Hi! I'm Chantelle, a 24-year-old from England who uses she/they pronouns, is autistic and disabled. My main is @moons-and-mobility-aids, but I wanted to start posting my fic recs elsewhere as I have so many.
My reblogs are generally queued since I get the energy to make my little comment in batches and will do like 20 at once and it stresses me out to post it all at once.
I will also be doing rec lists - I will start with people I don't have many recs for so it's less overwhelming for me. As I am working from a list on excel, I won't have reblogged all the fics on those lists yet but they will all get a reblog at some point because I kind of want to make it a rule for me that I comment on every fic I read, even if it takes a bit because I do find it hard.
i stg this was just supposed to be a quick headcanon about my obsession with Steve Harrington and this song but it got away from me real fast omg
ex best friend!Steve Harrington x fem!reader [1.7k words]
CW: ex best friends to strangers to ....?, King Steve era bullshit, disturbing levels of yearning, reminiscing, open-ended/hopeful endng
It’s a story as old as time; attached at the hip as gap-toothed, skinned-kneed children, managing to survive even the fatally awkward prepubescent and cringeworthy middle school years.
But as many do, high school sees the two of you parting ways.
There’s no grand moment or theatric fracture; it’s simply an amalgamation of one too many missed phone calls, one too many offers to hang out with him and Tommy H when Steve knows quite well you don’t enjoy being around the dude, one too many maybe next time’s, one too many tight lipped smiles of acknowledgement in the halls instead of actual hellos.
It goes on until the two of you become relative strangers. As if you don’t know the way he organizes his underwear drawer. As though you weren’t the one who helped him pull out loose teeth. As if it wasn’t your window that he’d crawl through when his parents weren’t home – or, sometimes, because they were home – to camp out on the floor of your bedroom when the two of you outgrew sharing your twin-sized bed.
You always knew you loved Steve, your best friend; a seemingly permanent fixture in your quiet life in Hawkins. But you knew that you were undoubtedly in love with Steve – your best friend – one night in middle school after the two of you and a few other classmates went to the theatre to see the new release The Billion Dollar Hobo.
You all felt quite grown being allowed to go to the movies without parental supervision. But you were all gangly and more than a little awkward, and Steve had just finished his latest growth spurt which meant he didn’t always know which way his feet were going; he tripped, and spilt his drink all over you. He felt awful, wouldn’t stop apologizing, and followed you into the women’s bathroom, insisting you change out of your wet shirt. He handed you his sweater over the bathroom stall and spent the whole night sitting in the theatre in nothing but a thin t-shirt riddled with goosebumps, but he never complained, not once.
The childhood crush took root and bloomed. You loved him. You were in love with him.
But you loved him and your friendship enough to keep that to yourself. And honestly, it hadn’t been that hard; you were used to being his friend, used to loving him. Very little changed.
Whatever crush you had on him slowly melted away with the distance, a gentle reprieve seeing as his reign of King Steve saw him parading countless girls around. None bothered you, not until Nancy Wheeler.
From the distance, you could see the childlike excitement in him again. He was closer to the Steve in your memories – your Steve – than whatever this new version was that Tommy H had carved out of him. You could tell he wanted to get it right, even if that didn’t always translate into effort. Nancy managed to forgive moments that should’ve been deal breakers, and by the end you’d be lying if you said you didn’t end up holding a little bit of hope for the two of them.
It didn’t last, though. And whatever strife seeing him and Nancy Wheeler together in no way outweighed the pity you felt for him when it ended; when he blew it.
But his descent as King of Hawkins High was anything but humble, and it came with not only shaking off the dead weight that was Tommy H and losing Nancy Wheeler, but also saw the ascension of a new King.
Graduation couldn’t come soon enough.
Except life isn’t simply lockers slamming and bells ringing and hallway gossip anymore; it’s monsters and telekinetic children and alternate dimensions and Steve fucking Harrington every where you look. It’s exhausting, dizzying.
Suddenly the two of you are back-to-back swinging at creatures that seem to have crawled from the darkest depths of Hell determined to make a meal out of you. It’s survival, it’s racing hearts and pounding feet, it’s shouts of direction and circling back to make sure no one is left behind.
It’s passing out on the floor of the Byers’ living room instead of going back home. It’s setting up camp at Steve’s perpetually empty house to map out plans. It’s falling asleep on opposite ends of the sofa and waking up sweaty from shared body heat when you ultimately migrate towards one another, not unlike opposite poles of a magnet desperate to drag each other back into the other’s orbit.
Suddenly you want it back; the minds you had, riding bikes down midnight streets, sharing beds like little kids, and laughing ‘til your ribs get tough. You walk through countless houses chock-full of people – parents, the fucking chief of police, adults, recent high school grads, teens who are exactly the age you were when you ultimately fell in love with your best friend – and you’ve never felt more alone.
“It feels so scary getting old,” Steve murmurs one night from the opposite end of the couch after the rest of the house has fallen silent. He’s got one arm folded behind his head while his opposite hand rests on his chest. He remains quiet, even slowing his breathing as though willing to let the comment – and moment – slide if you decide not to respond.
“That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” you reply, craning your neck to look at him. He tilts his head to do the same. “There’re monsters running around town and you’re afraid of getting old?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah.”
You laugh. “Weirdo.”
“Well, that’s not all I’m thinking about,” he admits. “I was thinking about that time we were racing home on our bikes and you took the short cut through that gravel path and wiped out.”
You hiss at the memory, phantom pains stinging the palms of your hands. “So glad to hear that replays in your mind, Harrington.”
“You would’ve won.”
“Damn right, I would’ve.”
“And then you were afraid of your parents finding out, ‘cause you were supposed to be grounded. So we rushed home and I had to pull stones out of your hands and knees-”
“And my bottom lip,” you add with a grimace.
“-and patch you up, hoping they wouldn’t find out.”
“I think they knew,” you let out on an exhale.
He sits up further. “Did you get in trouble?”
“I think they felt bad enough for me with my fat lip,” you surmise. “Besides, it’s not like I snuck out again after that. They probably figured I learnt my lesson.”
He lets that sit in the air, reclining again to return his gaze to the ceiling.
“Why were you thinking about that?”
“I was thinking about that because there used to be a little knick in your chin after that. And on your knees.”
You don’t respond.
“Are they still there?” he asks.
“Are what still there?”
“The scars.”
You join him in looking at the ceiling. “I…don’t know. I think maybe a small one on my knee. Not my chin.”
He hums in acknowledgement. It's a sad sound; disheartened. “I used to know these kinds of things.”
You laugh. “What? What various injuries have marred my skin?”
“Yeah,” he agrees earnestly. “And how you got them and where it happened and what you had to eat last night and the last time your parents got into a fight and what book you currently have on your night stand. I used to know these kinds of things.”
“And that bothers you?”
“Yeah!” He flings out one of his hands as though he can see the fact before him and he’s shouting at it. “It’s…it’s not right.”
“It’s just how these things go, Steve,” you sigh.
“It wasn’t supposed to go like that,” he disagrees. “Not with you. I-”
“It’s okay,” you whisper.
“It’s really not.”
You don’t know what to say to him; don’t know where this is coming from or what prompted this line of thought.
“If losing you was a side effect of getting old, it blows and I want nothing to do with it,” he announces. “We should’ve just stayed little.”
“We had it pretty good, didn’t we?” you murmur into the quiet room.
“We had it best,” he responds in kind. “I want it back.”
“Steve…”
“All the nights we had. Sharing beds and laughing ‘til our stomachs hurt.”
“We’re sort of half-doing that right now,” you tell him, kicking him with your leg from your end of the sofa.
“Can we keep doing that?” he asks, sounding smaller somehow. “When the gates are closed and the monsters are gone and the dust has settled, can we- can we have it back?”
“What exactly are you asking me, Steve?”
“I want you back.” Your heart is pulled in two different directions, yearning to soar and sink simultaneously. “I was…such a douche.”
The two of you share a chuckle.
“I would’ve been way better off if I’d known back then that you’re the only friend I need.”
You hum noncommittally. “Certainly would’ve been better for you than Tommy H.”
Steve groans. “Yeah, that’s putting it lightly.”
The two of you fall into silence, the exposed beams of the Harrington living room apparently the most interesting thing to look at.
“You never answered my question.”
“What?” you play dumb.
“If we can be friends again.”
You let out a great heaving sigh that’s only half performative, fighting back the tears that settle in your sinuses.
“Yeah, Steve,” you offer, hoping you don’t sound as hesitant as you feel. “Yeah, we- we can be friends.”
You can feel from your end of the sofa how he deflates into the cushions with relief. You swallow around the lump in your throat, glad – if nothing else – to have your best friend back.
Because you love him, are probably a little bit in love with him. So, he can be your friend, if that’s what he’d like.
I don't think I've recovered from this and I finished reading it ten minutes ago. The childhood-to-estrangement pipeline is so well drawn here—it's not dramatic, there's no big falling out, it's just the slow accumulation of missed moments and polite hallway smiles, which is somehow so much worse. It feels true in a way that actually stings a little.
But the sofa scene is what really got me. "I used to know these kinds of things" and then listing off everything—the scars, the books on the nightstand, the last time your parents fought—like he'd been keeping a mental inventory of you and only realised too late that he'd let it go out of date. I actually held my breath a little.
And the ending!! He asks to be friends again and you say yes, and it's relief for him and quiet devastation for you, and the author just. Leaves you there with that. "You're not sure it'll ever be enough." Absolutely horrendous. Thank you. Will be thinking about this at 3am.
finnick x short reader??? height difference fluff :p
I ended up making this sliiiiigghtlyyy less fluff than you were probably hoping for but here's my take on it
Finnick Odair x short!reader who disappears on him [802 words]
CW: fem!reader, brief mention of the hunger games, brief mention of Finnick's trauma from it, reader is short and Finnick is strong so she ends up thrown over his shoulder, little bit of hurt/comfort, fluff
You nearly flinch at the sound of your name; Finnick officially finding you at one of your favourite stands at the market.
You have the grace to look abashed as you turn to smile at him, knowing from his tone alone that you’ve freaked him out by disappearing on him.
He offers you a tight smirk as he rolls his eyes, never pausing in his movements as he hoists you up and throws you over his shoulder. “I’m going to start tying a balloon to your wrist whenever we go out so I don’t lose you.” He mutters, though you can tell he’s working hard to sound too mad at you.
“But-”
“Which piece was she looking at?” He asks the clerk, apparently not interested in your retort.
You huff rather petulantly and opt to just accept your fate.
“I’ll take it, thanks.” Finnick states, managing to pay the clerk and accept your purchase with one hand, his other arm pinning your legs held to his chest by the back of your knees and holding the basket of groceries, before he turns and begins making his way out of the crowded market.
“I think you can put me down now.” You grumble, eliciting one loud ‘HA’ from Finnick beneath you.
“I don’t think I can, actually.”
“And why’s that?”
The two of you make it out of the boundary of the market; the sea of bodies petering out until the two of you were the only one’s walking in the direction of the village. It’s only then that Finnick finally opts to release you from air jail.
Your feet barely hit the ground before he’s dropping the basket of groceries and the bag with your trinket in favour of gripping each side of your face in his strong hands; eyes earnest though gentle as he looks down at you.
“You freak me out when you disappear on me like that.” He admits, and the soft tone of his voice gives way to how nervous you had made him before. “And I know it’s not your fault; you’re petite and you disappear into the crowd but I-”
His exhale is almost shaky as his hold on you strengthens.
“I’m sorry.”
He’s quick to shake his head. “It’s my worry, not yours. I know you don’t mean to, I just…you disappear and I’m suddenly convinced that every person in that market is a tribute and-” you watch as he seems to swallow around his gag reflex “-and I just wish I could keep you in the palm of my hand and make sure nothing bad ever happens to you.”
“I’m sorry.” You repeat, placing your hands atop of Finnick’s as they loosened their hold and trailed down to your jaw. “The market’s not the arena; I’m okay.”
He lets out another breath and closes his eyes, pressing his forehead to yours as he tries to relax.
“With the way Marella was haggling the clam guys, it kind of felt like the arena.” He murmurs after a few moments of silence.
You lean back just far enough to see his smirk; his dimple and the corners of his eyes an olive branch, lightening the mood and your heart alike.
“Does that make us the victors, then?” You venture, earning you a few breathy laughs followed by a lingering kiss to the space between your brows.
“As long as I get to leave with you, I’ll always be a winner.”
“What’d you pick up?” You ask, reaching a hand out to take the basket from him only for him to switch the basket to the other hand in order to free his for yours.
“They had some good shrimp this week.”
You make an appreciative humming sound. “Can I make shrimp scampi for dinner tonight? Would be nice with a glass of white.”
Finnick is smiling, face pointed in the direction of the victor’s village as he swings your joined hands in the space between you, making a sound as though he’s considering your offer.
“Or” he draws out “I’ll make the shrimp scampi while you sit on the counter and keep me company.”
“I think I’d like a job.”
“Can’t your job be to sit there and look pretty?”
“Well, you see,” you begin, “I would, but I already do that everyday for free.”
Finnick laughs before he pretends to reconsider. “How about you taste test the different bottles of wine we have to decide which will pair best with dinner?”
You halt your steps and force Finnick to turn back to look at you. “Whatever you want, handsome.”
The last bit of anxiety lifts from Finnick’s shoulders; his smile officially beaming, his eyes a brilliant green as a result. “Thank you, honey. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever felt like such a winner.”
This fic has no right to be this good. The market scene alone does so much work — the way Finnick just hoists you over his shoulder without breaking stride, still buying your trinket one-handed while keeping you pinned to his chest?? Incredibly him. And I love that the fic lets you be petulant about it without making it feel out of character, the little huff, "opting to accept your fate" perfect.
But it's the moment outside the market that really got me. The way Finnick's anxiety comes through not in dramatics but in that shaky exhale, in the tightening grip, in "I'm suddenly convinced that every person in that market is a tribute"--that's the kind of understated trauma writing that just hits differently. It doesn't oversell it, and it's so much more affecting for that.
And then the pivot to Marella haggling the clam guys being equivalent to the arena?? The dimple?? "As long as I get to leave with you, I'll always be a winner"?? I audibly sighed.
The ending with the shrimp scampi and the wine tasting job is just the perfect comedown--easy and warm and domestic in the way that feels like a reward after the emotional weight of the middle section. The banter is so sharp. "I already do that everyday for free" is genuinely funny and I loved it.
Just a really lovely piece of writing. Finnick characterisation like this is a rare and precious thing.
touchy bestfriend james makes my brain short circuit i love it so much
can u write a touchy bestfriend james and he’s lying on the bed while reader is in the bathroom and r comes in and sees him and he tells r to come over and lie with him then they fall asleep but she wakes up because he’s awake and playing with her boobs like stress balls and r asks what he’s doing then he just says that they feel warm and soft
Okay this was definitely a rough attempt, but I hope you like it!
cw: pg-13 level smut
bestfriend!James x fem!reader ♡ 618 words
When you come in, James looks nearly asleep despite the sunlight still streaming in through the windows. His face has gone soft and squishy, lips in a half-pout from how his cheek is smushed into his pillow. His hair is getting so long he’s had to push most of it to the back of his head to be able to see his phone screen where he scrolls idly in front of him, but one stubborn curl falls down his face and rests on the bridge of his nose.
“What, do I have a massive pimple or something?” he asks without looking up. “What’re you staring at me for?”
You cover your embarrassment with annoyance, rolling your eyes as you lean against the doorway. “Just wondering why you look like you’re about to drift off at four in the afternoon.”
“Because it’s nice and warm in the sun,” he answers easily. “C’mere, love.”
You do what he says (you always do, in the end), crawling onto the bed and laying down beside him. James shuts off his phone, setting it down in favor of sliding his hand between your waist and the mattress, big palm coming to rest at your navel as he tugs your back closer to his front. You don’t know about the sun, but James is certainly warm.
“Your arm’s gonna fall asleep,” you point out.
“Don’t care,” he says, already sounding drowsier.
“Don’t we have to be up to meet Remus and Sirius in a couple hours?”
“We will be.”
You’re out of protests, and not unhappy for it. James’ palm is warm and comforting on your stomach, his other hand reaching over you to rest just below your sternum. His breathing evens out quickly, and it’s that steady rhythm that eventually lulls you into sleep with him.
You wake, an indeterminable amount of time later, because something feels odd. You rouse slowly, aware first of the pleasant warmth at your back, then of the fact that you’re fully clothed in James bed, and finally of his hands on your boobs.
He’s squeezing them, feeling about with curious but sure hands, one tit in each. You lie there motionlessly, unsure if James is awake, or honestly, if you are. His touch is oddly comforting, and while your best friend is a very tactile person, this level of intimacy is unusual enough that you almost wonder if you might be dreaming. Then he squeezes too hard, and you’re sure you’re not.
“Ow!” you flinch back into James, hand coming up to grip his wrist. “What, are you trying to get milk to come out?”
“Hm?” James’ voice is sleepy, less so as he realizes the placement of his hands. His grip loosens. “Oh, shit. Sorry, love, I was half-asleep. Didn’t realize I was doing that.”
He doesn’t sound nearly as embarrassed as you would be in his situation, but that’s James. “It’s okay,” you say (really, it’s more than okay). “Just, it hurts when you squeeze that hard. They’re sensitive, Jamie.”
You feel him nod against the back of your head. “M’sorry, sweetheart, didn’t mean to hurt ya.” He doesn’t move his hands, though, and you make no move to encourage him to. “They’re just really warm and soft, y’know?”
You do know. The thing poking into your back is warm too, though not so soft.
“I mean, I don’t mind,” you say, glad you’re facing away so he can’t see the intense blush spreading over your face like a blight. “It’s sort of nice. Just…don’t squeeze so hard, okay?”
James’ thumb soothes over the skin of your breast, a comforting touch and a promise. He begins to knead at it gently. “Got it,” he says.
Okay I am absolutely feral about this fic. The opening scene of James all sun-warm and squishy-faced with the one stubborn curl on his nose?? I was already done before a word of dialogue had even happened. And then "C'mere, love" and reader just goes, because of course they do. The "you do what he says (you always do, in the end)" is such a good little line because it says so much about the dynamic without making a big deal of it.
But honestly what got me most is the whole second half. The way reader wakes up in stages—warmth first, then confusion, then oh—is so perfectly written. And James being half-asleep and genuinely unbothered once he realises?? No dramatics, no overcorrection, just "they're just really warm and soft, y'know?" like he's commenting on a nice jumper. The fact that reader is flustered and James is completely serene is so funny and so him.
Also "the thing poking into your back is warm too, though not so soft" made me audibly laugh. Not elaborating further. The ending is so soft and understated and exactly right—no big declarations, just his thumb soothing over and a quiet promise. Putting this directly into the comfort folder, thank you.
can you plz do thumbprint cookies w/ steve harrington where the reader goes to scoops ahoy all the time just so she can see him and flirt with him, and he actually likes her back and wants to ask her out???
thank you!! 💕💕💕
Hi thank you!
so firstly we know that while working at scoops Steve was suffering from some minor blows to his confidence
I think that depending on how far into that process you come in, he might just ask you out immediately or he might not because he's sick of getting shot down
if he doesn't ask you out the first time, by the second and third times you come in you're leaving a lingering impression in his head
he catches himself thinking about when you might come in again and excited when you do, will run out from the back to serve you (very suavely ofc) instead of letting robin do it
it doesn't take him long at all to catch onto the fact that you're flirting, and he's more than happy to flirt back
robin refuses to mark a tally on his scoresheet until you actually go on a date with him, and when you do she does so very begrudgingly lol (she hates to mess up his losing streak)
your first date is totally impromptu because Steve got nervous and asked you out for right at the end of his shift, so you just go to a shitty movie in the mall and maybe even enjoy some free ice cream from scoops afterwards
he thinks it's a miracle you want to go out with him again after that, so takes you out somewhere far nicer the next time :)
Okay, I love these so much. The detail about his confidence being worn down at Scoops is doing so much heavy lifting here, because it makes the whole "might just ask you out immediately OR might hold back" thing feel so real rather than arbitrary. He's not playing games, he's genuinely recalibrating.
The part that really got me though is him catching himself thinking about when you'll come in next, and then running out from the back to serve you himself instead of leaving it to Robin. Like it's this very Steve thing to do where he's telling on himself completely without realising it. He thinks he's being suave, he is not being suave.
And Robin refusing to mark the tally until an actual date happens?? Her doing it begrudgingly because it means messing up his losing streak?? That's so her. She's going to be smug about this for months and she deserves to be.
The impromptu first date is genuinely the most him thing imaginable. He got nervous and boxed himself in and now you're watching a mediocre movie in a mall at the end of his shift and somehow it's still kind of lovely. Him being quietly amazed that you want to go out again and then going all out for the second date just to prove something to himself??? I feel that in my chest a little.
may i request a poly!wolfstar x reader where the reader adopts a cat without telling them? fluff please
thanks for requesting, love! <3
poly!wolfstar x reader who adopts a kitten ✩ 1.5k words
"You can’t be angry with me."
You catch both of your boyfriends just as they’re stepping into the flat. The door stands wide open behind them, letting a gentle breeze curl through the too-small entryway.
Remus’ shoulders rise, almost imperceptibly, as tension begins to gather between his brows. He sets his shopping bag down slowly, eyes scanning your face cautiously.
“Dove,” he starts, voice soft. “Why would we be–”
“I just need you to promise you won’t be miffed before I tell you,” you cut in quickly, holding up your hands.
Behind him, Sirius makes a sound that’s halfway between a click of the tongue and a sigh. He shakes his head in faux disappointment, and a few strands of hair tumble free from the bun he’s scraped it into. It curls around his cheekbones and he doesn’t bother brushing them away.
You glance at him, your usual partner in crime – the one who folds under a pout and melts under a well-timed smile.
But not today.
The second your eyes meet his, he groans and tilts his head back toward the ceiling, as if trying to avoid being lured in by you.
“Oh my god,” he drawls, voice thick with mock exasperation. “What have you done this time?”
“Nothing bad!” you reassure him, maybe a bit too quickly.
Remus exhales through his nose and steps forward, calm and deliberate. “Can we please have this conversation inside?” he murmurs, gently placing a guiding hand on the small of your back as he nudges everyone away from the cold and toward the warmth of the flat.
The three of you drift into the living room. Remus moves with you, all soft hands and gentle touches. Sirius hangs back, arms crossed now, the tilt of his head saying I’m watching you.
You angle your body towards the hallway, intent on slipping off towards the spare room. Maybe it’d be easier to just show them, you think.
But you don’t make it two steps before Sirius catches on.
His hand clamps gently but firmly down on your shoulder. Not rough, not angry, but there’s no mistaking the intention behind it.
You're turned around before you can say a word, and Sirius plants himself right in front of you, eyes narrowed with mock authority and a little too much amusement for your liking.
“Start talking, trouble.”
You open your mouth, then close it again. Sirius’s expectant stare makes the words feel heavier, like they’re all tangled inside your throat. You start, haltingly at first.
“Well, it’s just–um–okay, so, you know how I said I wanted to get a pet? And we’ve been talking about it on and off for ages, but I wasn’t sure if you would be–”
“Dove,” Remus interrupts gently, his hand reaching out to still your restless fingers trying to calm the panic that's spilled into your voice, “just breathe. We’re not angry. We just want to know what's going on.”
You nod quickly, swallowing hard, the words still darting away from you. “It’s not what you think. I mean, it is, but it’s not like I–” You trail off, exhaling nervously.
Sirius sighs, running a hand over his hair. “You’re killing me here, doll. Can you just say whatever it is? Please?”
You feel yourself flush and without another word, you turn on your heel and start walking down the hallway, shoulders slightly hunched.
“Baby, where are you going?” Sirius calls out, voice soft but laced with exasperation.
You don’t answer Sirius and just lift your hand in a vague “wait” motion as you shuffle down the hallway, heart hammering away in your chest.
You hear the soft creak of the sofa as Remus sinks down into it and the familiar thudding of Sirius pacing across the rug. There's some low murmuring that for the most part sounds light and teasing. The sound releases some of the worry gripping your chest.
You disappear into the spare room for a moment. There’s a beat of silence.
Then the softest sound, a muffled mrrp.
And another, louder this time, Mrrrrow!
You return a moment later, carefully cradling a tiny black and white kitten against your chest. The cat is all oversized ears and twitchy little whiskers, with a splotch of ink-dark fur right over one eye and the kind of round, sleepy face that could melt even the coldest heart.
Not that your boyfriends are particularly known for their coldness. Thankfully.
Sirius stops pacing mid-step. His whole body sort of freezes as he takes in the image of you holding this tiny kitten. You watch the way he softens, as his eyes sweep over you.
“What the fuck?” he breathes, eyes wide and unguarded. He’s already walking towards you before he even realises it. “You didn’t say it was cute.”
You press your lips together in a barely restrained smile as the cat blinks up at him, completely unbothered, then noses into your arm like she’s settling in for a nap.
“I did say it wasn’t bad,” you offer meekly, while trying to see around Sirius to gauge Remus’ reaction. His silence is concerning.
Sirius gives a delighted little huff as he gently scratches under the kitten’s chin. “Hello, darling,” he coos, his voice turned embarrassingly soft. “Aren’t you just–bloody hell, look at you. Rem, look at her.”
You glance over at Remus, who is still seated on the couch, his expression unreadable. He’s got that pinched, thoughtful line between his brows that’s usually a telltale sign his thoughts are running at a mile a minute.
“She’s small,” he says at last, which is neither a compliment nor a complaint.
He’s still sitting on the couch, long fingers laced together between his knees, watching everything unfold with an expression that's far too neutral.
“She’s really small,” he says again, when you don't respond.
You raise an eyebrow at him, slowly lowering the kitten to the floor. She gives a soft, confused chirp at the movement, but doesn’t protest much.
“She’s healthy. Just little,” you say, tone gentle, coaxing. “She was the runt. The rescue said nobody else wanted her.”
Remus’s mouth tightens minutely, and you can see the way that gets under his skin. Predictably. Of course it does. He’s always been softest for the ones no one else picks.
You’re already padding across the room toward him, ready to reach for him as if your touch can do all the convincing for you. Sirius just watches on, but it’s obvious he’s already convinced by this new addition by the way he keeps looking down at the cat, eyes full of affection.
“I didn’t do it just to be impulsive,” you say. “I saw her when I was walking by and when I went in she came straight to me and I just–Remus, I couldn’t just leave her. She picked me.”
One of his eyebrows arches with the barest hint of skepticism. “Did she?”
You’re almost in front of him now. Your hand is halfway out, about to reach for his, when there’s a sudden, high-pitched mew at his feet.
Remus blinks down.
The kitten has followed you, trotted right up to where he’s sitting and is now circling his legs with a soft purr and a flick of her tiny tail. She mews again, louder this time, and then rises slightly on her hind legs, placing one little paw on the denim of his knee.
Your breath catches, and you can feel Sirius trying not to laugh behind you.
Remus’s brows draw together, not in frustration but puzzlement. He hesitates for a second, then reaches down – slow and careful – and curls one large hand under the kitten’s belly.
She makes a triumphant little chirp as he lifts her into his lap.
And Remus softens.
His shoulders relax, mouth easing out of its tight line as he carefully adjusts the tiny body, letting her settle against the crease of his arm. She stretches, gives a tiny sigh, and begins to purr loudly.
He looks down at her, then up at you, and something in his face shifts. All of his features become warmer and softer.
“Oh,” he says, barely more than a breath as he looks back down. “You are very sweet.”
Before you can say anything, a rough arm slings around your shoulders, and Sirius is suddenly there, pulling you close against his side.
“You’re such a little shit,” he says cheerfully, voice full of admiration disguised as complaint. And then he presses a big, obnoxious kiss to your cheek, loud and messy.
You laugh, trying and failing to squirm away. “Sirius!”
“Don’t Sirius me. You knew this would happen,” he says, nuzzling your temple with affection. “You walked in here with that face and a sob story about being ‘the runt,’ and you knew he’d fold like a wet paper towel.”
“I didn’t know,” you protest – but you’re smiling, warmth blooming in your chest. “I just had my suspicions.”
Okay this fic is genuinely so charming, I don't even know where to start. The characterisation is just perfect, Sirius caving the second he sees the kitten even though he was absolutely trying to hold firm?? Remus doing his whole calm, measured, quietly-catastrophising thing and then completely melting the moment she puts one tiny paw on his knee?? So them. So embarrassingly, painfully them.
But what I love most is how well the reader is written here. The way the anxiety spills out, the halting, circling speech, the vague "wait" gesture, physically going to just show them instead of finding the words, it feels so real and natural. And the fic never treats it as a flaw, it's just how they are, and both boys know them well enough to work with it. Remus reaching out to still their hands and saying "just breathe" without making it a big thing?? I could cry.
Also "she picked me" / "did she?", and then the kitten immediately waddling over and climbing onto his knee like she personally heard the challenge and accepted it. I audibly said "oh NO" because I knew it was over for him. It was so over for him.
And Sirius at the end?? "You knew he'd fold like a wet paper towel." The absolute delight in his voice. He's not even annoyed, he's proud of you. That's it, that's the whole relationship.
This one's going in the comfort folder, no question.
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader | WC: 2.1k | CW: Field injury, broken bone, bruising, hospital setting, prescription medication mention, soft domestic caretaking, team concern, gentle humor.
The chase was a blur of adrenaline and instinct. You were in pursuit of an unsub, who’d already proven he had no qualms about violence.
You'd been after him for days now, drained and utterly spent, finally having narrowed his location down enough to pull the trigger and jump into action.
The team had cornered him in a dilapidated industrial park, the air felt thick with the scent of rust and old motor oil.
You’d spotted him darting between a row of abandoned cars, his silhouette flickering in the dim lights. Without hesitation, you dove behind a rusted sedan for cover, your body low, heart pounding.
And in the next moment, there was a collision of pain and disorientation. Everything happened faster than you could register. Your foot caught on a jagged piece of debris, and you went down hard, your left arm twisting beneath you as your ribs slammed into the asphalt with a sickening crunch. And before you could roll away, the unsub’s boot connected with your side in a desperate bid to escape, the force sending a white-hot jolt through your already battered body.
You gasped; it felt as if the air had been stolen from your lungs. You managed to grab his ankle, slowing him just enough for Hotch to close the distance.
Thirty seconds later, the unsub was cuffed, his face pressed into the ground with an officer on top of him, but the damage had already been done. You lay there, clutching your arm, the world tilting as pain radiated from your ribs and forearm. You tried to move, to push yourself up, but the sharp, grinding agony in your arm told you something was broken—badly.
Hotch was at your side in an instant, his voice cutting through the haze of pain running through you. “Stay still,” he ordered, his hand hovering over your shoulder, his eyes scanning you, trying to assess your injuries without touching you and potentially making it worse. “Medics are on the way.”
You nodded weakly, the effort of speaking too much as you focused on breathing through the pain. Willing your thoughts not to think about the potential of a collapsed or a punctured lung.
The last thing you saw before the paramedics arrived was Hotch’s face, steady but pale—clearly knowing more about your condition than you—his jaw tight with worry.
Hours later, you were propped up in a hospital bed, the sterile scent of antiseptic and the rhythmic beep of a monitor filling the silence in your room. Your left arm was encased in a cast from wrist to just below your elbow, the result of a clean fracture in your radius. Your ribs, bruised but mercifully not broken, were wrapped tightly in a compression bandage that made every breath feel like a negotiation.
Your hip and thigh were splattered with deep purple and blue bruises, as well as what felt like a ball of scar tissue already forming beneath your skin. You felt a dull, throbbing pain pulsing through your entire body, only partially dulled by the IV drip feeding you a steady stream of mild painkillers.
Hotch stood at your bedside. He’d shed his jacket hours ago, leaving it draped over a chair in the corner, and his tie hung loose around his neck, the knot undone. His hand rested lightly on the bedrail, fingers brushing the edge of your blanket.
His eyes were soft with concern as they met yours. “You ready to get out of here? The nurse mentioned that they were getting ready to discharge you soon,” he asked, his voice low and gentle.
You nodded, wincing as the movement tugged at your bruised ribs. “As long as you promise not to demand paperwork out of me for the next couple of days,” you said, managing a faint smile despite the ache.
“Not a chance,” he replied, as a ghost of a smile touched his lips, softening the lines of worry etched into his face. "I'll do it for you."
The nurse bustled in with your discharge papers an hour later, her demeanor brisk but kind as she adjusted the sling supporting your injured arm. “You’ll need to keep this on for at least six weeks,” she said, gesturing to the cast. “No weight-bearing, no heavy lifting. And those ribs... take it easy. No sudden movements. You’ve got a prescription for morphine for the worst of it, but use it sparingly.”
You nodded, the weight of her instructions settling over you. You were glad Hotch was there; you weren't sure if you truly were paying attention to what she was saying.
Hotch listened intently though, his profiler’s mind cataloging every little thing as if it were a detail in a case file. When the nurse stepped out, he crouched beside your bed, his eyes level with yours.
“Tell me if anything hurts,” he murmured, sliding one arm carefully behind your back and the other beneath your knees.
“Everything hurts,” you said, your voice caught between a groan and a laugh, the pain making you feel like a ragdoll held together by sheer stubbornness.
“I meant more than it already does,” he clarified, his tone gentle but firm. He lifted you effortlessly, his arms steady under you, careful not to jostle your ribs or bump the cast. You let out a small gasp, more from the sudden shift than from pain, and leaned into his chest, the warmth of him grounding you in the sterile chaos of the hospital.
The drive back to your apartment was quiet, the hum of the SUV’s tires against the road a soothing contrast to the hospital’s sterile silence. Hotch had insisted you sit in the back seat, where it was easier for him to keep an eye on you through the rearview mirror, and you didn’t argue, too tired to protest. You leaned your head against the window, the sling cradling your arm against your chest, and let the rhythm of the car lull you into a light doze.
You stirred once, mumbling, “You’re too good at this,” your voice thick with exhaustion.
He glanced over at you, his expression unreadable in the reflection. “At what?”
“Carrying broken things,” you said softly, your eyes fluttering shut again.
He didn’t respond, not entirely sure if you were aware of what you were saying.
By the time Hotch pulled into the parking lot of your apartment building, you were half-awake, the painkillers wearing off just enough to make every movement ache. He climbed out of the driver’s seat and rounded the car, opening your door and crouching to lift you again. “Hold on to me,” he said, his voice a low murmur as he slid his arms under you once more.
You looped your good arm around his neck, wincing as he lifted you, carefully. He carried you up the stairs to your apartment, his steps slow, measured, and deliberate, as if you were made of glass—which, right now, you probably were.
When he reached your door, he shifted you slightly to push the door open, his shoulder brushing against the frame as he entered.
Inside, the warm glow of your living room revealed the team waiting like a concerned family unit. JJ, Emily, Rossi, and Morgan were clustered around your coffee table while Garcia stood in your kitchen steeping a teabag.
Takeout containers and bottles of water were scattered across your coffee table. The air smelled faintly of soy sauce and noodles. Their eyes all snapped to you as Hotch carried you in.
“Oh no,” JJ said, already halfway to tears when she saw the cast and bandages.
“She’s in a lot of pain,” Hotch added, shifting you gently in his arms, “but we’ve got a prescription for morphine. Small doses. Only when it’s bad.”
“She looks like a cooked noodle,” Emily said quietly, not unkindly but trying to lighten the mood.
“She feels like a cooked noodle,” Hotch replied dryly. “And I don’t want to jostle the splint, so if someone could clear a path to the couch—”
The team sprang into action, their movements quick but careful. Morgan shoved the coffee table aside, sending a few napkins fluttering to the floor. Rossi cleared a pile of jackets from the couch, while Emily tucked a stray takeout bag out of the way. JJ hovered nearby, clutching a bottle of water like it was a lifeline, her eyes glistening with worry.
Hotch carried you to the couch, lowering you gently. He adjusted a throw pillow behind your back, ensuring your sling was supported, and only then did he step back, though his hand lingered near your shoulder, ready to catch you if you shifted too much and fell over.
You winced as you settled, the movement sending a sharp twinge through your ribs, but you managed a weak smile for the team’s benefit.
Morgan crouched beside you, his eyes scanning the cast and bandages. “You’re gonna be okay, right, kid?” he asked, his voice softer than usual.
“Apparently, I’m made of slightly defective glass,” you said, your voice hoarse but teasing, trying to make light of the situation. “But I’ll mend. Eventually.”
Rossi, leaning against the arm of the couch, shook his head. “You took down an unsub with a broken arm and bruised ribs to show for it. That’s not glass, bambina. That’s steel.”
JJ stepped forward, unscrewing the cap on the water bottle and pressing it into your good hand. “Drink this,” she said, her tone maternal as she fussed over you. “You need to stay hydrated.”
Emily placed a container of chicken noodle soup within reach, her fingers brushing yours as she gave you a small, encouraging smile. “It’s from that deli you like. Figured you’d need something easy, given... You know.” She nodded toward your sling
You nodded. "I probably couldn't cook even if I tried to." You smiled. The warmth of their concern wrapped around you. Although you appreciated their presence, the weight of the day was starting to pull at you, and your eyelids started feeling heavier with each passing second.
Hotch picked up on it immediately.
“She’s exhausted,” he said, his voice gentle but carrying the authority that he usually only used when relaying a profile. “You’ve seen she’s okay. Let’s give her some quiet to rest.”
Rossi gave a slow nod, his eyes warm but understanding. “Call if you need anything, both of you.”
Emily squeezed your uninjured hand gently. JJ brushed a hand over your hair, her fingers lingering for a moment before she stepped back, blinking rapidly to keep her tears at bay. Morgan was the last to move, his gaze shifting from you to Hotch, a silent exchange passing between them.
“She’s in good hands,” he said, clapping Hotch on the shoulder before heading for the door.
One by one, they filed out, leaving behind a quiet that settled over the apartment like a soft blanket. The door clicked shut, and the world shrank to just you and Hotch.
Hotch moved around quietly, gathering the essentials from around your apartment. He retrieved the prescription bag from the hospital, setting the morphine bottle on the coffee table and exchanging the bottle of water for a glass.
He pulled the throw blanket from the arm of the couch, draping it over your legs. Crouching beside you, he checked the sling, his fingers brushing the edge of the cast to ensure it was secure.
“You’re sure you’re comfortable here?” he asked, his voice low, his eyes searching yours. “I can move you to the bedroom if it’s better.”
“Couch is fine,” you murmured, your voice heavy with exhaustion. “Easier to get up if I need the bathroom.”
“Then couch it is,” he said, straightening. He undid his tie completely, tossing it over the back of a chair, and you watched him with a tired smile.
“You’re good at this,” you said, your words slightly slurred as sleep tugged at you.
He gave a quiet, almost shy huff of a laugh, his hands pausing as he adjusted the blanket. “I’ve had practice. Just not with someone this hurt before.”
Your heart ached at the tightness in his voice, the unspoken guilt you knew he carried. “I’m sorry,” you said softly, your good hand reaching for his.
“Don’t be,” he said, his tone firm but gentle. His eyes softened, but there was a shadow in them—a flicker of the fear he hadn’t voiced, the wish that he could have shielded you from the unsub’s boot, from the fall, from all of it.
You tightened your grip on his hand, your fingers weak but insistent. “I’m okay. And I'm guessing there's no chance of you going home tonight. Am I right?”
His fingers curled around yours, warm and steady. “Not a chance,” he said, and the certainty in his voice was enough to carry you into sleep.
This fic genuinely has me in a chokehold. The action sequence at the start is so well-paced, it doesn't linger too long and the injury feels earned rather than gratuitous, which I really appreciate. The detail of you grabbing his ankle to slow him down just enough for Hotch to close the distance even while you're already injured?? Peak BAU agent behaviour, honestly.
But what really got me is Hotch throughout the whole thing. The "stay still" with his hand hovering because he doesn't want to make it wors, that one detail tells you everything about who he is. And then him carrying you not once but twice, being so careful about the splint, the cast, the ribs… the competence of it is so soft and tender without ever feeling out of character for him.
"She feels like a cooked noodle" / "I meant more than it already does" are both lines I am going to be thinking about for a while. The dry humour landing even in the middle of all that worry is so him.
The team scene in your apartment also really worked for me, everyone has a distinct reaction, nobody feels like background dressing. Morgan crouching down and asking "you're gonna be okay, right, kid?" in a softer voice than usual genuinely made my chest do something.
And then "carrying broken things." I mean. Come on. I audibly made a noise. Thank you so much for writing this.
summary: you and steve share a tender moment before facing hawkin's chaos, barely disturbed by the annoying teenagers and adults around you
Steve grumbled silently, but didn’t move his face from the firm yet soft grip you had on him. Nancy, Eddie and Robin were all waiting in the curly haired boy’s van, yelling teasing words as you glided the sunscreen stick over your boyfriend’s face. Steve pouted lightly, eyelashes fluttering as you ran the stick up his face, closer to his eyes.
You pulled the stick off Steve’s face, putting the lid on it as Steve turned around, ready to rush into the van. “We’re not done, Harrington.” Steve’s cheeks flushed a light pink as he did the walk of shame back to you, more teasing comments coming from your friends in Eddie's white van.
From the other side of you, the teenagers squished into your car yelled in annoyance at the time you were spending taking care of your boyfriend. You patted your clean fingers on Steve’s face, making sure the sunscreen reached all areas of his face.
“Okay.” You announced, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss onto Steve’s lips. He grinned, a hand cupping your cheek to bring you back into the kiss for a couple of more seconds, before pulling away, a cheeky grin on his face. You kept your eyes trained on your boyfriend as Steve trotted towards the van, getting into the back seat with Robin.
“Do we not get the same treatment!?” Eddie called out from the driver’s seat, leaning over Nancy to yell out of the open window as you hurried over to the driver’s seat of your car.
You heard Eddie’s whine of pain as Steve punched him in the shoulder at his words. Turning on the engine of the car, you threw a separate bottle of sunscreen to the back seat, where Mike, Lucas, Will and Dustin were smushed. Max laughed at the sounds of their struggle from where she sat next to you in the front seat.
“Put some on, the last thing you need is a sunburn.” You instructed, pulling out of the drive way. “Are they doing it max?” You asked the girl, glancing back at the four boys who were practically sitting in each other’s laps.
“Yeah.” She confirmed, grinning widely at their now pale faces. “Not Lucas though.”
Okay this fic is so genuinely sweet, it actually made me smile out loud. I love how the sunscreen scene is such a small moment but the writing makes it feel like the whole world stops for it. Steve going to walk away and getting called back for the walk of shame?? Iconic. He absolutely deserves every teasing comment he got.
But what really gets me is how natural the reader feels as a caretaker here without it ever being heavy-handed. It's not a big deal, it's just: you have sunscreen and you love this idiot, so obviously you're putting it on him. The kiss after the "okay" is such a perfect little punctuation mark on that whole dynamic.
Also the kids in the car. "Fine, mom!" sent me. And then immediately turning on Max at the end?? The pacing of that whole back half is so funny and warm at the same time. The "Lucas, you very much can get sunburnt!" exchange is so real and so chaotic and I love it.
This is the kind of fic that just feels like a good day.
summary - you have endometriosis but you're lucky you also have aaron
pairing - aaron hotchner x bau!endo-reader [1.2k]
a/n: i was listening to 'try' by p!nk and inspiration hit plus i am on my period and hating every minute of it... might make this a series? cw: she/her pronouns used
"Son of a..."
You keeled over yourself as another strong, stabbing, pain came across your lower abdomen. You blew out a deep breath before attempting to stand back up.
Periods sucked.
They sucked even worse when you had a condition like endometriosis.
The pain was doubled - sometimes you couldn't even get out of bed. You constantly had a heat pad on your lower abdomen throughout your cycle and you were constantly downing cocktails of medication.
Nothing helped you more - maybe not literally, but at least emotionally - than Aaron Hotchner though.
Your fiancé of 4 months now, Aaron knew all about your battle with endometriosis and yet he still had stuck by you all this time and had even gotten down on one knee.
Previous relationships had always failed because of the knowledge that endometriosis means there's a low chance of having a baby. Aaron chose to stay, though.
"I have Jack and I have you. What more could I need?" You remember Aaron telling you.
"Fuck." You swore as another cramp tore through your happy thoughts.
You had been on the way to get a shower, but even that seemed like too much of a task now thanks to the pain. You sat at the bottom of the stairs in your house, back to the wall as you closed you eyes and breathed through the pain.
Your phone started ringing.
But it was ringing from another room.
Your face scrunched in frustration as you cursed yourself for leaving your phone out of reach. There was no way you were moving from this spot for at least half an hour - you physically couldn't.
<.><.>
On the other side of the city Hotch was pacing in his office.
He sighed as he pulled his phone away from his ear as he heard your voicemail click again.
A knock on the door pulled him away from his internal panic.
"You okay?" Morgan asked.
Hotch sighed again, tucking his phone into his blazer pocket. "Y/N won't answer her phone."
Morgan frowned, "That's not like her."
"No, I know. That's what worries me." Hotch ran his hand over is jaw as he contemplated the next step.
"It's her day off right? She could be out with a friend." Morgan tried to reason with his stressed boss.
"No, it's... She..." Hotch frowned. He couldn't exactly explain why he knew you weren't out with a friend without explaining your condition - something you hadn't told the team and it wasn't his news to spread.
"Okay, well, uh, I'm sure Rossi and the rest of us can hold down the fort if you wanna go check on her." Morgan suggested.
Hotch just gave a meaningful nod in return and didn't waste another minute before leaving his office.
<.><.>
You felt yourself come around as the front door opened.
You hadn't even realised you'd gone to sleep until your eyes reopened. It was hard to know how long you'd been sat on the stairs for now without a clock nearby, but judging by how cold you were you'd say it had been a while.
When Aaron rounded the front door you could tell he was readying to bellow your name, until he saw you sat there.
His heart nearly broke seeing you.
It was so unfair that you had to go through this every month for over half of the month. He would never be able to comprehend how you were so strong to carry on through it.
"Hey sweetheart." Aaron spoke softly.
He came and crouched down in front of where you were still sat on the bottom step. One of his hands came to rest on your knee, whilst the other checked your temperature against your forehead.
"Hi." Your eyes were still heavy. Your arms remained wrapped around yourself as if that would somehow lessen the pain.
"How long have you been here for?"
"How long ago did you leave for work?" You joked.
Aaron smiled along with you but it you could tell it was out of pity more than anything.
Aaron quickly shuffled off his blazer and moved your body slightly so he could wrap it around you. You shivered under the new found warmth, the remanence of his heat still lingered on his jacket.
"You taken any medication?" He asked more seriously.
"No."
"Honey..." Aaron's frown shifted to one of disappointment.
"Don't give me that look." You sighed.
"It's only 'cause I care about you. You know that." Aaron leaned forwards so he could delicately kiss your forehead, careful not to knock you in any way that would hurt you.
"I hate this." You said quietly, tears forming in the corners of your eyes.
"I know." Aaron said, knowing that trying to say anything positive to fill in the sadness was worse than saying nothing at all. You hated it when people tried to spin a positive on this, because there really wasn't one. All you needed was someone to hold your hand through it and you were lucky that that someone was Aaron.
"Thank you for being here."
"Anytime, sweetheart."
<.><.>
It was hours later and you were in your happy place.
Aaron had helped you up the stairs and into the shower. He'd helped you shower and then get into bed without any troubles.
You were enveloped in a large hoodie of his, hood pulled up over your head as you laughed at something Aaron had just said. Both of you were nestled in your bed under the warm light of your salt lamp.
Aaron laid beside you, watching you closely, one arm draped across your waist whilst his fingertips traced soothing patterns against your skin.
You know he hates seeing you in pain, but Aaron knows that distraction—especially his laughter—can sometimes help more than anything else.
“You know, for an FBI unit chief, you’re a surprisingly good nurse.”
A cup of peppermint tea was still warm on your bedside table. You could tell that Aaron was keeping a mental note on how long the tea had left before he would need to go an re-warm it for you. He was too sweet. Your meds were stacked on the side too next to a fresh glass of water.
Aaron chuckled at your silliness, “I'm going to take that as a compliment.”
You turned your head to look at him better, wincing when the movement created a flare up in your lower tummy, “You shouldn’t. You have the same energy as a dad who's trying to help but is just holding out a bottle of ibuprofen like, ‘This fixes everything, right?’”
Aaron shook his head at you, but knowing he had no leverage on reprimanding you right now.
“I am a dad.”
“Jack probably gives you the same ‘you tried’ look I’m giving you right now.” You gave him a deadpan look - trying your best not to laugh.
“Not true. Jack thinks I know everything.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet, you’re still here.”
As if you could move anywhere even if you did want to, you thought to yourself.
“That’s because you’re warm and I refuse to give up my human heating pad.” You brought his hand from your waist to push it down just above your panties.
Aaron knew what to do immediately. He spread his hand over the skin there and it immediately felt like you had a secondary heating pad on - it was magical. There was something so intimate about the situation that was more personal than any sort of sexual act.
The moment was ruined seconds later, “So you’re only using me for my body?” Aaron asked.
You snuggled closer to him, preparing to cash in for the evening, “Obviously.”
This fic genuinely wrecked me in the best way. The endometriosis rep is so real—the bit about falling asleep on the stairs without even realising it, the phone ringing from another room and there being absolutely nothing you can do about it? That's exactly the kind of detail that only lands right when someone actually gets it.
But what really got me is Aaron. The fact that he doesn't try to spin a positive, doesn't push encouragement or platitudes—just knows that sometimes all you need is someone to hold your hand through it and be there. That's such a specific and important thing to understand about chronic pain and it's written with so much quiet weight here.
Also the banter in the bedroom scene after?? The human heating pad line?? Him putting his hand over her lower abdomen like it's the most natural thing in the world?? There's something so intimate about that moment that goes so far beyond anything dramatic. I'm a little bit in pieces about it actually. More Hotch content that understands him like this, please and thank you.
"I'm trying to kiss your lips for real" (inspred by the song "APT." by Rosé and Bruno Mars)
Regulus Black x reader | word count: 1,348 words
Summary: when you have a dream about regulus, dorcas and marlene work to make it a reality 💋
Warnings: like one curse word. other than that, none! just fluff!
Note: another regulus fic, yayyyy! (a.k.a: the reggie brainrot's really getting to me-) again, i apologize if this fic seems inaccurate. feel free to correct me on things or give feedback!
You were currently holed up on your dorm, covered in a bunch of blankets as you internally screamed and panicked. One would wonder, why were you in this state of hysteria? Because you had a dream. But not just any dream. A dream about kissing someone. And that someone was...
"REGGIE?" Dorcas yelled in disbelief, throwing her arms around the mound that was created by your body underneath the covers.
You mumbled something, but it was muffled by the blankets. "Honey, we can't hear you." Marlene said, sitting next to you.
You reluctantly poked your head out of the mound, immediately resting your head in her lap.
"What the hell am I supposed to do? I can't even look at Regulus..." you repeated, your eyes fluttering shut as Marlene gently played with your hair.
"Oh, come on. Yeah, it's embarrassing, but I bet it's not that bad." Dorcas quipped, playfully poking your cheek.
"Today, in potions class, he asked me to hand him a vial of something," you began, cringing at your actions.
"And?" Marlene asked.
"I started coughing uncontrollably and pretended like I need to go to the infirmary. And when he offered to take me, I just....ran out of the room..." you admitted, covering your face with your hands.
"Ooh, yeah, that's bad." Dorcas said, earning herself a smack on the thigh from her girlfriend. "What? What did i say?"
"Ignore Dorcas. I'm sure if you just go and explain-!" You immediately cut Marlene off, a slight look of horror forming on your face.
"You want ME to tell THE Regulus Black that I had a dream about kissing him? Oh, yeah. 'Hey Reggie. Sorry I've been so awkward around you lately. I just had a dream about sucking face and swapping spit with you.'" you said sarcastically. "Do you know how embarrassing that would be?"
"If you would let me finish, bub," Marlene said, glancing over at a giggling dorcas then back at you.
"Obviously, you're not gonna tell him you dreamt about kissing him. Just tell him....you've been having....thoughts about him." "That's even worse!" you exclaimed, sitting up out of her lap.
"Then what do you suggest-" Just then, a wicked little smirk found its way onto Marlene's lips. Youou knew that look and you did not like it.
The blonde leaned over and whispered something into her girlfriend's ear, the two of them exchanging the same mischievous expression.
"Whatever you two are planning, leave me out of it." "Honey, you're the main character of what we're planning." Dorcas giggled, making you curl up into your blanket mound once again.
It had been three days since your "talk" with Dorcas and Marlene. And things weren't getting even the slightest bit better. You were avoiding the poor boy like the plague. Walking in the opposite direction when you saw him in the halls, making up excuses to leave early when you had to work together, even hiding behind a couch in the common room when he'd walk in. Yet again, the girls tried to urge you to take some action, but you obviously refused. So, they had no choice but to take matters into their own hands.
It was a quiet afternoon and you were chilling with the others in the Slytherin common room. Barty and Evan were lounging on the couch talking about god knows what, Regulus looking up from his book to shoot them a judgmental side eye. Dorcas and Marlene were talking by the window and you sat with Pandora and Lily, complaining about whatever classes you had next.
Your conversation was interrupted by Marlene and Dorcas walking over and taking Lily's and Pandora's hands into their own.
"Sorry to interrupt, but it's time for us to go. We have things to do." Marlene said, pulling lily along.
"What things?" Pandora asked, earning herself a sharp look from Dorcas.
"You know: the thing and that other thing." she said, sounding completely confident. It took a few seconds for Pandora and Lily to get the picture.
"Ah, the thing! Yeah, we gotta go do that! Uh, Barty, Evan. Could you two come help us?" Lily asked, opening the door. The two boys were obviously in on whatever this was, giggling like little children as they followed the girls out.
"Uh, Regulus and I can help-!" "Nope, no need! I mean, six people should be able to deal with it! Byeeeee!" Marlene yelled, slamming the door shut.
You were completely dumbfounded as you stared at the door, jumping out of your skin as you heard the dark haired slytherin speak behind you.
"I knew that lot of idiots was up to something." he sighed, sinking back into the couch. You bit back a laugh, trying to ignore your clammy palms and the ever growing knot in your stomach as you sat next to him, a few feet between you two.
"Yeah, they're....always up to something...." you muttered, your heart hammering so loudly in your ears, you didn't even realize Regulus had been telling you something till he nudged your arm.
"Hm?" you muttered, widening your eyes a little to signal you were listening this time.
"What is going on with you? You've been acting strangely lately-" No, you did not want to have this conversation. You needed to get out of here. Now.
"You know, they might need some help," you said, moving to get up. As you did, Regulus caught your wrist, a frown on his lips.
"You're not going anywhere until you explain yourself. I know you've been avoiding me on purpose." Ah, shit.
You reluctantly sat back down, fidgeting with your fingers as you avoided eye contact. "Promise you won't think i'm weird?"
Regulus raised an eyebrow, finally nodding his head and muttering a quick "Promise."
"Recently I had a dream-"
"So you've been avoiding me....because of a dream you had?" Regulus cut you off and you could already see his ears turning red.
"W-wait, it's not like that!" you exclaimed, covering your face with your hands and groaning.
Regulus blinked as he watched you crumble in embarrassment, a slight smile forming on his lips. "Well....then what was the dream about?"
You took a breath, looking away from him, your hands now gripping the cushions of the couch. "It was about...us. We were....we were kissing, okay?"
There was a moment of silence between the two of you, Regulus obviously taken aback. "Kissing?"
"Yeah. You...you leaned in and kissed me and...it felt so real. I almost wished it was." you admitted, finally turning your head to look him in the eyes. "I like you, Regulus Black. And I want to kiss you...for real."
Regulus felt like his heart would burst, his eyes shaking a little as he coughed awkwardly, looking at his lap, then back at you. "You really want to kiss me?"
"Right now....more than anything." Before you could even get another breath out, Regulus was in your space, hand cupping your cheek. the cold touch of his silver rings against your cheek made you shiver a little. Your breath hitched, your eyes gazing into his pretty gray ones.
"Glad to hear it. because I," he leaned in a bit closer, his lips hovering over yours. "Want to kiss you too."
The kiss was short and sweet, lasting a few seconds before Regulus pulled away, your eyes locking. You felt a warmth flood your heart, the way he looked at you making your lips curve up into a smile. You wordlessly leaned back in, your fingers knotting into his curly forest of hair. This time, the kiss was slow and slightly passionate, jolts of joy and pleasure running through your body.
When the two of you separated again, you were both smiling like idiots, a hue of pink coloring Regulus's cheeks. "Looks like their plan worked after all." you murmured, causing Regulus to raise an eyebrow.
"What plan?" he mused as a bit of laughter left your lips.
"Don't worry about it." you hummed, closing the gap between you two once more. You'd definitely have to thank Dorcas and Marlene later. 💋
the pining disaster energy in this was UNMATCHED. The potions class bit where reader just. Bolts out of the room?? I felt that in my soul. That is exactly what I would do. That is exactly what anyone with a functioning fight-or-flight response would do.
Also Marlene and Dorcas being menaces about it is so real. "Honey, you're the main character of what we're planning" lived in my head for a second. The whole "the thing and that other thing" exchange got an actual laugh out of me, Pandora and Lily catching on half a beat late was such a good detail.
And Regulus going red around the ears before he even knows what the dream was about?? Sir. SIR. You are not being subtle.
The little detail about his silver rings being cold against reader's cheek was so good btw, that kind of sensory specificity is what makes a kiss scene actually hit. Loved this!
(Sirius hits his head and ends up with temporal amnesia, the Marauders are instructed to play along to whatever he says until he recovers)
Warnings: My lack of medical knowledge, swearing, James Potter being the mom friend
Word Count: 1.6 k (its short sorry)
Author’s Note: I am no expert in amnesia, this is for entertainment purposes.
****
“C’mon wake the fuck up mate”
“Moony shut up he needs rest, he got hit by a bloody bludger”
The muffled voices woke him up. He opened his eyes slowly, taking in the scene around him. He was not alone. A bespectacled boy with the wildest mane of curly hair he had ever seen was arguing with a tall scar-covered dude. They looked oddly familiar, but he couldn’t remember how he knew them.
“Lads he’s awake!”
He followed the voice, encountering a small and mousy looking boy with a huge smile on his face. He wanted to return the smile, but before he could the bespectacled boy was in front of him, speaking without a pause for breathing.
“Padfoot, brother, how are you feeling? Does your head hurt? You want some water? Your hairbrush? Moony’s chocolate?”
“What´s a Padfoot?” he asked, a little overwhelmed by the boy’s close proximity. He could see the boy’s brows furrow, and absolute confusion take over his face.
“It’s you. You are Pads” he answered.
“Sirius, you are scaring us” the mousy boy said.
“Don’t you mean seriously? It sounds more correct. I am seriously scaring you”
“He meant what he said” the tall boy interjected “Sirius is your name”.
Sirius he repeated. The name felt familiar, but he didn’t remember it. Just like he didn’t remember the three boys surrounding him. He brought a hand to his head. His hair was long, why was it long? He realized he didn’t remember that either, or anything else for that matter. His sight went blurry as the need to cry washed over him. He covered his eyes, trying to stop the tears.
His thoughts were interrupted by a soothing voice. He uncovered his eyes to face a kind looking woman, dressed as a nurse. The softness of her demeanor made him trust her instantly.
“Hello Mr. Black” she said “I’m Poppy Pomfrey, the nurse. Does that name sound familiar?”
Sirius noticed it did, and nodded.
“You hit your head quite hard Sirius” she continued “I believe you are experiencing amnesia due to the severity of the blow”
That sent the bespectacled boy over the edge. He seemed at the very verge of panic, whimpering and holding onto the tall boy.
“Mr. Potter calm yourself” Poppy reprimanded him. She then looked back at Sirius and her gaze softened “Don’t fear Mr. Black its only temporary. You will soon regain your memories. In the meantime, I believe these gentlemen will tell you everything you need to know.” She passed him a vial and instructed him to drink it, saying it would speed up his recovery. Then she gestured the tall boy to follow her.
An hour later, Sirius had taken his medicine and was informed about the most important bits of his life. The bespectacled boy, James, had given him a photo album that apparently Sirius had annotated himself. It was full of pictures of his friends, funny comments scribbled of the edges. He stopped at the picture of a beautiful girl. She was smiling at the camera, making him feel warm and fuzzy inside. Next to her picture, he had written ‘the future Mrs. Padfoot’.
“Who’s this?” he asked
“Oh, that’s Y/N Y/L” the boy he now knew as Peter replied.
“I want to see her” he said, mesmerized by her smile
“Then you are in luck” Remus said, eating a huge bar of chocolate “She’s at the door”
Sirius looked up instantly. She was there, looking around the hospital wing frantically, until her eyes met his. She smiled, and ran up to the bed where he was laying. She was much more beautiful up close.
She hugged him as soon as she reached his bed. He hugged her back, holding tightly onto her. Somehow, she made him feel safe. He didn’t feel so lost anymore.
“How are you feeling? Are you in pain?” she asked.
“Y/n/n, darling he has temporal amnesia” James said, softly pulling her away from Sirius. “Let’s not overwhelm him”
“Oh Merlin. Sirius I’m sorry.” She took his hand, and softly caressed his knuckles “I’m Y/N”
“I know, I remember you. You are my girlfriend right?” he felt confident in his answer, after all she had to be his girlfriend if she would be—in his own words— the future Mrs. Padfoot.
Fast as a lightning, Remus took Y/N in his arms and dragged her and the other boys to a secluded corner.
“Remus, what the fuck? Put me down” she complained.
“Listen carefully you three” he answered, pointing at them with his finger “Poppy told me we need to play along with whatever he says until he recovers. Otherwise, we could risk confusing him further. So Y/n/n, if he says you are his girlfriend then you are his girlfriend, until he’s himself again”
“Moony, I can’t do that” she pleaded
“Why not?” Peter asked “You fancy Sirius”
“How do you know that?”
“Everyone knows. Well, everyone but Sirius”
“I didn’t know either!” James whined
“Everyone but Sirius and James” Peter corrected himself.
Y/N signed and looked back at Sirius, seated on the hospital bed and looking like a lost puppy.
“Fine” she said “I’ll do it. But he’s not an idiot, he will notice something is off”
“Trust me, he won’t” Remus stated.
They made their way back to Sirius, acting as if they had never rushed to the corner for a private conversation.
“Is everything ok?” Sirius asked, confused as to why his friends reacted that way “Did I say something wrong?”
“No sweetie you did everything right” James answered patting his shoulder. “We were just reminding your girl to take it slow, you still don’t have all of your memories back”
Sirius nodded and took Y/N’s hand again. She gave him one of her gorgeous smiles, and began to run her unoccupied hand through his black locks. He had no memories, but still, he knew he had never felt safer or more loved.
After being discharged, Sirius was finally allowed to eat in the Great Hall and meet the rest of the friends pictured in his album. He sat next to Y/n/n, holding her hand over the table. They were soon joined by a group of girls, who his friends warmly greeted.
“Hello Sirius” a redhead girl he recognized as Lily sat in front of him “How are you holding up? Do you need introductions?”
“I think I’m okay. Apparently, I made some annotations on a photo album, so I can recognize most of you. You are Lily, Prongs’ girlfriend” He said proudly.
Lily’s mouth fell open. But she didn’t have a chance to say anything, a glare from Remus shutting her up.
“Lily is just shocked you got it right Pads.” Remus said, “Why don’t you explain to her what your annotations say?”
Sirius smiled. He felt really proud about everything he was able to deduce from the album.
“Well” he began “There are many pictures of you and James looking rather cozy. Besides on a picture of you I wrote ‘Prongstress’. And I wrote ‘Mrs. Padfoot on a picture of my girl, so it’s only logical for ‘Prongstress’ to be Prongs’ girl.”
“Your girl…?” Lily lowered her gaze to find Sirius’ hand intertwined with Y/N’s. “Right you two are dating…sorry I forgot, sometimes I get so lost in… James’ eyes that I get confused”
“Don’t worry, I understand. Y/n/n’s eyes make me lose sense of reality. I could stare into those eyes until the day I die.”
Y/N could feel her heart beating loudly. Fortunately for her, James registered what Lily had said, and fainted before anyone else could hear her heart trying to escape her chest. But the frantic heartbeat slowed when she remembered Sirius would eventually get his memories back, and she would be in the friendzone once again.
Luckily—or unluckily— Sirius didn’t seem to be remembering things as fast as he should. He was still in a confused state of mind, and he remained convinced Y/N and him were a power couple. It was getting harder for her to remember it was just a performance, especially since he was acting so romantic. He was writing her name all over his notes, reading aloud to her, letting her run her fingers through his hair as they cuddled. And he was giving her these smiles that made him appear handsomer than ever. If she fancied him before, she was completely doomed now, because she was irrevocably in love.
“Look” he said one afternoon, as they watched a movie “That monster looks like the mermaid that threw seaweed at us last year”
“Yeah” she laughed “It does resemble…wait, what did you just say?”
Sirius just looked at her, unable to provide an answer.
“You remember last year” Y/N said. Although her tone was of complete certainty, she was quite confused. “Sirius, do you have your memories back?”
He looked like a child who had been caught stealing cookies from the jar. He stared at his hands, twisting them nervously.
“I… maybe?” he sighed, accepting he had been caught. “I got my memories gradually, but I have been able to remember everything for like…a week and a half now”
She looked at him, her face now reflecting her confusion. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I fancy you!” he let out “Fuck, its more than that, I don’t fancy you, I love you. And I know I should have said something when my memories were back, but being with you was like all my dreams suddenly came true. I’m sorry for keeping quiet, but even if you hate me, you should know I’m still yours. I will always be yours Y/N”
“You are a wanker, Sirius Black” she said, holding is face “But I’m yours as well”
She kissed him, and felt him smile against her lips. “Oh darling” he said “I’m glad I got amnesia”.
The amnesia-to-confession pipeline in this is elite. The running gag of Sirius proudly deducing everything from his own annotations and just... happening to be right about Prongstress but wrong about being caught by his friends was so clever. And James fainting when Lily slipped up??? I had to put my phone down. Peter casually dropping "everyone but Sirius and James" is going to live in my head rent free actually.
But the bit that got me was "You are a wanker, Sirius Black" as a love confession. Like that is SO them. No soft declaration, just immediate piss-taking even though she just said she's his. You nailed their dynamic.
Also Sirius asking "what's a Padfoot?" at the start had me cackling. Sweet sweet boy. Thank you for writing this, I'll be thinking about lost-puppy amnesiac Sirius for the rest of the week.
warnings: i went HAM on the pet names, apologies if that’s not your thing but i think they’re sweet :(
a/n: i have nothing interesting to say, except i am in such a little remus cocoon rn. please enjoy this little blurb and let me know your ideas for any others <3
- - -
“You’re so silly,” you murmur, so quietly you wonder if he hears you. He gives no indication. His cheek is pushed firmly into your hand, and he’s just staring at you through his lashes, eyes flirting across your face and back again. Looking up at you between his legs as he sits on the lid of the toilet, and he still looks at you like that.
“Remus,” you admonish lightly, “I said, you’re so silly.”
“I know,” he hums, “But I’m busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking at you. Always looking at you.”
“Remus,” you say again, more warning in it this time. He sighs, and you feel the warmth of it across your wrist. You have to fight a shiver.
“You’re ruining it. Shush.”
It’s against your better judgement to give in to him, but you stop talking anyway. It’s nice to look at him too, even though he laughs when you tell him so. It’s not as nice as it usually is right now - there’s still flecks of dried blood under his nose from the nosebleed that had only just cleared up, and a nasty bruise forming on the bridge. You wince and he sighs again.
“I’d rather you speak than look at me like that,” he says, finding your hip with his free hand.
“You shushed me,” you argue and he pinches your hip, “I just- you’re an idiot. A silly man.”
“You said that already, my darling girl.”
You scrunch up your nose at the endearment. He always thinks he can talk his way out of anything with you. It’s because he always can.
“I still think you could have pulled me out of the way without getting hit yourself.”
“I had to think on my feet,” he argues, but his tone is passive and his thumb is rubbing circles around your hipbone, “My favourite face was in danger.”
You shake your head at him.
“So pull me towards you, dork. Don’t jump into the path of a bludger.”
“A small sacrifice,” he murmurs, reaching up to trace a featherlight line down the slope of your nose, over your cupid’s bow, lips, then tapping your chin twice.
“A silly sacrifice,” you push, but your heart isn’t in it anymore either. He’s so pretty, nosebleed or no, and he thinks you’re pretty enough to take a bludger to the face for you. Lovely man.
“Okay, I’m silly,” he says lazily, “Very very silly for you. Mad for you, stupid for you. A total fool.”
“Remus,” you mumble to stop him, pulling his face upwards towards yours to plant a chaste kiss to his lips. You don’t want him to hurt any more than he is already. You’re ever so fond of him.
“Sweetheart,” he says, millimetres from you, “I’m feeling awful better now. Think I could kiss you properly?”
“I think you should count your lucky stars that I’m kissing you at all, handsome.”
And with that you step out of his reach, because otherwise he’ll most certainly convince you. He reaches for you but comes up short as you move to throw away the bloody tissues. His arm hangs limp in the air between you.
“I do feel lucky,” he affirms, “Look at that face. All perfect and everything. I did that.”
“Yes you did. Thank you, by the way. My hero.”
You decide to let him have this one. He’s too genuine to tease much more.
“Anytime. You just shout, gorgeous.”
You bark out a laugh as you return to him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, then another.
“You’re such a flirt,” you speak into his hair, pulling back to look at him and unable to keep yourself from smiling.
The way he just refuses to stop looking at her?? "I know. But I'm busy." "Doing what?" "Looking at you. Always looking at you." I am UNWELL. And him taking a bludger to the face rather than just pulling her out of the way because he had to think on his feet and her face was in danger??? Remus Lupin you absolute menace.
The banter in this is SO good too, the rhythm of it feels so real. "So pull me towards you, dork" made me laugh out loud, and then "a small sacrifice" / "a silly sacrifice" right after just melted me. And the little detail of him tracing down her nose, over her cupid's bow, her lips, tapping her chin twice, the specificity of that gesture is everything. It's so him.
Also the fact that she steps away because she KNOWS he'll convince her otherwise. She's so real for that. Absolutely obsessed with these two.
cw ⟢ swearing, slightly suggestive, COCKY!sirius, pining, tension, kind of enemies to lovers, angst if you squint, internal conflict, slytherin!reader
summary: sirius black is shameless, even is his conflicted pining and endless watching, of you. but after years of successful rebellion, one thing could make it all come crashing down, prove his parents right--make them proud. and sirius is struggling to stomach the idea.
a/n: again idk how this became so long im just a girl. not proofread x
Sirius Black.
The disgraced heir, blood traitor, the run-away who burned too brightly for the cold halls he was raised in.
He was wildfire in human form—untamed, untethered, always on the verge of consuming everything around him. Fire is never safe. And Sirius Black had never once tried to be.
He was shameless in the way only someone truly unrepentant could be.
Defiance lived in his bones. In every choice he made, every rule he broke with that easy grin. In the way he carved out freedom with bare hands and bleeding knuckles, daring the world to punish him for it. He would not kneel. Not for his mother. Not for their pureblood rot. Not for anyone.
He wore rebellion like a second skin.
There was no hesitation in the way he looked at people—like he had the right to. Like he wanted you to know you were being watched. Desired. Picked apart by eyes that never pretended to be subtle. Sirius never mastered the art of pretending, not when it came to impulse, not when it came to you.
Regal, in the way a blade is regal—sleek and polished, but built to cut. You were every inch the legacy they praised in whispers and expected in silence: one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, born with history in your bones and expectations curled like silk around your throat. You wore your pedigree like a cloak, but never let it chain you.
Poised, deliberate and sharp, like you’d studied how to command a room before you ever learned to walk.
Sharp eyes that missed nothing, mouth even sharper, and a presence that made people step aside without quite knowing why. Slytherin suited you like a whispered secret.
You knew the weight of your name, but you wore it on your own terms. And that, perhaps, made you more dangerous than any of them. Because you saw the system for what it was—and still moved through it boundlessly.
A truly captivating sight to behold. Never in the way that begged for attention, but in the way that demanded it. Like art in a gallery too expensive to touch. People looked, they always did, and then they looked away—because looking too long felt like trespassing.
Except Sirius never looked away.
Eyes endless in their following, stalking—almost hungry in the way they lingered.
When he looked at you, which was almost always, it felt like being scorched—burning holes into your from ever angle, as if he could set your soul alight with nothing but his gaze.
Truthfully, it used to anger you—made your lips purse into a tightline, grip onto your fork a bit harder, when you felt his eyes on you from across the Great Hall. The infamy that surrounded him was nothing positive, and each time his sights helplessly drifted to you, you couldn’t help but feel like a target had been placed on you back.
So unbareably brazen in the way he scanned over your figure, that same smirk smeared across his face, when you’d enter Charms—settling into your seat with a roll of your eyes as he quickly abandoned his one beside James, in exchange for the one beside you.
You hide to fight the urge to openly scrowl, calming yourself with a deep breath—you didn’t even spare him a glance as you flicked through the textbook and began delicately scratching into parchment with you quill. Though, unfortunately for you, Sirius didn’t miss the small reaction his meer presence had earned him, scooting slightly closer with an eagerness that almost had your eyes flickering over to him.
Perching his elbow on his empty desk, chin on his hand, he watched you for a few moments—very obviously—before he leaned in, too close for you liking. So close infact that you could smell him, leather and warm sandalwood and cinnamon, maybe. His head was ducked, trying to catch your gaze—*and failing—*then his voice, low dripping with a uncalled for casual tone.
“I’m Sirius, by the way,”
Gods, was he distracting—it had you pressing your quill unforgivingly harder into the blameless parchment. Pausing, before you accidently broke your quill, slow and reluctantly your gaze shifted over to him.
Wide smirk and wild eyes.
You blinked at him, eyes doing a once over his slouched form—unimpressed before turning back to your work, and to your shock and horror. Sirius all but melted into his seat beside you—grinning like the cat that got the cream.
What a peculiar reaction.
You didn’t know what you expected after that, you were hoping for silence. Maybe for him to get bored and slink back to Potter, tail between his legs.
But Sirius Black didn’t take silence as rejection. He took it as encouragement.
“Not much of a talker, huh?” he asked, voice warm with amusement as if this were all a game and you were the shiny new toy he’d decided to break. “That’s alright. I like a bit of mystery.”
You didn’t dignify him with a response, moving your quill purposefully, though the words you were writing made less and less sense as his presence curled around you like smoke—thick and cloying and difficult to ignore.
Most would be completely deterred by your lack of acknowledgement, but it was becoming more and more apparent that Sirius wasn’t like most. Unbeknownest to you, you were quickly becoming the object of his affection.
Sirius felt like he was drowning in something he didn’t understand.
He shouldn’t have been looking at you like that—should’ve shrugged it off, moved on, found someone else to bat their lashes and giggle at him. He could’ve. Merlin knew he had options. There was always someone willing to chase the fire.
But you didn’t chase. You endured.
And gods, he couldn’t look away.
There was something in the way you held yourself—shoulders straight, chin lifted, gaze sharp enough to draw blood—that made his pulse trip. You weren’t just beautiful. You were untouchable. Unbothered. And it drove him mad.
You were infuriating. And he was fascinated. Completely, utterly wrecked by the quiet fury behind your eyes, the way you made him feel loud and messy just by being near you. He didn’t know why. He didn’t even like Slytherins. But he watched you, like you might disappear if he blinked. Like you were something from a half-forgotten dream he’d been trying to recall his whole life.
The push and pull went on for ages.
Sirius never stopped. Not really. He pestered, prodded, flirted, lingered—always with that maddening gleam in his eye, always circling like a star caught in your orbit. He made it a point to sit near you in every class he could. Made himself a nuisance in libraries and corridors, at assignment meetings and Quidditch stands.
But you remained ever the picture of composed indifference, met him with narrowed eyes and razor-edged retorts. You had mastered the art of dismissing him without ever quite telling him to leave. And perhaps that’s what kept him hooked.
Because despite everything—your scorn, your status, your silence—Sirius liked the chase. He shouldn’t have. Especially not after he finally put the pieces together.
One of the Twenty-Eight Sacred. One of them.
The very type of pureblood he was raised to despise. To dismantle. To escape from.
But you were different. You always had been. Not cruel, not bigoted. Not brainwashed. Just…sharp. Steely. Independent in a way that made his chest ache. You hadn’t chosen your name—but you had chosen what to do with it. And Sirius had never seen anything braver than that.
And he was infatuated. Still. Helplessly.
He couldn’t say when it started. And you couldn’t say when it changed.
Somewhere between the sarcastic quips and biting glances, something shifted. It was subtle at first. A twitch at the corner of your mouth, a less scornful scrowl, a slightly delayed response. The way you didn’t move away quite as fast when he leaned too close. A pause where there had once only been dismissal.
And then, one day, it happened.
Charms class again. Seventh year. The classroom warm with late autumn sun, shadows stretching across parchment and desks. You had arrived early, as usual, and settled into your usual seat without fanfare. Sirius slid in beside you, as he always did, far too casual, far too smug.
“Good morning, your majesty,” he said with a grin, dragging the words like silk between his teeth. “Gracing us with your presence again, I see.”
Normally, you’d roll your eyes. You’d sigh or pointedly ignore him. But that morning…something in his tone was especially absurd, and something in you—maybe the soft air, maybe the way he looked at you like you hung the bloody moon—broke the routine.
Your lips twitched.
It shocked you even, you didn’t mean to. Not really. But they did. Just enough.
A small, restrained thing. Barely there. Gone in an instant.
But he saw it.
And Sirius Black lit up like the bloody sun.
His mouth parted slightly, blinking as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d witnessed. Then—slowly, irrepressibly—a grin spread across his face, wide and utterly boyish, delight pouring from him in a way you hadn’t expected. Not cocky. Not flirtatious. Rather radiant, actually.
Proud.
“Was that—?” he whispered, hand pressed to his chest in mock-shock. “Was that a smile, princess?”
As always, you rolled your eyes, but not with the same exasperation as before. It didn’t have the same venom. In fact, there was something dangerously close to amusement in the way you turned back to your notes. Sirius leaned back in his chair, the beam on his face entirely uncontainable.
He didn’t even care that Professor Flitwick had started lecturing. Didn’t care that James shot him a confused glance from the row behind.
He’d seen it. He’d earned it. After years.
And if there was one thing Sirius Black had learned about you, it was that you didn’t give your softness freely.
From that moment—that damned smile—something shifted between you.
The icey exterior had began to melt, and you dont know when it had started, only that it did. Slowly. Reluctantly.
Sirius, for all his insufferable grins and arrogant charm, somehow started to feel less like a thorn in your side and more like a…habit. One you hadn’t meant to form. One you couldn't shake.
Letting him sit closer without side-eyes and sighs. Sometimes even answering his questions when he poked at your homework or made some snide remark about Slughorn’s newest “favourites.” You’d begun meeting his teasing with deadpan sarcasm instead of silence. And occasionally—very occasionally—you didn’t hide the way your lips curled at something he said.
You weren’t sure why it happened. Maybe it was the persistence. Maybe the way he never pretended to be anything but infatuated, even when it was inconvenient, even when it would’ve been easier for him to stop. Maybe it was because you saw something in him—beneath the bravado and leather and grins—that reminded you of yourself. A recklessness born from rebellion—hunger to be known.
And Sirius? He was too far gone to pull back.
He’d always watched you, but now he read into everything. The way you no longer flinched when he leaned in, how you didn’t swat his hand away when he nudged your quill out of your grip. How, sometimes, your eyes lingered on his profile when you thought he wasn’t looking.
So when Saturday rolled around and he hadn’t seen you all day—not at breakfast, not in the common areas, not even passing through the library—a strange itch clawed at him. He told himself it wasn’t a big deal, but he couldn’t help it, he felt deprived of nutrience, of your presence. Maybe you were just sleeping in or studying or avoiding the Gryffindor rabble.
But by evening, he cracked.
Against every instinct, against everything in his brain that told him this was probably a very bad idea, Sirius reached for the Marauder’s Map.
And there you were.
A tiny dot, alone in an empty classroom on the fourth floor. Probably studying. Probably buried in books and ink and the smell of parchment.
He couldn’t help it, he went.
…
The door creaked open with a reluctant groan, and you startled, head snapping up from your book.
You hadn’t expected anyone. Least of all him.
And there he stood—framed in the doorway with a grin too wide, too smug, like he'd just stumbled across treasure.
“Well, funny seeing you here,” Sirius said, like this was all pure coincidence and not the result of him committing several minor breaches of privacy.
You blinked at him. “Did you follow me?”
He placed a hand to his chest, faux-offended. “Follow you? Please. I’m just a curious soul drawn to light. And look—here you are, all lit up and studious.”
You rolled your eyes, but your voice held less bite than usual. “I think you just came to distract me.”
“Distract you?” He was already halfway across the room, dropping into the chair beside you with the sort of lazy ease only he could pull off. His knee bumped yours, and you didn’t move. “You think I’m distracting?”
He leaned in close, far too close. You barely had time to process the proximity—the warm scent of him, like spice and mischief, the way his voice dropped just low enough to slip down your spine—before you tilted your head toward him.
Eyes locked with his, sharp and steady, with a confidence that made his grin stretch visibly.
“That is your one goal in life?” you asked, tone silken and mocking. “Or am I mistaken?”
Sirius froze—not visibly, not in a way anyone else would notice—his pulse sounding loudly in his ears. But you were so observant, even if you hadn’t been looking at him, you would have felt it. The flicker of breath caught—the way his grin twitched, lips parting just slightly as his gaze dropped from your eyes to your mouth.
And lingered.
The tension that knotted between you was painfully palpable, the air gone suddenly too thick. He leaned in—just a fraction—and you swore the space between you crackled. His hand flexed on the table beside yours, struggling to stay in place—twitching as though if it had it’s own mind, it would already be on you. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and for a moment, you thought—
In that split second, something like hesitation crossed his face. Regret, maybe—or fear. His smirk faltered.
He pulled back.
Barely. But enough.
And he looked at you like maybe he’d ruined something by not doing it.
You didn’t say anything.
Not because you were disappointed—though maybe you were, a little—but because you didn’t trust yourself to ask. To question if this was real or just a long game he’d been playing, entertained by the chase, by the idea of an untouchable prize. Like you were just something to be worn down, after all.
Your gaze stayed on him, unreadable. And he almost shrunk under it, second passing like hours as your eyes practically punctured his skull. Stare too cool. Too neutral.
Wordlessly, you turned back to your book, fingers brushing over the forgotten text, you couldn’t remember a single word you'd just read—mind feeling scattered—disrupted. He always had that affect on you, more than you cared to admit, inwardly scolding yourself for being so soft, so naive.
Sirius watched you for another long second—jaw tense, eyes searching—like he’d just watched all his efforts spoil right before his eyes, watched the wall go back up in realtime.
“Right,” he said softly—more to himself than anything—before leaning back in his seat with a forced exhale.
The silence stretched again. But this time, it was different. Colder, almost dismissive, begging to be unravelled—understood.
Sirius stormed into the Gryffindor common room with the energy of a brewing storm—quick, loud steps echoing in the corridors, hair wild from his fingers raking through it too many times. By the time he slammed the dormitory door behind him, he was already pacing like a madman.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
He didn’t notice the quiet creak of the door opening again behind him.
Didn’t see James and Remus freeze on the threshold, their eyes wide as they watched him stalk across the room like he might combust.
James gave a silent what the fuck look to Remus, who just raised a brow, waiting for an opening.
It didn’t come.
“Sirius,” Remus said, voice slow and cautious. “Did something happen?”
No answer. Just a ragged sigh as Sirius ran a shaking hand through his already-wrecked hair. His face was taut, jaw clenched.
He looked up like the words physically hurt. “I—I don’t know what I’m doing.”
James, ever calm when Sirius wasn’t, moved to the windowsill and perched there. “Alright, mate. Pause. Just breathe.”
Sirius obeyed, if only because he didn’t know what else to do.
“Try again,” James said.
Sirius exhaled, long and sharp. “I ruined it.”
“Ruined what?” Remus asked.
“Everything,” Sirius said, dropping onto his bed like gravity had finally caught up to him. “I could’ve kissed her. She was right there and I could’ve. And I didn’t.”
James blinked. “Why the hell not?”
Sirius scrubbed a hand down his face and then—quietly, bitterly—voice just above whisper, stained with shame, “Because she’s exactly the kind of girl my parents would want me with.”
A short silence shrouded the room, thick and overbearing before Remus stepped forward, slowly. “Wait…what?”
“She’s regal. Poised. Slytherin. Perfect! One of them—” Sirius bit out, like the words tasted like ash. “And fuck, I’ve never wanted anything less than to make my parents proud. But she—” His voice cracked, frustration bubbling up. “She’s not like them. She’s not like them at all. But they’d love her. And what does that say about me?”
James stared. “You didn’t kiss the girl you’ve been obsessed with for years because your mum might approve? Because she’s a pureblood? That’s—actually insane.”
“You don’t get it,” Sirius snapped. “I’ve spent years trying to tear their world apart. Burn every expectation. Every rule. And then she walks in, and I can’t stop looking, and it makes me sick because it feels like they’d win.”
He didn’t need to look at him to know there was a frown etched on to Remus’ face. “Sirius—”
“It’s not her fault,” Sirius said quickly, defensively. “She’s not them. She’s sharp, and brilliant, and she knows what she is, and she still doesn’t play their game. But that’s what makes it worse. Because I look at her and I want her. Not out of spite. Not to rebel. Not to destroy anything. Just—because I do. And that makes me feel like I’ve already lost.”
James sat back, arms crossed. “So you let her think you’re toying with her. Because that’s better?”
Sirius looked up sharply. “Of course not—”
“But that’s what it looks like,” James said, gentler now. “You think she doesn’t know exactly what she is? Exactly how she’s seen? She probably assumed you were interested just long enough to mock her, to make a statement. And when you didn’t kiss her—after all this time—you proved her right.”
Sirius swallowed the lump in his throat, and the guilt settling in the form of an unforgiving weight, like a stone heavy in his stomach. Remus moved closer, voice low. “Is this really about her? Or are you scared that if you like her for the right reasons, it means maybe they got something right?”
Sirius didn’t answer, eyes wide and hollow
Because fuck.
Maybe they were right.
Maybe he was a coward.
…
For two whole days, Sirius acted like nothing had happened.
He still greeted you with that infuriatingly easy grin, still dropped into the seat beside you in class like it was habit, like it hadn’t once meant something more. He cracked jokes at the same tempo, still leaned too close when he spoke—but something was off.
Forced. Brittle.
And you? You didn’t even look at him. Not once. Not when he spoke, not when he laughed a little too loudly trying to get your attention, not when he lingered beside your chair a bit longer than necessary.
You sat there, eyes focused and face composed, ice sliding beneath your skin. Where once your silence had been cutting, now it was impenetrable.
He was unraveling, and he knew it. He’d been so close—so painfully close—to something real. The memory of you in that quiet classroom haunted him: your voice smooth and laced with quiet confidence, the heat of your gaze holding his without flinching, the way your words had wrapped around his chest like a fist and squeezed.
You would have kissed him—let him in, he’d felt it.
But he’d foolishly let it slip right through his fingers—just as it entered his grasp. And now you were gone. Not physically—you still walked the same halls, shared the same spaces—but the shift was irreversible. Whatever thread had tied you to him had snapped.
So when he spotted you in the side corridor, alone and unreadable, he didn’t think. His body moved faster than his doubt. He caught up in seconds, slipping a hand gently around your sleeve, tugging you into the empty class room nearby. “Stop,” he said, breath already short. “Please. Just give me a second—”
You ripped your arm back like he’d burned you, and for a second, the flash in your eyes looked lethal.
“Don’t.”
It wasn’t loud, but it cracked between you like that of a lightning strike, harsh and cold and burning. Sirius was frozen, fingers still half-curled in the empty air. His stomach churned when it caught your gaze, full of ice and fury and a rare kind of heartbreak that didn’t scream—it seethed.
“I just—please,” dripping in his voice as he spoke again, hands open, pleading. “Let me say this. Just let me explain. I know what you’re thinking—”
“You don’t know anything,” you snapped, tone suddenly louder. Fiercer. “You don’t know what I’m thinking, Sirius. You never did. You just assumed, and I let you.” cutting him off so sharply it knocked the air out of him.
He almost flinched away from the biting cadance of your words, and yet his eyes still remained soft, swimming with a quiet desperation that made your stomach turn, that made you want to run away—hide from the weight of his affections.
“Did you even for a second think about how it feels?” you continued, voice tight and trembling with anger. “To feel like some…experiment in your rebellion. One of the sacred twenty-eight, right? How thrilling for you. How poetic.” The venom in it had him fightly every urge in his body that screamed retract.
“It’s not like that,” he said quickly, breath hitching. “I didn’t mean for it to come across that way. I wasn’t using you—”
“No?” you cut in, a hollow laugh slipping from your lips. “Because that’s exactly what it felt like. Just another way for you to stick it to your family. Another line crossed.”
He stepped forward, almost desperate now. “I promise—I wasn’t meant to be like that, just—”
But with each step closer he took, in return, you backed away, putting more distance between you; shielding yourself, as if even the idea of his explanation made your skin crawl. “I don’t care anymore, Sirius.”
That hit harder than any spell.
“I don’t need to tolerate this,” you said, quieter now—vulnerable. “Not when I already have parents breathing down my neck, pushing names and suitors and with titles lined up—expectations. They want someone who’d take me seriously.”
His expression cracked. It happened all at once—something behind his eyes just broke.
He looked lost, like he was being peeled open slowly and painfully. Hands dropping to his sides, one twitching like he still wanted to reach for you. Even though he shouldn’t—couldn’t—because you had already slipped passed him. And the last look on your face made him shiver, the controlled, polished fury—that had flashed like a flame frozen mid-burn, had vanished.
Instead your eyes swam with a dejected, gloom that he knew all too well, your usually untouchable exterior cracked under the pressure of empty promises, under the weight of hope you didn’t know you were holding.
Hope that had already gone.
The silence that stretched in your absence was brittle and cold, and Sirius just stood there—silent, stunned, and aching wishing he’d done more as the door clicked shut behind you with finality that burned.
Sirius wasn’t going to hesitate—not anymore.
He stormed through the castle like a man possessed, fury and desperation curling hot beneath his skin. His chest was tight, thoughts snarled and tangled, and before he even fully registered it, he was standing in front of Regulus’ dorm.
Twisting the handle with a vigour that made the hinges whine.
“Regulus!” he barked, pounding on the door with a flat palm. “Oi, Regulus!”
A beat. Then another. Then the wall began to shift with a groan, and there, in all his , unimpressed glory, stood his younger brother. Cloaked in his usual composed disdain, book in hand, and a brow already lifted.
“What in Merlin’s name—how the hell did you even get in here?” Regulus asked, eyeing his brother like he’d dragged in mud behind him.
“Doesn’t matter,” Sirius snapped. “I waited.” He pushed past him into his room without permission, pacing immediately, eyes wild. Regulus blinked, still holding his book open, voice dripping with disinterest.
“Charming as ever.”
“I need to know something,” Sirius said, turning back to him sharply. “Now. What’s going on with the—you know, the pureblood lot. Events. Ceremonies. Matches. L/N’s.”
Regulus’s expression didn’t change, but he slowly closed his book with a soft thud. “L/N’s?” he repeated, flatly.
“Yes,” Sirius snapped again, running a hand though his hair, with such tightness his brows raised involuntarily. “She said her parents already have suitors lined up. Lined up, Reg. What the fuck is going on?”
Regulus tilted his head. “You really don’t read the letters they send you, do you?”
Sirius scowled, rolling his eyes as if even that was even a possiblity, “Of course not,” he muttered. “I’d set them on fire to see what the delightful expectations they’ve dreamed up this week smell like.”
“Well,” Regulus said, crossing the room to set his book on his desk, “then it’s no surprise you’re completely out of the loop.”
“Loop?” Sirius echoed, exasperated. “I didn’t even know there was a loop.”
“There’s an event,” Regulus said, tone clipped. “Soon. A ceremony, more or less—each of the Sacred Twenty-Eight hosting, rotating through their estates like some grotesque little social carousel. A chance to flaunt heritage, to parade eligible heirs and daughters like prized livestock, and, of course, to sniff out the most suitable matches. To keep the lines pure.”
Sirius stared at him like he’d been slapped. “You’re joking.”
“And she has to be there?” Sirius asked, voice low now, more to himself than anything. “They’re forcing her to—”
“They aren’t forcing anyone,” Regulus said. “They’re expecting it. Same thing, really.”
Sirius was quiet for a moment, jaw clenched, fingers twitching like he didn’t know where to put them. Then—“Are you going?” he asked.
Regulus tilted his head again, slightly.
“I was requested, Sirius. Not all of us can run away from our obligations and burn bridges on a whim.”
That earned a deep, heaving sigh. Sirius dragged a hand down his face, muttering, “I didn’t come here for a lecture, Reg. Just—just tell me when it is.”
Regulus blinked slowly, a curious note in his eyes. “Why?”
Sirius turned toward the door, not looking at him.
“Next time you write home,” he said over his shoulder, “tell them to send an extra suit.”
And with that, he was gone—black robes flaring, boots echoing down the stone corridor, fury and purpose trailing behind him like a storm.
Regulus remained in place, staring at the empty doorway for a long beat. Then, slowly, he walked back to his desk, pulled open a drawer, and retrieved a fresh piece of parchment. He uncapped his ink bottle, dipped the quill with a practiced hand, and began to write.
Once finished, he folded the parchment neatly, sealed it with deep green wax embossed with the Black family crest—and held it in the candlelight just long enough to watch the wax catch fire at the edge and curl to a close.
…
The estate was bathed in gold and candlelight—opulence hanging in the air like perfume, rich and cloying, too heavy to breathe in properly. Everything gleamed. The walls, the glasses, the laughter. It was a curated thing—pure, controlled, a dance of lineage and power dressed in silk and arrogance.
The guests were already gathering in clusters—family names floating in the air like ghosts, ancestral ties whispered behind fans, strategic glances exchanged beneath low chandeliers.
And then the room shifted. Subtly.
It wasn’t his name that announced him. It was his presence. A current, a tension, like something electric slipping beneath polished marble.
Sirius stepped through the entrance—alone.
Manovering through the room like he belonged there, which only added to the stir. No parents in sight, just him in a sharply cut black suit with silver-threaded detailing that caught the light when he moved. His hair, often untamed and wild, was tied back at the nape of his neck, loose strands framing his features. There was something about him that looked sculpted and regal—yet defiantly unbothered. Untouchable.
Undeniably Black.
And people noticed.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd like wind brushing over a pond—soft and hushed, as if the very idea of Sirius showing up was somehow offensive, even as it made them all crane their necks to get a better look. Some turned their heads quickly, unwilling to acknowledge him at all. Others simply watched—too curious, too scandalized.
He didn’t glance at a single one of them.
Eyes set like steel, Sirius beelined across the room, moving between clusters of witches and wizards dressed in robes worth more than cottages, heading straight for the two familiar figures near the drinks.
Regulus stood poised as ever in black and green dress robes, brows lifting slightly at his brother’s approach.
Narcissa stood beside him in a floor-length silver gown that shimmered with every subtle turn, hair twisted into a perfect knot of braids and twist, chin tilted at just the right angle. She saw Sirius first, and while her expression didn’t falter, her fingers stilled around her glass.
Well,” she said, voice low and dry as Sirius came to a stop before them. “I see the rumors of your arrival were not exaggerated.”
“Hello to you too, Cissy,” Sirius said, voice smooth as sin, eyes scanning the room with bored calculation. “You look like you're about to gut someone with a compliment.”
She hummed. “And you look like you’ve come to start a war.”
He smirked faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Regulus, beside her, sipped his drink. “Nice of you to grace us with your presence. I trust you remembered the name of the family hosting?”
“Of course,” Sirius replied airily. “I even wore their colors—look.” He gestured lazily to the subtle detailing in his suit. “Silver for virtue. Or was it for vanity? I forget.”
“You’re impossible,” Regulus muttered, though his eyes flicked down the hall—searching. Sirius followed the glance instinctively. He hadn’t seen you yet.
But he would.
And when he did, he knew the room would fall away.
Because despite the suit, despite the defiant way he held his head high like this was all some elaborate game he didn’t care to be apart of—he wasn’t here for theatrics.
He was here for you.
But yyou didn’t notice him, not at first.
Not until the weight of his gaze sank into your skin, unmistakable—cutting through the sea of eyes that had lingered on you all night. People always stared, their glances clung to you, your family, the expectations woven into the hem of your gown. But his gaze was different.
It sought you, nothing more.
So when you finally looked up and caught it—caught him—your breath faltered. Lips parted in shock, only to snap shut again as your eyes narrowed. He looked good. Too good—untouchable in the dim glow of the chandeliers, all shadows and silk and the sharp cut of that smirk he wore so well.
The tilt of his brow was smug, a silent challenge. But you held his gaze a moment too long, just long enough for the swell of something warm to flutter between you.
But then, just like that, someone called your name.
An you turned away quickly, heart knocking against your ribs, and let the swell of polite conversation sweep you off before your reaction could be noted. But the look…it stayed with you. Beneath your ribs. In the corner of your mind.
You didn't expect to seek him out. Not really. But at some point in the evening, after doing your dutiful rounds—smiling, nodding, tolerating—you found yourself wandering towards the drinks table with the precise kind of detachment that made you feel normal again.
Like you hadn’t grown up learning how to smile through marriage negotiations. Like you didn’t know exactly which families your parents wanted you to charm.
Hands reaching for a drink when you felt it. That familiar warmth. The subtle hum of chaos wrapped in silk.
He was beside you before you could stop it. And even though you didn’t look at him, your lips twitched upward the moment he said, smooth as ever, “Funny seeing you here.”
Reaching past a crystal decanter, voice casual as you picked up a flute of something pale and effervescent. “Black.”
He grinned—not his usual roguish grin, but something smaller, almost boyish—relieved. “You’re not fleeing in the opposite direction. That’s progress.”
Taking a small sip, you tried to ignore how warm your face suddenly felt, heat curling beneath your cheeks in a way you couldn’t escape. “Wouldn’t want to cause a scene.”
His eyes didn’t leave you. You could feel it. That slow, indulgent drag of his gaze from the curve of your neck to the subtle shimmer in your gown. Like he couldn’t tear his eyes away even if he tried, gaze overflowing with want—something craven even he couldn’t name.
“If you stare any harder,” you murmured, setting your drink down with a soft clink, “I might disintegrate.”
He laughed low, leaning in just enough for you to feel the pull of him. “Just the clothes though, right?”
A startled gasp left you as you choked on your drink, coughing delicately behind your hand. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet here you are,” He picked up a glass, holding it between his fingers with idle grace. “You look bewitching, by the way.”
You always found your eyes rolling in his presence, but it was the smirk—that tugged at the corners of your lips no matter how hard you tried to push it down that betrayed you. “Thank you for the assessment, Black.”
“I can assess more if you want.”
“Sirius.” You hissed his name like a reprimand, but it lacked real venom. He heard that softness, low and creeping as it slipped through, and he wore it like a badge, hand rising in mock surrender.
Conversation blurred around you, background noise as the two of you drifted towards the edge of the room. A whisper of unspoken understanding passed between you—no need to say anything. The glittering, gold-drenched facade of the ballroom fell away with each step, until you were sliding through tall glass doors onto a balcony bathed in night.
The air was cooler out here. Cleaner. A balm against the perfume and pressure, the prying eyes and scrutiny.
Sirius leaned against the stone railing, gazing out at the dark gardens below, moonlight catching the silver thread in his suit. You didn’t mean to stare—but your eyes lingered, studying the shape of his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, displayed without the usual cloak of his dark curls—the wild softness of the strands that had escaped the hair tied at the nape of his neck.
He turned slightly, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What was that you said about staring earlier?”
You shrugged, scanning him more brazenly, unapologetic as you sipped your drink, “You scrub up nicely,” words so matter of fact, light.
He looked at you then, eyes that usually swam with unadultered mischief, lips that held a smirk so well—free from it all. And for a long while he didn’t say anything, just held your gaze hostage under its unfair tenderness.
No mischief, no smirk—just him, with that maddeningly fond expression that made your stomach twist. You looked away first for once, cracking under the pressure, looking down to your half-empty glass.
Voice soft. Quiet.
“I appreciate that you came—despite everything.”
When he spoke, his voice was low, just above a whisper—and it didn’t need to be any louder, because he was already so close. Word earnest, confessional—sincere in a way that made your breath catch. “I’d do it again for you.”
It made you gulp, throat dry despite the lingering chill of your drink. He was close—too close now—and yet not nearly close enough, heat radiating off of him like it was set on defending you from the harsh bite of the night’s air. Eyes were fixed on yours, unreadable but intense, like he was waiting for something, for permission or a sign or maybe just a heartbeat where you didn’t pull away.
“I really do like you,” he murmured, voice quieter now, all velvet and gravity. There was a kind of raw sincerity bleeding through his words—none of the cocky theatrics, no grin or drawl.
Just Sirius.
“I mean it.”
Your chest rose and fell, slow and unsure. The teasing edge in your voice was brittle when you managed to speak, trembling at the edges. “Really?” Your gaze flicked between his eyes, searching. “How much do you ‘like’ me?”
The question lingered in the air like a challenge—half jest, half dare.
But he didn’t laugh, didn’t smirk. He only exhaled, like the weight of every unsaid word had been pressing on his ribs, and leaned in slowly. Palm coming up to brace against the cold stone wall beside your head, the other brushing feather-light against your waist as he tilted toward you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your lips.
“This much,” he whispered.
And then there was no space between you—his lips soft and warm against yours—holding you in an embrace so delicate that you could mistake his touch for the wind.
It was gentle at first—like he was still afraid you might change your mind. Like the moment itself might collapse beneath the weight of history, your families, the thousand things neither of you had dared say. His lips still hesitant, just ghosting over yours, testing, asking.
But you didn’t pull away.
You leaned into it.
And Sirius needed no more invitation, his palms slid from the wall to cradle your jaw, tilting your face to his with such reverent care he could surely feel your heart hammering beneath your ribcage. The kiss deepened—not rushed, but aching.
Starved.
Months of lingering glances, of holding back, of almosts and maybes spilled out all at once in that kiss. Clutching the fabric of his jacket, gripping him like a lifeline, and he groaned softly into your mouth, like he’d been holding this in too long and it was finally—finally—unraveling.
Kissing like you were trying to memorise each other with your lips alone. Like it was the first time, and the last, and everything in between.
When he finally broke away, barely pulling back—lips still tempted over yours—both of you breathless, his forehead rested against yours. His hand stayed at your jaw, thumb brushing just beneath your ear as if to capture you both there, in the small moment, just a fraction of solace, of something warm and real.
“I would’ve gone mad if I hadn’t kissed you tonight,” he whispered, his breath shaky, brushing across your lips.
Your grip loosened slightly in his lapel, voice barely above a whisper. “I think you already have.”
Sirius huffed a chuckle—soft, hoarse, breathless—but he didn’t move away, smile fading slight as he stared at you, gaze dark and so full of feeling it nearly shattered you.
“I’m not playing games,” he said, voice low and rough. “Not with you. I never was.”
Just him showing up was enough, going against everything he stood for—you already believed him.
Okay I need a moment because this fic absolutely wrecked me in the best way possible.
The slow burn here is genuinely agonising, and I mean that as the highest possible compliment. The years of Sirius just watching, the way his staring always felt like being singled out rather than flattered, the way you finally get used to it without ever meaning to. That whole arc of the reader going from genuinely irritated (the grip on the fork, pressing the quill too hard into parchment) to something softer and harder to name is written with so much patience and care. It doesn't rush, and it's all the better for it.
The smile. The smile. After years of persistence he finally earns one small, barely-there twitch of your lips and he lights up like the sun?? "Not cocky. Not flirtatious. Rather radiant, actually." I actually had to put my phone down for a second. That is such a good line. That is such a good Sirius.
And then the classroom scene where he almost kisses you and doesn't. The tension in that moment is suffocating in the best way. The hand flexing on the table, the way the space between you crackles, the fact that hesitation crosses his face and he pulls back and you don't say anything because you don't trust yourself to ask if it's real. That's such an emotionally intelligent piece of writing. The hurt is quiet, which somehow makes it worse.
The argument after broke my heart a little. "How thrilling for you. How poetic." The venom in that line is so deserved and so perfectly her. The image of that controlled, polished fury just collapsing into something defeated and gloom-filled at the end of the scene, and Sirius just standing there as the door clicks shut. Devastating.
The Regulus scene is such a good addition. His dry delivery, the way Sirius has to swallow his pride just to be in that room and ask, and then "tell them to send an extra suit." I love when writers use Regulus well and this is such a good use of Regulus.
And the estate. Him stepping through those doors alone in that sharp black suit with silver detailing and just beelining for you through a room full of people who probably have opinions about his presence. That image is everything. The whole balcony scene is so warm after everything that came before it. "If you stare any harder, I might disintegrate." The fact that he laughed low and came back with something ridiculous and she choked on her drink. The tension breaking into something almost easy, something that finally felt like it had earned its softness.
"I'd do it again for you." I fear that line has taken up permanent residence in my brain.
And the kiss. The way it's gentle first because he's still afraid she might change her mind, and then it just deepens, and it's "starved," and months of almosts are finally unraveling all at once. The forehead-to-forehead moment after, both of them breathless. "I think you already have." I could cry a little.
This fic understands something really fundamental about Sirius: that the most interesting version of him isn't the one who chases because it's fun, but the one who chases because he genuinely cannot help it, and is quietly terrified by what that means for him. "Not out of spite. Not to rebel. Not to destroy anything. Just because I do." That's the line. That's everything.
Completely obsessed with this. Thank you for writing it.
Overview: Wrong Number AU. Piss drunk, you decided it would be a good idea to send a raunchy photo of yourself to your ex. But as fate had it, you sent it to the wrong number.
Word Count: About 4,500.
Warning(s): Swearing, drinking, drunk texts, some suggestive content, slight sexting, so much fluff. No smut, but should be 16+ to read.
Author’s Note: Modern, Muggle AU; Sirius Black x Reader. I was reading some “I accidentally sent nudes to my boss” horror stories and this idea came into my head. (Sirius is not her boss.) Enjoy! ;)
I've been sitting with this fic for ten minutes trying to figure out how to explain why it works so well and I think it's this: the wrong number setup is not new, but this execution is just so fun because the reader isn't pining, she's petty. Newly single, a little reckless, and fully committed to the bit. The drunk photo revenge plan being foiled by her own deleted contacts is genuinely hilarious and so believable.
But what really got me is Sirius. The moment he wakes up to an accidental sext and his first instinct is to be charming rather than weird or creepy? Immediately won me over. The copycat photo?? I actually had to put my phone down. And then the way he just keeps texting when she goes quiet, the "We're practically best friends" progression, the smiley face at the end making his heart skip?? Yeah. He's a menace and I love him for it.
Also Marlene texting him on the reader's behalf and then just handing the phone back like "there you go babe" is the most Marlene thing I've ever read. And Lily keeping Lucius' number in her phone just in case? Details. I love the details.
The cafe scene is so sweet too--the pout, the "put the lip back in," the wrong number callback at the end--lovely little bow on the whole thing.
forbidden love! Junior x Fem!gryffindor reader where Barty hates that you have to hide. PLOT TWIST (cus I need drama lols) Barty gets in a fight with another guy who said rude crap about reader/y/n and bartys getting hurt when reader steps in with magic and threats.
Ppl don't mess with Barty any more.
pairing: barty crouch jr x fem!gryffindor!reader
summary: request above!
warnings: mentions of blood purity, barty crouch sr. voldemort, slytherin hate, not proofread, graphic descriptions of blood + violence
word count: 1.4K
“No” Barty whines as you disentangle your limbs from his. As you leave the warmth of the blankets laid over his bed, you’re met with a breeze that has you shiver slightly.
Barty tugs at your arm as you swing your legs over the bed and lean to grasp your wand, “Come back to bed” he mumbles as he tries to pull you back under his green bedsheets.
It’s earlier than you would normally wake up, around 4AM you’d assume, given the dark sky you can see from the window to the left of Barty’s bed.
Barty and yourself both knew that the consequence of spending the night in his dorm meant that you’d have to sneak out the following morning before anyone else woke up.
It was one of the worst parts of keeping your relationship a secret. Barty hated sneaking around, not being able to tell anyone how much he adored you or having to reign in his possessive and jealous nature.
He had to grit his teeth and stand by as some brave – or rather stupid – Gryffindors tried their luck with you in hopes of asking you to Hogsmeade. Barty however found relief in being able to hex them in the corridors which was expected from students in Slytherin.
“You know I can’t stay” You whisper into the quiet of the room and Barty only gives a grumbled response, his dark hair framed across his pillow as he blinks open his eyes to pout at you.
“I’ll hex anyone that says anything, just come back to bed” he says again and although you roll your eyes, you can’t help the little flutter within your heart at the sentiment.
“You also know it’s not about the Hogwarts student body” you say pointedly as you reach for an old long sleeve quidditch jersey of Barty’s to lay over your pyjamas to shield you from the cold.
Barty’s irritated groan is louder than it needs to be for this early in the morning, though you can’t help the small laugh that leaves you as he throws what can only be described as a small tantrum.
“I’m going to kill my father one day” Barty swears, and you snort before gathering the rest of your clothes, kissing Barty sweetly before hurriedly making your way to your own common room.
Interhouse relationships within Hogwarts weren’t necessarily looked down upon, It often fostered unity within the Hogwarts community and was sometimes even encouraged.
Although, with that knowledge also came the understanding of house rivalries. Gryffindor and Slytherin’s house rivalry was one of the most well known rivalries within the school.
Tensions only grew higher as house loyalties filtered into external loyalties, as pureblood Slytherin students’ families affiliated themselves with Voldemort and the dark arts and as Gryffindor families chose to walk the line of the light.
Therefore, it was only reasonable to assume that your relationship with Barty, if public knowledge, would cause somewhat of a hysteria among students.
Not only that, considering that Barty Crouch Sr. was known to be intolerant politically of any support of Voldemort and his little cult, he was also equally intolerable of his own son.
One was more publicly known than the other however Barty knew full well, should news of his relationship with you reach the media, Barty would soon be associated with Voldemort and his fathers campaign would be in jeopardy.
So, therefore. A secret relationship between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin bloomed under moonlit skies and abandoned corridor kisses.
As you reached your common room, you made quick work of sneaking into your dorm as the rest of your roommates laid sleeping. Under the covers you close your eyes to allow yourself a couple hours of more sleep.
The following morning, as you sit at the Gryffindor table, slowly eating your breakfast as you try to rub the sleep out of your eyes, you can hear the loud chatter of the marauders to your left and Marlene’s grumbling to your right.
Your seat allows you to view the Slytherin table and you can make out the figures of Barty, Evan and Regulus all sitting huddled together. Barty meets your eyes over the tables and gives you a slight wink which has your cheeks warming.
You look down and continue to eat your breakfast as you converse with Lily about your classes for the day.
You’re disrupted by the sound of glasses shattering and gasps, a small wail cuts through the air and before you know it, you’re on your feet looking frantically at the Slytherin table.
Barty has his hands on Mulciber’s robes, his gaze angry and his form trembling. You can see Evan trying to talk him down and Regulus watching curiously. Barty seems to be yelling and you bring yourself out of your shocked daze to hear his voice.
“-SAY THAT AGAIN ABOUT HER, I DARE YOU!, I’LL CURSE YOUR ENTIRE FUCKING BLOODLINE, YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKING TWAT!” Barty yells and gasps filter around the dining hall as Barty shakes Mulciber mercilessly.
Mulciber smirks menacingly before whispering something to Barty that has his nostrils flaring, he pulls back one of his arms to punch the living daylights out of the other Slytherin, however before he can he’s met with a curse from Avery that has his flying back into a wall.
Your heart stops as Barty’s head thuds against the wall, his form laying limp against the concrete. Your eyesight blurs at your tears but you can see the figures of Evan and Regulus standing up, wands at the ready as they throw spell after spell at Mulciber and Avery.
You hear commotion as Sirius and James both call out worried as a stray spell hits Regulus which has him down for a count before he stands up again, his gaze cold and unflinching.
You’re moving before you know it, running across the dining hall, away from Lily’s worried “Y/N don’t!-”, as you watch as Snape’s disgusted expression looks at Barty’s still slumped over figure.
Barty has a trail of blood running down his forehead, he stirs a bit as he looks up to be met with the end of Snape’s wand.
Snape stares at him boredly before he starts, “Sectum-”
“Don’t you fucking touch him” you hiss as you grasp your wand, hissing out a powerful ‘Expelliarmus’ that has Snape being thrown back towards Mulciber and Avery.
They both look at Snape in shock before they turn to your blazing form, your eyes manic as you stand protectively in front of Barty. Evan and Regulus both walk to stand at your sides as the three of you look towards Mulciber and Avery.
“Walk away Mulciber” you say coldly as the Slytherin’s eyes light up before he smirks lazily, “And the little bitch returns to her owner” Avery drawls.
Before you can reply, a strong stinging hex hits Avery that has him cursing as tears rise in his eyes.
“Watch your mouth Avery.” Evan says with his wand being held out in front of him. You look at him in shock and he only shrugs and gives you a small smirk, “You’re one of us.”
You nod softly, you catch the glimpse of a red light heading your way before Regulus moves in front of you to defend you. You hear James and Sirius cursing him out as they also run towards you three as Peter and Remus are instructed to call a professor.
“It’s ill etiquette to curse someone behind their back Mulciber, did your whore of a mother teach you nothing?” Regulus hisses as he hexes Mulciber with a body-binding spell.
Barty’s groaning distracts you from everything as he opens his eyes, confused as he looks around to see you, Evan and Regulus duelling Avery, Mulciber and what looks like Snape’s hunched over form.
“What?” he asks confused as he lifts his hand to touch the top of his head where his wound lies.
You quickly look at Barty’s form before throwing another body bind to Avery as you stomp towards their limp forms.
The first punch has Mulciber howling in pain as blood gushes from his nose, “You come anywhere near my boyfriend again, I will kill you.” You say, gaze unflinching.
Avery struggles under the spell before you kick him in his ribs, “Stop fucking squirming. It’s good to know when one has been bested, yes?” you say with a cold smile as you meet both of their angry yet scared gazes.
“If I see either of you near him again, I will hold true to my promise” you hiss, turning around to the amused yet proud looks of Evan and Regulus who have Barty between them, his form slighting leaning on Evan’s taller figure.
You walk a couple steps before you lift your leg to stomp it down into the middle of Mulciber’s legs which has Evan, Regulus and Barty wincing.
You nod and smile at the pained groan before walking swiftly to Barty, “You okay Bee?” you whisper softly as you look worriedly into his eyes before lifting your hand to lift his hair to get a better look at his wound.
You hiss at the blood before looking at Barty with worry, “We need to get you to the infirmary-”
“You’re so fucking hot” Barty says with a wicked smile.
You splutter and Evan groans to your left, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Regulus says disgusted from your right.
He’s distracted by Sirius and James sprinting towards him with worry in their eyes. You drown out the sound of what sounds like Regulus being looked over and cursed for being idiotic for just blindly jumping into a fight.
Barty just smirks and looks at you, “Cat’s out of the bag then?” he asks with a hopeful look. You’re confused for a second before you bite your bottom lip with a small shrug, embarrassed.
“Yeah, sorry” you mumble before Barty tsks and pulls you into him, kissing you deeply. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this” he says against your lips.
I have been thinking about this fic since I read it the first time but I only now have words.
The opening scene is so soft and so him. Barty pouting and grumbling and trying to drag you back under the covers at 4am while simultaneously swearing he'll hex anyone who says anything is just such a perfect balance of possessive and pathetic (affectionate). "I'm going to kill my father one day" said so casually, like it's just a Tuesday grievance. And the little laugh it pulls from you?? The intimacy of that moment is so good.
But then the dining hall scene. The WAY it escalates. Barty shaking Mulciber and absolutely losing his mind, Evan and Regulus just calmly drawing their wands like this is a completely normal Tuesday, and then you vaulting across the dining hall past Lily's warning?? I was holding my breath.
The thing that really got me, though, is how the reader holds their ground in front of Snape. The Expelliarmus, the cold "walk away Mulciber," the stomp at the end that has all three of them wincing in sympathy?? Devastatingly good. And Evan's "you're one of us" absolutely wrecked me. That single line reframes the whole secret relationship dynamic in a way that hits so much harder than it has any right to.
And then Barty comes around and says "you're so fucking hot" with a head wound. Which. Yeah. Very on brand. Regulus' disgust was my disgust and also I loved it.
"Cat's out of the bag then?" I wanted to shake him lovingly. The kiss at the end had me sighing. Obsessed with this.
hallooo,, i hope you're doing good lovely<33 i wanted to request a hotch x wife!doctor reader where Aaron is mildy injured after a case. the team urges him to get his injuries checked out at the hospital but he keeps declining for no reason (the real reason is because reader is one of the best doctor's there, and would freak out and scold Hotch for getting injured). the team eventually forces him to go to the hospital and they meet reader? (they also maybe see hotch getting scolded for getting injured xd) thank you in advance🤍
He’d been stabbed, concussed, and bruised within an inch of his life... hell, he’d even once dislocated his shoulder while wrestling an unsub twice his size in the woods outside of Boulder, Colorado. And in every single one of those instances, he’d remained infuriatingly calm, stoic, and in control.
So when he returned to the local precinct in Bethesda with his shirt soaked in blood, favoring his side and gritting his jaw, no one expected him to break stride.
But when he waved off medical attention again, even Emily crossed her arms.
“You’re not serious,” she snapped, watching him blot at the torn fabric of his dress shirt with a paper towel like it was no big deal. “Hotch, you’re bleeding. Through gauze.”
“I’ve had worse,” he muttered.
“That’s not the point,” Rossi interjected. “You don’t get a gold star for playing martyr. Go get checked out.”
“I don’t need to be checked out.”
“You do,” JJ said firmly, glancing toward Morgan for backup.
“Look, man, I get it,” Morgan added. “Hospitals suck. But this one’s twenty minutes away, and we will drag you there if we have to. Besides Savannah will kill me if I don't take you to a hospital.”
Hotch visibly hesitated. He opened his mouth to argue again, but then, clamped it shut. It wasn’t fear in his eyes. Not pain. Not stubbornness.
It was something else entirely.
And Garcia, who’d been quietly observing from the sidelines, narrowed her eyes. “Wait a second,” she said slowly. “You’re not avoiding the hospital because you hate doctors… You’re avoiding it because you’re married to one.” Garcia had snooped.
The room went quiet.
JJ’s jaw dropped. Emily turned on her heel. “Wait... wait. You mean the reason you’re refusing medical attention is because your wife works there?”
Hotch didn’t respond. He just wiped his brow and winced.
“Oh my God,” Garcia gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. “You’re scared she’ll scold you.”
“I’m not scared of my wife,” Hotch said flatly, and Morgan snorted.
“You sure about that, boss man? ‘Cause you look like you’re about to march to the principal’s office or dig your own grave.”
“She just… worries,” Hotch muttered.
“I bet she does,” Emily said with a grin. “Considering how often you get shot at work.”
“Enough,” Hotch sighed. “If it’ll get you all to stop badgering me, fine. I’ll go.”
“Excellent,” Garcia chirped, already pulling up directions on her phone. “Because I would very much like to witness your wife read you the riot act.”
The emergency department at Bethesda General Hospital was bustling with the usual chaos: trauma codes being called over intercoms, gurneys wheeled past in a blur, and nurses moving with the speed and focus of people who knew lives were at stake if they didn't run faster than a cheetah.
And in the center of it all—calm, commanding, and terrifyingly efficient—was Dr. Hotchner.
“Prep O.R. 3,” you instructed without looking up from the chart in your hands. “Page ortho, and tell Dr. Li I need her on consult.”
“Yes, Doctor,” your intern said quickly, practically sprinting to do your bidding.
You turned just in time to see your husband walk through the sliding doors, flanked by six BAU agents who all looked like they’d come for the show.
And Aaron... oh, Aaron... looked guilty as hell.
You spotted the blood at his side immediately and froze. “Oh my God,” you said, voice sharp. “What happened?”
“I’m fine,” he said quickly.
You blinked. “You’re bleeding through a towel, Aaron.”
The use of his name earned you a few surprised looks from the team. Hotch winced.
“I didn’t want to interrupt your shift,” he said, tone low, which only made your eyes narrow.
“Uh oh,” Emily muttered under her breath in a sing-song tone. “He’s in trouble.”
“Is this from the case?” you asked, already stepping forward to pull the towel away. Your fingers were gentle, but your eyes were assessing his injury, no-nonsense. “How long ago?”
“About two hours.”
“Two hours!? You’ve been walking around like this for two hours!?”
He shifted under your gaze. “It wasn’t that bad. I kept pressure on it.”
You exhaled slowly and turned to the nurse behind the intake desk. “I need a bay prepped now.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“I’m walking. Not being wheeled,” Hotch added stubbornly.
You didn’t even look at him. “We’ll see.”
The team shuffled awkwardly, clearly trying not to smirk too much.
“You can wait here,” you told them over your shoulder. “I’ll patch him up and return him in one piece. No promises on whether or not he’s limping.”
Hotch gave them a long-suffering look as you led him down the hall, your hand at his back. “I told you this would happen.”
“You let it happen,” Rossi called after him.
Ten minutes later, Hotch was perched on a trauma bay bed with his dress shirt peeled off, the deep graze on his left side now cleaned and being carefully stitched.
You worked in silence for a moment, your hands steady even as your brows furrowed.
“I wasn’t trying to worry you,” he said softly.
You didn’t respond right away. When you finally looked up, your expression was softer, but no less serious. “Aaron,” you murmured, “you came in bleeding. I’m your wife. I deserve to know when you’ve been hurt.”
He looked down. “I didn’t want to interrupt your work.”
“This is my work. You’re my husband, and also, in case you forgot, I’m one of the best trauma physicians in this hospital.” You tied off a stitch and gave him a pointed look. “Do you think I wouldn’t notice if you walked into the bedroom tonight trying to pretend you hadn’t been shot while leaving a trail of blood on the floor?”
He sighed. “I wasn’t shot.”
“You were grazed. Close enough.” You stepped back to dispose of the gauze and gloves. “You’re lucky it didn’t hit anything major.”
“I know.”
You softened again as you returned to him, brushing a hand along his shoulder. “I’m not mad. I’m just… worried. Every time you walk out that door, I worry. So when you come back hurt and don’t tell me? Yeah, I get upset.”
His hand came to rest over yours. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re forgiven. But next time? You don’t delay treatment because you’re afraid of a scolding.”
He huffed a laugh. “It was a very convincing scolding.”
You smiled, leaned in, and kissed his temple. “You deserved it.”
When the two of you returned to the waiting area, Hotch was in clean clothes, a set of hospital scrubs, his wound bandaged, and a list of care instructions tucked under his arm.
The team perked up at the sight of you.
“Well?” JJ asked.
“He’ll live,” you said dryly. “No thanks to his decision-making.”
Garcia grinned. “Did you give him The Look? The whole 'I married you, not your death wish' thing?”
“I may have included a variation,” you replied with a smirk.
Hotch sighed, resigned. “Can we go now?”
“Nope,” Emily chirped, handing him a coffee. “Not until we get a photo of you in those scrubs. For the file.”
“What file?”
“The ‘Hotch Gets Owned by His Wife’ file,” Morgan said.
“It’s getting thick and we just started it,” Rossi added, sipping his espresso. "It was nice meeting you."
You chuckled, brushing a hand through Aaron’s hair. “He’ll behave now. Doctor’s orders.”
Hotch muttered something under his breath, but you swore you caught the faintest smile tugging at his lips.
The car ride home was mostly quiet, apart from the occasional hiss from Hotch when the seatbelt shifted against his bandage.
You didn’t say anything, but your hand rested on his knee the whole way.
By the time you walked into the house, the familiar rhythm of your shared space slowly began to dissolve the lingering tension. You took your shoes off by the door; Hotch placed his bag down a little more heavily than usual.
“You need to sit,” you said, already toeing into the kitchen.
“I’m fine.”
“Aaron.”
He exhaled. “I’m sitting.”
When you returned with a glass of water, two Advil, and the strict instructions for how often he could take them, he was in the living room exactly as you’d ordered, but not without the smugness of someone who was used to giving the orders, not taking them.
You handed him the water. “You’ll need to stay on the pain meds at least through tomorrow. No stairs. And I swear if I catch you trying to answer a single email tonight...”
“You’ll what?” he said, raising a brow.
“I’ll forward them all to Strauss and tell her you’re delirious and talking to ghosts with an attached doctor's note.”
That made him chuckle, and you hated how handsome he looked doing it, bruised, and still somehow making you feel like the one who’d just lost a battle.
You sighed, sinking down onto the couch beside him. “I mean it, Aaron. You can’t keep doing this.”
He looked at you then, really looked, quiet guilt spread across his features from the way his brows furrowed.
“I know.”
“I’m not just your doctor, you know. And it’s like you forget how terrifying it is to see you walk in with blood on your shirt and a towel shoved under your ribs like that’s normal.”
“I don’t forget,” he said softly. “I just… sometimes convince myself it’s easier not to worry you.”
You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw, gentler now. “I’d rather be worried than kept in the dark. That’s not how this works. We’re a team. You get to yell at me for missing lunch or losing sleep during a thirty-six-hour shift, and I get to yell at you for treating bullet grazes with paper towels.”
His lips tugged into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close enough. “Okay,” he said. “Deal.”
You let out a breath, leaned forward, and kissed his temple, then his cheek, then the edge of his mouth. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“I thought I was ‘infuriatingly reckless.’”
“You can be both,” you said, settling your weight against him carefully so you didn’t bump the injury. “But right now, you’re a patient. So that means feet up, water, meds, and...”
He groaned. “A heat pack.”
“Yes, a heat pack,” you repeated, shooting him a look. “You know the protocol. Don’t test me, Agent Hotchner.”
He muttered something about bossy doctors and curled further into the couch.
You disappeared for a moment, returning with the hot pack and a blanket and the remote already queued up to one of those slow-burn crime shows he liked but pretended not to enjoy because they were painstakingly inaccurate.
You placed the heat pack gently against his side, then draped the blanket over both your legs. “Anything else I can get for you, Mr. Hotchner?”
“Just this, Mrs. Hotchner,” he said quietly, curling an arm around your waist and pulling you in close.
You let yourself melt into his chest, sighing as your cheek found his heartbeat.
“Next time,” you whispered, “you come to me the minute you’re hurt. No detours. No delays.”
“I promise.”
You didn’t look up. “Swear it.”
He kissed the top of your head. “I swear.”
"And I want to meet your team properly, without having to patch you or them up!"
Okay this one had me completely wrapped around its finger from the moment Garcia started narrowing her eyes. The whole team collectively realising Hotch isn't avoiding the hospital out of stubbornness but out of sheer "my wife is going to read me the riot act" energy?? Hilarious and so, so him. Garcia's "you're scared she'll scold you" and his flat denial that very obviously wasn't one had me grinning.
But then the hospital scene is where it really earns it. The shift from the team comedy to you being genuinely, calmly, devastatingly competent as a trauma physician while still being his wife? The way you use his first name and the team does a double take? Perfect. You're not performing anger, you're just doing your job with the added context of loving this infuriating man, and that reads so clearly.
The home scene is what got me most though. The "I'd rather be worried than kept in the dark, that's not how this works" conversation is so quietly significant. It's not dramatic, there are no raised voices, just two people who love each other negotiating the specific cost of his job on their marriage. The heat pack and the crime show and his muttering about bossy doctors while curling further into the couch? I actually sighed out loud.
"You're lucky you're cute" / "I thought I was 'infuriatingly reckless'" / "You can be both" is an absolutely devastating little exchange and I will be thinking about it for some time.
It's me once again! Bothering you twice in a day, I'm annoying like that, ha just kidding. But yes James is soooo wholesome, it's crazy how he became my favorite boy. So Mae, I suppose you are super busy because being such amazing writer is no easy job when you have requests coming all the time but, if you have the time, whenever that is, could you write something about James? Like James being so wholesome, the best boyfriend, the fluffiest thing you can think of, maybe something with words or affirmation and kisses and hugs and just very lovely things, feel like I need that. If you can of course.
Hope you are having a very cool weekend and my username is basically my favorite colors and it has something to do with Van Gogh and my favorite singer but this kid knows something, haha it's so funny, kind of serendipitous if you ask me :) love that. Well, I'm going to set you free, read you soon.
P.S. Sorry this was so loonng
Hi lovely, thanks for requesting!! Sorry this took so long lol, I had to wait until I had an idea that wasn't already in my requests but I appreciate your patience! This is perhaps more hurt/comfort than straight fluff lol, but he is the most wholesome ever <3
cw: concussion
James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 603 words
James’ hand is especially gentle as he strokes over your hair. Your nose dents into his thigh, and his jeans are coarse and scratchy but the slight pressure is nice.
“Still dizzy?” he asks, carefully quiet.
“A little.” Your own voice is thin, fraught. “Not as bad.”
He sighs, and you feel too weird to decipher whether it’s in relief or dismay. “I’m sorry, angel.” He lifts one of your hands to his mouth, kissing the side. “Is it hurting in any one place?”
“It’s my whole face. But most in my forehead.”
James’ touch is featherlight, ghosting over the spot where you’d smacked your head on the stairs. “Here?”
“Mhm.”
He makes a worried humming sound in response. You sit in silence for some time, and it’s not uncomfortable, but nothing is comfortable for you right now. You feel terrible, unlike yourself and unsettled because of that and also weepy but not as much as you are embarrassed. And dwelling upon any of this for too long makes your head spin worse. You don’t think you’re dying though it feels like you might be.
The warm bead rolling down your nose brings you to the realization that you’re crying. James’ coo follows a moment later, and his hand splays protectively atop your head.
“You’re okay, sweetheart. Do you feel alright to sit up?”
“Okay,” you mumble.
He does the work for you, though it’s hard to keep track of the movements. One second your head is on his lap and the next you’re propped against his chest, one muscled arm supporting your back while James rests his lips against your forehead.
“You’re okay,” he promises. “You’re okay, I’ve got you.”
“I don’t really feel like going to dinner anymore,” you admit, tasting salt as a tear finds its way into your mouth.
“Oh,” James lifts his lips to look you in the eyes, “honey, I didn’t expect you to. I’m going to call Remus and cancel in a minute, okay?” He brushes a lock of hair away from your face with his pinkie finger, stroking a sweet line down your cheek. “If you go anywhere, it should probably be to the doctor.”
“No.” You close your eyes, too upset to care about the low whine that escapes you. “What’re they gonna do?”
“I don’t know, baby.” James traces the same line again. “They might want to do an MRI or something. I’ve had a concussion before, they’re serious business.”
You sigh, leaning your head on his shoulder. The material of his jumper is soft beneath your cheek. “I can’t think about it right now.”
There’s a brief pause.
“Okay. Okay, we can talk about it tomorrow, if it’s still bad then.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to be sorry.” James’ arm wraps around your middle, squeezing lightly in a gentle sort of hug. You think that he’s being very careful with you, which you appreciate. You don’t imagine you could handle much more sensation at the moment. “I know it sucks, angel, and you’re handling it so well. We’re gonna do our best to get you feeling better. I love you so much, you know?”
You feel like you might cry again. You don’t think you have the energy to stop yourself. “I know,” you tell him. “I love you so much, too.”
“Heaps and heaps.” He gives you another little squeeze, his ability to repress his affection tenuous at best. “Probably the most anyone has ever loved anyone, if we’re being honest.”
“James.”
“Yeah?”
“I can’t do that kind of math right now. I love you a lot, okay?”
The detail of the jeans being coarse and scratchy but the pressure still being nice is so good, that's exactly how it feels when you're unwell and everything is Too Much but also you need contact. And "I can't do that kind of math right now" made me laugh out loud in the middle of feeling so bad for her, the dialogue is so natural. James being unable to repress his affection even while she's clearly miserable is so in character it hurts. The line about not thinking she's dying but feeling like she might be is SUCH a concussion mood. Loved this sm Mae!
