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shycupcakealissa · 5 days ago

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Scary Dog Privilege

wolfstar x fem!reader

summary: you walk home from the bookstore through a dark alley each night, enduring the wrong kind of attention from a man who never listens. until one night it goes too far and your boyfriend sirius, furious in scary dog form, comes to the rescue.

warnings: sexual assault, harassment, emotional distress, threatening behavior, intense fear, non-consensual physical contact, verbal harassment, references to stalking, manipulation, strong language, panic attacks, anxiety triggers, references to violence, dog attacks, biting, blood, and descriptions of physical injury. read with caution!!!!!

w/c: 3.8k

masterlist

It is nearly midnight when you close the till and flick the old brass switch beneath the counter, watching as the enchanted oil lamps blink out one by one overhead.

The bookstore exhales into stillness, the scent of paper and worn leather settling deep into the cracked wooden floorboards like smoke.

You tug your shawl tighter around your shoulders, fingers trembling slightly despite the heat that lingers in the narrow shop.

The bell above the door is muffled beneath a Silencing Charm, but you can still hear it ring faintly in your mind. You hear it every night.

Your shift ended fifteen minutes ago. You’d stayed to avoid walking out with him.

The bell above the door tinkles as you step outside, into the narrow alley that separates the shop from the street.

The stones are damp from earlier rain, and you move carefully, already running through which turn you’ll take tonight. Left, not right. It’s better lit, even if it’s longer.

“You’re finally done, huh?”

You flinch before you even see him. Luther.

He’s leaned casually against the doorway beside the bins, still wearing his uniform shirt rolled up at the sleeves, arms crossed like he’s been waiting. His wand’s tucked into his belt, and there’s a pack of something crumpled in his hand.

“Yeah,” you say, keeping your voice light and polite. You don’t stop moving. “Heading home.”

He straightens. “You always rush off like that?”

“I live nearby.” You glance toward the street, your heart already picking up. “Not far. It’s late.”

“You know, I could walk you. It’s not safe, a girl like you out here this time of night.” He steps closer.

“Some real weirdos around this part of town.”

“I’m okay, thanks.” You smile, short and practiced. “My boyfriends are waiting for me.”

“You always bring them up like that,” he says, voice turning a little flat. “Every time I try to talk to you, you make it about them.”

“Because I’m not interested,” you reply, quietly. Still no edge in your voice, still trying to keep things smooth.

Luther laughs under his breath. The sound makes your stomach twist.

“Come on. I’m just trying to be friendly. You don’t talk much in the shop, you know that? Always tucked into a corner, all quiet and sweet. I figured maybe you could use a bit of attention. Some company ya know?”

“I like quiet.” You answer without looking at him, eyes fixed ahead. Your fingers tighten slightly around your satchel.

You move to pass him, but he stays exactly where he is, angled just enough to force you into the edge of the alley wall.

You have to step through the puddle pooling there, cold water soaking through your shoes with a shiver that climbs your legs.

And then you feel it.

His hand brushes the small of your back. Not an accidental graze. Not a casual mistake.

It lingers for a second too long, deliberate, slow, just enough pressure to make your whole body stiffen.

A jolt of dread sinks straight into your stomach, heavy and choking.

“Don’t do that.” Your voice cuts sharper than before, but your throat feels tight, brittle.

He lets out a low scoff behind you.

“Relax. I was just being nice.”

“That wasn’t nice.” You step away from him, as far as the narrow alley allows, your heart now thundering loud in your ears. “Don’t touch me.”

His expression shifts. The smile doesn’t vanish completely, but it tilts in a way that curdles the air around him.

“You really going to act like I did something wrong?” He lets out a breathy, incredulous laugh. “Merlin. You’ve been leading me on for weeks. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you act.”

Your voice falters. “I haven’t led you on. I’ve been polite.”

“Polite?” he repeats, and this time it sounds like a sneer. “You let me talk to you. You smile. You say goodmorning like you’re happy to see me. That’s not polite. That’s an invitation, sweetheart.”

You stare at him, your mouth suddenly dry. Your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might break something inside you.

“I’ve never invited anything from you,” you say, softly, but he just laughs again—louder this time.

He shakes his head and mutters something you can’t quite catch—something bitter and quiet—and for a second you wonder if he’s going to follow you.

You feel it in your gut before your mind can name it. A subtle shift in the air, a pressure that tightens your chest and prickles cold along the back of your neck.

Something is wrong. Deeply, irreversibly wrong.

Then his voice cuts through the quiet, brittle and too close.

“Wait—just—just hold on a second—”

Your heart begins to hammer so loud you feel it in your ears, in your throat, under your skin. “Please go home, Luther. I asked you to stop. Just leave me alone.”

He does not stop.

He steps toward you instead.

“Why are you being like this?” he says, trying to sound wounded, but his voice carries something harder beneath it. “I just want to talk. You don’t have to be so dramatic.”

You begin to back up, taking a step away for every one he takes forward. “I don’t want to talk. I just want to go home. Let me go!”

He scoffs under his breath and keeps coming. “You’re always so cold, you know that? You think you’re better than everyone because you work with your little nose in a book all day. I’m trying to be nice.”

You hold up a hand, not to strike him but to keep him back. It lands against his chest with no force, just a boundary, a plea.

“Don’t. I mean it.”

But he doesn’t stop.

He grabs your wrist.

You gasp and try to pull back. “Let me go!”

“Come on,” he says, frustration flickering across his features. “You don’t have to play hard to get. I know you’re not really going home to anyone. You just say that to shut me up.”

You wrench your arm back, stumbling as your shoes skid on the wet stones.

“Let me go. Now! I’m serious!”

He grabs for you again. This time higher, his fingers brushing your elbow, trying to hold you still.

“You’re not even listening to me,” he says, louder now. “You act like you’re scared of me or something. I haven’t even done anything.”

You shove at his chest with both hands, this time putting your weight into it. “I said go home, Luther. You’re making me uncomfortable.”

His face changes then. Something sharp cuts through it, twisted with indignation. He steps in again, too close, his voice pitching lower.

“I’m not the one being weird here. You’re the one who’s been flirting!”

Your mouth goes dry. You take another step back and feel your heel catch the uneven edge of the alley. Your balance wavers. Your stomach churns.

“I’ve never—” you start, but he interrupts, a sneer curling his lip.

“You think you’re so innocent. But you’ve been leading me on since the day I started. You don’t get to play shy now!”

He reaches for your arm again.

His fingers close around you.

And this time, the fear bursts.

You scream.

It tears out of you without permission—raw and cracked and ugly, a sound torn from somewhere deep in your chest.

And then everything explodes.

The growl is low at first. But it builds fast.

Something moves through the alley with weight. With speed. The air folds in on itself, and before your mind can shape it into thought, Padfoot is already there.

There is no moment of warning, no space left for disbelief. He strikes low and fast, slamming into Luther’s side with force that knocks the wind from his lungs. The sound is wet. Something splits.

Luther stumbles and goes down hard, his back hitting stone, limbs flailing against the sudden violence.

You stand frozen, feet rooted where your panic left them, chest heaving. You watch as Padfoot closes in, body low, teeth bared, a sound rising from his throat that is not loud but shattering

Luther scrambles, trying to push himself upright, but Padfoot lunges. He bites. There is no doubt in it. His jaws lock around Luther’s arm, just below the elbow, and holds.

Luther screams. It is thin and shrill, the sound of someone suddenly very aware that they are alone.

“Get it off! Get it off me! Get it—”

You cannot look away.

The scream Luther lets out when Padfoot’s teeth clamp down is thin and piercing. It cuts straight through the silence like a knife scraping bone.

He thrashes, his legs kicking against the stone, trying to twist free, but it only makes the grip worse.

Padfoot holds fast, growling low in his throat as he tears through the fabric of Luther’s jacket and sinks his teeth deeper into the flesh of his forearm.

“Stop! Get him off! Get it off me—please, please—I didn’t do anything! I didn’t mean to—she screamed first—I wasn’t trying to hurt her—”

You stand frozen, hands clutched to your chest, breath coming in uneven bursts. You can’t move.

You barely register the screaming anymore.

Your eyes are wide and fixed on the blur of Padfoot’s body, on Luther crumpled on the ground, on the blood, on the sound of snarling so brutal it doesn’t feel real.

You are still frozen in place, locked in the thick fog of fear and shock that keeps you from hearing your own heartbeat.

Then you hear it. The tap of a cane against stone, slow and rhythmic.

And a voice—low, familiar, and impossibly close.

“Love,” Remus says, and his voice is the only thing you recognize. “Sweetheart, look at me.”

Yiu blink once, slow and blurred. The street tilts slightly beneath your feet. Your chest feels locked. You do not remember when you stopped breathing.

You only realize it when you look up and see him standing in front of you, steady as the sky, his shoulders broad and braced, his body angled just enough to block everything else from view.

You try to speak but nothing comes. He steps in closer. His hands rise to your face with deliberate gentleness.

His thumbs skim softly along your temples as his palms cradle the sides of your head, blocking out the sounds behind you with tender pressure.

“Shh. Don’t listen to him. Don’t look. You don’t need to hear a single thing, my love. Not one more word. I’ve got you. You are safe. You are right here with me.”

One of his hands slips behind your head, guiding it gently to his chest. The fabric of his coat smells like bergamot and firewood and something else that is only him.

You bury your face there, and the first sob slips out before you can hold it in.

“I know,” he murmurs, arms folding around you like he means to hold every trembling part of you in place.

“I know, my dove. I know how scared you were. I know it was too much, but it’s done now. He cannot reach you. He cannot touch you. Not with me here.”

You don’t mean to speak, but you do.

“He followed me,” you whisper, the words barely formed. “I kept saying no, I kept asking him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen—he wouldn’t stop—he—”

Remus shushes you again, not to silence you, but to soothe you. His hand moves slowly across your back in long, calming strokes, as though he could press the fear from your spine.

His mouth stays close to your temple, his breath warm against your skin.

“I know, love. I know what he did. I saw enough to understand. You don’t have to explain it to me if you don’t want to. Not now. You just need to be here with me. That’s all you need to do.”

Another bark snaps through the alley. You flinch, your breath hitching against his chest.

Immediately, his hands return to your ears, cupping them carefully, protectively, as if the sound itself could hurt you.

“Don’t worry about that. It’s just Padfoot. He’s making sure that man stays down. Just breathe, sweet girl.”

You nod, barely, and let your eyes fall shut. The tears keep coming. A steady stream against the fabric of his coat as your body sinks further into his.

“I should’ve run,” you say quietly, not even knowing why.

“I should’ve left sooner. I thought I was imagining it, I thought maybe I was being dramatic, and then—”

Remus shakes his head, slow and certain. He tilts your chin so you will hear him fully.

“No. You don’t blame yourself. Not for any part of this. You were polite, you were careful, you said no, and he crossed the line. You did not do anything wrong, and I need you to believe me when I say that.”

He leans his forehead against yours, the weight of it grounding. His eyes are closed. He breathes with you.

“I wish I had gotten to you sooner. I wish you never had to feel that afraid. But I’m here now. You’re not alone, youu never were. I promise you that.”

You nod again, smaller this time, and let him hold you tighter.

Behind you, the sounds begin to fade. The growling ebbs and the rustling quiets.

“I’m taking you home,” he says finally, still soft.

“Let’s go back. We’ll run you a bath, get you warm. You won’t lift a finger, not for anything. And I’m not letting either of you out of my arms tonight.”

He stays with you like that until your breath starts to steady. Until your grip in his coat loosens and your body leans into his instead of locking against it.

When he finally turns his head to look past you, toward Luther, his entire demeanor shifts — but he never lets go of you.

Padfoot is still growling, low and constant, each breath a promise of violence.

Luther is sprawled on the ground, one hand wrapped around his arm, mouth red and wet and open.

Padfoot growls again, shoulders bristling, and it sounds like the end of the world.

“You should run now,” Remus says, lifting the cane from Luther’s chest. “Before he stops letting me hold him back.”

Luther doesn’t wait for another invitation. He scrambles to his feet, half-tripping, blood dripping from the torn bite in his arm, and bolts. His footsteps echo down the alley, erratic and fading.

Silence settles behind him.

Padfoot is right beside you, chest pressed close, circling slowly like he’s guarding every inch of your body.

His tail is low, ears pinned back, body still tense with the need to defend, to protect, to tear apart anything that might still hurt you.

You reach for him with one hand, your fingers shaking, and he licks your palm with a soft, whuffing sound like he’s trying to soothe you.

He stays close, silent except for the occasional growl that rumbles out of his chest when he turns toward the alley where Luther disappeared.

You don’t speak for a long time. Remus doesn’t rush you. His hand keeps moving slowly along your back, up and down, like he’s reminding your spine how to hold itself together.

You let yourself be small, pressed between the heat of his chest and Padfoot’s protective weight. You let yourself feel scared and surrounded and safe all at once.

When you finally speak, your voice is small and raw.

“I was so scared,” you whisper, voice catching in your throat. “I didn’t know what to do.”

Remus exhales softly, lowering his forehead to yours. When he pulls back, it is only enough to hold your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing beneath your eyes as if he could erase the memory from your skin.

“You didn’t need to do anything, love,” he says gently, his voice like warm wool. “That’s the whole point. You’re not supposed to handle this alone. Not now, not ever.”

You nod, though it’s small, hesitant, the motion barely more than a tremor. Your bottom lip quivers, and he leans in without waiting, kissing the center of your forehead slowly—firmly—like he’s sealing the words into you.

Then there is a sound beside you. A quiet ripple through the air. The hush of magic folding into itself.

Padfoot is gone.

In his place stands Sirius, breath uneven, chest rising and falling too fast, like he hasn’t taken a full one since the moment he saw you in danger.

He stares at you with wide, frantic eyes, shoulders still braced like he’s expecting to need to fight again.

“Hey—” his voice breaks once, and he tries again, softer this time, closer. “Hey, love. I’m here. I’m here, I’m right here.”

Your body reacts before your mind can. You step forward, hands reaching, and he catches you instantly.

You fall into him like something collapsing—not out of weakness, but out of sheer relief.

He folds his arms around you, holding tight, pulling you against his chest like he can’t bear even an inch of space between you.

“Thank you,” you breathe, your face buried in the crook of his neck. “Thank you for coming. I didn’t know what to do—I didn’t know if anyone would hear me—I—”

He shushes you softly, but not to silence. He does it like a lullaby, his mouth pressed to your hair. “I heard you. The second you screamed, I was already running. I’ll always come, love. Always.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying again until you feel his palm slide up your back, smoothing over your spine with that same gentleness that used to rock you to sleep in quiet mornings.

His other hand curves protectively around the back of your head. He doesn’t let go. Not for a second.

Remus remains close, leaning slightly on his cane now, his body a steady line of warmth at your side. He does not try to insert himself into the moment.

He just reaches for you, one hand brushing lightly against your arm, the other rising to cup your cheek where Sirius cannot reach. He leans in and presses a slow kiss to your temple.

Then another. Just below your ear. Then the corner of your eye.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmurs quietly, like it’s a secret.

“You did everything right. We’ve got you now. You’re safe. You’re so loved.”

Sirius sways with you in his arms. He breathes through his nose like he’s grounding himself in your scent, his lips still pressed to the crown of your head.

“I hate that I wasn’t there sooner,” he mutters, his voice roughened with guilt. “I should’ve waited outside like I wanted to. I shouldn’t have let you walk even one step alone tonight.”

“You didn’t know,” you whisper.

“He’s been—he’s been bothering me for a while now. I thought if I ignored it, if I stayed polite, it would stop. I didn’t want to make a scene.”

Sirius goes very still. He pulls back just enough to look you in the face, his jaw tight, his eyes so full of ache it’s hard to hold them.

“You should never have had to deal with that. You shouldn’t have felt like you had to keep quiet to stay safe.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Remus echoes, the words firm this time, as if daring the world to contradict him.

“We’ll sort it out tomorrow,” Remus adds.

“You’ll wake up safe,” Sirius promises, his thumb brushing your cheek. “And that bastard won’t ever come within reach of you again.”

***

The next morning, he’s already dressed before you are, standing in the kitchen in his worn boots and wrinkled jacket, sipping coffee like he’s been up for hours.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just walks over, presses a long kiss to your cheek, and murmurs against your skin: “I’m taking you in.”

You blink at him, still slow from sleep. “Sirius, I—”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to see your face, and when he does, there is no trace of teasing in his expression.

The usual grin is gone. What remains is a quiet, unwavering seriousness that leaves no room for argument.

“I’m walking you to the shop,” he says, voice low but certain.

“Every morning. Every night. I don’t care if I’ve been out until sunrise, or if it’s pouring rain, or if I have to go as Padfoot or myself. You’re not walking alone again. Not once. Not ever.”

Your mouth parts, but the words catch in your throat.

“Okay,” you whisper, barely more than a breath.

And he smiles then, soft, and leans in to kiss you again.

From that moment on, he’s there. Every single day.

Sometimes he walks beside you in human form, long strides matching yours, hands tucked into his pockets, glancing sideways at you every few steps like he’s making sure you’re still there.

Sometimes he doesn’t say much—just offers his arm and lets you loop yours through it, the two of you moving quietly through the early-morning city streets.

But when he does speak, it’s always soft, always just for you.

“You sleep alright?”

“I warmed the kettle for when you get home later.”

“Let me know if you want me to hex anyone today.”

Other days, he’s Padfoot—slipping into his Animagus form without a word, nuzzling your side as you lock the door, then trotting just behind you down the street.

You get used to the sound of his paws on the pavement, the warm shape of him at your heels.

When you glance back and meet those familiar grey eyes in that shaggy black face, your heart stops racing for the first time all day.

And when you leave the shop at night, tired and quiet and wary, he’s always waiting.

Sometimes crouched in the alley across the street. Sometimes lounging outside the door like a stray dog with too much purpose. Sometimes sitting just behind a lamppost, eyes already locked on yours the moment you step outside.

You never walk home alone.

You never look over your shoulder.

You never feel like prey.

You are always accompanied, always protected, always safe.

And on the nights when the streets are crowded or someone stares too long or your hands start to shake just thinking of Luther’s voice, Sirius doesn’t need to ask.

He just presses close, either as Padfoot or himself, and says it soft enough that only you can hear: “You’re safe. You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

And Remus, every time you walk back through the door, greets you with a kiss on the temple and a cup of something warm and always says,

“How was my girl? Did anyone try anything? Should I be concerned?”

Eventually, the neighborhood adapts. People come to learn that the little bookshop near the corner always has a black dog waiting out front, stretched out across the pavement like he owns it.

Some think he’s a stray. Others swear he must belong to someone important. A few say they’ve seen him snarl once and will never test him again.

But you know the truth.

It’s not just a dog. It’s your Sirius.

And with him there, always watching, always waiting, always close, you know with quiet certainty that you will never have to be afraid again.

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