#clingy reader

At first, it’s subtle. Your head tipping against his shoulder, your breath evening out as you tuck yourself closer. He assumes you’re tired, that you need grounding, something solid to hold onto after everything. So he lets you. Always lets you.

But then your nose presses into the crook of his neck.

And you inhale.

Slow. Deep. Like you’re trying to memorize him.

Bucky stills.

“Doll,” he murmurs, voice low, a little rough around the edges, “you good?”

You hum in response, barely coherent, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket. “Yeah. Just… stay.”

He doesn’t move for the rest of the flight.

---

It escalates from there.

Not all at once. Not in a way that feels strange at first. It becomes a habit, something natural, something instinctive. You gravitate toward him in every room, every hallway, every quiet moment between missions.

But it’s not just closeness.

It’s him.

His scent—clean soap, something faintly earthy and woodsy, a trace of gun oil that never quite leaves his skin no matter how hard he scrubs it away. There’s warmth there, too. Something unmistakably him. Grounding. Safe. Addictive in a way you don’t even try to fight.

You start seeking it out without thinking.

In the kitchen, you’ll slip behind him, arms wrapping around his waist, face pressing between his shoulder blades. He’ll pause mid-sentence, metal fingers tightening slightly on the counter as he feels you breathe him in.

“You’re doing it again,” he says once, not unkindly.

You don’t even bother denying it. “You smell good.”

A beat.

Then, softer, quieter, almost shy despite the words, “You always do.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s trying to process that.

“Yeah?” he asks.

You nod against him, already nuzzling closer.

He doesn’t push you away.

---

On missions, it gets worse.

Or better, depending on who you ask.

After fights, after close calls, after the kind of moments that leave your hands shaking and your chest tight, you seek him out before anything else.

You’ll grab his vest, drag him down just enough to press your face into his neck, inhaling like you’ve been starved of it.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, one arm coming around you automatically, metal hand hovering at your back before settling carefully against your spine. “We’re okay. You’re okay.”

You don’t answer.

You just breathe him in again.

And again.

Like if you stop, something terrible might happen.

At first, the others pretend not to notice.

Then they stop pretending.

---

Movie night is when it really becomes a problem.

Or not, again, depending on who you ask.

The Thunderbolts are scattered across the living room, the lights dim, some action movie playing on the screen that no one is really paying attention to. Popcorn’s half gone, someone’s arguing about plot holes, and Bucky is seated on the couch, broad and solid as ever.

You are, quite literally, in his shirt.

Not wearing it.

In it.

You’d started the night curled against his side, but at some point, you’d tugged his shirt open just enough to slide your arm inside, pressing your cheek flat against his chest. One of your legs is thrown over his thigh, your fingers loosely hooked into his waistband, keeping yourself anchored.

Your face is buried against his skin.

Breathing him in.

Completely oblivious to everything else.

“Are you even watching the movie?” Yelena asks from across the room, one brow raised.

You don’t respond.

Bucky glances down at you, lips twitching despite himself. “She hasn’t seen a single second.”

“I’m comfortable,” you mumble, voice muffled against him.

John snorts. “Comfortable? She looks like she’s trying to fuse with you.”

“Wouldn’t blame her,” Alexei adds, grinning.

Bucky shoots them a look, but there’s no real heat behind it. His hand comes up instead, brushing gently through your hair, smoothing it back from your face. You lean into the touch immediately, pressing closer.

“Hey,” he murmurs, softer now, just for you. “You good?”

You nod against him, inhaling again, slower this time. “You smell like home.”

It hits him harder than he expects.

His chest tightens, something warm and unfamiliar settling deep in his ribs.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly.

You hum. “Yeah. Makes everything feel… quiet.”

For a moment, he just looks at you.

Then his arm tightens around your shoulders, pulling you impossibly closer, if that’s even possible.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, even tthough you’re already there. “Stay as long as you want.”

You don’t need to be told twice.

---

It’s late when the movie ends, the others filtering out one by one until it’s just the two of you left in the dim glow of the television. You haven’t moved an inch.

Bucky glances down at you, a soft huff of amusement leaving him. “You planning on getting up anytime soon?”

“No,” you answer immediately.

He huffs again, but there’s fondness in it. “Figured.”

You shift slightly, tilting your head just enough to press your nose back against his neck, inhaling deeply.

He stills for a second then relaxes.

“Y’know,” he says after a moment, voice low, thoughtful, “I don’t mind it.”

You blink up at him. “You don’t?”

“Nah.” His thumb brushes lazily along your arm. “If that’s what you need, doll… you got it.”

Your chest warms at that, something soft and heavy settling there.

“You’re stuck with me, then,” you tease lightly.

His lips curve into a small, almost shy smile.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, tightening his hold on you just a fraction more. “I think I’m okay with that.”

You nuzzle back into him, breathing him in like you always do.

Except “cool” lasted about four minutes.

Because Bucky wasn’t just any guy—he was warmth and quiet laughter, calloused hands that traced lazy circles on your thigh when he thought you were asleep. He smelled like cedar and soap and something that made your chest ache. Every time he leaned close, every time his metal fingers brushed your waist by accident, you felt gravity shift.

So yeah, keeping your distance? Impossible.

Still, you tried.

When he came home from training, sweat-slick and tired, you stayed curled on the couch instead of running up to greet him. When he went to shower, you didn’t follow him with some flimsy excuse about needing to “borrow” his razor. You kept your hands to yourself when he sat beside you, even though your skin buzzed from the effort.

You didn’t notice his frown until it was too late.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice soft, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You okay, doll?”

You blinked. “Yeah, of course. Why?”

He tilted his head, studying you like he could read every thought you didn’t want him to see. “You’ve been… quiet. Not that I mind, just—feels different.”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just giving you space.”

That made him pause. Really pause. “Space?”

You shrugged, hoping you sounded casual instead of heartbreakingly needy. “I don’t wanna be all over you all the time. You probably need room to breathe.”

Something in his expression cracked. “Room to breathe,” he repeated, almost like he was testing the words.

You nodded, though it hurt a little to do it.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, he laughed softly—just one short breath of disbelief before he reached for you, tugging you effortlessly into his lap.

“Doll,” he said, low and steady against your hair, “you think I don’t like it?”

“I don’t want to smother you,” you mumbled into his shoulder.

He smiled into your hair, his voice a little rough. “Sweetheart, I spent years without anyone even touching me. You could hang on me all day and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

Your breath caught. You pulled back enough to look at him, to really see the sincerity in his blue eyes—the way they softened, like he was afraid you’d stop believing him.

“I like when you reach for me,” he said quietly. “Makes me feel wanted. Human.”

Your heart cracked open. “Bucky…”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You think I don’t notice when you stop holding my hand? When you sit just far enough away that I can’t touch you? Feels like someone’s turned off the lights.”

You huffed a tiny laugh, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “I didn’t wanna scare you off.”

He shook his head, cupping your cheek with his metal hand, gentle as anything. “Scare me off? Doll, you’re the only thing that doesn’t scare me.”

That was all it took. Your restraint snapped like a rubber band.

You buried your face against his neck, arms winding tight around him. He let out a low, pleased sound—a sigh that melted into a hum—as his arms wrapped around you just as fiercely. He held you there, broad hand smoothing up and down your spine like he was trying to memorize every curve, every breath.

“Better,” he whispered.

“Better?” you teased softly.

“Mhm.” His lips brushed your temple. “Could stay like this forever.”

You smiled against his skin. “You say that now, but give it an hour—you’ll need to stretch, or—”

“Or what?” he murmured. “You’ll still be here. That’s what matters.”

He shifted you gently, so your legs were thrown over his and your back hit the couch cushion. You thought he might get up, maybe grab water or something, but instead he settled in right beside you—his arm a solid weight around your waist, his fingers tracing lazy shapes over your hip.

“See, this is what I mean,” you said, giggling when he pulled you closer.

“What?”

“You’re too good at this. Makes it hard to be cool.”

He chuckled, eyes crinkling. “Don’t be cool then.”

“Easy for you to say.”

He tilted his head, metal fingers brushing your chin up until you met his gaze. “You don’t gotta hold back with me. Not ever.”

The air between you went soft and heavy. Your hand found his chest, right where the steady thump of his heart lived. “You sure?”

He nodded. “You could ask for a hug every ten minutes and I’d still come running.”

You laughed, curling up into him again. “I’ll take that as a challenge.”

“Please do,” he said, the smile in his voice making you melt.

You stayed like that, tangled up and warm, the afternoon sun spilling across his metal arm where it rested on your hip. His fingers traced patterns you couldn’t name, but you felt each one like a promise.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t fight the urge to hold on tighter.

He leaned down and murmured, “You know, I think I’m worse than you.”

You glanced up, amused. “Worse?”

He nodded solemnly. “You’re trying not to be clingy, and I’m over here planning how to glue you to me permanently.”

You snorted. “That’s not how relationships work, Buck.”

“Then we’ll make it work our way.” He kissed your cheek. “You hold on as much as you need. I’ll never pull away.”

Your throat tightened as you looked at him—this man who’d learned to crave softness after so many years of going without it. You smiled, pressing a hand to his chest again, just feeling the rhythm of his heart.

“Deal,” you whispered.

“Good.” He grinned. “Now stop pretending you don’t wanna cuddle me and get over here.”

So you did—because how could you not?

spencer and you had been dating for six months now. in those six months, you’ve been rather touchy in front of your friends (in the months that they knew about your relationship). because of this, they weren’t surprised to see you perched on your boyfriend’s lap, smiling and hugging the genius who’s lap you were on.

he would be so smug as jj ‘aww’s at the two of you, not knowing what’s really going on underneath your skirt.

and when morgan grins at spencer bc he finally sees him happy, he doesn’t understand just how happy spencer truly is.

your face is just buried in spencers neck as you take deep breaths, trying not to give it away. you pepper light kisses on his ear when you know that hotch and rossi are both asleep.