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clairecrive · 1 month ago

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Out of Step, In Sync

Pairing: Eddie Munson X F!Reader

Summary: After a disappointing prom night, you stumble into an unexpected conversation behind the gym with Eddie Munson—Hawkins’ favorite scapegoat and misunderstood metalhead. What starts as a casual talk over a shared escape turns into something else unexpected.

Tags: Fluff, pure fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, honestly yall will need a dentist, SFW, mutual pining, developing relationship, Eddie Munson is a sweetheart, prom, dancing, 80s sci-fi references, no upside-down. No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N

A/N: Yeah, you know me, I love a good 'ol fluff, I needed to feel something. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 8.4k

masterlist

You didn’t even bother glancing back.

The bass from the gym echoed down the corridor, muffled and distant, like a heartbeat you weren’t part of. Glitter clung to your dress and your shoes pinched with every step, but you didn’t care. The heels were coming off soon anyway. The air back here was cooler, quieter, less drenched in Aqua Net and teenage desperation. You welcomed it like an old friend.

You weren’t angry. Not even a little heartbroken. Just… done. Your so-called prom date was slow dancing with some girl from his chem class—too close, too familiar—but honestly? It was a relief. The two of you had nothing in common, and you’d spent most of the evening counting down the songs until you could leave without it being “a thing.”

Now, finally, you were alone.

You pushed the heavy double doors open and stepped out into the cool night. The gym’s back lot was empty, save for a few leftover streamers fluttering from a fence post. You sighed, breathing in the crisp air. Somewhere in the distance, a cicada buzzed lazily.

Then you caught it—the scent of smoke.

Cigarette smoke.

You turned your head and there he was, half-shadowed by the building’s edge, denim jacket draped over a worn prom tee, black slacks like he hadn’t tried at all—and still somehow made it work. Eddie Munson, leaning against the brick wall like the whole world bored him to tears.

He raised an eyebrow when he noticed you, but didn’t say anything at first. Just took another drag and watched you with a crooked smile.

“Well, well,” he said finally, voice low and amused. “Didn’t peg you for a backdoor escape artist.”

You crossed your arms, smirking. “Didn’t peg you for someone who’d show up at prom.”

He shrugged. “Had to see it to believe it. The glitter. The heartbreak. The emotional meltdowns. It’s like a zoo in there.”

You laughed, the first real one of the night. It caught you off guard.

He flicked ash off the end of his cigarette and nodded toward the gym. “So. Who do I have to thank for you gracing the back alley with your presence?”

You tilted your head. “My date’s dancing with someone else.”

Eddie winced dramatically. “Oof. Harsh.”

“Nah,” you said, leaning against the wall beside him. “We had the chemistry of a wet sponge. I’m just glad he realized it before I had to fake a bathroom emergency.”

He chuckled, and it sounded honest. Warm.

“Well,” he said, holding the cigarette out like an offering, “welcome to the land of misfit prom-goers.”

You eyed the cigarette, then shook your head. “I’ll pass. But thanks, ambassador of the misfits.”

Eddie grinned, sliding it back between his lips. “Suit yourself.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt kind of… easy. The thump of music behind you became background noise, like it belonged to another world. You looked out across the empty lot, then back at him.

“So what about you?” you asked. “Didn’t have a date either?”

Eddie snorted. “Please. Can you imagine me at a formal dinner with someone’s mom taking pictures? Nah. I’m just here for the chaos. Thought I’d maybe sneak in, spike the punch, throw a few firecrackers—y’know, the classics—but someone already beat me to it. So now I’m stuck lurking like a gremlin in the shadows.”

You laughed again, easier this time. “Well, you wear the gremlin look well.”

He placed a hand on his chest. “High praise.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Just quiet. Peaceful. Like the noise of the gym didn’t even exist out here.

You twirled the cigarette in your fingers. “I used to think you were all noise, y’know,” you said without really thinking. “Like, loud music and heavy boots and wild hair.”

“I mean, I am all of those things,” he said, raising a brow.

“Sure,” you said. “But I don’t know… I think there’s more to it.”

He looked at you for a second, like he was trying to read your mind. Then he smiled. “Alright. Your turn. Tell me something about you that’d surprise me.”

You thought about it. Then, what the hell.

“I like science fiction. Books. Comics, too.”

Eddie blinked. “What?”

You shrugged, suddenly a little self-conscious. “Yeah. I mean… it’s not something I talk about. People think it’s weird.”

“Okay, hold on.” He straightened up, suddenly animated. “What kind of sci-fi? Like, classic stuff or weird future dystopia stuff?”

“Both,” you said, grinning despite yourself. “Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov. And there’s this one graphic novel series I’ve been obsessed with—The Long Tomorrow. You probably haven’t heard of it.”

Eddie’s mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me? Moebius is a god. That gritty noir-future vibe? That’s, like, the blueprint for half my D&D campaigns.”

Your jaw dropped. “Wait, you like Moebius?”

“Like him? I worship him. I have The Airtight Garage under my mattress so my uncle doesn’t ‘accidentally’ throw it out during one of his cleaning sprees.”

You couldn’t stop smiling now. “That’s ridiculous.”

He pointed at you with his cigarette. “You’re ridiculous. All this time I thought you were just another prom queen in disguise and now you’re telling me you’re secretly a sci-fi nerd?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not a prom queen.”

“No,” he said, grinning. “You’re way cooler.”

The compliment caught you off guard. There was no smirk behind it, no teasing edge—just honesty. His eyes lingered on yours, and for the first time all night, you felt seen. Not dressed up, not performing, just you.

“Guess we both had the wrong idea,” you said quietly.

He nodded. “Guess so.”

And just like that, the space between you didn’t feel so distant anymore.

You both stood there for a while, trading stories—about favorite books, childhood cartoons, and how utterly overrated prom was. You were surprised how much you had in common. Maybe not in how you moved through the world, but in the way you looked at it. Like both of you were on the outside looking in, only now you had company.

Through the slightly cracked door, a new song filtered out. Faint but unmistakable.

“I wanna know what love is…”

You glanced back toward the gym. The colored lights flickered just beyond the windows, a blur of red and blue. The music carried more clearly now, bleeding into the cool night air like some kind of cosmic joke.

Eddie took another drag, then stubbed out the cigarette under his boot. “You should go back in,” he said after a moment, flicking ash from his fingertips. “It’s prom. Go dance with someone. Someone who doesn’t hang out behind dumpsters and make fun of the decorations.”

You tilted your head at him. “You mean someone boring?”

He gave a breathy laugh. “Someone who won’t get you judged by, like, the entire social hierarchy of Hawkins High.”

You shrugged. “I already got ditched by my date. What’s the worst they can do? Gasp?”

Eddie smiled, but his eyes drifted back toward the glowing gym windows. “Still… I’m not exactly prom royalty.”

“Well, neither am I,” you said. “So maybe that’s the point.”

He didn’t answer. Just rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking unsure of himself for the first time that night.

You tilted your head again, studying him. “You know,” you said slowly, “you could go dance too.”

Eddie barked a short laugh. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He held up his hands, surrender-style. “I can’t dance. I mean it. Like, at all. I’ve got rhythm when I’m playing guitar, but put me on a dance floor and I look like I’m dodging bees.”

You stared at him for a moment. Then something wild and impulsive bubbled up inside you.

You stepped forward, just close enough to be a little dangerous.

“Okay,” you said, lifting an eyebrow. “So don’t go on the dance floor.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Stay right here. Dance with me.”

Eddie straightened slightly, like he wasn’t sure he heard you right. “Are you… serious?”

You nodded, smiling now. “I’ll guide you. You don’t have to know how. Just follow me.”

He hesitated. And for a second, you thought he’d say no. But then, slowly, like he was afraid the moment might break if he moved too fast, he took your hand.

His fingers were warm. Calloused. A little shaky.

You placed his other hand at your waist, your free hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

The music swelled behind you, soft and sweet and full of yearning.

“…and I want you to show me…”

You started to sway, just a little. Nothing fancy. Just moving to the rhythm, simple and easy.

“Okay,” you said, voice low. “Just match me. That’s it.”

Eddie watched your feet like they held all the answers in the universe, but he followed. Awkwardly at first. Then with a little more confidence. Then a little more.

He looked up at you, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re really doing this.”

“So are you.”

And under the stars, with music bleeding out from a world that didn’t quite fit either of you, Eddie Munson danced.

With you.

You didn’t let go.

And for the life of him, Eddie couldn’t understand why.

Your dress swaying slightly in the night breeze, and you were holding his hand. Guiding him like this was just some normal thing people did — like you weren’t the kind of girl who was supposed to laugh behind your locker with friends in matching dresses. Like you weren’t way too pretty, too bright, too out-of-his-league to be caught slow dancing with the town freak behind a gym full of people who’d never get it.

But there you were. Smiling at him like he wasn’t a joke. Like he wasn’t just a rumor in black denim.

And all Eddie could do was follow your lead.

You moved gently, no pressure. Just a simple sway. His hand was on your waist, and he could feel your heartbeat through the fabric, could feel the way your fingers gripped his just enough to ground him. Like you knew he was seconds away from spinning off the planet.

How was this real?

For once, Eddie Munson wasn’t putting on a show or throwing up middle fingers at the world. He wasn’t posturing or mocking or performing.

He was just here.

Dancing with you under the stars, to a song he didn’t even like, and somehow? It felt like the most honest thing he’d ever done.

The ride home was quiet, but not the awkward kind. The good kind. The kind that settled between the two of you like a blanket, warm and easy.

Eddie’s van rumbled softly down the back roads, headlights cutting through the dark. Your heels were in your lap, your feet bare and curled up on the seat, glitter still dusting your legs. The leftover makeup smudged slightly beneath your eyes, but you didn’t care. Neither did he.

He kept glancing at you when he thought you weren’t looking. You noticed, but you didn’t say anything.

The radio played something soft—some late-night ballad that felt a little too on the nose—but neither of you reached out to change the station. It kind of fit.

When he finally pulled up in front of your house, the engine idled low, casting the porch in pale yellow light. You didn’t move at first. Neither did he.

You turned to him, your voice softer than it had been all night. “Thanks for the ride.”

He looked at you, really looked at you, and gave a small, genuine nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

You opened the door, about to step out, then hesitated.

“And… thanks for earlier,” you added, eyes meeting his. “I actually had fun tonight.”

His brows lifted, surprised. “Yeah?”

You smiled. “Yeah. Like… more than I’ve had in a while.”

Eddie’s fingers drummed once on the steering wheel. “That’s kinda sad,” he teased. “But I’ll take it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile didn’t fade.

He watched you for a second longer, eyes darker in the dim light. “You’re not what I expected,” he said, quietly.

You tilted your head. “Good unexpected?”

He shrugged, but there was something softer in the way he looked at you now. “Yeah. Definitely.”

You nodded slowly, then stepped down from the van. The door thunked shut behind you, but you lingered at the curb, turning back one last time.

“See you Monday?”

He grinned. “I’ll be the one getting detention.”

You laughed, backing toward your porch.

And he stayed there, parked under the streetlight, watching you go—wondering what the hell just happened, and why he kind of, maybe, really wanted it to happen again.

Monday’s cafeteria buzzed with leftover prom talk—who wore what, who threw up in the parking lot, and who was already regretting their choice of date. You sat with your usual group, a tray of barely-touched food in front of you, picking at a soggy fry as your friends swapped stories.

“I swear, if I hear more stories of Lisa and Charlie slow dancing, I’ll puke,” one of them groaned.

“I heard Jeff cried during I Wanna Know What Love Is,” another snorted.

You chuckled under your breath, but you were only half-listening. Your thoughts were still stuck somewhere in the quiet part of Friday night—lit by stars, wrapped in soft music and Eddie Munson’s uncertain hands.

“Okay,” said Courtney, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin, “tell us. What happened with you? You disappeared after ten.”

Your stomach did a small flip. “I, uh… went outside for some air.”

“That long?” someone chimed in. “Didn’t your date ditch you?”

You shrugged. “Yeah. But it was mutual, kinda. No chemistry.”

Courtney raised an eyebrow. “So what, you just wandered off?”

You hesitated, then decided to own it.

“I ran into Eddie Munson. We talked for a while.”

The table quieted. You didn’t miss the way someone blinked. Or the small, uncomfortable scoff.

“Wait—Eddie Munson?” said one of the girls, drawing out his name like it tasted wrong. “As in… Hellfire Club, Eddie?”

You looked up, steady. “Yeah.”

“Oh my god,” another said under her breath. “Isn’t he like… failing half his classes?”

“I heard he might repeat senior year again,” someone else added. “That’s like—what, his third time?”

You set down your fry and leaned back a little. “So what?”

That shut them up for a beat.

You looked around the table. “He was nice. We talked. We danced. It was actually… fun.”

Courtney blinked at you, like she couldn’t quite process it. “You danced with Eddie Munson?”

You smiled. “Yeah. He’s different than people think.”

They exchanged a few glances, probably trying to figure out if you were serious, but you didn’t give them room to argue. You just went back to your tray, casual but firm.

You didn’t owe them anything else.

And when they finally moved on to a different story, you let your mind drift again—back to Eddie’s hands, awkward and warm in yours, and the way he’d smiled like no one had ever looked at him the way you had.

The final bell rang and the halls of Hawkins High exploded with noise—slamming lockers, shouted goodbyes, the usual stampede toward the exit. You were pulling out your books, ready to head home, when a familiar mop of messy curls came into view.

Eddie.

He almost walked past, arms full of binders and that damn lunchbox of his, but then he spotted you. His grin bloomed instantly.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite prom partner,” he said, walking backward in front of you with dramatic flair.

You snorted. “I’m your only prom partner.”

“Details,” he waved off, turning to walk beside you. “Still the best.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile too wide, but it was hard. He kept cracking jokes—half of them dumb, some surprisingly clever, all of them weirdly charming. By the time you reached the front doors, you were laughing hard enough to forget about the weight of your backpack or the way people stared.

Outside, the sun was still high, casting golden light over the parking lot. You lingered near the bike racks, and Eddie rocked back on his heels, suddenly looking like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how.

He scratched the back of his neck. “So, uh…”

You raised an eyebrow.

“You doing anything right now?”

You blinked. “Not really. Why?”

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “Wanna get milkshakes or something?”

You tilted your head, amused. “Are you asking me out?”

“What? No!” he said quickly, eyes wide. “I mean—not that you’re not—ugh.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “Not like a date date, just, y’know. A post-school, ice-cream-adjacent hangout. Very casual. Extremely non-threatening.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “You’re doing a terrible job of making it sound casual.”

He groaned. “God, I know.”

You paused for a second. Then smiled.

“Yeah. Let’s get milkshakes.”

Eddie blinked. “Wait—really?”

“Really,” you said, starting to walk again, this time toward his van. You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Do I get to pick the music in your van?”

He placed a hand over his heart, mock wounded. “Absolutely not. But you can control the windows.”

Lunchtime in the cafeteria. Same old gray plastic trays, same mystery meat, same half-hearted arguments about campaign rules. Eddie was halfway through explaining, for the third time, why rolling a nat 1 on perception doesn’t mean you automatically get eaten by a mimic, when something—or rather, someone—stepped into his line of vision.

You.

He blinked up at you, startled. You were holding something. A piece of paper, no—thicker than that. Watercolor paper.

You thrust it out toward him before he could even say hi.

“I, um… I made this.”

Eddie looked down.

It was a watercolor painting. Bold, messy brush strokes in warm and murky tones. And there, standing like some strange cosmic king, was Major Grubert from The Airtight Garage. Rendered with this dreamy, layered energy—loose and vivid, with little gold details that shimmered when they caught the light.

“You painted this?” he asked, dumbfounded.

You nodded quickly, already looking like you regretted everything. “I don’t know. It’s dumb. I just— You said you liked the comic, and I was painting for art club, and I thought maybe you’d—”

He stared at you.

You stared at the floor.

“Anyway,” you rushed, already backing up. “You don’t have to keep it or anything. I just—yeah, okay, bye.”

And then you turned on your heel and disappeared between the tables, like a mirage, gone as fast as you came.

For a second, Eddie didn’t move. His tray sat forgotten, and the painting was still in his hands.

“What the hell was that?” said Gareth.

Jeff leaned over, squinting. “Is that… art?”

“Holy crap,” said one of the freshmen, eyes wide. “Did she just give you that? Like, a gift?”

“I think she did,” Eddie murmured.

He was still staring at it. Still stunned.

Because it wasn’t just the painting—though that alone was cool as hell—it was the fact that you made it for him. That you remembered that offhand comment about The Airtight Garage from days ago. That you painted this weird little sci-fi character, and thought of him while doing it.

It was… a lot.

Eddie cleared his throat, trying to shake the dazed look off his face. “Shut up,” he mumbled, carefully sliding the painting into his binder like it was made of glass. “None of you get it. It’s called being interesting, you cretins.”

They didn’t stop staring.

Gareth leaned over the table. “Dude. Seriously. What was that?”

Doug raised an eyebrow. “Did you hex her or something?”

“Shut up,” Eddie muttered, still guarding the painting like it was top-secret government property. He shoved it deeper into his binder, then clapped it shut with a loud snap.

“You’ve been weird all week,” Jeff pointed out.

“Yeah, man,” Gareth said, gesturing wildly. “You’ve been, like… smiley. It’s freaky.”

Eddie sighed like a man defeated, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Fine,” he mumbled, keeping his voice low. “If I tell you, will you shut up and let me eat my damn lunch?”

They all nodded in rapid, eager unison.

Eddie leaned forward slightly. “We danced at prom.”

The table went silent.

“What?” Gareth blinked. “Who did?”

“Me and her,” Eddie said, voice a little more defensive now. “It just kind of… happened. She came outside. We talked. She offered. I didn’t step on her feet. Miracle of the decade.”

“She asked you to dance?” Jeff repeated, stunned.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Yes, Jeff. It’s not that hard to believe.”

“It’s just—she’s, like… art club. Social. Normal,” said Doug.

“And I’m a freak,” Eddie finished, not angrily—just matter-of-fact. “Yeah, yeah. I know. That’s the whole thing, right?”

They all exchanged awkward glances.

Eddie softened a little. “We’ve just been talking since then. That’s all. She’s cool. Funny. Into sci-fi stuff. And apparently, she paints really badass cosmic generals in her spare time.”

The group went quiet again, but this time with a slightly different energy.

Jeff nodded slowly. “Huh.”

“Damn,” Gareth muttered. “Did not see that coming.”

Eddie shrugged, leaning back in his seat and finally stabbing at his lunch. “Neither did I.”

But under the table, his fingers tapped quietly on his knee—restless in that weird, hopeful way.

Because yeah… he didn’t see it coming.

Your room looked like a clothing explosion.

Jeans on the bed. A skirt on the floor. Three different tops draped over your chair. You stared into the mirror, adjusting the neckline of your favorite shirt for what had to be the fourth time, then gave up and let out a groan.

It wasn’t a date.

Not officially.

But still.

Eddie had asked you yesterday—Eddie Munson, king of chains, dice, and anti-establishment rants—if you wanted to go to the new Starcourt Mall. He’d said it kind of awkwardly, like the words felt weird in his mouth. Then he’d doubled down with, “I mean, I hate malls, they’re corporate brain rot, but if you’re there too, I guess I won’t spontaneously combust.”

Which, translated from Eddie-speak, meant: I want to spend time with you, and I’m doing something completely out of character because it might make you smile.

So yeah. Maybe it was a date.

You adjusted your hair again, spritzed the tiniest bit of perfume, and gave yourself one last once-over. Just polished enough to show you cared—but not so much it looked like you were trying. Hopefully.

A soft knock on your door pulled you back to Earth.

Your mom peeked in, eyes twinkling.

“Sweetie?”

“Yeah?”

She pushed the door open with a hand on her hip and an expression halfway between curiosity and polite judgment. “There’s a young man waiting downstairs for you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “He’s early?”

She shrugged. “Five minutes. Maybe he was excited.”

You tried to hide your smile as you turned back to the mirror, smoothing down the hem of your nicest top. Not fancy fancy — just enough to look like you put in effort. It wasn’t every day Eddie Munson asked someone to hang out somewhere as un-Eddie as the Starcourt Mall.

You were flattered. And a little impressed. He was trying.

Your mom lingered by the doorway, arms crossed loosely now.

“You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone.”

You paused, lip gloss wand hovering in the air. “I’m not. We’re just… hanging out.”

She arched a brow. “Uh-huh.”

You rolled your eyes, but smiled. “I mean it.”

“Well,” she said, pushing off the doorframe. “He’s… not what I expected.”

You turned slowly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Leather jacket. Messy hair. Rings on every finger. He’s got a… rough-around-the-edges thing.” She shrugged. “I didn’t peg him as your type.”

You hesitated. “Is that a problem?”

She raised her hands. “Not for me. Just... interesting choice.”

Then, softening, she added, “But he stood up when I walked in. Called me ma’am. And he didn’t look at the family photos weird, so… he’s alright in my book.”

You blinked. “Wow. High praise.”

“I’m just saying,” she smiled. “You could’ve warned me you brought home a James Dean type.”

You rolled your eyes again, but this time you were grinning. “He’s not like that.”

“If you say so.”

With that, she turned to leave, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t leave him waiting too long—he keeps checking his watch.”

Your heart fluttered.

You gave yourself one last look in the mirror—quick swipe of gloss, tuck of hair behind your ear—and grabbed your bag.

You didn’t expect Eddie Munson to know his way around a shopping mall.

And to be fair… he didn’t.

From the moment you stepped into Starcourt’s fluorescent glow, he looked like a vampire in daylight—eyes squinting, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, muttering about “late-stage capitalism” like the air itself offended him.

“This place smells like fabric softener and broken dreams,” he declared as you passed an Orange Julius stand.

You grinned. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute, or I’d have already burst into flames.”

But despite all his grumbling, he stuck close. Arm brushing yours. Slowing down when you lingered in shop windows. Letting you tug him toward places you knew he’d secretly like—like the comic shop tucked near the food court, where he perked up at the sight of a rare Swamp Thing issue and ended up ranting, passionately, about horror art for ten straight minutes.

After that, it all got easier.

He let you drag him through a novelty store, where he made you try on glittery heart-shaped sunglasses and nearly bought a lava lamp “just because.” At Sam Goody, you flipped through cassette tapes while he made dramatic gagging noises at pop albums and then—when he thought you weren’t looking—quietly bought a Bowie tape because you mentioned liking one song.

Somewhere between Cinnabon and Spencer’s, your arms brushed again.

And this time, he didn’t move away.

Instead, he offered his elbow in that silly, exaggerated way, like some knight escorting royalty through battle. You rolled your eyes but linked arms anyway.

You didn’t unlink for a while.

When you passed the photobooth, it was your idea.

“C’mon,” you said, already tugging at his sleeve. “We have to. It’s practically a law.”

“I hate pictures,” he protested.

“Too bad.”

He grumbled, but followed.

The booth curtain smelled like static and old gum, and the light inside was way too bright. But Eddie slid in beside you anyway, pressing his knee against yours in the cramped space.

The timer beeped.

First photo, a blur of you both, too late to pose.

Second photo, you were smiling, he was sticking his tongue out.

Third, he turned his head and said something just as the flash went off, so his mouth was frozen mid-word and you were laughing.

Fourth, he looked at you. Really looked. And you looked back, cheeks warm. And for that one second, neither of you made a face.

That last one made your stomach flutter.

The strip slid out a few seconds later, still warm from the machine. You both leaned over it, smiling like idiots.

“I’m keeping this one,” you said, pointing to the last shot.

“No way. That’s the best one.” He mock-whined. “It’s mine now.”

“Split it,” you said, already reaching for it. “Even trade.”

So you carefully tore it down the middle, each of you keeping two little squares. You tucked yours into your wallet. He stuffed his into the pocket of his jacket like it was something worth keeping safe.

After that, you shared a cherry slushie and browsed the record store. You ended up on one of the benches near the fountain, your shoulders bumping gently as you sat.

Eddie kicked at the tile with the toe of his boot. “Okay, confession,” he said, not looking at you. “This was kinda fun.”

You smiled. “Even though it’s a capitalist wasteland?”

He grinned. “Especially because of that. I got to rant and be dramatic and walk around with a pretty girl on my arm. All the core Eddie Munson needs.”

You laughed and leaned your head against his shoulder.

And you didn’t say it out loud, but in your pocket, the photo strip pressed between your wallet like proof:

Something was happening between you.

And it felt really, really good.

The smell of acrylic paint alingered in the air, windows cracked just enough to let in the late afternoon breeze. You sat cross-legged on a stool, paintbrush in hand, blotting a soft gradient of pink across the corner of your sketchbook while your friends chatted around you.

“So then Brad says he didn’t cheat, he just ‘accidentally’ kissed her,” Courtney said, rolling her eyes as she rinsed a brush in a cloudy jar of water. “Like that’s a thing.”

“Classic,” Angela muttered. “Men are such a disease.”

You hummed in vague agreement, still focused on blending your colors. It wasn’t until Courtney nudged your foot under the table that you looked up.

“Okay, but you had that smug little look on your face when you walked in,” she said. “So. Tells us. What did you do this weekend?”

You paused.

Then smiled. Just a little. “I went to the mall.”

“Ugh, I live there,” Angela said. “With who?”

“…Eddie.”

Courtney blinked. “Eddie Munson?”

Angela dropped her pencil. “Seriously?”

You shifted in your seat, brushing a spot of paint from your thumb. “Yeah.”

They exchanged a glance, the kind that was just a little too loaded. “Are you—like—serious with him?” Courtney asked, a bit cautiously.

You looked down at your sketchbook.

The memory hit you fast and warm—Eddie, leaning back on a food court bench, drumming his fingers against his knee and grinning every time your hand brushed his. The way his face softened when he looked at you, like he couldn’t believe you were real. The photobooth picture in your wallet, folded so carefully it was starting to wear at the edges.

You swallowed, eyes flicking back up.

“I don’t know yet,” you said honestly. “But… maybe.”

Courtney raised a brow. “I mean, he’s kind of—”

“Different,” Angela finished for her. “Like, not who we thought you’d be into.”

You let out a breath, not defensive—just tired of that tone.

“He’s actually really sweet,” you said. “He listens when I talk. He cares about stuff. He remembered I liked a random song and went back for the tape the next day. He’s not what you think he is.”

The girls went quiet for a second.

Then Courtney shrugged. “Okay. I mean, if you like him.”

“I do,” you said quietly, adding a final brushstroke to your page. “More than I thought I would.”

Angela cracked a smile. “Well… if he breaks your heart, we’re egging his van.”

You laughed. “Deal.”

The library was louder than usual—not in noise, but in energy. Stress hung thick in the air, like a storm cloud hovering over every student hunched at their tables. Pages flipped, pencils scratched, the occasional frustrated sigh echoed off the stone walls. It was exam season.

Eddie Munson was in hell.

His science textbook lay open in front of him, untouched for the last ten minutes. His notebook was empty, save for a rough sketch of a dragon flipping off a periodic table. He tapped his pencil against his lip, eyes unfocused, legs jittering under the table.

This wasn’t his place. He hated the cold lighting, the itchy silence, the way it all felt like it was judging him for every gap in his knowledge.

And then you walked in.

Like sunlight in a storm.

You made your way across the room, dodging backpacks and tangled limbs, carrying your bag against your hip and a calm expression that made it look like you weren’t drowning in deadlines and formulas. You spotted him, gave a little wave, and sat down across from him.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all day. “Hey.”

You glanced at the disaster zone of his table—crumpled notes, half-drawn doodles, an empty soda cup with a chewed straw—and smiled.

“Rough day?”

Eddie dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m about five minutes away from faking my own death and starting a new life as a gas station poet in Ohio.”

You laughed, but it softened quickly as you reached into your bag and pulled something out: a clean, colorful folder. It had your name written neatly on the corner, and sticky notes poking from the sides like a rainbow spine.

You slid it across the table toward him. “These are my notes. For science. And history. And… okay, maybe I got carried away.”

He blinked. “You—”

“They’re color-coded. Definitions are in blue. Equations are pink. Anything our teachers stressed in class is highlighted. I even made flashcards, they’re in the back pocket.”

Eddie just stared at it.

Not because he didn’t want it. But because something about it felt… personal. Intimate.

No one had ever done something like this for him before.

You fiddled with the edge of your sleeve. “I don’t know, maybe it’s dumb. But they helped me. I figured maybe they’d help you too.”

He reached out slowly, fingers brushing the cover. Then, reverently, he opened it.

It was like walking into your mind. Your handwriting curled neatly over page after page. You’d drawn little diagrams. Circled key dates. There was even a little cartoon mitochondrion wearing sunglasses on one page.

He swallowed.

“This is…” he said quietly, still flipping pages. “This is incredible.”

You shrugged, trying not to blush. “Just thought you could use a little help.”

Eddie didn’t respond right away. He just sat there, running his thumb along the edge of one of the pages like it might disappear if he let go.

Then he looked up at you. Not with the usual teasing smile or lazy smirk.

He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

“I swear to god,” he said, voice low and serious, “if you keep being this perfect, I’m gonna have to make you mine.”

Your heart stuttered.

You blinked, stunned—but not in a bad way. Just… surprised by the weight of those words, how much they didn’t sound like a joke.

You recovered with a half-smile. “You should probably focus on passing chemistry first.”

“Baby, I’m failing chemistry because you walk into the room and all the atoms in my brain rearrange.”

You laughed, covering your face for a second. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It’s emotional science,” he insisted. “Way more complicated.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth wouldn’t leave your cheeks.

He closed it gently, like he was sealing up treasure.

“Thank you,” he said, and he meant it.

“Of course,” you replied, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve been helping me too. Just in a different way.”

Eddie tilted his head. “Oh yeah? How?”

You looked at him, and this time, didn’t hesitate. “You make me feel like I don’t have to hide the weird parts of myself.”

Eddie’s eyes softened.

“I’d riot if you did.”

You were digging through your locker for your pencil pouch when you heard it—footsteps, pounding fast down the hallway, like someone was being chased. You didn’t even look up until a voice you knew all too well shouted your name like it was a fire alarm.

“Hey!”

You turned just in time to see Eddie Munson nearly skid on the polished floor as he sprinted toward you, hair wild, jacket flapping behind him like a cape.

He nearly collided with the locker beside yours, bracing himself with one hand, breath coming in quick bursts.

“Eddie—what—?”

“I passed,” he said, eyes bright and disbelieving. “I passed.”

It took you a second to register what he meant. “Wait—like... everything?”

He nodded, grinning so hard his face looked like it might split open. “Everything. Math, English, science—Mrs. Miller gave me a D-minus, but that’s still a D! That’s still passing!”

You dropped your books onto the floor without even caring.

“Eddie, that’s amazing!”

And before you knew what you were doing, you threw your arms around him.

He laughed into your shoulder, wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you clean off the floor for a second, spinning once with the wildness of it all.

“I had to tell you first,” he said, voice muffled in your hair. “I ran here.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. His cheeks were flushed, lips parted, eyes shining with something that looked way more intense than just pride.

He looked at you like you were the sun after months of rain.

“Seriously, I never would’ve made it without you,” he said. “Those notes? Those flash cards? The dumb acronyms you made up so I could remember physics formulas—”

“They weren’t dumb,” you said, laughing.

“They were adorable,” he corrected, like it was obvious. “And apparently effective.”

His hands were still on your waist. Yours were curled into his jacket without you noticing. Your faces were close—closer than usual. And you saw it flicker across his face—something unspoken, something about to break through.

And then it did.

He kissed you.

No hesitation, no stammering this time. Just a sharp inhale, and then his lips were on yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t polished or practiced—it was a kiss powered by sheer joy, by the rush of success and the comfort of you, by everything he’d been holding back. His hands slid from your waist up to your jaw, cradling your face like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And the thing was—you didn’t stop him.

You didn’t pull away.

You kissed him back, arms looping around his shoulders, grounding him, steadying him in the middle of this ridiculous, beautiful rush.

When he finally pulled away, your faces still close, you could feel his breath fanning your lips, still uneven.

You stared at him, slightly dazed, your pulse thundering in your ears.

“…You didn’t plan that, did you?” you asked, voice half-breathless, half-amused.

Eddie gave the softest little laugh, head leaning against yours for a second as he caught his breath.

“Not even a little,” he said. “I think I blacked out after I said ‘I passed.’”

You shook your head, cheeks burning in the best way.

He grinned, wild and flushed and completely Eddie. “You’re gonna be so sick of me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

And you didn’t even have to think about it.

Because if this—this chaotic, sweet, completely unfiltered boy—was the reward at the end of every academic achievement?

You’d tutor him forever.

“Eddie’s here,” your mom called from the hallway, her voice light and knowing.

You looked up from the mirror, heart skipping just a little.

Your dad’s voice followed a beat later from the living room. “Tell him to keep it under 60 this time.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately as you grabbed your bag. “He only sped once, and that was because we were late for grad practice.”

“He was going eighty,” your dad replied.

“It was downhill,” you said, already headed for the door.

You passed your mom in the hall, and she gave you a soft smile. “He brought flowers. Again.”

You couldn’t help the way your smile grew.

When you stepped outside, the warm air wrapped around you like a blanket. The sun was still high, the cicadas buzzing lazily in the trees, and there he was—leaning against his van like he belonged there, a bouquet of mismatched wildflowers in one hand, the other shoved into the pocket of his worn jeans.

He looked up the second he heard the screen door creak.

And you swear, even now, after everything, he still looked at you like it was the first time.

“There she is,” he said, grinning wide.

You walked up to him, arms crossing just to keep yourself from doing something embarrassing, like swooning. “What’s the occasion?”

Eddie held out the flowers. “Just celebrating the fact that I somehow tricked the universe into giving me a girlfriend this amazing.”

You rolled your eyes, taking them anyway. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leaned closer, voice low and smug. “And yet… here you are.”

You bumped his shoulder with yours, but your smile gave you away.

He opened the passenger door for you with an exaggerated bow. “M’lady.”

“Such a gentleman,” you muttered, climbing in.

As he circled the van to the driver’s side, your dad stepped out onto the porch with a glass of coffee and a suspicious glare.

Eddie gave a little wave and a crooked smile. “Sir. Swear I’ll have her back by ten. Eleven max. No stunt driving this time.”

Your dad just raised an eyebrow.

Eddie slid into the driver’s seat, shutting the door and pulling on his seatbelt. “He loves me.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” you said as he started the engine.

“So,” he said, flicking the stereo on low, “this theater just started showing Back to the Future. Two days early, somehow. I figured a little time travel with you sounded better than melting in my room watching The Evil Dead for the twelfth time.”

You laughed and gave him a look. “You just want to see the DeLorean.”

“…Okay, also that.”

He reached over and laced your fingers with his, resting your joined hands on the bench seat between you.

The van rumbled down the sunlit road, windows cracked open, the summer air carrying in the scent of grass and gasoline. Your hair danced in the breeze. Eddie hummed along to whatever cassette was playing—a little out of tune, but you didn’t mind.

Not when his thumb kept tracing slow circles over the back of your hand.

Not when the entire summer felt like it was unfolding in front of you like something sacred.

And as he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, grinning like you were the best part of the world—

You thought maybe you were right where you were supposed to be.

The mall was alive with its usual symphony—chatter, synth-pop from overhead speakers, the distant ding of arcade machines, and the occasional whir of the fountain in the food court. You and Eddie split off the moment you stepped into the theater’s cool, air-conditioned lobby.

“I’m getting the tickets,” he said, already headed toward the box office.

“And I’m getting snacks,” you said before he could argue, already turning for the concession stand. “Don’t fight me on this, Munson.”

He shot you a mock glare over his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.”

When you met back up, he handed you a single stub—he’d already torn them and given the other to the usher. You handed him a large bucket of popcorn and a cherry Icee with two straws.

Eddie blinked. “You got two straws in my Coke?”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s our Coke now.”

His heart may have done a ridiculous little flip at that, but he just grinned and led the way inside.

The theater was dark and cool, the trailers already rolling as you found seats near the middle—close enough to feel immersed but far enough that you weren’t cranking your neck. Eddie set the popcorn between you, but you curled into his side instead, slipping your hand into the crook of his arm and resting your head gently on his shoulder.

He stilled for half a second, surprised by the contact—he never quite got used to the way you just… leaned into him like that. Like it was easy. Like it was safe.

“You comfortable?” he whispered, glancing down.

You nodded without looking up, your voice soft. “Perfect.”

When the movie began, the glow of the screen lit your faces in blues and oranges and whites. You quietly giggled at the opening scene, nudging Eddie every time something ridiculous happened—he whispered a sarcastic comment back each time, just enough to make you cover your mouth to stifle laughter.

At one point, he reached into the popcorn bucket and accidentally brushed your hand. You didn’t move away. Neither did he.

When Marty McFly first hit 1955, you leaned closer, eyes wide with wonder. Eddie didn’t say anything—just smiled a little to himself, letting you rest there, your head warm on his shoulder, your heartbeat syncing quietly with the slow, steady thrum of his.

And in the dark, surrounded by strangers and movie magic, Eddie Munson let himself imagine—just for a moment—what it might be like to have this forever.

The van rolled to a quiet stop in front of your house, headlights casting soft beams across the porch. The movie was long over and the cassette in the stereo had looped twice already.

Neither of you moved.

You glanced at Eddie with a small smile, fingers nervously picking at the edge of your sleeve. “Thanks for tonight. I had fun.”

He turned toward you, his hand resting on the steering wheel. “Yeah? Me too. That was…” He looked at you like he was still a little surprised this was real. “That was a good night.”

You both laughed at how underwhelming that sounded.

“I mean—great night,” he amended, mock-dramatic. “One for the ages.”

You shook your head, biting your lip to hide your smile. “Come on, rockstar. Walk me to the door?”

Eddie hopped out first and came around the van, opening your door like he always did—even when you rolled your eyes at him for it. The night air was warm but quieter now, the street still and bathed in porchlight glow. You walked side by side up the driveway, close enough that your arms brushed.

At the bottom step, you turned to face him.

Eddie scratched the back of his neck, shifting on his feet like he wanted to say something more but couldn’t find the words. “I, uh… hope this wasn’t too boring. You know the mall and a movie isn’t exactly my usual scene.”

You shook your head. “I loved it. And… I like seeing different sides of you.”

That got a smile out of him. A real one. Small, warm, a little shy.

You stood there for another beat, the silence stretching out but never uncomfortable. Just full—like both of you were hoping time would slow down.

“Well…” you started, tilting your head toward the door.

“Yeah,” he said. “Guess this is—”

You kissed him.

Soft and certain. You leaned in first, lips brushing his with the kind of ease that only came with practice and care. He melted into it instantly, one hand slipping to your waist, the other steadying him against the railing like the whole world had narrowed down to just this.

When you finally pulled away, your noses were still almost touching.

“Goodnight, Eddie,” you whispered.

He blinked, dazed. “Goodnight.”

You stepped inside with a smile still tugging at your lips, and the second you closed the door behind you—

“That was quite the kiss.”

You jumped. Your mom was standing in the kitchen, sipping tea with your dad, both of them clearly having witnessed the entire thing from the window.

“Did he trip over the step again?” your dad asked casually. “He always does that when he’s nervous.”

You groaned. “You two seriously have nothing better to do?”

Your mom just smirked, eyes twinkling. “We like seeing you happy.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning, but you couldn’t stop the grin from breaking through.

Because yeah… you were happy.

Dating Eddie Munson is nothing like you expected—and everything you didn’t know you needed.

It’s loud music in his van, the kind that rattles the floorboards and makes you laugh when he drums on the steering wheel like the world’s watching. It’s his leather jacket slung over your shoulders when the air turns cold, his rings cool against your skin when he reaches for your hand. It’s messy hair, wild ideas, and the way he always walks on the outside of the sidewalk, like it means something.

It’s learning to love the chaos, and realizing that under all that noise and bravado, Eddie’s just… gentle. Thoughtful. Unbelievably loyal.

Dating Eddie is getting a cassette made just for you—your name scribbled on the label, each song chosen because it reminds him of you. It’s him sitting beside you while you paint, trying not to move too much even though he’s definitely itching to fidget. It’s him reading the comics you lend him, even the weird ones, just so he can talk to you about them later.

It’s milkshakes and movie nights and the kind of laughter that makes your chest hurt. It’s long drives with no destination, arms dangling out the window, his voice carrying through the breeze as he sings along—terribly—to some over-the-top power ballad.

It feels like a plot twist Eddie Munson never saw coming.

He thought he knew how his story would go—misunderstood metalhead, high school dropout, maybe famous one day if he got lucky. But then you happened. And now every chapter feels rewritten.

It’s surreal, honestly.

You—who used to feel so out of reach—actually laugh at his stupid impressions and roll your eyes in that way that kills him, but never walk away. You sit next to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You hold his hand like you mean it. That alone blows his mind.

It’s the way you look at him like he's not some town freak. Like he’s not a rumor or a punchline or a lost cause.

Like he’s enough.

He'll go to every goddamn mall just to see you smile under neon lights, taking photos in a booth he secretly keeps in his wallet, and pretending not to blush when your head rests on his shoulder during a movie.

Dating you, to Eddie, feels like finding out the world isn’t as cruel as he thought it was.

It’s not always easy. He still worries he’s not good enough for you, that you’ll wake up one day and see what everyone else says they see. But you never flinch. You just keep showing up. Keep choosing him.

And he’d burn down the whole world just to deserve you a little more.

Yeah. Dating you?

It’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to him.

#fic recs #eddie munson x reader #ABSOLUTE PERFECTION

2K notes · View notes

clairecrive · 1 month ago

Note

i’m absolutely loving this!!!!

The Sirius soulmate au ATE SO HARD!!!! I’m foaming at the mouth for more PLEASE

── .✦ 𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬. (𝐬.𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤)

sirius black wanted nothing more in life than to find his soulmate, to give himself the life his parents never had. but of course it’s not that easy.

sirius black x fem!soulmate!reader 7.3k flangst masterlist.

CW | mentions of mistreatment in the black family home, soulmates are complicated, background almost jily, a lot of this is from sirius’ perspective

PART ONE. PART TWO.

AN | sorry this took so long rip i got super distracted reading and annotating sunrise on the reaping

Sirius arrived at the Potter household on a grey Tuesday in late July. He didn’t knock. He didn’t ring the bell. He didn’t say a word.

He simply stood there on the doorstep, trunk in hand, shoulders squared and face set like granite, the sullen drizzle matting his hair to his neck. He looked taller than he had in June, sharper somehow, like someone had chiselled away the softness of boyhood and left something older, angrier beneath.

Fleamont Potter opened the door first, and Sirius didn’t even flinch when the man pulled him into a hug.

“Come in, son,” Fleamont said, already waving his wand to dry Sirius off. “You’re home now,”

It wasn’t until Euphemia emerged from the sitting room with a gasp, nearly knocking a flower vase off the side table in her haste to reach him, that Sirius spoke at all.

“I—” His voice cracked. “I didn’t know where else to go,”

Euphemia simply wrapped her arms around him and whispered, “You don’t need to explain a thing, sweetheart,” She held him tightly, as though he might be whisked back to Grimmauld Place if she let go. “You’ll never go back there. We won’t allow it,”

He didn’t cry. Not then. Not even later when they brought out hot tea and warm blankets and his favourite treacle tart. He simply sat between them on the sofa, stiff and polite, nodding when prompted, making half-hearted comments about the weather or the Prophet. He looked like he was trying to fold himself into a box too small for him, like he didn’t quite know how to exist in a place built on kindness.

James came down the stairs ten minutes later. He froze at the bottom when he saw Sirius, eyes wide and bloodshot. His hair was a mess and he looked like he hadn’t slept properly in days.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

Finally, James padded across the room in socked feet and sank beside Sirius. Not touching, but close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.

“You didn’t write,” James said flatly.

“Didn’t feel like writing,” Sirius replied.

James didn’t push. He only nodded and stared at the fireplace. “Mum told me. About your mum,”

“Yeah. That was… festive,” A ghost of a smile flickered across Sirius’ lips. “Had the whole bloody lineage screaming at me on the way out,”

James let out a hollow snort. “Good riddance,”

They lapsed into silence again. Euphemia returned from the kitchen, gently placing a plate of toasties on the low table. She smoothed Sirius’ hair back from his face like she used to when they were first-years, when he’d come over for tea during the holidays and pretended he didn’t care that his own mother hadn’t sent a single letter.

“Right,” she said firmly. “You’re staying in the guest room. You can decorate however you like. I’ll owl Dumbledore about guardianship papers, but you won’t need to worry about that. We’re your family now,”

Sirius looked at her, eyes dark and unreadable, and said, “Thanks, Mrs Potter,”

She clicked her tongue. “It’s Effie, dear. You know that,”

He nodded. “Thanks, Effie,”

—

The days that followed were strange. Comforting in their routine, but heavy with something unspoken. Sirius adapted quickly—he always did. He helped Fleamont in the garden, trounced James at chess, read books far beyond his year level just to have something to do with his hands. But there was a tension beneath it all, a low hum of energy that had nothing to do with the trauma of leaving home.

The Potters were gentle with him. They didn’t ask about what had happened that final night at Grimmauld Place, though they must’ve known. Euphemia caught him staring out the kitchen window at odd hours, or walking barefoot down the stairs at midnight. Each time, she simply handed him a cup of tea and rubbed his back in slow, soothing circles.

But Sirius didn’t talk about his mother. He didn’t talk about the portraits that had called him a blood traitor, or the mark on his shoulder that had vanished the moment you’d barged past him in a rush to get to Lily.

Not to them anyway. Not even to James, not really. But he talked in the way people do when they’re thinking aloud.

“The thing is,” he said one evening, flopped out across the carpet in James’ room, “I didn’t expect her to want anything to do with me. Not after the shit I’ve pulled,”

James was curled up in his bed, chin on his knees, absently fiddling with a Chudley Cannons badge. “She didn’t even look at you,”

“I know,” Sirius replied. “Didn’t have to. soulmark vanished like that,” He snapped his fingers.

Silence.

“I think I said something to her,” James muttered after a while. “Something really idiotic. Can’t even remember what. Just remember her slapping me,”

Sirius turned his head. “You always say something stupid,”

James grimaced. “One second I was trying to get her attention, and the next—bam.” He touched the side of his face. “It was like lightning.”

Sirius sighed as he sat up. “That sucks for you, huh,”

James huffed. “Yours ran past you without even sparing a glance. That’s not exactly romantic either,”

“No,” Sirius agreed, voice soft. “But it’s fate,”

That made James roll his eyes. “You sound like Pete,”

“No,” Sirius said again, sharper this time. “Pete believes in fairytales. I believe in this,” He hiked up his sleeve over his shoulder. “This is the only thing I ever clung to when the rest of my life was a bloody nightmare,”

James said nothing.

Sirius stood suddenly, pacing. “You know what I’ve been doing since I got here?”

“Reading the Muggle newspapers?”

“Besides that,”

James shrugged.

“I’ve been making a list,” Sirius said. “Of all the ways I’ve screwed this up. All the reasons she might hate me. Everything I’d need to fix about myself,”

James stared. “That sounds… exhausting,”

“It is.” Sirius stopped pacing. “But I’m going to do it anyway. I’ve spent seventeen years being what my family made me—angry, arrogant, cruel. And now I’ve finally got the freedom to decide who I want to be,”

“Because of her?” James asked quietly.

Sirius met his gaze. “Because she’s the one who made me want to be better,”

James looked back down at the badge in his hands. “I don’t think Lily even wants to be in the same room as me,”

“Which is why,” Sirius said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, “you’re going to help me,”

James snorted. “Help you what? Become the perfect man?”

“Essentially,”

“I’m not playing Pygmalion with you, mate,”

“You don’t have to. Just… come along for the ride,”

James raised an eyebrow. “Why would I do that?”

“Because,” Sirius said simply, “you’re my best mate. And if anyone deserves a happy ending, it’s you,”

—

The plan didn’t arrive all at once. It came in scattered pieces—midnight conversations, awkward silences, and long days spent avoiding any mention of soulmates in front of the Potters. But Sirius was relentless. Once the idea had planted itself, he refused to let it die.

“We’re going to observe,” he said one day over breakfast.

James blinked. “Observe what?”

“You and Lily. Me and—her.”

“Her?” James echoed, amused.

Sirius shot him a look. “I’m not going to say her name, Prongs. Not until I’ve earned it.”

“Merlin, you’re dramatic,”

Sirius ignored that. “We’re going to take note of who they spend time with. What kind of people they gravitate toward. How they speak. What they laugh at,”

James stared at him. “You want us to become someone we’re not?”

“I want us to become someone better,” Sirius corrected. “The kind of people they might actually want to spend time with. The kind of soulmates they deserve.”

James hesitated. “What if it doesn’t work?”

“Then at least we’ll have tried. And maybe we’ll come out of it less— miserable,”

He didn’t say less like my parents, but James heard it all the same.

—

A week before they were due back at Hogwarts, James found Sirius sitting on the back step, scribbling in a notebook that looked suspiciously like one of Effie’s old garden journals.

“What’s this?” James asked, peering over his shoulder.

“Character profiles,” Sirius said. “You’d be surprised how much you can learn from just watching people,”

James sat beside him and sighed. “I still think this is mad,”

“Course it is,” Sirius said brightly. “But since when has that stopped us?”

James thought about Lily’s slap. About the flash of fury in her eyes and the way she’d turned her back like he was nothing. He thought about how it had hurt more than anything he could remember—because it wasn’t just rejection. It was rejection from someone the universe had promised would love him.

“All right,” he said, voice low. “I’ll help. But only because I’ve got nothing better to do,”

Sirius grinned, teeth flashing. “Knew I could count on you,”

James elbowed him. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Sirius laughed. “You won’t. Trust me. This year, we’re turning it all around,”

—

The Hogwarts Express smelled of pumpkin pasties and damp wool as always, and Sirius was already talking before the four boys had even sat down properly in their compartment. The train gave a gentle lurch beneath their feet, setting off from the platform, and Sirius seized the moment as if he’d been waiting all summer for it. Which, to be fair, he had.

“Right,” he began, flopping into the seat opposite James with all the grace of a collapsing wardrobe. “Here’s the deal: we have exactly ten months to reinvent ourselves,”

Remus gave him a sideways look over the rim of his book. “As what? Less of a twat?”

“Exactly,” Sirius said, missing the sarcasm entirely. “We’re launching a… rebranding,”

Peter looked up from unwrapping a chocolate frog. “Of what, exactly?”

“Ourselves,” James muttered, eyes on the window. “Apparently we’re becoming decent,”

“You say that like it’s a punishment,” Remus said mildly.

Sirius leaned forward, his tone suddenly serious. “It’s not a punishment. It’s a mission. Operation Redemption, if you like,”

“Operation Grovel,” James corrected.

“Operation ‘stop making complete fools of ourselves and maybe prove we’re worth something’,” Sirius amended. “Look. I know it sounds mad—”

“Because it is,” Remus offered.

“—but it’s the only thing I’ve had in my head since we left last term,” Sirius’s voice dropped, rough with conviction. “I can’t just sit around doing nothing. Not when I know what I’ve lost. And I’m not going to stand by while James loses it too.”

James made a noise halfway between a sigh and a scoff but didn’t argue.

Remus lowered his book. “So what are you asking?”

Sirius’s expression turned calculating. “We study them. You know… Lily, her friends, my—er… the others. Watch who they talk to. What they like. What they respond well to. We take notes, change our behaviour, and gradually become the kind of people they might actually choose to have in their lives.”

“Sounds manipulative,” Peter said around a mouthful of chocolate.

“It’s not about pretending to be someone we’re not,” Sirius countered. “It’s about becoming better versions of ourselves.”

Remus tilted his head. “And what if the better versions still aren’t good enough?”

Sirius looked straight at him. “Then at least we’ll know we tried. But we’re not going to just… sit in the corner like rejected puppies. Not when we could be doing something.”

James finally dragged his gaze away from the window. “Remus, you’ve got them both in three subjects this term. And Peter, you’re in that Advanced Herbology class with them, right?”

Peter nodded cautiously.

“Brilliant,” Sirius said, brightening. “You two are our intel team,”

“Oh good,” Remus muttered. “A year of espionage,”

James allowed himself a smile, the first real one in days. “At least it’ll be entertaining,”

Sirius clapped his hands together. “So it’s settled. We watch. We learn. We adapt,”

Peter hesitated. “What exactly are we looking for?”

“Character patterns,” Sirius said instantly. “Who they sit with. Who they laugh at. Who they respect. What annoys them. What they praise. Body language, tone, social dynamics—”

“Have you planned this?” Remus asked, sounding both impressed and deeply alarmed.

“Of course I have,” Sirius said. “I’ve had all bloody summer,”

—

By the time the train pulled into Hogsmeade, they already had their first rough plan drafted, scrawled across a spare bit of parchment Sirius had nicked from Euphemia’s writing desk.

They were to divide their observations into two categories: Lily-centric and You-centric. Between Remus and Peter, they'd have solid eyes on Lily. Sirius and James—more specifically Sirius—would take point on you.

By the second week of term, subtle changes began to take root.

It started with something small: Sirius holding open the door to the Charms corridor when he noticed you and Marlene walking behind him. He didn’t make a grand show of it. He simply held it open, gave a casual nod, and continued on his way.

You looked vaguely suspicious.

Next was James—who actually handed in a completed Potions essay on time and, to everyone's shock, didn’t argue with Slughorn about house points.

They paid attention, just like Sirius had promised. You spent an awful lot of time with Marlene and Dorcas between classes. And while you weren’t unfriendly, you were cautious. Selective. Reserved.

Sirius quickly picked up on your patterns: you liked flying but hated crowds. You hated when people raised their voices in arguments. You loved magical theory but loathed practical exams. You sat by the window in the Great Hall if you could, and you always picked the same tea at breakfast—black with a single sugar.

James, meanwhile, had noticed that Lily rarely entertained chaos anymore. She had time for kindness, humour, cleverness—but never cruelty. She stopped talking to people who hexed others for a laugh. She avoided boys who made scenes. She listened intently in class and held others to the same standard.

So the Marauders adapted.

No more public hexes. No more classroom disruptions. No more dramatic declarations of undying love shouted down the Transfiguration corridor.

James stopped leaving love notes on Lily’s books. Sirius stopped trying to impress people with loud jokes. Even Peter, though slightly confused by it all, made an effort not to mutter insults at Slytherins under his breath.

The girls noticed—of course they did—but no one said anything outright.

Marlene narrowed her eyes at Sirius during a late afternoon in the Quidditch locker room. “You’re being weird.”

“Am I?” he asked innocently.

“You haven’t pranked anyone in a month.”

“Personal growth.”

Dorcas snorted. “More like personal agenda.”

Sirius only smiled. “Can’t it be both?”

Meanwhile, Remus kept notes. Actual notes. Folded pieces of parchment tucked inside his Arithmancy textbooks, listing what Lily laughed at (witty observations, clever puns), what she appreciated (help with heavy books, patience in group work), and what irritated her (arrogance, lateness, laziness).

Peter was surprisingly observant, especially when it came to your reactions. He caught the fact that you liked people who were kind to house elves, who waited for others to speak before interrupting, who made space for quieter students in group projects.

“They like people who give a damn,” he said one evening in the common room.

Sirius nodded slowly. “Right. No more bloody showboating,”

“And no more hexing first-years for mispronouncing ‘Alohomora’,” Remus added.

James groaned. “We’ve become… sensible,”

“It’s horrifying,” Sirius agreed. “But I think we might actually be pulling it off,”

The professors certainly noticed. McGonagall, long accustomed to sighing at James and Sirius for disrupting her classes, looked almost suspicious when they began turning in homework on time and raising their hands with relevant questions.

“Is this a prank?” she asked during one class, peering over her glasses at Sirius.

“No, Professor,” Sirius said with the most innocent expression he could manage. “We’ve simply decided to take our education more seriously,”

Her eyes narrowed. “Merlin help us all,”

—

It was around mid-October when Sirius discovered that Marlene had taken it upon herself to secretly give you flying lessons during your free time. He overheard it by accident—passing the empty classroom near the North Tower when he caught your voice, low and laughing.

“You say that like I’m not about to crash into a tree,”

“Trust me,” Marlene replied, “you won’t. You’re actually getting better,”

Sirius paused at the door, not close enough to listen properly, but just enough to catch the look on your face when you glanced back over your shoulder, hair swept back, cheeks flushed.

He didn’t interrupt.

But he did start showing up at the pitch more often—usually after you were done—pretending to be going for a casual evening flight. A Gryffindor beater with nothing better to do.

He let you notice him.

Once, he even timed it perfectly so you passed one another mid-air.

“Nice form,” he called out, not smug, not flirty—just genuine.

You blinked in surprise, but nodded. “Thank you.”

That was it. Just two words. But it was something.

—

Back in the common room, James was trying to teach a second-year how to repair a snapped wand holster when Lily passed behind them. She paused—only for a second—watching James explain the spell slowly and carefully, correcting the student’s wrist movement without taking over.

She didn’t say anything.

But she didn’t roll her eyes either.

Later that night, Lily cornered Remus outside the prefect bathroom.

“Something’s changed,” she said.

Remus arched a brow. “About?”

“Your friends. Black and Potter.”

Remus shrugged lightly. “Maybe they’re just trying to do better.”

“Since when do they try?”

“Since they realised some things were worth it,” he said simply.

Lily didn’t respond right away. “I don’t trust it.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “But… maybe don’t dismiss it, either.”

—

By Christmas, it wasn’t an act anymore. Not entirely.

Sure, it had started as a mission. A desperate, grief-fuelled plan to win back something that felt cosmic, destined, yours. But in the process of pretending to be decent, they’d accidentally started becoming it.

Sirius was still sarcastic, still dramatic, still wild in a way that made other students stare—but he was kind. Thoughtful. Surprisingly gentle, in quiet moments.

James still had that mischievous glint, but it was tempered now. Calmer. Sharper, somehow.

They were changing. And the students had started to notice.

So had you.

And so had Lily.

The greenhouse was quiet that afternoon, warm and damp with the scent of peat and blooming puffapods. You had a study guide clutched in one hand, a twig of dittany in the other, and a half-memorised list of magical flora spinning circles in your head.

“Wiggentree… valerian root… flitterbloom…” you muttered to yourself, tracing your steps slowly between the rows of potted mandrakes and fanged geraniums.

Studying in the common room had become impossible. Marlene and Dorcas were in the middle of what you could only assume was some kind of prank war, and the explosion of confetti earlier had made it clear that silence was a foreign concept in Gryffindor Tower.

So the greenhouse had become your refuge. Peaceful. Predictable.

Until, of course, it wasn’t.

You paused by the edge of the greenhouse to consult your notes when something caught your eye—a flicker of movement beyond the glass.

You turned, frowning. Something large and dark was hovering near the edge of the far window. At first glance, it looked like a shadow. A shape. You blinked once.

No. Not a shadow.

A dog.

A massive black dog, just sitting there, half-concealed behind the edge of the window pane, watching.

You straightened instinctively. The hair prickled at the back of your neck.

There was no reason a dog—especially not one that size—should be wandering the school grounds. Hogsmeade didn’t allow strays, and even Hagrid didn’t have a dog like that.

You felt a strange, inexplicable tug in the back of your mind. A knowing, like something deep in your magic recognised the presence before your brain caught up.

That’s not a dog, whispered something instinctive.

You didn’t hesitate.

“Revela Forma!”

A shimmer rippled through the glass and into the air beyond.

The dog vanished. And standing there in its place, wearing a stunned expression and a very sheepish smirk, was Sirius Black.

He raised a hand. “Uh, hi.”

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

You marched out of the greenhouse door before your rational brain had even returned to your body, the sound of your boots crunching against gravel. Sirius didn’t run. He didn’t even move.

You didn’t stop until you were standing five feet away from him.

“What. The fuck,” you said, every syllable clear and sharp like glass. “Are you stalking me?!”

Sirius winced. “No—well. Not exactly—”

“Oh my God.” You backed up a step. “You’ve been following me around like a fucking dog—literally—just creeping outside of greenhouses in the middle of the day?”

His mouth opened and closed, and for once, Sirius Black had no idea what to say.

“I knew something was off,” you snapped. “You kept showing up—everywhere I was, just coincidentally—and I thought maybe you were just trying to be polite. But this? This is insane.”

“Okay, yes,” Sirius said quickly, “yes, it sounds bad—”

“Because it is bad!”

He held up both hands. “Let me explain.”

You crossed your arms, glaring. “Oh, you’d better.”

Sirius looked like he might laugh, not out of humour, but nerves. He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled, hard.

“I didn’t come here to spy on you. Not really. I just… I needed to see you. Not to bother you, I swear. Just… see.”

You didn’t move. You weren’t about to let him off that easily.

“I know you said you didn’t want anything to do with me,” he said, quieter now, his voice scraping around the edges. “Last year, I mean. When the soulmark disappeared. When you—when we—”

“When I barged past you,” you said flatly.

“Right. That.”

Silence pressed down for a moment. Sirius shifted awkwardly.

“I didn’t take that moment for granted,” he said, finally. “I didn’t see the mark vanish and assume it meant anything good. I knew—I know—you want nothing to do with me. And after the way I used to act, I can’t blame you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then why are you here?”

“Because I’ve spent my whole life being told I wasn’t enough. For anything. And the moment that mark disappeared—our mark—I didn’t feel triumphant. I felt…” He looked at you then, properly. “Like I’d ruined the only good thing fate ever gave me.”

Your mouth opened, then shut.

“I grew up in a house where love wasn’t real unless it was useful,” Sirius went on, voice tight. “My parents weren’t soulmates. They barely tolerated each other. They told me soulmates were for the weak. That blood mattered more than anything else. That destiny was just a fairy tale.”

His hands curled into fists.

“I wanted to believe that wasn’t true. That I wasn’t cursed to become like them. So I held onto that mark like it meant something real. Something better than the twisted version of love I saw growing up. And then I met you.”

You blinked. “You didn’t even like me.”

“I didn’t know you,” he said fiercely. “But the moment the mark vanished—when I touched you and knew—something in me broke. Not because you didn’t want me. I could deal with that. But because I realised I didn’t deserve you. Not then. Maybe not ever.”

He stepped forward, slowly.

“But I want to. I need to. I don’t want to change so you’ll love me. I want to change because I want to be the kind of person who’s worthy of loving someone like you. Even if you never feel the same. Even if you never speak to me again.”

You stared at him.

“I’m not stalking you,” he said again, softer this time. “I’m just… trying. In my own pathetic way. Because you’re it for me. No one else. Just you.”

A long, thick silence followed.

The wind rustled the hedges around the greenhouse. You could hear the faint hum of bees in the distance, the distant echo of laughter from the pitch.

You swallowed.

You could see now, under all the bravado and reckless charm, the exhaustion behind his eyes. Not from sleepless nights or overthinking—but from carrying the weight of being told his whole life he was never enough. That he would never be good enough for anyone.

It didn’t make his behaviour okay. It didn’t excuse the weird dog-stalking. But you saw him.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you said finally. “Following me. Watching from corners. It’s not fair to me.”

He nodded, quickly. “Right. Yes. I’m sorry.”

“I mean it, Sirius.”

“I know.”

“…Please don’t follow me around anymore.”

His expression cracked, just slightly. A soft, quiet disappointment bloomed across his face, but he nodded again without hesitation.

“Okay,” he said. “I won’t.”

And you believed him.

You nodded once and turned to walk back toward the greenhouse.

Sirius stood alone for a long time afterward, staring at the space where you’d been.

He didn’t feel triumphant. But he felt seen.

—

Sirius Black had never considered himself someone who knew how to wait.

He had always been impulsive—loud, fast, reckless. A boy who flew through life on instinct and sarcasm, as if slowing down for even a moment might force him to acknowledge something he wasn’t ready to face.

But this time, he slowed down.

This time, he waited.

No more lurking in corridors. No more appearing at the library table two minutes after you sat down. No more sidelong glances across the Great Hall or sudden offers to walk you to class. He didn’t even sit near you in lessons anymore, deliberately choosing seats across the room or behind other groups.

It wasn’t easy.

He hated the space between you. Hated the feeling that he’d messed up his one and only shot so completely. But he honoured your request, because you’d asked him to.

And for someone like Sirius—who had spent his entire life being told that his needs, his wants, his existence was something to be asserted by force—it was a quiet revolution.

He kept his head down. He didn’t stop being Sirius Black entirely, of course. There were still occasional wisecracks in Defence, still mischief whispered to James during dull lectures. But something had changed.

He was gentler now. Calmer.

And you noticed.

You’d told yourself not to—had sworn to keep your distance, just like he had—but your eyes still found him, from time to time. In the library, bent over a Transfiguration textbook with Remus. On the Quidditch pitch, helping second-years carry beaters’ bats to the storeroom. In the common room, quietly reminding Peter to review the difference between wolfsbane and monkshood for the tenth time.

He left you alone.

And you couldn’t help but admit—maybe not out loud, not yet—that it was the first time you’d really considered that maybe he wasn’t the arrogant arse you’d written him off as.

—

James Potter, meanwhile, was holding steady on his side of the deal.

It was quieter, less dramatic than Sirius’ year-long redemption arc, but no less important. He’d followed Sirius’ lead from the beginning, even reluctantly, and never backed out.

He had stopped hexing people in corridors, even when they definitely deserved it.

He stopped interrupting Lily during class—though he still caught himself glancing at her notes, now more in admiration than mockery.

He began arriving to lessons early. Staying back to help professors collect supplies. He joined a tutoring programme for struggling fourth-years, even though he couldn’t explain fractions to save his life.

It was… obvious, if you were looking. But not performative.

And Lily was looking.

She would never have admitted it aloud, not even under Veritaserum, but she noticed the change in James almost immediately.

She just didn’t trust it.

Because people didn’t really change, did they? Not like that. Not the sort of change that lasted longer than a week. Not when the only motivation was a broken heart and a bruised ego.

So Lily told herself it was temporary. A phase. A guilt trip.

She told herself that right up until the day of the Head Student announcements.

—

It was the first dinner of seventh year, and the Great Hall was buzzing with new timetables, new books, and the usual start-of-term gossip. Lily had sat with you, Mary, and Dorcas at breakfast, mentally rehearsing all the ways she’d kill the Head Boy if it turned out to be a Hufflepuff again.

Then Professor McGonagall stood.

“As is tradition,” she said, projecting clearly above the morning din, “I’d like to congratulate this year’s appointed Head Students.”

Lily set her fork down and folded her hands neatly.

“This year’s Head Girl,” McGonagall continued, “is Miss Lily Evans.”

Applause erupted. You cheered. Mary let out a very unladylike whoop. Lily smiled modestly, her face carefully arranged in the dignified way she’d practised in the mirror the night before.

“And your Head Boy,” McGonagall added, “is Mr James Potter.”

The applause dipped for half a beat.

Lily’s smile froze.

Then the whispers began. Surprise. Confusion. A few outright gasps. Even you turned your head sharply to check Lily’s reaction.

To her credit, she didn’t speak.

She stood, nodded once at McGonagall, and accepted her Head Girl badge with an expression that could’ve been carved in marble.

Across the room, James stood as well. His face was a picture of disbelief—real disbelief, not his usual overconfident swagger. He glanced briefly at Lily, clearly waiting for a reaction, but she gave him none.

They both sat.

For the rest of breakfast, Lily said nothing.

But you could feel the storm brewing behind her eyes.

—

Later, in the quiet of the Prefect’s meeting, that storm broke.

The newly-appointed team gathered in the usual classroom on the fourth floor. Lily sat at the front, posture stiff, eyes forward. James settled beside her, not too close, but not avoiding her either. There was no banter. No jokes. Just silence.

“Congratulations,” James said eventually, quietly enough that only she could hear it.

Lily’s jaw flexed. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t act like this is normal.”

He blinked. “I was just saying—”

“You’re Head Boy, James,” she said, finally turning to look at him. Her eyes were sharp, green and flinty. “You. After everything. After all the hexing, and shouting, and peacocking—you.”

He held her gaze. “People change.”

“Do they?”

“Yes,” he said firmly. “Some of us had to.”

There was a pause. A quiet moment that stretched between them like a wire.

“You’ve been trying so hard all year,” Lily said at last. “Like you’re desperate to prove you’re someone else.”

He nodded.

“Is it all just… because of me?”

James looked down. Then, slowly, back up.

“Not all of it,” he said. “But a lot of it started with you.”

Lily opened her mouth. Closed it again.

“I wanted to become someone worthy of standing next to you,” he said, quietly. “Someone you would be proud to work with. And then, at some point, I realised I actually liked the person I was becoming. And I didn’t want to go back,”

She looked away.

He didn’t press her.

And for the rest of the meeting, they worked side-by-side, clean and professional, two perfect student leaders with too many unsaid things between them.

—

You noticed it too.

The tension between Lily and James had always been something to mock, to roll your eyes at, to point at during breakfast with a laugh. But now it felt… different. More serious. More charged.

Lily wasn’t pushing him away quite as quickly anymore.

She still scoffed when he made a joke under his breath—but she also smiled when she thought no one saw.

You did see.

And she caught you seeing.

So, one evening in late October, the two of you sat curled up on the window seat in your dorm, legs tucked under warm blankets, teacups in hand. Outside, the rain poured against the glass like it had something to prove.

You nudged her gently. “You’re not going to be able to keep pretending forever,”

Lily scowled into her cup. “Pretending what?”

“That you don’t notice how much he’s changed,”

She sighed. “He has changed. I know that. I’m not blind,”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

“History,” she said flatly. “And the fact that he still drives me absolutely mad,”

You smiled faintly. “But you see him now,”

She hesitated.

“Yeah,”

She turned toward you. “You saw Sirius in the greenhouse, didn’t you?”

You blinked. “How—?”

“You told Marlene not to hex him after Herbology. She told me,”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. He was watching me.” You decide to omit the dog part.

Lily’s eyes widened. “That’s…”

“Weird?” you offered. “Creepy?”

“Kind of sweet?” she said instead.

You gave her a look. “He was spying.”

“He snuck out of grounds just to see you.”

“That’s not romantic, that’s grounds for suspension,”

Lily snorted into her tea. “What did he say?”

You hesitated. Then you told her.

About how he confessed everything—his upbringing, his belief in soulmates, his guilt and shame and desperation to become someone worthy of you. How he’d promised never to follow you again. How he’d meant it.

Lily listened quietly.

When you were done, she was silent for a long time.

Then she said, “James told me something similar. About wanting to be someone I’d respect,”

You looked at her. “And do you?”

“I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “But I respect who he’s trying to be,”

You nodded slowly. “Same,”

—

After weeks of quiet observation—after months of tiptoeing around old wounds and bruised pride—it was a rainy afternoon in early November when you and Lily did what any two girls in your position would do.

You called a meeting.

It wasn’t official, of course. There were no parchment invitations or secret passwords. Just a pointed look across the common room from you to Lily, a subtle nod, and then a knock on Marlene’s dormitory door followed by a whispered, “Hey, you busy?”

Fifteen minutes later, the five of you were sprawled out on the floor with mugs of cocoa, half-finished essays abandoned in favour of a more pressing discussion.

Dorcas leaned back against a trunk, arms folded across her chest, always the picture of quiet analysis. Mary was already lying flat on her stomach, chin in hands, looking between the two of you with wild curiosity. Marlene, seated cross-legged at the edge of the rug, raised one brow and said dryly, “Let me guess. This is about James and Sirius,”

You and Lily exchanged a look.

“...Sort of,” you said.

“Oh, finally,” Mary muttered, clearly delighted. “We’ve all been waiting for this,”

“Waiting for what?” Lily said, defensive but not angry.

“For you two to admit they’re not complete arses anymore,” Marlene replied. “Which—granted—took longer than expected,”

“They’re still arses,” you said, immediately. “They’re just… quieter arses,”

“They’re trying,” Dorcas said softly, looking at you. “And it’s working. You know it is,”

You bit your lip.

Lily exhaled sharply. “That’s the problem. It is working,”

There was a beat of silence.

You understood exactly what she meant. Because if it hadn’t worked—if they had stayed insufferable, stayed cocky and loud and proud—you could have written them off forever. You could have laughed about it, cursed your bad luck in soulmarks, and eventually moved on without guilt.

But they had changed.

And that complicated everything.

“So,” Dorcas said carefully, “what do you want to do about it?”

“I think…” you said, slowly, “I want to talk to him. Properly. No hexes, no shouting. I just want to—ask.”

“Ask what?” Mary said.

“Why,” you replied, plain and honest. “Why he did it all. Why he thought spying and pretending was the answer. Why he thought he wasn’t good enough in the first place,”

Lily nodded. “Yeah. I want to talk to James too. I want to stop guessing at who he is and just ask him,”

Marlene grinned. “Merlin’s pants. Are you two about to do the mature thing?”

“Oh, shut up,” Lily said, laughing despite herself.

Dorcas smiled. “Good. Have a genuine conversation. See what they say. You don’t owe them anything—but you do owe yourselves clarity,”

—

You didn’t delay.

The next week, you waited outside the Transfiguration corridor just before lunch, nerves buzzing like a live wire under your skin. Students filed past, chattering about NEWTs and Hogsmeade and dinner plans, but you barely noticed them.

Then you saw him—Sirius—shoulder bag slung across his chest, hair a bit windswept, and eyes flicking lazily over the crowd.

You stepped forward.

“Sirius.”

His eyes landed on you.

For a moment, he looked stunned. Like he'd imagined this scenario too many times and now couldn’t quite trust it was real.

“Hey,”

“I want to talk,” you said, before you could lose your nerve. “Properly. No accusations. Just talk,”

He blinked. Then nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Okay. Anywhere in mind?”

You glanced down the corridor. “There’s an empty classroom two doors down,”

He followed you without question.

—

Lily made her move during evening rounds.

The castle was quiet—just the occasional sound of footsteps echoing through the stone corridors as prefects made their last patrols before curfew. James was scheduled to patrol with another Ravenclaw that evening, but Lily had arranged a switch.

He looked up when she approached, clipboard in hand. “Evans,” he greeted, cautious but not cold.

“Potter,” she replied.

They started down the hallway in silence, the glow of their wand tips casting long shadows on the stone walls.

After a few minutes, Lily cleared her throat. “I want to talk to you,”

James paused mid-step. “Okay,”

“Not about rounds,” she added. “About everything else,”

He didn’t smile. Just nodded. “Lead the way,”

They ended up in one of the little alcoves near the Astronomy Tower—a place neither of them had visited since fourth year, back when James had tried to impress her by charming the stars to rearrange into her name. She hadn’t spoken to him for a week afterward.

Now, they sat side by side, the air between them quieter than it had been in years.

—

You perched on the edge of a desk, arms crossed—not defensively, but to steady yourself.

Sirius stayed standing for a moment, then slowly sank into the chair across from you, looking more unsure of himself than you’d ever seen.

You met his gaze.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened,” you said. “And I realised... I don’t actually know why. Why you did any of it. The spying. The pretending. The constant obsession with trying to be the ‘right’ kind of person for me,”

Sirius looked down at his hands.

You continued. “I want to give you a chance. To explain yourself. That’s all. I’m not promising anything. I’m not saying I forgive you. But I’m listening,”

There was a long pause.

Then he said, quietly, “I’ve never really believed I had worth on my own. Not since I was a kid,”

You blinked.

He went on, voice low, like it hurt to say it. “My parents… they always told me soulmates were weakness. That they were dangerous. That love made you foolish. And they treated me like a mistake for even having a mark. They hated it. Hated that I had something they couldn’t control,”

You swallowed.

“I clung to the idea of a soulmate because it was the only thing that felt mine. Like proof that someone out there might love me, even if my family didn’t.” He looked up. “And then, when I realised it was you, and you didn’t want me— I panicked. I thought, ‘of course she doesn’t. I’m not someone worth loving.’ So I tried to become that person,”

You didn’t speak.

“I know it was wrong,” he said. “I know spying and watching was invasive and weird. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how to just ask for a chance. I thought if I could fix myself first, maybe then you’d—” He cut off, running a hand through his hair. “I just didn’t want to lose the one good thing I thought I had,”

You let the silence settle for a few moments.

“I don’t know what I expected you to say. But... thank you. For being honest,”

Sirius looked up, something like hope flickering in his eyes.

You added, “That doesn’t mean we’re good. But it means... I’m open to getting to know the person you’re becoming. If you’re still becoming him for yourself—not for me,”

He nodded. “I am. I promise.”

You nodded once in return.

—

“I spent a long time hating you,” Lily said, curled on the stone ledge beneath the window.

James didn’t flinch. “Yeah. I deserved it,”

“You were arrogant, loud, a show-off,”

“I know,”

“And then you stopped,” she said, frowning slightly. “Not just for a week. You really changed. And it scared me, because it meant I might have been wrong about you,”

James didn’t say anything.

“I don’t want to rewrite everything I thought I knew,” Lily said. “But I also don’t want to keep punishing you for something you aren’t anymore,”

James finally spoke. “I never expected you to forgive me,”

“I haven’t,” she replied. “Not yet.”

He nodded. “Okay,”

“But I want to understand you better,” she added. “Not the version of you I hated. The version I see now,”

James turned his head to look at her. “You really want to know me?”

“I think,” she said slowly, “I already do. I just need to believe it’s real,”

He smiled, small and soft. “It is. Promise.”

And Lily—proud, precise, always guarded Lily—allowed herself to smile back. Just a little.

—

The next day, you and Lily found each other in the common room.

There was no need for words. You both wore the same quiet expression of exhausted relief and cautious optimism.

Later, over tea, Lily spoke first.

“Well,” she said. “That wasn’t terrible,”

You laughed. “No. It really wasn’t,”

#sirius black x reader #fic rec

697 notes · View notes

clairecrive · 1 month ago

Note

i fear this is going to be delicious

I’m in desperate—I mean desperate—need of a Sirius x Reader soulmate AU series written by you. Because oh my God, the idea is just so sweet!

To think that, despite everything—even in the darkest moments of his life—since he was just a little boy, the thought of his one true person waiting for him somewhere out there has been what pushed him through it all. Especially knowing that his parents weren’t soulmates, Sirius has always been absolutely certain that he has to end up with his soulmate. It’s that… or nothing for him so when he starts his Hogwarts journey he’s already on a mission.

── .✦ 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐲. (𝐬.𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤)

sirius black wanted nothing more in life than to find his soulmate, to give himself the life his parents never had. but of course it’s not that easy.

sirius black x fem!soulmate!reader 9.8k angst masterlist.

PART ONE. PART TWO.

CW | mentions of mistreatment in the black family home, soulmates are complicated, antagonistic relationship between lily and james, peter gets some love, a lot of this is from sirius’ perspective

They say the mark fades the moment your soulmate touches you.

A simple, skin-deep magic with depth beyond comprehension. One moment, you carry a patch of ink—some obscure splotch, a fingerprint, a handprint, a streak. The next, it’s gone. Just... gone. The skin is smooth and unblemished where once magic lingered.

The mark doesn’t tell you who, only where—where on your body your soulmate will first touch you. And once they do, once your souls collide in that first, fated contact, the mark disappears. Like you’re whole again. Like you’ve found something you didn’t know you were missing.

No one really remembers a time before their mark. It's always been there—like birthmarks only fate-born. A quiet promise that someday, somewhere, someone will reach for you and the world will shift.

Some people search for their whole lives. Others stumble into it by accident—brushing hands in a corridor, bumping shoulders in a crowd, one drunken kiss on a dare that changes everything. And then there are those who never find it at all.

Or worse—those who refuse to.

Sirius had spent his entire childhood watching the mark on his mother’s right hand.

It was a violent thing. An ink-black smear that twisted over the bones of her knuckles and bled toward her wrist like a bruise. It was always stark against her pale skin—more visible when her voice rose, when her wand lifted, when Regulus flinched and Sirius refused to cower.

Walburga Black was a woman of ancient lineage and granite values. The House of Black didn’t marry for love. They married for blood. For power. For family name. Soulmates were a fairytale whispered by Halfbloods and Muggleborns, a sentimental excuse for weakness.

And so the smear on her hand never faded.

“She should’ve found him,” Sirius had once whispered to Regulus, who was eight and still soft in the face. “Her soulmate,”

Regulus didn’t look up from his book. “She doesn’t believe in them.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sirius muttered. “She still has one.”

That was what made it worse, really. That somewhere in the world, the one person who might’ve made her less like herself was walking around unaware. That she’d never tried. That none of them did.

He had a mark, too. A broad, dark patch on the front of his shoulder, curling slightly round to the outside of his arm. It looked more like a smudge than anything. Not delicate, not shaped like fingers or palms. Just… mess. Like someone had leaned against him with soot on their hands.

His mother had tried to scrub it off, once.

“It’s barbaric,” she’d hissed, dragging a cloth over his skin with vinegar and spells. “Sentimental nonsense.”

It hadn’t worked. The skin there had stayed marked, warm, stubborn with fate.

And Sirius had made a promise to himself that day. He would find the person who belonged to that mark. He would.

Because he was not going to turn into his mother.

—

The Hogwarts Express smelled like dust and pumpkin, and Sirius was trying very hard not to look as excited as he felt.

He had left. He had left that house, that woman, that family. He was on the train to a castle full of magic and secrets, and he was going to make friends and break rules and maybe even find the person with soot-stained fingers who would touch his arm and make the mark vanish.

He had only just dumped his trunk into the nearest half-empty compartment when a gangly, bespectacled boy stuck his head in and grinned.

“Oi—this seat taken?”

Sirius shrugged. “It is now.”

James Potter flopped down beside him without asking again, closely followed by two other boys: a round-faced, cheerful one who introduced himself as Peter, and a quiet, bookish one with scars hidden behind long sleeves who offered only a nod and the name Remus.

They were only halfway into the journey when the topic—inevitably—arose.

“Soulmarks,” Sirius said, dropping the word into the conversation like a dare.

The carriage fell into a beat of silence. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but loaded — the way quiet feels just before lightning hits. James perked up first, eyes narrowing with interest, then grinned.

“Oh, we’re doing that already, are we?” he said, spinning slightly on the bench so he was facing the rest of them properly. “Right then. Let’s see the lot of yours. Starting with you, Mr Mysterious.”

He pointed at Sirius with an impish grin. Peter gave a small, nervous laugh, and Remus — who had been quietly reading the front page of a Daily Prophet someone had left behind — lowered it slowly.

Sirius hesitated for a second, not because he was shy, but because his mark had always felt like something far too personal to show off, especially under the weight of the Black name. But here, with these boys, he felt the kind of safety he didn’t yet have the words for.

With a shrug, he tugged up the sleeve of his jumper and peeled it back past his bicep. Across the curve of his shoulder — wrapping from the edge of his chest to just past the blade of his back — was a dark smear, like someone had dragged a piece of charcoal across his skin and tried to rub it off before it dried. It was heavy-looking, almost like soot or ash, thick and indelible. Not a handprint. Not a brush of fingers. Just... contact. Weight. Pressure.

“Bloody hell,” James muttered, leaning forward. “Did your soulmate fall on you?”

Sirius laughed — an unexpected, genuine sound. “Haven’t the faintest idea. Maybe they shoulder-barged me. Maybe they crashed into me mid-duel. Maybe it’s a hug. Who knows? Could’ve been anything.”

James hummed, clearly intrigued. “I mean... I suppose you’d know immediately, yeah? The second it happened.”

“Mark fades when it happens,” Sirius replied, tugging his sleeve back down. “Gone. Just like that. You’re ‘whole’ or whatever it is.”

“Romantic, that,” Peter said. “In a weird, sort of terrifying way.”

“Don’t even have to ask about yours,” Sirius said, nodding at James.

James didn’t hesitate. He swept his unruly hair back from his face and tilted his head to the side, revealing the left side of his face — and more importantly, the soft, unmistakable shape of a milky white handprint cradling his cheek. It looked like someone had cupped his face gently, thumb grazing his cheek. It was... tender. Oddly intimate.

Peter chuckles.

“Oh, look at you,” Sirius drawled. “That’s not a soulmark. That’s the prelude to a snog.”

James grinned unabashedly. “Reckon it is, yeah. Imagine, though— first time I meet them, they’re gonna touch my face like I’m some kind of Greek tragedy,”

“Probably to make out with me,” he added with a waggle of his eyebrows, and the entire group groaned.

“Godric help them,” Remus muttered under his breath.

Peter looked slightly self-conscious now that the attention was drifting his way, but when Sirius raised an eyebrow at him, he sighed and turned slightly, pointing at the side of his nose. A small brown splotch marked the bridge, barely the size of a Knut.

“That’s it?” Sirius said.

Peter flushed. “Yes? I don’t know what it means either,”

James leaned in with mock seriousness, licking his thumb and making a show of reaching over. “Sure it’s not just dirt, Peter? Let me—”

Peter yelped and batted his hand away, laughing. “Get off, you tosser!”

Even Remus snorted.

Sirius eyed him then. “What about you, then? Don’t think you’re getting out of this,”

Remus looked suddenly awkward—more awkward than Sirius had ever seen him—and shook his head. “I haven’t got one.”

James looked genuinely surprised. “You... haven’t?”

Remus shrugged. “Not that I’ve ever found,” Not that he’d ever made the effort to check.

“Bollocks,” Sirius said, already rolling up his sleeves again. “Everyone’s got one. It's the whole point, isn’t it?”

James nodded eagerly. “Yeah— we’ll find it. Take your shirt off,”

Peter choked on his own spit.

“Hold your horses, woah—” Remus muttered, clearly flustered.

“Come on, just let us look!” James said. “We’ll be quick about it.”

After several minutes of grumbling and reluctant sighs, Remus finally rolled his eyes and let them have a look—within reason. They checked his forearms, shoulders, collarbones, back, even his calves. Nothing.

“I told you—” Remus started, but Sirius, now unrelenting in his curiosity, stepped closer and squinted at the hairline near Remus’ right temple.

“Hold on,” he said, voice low with interest.

He reached out—gently, and with an uncharacteristic kind of caution—and swept a lock of Remus’ hair back.

There, just along the edge of his hairline, half-hidden by curls, was a thin, chocolate brown mark. Like a thumbprint, just brushing the edge of his temple.

The room went quiet.

“Found it!” Sirius said, triumphantly.

Remus blinked, although, surprisingly, didn’t look all that relieved. “Alright,”

“Told you,” James said smugly, sitting back with a satisfied look. “Everyone’s got one.”

Remus said nothing, but Sirius caught the way his fingers brushed the edge of his fringe, as if somehow wanting to feel it—to acknowledge it now that it was real.

They were quiet for a few minutes after that. Just sitting with it.

And Sirius found himself thinking, strangely, about his mother again—the way her own soulmark had never faded. How it had sat like an accusation across the back of her hand, inky and unmoving, every time she raised it. He’d seen it when she tugged harshly on Regulus’ hair. When she yanked Sirius by the collar. Always there. A reminder of what she could have had.

She had told him once, sneering, “Soulmates are for commoners. Fairytales. Blood comes first. Blood is eternal.”

And Sirius had known, even then, that he wanted something else. Something more.

These boys—these three ridiculous, infuriating, brilliant boys—might not have known it, but they were the first promise he’d ever been given that he might not end up like her. That the mark on his arm meant something real. That someone out there might touch him one day, and the mark would vanish, and the emptiness he’d carried since childhood might finally ease.

He didn’t know it yet, but he was going to spend years hoping for that moment.

And dreading it in equal measure.

—

You’ll never forget the first time James Potter laid eyes on Lily Evans.

It’s early in your first year—just a few days in—and you’re walking with her and Mary down one of the endless, winding corridors of Hogwarts, heading to Charms. Lily’s still got that Muggle-born wonder gleaming in her eyes, even though she tries to hide it behind a proper sense of logic and practicality. She’s talking about the theory behind wand movement, hands gesturing enthusiastically, when it happens.

James Potter, all wild hair and taller-than-he-should-be confidence, rounds the corner with his entourage, Sirius, Remus, and Peter flanking him like a self-appointed court. He spots her, freezes mid-step, and goes oddly quiet.

You notice. You always notice when boys look at Lily. But this one feels different.

Then, James grins. “That’s her,” he says, loud enough for all of the corridor to hear. “That’s my soulmate.”

Lily stops walking. “I’m sorry, what?”

He strides up, not missing a beat. “Your hand, it matches my face,”

She lifts her eyebrows. “It’s the most common soul mark in the world.”

“Just humour me,”

She rolls her eyes—but shows him anyway. A dark mark covering her palm like she’d dipped it in black paint, visible for a fraction of a second before she tucks it behind her again like it’s private. Sacred.

James, however, looks like he’s been handed a prophecy.

“See,” he says, tapping the side of his own face, just under the curve of his left cheekbone. “Perfect fit. You held my face. Or you will. That’s what the universe wants,”

“Or you’re delusional,” she says sweetly. “Ever thought of that?”

You laugh. So does Mary. But James—he just smiles, full of charm and stupid certainty.

From that moment on, James is relentless.

He doesn’t declare it once and then let it lie. No—he tells everyone who’ll listen. Tells Peter, tells Sirius, tells Remus (who already knows but still rolls his eyes every time). Tells older students. Tells a professor, once, though you think he was joking that time.

At first, it’s annoying. Then it becomes unbearable.

Because the Marauders, they don’t just say they believe in soulmates. They act like it means they’re entitled to you.

You and Lily and Marlene and Dorcas and Mary had started off giving them the benefit of the doubt. They seemed harmless enough: loud, yes, but not cruel. But then James began following Lily everywhere— always appearing outside your common room, in the corridors between classes, in the library. And Sirius and the others followed along too, trailing after you girls like a bad smell.

They’d show up outside Potions just to “bump into” you. Or drop casual comments in the Great Hall about how Remus got the highest score on the Defence essay, as if anyone asked. Or make loud boasts about Quidditch tactics, like they were auditioning for a future career in bragging.

You never understood what they wanted. It was clear enough that James was obsessed with Lily, but what about the rest of them?

Remus always seemed more amused than anything, like he was watching a tragic play unfold, one he knew the ending to but couldn’t stop. Peter was just... there. Laughing too hard at every joke James made, like he thought that was the price of staying in the group.

And Sirius— Sirius was different.

He didn’t really flirt. Didn’t boast as much. He mostly watched. With those storm-grey eyes that felt like they were always seeing more than they should. He’d smirk sometimes, or throw in a sarcastic comment, but he was quieter than you expected. There was something behind it, like he wasn’t entirely present. Like his mind was elsewhere, chasing shadows.

You noticed that too. How he’d go still when someone mentioned soulmarks in passing. How he looked at couples in the corridors—the ones laughing with linked hands, whose marks had already faded—with a kind of distant longing that felt too raw for someone so young.

It was almost sad, in a kind of pathetic way.

But none of that excused their behaviour.

The truth was: you didn’t like them. Not really. None of you did.

They were loud and reckless and juvenile. They’d hex Slytherins in the corridor and act like they were defending the moral high ground. They’d shout across classrooms, make up chants, prank students for fun. Once they transfigured all the cauldrons in Potions into frogs, and Professor Slughorn found it hilarious. You didn’t.

You didn’t like being followed. You didn’t like the way they laughed when you were trying to work, or how James seemed to think Lily owed him something just because he’d decided the universe wanted them together.

You’d tried confronting them, all of you.

“I’m not interested,” Lily had told James flat-out one day outside Charms. “No matter what your cheek tells you.”

“But you will be,” he’d replied, infuriatingly smug. “Eventually,”

You’d wanted to hex him on her behalf.

The worst part was how consistent they were. They just didn’t get bored. Most boys would move on after the first rejection—bruised ego, muttered grumbling. But not James Potter. He treated it like a game he was determined to win. Like every protest was just another obstacle the fates had set up to test his resolve.

It wasn’t romantic. It was exhausting.

And the more it went on, the more it began to change the dynamic between the two groups. The Marauders kept orbiting around you, even when it was obvious they weren’t welcome. Even Remus, who you thought might’ve had some basic common sense, proved to be just as bad.

You started changing your routes to class. Started choosing study corners furthest away from their usual haunts. You stopped walking the long way to Herbology because they’d wait for you by the greenhouse and pretend it was coincidence. But no matter what you did, they always found you.

It wasn’t even that they were mean. That might have been easier. They were just... there. Always.

And when they weren’t there, you caught yourself noticing.

It was a strange thing, realising how used you’d grown to their presence. How you’d memorised their stupid voices. How, occasionally, when Sirius didn’t say something clever and cutting in class, you’d feel the absence of it.

You don’t notice it at first—not really. Sirius Black is a lot of things: loud, charming, irritating, surprisingly clever when he wants to be. But what he is most of all is consistent. A constant thorn in your side. An ever-present source of chaos orbiting James Potter’s ego.

So when he starts acting strangely, it takes a while to catch your attention. At first, you chalk it up to more Marauder nonsense. Another prank brewing. Another hare-brained scheme. But then the weeks pass, and the silence stretches, and you begin to realise something is off.

He starts dating. A lot.

It begins in fourth year, the way most ridiculous boy behaviour begins—with no explanation, no warning, no respect for peace. One week it’s Emilia Montague, who has hair like spun gold and a voice that drips honey. Then it’s Jules Macmillan, who calls him “Black” and slaps his arm when he makes her laugh. A week later, he’s holding hands with Evan Rosier’s cousin at the Quidditch pitch.

It becomes a bit of a game, watching the trail of would-be soulmates.

You and the girls make a tally chart in the margins of your notes—Sirius' Heartbreak Count, complete with doodles. Lily calls it “tragic.” Dorcas calls it “desperate.” You’re inclined to agree with both.

He doesn’t seem happy with any of them.

There’s always a flicker of disappointment in his eyes after each kiss. Each failed attempt at connection. Like he’s waiting for something to spark and it never does. You don’t know why it bothers you—maybe it’s just strange, seeing Sirius Black not get what he wants.

What you don’t know, what none of the girls know, is that Sirius is searching.

Frantically, recklessly, hopelessly.

He tries everything. Girls, boys, dates by the lake, snogging in empty classrooms, brushing against strangers in Hogsmeade with his sleeves rolled up, just in case. Every time someone new touches his soulmark—just barely brushing the dark smear on his shoulder—he closes his eyes, waiting for the heat, the light, the magic.

It never comes.

He acts like he doesn’t care. Laughs about it. Brags. But the truth is: it’s killing him. Slowly. Quietly.

Because every time someone skims over that mark and nothing happens, a tiny piece of him breaks off. And he’s terrified there won’t be anything left by the time he finds the right person—if he ever does.

And then Peter finds his soulmate.

It happens at the beginning of fifth year. Quietly, almost accidentally. A Ravenclaw girl named Sybill, who spills an entire bottle of ink across Peter’s lap in the library while reaching for a Divination book. Their hands collide. Her fingers press against the side of his nose to wipe off a splotch of ink—and just like that, the brown mark on Peter’s skin disappears.

The Marauders explode with excitement.

James shouts. Remus claps Peter on the back. Even Sirius manages a grin, saying something like, “About bloody time,” and ruffling his hair.

But it’s forced. All of it.

Later that night, Sirius doesn’t join the celebration in the common room. He doesn’t toast with Butterbeer or tease Peter about marrying her. He disappears without a word. No one sees him until morning.

Peter can’t even bring himself to be annoyed. Not really. Not when he knows the truth.

Because they all know how much Sirius wants it. How much he needs it.

He’s never said it out loud, not fully, but they know. They’ve seen the way he looks at the mark on his arm. The way he flinches when someone mentions his family.

Sirius was born into a house that doesn’t believe in love.

That he used to stare at the stain on his own shoulder and imagine what kind of person would leave a mark like that. He’d lie awake at night thinking of how it would feel when the right hand met his skin and the darkness vanished. He promised himself he’d find them, whoever they were. That he wouldn’t settle for anything less than fate.

But now it’s fifth year, and everyone’s starting to find theirs.

Peter. A seventh-year Ravenclaw. Two Hufflepuff girls from their year.

And Sirius still wakes up every morning with the same mark on his arm. Still hears the echo of his mother’s voice every time he thinks he might be falling for someone who isn’t right.

“You’re a Black. You don’t need love. You need a legacy.”

Remus tries to comfort him, in that quiet, practical way of his.

“Maybe they’re not here,” he says one night as the two of them sit on the roof of the Astronomy Tower. “Maybe they’re a Muggle. Someone you’ll meet after school,”

Sirius scoffs. “And what? I’m supposed to wait until I’m forty to stop being miserable?”

James, bless his heart, tries to be optimistic.

“Maybe they’re in a different year. Or got expelled. Maybe you’ve walked past them and just didn’t notice!”

“I would’ve noticed,” Sirius says. “I always notice.”

And that’s the problem, really.

He notices everything. Every brush of skin, every accidental touch. Every time someone’s hand drifts too close to his shoulder, his breath catches. And every time it’s a false alarm, it hurts just that little bit more.

He stops dating after a while.

Stops pretending it’s fun. Stops trying to turn every crush into a cosmic sign. He goes quiet instead. Withdraws into himself in a way that startles the rest of the Marauders.

You notice too.

At first, you’re suspicious. Sirius Black, not flirting? Not loitering around with James and causing chaos in the corridors? Clearly something’s afoot. You and the girls watch him warily, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for whatever stupid, elaborate prank he’s been cooking up in the shadows.

But it never comes.

He just... stops.

He shows up to class. He does the work (mostly). He still laughs at James’ jokes and joins in on late-night games of Exploding Snap. But something about him feels dimmed. Like someone turned the brightness down and forgot to turn it back up again.

You catch him in the library once. Alone. Reading.

Not just pretending to read while scouting for mischief—actually reading. You don’t even realise it’s him at first, not until he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear and sighs, that heavy, exhausted kind of sigh you only let out when you’re tired of your own thoughts.

It’s strange, seeing him like that. Almost... human.

You don’t say anything. But you wonder.

You wonder what it would take to make a boy like Sirius Black lose his fire.

The others don’t know how to help.

James keeps trying to set him up at parties—“You’ve got to give Marlene a go, mate, you haven’t lived!”—but Sirius just shakes his head and makes excuses. Peter walks on eggshells around him now, too guilty to mention Sybill’s name. Even Remus has started watching Sirius like he’s waiting for him to fall apart.

And maybe he is.

Because Sirius is still staring at his soulmark every morning. Still pressing his fingers against the edge of it in the mirror, hoping for something to change. Still half-convinced that the universe has made some horrible mistake and left him behind.

And deep down, he’s terrified that one day he’ll stop believing entirely.

Terrified that he’ll become like his parents after all—loveless, cold, bound to someone he doesn’t care about out of duty or desperation. That he’ll wake up one day with a ring on his finger and still feel empty.

The Marauders try to reassure him, but there’s only so much comfort logic can offer when your heart is breaking.

“Maybe your soulmate’s just late,” Remus says.

Sirius smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Maybe.”

But he doesn’t believe it anymore.

And the worst part is—he thinks maybe he doesn’t deserve to.

—

It starts with one of James’ bright ideas—those three words guaranteed to end in absolute catastrophe.

You’d almost forgotten what they were like at full volume, the four of them together. Sirius has been quiet. James has been distracted by Quidditch. Peter’s been off somewhere playing the role of besotted boyfriend. Only Remus still walks with that same watchful calm, as though he’s just waiting for them all to detonate.

But now, spring has finally settled over the grounds, and apparently that’s all it takes for them to start acting like menaces again. Warm sun. Open skies. Exams far enough away to ignore. The perfect ingredients for trouble.

They pick a Saturday afternoon—when the courtyard is packed. Blankets spread across the grass, books open in sunbeams, students from all four houses lounging about, soaking up the rare spell of warm weather.

It’s almost peaceful.

Until, of course, it isn’t.

You don’t even see the beginning of it. One moment you’re mid-conversation with Lily and Mary, trying to decipher the reading Professor Vector assigned, and the next you hear it—a low, slow rumble that can only mean one thing: a spell misfiring, or worse, succeeding exactly as planned.

A bang. A crack. A distant cackling.

Then—chaos.

Water explodes from the central fountain like a geyser. But it’s not just water. It’s pink. And sticky. And foaming. Thick bubbles rain down in hot, fizzy clumps that stain robes and cling to hair.

Someone screams. Then someone else. People scramble, books flying, cloaks drenched.

The spell races outwards, triggering a domino effect. More fountains erupt. Flowerbeds launch their contents skyward. A tree nearby begins to moo like a cow. First-years scatter. You spot one poor Slytherin girl get absolutely bodied by a rogue jet of foam, which sends her skidding across the wet stone with a shriek.

And you?

You’re drenched. Covered in what smells distinctly like cherry-flavoured soap and glitter. Your scrolls are ruined. Your hair sticks to your forehead. A glob of pink bubbles drips from your left eyebrow into your eye, and it stings.

Mary coughs violently. Dorcas is doubled over, wiping foam out of her mouth. Lily looks like she might start setting people on fire.

And just when you think it couldn’t get worse—someone bursts into tears.

A whole group of first-years huddle near the corridor entrance, some of them crying, others shaking and soaked through. One boy is trying to wring out his bag, which is frothing like a cauldron gone wrong.

That’s when you see them.

James, Sirius, Peter and Remus, standing at the top of the courtyard steps like the gods of mischief themselves, admiring their handiwork. James is laughing. Doubling over with it. Sirius grins behind his hand, not quite as loud but no less smug. Even Remus has a reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though he looks slightly apologetic when his gaze lands on the crying first-years.

But James? He lives for this.

He catches sight of you all below and grins wider, leaning on the bannister like a conquering hero. “You’re welcome!” he shouts, arms wide, as though he’s done the school a bloody favour.

And that’s Lily’s last straw.

You don’t even get the chance to stop her. One second she’s storming forward, and the next she’s standing toe-to-toe with James Potter, fire in her eyes, her wet robes whipping around her ankles like war banners.

“You complete, arrogant, idiotic—”

James’ smirk falters.

“Oh come on, Evans, it was funny! Just a bit of spring chaos. We’re making memories!”

“Memories? You’re lucky you didn’t traumatise those poor first-years! Do you have any idea how many people you’ve covered in Merlin-knows-what? Or if someone sprains an ankle from slipping on your ridiculous glitter spell?!”

James opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at his friends, then back at Lily. And tries again with a laugh.

“It was just a bit of fun—”

The slap echoes.

You swear the whole courtyard goes silent.

It’s not violent, exactly. But it’s loud. Sharp. Final. James recoils more from shock than pain, hand flying to his cheek where the skin is rapidly turning red. He stares at Lily, wide-eyed, like he’s just seen something completely impossible.

Lily doesn’t wait for a reaction. She turns on her heel and marches away, spine stiff with rage.

You and the girls scramble after her, slipping and squelching through the aftermath. Marlene grabs your wrist before you can get too far.

“Wait.”

“What? We have to catch Lily—”

“No, look,” she hisses, pulling you back a few steps. “James.”

You turn.

James is still standing in place, dazed, fingers grazing his cheek.

But that’s not what Marlene’s pointing at.

You follow her gaze to the spot just beneath his eye. The place you and everyone else at Hogwarts has seen marked for years. The pale, milky-white handprint that always curved over his cheek like a ghost of affection, a sign from the universe that someone, somewhere, would one day hold his face with love.

It’s gone.

Completely.

Not faded. Not lightened. Just—vanished.

Your heart stops. Marlene inhales sharply.

“Oh no.”

Your mouth goes dry. You glance past her, back at the boys.

James is still frozen, his hand touching the cheek Lily slapped. There’s a dazed look in his eyes, like he’s been thrown out of orbit. Sirius is watching him with narrowed eyes, the ghost of a smile dying on his lips.

You feel a chill settle in your spine.

Because if Marlene’s right—if James’ soulmate mark has vanished—then that means...

“Bloody hell,” you breathe. “He was right.”

Marlene nods grimly. “We can’t let her find out like this.”

But it’s too late. Lily’s already disappeared into the castle, trailed by Dorcas and Mary, soaked and furious. And now you have to run after her. You have to get there before the realisation does.

You shove past Sirius’ shoulder as you go.

Deliberate. Sharp.

It’s not just anger. It’s disgust. You don’t even give him a word. Just that one hard nudge as you pass, an unspoken “You’ve crossed the line.”

He flinches.

Not because of the shove—Sirius Black isn’t afraid of a little contact—but because he feels it. The judgement. The disappointment. The thing he’s been trying to outrun since he realised he might not be better than the people who raised him.

You don’t look back.

You sprint through the castle corridors, foam drying on your skin, your clothes damp and clinging. The halls are still buzzing with the aftermath of the prank—students yelling, teachers trying to regain order, enchanted trees mooing somewhere in the distance.

You find Lily inside the girls’ bathroom, gripping the edge of a sink like she’s trying to hold herself together.

Her shoulders shake.

You slow to a walk.

Mary’s rubbing her back. Dorcas is pacing. No one knows what to say.

“She slapped him,” Dorcas says under her breath, half in awe.

“She bloody well should have,” you snap.

Lily looks up.

“Was it too far?” she asks. Her voice is fragile in a way you rarely hear. Like she’s trying to justify herself to the universe.

“No,” you say gently. “He deserved it.”

And it’s true.

You believe in soulmates. You believe in the magic of it—the wonder. But even magic doesn’t excuse cruelty. James Potter can be charming, and brave, and infuriatingly loyal, but today? Today he crossed a line. And you’re not going to let Lily think she was wrong for calling him out.

She nods, swiping a hand under her eyes.

“I just—I’m so tired of him thinking the world revolves around him. Like we’re all just extras in the James Potter show. And I know he thinks I��m his soulmate, but that doesn’t give him the right to treat people like that. Especially not you lot.”

You hesitate.

You glance at Marlene. She gives you a grim little nod.

“Lil...” you start.

She freezes.

“Don’t,” she says.

You flinch. “Lily—”

“Don’t,” she says again, firmer this time. “Don’t say it.”

You fall silent.

Because she knows. Of course she knows. The way James looked at her after the slap, like he’d just had something knocked out of him. The stark paleness of her palm.

She knows.

And you know what that means for her.

Lily Evans has spent the last five years being hunted by the boy who swears she’s destined for him. She’s spent every term, every class, every common room hour pushing back. Standing her ground. And now... the universe is laughing in her face.

She clutches the edge of the sink again, knuckles white.

“No,” she says. “I won’t let it be true.”

Mary reaches for her. “Lily—”

“No. I don’t care if the mark’s gone. I don’t care if he’s supposed to be my other half. He’s selfish, and he’s arrogant, and he doesn’t listen. That isn’t what I want in a soulmate. That isn’t what I deserve.”

None of you argue.

Because she’s right.

James Potter may be her soulmate. But that doesn’t mean he’s ready to be.

—

The dormitory is quiet, in that awful way that happens when something big has happened—something wrong. James lies curled on his bed, the heavy velvet hangings pulled back for once, as if no one quite has the heart to close him off from the rest of them. His shirt is wrinkled, glasses abandoned on his dresser, and he hasn’t said anything in over an hour. Not since he’d stammered his way through the story, not since he showed them the now-unmarked skin of his cheek and murmured, “It’s gone.”

And it is. Gone.

There’s nothing left on his face. Not even a faint outline or shadow. Just smooth skin, still red from Lily’s slap. There’s no magic glow, no dramatic fanfare—just absence. That was the moment, and it’s over.

James stares at the ceiling as though he can find answers in the wooden beams above.

Remus sits nearby, his Transfiguration book forgotten in his lap, watching him with silent worry. Peter’s perched awkwardly at the edge of his own bed, fidgeting with the sleeve of his pyjama top. Sirius hasn’t even changed yet, which is strange in itself. He’s still in his robes, arms crossed, leaning against the bedpost like he’s afraid if he sits down it’ll make the whole thing too real.

“She slapped me,” James says at last, his voice hollow.

No one replies. What could they possibly say?

“I thought—I always thought it would be different. Like... I thought she’d kiss me, maybe. Or—bloody hell, even hug me. I’ve imagined it so many times. My soulmate mark disappearing while she’s holding my face—like in the books, yeah? All romantic. She’d look at me and know.” He lets out a short, bitter laugh. “But no. She slapped me. She hated me in that moment. That’s what the mark was all along. A physical reminder that my soulmate despises my existence.”

Sirius shifts his weight, looking down at the floor.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Remus says gently. “She was angry. There’s a difference.”

James doesn’t answer. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and takes a shaky breath, but it comes out wrong—hitching, like he’s holding something back and failing.

“I was right,” he says, voice cracking. “All this time. Everyone told me I was wrong, that I was being delusional, but I was right. She’s my soulmate.”

“And now you’re miserable about it,” Peter mutters.

James lets out a choked sound that might be a laugh or a sob or both. “Because she didn’t want to be. Not like that. She touched me for the first time because she was furious. That’s not... that’s not what it’s supposed to be.”

Sirius finally sits. Slowly. Quietly.

He wants to say something. But what? That he understands? That he’s sorry? He doesn’t know what comfort would even look like in a moment like this. He’s spent so long chasing the idea of soulmates, of finding someone who would make everything else make sense, and now that it’s actually happened to James—look at him.

He’s shattered.

Remus slides closer to James and places a hand on his shoulder. “Just because that was the first touch, doesn’t mean it’s the one that defines you both forever,”

James looks at him like he wants to believe that. Like he’s desperate to hold onto something, anything, but the shock is still too fresh.

“I need to lie down,” he mutters, and he does—curling onto his side, facing the wall, his breath uneven. The boys don’t speak after that. The air is heavy, like someone’s cast a silencing charm that chokes instead of quiets.

He cries. Quietly, at first. Then with broken little sounds he tries to smother with his pillow. Until eventually, there’s nothing left in him. He just wilts, tension draining out of his limbs, and within half an hour, he’s asleep—face still blotchy, fists still clenched.

They don’t close his bed curtains.

Remus takes the book off his lap and folds it closed with a sigh. “This is all... bloody grim,” he mutters.

Peter nods. “I didn’t think it would hurt when someone found their soulmate,”

“It doesn’t,” Sirius says, his voice hoarse. “It shouldn’t,”

He stands slowly. Pulls his wand and begins to unfasten the enchanted buttons on his robes, too tired for anything else.

Peter looks up, and the moment Sirius pulls his shirt off, there’s a gasp.

Loud. Audible. Shocked.

Sirius freezes.

Remus sits bolt upright. “What?”

Peter’s eyes are wide. “It’s gone,” he says. “Sirius—your mark. It’s gone.”

Sirius turns to the mirror near his bed so fast it rattles.

And... it is.

The smear that had haunted his shoulder for his entire life—like ink spilled across parchment—is gone. Completely. Clean skin where for seventeen years there had been a swirling mess of fate.

His mouth goes dry.

“No—no, no, no—”

He twists, trying to see if maybe it’s an illusion, or if the mark’s somehow moved, but it hasn’t. It’s not there. Not anymore.

He met them. His soulmate. And he didn’t even know.

He stumbles back from the mirror, breathing fast. “Who—who—?”

But even as he says it, the memory flashes. Hard and hot.

Your shoulder hitting his as you shoved past him on your way to follow Lily. The disgust in your eyes. The sharp tension in your jaw. You hadn’t said a word. But you’d touched him.

And now the mark is gone.

Sirius stumbles backward and sinks onto the edge of his bed.

“Oh, Merlin,” he whispers. “No. No, no, no.”

Peter is watching him with wide eyes. “You never touched her before?”

“I didn’t know!” Sirius snaps. “I didn’t even realise it was you! I mean—her. You know who I mean. I am stressed.”

Remus is still sitting stiff-backed on James’ bed, but his attention has fully shifted. “You’re sure it was her?”

“She shoved me,” Sirius mutters, staring at his shoulder like he could magic the mark back into existence through sheer willpower. “Right after Lily slapped James. Just... barged past me like I was nothing. But she touched me.”

“And you didn’t feel anything?”

“Not at the time.”

“...Do you now?”

Sirius goes quiet. Slowly, he places a hand over his shoulder—over the empty spot where the mark used to be.

It’s warm. But not from contact. From within. A lingering hum of magic, like the echo of something once powerful now stilled. Or maybe it’s just his internal body temperature. He really doesn’t know right now.

“No*,*” he murmurs. “Maybe? I don’t know—”

Peter clears his throat. “Well... you found your soulmate. That’s supposed to be good, right?”

Sirius laughs—short and bitter. “She hates me.”

Peter winces. “Oh.”

“I mean, she doesn’t slap me in public, but she’s made it perfectly clear what she thinks of me and the rest of us.”

Remus leans forward, elbows on knees. “Maybe it’s not what you think,”

“She shoved me, Moony. Deliberately. It wasn’t a stumble, it was on purpose. And she looked at me like I was filth.”

Remus opens his mouth, then closes it.

The dorm is quiet again. Only the soft rhythm of James’ breathing breaks the silence.

Sirius rests his head in his hands.

“I’ve spent my entire life waiting for this,” he whispers. “All the rubbish my family taught me, all the coldness and cruelty—I thought if I could just find my soulmate, it would all be worth it. That I’d finally get to have something real.”

Remus moves to sit beside him.

“But it’s not like I imagined,” Sirius says. “She doesn’t want me. She doesn’t even like me. And I didn’t even know it was her. How could I not know? Isn’t that the whole point of soulmates? That you just... feel it?”

Remus is quiet for a long moment.

“I think,” he says eventually, “soulmates aren’t about one moment. They’re about choosing. About what you do with the bond once it’s formed. Fate puts you in each other’s paths. It doesn’t promise it’ll be easy,”

“I wanted it to be easy,” Sirius admits. “I needed it to be,”

Peter lies back on his bed, eyes on the ceiling. “So did James,”

Sirius glances over at James’ sleeping form—his face slack, the traces of dried tears still visible in the soft light from the window. And suddenly, Sirius feels sick.

They’d both spent so long believing that soulmates would fix everything.

But what if they don’t?

What if the person you’re meant for doesn’t want you back? What if you’re not who they want?

Sirius doesn’t sleep that night. None of them really do.

The dormitory stays dim and heavy, thick with unanswered questions.

—

You don’t realise anything’s changed until you peel off your shirt in the showers that night.

The steam clouds the mirror, thick and cloying, but your reflection is still visible through the condensation. You’re barely paying attention—too wrapped up in the tangle of emotion and disaster that had been the day. You’d barely managed to get Lily back to the dormitory before she’d started crying, silent and furious and heartbroken all at once, like she couldn’t figure out where the anger ended and the betrayal began.

You’d held her hand. Rubbed slow circles on her back. Said all the right things, and meant them.

You’re still thinking about her—about the look on her face when she’d slapped James, the silence that followed—when you glance in the mirror and see it.

Or rather, you don’t see it.

You freeze.

Your towel drops slightly, caught on your elbow as your hand lifts on instinct, fingers brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. Your breath hitches.

Because the mark is gone.

You stare. For a full five seconds, you try to convince yourself that maybe the steam’s playing tricks, that maybe it’s still there and you just can’t see it clearly, but no—your fingers sweep across smooth, warm skin. Nothing. No trace of the strange, smudged mark that’s been with you for as long as you can remember.

Gone. Just like that.

The only thing different today—the only moment it could have been—was in the courtyard, when you’d shoved past Sirius Black with all the venom you could muster and didn’t even look back.

You’d touched him.

Your stomach lurches.

No. No, no, no.

You grip the sink, knuckles whitening.

It can’t be.

Except, it clearly is.

You stand there for a long moment, half-naked and shaking slightly, trying not to spiral. Because if Sirius Black is your soulmate—Sirius Black, who’s been a menace since year one, who charms and pranks and flirts and smirks and acts like the world should kiss the ground he walks on—then what does that say about you?

Nothing. Not yet. This doesn't have to mean anything, not right now.

You inhale through your nose. Count slowly to four.

Then exhale. Focus.

This isn’t the time.

Lily needs you. Lily, who’s just had her own horrible soulmate revelation, whose best moment turned out to be her worst, who is currently lying on her bed pretending not to cry, refusing to talk to anyone but you.

You straighten up. Wipe the mirror with the corner of your towel. Look yourself in the eye.

Whatever’s happening with Sirius—whatever the universe just decided to dump on your lap—it can wait.

You have more important things to deal with.

—

When you return to the dorm, your hair still damp and sticking slightly to your cheeks, Lily’s lying on her side, facing the wall. Marlene and Mary have gone quiet, sitting together on the far bed, shooting you looks that speak volumes.

No one says it. No one has to.

They know too.

You can see it in the way Marlene’s gaze flicks to your shoulder, then back to your eyes. The way Mary’s lips purse like she’s holding something in.

You nod, barely perceptible. They understand. They don’t press.

You cross the room and settle on Lily’s bed without needing to ask. Her duvet rustles as she shifts slightly, and when you place a gentle hand on her shoulder, she doesn’t shrug you off.

That’s something, at least.

You sit in silence for a while. It’s not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Loaded.

Then she says, voice muffled and raw, “He laughed.”

You blink. “What?”

“When I slapped him,” she murmurs, turning slightly to glance at you. Her eyes are red-rimmed, lashes stuck together. “He laughed. I don’t think he meant to, but he did. Like it was funny. Like I was... like he didn’t even get it.”

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t think it was that.”

“Well, then what was it?” Her voice wobbles. “He’s always made it a joke, hasn’t he? Me. Us. His soulmate thing. Like I’m something he’s already won, just because some stupid magic says so.”

You squeeze her shoulder.

“I didn’t ask for this,” she whispers. “I didn’t want this.”

“I know,”

“I feel like he’s stolen something from me.”

You press your lips together. “He didn’t mean to,”

“That doesn’t change it.”

You don’t argue.

She sniffles, and you pass her the tissue you’d pocketed from the bathroom on instinct. She wipes her nose, then stares at the ceiling.

“What if this is it?” she asks. “What if this is who I’m meant to end up with?”

Your chest tightens.

“Then the universe has a really shit sense of humour,”

That earns a small laugh—barely there, but enough. Enough to let you breathe again.

“I don’t want to be bound to someone who doesn’t respect me,” she says. “Who thinks everything’s a game. I’m not just a puzzle to be solved.”

“I know,” you say again. “You’re allowed to be angry,”

Lily turns to you fully now, tucking her legs up under the blanket.

“Do you think soulmates are... inevitable?”

It takes a second before you answer.

“No. I think they’re possible. Not guaranteed. You still have to choose each other. Every day. Some people don’t. Some people can’t.”

She nods. “What would you do?”

You hesitate.

And she sees it. Sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. “Wait. You’re not—?”

You swallow.

“I found out in the shower,”

“Who?”

You don’t answer immediately.

She sits up straighter, frowning. “Who?”

“Sirius.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, “Oh no.”

“Yeah.”

She flops back against the pillows. “You’re joking,”

“I wish,”

She groans into the duvet, hands over her face. “This is cursed. This whole week is cursed.”

“I know,”

“And you touched him?”

“I didn’t know, I shoved him—”

“Still counts,” she mutters.

You sigh, tipping your head back to stare at the canopy above. “This is my nightmare.”

Lily peeks through her fingers. “Does he know?”

“Probably. If his mark disappeared,”

“Bloody hell.”

You nod. “Yeah,”

There’s a pause.

Then: “Do you think he’ll say something?”

You snort. “It’s Sirius. He’ll probably write a speech,”

Lily doesn’t laugh. Not quite. But her mouth quirks in a way that feels close.

She lies back beside you and you both stare at the ceiling for a while.

The air between you settles. Still heavy, but softer somehow. Shared.

You don’t talk about the future. Or what comes next. Or what you’re supposed to do now that your entire understanding of the world has shifted in a single day.

You just are. Together. Grounded in the now.

And for tonight, that’s enough.

—

It’s weeks.

Weeks of sidelong glances and awkward tension, of group projects rearranged so the Marauders don’t have to work with you lot, of meals taken at opposite ends of the Great Hall, and corridors that somehow feel colder when you pass Sirius Black without a word.

You don’t speak. Neither of you does.

But you look.

More often than you mean to, probably. He’s always there—hovering in your periphery, just beyond the safe reach of indifference. And sometimes, when you do catch his eye across the classroom, across the courtyard, across the common room—your heart stutters. Not romantically. Not even longingly.

Just... confusedly.

Like your body knows something you haven’t given your mind permission to explore.

You haven’t let yourself dwell on it. Not properly. Every time your thoughts edge toward him—toward what it means, toward what it could mean—you feel like you might actually be sick. The whole situation knots your stomach. So you shut it out. Bury it beneath essays and exam prep and Lily’s slow process of healing. You focus on her. On your friends. On anything else.

But Sirius?

He thinks about it.

Constantly.

He obsesses, really.

At first, he doesn’t know why you haven’t said anything. He waits for a confrontation. An insult. A blow-up. Something. But it never comes. You just look through him like he’s a smudge on glass—visible but irrelevant.

So he convinces himself you’re disappointed. Of course you are. He’s a bloody wreck of a person. What kind of soulmate is he supposed to be? The one who hexed half the school for fun and made first years cry in the courtyard? The one who chased flirtation like it was a sport and never stuck around for anything real?

He’s not soulmate material. Not the kind you’d want, anyway.

So he watches you. Quietly. Miserably.

You, meanwhile, do a spectacular job of pretending none of this is happening.

Until, finally—finally—he cracks.

—

You’re walking alone to the library after dinner—quill case tucked under one arm, satchel banging against your hip—and Sirius intercepts you at the stairwell.

He doesn’t say anything straight away. Just blocks the path with one foot planted on the top step, the other resting two steps below.

You eye him, unimpressed. “Can I help you?”

He swallows. Runs a hand through his hair. It’s messier than usual. Less styled.

“We need to talk,” he says.

You glance past him. “I don’t have time—”

“I’m not trying to pick a fight,” he interrupts. “I swear. Just—listen for a second. Please.”

You fold your arms. “Fine. Talk.”

Sirius exhales. “I know you know,”

Your stomach clenches. But your face remains carefully blank.

“I know your mark’s gone,” he continues. “Mine is too. I saw it the night James’ disappeared. And you... you shoved me that day. I felt it.”

You stare at him. Unmoving. Silent.

“So,” he says. “We should probably have a conversation about what comes next,”

A bitter laugh escapes before you can help it.

“What comes next?” you repeat.

“Yes. I mean—if we’re soulmates—”

“If?” you cut in, raising an eyebrow.

He falters. “I meant... since.”

You shake your head. “No. See, this is exactly the problem. You think just because we’ve got some magical cosmic tattoo situation that suddenly we’re meant to be.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Yes, it is,” you snap. “That’s what you’ve always believed, isn’t it? That it would be this grand, perfect thing. That you’d meet your soulmate and everything would just fall into place.”

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

You press on.

“Well, I don’t believe that,” you say. “Because just because someone’s your soulmate doesn’t mean they’re right for you. It doesn’t mean they deserve you. And it definitely doesn’t mean you’re obligated to like them.”

Sirius flinches.

You cross your arms tighter over your chest. “And I don’t like you, Sirius.”

The words hang in the air between you. Thicker than fog. Sharper than broken glass.

He stares at you.

You expect him to be angry. To scoff or sneer or shrug you off.

But he just... looks hurt.

Not dramatic. Not performative. Just gutted.

It’s the quiet that does it. The way his shoulders fold in slightly, like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. Like something’s come loose inside his chest.

He drops his gaze. “Right,” he says, softly. “Yeah. Okay.”

You hate how your chest aches at the sight of him. Hate the part of you that wants to apologise, to take the edge off your words, to explain that it’s not really about him, but more about what he represents—the expectations, the fate, the lack of choice.

But you don’t.

Because it is about him. At least partly.

You step around him. “There’s nothing else to say.”

And you leave him standing there, alone on the stairs.

—

He doesn’t sleep that night.

He lies awake in the dormitory, staring at the canopy, James’ soft snores filling the space between the beds.

He replays your words over and over, like a record stuck in a skip.

I don’t like you, Sirius.

He’d spent years searching. Desperate. Starved for the connection his family denied. He thought finding his soulmate would fix him. Would make it all make sense.

But you want nothing to do with him.

And maybe that’s fair.

Maybe he doesn’t deserve it.

But for the first time in a long time, Sirius doesn’t wallow in that thought. He doesn’t spiral, or storm out, or pick a fight with someone just to feel something.

He makes a decision.

He’s going to prove himself.

If you don’t like him, he’ll become someone worth liking.

Not for the mark. Not because fate says so.

But because he wants to.

Because you’re brilliant. Because you didn’t fall over yourself at the thought of being soul-bound to him. Because you called him out. Because you see him, even when you wish you didn’t.

And because something in his chest—something ancient and aching—still hopes.

He’s going to show you he can be better.

He’s going to earn it.

— part two.

#sirius black x reader #fic rec

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clairecrive · 1 month ago

Text

thank you so much for including (and enjoying) my work! ✨

april & may '25 .•*:。✩

my personal favorites have a ✩

☾ bucky barnes

5 times you are not dating bucky barnes ( @mrs-elsie-barnes )

☾ mattheo riddle

✩ party on you, part of you knew ( @cipheress-to-k-pop ) this is literally so good. absolutely devastating in the best ways possible. and it's by one of my favorite writers on here!! obsessed ( @wbellab )

☾ nikolai lantsov

in emerald hearts, emerald minds ( @undiscovered-horizon ) who am i to complain (↑) ✩ young royals ( @clairecrive )

#means the world to me

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clairecrive · 2 months ago

Text

You Kiss Like You Drive

pairing - sirius black x fem!reader

request - "hiiii! i love your writing so much. Could you do a Sirius Black x reader Formula 1 AU enemies to lovers, like where they're rivals and then idk something happens and it's kinda spicy??? it's okay if that's too complicated lol"

warnings - formula 1 au, rivalry, teasing, some sexism, slightly suggestive at the end I guess, probably super unrealistic and lots of terminology used wrong because I don't know a lot about f1 (my dad came in clutch answering all my questions tho)

a/n - sooooo, look who finally managed to finish something and not completely hate it into deleting it. a little surprising that this request from—hold on, let me check my notes—april 2024 was the one getting me out of my writing slump, but I'm not complaining. to the person who requested this, I'm so sorry it took me this long. hopefully you'll still see this.

wordcount - 3.7k

You’re halfway into your suit when Sirius leans on the front wing of the car like it belongs to him. Arms folded. Knees hitched a little. Sunglasses on, even though you’re inside and the lights in the garage are a bit too yellow to justify them.

“You gonna stand there all day or are you waiting for applause?” you ask, tugging at the zip.

He glances up lazily. “Just wanted to offer the pleasure of my company, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

He pushes off the wing with a little theatrical stretch. “Sure thing, darling.”

You don’t dignify that with a response, just pull your sleeves up and fasten the Velcro at your collar. The fabric’s a bit scratchy from too many washes. Or maybe that’s just your nerves. Practice doesn’t usually rattle you—but he does, Sirius Black, Grimstar GP’s golden boy, always half-smiling like he knows something you don’t, always one foot over the line, and not just on the track.

“How’s the balance?” you ask flatly, brushing past him toward the gloves on the table.

He follows, too close. “Twitchy in the rear. Bit like you.”

“You’re obsessed with my rear.”

“That’s not a denial.”

You throw him a glare over your shoulder. “Tires?”

“Softs. Didn’t last long, but then—” he flashes her a grin, all charm and sharp teeth— “neither do you.”

You smile. Dangerous, all teeth. “You talk a lot for someone I out-qualified two races in a row.”

“And yet I’ve got the better lap record on this circuit. You remember Silverstone, don’t you?”

“Of course. I was watching from the pit wall when you binned it into the barriers at Copse.”

He hums, unbothered. “Showmanship.”

“Lack of grip.”

Sirius tilts his head toward you, voice dropping just slightly. “Lack of fear.”

You hate that he says things like that, low and quiet, like you’re having a real conversation. Like there’s something genuine hiding under the bravado. You hate even more that he gets this close and you don’t step away.

You pull on one glove, slow and precise. “Your telemetry says otherwise. You lift in Maggots like a coward.”

His eyebrows go up. “Reading my telemetry now? That’s cute.”

You pull the other glove on with a sharp tug. “Someone has to make sense of the mess you leave behind.”

“I thought you liked my mess.”

“I like beating it.”

Sirius chuckles, brushing past you again, close enough that his elbow grazes the material of the suit covering your ribs. He smells like expensive cologne and heat, like engine oil and cockiness. You hate that too.

He stops by the nose of the car, crouching just slightly to inspect something. You watch him from the side, his long fingers brushing the carbon fibre of the front wing, featherlight.

“You know,” he says, not looking up, “I think you’ve got a little crush on me.”

You blink, once. “Excuse me?”

“Just saying. All that attention. All that sharp little commentary.” He stands again, slow. “You’re obsessed.”

A laugh breaks from your lips, disbelieving. “You’re deranged.”

“You’re pink in the face.”

“I’m boiling alive in Nomex.”

Sirius tilts his head. His smile softens—not smug, not teasing, just something else. Amused. Knowing. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, new girl.”

It makes you stiffen. There it is. New girl.

“You keep calling me that,” you say, voice tight, “like it bothers me.”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t have to bother you. Just has to remind you.”

“Remind me of what?”

He leans in slightly, speaking over the sound of engines starting up down the row. “That you’re still catching up.”

You open your mouth, breath caught sharp in your chest, but before you can answer, someone waves you toward the car—crew ready, engine primed. Sirius steps back just enough to let you through, but not without one last comment, delivered like a whisper against the roar of tires and machines:

“Try not to chase me too hard. Wouldn’t want you overheating again.”

You slide into the cockpit with your jaw tight and a fast pulse in your throat. As the wheel clicks into place and the halo closes over you, you can still hear him laughing on the other side of the garage.

You’re going to ruin him on track.

You hope. God, you hope.

.・。.・゜✭・.

The engine’s roar fills the cockpit as you accelerate down the pit straight, the Grimstar GP logo shimmering on the side of your car. You hit the throttle hard, feeling the familiar rush of power as the asphalt blurs beneath you. Just behind you, Sirius Black’s car—sleek, confident—cuts the air with a taunting ease.

“Sector one’s clean,” James’ voice crackles through your earpiece. “Keep that pace through the Esses.”

You push the wheel to the right, the car sliding just slightly as you take the first corner, teeth gritted against the twitch beneath your hands. Then the sharp ping of Sirius’ voice breaks in.

“Careful, rookie. Wouldn’t want to lose it before we’ve really started.” His tone is light but sharp, just enough to get under your skin.

You smirk despite yourself. “You talking to me, Black? Or the ghost in your mirrors?”

There’s a pause, the sound of tires brushing against tarmac, before he fires back. “Both. But mostly you. You’re slower than you think.”

“Funny,” you say, biting back, “I was just about to say the same. I’m just warming up.”

Remus sighs, the sound low but amused on the comms. “Focus, both of you.”

A chuckle from Mary cuts through. “Got a live stream going, and honestly, this rivalry? Pure gold for Grimstar’s PR.”

Lily’s voice follows, mildly exasperated. “Don’t encourage them, Mary.”

You take the next corner with surgical precision, feeling the car settle as you race against the clock and Sirius’ mocking words. The radio crackles again.

“You’re pushing too hard into Stowe. Tire wear’s going to bite you if you don’t back off.”

“Thanks for the advice, Black,” you snap. “Says the guy who ran wide last lap.”

“Touché,” Sirius admits with a laugh you can almost hear.

You press on, weaving through the track’s unforgiving curves. Sirius is right there, pushing you, but never quite close enough to overtake.

“Your brake balance’s off,” Remus says quickly. “Adjust it two clicks rearward.”

You twist the knob mid-corner, feeling the car respond instantly. Sirius’ voice cuts in again, playful but challenging.

“Nice fix. Almost had me worried for a second.”

You bite back a grin. “Keep talking, maybe you’ll spook yourself into a spin.”

“Not before I see you eat my dust.”

The radio goes silent except for the steady rhythm of your engines. You catch a glimpse of Sirius behind you again, then the gap closes, then widens.

Peter’s voice breaks the tension. “Okay, no crashes yet. Let’s keep it that way, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sirius says. “I’m playing nice—for now.”

.・。.・゜✭・.

Back in the garage, the roar of engines fades behind the hiss of cooling systems and chatter of mechanics packing away tools. You pull off your helmet, hair damp and sticking to your forehead, and lean against the pit wall, letting out a long breath.

Remus appears beside you, clipboard in hand, eyes still sharp despite the long day. Marlene’s already wiping down Sirius’ car, shooting you a sideways grin as she passes.

You scowl. “Black’s insufferable out there. Like he’s got some personal vendetta against me or something.”

Remus raises an eyebrow, watching you with that calm, steady look of his. “You sound like you gave him exactly what he wanted.”

“I did not.” You cross your arms. “I kept my cool.”

Marlene snorts, coming to lean next to you. “Yeah, sure you did. Heard you snapping back at him on the radio plenty of times.”

“I was handling it,” you insist, but there’s a twitch of a smile at the corner of your mouth.

Remus smirks. “Handling it or enjoying the fight?”

You shift on your feet, not quite meeting their eyes. “I hate that he gets under my skin.”

Marlene chuckles, nudging you lightly. “I fear you secretly like it.”

“Please,” you say, trying to sound indignant but failing.

Remus chuckles softly. “We all know you don’t hate it, not really. Otherwise, you wouldn’t keep letting him get to you.”

You glare, but the warmth in their smiles makes you relax just a little. Marlene ruffles your hair. “Admit it. You’re hooked.”

You shove her hand away, laughing. “Not hooked. Just… competitive.”

.・。.・゜✭・.

Lap 36. You’re running first. Sirius in second, chasing hard.

“Gap to P1 is 1.4 seconds,” Remus says over the comms, calm and steady. “You’re faster in sector two, keep it clean.”

You press harder, chasing the apex. The world narrows to tyres, tarmac, and static crackle in your ears.

Then: click.

“Move it, sweetheart.”

Black.

You scowl, biting your tongue as you flick through your gears.

“I’m not in your way.”

“You’re always in my way.”

“Then you’d think you’d be better at getting past me by now.”

He laughs, crackling in your ear. “Don’t flatter yourself. You brake like you’re afraid of the car.”

You take the next corner hard, kissing the kerb. “I brake like someone who finishes races.”

“Ouch,” James cuts in, low and amused from the pit wall. “We keeping this professional, kids, or should we dim the lights?”

“Tell your golden boy to focus,” you snap.

“I am focused,” Sirius says. “I’m focused on how good your rear wing looks from back here.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, adjusting your line to take the hairpin wider, defensive. You can feel him closing. You can feel it — heat in your mirrors, like his smirk is actually materialising behind you.

“You get this feisty with everyone you can’t shake off, or just me?” he asks, a little lower now, smoother.

“Don’t make me slow down just to ruin your front wing,” you say, though your pulse is rabbit-quick and your grip on the wheel too tight.

Peter comes in over the radio, tone clipped. “Energy mode three, recharge after this straight. Sirius, stay in tow if you want DRS.”

“Copy,” Sirius says, but he’s back in your ear half a second later. “Not sure I want DRS. You swerving all over the place like that. What’s wrong — nervous I’m catching up?”

You slam through the chicane, aggressive. “I’m not swerving. I’m defending. There’s a difference.”

“You keep whispering like that and I’m gonna think you like me breathing down your neck.”

Your engine screams through the straight. Your tyres kiss the edge of the track and Remus’ voice is calm in your ear, “He’s going to look for the inside on the next corner. Don’t give it to him.”

“Oh, I won’t,” you mutter.

You brake late — too late, almost — diving into the corner and squeezing Sirius out wide, forcing him to lift or lose his wing.

Static. Then: “You little—”

“Say thank you, Black.”

“For what?” he snaps.

“For the front row seat. Hope you enjoy the view.”

James barks a laugh over comms. “Alright, alright, both of you — bring it home in one piece, please.”

The laps fall away. He tries again. You block again. He’s better on the straights, you’re sharper in the corners, and every time he gets close enough to lunge, you meet him with teeth bared.

Last lap. You’re still ahead. And you’ve never wanted to win anything more.

“Still here?” he asks, breathless.

“Still behind,” you say.

He laughs, and it sounds real. Almost proud. “Yeah. You’re annoying when you’re fast.”

“You’re annoying when I’m anything.”

You cross the line half a second ahead of him. First place. The checkered flag waving like salvation.

Your hands shake around the wheel. Remus is in your ear, cool and composed. “P1. That’s a win. Breathe.”

Sirius crackles through, breathless and wry. “Nice race, darling.”

You grin despite yourself, heart pounding. “Thanks. I’ll make sure to wave next time I lap you.”

.・。.・゜✭・.

The media pen is loud — always loud. Mics in faces, cameras clicking like insects, the scent of sweat and champagne heavy in the air. You’ve barely stepped off the podium, still half-buzzing from the win and the adrenaline crash after.

Sirius stands beside you, visor up, hair wild, black race suit unzipped to his waist. Of course, he’s glowing. P2 and smug about it. Always smug.

A reporter from TrackLine TV flags you both down — tall, overdressed, and grinning like he’s walked into a dream. You recognize him. Everyone does. Harry Digby. Always a bit too smooth, always just on the wrong side of professional.

“Champ!” he says to Sirius, shoving the mic toward him. “Phenomenal drive out there. You nearly had it — just a hair away. Think you would’ve nailed it if you weren’t caught behind...?” He turns to you, smile razor-sharp. “Well, her?”

Sirius doesn’t bite. Just hums, tongue in cheek. “She drove a hell of a race. Deserved the win.”

You nod, cool. “Thanks.”

But Digby doesn’t look at you. Still angled toward Sirius. “Right, but let’s be honest — you’re the real draw, aren’t you? Fan favourite, fastest laps, charisma.” He laughs. “I mean, not to discredit the win, of course,” he adds, finally turning to you. “It’s just rare we see women holding off the charge like that. Must’ve been exhausting.”

You blink. “No more exhausting than holding off any other driver.”

“Oh, I’m sure, I’m sure,” he says, tone patronizing. “But it must be so emotional for you. Your first winning season? Tears under the helmet?”

You level him with a dry look. “If there were tears, they were probably from watching Black miss another overtake.”

That gets a laugh — even from Sirius. Digby chuckles, but it’s tight now. Forced.

“Right. Of course. But still,” he presses, “with your limited experience at this level, it’s got to be a lot to take in. Do you think you’re able to maintain this kind of pace? Or was today just... lightning in a bottle? It’s got to be difficult, with all those emotions stirring up, huh?”

You open your mouth, ready to snap back — but Sirius gets there first.

His voice is calm. Cold. Lethal.

“Do you ask the men that?”

Digby blinks. “Pardon?”

Sirius steps closer, eyes narrowed just slightly, half a smirk on his lips but nothing friendly in it. “You asked me about the car. About the strategy. About the race. You asked her if she cried and if she could ‘keep up.’ Sounds like you’re more interested in your assumptions than the driving.”

The air shifts. The other reporters pause — hungry for blood now, but silent.

“She won,” Sirius says, voice low and clear. “She outdrove the field. And me. So maybe start treating her like a racer instead of a novelty.”

Digby’s mouth flaps a bit. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah,” Sirius says, voice dry. “You never do.”

He turns, hand grazing your back — brief, grounding — and walks off.

You stand there for a beat, stunned. Not because you needed saving. But because he didn’t treat it like that. He just... had your back.

You look after him, heart still pounding — for reasons that have nothing to do with the race now.

You turn back to the cameras, meeting Lily’s gaze off to the side, sending you an encouraging nod.

“Any real questions?” you ask.

And for once, they listen.

.・。.・゜✭・.

The corridors of Grimstar GP are quiet now. Most of the crew’s cleared out, and the echo of post-race chaos has finally faded into the soft hum of vending machines and the low buzz of overhead lights.

You’re fresh out of the shower, hair damp, hoodie slung over your shoulders, still replaying the race in your head. Not the win — no, that part’s imprinted already. It’s him you can’t get out of your skull.

Sirius Black.

Your feet slow as you round the corner near the paddock offices — and speak of the devil.

He’s leaning against the wall just outside the driver lounge, a bottle of water in hand, half-zipped hoodie hanging open over a black tank top, hair messily tied back, still somehow managing to look like a magazine cover. He straightens when he sees you. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just watches you approach with that unreadable look of his.

You stop a few feet away, arms crossed. “What the hell was that today?”

He blinks. “You’ll have to be more specific. I did a lot of things today. Lost a race. Nearly clipped your rear wing. Looked good on camera. The usual.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Ah,” he says, leaning back against the wall again. “The press conference.”

You nod, eyes narrowing. “That.”

He shrugs. “Figured someone needed to say something.”

“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Black.”

“I know.”

His voice is so calm it throws you off. He pushes off the wall, steps toward you — not close enough to crowd, but enough to make the air shift between you.

“I know you don’t need me,” he says again, softer now. “You’re better at handling yourself than half the grid. But they’re not battles you should have to fight in the first place.”

You stare at him, jaw tight. “So what — you suddenly decided to play knight in shining Nomex?”

He snorts. “Hardly. I was just sick of hearing the same bullshit day in, day out. You win and they act like you stumbled into it. I lose and they still line up to kiss my boots. It’s pathetic.”

You shake your head, scoffing. “You’re full of it.”

“Am I?”

You step closer, anger flaring now, fingers tightening in the sleeves of your hoodie.

“You’ve been riding my ass since I joined this team,” you snap. “Needling me in meetings, over the radio, on track. All those little digs, all that smug superiority. Don’t act like you’re some kind of ally now. You’ve been giving me shit because I’m a girl and you couldn’t handle it.”

Sirius just stares at you for a second. And then, he laughs — short, low, utterly without malice.

“Oh, please,” he says, shaking his head. “You think I’ve been annoying because you’re a girl?”

You cross your arms, stubborn.

He steps closer again, voice dropping low.

“No. I’ve been annoying because you’re you. Because you walk in, all sharp angles and quicker lines, beating me by milliseconds and mouthing off like you’ve been here for years.” He leans in, just enough that you can see the shift in his expression — from amused to something else. “Me getting on your nerves has nothing to do with the fact you’re a girl who can wipe the floor with me — and everything to do with how stunning you look with your face all red and scrunched up when you’re yelling at me.”

Your breath catches. Just a little.

He’s close now. You should step back. You don’t.

Instead, you glare. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he murmurs, “here you are.”

Silence stretches between you, charged and crackling. His eyes flick from yours to your mouth and back, and your pulse kicks up in response — not from nerves, but from recognition.

Because you’ve wanted this. Maybe not in words, but in every tense moment, every overtake, every stare across the garage. Every time he made you want to scream.

You grab the front of his hoodie and kiss him first.

It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s heat and teeth, the rush of engine noise echoing in memory. Sirius kisses like he races — fast, reckless, all-in. His hands find your hips, pull you closer, your back thudding against the wall. You taste adrenaline and frustration and everything you’ve refused to admit.

His hands are firm on your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your hoodie like he can’t stand the barrier between you. You don't exactly mind the wall at your back — it gives you something to brace against when his mouth moves from yours to your jaw, grazing it with a smirk you feel more than see.

“You kiss like you drive,” you mutter, breath hitching as he trails down the curve of your neck. “All ego and no caution.”

He laughs, low and rough against your throat. “You love it.”

You do. God help you, you do.

Your hands find their way under his shirt, palms skimming up his ribs, warm skin beneath soft cotton. He shivers at your touch — not dramatic, just a subtle tightening of his grip, the shift of his hips against yours. You tilt your head back, giving him room, and he doesn’t waste the invitation. His teeth graze your collarbone, and your breath stutters hard enough you swear he feels it.

“This why you’ve been such a pain in my ass?” you ask, voice thin and sharp like static. “Flirting like a damn schoolboy with a crush?”

“Wasn’t flirting,” he murmurs. “Was trying to survive.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. They’re darker now, blown wide and hungry, but there’s a flicker of something else under it — something quieter, more honest.

“You drive me insane,” he says, like it’s the first time he’s said anything real all night. “Every lap, every look, every time you pass me and laugh in the comms. I swear to God, you get in my head like nothing else.”

You blink. For once, your mouth has no comeback.

Then Sirius is kissing you again — deeper now, slower. His hands travel up your back, pressing you closer, like he’s trying to memorize every inch between the high of the race and whatever this is turning into. One of your hands fists in his hair, tugging gently, just to feel the sound he makes in your mouth.

The air’s thick around you, sweat and shampoo and the warmth of something that feels dangerously close to want. Real want. Not the push-pull of rivalry, but the kind that simmers low in your stomach and makes you forget the rest of the world exists.

You’re half-drunk on it when he finally pulls back, just enough to catch his breath. His lips are red. Kiss-bitten. His thumb drags along your jaw, reverent in a way that makes your pulse jump again.

“This is going to complicate things,” you murmur.

Sirius shrugs, smiling like a devil. “Good.”

You snort despite yourself, resting your forehead against his.

Masterlist

Requesting Guidelines

#this was everything #the f1 in me is screaming #sirius black x reader

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clairecrive · 2 months ago

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It's always "it's a problem you sleep till the evening and don't fall asleep till morning" and "Why are you so pale and sickly looking?"

and never "yass go off Lord Byron" and "Percy Shelly core"

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clairecrive · 2 months ago

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Some Eddie fluff? Idk but I miss him.

“He’s been staring at you all fucking night.” Eddie groans, running his hand over his face for the fifth time at least.

You smirk at him as your eyes wander over to the guy in question. He was indeed staring, his blue eyes shining in the glow of the bonfire. He shoots a wink in your direction making you roll your eyes.

“Hargrove?” you giggle, your lighthearted tone making Eddie groan even louder.

“Yes, Hargrove. With his stupid muscles and his stupid tight jeans and his..”

“Eds.” you interrupt his rambling. His big brown eyes meet yours as you scoot even closer to him on the grass.

“Hm?”

“Not my type.” you whisper, leaning in to kiss his lips gently.

“No? What exactly is your type?” Eddie smiles, his perfect lips catching your attention.

“Mmm.. lanky, tatted, a little weird, a lot nerdy..”

“I’m not that nerdy..” he chuckles as his arm wraps around your waist. You snuggle in even closer smelling his cheap cologne along with his camel blues. Your favorite smell.

“Adorable, funny, big heart, even bigger di-”

“O-okay, alright sweetheart.” Eddie laughs, pulling you to the ground with him. You roll over, resting on your elbow.

“You, Eddie. It’s always gonna be you.” you hum, laying your head on his chest.

“I know baby, just wanted to hear you say it.” Eddie says softly, his strong arms pulling you in.

#my god I want thissss😭#eddie munson x reader

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clairecrive · 2 months ago

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Enchanted by you | E.M.

Warnings: hurt/comfort, slight angst, mostly fluff, mentions of reader being cheated on by her ex boyfriend, Eddie taking care of reader, happy ending

Pairing: Eddie Munson x female reader

Summary: Eddie finds you sitting on bench with tears rolling down your cheeks after your breakup with your boyfriend. He takes matters into his hands and takes care of you, making it one of the best nights of your life.

Word count: 3.4k+

It was a chilly summer night when you had talked to Eddie Munson for the first time. You had known him since middle school but between shy glances and small smiles, you have never really interacted with each other– not because you didn’t want to but because you were, well, too shy. You always wished that he would approach you but he never did, not until now.

You were sitting on some random park bench with tears rolling down your cheeks, hugging your waist tightly as you looked off into the distance. Your boyfriend had been avoiding you for weeks. You haven’t put much thought into why he was doing it, you thought that he was just busy with work but you didn’t expect him to be cheating on you– that he had been cheating on you for a long time now. You caught him when you came home earlier than you were supposed to, he was sleeping in bed with another girl in his arms, in the apartment you were supposed to move in with him now that you were finally back in Hawkins again. You broke up with him the same day.

You were heartbroken, shocked and confused. You loved him, he was your first love, your first boyfriend, your first everything– the one you planned a future with. You thought that you were happy together, that he was happy with you but obviously he wasn’t, he had already found someone better, someone he didn’t even bother hiding after you had broken up with him.

Tonight, you were supposed to have a girls night with Nancy but instead she and Robin had the brilliant idea to drag you to Tina’s party who was back in town as well after her trip to europe. After getting drunk on beer, you walked up the stairs, searching for a bathroom, instead you walked in on your now ex-boyfriend, undressing his new girl. You were caught off guard at first, you even apologized for disturbing the pair before you realized who you walked in on.

Eddie had seen you storming out of the house with an angry look on your face and tears rolling down your cheeks. He followed you out. When you took a seat on the bench, he gave you a moment to yourself before he decided to walk over to you. You didn’t see him coming, you were too busy crying and trying to calm your shakiness.

He looked around, taking a nervous breath before he stepped closer to you.

“Hey, uh– are you okay?”

Startled, you flinched at the sound of his voice, you looked up at him with wide eyes. A flustered expression took over your face and you quickly turned away to wipe your tears, “h-hi, yeah, I’m okay.”

You lied. He knew you did. He sighed as he sat down beside you, he took off his jacket when he noticed how much you were shivering.

“Here, you are shaking like a leaf.”

After doing your best to wipe away the streaks of mascara on your cheeks, you sniffled and looked back up at him.

Your eyes were glassy and a little puffy, your lips were set in a frown, you looked miserable and yet, you were still the most beautiful girl to him, just like you always were.

“No, you’re gonna be cold, Eddie.”

His heart fluttered and his eyes widened in surprise, he gaped at you. He wasn’t even sure if you would remember him in the first place, you both graduated four years ago and even then, you never really talked to each other, he wouldn’t have been surprised if you wouldn’t even remember or know his name, at all.

He shook his head, “I got a long sleeve on, it’s fine, please put it on,” he whispered and held his jacket out for you.

Eddie was practically a stranger, yet he was kinder than your boyfriend ever was. You don’t remember if he actually ever gave you his jacket. You pushed your arms through the sleeves and wrapped the jacket around you, embracing the warmth, “thank you,” you whispered.

He smiled at you and at the way you looked in his leather jacket. For a moment, neither of you spoke, you looked down, avoiding his eyes. If it were anyone else beside you, you would have probably jumped up and left but for some reason, he gave you an odd sense of comfort, one that felt familiar.

“So, you remember me?” He asked in curiosity after a few minutes of comfortable silence, pushing the sleeves of his shirt up.

Your eyes locked with his and your brows furrowed a little as your lips curled into a slight smile, “of course I remember you, you always held doors open for me and you always waved at me in the parking lot.”

He squinted his eyes and tilted his eyes as he began to smile, “you remember that?”

“Yeah,” you breathed. It was the highlight of your day, getting a smile and a cute little wave from Eddie Munson.

“Huh,” he mumbled and leaned back, staring at you, he noticed how much you have changed. Your hair has grown longer, your style has changed, you were still wearing your beloved dresses and skirts but it seemed as though you had found a new color palette, your clothes were darker now but it suited you. You have grown since your teenage years, you were always a sight for sore eyes but now you were just something else.

You have been away for a while, gone for college. He always looked out for you when he knew that Nancy was in town during breaks knowing that you were most likely here as well but he only ever saw you briefly, much to his dismay. Eddie had the biggest crush on you since middle school, one that somehow never left no matter how much time has passed. When he heard that you graduated college and were coming back to Hawkins, he couldn’t help but feel excited, only to feel disappointment rushing through him when he found out that you were still dating the same jock you have been with since high school.

He always hated him.

He hated the way he showed you off, the way he treated you like you were nothing but arm candy, the way he got to hold your hand, the way he got to have a piece of your heart. He hated that he had you.

“You’ve changed.”

Your voice pulled him out of his thoughts, raising his brows, he looked back into your eyes to find you staring at him.

“Me?” Eddie asked as he felt himself blushing.

You nodded, your eyes skipped over his face before they moved down to his neck, his shoulders that got much broader, his left arm adorned with more tattoos.

“You have more tattoos!” You exclaimed, trying to hide the fact that you were checking him out.

He chuckled a little, “yeah, got them done last year.”

“I love that one,” you said, pointing to the dragon.

“You do?” He asked, smiling as he watched you staring at his tattoos. You scooted closer to him to see them better. His heart fluttered in his chest when he smelled your sweet perfume.

“Yeah,” you whispered, “I always wanted one too– a tattoo I mean but I never knew what I wanted a-and Josh never liked tattoos on women,” you frowned after mentioning your boyfriend again.

Eddie rolled his eyes internally, he just added another reason to the list of why he should hate that man.

“Well, Josh shouldn’t have to say in what you do to your body, sweetheart.”

You placed your hands on your lap and looked back up at him, “no?”

“No.”

“But he was my boyfriend.”

Was.

He blinked, straightening up, he could already feel the joy rushing through him, “it’s still your body, you do whatever you want with it because it’s yours! You can go get tattoos– as many as you want! You can change your hair however you want, you can change your clothes, your whole life, you gotta do whatever you wanna do!”

A giggle fell from your lips, your eyes lit up as did his when he heard your cute laughter.

“You’ll still be the most metal girl out there!”

“Most metal?” You giggled again, blushing at his words.

“Hell yeah!” He grinned, “I always thought you were the coolest girl– still are, by the way.”

“Thanks,” you whispered, you played with your fingers nervously, “I always thought the same thing about you.”

His eyes widened again, his heart jumped in his chest and he stared at you for a moment. The girl he crushed on for years, even after not seeing her for years, felt the same way about him?

“Even when people called me a freak and whatnot?”

You frowned at his words and rolled your eyes, “they were assholes, you were never a freak– but hey, my friend, Jonathan. He always said ‘being a freak is the best’. All the other people are normal and boring, you aren’t, you’re cool, the best.”

Eddie was a little taken aback by your words, why did he take so long to talk to you? His gaze softened the longer he looked at you, your eyes were still glassy– what did he do to you?

“You’re a freak too then ‘cause you’re kinda the best too you know?” He smiled, “I remember when you dumped spaghetti over Jason’s head after he had said something mean to Henderson.”

You cupped your mouth as you laughed, “that was an impulsive decision,” you said.

He threw his head back in laughter, “that was the best decision!”

“I did it for you as well!” You blurted.

“What?”

Your cheeks heated up, “I-I did it for you. He said something mean about you.”

Eddie wasn’t sure what he was feeling, it was a mix of joy and comfort– you defended him?

“Really?” He asked as he calmed from his laughter, putting his arm on the back of the bench, he subtly scooted closer, “you did it for me?”

You nodded.

A soft smile appeared on his face, his heart fluttered for the millionth time tonight.

“See, you’re the best,” he whispered as he raised his hand towards your face, brushing away a single strand of hair behind your ear. He smiled to himself when you blushed. Cute.

“Who made you cry, pretty girl?”

The nickname made your stomach flutter. It was so new, yet it felt so familiar.

“I broke up with Josh,” you mumbled as your eyes welled up with tears again, “h-he cheated on me a-and now he’s with her, like we weren’t together for years.”

Eddie frowned at your words, sadness rushed through him for you and anger for him. How could he have you and choose someone else? How could he have the best thing and throw it away just like that?

“I saw him with her and it’s like, I never even mattered to him.”

Tears rolled down your cheeks and it made his heart hurt to see you like this. He wanted to go back inside the house, find him and punch him for breaking your heart but instead, he opened his arms for you to which you instantly let yourself fall into his embrace. Eddie hugged you tightly and rubbed your back softly.

You sniffled quietly and wrapped your arms around his waist.

“He’s the biggest idiot, sweetheart,” he whispered as he laid his cheek on the top of your head, “I can imagine how much it hurts you but you were way too good for him, he never even deserved you in the first place. He’s one of those boring assholes who take everything and everyone for granted. I always wondered what you were doing with someone like him.”

He heard your sniffles and it just made him want to punch him even more.

“He is gonna come crawling back and I’ll gladly kick his ass for you, sweetheart.”

“I’m gonna kick his ass too.”

“Yeah?” He smiled, “we can kick his ass together, how dare he hurt the most amazing girl?”

You pulled back a little, only far enough so you can see his face again. A gasp made it’s way up your throat when you realized just how close you were. His eyes were shining, flickering with something as he stared down at you.

“I’m not the most amazing girl.”

He frowned, “yes you are,” he whispered, “I think we should discuss that over a few milkshakes.”

Your eyes lit up and despite the tears in your eyes, you smiled, “really?”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, letting go of you, he already missed your body against his but he offered you his hand as he got up, “come on.”

You wiped your tears and stared into his eyes before you finally placed your hand in his.

“Let’s go, princess.”

“Let’s go,” you repeated after him, giggling.

Instead of spending the night at the diner, you and Eddie ended up driving up to the lookout, sitting in the back of his van, you were still wearing his jacket as you drank your strawberry milkshake and talked to him like it wasn’t the first time. Hours have passed and the night seemed nowhere near the end, you could sit here with him forever.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“Where’d you think I’d be?”

You shrugged, “thought you’d live your dream in Los Angeles, I always thought you would actually become a rockstar.”

Eddie’s eyes lit up and a grin formed on his face, “I’m flattered you think I’m good enough to be a rockstar.”

“You have an amazing voice and you're basically a guitar god with the way you move your fingers!”

Eddie couldn’t even help but smirk at your words, especially after seeing the flustered look on your face and the panicked look in your eyes.

“I-I mean, you move them so quickly– stop looking at me like that!”

He chuckled and ducked out of the way when you threw a fry at him, “where’s your mind at, sweetheart?”

You blushed even deeper, “where’s your mind at?”

“Not where yours is!” He chuckled, “but hey, thank you, I’m flattered, really.”

“You’re welcome, Eddie,” you smiled. “What happened to the band?”

“Oh, we’re still playing every Tuesday!”

“Really?”

“Yeah! You should come watch us play.”

“I will,” you smiled as you watched the way his eyes lit up.

“Cool,” he whispered, nodding to himself as his eyes flickered with joy, “I-I’m not a rockstar but I still work with music so that’s nice.”

“At the record store, right?”

He leaned forward, he looked at you curiously, “yeah, how’d you know?”

“Robin told me.”

“Oh, you talk about me, huh?” He asked, wiggling his brows.

Yes.

“Maybe,” you shrugged, fighting off the smile as you looked down, “I should come by sometime, I heard that the manager is really hot.”

He frowned at first, tilting his head as he stared at you in question, his curls fell to the side. He looked so cute.

“But I’m the manager–” he cut himself off, his eyes widened and before he could play it cool or smirk at you, his cheeks turned bright red. Too cute. “Oh!”

You were flirting with him. His heart skipped a beat and his stomach fluttered with butterflies.

“Y-You think I’m hot?” He smirked.

Ridiculously hot. Here he was with his beautiful brown eyes and his pretty curls, rings on his fingers, tattoos littering his pale skin, the prettiest voice you had ever heard and a cologne that made you dizzy– he looked like a bad boy but he was the sweetest guy you had ever been in the presence of.

“I always thought you were hot,” you admitted shyly.

He placed the takeaway cup down and scooted closer to you, “why do I just find out now?”

You bit your lip and shrugged, “I-I didn’t think that you– I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” you stuttered.

Eddie’s eyes softened, even in the darkness, he could see the uncertainty in your eyes, the shy look on your face. He reached for your hand and you gladly placed it in his. He smiled and laced your fingers together, squeezing your hand.

“Sweetheart, you could never make me uncomfortable,” he whispered, “I know this might not be the right time to say this but, I was always fucking crazy about you, you could have dumped those spaghetti on me instead of Carver and I’d still have a big crush on you.”

Your eyes widened in surprise and a giggle tore from your lips, “I would never do this to you!”

He laughed, tugging you closer to him, “I know you wouldn’t, sweet girl. I’m just saying, I-I wish I had the courage to do something about my feelings back then but I was scared, w-we didn’t really talk and you knew about my reputation, I was too scared that you’d reject me but shit, I wish I would have just asked you out before that asshole came along. I would’ve treated you like a queen.”

Your features softened and you placed your other hand over his, squeezing it gently.

His eyes flickered down to your lips, he stared at them longingly, like he had always dreamed of kissing you– he did.

His heart was racing in his chest, “I still would if you let me,” he whispered and looked back into your eyes, “I-I know you just got out of a long relationship but I– we don’t have to do anything, we can just–”

“I’ll let you.”

His pupils flared and a huge smile appeared on his face after the moment of shock simmered away.

“You will?” He asked excitedly.

You nodded, smiling at the beautiful man in front of you. You let him pull you closer by your waist until you’re in between his legs, his face just mere inches away from yours. He moved his hands up your arms, staring at the way his jacket hugs your frame, he brushed your hair back and cupped your cheek.

“Hi,” he whispered, his nose bumping into yours causing you both to giggle.

��Hi Eddie,” you whispered.

He felt like he was enchanted by your beauty, by your voice, by you. He always was, from the first moment he had laid his eyes on you. He was enchanted by you and he loved it.

He stared at you for what felt like forever– he could admire you forever and he would be content with just doing that. He traced your cheek with his thumb and looked into the eyes that were filled with tears earlier– now they showed nothing but peace and happiness, it made him happy.

This morning, he woke up, made himself a cup of coffee before work and got ready. It was a normal day as always– if he would’ve just known that the girl of his dreams would be in his arms later that night, he would’ve left the house with the biggest smile on his face.

“I always thought you were the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he whispered as he admired you.

Your pupils widened and a small gasp left your lips, your heart fluttered the way it never had before.

He leaned closer and kissed your cheek, “you’re an angel.”

“I always thought you were the most beautiful boy,” you whispered back, making him smile.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you smiled as you mimicked his actions and leaned in to kiss his cheek, letting your lips linger for a second.

If you could, you would hear his heart racing like crazy.

“The most beautiful girl should be with the most beautiful boy, don’t you think?” He asked as he leaned in to kiss your other cheek. You smelled like the strawberry milkshake you just had, it made him want to kiss you even more.

“Mhmm.”

You smiled at each other, happily.

Right now, you weren’t in pain, you weren’t thinking about anyone but him, you were happy, content and excited for the future, just like he was.

He leaned his forehead against yours and continued to hold your cheeks.

“The hot record store manager and the sexy journalist, sounds perfect to me.”

You giggled.

“I can write stories about you,” you smiled.

“No sweetheart, you can write stories about us.”

#eddie munson x reader

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clairecrive · 2 months ago

Text

The Girlfriend Experience

Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Eddie doesn’t think he’s cut out for dating. Self-resigned to a life of one and done hookups, you’re determined to make him see that he has the capacity to be a worthy companion… for when the right girl comes around. Fake Dating AU, classic corny fic for a fav corny troupe, Stranger Things canon divergent ofc, 18+ smut (see warnings below), big dick energy but also slightly emotionally unavailable!Eddie, yada yada yada, you know the drill.

Content warnings: AFAB reader with she/her pronouns, use of y/n, alcohol, smoking the devil’s lettuce, mention of panty stealing, food consumption, semi-public sex, fingering, PIV, Dom-ish!Eddie, oral (m and f receiving), pierced dick Eddie because I said so!, unprotected PIV sex, hair pulling, mild angst but nothing too angsty just like one heated conversation and Eddie feeling a little worthless but happy ending I promise

Word Count: 20k ahhhhhh!!!

A/N: Thanks to all those who comment and reblog! Your feedback and engagement makes my heart soar and keeps me motivated to write this filth! Sorry for the gargantuan length, in very-me fashion I always ending up writing one behemoth fic every so often rather than just separating it out into chapters. Also, realizing after the fact that I use the brand name ‘Goodwill’ a lot in this fic, which maybe not everyone might know is a thrift store, not sure if that’s just an American thing or not but figured it was worth noting.

“I guess I’m just not boyfriend material, ya know?” Eddie shrugs.

“Don’t say that, Eds,” your eyebrows pinched together, “different qualities are important to different people. Not everyone is looking to date a Steve, or a Brian, or a whoever. I’m sure someone is out there looking for an Eddie.”

“It’s not that,” he shot a look towards Steve, who, despite your analogy, was unfortunately everyone’s type and the textbook definition of boyfriend material.

“I just don’t think I’d be very good at gooey romance stuff, or even like, passable boyfriend behavior. I mean, look at me, I hardly take care of myself, I’m loud, I have no money, I’m basically every dad’s worst nightmare, do I need to keep going?”

“The nightmare thing can actually be a bonus,” Steve chimes in, “the whole bad boy persona can be a huge draw for most girls.”

“Sure Steve,” Eddie’s voice grows exasperated, “I’m the mysterious bad boy until they realize I’m a huge loser who runs not one but two dungeons and dragons groups. Real fuckin’ attractive I’m sure that is.”

“Shows you’re committed to something…” you trail off when his eyes tell you to stop coming up with a positive spin for every excuse he gives.

This whole discussion had started because of something that happened at the bar last night. A small group of you decided to meet up for drinks, your usual group of pals. It was a Thursday, so the bar wasn’t too busy. Your friends all squished into a booth in the corner, chatting and catching up over a plate of shared nachos, when Robin started making frantic gesture at you and Steve.

“Please just say what you’re trying to say instead of this elaborate charade,” Steve makes a few mocking hand signals back at her.

“Okay, one at a time, and keep it subtle,” her voice lowered to a whisper, for some reason, “over at the bar, some girl is totally flirting with Eddie.”

You and Steve both turn around. “I said not at the same time!” She whisper yells.

There was, in fact, a pretty girl with shiny hair and glossy lips doing a half fake laugh and pressing her manicured hand to Eddie’s bicep. You whip back around to find Robin with her mouth hanging open in a “can you believe this is happening” way.

“Good for him,” Steve swivels back around too, “She’s pretty hot.”

You return to your nachos, pretending there wasn’t a ping of jealousy in you. Eddie was your friend, that had been made abundantly clear.

When Robin introduced you to all her friends from high school, you had easily gotten along with all of them. You especially got along with Eddie. He was funny, authentic, abrasive at times, but a truly good person at his core, creative, protective, you could go on.

After getting to know him a bit, and developing a budding crush, you had made a few passes at him. Nothing too forward, just small compliments here and there, open ended offers to hang out that never lead anywhere.

It’s not like he flat out rejected you, but any feelers you were putting out to see if there was potential there were met with him looking past your flirtatious intent and just being his goofy, friendly self. He treated you exactly the same way he treated everyone else, which was awesome, except for when it wasn’t.

“Oh no,” Robin’s gaze was not subtly fixed on the unfolding scene at the bar, you and Steve watched her face drastically shift from confused, to a cringe, to an eye roll.

Still half whispering, as if Eddie could even hear your corner of the bar, “He’s totally blowing it. DON’T both turn around at the same time again.”

“Okay, so,” she starts before either of you can even confirm that you want to know, “she was totally laying it on thick, like you could see it from all the way back here. And he must have said something off putting, cuz all of a sudden she like went cold on him and pranced away. Shhhhh, okay okay, he’s coming back.”

She was acting as if she wasn’t the only one gossiping. You and Steve were innocent bystanders in all this.

“WHAT was that?” She immediately blurts out when Eddie returns to his seat, fresh drink in hand.

You and Steve share a side glance to sigh at Robin’s inability to be subtle, god bless her. Eddie shifts around awkwardly and lets out a forced dry laugh, taking a long sip from his drink before facing the wrath of a curious Robin.

“Oh, that,” he gestures to the bar as if she could be asking about anything else, “some girl. Not sure.”

“Not sure? Eddie she was FLIRTING with you,” Robin all but yelled, causing Steve to scan the bar to see if the girl in question had landed somewhere within earshot.

“I know that,” he hisses, “She just… wasn’t my type…”

“Okay sure, hot girl in a tube top and no bra isn’t your type, riiiiight,” Steve rolls his eyes.

“It’s just,” Eddie was so over this inquisition, “she asked if I wanted to get coffee.”

You, Steve, and Robin all give him a blank stare, trying to decipher what he could possibly have against getting coffee with a hot girl.

“That’s like,” he gets defensive, detecting the wall of confusion facing him, “something people do on a date. Coffee is serious, and I’m not a very serious guy.”

“What do you mean ‘coffee is serious,’ coffee is like, as casual as you can possibly be?” Steve’s tone now emulated Robin’s from earlier, half whispering, half yelling, all scolding towards his friend.

“That’s just not really my speed. Coffee dates and flowers and hand holding and all that,” he was avoiding eye contact with all three of you, “Yeah, she was hot, sure, and maybe if she had been like ‘hey lets go fool around in the bathroom’ then I wouldn’t be here having this lame ass conversation with you three. But I don’t do coffee dates, so I’m not gonna waste her time and pretend like I’m that sort of guy when I’m just not.”

“Well good on you for not leading her on, cuz I’m sure you could have agreed to the coffee date and still gotten lucky in the bathroom,” Steve mumbles, and you smack the back of his head lightly to scold him.

“So you only date girls who’ll fuck you in a bar bathroom the first time you meet?” You redirect your now equally scolding energy to Eddie.

“No!” He runs his hands through his hair, “I don’t date. Anyone, really. At all. Ever.”

“Oh,” you think for a minute, realizing in your few years of friendship you never had seen him with anyone, or heard him mention a romantic interest of any sort.

Leading you to your present conversation, you and Steve continuing to question Eddie on his decision to reject the hot tube-top girl at the bar and why he felt like coffee was such a scary commitment.

“You guys know me,” he continued to defend his stance, “If I took that girl out for coffee she probably would have picked some fancy hoity toity place and I wouldn’t know what anything on the menu meant, I’d probably spill something or like, get crumbs everywhere, and the bill would be way more than two coffees should be. It would have been a waste of both our time.”

He was staunchly refusing eye contact with the two of you, knowing he’d be met with something along the lines of pity.

“Fine, we’ll drop the subject,” you shoot a look to Steve, “but I just need to make sure you understand that not every girl likes expensive coffee, or flowers and handholding, or whatever your expectation of girls and dating is. There’s plenty of girls who have similar interests to you, who feel the same way about PDA and mushy romance stuff that you do. You do know that, right?”

“Of course I do, y/n,” you could practically feel his eyes rolling at you, “but girls like that sure as fuck aren’t here in Nowhere, Indiana. Even if she was, I’m sure I’d still find a way to fuck it up given that I’ve had exactly zero serious girlfriends and the closest thing to a date I’ve ever been on is when you me and Steve pooled our ski ball tickets to win that ugly stuffed turtle.”

The memory of what you had all agreed to be the world’s ugliest stuffed animal caused all of you to crack a smile. Steve had silently agreed to change the subject, not wanting to dig Eddie any deeper into his pit of self despair.

Steve’s mouth was half open, about to suggest that the three of you have a smoke and watch one of the rental movies he brought over, the words just about to escape him when you harshly cut off any chance at ending the pity-party.

“Date me!” You exclaim, without much thought. The shocked look from both boys caused you to rapidly back pedal , “You can date me, as practice!” You said it as if it was the simplest concept in the world.

When met with gaping mouths and confused stares you continue on, “You and I can be fake boyfriend-girlfriend for like, a month, and I’ll tell you everything you do wrong, and like generic do’s and don’t’s, so that way the next time some hot girl hits on you, you can be all like ‘Coffee isn’t really my thing pretty lady, but I’d be down to get drinks sometime’,” you did a silly impression of Eddie’s voice, and then switched to a high pitched one to impersonate what you assumed the girl at the bar sounded like, “and then she’d be all like, ‘Oh yeah that sounds greaaaaat, getting coffee is just like, a generic catch-all thing that most people say when they want to get to know someone better, but you can buy me a drink’ and then the two of you will ride off into the sunset and it’ll be great.”

Still no reply.

“It won’t be all romantic and gooey, I promise I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to. It’d be a way for you to get some honest feedback and catch up with the stuff most people have to learn the hard way.”

“I suppose you are the most brutally honest person I know,” Eddie doesn’t sound convinced.

Steve just looked between the two of you with eyebrows raised, not knowing if giving his opinion on the matter would be appreciated or not. “I guess I would’ve appreciated someone telling me that most girls don’t want to be asked out with a pickup line from a John Hughes movie, would have saved me a few dozen rejections.”

“I’m pretty sure Robin did tell you that…”

“I don’t know y/n,” Eddie scratches his head.

“It’ll be easy. Ask me out.”

“Huh?”

“Ask me out, for practice, ask me out on a date like I’m a pretty girl you met at some metal show or a DnD convention or something like that,” you stand in front of him with your hands out as if to prompt him to say something.

“Will you go out with me?” He sounds more like he’s asking himself if he even wants to be asking the question.

“No.”

“What the hell!” He throws his hands up.

“I said no because that wasn’t a very good effort. Go out where? To do what? You’re asking me, a pretend stranger, out on a date Eddie, not if I want to go have a smoke with you.”

“Ughhhh,” he spun around and tried to get some sympathy for Steve, who unfortunately was on your side with this one.

“A compliment or two doesn’t hurt as well,” Steve added, deepening Eddie’s groan.

“Hey pretty stranger lady,” his voice was laced with sarcasm, but at least it wasn’t disdain, “you seem really…” he hesitated to find his words, “cool? Would you like to come see my band play this weekend at The Hideout? We-“

“No,” you cut him off.

“WHA-“

“Eddie, you can’t ask a girl to watch Corroded Coffin play for your first date with her, that’s like date four or five material, no girl wants to go sit by herself at a bar to watch some guy she just met play an hour of heavy metal. She would have to know you a little bit more for that to feel organic. Pick something more generic, like coffee.”

“I think you seem cool, would you like to get coffee with me?” it all came out as one monotone mumble from him.

“Sure,” you wait for him to lift his head up to make eye contact with you, “But coffee isn’t really my thing, maybe we can go out for drinks?”

“Oh fuck off,” he flopped back onto the couch next to Steve.

“See, now we have our first fake date, and then you can ask me to be your fake girlfriend, and then you’ll be so comfortable with emotional vulnerability that you can find a real girlfriend to take on real dates.”

“Yeah, I suppose it could be beneficial,” Eddie was slowly coming around to the idea. He knew that he was oddly charismatic at times, but he was just always too self conscious to follow through with the whole romance thing.

This maybe wasn’t a bad idea, because he knew you weren’t the kind of person who would make fun of his hobbies, or put him down if he slipped up, the sorts of things he was always afraid of girls doing. Sure, he’ll agree to the girlfriend experience.

After a night of movies and pizza with Steve fake-third-wheeling, you made sure Eddie knew that the fake-date was actually happening, that the two of you would go out for drinks this weekend as your first official practice date.

After giving it a bit of thought, you realized that you and Eddie had never hung out alone. In your feeble attempts at flirting with him all those months ago you had invited him to have movie nights or grab a bite to eat, but he always showed up with Steve and or Robin in tow.

As the night of the fake-date rolled around, you’d be embarrassed to admit it to him, or Steve, who didn’t care to hide how skeptical he was about this whole idea, that you went through your normal pre-date routine. You took some extra time on your hair and makeup, exfoliated in the shower, chose an outfit you felt confident in, added a few spritz of perfume for good measure too.

Eddie rolled up in his van, only a few minutes late, but a few minutes was very impressive compared to his typical chronic tardiness. The two of you agreed to just grab some food and drinks at your usual spot, considering you and Steve openly agreed that it would be a good first date spot in theory.

“Hey,” he reaches across the center console to pop the door open for you, “you look nice.”

It took you a second to register as you settled into the passenger seat, and then whip around with your arm outstretched to give him a high five. He scrunches his face at you.

“High five me Eddie, that was really good! I know you usually open the door for me anyways, but the compliment right away, A+,” you flop your hand down to gently slap his, still gripping the steering wheel.

“Don’t patronize me, y/n,” deep down he knew you weren’t trying to talk down to him, and deep down he hadn’t even given complimenting you a second thought, he really did think you looked great in your date get-up.

On the ride over to the bar, the two of you discuss some logistics. Considering all of this is just practice dating, you don’t expect Eddie to pay for you, but you explain that in theory if he had been the one to ask you out then he should be the one to pay for the first date.

“To me it’s less of a gender thing and more of a who asked out who thing, but I know some people would abide to the stereotypical ‘the man always pays’ standard, which is why you’d just have to be honest on date like two or three about what you enjoy doing and what sorts of things are in your budget. You can still have fun and be thoughtful without spending a lot of money.”

He asked a few questions, like if he should have gotten you flowers for a first date, or what he should do if someone asks to go to a fancy restaurant that he surely couldn’t afford. You tried your best to give solid advice, but always reminded him that every person is different and every relationship is different, so all he can do is be honest.

You take up a spot at the bar and both order for yourselves, splitting some fries and slipping into some easy conversation.

“Am I supposed to, like, beat someone up if a guy tries hitting on you in front of me or something like that?” you nearly choke on your drink at his question.

“Eddie, no,” you answer, also questioning, “why the hell would you ask me that?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, “My buddy Jeff was with his girlfriend at this punk show before they were even together, and some guy made a creepy comment to Amanda and Jeff just decked the guy in the face. He say’s that’s what made her want to date him, cuz he defended her honor or whatever.”

“I guess that’s sort of circumstantial, but I prefer my dates to not engage in any sort of violence,” you sip your drink, “even if it’s for my honor. I’d like your face a lot less if you were all bruised up.”

“Well I never said I would get hit,” the two of you were laughing a bit now.

Over a few cocktails you went over some first date etiquette with him. PDA and being touchy, how to follow her lead and gauge if she’s the type who wants everyone at the bar to know you’re together, or keep it strictly platonic to start. How far of a grip on the leg is too far up, that sort of thing.

“So if she does something like this,” you fake laugh a bit too loud and, lean into his personal space, and then run your hand from his slender down his arm, “that doesn’t necessarily mean she wants to fuck you, but it’s pretty close. You’ve at least got a green flag to get a little closer to her, tell her she looks nice, maybe offer to buy her a drink.”

“I know how to tell if someone finds me attractive, y/n, I’m not stupid,” he said casually, “obviously that girl the other night was hitting on me, I’m not blind. I wasn’t going to ask to buy her a drink or try and get lucky in the bathroom because I was out with my friends. I can find a quick fuck in a bar on my own time. I was having fun with you guys, I wasn’t going to abandon all of you to talk to some stranger, even if she was hot.”

“Oh,” you processed his comment, “Steve would be happy to know he ranks above tube-top girl.”

“Steve would be happy to be above tube-top girl in any context,” he jokes.

“You really just find random girls in bars to fuck?” You question, not in any sort of judgmental way, just curious.

“Not specifically, I guess I did make myself sound like some serial bar-bathroom type of guy. I never really had girls interested in me when I was in high school, at least the first four years of it. Then when we started playing regular gigs at The Hideout it was a little easier to find girls who were interested, but it was always that they were more into fucking some guy who could play guitar and was in a band, so it usually just always happened on-site, probably cuz they had an actual boyfriend or husband to go home to. Girls think I’m fun. Which isn’t untrue, I do enjoy a romp in the Hideout bathroom, or the back of my van, or wherever we end up.”

“So that’s what all those blankets are back there for,” you say with a fake scowl, referring to his van set-up.

“Not exclusively! They make a cozy nest for smoking blunts and listening to tapes too!”

You return to your drink, trying not to think too hard about the girls that Eddie brings to bar bathrooms or his van or wherever.

“I just find the energy of those situations very different from like, talking and getting to know someone. Fucking is easy. I’m not interested in ruining that by adding emotions and the looming feeling like sex is contingent on me acting a certain way or checking a certain number of boxes for someone.”

He shrugged, and you could understand where he was coming from, sometimes a quick fuck or hookup could be cathartic and easy. But it also saddened you to think that Eddie believed he had to get in and out before the person on the other end got the chance to know him.

Moving away from the subject of his inability to be emotionally vulnerable, the two of you practice some cheesy ‘first date’ questions as you had called them. As your drinks started to settle into your system you were having more fun being silly with him, pretending to be a stranger on a first date.

“When’s your birthday?” You ask, twirling your drink straw with your finger and making some fake flirty eyes at him to accentuate the facade of asking him a bunch of questions you mostly knew the answers to.

“August 9th,” he flips his hair over his shoulder, joining in on your fake ostentatious flirting.

“Oh my gosh, a Leo! This will never work out, cuz I’m an asparagus…”

The two of you nearly fall out of your bar stools laughing, realizing you meant to say Sagittarius.

“Okay, let’s get you home Asparagus,” he helped you up, having kept his drinking to a minimum so he could drive you home.

“Wait, wait,” you grabbed his arm as the two of you exited the bar, “can we go back to your trailer?”

He raised an eyebrow at you, “that’s a little presumptuous for a first date missy.”

“No, no, this isn’t girlfriend y/n asking, just regular friend y/n, who thinks it would be a lot of fun to smoke and watch a movie without Steve there spewing all his annoying fun facts, like, we get it, you read the little insert inside the tape while you were bored at work!”

Eddie did agree that the idea of packing a bowl and watching a few movies with you didn’t sound too different from what his plans would have been otherwise, so he agreed, as long as you promised not to give him any dating advice while hanging out as friend y/n and not girlfriend y/n.

Although you promised to try your best, you immediately started lecturing him on t-shirt borrowing and the potential weight that could hold in a relationship when he offered to give you some more comfy clothes to change into.

“It’s important to know!” You emerged from the bathroom in one of his oversized shirts and a pair of boxers, “Some girls are very touchy about it. Any shirt you lend her to sleep in, you have to be willing to sacrifice for life.”

“For life?!” Eddie finishes making a bowl of popcorn for the two of you, swallowing his words when he sees you in his clothes, an unidentifiable emotion rising in him at the sight of you so cozy and integrated into his space.

“Well maybe not life,” you plop down onto the couch, “but do NOT ask for it back. Most girls will give it back once it stops smelling like you.”

“If she gets my shirt, can I have her underwear?” He asked without thinking, the weed he had just smoked with you hitting him a bit too hard in that moment.

“Oh my god,” you squeal and bury your face into a pillow, “la la la la, pretending like I didn’t hear that!”

“I’m just saying!” He laughs at you, now curled up into a ball, “fair is fair, right?”

“I guess it depends on the girl,” you mumble.

“So I’m guessing not you, by your reaction.”

“Eddie!” You smack him with a pillow, “I don’t know, no one’s ever asked!”

“If my girlfriend isn’t going to ask before stealing my shirt for an indefinite amount of time, I think that gives me panty privilege.”

“Wow Eddie, if I had known you were such a perv I would’ve reconsidered being your fake girlfriend,” you say sarcastically, with no real judgement behind it. The idea of him wanting to steal your underwear dampens them ever so slightly.

“Don’t worry babe, I won’t do anything pervy to you unless you ask nicely,” he shoots a wink at you, which you meet with an eye roll and a turn away to hopefully hide the heat rising in your cheeks.

The two of you carry out your platonic movie night as planned. You suppressed any urge to note on his actions from a romantic lens, and he ignored the itching desire to sling his arm around your shoulder or pull your legs into his lap to get more comfy on the couch.

“Can I sleep here Eddie,” you ask after movie two, “too sleepy to move.”

“Sure, I can take the couch and you can have my bed. It’s been a minute since I washed the sheets but it shouldn’t be too bad…”

“Nonono,” you mumble, “Your legs will totally hang right off the end of this thing. I’m conked out anyways, I can crash right here I promise.”

“Ignoring that you’re my fake girlfriend, I’m not letting you sleep out here on this lumpy thing. You’re taking the bed, no arguments.”

He helps you up from the couch, letting you keep the blanket that’s wrapped around you, snaking his arm underneath it and pulling you from the couch by your lower back. You were slightly taken aback by his assistance, body still limp from your relaxed state, your torso easily arching into his. Your arms fly up to grab his shoulders, steadying yourself with an awkward giggle.

“In the real world, a time like this would be good for a first kiss,” you make note of your closeness, the way he swept you up off the couch and held you steadily as you made your way to your feet.

“I know that, y/n,” his face was closer to yours than it had ever been, making your words hitch in your throat.

“Well, I’m just saying,” you turn your head to avoid the tension, “I’m sure the way you kiss your bar-hookups isn’t the way most girls who’re looking to date you long term want to be kissed for the first time.”

‘Oh yeah? And how do you presume that goes?” He kept his hand planted on your lower back.

You pretend to act wildly drunk, throwing yourself at him and letting your limbs go a bit heavier than they already were. “Ohmygod guitar man, I’ve had like, six dirty Shirleys, please finger bang me in the bathroom,” you slur your words and let your tongue loll out the side of your mouth as if to lean in for the world’s sloppiest and most uncoordinated kiss.

“First of all,” his voice was very serious, “I don’t hook up with girls who are too inebriated to stand, let’s get that straight. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t even have our first fake kiss like this on account of the drinking and smoking, gotta make sure you’re in the right headspace. Secondly,”

He spins you around and quickly backs you up against the wall that stood a few feet behind the couch. His hand sliding up in between your shoulder blades, blanket now slumped around your waist, his other hand suavely cupping the side of your cheek, His hips angled into yours, pinning you back against the vinyl, almost collapsing back into it.

He pressed against you, not aggressively, but enough to let you know that if you were to try and squirm away he had the capacity to keep you right where he wanted you. He accomplished this all in one elegant motion, leaving you a bit dazed.

As you started to snap into reality, he moves his hand from your cheek down to grab your chin in between his thumb and the knuckle of his pointer, angling your face directly up at him.

“If you were some girl in a bar, it would be like this.”

The moment before your brain turned to absolute mush, you silently cringed at the thought of what you must look like, mouth hanging open, eyes glassed over, body instinctively sinking into his touch. Pathetic, you were sure of it.

Sure, Eddie did think you looked a little helpless, but he also thought you looked perfect. Exactly as he had imagined you to in this situation. Of course he had thought about you before, like that.

Of course he had felt an immediate spark with you when you had first met. But he never flirted back, or lead you on, because as much as he was attracted to you and enjoyed your company, he knew that it wouldn’t work out. He wasn’t relationship material, and you were the picture perfect girlfriend that he didn’t deserve.

He spoke directly into your parted lips, mouth hovering just far enough away to toe the line of ‘holy shit, is he going to?’ But no, as he made very clear, he wouldn’t kiss you under these conditions. He had made his point, and slowly backed off and let you find your footing.

As soon as he was sure that you were steady, he backed away and started down the hallway.

“I might have an extra toothbrush stashed away somewhere, let me look…” he ducked into the bathroom, leaving you stunned in the kitchen, head swimming and your stomach traveled up into your throat.

He was teasing you, he must be. That was his little way of getting back at you for thinking you could give him dating advice. If he was unsure about his capacity for romance, he was going to make sure you knew he was more than capable in other ways. Understood.

You shook your head, weeding through your inner monologue of how he could possibly look at you like that and then just walk away. Your shock gave him just long enough for you to to not notice him splashing cold water on his face in the bathroom while he “looked for a toothbrush.”

The two of you decided to ignore the lingering tension from the events in the kitchen, not a peep of fake-girlfriend talk from you for the rest of the night. He did find you that toothbrush, and the two of you moved through a too-easy domestic routine of getting ready for bed.

You told him that you wouldn’t be able to sleep if you knew he was cramped on that couch, and that you were fine with sharing a bed. You mumbled something about getting around to bed sharing etiquette at some point anyways, and sleepily pulled him into being your little spoon.

Eddie lay there, trying not to twitch or fidget, relaxed as best he could into your cuddled form thinking about how horrible of an idea all of this was. He was convinced all it would take is roughly ten more minutes of you burying your face into his hair and making cute little sleepy noises for him to fall irreversibly in love with you.

But what was he supposed to do? Move and wake you up? Never.

You rolled around enough in the night to wake up in a less intimate position than when you had fallen asleep. You knew Eddie was a deep sleeper, and took it upon yourself to creep out of bed and back into your day clothes, make a pot of coffee, and watc a bit of TV before he roused and joined you in the living room.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” He rubbed the crust from his eyes and was pleasantly surprised to see you had brewed a whole pot of coffee to share.

“You looked so peaceful and cozy,” he shook his head at you, as if that was no excuse for letting him sleep an extra forty minutes.

After a slow morning, he agrees to drive you home.

“So this is the part where I say ‘Eddie, I had such a wonderful time on our date. I’d love to do it again sometime.’ And then you agree and tell me when you’re free. It’s best to be super direct and make plans to get together again soon, cuz then it’s not an awkward who’s-gonna-call-who-first sort of thing.”

“Uh-huh…” he stares at you blankly.

“But for our sake, let’s just agree that I’m in charge of planning our next date. Okay? I’ll do it from the perspective of what I think most girls would enjoy, so you can steal it for the future. I’ll call you later.”

You hop out of his van before he can agree, and leave him with a “Thanks for letting me stay over!” As you bound away from his view.

He squeezed his eyes shut the moment he caught himself checking your ass out as you walked away, and let his head rest down on the steering wheel. He was fucked. How the hell was he supposed to tell you that you needed to stop being his fake girlfriend without disrupting the homeostasis of your friendship?

On one hand he could lie and say he doesn’t want your advice, making you think he didn’t enjoy your company, which was entirely untrue. On the other hand he could tell you the truth, and you would never be friends the same way again.

He drove home with the music too loud, and patiently awaited your call later that evening to iron out the details of your second fake-date.

Per your instructions, he let you pick him up this time with the argument that you were the one taking him out this time. He didn’t know what you had planned, but let himself fall to the mercy of whatever you had decided was an exemplary date fore him to ‘steal in the future’.

You picked up two coffees and rolled up to the trailer park, popping a mix-tape he had made you ages ago.

“Hey, I thought we said no paying for each other with fake-dating,” he objects to the coffee sat in the passenger cupholder, some abomination of mostly cream and sugar, the way you know he likes it.

“Yes, that’s true, but you smoked me up the other night, and this coffee was like a dollar fifty, so don’t worry about it,” you give him a look that tells him to drink the damn coffee and not sass back, to which he complies, even though he smokes you up expecting nothing in return about every other weekend.

The two of you sip away and listen to Eddies ‘must-know-to-be-my-friend’ mixtape and arrive shortly at the strip mall across town. This was a regular weekly stop for both of you, the strip of connected stores containing the Goodwill, a pet store, the pharmacy, and grocery. A pretty mundane collection.

“Okay, what are we doing at Greg’s?” Eddie gestures to the grocery store, the back of his mind running through the grocery list he’s been making for this week anyways.

“What’s the perfect date?” You ask, and answer for him, “a romantic picnic. But gathering supplies is half the fun. Picnic food supplies at Greg’s, some pills to get fucked up at the pharm, some turtles or something to let loose into the wild from the pet store, and then hats, cups, blanket, etcetera from the Goodwill.”

He turns to you with the most bewildered stare, which sends you into a fit of giggles.

“Okay, I’m joking about the pills and the turtles,” you nudge his arm, “but won’t it be sweet to get together some picnic supplies and then drive out to lookout point? We can still swing by the pet store to check out the ferrets though.”

To Eddie, the idea of a date involved him doing something he didn’t want to do, some awkward small talk, and spending money on shit he truly thought was useless. This didn’t sound half bad. You would “work backwards so the food purchases come last” according to your reasoning, and he followed you in tow without any arguments into the Goodwill.

“So I’m thinking…” you start to wander into the aisles of used clothes and knick knacks, “maybe a blanket? A basket would be sort of corny, but if we find one for cheap I don’t see why not. Surely two glasses for drinking, and maybe some sun hats?”

Swiveling back around to see a half stunned Eddie, who was still processing how in the hell this was your idea of a romantic date, you grab his hand and pull him to the bric-a-brac section.

After it got through his thick skull that the same place he had uncomfortably tried on new pants throughout his growth spurt, and picked up his daily-worn leather jacket, had the same potential to provide some silly, cheap, used items to add some flair to this picnic.

Silly and cheap was right up Eddie’s alley. The two of you picked out mismatched champagne glasses, one with the engraved name of a couple who got married in 1943 and the other a flashy rose color with baby angel carvings dancing around the sides.

You luckily find an on sale beach blanket, and the two of you pick out some very goofy sun hats. A floppy farmers hat for you, and a bedazzled trucker hat spelling ‘hot mama’ for Eddie.

Through the midst of your giggles and debate on whether you should buy a wooden bench to bring out to your picnic destination, Eddie found himself having a really good time with you.

As promised, you visited the pet store and checked out the ferrets and fish and geckos.

“If you could have any pet, what would you want?” You asked him, noses pressed against the chinchilla enclosure.

“Jaguar,” he said, a little too quickly.

“For real, dummy,” you knock your hip into his.

“I don’t know, we never had enough space or extra money for pets growing up, so maybe someday if I had enough room for it to run around I’d like a dog or something,” he tells. Eyes still transfixed on the chinchilla behind the glass.

“I can see that,” you imagine Eddie with some mutt from the shelter, wrestling around and giving it lots of scratches behind the ears.

Skipping the pharmacy, you pop into the grocery store and assemble what may be the world’s most eclectic picnic.

“That’s the definition of a picnic, I’m pretty sure,” you explain after Eddie insinuated that the gingersnap cookies you grabbed, along with grapes and a block of cheese, wasn’t exactly a meal, “you know, just a smorgasbord of whatever we want!”

Admittedly, Eddie had considered a handful of pretzels and a beer to be dinner on more than one occasion, so he couldn’t argue with you. Quickly catching your drift, the two of you picked out an assortment of snacks and some ingredients for pb&j sandwiches.

“I thought picnics were supposed to be classy?” Eddie holds up the Wonder bread and bag of potato chips with a look that suggested his question was rhetorical.

Your response was simply to raise the, admittedly cheap, bottle of champagne you grabbed to accompany with your meal, more for the irony of drinking the bubbly liquid out of your new used glasses with your sticky sandwiches than anything else.

You pack your supplies into a tote bag, not having found a suitable basket at the thrift store, and drive across town to a dirt paved road that leads to a nice lookout point with a view of the lake.

“Let’s walk down the path a little bit, but not too far,” you grab the blanket and tote bag from your trunk, motioning for Eddie to put on his ‘hot mama’ hat and carry your other auxiliary supplies, “I do not fuck with bugs.”

“I’ll protect you,” Eddie puffs out his chest, making you both giggle.

“From bugs?”

“Yeah, I’ll punch a mosquito right in the face, to defend your honor and all that.”

“I know I told you not to do that, but a mosquito might be the exception to the rule.”

You found a nice little clearing not far from the car, a spot that still had a nice view but was a bit more secluded. Eddie sat pressed right up next to you, making your sandwich ‘to be a proper gentleman’ but simultaneously spilling a glob of jelly onto your leg.

“Shit,” he doesn’t think twice before leaning down and slurping the grape flavored blob off of your bare knee, tongue poking out and licking the spilt jelly from your skin.

“Eddie!” You squirm away, barking out a surprised laugh.

“What! Your knee is clean, wouldn’t want to waste perfectly good preserves, or a napkin.”

You feel your skin tingle where his lips had touched you, for only a moment, but you still felt it. He was so confident and casual in his movements, not having any hesitation to grab your hand or brush your hair out of your face. It wasn’t under the guise of fake romance, he had always been like that. Not touchy, per se, just sure of himself. You’d never seen Eddie do anything half assed, that’s for certain.

After the conversation you shared the other night, you were unable to stop your mind from wandering to thoughts of what Eddie does with those girls in bars, if he touched him with the same confidence and sureness he put into everything else he did.

It was wrong to let your mind go to such dirty places about someone you considered a friend, but you couldn’t manage to feel any guilt. He had offered that information freely, so who were you to punish yourself for staring a little longer at his fingers, conjuring up the context in which he’d bury them inside you against some grimy bar bathroom.

The date was all peanut butter smiles and bubbly laughter that floated up into the trees. Silly, yes, but neither of you could deny there was something sweet, maybe even romantic about it. A cheap meal in the woods shared between two friends in ill-fitting fifty cent hats, but an undeniable touch of romance lingered nonetheless.

Eddie started to realize that maybe the whole dating thing wasn’t as uptight and scary as he had initially thought. It could be easy and fun, with the right person. And fuck, if he could even imagine doing this with anyone but you.

Like most things Eddie did, he did not consider any potential consequences before acting. You looked so pretty sitting there in the sunshine, sipping from your cheap ‘Martha & Dave ’43’ glass, a few sandwich crumbs dotting the corner of your mouth.

What else was he supposed to do other than lean over and wipe them away with his thumb, stroking your soft cheek and feel the warmth of your skin beneath his palm.

“You had some,” he uses his other hand to motion at his own mouth, “and I suppose this is the sort of moment where I’d ask if I can kiss you.”

You find yourself a bit dumbfounded, his big stupid hand on your cheek and those big stupid puppy dog eyes unrelenting in making everything he says seem so genuine.

“Are you?” You find your voice, only half embarrassed at how shy it comes out.

“Am I what?”

“Are you asking me?”

“Yeah,” his answer comes out in a way that insinuates that he never meant anything other than that, that he was always asking to kiss you, he wasn’t asking in theory, in another universe, in the context of advice.

“Okay,” you found yourself behaving like Eddie, not really thinking of consequences before your words and actions spoke on behalf of your instincts.

Everything so far had been so easy. Your fake first date at the bar, curling up next to him in a haze, making up stories about what sort of people donated the fake palm tree or the Garfield mug at the Goodwill, imagining Eddie running around a yard with a puppy, lounging in the grass and eating your assorted picnic snacks. It was all effortless.

Suddenly, being kissed by Eddie sucked the ease from your lungs and sent your mind spiraling into a cacophony of bells and whistles and giant swirling red flags. If this is how he kissed you, casually across some half eaten peanut butter sandwiches, you’d spend the rest of your days yearning to know how he kissed someone with true intention.

Of course, his intentions were all there, but the lingering knowledge that all of this was happening under the umbrella of “you giving him advice” or “helping practice for the next girl” poisoned any true feeling he poured into it. He cupped your cheek, soft, let his lips press into yours delicately for a moment before he felt your breath hitch, opening his mouth just enough to deepen the kiss and capture your lower lip fully.

He was more careful, gentle, methodic with his movements and so receptive to every little signal your body gave him, it was unlike any first-kiss, heat-of-the-moment-kiss, in-the-throws-of-passion-kiss, any of it. Like hell you’d ever tell him that, inflate that big ego that fuels his snippy comebacks at you, but Jesus, was it remarkable.

While at war with yourself internally, your heart was on the precipice of exploding in your chest from the way he snaked his hand into your hair and pressed his forehead against yours to catch a breath. You suck in a sharp breath and feel that stupid cocky smirk creep up onto that pretty mouth of his.

“’S that sufficient for a first kiss?”

“Fuck offfff,” you were still a little out of breath, smacking his chest and flopping back down onto the picnic blanket, throwing your arms up and rolling your eyes at him, “if you’re so damn confident, maybe we just should fake break up, cuz you don’t seem like you need my advice.”

“Nooooo,”he slumps down next to you, burrowing his head under your arm so he can pop up right next to your face, “I’m learning a lot, I promise! This date was so fun, and cheap! I would have never thought any of this could be remotely romantic. I’m hopeless, y/n, look at me.”

He wriggles around and gives you a big fake pout, “If left to my own devices I would probably do something horribly embarrassing or off-putting, like…” he digs his head into the crook of your neck and blew a fat, wet raspberry right into your skin, making you yelp and squeal, but his position half on top of you pins you down.

“See!” He pulls up for air, you were in a fit of screaming giggles, “I’d go right in for a kiss and just,” and he does it again, leaving you gasping for air, trying your best to tickle his ribs to get him off of you, but not minding the close contact by any means.

“Now I’m not so sure,” he pulls back to give you a minute to catch your breath, “it seems like you enjoyed that, so maybe survey says I should pull that move on the ladies.”

Your airy laughter subsided, but he stays half pinning you down to the blanket and the lumpy grass underneath.

“I didn’t mean to give you the impression that I’m not grateful for your help,” he says earnestly, catching your gaze, “it’s just… this isn’t what I need help with.”

As his statement is processing, you find his lips back on yours, his torso pressed flushed with yours and his wild mane of hair coming down to curtain around your head. He doesn’t take it too far, but kisses you as earnestly as he had before, giving your lip a slight drag with his teeth and running his hand up from your hip up the side of your ribcage, leaving you arching slightly into him by pure instinct.

Before your head got too dizzy again, before you could really throw yourself into it and say fuck it and kiss him back the way you secretly wanted to, he pulled back.

“That.” his voice was even, you hated how needy you felt and how even keeled he could be milliseconds after stealing the air from your lungs, “It’s the rest of it,” he threw his hands up and gestured to all the food and knock knacks around you, “it’s this stuff that you make seem so easy, so forgive me if I lay it on a little thick when we get to the parts I’m actually good at.”

“Just,” you sat up a bit, grounding yourself and formulating a response despite your brain looping the past twenty seconds back infinitely, “don’t do that again.”

“Okay,” he sat back and popped a grape into his mouth, “sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” you knocked his knee with yours, struggling to articulate how you felt without showing too much of your hand, deciding to just be candid, “I just- I liked that a little too much if you know what I mean. And this is strictly business, or education, maybe?”

“You liked it when I pinned you against the wall the other night,” he said matter of factly, “I think you liked that a little too much too, and you still took me on this fake educational business date.”

“Yeah, well, you caught me,” you threw your hands up in defense.

“Which one is it though?” He asks and you don’t quite understand, “are you a sweet kiss on the picnic kind of girl, or an up against the wall kind of girl?”

“That’s none of your business, as far as fake-dating is concerned,” you say a little too quickly, “and no you can’t have my panties.”

You say it with a smirk, but he doesn’t press any further. He turns and does that Eddie-thing he’s so good at, just changing the subject and shifting the vibe completely away from what might have been a stale moment or awkward pause. He starts asking if you like green or purple grapes better, going off about how he used to put them in the freezer as a kid.

The remainder of your date went without a hitch, of course. You picked away at your picnic until the sun started to set, and once the sky started turning purple you made your way back to the car. The drive home consisted only of easy conversation and no further mention of the kiss, well, kisses that had transpired. He hopped out of the passenger seat with a ‘thank you’ and a ‘see ya later alligator.’

A scalding hot shower, a restless night of sleep, and too many cups of herbal tea the next morning did nothing to quell the noise in your head that blasted those moments over and over. You couldn’t stop picking apart whether he had thought about it for even a millisecond, and felt embarrassed that you could think of nothing else.

It was simply an amplified version of what your whole friendship had been up until this point. You silently admiring him and wishing he would look at you the way you looked at him, and settling for friendship over heartbreak.

Pushing it aside to the best of your ability allowed you to get through your week, but you had the lingering feeling that the next time you saw him would strike you with warm cheeks and a scrambled mental state.

Guilt had started to seep in at the corners of your mind, but you reminded yourself that you shouldn’t punish yourself for having romantic or sexual thoughts about someone you simply found attractive and compelling, it was your actions that would determine the validity of your guilt.

“Long time no see, loser,” Robin hollered from the pool table across the bar, where she was likely kicking Steve’s ass.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” you shrug off your coat and plop down at their regular booth, knowing her jabs were entirely empty. You notice Eddie’s leather jacket hung up by the wall, and scan the bar to find him ordering a drink.

There was a silent mutual understanding that you’d keep the fake dating thing to a bare minimum when out with your friends like this. Even though Steve was well aware, and therefore Robin was too, you figured tainting your social time with the performance of romance is the exact reason Eddie turned down the girl at the bar in the first place.

“For the lady,” Eddie waltzes over and hands you a drink.

“Oh, thanks,” you take it with a confused smile, “you didn’t have to do that.”

“You bought me coffee last weekend,” he sat across the booth from you, “plus I’m trying to get better at buying drinks for pretty girls, right?”

You remind him that he doesn’t have to keep tabs on things like coffee, but you appreciate the gesture regardless. As per the past few times you’d been out with your friends, you expected him to put a pause on the flirting, but it seems to be bubbling over tonight. You weren’t complaining, but admittedly the arm around your shoulder or the noticeable way he checked you out when you got up to refill your drink took you by slight surprise.

Sneaking in to claim the always occupied dart board for a challenge against Eddie while he uses the restroom, you keep your eyes on the corner of the bar to signal him over once he returns.

“You need a partner?” A man suddenly appears behind you, a little closer than you’d like but the bar was crowded, so you’ll let it slide.

“Oh, I was just waiting for-“

“Let me fill in until your friend gets here, we can get you warmed up, yeah?” His tone wasn’t too pushy, but you didn’t love the look he gave you when making that comment.

Awkwardly staggering for a second, unsure weather to just agree or tell him to fuck off, “He really should be just a minute-“

“Or maybe less,” Eddie comes up right behind you and pulls you possessively into his side.

Your head whips up to see him with a devilish smile, his hand on your waist and the fire behind his eyes telling his guy to get lost.

“Oh, sorry man,” the guy starts backing away with an apologetic look.

“Yeah, better luck next time, pal,” Eddie snakes around to take the guy’s spot in front of the dart board.

He had his darts in hand and took his stance to start the match, gesturing for you to do the same.

“What was that,” you ask with a slight joking tone, but seriously curious.

“What?” He doesn’t make eye contact and instead throws the first dart, “I’m not allowed to get fake jealous?”

“You’re allowed to feel any fake emotion you want, I guess,” your tone is somewhere in between a joke and a question.

“You’d feel fake jealous if I was getting blown in the bathroom by some chick rather than playing darts with you, I bet.”

“Okay,” your tone shifts to defensive, “getting blown is very different than some guy asking to play darts with me.”

“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you,” Eddie turns to face you, having thrown all his darts, “for real.”

A moment lapsed where you didn’t register that your mouth was hanging open in disbelief, the look in your eyes Eddie immediately clocked as lust and bottled up to store away for a later time.

“I knew the scary dog thing would work,” his ‘i-told-you-so’ tone rubbed you the wrong way, but he wasn’t wrong, “you said girls weren’t into that, but you totally looooove that I defended your honor.”

“Don’t give yourself too much credit, I said girls wouldn’t be into it if you punched him,” you rolled your eyes.

“I don’t know, babe, I think you liked the whole ‘back off of my woman’ act.”

You mumble out a ‘whatever’ and let him have this win, which he was clearly reveling in, trying to focus instead at beating him at darts.

“Just don’t pull shit like that on a first date, acting too possessive off the bat is a huge red flag for a lot of women.”

“I thought we weren’t doing dating advice tonight?” You don’t even have to look at him to know he’s got that stupid sarcastic smile.

“Yeah I thought so too,” you fail at your attempt to beat him in darts, as well as your attempt to not flirt back with him.

He insists on collecting all the darts, picking up the ones haphazardly strews across the floor from failed attempts to hit the board.

“I’m no pro or anything, but I think you’d hit the board a lot more if you fixed your stance.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you flip him the bird and take back your red tipped darts.

As you steady your arm to aim your first shot he comes up behind you and grabs your hips, causing you to let out an unexpected squeak. He adjusts your stance, not aggressively, but with some force, twisting your hips and using his big combat boot to sweep your foot around so you stood more sideways.

“You’re standing straight on,” he backs up, allowing you to secretly catch your breath, “and all your shots are veering to the right. If you plant your feet more angled you’ll hit the board.”

You wanted to roll your eyes at him, miss on purpose to show him he’s full of shit. You flippantly toss the dart, not trying particularly hard, and it hits. Not a bulls-eye or anything like that, but a lot closer than your previous attempts had been.

“Good girl,” he comments, leaning in to breech your personal space just enough to make your blood boil.

You drop the remainder of the darts in your opposite hand onto the floor and whip around to face him, half jokingly smacking him on the shoulder.

“Oh my god, fuck off!”

You’re met with his trademark shit-eating grin.

Truthfully, Eddie hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off you all night. He’d spent the night after your picnic date with his hand in bis boxers, squeezing his eyes shut and remembering the little gasp you had made when he grabbed your waist, the hum in your throat that bubbled up when he kissed you pinned against the blanket, that night and every night since.

“Oh, you don’t like that?” that joking tone he uses to cover up what he actually wants to say.

“Shut up, you know I do,” you didn’t even try to stifle your reaction, knowing it was his intent to get under your skin.

“How would I possibly know that,” he playfully looks up at the ceiling and around the bar, hands clasped behind his back now, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“You better cut that shit out, unless you plan on doing something about it,” you manage the most assertive tone your wobbly insides could muster, a little shocked at yourself for actually saying what you were thinking.

“I’m not much of a planner,” he gracefully takes a stance next to you and rips all three darts, not great shots, but all hitting the board, “I’m more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of guy, you know that.”

“Well your pants better make up their mind if you’re playing boyfriend tonight or not,” your insinuation was heavy but you had fumbled your hand, and he had already seen all your cards at this point, so there was no reason to bluff.

“The real question is,” he leans in, his imposing figure crowding your space in a way that made your head spin, “do you want me to play boyfriend? Or do you want me to play guy who fucks your brains out in the bar bathroom?”

Your eyebrows pinched together for a millisecond, and before he could decipher your expression you grabbed his hand and started storming through the crowds hoarded by the bar. Why the hell a seedy downtown bar has a single stall family bathroom with a changing table is beyond you, but you drag him inside and slam the lock down behind you.

“You’re not allowed to treat me any differently after this,” you start to fall into the sinkhole of oh my god what the hell is about to happen, but are cut off by him pressing you against the closed door the exact way he had handled you against his kitchen wall that night weeks ago.

“Not unless you want me to,” he doesn’t hesitate to get his mouth on yours, immediately pulling your mind from wondering what the vague sticky substance on the door pressing into your back could be.

“I mean, you’re not allowed to fuck me and then never talk to me again,” you say in between moving lips and tongues, giving him a moment to bury his face in your neck, "Promise me."

“Oh don’t worry about that,” he pulls back, “we can go get coffee tomorrow and you can give me a full performance review. Promise.”

Your annoyed eye roll quickly turns into them fluttering shut as he licks a stripe up to the junction behind your ear that has you melted into a boneless puddle between his pressing hips and the door. He drags his teeth across your lobe while leaning into you with a black denim clad thigh.

“Why don’t we make a deal,” you let out, voice breathy and unfocused. Before he can even pull back to reply you continue, “if you’re half as good at this as you claim to be, and can make me cum in this dingy bathroom, I’ll let you take me back to your trailer and you can do whatever the fuck you want to me.”

He was leaning in to seal the deal with a kiss before he could even process your request, because yes of course, a million times yes he’s taking this deal. Despite the rouse of you playing bar hookup for the night, and despite the idea of bringing you back to his place and finally doing what he’s wanted since the day he met you absolutely terrifying him, he nods and kisses you.

It’s electrifying. His confidence only spurs you on to kiss him harder, grip his hair a little tighter, say the things you would only imagine in the deepest parts of your mind. The feeling of his grin against your lower lip and his fingers quickly unbuttoning your jeans fuels your fire.

“You sure you know what you’re getting into,” he mumbles playfully, pulling you away from the wall with a gasp and leading you over to the tiny built in counter against a mirror by the sink.

“Well I’m certainly not letting you fuck me against any of these sticky surfaces,” you note as you’re lifted onto the counter covered in mystery substance, “and I think you need to earn it.”

Of course it was no surprise to you that Eddie was good with his fingers. You probably could have told anyone that long before this impromptu bathroom hookup. Egging him on and challenging him in a way you were sure he wasn’t used to was well worth abandoning your assumptions.

“Oh yeah? I think, if you’re lucky, I’ll earn it more times than you can count before the night’s over,” he positioned himself in between your legs, pressing your torso into the mirror behind you as he leaned in for another heated kiss.

He pulled your ass to the edge of the counter, and looped his thumbs into the waistband of your unbuttoned pants. You were quick to assume that he’d yank the fabric right off your legs, preparing to lift your ass from the counter to assist.

Eddie paused, pulled back and gave you a look that asked ‘you’re sure about this?’ and when a dreamy smile spread across your cheeks he melted into you with a kiss that turned your stomach inside out and made your pussy flutter.

He snakes a hand from its grip on your torso down into your unbuttoned pants. You arched up into his touch, wanting to urge him to get on with it and get your pants and underwear out of the way, but appreciating how much he seemed to be reveling in feeling you for the first time.

“So fuckin wet,” he mumbled against your lips, his fingers only feeling up your cunt from outside your underwear. He pressed the fabric into your slick center, following the path up to your clit and then teasingly back down to where your panties were soaked through.

“You weren’t lying when you said you liked this a little too much,” he’s rolling his hips ever so slightly against your spread thigh as he rubs your clothed pussy, his teeth sinking into your lower lip as he moves the material aside and sinks two fingers right into your wet cunt with ease.

You were sure that you’d retrospectively have a million quippy compacks that come to mind, but in this moment it was impossible to come up with words when his fingers were buried inside you, still, just letting you squeeze around them, and his hard cock straining against his jeans nestled against the inside of your thigh.

He slowly drags his finger’s up from your hole to your clit, and you let out a whine of desperation as he fully removes his hand from your damp underwear.

Before you can manage the breath to tell him to please, for the love of god, get on with it, he brings his fingers up to his lips and gives them a long suck, never breaking eye contact with you.

“Yeah,” he sighs out and presses his forehead against yours, “I might like that a little too much too.”

Protests and urging words catch in your throat as he yanks down your pants and underwear with one quick pull, not even needing you to lift your ass off the counter more than it already was. He was methodical and moved with intention, folding up your pants neatly and shoving your soaked panties into his back pocket, shooting you a wink.

“Eddie, please,” your overdue complaints are finally bubbling over. You hardly finish your plea before his face is buried in your neck, and his fingers are sliding right back into your needy hole.

The top of your head rests against the mirror behind you, exposing your neck and arching your back into his touch. He sucks and nips at the soft skin between your collar bone and ear, all while letting his two middle fingers pump slowly into you.

“Mmmm,” he mumbles into the crook of your jaw, “such a good girl for me, perfect pussy squeezing my fingers so tight, can’t fuckin wait to feel you soak my cock.”

Nearly orgasming at his words alone, your eyes flutter shut and you let out a moan of his name as he lets his thumb drag circles across your clit. “Eddie, please, just like that, I-”

“Oh, suddenly she’s not questioning my abilities?” he says with a biting smirk, “What was that about me not being half as good as I think I am?”

“Fuck,” you want to raise an eyebrow and shoot something back, hold out and make him work for it, but after hardly two minutes of his fingers rolling inside you, hooked up to drag along that perfect fucking spot, you had no choice but to feed his ego and let him win.

“You wanted to make your little deal,” he pumps a little faster, making your head loll to the side and mouth hang half open, “I’ll sweeten it for you, babe. I say we can get this pretty pussy to come twice all over my fingers before anyone even knocks on this door.”

“Yes,” is all you can squeak out, “yes, please.”

If Eddie was being honest, he was a few half-thrusts into your thigh short of coming in his own pants from how hot you looked. Your eyes glassed over, pretty lips parted and gasping his name, perfect cunt sucking his fingers in.

The hand not occupied by your gushing cunt slid up to cup the side of your cheek, forcing you to look into his fiery eyes. “Feel’s good?” he questions, knowing the answer and not expecting a verbal response.

He drags the pad of his thumb up to your parted lips, running it along your plush bottom lip and dragging it down a bit, relishing in how under his spell you were. His thumb slips into your mouth and you immediately wrap your lips around it and suck.

“Good girl,” his thumb on your clit is rubbing more focused circles, “suck on that and keep your voice down, don’t want the whole bar knowing what a good little slut you are for me.”

Jackpot.

A muffled moan around his thumb and the spasming of your inner walls signaled that you were hitting your peak. He drags the spit slicked digit from your lips and quickly replaces it with his lips and tongue, kissing you with fervor as he feels you ride out your orgasm on his hand.

“Mmmmmmm” you moan, somewhere between a pleading whine and a sigh of satisfaction into his lips as his fingers don’t let up.

Under different circumstances you would tell him to slow down, give you a minute to catch your breath. Eddie was stubborn, this you knew, and he had already made it abundantly clear that one orgasm wasn’t going to be enough.

He pulls back from your lips, loving the sharp intake of breath you swallow as your cheeks continue to flush and eyelids keep fluttering.

“So fucking good, came all over my fingers,” his gaze locks in on where his hand was buried into your cunt. “Gonna give me one more?”

Of course you would, whether it was up to you or not. He did slow up for a second, just enough for you to regain your grip on reality before he started curling them up again.

“Eddie,” you whine out, eyes nearly crossed and unable to focus your attention on his face, hands, anything other than his boner poking into your inner thigh, “wanna feel you.”

The hand formerly gripped tight onto the edge of the counter snakes forward and pulls his hip into you, a permanent indentation of his stiff cock molding against your skin.

“Not yet baby,” he rolls his hips forward, giving you a delicious feel of how it would be if he was inside you, but instead pushing his fingers a touch deeper and then pulling his hips away, “one more and then I’ll take you home. You’re gonna let me ruin that perfect little cunt, right? That was the deal?”

“Yes,” you gasp out, his other hand moving from your hair down to rub fast tight circles on your clit, the other hand still pumping steadily inside you.

“That’s right, I know this pussy is gonna take me so well. You’re already drooling for my cock, so fucking perfect.”

You feel it building up again, that sacred double orgasm that only ever came during your alone time in the shower or when you were so desperate for release that your hand didn’t stop after the first, but never with another person, never like this.

His smile nearly touched his ears at this point, pulling back to take in all of you as your eyes screwed shut and thighs threatened to break his wrist at how fast they snapped together.

Hitting you like a punch to the gut, your abdomen tightened and released rapidly, air sucked from your lungs and his hand working you through it between your clenched thighs.

Yeah, maybe this was a bad idea.

If you were in a cartoon, stars and chirping birds would be swirling around your head as you slowly came back to reality. He gave you some space, and begrudgingly gave you pack your panties after you hand out your hand and gave him a stern look.

“I’m gonna go tell the others that you aren’t feeling great and I’m taking you home,” he makes sure you’ve pulled your pants back up before unlocking the door, “Take your time, and I’ll meet you at the van, okay? I’ll grab your stuff.”

“Yeah,” you still feel a little flustered, looking back into the mirror and smoothing down your hair, “thanks.”

He shoots you a wink before slipping out, giving you a moment to collect yourself and splash some cold water on your face. Okay, so you’re doing this.

Any nagging feelings that this might ruin things or that he’s only teasing you because of your arrangement are quickly squished down into a deeper compartment of your brain, overtaken by the post orgasm bliss and wandering thoughts of what might happen next.

You peek your head out of the bathroom door, and slink your way to the back door without passing your group table or a stray Steve or Robin. The fresh air equalizes your buzzing thoughts, and you spot Eddie, already in the driver’s seat of his van.

“You good?” He asks as you hop into the passenger seat. You won’t let him have the upper hand, just because he made you come twice in under ten minutes.

“Yeah,” you gather as much assertion as your voice will project, “You good?”

“F’course,” he starts backing up, you internally roll your eyes at the way his outstretched arm muscles and curved neck make your stomach flutter, “Just wanted to make sure I passed the test.”

You sit in silence, not wanting to give into the cocky game he clearly wants to play, yet know that he’s entirely correct in his assumption that he’s driven you completely crazy. Once he’s on the main stretch of road, finally rolling to a stop at a red light you let your hand migrate across the center console, dancing its way into his lap.

As you hoped, his cock was still half hard and apparent underneath his jeans. You let your hand draw circles next to it, loving the little twitch you get when you run your nails against his thigh.

“Easy there, tiger,” he lets out a huffed laugh, with just an edge to his tone that suggested you were getting yourself into something you’d soon regret.

“C’mon Eds,” you let your head fall on the corner of the headrest, gaze angled over at his tight grip on the steering wheel while your hand dancing around the bulge in his pants, “you’ve been pushing this thing against my thigh for the past twenty minutes, forgive me for wanting a better feel.”

You put on a pretend pouty face and flash him your best puppy dog eyes to ward off any incoming snippy comments from him. He rolls his pretty eyes at you and silently bites the inside of his cheek as you feel up and down his lap, grazing his growing cock with each pass.

“Forgiven,” through gritted teeth, he squeezes his eyes shut as your fingers circle around his head, now taking visible form beneath his black jeans. He internally reprimands himself for losing focus on the road, and zeroes his concentration on getting back to his trailer as fast as this van can take him.

You have your fun watching him wiggle in his seat, feeling his thigh muscles clench under your palm every so often. You weren’t full on jerking him off over his pants, but you were certainly relishing in the feeling of his dick getting harder and harder with each occasional pass of your hand.

He parks diagonally across the lawn in front of his trailer, not giving a shit where the van ends up as long as it’s stopped. He wanted to dash around the vehicle and scoop you out of your seat, throw you over his shoulder and take you inside to continue with whatever this evening had in store for you.

The second his hand stalled on the clutch, shifting the van into park and taking a moment to let his mind wander to what would happen once he got you inside, you were already halfway out the van and skipping up the steps to his front door.

Entering his trailer, you start taking off your coat and shoes, trying to act as normal as possible. Your facade of keeping it cool entirely shatters when he enters behind you, calmly clicking the door shut and patiently waiting for you to finish unlacing your boots.

You remain crouched down, darting your eyes up at him, deciding against being a brat and undoing your laces as slowly as possible to keep him waiting. Any caution you had was long swept away by the wind, and he’d taken control in your little bathroom tryst, so it was your turn to say fuck it and just do what felt right.

And in this moment, there was only a few quick movements and about six inches of space between you and Eddie’s semi-hard dick. One shoe was only half off, haphazardly kicked behind you as you pivoted onto your knees and had your hands moving eagerly up his tensing thighs.

“Can I?” Your question was half formed and he was already nodding.

You’d teased him enough on the ride over, you wanted him, now. Pants quickly unbuttoned and blue checkered boxers pushed down to his knees, and you were about to go feral and just go for it when a silver glimmer adorning his thick cock caught your eye.

Your mouth was already half open, but your jaw nearly unhinged and hit the floor when the pierced head of his dick falls out of his boxers and lands at your eye level.

Unmoving, mouth agape, you look up to make eye contact, ripping your eyes away from the shock of two silver balls on his cockhead. He knew it was nice, he wouldn’t have bedazzled it if it wasn’t, but the look you were giving him sucked all the unwavering confidence from his body for a split second, suddenly feeling weak in the knees at the sight of you slowly sicking your tongue out, not making any contact but waiting.

He took the base of his dick in his hand and gave it a few precautionary strokes before angling it down and slapping your wet tongue with the tip a few times.

You were two and a half seconds away from being entirely fucked out. If he pulled away and asked you to crawl on all fours to him, you’d do it without a second thought.

You let him slide his cock gently against your outstretched tongue a few times before coming to your senses and wrapping your lips around him, moving your hand to replace his and move against the length that your mouth couldn’t yet reach.

All it took was a few steady bobs of your head, hand twisting and eyes still focused upwards on his face, to have him biting his knuckle and looking up at the ceiling to ground himself to try and not bust on the spot. You love this, of course, seeing him visibly spiral paired with the salty taste of precum already leaking from him.

The hand not jerking him off comes up to the back of his hip, gently pushing against him in tandem with the movements of your head, encouraging him to shallowly thrust into your mouth.

“Jesus fu-“ he grunts out, not wanting to overestimate your encouragement, but unable to keep his hips from rolling forward slightly with the push of your hands and the bob of your lips.

After an unexpected snap of his hips that sent his cock sliding into the back of your throat, making you gag slightly, a pang of guilt struck through him for pushing too hard. That was, until you let your head pull back a touch to catch your breath, but a long string of spit connected your lips to his cock, and a wild smile broke across your face that nearly sent him to the moon.

You dove back in and pushed his cock all the way into the back of your throat, going so far that your nose pressed into the patch of dark curls that sat above his perfect dick. Focusing your breathing through your nose, you make a point to constrict your throat a few times until you feel him twitch inside you.

Pulling off with a gasp for air, you notice his eyebrows pinched together and gaze locked on you.

“I like how these feel,” you comment, letting your pointed tongue dance around the metal balls on his tip.

He shudders and you clench your thighs at the sight of his stomach muscles tensing up when your tongue makes contact with the underside of his head, right where it meets the shaft.

“If I let you fuck my mouth until you come, are you still going to be able to give it to me in a bit, or are you a one and done kind of guy?” You ask with a playfully teasing tone, but genuinely want to know if you suck him off to completion if the night will be over or not.

“Fuck,” he spits out, more blood rushing to his cock at the idea of coming down your throat, “I’d fuck you all night if you’d let me babe.”

Half a second doesn’t pass before his cock is back in your mouth, hips shakily moving forward with your movements, gaining confidence as you flicker your eyes up at him through your lashes, the glimmer in them telling him he can take what he wants.

“Fuckin’ look at you,” he comments to himself, “takin’ it all.”

“Mhmmm,” you hum around him letting your tongue roll around his tip each time before he pushes his cock back down your throat.

“You think you can get away with teasing me like that? That shit you pulled in the van back there, you think it’s cute to try and get me all riled up?”

You nod, tongue out and saliva coating your lips and chin. You could tell he was close by the way his words came out staggered, and his hips started snapping towards you in a new tempo, like his body was chasing it.

Grunts and moans pulled from his chest fill the space mixed with the hums of satisfaction you let out while you take him deeper and faster. Moving in for the kill, you carefully slip your hand up in between his legs, cupping his balls, trying your best not to startle him.

“Oh fuck,” it was a pitch of his voice you’d never heard before, a new tone especially reserved for the moments before orgasm, “you’re gonna make me fuckin come, y/n, y/n, I’m…”

The feeling of his balls constricting in your hands cues the warm wash of come sputtering down into your throat.

Getting the feeling he’d appreciate a bit of a show, you continue to jerk him off and pull off his cock slightly, letting the tip balance onto the tip of your tongue and the rest of his load spills out into your open mouth, some landing around the corners and onto your lips.

“Christ, y/n,” his chest is heaving, his eyes finally pulling from you to squeeze shut for a moment.

Once you’re sure he’s looking at you again you swallow down the salty white substance and lick the excess off your lips. You take his head back into your mouth, sucking just enough to clean off the tip and lap up any stray drops. He’s sensitive, you can tell, so you stop torturing him and place a final kiss right in between the two metal balls.

You thought of asking him if the piercing hurt, or maybe make a comment about the two matching tattoos on his hipbones, ink of his you’d never seen until now. Before your brain can jump from swallowing his come to making post-nut chit chat, he’s yanking you up off your feet and wrapping you in a searingly passionate kiss.

In your past experience most guys wanted you to drink some water or brush your teeth after they came in your mouth, at least before kissing you. Not Eddie. The way his tongue immediately slipped into your mouth, you almost believed he was trying to get a taste for himself.

“C’mon,” he whispers in between slotting his lips with your, “Bedroom. Now.”

He takes your hips in his hands and spins you around, causing a surprised yelp to bubble up from you, making him chuckle behind you as he walks you down the hall, keeping his hands on your sides.

You knew where you were going, there were only so many doors in his tiny trailer, and you’d been here plenty of times before, but you liked the feeling of his hands pushing you forward, guiding your movements and steering you down the hallway into his room.

Before your knees can hit the bed he spins you back around and captures your lips in another heated kiss. His hands trail up your sides, letting his fingertips slide beneath the hem of your shirt and push it upwards until your ribs were exposed. He pulls away from your face, leaving you leaning back into him, not wanting the kiss to end.

“Up,” he pinches the sides of your shirt in his hands, and signals with his chin that he wants you to lift your arms, which you comply.

It slides up and off of you, his hands quickly darting back to unclasp your bra, seemingly without even trying. This makes you roll your eyes, but the realization that you’re bare before him eclipses the thought of making a snippy remark about what a man whore he is.

Flat palms caress your sides and move up to cup your breasts, his tongue pressing into the side of your neck.

“These too,” his thumbs dip into your pants, managing to wiggle under the waistband of your panties as well. You’re going to do it yourself, but he gently pushes you back onto the bed, letting you flip back into the unmade blankets.

“I wanna see you,” he pops your pants button and waits for a nod before sliding your pants and underwear down your legs.

In between the blowjob and now, he’d tucked himself back into his pants, pulling his boxers and jeans back up, still unbuttoned, but covering him back up as his cock returned to a half hard state, unlikely to stay that way for very long considering how things were going.

The scene of you now sprawled out onto his bed, naked and needy for him, and him standing above you, basically fully clothed, had a flood of lust traveling south between your thighs.

“So fuckin’ gorgeous,” you burned under his intense gaze, raking down your body and soaking in the image of your skin laid out against his flannel plaid sheets.

He crawls over you, letting his body melt into yours, the center seam of his jeans pressing against your soaking core, just as it had when he had you pressed up against the door of the bar bathroom.

Rocking gently against you, you feel his cock already starting to harden again. His tongue moves against your neck, hands roaming freely against your skin, arching into his touch.

His breath was heavy against your lips, he was already starting to lose himself, and he knew he wanted to make you come with his tongue at least once before his dick came back out, but it was already pulsing between his legs, growing rock solid with every little whimper that came past your lips.

Your fingers intertwined themselves into the tresses of his long, messy hair. You use your new grip to pull his face as close into yours as your bodies will allow, smushing his nose up against your cheek and foreheads plastered together. The weight of his body on yours, and the lovely rocking motion of his hips against yours stopped as he pulled away and hooked his arms under your knees.

He slides off the side of the bed, feet returning to the carpeted ground and yanking your body to the edge of the mattress. You let out an unexpected giggle, body limp like a rag doll, moving wherever he wanted you.

He leans back over to give you another deep kiss, teeth dragging against your lower lip and tongue sliding gracefully against yours, before he slides his mouth down, stopping to lap up at your nipples for a moment, not letting any part of your skin go untouched as he takes his time moving down to where you want him most.

Wiggling around on his mattress, your body is begging him to get on with it, but he loves to make you squirm. He takes his time licking up your hip bones, kissing from the innermost part of your thigh all the way down to your knee, and then back up the other side. He even takes a long moment to suck a dark purple bruise into the meat of your thigh, biting down on the flesh and licking over the skin to soothe it, noticing how your back arched a little when he bit down harder.

“Please Eddie,” your voice is hardly above a whisper, whimpering and whiny.

“All you had to do was ask nicely,” he has that too-cocky tone again, but it’s long forgotten once his tongue is buried in between your thighs, lapping up the excess of wetness already pooled there.

“Ohhh,” you let out a moan, sucking in a sharp breath and allowing your body to relax under his focused touch.

His hands push up from your ass to the crooks of your knees, moving your legs back to either side of you, strong palms finding their resting place on the backs of your thighs, keeping your legs spread wide open for him while he buries his face deep in your cunt.

“You-“ the start of a compliment, or maybe a request, escapes your lips but the sudden harsh suck of your clit into his mouth has you speechless and moaning, “Mhmmmmm, uhhhhhhh.”

The sloppy wet sounds of him making out with your pussy are enough to drive you wild, your hands originally balling his sheets in your fists quickly move to the top of his head, resting atop his mop of messy curls.

“Y’can give it a tug,” the first half of his statement spoken directly into your pussy, “I don’t mind a little pain.” He shoots you a wink and keeps his eyes locked on you as he lets his tongue lap a fat long lick up your slit, and then leaning back down to encourage you to tangle your hands into his hair.

Coming to either side of his head you grab two points of purchase, locking your fingers in at the roots and feeling him hum into your cunt when you grabbed it a little tighter.

Your hips start to quiver, so he brings one hand from your thigh up to your lower stomach, pinning you against the bed, and still keeping you spread open with the other.

Working a steady rhythm against your slick center with his lips and tongue, he can tell he’s found the spot you like most by your open mouth and tight eyebrows.

“Ohmygod,” your chest starts moving with heavy breaths, you can’t bear to keep yourself up any longer and flop back down flat onto the mattress, eyes screwing shut in pleasure. He lets go of his anchor on your tummy and returns his hands to your thighs, allowing your hips to wiggle and wriggle against his face to chase after your own pleasure.

“Pleasepleaseplease,” one glimpse of his big brown eyes looking up at you and his nose pressing deliciously into the spot above your clit has your head reeling, “please don’t stop, fuck.”

Rather than reply, he just continues to devour you at that steady pace, your thighs almost snapping shut around his head .

“Uh huh, right there, oh fuck Eddie I’m gonna-“

A strangled moan rips from your throat and your back arches off the mattress, his hands quickly come to wrap around your thighs and keep your center held closely against his face. He’s pulling your hips flush with his face, despite your spasming torso and gushing core.

As your orgasm peaks, your hips angle themselves to push up deeper into his face, and he uses his leverage against the backs of your thighs to lift your ass, the entire lower half of your body now off the mattress and sliding backwards as he keeps his moving tongue glued to your clit.

He climbs up onto the mattress as you slide back, the grip he had on your legs was sure to leave a sore memory of him unwilling to let your coming pussy away from his face.

When he finally pulls away, your hand pushing at his forehead to prevent overstimulation, both of you gasping for air, his knees are propped under your thighs, and your hips are propped up right at perfect level with the bulge in his pants.

“Fuck me,” you say through catching your breath, not as an expletive but rather a demand, “Eddie, I need you to fuck me,” your voice was whiny and desperate.

“This okay?” he starts pulling his dick from its constraints in his unbuttoned jeans, not even shoving them halfway down his thighs before he had that pretty pierced dip dragging through your open and ready folds.

“Yes, inside, please,” you were chasing after his length, while he tossed his shirt off. He teasingly ran it up and down your slit before sinking into you, collapsing down to press your lips into a kiss to swallow your moans as he slid the whole thing in slowly, making sure to take his time and fuck you right.

He grabbed the back of your neck and pressed his forehead to yours, finally sheathed all the way inside you and stilling for a moment to relish in the feeling. Pulling back so he can watch your face as he pumps his first few thrusts, he knows he’s beyond fucked.

“So fucking good,” you slur out, eyes almost crossing from how deep his cock was hitting your insides.

“Yeah? This pussy’s god damn perfect, fucking made for me,” he articulates each thought with a snap of his hips, “suckin’ me right in.”

“Wait, can we,” your voice had a little more weight behind it unlike the airy moans he’d grown obsessed with in the past forty minutes.

He pulls back, and rather than finish your thought you slip him out of you and roll over, shuffling up the bed and positioning yourself face down ass up, knees spread and back arched.

“You think you can handle it?” he asks jokingly, swatting your ass playfully and then landing a second, harder smack on the flesh when he notices you pussy clench around nothing at the sensation of him spanking you.

“Want you to fuck me hard,” you mumble into his pillow, wiggling your hips a little bit to jiggle the fat of your ass, “I know your cock is gonna feel so fucking good in me this way, wanna feel that fucking piercing back in my throat from the other direction.”

“Jesus Christ, y/n,” he was genuinely a little shocked at your words, slowly learning that your freak side might match his.

You expected to feel his cock slam into you once his hands came to spread your ass apart, but instead the mattress dipped and he was licking another fat stripe from your clit all the way up past your second hole, running this back a few times until you were moaning into the pillow and thighs were tensed up from the attention he was giving you.

“Sorry babe, just needed another taste,” he pushed the head of his dick into you, and moved the first few inches agonizingly slow into your soaked hole.

“Eddie please, need it, need you,” he loved that his sheets were balled up in your fists, using the tension of the material to bounce yourself back onto him. You only manage to slide back down about three quarters before he’s tightly gripping your hip and pulling out half way again.

“Tsk tsk tsk, you need to learn to be patient, pretty girl,” he’d thrust it an inch of so, and then slowly pull back, making you whine and start to feel tears bubble up in the corners of your eyes.

“Want it so bad,” your cheek laid flat against his pillow, and you could catch a glimpse of him behind you out of the corner of your eye if you craned your neck a bit. You sounded so desperate, but you knew he liked it, liked hearing how badly you craved him.

He starts moving in and out of you, firm grip on your ass never wavering. Restrained grunts left his mouth as he fucked into you, causing your eyes to practically roll into the back of your head. He leans down to place a soft kiss on your shoulder blade, despite how viciously he's pounding into you. His head cranes down to your shoulder, his hand coming up to brush your hair out of your face.

As his long fingers move your hair away from your eyes, you push your head back into his hand, not wanting to lose contact. He tentatively runs his hands up into your hair, taking a soft grip on your roots.

“Is this what you want?” he whispers, “you like it rough?”

“Yes,” you manage to squeak out, “fuck, pull my hair, spank me, do whatever the fuck you want to me, please.”

His vision practically goes black with this new unrestricted passion, allowing himself to thrust into you as hard and as deep as his hips would propel him, twisting your hair in his grip and pulling you up from your laid position, quickly letting your hands jump to his headboard to support you as your head was pulled back.

You tried to bounce back onto his cock, wanting to feel him as deeply and wholly as your bodies would allow, but you could hardly keep up with the pace he had set.

Your ass bouncing against him and the occasional glance he caught at your fucked out expression spurred him on to fuck you even harder. He had your hair pulled back so tight that your back was pressing flush up with his chest every so often, and he took the opportunity to snake an arm around you and hold your chest up flat, his other hand moving down to rub frantic circles on your clit.

“You’re gonna make me come like this,” you manage to croak out, voice hoarse from the harsh bend in your neck.

“Nuh uhh, no,” his voice was gruff and commanding, right into your ear and sent a shiver down your spine.

He pulled out of you fully, and had you flipped around flat on your back again before you could even open your mouth to complain.

“Need to see that pretty face when you come on my cock,” he lines himself up with you again, pushing into you and making a mental note of how the bulge of his cock looked pressing up from the inner part of your lower stomach.

And of course, your face screwed up in pleasure, puffy lips and sweaty brow, slack jawed and panting his name would be something Eddie wouldn’t be able to forget even if he tried.

His thumb found its way to your clit to pick up where he had last left you, steadily building to an earth shattering orgasm. Talking you through it, knowing you were close by the vice grip your walls had on his dick, in between grunts he spilled out some “good girl”’s and “right fuckin there, that’s it.”

When he felt your thighs tense up, and the muscles in your neck strain against the soft skin he’d previously had his lips all over, he knew you were nearing the finish line.

“So fucking perfect, feel so good wrapped around me,” he managed to sweet talk you without altering the pace of his hips, “That’s it, come on my cock, give it to me.”

With that, your body can’t help but throw itself over the edge of pleasure. A deep grunt rattles in your chest, and you lose all sensation other than the wild pulsing in between your legs. You can’t be bothered to worry about what your face looks like, or if your thighs are squeezing him too hard, you only feel the riptide of an orgasm shattering through you.

The animalistic noise that Eddie grunts out, his wild gaze locked on your face only makes your body shake with pleasure even harder. He had that instinct that most men lacked, to keep the exact pace and motion when your orgasm hit rather than speed up or slow down, it was a gift, a talent.

Of course he wasn’t going to change a thing about what he was doing, look at you. You were so fucking perfect, shaking and coming all over him, those sweet noises and the beautiful squelching between your thighs. He’d rather die than change a single thing about this moment.

He stilled only when you paused to catch your breath, and within seconds was flipped over by the power of your thighs onto his back.

Unexpectedly, you began to ride him, trying to match the pace he had earlier set. The aftershocks of your orgasm still washed through you, but you seized the moment to get him right where you wanted him. This angle was different, deeper and more connected. You roll your hips and bring your hands up to his hair, foreheads pressing together once again.

“You’re making me feel so fucking good,” you manage to breathe out into his lips, he quickly comes to the realization of what’s happened and shifts the angle of his hips to hit you even deeper.

“I’d give you everything, if you’d let me,” he doesn’t let a single thought pass in his mind before the words slip out, “always.”

Your lips capture his in a kiss that has far more emotion behind it than two friends play-dating and fucking for fun. His hands come up to grasp your cheeks, your hips continue to roll down into his with purpose.

“I’m- Where-“ his words are hardly intelligible in between breathless kisses, but you know what he means.

“Inside, please, need all of you inside me,” you try to keep your voice steady so he hears you loud and clear, wanting to give him the exact attention he had paid to you, “Please Eddie, come inside me.”

His hands travel down and guide your hips to fuck down onto him one, two, three times before he’s groaning in your ear and letting out the prettiest and most vulnerable sounds you’ve ever heard form him.

The swell of his cock inside you makes you drape your head into his neck, focusing on riding out his orgasm and making sure he was twitching in the aftershocks of his orgasm before you let up.

When you felt his grip on your hips tighten, signaling that he’d had too much, you sink all the way down one final time and let your body lay limp on his, pulsing cock still filling you up.

His chest rose and fell harshly with his recovering breaths. You could feel his heartbeat pulsing up through the spot on his neck where your ear laid on his sweaty skin.

Silently awaiting the inevitable tap on the shoulder, the slow pull out and post-sex cleanup process, you try to savor every passing moment. But it doesn’t come. Eddie wraps his arms around your midsection and holds your limp body close to his, letting his cock start to soften inside you.

You nearly fall asleep like that, all wrapped up in him, until you recognize that you should pee and clean up to avoid a UTI. You slip off of him, and hear a disappointed groan from him. He makes cute grabby hands at you as you cross the room, making you roll your eyes, but something deep inside you flip flops with how sweet he’s being, so caring, so unlike the picture of himself that he had painted for you.

You give him a wet hand towel to clean up the remnants of your activities, and slip back into bed with him per his insistence. You doze off for a while, until the rising sun peeking through his blinds catches your eye, striking you with the sudden decision to stay and face the music or leave and let it settle.

You’d already regretted it, but weren’t ready to have the “hey, so I know we had fake boyfriend-girlfriend sex, but I actually really like you so what should we do about that?” conversion with him, so instead you take the cowardly path and tiptoe out of his room in the early morning hours, leaving behind your underwear on his nightside table with a scribbled note saying to call you. Hopefully that was enough of a signal.

Apparently not,

Days pass, and no call.

It was all starting to get to your head. While you had gone through the stages of being nervous that you had done something wrong, that he was avoiding you to spare you the rejection, thinking he regretted what had happened and didn’t want to face you, who was so obviously into him it was painful, you’d just now turned a new leaf. Fuck that. If he was too much of a coward to call you, you'd hope he'd at least give you the decency as a friend to tell you the truth, you deserved to be angry, and you deserved a response.

After stewing in your feelings for longer than felt healthy, you just get in your car and start driving to his trailer. If this all blew up in your face at least you wouldn’t have to keep biting your nails and waiting for the phone to ring.

Three deep breaths, and a quick moment to gather your thoughts, and suddenly your body acted on instinct, putting the car in park and walking up to pound three concise knocks on his trailer door.

“Just a second,” he hollered from inside, giving you a few seconds to be stricken with regret for showing up unannounced without a plan on what exactly to say.

“What do you- oh, y/n,” he was in a pair of plaid pajama pants that hung low on his hips, shirtless and hair still damp from a recent shower, “uh, hey?”

“Oh, hey,” your tone was laced with annoyance, “I left something here last week and I’m here to get it back. If you don’t mind.”

“What- oh,” he’s a second too slow to realize you mean the underwear you had purposefully left behind with that note. The note telling him to call you. Which he never did.

You were left standing on his porch steps, arms crossed and shooting daggers out of your eyes while he stood there in the doorway, an apparent guilty expression plastered on his face while he rocked back on his heels to buy some time to figure out what to say.

“You don’t have to invite me inside, if you can just grab them and give them to me, and I’ll be out of your hair,” you say flatly, recognizing if he does as asked then this might be the last time you speak to Eddie Munson.

“No, no, uh, you should come in,” he steps aside to let you in, “we probably shouldn’t have this conversation on my front steps.”

Avoiding eye contact, feeling an overwhelming mix of anger, confusion, and betrayal, you step inside and don’t make any effort to move into the space. You just stand by the door and give him an expectant look. Either he could go get the underwear, or he could grow a pair and say something to you.

“I, uh-“ he looked so defeated you started to feel bad for using such a pointed tone, but then you remembered the days and days that passed without hearing from him, “I’m sorry, that I, y’know…”

“Yeah, well I don’t really care if you’re not looking for any post sex recap conversations, because you’re obviously pretty sure of yourself in that department,” the words flew out before your mind could even conjure them up, “but you fucking promised me that you wouldn’t do this, so can I please just have my underwear back and I won’t bother you again.”

He runs a hand through his hair letting out a deep exhale and searching the ceiling for words, “I know, I-“

You cut him off, your thoughts were ripping through you now and you were going to say your piece whether he asked for it or not, “You said you wouldn’t pull this shit with me, but I guess our friendship isn’t substantial enough for you to see me any differently than you do every other girl you throw away after you’ve gotten what you want. You clearly don’t want any more advice and you clearly don’t want to be my friend, so please, just give me my shit so I can go.”

“That’s the fucking thing y/n, of course I don’t want to be your friend,” his gaze still fixed on the ceiling.

At this point you were seconds away from just storming out, letting him keep your underwear as some twisted little trophy for breaking your heart.

“Yeah, crystal clear Eddie.”

“Being your friend is already hard enough, and I knew this shit was a bad idea, the whole trial-girlfriend thing. But how the fuck was I supposed to say no to that? The girl of my dreams offers to do all this no-strings-attached romantic shit, I’d be the dumbest man alive to turn that down.”

You just give him a blank stare, your scalding anger twisting into a more confused frenzy of bees swarming in the pit of your stomach. Eyebrows pinched together, you just stare at him until he finally makes eye contact with you.

“And yeah,” he goes on, letting all his words out like a big exhale in the same cadence that you had just hurled all your angry words at his, but his tone was filled with guilt as opposed to rage, “maybe we let it go a little too far, but I would never say no to you, I couldn’t. I’m sorry I didn’t know what the fuck to say to you after, but that’s exactly the reason I’m not good enough for you. The more we kept that fake dating shit up the worse it was gonna get, so I’m sorry, but I can’t keep spending time with you like that, because it’s starting to fucking hurt.”

“Hurt,” you say with a dry laugh, which almost scares him, “YOU’RE hurt? Give me a fucking break Eddie. I know you don’t see me that way. So what, you’re too scared to hurt my feelings? You’re doing a wonderful job, keep it up.”

“What the fuck do you mean, not see you like what?”

“Don’t pretend to be dumb Eddie. When we first met I tried so hard to get your attention, asking you to hang out, and you always blew me off. It’s fine that you don’t want to date me or whatever, but at least just tell me that, don’t fuck me like I’m special or something and then toss me aside. I deserve better than that.”

“Yeah, y/n, you do,” his voice was no longer guilt stricken, and was on the same straightforward plane as your last responses, “you deserve so much fucking better than me, that’s why I could never let anything between us happen. I don’t call girls back. I’m rude. I don’t take care of myself, let alone others. I like to smoke, and drink, and get head from girls in bar bathrooms and never learn their names, and that’s not the kind of person that a girl like you dates. I’m a fun quick fuck. You’re the kind of girl that after three dates he’ll already have a ring picked out. You’re everything, and I’m nothing, so forgive me for sparing you of that.”

Your bones are frozen and the beat of silence gives him the opportunity to spin on his heel and start down the hallway, presumably to get your panties.

Snapping back into it, you let out a louder than expected, “Hey,” and you start following him, not taking long to catch up to him in his bedroom.

“You,” you point a finger at him, and start to feel the rage bubble up again, “don’t get to decide that you’re unloveable. And you don’t get to tell me what kind of girl I am. Have you ever considered that maybe the reason you’re so lonely and miserable is because you choose to be? You don’t get to decide what I deserve, I do. And I really fucking like you Eddie, so forgive me for acting like it.”

You snatch your underwear off his bedside table, and give him a look, not fueled by anger or resentment, but empathy.

“I’m going to leave. And if you don’t want to see me again, that’s fine, but if you do, you can call me. Goodbye Eddie.”

You feel out of your own body, floating above it all and rewinding the conversation over and over, body on autopilot taking you home while your soul stayed behind and relived his words over and over, unsure if you feel better or worse than when you showed up.

Days pass by again, and you take his silence as more of a response than anything he had said to you during that conversation. You try not to wallow, but you feel scattered and distraught, at both the prospect of losing Eddie and having to deal with your shared friends, would they allow you to dance around each other, or would they flat out choose him and shut you out? Would group nights out bowling suddenly just turn into the occasional one-on-one coffee with Robin?

Until suddenly, on a random Tuesday afternoon when you've gotten home from work and are relaxing on the couch in your pajamas, three knocks are at your door.

At this point you figured it was over. He hadn't called and he'd made no effort to continue the dialogue. So a thought of Eddie doesn't even cross your mind in between the couch and opening the door.

And there he is.

In a suit, slightly descheveld in Eddie fashion, and holding a slightly wilting bouquet of flowers. Posture straight and brave face, but expecting your brutal edge upon answering the door nonetheless.

"Hey?" you're somewhat at a loss for words answering.

"Hi," he seems like he's running lines of a play in his mind, "I was hoping we could talk."

You reluctantly let him in, and he hands the flowers to you, as if it was a normal occurrence for him to bring you such a gift.

"First off," he starts, hardly breaching your living room entrance before starting his apology, "I regret the way we last left things, and I'm sorry for leaving you waiting for a response."

He flicks those big brown eyes at you and you can't help but give him the benefit of the doubt, he always was so sincere with his words.

"You're amazing. And although I'll remain adamant that I don't deserve someone like you in my life, I've been thinking a lot about what you said, and I'm sorry that tried to tell you how to feel."

You remain stoic at your seat on the couch, watching him shift his weight and bare his soul to you.

"You're perfect. Nice, funny, sexy, brave, all of it. And if you're willing to give me a chance, I don't know why the fuck you would, but if you are, I want to put aside all my bullshit and try this out, if you'll have me."

He stood there for a moment, letting you take in his request, bouquet in hand and suit adorned.

"And I owe you a few dates, for real."

As hard as you want your exterior to be, a smile cracks through.

"Okay, but know I don't fuck until the third date, at best," you jab, breaking his nervous exterior and visibly relieving the tension from his shoulders.

"I'm somewhat of a refined gentleman myself, so that won't be an issue," he bows and extends a hand to you.

You pull him down by the hand onto the couch with you, wrapping him up in a deep kiss. He was worth it, and you both knew it was worth the shot to try.

#i loved this so much #eddie munson x reader #fic rec

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clairecrive · 2 months ago

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ROLL FOR REDEMPTION - E.M. (series)

SUMMARY: in which Eddie cuts you of his life, under his girlfriend’s influence, discarding mementos of your friendship. As you withdraw, becoming a shadow of yourself, Eddie feels trapped, clinging to a small reminder of you. PAIRING: Eddie Munson x Female best friend

ONE : The Silence That Breaks You

The air in Hawkins feels heavier tonight, like the sky itself is pressing down on your chest. You’re sitting on the worn-out couch in your living room, the one with the frayed armrests and the faint smell of cigarette smoke that lingers from years of Eddie Munson sprawling across it, his boots propped on the coffee table, his laughter filling the space like a song you didn’t know you’d miss until it was gone. The TV hums with some late-night infomercial, but you’re not watching. Your eyes are fixed on the phone, mocking you with its silence.

It’s been two weeks since Eddie last called. Two weeks since you heard his voice, all gravel and warmth, teasing you about the way you always steal his fries at the diner or how you can’t keep up with his D&D campaigns because you’re “too busy daydreaming about dragons instead of slaying them.” Two weeks since he looked at you with those big, brown eyes, the ones that always seemed to see you, really see you, even when you felt invisible to the rest of the world.

You shift, your thighs pressing against the couch, and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of your body—the way your curves spill over the cushions, the way your hips take up space that Tara, with her sharp cheekbones and willowy frame, never would. You’ve always been plus-size, always carried yourself with a quiet confidence you built from scratch, brick by painful brick. Eddie was the one who helped you lay those bricks. He was the one who’d sling an arm around your shoulders at school, glaring at anyone who dared whisper about your weight, his presence a shield against the world’s cruelty. “You’re a goddamn queen,” he’d say, grinning, his rings glinting under the fluorescent lights. “Don’t let these idiots tell you otherwise.”

But now, Tara’s in the picture, and she’s not just a girlfriend—she’s a wedge, driven deep between you and the boy who’s been your anchor since you were twelve. You can still see her face from that night at the Hideout, her blonde hair catching the stage lights as Eddie’s band played. She was all sharp edges and possessive glances, her hand curled around his arm like she was staking a claim. You’d been in the crowd, cheering louder than anyone, your heart swelling with pride as Eddie shredded his guitar, his hair a wild halo under the spotlight. After the set, you’d hugged him, your arms wrapping around his leather jacket, the familiar scent of weed and Old Spice grounding you. “You killed it, Munson,” you’d said, and he’d grinned, ruffling your hair like you were kids again.

Tara had watched it all, her lips a thin line. Later, when you’d gone to grab drinks with the band, she’d pulled Eddie aside. You didn’t hear their conversation, but you saw the way his shoulders tensed, the way his eyes flickered to you before dropping to the floor. When he came back, he was quieter, his usual spark dimmed. “Tara’s not feeling great,” he’d mumbled, avoiding your gaze. “Gotta take her home.”

You’d nodded, swallowing the unease in your throat. “Sure. See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he’d said, but there was something hollow in his voice, something that made your stomach twist.

Tomorrow came and went. Then a week. Then two. No calls, no Eddie showing up at your door with his van blaring Metallica, no late-night drives to the quarry where you’d sit on the hood and talk about everything and nothing—your dreams of leaving Hawkins, his plans to make it big with Corroded Coffin, the way you both felt like misfits in a town that didn’t understand you.

You tried reaching out. A voice message: “Eddie, it’s me. Just checking in. Call me back, okay?” Silence. You even swung by the trailer park, your heart pounding as you knocked on his door, but Wayne answered, his face kind but tired. “He’s out with Tara,” he’d said, and the pity in his eyes cut deeper than you’d expected.

Tonight, you can’t take it anymore. You pick up the phone, your fingers trembling as you dial his number. It rings once, twice, three times, and then—his voice, but not really. It’s his voicemail, the one he recorded in a mock-serious tone, pretending to be a radio DJ: “You’ve reached the one and only Eddie Munson, master of the fretboard, slayer of dragons, and all-around badass. Leave a message, and I might grace you with a call back.” The beep feels like a gunshot.

“Eddie,” you start, your voice cracking. You pause, swallowing hard. “I don’t know what’s going on, but… I miss you. Did I do something wrong? Just… call me, please.” You hang up, and the tears come before you can stop them, hot and heavy, blurring the room around you. You curl into yourself, your arms wrapping around your middle, as if you could hold together the pieces of your breaking heart.

The next day, you’re at the diner, picking at a plate of fries you don’t want, when you see them. Eddie and Tara, walking in hand-in-hand. He’s wearing his battle vest, the one you helped him sew patches onto, each one a memory—Iron Maiden from the concert you snuck into, Dio from the time you saved up to buy him that record for his birthday. Tara’s clinging to his arm, her laugh sharp and bright, cutting through the diner’s hum. You sink lower in your booth, hoping they won’t see you, but Eddie’s eyes find yours, and for a moment, it’s like the world stops.

His face softens, and you see the old Eddie—the one who’d stay up all night with you when your mom was sick, who’d drive you to school when your car broke down, who’d tell you you were beautiful when you felt like nothing. But then Tara tugs at his hand, her eyes narrowing as she follows his gaze to you. She says something, too quiet for you to hear, and Eddie’s expression shifts—guilt, maybe, or something worse. He looks away, and they slide into a booth across the diner, his back to you.

You want to scream, to march over and demand answers, but your body feels heavy, like you’re sinking into the vinyl seat. Your fries grow cold, and the waitress gives you a sympathetic look as she refills your coffee. You don’t cry, not here, not where they can see. But inside, you’re unraveling, the threads of your friendship with Eddie pulling apart one by one.

That night, you’re back on your couch, staring at the ceiling, when the phone finally rings. Your heart leaps, and you scramble to answer, nearly dropping it in your haste. “Eddie?” you say, your voice raw with hope.

“Yeah,” he says, and it’s him, but he sounds different—distant, like he’s speaking through a wall. “Can we talk?”

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Please.”

He asks you to meet him at the quarry, the place that’s always been yours, where you’ve shared secrets and dreams under a sky full of stars. You drive there, your hands shaking on the wheel, the radio off because every song feels like it’s mocking you. When you pull up, he’s already there, leaning against his van, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. The moonlight catches the silver of his rings, and for a moment, he’s the Eddie you’ve always known, the one who’d fight the world for you.

But when he looks up, his eyes are heavy, and you know something’s wrong. You climb out of your car, your sneakers crunching on the gravel, and you stop a few feet away, your arms crossed over your chest like armor. “What’s going on, Eddie?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you avoiding me?”

He takes a drag, exhaling smoke that curls into the night air. “It’s Tara,” he says finally, his voice low. “She… she doesn’t like how close we are.”

Your stomach drops. “What do you mean?”

He shifts, his boots scuffing the ground. “She thinks it’s weird, you know? That my best friend’s a girl. She says it makes her uncomfortable, and… I don’t know, she’s got a point. I don’t want her to feel like she’s competing with you.”

“Competing?” The word tastes bitter. “Eddie, we’ve been friends for years. You know I’d never—”

“I know,” he cuts you off, his voice sharp, but then he softens. “I know, okay? But she’s my girlfriend, and I love her. I don’t want to mess this up.”

The word love hits you like a punch. You’ve never heard him say it about anyone, not like this. You want to argue, to tell him Tara’s wrong, that your friendship isn’t something to be thrown away, but the look in his eyes stops you. He’s already made up his mind.

“So what are you saying?” you ask, your voice trembling. “You’re just… done with me?”

“No,” he says quickly, stepping closer, but he stops short of touching you. “It’s not like that. I just… I need to put her first. She wants me to… to take a step back. From you.”

The words cut deeper than you thought possible. You feel exposed, your body too big, too much, like it’s the reason Tara feels threatened, like your existence is the problem. “Eddie,” you say, tears spilling over now, “I’m your best friend. We’ve been through everything together—your dad, my mom, all the shit Hawkins threw at us. And now you’re just… letting her decide who you can talk to?”

“It’s not her deciding,” he says, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. “I’m choosing this. For her. For us.”

You laugh, a hollow, broken sound. “You’re choosing her over me.”

He doesn’t deny it. He just looks at you, his eyes glistening, and you realize he’s hurting too. But it’s not enough to change his mind. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice breaking. “I don’t want to lose you, but… I have to do this.”

You want to scream, to shake him, to make him see how wrong this is. But you don’t. You nod, wiping your tears with the back of your hand. “Okay,” you whisper. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s not what I want,” he says, but it’s too late. The damage is done.

You turn and walk back to your car, your heart a heavy stone in your chest. He calls your name, but you don’t look back. You can’t. You drive away, the quarry shrinking in your rearview mirror, and with it, the boy who was once your everything.

Back home, you collapse onto your bed, the room filled with ghosts of Eddie—his old bandanas tied to your headboard, the mixtape he made you last summer, the Polaroid of you both at the arcade, your arms around each other, grinning like nothing could ever tear you apart. You cry until your throat is raw, until your body feels empty, and you wonder if you’ll ever stop feeling like you’re too much, like your size, your presence, your love for him was always going to be a threat to someone like Tara.

The phone doesn’t ring again. The silence is louder than anything Eddie ever said.

#eddie munson x reader

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clairecrive · 2 months ago

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𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡? | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

you finally work up the courage to kiss Eddie for the first time and he can’t cope (even if he claims he can). 2k words. requested here

cw fem!reserved/shy!reader, first kiss, heavy kissing, mutual pining, eddie being a hot dork

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Some people (Steve) call Eddie your loser boyfriend, while other people (the girls at work) call him the rockstar.

You see both sides of him now.

“Sweetheart!” he calls, the passenger seat window rolled down, his voice strong where he shouts behind the wheel. The van bumps the curve, leaving a sanguine line of rust in its wake and a creak to make everybody on the sidewalk wince.

“Hello,” you call back.

The van hums. You wait for him to be at a definite stop before you approach, hands on the open window, leaning up so as to see him best. It’s not just a usual date night tonight, Eddie’s taking you to Indianapolis for a rock show, and he’s dressed the part. “Woah, you look cool,” you say, bravely, wondering if that’s the right thing to say. It’s undoubtedly true —he’s slicked his curls with mousse to define them and leave them pitch black in accordance with his eyeshadow, dark and tapped into his lash line. The top he wears is incredibly tight, carving the softer lines of his abs for anyone to see, and his black jacket is ripped in places to expose the ink of his tattoos. “Are they multiplying?”

“What?” he asks, grinning at you. “Are you getting in? It’s freezing!”

“Your tattoos,” you explain, opening the door and popping up into the van with one shoe on the step.

“Shit, you wanna see?”

You’re not scared of Eddie, you just like him. He doesn’t worry you, doesn’t pressure you, nothing nefarious about him. He’s pretty, he’s considerate, and he does stuff like this, peeling out of his jacket to flex his arm at you and show you the Saran wrapping around his bicep. “Like that one?” he asks.

He has nice arms, and they’re all the better for his painful obsession. His newest one is difficult to see well under the wrapping. He notices you squinting and moves it up, tape pulling his skin.

“Another bat?” you ask.

“Not cool?”

“So cool,” you disagree. This bat is unlike the others on his arm, which are small and simple in comparison. This one is heavily detailed and very dark, fangs in small triangles bared. The eyes aglow. The skin around it is red. “Did you get that today?”

“On a whim. Still wanna date me, or is it getting to be too much?”

You can’t answer him, and he knows that. You’re not very good at navigating intimate conversation or circumstance, though you like him, and he must know that too. Or he must really like you. Your dates have been chaste. Only last time could you work up the courage to take his hand, but when you had, he rewarded your courage with a drove of tenderness, fingers rubbing your knuckles and squeezing soft patterns for hours at the back of the movie theatre.

The drive to Indianapolis takes near enough an hour. Eddie puts you on map duty but doesn’t use it, ignoring your offer of directions on the insistence that he knows a shortcut and then rerouting when you get too lost. He tells you there are snacks for you in the centre console and laughs, endeared, when you pop the lid and smile at it all. You talk about the show, a band you’d never heard of but had wanted to see on the grounds of sharing his interests. That’s what couples do, right? They try to do things together. You have to put yourself out of your comfort zone, and you’re happy to try if it means you can do it with him.

“You nervous?” he asks, pulling into the parking garage outside of the venue, a towering, multi-story fiasco crammed with cars and motorbikes.

“No,” you say, not quite mumbling as you look down at your hands.

“Good, don’t be. I’m gonna look after you, we’re gonna have a great time. And then we can get takeout after?” You look up. He stretches his arm out to glance at his watch. “I would’ve taken you before, but good old Indianapolis keeps getting further away.” He smiles apologetically.

You laugh without meaning to. His smile ramps up a notch.

“I love when you laugh. You have such a cute laugh,” he says.

“I know you’re lying,” you say, still laughing anyways.

“I’m not lying, I love the way you laugh!” He shakes his head, curls falling away from his face as he flicks on the light on the car roof. “We have half an hour till doors open.”

“You don’t wanna line up?”

“It’s kind of overwhelming and I figured we’d stay near the back of the crowd for your first gig here, it gets pretty rowdy.” He says ‘pretty rowdy’ like a drag, nodding gently, eyes lit with mirth. You love it when he talks like that.

“We can go now, get further in. I can handle it.”

“It’s not about handling it, I want you to have a good time. Plus, they could ruin your nice dress.”

You meet his gaze all smiles like he is, but heat flickers in your chest and in your stomach, and you have to look away. It’s an impulse you’ve always given into. You’re reserved in the feelings department but trying not to be, Eddie deserves reciprocation, but it’s hard. Either way, he seems to understand this about you, and he hasn’t complained.

Still, a bedraggled silence falls. Nearly awkward, unsure of how to tread, you sit together in your separate seats listening to cars parking and doors opening, closing on either side of you, the headlights of the cars driving past glaringly bright, white flashing over your screwed palms.

“You okay?” he asks.

You’re sure Eddie wants to kiss you. Three nights ago at the movies, after an hour of languid hand holding, he’d looked at your lips no less than three times as he said good night. He told you he’d had an amazing time, and that he couldn’t wait to see you again. You’d said the same in earnest, and then he’d just walked away. All those stolen glances and he hadn’t made a move.

“Eddie… why…” You poke your tongue into your bottom lip momentarily, chewing it over. “Why haven’t we kissed yet?”

“Um–” He lets out a nervous giggle before roughly clearing his throat. You peek at him, watching intently as he takes his hair away from his face with two hands. “I’m just waiting on you, sweetheart. No pressure.” He laughs as he talks, a picture of panic, “You’re sort of shy about that stuff, you know? I didn’t wanna surprise you.”

“But you do want to kiss me?” you ask unsurely.

He puts his hand on your knee, the space between you suddenly smaller and warmer, the light like white glaze on his pupils, illuminating his finer details. He has a mole nestled under his eyelashes too small to see until now; it catches your attention. You stare at him too long.

“Of course I do,” he says, eyebrows pinching together in concern. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since I met you.”

You nod and snap your head back to your lap. Why does he have to be so nice? You wish you’d listened to Steve, even if he was joking, you shouldn’t have ever said yes to Eddie, because now you’re terrified you can’t kiss him and you’ll ruin everything…

“Hey, it’s fine. I’m not waiting for anything. You can take your time or you could never kiss me, and I won’t care. I swear. I mean, I really want you to kiss me but I’ll find a way to cope, I’m sure.” He takes his hand from your leg softly. “Do you want my jacket? It’s cold out, n’ we should probably start walking.”

You pull your head up slowly.

He reads your hesitant expression. “I’m in no rush,” he promises, head ever so slightly ducked to yours.

Okay, you think. Okay, I can do this. You hold your breath and start to lean in. He falters, a millisecond of misunderstanding, before he recognises what you’re doing and smiles. He reaches for your waist with enough care to give you a chance to change your mind, and when you’re close enough to feel his breath, his lashes shutter.

You follow suit, blind, with nothing but your intuition as you press your lips to his.

With a feeling like the hum of the engine under your hands, you bring your fingers to his soft cheek and hold him still. He breathes in harshly, touches you far from it, his palm slipping behind your back to pull you in. You lean into it; it feels natural to give in, to turn your head one way and part your lips, to have him kiss back with heat and surprising sweetness.

You feel unlike yourself in a good way, falling back to kiss forward again, a third time, trying to chase the lulling bliss of his lips. The stomach aching want. Your hand chases across his cheek and into the curls behind his ear, needing him closer but not expecting the sound it elicits. He sighs into your lips and you flinch back, startled by the sensation.

Eddie rubs your back with his index finger, unjudging as you drop your head to catch your breath.

“You okay?” he asks quietly. You can hear his affection. It’s palpable.

You nod, a dizzy weight collected in your forehead, thankful when his free hand catches your cheek and he turns your face gently to the side. “I got too hot,” you confess, only half of the truth.

“It was pretty hot.” He smiles at you like you’re the only person in the world, like you’ve a secret only he knows. “Want me to turn on the A/C?”

“No, I–” want to kiss you again, you think. You might even tell him so, but he starts to blow on your face, disrupting any thoughts you’d had earlier. He purses his lips and blows cold breath on your cheek, a tenderness in his gaze and the tip of his thumb where it rests just under your eye. “Oh.”

This might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for you. Your face feels precious in his careful hand, pretty under his longing look. You’re not scared when he encourages you back to his lips, your eyes quick to close, your hands across the gap of your seats to gather his shirt between tight fingers.

His kiss is a reflection of him. Loser, rockstar, he’s eager and his hands start to betray that, his kissing melty hot and addictive as the tip of his nose presses hard to yours. You turn your face to accommodate him better and that small action drives him crazy. He’s pulling you in, smiling into your mouth, making breathy sounds that’ll stick around in your head ten times as long as the tingles filling your chest as just kisses and kisses and doesn’t stop.

“M’sorry,” he says, pulling away, and then stealing another heavy, soft kiss like he couldn’t wait. “Sorry,” he apologises again, stroking the skin beside your eye to encourage you into opening them. “I’m not trying to get carried away. Just can’t believe you just kissed me.”

“No, it’s okay, I– I really wanted to.”

He kisses your cheek. You aren’t expecting it and you don’t know how to deal with it. It’s like kissing him has invigorated him, you’re a shot he knocked back, his excitement catching as he begs, “Close your eyes again, sweetheart, just one more–”

You raise your chin and he practically gasps, immediately pressing a last chaste kiss to your burning lips.

“I’m not always like this,” he promises, leaning away, his fingertips falling from your face to trace down your neck, your shoulder. “You’re just so fucking pretty I lost my mind. I’m on best behaviour from now on, swears.”

He raises his hand up in a scout’s honour.

You breathe out happily. “Thank you.”

“Oh my god. Quick, we better get out of this van before I lose my mind.” He shakes his head. “You’re insane. I have such a crush on you, holy fuck,” —he turns away from you and gets out of the van— “Jesus.”

You pull down the sun visor to check your reflection in the mirror. You look thoroughly kissed, eyes aglow with it.

“Fuck!” Eddie swears. You beam at yourself as he wraps on the window. “Come on, sweetheart! I have a concert to pretend to pay attention to.”

You slink out of your seat, brave enough to try for another kiss so long as it doesn’t kill him dead right here in the parking lot.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed! I love knowing what you think and it means so much to me/ inspires me to write even more!!! <3 but of course I hope you enjoyed reading regardless :D

#loser eddie is my favourite eddie #eddie munson x reader #fic rec

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clairecrive · 2 months ago

Text

We Heal, At Last

poly!marauders x fem!reader part two of we will be okay

summary: After your attack, you pull away, wounds still aching beneath fragile skin. But love finds you again, gentle and patient, slipping through the cracks you thought would never heal. Happiness blooms slowly, fragile and fierce, proof that even after ruin, there can still be light.

w/c: 8.8k (i got so carried away..)

warnings: Angst, emotional vulnerability, emotional hurt, extremely graphic violence, panic attacks,depression, slut shaming, bullying, hurt/comfort, happy ending. read with caution!

a/n: part 2 is finally here!! this took so long but justice has been served, angst has been delivered, and fluff hopefully has been recieved <3

part one masterlist

It has been four weeks since the incident and three since you broke up with them. Broke up, not drifted apart or slowly unraveled but broke. Snapped like the last brittle thread of something that once felt unbreakable. You wonder sometimes if they have moved on, if the pieces of what you once had are just scattered ashes to them now.

You wonder if it still hurts them, too.

Your ribs still ache where curses struck—hexes hurled with sharp precision, spite spun into spellwork. They hadn't even looked you in the eye when they did it, wands raised with whispered incantations that cut through the air like knives. Retaliation, they called it. Retribution for the Marauders' chaos, for pranks that left them humiliated and furious. You hadn't cast a single one, but it hadn’t mattered. Guilt by association is the cruelest kind.

Now, the wounds are still tender beneath fresh scars, a web of silvery lines stretching over your skin like the universe’s own mark. The kind of scars that never quite fade, that linger like whispers against your skin, reminders of how fragile the body is.

There are nights when you trace them absently, sometimes your fingertips hover over the jagged lines, pressing down just hard enough to feel the edge of them, sharp and unyielding, as if pain is the only proof that you are still here, still breathing. Madam Pomfrey did what she could, but there are some wounds magic cannot touch, and you wear them now like sad jewelry, draped over your skin in silver lines.

The nights are the hardest. When the world is silent and there is nothing left to distract you from the emptiness stretching out beside you, where warmth once was. It’s worse when it rains.

You can almost pretend you hear their footsteps, the soft shuffle of James’s boots, Sirius’s careless swagger, Remus’s quiet tread like he’s afraid to wake the floorboards. But the footsteps never come, and the silence is louder than any scream you could ever muster.

You haven’t seen them since. Not Remus with his soft eyes and ink-stained fingers, the ones that used to brush stray strands of hair from your face with a gentleness that felt like a promise. Not Sirius, whose laughter once felt like rebellion, like breaking the rules could be beautiful if you did it together. Not James, whose grin used to be brighter than dawn breaking through the trees, a kind of light that made everything else fade to shadows.

Sometimes you close your eyes and try to remember the way they looked at you, but the memories are beginning to fray at the edges, like old photographs left too long in the sun.

It is better this way, or so you tell yourself. Distance is its own kind of mercy. It is easier to breathe without the weight of their stares, without the heavy press of their questions and their guilt.

You repeat it to yourself like a prayer, like a mantra that might one day become truth: It is better this way. It is better this way.

Grief lingers in the corners of your room, heavy and uninvited, pooling like rainwater that refuses to drain. It seeps into the walls, stains the air, curls up beneath the floorboards where no amount of scrubbing will dislodge it. The walls whisper with memories, echoes of laughter that do not belong to this version of you.

You sleep too much or not at all. Some nights, sleep is an anchor, dragging you beneath the surface where dreams twist into nightmares that you can’t claw your way out of. Other nights, it is a distant shore, unreachable no matter how long you swim.

You watch the hours bleed into each other, the moon sliding across your windowpane like it’s running from something, too. And some mornings, the sunlight feels like a knife edge, too sharp against your skin. It pierces through the curtains, splits the room in half, light and shadow at war with each other.

Other days, you stay locked inside, curtains drawn, breathing dust and silence. It’s easier not to feel when the world is reduced to shadows and stillness. Easier to pretend the ache is just part of you now, a ghost you’ve learned to carry.

But there are moments—small, sharp moments—when you remember the way things were. Before. How Sirius would drape his arm around your shoulders, careless and warm, like nothing in the world could ever touch you as long as he was there. How Remus would read to you by the fire, voice steady and soft like the promise of something safe, something constant. How James would spin you around in the courtyard, loud and unrestrained, like joy was something infinite and untouchable, a thing that could never be taken.

You let those memories come and go, like ghosts slipping through the cracks. You do not cling to them. You cannot afford to. Holding on would mean believing there is something left to salvage, and that is a hope too dangerous to cradle.

It is easier to pretend they are gone. Easier to pretend that you are, too. To become just another shadow in the corners of your own life, fading into the wallpaper, slipping through the days like you are made of smoke.

If you do not exist, you cannot be hurt. If you do not exist, you cannot miss them.

You drift through the castle like a shadow, slipping past curious eyes and lingering whispers. They watch you, you can feel it—a hundred pairs of eyes trying to piece together the story you refuse to tell.

Dumbledore has called you in three times now, each meeting a quiet battle of wills. His eyes are soft but unyielding, his voice always gentle when he asks, “Are you ready to talk about it?” And every time, you shake your head.

Silence has become your refuge, a place where no one can follow, where the truth remains yours alone. McGonagall tried too, her hand light on your shoulder as she murmured something about safety and understanding, but you only nodded, eyes fixed on the space between your hands.

They don’t understand that the words won’t come, that they are tangled and knotted somewhere deep in your chest. Speaking would be unraveling, and you are not sure you could bear it.

You slip through hallways and dodge conversations with the precision of someone who has made invisibility an art. The Great Hall is a battlefield of glances you avoid, quick steps carrying you through shadows and side doors.

You haven’t eaten there since you left them. The empty spot on the bench where you used to sit remains untouched, a ghost of what once was.

It’s in the middle of this fragile solitude that Lily finds you. She approaches slowly, hands tucked into the sleeves of her robe, eyes wary but kind.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she says, voice soft but unyielding. You don’t meet her gaze. You don’t know how to anymore.

“You know you’d be safe if you told someone,” she presses gently. “They can help. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Her words are petals landing on stone. You feel them settle but they don’t sink in. You shake your head, a tiny, fragile movement.

She watches you for a long time, something sad and patient in her eyes before she finally sighs, stepping back. “When you’re ready,” she says, voice barely above a whisper, and then she’s gone, leaving only the scent of lilies and the soft echo of footsteps fading into silence.

You trudge back to your room with footsteps too heavy for the fragile silence of the castle corridors. The air is brittle with winter's chill, creeping through cracks and ghosting across your skin. Your hands are tucked deep into your sleeves, hidden away like secrets, fingertips still aching from the cold and the endless prodding of Dumbledore's questions. How many times had they asked? How many times had you sat there, lips sealed, eyes on the floor, heart clenched so tightly it felt like it would shatter if you spoke? His eyes were always kind, too kind, like he already knew the answers but wanted to hear you say it.

Turning the corner, you nearly stumble to a halt. James and Remus are standing at the far end of the hall, their voices low and faces drawn tight with exhaustion. Shadows carve hollows beneath their eyes, and Remus looks paler than you’ve ever seen him.

It must have been the full moon a few days ago, the first one he's gone through without you by his side since the night you both first whispered the words that changed everything. You remember how you used to sit with him after, hands in his hair, soft words spilling like water to fill the spaces where the pain had been. Now, that space is empty.

You wonder if it still hurts him the same way it hurts you, a wound that refuses to close, a memory that festers beneath the surface.

You want to run to them, to press yourself into the warmth of their presence and let it thaw the ice that’s settled into your bones. But you can’t. You wrap your arms tighter around yourself and keep walking, pretending not to notice when James’ gaze flickers to you, holding on just a second too long.

For a moment, you think he might call out, that his voice might crack through the silence and shatter it all to pieces. But the hallway remains still, his eyes dropping back to the floor, and you are left with the whisper of what-could-have-been trailing like smoke in your wake.

You don’t stop until you round the next corner. That’s when you see them.

Rosier and Mulciber, lounging by the tapestry as if they own the space it hangs in. Their eyes track you with lazy contempt, lips curled just enough to make the meaning clear.

Mulciber’s gaze lingers a little too long, flicking over your arms, your throat, the faint line of scars that peek above your collar. His mouth quirks into something that isn’t quite a smile, isn’t quite a threat—but you know exactly what it means. I dare you to speak up. I dare you to tell them.

You look away before you can drown in it, shoulders drawn up tight, steps carrying you forward even though it feels like you’re moving through water.

You don’t stop, you don’t speak, and when you finally reach the door to your room, your hands are shaking too much to turn the handle. The echoes of their laughter follow you down the hall, snaking into your ears and coiling around your thoughts like a vice.

You press your forehead against the door, eyes squeezed shut, breaths coming in ragged bursts as you try to steady the tremor in your fingers.

You step inside, close the door, and let your back slide down its surface until you are sitting on the cold stone floor, legs drawn to your chest.

It takes you far too long to realize you are crying.

You don’t remember falling asleep. Only the rough drag of exhaustion pulling you under the moment you crossed the threshold of your room. The floor was cool against your cheek, and there was a comfort in its solidity, in the way it didn’t move or breathe or demand anything from you. It was just stone and silence, and that was enough.

When you wake, morning light is spilling across the floor in pale strips, catching dust motes in its glow. Your body protests as you sit up, muscles stiff and aching, bruises flaring back to life with each movement.

Outside.

You need air. Fresh air might do you good. The castle feels too heavy today, its walls pressing in, its whispers scraping against your skin. So you leave.

The grounds are cool with morning mist, tendrils of fog curling around the grass like smoke. You pull your cloak tighter around you, ignoring the soft twinge of your ribs as you settle down beneath the shade of a willow tree near the lake. The world is still at this hour, untouched by the footsteps of students or the echo of laughter.

You close your eyes and breathe. In. Out. Pretend for a moment that nothing has changed, that you are whole and untouched and—

“Well, look who’s crawled out of her hole.”

The voice cuts through the silence like a blade, and your eyes snap open. Mulciber, flanked by two Slytherins you don’t recognize, stands a few feet away, hands stuffed casually in his pockets, smile sharp and unkind. And behind them, a crowd is beginning to gather, whispers spreading like wildfire, thick with something sour and unspoken.

“Didn’t think we’d see you out here, all things considered.” His friends chuckle, low and mean. “Thought you’d be hiding under Black’s cloak, like the little whore you are.”

The word slaps you across the face, sharp and sudden, and laughter swells around you. You stand frozen, spine rigid, hands clenched so tightly your nails bite into your palms. Students watch, some with smirks, some with whispers, no one stepping forward. Your heart hammers against your ribs, sharp and insistent, and you force yourself to stare straight ahead, eyes fixed on the horizon, fingers digging crescent moons into your palms.

Mulciber’s eyes flash with something cruel, a glimmer of delight at your silence. He steps closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carries across the space between you, dripping with venom.

“Bet they’re regretting it now, huh? Messing around with a filthy little slag like you. Thought you were special, did you? Thought you meant something?”

His words spill like oil over water, slick and suffocating. The crowd presses closer, whispers sharpening into accusations. “Desperate.” “Pathetic.” “Begging for it.”

The words pile on, each one another weight around your chest. “Heard she threw herself at all of them,” someone sneers from the back, and the laughter that follows is sharp and jagged, cutting through your skin like glass.

You can feel your cheeks flame, but you don’t move. You don’t speak. Your heart is a drumbeat of pain in your chest, loud and insistent, and you know if you open your mouth, it will all spill out. The hurt, the betrayal, the rage that coils beneath your ribs like a living thing. But you say nothing.

You don’t cry. Not here. Not in front of them. You will not give them that.

But your hands shake. You clench them tighter, nails digging so hard that the sting almost grounds you. Almost. You want to vanish. You want the earth to split and swallow you whole just so you don’t have to hear them anymore.

But you stand there, knees locked, jaw tight, eyes burning with unshed tears that you refuse to let fall.

Mulciber’s smile widens, satisfied. He leans back, hands still in his pockets, eyes glittering with triumph.

“That’s what I thought.” His friends chuckle, cruel and victorious, and they turn away, leaving you standing there with the whispers still hanging in the air like smoke.

The crowd begins to disperse, their interest spent, but the shame lingers, thick and choking, settling into your bones.

You are alone again, the lake still rippling gently at your back, the willow branches swaying in the wind. But the air feels colder now, the silence sharper, and you know deep down that you will never be able to stand beneath this tree again without hearing their laughter echoing through the leaves.

Your legs buckle then, giving way to the weight of it all, and you sink to the ground, fingers clawing at the grass as if trying to anchor yourself to something real, something solid, something that is not this. But there is nothing. Only the wind, only the whispers that still linger, only the sound of your own ragged breathing as you press your forehead to the dirt and try not to break.

They must have heard what happened, whispers of it skittering through the hallways like leaves caught in a storm. Their expressions are painted with worry and a kind of gentle, unspoken rage that simmers just beneath the surface.

Lily’s hands are soft as she tilts your chin up, her gaze searching your eyes for any fracture, any sign that you might break apart right here in her arms. Her touch is steady, grounding, like she is stitching you back together with each brush of her thumb.

Mary is already brushing your hair back, her fingers gentle as if you might shatter from too much pressure.

"Come on," Lily whispers, voice gentle but unyielding. "We’re getting you out of here." Her eyes are wet and blazing, fire and water all at once, and you feel your throat close up at the sight of it. There is fury there, and tenderness too, woven so tightly together you cannot tell where one ends and the other begins.

You don’t resist when they guide you back to the dormitory. Their hands never leave yours, fingers threaded together with a kind of desperation, as if afraid you might dissolve into dust if they let go. Lily’s grip is firm, Mary’s softer, but neither wavers as they lead you up the winding staircases, past whispers and sideways glances.

Inside, the curtains are drawn and the light is dim, pooling in soft amber shadows along the walls.

There is a steaming cup of tea waiting for you on the nightstand, and Mary helps you sit down like you are something fragile, something precious. Her hands are steady at your shoulders, smoothing back the wrinkles in your cloak, her fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

Lily starts sorting through the pile of unfinished assignments stacked haphazardly at the edge of your desk, her jaw set, eyes sharp as flint.

"You’ve been missing a lot," she murmurs, more to herself than to you. Her fingers trace the edges of your parchment, straightening the crumpled corners with something that looks like reverence.

"But that’s alright. We’ll catch you up." Her voice is a lifeline, thin but unbreakable, and you cling to it because there is nothing else to hold onto.

Mary sits down beside you, pulling a thick stack of notes into her lap. "I swear, if I hear one more person whispering about you, I’m going to hex their tongues right out of their mouths," she mutters, and the ferocity in her voice startles you. "You don’t deserve any of this. Not a single bit."

Lily nods, her hands still busy with your scattered assignments. "They don’t know anything. They just want something to talk about. Gossip is easier when it’s cruel."

Mary’s hand finds yours, squeezing tightly. "We’re here," she says fiercely. "And we’re not going anywhere. If they try anything, anything at all—"

Lily cuts in, her voice like steel wrapped in velvet. "They’ll regret it."

You stare at them, the warmth of their hands, the resolve in their voices, and something inside you cracks just a little. "Why are you doing this?" you whisper, voice thin and shaking. "Why are you still here?"

Lily’s eyes soften, and she kneels in front of you, her hands finding yours. "Because you’re our friend," she says simply, voice steady and sure. "And friends don’t abandon each other. Not ever. I don’t care what they say or how cruel they get. None of it is true. You hear me? None of it. You are not what they say you are. You never were."

Mary nods, her hand still warm against yours. "We’re not going anywhere," she echoes.

They spend the afternoon with you, sifting through essays and practice exams, Lily’s handwriting neat and sure as she explains the charms you’ve missed. Her voice is clear and patient, unhurried, like she is building something steady and unshakable with each word she speaks.

Mary reads aloud passages from Defense Against the Dark Arts with a dramatic flourish, her hands sweeping through the air as if she is casting the spells herself. Her voice dips and rises, pulling you along with it, and you find yourself nodding, almost smiling, the weight on your chest lifting just a little.

It is soft and girlish and good, the kind of daydream you might’ve imagined in simpler days. When Mary braids your hair back from your face, she hums under her breath, something sweet and familiar. Her fingers are gentle as they weave through your hair, and Lily watches with a sad sort of smile, her hands stilling over the pile of parchment in front of her.

When the sun dips below the windowpane and shadows crawl across the room, Mary clears her throat. "They’re worried, you know."

You don’t need to ask who. Your hands tense in your lap, but she keeps going, her voice soft and steady. "James looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Remus has been snapping at everyone. Sirius is... well, you know how he gets."

A lump forms in your throat, thick and unyielding. You don’t trust your voice enough to speak, but Mary squeezes your hand instead, grounding you back to the present.

"I know you’re hurting," she whispers, her voice gentle but firm. "I know they are too. Maybe... maybe you should talk to them."

You blink, shaking your head before the thought can even settle. "I can’t," you whisper, voice cracking at the edges. "They..." Your words falter, throat constricting painfully. "They wouldn’t want me like this."

Lily’s head lifts from her pile of parchment, eyes bright with something fragile and true. "What do you mean?" she asks, voice soft but probing.

Your gaze drops to the floor, fingers grazing the edges of your sleeves where scars lay hidden. "Not with all these... marks," you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. "Not after everything that happened."

Mary’s hand tightens around yours, her eyes soft and resolute. "That’s not true," she says gently, voice firm with conviction.

"They care about you. More than you know. Those scars? They wouldn’t push them away. They’d hold them like they hold you, like something precious that survived. You haven’t seen the way they look at you when you’re not watching. It’s like losing you took the light out of them." She brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, her fingers warm and steady. "You’re not too broken. You’re not too much. You’re just... you. And they miss you more than anything."

Lily scoots closer, the chair creaking beneath her. Her eyes search your face, determination flickering there. "They’re scared," she says, her voice steady and sure. "Scared they’ve hurt you too much. Scared you won’t want to see them. But it doesn’t mean they don’t care."

You shake your head, blinking back the burn in your eyes. "I don’t... I don’t know if I can," you whisper, voice trembling. "It hurts too much."

Lily’s hands find yours, her grip firm and grounding. "Because you love them," she says simply, her voice threaded with iron beneath the softness. "And they love you. And sometimes... sometimes love is messy and awful, and it breaks you into pieces. But that doesn’t mean it’s gone. It just means it’s real."

Her words settle into the hollow spaces inside you, planting roots in the cracks you thought would never heal. You want to believe her. You want to believe that love is enough to cover the scars, the whispers, the shattered thing inside your chest that still bleeds every time you pass them in the corridor.

Lily and Mary don’t leave your side until you’ve washed up and changed into fresh clothes, their hands gentle and sure as they help you braid your hair and button up your sweater.

The mirror reflects a version of you that feels almost like a ghost, eyes sunken and skin pale, but there’s warmth now where their hands linger on your shoulders, where their voices spill over with soft conversation to fill the silence you’ve let fester for weeks.

You wonder if they notice the way your hands tremble when you reach for the buttons of your sweater, how the fabric feels foreign against your fingertips as if it belongs to someone else. But they say nothing, only exchanging a glance above your bowed head, and you pretend not to see it.

When they convince you to come down to the Great Hall for dinner, it feels like you’re being led out of hiding. The stone corridors stretch wide and unforgiving, the walls pressing in like they remember every secret you’ve whispered to them. But Lily’s arm is looped through yours, and Mary’s hand is at your back, anchoring you to the present.

Their voices swell and ripple, filling the silence with talk of homework and spring creeping back into the world, of flowers blooming near the edge of the Black Lake and sunlight pooling in the cracks of the courtyard. You nod along, letting the sound of it drown out the whispers that always seem to follow you, ghosts that cling to your shadow and trail behind your footsteps.

You almost forget the world is still sharp-edged and unkind until Mary’s hand goes stiff on your back and Lily’s grip tightens around your arm.

The shift is subtle but heavy, dragging you back to the present with a jolt that settles like ice in your veins.

It takes a moment for your gaze to follow theirs, to trace the line of their stiffened shoulders and the tension coiling tight between their blades.

They’re farther down the corridor, draped in shadow and arrogance, Mulciber and a few others leaning against the stone walls like they own them.

His gaze finds yours immediately, sharp and gleaming with something that makes your stomach twist. His mouth curves into a smile that doesn’t belong on human faces, something feral and cruel, a stretch of teeth that feels like a promise.

He straightens up slowly, whispering something to the boy beside him, and the boy laughs, the sound cracking through the hall like breaking glass.

You can feel Lily’s arm tighten around yours, her knuckles white where they grip your sleeve. Mary’s hand is a brand against your back, steady and unyielding, but there’s a tremor in her touch that wasn’t there before. You swallow hard, the taste of iron and ash heavy on your tongue, and force yourself to breathe past the knot coiling tight in your chest. It’s just Mulciber.

Mulciber doesn’t move, his gaze unrelenting, a hunter with its prey already caught in its sights. He whispers something again, too soft for you to hear, but you watch the way his mouth curves around the words, deliberate and sharp. It feels like a curse, slipping through the air like smoke, curling around your throat until you can’t quite breathe right.

Lily tugs at your arm, gentle but firm, her eyes not leaving his face. Mary’s hand presses harder at your back, grounding you, reminding you to move, to breathe, to blink.

But your feet are heavy, rooted to the stone beneath them, and for a heartbeat, you are back in that empty corridor, small and shivering beneath Mulciber’s shadow, the memory so sharp it carves itself into the present.

You remember the way his laughter had filled the air like broken glass, how his grip had left bruises that bloomed dark and aching beneath your sleeves. He remembers too, you can see it in the way he watches you now, head tilted just slightly, his eyes flickering with something sharp and cruel.

You remember the curse he spat at you four weeks ago, the flash of green light that clawed through your skin, ripping you apart from the inside out.

His laughter had echoed in the empty corridor as you crumpled to the floor, your body convulsing with pain so raw it stole the breath from your lungs.

When it was over, when the world returned in fractured pieces, your body was a battlefield, marred with scars and bruises that still burn beneath your clothes.

You think of this morning, of the way his voice had sliced through the Great Hall, that filthy word spilling from his mouth like venom.

Whore. A word meant to bruise deeper than magic ever could.

It’s Mary who finally breaks the silence, her voice low and unyielding.

“Come on,” she murmurs, the sound a lifeline you didn’t know you needed. She tugs you forward, and Lily follows, her hand slipping into yours, squeezing once, twice, a rhythm you recognize as comfort, as solidarity.

The world slows, sound draining from the corridor until all that’s left is the sickening thud of your heartbeat, heavy and unrelenting. Mulciber’s eyes flicker back to you, his grin spreading like oil across his face, dark and slick with satisfaction. He’s still laughing, still whispering something venomous to the boy beside him, his shoulders shaking with it.

But before you can flinch, before you can even think of turning back, there’s a blur of black and silver storming through the hall. It’s like watching a storm take shape, shadows converging into something feral and unyielding.

Sirius.

You recognize him instantly—wild hair flying, eyes sharp with fury, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might crack.

He doesn’t slow, doesn’t stop. He barrels straight into Mulciber with the force of a tidal wave, something primal and unrestrained snapping loose. The sound of Mulciber’s back hitting the stone wall echoes through the corridor, sharp and brutal.

Sirius doesn’t give him a chance to breathe. His fist collides with Mulciber’s jaw with a sickening crunch, and the crack of bone reverberates like thunder. Mulciber staggers, a spray of blood arching across the stone floor, but Sirius is unyielding.

He shoves him harder against the wall, the back of his head cracking against stone with a sound that sends whispers skittering back into shadows. Mulciber splutters, eyes wide with shock, but Sirius is feral, fists driving into his ribs, his stomach, each blow heavier than the last.

A flick of Sirius's wand sends Mulciber flying back, his body crashing against the stone like a ragdoll, limbs twisted and graceless.

There’s a flash of light—red and searing—and Mulciber screams, the sound ripping through the corridor. You watch, heart lodged in your throat, as Sirius stalks forward, his eyes gleaming with something untamed. His wand is steady, unflinching, as he mutters another incantation, and Mulciber’s body convulses, writhing against the floor, the echo of his screams stretching thin and sharp.

You can’t breathe. The world narrows to the slick smear of blood across stone, the shattering crack of bone against brick, the way Mulciber’s screams splinter and echo like the wails of the damned. It’s carnage, raw and unfiltered, each blow landing with a sickening finality that makes your stomach twist.

But it’s Sirius that steals your breath, that roots you to the spot with horror threading up your spine.

There is nothing human in his eyes. They are wild, storm-tossed things, pupils blown wide, irises almost swallowed by shadow. His hair is a dark snarl, tangled and streaked with Mulciber’s blood, damp and clinging to his cheeks, sweat-slick and unyielding.

His lips are pulled back in something that is not quite a smile, not quite a snarl, baring his teeth like a wolf scenting blood.

It’s as if he’s been unchained—something feral and starved let loose, his fists a blur of motion, each strike heavier than the last.

Mulciber tries to scream again, but it’s cut short—Sirius’s hand lashes out, fingers curling around his throat, shoving him back against the wall so hard the stone cracks, dust cascading from the ceiling like ash. You hear whispers—sharp, horrified gasps skittering through the crowd—but no one moves.

Sirius’s knuckles are raw and split, streaked with crimson that drips down his wrist, pooling at his fingertips. His breaths are ragged, chest heaving with exertion, but his grip on Mulciber’s throat only tightens.

Mulciber is gasping, choking, his hands clawing at Sirius’s forearm, nails raking desperate lines into his skin. It doesn’t matter.

Sirius doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. His eyes are fixed—dark and gleaming with something that makes your skin prickle, that makes your legs feel like water.

He doesn’t even look like he’s seeing Mulciber anymore. His gaze is faraway, distant, like he’s waging a war somewhere deep in his mind, and Mulciber is just the sacrifice.

You take a step back, and your heel scuffs against the stone—loud in the unnatural hush. Sirius’s head snaps up, eyes locking onto yours for a heartbeat, and the violence in his stare is enough to send ice through your veins.

You know him—knew him—but this is not the boy who smirked at you across bonfires or slung an arm over your shoulders in crowded hallways. This is something darker, something forged in iron and shadow.

His lip curls, eyes narrowing before he turns back to Mulciber, slamming his head back against the stone with a force that sends a ripple of horror through the gathered crowd. There’s a sickening crack—jagged and wet—and Mulciber’s eyes roll back, his limbs going limp.

For a second, you think it’s over, think Sirius has sated whatever bloodlust had taken root. But then Sirius crouches down, fingers slick with blood as he grabs Mulciber’s face, forcing it up, forcing him to look into his eyes. His voice is low, guttural.

“Look at me. I want you to remember this.” he whispers, the words slipping out like venom, Mulciber tries to turn his head, tries to shift away from that burning gaze, but Sirius’s grip is iron.

And then, with a snarl that rips through the corridor, he slams Mulciber’s skull back into the ground. Once. Twice. A third time. Blood spatters up in an arc, warm and wet, slicking the stone with crimson.

Sirius kneels, boots splashing in the pool of blood spreading slick and dark across the stone.

He grips Mulciber by the hair, yanking his head back with a ferocity that sends a spray of red arcing through the air.

Mulciber’s face is a ruin—swollen and unrecognizable, eyes barely slits beneath the purple bloom of bruises. Blood seeps from his nose, his mouth, trickling over cracked lips and pooling in the hollow of his throat. His breaths come in ragged, shuddering bursts, each one gurgling wetly as if he’s drowning on his own blood.

But Sirius doesn’t care. His fingers tighten in the matted hair, jerking Mulciber upright with a force that sends another snap reverberating through the hall. There’s a fresh gush of red, thicker this time, streaking down Mulciber’s cheek and dripping in fat droplets to the floor.

“Look at him!” Sirius roars, and the sound is a living thing—ripping through the corridor like a knife, sharp and jagged.

His voice is thick with fury, eyes gleaming with something feral, something unhinged. He shakes Mulciber like he’s nothing more than a sack of meat, and blood spatters across the stone, painting crimson streaks that drip and pool like ink.

Sirius yanks harder, forcing Mulciber’s head up, twisting his fingers until the strands of hair snap under his grip. Mulciber groans, a wet, rasping sound that cracks in his throat, but Sirius only digs his fingers in deeper, nails scraping scalp, knuckles white and shaking.

“Look at him!” he snarls, voice vibrating with venom, the words ricocheting off the stone walls, echoing back like a promise. He jerks Mulciber higher, dragging him to his knees, forcing him to face the growing crowd, their eyes wide and wet with horror.

You can smell the blood—thick and coppery, cloying as it seeps into the cracks of the stone, spreading in sticky pools beneath Mulciber’s twitching hands.

“Now,” Sirius growls, voice lowering to a snarl that drips with contempt, “which one of you fuckers wants to call my girlfriend a whore to my face?” His gaze sweeps the crowd, daring, inviting, eyes gleaming with the kind of madness you only read about in horror stories.

Sirius yanks his head back farther, exposing the pale column of his throat slick with sweat and crimson.

No one speaks. No one breathes. The corridor is thick with silence, heavy and oppressive, pressing down like a weighted blanket.

The boy Mulciber had been laughing with is gone, vanished into the crowd, footsteps echoing faintly like a death knell.

Sirius’s smile is a terrible thing—sharp and crooked, dripping with something dark and unyielding.

“Well?” Sirius spits, shaking Mulciber for emphasis, and his head lolls back, eyes rolling like a doll’s, lips parting with a wet gurgle.

His voice is raw, splintered at the edges, but there’s something almost unhinged in the way he looks at them, like he’s only just getting started.

“Come on!” he shouts, voice cracking against the silence. His eyes blaze, dark and endless, pinning each face in the crowd with the weight of his gaze.

“I’m fucking waiting!” His grip on Mulciber tightens, jerking his head to the side, forcing the battered boy to meet the crowd’s gaze.

“You were laughing this morning, you bloody fuckers weren’t you?” Sirius snarls, shaking him again. “You had something to say, didn’t you? Where’s your fucking courage now?”

He shoves him forward, forcing him to his knees, hands still twisted in his hair, and turns him to face the crowd like he’s displaying some kind of broken trophy.

The silence is suffocating now, stretching too long, too taut, threatening to snap. You watch as Sirius’s eyes rake across the faces in the crowd, daring, seething. His chest heaves with each breath, his fingers still twisted in Mulciber’s blood-matted hair, and you realize with a cold jolt that he’s waiting. Waiting for someone to speak. Waiting for someone to move.

And god help them when they do

When James and Remus finally appear, it’s like the room takes a collective breath, sharp and shuddering, the kind of relief that tastes metallic on the tongue. But it’s not over. Not even close. It takes both of them, James with his arms locked around Sirius’s shoulders, muscles straining with the effort, and Remus prying his fingers loose from Mulciber’s hair, slick with blood and tangled like roots, to drag him back.

Sirius thrashes like something feral, feet skidding across the slick stone, leaving smears of crimson in his wake.

His eyes are still locked onto Mulciber, dark and blazing, teeth bared in a snarl that is more animal than human. There is blood on his hands, splattered across his cheek, streaking through his hair, and he doesn’t seem to notice, doesn’t seem to care. His breath is coming in ragged bursts, chest heaving like he has just run for miles, but his strength is unyielding.

It takes everything James has to hold him back, feet braced against the stone, arms hooked beneath Sirius’s shoulders in a grip that is half desperation, half restraint.

“Sirius!” James’s voice is sharp, cracking through the stillness. But Sirius doesn’t even flinch. His eyes are still locked on Mulciber’s crumpled form, lips curling back with each breath like he is tasting blood on his tongue and finding it sweet.

“Let me go,” Sirius spits, voice raw and splintered. He jerks against James’s hold, almost breaking free, fingertips grazing the stone before Remus lunges forward, gripping his wrists and yanking him back.

Sirius’s eyes snap to Remus then, wild and burning, and for a heartbeat, it looks like he might lash out, like he might tear Remus apart too, just for the crime of standing in his way. But Remus doesn’t flinch. His hands are steady, his eyes hard, jaw clenched tight enough that you can see the muscle flicker beneath his skin.

“Sirius, it’s over.” Remus’s voice is low, firm, cutting through the haze of violence with the sharpness of a blade.

“It’s not over,” Sirius hisses, voice dripping with venom. His eyes flicker back to Mulciber, who is slumped against the wall, blood still pooling beneath him, staining the cracks of the stone like dark veins. “He is still breathing.”

James’s grip tightens, arms wrapping tighter around Sirius’s chest. “Enough. You made your point.” But Sirius shakes his head, gaze fixed and unyielding.

His hands are still curled into fists, knuckles split and bleeding, trembling with the need to finish what he started.

Remus steps in front of him, blocking his view of Mulciber, forcing Sirius to look at him instead. His voice drops, steady and unyielding. “We’re done here. You’re done here.”

Sirius’s breathing is ragged, harsh and scraping, but his fists slowly uncurl. His shoulders slump, only slightly, but it is enough for James to loosen his grip, for Remus to let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Sirius’s gaze drops to his hands, smeared with blood, the knuckles swollen and raw.

But you are not looking at his hands. You are looking at his face, at the wild gleam still simmering beneath the surface, at the way his eyes still track Mulciber’s crumpled form, as if he is counting every breath, every twitch.

And you, your hands are shaking. Your heart is in your throat. But for the first time in weeks, the ice around your ribs feels like it’s starting to thaw.

You don’t remember how Lily and Mary managed to drag you away from the chaos. It’s all a blur, familiar hands gripping your sleeves, soft voices murmuring something that slips right through you.

You only realize you’re back at the common room when your knees buckle, dropping hard onto the unforgiving stone floor beneath the shadow of the staircase. The impact jolts through your bones, sharp and jarring, but you barely feel it. Numbness settles in its place, spreading through your limbs like ice.

The world shrinks, sounds fading to distant echoes, footsteps and whispers smudging into the background like charcoal smeared across paper.

All that remains is the ragged pull of your breath, harsh and uneven, scraping its way up your throat. Your palms are pressed against the stone, fingertips digging into the rough surface as if anchoring yourself to reality, but it’s not enough.

The walls feel like they are folding inward, creeping closer with each shallow breath you take, pressing tighter and tighter until the air is thin and ragged in your lungs.

You try to focus. You try to count your breaths, but they slip away from you, shattering into fragments before you can hold on.

Your hands tremble against the floor, fingers scraping against the stone until the skin splits, tiny bursts of pain sparking in your fingertips. It hurts, but you latch onto it, welcoming the sting, clinging to it as if it is the only real thing left.

The room tilts, spinning in slow, deliberate circles, and you clutch harder at the stone, nails scraping against it until they crack. The edges of your vision darken, shadows creeping inward, but it’s not darkness that finds you. I

t’s panic, raw and unyielding, clawing up your throat with razor-tipped fingers. It coils there, tight and suffocating, strangling the air from your lungs. Your mouth opens, a sharp gasp slicing through the silence, but no sound follows.

Your heart is hammering, the beat erratic and furious, slamming against your ribs like it is trying to break free. You press your palms harder against the stone, grounding yourself, forcing yourself to feel every crack, every jagged edge. It’s the only thing keeping you tethered, the sharp sting of your hands scraping raw against the floor, the way your nails splinter against the stone. Somewhere distant, you hear Lily’s voice, soft and desperate, but it is muffled, submerged beneath the rush of blood in your ears.

Slow and steady. It takes minutes or hours—you can’t tell which—for the feeling to ebb. When it finally does, you’re left hollow, emptied out and aching, slumped against the wall with your head tilted back, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it holds some secret you are not yet worthy to know.

I highly suggest playing nothing’s gonna hurt you baby by cas here

It is the softness of his touch that pulls you back from the edge of nothingness, a quiet warmth folding over your trembling hand like a whispered promise.

You do not remember how the world fell away beneath you, how the weight of all the darkness pressed so heavy that your knees gave out and the air fled from your lungs.

But now, as your eyes flutter open to the dim light, there is only him—Remus—kneeling beside you like a guardian carved from shadow and light.

His face is pale, drawn with the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights and tears no one witnessed. His eyes glisten with a mixture of sorrow and fierce hope, the kind that burns quietly beneath the surface of a heart refusing to break completely.

When he looks at you, it feels as if he is trying to hold every broken piece of you gently in his gaze, as though your fragile spirit might shatter under the weight of a single careless glance.

His hands are steady, unwavering, resting lightly on yours like the roots of a tree gripping soil after a violent storm.

His thumb moves slowly in circles over the back of your hand, a small rhythm, a sacred chant meant to calm the trembling that threatens to consume you. It is a touch that speaks of devotion and fear and the desperate need to keep you tethered to this moment, to this fragile thread of life.

“Hey,” he breathes, voice cracking like a fragile song stretched too thin, yet filled with a tenderness so profound it makes the world still around you. “Look at me, baby. Right here. Do not slip away.”

You find his eyes through the haze, and in their depths, you see the weight of grief carried silently like a cloak woven from memories and regret.

But there is also something else—something like a fierce, burning hope that refuses to be extinguished.

His gaze is a lifeline, a promise that you are not alone, even when the darkness presses in from all sides.

“You are okay,” he murmurs, words soft and certain, wrapping around you like a warm breath against cold skin.

“I swear you are okay. Just breathe with me. In… and out.” The rhythm of his voice, steady and slow, becomes the anchor your heart clings to, a fragile pulse beating through the storm.

With every breath, you feel yourself coming back, piece by aching piece, as if his presence is the only thing keeping the world from fracturing completely

He breathes with you, slow and steady, exaggerating each rise and fall of his chest like he’s teaching you how to exist again.

His breaths are deep and measured, a rhythm you can follow, and you find yourself mirroring him, even when your own lungs stutter and hitch.

In and out. In and out.

The pattern is simple, the kind of simplicity that feels sacred when the world is crumbling.

His hand never leaves yours, warm and firm, an anchor in the storm. His thumb continues its slow circles, the motion steady and unyielding, even when your fingers flex and shake, even when the tremor won’t stop.

His eyes stay locked on your face, searching for something—some flicker of recognition, some sign that you’re still here with him.

There’s desperation there, thinly veiled beneath the tenderness, like he’s holding his breath, waiting for you to come back to him.

“I’m right here,” he whispers, softer this time, like it’s a secret meant only for you. His voice is a thread of warmth curling through the cold, a fragile light in the shadows pressing in. His eyes are so full of something you can’t name—something raw and aching and real.

Your lips part, and his name spills out like it’s been trapped inside you for too long. “Remus…” It’s barely a whisper, almost a sob, almost a prayer.

His breath catches for just a moment, and you watch as something flickers in his gaze, something bright and sharp and painfully tender.

“Yeah,” he breathes, voice breaking just a little, like it costs him something to say it.

“Yeah, it’s me. Your Remmy, yeah? I’m here. I’m not goin’ anywhere.” His hands don’t waver, don’t shake, even though his voice does. He says it with a kind of certainty that you want to believe in, a kind of faith you want to wrap yourself in and never let go.

He exhales, the sound fragile and trembling, as if the weight of it alone might shatter him. His touch is warm and familiar, a reminder of constellations traced on moonlit nights and whispered promises that never quite faded.

His voice, when it comes, is barely more than a breath, a sacred murmur cradled between his lips. “Come back to me, love. Come back.”

Your breath catches, fragile and unsteady, the rhythm of your heart stuttering beneath the weight of his words.

Your eyes flutter open, vision blurred and hazy, like waking from a dream you are not ready to leave.

“Where?” you whisper, the word splintering at the edges, raw and unguarded.

For a heartbeat, his gaze holds yours, and you see it—something fragile and aching and impossibly bright. It flickers across his features like sunlight through cracked glass, illuminating the sharp curve of his cheekbone, the shadowed crescent beneath his eyes, the part of his mouth that trembles just slightly when he swallows.

He does not speak at first, but you feel it in the way his thumb brushes over your knuckles, tracing slow, deliberate circles as if mapping the fragile landscape of your bones. His hand slips from yours, and for a heartbeat, the world feels colder.

But then his fingers find your palm, guiding it with infinite care to his chest, right over the steady, unyielding rhythm of his heart.

“Right here,” he breathes, the words soft and weighted, each syllable spilling from his lips like a promise.

His forehead dips, coming to rest against yours, his eyes fluttering closed as if the mere act of touching you is a prayer answered. His breath mingles with yours, slow and steady, a rhythm that feels older than time itself.

You can feel the whisper of it against your lips, soft and aching, a confession spoken in the language of ghosts.

“Home.” he whispers, and the word slips between you, curling around your heart like a tether, binding you to him in a way that is as inevitable as the turning of the stars.

And you know, in that moment, that this is what it means to belong to someone—not in pieces or fractured glances, but entirely, endlessly, with every breath and every heartbeat. To be tethered across distance and time, to find your way back through the darkness, guided only by the sound of his voice and the echo of his heartbeat. To come back to him, always.

He holds you for what feels like forever, the world shrinking down to the steady rhythm of his breathing, the solid press of his hand over yours, the way his thumb never stops tracing those slow, grounding circles against your skin.

Time bends and blurs, the sharp edges of reality softening until there’s nothing left but the warmth of his touch and the low murmur of his voice, coaxing you back to the surface one breath at a time.

His heartbeat is steady and constant beneath your palm, a metronome against the chaos that still lingers at the edges of your mind.

The world around you is a distant hum, muffled and far away, but then footsteps echo down the stone corridor, cutting through the silence like the whisper of a blade.

You barely register the sound at first, too wrapped up in the quiet safety of Remus’s hands, but the footsteps grow louder, hurried and unsteady, until they come to a halt just beyond the curve of the staircase. There’s a pause, thick and heavy, before two shadows spill into view.

James and Sirius stand there, both breathless and pale, their faces drawn tight with worry and something darker that lingers just beneath the surface.

Sirius’s hair is wild, curling around his face in tangled waves, and there’s a fresh bandage wrapped around his temple, the edge of it tinged with dried blood.

His eyes find yours immediately, dark and sharp, and you watch as something flickers across his expression—something raw and aching, something that softens the hard line of his jaw and makes his hands tremble at his sides.

It isn’t pain that makes him shake; you can tell from the way his shoulders are squared, from the way his gaze doesn’t waver.

No, it’s the distance that does it—the ache of being away from you for too long, of knowing you were hurting and he wasn’t there to stop it. His fists clench once, twice, and then he lets out a breath, the tension bleeding from his knuckles as his eyes search yours, wild and desperate, like he’s counting every breath you take just to be sure you’re still here.

Remus looks back over his shoulder, his hand still cupping yours, and there’s something unspoken that passes between the three of them. It’s a conversation of glances and shadows, of nods and clenched jaws, of something that runs deeper than words.

Sirius follows, but slower, his movements measured, like he’s afraid the air might splinter if he comes too close.

His eyes are locked on you, unblinking and glassy, and there’s something fierce and unyielding in the way he watches you, like he’s memorizing every detail, every breath, every flicker of your lashes.

He hesitates just a moment, and then he’s there, dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands reaching for your face with a kind of desperation that unravels the breath from your lungs.

His hands are rough but gentle, cradling your face like you’re made of glass, like you might shatter if he holds you too tight. His thumbs brush your cheeks, wiping away remnants of tears you didn’t even realize were still there, and his eyes never leave yours, dark and unyielding.

His forehead stays pressed to yours, his breath mingling with yours in soft, uneven shudders. His thumbs brush gentle arcs against your cheeks, wiping away the remnants of tears with a tenderness that nearly undoes you.

His eyes flutter open, dark and glassy, and he looks at you like he’s searching for something, like he’s afraid he might miss it if he blinks. His voice, when it comes, is cracked and raw, like it’s been clawed out from somewhere deep.

“Please don’t ever leave me.” It’s a whisper, but it echoes, latching onto the spaces between your ribs and burrowing there. His hands tighten just slightly, his fingertips pressing into your skin like he’s anchoring himself to you, like you’re the only thing

Your vision blurs, the world smearing at the edges, but you don’t look away. You can’t. A sob claws its way up your throat, silent and shattering, and your hands come up to cover his, pressing them closer, holding him there like you’re afraid he might vanish if you don’t.

“Never, siri,” you breathe, voice shaking but certain, the word spilling from your lips like a promise. “Never again.” You say it again, firmer this time, your gaze locked with his, eyes wet and unflinching. “I swear it. Never.”

His eyes squeeze shut, and you watch the way his shoulders shudder with the force of it, the way his hands tremble against your skin.

His arms wrap around you, strong and unyielding, and you feel the way he presses his face into your shoulder, how his breath hitches against your neck like he’s trying to hold himself together.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, the world blurring into the edges of Sirius’s heartbeat. James is already there, just at the edge of the shadows, waiting with eyes rimmed red and hands wringing together. He watches you with a kind of fragile hope, like he’s afraid the moment will break if he breathes too loudly. When you finally turn, he’s already moving, steps careful and soft as he closes the space between you.

“Hey,” he whispers, his voice rough with the weight of waiting. His hands are gentle when they find your shoulders, smoothing down your arms like he’s checking you’re real.

“Hey, love.” His thumb sweeps across your cheek, catching a tear you didn’t know had fallen. “Missed you,” he murmurs, eyes glassy. “Missed you so much, baby,”

His hands are shaking when he cradles your face, his gaze drinking you in like he’s memorizing you all over again. “You’re here,” he breathes out, voice splintering with the softness of it. “You’re really here.”

“‘M here,” you whisper back, and he exhales, something breaking and mending all at once.

He pulls you into his chest, arms locking around you, and you feel the way his heartbeat stutters and catches, like it’s finally finding its rhythm again. His chin tucks over your shoulder, his breath shaky and warm against your neck. “Don’t leave again,” he whispers, and it’s not a demand—it’s a plea. “Promise me.”

Your hands curl into the fabric of his sweater, your voice trembling but resolute. “I promise.”

For a long moment, none of you speak. There are only the sounds of breathing—steady, uneven, real—and the feeling of four heartbeats pressed close, thrumming with life and warmth and something that tastes like salvation.

There’s no space for words, no need for them. The silence is enough, heavy and sacred, stitched together by the threads of everything unspoken.

You close your eyes, and you hold on.

And then, in a voice that is barely a whisper but echoes like a promise, Remus says, “We’re okay.”

“You’ve gone quiet,” James says, his voice warm and teasing as you walk beside him down the winding path toward Hogsmeade. His hand brushes against yours, tentative and soft, and you find yourself smiling despite the cold.

“Just thinking,” you reply, glancing up at him. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he grins, and it’s the kind of smile that feels like sunlight cracking through storm clouds.

It’s been a month and a half since that night.

A month and a half of finding your way back to each other, slowly, carefully. A month and a half of healing and mending, of long talks beneath the covers and quiet touches that spoke of promise and patience.

You told Dumbledore everything, finally spilling the truth that had been lodged in your throat like glass. Mulciber was punished, suspended and stripped of privileges, though not without the snarl of a family name dragging behind him.

Even Sirius had to serve detention for his outburst, though he did so with a grin, never once apologizing for the way he painted his knuckles with Mulciber’s blood.

He even received a ton of letters from his mother, though Remus made sure they got discarded before Sirius read them.

“Do it again if I had to.” he had said with a shrug, and you believed him.

The scars are still there, some fading to pale silver, others stubborn and aching when you move too quickly.

But Remus is there to help, his touch always gentle, his hands warm and steady as he traces the lines of your skin with reverence. He doesn’t flinch anymore when you reach for him, doesn’t pull away when your fingers brush his own scars. If anything, it makes him hold you tighter, closer, like two broken pieces that finally found the right way to fit.

There is laughter again, soft and hesitant at first but growing stronger with each day. You catch Sirius sneaking sweets from the kitchens and blaming it on James, and you find Remus with ink smudges on his hands, poring over his notes beside the common room fire. James tries to drag you into every prank, every adventure, his arm slung around your shoulders with that familiar ease that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, you can breathe again.

They are gentle with you, protective but not suffocating.

And when the nightmares come, when you wake up gasping with phantom hands and whispered threats, they are there. Always.

James with his warm hands and soft murmurs, Sirius with his fierce eyes and crushing hugs, and Remus with his steady presence, his hands soothing the ache from your muscles, whispering that you’re safe now, you’re home.

The air wraps around you like a gentle promise, the soft sway of the willow’s branches echoing the steady rhythm of your breath.

Each heartbeat beneath your palm is a reminder — a fragile, beautiful testament — that you have survived. You have stumbled through the darkest storms and emerged here, in this place of quiet light.

You think of the weight you carried — the nights when pain was a fierce, unforgiving companion; the moments when your own reflection was a stranger, marked by scars that run deeper than the skin.

Some of those marks may never fade, etched like whispers of battles fought and wounds endured. But here, with James, Remus, and Sirius holding you close, those scars have become part of a larger story — one of resilience, of love that mends what once felt broken beyond repair.

You trace the curve of the willow’s bark, fingers finding comfort in its roughness, the way it stands tall and unwavering despite every season’s storm. Like the tree, you have bent but not broken, rooted by the quiet strength that comes from being held, from holding others in return.

Sirius’s laughter bubbles up again, light and wild, and you catch the way his eyes search yours. James’s steady presence hums through the air, calm and fierce, a grounding force that keeps you tethered to the here and now. Remus’s touch lingers, soft and sure, a silent vow that this moment, this peace, is yours to keep.

Together, beneath the willow’s tender shade, you find more than survival. You find a home woven from laughter and tears, from scars and healing, from the fierce and fragile threads of love that bind you all. It is not the absence of pain that defines this moment but the courage to keep walking forward — to keep reaching for light even when the night was long.

And in that quiet truth, you know this is only the beginning.

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clairecrive · 3 months ago

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this was so endearing!!!

ᯓ★ just a baby!

pairing: dad!sirius x reader word count: 1.6k words summary: james potter, and his constant urge to be babied. warnings: fluff; weaponized baby fever; sirius being a girl dad through and through; marauders being marauders; second-hand embarrassment A/N: inspired by this max & yuki reel that popped up on my feed today.

♫ baby by me by 50 cent & ne-yo.

The baby was asleep.

That was the miracle.

The actual miracle.

You and Sirius sat frozen on the couch like museum statues, barely daring to breathe, afraid even the rustle of your eyelashes would wake the tiny, swaddled bundle currently snoring in the bassinet.

"She’s perfect," Sirius whispered, gazing at the baby like she hung the stars. "She has my nose."

"You have a dog nose," you whispered back.

"And it’s majestic. She’s lucky."

Before you could argue, a sharp knock knock knock exploded at the door.

Your heart stopped. Sirius looked like he’d just witnessed murder.

"Don’t answer it," he hissed.

"Sirius, they know we’re home."

"Let’s pretend we’re asleep."

Another knock. Louder. Then James Potter’s unmistakable voice:

"OI, PADFOOT! YOU IN THERE? YOU HAVE A BABY TO SHOW US!"

The baby stirred. You and Sirius both lunged forward in panic. By some divine mercy, she only snorted and rolled to the side.

Sirius exhaled like he’d been underwater for twenty years.

You padded over to the door, already hearing Remus’s polite murmuring and Peter’s excited babbling in the background.

When you opened it, the chaos stepped in.

James strode through like he owned the place, holding a gift basket the size of a cauldron. Lily trailed behind, shaking her head with a fond smile.

"Where is she?" James demanded. "Where is the tiny Sirius spawn?"

"Shh!" Sirius whisper-yelled from the couch. "She’s sleeping."

"Ooh, dangerous game," Remus said, stepping inside with a bag of books labeled Baby’s First Spells.

Peter peeked into the bassinet with wide eyes. "She’s got a full head of hair! Already cooler than Wormtail Jr."

"You don’t have a kid," Sirius muttered.

"Exactly. So she’s winning."

The group circled the bassinet like it was sacred. Lily leaned down first, brushing her fingers over the baby’s soft hair.

"She’s beautiful," she whispered. "She looks like you, Y/N."

Sirius gasped dramatically. "She looks like me too!"

"Mate," James said, smirking. "She looks like a potato in a blanket. Let’s give her a month before we determine whose hairline she’s inherited."

Sirius crossed his arms. "She has my cheekbones."

"She doesn’t even have cheekbones yet," Remus pointed out. "She’s two weeks old."

Sirius looked genuinely offended. "I’ll have you know, she’s already mastered brooding."

You smiled. “Everyone, this is Nova Alleia Black.”

Nova, always her father’s daughter, made a small mlem noise and kicked her leg, already enjoying the attention.

Sirius was at her side in a heartbeat, taking her from you and into his own arms. "There, there, darling, Papa’s got you. Shh, my sweet little stardust—"

James nearly choked. "Stardust?!"

"That’s what he calls her," you said, sipping your tea with a smirk.

Remus snorted. "This from the man who once named a motorcycle ‘Hellfire.’"

"She is my heart now," Sirius said proudly, cradling her in his arms like she was made of diamond dust. "I would lay down my life for her. I would destroy nations."

"She farted in your face yesterday and you said thank you," you added.

"It was adorable," Sirius said dreamily.

James leaned against the couch, arms folded. "Unbelievable. Padfoot used to charm the pants off half of Hogwarts and now he’s… what? Wearing burp cloths as accessories?"

"That was one time—"

"Mate, it’s still on your shoulder."

Sirius blinked, looked down, and cursed softly. "Damn. I thought this was the new towel."

Peter leaned over to poke the baby’s foot. "She’s going to be a menace. I can already tell."

"She’ll be a queen," Sirius declared. "Ruler of mischief. Empress of chaos."

"She just spit up on your shirt," Remus pointed out.

Sirius didn’t even flinch. "I accept her offerings."

You were trying not to laugh too hard, for the baby’s sake, but it was nearly impossible. Watching Sirius Black — rebel, motorbike-riding, rule-breaking Sirius — now gently bouncing his daughter while humming lullabies, was the single greatest show the Marauders had ever seen.

Lily smiled softly. "He’s going to spoil her rotten."

"Absolutely," you agreed.

"She already has a leather jacket in infant size," Remus muttered.

"She has taste," Sirius replied.

Eventually, the baby began to stir again — not enough to cry, just enough to shift against Sirius’s chest and let out a sound that was half-coo, half-yawn.

Sirius froze.

Everyone froze.

You all stared.

She blinked.

"She’s awake," Peter whispered, like he’d discovered fire.

The baby looked up at Sirius, squinted a bit… and smiled.

"Did you see that?!" Sirius nearly exploded. "She smiled! At me! That was for me!"

"Probably gas," James said.

"Shut it, Prongs, let me have this!"

You stepped over and kissed the top of Sirius’s head. "You’re doing great, Papa."

He looked up at you, eyes soft. "You think so?"

"I know so."

Behind you, James snorted. "Ugh. Disgusting. They’re in love. And breeding."

"Let’s leave before he starts serenading her," Peter said.

"Too late," Remus sighed, as Sirius began softly crooning a lullaby that sounded suspiciously like a rock ballad.

As the Marauders made their way out, Sirius looked down at his daughter and whispered, "Ignore them, Stardust. They’re just jealous."

The baby sneezed.

And Sirius melted all over again.

"You coming?" you asked, lifting the baby gently into your arms. "I’m gonna take her inside."

Sirius looked torn — one arm reaching longingly for the baby, the other still clutching her half-folded blanket like a security item.

"She just smiled at me. What if she forgets my face in the next thirty minutes?"

"You’ll live," you said, already halfway down the hall. "Besides, I think your friends want some alone time with you."

James perked up immediately. "Yeah, mate. We missed you. Our little Padfoot."

Sirius didn’t like the way James said that.

"You’re going to start something, I can feel it."

"You started it," Remus said, flopping onto the couch. "You called yourself Papa twice and referred to yourself in the third person."

"Stardust doesn’t know pronouns yet!"

"Clearly neither do you," Peter muttered.

The baby disappeared into the nursery with you, leaving behind a comfortable silence.

For three seconds.

James stood up, hands on hips, and declared with perfect confidence, "I want to be treated like the baby."

Sirius blinked. "Come again?"

"You heard me. You coddled her. Kissed her head. Rocked her like a prized crystal ball. I want that. I deserve that. I’ve been through things."

"You burned toast this morning," Lily said.

"And did anyone hold me afterward? No."

Sirius folded the blanket slowly. "You want me to—what? Rock you? Tuck you in?"

James dropped to the floor dramatically, curling into the fetal position. "Yes. I want Papa Sirius to hold me like the precious thing I am."

Peter snorted. "This is the worst thing I’ve ever seen and I once saw Sirius try to flirt with a girl using only dog metaphors."

"I told her she was pawsitively stunning," Sirius said defensively.

Remus ignored them all. "Should we… leave him there?"

Sirius looked down at James, who had now started softly whimpering and whispering, "Just a little baby…"

"This feels like entrapment," Sirius muttered.

James extended his arms upward like a toddler demanding to be picked up. "Up, Papa. Up!"

"You’re thirty."

"I’m baby."

"Absolutely not."

Remus stood. "Actually, I want to see where this goes. You’ve got ten seconds, Padfoot."

Sirius glared at them all before begrudgingly crouching down and scooping James off the floor in a fireman carry.

James squealed in delight. "I feel so safe!"

"You’re heavier than my entire emotional baggage," Sirius groaned.

Peter applauded. "Wow. A real father."

"Hold him properly," Remus demanded. "Cradle style."

Sirius looked to the heavens. "Why have you forsaken me?"

"You did this to yourself," came your voice from the hallway.

Sirius turned. You were standing there, arms folded, watching him bridal-carry a fully grown James Potter, who was now sucking his thumb and asking for a juice box.

"Don’t mind me," you said, trying not to laugh. "Just checking the noise levels. Thought the baby was crying. Turns out it was just James."

"I AM A BABY!" James wailed.

You gave Sirius a long, pitying look. "Good luck, Papa."

"Take me with you," Sirius mouthed desperately.

You disappeared, laughing, and Sirius turned back to his so-called friends.

"Alright, baby James," he said through gritted teeth. "You want the full treatment?"

James gasped. "You mean it?"

Sirius flopped onto the couch with him still in his arms, tugged a nearby throw over them both, and started rocking dramatically. "There, there, little Jamiekins. Who’s Mama’s precious golden boy?"

"I am," James sniffled.

"Who’s gonna grow up and marry a nice redhead and make actual babies one day?"

"I am, Papa!"

Remus wiped a tear from his eye. "This is better than theater."

"Burp him next," Peter said. "That’s the final boss."

Sirius just groaned, already regretting everything. James had now started humming the lullaby Sirius had used on the baby earlier, but horribly off-key.

"Papa’s got you, Jamie-boo," he sang in a warble, "Papa’s never leavin’ youuuu—"

That was the final straw.

Sirius stood, dumped James onto the floor unceremoniously, and dusted off his hands. "You’re cut off. No more cuddles. No more baby. You’re a grown man with a mortgage and back pain."

James pouted. "You didn’t even kiss my forehead."

"Do it and I’m taking pictures," Remus warned, already holding his camera.

Sirius pointed at the door. "Out. All of you. Go make your own babies if you want snuggles so badly."

"Not all of us have someone as tolerant as Y/N," Peter muttered as they filed out.

James stuck his head back in. "This isn’t over. The baby war has begun."

Sirius slammed the door behind them, leaned against it, and sighed.

Then a soft voice came from the hallway:

"Was that… James pretending to be your child?"

"Please don’t leave me alone with them again," Sirius groaned.

You smirked, already walking toward him with the baby in your arms.

"Well," you said sweetly, "I am thinking about baby number two someday."

Sirius perked up.

"…As long as it's not James."

taglist !

@belovedenzo

#i totally believe sirius to be a simp when in love #so it makes sense that he’d be whipped for his daughter!!!#sirius black x reader

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clairecrive · 3 months ago

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i didn’t like new girl that much when I watched it but this au? oh, i’d watch hundreds of hours of this!!!

Who's That Girl

summary: after Peter moves out due to unspecified reasons suddenly, the marauders have a room to fill. Luckily, you've just arrived in the UK and are happy to sign the lease

cw: modern au, reader has a mother/maternal figure

roommate!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

“Okay, mom.” You rub your eyes, arm still sore from lugging your suitcase around half of London. “No, I really don’t think so. It’d be a pretty elaborate scheme just to kill me. Our names are all together on the lease, there’d be a paper trail.”

There’s a quiet snicker from the doorway. You look over to find James, one of your new roommates, standing in the threshold of your room. You grimace, miming waving your mother’s concerns away.

“Seriously, you don’t have to worry, I—fine, here. Listen.” You put your hand over the speaker. “I’m so sorry about this,” you tell James. “Can you tell her you’re not going to murder me, please?”

“Why would we murder you?” he asks in an easy, jovial voice. It’s the sort of voice moms love, which is perfect for what you need right now. “We need you alive to pay rent, and anyway we’ve nowhere to hide a body. They started being rather vigilant about the Thames some time ago.”

“He’s joking,” you say quickly into the phone. “Yeah, I’m sure. They do that here, too. Now will you please go to sleep? I’m good, I promise. Okay, call you later. Love you.”

You click the button to hang up with a sigh, dropping back onto your mattress.

“Your mum?” James asks sympathetically.

You hum. “Yeah, sorry. It’s four in the morning for her right now, and she’s all wound up. I appreciate the help.”

Despite your best efforts, you can’t seem to convince your body it’s not four in the morning for you right now. You thought taking the red eye to London would help you adjust quickly to the time change, but a sleepless flight has only made you weary and disoriented. You screwed up the route from the airport to your new flat, realizing only around Richmond that you’d gone the complete wrong direction on the wrong tube line. It took you a solid hour longer to get to your flat than you planned. When you saw Sirius, who’d posted the flat in an online roommates group, waiting on the other side of the door you nearly collapsed into his arms in teary gratitude.

With the haze of fatigue still clouding your thinking, it takes you a few moments to wonder why James has come to stand in your room.

“Did you need something?”

“I was just wondering if you might like breakfast,” he says. His big frame fills the doorway, his shoulder leaning against the frame like it’s a familiar stance.

You try to hide your wariness, your mind filling with images of black pudding and beans smeared on toast. “What are you having?”

“Omelets.”

“Yes, please.” You hop out of bed. It’s less bouncy than lurching, but you’re trying to affect vivacity in the hopes you eventually start to feel it.

James leads you towards the kitchen. Your room, you discovered when you arrived, is even duller than the pictures online. The previous tenant either hadn’t decorated at all or had moved out in a hurry, leaving only a bed and some trash on the floor. The room is small, with peeling white paint and a tiny window situated oddly in the corner, the scraggly tree outside eclipsing half of the view.

The rest of the flat is a different thing entirely. The common spaces are mostly open; you can see the kitchen from the living room, with everything lit by two large windows looking out onto the street. There’s a funny mishmash of decorations, some pieces hinting at unity and others not so the way it all comes together seems almost like a happy accident. A nice, plush couch sits next to a chair that looks like it was dragged in off the street; there are books stacked against walls and album covers being used for coasters; a collection of vinyl records sits on the mantle next to a bluetooth speaker and above stockings seemingly left out since Christmas. It’s definitely a space decorated by boys, but you like it. It feels homey.

“My mum would be in a right state if I up and moved continents,” says James, walking into the kitchen. He takes up position behind the stove, next to where Remus is making tea. “Is it the city she’s worried about?”

“It’s everything,” you admit, lingering awkwardly at the edge of the kitchen. You don’t want to be in the way. “It’s the city, it’s the male roommates, it’s the Facebook post she saw about muggings…”

“Flatmates,” Sirius corrects you from the kitchen table. “We’re not roommates, we don’t share a room. Maybe you ought to clarify that, might calm her down a bit.”

“Flatmates,” you amend. “She does not like that I have guy flatmates. Can I help?”

“Don’t,” says Sirius. “Remus is a control freak in the kitchen. Real finicky.”

“I’m not finicky.” Somehow, you can tell Remus is rolling his eyes even without him turning it around.

“You nearly took my head off over the way I cook chicken last week.”

“The way you cook chicken nearly burned down the flat.”

“Y/n,” Sirius says, seriously, “do as I do.” He pats the seat next to him at the table.

You glance at James hesitantly, but he waves you off. When you join Sirius in sitting down, you forget to suppress the sigh that collapses out of you.

Sirius tuts. “Jet lagged?”

Lag feels too kind a word for what your body is doing to you. “Yeah. Think I’m gonna take a nap after this.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” he says. “I’ve done the whole international travel thing—”

“You’ve been to France,” says Remus drolly. “The time difference is an hour.”

“—and it really is best to just push through,” Sirius finishes as though the interruption went unheard. “You’ll only make matters worse for yourself if you sleep now and then can’t tonight.”

You hate how sound his logic seems. The idea of waiting at least ten hours to put your head to a pillow makes you want to cry.

“So,” James says brightly, “what doesn’t your mum like about you having guys for flatmates?”

Perhaps it can be chalked up to exhaustion that you have so little control over the expression that crosses your face. Luckily, James is too concentrated on his omelet to see it, but Remus isn’t; he grins at you.

“She doesn’t really love the idea of me having roommates at all. Flatmates,” you correct yourself when Sirius gives you a look. “I think because you’re guys, she just sees it as even less safe. Don’t take it personally. Oh, thank you.”

You accept the mug of tea Remus sets in front of you. Sirius has one already half drunk in front of him, and Remus sits down with his own, taking a long sip like it’s the most relished part of his morning. You look into the brown, half-opaque liquid skeptically.

“Has she been this upset since you decided to live with us?” Remus asks.

“Oh, um.” You bob your teabag aimlessly, twisting the string around your finger. “I…sort of assumed she would be. That’s why I didn’t tell her until now.”

You don’t have to take your attention off your tea to feel the stares of all three boys snap to you.

“You didn’t tell her?” James asks, incredulous.

“I didn’t want to give her the chance to argue with me about it.”

“Asking for forgiveness instead of permission.” Sirius nods approvingly, picking up his mug for a sip. “Knew I liked you.”

James appears in distress. “Your mum’s gonna hate us!”

“Don’t mind him,” says Remus. “He’s used to all mothers fawning over him.”

“Not mine,” Sirius objects happily.

“She’s across the ocean, if that helps,” you tell James.

“I can feel her hatred crossing borders,” he says, expression growing increasingly fretful.

“Well, all you have to do is not murder me,” you offer, “and she’ll see that she’s wrong.”

Sirius gives an insouciant shrug. “Pay your rent on time, and we ought to be fine there. No promises, of course.”

#marauders new girl au #fic rec

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clairecrive · 3 months ago

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Operation: Kidnap Sirius Black

poly!marauders x fem!reader

Summary: On the night Sirius Black tries to vanish, three hearts steal him away for a birthday he never asked for but always needed, one filled with warmth, laughter, and love he never thought he deserved.

Word count: 5.2k

Warnings: not proofread, mentions of bad childhood, typical Black lore, self loath, lots and lots of fluff

Authors note: idk why this turned out to be this long...

masterlist

There are rules to loving Sirius Black.

The first is that you do not, under any circumstances, mention his birthday. Not in passing, not in jest, not even in the quiet, half-lit hours of the evening when he’s sprawled beside you with his head in your lap. You don’t say it when you press a kiss to his temple or when you catch him watching the moon with that faraway look he gets sometimes. You pretend, with almost painful devotion, that the day is like any other.

The second rule is that Sirius Black has the uncanny ability to detect a surprise from miles away. He can sniff out whispered plans and hidden presents like a bloodhound, and if he does, he will vanish with the kind of dramatic flourish that would make a Victorian ghost proud. Once, in fifth year, he avoided James’s entirely innocent “just us lads” birthday breakfast by hiding under the stairs with nothing but a stolen blanket, a flask of firewhisky, and a bitter scowl. He emerged a day later like some tragic orphan prince ( which he kinda is) and said, with deadpan sincerity, “I nearly died of excessive affection.”

The third rule is that none of that matters. Because loving Sirius Black means knowing that he pushes love away with both hands, only to fall apart when it’s given freely.

It means watching him light up when he thinks no one’s looking—when Remus absentmindedly runs fingers through his hair while reading, when James loops an arm around his shoulders without fanfare, when you look at him like he’s something holy. It means understanding that despite the leather jackets and loud laughter and relentless charm, Sirius is soft in ways he’s terrified to admit.

Which is why, obviously, the three of you are going to kidnap him.

“Yes,” James says between bites of toast, crumbs flying, “we kidnap him. Midnight. Sack over the head. Classic move.”

Remus looks up from his book with the slow, patient expression of a man who has survived many ridiculous plans and expects nothing less than full insanity before noon.

“Literal sack?” he asks, voice dry.

James nods eagerly. “We sneak into the dorm, throw it over him, and carry him out like some mystical offering to the gods of romance and good intentions.”

You set down your tea and raise an eyebrow. “You want to throw a bag over Sirius’s head and drag him into a surprise celebration of his birth?”

James beams. “Exactly!”

Remus sighs, folding the corner of his page. “You two are mad.”

But there’s the smallest curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth. The kind that means he’s already planning what poem he might read under the stars, something gentle and aching and quiet, something Sirius will pretend not to like even as he leans into it.

You glance between them, heart aching in the best possible way, and think that maybe this is what love looks like, plotting birthday kidnappings, stealing moments under moonlight, holding all of Sirius’s softness without asking him to hand it over.

And just like that, Operation: Kidnap Sirius Black is officially underway.

Planning a kidnapping, it turns out, is a surprisingly delicate affair, not just about stealth or timing or who gets to throw the sack over Sirius’s head (James insisted on this for far too long before being overruled), but about details, about love folded into every corner of the plan like a secret charm meant only for him.

“I’m just saying,” Remus starts carefully, perched on the edge of James’s bed like he’s conducting a seminar on criminal mischief, his notebook already opened to a fresh page titled OPERATION: STARRY DOG, “we can’t just burst in, throw a sack over his head, and drag him to the tower. We need finesse. He needs to feel… safe. Even if we’re, technically, kidnapping him.”

From the floor, where he’s sprawled like a fallen Quidditch poster boy, James groans and throws one arm over his eyes. “You all keep saying kidnapping like it’s not a love language.”

You smile faintly, curled up near the windowsill, your knees hugged to your chest in a blanket that still smells faintly of Sirius—cologne and firewood and ink. “I made him a cake.”

James bolts upright like he’s been electrocuted. “You what?”

You look down at your hands, suddenly shy. “It’s chocolate. The really dark kind, not too sweet. I layered it with spiced cherry preserve and this vanilla cream I stole from the kitchens, then topped it with sugared rosemary and little silver stars that melt on your tongue. It sparkles when it’s quiet, like the sky.”

There’s a beat of reverent silence, and then James exhales like he’s just been handed a sacred text. “I have never been more in love with you than I am right now.”

“Back off,” Remus says without looking up from his notes, “you had your turn on Tuesday.”

“I was talking about the cake.”

“No, you weren’t.”

You lean back, warm with quiet pride. “It’s hidden under seventeen preservation charms in my closet. I’ll bring it just before we go.”

Remus adds a new line to the plan, murmuring aloud as he writes. “Phase One: Cake secured. Phase Two: Distraction via James’ unbearable voice.”

James makes a face. “Unbearable? I’ll have you know I’ve been voted Most Charming Voice in Gryffindor.”

“By you. Three times.”

“It still counts.”

“And while you’re talking nonsense,” you interject gently, “Remus sneaks the wand out from under Sirius’s pillow, I toss the sack, and we Apparate him to the tower.”

“Blankets. Candles. Cake,” James counts off on his fingers. “And then—gifts.”

You pause, heart stuttering a little. “I made him something else too.”

Remus glances up, softening immediately. “What is it?”

You hesitate, then reach into the sleeve of your sweater and pull out a small box, barely big enough to fit in your palm. Inside, nestled in magical tissue, is a necklace—not gold or silver, but a long, dark ribbon threaded with charms you’ve carved and bound yourself. A small onyx dog. A sliver of red jasper for courage. A tiny vial filled with ash from the Gryffindor common room fireplace, sealed with wax. A music note. A miniature bell. A hollow star. And four hearts interlinked at the center.

“He always says he doesn’t belong to anyone,” you whisper, your voice quieter now. “I wanted him to have something that says he belongs to himself. To us.”

Remus doesn’t speak, just reaches across and touches your arm with such reverence that you feel like you might cry, and James, for once, says nothing—just nods, eyes suspiciously bright behind his glasses.

“I got him socks,” James says finally, like a confession. “But not just socks. I mean, they’re enchanted. They warm up when he gets anxious. They smell like cedar and bergamot. He won’t even notice they’re magic, but they’ll help. I had them made in Hogsmeade last month.”

Remus clears his throat and sets his notebook aside. “I—mine’s a bit strange.”

“You’re strange,” James says fondly.

Remus gives him a look. “I made him a book. It looks blank at first, but when you hold it, it writes itself. Letters. From us. From me. From you two. From future days, from nights we haven’t lived yet. Every time he opens it, there’ll be something. A new message. A memory. A reason to stay.”

You cover your mouth with your hand and blink hard.

“And I added one entry from Regulus,” Remus adds softly. “Just one. I thought… it might help.”

James is staring at him now, open-mouthed. “That’s… bloody brilliant.”

“I know.”

You breathe in slowly, letting it all settle—the gifts, the cake, the plan, the ridiculous affection swirling in this little room like a charm too strong to name.

But then you all smile, because you know—really know—that he’ll keep the necklace and wear the socks and trace the book with careful fingers and tuck the cake tin under his bed when he thinks no one is looking.

You know he’ll treasure it all.

You know that somewhere beneath all that bark and fire, Sirius Black wants to be loved so badly it nearly ruins him.

“He’s going to fight us,” James says after a long moment, lips twitching. “He’s going to swear, and glare, and threaten to hex my kneecaps.”

“He’ll be terrified,” Remus agrees. “But he’ll be loved. That’s what matters.”

You smile again, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Let’s make sure he knows it. In every possible way.”

James grins suddenly, that bright, reckless kind of grin that promises both trouble and triumph. “Alright, squad. We move at midnight. Cloak on. Cake in hand. Wand removed. Sack ready. Sirius Black has no idea what’s coming.”

“And thank Merlin for that,” Remus mutters, but even he’s smiling now, even he’s warmed by the thought of it—by the vision of Sirius blinking sleep from his eyes in the candlelight, baffled and bleary and utterly surrounded by the people who love him in ways he’s never dared believe were real.

You are hiding from Sirius Black and somehow that still feels like the most natural thing in the world.

It’s not so much a tactical retreat as it is a sacred ritual by now, the three of you—Remus, James, and yourself—folded into the narrow stairwell landing that overlooks the Gryffindor common room, cramped behind a tapestry that smells faintly of dust and forgotten lemon drops.

Your knees are digging into the floorboards, your head is pressed lightly against Remus’s shoulder, and James is sprawled half on top of both of you with the easy recklessness of someone who’s never truly considered the possibility of discomfort. And just beyond the railing, just a few short steps away, is Sirius—long-limbed and lazily dangerous, draped across the couch in a position that defies both gravity and logic, flipping through a Quidditch magazine and occasionally scoffing aloud at the broom designs like they’ve personally offended him.

He has no idea what’s coming.

And it is, frankly, a miracle that none of you have burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“We’ve reached peak espionage,” James whispers, breath warm against your temple, eyes narrowed in that cartoonish way he does when he thinks he looks serious. “I should’ve brought my cloak.”

Remus gives him a side-eye. “We’d still be too loud. You stomp like a bloody centaur.”

“I stomp with purpose.”

“You stomp with your whole chest.”

You barely suppress your snort and nudge Remus with your elbow, earning a secret smile, small and quick and warm like a candle in winter. Outside, the sky is beginning to melt from gold to amethyst, the kind of slow-burn dusk that feels like it’s holding its breath. The castle is quiet in the way that only late afternoons can be, when the students have either vanished into books or broomsticks, and the world seems to stretch wide and long and waiting.

Your fingers are curled around the soft edge of the cake tin nestled in your bag, still faintly warm with charm-work, enchanted to carry the scent of cedarwood and cinnamon unless touched by someone with less than honorable intentions.

You shift slightly and meet Remus’s gaze.

“Do you think he’ll cry?” you whisper.

Remus, who knows Sirius like no one else—knows the tilt of his jaw when he’s pretending to be brave, knows the sharpness of his tongue when he’s scared, knows the way his eyes soften when he thinks no one’s looking—tilts his head, thoughtful.

“He’ll protest,” he murmurs. “Maybe try to leave. Make a scene. But yes. Eventually. When he realizes it’s real.”

“He might punch me,” James adds brightly. “I’m sort of banking on it. Birthday punches are a tradition.”

“I don’t think Sirius has ever had a tradition that wasn’t laced with trauma.”

“Well, now he has one,” James says, proud, “called Getting Loved by Idiots Who Worship the Ground He Walks On.”

Remus sighs but doesn’t disagree.

A soft clatter from the common room makes you all freeze. Sirius has tossed the magazine onto the floor and is now sitting up, stretching like a cat, ribs sharp beneath his jumper, hair falling into his eyes as he rubs the back of his neck and mutters something under his breath. His face is unreadable from this angle, a little tired maybe, a little restless. He does that sometimes—sinks into silence without warning, like the weight of existing has suddenly crept back onto his shoulders and he’s just remembered it’s there.

You exchange a look with Remus. Then James.

It’s time.

But you don’t rush.

Instead, you move with care, with reverence, with the strange hush of people about to trespass into something holy. James stretches his limbs like he’s preparing for a dramatic dive into battle. Remus rolls his shoulders, muttering under his breath and flicking his wand in practiced arcs—charms for sound, for subtlety, for gentleness. And you reach into your pocket for the blindfold, soft and dark and worn from being held too tightly, too often, during too many rehearsals.

Your heart pounds, not from nerves but from anticipation, from the secret thrill of loving someone so fiercely that it bends the very air around you.

You don’t want this to be a joke.

You want it to be an offering.

You want him to feel how real it is.

James gives a soft nod, and then, like a switch has been flipped, he’s launching himself dramatically down the stairs and into the room.

“SIRIUS BLACK, YOU QUACK-HATTED IMBECILE,” he booms, arms flailing in the way only James Potter can truly pull off, “EXPLAIN TO ME, IMMEDIATELY, WHY THE WINDWALKER 500 SHOULD BE ALLOWED TO EXIST.”

Sirius startles so hard he nearly drops the glass of water he’s just conjured. “What the absolute fuck are you talking about—”

“IT DEFIES BASIC AERODYNAMIC THEORY,” James shouts, already halfway across the room and pointing like an angry professor, “AND THE HANDLE DESIGN IS A CRIME AGAINST HUMANITY.”

“I will actually kill you.”

“YOU’LL TRY.”

And while the chaos unfolds in loud, gesturing glory, you and Remus slip in from behind, soft as secrets, quiet as breath, moving with practiced grace until you’re right there—close enough to see the confusion beginning to blossom across Sirius’s face, the way he turns half-toward the stairwell just as you step into his space.

“Hey, love,” you whisper, and before he can reply or protest or even frown, you press a kiss to his temple, and Remus slips the blindfold down over his eyes.

There’s a pause.

A heartbeat of stunned stillness.

Then—

“What the actual hell,” Sirius says, half-laughing, half-panicked, not quite moving but also not resisting, “what’s happening—why is it dark—why do you smell like frosting—”

“Because we love you,” you say simply, taking his hand.

“Because it’s your birthday,” James adds, circling back around and grabbing his other arm.

“Because you deserve a night that doesn't end in us getting kicked out,” Remus murmurs, pressing his lips to the top of Sirius’s head.

And somehow, despite the complaints and the muttering and the occasional threat of murder, Sirius lets you lead him out of the common room, barefoot and blindfolded and vaguely cursing in every direction.

He doesn’t know where you’re taking him.

But he follows anyway.

Because somewhere deep down, Sirius Black knows that love is the only thing that’s ever truly stolen him away.

You walk him slowly through the halls, careful not to let the candle slip from its charm or the silence crack too hard beneath your footsteps. Sirius is between the three of you, bracketed like a secret that refuses to break open, walking with the kind of reluctant trust that only exists when love has been proven more than once, when it’s survived the breaking and still chooses to stay.

His hands are in yours and James’s, callused fingers curling instinctively when he stumbles slightly over a stair, and behind him, Remus hums low beneath his breath, steady and close, a grounding presence that doesn’t need to speak to be heard.

You’ve rehearsed this more times than you’d admit. Not out loud. Not formally. But in half-sentences and half-gestures and mornings where you passed notes instead of toast. In glances over cauldrons. In the quiet of late-night library corners when you should’ve been studying but couldn’t stop sketching cake designs instead.

The room you’re leading him to—your little borrowed haven on the seventh floor, the one with the charmed window that shows the stars regardless of the weather—has been glowing with waiting all day, filled with soft enchantments and glowing lanterns and the kind of magic that’s stitched more with memory than spellwork.

You pause before the door.

“Sirius,” you say, gentle, one hand smoothing down the edge of the blindfold, “we’re going to show you something now. If you want us to stop, we will. If you hate it, we’ll vanish. Just say the word.”

There’s a long silence. Then Sirius exhales, a sound that trembles slightly before it settles.

“Okay,” he whispers, and it’s not defiant, not snarky, not coated in armor. Just small. Just real. “Okay, go on.”

So you open the door.

And the moment it does, the room breathes for him.

It isn’t grand or overwhelming. It isn’t the kind of party the Black family would throw, with icy chandeliers and gold-trimmed plates and smiles sharp enough to cut through skin. No, it’s something else entirely—it’s candlelight dripping slowly in warm pools across wooden floors, soft music humming low from a wireless in the corner, the smell of cake and rosemary and cinnamon hanging like a memory across the air.

There are blankets draped over every surface, mismatched and soft and lived-in. There’s a little table set with three mugs and one glass tumbler, because you know he prefers that. There are paper stars stuck across the ceiling, some of them spelled to twinkle, some of them wobbling slightly where James got too excited and glued them crooked.

It looks nothing like the world Sirius was born into.

And everything like the one he deserves.

You untie the blindfold slowly, your fingers brushing his hair, and the moment the cloth falls away, Sirius freezes.

He doesn’t speak.

His mouth parts like he might. Like he wants to ask what this is. Why? But he doesn’t, because you think he already knows, because he’s clever and broken and beautiful in that way that makes him flinch from kindness, like it’s something hot he forgot how to hold.

His eyes flicker across the room in slow, stunned disbelief—landing on the cake first, then the gifts, then the trio of you, standing slightly too nervously close together.

“I—what…” he says, and then his voice breaks, just a little, and he swallows it down fast like he’s afraid it’ll betray him. “What is this?”

“It’s your birthday,” you whisper. “And you’re ours. So this is for you.”

“You hate your birthday,” Remus adds softly, stepping forward, “but we thought maybe you wouldn’t hate it if we did it like this. If we didn’t make it a celebration. Just… a love letter.”

“Love,” James says, shrugging, “and cake. Mostly cake. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, it might be eighty percent cake.”

Sirius lets out a choked laugh, the kind that sounds like it got lost somewhere on its way out of his chest. He rubs a hand over his mouth, blinking rapidly, and then his eyes fall on the cake you made, still warm, still dusted with silver sugar like the sky.

It’s got five candles, not twenty. Because five is the number of fingers that brushed your cheek when you asked him what home meant. Because five is the number of stars you wished on the night before you loved him for the first time. Because twenty is too many and too loud and too close to the people who made him hate this day in the first place.

He walks toward it like it might disappear.

“You made this?” he says, voice hoarse.

You nod.

“It’s cherry and chocolate,” you murmur. “Because I know you pretend not to like sweets but you always sneak the last slice when you think no one’s looking.”

He doesn’t deny it.

He just stares at the cake.

And then he stares at you.

And then, with a noise that sounds very much like surrender, he sits heavily on the floor.

“Oh, love,” Remus breathes, sinking beside him. “You okay?”

Sirius nods. Then shakes his head. Then laughs again, watery and sharp and aching.

“I just—I didn’t think anyone would… you know. Care enough to plan something like this. Let alone you lot. You’re all idiots.”

“We are,” James agrees, kneeling beside him, “but we’re your idiots.”

“Always,” you say, sliding in on his other side. “For as long as you’ll let us.”

Sirius leans into you like a tide, slow and steady, pressing his face to your shoulder. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

The room holds the silence gently.

And then James reaches for the gifts.

“Right,” James says, voice just a little too chipper to be natural, like if he speaks quickly enough, none of them will notice how watery his eyes are. “Present time. Let’s do this before I start crying and ruin my reputation.”

Sirius huffs a laugh, already suspicious. “What reputation? You cried at that one Honeydukes ad. The one with the kneazle in the scarf.”

“That kneazle was cold,” James mutters, reaching under his chair for a dark parcel wrapped in deep blue paper that glimmers when it catches the light, like stars turning slowly behind a veil of clouds. “And also don’t change the subject. This is about you.”

He passes the package over. Sirius takes it carefully, eyebrows arched as he weighs it in his hands. “It’s not going to explode, is it?”

“Just open it, you dramatic git.” James laughs.

Sirius does, fingers dragging through the folds like he’s peeling back something fragile. Inside, he finds socks. Soft black wool, thick and warm-looking, folded with surprising care. They’re plain, mostly, but there’s a tiny red star embroidered on each cuff, small enough to miss unless you’re looking.

Sirius blinks. Then looks up at James.

James leans back on his elbows, smirking. “The finest socks in all of Britain. Possibly enchanted by the gods themselves. Who’s to say.”

Sirius stares at the socks for a long second, longer than he probably means to. He doesn’t speak, just runs his thumb once over the little red star stitched near the cuff, something unreadable blooming behind his eyes.

Then, without warning, he sets them gently aside and steps forward, closing the space between them in two strides. No words, no jokes, no shields—just the quiet urgency of movement as he throws his arms around James and buries his face in his shoulder.

James stiffens at first, startled, his hands half-raised as if unsure what to do. But then he exhales, a soft breath against Sirius’s hair, and his arms come down slowly, wrapping around Sirius’s back like that’s where they’d always belonged. He presses one hand between his shoulder blades and just holds him, saying nothing, letting the quiet stretch and settle like dusk spilling across a windowsill.

“You’re ridiculous,” Sirius mumbles.

“And you’re warm now,” James replies, quietly smug.

Next is Remus. He clears his throat and stands slowly, pulling a small, velvet-wrapped item from his bag. The green is soft and worn-looking, tied with a ribbon the color of smoke. He doesn’t hand it over immediately.

“I changed my mind about it three times,” Remus admits. “Almost didn’t give it to you at all.”

Sirius tilts his head. “Why not?” Remus shrugs one shoulder, eyes flicking away. “Because it’s not something you can unwrap all at once. It’s not flashy. It’s slow. And it asks you to stay.”

Remus holds it out with a quiet kind of care, as though it might break if he let it go too quickly. Sirius reaches for it without speaking, hands brushing gently against Remus’s, his expression unreadable but tender at the edges.

It’s a book, at least on the outside. Plain, unassuming. No title to boast its purpose, no gilded spine to catch the light. Just a deep, velvety cover the color of twilight, the kind of hue that settles between dusk and darkness, when the world forgets its sharpness. Sirius opens it with slow fingers, as though the contents might breathe if he turned the pages too fast.

Inside, nothing greets him. No letters, no sketches, only pale blank pages that seem to hum with waiting.

He lifts his gaze to Remus, puzzled but curious, and waits.

“It writes itself,” Remus says, quiet as falling snow. “Only when you're holding it. Letters. From us. From me. From James. From the versions of us we haven’t met yet. From mornings we haven't woken into and nights we haven't survived. The words come when you need them. A memory. A promise. A reason to keep going. It’s never the same thing twice.”

Sirius looks down at the book again, his thumb tracing the edge of a page, slow and deliberate. There’s something flickering behind his eyes now, not quite tears but something older, heavier.

Remus swallows, and when he speaks again, it’s barely more than a breath. “There’s one from Regulus. Just one. You don’t have to read it. I only thought… maybe one day, it might matter.”

Sirius doesn’t answer. His mouth twitches slightly, as though a dozen words are caught behind it, all of them too fragile to survive the air. Instead, he closes the book slowly, pressing it to his chest like something sacred, and then he steps forward without hesitation.

He gathers Remus into his arms, holding him tightly, as if to anchor both of them in the moment. Remus folds into him easily, one hand resting at the nape of Sirius’s neck, the other curling into the back of his jumper. For a while, they say nothing, and nothing is needed. The silence between them is soft and filled with the weight of everything they didn’t have to explain.

“Thank you,” Sirius breathes into his neck. “God, thank you.” Remus just squeezes him tighter.

Then it’s your turn.

Your gift is the smallest of all. The box fits neatly between your palms, wrapped in worn brown paper and tied with a length of twine, sealed carefully with a pressed wax star that gleams faintly in the light. You hold it out with both hands, as if offering something fragile.

“It won’t open unless you’re smiling,” you tell him, voice soft but unwavering.

Sirius raises an eyebrow at that, his eyes narrowing with the kind of fond suspicion he always gives you when he knows he’s about to lose a battle.

“That’s cheating,” he murmurs, though there’s a curl at the edge of his mouth already, something quiet and resisting.

You only tilt your head. “Smile or no gift,” you reply, and wait.

His lips curve, slow and reluctant and inevitable, like moonlight slipping through the edge of a curtain. The wax seal shimmers and releases with a gentle sigh of golden smoke.

He opens the box.

Inside lies a necklace. Not delicate in the traditional sense, but tender in its care, its meaning. A long ribbon, dark as stormy dusk and soft as memory, threaded with charms that each hold a story. A hand-carved onyx dog, polished to a gentle gleam. A sliver of red jasper for courage. A tiny vial of ash from the Gryffindor common room fireplace, sealed in wax the color of candlelight. A silver music note. A bell small enough to fit on the tip of a finger. A hollow star, weightless and glimmering. And at the center of it all—four tiny hearts, carved and bound together, impossible to untangle.

Sirius lifts the ribbon gently, letting it spill across his fingers like water. His thumb brushes the onyx charm, then the star, then the interlinked hearts. His hand trembles faintly, and for a moment he looks too young for everything he’s carried.

You step forward instinctively, unsure whether to say more—but before you can speak, he pulls you in.

His arms wrap around you with unexpected urgency, the necklace still cradled in one hand against your back. He presses his face into the curve of your neck, not saying a word, and you feel the breath he exhales there, uneven and quiet. You hold him back just as tightly, your heart beating too fast and too full, your hands buried in the soft folds of his shirt.

When he finally pulls away, his eyes are glassy, but he’s smiling—truly smiling now, like it reaches all the way through him.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever given me something like this,” he says, voice thick with wonder.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I didn’t know I needed that until now.”

When he finally pulls back, he fastens the necklace around his neck. The ribbon settles against his collarbone, each charm catching the light like tiny memories.

Then he gathers all three of you close, pulling James and Remus into his arms again, and somehow makes room for everyone. They go without protest, folding into the hug like they’ve done it a thousand times, like they’ll do it a thousand more.

“Thank you,” he says, over and over, into your hair, into James’s neck, into Remus’s chest. “Thank you. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

And Remus kisses his temple. And James ruffles his hair.

And you, gently, press your hand to his heart.

“You don’t have to deserve it,” you whisper. “It’s yours.”

The candles have burned low by the time the cake is reduced to crumbs and the laughter has softened to hums and sighs and starlight. The gifts lie scattered around like petals, unwrapped and open and worn already. The room feels like a heartbeat now—slow and alive and familiar—and the windows show a sky that must be enchanted, because every star looks close enough to touch.

Sirius is curled in the middle of the pile of blankets, his head resting on your lap, hair soft and unruly beneath your fingers, legs tangled with James’s, whose arm is draped lazily across both their stomachs like he forgot how to let go.

Remus leans against your side, a book half-open in his hand, though he hasn’t turned a page in what must be an hour. His eyes are closed. He’s not asleep. Just listening. Breathing in time with the rest of you. All four of you are pressed together like something sacred, something whole.

Sirius hasn’t said much for a while.

He’s been watching. Touching. Letting his fingertips run over your sleeve, James’s knuckles, the stitching of the green velvet that once held his bracelet. He’s quieter than usual, but not closed. Not locked away. It’s a stillness that feels new. Not the kind forged by fear or shame but the kind that grows when there’s nowhere to run, and no need to.

You trace soft shapes into his temple. A crescent moon. A star. A question mark.

“What are you thinking?” you whisper, because it’s quiet enough that whispers feel like the only right way to speak.

Sirius doesn’t open his eyes.

He lets out a breath like a song.

“I’m thinking I don’t remember the last time I felt like this wasn’t going to end.”

You don’t answer at first. Just let your hand move gently over his hair, threading through the strands, smoothing the corners of his restlessness like folding down a page in a well-loved book.

“It’s not going to end,” you say, not like a promise, but like a truth.

James shifts slightly, tightening his hold, and presses a kiss to Sirius’s ankle, almost absentmindedly. Remus hums low in his throat and lets the book fall to the floor with a soft thud.

“We’ll keep showing up,” he murmurs, voice drowsy and thick with affection. “Even when you hate it. Especially when you hate it.”

Sirius opens his eyes finally, grey and silver and wet with unshed things. He turns his face into your palm and breathes in, like maybe this is the first time in years he’s dared to believe the air was meant for him.

“Stars above,” he mutters. “You lot are such saps.”

“Only for you.” You smile.

There’s a long, warm pause. Sirius stares up at the ceiling. Then at the three of you. And you know he’s been building this moment for hours, stacking courage like bricks in his chest, trying not to let it fall apart before he reaches the words. You don’t rush him. You never have. So you wait. And the room breathes with you.

And then, so softly it barely lands on the air, he says it.

“I love you.”

His voice cracks on the last syllable. But the words don’t break. They don’t disappear. They settle. They root.

“We know,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his forehead, “we know.”

The silence after that is full, not empty. Sirius closes his eyes again, not to hide, but to rest, to finally let go. His breathing evens out slowly, and for once it’s not the sleep of exhaustion or escape but of peace. You stay like that, all four of you curled together in the soft, glowing dark, the charm on your pendant warm against your heart, the stars flickering gently above like they’re watching a story that ends better this time.

And outside the window, the sky keeps shining.

Because love, when given freely, never needs to be loud.

It just needs to be true.

#awww #he deserves only the softest of love!!!#poly!marauders x reader

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