Just Here To Read Fanfics

18+ Multifandom reader/reblogger

[jehovahhthickness]

Tell the truth.

Why are y'all single?

[ambiguous-avery]

Dean Winchester x fem!angel!Reader

Summary: Cast down from Heaven with your Grace locked away and your memories fractured, you wake up alone and very much human – until you cross paths with the Winchesters. As the three of you search for answers that Heaven doesn’t seem to want to give, you’re forced to navigate the world without your divinity and face the fact that some truths may have been buried to protect you. Or others.

Tags/Warnings: Mystery, Canon-divergent, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, angel learning human shenanigans, fluff, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men Each part will have its own list of tags included in it

Read on Ao3

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

Part 16

Part 17

Part 18

Part 19

Epilogue

---

Drop a comment, ask away, or add yourself to my taglist!

Moodboard for the series made by the lovely @wvffles

[atwistoffate]

The Space Between Us - Part 1

Dean x Reader Summary: You and Dean get hit with a curse, one that really hates distance. And it keeps tightening the longer it lasts. Seems like you’re stuck side-by-side now… good luck with that. Word Count: 1.6K

Dean knows something’s wrong the second you both stumble out of that warehouse, gravel crunching under his tired feet, sharp beneath the quiet night sky. Silence stretches all around, but it’s heavy, almost suffocating, and there’s a weight on his chest, pressing down with every shallow breath.

He forces in a deeper one, telling himself he’s just tired. He’s not twenty-five anymore after all. Step by step, he keeps up behind you until his fingers brush the cold metal of the Impala.

“Man… that was rough,” he exhales, sliding into the car and letting his shoulder slump against the leather seat. Another breath in, and then a glance your way, and another, just to make sure you’re okay. He has to make sure, and he has to double-check.

He sees your eyes do the same, scanning him quickly, and his chest tightens. Then he realises he can finally take a little more air in, and he nods to himself, swallows down the night, or at least tries to.

“What the hell was that?” you groan, slumping in the seat next to him. “I’m beat.”

“Yeah… you’re telling me,” he murmurs, turning the key in the ignition.

The road to the motel crawls beneath the tires. It shouldn’t feel this long, but every mile drags. 

The seats are comfortable, and the night sky presses down in quiet reverence. Normally, you’d drift toward the windows, imagining the lives inside the houses you pass. Not tonight. Tonight, your bones ache and your head feels too heavy to wander. So you just close your eyes and breathe, letting the darkness carry what little energy remains.

When you finally get to the motel and step into the warm shower, something nibbles at the edges of your awareness, prickling under your skin, weightless but warm, sliding inside. You rest your head against the shower door and breathe in, breathe out, letting the water wash over your tired bones, soothing with its steady passage.

It was supposed to be a quick job, in and out, easy for the most part. That’s why you hadn’t even told Sam. The guy deserved one weekend at Eileen’s without the job breathing down his neck.

And you and Dean… well, you were bored out of your minds, and Lebanon, Kansas, doesn’t exactly offer much in the way of fun. That was all the rationale you’d needed.

And now here you are, dragging yourself out of the shower like an eighty-year-old woman with arthritis.

Dean is staring off into space when you return to the room. Sitting on his bed, he frowns at… something. Probably his own thoughts; it wouldn’t be the first time. Then he looks at you, eyebrows scrunched. “You feel… weird at all?”

Oh, here we go. The start of every nightmare.

“Uh, just tired, I guess. Why? Something wrong?” 

“Nah,” he waves it off. '‘S probably nothing. Must be gettin’ too old for this crap.”

“Yeah, reading my mind,” you comment as he heads for the bathroom. 

The nagging feeling is still there, just a breath away, crawling toward your insides again, but you’re too damn tired to care. Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow, when your brain can handle more than one thought at a time.

So you lie down and close your eyes, letting the warm hum of water from the shower and Dean’s low, lazy humming lull you toward sleep. The sound is steady, grounding, and for a moment, it’s enough to make the creeping weight inside fade to the background.

The edges of the motel room blur soon enough, and you’re pulled into another world. You’re standing in a quiet field at dusk, the air soft, smelling faintly of wet grass and earth. An ache coils in your chest, tight and heavy.

You’re walking towards Dean, and every step takes effort, but with every inch you close the distance, the weight eases, melting under the warmth of his presence.

He stands a few feet away, hands loose at his sides, eyes fixed on you. 

You step closer, the grass brushing your ankles, and finally, your hands meet. His fingers curl around yours, firm and warm, and the ache dissolves, replaced by something else: longing, and a hint of fear that this feeling could vanish at any moment.

“So cruel,” he murmurs, “making me wait for so long.”

You lean closer, drawn to him, and he brushes a strand of hair from your face. His fingers linger, warm against your skin, and he whispers, “You don’t even know, do you?”

“Know what?” 

“How I feel about you.”

Your chest tightens, and you snap awake, gasping slightly, trying to draw in deep, steady breaths to calm yourself. The motel room is dim and quiet. Across the small space, Dean lies in the bed next to yours, chest rising and falling in a slow, familiar rhythm.

You shake your head at yourself, as if chastising the dream for affecting you so deeply. Slowly, you turn your back to him, curling slightly under the covers. You try to push the dream from your mind and sink back toward sleep, but his words keep returning, echoing through your mind, impossible to ignore.

Your breathing steadies, if only a little, and eventually, the darkness of sleep draws you back in, this time into a dream without him.

—

The morning drifts by soft and easy as you and Dean head back to the bunker, music blasting, wind lifting your hair out the open window. Dean drives like he always does, one hand on the wheel, steady, familiar. 

A full night of sleep has worked wonders, and you already feel clearer, lighter.

When you glance over, he’s tapping the rhythm out on the wheel, mouthing the lyrics, and something in your chest unclenches. You’re both safe, and you’re going home.

“You know, been thinkin’,” he says eventually, lowering the radio a notch. “Could do a little reunion tonight. Invite some folks over - Eileen, Charlie. Would be nice.”

“I’d love that, but… can we do it tomorrow?”

“Why?” His head snaps toward you, not sharply, just enough to show he’s alert. Worried. “Something wrong?”

“No, no,” you say quickly. “I just… have plans tonight.”

Another glance from him, this one slower. A crease forms between his brows. “Plans?”

“Yeah. The guy from the case in Lebanon last week.” You try for casual, shrugging. “He asked me out. Figured it wouldn’t hurt.”

Dean’s mouth tightens, just barely. “Didn’t know you were lookin’ to date. Far as I remember, you said you—what was it—‘can’t see yourself in a relationship.’”

“I did say that,” you admit. “I don’t know. Something about it felt… Right enough to try, I guess.”

“Yeah,” he says, one syllable, quiet. “Right.”

He nods, like he’s agreeing with himself, not you. His jaw flexes once. Then he turns the radio back up, not loudly, just enough to fill the space that used to feel easy.

He doesn’t drum anymore, doesn’t hum, doesn’t even glance your way.

He just grips the wheel a little tighter and stares at the long road ahead.

—

Sam’s already back at the bunker when you and Dean come down the stairs. He’s texting, smiling at his phone – no mystery there. “Hey, guys,” he calls, hearing your steps. “Where were you?”

“Just a hunt,” Dean says. He doesn’t offer anything else, doesn’t even slow down. He barely drops the duffel on the table before walking straight out of the room. His footsteps echo as he moves away. Maybe they’re not even that loud, maybe you’re just too tuned into him.

The second he crosses the threshold, though, something slams into you.

Your stomach twists violently, nausea climbing your throat. Cold sweat beads on your skin. You grip the table with both hands to keep yourself upright as your vision blurs around the edges.

Sam says your name sharply and is at your side in a heartbeat. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I… dunno,” you manage, breath hitching. “Don’t feel so good.”

He steadies you with a hand around your shoulders. “Sit down, c’mon.” He guides you into a chair, and you’re barely seated before he runs out of the room, toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab you some wa—”

He doesn’t finish. 

“Dean!” Sam shouts suddenly, and he’s running again… not toward the kitchen at all. “Dean, what’s wrong?!”

Fear surges so hard through you that you force yourself up, legs trembling. You manage only a step or two before another wave of nausea knocks the breath out of you. The room tilts, and you cling to the table, trying again, needing to move, needing to see.

Then Sam drags Dean into view.

He’s pale, ashen, and barely standing on his own. His knees buckle once before Sam hauls him upright again.

“C’mon,” Sam says urgently, arm locked around his brother’s waist. “C’mon, Dean, it's gonna be okay.”

The moment Sam drags him fully into the room—

Everything stops. Your nausea. The shaking. The fog eating at the edges of your vision. Gone.

You straighten instantly, breath clearing, as if someone just flipped a switch.

Dean blinks hard, like he feels the sudden shift too, and stands a little straighter, letting go of Sam’s arm. His breathing evens out, colour returning to his face. 

“The hell?” he mutters, looking down at himself.

Sam looks between you and Dean, eyes wide, concern tightening his jaw. “Okay,” he says carefully. “What is going on with you two?”

Though your vision has cleared and your legs are steady again, the moment holds you fast. It lies heavy in your stomach, thick with a fear you can’t name. Because when your eyes find Dean, breathing but shaken, you know this isn’t over. Whatever has marked you has marked him too, and it’s only just begun.

---

Part 2

---

Dean Tags: @hobby27 @foxyjwls007 @hotgirlsshareaccounts @katiejade @missyoudean

[romanczukowsky]

Medically Necessary

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: Fred and George Weasley need one final volunteer to help perfect their newest Skiving Snackbox invention.

Unfortunately for you, Fred takes his role as your “personal healer” far too seriously.

Especially when the antidote runs out.

Warnings: Slow burn / Soft smut / Suggestive themes / Suggestive scenes / Sensual kissing / Flirtatious teasing / Chaotic flirting / Poison candy experiments

The first sign that something was terribly wrong with Fred and George Weasley was the smell.

Not a dangerous smell, exactly.

Just… deeply concerning.

It drifted through the Gryffindor common room three days after everyone returned from summer holiday — thick curls of sugar and smoke and something strangely acidic, like burnt caramel mixed with potion fumes.

You looked up from your book just in time to see a first-year yelp as sparks exploded from his pocket.

The room erupted into laughter.

Fred Weasley leaned back against the sofa, entirely unapologetic. “Good news,” he announced. “Your trousers are now scientifically fireproof.”

“They’re smoking!”

“Temporary side effect.”

George, sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by parchment, scribbled something down. “Increase Flobberworm mucus stabilizer,” he muttered thoughtfully. “Noted.”

The common room had slowly transformed into the twins’ personal laboratory since returning to Hogwarts. Every available surface was covered: parchment sketches, ingredient jars, half-finished sweets, violently colored smoke bombs, tiny labelled vials and experimental candies that looked deeply illegal.

Even Lee Jordan had stopped accepting random samples after one particularly unfortunate incident involving temporary purple teeth and uncontrolled hiccups.

You stepped over a pile of parchment carefully. “You know normal people spend the first week back studying.”

Fred looked up immediately at the sound of your voice.

“Well, that sounds tragically boring,” he said, sprawled lazily across the sofa. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, ink smudged across one hand, hair messier than usual from repeatedly tugging at it. “We’re innovators, sweetheart.”

George snorted. “That’s one word for it.”

Fred ignored him completely, eyes already fixed on you instead.

It was honestly irritating — the way he looked at people. Like every conversation was secretly amusing him. Like he knew exactly how to make someone flustered and enjoyed watching it happen in real time.

Unfortunately for you, Fred seemed to enjoy doing it to you most.

You crouched near the coffee table, eyeing a tray of suspiciously bright chocolates. “What are these supposed to do?”

Fred sat up. “Our masterpiece.”

“You eat one half,” George explained, holding up a dark piece of chocolate, “and it makes you properly ill—”

“Fever,” Fred added.

“Nosebleeds.”

“Fainting, if the dosage is right.”

“And then—” George held up the second half triumphantly, “—you take the antidote and recover immediately. Perfect for escaping lessons.”

You stared at them.

“…You’re actually insane.”

“Visionaries,” Fred corrected smoothly.

Before you could respond, a loud bang cracked through the room.

Ron doubled over coughing violently near the fireplace while green smoke poured from his mouth.

George sighed. “Too much peppermint.”

Fred, meanwhile, looked delighted.

Then his gaze flicked back toward you.

Slowly, a grin spread across his face.

Not his usual loud, mischievous grin.

This one was sharper. More interested.

“Oh, this is perfect.”

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “No.”

“I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“That’s because I know that look.”

Fred stood, brushing past the sofa toward you with infuriating confidence. “Come on, love. One tiny test.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’d be helping science.”

“You nearly poisoned Neville yesterday.”

“He survived.”

“Barely.”

Fred stopped directly in front of you now, close enough that the sugary smoke clinging to his jumper wrapped around you too.

You hated how distracting that was.

His smile softened slightly, becoming coaxing instead of teasing.

“Please?”

That was unfair.

Fred Weasley saying please should’ve been illegal.

You folded your arms, trying very hard not to react when he leaned down slightly to catch your eyes properly.

“What exactly does this one do?” you asked cautiously.

George looked at the parchment in his lap. “Mild fever. Bit dizzy. Maybe temporary weakness in the knees.”

Fred’s mouth twitched.

“Interesting symptom, that last one.”

You ignored him. “And the antidote works?”

“Eventually,” George said honestly.

Fred elbowed him. “Wonderful wording, George.”

You laughed despite yourself.

And Fred noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

Something warm sparked behind his eyes at the sound, quick and pleased, like he’d won something.

“There she is,” he murmured.

Your stomach flipped annoyingly.

George reached for one of the chocolates. “We still need proper dosage testing before we finalize the doxy venom ratio.”

“Doxy venom?” you repeated sharply.

Fred waved a hand. “Tiny amount.”

“How tiny?”

He pinched his fingers together. “Scientifically tiny.”

“That means nothing.”

“It means,” Fred said patiently, stepping even closer now, “that we need someone clever enough to report symptoms properly…”

His eyes dropped briefly to your lips before lifting again.

“…and brave enough not to panic.”

Oh, he was flirting now. Blatantly.

You should’ve walked away.

Instead, you lifted your chin. “And you think that’s me?”

Fred grinned instantly.

Knew he had you.

“I think,” he said slowly, “you’re far more dangerous than you look.”

Heat rushed into your face.

George made a disgusted noise. “Can you two either kiss or start the experiment? Some of us are trying to build an empire.”

Fred didn’t even glance away from you.

“So?” he asked softly.

You looked between the suspicious chocolate in George’s hand and Fred’s expectant expression.

This was a horrible idea.

Truly terrible.

Which was probably why you heard yourself say:

“…Fine.”

George looked far too pleased with himself.

“Excellent,” he announced, already digging through the mess of parchment scattered across the table. “I’ll start a fresh observation sheet.”

Fred, meanwhile, looked at you like Christmas had arrived early.

You pointed a warning finger at him immediately. “If I grow extra limbs, I’m haunting both of you.”

“No promises,” Fred said lightly. “Could be profitable.”

George shoved a small notebook into Fred’s chest. “You monitor symptoms.”

Fred caught it one-handed without looking away from you once.

“Oh, I intend to.”

That should not have sounded the way it did.

You sat carefully on the sofa while George began arranging ingredients with alarming enthusiasm. Tiny glass bottles clinked together. A jar labelled DOXY VENOM rattled ominously near the edge of the table.

You eyed it. “That does not look safe.”

Fred dropped down beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed lightly against yours. “Relax, sweetheart. We tested this already.”

“On who?”

A beat of silence.

Fred grinned.

Merlin, he was unbearable up close.

Without the chaos of the common room distracting you, every little thing about him became impossible to ignore.

The freckles scattered across his nose... The sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms... The way his voice dipped lower when speaking directly to you... The constant restless movement of his hands.

He looked completely at ease.

You, meanwhile, felt strangely aware of your own breathing.

George finally handed Fred a small chocolate square dusted with sugar.

“Version seventeen,” he declared proudly.

Fred examined it critically. “Smells less murderous.”

“Thank you.”

You eyed the chocolate suspiciously. “Why is it fizzing?”

“Character.”

“It’s not supposed to fizz?” you asked immediately.

Fred laughed under his breath.

“See? This is why you’re our favorite tester already.”

Your heart did an annoying little jump at favorite.

Before you could overthink it, Fred held the chocolate out toward you between his fingers.

“Open up.”

You stared at him.

He raised an eyebrow innocently.

“Oh, don’t start blushing now, love. We haven’t even begun.”

“I am not blushing.”

“You absolutely are.”

George gagged loudly from the table. “I miss when we were professional.”

Fred broke off a piece of the chocolate and handed it to you properly this time, still smiling to himself.

“Ready?”

Probably not.

You took a breath and popped it into your mouth.

The taste was surprisingly good at first—sweet honey and caramel melting on your tongue.

Then came the burning.

“Oh, Merlin—” you coughed.

Fred immediately leaned forward. “What?”

“It’s spicy!”

“That’s not supposed to happen,” George said alarmedly, flipping through notes.

Fred looked delighted. “Write that down.”

You swallowed hard, pressing a hand dramatically to your chest. “I think my organs are dissolving.”

“Interesting,” Fred murmured, already opening the notebook. “Subject reports dramatics.”

You snatched for the notebook immediately. “Give me that!”

Fred leaned back easily, laughing as you tried to grab it from him.

“Careful,” he warned, one hand catching your wrist before you could fall sideways into him. “Scientific process.”

His fingers stayed wrapped around your wrist a second longer than necessary.

Warm. Firm.

Your pulse stumbled traitorously beneath his touch.

And Fred felt it.

You saw the exact moment he noticed.

His eyes flicked downward briefly, amusement sharpening into something quieter. More focused.

“Well,” he said softly, thumb brushing once against your skin, “heart rate’s certainly elevated.”

Heat rushed straight to your face.

George looked up from the table. “Any dizziness yet?”

“Yes,” you said immediately, still looking at Fred. “Severe.”

Fred’s grin turned wicked.

“Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Unfortunately for you, the effects started working properly a few minutes later.

It began with warmth creeping slowly through your body.

Then your head felt oddly light.

You shifted against the sofa cushions. “Okay, maybe this one’s actually doing something.”

Fred instantly straightened.

“What kind of something?”

You pressed fingers to your temple. “Warm. Little dizzy.”

George perked up. “Perfect.”

Fred shot him a look. “Don’t say perfect like that.”

George rolled his eyes. “You’re the one who wanted stronger symptoms.”

“Yes, but preferably not fatal ones.”

“That’s reassuring,” you muttered weakly.

Fred’s attention snapped back to you immediately.

“Hey.” His voice softened slightly. “Look at me.”

You did.

Big mistake.

He was sitting even closer now, knees angled toward yours, notebook forgotten beside him as he studied your face carefully.

Not teasing this time. Actually studying you.

“How dizzy?” he asked quietly.

“Room’s spinning a little.”

Fred placed a hand lightly against your forehead.

His palm was cool. Your entire body reacted embarrassingly fast.

“Definitely feverish,” he murmured.

George scribbled furiously. “Excellent.”

“You are deeply weird people,” you informed them.

Fred smiled faintly, though his eyes stayed on you.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Probably.”

By the end of the week, testing became routine.

Which was probably concerning.

Every evening after dinner, the three of you disappeared into whatever empty classroom Fred and George had temporarily claimed as a laboratory. The tables were crowded with ingredients and parchment, potion stains spreading across the wood in suspicious colors.

George handled measurements.

Fred handled you.

At least, that was how it slowly started to feel.

“Version twenty-three,” George announced one night, sliding another sugar-dusted sweet across the table. “Reduced doxy venom. Stronger fever response.”

Fred took it automatically before you could reach for it yourself.

“Any side effects from the last batch?” he asked, flipping open his notebook.

You leaned back in your chair. “Temporary blindness.”

George looked horrified.

Fred barely glanced up. “She’s joking.”

“…I hate that you knew that immediately.”

He smirked slightly. “You get this little look before you lie.”

Your stomach flipped.

That was another problem lately: Fred had started noticing things.

Small things. Dangerous things.

Like when you were cold, when you were tired, when you were pretending not to stare at him, when his hand brushed yours and your breathing changed.

And unfortunately, Fred Weasley seemed deeply entertained by all of it.

“Open,” he said casually, holding the candy toward your mouth.

You narrowed your eyes. “You know I can feed myself.”

“Mm.” Fred tilted his head thoughtfully. “But where’s the fun in that?”

George made another disgusted noise from across the room. “I’m begging you both to act normal for ten seconds.”

Neither of you listened.

You leaned forward reluctantly, letting Fred place the candy onto your tongue.

His fingers brushed your lower lip deliberately on the way back.

Your eyes snapped to his instantly.

Fred’s expression remained perfectly innocent.

Bastard.

The candy fizzed sharply against your tongue.

“Immediate reaction?” Fred asked.

You swallowed carefully. “Nothing yet.”

He scribbled something down.

You tried to peek at the notebook. “What are you even writing in there?”

“Scientific observations.”

“You’re absolutely not.”

Fred looked offended. “How dare you question my integrity.”

You lunged for the notebook anyway.

He caught your waist immediately before you could reach it.

The movement was quick, instinctive— his hand spreading warm against your side as he pulled you back into your chair with effortless ease.

For one stupid second, neither of you moved.

Fred’s fingers tightened slightly.

Your breath caught.

And Fred noticed that too.

Of course he did.

His eyes flicked down to your mouth briefly before he released you slowly, smirking when your face heated.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You’re getting distracted again.”

George looked up from his parchment. “Honestly, just date already. This is exhausting.”

You grabbed the nearest quill and threw it at him.

Unfortunately, about fifteen minutes later, the experiment stopped being funny.

You were sitting on one of the desks swinging your legs absentmindedly while Fred asked questions from his notebook.

“Any nausea?”

“Little bit.”

“Dizziness?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Blurred vision?”

You squinted at him dramatically. “You’ve become strangely attractive all of a sudden.”

Fred barked out a laugh.

George gagged again. “I’m leaving. I can’t do this anymore.”

“You live for this,” Fred called after him.

The classroom door shut behind George, leaving the two of you alone for the first time all evening.

The silence shifted instantly.

Not awkward.

Just… closer.

Fred looked back down at his notes, though the corner of his mouth still twitched from laughing.

“You know,” he said casually, “you’re surprisingly good at this.”

“At poisoning myself?”

“At trusting us.”

You snorted softly. “That part still feels questionable.”

Fred hummed in agreement, then glanced back up at you.

The expression on his face changed slightly when he noticed you swaying a little where you sat.

His teasing faded almost immediately.

“Hey.”

You blinked slowly. “Hm?”

Fred stood, crossing the small distance between you in seconds.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” you said automatically.

Then the room tilted violently.

Your hand slipped against the edge of the desk.

Fred caught you before you could fall.

One arm wrapped firmly around your waist while the other steadied your shoulder, pulling you against him so quickly it knocked the breath from your lungs.

“Easy,” he said sharply.

The dizziness hit harder this time—hot and heavy beneath your skin.

You pressed instinctively closer to him.

Fred went very still.

“…Okay,” he muttered quietly, more to himself than you. “That’s new.”

Your forehead dropped briefly against his shoulder while the room spun.

Fred’s hand slid up your back carefully.

“Hey,” he said again, softer now. “Talk to me.”

You laughed weakly. “Think your science is trying to kill me.”

“That’s usually George’s department.”

Despite the joke, you could hear it: the tension creeping into his voice.

Real tension.

Fred guided you carefully onto one of the desks, standing between your knees while he checked your temperature again with the back of his hand.

His brows pulled together immediately.

“You’re burning up.”

“Dramatic wording,” you mumbled.

“You’re shivering.”

You hadn’t even realized that until he said it.

Fred’s expression sharpened immediately.

Not playful. Not teasing.

Focused.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Tell me exactly what you’re feeling.”

You tried to answer normally, but your head swam the second you lifted it. “Warm. Dizzy. My legs feel weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Weird as in I don’t think they work properly anymore.”

Fred swore softly under his breath.

That got your attention more than anything else.

Fred almost never sounded nervous.

He turned quickly toward the cluttered table behind him, scanning bottles and notes with sudden intensity.

“George said version twenty-three reduced the venom concentration…” he muttered.

“Well,” you said weakly, “either George can’t count or I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying.”

The answer came too fast.

Too sharp.

Fred grabbed a vial from the table, frowned at it, then immediately shoved it aside again.

“No, not that one—”

You watched him move around the classroom faster than usual, sleeves shoved up higher now, hair already a mess from running his hands through it.

And suddenly the whole thing became strangely surreal.

Fred Weasley— cocky, impossible Fred Weasley— actually looked worried.

A little thrill curled low in your stomach despite the dizziness.

“Fred.”

He looked up instantly.

You smiled weakly. “You care.”

He froze for half a second.

Then narrowed his eyes at you. “This is hardly the moment to look smug about it.”

You laughed softly.

Bad decision.

The room lurched violently again.

Your breath caught as nausea twisted sharply through you this time, fingers gripping the edge of the desk.

Fred crossed the room immediately.

“Hey—hey.” His hands landed on your waist before you could slide off the desk completely. “Easy.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re very obviously not okay.”

His voice dropped lower now. Closer.

You looked up at him through the haze in your head and suddenly became painfully aware of how near he was standing.

One hand still braced against your waist. The other resting against your knee.

Warm. Steady.

Fred’s eyes searched your face carefully.

“How much did you eat?”

You frowned. “One piece.”

“Are you sure?”

“…Maybe one and a half.”

Fred stared at you.

“You what?”

You winced slightly. “I got curious.”

“Sweetheart,” he said slowly, sounding genuinely offended, “that is deeply irresponsible behavior.”

“You literally created poison candy.”

“Yes, professionally.”

Despite yourself, you laughed again.

Fred exhaled sharply through his nose, somewhere between irritated and relieved that you were still joking.

Then his expression shifted the second your smile faltered.

The dizziness was getting worse.

You swayed forward slightly— and Fred reacted instantly.

His hand slid up your back while the other cupped your jaw gently, steadying your head before you could even realize you were falling toward him.

The touch made your stomach flip.

Even now. Especially now.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured.

“You said I was burning up two seconds ago.”

“You’re somehow doing both. Very talented.”

His thumb brushed lightly beneath your jaw while he studied your pupils with frustrating concentration.

You should not have noticed how pretty he looked while worried.

That felt deeply unfair.

“Fred,” you mumbled quietly.

“Hm?”

“You keep staring at my mouth.”

His eyes flicked up immediately.

For one dangerous second, neither of you moved.

Then Fred huffed a breathless little laugh.

“Venom-induced hallucinations,” he decided. “Tragic.”

“Liar.”

That crooked smile appeared briefly again.

There he was.

But it faded almost immediately when your hand slipped weakly against his chest.

Fred’s entire posture changed.

“Okay,” he said firmly. “No more testing tonight.”

You blinked slowly. “Aw. I was having fun.”

“You nearly passed out.”

“Tiny detail.”

“No,” Fred said quietly, “not tiny.”

Something in his voice made you still.

He looked… genuinely shaken now. Not dramatically. Not loudly.

Just too alert. Too careful.

Like the thought of something actually happening to you had suddenly become very real in his head.

The realization settled warm and strange beneath your ribs.

Fred swallowed once before speaking again.

“I need to get you the antidote.”

“Bossy.”

“You like it.”

Unfortunately, he sounded very pleased with himself for someone currently panicking internally.

You smiled faintly. “Maybe a little.”

Fred’s eyes darkened instantly at that.

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like: “Going to be the death of me.”

Then he stepped back reluctantly, moving toward the potion supplies again.

You watched him for a moment through blurry vision.

Fred rummaged through the cluttered table with growing irritation.

“Where’s the bloody antidote vial?”

Outside the windows, rain tapped softly against the glass, the castle nearly asleep around you. The only light came from a few flickering lamps near the desks, casting warm gold across Fred’s face as he searched through bottles and notes with increasing frustration.

Glass bottles clinked together loudly as he searched through the mess George had left behind.

“No, no, that’s the fever reducer— bloody hell, George—”

“You’re literally panicking.”

“I am not panicking.”

He absolutely was.

You could see it in the way he kept rereading labels twice now, jaw tense beneath the warm glow of the lamps.

Then suddenly—

Fred stopped moving.

His eyes dropped to a crumpled piece of parchment near the edge of the table.

Slowly, a grin spread across his face.

Not relieved.

Dangerous.

“Oh,” he murmured.

You narrowed your eyes weakly. “Why do you sound like that?”

Fred picked up the parchment quickly.

Too quickly.

“What’s that?”

He folded the parchment immediately before walking back toward you, looking far too pleased with himself for someone supposedly dealing with a medical emergency.

You stared at him. “Why are you smiling?”

“Well,” Fred said casually, stopping between your knees again, “good news.”

“Is there antidote left?”

“…Technically no.”

Your jaw dropped.

“Fred!”

“But,” he continued smoothly, one hand settling against your waist, “according to our notes, there is another method.”

Your eyes narrowed instantly.

“What method?”

Fred’s grin widened.

“Apparently,” he said, fighting obvious amusement now, “physical contact helps neutralize the dizziness.”

“That sounds fake.”

“Very scientific, actually.”

“You made that up.”

“I’m wounded you think so poorly of my integrity.”

You tried to glare at him properly, but another wave of dizziness hit instead, forcing your hand instinctively against his chest to steady yourself.

His hand slid more securely around your waist.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you whispered.

“Oh, immensely.”

Your eyes dropped briefly to his mouth before you could stop yourself.

“I still think you’re lying.”

“That’s fair.”

And then he kissed you before you could argue more.

Slow at first.

Almost careful.

Like he was trying not to overwhelm you despite the fact that he was very obviously enjoying himself now.

His hand slipped from your waist to your jaw, thumb brushing lightly beneath your chin as he kissed you warm and deep and entirely too well.

You melted against him immediately.

Fred smiled faintly against your lips.

“Oh, definitely working,” he murmured.

You laughed breathlessly into the kiss. “Shut up.”

Your fingers curled into the front of his jumper automatically, pulling him a little closer without thinking.

Fred made a quiet sound low in his throat at that.

“Merlin,” he breathed softly against your mouth. “You’re trouble.”

“You poisoned me.”

“Minor detail.”

His forehead rested briefly against yours while both of you laughed quietly under your breath, the dizziness finally fading into something warm and hazy instead.

“You know we’re ridiculous, right?” you whispered.

Fred grinned lazily. “Completely.”

“And George is absolutely going to figure this out.”

“Mm.” Fred brushed another quick kiss against your lips. “Worth it.”

Then—

The classroom door burst open.

George walked in carrying three ingredient boxes before stopping dead in the doorway.

Silence.

His eyes moved slowly between your flushed face, Fred standing between your knees, your hands gripping his jumper, and Fred looking entirely too pleased with himself.

George blinked once.

“…Interesting.”

Fred didn’t even move away from you.

“In fairness,” he said calmly, “this was a medical emergency.”

George narrowed his eyes immediately. “You used the fake antidote excuse?”

You turned toward Fred so fast he physically laughed.

“FAKE?”

Fred looked delighted by your outrage. “I panicked creatively.”

“You liar!”

“You were very convincing as a dying person!”

George dropped the boxes dramatically onto the nearest desk. “Oh, this is unbelievable. I spend weeks perfecting venom ratios and Fred turns the experiment into foreplay.”

Fred finally stepped back just enough to shoot his brother an offended look.

“That is an outrageous accusation.”

“You’re literally still holding her waist.”

Fred glanced down.

Paused.

Then tightened his grip slightly out of spite.

“Scientific support.”

You buried your burning face into your hands while George gagged loudly.

“Right,” George announced. “New rule. No snogging the test subjects.”

Fred looked genuinely thoughtful. “That feels anti-innovation.”

A few days later, George officially banned Fred from being left alone with the test subjects.

Fred took this personally.

“Completely unfair,” he complained, leaning lazily against the table while you sorted through ingredient jars beside him. “I’m an excellent medical professional.”

“You told Angelina a nosebleed was ‘character building,’” George called from across the room.

“And I stand by that.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head.

The classroom smelled faintly of sugar and potion smoke again, warm evening light spilling through the windows while Fred pretended to help and mostly just hovered near you instead.

Actually, hovered was generous.

He’d become annoyingly attentive since the doxy incident.

You reached for one of the candy samples.

Fred immediately caught your wrist.

“Absolutely not.”

You blinked at him. “It’s a Fainting Fancy.”

“Exactly.”

“You invented it.”

“And now I’m having regrets.”

George made a choking sound somewhere behind you.

Fred ignored him completely, eyes still fixed on you.

“You nearly collapsed last time.”

“You also kissed me last time,” you pointed out innocently.

Fred froze.

George dropped an entire box of sugar quills.

The silence lasted exactly two seconds before Fred grinned slowly.

“Fair point.”

Your cheeks warmed instantly.

Fred looked unbearably pleased by that.

Then, casually—like it meant absolutely nothing—he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to your mouth.

Soft. Brief. Familiar.

Your breath caught anyway.

George gagged violently in the background.

“That’s it,” he announced. “I’m separating your workstations.”

Fred barely looked away from you.

“Jealous because nobody wants to kiss you?”

“YOU MADE THAT PART UP!”

You laughed so hard you nearly knocked over a jar of doxy venom.

Fred caught it immediately with one hand while the other steadied your waist on instinct.

For a second, all three of you paused.

Then George groaned loudly.

“Oh, brilliant. Now he’s got reflexes for her too.”

Fred only smirked, thumb brushing lightly against your side before letting go.

“Scientific instinct,” he said smoothly.

You rolled your eyes.

But Fred noticed the smile you tried to hide.

And later that night, when he thought you weren’t looking, he quietly added one final note to the corner of his observation sheet:

Subject responds extremely well to kissing. Research ongoing.

[what-am-i-doing-in-this-fandom]

hey, I was just at "things got better" island and everyone there is talking about how excited they are to meet you

[switchblade-dragon]

Hey yeah so this post literally kept me alive for like 6 months. Thank you. And OP is so right. Everyone on this island became my best friends. And guess what? Now they can't wait to meet *you* and they talk about you every single day.

[magicalqueennightmare]

Nyx Masterlist

John Walker x Mutant Reader (nicknamed Nyx due to mutation being the ability to control shadows)

Down The Road

Heroes

Movie Night

In It Together

[magicalqueennightmare]

John Walker x Reader (nicknamed Echo)

Header by and Co Creator is @desimarie12

You, John and Lemar. You were the three that could handle anything together. When John got chose for the Cap mantle and Lemar for his 2nd you chose to redeploy. After Lemar’s death and the hell you go through on that deployment it appears John has betrayed you in the worst of ways. You set out to get retribution by any means necessary but is he innocent or guilty? And can you two repair all that was broken between you? {Finished}

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8*

Part 9

Part 10*

Part 11

Part 12

[and-fishing-equipment]

sorry but someone assuming you have "left a fandom" when you don't post about it a lot anymore feels like bilbo coming home to the sackville bagginses having him presumed dead and selling all his stuff. girl i was just on a little quest????

[angellic4l]

boys, bets, and sobriquets - d.m

in which; fem!bau!reader and derek make a deal that causes an argument 3 months later

content: tw! reader has something similar to an anxiety attack but it isn’t specified as that! flirty!derek, bau!reader, hurt comfort (?), angst, fluff, there’s a ‘bet’ made, reader has a shitty date, swearing/cussing, they argue ofc, one bed trope.

wc: 5.2k

a/n: my first ever request!! i’m so honoured and just happy that someone trusted me with their vision, i hope this is what you wanted angel! kisses!

Faint sounds of the regular office shenanigans danced around the bullpen; soft clicks of computer keyboards, Reid flipping the pages of some obscure novel at a super human speed, Andersen brewing a pot of coffee, and the scrawl of your pen on a case file all coming together to sing the corporate symphony.

One noise was missing though, the sound of Derek’s chair moving side to side as he talks to everyone and anyone possible rather than actually doing his work. His voice rings out from by the glass doors and your head rises from the manilla folder to see what’s going on. His eyes meet yours, an arrogant, self-satisfied smirk on his face, one that tells you he actually got the new receptionist’s number.

Morgan takes his seat across from yours, looking at you expectantly, awaiting your questioning of his absence or why he’s so happy. Instead, you shake your head at him but the smile on your face betrays your mock disapproval. With a soft sigh, your hand loosens its grip around the pen, letting it drop to the oak desk beneath you.

“Alright, I’ll bite. You got the receptionist’s number, I’m guessing?”

“Number? No, no, baby girl, I got a date and her number. You underestimate my charm.”

“Right, I forgot that you were such a CasaNova.”

“I prefer the term irresistible, sugar.”

“This actually works for you? The whole cocky womaniser thing?”

“I’m not cocky. It’s called confidence. And a little sweet talking.”

“Oh, I’m sure they all love your ‘confidence’. I refuse to believe any respectable woman would fall for that,” you tease, tone making it clear you’re joking.

“Oh, like you wouldn’t fall for all of this,” he retorts, hand gesturing from his face down to his torso.

“In all seriousness, I really wouldn’t. You’re not my type, D.”

“Not your type? Sugar, don’t play with me right now.”

“I’m not! I just wouldn’t fall for it, it’s not my thing.”

“Let’s make a bet, then. I flirt with you-“

“Absolutely not,” you scoff.

“Let me finish! I flirt with you, you flirt with me, and we’ll see who falls first.”

You ponder his words for a while, going through it in your head. Morgan’s physically attractive, sure, but almost everybody thinks that. With your time at the BAU, you figure if you were going to fall for him, it would’ve happened already. Fuck it, why not?

“You’re on, Morgan. Be warned, you’re gonna fall in love with me.”

That little bet was made 3 months ago. You remember it like it was yesterday because it was the day you subjected yourself to the worst fate possible. Falling fast and hard for Derek Morgan.

Now, every time he flirts with you and you flirt back, it just stings. It’s like a cruel snippet of what could be if he liked you back, if you swallowed your pride and let him win, if you would just tell him. Instead, you reciprocate the flirting, keep your pride intact by never admitting anything, and keep your feelings for him a secret.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

A ringing noise rouses you from sleep, the soft vibration of your phone reverberating throughout the oak nightstand to the left of you. It’s not the sound of your alarm, and based on how the only light your eyes had to adjust to came from your phone, you suspect it’s a phone call instead. Another case, presumably.

Tired limbs scramble to find the phone, your hands fumbling until they feel it beneath them, and you pick up without even looking at the contact name. Sleep has yet to leave your body, still lingering like a phantom, so your voice is groggy when you speak.

“Hello?”

“Hi, angel. You know I hate to do this, but Hotch needs everybody in the office in 30. Urgent case,” a soft, saccharine voice rings out, one you recognise as Penelope’s.

“M’kay. Be there soon, Penny. Love you.”

“I love you too, dear,” she says before the line goes dead, leaving you in silence once more.

As you pull the phone away from your ear, your eyes catch the time displayed on the phone: 2:36 AM. A groan escapes your lips when you realise it had only been 5 hours since you left the BAU, 3 of which you’d been asleep for. Being called in after just coming back from a case was annoying, but this soon was just infuriating.

By the time you were at the BAU, it was safe for anybody to say, profiler or not, that your mood was absolutely sour. Since Penelope had called you back in, your day had only gotten worse. While in a rush to get ready, hands flying everywhere to rag clothes on, you’d managed to lose an earring. On the way into work, someone had cut you off at an intersection, causing you to slam on your brakes, ultimately sending your coffee all over the passenger seat.

Operating on 3 hours of sleep was easy enough, standard for most FBI agents, especially for you. That wasn’t the issue here, no, it was the fact that you’d been called in after just returning from a week’s long case, the act somehow triggering an infuriating chain of events for you, leaving you earringless, coffeeless, and bitter.

Once everyone else had arrived, it was clear they could sense the sourness radiating from you, only sharing small greetings instead of sparking up a conversation. Hotch announced the briefing would be done on the plane to save time, prompting everyone to grab their go-bags and start to move.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

After shoving your go-bag into the overhead space, more aggressively than needs be, you take a seat around one of the tables and watch as the others follow suit. Everyone seems almost hesitant to sit next to you, hovering before sitting somewhere else, disrupting the order of everyone’s usual seats. It’s sort of understandable, it’s obvious that you’re in a mood of some sorts and they’re probably just trying to give you breathing room, but it’s only annoyed you a little more.

Morgan ends up taking the seat next to you of his own free will, considering there were still 3 empty seats he could’ve sat in. Usually, you’d be happy to have Morgan sit next to you, but most of your conversations involve playful flirting, something you’re not in the mood for right now.

What doesn’t help is your growing feelings for him; on a normal day, playful flirting is hard because you know it doesn’t mean anything, but today isn’t a normal day. Today, you’re pissed off and tired, and the thought of entertaining something that’s only going to make you feel worse is utterly dreadful.

Maybe he’ll spare you, you think, he knows that you’re not in the mood for it, so he might just leave it alone and not say anything. Hotch’s voice steals your attention from the thought, pulling your focus to the case at hand instead.

The briefing moves fast, ideas being bounced around like a ping pong ball being bounced off the pegs in an arcade game, everybody collaborating with different theories, or building on someone else’s. Garcia searches what she can based on the few things you can all profile for certain, but it’s clear that this case won’t be an easy one.

The killer is experienced, that much is obvious, but that means he’s killed before. Where, none of you are sure because VI-CAP doesn’t have a match for the M.O you’ve all decided on. It’s not looking good for the BAU, the case is probably going to span over a week and the thought makes you even more annoyed.

Garcia’s face vanishes from the plasma screen across from you as the team starts to spread out throughout he jet, following the end of the briefing. Majority of the time, you’d sit yourself at the back of the jet and listen to music until you fell asleep, or talk to somebody, but you’re too tired to move from this chair.

Apparently, Morgan shares the same sentiment, unmoving from the spot next to you. Any and all hope of him leaving you alone starts to dissipate, knowing that Derek’s chatty, especially with you, has you dreadfully anticipating his conversation. With your luck, or lack thereof today, it comes.

“Hey, pretty girl. How’s my favourite bombshell?”

“Okay. ‘M just tired.”

“You know I can tell when you’re lying, right, sunshine?”

“Morga-“

“-‘Cause, you haven’t given me any of those sweet names, you’re not even looking at me, and your body language is telling me you’re pissed. What’s wrong, sugar?”

Morgan’s analysis fills you with fear - sure, he’s a profiler and even if he wasn’t, it’s obvious you’re in a shitty mood, but it’s not that - you make sure to hide any tells of the anxiety you’re experiencing. If Morgan can rattle all of that off with so much as one look at you, he’s been profiling you for a while. That means he knows. He knows that you like him. And he still flirts with you anyway?

Even if you didn’t think it possible, you’re even more pissed off with that fact, hell, you’re angry. Who on Earth flirts with someone they know has feelings for them? It’s cruel, hurtful, and disrespectful, none of which you thought Derek was, but clearly you’ve wildly misjudged him.

“What happened to ‘we don’t profile each other’? God, you’re such a dick, Morgan.”

“Hey, what? Mama, what is going on with you?” He asks, clear exasperation and confusion written on his face. You bite down a scoff because of course, he’s playing dumb to it.

“The fact that you’re asking is evidence enough. So obsessed with your own pride that you can’t even see what you’re doing to the people around you? Really? God, Morgan, it’s like you don’t even have eyes,” you snap, tone sharp and cutting.

“Mama, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Back up for a second, obsessed with my own pride? Is this you talking or are you in one of those ‘man-hater’ moods again?”

Morgan’s use of the words ‘man hater mood’ take you back to an incident last month. You bristle at the fact he’s bringing that up, even more so that he doesn’t believe you’re actually mad at him.

It was a Saturday night and you had a date planned, one that, due to the demands of the job, had been rescheduled three times. This time was lucky, though, because you had no case, no paperwork, and no reports due. The guy was lovely, so understanding every time you’d had to reschedule, and he was handsome, too.

Once you’d left work, giddy and smiling to yourself on the drive home, the only thing going through your head was how excited you were for the date. A week before that, you and the girls had gone shopping together, scouring D.C’s small boutiques and high end stores. While with Emily in one of the boutiques, the cutest outfit had caught your eye, it was perfect; your favourite colour, exactly your style, and looked incredibly flattering when you’d tried it on. The girls convinced you to wear it on your date, commenting on how gobsmacked the guy’d be, so you bought it.

After restyling your hair and slipping into the beautiful outfit, you were putting your shoes on at the front door. Midway through slipping your shoes on, your phone buzzed on the side table in the hallway, with bated breath, you crossed your fingers and wished it wasn’t a case. What was on the screen was infinitely worse, though.

date

hey, i don’t think this’ll work. you’re too unreliable for me. kinda crazy you cancelled 3 times for ‘work’ and can now suddenly meet up because we changed it to a restaurant.

To say you were in a foul mood the next day would be the understatement of the century. To cancel because of his reason was insane for many reasons, but the two that pissed you off the most stuck. One - that the date had changed on his accord. The weather wasn’t the greatest, so instead of the picnic in the park that was planned, he’d asked if you wanted to go to a restaurant instead. Two - that he cancelled right before the date, as if he’d just suddenly had a change of heart when he’d clearly summed you up as a gold digger long before.

As you’d walked into the BAU and sat at your desk across from Derek’s, he didn’t notice your mood straight away because he hadn’t looked up yet. So, he operated as usual:

“Good morning, angel. How’s the prettiest lady in the whole FBI?”

“Ugh, don’t even. I’m really not in the mood today, D.”

With that he looked up and his brows immediately furrowed in concern at the annoyed expression on your face, dark circles under your eyes, and the way the light in your eyes had dimmed.

“What’s up? Someone I have to beat up?”

“I hate men. Fucking hate them. They’re all so grimey and disgusting and fucking horrible.”

“Don’t generalise us, sweetheart. What have I ever done to you?”

Instead of giving him a verbal response, you just shot him a glare before turning on your computer and carrying on with your day.

Contrary to your own belief, you could get even angrier than you were, even more annoyed than you thought possible for the already shitty day you’ve been having, and Morgan’s the main reason for this revelation at the moment.

He’s still looking at you, awaiting your answer to his question with an unreadable expression on his face. Finally, you turn your head to look at him, tongue poking the inside of your mouth in some futile attempt to control it. It doesn’t work.

“Wow. You genuinely don’t believe that I could be mad at you, that it’s some other guy’s fault, huh? I’m not in a ‘man hater’ mood, I’m just mad at you! You don’t see what you’re doing Morgan, you’re oblivious to it, and it’s pissing me off.”

“Baby gi-“

“-Just leave me alone, Morga-“

“- Fine.”

A scoff leaves your lips, bitter on your tongue as it escapes because you know you shouldn’t have said it. You know you shouldn’t have opened your mouth, told him how you feel in such a snappy way. You’re in a bad mood, having let the small things get to you, and you like Derek so much that his pet names and his flirting spark fire where they should leave warmth.

As if on cue, he rises from the seat next to you and walks down the aisle in a huff, sits down in an empty seat, and shoves his headphones in. Great. On top of your so-far shitty day, you’ve managed to push away the one person who makes everything instantly better. Probably squashed the tiny chance of him ever liking you back, too.

A sharp pang in your chest leaves you feeling sick, the hurt manifesting itself as something physical deep inside, and you wish you weren’t so difficult. Instead of talking, just simply saying today was going horribly and it had affected your mood, you’d let your astringent tongue take over.

The child inside of you wants to curl up in the fetal position, cry a million rivers over a boy, feel sorry for itself while simultaneously picking at every insecurity she harbours. Instead, you opt for sleeping, a temporary escapism from the shitty position you’ve put yourself in, leaning your head back and closing your eyes.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

After landing in Montana, you’re woken up by Emily’s gentle hand on your shoulder, shaking you ever so slightly. The rest of the team was already making their way off of the jet, go-bags in hand, walking off in a line due to the small aisle. Once your limbs were a bit more awake, you stood up and followed suit.

The team went from the jet to the SUV’s, making their way to the Livingston police department. Your car was semi-silent, the only noises to be heard are the small murmurs of Reid and JJ in the back of the SUV and silent melodies from the radio.

You’re in the passenger seat next to Hotch, while Morgan sits to the left of JJ and Spencer. Usually, he’d be involved in their conversation, cracking jokes and laughing his ass off with them. Instead, he’s silent. The absence of his voice rings loudly in your ears, guilt taking root in the ashes of the previous anger that once burned. It’s your fault he’s not being himself, you just had to open your mouth when you were in a mood, didn’t you?

Eyes watch him discreetly through the rearview mirror, his arms crossed over his chest, half sunken into the leather seat, brooding. Derek’s demeanour and body language is far from how he usually is, distant and angry instead of present and bubbly. He looks so different when he’s like this; distant and angry, far from his bubbly self.

For the rest of the day, it stays the same, Derek seemingly not himself, the same surly expression on him all day. Every time you look at him, it hurts - knowing that it’s because you couldn’t control yourself, you let your emotions take over rational thought - and the pangs of guilt become excruciating by the hour.

By the time Hotch decides to call it a night and have everyone head back to the hotel, your heart physically hurts with all of the guilt that’s pressing on it and the longing tugging at it. All you’ve wanted for the past 3 months is for the flirting between you and Morgan to be real, to have him feel the same way about you as you do him. At some point, the flirting started to weigh you down, leave you with an empty feeling in the deep pits of your stomach, and a yearning so strong that it seemed pathetic.

Realistically, the silly ‘bet’ was only ever going to go one of two ways. The pair of you would have distanced, one of you would’ve pushed the other away so that you didn’t have to experience a taste of what could be before it was ripped away from you. Alternatively, all restraint one of you had would’ve snapped, the fight to not let the other win, the pride you both held so dearly would’ve lost i’s fuel, resulting in a confession from either side. In some weird, twisted way, it’d managed to be both of them on your end.

Without realising, a sigh escapes your lips as you walk in a huddle with the team into the hotel’s lobby, pulling you out of your own thoughts. Head snapping up from the red carpet beneath your feet, your eyes lock with JJ’s, who’s giving you a questioning look. You find yourself responding with a shake of the head to tell her it’s nothing, then averting her gaze before she can tell that something’s up.

The group of weary, exhausted agents make their way to the front desk, all of you moving in a similar fashion to that of a pack of zombies.

The view would be funny if all of you weren’t aching for some much needed rest. Majority of you collapse into some couches while Hotch and Rossi go to get the keys from the front desk.

Both men return to the waiting area in the lobby after about 5 minutes, 4 sets of keys in hand. When you finally look up at them, your face contorts in confusion as to why there’s only 4 sets of keys when there’s 7 of you. As your lips part in anticipation to start asking questions, your brain answers them for you, recalling the information that was relayed to you all on the way to the airstrip, seemingly forgotten in the haze of your guilty, self-deprecating thoughts.

Shit.

Considering the case was so last minute, there were only 4 rooms available at the nearest hotel, so Hotch let everyone know they’d be sharing. To avoid any arguments and prolonged delay to sleep, everyone had agreed to pair with the same person as the last time you’d all had to share rooms. Hotch and Rossi, Emily and JJ, Spencer got his own room because of his aversion to germs, and you and Morgan.

You and Morgan. In a room together.

Clearly, the universe wasn’t done with sending you a chain of awful events today, because this had to take the fucking cake. Being in a room with Morgan has never been a bad thing, but you’ve also never argued with him and basically confessed that you like him. The words never explicitly left your mouth, but surely he’d figured it out a while ago based on your body language, right?

Hotch distributes the keys to someone from every pair, snapping you out of your thoughts once more as he holds a pair out to you. Tiredly, you take it before standing up and grabbing your bag with your other hand. Today has been long, excruciatingly so, you can just go to the room and fall asleep in your own bed. You think, an attempt to ease the unease that’s residing within you.

A gloomy Derek trails behind you, almost reluctantly if your profiling skills were still intact while being this tired, the sight sends another agonising sting of guilt through your heart. As shitty of him as it was to have profiled how you felt and still carry on flirting, he isn’t the only one who has blame in the situation - you agreed to the bet, you could’ve called the whole thing off, confessed your feelings and let him win, but you didn’t - you had your share in the whole thing, too.

The door lock clicks when you turn the key, opening the door to your new home for god knows how long, but you drop said keys on the floor when you get into the room. Similarly, Morgan comes to a stop behind you when he takes in the sight before you both, silence enveloping the room as you both remain still.

In the middle of the room, in between two windows, stood a double bed with an oak headboard. Not two single beds, or two twin beds, hell not even a bunk-bed like the one you’d both had to share in some dingy motel, no, it was a double.

Sharing a room with Morgan was okay before, you’d done it plenty of times in smaller towns or when the coordinator messed up the booking, but the pair of you had never shared a bed. It was even worse now because you weren’t on speaking terms, now that you’d basically confessed your feelings for him, now that you’d figured he profiled it a while ago.

When you realise you’ve been standing eerily still for a while, you can’t move to break it. Fear consumes your limbs, blocking any and all signals from your brain to the central nervous system, keeping you in place. The only thing you can think about is Morgan’s reaction to this; what does he think about it? Is he mad? Is he gonna walk out? How does he feel about what happened on the jet?

Suddenly, you realise you haven’t even thought about his reaction to anything you’d said, only going as far as to read his body language and determine he wasn’t acting like himself. You hadn’t thought about whether it’d be the end of your friendship, that he’d stop talking to you every day, and everything the two of you were would just fade into the background.

Unbeknownst to you, your hands had started shaking, induced by the onslaught of thoughts swirling in your head, trembling by your sides as if in a deadly chill. Morgan, however, notices the tremors of your hands almost immediately and steps in front of you before dropping his bag and taking your hands into his.

“Hey, hey, angel girl, I need you to breathe with me, okay?” His voice is soft and soothing before he mirrors a deep breath, exaggerating the sound and movement of his chest to draw your attention.

In response, you nod your head before taking a shaky breath in unison with Derek’s strong ones. Something wet rolls down your face, a tear escaping your lash line that you hadn’t even felt forming. Your hands stay in Morgan’s as you take deep breaths together, the raggedness of yours drifting away with each new intake of oxygen.

Once Morgan has deemed your breathing to be stable enough, he drops one of your hands before lifting his, now free, hand to your face, thumbs scooping away your tears.

“You’re okay now, sweetheart. You’re okay,” he almost whispers, voice so soft and sweet it might make you start crying all over again as the previous guilt kicks in once more.

A sniffle comes from you while he walks you to the bed, hands still intertwined, which he uses to gently pull you into a sitting position next to him. His thumb caresses your knuckles, running over them in a soothing motion, soft skin on top of yours grounding you.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on with you now, sweetheart?”

“Are you gonna stop pretending that you don’t already know?” You quip, turning your head to the side to look at him.

“Y/N, I am telling you, I really don’t know. It’s been racking my brain all damn day. If I’ve done something wrong, you can tell me and I’ll fix it.”

Another quip is on the tip of your tongue, but as you look into his brown eyes, really look at them, you realise he’s being genuine. He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. Oh god, you owe him the biggest apology.

“You really don’t know?”

“Not a damn clue.”

“God, I feel stupid. This is so dumb.”

“Hey,” he lifts your chin with his fingers, “nothing you say could ever be dumb to me, pretty girl.”

“I’ve had such a shitty day. Like a really, really shitty one where everything goes wrong and I just let it all get to me. And then you profiled me on the jet and I thought you knew, but you don’t know, and I’ve been so, so horri-“

“-Wait, hold on, stop. Know what, angel?”

“..that you won. I lost,” you bite your lip in anticipation, waiting to see the recognition in his face, but it doesn’t come.

“I like you, Derek,” it comes out so quiet and meek, it’d be a miracle if he even heard it, but of course he does.

His reaction isn’t what you were expecting at all, not in the slightest. Instead of some cocky smirk, or an ‘I told you so’, he’s smiling. Genuinely smiling, pearly whites out and all, looking at you like you’re the only thing ever. He laughs and shakes his head before caressing your cheek.

“Both of us won, sweetheart. I like you, too,” he confesses, still gazing into your eyes as if they’re full of everything he’s ever wanted. Morgan tilts his head to the side before asking, “Garcia really didn’t tell you?”

“No,” you shake your head as if to confirm it, and then his words fully register, “Wait, she knew?!”

Before Morgan’s had the chance to say anything back, your hands darted into your pockets, searching for your phone until you’re pulling it out of your pocket. Just as you’re about to call her, Derek’s grabbing at your phone, causing you to wave your arm around to stop him from getting it.

“Hey, no, stop. Don’t you dare. Not yet,” he laughs as he continues his mission to steal your phone from you.

“No, ‘m gonna call her. Would you stop that? Derek!” You manage between giggles.

With both of you moving around so much, he leans too far, body going towards the bed, and wraps an arm around your waist to bring you down with him. Both of you are laughing while fighting over the phone, a fight that you’re still very much winning. That is, until he starts tickling your sides causing your laughter to grow louder and your grip on the phone to grow looser.

The phone falls onto the bed above your head, and he doesn’t even try to grab it, he just resumes his ministrations in your poor sides, tickling away. At some point, he’d end up hovering over you, so when he stops tickling you, you just stare up at him while catching your breath.

Morgan brings one of his hands up to your face, pushing a rebellious strand of hair behind your ear, before caressing your cheek once more. Both of your arms come up, hands locking behind his neck, and the both of you are leaning towards each other. Slowly, he leans down, lips ghosting over yours.

“My pretty girl. It’s about time, huh?”

Without giving you the chance to answer, he captures your lips with his, moving them softly over yours in a sweet, slow kiss. You kiss him back with the same saccharinity, savouring the feeling of his kiss, hands moving from his neck to his cheeks instead.

Due to your previous shortage of breath following his tickling ministrations, the kiss ends sooner than you wanted it to with Morgan pulling away so that he didn’t suffocate you. A petulant pout forms on your lips, to which he just shakes his head.

“Impatient are we, sugar?” He teases, grinning down at you, eyes full of adoration for you.

You hit his chest softly, pathetically really, considering you’re trained in hand to hand combat but the intention was never to hurt him. It serves as a warning, followed by a verbal one, of course.

“You’re supposed to be nice to me, not be mean to me.”

“Oh, I’m not being nice because I want you to breathe? That’s some pretty good logic there, sugar.”

“You know, you haven’t actually asked me to be your girlfriend yet. I could find someone who’s nice to me, instead.”

“Don’t you even think about it, silly girl.”

When he sees the determination on your face he drops his head down a little bit and sighs, shaking his head in disbelief before he lifts it again to look at you.

“Do I really have to ask? That’s so high school.”

A scoff leaves your lips before you deliver another soft hit to his chest, seemingly shocked at his words.

“Yes! If you don’t ask, it’s not real. Did you even watch rom-coms?”

“Alright, alright. Baby girl, will you be my girlfriend?”

“I’ll have to think about that,” Morgan’s hands move to start tickling you again, prompting you to backtrack quickly.

“Morgan, no! Stop! I was kidding! Of course, I’ll be your girlfriend, now stop!”

A shrill shriek can be heard from somewhere in the room and you both jump up, bodies going into fight or flight. Morgan’s just about to reach for his gun in the holster when-

“FINALLY! OH MY GOD!”

Penelope’s voice comes from somewhere on the bed, loud and excited, but not loud enough to say she’s in the room with you both. Evidently, you remember faster than Morgan does because you pick up your phone from the bed to see that you had, in fact, called Penelope and she’d been on the line for 5 minutes. With a resigned sigh despite your smile, you and Derek just share a look that says; ‘Tomorrow’s going to be fun.’

taglist: @i-padfootblack-things (requester, ily), @floraisunwell (proofreader, ily!!), @darkmatilda

[theseventhdimension]

i know you like some good old Morgan x reader fics

so hear me out, in the early seasons we see Morgan do a lot of stunts and stuff, like s1e12 where he and Hotch stop that fist fight?

imagine, reader and Morgan are pretty early on in their relationship, but reader is staying over at morgan’s or something

reader uses the bathroom during the night and derek wakes up, not quite that sharp yet and he thinks there’s an intruder or something so we end up with derek tackling reader or something when they come back, leading to somewhat of a ridiculous situation, because reader is half asleep, literally just had to use the loo and suddenly they’re on the ground with their boyfriend having not quite realised who he’s pinning down and in the end it’s like, well, that was kind of hot, but please don’t do that again

Gotcha, Punk!

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Gn! Reader

Word count: 1.1k+

DNI: All are welcome!

Author's note: This is such a good idea, i hate you, why didn't i think of this?? This is definitely one of my shorter fics soo i apologize for that.. ( ˇ෴ˇ )

Still, as always, all feedback is appreciated!! Hope you enjoy ( ˘ ³˘)♥

Creak.

Derek’s eyes snapped open.

Creak. Again—slower this time, like someone was trying not to be heard.

At first, there was only the dark.

Not cozy, blanket-dark. No. This was the thick, swampy kind. Heavy across his chest, clinging to the walls, warping the shape of every coat hook and bookshelf into something not-quite-right. The curtains stirred slightly—no wind—and shadows from the tree outside jittered across the ceiling like restless fingers.

He held his breath.

Silence.

Too much of it.

The fridge wasn’t humming. The heater hadn’t kicked in. No faint upstairs pipes clanking in protest. It was the kind of silence that doesn’t soothe—it listens. That primal kind of quiet that precedes something awful.

Then— Creak.

The precise one outside the bathroom—that floorboard. The one that always squeaked unless you stepped on it just right.

Morgan hadn’t stepped on it.

You were still in bed. You’d dozed off curled into his chest, snoring like a kitten with allergies. If you were up, he would've felt it. And that step hadn’t been yours. Too heavy. Too slow.

That wasn’t the fridge. That wasn’t the neighbor’s cat. That wasn’t anything normal. That was a “get your ass stabbed” kind of sound.

He sat up fast, sheets hissing against the mattress, breath locked tight in his chest. Years of habit sent his hand flying toward the nightstand—

Gun? Gone. Badge? Not even close. All he found was a glass of water and the sad realization that this was the one night he’d let himself go off duty completely.

Hydrate or die-drate, you’d said with a grin. And now here he was—hydrated and about to square up with a ghost, barefoot and half-naked in his own damn house.

Another sound—a soft, almost polite shuffle. Then the quiet click of the bathroom door.

Derek froze.

Nah. Nope. You don’t just pick my house to rob. Not this house. Not with me in it. You think you’re gonna sneak in here, steal my TV, maybe grab a chocolate bar on the way out and leave like it’s DoorDash? Not happening.

He moved like instinct. Muscle memory. Silent, precise, deadly. His feet glided over hardwood. His breathing slowed. Even his heartbeat seemed to hold its rhythm.

I’ve tackled unsubs through barbed wire fences, strip malls, and once—once—during a bouncy castle birthday party. You think I won’t throw hands in my own damn hallway? In my socks?

As he moved, the fridge whined—a sudden mechanical sigh—and Derek nearly elbowed it on reflex.

He hissed under his breath.

God, I need to sleep more. Or maybe less.

A flash of a memory hit him—Chicago. An unsub had broken into a family’s home at 3 a.m., left the husband unconscious, and tied the mother up in her own bathroom. Morgan had shown up too late to stop the bruises from forming. That woman’s terrified eyes had been burned into his memory for years.

He wasn’t going to be late tonight.

The bathroom door creaked open.

A silhouette stepped out. Backlit. Slow. Unaware.

Gotcha, punk.

He surged forward in one flawless motion—tackle clean, grip tight, momentum precise. Years of FBI training kicked in as he brought the figure down, pinning them to the floor with a practiced hand and a sharp growl—

“Gotcha, punk—”

“THE HELL—?!”

There was a pause.

A beat of silence.

A very familiar groggy voice.

Your voice.

Derek blinked down, and sure enough—

There you were.

Hair sticking out in all directions, t-shirt bunched awkwardly around your waist, blinking slowly at him like a confused owl. You squinted up at him, one arm pinned, the other flopped dramatically beside you.

“…Babe?” you asked, voice hoarse from sleep, face squished against the tile. “Can we, I dunno… cuddle in bed and not on the bathroom floor?”

Derek froze.

Like a statue. Like a dumbass. Like a dumbass statue.

“…Oh my God,” he breathed, eyes wide, pupils dilating in horror. “Baby. Baby, I’m so sorry. I thought—I thought you were—Jesus, are you hurt? Are you okay?!”

You blinked up at him again, unimpressed.

“I woke up to pee, Derek.”

“I tackled you.”

“You tackled me.”

“I tackled my partner.”

“To the floor.”

“Yeah.”

A long pause.

“…Y’know what’s fun?” you said, eyes still mostly closed. “This tile is cold, and my spine hurts.”

That did it. Derek immediately scrambled to gather you into his arms like he’d just drop-kicked a newborn puppy.

“Nononono, come here—God, I’m such an idiot. I didn’t see—I wasn’t awake—fuck, I tackled you. Oh my God. You’re never sleeping over again.”

You let him scoop you up bridal-style, but your face was already pressed against his shoulder, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at your lips.

“I can’t wait to tell Garcia.”

That made him pause mid-carry. “You wouldn’t.”

You yawned. “Oh, I would. I’ll tell her you yelled ‘Gotcha, punk’ like a Saturday morning cartoon villain while I was barefoot and half-blind.”

Derek groaned. “You’re evil.”

“And you love it.”

He deposited you onto the bed like you were made of glass and his own unrelenting shame. He fussed over you—pulling the blanket up, tucking it beneath your chin, running his hands over your arms like he expected to find bruises.

“You sure you’re okay? Your back? Your neck? Baby, I could’ve—God, I didn’t mean to—”

You silenced him with a kiss. Lazy, warm, still sleep-drenched but affectionate.

“I’m fine,” you murmured. “Though…” You tugged him down beside you, a teasing glint in your eyes. “That was kinda hot.”

He blinked. “Hot?”

You grinned. “I mean, you did tackle me to the floor with surgical precision. Bit much for a midnight cuddle, but the form? Chef’s kiss. Nine outta ten.”

“...Nine?”

“Lost a point for trying to arrest me.”

Derek buried his face in your hair with a groan. “I hate how much you’re enjoying this.”

“Oh, come on, babe. We’ve had like two fights and neither involved a full-body takedown before tonight. Milestone achieved.”

“You’re never letting me live this down.”

“Top three most dramatic Morgan moments. Number one: tackling your half-naked partner. Number two: yelling ‘Gotcha, punk’ like you’re on an old cop show. No, I'm not letting you live this down.”

A long beat. You were drifting now, warm and safe in his arms, your breathing slowing.

Then, quietly, casually:

“…If you do wanna pin me down again though…”

Derek pulled the blanket over your head. “Go to sleep.”

Your muffled voice replied from beneath it:

“Love you, too.”

.

.

.

“I still need to pee by the way.”

[soopranatural]

Who I was looking for -Series Masterlist

Bucky x Reader -Soulmate AU (COMPLETE)

Summary: Even after you started wearing cuffs, the words are engraved in your mind as well as your wrist. You know you’re not destined for love as soon as you learn how to read. How could you? When the words “Sorry, you’re not who I was looking for” are written in black ink on your skin.

Warnings: angst, pining, insecurity, injury, slow burn.

Total word count: 32200

Keep reading

[deerfawnn]

love — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: spencer accidentally reveals your secret relationship by kissing you in front of the whole team—oh, and blurting out “I love you” for the very first time, too. content warnings: secret relationship , mention of a case , spencer being very worried about the unsub and case but its mostly fluff !! a/n: haiiii !!!!! hope you didn't miss my secret relationship fanfics too much </3 also i finished writing this like 10 minutes ago but i was too excited not to post it

Things were heating up.

You were getting closer, so close, to catching the unsub. The map was sprawled across the table in front of you, dotted with red circles.You traced another location with your marker, murmuring quietly under your breath, a habit you'd most definitely picked up from your boyfriend.

Spencer was nearby, slouched in a chair, mumbling to himself in a similar fashion. His brows were furrowed. You could tell this case was hitting him harder than most. Maybe it reminded him of something, or someone. Whatever it was, it weighed on him, and that meant it weighed on you, too.

You took care of him as much as you could, though it wasn’t easy with your relationship still hidden from the team. Last night, you’d slipped into his hotel room after everyone else had turned in, finding him already buried in files. You didn’t ask if he was okay, he wouldn’t have answered honestly. Instead, you’d wordlessly sat beside him on the bed, running your fingers through his hair until his shoulders finally relaxed.

“Want to cuddle?” you’d murmured, and he hadn’t even hesitated before nodding, letting you pull him down against the pillows. He’d tucked himself under your chin, his breath warm against your collarbone, and you’d held him, fingers carding gently through his curls until his breathing evened out.

Of course, sneaking out at 6 a.m. had been its own mission. It took you twenty minutes to escape Spencer’s sleepy, koala-like grip. He kept murmuring thank-yous against your skin, kisses trailing from your collarbones to your jaw, like punctuation marks of affection. It had taken everything in you not to crawl back into bed with him.

Now, back in the briefing room, you had even more reason to catch this unsub.

"I got it." Spencer’s voice broke through the silence.

His head snapped up, and the words came pouring out of him like a dam breaking. Facts, patterns, dates, connections. The rest of the team, who had been working in silence, immediately turned their attention to him, hanging onto every word.

“Okay. Morgan and Reid—I want you with me,” Hotch announced the moment Spencer finished unraveling the unsub’s pattern.

Garcia’s fingers flew across her keyboard, sending the coordinates to their phones in a flurry of clicks. This was one of those rare, high-stakes cases where even she had to join them in the field. “Location’s live on your devices,” she said, her usual bubbly tone subdued. Hotch gave her a curt nod of thanks before striding toward the door, Morgan right behind him.

Spencer, however, seemed miles away as he snatched his brown coat from the back of his chair. His mind was already elsewhere, locked onto the unsub. Then, just before following the others, he turned to you.

You were still standing by the board, capping the dry-erase marker and watching him with a soft, worried smile. He seemed exhausted.

“Be careful,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

He blinked, as if snapping back into himself for just a second, and mumbled, “I’ll be okay. I’ll see you later.”

His fingers caught your chin, thumb beneath your jaw, index curled gently under your bottom lip. Time stuttered. His kiss was fleeting, achingly tender, and then his lips brushed yours again as he whispered, "I love you," like it was the simplest truth in the world. And then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

Silence.

Absolute, suffocating silence.

A pin drop would’ve echoed like a gunshot.

“Oh. my. god.” Garcia’s shriek could’ve shattered glass.

Your fingers flew to your lips, still tingling from the ghost of his kiss. The rest of the team was frozen, Rossi’s eyebrows had nearly disappeared into his hairline, JJ’s mouth was slightly open, and Emily looked like she was torn between laughing and demanding an immediate explanation.But you barely registered any of it.

Because Spencer had just said I love you. For the first time.And he’d done it in front of everyone.

Garcia was already flailing her hands, rapid-fire questions spilling out of her“Since when? How did I not know? Oh my god, the touching, the lingering looks, the—!”

But all you could hear was the echo of his voice, playing over and over in your mind like a broken record.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Your face burned. Your heart threatened to beat out of your chest.

You didn’t even notice Emily waving her hand in front of your face until her voice cut through the haze. “Earth to lovergirl,” she teased, grinning.

Blinking, you turned toward the team, all of them staring at you with varying degrees of shock, amusement, and sheer anticipation.

“What?” you managed, voice still breathless.

“That’s all you have to say?” JJ asked, plopping onto the edge of the desk in disbelief. She grabbed a Cheeto from an open bag, crunching loudly. Garcia was still gaping at you, hands pressed dramatically over her mouth. Behind her colorful glasses, her eyes were massive. Rossi sipped his coffee slowly, clearly judging the entire situation.

“Huh?” you repeated dumbly.

Emily’s smirk softened just a fraction. “You okay?”

You stared at her, still dazed, before muttering, “He said ‘I love you.’”

Another beat of silence. Garcia gasped. “That was his first time saying it?” Her hands flew away from her mouth, gripping the sides of her head like she might explode.And then chaos. Again.

“Oh my god—”

“Since when—”

“Wait, wait, wait—that was the first—”

You spent what felt like hours fielding an avalanche of questions, barely able to catch your breath between them. At first, you tried to dodge them, played dumb, gave vague smiles, busied yourself with the files on the table, but it was pointless. Garcia saw straight through you, pinning you with a look that practically screamed, You’re not getting out of this, sweetheart.

So you caved. “Six months,” you said quietly. There was a loud collective gasp. Garcia clutched her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. ( She was. ) “Six?! Six whole months? And you didn’t say anything?”

You winced. “We were trying to be subtle.”

“You failed!” she cried, throwing her hands up.

Emily laughed. “Okay, next—who made the first move?”

You hesitated, cheeks burning. “He did.” Another round of dramatic gasps echoed around the room. Even Rossi raised his brows, murmuring, “Didn’t peg him for the bold one.”

“He’s… not. Not usually,” you admitted with a smile you couldn’t quite suppress. “But with me… I guess he was.”

And on it went, question after question, as if they were making up for six months of missed gossip in a single sitting. It was messy, chaotic, borderline embarrassing, but it was also kind of nice. Being known. Being happy. Then came the final question.

JJ’s voice was quieter than the others, softer. “Do you love him too?”

You froze.For a moment, the whole room seemed to hold its breath. Even Garcia stopped typing. You looked at JJ, then down at your hands, then back up again. And nodded.

Garcia screeched, practically launching herself out of her chair. “I knew it!” she howled.

Emily beamed, her smile so wide it crinkled the corners of her eyes, and even Rossi let out a low chuckle, shaking his head like a proud uncle.You were a little overwhelmed, okay, maybe a lot, but underneath the chaos, you also felt a sheer amount of happiness that you've never felt before.

Hotch interrupted the moment by calling Garcia. “Unsub’s in custody. We’re on our way back. Everyone’s okay.”

Your breath left you in a rush. Spencer was okay. Your heart, though, it hadn’t quite gotten the message. It was still thundering in your chest, hammering against your ribs with every second that ticked by.

The others must’ve noticed the way you kept glancing at the door, because JJ finally nudged you gently toward it. “Go wait. We’ll clean up.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Garcia waved a dismissive hand. “Honey, please. You’ve got heart-eyes so intense it’s blinding. Go stand dramatically in the doorway like you’re in a movie or something. We’ve got this.”And so you did.

You found yourself hovering in the doorway of the conference room, a half-hearted folder in your hands, pretending to sort through paperwork as you stared through the glass. Watching. Waiting.

Then you heard it, the sound of the SUV pulling up outside. Every head in the room snapped up like it was choreographed. Honestly, for a team of professional FBI agents, they acted like a bunch of high schoolers most of the time.

You glanced back over your shoulder. Sure enough, all of them were watching you, wide-eyed and waiting like you were the final act in a romantic drama. You rolled your eyes with a half-smile, dropped the stack of files onto the table and walked out of the conference room.

As you left, you heard Emily mutter, “Garcia, don’t follow her.”You didn’t wait to hear the response.

The moment you reached the main hallway of the precinct, the doors opened and there he was.

Spencer stepped inside, his curls slightly mussed, cheeks flushed from the cold, and as soon as his eyes found yours, he smiled. That gentle, crooked smile that always made you smile.You barely registered Derek behind him, hand gripping the cuffed unsub and throwing you a confused look when you didn’t even acknowledge him. Even Hotch glanced over in surprise as you made a beeline for Spencer.

“Hey—wait, what—?” Spencer managed, eyes widening as you grabbed his arm and all but dragged him down the corridor.

You shoved open the nearest empty office, tugged him inside, and closed the door firmly behind you, leaning back against it.

“Did you mean it?” you asked, your voice urgent, breath a little uneven.

Spencer blinked. “Mean what?”

You stared at him in stunned disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“What?” he said again, completely baffled. “What did I do? Did Morgan tell you about what happened in the field? I know I wasn’t supposed to go near the unsub without backup, but I swear, I had it under control—”He started to ramble, hands gesturing as he pouted in that way he did when he was simultaneously nervous and a little too proud of himself. “He had a weapon, but I de-escalated him. You would’ve been proud.”

“You did what?” you interrupted, your mind now juggling two emotional crises.

Spencer blinked again. “Wait—so Morgan didn’t tell you?”

“No,” you muttered, your voice flat with disbelief. You shook your head slowly, trying to process it all. The nerves, the kiss, the I love you, and the fact that Spencer genuinely hadn’t realized what he’d done.

Spencer’s expression shifted from confusion to concern in a heartbeat. “Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer, his hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Did I do something wrong?”

His voice was careful, gentle, and far too kind for how scrambled your brain felt. “Can you tell me what it is?” he added, tilting your chin up just enough so your eyes met his.

Your mouth opened slightly, but the words were stuck. How could he not know? How could he be looking at you like that, all wide eyes and soft brows and pouty lips, and not know?

“Spencer,” you said finally, his name sharp on your tongue.

“Yes?” he replied immediately, those puppy-dog eyes locking onto yours like he was bracing for impact.

“You kissed me.”

His brows pulled together. “I’m—I’m sorry?” he said, clearly confused.

If you weren’t so worked up, you might have laughed at his face. But your heart was hammering, and your nerves were tangled in knots.

“You did it in front of everyone,” you clarified. And then you said it , softly, barely above a whisper. “And then you said—”

“I love you.” His voice cut in before you could finish.You watched as the memory clearly snapped back into place. Realization washed over his face, followed immediately by a bright, burning blush that crept up his neck and across his cheeks.

“Mhmm,” you hummed, nodding slowly, your teeth sinking into your lower lip as you studied his reaction.

Spencer rubbed the back of his neck, eyes wide, flustered in a way that only made you want to kiss him senseless. “Oh,” he breathed, glancing away for a second before meeting your eyes again. 

“Yeah… oh.” you repeated. Both of you stayed silent for a second.

“I did mean it,” he stammered out.

A smile tugged at your lips, finally. After an hour and a half of bouncing knees, chewed lips, the words you’d been dying to hear had finally landed.

“I love you,” Spencer repeated, a little firmer this time, like he needed to hear it aloud again to make it real. Like maybe saying it twice would help his brain catch up to his heart.The warmth that bloomed inside you was instant. You weren’t sure you’d ever felt this happy in your entire life.

Then, of course, Spencer kept talking.

“Did I say it too soon? I’m not sure. On average, men say it around three to three and a half months into a relationship, while women usually wait closer to four months,” he rambled, already blushing furiously, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “And I know we’ve been dating for six months, so technically it took me twice as long, which isn’t statistically ideal, but honestly I almost said it on our first date, which definitely wouldn’t have been optimal and—”

He was spiraling. Fast.

So you did the only thing that would shut him up. You stepped forward, gently grabbed his face in both hands, and said, soft but certain: “I love you too, Spencer.”

He stared. Just stared, like he was trying to memorize this exact moment, burn it into his brain with all its warmth and disbelief and wonder. You watched his expression shift, first stunned, then relieved, then something so bright and boyish it made your heart lurch.You’d never seen him so happy before.

Well, once. That first time you kissed him. He’d looked a little like this, dazed and blissed out. But now he looked like his whole world had just clicked into place.

“Yeah?” he breathed, voice shaky with excitement, his grin stretching so wide it practically crinkled his entire face.

“Yeah.” You laughed through the word, nodding, the emotion bubbling up in your chest and spilling into every part of you. Your smile was a mirror of his.

Spencer let out a breathy laugh and pulled you into him, arms wrapping tightly around your waist as if he couldn’t stand the idea of space between you anymore. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, grinning against his skin.

“This is real, right?” he asked into your hair, voice muffled. “I’m not dreaming? Because sometimes I do dream about you saying that and then I wake up and it’s just—”

You cut him off with a kiss to the warm skin of his throat.“It’s definitely real,” you mumbled against him.

Spencer let out a shaky breath and held you tighter. You stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, both of you grinning like idiots. It felt absurdly, wonderfully perfect. Then you muttered into his neck, “You do know you outed our relationship to everyone, right?”

Spencer’s arms stiffened around you just slightly. “Yeah. Totally. I knew that. I did it on purpose,” he lied, too quickly, voice pitched a little too high.

You giggled and pulled back, hands still resting on either side of his neck. “You’re a terrible liar, Dr. Reid.”

He didn’t even bother to defend himself, just gave you an adorable, crooked grin and leaned in to peck your lips. “Yeah, I am,” he mumbled, brushing his nose against yours.

You kissed him back, just once, then poked a finger into the center of his chest. “Also, we’re going to talk about your little superhero stunt at home.”

Spencer blinked. “Right,” he echoed, suddenly very aware of his earlier reckless attempt to talk the unsub down without backup. “Are you mad?”

“I’m not not mad,” you replied, giving him a look. “But I love you, so I’m saving the full lecture for later.”

He winced slightly, then smiled. “Fair.”

You let your fingers drift through the curls on his forehead, brushing them back gently. “Well,” you sighed, “for now, we have to go out there… into the land of chaos and gossip.”

Realization dawned slowly on Spencer’s face. His eyes widened. “Oh no. Garcia definitely filled Morgan in already.”

“And Rossi’s probably already told Hotch,” you added grimly.

“And JJ and Emily—”

“—were there when it happened,” you finished.

You both stood there in mutual silence for a moment, dread creeping in. Spencer cleared his throat. “Maybe we could… go out the window?”

You laughed, smacking his chest lightly. “Nice try, genius.”

He gave a helpless little shrug. “I had to try.”

Taking a deep breath, you grabbed the handle of the door behind you. “Ready?” you asked.

“Absolutely not,” Spencer said without hesitation.

You squeezed his hand anyway. “Come on, lover boy.”

To say that the conference room was chaos would’ve been an understatement.Garcia let out a sound that could only be described as a squeal-gasp hybrid, immediately launching into a breathless barrage of questions that involved timelines and pet names. Morgan clapped Spencer on the back so hard he nearly stumbled, muttering something about “my boy finally growing up.” JJ just smirked from the corner, quietly sipping her coffee.Hotch had walked by at one point, muttered something that suspiciously sounded like “About time,” and kept moving without missing a beat.

The jet ride was somehow worse.

You’d sat next to Spencer, hoping for a quiet, post-case decompression. Instead, you were subjected to Garcia and Morgan playing twenty questions from across the aisle. Rossi, pretending to read, chuckled behind his wine glass the entire time. At one point, you tried to rest your head on Spencer’s shoulder, and he’d blushed so hard you thought he might combust.

You weren’t sure if he was embarrassed from the attention or just overwhelmed from finally saying what he’d been keeping in for months. Probably both.

But the days that followed? Even worse.

Because the teasing never stopped. Emily sent you heart emojis during briefings. Morgan kept calling Spencer lover boy, which you regretted giving him the vocabulary for. Garcia had created a mood board on her computer and refused to delete it. Even Hotch raised an eyebrow when you asked to share a rental car with Spencer.

But through it all, Spencer stayed by your side. Every awkward joke, every embarrassing comment, every not-so-subtle glance,he never flinched. If anything, he leaned into it. He held your hand in the bullpen and he kissed your cheek at the end of the day. It was domestic chaos.

Romantic disaster. Beautiful, awkward, completely perfect hell.

[ellecdc]

could you do a spencer reid fic where reader hadn't gotten her wisdom teeth until later than other people get it and he goes with her to get them out and she's way more bubbly than usual and like the usual wisdom teeth delirium please?

thanks for your request :)

Spencer Reid x fem!reader who has no wisdom at all anymore [1.4k words]

CW: mentions blood/surgery, anesthesia and sedation, post-op aftercare, fluff

Spencer stands at the sound of your voice; the plastic covered cushions of the dental office’s waiting room chairs creaking and groaning as it re-expands with air now that it's without Spencer’s weight. 

It’s truly just the sound of your voice that Spencer hears, though, seeing as he cannot make out a single word you’re saying nor can he gauge who you might be talking to; the benzodiazepines coupled with the gauze no doubt layered in your mouth leaving you sounding as though you were speaking through the keyhole of a door.

His feet move on their own volition when you round the corner, a dental assistant assisting you with one arm around your back and the other holding your elbow. He aches to replace her hands with his own. 

“Spencer!” You gasp, nearly choking on the bloodied gauze in your mouth as you stare at him wide eyed, expression painted with surprise and disbelief that he deigned to pick you up. He doesn’t bother trying to explain the fact that he dropped you off, or that he’s been here the whole time waiting for you. 

“Hi, beautiful.” He greets you rather brashly, overflowing with fondness for you in your vulnerable state. His cheek dimples when you fluster. “We’re all good?” 

He’s asking if you’re good to go, of course, seeing as the surgeon already briefed Spencer on how the surgery went, and likely in far more detail than she would’ve explained to the average person picking up their loved one from a odontectomy after Spencer began asking more detailed questions. He was also asking the dental assistant – Katie, her scrub top suggests – seeing as your brain was likely still more than slightly warm and gooey from the sedation.

You answer for her, though.

“It’s terrible.” He makes out in your adorably garbled oration. A terrible, horrible part of Spencer wants to squish your cheeks; stuffed with cotton and more than a little swollen, you look like the most adorable chipmunk he’s ever seen. He knows it’s natural – cuteness aggression – though he wishes the English language had a more appropriate name for it. There’s a word for it in Tagalog; gigil, a strong urge to physically express affection albeit slightly aggressively or forcefully. He longs to force his affection on you.

He settles for a verbal response to your statement. “What’s terrible?”

“They took all my wisdom out, Spence. Now I’ll never be able to keep up with you.” You explain solemnly, eyes wide and glassy as you subconsciously list forward, causing Katie to plant her feet more solidly and strengthen her hold on you.

Spencer reaches out to relieve her of the duty. Or, that’s what he pretends it’s about; it’s rather selfish, really, Spencer just wants his hands on you.

“You keep up with me fine,” he assures you, pushing a few stray hairs away from your temple to press a kiss to it, “you’ll keep up with me even better once the sedation flushes out of your system. Considering your height, age, weight, and health, you could be back to normal by bed time, or it could take twenty-four hours to completely work itself out of your system. Benzodiazepines work by interfering with your neurotransmitters and attaching to GABA receptors which decrease your brain activity. Your brain is feeling slow right now, but it’ll catch up to you.” 

You blink at him; once, twice, and then you turn to look at Katie – now watching the two of you with a hint of fascination – with an expression that seems to read “see!?”

“He just knows stuff like that!” You explain to her about two decibels too loud to be in a quiet dental office’s waiting room. 

“The surgeon went over post-op care with you?” Katie asks Spencer then as she fights against a smile at your expense. 

“She did,” he confirms with a somewhat self conscious smile, “thank you.”

Katie nods and begins taking a few steps backwards. “If you have any questions or concerns, feel free to call.” 

“Thank you!” You call back with a very dramatic wave of your arm that nearly sees you toppling over from the effort. “She’s so nice. She was so nice, wasn’t she Spence?” 

“She was.” He agrees as he begins the slow, arduous task of ushering you to a seat so he could put your shoes on. This was, apparently, a new protocol; patients are rid of their shoes to prevent them from seeing themselves out of the front door before their caregivers were ready for them. 

He’s glad you’re as agreeable as you are, seeing you sit dutifully and only needing to be reminded twice to stop kicking your feet excitedly as he ties your laces. 

“Oh! I know!” You almost shriek as you sit stock still; your back pressed so straight that Spencer's surprised he didn’t hear the thoracic portion of your spine crack. “You can just share some of your wisdom with me!”

Spencer really can’t help but smile up at you from his place on his knees, giving your foot an affectionate squeeze before he ultimately lets it go. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you quite this animated before and he’s desperate to soak it all in, even if it means remaining on the floor of the dental office for a few more minutes. 

“Why are you so worried about your wisdom?” He asks you fondly, seeing you push your bottom lip out in a very theatrical pout. Spencer doesn’t even wince at the dried blood there. 

“Oh, Spencer.” You sigh like he couldn’t possibly understand your plight. “You have no idea how hard it is to be with someone so smart.” 

“Hard?” Spencer queries, his brows forming an indent between his eyes as he cocks his head at you. He’s equal parts sad for you and distressed at the thought that he might be hard to be with. 

You hum in the affirmative, unnecessarily nodding your head so emphatically that you nearly lose your balance while seated. “Lovely,” you amend, “but hard. You just- I must be so boring!”

“You’re not boring!” He argues; now he’s the one speaking slightly too loudly in a quiet dental office waiting room. “You’re not boring at all, lovely.”

“But you know everything!”

“That doesn’t make me wise.” He presses, rising from his crouched position in favour of sitting on the bench beside you; you turn your body towards him, knees clacking against his own. 

“It doesn’t?”

“God no.” Spencer laughs, trailing his thumb from your temple, lifting the pressure as he draws a line down your jaw before he returns his full touch to your neck. “No. I’m smart, I guess, for knowing things. But I’m not wise at all. In fact, in that regard I’m probably quite lacking.”

You gasp; a sharp, loud, breathy thing that actually has Spencer’s other hand rising to steady you, ready to shove one of his hands down your throat should you inhale a wad of cotton. “Really?”

Spencer’s really laughing now, and while he thinks he ought to feel somewhat guilty for laughing at his currently enfeebled girlfriend, you don’t seem to be perturbed by his reaction at all. “Really. Honest; you’ll have to ask Derek if he thinks I’m wise.”

“Can I ask him now?” You ask immediately, apparently eager to have confirmation that your boyfriend is not, in fact, wise at all. 

“How about” Spencer starts as he stands, holding his hands out to you to help you do the same and steadying you when you sway once at your full height “we get you into the car first, and then you can call him from there.”

Spencer’s once again glad you’re as agreeable as you are, allowing him to guide you out of the building and towards your car while you tell him all about how you had been so certain that you would never need your wisdom teeth removed since most people had them removed much younger, and you felt like you did a good job hoarding all your wisdom in those two troublesome teeth just for someone to yank them from you.

He’s also glad that you forget to call Derek once he has you buckled up in the passenger seat.

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[moonstruckme]

Tumblr is hiding the request from me, but I had part of it pasted in my doc so putting that below! I do remember that it was a very sweet message though so I wanted to say thank you for that as well as for requesting, I hope you like it <3

request: and if not too much to ask, can i request a soulmate au (maybe like names on their wrist or something like that ?) where reader is remus’ soulmate but doesn’t really like him, ignoring him without much trouble since he doesn’t know her anyway. and somehow he finds out and confronts her

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 1.8k words

You know exactly what Remus Lupin’s first words to you were. They’ve been etched onto your skin from your collarbone to your shoulder in black ink since the day you were born, and they turned pink the day he said them.

Do you mind? This is a library. 

You traced the words in black pen for weeks just in case anybody caught a glimpse. How embarrassing is it to find out that your soulmate is a prat? Christ alive, some of your friends already have sweet stories of their soulmate’s first words being compliments or declarations of love at first sight. You? Your soulmate asked you to kindly shut the fuck up. 

And you did shut the fuck up; not because you didn’t want to snipe at Remus, but because you didn’t want him to feel the same tingle you just had, your first words to him changing the color of his tattoo and changing your lives forever. Just because you now had the burden of knowing didn’t mean you were ready to handle him knowing as well. 

While avoiding Remus in general is a near impossible task, avoiding speaking to him has been rather easy. He tends to let his friends lead the way through most interactions, and he seems perfectly happy to speak only to those he’s already deemed worthy of his attention. Not that you’re not the tiniest bit curious about him. You’re not naive enough to think that he won’t one day find out about you, and you’d like to eventually know the boy who’s been cosmically determined to be the best person for you to spend your life with. 

Just. Not yet. 

You’re content to observe Remus silently for the time being. Ever since you became aware of him, you can’t not be. You’ve become intimately acquainted with the way his tongue pokes into his cheek when he’s fighting back a smile. You notice the little curl that he tucks behind his ear whenever his hair gets too long, and you imagine what it might feel like to do it for him. You’ve begun to anticipate when his eyes will cut sideways to share sly looks with his friends. He does it now, glancing at Lily when Slughorn announces you’ll be pairing up to make the veritaserum antidote.

“Ah ah! Stay where you are,” Slughorn announces. He levels Marlene with a look. She sits down with a huff, pouting in Dorcas’ direction. “I won’t have an encore of last week; I’ll be assigning your partners. Black, you go with Evans.”

Sirius makes a sound like a wounded puppy. James looks equally as distressed, the two of them parting like forbidden lovers, with blown kisses and arms outheld longingly. 

“Potter, with Diggory. McKinnon and Vance, Trelawney and Meadows, Prewett and Fawley…” 

Skimming over the instructions for your potion, you don’t think to be concerned until you hear your name. You look up, unsure who was called before you, to see Remus making his way over. 

Your stomach plummets. 

“Hello,” he murmurs as he sits on the stool beside you, beginning to arrange things on the desk. 

You nod back. 

“I know this one is brewed in two parts, so hopefully today’s portion should be fairly simple.” He looks at you from the corner of his eye and gives you a small smile. “Would you rather chop or stir?” 

You pick up the small knife, holding it up in answer. Merlin, this is awkward. Remus gives you a second look for your silence before shrugging as if to say fair enough. 

“Right, we’ll need six of these minced, then.” He slides some sprigs across the work table to you.

It’s a struggle not to snark back I can read the textbook, too, thanks. You roll your eyes to yourself and get to chopping. 

Something admittedly pleasant and rather convenient about Remus is that he doesn’t have to fill silences. You work together with relative ease, no speech needed so long as you keep him supplied with his ingredients when he needs them and he keeps changing the direction of his stirring when the book says. It’s only when your potion is left to simmer and you’re preparing the herbs for the next step that you run into problems. 

“No—sorry, those need to be sliced, not diced.” Remus’ hand lands on your wrist. You still as he moves closer to you. “Here, can I?”

You step back mutely, allowing him to slip the knife from your hand. 

“Thanks,” he says. “You want to slice it in ribbons, like this, see? More of the juices get released that way. Can you see alright?” Remus looks back at you, standing a healthy distance away to peer around him. “Come on, you try.” 

You take the knife from him again. Remus doesn’t allow you half as much space as you had him, hovering over your shoulder as you slice the herbs just as he showed you. 

“That’s good.” He’s close enough for you to feel his breath on your ear. “Perfect, thanks.” He gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze and returns to his place in front of the cauldron. 

You nod at him again in an attempt to convey some gratitude. Wince at how stilted it feels. 

Remus looks at you sideways. “You alright?” 

You try not to wince again, humming. 

“You sure?” He tries to get a better look at you. “Have I ticked you off somehow?” 

You shake your head.

“You’ve lost your voice?” 

Shake your head again. 

“Cat got your tongue?” 

You send him an unimpressed look out of the corner of your eye. Remus’ tongue pokes into his cheek. 

“Come on, then, what is it? I know you can speak, I’ve heard you before. You have a nice voice.” 

Now, why couldn’t those have been his first words to you?

“Frog in your throat?” 

You’re fighting a smile, now, too. The evidence of it makes Remus’ eyes spark with amusement. His lips turn up at the corners. 

“If only you were this quiet in study spaces,” he mutters, teasing. 

It’s so unknowingly dead-on that it shocks a laugh out of you. “Oh, fuck off!” 

Remus’ smile dissolves at the edges. His brow tightens, the spark in his eyes turning to something else. When you realize what you’ve done, you couldn’t speak even if you wanted to. All the air has stolen from your lungs. 

“Did you…” 

“Shit,” you say. 

“It’s you. You’re it.” 

“Fuck. Merlin’s tits. I’m sorry, Remus.” 

“You…” He shakes his head, eyes scrunching shut. You know the feeling. When he opens them again, Remus looks resolute. “Come with me.” 

Slughorn hardly seems bothered that you’re leaving in the middle of class. James calls after you, “Moony?” to which Remus responds, “Loo!” and continues dragging you from the room. 

Only in the empty hallway does Remus drop your hand. The contact has sent warm funny goosebumps all up your arm, which isn’t a soulmate effect you’ve heard about before but it must be one. Remus looks at you like you’ve stolen all his air, too. 

“You just told me to fuck off,” he says. 

“Oh, come on.” You try to smile. “It can’t be the first time someone’s told you that.” 

“But you—” Remus tugs at his trousers, bringing them up just enough for you to see the light pink script around his ankle. “Did you know?” 

Any thoughts you’d had of attempting levity sputter out in the face of his upset. “Yeah,” you admit. “I knew.” 

“For how long?” 

“Not a long time.” 

“What’s—when did—” Remus passes a hand over his face. He often looks weary, you’ve noticed, or exasperated, but you’ve never seen him so frazzled. A worm of guilt wriggles in your gut. “Where’s yours?” 

You take a breath, beginning to loosen your tie and unbutton your shirt. As flustered as Remus already is, his face grows a tad pinker. You roll your eyes. 

“Fuck off, Lupin, I’m not undressing for you.” 

“You’re rather keen on saying that, aren’t you?” he mutters. “It’s a wonder I didn’t find you before now.” 

You unbutton just enough to pull your collar to the side, showing the words written in pink beneath your clavicle. 

“Do you…” he reads aloud before trailing off, mouthing the words to himself. His eyes flicker up to yours. “I remember that. That was months ago.” 

You rebutton your top, shrugging. “Yeah.” 

“Why didn’t you say anything to me?” 

“I think that’s obvious.” You focus on your tie to avoid looking at him. “It’d give me away fairly quickly, wouldn’t it?” 

“And?” When you don’t say anything, Remus blows out a breath. “Why wouldn’t you want me to know?” 

“I didn’t want to find out about us,” you say honestly. Not caring if it stings. 

When you glance up, you see that it has. The pinch of Remus’ brows radiates hurt. “You didn’t think I deserved to?” he asks you. 

You shake your head. “I’m sorry. I just wasn’t ready.” 

“Ready for what?” 

A breathless little laugh leaves you. “For everything. For any of it.” It feels like your insides are shriveling, and all you can do is look at Remus, pleading for his help. “I didn’t think I’d find my soulmate this early. I’m still trying to figure out my own shit. I don’t—I don’t know anything about love, or relationships, and I’m not ready to start making decisions about my life based on someone else. Doesn’t it scare you?” 

Remus has stepped closer, into a sheet of sunlight coming in through one of the hallway’s tall windows. It makes his amber eyes appear warm and melty. Even when they’re narrowed at you, they’re melting.

“It doesn’t scare me,” he says frankly. “I’m not asking you to move in with me straight after school, or change your plans to suit mine. I don’t think it has to be all or nothing like that.” 

You can feel your heart bumping in your stomach. “No?” 

“No.” Remus’ expression gentles. “It’s not like we’re shackled with each other now. Having a soulmate, it’s still a choice, isn’t it?” 

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice softening. You’ve never known anyone who’s talked about it that way before. Every soulmate meeting story you’ve been told has ended in them starting their new lives together, bound in harmony for the rest of their days. 

“I think it’s a choice,” Remus murmurs. “I’m not ready to change my life, either. But I’d like to get to know you, if you’re alright with it. We could take it slow.” 

You wet your lips. “You mean as friends for now?” 

He offers you a small smile. “It’s somewhere to start, isn’t it?” 

You nod, strangely breathless. You feel as if your life might be changing already, but despite all your misgivings you’re alright with this bit. 

“Oh, come on.” Remus’ lips curl some more. “Don’t do that again. I know you can still talk.” 

“I’m afraid I might tell you to fuck off again,” you manage. 

Remus’ laughter is unexpected and bright, and lovely enough that you instantly want to make him do it again. 

“You’re welcome to,” he says, warmly. “I think I’m starting to like it, from you.” 

[gusdeservedbetter]

My favorite bit in Thunderbotls*

Yelena is absolutely destroying Walker, and he just goes "Jesus" 😭😭😭😭

The line delivery? Wyatt Russel, you're the best nepo baby to ever nepo baby, trust <3

The body language? The tone of voice? The quick back and forth? the unexpectedness? Because you sorta expect John freaking Walker to get angry, maybe a bit defensive, and definitely try to hit back, but he just??? Takes it??? Can't wait for the film to drop so I can rewatch the same 10-second scene

[aquaticmercy]

Super Soldier Support Group Masterlist

Summary : Sam Wilson starts a Support Group for Super Soldiers. You and Bucky sit next to each other during the sessions.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings/tags : Slow Burn. Trauma. Just a bunch of Super Soldiers who really wanna get better :) 

Notes : Hi all! I wrote 11 chapters of this. Each chapter is a different support group session talking about adjusting to the modern world as a super soldier, while Bucky develops a crush on you. All the chapters have been written and drafted, so I will post updates to this semi-frequently. let me know if you want to be tagged in this, or added to the General Bucky Taglist. Enjoy!

COMPLETED

Session One 

Session Two

Session Three

Session Four 

Session Five

Session Six

Session Seven

Session Eight 

Session Nine

Session Ten

Session Eleven

[lauufeydottir]

We’re Starting At The End

[part one | part two | part three | part four]

Insomnia isn't special among the residents of The Watchtower. Your relationship— or lack thereof— with John has been at a standstill for months. But late night company turns into talks, and tonight, those talks turn into more, something neither of you are ready to name.

[Reader is a mutant with the power to manipulate blood, and has a serum-induced healing factor similar to Wolverine's. Former Widow and Avenger, current Thunderbolt New Avenger.]

john walker x fem!reader

words: 7.6k

cw: swearing, mentions of death, past abuse/neglect, infertility, smut, oral sex (f!recieving), p in v, creampie, only hints of sub!john, enemies to reluctant allies to enemies to ???, confessions, the idiots are in love, john calls the reader ‘Red’ (because of the blood shtick, he’s very creative) (18+ MDNI)

a/n: wow fucking finally, ive been swamped with a new job and was so worried id never find the time to finish this, but ta-da! i hope you all enjoy my silly little story, and sorry it took so long to make the barbie dolls kiss

alone together - fall out boy

Most nights, you don’t sleep. With your healing factor, you don’t need as much as the average human anyway, but more often than not you keep yourself up until the first rays of sunlight pour through the sprawling windows of The Watchtower.

It makes for a lot of time spent alone, which is fine by you, and a good amount spent alongside whoever else is having trouble that night. There’s always someone; almost a year into being The New Avengers, the team is tight-knit and heavily traumatized. Everyone knows that if they can’t sleep, they can come find you to keep them company. It’s a weekly debate between Bob and Yelena on whether or not you’re actually nocturnal, and it’s not helping the vampire allegations from Alexei.

When it’s Bucky, the two of you catch up on the long list of movies and music that you’ve missed out on over the decades— everything you enjoy he hates, and vice versa. With Bob, you swap books, forcing him to stomach your questionable horror schlock, while you trudge through yet another sci-fi novel about space fascism. You and Ava smoke on your balcony, even if it doesn’t do much for you thanks to your metabolism, but it soothes her pains, physical and mental. It’s rare that Alexei can’t find rest, but when it’s his turn, the two of you split a bottle of vodka and share war stories— he can’t get enough of your Avengers tales, and the anecdotes you have of Nat. Yelena likes video games, technology that escapes you but you partake in anyway to give her the satisfaction of victory that keeps her mind occupied. You have a secret little routine with everyone at this point, something that stays with just you.

And then, there’s John.

It’s been six weeks since your heart stopped and things changed between the two of you. Vitriol and insults traded for longing glances and stilted conversations. You’re learning how to be around him now that it isn’t a battle, your first instinct still to lash out. But you know that’s not what you are anymore, so as the mockery dies on your tongue, the silence settles, because you aren’t ready to acknowledge what you are.

Your midnight routine with him is new, ever evolving, and mostly by accident. It always starts with running into him in the dark, when John is too tired to keep up the pretense of not wanting your comfort. Usually, neither of you speak, sitting in the silence of everything left unsaid, alone together. Sometimes, you muster up enough guts to ask him what’s wrong, and he’s brave enough to answer.

Tonight, you find John in the kitchen, staring aimlessly into the fridge for so long that the alarm for the door starts beeping sharply, and you can’t bear to turn away. He straightens up with a muted curse, shutting the door, and almost jumps when he notices someone. His shoulders relax when a second later he realizes it’s only you, but he still rolls his eyes.

"Jesus, Red. You’re gonna give me a heart attack," he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his forehead. "You hungry, or just here lookin to bug me?"

He’s been feeling the shift too. Sometimes, all he sees when he looks at you is the memory of your cold and broken body. Other times, it’s the glimpse of the real you that you’d given him that night, still only half-alive in his doorway just to make sure he was okay. He doesn’t know what’s harder to grasp; the fact that you rose from the dead or that somewhere deep down you care about him. You made him tongue tied before everything, but it’s even worse now, and he can’t find the line between brushing you off and letting everything out all at once.

“Well, if you go into cardiac arrest, I can stop it.” you quip, fingers fiddling with the tie of your satin robe.

You push past him to lean against the edge of the counter. Despite your teasing nature, there’s not a hint of humor in your irises, only wide-eyed exhaustion. Dark circles line them, and your entire body is tense, muscles taut like a bowstring. It was a night where you’d tried to rest and were made to regret it immediately.

John knows that look.

During the day, you’re all sharp remarks and steadfast confidence, but he’s been watching you long enough to know when you’re not okay. He knows the exhaustion, the way you hold yourself, the fidgeting. It used to be a version of you that he didn’t care for, but with each accidental encounter he longed to do more about what was plaguing you.

"Nightmare, or just insomnia?" he asks, and it feels like knocking down a wall.

“Nightmare,” you answer without hesitation, but don’t elaborate, your voice hoarse. There’s a deep understanding between the two of you, even if neither one knows what to do with it. You meet his gaze, and your grimace softens. “How about you? What was it tonight?”

"Insomnia," John replies with a rough sigh, leaning against the opposite counter, his arms crossed over his chest. He regards you, the silken robe you’re wearing, one shoulder barely exposed to the room. He tears his gaze away reluctantly, focusing on the hectic collection of magnets on the fridge. "Same as usual."

You raise an eyebrow. "You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine?" You hide your request for vulnerability— for connection— behind the teasing. You’ve noted it’s easier for both of you to digest that way.

He lets himself look back over at you, amused by your smart mouth. "You gotta go first."

Your shoulders lift in a languid shrug, the gesture meant to be nonchalant but only serves to make the restlessness more obvious. Your eyes flick up from the alternating tiles on the floor to him, contemplative. You pause for a moment, a brief hesitation before the floodgates open, pushing yourself up to perch on the countertop. It feels like a turning point.

"Dreams of Hydra mostly," you admit, a bitter edge as the words echo in the dim kitchen. "Of waking up strapped down in some cold room, being injected with god knows what. Things I should be over by now."

John is surprised by the rawness. He wasn’t actually expecting a genuine answer, and definitely not one that made his chest ache in ways he can’t rationalize. He remembers your terror in The Void. Seeing you afraid is enough to rattle anyone, but he witnessed it almost firsthand.

"It’s not something you can just be over,” he responds a little too decisively. The idea of you beating yourself up for the crime of being used like that isn’t one that sits well with him. He sighs, shaking his head as if it will clear his racing thoughts. "I still dream about Afghanistan. About… about the orders we followed.” The silence hangs heavily in the room, broken only by the intermittent sound of the freezer rattling in the background. He doesn’t often talk about his time overseas, the story of what he did in the name of defending a country that never once intended to protect him. “Sometimes, Olivia pops up too. Reminds me how much I screwed that up." He glances up. “But the part that makes me feel horrible is the fact I don’t regret it.”

“Why don’t you regret it?” you ask quietly, appreciating the way he’s taken the spotlight off of you.

After several beats, he answers with a weary exhale, his shoulders slumped. “We got married because it was just another thing we were supposed to do. High school sweethearts, family pressure, society. It wasn’t long before we grew apart and both felt trapped. Eventually, it all came crashing down. And I just…” His words trail off into another heavy sigh, the guilt weighing him down, even after all this time. “I guess I got tired of doing what was expected of me. Of being who they all wanted me to be. That’s why I don’t regret letting her walk. Because it felt like the first time I’d done something for myself.”

You’re silent for a moment, letting his words sink in. You understand the weight of expectations; the pressure to be something different. The need to escape the mold other people had created for you. To steal back any bit of control you could, even if it put a wrench in things for others.

John huffs out humorless laugh, shaking his head.  “Just... I wish I hadn’t gotten it all so wrong.”

Your voice is a gentle counterpoint to the weary acceptance in his when you respond. “I won’t deny that you made quite a few mistakes to get here, but when you aren’t given the room when you’re small, you make worse ones when you’re grown. Your country put you under the emotional equivalent of a hydraulic press and then had the nerve to dump you at the first sign of fracture."

The weight of your assertion hits close to home. Your insight into his life—his struggles—is unsettlingly accurate, almost uncanny. You see right through all the bravado and defensiveness, straight to the root of the wounds that might not ever heal.

"I..." he starts, voice hoarse, "I never really thought of it that way." He takes a beat, observing your expression carefully. "Is that what it was like for you? In the Red Room?"

Your focus falls to the floor again at his question. The memories of the Red Room— the pain, the isolation, the never-ending missions— flash through your mind. You take a deep, steadying breath, gathering the strength to give him a piece of yourself in return, something more than a flippant remark.

"In a way," you reply quietly. "I was an orphan in the middle of a war-torn country when they snatched me up, and suddenly I wasn’t alone anymore. I felt a duty to them, even if I didn’t agree with it. They told me who I was, what I was supposed to do, when I was supposed to do it. And I did it perfectly."

John listens intently, the furrow of his brow deepening as you explain. He hesitates for a moment, considering his next words. "But you fought back eventually, didn't you? Broke free." He says it with so much hope, as if he doesn’t already know how your story ends.

"That’s the funny thing," you scoff, "I didn’t. Not from the Red Room at least. I knew I was different, a mutant. And I managed to hide that from them for a long time. I was the best they had then, but the second I couldn’t hide my power anymore, they pawned me off to Hydra. I felt betrayed."

John can’t imagine what hiding must have been like, having to walk through life in fear of being found out, when you’re the strongest person he knows. He’s endlessly impressed by the way you’ve taken the way they trained you and turned it into something that’s all your own. Your brutality is an expression of love. Your criticism is borne out of care. That you give everyone on the team these pieces of yourself over and over, never letting them give in return. You’re so much more than what they made you, but he doesn’t know how to tell you. He realizes he’s been staring too long— captivated by the line of your jaw, the unguarded look in your eye, and the soft curve of your lips— and clears his throat, his gaze dropping from your face.

"Do you ever think..." he falters, the words sticking in his throat. "Do you ever think that maybe if we’d met under different circumstances… we wouldn’t have been such assholes to each other?"

Your eyes narrow curiously. His question hangs in the air, an unexpected deviation. The last time you heard him say anything so sincere was when you were barely cleared from your deathbed. You search him for any hint of falsehood or sarcasm, but find only the same sincerity from that night. You consider his question for a moment.

"I doubt it," you say bluntly, the familiar sharp edge in your tone returning. "We’re both stubborn, and we get on each other’s nerves, and… you make me want to stab you more often than not," you pause, eyeing him up and down, your gaze calculating. "But you know, we don’t have to wait for another life to be different."

He chuckles at your honesty, expecting nothing less, raising an eyebrow at your words. "What, you think some miracle’s gonna happen and suddenly we’ll stop pissing each other off?"

His genuine laugh is the last straw, making your knees feel weak with an emotion you don’t want to stifle by naming. You prop your palms behind you on the counter, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other, your robe shifting.

"Or maybe it’s worth looking into a different method to shut each other up," you taunt, low and tinged with that playful sarcasm you’ve mastered.

John scoffs, rolling his eyes, anything to not look at you right now. He’s used to your teasing, your mockery, and at first, he thinks that’s all this is. But then, he realizes you’re looking at him the same way you did that day in the gym, the memory of you underneath him flashing in his head. Still not entirely sure what’s happening, he takes a cautious step towards where you’re sitting on the counter, crowding into your personal space. He leans in, hands braced on the marble on either side of you.

You tense at the proximity, eyes flickering over his face, the disbelief. You’re caught off guard by the raw intensity of the moment, the sudden shift from the solemn conversation to the magnetic pull between you. Then, he drags one hand up your thigh, robe falling out of his way.

"John…" you rasp out, your breathier than you’d like, his given name a halfhearted warning. You can feel your pulse thrumming faster, cheeks flushing. He’s so close, his body warm and solid over you. The sound of his name on your lips, the way your body responds to his touch, ignites something deep within him, and he can’t keep it locked away any longer.

"You gonna tell me to stop?" His hand on your thigh moves higher, his thumb continuing its lazy circles, inching under the hem of your robe. Your breath hitches, heat pooling low in your stomach, mind at war over the urge to either pull back or give in. You know it should be the former, that you need to maintain the boundary, no matter how fragile. But the feel of his touch, the way he's looking at you... it's like you’re caught in his gravitational pull.

"This…" you manage in a low voice, "is a bad idea." John can see the hesitation in your eyes, the battle between desire and sense. But he can also feel you pressing into his touch, see the flush in your cheeks.

“Maybe it is,” he murmurs, his hand drifting higher, his fingers precariously close to your inner thigh. Your legs part for him like it’s second nature. “But does it matter?”

You can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears, can feel the heat of his breath across your skin. Every rational thought vanishes from your mind, replaced by a rush of heated anticipation so intense that you can’t think straight.

“John,” you whisper again, but it’s not a warning. It’s permission. The sound of his name is like a spark to gasoline.

And he’s gone.

John’s mouth crashes into yours, hungry, desperate, impatient. You’ve been dancing around each other for months— longer than he’s even willing to admit to himself.

The stress practically bleeds from your shoulders as you kiss him back, like you’re relieved, giving him just as much as he’s giving you. It's all teeth and tongue, his grip on your waist tight enough to make you wish the bruises would stay. His other hand tangles into the hair at the nape of your neck, cradling your head gently.

He groans as you pull him closer, the sound horribly needy, and he’d be embarrassed in any other situation. Your bow into his touch, legs encircling his hips and pinning him between your thighs. He nips at your bottom lip, catching the sound of your gasp and licking into your mouth. He’s been dying to taste you again since that day on the mat.

Your pulse races as John changes course and his lips move down your jaw, and you can sense how his heart speeds up to match yours. He lingers at the sensitive spot under your left ear, sucking and nipping until you’re pulling him to your waiting mouth. He hauls you up, and in one swift movement he’s carrying you down the hall.

He gets you to his room in record speed, every step fueled by desperate need, slamming the door shut behind you. He wastes no time, pinning you to it, your back pressed firmly against the wood. He captures your mouth in another kiss, hard and needy and you can’t get enough.

Wandering hands explore him further, slipping under his t-shirt and grazing over the ridges of his abs, tracing the trail of hair under his navel to the waistband of his sweatpants. In return, John tugs at the tie of your robe hastily until he can push it off your shoulders, and you shuck it away, revealing nothing underneath but your— very obviously soaked— panties. He crowds you, grinding his hips into yours so you can feel exactly what you’re doing to him.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this, Red,” he groans.

“I—" you breathe, little more than a whine as you tug at his sweatpants. “I need you. Now.”

Biting back another embarrassing sound, he turns and crosses the room to his bed, tossing you onto the sheets. He pulls away to just look at you for a moment, staring like he’s committing you to memory. His gaze roams over you slowly, the curve of your waist, the flush of red on your chest, and the hitch of your breathing.

"You're so beautiful," he husks, laced with awe.

Then, he’s straightening out and tugging his shirt over his head, and you’re able to make your stunned reaction to him calling you beautiful look like it’s about him undressing instead. His chest is more sun-kissed than you were expecting, subtle freckles dotted across his shoulders. A set of dog tags rest on a thin chain at the center of his chest, framed by lean muscle on all sides. None of his strength is for show, meticulously honed over his years of service and there long before any serums. His pants are stripped off next, and he wastes no more time before crawling over you. He’s straining in his boxers, aching for you, his mouth finding yours again with fervor.

His hands and lips are everywhere, and it’s so much all at once. You’ve been alone and cold and untouched for so long and now, finally, you’re letting yourself have him. You’ve never been held like this, never felt wanted like this, like he can't breathe without you. You’re not supposed to want this, want him. But God, you do. More than anything else in the world.

Your head falls against his pillows, savoring the weight of him over you. The touch of his lips, his beard scraping your skin, all heighten the buzz running through your body, so much better than any of your fantasies. His cock is hard and insistent against your thigh, practically begging for your attention.

You arch your back, pressing your chest to his, a command for more. There’s something feral in the way he responds, hands cupping your breasts, squeezing firmly. He can’t get enough of you. He kisses you hungrily, his hands gliding across your sides, your shoulder blades, everywhere, desperate to touch as much skin as possible. His lips find your neck again, leaving hot, wet kisses that trail down your torso, detouring only to lap over each peaked nipple with dedication. He continues lower, his nose burying into your navel, inhaling deeply. He glances up at you, his eyes clouded with desire, the question on the tip of his tongue. You beat him to it, spreading your legs wilder, beckoning him closer.

"You wanna taste me, baby?" you purr.

John feels the heat in his gut flare at your words, your voice, your body. His tongue traces a path over your hip bone, down to your inner thigh. He takes a moment to marvel at the wet patch on your panties, pressing a kiss over the soaked cotton before urging them down your legs and flinging them to some forgotten corner of the room.

He’s homed in on your dripping cunt, and you swear he licks his lips. "Oh, I'm gonna devour you, Red."

He gets on his knees at the foot of the bed, pulling you to the edge by your hips, and tosses your thighs over his shoulders. He starts agonizingly slow, his tongue tracing slow circles through your folds, teasing, savoring. It doesn’t take you long to realize he knows exactly what he's doing, and it’s unexpected, but you’re sure as hell not about to complain. Every sound that slips from your lips only encourages him further, determined to prove something to you that he can’t quite put a name to. He alternates between broad, languid strokes and focused, pointed flicks, finding all the right spots that make you grind your cunt into his mouth.

“John,” you gasp again, hands tangling in his hair, your grip unrelenting. “You’re so good at this… so fucking good.” You swear you can feel him fighting a smug smile between your legs. But before you can call him on it, John flattens one hand over your lower stomach, holding your hips down, while the other circles your entrance. He teases only for a moment, sliding one finger, and then another inside. Your thighs clamp around his head as he fucks you with his fingers, curling them at just the right spots, his pace relentless. He watches you through it all, completely mesmerized by the way you look, how he’s the one making you feel so good.

“That’s it, baby—“ you sigh, the endearment slipping out without a thought. “Fuck. Keep going.” You’re a trembling wreck, your senses overwhelmed by his skilled tongue. The coil of pleasure tightens inside you, a breadth away from snapping. It’s so much, minding your reactions slips your mind, the moans and curses coming freely now. You’re incredibly vocal, constantly singing his praises, trailing off into unintelligible cries that only serve to push him further.

“I’m so close,” you choke out, “you’re gonna make me come.”

So fucking close.

And then, he does something with his fingers, a subtle crook as his lips wrap around your clit, and that's it. You shatter, your body arching off the bed, head thrown back, a strangled cry escaping you.

"J-John," you weep, shaking with the force of your orgasm. "Oh my god, fuck, so good.” John doesn’t let up, lapping at your cunt to draw out your high for as long he can. You have to pull him away once the overstimulation kicks in, reluctant to part with the taste of your release. The soft praises, the way you’d cried his name ringing in his ears, his cock uncomfortably hard, just from eating you out.

His eyes roam over your form, taking in the sight of you, debauched and flushed, chest heaving with each ragged breath. He doesn’t deserve this. Deserve you.

You lie there, still gushing through the aftershocks, your mind fuzzy and utterly sated. Every nerve ending crackles with electricity, your breathing shallow, skin damp with sweat. It feels like your body has been wrung out and put back together again in the best possible way.

You glance at John who’s patiently waiting for you to come down, but you catch the hint of doubt etched into his brow. Not regret, but the shadow of inadequacy. It brings a momentary gloom over you, baffled by how he could be insecure after giving you the best orgasm of your life.

“I take back what I said about you going down.” You grab his hand, the one that’s still covered in your cum, pulling him closer before he can wallow any longer. John goes willingly, his body settling over yours, and his eyes go wide as you bring his damp fingers to your mouth, tongue darting out to clean yourself off of them. “I guess your mouth is good for things other than running it.”

Your lips find his next, tasting more of your pleasure on his tongue and in his beard. He’s wound tight, the hunger thrumming beneath his skin, but the feeling of your kiss— and your characteristically vulgar compliments— settles the doubt within him.

“Fuck, you’re amazing,” you continue, pulling him into you with your legs around his waist. He rolls his hips yours, grinding his leaking cock brushing your cunt, both of you chasing that friction.

"You’re so goddamn perfect," he murmurs against your lips, rough with need. His hips speed up, soaking up the wetness at the apex of your thighs, even though the barrier of his boxers.

“You’re wearing too many clothes.”

You flip your positions suddenly and swiftly, just like that day in the gym, straddling his hips. Your weight settles over him, tugging his waistband down until his length is freed from the stifling cotton. That day, you’d felt him through his sweats, made up a picture in your mind of what he’d look like underneath. But nothing compares to seeing him in the flesh.

Your hands wander over him, appreciating every contour of muscle, every scar— even the one near his ribcage that was very likely your doing— every faint freckle that dots his shoulders. The way you caress him is firm and deliberate, and you’re lost in the moment, the reality of what’s between you settling heavily over your head.

John watches through half-lidded eyes, the rise and fall of his chest shaky as your lips and teeth trail over his chest. You leave little marks in your wake, making sure to leave your brand on him, even if he can’t do the same on you. He feels the shift too, and he’s terrified, but he never seems to know when to keep his mouth shut around you.

"I’ve wanted you since I first saw you,” he confesses suddenly. “You wouldn’t even give me the time of day back then." He knows it was wrong, that he was supposed to be happily married at the time, and it was something he never intended to act on.

And then, fate— better known as Valentina Allegra de la Fontaine— shoved you back together and locked you in a bunker and forced you to make nice to stay alive. He never thought it would actually end with you in his bed.

"That was three years ago,” you point out, his admission still sinking in. Your heart hammers in your chest, the reality of this hitting you in full and all at once. The depth of the desires he’s been denying, the need you’ve been ignoring.

"I’ve been holding back for years." John pushes himself up on his elbows, leaning against the headboard to be level with you. You’re both in anticipation as you scramble for the right way to respond, wide-eyed and entirely focused on the other.

“Stop holding back.”

And your wish is his command. He relaxes at the tentative acceptance of his feelings, and it’s more than enough when he’s still not sure how to describe them. He leans into you, and this time his kiss is slower, thorough. Your thighs cage his in, all of you on display just for him, his cock throbbing as you start to move your hips. He almost can’t handle the feeling, and he tries to ground himself as to not come in three seconds, and a different issue occurs to him instead.

“Are you on the pill— or something? Or do I need…” he trails off, wondering if he even has any. There’s been no one since or before Olivia, no reasons to be prepared.

Your stomach drops, John’s question sobering in a way you know he didn’t intend. You hadn’t really considered the fact that he was unaware of the Red Room’s ‘graduation ceremony’. It’s been such a constant in your life for decades— less of a sore spot and more of a mild ache that flares up on occasion— but one that doesn’t often cross your mind anymore. A bitter laugh almost escapes you, but you bite it back. You know you don’t technically owe him an explanation, but you decide he deserves one.

“I’m not— but—“ you start, faltering on how to put it into words without completely ruining the moment. “I can’t— I don’t have the equipment.”

John is struck still by the disclosure, his hands pausing where they were gliding over your sternum. It takes a second for his brain to catch up to what you’ve said, but then his eyes flick down, spotting the faint scar that runs vertically through your lower stomach. He puts together the pieces that he should have realized before now.

“It wasn’t my choice but— it’s fine, it was a long time ago,” you insist. It happened before the serums that made you invulnerable, making it permanent. You want him to trust that it’s safe, but don’t want to talk about it, don’t want to linger on another thing that they took from you— autonomy. 

“Red—“ he starts, and you mistake his concerned tone for pity, interrupting him before he can continue.

“Don’t worry about it,” you plead. “I’m fine. I want to feel you.” You’re desperate for this to not turn into another therapy session, so you try to resume the friction with a shift of your hips, but his grip holds you still.

You say it all so flippantly, like it doesn’t matter, and he has to forcibly stop the groan that’s building in his chest as you rock against him. The need to make you forget everything that’s ever been done to you is overwhelming. His grip loosens, no longer possessive or rough, and he runs his knuckles over the sensitive skin of your stomach, meant as a comforting gesture.

“I’m sorry they did this to you, sweetheart.”

His voice is so warm. Your heart swells at the use of the term— so tender and familiar, so at odds with everything you feel you are— and you want more. But he’s still looking at you with worry, like what happened doesn’t sit right with him.

“Don’t look at me like that. I don’t want to think, I just want this… you.”

He can't deny you anything, not now. He has to give you what you need, and it’s this. Him.

You need him.

“You have me, Red. You have me.”

His grip on your hips loosens, no longer holding you in place but lightly kneading your flesh. You’re moving again, but it all feels heavier now, and you keep the pace languid, looking into his eyes. He’s content to give you the control, his body moving on your lead, driven by a need to make it good for you.

It’s not until you decide you’ve reduced him into a desperate mess underneath you that you finally change course, angling your hips so that the tip of his cock catches your entrance. His hips jerk and he can’t help it, driving up into you, groaning into your mouth. His hand tangles in your hair and you echo his sounds as you sink down on him, the stretch euphoric.

"God, you’re perfect," he growls, “you’re so goddamn perfect." The feeling of being inside you, of losing himself in you… it isn’t something he’d ever thought he’d experience, something he can’t put into words.

You lean up to capture his mouth, your tongue sliding over his, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer, wanting him as close as you can get him. The world around them disappears, nothing but the feel of him inside you, the taste of his moans on your tongue.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “You feel so good, filling me up so well, so deep."

Your little praises and the curses are more than enough to drive him crazy. He can’t think, thrusting up into your heat on pure instinct. He’s never felt like this, with anyone, like he’s enough. And as you gasp his name, your face clouded with pleasure, it hits him like a ton of bricks.

“I can't get enough of you," he pleads without any clear request. "Can't get you out of my head, out of my system…."

You can feel it building in your body, the heat and sensation coiling tight, pleasure building as you ride him vigorously, thighs flexing, your hands on his shoulders for leverage. You set a rougher pace, lost in him, drowning in the sounds he’s making. He kisses you again, mouth hungry and demanding. You can feel him growing closer, the way his rhythm is turning erratic, his blood is pumping, and you know he’s on the edge.

You cup his face, making him look at you, the words coming out in gasps of breath, “You’re so close, aren’t you? Are you gonna come for me?"

His eyes snap open, his expression raw and primal, his body coiled tight. His fingers dig into the meat of your hip firmly, leaving bruises that heal quicker than he can make them over and over, but it only adds to your bliss.

He cries out your name, thick with emotion. “Please.”

The word hangs in the air. He’s asking for something more than just this physical moment. You trace his swollen, kiss-reddened lips with your thumb.

“Please, what?”

He closes his eyes, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body trembling under yours.

“Please,” he repeats, a ragged whisper, his lips brushing against your neck, “please don’t leave me… don’t leave me, please.”

He’s not sure he can bear the answer, but he needs you to know, to understand, that he needs you in a way that’s so much more than this moment. You suck in a breath, the words catching you off balance, your heart constricting in your chest. You want to tell him you won’t, that he’s stuck with you, just as much as you’re stuck with him. But the words stick in your throat, the truth feeling too big, too real. Instead, you wrap your arms around him, holding him close, pressed up against him, wordlessly offering yourself.

You’re giving him something he didn’t know he even needed, something comforting and safe and he doesn’t remember ever feeling this known before. He buries his face deeper into your neck, a small shudder running down his body. It’s too much, too intense, but he can’t stop it, can’t hold back.

“I’m gonna come,” he gasps, “baby, can I— please…” Your name on his lips, the low pleading, almost desperate edge to his voice.

“Go on. Inside.”

That simple, filthy command— it’s all it takes for him to snap, and his orgasm is crashing over him. It triggers yours a moment later, the way he’s filling you and the gravely way he cries out completely irresistible. Your name is on his lips, foreheads pressed together as you both come.

“Red… Baby, baby… God. You’re — You’re so good, you’re so goddamn perfect.”

John lays his head on your shoulder, snuggled close, the heat between you cooling to a simmer. You’re both still shaking slightly, the last waves washing over, and you stay this way for what could be hours, your fingers gently running through his hair.

You’re so goddamn perfect.

It rings in your head over and over, and you’re not sure if you want him to say it again or if you even want to respond at all. You don’t know what to do about this feeling, this feeling of wanting more.

He’s not moving, not yet, not ready to lose this contact, this moment. He’s always been a straightforward person, but all he can think of is how damn good this feels, your fingers brushing in his hair, the way you hold him, your praises echoing in his mind.

He finally lifts his head, moving just enough so that he can look at you. And he’s not expecting what he sees.

Your eyes are welling with tears.

Red flags are screaming in his head at the sight of your tears, his mind flashing over all of the ways that he could have hurt you, if he’s pushed too hard, if your wounds are still too fresh. He pulls back, panic making him tense. “Baby? Why are you—“

“I’m not sad,” you reassure him quickly, giving him a watery laugh, shaky as you reach up to dab at your eyes. Two months ago, you probably would have killed him for seeing you like this. That time seems so far away right now. “It was just— a lot, that’s all. I’m not sad, I promise.” And you mean it— you’re not sad, you’re completely overwhelmed with a million different emotions you don’t know how to deal with. You look at him, the concern on his face so unusual and sweet that you can’t help smiling.

“I’m not normally like this, I just— I was expecting a quick hate-fuck, not…” you trail off, terrified to be the one to voice the feelings first.

His concern eases slightly at your admission, his brow still furrowed with worry, but he lets out a shaky laugh. He had been thinking the same, a quick roll in the sheets and the usual brush-off he’s used to. He hadn’t been expecting you to let him past your defenses, or for every damn thing you say and do to make him want you more and more.

He reaches a hand up to your cheek, gently stroking away the tears from your skin. His hand is tentative, as if he’s unsure he’s doing the right thing.

“Maybe it’s a surprise for both of us.” His eyes roam over your face, taking in the way you look, all flushed and sated. “Can I— can I hold you?”

Your breath catches in your throat at the question, your heart fluttering like an over-excited kid. You’d never allowed yourself something so soft, not since you can ever remember, and you’re terrified of how much you want it.

Your response is low, like you’re trying to make sure you don’t scare anyone away. “Please. Yes.”

Relief washes over him, the tension in his body disappearing. He gently pulls you into his arms, settling against the pillows, shifting until you’re lying on his chest. Pulling the blankets over your tangled forms, John runs a hand through your hair, his touch so incredibly tender it feels foreign.

You tuck your head under his jaw, wanting to be as close as possible to listen to and feel the beat of his heart. He’s holding you like you’re something precious, something worth caring for, and it makes your throat tight again.

He’s quiet for a long time, his fingers tracing absent lines across your scalp.

After what feels like forever, he finally speaks. “What’s your favorite kind of ice cream?”

You’re caught so off guard by the question that you burst into a fit of laughter. You pull away so that you can look up at him, the question completely unexpected.

“That’s what you want to know right now?” you ask, an eyebrow raised quizzically at the question. “My favorite kind of ice cream?”

The sound of your laugh is like music, sending a jolt through his chest, and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He grins down at you, his gaze filled with something adoration.

“Yup.” He grins wider at your skepticism. “Ice cream. It’ll be important for when I take you out.”

Your stomach does a flip. When.

You’ve never been one to entertain anything like the idea of a relationship, too caught up in life-or-death situations or your own baggage and grief to even consider the possibility.

“Neapolitan,” you answer simply, biting your lip to keep yourself from looking too enthusiastic. He can see it on your face, the way your expression turns sentimental at the thought of it.

“Neapolitan, huh? I should’ve guessed. You seem like the kind to have trouble making decisions.”

You playfully smack his shoulder, scoffing. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean? Let’s hear your favorite, then.”

His face contorts into a borderline theatrical facade of pain, his hand moving up to rub dramatically at his arm.

“Rocky road,” he says, trying not to crack while feigning hurt. “It’s a classic. And apparently, a sign of a stubborn personality.”

“So, I’m indecisive, but your favorite ice cream is the one with the most crap in it?” You rest fully on his chest, wanting to be closer to him, wanting to soak in the feeling of his touch. “It’s overcompensating,” you tease, tinged with affection.

He lets out a quiet oomph as you lean against him, his arm shifting to wrap more securely around your back as he brings you closer. The boyish smirk on his face grows at your obvious teasing. “It’s not overcompensating,” he argues, full of mock protest, “I think you just experienced firsthand how much I’m not overcompensating, actually. Compensating perfectly adequately.”

You can’t help but snort at that, your head lifting to see the self-satisfied grin on his face. It’s so unexpected, the banter, the lighthearted flirting. But it feels good, so good, in a way you didn’t know you were capable of.

“Oh sure,” you say dryly. “So, when are you taking me out then?”

His hand runs up and down your spine, his touch gentle, touch is so light it’s almost ticklish. “Tomorrow night.” His tone is so soft, so different from how he normally speaks. “There’s this barbeque place not too far from here, pretty good for New York,” he scoffs. “And then, ice cream.”

Your heart stumbles over itself, and for once you have no witty retort. Because he’s making plans. With you. For a real, actual date.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “That sounds… nice.”

He’s not sure how this is happening, but he’s sure as hell not about to question it now. “It’s a date, baby.”

You once thought the strangest thing you’d ever done was go through space and back in time to resurrect your friends. But really, it’s feeling safe and happy wrapped up in the arms of John Walker, and agreeing to go out on a date.

“You know the team is going to never let us live this down, right?”

That gets more laughter to bubble out of him, a wide, genuine smile on his face as the thought of the team seeing you together hits him. You’re right, of course. They’re gonna have a field day with this, and he’s going to have to take the brunt of their trades, because most of them are still   a little bit scared of you.

He presses another gentle kiss to your forehead, smile lingering. “Think we can keep it to ourselves for a little while? Just us?”

You aren’t used to asking for things, but you want this, and you let herself be honest with yourself for once. “They mean well, and probably already have a betting pool running behind our backs— but I don’t want them to mess this up before we can figure it out.”

John nods, his own heart swelling at your words. This. He wants this too, more than he’s ever wanted anything, and he’s not ready to share it with anyone else.

“They’ll notice something is up if we aren’t constantly at each other’s throats, you know,” you add, a reminder that only a few hours ago the two of you had been feigning hate for each other for months.

John chuckles, because if anyone knows how hard you’ve been denying the truth, it’s yourselves. He’s not ashamed to admit that it was a bit like pulling teeth, lashing out at you when all he could think about was kissing you senseless.

“I’m sure we’ll still find enough to bicker over to make it look convincing.”

You’ve never wanted someone, not like this, and you know he’ll be able to see it all over your face if he looks. So, you bury your head into the crook of his neck, trying to hide the way you’re beaming as you respond. “We do a rather good job of hating each other, usually.”

He gently lifts your chin, tilting your face up so that he can see you clearly. He's not letting you hide, amused by how damn obvious you are, a reprieve from your typical cold demeanor.

“Don’t you dare hide from me, Red.”

You aren’t used to feeling so exposed. Your forehead rests against his, John’s hand moving to cup your cheek as you lean in, responding with a kiss gentler than the ones you’ve shared previously.

His breath catches at the soft brush of your lips, at the feeling of you under his hands.

“Say you’ll be here in the morning.”

You can hear his sincerity, the sound of it going straight to your heart. 

You smile, an unfamiliar and tender smile, so delicate it’s like sharing a secret.

“I’ll be here in the morning.”