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Ahhh I completely forgot that this came out when I was too busy to read and I’ve only just come back to it but oh my god!!! The way you can feel the tension between them and how seamlessly that in-scene chemistry flows into a natural (almost innate?) connection?? I’m so sat
First Take: Chapter 1 - masterlist
Chapter Word Count: 4.3k words.
Chapter Summary: You're twenty, in London, waiting outside a casting room with your cane and a body that doesn't always cooperate. The audition matters—but something about the room, the moment, and the quiet presence beside you shifts everything. What begins as a simple scene reading starts to feel like something more. Something you didn't expect. Maybe even something you'll carry with you long after the door closes.
Tags: disabled!reader, depictions of chronic pain, use of cane, no use of y/n, fem!reader, meet cute, no established relationship yet, slow unfurling connection, hurt/comfort but barely, london casting au, actor!reader, actor!remus, quiet kind of intimacy, invisible disability, reader masking pain, reader is tired but resilient, flirting via script delivery, intense eye contact as communication, shared silences as dialogue, just a hint of something more, maybe it's nothing maybe it's everything
You wait outside the casting room in London, balancing on your cane, its familiar curve molded to your palm, trying to ignore the sharp throb deep in your knees—the grinding reminder that every step costs you something. The corridor is narrow and sterile, its white walls too bright beneath flickering overhead lights, humming faintly like a warning. You shift your weight, slowly, carefully, every movement measured so you don't aggravate the pain further. Your cane presses against the tiled floor with a soft tap, rhythmic, grounding—its familiar weight a lifeline in moments like this. It's more than support. It's part of your choreography, your constant companion.
You're twenty. Young, at least by most measures, but already too familiar with discomfort and exhaustion. Your body has long been teaching you a language of quiet endurance, one that demands patience, grace, and the ability to smile through clenched teeth. It's a strange intimacy, this constant negotiation with your joints—like a reluctant dance partner who refuses to follow the steps.
But this moment feels heavier. The ache isn't just physical—it's the weight of expectation, hope, and vulnerability, all settled in your bones like storm clouds. You can't tell where the tension ends and the pain begins. They've become indistinguishable, twisted up in the tight line of your shoulders, the clench of your jaw. You shift from foot to foot, willing yourself to stay calm, but the nerves and the ache keep tangling, feeding off each other until you're not sure which is worse.
Your palms are slightly damp. You wipe one discreetly on the side of your trousers, but you can't wipe the other. The cane remains steady at your side, a silent witness to your anxiety, the quiet testament to years of learning how to walk without showing the effort it takes. It gleams slightly under the artificial lighting, worn smooth by use, dependable.
A wall clock ticks. You glance at it, then away again. Time isn't moving fast enough. Or maybe it's moving too quickly—you're not sure anymore. Everything feels suspended. As if the universe is holding its breath, waiting to see if you'll break.
You're not going to break. Not here.
When the casting assistant finally glances your way, her gaze lands just a beat too long on the cane—hesitation flickering in her eyes—before it jerks up to your face. You've learned to clock that flicker: a silent calculus of pity, discomfort, curiosity. Sometimes all three. But you're practiced now. You mask the strain with a half-smile, warm and disarming.
"Thanks for waiting," she says, voice clipped and perfunctory, already turning away.
You nod, even though she doesn't see it. "Of course."
You're here to work, after all. To show them what you can do. Even if your joints feel like they're carved from fire. Even if your whole body is a quiet rebellion. You straighten your spine despite the protest it gives, breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Deep, slow. Steady.
You whisper to yourself, barely audible: "Just breathe."
The walls smell faintly of paint and something metallic, like a radiator that's been left on too long. You catch sight of your reflection in the glass of a framed poster—a blurry outline. Upright. Determined. Tired.
Your fingers curl tighter around the cane. You imagine, for a moment, what it would be like if it wasn't there. If you could pace the hallway like other actors do, loose-limbed and full of the kind of jittery confidence you've only ever pretended to have. But that's not your reality. Never has been.
Still, you're here. And that counts for something.
You shift your stance again, this time slower, more mindful, and draw in another breath. The ache is constant now, a dull roar beneath your skin—like a fire that never fully goes out, only shifts from flame to ember depending on the hour. But you let it be. It's not going anywhere, and neither are you.
You let your eyes drift closed for a breath, trying to coax your nerves into something quieter, but the hush around you only sharpens the ache in your knees. Somewhere behind your lids, you feel movement—a disturbance in the stillness, like the faint ripple that precedes a storm.
When you look again, you catch a figure stepping into the corridor.
Remus Lupin.
The name you've heard before—murmured in drama school halls, printed on small posters for indie films, mentioned in passing like a secret passed between those who know—but not like this. Not attached to a real man with a crooked smile and an unassuming presence that somehow commands the room the moment he enters it. He isn't loud. He doesn't need to be. There's something about him—loose-limbed and quiet, hair a little tousled like he forgot to check the mirror, jumper soft and slightly frayed at the sleeves—that makes everything else feel staged in comparison. He carries himself like someone who doesn't realise people are watching him, which only makes it harder to look away. There's a hum to him, like the energy in the air just before rain.
You don't realise you've been holding your breath until he catches your eye. Just a glance. Nothing momentous. But there's a warmth in it, like he's seeing you not as an obstacle or a box to be ticked but as a person. Entire. Present. And the strangest part is—he holds the eye contact. Not out of challenge or bravado, but curiosity. A moment that lasts longer than it should and still doesn't feel long enough. Something in your chest tightens and expands all at once.
The casting assistant—who's returned, clipboard in hand and voice a touch more alert than before—gives a crisp nod to both of you.
"You can go in."
Remus reaches for the door before you do. Holds it open like it's instinct, like it's nothing at all. Not overdone, not performative. Just… natural. He doesn't flinch at the cane. Doesn't stare at it. Doesn't ignore it either. It's as if he registers it the same way one registers the colour of someone's eyes—there, a fact, not a definition. You register the shift in your body then: the relief, the way your shoulders drop half an inch, the flicker of gratitude that you don't have to pretend your pain is invisible. That he hasn't made it a spectacle.
"After you," he says.
His voice is softer than you expected. A little rough around the edges, like he's only just woken up and hasn't quite decided how loud he wants to be today. There's an unpolished honesty in the way he speaks—something that makes your chest ache, even though you don't know him. Not really. But you want to. You want to know the voice behind that voice.
You murmur a quick "thanks," keeping your smile neutral but polite, heart hammering in a way that has little to do with the audition anymore. As you pass him, his hand brushes yours—barely. A blink of contact. It could be passed off as nothing. Could be forgotten entirely. But something about it lingers, like static. Like it woke something dormant in you.
Still, something electric blooms under your skin. Quick, quiet, unmistakable. The kind of thing you feel before you can explain it. The kind of thing that makes you hold your breath a second longer than you should. And it's ridiculous. It's just a moment. It doesn't mean anything. But somehow, it feels like it might.
You try to dismiss it. Just the audition. Just adrenaline. Nerves and lights and too many eyes and too much hope. Your brain clings to the rationale, the explanation, but your body keeps the feeling like a secret it won't share. You tighten your grip on the cane, grounding yourself in the familiar weight of it, letting the cold handle cool the heat in your palm. The ache in your knees pulses, dull but steady, like a drumbeat reminding you of the stakes.
The room is bigger than you expected, starkly lit and mostly empty. A folding table near the back holds water bottles, highlighters, marked-up scripts. One of the producers sits off to the side, half-focused, glasses perched on the end of his nose. The casting director offers a tight smile and waves you both toward the centre. There's a camera on a tripod pointed at the reading area. You ignore it. You have to. If you start thinking about the camera, about who's behind it, who will watch the footage later, you'll unravel.
Remus stands beside you, script in hand. You haven't even looked at yours yet. You don't need to. The lines are embedded in your memory like the lyrics of a song you've loved since childhood. Your thumb presses into the paper, the texture grounding you as your eyes flick to his once more. He's scanning the first page, mouth moving slightly as he internalises his cues. There's a stillness about him. A kind of calm that doesn't beg for attention, it simply is.
Vacation romance. First meeting. Sun-drenched serendipity.
Your character's just dropped a suitcase on her foot. His character's trying not to laugh. The director nods, gives you a simple cue.
"Whenever you're ready."
Remus glances at you, eyebrows raised. "Shall we?"
You nod, shoulders easing slightly, the tension dissolving just enough for the scene to bloom. The script might be fiction, but something about it—about him—feels vividly real. Your heart thumps a beat too loud, but your voice comes out steady. You find the rhythm between you as easily as slipping into a warm pool.
He starts.
"So, uh… that sounded painful. You alright?"
There's a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, but his tone is gentle, teasing without malice. The warmth in his delivery throws you for a moment—it's like he's speaking to you, not just the character. You respond, almost without thinking, the words tumbling out in rhythm with your breath.
"Only hurt my pride. And my middle toe."
The room disappears. Or maybe it just fades. The pain in your knees dulls to background static, not gone but softened—like someone turned the volume down instead of switching it off. The overhead lights blur into nothing. There's only the low hum of energy between you and him, this script you've read a dozen times suddenly unfolding like it's never been spoken aloud before. You lean into it, surprised by how easily the words come, how they settle into the space between you like they've always belonged there. Like you're not performing—you're remembering.
He steps closer—not too close, but enough to draw your gaze back to his eyes, which are softer now. Intent. Listening. Like he's genuinely waiting to hear what you'll say next. He tilts his head slightly, and you find yourself mirroring the movement without meaning to.
"Want me to carry that?"
Your line's already coming out before you remember it's written.
"And risk owing a favour to a stranger who laughed at my clumsiness? Tempting."
You catch it—the flicker of something unscripted. The way his eyes narrow just slightly, amused. A heartbeat too long of silence, then he recovers with the next line. But something's shifted. The air feels charged, the scene alive. You're aware of every inch of your body, not with pain now, but with presence. With awareness. With possibility.
You toss him a look that's half challenge, half flirtation, and you don't even know where it came from. It isn't in the script. Not in the stage directions. But it fits. It lands. He responds with a lift of one eyebrow and the barest twitch of a smirk, as if to say, "Alright then. Game on."
There's something happening here. Something that doesn't feel like acting.
You don't look at the director. Don't look at the assistant. Don't even glance down at your pages. You just look at him. You breathe with him. There's a gravity pulling the two of you into the same space, and you don't resist.
The directors watch the chemistry flare, their exchanged glances sharp, eyebrows raised in subtle surprise—like they're witnessing something they hadn't dared hope for. A flicker of disbelief, maybe, or awe. They shift in their seats but say nothing, mouths closed, hands still. They don't call cut. They don't interject. Because something is happening. Something rare. And they know better than to get in its way. Whatever spark they'd been hunting for is right here, catching flame before their eyes.
But you're barely aware of them.
Because in that moment, the room narrows to just you and Remus. The walls dissolve, the fluorescent lights blur into a haze, the clipboard-wielding assistant by the table becomes as silent as the shadows in the corners. You hear your own breath—soft, shallow. The faint rustle of script pages shifting under Remus's fingers. The quiet scrape of his trainers against the linoleum as he adjusts his stance. The world contracts until all that remains is the space between you.
And in that space, something hums.
The dialogue becomes secondary. A scaffold for what's really happening beneath: the charged silences, the subtle shifts in breath, the magnetic pull each time your eyes lock. There's a gravity there, one you can't fight and don't want to. There's weight in the space between the lines—more than what's written, more than what was rehearsed. A pause becomes a question. A glance becomes a confession. The scene stretches out, thick with things unsaid but deeply felt.
Remus listens like every word you say matters. Not performatively. Not in the way actors are trained to look engaged. But with an open, unguarded focus that sends a chill up your spine. He's not waiting for his turn to speak. He's holding space for you. Receiving what you give him and offering something back. It feels like balance. It feels like being heard. It feels like being known, even in this strange, constructed moment.
There's an unexpected ease in the way you mirror each other. Your cadence finds his naturally, syllables aligning in a gentle, unforced rhythm. Your bodies move in tandem—small, instinctive shifts that reflect shared beats of understanding. He leans slightly forward; you echo the gesture without thinking. He softens his tone; your reply follows suit. It's not mimicry. It's harmony. The kind that can't be manufactured.
His gaze never wavers. It settles on you like the weight of a warm hand, like sunlight filtered through leaves. Not heavy. Not invasive. Just present. And for the first time in a long time, you don't feel like you're being watched. You feel seen.
It's intoxicating, this unspoken rhythm that emerges so effortlessly. Like music, but older. Deeper. Something ancient in the way you speak to one another, like a duet you've somehow always known. You don't think about what's next. You don't need to. It arrives when it's meant to, born from the moment itself. You feel it in the way his brow furrows when your character says she doesn't trust easily, in the way his lips part—just slightly—before he responds, like he's afraid of saying too much and not enough all at once.
You're not acting anymore. Not really.
You're reacting.
Living inside the scene as if it were real life. As if this room were a warm summer evening by the sea, your character's suitcase at your feet, sand still clinging to the soles of your shoes. As if the ache in your joints were from dancing too long rather than standing too still. As if the strangers watching were simply ghosts drifting along the periphery, insignificant to what's unfolding between you.
There's no tension anymore—not the bad kind. Just heat. Possibility. A slow current running beneath your skin, drawing you forward. Every word you say is a thread, and together you're weaving something fragile and beautiful and new.
With every passing second, something grows between you. Not just chemistry. That word feels too small now, too clinical. It's something else. A thread pulled taut between your ribs and his, vibrating at the same impossible frequency. A sense of recognition. As if you've found someone who already speaks your language, even the unspoken parts. As if you've always known him, in some other life. Or maybe in this one, only you hadn't met him yet.
You don't know what to do with it.
You don't have to. Not right now.
Because the scene continues, and so do you. Your lines are simpler now—introductions, the beginnings of banter. But they ring with something deeper. They vibrate with the pulse of something beginning. The words are light, almost casual, but you speak them like secrets, like soft invitations to step closer. Your character tells him her name, and though it's only one word, it feels like a gift passed across a fragile bridge.
"Amelia."
You say it gently, letting it settle in the air between you.
He repeats it.
"Amelia," he says, and your breath stills.
It's not the name itself. It's the way he says it. Slow, reverent. Like it's already lived in his mouth before. Like he's felt it on his tongue in another lifetime. And even though it isn't your name—just the name on the page—it hits something vulnerable inside you.
And something in you shatters.
Not from pain. Not from fear. But from the quiet, seismic recognition in his voice. Like he means it. Not as a line. As a truth. As though he's reaching out with that single word and anchoring you to something more than this room, this moment, this scene. Like he's speaking to something real inside you, something you hadn't realised was listening.
Your breath catches. Your throat tightens. There's a burn behind your eyes that you're not prepared for. Because it's not about Amelia, not entirely. It's not even about the script. It's about you. And him. And the way something unnamed has curled between your ribs and made itself at home. A warmth, a pressure, a pulse you can't ignore.
You hold his gaze a moment longer. Not because you have to, but because you can't not. You wonder if he's feeling it too—the overlap between fiction and truth. The thread between you that's grown stronger with each word spoken, each glance held.
You don't break character. You don't have to. Because you're already inside it, breathing it, becoming it. And whatever's building between you—it's alive. It's real. It's burning softly, steadily, waiting for what comes next.
You feel the moment stretch to its natural conclusion—an almost inaudible click inside you, like a latch releasing. One of the producers clears his throat, and the hush that follows is threaded through with something fragile. You don't want to let it go, not yet.
But you have to.
And when you do, your body reminds you of its limits.
The pain returns with startling clarity—the sharp pulse in your knees swelling to something almost molten, the hot twist in your lower back, the burn in your fingers where they've clenched the script too tightly for too long. Your grip on the cane tightens reflexively, bracing yourself against the sudden heaviness in your limbs. The adrenaline that had carried you—weightless, floating—drains all at once, and you feel the full gravity of your body again. Every step aches. Muscles you'd forgotten begin to clench, fatigue seeping into the hollows of your bones. But your chest is light. Ridiculously light, like it might float off your ribcage altogether.
You limp back into the hallway slowly, every muscle negotiating its own small rebellion. The performance didn't end when the scene cut—your body's still on stage, absorbing the cost. The corridor smells the same—sanitised, too cold—but somehow it feels changed, like something's shifted beneath its surface. The light overhead still flickers. The posters on the wall are still faded and slightly peeling. But to you, the entire space hums with aftershock. The weight of what just happened still clings to your skin like the trace of a touch. You feel impossibly full and impossibly emptied all at once.
The casting assistant is waiting, one hand already on the door. She catches sight of you and opens it without fanfare, as if she's seen this kind of exit a hundred times. But her eyes linger—not out of pity, but curiosity. She must've felt it too, in the air. That something unnameable. That subtle ripple of connection.
You nod your thanks, managing a smile despite the fatigue biting at your bones. The ache is worse now—real and undeniable—but it feels almost distant, dulled by the strange high curling through your veins. You lean slightly on your cane and exhale slowly, trying to ground yourself.
Then, footsteps behind you. Quick but not rushed. Measured. Intentional.
And a voice.
"You were brilliant in there."
You stop.
Turn.
Remus stands just a few paces away, his expression soft, open in a way that steals your breath more effectively than any line he delivered inside the audition room. His voice is low—not hushed, exactly, but intimate, like he's saying it just for you. Not because it's the polite thing to say. Not because it's expected.
Because he means it.
There's no show in his eyes. No inflated praise. Just quiet sincerity, steady and unwavering. Something warm flickers behind his gaze—something that looks startlingly like familiarity.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. Your throat's too tight. Your chest's still full of something you haven't named. You feel that same strange energy from before, blooming fresh like spring between you.
"Thank you," you say eventually, quiet, the words almost lost in the hush of the corridor.
He holds your gaze, steady and easy, like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like looking at you isn't effort, or performance. Like he's still seeing you—not the character, not the actor—but you. And somehow, that doesn't scare you. It settles something in you that's usually restless.
In that pause, something stretches between you—thick with unsaid things, with recognition, with a promise not yet made. A pause that doesn't need filling.
Remus takes a step forward, his hand lifting—not hesitant, not bold. Just sure. Measured. Intentional. He rests it lightly on your arm, the pressure barely there, but grounding. Present. His fingers curl gently, warm through the fabric of your sleeve, and you realise you haven't taken a full breath since he started walking toward you.
"Hope we get to work together," he adds, and it's not small talk. It's not filler.
It's hope. A small, glowing thing passed between you like a flame cupped between hands.
You nod, pulse thrumming under your skin. "Yeah. Me too."
And you do. So much more than you expected.
It should be a moment like any other—two actors sharing pleasantries after an audition. Nothing extraordinary. But it's not. The air feels different here, denser somehow. Like the world has leaned in closer to listen. Like the corridor itself has drawn still in reverence.
There's a stillness to it. A gravity. And an ache that isn't entirely physical.
He doesn't linger, doesn't overstay the beat. Just lets his fingers slip away from your sleeve, the absence of his touch as loud as the contact had been. And the place he touched—your arm, just above the elbow—burns with something dangerously close to hope. That wild, reckless thing you thought you'd long since buried. It pulses there now, fragile and persistent.
You stand there a moment longer, watching him retreat down the corridor, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly down as if replaying the moment just as you are. His walk is unhurried. He looks like someone who's just stumbled into something they didn't expect but aren't quite ready to let go of.
He doesn't look back, and he doesn't need to. The certainty of that sits with you as you stand there, unmoving for a moment longer. The ache in your body returns with sharper edges now—more demanding than before—but you don't resent it. If anything, you welcome the sensation. It feels like a souvenir, a quiet reminder etched into your limbs that something real unfolded in that room. Not just a scene. Not just a performance. But a collision of two people caught off guard by something neither had expected.
You begin to walk again, slowly, each step deliberate, cautious. The corridor is unchanged—clinical, humming under cheap lighting—but everything inside you is different. You carry it in your bones, in the pulse of your fingers wrapped around your cane, in the echo of his voice still lingering in your ears. Whatever it was—whatever passed between you and Remus—it wasn't ordinary.
You don't know what's just started. There are no words for it yet, no shape you can fully make out. It's too soon, too fragile to define. But it's there, unmistakable, curling in your chest like the start of something quietly powerful. You can feel it rewriting you already in subtle, tender strokes—reshaping the contours of your day, your mood, your hope.
And whatever comes next, you know this moment won't fade. You'll carry it with you, tucked under your skin like a secret. A spark you can return to. A memory so specific it becomes a touchstone.
Part of you already understands—it isn't the end.
It's the first page.
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Hey! 👋🏼 Ty for taking the time to write such eloquent and inspiring fluffy works for us!
I'm a writer as well, and what I've read of yours (most of your marauders in the last 2 days 🫣) has scratched an itch I've had for inspiration! This is greatly appreciated!
I was wondering if you'd mind writing something for Gn!reader and poly!Wolfstar where one of them aren't well (a cold or flu perhaps?) and reader cares for them, convinced they won't catch whatever the other has. But, it inevitably happens anyway and then they're all miserable and help each other through it? Muggle AU or whatever you're comfortable with. :)
If not, no worries! I just love your writing style and it's refreshing!
Have a fantastic day!
Thanks for your request babe <33
poly!wolfstar x gn!reader ♡ 711 words
“Rem.” You kiss your boyfriend’s temple, trying to wake him gently. “Remus.”
He hums, a tired, croaky sound. His face turns further into the pillow.
“Sorry, lovely. Your soup’s going to get cold.”
Remus cracks an eyelid. “Oi,” he grunts. “Get away.”
You let out a breathy laugh, sitting up. “Gosh, you’re so sweet when you’re sick. Aren’t I lucky?”
“You’re going to be sick too if you’re not careful,” he says, though he scoots into an upright position against the pillows of the bed once he sees the soup you’ve made him sitting on the nightstand. You pass it to him. “Thank you, love.”
“Don’t mention it.” You lift your hand, brushing some hair aside to feel his forehead. “How’s your throat?”
As if reminded to do so, Remus makes a gravelly throat-clearing noise before blowing on a spoonful of soup. “Better, I think.”
You make a pitying sound, stroking your thumb over his temple.
There’s a tsk from behind. You turn to find Sirius carrying in a cup of tea. He levels you with a reproachful look.
“You’re begging to get sick.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not.”
“S’what I told them,” says Remus.
“I never catch the flu,” you defend yourself.
“Just…” Sirius sets Remus’ tea down on the nightstand, taking you by the hips to pull you a few inches down the bed. “Let’s keep some distance from patient zero here. Not that I don’t love you,” he says to Remus with a saccharine smile, “because I do, but I don’t need to miss my work party on Friday because this one felt cuddle deprived.”
“Totally understand.” Remus slurps his soup.
You frown. “It’s not as completely selfish as you make it sound. If I wanted cuddles, I could just get them from—” You’re cut off when a bit of phlegm gets caught in your throat. You clear it hastily. “From you.”
Sirius’ eyebrows have inched upwards. “No, I don’t think you could. You’re catching it already.”
“I am not,” you say, but you can’t help coughing a couple of times. “Sorry, there’s just something stuck in my throat.”
Remus groans. Sirius pins you with a glare.
“Get in the bed.”
Unfortunately, despite Sirius’ best efforts, Friday morning finds all three of you sniffling and foggy-headed, each too warm to tell if the others have a fever.
“Two blankets is plenty,” Remus reasons with Sirius.
“I’m freezing.”
“I’m sweltering.”
“I’m going to make tea.” You haul yourself upright, dragging one of Sirius’ three requested blankets with you like a cape.
“Oh.” Remus sounds hesitant. “I’m sorry, lovely, I ran us out of honey last night. I’ll go to the co-op.”
You try not to let your shoulders slump too obviously with disappointment. Or to curl up on the floor, or to start crying, or any of the things you’d really like to do.
“That’s alright,” you say. “I can just dissolve a cough drop in it. It’ll work the same.”
Sirius whines. “Baby, that sounds pathetic.”
“I’ll only be a few minutes.” Remus starts to rise. “We need more tissues anyway.”
“No,” you and Sirius say at the same time.
“The last time we let you go on an errand,” says Sirius, “we found you nearly passed out in the lift.”
Remus’ already flushed cheeks turn a deeper pink. “I did have all the groceries, though.”
“I’m calling James,” you announce.
“No,” Sirius and Remus chorus.
“Why not?”
“Lily said if we got him sick, she was going to take Harry to her parents’ and leave us to take care of him.”
“James invented the man cold,” Remus tells you, sniffling. “It would be awful.”
“Fine, then I’ll go to the store.”
“No, come here.” Sirius reaches for you, wrestling you back down onto the bed. His warm cheek presses to your clammy forehead. “I’ll do it, I’ll call James. We’ll just tell him to leave the stuff outside the door.”
“You know he’s going to want to come in,” says Remus, though he reclines against the pillows again with a relieved sigh.
“Yes, well.” Sirius sets his lips to your temple. “Better to risk a whiny James than one of you keeling over on the sidewalk, I suppose.”
“I did not keel over.”
“Hush, darling. You’re growing delirious.”
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omg as a diabetic i've not really seen many fics about this but your fic was lovely!!! what about a diabetic read with the marauders )any ship or person) where they had a slightly nasty argument and she's not feeling well (sugar levels or whatever u decide) and she doesn't tell them because of the fight and comfort with sprinkles of angst ensue? it was just a thought, if you're up for it! <3
Thank you lovely <3
cw: reader has diabetes, dizziness/lightheadedness, brief mention of blood, for anyone unfamiliar with diabetes the “meter” here refers to a blood glucose meter which reports blood sugar levels
poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1.7k words
You seem to have inadvertently laid claim to the sitting room. Sirius stalked off into the kitchen and hasn’t come back, and Remus is down the hall avoiding the pair of you, as he’s taken to doing whenever you and Sirius argue. He might come talk sense into you if it were really serious, but Remus has had his own share of domestic squabbles with both of you; he leaves you to sort this one out by yourselves.
A few minutes ago, through the smog of your anger, you recognized a feeling of wrongness. The timing is uncanny. Sirius had only just gone into the kitchen when you realized you needed to be there yourself. Now, even if you could brave the iciness of your boyfriend’s rancor, you don’t think you could stand to get what you need in front of him.
The second you reach for one of your glucose-boosting shakes, Sirius will know your blood sugar is low, and then you’ll be a victim to him.
Or not a victim, necessarily, but someone in need of care. Someone he has to look after, and who he can’t be angry at, and that’s not fair to him. It’s not fair to you. Even if you do want to stop fighting, you don’t want to win that way.
But a few more minutes of doing nothing and you aren’t sure you’ll be able to stand properly from this couch.
Remus peeks into the living room. Finding only you, he comes over.
“Okay?” he asks quietly, sitting beside you. He means your argument; Remus is perceptive, but he’s not that good.
“Yeah.” You loose a breath. “He’s so stubborn.”
“So are you,” he says, not without fondness.
“But I’m right.”
Remus hums and kisses the side of your head. You try not to melt too obviously; your head is starting to ache from the drop in blood sugar, and you really are beginning to feel somewhat pitiful. “If I tell you something,” he murmurs, “you have to keep it a secret.”
You look at him, intrigued. “What?”
Remus’ lips give a slight tug. “I agree with you.”
You grin, smug and extremely vindicated. Remus holds up a hand.
“But,” he goes on, “I think you should apologize to him.”
Just like that, your smile dissipates. Your headache feels like it’s getting worse. “Why?”
The look Remus gives you is kind, but tinged with bemusement. “You were harsh with him, sweetheart. I understand being upset, but you didn’t need to lay into him the way you did. It was only a small thing.” He lowers his voice. “I think he might not have dug his heels in quite so much if you’d only asked him nicely.”
You frown, guilt and irritation warring within you. “He’s always stubborn. It doesn’t matter what I say.”
“It matters,” says Remus. “Listen, I can’t know for sure, but I think if you apologized to him, he’d apologize back. And maybe then you could find an agreement about the whole thing.”
You sigh, letting your weight sag into Remus’ side. Your hands are starting to tremble in your lap. “I’d rather just tell him you think I’m right,” you say.
You hear the smile in Remus’ voice as he kisses your head again. “I know.”
You manage to stand without teetering. Remus waits in the sitting room while you go to the kitchen, where you find your boyfriend eating frosting broodily out of a tin. He spares you hardly a glance as you come in, sucking his spoon clean.
“I didn’t mean to be harsh,” you say softly.
Sirius scoffs. “Didn’t stop you.”
“I didn’t realize I was being so harsh,” you amend. Even as you do, it’s hard to keep the bite from your tone. You know that you’re particularly irritable when your blood sugar is low; however, knowing that doesn’t actually make you feel any less irritated. “I’m sorry.”
Sirius shakes his head. He’s still looking at the cabinets rather than at you. “Just because I don’t do things the way you want me to doesn’t make me completely incompetent.”
This apology might take longer than you bargained for. You set a hand on the counter as a wave of dizziness passes over you. Maybe you can drink your shake while apologizing? But Sirius is standing between you and the fridge.
“I wasn’t trying to call you incompetent,” you say through the fog that’s descending over your consciousness.
“That’s sure what it sounded like,” Sirius bites out.
“Well, I don’t think you are. I just…I think I’m in a mood, and I’m saying things I don’t mean. I’m sorry.”
It’s a rare enough admittance from you that Sirius looks over. One of his dark brows is half quirked, intrigue palpable.
“Really?” he asks.
“Really.” It feels like a weight off your shoulders; you think you physically slump. “I still think I’m right, but I shouldn’t have been so mean. Not,” you add, unable to help yourself, “that you were very nice to me either. But I started it.”
A corner of Sirius’ mouth kicks up. “You did start it,” he agrees, softening. “I’m sorry, too. For not being very nice.”
“It’s okay.” You try to smile back at him, eyeing the fridge. “Um, could I…I need the fridge.”
He laughs, stepping aside. “Awe, that’s my darling girl. She’s feigned an apology because she’s hungry for lunch.”
“Ha ha,” you reply drolly.
As you step around him, Sirius palms the back of your neck, pulling you in for a brief kiss. You wish you could appreciate it better. You’re starting to feel rather unsteady, your lips tingling without the warmth.
“Hey,” he says.
You open the fridge, pushing condiments aside and reaching towards the back. Sirius sets a hand to your lower back.
“Baby. You’re sweating.”
“I’m okay,” you tell him, closing the fridge. You see him register the bottle in your hand, and you try to affect an expression of insouciance as you screw off the cap. “Just a little low.”
“You’re low? For how long?” Sirius is gripping you with both hands now, one on your waist and the other at your elbow. He seems afraid you’ll keel over; you wish it were a less founded fear. “What’s your blood sugar at?”
“Not sure,” you admit quietly. Your meter is in here, too, just behind where Sirius is standing. You sip your shake, nearly draining the small bottle. “It doesn’t matter, I’ll be good soon.”
“Sweetheart.” Sirius’ brows bend, worry and bafflement warring in his expression. “Why didn’t you say?”
“Because it’s fine.” You shrug, avoiding his eyes. “I didn’t want us to stop fighting just because of that. You were angry with me for valid reasons.”
“I’m still angry with you,” he says, making you look at him in surprise, “but now for completely different reasons. What were you thinking?”
His raised voice attracts Remus, come now to keep the peace.
“It wasn’t a big problem,” you try to reassure Sirius. “I had it handled.”
“Staying away from what you need just because I’m upset is not handling it, baby.”
“What’s going on?” Remus asks, looking between the two of you bemusedly. It’s not like Sirius to use sweet names when he’s angry, or like you to be so defensive after you’ve agreed to patch things up. “Have you managed to start another row already?”
“Her blood sugar is low, and she wasn’t going to do anything about it because she thought I was angry with her,” Sirius tells him.
“You were angry with me,” you say.
Remus looks at you, his eyes skimming you over quickly. “How low?” he asks.
Sirius crosses his arms. “She doesn’t know.”
You let out a breath, starting to feel teary. Another argument, on top of your headache and dizziness and the general weariness of your physical form at the moment, is too much.
“It doesn’t matter,” you say. “I knew I was low, I was already handling it.”
“Of course it matters, lovely,” Remus replies, disappointment permeating the usual kindness in his tone.
He finds your meter behind Sirius, opening your small kit and putting in a new test strip before taking out the lancet. You let him prick your finger, throwing your empty shake bottle in the trash. Your meter beeps when it gets the reading.
“Oh,” Remus sighs. “Alright. That’ll come up now you’ve had your drink.”
“I know it will,” you mutter.
“Hey.” Sirius all but traps you in a hug, his arms pushing underneath yours and squeezing you harshly. “Don’t do that. Okay? Please.”
You feel yourself soften. One of your hands comes up to stroke the ends of his hair where it falls between his shoulder blades. “You don’t need to worry,” you say.
“Oh, piss off. Try and stop me.”
“I saw you shaking,” Remus admits, his voice soft. You look at him, surprised, but he meets your guilty expression with a half smile. “I only thought it was because you were upset. It’s an odd thing to keep secret from us, isn’t it?”
“I wasn’t keeping it a secret.” You tuck your chin into Sirius’ shoulder. He gives your back a couple of firm rubs before pulling away. “I just didn’t want you to feel like…like you needed to look after me.”
“Too bad,” Sirius says, stubbornly. “We’re going to look after you anyways. Shocked you wouldn’t know that already.”
Remus smiles. He sets a hand to your back, soothing it back and forth between your shoulder blades. “He’s right,” he says. “No matter who’s upset, please don’t hide these things from us. It’s important that we know.”
“Okay,” you mumble, chastised. “Sorry.”
Sirius raises his eyebrows. “Two apologies in one afternoon. Christ, you really must be feeling poorly.”
Remus chuckles. “Should we sit for a while? Give you time to come up.”
“Sure.” That sounds amazing, actually. Even with the glucose working its way into your system, you’re still finding it difficult to stay on your feet. You start back towards the sitting room. “Thanks.”
“Oh, my poor baby.” Sirius wraps his arms around you from behind, forcing you to take small steps to accommodate him. “You’re still shaking, sweet girl.”
“This,” you say, “is exactly what I didn’t want.”
Sirius laughs. He lets you go so you can sit before flopping down beside you, planting a kiss on your cheek. “Maybe next time,” he suggests, “you can be honest with us from the beginning, and I’ll let you be a bit choosier about what reaction you get.”
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hi mae!!! i absolutely love your writing and am evidently irrevocably in love with wolfstar. i just got my wisdom teeth taken out, and i know you already wrote something for poly!marauders with that, but could i request something for poly!wolfstar taking care of reader a few days after? so less loopy and more pain with lots of fluff and cuddles! feel free to ignore, love you darling!
Thanks for requesting lovely! Hope you feel better soon <3
cw: allusion to chronic pain
poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 627 words
“Hello,” Sirius says when the front door shushes open. He starts to fold over the page of his magazine. He hardly catches a bit of motion from the corner of his eye before you’re flopping down on top of him, forcing a soft oof from his sternum. “Oh, hello. Everything okay?”
You make a tortured groaning sound, forehead pushing into his neck.
“You’re alright, sweetheart.” Remus passes a loving hand over Sirius’ head in greeting, en route to the kitchen. “I’ll get your ice.”
“Aw,” Sirius tuts, letting his magazine lay tented over your back. He palms the back of your head gently. “Hard first day back at work?”
“It feels like it hurts worse,” you mumble into the space below his throat. The tip of your nose is cool where it presses to his skin. “I’m so tired.”
“Oh, I know, baby.” Sirius kisses the top of your head. “It’s not very fair, is it?”
“Pain is tiring,” Remus agrees. He passes Sirius an ice pack to settle against your cheek, holding onto another while he leans on the back of the couch. “It’ll get better over the next few days. Tomorrow should be easier.”
“I can’t think about tomorrow.” Your voice is softer, lips barely moving as Sirius holds the ice to your jaw. You shift your face from his neck, turning your eyes up to his. “Keep me here forever?”
Sirius feels his mouth spread in a grin. “You know I will, gorgeous. And I’ll do you one better, lift your head and I’ll put two ice packs on your cheeks.”
You pick your head up as directed. Remus passes Sirius the other ice pack, and he sandwiches your face between the two with a smile. Your poor cheeks are swollen and bruised, but Sirius thinks you look lovely despite it, even pouting the way you are. You look between your boyfriends as though waiting for them to do something about it.
Remus breaks first. “Oh, my love.” He gives a pitying laugh, folding over the back of the couch to hug your shoulders. “I’m sorry. The pain won’t last much longer, though. Just give yourself some time to heal.”
“Count yourself lucky you had wisdom to take,” Sirius says. “I didn’t have anything they wanted at all.”
“I’m so tired of this,” you sigh, leaning into Remus. “Sorry, I know it’s only been a couple of days, just. It’s just constant, you know?”
Remus hums. He knows better than most, better than Sirius for sure. Sirius feels overcome by a fond protectiveness for you both.
He touches a pinkie to Remus’ forearm where it’s wrapped around your clavicle. “Alright, that’s enough,” he says, rubbing. “It’s cruel and unjust to have either of you ever work again. I won’t entertain it.”
“Oh, you’re going to be our sole breadwinner now?” Remus asks, smiling.
“Quite right. I’ll need the two of you to carry your weight in homemaking, of course, but I’ll manage the rest.”
“And you reckon your income can cover our portions of the rent and groceries and all that?”
“Don’t worry your pretty head over it, darling. It’s well in hand.”
“Let me lie about for the rest of the week,” you sigh. “Then I’ll go back to work and you can stay here, Rem.”
Remus turns his smile into the top of your head, nose denting into your hair. “Yeah? You sure?”
“M’sure.” You shut your eyes. Sirius grins at Remus, thinking that he has about thirty seconds to change positions before you fall asleep and he has to hold you this way all night. “Just need a few days.”
But Remus will indulge you in anything; he stays perfectly still. “Sure, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing your head. “Whatever you need.”
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poly!wolfstar x reader or whimsical!reader would be absolutely wholesome Maee!! Love and hugs 💖 have a lovely day 💫
(to clarify I'm not the anon who mentioned wolfstar previously. I'm just a lovesick of these two lol. hope the request is ok! Sending good vibes your way✨)
Awh I love them so much! Thanks for requesting sweetheart, hope you have a lovely day too <3
cw: squished snail :(
poly!wolfstar x whimsical!reader ♡ 900 words
Remus comes home, juggling his umbrella with three drinks from the coffee shop down the street, to find you and Sirius kneeling outside your front door. You seem to be placing dead leaves in a circle around a wet-looking smudge on the ground.
“Um.” He steps under the overhang of your roof, adjusting his hold on the drinks to set down his umbrella. “What’s going on?”
“We’re surrounding the snail with dead plants so it can be nourished in the next life,” Sirius says easily. Like this is something he does often. “Watch your step, handsome.”
Remus heeds the warning, stepping carefully around the circle and behind the two of you. That’s when he notices your clothes.
For Sirius, wearing black isn’t so unusual. He knows it sets off his tattoos and comparatively milky complexion, and he loves nothing more than a dramatic juxtaposition. But you, Remus didn’t even know you owned clothes this colorless. Your dress is loose and flowy, an inky black that’s more of a contrast against your generally lighthearted disposition than it’s ever been against Sirius’ coloring. You look lovely as always, but like a dulled version of your usual self.
“Are we having a funeral?” Remus asks carefully.
Your posture is slumped, droopy as a weeping willow. “Yeah,” you reply glumly. “I went to take out the trash, and I couldn’t see in front of me. I crushed them.” Your voice seems to quiet further at the end, some mixture of shame and mourning clogging your throat.
“Them?”
“The snail,” Sirius clarifies. He rubs between your shoulder blades. “It was an accident, sweetheart.”
You nod, taking in a bolstering breath. “A funeral feels like the least I can do to try to honor them after cutting their life short.”
“Oh, that’s very thoughtful of you.” Remus kneels on your other side, ignoring Sirius’ sharp look when he can’t help a little grunt at the ache in his joints. He sets your drinks where they won’t get knocked over. “Maybe this was a very old snail, and you found it at the end of its life.”
“I just hope they didn’t leave a family behind,” you fret.
“I’m sure even if they did,” he says, reaching for his most reassuring tone, “their family would appreciate what a nice resting place you’ve made for them.” He pets the back of your head. “And that you’ve dressed up so nicely to say goodbye.”
You turn your face towards the ground, and Remus notices a soft pout to your bottom lip. Sirius seems to spot it at the same time. The other boy lifts your chin to kiss at it sweetly.
“Do you want to say a few words, lovely?”
Remus smiles over the top of your head at his softhearted boyfriend. Were it anyone else, Sirius would be making endless fun of them for creating such a fuss over a snail’s death, but because it’s you he’s in all the way. (Evidently, he’s learned his lesson after the time he squashed a mosquito in cold blood. You would hardly look at him for days until he apologized.)
You nod, clearing your throat. “I hope you’re going somewhere with tall grass,” you say, “and lots of soft, wet dirt. And I hope this food gives you sustenance for the journey.”
You mean the dead leaves, Remus supposes. He presses a kiss to the side of your head. “I’m sure it appreciates that, darling.”
“And if you want to reincarnate as an elephant to step on me, I completely understand.”
“Oh.” Sirius coughs. “Don’t we think that’s a bit far?”
“Yeah,” Remus agrees. “You’ve put yourself through enough already, that’s probably not necessary.”
You look between your boyfriends, bemused. “I’m only trying to make things fair. I killed them first.”
“I just think we ought to have a bit more faith in this snail,” says Sirius. “I doubt they’re out for revenge; they strike me as the forgiving sort. No need to relinquish yourself to an untimely squishing.”
You frown. “I suppose you’re right. Snails don’t have very long memories anyway, so as a group they might not be very inclined to hold grudges…”
“Exactly.” He gives your shoulder a loving pat. “Now, it looks like Remus has brought us something. Haven't you, handsome?”
Remus gives you both a small smile, reaching for your drinks. “Here’s a coffee, and a tea for you, dove. Let’s get out of the cold and drink them inside, yeah?”
“Okay.” You give the snail one last, speaking look before starting to stand.
Sirius hurries to Remus’ side, forcing him to use the other boy for support as he straightens up, knees protesting.
“Your hair’s all wet,” he murmurs.
“I know,” Sirius gripes under his breath, but Remus can hear the fondness hidden beneath his grousing. “I figured you’d be upset if I let her go out in the rain to find her ceremonial leaves alone.”
Remus chuckles and kisses his part. “I’ll make some soup before you both catch cold.”
“She’ll only think it’s karmic if we do.”
“No, not really.” Sirius hasn’t kept his voice quiet enough to avoid your hearing, and now you’re looking at him with an earnest bemusement. “It would be karmic if I got sick, but you haven’t done anything wrong, Sirius.”
Remus tsks. “I think you’ve repented enough already, dove,” he says. “Let’s get you both dried off.”
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Hi luv, can I request something?
I was thinking about a poly!wolfstar x fem!reader where reader is feeling down because of her period but don’t wanna tell the boys bc she’s embarrassed. But she ends up acting all sad and the boys are really worried, thinking they did something wrong, and when they finally find out the truth they try to comfort her? A little angst with fluff ending, lots of cuddles. Only if you feel comfortable writing it, of course!
I love your writing, btw
Thanks for requesting lovely!
cw: period sadness
poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 971 words
“She’s moping,” Sirius whispers, arms crossed and dark brows bunched. He’s leaning back against the counter, having followed Remus into the kitchen to ‘help make the popcorn’. Two fingers tap restlessly on his bicep.
Remus watches the movement, pensive. “She might’ve just had a rough day,” he says back. The sound of popcorn in the microwave works to cover his voice. “I think she’d tell us if we’d done something to upset her.”
He gets where Sirius is coming from. You’ve seemed a tad dimmer than usual, mumbly and perhaps a bit tired. But Sirius is quick to worry, and he has a nose for tension that occasionally sniffs it out when it’s not really there.
“She might not.” Sirius is doing that thing where he looks and sounds angry when really he’s worried. Remus leans over to kiss his hair.
“She’s better than us,” he reassures him, taking the popcorn from the microwave and leading the way back into the living room.
You’re huddled up in one corner of the couch, blanket pulled tight around you and eyes looking to nowhere. You perk up a little when Remus shakes some of the popcorn into a bowl and sets it in your lap.
“Thanks,” you say.
“Course. Did you pick a film?”
“I started to, but…” You shrug, passing the remote to Sirius as he sits down next to you. “You guys can pick, I don’t really care what we watch.”
Sirius sends Remus a look. See? Remus frowns. He’s still not convinced you’re upset with them, specifically, but your upset in general is hard to deny.
It’s unsettling to have you glum like this. He and Sirius have always been prone to their moods, but you’re…not, so much. It’s not that you never have a bad day, of course, they try to leave room for you to feel whatever you like. They’ve just not seen you like this before, obviously upset but seemingly with no cause.
Sirius picks one of your favorite films anyway. The intro credits start, and ordinarily, this would be the part where you lean onto your other side and cozy up to him, but you don’t. You stay curled up in your corner, eyes at half-mast and pretty face impassive.
The sweet bit of skin between Sirius’ brows is marred by a dent.
Remus is sitting in the armchair adjacent to your side of the couch. He reaches across the space for your hand. With so overt a request, you give it to him, looking a touch bemused. He holds your gaze, sweeping his thumb over your knuckles.
“Are you alright?”
You blink. “Me?” When Remus doesn’t look away, you shrink slightly, shoulders pulling up towards your ears. “I’m fine, yeah. Are you?”
“Oh, how crafty,” Sirius drawls. “Redirect the question, we’ll never see through that.”
You smile cautiously. “Way to make me asking my boyfriend how he is seem nefarious.”
Sirius’ answering grin is sharp, but Remus can see the anxiety beneath it. “You’re not as subtle as you think, babe. Why don’t you tell us what’s got you so twisted up, huh?”
Just like that, you shut down again. You pull your hand from Remus’, fixing your eyes on the TV. “I’m not twisted up,” you say.
“Dovey,” Remus says softly. When you look at him, your expression is controlled but your gaze is tentative. “Have we done something to upset you?”
“What?” A line forms between your brows, a companion for Sirius’. “No, you’ve—you’re perfect.”
“Well, I like to think so,” Sirius agrees breezily, “but you’re obviously not happy with us. It’d help if you’d just say what it is, so apologies and amends can commence. Unless it’s that I left the toilet paper roll empty again, in which case I can only say that you knew what you were getting into when you moved in.”
His feeble attempt at levity doesn’t make much of a dent in your creased expression, though you do tilt up one side of your mouth as though to commend him for his effort.
“I’m not upset with either of you,” you say slowly. Your tone carries a hue of resignation. “I promise, if I was angry I would say.”
Now it’s Remus’ turn to look at Sirius. See? But Sirius looks even more troubled, as though he can’t fathom what could be wrong in your life if it’s not him.
“You are upset, though,” Remus says softly. “What’s wrong?”
You sigh, the sound heavy with that unidentified melancholy, and Sirius seems to feel secure enough now to drop a kiss on your shoulder. “Nothing’s wrong,” you reply, defeated. “I’m just in a mood because of my period, sorry. I don’t mean to be a bother.”
Remus coos, reaching across the gap again to pet your baby hairs.
Sirius leans into your side. “You?” he asks, kissing your shoulder again. “Never. Why didn’t you say, lovebug?”
You shrug. You seem to be slumping deeper into the couch with every affectionate touch, your body relaxing. “It’s a bit embarrassing. I don’t want to be acting all sad just because my hormones are going funny.”
“You’re not just acting sad if you are actually sad,” Remus points out. “Is your stomach hurting you?”
“Not really.” You shift your weight so you’re leaning into Sirius, too. He looks about as happy as he can be when someone he loves is hurting, bottom lip pushed out as he rubs your shoulder and smooshes his cheek into the top of your head. “Just sad.”
“D’you wanna watch something happy, sweetheart?” Sirius asks, voice dripping with a syrupy sweetness. “Or something sad, to cry it out?”
You shrug again. “Maybe just a little sad? Like The Perks of Being a Wallflower.”
“That’s only a little sad to you? Shit, baby, you’re tough as nails.”
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Mae I literally had a dream last night and the only part of it that I remember was that I was checking your blog?? To see if you had posted any new fics. Idk what this says about me and the level of fanfic I consume
Omgggg haha I love that! Very flattered to have a featuring role in your dream gorgeous. And dw, I have had dreams about fanfic writers on here, some of which I know and some of which I’ve never spoken to so those are a bit embarassing haha
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BAHA thank you sweetness <3
Tumblr is hiding the request :( but I do remember it's been waiting for quite a while so I wanted to say thanks so much for your patience and for the lovely request!!
Request: hey lovely, how are you??? if it suits you, could I request tasm!peter x reader with reader comforting peter this time, maybe because he's just been having a really hard time and he's overwhelmed and stressed with his duties? <333
cw: allusions to canon angst, survivor's guilt
tasm!Peter x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words
There are days when Peter can’t stand to look at his hands not covered by Spider-Man’s gloves, because all he can see is the blood staining them. Not the blood of people he’s hurt, even, but the blood of people he didn’t help. Didn’t, couldn’t. It all muddles together. Most of the time, Peter’s moving too fast to think of anything but the present—the next split-second of action, the closest structure to shoot a web at, how many shouts versus screams versus sirens on the ground below—but sometimes he’s not quick enough, and the past catches up to him.
The only thing to do is move faster.
Peter can do it this time. He can stop it—whatever it is, the thing looming, the great terrible that’s going to wreck someone’s life unless he’s there to shield them. Work is a distraction. Sleep is a time suck. There are people out there who need him, and who says Spider-Man can’t be everywhere at once? He’s fast. He’s really fast. A mugging in Hell’s Kitchen, a fire in Midtown, an amber alert crossing the bridge into Brooklyn, a robbery, a shootout, back over to Manhattan to break up a fight on the street.
He stops home when his hands won’t quit shaking. Slips in through the window instead of the front door, moving through his own home on burglary-silent footsteps. It’s for nothing; you’re already in the kitchen anyway.
You gasp at seeing him, hand fluttering to your chest, but the surprise turns quickly to something else. “Peter?”
“Hey.” Peter pecks you on the lips, reaching into the cupboard behind for a bag of chips. He grabs a banana while he’s in there, plus as some peanut butter and—fuck it—a bag of pasta. He’ll eat it dry.
“Hey,” you echo him. You sound weird, careful almost. “Are you in for the night?”
Peter has to stop crunching on pasta to hear you properly. “Hm? No. Just for a minute.”
“Why don’t you stay?” You take a step closer to him. Peter realizes he’s begun inching towards the window instinctively, itching to get a move on. There’s definitely something weird going on with you. You’re looking at Peter like he’s a ghost and moving towards him like a siren. “You look tired. You could use a break, and I…I miss you.”
“I’ll see you later,” he says. Not mentioning that you’ll probably be asleep by the time he gets back, and you still will be when he goes out again. Peter doesn’t have to say it; you know from experience.
You touch a tear in his suit gingerly. “What happened here?”
Peter shrugs. “Tussle with a fire escape. Don’t worry, I won.”
“You got stabbed by a fire escape?”
“Stabbed is kind of a strong word. It was more like a slashing sort of thing…” He’s trying to joke around, but shit, you’re doing that thing. You’ve turned your eyes up to his, making them all wide and shiny. It’s hypnotic. It’s a look that digs claws into Peter’s guts, and you know it. “It’s not that bad. The bleeding’s already stopped. Super healing, you know?”
You look so in distress, it’s getting his adrenaline pumping again. Peter doesn’t know what to expect from you. You look like you could burst into tears, or yell at him, or tear his suit right off.
What Peter’s not expecting is for you to reach up and put your arms around his shoulders. He’s not expecting his throat to get so intolerably tight.
“It’s okay,” he tries weakly, patting your back.
You go up onto your toes to hold him closer. There’s a solemnity seeping out of you, a vast, quiet upset, but your voice when you speak is gentle. “I’m sorry.”
Peter splinters like a ship wrecking. He’s taken under by the sea.
“I know.” You’re mindless of the blood and grime getting on you as you press your body to his, curling around him like you’re his shield and not the other way around. That’s his job. He’s Spider-Man. “I know, I’m sorry. Come here, lovely.”
Peter doesn’t realize how he’s clutching at you until you try to move him. It’s slow and awkward, tiny steps all the way to the couch. His fingers are wound tightly enough in your top that he might be hurting you, he’s not sure. Peter’s hardly ever sure whether he’s really helping or just hurting. Now, he might be hurting you and it’s no help to anyone but him. Selfish.
“It’s okay,” you say in that soft, tenderhearted voice. His mask was pushed up above his face to eat, but you take it off the rest of the way, setting it behind you. Peter appreciates that you don’t toss it the way he so often does, discarding it like trash in some corner to be found the next time he needs it; he doesn’t think he could take that right now. You kiss his tears like he’s worthy of care.
“I have to go,” Peter chokes out. “I need to—”
“You can’t,” you tell him. There’s no room for argument in your tone, but it’s the farthest thing from firm. Kind, almost apologetic. You soothe a touch over his shoulder. “You can’t, baby. You can’t help everyone. It’s not all your responsibility.”
His shoulders jolt and curve at the same time, a feeble attempt at protecting him from some inner fracturing. You don’t try to hide him from it. You only hug Peter again, as if devoted to the task of looking after what jagged pieces are left afterwards.
“I’m sorry you feel like it is,” you murmur into the curve of his neck.
Peter has always known he was selfish. He’s been punished for it more than once, and when the universe stopped doing it to him he took up the mantle. He lets it drop now. It’s selfish, it’s weak, it’s greedy, but Peter puts his face in your shoulder and cries until you have to remind him to breathe.
“Shh, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” Will it? Things ever only seem to be okay for brief lapses, aberrations of time before it all crumbles again. Like you can hear his doubts you say assuredly, “I’ve got you.”
It means more than you probably know. Or maybe you do, the way you seem to know everything that goes through Peter’s head. He may feel like he has every fragile soul in New York City cupped in his palm, but you have him.
“Breathe,” you remind him again. When he does, your lips press to his temple. “Were you really going to have dry pasta for dinner?”
Peter chuckles weakly. “So what?”
“You’re going to break a tooth, Peter.”
“My teeth are made of stronger stuff than most people’s.”
“No, they’re not.” You call his bluff with nothing but amused fondness in your tone. “Let me make you something good, okay? Stay here tonight.”
It’d be easy to say yes. Peter thinks some part of him had surrendered to the idea even before you pulled his mask away. Still, he suspects you’re not above hiding it from him should he resist.
He doesn’t. “Okay,” he mumbles, nose rubbing your neck. He can’t fully tell if it’s his skin, yours, or both that are so slick with his tears.
Your relieved sigh is enough to dispel any regret. “Thank you.” You kiss him again. “I’ll make it worth your while. You feel like fettucini alfredo?”
“With the good sauce?”
“From the can,” you confirm. Peter can feel your smile when he hugs you tighter, this time from love rather than desperation. You promise again, the words heavy with understanding, “I’ve got you.”
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Tumblr is hiding the request :( but I do remember it's been waiting for quite a while so I wanted to say thanks so much for your patience and for the lovely request!!
Request: hey lovely, how are you??? if it suits you, could I request tasm!peter x reader with reader comforting peter this time, maybe because he's just been having a really hard time and he's overwhelmed and stressed with his duties? <333
cw: allusions to canon angst, survivor's guilt
tasm!Peter x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words
There are days when Peter can’t stand to look at his hands not covered by Spider-Man’s gloves, because all he can see is the blood staining them. Not the blood of people he’s hurt, even, but the blood of people he didn’t help. Didn’t, couldn’t. It all muddles together. Most of the time, Peter’s moving too fast to think of anything but the present—the next split-second of action, the closest structure to shoot a web at, how many shouts versus screams versus sirens on the ground below—but sometimes he’s not quick enough, and the past catches up to him.
The only thing to do is move faster.
Peter can do it this time. He can stop it—whatever it is, the thing looming, the great terrible that’s going to wreck someone’s life unless he’s there to shield them. Work is a distraction. Sleep is a time suck. There are people out there who need him, and who says Spider-Man can’t be everywhere at once? He’s fast. He’s really fast. A mugging in Hell’s Kitchen, a fire in Midtown, an amber alert crossing the bridge into Brooklyn, a robbery, a shootout, back over to Manhattan to break up a fight on the street.
He stops home when his hands won’t quit shaking. Slips in through the window instead of the front door, moving through his own home on burglary-silent footsteps. It’s for nothing; you’re already in the kitchen anyway.
You gasp at seeing him, hand fluttering to your chest, but the surprise turns quickly to something else. “Peter?”
“Hey.” Peter pecks you on the lips, reaching into the cupboard behind for a bag of chips. He grabs a banana while he’s in there, plus as some peanut butter and—fuck it—a bag of pasta. He’ll eat it dry.
“Hey,” you echo him. You sound weird, careful almost. “Are you in for the night?”
Peter has to stop crunching on pasta to hear you properly. “Hm? No. Just for a minute.”
“Why don’t you stay?” You take a step closer to him. Peter realizes he’s begun inching towards the window instinctively, itching to get a move on. There’s definitely something weird going on with you. You’re looking at Peter like he’s a ghost and moving towards him like a siren. “You look tired. You could use a break, and I…I miss you.”
“I’ll see you later,” he says. Not mentioning that you’ll probably be asleep by the time he gets back, and you still will be when he goes out again. Peter doesn’t have to say it; you know from experience.
You touch a tear in his suit gingerly. “What happened here?”
Peter shrugs. “Tussle with a fire escape. Don’t worry, I won.”
“You got stabbed by a fire escape?”
“Stabbed is kind of a strong word. It was more like a slashing sort of thing…” He’s trying to joke around, but shit, you’re doing that thing. You’ve turned your eyes up to his, making them all wide and shiny. It’s hypnotic. It’s a look that digs claws into Peter’s guts, and you know it. “It’s not that bad. The bleeding’s already stopped. Super healing, you know?”
You look so in distress, it’s getting his adrenaline pumping again. Peter doesn’t know what to expect from you. You look like you could burst into tears, or yell at him, or tear his suit right off.
What Peter’s not expecting is for you to reach up and put your arms around his shoulders. He’s not expecting his throat to get so intolerably tight.
“It’s okay,” he tries weakly, patting your back.
You go up onto your toes to hold him closer. There’s a solemnity seeping out of you, a vast, quiet upset, but your voice when you speak is gentle. “I’m sorry.”
Peter splinters like a ship wrecking. He’s taken under by the sea.
“I know.” You’re mindless of the blood and grime getting on you as you press your body to his, curling around him like you’re his shield and not the other way around. That’s his job. He’s Spider-Man. “I know, I’m sorry. Come here, lovely.”
Peter doesn’t realize how he’s clutching at you until you try to move him. It’s slow and awkward, tiny steps all the way to the couch. His fingers are wound tightly enough in your top that he might be hurting you, he’s not sure. Peter’s hardly ever sure whether he’s really helping or just hurting. Now, he might be hurting you and it’s no help to anyone but him. Selfish.
“It’s okay,” you say in that soft, tenderhearted voice. His mask was pushed up above his face to eat, but you take it off the rest of the way, setting it behind you. Peter appreciates that you don’t toss it the way he so often does, discarding it like trash in some corner to be found the next time he needs it; he doesn’t think he could take that right now. You kiss his tears like he’s worthy of care.
“I have to go,” Peter chokes out. “I need to—”
“You can’t,” you tell him. There’s no room for argument in your tone, but it’s the farthest thing from firm. Kind, almost apologetic. You soothe a touch over his shoulder. “You can’t, baby. You can’t help everyone. It’s not all your responsibility.”
His shoulders jolt and curve at the same time, a feeble attempt at protecting him from some inner fracturing. You don’t try to hide him from it. You only hug Peter again, as if devoted to the task of looking after what jagged pieces are left afterwards.
“I’m sorry you feel like it is,” you murmur into the curve of his neck.
Peter has always known he was selfish. He’s been punished for it more than once, and when the universe stopped doing it to him he took up the mantle. He lets it drop now. It’s selfish, it’s weak, it’s greedy, but Peter puts his face in your shoulder and cries until you have to remind him to breathe.
“Shh, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” Will it? Things ever only seem to be okay for brief lapses, aberrations of time before it all crumbles again. Like you can hear his doubts you say assuredly, “I’ve got you.”
It means more than you probably know. Or maybe you do, the way you seem to know everything that goes through Peter’s head. He may feel like he has every fragile soul in New York City cupped in his palm, but you have him.
“Breathe,” you remind him again. When he does, your lips press to his temple. “Were you really going to have dry pasta for dinner?”
Peter chuckles weakly. “So what?”
“You’re going to break a tooth, Peter.”
“My teeth are made of stronger stuff than most people’s.”
“No, they’re not.” You call his bluff with nothing but amused fondness in your tone. “Let me make you something good, okay? Stay here tonight.”
It’d be easy to say yes. Peter thinks some part of him had surrendered to the idea even before you pulled his mask away. Still, he suspects you’re not above hiding it from him should he resist.
He doesn’t. “Okay,” he mumbles, nose rubbing your neck. He can’t fully tell if it’s his skin, yours, or both that are so slick with his tears.
Your relieved sigh is enough to dispel any regret. “Thank you.” You kiss him again. “I’ll make it worth your while. You feel like fettucini alfredo?”
“With the good sauce?”
“From the can,” you confirm. Peter can feel your smile when he hugs you tighter, this time from love rather than desperation. You promise again, the words heavy with understanding, “I’ve got you.”
#tasm peter parker#tasm spiderman#tasm!peter parker#tasm!spiderman#tasm!peter parker x reader#tasm!peter parker x fem!reader#tasm!peter parker x y/n#tasm!peter parker x you#tasm peter parker x reader#tasm!peter parker fanfiction#tasm!peter parker fanfic#tasm!peter parker fic#tasm peter parker fanfiction#tasm!peter parker angst#tasm!peter parker hurt/comfort#tasm peter parker hurt/comfort#tasm peter x reader#tasm!peter parker imagine#tasm!peter parker drabble#tasm!peter parker blurb#tasm!peter parker one shot#tasm!peter parker oneshot#tasm!peter x reader#tasm!peter#the amazing spiderman#tasm#tasmania#the amazing spiderman 2#tasm x reader#the amazing spiderman fandom
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I haven’t bullied elle enough lately
#sighhhh <3#for the record I am sometimes nice to her#i just don’t show yall those because i have a devil may care rep to uphold#elle 🐚
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i love it when you write cuz it’s always so good 😽😽😽
take care of yourself lovie!! you’re amazing!!!
Aw thank you sweetness!! I really appreciate it :) take care of yourself too!!!
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hi! just wanted to tell you know how much I adore your writing, esp your dialogue :) i was reading an older drabble of eddie teaching you to drive and um... this one line really stuck with me:
“You like it when I’m mean to you,” he reminds you.
would you care to expand on that..? 🙈 smutty or not up to u!!
Oml I totally forgot about that one! Thanks for requesting babe
cw: smut mdni, somewhat inexperienced reader, mean Eddie, d/s dynamics, choking
Eddie Munson x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words
You’ve got the sweetest pair of fucking panties on. They’re nothing flashy, not red or black or anything so seductive, but they get Eddie just the same. These are a deep green, full-coverage enough to play at innocence, and with a lace lining that makes him suspect you put them on with this in mind.
Eddie doesn’t get enough credit for how observant he is. He notices things, okay? Like how the little bow at the front of your underwear frames you like a gift, and how you react to him bossing you around. Your skin heating when he puts his hand on your back to guide you or the way you wet your lips when he tells you come here. Eddie thinks he knows what you’re like.
“What’s the matter?” He kneads your thigh meanly in his hand. Christ, he’s going to have fucking dreams about these thighs. “You’re so quiet all of a sudden.”
You always go quiet when Eddie gets you into his room, even when he swears up and down he’s not going to try anything. He thinks it’s because you feel out of your element. It’s a stark change; most of the time, you’re all loud laughter and quick wit, but now with your pants on the floor and Eddie practically slobbering at the sight of you you’ve become a shy thing. He’s toying with the idea that you might just like some direction.
“Where’s all that gumption gone, baby?” he tries again, teasing. You’re tearing your lip to shreds between your teeth, looking at Eddie like he’s about to eat you. He might.
“I’m just waiting to see what you’ll do,” you hum.
Eddie’s eyebrows jump. “What I’ll do?”
You nod, coquettish. Maybe there’s still some more nerve to you than he thought.
“What do you want me to do?” He makes his voice a low hum, crawling up between your legs. You lean back to accommodate him, looking half nervous and half giddy. “You want me to touch you?”
“Yeah—h.” You gasp before you can finish, Eddie’s fingers brushing your mound.
He laughs, he can’t help it. “Oh god, you’re—” He mimics your little gasp, delighted. You look fiercely bashful. “You’re so easy. I barely even grazed you.”
“Don’t,” you plead. Not don’t touch you, but don’t tease. And yet, there’s an undertone to your expression Eddie’s seen before. It’s in the way your pupils splay out beneath him, and how suddenly he can see your nipples through your shirt. He intends to get to the bottom of that.
In good time, he will. For now, he leans down to kiss you. Eddie’s getting familiar with your lips—always warm and tasting faintly of your honey chapstick—but this’ll probably never not knock the wind out of him. Even slow, careful kisses like this leave him fighting to sound normal when he says, “I’m sorry. Is that what you like, sweet thing? You want my fingers?”
You shrug.
Eddie tilts his head at you. “Fingers or mouth?”
“I don’t know,” you mumble. Avoiding his eyes. “You choose.”
He huffs a laugh. “Nah, it takes two to tango, babe. If you want something, you’ve gotta ask for it.”
“I don’t…” You look fit to dive under the covers. Eddie sets a hand on your cheek just for fun, amused to find it burning hot. When he finally catches your gaze, you relent. “Fingers, please.”
“Aw, so polite.” He dips down for another slow kiss, starting to rub over you with more intention. Feeling the breath you suck in. “All you had to do was ask.”
It doesn’t take much to get you going. Eddie mocks and praises you in equal measure, delighted when both seem to get you worked up faster. Each time you catch him watching you, watching those flitters of pleasure across your face, you go all shy and Eddie has to turn soft and sweet to coax you out again. It’s a fun game. All the while those pretty panties of yours stay on, the fabric getting soaked through.
“Aren’t you gonna…” You wriggle your butt a little, hinting at what you want without saying. Eddie plays dumb.
“Gonna what?”
“Gonna take them off,” you murmur.
“Oh, yeah?” Eddie raises his eyebrows at you, blinking in faux surprise. “You think you’re ready for that?”
He knows he’s being a bit cruel. Making you vocalize every tiny thing you want, putting you in the driver’s seat when he knows you’d rather it were him telling you what to do instead. (He’s gonna make you ask for that, too.)
It’s not all for your benefit, though. Eddie gets a bit of selfish gratification at the way you look at him from under your lashes, coy and beseeching. “Please.”
“Okay,” he relents, feigning insouciance as he brings his fingers to your lips. You look at them, puzzled, for a moment before pressing a tentative kiss to Eddie’s fingertips. Like a good luck kiss. You’re fucking precious.
He laughs at you. Again, you fluster, and again your flustering only makes him laugh harder. Eddie pushes his fingers into your mouth, letting them scrape past your teeth to rest on your soft palate.
“Suck,” he tells you.
You do it without asking why, and Eddie’s head fills with static at the feeling. Fuck, that mouth. You keep your eyes on his as you do it, and yeah, he’s definitely going to dream about that look.
When he pulls his fingers away, wiping the residual string of spit on your chin, Eddie takes pity on the curious way you watch his movements. “It’s for lube,” he explains, slipping his hand under the lace hem of your underwear. “You’re wet, sweetheart, but you’re not that wet.”
Though, Eddie has to admit, you are pretty wet. One set of lips is nearly as good as the other—warm, soft, and seemingly made just for him. He feels them out with his fingers while his thumb gets to work on your clit.
Your head goes back, a breathy, lewd sound escaping you despite Eddie’s clumsy maneuvers as he presses up into your hood. But Eddie’s fingertips have been molded by his guitar, calloused and skilled, and soon he’s playing you just the way he wants to.
He takes the opportunity of your bared throat to dive in, latching onto you like a leech. His free hand comes up to grasp the side of your neck and keep you still for him. He pushes into you slowly, one finger and then two, and oh, you make the sweetest sounds. When his pinkie finger rubs soothingly over the hollow of your throat, Eddie doesn’t miss the way you contract around him.
Like he said. He notices things.
“What’s that about, huh?” Eddie’s kisses turn sweeter on the side of your neck. “Something you like?”
You make a low, beggy sound. Poor thing. Barely getting started and already lost for words. He slows his ministrations to your clit to give you some breathing room.
“You like this?” He skims his thumb up your throat, stopping just below your chin. “You like my hand here?”
You nod, but you don’t say the words.
And fuck it, Eddie’s not a saint. He’ll never be known for his patience.
“You want me to choke you, baby?” he asks, tone coated in honey.
“Yeah,” you admit. Shamefully, like Eddie makes even yes a dirty word.
“Yeah?” he mocks you. He can feel the heat of your flush all the way down at your neck, and even better when he adjusts his grip. His fingers spread over your throat, pressing down just enough that his rings might leave faint indents in your skin.
Your reaction is immediate. Your cunt pulses around him again, pretty mouth tipping open on a gasp.
“Poor baby,” Eddie croons at you as he picks up his pace again, index and pinkie finger slapping at the edges of your cunt each time he pushes in. Those underwear of yours are going to be a ruined mess. “You just want to be roughed up a little bit, huh? You want me in charge sometimes?”
There’s a tormented look on your face as he reads you for filth, but you open your mouth and finally, finally, say what you mean. “I like—when—” You’re gasping, but Eddie’s not slowing down for anything now. “—you pretend to be mean.”
If Eddie didn’t already know the nature of the grin that spreads across his face, he’d recognize it by the dark spread of your pupils. “Yeah?” He flicks his eyes over you, analytical. “I think we can do that.”
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Hi Mae! I'm so curious but if im overstepping pls feel free to ignore me ! ! ! is your inbox really full of requests? like how many do you normally get in a day or two? ive just started writing on tumblr n some of my work is like popular but ive gotten so few requests like three in the past week is that like normal? i love hearing people's ideas and writing them. do you have any advice?
Hey angel, I’m not sure I can say definitively because for me it varies a lot! Like I swear people’s moods sync because sometimes I get like six or seven in a day and sometimes there won’t be any for several days in a row. Lately, I want to say the average is one a day maybe? But really I’m not sure, and it definitely used to be less when I started out. When I do want more requests or even just more requests for a particular thing I don’t think there’s any problem with asking ! Like even repeatedly lol, it can feel a bit like begging but usually I think people are happy to send requests and while some people might not see the first post you make or have an idea at that time you may get some more another time. Sorry if this is something you’ve already tried, but if you’re already writing stories and asking for requests I’m not really sure what else I’d do to be honest with you lovely
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accidentally spooked myself out listening to scary paranormal experiences right before bed
literally went on a whole deep dive on the internet at like 12:30 am about paranormal stuff so now i can’t sleep 💔
currently reading some of ur fics to bring me the comfort i desperately need after listening to all that lmao
Oh nooo that’s the worst! Hope you were able to calm down enough to sleep babe
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Haha thank you gorgeous! I agree that Remus usually takes on that role for the others, but he's not always great at looking after himself (or his new fancy trousers) so Sirius has got to step up ;) and yes!! I feel like he'd be awful at laundry at first but maybe by now Remus and reader have trained him lol
Hello beautiful Mae!! I hope you’re doing well and having an amazing week 💖💖
I wanted to drop a little request here! Could I have just something sweet and soft and domestic? Maybe r just like to take care of her plants, cook and bake, write, read, whatever! With any of the boys 💖 just in the mood for something sickeningly sweet!
Love you 💖💖💖
Hey angel girl!! Sorry it took me a while to come up with something for this but thank you for your request <3
poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1k words
You don’t hear Sirius coming up the steps, so it’s too late to hide your project when the front door opens.
“Hello,” he declares, nearly shouting (a habit Remus swears he got from living with James).
Your reply is a decibel softer and colored with guilt. “Hi.”
“What, didn’t you miss me? What’s that tone for?” You hear the familiar thunking of his shoes being kicked into the corner, and then Sirius is leaning over the back of the couch for a kiss, peering into your lap. “Ooh.” He plants a sweet one on the corner of your lips. “How’s it coming?”
“Not great.” You unfold the pair of blue jeans for your boyfriend to witness. They’re your old favorites, afflicted with holes that have grown larger and more scandalous over time. You’d thought to salvage them with a creative patch job, and Sirius offered you his sewing machine for the task, but you’re intimidated by it; your freehand efforts aren’t coming along as you’d hoped.
Sirius is valiantly silent as he scrutinizes your misshapen fabric heart, though the tick of his mouth gives him away. “That’s not…it could be worse. Is that the first one you’ve done?”
“No.” You turn the jeans around to show him the other side.
“Oh, my love,” Sirius sighs.
“They’re awful.”
“Well, you can definitely tell you’ve done it yourself.”
“Hey!” you laugh. “Only I’m allowed to be mean about them.”
“I’m not being mean. DIY is very chic. At least there’ll be no misconceptions about you getting this at a store.”
“You’re being mean,” you say conclusively.
“Incapable of it.” He drops another kiss on your head, straightening. “Where’s your supervisor? I see more pinpricks on your fingers than should have been allowed.”
You roll your eyes, taking up your needle and thread again. Your blue jeans may not be pretty, but you’re determined to at least make them whole. “He’s in the garden.”
Sirius looses another sigh. It’s as though he goes grayer every day. “Getting dirt on his work trousers, no doubt.”
You shrug, not about to tattle, though Remus is out in his work trousers and Sirius will see for himself soon enough. You listen to the back door open and shut.
This is probably your favorite time of day in your home. Even when it’s quiet, when you all get back from work, the steady hum of love and contentment is still enough to make you giddy. Someone will start supper, and someone else will complain about who tracked dirt into the sitting room, and there’ll be teasing and griping and soft-spoken endearments with the evening’s glaze of gold varnish coating it all sweet as honey. It’s the sort of thing to make you sappy if you steep in it, the sort of thing to make you think quietly to yourself, I’m so lucky.
You can hear the griping coming towards you as the back door opens again.
“I’m going to get you the most hideous, embarrassing hat I can find,” Sirius says as he ushers Remus inside.
Remus looks showily weary and secretly besotted. “I don’t want a hat.”
“Too bad. Hold it—brush your trousers off before you come in. And try to consider us a tad, yeah? Everyone’s going to think we’re dating an older man.”
You furrow your brow at this. “Sorry?”
“I am not old,” says Remus.
“You may not be,” Sirius assures him, “but your neck’s going to be seventy-five at least by the time the leaves turn. You’re going to wear a hat.”
You suppress a smile as you understand. Remus tends to his garden nearly every day after work; this routine started in the spring, but as summer has worn on his kneeling outside has resulted in perpetual sunburn on the back of his neck. You’ve bought him sun lotion, but he doesn’t wear it. Sirius has dragged him inside countless times to apply aloe and lecture about cancer, but it doesn’t make a dent. This appears to be his newest threat.
“Take your trousers off,” Sirius demands. Remus’ eyebrows raise, but your (these days rather noticeably) fairer boyfriend doesn’t budge. “I’m going to throw them in the wash before the stains set.”
Slowly, holding Sirius’ stare in a show of defiance, Remus steps out of his trousers. You point your smile down at your sewing as Sirius snatches them up and stalks toward the washing machine. Remus comes to join you on the couch in his shirt and boxers.
“He’s on one,” he huffs.
“I don’t know,” you say. “I think he just wanted to see you without your trousers.”
Remus may have colored some this summer, but not enough yet to hide his blush. He leans back against the couch cushions and goes for the diversion. “What do you feel like for supper?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Haven’t thought about it. Do I have to choose?”
“Well, Sirius wanted pasta” —your ears perk despite Remus’ gruff tone— “but now he’s ticked me off, so.”
“Pasta?” You turn your eyes up to his. Equal parts guilty and pleading.
Your boyfriend sighs. “Really?”
“I didn’t know I was craving it until I heard it.”
Remus levels you with a long, heavy look. When you grin sheepishly, you pretend not to see the corner of his mouth tick.
“Alright.” Sirius breezes back in, wielding the bottle of aloe vera you keep in your bathroom cabinet. “Put this on his neck for us, lovely? And I’ll do something for you.”
“I don’t need to be bribed,” you say, in a tone that clearly says, Go on.
Sirius passes you the bottle. “I’ll help you take out your stitches and show you how to redo them.”
“Deal.” You squirt a bit of aloe onto your fingertip, motioning for Remus to turn around. Before he does, he grabs the back of Sirius’ neck, pulling Sirus none too gently downward until he’s leaning over the back of the couch again.
Sirius looks startled by the kiss he finds down there. There’s an audible smack as Remus pulls away, looking on in smug vengeance at the flush spreading across Sirius’ cheeks.
“Don’t think you’ll be getting any garlic bread,” Remus says.
“I—what?”
“It’s okay, love,” you tell him. Your cheeks are going to hurt from smiling soon. “Take a lap, clear your head. I don’t want you poking anything valuable when you come back to help me with my stitches.”
#or maybe those trousers are coming out of the dryer in miniature#thank you for reading mk <33#i love you
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Hello beautiful Mae!! I hope you’re doing well and having an amazing week 💖💖
I wanted to drop a little request here! Could I have just something sweet and soft and domestic? Maybe r just like to take care of her plants, cook and bake, write, read, whatever! With any of the boys 💖 just in the mood for something sickeningly sweet!
Love you 💖💖💖
Hey angel girl!! Sorry it took me a while to come up with something for this but thank you for your request <3
poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1k words
You don’t hear Sirius coming up the steps, so it’s too late to hide your project when the front door opens.
“Hello,” he declares, nearly shouting (a habit Remus swears he got from living with James).
Your reply is a decibel softer and colored with guilt. “Hi.”
“What, didn’t you miss me? What’s that tone for?” You hear the familiar thunking of his shoes being kicked into the corner, and then Sirius is leaning over the back of the couch for a kiss, peering into your lap. “Ooh.” He plants a sweet one on the corner of your lips. “How’s it coming?”
“Not great.” You unfold the pair of blue jeans for your boyfriend to witness. They’re your old favorites, afflicted with holes that have grown larger and more scandalous over time. You’d thought to salvage them with a creative patch job, and Sirius offered you his sewing machine for the task, but you’re intimidated by it; your freehand efforts aren’t coming along as you’d hoped.
Sirius is valiantly silent as he scrutinizes your misshapen fabric heart, though the tick of his mouth gives him away. “That’s not…it could be worse. Is that the first one you’ve done?”
“No.” You turn the jeans around to show him the other side.
“Oh, my love,” Sirius sighs.
“They’re awful.”
“Well, you can definitely tell you’ve done it yourself.”
“Hey!” you laugh. “Only I’m allowed to be mean about them.”
“I’m not being mean. DIY is very chic. At least there’ll be no misconceptions about you getting this at a store.”
“You’re being mean,” you say conclusively.
“Incapable of it.” He drops another kiss on your head, straightening. “Where’s your supervisor? I see more pinpricks on your fingers than should have been allowed.”
You roll your eyes, taking up your needle and thread again. Your blue jeans may not be pretty, but you’re determined to at least make them whole. “He’s in the garden.”
Sirius looses another sigh. It’s as though he goes grayer every day. “Getting dirt on his work trousers, no doubt.”
You shrug, not about to tattle, though Remus is out in his work trousers and Sirius will see for himself soon enough. You listen to the back door open and shut.
This is probably your favorite time of day in your home. Even when it’s quiet, when you all get back from work, the steady hum of love and contentment is still enough to make you giddy. Someone will start supper, and someone else will complain about who tracked dirt into the sitting room, and there’ll be teasing and griping and soft-spoken endearments with the evening’s glaze of gold varnish coating it all sweet as honey. It’s the sort of thing to make you sappy if you steep in it, the sort of thing to make you think quietly to yourself, I’m so lucky.
You can hear the griping coming towards you as the back door opens again.
“I’m going to get you the most hideous, embarrassing hat I can find,” Sirius says as he ushers Remus inside.
Remus looks showily weary and secretly besotted. “I don’t want a hat.”
“Too bad. Hold it—brush your trousers off before you come in. And try to consider us a tad, yeah? Everyone’s going to think we’re dating an older man.”
You furrow your brow at this. “Sorry?”
“I am not old,” says Remus.
“You may not be,” Sirius assures him, “but your neck’s going to be seventy-five at least by the time the leaves turn. You’re going to wear a hat.”
You suppress a smile as you understand. Remus tends to his garden nearly every day after work; this routine started in the spring, but as summer has worn on his kneeling outside has resulted in perpetual sunburn on the back of his neck. You’ve bought him sun lotion, but he doesn’t wear it. Sirius has dragged him inside countless times to apply aloe and lecture about cancer, but it doesn’t make a dent. This appears to be his newest threat.
“Take your trousers off,” Sirius demands. Remus’ eyebrows raise, but your (these days rather noticeably) fairer boyfriend doesn’t budge. “I’m going to throw them in the wash before the stains set.”
Slowly, holding Sirius’ stare in a show of defiance, Remus steps out of his trousers. You point your smile down at your sewing as Sirius snatches them up and stalks toward the washing machine. Remus comes to join you on the couch in his shirt and boxers.
“He’s on one,” he huffs.
“I don’t know,” you say. “I think he just wanted to see you without your trousers.”
Remus may have colored some this summer, but not enough yet to hide his blush. He leans back against the couch cushions and goes for the diversion. “What do you feel like for supper?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Haven’t thought about it. Do I have to choose?”
“Well, Sirius wanted pasta” —your ears perk despite Remus’ gruff tone— “but now he’s ticked me off, so.”
“Pasta?” You turn your eyes up to his. Equal parts guilty and pleading.
Your boyfriend sighs. “Really?”
“I didn’t know I was craving it until I heard it.”
Remus levels you with a long, heavy look. When you grin sheepishly, you pretend not to see the corner of his mouth tick.
“Alright.” Sirius breezes back in, wielding the bottle of aloe vera you keep in your bathroom cabinet. “Put this on his neck for us, lovely? And I’ll do something for you.”
“I don’t need to be bribed,” you say, in a tone that clearly says, Go on.
Sirius passes you the bottle. “I’ll help you take out your stitches and show you how to redo them.”
“Deal.” You squirt a bit of aloe onto your fingertip, motioning for Remus to turn around. Before he does, he grabs the back of Sirius’ neck, pulling Sirus none too gently downward until he’s leaning over the back of the couch again.
Sirius looks startled by the kiss he finds down there. There’s an audible smack as Remus pulls away, looking on in smug vengeance at the flush spreading across Sirius’ cheeks.
“Don’t think you’ll be getting any garlic bread,” Remus says.
“I—what?”
“It’s okay, love,” you tell him. Your cheeks are going to hurt from smiling soon. “Take a lap, clear your head. I don’t want you poking anything valuable when you come back to help me with my stitches.”
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mae I feel like such an adult I went on the highway for the first time by myself AND THEN did some parallel parking. anyway who wants to go on a road trip I’m driving if u could be dj
Oh em geeee I too feel totally adult and competent when I manage to parallel park haha! Good for you babe, yes I will totally join you on your road trip what are the vibes for aux
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