"Are you serious?" You scoffed, stalking around to the other side of the desk.

You leant across the desk, plucking out a red pen from the pot. Uncapping it and writing on your own paper. A. "There we go, now we don't have to talk about it."

"That's not-"

"Precise, correct, fair?" You laughed, straightening your back and you went to grab your handbag off of the table where you had dumped it.

But he snatched it out of your grasp, unzipping it and digging through it.

"What the fuck Reid?"

He held up the condoms that you had shoved into your bag. "Are you going to sleep with a college student?" His voice was coated with disdain.

"I don't think that's your business is it, Professor?" You lean forward, trying to snatch them out of his grip.

"As your Professor, no. But as your superior agent, it is." He moved backwards, stopping your waving grip. The smirk you had become acquainted with.

"I'm not going to fuck a college student. But I might just, if it pisses you off so much." You pouted in his face, heavy breaths making your chest rise and fall in his face. "I know you're a virgin Reid but Jesus."

That caught him off guard, giving you the opportunity to snatch them back and slide them back into your handbag. "Maybe we won't even use these."

"I'm not a virgin." He gritted through his teeth, glaring at your bare back.

You can't help but laugh out loud at that, "I'll believe it when I see it." Your hair shakes with your head, striding towards the door.

The smell of him hits you before you feel him. Your hand stilled as it reached for the doorknob, the same scent that hit you when he stopped you from falling down the stairs. His grip on your bicep was familiar, the tips of his fingers digging in as his other hand brushed your hair to one side.

"You are insufferable." He whispered, warm breath hitting the shell of your ear.

It was like you had forgotten how to breathe. He was inching closer to you, the warmth of his chest radiating against your back. "Reid." You sighed.

"Professor." He corrected, spinning you around and pushing you against the door roughly. "If anyone gets to cum inside of you tonight, It's going to be me."

Your head thumped backwards, eyebrows pulling together as his eyes met yours. It was like you had lost all sense, you hated Reid. But the mention of him cumming inside you had any rational abandoned.

"Does that sound good?" He hummed.

"Yes, Professor Reid." You sighed.

"Fuck." He growled before pressing his lips into yours. Your hands came forward to grip onto the lapels on his blazer, pulling him closer. His lips were softer than you expected, contrasted with his teeth coming out to yank on your bottom lip.

Your bag dropped to the floor with a thud. As his hands, the hands you had spent countless lectures staring at, started to wander. Long fingers travelled down your back, pulling up goosebumps in their wake. Then, his hands scooped you up, legs wrapping around his hips as he pressed you into the door.

His hardness pushed into you, making you gasp out and slide your hands into his hair and giving it a light tug. He takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, walking you across the room and sliding the papers and pens off the desk. They hit the floor with a clatter as he lowered you down.

Both of you panted as he separated, a line of spit connecting you between your lips. Neither of you said anything for a beat, just staring at each other with blown pupils.

A second later, he cupped your jaw and pulled your back straight, kissing you again.

Now it was your turn for your hands to wander, slotting your hands under his blazer and pushing it off and it hit the floor gently. Then, your hands came to fiddle with the buckle on his belt. It clinked loudly as you whipped it out of the belt loops. The button popped open not long after.

He made work of your dress, pulling it up and letting it pool around your hips. Not even taking your panties off, just sliding them to the side as the pads of his fingers come into contact with your clit.

"Jesus!" You gasped out, pulling him closer with your ankle. Painted nails sliding down the front of his brown corduroy slacks and cupping his dick.

His eyes rake down you, dress pulled up, panties to the side. Eyes hooded, chest heaving desperately as you throw your head back.

"You look, divine." He whispered into your ear, the intimacy of it took you by surprise. His finger still worked against your clit, leaving you writhing and gasping under his gaze.

You shoved his slacks down, his white boxer shorts followed not long after. His compliment sent a fire through your veins and a desperation to have him inside you take over.

His fingers pulled off of you, your whining halted. "Hurry up and fuck me!" You groaned, wrapping your legs around his hips. Your heel dug into his backside and it fell to the floor.

He took his dick in his hand, looking down at you. The tip hit against your clit and he slid it up and down through your wetness. "Ah, ah, ah." He teased, refusing to push in, just leaving you with the delicious pressure of almost. "Say please."

"Oh, fuck off." You sigh, trying anything to get closer. Just anything to get him inside you.

He pulled his dick away, and it was like your brain had melted any rationality away. "Please, Reid." You pleaded, knuckles turning white at how hard you were gripping the edge of his desk. "Professor, please." You looked up at him through your lashes.

Then, he finally gave you what you wanted. He pressed his forehead to yours just as he sank into you. He was bigger than you thought he'd be. Not that you'd thought about it. The head brushed past your g spot as he bottomed out.

You couldn't help the almost scream that came from you. "Spencer!"

You had never called him Spencer, most of the time you didn't even address him. But any worry left your mind after hearing his groan as he pulled most of the way out, before slamming into you again.

His lips attached to your neck and your toes curled inside your heels. "No marks." You panted out.

Nodding into the crook of your neck, he slid his hands under you. He lifted you slightly, the new angle letting him pound deeper inside you. This lead to a string of moans to explode from your chest and his hand clamped over your mouth to keep you quiet.

He wasn't doing a good job of keeping quiet himself. Panting and groaning into your neck, teeth scratching your earlobe. Your hands screwed into the front of his shirt, whining helplessly at the brutal pace he was fucking you with.

"S-spencer." You both fall backwards, your back flat on the cool wooden desk and him hunched over you never faltering.

"You're much more bearable like this." He smirked down at you, reviling in the state he had you in. A fucked out pink flush painted across your cheeks, tits bouncing with every thrust that coaxed a wet noise from your pussy every time he slapped against it.

You tried to form a rebuttal, but what came out was babbling that vaugly sounded like hsi name. Desperately, pulling him closer with your nails scratching down his back.

"Awh, poor baby." He teased, "Can't you speak?"

The mocking had your head reeling and your walls clenching around him. The teasing, his body pressing you into the desk, the unrelenting pace and the smell of him was all just too much. It had the coil inside you ready to snap.

Your eyes meet his again and you slam your mouth to his. Tongue peeking into your mouth as your thighs started to tremble. You had your toes curled so hard that your heels slid off your feet and falling to the floor. Spencer's hand snaked down and hit your clit again, moving the wetness around with his fingers.

It had lightening bolts shooting through your spine and the coil in your belly to snap. Nails digging into his shoulder blades and a too loud cry of his name. "Spencer!" It almost echoed around the room as he fucked you through your orgasm, leaving you tightening and fluttering around his cock.

Then, he was cumming himself, with a similar groan of your name and a few more deep thrusts that sent your eyes rolling. His release was warm inside of you, he paused for a second. Letting it pool inside of you and leaving you both breathing into each others mouth's. His dick slid out of you, pussy clenching around emptiness. Gently, he moved your underwear back with a tenderness you wouldn't have expected.

Suddenly, the feeling of his cum pooling in your panties, had you hurtling back to reality. It was like a cool bucket of water had been thrown over you.

It was Reid. You and Reid had sex. Not even sex, fucked. He was technically your professor. And you had his cum dripping out of you.

You yanked your dress down, refusing to look him in the eye.

"That can't happen again." He called over his shoulder as you grabbed your bag. Piling the lip gloss that had spilled all over the floor when it had fallen from your fingers.

"I know." You commented, clicking the lock open and the door.

"Be careful, and you can call me if you need me to come and get you." He gave you that tight lipped smile he did when he felt awkward.

"Will do." You mirrored his face, your hair falling in front of your face and closing the door with a soft click.

Your dress was missing sparkles from all over and you had six missed calls from Marie, and you took off into the city.

----

The bar was exactly as Marie had described. It was slightly tacky with bright coloured lights with ocean themed drinks. Everyone was walking around with blue drinks with fish shaped ice cubes, sharks sticking from the top.

"Ivy!" Marie called, waving you over from the booth they had grabbed in the corner.

"Hey." You smiled and sidled into the booth next to Sarah.

"What did Professor Gardener want?" Sarah asked, close to your ear, cutting through the thumping pop music.

"Apparently, I did really well on my essay. There was just a couple mistakes he wanted me to clear up for next time." You smiled, casting a look towards the bar. "I'm going to go and get a drink! I'll be back."

The drink was overly sweet, Penelope would have loved it. The grenadine turned the blue drink a light purple.

"So tell us what mark you got, you can't leave us hanging girl." Marie grasped onto your arm. "Also what happened with Professor Gardenerrr?" She teased lightly and Chloe smacked her on the arm.

"I got a 97." You feigned a blush, hiding you face behind your hair.

Marie and Chloe gasped, excitedly shaking you back and forth. Some of your drink sloshing over the rim and making the bar table more sticky than it already was.

"You're going to get the credits that you need toats, oh my god we need to throw you a graduation party." She praised, her face lit up in the same way you had seen it so many times.

Just as you went to agree, head already nodding.

"Ivy, that guy over there is so looking at you." Sarah cut across, pointing a finger across the bar.

Your eyes followed her finger to find a very smiley Derek Morgan. You smile back at him with a small wave.

"Well go talk to him! He's so hot!" Chloe exclaimed, "Plus you deserve it after such a good essay."

Your eyes darted between them and him, pretending to give a moment of deliberation. Before standing up and glancing over your shoulder. "If he's weird, I'm coming back."

Winding your way through the crowded bar, smoothly directing yourself between sweaty bodies until you got to the booth. You slid up next to Morgan, your side pressing up against his.

"This dress is a gift from Penelope I assume." He whispered into your ear and he wrapped his arm around your shoulders.

"How could you tell?" You said back, looking back to the table of girls looking towards you expectantly. Sticking your thumb up towards them, you turn towards Derek fully.

"Have you been dancing with someone else babybird?" He asked, still leaned in close.

"No, why?" You scrunched your eyebrows.

"You smell like another man."

It felt like your stomach dropped to your feet, and you hoped and prayed that he wouldn't recognise the scent. Suddenly, it was like you could feel the cum that was wetting your panties through. The shame burned bright on your cheeks.

"Yikes, I need to get rid of my perfume." Joking, you elbowed him, "Go for a smoke?" You pulled the packet out of your purse and waved it in his face.

As the two of you stepped out of the bar you sent Marie a message. 'Going home with hot stuff, see you wednesday. ;)'

The cool air hit and was very, very welcome. Bricks pressed into your back and you let out a long, deep sigh. Lighting up the cigarette and holding it towards Derek.

"I don't smoke." He smiled, watching you puff out smoke.

"One of the girls I was with, Sarah. Get Pen to look into her, she was acting weird about my meeting with Reid." You throw a look over your shoulder and see Marie and the girls looking at you expectantly. "I think we're being watched." You murmured, leaning close to Derek's ear.

His muscles flexed under your trailing grip. "Want to get out of here?"

"Yeah." You nod, throwing a sheepish glance over your shoulder and a small wave to the girls who definitely weren't looking through the window.

Turning the corner there was a familiar squad car waiting for you.

----

Again, you spent your weekend hunched over a conference table. Files piled up around your head. The team had gone all in on Sarah, and the deeper you dug, the more she looked like your unsub.

"Her grades have been steadily dropping for the last few semesters." Emily commented, putting another file in the completed bin.

"Ah-Ha!" Penelope exclaimed, her face popping up on the monitor. "Recently, Sarah's adoptive Mom died. It didn't come up in the original searches because she wasn't offically adopted. The papers never went through."

"So we've got our stressor." Hotch nodded, his arms crossed tensely in the corner of the room. "Reid, have you noticed anything during class?"

As he started talking, you realised you hadn't looked over once. It was like he wasn't even there. "She seemed pretty normal until I read through the essay she handed in. Her critique of the ethics I set was neither for or against. But was more arguing that murder isn't entirely immoral." He explained, taking a sip from his coffee before continuing.

"Her argument was that neither lying or committing the murder is immoral. As both have their own moral explanations." He continued.

"Like lying to the murderer, or killing in self defence." You said without thought, his brown eyes meeting yours. Gaze dropped to your swirling cup of coffee, there was no escape from reminders of him.

"Wow babybird, they'll make a philosopher of you yet." Emily smiled, JJ giggled. "But what's the plan to get her to act again."

Rossi started to plan, "Release the grades publicly, put a select few people at the top of the list. We put an agent on everyone on the top of the list."

"She already thinks babybird has done well. So we stick her in a college dorm and wait. Also." He paused, looking between you and Reid. "If we were to drum up some rumours." He clicked his tongue, holding back a smirk.

Penelope squealed through the screen, "Are you telling me the garden is going to grow some ivy?" Her bottom lip pulled in between her teeth.

"What?" Reid asked, confused.

"Only if the two of you are comfortable." Hotch said at the same time and you sank deeper into the chair. Face burning as bright as a christmas light.

"Oh God." You groaned, head in your hands. Peeking through your fingers at Reid's face paling after JJ had kindly explained it into his ear. Finally, you made real eye contact for the first time all morning.

"We'll do it." He confirmed with a nod, and you a slightly less sure one.

"Oh my God!" Penelope cried, "It's like a cringe romcom. You should wear that mini skirt!"

"Garcia." Hotch warned, "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

Your eyes still locked together, you had to remind you it was for a case. All of it was for a case. No matter how fast your heart was beating. None of it was real.

----

The mini skirt was worn. Pleats brushing the tops of your thighs, falling right at the curve of your ass. The shirt you were wearing had one too many buttons undone.

Class hadn't started, it was just you and Reid in your meticulously planned play. Standing at his desk with your open, empty notebook. The bend of your back too salacious for just a teacher and student. His warmth radiated on your back as his arm reached around you, finger running down the blank page. You swore you could feel him starting to grow against your ass. Goosebumps pulled up on your skin, it wasn't real. It was a waiting game and you were begging for someone to catch you.

And someone did. Marie, Chloe and Sarah came bustling in. They paused in the doorway as the two of you jumped apart in fake shock.

"Um, thank you." You stuttered shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Eyes planted firmly at your shoes, toes tapping on the floor and making your way to your front row seat.

Marie scrambled to your side, dragging you down into the seat as everyone else made their way in. "What the hell was that?"

"I don't know what you mean." Your voice ticked up, eyes raking him up and down.

"Mhm." She hummed, eyebrow raised.

You weren't listening to anything he was saying. Shamelessly, eye fucking him as he explained things to the class. Lip bitten in between your teeth and tongue wetting your lips. Out of the corner of your eye, the three of them couldn't help but glance over.

He was just as intense back, every wave of his hands sending you back to having your brain fucked out on his desk. The lines were blurring between Ivy and Gardener and you and Reid. And you weren't sure if you minded.

Then, your pen rolled off the wooden desk, clattering to the ground and silencing his rambling. Halting teaching, striding towards your desk. When he crouched, your legs uncrossed. Revealing the damp spot that was ever present on your panties.

It sent him stuttering, "Y-your pen... Ivy."

"Thank you, Professor." The pen made home in between your lips, looking up at him through your lashes. Ivy had disappeared, it felt like it was just you and Reid in the room. Everyone else melted away.

He spent the rest of the lecture, glancing over to you every few seconds. Wiping sweaty palms down the front of his pants. "Alright!" He concluded, "I think that's enough for today. Oh! But before you go. Your essays, I'll hand them out."

He travelled back to front. Telling polite good jobs, or this needs improvements. Until, he got to the front row. Chloe and Marie got a good job, a kind nod, that left them smiling at their marks.

But then came Sarah, he slid the paper across the desk upside down with a tight smile on his face. And then you, a huge smile on his face, hand reaching out to your shoulder. It wasn't real.

"See me after class." His thumb brushed a strand of hair from your shoulder, before turning to the rest of the class. "Alright! See you next week!"

Hanging around, you waved goodbye to Marie and Chloe. Sarah had disappeared quickly, throwing a look you couldn't quite read over her shoulder before turning the corner.

The door slammed close, but the tight air didn't diffuse. You drifted to the other side, leaning on your desk. You could hear him breathing, hands gripping the desk, back hunched over. The lines had blurred, it wasn't Ivy's underwear that were soaked through. It was yours.

"Reid-" You started, his name coming out more like an awkward squeak.

"Spencer." He cut you off, voice gruff and he finally straightened up. His brown leather shoes, clicked on the tiled floor. A slow, echoing rhythm that made you look up from your swinging feet.

"Look, I'm sorry." You sighed, looking everywhere but his face. "I took it too far." Mouth claggy, hands sweaty.

"Hmm," He hummed, hand darting out and gripped your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. "Are you sorry? The state of your panties says otherwise."

His fingers lingered at the crook of your knee. Softly, dragging up your thigh but stopping right before they could hit exactly where you wanted.

You whined, a high pitched, pathetic noise. "Spencer."

The look in his eyes lit you on fire. Tilting your head up, short breaths puffing from your lips. "Please."

His lips pressed against yours, tilting your neck up to meet his mouth. You groaned into his mouth, the noise silenced by his tongue dipping into your mouth. One hand brushed over your underwear, pressing into your clit lightly, the other gripped into your waist. Bringing you to the edge of the desk, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. At his mercy.

It was torture, the feather light touches giving you only a second of relief. He was smirking, the slight stubble that had grown in scratching at your chin.

At your wits end, you bite into his bottom lip. Teeth sinking into the skin and pulling back lightly. The two of you breathing in the others mouth, minty remnants coat your tongue.

"I swear to God Reid." You panted, hips bucking upwards into his fingers, "You are driving me crazy."

"I'm driving you crazy?" He scoffed, "You came in, wearing that tiny skirt. Basically bent over in front of me, then flashed me your wet panties, all while I was teaching." His tongue darted out, licking a long stripe up the column of your throat.

"Hotch's orders." You gasp, hand digging into his ragged curls and tugged him backwards.

He laughed, a mocking ring. "Oh I'm sure, I bet he told you to spread your legs for me. I wonder what he would say if I reported back? Huh babybird?"

The nickname out of his mouth had your head reeling, a complete opposite to the usual softness that came from Derek or Emily.

"I wonder what he would say, if I told him one of his best agents crumbled at the sight of me in a mini dress?" You shot back, hand cupping his now fully hard dick.

Finally, he pulled your panties down your legs. And slid them into his back pocket, his fingers slipping inside of you.

"Fuck Spencer!" You cried out, now fumbling at his belt. Clammy hands struggling with the buckle, arms falling weak as Spencer's fingers started to thrust in and out of you. A punishing pace, eyes rolling into the back of your head.

Every press of his fingers had a loud squelch bouncing around the lecture hall. Twitching his fingers upwards, brushing your g spot and laughing at your body falling limp. You used him as a support beam, slumped over in pleasure. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your hair.

"Feel good baby?" He asked, voice turning soft.

"Mhm." You hummed, his fingers turning your brain to mush. "Close." You sighed into his chest.

"Good girl." He smiled, soft kisses peppered along the crook of your neck and collarbone.

The kind praise coming from Spencer of all people, had you hurling over the edge. Toes curling and hands desperately digging into his shoulder blades. Your thighs shook, clamping around his wrist tightly.

"Fucking hell." You sighed, breath warm on his ear as you pulled him into a soft kiss. It left your heart racing, almost exploding out of your chest.

You were holding on to him like a lifeline, he was holding onto you in a similar vein. His belt buckle clinked, pants pooling at his knees, before sliding into your warmth.

Still sensitive from a moment ago, your lips dug into your lip as he began to gently thrust. It was tender, a gentle rocking in and out. Soft strokes pulling through your hair. Smooth hands trailing up your spine.

It was almost too much. Too different. He wasn't being condescending, there was no mocking. Just sweet cooing in your ear that made you clench around him. Incoherent babbling of his name fell from your lips.

Then, he whispered your name. A gentle, soft noise that had you cumming around him. Stars bloomed behind your eye as you came, a whimpering moan falling from your lips.

He followed not long after you, pressing his forehead to yours. Chanting your name over and over, he released inside of you. A curl fell, sticking to him. He looked charming, you thought. Leaning down, he kissed you again, slow and languid.

It all felt too real.

"Um." You started, looking up at him. Pink cheeks and a shy smile, "Thank you."

"And thank you." He said, as he moved a fallen strand of hair away from your eyes.

"Can I have my panties back?" You bit your lip.

For a second, you just stared at him. Playing with your fingers, you started to giggle, and so did he. The laughter was infectious, everything was light. It was foreign, you weren't going at each others throats. There was no snarky comments, no corrections.

"Sure." He was smiling, not the smile he did when he was being polite. But the one when Penelope let him ramble about doctor who, or when JJ surprised him with a chocolate covered sprinkled doughnut.

He handed them to you, cool to the touch where they were still damp. There was a pool where his cum had dripped out of you. The desk under you, covered in him.

Shimmying them up your legs, more of him dripped out of you. You grimaced and he smirked.

"Shut up." You grumped, pouting slightly.

Suddenly, there was a rush of people outside of the hall. Another class period had ended. Had you really been in there that long?

"Right."

"Right." He echoed.

"I better head off, time to lure a murderer to my fake apartment." You joked, he didn't laugh. "Kidding."

Turning, you packed your bag and jogged up the stairs, hoping that he couldn't see the huge wet spot on your underwear. You'd never hear the end of it.

"Be careful." He called when you reached the last step with his hands in his pockets rocking back on his heels.

"I will."

----

Sometimes, you wished unsubs were less predictable. You had spotted Sarah two blocks away, she lurked around corners, hid behind signs and she thought the hat she had on was hiding her face.

As soon as you'd seen her, you messaged Hotch. By the time you reached the apartment block you'd seen three squad cars. The front entrance was propped open so she could follow you right on in.

And she did. Apartment 6B was on the third floor. When you got to the second the front entrance slammed closed. She was not far behind you now.

Anyone with eyes could tell no one lived in apartment 6B, it was bland as anything. The walls were stark white, all the furniture was drab grey. There was nothing personal at all. No photos on the walls, no trinkets sprawled on every surface.

You had left the door unlocked behind you, and dumped your bag on the boring, rough couch. Walking to the kitchen, you slid open the door by the sink. Your gun sat inside, exactly where Derek had left it. Him and JJ were in your 'bedroom', waiting for the signal.

A few seconds later, there was a knock on the door.

"Coming!" You called, sliding your gun into the waistband of your skirt and made your way to the door. "Sarah!" You gasped, then tilted your head, taking a pause. "How... do you know where I live?" You asked, furrowing your brows.

"You bitch!" She growled, immediately jumping at you. A knife that she had hidden behind her back at the ready. Now, that was an escalation.

Your hand gripped her forearm, trying to wrangle the knife from her grasp. The two of you crashed into the wall, the tip of the knife scratched against your shoulder. Dark blood stained your shirt.

"Sarah put the knife down." You pleaded, the air puffing out of your lungs as you fell to the floor. The coffee table's legs crashing under your back.

"You're a no good slut." Sarah lifted the knife, ready to strike down upon you. Derek and JJ came running out of the bedroom, guns drawn and shouting.

"FBI! Put the knife down!" Derek barked, moving in on her.

The crazed look in her eyes told you she wasn't going to relent. Scrambling back, you swept her legs out from under her. Her ribs crashed into your legs and the knife fell from her grip. It sliced your calf, the blood running down and turning your white sock red.

They moved in, yanking her off of your legs and pulling her arms behind her. Cuffs clinked as he read her, her rights. JJ rushed to your side, kneeling beside you.

"Are you ok?" She flustered, hand grasping onto your uninjured shoulder.

"I'm fine." You nodded, smoothing down your skirt. You hissed when her finger prodded at your leg. "Ow!"

She laughed lightly, "Cmon, there's an ambulance outside." She helped you up, supporting you as you hobbled down the staircase and out onto the street.

You get forced into the back of an ambulance, Hotch stood guard at the door. The paramedics started to pepper you with questions.

"Did you hit your head?" She shined a torch in your eyes, checking for signs of a concussion.

"No," You shake your head. "Just the slashes." You confirmed and slid your shirt off of your shoulder.

"Alright, you'll need a couple stitches in each one. We can do it here." She explained, starting to stitch you up. "You'll need to take it easy for a couple of weeks." She said, with a pointed glance towards Hotch.

You sat in the back of the ambulance, legs swinging as they processed Sarah.

"Hey." Spencer said, sitting down next to you. "I heard you got quite roughed up."

"I'm ok." You smiled, head resting on the side of the ambulance.

"Uh, I got you something." He coughed, rummaging around in his pocket and pulled out a red lollipop. "The sugar will be good for keeping your energy up after losing blood. It tricks your brain into thinking you're fine. Endorphins and stuff."

"It tricks your brain into thinking you're fine. Endorphins and stuff." You said at the same time, holding back a laugh at his face. "You said the same to Em when she got grazed two months ago."

"Do you memorise everything I say?" He smirked.

"Well if I didn't how could I be precise? Professor Reid." You batted your eyelashes at him.

"Don't." He warned with a finger waved in your face, clambering up from the back of the ambulance when he saw Emily walking your way. He gave a wave before heading over to the rest of the team.

Unwrapping the treat with a loud crinkle, you called out. "Spencer!"

He turned and raised his brows.

"Thank you!" Popping it into your mouth, as Emily sat down next to you.

"Since when do you call him Spencer?" She asked, eyes darting between you.

"Recent development." You shrugged, trying not to stare.

"We told you, you just needed to fuck it out." She smiled, bumping your good shoulder with hers. "Was it the dress? Cuz I'd so do you in that."

"Shut up." You grumbled, cheeks heating up. Going even more red as you locked eyes with Spencer.

"Babybird and pretty boy sittin in a tree." She whispered in your ear, then doubled over laughing after you jabbed your elbow into her ribs.

----

If Dean Winchester had been smug, or annoying, or made some stupid comment about how lucky you were to be on a date with him, then everything would have been normal. Everything would have been easier.

But instead he had spent the last twenty minutes making sure you didn't trip in your heels, opening doors for you, and acting like this was just something he did every day.

Which was infuriating.

Because it almost made him seem like a decent person.

And you refused to let that happen.

"This place is ridiculous," you muttered as you looked around.

Dean glanced down at you.

"You mean fancy?"

"I mean unnecessary."

The restaurant was exactly the type of place you would expect someone rich and painfully boring to go to. Everything was polished. The lights were dimmed perfectly, the tables were covered with white cloth, and everyone looked like they belonged there.

Meanwhile, you were a hunter wearing a dress that cost more than most of your weapons.

"You're just jealous because you can't pull off the whole classy thing."

You looked at him.

"Dean."

"What?"

"You are wearing a tux with a shirt that looks like you bought it because it was the first thing you saw."

He looked down at himself.

"It looks good."

"It looks like you're about to be kicked out of a wedding."

"Funny, because five minutes ago you were staring."

Your face immediately heated.

"I was not."

"You were."

"I was wondering why you looked different."

"That's a nice way of saying you think I look good."

"I was wondering if there was a way to make you look less annoying."

Dean smiled.

"There it is."

"What?"

"The insult. I was worried you'd gone soft."

You rolled your eyes.

Before you could reply, the hostess approached.

"Good evening. Reservation?"

Dean immediately straightened, that charming smile appearing like he had flicked a switch.

"Winchester."

The hostess checked the list before smiling.

"Right this way, Mr. Winchester."

You followed behind him, trying not to look impressed.

Trying and failing.

Because Dean did this naturally.

The confidence, the easy smile, the way people immediately trusted him.

It was annoying.

Very annoying.

You reached the table and Dean pulled your chair out.

You stared at him.

"What?"

"You know you don't have to keep doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Acting."

For a second, something changed in his expression.

Then it was gone.

"Sweetheart, we are literally here because we have to act."

Right.

The mission.

The ghost.

You remembered.

"Fine."

You sat down, and Dean took the seat beside you instead of across from you.

You looked at him.

"What are you doing?"

"Making it believable."

You glanced around.

Every couple in the restaurant was sitting close together. Hands intertwined. Leaning into each other. Whispering things that probably weren't even interesting but sounded romantic because they were said quietly.

You sighed.

"Right."

Dean looked at you.

"You okay?"

The question caught you off guard.

You hated that.

"I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Dean."

"Okay, okay."

The waiter arrived, and the two of you immediately switched into your roles.

It was strange.

Almost too easy.

Dean smiled at you like you were someone he actually liked.

You smiled back like you didn't want to stab him.

Which, honestly, was impressive.

"I'll have the steak," Dean said.

The waiter looked at you.

"And for you, miss?"

Before you could answer, Dean looked at you.

"What are you having, sweetheart?"

You almost kicked him.

Almost.

Because he said it perfectly.

Not exaggerated.

Not teasing.

Just natural.

You forced a smile.

"The salmon."

The waiter walked away.

The second he was gone, you turned to Dean.

"You enjoyed that."

"A little."

"You are the worst."

"You didn't hate it."

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it.

Because unfortunately...

You didn't have a response.

Dean noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His stupid grin appeared.

"Wow."

"Don't."

"You were speechless."

"I was deciding how violent I wanted to be."

"Sure."

You looked away, pretending to focus on the room.

That was when you felt his hand settle on your thigh.

Your entire body froze.

Not because it was inappropriate.

Because it wasn't.

His hand was resting there because of the dress. Because of the act. Because anyone watching would assume he was being affectionate.

You knew that.

He knew that.

So why did your heart suddenly decide to forget?

"Relax," Dean whispered.

You looked at him.

"I am relaxed."

"You're sitting like you're about to fight someone."

"I am sitting normally."

"Your knife is literally visible."

You looked down.

The edge of the knife strapped to your thigh had shifted slightly.

You quickly fixed it.

Dean laughed quietly.

"You brought a knife to a fancy restaurant."

"You brought a gun."

"Fair."

A small smile escaped you before you could stop it.

Dean noticed.

And for once...

He didn't say anything.

He just smiled back.

And somehow that was worse.

Because pretending to like Dean Winchester was supposed to be difficult.

It was supposed to feel fake.

But sitting there beside him, dressed up, his hand resting against you, his voice softer than usual...

You were starting to wonder if the difficult part was going to be remembering that it was only pretend.

Which was a stupid thought.

A very stupid thought.

Because this was Dean Winchester.

You knew Dean Winchester.

You knew the arrogance, the teasing, the ridiculous amount of confidence he had for someone who regularly got thrown through walls by monsters. You knew the way he would smirk whenever he thought he had won an argument, which was annoyingly often considering half the time he was completely wrong.

You knew exactly who Dean Winchester was.

So why, sitting here, with his hand resting against your thigh and his attention focused entirely on you, did it suddenly feel like you were meeting a completely different person?

"You're doing that thing again."

You blinked.

"What thing?"

Dean raised an eyebrow.

"The staring thing."

You immediately looked away.

"I was not staring."

"Sure."

"I wasn't."

"Okay."

You looked back at him.

He was smiling.

Not his usual smug, irritating grin.

A genuine one.

Which somehow made it worse.

"You are unbelievable."

"That's not what you were thinking two seconds ago."

Your eyes narrowed.

"And what exactly was I thinking?"

Dean leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice.

"That I'm incredibly handsome and you're lucky you get to pretend to date me."

You stared at him.

Then you laughed.

Not because he was right.

He wasn't.

Obviously.

But because it was so completely Dean that you couldn't help it.

"Your ego is actually impressive."

"What? I'm just saying."

"No, you're just being you."

"Which is?"

"Annoying."

"Yet you're still sitting here."

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it.

Because unfortunately, he had a point.

You were still sitting here.

And even more unfortunately...

You weren't completely miserable.

The waiter returned with your drinks, saving you from having to answer.

You thanked him before taking a sip, giving yourself something to focus on other than the fact that Dean Winchester was currently looking at you like he was trying to figure something out.

"What?" You asked.

"What?"

"You're staring now."

He looked almost offended.

"I am not."

"You are."

"I was thinking."

"That's dangerous."

He laughed quietly.

"Very funny."

You smiled slightly.

There it was again.

That stupid ease.

That stupid comfort.

You hated it.

Because you and Dean weren't supposed to be comfortable.

You were supposed to argue. You were supposed to insult each other. You were supposed to annoy Sam so much that he threatened to leave you both behind.

Not sit in a fancy restaurant, dressed up, pretending to be a couple so convincingly that you were starting to forget you were pretending.

Your food arrived shortly after, and for a while the conversation became easier.

You talked about nothing important.

Which was strange.

Normally when you and Dean talked, it was either arguing over a case or trying to convince the other person that their plan was stupid.

But now?

Now you were discussing the ridiculous prices on the menu.

"$60 for a salad," Dean said, looking at the menu in disbelief.

You glanced over.

"Maybe it's a really good salad."

"It's lettuce."

"Expensive lettuce."

"That's not a thing."

"It clearly is."

Dean shook his head, laughing under his breath.

"You know, for someone who hates fancy places, you're defending expensive lettuce pretty passionately."

"I am defending the concept."

"Of expensive lettuce?"

"Yes."

"You're weird."

"You literally kill monsters for a living."

"Fair."

You both smiled.

And for a moment...

You forgot.

You forgot about the ghost.

You forgot about the act.

You forgot that this was supposed to be temporary.

Then the lights flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Your smile disappeared instantly.

So did Dean's.

The change was almost impossible to miss.

One second he was sitting beside you, relaxed, teasing you about salad.

The next, he was Dean Winchester.

Hunter.

The man who had noticed the shift before anyone else.

His hand tightened slightly against your thigh.

Not enough that anyone else would notice.

But enough that you did.

"Here we go," he muttered.

You glanced around the room.

The temperature had dropped.

The candles on the tables flickered despite there being no breeze.

And then, from somewhere across the restaurant, you heard a woman gasp.

You looked towards the sound.

A couple sitting near the centre of the room were staring at each other.

The woman's face was terrified.

The man's hands were around his girlfriend's.

Too tightly.

"Dean."

"I see it."

You reached for the knife hidden beneath your dress.

Dean noticed.

"Subtle."

"You brought a gun."

"Again, fair."

Despite everything, you almost smiled.

Almost.

Because this was the part you knew.

This was the part that made sense.

Hunting.

Fighting.

Knowing exactly what you were doing.

Not sitting in some fancy restaurant pretending Dean Winchester was someone you could actually like.

Then Dean leaned closer, his arm still around you, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

"Stay close."

You looked at him.

"Was that an order?"

"No."

His eyes flicked to yours.

"That was me asking."

And somehow...

That was far more dangerous than the ghost.

Dean's eyes never left the couple.

Neither did yours.

The woman looked confused now more than frightened, squeezing her boyfriend's hands like she was trying to ground herself.

The man wasn't moving.

Not blinking.

Just...

Staring.

"Possession?" you whispered.

Dean's jaw tightened.

"No."

"What then?"

"I don't know."

Which wasn't something Dean admitted often.

The lights flickered again.

This time every candle in the restaurant went out at once.

The room erupted into confused murmurs.

Someone laughed nervously.

A waiter apologised, insisting it was just a power fluctuation.

But you knew better.

The air had that feeling.

Heavy.

Wrong.

Like the room itself was holding its breath.

Dean's thumb brushed absent-mindedly against your leg.

Whether it was meant to reassure you or himself, you couldn't tell.

"Eyes up," he murmured.

The couple stood.

Too suddenly.

The man's chair scraped violently against the floor.

Every conversation around the restaurant faltered.

He turned slowly towards his girlfriend.

She smiled uncertainly.

"Honey?"

Nothing.

He just...

Looked at her.

Then every wine glass on the table exploded.

The scream echoed through the restaurant.

People shot to their feet.

Chairs toppled.

Someone shouted for everyone to get out.

The man grabbed his girlfriend by both wrists.

Hard.

Too hard.

She cried out.

Dean was moving before you'd even stood.

"Dean—"

"Stay with me."

Not stay here.

Stay with me.

There was a difference.

You were beside him almost instantly, slipping your knife from beneath your dress as discreetly as you could.

Several people gasped.

One woman looked horrified.

You gave her an apologetic smile.

"Long story."

Dean almost laughed.

Almost.

The possessed—if he even was possessed—man suddenly threw his girlfriend backwards with enough force to send her crashing into another table.

People screamed.

Dean lunged first, grabbing the man's shoulders.

"Easy!"

The man's head snapped towards Dean.

His eyes...

Your stomach dropped.

Completely white.

No pupils.

No iris.

Just white.

"Dean!"

Too late.

The man shoved him backwards like he weighed nothing.

Dean slammed into a table, taking half the centrepiece with him.

Of course he did.

You didn't even have time to ask if he was alright before the ghost turned towards you.

It smiled.

Not the man.

Whatever was inside him.

Cold.

Cruel.

Like it recognised you.

"Oh, that's creepy," you muttered.

The ghost tilted its head.

Then, in a voice that definitely didn't belong to the man standing in front of you, it spoke.

"You are pretending."

Your grip tightened around the knife.

"What?"

The smile widened.

"You are pretending."

Your heart sank.

The room suddenly felt a lot colder.

Demons manipulated.

Monsters hunted.

And spirits? Spirits had an irritating habit of knowing things they shouldn't.

Dean had recovered beside you now, one hand rubbing the back of his neck.

"I've had worse dates," he muttered.

You shot him a look.

"Seriously?"

"What?"

"We're being attacked."

"I cope with humour."

"You cope by being insufferable."

"It works."

You hated that it did.

The ghost laughed.

A horrible, scraping sound that echoed through the room.

Then it looked directly between the two of you again.

"So much pretending."

Dean's expression changed.

That easy smile disappeared.

His shoulders squared.

"You picked the wrong couple."

The ghost smiled wider.

"No."

It looked straight at you.

"I picked the right one."

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you breathed.

The restaurant had emptied almost completely now, people forcing themselves through the doors in blind panic, waiters shouting for everyone to leave.

Only broken glasses and overturned chairs remained between you and whatever was standing inside the poor man.

Dean subtly shifted in front of you.

Instinct.

Always instinct.

The ghost noticed.

"You protect her."

Dean's jaw clenched.

"Occupational hazard."

"Liar."

The word echoed around the restaurant.

Not loud.

Not shouted.

Just...

Certain.

Dean frowned.

"What?"

"You protect her because you love her."

"No."

"Liar."

Silence.

Your stomach twisted.

Dean actually laughed.

Short.

Humourless.

"I don't know what kind of ghost you are, but you've got us confused with someone else."

Again.

"Liar."

The chandeliers above your heads began to sway.

Not violently.

Just enough to make every crystal clink together.

You exchanged a glance.

"You hearing this?" you whispered.

"Oh, unfortunately."

The ghost tilted its head.

"You lie."

"We're hunters," Dean answered. "Lying's kind of in the job description."

The ghost smiled wider.

"You lie about monsters."

Its eyes found yours.

"You lie about yourselves."

Dean's phone buzzed in his jacket.

Neither of you looked.

The ghost's attention hadn't left either of you for a second.

Buzz.

Again.

Dean slowly reached into his pocket.

One quick glance.

His expression didn't change.

But you knew him well enough to catch it.

Sam.

Dean turned the screen towards you for the briefest second.

FOUND THE BONES. TEN MINUTES. KEEP IT TALKING.

Your heart sank.

Ten minutes.

That was forever.

Dean slipped the phone away.

"Well," he sighed dramatically.

"You wanted entertainment."

The ghost waited.

Dean spread his hands.

"What do you want to know?"

Its smile stretched impossibly wide.

"The truth."

Dean scoffed.

"You'll have to be more specific."

"When did you first love her?"

Your breath caught.

Dean actually froze.

For just a second.

Long enough that you noticed.

Long enough that the ghost noticed too.

"There."

It smiled.

"The silence."

Dean rubbed the back of his neck.

"I don't love—"

"Liar."

The lights shattered.

Every remaining bulb burst at once.

Glass rained onto the floor.

Neither of you flinched.

"You don't get to do that every time we disagree," Dean muttered.

"Liar."

Dean sighed.

"You are unbelievably annoying."

"Liar."

"I hate ghosts."

Nothing.

Dean blinked.

"...Okay, so apparently that one was true."

Despite everything...

A tiny laugh escaped you.

Dean looked over.

"There she is."

You rolled your eyes.

"Don't get distracted."

"I'm trying."

The ghost interrupted.

"When."

Dean looked back.

"I don't know."

"Liar."

"I genuinely don't."

"Liar."

Another picture frame crashed from the wall.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You've got to be kidding me."

The ghost simply waited.

You knew that look.

Patient.

Certain.

Like it already knew the answer.

It just wanted Dean to say it.

Dean looked anywhere except at you.

The ceiling.

The floor.

The broken wine glasses.

Finally...

He sighed.

"I don't know exactly when."

The ghost remained silent.

Dean frowned.

"So we're making progress."

"It began before you realised."

Dean laughed quietly.

"Yeah."

A pause.

"It probably did."

He glanced at you.

Only briefly.

"I think..."

He stopped himself.

"Liar."

Dean groaned.

"Oh come on."

"You know."

Dean shut his eyes.

"I think..."

His voice had lost its teasing edge now.

"It was probably Bobby's."

You frowned.

"Bobby's?"

Dean nodded once.

"The first hunt we worked together."

"You hated me."

"I did."

"You called me insufferable."

"You were."

"You stole my pie."

"You weren't eating it."

"I was saving it."

"It had been in the fridge for four days."

"It was still my pie."

Dean smiled despite himself.

"It was."

The ghost remained silent.

Waiting.

Dean looked down at his hands.

"You got thrown through a window."

"I remember."

"You dislocated your shoulder."

"I remember that too."

"You still wouldn't leave."

You shrugged.

"We hadn't killed the vampire."

"No."

Dean smiled faintly.

"You kept trying to reload your gun one-handed."

"You wouldn't help."

"You told me you didn't need it."

"I didn't."

"You absolutely did."

"I managed."

"You were bleeding."

"So were you."

Dean nodded.

"I know."

Silence settled again.

Then he laughed to himself.

"So I picked you up."

Your eyebrows lifted.

"You threw me over your shoulder."

"You weighed, like, nothing."

"I hit you."

"You did."

"I kept telling you to put me down."

"You kept threatening to stab me."

"I had a knife."

"You did."

Another small smile.

"I remember thinking..."

He stopped.

The ghost watched.

You watched.

Dean swallowed.

"I remember thinking..."

His eyes met yours.

"...that anyone stubborn enough to keep fighting like that..."

He laughed quietly.

"...was either the dumbest hunter I'd ever met..."

A pause.

"...or the bravest."

The restaurant fell silent.

Even the ghost didn't move.

Dean looked away again.

"And somewhere after that..."

He shrugged.

"I just..."

Another pause.

"It stopped being annoying that you were around."

You stared at him.

Dean refused to look back.

"You'd call Bobby before me."

"I—"

"You'd patch Sam up before yourself."

He smiled to himself.

"You remembered I hated mushrooms."

You blinked.

"I made burgers."

"You picked them out."

"...You noticed?"

"I notice everything."

Another silence.

"So yeah."

He breathed out.

"I don't know when."

"I don't know how."

"But somewhere between threatening to shoot each other..."

He smiled.

"...and arguing over the last slice of pie..."

"...I fell in love with you."

Silence.

Complete silence.

The ghost smiled.

Not cruelly this time.

Almost...

Peacefully.

It stepped backwards.

Its white eyes closed.

And at that exact moment Dean's phone buzzed.

BURNING THEM NOW.

The man's body jerked violently.

Once.

Twice.

Then he collapsed.

The ghost screamed.

Not in anger.

In grief.

The sound echoed through the empty restaurant before dissolving into nothing.

The temperature returned to normal.

The candles flickered back to life.

Everything...

Stopped.

No more shaking.

No more whispers.

Just an eerie, deafening calm.

Dean and you stood exactly where you were.

Neither of you speaking.

Because somehow...

The ghost had been easier to deal with than the truth.

Neither of you moved.

Dean was still standing exactly where he had been when the ghost disappeared.

Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his trousers.

Eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

As though if he looked at you...

He'd somehow take it all back.

The silence stretched.

Long enough that you became painfully aware of every tiny sound around you.

The soft crackle of the candles.

The distant wail of sirens.

Someone outside shouting that an ambulance was on its way.

Dean cleared his throat.

"I..."

He stopped.

Tried again.

"I should-"

The restaurant doors slammed open.

"Dean!"

Sam hurried inside, shotgun still in one hand, the smell of smoke clinging to his jacket.

His eyes immediately landed on the unconscious man on the floor.

Then on the shattered restaurant.

Then finally...

On the two of you.

Neither moving.

Neither speaking.

"...You got it?" Dean asked, his voice sounding almost normal.

Almost.

Sam nodded slowly.

"Bones are ash."

Another pause.

"You guys okay?"

"Yeah."

"Fine."

The two of you answered at exactly the same time.

Sam blinked.

His eyes flicked between you.

Dean refused to look anywhere except the floor.

You suddenly found a broken wine glass incredibly interesting.

"...Right," Sam said slowly.

He didn't sound convinced.

Not even a little bit.

Instead he crouched beside the unconscious man, checking his pulse.

"He's alive."

Dean nodded once.

"Good."

Another silence.

Sam looked over his shoulder.

"So..."

Nothing.

Neither of you answered.

Sam frowned.

"...Did I interrupt something?"

"No."

"No."

Again.

At exactly the same time.

Sam's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.

"You two are being weird."

"We're not."

Dean answered far too quickly.

"We're fine."

"Uh-huh."

Sam stood, brushing glass from his knees.

"You know..."

He looked between you again.

"...normally by now you'd have called each other at least three different insults."

Neither of you said anything.

Sam sighed.

"Okay."

He clapped his hands together once.

"I'm gonna pretend whatever happened in here stays in here."

Dean looked relieved.

"Smart."

"But."

Sam pointed between the two of you.

"If one of you ends up murdering the other tonight..."

He looked directly at Dean.

"...I'm sleeping in the middle."

Despite yourself, a laugh escaped.

Small.

Quiet.

But enough.

Dean smiled without thinking.

Then immediately seemed to remember himself and looked away again.

Sam caught it.

Of course he caught it.

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

But he was also tired.

And if there was one thing Sam Winchester knew...

It was that Dean only talked when Dean was ready.

So instead he simply jerked his head towards the door.

"Come on."

"The police are gonna have questions, and we don't wanna be around to answer them."

★・・・・・・★

a/n: here is part 2, im high on painkillers and have a dream lol, i moved to a new country litrally the otherisde of the world and im still alnone in my room writing fan fics lols, welp this is my life (and i really enjoy it #i'mback #letsbemutuals). ALSOOO read part 3 pls xx

❤️‍🔥 ⌯⌲ smut

Bucky Barnes

𝑆𝐸𝑅𝐼𝐸𝑆

𝐸𝑉𝐸𝑅𝑌 𝐵𝑅𝐸𝐴𝑇𝐻 𝑌𝑂𝑈 𝑇𝐴𝐾𝐸 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 15.9𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠, ongoing

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑒 9.5𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑡𝑤𝑜 6.4𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

જ⁀➴ When Bucky's close friend is found murdered, he resolves to stop at nothing until he catches the killer. This, unfortunately, means protecting you; his friend's old mentee and the next target for the attacks. You are abrasive, reckless and vexing - but Bucky can't help but find himself slipping into obsession as lines blur between duty and desire. ❤️‍🔥

𝑂𝑁𝐸 𝑆𝐻𝑂𝑇𝑆

𝐶𝑅𝑌𝐵𝐴𝐵𝑌 જ⁀➴ It doesn't matter that you're obsessed with your brother's best friend - the one you have had a very complicated relationship with since childhood. It doesn't matter that you fantasise about him, nor does it matter that you keep a diary of all your dirty thoughts because he will never, ever know. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 11.1𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

𝐶𝑅𝑈𝑆𝐻𝐸𝐷! જ⁀➴ Bucky does not trust you. And don't ask him whether it's just a shoddy attempt to grapple with a crush - because it's most certainly not. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 13𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

𝑇𝑂𝑈𝐺𝐻 𝑃𝐼𝐿𝐿 જ⁀➴ You think Bucky may have an intense, innate hatred for you - something he is powerless to fight. You couldn't be more wrong. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 8.8𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠

𝑀𝑂𝑀𝐸𝑁𝑇'𝑆 𝑆𝐼𝐿𝐸𝑁𝐶𝐸 જ⁀➴ Bucky Barnes wants you in the most unholy ways. He abandons his Catholicism for a devotion more sacred. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 9.4𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

𝐹𝐴𝑇𝐻𝐸𝑅 𝐹𝐼𝐺𝑈𝑅𝐸 જ⁀➴ You make Bucky regret ever suggesting that your arrangement is 'just sex' by flirting with other men. He makes you regret ever flirting with other men by giving you a bit of well-earned discipline. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 7𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

𝑆𝑈𝐵𝑈𝑅𝐵𝐴𝑁 𝐿𝐸𝐺𝐸𝑁𝐷𝑆 જ⁀➴ You're harbouring more than just a crush on your best friend - you're completely in love with him. It's too bad that Bucky is too busy entertaining other girls to see you as anything more than a friend. When you make the difficult decision that it's time to move on, does it push him to see what he never has before? ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 12.1𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠

𝐵𝐿𝑈𝑆𝐻 જ⁀➴ After you confided in Bucky about your past, he began to ice you out - shooting you dirty looks instead of his usual smiles... especially when he sees you blushing for Steve. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 12.2𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

Clark Kent

𝑂𝑁𝐸 𝑆𝐻𝑂𝑇𝑆

𝐺𝑅𝑂𝑊𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝑃𝐴𝐼𝑁𝑆 જ⁀➴ You had spent a large proportion of your life in love with Clark Kent. He had spent a large proportion of his life avoiding you, honouring the boundary that Jimmy had always set. When you can no longer deny the draw you have to each other, it's Clark's insistence on keeping your relationship a secret that threatens to break you apart. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 12.7𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

Steve Rogers

𝑂𝑁𝐸 𝑆𝐻𝑂𝑇𝑆

𝐷𝑂𝐺 𝐻𝑂𝑈𝑆𝐸 જ⁀➴ Everyone knows that yourself and Steve should never have been put on the same team; you fight like dogs and spark like live-wires. But maybe not all of that tension is hate. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 12.7𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

Dean Winchester

𝑂𝑁𝐸 𝑆𝐻𝑂𝑇𝑆

𝐴𝐿𝐿 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑁𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇𝑆 (𝐴𝑁𝐷 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐷𝐴𝑌𝑆 𝑇𝑂𝑂) જ⁀➴ You got the wrong end of the stick with Dean. He clearly wants sex from you and nothing more. (Except that's not actually true, is it?) ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 11.8𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

𝑀𝐴𝑌𝐵𝐸 𝑆𝑂𝑀𝐸𝑂𝑁𝐸 જ⁀➴ Dean will never feel anything for you but friendship, and you have long accepted that. So what's getting him all worked up about you receiving a bit too much attention from one of your witnesses? ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 8.7𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

𝐺𝑂𝐿𝐷 𝑅𝑈𝑆𝐻 જ⁀➴ You know Dean and you know he's not exactly boyfriend material. But maybe he could be good for you, if you'd only give him a chance. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 8.1𝑘 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 ❤️‍🔥

Jealousy really is a bitch, isn't it? 

You chew on that thought over and over again as you bite your nails and try to calm down your nerves. It would not be reasonable to make a scene right now. Even if you feel like a pot under pressure about to explode. 

You search your mind for the reason behind your jealousy and replay the moment again.

You and Sam are buying groceries for Bobby while Dean is off with Castiel doing whatever they can to stop the apocalypse. It has been a couple of rough months since Sam accidentally freed Lucifer from his cage, and you don´t have many moments to breathe and relax for a bit. So, you decide to go shopping with him, and that´s how you find yourself being towered by Sam´s arm as he grabs a box of cereal from the top shelf.

“Can you please take your armpit from my face?” you ask with a laugh.

Sam’s lips twist into a grin. “How the hell am I supposed to grab the cereal then?” 

You roll your eyes, a smile on your lips. “Fine, Sam. I am going to grab the milk so I don't bother you and your activities on the top shelf.” 

He chuckles at your comment as you walk towards the fridge. You open it and let the cold air hit your hand as you grab a carton of milk and take it out. As you are closing the door, you hear something dropping to the floor in the aisle behind you. 

“Shit. Sorry,"  Sam murmurs quickly, clearly embarrassed.

“It's fine… Sam?”

Your eyebrows raise at the familiar voice, and you slowly turn around, trying to see what's going on without them noticing you watching.

“Sarah? Long time no see!” He reaches for her and hugs her with a big smile. Your eye slightly twitches.

Sarah… Fucking Sarah. 

You and the Winchesters met her when you were working that haunted painting gig a few years back. It felt like an eternity ago… So much has happened since. Well, for starters, you weren't dating Sam back then, and you didn't really know him that well, either.

Sam had taken a liking to her, his first crush after sweet Jessica, and they had ended up kissing… Or so Dean keeps telling you almost every month. The little shit knows it gets a rise out of you to comment about Sam’s previous crushes and hook-ups, so he keeps doing it. 

Well, maybe he has a point in messing with you… Why are you jealous of things Sam did before you were dating? It doesn't make any sense, and it isn't reasonable, but still… It does bother you a bit. 

You bring your focus back to the present and see that Sarah has her hand on Sam’s forearm, smiling wide at him like she's in fucking heat or something. 

You decide that you had enough, so you walk towards them, just in time to hear her asking, “So, what have you been up to, Sam?” 

“This guy?” You put your hand around his waist and smile really big at her. “Lots of things. Sammy is a busy guy, right, babe?” 

Sarah's touch on his forearm drops as she looks at you. Sam’s body tenses a bit in surprise as you barge in. 

“Hey!” he says to you, “Look who I ran into!” 

“I am Sarah-” 

“The art gallery girl, right?” you cut her off with a cold voice. In your peripheral vision, you see Sam narrow his eyes at you. 

“Right.” She forces out an awkward laugh before clearing her throat. “So, you two are dating?” 

“We sure are.” Your grip on his body tightens a bit, and you actually see Sam hide a small smile. 

“Yeah, we started dating a few months ago," Sam explains, his arm around your waist. You begin feeling his finger brush your skin gently.

“Oh, congratulations. I did not see that coming, but I hope you are happy together.” Sarah's enthusiastic voice is suddenly as dead as a corpse.

“Believe me, we are," you say, still with a fake smile. You look up at Sam and put your other hand on his chest. “Sammy here is an expert at making me happy and satisfied, right?”

Sam’s eyes widen at the obvious innuendo, and you smile wider. “What? Oh, yeah, a real expert.” 

You look back at her and see how she's suddenly a bit uncomfortable. “Right… I have to finish shopping, but it was nice to see you both again.” 

“Yeah, nice to see you too, Sarah," Sam says quickly. 

She gives you a fake smile and walks past you two. There's a moment of silence, and you suddenly feel very ashamed.

Sam doesn't say anything, but you can see a smirk on his lips as he pays for the groceries and helps you carry them to the Impala.

And that's how you find yourself chewing on your thumb while he drives to Bobby's house. 

The awkward silence between you two is deafening. In fact, you think you are going mad because of it. There are a million things you want to say to Sam, but for some reason, all you want is to yell at him, and maybe kiss him, and maybe-

You are going insane, aren't you? 

Why are you so bothered about this? Was it because Sam hugged her? Was it because they kissed in the past? Was it because she has such a beautiful face and lips you would die for? 

You sigh mentally and chew harder, drawing blood from your cuticles. 

“Shit," you murmur, sucking the blood.

Sam looks over to you. He calls your name, and you glance at him. “Yeah?” 

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. Just bit off a bit of skin," you explain, completely dodging his true question.

He says your name again with that tone of “You are full of shit” and you blush a bit. 

“What?” you ask defensively.

“Can we please talk about what happened in the grocery store?” 

“There's nothing to talk about.” 

“Babe… You know I hate it when you do this.” 

You roll your eyes and clench your jaw. “And I hate it when you hug strangers," you murmur, almost inaudible, but he picks it up.

“So you are jealous!” he says victoriously with a stupid smile. 

“So what? It's stupid, I know," you answer, looking out the window.

“I think it's kind of cute, to be honest.” He glances at you. “Hey, come on, look at me. Let's talk about this.” 

“There's nothing to talk about. I am being stupid. Forget about it.” 

You gasp as Sam slows down the Impala suddenly and turns it to the side of the road. He parks in the middle of nowhere and turns off the car. 

“Sam…” your voice is warning.

“No. You are clearly upset, so let's talk about it.” He reaches for your hands, and you finally look at him. 

“Fucks sake… Fine! Yes, I am jealous and a bit upset, Sam! Happy?” 

“Why are you jealous?”

You sigh and play with his fingers nervously. “I know you and her had a thing in the past and…I don't know; she seemed really happy to see you again, ya know? And then you hugged her, and she kept touching your forearm and doing those “fuck me” eyes, and I… I kind of lost it.” 

Sam listens to you attentively as you continue. “She's just so pretty, and Dean keeps telling me how you two tongue kissed or whatever, and yeah I remember because I was there, but we weren't a thing back then and-” 

“Hey, hey, hey…” Sam cuts your rambling off. “It's okay. I get it.” 

“You do?” you ask with doubt.

“I mean yeah… I am pretty irresistible.” He gives you a shit-eating grin.

You give him a flat stare, and he laughs a bit before shaking his head. “Baby, I understand that you are jealous given what happened between me and her, but she's nothing to me. She means absolutely nothing to me.” 

You chew on your inner cheek softly. “But she's pretty, isn't she? I would die for her lips.” 

“Are you kidding me? Your lips are perfect. You are so beautiful.” He cups your face. “My pretty girl.” 

You blush a bit and lean into his hold. Your jealousy is slowly fading away. “I acted like an idiot, didn't I?” 

“I mean, it was pretty hot… Knowing you cared for me that much. I wouldn't take you for the jealous type, though.” 

“Yeah, me neither…” You chuckle, “I can't believe I made a sexual innuendo in front of her. Oh, God.” 

“Yeah… But I do make you happy and satisfied, don't I?” he asks you with a teasing voice.

You lean towards him and wrap your arms behind his neck. “Always, Sammy.” 

You press your lips together with hunger. Sam immediately matches your energy by putting his hands on your back and pulling you in.

After a few more minutes of kissing, you pull away breathlessly. “I can't believe she got to kiss you like that…Those lips are mine alone.” 

Sam smirks mischievously. “Yeah? What else is yours?” 

You bite your bottom lip and run your hands slowly down his chest. “These muscles… All mine…” Your fingers find his thighs. “These? All mine to touch and ride…” 

“Jesus Christ…” Sam murmurs with a groan as you rub his thighs, purposely ignoring his growing erection.

“Oh and this?” You put one hand on his crotch and the other on his neck, pulling him closer to you. “All mine to fuck and taste, Sam.” 

“You are so fucking hot…” he whispers with a shake of his head. “Don't you ever compare yourself to any other girl again. It's simply no match.” 

“Yeah? Show me how much you mean that, Sam.” You tease him, and his eyes grow dark.

“You shouldn't say those things…”

“Why? Afraid of not being able to deliver?” 

You know how he gets when you provoke him like this, so it's no surprise when he grabs your waist and puts you on top of his lap in a quick movement. You laugh at his eagerness, but he shuts you up pretty quickly when he starts kissing your neck. 

“Hum…” you say appreciatively as you give him more access and run your fingers through his hair. 

Sam continues kissing and licking your skin, just above your pulse point, and you feel his erection poke your thigh.

“Someone's excited," you whisper and rub your crotch against his. 

He grunts into your neck, and you feel his hand travel to your hair. Sam pulls it behind gently, making your eyes look up, and a small smirk appears on your lips.

“What has gotten into you, baby?” he asks with a bit of humor. You can feel his breath ghost over your thyroid.

“Can you blame me?” You lock eyes with him. “You are so damn appealing.” 

Sam chuckles softly, shaking his head with a grin. He puts his hands on your blouse, and you mentally thank yourself for wearing a buttoned-up blouse today. 

“You know what I think?” he whispers, undoing the buttons one by one, “I think you liked showing her that I am yours…” 

“Lies…I am a saint," you tease him as he finishes unbuttoning your blouse. 

Sam pulls the fabric from your shoulders, leaving you just in your bra. It's nothing fancy, but Sam seems to like it as he stares at it and grabs the straps.

“A saint wouldn't have been jealous of her, baby… But I gotta admit,” Sam pulls the straps down your shoulders, “Seeing you fight for what's yours made me very…Very horny.” 

Sam cups your breasts, and you feel one of his hands unclasp the lingerie. You are finally free from the bra as your breasts spill down. 

“Yeah? What are you gonna do about it?” you ask innocently. 

Sam hums softly. “Well... I am gonna tease you until you are begging me to let you cum, and only when I think you have had enough, I will let you… If I am feeling generous.” 

A shiver runs through you, and you whine, feeling your arousal soak your panties. 

“I need you so badly, Sam…” you whisper as Sam plays with your nipples.

“I know, baby… I can see that.” Sam smirks cockily, and you blush. Despite being a sweetheart, Sam can get pretty confident during sex. 

“Look at these tits… So perfect for me.” Sam squeezes them, and you moan loudly. 

“Sam…It hurts… Down there," you whisper with a whine. 

He looks down at your crotch and smiles. Before you can complain again, one of his hands travels to your pants while the other stays on your boobs. 

Sam manages to unbutton your pants and sneak one hand inside your underwear. The second his fingers find your soaked pussy you gasp. 

“Oh fuck," you say, feeling him spread your folds. 

“Is this all for me?” Sam asks, coating his fingers with your arousal.

“Always, baby. Always for you.” 

He locks eyes with you and watches as he presses one finger inside of you. You lift your hips to help him and sink on it. 

Your mouth drops open and your eyes flutter shut. “Fuck.” 

Sam doesn't answer, but you feel his thumb reach for your clit and start rubbing it in small circles. You gasp in pleasure and tighten around his finger. 

“More, Sammy… Please," you beg as he slowly moves his fingers.

“Tell me how good I am making you feel first.” The wicked smirk on his lips is enough to make you whine again.

“So fucking good, baby. I just love it when you fill me up like this and touch me. Please, Sam… I need more.”

He apparently likes your answer because you feel another finger enter you. You moan softly and start moving your hips. 

“Look at you…Riding my fingers like that. So desperate.” 

You move your hips faster, making his finger hit your G-spot. “I am so close, Sam.”

The car is filled with the wet noises from your pussy, breaking the quiet of the road. Your breathing matches your heartbeat, and you can feel a pressure about to explode in your lower belly. 

You press your forehead against Sam’s, feeling how warm he is. “It feels so good.” 

Sam kisses you, making you whine into his mouth as his fingers arch inside of you. Your body is covered in sweat, and Sam hasn't even taken off his clothes, but you don't care. All you want is to cum.

“I… Baby, I am gonna cum," you warn him, and the speed on his thumb quickens. 

Just as you are about to tip over the edge, Sam stops altogether. Your body feels like it just got drowned in cold water.

“What? No.” You snap your eyes open and try to move your hips, but he grabs your body with one hand, forcing you to stay in place.

“No… Ssshhh…Look at me," he asks you with a soft voice. You do and he smiles. “I told you I was gonna make you beg for it, baby.” 

“But why? I need to cum right now. Please.” 

But it's useless; Sam is already removing his fingers from inside of you. He pulls them out, and you shiver, feeling how wet you truly are.

He brings the fingers to his mouth and tastes you. You look in awe at him, your cheeks flushed and your chest heaving. Sam takes off his fingers and puts them on your lips. 

“I can't believe you compared your lips to Sarah's…” He traces his digits on your lips and you part them, letting him put them inside of your mouth, “Your lips are perfect; you hear me?” 

You slowly nod and swirl your tongue on his fingers, sucking them in the process. Sam chuckles at your eagerness. “I need you to take off the rest of your clothes and get on the backseat. Okay, pretty?” 

He takes his fingers out. “Yes, Sam.” 

He gives you a long kiss before pulling away. “Good. I will be right there with you.” 

You open the car door and he slaps your ass playfully as you get out, making you laugh. 

You do as he asked, and soon you are lying in the backseat, praying to God you don't stain the seats. Ah fuck it, this car has more DNA than a crime scene at this point.

You hear the door open again, and you smile as Sam looks down at you. He's already shirtless and his pants are unbuckled.

“Hey, pretty boy.” You wink at him, and Sam smirks.

He crawls on top of you. “Hey.” You feel his hands grab your waist and pull you under him. “Where were we?” 

“I think you were gonna make me beg for it?” you say. 

“Oh… Right…” Sam grins, and you grab his face, brushing his hair back. 

He kisses you quickly and then rubs himself down on you. You moan and spread your legs, giving him more access. Sam's erection is obvious against your core, and you moan at the contact.

“You want it?” he asks, rubbing himself again on you. 

“So much… Please.” 

You watch as Sam’s hand goes to his boxers and pulls himself out. Your breath catches in your throat as you see how flushed and glistening with pre-cum his shaft is. 

“Fuck…” you whisper as you look at it.

“Best you ever seen?”

You look back at him, and he presses his head on your folds. “Yes…the biggest, Sam.” 

“Good.”

He teases you with his cock for a few more minutes until you are shivering and aching with every touch. Only when he thinks you have had enough, he presses his head on your entrance.

You close your eyes and feel him push in. The feeling is intoxicating, and you sigh in relief, a lopsided smirk on your lips. 

Sam groans at the feeling. “Shit… You are so soaked.” 

“Can you blame me? You are pretty irresistible.” 

Despite everything, he smiles at you, finding humor in your callback. “Smartass…” You grin at his comment and then gasp as he completely enters you. 

You still can´t get used to the feeling of him filling you up like this. Even after months of having sex with Sam, it still feels as overwhelming as when you two did it, and you wouldn´t have it any other way. 

“You are smiling…” he whispers. 

“I am happy," you answer, and he frowns with a smile before thrusting inside of you, “And horny… Fuck, Sam.”

Sam thrusts again, his hands by the sides of your head. You wrap your legs around his waist and lock them. “You feel so good, baby.”, Sam tells you, breathless, and you let out a moan. 

He swallows it with a kiss and sets a slow pace so you can feel every inch of him inside of you. For some reason, you thought he would go fast, but he seems to be taking his time with you. Maybe this is his way of saying that he´s yours and nobody else's. 

Sam leans towards your ear and puts your lobe in his mouth. You throw back your head in pleasure and grab his head, pulling it towards you. Sam grunts against your ear; the sound is beautiful and raw, and you meet his thrusts with your body. 

“I love you so much, baby," he whispers, “Don´t you ever think I would leave you for anybody else… I would go to Hell for you. I would risk everything for you.”

You pull his hair back and slam your lips together. After you have had enough, you pull back and catch your breath. “Promise?”

Sam quickens his pace at your question, and you see his hands going to your waist. “I promise.”

You look through heavy eyelids as he raises his torso and lifts your ass so you are suspended in the air, only your shoulders and head on the seat. The new angle gives you an amazing view of his sweaty, perfect body and makes his cock hit your G-spot. 

Sam puts his hand on your belly and smiles. “Give me your hand.” You do, and he puts it there. “Can you feel that? That´s how deep I am inside of you.”

You can actually feel his shaft, and your eyes widen. This man is going to be your death. “Sam… I am so close… Baby, please.”

“You wanna cum all over my cock?” he asks between breaths. 

You nod and bite your lip as he grabs your breasts and fondles them. You are pretty sure you feel a trail of wetness fall down your ass, and you are one hundred percent sure Dean is gonna kill you both, but you don´t care. 

“Yes, Sam. Yes. Please let me cum. I have been good," you defend yourself with a weak voice. 

Sam hums in appreciation, and then starts circling your clit making you tighten around him. You moan louder than before, your body almost levitating as your orgasm threatens to spill over you.

“Please…Please… I can´t hold it any longer. Sam, please,"  you beg, and a tear falls down your cheek. 

Sam grabs your waist with one hand while the other plays with your clit. “Okay… It´s okay, beautiful, you can cum. Show me.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you… Oh… I am cumming!” you say with a loud moan as your legs begin shaking and your orgasm explodes. 

You start convulsing around his cock, feeling how big he is, and close your eyes. The pleasure is so immense that you are afraid your heart might give out at some point. Luckily for you, it doesn´t, and you come crashing down from your high. 

Sam slowly stops rubbing your clit, and then puts his whole hand over your pussy while he slows his movements. You breathe in blessed air and whine as Sam pulls out of you. 

“Look at me, baby," he says and you force your eyes open. 

He´s holding his cock over your stomach, the head leaking pre-cum. “You want me to cum all over you?”

“Please, Sam… Make me yours.”

He curses under his breath and starts stroking himself fast. He was so close to the edge that it doesn´t take long before stripes of semen paint your stomach and boobs. You watch in awe as he moans your name and twists his face with pleasure. 

“Shit…” he says with ragged breaths, slowing down his hand and squeezing out the last bit of cum. 

You put your fingers on it and bring them to your lips, tasting the salty flavor. Sam watches that with amazement and a perplexed smile.

“What? You taste good.” You shrug.

“I love you so much… Come here.” He reaches for you and turns you around so you are lying on his chest. 

You look down and see the car seats shining with all sorts of fluids. “Dean is going to murder us.”

“Yeah…  It was worth it, though.”

You chuckle, and he wraps his arms around you. “You are going to get cum all over you, Sam.”

“So? I want you close," he justifies and you shake your head in disbelief. Sam kisses the top of your head. 

“Sorry for getting jealous… I just love you so much, and I was scared you didn´t feel that way about me…” You swallow dryly. “Scared I wasn´t enough.”

He calls your name, and you look up at him. “Don´t say things like that again. You are more than enough, baby; you are everything.”

You smile fondly and put your head against his chest again. “Now you are just being cheesy…”

It went against every fiber of your being to be parted from him. But the last hunt had left him with a mild ankle injury. Even though Dean had grumbled that he was perfectly fine, the fact remained that he couldn’t exactly run if the need arose. He couldn’t even withstand enough pressure on the ankle to drive. 

You wonder if he’s pacing the matchbox small motel room, waiting desperately by his phone for the call that confirmed the job was done, that both you and Sam were headed back. This town had been having a string of deaths, all the victims, young and healthy individuals, spiking unnaturally high fevers that seemed to cook them from the inside out. All occurring in isolated locations without another soul around for miles. After canvassing the area and interviewing the necessary people, Sam connected the deaths to a witch’s spirit, divvying out curses from beyond the grave. Seemed like a simple salt and burn situation.  

“Give me a hand?” Sam grits out, struggling to shift the heavy stone cover off the coffin settled in the center of the crypt. 

One moment you’re struggling to shift the cold stone slab beside him. It moves an inch, and  then, it feels like a white hot iron poker strikes you in the spine, causing you to cry out as you collapse to your knees. 

You’re vaguely aware of Sam calling your name, kneeling beside you in the dirt and grim on the crypt floor. He feels distant, though you know he’s right beside you. That blistering heat is spreading from your spine, worming its way across your entire body. You squeeze your eyes tightly shut against the throbbing in your head. You can feel the pulsation of your blood, the thrumming heightened to a deafening roar in your ears. 

Sam grabs your shoulders in his massive hands, forcing you out of your crouched position. The sensation of his hands on you makes you cry out again, despite your panting, as you register his startled expression through hazy vision. 

He repeats your name, voice thick with concern and confusion. “What is it? What’s going on?” His light eyes search your flushed, trembling form. 

You wrap your arms around your abdomen, dry mouth gaping. “H-hot-” You gasp, feeling sweat prickle along your hairline and along your back. You can’t make sense of what’s happening to you, what you’re feeling. All you know is it hurts.

There’s heat in your face, but it's worse in your belly and lower. The pulsating sensation settles at the apex of your thighs, and as you do your best to swallow a high whine crawling its way out of the back of your throat, you recognize the feeling. You’re impossibly wet, your adductor muscles quivering from your efforts to clamp your thighs together. Your clit is beating painfully in time with your heart, aching so bad you momentarily forget yourself and reach for it before Sam jolts you again in his panic. 

He lays a hand on your forehead and immediately curses. “You’re burning up.” His eyes go wide when you slap his hand away because somehow, having him touch you causes the heat to surge into something worse. 

Sam says something else you can’t hear over the rushing in your ears, and then disappears from your sight. You fall to your side, the flush of your skin briefly cooled on the cold stone floor. As you writhe, tears slip from your eyes. You’re seriously considering ripping your clothes off when you roll over to see Sam forcing the lid of the coffin the rest of the way off. 

The massive muscles in his arms are pulled taut with the effort, his tanned skin sparkling in the darkness from a layer of sweat. His impossibly broad chest is heaving, and you realize your mouth is filling with saliva at the sight of all his brawn. 

This realization chills you. Sam, who you have never looked at as anything more than your boyfriend’s baby brother, is now intensifying the dizzying desire unfurling in your gut. You want him. You know its the curse, figure this must be the fever that the townspeople had succumbed to, but the knowledge doesn’t help you. The fibers of your being are begging for his closeness. You’re losing your clear headedness, losing the ability to be disgusted at yourself for lusting after the wrong brother. The ardor expands inside of you until there is no room for shame. 

It takes Sam less than a minute to thoroughly salt the bones before he ignites them. Having built a healthy blaze, he returns to your side. The smell of him, musky sweat, gasoline and smoke, sends you into overdrive, as you scramble away from him, fighting the intense urge to grab fistfuls of his damp shirt. 

This is it. You’re going to die. This fever is going to consume you. 

“You’re not going to die-” Sam declares, and you realize you must have been talking aloud. “Hey-you’re not going to die.” His voice is firm, deep, reaching the marrow of your bones, but there’s an underlying edge of panic. 

You throw your head back, willing yourself not to say what you’re thinking. “I need-need-”

What you need is for him to grab you. To press his body against yours, to still your trembling under the weight of his herculean figure. You need him to handle you roughly, to fill you with everything, anything. The images of it your mind creates make the desire worse. You imagine ripping first your own clothes away, then his, to be skin against skin, to be sticky against the sweat of his chest. 

Guilt is definitely present in your mind. It’s just not as loud as it should be. 

You try to conjure Dean’s face, to have him star in the chaotic fantasies plaguing your mind instead, and it works for a moment, before Sam’s grabbing you by the shoulders again, and you whine so loudly that Sam looks as if you’ve slapped him. 

“Dean- I need Dean!” You practically scream. 

You lose control of yourself, finally wedging a hand between your thighs over your jeans. Just the slightest pressure there has your eyes rolling back in your skull. The relief is so intense you can’t even care that Sam can see you. 

“...Something’s wrong…feverish and…Of course, I burned the bones but she’s still..” You hear bits and pieces of Sam quickly catching Dean up to speed before he holds the phone up to your ear, hesitating to touch you. 

Dean’s voice is gruff on the other line. He says your name in a measured voice, probably already gaining insight into your condition by your panting into the phone. “You’re gonna be alright, babygirl.” He says. “S’all gonna be okay. Need you to tell me what you’re feelin’.” 

“On fire.” You whisper through a whimper. “I need to-I need you.” But you know he’s a good day's drive away. And you won’t make it that long. 

He seems to understand what’s happening to you. Must have discovered something more about the nature of the deaths because then he tells you, “It’s a curse. You’re gonna have to do it without me, babygirl. Y’know how. Close your eyes and I’ll keep talkin’ to you, and it’ll be like I’m right there.” His voice is tight but you can’t spare a moment to worry about him when your entire body is vibrating, prickling all over with little shocks of electricity. 

You don’t even care that Sam is there, paying him no mind as he turns away. You try to focus on Dean’s voice on the phone as he orders you to put your hand into your panties. The anticipation of your own touch has you gasping as you fight with the button on your jeans, and then you need both hands to paw at your zipper, Sam’s phone clattering to the ground beside you. 

He didn’t tell you to, but you tear your jeans from your legs as fast as you can, moving with clumsy, desperate movements. Your heart beat is still in your ears as you use two fingers to probe your swollen cunt. You cry out at your own touch, hips twitching, as you slide through the mess between your legs. You’ve never been this wet. It’s made your underwear practically translucent, your arousal smearing all over your inner thighs. 

You’re so lost in the rush of euphoria you get from touching yourself you nearly block out the buzzing from the phone, realizing Dean has been trying to get your attention. Without stopping your aggressive movements, you put the phone back to your ear, gritting your teeth against the moan that wants to burst free. 

Dean hears you whimpering. “There you are, sweetheart. Better?” 

“Some, Dean, a little.” You blurt in a rush, closing your eyes, trying to conjure the image of him in your mind. It’s working, his voice helping you erase all thoughts of Sam. Instead, you think of Dean’s perfect face, the planes of his bare chest, the corded muscles of his shoulder. The pretty smirk he wears when he teases you, pinching your nipples, thumb circling your clit. More than anything, you picture his dick, increasing the speed of your fingers until you’re sure he can hear you playing with yourself through the phone. Certainly Sam, who is barely fifteen feet away, can hear the sloppy sounds of your wetness. 

Dean spews off at the mouth, the huskiness of his voice grating against your brain in the best way. “Think of me fucking you, baby, real rough the way I know you like. Fuck, wish I could feel you now. Can just tell you’re fucking soaked.”

You moan appreciatively. 

“S’good, baby.” Dean praises gently. “Keep going. As much as you need.” 

“I need to cum. I need it so bad.” You whine, ditching the phone again, putting it on speaker, to go at yourself with two hands. Your hole flutters as you shove two fingers inside yourself, the stretch easing the blinding ache minimally, your other hand scrubbing furiously at your clit. It’s true, you’re sure you will die if you don’t come. 

“I know, baby.” He muses. “Must be gettin’ close, huh?” You hear him swallow, and it helps you to imagine the bulge in his pants, how turned on he must be from listening to your desperation. “You gonna be good and cum for me?” 

You want to. You want to so badly, but no matter how hard you fuck yourself, you can’t seem to get your orgasm to build. Frustration is the only thing building up, and fully aware of how pathetic you sound but too far gone to care, you begin to babble into the phone, your voice echoing throughout the crypt. 

“I fucking can’t, Dean- I can’t. I’m gonna die if I don’t cum and I can’t fucking do it-” 

You’re devastated that you can’t make yourself come. Rubbing yourself just as frantically, your eyes open a fraction and zone in on Sam, standing as far away as he can. You chew at your lips, mesmerized by the width of his shoulders, the planes of his back that lead to his tiny waist, the sheer fucking size of him, and you bet his cock has to be huge, too. 

“I need you to touch me.” You cry out, only Dean thinks you’re crying out for him when in reality, your pleas are for his little brother. 

“Baby, I can’t-” Dean’s voice is strained. 

“I need more, this isn’t working.” You’re crying in earnest now, the taste of sweat exploding on your tongue. “I swear, I’m gonna die without it, Dean, please. Please, please. Make it stop. I need you to touch me, and I need it now or I’m gonna die.” 

There’s only the sound of your ragged breathing and the slick sounds of you fingering yourself before Dean says grimly, “Put Sam on the phone.” 

You more or less throw the phone at Sam. You feel like a rabid dog, abandoning your hopes of getting yourself off to tear at your top. You wrangle it over your head but the cool air reaching your sweaty back doesn’t make you feel better. 

“Dean, no-” Sam’s voice goes through you, straight to the core. You know you only want him because he’s here in the flesh, but still, you can’t fight it. “No, man…just no!....Are you seriously fucking asking me to-” 

Whatever frenzy you were in earlier is beginning to fade, but the pain, the heat, and the lust stays. You feel boneless, and you wonder how long the curse will make you suffer before you truly die. That would be best. Better than doing the despicable. Better than asking too much of Sam, than going too far and altering your friendship with him forever. Better than betraying Dean. 

Sam says your name, and he’s crouching right in front of you. Sluggishly, your eyes open. He’s incredibly tense, and his eyes keep shifting. His shirt is stickling to his chest with sweat, and you’re humiliated that you cannot tear your eyes away from the sizeable bulge at his crotch. He clears his throat, the noise making you jump, before he reaches a massive hand towards your naked arm. 

“No, Sam.” You beg. You don’t want to know what you’ll do if he touches you. “D-Don’t.” 

His lips form a harsh line as his eyes search your face. “Can’t just let you die.” 

“Sam-” Your clit seems to beat harder as you realize what he’s offering. If you were of a clearer mind, you would have protested more, would have at least wondered what Dean could have possibly said to convince himself and his brother that this was the solution. That this could ever be okay. But as far as you’re concerned, there’s no other choice. You need Sam right now more than air.

At the barely perceptible nod of his head, you throw yourself into his arms. His balance barely falters, thick arms encircling your bare waist. The relief you feel at his touch is startling, and you’re moaning freely, your hands exploring the breadth of his shoulders and chest. 

You know you’re crossing a line. You’ve become abhorrent. A sex crazed lunatic, desperate to be split open by your lover’s brother. But you can’t think about the fallout right now, not when the curse is still boiling your blood, when all you can think about is getting him inside of you. You’re worse than despicable because the instant Sam touches you, you can’t even consider Dean or what he must be going through, incapacitated to help, hundreds of miles away alone in a motel room, trapped with the knowledge that his girl has been driven right into the arms of his brother. 

You let your mind turn off. There’ll be time to hate yourself later. 

Sam’s fingers dig into the meat of your ass, holding you tightly against his body as he lifts you. He pushes you up against the wall of the crypt, the stone rough on your back, probably cutting you, but you revel in the sting. Your legs hug his hips, your core nestling right over the tent in his jeans, and you can’t stop yourself from grinding against him, like the bitch in heat you’ve become. You know you shouldn’t, but you press your open mouth against his, moaning shrilly at the taste of his tongue. He hesitates for two seconds, as if he’s deciding whether or not kissing you is allowed, but lucky for you, his lips begin to move, dominating you immediately. With fingers raking through his hair, you wiggle against him, pressing your breasts into his chest, thrilling your sore nipples, until you feel another gush from between your legs. 

For all the fervor you put into kissing Sam, he returns it, until you’re both smeared with saliva. He pulls at the roots of your hair hard enough to spring tears in your eyes, but you love it. Your hands touch the burning skin of his abdomen, greedily helping yourself to all of the flesh under his shirt, until he pulls his mouth off yours to remove it completely. 

You lean back in for another kiss, but Sam stops you with a firm hand on the base of your throat. He takes advantage of the moment to look you over. You keep rolling your hips into his, reveling in the way his jaw clenches, licking his spit shined lips. Shaggy hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. With the way he’s looking at you, unaffected by any curse, you’d think he’d imagined this before. Doesn’t matter. You’ll let him do whatever he wants. 

“Sam,” You rasp, eyelashes fluttering as the hand not around your neck plays with your left nipple, making your eyes roll. “Please, Sammy.” 

He shakes his head slightly. “How could I fucking deny you?” He murmurs, squeezing at your throat deliciously. “When you need it so bad?” 

Nodding desperately, you lick your lips. “Hurts, Sammy.” 

“Yeah, looks like it.” His eyes drop to where you're dragging your puffy cunt over his erection, making a mess on the front of his jeans. “Want me to make you feel better, gorgeous?” 

Gorgeous. Not babygirl. 

You pull on his hair to cope with his touch, which has you reeling. He hooks his thumb under the ruined material of your panties, to stroke against the molten heat of your pussy. A shudder passes through his colossal frame, as if he can’t believe how soaked you are. 

He raises his fingers, shiny with your slick, to his mouth. You moan obscenely at the sight of his eyes rolling back at the taste of you.

You can't help but buck and thrash in his arms as he circles your clit, touching you with firm reverence. With a mind of their own, your hands grab for his belt, wanting to feel him heavy in your hand, but he shoves your hands away. 

“Don’t worry, Imma give you what you need.” He promises in the same moment one of his fingers slips inside of you. Given the degree of your wetness, there’s little resistance, and you exclaim in glee as he slides the second digit in. 

“Oh, fuckkk, Sammy-” You cry, your perked nipples rubbing against his pecs. His forehead presses into yours, his hot breath on your face as his mouth gapes, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that has you digging your nails into his shoulders. “That’s so good. You feel so fucking good.” You abandon eye contact to stare at where he is drilling into you with his fingers, marveling at the thickness and strength of his forearm. 

“Shh.” The hand on your neck releases you for an instant before it grabs your jaw, forcing your eyes back to his. “Filthy fucking girl.” 

“Please, Sammy.” You plead. You don’t think you can wait any more. 

He quiets your begging by pressing his mouth back on yours. He’s so rough with you, holding you still with the hand on your jaw, driving you crazy with harsh ruts of his hips into yours. You’re gasping into his mouth, the coarseness of the denim against your barely covered pussy sending you into oblivion. You’re whining or crying, making some noise that normally would have mortified you, but if him just humping against you is bringing stars to your vision, you can’t imagine how good it will feel when he finally fucks you. 

With the fire on the torched bones completely dead now, you struggle to see through the darkness, before you decide to navigate based on feel. You touch him everywhere you can reach, scratch him, claim him. 

“Shh, honey.” 

Honey, now. Not babygirl. 

Still holding your jaw, Sam’s hand is big enough to slip his thumb into your mouth, which you accept blindly. You scrape your teeth along it, before gratefully sucking on it, swallowing all of the saliva that pools in your mouth to the best of your ability, some trickling out of the corners of your mouth to slip down to your chest. Sam’s eyes follow it all, groaning lowly at your depravity. He hesitates, then licks the saliva from the top of your breast to the corner of your jaw. You shiver and moan in delight. 

“Imma make it better, okay? Gonna give you my cock now. S’what you want, right, honey?”

You nod, still sucking on his thumb. You hear the sounds of his belt being removed and all you can think is finally, fucking thank god, give it to me, fucking finally. 

He shucks his jeans just low enough on his hips to free his member, just so you can barely make out a thatch of dark colored hair there, and you can't help but succumb to the urge to touch him. He’s massive in your hand, hard as can be, pulsing with need. You stroke him once, whimpering in response to the guttural moan he releases. The hold on your jaw tightens enough to bruise, but you want it harder. 

You wiggle your hips closer, letting the head of him just brush against the heat of your cunt, and Sam sounds almost wounded at the contact. 

“Holy fuck,” His forehead drops to your shoulder as he cries out your name, almost in a sob. He lets you take what you need, dragging him through your white hot seam, effectively soaking him. 

He’s shaking now, too. 

His tip breaches your entrance and your lips fall slack around his thumb, unable to focus on literally anything than the feeling of being filled. He pushes further into you, deeper, until you can feel the coarse hairs at the base of his cock against your spread thighs. You think you’re whiting out, the intrusion slightly more than you’re used to. 

You’re so close to cumming that it hurts. Sam begins to fuck you in earnest, like its his job, like it’s more than just a means to an end for him, balls slapping against your ass. The word turns, and you’re disoriented until you realize you’re no longer pressed against the wall. Now he has you on the ground, on knee pressed up towards your chest. 

You’re not sure if you’re making any noise or not anymore. But you feel his lips at your ear, his stubble rubbing against your soft cheek. 

“There you go, gorgeous.” He grunts. “Don’t needa do anything but lemme fuck you.” 

“S-so fucking good-” You slur. 

“God,” He groans, using the roots of your hair to turn your face towards his. His hips are slamming into yours, and you swear you can feel his cock all the way in your lungs, bullying your insides violently, just like you need. His eyes search your blissed out face. “How’m I only gonna have you this once.” His voice drops even lower as he says this, but you barely register his words. 

You feel yourself uncontrollably fluttering around the width of his cock. The pleasure is white hot inside you, feeling so overwhelming and bigger than anything you’ve ever felt before. You’re almost afraid of what is going to happen when the pressure bursts. You’re not convinced you’ll survive it. 

“Come on, baby,” Sam grunts before giving you a sloppy kiss. “Know you’re dyin’ to cum on my cock. Let it go, gorgeous, fuck, you feel unbelievable.” 

You keen, raising a hand to cup his sandpaper cheek. “I’m gonna cum, Sam. I’m gonna cum-”

He shushes you again, seemingly urged on by your impending orgasm to drive into you even harder. He’s drenched in sweat now, his nostrils flaring as you clench around him. 

“Cum, honey.” He urges, releasing your hair to stroke at your swollen clit. “Cum with me. Fuck, honey, can feel you choking me. Cum on my cock.” He punctuates his words with particularly hard thrusts that have you screaming, or maybe you're silent gaping, you can’t hear anything over the blood rushing through your ears. 

He barely touches your clit before you spasm. Your orgasm erupts inside you, exploding with such an intensity that has you tightening around Sam’s cock, and then he’s cursing and nearly whimpering, cumming deeply inside of you, grabbing at your flesh desperately. Your eyes roll back, body taut for what feels like minutes, and you’re ascending, before the feeling subsides, leaving you shaking and sated. 

As you come back into yourself, you realize Sam has collapsed on top of you as he struggles to catch his breath. His weight is unfamiliar. And you feel…normal. Hazy in your post orgasm bliss, but the uncontrollable lustful fever appears to be gone. You feel elated for half a second before you realize the reality of what you have just done. 

Fucked your boyfriend’s brother.  

Your naked body tenses, and you realize he’s still inside you. 

Your heart begins to hammer in your chest, not from the curse, now from horror. Shame fills you. Embarrassment, too. Oh god. What have you done? 

“S-Sam?” You whisper, touching his biceps lightly. 

He seems to register your wire tight posture and rolls off you, wincing as his cock slips out of you. You feel a wave of nausea hit you as you feel the warmth of his cum sliding out of your pussy. Hands shaking, you pull your ruined underwear off, using them to clean yourself of his spend, before you’re putting your clothes back on in a panicked blur. Your mind is screaming for Dean the entire time. 

Oh god. Maybe you should have let yourself die. 

Sam says your name cautiously, but you can’t look at him. You can’t acknowledge what you’ve just done together. Even if you really had no choice. He says your name louder, and you nearly jump out of your skin when he claps a hand onto your shoulder, turning you to face him. 

He sees the guilt in your expression and must know the curse is gone. His expression resembles a kicked puppy when you flinch at his touch. 

As if reading the thoughts racing through your mind, he says carefully, as if you’re a spooked deer, “...You had no choice…The fever would have killed you if you hadn’t…if we didn’t…” 

You shake your head. How are you going to sit next to Sam for the ride back after doing that? How are you ever going to look him in the eye ever again? 

How are you ever going to face Dean again? Will you still be his babygirl? 

Sam says your name again, very gently. “You would have died.” 

You think of Dean, who already puts your safety solely on his own shoulders, who no doubt will blame himself for not protecting you in the first place. Who indisputably will never be able to look at you and Sam the same way again, without imagining what you two had done. What he wasn’t there to provide. 

You begin to cry. You can’t face him. Either of them. 

Sam seems to take your tears personally, his expression breaking. “He asked me to, honey.” 

He freezes at the petname, but all it does is prove that even if it was the curse that caused this, things will never be the same. It’s too late. 

You and Sam finish the job There’s about 500 miles to cross before you have to face Dean. You feel Sam look at you from time to time during the drive, but you pretend not to notice. 

the behavioural analysis unit are not easy to fool, but you did it, somehow.

for the last six months, you've been living as a fugitive. a wanted woman whom the FBI refuses to give up on until you are behind bars. you're an outlaw, a villain, a murderer. and you are the last person that spencer reid wants anything to do with.

but you want everything to do with him, and so you have drafted a proposal which he cannot refuse: a chance to put you away for good. and who doesn't love a good old game of cat and mouse?

⊱⋅.⋆♱ meet unsub!reader here !

⤷ ゛notes ! ˎˊ˗

composed of a series of oneshots; vignettes from various stages of spencer's relationship with unsub!reader ranging from their first meeting to their final (?) goodbye.

the timeline begins in december of 2009, placing it somewhere mid-season 5 after the events of episode 100. this is jesus reid propaganda. however, the bulk of these posts will be set in mid-late 2010 into early 2011, so around the middle of season six.

𑣲 = fluff | ♰ = smut | ⛓ = angst | ݁ᛪ༙ = hurt/comfort

i won't miss you | ♰ spencer receives a note in the mail inviting him to a valentine's day rendezvous at an outrageously expensive hotel. he is decidedly not going; he wants nothing to do with you and your games, not today. and yet, somehow, he finds himself standing at the door of your hotel suite anyway.

...and more to come !

It had felt like travelling between seasons rather than states, flying from frosty New York to some military base in the asshole of Arizona. Bucky wasn’t thrilled that you were going to be joining him for the mission, but it was nice to get a break from the cold. And from Walker.

“Remind me why she’s here,” Bucky grumbles to Yelena, gaze fixed on you where you stand scribbling nonsense on a whiteboard across lab. You’re wearing a lab coat which is pretty pretentious considering there are currently no chemicals in the room.

Yelena rolls her eyes like she always does when Bucky dares to say anything remotely negative about you. She and everyone else would much rather he blindly kiss your ass on the daily, just like they do.

“Wah wah, always bitching,” she drawls, accent thickening in her annoyance. “You want to go on mission without quartermaster? Fine. Do that alone. I do not want to get blown up in big fireball with no protection.”

Bucky grunts something about how she’s being dramatic, before he can realise that it’s a mistake.

“Dramatic? You are throwing tantrum like child over quartermaster coming with us on mission, but Bob coming with us for holiday is no problem.”

Bob seems to catch only his name. He looks up from the contraption he had been examining as if coming out of a daze. He waves hesitantly and grins when Yelena waves back, returning to whatever it was he was looking at.

Bucky can’t think of any way to dispute Yelena’s claims, so he just huffs and sits back in his chair. He’s doing nothing to help his case, he realises a little dumbly. 

You are still scribbling on the board, scrawling little graphs and symbols that he doesn’t recognise or understand. Bob pauses for a beat before bringing his contraption over to you, which Bucky can now see is a penknife with various latches and buttons on it. You stop what you’re doing with an infuriatingly pleasant look on your face, so damn pleased to show him what it is and how to use it. Bucky clenches his teeth.

He feels he’s made his feelings pretty clear to you; the way all traces of good humour are wiped from his face the second you walk in the room, the way he mutters under his breath whenever you speak. You shoot him a smile every time you see him, even despite this - as if none of it bothers you in the slightest, as if you’re happy to indulge him. He wonders if that’s your way of trying to make him feel guilty. It makes him distrust you all the more.

“I know what your problem is,” Yelena says eventually. He only now notices how eagerly her eyes are trained on him and he rips his gaze away from you with urgency. 

“And what’s that?”

“You are sexually frustrated. And taking it out on poor quartermaster because she is pretty girl.”

Bucky almost chokes on his spit while he attempts a scoff and he is forced to gasp air back into his lungs; loud and humiliatingly obvious. Yelena smiles coolly to herself, as if his reaction has proven some point.

“I am not… frustrated, not that it’s any of your damn business,” Bucky snaps. “And I’m definitely not- Taking anything out on her, or whatever you said.”

“You need to get laid. Then there will be much relief and you will be happy again and less…” She makes a vague gesture at his frowning face. “Like this.”

He lets out a sarcastic scoff of laughter, but it sounds strangled and uncomfortable even to his own ears. “You’ve lost your damn mind,” he says. 

Yelena just hums absently. It is abundantly clear that the conversation is over.

You’re scrawling again. Bucky wonders if you even notice he’s there with how focused you are on the clear board in front of you. Your neat, boxy handwriting litters the board in black marker; chemical symbols, graphs and clustered charts appearing at every corner, seemingly at random. 

Bucky identifies two figures with blank faces drawn to the right of the board with various lines and notes sprawling from them. One is a large, burly frame with a metal arm as its only defining feature and the other is a shorter, robust female figure. You are designing suits for himself and Yelena. There is another, smaller stick figure scribbled beside them that Bucky can only assume is supposed to be Bob. It puts him in a bad mood to think of him here with you, joking around.

“What’re these for?” Bucky grunts and you jump, your hand jerking up to ruin your little ‘Ti’ symbol. He almost rolls his eyes at your terrible sense of awareness. You should be more careful.

“Hi Bucky,” you chirp, ever-polite. He just blinks back. “I’m coming up with something fireproof for you guys.”

“Why?” Bucky doesn’t mean to be blunt. He just wishes you could get to the point a bit faster.

“I’m not really supposed to say. But you should find out in the next few days, I think- when is that meeting again?” Your expression is apologetic and sheepish. Bucky might actually have thought you were being genuine if that weird, nagging feeling in his gut wasn’t pestering him again as he takes in your smile.

“I’m going to be leading the mission,” he grumbles.

“I know.”

“It’s my mission.”

“Sorry, Bucky.”

He knows that this is just how it works. You need to know the details of the mission earlier than he does so you can prepare the materials, come up with the designs. Letting the agents know the details of the mission too soon can cause confusion if there are any changes. It’s a good process; it works. But he’s rearing for a fight today.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he says, watching your lips purse slightly. You’re finally getting irritated. Good.

“Maybe you should take it up with Mel.” You smile at him briefly, more strained than before, and go back to your scribbles, effectively dismissing him. He just about hits the roof. He stands for a moment longer, trying to find some way to win back control of the conversation, but nothing is coming to him.

“Actually, while you’re here-” you say, hand reaching out to grab his metal arm. You yank it up until it’s outstretched. “I left my diagram of your arm back in New York. You don’t mind if I take some notes while I have you, do you?”

It’s phrased like a question, but you’re already running your finger up his forearm, brows furrowed as you prod at the sheets of metal there. You are seemingly looking for something specific but he doesn’t care to find out what it is. 

It’s just sensory feedback from the arm - he knows you’re not really touching him, skin-on-skin, but it makes him uncomfortable regardless. His stomach tightens at the heat in your touch, breath stuttering a bit.

“Knock yourself out,” he says, sarcasm bleeding through his tone. 

Bucky watches you twist his arm around, feels your fingertips pad along his arms and fingers, clearly logging things in your head. You quietly hum every now and again, as if confirming something to yourself. He doesn’t like to admit that you look… cute, up close like this. You really are pretty - that’s one thing Yelena did get right. He likes towering over you like this, likes seeing your eyes flicker upwards at him like a little doe.

It doesn’t change how he feels about you, nor does it make the rest of Yelena’s hypothesis correct. In fact, Yelena couldn’t know just how wrong she was. Bucky hadn’t felt interest in anyone in that way since he’d escaped HYDRA’s clutches. 

There were many ways in which Bucky’s life had changed after falling from that train in Austria. His whole life and personality had changed so distinctly that he saw his life only in terms of before the fall and after. Before the fall, he had a fierce sense of optimism - after it, he was left a bored, old cynic. Before the fall, he had exhibited a naive carelessness for his own wellbeing - allowed himself to be flocked like a sheep into any situation that was exciting. Now, he is more careful. He doesn’t regret any of the decisions and sacrifices he made back then, being aware that they were ultimately necessary for the greater good. But the speed at which he made those decisions - the knowledge of all the things he hadn’t even considered - sometimes eats away at him.

Sex is just another one of those before and afters. He had it - a lot of it - before falling from that train. He has not had any since.

It isn’t that he’s a prude or that he can’t get it up, or any other reasons that one might imagine. He just isn’t interested anymore.

Maybe his wires were all crossed wrong in the cryostasis chamber, or maybe new priorities had taken precedence. Bucky isn’t sure. All he knows is that he has not felt the impulse to be with anyone in that way for years. He takes care of himself when he wakes up with a hard on he can no longer ignore, but it’s clinical. Functional, even. He experiences the relief without any of the rush. So no, he’s not sexually frustrated. Whatever the opposite of sexual frustration is - that’s what Bucky is experiencing.

You’re pulling away when he sees your eyes stop on his other bicep, the muscle bulging through a t-shirt he has outgrown. You look back and forth between his metal arm and his flesh one. Bucky likes how it feels when your eyes catch there; he’s not sure why, but he does.

“Have you gotten bigger?”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, though he knows he has. You frown and suddenly he doesn’t like the feeling of your eyes on him very much anymore.

“I don’t have your new measurements. Did you get it taken by Sheila before we left?”

“No.”

Bucky can tell you’re suppressing a sigh when you purse your lips again, skin of your mouth stretching tight. “You’re going to have to get your measurements taken. This suit is mostly metal. If it doesn’t fit right, it’s going to hurt.”

Bucky scowls at you, hot irritation spiking through him at your bossiness. And this usually works to intimidate people, but you just watch him right back, not even flinching.

Your gaze eventually flickers over to where his figure is mapped out on the clear board in front of him. There are about a dozen materials labelled onto the suit; he only recognises the vibranium symbol tagged onto the shoulder pads. With an absent expression, you pick up your marker once again and draw a large speech bubble over his blank face. Inside, you scrawl ‘Ouch. Too small.’

It is so incredibly stupid that Bucky can only continue to glare at you in astounded irritation. You glance back at him once and add a basic frowny face to the figure’s previously blank face.

Bucky speaks, only to stop you from adding any further features. “How’m I supposed to get measured? Thought Sheila would be shipping the stuff in from New York.”

“I’ll do it,” you say casually, popping the cap back on your marker. Something inside of Bucky balks at that idea, chest seizing up.

“You’re not a tailor. Or an armourer,” he says, with a tad too much uncertainty for his liking.

“Yes, I know that,” you retort, and this time you don’t even attempt to suppress your sigh. “But I have a PhD in Engineering Physics. How different can it be? You’re just like a big, fleshy machine.”

You don’t wait for him to respond, just walk over to a cabinet and begin rooting through it. Bucky is left standing in the middle of the room, cold dread spilling over his head while a strange heat pools in his gut.

You find what you’re looking for eventually; a tape measure and a notepad. You examine him closely, looking him up and down.

“I think I just need to do your biceps, chest and thighs. The rest should have enough give to be ok.” 

Bucky nods curtly and watches you fumble around clumsily with the measuring tape. For the first time in this interaction, he sees hesitation creep over your features - like you’re finally feeling as unsure as Bucky always feels around you. But you pack it away and pull his flesh arm outwards, wrapping the tape measure around the large swell of skin there. Bucky tenses instinctively, muscles bulging against your fingertips, but one look from you makes him relax his arm.

You start scribbling - why are you always scribbling? - his measurements onto the sheet in front of you while Bucky tries not to feel your warmth. His stomach is tense and tight.

“Relax,” you breathe and Bucky tries. He really does. But then your hands are spreading across his chest, brushing past his nipples over his t-shirt in a way that makes his skin jump. And that nagging feeling is coming back but stronger, the one that makes him regard you with a little bit more caution. Something is off.

The feeling only grows when you drop down to your knees in front of him, damned doe eyes flicking up at him, regarding him carefully. You’re looking back and forth from his slacks to his face and Bucky wonders for one dreadful second whether you’re about to ask him to remove his pants. You seem to decide against it, rolling the fabric at the bottom of his leg between your fingers to test the thickness.

You slowly roll the tape around his right thigh and Bucky wonders if it’s really necessary for your hands to be splayed that close to his crotch. He can feel every inch of your skin on his, even through the slacks, and the heat in his stomach expands uncomfortably. He has to look away, think about some pointless story Bob told him to try to distract himself - to somehow make it better. But your touch keeps dragging him back to the feeling. He can do nothing other than watch. It’s no better when you move to the other leg, hands running up and down his thigh to find the largest part to measure - his breath feels like it’s stuck somewhere in his lungs.

He’s vaguely aware of how bad this would look if anyone were to walk by the glass wall between the lab and the hall. You must be aware of it too, though it’s hard to read you - that’s part of the reason he distrusts you so much. However, he can tell that you appear to be equally as ill at ease as Bucky is. You have no dumb jokes or little quips when you’re sitting pretty on your knees for him-

Shit.

He’s turned on.

He’s completely, utterly, stupidly turned on.

Bucky jerks his leg out of your grasp with an urgency before you can notice his rapidly rising cock, if you hadn’t already. He almost knocks you over in the process, but he doesn’t bother apologising, just turns his back to you. 

“I don’t have a metal leg. They’re both the same fuckin’ size, doll,” he grumbles, doing his best to think of anything at all to help his situation. He tries to picture the least sexy thing he can - that one time Alexei tried on his old suit for the team - but you keep flashing back, imprinting yourself behind his eyes.

“Actually, there is a…” You stand up and scribble a final figure to your notes. “0.85 centimetre difference in girth.”

Bucky wonders whether it was really necessary for you to use the term ‘girth’. His mind goes to foul places as you back away towards your whiteboard.

He’s almost convinced that you did this on purpose. He hasn’t popped a boner in a public setting like this in decades and he feels like a goddamn hormonal tween again. But it’s a fucking reflex. He’s got a girl touching him up like that for the first time in god only knows how long and his body hasn’t completely forgotten how it’s supposed to respond to that. You’re not exactly ugly, either.

He needs to go somewhere to deal with this. In a clinical, functional way. Same as always.

The orgasm Bucky gives himself is anything but clinical and functional. 

When he begins jerking himself, he expects to be solely focused on the sensation the way he usually is. He instead finds himself thinking of you - the feeling of your fingertips brushing across his chest, your gaze catching on his biceps, the image of you on your knees in front of him.

He shoots his cum against the shower wall in less than a minute. Watches it swirl down the drain with a dull sense of shame.

He’s just grateful Yelena didn’t happen to be present when you took his measurements in the lab. She would have used it as ammunition until the end of time.

For the first time, he admits to himself that her theory might have some credit to it. He must be sexually frustrated - it’s the only way you could have gotten to him the way you did. But it doesn’t change anything, because it won’t be happening again.

Bucky still doesn’t trust you. Trusts you even less now, if possible. 

And his instincts are pretty fucking exceptional so he knows there has to be some reason for it, even if he can’t immediately identify it. You might have the rest of the team deceived, but not him. 

He knew it the first time he looked at you. He took one look into your eyes and knew right off the bat; something’s not right. Now that desire has entered the equation, potent and unbidden, he’s even more convinced.

Rather than feeling any semblance of relief after coming with his hand on his dick and his mind on you, it puts Bucky in a bad mood. He carries that bad mood around with him for the rest of the week, until Bob is giving him skeptical sideways glances and Yelena is complaining about the fact that he is ‘grumpy like dog with chopped balls’.

When he sees you, it gets worse. Much worse.

There is a sort of dreadful anxiety now, along with the usual pit in his stomach. He feels like you’re somehow aware of the thoughts he has been having about you and he’s now starting to interpret those stupid casual smiles you shoot him as mocking. The only way he can think to react to this is by biting. 

He can admit that maybe he’s taken it a bit too far. He makes a show of glaring at you now, just to prove he’s not affected by you. Where previously he would grumble under his breath at your points in meetings, he has now started to scoff aloud so the rest of the room can hear. He almost feels bad when you look over at him, surprised but non-confrontational. As if he’s some ill-behaved child who doesn’t know any better.

Yelena, on the other hand, is most definitely confrontational about the whole thing. She scoffs right back whenever Bucky speaks just to prove that he’s being a dick and targets him after the meeting, demanding explanations and apologies that he will never give. Even Bob has become more distant, giving him wary eyes and wandering over to you immediately whenever you’re present. The way you smile at him, soft and sweet, makes Bucky want to throttle him.

So, yes - he can admit that maybe the whole thing has gotten away from him just a little bit. He’s aware he’s being childish, but there’s something about that nagging feeling in his stomach that tells him he’s not wrong. That there most certainly is just something strange about you. 

It’s all he can think of in the meeting he had waited a whole week for. Mel is briefing a room of about thirty people on the details of the mission and it seems dangerous. It seems complicated. It seems like something Bucky should be damn well paying attention to.

But you’re sitting beside him, twirling a pen around through your fingers. Every so often, you scribble something in your notebook - a mangy, dog-eared thing, bulging with pages and sheets and post-it notes. You keep it close to your chest so Bucky can’t see, even though he cranes his neck to try. You’re not even really trying to be subtle about it either, the way you twist it out of his eye-line. 

He’s trying to focus more on what you’re writing than how you look writing it. Because your brows are slightly scrunched together in concentration and you’re biting your lip and it looks soft - looks soft enough for Bucky to want to bite it himself-

He’s running off course.

He just needs to see what you’re writing.

“Weren’t you pestering me for these details last week?” you whisper, and Bucky doesn’t immediately register that you’re speaking to him because your eyes are still trained on Mel. But then your eyes flicker over to him - he had almost forgotten that he isn’t behind a one-sided mirror, that you can see him too - and all he can do is nod dumbly.

“So maybe you might want to listen? Rather than looking over this way?”

It’s not a bad point. He had bitched at you for not telling him these exact details just before you took his measurements. And now that he’s receiving them, he’s not paying attention. He knows how this must look - but he doesn’t particularly care in this moment.

“What are you writing?” he asks, instead of answering you.

You shoot him an unimpressed frown, lips pressing into a thin line. “I’m taking notes. Obviously.”

It looks like you’re getting fed up with his bad attitude towards you. You would have had much more patience for this sort of behaviour before last week. It’s almost a relief to Bucky - he is so sick of you brushing off all his suspicions and purposefully bad conduct towards you as if it’s insignificant. This is what he wanted from you.

“Can I see them?” he asks, knowing what your reaction will be.

“What are you, twelve? Are we in school right now? Come on, Barnes, you can take your own notes. Mine won’t be any help to you.”

He had known you would reject his request, but actually having it happen stokes a fire in him. The guys in the top two or three floors of the building of his brain - the ones that would usually concern themselves with things like the mission details and whether or not a third coffee would give him the jitters - have suddenly gone off to Martha’s Vineyard on vacation. They won’t be back for a while. The guys in the basement are unfortunately still reeling about how warm your body feels next to his, how pretty your eyes look in this light, how your body would look under his own. Bucky doesn’t want anything to do with those guys - nasty perverts.

Every other part of his brain, however, has focused its attention on how to get into the stupid little notebook. He’s aware it’s probably not likely that the key to understanding why he doesn’t trust you is held within it. It’s not like you would carry that around a military base with you in writing, easily accessible to spies and scientists. But it might give him a glimpse into how you think. He might just end up understanding you just a little better and that could help him work out what it is about you that is off.

You look back at Bucky which makes him realise he had been staring for quite a long time. He coughs and moves his gaze, but when he looks back (because he can’t quite help it), you’re smiling. The guys in the basement groan in ecstasy. Bucky tells them to quit jacking off and get back to work. He needs that notebook.

You head where you always do at the end of the day. To the lab.

Bob follows you just to talk and ask questions. It makes Bucky roll his eyes, but at least you’re distracted. You don’t seem to notice that he’s following quietly. He uses the other bodies as shields until they eventually patter off in different directions. He still follows, until you reach the lab and Bob says he will see you in the canteen for dinner.

What, you two are eating dinner together now? Like… like some sort of married couple? 

The thought makes Bucky want to retch, but he shoves it away quickly. Maybe once he’s done figuring you out, he can warn Bob away from you. He just needs to get to that notebook.

Bucky watches you through the glass wall of the lab. Sees you roll your shoulders and take a deep breath, entire body decompressing the same way Bucky’s does when he’s alone. Your hand reaches up to pull your hair out of its style and Bucky’s stomach lurches painfully as your hair falls loose. You put all the hair paraphernalia on your desk as Bucky grapples with an uncomfortable twinge in his stomach and his dick.

You tear through the room like a tornado. At first you go to your whiteboard again and pick up your marker. You twirl it around for a bit while you assess. Then you start scrawling again, wiping out symbols, replacing them with others. You make more adjustments to Yelena’s suit than Bucky’s, but you seem to be working on something else too. Their weapons, maybe.

Bucky is sure he is almost caught when you spin around. You don’t twist around very quickly, but he is distracted and it makes him move a bit slower. Luckily, your eyes are still buried in that ugly brown book, but he can’t shake off the sinking feeling. He is being sloppy.

Eventually, this time with a lot more stealth, he sees you unlock a cabinet in your desk and put the notebook in. You do it carefully, as if it’s something delicate even though it looks to Bucky as if it had been through more wars than him. You lock it again and Bucky is out of eyesight behind a corner by the time he hears your shoes clacking away in the direction of the communal areas.

He’s quick to punch in the code to the lab. You can easily go through the log and see that he entered soon after you left, but he doesn't think you will unless you have a reason to. He will come up with some story anyway. Just in case. 

It occurs to him that he doesn’t think he’s ever seen the lab empty; neither this one nor the one in New York. You’re like a permanent fixture here. It genuinely unnerves him to not see you up at the board scribbling, or fiddling around with sheets of metal and blowtorches.

He’s strangely jumpy, considering he has every right to be in here. He paces the room for just a second with a panicked urgency, forgetting for the briefest of moments why he is in the lab in the first place. He’s even sweating just a little bit, picturing the look on your face if you were to come back and catch him in the act.

He’s walking straight over to your desk then, roughly tugging at the cabinet he saw you put the notebook into. It’s locked. Of course it’s locked - he saw you lock it, for god’s sake. Sloppy.

He could so easily yank it open, but what wouldn’t be so easy is to put it back together the way it was. He’s sure he could fix it, but it seems likely that you would be back down again to do more work before you go on your romantic date to the canteen with Bob.

Bucky hadn’t even brought anything with him, but he’s sure there must be something to pick a lock here. He roots around in your cabinets, digging through pencil cases and drawers stuffed with disorganised stationery. He stops, eyes shooting over to the spot where your hair tie and bobby pins are lying in a neat pile at the corner of your desk. Walking over and scarcely allowing himself to feel any sort of hope, he picks up two of the bobby pins carefully, balances them in his hands. He can still smell your shampoo on them. 

They will do.

Removing the rubber piece from the bobby pins, he shoves one low in the keyhole as his lever. He bends the other and roots around to try and find the seized pin, but whatever this desk is made of is not cheap. He finds it twice, but both times the bobby pin slips off before he can do much with it. He grunts with frustration, fighting to keep his cool, even though he can feel the bobby pin bending, waiting to break. He must have picked a thousand locks in his life - why is his flesh hand shaking?

Once he finds the first seized lever, he doesn’t have much trouble with the others. The bobby pin almost cracks on the final pin, but it doesn’t matter because he’s in.

He had thought that the book was bound in leather, but it’s not. Now that it’s in his hands, he can feel that the leather is fake. You’re probably too much of a bleeding heart to use real leather anything. His fingers pause over the spine of it for just a second, a seedy feeling of guilt nagging at him for just a second, before he opens it to a random page.

It’s… incomprehensible.

Sure, Bucky had known you would have some sciencey stuff in there, but the whole page is littered with random chemical symbols, graphs, charts. He flicks to another and finds only the same.

He turns over to the front of the book and takes it page by page from there. The more he flicks through the pages, the more frustrated he gets. He really stressed himself out about this? About some dumb blueprints? He eventually reaches the meeting notes which dive deep into detail about heat levels on the mission - you were right as it turns out, your notes really are useless to him.

He’s furious with you for making him think that this was such a big secret, but he’s also self-aware enough to know that he’s just using that to mask the dim shame and embarrassment he’s feeling at making such a big deal of this in his head. He thought he had you.

One of the many sheets stuffed in between the pages slips to the ground. Bucky’s not sure what he’s expecting when he leans down to pick it up - some grand moment of serendipity where the key to your secret finds him, maybe - but it’s just a diagram of his arm with all the measurements to boot. He sighs, folding it back up. He can’t remember where it might have slipped from, so he puts it in the back and hopes you won’t notice that it’s displaced.

But there’s Yelena’s name. Upside down, in a bullet point, alongside the names of the rest of the team. With furrowed eyebrows, Bucky turns the book around to look at the notes you had stuffed in the back. They are mostly unimportant notes on the Yelena and her missions. You have a couple notes about minor injuries she has sustained over the past few months, with little asides like ‘Left shoulder needs more protection - injured!’ and messy notes about her preference in weapons. But you also have little notes about Yelena herself, too. ‘Likes pastrami on rye for lunch’, ‘Always down after coming back from missions involving programmed / indoctrinated - especially kids’, ‘Would probably like Ray Bradbury - to loan her one when back in New York’.

Bucky is perplexed - he certainly is not experiencing a gotcha moment the way he thought he might with any of this information, but what the hell are you doing? Taking notes about Yelena like you’re her therapist? He flicks the page over and sees Walker’s name; the usual notes about injuries, strengths and weapon preferences, weaved in amongst things like ‘Wife’s birthday 17th Jan - gets upset around this date,’ and ‘Sees his kid Thursdays and Fridays’. How do you even know this? Bucky doesn’t and he’s the goddamn leader of the team.

Bob’s page is short, barren of any injuries or battle gear information but with a lot of information about his favourite street food in the city and how he prefers the bus over the subway because going underground makes him nervous. You have noted everything there is to know about Sentry (which is not much, admittedly). He is hit with something unfamiliar when he reads, ‘Needs a friend’.

Suddenly desperate to get to his own page and fuelled by a sort of morbid curiosity that he’s sure won’t end well for anyone, he skips past Ava and Alexei. 

Bucky’s notes are lengthy - they need two pages. It’s stacked with countless injury reports, some relevant information about his background as the Winter Soldier, little details about his arm. But it’s completely void of of the personal touch in the other pages. His is straight-to-the-point, strictly factual. Clinical and functional, even. Bucky doesn’t like that at all.

He understands it. He has never really given you anything to work with, and he’s sure you might think that he would consider it an invasion of privacy in any case. But his chest still seizes inexplicably. He turns back to Bob’s page, looks at the note that says; ‘Likes cats - wants to go to a cat café. Trip for birthday?’. Then he flicks back to his own and reads; ‘Tends to favour left side in fight - dominant arm’. 

He’s hit with a tidal wave of childish loneliness all at once and has to blink a few times to try to dampen the feeling clawing up his chest. Of course you’re not taking personal notes on him - he doesn’t even trust you, doesn’t even like you. 

But some part of him - a part that’s growing larger by the second - knows that it wouldn’t feel like this if he truly didn’t like you.

His mind is working a million miles a minute and he is just about ready to put the notebook back in the drawer and forget any of this ever happened when his eyes catch the last note on the page. The one and only personal bullet you had left on Bucky’s lengthy report.

‘Overly aggressive - has a crush?’

Bucky goes very still on reading the words in your notebook for just a second, and then he is clumsily shoving your notebook back into the desk, removing the bobby-pins from the cabinet in your desk with as much caution as he can afford and bucketing it out the door. His heart is racing and he’s climbing stairs three at a time to get to his room.

He’s not sure what he planned to do in his room - regroup, maybe - but all he can do now is pace. The words kee p flashing into his mind. A crush? Who do you think he is? Some sort of teenage girl? He’s a middle-aged man. He’s a war vet who also happens to be a reformed HYDRA assassin - and you think he has a crush? On you?

He’s not even preoccupied with the egoism of the whole affair. It’s a little conceited for you to assume he has a crush on you based on nothing, but what is taking up the most space in his brain is why you could think Bucky, of all people, is the person to have one. Why not Bob, who practically follows you around with his tongue out?

Because he’s ‘overly aggressive’, apparently. 

He stops mid-pace, shoulders sagging.

Okay - Bucky can admit he hasn’t always been the nicest to you. He doesn’t think it’s fair to say he’s been aggressive, but he can see why it’s something you picked up on. But surely, if anything, you should naturally come to the conclusion that he does not have a crush on you, based on his behaviour towards you. You should assume that he has anything but a crush on you.

He doesn’t even know why he’s panicking this much. His breath is gone and there are pangs of… something, prickling at his sides.

It has to be that day in the lab when you took his measurements. That’s what has you mixed up, he’s sure. You must have noticed him getting turned on before he even noticed himself. And he’s admitted to himself by now that you turn him on. It would be pointless to try to pretend otherwise with those creeps in the basement screaming it up at him ceaselessly. But being attracted to you and having a crush on you are two very different things.

What does a crush mean, anyway? You think he wants to go play fucking house with you? Hold your hand like some middle-schooler?

No - you don’t know him well, but you must know him better than that.

He must have missed something. Maybe you meant something else entirely. Maybe he read it wrong. He doesn’t see how he could have, since the image of those words are imprinted in his brain with permanent ink, but it’s possible. 

He’s starting to regret throwing the book back into the desk so hastily, before he had the chance to thoroughly survey it. Maybe he has the chance to go back down now, while everyone is in the canteen.

But no. He feels no urge to chance his luck any further today - that would be stupid. Sloppy. People will be milling about today. He needs to choose some other time.

He collapses down on his bed. The thud of his body hitting the mattress seems very loud to his ears.

It’s a while before Bucky gets the chance to enter the lab alone again, and he avoids you like a contagion every moment in between.

The timing is pretty inconvenient. The few days before a mission is when the team has most contact with you while they test out weapons and try on their suits. Bucky is considerably less confrontational with you during these assemblies which earns him strange looks from Yelena and Bob, but if you notice, you don’t make it obvious. The simple fact of the matter is that he has lost all interest in antagonising you or exposing whatever secret he had thought you might have - he would much rather avoid you altogether.

You’re not making it easy on him, either. You’re as pleasant as ever, as if his recent bout of bad behaviour is water under the bridge - wiped from your memory. You sound like you’re coaxing a kitten out of a corner when you speak to him. Your pretty eyes and pretty lips are making things hard for him too. He can’t get them out of his head. Can’t stop thinking about how you looked on your knees, head tilted upwards towards him.

‘Overly aggressive - has a crush?’

‘Has a crush? Has a crush?’

‘Has a crush?’

The words are still bleating in his brain days later. He hears you saying them, pictures you whispering them in his ear mockingly with that sweet smile playing on your lips. It puts an uncomfortable sensation in his chest.

He can eventually assess the situation with less indignation and more interest. He wonders what you see when you look at him, what thoughts you think about him when you’re alone. Do you think about him at all? He wants to see into your brain for just a few moments, dig up whatever in there relates to him.

Which, he reminds himself numbly, is insane and sounds exactly like the thoughts of somebody with a crush. 

You’re in the lab at every waking hour in the days leading up to the mission. Bucky glances through the glass wall when he walks by, pretending he’s on his way somewhere else even though there isn’t much else in this wing of the base. Most of the time you’re scribbling on the whiteboard, back to him. Sometimes you catch him and give him a friendly wave. Bucky averts his gaze quickly every time.

His mind is running amok and the mission pays dearly for it.

It’s still a success - Yelena guarantees that - but Bucky’s lack of preparation really shows. He’s bruised and bloody but Yelena gets it worse and she makes sure he hears about it. Both of her eyes are beginning to go yellow with the beginnings of a bruise and she has severe burn marks littered over her arms where even the suit was not enough to stave off the flames. She switches between English and Russian as she curses Bucky out to his face. For better or for worse, he understands every word.

Yeah - he was sloppy.

He’s beaten to a pulp and his adrenaline is still singing in his blood from more than one close call when they reach the base. Yelena is still jabbering on about how she will never be picking up the slack for him again, about how he’s supposed to be the team leader, about how bad she’s going to be hurting in the morning. He’s paying attention to her somewhat until they reach the hallway outside lab.

Because for the first time in days, it looks as if it’s empty.

Bucky comes to a halt and Yelena spins around. The total solid blackness of her stare almost scares him into submission.

“I swear I’m listening to you,” he says, before she can utter a word. “I know I fucked up badly and we can have a proper conversation about this soon. Just- give me a few minutes. I forgot to do something.”

He is fully expecting her to fight him on this, but she must be able to read the desperation in his tone at some level, because she simply gives him a bewildered frown. She looks at him like that for a few beats, then raises her eyebrows to communicate that she is severely unimpressed, and continues on her way to the nurse.

Bucky waits until he can no longer hear her steps echoing down the hall before he steals over to the door of the lab, punching in the code with a sense of determination he hasn’t felt in days. He knows exactly where he’s going this time. 

The cabinet is locked again, but this does not present much difficulty. Your bobby pins are in the same pile as before and he is not half-crazed with nerves this time. The adrenaline from the mission is doing its job. He jimmies the lock in a matter of seconds.

He’s scrambling to open the book on the same page as before, knowing he won’t see anything new but desperate to see those words (has a crush? has a crush? has a cru-) again.

Except he’s wrong, because there is definitely something new. It’s a folded page, tucked into the gutter where the two pages meet. Bucky picks it up and slowly, cautiously unfolds it.

‘Stop looking inside my desk’. Sprawled in big, square letters in the centre of the page.

It’s not addressed to him by name, but it’s been folded neatly into the notes that you wrote up about him which he supposes is enough of a message. He double-checks to see if you edited anything as you clearly knew that he would be looking this time but everything is exactly as he had left it, those dreaded words (has a crush? has a crush? has a-) still lingering at the bottom of the second page.

Humiliation and guilt flood him in no small measure. He is an expert assassin who just got caught out for snooping in a colleague’s journal. He must have tucked one of the papers back into your notebook wrong, or left the bobby pins out. The top floors of his brain are back from Martha’s Vineyard. They’re screaming at him that he’s sloppy. They sound just like Yelena, now that he thinks of it.

The guilt is probably the worst of it. Knowing that you carried around the knowledge that he violated your privacy, but said nothing. You could have gone straight to HR (if HR even exists in a place like this - he has never thought to look into it). But instead you didn’t even try to make him feel bad about it. You had just dealt with it the same way you deal with all the shit he throws at you; with patience, with gentleness, but without letting yourself be stood on. You had let him know that you see through him, but hadn’t backed him into a corner, because that’s not who you are. 

You’re sweet. And Bucky knows it, even if he has always pretended he doesn't.

The realisation doesn’t hit him, doesn’t strike him like a lightning bolt or knock him on his ass. It’s more like something he falls into with overwhelming discomfort and more than a little defeat. Because he’s really known it all along, even if he never admitted it to himself.

(has a crush? has a crush? has a cr-?)

He has a crush.

He doesn’t want to look too far into the fact that he knows where your room is. He wasn’t even aware that he did know, until he started walking with the intention of tracking you down and suddenly found himself outside the door of your room. Had he made a mental note of where you were staying? He must have. He’s coming to an awful lot of awkward realisations today. 

His fist lingers over your door for a full minute before he can bring himself to knock. There’s a moment of silence where you are most likely trying to pretend that you’re not in, but Bucky can hear your shallow breaths, your steady, thumping heartbeat. He knocks again and hears you heave a sigh, followed by a rustling of fabric and your footsteps creeping to the door.

You open the door wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt - the logo for some band Bucky doesn’t recognise plastered over the front. It’s crumpled and looks like it badly needs to be ironed, but it looks so damn pretty anyway hanging over your delicate thighs - but then anything probably would. His mouth goes dry.

“Hi Bucky,” you say with a tired exhale and only then can he drag his eyes away from your legs and to your face. Your hair is askew, eyes bleary and dull, the soft imprint of bedsheets on your face.

He woke you up. It can hardly be 8pm yet, but you seem to have been out cold since the mission wrapped. Your eyes grow much more alert when they give him a proper once-over.

“Jesus, are you ok? What hap-” You frown, stop short. “Are you just back from the mission? Bucky, you need to go to the nurse. You look like shit.”

Bucky is new to this whole ‘crush’ thing, but he’s fairly sure that being told that you look like shit isn’t the best sign. He can’t look you in the eyes. “I will, I just- I need to talk to you. Please.”

You frown but step aside so he can walk in. There’s a sinking feeling in his gut and he really has no idea what he even wants to say to you - he just knows he has to say something. 

Your room is the exact same as his, from the white linen sheets to the grey cupboards in the small kitchenette, but something about it being yours makes it look different. Less empty.

He looks around, surveying the area as if there’s anything to survey. You’re standing in front of him with an expectant hand propped onto your hip. He tries not to look at it. It sinks into your t-shirt and he can suddenly see your form - the imprint of your side visible through the fabric. He swallows. “I, uh- I got your note.”

Your hand drops, as does your skeptical frown. Your lips twitch into a small smile instead, lips pursed as if you’re trying to stop it from forming. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

You look at him. Bucky looks back. Blinks. Neither of you say anything for some time. He can hear agents returning to their rooms outside, distant tired voices murmuring. You gesture for him to take a seat on the bed and he does, taking off his shoes and leaning up against the headboard. You join him shortly after, warm thigh almost touching his. He’s glad you don’t have the super-hearing he does, or you would be able to hear his heart thundering under his ribs.

“How did you know?” is all he can manage after a long stretch.

“Know what? That you have a crush on me?” Hearing you say it out loud makes Bucky flinch. You don’t react, just let him settle. He nods. 

“I could tell. From your behaviour towards me.” You’re speaking about this so casually. It’s uncomfortable to hear you talk so upfront about a subject he has dodged, even within his own mind, for so long - but it does help to ease the embarrassment just a bit to hear you speak as if it’s something natural. Not something terrible or embarrassing. 

“But I’m awful to you,” he says. And that’s something that he has had to come to terms with in the last few days too.

“Exactly,” you say, shrugging. You’re not shrinking from his gaze. “You’re not an unreasonable or mean man, Bucky. That behaviour isn’t normal for you. And I have never given you any reason to distrust me - at least, I hope I haven’t - so it was one of my theories.”

“You had theories? Plural?” 

“Well I also thought for a while that it might be possible that you just didn’t like me for no reason in particular. But then your…” you pause, smiling sheepishly, as if you’re giving him an embarrassing diagnosis. “body language convinced me otherwise.”

Bucky’s faces flushes. His entire body flushes. His mind drifts back to when you measured him. He wonders how many other instances like that there were, without him even noticing.

“Why didn’t you-” he stammers, voice strained. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

You raise an eyebrow, lips lifting into a teasing grin. “That would have gone really well.”

He thinks about it. How he would have reacted, even a week ago, if you had brought this discovery to him. It certainly would not have gone down well. He physically grimaces, imagining the scenes that might have taken place.

“Why are you still so nice? If I were you, I would have hated myself.”

“I never hated you for it, Bucky,” you say, smiling kindly at him in a way he is so far from deserving that it sets his stomach alight. “I don’t know much about what was done to you before. I never wanted to know anything beyond what was strictly necessary for my job because I figured you wouldn't want me to. But I guess I figured that not everything would be easy after that. Especially not… relationships. Sex.”

Bucky shifts upon hearing you use the word ‘sex’. His mind is racing. “Wh- I don’t-”

You don’t rush him. He almost wishes you would so he could get something out, but instead you sit patiently, waiting for his response. He doesn’t fully understand what’s happening - how you could see right through him when he himself could not. How you could give him this much grace and patience.

Bucky hasn’t experienced much softness in his life. He’s always on the chopping block for things he did do and for things he didn’t. He’s never really taken too much issue with it. He accepted pretty early on in his life that he was dealt a shitty hand. And now he’s being handed softness on a plate - forgiveness, acceptance, kindness. He’s not sure what to do with it.

“I’m sorry,” he say eventually, because that’s really all there is to say. “I wish I didn’t put you through that.”

You roll your eyes, grin never leaving your lips. “I forgive you, Bucky,” you say, as if it’s just that easy. Maybe it is. Maybe it is with you. “It was kind of cute actually. Like when some kid starts tugging on your pigtails in kindergarten because he likes you.”

Bucky truly can’t think of a worse comparison. He is already humiliated at the fact that he’s a middle-aged man being schooled through a crush by his crush. Comparing him to a kid is only confirming to him how embarrassing the situation really is.

“Oh, come on,” you laugh, taking in his horrified expression. “It is cute.”

You look so pretty when you’re laughing and smiling at him. He’s seen this expression on your face with the rest of the team, but he’s so rarely given you cause to give him more than a tight grin as he passes. Now that he has accepted his feelings for you, the guys in the basement of his brain have broken free. They’re running through all the corridors, whooping and hollering. He hadn’t realised how many of the buggers were down there until now. 

He’s overwhelmed with the intense urge to get close to you, to touch your face, your hair, your lips. He needs to go before he can do any of those things and freak you out any further.

“Whatever you say,” he murmurs, face still red. “Regardless, I really am sorry. I wish I could have directed this towards anyone else. You didn’t deserve it.”

He’s got his feet planted, ready to take his leave.

“I don’t,” you say, casually, just looking at him with a blank expression.

He freezes. “You don’t… what?”

“Don’t wish you felt this for someone else.”

He can’t move. Can hardly even breathe. He looks at you with a sort of astounded confusion and you just roll your eyes again, as if he’s taking a great deal of time to figure out something very obvious.

“It would be a pretty shitty situation for me. Y’know, since I have a crush on you too.”

Are you messing with him? Bucky isn’t sure exactly what expression crosses his face, but it must be whatever you were hoping for, because you’re tittering; a lovely, soft sound. And he can do nothing but watch. 

Something isn’t computing. You eventually stop giggling, but your grin doesn’t drop. You’re just smiling sweetly as if you hadn't just said something to tip his whole world on its axis.

It hadn’t ever occurred to Bucky that you could like him back. He had been so preoccupied with denying that he felt anything for you, he hadn’t even really thought about it. And even if he had, there’s no way he could ever expect you to actually reciprocate. Not with the way he has acted to you.

But, somehow, you do. 

And Bucky has that strange, nagging sensation again - the feeling that something isn’t right - but it’s not the same as before because it’s mingled with hope this time. Like he can’t quite believe that this might be true, he’s suspicious that perhaps it’s not, but god - he hopes it is.

“Why?” he chokes out. You don’t laugh at him when his voice cracks.

“Why what?”

“Why do you have a-” He can’t even say it. You don’t make him.

“Don’t fish for compliments, it’s unbecoming,” you say and you’re teasing him but he finds he doesn’t really mind it. 

“It’s just- It doesn’t make-” Bucky tries to stammer, before you finally take pity on him. You reach a hand over slowly and place it in Bucky’s. It’s small and warm and still soft despite the welts and cuts - tokens from your work. His heart flutters once in his chest, heat stirring in his stomach.

“I can’t explain why I like you, Bucky. I just do. I think you’re a good person and I knew that even when you didn't quite know how to act around me. And I love how much you protect the people you care about and you’re funny without trying to be, but it’s more than just that. I just like you.”

He thinks he gets what you mean. If you were to ask him, he would try to explain why he feels the way he does about you. But language is inadequate to express it. It’s uncomfortable and messy and it was almost impossible to understand, let alone communicate what has been happening inside of him - whether to himself or anyone else. He just likes you too. 

But, critically, he doesn’t deserve you. He didn’t deserve you before he met you, didn’t deserve you when he took out his unresolved trauma on you and certainly doesn’t deserve you now, just because the tide has changed.

He knows you can see the cloud falling over his face, but you’re not perturbed. You lean forward with another one of your sweet smiles until your face is just inches from his, but you don’t move further. You’re letting him make the decision.

Bucky glances once at your lips, delicate and swollen from biting, and he accepts that he never really had a choice anyway. He leans down to kiss you as if in a daydream and feels the way he gives himself over to you in an almost absent way - he is spilling over the side of himself when your lips meet his.

Although you had leaned over for this reason alone, you still gasp against his lips - a high, breathy sound that makes his pulse jump. He’s feeling a bit outside himself.

His metal hand goes to the back of your neck to gentle pull you closer. The other goes to your thigh, just to feel his skin on yours. He rubs circles there and tries to fend off a spell of dizziness at how good it feels just to have you against him like this.

He’s thinking about those moments in the middle of the night when he takes a sip of water and suddenly realises that he’s completely parched. How just one sip of it makes him want to sink the whole glass. It’s been so long since he’s kissed someone like this - since he’s felt the desire to - and it almost physically hurts, how much he wants this. How much he wants you.

You’re squirming against him, moving up slowly to straddle him, perching yourself on his large lap. Your movements are careful and considered - like you’re giving him the time to say he doesn’t want this. He wishes he could tell you just how badly he does, but removing his lips from yours doesn’t seem worth it. He moves his hands to your hips instead. Gives them an encouraging squeeze.

The heat of your body is seeping onto his lap and through his chest. He kisses you just for the selfish pleasure of it; not for any design or purpose - just to feel it. He takes your bottom lip into his mouth, clumsy and desperate and feels you sigh against him.

“Bucky,” you say, parting from him. He doesn’t realise that he is following your lips in a daze until you put a hand up to stop him.

“Hm?” he responds mindlessly. His head is swimming.

“Will you let me touch you?”

Through the confused haze of his scrambled brain, he can only think about the fact that you’re already touching him. You have one hand on his chest, the other behind his neck. This is more touch than he has felt in decades.

But gradually he comes to. He blinks the daze out of his eyes and sees that you are sitting still, looking to him for a response. He almost lets the guilt eat away at him again at the kind patience on your face. He nods instead.

You’re still watching him closely when you grab the ends of his t-shirt and peel it over his head. Bucky has almost forgotten that he’s injured. When he looks down, his chest is littered with purple bruises and deep burns. He suppresses the urge to grab his t-shirt back from you, only because you lean forward to press a gentle kiss to his collarbone.

He watches as your hand on his chest slips slowly downwards. He shivers when you trail past his nipples, when you lighten your touch over his injuries. You trace the end of his stomach, before grazing his cock over his black tac pants. He can’t help the deep puff of breath he releases. His heart is thumping with equal doses of anxiety and exhilaration.

He’s breathing heavy and you look at him, eyes glassy and searching to see if he is okay with this. He doesn’t have the words for how okay he is, so he reaches a hand up to run through your hair and presses another ardent kiss to your lips.

When you part from him, you’re smiling. You unbutton his trousers and slowly pull them down along with his underwear, just far enough so his cock springs up against his bare, sweaty stomach. He’s mildly embarrassed by how clearly worked up he is already. He’s rock hard. Precum is smattered around the head of his cock and strings of it are stretching from his cock to his underwear as you peel it back.

You have a bashful look on your face as you take in his size, eyes falling to his lap and mouth parting. He almost feels shy for a moment. He was by no means small before the serum, but he knows his size is totally abnormal now. He has an irrational worry for just a moment that you’re about to pack the whole thing up and tell him to leave, but he can read excitement in your expression too. 

You trail your fingers lightly over the head and Bucky hisses, hips bucking up into your hand. Your eyes snap to his, astonished.

“You’re very sensitive.”

Bucky flushes. “I haven’t uh-” he stammers. “It’s been a while.”

“What’s a while?”

He wonders if it can get any more embarrassing than this. “Few decades. No big deal.”

He expects you to be astonished again, but you have no reaction at all. “I thought that might be the case.”

He wants to ask how you knew, but you clench your fist over his cock, giving him a soft pulse and he can no longer get any words out. He just grunts, watching you move your hand up and down, slowly massaging his length. His dick looks so much bigger in your small, soft hand than it does in his own rough grip. His hands shake as they move to grip your thighs in a futile attempt to find something with which to anchor himself.

“Does that feel good?” you ask. Your eyes are slightly clouded.

“Yeah,” he answers, voice coming out strained. 

You lean forward slightly and Bucky thinks you are about to kiss him. Just as he moves to meet your lips with his own, you open your mouth to purposely spit downwards. The warm liquid meets the tip of his cock and cascades downwards towards your cupped fist.

He can’t help the desperate moan that falls from his lips, his head falling back against the headboard. He thinks that image of you might possibly live in his brain forever.

You use the new lubrication to stripe across his length with your right hand, the other moving down to play with his balls. You keep your hand gentle but tight and his hips jerk forward unintentionally, even as he tries to still them. He’s groaning different versions of your name but he can hardly hear himself over the pulsing in his ears.

You’re not rushing it. There hardly even seems to be an intention with what you’re doing - the way you’re watching him makes him feel like you’re doing this for the simple pleasure of seeing him like this. It’s a far cry from how he does it when he’s alone - clinical, functional - whatever makes him cum the fastest. You’re taking your time and letting him feel what he had convinced himself he no longer wanted.

He can accept that he has been lying to himself about that too, as he watches you now. You can hardly move your eyes from where you’re stroking him, watching your hand move with an almost detached curiosity - as if you’re not in control of your own motions. He has been starved of this - of all physical touch - for the longest time, but it had never seemed in reach so he denied that he had any interest in it at all. It’s almost overwhelming his senses now.

You squeeze his cock and rub small, affectionate circles at the base. The intimacy of it - the tenderness - almost makes him blow his load early. A brief panic takes hold of him at the thought of it. He grips your wrist quickly and your movements halt. You look up at him with alarm. 

“I can’t-” he stammers. “I’m gonna-”

“Oh.” You smile. He flushes. 

You bring your hands to his bare chest and give him a soft, gentle kiss that makes his eyes flutter closed and his breath stutter.

“I want to make you come, Bucky,” you murmur against his lips. “But in my mouth. Is that okay with you?”

“God- fuck-” he breathes, just at the words alone. His face is pinched up with a barely contained restraint while he tries to bring his heart rate down. You wait patiently for his answer and he feels a rush of affection for you that is so strong it almost bowls him over. How could he have thought that he felt anything for you but deep, intense adoration? You know intuitively just by looking at him that this is a big moment and not something he can rush. He finds that he now trusts you so implicitly with this vulnerability, he can’t even imagine a time when he didn’t.

“Yeah,” he manages eventually. “Please. Wanna feel your mouth on me.”

You kiss him again, deep and slow. He chases your lips even as you manoeuvre yourself away and lower yourself so you are level with his cock. Your hand reaches up again to pump him a few times and his chest heaves.

You press a light kiss to the tip and a groan falls from his lips. His head falls back against the headboard but he fights the instinct to close his eyes. He’s too busy watching you.

A pink tongue lolls out of your mouth and then your lips are closing in on him, just wrapping around the tip. His hand reaches out to card through your hair and he doesn’t push you down any further but he is still fighting for control over his body. His body is trying to make him thrust into your mouth, which he’s sure will send him over the edge if he can’t get a grip on himself soon. 

You begin to bob your head, gradually taking more and more of him in each downswing. He feels a bit loose around the edges. The pleasure is bordering on too much, but he finds that he trusts you enough not to panic about it. He doesn't get caught up in how he looks or sounds or whether he’s about to embarrass himself; he just lets it happen because he knows that it’s what you want from him. He thinks he would do anything in the world if he thought you wanted it of him.

You look so pretty with his cock down your throat. You’re glancing up at him teary and doe-eyed while his tip nudges the back of your throat. He feels the ridges of your tight throat squeeze around him. He’s aware he probably looks desperate and needy, but it’s impossible not to while he’s feeding his cock down your throat.

“S-shit, feels good-” he whines. Actually whines. If he was any more lucid, he would be embarrassed. But he likes the way you look up at him afterwards. 

The way you’re reacting to him is sinful. He worries that you won’t be able to take it every time he nudges deeper, but your eyes just roll back, like you can’t get enough. You even whimper around him, as if he’s the one getting you off.

He can’t remember how this used to feel, but he doesn’t think it was ever this good. You do a sliding motion with your tongue, pressing it up against the veins of his dick. He grunts and grips your hair harder, hips giving jerky thrusts into your mouth every now and again when he can’t stop or control it.

“Fuck, I’m gonna-” he strangles out. “Baby, I’m gonna come.”

Baby. That’s a new one. He’ll examine it later.

His voice - the sort of breathless desperation in it - feels foreign in his own mouth but it makes you moan. Bucky feels the vibration it makes against his cock and comes his brains out.

He lets out a strangled groan, spilling himself down your throat. He feels a certain awe as he watches you try to keep up with swallowing, eventually giving up and pulling off to jerk him. His spend spurts up across your face, soils his chest and his thighs. He wonders briefly if you will be annoyed.

“Fuck, thank you,” he sighs, only distantly aware of what he’s saying while he comes down from his high. Weak streams of cum are still spilling from him as your hand slows its pace. “Sorry.”

You level him with a quirked brow, as if he said something funny. “Sorry for what?”

He looks at you, all of his cum dripping from your cheeks and chin. You look so pretty like this - so his. “It’s everywhere,” he says, even as he can’t avert his gaze.

You smirk and dip your finger into a pool of cum gathered on his abdomen.

“It is everywhere,” you agree. He can do nothing but watch entranced as you bring your finger to your mouth, sucking the pearly liquid off it.

His cock has barely had a second of reprieve - he can feel it twitching to life again. Its way of telling him that it has been severely neglected for the last seventy years.

“Let me touch you.” He intends for it to come out sexy and demanding, but it hits his ears as more of a plea.

“Not today,” you say, picking up a corner of the duvet and wiping your face with the sheet. You pull his pants back up for him without much difficulty and hop off his lap. Bucky’s brows furrow with confusion and a hint of dread. Why don’t you want him touching you? Have you decided that you no longer want him? Has he fucked this all up already? He tries to hide the panic that’s hitting him like a semi-truck with a nod and a wavering smile.

You see it. Of course you do. You curl up next to him, popping one leg over his. His cum is spilling from his chest and onto your t-shirt, but you don’t seem to mind. 

“I don’t want you rushing this,” you say, brushing a gentle hand through his hair. He fights the urge to nuzzle into your hand. “I think what we did today is enough of a step.”

He considers your words. It makes him feel like a fucking child to have you talk to him this way, but… you might not be wrong. His heart is still racing uncomfortably in his chest from the novelty of it all and as much as he would kill to touch you, he’s not sure what he’s doing anymore. It’s one thing for him to sit back and let you take care of him. This would be another thing entirely.

You’re right, of course, and it is becoming blatantly obvious you can read him better than he can read himself. Still, he has to make a genuine effort not to mope at the idea of leaving you and your warmth to go back to his cold, empty room.

“Bucky,” you say firmly, using two fingers to nudge his face over to yours. He meets your eyes and finds it a little more difficult to sulk. “I like you and I want to do this right. I want you to touch me so bad, but only when you’re ready to. Will you trust me?”

His eyes go big and wide and an awkwardly vulnerable feeling passes through him. You like him. You want him to touch you.

You’re still waiting for him to answer. You always are. You never speak over him, never assume. Bucky has spent so much of his life being overpowered, his choices ignored or stifled. It’s unfamiliar and uncomfortable but not unpleasant. He nods.

“I like you too,” he stammers clumsily. “So much.”

You laugh. “I know.”

In a brief lapse of silence - your head on his chest, his hand stroking tentative circles on your thigh - he almost feels like the two of you are melting into one. He matches your breathing unconsciously, heart slowing while he holds you close, bodies melding together. You press a small kiss to his pec and he accepts it easily and gratefully. He is struck by the picture of you snuggling up to him - astounded by just how cute he finds it.

“I think you should go to the nurse.” You poke a bruise and he bites back a hiss. You look up at him with a raised eyebrow, like you know that he’s just pretending not to be hurt.

“Later,” he mumbles. Truthfully, the idea of leaving your room sounds awful to him. All that waits for him outside is cold, empty nothingness. He will delay it for as long as you’ll let him.

He tries not to spiral - tries not to think about the fact that telling him to go to the nurse might just be the least awkward way you can think of to get him to leave. 

You like him, he reminds himself with some conviction. You said so.

“Not later. Go take a quick shower and I’ll meet you in your room after you’ve been to the nurse.”

He gives you a surprised glance out of the corner of his eye.

You giggle. “We could stay here but my sheets might need a wash.”

He rolls his eyes but he is considerably less reluctant to leave your presence with the promise of seeing you later. You detach yourself from him. Smart move - he would never move as long as he has you pressed up against him.

He huffs a sigh in protest, but heaves himself up and makes his way into the ensuite and notches on the shower. To his surprise, you totter in after him and take a seat on the closed toilet lid.

With some of his typical confidence returning to him, he leans downward to kiss you while he yanks off his pants. He feels your cheeks round against his face.

“Y’just gonna sit here and watch?”

The way you smile up at him through your lashes almost makes him fall to his knees and beg for you to reconsider his request. You tilt your head innocently. “Well I need something to think about while you’re gone.”

He groans, pushing his forehead against yours - almost pained. He can feel the breath of your laugh against his lips. 

He knows that soon he will get a lecture soon for not reporting to medical immediately. He also knows that he’s well overdue a verbal beating from Yelena. His body is bruised and broken and tired. His nerves are frayed and his adrenaline is still dangerously high. None of it matters - all Bucky can see and hear is you. It’s not so bad, really, having a crush. 

a/n: fun fact i watched a youtube video about lock picking to write this and i think i can pick a lock now!! (i will definitely not be using this for nefarious purposes…)

bucky taglist: @dolcesaints @marina468 @avgdestitute @tw1sters @dxnsgrl @thegirlwhowaited5everok @pjo4life1939 @otheliesstuff @domitaylorsversion @simplemind-simplematter @love-stucky @queen-acdc @epiphanyrogers @monicasposh @daddysbitchybaby

everything taglist: @buckysbbydoll @donuelle

You always open the door. 

Dean’s told you not to. He has these stupid code-words and questions you’re supposed to ask—riddles with strange answers like how do angels take their coffee, they don’t they prefer liquor, and does the king of hell like Tuesdays, yes, unless it’s his mother’s birthday—to make sure that it’s really him. Every time you open the door without asking them, he sighs and gives you a heavy look, refusing to cross the threshold until you play his little game. 

“You gotta ask-“

“But I know it’s you-“

“Could not be me. Could be something wearing my face, sweetheart, we’ve talked about this-“

“I know we have.” You cross your arms over your chest. “And I told you. I know it’s you.”

Dean makes a face, like he wants to smile. He’s trying to fight it, to keep the upper hand in the argument, but he always caves. You smile at him, and hold a hand out. 

“I could be a shifter.” He grunts, crossing his arms like he doesn’t trust himself not to take your hand. “Could be possessed. You been keepin’ the holy water like I-“

You toss it on his face, and giggle the way he barely even flinches. 

Dean wipes his face, eyes shining on yours, and you know you’ve won. 

Again. 

For a game he insists you play, he’s quite bad at winning. 

“Alright,” he smirks, slowly advancing through the door. “You’re gonna get it.”

You back away, smiling widely the whole time, and squeal as he chases you into your tiny apartment. There’s not much space for you to run—there’s barely enough space for Dean to fit—but you make do. He kicks the door closed and you retreat into the cluttered living room. You try to jump over the couch, but he catches you around the waist and you both fall into the cushion. When you wiggle a little for the show of it, Dean groans and hold you tighter against his chest. 

He noses at your neck, kissing the soft skin under your jaw, and you keep giggling. 

His presence does that to you. Makes you feel airy and foolish, the thrill of the coming days already buzzing over your skin, the joy in his return making you dizzy. 

Because you’re never sure he’s going to return.

He’s told you that one day, he might not. That if that happens, you’re not allowed to look for him. If you’re lucky, he’ll just be dead. 

“That’s lucky?” You’d asked, and he’d chuckled. 

You’d been lying on his bare chest, his fingers mindlessly tracing your arm. You know about what he gets up to, when he’s not here. Know about the longer shadows in the world, know why the fifth time he was here—when you both realized that maybe this wasn’t the no-strings thing he’d claimed it had to be—he spent the whole weekend quizzing you about monsters and installing security in your apartment. You have a strange circle on the ceiling of every room that your friends call an interesting decoration choice. There’s dead man’s blood in your freezer, holy water in a flask near the door, and an iron poker in your living room, no fireplace to pair with it. 

And you ask questions. So many questions. Dean says you’re worse than his brother sometimes, and you just kiss his nose because if he really found you annoying, he wouldn’t answer or bother to come back. 

That night, you’d been asking about the worst thing he’d fought. He’d paused, then said God’s sister, and forbade you from asking follow-ups. 

You’d ignored him. He couldn’t just say God’s sister then keep talking like that wasn’t fucking insane. It had only taken about two minutes to push him into saying the whole story. But when he’d finished, a long shadow had crossed his face. He’d held you a little closer, and given you the order to not look. You’d asked, because you always did. 

And he’d entertained you, because he always does. 

“Worse things than death, sweetheart.”

“Like what.” 

“Y’know. Things.”

You’d given him a flat look. “Dean.”

He’d just smiled back, drawling your name, and you’d lowered yourself down over his face. Hovered an inch away, scanning over his smug, handsome face with narrowed eyes. 

“Is there like, a Death two that you’re not telling me about?”

He’d snorted, running his hand through your hair. “Death two?”

You’d nodded, and he’d smiled up at you fondly.

“Nah. No death two.”

“Then what-“

“It’s- Nothin’ you wanna know about, baby, I promise-“

“Has it happened to you before?”

Dean had fallen silent. He’d let out a heavy breath, scanning over your face, and you’d dropped your brow over his. 

“Please?” You’d whispered, and back then—almost a year ago, now—you still hadn’t understood why it was so important to know everything about him that you could. 

You’d both been playing another one of his games. The one where he reminds you that this means nothing, and you act like that doesn’t split your soul in half. The one where Dean says that shit, then spends the whole weekend worshipping your body and treating it like it means everything, slowly stitching you back together. Then he leaves, and you promise him you won’t wait, and you both pretend to believe that you mean it. 

You always wait. You always take everything he gives you. Collect every little fact and story and scar, and keep them in a special valve in your heart. A reserve, for the time that he’s gone. It acts as a fuel, keeping your love for him burning and alive, each little bit feeding into the others until you’re less spending the pieces like currency, and more adding water to the flow of a river. It sustains itself. It only grows and grows, sacred and gentle. 

And you’re not sure if Dean feels the exact same. But he keeps coming back. He plays your games, letting you ask all your questions and collect your stories. 

He looks at you like this could be something. 

He touches you and speaks to you like he cares. 

“You really wanna know?” He’d muttered, and you’d nodded. “It ain’t pretty-“

“I know. Please.”

Dean had rubbed his mouth, looking at you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, and caved. 

“There was this thing.” He’d said slowly, watching you so cautiously as he spoke. “Little while before we met. Whole shit with demons and Amara-“

“God’s sister.” You jump in quickly, because you want him to know you pay attention. 

He’d smiled softly. “Yeah. Her. Well, she’d been shoved in a cage, and I was wearing the lock, and- It didn’t do good things to me. It messes with your head, makes you… Angry. Angry and violent. Turned Lucifer into the devil, made Cain kill his brother, made me… Something.” He’d swallowed, eyes dropping to your chest. “Got me killed. But it doesn’t let you just die. It brings you back. Makes you a demon.”

“And… Did you-“

“Yeah.” 

“Oh.”

He’d nodded, trying to smile, but it hadn’t reached his eyes. You’d climbed a little further over his body, and just hugged him tight.

The tension had eased from his chest, as he hugged you back. When you’d looked up, there was something shining on his face that you hadn’t named as tears, but still wiped away gently. 

Dean had caught your hand, giving you a desperate, almost pleading look. 

 “You gotta promise.” He’d rasped. “If I walk out and don’t come back, you move on. ‘Cause if that shit happens again, and you find me- It ain’t me that you’d be finding, sweetheart.”

“Okay.” You’d whispered. “Promise.”

It had soothed him. He’d nodded, relaxed into the mattress, and pulled you down into a long kiss. 

And there are some things you don’t ask about. That you don’t really want to know. The kind of thing the Mark turned him into, what hell was like, the specifics of those nightmares he gets, where he wakes up with his limbs flailing and a wild, almost inhuman glint in his eyes.

He doesn’t seem to believe you, when you tell him that you like him how he is. He lets out that sad, huffing laugh and mutters you don’t know me, baby, and you just roll your eyes, and remind him that you do. 

You really do. 

You know Dean so well, for a stranger who’d been drowning in a bottle of whiskey at the bar downtown, and offered you the night of your life. Who’d said one time, then showed up on your door a month later. Then two months after that. Then three weeks, then another three, the one month again. 

Dean says he lies for a living. That it’s a big part of his job, and he’s pretty damn good at it. 

So either he’s a lot worse at his job than he’s led you believe, or he’s just really bad at lying to you.

Because he reminds you that he might not come back, every single time he goes. Reminds you that this—waving a hand between your bodies, backing up a whole step like he’s trying to remind himself—is still just fun. That’s it. 

You nod, and let him do his little dance and show. 

Then, like always, you end up like this. Tangled in his arms on the couch, his mouth tracing over your skin. Sucking small bruises where the last ones had faded. Slipping his hand under your shirt and rubbing, re-mapping your body, grinning whenever he traces a spot he knows is sensitive, proud of himself like he hasn’t done this a million times before. 

“Missed you,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth. 

You twist, pressing your lips fully over his. He melts over you, cradling your face, wrapping an arm fully around your stomach. You smile against his mouth, opening when he swipes his tongue over your lips, humming happily as his hand splays possessively over your stomach.

“Missed you too.” You whisper back, and he makes a deep, almost purring sound from his chest. 

You end up rolled over under him. He kisses you into the cushions, pulling off his flannel and almost ripping your shirt away, before letting his mouth wander down your body. You run your fingers through his hair—it’s gotten longer than you know he likes, you’ll cut it later—and moan as his mouth finds your nipple. 

“Dean…”

“Missed you so fuckin’ much.” He mutters to himself, squeezing your hips and using his knee to nudge your thighs apart. “My pretty girl. Still fuckin’ wet for me, still fuckin’ perfect.”

You beam, and if you ask him about it later, he’ll say it’s just dirty talk. You’re not really his girl. You’re just fun. 

But you’re not stupid. You mostly keep playing this game because it’s Dean’s, and it’s important to him, and you love him. 

That was the first thing he told you not to do. There’s a long, long list of orders you’ve received from Dean—don’t open the door, don’t look for me, don’t pray to anyone but this specific angel, don’t mess with the safety measures—but this was at the top of the list. 

“Don’t fall in love with me, sweetheart.” He’d said that first night. It had been teasing. You’d laughed, because he was just a handsome man at a bar. You weren’t there because you were looking to fall in love either. 

“I’ll try.” You’d said back, and he’d smiled. 

You really had tried. 

The joke had turned into a warning. One that he gave over and over, after that visit where he started monster-proofing your place. You’d kept smiling, and telling him you’d try.

Every time he’d walked out the door, you’d reminded yourself that he might not come back. Every time he had come back, you’d repeated to yourself over and over—in the shower, sleeping next to him in ed, watching TV with his head in your lap—that you can’t fall in love with him.

He might never come back. He’ll never be able to love you back in a way that matters. He’ll never be able to give you a real life. He’s almost twice your age, he sleeps with a gun, he’s legally dead and a former FBI most wanted member, he’s been dead and tangled with demons and you still have to sit on the floor for twenty minutes to convince yourself to talk to your insurance company. 

Dean’s a hero. 

The hero doesn’t end up with the girl who’s barely ever left her village. 

So you’d really tried. For your sake, you’d tried. 

But he does this thing.

He leaves himself everywhere in your life. Hickeys on your neck that take a week to fade, a flannel he forgot on your bedroom floor, socks in the bathroom and half-eaten pie in the fridge. You downloaded songs he likes on your phone, because you spent a whole afternoon trying to convince each other to like your music. He made you a paper airplane that sits on the highest place of honor, the top of your fridge. 

Once, after a long weekend where he’d fucked you on every surface of your apartment then lay on the floor counting fake stars with you until two in the morning, he’d tried to draw you. 

He’d been drunk. You’d been laughing and moving the whole time, and for a man with such a steady hand, he’s not the best artist. 

Your nose had been too small. Your lips had been too wide, and your hair had looked like pasta and your eyes had been crossed and he’d forgotten to give you ears. He’d groaned, and crumpled it up before crawling across the floor to lie in your lap. 

“I don’t think of you like that.” He’d grumbled, nose grazing your inner thigh, and you’d laughed.

“I know, De.”

“You’re prettier, guess I just can’t draw.”

“No. You really can’t.” You’d leaned down, and kissed the top of his head. “I liked it anyway.”

He’d smiled—small, but for Dean that was practically beaming—and the tips of his ears had turned red as he hugged you tighter. A few drinks later, he’d passed out in your arms. You’d tried to draw him. Sketched with the pencil and paper left of the coffee table, then given up because his beauty didn’t seem willing to be captured in the paper. 

So you’d taken a photo of him. Snorting below you, his cheeks smushed and mouth hanging open. Still unreasonably handsome. 

In that single moment, all yours. 

You’d smiled to yourself, and fallen asleep just that. With Dean all around you, hidden from the world on the floor of your apartment. He’d left in the morning. You’d kissed him, and made that same promise not to wait for him to come back.

But it had hit you, after a week of taking out your phone every few hours, and staring at the photo until your eyes were blurred with tears. 

You always wait for him to return. You miss him so horribly when he leaves, it’s like part of you goes with him, and you’re just praying he’ll bring it back so you can feel alive again. So you can smile, and not worry about work politics or the asshole who lives down the hall and hits on you or friends who are always busy.

When Dean’s here, he’s the best thing in the world. 

When he’s gone, he’s the best thing in the world, and the only thing you’re not allowed to have. 

You’re not allowed to have him when he’s here either, though. 

When he kisses you, or makes you breakfast, or pretends to watch TV while just staring at you the whole time. It’s a game you play alone. 

Dean is yours, but you’re still not allowed to have him. 

It’s not a fair game. You’re his, and he has you. You sit around waiting for him when he leaves, and pull him in every time he returns. There’s no amount of time that could pass, where you wouldn’t keep waiting for Dean, and it’s a rotten, torturous game. 

He did warn you not to play it. He told you there was no winning. 

But you keep playing. As hard a game as it is to lose, it’s a more fun game to play.

It’s easy to love Dean. So easy, you don’t know why you faked playing his game in the first place. He stopped warning you not to fall in love with him a while ago, but he seems to have his own game, where he lies to himself about you one day moving on without him.

“I got anyone to be worried about?” He asks at night, his arm tossed over your body, pinning you to the mattress. 

You hum, playing with his fingers. “No.”

“No? Not even the- What’s his name, Hank?”

“Hank?”

“The asshole from your book club-“

“He’s not an asshole, De. He’s a nice man, and you know his name is Frank.”

“Hm.” Dean grunts, his hand closing over yours. “So not even Frank, huh?”

You sigh, twisting to look at him in the dark. Taking a deep breath, and scanning over his far too neutral expression. You wish he wouldn’t torture himself like this. You know it’s his game, but he doesn’t have to play it. He could just let you love him, even if it meant you spend the rest of your life staring at the door. 

But he’s committed. He gives you a tight smile, and squeezes your hand.

“If he’s… Nice.” The words sound like they pain him. “And you like him. Y’know, you deserve the world, sweetheart-“

“Frank doesn’t have the world.”

Dean jaw twitches. “He could have it,” he mutters. “If he wants.”

His words are low. Low enough you’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to hear. 

And you reach out, cradling Dean’s jaw in your hands. He slumps into you with a sigh, dragging you a little closer. Holding you against his chest, face pressing into your hair, voice strained.

“You should. If you like him-“

“I do. He’s nice.” You swallow, leaning back to hold Dean’s hooded gaze. “But I like him Dean. Not like like. He’s nice.”

Dean’s mouth twitches. “You said that already.”

“I mean it.”

“Uh huh.” He pauses. “I’m not nice.”

“Yes, you are.”

He laughs dryly. “Sweetheart, I got a grenade launcher in my trunk-“

“You got two grenade launchers in your trunk.” You press your knee up between his legs, and he hisses, rutting up against your thigh.

“Fuckin’- Woman-“

You giggle as he rolls you fully on your back, pinning your arms to the bed and looking down at you with a shine in his eyes. You smile freely up at him, because it’s so easy. Dean said don’t fall in love with me like it was a joke, but it’s the easiest thing you’ve ever done in your life.

He crashes down, kissing you deep and fervently, until your laughter is replaced by soft moans, and your legs are spread in invitation on the bed. Dean pulls up, licking his lips, and stares at you with something close to awe.

You just keep smiling at him. It always seems to make him soften within a few moments.

And it does. Like clockwork, Dean shakes his head, sighs, and leans down to kiss you a little more gently.

“You’re gonna kill me one day,” he murmurs against your lips, letting go of one hand so he can cradle your neck, and you drag your fingers over his chest with a hum.

“I’m not worried about it.” You whisper. “You’d come back to me.”

He nods.

The tiniest nod. You don’t think he even knows he does it. There, all the same. 

And you know. Neither of you are going to win your games.

But you’re both still so bad at playing them. 

“Do you like like me?” Dean asks an hour or so later, when your legs are shaking and little Dean is twitching against your thigh from being slightly overworked—though he never complains. 

“Do I like like you?”

“Uh- Yeah?”

You laugh. Force yourself to roll over, and crawl forwards to your rightful place on Dean’s chest. 

“C’mon, it’s not that dumb a question-“

“It is a little.”

“Well, if you don’t like like Frank-“

“I don’t sleep with Frank.” I don’t wait for Frank like the Earth waiting to get back to the Sun. “I sleep with you.”

“Eh.” He smirks, squeezing your ass. “Not a lotta sleepin’ going on- Shit-“

You squeeze his still softening dick, and he moans, rutting into your hand. You almost giggle again, but it falls into a gasp when he sits up suddenly—keeping you against his chest but flipping you around so your head drops on his shoulders and your ass pressed on his cock—and drags his hand between your thighs. 

“You’re good at helpin’ me win arguments, baby.” He drawls in your ear, and you whine. 

”Dean-“

“Mouthy girl.” He drags his mouth over your throat, and you shake in his arms. “You know what you do me, sweetheart. Not real fair to tease, when you know I’m barely keeping up.”

You try to squirm, to get just a little bit of friction, and Dean lands a firm slap on your pussy. Your whole body jolts, nails sinking into his arm, and he chuckles. 

“I know, I know.” He’s cooing, taunting, and it only makes you ache for him more. “I’ll give you anything you want, baby. Just gotta say please.”

You nod, and manage to babble out the words. You didn’t know you were capable of having so many orgasms, until you met Dean. You know he’s the only one who can do this. Reduce you to a drooling, cockdrunk mess, and still have you crawling back on your knees for more. 

It would be nice, if that’s all he does to you. 

But he also makes you feel wanted. Desired. Loved, even if he never says the word allowed. Even if the idea is all but forbidden. 

But you still wait for him at the edge of the mattress, while he brushes his teeth. Shifting restlessly until he comes out of the bathroom, and smiles at you. 

Dean crosses the room, and takes your face between his hands. Stares at you for a moment—always fondly, always like he’s not sure you’re real—then leans down to kiss you. Slow, like you have all the time in world.

Like he won’t be gone in the morning.

“I like like you.” You whisper, still a secret with no one else around to hear it. 

Dean smiles. Squeezes his hold on the back of your neck.

“Thank you, baby.”

You nod, curling your fingers on the fabric of his shirt. If you get him to take it off, you’ll be able to hide it before he goes in the morning, and you can wear it until it stops smelling like him. 

It might not even take tricking him. He’d just let you have it, if you asked. You know he doesn’t want to go either, but he has to. And he’s going to tell you again, not to wait for him. And you’re going to agree, and you’re both going to know it’s a lie. 

He’ll walk out the door. Look back once, before forcing himself down the hall. 

You’ll watch until he’s out of sight. Run to the window, to wave at him as he pulls out of the parking lot. Watch until the Impala is out of sight, too. 

The world with get a little duller. A little more painful. 

And then you’ll count down every second, until you see him again. 

Dean had been a goner the first time he saw Her. 

He remembers the moment clearly. How the world had slowed and he’d been sure he’d just been drinking too much, because he’d seen a lot of beautiful women but this one set off a bomb in his brain, wiping out everything but just the sight of Her. He remembers how She’d come up to him, and started talking with this voice that might’ve been made of every good song in the world. How She’d talked damn circles around him, and how She’d been young enough he felt a little like a perv, but then She’d said her name and it became the only thing he’d ever have to know again. 

Dean remembers thanking Sammy for getting annoyed at Dean mark-induced anger, and telling him to go out and do something safe and productive. Thanking the Mark, for agreeing in the moment that drinking was a good thing to do. Thanking the vamp nest that had settled on the edge of the town, for bringing him here in the first place. 

Remembers how She’d smiled in the light of the bar, how he’d tried to buy her a drink and she’d teased him about trying to get in Her pants, how they hadn’t even fully made it to the car before he’d been rubbing over Her underwear, and had barely been on the road for five minutes before She’d been taking him in her mouth. 

But mostly, Dean remembers waking up the next morning, and feeling something dangerous blooming in his chest. 

Peace.

He’d reached over the mattress, traced his thumb over Her cheek as she slept, and he’d felt like the world was more than just blood and loss and another day to get through that turned into a night to survive. The Mark hadn’t been burning in his blood and demanding more, more, more. He’d just been in this soft bed, with a pretty woman he’d spent the night giving good things to, watching the morning light shine over Her face. 

Dean hadn’t wanted to get up. He hadn’t been able to make himself, because every time he shifted, She’d make this sad little sound and it echoed in his damn chest.

So he’d just stayed, until he could explain that he had to go. She was so perfect, She at least deserved to think he wasn’t running out after taking advantage of her. 

But then he’d looked Her in the eyes, and asked if she wanted to get breakfast. And She’d smiled—it had too quickly became the sun for him, the center of everything, what moved him and offered him every bit of life—and he’d been more than gone. 

He and Sammy had cleared out the vamp nest. She’d gotten caught in the middle, Dean had gotten Her out—the Mark roaring louder than usual, and Dean not bothering to resist it at all—and he’d cleaned Her up after. Stayed an extra day to make sure She was on her feet. 

Not for any selfish reasons. Like wanting to cling to the strange peace for a little longer. Like taking advantage of Her clearly growing attachment to him, and letting himself indulge the sweetest thing he’d. ever found before he ripped it out of his hands. 

He’d explained everything, in the desperate hope that She’d help him leave. That She’d do what Cassie and Lisa had done, and told him they wanted nothing to do with that life.

But She’d just… Understood. Gotten all pouty and sad-eyed, when he’d dragged himself out the door. Smiled at him, and waved goodbye. 

And Dean didn’t count himself a good man. He had blood on his hands and a lot of wounds that didn’t seem to bother to heal. Hell, back then he’d been bearing the damn Mark of Cain, been made of all his worse thoughts and urges. But he’d always thought he’d made up for it by not being a douchebag. Maybe he had a body count so large he lost track, and maybe he lied and tricked and fought dirty, but he respected food workers. He tipped. He never touched a lady unless She wanted it, and he never judged—most of—the shit he heard. 

He also kept upfront about what he wanted. He’d given Her the usual speech, before they’d started stumbling out of the bar laughing like teenagers.

One night. 

He could give Her everything she ever wanted, for one night. 

She’d agreed. He’d made his don’t fall in love joke, but it had sounded flat to his ears. 

Dean thinks he might’ve known, even then. 

He certainly knows now. 

“You remember what you said to me?” He asked last time, sitting at Her feet while she did something with string and his favorite flannel that made it look new again. “That first night?”

“What I said to you?” She’d frowned. “No? Am I supposed to?”

“Nah. Just wonderin’.” He’d turned his cheek, pressing it into Her knee. 

She looked almost delicate, in this kind of light. Like a mist that was going to blow away with the wrong wind. A dream Dean might forget if he dared to wake up, a trick of the light that would vanish if he blinked. He could’ve been happy there for the rest of his damn life. At Her feet, watching her softer hands work, right where he could keep Her safe and adored for the rest of his sorry life. 

She’d paused Her work on his flannel. Smiled down at him, running Her fingers through his hair. Dean had felt like a damn dog, and turned into the touch. 

“What did I say?” She’d asked softly, and he should’ve guessed She would. She likes to know everything. 

He still doesn’t understand, how She can know him and still open the door every time.

“Was it stupid?” She asked softly, and Dean had chuckled. She couldn’t be stupid if She tried. 

“Nah.”

“Well, what-“

“You told me I had big shoulders.”

She’d stared at him for a second. Does that thing he loves, where She sorta blinks and gapes and flushes, like just a few words from his dumb mouth are capable of short-circuiting Her quick brain.

Dean had leaned up and cupped Her jaw to close her mouth. She’d swatted his hands away with a scowl, and he’d laughed.

“Fuck off, I did not say that-“

“Swear you did.” He’d kissed the back of Her hand, because it makes him feel more like a gentleman than the ass who just shows up and crashes in Her bed. “You just sat down and started objectifying me, was pretty freakin’ rude-“

“Shut up.” She’d said with a smile. “You love being my object.”

Dean had chuckled and pushed up into a kiss. 

She had no damn idea. 

And when She finally shoved him gently away, reminding Dean that She had to finish Her work on his flannel, he’d gone back to watching at Her feet. She stitched that thing up like it had never been worn in the first place. Even gotten those complex seams that used to make him declare a shirt as good as dead. Gave him new buttons, too. Like he deserved something so small and important. 

Dean had wondered, as he watched Her. Wondered if he should start ripping up flannels, so he had a better excuse to come back. If maybe She’d like a life in the bunker, stitching flannels and talking to him forever, and if She’d ever forgive him for daring to think something so selfish. 

He’d wondered if She knew. That She stitches him up like that flannel, every time She let him back into her arms. 

And if Dean were a stronger, worse man, he’d just let himself take Her. Sweep Her fully of her feet with the love confession he’s been rehearsing in the shower and on longer drives, for damn near two years. The one that goes I can’t offer you money. Or a real house. Or healthcare, or children, or even really damn pets. I can’t promise you I’ll come home, every time I walk out the house, and I can’t promise there ain’t always gonna be a target on your back just for holding my hand. 

But I can promise I’ll protect you. And love you. And take care of you until someone shoots off my hands, cause even if they shoot off my head I’m gonna figure out how to keep my body working to take care of you. 

In his imagination, She’d make a face and whisper like a chicken?

And Dean would laugh, and smile at Her because he remembered how to, when She was around. 

Yeah. A chicken, sweetheart. I’ll be your chicken. And I’ll damn try, all the time, to come back. I’ll try to give you everything you want that I got, and if I don’t got it, I’ll figure out a way to make it. 

Please. 

His confession always ended with please, because even in Dean’s fantasies he can’t work out a world where She says yes. 

There are moments, where She looks at him for a long enough moment that the words work their way to his mouth. The sit on the tip of his tongue like a sour candy he needs to spit out. He almost says it, then chokes it back down. 

There are a lot of moments, where he almost tells Her. 

Sometimes it’s only nights like these, that stop him. 

He had a nightmare again. It’s a reoccurring one, now. 

She gets hurt. It started more abstract, but it’s narrowed down to one, horrible scenario. 

Dean wakes up in Her apartment, and she’s gone. He calls Her name, tears the place up, tears the town up, and She’s still nowhere to be found. 

Then he turns, and She’s there. And the world feels peaceful again. He runs towards Her, reaching to pull her back into his arms.

And She dies. 

Dean touched Her, and she just… dies. 

He woke up in a cold sweat, fighting the pillows and reaching for his gun. It took him a minute to realize it wasn’t real. Another three to calm down, after he looked at Her side of the bed and realized she wasn’t there. 

Because he was in his room. At the bunker. 

The place he’d worked so hard to keep Her away from. 

But now he’s just lying here. Staring at the ceiling and holding the sheets on Her side of the bed. Trying to close his eyes, but it’s damn impossible when he does and just sees her lifeless body again. 

He fumbles in the dark and grabs his wallet. Stares at Her drawing for an hour, then tries to lie back down again. 

She’s fine. She has to be fine.  

He closes his eyes by accident. Shoots right up, and makes for his pants and shoes. 

“Where’re you going?” Sam asks when Dean storms past him, barely looking up from his book.

“Out.” Dean grunts, because it’s not worth even trying to lie to Sam anymore. 

He’s not even that good at lying to himself. 

Because he tries to protect Her from afar. He swears up and down that he won’t go back to Her, won’t keep stealing Her time and affection, won’t tempt himself with something he can never have. With a love he’s never going to be able to hold. 

But he has to see Her. Now. Just to be sure that she’s safe. 

So Dean goes. 

It’s three in the morning, when you hear the knock. You wouldn’t have gotten up to answer it, if you hadn’t recognized it as Dean’s. He knocks the same way every time. Sometimes you mimic it on the table, to torture yourself with the idea of him being there. 

And he pops up whenever he pops up. You’ve long stopped trying to track his appearances, but you know he doesn’t show up on your doorstep at the start of the week, and he doesn’t show up in the middle of the night. 

It’s a Tuesday. It’s been Tuesday, for three hours. 

You walk a little faster, rubbing your eyes and grabbing the baseball bat he insists you keep in the closet. If it is your Dean, he might be in danger. If it’s not, you’re about to bash someone’s brains in and sprint for the hills. 

The knock repeats, a little louder than last time. You hear him call your name through the door, and it certainly sounds like Dean. When you lean up to look through the peephole, it looks like Dean. 

He’s swaying in the hall, eyes glossy and a little bloodshot. There’s a strangely relaxed look on his face, and sighs heavily when you still don’t open the door, stumbling forward to drop his brow against the wood. 

“I know you’re in there.” He mumbles, hand reaching up to trace the door. “Heard you walkin’ around. If you got someone in there, I can just sit on the couch or somethin’. Won’t even talk, just wanted to…”

He sighs heavily, and your chest aches. Your fingers move to the knob, begging you to just remove the barrier between you, but something’s twisting in your gut. You’ve never seen him act like this. Never seen him look so tired and desperate, and that doesn’t seem like a monster thing, but he had told you to be careful- 

“I was thinkin’ about you.” He mumbles. “Missed you. Always missin’ you all the time, and- I dunno. Had a dream, it’s kinda fuckin’ stupid, but- Can you cough for me, baby? Need to hear that you’re alright, then I’ll go.” He looks up, almost staring at you through the peephole, and you swallow. Your hand closes around the doorknob, the opposite one slipping on the bat, and- 

You wait a little too long to respond. Dean sighs heavily, taking a large step back and shoving his hands into his pockets. The step alone takes a second for him to recover from, his whole body swaying from the motion. You let the bat fall from your hand, because you need both hands to reach for him, but-

“Never mind.” He says, shaking his head. “’m gonna go. Sleep well, baby. Love you.”

You almost kick the door off its hinges, his words like ice water being doused over your head. 

Love. 

He said he- He said- 

Dean’s face splits into a wide, boyish grin the moment he sees you. He says your name, barreling forward, and pulls you into his arms. He’s warm, holding onto you tight enough you’re being picked up off your feet. You hug him back, still dazed, the world moving too fast. 

Love. He said love. He said- 

He mumbles your name, pressing his face into your neck, and you brush your fingers through his hair lightly. He’s still made of muscle and soft strength, but something about it feels delicate. He’s not really saying anything, which isn’t Dean at all. He’s still swaying back and forth, and he smells like the same warm cologne and full, deep Dean smell he’s always had, but there’s also- 

Liquor. He smells like whiskey and beer. 

He’s drunk. 

You sigh. The swaying and strangeness. For whatever reason, Dean’s just wasted, and he chose to come to you. 

It’s not something you can allow yourself to read into right now. That can happen in the morning, when he’s safe and sobered up, and you can try to read his reaction to waking up in your apartment. For now you just guide him backwards inside—you try to pull away, but he makes a sound like a kicked puppy and holds you tighter—and slowly coax him out of his shoes and jacket.

“Did you drive here?” You ask softly as you work the jacket off his shoulders, and he nods. 

“Mhm. You’re warm.”

You swallow. “Thank you. Dean, baby, you shouldn’t drive drunk-“

“‘M not drunk-“

“You really are-“

“Only had like- Five drinks. Four.” He leans back, scrunching his face a little too adorably. “How many are in the big pack thingys?”

“How many… Beers?”

He shrugs, fingers reaching up to play with your hair. “Uh huh. We can go count the bottles. I broke one when a freakin’ bird started shoutin’ at me, but the others. Got ‘em still.”

“You- Dean.“ You lean back, grabbing his face between your hands. He looks at you with a bright, hopeful adoration, and it only makes your chest ache more. 

He says your name, leaning forward with a grin—a full, wide smile you’ve never seen on his face—and you take a deep breath.

“Did you drink them, then drive? Or drive, then-“

“I drove ‘em then drank.” He shrugs. “‘M not that stupid. Not tryin’ to die before I can see you.” He leans down, pressing his brow against yours. “You’re pretty.”

You flush. “Thank you. I- I didn’t think you were gonna, but- Shit-“ He presses further over you, making you stumble back slightly. 

Some of Dean’s usual instinct seems to kick in as you fall. He wraps his arm tightly around your back, and pulls you up before falling to the couch, forcing you to straddle his lap. 

He grins up at you, still open and joyful, and sinks into the cushions so easily. 

“I ain’t drunk.”

You sigh. “Dean-“

“‘m not. You’re pretty.”

“You’ve said that twice now.”

“Doesn’t make it less true. You’re so hot, it’s freakin’ crazy.” He drops his face into your chest, like it’s physically paining him to look at you. “You don’t get it, sweetheart. I haven’t even been able to watch porn anymore ‘cause of you. ’S not the same.”

You flush, opening and closing your mouth in a pointless attempt to try and find a way to respond to that. 

There really isn’t one. Not with the word love still ringing in your head like a church bell. 

You settle for a soft. “Oh.”

Dean just hums, and when you gently guide his head back, his eyes are heavy and a little dopey. He’s still smiling at you, even as they droop. You run your fingers through his hair and he sighs happily. 

“You’re okay.” He murmurs, almost to himself. It cleaves your heart in half.

“Yeah. I’m okay.” You smile softly. “You’re drunk.”

“Nah-“

“You had six beers, my love.” You let yourself call him that. If he said it, you can too, and he doesn’t even really seem to notice at all. 

He just makes another like face and shakes his head. “No, I had the pack-“

“Yeah.” Your smile grows. “That’s six.”

“Hm.” He pauses, clearly thinking a little too hard about this. “Six. Siiiix. Sex.” He grins at you. “We should have sex-“

“No.” You place a hand flat on his chest, giving him a stern look. “You’re drunk, buddy. No sex.”

He pouts for a second, staring down at his shoes, then sighs. “Fine.”

You giggle at his complete dejection, tracing your hands over the planes of his chest. His breath starts to pick up, fingers squeezing on your hips, and it might be rude to tease him like this but it’s so fun. Especially when he leans a little bit up like he’s going to try and take you, but then manages to pull himself back and flops down sadly into the cushions.

“Can we have sex in the morning please?” He asks hopefully, and you hum. 

“We’ll see.”

That just makes him pout more. “Why. If you don’t wanna, just tell me and I’ll be super cool about it-“

“You’re begging me right now,” you tease, and he makes a sour expression. 

“‘M not begging.”

“You said please-“

“It’s bein’ polite. And,” he leans up, until his handsome, drunken face is only inches from yours. “I really wanna have sex with you.”

“I know.” You whisper, eyes wide on his. 

And you shouldn’t ask. You shouldn’t. He’s drunk, he doesn’t know what he’s saying, he might not mean any of this at all.

But-

“Why?” You say, so quiet you almost can’t hear it yourself. 

He frowns. “Huh?”

“Why do you wanna have sex with me? We-“ You swallow. “We’ve done it a lot before. In almost all the positions.” You smile weakly. “You gotta be tired of me by now.”

Dean blinks at you. Like he doesn’t even understand what you’re saying. “Yeah, but… I love you.”

That’s what you wanted to hear. What you were fishing for. 

It still knocks all the air out of your lungs when you hear it. In full, plainly like he can’t fathom that there would ever be another answer, hanging in the silence of your living room as you just stare at Dean’s open face. 

He said it. He said it. You’re breathing too fast, your nails sinking into his shoulders like you can cling to the confession, like you’re trying to swallow it down before he can take it back. 

But Dean just keeps blinking up at you, almost innocently adoring.

He’s so drunk. 

This isn’t about you. It’s about Dean. About forcing yourself to smile and kiss him gently, before standing up and guiding him into the shower. Checking him for injuries before getting him changed. Brushing his teeth then herding him into bed. 

Some foolish part of you thought you’d be able to go turn off the living room light while he waited. You don’t even get off the bed before Dean’s arms are around your waist, and you’re being yanked back down. 

“Don’t go.” He mumbles against the back of your neck, and you sigh. 

“Dean-“

“Please.”

You swallow, then nod. Curl fully back, rubbing his forearms around you until his breathing starts to steady, his body slowly going limp. 

“Never want you to go.” He says suddenly, right before you think he’s about to fall asleep. His voice is raw and tired.

Tears sting at your eyes. “I’m still here, Dean. Right here.” You squeeze his arm, and he sighs.

“Yeah, but it’s gonna be gone.” He sighs. “Wish I could stay. Or take you with me, but… Can’t.”

“You could.” You whisper, twisting to watch him in the dark. “I- I’d go.”

He just stares at you for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse.

“You shouldn’t.”

“I would.”

His throat bobs. For a second, there’s something new shining his eyes. It’s clearer than everything else. Burning right into you with his attention, his hands a little tighter on your body. 

“I keep a drawing of you in my wallet.” He rasps, and your heart does a little skip. 

“I have a folder of your photos on my phone. I- I show them to my friends.” You flush. “They think I made you up.” 

Dean’s mouth twitches. He’s starting to sound like himself again. “Did you?”

“Make you up?” You whisper.

He nods. 

“I don’t know. I- I hope not.”

“I hope I didn’t make you up either.” He traces his hand down your arm, never breaking your gaze. 

You swallow. “I feel real.”

He hums. “That’s good. Would suck pretty bad if you weren’t.”

You laugh softly, and Dean watches you like you’re the most important thing he’s ever going to see. You smile at him. He leans a little closer. 

“Sometimes I just stand outside.” He rasps. “If I got a night. I’ll drive up here and just… Sit in the fuckin’ parking lot.”

“I watched a documentary about you.” You offer. “It called you a crazy serial killer.”

His mouth twitches. “I am-“

“I left it a one-star review.” You raise your voice over his. “And I- I still opened the door.”

“You… You did.” He mutters. “Every single time.”

“Yeah. I did.”

For a second, you just stare at each other. Time doesn’t feel like it’s moving. You don’t want it to. 

“When you sit in the parking lot.” You say softly. “Why don’t you come inside?”

He chuckles, rolling onto his back. “Cause I’m gonna do something stupid. Like this, and sayin’ that I-“

He cuts himself off, hand curling on his chest. You push up on your elbows, hanging over him, and he stares at you with a clear helplessness. 

Dean mutters your name, clearly begging you not to say it. 

But he said it first. And you need to know. If you’re allowed to stop playing games now. 

If you’re allowed to have him. 

“You love me?” You finish for him, and Dean sighs. 

“I- Don’t say that, sweetheart-“

“You said it-“

“I was drunk.” He mutters. He won’t look at you anymore. “I was drunk and talkin’ stupid and- Just don’t. Please.”

You swallow, your heart caught in your throat. You could swallow it, and hope you digest it this time. That it finally passes through you, and the game is done like that. 

But you don’t want to. 

Dean is looking at you like he expects you to kick him out. Like he’s bracing for you to spit venom and hit his chest and curse his name. He’s almost shrinking away from you, one hand clinging to your wrist even as he makes a face like his heart is already breaking. 

You won’t let it. Not here. Not when him breaking would break you too. 

So you lie down next to him. Move your hand to tangle in his, your shoulders pressed together, Dean’s breathing shallow as he turns to watch you in the dark. 

You look at him, and smile. Let all your love for him shine in it, squeezing his hand once. 

He holds yours tighter. Holds onto it for dear life. 

Says your name, and this. This is begging. Maybe for you to stop, or go, or just do the simple thing and kick him out. 

You won’t. Not now. When he’s there, and maybe yours, and- And- 

You could have him. 

In all his broken, drunken and exhausted beauty, you can have Dean. 

“What would you say?” You murmur, and his lips press in a tight line.

“I- I dunno-“

“Can I tell you what I would say? If- If you’d ever asked?”

Dean swallows, but nods. You smile again. It’s so easy, when you’re looking at him.

“I’d tell you I love you.” You whisper. Dean’s grip tightens. “That I’ve been in love with you for- Pretty much the whole time. That I hate watching you leave, and I hate when you pretend like you don’t care if I’m dating, and I hate when you remind me that you might not come back, because I need you. I need you to come back. Every- Every time you go-“ You cut yourself off, your voice starting to ache. “Every time you leave me I hate you. But I love you so much it doesn’t matter. I- I like loving you so much more than I hate missing you. Dean, I-“

He says your name, words tight and choked, and you shake your head.

“I love you. I love you so, so much, I’m never gonna-“ You take long unsteady breath. “You just leave me here. And I wait. Because I love you.”

And Dean just stares at you. Holds your hand and stares at you, his face pale and flushed all at the same time. 

“No.” He finally mutters. He still doesn’t let go of your hand. “Sweetheart, that’s- You love the idea of me, you don’t love the real thing-“

You snort dryly. “The real you?”

“Yeah.” He snaps, sitting up suddenly. “The real me. I’m not just some fuckin’- Sex guy who drops in, fucks you, then runs off to a day job. I kill people, baby. I got a body count bigger than any documentary is gonna tell you, I got people who hunt me down for what I’ve done, there ain’t anyone in my life because everyone who was there is fuckin’ dead, and I-“ He shakes his head, starting to pull back. “I’m not lettin’ that happen to you. No. No way in hell-“

“Why?” You demand, and your voice isn’t harsh or even that loud, but it cuts Dean off completely. “Why don’t you want it to happen to me?”

He makes a sour expression. “Because.”

“Because?”

“Yeah. ’S what I said-“

“Is it because you love me?”

Dean scowls. “That doesn’t matter-“

“It matters to me-“

“‘Cause you think you’re in love with me.” He spits. He’s still holding your hand. “And I’m tellin’ you, you’re not, so it doesn’t matter-“

“I am in love with you.” You sit up, making your voice firmer. Unwavering. “And I know you, Dean. I’m not just some girl who got the wrong idea about something, I know you. You’ve told me everything, even the ugly shit, and I kept opening the door.” You glare at him, and he freezes, staring at you with wide-eyes. “I sit with you after all your nightmares, I let you bring a gun into my house, I look you up on the news every day because I am terrified you’re going to die and come back all wrong or whatever, and I’m going have to figure out how to be strong enough not to open the door.”

Dean’s mouth falls a little bit open, and you glare at him, far from done. 

“Because I would. I’d let you in with those creepy black eyes and I don’t even think I’d regret it. Because I love you.”

Dean makes a strangled sound, and you poke his chest.

“You show up covered in blood and talking crazy about angels and demons, you give me fuckin’ gun and booby trap my apartment and make me do codewords, and I let you in. I know who you are, Dean Winchester. I know exactly who you are.”

He catches your hand on his chest, expression fully broken, and pleads your name. You curl your fingers on his chest and hold his hand.

“You’re a good man.” Your voice turns soft, and he cringes like you hit him. “You’re a good man, Dean. I don’t love you because of the sex, even if the sex is great.” You laugh softly. 

Dean looks like he tries to laugh, but it comes out more in a sound like a wounded animal. Silent tears are streaming down his face, and you sigh. 

Reach up to wipe them away, and let Dean bow into your touch. His eyes are hooded, and trapped on yours. 

You offer him a small smile. 

“I love you because you make me happy.” You say. “I love you because you keep trying to protect me, even when it hurts you. I love you because when I tried to hit on you at a bar by saying you had big shoulders, you gave me pointers about how to pick other guys up, then asked if you could be the first I try them on. I love you because when I laughed, you apologized and started just talking to me. And we talked for so long, and you called me pretty, and I- I’d been called that before, but-“ You give him a sad smile, tears staining your own cheeks. “You didn’t want anything. You just- You just said it because you wanted me to know, and it felt good to be known.” 

You shift toward, rising on your knees to press your brow to his. 

“I like you.” You whisper. “Like like you. I like like knowing you. And I like like loving you. I- Never used those moves on anyone else.” You giggle softly, tears still falling. “They worked once really well. And I don’t want to try them again. I kind of really love what I have.”

Dean blinks at you slowly. His tongue darts over his lips, eyes flicking down to your own, breath still ragged. If he needs to kiss you, you’ll let him. 

But instead, he just starts to cry.

Dean folds over you, body shaking, and cries. It starts muffled and restrained—like he’s still trying to shove it back down—but you rub his back and hold him close, and he slowly falls apart. 

You move slowly, so that you’re lying against the headboard and Dean is in your lap. You keep him gently in your arms, kissing the top of his head every few moments and running your hands soothingly over his shoulders, his back, through his soft hair. Slowly, the choked sounds turn to heavy breaths, and he eases himself down. 

His face presses into your stomach as his chest rises and falls. You wait, cradling the back of his neck and humming to yourself softly. Eventually Dean turns to look up at you, eyes still red, and lets out a heavy sigh. 

“I- I do.” He says, voice rough, and you just smile.

“I know.” 

He heaves, crawling a little up your body. “I mean it, baby, I do-“

“Dean.” You cup his face, and he freezes. “I know.”

His mouth twitches. You just smile in return. Dean grabs your hand, turning to press a kiss to your wrist. His eyes shine when you giggle, tension releasing from his shoulders. 

He collapses over your body with a heavy sigh.

“I’m gonna feel like shit in the morning.” He grumbles, and you laugh. 

“It’s six, De. Basically is the morning.”

“Great. I feel like shit now.”

“You could go to sleep. That might help.”

Dean hums skeptically. “Are you gonna sleep.”

“No.” The whole night still has you too wound up. “Not tired.”

“Hm.” He pushes up over you, elbows braced on either side of your head, pinning you to the mattress. 

His nose bumps yours, and your eyes widen, hands flying to his chest.

“I could help with that.” He murmurs, and you swallow. 

“Dean-“

“I got a clear head.” He kisses the corner of your mouth gently. “Swear. I’ll do the alphabet backwards if you wanna hear it, but if I’m bein’ honest I can’t do that front or back-“

You tug him down for a full, deep kiss. It’s slow. Lazy. His tongue traces your lips and you open with a soft moan, legs spreading as Dean’s mouth works you up quickly. 

But still, you gently push him back. He goes easily, raising his brows, and you flush. Glance down to his shirt, where your fingers have started to play with the soft fabric.

“Are you…” Your eyes dart back up to his. “Are you gonna stay? In the morning?”

Dean nods, no uncertainty in his voice. “Yeah.“ He grabs your hands, pulling them up to kiss your knuckles. “I’m gonna stay until you kick me out, alright. Might come and go, but- You can come if you want. An if you don’t, I got a phone, and my brother’s phone, and a laptop that I can steal-“

“Dean-“

“Point is I’m yours.” He says quickly, sounding a little frustrated with himself. “I stay until you kick me out.”

“I won’t.” You say quickly, and Dean grins. 

Truly, fully grins. 

“Guess I’m gonna be here a long time, then.”

“Yeah. Guess you are.”

His grin impossibly widens, eyes darting down to your body. “And…”

You laugh. “We can have sex in the morning.”

Dean collapses back over you with a dramatic groan of relief. “Thank god. And- After that, too?”

You giggle, kissing the top of his head, and he curls further into your body. Looks at you like you’re more than an angel, his voice still teasing, but also just a little more. 

Filled with affection, and hope, and love.

He’s yours to love. 

“Yeah.” You say, and Dean beams. “We can do whatever you want.”