#jade i wanna smooch u thank u for posting this

[nasa-parker]

oooooo how about reader obsessed with hugging hotch !! like he's so big and warm and it always makes them feel safe and cared for <33

my love this isn’t exactly what you asked for but I hope you like it! I could write a hundred fics about hugging Hotch <3 fem!bau!reader

You’re addicted to Hotch’s hugs. It’s a crude metaphor, but you don’t use it lightly. Without his hugs you feel unbalanced and unsettled. It’s strange to think just a few months ago you hadn’t been able to hug him at all, though you’d sorely wanted to, and now you can do it whenever you like.

Within reason. You aren’t awful, you don’t try to pin them on him during work when he’ll be seen by high-ups and law enforcement — you would never undermine his professionalism like that, or your own. Though there are exceptions.

Like lunch time. 

The team usually eat and work at the same time, but legally you’re allowed an hour a day for lunch, and Hotch wouldn’t get mad at anyone for wanting to take it in a more relaxing fashion. That being said, you usually have lunch like this; takeout around the same table, notebooks open, Reid barely picking at his, Morgan and Emily too busy eating to speak, JJ taking ten minutes for herself somewhere quiet, and Hotch hard-pushed to order anything in the first place. You sit way too close on his left and cut your sandwich in two with a plastic knife. 

“Here you go,” you murmur, more to yourself than him as you pass over the bigger half. 

“Honey,” he says, “no.”

“It’s okay, just eat it,” you insist. 

You sound as fond as you feel, you always do. Everybody’s used to how much you like Hotch. Not just love him or care about him, like him. You like how he’s quiet and stern and assertive. You like his suits and his short-cropped hair and his frown. Everything about him makes you smile, which is amazing considering the severity of your job. Nobody resents your being sweet on him, though Morgan still makes his jokes. 

“Do as the lady says, boss,” he advises. “We all know how it ends otherwise.”

Hotch frowns at him but takes your offered sandwich. You eat in silence, listening to the click of the computers in the bullpen through the open door, the warbling voice of the precincts police chief, and the rattle of keys as a janitor makes his way past the conference room you’re holed up in. Reid flicks through a map of the area, trying to narrow down his geographical profile, his pencil tap-tap-tapping. 

You pass a big wad of napkins onto Hotch’s thigh, and put what’s left of your sandwich back into its wrapper. He squints at you inquisitively. You’re only standing to stretch out the nagging ache that’s coiled between your shoulders and around your neck. You click, the sound like a gunshot, and make everybody in hearing distance flinch. 

Hotch abandons his food not long after you have, seeing an opening you hadn’t meant to give. He wipes his hands on a napkin, then his face. 

While he’s not looking, you take a step closer. Another and another. Morgan grins at you knowingly. 

You slide your arm behind Hotch’s neck, standing slightly behind him, and bring your face to the side of his head. He wraps an arm around you in turn, movement rigid with reluctance. 

“It’s my legal lunch break,” you say softly. “What do you always say about breaks?”

“You can spend it however you want,” he says, sounding very much like the Hotch you get to adore outside of work, joking and light, a great surprise. “But I can spend mine however I want.”

“And you don’t want to be hugging me?” you summarise. 

You’re joking in that you kind of know he doesn’t want this, not because he doesn’t want you. He’s rather shy, your Hotch. He loves hugs, but in front of others he requires a little persuasion. If you thought he truly didn’t want one you’d keep your hands to yourself, but…

“That’s not what I said.”

Pleased, you curl your second arm around his collar, hand diving into the soft hair at the back of his head. You pull with the lightest pressure, pressing a secret, soundless kiss to the end of his unhappy brow. And then, because you love him and you don’t want to embarrass him too much, you spring away from him like it never happened. 

Later, when dark has enveloped the city and you’re making your way out to the SUV that’s gonna take you to the hotel for the night, you fall into step with your lovely boyfriend and sigh. You’ve felt the guilt of your hug all day. 

“Thank you,” you say.

It takes him a second to emerge from his thoughts. “For what?”

He doesn’t add a pet name, but his tone implies one. 

“For letting me, uh, climb all over you at lunch. I know public displays aren’t your favourite.”

He tilts his head toward yours without looking at you. “It makes you feel better.”

He doesn’t need to say the obvious. You both work a hard job emotionally. 

“I don’t want to make you feel worse,” you say, voice sticky with bashfulness. 

He laughs, tipping his head back in the open air, and it’s odd enough for him that you gawp, worse when he wraps his hand around yours and swings them mildly forth and back. 

“In what world would a hug from you make me feel worse, honey?”

You smile in fits and starts for hours. In the SUV, in the hotel elevator, in the hallway outside of your room. You smile as you and Hotch get changed into lounge clothes for the night, and as he twines your fingers together under the sheets. 

He’s far from stupid. He knows why you’re smiling, and while his mind is on the case, he takes the time to say, “You don’t have to be so quick to move away. In front of the BAU.”

“Think we could get away with it in front of Strauss?”

“…No.”

You laugh, and Hotch evidently likes the sound of it. He lets you hug him like a straight jacket until 5AM.

[nasa-parker]

me @ u for literally everything you write (but for this one in particular especially)

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

You and James have found more than friendship on the ice. When you’re afraid to flub a jump and take the leap with him into something more, he finds a way to convince you. [4k]

hockey player!james, figure skater!reader, shy!reader, fem!reader, fluff, friends to lovers, mutual pining, confessions, first kiss, idiots in love, james is tall pretty and extremely in love, sometimes shy!james <3 requested here 

･:*:｡･:*:･ﾟ

You're used to the skin tight costumes of figure skating, and have accepted the fact that they show the entirety of your thighs— that's sort of the point. What you're not used to, however, is having the hockey team see you in said costumes.

James is thrilled. "Look at you, angel! You're in costume!"

He holds the sides of the rink in his hands, leaning his weight toward the ice. You wrap your arms around yourself self-consciously. 

"I was hoping you wouldn't see me," you admit, though you can't help smiling at him anyhow. 

You're usually very happy to bump into him, and your body reacts like it's been conditioned to. James leads to good feelings. 

"I bet you were," he says. 

James reaches out for you, and you skate to the end of the rink despite yourself. He doesn't touch you when you're close, you weren't really expecting him to, only inclines his head inward to tell you something quietly, all secretive like. 

"Your skirt’s tucked in a little bit. On the left," he says. 

"Oh, how," you grumble, twisting your torso to try and see what he means. A leaf of your skirt has managed to fold itself into the fabric that covers your butt. "That's so embarrassing." 

You were likely trying to unstick a slight wedgie when it happened. It's mortifying, but James probably doesn't know how it happened… probably. You yank the skirt out and hope he can't read what you're thinking off of your face. 

"Thanks, James," you say quietly. 

You say his name with altogether too much affection, considering you're friends. Acquaintances, even. You know James within these walls and nowhere else, like work colleagues, and you'd die if he knew how close you felt to him. In fairness, you both spend the majority of your free time within these walls, but still. 

He's probably the best friend that you have. Which is pathetic. But between skating and your nervous disposition, this is as good as it was ever going to get. And you don't mind. 

All of the time. 

"You're welcome. If I knew we were dressing up today, I would've worn something nice." He has his jogging bottoms on and not his big bulky kit. You try not to stare at the more tight-fitting form of his hoodie sleeves, but it's hard. His biceps are ridiculous. "Are you staying?" 

Sometimes, if the boys are practising you'll stay. It's free entertainment — and it is incredibly entertaining to watch. James and his friends are a semi-professional team, which means they're a mixture of good and fun. They play because they love it, and they all have their night jobs to go back to after. It makes it easier for you and James to get along: you're semi-professional too. You're never going to the Olympics, you know that. You skate because you love it. 

There's a clock steadily ticking down on your skills. Every year you get older, heavier, a little more inflexible. The more intense sportsmen and women fight this, revile this, but you've accepted it completely. Skating is for fun. The competitions are to see how far you can go, and it sucks to lose, but the chance that you might win means you keep trying. 

If James and his friends are doing laps, it's a mock punishment from their coach. In half an hour they'll be playing a friendly match against one another like nothing happened. 

"I have to go take this off but… yeah, I'll stay. Is Sirius here today?" 

James leans back and you follow his turned gaze to a lean figure across the way. As soon as you spot him, your ears tune in to his raucous laughter. 

"You won't let him see me, will you?" you ask gently. "He'll never let me hear the end of it."  

James shakes his head. "Of course not. I'll go distract him, alright? You run away." 

You give him a very grateful nod. James turns away. You almost miss it, the double take that he does, like he wants one last look. 

You skate off to the other side of the ice where your skate guards, water bottle and hoodie sit waiting. The guards snap on easily. You throw your hoodie over your arm and make a break for the changing rooms, Sirius’ incredulous voice tailing your retreat at the last second. 

Once you've changed out of your costume and packed it away neatly in your locker, you walk back to the main auditorium, freaking out as gently as you're able to. You keep having conniptions about James, because James keeps looking at you like he has something to say. You've never been the object of a pretty boy's affections. You're worried that it's all in your head, and that you'll make a fool of yourself if you try to flirt back, but his face when he'd seen you in your costume gives you a terrifying new confidence. 

James had been ecstatic. His eyes had roved all over you and he hadn't tried to hide it. His smile was huge and one hundred percent genuine: appreciative. Like he couldn't be happier to see you. 

Is it wrong, then, to assume he likes you? No. You’ve known for a while. 

"Oof," you mutter to yourself, stepping back into the general chill of the rink and its surrounding stands. 

As you predicted, laps are over and the boys are in the thick of it, protection on, sticks shivering across ice with a sound like sharp blades. You stand behind a plexiglass screen and follow James' darting figure from afar. He's recognisable to you from the way he pulls back his arms, and the slight lean of his torso when he's standing still. You've spent too much time watching him. 

Too much time, and yet the rules are still complicated in your mind. James and Sirius are arguing with Frank on the opposite side about icing, passionate enough that James pulls his helmet off and begins throwing threats at his friends. 

"Mate, I'm actually about to drown myself," he warns, laughing through each word. "Are you listening to me? Take the penalty before I scream. Good god, man." 

You laugh. James' head almost snaps clean off his neck with the speed at which he turns to look at you. 

Sirius' head follows. 

"Hey!" Sirius calls immediately, abandoning his skirmish to skate towards you. "What the fuck! I wanted to see the dress, you let James see it! Go put it back on right now." 

"How'd you even know I was in a dress?" 

"How did I know? James lit up like a Christmas tree, that's how I know. He's disgusting all the time and it's your fault." 

"It's not really a dress," you say. Sirius is as nice as James but he's intimidating where James isn't. He's less smiles, more barking laughter. Less compliments, more playful chastisement. It's not his fault in any shape or form that you find his personality hard to respond to, but you do. "It's a bodysuit with a skirt. But sometimes… sometimes the girls do wear dresses."

"Yeah? I think he might pass out," Sirius says. Then, with a neater smile. "He told me to be nicer, I didn't know I was being mean, sorry. I really do wanna see your 'bodysuit with a skirt'. A little to make fun, but I bet you look good." 

James sweeps in and promptly knocks Sirius sliding sideways. "She looked amazing, now stop antagonising her." 

"I wasn't flirting, Jamie, no need to worry–" 

"Be gone, you beast." James' voice is tight with an emotion you can't name, lest you have another ruinous conniption for all to see. "Fuck off." 

Sirius snorts. There's a commotion, their unprofessional coach shouting about idiocy, a lack of commitment, and more laps if there isn't an improvement in team cohesion. James rolls his eyes at you as the coach drones on. You feel guilty for giggling. 

"Sorry for Sirius." James puts his hand on the top of his stick, bottom lip sticking out a touch as he grimaces. "Sorry for me, I'm sorry. I was hoping he'd use, like, a modicum of subtlety, but he's a dickhead and I know that. He's also a sweetheart. I should've guessed he'd rush to apologise." 

"No, don't be. He doesn't need to be sorry for anything, and you don't have to be sorry for looking out for me." 

"I'm not. Definitely not sorry for that." 

James pushes a curl behind his ear. His hair is lusciously shiny under stadium lights, dark dark dark and curled, sweet and thick. 

"You're in trouble." 

James looks over his shoulder toward his coach's booming disbelief. "What, with him? We're in the off-season right now, he needs to relax… I'm sorry, I feel like I'm not talking like a real human being right now." He laughs, awkward and charming at once. "Do I sound weird to you? Don't answer, that'll make it worse," he adds, his voice dipping into a genuine sadness. "Awful. Well, I'm going back over there to finish. Can you stay?" 

Not do you want to. Can you? It feels incredibly intimate, his easy assumption without a lick of expectancy. If you said no, he'd frown and throw his chest back, hand over his heart like he's been shot in one of his dramatics, but he’d understand.

"I'm staying," you say. 

"Brilliant. Okay." 

James Potter visibly flusters, tucking that same rogue curl behind his ear. You want to offer him something, a tight braid or one of your headbands from your bag. He skates off and you don't get the chance. 

You're a vestibule of conflicted emotion. James has been acting so unlike himself lately. He's shy at odd moments and quick to fluster, scratching at his neck or his biceps or his nose in what you've identified as his nervous tic. And you might be shy yourself but you're not stupid, he's practically a mirror.

Knowing James has a crush on you and accepting it are wildly different tasks.

What if you date and he realises it's a mistake? You'll lose your only good friend. No more practices with James on the sidelines shouting stories across the rink for you to hear. No more pep-talks on hard days, a big hand on your shoulder and his lilting superlatives in your ear. You're going to smash it, shortcake. No more half sandwiches when he forgets his lunch. No more laughing until your stomach hurts. No more of his cologne lignering on your shirt from a quick hug, the smell indescribable even now. Sandalwood? Dewberry? Something sweeter, fuller, bourbon vanilla?

James clatter off of the ice after a tremendous loss with high spirits. His helmet under his arm, mouth guard in hand, he walks on his skates to your bench and sits down with a smile. “That sucked.”

"It was a good game," you say. 

"Can't win them all. You going home now?" 

"Work. Gotta work my arms out too," you joke weakly, curling your arm inward. 

"Can I walk you? I can change quickly." 

"You don't have to–" 

"Please?" he asks. 

"Yeah," you say, feeling sick. "Yeah, okay." 

James guards up and leaves for the changing room. You sit on the bench tapping your knees together, wondering why it feels so awful to like him so much. Sirius and some other friends pack up soon afterward, and a few of them are nice enough to say goodbye as they pass. 

"See you tomorrow," Sirius says warmly. 

You grimace at him. You'd been attempting a smile, but that hadn't really panned out, meekness and nerves combined pulling the corners of your lips down. 

He wavers. 

"You know," he says, paused half a foot from you, "James is a big boy, he can handle rejection. He wouldn't be cruel to you, if you weren't interested." 

"That's not it." 

"No?" he asks, slim eyebrows raised. 

"It's the opposite of that. He's my friend." You admit it to yourself as you admit it to him. James is not an acquaintance. "Do you know what I mean? I don't want…" to lose him. 

Sirius nods. "You won't." His teeth flash as he smiles goodbye. 

James looks gorgeous when he emerges, his brown face framed by thick, dark hair, the strands closest to his face damp from a quick face wash. 

"You could put your hair up," you say, standing. "It's getting so long now." 

"Is it awful?" he asks, hand moving to the longest pieces at his neck. It's above his shoulder, but only just. 

"No… no, it's not awful." 

You both start walking towards the exit without another word. You should've said how you really feel about his hair —how it's gorgeous, and you'd like to run your hands through it, feel the softness for yourself and see the look on his face as he's touched with care— but you're worried one thread of honestly will pull at the rest, unspooling your innermost thoughts for him to see. You aren't ready for that. 

James puts a hand behind your shoulder as you pass out of the exterior glass doors and into the street. The rink isn't far from your work, only a ten minute walk, and the first two pass in silence. 

"You really looked lovely, in your costume. When is that, the competition?" 

"A week and two days." 

"Are you travelling?" 

You nod. "Not far, but." You wrap your arms around your front to stave off the cool chill of the whipping breeze. James' hair gets pushed into his eyes. "I have a bobble if you want it." 

"I can't do anything with it. It's not long enough for a ponytail, and I can't plait to save my life. I wouldn't know where to start." 

You're glad to be looking at the pavement in front of you rather than his face as you say, "I'd do it for you, but…" 

James' shoe hits a pebble. 

"I know," he says. "We're going down a one way street." 

"Right." Your heart soars, your chest lightens, so glad he understands where you're coming from. "If we keep going on like this there isn't a way to move back if it doesn't work, and I just… don't want to lose you. I can't, James. You're my– you're my only real friend. I like you," you confess, heart pounding in your throat, under your tongue, all the worst places it could stand to be. "I do. And I know you'd still be nice to me if I didn't. Um…" 

You flush with heat, realising what you've admitted, and what he hasn't. 

Like he can read it on your face, James' walking slows, and he turns in to face you.

"I like you, too," he says. "I'm a bit mad for you, actually." 

You'd known that. Hearing it is something else. You hadn't realised how strong the pull would feel after he said it aloud. You look up from his broad chest to meet his eyes, and see the magnetism you feel reflected in his gaze. His hand breeches the gap between your two bodies first, his fingertips and then the flat of his nails smooth as they slide across the top of your thigh. Careful, slow. 

James puts his hand on your waist. 

"You're worried we won't be friends, if we try to make whatever this is," —he smiles gently— "work, and we can't."

"Exactly. I… you're…" 

James takes your upper arm into his free hand. "I promise it will work," he murmurs. He looks at you with a steadiness bordering on stern. "Why are you so sure it won't?" 

"I'm worried," you say. 

"You're always worrying. But…” His hand flexes around your bicep. “You told me before, the reason you keep skating in competitions even though you don't win many anymore, do you remember that? You said you keep trying because the thrill of almost winning is nearly as good as the real thing." 

James' smile turns sheepish. "I'm supposed to say that I don't know if this will work. That the thrill of almost making it together will be worth it if we don't, but I already promised you we will." He leans in a little. You don't think he means to. "And won't that feel better than almost?" 

You look up into his handsome face, feeling your heart reach flat out, might as well be running full tilt speeds of beating. Your breath catches. 

"I don't want to end up alone," you confess on an exhale. 

"You won't. I'll make sure you won't." 

Wind curls his hair into his eyes. 

You reach out, your shaking index finger skirting over his brow bone as you tuck the runaway strand behind his ear. 

His grip grows tighter at your waist. Never cruel, but insistent, desperate almost, in the way that his thumb shudders across your hoodie. You can’t feel his skin over the thick layer of cotton and polyester but you can feel the heat, like a star blistered against your hip bone, like a begging wish. You want him to touch you more than you can stand — you’re pleading with him in your head to do what you can’t do. 

It must show in your eyes, the pained pinch of your brow. 

“We’ll take things slowly,” he says. “We won’t do anything we can’t undo. All you have to do is trust me. If… if you want to.”

You lick your lips. Taking things slowly. You can’t kiss him, can’t trick yourself into the gratification of having someone so darlingly gorgeous put his hands on you. If he kisses you now, you’ll forget all the reasons why this is a bad idea. You won’t be able to test the waters. If you kiss him, you can’t take it back. For either of you. 

James’ hand smooths down the length of your hip as he pulls it back. The other falls toward your hand. Your mourn the loss of his touch, but he’s offering you his hand, his long fingers separated, gaps waiting to be filled. 

“Slowly,” you say, putting your hand in his. 

He gives your joined hands an experimental squeeze. “We’ve all the time in the world.”

James starts walking back the way you came, pulling you with him down the road.

“James, where are we?”

“I told you. We went down a one way street by accident. Or, I tried to tell you, but you started talking.” His smile says he knows exactly what’s happened, the nature of your misunderstanding. “You were distracted.”

You’ve confessed on the basis of a misunderstanding. “This is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me,” you utter.

James swings your hand lightly. 

“And the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says. “Since you’ll be late now anyhow, maybe we could go get a hot chocolate.”

You gawp at his pleased smile. What have I gotten myself into? you think. And then, louder, Wow, he looks so happy. 

—

James strangles the neck of a bulging bouquet in his hands, green stems wrapped in cellophane choked between two stressed palms, ten rigid fingers. The smell of fresh pollen and something sweeter awakens at his abuse, but James can’t make himself put them down. 

You may not care if you win or lose the competition today, but he does. He hasn’t actually ever been with you during one, and he wasn’t supposed to be here today — he had a game, and as soon as it was over he piled into Sirius’ car with his kit on and had his friend break a couple of road rules (read: not laws, but guidelines) involving trampling a garden and a precarious not u-turn. (Sirius may have broken a law or two, but they were daft laws, and James didn’t get anybody hurt.)

He knows it doesn’t matter. He said you’d take it slow, and you are. He hasn’t even kissed you yet, and he doesn’t mind nearly as much as he worried. It’s enough to know you’re his, exclusively if tenuously, that he can find you at the rink or walk you to work and not need a reason anymore, because he wants to see you, and that’s enough. He’d even taken you out on a date, a proper one after the hot chocolate, with nice clothes and wine and champagne at a weirdly intricate restaurant that served foie gras and played classical music in the background. It was cute, and James adored being able to pull out your seat, take your jacket off of your shoulders, kiss your cheek goodnight just a little further in than a friend might. 

You’ve finished the jumps in your program now, and James is relieved and gutted at once. Relieved, because they hadn’t quite scared him so much on TV, and gutted, because you look beautiful every time. It’s insane to see your body twist and turn, land and leap with that level of precision. All that's left for you to do is dance. He likes the way it looks, eyes focused on the pull and fall of your arms, how you smile, and in that last moment, where you pull your body in as tight as you can and spin until James is sure he’d see stars. 

You skate to the centre of the ice and bow to the judges, and you don’t notice James is standing there waiting for you until you’re off the ice completely. 

“Oh,” he sees you say rather than hears. When you’re just close enough to hear, you say, “Jamie, hi. I thought you had your game,” and throw your arms around his shoulders. James is very tall and very wide, and there’s a bouquet of flowers between you, but it’s a great hug.

He hugs you so hard you start to bend backward under his weight, the soft material of your bodysuit so soft it feels wet under his hands. Your face is hot, and you're still trying to catch your breath after your program, quick breaths like small gusts of wind against his neck. He feels your arms tighten incrementally, impossibly, and he closes his eyes for a lavish second of burying his nose in your hair. 

“I played, we lost, it was good fun. Now I’m here to watch my girl win big.”

You laugh and pull away, your eyes shimmering with joy, post-competition adrenaline. “I flubbed my first jump, did you see? I almost hit the ice.”

“You pulled up amazing,” he says. 

He spies your coach (who isn’t so much your coach as a friend, Mel, from the rink who goes with anyone who can get far enough into competitions to need one) with your jacket standing a little ways away. 

“Hey, Mel, could I have that?” James asks.

Mel gives him a knowing look. She hands it over and he shoves the flowers at you without waiting for a reaction, wanting to get you wrapped up warm again as fast as he can. You slide one arm at a time into the sleeves and don’t say a peep when he zips it closed. 

“James,” you say. Your cheek dips a touch toward your shoulder. Fondness lined each seraphim feature. “Sirius is calling you.”

He frowns. He’s been hoping for a little thank you kiss (cheek or chin, whatever you could reach), and Sirius is neither. He turns to where you’re looking at Sirius standing a ways away with some other spectators. 

“You have absolutely no game!” Sirius shouts. “None!”

“What’s your problem?” James shouts back. 

“You’re supposed to kiss her now? You twit!” he shouts, vehement. 

James turns away from him, “God, I’m sorry, he’s such a fucking idiot, he…” 

You’re looking at him. Quiet, face turned up and eyes squinted, eyelashes kissing in the corners, your glossy lips turned up like you want to be kissed. He feels it like a cheesy movie and he doesn’t care, every moment spent with you condensed as his hands come alive and cradle your face of their own accord. 

He isn’t expecting you to lift up on your skates and kiss him first. 

He does get fireworks, thank you very much. James Potter has been waiting to kiss you since the very first time he saw you, on ice, curling out of a tight spin with a deliriously happy laugh. It feels like an explosion, and the crowd cheers behind you for a jump he can’t see and it doesn’t matter, it fits, it makes perfect sense that a whole room of people would be up on their feet as he presses his lips to yours. 

“You looked so pretty,” he tells you, nose sliding against yours as he holds himself back. 

You kiss his bottom lip, another burst of floral scents erupting between you as you try not to slip back on your skate blades. “Thanks, James.”

He smiles into your mouth, melts into your hold, and takes another heart-thrumming kiss. 

You’re runner up in the competition. You’re the only girl who isn’t on the pedestal that gets a bouquet of flowers, and likely the only one who doesn’t care, not one bit. You smile at James like you’ve won the gold on the way out of the centre, your hand latched firmly around his. 

“Sirius.” You stop in the car park, flowers pressed to your chest. James stops beside you with your skate bag swung over his shoulder. “What happened to your car?” you ask. 

Sirius kicks a new dent. “Friendship,” he says grimly. 

James leans toward you, his lips at your ear. “Bender. Best not to ask about it. He’s sensitive.”

“Oh,” you murmur. “Okay.”

He kisses your temple. “Thanks, angel.”

･:*:｡･:*:･ﾟ

thank you so much for reading! please reblog if you enjoyed, it makes such a difference for me <3<3<3<3<3

[nasa-parker]

i could feel myself at the precipice of losing my mind in those tags lmfao

anyways here’s a link to the song i was talking about in them: https://open.spotify.com/track/4zXuYQNDmw3dlauyc8q3Kd?si=dTkTq75-RGqroQXw46fz-A

hi love!!! can i request bestfriend!james x reader where she tells him she’s never been kissed out of love and not just to start a hookup and he kisses her and tells her he loves her

hey! this is the cutest idea ever tysm for requesting my <3<3 i forgot the ily so pls fogive me

It’s a movie that does it. 

James is your best friend. You’d tell him anything without worrying too much about it, even the stuff that isn’t so pretty. 

“That must be nice,” you say under your breath, distracted by the couple on screen. The man is gentle, holding her hand in his as he leans forward. They kiss, passionate but contained, an ebbing and flowing. 

“What is?” he asks, leaning his shoulder towards yours to show he’s listening though his eyes stay glued to the screen. 

“You know, their kiss.”

You don’t know why you said it to begin with, content and always so comfortable with him. Now, you squirm, ashamed at your confession. James doesn’t seem nearly so perturbed. 

“You’ve never kissed someone?” he asks, sounding confused. 

“I mean. Yeah, I have, but…” They kiss again. You turn your face to look at James’ eyes in the dark. “Never- never just to be kissed. I’ve been seduced,” you say, laughing, trying to make light. “I’ve been kissed at the start of…” 

You feel abruptly embarrassed as James turns his face to yours. He’s pensive, reaching for words. “Do you want me to?”

You’re silent. He smiles reassuringly. 

“I’d love to kiss you,” he says warmly, “nothing else. If you’ll let me?”

You don’t realise how much you want it until you’re nodding, a lump of emotion in your throat like glowing coal. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Okay.”

The arm between you moves lightly over your ribs, the other twice as cautious as he raises it to your face. You close your eyes as his thumb ghosts under your eye. 

You don’t know how to be kissed. You sit very still as James moves in, the only indication of his proximity the sighing of his trousers as he moves. 

His lips are hot. It surprises you, the heat, the lack of fireworks. He breathes you in, encourages your face to one side and aligns his lips with a firmer pressure and- oh, you think. There’s the fireworks. Pinhead bursts of heat, dizzying warmth. You smile by accident, find his lips mirror yours. 

“Stop smiling,” he whispers, mock cross. “I can’t kiss you if you’re smiling.”

“Sorry,” you whisper back. 

He strokes your face and moves back in, that ebb and flow of affection you’d yearned for between you so completely unlike the crashing kiss of a hook up. Your chest feels light and your hands itch to be touching him. You’re not sure if it's okay when you reach for him, hesitant. 

The tip of his nose touches the side of yours as he pauses to say, “You’re alright, sweetheart. Here,” he takes your hands in his and situates them on his waist. 

One stays behind, holding your hand. The other returns to your chin, gently pulling your mouth open. The kiss changes, the intensity grows, and you can’t believe how much you like to be kissed. You grow a little more confident, find yourself pushing up into his mouth. 

Even the end of the kiss is nice. He slows, pauses, gives your damp, tingling mouth reluctant pecks like he doesn’t want it to end. His chin just towards his chest as the kiss ceases. You find his eyes are already open, looking at you with an unreadable emotion. 

“Was it as nice as you thought it would be?” he asks. The trace of worry in his tone hurts your heart.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding happily even as overwhelmed tears fight to well in your eyes. 

You blink rapidly and he sees this, hands nudging you forward. He wraps his arms around you, guides your head into his shoulder. You hug him gratefully. It feels nice to be wanted without being wanted. To be kissed with no need for a furthering of touches. James doesn’t want anything from you but you, and it aches. 

“Maybe you'll let me do it again sometime,” he says carefully. 

You smile into his shirt, trying not to sound overeager. “Sometime,” you agree. 

[nasa-parker]

​“…I’D WAIT RIGHT BY THE GATES FOR YOU” ?!!?!.,!,@)(#2#;’

hi! i loved you’re bodyguard james au sm! could i request something super fluffy with bodyguard james, maybe reader getting ready for bed and james doting on her <3

omg yes of course, thank you for your request! some mutual pining with bodyguard!james x fem!reader

"Do you think it's silly, sometimes, that you have to wait outside my door?" you ask James, hip popped against the doorframe, tired and lagging and wanting his attention.

He's thankfully deigned to turn to you, though his position is ramrod straight. "Not really."

"I understand when I'm out of bounds, but... you know, my door locks."

"You know as well as I do a lock won't stop some people."

"How about two locks?"

"Enough," he says. There's so much fondness there that you step forward. James gives you a stern look, which might be intimidating because of his general tall, lean shape if he were anyone else but himself. "Go get ready for bed."

"You can't boss me around," you say, and then turn into your room to get ready for bed anyhow. His laugh follows you.

You leave the door open and James doesn't move to close it. It's nice to have his company, to hear the lightest echo of his breathing. You live in such a quiet house, you'd almost think it was you and James alone.

But you're never alone.

"Jamie?" you ask, shrugging out of your soft cardigan.

He hums rather than answer.

"Do you get tired?" you ask, ducking down to look in the vanity's mirror.

You start to pull the jewellery from your hair one glimmering gem at a time, and then pull off the heavy, elegant chain of your necklace. Both easy enough. It's the bracelet you struggle with; the catch isn't manoeuvrable with only one hand.

"Sometimes. You know somebody swaps with me at one though? I don't stand here all night."

You approach him with a little more shyness than before and offer your wrist. "Can you help?"

His fingers slide over your skin obligingly.

"You work such long shifts. One to one. That's twelve whole hours. Don't you think that's excessive?"

"I'm head of your team. It's my job."

The bracelet unclips. James lowers it into your open palm, where it pools. A snake of tiny gems. You close your fingers around it.

"You don't think it's hurting you, all this working?"

"Pajamas."

You huff and head back into your room, dropping your bracelet into the mirrored tray you keep on your vanity. You'll put it away properly tomorrow in the safe jewellery box, but for tonight it'll live with your clips and chains.

"It doesn't hurt me," James says.

"Do you get all the sleep you need?"

"Eight solid hours."

You know he eats enough. He swaps out sometimes with other people to eat lunch, but usually he just eats it with you when you ask, and you always do. It doesn't exactly fit any professional boundaries.

James is your friend.

Maybe.

You grab some clean underwear and pyjamas and change right there in the middle of your room. James won't peek. If he did you wouldn't care. "You have enough time to yourself?" you ask.

"Interested in my private life?" he asks. You can hear his smile, his suggestive eyebrow raise.

"It's more hours than anyone should work, is all. Maybe you could change to eight."

"Ah, trying to get rid of me," he corrects himself.

You push your arms through the sleeves of a dainty nightgown and laugh. "Absolutely I am."

"Have to try harder than this."

You neaten the skirt and frown at your legs, wondering if they look a little dry, and decide some body lotion won't hurt. "Mandarin or lavender?" you call.

"You said the mandarin one made you itchy, last time."

"But it smells really good."

"That's the lotion eating at your skin."

You wrinkle your nose and bend at the waist to moisturise your legs. You wish you could brag and say it was an erotic, film worthy affair. It's mostly a scrabbling of your palms up and down. You sigh and work it up your thighs until you're soft to touch all over.

"If I weigh it up," he says suddenly, seriously, more serious than you're expecting, "it's less work to take longer shifts with you. I'd rather spend the hours watching you than orchestrating other people to watch you... I quite like looking after you."

He clears his throat. "Not that I look after you," he says.

You pad out into the hallway. James has turned his back to you. His arm tenses almost imperceptibly under your hand as you reach for his elbow.

"You definitely look after me." His skin is smooth. It's so hot under your touch that you can feel it moving up into the heels of your palms.

"It's my job," he says.

You'd thought about kissing his arm. Thought about it. His comment snaps you into reality. A goodnight kiss in any form at all would be inappropriate. He might like his job, but it's still a job.

"Where would you be, if you didn't have to work?" you ask.

"Come and stand in front of me," he says gently.

You do as he says. His eyes follow over your outfit. You let yourself believe his expression softens, though your logical head knows it's not the truth. James might be sweet on you, and he may even know how you feel about him, but that's where it all ends. He doesn't like you. He's paid to be here.

"What are you thinking?" he asks.

"That my socks aren't doing their job. Is it cold in here?"

"What are you really thinking?"

He's very patient with you when it comes to stuff like this. It's confusing, because James has about as much patience as you have subtlety.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I'm okay."

"Well, you look lovely. What an incredibly short nightgown," he praises amorously.

You flush with heat but decide you'll feed into his dramatics rather than tell him what's really wrong with you, stepping back to do a clumsy spin. "Picked it with you in mind, handsome."

"Yeah? Anything else?"

You gasp. "You overstep your station, good sir."

"I can't be blamed. You always look your softest before bed."

Your breath catches. You stop your flaunting and flouncing abruptly to look into his warm face. He looks to you, letting his arms fall from their crossed position to either side of his defined chest. Your eyes flit between his beauty mark. One to the left of his hawk-shaped nose, one below his lashes, three down his left cheek.

It's weird to want someone and have them this close, and know you will probably never, ever have them.

"If I didn't have to work," James says, face as impassive as his stance, a closed book. "I'll show you."

He holds out his hand. You don't take it. He thrusts it forward again.

When you finally give James your own, he spends a moment rubbing the back of it with his thumb like he's never felt it before.

He leads you into your room. He's been in here before, of course, but still, it's a lot to be led. You don't have a clue what he's doing, you think Oh, he's taking me to bed. But he skirts around it and brings you to the first window, pulling the curtains to one side.

He points. "See there?"

You follow his finger. "The gates?"

"The gates."

"James, I don't understand."

"That's where I'd be, if I didn't have to work. They probably wouldn't let me in, but I'd wait right there by the gates for you."

"That's not funny," you murmur.

"I'm not joking."

You grow very still. James drops his hand into the curve of your neck and follows it over the slope of your shoulder. It's affectionate, sweet, and very, very soothing.

His lips touch the side of your head, though it might be accidental. You're tired enough to imagine he's kissed you. "Brush your teeth, shortcake. And then bed. You have a long day tomorrow."

"Oh, don't remind me," you mumble.

"Okay, I won't."

He squeezes your shoulder one last time, clears his throat, and returns to his post. You brush your teeth and try not to sneak glances at the back of his head through the gap of the ensuite door.