#(and potter men are NOT subtle)

[rechedeer]

harry pretends to be grossed out when his friends call sirius hot but he actually has the biggest ever crush on him out of all of them

[choerypetal]

Secret Admirer / Regulus Black

Summary: Regulus had always harbored a soft spot for a particular member of the Potter family. This individual stood in stark contrast to James, and being a Slytherin only seemed to fuel Regulus's obsession with the sibling who exuded a delicate scent of orchids.

P.S : English isn't my first language, so I apologize for any minor grammar errors. Enjoy!

Regulus had no intention in falling in love. Or was it all in his head? 

God forbid he would need an excuse to glance in your direction or steal a look every now and then. The young man wasn't about to let you slip out of his sight so effortlessly. First, he had to admire every inch of your body, from head to toe. You were now his target, his prey.

He was well aware that this endeavor wouldn't be a simple one, especially considering you were the notorious sibling of James Potter himself.

Understanding your brother's protective nature, being associated with the Potter name wasn't exactly favorable, particularly from an ethical standpoint. Being a Slytherin only intensified matters, as it made you a target for Dark Wizards, much to James' dismay. For Regulus, this meant that even initiating a conversation with you posed a significant challenge.

Regulus remembered the very first time he had met you. Like every love cliché stories, it was during your first day at Hogwarts when your brother had been the light of everyone interest and Regulus had the chance to see your beautiful face exit the train and your hair seemingly blending itself with the wind. It was in that very moment that Regulus knew what falling in love was like. 

Being a Black meant enduring Sirius's teasing at his whim, and with his family's significant legacy, observing his close rapport with the Potters, one might have considered themselves fortunate to easily encounter you during Potions class. You were slightly smaller than your brother, inviting mockery from him and his friends when reaching for higher objects, coupled with a persistent plea until the class's final moments. However, one time, Regulus seized the opportunity to intercept them before you. It was also the moment when both of you heard each other's voices. Your small “Thank you” and the smile you bestowed upon him were enough to stir butterflies in his stomach, followed by inevitable teasing from Sirius later that evening, as it became evident that your brother's attention was on the two of you. 

After the initial encounter between Regulus and you in Potions class, James couldn't help but notice you two’s interactions. To his surprise, he found himself growing increasingly concerned as rumors circulated about Regulus's association with the Death Eaters, and perhaps even darker affiliations. As your brother, naturally, he wanted the best for you, but witnessing the potential dangers of Slytherin influence, it pained him to imagine you being ensnared by such influences. Little did he know, he was mistaken from the outset. 

Regulus was undeniably a good person, a fact known to everyone. Yet, there was something about him that intrigued you even more. You couldn't help but notice from the outset the subtle glances he stole in your direction during class. Your friends occasionally teased about someone showing interest in you, but you couldn't bring yourself to believe it, especially with your brother's constant reminders about keeping your distance from men, especially Slytherins like Regulus. Despite all this, Regulus was keenly aware that you were conscious of his attention towards you.

Despite your efforts to maintain complete innocence regarding your brother's request, you couldn't deny the temptation or the inevitable encounter with Regulus. Which meant, he couldn't resist drawing your full attention to him, resorting to leaving notes in specific places where you frequented. With his signature R.A.B.

As a result, you couldn't help but become somewhat frantic, eager to uncover the identity of your secret admirer. This lead to an interesting investigation between the two of you. 

This though first was brought up during lunch at the Dinning Hall. While he was away in his book, he couldn’t help but to notice and hear clearly his name being whispered from your own mouth. From this very moment, he couldn’t stop but to think— think about the endless dreams longing to hear your voice murmuring his name, begging to hear it, before it vanishes in echoes completely. How he would hold your hand seemingly, wondering off away from Hogsmeade to deep in the forbidden forest to admire the beautiful beasts you long wanted to discover amidst admitting it during class one time. Something he had not forget and it was these little details Regulus made sure of when the possibility of a real encounter. 

The encounter unfolded within the confines of the Library. As you embarked on your quest to locate a book recommended by your teacher, one that aligned with your fascination for magical beasts, fortune smiled upon you as remnants of the coveted tome remained available. Despite its widespread popularity for research purposes. Your satisfaction was tinged with frustration as the book eluded your grasp, just beyond your reach. Regulus, perhaps guided by destiny, seized the opportunity to intersect your paths. As he reached for the book he sought, a familiar fragrance enveloping him—the scent of fresh orchids that had captivated him since your initial meeting. “Perhaps a little assistance is in order.” He remarked, his voice resonating with familiarity, reminiscent of your encounters in Potion class.

However, on this occasion, instead of flashing your customary smile, your eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected presence of the boy who might be your clandestine paramour. Despite the initial shock, you swiftly pushed aside such thoughts and donned your smile. Yet, your cheeks betrayed a different sentiment, flushing with warmth at the tender touch of his cold yet inviting fingers intertwining with yours. It had been an eternity since you had been in such close proximity to Regulus. Despite your inner turmoil and unspoken desires, you couldn't deny the longing for his company, and the warmth of his attentiveness towards you.

“Thank you…” Your voice, gentle and familiar, whispered to his ear, betraying your unmistakable affection for him. Regulus returned your smile with confidence, yet beneath the facade, a sly smirk danced across his lips as he handed you the book, placing it securely in your grasp. With a casual glance at the title, he feigned surprise, though inwardly he had anticipated your newfound research interest. “A fan of magical beasts as well?” He inquired, his tone softened, a deliberate effort to win the approval of your brother, something he knew he must secure to further his intentions.

“Yes.” You affirmed, though the realization of once again finding yourselves drawn together in such close quarters was a surprise even to you. Despite the shared space, your presence seemed merely a distraction to him, your brother's attention firmly fixed on Lily Evans. Nonetheless, Regulus seized every chance to revel in the pleasure of your company, carving out moments for just the two of you. The burgeoning attraction between you was becoming increasingly apparent. “Looks like we always meet in times when I am deed.” You confessed, acknowledging the truth of your words, yet Regulus finding this statement to be nearly impossible to resist the allure of such intense desire, passion. And intimacy with a man who embodied all these qualities. 

As tempted as you were to acknowledge those thoughts, and even to acknowledge Regulus's correctness, you merely shrugged with feigned innocence. It was a quality that had captivated Regulus from the moment he first laid eyes on you. He longed to possess you entirely, to the extent that he would endure your brother's fury or the sight of the Potter girl tangled in Slytherin affairs. Regardless, his sole focus was to ensure that you belonged to him and him alone. 

And much to his liking, James being in the same room just a few tables from afar your study had take knowledge of Regulus’s presence. How his thumb would be casually caressing your chin and lifting up slightly to have a the opportunity to feel his lips against yours. Just this once, and perhaps even more. 

“You know…” His voice deepened, his warm breath grazing against your skin. In that moment, you realized you had been momentarily blinded by his actions, yet a stirring within you suggested that perhaps, like him, you were in love. In love with a man who sought justice and, undoubtedly, someone to cherish—a person with whom he could find solace and belonging. Regardless of your brother's approval, he remained unconcerned. “A little bird informed me that you've been receiving letters from a secret admirer. I couldn't help but be curious about their identity.” He confessed, his tone betraying a mix of intrigue and oblivious.

His voice, smooth as butter, dripped with both passion and curiosity, eager to uncover whether you knew the identity behind the mysterious letters. Despite harboring your own suspicions, you simply shrugged, a casual yet teasing smile playing on your lips. As he reciprocated with a gentle touch, his thumb grazing your chin, you sensed the tension radiating from your brother, torn between throwing a punch or holding back. Simultaneously, you were aware of your brother's intense gaze fixed upon you, even though your back was turned to him. In that moment, it was clear that he faced a choice: intervene or allow Regulus to kiss you.

“Don't,” Sirius mouthed the words silently, fully aware of Regulus's capabilities. If there was one thing he couldn't deny about his family’s qualities, it was the sincerity of Regulus’s feelings and intentions, especially when it came to the person he loved. Despite the complex dynamics between the Blacks and the Potters, whether as friends or foes, James couldn't bear to witness his sibling's sadness and envy once more. And so, with a resigned sigh, he chose to let it be. “Fine, but if he dares to break her heart. I won’t hesitate.”

As Regulus observed your eyes flickering from his gaze to his lips, he sensed a spark igniting between you. The way he spoke to you, the words conveyed on paper—it all pointed to one undeniable truth: your secret lover was none other than Regulus himself. A delicate smile accompanied by a soft chuckle escaped your lips, leaving Regulus slightly bewildered, prompting him to tilt his head in curiosity. “Though I may want to play the part of the suspicious and oblivious recipient of secret admirer letters, I believe I've unraveled the mystery.” You confessed with a hint of amusement.

Your confession alone was convincing, but it was Regulus's sigh that truly affirmed the man standing before you. He was undeniably your secret lover, unafraid to show his affection openly, even in the presence of your own brother. Regardless of family legacy or expectations, he cared not. As he drew near, the library eerily empty, his eyes never straying from yours, you felt the gentle brush of his lips before they melded into a long-awaited kiss—a kiss you both had yearned for, dreamed of, and finally shared.

Before you could even catch your breath, your fingers tenderly cupped his face, softly stroking his cheeks as he savored every moment of affection, his eyelids drifting shut. Then, your voice, sweet and longing, broke the silence. “Kiss me. Forever.”

Without hesitation, Regulus complied, pressing his lips to yours once again, unwilling to pull away until he sensed your brother's disdainful gaze. From that day forward, you became Regulus's other half, bound together by love and defiance.

[jam3sacaster]

“Don’t waste your time with him.” PT 1.

(Rivals) Rupert Campbell-Black x Declan O’Hara x Reader

Suggestion by my sweet heart anon 🫶🏽 / Your uncle, Freddie Jones, introduces you to his new business partners, and you end up wishing he didn’t…

18+ FANFIC / SMUTTY, angsty, hot, in love. Longer than usual so I apologise and hope you don’t take a nap halfway through. Reader character aged 21. As always, request what you wanna see in my asks 💋

Desperate to escape the exhausting bustle of London, it had been agreed some weeks ago that you were to stay at your uncle, Freddie Jones’, Manor House in Rutshire. He had mentioned, vaguely, over the phone about his new business idea and that your expertise in marketing would provide a real asset. Pulling into the extravagant driveway at 8am sharp, you slam your car door shut and pull three substantial cases from the boot. “Darlin!” The familiar accent chimed as your moustached uncle threw open his front door, walking towards you with outstretched arms. Dropping your cases to the floor, you ran to meet him, embracing in a tight, meaningful hug. “I’m so glad you see you.” You exhaled, already feeling the stresses of London melting away. You had always been incredibly close to your uncle, but his newfound wealth and social status and upheaved him from his family and everyday life and plunged him into Rutshire. “Leave the cases. Someone will bring them up for you.” He nodded, taking your hand and leading you into his remarkable home.

“Hello, darlin!” Your auntie Valerie peeped from the doorway, momentarily giving you an uncomfortable, cramped hug. “You’ll have to excuse Fred Fred for an hour, he’s having a business meeting.” She rolled her eyes as she spoke. Embarrassed, Freddie looked down at his feet, but still mustered a smile for you. “Don’t worry about that, come in and meet them. I can tell you all about our new business plan, it’s fuckin’ incredible.” He spoke, beaming to himself now as Val pottered her way outside into her lavish garden. Opening the door to his office, Freddie ushered you in and boomed to the two men standing inside. “Gents, this is my beautiful niece, she’s staying with me for a while and she was an absolute marketing genius down in London. Darlin, this is Rupert-Campbell Black, Minister for Sport, and Declan O’Hara, former star of Declan on Corinium.” He introduced you. Declan tutted at the very mention of the C-word.

“Hello.” You spoke gently, awkwardly glancing between the two men. They quickly exchanged the necessary response to you, and gathered Freddie round the table, mumbling statistics that were far beyond understanding. “Sit, sit.” Freddie tapped the seat beside you, and you hesitantly obliged. Scanning your eyes over their scrawled out business plans, Rupert took the seat beside you, leaning over you slightly to point at some arbitrary on the paper. The potent, saccharine aroma of his aftershave wafting into your nostrils. As he retreated his hand, it brushed across yours softly, making your jump gently in shock. “Sorry.” He muttered, looking up at you and presenting you with a faint smile. Time stood still for a moment as your eyes interlocked contact — Rupert’s eyes softening in lust, yours in affection. “So,” Freddie’s hands slapped against the wooden desk, “We’ll have lunch, a couple of drinks and then get back to it.” He rubbed your shoulder and grinned at you, mouthing shortly after ‘You okay?���, to which you nodded.

Standing up from your chair and making your way into the garden, you breathed in the soft fragrance from the luxurious assemblage of flowers — Soft, pastelled hydrangeas, electric primroses, and properly preened roses of scarlet red and crisp white. You wrapped your soft, knitted lavender cardigan around your torso and squinted slightly under the subtle early morning sun. “London then, eh? Whereabouts?” An aristocratic voice sounded from behind you, cigarette smoke clouding the aroma from the flowers. “Kensington. I worked for a marketing agency, but they ended up thinking I was some kind of businesswoman so I ended up marketing a few television shows.” You reply, turning around slightly to see Rupert Campbell-Black stood, top button of his pastel blue shirt undone.

“Hmm. You’ll be a great asset to the team then. We could use your expertise.” He internally rolled his eyes as he spoke. There was nothing more dull and droning than boring a beautiful young lady with business. “Declan seems nice.” You reply, cheeks delicately glowing a rosy hue. To this, Rupert raised an arched eyebrow — appearing confused but a painful tinge of jealousy coursing through his veins. “Don’t waste your time with him. He’s… emotionally unavailable. His wife just fucked off back to London.” He chuckles abruptly, taking a long puff of his cigarette. Your supple lips pouted, feeling a rather strong wave of sympathy for Declan — partly for his wife leaving, partly for Rupert divulging such personal information to you. “I’m up at Penscombe Court, should you ever need to visit. To talk business and such. Or maybe more.” He winked, and you snickered, shaking your head softly. “Thank you. I’ll-umm… remember that.” You respond, making your way back inside.

Back in the office, Freddie was pacing up and down on his mobile, hand struggling to clasp around the thickened brick of a phone, and the antenna wafting around after him. Declan, muttering to himself under his breath, was sat at the desk, scribbling on an a5 piece of paper. “Drink?” You ask him, and he takes a moment to respond. “Sorry, love. Umm… yes, please. Just a soft one.” He replies, curling his bottom lip into an awkward smile. Temporarily migrating to the kitchen and walking back with a teeming jug of lemonade, laden with ice cubes and slices of fresh lemon, alongside four glasses. Pouring one out for everyone, Declan thanked you as you sat bedside him. “Sooo… what are you working on?” You ask, leaning into him to look over his shoulder. “Just a few pitch docs, jus’ throwin’ some ideas around.” Declan replied, but placed his pen back onto the table and sat back in his chair. “How old are ya?”

“21.” You meekly squeak, his presence intimidating. “And you’re already a marketin’ expert? Ya’ must be really good.” A reassuring smile plastered across his face as he spoke, and took a quick swig of his lemonade. “Well, I don’t know about that. I think Uncle Fred has made me seem a lot better than I actually am.” Freddie looks as you as you speak, smiling through his tedious phone conversation. “I’ve been propositioned already by Mr Campbell-Black.” You sigh, to which Declan shakes his head in disbelief. “Honestly, that man. There’s not a woman on the planet that he wouldn’t ride. Don’t waste your time with him.”

As the evening grew piercingly cold, the budding Venturer team roamed to the living room — television on, fire crackling and tumblers of amber whiskey flowing. You felt small amongst the room of men, talking too loudly and laughing too obnoxiously. Freddie was talking Rupert’s ear off, and that now familiar look of disinterest on Rupert’s face gave it all away. You grinned at him with twinkling eyes as he screwed his face up jokingly towards you at your uncle’s surely riveting conversation. “Whenever ya’ free, and ya’ wanna talk strategies, let me know and we can call a meeting.” Declan spoke, now drunk and stumbling over his words. “This isn’t your way of trying to flirt is it?” You ask, rolling your eyes and pouring yourself an offensively large glass of Sauvignon Blanc. “Trust me, darlin’, you’d know if I was trying to flirt.” All of a sudden, it wasn’t a joke anymore. His tone was low and gruff, and his eyes sharpened. “Maybe we should talk business now?” You suggest, inching your voice towards his. Without responding, Declan rose from the sofa and entered the office. To avoid arising suspicion, you get up a few moments later, with a half-arsed excuse about needing to use the bathroom. Barely waiting for you to close the office door behind you, Declan crashed his lips into yours, pinning you to the wall as the sounds of your colliding lips fought for dominance over your passionate groans.

•

Sliding his hand under your blue floral frock, Declan rubbed his thumb over your slit, the friction of your pants sending a jolt through your body. “Wet for me already?” He asked into your ear, before pulling your pants to the side and gliding two fingers inside you. You yelped in pleasure as his fingers immediately curled towards your g-spot. The frantic passion of the seductive man increased your groans, as you brought your hand down to rub his growing cock over his jeans. “Do you want me on my knees?” You asked with a smirk. Declan opened his mouth to speak, but —

The doorknob turned, and you both desperately panicked to straighten yourselves out. Smoothing down your dress as Declan turned around, in attempt to hide his hard-on from whoever was to enter the room. “Darlin?” Your uncle asked, and you perked your head up innocently. “You okay?”

“Yes, Uncle Freddie. Declan was just… picking my brains.” You chime, turning around slightly to check for his reaction. He suppressed a smirk, and nodded in agreement towards Freddie. Unsuspecting as always, Freddie smiled in contentment and closed the door behind him. “Fuck, that was close. Jesus feckin’ Christ, you turned me into an animal.” Declan wheezed into laughter. You stepped towards him and lifted his hand, sucking his brutish fingers that were, moments ago, inside of you. “Fuck.” He growled in response, running a course hand over his hair. You opened the office door and stepped out, Declan following close behind and giving you a playful snack on your behind that made you yelp. Freddie stood by the door, phone to his ear and speaking nonsense to a pretend caller. He was watching, and keeping a close eye.

•

“Cigarette?” Rupert’s voice spoke from the kitchen towards Declan. You hear Declan decline, and make your way into the kitchen to refill your drink. “You?” He asks, and you nod your head in response as you take a few, very-needed sips of wine. Pulling your uncle Freddie’s lighter from the countertop, you follow the suited man into the garden, taking a quick seat on the frosted wooden bench as Rupert stood above you. He lit his cigarette, and leant down to your level, lighting yours with the blaze within his.

“Finding us insufferable already?” He teased, taking a step back. Shaking your head and puffing your cigarette, your mind could barely muster a response as you envisioned the sound of Declan’s groans and the way his fingers hooked inside of you. “Umm… no. You’re both very nice, actually.”

“Hmm. Declan’s a bit of a cunt but we fair well for ourselves. Think any more about my offer?” He asks, sitting beside you now. “Not yet. How do I know you’re not some chauvinistic Casanova that wants to add me to your long list of conquests?” Raising an arched eyebrow as you speak. Rupert raises his hands in defeat, chuckling to himself that he’d been completely rumbled. You chuckle half-heartedly, semi-believing your own joke. “Well, let’s forget business. I don’t believe in waiting for something you desire. You’re a beautiful girl, and I’d like to take you to dinner.” He declared, taking a long drag of his cigarette and rubbing his thumb over your silky cheek. Taken aback by his rather attractive forwardness and gently biting your lip, you tilt your head upwards at the gentleness of his touch. The bitter evening silence in the garden was comforting — solemnly tranquil, interrupted only by autumn leaves tumbling in the wind and the occasional croaking of a frog in the grass. Even more beautiful still, the heavens opened up to unleash a downpour of of rain. Luckily, the bench was tucked under the porch, but one could still admire the serene display of nature.

Keeping your head tilted towards him, he ran his thumb from your cheek to your lips, lining the top lip, and then the bottom. So enamoured with desire, you could barely breath. He gently pushed his thumb into your mouth, making contact with your tongue. Keeping it there for a moment, he paused and spoke .. “You are magnificent.”

“Darlin’? Are you comin’ in? It’s rainin’ cats and dogs out there.” Freddie’s voice beckoned you from the kitchen window, catching a slight glimpse of the scene unfolding on his garden porch. Taking his time, Rupert removed his thumb from your mouth and stubbed out his cigarette against the brick wall. “You know where I am, angel. Don’t hesitate.” He expressed solemnly, as you collected yourself and went to join your uncle.

“Be careful, darlin’. You’re playing with fire.” Your uncle Freddie warned.

[moons-and-mobility-aids]

Spoil Me Gently: Chapter 1 - masterlist

Chapter Word Count: 8.5k words.

Chapter Summary: You weren't expecting much—just another day with more silence. But when a message arrives that feels more like a door swinging open than a knock, the quiet rhythm of survival shifts. What begins as curiosity unfolds into something more: conversation that feels like care, laughter that lands in the ribcage, and attention that doesn’t ask you to earn it.

Tags: fem!reader, disabled!reader, sugar baby!reader, sugar daddy!marauders, soft!marauders, emotional slow burn, pain realism, chronic illness, ptsd recovery, protective!marauders, chronic fatigue, reader was in an abusive relationship, disability realism, tenderness layered with wit, texting, slow trust build, surprise comfort, reader is poor, famous!marauders, voice notes as foreplay, emotionally competent men, longing in the quiet moments

Taglist: @miwi-moore

The morning greets you with an oppressive silence, broken only by the subtle creak of old timbers and the distant hum of traffic. It's a quiet that hangs heavy in the air, reluctant to yield to the new day. The cold seeps through the walls of the aging house, bypassing the threadbare sheets and settling into your bones — your knee joints stiff like rusted hinges, the skin of your thighs roughened by chill, the ache already coiled behind your ribs like a waiting animal. You lie still, not out of desire for more rest but from sheer necessity. Every movement is labored, every breath a conscious effort. Sleep hasn't restored you; it has merely pressed pause on the weariness that clings like a second skin.

Your dreams have left no clear imprint, only vague sensations that fade as quickly as they form. Like trying to hold water in cupped hands, the harder you try to grasp them, the faster they slip away. It's a dance you've grown accustomed to, this disjointed waltz between sleep and wakefulness where neither offers true respite. You blink against the dull light filtering through the cracks in the blinds, reaching for the phone that lies just beyond your grasp.

Your fingers scrape clumsily at the edge of the phone — skin papery with cold, wrist tendons pulling sharp like old elastic. Your hip gives a bitter little pop of warning: today will not be kind.

The screen flares to life, light lancing straight through your headache like a knife through old cloth. Your thumb hovers — stiff, uncooperative, shaking faintly from the morning blood pressure drop. It's a small portal to the world beyond these walls, its light both cruel and necessary. One notification stands out—an unread message on the sugar dating app you installed weeks ago. You remember doing it on one of those sleepless nights, your stomach gnawing at itself, your mind half-numb with hunger and looking for some sort of distraction.

Your eyes narrow as you register the timestamp—9:00 p.m., yesterday. You hadn't seen it then, almost didn't see it now. But there it is, demanding attention with its silent glow. Curiosity isn't quite the right word for what you feel as your finger hovers over the screen, but it isn't hope. Hope's for fools and idiots and people with dental plans. This is something closer to morbid curiosity — like peeking through your fingers at a car crash made of silk shirts and bad decisions.

You tap to open it.

What you find isn't what you expect. There's no casual "hey babe," no vacuous compliment or suggestive emoji. Instead, the words read like a lifeline thrown from a world of silk sheets, private jets, and people who never had to check their bank balance before buying coffee, each sentence crafted with care that feels almost foreign. The message is signed with three names, not usernames or aliases, but real names. Familiar names.

James Potter. Sirius Black. Remus Lupin.

The names hit like a frying pan to the back of the head — unsubtle, ridiculous, impossible to ignore. Your heart kicks like a startled animal. The cold wall presses against your spine — paint flaking slightly, your pyjamas no defense against its bite. Your leg cramps halfway to sitting upright. Typical. You blink once, twice, but the words on the screen don't change. You know these names. Everyone does. You've laughed at their chaos, watched their interviews, dismissed them as untouchable. But this? A message? To you?

Your thumb hovers — equal parts ready to scroll, screenshot, or accidentally block them out of sheer panic. You read the message again, and then once more for good measure. It begins with the expected cheekiness, the kind of banter that seems fitting for their public personas. But then it shifts, subtly. It becomes something else—something startlingly sincere. They talk about verification, about being cautious. About looking out for you—not in a predatory sense, but with an intimacy that feels considerate. Genuine. Almost protective.

A knot forms — stomach muscles drawing tight the way they do when old fear kicks in, like your body's forgotten this isn't a threat. You tap through to their page, scanning the images. Their names. Their faces. The unmistakable badge of identity verification beneath their shared profile name. The app doesn't hand those out lightly. The badge confirms what your mind struggles to accept: they are exactly who they say they are.

And as reality sinks in, your chest tightens. Because if they really did check your social media, they didn't just see the polished posts or filtered selfies. Oh god. They saw it all. The DWP rants. The 3am poetry that could kill a man with secondhand embarrassment. The 'fuck capitalism but make it embroidery' reels.

Pieces of yourself, scattered across the internet like breadcrumbs meant for no one, yet followed by them. And now you're left feeling both seen and exposed, unsure whether to lean into the attention or retreat from its intensity.

You know the line by heart already. It still hits: "You're not just someone who survives, you thrive despite everything life throws at you. We have so much love to give and with the right person, that love only grows. We saw your profile and we all just... knew."

Not hoped. Not wondered. Knew.

You don't know how long you sit there, rereading, absorbing the words. Time feels both still and fluid, a river caught in a moment of suspension. Your mind whirls, trying to reconcile the surrealism of what's unfolding before your eyes. It's too ridiculous to be fake. It's too real to be comfortable.

Your lips press together, a tumult of emotions churning within you: fear, curiosity, and a spark of something that feels suspiciously like hope—a sensation long absent from your heart.

What is it that makes you hesitate? It's more than their fame, their impossible reach. It's the way they've extended a hand not to the polished avatar you present to the world, but to the raw reality beneath. The part of you that yearns for more than the sterile routine of your days, that craves heat and chaos, care and connection. You didn't think anyone could see that side of you, let alone three of the most prominent figures in the world.

You scroll back up to the message, your gaze lingering on each line. Three men. Three lives colliding with yours. One opportunity. The words seem to pulse with a challenge, daring you to believe, to reach beyond the confines of your world and grasp at something more.

Your fingers hover over the screen, pulling back and then reaching forward again. You type a sentence, delete it, consider moving to a monastery, then settle for the digital equivalent of lighting a cigarette and raising an unimpressed brow. This isn't like you. You've always been one step ahead, always had an armour of charm, sarcasm, or avoidance ready to wear. But now, it's different. Now, you need something real.

You're no stranger to attention, especially the kind that comes with hidden barbs and false smiles. But this? This message from three men you've only known through glossy photos and news headlines—it's unexpected.

There's a rhythm to their words, a melody that resonates inside you. You can feel the authenticity, see the emotion behind the language. There's flirting, but it's laced with honesty. Confidence, but also vulnerability. It unsettles you in a way you can't quite name, but the feeling lingers, insistent and unignorable. Your gut doesn't scream danger—it whispers possibility.

You read their message again, and then once more for good measure. Their names on your screen seem larger than life, yet somehow tangible. They feel familiar, yet just out of reach. The way they talk about themselves, the details they share—too specific to be generic, too messy to be scripted. It sounds like three people who know each other well, who understand their own flaws and strengths. It feels like home, if home were silk sheets, warm fires, and the thrill of the unknown.

When you finally reply, your words aren't poetic or profound. But they are yours, and there's power in that.

Alright, color me impressed.

You lean into irreverence like it's a shield, but you don't hide behind it. You match their kindness with your own strength, letting them see that you expected to be let down and yet here you are, pleasantly surprised. Not charmed—not yet—but seen in a way that feels rare.

You'd expect caution from them. You demand it from yourself.

You: You said I stirred something. You might've done the same.

You hit the send button, your fingers briefly hovering over the screen as if they could pull back the message that's already speeding through cyberspace. Your heart beats a rapid tattoo against your ribs, each thump echoing the nervous anticipation coursing through your veins.

This could be it. This could be the start of something amazing. Or it could crash and burn, another disappointment to add to the pile you've been accumulating over the years. But for now, in this moment, you allow yourself to hope.

You: Let's talk.

You sit back, phone resting heavily in your lap. You expect silence—the drawn-out seconds turning into minutes as you wait for a reply that might never come. Another part of you braces for the usual casualness, the flippant response that shows they didn't read between the lines, didn't catch the gravity behind your words. That's what you're used to—responses that arrive days late, if at all, or surface-level flirtation that lacks any real depth.

But then your phone lights up, the screen flashing with a new message before you've even had time to fully process the implications of what you've just done. And suddenly, there it is—your breath hitching as you take in the words that feel both intimate and public, a confession laid out for anyone to see yet meant for your eyes alone.

The pace of their response belies a sense of urgency, a rhythm that mirrors your own heartbeat—steady, not rushed, but eager. As if they were waiting, finger poised above the send button, ready to dive into this conversation with the same fervor that grips you.

It opens with a joke.

Boys: We planned, by the way. We had a whole script planned — Sirius wrote a dramatic monologue (of course), I vetoed it (obviously), and Remus threatened to ignore us both unless we started speaking like actual humans and not drunken poets. But now? Blank page. Improv time.

Your laughter is sudden, unbidden. It's been too long since a message made you laugh—a real laugh, not just a polite titter behind a teacup. They are chaos personified, yet there's something so genuine that it's hard to believe anyone could fabricate this. Their words unfurl like a live conversation, full of overlapping voices, spontaneous interjections, and the messy charm of unscripted life.

Then the tone shifts, seamlessly yet definitively.

Boys: You have a way with words that implies you could devastate a person without once raising your voice. It's intriguing. We appreciate the unusual.

You blink at the screen, reading the line once, twice. It settles into the pit of your stomach, a soft weight that somehow manages to be sharp around the edges. You didn't realise you were holding your breath until it escapes in a slow exhale, leaving you stunned. It's not just a line—it's an observation. A precise one.

The boys continue, speaking of timing and chance encounters. Of how reaching out felt like shooting an arrow into the dark, not really expecting it to find its mark. Of how James doubted you'd respond, and Sirius whooped when you did. Of Remus, who checked the notification three times before leaning back with a calm, "Of course she replied. Look at her—she's captivating."

They banter about whether to keep texting or hold off, to give space or fill it, each suggestion met with laughter and playful jabs. Sirius apparently wants to inundate your inbox with messages, while James advocates for a more nonchalant approach. Remus remains silent on the matter, though you imagine him watching the exchange with an amused smile.

There's relief in their voices, even through text—a sense of ease found in the presence of someone who doesn't seem to be putting on a performance. Someone who doesn't speak in well-rehearsed lines or feigned vulnerability. They don't call you genuine—that word, perhaps, is too simple, too easily thrown around—but the sentiment is there, woven into every line. It's as if they've stumbled upon something they didn't realise they were searching for until it was right in front of them.

You stare at the screen for a moment. This could all unravel at any time. It might be a fleeting connection that fades as quickly as it appeared. But it hasn't yet. There's a pull—curiosity, perhaps, or maybe even a hint of excitement. You take a deep breath and type out a response.

You: Okay. That almost made me blush.

The next message arrives before your phone has a chance to lock. The tone is lighter, more playful, as though someone typed it out in a rush of shared laughter.

Boys: We're printing that out and putting it on the wall. Framed. With dramatic lighting. Maybe laminated.

Boys: Also: Sirius says he's falling for your writing style, which sounds like something you'd put on a tote bag.

You laugh. Out loud this time. The sound startles the quiet room, bounces off the walls like something uninvited but not unwelcome. You've forgotten what it feels like to be caught off guard by something good. Something that doesn't want to take or twist, but just... meet you.

You type back before you can second-guess yourself:

You: This is dangerously effective. I hate how much I'm smiling.

The reply comes quickly, a winking emoji followed by a flurry of messages:

Boys: We've seen that smile on your socials, and we can't get enough, but we want to earn it in person. No pressure, no timeline. Just let us prove we're worth that smile when you're ready.

The pause stretches out, and for a moment you think that maybe that's it for the night. But then another message comes through, its tone softer, more deliberate. You can almost hear Remus's voice behind it, steady and reassuring.

Boys: Take all the time you need to get comfortable. We're not in any rush. Just want to make sure we're on the same page.

His words, gentle but firm, are like balm to your senses. There's respect here, and patience—a stark contrast to the demands and assumptions you've grown so used to.

You hesitate, thumb hovering over your phone screen for a moment longer as you process what he's saying. A slow smile curls the corners of your mouth upward. It's strange and unfamiliar, this warmth spreading through you. It's not just desire they're showing—it's interest, genuine and seemingly without agenda.

Your eyes flicker to the blinking cursor, uncertainty gnawing at the edges of your consciousness. There's no script for this, no guidebook to tell you what comes next. Only the unfolding conversation and the spark of something new kindling within you.

You: Alright, let's see if you can keep up.

You hit send, your finger hovering over the screen for a moment longer than necessary. There's a twinge of uncertainty, a whisper in your mind wondering if this could all be a mistake. But it doesn't shout or echo—it simply fades. Excitement stirs in its place as you realize you've just thrown down the gauntlet. You lean back against the pillows, phone still clutched in your hand, and wait.

You've never played this game before, not like this. It's always been a dance of small talk and niceties, surface-level conversations that leave you feeling empty and unfulfilled. But this is different. Their approach is brazen yet careful, blurring the line between playful banter and genuine interest. It feels new and old at the same time, like a melody you forgot you knew by heart.

Boys: Okay, tell us about your ideal day without any technology or responsibilities. Where would you go? What would you do? We're taking notes.

The corners of your mouth lift in a smile, light breaking through the cloud that has settled over your evening. This isn't the typical question you'd expect from someone trying to get to know you. There's no mention of your job, your past relationships, or your future aspirations—just a simple curiosity about what makes you happy. The question catches you off guard, but in a good way. Perhaps they want to understand you, not just know you.

You: Somewhere quiet. Secluded. Woods, maybe. Or the edge of a lake. Nothing curated for a photo. Just... space. A cabin. A record player. Barefoot in the kitchen. Drinking coffee until it's late enough for wine. A hammock. A slow morning. Nothing tat feels like performing. Just existing.

Boys: James is jotting down "lake cabin" like it's a mission statement. Sirius claims he's searching "aesthetic velvet cabins," whatever that means. Remus has gone suspiciously silent, which we can only assume means he's mentally packing his favourite books for this hypothetical getaway.

The sound of your laughter is soft, almost imperceptible, but it lingers in the room long after. The image of them conjuring you up, tucked away in some tranquil corner of the world and wishing they were there with you—it's a strange comfort that holds back the night.

Boys: Well, that seems fair enough. All right, your turn. Ask us anything.

You: What's your version? If you could run off anywhere for a while, where would you go?

Boys: James would choose a cabin in the mountains, somewhere remote, where the air is crisp and the mornings are still. He'd fill his days with hearty breakfasts cooked over an open fire, long hikes through the snow, and evenings spent on the deck, overlooking a valley that stretches out forever. And maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't mind having someone to share the view with.

Boys: Sirius, on the other hand, would opt for a luxurious hotel suite in the heart of a bustling city. He'd lounge around in silk robes, sipping champagne and admiring the art hanging on the walls. Music would fill the space, loud and unapologetic, as he danced around, causing mischief even miles above the ground. And when hunger strikes at odd hours of the night, he'd ring for room service without a second thought.

Boys: And Remus? His sanctuary would be a library, vast and quiet, with a fire that never goes out. The shelves would be filled with books, their pages worn from countless readings. He'd write whenever the mood strikes, the only sound the scratching of his quill against parchment. And when the quiet becomes too much, he'd invite friends over, filling the room with lively debate and laughter. But as the evening wears on, he'd retreat with a book, reading aloud to anyone who doesn't mind drifting off to the sound of his voice.

The replies are predictable, yet they carry a warmth that feels sincere. They sound less like pipe dreams and more like goals etched onto the blueprint of reality.

You: Your answers are as consistent as your image, I see.

Boys: We're nothing if not professional.

Boys: And, according to Remus, overachievers in romance.

Boys: Only because we've deemed you worth the effort.

The words hang in the air, each one heavier than you expected, laden with intent and promise. They seem certain of this, as though it was decided long before now, with you at the centre of their plans.

You: And if we're all in the same place, what's the first thing you're doing?

Boys: Making coffee for James. Something small that means everything. He wants to see you in someone else's shirt, bleary-eyed and soft around the edges. A bit of mischief for Sirius. He's tugging you back into bed—or maybe the bath—anywhere he can have your lips on his without interruption. Quiet time for Remus. Reading on the deck. A glance across the room that feels like a secret. The kind of closeness that needs no words.

There's a warmth spreading through your chest now, slow and steady. If they mean even half of what they say, it would be easy to fall for them. Too easy, perhaps.

Boys: We're going to make it happen, you know. Any of it. All of it. Whatever you want.

You: We'll see.

Boys: We will. If you let us.

Hours later, they propose a switch to another platform—not for privacy, they assure you, but so they can each have individual profiles. So you can see who is typing, when. It's a small thing, but it tells you that they care about the details. It tells you that they want this to be more than just an anonymous exchange.

You know you shouldn't, but the lure of it—the novelty, the audacity—draws you in.

It's surprisingly easy to say yes, to succumb to curiosity, even as your instincts scream otherwise.

When you find them on the new platform, their profile pictures are exactly what you'd expect: bold, deliberate, as intriguing as the men themselves. James is in a suit that seems tailored to match his confidence—sharp lines and a subtle smirk playing on his lips. Sirius's photo is like a Caravaggio painting brought to life, chiaroscuro highlighting the contours of his bare torso, his eyes alight with some untold mischief. And then there's Remus, bathed in soft light with an open book in his lap, his gaze meeting yours through the screen—a silent invitation to delve deeper.

They don't ask for anything, not really. They are there, a constant presence that doesn't impose but invites. The compliments they pay aren't the kind to make you blush and look away—they're the sort that make your brow furrow in thought, a challenge wrapped in praise. The questions they pose don't require an immediate answer. Instead, they linger in the air, gently nudging you to consider the world from a different perspective.

And they talk to you—not at you, not around you, but directly to you—as though you already belong to their narrative, as though you're not merely auditioning for a role but have been part of the cast all along. As though the story is richer, fuller, just because you're in it.

James: Did you have dinner yet, or are you one of those who subsist on vibes and air?

Sirius: Or determination. Or revenge. I hope it's revenge.

You: I had a cookie and a grudge.

Remus: A dangerous combination, but highly effective, I imagine.

A smile is already tugging at your lips as you watch the words appear, one after another, across your screen. It's a reflex, this joy that blossoms in your chest, unfurling like a flower towards the sun. They are here—bright and beautiful and so impossibly themselves—and it feels like taking the first gulp of fresh air after being held underwater for too long.

Sirius: Alright then, favourite villain. Don't hold back.

James: She'll pick someone obscure just to mess with us.

You: Magneto. Nothing quite like a bit of chaos.

Remus: Understandable, really. He's wild, justified, and a touch tragic. Makes sense.

You: And what about you three?

Sirius: Guilty as charged.

James: Also present!

Remus: Unfortunately, I'm here too.

You: Tragic and wild, or just really good at drama?

James: We're a bit of everything, really.

Sirius: And we do everything mostly shirtless.

James: With excellent taste in music, too.

Their words interweave like a melody, each note vibrant with the essence of their personalities. They craft a symphony of conversation that feels more like a dance than a dialogue: James, charming and often leading; Sirius, energetic and slightly chaotic, providing a whirlwind of amusement; and Remus, the grounding presence whose quiet strength underlies the others' vivacity. As you follow their exchanges, you can nearly hear them—three distinct voices painting a picture in your mind.

Your laughter is a surprised sound, more genuine than you expected. They are hilarious, undeniably so, and they know it. But there's an unpracticed quality to their humor, a freshness that makes each joke land with a satisfying punch. There's no performance here, no artifice, just the unguarded interaction of friends.

Sirius: Don't let James fool you into thinking he's the nice one here.

James: I am the nice one!

Remus: He likes to think so. Doesn't always show, though.

You: Noted. Not scared, though.

Sirius: That's what we like to see, bravery in the face of danger.

Your phone buzzes again, this time with a picture from James. It's a moody shot, the focus on a bottle of wine—expensive by the looks of it—half empty, its deep red contents reflecting the soft glow of nearby lights. The background is blurred but inviting, suggesting a setting that's intentionally cozy.

Sirius: He picked that bottle because it reminded him of your mouth.

James doesn't deny it. He doesn't have to.

The next photo you send is of your favourite chipped mug. It's not fancy china or crystal stemware—it's solid and slightly rebellious, having survived countless late-night writing sessions and early morning tea rounds. It's as much a part of you as your stubborn streak and your fondness for simple comforts. You hold it up like a toast, the steam long gone, but the message clear—this is your shield, your challenge. And you know they'll understand it for what it is.

Remus: That chipped edge is poetry.

Sirius: So is that mouth.

James: What are you drinking? Let me guess—something sweet and full-bodied.

You: Builders tea. Went cold an hour ago, but I'm still drinking it.

Remus: Tenacity is a flavor.

James: It suits you.

The attention is measured, each syllable weighing just enough to keep the scales of conversation balanced. It does not press down, does not demand; it welcomes, it waits. And for once, you notice, you're not retreating—you're leaning in.

James: If I asked what you're wearing, would you make fun of me or answer seriously?

You: I'd do both. Isn't that your whole thing?

Sirius: Touché.

Remus: Let me guess. Something soft but worn. Something that says, 'I don't care,' but matches your soul anyway."

Your hand instinctively touches the fabric of your hoodie—the one you've pulled on for countless late nights and rough days. You pause, your heart skipping a beat. They can't see you, they shouldn't know you this well. It's strange, yes, but not unsettling. Rather, it's oddly comforting. They don't just look; they see.

James: You can't just survive on tea and mystery, no matter how much you may want to.

You: That's where you're wrong. Watch me.

Sirius: No, he's right. Silk pyjamas are essential. We'll add those to our mystery package.

Remus: Along with a library, perhaps?

You: Books and chaos? Sounds like my kind of party.

Sirius: Good. We specialize in that.

They're letting you take the reins here, or at least they're making it feel that way. There's something undeniably empowering about it.

Sirius: Are you always this good at winning people over with your silences?

You: Only when it matters.

Remus: Then consider me captivated.

You: You don't even know me.

James: But we're trying to, aren't we? That's got to count for something.

And they are trying—really trying. Not just with words, but with a raw honesty that's impossible to ignore.

James: I'm picturing you barefoot in the kitchen, stealing the last piece of toast and looking smug about it.

You: Why would I be smug? The toast is mine.

Sirius: She's right. This is terrifying.

Remus: It's also hot.

James: Tell us something petty you'd die defending.

You: Marmite belongs in the bin. Fight me.

Sirius: This might be the most British thing I've ever read. And you're wrong.

James: She's going to make us breakfast just to insult our pantry. I'm into it.

Remus: Only if she lets me pick the tea.

Sirius: I'll bring champagne. Just in case.

James: She deserves bubbles.

You don't mention the budget spreadsheets on your laptop or the knot of worry that twisted tighter with every item you put in your basket at Tesco yesterday. You don't talk about how tired you are of making do and how odd it feels to be on the receiving end of such casual generosity. But for a moment, the weight on your chest eases, as though their consideration is a warmth you didn't know you were lacking.

James: Do you like being spoiled?

You: I like when it means someone thought about me.

Sirius: We haven't stopped.

Remus: And we won't.

James: Unless you tell us to bugger off, of course. But even then, we'll probably just grumble and keep doing it anyway.

Sirius: I might protest dramatically. Perhaps without a shirt on. Possibly while wet.

You: Now you're just trying to distract me from the pain.

Remus: Is it working?

You: ...maybe.

James: Let us cook for you one day. All three of us. You pick the menu.

Sirius: And we'll argue about who gets to do what part, probably end with some sort of food fight and one of us serenading you with a wooden spoon as a microphone.

Remus: And you won't be allowed to lift a finger. Unless you want to. And if you insist, let it be the dessert.

Sirius: We'll light candles, play some soft music, pretend we're not all watching you out of the corner of our eyes when you laugh.

James: Spoiler: we will be watching.

Remus: Because you're worth watching.

You stare at the screen, your heart beating in a steady rhythm that feels like a reassurance from your own body. Your cheeks are warm, making you want to both hide and send another picture just to see how they'll react next.

You: You're making it hard to stay cynical.

Sirius: Good. You'd be gorgeous in hope.

James: You already are.

Remus: We just want to be the ones who get to keep watching it happen.

The messages fall silent for a while, giving you the space you didn't realize you needed. For once, you feel seen—not as a problem to be fixed or a project to be completed, but as something valuable, something that someone might want to care for.

"You shouldn't trust them," a voice in your head warns, but you find yourself pushing it away.

———

The alarm buzzes softly at 6:45 a.m., its vibrations subtly shifting the air around you. Through the veil of curtains, daylight hints at the world beyond, but your body resists the call to wakefulness. Your eyes feel dry and gritty, weighted down by sleep and the relentless march of days just like this one. The dull ache at the base of your skull whispers of another difficult day ahead, and you find yourself cocooned by a sense of dread that is as intimate as it is unwelcome.

Every inch of you throbs with a pain that seems woven into your very bones. You reach for the phone on your bedside table more out of habit than desire, expecting the worst—a reminder of an unpaid bill, a missed call from a frustrated client, yet another headline that will tighten the knot in your stomach. But instead, the screen lights up with two unread messages from James.

The first arrived at 5:07 a.m.—a voice note. You press play, still half-hidden beneath the covers, one eye squinting against the brightness of the phone. Your face is pressed into the pillow, breath warm against the fabric, as the blanket wraps around your legs like a protective barrier against the encroaching day.

There's the sound of a yawn, long and unguarded, followed by the soft clink of metal—barbells, maybe—and the rhythmic pattern of someone moving through a workout. Then his voice cuts through the noise, low and steady, and you can almost forget what it is you're dreading.

"Morning, beautiful," he begins, his words carrying the warmth of a smile you can't see but know is there. "I know you're probably still asleep. Just wanted you to wake up knowing I'm thinking about you. Do you like espresso or tea in bed?"

The message ends, leaving behind only the hum of your own thoughts. You sit up slowly, letting the sheet fall away from your body. The air is cool against your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms. You shiver, not from the chill, but from the unfamiliar sensation of being seen—even if it's from a distance.

The second message came at 6:30. Three photos this time. The first image is of a breakfast plate that could have been torn from the pages of a gourmet magazine. Soft-boiled eggs quartered to reveal their golden centers, avocado spread on lightly toasted bread, sprinkled with red chili flakes and fresh herbs. The second picture shows a small plate of strawberries, their surfaces glossy with freshness, edges sharply defined against the white porcelain.

And then there's the third photo. It's James himself, standing in his kitchen, shirtless. He holds his phone in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. The message reads: Made enough for two. Just saying.

You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. This man is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

Still smiling, you start typing back, your thumbs moving slowly but affectionately over the screen.

You: Tea. One sugar. Not a morning person, but I could be persuaded.

You: Also, it's not fair how good you make toast look.

His reply comes almost immediately, making you shake your head.

James: I make a lot of things look good. Want a demo later?

You: Cheeky.

James: Only for you (and my boys, obviously).

The conversation continues, fluid and unforced. You don't have to search for the right words; they simply flow from your fingers, a natural extension of your thoughts.

Eventually, you force yourself to sit up in bed, every muscle protesting the movement. Your legs feel like lead weights, and your hips grind together, a familiar discomfort that comes with waking up wrong. You move with the stiffness of an old toy left out in the rain, joints creaking with disuse. The stairs are a battle, each step a victory hard-won, and by the time you reach the sink, your shoulders bear the weight of unseen burdens. But you push through it because you have an appointment today at 9 a.m. with another specialist. You already know what they'll say, but you go anyway because not going means not trying, and if you stop trying, they'll stop believing you. And you can't afford that—not when you're barely keeping your head above water as it is.

At 7:12, your phone buzzes with another message from Remus.

Remus: Good morning. How's your body today?

You pause, toothbrush halfway to your mouth, and stare at the screen. The question catches you off guard. It's not flirtatious or probing—it's just... there. Genuine concern without expectation. He doesn't ask what you're doing; he asks how you are—how your body is.

You rinse, spit, and lean heavily against the sink, looking up into the mirror. The face staring back at you is one you don't often let others see: pale, drawn, eyes shadowed with more than just lack of sleep.

You: Enough. Sore, but functioning.

"Functioning." The word feels hollow even as you type it out, a mere shadow of what your life used to be.

Remus: I wish it were more than that for you, Y/N.

His response is immediate, the concern palpable even through the digital divide. You sit perched on the closed toilet lid, your phone cradled in the crook of your knee, fingers hovering uncertainly over the screen.

You: Thank you, Remus. That... means more than I expected.

There's a certain comfort in his words, an unexpected balm to the raw edges of your reality. It's a kindness you didn't realize you were missing until now.

Remus: Kindness shouldn't be unexpected, especially not for someone who deserves it.

Your heart throbs with an unfamiliar warmth, the embers of hope stirring ever so slightly within its weary depths.

James: He asked first because he's better at soft things. I was gonna ask if you wanted to be stolen away for bad jokes and tea.

You: Remus asks the soft things, you promise tea, and Sirius will probably offer me a crime. That's a terrifyingly effective system you've got there.

James: We are a highly advanced ecosystem of menace and care, thank you for noticing.

At just after 8, as you climb into the taxi, coat buttoned up to your chin and scarf wound tight around your throat, your phone buzzes again.

Remus: Would you prefer voice notes today, or is text easier?

The message sits there, unassuming and simple, yet laden with a consideration that tugs at something deep within you. Your thumb hovers over the screen, undecided, while your mind conjures up the sound of his voice—steady and grounding, like the earth beneath your feet after a storm.

But your throat constricts, muscles straining against the invisible vice tightening around your vocal cords. The thought of speaking aloud—even to the safety of your phone—is daunting, another mountain to scale when all you can do is crawl.

The words are simple, but they hold the weight of your world within them. Remus's reply comes sooner than you expect, the notification lighting up your phone with a soft glow.

Remus: That's fine. Take all the time you need. We're here.

James's message appears a heartbeat later, a reassuring presence in the palm of your hand.

James: Whenever you want to chat—or even just sit with a cuppa—we'll be there.

You: But you're always ready.

James: For you? We can't help it.

You clutch the phone tighter, as if their words could somehow seep through the screen and wrap around you, offering the comfort you desperately need. The cab hums around you, its engine rumbling as it weaves through the morning fog.

Outside, people hustle past, their lives a blur of motion against the grey backdrop of the cityscape. They carry on, oblivious to your turmoil, their indifference a stark contrast to the concern emanating from your phone.

In this digital space, someone sees you. Someone notices when you falter, when you can't give as much as you take. And they wait.

Kindness wasn't something you expected today, yet it found you, nestled between the lines of text and the gentle ping of notifications. It waits patiently, asking for nothing in return but for you to remember that you're not alone.

And for now, that's enough.

———

The hospital doors slide shut behind you, the cold air a harsh contrast to the stifling sterility you've left behind. You're already exhausted, each step a reminder of the appointment that ran twenty minutes over schedule and did little more than confirm what you already knew: your body is not your own.

Pain is a constant companion, but it's the fatigue—the bone-deep weariness—that weighs heaviest now. Another morning spent listing symptoms, scaling pain, and nodding along to advice that feels as hollow as the spaces between your ribs. The bright lights and sterile smells linger, as do the forced smiles and polite voices that miss the point entirely.

You settle onto a bench outside, hugging your coat tighter around your middle, seeking warmth that eludes your grasp. Your phone buzzes in your pocket, a lifeline tethering you to a reality beyond this.

There are three unread messages waiting, each one a window into another world, another life. One where things are simpler, less fraught with the spectre of illness and the toll it takes.

James: Sirius is debating whether it's too early for mesh tops. I told him it's never too early for madness.

Remus: What does your day look like, love?

And the latest from Sirius, time-stamped three minutes ago—an image: he's draped in a robe that screams hotel spa luxury, eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass, cradling an espresso cup the size of a thimble, his smirk promising trouble. The message reads: Am I fashionably late or dramatically on time?

A laugh bubbles up before you can stop it, small but genuine. It's surprising how much better you feel for the sound of it. Your shoulders ease in a way they haven't all morning. It's the first real noise you've made since waking up.

You: Mesh never goes out of style. Today's plan mostly involves breathing and not dying. Maybe some light pretending everything is fine. Might take a dramatic nap later. As for Sirius—punctuality isn't really your thing. You arrive. That's the event.

That sets off a flurry.

James: I'm using that line. That's going in our group bio somewhere.

Remus: We'll add 'excellent at dodging questions' to your skill set.

Sirius: Finally, someone who gets it. Wait until you see the back of this robe.

You: Don't tempt me. I might actually want to.

James: As your future drink delivery man, I fully support this.

Sirius: May I offer myself as your personal entertainment system? Premium subscription, includes pictures and voice notes guaranteed to tug at the heartstrings.

You: Interesting. And how would one go about cancelling this subscription?

Remus: No cancellations allowed, I'm afraid. Only upgrades to include more affection and occasional questionable baked goods from James.

James: Hey, my baking's not that bad!

Remus: He makes things he's not familiar with and doesn't bother to follow the recipe properly. Honestly, if he spent half as much time reading the instructions as he does trying to add his own 'flair'—

James: But that's just it! The flair is what makes it special.

You laugh again, this time a bit louder. A couple walking past your bench glance at you curiously, but you don't care how you appear to them. Your fingers tap swiftly against the screen, each message from your friends anchoring you more firmly to the present moment. They have no idea where you are, what kind of morning you've had, and yet their concern envelops you like a warm blanket. It's not born out of pity—it just exists. Uncomplicated. Freely given.

You: Drinks, snacks, baked goods, and random robe pics. Truly the full-service experience.

Sirius: You deserve nothing less.

James: And definitely more.

Remus: Starting with an easier day. If I could give you one directly, I would.

Your Uber pulls up in front of the hospital, a beacon of normalcy in the otherwise surreal morning. You wave at the driver through the windshield as you stand, leaning on your cane, then send off one last text before sliding into the back seat.

You: This helped more than I can say. Thank you.

James: Anytime, love. We're very available. Obnoxiously so.

Sirius: Especially if you want to see the robe from the back.

Remus: He means 'you're welcome.'

You sink into the backseat, your head resting against the cool window. The pain is still there, a dull throb in the back of your mind, but it's quieter now, muffled by the promise of rest.

The group chat continues to buzz long after you've arrived home. You've barely kicked off your shoes and crawled into bed when your phone lights up again, their names glowing like beacons in the dim room. Their messages are a balm, a lifeline that eases the weight of exhaustion pressing down on you and makes the morning's ordeal seem a little less overwhelming.

James is especially active, chiming in between what he dubs "the world's most dreadfully boring virtual meetings." You can almost see him as he describes—seated in his sleek, modern home office, shirt slightly unbuttoned at the collar, tie loosened, the glow from his laptop screen casting long shadows across his face. Even amidst the tediousness of budget spreadsheets and conference calls, he finds moments to think of you, to reach out and weave you into the fabric of his day.

James: Thinking about you is the only thing getting me through this budget meeting. I've drawn a tiny heart next to your name in my notebook. Send help. Or a distraction.

You: Show me the heart. Dare you.

James: Challenge accepted, love. Where are you right now? Still curled up in bed looking like a goddess?

You: Naturally. Did you expect any less? I told you, I plan to live here today.

A few moments pass and then, a photo notification lights up your screen. True to his word, there's a small, hastily drawn heart next to your name, tucked away in the corner of his notes. Beneath it, a reminder to himself reads: "Get her flowers."

James: Don't worry, love. The wheels are already turning. At this rate, I might just send you the entire flower shop.

His words are a balm, a promise of something beautiful amidst the pain. You smile despite yourself, heart fluttering at the thought of flowers arriving at your doorstep, each one carrying a sentiment from a man you've never met but who somehow seems to understand.

Remus, too, chimes in, his messages more spaced out, thoughtful, yet steady. He's supposed to be planning his next book, he says, but admits he hasn't written a single word all morning. Instead, he's lost in old books, searching for lines that catch his attention because they remind him of you. Not just the surface of you—the sharp edges and cold exterior—but the depth beneath, the strength and resilience that has carried you through life's harshest storms.

Remus: I'm being entirely unproductive today, but it turns out there are more lines that make me think of you in literature than I realised. Shall I keep sending them?

You: Please do. I'm collecting compliments and literary angst under this blanket like a dragon hoarding gold.

A few moments pass before another message lights up your screen, this time from Remus. His words are softer now, almost hesitant as if he's aware of the gravity they carry.

Remus: If softness is something you've bled for, I'll spend years learning how to touch you like it's holy.

You: Keep talking like that and I might let you prove it.

And then there's Sirius.

Sirius thrives in chaos, and it shows even in the way he delivers his messages. He opts for voice notes, each one a confession wrapped in velvet tones. His voice, smooth with confidence and tinged with an irresistible rogue charm, fills your space, making you feel as though he's right there with you, sharing secrets only you are privy to.

"Okay, so... I almost got kicked out of the Cannes Film Festival once," he begins, the smirk in his voice audible. "It's a long story, but it involved a vintage Versace suit, four martinis, and a very angry French producer with no sense of humor. I still don't regret it."

You: Of course you don't. You act like regret is an alien concept to you.

The next voice note arrives without pause—Sirius doesn't give you much room to breathe between his tales.

"Why should I learn regret," he says, "when I've made a habit of collecting moments like they're precious art heists? You don't hang guilt on your walls, darling—you hang stories."

You: How is it that every story you tell sounds so unbelievable, yet coming from you, I find myself accepting it as total truth?

"Perhaps it's because chaos has a way of finding me, even when I don't seek it out," he admits in his next voice note, the lightness in his voice belying the gravity of his words. "But enough about that. Let's discuss something more to your taste."

There's a brief pause in the voice note, and then his voice returns, smooth as velvet.

"Do you know what it feels like to own velvet? Not just to wear it, but to own it—to recline in a chair as if you own the world, with nothing to prove but how good you look doing nothing at all. That's the image I have for you. That's the life I want to give you."

You laugh before you can stop yourself—a surprised, head-shaking kind of laugh that you try to smother with your pillow, because of course he would change the subject like that. Of course he'd leave you reeling, off-balance.

You: Now you're just trying to overwhelm me. It's working.

Minutes later, another voice message arrives, a melange of song and speech, laughter threading through the words like spun gold.

"There was once an evening," he begins, the smile evident in his tone, "when I found myself rather drunk at an art auction. I ended up purchasing, of all things, a life-sized tiger sculpture. The thing is hideous, all bright gold and green eyes, and it cost me a small fortune."

There's a pause, a rustle of fabric, and then more laughter, rich and warm.

"I named her Gloria," he confesses, the sounds of mirth subsiding into a fond sigh. "She resides in my office now, a constant reminder of that reckless night. Sometimes, when I'm procrastinating and look up to find those gleaming eyes upon me, I nod in acknowledgement, almost as if she's passing judgment on my lack of work ethic. And despite everything, I find I've grown quite fond of her. Remus and James, however..."

You: How I long to meet Gloria and stand beneath her watchful gaze.

Sirius: You would be most welcome in my office, but be warned — it can be hard to leave.

Another voice message appears, the playfulness in Sirius's tone replaced by something darker, more intimate: "By the way, I do hope you sleep on silk sheets already. If not, then that is truly a shock we will need to rectify. Or better yet, I could show you mine and invite you into them."

You: Is that a warning or a promise?

Sirius: It's always both.

The image that comes through next is of James himself, his eyes rolling to the heavens and a smirk threatening to break free. The message reads: And remind me why I'm not there instead of sitting through these meetings? I make excellent coffee and questionable decisions—it's really the best combination.

Before you can respond, Remus jumps in:

Remus: We were trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism.

Sirius: And failing miserably. It's quite pitiful, really. Y/N, do come and put us out of our misery, will you? I'll leave the door unlocked and the bed warm.

You sink deeper into the comforter, phone in hand, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. They don't know much about you—they don't know how hard you had to fight just to get up this morning—but their words, light and teasing, catch you off guard. They touch a part of you that yearns for something you dare not name.

You didn't expect this—this softness, this silliness, this undercurrent of genuine care beneath layers of luxury and wild charm.

But you want it. You want it all.

[ahqkas]

A funny little request of gf!reader who had a lot of brothers so she always had gotten into play fights with them. Soon into the future mattheo challenged her to an arm wrestle only to be completely stumped at her beating him.

STRONGER THAN ALL MY MEN ; mattheo riddle

HARRY POTTER MASTERLIST!

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

GROWING UP IN A HOUSE FULL OF BROTHERS, YOU HAD ALWAYS BEEN BROUGHT INTO A WORLD OF PLAYFUL ROUGHHOUSING AND FRIENDLY COMPETITIONS. You were no stranger to the feel of a playful punch, the exhilaration of a well-executed tackle, or the strategic maneuvering needed to win an important wrestling match. It was in this home that you had gotten your strength and resilience, learning to hold your own and even come out on top more often than not. Your brothers had instilled in you a sense of fierce competitiveness, one that you carried into every aspect of your life.

So when Mattheo, with his cocky grin and challenging eyes, proposed an arm-wrestling match, you couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement. You had grown to love Mattheo's confidence and his restless spirit, but this was an arena where you felt particularly confident. You accepted his challenge with a smirk, a glint of determination in your eyes.

The two of you found a sturdy table in the common room, drawing the curious gazes of a few fellow students. Mattheo rolled up his sleeves, exposing his muscular forearms, and settled into his chair, his expression one of easy confidence. You took your seat opposite him, rolling up your own sleeves and revealing arms that, while not as bulky, were lean and defined from years of spirited competition with your brothers.

"Ready to be beaten by a girl?" you teased, arching an eyebrow as you clasped his hand.

"We'll see about that," Mattheo shot back, his grin widening. His eyes sparkled with amusement, but there was also a flicker of genuine curiosity. He was used to being strong, to winning physical fights with ease. The thought of you beating him was both surprising and strangely thrilling.

Lorenzo, who had been observing the scene from a distance, decided to take on the role of referee. With a dramatic flourish, he placed his hands on top of yours and Mattheo's clasped hands, looking between the two of you with a twinkle in his eye. "On my count," he announced. "Three, two, one . . . go!"

The initial push was intense. Mattheo's strength was evident, his muscles tensing as he applied pressure. But you met his force with equal determination, your grip steady and your arm unwavering. The crowd around you leaned in, eyes wide with anticipation.

As the seconds ticked by, it became clear that this was not going to be an easy win for Mattheo. His brow furrowed in concentration, a bead of sweat forming at his temple. You could feel his surprise through the subtle shifts in his grip, the way his eyes flicked to yours, searching for some sign of strain. But you held his gaze steadily, your arm a pillar of strength.

Gradually, you began to gain the upper hand. It was a slow, inexorable push, your arm moving inch by inch as you leveraged the years of playful battles with your brothers. The crowd around you erupted in cheers and gasps as you edged closer to victory. Mattheo's expression shifted from confident to incredulous, then to something close to admiration.

With one final, decisive push, you slammed his hand down onto the table. The room exploded in applause and laughter, the sound reverberating off the stone walls. Mattheo stared at his defeated hand for a moment, then looked up at you with a mixture of shock and respect.

"You . . . you actually beat me," he said, a grin breaking across his face.

"I told you," you replied, your own grin widening. "Growing up with a bunch of brothers has its advantages."

Mattheo shook his head, still smiling. "You're incredible, you know that?"

You shrugged playfully, though you couldn't hide the pride in your eyes. "Just don't forget it next time you decide to challenge me."

He reached across the table and took your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I won't. And I have to admit, I kind of like this side of you."

As the crowd began to disperse, leaving the two of you alone at the table, you felt a warmth spread through you. It wasn't just the victory that made you feel good; it was the way Mattheo looked at you, with genuine admiration and love.

[marauderstrashh]

Sirens and Stethoscopes

A.N: Fluff dump to apologize for the amount of angst I write, lovelies.

 

The emergency department was always loud. There was the usual buzz of fluorescent lights, the clipped heels of nurses pacing between trauma rooms, and the ever-present beep-beep-beep of monitors monitoring everything.

But today? It was the three of them that made it worse — in the best way.

Dr. Lupin, calm and collected in his white coat, was reviewing charts with his signature cup of black coffee in hand. His soft-spoken voice and gentle hands had a way of soothing even the crankiest patients.

 Potter and Black — two of the most chaotic, competent EMTs the city had ever seen — had just wheeled in a patient from a car accident, all adrenaline and banter, rattling off chart notes as they rolled the bed into one of Dr. Lupins trauma rooms.

And you?

You were the brand-new admin temp in the ER, fresh out of university and completely unprepared for the walking distractions that were those three men.

It was Sirius who noticed you first, unfortunately.

You were organizing intake paperwork at the nurse’s station when he leaned against the counter with a devil-may-care grin, his hair only slightly falling into his face.

“You new here, sweetheart?” he asked, pulling off his gloves with a snap, discarding them into the hazard waste near the nurses station.

You glanced up, trying to look unfazed. “Started yesterday, actually.."

James appeared beside him, sweaty curls falling into his forehead, and flashed a dazzling smile. “We’d remember if we’d seen you.. practically permanent here, us."

Sirius bumped shoulders with him. “Speak for yourself. I remember everything. Especially beautiful things.”

You blinked. Were they flirting with you? At work? Together?

Then Dr. Lupin walked by, glanced at the three of you, and gave a low sigh — fond, not annoyed. “Sirius, James. Please stop harassing the new staff. We don’t need another HR meeting, remember the last one..?"

“But she smiled at us!” James protested.

“She smiles at everyone, James,” Remus said smoothly, barely hiding his smile. “That’s called being polite.”

You caught Dr. Lupin’s eye. He looked at you, really looked, and in that quiet moment, something tugged in your chest. He nodded politely and kept walking.

You definitely didn’t turn to fan your face.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊ It didn’t stop there.

Over the next few weeks, it became routine.

Sirius would bring you coffee with exactly three pumps of caramel because “he had a hunch.” You never told him he was right as to not feed his ego.

James would stop by the front desk just to make you laugh, usually with some absurd story about a patient who tried to flirt with him mid-seizure. (“I was flattered and alarmed.”)

Remus was more subtle. He’d check in on you with soft questions: “Are they overwhelming you yet?” “Do you need a break?” “How are you adjusting?” Every time, his kindness left your chest aching in the best way.

They worked together like a well-oiled machine, and though they had very different energies — Sirius, wild and magnetic; James, golden retriever charm; Remus, thoughtful and grounded — there was a warmth between them you couldn’t miss. They touched casually, bantered constantly, and shared quiet looks like there was a whole story you weren’t in on.

You weren’t dumb. At least you think you're not.

You realized quickly: they weren’t just coworkers. They were a thing — a beautifully chaotic, somehow functional polycule.

So you kept your crush to yourself, nursing it quietly. They were clearly happy together. Why would they ever—

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

“Hey, love.”

You turned around to find Sirius again, leaning against the doorframe of the breakroom. He seemingly caught you in your spiral.

“We’re heading out for drinks. You should come.”

You blinked. “Like… with all of you?”

James appeared behind him, already holding an extra jacket. “Please come. It’s Remus’s night off. He’s way more relaxed when you’re around.”

You frowned. “I’m just a temp—”

“You’re you, love.” Sirius interrupted, as if that settled it.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊ The bar was dimly lit, all exposed brick and soft music. You expected chaos, but instead, it was… lovely. James laughed too loud at your jokes. Sirius ordered you your favorite drink before you said a word. Remus sat beside you, knees brushing, listening like every word you said was worth remembering.

At one point, you went to the bathroom just to breathe.

And when you came back, you overheard Sirius whisper, “She’s so sweet, I’m gonna die..”

James replied, “She smells like vanilla and cinnamon, Moony... and she's so fuckin' pretty..”

Remus sighed. “Both of you are idiots. But yes. I like her too.”

You stopped short, the shock of their confessions amongst each other keeping you pinned to your place for a moment.

Oh.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊ They didn’t bring it up that night. Or the next week. The days dragging on as the busy season hit the ER.

Instead, they just kept being there.

Sirius offered to walk you home when your shift ended late. James left handwritten jokes in your locker, most of them being god awful dad jokes. Remus stayed behind after a resus code just to sit with you while you processed the way it went down.

Then one rainy Tuesday, they all showed up at your door with takeout and tired eyes, their shoulders heavy with the days events.

“We had a long day,” James said, flopping dramatically onto your couch.

“But we missed you,” Sirius added, dropping his head in your lap.

Remus stood in the doorway, hesitant. “We can leave if this is too much.”

You smiled — a little scared, a little thrilled.

“No. It's okay, Remus. Sit down.."

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊ Dating three people is a lot. Dating three people who work in emergency medicine is insane. But they made it easy, their years of being together the practice they needed in making it work.

Remus would leave you sweet texts like “Home in 20. You were on my mind all day.”

James would show up with your favorite snacks after a rough shift and press kisses into your forehead like it was his job.

Sirius would charm the hell out of you just to hear you laugh — then quietly fold your laundry while blasting Bowie.

They loved you differently — but never in halves. They were already each other’s, and they made room for you in the middle.

And every night, when they collapsed around you on the couch, tucking you between strong arms and sleep-soft kisses, you knew one thing for sure:

You didn’t fall in love with your superior and two EMT's.

You fell in love with them — all of them.

And they, very much, fell right back for the ER Temp who had a pretty smile and soft heart.

[vickyvicarious]

He and they had led parallel lives—very close, but never touching—till the accident (or so it seemed) of his acquaintance with Higgins. Once brought face to face, man to man, with an individual of the masses around him, and (take notice) out of the character of master and workman, in the first instance, they had each begun to recognise that “we have all of us one human heart.” It was the fine point of the wedge; and until now, when the apprehension of losing his connection with two or three of the workmen whom he had so lately begun to know as men,—of having a plan or two, which were experiments lying very close to his heart, roughly nipped off without trial,—gave a new poignancy to the subtle fear that came over him from time to time; until now, he had never recognised how much and how deep was the interest he had grown of late to feel in his position of manufacturer, simply because it led him into such close contact, and gave him the opportunity of so much power, among a race of people strange, shrewd, ignorant; but, above all, full of character and strong human feeling.

I love the way getting to know Higgins has changed Thornton. Actually, it goes both ways. And I think it's really interesting how we are told in an aside that we must (take notice) that they have to do so out of their established roles at first. That took Margaret to have a connection with each of them and encourage them to give the other a fair chance. And even then, it was far from immediate, but they both went out of their comfort zone. They both literally did so, even, with Higgins going to visit Thorton and then the reverse.

I also really like the way that, while Margaret's intervention was crucial in getting them to make that initial effort, she didn't make either of them do anything. She urged Higgins to ask for work, and she spoke up on behalf of the workers to Thornton, but she didn't directly get involved beyond that. When Thornton meets her at Higgins', he was already on his way to rescind his refusal, and actually resents the implication that her scolding is what's making him change his mind:

He came to tell Higgins he would give him work; and he was more annoyed to find Margaret there than by hearing her last words; for then he understood that she was the woman who had urged Higgins to come to him; and he dreaded the admission of any thought of her, as a motive to what he was doing solely because it was right.

Neither of them are changing solely for her sake. Higgins gives Thorton a chance thanks to her convincing him it's worth a shot, but primarily for the sake of the children he's taken in. Thornton gives Higgins the job in the end primarily because he is convinced by Higgins himself, his actions and words. And maybe without loving Margaret first he would be less inclined to notice those, but it's still not done just to please her.

And once they do begin to see each other as actual people and not representatives of concepts, they get along! They build their own respect and sort of friendship in her absence - something that takes active work, since they are accustomed to resentment of the "other side" of this issue. We already head of Higgins offering suggestions and Thornton listening and acting on them to make his workplace better. And this chapter we see the ultimate upshot of this respect for one another, with both men deviating from what they would have done in the past.

“Th’ measter’s a deal to potter him,” said Higgins, one day, as he heard Mr. Thornton’s short, sharp inquiry, why such a command had not been obeyed; and caught the sound of the suppressed sigh which he heaved in going past the room where some of the men were working. Higgins and another man stopped over-hours that night, unknown to any one, to get the neglected piece of work done; and Mr. Thornton never knew but that the overlooker, to whom he had given the command in the first instance, had done it himself.

Higgins makes the choice to see past Thornton's brusque/harsh attitude and recognize the stress he is under. He sacrifices his own time and unpaid labor to try and help out.

There was nothing for it at last, but that which Mr. Thornton had dreaded for many weeks; he had to give up the business in which he had been so long engaged with so much honour and success; and look out for a subordinate situation. [...] So he waited, and stood on one side with profound humility, as the news swept through the Exchange of the enormous fortune which his brother-in-law had made by his daring speculation. It was a nine days’ wonder. Success brought with it its worldly consequence of extreme admiration. No one was considered so wise and far-seeing as Mr. Watson.

The beginning of this chapter tells us that Thornton initially valued the idea of far-flung respect and riches, that "That was the idea of merchant-life with which Mr. Thornton had started." But he's grown to value his own town, the people he works with here, as represented by Higgins. And when he has to choose between risking it all on a chance to earn big, or stepping down and willingly choosing a smaller position, he does the latter. This isn't all about Higgins - his sense of duty to his creditors is a huge reason - but it represents him choosing to see the smaller picture of the people here, and to do right by them rather than just greedily grasping after what he wants. And in the end, the venture was a success, and no one would have known that he had gambled with their money rather than his own... but he clearly made the right choice in refusing.

All this reminds me of the much earlier debates about being a gentleman/true man from Chapter 20. (I believe the idea recurred a bit when Thornton first proposed to Margaret as well, when she kind of accused him of just doing what he felt he had to as a gentleman.) At the time, Thornton scoffed at the term 'gentleman' being overused and said "I take it that ‘gentleman’ is a term that only describes a person in his relation to others; but when we speak of him as ‘a man,’ we consider him not merely with regard to his fellow-men, but in relation to himself,—to life—to time—to eternity."

Which is a fair point, insofar as it goes, but his idea of himself as a 'true man' was lacking because he lacked enough consideration for other types of people. He needed more concern for 'his relation to others'. He was never terribly dishonourable or anything like that, but his inner world has widened even in the act of narrowing his focus closer to home. Higgins, meanwhile, has done the opposite a bit in becoming willing to look past the immediate negative consequences to workers like himself and recognize the pressures or difficulties that the bosses may be facing too.

Both of them are shown to be 'true men' now, even if only one would be recognized as a 'gentleman' by society at large... and in fact is knowingly retreating somewhat from the kind of role/social capital he could have held. And both of them do so silently, never revealing what they did for others. Higgins doesn't try to get credit or recognition for his overtime. Thornton stands to the side with humility as his brother-in-law (who refused to help him out in what seems a fit of pique at being rejected) is hailed as a wise man, never mentioning that his principles held him back from achieving the same adulation.

[froidefille]

Day 5: a romantic fic

📚 Wield Me by @tackytigerfic

Draco/Harry + Teddy (or as the author has smartly labelled it – „a Drarry fic but with some Teddy kissing”), 10k, E

Summary:

Draco Malfoy, blacksmith, is renowned through the magical world for his skill and exquisite creations. He could quite easily spend the rest of his days making pretty trinkets for the fae court, and being handsomely rewarded for the privilege. But why take the easy route when instead he could get involved in a dangerous mission with Unspeakable Harry Potter (who also happens to be Draco's... well, he's something, isn't he? A little story about learning to strike while the iron is hot.

Hiiiiiii, I am a bit behind schedule, but I’m still here!! And it’s all Tacky’s fault to be honest, whole of my fic part of brain was taken hostage by their newest WIP First Watch of Night. Go and check it out so you can understand my poor brain’s state of mind.

Anyway! For today’s (eee 3 days ago's? 😇) prompt I have chosen another one of Tacky’s stories, which I have inhaled some time ago and which hasn’t left my (poor, poor) brain since. I was a bit hesitant about Teddy’s involvement before I started it and after, well... I have been converted to Drarry + Teddy triad forever. It has been my obsession from this very day :D

I love a good competent boys fic and competent craftsman is even better. And here, all three of them tick the box in their own way. I love the striking difference between Harry and Draco who are mature and more down-to-earth while Teddy is boisterous, fearless (in an afraid-but-still-does-it way). With a hint of ignorance even, typical for his age and so like Harry whe he was his age.

Long story short, Draco makes a sword for Teddy, at Harry’s request. The way the creation process is thought of and described is magical all in itself. My favourtie part is, of course, that it demands the magical involvement of all three of them. Not to mention all the flower symbolism for which I have a special soft place in my heart:

„Lupin flowerheads, of course. Yarrow for protection, and courage. Sunflowers—a bit on the nose, Draco thought, but they didn’t have to be subtle about this. Celandine too, for escape, Draco reciting the names and meaning of each blossom as they took it in turns to drop them into the dark water.”

„(...) azaleas for homesickness and the desire to return to a place of safety, yellow roses for family. Not to mention all the runework they had spent hours working on. Draco rolled his eyes at them. Othala. Harry had traced it over and over in the water, and then Draco had hammered the essence of it into the metal with his sweat and his fire. Homecoming.”

Not to mention the sword has the wolf’s head pommel, contains grains of stag horn and Remus’s wedding band. The blade’s name is Lux and it’s a she, PLEASE SOMEONE DRAW IT.

The very idea of why they need the sword is a fandom special, lots of us masterminding about this particular mystery. Reading this text, I thought this mission could actually work. Such a smart idea! I don’t want to spoil the details, so you’ll have to go and read it for yourself to find out :D PLUS, I love the symbollism of Teddy going into this mission with vital artifacts from both Harry and Draco. It gives the protection sentiment - I would personally love to palpably have something from the man (men xd) I love, were I to leave for whatever reason. It would provide reassurance, I think, without them even being one-of-a-kind magical artifacts.

Anyway, if producing and sharing something for protection of your loved ones is not the very definition of romantic, then I really don’t know what is 😅

Spoilers under the cut with some of my favourite quotes, mainly revolving around the H/D+T dynamics. There’s a lot, so think hard about reading on, maybe it’s just better to go ahead and have a quick read, it’s 10k after all, and what’s that for us, professional readers 😂

Thanks a lot for today @hprecfest and @tackytigerfic and see you in the next one!

🌻🌺🌾 ᛟ 🌒⚡🐺

“You can’t tell me that Draco Malfoy—the man who forged Brighthelm from the depths of Fiendfyre, who created unbreakable chain mail while still a seventh year apprentice, the guy being hailed as the new Wayland—can’t make a Sword of Light?”

My inner fantasy-loving fangirl beamed reading about forging „forged Brighthelm from the depths of Fiendfyre” and „new Wayland” (TMI, anyone? Jace Wayland? Parabatai, the like? No, only me? Well, for me it rang the bell and added some feels xd) and SWORD OF LIGHT, my god *sweats*

„Harry was close to Teddy, though; it was obvious from the way he spoke of him, fondly and often. They worked together now, even, Teddy following Harry into first the DMLE and then the Unspeakables. There had even been those rumours a year or two ago—not that they were any of Draco’s business, really, but he could hardly avoid the whispers that went round about the Saviour and his impossibly handsome godson. Draco had resolutely never asked Harry about Teddy though. After all, Harry was a free man, technically; he and Draco had never discussed putting a name on what they were doing. And really, it wasn’t fair to even read the rot the Prophet printed, let alone believe half of it. Certainly Harry seemed… godfatherly, somehow, when he spoke about Teddy, the name easy in his mouth.”

Godfatherly, my ass xd

“Good boy,” Draco said archly, stung into it despite himself, and then there was a hideous moment of awkward silence as Teddy and Harry turned to look at him in surprise, Harry with a sudden high flush on his cheeks. Interesting, Draco thought.

I freaking gulped at this one, Draco has those two figured out!

„Harry grinned at him, that smile of his that made him look about twenty years younger and made Draco want to rip through universes for him. Anything to keep him smiling like that.”

RIP THROUGH UNIVERSES TO KEEP HIM SMILING LIKE THAT 😭

And the below delicious relationship building in all directions *melts*

„Teddy, for his part, stayed close to Harry, attentive to his every movement in a way that Draco soon realised was meant to be subtle.”

„This must be intentional, then, this determined offering of his true face, that had echoes of Draco’s own in the particular grey of the eyes, the clear complexion, the stubborn edge of the jawline.”

Teddy looking similar to Draco and Harry loving them both just gets me

“I’ll see you home, Teds,” Harry said, as though Teddy Lupin, Unspeakable, might need his hand held through his Apparition. Draco kept his face smooth and unbothered. Teddy, damn him, just smiled at Harry, eyes lit up as though sunrise had come early.

“Be careful, Ted,” Harry said, and his voice was steady, the only bright, cheerful thing in the room. “You know the procedure. In and out fast, no unnecessary risks. I’ll see you when you get back.” He reached for Teddy as though to pat him on his half-invisible shoulder, and at the last minute his hand hovered and then settled, lightly, against Teddy’s cheek, just a fleeting touch, so tender that Draco nearly had to close his eyes. “Harry.” For the first time, Teddy’s voice wobbled. He looked up at Harry, the two of them still so close together, Harry’s hand on his cane the only barrier between them. Teddy raised his arms, let his hand rest on Harry’s shoulders, slowly, as though waiting for him to back away. He didn’t. “Can I—” There was silence in the room, and Draco saw that Teddy was looking past Harry at him. He was waiting, watching Draco, and oh, no, it was all there in the proud tilt of his head, the reluctant hopeful look in his eyes. He was asking Draco for permission.

„It was about Harry and Teddy, but now Teddy Lupin had only gone and opened the whole thing up, drawing Draco into whatever this moment was about. And Draco, curse his stupid heart, wanted to be drawn.”

[uhhlifeig]

300 followers ?! That’s amazing-congrats!🎉 Your blog is an absolute gem, and it’s no surprise people are flocking to it.

As for me , I’d like 🎵 - wolfstar, the song being Greek God - Conan Gray✨

yayyy tysm!!

here you go- its a tad short but idfk what else to put lmfao

oh and james is a bit of a bitch but we needed an antagonist so (im sorry 😭)

~~~~~

Sure, Remus Lupin was nerdy.

Yes, he liked books.

Yes, he liked oversized grandfather sweaters.

Yes, he liked coffee and soft armchairs and looking at art.

And yes, he also liked men.

But did that really make him weird?

The jocks at his school seemed to think so.

“Oi, Loony Lupin,” a muscular boy with messy hair called, smirking cruelly. “You going to go home and read now? Or are you actually going to go suck some co-”

“Well, at least I can read,” Remus frowned, cutting him off mid-sentence. “I’m surprised you passed third grade.”

“Oh, and he’s got a mouth on him!” the boy leered. “Why don’t you come here and put it to good use?”

Remus rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, Potter. The girls might swarm you, but I won’t. You’re about as blind as a bat and as pretty as one.”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Loony,” Potter snarled. “I’ll make your life hell.”

“What’s going on here, James?” Sirius Black asked, stepping out of a classroom and raising an eyebrow at his best friend. “Are you teasing Loony again?”

Now, Sirius might’ve been a bully and an utter dick, but he was gorgeous. 

Also, he always found a subtle way to help Remus away from James Potter and his relentless verbal assaults.

So brownie points, Remus supposed.

“What d’you fucking think, Black?” James grumbled. 

“Well, lay off him. Remember what Minnie said after last time?” Sirius asked, cleaning his nails nonchalantly. “If she catches you again-”

James rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I know. She’ll put me on toilet-cleaning duty.”

“Then c’mon. I don’t want you to start whining to me again.” SIrius beckoned for James to follow him, subtly catching Remus’s eye and smiling.

Fuck, he was hot.

And maybe there was something wrong with Remus for thinking that his bully’s best friend was hot, but he was. 

And that was honestly the worst part.

[remyfire]

"It's hot when you talk back" for BJ/Peg, "I'm not jealous" for Beejhawk, or "you can be rough, I can take it" for Beejtrap? (or any mix of those prompts and ships hehe) <3 <3 <3

Yayyyy! Thank you so much my friend :D Subtle Smut Starters [AO3 Crosspost]

With martini number three in his grasp, Hawkeye glowers at BJ, as he has many times before. It's a real martini, thank Christ, the kind that allows him to savor the taste of juniper berries on the back of his tongue. There's no still, no Swamp, no war. Just the two of them in a huge swath of people, dressed to the nines, mingling the night away. It's the second time that Hawkeye and BJ have been a part of San Francisco General Hospital's annual fundraiser, and while last year Hawk entertained himself by teasing and flirting and joking around with wealthy older women who were looking for ways to burn through their cash, that seems to be BJ's job this go around.

Hawk takes a long sip. He watches BJ—bordering on too gorgeous in his white suit—as he laughs and rests a hand on an octogenarian's shoulder, then leans close to say something under his breath. She giggles in turn, covering her mouth politely, but she can't hide the way she flushes.

Hawkeye gets it. Really, he does. BJ Hunnicutt happens to be one of the most perfect men on the planet—handsome, brilliant, funny, mischievous, determined, focused, with one of the finest medical brains to boot. Hawk's tittered and blushed over him any number of times. But ultimately it doesn't matter that Hawkeye can get his hands all over Beej any time he wants when they're at home. Not when these desperate, horny vultures are the only ones allowed to touch him tonight.

There are dozens of ways that Hawk could occupy himself right now. There's a string quartet providing an elegant soundtrack to their evening. There are a couple of doctors too who would happily pass around a cigar with Hawkeye while they complained about their wives and kids and Hawk acted as though he didn't want to put the burning end out on their forehead. He's sure there's a deck of cards around somewhere too. He wouldn't have to look very hard for it. Hell, he could strut over and steal BJ's little matron, then stick his tongue out over his shoulder as he ushered her to the dance floor. But for whatever reason, he can't get himself to do anything but glare. Ruminate. It's unfair that Hawk can't ask BJ to dance instead. That they both might lose their jobs on the spot if he even jokingly did so. They don't have the safety of a Henry Blake or a Colonel Potter here. Their employment is voluntary and it can be snatched away whenever one least expects it.

So he'll stare daggers through his sexy lover and make his way through one or two or seven hors d'oeuvres. Like a normal man.

It only takes another minute or two for Beej to see him. And he knows. Immediately Hawkeye can tell that BJ is peering right into all of his secret thoughts, the bastard. That's the problem with having practically lived in the same skin for a few years: there's no hiding anything.

That doesn't mean that Hawk can't try to divert him anyway, especially because BJ is wearing one of those smug smirks, the kind that Hawkeye always wants to wipe away by making him crumple and moan. Unfortunately that technique is unavailable right now. Hawk simply puts on the biggest, brightest smile that he's got and wiggles his fingers in a wave.

BJ quirks a brow, but when Hawk doesn't do anything more, he chuckles and touches his current partner's arm, then leans in to say something. Intimately. In front of everyone. She gives him a playful smack on the arm with her clutch while laughing, and BJ elegantly bows. He leaves her behind, coming straight toward Hawkeye. He could have no other possible destination.

"You," BJ opens by saying, "are turning a bit green."

"Oh, am I?" Hawkeye considers his glass. "You know, I was just thinking about what they've gotta be putting in these olives. They pack too much of a punch. They're super-olives. Superior. Superb. Supreme. Superstars."

BJ's eyes sparkle. "Interesting."

Hawkeye spins toward the bar. "Here, lemme grab a bowl of them. We'll draw up some distance lines on the floor. I'll throw 'em, you catch 'em in your mouth, and everybody bets on how far we'll get."

BJ cups his bicep loosely, just the faintest bit of pressure, but it's enough to make Hawkeye's heart flutter anyway. "Maybe I don't want olive breath tonight."

"Is that so?" He keeps staring across the room as though BJ isn't there at all. "Thinking about sticking your tongue down some woman's throat?" Then he gulps down the last of his martini.

There is a certain way that BJ laughs that reverberates so beautifully in his chest, deep and husky. Hawk can almost feel it vibrating through the floor like an earthquake. As BJ leans closer, his chest presses flush against Hawkeye's arm, and he drops his voice to a decadent murmur. "I knew it. You're jealous."

"Me? Jealous?" Hawkeye huffs and rolls his eyes, still grinning. "I'm not jealous."

"You've spent the entire night glaring at me like you're gonna storm over and slap whoever I'm talking to." It's flagrant and entirely unadvised, but BJ lets his hand slowly skim down Hawk's arm, building trembling anticipation in his veins until finally, finally his fingers graze along his hand, there and gone again in a flash. His touch leaves a lasting burn behind, just like it has ever since the first night BJ shoved Hawkeye into his cot and kissed the life out of him.

It takes Hawk a moment to catch his breath. "You're out of your mind," he drawls, like a liar.

BJ hums. He steps back, and though they need that breathing room for the sake of their own reputations, Hawkeye's cells still strain to reach him. "All right. Whatever you say."

The words prickle inside his brain, tiny daggers like kitten claws. It's not even that he's angry. He's been angry at BJ Hunnicutt before. He knows exactly what it feels like. No, this is that rippling exasperation, the kind that makes his tongue loose—even looser than usual, if that could be believed. "Fine." That's all he responds with. At first.

BJ stands by him and watches the dancers with a sweet smile. Hawkeye squeezes his empty glass hard enough that it should shatter. When a waiter comes by with a tray, Hawk sets his glass on it without a word, and it takes another moment for him to realize that the gentleman is still waiting there with both red and white wine on offer. BJ politely turns down a drink of his own—has been keeping completely dry for the past year, which Hawkeye is both relieved and intimidated by—so Hawk waves the waiter off as well. Then it's just the two of them. For now. At any moment, someone could whisk BJ away and Hawkeye wouldn't be able to do anything to stop it. Hell, maybe they'll spend the whole rest of the evening separated. Maybe BJ will be so worn out by his delightful company that he'll fall asleep in the taxi home, then go straight to bed, snoring lightly while Hawk twists himself miserably in the sheets, wanting him, fighting every fiber of his being to let him get the rest he so badly needs instead, inevitably failing and rolling over to devour him whole.

That's what gets his mind running far too hot again. That's why his mouth falls open. "Having a good time tonight?"

"Sure." BJ nods, his voice open and bright.

"Holding court with all your little paramours?"

BJ snorts, then reaches to rub right beside his nose, fighting to keep from smiling. It's so intimately familiar, the exact thing that BJ has employed since the first day he met him to keep from laughing at Hawk's ridiculousness. "Mm. Have you ever met Cybil, by the way? She and her husband have been supporting this hospital since their son was born premature. And then there's Ethel. Her husband is out of town right now at a class reunion, but they'll be heading off to see their grandkids at the end of the month."

"How adorable," Hawkeye drawls. "Have they dropped the hint that they're in the market for a pool boy?"

"No, not yet." Patient. Unbothered.

Hawkeye turns to face him. He can't stand it anymore. "Oh, and just wait until they take their dentures out tonight for the pudding. That's your moment. You've gotta help them hobble out back so they can get on their knees and gum you."

BJ whips around as well, cheeks flushed, but his gaze is clear and amused. "You know, Hawkeye, you've got a filthy mouth."

"So why don't you wash it out with soap, if it's bothering you that much?" Hawkeye fires back.

BJ cocks his head. Considers. Then he loosely grabs Hawk around the elbow and tugs. "You know, that's not such a bad idea." Then he heads out of the hall, leaving Hawkeye shivering and blinking behind him. And though he tries to get himself to be nervous about what BJ's got in mind, he's flooded with anticipation instead. He's so eager to be near him that he can't keep himself still for long. Seconds after BJ disappears out of sight, Hawkeye moves as calmly as he can to go find him.

Hawk keeps catching fleeting glances, mostly of his white suit, just around the corner here, then there. He crosses paths with a few other couples—no way in hell are he and Beej the only ones hooking up with their coworkers. He even hears a sharp, high moan from a supply closet as he passes it, a stunning noise that hits the switch to slowly convert his frustration into pure arousal.

Finally Hawkeye finds BJ and watches him disappear into a single stall bathroom. The lock does not click into place. Without hesitation, Hawk follows him in. The bathroom is sparse and clinical, to be expected, nothing decorative, only the simple things. That is why it's surprising that Hawk doesn't see BJ once he's halfway inside. It's not like there's anywhere to hide. But when he begins to shut the door, there's a flash of white from behind it, and then Hawkeye's being pulled and shoved until the door is shut and BJ is pressing him against it with every ounce of strength in his powerful, gorgeous body.

"All right, Mister Jellybean," BJ drawls as he reaches to lock the door behind them. But he never takes his gleaming eyes off of Hawk's, not for a second. "You ready to use your words yet?"

Fuck, Hawkeye loves this, loves being trapped in such a non-claustrophobic way, loves knowing that it's BJ exercising this agency over his body and no one else, loves recognizing that even at his bitchiest BJ still wants him. Hawkeye can be a brat all he wants. BJ's going to have him all the same. "Words? You want words? What kind of words? I can use quick ones. Could meander along through multi-syllabic sentences. If you're looking for fancy medical jargon, I could tell you about the open heart surgery I did yesterday—"

"Well, that answers my question."

"There was an answer in there?"

"No, but the absence of one provided enough context for me to draw from my own conclusions." As BJ grins, toothy and dangerous, a fiery desire plumes inside of Hawkeye's chest, but when he tries to reach for him, BJ grabs him by both wrists and keeps them pinned to the wood too. "Look at you. You've teased me about my jealousy, what, five dozen times, at least? And now here you are, pretending you're so much better than it."

Hawkeye lifts his chin. "Uh, no, if I was actually jealous, I'd be worried that those grandmothers were gonna sweep you off your feet faster than a wet floor."

"Not quite." BJ kisses his chin incorrigibly, sending tingles through his veins. "You're not jealous that they could have a chance with me. You're just upset that you're not getting any attention. Like an annoying cat."

"Annoying?" Hawk asks with true offense, brows shooting up.

"Mm-hmm." Unbothered by Hawk's tone, BJ begins kissing a line slowly up his jawbone. "You're cute. You walk on all the furniture. You steal my stuff. You demand all the spotlight that you can get. You always trot ahead of me and expect me to follow you. You're warm, cuddly. And I never want to let you out of my sight. You're mine." His last word comes out on a growl as he rocks against Hawk, sending heat flooding straight into his cock.

"Yours, huh?" Though Hawkeye attempts to give the words a bored, unconcerned tone, they smolder with barely contained arousal. "What, you gonna put a collar on me next?"

Like a viper striking, BJ's hand snaps up and cups Hawk's throat. No pressure. No constriction. But it's claiming all the same. "You look pretty and spoiled enough as it is," BJ teases. "I don't think there's any doubt who you belong to."

A soft whimper slips out of Hawkeye. So much for his brattiness. Now that he's basking in the full force of BJ's attention, he's forced to acknowledge that this is absolutely what he needs, to have this spell woven through his neural pathways until he knows it deeper than his own name. "How badly do you want me?" He stares into BJ's brilliantly blue eyes. Doesn't so much as blink.

It pays off. He gets to watch BJ's switch flip too, turning all of that cocky amusement into frenetic heat. "You know how much."

"C'mon, I haven't heard it once in the past eight hours," he drawls.

Though he expects Beej to roll his eyes, he doesn't. Instead he grabs him by the belt loops and yanks him flush against him so that he can feel BJ's hard length. It's barely contained down his right pant leg. It presses insistently against Hawkeye's thigh, and when BJ rolls his hips forward, Hawk can't help but groan. BJ slaps his hand over Hawkeye's mouth. "I wanna eat you alive," he whispers. "I've wanted you since 'Heart and Seoul.' Do you know how hard it was not to bend you over the fucking jeep hood? You're addictive, worse than pistachios. I swear to God, Hawk, there's this chunk of my brain that's got a record playing of your greatest hits over and over again, and I never want it to stop."

Hawkeye whines under his palm. Is it so bad that he needs this sometimes? To remember that he wasn't the second choice? That if he belongs to BJ, then BJ belongs to nobody but him and Erin? He scrabbles at BJ's strong, hairy forearm—the man's a goddamn sasquatch and Hawkeye wishes he could just bury his face in his hairy tits every second of every day, it's not fair—and when BJ lifts his hand tentatively, Hawkeye begs, "Show me, Beej, show me, make me feel it—"

"I've got you, darling," BJ coos. That alone is enough to turn him into a babbling puddle. "How're your knees?"

He makes a weak, affirmative sound. It's barely left his throat when BJ takes a step back, then pushes Hawkeye down by the shoulders, and Hawk takes the command so quickly that he makes himself dizzy. It's like he's having an out of body experience, here under the beaming lights in the sterile bathroom where on any other day, he'd smell nothing but the antiseptic soap. But right now his senses are interweaving BJ's presence throughout, and when BJ palms his cheek, he catches a whiff of his cologne. Fuck this, no more hesitating, no waiting. He all but rips BJ's belt open, then grits his teeth while working down the row of buttons on his fly.

"Eager," BJ purrs.

"I haven't seen your cock in three entire hours, Beej, you really can't blame me," he replies breathlessly. Then he yanks BJ's trousers and boxers down in one. He bobs free, thick and heavy, and Hawkeye moans as he cups his cock and begins pressing a line of kisses down his silky shaft. BJ shakily exhales, planting both hands on the door to hold himself up, giving him free rein. And he's going to take advantage of it.

Hawkeye knows so many ways to make BJ shiver now. It's always come so naturally to them together. Maybe it's because Hawkeye spent so many months watching him, aching, fantasizing, burning up into cinders from just a brush of their bare arms together. He had more than enough time to figure out every last thing that he wanted to do to Beej. He knows that BJ likes to have his balls played with—Hawk reaches the base of his shaft and tips his head so he can suck on one of them and lave his tongue over the sensitive skin, then hums happily when Beej's length bobs in response. He knows how to leave suckling kisses slowly up his length, little bursts of pleasure. And he especially knows to look BJ right in the eye as he breathes teasingly over his head. When a bead of arousal swells on his tip, Hawkeye grins, then slides BJ into his mouth and straight down his throat in one smooth motion.

"Christ—!" BJ pounds his fist on the sturdy door frame with a grunt. "Shit, sweetheart, that's good..."

"Mmm?" Hawk fights to keep the stare steady as he bobs his head.

BJ's brows draw up. His lips part. "Look at you. Gorgeous."

Hawkeye bats his lashes, then winks. He succumbs finally to the temptation to close his eyes so that he can better focus on his task, cradling BJ's shaft on his hot tongue, hollowing his cheeks with a powerful suck here and there. He has a moment when his nose bumps BJ's soft, trimmed thatch of hair and he inhales the rich scent of BJ's musk, and right away he needs to huff it as hard as he can. It's not easy. He wants BJ buried in his throat for the rest of the fucking night. But he can take a moment, he thinks, for the good of his olfactory glands.

The moment Hawkeye pulls off, he presses his nose against his pelvis and breathes in until his lungs burn. "Oh, fuck," he whispers. "Smell so goddamn good..."

"Hawk," BJ murmurs with a little laugh, cheeks flushing pink.

"Don't you start." He's salivating, Jesus Christ. "You can't just walk around smelling like some earthy Greek god and not expect me to get off to it."

"I don't have any Greek in my lineage. Earthy?" he asks incredulously.

BJ doesn't get it—maybe never will—but it doesn't stop Hawkeye from getting so hard that he knows for a fact that he's ruining his boxers with how much he's leaking. Thank fuck for black trousers. Maybe he'll be lucky enough to get away with it. But not if he comes in them. Hawkeye sucks BJ back down, savoring every inch, while fumbling with his own belt and button fly.

"Fuck," BJ whispers. "Can't keep your hand out of your pants, huh?"

"Mm-mm." It's miraculous enough that Hawkeye can concentrate on both of his tasks equally. Being asked to reply intelligently is not a possibility.

"One day, I'll make you. You'll be so hard, you'll think you're about to combust. Begging for me. Tearing up, you need it so badly. And I'll tell you no. And you'll have to wait right there until I've decided that you've been good enough to deserve to come for me."

He can't say shit like that. Hawkeye whines, fingers losing their surgeon's grace for a few seconds before he can finally shove his pants down and whip out his cock. Not today, he wants to plead. Anytime but today. And fortunately for him, BJ seems to have no desire to withhold an orgasm from him—yet. But that doesn't mean he won't change his mind.

Not unless Hawkeye distracts him, at least.

Hawk redoubles his efforts, the occasional whimper escaping his throat. BJ's teased him before about how not even a cock buried as deep in his mouth as it can go is capable of shutting him up for long, but honestly, what's the point of being silent when you're losing yourself in the person you love deeper than you have felt for anyone before? The person you went through hell with and came home alongside, not totally intact, but as safe as you could be, given the circumstances? He takes a risk every morning just waking up and kissing BJ good morning, but there isn't a universe in existence where he wouldn't take chance after chance as long as he got to stay right beside the man he loves, the man he'd do anything to call husband.

"Fuck..." BJ's trying to stay quiet, he can tell, fighting back any semblance of a moan, ever conscious of where they are. But it's a battle he's going to lose, if Hawk has anything to say about it. "Oh, fuck, Hawkeye, I-I'm..."

He knows. And so he takes BJ straight down his throat and swallows around him over and over again until BJ gasps, grabs Hawkeye's head in both hands, and holds him right fucking there as he grunts and comes so far back that Hawk can't taste a single drop of his release. Hawkeye shudders in ecstasy as he follows him straight over the edge, still unable to breathe, still kept captive in BJ's grip. As though BJ has sensors inside of Hawk, he seems to know the exact moment that it's all too much, and BJ pulls Hawk off of him with trembling hands.

BJ tries to coax Hawkeye to his feet, but huffs when Hawk's legs are still as shaky as jelly, incapable of holding himself up quite yet. "You came?" he asks with what Hawk recognizes is a faint edge of disappointment. "I was going to— Hawkeye, you came on my fucking shoes."

"So? It'll wipe off," Hawk murmurs, the words slurring.

BJ bursts out laughing. "You're incredible."

Hawkeye wiggles a little with a smug smirk. "Mmm, thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week." He nuzzles BJ's pubic hair and sighs, content.

"C'mon. C'mon. I'm not leaving you on the floor of the damn bathroom. You're gonna get the floor dirty. Who knows where you've been?"

"In your bed," Hawk drawls. "You filthy bastard. You made me this way."

With a shake of his head and a beaming grin, BJ finally helps him up. "Something tells me you're not winning that case in court."

"I am a delicate, innocent, beautiful little bramble blossom, I'll have you know, and any jury would see that." But his banter cuts off as BJ grabs a paper towel and gently dries both of them, making sure there isn't a drop of cum on their clothes. It's always so cute, seeing him like this, the caretaker jumping out even when they just had sex on the goddamn bathroom floor at a fundraiser where they are no doubt being looked for. It doesn't matter. Beej isn't going to miss a moment to make Hawkeye feel so deeply loved.

When they've both put their clothes to rights, Hawkeye grins and laces their fingers, touching their foreheads together. "Love you," he whispers.

"I love you to the moon and back," BJ replies just as softly. "I can't wait to go home with you. I haven't held you in at least six hours. I'm starting to get the bends."

So they're both addicted. So they're a little codependent. Sidney will no doubt have a field day with them when he's able to visit in a few months. And Hawkeye could care less. They've earned the right to be insane about each other, he thinks, after all the carnage and bloodshed they were forced to witness against their wills. Let them steal their secret kisses here. Let them remember what it feels like to be so vitally alive and passionately in love, shining brighter than the sun.

"You wanna sneak out first or I?" BJ murmurs, ever practical.

"Five more minutes," Hawk whines.

BJ chuckles, then kisses his forehead, lingering there for a few seconds before leaving another, then another, marking his brow with the warmth of his adoration. "All right, darling. Yeah. Yeah, we can do that."

[v7lgar]

on my hands and knees begging for daddy!monty/ sirius hcs Please

nsfw

i kinda wanna make a moodboard for them but am not sure abt the vibes... anyways here u go!

ever since sirius moved in w potter's he was in awe w monty. it was so innocent first couple of years until he hits the puberty and fuck his way thru hogwarts and then come home w james to see his smoking hot dad and he gets to call him dad too but yk what he does? he says daddy in hope so monty can feel the difference in the air. and ofc monty notices the change of tone and the looks but sirius is basically a teenager and his crush on him normal so completely ignores it

sirius is trying to deal w his crush on monty for a good amount of years and he is taller now even tho james and his dad are taller than him he is a man now and he cringes all the time he tried to flirt w monty when he was a teenager but convinces himself that the crush has passed and now he is subtle abt everything and stops w calling him daddy seductively. and also like james told him to stop messing w me w calling him daddy instead of dad lol and ofc james didn't mean it in a mean way but sirius panicked soooo fucking fast that he totally stopped hinting things

monty noticed that phase of "daddy monty" has passed finally and he gets to see sirius more after they graduated from hogwarts (and they didn't fucking die in a war) he gets to see how much his kids have grown and love them equally even tho not exactly the same way (wink)

now sirius is at his early 20's and he doesn't k ow which career path to follow where james is already a quidditch player and that means he is at home more than james is and he feels stupid bcuz james is doing adult things and already have a job and remus and peter have jobs too but sirius? he is a failure bcuz he never thought in depth what he wanted to do after hogwarts and now it came to bite his ass lol

anyways so he starts going out w muggles w his friends and sometimes alone and one time he gets hit on by an older man and he is not even interested but then that man talks and fuck. his voice so similar to monty's sirius pops a boner right there. he allows that man tho take him back of an alley and he is sucking his cock like his life depending on it while listening monty's voice telling him how pretty he is by swallowing his cock and he just imagines monty and his cock and he has seen james' cock and he knows monty has a huge dick. he gets dicked down by that man and goes to home as a wreck and jerks off to thought of monty lol

then all of his horny thoughts abt monty comes back even harder this time. he is fucking old man almost everyday and he has really specific abt those men. they all remind of monty in some way and that's all to get sirius on his fours and getting railed hard and all he can think abt monty and he gets off to it so bad lmfaooo almost pathetic

monty realizes sirius is changing but he has no idea in what way he is changing. like he is normal? he is both good w effie and him but also like. he either averts his eyes from monty so quick or linger on him when monty isn't looking and sometimes he notices sirius batting his eyelashes at him like he is flirting but then he gets red and quickly goes to his room without saying anything. and monty knows smth is up but he is also so confused but he also doesn't bring up to effie or james at all.

on the other hand sirius wants to move out to his own apartment but james has his partner and he can't move in w him and remus and him are exes so that can't happen either and peter isn't a good idea either bcuz they're not the ideal duo for staying at the same house lmao so he sticks around and he starts playing w monty too. calls him daddy when they're both alone in the room and looks at him w bedroom eyes and monty realizes that sirius is an attractive man now and not a child he met from years ago. so much has changed until now and he isn't sure but he has a feeling that sirius is onto smth.

i'd talk abt how they fuck nasty but this is already long af so feel free to ask abt them again!!

[chlobliviate]

Out of context snippet

Thanks for the tag @pain-in-the-riri!!

This is the opening to a fic I’ve had on the back burner for a while called The Remus Lupin Boyfriend Experience.

Fake dating! Background Jily and Dorlene! Unhinged behaviour in the name of ‘boyfriends’!

Remus and Sirius were categorically not a couple. They had made that very clear to Remus’ ex boyfriend, James, and Lily, and Pete, and The Weasleys, and Remus’ mum, and The Potters, and Marlene and Dorcas, and the very sweet old lady outside Tesco who had told them that it was beautiful to see two young men so in love. She was the one who had taken it the hardest, honestly. They were just best friends. That was all, and that was fine.

Lily had tried to pry from Remus whether he had feelings for Sirius for years at this point. His response to her hadn’t changed (‘Of course not, give me some credit.’) but he’d only be lying to himself if he didn’t acknowledge that there was at least a tiny flicker of something there. Not that he’d ever act on it and risk losing his favourite person and fracturing their friendship group forever. James had tried once to bring up his love life and learned his lesson swiftly when Remus blocked him on everything for ten days.

At 31, Remus had been in several long term relationships, but had been single since turning 30 after a calamitous break up with Benjy-Fucking-Fenwick. He knew that James and Lily meant well but there was no way in hell anything would ever happen with him and Sirius. He imagined they were also having these conversations with Sirius, but the two of them had never discussed it. James was getting less and less subtle when they met for video games and cocktails (an honoured Saturday evening tradition) and Lily just shrugged whenever Remus stared daggers at her.

But they most definitely were not a couple. Never had been a couple. Never would be a couple.

“What are you drinking tonight, Moons?” Sirius threw his arm around Remus’ waist and rested his head on his shoulder. “I can’t decide between some cider or risking James’ cocktail making skills.”

Remus hummed in thought as he instinctively wrapped his arm around Sirius’ shoulders. “He said he was aiming for ‘Sex on the Beach’ and ‘Woo Woo’s. So if you’re feeling fruity I—”

“I’m always feeling fruity, darling.” Sirius smirked up at him as Remus threw his head back and laughed. “You’re right, it’s cocktails and games, not cider and games.”

“But what about fruity cider?” Remus chuckled. “Is that not a cocktail?”

“Shut up.” He said, “Stop making things more difficult than they need to be.”

“But that’s where I excel. You know me.”

“Unfortunately.” He huffed, “So, vodka and juice?”

“And Grenadine if they have some.”

“That sweet tooth of yours is going to fuck you up one day.” Sirius suddenly turned to face Remus and spoke quietly. “Don’t look now, but Ben is over there.”

Remus, to his credit, didn’t look, but sighed. “Let’s grab what we need and go.”

“Or…” Sirius had a look on his face that Remus didn’t like at all.

“Or?”

“Or we let him know how much better you are without him.”

“I’m not— How? I’m not exactly thriving.” He narrowed his eyes at Sirius, who was beaming at him in a very disconcerting way.

“Well, I heard that you’re enjoying your new job, you’re very close to finishing your book and that you have a hot new boyfriend.”

Remus snorted, “Yeah, sure. I also won the lottery and I’m flying home in my private jet.”

“Remus, the things that man-child did to you made me so fucking angry. I’m still angry! Furious, in fact!” He looked up at Remus, his tone sharper, “Just tell him we’re dating, he’ll be jealous, trust me. You know he never trusted me around you. Not like I’ve known you since you were a tiny eleven year old.”

“You were a tinier eleven year old, and that just feels like opening an unnecessary can of worms, Pads.” Remus chewed on his bottom lip. “He probably wouldn’t care anyway.”

“Oh, he will.” Sirius extricated himself from Remus’ arm. “Trust me?”

“Of course I do.” Remus smiled softly at him.

“Hold my hand.”

“I don’t want to hold your hand.” Remus stared at him, blankly.

“Just suck it up and hold my hand. You have to.” Sirius grabbed his hand, roughly interlacing their fingers. “It’s not like we’ve never held hands before.”

“I hate you so much.”

“That’s fine, just hold my fucking hand.” Sirius said through a very toothy smile as he saw Benjy spot them.

Benjy Fenwick, man that you are, catching strays once again.

One day he’ll get his happy ever after, but it’s not this fic. I’m going to focus on this after I’m done with Ghosts so within the next week or two 🥰

I have no idea who to even tag bc I’m bad at tumblr. So I’m gonna tag ‘anyone who wants to do this’! 🥲🥲🥲 and maybe try and get better at tumblr.

[phoebe-delia]

For your eight nights of Drarry event, what about “I get drunk on jealousy.”

Drunk on Jealousy

And for the finale of Eight Drarry Nights 2023, I am honored to write this for @xx-thedarklord-xx. Sam, I hope you know by now just how much I love your work. Apologies that this is so late. It's been a rough week (shoutout to my discord friends for the sweet support! You guys are amazing). But I wanted to give this proper time, which I haven't had until now. So, without further ado, here we go! And, of course, Happy (belated, now) Hanukkah.

Featuring: a secret relationship, possessive!Harry, and a Draco who is determined to drive Harry crazy—in the best way—until he snaps.

At this point, I'm starting to think the pint in your hand is just for show. You've hardly touched it. I'd wager you're entirely sober.

You come to pub nights with our colleagues, every other Friday, yet you hardly drink anymore. Would you be surprised that I've noticed? When have I not noticed you, Potter?

I've seen you watching me. You're not being very subtle; if you want to keep this a secret, you're going to have to tear your eyes away from my arse. Not that I want you to, mind you. I always want your eyes on me.

Have you caught on to my game yet? You're an ex-Auror. Use your talents of deduction. I flit and flirt my way through the pub, talking to everyone but you, but it's always your bed I come back to, isn't it? Meanwhile, you stew and scowl and glare at me from the corner of the pub as if you don't know the foregone conclusion.

Silly Potter. There's an easy way to get me to end this; a quick, surefire solution to this self-inflicted torture. You'd just have to march over here with that big, tough Chosen One bravado, scoop me into your arms, and kiss me the way you usually do when no one's around. No one else would dare touch me again, and we'd finally be free from sneaking around. Win-win.

But you're trying to be a gentleman. You're trying to "give me my space" and let me bring our relationship out of the proverbial closet when I'm ready. It's admirable; very touchy-feely-sweet-Gryffindor of you.

But I've had enough. I'm ready for more. I'm sure you'd say that I could simply tell you. But where's the fun in that? It's much more entertaining for me to see you get all worked up, jaw clenching with every smirk I throw your way as I talk and laugh and flirt with other men.

Tonight, though, I think you've finally realized. Or, at least, you're going to lose it. I'm talking to—what did he say his name was? Greg? Thomas? I'm not sure, but it won't matter in a moment. You're gripping that pint like it's personally offended you; I'm almost afraid it's going to shatter in your hand.

From the corner of my eye, I see you all but slam it on the table, the drink sloshing a bit over the rim. While the rest of the pub is too rowdy to notice, your tablemates startle and look at you with alarm. But you're glaring at me. I just deepen my smirk and raise my eyebrow at you.

You rise from your seat, letting your chair fall over behind you, and stride purposefully over to me.

Good.

That's it.

Come and get me.

[lilxmoo]

Aurora Cycle Poetic Essay Series Pt 1 - Tyler Jones

Aurora cycle fandom, I have left you to dry, I'm so sorry :( I got busy again and could only focus on one hyperfixation at a time, truly an awful place to be. But now, here's my new series to apologize, that will be in eight (maybe more) parts - "Poetic Essays". There will be one for each character, and will essentially be long-ish rants about the symbolism and writing of each character!! (My title for this is trash, I know, but it's past midnight rn pls forgive)

As always, this is my own interpretation of the character, so if you don't agree PLEASSEEE tell me about your thoughts, I'd love to hear em!! Now, first and foremost, the Goldenboy :)

(Spoilers for the trilogy below!!)

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Tyler Jericho Jones shares his middle name with his beloved late father's first name, the name of a city that - biblically - was won by hours upon hours of walking and hard labor by a large group of people, all combining every part of their energy and strength into their cause to win their city back. Although exhausted, they eventually found victory, and never gave up or faltered. The way that both Tyler and his father mirror this is not small or intended to be. A war hero, who spoke often of how he missed his family and worked tirelessly towards a cause, eventually reaching his victory - at a heavy cost. In Jericho's case, this cost was his life. And Tyler, who longs to be his father's son, is doomed to repeat this cycle. Even the cost is the same, with the alternate version of him once again paying the ultimate price for victory, and leaving his child behind to carry out his mission for him after he is gone. (Not to mention how they both fall in love with a Syldrathi woman that they are pulled apart from)

The themes of having a "cycle" is one of Aurora's strongest. The books are even named the Aurora Cycle. Auri talks about it in the Echo, with her sister Callie. Kal and Saedii carry and break the cycle of love and abuse from their parents onward. Zila carries the cycle of heartless logic and emotionlessness from the people that killed her parents. Finian breaks the cycle of self-hatred that lives in himself. But Tyler's relationship with his own cycle is one that he - unlike every other character, save for Kal - is aware of. Unlike Kal, however, he makes a conscious effort to make sure that this legacy continues. The ring of his father - one that loops, around and around - is something he keeps on his neck at all times. The symbolism of carrying his father's ring - a never-ending structure of unbreakable metal - around the most vulnerable place of his body, being his neck, is a subtle but incredibly beautiful one. And Tyler accomplishes his goal, although in a way that costs him. He pictured continuing his father's legacy as a shining, golden future. Instead, his close friend was the one carved into gold, after her sacrifice, which he can only gaze upon with one eye after his best friend and lover carved the other from his face, while an alternate future of himself bleeds out on the floor of a diamond, almost the exact way he would've on the floor of a reactor.

Tyler Jones is a charming, charismatic, "Goldenboy", who's own mind is the glowing yellow sun. Funnily, his father is described as being the same. Tyler was always, always fulfilling his father's legacy. He just didn't know that he was on a different spot on the cycle, on the ring, at the beginning. He was already there, just waiting to walk forward and into the bloodied shoes of Jericho Jones, and keep the cycle he holds so dear alive.

Meanwhile, Tyler is also continuing past legacies forward much more successfully that previously done in our world, too. Tyler Jones fits into the exact same category as Captain America, Captain Kirk, Superman, Prince Charming, Harry Potter, Atticus Finch etc etc etc etc... able-bodied, neurotypical, straight (?), white men who save the day. An easy character trope that has been thrown into the forefront of media for as long as anyone can remember, safe from any representation or diversity, and seemingly, the perfect "Ken Doll" of fiction. But Tyler stands out from these selfless, idealistic men in a very specific way - he's self aware.

When, in his very first chapter, he talks about missing the draft, he immediately acknowledges it's a stupid thing to worry about. Almost any of the other characters above would justify their worries, at least a little, try and save some dignity. Tyler doesn't. He barely even bothers defending himself, immediately acknowledging, I have no idea why I'm thinking about this, I'm about to die and that's my focus? How stupid.

He's also flawed in a way that others aren't - when he pushes forward despite being tired, it isn't prettily mussed hair and a single f-bomb, more of a "sexy caveman" era, one could call it. He mentally breaks down, gets gravely injured, lashes out - he's human in the face of his trials, rather than unrealistically stoic. These real flaws, combined with his complex inner mind, charm, morality, honesty, generosity and intelligence just make him incredibly lovable. The fact that he also has very nerdy interests on something as strange as ships - the most twelve-year-old boy thing to focus on - is also quite sweet.

Now, here's part of the essay where I just list random things about the character that I like.

The scar on his eyebrow is actually, like, a real scar?? It isn't like scars in every other story where it has some tragic backstory to it, "oh I was fourteen and ran into gunfire to try and save a civilian" type stuff. Nah, Tyler has a permanent scar just because a crappy kindergarten chair got hit on his head. Much more realistic and actually, dare I say, much more attractive.

His tattoo is the most drunk, random bar night, ahh why not tattoo ever. Oh, you got drunk for the very first time and decide to get a cheap tat at a bar of what's basically your school house color? Sick man

DIMPLES SORRY I JUST I GET WHY EVERYONE IN THE BOOKS LOVES EM SO MUCH I LOVE DIMPLES

Has a weird obsession with clean boots, which is the 2380 equivalent of wanting your white Nike airs to stay white. He's such a teen boy

Despite knowing he's attractive, he gets so excited when someone (cough saedii cough) thinks he's hot - like bro turns like a flower to water, it's actually quite cute! "Yeah, I know I'm hot, but pretty war criminal girl thinks I'm hot too? Awww, shucks!"

Him and Kal - idc if it's platonic romantic whatever, just...their friendship!! The way their fathers were enemies and they're brothers!!! The parallels between the two!!! The way they start of fighting and then a full Disney Channel "maybe you're not THAT bad", moment!!!! My boys

I like gentlemen. Tyler Jericho Jones is a gentleman.

He loves his sister so much, he's so protective of her in the most brotherly of ways :') I love their bond in general

In the same way, SUCH a younger brother. Like, he full on pouts when Scarlett teases him, like pack it up lil bro

In the same way, I love how he cares for Auri the way Scarlett cares for him :( the two of them are so siblings so besties and I wished we talked about it more

He just has such a golden heart :( very cliché, but I genuinely just love human characters who's faith in people and in kindness doesn't falter! It's so inspiring, y'know, like his heart makes him being a leader so believable.

And that's the first of the essays done!! I hope people like this and I didn't type away long past midnight for no reason!! Even if they don't, I ADOREEE Tyler, and I think he's just such a sweet, beautiful boy who I desperately want to talk to.

MWAH

[bitch-potatoes]

Hello! You seem very cool, and I love reading your microfics!

May I leave a request for Lily finding out the marauders are animagi?

(I love everyone who sends asks)

Lily's POV, 7th year at hogwarts, no obvious canon divergence

Word count: 825

It was a nice afternoon. The library was quiet for a change, but that was probably because it was supposed to be a hogsmeade weekend. Lily had spent an hour arguing with Mary that morning about the fact she was staying back to study with Remus rather than going out to the village but Remus looked exhausted and had spent the last night in the hospital wing again and it felt wrong to leave him alone in the castle while everyone went out.

Lily looked up from her notes, proud of the solid 30cm of parchment she had managed to neatly write on astronomy. Remus hadn't come here to study. Instead, he was intently reading a copy of Jane Eyre. He was a freakishly fast reader, eyes darting left and right and flipping the page after hardly a minute. Lily definitely wasn't jealous.

"Its almost lunch time, I think we should head for lunch and then we can just go to the common room until the others get back" Lily muttered quietly, she knew better than to get on Pince's bad side especially when there was only a few other 7th years in the library also studying for their NEWTs. She stretched her arms out in front of her before folding her parchment and tucking it into her bag with her pens. She'd made a point of using muggle pens this year as a subtle show of her not being ashamed of who she was after all the drama with Severus, a few of her friends had taken to it too and she held a lot of pride in her muggle life.

Remus looked up from his book, marking the page and shoving it into his pocket, Lily stared for a moment immensely jealous of men's pockets. He could fit a whole book in there, and she could hardly shove her fingers into hers on a cold day... and skirts hardly ever even had them at all.

"Its not fair that your pockets are that big" Lily sighed, pulling her backpack over one shoulder, she was about to add to her statement when an oversized dog bounded across the library and planted its head in Remus' lap. It looked like a st Bernard, but it was pure black and absolutely massive. Remus didn't even bat an eye. He just placed his hand on the dogs head and muttered, "Hi padfoot"

Lily did a double take. Padfoot? As in Sirius? Was a dog now?

"Is he a fucking animagus?" She asked, shocked and unable to even fathom Sirius shutting up long enough to keep a mandrake leaf in his mouth for a whole month. Let alone managing the rest of the animagus process without messing up.

Remus looked up and blinked in confusion before looking at the dog. "Oh... yeh, he is, " he shrugged and stood up, "lunch then?" He offered a hand to Lily to stand. She just raised an eyebrow and gestured back to his seat.

"No. You have questions to answer, " she insisted, mind reeling with all iterations of how, why, and when. Remus slowly sat back down; sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked at Lily expectantly.

"That's Sirius?" She started with, staring at the dog. Looking closer, she could see it (he?) had those same blue/grey eyes that Sirius had. Remus nodded, the dog curled up at his feet. Could a dog look smug? Lily was sure that dog looked smug.

"And he's an animagus...?" Lily almost refused to believe it, but of Remus' three overly loud and obnoxious friends Sirius did seem the most likely to manage such complicated magic.

Remus fiddled with his fingers, looking at the dog that was nuzzling into his calf. "Yeh he is, so are James and Pete," he spoke affectionately, but Lily hardly paid any mind to that because James Fleamont Potter and Peter Stanley David Thomas Pettigrew were both animagi How was that fair? Three of the stupidest idiots she had the misfortune of meeting also happened to be smart enough to become an illegal animagus.

"How long?" Lily hissed, somewhere between annoyed and impressed. There was no way this was true.

"Since third year," Remus shrugged, so casual about this all. Maybe it was his idea? That was plausible, Lily supposed.

"Are... are you one too?" She asked curiously, half praying that Remus had been the ring leader of this endeavour. At least then, someone intelligent could take the credit.

Remus shook his head, and Lily visibly deflated. Of course, the three idiots had done this all themselves.

"I've gotta do it now," she declared, determined not to let James Potter one up her in any way possible. "I'm gonna become a fucking animagus, and I'll do it quicker than they could dream of doing it" she grumbled under her breath, she stood up and made her way to the restricted section to search for books on the topic.

[horizon-verizon]

The way GRRM almost confirmed that even though genetic might have a part on it but the concept of “madness” is mostly part perspective and it is placed in the eye of the beholder like the light we choose to see the characters.

https://pbs.twimg.com/media/F8WT9vmXcAA5hlm?format=jpg&name=900x900

Take Baelor I for example. For godly people, religious zealotry is perceived as the epitome of morality but for others, Baelor sounds mentally ill. Same with 14 years old Daeron I who wanted to conquer a kingdom which his ancestors with dragons couldn’t. For martial people he sounds like a badass, but for others ? They think he’s a madman. And yet, Daeron I is seen as an ideal of martial grandeur and prodigious achievement and he remains as popular among the nobility as his brother Baelor is among the smallfolk. 

“Can be interperted in many different ways… I want complexity and subtlety in my fiction”. Boiling everything down to eugenics and determinism is not complex or subtle. The type of things that GRRM hates to write about. ASOIAF ain’t Harry Potter.

The way in which people in this fandom talks about mental illness just puts me off. Pretty much everyone equates cruelty and violent behavior with mental illness. The fandom tend to use “mad” as a shorthand for any Targ that behaves in an extremely cruel or violent way like them insisting that Maegor was a mad Targ as well. But it so interesting that you still don’t see them calling Aemond a madman.

shots fired. (the tags are just ways of org, and sometimes they are sarcastic/ironic)

Yeah, I've noticed the fandom's tendency to both demonize mental illness & conflate mental illness (characterized as a pejorative) with straight up willful cruelty when it wants to vilify a Targ. Like you can still hold mentally ill, cruel people accountable for their cruel actions, but the fandom tends to preemptively assign any Targ who acts cruelly and violently as "crazy". AND then in a way meaning "they are a menace that needed/s to be put down", rather than when they assign victimhood-mental illness to another non-Targ or just male who does a cruel, vicious, and/or selfish act and they try to explain that away with mental illness. As if the person doesn't know or cannot stop themselves from doing horrific actions, a slave to their own afflictions.

And it's bec this habit is inherited/continues to be used to reason why Dany should not either survive nor rule anything. People use mental illness (real or not) to claim that women should not live and be present amongst "normal" society and villainize her emotions or though processes, esp when she's being confrontational or trying to go against expectations and desires of the public/men. As a way to get collective consent for her punishment by banishment or death, a way to get her out of the way and for it to be seen as morally righteous. And with Dany, the way to do that is to keep constantly referring to her lineage as inescapably and "naturally" "mad"; so it's very easy and often that when they wish to express a certain Targ was not worth studying or understanding and just be hateful, they will use this tactic against women or the Other against them.

I said before that it's not just nonTargs but men people tend to assign this "is crazy, no empathy or attempt at intellectually assessing for understanding of human shit". So why not SOME Targ men like Maegor or Daeron? And when do people decide that a man's violence & cruelty is not salvageable, understandable, or excusable? Basically:

Maegor went far beyond the boundaries that men in/out world would consider "necessary"; violence against the majority status quo males of the Seven and his own court (he beheaded one male courtier who said he didn't get the thorn legitimately or something, I forget) AND he was helped by Visenya

Maegor was also aop suffered a massive head injury that only Tyanna of the Tower was capable (as by record) healing, so one might say that much of his willingness post-injury to be violent also came from that injury...before that injury, he was pretty intimidating, but not violent...but at the same time, even before said head injury, he displayed pretty machismo, self centered actions [taking Blackfyre with little protest, leaving Visenya's sword she gifted him when he got the "better" one, killing a horse at 13-ish?, taking Alyssa Velaryon's teasing abt not having a dragon way too seriously, etc.]

Daeron wasn't "crazy" nor mentally ill - he was just extremely ambitious, young, and eager to prove himself/be the one to first bring the Targ dynasty a new sort of prestige in their dragonless beginnings, esp--as you said I said in another post--in the light of his family having lost the dragons - Daeron had the same social condition as many other young men who want to make a hero out of themselves AND that personal desire to be "Great", Alexander the Great style.

Baelor I constantly did stuff that were annoying to nobles or about to be harmful while also granting smallfolk some alleviations to get that "loved" factor among the most hapless of the population, which I think def fed into his religiosity-ego even as I think that he DEF had an mental illness...

I think that a lot of machismo/masculinity compels men to do extreme, stupid shit bc Western masculinity itself means that one must push boundaries, dominate, take, confront, etc. with other men knowing about it in order to "prove" you are "strong". "Strength" = masculinity; it works to be very flat and that flatness gets disguised as "naturally" simple, which lends to its own credibility as "real" strength. So whether they do some things that are logically illogical in a spectacle or publicly, it's so easy for people to try to claim men are just being boys and/or switch that up with "he was just mentally ill" when he decides to shoot up an Asian nail salon or a school. To be a man--esp a white one, but white masculinity = default masculinity--IS itself to be the real type of "crazy" that they will characterize as "bad" crazy in women or minority races/ethnic groups.

Thus Valyrians/descendants can also easily get this "madness" thing even if they are male.

Male "strength"--which is the general Western idea of "strength", period--is a very loaded double standard in that it's automatically assigned to the vague notion of masculinity as if the two are one thing, but it constantly shows itself to be two-trying-to-be-one through this notion of "proving", and this is the eternal conflict with men that they never want to actually address or think about bc thinking and self reflecting is not necessicity when masculinity is assigned as perfect in of itself. Some men do, but they are/have been a minority. Most/enough men will either flagrantly deny, attack, or not speak at all.

I wrote a whole post about religion, Baelor I, and Daeron I HERE.