foolexby

[foolexby]

peter: to be fair, i'd probably bang mickey mouse

remus: EXCUSE ME WHAT

sirius: literally who the fuck asked

james: i get the rat/mouse part, but... he's a fictional character, mate

peter: yeah, and so are you

james: what is that supposed to mean???

peter: *looks directly at camera* nothing

[foolexby]

[foolexby]

The Nightingale II: Victor’s Mask

Regulus Black x fem!reader Hunger Games AU

summary: Regulus and his childhood love are torn apart by years of betrayal and silence, each carrying the weight of unspoken pain. In their reunion, guilt and heartbreak consume them as Regulus realizes he failed to protect her, his promises shattered.

warnings: emotionally intense themes, scenes of crying, trauma, survivor’s guilt, and the weight of abandonment. hurt and comfort

word count: 7.4k ( i need a fucking lobotomy)

authors note: my back broke writing this but omg thiss was an emotional rollercoaster HOLYY FUCKK, anyways i hope u love it and if u wanna be added to the taglist just leave a comment🌷💖

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They gave me three minutes.

Three minutes. That’s all they give us. Three minutes to say goodbye to everything I’ve ever known. To the crooked streets that raised me. To the voices that kept me breathing on nights I didn’t want to. To the only home I’ve ever had, even if it’s always been splintered and aching. Three minutes to wear a brave face I don’t believe in, to lie through my teeth and pretend I’m not already unraveling.

The door closes behind me with a finality that splits the air. And then the silence crashes in—deafening, suffocating—like a scream caught somewhere deep in my chest, one I’ll never get the chance to release.

Mary reaches me first. She slams into me so fast I nearly lose my footing. Her arms wrap around my ribs like iron bands, like she’s trying to hold me in place, to keep me from being torn away. Her sobs shake through both of us, hot and wild, and I bury my face in her shoulder because if I look at her, I’ll fall apart.

“No,” she whispers, over and over again, like a broken hymn. “No, no, no. Not you. It wasn’t supposed to be you.”

I hold her tighter. I don’t trust my voice, don’t recognize the way it sounds when I finally force the words out. “It’s okay.” It isn’t. “It’s not, but… just pretend it is. Please.”

She leans back just far enough to see my face, and her eyes are raw, rimmed in red. Her lip trembles as she tries to speak, but when she does, her voice is fierce through the heartbreak. “You don’t deserve this. You’re soft. You’re kind. You keep people alive with your voice. You sing when the world can’t even speak. This shouldn’t be your ending.”

I have nothing to give her. No comfort. No answer. So I press our foreheads together like we used to when we were little and scared and hoping the stars would listen. It’s a small thing, fragile and familiar. A borrowed kind of peace.

“I’ll scream for you,” she says, and her voice is fierce now, like fire catching. “Every night. I’ll scream so loud the stars hear me.”

“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t waste your voice on something already lost.”

And then she’s gone. Or maybe I’m the one slipping away.

Pandora steps forward next. Quiet, trembling. Her eyes are wide, distant, filled with something brittle and breaking. She doesn’t cry—not yet—but I can see it in the way she moves, careful and slow, like the wrong breath might shatter her.

She reaches out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The softness of it is what destroys me. Not the noise. Not the grief. The tenderness.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I tell her, barely able to get the words out. “Just stay. That’s enough.”

But she speaks anyway, her voice cracking like thin ice beneath a heavy weight. “I wish it was me. I’d go. In a second. If it meant you didn’t have to.”

My head shakes before I even know I’m doing it. “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.”

Her hand finds mine, cold and small, and for a heartbeat that stretches far too long, the three of us just stand there—fused together in the center of the storm, tangled in a silence thick with everything we’ll never have time to say. Grief blooms between us, wide and all-consuming. Too big for the room. Too big for the world.

And still, we hold on. Because that’s all we can do.

Then I hear her—my mother.

She’s humming.

The tune is broken and slow and out of time, like a lullaby she’s forgotten the words to. She drifts into the room like a ghost, arms slightly outstretched, eyes distant but fixed on me. Her hair’s coming undone. She hasn’t looked like herself since my father was killed. Since they dragged him out in the night and called him a traitor and left us behind to rot.

She blinks like she’s seeing me for the first time in years. I don’t know whether to cry or run. But she reaches for me, and I let her pull me into her arms.

“Sing for them,” she whispers, brushing her lips to my temple. “Just like you used to sing for me.”

I can’t hold it in anymore.

The dam inside me shatters without warning, and I collapse into her arms with a sob that rips through my throat like it’s been waiting years to be heard. I bury my face in her neck, her hair, her heartbeat, clinging to the only thing left that feels remotely like safety. Like home. I cry for everything—for the girl I used to be, for the childhood they stole, for the promise she once whispered when the world was still soft.

“You’ll never have to see the Capitol,” she told me once, tucking me into bed with lullabies and lantern ight. “Not with your own eyes.”

Now I’m being offered up like a lamb, gift-wrapped in sorrow.

But she holds me. She holds me like she remembers. Like somewhere inside the grief and the panic and the aching bones, the woman who raised me still exists. Still knows me. Her arms don’t tremble. They anchor. They remind.

A knock on the door.

Sharp. Final. A sound like a sentence being read aloud.

Time’s up.

The door creaks open and a Peacekeeper steps inside, uniform pressed, face blank, voice colder than death. “It’s time.” Two words. That’s all they give me.

I pull away slowly, like tearing fabric. Every inch of distance feels like something sacred unraveling. Like losing a limb. Mary’s fingers are the last to let go, slipping from mine like falling leaves. I don’t look back. I know if I do, I won’t be able to leave at all.

I turn. And I’m already shaking.

The Justice Building is colder than I remember.

Not just the kind of cold that clings to your skin—but the kind that sinks into your bones. That finds the softest parts of you and freezes them solid. The marble walls gleam too perfectly, polished until they shine like something holy, but it doesn’t fool me. I know what they’re hiding. I know what’s seeped into the stone over the years—blood, screams, last goodbyes swallowed by silence.

I sit still. Or I try to.

But my hands won’t stop trembling in my lap. They won’t stop remembering. Mary’s voice, sharp and shattering, breaking like glass when they said my name. Pandora’s arms, wrapped so tightly around me I couldn’t breathe, refusing to let go as if holding on could stop the tide. And my mother, knees in the dirt, her cracked whisper looping like a broken lullaby as the Peacekeepers dragged me away. He’s just asleep. He’ll come back. He promised.

The door opens with a soft click that still manages to feel like thunder. And then she enters.

Marlene McKinnon.

Capitol escort.

She walks in like she owns the sky, like she has never been told no in her life. Her honey-blonde curls are pinned to perfection, a crown that glows under the dim lights. Her dress shimmers in the colors of bruised twilight, plum and gold threaded together like a storm caught mid-scream. Every click of her heels is a countdown, measured and merciless. She smiles, but it is the kind of smile you wear to a funeral when the cameras are watching. Her voice follows, smooth and slow like silk dipped in poison.

"Darling," she purrs, stepping toward me as if approaching something fragile and afraid. "You must be our star."

I say nothing. I can’t. My voice slipped away somewhere between the platform and the train, curled into the hem of my mother’s dress and stayed behind.

Marlene tilts her head like she’s trying to decipher whether I’ll break beautifully or disappointingly. Her gaze glides over me, sharp and assessing, and then softens into something almost admiring. Or maybe it’s hunger. I can never tell with Capitol people.

"Pretty," she hums. "Tragic. District Seven always gives us the most beautiful tragedies."

She reaches out, slow and theatrical, and tucks a stray curl behind my ear. It is a gesture meant to soothe, but it feels like branding. Like I belong to her now.

"You’ll do well, sweet girl," she says, her voice low and pleased. "The Capitol loves a little poetry."

I don't respond. My stomach turns. I am a song she is already rewriting.

Before I can gather myself enough to speak, the door opens again. And he walks in.

James Potter.

He is the last person I expect to see, and yet he fills the room like he was always meant to. I’ve seen him on television more times than I can count. Loud, fast, brilliant in that way that makes people look twice. The boy who laughs at danger and grins like the world should keep up. His hair is a mess of storms. His eyes, wildfire.

He never looked at me. Not really. Not until now.

He stops in the doorway as if the air has thickened. And then his eyes meet mine, and the bravado slips for just a second. Something flickers there. I don’t know what it is. Recognition, maybe. Maybe guilt. Or maybe he just hates what this place does to people.

His jaw clenches. His shoulders go rigid.

"Shit," he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. "Of all the people..."

I want to ask what that means. I want to ask if he remembers me. If he knows I should have died in the arena five years ago. But the words knot themselves in my throat.

Marlene’s voice slices through the silence. "And here’s our charming young hero."

James lets out a dry laugh. "If I’m a hero, we’re all screwed."

She waves her hand, breezy and unconcerned. "Sit. Sit. We’ve got a thousand things to do, and no time to do them if you two insist on brooding."

He sinks into the chair beside me. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I can feel his attention like pressure against my skin. He doesn’t speak for a moment, just breathes like he’s trying to steady himself.

Then, softly, "What’s your name?"

"You know my name."

He nods, not looking away. "Yeah. I do. But I wanted to hear you say it."

I turn to face him. His eyes aren’t warm. They aren’t kind. But they aren’t fake. And after everything, I don’t know what to do with something that feels that real.

"I’m not going to die in there," I say, barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t smile. But his gaze sharpens like the flint of a promise. "Good. Then don’t."

Marlene claps her hands, too loud and too delighted. "Perfect. Just perfect. Beautiful girl with ghosts in her eyes. Brooding boy with a chip on his shoulder. You two are going to be Capitol darlings."

She means it like a blessing. It feels like a curse.

James leans back in his chair, arms folded tight across his chest. His voice drops.

"I’m nobody’s darling."

And for the first time since the Reaping, I almost laugh. Not because anything is funny, but because I want to remember what it feels like to be alive.

But I don’t laugh.

Because I know what’s coming.

And it will not be kind.

The train glides into the Capitol like a blade through silk. I don’t move from the window. My breath fogs the glass as the city rises—no, erupts—before us. A fever dream stitched together from shards of gold and chrome and cruelty. Every surface gleams like it’s daring you to blink. Towers spiral like broken spines into a burning sky, red and gold bleeding together as if the horizon itself has caught fire.

I should look away. But I don’t.

The platform below is crawling with people who’ve twisted themselves into something inhuman. They glitter and glint and move like dolls wound too tight, their faces painted into expressions that don’t feel real. A woman blinks and glitter falls from her lashes. Another wears needles in her braid. They clap and cheer and whistle—not for us, but for the story they think they’re watching. We’re not people. We’re the performance. The slaughter, neatly gift-wrapped in silk and steel.

The doors hiss open. The air is heavy with perfume—sweet, cloying, with an undertone of something rotting underneath. I step down, the ground tilting under me, and might have fallen if James hadn’t caught me by the elbow. He says nothing, but his grip is steady. His jaw is tight. He feels it too.

The dining car hums with warmth, the kind that clings to the Capitol like perfume, artificial and overindulgent, too much of everything. Across from me sits James Potter, jacket shed, sleeves rolled up like he’s trying to pretend we’re still home. As if fabric and posture could stitch us back into the lives we lost. His eyes flick toward me, then away again. Over and over. Like he’s trying to figure out how I’m still breathing. Like he wants to ask but already knows there’s no answer that won’t ruin us both.

The silence is louder than the train. It pulses under my skin, tugging at my fingertips, making them twitch with memory. It’s the kind of silence that only comes after goodbye. The kind that echoes.

Then the door opens.

And in walks Marlene McKinnon, like she invented the sun and decided to wear it.

She’s wrapped in sapphire silk that spills over her frame like water, laced with golden threads that catch the light and dare it to look away. Her heels strike the floor with the kind of certainty that cannot be taught. Her lips are blood-red. Her eyeliner is so sharp it could draw blood. She wears herself like a weapon, a crown, and a dare all at once. A girl forced into royalty who chose to play queen anyway.

“Ah,” she says, voice soft as a clap, “my lovely little tributes.”

There’s Capitol polish to her tone, but it’s not cruel. Not yet. James doesn’t bother to hide his eye roll. I say nothing. My hands are folded tight in my lap, knuckles aching from the strain. I can’t afford to be soft.

Marlene’s gaze flicks between us, her smile sharp and tired. “I know,” she says, threading her fingers through her curls. “It’s all a bit much, isn’t it? One minute you’re counting bread and chopping wood, and the next…” She flicks her wrist, and the rings on her fingers glint like small stars. “Bam. Welcome to the big leagues.”

James mutters, “You said it. Not us.”

She laughs then, a short, broken sound like a bell cracked down the middle. “Touché, sweetheart.”

She slides into the seat beside us, crossing her legs with elegance that has been rehearsed to the point of muscle memory. She smells like roses and something sharper beneath, like rust or blood or the taste of fear when you’ve bitten your tongue too hard.

“You’ll be meeting your mentor soon,” Marlene says after a beat, voice quieter now, edged with something brittle and unraveling beneath all the Capitol polish.

We both look up.

James glances up. “What’s he like?”

And for the first time, something fractures in her carefully painted expression. Her hand rises to her pinky, twisting a thin gold ring around it like it’s the only thing anchoring her to this moment. Her voice lowers. The words drop like stones.

“He’s not the nurturing type.”

James raises an eyebrow. “So a real ray of sunshine, then.”

“He doesn’t watch the reapings,” she says flatly. “He avoids his tributes. Refuses to learn their names. Doesn’t train them. Doesn’t speak to them. Doesn’t save them.”

The air in the car changes. Like someone’s drawn the curtains and let the storm inside. Like we’re all drowning now, slowly, beautifully.

James straightens. Just slightly. His shoulders tense the way a tree might bend before lightning strikes.

“What does that mean?” he asks.

There is something new in his voice. Not fear. Not yet. But suspicion, cracking through the bravado.

Marlene doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t blink. She just looks at him. Like someone who has watched too many people walk into fires thinking they were invincible.

“It means,” she says, carefully, “you’d better hope the odds are extra in your favor. Hope the sponsors take pity. Hope the audience likes your face.”

She leans back, crossing one leg over the other. Her voice never rises. It doesn’t need to.

“Because some victors mentor for the attention, for the cameras, and the glory. Some for the paycheck, for the Capitol parties, and for the illusion that they matter.”

She pauses to let the silence crackle.

“And some,” she adds, quieter now, “don’t even notice they’ve been assigned. They’re too far gone. Drunk. Sedated. Hollowed out.”

Her eyes move.

And then they find me.

The quiet that follows isn’t stillness. It’s pressure. Something thick and invisible and pressing down on the bones.

“And some,” she says, her voice dropping to a hush, “don’t care if the children they mentor live, or die screaming.”

Everything inside me stills.

Not in fear.

Something worse.

Recognition.

It isn’t a chill. It’s a return. An ache I buried and forgot to mourn. It is letters that stopped arriving. Stars that stopped being carved into soft bark. A voice that used to murmur always beneath the dark canopy of pine, now replaced by silence so total it echoes.

I know what absence tastes like. I know what it means when forever means until the cameras come. Until the Capitol gives you a crown made of blood and demands that you wear it smiling.

Because if it’s him—if it’s really him—then I already know.

I already know what it means to be abandoned.

James shifts beside me, frowning. He hears it too, the truth under her words. But he hasn’t put the pieces together. Not yet.

“Who is it?” he asks.

Marlene smiles, but it is not a smile.

It is a wound shaped like a promise. Something sharp wearing the mask of sweetness. It curves at the edges like she’s amused, like she’s been waiting for the reveal, like this is the part of the story she always loves best.

“You’ll see soon enough,” she says.

And in my chest, something quiet begins to unravel. Then she rises—smooth and unbothered. Fixes the fall of her dress like it matters. Glides to the front of the car in a whisper of silk and perfume and something heavy and unsaid.

The door clicks shut behind her.

And the silence she leaves in her wake is deafening. Not empty, not peaceful—just loud in a way only grief can be. Like something once living has been removed from the room, and the absence aches louder than a scream. It thrums beneath my skin, crawls up my throat. I feel it in the pit of my stomach, a sickness blooming.

James exhales beside me, slow and jagged, like the air is thinner here. Like he’s just now realizing we’re breathing something poisoned.

“You think she’s just trying to scare us?” he asks. His voice is quiet, but there’s tension in it, a sharpness trying to hide behind casual curiosity. He wants to laugh it off. Wants to shrug and say it’s all Capitol theatre. But I hear the edge.

I don’t answer right away, because Marlene’s voice is still ringing in my ears. Cold. Clear. Final.

Some don’t care what happens to the kids.

And I remember.

I remember the boy who stopped writing before I could beg him not to. The letters that once smelled faintly of pine, always folded with care, slowly turning into silence. I remember the boy who carved stars into the bark of our secret tree and swore they were mine. Swore he’d never leave. Swore he’d find a way back. And then he didn’t.

I remember the boy who kissed me like he was memorizing the shape of my soul. The boy who whispered my name like it meant sanctuary. And then disappeared like something forbidden. Like something holy that should never have touched something like me.

I remember the shadows that loved him before I did. The way they clung to him. The way they claimed him. Long before the Capitol ever did. He was always fading, always slipping through my fingers like smoke I tried to hold.

If it’s him.

If it’s Regulus Black.

Then this isn’t just the Hunger Games.

This is something ancient. A reckoning stitched into the stars. A punishment the universe has been holding back, waiting for the perfect moment to let loose. This is my name echoing through time, not as a tribute, but as a ghost he thought he left behind.

This is the wound I never got to stitch. The one I hid beneath music and performance and practiced smiles. This is every unfinished goodbye coming back with claws. Every whispered promise cracking open like a rib.

I close my eyes, and there’s ash on my tongue. The taste of endings. The taste of betrayal. The taste of a boy who used to be my whole world and now might be the one who watches me die.

“No,” I whisper finally, my voice so low it almost doesn’t belong to me. “I think she’s warning us.”

James goes quiet beside me. For once, he doesn’t have a joke. Doesn’t press for more.

And I don’t explain. Because if he knew—if he really knew—he’d understand that this isn’t about sponsors or scores or surviving the arena.

This is about the boy who made me believe the stars were mine, and then left me to burn alone in their light.

When we arrive, the Training Center towers over us like a grave marker. All glass and steel and too much light. It reflects our own faces back at us—fragile, doomed, terrified. Inside, the floors gleam and the air smells like metal and bleach, like they’re trying to erase all the blood spilled here over the years.

A Peacekeeper leads us down a hall, stopping at a silver door at the end. “Your mentor is inside.”

James doesn’t hesitate. He reaches for the handle. But I freeze. Every nerve in my body tightens. Something in me is screaming—something that’s known the shape of this moment for years.

The door creaks open.

The world on the other side isn’t loud. It doesn’t roar or scream. It exhales. A breath held too long, let out too slow. The hallway behind us disappears like a memory as we step into the dim, circular room, and all the noise in my head—the train, the Capitol, Marlene’s voice—all of it falls away.

It’s quiet in here. Not peaceful. The kind of quiet that follows violence, when the blood has already dried and the echo of screaming still lingers in the walls. The floor is scuffed and scored, marked with the ghosts of training sessions that ended in bruises, breaks, or worse. Straw dummies lie in tatters near the far wall, their insides spilling out like something once human. Targets line the perimeter, each one punctured over and over again, scarred with precision.

This is a place designed to kill the softness in children. A place where they’re sculpted into something sharp enough to survive.

James shifts beside me, his footsteps hesitant. Even he, all fire and fury, feels the weight in the air. It's thick with memory. With expectation. With dread.

And at the very center of it all, standing alone beneath the flickering fluorescent lights, is someone.

A figure. Still. Silent. Back turned.

He’s dressed in Capitol black—sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, collar buttoned to the throat. His posture is too careful to be relaxed, too precise to be casual. He stands like someone who has learned not to flinch, not to hope. Like someone who has made a habit of bracing for pain.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn. And still—I know.

Not a guess, not a maybe. It’s the kind of knowing that doesn’t whisper or knock, it doesn’t wait for me to catch up. It crashes into me, fierce and unforgiving, like a memory I spent too long trying to bury. The kind of knowing that lives in your bones, that aches behind your ribs, that haunts the quiet parts of you. It’s the weight of years pressing down at once—years of silence, of unanswered letters, of dreams that ended before they began. It’s every night I stayed awake wondering what I did wrong, what he meant by forever, and why he never came back to prove it.

He’s alone in the space, framed by shadow and fluorescent flickers, posture held with the kind of precision you only learn from fear or war. His arms hang stiff at his sides, not relaxed—braced. Every inch of him is poised like a wire pulled taut, like one wrong breath might snap something buried deep.

There’s a rhythm in him that hasn’t changed, something so deeply etched into my memory I couldn’t forget it if I tried. The way his weight settles on the balls of his feet. The way his shoulders slope like he’s always carrying something unseen. The way he stands like the world might hurt him if he lets it close enough.

It’s him.

Even if the Capitol has tried to scrub the boy I loved out of him—this is still Regulus Black.

He’s taller now. Sharper. Haunted. His hair’s shorter, neat in a way that feels wrong, too clean for someone who once smelled like pinewood and campfire smoke. But the ghost of him is here, stitched into the shape of the man standing before me.

Even after all this time, my body remembers what my mind tried to forget.And now, here he is. Standing just a few feet away, close enough to touch, and yet impossibly distant.

Regulus Black.

I can’t breathe.

Marlene’s heels snap against the floor like a gunshot, pulling me back to the moment. She steps forward, face carefully composed, though there’s something too sharp in her eyes.

“Black,” she says, and her voice is colder now, like even she knows what’s about to happen. “Your tributes are here.”

He doesn’t turn.

Doesn’t even blink.

For a moment, I wonder if he’s even heard her—if this is all just some cruel trick, a Capitol performance, a silent punishment stitched together to humiliate us. But then his voice cuts through the room like a wire pulled too tight, and suddenly, there's no air left in my lungs.

It’s not the voice I remember.

It’s deeper now, carved hollow, stripped of softness like someone reached into him and scooped out all the warmth, leaving only the shell behind. A shell that sounds like Regulus, shaped like him, but missing every piece that once made him human.

“I don’t care who they are.”

The words punch the breath from my lungs.

“I don’t care where they’re from, what they’ve lost, or who they’ll leave behind.”

Each sentence is slower than the last. More deliberate. Like he’s not just speaking—he’s severing. One word at a time.

“I don’t care how you die. Fast, slow, screaming or silent—it doesn’t matter.”

My fingers curl into fists, but I can’t feel them.

“I don’t want to know your names, I won’t remember your faces, don’t waste your breath trying to make me care.”

My body goes still. My mind follows. Because I think—some fragile part of me still thought maybe. Maybe he would look at me and flinch. Maybe he would hesitate. Maybe some small flicker of the boy I loved would crawl out of that Capitol-polished armor and whisper that this wasn’t who he wanted to be.

But there’s nothing. Not a pause. Not a tremble.

Just that voice, steady and ruined.

“Don’t ask me to pretend. I’m not your hero. I’m not your comfort. I’m not here to save anyone.”

And that’s it.

That’s the moment something inside me rips loose.

Not in a burst—not in the kind of way that makes noise—but like thread slipping from a needle. Quiet. Slow. Final. A pain that doesn’t bleed but leaves behind a hollow where something soft used to live.

And now here he is. Saying he doesn’t care if I die. Saying he doesn’t care who I am.Saying  life means nothing.

But I remember. I remember every look, every laugh, every promise he made with shaking hands. I remember the stars. I remember the kiss he never should’ve given me, and the goodbye he never said.

I remember enough for both of us.

So maybe he doesn’t care.

But I do.

God, I do.

And that might be the cruelest thing of all.

I don’t wait. I can’t.

The moment his voice fades — sharp and final, like the slam of a cell door — I leave. I move before I even realize I’m moving, as if my body has already made the decision my mind is too splintered to face. I slip past James, who flinches like he wants to reach out, like his voice is caught in his throat and strangled by something heavier than air. Past Marlene’s warning glance, sharp and gleaming, slicing across the space between us like a blade she’s too practiced with. Past the weight of everything we haven’t said, the things we should have screamed, the silence that hangs between us like a noose.

My legs don’t ask if I’m ready, they don’t care if I come undone in the process. They just carry me forward — steady in pace, but shaking beneath the skin like I’m stitched together with thread drawn too tight, like one wrong step will unravel everything.

I don’t stop. Not when the doors hiss closed behind me. Not when the world becomes blur and breath and noise with no name. Not until I’m alone.

Until the echo of his voice no longer bounces off the marble. Until the scent of him — that Capitol musk of static and smoke and something sweet that’s already rotting — stops clinging to the air like a ghost I can’t shake.

Only then do I collapse. Not dramatically, not like the heroines in Capitol cinema reels. Just enough to fold into the wall, to press my shoulder against something cold and real. Just enough to feel the stone bite through the silk and remind me that I’m still solid, even if everything inside me is slipping like dust through a crack in the floor.

They find me, of course, they always do.

Color and glitter and too-bright teeth, with perfume that clings like poison. They descend like a flock of doves carved from razors, cooing with voices soaked in syrup and steel. I don’t fight them. I don’t speak. I don’t even blink. I just let them touch me, reshape me, peel me open like I was made for their hands, like I was never mine to begin with.

They treat me like glass, but not in the delicate sense. Not fragile — no, not that. They treat me like I’m meant to be broken. Like it’s the point. They scrub me down, dip me in rosewater until my skin reeks of a garden I was never allowed to belong to. They file and bleach and measure. They talk about my waist, my legs, the lines of my collarbones, as if I’m not there, as if I’m nothing but a thing to be altered and offered up.

They dress me in purple — not the kind that blooms in spring, not the kind that lives in twilight skies. No. This purple is bruised and blooming with silence. A shade so deep it almost swallows the light. It hangs off my shoulders like a second skin, threaded with stars. Tiny constellations stitched in silver, glinting like prayers in a sky no one can reach. The fabric clings, soft as smoke, sharp as memory. The neckline grazes my collarbone. The sleeves drift down my arms like spilled ink.

They pin a star into my hair. Just above my left ear. And they call me “The Nightingale.”

I don’t smile. I don’t flinch.

My stylist is Lily Evans, she is nothing like the others.

She’s quiet — not with the silence that comes from fear, but the kind that feels deliberate, chosen, sacred. She moves slowly, carefully, like she’s touching something already half-ruined and doesn’t want to break it further. She doesn’t speak unless she needs to, just nods or hums or murmurs when something fits right. She handles my wrist with the same care someone might give a match in the wind.

There’s grief behind her eyes. Not pity — She would never pity me. But old, folded grief. The kind that’s been pressed flat and carried too long. The kind that no longer begs for release but waits for the right moment to burn.

“You don’t have to be loud to be seen,” She says as she fastens a silver cuff around my wrist. Her hands are warm. “They’ll see you. Even if you never say a word.”

I nod, because my voice doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore.

Then the lights come.

They are cruel and cold and blinding. The stage hums under my feet with some mechanical heart I can’t see. Everything around me is too loud and too quiet, the air thick with expectation and hunger. The crowd pulses, restless. The cameras slither like serpents on mechanical limbs, all of them stretching toward us like they can smell blood already. Every lens is an eye. Every eye is a mouth. Every mouth is waiting to devour.

The host stands at the center, tall and sharp, dressed in black that gleams like oil. His mouth is a blade. His name is Severus Snape — the Capitol’s favorite storm. He speaks in a voice that feels ancient and poisonous, every word perfectly carved. Even when the crowd cheers, he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe.

“Welcome,” he says, smooth as spilled ink. “To a night of introductions. A glimpse into the lives of those who may not survive the week.”

The audience laughs. I don’t.

“And now,” he says, with a curl of his lips that isn’t quite a smile, “let us welcome a familiar face. The youngest Victor in Capitol history. The boy who made blood look poetic. Your mentor from District Seven… Regulus Black!”

The lights shift.

And he walks onto the stage like he was born in shadow.

He wears black, always black — no color, no warmth. His jacket is sharp enough to cut. His boots make no sound. He moves like fog trapped in crystal. The crowd explodes. They adore him. They worship his silence, his cruelty, his carved-out sorrow.

He raises his hand once — the perfect gesture. Just enough. Capitol-trained. Emotionless.

I know the shape of that mask. I watched him build it with bleeding fingers and shaking breath. I watched him craft it over the boy who used to trace the stars on my wrist and whisper stories only we knew. The boy who once called me “Starling” like it meant something holy.

Then Snape speaks again.

“And now, our male tribute from District Seven. Please welcome… James Potter!”

James emerges like he was born for this. He smiles, runs a hand through his curls, and lets his jacket catch the light like it’s part of his heartbeat. The crowd laughs, swept into his orbit. He bows low and wide. A showman’s charm. A warrior’s grace. And for just a second, just one heartbeat, I forget why we’re here.

Then the silence returns.

Snape raises his hand.

“And finally…”

I know before he speaks. My body knows, my heart collapses inward like it’s been waiting for the blow.

“Our female tribute from District Seven… Y/N  Y/L/N!”

It doesn’t sound like a name. It sounds like a sentence. It sounds like steel.

And I see it — everything — all at once.

Regulus stills

Not in the way the Capitol adores, not with the glimmer of stage light on gold and victory, not with the polished pause of someone soaking in their applause. No, this stillness is the kind that doesn’t belong here, the kind born of something breaking. It’s sharp and sudden, humming beneath his skin like a pulled wire about to snap, too tense, too still, too quiet to be mistaken for anything other than what it is—fear

It begins in the smallest ways. A twitch in his jaw, a barely-there shift in the set of his shoulders, a breath caught too high in his chest. His arm, raised in a practiced salute, falters mid-air like it’s forgotten its purpose. The smile on his lips lingers a moment too long, then wilts at the corners, slipping away like melting wax. The crowd doesn’t notice at first, too busy clapping, cheering, basking in the glittering illusion of their perfect boy—but I do. I see it all. I see him

His eyes move—not toward the lights or the endless rows of glittering faces, not toward the cameras that hover like insects—but toward the wings of the stage, toward the shadows, toward where I’m standing, silent and still and shaking just beneath the surface

And then

He sees me.

His gaze doesn’t just land on mine, it sinks. It finds me, like it was always meant to. Like some invisible thread between us has pulled tight for the first time in years and neither of us can look away. For a breath, we exist nowhere else. Not in the Capitol, not on a screen, not in a nightmare painted to look like a dream. Just here. Just him. Just me

And that’s when he begins to fall

His hand drops first—not carefully, not with that Capitol grace they taught him, but like something heavy has torn it from the air. It falls too fast, too sudden, too human. The movement slices through the performance like a blade through silk. The crowd begins to quiet, uncertain now, shifting in their seats as if they can sense something sacred is being unraveled before their eyes

His chest rises like he’s gasping for air in a place where none exists, like his lungs have only just remembered how to move and now it hurts. There’s a tremble to it, barely visible unless you know what to look for. But I do. I always have. His frame leans forward slightly, just enough to make one of the handlers shift uneasily, ready to step in

His mouth opens like a wound. His lips part, shaping a name he doesn’t say—but I know. I know. It’s my name he’s reaching for in the silence. It’s me he’s trying to speak into a place that has no room for the truth. His voice doesn’t come, but it doesn’t have to. His face says everything. His eyes, wide and horrified, already speak in a language only I remember

And then the moment is stolen

The screen glitches—only for a breath, a flicker of static that dances across his face. The Capitol reacts fast, always fast, slicing clean through the feed like it was a mistake that never happened. The image reappears, seamless and polished, his expression replaced with a safer version, something empty, something usable

Music floods the room. Manufactured warmth replaces the cold reality. But it’s too late. Everyone saw

And worse than that—they felt it

The crowd shifts, unsettled now. Conversations still, laughter dries out like ash. No one knows what to do with what just happened. No one wants to name it. They pretend not to notice, pretend the illusion is still intact, but it hangs in the air between them like a bruise

Because they saw the crack

And in a place like this, where everything is built on silence and spectacle, a crack is dangerous. A crack is a promise that something deeper is waiting beneath the surface, something hungry and sharp and true

He shattered in front of them

And they’re too afraid to admit it

Because here, silence is a god

And when someone dares to break it, the world forgets how to breathe

And everyone remembers what it means to bleed

The lights haven’t even cooled, the cheers still echo faintly through the walls like ghosts of a show gone wrong, when Marlene storms in, heels hitting tile like gunshots, sharp and unforgiving. Her dress ripples behind her like a warning. Her face is a painting cracked straight through the middle—flawless on the surface, but fury bleeding through the lines

“What the hell was that?” she demands, voice slicing through the room like broken glass. “You nearly exposed everything—do you have any idea what they’ll do if—”

“Get out.” Regulus says

Quietly, at first

Marlene blinks, lips still parted, caught mid-rant. “Excuse me?”

He turns to face her. Slowly. Deliberately. Like every movement costs him something. The shadows catch in the hollows of his face, in the sharp line of his jaw, in the haunted dark of his eyes

“I said out!” he repeats

No longer quiet

Not polished or practiced. Not the voice the Capitol put in his mouth. This one is older. Deeper. Unforgiving. It sounds like thunder clawing its way through stormclouds. Like something ancient waking up inside him

Marlene straightens, something in her spine pulling taut like she’s trying not to flinch. “No one’s leaving until we—”

“Now.” he says, and this time the word hits like the crack of a whip

There’s something in it. Not just anger. Not just exhaustion. Something final. Something cold. The kind of tone that stops people from breathing, the kind of tone that knows exactly what power sounds like when it stops pretending to be polite

The room stills

One by one, they scatter. The stylists vanish without a sound, like petals pulled from a dying flower. James opens his mouth, a protest already blooming on his tongue, but someone grabs his arm and he’s gone too, dragged out before he can even say my name

And then it’s just us

The silence that follows is too large for the room. It settles over everything, thick as smoke, curling into the cracks, pressing into the spaces where words used to live.

Regulus turns fully this time. Not the mentor. Not the Victor. Just him. Just the boy I knew. His eyes land on me and it’s like he’s seeing something he thought the world had burned away.

His eyes find me, and everything he’s built to survive collapses. The Capitol polish fades. The armor cracks. His face drains of color. His lips part, barely breathing, and for a second, I think he might shatter from the inside out.

His legs buckle beneath him, as if his body can no longer bear the weight of this moment, as if his bones are finally acknowledging what his heart has known all along. He crumples to the floor, not with grace, not with restraint—but with the brutal honesty of someone unraveling. There is no performance in the way he falls. Only broken instinct.

“No,” he breathes, the word cracking as it leaves his mouth. “No, no, no…”

His voice is fragile, but it keeps breaking like a wave refusing to die. He crawls toward me on his hands and knees, not caring about the eyes watching, the silence hanging above us like a blade. His hands hover, shaking mid-air, as though I’m something sacred. Like if he touches me, I’ll vanish into smoke. Like I can’t possibly be real.

“You’re not real,” he whispers, voice disbelieving and raw. “You’re not—” It splinters. “They told me you were safe. They swore they’d never touch you.”

“I’m here,” I breathe, my voice almost too soft to hear, and I can barely stay standing. “I’m really here.”

His hands twitch, aching to close the distance between us, but they falter. He doesn’t touch me. Not yet. Not while he’s still convincing himself I exist.

“I didn’t watch, star.” he confesses, and the words feel torn from him, his eyes wide, burning, begging for forgiveness I haven’t yet offered. “I stopped watching the Reapings. I couldn’t bear it. I thought—if I didn’t look, it wouldn’t happen. I thought I’d saved you.”

“You didn’t know,” I say, but the words are a blade in my throat. They taste like metal. They taste like lies.

“I should’ve known,” he says, his voice crumbling into sobs. “I should’ve felt it the moment they said your name. I gave them everything. My silence. My smile. My soul. I let them carve pieces out of me until I didn’t recognize myself. I thought if I became theirs, if I let them make me a puppet, they’d forget you ever existed.”

“You left,” I whisper. The words fall like ash, soft but final. “You promised you’d come back.”

His hands are trembling again, caught between motion and stillness, suspended inches from my skin. “I left so you wouldn’t have to be part of this,” he says, his voice low and breaking. “I left so you’d never be in a room like this. With cameras and weapons. With strangers deciding if your blood is worth spilling.”

He looks at me as if he’s memorizing everything he forgot. His eyes trace my features like they’re trying to count the years we lost—like he’s scared each blink might erase me again.

“I thought if I played their game—if I smiled when they asked, bled when they demanded, performed like a good little ghost—I could make them forget about you. I thought my silence could shield you.”

“It didn’t,” I say. And it hurts to say it. “You disappeared. And they came for me anyway.”

He doesn’t argue. He can’t. His face caves inward, like something in him has cracked so deeply it can’t be stitched back together.

“I thought you hated me,” I whisper, unable to stop the truth now that it’s out. “I thought you forgot.”

He shakes his head with a desperation that borders on grief. “I never hated you,” he says, the words tumbling out like they’ve been waiting years. “I hated myself. For leaving. For living. I remembered you every single night. I whispered your name into pillows I didn’t deserve. I carved stars into the walls when I couldn’t sleep. I prayed the Capitol would forget you.”

His tears fall silently, cutting down his face like glass. “But they didn’t. And I was too much of a coward to look.”

Then, finally, his hand lands on mine. It’s cold. Unsteady. Reverent. Like he’s afraid I’ll dissolve under his fingers. “Say something,” he whispers. “Please. Tell me you don’t hate me. Tell me I didn’t lose you completely.”

I’m crying too hard to answer. But I reach forward. I guide his trembling hand and press his palm to my chest, over my heartbeat.

“You left,” I say, my voice shaking, “but I never let go. Not really.”

He breaks. Not in the quiet way he did before—but completely. His sobs come without warning, deep and strangled, as if every scream he’s swallowed over five years is finally ripping its way out. His arms wrap around me, desperate and tight, and he pulls me against him like he’s terrified I’ll be stolen all over again.

In his embrace, we are no longer mentor and tribute. No longer Victor and girl destined to die.

We are just two broken people who once made a promise beneath the stars.

“I would’ve burned the Capitol to the ground, little bird.” he breathes into my hair, voice scorched with agony. “If I had known. I would’ve walked back into the arena a thousand times if it meant you could live.”

I close my eyes. Press my forehead gently to his. Feel the way his breath catches when I do.

“It’s too late,” I whisper. “They already chose me. I’m here now.”

His grip tightens. “Then let them do what they want to me,” he says, and his voice has changed again. It’s sharper now, like steel dragged through flame. “But I won’t lose you. Not again.”

But the Capitol does not barter with love.

And somewhere inside, we both know that.

Still, in this moment—just for this moment—we are not surrounded by cameras or death or power.

We are two children, grown into ghosts, clinging to each other in a room built for blood.

Outside, the Games wait with open jaws.

But we let the world pause.

Because we already died once.

Because this is the moment our hearts remember each other again.

Because pain, when shared, is louder than any silence they can force on us.

And because love—bruised, trembling, defiant—is still here.

Breathing. Burning. Bleeding.

Alive, for now.

taglist: @urfunnyvalentin3 @yvessentials

[foolexby]

Peter my baby.

Cause Peter would tell anyone about his problems. He would lock himself in the bathroom, learn how to silence his cries. Hide his scars and go back to the common room to talk.

It isn't until one morning when James notices faded scars that are almost gone .Wondering why did they never noticed

[foolexby]

lily evans in mini skirts and high boots. lily evans with long, curly hair. lily evans wearing muggle bands t shirts, walking around hogsmeade in them just to piss people off.

[foolexby]

𓂃⊹ ִֶָ 𝘔𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 ִֶָ ⊹𓂃

Thanks to everyone who's participated!! Also please let me know if I've missed anyone 🩷

𝘞𝘦𝘦𝘬 𝘖𝘯𝘦 ♡ 𝘔𝘢𝘺 1 - 8

THE LIBRARY by @moons-and-mobility-aids (remus lupin x f!reader)

BROTHERS BSF/ROOMMATE!MATTHEO by @aur0ral1ghts (mattheo riddle x f!reader)

ETHICALLY by @obsessedwithceleste (mattheo riddle x theodore nott)

BEST OF BOTH WORLDS by @riddlesrizzler (mattheo riddle x f!reader)

ANGEL ON THE COURT by @ur-local-wizard (mattheo riddle x reader)

SPEED DATING by @pizzaapeteer (mattheo riddle x f!reader)

BURN WITH ME by @foolexby (james potter x f!reader)

WINNING GAMES (james potter x f!reader) | DINNER AND DESSERT* (mattheo riddle x f!reader) | DEDICATED TO MY LOVE (sirius black x f!reader) | THE OTHER BROTHER (fred weasley x f!reader) ON BREAK TREATS* (theodore nott x f!reader) | COLD CUDDLES (james potter x f!reader) | SWEET TASTES* (enzo berkshire xf!reader) by @etclouie

𝘞𝘦𝘦𝘬 𝘛𝘸𝘰 ♡ 𝘔𝘢𝘺 9 - 16

coming soon.

𝘞𝘦𝘦𝘬 𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 ♡ 𝘔𝘢𝘺 17 - 23

coming soon.

𝘞𝘦𝘦𝘬 𝘍𝘰𝘶𝘳 ♡ 𝘔𝘢𝘺 24 - 31

coming soon.

[foolexby]

Lily Evans said James is annoying and another Gryffindor agreed, she's currently listing all the things James is good at cause she won't stand such disrespect towards her man

[foolexby]

Burn with me.

Notes: Firefighter!James Potter x Nurse!Reader. This is the most self insert I have ever done. Written for the first week of the Festival of AUs by @acourtofchaos. "Subtle" flirting.

WC: 2.7k

CW: Descriptions of injuries, kinda.

Navigation

It was a remarkably calm day in the ER—one of those you quietly thank the universe for. The monitors beeped in a steady rhythm, the hallways were clean and quiet, and the coffee machine hadn’t broken down—yet. No one was screaming. No one was crying. No one was bleeding. In short: a glorious anomaly.

You even allowed yourself to sit for a few minutes, go over medical charts, and joke around with your coworkers. But deep down, you felt it. You knew this was just a dangerous truce. Deep down, everyone in the hospital knew the same: after the calm always comes the storm.

And you were right. Because at exactly 3:42 PM, the automatic doors burst open, and with them, chaos entered. The sound of an ambulance. Then another. And another. The screech of rushing wheels, voices drowned in urgency, and that unmistakable smell of smoke rushed into your nostrils, burning more than just the air.

Three stretchers. Two unconscious adults, a crying child with eyes full of ash and fear. Your hands were already moving before your mind could fully process it—guiding one of the paramedics, calling for supplies, checking vital signs. And still, among the chaos, one constant: him.

A firefighter in a soot-covered uniform came in nearly alongside the stretchers, covered to the eyebrows, but his gaze steady. James Potter. You knew him well—more than you'd like to admit. By now it almost seemed like a habit to see him in the hospital at least once a week, whether for minor injuries, burns, or some other bump from a rescue gone out of control.

“Beds two and three for the adults, room one for the kid!” you shouted within seconds, as the team began moving the patients. “And I don’t want this firefighter here for another endless shift, understood?” you added teasingly, barely glancing his way as you organized the beds.

James looked at you with that slight grin—that confident, ever-present smile, even in critical moments.

“Coming through!” he replied, trying not to make more noise than necessary as he walked toward you, hiding just how exhausted he really was. “Didn’t miss me at all, huh?”

“You’re shameless.” You turned a little, avoiding letting your face light up too much from seeing those dark eyes meeting yours. “You really think I’m used to seeing you walk in here injured every week?”

James let out a soft laugh, though there was a bit of tension in his voice.

“Who else would worry about me if not you?” he added jokingly.

At that moment, one of the paramedics came up to you, cutting the conversation short.

“The arm wound isn’t serious, but...” the paramedic said, pointing out a superficial burn. “It should still be looked at right away.”

You turned to look at James, who had already started taking off his gear with that same absurd calm he always showed. You knew he was used to danger, but there was something about him—something in that constant familiarity between the two of you—that made you feel the danger wasn’t only out there, but in every single moment your paths crossed.

“Sit,” you said firmly, pointing at one of the nearby chairs.

James raised his hands in an exaggerated gesture of surrender, but not without adding, “If you give me a spot on a bed, I promise not to cause you any more trouble.”

“That’s what you said last time, Potter,” you replied as you pulled out supplies to clean the wound. “And the time before that. And the one before that.”

James shrugged. He watched you with a mix of amusement and exhaustion, his dark hair clinging to his forehead from sweat and heat, his eyes still bright despite everything. You gently placed the stethoscope on his chest, just below the collar of his scorched uniform. His skin was still hot—probably from the smoke and exertion—but what worried you more was his heart rate. Too fast.

“Scale from one to ten?” you asked, slipping on your gloves and grabbing the saline to clean the area.

“Pain or how much I wanted to see you?” he replied, tilting his head with a crooked smile.

“Pain, Potter.” You wiped the wound a little harder than necessary, and he let out a small grunt.

“You’re enjoying this,” he murmured, half a smirk curling at the edge of his lips despite the sting.

“Immensely,” you replied without missing a beat, reaching for a new piece of gauze. “It’s the highlight of my shift, really—causing minor suffering to cocky firefighters.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound low and warm, but it tapered into a quiet sigh as he looked at you.

“I might like it here. The views are pretty nice.”

“The fluorescent lights? The blood?” you returned without looking up, but your tone held a hidden smile.

“Not exactly. More like you—with that annoyed expression you give me every time I show up. Makes me feel… special.”

James fell quiet for a few seconds, watching you work. You could feel his gaze, like he was trying to memorize every movement.

“You know,” he finally said in a lower voice, “I think I’ve got a special talent for ending up in your hands.”

You let out a sigh. Not from annoyance—resignation. He always had something to say. Always found the exact moment to disarm you. “Are you putting yourself at risk just to end up here so I’ll patch you up? Because if so, you might want to get that checked out,” you said without looking at him.

James smiled. Sometimes you wondered if he used that smile on everyone, or if it only softened that much when it was meant for you.

“I swear I’m not doing it on purpose. But if every time something happens, I end up seeing you... I won’t complain.”

You stayed quiet for a moment, gently cleaning the burn on his forearm. He clenched his jaw but didn’t complain. He just kept looking at you, as if pain became background noise when you were near.

“Have you eaten anything today?” you asked, mentally checking through his stats.

“Had a coffee at six this morning. That counts, right?”

“Sure, and if you die, we’ll put an espresso pod on your headstone.” You sighed. “You need more than caffeine and a good attitude to survive what you do.”

James adjusted his seat and let out a breath. His brows were smudged with ash, and he had a small cut on his forehead he hadn’t even noticed yet. His eyes wandered the room, as if confirming everyone else was being taken care of.

“The kid?” he asked suddenly, his tone shifting to serious in an instant.

You paused for a second before answering.

“Stable. Breathing’s steady, second-degree burns. They’re stabilizing him.” Your fingers touched his arm gently. “Good job.”

As you finished dressing the burn on his forearm, you noticed a slight tremor in his left hand. He noticed it too.

“How long were you inside the fire this time?” you asked quietly, without sarcasm.

James took a second to answer.

“Seven minutes, give or take. The kid was trapped. I couldn’t leave him.”

You nodded. You knew he was that kind of person—the kind who ran into the fire without thinking of himself.

“James, how many lives do you think you’ve got left? Because it looks like you’re burning through all of them in a month.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes dropped slightly, and for a moment, the smile disappeared. What replaced it was a flicker of sincerity he rarely showed.

“I just make sure it’s worth it every time I run into the flames.”

And then someone called your name from the back of the ER. Another emergency. Another patient. You looked at James one last time before removing your gloves and walking away.

“You’re going straight to observation for one hour. And don’t even think about sneaking out this time.”

“Can I have a personal nurse? I’ve got a favorite, you know.”

You didn’t answer. Just turned on your heel and walked away. But even as you left, you could feel his eyes following you all the way.

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚

The clock read 8:03 PM, and your feet hurt as if you'd spent days walking barefoot on burning concrete. The shift had been long—full of stitches, arguments with exhausted interns, and a patient who wouldn’t stop yelling that she’d rather have her cat as a doctor.

You crossed the hospital lobby with your earbuds halfway in, your hair half up, and your scrubs wrinkled. Outside, it was already dark, stars shining above, and you could feel that crisp autumn breeze.

Leaning against one of the columns by the entrance, hands behind his back and—for once—not wearing that damned uniform that felt like a second skin. This time he wore a simple gray t-shirt, jeans, and a jacket you recognized—probably the one he’d left behind the last time you treated him.

But it wasn’t the outfit that made you stop on tracks.

It was the bouquet of flowers in his hands.

“What… are you doing here?” you asked, crossing your arms and trying to sound indifferent, though you knew perfectly well the warmth rising in your cheeks was giving you away.

James smiled. Not the usual cocky grin. Not the one he used to deflect pain or fear. This one was softer. More real.

“Before you say anything,” he began, “this isn’t a trick to get you to patch me up.”

James looked down at the bouquet and held it out to you, this time without a joke. His eyes were more serious, though they still had that spark that always made him look like he was about to say something impulsive.

“I didn’t get burned. Didn’t fall. I just thought I could see you when you weren’t in the middle of chaos.”

You took the flowers, saying nothing at first. You brought them to your nose, partly to hide the smile pulling at your lips.

“You’re not just here for the flowers,” you finally said—not as a question.

James nodded, lowering his gaze for a moment before meeting yours again.

“I’m here because the other day I realized I don’t like watching you walk away without knowing anything about you. Every time I see you, it’s in the middle of chaos. Blood, smoke, and screams. I want to talk to you when I’m not injured, when I’m not covered in ash, when you’re not exhausted and about to collapse. I want... something outside of all that.”

Your chest tightened a little. You didn’t know if it was from the surprise, the genuine tone in his voice, or because, deep down, you’d wanted exactly that more times than you could count.

“And what is it you want, James?” you asked, no sugarcoating.

He took a step toward you, cautiously, like he was afraid you might vanish.

“I want to take you out for a drink. I want to hear about your life without a stethoscope hanging from your neck. I want you to look at me without having to worry about a burn on my arm. I want to know if what I feel isn’t just the result of too much adrenaline.”

You stayed silent, eyes on the bouquet, his hands, his face. How vulnerable he looked. How real it all suddenly was.

Something inside you gave in. You didn’t know if it was the built-up exhaustion, the way he looked at you like you were the center of something that had finally found peace, or if you were just tired of pretending you didn’t feel the same. But you took a step forward.

Just one.

“You’re shaking,” you murmured, noticing how his fingers were toying with the edge of his shirt.

“I’m nervous,” he admitted without hesitation.

That answer disarmed you a little more. Him—the guy who ran into burning buildings without blinking—nervous to stand in front of you.

Finally, he raised a hand toward you, unsure if he should touch you, but unable to help himself. He stepped a little closer.

“Do you want me to take you home?” he asked, his voice soft, almost shy. Not the usual cocky confidence. Just an invitation. Nothing more.

The bouquet in your hands felt like an unspoken promise. A promise of something simple, something outside the chaos, outside the endless routine of hospitals, fires, and injuries. Just two people, a quiet night, and the possibility of something new.

“Yes,” was all you said, without thinking too hard.

He smiled in relief, almost like he hadn’t been sure of your answer. And in that moment, all that was left between the two of you was a quiet, expectant silence.

As you walked to his car, James kept sneaking glances at you, like he was trying to figure out if you really meant what you said, or if it was just the exhaustion clouding your judgment.

You noticed. The way he pretended to look straight ahead, but his eyes drifted back to you every few steps. Like he couldn’t help it. Like he didn’t want to miss another second of you.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you murmured without looking at him—not annoyed, just with that half-smile he seemed to enjoy too much.

“Like what?” he asked in a low voice.

“Like you’re afraid I’ll disappear.”

“It’s just… I’m not sure this isn’t a dream,” he replied without missing a beat.

The honesty caught you off guard. You didn’t know whether to laugh or stop walking and look at him. But you kept walking. Slower. More aware. The shift’s exhaustion still weighed on your bones, but your chest felt light.

When you got to his car, he ran ahead to open the passenger door for you. It wasn’t some over-the-top gesture—it was natural. Not to impress you. Just because he wanted to take care of you.

The silence in the car wasn’t uncomfortable. It was gentle, filled with small gestures. Like when he turned the music down the second the engine started, or when he glanced over to check if you’d fastened your seatbelt before driving off.

“You know what’s funny?” he asked after a few blocks.

“I doubt we share a sense of humor but go ahead.”

“I’ve thought about this. Seeing you without everything that surrounds you in there.”

You looked at him. And for the first time, you saw him without everything that surrounded him too. Without the smoke, without the tension of emergencies. Just a man who’d been too close to the fire, too many times, and still searched for warmth.

“And now that you have... what’s next?”

James smiled without looking, one hand relaxed on the wheel, the other playing with his keys.

“Now, I take you home. Let you rest. I don’t want to steal a second more of what little time you have for yourself.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you did,” you said softly. You didn’t even know why you said it. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or maybe it was the truth slipping out on its own.

He eased the car to a stop in front of your building. He didn’t rush to speak. He turned off the engine. Turned to you.

“Then I’ll stay. In the car, if you want. In silence. Outside. Inside. Wherever you let me be. But only if you let me.”

And there it was again. That part of him he never showed when everything was on fire. The part that looked at you like you were the one thing he couldn’t afford to lose.

You took a breath. Look down at the flowers in your lap. And smiled, lips closed, eyes more tired than ever—but alive. So alive.

“Are you hungry?”

James raised an eyebrow, holding back a smile.

“Starving. But only if you cook.”

“Perfect. Tonight’s menu is cereal and frozen pizza. You get to choose. Just know I’ll be judging you based on what you pick.”

He got out with a soft laugh and rounded the car to open your door. He held out his hand like this was another rescue. But he wasn’t there to pull you out of the fire, this time he was trying to step into something quieter with you. Something that burned slow, but steady.

[foolexby]

"actually regulus black was a dick and a death eater and deserved to die becau-" actualy shut the fuck up

[foolexby]

Sirius: I'm so hungry, I could eat a rat

Peter:

Peter: *squeaks*

[foolexby]

Nobody ever called Peter pretty, and then the most gorgeous person he'd ever met told him he was prettier than any magic they'd ever seen, and Peter just about died from it.

[foolexby]

hey, since i’m not writing until after may 12th, i thought it would be nice to come back to some requests to write alongside my remus series for some inspiration :)

i’m gonna open my requests up for literally every fandom and character than is on this list ! and i am also open to writing smut (did my first one a couple weeks ago WHAT). if you want to request but don’t really have an idea, i also have a bunch of prompt lists to help :)

please also read my rules on requesting ! i’m replying to all requests straight away with yes or no (basically) so i can add them all to a list for you to keep track of !

[foolexby]

No but Peter and Pen absolutely yes

Hello??? Lucy and Lily like, my girlssss

Regulus and Cristina mean the world to me😭😭😭😭😭

marauders variants

im doing this again because ive become increasingly obsessed w how all of us can easilly have entirely different ideas of these charachters bc of the nature of the marauders fandom. so here's some variants and why i think they're similar!

james potter

ferris bueller (ferris bueller's day off) - cocky, larger than life, popular and beloved by younger kids at the school, thinks he can get away with anything, manages to be charming through all this

peter parker (the amazing spider man) - goofy, willing to fight for what's right, has a sunny vibe despite anything negative going on

anthony bridgerton (bridgerton) - protective of his family, charasmatic, kind of a playboy but also an intense loveryboy at the same time

sirius black

rachel green (friends) - kind of spoiled but wants to grwo, self-absorbed and confident in himself, loyal friend who loves his people

jamie tartt (ted lasso) - egotistical, emotionally stunted, but at the core of all that kind of emotionally stunted and hopeful to learn

daring charming (ever after high) - bit of a shithead, flirts with anything that moves, doesn't realize that he's kind of a dick to his younger sibling

remus lupin

chandler bing (friends) - uses humor as a self-defence, self depricating, charismatic

steve rogers (captain america: the first avenger) - brave and loyal to the point of self-sacrafice, generally really nice but has a wicked temper you'd never guess

stanley uris (it) - considered the smart one of a rowdy friend group, actually just as bad as the rest of them

peter pettigrew

penelope featherington (bridgerton) - unassuming and sweet, but actually has a crazy pen and will rip you to shreds if he wants to

mike hanlon (it) - sweetheart, committed to his ideals, will do anything to keep things good

nate shelley (ted lasso) - feels a bit underappreciated on a whole, wicked quick, strategic mastermind

lily evans

lucy gray baird (the hunger games: a ballad of songbirds and snakes) - sweet and kind to all, but has a firey side if you cross her, can't win her trust back once you've lost it

hazel levesque (heroes of olympus) - lovely, small in stature, absolutely could kill you but choses kindness

amelia pond (doctor who) - adventurous, hardheaded, won't be told what to do

marlene mckinnon

robin buckley (stranger things) - chaotic lesbian, motormouth, band kid

darcy olsson (heartstopper) - overcomensates for her insecurities with humor, refuses to be talked down to or made small

karen karen (daisy jones and the six) - badass rocker, stubborn, won't change herself for anyone

mary macdonald

cher horowitz (clueless) - well-meaning, a little ditzy but she's got the spirit, wants to help people in any way she can

britta perry (community) - stubborn when she believes she's right, knows her worth, sure of herself

elle woods (legally blonde) - kind-hearted, believes in herself completely, even if she's ditzy in a common sense way, she's got crazy knowledge of hyper-specific things

alice fortescue

robin scherbatsky (how i met your mother) - badass, cool as hell, "cool girl", raised by just her dad and knows how to fight

kat stratford (10 things i hate about you) - angry girl, hates all men except her dad and her boy, extremely judgy music snob

eloise bridgerton (bridgerton) - funny as hell, will not tolerate you if she doesn't like you, incredibly nosy about everyones business

dorcas meadowes

nancy wheeler (stranger things) - preppy, has a badass side that comes out when her people are in danger, vary much a "good girl"

rory gilmore (gilmore girls) - academic weapon, big pop culture girlie, needs coffee to survive, accidentally toxic in her relationships

tara lewis (heartstopper) - big ball of anxiety, overachiever, but proud of herself and has a big heart

pandora lestrange

pheobe buffay (friends) - funky, kind of a hippie, seen as weird, has strong moral principles, makes her own jewelery

daisy jones (daisy jones and the six) - unpredicatble, wild, flower power lover, has an indescribable but extremely lovable quality to her that makes her an it girl even tho shes weird

rachel dare (percy jackson and the olympians) - has seer powers, artist, constantly has paint on her clothes

emmeline vance

eponine thenardier (les miserables) - bitchy as a defence mechanism, eldest daughter complex like it's her goddamn job, secretly a lovergirl but she'll never tell

annabeth chase (percy jasonson and the olympians) - competitive, needs to prove herseld, can NOT turn down a challenge, architecture nerd

monica gellar (friends) - absolutely will break down if she doesn't win literally everything, compulsive need to keep things clean, will absolutely beat a bitch up if she's angry, insecure

regulus black

christina yang (grey's anatomy) - fiercely ambitious, will not be swayed, dark and twisty, crazy competitive, knows he's better than all these bitches around him

paris gellar (gilmore girls) - hot headed, loyal friend even if his friendship is hard to earn, has no problem with quick and calculated revenge

michelle jones (mcu spidern-man) - quiet, pessimist but is more of a disappointed optimist that doesn't want to be disappointed again, always spectating those around and keeping stock of everything he sees

evan rosier

jason mendoza (the good place) - sweet, excitable, kind of dumb but extremely lovable

joey tribbiani (friends) - playboy, very comfortable in his sexuality, goofball

peeta mellark (the hunger games) - resourceful, very sweet with a protective streak, kinf of a skill money

barty crouch jr

dennis reynolds (it's always sunny in philadelpha) - categorically a bad person but knows it and doesn't care, kind of a sociopath

jeff winger (community) - liar all the time, well-aticulate and uses it to his advantage, total fuck boy, would fuck any of his friends if they were down

peter maximoff (x-men movies) - kleptomaniac, can't sit still for the life of him, a little bitchy

frank longbottom

chidi anegonye (the good bplace) - anxious, bookish, constantly worried about eveything, doesn't want to hurt anyone ever

grover underwood (percy jackson and the olympians) - friendly, loyal to a fault, environmentally concious king

ben hanscom (it) - has a terminal case of loverboy syndrome, sweetheart, architecture nerd

benjy fenwick

andy dwyer (parks and recreation) - childish, goofball, well-meaning and lovable, kind of an ass sometimes

nick nelson (heartstopper) - protective, sunshiney, that friend that feels like he can't share his problems despite being there for everyone else's problems

jake peralta (brooklyn nine-nine) - always joking, like to the point that he can't take shit seriously, but is also the most supportive friend, investigative as hell, can put things together quick

xenopehlius lovegood

luna lovegood (harry potter) - this is kind of a copout ik but i really feels like luna and xeno are so similar, spacey, kind fo an outsider, oddball, believes weird thigns no one else has heard of

alice (alice in wonderland) - gullible, easy to convince of anything, loves exploring, hard to get to focus

enjolras (les miserables) - fierce believer, gets offended when other people don't believe what he does

aurora sinistra

ayda aueegfort (fantasy high) - autistic as hell, academic for teh sake of academia, desperate to learn

patricia johnson (nerdy prudes must die) - not tactille, has a hard time talking about her emotions

adaine abernant (fantasy high) - will defend her friends until literal death, fuck you

charity burbage

eleven hopper (stranger things) - sweet, well-meaninf, staunchly lawful neutral, will stick to her rules to the end of time but its so hard to figure out what her rules even are

rapunzel (tangled) - natural explorer, constantly wandering, loves nature and art, constantly learning new hobbies

katniss everdeen (the hunger games) - will never change her first assumption unless she absolutely has to, very quick to distrust you if you even kind of slight one of her friends

sybil trelawney

riz gukgak (fantasy high) - insomniac, NEEDS to know what's going on, nosy investiagtor

abed nadir (community) - can slip into different masks really well but generally doesn't because she's pretty comfortable with herself

sherlock holmes (sherlock bbc) - always investigating, terrible with social cues, people HATE her ass for knowing so much about them

[foolexby]

"are you still crying over fictional charat-" SHUT UP YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND THEY BOTH DIED THINKING THEIR BROTHER HATED THEM

[foolexby]

yall think barty and sirius talked to each other in azkaban desperately searching for pieces of regulus in each other?

[foolexby]

the potters

[foolexby]

I swear this is just feeding my delulu

please more streamer james!! maybe he flies her out to meet in person and she’s off camera behind him during one of his streams and he can’t focus :)

Hello, my love! Thank you so much for taking the time to send me a request, I appreciate it! I am OBSESSED with streamer!James <3333 I changed it up a bit to have reader surprise James because I had an idea, hope you enjoy it lovie! :)

streamer!James Potter x fem!superfan!reader who surprises James at a convention ✿ 1.2k words

cw: fem reader, marauders as live-streamers, reader is obsessed with Prongs/James, James is in love with reader, established relationship, suggestive

james potter masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

previous part

Your whole body is shaking. Not from fear or adrenaline. From excitement.

You had just gotten off of your plane, landing in Los Angeles. Your boyfriend didn’t know, but you had bought tickets to his favorite convention to surprise him in person. James, as well as the other Marauders, have their own panel and meet and greet set up there. James doesn’t know that you bought tickets…

But Remus does. Since you and James have become more official, you’ve gotten to know the other Marauders more personally. When you came up with your brilliant idea to surprise James, you knew Remus was the one to go to. He helped arrange your flight, discussed the plan, and even arranged another room for you and James tonight so you don’t have to sleep with the four of them. He’s very sweet, and you understand why he has such a big audience. 

You get your things settled in your hotel room, checking your appearance in the mirror. You feel extra pretty today, and you’re relieved. You’re practically bouncing off the wall with excitement. Honestly, you’re worried you might have to hold yourself back from jumping James’ bones. 

You make your way to the convention hall, in awe of the different panels and booths. There are thousands of people here, some in costumes, some you recognize from their videos or streams. It’s amazing and overwhelming at the same time. 

Your heart stops when you spot it. The Marauders panel stage. You see the line of people waiting for the meet and greet, a small area to the side of the main stage for fans to stand with the Marauders, say hello and get pictures. Remus told you to wait to be last in line, that way you could get a few extra minutes with James. Remus really thought of everything. 

You wait in line, hood pulled up just to make sure James doesn’t see you before you reach the front. You watch the other fans in front of you, some of them girls that seem very excited to meet your boyfriend. You would feel jealous except you know James only has eyes for you, he’s very open with his feelings and affection for you.

The line moves slowly, but you don’t mind. You watch James interact with fans, adoring the way he smiles brightly for every single photo. The four of them really seem to care about their fans and supporters, you admire that. The closer you get to the front of the line, the more nervous you are. Your body trembles lightly with anticipation. 

You finally reach the front of the line, only for James to step away for a drink of water. You shrug at the other boys, who laugh brightly. Sirius even throws an arm around your shoulder. 

“You come all the way here, and he doesn’t even look at you!” Sirius calls out loudly to get James’ attention, but he seems focused on gulping water from his excessively large water bottle. He probably assumes you’re just another eager fan waiting for him, thinking you can wait a moment. 

“I know!” You say back to Sirius in jest, “Ridiculous!” 

It’s your voice that gets his attention. James’ head snaps in your direction, water spilling down his chin and over his shirt. He doesn’t waste another moment even closing his water bottle, tossing it down onto the table and running at you. He throws his arms around you, picking you up and spinning you around. You giggle happily, hugging him back tightly. 

“Oh my God,” James is breathless, and he leans down to kiss you for the first time. It’s perfect, it takes your breath away, and he tightens his arms around you like he can’t believe you’re really wrapped up in them. “Bloody hell, angel.” His words are muffled between kisses and the other Marauders wolf whistle at the two of you. You’re sure other fans notice, that they are taking pictures or recording, but in this moment neither of you care. 

He lets out soft moans into your mouth as he kisses you, his hands feeling anywhere and everywhere they can on your body. When he seems to finally be able to control himself again, placing several pecks on your lips before pulling away, he is completely lovestruck. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks, cupping your cheek with both hands before one slides through your hair. His eyes take in all of you, and your arms are still wrapped around his back tightly. 

“Remus helped me get tickets,” You tell him, and James shoots Remus a thankful grin. “He got us a hotel room too.”

James’ lips part and he looks down at you. He tugs you close, brushing his lips over your cheek before he’s whispering in your ear. “I can’t wait to see what your boobs look like in person.”

You laugh out loud at his words, and James grins but his eyes shine with an obvious hint of desire. His lips are on yours again and you know the two of you are probably already trending.

You stay wrapped up in James’ arms, whispering sweet nothings to each other until he has to go on stage for the Marauders panel. He presses his lips to yours over and over again, not wanting to pull away. He keeps his fingers linked with yours until the very last second and as he steps on stage he calls out to you “sit in the front row!”

You do sit in the front row. 

James watches you with heart eyes full of adoration for the entire panel. The audience laughs when he gets distracted by you while answering a question. A few of the fans ask about you and James spends far too long answering those questions that Sirius or Remus have to cut him off. 

The internet is already shipping the two of you, it’s obvious how in love you are with each other. There are pictures of the two of you kissing and hugging that are trending, and girls are swooning at the way ‘Prongs’ looks at you. 

James hops off the stage the moment the panel comes to an end, gathering you in his arms again. His lips are all over your skin, his hands grasping at you. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, relishing in the physical feel of him actually here in front of you. 

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” James says softly, and you nod. He slides a hand down to take yours, interlacing your fingers. He tugs you toward the door but pauses when Remus calls out for him. 

“Prongs!” James stops, turning back to look at his friend. Remus has a knowing look in his eyes and James grins brightly. “Don’t forget we have another panel in the morning.”

“Okay, Moony!” James calls back with a thumbs up, tugging you closer. He laughs loudly when Sirius calls out this time, his voice behind the two of you as you head toward the exit, hand in hand.

“Don’t stay up too late shagging!”

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl