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jijournal · 2 months ago

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THE GREENHOUSE EFFECT | D.M

Summary: When you're paired with Draco Malfoy for Herbology, you expected eye-rolls and dead plants. But, you don’t expect that the most sudden pairings bloom the brightest.

wc: 1.7k+

cw: Hufflepuff!reader x draco. FLUFF! FLUFF! FLUFF!, a very pouty reader who loves and names her plants.

A/N: Alright you got me. I made up some of the plants mentioned cause I got lazy going through all the canon plants in hp. I LOVE LOVE LOVE HUFFLEPUFF!READERS! 💞

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

You’d witnessed many botanical tragedies during your years in Hogwarts’ greenhouses—Mandrakes shrieking their way into fainting fits, Puffapods misfiring into clouds of spores, even a Dungbomb incident involving a Fanged Geranium with a grudge and poor aim—but nothing, not even that, prepared you for the quiet devastation that was Draco Malfoy trying to care for magical plants.

“This one’s supposed to be droopy, right?” Draco asked one chilly morning, holding up a miserable-looking Flitterbloom, his face in lost confusion. The plant sagged from his gloved fingers like a limp dishcloth, the edges tinged with black rot, its once vibrant fronds now hanging as though in mourning.

Professor Sprout audibly gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “No, Mr. Malfoy, it most certainly is not supposed to look like that! That poor dear is drowning in water it didn’t ask for!”

You bit down on your smile, valiantly trying not to laugh. You really did try. But the look on Draco’s face—offended, a little baffled, and thoroughly disgusted—was too much. Your shoulders shook with suppressed giggles, and Professor Sprout caught your eye with a hopeful glint.

“Y/N,” she said, a little too sweetly, “would you mind pairing up with Mr. Malfoy for the rest of the term? He could use someone with your… patience.”

You blinked, unsure whether you were being punished or knighted. “You want me to help him?”

“I don’t need help,” Draco snapped, standing straighter.

“You do,” you and Sprout said at the same time, your voices perfectly overlapped. Your eyes met. She looked vindicated. Draco looked betrayed.

And that was how you became Draco Malfoy’s unofficial plant handler.

⸻

You wore flowers like armor. Always. In your hair—violets carefully tucked into your braid, a daisy behind your ear, sprigs of baby's breath pinned like secrets. Your jumpers often had tiny embroidered petals curling down the sleeves or buttons shaped like blooming buds. When people asked, you just smiled like the flowers had chosen you that morning and not the other way around. Flowers were a part of you, just like freckles were a part of others.

“Is there a reason you always dress like a sentient meadow?” Draco asked once, squinting as you buttoned up a coat stitched with little yellow marigolds that seemed to flutter when you moved.

“It’s for luck,” you said serenely, smoothing a daffodil-shaped pin at your collar. “And it makes the plants feel at home.”

He stared like you’d just offered him a slice of moonlight for breakfast. “You think the plants care what you’re wearing?”

You tilted your head, genuinely perplexed. “You don’t?”

The first incident came swiftly. You’d barely begun working together when he attempted to nudge a Puffapod into blooming. One gentle poke was all it needed—delicate, respectful. Draco prodded it like it owed him an explanation, and it exploded in a soft-pink mushroom cloud of pollen.

You stood in stunned silence, covered in fuzz, bits of petal clinging to your braid like confetti. You tried not to pout. You really did. But you ended up cross-legged on the floor, mournfully collecting the petals and whispering soft apologies.

“She just needed patience,” you murmured, fingers brushing the frayed bloom. “A bit of kindness.”

Draco sneezed and looked utterly unconvinced. “It was a plant. Not a therapy client.”

“She had a name,” you said sharply, shooting him a glare. “Lulu.”

He gave you a flat look. “You named the Puffapod?”

You met his gaze with unflinching sincerity. “I would've told you her name if you didn't blow up her sister Lala earlier this year.

He sighed. "yeah... because plants have siblings."

The next week, he crushed a Bubotuber in a moment of casual irritation. One second he was ranting about someone stealing his socks, the next he squeezed the bulb like it had personally offended him. It responded by erupting in a burst of thick, greenish goo. Draco’s shriek of horror echoed off the greenhouse walls.

“You strangled her,” you said disappointed, trying not to frown as you dabbed away goo with a Moondew sprig.

“I barely touched it!”

“You manhandled her like she owed you money.”

“It attacked me!”

“She was terrified.”

He stumbled back, covered in yellow-green sludge. “Of what? My refined bone structure?”

You crouched next to the limp plant, wand raised, murmuring a soft charm. “Of being misunderstood. She’s very shy.”

Draco groaned. “Merlin help me. Not again.”

“She has a name,” you said firmly. “Matilda.”

“Of course she does.”

With a flick of your wand and a quiet word, Matilda shivered back to life, wiggling slightly in your palm. You leaned in and whispered something that made her glow faintly. She’d forgiven him. Barely.

“She’s a menace,” he muttered.

“She’s sensitive,” you corrected, stroking her stem.

Draco stared at you like he was trying to decide if this was some elaborate Hufflepuff prank. You smiled serenely and tucked a fallen blossom behind your ear.

By the fourth week, Draco had managed to offend a Flutterfern, enrage a Shrivelfig, and traumatize a Fanged Geranium into permanent wilt. The final straw came when he took pruning shears to a Venomous Tentacula like he was avenging a personal vendetta. It lashed out in protest, its tendrils flailing before curling in on themselves, whimpering.

You didn’t speak to him for the next twenty minutes.

Instead, you crouched beside the wounded plant, gently gathering its injured tendrils in your hands. You rocked slightly, whispering something ancient and low—more lullaby than incantation. Slowly, the Tentacula calmed. Its color returned in hesitant pulses. One vine curled around your wrist, tentative and grateful.

“You’ve got to be doing this on purpose,” Draco muttered from the other side of the greenhouse. “No one’s that bad at plants unless they’re cursed. Or a Gryffindor.”

You glanced up, your voice dry. “You think I’d hex my own greenhouse just to make you look bad?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “With great pleasure.”

You dusted soil from your cheek with a dramatic flourish. “I’m petty, Malfoy. Not suicidal.”

He eyed you, then your boots. “You’ve got roses on your socks.”

“They’re embroidered,” you replied, lifting your foot slightly to show him. “Climbing roses. Very resilient. A bit clingy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Like you?”

You grinned. “Like you.”

His ears turned pink.

The sixth time was different. He didn’t kill the plant. He merely terrified it.

A small Mandrake sat trembling on its roots while Draco hovered uncertainly nearby, brow furrowed, tongue between his teeth in sheer concentration, wondering how the hell did you manage to stop a mandrake from crying. You watched from a few feet away, arms crossed, trying not to interfere.

“If you’re going to loom like that,” Draco muttered, glancing sideways, “you might as well do it yourself.”

“I’m observing,” you said proudly. “You’re improving. That Mandrake hasn’t flinched in at least two minutes.”

“It keeps looking at me.”

“you mean, He. Well, duh he has eyes. Of course he's looking at you.”

“Judgmentally.”

“That’s a compliment,” you said. “He doesn’t usually acknowledge people he dislikes.”

Draco scowled, but the Mandrake remained intact. Which, for him, was practically a miracle. When he wasn’t looking, you snuck the plant a leaf treat. It quivered happily.

Later that afternoon, while you adjusted the angle of a sunlamp for your Asphodel, you sensed Draco stepping beside you. He didn’t say anything at first, just hovered—an odd, uncertain weight in the air. Then his voice came, softer than usual.

“You missed a spot.”

You turned, confused, just as he reached out. His thumb brushed a smudge of soil from your cheek, lingering a second too long. You froze.

The world narrowed. You forgot the cold, the damp, the faint buzzing of Pixie-flies overhead. For one suspended breath, it was just you, him, and the inch of air between your faces.

He cleared his throat abruptly and pulled his hand back. “You had… dirt. On your face.”

“Oh.” You touched the spot instinctively. “Thanks.”

He turned away, cheeks faintly pink. You didn’t say anything. Your heart was too loud.

⸻

All term, you’d been tending to a single Moonlily in the corner of Greenhouse Three. Once silver-bright, it had withered into something curled and gray, like it had forgotten what light felt like. Every class, you brought it a fresh blossom, whispered to it like an old friend. “I’m still here,” you told it. “Come back when you’re ready.”

Draco never asked about it. But he noticed. You caught him glancing at it when he thought you weren’t looking. Watching the way you cared.

And then came the last day of term.

Most students had left for the holidays. Snow pressed against the greenhouse windows, and frost dusted the vines in glittering white. You were alone, brushing a light dusting of ice from the soil, when you heard the sound of footsteps.

Draco.

He looked a little windblown, hair tousled, scarf half-untied. In one gloved hand, he held something fragile. Small. Pale.

A pot with a single marigold.

Its stem was crooked. Its petals trembled. But it was alive.

“I, uh… Professor Sprout helped,” he said quickly, almost defensive. “A bit. Mostly she just stopped me from killing it.”

You stared, lips parting. He shifted, awkward.

“It’s not perfect,” he said.

You reached out and took it gently, your fingers brushing his. The flower quivered in your palm like it knew who had grown it.

“It’s exquisite.” you whispered.

His shoulders sagged, some tightness easing in his jaw. “I... It reminded me of you. It's bright and... pretty. Very, pretty.”

You stepped closer.

“Thank you,” you murmured, voice thick with something you didn’t dare name. “I love it.”

And then, without thinking, you kissed him.

It was soft, tentative—dirt-smudged noses, cold fingers brushing warm cheeks, and the quiet, sweet hush of something just beginning. He tasted of peppermint tea and the kind of wonder that comes only after you’ve stopped pretending not to care.

Behind you, something stirred.

You turned as the Moonlily—the one you’d nurtured all term—gave a shiver, then slowly unfurled. Its silver petals caught the moonlight and glowed like a promise, blooming with the kind of gentle pride only magic, patience, and love can grow.

Draco stared, wide-eyed. “Was that... because of us?”

You clutched the flower he'd given you to your chest, heart fluttering. “She’s been waiting. I think... she felt it.”

He looked at you, the usual edge in his voice softened into awe. “You’re completely mad.”

You grinned, breathless. “You still think the plants don’t notice?”

And then, for the first time all term, Draco Malfoy laughed—really laughed. It spilled into the greenhouse like sunlight after rain, warm and unexpected.

“Fine,” he said, shaking his head. “Maybe they do.”

You reached up and tucked the crooked little flower he’d grown into your braid, letting it nestle behind your ear like it had always belonged there.

“Then they’ve clearly been paying more attention than you have.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

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moonstruckme · 3 months ago

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Hi!

I just watched 'me before you' (so sad wtf)

Anyways the one scene with the bumblebee tights? I can't stop thinking about it and was wondering if you could write something with whimsical!reader and the marauders (individual or poly) inspired by that?

Oh that is the cutest little storyline! Thanks for the request angel <3

cw: reader has hair long enough to have a clip in, but the hair itself isn't described

James Potter x whimsical!reader ♡ 1k words

James grins at the blue vervain hung above your front door before he knocks three times, hiding the small gift bag behind his back. You open with an easy smile on your face. It widens once you see him.

“James,” you say, voice a pleased hum. “I thought we already went on our date?”

“We did,” James agrees, “yesterday, but…” he digs in his pocket “...I think you left this in my car.”

“Oh.” Your eyes widen delightedly at the large acorn he holds out in his palm. “I did! I was going to call and tell you, but I thought surely by this morning it would be gone.”

James feels his eyebrows bunch even as he smiles. “Where would it have gone, lovely?”

“Well, it’s a very nice acorn, so I thought for certain faeries would pluck it up if I left it unattended. I wouldn’t have blamed them, it’s only fair.”

James doesn’t see anything particularly remarkable about the acorn—aside from it being rather large—but you often see beauty in stuff that James doesn’t. It’s one of the things he loves about you. He’s learned that you collect these sorts of things the way other people might collect postage stamps; it’s not for him to question.

“I’m glad it was still there, though,” you say, pushing up on your toes to give him a kiss that, in James’ opinion, is far too brief. “Thank you for keeping it safe.”

“It was no problem.” He leans forward for another kiss, but you’re already turning, disappearing into your home.

He follows you inside, though you haven’t invited him in—sometimes these things simply don’t seem to occur to you; James is learning to interpret your cues.

“You look lovely today,” he says.

You send him a curious look. “You always say that.”

“It’s always true.”

“It can’t be the same amount of true every time,” you say, finding a place for your acorn on the windowsill above your kitchen sink. You’ve a small collection of things there, from propagated plants to dead bugs to little origami stars.

“Can’t it?” James asks.

“My hair never looks exactly the same,” you point out, not arguing so much as musing in the way you’re given to, “and last week when you saw me I didn’t have any spots, but today I have two.”

James captures you in a gentle embrace, his hand on your cheek. “You’re just as lovely,” he vows, kissing you, “every single time.”

Your eyes have gone soft and cloudy; you’re easily mollified. “If you say so.”

“I do.” He kisses you again, smiling. “I have something for you.”

“Mm, for me?”

“Who else?” He reveals the gift bag. The tips of his fingers are buzzing with excitement. “Open it.”

You take the bag, appearing bemused. “It’s not my birthday.”

“I know that.”

“Is it a holiday?”

“No.”

You look at James, still not opening the bag. “What’s this for, then?”

“Maybe I just like to give you things,” he says. “It made me think of you.”

“Oh.” You relax, the mystery resolved. “Because you’re nice.”

“Sure. Would you just open it, please?”

“Okay.” You give James a puzzled sort of smile, but part the folds of the bag. “Oh.” Your voice softens as you look inside. “Oh, James, this is lovely.”

“Yeah?” he asks, suddenly nervous as you draw it out. Up until just this moment, he’d felt nothing but confidence that you would love it, but now he’s unsure. “Do you like it?”

“Yes.” You turn over the barrette in your hand, expression awed. It’s a dragonfly, larger than life and incredibly detailed, with wings an iridescent green color that shimmer in the light coming in through your kitchen window. “It goes in my hair?”

“Yeah, but there’s a trick to making it work.” James leans closer, giddy. “Can I show you?”

You nod mutely, and he leans over, blowing gently on the gift.

In the palm of your hand, the dragonfly comes to life. You gasp as its wings shift and flutter, the colors becoming even more vibrant. If you look really closely, even its tail is moving, the only still part of it the legs so that they stay fixed in your hair while you’re wearing it. It took a nifty bit of charmwork to achieve that amount of specificity.

Your eyes are alight with wonder. It’s the sweetest thing James has ever seen, and he knows—if the ministry cracks down on him, if he’s never allowed to practice magic again—he knows he’s done the best thing.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, softly, as though afraid to scare the creature. “Where did you find this?”

“Just—at a market.” James tries to sound casual. “It was a pop-up, I think. Cool that they make them like this, yeah?”

You make a sound of agreement, eyes still on the dragonfly as it begins to settle down. “It’s like magic.”

James leans over to kiss your forehead. “Want me to put it on for you?”

Your expression lights up as though the possibility hadn’t yet occurred to you. “Could you? Please?”

“Of course, lovely. Give it here.”

You transfer the barrette to James’ hand delicately. He smiles at how preciously you treat it, turning you by your shoulder to fix it in the back of your head. Once he gets it situated—James really isn’t very experienced at styling hair—he draws you into the bathroom so you can approve.

“Can you blow on it?” you ask when he holds up a mirror for you to see the back of your head, barely leashed excitement in your tone.

James does, and you make the most elated sound he’s ever heard from you. He laughs as you turn to put your arms around him, his soft-spoken, placid girl nearly jumping with glee.

“Thank you,” you say, pressing your lips to his. “Thank you, James. No one’s ever gotten me anything so thoughtful.”

James reckons he has a thing or two left to do about that.

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shugarbunni · 7 months ago

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poly!marauders x whimsy!reader who puts her crystals before sleep

"sweetheart..?" remus' groggy and ever so gentle voice sounds from the living room door, "what're y'doin there, hm? s'nearly midnight, lovey"

"im setting up my new crystals, remmy. i forgot to earlier, got carried away on that soup for Jamie." you murmur gently with a yawn. your tongue pokes out in concentration as you set them all up in the perfect spots on the windowsill.

"perhaps." he huffs softly, padding over and gently tugging you up by your armpits "your crystals are all set up for now, yeah dove? time for bed?" he hums, pressing a soft kiss to your head.

"mhm. but you shouldnt have waited up f'me, jamie was already sleepy-"

"sh sh sh, dont worry. hed only get t'sleep with you there." he soothes, scratching your scalp gently as he guides you up the stairs. hes certain if he went ahead youd wander off and find some sort of tea to spoon feed james, whose been having a very mild headache (which had sent you into a herbal love filled frenzy, plucking every plant you could think of from your little garden.)

"boys, scooch up, yeah? managed to steel our favourite girl back from mother nature." remus whispers as he reaches over your head to push the door open, practically having to move your feet himself you're that close to sleep. he nudges you into your spot in bed between remus and James before gently clicking the bedroom door shut and padding back over.

"m'ever s'sorry i kept you all up, g'night l-love you..." you try to sound awake, but the way your words slur gives you away. not to mention the fact that the moment your head hits the pillow youre out like a light. remus smiles gently, pressing a kiss to your forehead and pecking his two boyfriends on the lips before clambering into the tangle of limbs under the covers.

"shes dead asleep." james murmurs, bulky arm tugging your back into his chest, enveloping you in that perfect warmness he always radiates.

"quiet, darling, please." sirius groans softly as remus tugs the covers over all of you "im desperate for my beauty sleep."

if this is god awful, lmk, i just wanted to get something out as ive missed writing but ive had no ideas :(<33 loving you all! like, share, reblog!!

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bartonomy · 5 months ago

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A GLIMPSE BETWEEN THE VEIL

PAIRING James Potter x Whimsical!Reader

SYNOPSIS James Potter has never put much stock in divination, but when a peculiar classmate offers to read his future, he finds himself unable to resist.

CONTENT WARNING talk about the future, James freaking out, angsty but not too bad, not exactly romantic but the reader is implied to be interested

WORD COUNT 1.2k

library.

James Potter never fancied himself the superstitious sort. Sure, he had vague notions of grandeur- winning the Quidditch Cup, making his parents proud, marrying a cute girl with a laugh as sharp as her hexes- but actual predictions? No, thanks. That sort of thing was for people who saw shapes in tea leaves and claimed the wind is responsible for every little mishap.

Which was precisely why he was sitting crisscrossed apple sauce across from you, mildly bewildered, as you shuffled an old deck of tarot cards with an almost hypnotic grace.

“You’re taking an awful long time, darling,” James teased, propping his chin on his hand. “Are you searching for a particularly good future, or just one that doesn’t end with me embarrassing myself?”

You smiled, a slow, knowing thing that made his skin prickle.

“The cards take the time they need, James.” Your voice was soft, melodic, like you were speaking from somewhere just beyond reality. “patience, or you might spook them away, the nargles have been especially fussy these days”

“Wouldn’t want that, do we” he murmured, glancing down at the cards with skepticism.

It was a quiet afternoon in the Gryffindor common room, the fire casting warm shadows across the walls. Most of the house was either out on the grounds or in Hogsmeade, but James had lingered behind, half out of laziness, half because he’d overheard Sirius mention your readings and got inexplicably curious.

Sirius, for all his bravado, had walked away from his session looking rattled. Which was interesting and absolutely hilarious.

You sighed contently, spreading the deck between your hands like a fan. The firelight flickered, casting warm shadows over the cards, their edges frayed from years of use. James had seen you doing readings before- sometimes for your friends, sometimes for curious younger students, and even once for Professor Whats-Her-Name in the Courtyard.

“Please pick three,” you instructed with the same soft tone you only used in class.

"Aye, aye grand Seer", James did as he was told, amused despite himself. “So, how does this work? You going to tell me I’m going to be rich and famous or that my soulmate, the love of my life is around here??” he snorted "please let it be the latter one"

"You are already rich" you pointed out, laying the three picked card neatly in front of you and discarding the unused deck in your satchel "and whether or not you will find love...well. That remains to be discovered, hm?"

With that he rolled his eyes playfully and you hummed, drawing the first card and laying it gently in front of you. The Fool.

James blinked.

“Oi, that’s just rude.”

You laughed, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Not at all. The Fool isn’t the fool we all know, James. He’s someone at the beginning of a great journey, standing on the edge of a cliff, about to take a leap of faith.” You tapped the card. “He’s full of potential, but also reckless. Fascinating, don’t you think?”

James grinned. “Sounds about right so far.”

You drew the next card. The Lovers.

James coughed. “Oh, well—”

You tilted your head, studying it with quiet reverence. “This isn’t always about romance, you know. It can mean a choice, a connection, a relationship that defines a person. It’s about harmony and consequence. Something you can’t escape.”

James swallowed. His mind, without permission, conjured an image of Lily Evans—her oh so fierce green eyes, the way she scrunched her nose adorably when she was annoyed, how she never hesitated to call him out.

You watched him closely, as if seeing the thought pass across his face. He didn’t like how sharp your gaze was, like you were peeling him apart with nothing but intuition.

“Shall we?” you murmured, pulling the third card.

You turned over the third and last card.

James frowned at the image—a great tower, struck by lightning, people falling from its heights. The air around you both seemed to shift, the easy playfulness from before fading into something heavier.

“The Tower,” you murmured.

James swallowed. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”

You traced the image with a careful finger. “Not bad. Just… necessary.”

James gave a dry laugh. “Destruction is necessary? On my buttocks, you are just like us, little troublemaker”

“Sometimes.” Your voice remained gentle, but the certainty in it made James shiver and his uneasy smile faded. “The Tower comes when the foundation isn’t steady. It doesn’t destroy for the sake of it—it forces change. When the dust settles, the world isn’t the same, but that doesn’t mean it’s worse.”

James stared at the card, feeling an unexpected tightness in his chest. Something about it—it felt too close, like a whisper against the back of his mind.

“What kind of change?” he asked quietly.

You studied him for a long moment, then examined the fated cards in front of of you

James stared at them. The Fool. The Lovers. The Tower. A journey, a choice, a fall.

He let out a quiet breath. “You sure you didn’t stack the deck?”

You smiled, but didn’t answer. Instead, you gathered the cards and shuffled them again, your fingers delicate against the worn edges.

James watched you, the tightness in his chest still there, lingering.

“Do you ever do readings for yourself?”

The question was simple, but it was enough to stop your fingers mid-motion. You hadn’t expected him to ask that. It was an unexpected question. You weren’t sure why, but the thought of reading for yourself felt like stepping into uncharted territory, where the gods will have full access of your being, your soul, and your mind.

“I... would rather not” you answered softly, your eyes now focused on your hands,“I mean, It is possible if I do, but it’s not something I like to do often.”

“Why not?” James asked, his curiosity piqued, though his tone was lined with the previous horror of his reading. “Scared the cards might tell you something you don’t want to hear?”

You chuckled, but it came out strained. “Something like that.”

James leaned in a bit closer, tilting his head. “Come on, you’re always so ominous with the cards for everyone else. Don’t tell me you’re scared of a few little 'whackspurts' messing up your head.”

The mention of whackspurts—those silly, fuzzy little creatures from your gardens, made you stiffen slightly, but not in the way he intended. It was funny, yes, but also something you had come to associate with the fuzziness that clouded your mind whenever you thought too much about yourself. The confusion, the uncertainty, the inability to make sense of your own feelings. You’d often joked about whackspurts being responsible for any moments of mental fog, but in truth, it was far more than that. It was a kind of fear—the uneasiness of confronting the unknown parts of yourself, the parts that were tangled and elusive.

“I don’t think it’s whackspurts,” you said quietly, finally meeting his gaze. “not entirely at least, It’s more like… what if I look too closely and find things I’m not prepared to see? What if there’s something inside me that I’m not meant to understand?”

He only shrugged, " then you are forced to confront them no matter what. I mean, with the bullock of a reading you gave me, I can't entirely avoid it can I?" he gave you his signature smile, all teeth and stirring something foreign inside of you.

“You believe in fate, don't you?” you asked after a moment.

James shook his head. “I believe in making my own future.”

Your smile was soft. “Then do.”

The words settled into him, deep and warm, and he suddenly had the strangest feeling that one day—maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—he would look back on this moment and realize just how much the universe had been trying to warn him.

#james potter x reader #james potter angst #james potter #james potter drabble #the marauders #the marauders angst #harry potter #whimsical!reader #harry potter fanfiction #james potter x yn #james potter x you #james potter fic #hp marauders #hp fandom

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suugarbabe · 5 months ago

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Hi sweet sabby baby 🙈

So I want to preface this by saying, I’m new so I might have missed a similar fic if you’ve already done it. So if this is a garbo request or some such nonsense, do tell me to fuck right off to hell, ok?

I was thinking, I wonder what Enzo might do if he’s dating a whimsical!reader (or even a shy!reader?) if one of his friends (or just another housemate, whatever you wish) pokes fun at her. Even if it’s innocent/good natured. Because we know Enzo has a golden retriever energy most of the time, but is there a Rottweiler in there too? And how bad is his bite?

TLDR; protective boyfriend Enzo over his sweet whimsical/shy!gf 🫶🫶 please and thank you my love

enzo berkshire x whimsical!reader

thanks for the request my darling, hope it's okay. whimsical!reader is deff a newer territory for me with the sb boys so this was very fun to explore <3

It was one of his favorite things about you, your ability to always see the good in things. Sometimes he felt like he needed to protect you, because even in the most obvious of situations where it was quite clear people were being rude, or making fun, it was like you couldn’t see it at all. Instead you would just smile, say something outlandish or odd, and then walk away unbothered.

Currently, he knew it was really just good natured fun; his friends teasing you. You were currently asking Mattheo if you could check his brain for wrackspurts; something you made Enzo sit through twice a week. When Mattheo started laughing Enzo could feel himself grow hot. “Mmm, yeah I think I’m good. My cousin Luna already does that involuntarily, I don’t think I need a second check.” Your smile widened as you gave him a blissful nod, “I would be very thankful to have someone like her in my family.”

Matty’s eyebrows rose as he gave you a tight lipped smile, “Oh yeah..m’sure you’d love her.” You sat up excitedly, “Oh, yes. I’d love to be introduced!” Mattheo turned to Theo, the latter shaking his head. “I don’t think I’ll be doing that,” Matty reached over and patted your hand, “we can only have one weird person in the group at a time.”

Immediately Enzo was enraged, standing quickly and shoving Mattheo from across the table, “Watch your fucking mouth, Riddle. You don’t get to talk to them like that!” You reached up and laced your fingers with Enzo’s, your touch alone instantly calming him down. “It’s okay, Enzie. This is just how Matty shows affection, he doesn’t really know any better.”

“What?

“Excuse me?”

Both Enzo and Mattheo turned to look at you in unison. Enzo raised his eyebrows, silently, and in the most polite way he could muster, asking you to continue. You gave a nonchalant shrug, “Well Matty didn’t really grow up with affection in his home so he shows that he cares about people by teasing them,” you turned to Mattheo, “which I’m completely fine with Matty, I think it’s sweet that you care about me.”

Mattheo was slackjaw, eyes flipping from you to Enzo. Your boyfriend wore more of an impressed smirk, “You know what, angel…you’re completely right. How about we let Mattheo sit in that information, hmm?” You stood from the bench, giving Mattheo a brief wave and a smile as Enzo wrapped his arm around your shoulders. Mattheo was left sitting with Theo, chin now resting on his fist while contemplating his life.

#slytherin boys #enzo berkshire #enzo berskhire x reader #enzo berkshire x you #enzo berkshire x whimsical!reader #whimsical!reader #enzo x reader #x reader #golden era

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lay-z · 21 days ago

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The first real vacation with your dear husband and your one year old daughter turns out to be quite dangerous for you—because everything he does makes your hormone levels boil and your libido sing, and it's too soon to think about another baby.

Innit?

Simon is nothing but saccharine cute and attentive; putting sunscreen on your daughter's chubby limbs before telling (not asking), telling you to turn around so he can put sunscreen on your back next.

The slight dominance with his gruff voice—something he sometimes can't turn off even away from work—paired with the obvious care and worry in his tone, make your toes curl into the hot sand and a giddy smile spread on your lips as you're facing away from him.

Simon takes the baby for walks at the shore whenever she gets fussy, wanting you to have a moment of peace as you read your novel in your beach lounger. He comes back with snacks and drinks every time, flashing you a proud smile when he can show off your sleeping babe in the baby carrier, strapped to his bare chest (and no, he doesn’t mind that the straps will have him end up with tanning lines).

Each day, he carves up a large watermelon at the beach and feeds both you and his daughter while you take pictures and videos of the precious moments when the baby pulls an adorable face, and he reaches over to wipe the juice off your chin before licking it off his thumb so your expensive swimsuit doesn't get stains on it.

Pride and contentment both ooze off him when he takes you out to the resort restaurants every night, pushing the stroller one-handed with broad, straightened shoulders while holding your hand with the other, gently swinging your entwined hands playfully.

His tawny eyes sparkle with raw adoration and love whenever your gazes lock over the dinner table as you feed your daughter new foods and fruits to try.

The looks he shoots you cause your stomach to churn with butterflies, bringing you back to a time with lots of firsts—first date, first kiss, first whispered I love You's.

At night, he never leaves your side and insists to put your daughter to sleep in her crib how you've created her—together.

And when it's finally time to flip the light off and slip under the white linen sheets while the AC hums in the background, you're so riled up with lust and love for your husband that you can barely keep yourself together.

As always, Simon is faster, though.

And he pulls you over to his side of the mattress beneath the sheets with practiced ease and a sigh of relief until your back molds itself perfectly to his bare chest while he runs his rough palm along the curve of your waist, old callouses caused by hard work catching on the fabric of the short, silky negligeé dress.

Goosebumps spread all over your skin at the contact; nipples perking, breath hitching, blood simmering with arousal as his warm breath puffs over your exposed neck.

"My gorgeous wife," he coos, fingers toying with the delicate hem of your dress while your thighs squeeze together as you turn your face away, hiding your coy smile into the plush pillow.

"Mother of my beautiful daughter," he adds, his voice now rougher as he shifts behind you, slowly dragging the skirt up your body as the sheets rustle gently. "Fuck, I need you, love."

You let out the sweetest and giddiest giggle, and Simon's chest vibrates with a low, matching chuckle.

"Stop—" you whine, squeaking when he squeezes your plump ass cheek.

"Christ. Can't never lemme be sexy and seductive f'you, eh?" He gropes you again, pinches your sensitive nipple through the silk, and you press your face into the pillow to muffle your laughter as you try to squirm away. "Simon!"

He merely snorts as you try to get out of his grip, and the tussle turns into playfighting—turns into tender lovemaking.

And so what if neither of you remembers to use protection.

#whimsical ♡ ˙ᵕ˙#simon ghost riley #call of duty #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley fluff #simon riley x you #cod x reader #cod fluff #dad!simon riley #cod ghost #ghost x you #simon riley

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neoheros · 2 months ago

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sakusa knows he’s a bad date.

he’s quiet, timid, doesn’t speak much, and asks all the wrong questions at the wrong time.

he’s not very good at eye contact and a lot of the things he wants to say he feels he can’t say at all either.

(partially due to the feeling that everything he says when he talks to you ends up embarrassing him, and partially due to the fact that talking to you for long periods of time make him tongue tied).

(not that he’d ever admit that).

despite all that though, he does know the basics when it comes to going on dates:

he buys you flowers (and forgets it by his doorway), he opens the car door for you (and apologizes when it almost hits you as he opens it), and he makes dinner reservations at the restaurant you mentioned to him in passing three days ago (he did a good job with this one).

so yes, him being a bad date is not unbeknownst to him. quite the opposite in fact, it’s not only something he knows about himself, but it’s also something that he thinks about all the time.

or at least, all the time ever since he’s met you.

that’s how the two of you end up here — the evening of your first (and probably last) date, sitting on a porch step of an empty building, a bloodied handkerchief filled with crushed up snow pressed against sakusa’s left cheek, and a few missing buttons from your favorite winter coat.

sakusa always knew he was a bad date, but he never thought he would be this bad.

the plan had been simple: get you flowers, open the door for you, drive you to the restaurant you liked. sakusa had this game-plan of his memorized ever since you said yes to him four — now five — days ago.

he wrote it on a piece of paper, step by step, and kept it in his wallet sleeve in case he forgets, he repeated it to himself three times in the mirror this afternoon before he left the house to pick you up, and he said it to himself one last time in the car before texting you that he’d arrived.

he memorized it.

and still, he messed it up.

the streets are empty and the evening is quiet.

“sorry … for this.”

his words feel like they’ve been the first to be spoken all night.

on the snowy concrete just below your feet, there’s a few drops of blood making its presence known loudly against the whiteness of the snow, the drops scatter sporadically, and near it, there’s a button or two from your coat.

you sit next to sakusa on the cold steps, it’s a quiet night, and it’s not snowing anymore, but the soft bed of the cold flurry it left behind made for a beautiful evening.

you let your head fall slightly on his shoulder, “for what?”

you can feel him stiffen immediately under your touch, and he coughs, shy, and looks to the side.

it makes you smile a little bit — his efforts of hiding his expressions — it’s not like you can see him anyway with that big makeshift ice-pack covering his face.

“sorry for the bad date.” he clears his throat, more clearly now, a little louder too, but his tone almost sounds disappointed. “… and sorry for ruining your coat.”

you lift your head up from his shoulder, frowning, and you turn to face him, “it’s not a bad date.”

he doesn’t say anything to that. instead, he keeps his head turned slightly away from you, but his shoulders fall a bit when you move away from him.

“if anything, i should be the one apologizing.” you mutter lowly, “i’m the reason you got hurt.”

sakusa huffs slightly. a second pausing in the air as he refuses to return the look you give him, and finally, he puts down the “ice pack” from his cheek, and looks at you.

his cheek is scratched lightly, nothing too deep, just a red mark that’ll probably resolve itself in a few days, but his lower lip though — the culprit of the blood stained snow — is undeniably busted, still bleeding slightly, and making him wince at the sudden loss of pressure.

“don’t say stupid things.” he tells you, and if it makes him sound cold, he swears he’s not trying to be.

he just doesn’t know what else there is to say.

the truth is — it is a bad date.

he forgot your flowers, almost hit you with the car door, and now, the two of you are missing your dinner reservation because he got himself injured twenty minutes into the night.

it’s not fair, he thinks. half the things he wants to say to you, he can’t. half the things he wants to do, he messes up.

you make him fumble on his words, tongue tied, speechless, literally. you make him write things down on notes so he won’t forget them or practice on bathroom mirrors or worry in his car outside your doorstep.

he is the most capable man in his team, he is the sharpest, the most composed, his teammates and coach all count and look up to him.

but for some reason, one night with you, and it all washes away.

he doesn’t know what to say to you, he forgets things, and he falls face first flat on the hard concrete ground twenty minutes into your first date.

don’t say stupid things.

“you really won’t let me take you to the hospital?” you put your hand on his knee, turning even more to your side so you can face him better.

you have half a mind to put your other hand on his injured cheek but you don’t want to hurt him more than how he already does.

“it’s not as bad as it looks.” and as he says that, he winces, the gust of wind suddenly hitting his busted lip a testament to his bad luck tonight.

sakusa wants to kick himself, if there ever would be an appropriate time to act cooler than how he actually was, it would definitely not be now.

you don’t look so convinced, but sakusa wouldn’t know, he’s still only limiting himself to looking at you briefly before shifting his glance to something behind you or beside you or above you.

“hm. and it doesn’t hurt?” you cross your arms.

he shakes his head, “no. it doesn’t.” (it does.)

you raise a brow, “and you wouldn’t happen to be lying to me right now so i don’t take you to the emergency room?”

he shakes his head again, “i’m not.” (he is.)

you give him a look.

listen — sakusa already knows that he’s a bad date, but come on! he has been planning on asking you to dinner with him since the first week he’s known you, he’s been worrying about this evening since the second you agreed to it, and he’s been kicking himself in the head ever since the night began.

he’d rather bleed out on this disgustingly dirty porch step than admit that he’s a date so bad he can turn an evening meant for dinner into a night at the emergency room.

he doesn’t want you to think that he can be so bad like that. (is it too soon to ask you out for dinner again?)

you still look frustrated at his answers. but at least, he’s looking at you now.

you let out a big sigh, shoulders falling, and suddenly, you clap your hands together loudly as you straighten up.

“then i have an idea.” you say, and sakusa furrows his brows at the sudden change in the atmosphere.

you give him a prompting grin. “heads or tails.”

and it catches him so off guard, he says aloud, “what?”

you dig for a coin in your coat, “i’ll flip a coin and if it lands on heads, we go to the emergency room, no arguments, no fusses, no nothing.”

he frowns at that.

“but.” you tell him, and your grin gets wider as you show him the dime laid out on your palm, “if it’s tails, we go to my apartment, and i’ll try to fix you up there.”

his frown falls almost immediately into something else.

one night out with you and he’s already bleeding heavily and injured, and now you wanna take him back to your apartment?

were you trying to kill him?

“heads or tails, omi.”

he blinks at your words. and once again, he finds himself saying aloud, “what?”

you shoot him a funny look, your eyebrows slightly raising as your lips curve upward into a crooked smile.

you say, teasing, “if you don’t know; heads is the part of the coin with the head of the person showing on it and tails is the–”

sakusa grumbles loudly, cutting you off mid-sentence, making sure you see him roll his eyes at you, and he nudges you slightly with his foot.

he mutters, albeit under his breath, and he tries to hide it, but you can always tell when he’s smiling, “i know what a goddamned head is.”

you shrug, your grin wider now when you see his mood lighten up a bit.

“do you know what a goddamned tail is?”

sakusa huffs out an amused sigh. the smile on his face a lot more prominent now, and you only wonder slightly if it hurts him when he does it.

his shoulders fall as he’s defeated, “just take me to the emergency room.”

you let out a short laugh and the night doesn’t seem so quiet anymore.

you fall back against his shoulder, “ah, omi, are you just saving the opportunity to be invited into my apartment for our next date?”

there’s a choking sound to be heard in the air.

his face almost feels like it’ll erupt into flames by how casually you just said that, a hot pink hue creeping up from his neck to nose all the way to the tips of his ears. he blames it on the cold, and immediately, he presses the “icepack” back against his cheek.

sakusa stands up suddenly from the porch step, “let’s go now.”

and just like he said, he strides away, faster than what would usually be safe on snow-covered pavement.

“omi, not so fast!” you yell after him, rising from your own seat and following his pace, “you might fall again and hurt the other side of your face and atsumu will think i beat you up on our first date.”

he walks faster.

“i can go to the hospital myself, please don’t follow me.”

“that’s ridiculous! let me take care of you!”

he trips on his feet slightly as you say that and his heart feels like it would’ve fell from his mouth had he not caught himself before falling again.

you really were trying to kill him, weren’t you?

maybe this date doesn’t feel so bad after all.

and, is it too soon if he asks you to come have dinner with him again?

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colouredbyd · 15 days ago

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The Button Nest

wolfstar x fem!whimsy!reader

summary: you’re a shy crow animagus, quietly watching the marauders from the shadows, admiring them from afar. you think you’re invisible, but sirius and remus have started noticing you in ways you never expected. then, after a sudden accident leaves you vulnerable, the quiet distance between you begins to unravel, one button at a time.

warnings: shy reder, animagus transformation, animal form, accidents and injury, vulnerability, slow-burn romance, subtle emotional tension, insecurity, blood, infirmary, angst, lonely reader, anxiety, social awkwardness, mention of ravenclaw!reader, teasing and gentle flirting, mild language, moments of self-doubt, themes of trust and acceptance, angst, happy ending.

w/c: 6.1k

a/n: as someone who was always seen as 'weird', this was so healing to write <3 masterlist

It wasn’t unusual for you to be roaming the grounds late at night.

In fact, it had become something of a ritual—an instinct more than a plan, something stitched into your routine without you ever deciding it. The forest always felt more alive once the rest of the castle fell asleep, the air cooler, the trees older, the world quieter in a way that let your thoughts breathe.

Most nights, you slipped from your bed and disappeared beyond the edge of the grounds, feathered and weightless in the shape of a small crow, darting through branches and perching high in the canopy where no one thought to look.

What was unusual, however, was this: Remus Lupin limping through the forest, his arms slung around the shoulders of Sirius Black and James Potter like they were the only things keeping him from falling apart entirely.

Now that—that was something new.

You stilled in the trees, tucked between the leaves, dark eyes following the scene below.

It was strange, not because they were out after curfew. That much you’d come to expect from the troublesome Marauders. But because even here, in the middle of the forest, long past midnight, the three of them still carried with them that same impossible brightness.

You had never spoken to them before, not once, and yet somehow you knew their names the way everyone did. James Potter, Quidditch star with a laugh loud enough to rattle windows. Sirius Black, the most troublesome student, who drew people to him like a flame. And Remus Lupin, softer than the others but no less magnetic, with his weary kind of stillness that felt older than all of them combined.

You’d seen them around—of course you had, everyone had, but you’d been watching them for longer than you’d care to admit. Not deliberately, or creepily, you hoped.

It was just that once you started noticing them, you couldn’t seem to stop.

They moved through the castle like they belonged to it, like the halls bent slightly to let them pass. Even when they weren’t trying to be the center of attention, the world seemed to place them there anyway, everything revolving around their presence like they were born to be the stars of some story no one else had been invited into.

And even now, deep in the forest where no one was meant to see them, that pull hadn’t faded. The trees themselves seemed to lean toward Remus, branches curving like they knew he was hurting. The wind circled Sirius like it was part of him, rustling his hair just so. And James—he kept his head high even though his shoulder bore half of Remus’s weight, eyes sharp and steady in the dark like someone who refused to be afraid.

From your branch above, your small body shifted forward slightly, feathers ruffling against the bark.

Remus looked worse than you expected. Pale and exhausted. His mouth was tight with pain, and he leaned heavily on both of them, clearly fighting to stay upright. It wasn’t hard to guess what had happened. You didn’t need someone to spell it out for you.

You already knew.

You’d known for some time now, if you were honest with yourself. It wasn’t a secret, not if you paid attention.

The monthly disappearances, the gray pallor that settled into his skin for days afterward, the limp he sometimes carried with him, the faraway look he wore when he thought no one was watching.

It was clear, if you knew how to see it. Remus Lupin was a werewolf.

You weren’t afraid of him.

You weren’t sure what you felt, actually. Not pity, not fear. Just this soft ache in your chest, a fluttering concern that made your wings twitch and your claws dig slightly into the bark beneath you.

You wanted, more than anything, to help. Not in a way that would ever be noticed, not in some dramatic act of kindness or courage. Just… to be useful. To ease the weight of whatever he carried, even if only for a moment.

But you didn’t move. You stayed quiet in the branches as they passed beneath you, Sirius murmuring something to Remus that made the corner of his mouth twitch upward, just barely.

James glanced up once, scanning the canopy, but didn’t pause. None of them noticed the crow perched above them, holding her breath.

You watched them disappear between the trees, the sound of their footsteps fading into the dark, and felt that familiar twist settle in your chest again.

You were never part of their world. That much had always been clear. You moved through corridors like a ghost with pockets full of silence, a soft-footed observer in a universe that burned far too brightly for someone made of distance.

Where they shone with the ease of constellations, you lingered at the edges like mist, half-invisible and entirely forgettable.

It was not envy that caught your breath when you looked at them, it was something lonelier than that.

You told yourself it was mere curiosity, a passing glance toward something golden.

But the truth pressed heavier than that simple excuse. You had spent so long folding yourself into the corners of rooms, shrinking beneath your own voice, that to witness something so effortlessly vibrant felt almost otherworldly.

It was not that they demanded your attention. You would have resented them if they had. It was that your attention, unbidden and unwilling, bent toward them in spite of you.

As though their presence altered the air itself. As though their laughter rewrote gravity.

You tried to retreat, to withdraw as you always had, but the further you pulled, the harder you were drawn in.

It was the slow inevitability of celestial force, like a lonely moon being dragged across the dark by a sun too blinding to ignore.

You told yourself you were content in the quiet, and maybe you were. But every so often, when the night made the world gentler, and their noise softened into something almost tender, you allowed the wondering.

You let yourself ache for the impossible. To imagine, just briefly, what it might feel like to stand in the warmth.

And then, as always, you turned back into the branches, into the dark, into the small and silent shape of someone who was never meant to be seen.

You stay in the tree long after they pass, eyes tracking the shape of them as they disappear into the thicket, the way James’s silhouette leads, the way Sirius shifts slightly to support more of Remus’s weight without ever making it seem like a burden.

They speak in low voices, too distant for words to reach, but the rhythm of their steps is steady, if uneven, and for a moment you allow yourself to believe they’ll be alright.

Still, you follow.

You shift in the branches, feathers settling against your sides as your body lightens, stretches, and then lifts, black wings cutting through the night with soundless ease.

You dart above the treetops, careful to stay far enough that they won’t hear the flutter of your passage, but close enough that you can still see them through the breaks in the canopy.

You watch as Sirius ducks beneath a low-hanging branch—too low, it turns out. The edge catches his shoulder, just barely, and he swears under his breath.

James chuckles while Remus winces and lets out a soft noise you can’t quite hear. They all pause for a beat, just long enough for Sirius to adjust his grip around Remus’s back.

And that’s when you see it.

The glint of something small and dark tumbling from Sirius’s cloak as he shifts. It falls soundlessly into the underbrush, half-hidden by shadow and leaf, but you catch the flicker of it all the same.

A button. Round, worn, and gleaming faintly in the moonlight as it lands near the base of an old root.

They don’t notice.

They keep walking, unaware, their laughter returning faintly on the wind as they near the edge of the woods.

You watch them for a few more moments—watch as James pushes the castle door open with his shoulder, as Sirius leans close to say something low into Remus’s ear that makes him sigh softly despite himself.

Their backs retreat into the stone, swallowed by the warmth of the light spilling from within.

Only once the door swings shut behind them do you move.

You dive, wings spread in a wide curve, and land beside the tree root. The button sits half-buried in moss, still holding the faint warmth of Sirius’s coat.

You press your beak against it, tilting your head. It’s not much, just a lost scrap. An unremarkable little thing that no one will miss.

You nudge it into your beak carefully, curling your claws against the bark to steady yourself. The metal is cool, and a little heavier than it looks. A strange weight for something so small.

You glance up once more toward the castle, just to be sure. And that’s when you see him.

Sirius.

He’s paused in the doorway, slightly turned, head tilted back toward the woods. His eyes scan the tree line..

For a second, your eyes lock—his wide, gray, still crackling with whatever storm he always carries behind them, and yours small and dark and unblinking.

Then he gives a tiny tilt of his head, just barely perceptible, like a question.

Then he turns and disappears into the castle all the same.

And you lift your wings again, button tucked in your beak like a treasure, and fly after him—back toward the tower.

The days that followed blurred into one another with a kind of quiet that felt dreamlike. Nothing monumental had happened, but something within you had shifted.

You told yourself it meant nothing. Just curiosity, perhaps. A trick of loneliness. A moment that would fade if you left it untouched. After all, you didn’t really know them.

And yet, your gaze sought them in every room. You lingered in places you normally passed through.

You didn’t know how to name the feeling that followed you. It was not love, not yearning, not anything so clear. Just a soft ache that fluttered behind your sternum whenever they looked your way.

So you tried to smother it gently, the way you always had, with quiet rituals and familiar comforts.

That afternoon, the castle pulsed with early spring. Laughter echoed through open halls, and golden light spilled across the stone like a secret.

You had left the library later than usual, the small wooden box clutched protectively to your chest, your bag slipping slightly off your shoulder as you hurried to make it down the hallway before the rush swallowed you.

You weren’t paying close attention to where you were going. Your fingers curled tightly around the lid of the box, and your thoughts, once again, had drifted far ahead of your body

You didn’t see them until you collided.

Your shoulder struck something solid—someone’s chest—and your breath caught in your throat as the impact jarred the box from your hands.

The lid sprang open, and in an instant, a hundred small fragments of your quiet world tumbled across the cold stone floor.

Buttons scattered in all directions, clinking and skipping like startled birds, tiny kaleidoscopes of color and shape spinning out across the corridor.

You dropped to your knees with a sharp breath, heart racing, hands frantically collecting what you could before they rolled too far.

You reached for them with trembling fingers, too humiliated to look up, your mind already preparing for the laughter, for the awkward glances, for the words you’d have to stumble through.

But the first voice you heard was warm, low, touched with a gentle humor.

“Are you okay, love?,” came the voice, unmistakably Remus Lupin’s.

Your breath froze.

You looked up slowly, dread tightening behind your ribs—and there he was.

Remus stood just above you, tall even when slightly tilted from the weight of his cane, his soft knit sweater stretched slightly across his frame, the collar turned wrong in a way that made your fingers ache to fix it.

His gaze was steady, unreadable, but not unkind—warm in that quiet, bone-deep way he always seemed to carry, as if the tiredness in him was ancient and affectionate and chose what it wanted to notice.

Beside him, Sirius Black was already crouched to the floor, hair falling in black waves around his cheekbones as he reached for one of the stray buttons—a glossy red one with a cracked side. He held it between his fingers and tilted his head as he offered it out to you.

“I think this one belongs to you,” he said, and there was a smile in his voice—not mocking, not teasing, just bright and real and somehow far too much for your chest to hold at once.

You reached for the button slowly, your fingertips brushing his for a second too long. “Thank you,” you whispered.

Sirius turned the button once more between his fingers before letting it go.

“This looks exactly like the one I lost the other night,” he said thoughtfully. “Coat got caught on a branch, and I remember it falling.”

You blinked, your mind scrambling to build some sort of casual response. “Oh. That’s… funny. What are the odds?”

Sirius narrowed his eyes with mock suspicion, but only smiled. “Yeah. What are the odds.”

Remus’s voice broke in again, quiet but curious. “Do you usually carry a whole collection around with you?”

You glanced down at the box in your lap, half-full, many of the buttons still scattered across the stone.

“I collect them,” you said. “I find them, and rescue them, I guess.”

Sirius leaned closer, crouching again, interest flickering in his expression. “You rescue them?”

“Yeah, I just think buttons are really cute,” you said softly, cheeks warming. .

There was a pause, quiet and weightless, suspended like a held breath.

Then Remus smiled, slow and gentle. He leaned down slightly, balancing his cane with practiced ease, his gaze steady as it met yours.

“I think you’re really cute,” he said, voice low but certain, as though he were stating a simple fact rather than handing you the sun.

Your breath caught. The heat in your cheeks flared instantly.

Sirius, still crouched beside you, let out a bark of laughter. “Moony,” he said, grinning wide, “you’re absolutely flustering her.”

He then picked up a button shaped like a starburst and turned it over in his hand.

“Do they have names?” he asked, half-smiling.

You hesitated again, but they were both still looking at you like they genuinely wanted to know. And so—shyly—you nodded.

“That one,” you said, pointing to the pink with the curved edges, “is Dai. The red one is Cheri, the little navy blue one is Ruxy, and the green swirl one is Teo.”

Sirius grinned. “Ruxy looks like a cutie.”

“She is!” you said automatically, and then blushed again.

Remus gave a small laugh—barely audible, but sincere.

And then Sirius’s gaze flicked back to you, brighter now, edged with something that felt almost like a secret.

“Well then,” he said, voice low and amused. “Can I have a button named after you, Miss Ravenclaw?”

The words hit you all at once. You stared at him, mouth parting slightly.

“I—um. You can have the whole box,” you said too quickly. “If you want, I don’t mind.”

Sirius laughed, rich and surprised, eyes narrowing just slightly as he leaned in a little.

“All of them?”

“They’d be safe with you,” you answered, almost without thinking. “With you and Remus.”

Remus looked at you again, gently. “But I thought you said they were precious.”

“They are,” you murmured, your fingers curling tighter around the box. “But I think they would be safe with you.”

Sirius leaned back, something like admiration flickering behind his lashes.

You didn’t quite know what to do with the way they were both looking at you.

And just when the silence stretched a little too long, a voice called from the far end of the corridor—“Oi! Sirius! Remus!”

All three of you looked up.

James Potter stood down the hall, grinning, fingers laced with Regulus Black’s in a way that felt less surprising than it should have been. Regulus looked vaguely annoyed, but didn’t pull away.

Remus stood first, then Sirius, both of them brushing imaginary dust from their sleeves.

Before turning to leave, Remus looked down at you once more, his expression softer than it had been all afternoon.

“Buttons like these,” he said gently, his voice as low and warm as a lullaby, “are safest with someone like you.”

He smiled once more, and then he was gone—walking beside Sirius, their shoulders brushing as they headed toward James and Regulus, leaving you behind with your heartbeat in your throat and your button box held close to your chest like it had just turned into something more than what it had been that morning.

In the days that followed, you found yourself seen in ways you had not expected. It was never loud or showy. Just the kind of noticing that lingered in the spaces between things.

Sirius would greet you with a grin that curved wide, his laughter always arriving half a beat early, as though he had been waiting for yours.

Remus had a different quiet, a warmth that never needed words. He would glance at you across the Great Hall, the corners of his mouth tilting up slightly, as though something about your presence softened the sharpest parts of his day.

Their light caught you even when you were not trying to catch it.

And somehow, you found yourself orbiting them without realizing when it had started. You did not speak of it. You simply moved in tune with it, steps quieter, glances longer, as though gravity had chosen for you.

But on full moon nights, the gravity changed.

You could never remain in the Ravenclaw dormitories, not when the thought of them beyond the walls left your chest tight and your sleep restless. So you became what magic had allowed.

You shifted. Feathered and silent, you slipped into the dark as a crow, wings slicing through the wind with singular purpose.

You did not follow too closely. You never let yourself be seen, but you watched. You hovered high in the trees, a shadow among branches, waiting for their safe return.

It was not out of duty. It was something far deeper, far stranger. It was worry, but it was also something you refused to name.

Especially when it came to Remus.

There was something about the way he moved beneath the moonlight that left you breathless. Something quiet and aching, something wild and controlled all at once.

It drew you in the way a fire does to someone who has always lived in the cold. You had not meant to fall into such devotion, but you did.

What you had not meant to do was get caught.

You had not seen the branch until it was too late. It had splintered beneath your landing, sharp as a blade, and pierced clean through the delicate bones of your crow’s foot.

You had cried out, a sound that belonged to neither bird nor girl, and now you are trapped. Your leg is twisted, impaled through the narrow branch, wings fluttering uselessly, body trembling from pain and fear.

The forest is deep and dark around you. The sky is heavy with clouds. The world below is quiet in the way that makes sound feel impossible.

You try to pull free, but it only burns. You try to breathe, but each breath comes thin and shaky.

You had come to protect. You had come to be sure they were safe.

And now, you are the one in danger, and no one knows you are here.

Remus was lying curled in the grass, his body trembling with the aftershocks of transformation. His skin was slick with sweat, chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths.

James crouched beside him, murmuring something too low to hear, while Sirius stood just behind, watchful and steady, arms folded tightly across his chest.

They were preparing to carry him back—like always. The routine had become muscle memory by now: someone took his shoulders, someone his legs, and they would move through the underbrush in silence, just three boys and the weight of what they refused to name.

You watched from above.

You always watched.

Perched in the tree line, your feathers damp and trembling, your heartbeat a staccato against the splintered wood that held you. The pain was sharp now—constant.

The branch had pierced clean through your crow’s leg, the wound throbbed with each flutter, and your small body had begun to lean sideways from exhaustion.

You really were trying not to fall.

You tried to call out again, but the sound was strange and half-formed, stuck somewhere between your beak and your pain. You blinked, dizzy and panicked, watching Remus blink slowly up at the trees, unaware that you were breaking just above him.

Sirius glanced up. It was casual at first, a flicker of curiosity. His brows furrowed slightly, his gaze lingering.

"There's a crow watching us," he muttered.

James looked up too. “Bit early for birdwatching, innit?”

“Looks hurt,” Sirius added, voice quieter now, cautious. “Wing’s twitching.”

“Probably just spooked by us.”

But Sirius didn’t look away.

You wobbled again, wings fluttering helplessly, and this time the pain stole your breath entirely. Something gave—a soft sound, barely audible—but Sirius stepped forward like he heard it anyway.

“That’s not normal,” he said, a strange edge to his voice. “That—James, that bird's not flying off.”

James straightened, still holding Remus’s arm draped over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s not scared of us. It’s watching us. Bleeding, even.”

You blinked again, vision swimming. The pain was starting to blur the edges of things.

And Sirius had always been sharper than he let on. He stepped forward, squinting up into the tree line, eyes narrowing. “It’s too still, like it’s waiting.”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach turn.

They didn’t know you had followed them—every full moon, without fail. That you had shifted the second they were gone, just to make sure they were okay. That you stayed out of sight. That it wasn’t a coincidence, the way a crow always seemed to circle above them at the end.

They didn’t know because you’d never told them.

Because what would they say?

The shy Ravenclaw girl who barely spoke at meals. Who had feathers hidden beneath her skin and a fondness for strange winds.

You hadn't meant to be seen.

You hadn't meant to fall.

And now, all it took was one branch and one mistake to unravel it all.

Sirius took a step closer.

“Something’s not right,” he said, voice low now. “I’m going up.”

“Pads—” James started, but Sirius was already reaching for a low limb, already climbing, already listening to something he couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore.

Sirius climbed carefully, boots pressing against bark slick with moss, one hand braced on a branch as he narrowed in on the trembling bird.

The crow didn’t flinch. It only watched him with dark, glassy eyes, chest rising unevenly with every breath. Its feathers were ruffled, one wing visibly twitching from strain, its claws caught by a jagged splinter of wood. The wound had darkened the bark below it with a smear of blood.

And beside it, nestled in the fork of two branches, was a small, uneven nest.

A nest filled with buttons.

Sirius froze.

Red. Pink. Navy. Green.

His breath hitched.

Cheri. Dai. Ruxy. Teo.

It struck him like a gust of cold wind, the memory rising all at once—how you had shown him those buttons in the quiet corner of the hallway when you bumped into him and Remus, your voice barely above a whisper, explaining that you named the small things you kept close.

He looked back at the crow, still trembling, and his chest clenched with certainty.

“Y/N,” he said, voice low but sure, “it’s you.”

And in the seconds that followed, you shifted.

Feathers melted into skin. Wings collapsed inward and became arms, trembling and bruised. Your body curled in on itself, still perched awkwardly in the tree, leg bloodied and twisted at an angle that made Sirius’s stomach flip.

You clutched the branch with shaking fingers, hair matted and face flushed with effort and something deeper—shame, thick and suffocating.

You didn’t cry from the pain. Not even when your injured leg gave a sharp spasm, tearing through the nerves like fire, or when your fingers trembled uselessly against bark still sticky with your own blood.

You cried because you had been seen.

It had always been the one thing you wished for. The softest, most secret ache of your childhood.

To be seen. Not glanced at, not acknowledged in the polite way professors nod at a raised hand or classmates murmur a distracted hello—but truly seen.

To be noticed with intention. To be understood in your full, strange shape. You had begged for it in silence, prayed to stars without names, asked the moon to make you visible.

And now the universe, in its crooked wisdom, had answered. You had been seen—bloodied, exposed, and caught in your smallest truth.

You had sat through years of being overlooked, of having your voice mistaken for wind or your presence mistaken for absence. You had learned to expect it, but never stopped wanting otherwise.

You had begged, in ways that did not involve words, to be noticed

And now, here you were.

Revealed in trembling flesh and blood. Not behind a desk, not through the soft offering of a smile or a story or a named button—but like this.

Injured, fragile, unraveled, and caught.

They had seen you, truly seen you. Not the version you curated in classrooms or in hallways with quiet nods and subtle glances. They had seen the strange bird who followed them into the night.

The girl who built nests out of threadbare things. The one who had watched them like they were made of light and belonged to a constellation she would never be brave enough to touch.

And it was cruel, wasn’t it? How the universe had finally answered your oldest prayer, but in the wrong language.

How being seen could still feel like being misunderstood.

You hadn’t wanted them to think you were weak. You hadn’t wanted their pity or confusion. You hadn’t wanted their worry to be born from the sight of your blood or the way your hands shook. You hadn’t wanted to be caught.

You had wanted them to understand.

You had wanted them to see the quiet devotion threaded through every watchful flight. The care behind every shadowed perch. The love it took to stay hidden when every part of you wanted to land at their side.

But now that they had—now that they had seen the part of you you kept hidden beneath feathers and wind—you wanted to disappear all over again.

Isn’t that the tragedy of it? That the very thing you once begged for could arrive in a form you didn’t recognize. That after all the aching, all the hoping, all the prayers you sent to unseen gods, being seen could still feel so much like being misunderstood.

And yet, even in that moment, even with shame biting at the edge of your vision and tears sliding down your cheeks, part of you still clung to the hope that perhaps—just perhaps—they hadn’t misunderstood you after all.

“Hey—hey. Look at me,” A voice low but urgent breaks through your haze.

Hands find your face, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes with a softness that makes something in your chest splinter further.

“Don’t cry, love. Please don’t cry. You’re alright. You’re safe. I’ve got you, just breathe with me, yeah? Just stay with me.”

You try to look away, but he won’t let you. His gaze holds yours, steady and unwavering, the kind of look that feels like being tethered—pulled back to something real, something warm.

You barely notice Remus limping toward you until he drops beside the branch, breath catching in his throat.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and his voice breaks around the edges. “Is it your leg? Are you hurt? Y/N—what happened?”

You can’t answer, not right away. Your mouth opens, then closes again, but Sirius is still there, crouched in front of you, hands steady despite the thudding panic you can feel rising in both your chests.

He speaks again, softer now. “You—you’ve been watching us? All this time?” His voice trembles with something between awe and heartbreak. “Alone? During every full moon?”

You nod once, a small, broken motion, tears slipping down your cheeks in silence. Your jaw is clenched so tightly it aches.

“I didn’t want you to know,” you whisper. “I thought—if you saw me, it’d be weird or pathetic, or—”

He cut you off gently, reaching out to cup your cheek with a care that made your throat tighten.

“Pathetic?” he echoed, incredulous. “Pathetic? Y/N, you’ve been dragging your body into the sky just to keep us safe. You bled for us tonight. You’ve been doing this alone. That’s not pathetic—that’s... that’s fucking brave.”

His voice broke on the last word.

Below, James appeared at the base of the tree, voice rising in concern.

“Sirius?” James shouted. “Is it hurt? Is it—wait, where are you?”

“It’s Y/N!” Sirius called back down. “It’s her. She’s an Animagus.”

“What?” James’s voice cracked. “What do you mean it’s her?”

But Sirius wasn’t listening anymore. He was already helping you into his arms, cradling your body close with infinite care, his hand pressed protectively to your injured leg, holding you like something precious and breakable.

He whispered reassurances as he climbed down, slow, careful steps that betrayed the panic beneath his steady hands.

By the time Sirius’s boots hit the earth again, Remus was already beside him.

His breath came ragged, the lingering tremors of the transformation still curled in his limbs

Now, standing just steps from you, Remus looked like the ground had given out beneath him. All the color had drained from his face, but it wasn’t just shock.

You tried to speak, but the moment Sirius set you down gently in the grass, Remus was already kneeling, like his body had moved before his mind could catch up.

“Y/N?” His voice cracked, hoarse and thin. “What—what happened? What were you doing out there?”

You couldn’t meet his eyes. Not with the weight of both their gazes pressing into your skin. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“A burden?” he repeated, the word leaving his mouth like it tasted wrong. “You’ve been following us? While I’ve been transforming? Every full moon?” His breath hitched. “While I was—”

“I didn’t want anyone to worry,” you whispered. “I just needed to know you were okay.”

Remus inhaled sharply and let it go like a wound reopening. His hand hovered near yours, trembling. Then he reached for you anyway, brushing your hair back from your damp, dirt-streaked cheek.

His fingers paused near the scratch below your ear, reverent, aching.

“You shouldn’t have had to do that alone,” he said, softly but with conviction, like he was swearing an oath he never should’ve forgotten. “You shouldn’t have had to hide this. You didn’t have to hide this.”

“I didn’t think you’d understand,” you murmured, tears threatening again.

“We understand now,” he said, brokenly. “And it shouldn’t have taken blood for us to see it.”

Sirius’s jaw was clenched so tight it trembled. Remus’s voice was frayed, but firm. And both of them looked at you like you had done something immeasurably brave. Like you were worth mourning, protecting, holding—everything.

You finally looked up at them, eyes glassy, face streaked with tears and dirt and disbelief.

Sirius exhaled sharply, pressing a kiss to your temple. Remus closed his eyes, his hand settling gently over yours.

James crouched nearby, still stunned, but his voice was gentle when he finally spoke. “Next time, you don’t watch us from the trees. Next time, you’re down here with us.”

The walk back to the castle was slower than usual. Not because the path had changed, or because the forest was any darker than it had been—but because something between the three of you had shifted.

Sirius carried you most of the way, arms secure beneath your back and knees, murmuring quietly each time you winced, while Remus walked close beside him, watching your face as though afraid it might disappear.

James had gone ahead to clear the way and fetch Madam Pomfrey, but you hardly noticed his absence.

Your body ached, but it was the tightness in your chest that throbbed hardest. You had never meant for them to know, not the Animagus form, not the secret flights, and certainly not the nest tucked into the trees like a childhood you’d never outgrown.

By the time Sirius set you down gently on the edge of the infirmary bed, your throat was dry from trying not to cry again.

Remus didn’t speak at first. He just knelt beside you, hands gentle as he peeled away what was left of your sock and began tending to your leg. His fingers were deft but soft, brushing the dried blood away with a damp cloth, jaw clenched as he examined the wound with quiet intensity.

You hated the silence. You hated how heavy it felt.

“I’m sorry,” you said, the words breaking free before you could stop them. “I know it’s weird. I know I’m weird. I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.”

Sirius, who had been standing nearby, leaned forward suddenly, resting one hand on the mattress beside your hip.

“Stop,” he said, firm but not unkind. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologize for being the one person who cared enough to follow us into the dark.”

Your breath caught.

“I just… I didn’t want to be a burden,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a breath. “I didn’t think you’d understand.”

Remus’s hands paused in their careful rhythm as he finished unwinding the gauze. He looked up slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet but certain.

“Y/N, if you truly believe we’d ever mock you for caring—for watching over us in the only way you could—then I’ve clearly failed to show you the kind of man I am, and the kind of man I hope to be.”

Your fingers curled in your lap. “I watched you,” you whispered, eyes flicking toward Remus. “Every month. I couldn’t sleep knowing you were out there. I just... needed to make sure you came back.”

Remus didn’t look away. He soaked the cloth in warm water and pressed it gently to your scraped skin with hands that trembled slightly—not from fear, but from how much he was holding back. “You never needed to explain that,” he said. “But I’m glad you did.”

Sirius moved closer, silent until now. He sat down beside you on the bed, his palm finding the small of your back, grounding you.

“You watched over us,” he said, his voice low and rough at the edges. “Even when we didn’t ask. Even when we didn’t know. You broke your body trying to keep us safe. And you’re still sitting here thinking we might call you strange for that?”

You looked up at him then, wide-eyed, voice shaky. “I mean... I collect buttons. I sleep with open windows so I can hear the wind. I speak to animals. I—I’m not exactly—”

“Normal?” Sirius offered, a half-smile playing at his lips. “Good. We’re not either.”

Remus finished wrapping your leg and looked up, expression softening like a wave pulling back from shore. “You think we’ve spent all these weeks noticing you for no reason? You think we didn’t see the way you listen more than you speak, or how your eyes always catch the smallest things—the things no one else notices?”

“You care in ways no one else ever has,” Remus added, more gently now. “You cared about me in a way I didn’t know how to accept until right now.”

Your breath caught. “Wait… are you saying...?”

Sirius laughed under his breath and leaned a little closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. “Love, we’re saying we’ve been completely enchanted by you for ages. We just didn’t know how to say it until tonight.”

You blinked, stunned. “Really?”

“Really,” Remus said, his voice warm. “In every way that matters.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came. Your throat was too full of something tender, too new.

Remus leaned closer, his voice softening. “Listen to me,” he said. “You don’t have to hide yourself from us. Not your wings, not your magic, and certainly not your quiet. We like you—we care about you—for everything you are. You’re not strange, love.”

Your lip trembled.

“And the button nest?” he added, grinning now. “It’s the most heartbreakingly you thing I’ve ever seen. That nest in the tree… it wasn’t weird. It was beautiful.”

Sirius smiled, something quiet and bright in his expression. “Well, we were talking about it on the way back—Remus and I, and if there’s ever room for two more in that nest, we’d be honored to be named and to be part of something you created.”

You blinked. “You want to be… buttons?”

“Not just buttons,” Sirius said, bumping his shoulder gently against yours. “Your buttons.”

Remus looked up then, meeting your eyes with something deep and sure and aching in its sincerity. “If we’re lucky, maybe you’ll even give us names.”

You looked down at your lap, hands trembling in your lap, and then, slowly, a smile tugged at the corners of your mouth, tentative but real.

“You can be in my button nest,” you said, voice barely a whisper.

And for the first time, it wasn’t just that someone had seen you.

It was that they had recognized you — all the strange, quiet, fragile pieces you’d kept tucked behind your ribs, the ones you had never dared to name aloud.

They hadn’t flinched from your softness, or your silence, or the wild devotion stitched into the things you loved. They had understood it. And more than that, they had chosen it.

Chosen you.

You had spent your life making altars out of small things. Buttons, feathers, the hush between words. You had prayed in your own language — not in churches or temples, but in the way you noticed everything others overlooked. You had asked the world for so little: just to be held in return.

Just to matter to someone the way you had quietly, unfailingly let others matter to you.

And for so long, the world hadn’t answered.

But maybe it was not that it hadn’t heard you. Maybe it had simply taken time.

Because now, without asking, without performing, without even meaning to — you were seen. Not in passing, not in pieces, but fully, tenderly, and without having to translate your love to the world.

You were no longer a distant thing.

And perhaps, after all, the universe had been listening the entire time.

Now, it had spoken , softly and reverently, in the form of two boys who looked at you as if you were something celestial stitched into the earth.

After all, the button nest had always been waiting for them too.

a/n:

to the readers with soft hearts and quiet hopes; may someone see your soul the way you see the world. to the readers who love gently, who notice everything, and who wait, patiently, to be noticed in return; may your button nest always be full ❤️‍🩹

-dalia

#marauders era #marauders x reader #poly!wolfstar #wolfstar x reader #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x reader fluff #remus lupin x reader angst #sirius black x reader #sirius black x reader fluff #sirius black x reader angst #poly!wolfstar x reader #poly!wolfstar x reader fluff #poly!wolfstar fluff #wolfstar x reader fluff #poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders fluff #wolfstar fluff #wolfstar x whimsical!reader

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wordsofwhimsy · 3 months ago

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a head canon i just NEEDED to put out there

i definitely think there were other versions of Mark that were actually good, but they all got killed for one reason or another

and maybe one of those variants died trying to protect you from his dad, shielding you with his body as you tremble and sob into his chest. "shh, it's okay i've got you, i love you so much [y/n] everything is going to be o--"

his father's hand punches through Mark's back, straight into your chest. you cough out blood onto Mark's face, eyes wide and filled with horror and pain and tears as you look at him for the last time

Nolan pulls his arm free, and you both fall to the dirt in a mess of blood, viscera, and limbs, still wrapped tightly in one another. Mark outlives you by minutes, unable to breathe or talk or move. he spends those last moments swearing that he’ll find you in the next life

#invincible fanfic #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #whimsical words #i keep breaking my own heart man 😔

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jijournal · 2 months ago

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CHARM ME UP | D.M

Summary: You’ve made it a habit to give small charms to those who need a reminder that they’re not alone. But there’s one person you keep finding reasons to give them to—one boy who always seems to need a charm.

Pair: whimsical!reader x draco malfoy

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

It starts with a button.

Draco Malfoy is sorting through his school robes one morning before his Charms exam when he finds it—buried deep inside the lining. A small, copper button glints under the pale light of the Slytherin dorm. It’s not the sort of button that’s part of his uniform. He runs his fingers over the smooth surface, then turns it over, finding neat handwriting on the back:

“A charm for clarity. You’ve got more in you than you think.”

He stares at it, his brow furrowing as he wonders if it’s some joke. A prank. Who would leave something like this in his robes? He’s about to toss it aside when he feels a strange pull to keep it. For some reason, the button doesn’t feel like an intrusion. It feels like… like it’s supposed to be there.

Without much thought, he slips it into his pocket, and the moment passes. He heads to the exam, but as he stares at the test before him, something feels different. His mind, normally clouded with thoughts of his father’s disapproval or his next move, clears. The questions seem easier to answer. By the end of the exam, he’s finished ahead of schedule. He walks out with a sense of accomplishment, something he hasn’t felt in a while.

Later, he checks his grade: top of the class.

Draco doesn’t believe in luck. Not really. But as he stands there, staring at the paper, his fingers instinctively reach for the charm still nestled in his pocket. He doesn’t question it—he simply keeps it.

A few weeks later, the charm reappears again, this time at a Quidditch match.

Draco pulls on his gloves before stepping onto the pitch, and tucked inside his left glove, he finds something small and coiled. At first, it’s nothing but a slight vibration against his fingers, but when he pulls it out, he sees a miniature broom, made of green thread and silver accents.

He examines it briefly before noticing a tiny inscription hidden on the side.

“For steadiness. And aim.”

Draco rolls his eyes at the absurdity. It’s another charm, no doubt—one of those ridiculous little trinkets that had become a nuisance around Hogwarts, but there’s something almost soothing about the weight of it in his hand. He tucks it into his pocket with a sigh, deciding it can’t hurt to keep it for good measure.

The match itself feels different than usual. His focus sharpens. He plays with a fluidity he hasn’t felt in months, his broomstick gliding through the air as if it’s an extension of himself. The team wins, of course—victory after a clean sweep—but it’s the ease with which they’ve done it that lingers in Draco’s mind.

When he later pulls the charm from his pocket, it feels like more than a silly token. It feels like something that worked.

He still doesn’t believe in luck. But he starts to think that maybe there’s more to these charms than he’s letting on. And once again, he tucks it into his tin.

Over the following weeks, Draco notices the charms popping up more frequently. Each time, it’s something different, something subtle—an object that seems so small but always holds a significance that lands right when he needs it most. A paper crane, its wings unfolding and refolding in a rhythmic pattern whenever he’s about to get a question wrong in class. A smooth stone with etched runes of protection, just when his father sends another cold letter. A tiny moon made of thread, glowing faintly in his hands, during the rare moments he’s truly alone.

It’s like magic—real, tangible magic—that only appears for him, and only when he needs it most. He doesn’t know who’s behind it. Doesn’t know how they’re doing it. But as time goes on, he doesn’t question it.

Not really.

Instead, he starts paying attention.

He notices you one afternoon in the library, bent over a stack of parchment, fingers working methodically on a charm of your own. You’re quieter than most, a bit of a mystery even among the usual crowd of Hogwarts students. But Draco’s not the only one who notices that there’s something different about you. While most people bustle about, you’re always where you need to be, your hands always working, always helping.

You’re not flashy. In fact, you’re the opposite of attention-seeking. But when he sees you slipping something into Pansy’s cloak before her Defense class, and then sees Pansy humming softly to herself like her cold walls crashed down, Draco knows. He doesn’t need anyone to confirm it.

It’s you.

And somehow, that doesn’t feel like a surprise.

One morning, Draco wakes up to find another charm tucked under his pillow, folded neatly like a forgotten note. He hadn’t expected it—not after the intensity of his father’s letter the night before—but there it is, sitting like a small spark of hope. It’s a simple charm—just a tiny star, stitched in gold thread, but it feels warm in his hand as though it’s been waiting for him.

“For brightness on dim days.”

He doesn’t know how you knew. He doesn’t need to know. But for the first time in months, he sits with it, feels its warmth against his fingers, and lets himself believe that things might just be okay. That maybe he’s still allowed to be good.

That he’s still allowed to be more than just a Malfoy.

The charm stays with him longer than any of the others. He keeps it in his pocket for a week, letting the weight of it ground him. It becomes his little secret, a reminder that even in the darkest moments, there’s light—somewhere, somehow.

By now, Draco knows where to look. He doesn’t have to search the hallways like he did before. He simply keeps an eye on you, watches as you slip in and out of classes, a quiet observer in the background, always stitching and folding and mending things that no one else notices.

One day, he catches you in the library, sitting by the window with a small bundle of thread in your hands, your eyes focused on your work. He knows better than to approach you immediately. He’s learned to wait, to observe, and so he watches you for a while, seeing the way you pause when someone asks for help, seeing how you always offer something when others least expect it.

He clears his throat when he’s close enough, making you jump slightly in surprise. Your eyes widen, but you don’t back away.

“Who are they for?” he asks, his voice steady but filled with curiosity.

You blink, surprised at the directness of his question. For a moment, you hesitate, then answer, “Depends who needs them.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “And who decides that?”

You smile, the kind of smile that makes him wonder if he’s stumbled upon a secret. “I listen.”

Something inside him shifts at those words. It’s so simple, yet so profound. You don’t just make the charms. You feel them. You understand them.

Draco finds himself leaning against a table, unable to break his gaze. He doesn’t say anything more. But from that moment onward, he watches you even more closely, noting the way your hands move with such intention, how your eyes flicker with understanding when someone comes to you for something more than just a charm.

And, in a way, he starts to wonder if he might need something more, too.

The next Saturday is sunny and warm—a rare break from the usual dreariness of Hogwarts. Draco finds himself walking through the halls, his thoughts preoccupied with the latest charm he’d received, a small coin that had somehow found its way into his pocket before a particularly tense conversation with his father. His fingers close around it now, absentmindedly, as he walks toward the greenhouse, only to stop short when he sees you.

You’re kneeling in front of a row of plants, your hands buried in the dirt. He watches you for a moment before he speaks.

“Got a charm for me?”

You look up at him, startled. Then your lips curl into a smile, soft and hesitant.

“I thought maybe you were ready for something different.”

You reach into your bag and pull out a small note. It’s folded neatly, no charm this time, just a scrap of paper with delicate handwriting.

Draco unfolds it carefully and reads the words:

“For when you’re ready to ask me to Hogsmeade.”

He looks up at you, his heart thumping in his chest, and for once, he doesn’t hide his smile. Not from you.

He holds out his hand, offering the same quiet invitation he’s kept hidden in his heart for so long.

“You free next weekend?”

And the smile you give him in return is all the answer he needs.

“Yes.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

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moonstruckme · 7 months ago

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A Winter Wonderland

summary: you marvel at the beauty of your Christmas tree, and your boyfriends marvel at you

poly!marauders x whimsical!reader ♡ 911 words

You could fall asleep here, you think. It’s very lulling, the sound of the fireplace crackling a few feet away, the scent of pine needles, and the view of a forest unlike any other stretching out in front of you. Lights of blue and green and red filter through the thicket, and poking through you can see the edge of a handmade paper star, the fuzzy end of a dog’s tail. Your Christmas tree from below.

“What are you doing?” Sirius has the half amused tone of when he feels like he’s caught you at something odd and he hasn’t decided whether to rag you or to join you yet.

“Admiring our decorating,” you reply. “We did a good job.”

“You’re supposed to look at it from in front of the tree, sweetness.”

“It looks nice from there, too,” you allow, “but nobody ever appreciates it from down here.”

There’s a new set of footsteps, a big hand on your knee. “Are the branches not scraping you?” James asks curiously.

“Only sometimes.”

You hear a smile in his voice. “It’s worth it, though, eh?”

You hum in affirmation.

“Well, this I’ve gotta see.”

James is bigger than you are. You lift the branches for him as he shoots his top half in beside you, but when you let go they come to rest on his chest. He grins at you before looking at anything else. A classic James Potter smile, heartfelt and breathtakingly handsome.

“Hi, angel.”

“Hi.” You reach for his glasses, carefully readjusting them on his nose.

“It smells nice in here.”

“It does,” you agree, pleased to be sharing it. You turn your face upward again. James follows suit. “It looks like another world.”

“It is very pretty,” he says. Multicolored lights spiraling upward, the odd ornament sticking in through the branches, the tree itself lush and fantastical in dark green. “You’re right, we did a good job decorating.”

“Don’t you sort of want to live here?” you ask on a sigh.

“You mean here in our sitting room?”

“No, here in the forest.”

“Ah.” James gives this some thought. “It is nice, but I quite like my life the way it is.”

You turn to look at him, and he’s already looking at you, glasses reflecting a rainbow of lights and brown eyes warmer than warm behind them. Your insides go soupy.

“I like it, too,” you say softly. “I wouldn’t want to go if you all couldn’t come with me. Maybe we could move our place there. Or just visit sometimes, like camping.”

James smiles at you. A dimple appears in his left cheek. “You mean on weekends?”

“Sure.”

“I’m sure we could make that happen, lovely.”

“Oi.” Sirius gives your knee a little shake. By the way James looks down, you guess your boyfriend’s doing the same to him. “What are you two whispering about down there?”

“He’s jealous.” James drops his voice into a deeper whisper, louder yet somehow less intelligible, solely to provoke Sirius. “He knows this view is better than in front of the tree.”

“I don’t know,” you say, smiling at his antics. “I think he’s just worried we’re discussing his Christmas gifts.”

Another shake to your knee, more insistent this time. “What is going on down there?”

“Nothing,” James sing-songs.

“Who’s left a pot of soup on the stove?” asks Remus, voice becoming clearer as he comes into the room.

“Oh, that was me,” you say. “It’s just simmering, don’t worry.”

“It’s…what the fuck…”

“I know,” Sirius says emphatically.

“Dovey, why are you and James’ legs sticking out from under the tree like the Wicked Witch of the East?”

“Why do you assume it was her idea?” asks Sirius, at the same time as James asks, “Who’s the Wicked Witch of the East?”

“I’m admiring our tree,” you tell Remus placidly.

“It does look really cool from down here,” James advocates for you. “Gives a new perspective on the decorating.”

Remus makes an amused humming sound. “That’s really nice, but your soup’s nearly boiling over, sweetheart.”

“Oh, no.” You start to wiggle out from underneath the tree. Sirius’ hands wrap around your ankles, giving you a helpful tug the rest of the way. You grin up at him. “Sorry,” you say to Remus, “I must have set the stove too high.”

He smiles, reaching for you. “That’s okay.” He takes the ends of your hair between his fingers. “How’d you manage to get your hair wet?”

“Hm?” You look. “Oh, it must have been in the tree’s water. I didn’t notice.”

“There’ll be pine needles in it, too, then,” Sirius laughs.

Remus shakes his head, but he’s looking at you like you’re one of his favorite things in the world. One of his favorite three things, for sure.

“How about,” he suggests, “I go turn down the heat on your soup, and Sirius helps you get all the tree bits out of your hair?”

“That’s nice of you.” You push up on your toes, kissing Remus’ cheek. “Thanks.”

Remus presses one to your lips in return, and Sirius takes your hand, leading you to the bathroom.

“Did you dunk your hair in the water, too, Prongsie?” he asks when James follows.

“I don’t think so,” says James. “I just want to see if her hair smells like Christmas tree.”

Sirius hums. You giggle when he makes a show of bringing your hair to his nose, sniffing curiously. “It does, actually.”

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allllium · 11 months ago

Text

☾ Best Remus Lupin Fics on Tumblr ☆

> Fluff <

Period Pains ⋮ I'm Your Boyfriend ⋮ Skin ⋮ Shy!Remus ⋮ Whimsical

↳ [ @moonstruckme ]

Little Family ⋮ Full Moon Drabble

↳ [ @wasteddmoondust ]

It's Blue the Feeling I've got

↳ [ @jamespottersdaisy ]

Drunk ⋮ Sunshine!Reader

↳ [ @luveline ]

Kiss ⋮ Whipped

↳ [ @bruisedboys ]

Shy!Reader ⋮ [ @daenysx ]

Lazy Sunday Morning ⋮ [ @gtgbabie0 ]

No Boundaries ⋮ [ @ddejavvu ]

Sore ⋮ [ @ellecdc ]

Missed Hints ⋮ [ @empress-simps ]

Scars ⋮ [ @crimsntwlip ]

Kisses as Payment ⋮ [ @diwatopia ]

Lunar Possession ⋮ [ @jasmines-library ]

Anxious!Reader ⋮ [ @madwcman ]

Drabble ⋮ [ @contrarinshiit ]

Annoying Serenading ⋮ [ @shiftermia ]

Infatuated ⋮ [ @fourmoony ]

Touch Starved ⋮ [ @gtgbabie0 ]

Introduction to the Son ⋮ [ @starzqzi ]

Never His ⋮ [ @weasleykisses ]

Left Unspoken ⋮ [ @pasukiyo ]

> Hurt/Comfort <

It's Nice to Have a Friend ⋮ Sweet Nothing

↳ [ @jamespottersdaisy ]

Migraine ⋮ [ @moonstruckme ]

Blue Moon ⋮ [ @ellecdc ]

Unconditionally ⋮ [ @sarahisslytherin ]

Snappy ⋮ [ @luveline ]

Do you think I'm a Monster? ⋮ [ @robynlilyblack ]

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lay-z · 8 days ago

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John Price is so done messing with the youngings who latch onto him and try to get his attention as soon as he steps boot into any pub or bar.

Yes, he's aware of the aura of authority that engulfs him like a bloody halo (a cruel metaphor, given his job and lives he's taken). And yes, he's aware of the dominance oozing out of his very pores, because he can't and will never switch off his leader and work mode.

However, when a certain single woman in her 30s throws a witty remark at him while he passes by her table—how someone should put him down for a good nap and maybe give him his whiskey in a baby bottle while they're at it—he stops dead in his tracks.

Perhaps it's your appearance, perhaps your confidence, perhaps the way you're cooing at him so condescendingly yet laced with genuine concern for his well-being, but John's brain short-circuits, then reboots.

His mission changes from getting piss drunk to finding about anything and everything about you, and ASAP, too.

He lingers and seizes you up before pointing at the empty seat across from you as your friend excuses themselves and scatters to grab another drink.

And you don't even have the decency to look surprised when he sits down with a groan, bones and muscles aching from training and sitting stiffly at his desk for too long, folding his sore hands while holding your smug gaze with his usual stoicism like he's about to interrogate you.

"You got quite a mouth on ya, darling," he remarks gruffly, though there is no menace behind his words while his eyes flickering to notice the neat whiskey in front of you. "And good taste, too. May I?"

But John doesn't wait before he reaches for your glass to take a sip, relishing the spicy taste and warm burn in his parched throat with a rough hum.

"And you look like you take strolls in hell every Saturday for fun." That, paired with the cheeky smile you shoot him, makes his stomach clench with hunger. A raw, primal, taboo hunger.

"Oh, aye?" His eyes crinkle at the corners with a rare smirk, glass still lifted halfway to his mouth for another sip. "Perhaps next time I go there, I can take ya with me, love."

The challenge is right there in the open, and you haven't met a man who matches your wit in such a long time. You know you would be a fool not to take a chance right now, not when the sudden tension between you and this stranger makes your skin prickle so deliciously, heart fluttering with excitement.

Your friend doesn't return to the table, but your phone buzzes with a message from them.

Grabbing an Uber. Let me know when you get home and you better call me with the tea tomorrow. Don't break his dick, bestie 🫵🏼😚

#whimsical ᡣ𐭩 #john price #john price x reader #john price x you #call of duty #tf 141 #captain john price #cod price #price x reader #cod #cod x reader

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 10 months ago

Text

Wouldn't you like to see something strange?

HI I know the new Halloween character isn't out yet but I needed an outlet for my excitement (Yes, I am unfortunately a Nightmare Before Christmas girlie) 💀 so please be advised that he may not be in character here, I'm just writing based on vibes! This is technically a twisted!Jack Skellington x Reader fic, but the Reader is basically playing a role similar as Sally from the film.

P.S. I want everyone to know that I busted out my drawing tablet to make this special border for him the same day he was first announced... Yeah...

Boo.

On the nights with full moons, he liked to steal away to the Spiral Hill on the outskirts of town.

The outcrop of land overlooked a vast graveyard and field laden with pumpkins, perfuming the air with the crisp sweetness characteristic of autumn. Beyond it, uncharted territory. When he squinted into the darkness, he could make out the vague shapes of naked trees, their gnarled branches like fingers beckoning him to approach, whispering his name.

He draped his long, lithe legs over the hill, letting them hang in the frigid air. Spindly as he was, the wind easily blew them, knocking his legs around like the straw-stuffed limbs of a scarecrow. He kicked with the breeze, carefree as a child on a playground swing.

The moon stitched his pinstriped suit and tattered cravat with silver thread, touched his pointed crown at its highest points. Even the white ribbons ribbing his jacket and the pattern of bones tugged over his gloves seemed to glow under the celestial light. He liked the view, and the view seemed to like him, too.

Held in his skeletal hand was a single flower. He stroked a silken petal, then slipped another finger under it, plucking the petal free. The wind claimed it, setting it sailing off into the unknown.

He continued. A second, a third. So on and so forth, until the flower was left stripped down and barren, even robbed of its leaves.

He dropped the stem off the hill. The pumpkins below consumed it, and the once lovely flower’s body became one with the patch.

"I figured this is where you were."

He lowered his dark circular lenses. His bright eyes slid to the figure that had approached from behind, on feet so swift they hardly made a sound. They came in with the sweetness of deadly nightshade, the trace of a poisoning committed at midnight. "Not a lethal dose, just enough to knock the doctor out for a few hours," as they always said. "How else would I sneak out to see you?"

Dry, ghostly lips dashed with hatch marks pried into an open smile, both teeth and the gaps between them. Charming, in a crooked sort of way. "My dear. You've come."

You bent down. “If you don't mind, I'd like to join.”

“The spot beside me is always reserved for you.” He patted it, inviting you to take a seat.

"Such a gentleman." You sunk down, folding your hands in your lap. "And so handsome when you're brooding. You're terribly good at that."

He was, he was, especially silhouetted by the moon. The man was practically monochrome, but bathed in silver like this, his pale skin was less sickly and more ethereal. He almost appeared like a cruel angel in the light, descending to expunge evil.

"I'm not brooding," he pouted, "I'm dreaming."

“Dreaming." You reached out and tucked a strand of alabaster hair behind his ear. "Father says it’s a ridiculous, wild thing.”

"Ah, but that's what makes it so much thrilling. Life’s no fun without a good scare.”

His mouth quirked to one side, and his smile became off-kilter--as his ideas often were. "He'll bring us to ruin with his crazy, new-fangled thinking and flights of fancy," your father would complain. But you adored that about the boy. How spontaneous he was, how his curiosity was never-ending. He'd race about like a child, picking items up and sticking his face where it probably shouldn't go.

Full of life in this otherwise lifeless town.

"What's this? What's this?" he'd say. "I must know!"

"He's gone daffy," your father would declare.

"Mmm." You nodded absentmindedly, tracing your fingers along the shell of his ear and down to his arm. "What were you dreaming about today?"

He lifted his head, looking beyond the hill and to the woods. Not a word was exchanged. None had to be.

"The Hinterlands?" you whispered. "But we don't know what's out there. No ghoul or monster has ever ventured out that far."

"Then sounds like I'll be the first! They’ll put me down in the history books as a pioneer." His laughter brightened up the gloomy night. When he quieted, his gaze was solemn—more solemn than you'd ever witnessed him. "... Don't you wonder about what's out there? Stuff that's cold and fluffy and falls from the sky. Things that come in colors we haven't seen."

"Sometimes," you admitted quietly, "but those are just dreams. I don't chase them."

"Maybe you should. We should," he mused, fingers tucked under his chin. "I bet there's all sorts of things we've never even dreamed of, too. And wouldn’t you like to see something strange?”

"I would. I really, really would," you told him in a soothing tone. Trying to reassure him as much as you were yourself. "Let's not doing anything dangerous though. I sense something in the wind—tragedy at hand. I can't shake that feeling that something bad is around the bend if you tread that path."

You gingerly laid your hand over his. Behind tinted lenses, his eyes widened.

"Stay here with me," you begged. "We can be together. Gaze at the stars. Be safe in one another's arms."

“… Sweetness, I would love for nothing more than to have you and to hold you ‘til death do us part.” His voice fluttered like the brush of a falling leaf upon your cheek. He regarded you tenderly, locking his fingers with yours and squeezing. “But you know that’s not the kind of man I am.”

“Yes, you’re every flavor of foolish imaginable,” you replied, pressing your forehead against his, “and I love you for that.”

“As do I.” He brought his icy lips to the back of your hand. A chill spider-walked up your arm, and you shivered.

“Then…”

“That’s why I must depart one day.” He pushed his glasses up. You caught the tragic reflection of your face in his lenses. “Out there… something more awaits us. I’m sure of that. I intend to find it and revive our town, this season that’s gone stale.”

“I won’t stop you if you decide to go,” you murmured. “And I will count the days until you return to me.”

“I knew you’d understand.” His smile—now it was touched with sadness, the knowledge of soon parting ways. “Thank you, dearest.”

He stood slowly, drawing you up with him. Your feet followed, as if pulled along by a puppeteer. How in sync the two of you were, how nicely molded your bodies were to one another’s. Your joy melded under the watchful eye of the moon.

“Shall we share a dance? One for the road,” he crooned. An errant breeze tousled his pallid hair, his tattered coattails—but to you, he was fairest of them all. “Our last dance for a while.”

“Alright, let’s make this one count,” you chuckled, “so I can send you off on your travels with a smile.”

“Excellent 🎵” He slid a hand around your waist, guiding you to lean into him. “Let the merrymaking commence!!”

“Yes…!!”

The midnight waltz began.

He led you, step by step, and you trailed after. Movements easy and effortless, like two intertwining maple leaves, spinning and spiraling. Their partner, the center of their universe.

“It’s as plain anyone can see,” he breathed.

“We’re simply meant to be,” you returned.

They danced as if possessed or an enchantment was cast upon their footwear. The moment too sweet, too succulent, to relinquish so soon. They wanted to savor it, indulge in it—and each other.

For never was there a more perfect pair than the Pumpkin King and his consort.

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