brightaaura

[brightaaura]

“ BETTER FIND A MOP, IT’S GETTIN’ STICKY IN THIS BITCH ” — peter parker.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ NOTES: marvel rivals chad peter parker w yuri lowenthal’s legendary voice. a recipe for success. also this wouldn't be possible without this anon. WARNINGS: fem reader ノ established relationship ノ dirty talk ノ explicit sexual content ノ p in v ノ finger sucking ノ biting ノ long cock peter agenda ノ suit + mask sex but mask comes off halfway thru so you can see his pretty face <3

“Yeah? Mmph—you like that—hm—baby?” PETER PARKER speaks between his sheathes, evidently getting lost in the feeling of you wrapped around him. So much so that dirty talk for this silver tongue is interrupted by his own unfocus. It blurs in and out from the overload of sensation between his legs. You can’t respond, brows furrowing as he wetly slithers in and out of you, the head of him brushing that spongy spot inside you every time he bottoms out.

You try your best, murmuring a weak yet eager, “Mhm, mhm,” Nodding your head even while his fingers are hooked on your lower jaw over your chin.

“Couldn’t wait, huh?” Peter asks rhetorically, a slight snicker sprinkled in as he watches you with as much awe as a mask can have. “Was like I was ambushed.” he muses, reminiscing over his entrance met with such welcoming open legs. His cock bucks in at the memory, and you cry out through your occupied mouth. The knuckles between your teeth get a squeeze, a nip, and he releases a burst of air. “Trying to bite me, honey?” The tone conveys a sense of disbelief but it’s pleasantly surprised, and his pace quickens. Choked moans shoot out of you as he fucks into you, his body weight pinning you down while your suspended legs bob from the movement. Your lips enclose apologetically over his gloved fingers, the wet felt fabric is foreign against your tongue when you circle around them. In a bout of curiosity, your tip traces the embossed texture of the web design around his knuckle, maintaining eye contact with his mask while you do it.

Your cheeks hollow out, sucking on his two fingers and he groans from low in his throat. It’s the kind of purr that sends a shudder down your spine, eyes rolling back as he slots in your lulling body. The sheer length of him causes an ache inside your core that arches your back, clutching onto the sheets for purchase as you brace the sharp pain for the brain-melting feeling of pulling out only to fuck back in. His other hand comes to hook under the hem of his mask, peeling it off of him, and his brown hair explodes out in an endearing mess. You can finally see that crooked grin.

He pivots your head for you by your mouth, resting his wrist on the mattress to hover over you properly. Faithfully, you keep those fingers in, and he rewards you by shoving them in deeper, the tips of them making you lurch with a gag. Once again, he reacts audibly in euphoric relief like he was waiting for you to do that. “Baby.” he says in that voice, and it’s like a prize. You erupt in full-body tingles, curling your toes as he openly mouths at your neck. The pad of his tongue flattens against your pulse point, and ends it in a hard bite, scraping his teeth against your skin. You keen, that coil in your belly going taut.

Drool seeps out of the corner of your mouth while you desperately suck his spit-soaked glove, pitiful whimperings spilling out of you while he fucks you into the mattress.

[brightaaura]

the babydoll | tasm!peter parker x reader

“Do you like it?”

“Do I like it?” he asked, words a murmur. You felt his lips part over your skin. Though you’d been expecting it his hickey was startling, teeth grazing, kiss bruising.

“Peter-“ you started in protest.

He sealed his hickey with a quick kiss and pulled back, thumb rubbing soft circles into the skin adjacent to your heavy-lidded eye. “How about I show you how much I like it? Would that work?”

you’re usually much too shy for lingerie, but you’ll do anything for peter parker. he appreciates the effort. [4.8k]

warnings: smut, 18+ readers only please, lingerie, praise, shy reader, idiots in love, fem reader, she her pronouns used for reader

You pouted nervously at your reflection, though you struggled to dislike it. You twisted this way and that, pushing your hands down your hips in an assessment. Despite the nerves you felt eating away at your fingertips, pins and needles climbing up your arms, you thought you looked nice. You were scantily clad in a simple dark thong covered up by a sheer babydoll dress - though the babydoll was pretty and delicate, it left little to the imagination. Dainty lavender piping edged the V-neck top and the defined under-wired bust was split by a single lilac bow. In similar fashion, a further six bows, three at each split, decorated the hemline, kissing the tops of your thighs like three brown flower petals. The babydoll’s fabric was flowered, a relaxed fit. It made you feel unjustifiably pretty.

Perhaps not as pretty as the model, you thought, worrying the skin of your bottom lip. You'd first seen the lingerie in a department store window, walking happily with your boyfriend’s hand swinging clasped by your own. He’d stuttered to a stop out of the blue and you'd paused too, falling back to follow his gaze, which was moving over the model distractedly. You’d been suddenly too shy to tease, to ask him if he liked it, or even to get mad. He wasn’t ogling the model, simply looking. Then he turned to you and smiled easily, and said, “Pretty dress.”

You’d agreed, though you’d hardly call it a dress. Technically it was, but you technically couldn’t wear it out of the house without getting arrested, so. You’d watched him stare at that dress and felt at once that you might like to give him something, just once, repay his constant praises and devotion with something similar. You’d gone back the next day and fought against every inhibition. You hadn’t even tried it on in the store, too desperate to leave and never have to go back, face hot and hands sweating.

You picked at the lettuce edge hem on one section and twisted on the spot, almost entranced as the fabric lifted from your skin. All you wanted was for Peter to like it. If you’d gotten it wrong - if he’d liked the model more than the dress (though you barely entertained this idea) - you’d be embarrassed beyond words.

You’d left it at the bottom of your closet for days, afraid of it like it were a rabid dog waiting to bite you. Even as you’d lifted it from the bag you’d been cautious, running your hands over the silken material gently, feeling the small lace flowers under your fingertips.

The front door groaned open. You froze, tilting your head to listen for Peter’s footsteps as they traversed toward you. In a rush you checked over your appearance one last time, flattening your flyaways and dusting down your goosebumped skin, finding yourself short of breath. You barely heard the sound of the bedroom door being pushed open over the roaring in your ears, twining your hands together tightly behind your back as you turned to face your boyfriend.

He was windblown and bedraggled, backpack hastily zipped half-shut in his hands. You could see the blue and red fabric of his suit through the gap, which explained his appearance. Despite evidence of a long day, he had still entered the room with an eager smile on his face, hand halfway to his hair. When he spotted you standing motionless with the full-length mirror at your back, silent, he gave pause.

And then he really looked at you.

Neither of you spoke. It was nerve-wracking. You hadn’t wanted to assume he’d be pleased, hadn’t raised your own hopes with ideas of adoration, but you’d expected more than this subdued version of Peter. Stock-still, he traced the shape of you with his dark brown eyes, hand still hovering at his hair. He let it fall back to his side and dropped his backpack by the door. The noise snapped you out of your own immobility and forced you to blink. You crossed your arms over your chest in insecurity and took a step backwards, tripping into the mirror. The clattering had you wincing worse than ever and you looked down at your feet.

“This is stupid,” you muttered, turning to the en-suite door. You’d pulled it open about halfway when a loud ‘thwip’ arched through the room. The door slammed shut, glued at the edge by sticky webbing.

You, having flinched hard, looked over your shoulder incredulously.

Peter licked his lips. “I- I’m sorry. I was surprised.”

“Sort of the point,” you mumbled, eyes still wide, heart-racing. You knew he could probably hear your nervousness, the uneven pittering of your pulse. He let his arm, which had been raised and aimed at the door, fall away, pulling the web-shooters from his wrists. He walked into the room and dropped the homebrewed tech into the bowl on your vanity, eyes on you. He drifted to your side and you relaxed under his touch, his warm, big hand falling to the skin of your tricep. He pushed up until his fingers were at your shoulder and then slid under one of the straps on your babydoll, running it back and forth, letting it snap with little force against your skin.

“Nice dress,” he said easily.

You nodded, feeling brainless. Then, “Do you like it?”

“What?” he asked, voice high, eyebrows pinched. You had the sense that he was fighting back a laugh at your words, small and terrified as they were. He cleared his throat.

You would have laughed if you had it in you, looking down at your hands now, the feeling of embarrassment rising.

Peter’s hands enveloped your own. His thumb found a home atop your stressed knuckles, rubbing gently at the skin there. He brought your joined hands to his mouth and you followed them, forced to meet his eyes as he kissed your fingers. Panicking, you smiled weakly. He didn’t smile back so much as his eyes did, and you knew then that you hadn’t made a fool of yourself after all.

He pressed your hands to his chest and left them there, attempting to assuage you now, hands at your neck. “Do I like it?” he asked, words a murmur.

He moved his attention to your face, the side of his hand moving up your cheek and behind your ear to tilt your face to the side, baring the juncture of your neck to his wanting mouth. He pressed his lips to your skin, light as the brush of a butterfly's wings. Once, twice, chaste pecks peppered over your neck. A wave of heat crested your skin and warmed your cheeks. You held your breath as his mouth opened, felt his hot breath ruffle the fine baby hairs behind your ear.

“Hmm,” he hummed, his free hand roaming the flat of your sternum, “do I like it?” He nipped the skin underneath your ear. You inhaled through your nose in surprise and was overwhelmed by his smell. “I don’t know, let me think.”

You felt his lips part over your skin. Though you’d been expecting it, his hickey was startling, teeth grazing your skin, kiss bruising, he sucked until he’d turned the skin bright red.

“Peter-“ you started in protest. He gripped your shoulder in his other hand, holding you in place as he cut your words off with another punishing love bite that had you gasping your indignation, hand screwing up the soft neckline of his shirt. If he hadn’t been holding your neck up you knew your head would’ve been pressed tight to your shoulder, his ministrations enough to turn you limp in his hold.

He sealed his second hickey with a quick kiss and pulled back, thumb rubbing soft circles into the skin adjacent to your heavy-lidded eye. “How about I show you how much I like it? Would that work?”

“Yes,” you said hoarsely.

“Yeah?” he asked, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips. He rested his forehead against yours, the cold tip of his nose against your warm as you closed your eyes to take in the sound of one another’s breathing. You crept closer to his chest to wrap your arms around his neck, wondering how much skin kept apart your too-fast hearts like this. He nudged your nose upward with his, encouraging you to part your lips, before pressing his mouth to yours, hand firm on your face.

You smiled against his mouth until you couldn’t, until all you could taste was Peter. His hand was holding you by the small of your back, pressing the flowery fabric snug to your skin. What started as a slow, sweet kiss fueled by your shyness and his want to reassure you turned ardent, you found yourself almost on your tip toes trying to get at him whilst he was grasping at your skin like you might somehow fall out of his hands. You broke the kiss to take in a gasping breath and he would barely allow it, pausing only to say, "You really-" another kiss, "want to know," his mouth on yours, "what I think?" He didn't give you time to respond, noses bumping as he turned his head for a wider angle.

You moved your hands to his face and held him away from you. "Yeah, Pete. I wanna know."

He nodded, eyes flitting down to your body pressed against him and back up to your eyes. He spoke quietly, as though this were a secret nobody else could ever become privy to.

"When I saw this," he pinched your strap in between his index and thumb, "on that model, I couldn't stop thinking about what it would look like on you. I half considered buying it for you myself."

"Why didn't you?"

He gently blew a hair from your face. "I want you to wear whatever you feel good in. Do you feel good in this?" he asked, eyes darting to the ribbon at your chest.

"It's pretty. I- I think I like it."

His eyes creased. "But?"

"But," you conceded, "my body-" you cut yourself off and shook your head, "I'm not sure I feel good in it."

"I'm gonna make you feel very good in it, sweetheart. That's a promise."

You felt something warm in the pit of your stomach, smiling at his bold declaration as if to say, is that so?

"Do I like it?" he repeated your words, intonation sarcastic, laced with disbelief.

He began walking you backward toward the bed, lips hot and desperate on your skin, flitting across your face in a way that made your chest tighten. He paused at your temple, your calves pressed against the bed frame, and said into your skin with his voice smooth as honey, "Feel how hard you make me and ask me again, pretty." He searched for your hand and brought it to his straining pants, stopping just above his dick. You hesitated coyly at his waistband before letting your hand close gently around him, squeezing with minimal pressure. He hissed, head dipping down to yours again, forehead on your forehead as he watched your hand pump with an awed look on his face.

"Slow down," he murmured, grabbing onto your hand. "I'd much rather watch you use these pretty hands for something else."

You looked up at him in question and he was already pushing you gently onto the bed. You shuffled against the pillows, bringing yourself up and into a W-shape, legs at either side of you. He kneeled in front of you, palming his dick already. You couldn't help but smile. This was what you'd wanted, and his reaction was flattering, Peter hard and flustered and maybe a little pushy, looking at you half adoring and other half like he was planning your ruination.

"What're you smiling about?" he asked, smiling too.

"Got you," you murmured.

"You did, huh? Alright," he reached out to spread your legs wider, "but it seems like I got you too."

You looked down and noticed what he was talking about; the dampening patch of darkened fabric at your slit. You reached down to cover it.

"Alright, baby, you wanna give me a show?"

"What?" you questioned nervously.

"Wearing your pretty dress, all worked up without me, I don't think you need me one bit," he said lightly.

You eyed him apprehensively, weary of his new game.

"Go on," he prompted, hand on his dick making long, slow strokes.

The sight of him alone was enough to make you want to touch yourself (though you would've preferred his hands to your own, his long fingers) and so you found it easy to push up the hem of your babydoll.

"Ah- through the dress."

You were skeptical but listened, pressing the fabric between your cunt and your hand.

"How much did it cost?"

"Huh?" you asked, still hesitating to touch yourself properly.

"How much did it cost? I need to know what I'll owe you when I wreck it."

You shook your head and bit back a laugh at his antics, pointedly ignoring the shot of heat it sent to your cunt. You pressed the tip of your fingers into the soft bead of your clit and felt the heartbeat there, swirling small circles, the tip of your tongue poking between your lips in concentration. You remembered yourself, looking up at Peter to find him staring intently at your hand.

"You're so pretty, you look so fucking perfect right now, touching yourself for me," he encouraged you, nodding, "you're doing such a good job."

"Peter," you scolded, shy. Your hand stilled and he started tutting, crawling on his knees. He pushed you forward and slotted himself between your back and the headboard, pulling you to his chest. You could feel his dick against your back. "What are you doing?" you asked suspiciously.

"You need help. I'm helping."

"I don't-"

He laced his hand over yours and pushed down, guiding your hand in circles. This was when the real cruelty began. His mouth skipped over your neck, kisses separated only by ridiculous pet names that had you pushing into his chest, desperate to be as close to him as you could get. "Always so good for me, my baby."

He was doing all the hard work - he'd always been a brilliant multitasker thanks to his exceptional dexterity and still you marvelled at his ability to unravel you with his fingers, grinding fabric relentlessly into your throbbing clit until you were dissolving in his arms.

The other hand was running over your body, smoothing the soft skin of your upper thigh. He increased the speed of his circles until you could feel the dull ache begin in your stomach.

"Pete - I'm close," you admitted weakly, trying to catch his expression. His dick jumped at your back with your confession.

He pulled your hand up away from your cunt, chuckling at your desperate protests, to put your own hand against your heaving chest.

“Peter,” you began.

“If anyone’s gonna make you cum in your dress, bub, it’s me. Let me play with you.”

He told rather than asked, hands coming up to cup your breasts, nipples peeking through the fabric. The underwire did a brilliant job you thought - even to yourself they looked better than usual, and you realised Peter thought the same. His hands roved over them gently, slowly, pushing them together at the centre and laughing boyishly in your ear.

“Shut up,” you protested, hating to be laughed at.

He pulled you closer still by the chest and readjusted you, hips rocking so you could feel the line of his dick up your back. He thrusted a few times, letting go of your tits only so he could pull down the straps of the babydoll and free them, fingers once again coming up to cup your now naked flesh. The feeling of his cock against your back made you feel dizzy, suddenly very ready to be fucked by him. You searched for the words to tell him as much as he pinched at your nipples with both hands.

“Pete,” you murmured.

He answered by kissing the back of your neck and leaving his parted mouth there, too intent on bullying your aching breasts to bother forming words.

“Peter, will you fuck me now?”

Another gentle thrust up your back accompanied by a hiss. “I’ll do worse," he said at your throat, "if you wanna turn around for me?”

You did, climbing up onto your knees to turn and kneel in between his open legs, reaching up to push the hair from his face. “Very aggro.”

“I’m about to show you aggro,” he joked, hands coming up to your waist. He took the waistband of your panties into his hand and pulled them down just enough to fit his hand in the gap. He ran his fingers in between your crease and found the wetness there, rubbing a slow back and forth. He’d dipped the tip of his finger inside your entrance. You wiggled where you were and he pulled away.

“You’re being especially teasing today,” you said quietly.

“Could you expect anything less?”

“Always quick to quip at me, too.”

You leaned on his shoulders and Peter pulled your underwear off you completely. You settled back down and felt your wet cunt touch the sheets, a small wet patch taking shape underneath you. You toyed with the edges of Peter’s shirt and he pulled that off too.

You adored his naked chest. He was muscled, with bulky arms that made your heart race and tits to rival your own. Without thinking you grasped at his bicep, felt the toned muscle under his skin shift as his forearm came up to grab you too. “You’re so pretty,” you told him seriously.

“I’ll pretend you were looking at my face when you said that,” he said, though he didn’t sound as displeased as he’d wanted to, you guessed. You brushed your thumb over a fading bruise and leaned down to kiss it. “Pretty boy,” you praised him, moving to kiss the hill of his shoulder, “my baby,” kissing his collarbone, “I’m lucky.”

“You think you’re the lucky one?” he asked, hand cupping the side of your face. “You know how you look? I should’ve said it the second I opened the door. You look perfect.”

He was smiling as he said it. You kissed the corners of his smile and the tip of his nose in a move unlike yourself, feeling all filled up with love that wanted to get out. His big arms came around your back and pulled you so that your knees were either side of him, seated firmly against his clothed erection. He kissed you sweetly, guiding your hips up and down to grind against his cock, spurred on by the hiccups in your breathing when he did it just so.

"Got you," he said under his breath.

You moaned. His grip on your back tightened in response, dragging you down. You moaned again, eyes shutting as you moved your head over his shoulder, chin digging into his trap muscle. He didn't complain, moving his hips up to meet you.

He was panting with the effort of it, working himself into a tizzy under you. The layers of his clothes between you wasn't working for you anymore and you pushed your hands at his shoulders to force him to let you go and sit on his spread thighs. This was an illusion - Peter was much too strong for you to really break his grip. He indulged you and was quick to recognise your intentions, unzipping his pants.

You swallowed, reaching down into his boxers. You used the bottom of your hand to push them down as you wrapped your fingers around him, contact a whisper, conscious of his head weeping precum already.

Using the flat of your hand to palm your boyfriend's aching cock, you traced a light line down the underside, your wrist ghosting against his balls.

He twitched. You giggled and started shuffling backwards. Peter wouldn't allow this. "Where you going?"

"I was going to-"

"I know what you were going to do. You really think I'd last in that pretty mouth?"

You shook your head at him and felt your cheeks warm, hesitating where you were. Peter pulled you close, up over the curve of his dick so the head was tucked against your slick cunt. You climbed up on your knees, trying to position yourself. His dick leapt against your cunt and you both moaned. Like you'd both had the same thought - the teasing had gone on long enough - you were both rushing then to fuck, Peter pushed his hand down to find your entrance with his dick, teasing the wet hole with his head.

You let yourself fall down slowly, felt him open you up. This position always fucked you up with Peter. He was so big, and the stretch felt never-ending. Your eyebrows knit together in concentration, lips bit to stop from crying out.

He pulled you up by your hips. "Take it slow, dove."

You hated being told what to do, you decided, sinking down onto as much of him as you could take.

You and Peter both paused. He mumbled something that sounded like fuck into the skin of your shoulder, hands tight around your waist. You keened, loudly, the concerning kind that had him kissing every inch of skin he could reach. "Y'always take me so well," he praised, hugging you to his chest.

You smiled shakily. This was the best part.

He stayed very still as you moved at first in case he hurt you, especially because he hadn't stretched you out beforehand. His arms fell away as you rode him. You realised they were buried in the sheets, knuckles so tense they'd gone white as snow.

You lifted yourself up as high as you could. Peter pushed your ankles over the backs of his thighs and you found you could go a little faster. He was looking up at your face, watching your concentrated pout with big bright eyes, eyelashes touching as they drifted shut.

Peter's hands abandoned your ankles to sneak under the babydoll, pushing past the underwire to knead the flesh of your tits as you bounced, the bed moving just a little every time you took him fully. You were a mess, wet collecting in your eyelashes, dress askew, bruises courtesy of Peter's mouth smattering your neck.

Peter thought so too. "My messy girl, I wish you could see yourself. Ruining your underwear, my jeans are fucked. Got you all over me, look-"

You both looked down at your mess. You rolled your hips, seated fully on his crotch and enjoying it beyond words, aiming for your own sweet spot with every movement. Peter's hand came up over your shoulder and he pulled your stomach to his chest. "Slow down."

You nodded and held in every taunt that waded to the surface, too distracted chasing your own pleasure. You were slow again for a while, whimpering as the fingers still splayed over your tit twisted your nipple. You pushed down on him again.

He hissed and pulled you up quickly. You could feel his dick moving by itself, searching for your cunt.

"Wha-" you began to question his action when he'd lifted you up with no effort, biceps tightening, he laid you out on your back, the headboard behind him.

"Alright, it's alright baby. You look so lovely," he said this all with his hands at your legs, pulling you down close to his cock, the other pushing your knee against your abdomen. You felt the action force slick down your cunt to drip onto the rumpled bedsheets. "All dressed up for me, let me take care of you know, yeah?"

His reverent words were followed by his fingers at your entrance. He pushed two fingers inside straight off the bat, groaning as you constricted around him, looking for me. He eased three fingers in on the next thrust and his eyes were blown wide. "Fuck, pretty pussy all stretched out, huh? My pretty girl all gaping." He pulled his fingers out fast.

He pulled you open with his thumb, hitting his cock against the swollen bead of your clit, smile growing as you mewled. You wiggled your hips down searchingly.

"Okay…" he soothed, big hand on your thigh, "let me put my girl out of her misery."

"You're a horrible tease," you said, words all breathless as he pushed in.

His hips brushed yours. "Here I thought I was being nice."

He pulled out. "You don't fool me, Parker."

He thrusted in roughly, pelvis smacking your own. You saw stars, letting your head fall back onto the duvet. Your own fault, you'd egged him on. His thrusts were slow, you knew he was close to cumming, knew that was why he'd changed your position, taken back the power.

You were soon on the edge of tears, begging him to go faster. "Please, Pete."

You both knew if he wasn't careful he'd be filling you up. He obviously wanted to last a little longer, and he'd do this under the guise of bullying you. He stopped with his dick deep in your tummy and leaned down to kiss your navel. He was taking slow strokes seated inside you, the opposite of what you wanted, his thumb coming down to your clit. You unthinkingly grabbed at his hand and he tsked, took both your hands in his large one to hold them high overhead. He weaved up and down your soaked pussy with a featherlight touch.

You whimpered. He pushed two fingers into your sensitive bud and started drawing shapes.

"Peter," you said, eyes wet now.

He shushed you.

"Peter, please. Please, move," you implored him.

He rolled his hips. "In a second."

"Now!" you begged.

He paused his ministrations and met your glassy eyes. Something in his face changed.

"Alright, dove. Just remember you asked for it."

Sparks shot straight down your core. He crawled as close as he could with his knees either side of your thighs as he pushed both your legs up to your chest. He rocked in mercilessly. You gasped. He did it again, until he was pounding into you, until the sound of his skin smacking against yours was deafening in your ears.

You couldn't catch your breath. You recovered from one thrust and was then overwhelmed by the next. Peter pushed your hands over your head and drove into you, his chin at your eye level, head bobbing with the force of him. You screwed your eyes shut and let your boyfriend spear you open, any words merging into one frantic moan.

Your legs were trembling. Peter's moans were getting louder as he approached his climax, thrusts sloppy with the fugue of pleasure. You squeezed your walls around him and savoured the sound he made at the drag. He shuddered at the feeling, leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to whatever skin was closest.

"Fucking me so good," you said shyly, gasping for air.

He shook his head with an elated grin. He made a broad stroke with his hips. "So fucking pretty," he said, and then with a quick last thrust he'd come inside you, painting your insides white fingers squeezing your wrists as he rode it out.

"Fuck, Y/N," he said, pushing up to kiss your forehead. He was still rutting inside you, fucking his cum back in. You railed against his hold on your wrists and he let go reluctantly.

He was still rock hard as he pulled out to chase his cum, using the head of his cock to push it back inside you. You used your now free hands to grab at his face. He kissed you brilliantly, breathing hard with his hand at your clit. He pitched forward into your sweet spot and rubbed against it cruelly, laughing at your whines as you came. He didn't let up his circles in your clit until you'd finished contracting around him.

"You sound just as pretty as you look," he praised, neatening up your babydoll, pushing the straps back up to cover your chest again, but not before he'd nipped each breast.

You panted, fingers wrapped around Peter's forearms. He hadn't broken a sweat, you realised, glaring at him. He was smirking slyly, his own fingers tracing circles around your sopping entrance, pushing in and out slowly.

"Take a breather, dolly. I haven't wrecked your dress yet."

<3

thanks so much for reading!

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[brightaaura]

if you aren’t interested literally delete this request but jealous sirius?? mayhaps a jealous sirius that thinks he couldn’t possibly be jealous but then sees you literally talking to another person and is like ‘oh fuck’??? perchance a jealous sirius, in any fashion you may choose???

Thanks for requesting :)

fwb!Sirius x fem!reader ♡ 714 words

Sirius is waiting outside your work with iced coffees in both hands and a pastry bag tucked under his arm, because he’s an idiot. He’s been doing more and more boyfriend shit like this lately. He realizes that he’s not supposed to, that it sort of violates the arrangement you’d agreed on all those weeks ago, but you haven’t called him on it and he doesn’t think he’ll stop unless you do. 

Really, the line separating what you have from a relationship is gossamer thin anyway. You’re one of each other’s closest friends, you do nearly everything together, and you also fuck sometimes. The only thing missing from the equation is exclusivity, but Sirius isn’t concerned with that. You’d agreed when you’d started this thing that you could both date whomever you liked, and he’s had no problem with that, with you (because you never tell him about your other dates) or with anyone else (because he’s never wanted to date anyone else). And he isn’t the jealous type anyway. But what he finds himself craving now is the officiality of it. Sirius wants to break the rules. He wants to take you out to nice dinners and buy you flowers and kiss you on the cheek whenever he feels like it. 

He’s become a total sap, basically. 

It’s that sappiness that seeps warm and satisfying into his chest when he sees you appear at the door. You’re smiling, eyes all lit up and—there’s someone else with you. All that shit in his chest crashes straight through to his gut. 

The guy’s wearing the same not-quite uniform, slacks and a black shirt. A coworker. He grins down at you as you talk animatedly, gesturing this way and that to make your point. Sirius loves it when you talk like that. He doesn’t love it that this guy’s getting to see it. 

You see Sirius, and your eyes light all over again, grin spreading. 

“Siri!” You wave goodbye to your coworker, bounding over. “Hi, what’re you doing here?” 

“I thought you might want a pick-me-up,” he says, passing you your iced coffee. 

Your mouth drops open, still quirked up at the corners in a dorky sort of grin. “No way, thank you!” 

“Sure.” Sirius wants to be better than this, and he really thought he was, but— “Who was that?” he asks, keeping his tone blasé as he starts to walk towards your place. 

You glance behind you as if you’ve forgotten who he could mean. “Oh, that was Marc.” You take a sip of your coffee, eyes closing blissfully. 

Sirius nods slowly, doing the same. “Does he work here?”

“Mhm. Yeah, he’s cool.” 

“Neat.” 

It's possible a bit more rancor slips into his tone than he intends, because you look over at him curiously. Sirius is suddenly cognizant of the urge to kiss you fast and hard, making fucking sure Marc and everyone else in your work sees. He opens up the pastry bag to distract you. 

“Got some snacks too.” 

“Ooh.” You peer into the bag, drawing in a delighted gasp at the array of treats inside. “Can I have the chocolate donut?” 

“Course.” He grins down at you, enjoying the way your eyes crinkle in return. “You can have whatever you want.” 

“Thanks.” You take it from the bag, biting into the soft pastry eagerly. A bit of frosting gets on the skin just below your lip. Sirius thumbs it away before he can stop himself. “S’this a precursor for sex?” you say through a mouthful. “Are you buttering me up for something?” 

And Sirius wants to tell you that it’s not, wants to say that he likes doing things for you and that there doesn’t need to be more to it than that, but his tongue is more practiced in bawdiness than sincerity. 

“It is if you want it to be, sweet thing,” he says smoothly. 

Your laughter twinkles through him like starlight, and you link your arm through his, tugging him closer as you walk. “Fine,” you drawl with false reluctance. “But we don’t have that long, my flatmate will probably be home just after six.” 

Sirius flexes his bicep, drawing you closer still. Tells himself that at least you’re not still thinking about Marc. 

“I can work with that.” 

[brightaaura]

i want to cry this is perfect and soooo what i needed rn

absolutely begging for a part 2 of the sirius angst blurb with reader being more distant during sex and sirius notices. obviously take your time and take care of yourself!! mwah mwah mwah. thank you for EVEN reading this request.

Thank you for requesting my love!

cw: smut mdni, p in v, miscommunication trope

part 1

fwb!Sirius x fem!reader ♡ 1.5k words

You think you’ve been doing a fairly decent job of staying out of your own head. You’re keeping intentionally focussed on Sirius’ body and the things it does to you. His tattooed biceps flexing, hands clutching your hips to guide your movements, pretty, perfect mouth forming your name. 

He says it again, getting your attention. Reluctantly, you meet his eyes. Sirius grins wickedly.

“Someone’s quiet today. You with me, gorgeous?” 

“Mhm.” You lay a hand over his chest and lean forward to drive him deeper inside you. 

He curses at the new fit, and you grin in a way you hope looks normal, clenching your walls around him. 

“Fuck,” Sirius hisses. “That’s my girl.” 

It’s like someone’s thrown a bucket of water on the heat in your core. Your stomach drops embarrassingly, because you’re not his girl. He’d made the restrictions of your arrangement very clear when he’d spoken to Remus last week. Why would Sirius call you that when you both know it’s not true? 

“Hey.” The boy below you catches on to your shift in mood quicker than you would have expected. He looks up at you bemusedly, his grip on your hips turning from possessive to conscientious. “You okay? Wanna stop?” 

You shake your head before you can think. “No, let’s keep going.” 

You try to find your rhythm again, but Sirius doesn’t match you. Dark brows descend over stormcloud eyes. 

“I don’t want to do anything you’re not into, dollface.” 

“You’re not,” you huff. 

He looks at you for a second, gaze unabashedly scrutinizing. “You’re upset,” he deduces. 

You laugh, incredulous. “I am not.” 

But Sirius has made his decision. His grasp on your hips strengthens again as he lifts you enough to pull out, slipping from underneath you and sitting up by your pillows. You purse your lips but put your underwear—a thong you hope he doesn’t think was for his benefit—back on when he does, taking the shirt he tosses you and tugging it over your head. 

Sirius sprawls out on his side, propping his chin on a hand. “Why the pout, hm?” 

“I’m not pouting.” 

He grins. “Yeah, you are.” 

And fine, you are, but not because of him. Because you’re still pissed at yourself for being hurt. For thinking, foolishly, that you would be fine with having Sirius over when he’d texted you that he was in the mood despite still nursing your wound from just a week before. Mortified at yourself for ever having cared, and worse for caring still. 

Sirius’ eyes soften as if he’s seen something in your expression. His grip is gentle beneath the teasing as he tugs you down by your arm, encouraging you to lay beside him. 

“Wanna tell me why?” he asks.

You do, actually. It makes frustration prickle over your skin to think about how much you’d love to tell him about this. You’d fallen into the habit, stupidly, of spilling your guts to Sirius about most things. He was already one of your closest friends, but with this new level of intimacy between you…you’d lost sight of boundaries that had existed for a reason. 

The last thing either of you need is for you to burden him with your emotions about this. 

“I’m not pouting,” you say again, obstinately. 

Sirius frowns. His hand crosses the short distance to your hip, one finger running absentmindedly over the hem of his shirt you’ve thrown on. 

“Something’s upset you,” he muses. “Is it me?” 

“No,” you say. 

Something flickers in Sirius’ eyes. “Liar.” 

Your lips part to argue, but it’s no use. He looks too certain. “How do you do that?” 

His lips quirk, but there’s not much humor in his expression. “It’s a gift. Gonna tell me how I fucked up, pretty girl?” 

You shake your head. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

It’s the truth this time, and Sirius can see it. His brow creases in puzzlement. 

“M’sure I did at some point,” he says softly. His fingers push the cotton of his t-shirt up your side, toying with your underwear. “You’re just too nice to blame me for it.” 

His knuckle brushes your hip as he runs his finger along the thin, silken fabric of your thong, and you don’t stop your eyes from going to the motion. You whisper, “Why do you touch me like this?” 

For a moment, Sirius’ expression shutters. “I thought this was what we did.” His voice is quiet, not quite question and not quite answer. “Do you not want me to touch you?” 

You do, too much. But for different reasons. Not just because you’re friends with this extra element to your relationship. You want him to touch you with something more. You want to touch him back in the same way, uninhibited. 

“It’s fine,” you say. 

“No, hey.” Sirius slips his finger from your thong. The fabric snaps back into place without much bite. “Don’t say that.” 

“What do you want me to say?” 

He looks hurt you would ask. “Say what you’re thinking.” 

You blow out a breath, rolling onto your back. You don’t want to look at him, but you can still feel his gaze on you, searching and worried. 

“It’s my fault,” you say, “okay? It’s really nothing to do with you, I just…got a bit caught up in all this and started feeling things I know we agreed not to.” You sneak a glance at him, eyes shooting back to the ceiling when they accidentally meet his. “I couldn’t help it, but I’m trying to get past it.” 

You hear Sirius’ hand whisper against the sheets as it inches towards you. It stops partway. “That’s alright,” he says, a gentleness you can’t bear in his voice. “Why would you think that’s something you had to hide from me? It’s bound to happen with these things.” 

You smile wryly. “Oh, because you’re so irresistible?” 

“I mean, for one thing.” You can feel the tingling of his grin directed at you, but it fades as he sobers. “But also just because it’s natural, you know? I think we were both a bit too sure of ourselves when we started doing this. It’s not so easy to separate out as we thought.” 

You turn your head to look at him. “You don’t seem to have any trouble.” 

Sirius’ eyebrows rise. “Why would you think that?” 

“Because…” You gesture flippantly with a hand. “Because of what you said to Remus last week. We’re just friends, no?” 

Sirius stills for a moment, and then the breath goes out of him in a single, long exhale. He lets his chin drop from his hand, resting his head on a curled arm. “You were privy to that conversation, were you?” 

You shrug. “James’ bathroom door isn’t as soundproofed as we thought.” 

He chuckles. “Guess we should have been more quiet.” 

You smile halfheartedly, and Sirius’ humor fades. He looks at you carefully. If you didn’t know him better, you’d think he was attempting the odd and unconventional practice of thinking before he speaks. 

“I’m not sure I said anything to Moony about what I was thinking,” he says after a minute. “I spoke about the terms of our arrangement, but I sort of avoided…putting my own feelings in the mix.” 

You’re not so careful with your words. After a week of stewing, you don’t have the patience. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Sirius laughs through his nose like he can sense your agitation. “Just that I was more so making presumptions about how you felt than volunteering information on my own situation.” His hand creeps closer, making shushing noises against the sheets, until his fingertips are teasing your own. It sends zaps of energy all the way up your arm to the tips of your toes. You curl your legs in closer to you. “I didn’t want to embarrass myself,” Sirius says. “I was some pining twit who’d started having sex with a friend and then couldn’t keep my own feelings under control. What kind of idiot does that?” 

You feel your lips twitch. Sirius’ grin slashes across his face. “Yeah, I don’t know anyone that daft,” you say. 

His laugh is low and belly-deep. “Can I hug you, please?” 

“Yeah,” you sigh, feigning reluctance despite the commotion in your stomach that’s getting harder to ignore. 

You start to sit up, but Sirius rolls right on top of you, pressing you into the bed and needling his arms underneath your shoulders. He smushes his cheek to yours. 

“I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, dollface,” he says, words breezing over your ear. “I could have saved us both a lot of time if I’d manned up and spoken to you about it.” 

You cross your wrists over his back and bring your knees up so they’re squeezing his sides. Sirius makes a ridiculously pleased humming sound. “It’s okay. I wasn’t planning on talking to you either.” 

He laughs, turning his face into yours so the sound vibrates against your temple. “One of us is going to have to pick up some emotional intelligence, else we’ll need James to referee our every interaction.” 

You squeeze him tight, happiness like a bubble close to bursting in your chest. “I dunno,” you say, and Sirius is clearly chuffed at the audible smile in your voice. He stamps a firm kiss of approval to your hairline. “I think we’ve done alright.” 

Contentment oozes from his tone, too. “Yeah, I suppose so.” 

[brightaaura]

omg.

Steve Harrington x fem!reader 18+

A kiss, soft and open mouthed, to somewhere on your body that made your cheeks burn.

“Baby,” a boy’s voice, as sweet and salacious as his kiss, murmuring into the sensitive skin on the inside of your thigh. Stubble scratched there, a laugh pressed after it. “You’re not staying still.”

You whined, low and pretty, squirming despite your telling off and you couldn’t find it in you to care. Steve had been torturing you for the last half hour, a whole thirty minutes of slow, wet teasing and you were aching with it all, bones buzzing and skin electric from his touch.

He’d spent the whole afternoon being mean, being too nice, holding your hand and brushing back your hair, nosing and kissing at your cheek and neck when your friends were distracted by the movie, wide and warm hands wandering up your knee and over your thigh until you were too hot.

He’d cooed, pulled you closer and made sure his hand brushed against the curve of your chest before the boy poured and promised he’d make it up to you. You just had to be real good for him.

So you’d nodded, desperate, eager, willing to do whatever he said as long as he fucking touched you. And soon. You’d stripped off as soon as Steve had asked, both of you dragging each other up the stairs and into his bedroom. You’d only managed to shed your shorts and underwear before he’d gently pushed you onto the sheets, your t-shirt tucked up your ribs to show off the lacy edges of your bra.

Steve had kissed his way up your legs and whispered one order, eyes heavy, hair already a mess, his lips shiny from his kisses along the inside of your knee.

“Stay still for me, honey.”

And you’d tried. You had tried so hard. You really, really tried.

But Steve had spread your legs, wide enough for it to make you feel filthy, cheeks warming and stomach dipping at the feeling of being so exposed. It was barely evening, the last of the sunlight shining in between the slats of his blinds and it lit you up with stripes of gold and bronze.

Steve could see everything. All of you.

He didn’t even bother to hook your thighs over his shoulders, something he’d normally do. No, he kept you open for him, palms pressed to the insides of your thighs and you wondered if he’d keep going, if he’d lift your hips up and bend you in half so he could lick you absolutely everywhere.

“M’trying,” you gasped weakly, still wriggling in his hold as you felt his huff of amusement brush over your slick skin. “Steve, I need—”

Steve didn’t let you finish, he just leaned in again, nose trailing over the crease of your hip, groaning as he let his tongue follow. He shifted, easing the pressure on his hard cock, still trapped in the confines of his denim jeans and he kissed just above your clit, lips plush and soft and pliant.

You moaned, lifting yourself closer to his face, needing more, ready to beg for his tongue.

“Baby,” he warned again. “You’re not lettin’ me take my time.” He sighed, world weary and teasing. “I wanna take my time with you, yeah? Look at her, she’s so pretty.” He cooed at the space between your legs, pupils blown wide at the sight of you, open and wet for him.

Steve thumbed over your folds, slick with yourself and his kisses, grinning as he spread you more, opening you up for him so he could marvel at how you keened at him. “She’s so fuckin’ wet, honey. So pretty, so sweet.” He leaned back in to kiss you again, nose bumping your clit qs he pressed innocent, quick pecks down your cunt.

You were dizzy with it, forgetting how to breath until your chest burned and you exhaled with a moan, a sigh, a gasp of your boyfriend’s name. It was dirty, feeling so exposed, open to Steve's inspection, it was fucking delicious. A white hot burn that made your skin ripple, your lips part and eyes close.

“Want me to kiss you here, honey? Yeah?” Steve pressed a finger over your entrance, gently prodding until the pressure made your hips buck up and he laughed again, a pretty, mean sound. “Oh yeah, you’d love that, huh? What about here? Would that feel nice?” He blew on your clit, let his lips part and graze over the swollen button, his tongue just peeking out from his mouth to bump against it.

You nodded, eager and desperate and clumsy, hair messy on the sheets and you wanted to push yourself onto your elbows and push Steve’s head where you wanted the most, you wanted to press him into the pillows and ride his face but the boy saw your movements and yanked at your thighs, effectively making you fall back onto the mattress. He snickered, a sound that made your tummy feel warm and your cheeks feel hotter and you couldn’t even try to hide how you got even wetter still.

“She’s soaked, baby,” Steve whispered. “So wet, all ‘cause I’m bossin’ you about? You’re such a dirty fuckin, thing, aren’t you.”

You groaned, flinging an arm over your eyes and it made Steve laugh again. He soothed the sting of his teasing with a kiss to your tummy, to the bend of your knee and before you could whine again, he ducked his head back to your cunt and licked a thick, wide stripe from your entrance to your clit, slow and dragging.

Steve felt his cock twitch as he pulled back to watch your pussy flutter, your little, wet hole clenching around nothing and he tsked, soothing you back down and hushing your whines with soft words and then his lips around your clit.

He spoke between sucks and kisses, flat, slow licks over your pussy that had you crying. “S’okay baby, I know, I know. Gonna make you come now, you’ve been so good for me, you have, I’m sorry.”

[brightaaura]

Can I request just Peter and shy!reader cuddling and stuff after a long day (after r having a long day or after peters spidey stuff whichever) ❤️

thank you for your request! tasm!peter parker x fem!reader, 1k

It feels like Peter's been gone for a long, long time when he finally comes home. Hair whipped every which way from swinging, his cheeks kissed by cold, nose bitten and pink, he drops his keys by the door and sweeps you up into his impossibly strong arms. 

You'd usually laugh at the sudden weightlessness, but his touch summons a lump in your throat, the thrumming feeling of missing him alive and in your hands. You work them around his shoulders. 

"You had a bad day?" he asks. You don't know how he knows, but he does. 

"I just needed to see you," you say, embarrassed by the strength of your feelings. 

Peter walks you backwards and you do laugh, then, the rigidness of your emotion warmed into softness by his arms around you and his easy smile. Peter dunks you down onto your L-shaped couch so you're flat on your back with your legs propped up and isn't shy about laying on top of you, the firm muscle of his thigh slotting between your softer ones, his hands moving to frame your face. 

He holds your cheeks for a second, decides he actually can't deal with the weight of his bag still on his shoulders or the jacket that haphazardly hides his suit and shrugs both off, and then holds your face again. 

"You're warm," he says. 

"You're cold," you say, turning your cheek into his hand, your head smushed up against the couch cushions. 

You close your eyes as he gets comfortable, content to spend long, slow minutes in the sanctuary of his arms, knowing he'll let you stay here however long you need to. You think you could commit to the couch for the remainder of your life and Peter would spend the rest of his days bringing you trinkets and offering to give you sponge baths. It's a preposterous thought based on an absolute truth; Peter would do anything for you. You'd do anything for him. 

You curl your arms around the broad, muscled stretch of his back, fingertips tripping over the wrinkles in his shirt, nose sniffing indulgently at his hair. 

"I needed to see you, too," he says into your neck. He speaks quietly, but not for the sake of any concerns. There's no need for privacy, and no shame in the admission. "Day's perfect now."

It's such a him thing to say. 

After another handful of quiet minutes, Peter works it around so he's the one being weighed down, squeezing between you and the couch armrest and easing you effortlessly onto his chest. You throw a leg over his thigh, curl an arm around his waist. He's not as cold anymore, but you rub his arm in a steadying back and forth until you've made your way to his fingers. They're still pretty cold —you pull his hand to your mouth and blow warm air at his fingertips until they're pink rather than blue.

Peter noses your hairline affectionately. "You're quiet today. More than usual," he says. "Should I be concerned?" 

"No," you murmur, rubbing his knuckles against your forehead for no good reason. It feels nice. After less than half a second, he does it of his own accord. 

Peter pushes your head back gently and starts to kiss you. Your forehead from end to end, the bridge of your nose, the tip. You shiver happily at the feeling and tilt your chin up for a proper kiss, though that happiness quickly melds to embarrassment when he laughs against your lips. I know what you want, his laugh says.

And even though he's right, even though it's obvious, it's raw to be caught wanting. He knows how much you want him in any and all capacity, and that's scary. 

You'd pull away if you thought Peter didn't know how you felt; you trust him completely. He can kiss you sick, for all you care. 

Peter doesn't kiss you for long, resting his forehead against your jaw, hand at the back of your neck to hold you where he wants you.

"Put your head back," he murmurs, faux-thoughtful, "I wanna give you a better kiss." 

"You want to give me a bruise," you murmur back. 

He dips in to kiss your neck softly. "Not true," he says, his bottom lip tickling you as he exhales. 

You lean back and raise your shoulder to push him away. You trust him, you love him, but if he gives you a hickey tonight you won't be able to look at him without a hot flush. You're too tired for anything amorous. 

Peter doesn't hold it against you. If anything, he does the opposite, rubbing your aching shoulders with a big, flat palm, like he's saying sorry. It's unnecessary. 

"I love you," you say. 

"I know," he says, giving you a short pat between shoulder blades. "Not as much as I love you, though, don't get it twisted." 

"I'm not getting anything twisted." 

"No?" Peter pulls you up his chest and turns his head so you can look at each other comfortably, no craned necks up or down. "Feels like you are. You think you love me more, which is scientifically improbable." 

"I didn't say that." 

"It felt like you said that." 

"I didn't say that." You glare at one another. The glares don't last long. 

You dive in for another hug, Peter tightening his grip around your waist, forearms up your back and locking you in. "This is nice," you say. 

"For you. My arm is dead." 

You giggle and shift further on top of him to alleviate the pressure on his arm. He groans like you're his very worst ailment, but when he kisses your head it's so tender you'd bet money that it left a mark, a physical actualisation of his affection. 

"Better?" he asks. 

You know what he's asking without further explanation. Do you feel better now? 

You nod against his neck, thinking you might just fall asleep in his arms. 

[brightaaura]

hey babe, i was wondering if you’d write something with grumpy!sirius platonic or romantic (your choice) where the readers normally sunshine and all happy but everyone forgot her birthday so he does everything he can to cheer her up

not projecting at all 🤭

if you don’t want to that’s so okay i understand diolch cariad 🫶🏻🫶🏻

hi, thank you for your request! I hope you can make the very best of your day, anon, I’m sorry the people close to you forgot it :( please have a happy birthday! grumpy!sirius x sunshine fem!reader

Sirius is guilty of pretending you irk him. You're always smiling, always complimenting him, and always touching him. He knows you wouldn't touch him if he asked you not to —you checked with him a couple of times when you first met if it was okay, and he said, Yeah, it's okay, with no further explanation or objection. 

He pretends your sunny disposition doesn't make him happy, too, but it does. It's selfish, then, when he notices you aren't feeling good today and decides he has to correct it immediately, lest the ray of sunshine that is your presence diminish. 

He sits down beside you on the bench, propping his face in his hand, elbow on his knee, a picture of nonchalance. "Hey." 

"Hi, Siri." 

He takes his pack of Lamberts from his jacket pocket and offers you one. You never take one, but he offers anyway. He doesn't want you to start smoking, he just figures that it's a nice gesture. 

He puts them away without lighting any when you say no. 

"Don't not have one on my account," you say. 

It's exactly why you deserve to have someone checking on you, no matter how cold it is, and no matter how much fun everyone's having at the bar. You put everyone else first.

"I didn't want any." He was trying to cheer you up. He should've known a cigarette wouldn't do it. Best go in with guns blazing. 

Sirius rifles through the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out the white box inside. He hadn't wrapped it. There's a confidence that comes with sincerity, and it's the kind of confidence he lacks. He's embarrassed enough to have bought you something in the first place. 

"Happy birthday," he says. "Don't tell me if you don't like it, please." 

You sit up a little straighter, inch by inch, accepting the small box into your hands. They wrap around the lid, your fingers moving with a deliberate gentleness, until your thumbs clamp over the top of it hard enough to make the lid bend. You smile at him, and it is perhaps the most heartbreaking smile he's ever seen. Disappointment and gratefulness all wrapped into one. 

"I didn't think anyone remembered," you say. Your voice is hoarse, and you cough rather than let it crack. 

He thought maybe you'd been upset because it was your birthday —Sirius himself has a weird relationship with his. He hadn't considered that no one else thought to celebrate with you. And despite his general unhappiness, his permanent headache and all the constraints of being as introverted as he is, Sirius sort of snaps.

He puts a hand on your shoulder, his elbow resting against your back, and pulls you toward him. "I'm so sorry." 

You're clearly surprised by his touch, but you don't shy away. "No, it's okay. I realise that it's my fault, you know, we're all adults and I should've mentioned it again, I can't expect people to know if I don't say." 

"I think…" He licks his lips. "Okay, I think that people genuinely do forget things, but it's a special day, and you expected special things. I really don't see how it's your fault." 

"Maybe not," you concede. You sniffle, and Sirius is horrified to realise you've a tear traversing down the soft slope of your cheek. "I don't know, I just wish people remembered." 

"I'm sorry," he says again. 

You wipe your cheek with a cruel hand. He can't stop himself from taking it, wanting to prevent any further self-meanness. Your eyes widen as you look him in the face, tears dewy at the waterline. 

"But you remembered," you say, tone happy even while thick with tears. 

"I wrote it down," he confesses. "I wanted to get it right." 

"That's so nice," you say, another tear cresting your cheek. You wrap your arms around his waist and tuck your cheek against his in a hug. "That's really thoughtful, Siri. Thank you." 

"You're welcome. You… make so much time for me. Whenever you see me. I don't know if you know how much you affect people, you can make anybody smile. I wanted to make sure I could do the same, even if it's only once." 

"You make me smile all the time." You squeeze him and then pull away, wiping your cheeks and straightening your jacket. 

He'd usually roll his eyes, but not right now. He just smiles at you, hoping you understand it for all the silent appreciation that it is. 

You huff a little breath in and drop your gaze to your hands in your lap, where you're untying the bow that's been wrapped around the jewellery box. You lift the lid, the sides emitting a shushing sound near enough lost to the sound of the street and the people laughing in the pub behind you. 

It's a bracelet. The beads are simple but not something you'd see everyday, silver backed hearts, flat on the silver side and a milky white that seems to glow on the bevelled fronts. There's four hearts, connected to smaller milky white beads. 

He was terrified buying it and he's scared now. 

"I really like you," he says. "I'm sorry about your birthday. You deserve a lot more." 

Your cheeks apple as you turn to him, your eyelashes kissing with the force of your smile. You pull your knees to touch his and offer him the bracelet on two fingers. "Can you hook it on, please?" 

"You don't have to wear it," he says, because he didn't think this far. 

"I want to wear it, please. It's beautiful. It's the nicest gift anyone's ever given me." 

He blinks hard and dips his head slightly to one side as he murmurs, "If you're sure," hands coming up to take the bracelet from you. 

You're both quiet as he unlatches it and lays it across your wrist. He's gentle to the point of aching, and he's putting every bit of effort that he can to stop his hands from trembling, he's so nervous.

"There," he says. "Anything else you need?" 

It's meant to be sarcastic, as if to say, you're working me like a dog, here. 

You shake your head hurriedly. "Nothing else. Thank you, Sirius." 

He takes his cigarettes out, knowing he won't be able to calm down, not when you're looking at him like he just hung the moon. "It's okay," he says, putting a cigarette between his lips. "Don't mention it. Please, don't." 

[brightaaura]

love love love

4K???? omfg congrats I'm so proud of you you deserve it and so much more!!!! <3333

I don't have any ideas for this but.. hozier with rockstar!remus bc i live for this concept, you can do whatever you want and i know it's gonna be perfect! I just need rockstar!remus fr

moisturiser

summary you join remus on the tour bus.

content remus lupin x fem!reader

note thank u oh my god!!!!! ily <3

You've never been on the bus before. You've never joined the boys for tour. You decide to surprise Remus the stop before your city and now you're getting ready for bed on their bus.

James and Sirius do their own things, their own post-show routine. James bounces around, still rushing with adrenaline. Sirius sits in his bed with a pair of headphones, you can hear the music from your spot on Remus's bed.

You wait for him to leave the shower. He'd tried to convince you to have one with him.

"Remus you have to crane your neck to fit underneath the shower head."

"Fine then."

He let you have the first shower.

Your feet don't touch the ground where you swing them back and forth, using the soft towel he'd given you to ring the water from the ends of your hair. You sit there and decide not to disturb the boys. You feel thankful enough that they're letting you cram their space between shows.

"The more the merrier," James had said to you. Nervous to be in their way.

"You might fix Remus's attitude," Sirius had laughed. "He's so mean, Y/N. Please stay with us."

Remus finishes up in the shower and pushes the stiff door open, searching for you immediately. Towel low on his hips where water tracks down his soft belly and into the cotton. He takes the one he's using for his now damp hair and hangs it up above your head over the barrier of his bed.

You wonder if he always walks around, shirtless, in his bandmate's bus. You think it's a little funny.

Your knees knock where he stands above you. "Feel better?" you ask. He'd been complaining of a sore back.

"Did I smell bad?" he laughs. He takes your bare shoulders into his hands, fingers slipping under the strap of your soft sleep vest.

"No," you giggle. He smelt of sweat after his show and you didn't even mind. It was nice just to be with him again. It was familiar. He still is now, smelling of a body wash he uses at home, the product he uses in his hair.

"It's okay, you don't have to lie to me, sweetheart." He's teasing, you know it. You don't have it in you to mind.

"No," you draw out with a giggle that you can't tamp down. "No, you didn't."

"Right."

You stand up and almost knock his chin on the way. You apologise and it almost feels unnecessary. He lets you down with a soft, it's fine. You're not sure if you mind the cramped spaces so much or not.

"Your back feeling any better?" Was what you meant. You think he knows that.

"Much."

You wipe your hands over your face and miss the cabinet in your bathroom sorely. You miss your skincare routine. "Do you have any moisturiser?"

He hums and disappears into the bathroom, returning with a small bottle of cream. "Can I rub it in?"

"Go for it."

You both sit on his bed and he opens it up with a click. Squeezing some into his hand, you recognise the smell almost straight away. "Where'd you get this?" You try to keep still as he dots the cream across your face, but he's so close you feel dizzy.

"It's the same as yours." It's cold where he smudges it on your cheeks. He mumbles a quick sorry when you wrinkle your face up.

"You theif."

"No, it's a travel version. I took yours down to the chemist before I left and asked the lady there to help me find a small version." He says it like it's nothing. Like he's not the loveliest boy in the world.

"Really?" you ask, voice light and airy like your head feels. You try not to show it and fail poorly.

"Yeah." He rubs the last bits of cream in and spends extra time on areas that are already soft because he's selfish about it. It feels nice, a warmth blooming across your skin. "Smells like you. I wear it a lot."

You let him abandon your face and tug him backwards into his bed. He falls on top of you and holds his weight up with a toned arm, mush to your dismay. You'd rather him lay his entire body on you if you had your own way. He'd probably allow it if you begged hard enough.

"You're gonna let me take your cologne home, right?" you ask.

"if that's what you want, dove."

He let's you take it home.

-

fixing the readmore glitch

[brightaaura]

this made me SOFT

you know i can't say no

this was the top vote from this poll, hope you enjoy! napping with remus <3 | fem!reader, 1.1k

The dream unfolds like most of your waking days do -- softly, slowly, sweetly. In it, you've got your head in Remus's lap and he strokes your hair lazily, his long fingertips tracing lines on your scalp. You're torn between closing your eyes and enjoying it and keeping your gaze on him, impossibly handsome even from this angle. A small, sleepy part of you knows it's a dream because he's not home yet. You're sprawled on the couch in your flat, windows open to let the spring breeze in as you wait. 

The dream is nice but you know that reality is nicer. Remus is actually yours, even if it does sometimes too good to be true. Deserved, sure -- everyone deserves to be loved the way he loves you, so wholly and intensely -- but sometimes unbelievable all the same. 

The sound of the front door opening rouses you just enough that your dream-boyfriend disappears. You blink your eyes open half-heartedly, turning over to catch a glimpse of the new living, breathing body in your home. "Darling?" Remus calls, eyes on this shoes as he toes them off. "You home?"

In your head you say Yes, my love, I'm here, I've been waiting for you, but what comes out is a sleepy groan. Afternoon naps seem to do the opposite of what you'd like them to -- you always end up more tired and groggy than before. You'll swing your legs off the couch in a few seconds and go give him a hug and ask what you should eat for dinner. Definitely. For sure. 

But instead your eyes slide closed again and you lose track of Remus. "Oh," he says from somewhere above you, softer than before. "Didn't wake you, did I?"

You find your voice this time. "You did," you mumble, but your lips stretch into a smile. "S'okay." You force your eyes to open again and find him in a crouch in front of you, hand mid reach to tuck your hair back, or something. When he sees that you're looking at him, he pivots and brings his palm to your cheek instead.

"My sincerest apologies," he says rather seriously. "How can I make it up to you?" Remus looks even more handsome in real life than he did in your dream. Hair a little windswept, the scarring on his face especially prominent in the afternoon light. His eyes, always so tired, soft in that way they get when he's with you. He looks pleased to be touching you, pleased to be home. Something in you settles at the sight of him. 

"You were in my dream," you tell him. He blinks, stands from his crouch to sit on the edge of the sofa next to your legs. You know his knees ache easier than they should, his entire body often at war with him. And yet you also know he would kneel for you -- for anyone he loves, really -- for hours and not complain once. He is so kind, so good that you don't always know how to keep up with him. 

He pulls his palm from your face and you make a small noise but he's quick to cover your knee, instead. His thumb strokes back and forth over the soft material of your pants. 

"Was I?" He sounds amused now. He laughs the most when he's around Sirius, but you're a close second, and you'll take it. With you, at least, he's softest. Your hand fumbles for his and he catches it, bringing it to his lips to kiss your palm. Sleepy butterflies erupt in your stomach. 

"But you're here now," you say around a yawn, eyes fluttering shut once more.

"Seems so, sweetheart." Part of you remembers your original plan -- it's almost time to eat and you should get up to get that sorted. You tug yourself up but overshoot it and all but careen into Remus's chest. "Woah, there," he chuckles. You hook your chin over his shoulder as his arms surround you. He smells like citrus and something spicy and warm.

"Food," you say, finally attempting to banish the nap-fog for real. "I bet you're had a long day. What do you want to ea--"

"I have had a long day," he interrupts you. "And what I'd like most is a lie down, I think." You tuck your nose into his collar and roll your eyes. Everyone says that Sirius and James get up to the most shit, but you know that Remus is maybe the most mischievous of them all, always convincing people to do things without making it obvious. He has an uncanny ability to lead people in the direction he wants -- but he never leads them astray. 

"I see what you're doing," you mumble. "Sneaky bastard." His chest rumbles as he laughs. 

"What, pray tell, am I doing?" He pulls away from you, hands on your shoulders to get a good look at you. This close, you can see the beginnings of stubble on his cheeks, the swirling storm of his eyes as he looks at you. Your lips part and he smirks just a little before leaning in to kiss you chastely. It's soft, the press of his lips barely there, but you lean into him all the same until he pulls back. He swipes his thumb over the soft skin of your under eye before tapping your chin as if asking his question again. 

"You know what," you breathe. You lick your lips. 

Remus starts to maneuver you so that you can both fit on the couch. You let him. "Maybe I just came home and saw the most beautiful girl in the world on my couch and decided that I'd rather lie down next to her than do anything else."

"Flattery, Lupin," you tell him, "does not work on me." The hammering of your heart from one small peck says otherwise, but you ignore it. He situates himself on his back and tugs you over him, tangling your legs together and resting your head over his heartbeat. It's steady and sure, even when you snake your hand underneath his shirt. Unflappable, your boyfriend is. 

"We both know that's not true." He's right. A single compliment, his hand in yours, even a glance from Remus across the room is enough to sent your own heart into a riot. It's terribly annoying and the boys tease you about it constantly. 

Remus sighs and you rise and fall with the breath. "We do need to eat," you say into his chest. His hand trails through your hair, just like in your dream, and you feel his lips on your crown for just a moment.

"Later," he whispers. "I'll cook. Go back to sleep." You want to protest just to be difficult but you can barely keep your eyes open. His gentle touch, the beat of his heart, the steadiness of his breath all lull you back toward dreams, even if the best one is right here in front of you. 

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, masterlist here!

[brightaaura]

remusremusremusremus

drunk remus will forever be my kryptonite. like imagine him just rambling about everything and then he sees you and is like "ohmygodyouresopretty"

hannah oh em gee. drunk lovesick remus is my everything. I love u for this

summary: remus is drunk and whipped

gn!reader 0.5k words

You walk Remus to the bathroom partly because he’s so drunk he can barely walk in a straight line, and partly because you’re just as clingy as he is right now and you’re not even drunk.

Your arm is braced around his lower back as you lead him down the carpeted hallway. He’s rambling about all sorts of nonsense, and you can’t say you completely understand or even catch a single intelligible word. But it’s nice to listen to his voice. Even if it’s all slurred and sticky.

When you stop at the bathroom door, Remus is not paying attention where he’s going and tries to keep walking. You snag his wrist and pull him back.

“Remus,” you say, trying desperately not to laugh. “Bathroom’s back here, love.”

Remus staggers backwards into your side. His eyes zero in on the bathroom door and then he blinks. “Oh.”

You snort but cover it up with a fake cough. And anyway, Remus is too inebriated to hear you having a laugh at him. He twists the arm that you’ve got in your hand to grab your hand with his instead. Then he pushes the bathroom door open and tries to pull you with him.

“Remus, what are you doing?” You giggle, planting your feet firmly on the threshold and refusing to let him pull you any further.

Remus turns, a blunt, almost impatient look on his face. “I’m going to the bathroom, dove. What does it look like?”

You snort. This time you don’t even bother hiding it. “I’m not coming with you, Remus.”

Remus looks at you like you’re crazy. “What?”

You shake your head at him, very amused and very looking forward to teasing him for this for the rest of his life. “What, d’you want me to hold it?” You ask, incredulous. “I’m not coming.”

Remus pouts at you. “Baby,” he whines.

You hold your ground, even though he looks awfully cute when he’s pouting like that. “Baby,” you mock.

Remus scowls. “Fine then,” he says moodily. You know he’s not actually angry but he’s a damn good actor, even when drunk. He drops your hand and disappears into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

You don’t have to wait long for him to finish. A few minutes pass and then the door opens and Remus appears again. Looking far less sullen, like he’s forgotten all about your refusal to join him in the bathroom.

“Hi,” you say, grinning.

Remus stands there with his hand on the doorknob and a halo of light around his head and blinks. Stares at you hard. Then blinks again.

“Holy shit,” he says.

You’re alarmed, to say the least. “What? Holy shit what?”

“I swear you’ve gotten prettier since two minutes ago,” he says, and he sounds genuinely boggled. Flabbergasted. “How is that possible? Are you kidding me?”

He takes your face in his big hands and stares at you intensely. He pulls your face so close to his he could kiss you. Looks at you with big wide eyes and parted lips.

“You’re sick,” he says eventually, after a lifetime of his eyes travelling all over your face. “Why would you do this to me?”

You giggle. Your chest feels tight though you won’t tell him that. “I didn’t do anything, Remus.”

Remus huffs. “Sure you didn’t,” he says, all sarcasm. “You’re—“

You kiss him to shut him up. Purely to make him stop talking, of course, and not because his doting is making your face burn.

-

[brightaaura]

napajwhsownbewoqlmwvsaiqonsbs wow

losers | remus lupin

“Please.”

“Please?” he says back, mirroring your soft tone. “You think you need to say please?” His pinky bumps under the waistband of your trousers. There isn’t much give. He traces the lining to your zipper, fiddling with the small piece of metal as your eyes darken. “I should be the one saying it.” His voice keeps dropping, an utterance in the shell of your ear, his words for you and you alone. “I’m at your mercy, dove. Don’t say please with me. Okay?” 

you find remus’ number on an abandoned motorbike. things snowball from there. [10k words]

fem!reader, fluff, first date, smut mdni, implied inexperienced!reader, almost rockstar!remus, mentioned that remus takes painkillers, muggle!au, early 2000’s au

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ There’s a motorbike outside of the cafe.

It’s huge. Too heavy for you to move. Technically, you hadn’t found it at all, it was left there in the dead of night a few days ago and hasn’t budged since. It’s illegally parked, a fact that your manager won't stop muttering about while she’s elbow deep in latte foam and coffee cakes. 

“I’m getting the bastard thing towed,” she grumbles that morning. “Let the police deal with it.”

That seems rather harsh to you. It isn’t necessarily in the way, and it looks well loved. Perhaps whoever left it can’t remember where they left it, having stumbled home on inebriated footing after one too many at the pub across the street. You think about how much it must cost to get your stuff back after it’s been towed, and though you aren’t sure of the specifics, you know it can’t be cheap. So, when your manager falls into conversation with a regular and your break begins, you creep outside to do some investigating. 

It’s a hulking thing made of more black than silver. There are stickers across the left side of the body, weathered and peeling, though one is newer than the others and immediately draws your eye. 

A phone number. 

If lost, please call. 

You take your phone out of your pocket, a flip phone with one dangling charm in the shape of a star. You click each faded button slowly. You're scared to talk to someone you don’t know, but relieved to maybe save the day. 

It goes for ages. 

“Hello?”

“Hey,” you say, dropping your voice into its sweetest tones, though nerves make you too soft, and you worry you’re hard to hear. “Hey, um, sorry to bother you. I work at The Mill, it’s a– a cafe in the city centre… Are you missing a bike, by any chance? A motorbike?”

“Oh, thank you. Yeah, it’s my friend’s. He can be… forgetful.” The voice that speaks is both smooth and gritty, impossibly, like whoever it is that’s talking smoked half a pack of cigarettes before he answered the phone. He clears his throat. “I hope it hasn’t been an imposition for you.”

“Actually, uh, my manager wants to have it towed. Like, now. I can try to fend her off but honestly she’s like, that physics law, um, unstoppable force? Uh,” —you’re stuttering, making it worse, because his voice is surprisingly handsome and you’re an idiot through and through— “yeah, so could you come and get it?”

“Yes! Yeah, absolutely, we’re on our way. Thank you.”

“Sure. Of course.”

You hear something not meant for you, the tail end of, “Sirius, get up. You better call Marl and—”

Phone back in your pocket, you take a quick glance around the street before reaching out to run your finger over the cracked leather of the motorbike seat. You’ve never ridden one before. You’ve never wanted to. The level of fearlessness one needs for it isn’t one you possess. 

You’re the opposite of fearless. 

The sun hides behind a wave of clouds. Your skin chills near immediately, your prim slacks and apron a worthless defence against the cold. It’s an average day here, grey and quiet. Occasionally a couple will pass you, hand in hand as they traverse the worn pavement. You smile at an elderly man and his dog as they shuffle across the street and into the cafe. Your smile fades as you tune into the fierce tones of your manager, demanding to know where you’ve gone. If your absence is what distracts her from calling the police, so be it. 

You’re considering getting your phone back out to play Snake when a passing car slows beside you. You straighten up and out, feeling your spine click in more places than it should as the passenger door opens and an insanely attractive man throws himself out of it. 

“My angel!” he cries, heading straight for you. 

You take a panicked step backward. The man dives for his motorbike. You flinch, mystified by his enthusiasm and his opposite appearance. Short sleeves reveal arms full of dark tattoos, with one side marred by a brutally long scar from his elbow to the back of a ring-laden hand. You tear your eyes from him as a second door closes across the street, and feel all the air rush from your chest as a second man approaches. 

He’s very pretty. It might be redundant to say it to yourself, presented as you are with an undeniable truth, but you think it anyway. Sandy brown hair, pale skin, and in enough layers to make up for his friends lack thereof, the second man ignores any dramatics and meets you head on. 

“Hi,” he says, holding out his hand, “you’re the one who called?”

Closer now, you can see the scars on his face. They stretch over the ridge of his nose and into his eyebrow. A smaller one tugs as he talks against his top lip. 

You take his hand and shake it limply. “Yeah, that was me.”

If he’s concerned with your nervousness he doesn’t show it. His smile doesn’t move. “He wants to say thank you. He will, once he gets over himself.”

“Thank you!” the dark-haired man calls. “She’s my everything. I’ve been sick with worry.”

“Have you?” the man in front of you asks, his voice steady, almost intimidating in its impassiveness. 

“Yes, Moons, I have been… not that you’d know.”

“Some of us have real problems,” Moons snips, though he quickly looks at you like he’s embarrassed. “Sorry. He brings out the worst in me.”

“You must be good friends.” 

You don’t know why you say it. He only smiles. 

“We must be.”

The first man stands up from checking over his motorbike and beams at you. You suspect it’s an expression that works in his favour more often than not. “What can I give you, doll?” 

“No, nothing. Please. I’ll just be glad to hear the end of it.”

"Are you sure?" 

"Yeah, really." 

Your manager calls your name, clear as day despite the thick pane of glass and brick walls separating you. 

"That's you?" Moons asks. 

"That's me. Sorry." 

"No, don't be. Thanks so much for calling." 

You nod hurriedly, throwing them both a 'nice to meet you, I'm sorry for leaving so fast' kind of smile and head back inside. 

You take a sneaky look back when you're behind the counter again. They’ve turned their backs to you, Moons' friend ruffling his hair roughly. After a minute or two, Moons gets back in his car, and the motorbike pulls away like it was never there to begin with. 

What sort of name is Moons? you ask yourself. It's a question that stays with you for a few days. You find yourself hoping you'll see him again, or that his friend's motorbike will turn up outside of the cafe for a few long days and give you an excuse to call him. His number stays unsaved in your recent calls menu for a while. Eventually, you forget about him altogether; the motorbike, the call, the gentle wave of his hair. 

You're hard-pressed to forget his voice, though. There'd been something familiar about it. 

"Nice highscore." 

You jump hard and wince as the metallic taste of blood hits your taste buds. To make it worse, you slam your phone up into the counter it was hiding under in shock. It makes a fatal crunching sound. 

You shove it into your pocket and look up. Standing there, in all his handsome weariness, is Moons, sans friend. He's wearing nice clothes, clean and clearly ironed. You're immediately aware of your ratty uniform and your unkempt hair. 

"Shit," you say, which is so fucking embarrassing, honestly, you could fall through the floor and stay there, "Sorry. What can I get you?" 

His eyebrows inch up his forehead. "What's the easiest thing to make?" 

That's not a question you get often. "Uh, regular black coffee, or tea, or, the uh– the hot chocolate's not that hard. But you should order whatever you like, of course." 

Moons smiles at you. You're starting to understand the nickname (assuming it is a nickname). He has this odd but enticing presence about him, like that awestruck feeling of looking up at night and seeing all the teeny tiny stars and the moonlight that comes down with them, bright and somewhat daunting. 

"Sure you don't mind?" 

"I'm paid not to mind." 

"Can I get the biggest cup of tea you can make? Milk and two sugars, please." 

"Absolutely." You sidestep to the register and click a bunch of the wrong buttons. You're unprofessionally flustered. "Uh, three sixty five?" 

He passes you a five pound note. Your tip cup is for the more generous type, and he has no trouble dropping his palmful of change into it. He barely looks. You're expecting him to take a seat but he stays standing, one arm pressed to the counter, the other held up. He scratches behind his ear absentmindedly, as though he has nowhere else to be. 

"Are you in a hurry?" you ask, confused. 

He stays quiet for enough time to shit you up. You're tipping milk over your hand and hoping he hasn't seen it when he says, "No rush. I'm here to see you." 

You look over your shoulder at him. You can't help it. "To see me." 

"Yeah." 

You spin back to his tea. The counter is covered in spills and sugar, cup tops and wooden stirrers. You take them all in with wide eyes. Nobody ever comes to see you. Not your friends, not family (unless they want something). Especially not boys you met once for two minutes. 

"Is there something wrong?" you ask. 

You clip the lid onto his big tea and wrap it in napkins so it doesn't burn his hands. 

"Nothing's wrong," he says kindly. "I wanted to apologise. Your boss was upset with you. It was Sirius' fault. We owe you for it." 

"You really don't have to say sorry. She wasn’t that mad. No harm, no foul." 

You put his cup of tea down in front of him and try to smile like girls do in the movies. Soft doe eyes, not too bright, not too awkward. You give up after a second and feel it twist into something regrettable. 

His long silence makes you squirm.

"A thank you, then.”

He offers you an envelope. You take it. 

The paper is crisp and thick. Your fingers are clumsy, and it takes you too many seconds to fold the envelope's lip and pull out the card stock inside. 

You look up in shock. "I can't–" 

He's not there. You look to the door, catching what might've been his hand as he walks out of view. 

He's left you two concert tickets. You don't go to concerts. You might have, when you were younger, and had friends to follow. As it stands he's given you two seated tickets for a show in the Pointer Arena not far from where you work, for a band you've never heard of. The price on each is a solid £20, which is way too much repayment for ringing a number from a sticker. Worse, you're not sure you have somebody who can use the second one. 

You hope he'll come back for clarification alone, and a little to see him, but he doesn't, and soon the date on the ticket matches the date on your calendar and you're standing outside of the venue with no clue how to hold yourself. 

You stand in line for a while. It's a very long line made up of mostly younger women. You listen for the calling of a reseller and spot a group of young girls trying to haggle with them, reluctantly leaving your place in line. 

"Hi," you say quietly to the one furthest from the epicentre. "I'm sorry if this is weird. I have an extra ticket tonight, and I was wondering if you'd like it? I know it's seated, but maybe you could use it to get in and then, uh, not sit? Or just sit." You could writhe around on the ground in shame. You hold out the spare ticket. "If you want it." 

"Are you kidding?" 

"No, seriously." 

She takes the ticket and you walk away before she can try and give it back to you. Whether she uses it or not, it's no longer your problem to deal with. The lady who'd been standing behind you lets you back in line, for which you're extremely grateful, and you shiver your way to the front with nerves churning your stomach. 

You've imagined being turned away twenty times by the time they usher you through the doors. The air is buzzing with excitement, enough of it to ramp up your nerves, and you smile weakly at the people who pass you on the way up to the seating area you've been designated. The Pointer Arena is a smaller venue with much more standing than seating capacity available. The seats are at the sides and back of the second floor, looking down at the pit with a safety barrier in front. 

You slide into your seat and peer down at the crowd as it fills up one ant of a person at a time. You can't distinguish one person from another after a while. It’s a moving sea of dark clothes. 

It takes a long time for the opening act to come on. You're not having much fun. You'd tried to use the computer in the cafe to research the bands playing tonight but the dial up hadn't been working and your manager hates when you take long breaks, so you aren't sure you'll even enjoy yourself. You're not sure why you came here — is it sad, to come here alone? It looks sad, you think, pathetic, but it doesn't feel sad. You're not very good at talking, anyways. It's so difficult. Or maybe you just make it that way. 

This is why you regret coming. Any time spent by yourself is time to think. You hate thinking, but it's all you seem to be able to do. Think and think and think. Your mind runs in the same circles. Things you've done, things you wish you did, things you want to do so badly it makes you feel sick. You can't stand it. 

The crowd begins to rise in volume. Cheers echo against the atrium ceiling, and you push yourself to the edge of your seat to see what's making them all so excited. 

The opening band. They're too far away to see clearly. First on stage is a man with brown skin and a head of black curls, a guitar swinging from his neck, the body barely held as he waves to the masses. Next comes a paler man with hair tied up in a bun who sits down behind the drum kit and doesn't move much after that. A girl practically sprints to centre stage, scooping up a waiting guitar (or bass?) and strumming down the body appreciatively. She has purple hair, bright and choppy, particularly abrasive against the alabaster white of her skin. 

And last on stage… last on stage is Moons. 

You move forward suddenly, smacking your face against the plexiglass barrier and biting your cheek for the second time in a week. Used to your mistreatment, the poorly healed skin wastes no time splitting, and the metallic taste of blood makes you cringe. 

That's Moons. There are two huge screens either side of the stage that magnify him. First his hand on the microphone, a scar coiling up from his wrist to his thumb purple against his skin. Then his face. You wouldn't forget what he looks like so soon, not when you've half obsessed over him for days with could-be's because he'd wanted to see you and you have a bad habit of inventing future's with people you don't know, but even if you did it wouldn't matter. You've never met anyone else with three scars as he has across his face, taking centre stage. 

You hadn't realised the tickets were to see his band. It makes sense, now, why your seat is in such a quiet area, and why the people sitting close by aren't firecracker happy at the sight of them. They must've received their tickets in the same way, gifts or thank yous for small favours. 

Your mouth dries as they begin to play. It's not what you're expecting. Of course, you haven't really had time to expect anything, and yet you're shocked when they start to play a slow song. He doesn't really look like a rockstar, but a heartthrob? You can see it easily. The long lengths of his lashes, and the dark honey of his eyes. His smile, so small but somehow piercing. 

His voice is careful. He doesn't sing anything impressive —there's no belting or high notes— but you still find yourself wringing your hands together, entranced by his confidence. He dances around the melodies and fills up every space he can find between the beat of the drums and the searing guitar riffs that follow. 

They only play five songs. By the time they've finished you're feeling sick to your stomach, and you can't get your heart to calm down. You hadn't known a word of the lyrics, but you'd felt them. 

They're good. 

Like, too good to be openers for long. 

The crowd echoes your sentiment. They clap and scream and wolf whistle. The noise vibrates in the depth of your stomach. The cheering doubles when the headlining band’s techies emerge. The lights go down. Equipment begins to roll out. 

You scrounge through your purse for a lip balm and think about heading downstairs to the concession stands for an overpriced bottle of water to wash away the unfortunate tang of blood. It aches to pay, but if you don't soon you might get nauseous, and that would be a real disaster, throwing up here of all places. 

You hear his voice before you see him. He's laughing, talking to somebody about the set. 

"It was great!" compliments a feminine voice. "I don't know what you were so worried about, Remus, you're really great. And if you weren't, Marl would've saved the day anyways with her gorgeous showmanship." 

"Thanks, baby," says a second voice. Marl. 

"Thanks, Mary," Moons says. 

What had Mary called him? Remus? Odd, not quite as strange as Moons. 

You try not to tense as footsteps approach. 

"Can I sit?" he asks. 

You look up too fast. He's a little damp, the hair closest to his face curled with it, but he smells good as he sits down. He must've washed up. 

"I– I've been calling you Moons in my head," you admit, not sure what to say. 

He's intimidating. You don't imagine he knows it. He sits in the chair without any fanfare, setting his forearm on the rest between your two seats and turning his face to you completely, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, almost like he doesn't want to smile but can't help himself. His eyes are the slightest bit lidded, emphasising the brilliance (and unfairness) of his lashes, so thick and dark you wonder if he's wearing makeup. 

"You can call me whatever you want to, but my name's Remus. I should've told you that before. I was… distracted." 

He isn't being coy, you realise. He easily could be if he wanted to, but he was genuinely lost for words for a second.

"I didn't really tell you mine," you say, hoping to ease his gentle confusion. 

He says your name like it's easy. Like he enjoys the sound of it. "Y/N. Do you like music?" 

Is that a trick question? His eyes trace up to your eyebrows as they pinch together, but he doesn't amend his question. Not a trick, then. 

"I like music,” you say.

"I realise it's brave to ask someone to come and see you on stage. And that I look like a tosser sometimes with the stage lights and makeup." 

"No," you say quickly, "you don't. You looked just fine. You looked good. I bet it's hard getting on stage like that, and in front of this many people. And singing. You have a really nice voice." 

His eyes soften. "Thank you. Do you wanna go get a drink with me? There's a bar. It's quiet." 

Your elbow brushes against his long sleeve. "Yeah." You're not breathless enough to embarrass yourself, but it's a close call. 

Remus leads you up and out of the seats. The venue is large in that it has just as many hallways and back rooms as it has places to watch the show. Remus’ warm hand catches your elbow, a friendly touch that guides you around the barrier and through a dimly lit hallway that takes you to the bar. 

The bar overlooks the stage, but the sound of the band and the crowd is dampened severely, making for a sorely needed respite. VIP's mill around the room on plush leather sofas and cushy bar stools sipping from sweating glass bottles. Remus' hand moves up to your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze as a familiar face waves you over. 

"Hey, it's you!" 

You smile at Remus' motorbike friend. You're a hundred percent sure his name is Sirius, but you won't say it aloud in case you're wrong. Beside him sits the other man you'd seen on stage with them, the guitarist with brown skin and a head full of thick hair. You look between the three of them in secret shock, wondering if handsome attracts handsome or if it's just dumb luck that they ended up together. 

"James, this is the babe that found Stacia," Sirius says.

James wrinkles his nose. "Hi," he says, in a voice that sounds deeply apologetic, years of it like the rings of a tree. "How are you?"

"I'm good. Um, and you?" 

"I'm good! Thanks, I'm good, it's nice of you to come see us. Did you like the show?" 

"Yeah, I did. I had no idea you guys were musicians." 

He splits his attention between you and his jacket. He pulls a glasses case out of his pocket, clicks it open, and straightens out a pair of wire frames. 

"Couldn't tell from our baby boy's general demeanour?" he asks. "Hey, that's better, I can see you now." 

"Sirius is the youngest," Remus says. 

"And the handsomest." 

"No, Marl's clearly the handsome one," James says lightly. 

Sirius takes the rebuttal in good jest and brandishes his drink toward you like a toast. "Want a beer?" 

"I'm getting her one," Remus says, "come on, give me a minute here." 

Everybody laughs. You laugh too, turning your face into your shoulder to smother the sound. 

"Well, come and sit with us, make yourself comfortable," James says, moving his jacket off of the chair in front of you.

Remus makes a small, apprehensive sound. "Drinks first." He looks to you for confirmation. "Yeah. We'll be back." 

You follow him to the bar. Your shoes, a pair of dirty converse you wish you'd swapped for heels or something sophisticated, squeal against the hardwood floor. How were you supposed to know you'd see him again tonight? In what world does stuff like this happen to scruffy waitresses? You're starting to think he might be somebody. 

Not that it matters if he is or isn't. 

But if he is… This is embarrassing, right? Not knowing who he is. 

There must be a couple thousand people here tonight. Then again, his band were the opening act, so it doesn't necessarily mean they're all famous or anything. 

"Hey," Remus says softly, stopping your thoughts cold. "Are you okay?" 

"I'm fine. Sorry. I've never been in here before, anywhere that's like it,” you say. 

"Venues are all different but the bars don't change," he says. "What do you like?" 

"I'm not a big drinker." 

"That's okay. I just wanted an excuse to be alone with you." He doesn't even give you time to recover. "Truth is, I wanted to ask you out. But between shows I couldn't find time, and next week I'm in San Marino." 

What you mean to say is, you wanted to ask me out? But instead, you choke, "You're going to Italy?" 

Remus pushes a seat out for you, helping you up with a solid hand, and, while your fingers are still warm from his touch, he says, "San Marino isn't Italy. I didn't know that 'til a few months ago. But pretty much." 

"What's in San Marino?" 

"A wedding." He climbs into the seat next to you, smiling.

The tan colour of his long-sleeves contrasts his pale hands. Your eyes flash to his ring finger. Not his wedding. 

Remus isn’t easy to talk to. It's not wholly his fault. He doesn't force conversation, leaving you awkwardly searching for something to say. You're not the best conversationalist either. He clearly doesn't mind it. 

You're in the midst of a clumsy retelling of a shitty customer service moment when he tips his head to the left just a touch. 

"Maybe we can go on an actual date when I'm home,” he says.

He says it like he's talking about the weather. You'd be worried he was messing with you, but then he smiles again, flicking his index finger against your wrist mildly. "You don't have to answer me now. Finish telling your story."

"It was pretty much finished. And– and I'd like to. Go on a real date. I've never been out of the country, so you'll have to forgive me if I want to know everything about San Marino." 

He looks at your lips. Says, "Good," and doesn't give any indication that he's noticed how nervous you are. That is, until he covers your trembling hand with his and presses it flat to the bar. 

"You're really pretty," he murmurs. He takes a moment, and he smiles. "Come with me? If I don't give Sirius some attention soon he'll start showing off."

— 

James is starting to wonder if he should invite you to San Marino. He's not that stupid; it would be a huge pain if you were standing in the middle of all his wedding photos and you and Remus don't work out. But, while he's certainly and majorly jumping the gun, he has a suspicion he’ll be seeing you again. 

James has never seen Remus like this before. 

His friend is usually quiet, quipping every now and then perhaps at Sirius' insufferable antagonism but otherwise brooding. He hasn't seen him smile this much, ever. 

James is under no illusions — he knows Remus loves him very much. He knows Remus is happy, and not always healthy but managing. He knows Remus is pleased with their lives and ecstatic to have their music take off. But he also knows Remus won't let himself have a good thing, not really. Maybe that's why he's asked you out now, when in a week they'll be in San Marino, and a week after that they'll be in Cardiff to officially start the new tour. 

He knows Remus, sweetheart, kind hearted, miraculous Remus, tends to let people down. He's a stickler for asking people out and cancelling the day before. It's how it always goes. James will ask how the date went and Remus will shake his head and say, "it didn’t work out." 

He knows Remus doesn't mean to hurt anybody. He just… can't get close. 

But he's trying, with you. A glass of cordial in one hand, the other behind your chair, Remus tells you one of his more embarrassing stories about how he'd taken a bad fall and ended up in A&E with half of an eyebrow. He doesn't mention the painkillers that made him woozy. 

You've relaxed considerably since sitting down. James would be happy to report that you're having a good time. You have your own drink in hand, and your eyes are bright, with a receding space between your face and Remus' as the story goes on. It's like watching two magnets fight to hold themselves apart.

Matter of time, James thinks to himself smugly. 

—

Honesty is important. You admit to yourself that you and Remus aren't exactly a perfect match. Both quiet, both not quite social butterflies, your conversations had occasionally been stilted and slow, but you've only met twice. Things don't have to be perfect, and more than that — there's a spark there. A twinge of a possibility. He'd liked what little he knew about you enough to ask to see you again, and you'd like what little you knew about him in turn to say yes. 

It doesn't have to be perfect, you insist to yourself, a bundle of nerves. Nothing does. 

He looks pretty perfect. Base of his palm pressed to the brick wall of the cafe, hand angled down as his fingers grasp the neck of a bouquet whose flowers have been shedding petals onto the damp pavement below. He holds his other hand against his chest, clicking buttons on his phone. 

You approach from the left and watch him play a game of Snake. 

"You play Snake?" you ask.

"Doesn't everybody?" he asks back, his smile softening what might otherwise feel like a chastisement. He doesn't look up from his phone.

"Woah, how long have you been out here?" you ask, eyeing his weirdly long snake.

Remus guides the snake into a wall on purpose. It dies, his high score flashes across the screen, and he aims an apologetic look your way. "Sorry, that was rude." He doesn't try to hide that he's looking over your face. "Thanks for coming." 

He leans in and kisses your cheek. Delighted warmth curls in your stomach, worse when he passes you the bouquet of flowers. They've mostly survived his poor treatment, and there's a lot of them. He's left the price tag on and you're not sure if he's noticed. You pretend not to see it. 

"Thank you…” You look away from the flowers, all whites and reds and baby’s breath, to ogle him as subtly as you can manage. “Wow, you've caught the sun. Was it lovely in San Marino?" 

"I'll tell you all about it over dinner,” he says. “I thought we'd walk, it's not far." He holds out his hand. You wipe your palm against your side before you take it, worried you'll have clammy hands. He must guess, because he says, "Don't be nervous." 

"I am," you say hopelessly. "I've never been on a date before." 

"This is your first date?" 

You feel a hot flush coming on. "I– yeah. That's embarrassing, I shouldn't have told you that." 

"No, it's a good thing. Now I know it has to be extra special." 

"It doesn't," you say. 

"I was hoping it would be." He pulls you down the pavement and further into the city centre toward the main high street. "San Marino. It was beautiful, and I took a couple of photos but I didn't have room on my phone. Well, I could've deleted Snake–" 

"Why would you?" you joke, grinning. 

He laughs, and squeezes your hand slightly. "Exactly. I have priorities. It's a long flight, and looking over the photos can only take up so much time. No, but it really was… it was beautiful. I'd never given much thought to a destination wedding. They make sense, right? It's the best day of your life, why would you have it here?" 

He tilts his chin toward the grey sky. You look up with him, feeling the cold wind kiss the sides of your face and pull through your hair. 

"Come on, Remus, it's not that bad. If it's sun you're after, you could just wait for British summer time. You know, the whole three days of it." 

He laughs — you've made him laugh twice already. This is going okay. Laughing while looking at one another, a bouquet in one hand and his hand in the other, you feel that curl of delight begin to bloom. It fills your insides up, has you smiling until your eyelashes brush in the corners. 

"It was James' wedding. Do you remember which one that was?" 

He asks so kindly. You don't doubt for a second that he wouldn't care if you forgot. It's refreshing, even if it's something you'd expect. 

"I remember. I didn't realise he was getting married." 

"Don't ever say that in front of him, he'll put himself on the cross." He swings your hand as you turn a corner. The Italian restaurant you'd agreed on winks from a distance. 

"He's devoted," you guess. 

"He's insane. He was worse when we were younger. His girlfriend– his wife," he amends, "Lily, she's really something else. Warm and funny, but she's been keeping him on his toes for years. She has family in San Marino, hence the wedding." 

You listen to him talk eagerly. His voice is as handsome as his face, and the more he says the less stilted he becomes. There had been a strained quality to it before (strained, or restrained? something he wasn't saying) that's all but disappeared. 

"It was like a movie. White linen, sand, crying." 

"Did you cry?" you ask, expecting a puffed up chest. 

"So much. Too much, maybe. I was half of the best man." 

"Half?" 

"We had to share, me and Sirius. They've always been…" Remus slows his steps. "Am I being boring? I'm talking too much about me." 

"We have time. I want to hear it. I'd like to hear it," you say. 

James and Sirius are brothers. Remus sees your surprised look and doesn't condemn you for it. Sirius is unofficially adopted. The Potter's fostered him from ages thirteen until he aged out, and though they tried to adopt him, Sirius was reluctant. Remus doesn't get into the reasons beyond that, and you don't ask. You suspect he's only telling you about it to drive home how much the Potter's love Sirius. How much James does. 

Remus had been Sirius' friend from their very first year of comprehensive school. Sirius moved in with the Potter's, and, adoring as they were, they let him have friends over whenever he liked. James, Sirius, and Remus spent the next decade together like that, hiding in Sirius' room. Best friends, entirely inseparable, and all fiercely protective of each other. 

"They've always been like brothers." 

"But not…" 

He understands what you're worried to say. "I think it would've been weird… I had a candle burning for James. For a long time." 

Your jaw drops a little. "And you just had to watch him have the most romantic wedding ever," you whisper sympathetically. You're joking: it's clear the candle isn't burning now. 

"Told you I cried," he says. "No, but you've seen him. He's a supermodel. It's awful." 

"Remus, I think you might be underestimating how handsome you are," you say. You bite your lip and look at his chin rather than his eyes. 

He's generous. He gives your wrist a tug and chuckles warmly. "I'm glad you think so. Tonight might have been awkward, otherwise." 

You duck together inside of the restaurant, hands falling apart as Remus gives his last name for the reservation. Lupin. Your face has a mind of its own. 

"Charming, isn't it?" 

"It is," you say emphatically, denying his sarcasm. "I've never heard anything like that. Lupine, like a fox?" 

"Wolf."

A server shows you to your table and hands you two leather covered menus. Leather, not plastic, a sign that tonight is going to be classy. You've dressed for the occasion in a smart blouse and slacks, too terrified of wearing a dress. Remus seems to have done the same as you, reaching for smart but dodging the mark in a button down and a casual jacket. When he takes off his coat, he looks perfect. He fits right in. 

"Could we get a glass?" he asks the server. "For the flowers? If it's not too much trouble." 

"No trouble at all." 

You run your hand across the silken tablecloth and the space between you both feels somehow smaller than when you'd been holding hands. Outside, you could let your gaze drift to the pavement, the fenced in trees, the couples that passed you by. Here, you're forced to watch one another. 

It's not so bad. It's agonising. 

"This is weird," you say. You flinch when you hear yourself. "Sorry, not that you're weird! I'm weird. I've never ever done this." 

"No, I know," he says, almost murmuring, "it's okay." 

"I just blurted out what I was thinking–" 

"I know." He sits back in his chair. His head tilts down, his eyelashes kissing the skin above his brows as he fixes you with a look. It has the intended effect, tension easing from your rigid spine and tight shoulders. "This is weird. But it's still early. It could get weirder." 

You like that he says it as if it's a good thing. 

You order the same thing he does, and you don't turn down his offer to get a bottle of wine, though it feels too grown up. You keep forgetting you're an adult, and that your life isn't on hold. Things can happen to you at any time. 

"I want to address the elephant in the room," he says. 

Not promising. "Okay." 

"Are we having dessert?" Remus leans forward on both forearms. Hair falls in his eyes. He's dressed nicely and he's handsome but there's something homespun about him, something golden. You can't help looking at him and thinking impossibly forward thoughts, cheesy waffle from the films. He's familiar. "Nobody ever wants to get dessert with me. It's actually a real issue for me." 

"I'll get dessert with you." A smoother you with more confidence, who wore the dress and asked him to go to the Thai restaurant instead, would've said something more suave. We're having whatever you want, handsome.

Remus flips the menu to the very last page and reads the desserts aloud. For himself, it seems, half-muttered and apprehensive. "Chocolate cake from places like this will either be the nicest thing we've ever eaten or burnt in the microwave. And it's childish that I want chocolate cake. I should be spoon feeding you creme brulee. Or whipped cream and strawberries." 

He tips his head back and rubs his eyes. It's a charade of feigned self loathing that makes you laugh. 

"I'm a child," he laments, thumb and index finger pressed into his eyes. He checks to see if you're watching before doubling down. 

"I like cake," you say, and you'd lie if you thought it was what he wanted to hear. Handsome, kind, and funny. Not to mention talented. He needs smart for the sweep. 

Remus falls out of his dramatics. You mourn the loss, beggy a good look on him, but forget all about it when he slides his chair around the table to share the menu with you, your heads inclined as you read it together again. He smells woody. You hope he likes the jasmine of your perfume. 

"It all sounds really nice," you confide, afraid to disturb the comfortable hush. "I haven't had gelato since I was a kid. Oh, did they have real gelato in San Marino?"

“They had a lot of stuff in San Marino… I want to hear about you.”

“What do you want to hear?”

The questions start and don’t stop. Where did you grow up? That’s the easy part. What did you study in school? Were you in sports? The art club? And what do you do now, when you aren’t working in the cafe? The more he asks, the easier it is to answer. He doesn’t slow when the waiter brings a glass for your bouquet, simply stands and places them inside with exceedingly gentle hands, smiling at you from between the stems. You eat slowly when the food arrives — you're busy talking. 

It feels fucking amazing. To have someone want to know anything about you. And unless he’s an actor of the highest regard, he’s obviously enjoying your conversations, though they wilt and wane and wind around one another. You lose track of time and thread as the night goes on, distracted by the near unnoticeable asymmetry of his smile, and the way he laughs when you laugh, like an echo. 

You get cake like he wanted. Triple fudge cake with buttercream thick but melting from the heat. It looks straight from the pages of a magazine, glossy and dusted with sugar powder, but he doesn’t seem to like it. He takes a couple of bites and leaves it alone. You don’t want to look greedy, so you do the same. 

The date is suddenly over. 

“Could I walk you home?” he asks, when you’ve both put your coats back on, and the damp roots of your flowers are leaving an imprint on your chest. 

You nod rather than answer. 

Things are good, not perfect. That’s what you keep thinking. There’s something he isn’t saying. Or, horrifyingly, something he doesn’t like about you. Still, the sky is velvet black and the air is crisp. Stars like needlepoints dot the air. Street lights work to hide them, casting a warm yellow glow over the pavements and your meandering shoes. 

A brisk wind whips past you. You shiver and press your lips together hard, hands quick to rigidity. Remus looks at you sideways, and breaks the quiet. “Are you cold?”

“A little.” No point in lying when he can see you trembling. 

“Do you want my coat?”

“No, no, it’s alright–“ You cut off as he steps in front of you, his hand vying for yours. 

He tucks the flowers under his arm and sandwiches your fingers between his. He has short fingernails, and another scar down one pinky finger. How’d you get that one? you want to ask. How’d you get any of them?

His breath clouds the air. “I should’ve thought about the cold.”

“This is better,” you say. Than a warm taxi home. His thumbs brushing down the backs of your hands. 

You walk to your flat building and hesitate at the foyer door. The potential for a kiss goodnight has flayed your thoughts. The image of his hands climbing your arms, holding you still, plays like a flickering film. You have no idea if he’s going to do it. 

“How will you get home?” you ask quietly. 

“I parked by the cafe, it isn’t far.”

“Oh…” The lights from your building paint him the faintest shade of pink. Your breath fogs out in front of you, as does his, and the warmth of walking will soon fade. “I–“

“Here,” he says, handing you the flowers again. 

“Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

“Fits the recipient.”

It takes a second for you to get it. Oh, you think. You can hardly feel the cold now. Your heart hurts, and you’re begging him to want to take a step toward you. The silence goes for too long. 

“I– I’d love to see you again,” you say. Love comes out funny. Maybe because you can feel his rejection coming. 

“I won’t be here next week. Not for a long time. We’re touring properly, now.” He scratches the side of his face.

“Right. Right, of course you are. Um, good luck with that. And thank you for tonight, for dinner.” You wave your flowers weakly. 

He looks at you. He takes a half step toward you. You can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. 

“You really are pretty,” he says finally. “Goodnight.”

He smiles quick and turns quicker. You watch him walk a few steps but ultimately can’t face it, pushing into the foyer of your building with a hardset frown. Your hands shake, minute abstractions of the sharp rejection panging in your chest. Your ears roar and then go quiet. What did I do wrong? you think, shocked and upset and trying to rationalise. He doesn’t have to kiss you. He asked you out on a maybe, and now whatever question he had is answered. 

The door creaks open. You spin on your heel, too wrapped up to think about hiding your expression. Remus stands in the doorway of the porch, his arm pressed to the glass panel, the other held out to you. 

"Come here," he says quietly. It isn't a question, but he's asking. 

You step into his reach, letting him pull you by the waist against his chest. He leans down until his nose glances against ýours, and he starts to say something. You push your chin up in your eagerness and he doesn't try again. He kisses you, once, contrite, and he pulls back and his hand clasps your arm tight as he ducks in for another. His lips are fast to lose the cold of the weather, but his tongue is a hot shock at the seam of your own. 

You go weak in his arms. The flowers between you crunch and smother themselves. You can’t think about it. Your hands are numb. He takes over every one of your senses until you’re more kiss than thought, reciprocating his slow, deep searching. You run out of breath. 

He eases you backward, cupping the side of your head in his big palm. 

“I want to see you again,” he says hoarsely. “But I– I don’t know when I’ll be back.” His hand adjusts against your cheek, like he’s worried you’re slipping out of his hold. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I can wait,” you say. 

“I couldn’t ask you to.”

You rub your buzzing lips together, each heaven of your chest marked by the crinkling sound of cellophane. 

“Do you want to come upstairs?” you ask.

He strokes the edge of your mouth with his thumb. “Are you sure?”

You kiss him. You don’t know if this will work, any of it, the broad stroke or this one night, but you want him. 

—

Remus doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows how to fuck somebody, that isn’t the problem. He doesn’t know what he’s doing with you. The same thing that made him walk away had pulled him right back in, had him skipping steps on the staircase up to your flat, drinking in the back of your head and roll of your shoulders as you’d made apologies for the mess inside.

He doesn’t feel like himself when he’s with you. He thinks of it like this — what he is, his pain, his wants, that’s all set in stone. Any change is an erosion, and little by little over the years he’s managed to whittle himself down into the smallest, cleanest version of himself. Then suddenly the band’s making money, people are listening to his voice on the radio in countries all over the world, and he can’t hide anymore. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to, after all. What else inspires a performer into the spotlight? The music, he thinks desperately, knowing it’s half a lie. 

Isn’t it why he’d asked you to the show? Come and watch me sing. See me at my most impressive. My most curated. 

And now he’s following you into your bedroom after one date, about to strip it all away. 

“You didn’t have too much wine, did you?” he asks. You hadn’t really finished your first glass, but it won’t hurt to make sure. 

You peel your jacket off and drop it over the back of a wide armchair. “I don’t think so. Did you?”

“No.” His head has never been this clear. 

He thinks about what you said. This is your first date, and he’s not clueless enough to assume that never going on a date means never having sex, but he wants to be careful with you anyway. He wants this to last beyond a dinner date. 

Which means he has to get out of his head. 

Beyond all of his own mess, he really does think you're pretty. More than pretty. You’re beautiful, and your voice… 

He wants to see what other sounds you make. 

Remus gets his hands on you. Soft touches, his hands coasting from your elbows to your warming hands. He squeezes your fingers, leaning in for a quick kiss. He rests his nose against the skin beneath your eye. “Tell me if it’s too much?” he asks, a murmur of hot air. 

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go slowly.”

“Okay.” Your voice is barely audible. 

He pulls away to make sure you’re alright, and is surprised to see a glassy sheen in your eyes. He holds your face in both hands and works your lips open against his, guiding you backwards into the plush of your poorly made bed. He’s all sweet touches and eager kisses, cautious not to hurt you, or let too much of his weight press against your soft torso. His kisses follow to the corner of your mouth, the tip of his nose tender against your cheek. “You’re so quiet,” he says. He isn’t complaining, but he wants to hear your voice. 

“I’m a bit preoccupied.”

He laughs into your skin, kissing down to your jaw. “You’re right,” he says, revelling in the goosebumps that rise under his hands. 

Your shaking inhales cleave a pit in his stomach. He mouths at the side of your neck, half-kisses, tiny warning nips before he thumbs open the first button of your shirt. He meanders, dropping a path crescent moon kisses into your front until the fabric of your bra gets in the way. The soft hill of your breast staggers to a halt beneath him. He can tell that you’re holding deliberately still. 

Kisses. You need more kisses, an absolution from any lingering nervousness. Your hands thread into his hair gently, your fingers raking wavy strands behind his ears as you give in. You melt into your sheets, your legs parting from the pressure of his hips. 

Your hands fall from his hair to needle between your two bodies and undo the rest of your buttons. The fabric falls aside, your chest and tummy his to catalogue. He drops his hand against your stomach, smoothing a line down to your slacks. His lips ache against yours as he asks, “Can I?”

“Please.”

“Please?” he says back, mirroring your soft tone. “You think you need to say please?” His pinky bumps under the waistband of your trousers. There isn’t much give. He traces the lining to your zipper, fiddling with the small piece of metal as your eyes darken. “I should be the one saying it.” His voice keeps dropping, an utterance in the shell of your ear, his words for you and you alone. “I’m at your mercy, dove. Don’t say please with me. Okay?” 

He smiles at your daunted expression. “Can I take these off?” he asks you, his fingertip running under the edge of your underwear. “Please?” he teases.

Your skin is a furnace, hot hot hot everywhere he touches as you nod your permission and Remus undresses you, one piece of clothing at a time. Your trousers, your shirt. Your bra, your underwear. His fingers slip in his ardency as he tears out of his own button down. 

Your thumb traces a scar. 

He looks up from your chest, startled, but you aren’t giving him anything he doesn’t want. There’s no pity in your gaze, no curiosity, no sadness. Just lust, your trembling hands pulling his slacks down the lengths of his thighs. 

He pulls the condom from his wallet in his pocket and lets it fall to the floor. 

Remus hooks his hands under your arms and urges you back against the headboard, a pillow behind your head, your thighs tipping open as his hand runs down between them. He grabs at them greedily, handfuls of fat that have his mouth dry as a bone. 

“Has anyone ever done this to you before?” he asks. He needs to know.

You squeeze your eyes closed and shake your head. 

Fuck. “Hey, look at me,” he says, waiting for your eyes to meet before continuing. “I just want to make you feel good. If I don’t, you let me know.”

He waits for you to answer aloud. “I will,” you say, your hand behind his back and urging him forward. “Please.”

“What did I say?” he jokes gently, letting his weight bear down on you again. 

He closes his eyes, his lips in what feels like a new home at the juncture of your neck. His hands skirt dangerously close to your heat. 

He’s gentle. He rubs a sweeping line against your cunt with the front of his fingers, heart hammering fast as a mouse’s when he finds the little button of your clit. You shiver and shudder and squirm as he toys with you, your fingers steadfast against the plane of his back while he opens you up. His lips part in tandem, not nearly as kind as his hands. His teeth scratch against your throat. 

Your soft moans move through him as he hickeys over your pulse, chasing each capering thud of blood. He winds you up. You’re snug around his fingers, fluttering, and he knows he’s probed something sweet when your breath catches and you whine. 

“Was that alright?” he asks. 

You nod, heavy headed, and lick your lips as he tears open the condom and eases it onto his cock, one measured roll at a time. 

“Can you– I want you to–” You turn your face from him, the line of your jaw kissed by the lamplight outside, and the rest hidden. 

He drags you down to lay flat on your back and holds himself over you, nudging his nose against yours until you lift your head. Face to face, he gives himself time to adore the shape and colour of your eyes, the side of his hand brushing along your cheek. “Do you think you’re ready?” he asks sincerely. The slickness between your legs is obvious, but he doesn’t want to blindside you. “It will feel…”

You nod, saving him the explanation. It will feel weird. Good, but foreign. “Will you kiss me again?” you ask feebly.

He can’t stop himself. He kisses your lips sore, his hand behind the crook of your knee pushing your leg up toward your stomach as he slides into the space he’s made there. He breaks the kiss to listen to your breathing as he pushes forward.

Remus hadn’t been lying — he wants it to feel good. He takes it slow, his thrusting almost languid as you get to grips with the feeling. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard, struggling to smother the moan that escapes him as he feels you clench around him. You gasp, your arms tightening around his waist, destroying any semblance of space between your sweat-damp bodies as you hold him tight. He murmurs praises in your ear, his forearms tucked beneath your shoulder blades, hands gripping your shoulders a touch too hard. He can’t remember the last time he was this close to somebody, can’t remember ever feeling so maddeningly lost, like he’s one good push from hurtling over the edge. 

He kisses your cheek, calling you all the things he’d been too scared to say before. “Lovely girl,” he pants, “how’s that feel?” And, when you answer, “Yeah, you’re taking it so well, dove. Think you can take a little more?”

All that nervousness and desperation shrinks down to dust, and the smiling girl he’d been with at dinner comes to the forefront. There’s no mistaking it. You giggle something awful and turn your face into his, kissing him between sounds, dizzying him with the tender scratch of your nails down his back as he starts to move. 

“There she is,” he says lightly, almost smirking. “Feel good?”

“Feels– oh,” —you shiver violently, filled all the way up— “feels good.” 

Remus let’s his forehead fall to your chin, his eyes closed in pleasure, his cock to the hilt. Every move he makes evokes a near sinful sound from you, mewling, silvery whimpers and pleased little laughs when he angles his hips right. He’s a mess, desperate to cum from the second you touched him and running on stolen time as he presses you deep into your mattress. One of your hands flies backward into the pillows and scrunches up into a ball, the look on your face too tempting to ignore. 

The first time you fuck someone — it’s never timed right. Remus knows he hasn’t quite figured you out, but he knows enough to get you where he wants you. He slides his hand between your bodies and your soft cunt to draw circles into your clit, entranced by your twitching lashes as the pleasure builds. You chase him with your hips, and he grabs your hand at the last second to stop you from covering your mouth, holding it above your head as you come apart. 

He cooes at you. The sound you make — the breathless little cry that leaves you, your hips jutting up to meet him. He’s at your mercy, just like he said. 

Remus fucks into the extra tightness, drawing your climax out for as long as he can. You’re smiling as you shove his arm away, a playful chastisement that wanes when you see the look on his face. “Are you close?” you ask, brushing a curled strand of hair from his eyes. 

Close? Remus is fucked. 

“You can go faster,” you say, “rougher, whatever you want.”

“Shit,” he hisses, leaning back. 

His rutting hips slap the backs of your thighs. He squeezes your waist, his eyes fixed on your cunt as it pulls him in. One last wavering, “Oh, fuck,” from you is all it takes for Remus to lose it. White hot pleasure tightens his whole body, his abdomen aflame. You scramble to gather him back into your arms. You kiss him, swallowing his resulting string of moans. 

He has to catch his breath afterward. You comb the hair back from his face, your eyes droopy with pleasure.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice stringy.

“Of course not.” You’re quickly losing your confidence. Remus hates it, but he understands. This vulnerability can only stretch so far. 

“Let me clean you up,” he says.

“You look like you’re gonna fall over if you stand.”

He strokes your face with the back of his ring finger, his nail ghosting along the highest point of your cheek. “Funny,” he says dryly. 

He gets confused in your bathroom, and you won’t let him towel you off, but when he lies down beside you with his boxers back in place you don’t push him away. You drop your face into his chest and curl up like a pill bug. 

He drags the quilt over your naked back. 

Was that okay? he wants to ask. “Sore?” he worries instead. 

“Don’t think so.”

He chews his cheek. “You’re alright?”

You stir, looking up at him through your lashes. He thinks you’re the kind of pretty people might not always see. You’re clearly beautiful, but there’s something else to it. The way you move, maybe. The way your eyes smile before your lips can catch up. 

“I’m fine. I’m good… Can I…”

He hums. “What?”

“Could I kiss you again?” 

You speak so quietly, he hears the vibration in your throat more than the sound of your voice. It’s endearingly timid. He feels his attraction for you flare violently. 

He wants to ask you to come with him to Cardiff. He knows he can’t. It’s yards too soon, but for a second he entertains the thought. 

“Wait for me to come home,” he says. He’s still asking for more than he should. “I want to see you again. You can kiss me as much as you want, if you say you’ll wait.”

You nod immediately. Not a flicker of reluctance to be seen. 

You lift your chin and kiss him. He tries to make it the kind of kiss worth waiting for.  

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging cos it helps more than you might think <3

[brightaaura]

The Trouble With Wanting

Originally posted on AO3

Fandom: Six of Crows/Crooked Kingdom | Kaz + Inej

Word count: 5,745

***Rating: NSFW (aged up characters) - It’s a bit smutty. Like a 5 on the smut scale***

Synopsis: Inej begins to reckon with her own armor so she can have what, and who, she wants.

Inej Ghafa had a problem. Any one of her crew on The Wraith would have called it insomnia, and, honestly, that was the explanation she preferred. Insomnia would have innocent enough and treatable enough – a quick visit to a Healer at the next port could prescribe a potion that would put to rest the whole conundrum.

If it was as simple as insomnia, that is.

But nothing was ever that simple for Inej. Simple solutions are for simple people, she’d tell herself, trying to muster up some self-confidence in her captain’s cabin at night. Much of her life was far from simple, and she liked it that way. But this. This was eating her alive.

The waves rocked The Wraith through the night. The summer heat bore down all through the night, even with a porthole window ajar. And with the heat, and the sweat, the gentle sway of the boat, all she thought of was him.

Keep reading

[brightaaura]

😭😭😭

an encounter

bassist!remus x fem!reader

wc- 1.1k

warnings- alcohol, jealousy, sirius being a twat

a/n- i was listeing to t1975 and m.o.n.e.y played and the line "and i cant believe that were talking about him" played and inspired something in my brain. also writing last night motivated me again a bit. buttttt once again this is not the long chapter (their love confession) that ive been working on. this is just a silly pre- together fic of them being stupid. love u all and i appreciate every one of u.

Remus’ glare was burning into your spine. For once though, you didn’t seem to notice him. You were leaning on the local bar’s counter talking to the new bartender. You had been sent to get the next round and what had started as a friendly conversation had turned quickly into flirting. 

You all had been studying for your upcoming exams and decided a much needed break was appropriate. How you ended up at the pub was not in your control, you’d suggested a quick coffee run. But you’d lost the last round of pool and were therefore sent to get refills. 

The bartender was cute. Not exactly your type, seeing as your type was currently sending dirty looks to the guy. Remus was oblivious to your feelings for him and you rarely let yourself talk to other guys because you were so focused on him. When the guy across from you sent the first flirty remark your immediate reaction was to shoot him down, but for once you acted on your second instinct and decided to flirt back. 

Flirting wasn’t exactly a skill you had mastered, but it was fun to banter with the guy and you were honestly into it at this point. He had placed your drinks on the bartop but continued his conversation with you while there were no customers. He was talking about some crazy order he had to make earlier in the night and you were laughing along.

Remus had witnessed the whole encounter. You were shit at pool so it was no surprise you had been the one to get the next round, he was just curious when it was taking twice as long. He didn’t mean to shoot daggers at the guy, but when he saw your face heat up and your laugh grow louder he couldn’t help it. 

Sirius noticed his irritation right away and huffed a laugh as he leaned closer to him, “Are you gonna do something?”

Sirius noticed his irritation right away and huffed a laugh as he leaned closer to him, “Are you gonna do something?”

“What?” Remus shot back. 

“Are you going to do something?” Sirius reiterated. 

“About what?”

“Jesus. That.” He waved his finger between you and the bartender. 

“Why would I do something?” Remus tried to play his obvious discomfort off, but Sirius saw right through him. 

“Because you’re quite literally in love with her.”

“Shut up.”

“See. No denial.”

Remus lightly shoved Sirius and shook his head, “What would I even say? ‘Oh hi can you please stop flirting with the girl I have no right to get jealous over’?”

“You should add ‘because I’m too pussy to ask her out even though she clearly returns my feelings.’” He smiled and Remus gave him a blank look, “Piss off. For fucks sake.”

“No, I'm serious. She never shuts the fuck about you. Just go over there and offer to help her with the drinks or something. I want my beer anyway.” He pointed at you again and nudged his head in your direction. 

“Fine.” Remus sighed, placing his pool stick down and moving towards the bar. 

His steps were quick and when he glanced back at Sirius he made a shooing motion. Remus itched the back of his neck as you got closer and closer. He made his way to your figure and your laugh quickly made him regret his decision. Who was he to stop you from flirting? But you spotted him and turned towards him, touching his arm. 

You smiled and turned back to the bartender, “This is Remus.”

“Ah, nice to meet you.” The guy nodded at him. 

“Uh, yeah. Hi.” Remus awkwardly smiled. 

“Rem this is Liam. He just started here this week.” You raised your brows, making conversation. You left your hand on Remus’ upper arm and neither of you acknowledged it, even though the touch was sending similar butterflies up your spines. 

“Oh nice,” Remus replied, “Like it?” 

“Yeah, so far it’s alright.” Liam smiled at you when he said that and Remus had to restrain from visibly cringing. You returned the smile and giggled. You actually giggled. He looked between you and Liam tried to let it go, but couldn’t. 

“Right. Well Sirius wants his beer so,” He tried to end the conversation and was scared you would tell him to just take the drinks, but luckily you went along with him. 

“Right ‘course.” You laughed and moved your hand to reach for a few drinks. 

“Thanks Liam.” You sent him a small smile as you spun around. Remus sent him a tight lipped smile and followed you. 

Sirius was smirking as you approached and patted Remus on the back when he handed him his drink. Remus glared but couldn’t help but laugh at the whole situation. 

Lily rushed over to you and as you handed her the drink she ordered, she spoke, “That guy was so into you. He stared at your ass the whole time you walked back over here.”

You grimanced, “Lovely.”

“No, no. That’s a good thing. You could get your mind off you know who.”

“Lily, kindly shut the fuck up.”

She put her hands up in false surrender and you turned, giving James his drink. You heard her whisper again though, “Remus was so jealous though, it was hysterical.”

“He was?” You spoke too quickly. 

“Yes, badly. He was squinting so hard his eyebrows were literally touching.” She motioned between her own brows, laughing.

You glanced back at him and he caught your eye, blushing. You smiled and turned away. 

“He was actually jealous?”

“Yes, love. Very,” Lily smiled, “You two are the most oblivious people in the world I swear.”

You huffed and rolled your eyes. 

James and Peter started the next game of pool and while you were waiting you stood next to Sirius. “The bartender was cute.” He said. Remus was on the other side of you and spun his head towards Sirius at his words. 

You nodded, “Yeah he was alright.”

“I think he’s really into you.” As he spoke he looked at Remus and smirked knowingly. 

“Really?” You asked. “I don’t know, maybe he’s just being friendly.”

Remus cleared his throat, “Probably. Didn’t he just start working here? Just making friends with the customers, ya know.”

“I don’t know Moony, that looked pretty flirty to me. Y/n/n?” 

“I- I’m not good at gauging these things- I mean flirting is not my thing so I wouldn’t know.” You looked between the two boys shaking your head, oblivious to Sirius’ instigating. 

Remus mouthed Fuck off when your head was turned and Sirius laughed. It was his turn to go and you spoke to Remus as Sirius played, “He’s not my type anyway.” You glanced up at him and he nodded his head. “That’s good.” He answered. 

His response made you shy. ‘That’s good’ is it? You turned, hiding your smile and flush. God you two were idiots, he was jealous. And you were secretly glad he was.  

[brightaaura]

dying

remus lupin x gn! reader.

a kind evening, with your boyfriend remus.

remus lupin catches the sunshine in his teeth when he smiles, so much so that you think he might be concocted of it: celestial light, right down to the bone, glowing white and sweet at his epicentre. it would be easy to believe, because he is kind to the utmost degree and his touch is uniquely benevolent, and you think, with unwavering certainty, there is no heart brighter than his.

so you look at him because he glows as if he were born from the heavens, divine and pure. it makes him shy, you think, to be watched with attention, with the tenderness that makes you soft and pliable and puppy-love sick, because he is overtly modest. today, as he catches you, he is beaming at the herbs he has procured from the humble garden you have fostered on the balcony of your apartment. they grow out of his hands like the green spring that beckons to you over the horizon, and he is so proud of his creation that his smile is lightening without the thunder, like the stars, like the sun.

“well isn’t this a nice little harvest?” he asks with all the joviality you think is available to the world, kicking off his shoes in exchange for the slippers he keeps by the door. the knowledge of gardening eludes you, but you think it very well must be, to have him in such brilliant spirit so that he practically sparkles. “frank is going to be so jealous.”

his eyes are crinkled at the corners, and he is showing all of his teeth. some crooked and worn, and absolutely perfect. your heart grows ever-fonder at the sight of him.

“beautiful, really,” you’re leaning over the kitchen table just to go see him better, drawn in like a moth to his iridescent nature. remus busies himself with rinsing them off in the sink, humming a tune that comes from nowhere, but sounds as delicate and joyful as the works of rossini. “never seen anything quite as charming.”

the herbs— they’re supposed to be for the pizza you’d thrown in the oven, but you think nothing of them when presented with art as intricately crafted as your boyfriend. his hair is still wet from the shower, so that it drapes magnificently over his forehead, almost as dark as treacle, and smells perhaps just as lovely. the t-shirt he is wearing is so old it has a hole in the hem, and he is clad in his spider-man boxers, and you think you’ve never been in love like this before.

you bite the inside of your cheek and feel your chest glow pink.

perhaps he senses this, because he turns his chin over his shoulder with a dubious expression, as if you you are guilty of having said something obscene. his eyebrows furrow, accusatory, “are we talking about the chervil?”

you laugh at his glorious visage. “i was appreciating great craftsmanship.”

“you’re nothing but a tease,” remus chastises, with no real malice to be found in his tone. he is far too gentle, too affectionate for it, and that is why you ignite with all the fond feelings in his presence. “c’mere, be useful.”

you let him order you around because he does it with a smile, and because you know his heart is full of the purest sincerity. when you step towards him, he delivers a chaste kiss to your temple. it sinks right through you, all the way down the bone; through the marrow, settling right into the fabric of your atoms. “hello,” you say cheerfully. remus hands you the herbs, wrapped in paper towel.

“pat these dry for me?” a dark curl has sprung upwards, beginning to dry. he looks ridiculous. handsome. it makes your heart flutter, how pretty he is.

“only if you kiss me first,” the sweetness in your voice is cloying, designed just for him. he must know this, because he hums at you, rather pleasantly. curiosity gleams in his eyes.

he arches a thick eyebrow. there are firefly freckles scattered across his face, revealed by time spent in the july sun, and they dance whenever he creates a new expression.

“a kiss, then,” he says, ducking his head. remus is much taller than you, because he grows towards the sun, like a daffodil.

you raise yourself onto your toes, bracing a hand against his arm, clutching the herbs against your chest. water droplets sink into your t-shirt, but you hardly mind. like he always does, he catches your elbow, and it makes you warm.

when his lips meet yours, it is like tasting the sky. the scar that splits his mouth open— white, drawn up towards his nose— scratches gently against yours.

he smiles, like the stars, like the heavens, like paradise. you taste the sweetness of it, and your world expands.

oh how perfect it is, to love remus lupin.

thanks for reading! reblogs/ comments are appreciated! they really do help.

[brightaaura]

hiiiiiii i hope ur feeling better :(((( could i pls request some aftercare with sirius? no pressure take care of yourself!!! thank youuuu

hi tysm for ur request this is so sweet i hope i did it justice <3 NSFW 18+ Please (aftercare, talking about sex)

You gasp. Sirius looks amused and endeared despite his own tiredness, hands falling from your tits where they'd been worshipping rather gently to your thighs, clenched tightly around him. 

You bend over, touching your forehead to his chest. You like being on top, love the closeness and the feeling of being split open around him, but you forget how shattering it is once you're done. You barely have the energy to move. 

Sirius hands are quick to pet your hair, your sweaty face. "You're alright, sweet thing." 

You nod into his skin, the tip of your nose rubbing into a dark tattoo. 

Your hands, bawled at his hips, flatten, searching up his torso. Sirius shifts underneath you and you gasp, feel the chills of his movement, his cock still inside you. 

"You wanna move?" 

"M'tired," you complain lightly, smiling against his chest. 

He shifts again. You whine pathetically as he sits up and his cock moves ever deeper, feeling tender. His arms come around your back and lift you up, off of his softening cock and against his chest. 

"Good girl," he murmurs, though you didn't really do anything. 

You lighten with his praise and wrap your aching arms around his neck, his dark hair tickling you. He responds in turn, one arm cupping the back of your head and the other rubbing your back dutifully. 

"Better?" he asks. 

"Uh-huh." 

He pepper kisses up your jaw. You blink rapidly, trying to crawl back out of the hole you're in, feeling weak and achy but happy. Squishy fond. 

His mouth is hot under your ear, lips pressed to your skin but unmoving. He sways you gently from one side to the other, his breath hot on your face. 

You deflate in his arms, back and arms relaxing.

You snicker to yourself. "I feel like I'm made of jelly," you confide quietly. 

"Yeah?" Sirius asks, pulling his face back to look at you with sincere interest. "Hurting?"

"No, I feel nice." 

"Me too." He grins, hands coming to a stop at the small of your back. 

"Was it good? For you?" you ask. 

"Yeah, baby, s'always good with you. You're killer, you know that?" 

You tilt your chin up and he indulges you, leaning down for a slow, firm kiss. 

"I love when you're on top. You look so fucking lovely, you have no clue." 

You laugh and hold his face in your hands. "Don't get used to it, pretty boy. I'm so tired. This how you feel everytime?" you ask cheekily. 

"I've better stamina," he murmurs, weaving his arms under your arms. He digs his face into the crook of your neck and you're quick to wrap your arms around his head, crushing soft curls under your arms. "Pillow princess " 

"Excuse me?" you ask with no real vitriol, knowing it's true. Knowing that's how you both like it. 

"Maybe you'll have to run the bath this time, babe. I'm so tired," he continues. You can feel his smile, stubble scratching at your collar. 

"Why are you tired? I did all the hard work." 

"Exactly," he says. You think of all the times he's been on top and taken care of you afterwards and realise you've walked into a trap. You sigh, pained, breathing in the top of his head. He smells nice. 

"Sorry, Siri. I should be kinder to you, huh?" you ask. 

He opens his mouth. You feel his teeth scrape against your collarbone lightly as he plants a small, wet kiss into your skin. "No, sweetheart, I like you just the way you are," he says lazily. 

You shift in his hold, tired thighs screaming on either side of his, a slick mess between you both that's growing intolerable as time stretches on. 

"We really do need a bath," you say. 

"In a second," he agrees, tightening his arms around you even more. He nestles his face into your neck. You wonder if he can feel your heart beating. 

"I really liked when you hooked my ankles up over your legs," you tell him, having thought about it. It makes it easier to move on him, and it feels kind of bouncy. You're mostly mentioning it because you want to know how he'd felt. 

"I liked it too," he says roughly. "Loved it, even. And when we were sitting up together." 

"Yeah, when you grabbed my hips. That was good. And I didn't have to do all the work," you add sheepishly. 

He finally pulls away from your skin so you can see his knowing smile. "I'm glad you liked it. We'll have to try it again soon, yeah? Did you have a good time?" 

"You know I did,” you say softly.

“Never hurts to ask.”

He kisses you on the forehead and you take it as your cue to climb off of him on numb legs, feeling pins and needles race from your hips to your toes. 

Sirius is quick to climb up beside you and steady you, laughing as you begin to giggle nervously. 

"I have dead legs." 

"Oh no," he says mockingly, eyes flaring. 

"Wait, Sirius, don't!" 

It's too late. He's already sweeping the legs from under you and bringing you up against his chest in a princess carry, arms like steel wrapped under your legs and back. You cling to his neck and protest all the way to the bathtub.

[brightaaura]

domestic remus drives me CRAZY

remus reads to you while the cooker is on and the kitchen is flooded by oven light. you’ve got your head pressed into your folded arms at the diner table and the sun is golden in your hair; your skin, it’s last rays warm behind your eyelids as you listen to him narrate— it is the kind of domestic bliss you’ve always dreamed about, the kind that melts you like honey.

when his knees knock against yours underneath the table, you look up at him through your hedge of lashes. his glasses are perched at the edge of his nose and his hair is still wet from the shower and he looks beautifully serene. you smile as he lifts his gaze when he notices you watching him, your heart squeezing in your chest, because he’s reaching over to smooth the pads of his fingers against your hairline, a languid and gentle affection.

remus says, “i love you,” then, and you know he means it. and you think, you could never want anything else. all you could ever need is right here, looking back at you with benevolent eyes.

[brightaaura]

Hi hi could we please get shy!reader with Sirius where she’s just absolutely exhausted and wants him to brush her hair for her after she gets out of the shower? Love u xx

thank you for your request! sirius x shy!fem!reader | 1k

You can barely get dressed after your shower, the heat of the bathroom having lulled you into a near comatose state. You drag your soft cotton trousers up the length of your tacky legs, fighting to pull the waistband over your stomach. You almost fall, body listing naturally to the side, but save yourself with a tired arm. 

"You're taking ages." 

You smile at the sound of Sirius' light teasing. 

"I'm almost done." 

"Good. My lap is feeling much too empty today." 

He's delusional if he thinks you're going to sit in his lap. You rub at the ends of your hair with your towel and breathe in the creamy smell of your conditioner, tilting your head to the side to peek at your boyfriend where he sits near the open bedroom window. He's smoking. 

He snuffs out the cigarette in his little ashtray and covers it with a clinking lid to hide the smell. He looks up, and you know from the settled, unsurprised laxness of his eyes and lips that he'd known you were there the whole time. He'd let you watch him, and now he watches you. 

"I gotta tell you something," he says, wiping at the tip of his fingers, his only tell. Whatever it is he's going to say, it's gonna fluster you. Sure enough, he continues, "Every time you get out of the shower with wet hair I feel like it's the first time I'm seeing you." 

"Do I look alien?" you ask, secretly worried. 

"You look stunning, but that's not the point." 

Charmed, you move to the end of the bed and climb over the sheets on knees, pyjama trousers riding up your calves. Sirius meets you where you're sitting, angling himself adjacent, and tugs them down absentmindedly. 

"I don't know. I just love the way you look when you have wet hair, and," —he inclines his head like you're telling secrets— "when you're tired." 

"I'm not tired," you fib. 

"I believe you." 

He obviously doesn't. You're both liars smiling at one another, waiting for the other to break. You look away first, dropping the damp towel from your hair into your lap. Your shoulders rise unbidden, your reluctance clear even when you haven't spoken it aloud. You don't want to finish getting ready for bed. 

Sirius hasn't touched you yet, but he will. His hand closes around your ankle, climbing up under the trousers he'd only just corrected. You melt veritably.

"Will you brush my hair?" you ask, closing your eyes. 

"Yeah," he says. "Course." 

The nightstand drawer opens, wheels running over tracks. You listen to him fish out your hairbrush and some softener, and your skin practically burns as he settles behind you. He pulls you toward him with gentle but undeniably strong hands, his forearm lingering where it presses against your ribcage. 

"I knew you'd end up in my lap," he says. 

You smile despite yourself and cover his hand with your own. His fingers are long and deft beneath yours. 

After a quiet moment of this he pulls away and starts to brush your hair. He makes it a long process with how softly he goes, never once tugging at tangles. He rubs product in your hair, wipes his hands quickly on the towel, and then brushes it through. He perseveres until every strand of hair is brushed, soft and still damp. You meant to talk to him as he went, ask him how his day was, but the feeling of his hands on your neck, your shoulders, the bristles of the brush against your scalp, and the heat and steadiness of him behind you — Sirius is a quiet safety. 

"How's that?" he asks in a murmur. 

"Thank you." 

"You haven't looked yet." 

"Do I need to look?" you ask, turning into him just a smidge. 

Sirius takes the hint, setting the brush aside so he can accommodate your weight. He drops his face into your shoulder with a groan. 

"Yeah," he says. He kisses your shoulder gently. "I've made a right mess of it. But a bird's nest is with the times. I mean, look at James." 

You laugh. You're in a skewed position; you don't want to climb completely into his lap, so you twist as much as you can and hug him until he hugs you back. 

"You're not nice to James considering how much you love him. I hate to think of what you say about me when I'm not around." 

"I say worse." 

"I knew it."

"Much worse." He pets your hair. 

You know he's joking. James had texted you once to ask if your ears were burning, because Sirius had been 'waxing lyrical about the shade of your eyes for the last five minutes', and no offence or anything but James already has a sensitive stomach.

Sirius is lovely. He sings your praises and he brushes your hair and he holds you as he holds you now, like it's the only thing he's ever wanted to do. 

"Thanks for brushing my hair," you murmur.

He pulls away from you enough to see your face, tucking a silken strand behind your ear. 

"You're welcome. I knew you were tired. You had a long day, sweetheart." 

"I did, but… it feels worth it." 

"Yeah?" Sirius asks, a familiar smugness creeping into his tone. 

You shrink at the sound. Not because you don't like it, the opposite, and you both know it. He can get you exactly where he wants you with one word. 

He laughs as you slide your face back into his neck. 

"Be nice," you say. 

"I'll try. No promises."