jj-5656

[jj-5656]

It's my 5 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳

[jj-5656]

you guys ik it’s been forever but i totally forgot abt this fic and love ittttt

Hi love, I saw your requests were open and I was wondering if you’d be open to writing a Tangerine fic where he finds out the reader has a crush on him by the way she reacts to his words/pet names & he decides to tell her he feels the same?😭

A/N: OKOKOK I love what you've done here. I was at work when I read this and it sparked an entire idea. I'm thinking this'll be a blurb, though knowing me it'll be an entire story. (Update; did in fact become an entire story.) I did stray a bit from what you asked and I hope that’s alright. Enjoy!

Warnings: Mentions and descriptions of violence, sexual harassment

Summary: Boxer! Tangerine seems to sense his effect on you, and has become increasingly impatient with the gym's creepy regular. (Character are in their 20s btw)

You're re-racking weights when the unwarranted approach occurs.

Spending the summer months working at your Uncle's boxing gym has been a sort of tradition. You practically grew up here. Relishing in the three months spent at his and your Aunt's brownstone since you were in highschool. As the final year of college approaches, the familiar smell of sweat and sound of victimized punching bags was honestly welcoming.

"Need a little help with those, hun?" You tense at the unsurprisingly patronizing tone, facing the stranger who pretends to have not been caught checking you out with a wry smile.

"I've got it. Thanks." You offer your most forced customer service voice, eyes scanning the room for a female comrade or coworker. Unfortunately, the lot of your customers are mid-set, headphones in.

"Awe c'mon." Despite your frame's obvious tensing, the man reaches across and takes the dumbell from your grasp. "They're making you do all the heavy lifting 'round here?"

"Hardly that strenuous." You can't even try to conceal your disdain, though he laughs as if the irritated furrowing of your brows is in jest.

"Didn't know they had such good looking staff round here. I usually go to Golds, but this just might be my new spot." You try not to audibly cringe at the confession. Any half-wit could have guessed this piece of shit regulared Golds.

"Right. I should get back to it, then." You're halfway through turning away to head across the building to find another task when he takes hold of your forearm. Instantly, you're facing him with a deadly expression. Sparing any and all commonalities as you rip your arm from his grasp.

"Easy there." He chuckles as if you're vehemently overreacting in response to a complete fucking stranger touching you. "Maybe I could grab your number? Get a friendly discount on a new membership?"

"They'd be more than happy to help you with that at the front desk."

"For personal reasons, then?" You take a step back when he leans closer, as if the presumptuous prospect is anything less than appalling. Small gasp escaping your lips when your back makes contact with something solid.

"Oi, sorry for the sneak up." You don't even have to turn around before you recognize the voice. The boxer your Uncle introduced you to last summer. A regular at the gym, with an esteemed reputation for winning. You've talked maybe a handful of times, though you've fawned over him with just about half of your coworkers.

Tangerine's at least head taller than you, taking a step back to give you more space. Giving the man behind you a curt head nod before looking to you again, smiling as if he's known you the better half of his life.

"Hate to bother you, love. Locker won't open again, if you can believe it. Bloody thing's been a right pain for the longest time." You catch on immediately, eyes offering a silent load of gratitude as you nod.

"Right. I've been meaning to change it for you." You face the shorter man adorning a buzz cut and obnoxiously small cut-off tee with a tight-lipped smile. "Duty calls. See you around-"

"Mike." He answers, though you hadn't asked. "You'll see me soon."

"Looking forward to it, mate." Tangerine sounds less than pleased, staring the man down with unbridled disgust before side-stepping and allowing you to pass. The pair of you headed toward the lockers on the far side of the gym.

"Jesus Christ, sorry about that." You run a hand down your face, missing his displeased expression.

"What are you sorry for? Could sense the twat a mile away." You can't help but laugh, eyes meeting his for only a moment before you're turning your attention elsewhere.

"Seriously though. Thank you." The pair of you stopping when you're far enough to be out of the asshole's eye-shot.

"Don't mention it, love. Honestly." He shrugs, head cocking when you tense at something he's said. Though you don't seem uncomfortable. "It's y/n, isn't it?" You nod, feeling like a elementary schooler when your skin heats at his recognition.

"Yes. Yeah. And it's Tangerine, right?" Hopeful to come off inconspicuous. He nods too, ghost of a smile crossing his face again.

"Right. You must be one of the only people I've met where the 'like the fruit' question didn't immediately follow my introduction." This has you laughing again, and Tangerine decides just then he's quite fond of the small triumph.

"But it is..." You can barely conceal the smirk as you tease. "Like the fruit, isn't it?"

He rolls his eyes, surprising even himself with how much he's entertained by the jest in your tone. "Hilarious, darling. I can see why they keep you around." He senses it again, the succinct tightening in your frame at something he's said. Though you collect yourself as soon as it starts. "I'll see you round, then?"

"I'll be here." You cringe at the corny reply, though the brunette seems to be preoccupied in thought to notice.

"Y/n." It grabs your full attention immediately. Spinning on your heel to face him again. "If he bothers you again..." He trails off to gauge your reaction. "Or any bloke, for that matter. You just come get me, yeah? I'm here more often than not, and it'd never be a bother." Too forward, he thinks. Just as assuming as any creepy twat in this place.

Though you're smiling. Soft and genuinely pleased with the gesture.

"I will, thank you."

***

You're acquaintances from then on. Friends, even. Tan insists on walking you to your car the nights you close up. Greets you each morning despite his grumpy exterior.

The small gestures have granted a practical scandal between your coworkers. Teasing after he exits a room and crowding around to scrounge any and all details of your interactions. You brush them off, optimism is too much an ego killer and distraction for you to allow.

You're re-racking weights when the much-wanted approach occurs.

"Have you ever sparred before?" You hadn't been expecting it, muffling a squeal when your startled form warrants the weight pinching the skin of your forefinger. You grasp it instantly, offering a sweet smile despite the oncoming pain.

"Alright?" He reaches toward you, halting instantly when you shrink.

"Fine. Totally fine." Despite having totally embarrassed yourself.

"I'm sure that hurt, darling." He feigns amusement, despite concern overcoming him. Jesse passes, a particularly obvious shit-eating grin across her face as she mouths 'darling' in your peripheral. Your skin flushes tenfold.

He insists, taking gentle hold of your wrist and inspecting the injury in a horrifying display of softness. It must surprise even him, as he lets go as soon as he's sure no skin has been broken.

"You were saying something." It's a feeble attempt to redirect this humiliating encounter.

"Yes, right." He straightens, gathering his usual brooding demeanor. "Have you ever sparred before?"

You scoff at the prospect, not unkind. "My Uncle's ensured I'm familiar with the basics, sort of unavoidable all these years. Though I haven't really done any more than that."

"We could." He fumbles, suddenly unsure. "I mean, I could show you a few things. If you like." You cock your head, ghost of a smile passing your lips as your brows raise.

"A gym full of professional fighters and you’d prefer me?”

"Coach says if I do a bit of instructing, it might help me hone in on the basics. That my form gets sloppy when i get too..." He searches for the right wording in place of 'frenzied and enraged' as coach had put it. "Enthusiastic."

You laugh, finishing up your task whilst weighing your options. Unable to stop yourself from speaking your mind.

"Why me, though? I mean, there's plenty of other people here with actual experience." Luckily, he doesn't take the brutal honesty as impolite. Knowing you well enough by now to read your tone.

"Truth is, he says I'm insufferably impatient. You're not...I don't-" A deep sigh escapes him. "I find myself considerably less so with you around." He's unsure where he's typically confident. Fumbling over words like a fucking schoolboy. It's infuriating. "And besides, this might provide both of us peace of mind." Unknowingly, his gaze flickers to the one time asshole turned regular. Obnoxious grunts escaping him as he completes a set. (Half of Tan's usual weight, though whose counting.)

"Let me clock out, then. And please, spare me a black eye over my lunch break."

***

"Your stance is off again. Feet shoulders width apart, remember?"

"Hardly. I thought you said it was a right left left right combo?"

"Left right right, dodge, left." His brows furrow when you throw an ill-executed punch into his chest. Barely phased. "And put some strength behind it, will you?"

"Figured you'd want me to go easy on you-" A small umph escaping your lips when you're suddenly on your ass. Dizzied with the speed of his gentle sweep of your legs.

Tan crouches down, much too cocky for your liking. "You were saying?"

"Fuck off." Your scrambling up again, evading his bright eyes and other disgustingly handsome features.

"Attagirl, just the attitude I'm looking for." You stutter in place, swallowing hard. Skin singing with heat at the platitude. He nudges your shoulder with his glove, even more self-satisfied as he takes in you in. "Something I said?"

"Have you been reminded of your brooding arrogance lately?"

"Not until now, no." He clutches his chest, wounded. You take the opportunity to aim a much harder punch to his shoulder. He's quick to block, knocking your arm with his own and landing an intentionally weak hit to your waist. "Oi, that was a good one! There was strength that time."

"Don't patronize me, asshole." You hold a hand up to signal a pause. Ridding yourself of the oversized gloves to redo your updo. Considering all the activity, unruly strands and other flyaways have begun sticking to your skin. Tan opens his mouth for another witty remark when his bright gaze turns colder. All amusement escaping him as a wolf whistle pierces through the sound of weights racking.

Of course, the tosser from before ogles as you complete the final twists at your hair tie. Hands on his hips as he looks up at the pair of you in the ring.

"Would have asked to go a few rounds with you ages ago, sweetheart. Had I known you were interested."

You feel bold. Partly because you're so fed up with this prick, partly because of the fuming man behind you. "Would you please take a hint and fuck off, Mark?"

"It's Mike."

"Riveting. Get lost." The amused man whistles again, looking around for support from the other gym rats. Who collectively take one look at the boxer behind you, and quietly go back to their workouts.

"Like to take 5, love?" Tan tears at the velcro around his wrists, swiftly discarding his gloves.

"No. Im good, let's keep going." He only shakes his head, holding up a 5 in your direction before he reaches toward his bag. Beginning to tape his knuckles. "Oi, dickhead." Of course, Mike turns his head in the fighter's direction. "Care to go a couple rounds?"

"Listen man, just letting the chick know I'm appreciating what I see." Tan clicks his tongue, freshly wrapped fists clenching tight at his sides.

"See, where I come from, that type of talk about women gets your ass beat, man." There's an evident mockery of his American accent at the nickname. The dig draws the attention of some of the other fighters, ceasing their training to watch the scene unfold.

"Alright," Mike beams brightly at the prospect of a challenge. "Let's see what you got, pretty boy."

"This is ridiculous." You cross your arms over your chest, unappreciative of the testosterone battle.

"Nonsense, sweetheart. How about we make this a little more interesting? Say...Winner takes you on a date? Been dying to get to know you more." He bites his lip as his eyes rake over your body, making a show of his obscene behavior.

An ear-piercing smacking sounds throughout the building. The fabric of Tan's gloves colliding together. Oddly enough, he's gone silent. Practically seething. Without speaking, he closes the space between you. Striking blue eyes boring into yours. A silent plea for permission. Your gaze averts to the other gym-attendees, awaiting what's to come next eagerly. Some amused with Mike's advances, others paying close attention to the enraged man in front of you.

"Knock his fucking teeth out." It's for only Tan to hear, exiting the ring as soon as he lifts the rope for you.

"Game on, then." Mike rolls his his head side to side, calling over one of his buddies to play cornermen. "Sweetheart," he addresses with another sickening smirk. "You wear something pretty tonight, yeah? Show off those legs."

"Shut your fucking mouth and get in the ring, fuckin' tosser." At that, anyone who hadn't been paying attention is fully invested now. surrounding the platform and talking amongst one another. A few even exchanging bets.

Your fight-hungry coworker, Santos, is more than happy to referee. Eagerly instructing the two men to touch gloves and begin.

Mike's fast, undoubtedly. He dodges initial advances from Tan with a self-satisfied chuckle. Dancing around the ring to taunt his opponent. Tangerine's eyes never leave him, muscles taught with adrenaline and anger.

He reminds himself to be focused. Utilize his techniques but dependent on his instincts. Where Mike makes up in speed, he lacks in fundamental skill. His form is sloppy with narcissism and inconsistency.

Realistically, Tangerine could knock him the fuck out right now. But would that be nearly as fun?

Instead, he taunts the misogynistic prick. Beckoning advances, dodging, and landing sharp hits to his midsection. Sure enough to leave a multitude of bruises for weeks to come. Any amateur can notice the shift in the spar instantly. It's turned from a 50/50 to an imminent defeat. Mike's losing wind, taking punches like it's his day job and growing more frustrated each time.

Tan's having a blast, mouthpiece revealed with his unconcealable grin. This is feeding his ego more than he'd like to admit. It's why he can only laugh when Mike does what any exhausted fighter facing loss would do. Grapples onto his opponent and holds til Santos calls break.

"You gonna let him out of his misery now, or should I grab a stool?" Tan's got the same devilish grin as before. Reveling at the sight of Mike's spit, full of crimson blood.

"Now where's the fun in that, Dove? I've only just started." He accepts the water you offer swiftly, eager to get back to it. He's almost frenzied with adrenaline, sweat trickling down his toned skin in steady streams. Veins prominent with the activity. The brunette dips his head down to meet your wandering gaze, eyes twinkling with playful arrogance. "Have I lost you, love? Isn't the cornermen supposed to be keeping me with it?" You hope you don't look as flushed as you feel, though his grin suggests otherwise.

"You seem to be doing just fine without me." You press at a reopened cut in his brow, frowning when the pressure does little to cease the flow of blood.

"That's where you're wrong, love." He rolls his shoulders, tossing a curt nod to Santos at his five second warning. "Much easier winning when you have something to fight for." He's silenced when you force the guard back into his mouth. Brows narrowed in playful disdain despite the wink he sends your way, turning round and facing the center of the ring once more.

They tap gloves for the second time and Santos counts them in.

Mike's on the floor before anyone has a chance to register it.

There's only a beat of silence before the gym erupts in cheers. Astonished at the immediate knockout. Tan ignores it, smug attitude escaping him as soon as Mike comes to. He rips his glove from his hand so he can grab the man's jaw, yanking his gaze away from your direction. Santos is unable to pull him off as Tangerine pushes his face less than an inch from his dazed opponent, eyes full of a fierce sincerity as he mutters something unintelligible to Mike.

With a bare-fisted punch to the mat just beside the pricks' face, Tan is backing off and headed toward you. Casually leaning against the ropes as a couple more bystanders flood in to carry Mike out of the ring.

"Threaten his bloodline, Rocky?"

"Something like that. Let's just say he probably won't be training here for the foreseeable future."

Tagging ppl who seemed to like my last one: @ilovetangerinewithallmyheart @ilovelotsoffandoms @wee-little-mouse @blueallover @dontknownameauthor @stevesharrlngtons @

[jj-5656]

Not so fun fact, actually, really disturbing and horrific fact: The list of names was so long, they couldn't even unravel it all the way.

Let that sink in.

[jj-5656]

I’ve Got My Love To Keep Me Warm With; Anthony Lockwood

A/N: HEYYYYY. Well if it isn't another six-month hiatus...I fear I've done this too many times to keep apologizing. There are some long-overdue requests in my inbox, and for that I truly am sorry. With college, work, family, I'm not sure how you guys keep up with finding the time or motivation to write. Nonetheless, I just recently re-watched this amazing show, and I'm yet again horrified Netflix canceled it. I put a holiday spin on this and I hope you all like it!

CW: Characters are aged up. I wouldn't be comfortable w/ this if they were played by minors but that's not the case. Let's also pretend ppl don't typically lose their gift til their mid-20s

You're getting ready on the floor of 35 Portland Row's master bedroom. Makeup is littered all around you as you add the finishing touches. The smell of cookies flows from the kitchen all throughout your home, ones you'll decorate later upon Lucy's request. Christmas music sounds from the record player in the living room, crackling every now and again with its age.

Lockwood's leant up against the door frame, moving silently to the worn armchair across you. You can feel his eyes on you, quietly admiring, yet still brooding from a recent look at the newspaper. Kipps and his team were beaming brightly across the front page, having just solved yet another notary case on behalf of Fittes.

"I've told you not to read the papers on our day off, haven't I?" He's pulled out of his trance then, adjusting his slouched shoulders as though he's been caught.

"A bunch of posh showoffs, think their ridiculous uniforms and bureaucratic nonsense makes them superior. I swear-"

"Anthony."

"Yes, darling?" It's through clenched teeth, blinking hard to regain his composure. You brush on your mascara, still chastising when you face the mirror once more.

"It's our day off, isn't it?"

"Because we have yet to find another case-" He stops himself under your look of warning through the glass, fiddling with his rings and straightening. "I suppose it is our day off, yes."

"We don't have much of those, do we?" You approach him, then. Voice soft and sweet, unknowingly easing his tense stature with each syllable. He only hums, forehead pressing into your stomach as you run gentle fingers through his hair, careful not to disrupt the intricately combed strands. "We need this. You need this. So let's make it a good one, yeah?"

"Tell that to George. Why must we do the holiday card today?"

"We're all available, Scrooge. And if I'm not mistaken, this was your idea. Something along the lines of 'it's good for business, people are seeking a company with a personable image, clients need people to relate to-" You only stop your mimicking when he pinches at your side. The overly-posh, deep reenactment enough to bring a reluctant smirk to Anthony's lips.

"I do not sound like that." He tugs at your hips so you'll sit on the arm of the chair he's rested in, keeping an arm wrapped over your stomach and knees to settle you against him.

"Bunch of bureaucratic-" Your own yelp ceases your teasing, the arm that's snaked around you tugging hard enough to have you fall into his lap and victim to his incessant poking at your stomach and sides. Your squirming is no use, both of your laughter echoing throughout the room as you hopelessly swat at his hands.

He stops his torture eventually, avoiding an oncoming lecture on how he's ruined your neatly done hair with his tickling. You're breathless under him, stretching out over him to glance at the other mirror just above the dresser. Even with the reflection upside down, you're able to tell you'll have to redo multiple curls. He's grabbing at you before you can scold him, hand under your head to pull your faces just inches apart.

"Stop it. You look lovely." He's pulling out the charm, of course. Voice low and hoarse, the tone that he knows damn well well sets your skin on fire. He's smug then, knowing smirk playing over his dark features as his eyes dart to your lips and then to yours.

"Looked lovely." You correct, breathless all over again. His eyes narrow, incredulous.

"Can I prove it to you?" He moves only slightly closer, swallowing thickly as his thumb traces your bottom lip. You almost let him, nearly succumbing to his enchantments. Only when his lips are nearly on yours do you turn your head, keen on revenge for his sabotage.

"You've already toyed with my hair, I'll send George spiraling if I had to redo my makeup."

Lockwood, genuine betrayal littered across his face, can't even plead his case before your roommate takes his cue.

"Oi!" His shout rings from downstairs, tinged with impatience and growing irritation. "You two better be fully clothed and picture-perfect in five minutes. The camera's ready!"

Anthony can only bury his face in your neck, sore attitude overcoming him all over again.

****

"Wait!" Lucy exclaims just as the flash of the camera ensues, voice strained with exasperation. "I wasn't ready!" There's a collective groan from the lot of you, George shuffling past the redhead to reset the camera. You take the time to fix Lockwood's collar, dodging his swatting, grumpy hands.

"I assume ghost touch is a more amenable torture than this," he mutters pointedly.

"You wanted the bloody holiday card, Lockwood. And I'm the only one with enough creative vision to make the lot of you look remotely presentable." There's a collective sneer toward him, though he doesn't notice with all his tinkering with the outdated lense. Of course, George had insisted using film would make the photos hold a 'certain sense of novelty' that couldn't possibly be reproduced with less difficult equipment. "Take five, this might take a while." He waves you all off, adjusting his glasses and muttering a string of unintelligible curses as he works.

Lucy turns to you then, biting back a smile as Lockwood flushes under your doting hands, trying desperately to maintain his grouchy disposition. "Where's your chapstick, the strawberry one-"

"You always steal?" You cease grooming your boyfriend, to his relief, in order to tease her. Smiling when she only sticks out her tongue in mock disdain, already headed for the stairs and presumably your bedroom. "Right side of the bureau, just above Anthony's sock drawer." Your tone grows into a shout to accommodate her distance, grabbing onto Lockwood's wrist so he can't escape away to the study.

"Love you lots!" She calls from upstairs, most definitely making more of a mess of the bedroom in her search.

"Would you unhand me, dove? Pretty sure you're cutting circulation." He's got your attention again, face pulled with irritation. The bags under his eyes look particularly apparent this close, a dull ache in your heart at the sight. It's apparent the attitude is only due to all the stress he puts himself under. The pet name a clear sign the animosity is by no means directed at you. You smirk despite him, digging into your back pocket and ignoring his then curious expression.

Only when you get closer does he catch on. Socked feet clumsily stepping on his boot-covered ones to attempt to gain height, your arm reaches up above both your heads. Letting his eyes follow yours, Anthony can't help but let a dazzling smile spread across his features. Stubborn nature no match against the warmth and adoration overcoming him at the slightly crumpled branch above him.

"Is that-"

"Yep." You mutter, straining under the effort to reach above his head. His gaze is on your face then, arm snaking around the smalll of your back to keep you steady. "You're supposed to-"

"Oh, I know. But I'm having so much fun watching this." A small pout puckers your lip at his teasing, tone filled with the familiar mirth and smugness you hadn't known you missed so much with his solemn mood.

"Forget it then, Grinch." Your reaching arm falls to your side, attempting to push at his chest to force distance between you.

The camera flashes just as Anthony pulls you in for a kiss. Soft and sweet, each of you eventually smiling into it.

"I'm not developing that one." George frowns, adjusting the lens before shooting a pointed look to Lockwood, who loosens his hold only slightly on you. "You've got shade 205 right here, mate." The curly-haired boy draws an imaginary circle around the entirety of his mouth. Anthony scrubs his sleeve across his face at George's comments. Flushing as you laugh into his chest.

Taglist: @sunshineangel-reads

[jj-5656]

Setting up my sleeping bag on the fucking freeway this is so mf cute💕

My Everyday

Pairing: College Athlete!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes was aggressive, annoying, and—worst of all—a hockey player. Not your type. At all. But, unfortunately, your roommate. 

Word count: 5.5k

Warnings: Minor injury, idiots in love <3, some angst, pining

a/n: My first fic in a century!! Thank you so much for reading if you’re still here. Depending on how this does I hope I’ll have motivation to write more! College athlete Bucky never fails to get me inspired :)

Masterlist

~~

“What’s this punks name again?” 

The breath you let out was long and excruciating. “I am not repeating myself.” 

“C’mon, y/n,” Bucky whined, knocking his head back on the couch. He watched you bustle around the kitchen from his inverted vantage point. “How the hell am I supposed to swoop in and save the day if I don’t even know the kid’s name?” 

“Okay, well, first of all—” the fridge door clicked shut with a swift motion of your hips “—he’s not a ‘kid’. I’m pretty sure he’s a few months older than you.” 

“Semantics.” 

“And second of all,” you stressed, pointing a butter knife in his direction. “There will be no ‘swooping in’. I’m going to have a nice date and you are going to go hang out with your puck rabbits or whatever they're called. There will be no thinking about me and no swooping in my vicinity.” 

Bucky rolled his eyes, kicking up from the couch and rounding the kitchen counter to pick at your sandwich. You knocked his hand away several times, but you both knew it was futile. In the months you’d been living with the hockey player—who was far too big for the small, shoebox of an apartment you leased—you’d learned that food was non-negotiable for Bucky Barnes. 

There were many other things you’d learned about him as well. He sang in the shower, but only when he thought you weren’t home. He had an annoying penchant for using your $30 lotion—again, when he thought you weren’t home. And he loved to throw his massive, smelly gear just about anywhere it would land right when he got home from every practice. 

He didn’t really care if you were home for that last one. 

Bucky was the last person you thought you would be rooming with when you posted that ad last summer. A small, quaint room previously occupied by your now engaged (and traitorous) best friend, you assumed someone like-minded to yourself would have taken you up on your offer. The price point wasn’t egregious and the building was relatively close to campus. 

But weeks ticked by, and you started getting desperate. Your landlord wasn’t a nice lady, something you were positive she took pride in, and she decided that a rent increase was the perfect way to ring in the new school year. You were on the verge of destitution, and as it so happened, the only other person as desperate as you was the starting center for your college’s hockey team. 

You hardly got along. It had taken weeks for your eye to stop twitching every time he tumbled through the front door at three in the morning, and even longer for you not to feel an infuriating aggravation at his random, nighttime smoothies. You supposed he probably felt the same about your cleanliness rules and your incessant reminders about trash days. Because Bucky was in charge of bringing the trash down those long, apartment steps. Not you. 

But you’d be lying if you said things hadn’t gotten easier as of late. Conversation flowed more smoothly, things that made you seethe before were only mildly annoying, and Bucky was being… considerate? You weren’t quite sure what to call the random cups of coffee he brought home on occasion. Or his sudden urge to warm up your car when he had a morning class before yours. 

There was also the case of that party last weekend. A frat party with far too many drunk men and not enough common sense, you had had the urge to leave the second you got there. But Wanda had dragged you along for the sole purpose of driving her home after she got hammered, so you were essentially stuck. 

It was fine at first. Hot and crowded and loud, but fine. You kept a general eye on Wanda and scrolled aimlessly on your phone in the armchair you claimed. And then it wasn’t fine, because a man twice your size was encroaching on your space and unrelenting. 

“What kinda girl comes to a party and doesn’t even wanna talk to anyone?” 

“You want to come up to my room and watch a movie or something?” 

“Hey, I’m talking to you, bitch.” 

You weren’t even aware that Bucky had been at that party. It wasn’t surprising—the line between fraternities and sports was blurred at your college—but the space he took up as he intercepted the man in front of you was.

~~

“There a problem here?” Bucky posed, crossing his arms over his chest, his presence looming above your seated position. His weight shifted to his toes.

The man didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, you. Move.” 

“Wanna fucking tell me what to do again?” 

“Fuck you, man.” 

A harsh shove to Bucky’s chest was all it took for a right hook to echo in the living room of the frat house. There was chaos. Grunts and screams from the drunk people surrounding the unnecessary fight created a cacophony of unpleasant sounds that seemed to get the attention of someone in charge. The man—Brian, you had now learned based on screams—was pulled back from Bucky and getting chewed out by some president or manager of something. 

And Bucky was seething, chest rising and falling laboriously as he wiped at the new bruise forming on his face.

Fights were not uncommon. But this one had been about you. For you.

“Bucky?” you asked when the crowd calmed and Brian was no longer in the room. 

You watched his back release its tight coil. He turned. “Are you okay?” 

The words were almost lost in the noise of the crowd, but he was close enough that they created a tactile vibration across your skin. His pupils were dilated and he looked so disheveled it would have been charming if there wasn’t also a cut forming on his brow. 

“Y/n.” 

It took you a moment to realize that you hadn’t answered him. Your response fell out of you as if you’d been shoved. “I’m—I’m fine.” 

He grunted, but it was more of a puff of air. “The fuck was that guy?” 

“I don’t know,” you replied, realizing by the way you swayed that you had stood up at some point. “He just—” 

“We’re going home.” 

“What? I can’t, I’m here with Wanda. I’m driving her, Bucky, I can’t just leave.” 

He grabbed your wrist, the grip achingly soft compared to the blows he was landing minutes before. “She left with that British guy she’s been on and off with. Asked me to tell you.” 

That explained his random appearance. Your brows pinched as you took in the information, eyes cast down to the angry red marks marring Bucky’s knuckles. He’d been in fights before. So many fights. On the ice. 

This was different. 

“I haven’t been drinking—I can drive myself home. You don’t have to leave,” you shouted over the music now bumping in the room. 

He didn’t respond, not verbally. He pulled you to his front instead, leading you through the impossible crowd until cool night air began melting into your skin. His silence was strange. Bucky’s favorite activity was talking your ear off until you told him to shut up, but right now… nothing. Even his earlier words had been clipped. 

You felt responsible for easing the tension in the air as Bucky continued to guide you to your car. You hadn’t told him where you parked, but he seemed to know the exact location anyways.

“You really don’t have to leave with me,” you mumbled. “It wasn’t a big deal or anything.” 

“It was a big deal.” 

~~

The drive home had been silent. The walk to the door had been as well. Bucky spent a few minutes appraising you in the overhead light of the living room when you got inside, but after that there was nothing. He went to his room and you went to yours. 

There was no discussion about it the morning after, either. Bucky apparently wanted to pretend nothing ever happened, so you respected that. Even now, you ignored the fading cuts on his hands as he shoveled food into his mouth.

Bucky’s next words were muffled by a mouthful of bread. “Well where’s this dude taking you at least?”

“Ice skating.”

The cough and sudden exasperation was very expected out of the man next to you, Bucky’s next words hardly containing syllables. “Huh?” 

“We’re going ice skating,” you reiterated. You picked up your lunch and headed for the living room, ignoring the slightly heaviness in your chest. “It’s winter and ice skating is festive. The rink on campus has decorations.” 

“Without me? Y/n, you’re gonna let some guy who probably doesn’t even know how to skate—” 

“Bucky—” you attempted to interrupt. 

“—drag you around the rink like a rag doll?” he continued, holding his hand up to mute your incoming speech. “I’ve asked you to come by the rink, like, a ton of times. You’ve never shown any interest.” 

You rolled your eyes and shot him a cross look as he picked your feet up from where they rested on the couch and dropped them into his lap. He went on with his rant for a little while longer, knocking his head back against cushions and accusing you of being a bad roommate. You had a few rebuttals of your own, but there was a reason you had never accompanied him to the rink. 

A good reason. 

You didn’t date athletes. 

It was true that simply going to visit Bucky at a practice, or letting him be the one to drag you around the ice like a rag doll, wouldn’t mean you were in a relationship by any means. But it would be an extra step. And if you were being honest with yourself, it would only take a few of those extra steps for the irritation you felt towards Bucky to melt into something else. 

And you didn’t date athletes. 

You did not. 

You didn’t have the time, nor the patience, to put up with the cheating, the anger issues, or the crazy schedules. And there wasn’t a single athlete you’d met at your sport-centered university that was willing to compromise on any of those subjects. Especially the cheating. You’d learned that the hard way after dating a lacrosse player for approximately one month before receiving the dreaded DM from a girl you had never met. 

The man hadn’t even given you the courtesy of pretending he didn’t know what she was talking about. He just admitted to his wrong-doing and shrugged. Shrugged. 

So athletes were not exactly in your good graces when it came to dating. 

“Are you even listening to me?” Bucky cut through your thoughts, patting your shin in impatience. 

You blinked and reoriented yourself, focusing on the hairs that fanned across Bucky’s face. “Of course I am,” you lied. “But my answer is still the same. I’m going on my date and you are not going on my date.” 

He groaned, apparently giving up as he cradled your legs closer to him to lean over and grab the remote from the coffee table. He flipped the channel to ESPN—typical—and you ate your sandwich, silently cursing him. He had a TV in his room. 

“When is it?” he suddenly asked, breaking the silence that had knitted itself into a comfortable blanket over the room. 

“Tonight,” you answered plainly. 

The arms atop your legs tensed. 

~~

The dichotomy of the man sitting beside you was impressive. On one hand, he was so full of himself that he had missed almost all of your conversation starters due to being so transfixed by his reflection in the rink’s glass. He had yet to ask you a single question about yourself and had insisted that the four other girls skating tonight were in love with him. 

On the other hand, he was, quite possibly, the most uninteresting person you had ever met. You were usually very quick to laugh, but every word out of his mouth was almost painful. He wouldn’t stop talking about his ex-girlfriend, gave you one word answers about anything other than baseball, and was honestly really terribly at ice skating. You were no pro either, but you found yourself on your back every time he tried holding your hand.

The tumble five minutes ago had you seeking out the penalty box on the side of the rink. You needed a break, you had told him, hoping he would continue on making a fool of himself and give you a moment alone. But he followed you instead, and was now sitting beside you, talking about baseball.

You supposed that was better than making you fall while talking about baseball.

“I bet we could do that,” he remarked, pointing out onto the ice and catching your attention. A couple who clearly had more experience than you was twirling each other around. “We definitely could. I pick up good speed.” You cringed. “I really don’t think we should try, Sean. My tailbone is already pretty bruised.” 

“Oh, c’mon! I won’t try the throwing part, just the twisty stuff.” 

“We are literally on rental skates. You will kill me,” you deadpanned. You were tired at this point and seriously questioning why you thought ice skating was a good first date idea. 

Well, there actually was an answer for that. But you were not going to think about the hockey player that popped into your head when Sean asked you on a date in the dining hall last week. 

Definitely not. 

“I’m not going to let my date think I’m boring,” Sean groaned, yanking you up from your seat. 

You gave a few tugs and words of resistance but they were ultimately useless. You figured it would be just as useless to tell the guy you already thought he was boring. He probably wouldn’t even hear you. 

On unsteady skates, Sean guided you to a mostly cleared corner of the rink and gripped your forearms. He squinted as he surveyed the area, the corner of his mouth turning up in a way that made your stomach roll. This entire date had been a bad idea.

“Maybe we should just watch them do it,” you tried, words wavering. 

“No!” he grinned. “No, we got this. It’s gonna look so cool.” 

And then you were spinning. You’d never been spun against your will before, but it sucked. Your skates kept getting stuck in the divots in the ice and the grip on your forearms was close to bruising. You were starting to get dizzy and Sean showed no signs of caring. God, he really was dragging you around the rink like a rag doll. Bucky was going to get a kick out of this.

“Okay, ready?” Sean called, an unwarranted jubilation in his tone. 

“What?” you yelled. 

He didn’t answer you. Instead, he let go, and you went flying in another direction without a clear path. It only lasted a moment, but the sound of your head smacking onto the ice signified the end of that movement. You landed on your arm next, and then your back. Again. 

This time felt different though. Your head was spinning and there were muted pinpricks trailing up to your wrist. The ache there was dulled compared to the biting iciness in your back, but as soon as you tried leaning on it to get up, it became sharp.

“Oh shit!” came Sean’s laughter-filled gasp. “My bad. I really didn’t mean to let go.” 

You blinked a few times to clear the blurriness from your vision but it proved unhelpful. “I think… I think my arm’s broken.” 

“Wait, seriously?” he asked, wobbling down to a seat beside you. 

“Yeah, it’s—”

“Everything okay over here?” a voice interrupted. You tried blinking again to take in the man that towered over the two of you, but the lights overhead washed him out. 

You recognized him…maybe? You felt like you were going to throw up. 

Sean answered for you. “Yeah, man, we’re fine. She just fell.” 

“Y/n, are you okay?” the man asked, ignoring your date completely.

“Do I know you?” you slurred.

You thought you heard a curse. “What made you think throwing her around was a good idea?” 

“Dude, it wasn’t even that fast. Or my fault. She just couldn’t keep her feet under her.” 

“Well, dude, maybe you should go home.” 

Sean scoffed. “Right, and who’s going to take this one home?” 

Your head was starting to hurt with all of the back and forth. The man that just joined, the taller one, kneeled down beside you. His blonde hair cast a harsh glare that had you squinting again. 

“You want me to call Bucky?” he asked.

Bucky? How would he know Bucky? Blonde hair began morphing into a man in your memory, and you reached for the material of his shirt, looping it between your fingers.

“Steve Rogers?” you mumbled. 

The man, now identified as Steve, sighed. “I’m calling him. Go home, Sean. Her roommate is coming to get her.” 

There was more discussion, something about Steve having the authority to kick him out and Sean not understanding what all of the fuss was about. Steve warned him about something and Sean scoffed as if the situation was beneath him. And then he left. 

Steve was then in your line of sight again, brows pinched together and a bright orange vest covering his shoulders. His hands hovered in front of you as if you’d break if he touched you and you almost found it funny. Steve was a huge guy with a lot of authority on Bucky’s team, but right now he looked like a scared animal. 

“Why are you dressed like a construction worker?” you asked. 

A small smile graced his face. “I’m working at the rink today. Everyone on the team has to take shifts during the holidays.” 

“Hmm,” you hummed. “I think my arm is broken.” 

“I know. I’m pretty sure you have a concussion too. Let’s get you off the ice, yeah?” 

You tried to nod, but that hurt too much so you let Steve assist you in shakily standing up. He guided you to the seats by the rental skate counter with a soft but sure hand on your back, asking some guy named Antonio for an ice pack. Everything around you felt like a fever dream. 

Gentle touches rolled the sleeve of your sweater back to reveal a swollen wrist that Steve immediately covered with an ice pack. 

He cursed again. “Well he’s gonna be pissed.” 

“Who?” Your head swayed with the question. 

Steve looked up to meet your gaze, lips parting to answer, when he was replaced by a different face. Your brain was having trouble keeping up with everything, obviously, because Bucky was in front of you now. He was kneeling between your legs with his hands on your face and you had no idea where Steve went. 

“What the fuck?” you blurted out. 

“Hey, y/n.” Bucky spoke your name low and soothing, his fingers moving to your eyes where he pried them open one at a time and looked for something you couldn’t see. His next words were directed over his shoulder. “Maybe a concussion. Tell me what happened again?” 

“Sean Marcus was being an ass. Flung her all over the place,” Steve replied. 

“Why are you here?” you interjected, trying to focus on one thing at a time. “I told you not to come on my date.” 

Bucky moved his assessment to your arm next, shifting the ice pack. “Never really agreed to those terms.” 

He turned back to Steve after that, having another discussion that you barely understood. Bucky absentmindedly fiddled with the material of your jeans as he spoke, and you put all of your energy into not face planting on the ground. This past week had truly been a series of terrible events with terrible men. 

After some amount of time elapsed, you were walking to the parking lot with a jacket thrown over your shoulders and Bucky continuously jutting a hand out each time you took a step. He was very well versed in concussions, apparently. 

“Okay, in you go, killer,” Bucky prompted, opening the passenger door. 

You eyed the front seat, scrunching your face up. “My arm hurts.” 

The man in front of you seemed to soften, his shoulders dropping on a long exhale. “I know, sweetheart. But we gotta go to the hospital to fix that. I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“I should just call Wanda. Or Nat. You don’t have to be the one to take me.” 

“I can take you just fine.”

“Why do you want to you? Aren’t you busy?” 

Another long sigh, this one accompanied by hands on your shoulders, fingers at the base of your neck. “Get in the car.”

His eyes were boring into yours, searching for something, or maybe already finding it there. You still had your arm cradled to your chest and you titled your head to the side as you observed him. There was something else to his gaze that you couldn’t quite describe. It reminded you of his expression after he came home from a rough game. Angry. Discontent. 

“You’re being weird,” you commented, breaking the silence you had created. 

“You broke your arm and smacked your head on the ice,” he simply replied, as if the statement was an explanation. 

“Yeah, but—” 

“And then that douchebag did nothing about it,” Bucky interrupted. “So please, y/n, get in the car so I can help you before I find him and kick his ass. Because you know I’m not above fighting people.” 

You blinked, and then slid into the front seat. 

The drive was quiet. You’d never been in Bucky’s car before, but the spinning in your head didn’t give you much space to inspect it too closely. You caught hockey gear in the back, a keycard to the rink dangling off the rearview mirror, and a small collection of hair ties in one of the cupholders. One caught your attention.

“Hey, this one’s mine.” You picked up the purple band and rolled it between your fingers. “Thief.” 

Bucky snatched it back. “Mine now.” 

He made a sharp turn that had you sucking air between your teeth and repositioning your arm. Bucky sent you a quick, achingly apologetic look. 

“Sorry, almost there.” A long beat of silence and then a mumbled, “I should keep your hair tie. You won’t be able to do your hair alone with a broken arm anyway.” 

~~

Your wrist was fractured, not broken. You also only had a minor concussion. This was all great news to you, especially since they told you after administering a hefty amount pain reliever. To Bucky, this was apparently terrible, life-altering news. 

After practically body slamming into the front door of your apartment, he chucked his wallet and keys down on the kitchen counter and began grumbling to himself as he opened and closed kitchen cabinets. You watched from a distance, half amused, half concerned for the rusting hinges. He finally found what he was looking for—a cup—and continued to mutter to himself as he filled it with gatorade. 

“Are you… okay?” you asked tentatively. 

Bucky ripped the freezer open and manhandled three to four ice cubes. “I’m fine. You are not.” 

“I’m okay now,” you assured. Bucky stalked over to you anyways, pressing the sports drink into your hand that was not wrapped in a cast.

You looked down at the glass and sent him a baffled look. He nodded at it and raised his brows, a silent demand for you to drink. 

“Okay. And why do I need to drink gatorade?” Your words were slow. 

“You were just on the ice and haven’t had any water for at least three hours.” 

“Bucky,” you began. “I was ice skating recreationally for about thirty minutes. I don’t need to replenish my electrolytes.” 

“Will you just… will you just drink the damn drink?” he groaned, gesturing to it with a firm hand. “Jesus, I can’t take care of you when you go and get yourself hurt by idiots. So just let me do what I know I can do, alright?” 

“You don’t have to take care of me.” You were beginning to raise your voice, matching some of the frustration in the room. 

Bucky threw his hands in the air, tugging at his roots on the way down. He moved further into the kitchen and leaned against the counter with stiff, rod-like arms propping him up. And then he sighed, long and profound as if this was the hardest conversation he’d had all year. His head hung heavy between stiff shoulders and you felt the environment shift. 

You almost wanted to intervene on his thoughts again, to make some comment about the dishes in the dishwasher or pretend you were going to go take a nap. But he had something to say, something you needed to hear, and so you stayed. You blinked and clenched your fist in the uncomfortable silence, but you stayed. 

“Y/n, I want to take care of you,” Bucky breathed out, words still directed toward the floor, almost too low to make out. “I’ve been tryna get you to see that for weeks now, but you’ve either got no clue or you want absolutely nothing to do with me.” 

You stopped blinking, stopped fidgeting, stopped breathing altogether. You watched as Bucky drummed his fingers against the counter and still refused to look up. You swallowed hard because you weren’t clueless, but also because you wanted everything to do with Bucky Barnes. 

And nothing at the same time. 

“Bucky…” you began, with a tone of surprise you weren’t sure was believable.

“Don’t do it yet,” he stopped you. “Don’t…don’t tell me no yet. I’m still pissed as hell that you got hurt and you shouldn’t be alone with a concussion. I don’t need you avoiding me when you can’t even drive a car.” 

“You’re being presumptuous.” 

He snapped his head up, his eyes rushing back and forth between your own. The drumming on the counter ceased, instead replaced by balled up fists turning white under days old cuts and fading bruises. He didn’t say anything. You searched the empty air for a reply. 

“I wouldn’t avoid you. I don’t know if I could avoid you—not anymore. You’re sort of a big part of my life now.” A good start, you thought. Not a real answer, but not a rejection. 

Bucky bit the inside of his cheek and eyed the drink still perspiring in your hand. You set it down at his observance, moving closer to his slumped posture in the kitchen. 

But Bucky stood up straight at your movement, becoming guarded, stiff. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Bad timing, just forget it. You should try and get some sleep.” 

“I don’t want to forget it,” you softly spoke, shaking your head.

He clenched his jaw. “And I don’t want to hear that you don’t feel the same way about me that I feel about you. Not right now. I feel like I’m going insane, watching you go out on dates and having my best friend tell me that my girl—that’s not really my girl—is all banged up on the ice because of some asshole.” 

You opened your mouth to speak, but Bucky kept going, now pacing in the kitchen. “I mean, y/n, you’re my everyday. I wake up and you’re making coffee. You text me in class to ask what I need at the grocery store and then I call you after practice to make sure you got back to the apartment. I think about you so god damn much and I can’t believe there was a time in my life that I didn’t get to end my day in a home that has you. And you’re just my roommate. You want nothing to do with athletes, I get it—” he added, catching your eye in the middle of his rant, “—but, shit, I haven’t even looked at another girl since… well it doesn’t even matter.”

“Tell me,” you whispered. There were a million other things you could’ve said, a million explanations that would have made sense. But the two soft words stopped Bucky from tracking holes in the ground. They shoved him from his shallow breaths and made him look at you. 

And, god, did he look at you. You must have been worse for wear. A hospital visit mixed with one too many tumbles onto solid ice probably had your hair in disarray and your face pressed with exhaustion, but his gaze was revering. Candy-coated red with soft blues melting below brows that fluxed with the movement of his lips; Bucky was beautiful, and he was looking at you as if you matched.

His tone confirmed as much, light and saccharin as he said, “That dumb movie a few weeks ago, the one about the superheroes. Your friends wouldn’t watch it with you so you made me. You were so excited even though it was awful and you were out like a light within the first hour. You rolled over onto me and I wasn’t gonna wake you up so I sorta just held you.” 

He paused, trailing his eyes up to the light fixtures. “At the risk of sounding pathetic, it felt like I had you, you know? Like we were going through all our usual motions, but after I annoyed the hell out of you and you told me off, you were mine. I can’t… I can’t really picture that with another girl.” 

There were very few times you had considered yourself speechless. But with Bucky Barnes standing in front of you, red-faced and vulnerable and still wearing the stupid hospital nametag they made him put on in the waiting room, you had no words. There was none of the arrogance you usually associated with him, no short-temper or pestering taunts. It was just Bucky, and he was pouring his heart onto the kitchen floor. For you. 

“You get why you can’t tell me no just yet?” he asked, trying to get something out of you. Anything. “You can break my heart, but let me just make sure you’re okay first. And I can’t beat the shit out of Sean if we aren’t on speaking terms.” 

The laugh that left you was one of disbelief, but the breathiness and accompanying tears fit the heaviness of the room. Your glossy eyes met Bucky’s and something flashed on his face, but it was soon out of your line of sight because you were kissing him. You were kissing him hard and your bodies were too close for the cast between you but it didn’t matter. 

He didn’t respond at first, hand hovering at your back. But then he did and the cold linoleum of the kitchen floor was gone from your bare feet. He sat you on the counter, so gently, as if you were glass, and you let your hand brush against the cracks and divots of your home. The one that Bucky came back to every night to see you. 

The one that had housed so many nights of confusion and longing and denial.

The one that had Bucky kissing the life out of you on the kitchen counter. 

He pulled away first, forehead pressed to yours. “Didn’t think I’d ever get to do that.” 

“You can do it again.” 

“Oh, I will, baby.” 

Laughter met in the air between you—sweet, short, intertwined. There was so much you wanted to tell him, so many instances like the one he shared before where you were left questioning boundaries and feelings and lines. But, you figured, there would be so many opportunities to tell him. So much time together. 

“I texted Wanda that night,” you shared, interrupting the kisses he was pressing to your cheek. “After I woke up and you had taken me back to my room.” 

He smiled against your skin. “What’d you say?” 

“I told her I was an idiot—that I was falling for the enemy.” 

Bucky ran a soft hand along the back of your head, a smirk lighting up his face. He was slotted between your legs and kept his other hand firmly pressed onto the kitchen counter, caging you in, making sure your arm didn’t hit the cabinets. 

“And is that true?” 

“I don’t know,” you hummed, connecting your foreheads once again, wanting to stay impossibly close. “Try to cure my broken bone with gatorade again and we’ll see.”

[jj-5656]

Favorite OAT?? You flatter me much more than I deserve. Love this 💜💜

My favorite fanfics of all time!

Loki Friggason [Marvel]

Dancing in the dark (with you between my arms) by @holymultiplefandomsbatman [Fluff]

Remus Lupin [Marauders Era]

I don't want them. I want you by @theemporium [Fluff, Marriage, Drunk!Remus]

You are in love by @starstruckmoony [fluff]

Red by @jamespottersdaisy [Banter, fluff]

Gold Rush by @jamespottersdaisy [pure fluff]

Hiccups and hijinks by @dreaminginpastels [Plus-size!Reader, fluff, mutual pining, mentions of insecurity and self-doubt]

Sirius Black [Marauders Era]

I think he knows by @theemporium [potter!reader, fluff, James being a Mood]

Words that slip through by @padfootagain [Fluff, tiny bit of Angst(?)]

For your family by @padfootagain [Fluff, Arrange marriage trope, Soulmate au]

James Potter

Stop flirting with the nurse, it's embarrassing by @perpetuallydaydreaming [Fluff, Siri & Pete being melodramatic]

First Impressions by @jackie5656 [Fluff, Descriptions of assault and attempted assault]

Moon Boys [Moon Knight, Marvel]

Jake Lockley- Cucumber face mask and fist of vengeance by @wysteria-clad [Fluff]

Jack Lockley- dlz by @ichorai [Angst, mild fluff, marriage au]

Marc, Steven and Jake- Clumsy by @marvelsswansong [fluff]

Marc, Steven and Jake- Secret Identities Part 1 Part 2 by @bensolosbluesaber [Fluff, reader is an Avenger]

Druig [Eternals, Marvel]

Druig x Reader by @siempre-bucky [fluff]

Stephen Strange [Marvel]

July 19th by @frostandflamesfanfic [Fluff, Strange being a dad to America]

[jj-5656]

Just found out Lockwood and Co won’t be renewed for another season. Fuck Netflix.

[jj-5656]

This was genuinely one of the sweetest things I’ve ever read omg. My cheeks hurt from smiling fr. Beautiful writing💜💜

underneath kitchen lights — james potter x reader

summary — james has a crush on you, lily’s shy and unbelievably sweet coworker. you nurse a crush of your own. (based on all my ghosts by lizzy mcalpine!)

or .. you got a slurpee for free, I caught you looking at me, in the 7/11 under fluorescent lights. I spilled mac and cheese on my pants, and thought about kissing you underneath kitchen lights!

contains — shy!fem!reader, florist!reader, strangers-ish to friends to lovers, rugby player!james, modern au, flirting, mutual pining, fluff, james being a total sweetheart, sirius being a twat and a good friend, wolfstar because I couldn’t resist, kissing, lovesick!james, idiots in love tbh, and ummm lots of references to all my ghosts!!

notes — um I am very nervous to post this. but also please don’t let it flop.

fem!reader 8k words

James has an embarrassingly big crush on you. For someone he’s only met twice now, you’re very good at getting stuck in his head. It’s hardly his fault — you’re lovely. You always smell like flowers (which is kind of a given, he supposes. You work with Lily at Harriet’s, the florist’s down the road). You’re very pretty. You’re quiet and a bit shy but you’ve spoken enough that James at least knows you’re polite and friendly.

He’s talked to you a grand total of one time. You’d exchanged a few words and James had been very very quick to fall in love with everything about you. Your hands as you wrung them in front of you — a shy tell, he’d guessed. Your voice, pretty and soft, and how it’d sounded when you said his name. The way you dressed, your hair, the quirk in your mouth when he’d made a joke, the hitch in your breath when he’d shook your hand. He was a goner the second he’d met you.

“Prongs,” drawls Sirius, followed by a hard punch in the bicep. “You know you’re not as subtle as you think.”

James scowls in the general direction of Sirius’ voice. He’d been staring at you, he’s sorry to admit. You’re talking to Lily and you’re smiling about something she’s said and you just look so pretty.

He badly wants to talk to you properly, he has ever since the first time Lily bought you around to a party like this one, but he’s scared of embarrassing himself. He’s not exactly the best flirter when it comes to girls he actually likes. His tongue gets all tied and he can’t say two words without ultimately embarrassing himself. He’s not as much of a charmer as everyone thinks he is. He’s also scared you won’t like him, but he won’t get into that.

“Shut up,” he advises Sirius, rubbing his sore arm. “I don’t even know what you’re on about.”

Sirius, sprawled on the couch next to James, rolls his eyes and snorts. “Yeah, okay,” he says, all sarcasm. “S’not like you’re burning holes into Y/N’s face or anything.”

For a split second James panics. He whirls around to look at you so fast he almost snaps his neck in half. Have you heard Sirius? Do you think James is a total creep now? No — you’re still engrossed in your conversation with Lily. James breathes a sigh of relief but it’s cut short when he realises Sirius is laughing at him.

“Mate,” he guffaws. “You’re hopeless.”

It’s James’ turn to roll his eyes. “Thanks a lot,” he says dryly.

Sirius grins with all his stupidly perfect teeth. “Y’welcome.”

James sighs and scrubs a heavy hand down his face. Maybe he is as hopeless as Sirius thinks. He’s certainly feeling quite hopeless right now. With you across the room and him sitting here unable to make himself get up and talk to you. As subtle as he can he twists to look over the back of the couch again to see what you’re doing. He’s just in time to see you disappearing into the kitchen by yourself, Lily now talking with the other girls by the ranch slider.

His heart rate spikes. This is his chance.

James is getting to his feet before he knows what he’s doing. He dodges another hearty punch from Sirius, pretends not to hear Lily when she asks him where he’s going, and follows you into the kitchen on clumsy feet like a puppy on a leash.

He stumbles into Lily’s kitchen and there you are. Standing with your head in the fridge, the bright white lights cast over your skin. And there’s a lot of skin to look at. Your shoulders, your upper back. There’s a beauty spot on your back, just next to your shoulder blade. Your dress floats just above the halfway point of your thighs. You’ve got really nice legs. James snaps his eyes back up to your head before he can feel too guilty and clears his throat.

You start and then whirl around, eyes wide as saucers, one hand curled around the fridge door.

“Oh,” you say, breathless. “James. You scared me.”

James is so busy melting over the way you say his name that he almost forgets to speak. “Sorry. Shit, I’m sorry, Y/N, I didn’t mean to.”

You shake your head and your big dangly earrings jingle like bells. “No, it’s okay. Don’t be sorry.”

You smile all soft and pretty and James really thinks he might pass out. He steps forward and leans against the kitchen island as casually as he can, when really he’s using it for support lest he keel over.

You’re looking at him like you’re expecting him to say something. He clears his throat again.

“Um,” he starts lamely. He braves through. “I, um— you look really nice tonight. I wanted to tell you earlier but Lily’s been stuck to you like a leech since you got here.”

You blink at him and James worries he’s said the wrong thing. Maybe this was the worst idea he’s ever had. And he’s had a lot of bad ideas. But then you beam.

“Oh,” you say, shocked like you can’t quite believe it. Which should be impossible, really, James thinks. You’re beautiful. It’s hard not to believe it. “Thank you, James.”

James smiles back. Your shyness at being complimented only fuels him. “You’re welcome. Just don’t tell Lily I called her a leech.” At this, you giggle, and James stammers through his next words, dazed from your laugh. “So, uh— are you looking for a drink?”

He gestures to the fridge, which you seem to have forgotten about, the door hanging wide open under your grip.

“What? Oh,” you say sheepishly, and suddenly you’re embarrassed and staring at your shoes. “No, I’m…” You lift your head and blink at him under your lashes. “Promise you won’t laugh at me?”

James is perplexed, but he’s not gonna laugh at you if you don’t want him to. He licks his dry lips. “Yeah, I promise.”

You smile, then dip your head towards him like you’re sharing secrets. “I was cooling off,” you admit, sheepish. “It got too hot in the living room and Lily’s patio has mosquitos.” You hardly give him time to reply before you’re cringing, saying, “It’s weird, right?” Like you know he’s gonna think it’s strange.

He doesn’t think it’s strange. Well, maybe a little. But he’s been found in worse positions at parties. You look so embarrassed about it James is almost sorry he asked. Almost, because embarrassed you is adorable. You lean back and scrub your neck awkwardly, bracelets clanking on your wrist.

“No, I know,” he groans sympathetically, nodding vehemently. “Lily really needs a mosquito net or something, so we can open the damn door without getting eaten alive. Can I join you?”

You look baffled for a moment, and then shy all over again.

“You want to join me while I stick my head in the fridge?” You ask, an amusement to your tone that James adores.

James shrugs. “Why not?”

You smile outright then. “Okay,” you say, stepping aside so there’s more room in front of the fridge for him. “C’mon, then.”

James practically skips over to you. The moment he steps into your space he can smell your lovely scent. Flowery and sweet, something floral like hyacinth mixed with something sweet like honey. It’s intoxicating. He feels like he could drown in it. But there’s no time for drowning, not when your hand wraps around his elbow and pulls him into your side, your feet shuffling to accommodate him.

“Move closer,” you urge shyly. “You gotta get the full experience.”

James moves closer. So close his arm brushes yours and he could hold your hand if he wanted to. He very much wants to. He imagines your skin is as soft as it looks.

The coldness of the refrigerator washes over him and it’s actually really nice. Even though he can be a total party animal sometimes, he understands why you would be here instead of in there. It’s quiet in here. Nice and cool. No lingering scent of heavy wine. No Sirius to tease him and no Marlene to badger him with questions about his love life.

“This is nice,” he says quietly, over the gentle buzz of the fridge.

You giggle softly. James thinks he’d like to make you laugh a million times over. “Isn’t it?”

“Mm,” James hums. “I should do this at parties more often.”

You laugh again, delighted at his joking. “You should. Then I wouldn’t be so lonely when I escape to the kitchen.”

James laughs too. He can’t quite believe his luck right now, squished in front of Lily’s refrigerator with you, elbow to elbow, the rest of his friends and the party long forgotten.

“I think I’ll take you up on that offer,” he says, smiling big.

The next time James sees you, it doesn’t go quite as well as previously. To put it simply, it’s a disaster.

First of all, he’s late. Remus and Sirius are having a housewarming party at their new place and he’s had training all day so he’d forgotten all about it. It’s not until 9:30, an hour after the party was supposed to start, that he’s climbing in his car after training and his phone buzzes.

He picks it up, exhausted, expecting one of his teammates. Instead it’s a string of messages from Remus.

You’re late James!!!!

We started without u. Where r u????

Sirius is gonna wring ur neck

James scrolls through the messages with a mixture of confusion and dread. Confusion because at first he has absolutely no idea what Remus is talking about. Dread when he realises.

He speeds all the way home, showers at lightning speed, pulls on a rumpled shirt and a pair of jeans that he’s sure aren’t clean, and he’s out the door within ten minutes of getting home. Still, by the time he gets to Sirius and Remus’ place it’s almost 10. His hair looks a mess but it’ll have to do. He doesn’t even think about the fact that you could possibly be there. That is, until he’s finished apologising profusely to his friends and Sirius mentions you. James perks up from where he’d been slumping on the couch, feeling exhausted and sorry for himself.

“What?” He asks, too loud. He tries to tamp it down but honestly, it doesn’t really work. He’s still buzzing with nervous energy when he asks, “Is she here?”

Sirius grins, looking uncharacteristically cat-like. “Uh— yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. His stupid grin only grows and James thinks he’d quite like to punch his teeth out. “She came with Lily. Moons thought we should invite her. She’s a lovely girl, isn’t she?”

James knows he’s teasing but can’t quite bring himself to care — the prospect of seeing you has demolished all other feelings of pathetic-ness. He leaps off the couch and makes his way to the kitchen, guessing that’s where you’ll be, a barely touched drink in his hand and Sirius’ teasing following him all the way. He’s so busy fixing his shirt before he sees you that he doesn’t see you. He walks right into you on the threshold of the kitchen.

“James!” You gasp, stopping short.

James’ drink, to his horror, has spilt all down your front. His glass, previously full, is now half empty, the rest of it splattered all over your white top.

You barely have time to be surprised before he’s apologising.

“Shit,” he curses, mind blanking. His hands go to fix the damage before he realises he probably shouldn’t touch your chest, where his drink is now seeping into your top and showing no signs of stopping. He pulls his hands back lamely. “Shit, I’m so sorry, Y/N. Oh gosh. I’m so dumb, I—“

Your rush to forgive him is almost as quick as his apology. “No!” You shake your head and it’s awfully cute despite the situation. “No, it’s okay, James. I should’ve been watching where I was going.”

James grimaces. He tries not to look at the dark red stain that looks like blood on your white blouse. It is quite possibly the worst thing he could’ve spilt on you.

“It’s okay,” you say again, softer, reassuring, probably clocking the pathetic look on his face.

“Don’t, angel,” James says, shaking his head. “S’my fault.” He grabs your elbow gently and starts to pull you out to the living room, seeking Remus, who he knows will have a spare t-shirt that’s at least clean. “C’mon, I’ll find you something else to wear.”

“Wait, James. Wait.” You plant your feet in the doorway of the kitchen and James stops walking. He looks back at you, feeling guilty, hopeless, confused, and a bit endeared by you still, all at once.

“What?” He asks as gently as he can when he’s feeling like such a loser.

“I don’t wanna cause any trouble,” you say, biting down on your bottom lip so hard James is sure it hurts. You’re shy, he remembers. Quiet and polite. You probably don’t like people making a fuss over you, even though you should really. You’re pretty enough that people should be making a fuss over you all the time. “I think I’ll just go home, s’only a ten minute walk. I was going to leave soon, anyway.”

James frowns. “I can’t let you do that,” he says, shaking his head. He also can’t let you feel uncomfortable. He conjures a compromise. “Look, how about you wait here while I go ask Remus for a spare shirt? And then I’ll walk you home to make it up to you.”

He knows walking you home isn’t near enough to make up for ruining your top. But it’s the best he can do right now.

“But you just got here, didn’t you?” you say, frowning yourself.

James shrugs. That’s hardly a problem for him. “Don’t worry. I see those two asshats every day of my life, sweetheart.”

You still look unsure but James isn’t changing his mind. He’s going to walk you home if it’s the last thing he does. But first, something for you to change into. He leaves you in the kitchen and finds Remus, whom he asks for a shirt, to which Remus says, “What’s that for?” too loudly.

James explains what happened dejectedly. He’s not exactly surprised when Sirius laughs at him for it.

It’s a quiet walk to your place. You live close, which is both good and bad. Good because it means every time James is at Remus and Sirius’s, he’ll know you’re only ten minutes away. Bad … well, for the same reason.

James tries his best to fill the silence with easy conversation. It’s not hard, especially when you’re so sweet and kind and answer his questions so pleasantly. You’re easy to talk to. You don’t laugh at him when he slips on his words. You don’t make him wait for answers. You ask him questions, too, timid as you are about it.

James finds he enjoys your company even more than he was expecting. You’re like a breath of fresh air. You’ve got the radiance of an early spring morning and the softness to go with it.

It’s safe to say he’s disappointed when you come to a stop in front of your place.

“This is me,” you say, fishing your keys out of your purse. You’re in one of Remus’ band tees and James thinks you look much better than Remus does in it. As much as he loves Remus. He realises he’s staring too late, his eyes following you as you walk up your front steps.

You unlock your door and then look back at him, timid.

“Did you want to come in?” You ask, sweet in your shyness.

James would very much like to come in. He also thinks he might fall on his face if he spends much more time with you. He’s already dizzy on his feet and he’s been with you all of fifteen minutes.

“No, no, that’s okay,” he says as kindly as he can. “I should probably get back, or Sirius’ll have my head.” At least he knows where you live now. In a totally not creepy way.

He steps forward to take your wrist in his hand, his thumb pressing into your pulse point. He can feel your heartbeat. It’s not quite as fast as his feels but pretty close.

“I’m really really sorry about your top,” he tells you. He spreads his fingers over your forearm, your skin warm as late summer under his touch. “Can I do anything to make up for it? Buy you a new one?”

He wasn’t joking, but you giggle, your face lighting up, your eyes crinkling at the corners. James feels something akin to a mad swarm of butterflies in his ribcage.

“No, James,” you laugh, breathless and lilting. Your free hand lands on his forearm and his skin burns under your touch. “It’s okay, really.”

“Okay,” James breathes. His head spins as you squeeze his arm. Your skin is impossibly soft. You smell so nice. “But, seriously, let me know if there’s anything I can do. It was such a nice top, it looked lovely on you.”

You flush like James knew you would. He’s slowly discovering he likes making you flustered more than he’ll admit.

“Thanks, James,” you say, and James imagines if he touched your face you’d be burning. “But, really, it’s okay. I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah. See you around, angel.”

It’s only after you close the door and James is at the bottom of the steps that he realises he should’ve asked for your number. He really is as hopeless as Sirius says.

-

James Potter is on your mind most of the time. You can’t help it. You’re not above admitting you have a crush on him. You are above admitting how big said crush is.

He’s really one of the sweetest people you’ve ever met. Sure, you don’t meet a lot of people. But you’re sure if you did he’d still be one of the best. He’s kind, he’s funny, he’s unbelievably charming. He’s a bit awkward sometimes and you like that, it makes you feel better about your own social ineptitude.

It also helps that he’s very very handsome. You would look at him all day if you could. He’s all dark, velvety skin, inky curls that you’ve imagined weaving your fingers through more times than you can count. Deep brown eyes turned bright with his ever-present smile. Thick eyelashes, a lovely sloping nose, a quirk to his mouth that you think you could get drunk on. He dresses well, too, though you’re sure he’d look just as good in a hoodie and sweatpants. Or nothing at all. You’d squashed that thought before it could go any further.

You don’t even mind that he spilled wine all over your nicest top. Sure, the stain is never gonna come out. It’s sitting in your closet, ruined. Embarrassing as it is, you smile every time you see it. James had made up for it tenfold anyway, walking you home and telling you he was sorry about a hundred times. It would be hard to not forgive him.

“Y/N?”

There’s a call of your name from the office door. You’re in here on your lunch break, not really eating more than you are thinking about James. Margaret, the older lady who owns Harriet’s but only comes in Thursdays and Tuesdays, is poking her head through the door.

“Hi, dear,” she says. “Sorry to disturb you, but there’s a customer out here asking for you? I can tell him to come back later, if you’d like, but he seems quite insistent.”

He. Of course, your mind flies straight to James. Which is ridiculous, you know, but it was already parked and idle at James, anyway.

“He’s asking for me?” You ask, perplexed. You don’t usually get personally requested by customers. And if it is James, you’re sure he’d ask for Lily instead.

“Yes, dear,” Margaret smiles, and she looks amused.

You get up because it’s your job, not because you’re hoping like hell it’s James. You put down your barely-eaten sandwich, brush past Margaret with a small ‘thank you’ and emerge into the shop.

There, standing at the counter, is James Potter.

“Y/N!” He says as soon as you emerge. He’s bouncy. Frazzled. You would even say excited. “Hi, lovely. I’m really sorry to barge in on you like this, were you on your break?”

“Oh, um, no. It just ended,” you lie. You still had a good ten minutes left. Not that you’re gonna tell him that.

James’ smile makes the lie worth it. “Perfect. ‘Cos I need your help.”

You think you physically perk up. Like a cat when it smells food is near. You hope he doesn’t notice.

“Okay,” you smile. You’re happy to help if it’s James you’re helping. “With that?”

James explains that he needs a bouquet, your best work, better than a boring one you can get at the grocery store because he really really needs this person he’s giving it to to like it. Your smile fades at this. At the fact that he’s getting flowers for someone else. He won’t tell you who this someone else is. He also won’t tell you why he’s giving it to them. You’re sorry to assume it’s a girl he likes. Possibly Lily? Maybe that’s why he asked for you and not her. You wouldn’t be surprised, they’re close and she’s gorgeous.

Of course, you help him anyway. You recommend flowers that last the longest, colours that go together, which ones smell the best. He’s asks you what your favourites are and ends up going with those, saying he trusts your judgment.

You have to admit it’s all very endearing. And you have so much fun helping him that by the time he leaves, arms full of a huge bouquet made up of all your picks of flowers, you’re beaming. Despite the daunting fact that he’s walking out of your shop with a bouquet for someone else.

Margaret appears once he’s gone. She’s got this big smile on her face that you can’t quite make sense of.

“He’s a handsome one,” she muses. “Is he your boyfriend?”

Your cheeks go redder than the roses on the shelf behind you.

Much later, you’re in the comfort of your small home, a bowl of steaming hot mac and cheese in your lap while the TV drones on. It’s some sort of romantic comedy that you can’t say you’re very interested in. Despite the lead male being very attractive. You’re about to change programmes when there’s a knock on your door.

You start. Nobody ever comes over. You don’t have many friends, and the ones that you do have, you tend to go over to their places, rather than the other way around. You’re so busy worrying about who it is that you haven’t even stood up before there’s another knock.

You get up off the couch, mac and cheese forgotten on the coffee table. You give your outfit a once over. You’re in sleep shorts and a hoodie that’s too big for you. Not your best work, but it’ll have to do. You fix your hair with little to no care and then open the door.

It’s James. You gape. You definitely should’ve paid more attention to your hair.

“James,” you say.

He beams right back, seemingly unaware of your sleepy appearance. “Hi, sweetheart.”

You stare at him. He looks pretty as ever. It’s only just going on sunset, and the colourful sky casts streaks of orange and golden yellow over his pretty face. The last bits of sun tangle themselves into his curls and drown themselves in his eyes. He’s dressed casual, but he still manages to pull it off, like you’d thought. A hoodie and jeans, a pair of beat up converse. He’s hiding something behind his back and you think you hear cellophane crinkle when he moves.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” he’s saying. He doesn’t have your number. But Lily does. Is it crazy to think he’s maybe asked her for it? “Is this a bad time?”

His kindness reminds you how to speak. “Uh— um, no. S’not a bad time, I just wasn’t expecting anyone. Are you— um, did you want to come in?”

You’re rambling, you know. He hasn’t even told you why he’s here and you’re asking him to come in.

James smiles kindly and it makes it all better. He’s good at that. At making you feel okay for being a bit of an awkward loser (your own words, not his, of course.)

“I’d love to come in,” he says, all smiles. “But first, I have something for you.” He pulls whatever he’s been hiding out from behind his back and offers it to you between your chest and his. “To say I’m sorry about your top.”

You blink. It’s a bouquet. It’s the bouquet. The one you’d helped him put together. The one that has all your favourite flowers and colours and smells because despite you thinking it was for someone else, you’d still wanted the best for James. You blink again.

“James,” you say, a little breathless, a lot speechless. “They’re for me?”

James laughs and you feel dizzy for a moment. He’s got a really nice laugh. “F’course there for you, sweetheart. Who else?”

He makes you take them from him, one of his hands guiding yours around the stalks. His skin is warm and sets yours on fire. You’re surprised the bouquet doesn’t go up in flames when you take it from him.

“I-I don’t know,” you stutter. “I thought …” you don’t finish your sentence. You’d thought they were for some other girl who’d caught his eye. You change tactics mid sentence, “They’re lovely, James.”

“I know they are, dove. You picked ‘em out.”

You giggle then. He’s the sweetest boy on the planet, you decide. He let you pick out your own flowers, and you didn’t even know it. You’ve never properly been given flowers before, despite working at a florist’s. It’s a new feeling. Like a star burning in your chest that doesn’t seem to want to go out. It hovers in you ribcage and stays there, buzzing madly.

“Thank you,” you say, lifting your eyes to his. You find he’s already gazing right back at you. There’s a rogue curl falling over his forehead that you’d love to push out of the way. “Really. I love them.”

James flashes you a boyish grin. “Good, ‘cos if you didn’t, I’d have to have a word with the girl who chose them.”

You’re still beaming when he comes inside. He follows you into the kitchen, where you find a vase for the flowers. You set about taking them out of their packaging, cutting the stalks and putting them gently in the glass vase filled with water.

James watches you and you can tell he’s trying to be nonchalant about it all, about being in your space, but his eyes scan your kitchen like it’s a map he’s trying to figure out. Your mismatched mugs on the counter. Your magnets and Polaroids and receipts on the fridge. Your overgrown plants on the windowsill.

You carry your flowers to your small living room and put them in the dead center of your coffee table. The bouquet is so big it would block most of your view of the TV if you sat on the couch. You hardly care. You’d rather look at them than the TV, anyway.

Setting the flowers down, you spot your half eaten mac and cheese and hope James doesn’t take you for a slob. You’re lucky he didn’t catch you on a Friday night. You’d be drowning in ice cream, probably.

“Are you hungry?” You ask him, half hoping he’ll say no, because who in their right mind asks their crush if they want macaroni and cheese? It’s so lame, but you can’t take it back now. “I have mac and cheese, but that’s about it, sorry.”

You cringe and wish you’d held your tongue, but James beams.

“I’d love some mac n’ cheese,” he says. “Unless it’s boxed, that shit tastes like cardboard.”

You get him some mac and cheese, glad you made it yourself, gladder you haven’t resorted to boxed food just yet. The two of you sit in the kitchen on your tall kitchen stools under your golden lights and eat. James is easier to be around than anyone you’ve ever met. He makes you feel special but not to the point where it’s too overwhelming. He’s kind and he’s golden, he acts like you’re the only person he ever wants to talk to.

Watching him eat in your home is more of a pleasure for you than you’d like to admit. He compliments your cooking. He says he likes the bowl he’s got, which is a white one with pink flowers all over it that you bought at a market ages ago. He gets a string of cheese dangling from his lip and makes a dorky face trying to get it into his mouth without using his fingers. You think you’d like to kiss him. His lips all puckered and eyes crossed as he attempts to scoop the cheese into his waiting mouth.

You’re so busy laughing at him that you don’t notice your own bowl balancing precariously on the edge of the counter. When you go back to take another spoonful, your hand knocks the bowl and it goes tumbling. Right into your lap.

“Shit,” you curse, gasping when a dollop of hot pasta lands half on your thigh and half on your shorts. The sauce spreads like wildfire over the fabric of your sleep shorts. Why do things keep spilling on your clothes when James is around? It’s becoming a theme. Your horror grows when the bowl clatters to the floor and while it doesn’t smash, it spills mac & cheese everywhere. “Oh, shit, that’s embarrassing. Um.”

You bend to clean up your mess but James beats you to it.

“Here, let me,” he says. He slides off his chair and is quick to start scooping up the ruined pasta.

“Sorry,” you stutter, standing helplessly as James cleans up your mess for you.

“Don’t be,” James shrugs and looks up at you, his cheeks dimpling as he smiles kindly. “Go change, I’ll sort this out.”

You feel an overwhelming rush of gratitude and affection for him that makes you want to kiss him stupid. You don’t. Instead you go down to your room and find something to change into. Seeing as he’s already seen you in your sleep shorts, you suppose your checkered flannel pyjama pants aren’t really much worse. Nothing can be more embarrassing than what’s just happened, you decide.

By the time you’ve changed (plus spent a lot of extra time staring at yourself in the mirror, practicing your smile), James has cleaned up the spill and is washing your bowls in the sink. You decide then and there that you like him a lot more than you’d initially thought.

You emerge into the kitchen on light footing. You feel like a magnet being drawn to him like this. It’s bizzare, how much you want to be around him, no matter how shy he makes you. It’s something you’ve never experienced before. A rip in the ocean calling your name. You know of the danger but you don’t really care. You ignore the signs because he’s James and you don’t think he has a mean bone in his body. The warning signs basically don’t exist.

“Thank you, James,” you say, standing on the threshold of the kitchen.

James flashes you a big smile, up to his arms in soap and suds, scrubbing away at a bowl. He looks like a house husband. It’s almost more than your heart can take. “That’s okay. Hey, nice pyjamas. Y’look good.”

You can tell by his tone he’s not teasing. He’s being genuine, which is somehow worse than if he’d been teasing. Your smile is so big it hurts.

-

James is gonna kiss you tonight. He’s sure of it.

So far, all of his advances have gone well. Perfect, even. Unless you count the drink-spilling incident, but if it hadn’t been for that he’d probably never have found the courage to get you alone again.

He’s taken you out to lunch once. He’s been into your work twice, not including the first time. He’s invited you to his rugby game tonight, to which you’d said yes more enthusiastically than he’d expected. It’s not exactly a date, per say. But he’d wanted to see you today and he had a game and his coach would blow his head off if he’d missed it for a girl. No matter how lovely said girl is.

He’s waxed poetic about you to Sirius and Remus more times than he can count. He’s yet to kiss you. Sirius thinks this is beyond absurd.

“So you haven’t even kissed her yet?” He asks, incredulous. He’s in his rugby kit, hair up in braids, chugging a Gatorade though the game hasn’t even started yet. “What’s the hold up, mate?”

James groans. Sirius is yet to understand that some people don’t like to jump into the deep end before they’re ready. “I don’t want to scare her off,” he explains, straightening up from where he’d been tying his laces.

“Oh yeah, you’re reaaally scary, Prongsie,” Sirius drawls, dripping in sarcasm. He rolls his eyes and then clasps James’ shoulder. He’s surprisingly and uncharacteristically genuine when he says, “Look, I think she likes you enough that kissing her won’t scare her off.”

James blinks and looks up at his friend. “You think she likes me?”

Sirius makes a face. “Are you kidding? What other girl would want to watch you eat shit in a field with a dozen other sweaty guys?”

And he’s back, James thinks. Trust Sirius to be a sweetheart one second and as asshole the next.

Soon enough James is out on the field and he wants to say his mind is on the game and not you but he’d be lying.

For the first five minutes he’s distracted trying to spot you in the stands. Then the next ten minutes are spent trying not to stare at you. You’re with Remus, whom James is hoping isn’t relaying anything he’s ever said to him about you.

You look as though, to James’ extreme delight, that you’ve dressed up for this. In a pretty dress and a jacket that borders on being so big on you it swallows you up. Sure, you’d still looked pretty drop-dead in your pyjamas the other night. But this is another level of gorgeous.

The first chance he gets he bounds over to you, ignoring his coaches instructions to ‘stay with the team’. Most of the team has scattered for half time, anyway. James makes a beeline for you.

“You came!” He shouts as soon as you’re in shouting distance.

You grin and wave at him, brilliant and dazzling and so damn pretty in the early evening sun. You’re not far up the stadium and James is grateful he doesn’t have to climb too many steps — though he’d definitely climb all the way to the top row to see you if he had to.

“Hi, James,” you say, looking happy as a clam to see him.

James beams back. He wonders vaguely if he looks as lovesick as he’s feeling. He can’t even bring himself to care if he does. He’s lucky Remus is nowhere to be seen — probably loving on Sirius somewhere.

“Hi, angel,” James says, smiling around his words, which come out all sticky-sounding and fond. “I’m so glad you came.”

You beam and rock on your heels, looking one part shy and two parts delighted, your hands clasped in front of you like you’re not sure what to do now.

“Can I give you a hug?” James asks. “I’m so happy to see you, I might explode if you say no.”

He’s joking, of course. Or maybe not so much. You nod, a tad vehement, James notices smugly.

“Yes, please,” you say, breathless.

James steps into your space, heartbeat a mile a minute. You smell like flowers again. Lavender, he thinks. He definitely doesn’t smell anywhere near as good. “You’re sure I’m not too sweaty and gross?”

You shrug. “I don’t care, James.”

“You should. You look lovely.”

You make a noise that sounds half pained and half pleased and it makes James’ heart skyrocket.

“Can you just hug me?” You ask, a hint of desperation in your tone that’s actually much more than a hint but James is trying to be a gentleman. “Please?”

James thinks if you keep this up (by this, he means, acting as though maybe you like him as much as he likes you), he’ll die on the spot. He hugs you. For his own and your sake. Wraps you up in a big strong hug that’s so passionate he accidentally lifts you off the ground slightly. You don’t seem to mind. Your arms weave around his neck like they were meant to and you hook your chin over his shoulder and go all melty.

James almost moans. He can’t believe how perfectly you fit in his arms. How your body melds into his so nicely. He’s big and firm and loud and you’re quiet and small in your own way. But it works, and James is so glad it does.

“How was work, lovely?” He says into your hair. Your hair, which smells like coconut and something sweeter.

“It was okay.” Your voice is quiet but you sound just as pleased as he does to be wrapped in each other’s arms. “Lily says good luck.”

“Hey!” This is Sirius, jogging towards the stands and the, for want of a better word, lovefest. “Why don’t I ever get hugs like that?”

James releases you but keeps a good hold on your waist, twisting to meet Sirius. “What? You want one too, Pads?”

He lets go of you and holds his arms out for a hug, half joking but also half serious.

“Not from you!” Sirius scoffs, backing away from James like his hug will give him an incurable disease. “From your pretty cheerleader over there.”

Sirius plants his hands in his hips and nods his head towards you where you’re standing behind James. James doesn’t need to look to know Sirius has probably made you embarrassed.

“She doesn’t want to hug you,” he says dryly, in an attempt to save you from his obnoxious friend. “Where’s your boyfriend? You can hug him instead.”

Sirius scowls but it doesn’t last long. You brush past James and it takes him a second to realise what’s happening.

“I’ll hug you, Sirius,” you’re saying sweetly. “C’mere.”

And to everyone’s surprise, you hug Sirius. James finds it both endearing and highly annoying. Annoying because Sirius is smirking at him over your shoulder, his hands on your lower back. Endearing because it’s apparent you’re trying to make friends with James’ friends and he couldn’t be happier. The hug doesn’t last quite as long as yours and his, though. And Sirius doesn’t quite lift you off the ground like James did.

James watches, reluctantly fond, as Sirius pulls away and smiles at you all kind and un-Sirius-like.

“Thank you, m’lovely,” he says, swooping down to kiss your cheek. James shouldn’t feel jealous, because Sirius kisses everyone on the cheek, but he does anyway.

His jealousy quickly fades when you practically skip back over to him, all smiles.

“Sorry about him,” James says quickly. He’s very used to apologising for his friends.

“No, that’s okay,” you shake your head and then take James’ forearm in your hand unthinkingly. Heat licks all up James’ arm.

“Y/N,” he says, sounding more confident than he feels. “Do you—?”

The shriek of his coach’s whistle cuts him off. Time to get back on the field, it says. James groans, long suffering, throwing his head back like he’s been resigned to the worst fate in the world. You giggle and it makes it all better.

James’ team loses the game. It’s embarrassing and then it’s not, because you bound up to him afterwards and give him a hug even better than the one at half time, gushing about how good he was, telling him it doesn’t matter that he lost because he played amazing, anyway.

He sure feels like a winner as he walks with you to the parking lot, his duffel bag swept to his wrong side so he can walk as close to you as possible.

“I didn’t know you were so good.” You’re still gushing and James thinks he’s never blushed more in his life. “I mean, not that I didn’t expect it. You just never told me.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not Sirius,” James murmurs, feeling overly feverish.

“What? What’s that mean?”

James gestures vaguely with his hands. “I don’t go around bragging, is what it means. And I’m not that good. We’re just a local team, babe.”

It’s your turn to flush. Head to foot you go all shy. He thinks it’s the pet name that did it. And maybe the fact that he’s pointed out your gushing.

“Right,” you say to your shoes. “Well, I think you should play for the country, is all I’m saying.”

James laughs, delighted and a bit startled at your joking, but mostly just sick as a dog in love with you. “Really? Wow, you should tell my coach that, sweetheart. I think he’d totally agree.”

You pick up on his sarcasm and burst into giggles that make James’ chest want to explode. He realizes you’ve almost reached his car and puts his plan into action.

“Hey, did you drive here?” He asks.

You look up at him and James thinks he sees an inkling of hope in your pretty eyes. “No, I caught the bus. Why?”

“Did you want to go get Slurpees with me? I saw a 7/11 near your place the other night.” Then, because he really wants you to say yes, “I’m paying.”

Maybe it’s James’ wishful thinking but he’s pretty sure you light up like a Christmas tree. He really thinks if you keep doing things like this his head is gonna get too big for his body. You beam, looking like an angel on earth in the last fragments of sunlight, skin painted in an array of bleeding golds and pinks and oranges.

“Yeah, okay,” you nod. “Except you don’t have to pay for me, James, I have my card.”

James shakes his head, grinning as he fishes his keys from his bag. “Nah, don’t worry. Pretty girls get slurpees for free.”

He’s ninety-eight percent sure you freeze up like a block of ice as he unlocks his car. He has the generosity to not mention it.

The drive to the 7/11 closest to your place is quiet. But good quiet. James puts on the radio and is delighted when you start humming along like he’s not even there, your fingers tapping along the window where you’ve rolled it down, the wind brushing over your pretty face. He can’t quite get enough of you. Even just driving in silence with you feels like cloud nine. He’s enamored. Totally lovelorn. He’s surprised he can even drive straight.

When you get there he parks the car and then tells you to wait so he can open your door for you. He holds your hand to guide you into the 7/11. It feels like walking on air.

You both greet the guy at the cashier, you much more shyly, but James is learning you’re nothing if not polite. It’s practically empty inside, which James is glad for. How is he supposed to kiss you if there’s a bunch of strangers around? He leads you over to the slurpee machine with the excitement of a kid in a candy store.

“What flavour do you feel like?” He asks, grabbing a cup for you.

“Um,” you lick your lips and James wonders, not for the first time, how it would be to kiss them. “Grape, I think.”

“Grape?” He wrinkles his nose in pretense. “I’m more of a cherry guy, but I’ll let it slide ‘cos I like you.”

You giggle and flush, to James' extreme delight. He lets go of your hand to fill your cup for you, all the way to the top. He pops on a lid and a straw and passes it to you, cold condensation dripping over his fingers like raindrops.

“Thank you,” you say softly, taking the cup from him, your fingers soft as they brush his.

James gives you a big smile in place of a you’re welcome, then preoccupies himself with filling his own cup. He can feel your eyes on him all the while. Practically burning holes into the side of his face. His face, which feels like it’s on fire. He finishes filling his cup and shoves a lid on.

“Have I got something on my face?” He asks without looking at you, definitely teasing but he thinks you can take it.

You groan and punch him in the arm. Punch isn’t really the right word. It’s more of a brush of your knuckles. James hardly feels a thing. “James.”

James laughs, delighted at your reaction. “What?” He chuckles, picking a straw and turning to look at you. “You were—“

But you’re gone, turning into the candy section just in time for James to see the back of your jacket disappear. He follows you, grinning like mad.

“Y/N,” he says, sing-song.

“James,” you copy, with half the enthusiasm but twice the sweetness. He can almost hear you rolling your eyes.

James can’t help it, he snags your jacket in his fingers and pulls. You squeal as he twists you to face him, his hand coming to hook around your waist. Your slurpees get crushed in between your chests. James can feel the coldness of his soaking into his shirt but he hardly cares. You’re so close he could kiss you. He’d like to. It’s what he’s been trying to do all evening.

You’re gasping, breathless from the closeness and his sudden attack. “James,” you say again, panting. “What are you doing?”

James shrugs. “Nuthin’. Did you want some candy?”

You swallow and adjust your grip on your cup where it’s pressed to his chest. You’re staring at his lips. He’s staring at yours, too.

“No,” you say, your pretty eyes flickering from his eyes to his mouth and back again. “I don’t want candy.”

James licks his lips, partly because he thinks he’s about to kiss you, but mostly to tease you. “Then what do you want?”

Your eyes follow the slow movement of his tongue. “Um.”

“Do you want me to kiss you?” He asks, softer now. Less taunting. More sincere.

You stare at him. “We’re in the middle of a 7/11, James,” you chastise. But you don’t turn him down.

“So? There’s no one in here but us.”

He inches closer. His slurpee is probably spilling over with how much he’s squashing it but he can’t bring himself to check. He’s too transfixed by you, the hopeful look on your pretty features, eyes blown wide, lips slightly parted.

“Okay,” you breathe, hardly a word at all.

“Okay, what?” James says back, just as quiet. “I can kiss you?”

“Yes,” you nod once. Your hand ghosts over James’ elbow and he hopes you’ll grab it when he does finally kiss you. “Please.”

It doesn’t take much more convincing than that. He kisses you, and the very first thing he thinks is that he’s bitten off more than he can chew. Thrown himself in the deep end, chum for the sharks. Because it’s glorious. It’s better than he ever imagined, better than anything he could’ve conjured up in his mind. You taste like grape slurpee, sugary and sweet. You’re tentative like you always are, but it doesn’t mean you hold back. You let him kiss you as hard as he pleases, tilting your head up to meet him, gripping his elbow with your free hand like you never want to let go.

He kisses you firm but careful, passionate so you know how much he likes you but soft enough so you know he’s okay to go slow if you need to.

Soon enough the moment is ruined — James shouldn’t have expected anything less. The guy at the cashier is wondering aloud if James is planning on ever paying for the Slurpees now dripping condensation into both of your clothes and hands.

James sighs and goes to pull out his wallet, but not before pressing another kiss to your smiling mouth.

-

feedback and reblogs are very very appreciated! please please lmk if u liked it (but not if u didn’t ahahah) xx

[jj-5656]

i loved loved LOOOVEDDD the way u wrote lovesick lockwood ugh🤧🤧 the tooth rotting fluff was great but i need to see how well u write an angsty lockwood

Ask and you shall receive, anon. (Albeit weeks later I’m so sorry). Finals have been kicking my ass. Regardless, I hope you enjoy!

[jj-5656]

Compromise  With; Anthony Lockwood

A/N: An anon requested angst, and who would I be not to deliver? This one took a while, apologies for the wait. Thank you so much for all the recent love, it means so much. I hope you enjoy.

TW: Descriptions of injury, arguing, suicidal ideation(?), Lockwood being a self-absorbed prick :)

Summary: The one where you and Anthony are at odds, and there seems to be little room for reconciliation. 

Taglist: @sunshineangel-reads @fox-bee926 @helpmelmao @galactidiot  @soupsaurus @nekee-lilac02​ (Tagged ppl who seemed to like my last story, lmk if you want to be removed <3)

       Lockwood isn’t accustomed to your anger. 

Well...That’s not entirely true. You have a bit of a short fuse, sometimes. Accustomed to your occasional irritance, sure. He fancies teasing you, pushing your buttons for the sake of admiring the way your nose scrunches up, how you huff that ever-stubborn strand of hair from your vision. 

This, though. Whatever this is, it’s different. You’re practically seething as you search around the lamp-lit kitchen. Booming thunder and relentless London rain the only noise accompanying your movement. That and the boot shackled around your left foot, which thumps pitifully as you rummage the first aid kit. He feels like a disobedient child sat in the headmistress’ office. Ragged hair still damp from the rain after a grueling mission. One that’s left a nasty gash across his forearm, having been forced into a picture frame in the midst of fighting a vengeful type two. 

George and Lucy had long gone off to bed. A brisk debrief over a final cup of tea before slugging off to their respective bedrooms. Luckily, your bastard of a boyfriend had suffered the only injury. You’d missed all the action considering your current state, though that hadn’t ceased the fierce beating of your heart as you slumped into the seat in front him. Drawing the oil lamp nearer for better light as you motion for his arm. He obeys immediately, silently, face pulled with the kind of tension only present when he’s really worried. 

Good. You honestly hope he’s terrified. Serves him right. Your tense mood is not only due to his ailment, but the lingering frustration from your argument earlier in the evening. 

**************

“Absolutely not. You’re not coming along on any missions ‘til that boot is off.” 

“Anthony, I’ll be alright. I’ve been getting around the house just fine so far!” “You shouldn’t even be on it as much as have been.” He’s got the audacity to scoff, almost amused. “More stress will only make the healing process longer.” You cross your arms, looking toward your bag-clad friends for support. 

“We should check on the cab.” Lucy offers a tight-lipped smile as George nods, ushering her out the front door before you can direct your anger toward them.

“You said yourself this case is going to be especially touch sensitive. That the client reported how evasive the problem was. Sight and sound won’t be as useful.” 

“Precisely. Perfect that George is coming along, yes?” Your eyes narrow at his condescension, you’d grown tired of his babying ever since your incident two cases ago. It felt like ages since you’d been in the field. 

“George will be too preoccupied with all the evidence! I won’t even go further than a few feet from the threshold. Just let me get a feel of things so I can-” 

“I said no, y/n. It’s final.” 

“Says who?”

“Says the leader of this company.” You choke a laugh, tossing your bag onto the floor with a heavy thud. 

“Right, yes. The one who makes all the calls?” 

“Sounds about right.” His brown eyes narrow in challenge, frustrated you’re failing to understand he’s only trying to keep you safe. 

“Same one who made the call we go into the Hope residence without well-rounded research? The case we rushed into without enough information and it ended with me on house arrest?” It’s a low blow, undoubtedly. A twinge of wounded guilt flashes across his face before the venom seeps back in. Lump in his throat burning horribly before he swallows it to dissipation. 

“Same one who knows if things go South this time ‘round you’ll only slow us down.” Your stomach twists with the distaste in his tone, vision blurring with tears as he turns toward the door. Jumping as it slams shut and takes him with it. 

********

“Won’t need stitches.” You note simply, surveying the wound gently. He nods, shoulders straightening in preparation for the oncoming pain. “Still some glass debris, I’ll have to take it out.” He’s lucky, from what it looks like the gash could have been much worse. 

“I can manage it just fine on my own.” You bite your tongue. In the year’s biggest plot twist, Anthony Lockwood insists on suffering alone in lieu of his own pride. 

“You can’t. You’re not risking any more damage to the arm that wields your rapier. Just let me.” He doesn’t listen, of course. Pinching the tweezers in his grasp and looming forward to get a better look. Dizzying at the sight, he’s not strong enough to prohibit you from taking them back. Pushing at his shoulder so he’ll relax against the chair. 

It’s not your typical bedside manner. Usually when injuries happen its gentle touches and muttered sorries or other affections. Soft and kind. 

The intruding thought pulls Lockwood’s frown deeper. The throbbing in his arm practically minuscule to the war zone in his mind. It’s awful...He misses you and yet you’re a mere foot away. 

His fist clenches as the tweezers near his skin once more, hand taking hold of your wist to cease the uncontrollably trembling of your appendage.

“Love-”

“Shush, I can do it.” You take a deep breath. Wordlessly combatting your conflicting emotions with slow, calculated inhales. You’re an agent. You’ve trained for this. Though the textbooks help little with the patching up tactics when it’s someone you love, when you’re at such odds.

You approach again, steady this time. He sucks his teeth at the particularly intricate extractions, but remains still for you. You move with as much efficiency as possible. Trying to remove the person from the wound, just as the books suggest. Though it’s nearing impossible with his eyes trained on you. Trying to steal every thought from your mind as if they’re his own. 

When you’re applying sterile gauze after thorough disinfection, he finds the courage to speak. 

“Thank you.” He clears his throat after it falters...From emotion or lack of use, you aren’t sure. Doesn’t matter, honestly. You’re still keen on grilling him. 

“George said you followed it up the stairs without telling him and Luce.”

“I was in a hurry. Wouldn’t have found its’ source in time if I hadn't.” You don't event try to conceal the roll of your eyes. Anger sinking back in as you collect the wrappers on the table and toss them into the bin. 

“So you’re allowed to be reckless on the job as long as nobody else is?”

“Reckless. I’d argue, is an exaggeration.” 

“Exaggeration? Christ, you’re impossible.”

“Yeah?” He stands as you do, holding his wounded arm to his stomach as he leans against the counter. “How’s that?”

“You’re fine with breaking protocol so long as you’re the one doing it. Putting yourself at risk any chance you get without a second thought. It’s maddening!” 

“And how do you suppose you got yourself in that boot?”

“Not by beckoning death! Mine was an accident, Anthony. I swear, sometimes it’s like you want to get yourself killed!”

“You don’t-”

“No! I’m not finished.” You step toward him, jabbing a finger into his chest to accentuate your wrath. “You have people depending on you. People that care about you, love you to bits. And you’d rather spend the better half of missions taunting death than preventing it. If you wanted to be so fucking careless, you shouldn’t have made me fall in love with you. Now here we are, both vexed and in varying casts because of you can’t seem to understand the sanctity of your own life.”

He knew that much had been true. Lockwood would risk just about anything in a case so long as it granted him victory. Hadn’t that been in the fine print, though? Guaranteed in this line of work? So long as you were granted this talent, this curse, you had a responsibility to utilize it to the best of its ability.

“Sweetheart.” It’s strained, nearly a beg with the amount of exhaustion ridden in his tone. “We can continue this tomorrow. Let’s go to bed, please.”

“I can’t,” his knuckles go white with their grip on the cold countertop as you hurriedly wipe at your eyes. “I can’t go to bed angry with you.” 

“Then don’t.” He takes one, two careful strides toward you. Fingers pinching at your elbow in an attempt to satisfy the burning need to hold you. “Let’s forgive each other for the next seven hours. Then you can go on hating me, okay?” You huff a laugh, forehead instinctively pressing to his chest. He bathes in it as long as you’ll allow, pulling back seconds later and headed toward your room with him in tow.

********

Anthony’s eyes follow your frame as you approach the stove. Taking the cup of tea he’s prepared for you and taking your usual seat between him and George. He pushes your chair out with his foot to allow you easier access, nudging a plate of buttered toast your way. It’s not an apology, not even an olive branch. Lockwood simply refuses to cease these small acts of service no matter how angry you are with one another. It’s practically instinctual at this point, second nature. His brows furrow when you let out a relieved exhale once sat. Joining along your accomplices’ conversation about your ongoing case he’s drowned out momentarily in order to observe you.

“It hurts, doesn't it,” he unknowingly interrupts George’s spiel, “your foot.” 

“Only a bit. Just this morning.” It’s a meek defense. An evident dismissal so as not to prove his bench-warming call the right one. 

“You’ve been on it too much.” 

“It’s fine, I’m fine.” 

“You’re not. And if you had just listened-”

“Are we really starting this up again, right here?” Your eyes bore daggers into his frame. Doing your best to conceal your rage in leui of your dear bystanders beside you. Theres a few beats of silence, a moment of peace before the sorry fuck plates the nail in the coffin.

 “George, any word of upcoming cases? The sooner we leave for the day, the better.” Your chair scrapes against the hardwood as soon as he’s finished, silverware trembling as you force yourself upward. 

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” It’s practically a whisper, ridden with rage and overwhelming upset. His brown eyes meet yours, cold and distant. Completely unfamiliar. 

“So you like to think.” He quips, eyes following your form as you exit the kitchen twice as quick as you came in. There’s silence again, impossibly more awkward than before. 

“Dick move, Lockwood.”

“Stay out of it, Luce.”

“She’s right. Real dickish move there.” 

“George-”

“Right. Staying out of it.” 

*******

Lockwood prides himself for a lot of things. Communication, definitively, has never been one of them. 

How’s he supposed to explain it’s easier to put himself in front of the all the danger you face? That the rest of you need each other much more than you need him. 

That he’d rather die than lose someone again. 

He’s quiet as he creeps in, the usual love-lorn quip forgotten as he enters your shared bedroom. You’d been laying in bed, had been since breakfast. You weren’t usually one to sulk, but you were still in pain and definitely still angry. At your boyfriend, this damned boot, the world. 

“Word is your boyfriend’s been a right prick, lately. I’m hoping this can be my opportunity to stake my claim. If you’re cutting him out, that is.” He’s kneeling at the bedside, chin pressing into his forearms as he supports his head. You can feel his heat from here, hate how it weakens your cold resolve. His fingertip traces the skin on your back where your shirts ridden up, a ghost of a small passing his lips when you shudder. You’re pulling up the duvet, ceasing his touch while a trace of you wishes it hadn’t. 

You can’t see any hint of amusement leave his features. The dim of his eyes and the stutter of his heart. He swallows, subconsciously shuffling nearer. The need to be close growing tenfold. 

“Lovely, will you look at me?” Lockwood can’t help but cringe at how desperate it sounds. Whispered, rushed, fragile. Every indication he cares much more than he’s used to. 

He almost wishes he had’t asked. Dread consuming him when you turn to face him, tear stained cheeks and blotchy eyes. Lashes stuck together with moisture, blinking slow and strained. “Darling.” Is all he can manage, wounded and hushed. It makes you want to cry even more. 

“Why can’t you see I’m worried about you?” You croak out, voice strained and scratchy. His knuckles brush the moisture from under your eyes, brows furrowed with an expression you can’t quite read. 

“I do.” He wets his lips, “I see that.” An implication of I see you and I’m sorry. He’s never been good at apologies, but this time you need one. You need something, anything more than the breadcrumbs he drops. The urge to invite him in plagues your mind, broken expression tugging at your heart strings. You know better than to brush this one off, it’ll only have the same conflict arising again and lead to resentment. The realization reforms the burning lump in your throat, vision blurring with fresh tears. 

“I just-we need space.” Don’t we? Lockwood rears back, mustering up resolve he doesn’t have. You don’t mean indefinitely, you don’t mean a breakup, he knows that. Doesn’t make the words burn any less. 

“Okay, fine then.” If that’s what you really want.

He’s grabbing the dog-eared magazine at your bedside before you can say anything else. He hesitates at the door knob, begging to force himself to turn around and plead. Anthony Lockwood’s ego is somewhere near the sun, but its no match for how he feels about you. 

*******

You know when you suddenly become conscious of blinking? And it starts to feel a little odd, manual instead of automatic? You can almost forget what it was like to not have to consciously do it...

Breathing is kind of like that too

At least, that’s what Lockwood thinks when he’s sure he’s suffocating. 

His heart thrums so roughly against his chest he’s sure it’ll burst. He wonders who’d find him, huddled in the corner of the library. Cold and lifeless. He must be trembling, it feels as though the whole ground is vibrating, or-sinking. Swallowing him entirely. 

Then there was the pounding. His head, yes. There’s a dull throbbing at the base of his skull. But this is different. A rhythmic thumping approaching. Closing in on him, eager to push him into the sinking floor to meet his imminent demise. 

You’re in the kitchen. Leaning over the sink, eyes trained on the tap filling up your glass. The bed feels empty without him. And sure, you’d probably sent a clear ‘fuck off to the couch’ message with your latest conversation...But it hadn’t made falling asleep without him any easier. 

You’re taking a deep breath in, preparing for a right pitiful sigh when you hear it. Some sort of squeaking. Your head cocks to the side, discarding the glass in search of its origin. Surely one of the sources wasn’t acting up, that’d be right terrifying when you’re alone. It leads you toward the study, louder and more frequent as you draw closer. 

It’s when you cross the threshold do you see him. Tall frame curled into the corner as hiccuped gasps rack his frame. 

He scoots impossibly closer to the wall as you approach. Dropping to your knees and lifting his face to study him. A foreign sheen of panic clouds over his eyes, sending your stomach turning. 

“Anthony, it’s me. I’m here, I’m right here.” 

You’ve coached him through as many panic attacks as he’s allowed throughout the years. The first time, in academy, you were sure he was choking. A plate of biscuits strewn over the floor as he gasped for breath. 

They’re unpredictable, no matter how many times you’ve handled them. He needs something different almost every time to snap him out of it. Though it’s mostly physical touch. 

“C-cant breathe.” Your boot thumps as you draw closer, eliciting another wince from him. Clutching into the fabric of his shirt as if trying to pull it free. You undo his tie and the first couple buttons, grabbing at the sides of his face in a desperate attempt to get him to focus on you. 

“Anthony please, listen to me. I’m going to try something. If you don’t like it you just push at me, alright?” A curt, gasping nod in understanding before you’re enveloping him in an embrace. Squeezing so tight you can feel his panicked heart thrumming against your chest. It makes you want to cry and scream and hold him even tighter. Willing his pain away with all of your might. 

It’s not working this time ‘round. He can’t seem to collect himself despite your efforts. You pull away, fearing your persistence will only send him further spiraling. But he’s tugging you to him again. Arms tight around your waist as he buries himself into your neck. 

“Dont. D-don’t go. Don’t leave.” The usual cool and collected tone is manipulated to something unrecognizable. Rasped and unsure. 

It’s then you remember the look in his eyes when you’d dismissed him. The abandonment he’s feared his entire life. The little boy who forced himself to stay awake all those lonely nights, just in case he heard the lock turn and the front door open to bring them home. His adamant refusal to ignore your connection for years in lieu of protecting his broken heart. 

“Hey, look at me.” You’re pulling him back by the sides of his hide, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Lockwood, I’m not going anywhere. Doesn’t matter how angry I am,” you wince when he hiccups a sob. “Doesn’t matter how much you try to push me away.” He shakes his head, something short of a disbelieving chuckle passing his trembling lips. “I’m not leaving. I’m staying right here. With you, always. You understand?” He manages to nod, an inkling of solace flashing across his form.

“Just breathe, Anthony. In…and hold…and out” 

Your words sound a mantra in his mind. Your scent flooding his senses, skin on his bringing him back to reality. A morsel of relief prodding its way in as you caress the sides of his face and up into his hair. 

“I’m sorry.” He swallows, focusing on formulating the words. “I know I haven’t said it. Never say it enough.” Shaky arms wrap tighter around your waist, keeping you close. Afraid you’ll disappear despite your affirmations. 

“Consider yourself forgiven.” You bite back a smile when the tension unknowingly spills out of his body. Frame drooping with undoubted relief at the simple words. “I love you. Even when you’re a right prick.” 

“I know.” He pulls you so you’re between his legs. Your back against his bent appendage and your own pair over his other outstretched one. Right side of your body pressing against his chest. You try to push away, unable to fight his affections off despite his weakened state. 

“See? Right prick, you are.” 

“Shush. You know bloody well I love you.” He presses a kiss to your temple, smoothing over your hair and gaging your reaction. Still catching his breath from before. “I know I don’t say that enough either.” He’s quiet then, brown eyes looking to yours with such sincerity your breath catches in your throat. “I’d do anything for you, you know that.” 

“That’s sort of what I’m afraid of, if you don’t recall.” You’re both solemn then. Your fingers intertwining with his in a familiar dance. He can only hum, swallowing thickly. 

“What if,” his eyes rake your frame. Studying you again. “What if you came along the next assignment?” You light up at that, searching his features for jest. 

“Really?”

“Just outside. Making sure we’re all alright. And I don’t go off getting myself killed.”

“But-” 

“Dove.” The nobility in his tone finds him again. A subtle warning. “This is me. Anthony Lockwood, attempting a compromise.” You bite back an abashed smile at his raised brows, urging surrender. 

“Noted.” You fiddle with the cool, silver ring adorning his index finger. “I get to select the case, then.”

“Alright.” 

“And I get to intervene if things go South.” 

“Absolutely not.”

“Figured that was ambitious.” 

<Masterlist>

[jj-5656]

Okay I’m actually sick with this one. The way I realized my checks were literally hurting with how much this made me smile. This is everything 💜💜💜

sirius would always take the teasing shy!reader too far, till she’s slammed the door behind her and he’s on the other side like a little puppy

yeah 😭 he riles you up and then gets all pouty when you hide from him. I hate him (no I don’t)

shy!fem!reader 0.6k words

“Darling,” Sirius whines, fist banging on the door. “Open up.”

You don’t say anything. You’re annoyed at him. He’s been teasing you all afternoon and maybe it’s your fault for getting so flustered but he just wouldn’t stop. It was all too much and now you’ve locked yourself in his bedroom.

“Y/N, please,” Sirius begs, taking your silence in his stride. “I promise I’ll stop now, really.”

Somehow you don’t think that’s true. Somehow you think he’ll leave you be for the rest of the day and then go right back to his teasing self tomorrow.

“No,” you say quietly, not sure he can ever hear you through the door. “Leave me alone.”

Sirius groans dramatically and you think you hear his forehead thump on the door. You try not to smile at his dramatics. You fail and end up smiling anyway. You’re lucky he can’t see you, he’d poke fun for sure.

It’s not that you don’t like the teasing. It’s that you do like it. A bit too much. It makes your skin all tingly and your heart go berserk and you can’t stand him, you swear. You’d let him do it more if you thought you could handle it. You want him to do it more but you can’t handle it.

“Honeybee,” comes Sirius voice again, much quieter this time. Softer. “I’m really sorry.”

He’s buttering you up, you know, and it’s working. The pet names, the soft tone he only ever uses with you. The apology that really, he shouldn’t have to give. It makes you want to wrench the door open and kiss him on his pretty mouth.

Instead you turn the lock and open the door very slowly. Sirius straightens where he’d been moping with his forehead on the door. You open it just wide enough so he can see you.

“Sweetheart,” he says, looking one part sorry and two parts relieved. You’d think he’d kicked your dog, the way he’s looking at you. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head. “It’s okay,” you say softly. “I, um. I’m sorry. I just got …” Flustered. Shy. Sick with love.

Sirius nods vigorously. You know he can hear the words you’re not saying. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

You smile despite yourself. “Stop saying sorry. S’not your fault.”

“No, but it is,” Sirius says, insistent. “I know I take it too far sometimes. It’s mean.”

He’s undoing you with his gentle apology. So, really, it’s his fault when you blurt, “Who says I don’t like mean?”

Sirius’ eyes go wide as saucers. “What?”

Now you’ve really put your foot in it. You duck your head and stare at the floor so you don’t have to look at him. Wishing it would swallow you up. “Um,” you say.

Sirius laughs, loud and startling. “Darling,” he says through his ridiculously delighted fit of laughter, his tone near chiding.

You grumble at the floor, refusing to look at him because you know he’ll make you smile as soon as you do. You don’t want to smile. You’re embarrassed.

It takes him a while to stop laughing. It fills your ears and creeps into your chest and vibrates around your heart. You enjoy it more than you should. Especially since he’s totally laughing at you. When he’s finally done he steps into your space and hooks a finger under your chin.

“Look at me, will you?” He asks softly, smile evident in his voice. It’s more of a plea than a question. You really can’t not do what he’s asking.

You look up. Sirius beams.

“There’s my lovely girl,” he says, dripping in a fondness that almost has you shutting the door in his face again. “My lovely shy girl.”

You want to duck your head again but he’s got his fingers around your jaw, stopping you from moving.

“Can I have a hug?” He asks softly, all puppy eyes and pouting lips, and you hate him, you swear.

You let him have one anyway.

-

[jj-5656]

This is absolutely adorable and gorgeously written. I’m blushing in my bed rn I can’t🥰💜

cake — send me in a character and a prompt and i’ll write you a blurb!

sirius black + showering together for the first time? maybe?? you’re definitely super shy and he softens you up with compliments and washes your hair (and he lets you was his)

suds

summary you and sirius have your first shower togehter

content sirius black x fem!reader

note mal ur so real for this

You stand behind the curtain to Sirius's shower, still in your underwear. He waits on the other side, warming up the water for you. He'd been fine with being the first to get undressed and you really appreciate him for it.

You've been naked around each other enough times for you not to be as nervous as you'd been the first time. You've never showered with him and you're thankful you're doing it before you take it further eventually.

"You coming, baby?" he asks gently, just loud enough so he's heard over the splash of water.

You blink, eyes heavy, head even worse. Despite the nerves, you really want to get under the warm water. You take off your bra and step out of your undies and feel a little better seeing yours piled up next to his boxers. Yours blue next to his grey. It's strangely calming.

You nudge the curtain with your shoulder, hands too busy crossed over your chest, folded in on yourself when Sirius opens it up to let you in.

"Darling," Sirius says, more than elated to see you. He keeps it hidden, voice soft and gentle. He can't hide it entirely too well with his little smile and sparkling eyes. "C'mere," he says, arms open and glittery, "you'll get all cold."

Sirius ushers you under the stream and not once has he stopped looking at your face. It relaxes you more than it should and you feel almost bad about it. Sirius is allowed to look at you, you like it when he does because he always looks like he's about to crumble. You don't make it easier with your hands tucked under your armpits, but you think Sirius knows you'd rather him not look down. He knows how to pace things.

Sirius is the most patient person you know and you love him for it.

"Sorry, I took so long," you say despite yourself. You share the stream with him, almost chest to chest. Your arm nudges his chest and you almost want to apologise but you can hear his response already.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says as he touches your shoulder. His fingers drip water in places that are still half dry and you shiver. He touches you as soft as you'd expect, maybe worse. Gentle fingers against gooseflesh skin.

There's a silence. Only running water and your breathing. Sirius's feet as they squeak against the tile below the both of you when he moves. You stay still and really don't know what to say. How much does someone's shower routine change when you have to reach around the other person's hip to grab your soap? Should you ask him to move?

"Sirius," you say. You're so close you wouldn't be surprised if he felt it against his dewy cheek. "I'm so nervous."

His bottom lips juts out and despite yourself, you want to kiss it. All slippery, kind kisses that feel warmer than the water. "It's okay. You're okay."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be," you apologise.

"It's just me, yeah?" he says. You watch the water that sprays on his shoulder as it pushes his hair down and into his collarbone. He's so pretty and you're entirely silly.

You reach out to touch him and are hesitant with it. Your hand stops before you reach him.

"You can touch me lovely." You hate that he knows what you're thinking, and you hate yourself more for thinking it in the first place. You're not assuming, you shouldn't be, Sirius has his own boundaries. But, he's your boyfriend - you can touch him. Especially in the shower. It leaves no room for modesty.

"Yeah," you say, a little breathless, a lot giddy.

You reach out and trace his tattoos. Down the stem of a pretty, inky flower - the points of a group of stars. Sirius grabs you by the hips as you do so and it startles you how much you like it. How much you want him to pull you closer.

He tucks his head down to watch you with the prettiest smile he's ever given you. He's enraptured. It melts his silly little heart to watch himself make you so calm.

"Can I wash your hair, baby?" he asks, selfishly he might add.

You look back at him, embarrassed at your glossed-over eyes and the nibbled lip you'd tucked between your teeth. "Would you want to do that?"

Sirius seems like he's been burned. His eyes widen and he squeezes you harder by the hips. "Of course, I would," he laughs.

You reach up and hold him by the cheeks. Water rushes down your hands and your elbows into heavier streams that point towards your thighs. "Can I wash yours first?" you ask and push it behind his ears in soaked strands.

"Yeah?" he says, more excited than you're expecting.

You stare into his eyes, soft blue until it bleeds out into a sparkling grey that makes you feel weak. His heavy eyelashes that clump up under the water that drips from his hair. "Yeah," you smile.

He grins back, much worse than yours, and reaches down for your shampoo to hand to you. "Be gentle, yeah?"

You roll your eyes and squeeze a bunch into your open palm. He stares at you as you work it through his hair and you squirm under his gaze. You know he's aware of his effect on you. He smiles and has to bite it back. You stare at his scalp and pretend you're too busy to look him in the eye.

"Stop staring at me," you say, shy laughter hot in your throat.

He leans his cheek on your arm where you've got it next to his head. "I don't think I will," he smiles, the chub of his cheek slips against your skin as he goes.

"Stop," you say and don't mean It

"No," he says seriously. "No, I'll only stop when you stop being so fucking gorgeous."

"Sirius."

"Really," he laughs now.

"No."

"You're fucking amazing." He's so genuine about it, you wish you weren't trapped in your tiny studio apartment shower.

"Tilt your head back," you say instead of what you want to. Something like Sirius, if you don't stop I'm going to pass out right here in the shower.

"Beautiful."

You tilt his head under the water before he can wax poetic any longer. He laughs and his mouth fills with water. He splutters and scrunches his eyes shut, face bright with boyish glee. You think he might spit it out at you but he lets it dribble out and down his chin - much to your delight. It's daunting how pretty he looks as he does it. Suddy face and hair in his eyes.

"All right," he says, pushing his hair from his face. "Turn around, it's my go."

"Be gentle, please, Sirius," you say, and tilt your head up.

Sirius groans from the back of his throat. "God, honey, when you say it like that, I'd be an ass not to, huh?"

[jj-5656]

Hi love, I saw your requests were open and I was wondering if you’d be open to writing a Tangerine fic where he finds out the reader has a crush on him by the way she reacts to his words/pet names & he decides to tell her he feels the same?😭

A/N: OKOKOK I love what you've done here. I was at work when I read this and it sparked an entire idea. I'm thinking this'll be a blurb, though knowing me it'll be an entire story. (Update; did in fact become an entire story.) I did stray a bit from what you asked and I hope that’s alright. Enjoy!

Warnings: Mentions and descriptions of violence, sexual harassment

Summary: Boxer! Tangerine seems to sense his effect on you, and has become increasingly impatient with the gym's creepy regular. (Character are in their 20s btw)

You're re-racking weights when the unwarranted approach occurs.

Spending the summer months working at your Uncle's boxing gym has been a sort of tradition. You practically grew up here. Relishing in the three months spent at his and your Aunt's brownstone since you were in highschool. As the final year of college approaches, the familiar smell of sweat and sound of victimized punching bags was honestly welcoming.

"Need a little help with those, hun?" You tense at the unsurprisingly patronizing tone, facing the stranger who pretends to have not been caught checking you out with a wry smile.

"I've got it. Thanks." You offer your most forced customer service voice, eyes scanning the room for a female comrade or coworker. Unfortunately, the lot of your customers are mid-set, headphones in.

"Awe c'mon." Despite your frame's obvious tensing, the man reaches across and takes the dumbell from your grasp. "They're making you do all the heavy lifting 'round here?"

"Hardly that strenuous." You can't even try to conceal your disdain, though he laughs as if the irritated furrowing of your brows is in jest.

"Didn't know they had such good looking staff round here. I usually go to Golds, but this just might be my new spot." You try not to audibly cringe at the confession. Any half-wit could have guessed this piece of shit regulared Golds.

"Right. I should get back to it, then." You're halfway through turning away to head across the building to find another task when he takes hold of your forearm. Instantly, you're facing him with a deadly expression. Sparing any and all commonalities as you rip your arm from his grasp.

"Easy there." He chuckles as if you're vehemently overreacting in response to a complete fucking stranger touching you. "Maybe I could grab your number? Get a friendly discount on a new membership?"

"They'd be more than happy to help you with that at the front desk."

"For personal reasons, then?" You take a step back when he leans closer, as if the presumptuous prospect is anything less than appalling. Small gasp escaping your lips when your back makes contact with something solid.

"Oi, sorry for the sneak up." You don't even have to turn around before you recognize the voice. The boxer your Uncle introduced you to last summer. A regular at the gym, with an esteemed reputation for winning. You've talked maybe a handful of times, though you've fawned over him with just about half of your coworkers.

Tangerine's at least head taller than you, taking a step back to give you more space. Giving the man behind you a curt head nod before looking to you again, smiling as if he's known you the better half of his life.

"Hate to bother you, love. Locker won't open again, if you can believe it. Bloody thing's been a right pain for the longest time." You catch on immediately, eyes offering a silent load of gratitude as you nod.

"Right. I've been meaning to change it for you." You face the shorter man adorning a buzz cut and obnoxiously small cut-off tee with a tight-lipped smile. "Duty calls. See you around-"

"Mike." He answers, though you hadn't asked. "You'll see me soon."

"Looking forward to it, mate." Tangerine sounds less than pleased, staring the man down with unbridled disgust before side-stepping and allowing you to pass. The pair of you headed toward the lockers on the far side of the gym.

"Jesus Christ, sorry about that." You run a hand down your face, missing his displeased expression.

"What are you sorry for? Could sense the twat a mile away." You can't help but laugh, eyes meeting his for only a moment before you're turning your attention elsewhere.

"Seriously though. Thank you." The pair of you stopping when you're far enough to be out of the asshole's eye-shot.

"Don't mention it, love. Honestly." He shrugs, head cocking when you tense at something he's said. Though you don't seem uncomfortable. "It's y/n, isn't it?" You nod, feeling like a elementary schooler when your skin heats at his recognition.

"Yes. Yeah. And it's Tangerine, right?" Hopeful to come off inconspicuous. He nods too, ghost of a smile crossing his face again.

"Right. You must be one of the only people I've met where the 'like the fruit' question didn't immediately follow my introduction." This has you laughing again, and Tangerine decides just then he's quite fond of the small triumph.

"But it is..." You can barely conceal the smirk as you tease. "Like the fruit, isn't it?"

He rolls his eyes, surprising even himself with how much he's entertained by the jest in your tone. "Hilarious, darling. I can see why they keep you around." He senses it again, the succinct tightening in your frame at something he's said. Though you collect yourself as soon as it starts. "I'll see you round, then?"

"I'll be here." You cringe at the corny reply, though the brunette seems to be preoccupied in thought to notice.

"Y/n." It grabs your full attention immediately. Spinning on your heel to face him again. "If he bothers you again..." He trails off to gauge your reaction. "Or any bloke, for that matter. You just come get me, yeah? I'm here more often than not, and it'd never be a bother." Too forward, he thinks. Just as assuming as any creepy twat in this place.

Though you're smiling. Soft and genuinely pleased with the gesture.

"I will, thank you."

***

You're acquaintances from then on. Friends, even. Tan insists on walking you to your car the nights you close up. Greets you each morning despite his grumpy exterior.

The small gestures have granted a practical scandal between your coworkers. Teasing after he exits a room and crowding around to scrounge any and all details of your interactions. You brush them off, optimism is too much an ego killer and distraction for you to allow.

You're re-racking weights when the much-wanted approach occurs.

"Have you ever sparred before?" You hadn't been expecting it, muffling a squeal when your startled form warrants the weight pinching the skin of your forefinger. You grasp it instantly, offering a sweet smile despite the oncoming pain.

"Alright?" He reaches toward you, halting instantly when you shrink.

"Fine. Totally fine." Despite having totally embarrassed yourself.

"I'm sure that hurt, darling." He feigns amusement, despite concern overcoming him. Jesse passes, a particularly obvious shit-eating grin across her face as she mouths 'darling' in your peripheral. Your skin flushes tenfold.

He insists, taking gentle hold of your wrist and inspecting the injury in a horrifying display of softness. It must surprise even him, as he lets go as soon as he's sure no skin has been broken.

"You were saying something." It's a feeble attempt to redirect this humiliating encounter.

"Yes, right." He straightens, gathering his usual brooding demeanor. "Have you ever sparred before?"

You scoff at the prospect, not unkind. "My Uncle's ensured I'm familiar with the basics, sort of unavoidable all these years. Though I haven't really done any more than that."

"We could." He fumbles, suddenly unsure. "I mean, I could show you a few things. If you like." You cock your head, ghost of a smile passing your lips as your brows raise.

"A gym full of professional fighters and you’d prefer me?”

"Coach says if I do a bit of instructing, it might help me hone in on the basics. That my form gets sloppy when i get too..." He searches for the right wording in place of 'frenzied and enraged' as coach had put it. "Enthusiastic."

You laugh, finishing up your task whilst weighing your options. Unable to stop yourself from speaking your mind.

"Why me, though? I mean, there's plenty of other people here with actual experience." Luckily, he doesn't take the brutal honesty as impolite. Knowing you well enough by now to read your tone.

"Truth is, he says I'm insufferably impatient. You're not...I don't-" A deep sigh escapes him. "I find myself considerably less so with you around." He's unsure where he's typically confident. Fumbling over words like a fucking schoolboy. It's infuriating. "And besides, this might provide both of us peace of mind." Unknowingly, his gaze flickers to the one time asshole turned regular. Obnoxious grunts escaping him as he completes a set. (Half of Tan's usual weight, though whose counting.)

"Let me clock out, then. And please, spare me a black eye over my lunch break."

***

"Your stance is off again. Feet shoulders width apart, remember?"

"Hardly. I thought you said it was a right left left right combo?"

"Left right right, dodge, left." His brows furrow when you throw an ill-executed punch into his chest. Barely phased. "And put some strength behind it, will you?"

"Figured you'd want me to go easy on you-" A small umph escaping your lips when you're suddenly on your ass. Dizzied with the speed of his gentle sweep of your legs.

Tan crouches down, much too cocky for your liking. "You were saying?"

"Fuck off." Your scrambling up again, evading his bright eyes and other disgustingly handsome features.

"Attagirl, just the attitude I'm looking for." You stutter in place, swallowing hard. Skin singing with heat at the platitude. He nudges your shoulder with his glove, even more self-satisfied as he takes in you in. "Something I said?"

"Have you been reminded of your brooding arrogance lately?"

"Not until now, no." He clutches his chest, wounded. You take the opportunity to aim a much harder punch to his shoulder. He's quick to block, knocking your arm with his own and landing an intentionally weak hit to your waist. "Oi, that was a good one! There was strength that time."

"Don't patronize me, asshole." You hold a hand up to signal a pause. Ridding yourself of the oversized gloves to redo your updo. Considering all the activity, unruly strands and other flyaways have begun sticking to your skin. Tan opens his mouth for another witty remark when his bright gaze turns colder. All amusement escaping him as a wolf whistle pierces through the sound of weights racking.

Of course, the tosser from before ogles as you complete the final twists at your hair tie. Hands on his hips as he looks up at the pair of you in the ring.

"Would have asked to go a few rounds with you ages ago, sweetheart. Had I known you were interested."

You feel bold. Partly because you're so fed up with this prick, partly because of the fuming man behind you. "Would you please take a hint and fuck off, Mark?"

"It's Mike."

"Riveting. Get lost." The amused man whistles again, looking around for support from the other gym rats. Who collectively take one look at the boxer behind you, and quietly go back to their workouts.

"Like to take 5, love?" Tan tears at the velcro around his wrists, swiftly discarding his gloves.

"No. Im good, let's keep going." He only shakes his head, holding up a 5 in your direction before he reaches toward his bag. Beginning to tape his knuckles. "Oi, dickhead." Of course, Mike turns his head in the fighter's direction. "Care to go a couple rounds?"

"Listen man, just letting the chick know I'm appreciating what I see." Tan clicks his tongue, freshly wrapped fists clenching tight at his sides.

"See, where I come from, that type of talk about women gets your ass beat, man." There's an evident mockery of his American accent at the nickname. The dig draws the attention of some of the other fighters, ceasing their training to watch the scene unfold.

"Alright," Mike beams brightly at the prospect of a challenge. "Let's see what you got, pretty boy."

"This is ridiculous." You cross your arms over your chest, unappreciative of the testosterone battle.

"Nonsense, sweetheart. How about we make this a little more interesting? Say...Winner takes you on a date? Been dying to get to know you more." He bites his lip as his eyes rake over your body, making a show of his obscene behavior.

An ear-piercing smacking sounds throughout the building. The fabric of Tan's gloves colliding together. Oddly enough, he's gone silent. Practically seething. Without speaking, he closes the space between you. Striking blue eyes boring into yours. A silent plea for permission. Your gaze averts to the other gym-attendees, awaiting what's to come next eagerly. Some amused with Mike's advances, others paying close attention to the enraged man in front of you.

"Knock his fucking teeth out." It's for only Tan to hear, exiting the ring as soon as he lifts the rope for you.

"Game on, then." Mike rolls his his head side to side, calling over one of his buddies to play cornermen. "Sweetheart," he addresses with another sickening smirk. "You wear something pretty tonight, yeah? Show off those legs."

"Shut your fucking mouth and get in the ring, fuckin' tosser." At that, anyone who hadn't been paying attention is fully invested now. surrounding the platform and talking amongst one another. A few even exchanging bets.

Your fight-hungry coworker, Santos, is more than happy to referee. Eagerly instructing the two men to touch gloves and begin.

Mike's fast, undoubtedly. He dodges initial advances from Tan with a self-satisfied chuckle. Dancing around the ring to taunt his opponent. Tangerine's eyes never leave him, muscles taught with adrenaline and anger.

He reminds himself to be focused. Utilize his techniques but dependent on his instincts. Where Mike makes up in speed, he lacks in fundamental skill. His form is sloppy with narcissism and inconsistency.

Realistically, Tangerine could knock him the fuck out right now. But would that be nearly as fun?

Instead, he taunts the misogynistic prick. Beckoning advances, dodging, and landing sharp hits to his midsection. Sure enough to leave a multitude of bruises for weeks to come. Any amateur can notice the shift in the spar instantly. It's turned from a 50/50 to an imminent defeat. Mike's losing wind, taking punches like it's his day job and growing more frustrated each time.

Tan's having a blast, mouthpiece revealed with his unconcealable grin. This is feeding his ego more than he'd like to admit. It's why he can only laugh when Mike does what any exhausted fighter facing loss would do. Grapples onto his opponent and holds til Santos calls break.

"You gonna let him out of his misery now, or should I grab a stool?" Tan's got the same devilish grin as before. Reveling at the sight of Mike's spit, full of crimson blood.

"Now where's the fun in that, Dove? I've only just started." He accepts the water you offer swiftly, eager to get back to it. He's almost frenzied with adrenaline, sweat trickling down his toned skin in steady streams. Veins prominent with the activity. The brunette dips his head down to meet your wandering gaze, eyes twinkling with playful arrogance. "Have I lost you, love? Isn't the cornermen supposed to be keeping me with it?" You hope you don't look as flushed as you feel, though his grin suggests otherwise.

"You seem to be doing just fine without me." You press at a reopened cut in his brow, frowning when the pressure does little to cease the flow of blood.

"That's where you're wrong, love." He rolls his shoulders, tossing a curt nod to Santos at his five second warning. "Much easier winning when you have something to fight for." He's silenced when you force the guard back into his mouth. Brows narrowed in playful disdain despite the wink he sends your way, turning round and facing the center of the ring once more.

They tap gloves for the second time and Santos counts them in.

Mike's on the floor before anyone has a chance to register it.

There's only a beat of silence before the gym erupts in cheers. Astonished at the immediate knockout. Tan ignores it, smug attitude escaping him as soon as Mike comes to. He rips his glove from his hand so he can grab the man's jaw, yanking his gaze away from your direction. Santos is unable to pull him off as Tangerine pushes his face less than an inch from his dazed opponent, eyes full of a fierce sincerity as he mutters something unintelligible to Mike.

With a bare-fisted punch to the mat just beside the pricks' face, Tan is backing off and headed toward you. Casually leaning against the ropes as a couple more bystanders flood in to carry Mike out of the ring.

"Threaten his bloodline, Rocky?"

"Something like that. Let's just say he probably won't be training here for the foreseeable future."

Tagging ppl who seemed to like my last one: @ilovetangerinewithallmyheart @ilovelotsoffandoms @wee-little-mouse @blueallover @dontknownameauthor @stevesharrlngtons @

[jj-5656]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

You and James have found more than friendship on the ice. When you’re afraid to flub a jump and take the leap with him into something more, he finds a way to convince you. [4k]

hockey player!james, figure skater!reader, shy!reader, fem!reader, fluff, friends to lovers, mutual pining, confessions, first kiss, idiots in love, james is tall pretty and extremely in love, sometimes shy!james <3 requested here 

･:*:｡･:*:･ﾟ

You're used to the skin tight costumes of figure skating, and have accepted the fact that they show the entirety of your thighs— that's sort of the point. What you're not used to, however, is having the hockey team see you in said costumes.

James is thrilled. "Look at you, angel! You're in costume!"

He holds the sides of the rink in his hands, leaning his weight toward the ice. You wrap your arms around yourself self-consciously. 

"I was hoping you wouldn't see me," you admit, though you can't help smiling at him anyhow. 

You're usually very happy to bump into him, and your body reacts like it's been conditioned to. James leads to good feelings. 

"I bet you were," he says. 

James reaches out for you, and you skate to the end of the rink despite yourself. He doesn't touch you when you're close, you weren't really expecting him to, only inclines his head inward to tell you something quietly, all secretive like. 

"Your skirt’s tucked in a little bit. On the left," he says. 

"Oh, how," you grumble, twisting your torso to try and see what he means. A leaf of your skirt has managed to fold itself into the fabric that covers your butt. "That's so embarrassing." 

You were likely trying to unstick a slight wedgie when it happened. It's mortifying, but James probably doesn't know how it happened… probably. You yank the skirt out and hope he can't read what you're thinking off of your face. 

"Thanks, James," you say quietly. 

You say his name with altogether too much affection, considering you're friends. Acquaintances, even. You know James within these walls and nowhere else, like work colleagues, and you'd die if he knew how close you felt to him. In fairness, you both spend the majority of your free time within these walls, but still. 

He's probably the best friend that you have. Which is pathetic. But between skating and your nervous disposition, this is as good as it was ever going to get. And you don't mind. 

All of the time. 

"You're welcome. If I knew we were dressing up today, I would've worn something nice." He has his jogging bottoms on and not his big bulky kit. You try not to stare at the more tight-fitting form of his hoodie sleeves, but it's hard. His biceps are ridiculous. "Are you staying?" 

Sometimes, if the boys are practising you'll stay. It's free entertainment — and it is incredibly entertaining to watch. James and his friends are a semi-professional team, which means they're a mixture of good and fun. They play because they love it, and they all have their night jobs to go back to after. It makes it easier for you and James to get along: you're semi-professional too. You're never going to the Olympics, you know that. You skate because you love it. 

There's a clock steadily ticking down on your skills. Every year you get older, heavier, a little more inflexible. The more intense sportsmen and women fight this, revile this, but you've accepted it completely. Skating is for fun. The competitions are to see how far you can go, and it sucks to lose, but the chance that you might win means you keep trying. 

If James and his friends are doing laps, it's a mock punishment from their coach. In half an hour they'll be playing a friendly match against one another like nothing happened. 

"I have to go take this off but… yeah, I'll stay. Is Sirius here today?" 

James leans back and you follow his turned gaze to a lean figure across the way. As soon as you spot him, your ears tune in to his raucous laughter. 

"You won't let him see me, will you?" you ask gently. "He'll never let me hear the end of it."  

James shakes his head. "Of course not. I'll go distract him, alright? You run away." 

You give him a very grateful nod. James turns away. You almost miss it, the double take that he does, like he wants one last look. 

You skate off to the other side of the ice where your skate guards, water bottle and hoodie sit waiting. The guards snap on easily. You throw your hoodie over your arm and make a break for the changing rooms, Sirius’ incredulous voice tailing your retreat at the last second. 

Once you've changed out of your costume and packed it away neatly in your locker, you walk back to the main auditorium, freaking out as gently as you're able to. You keep having conniptions about James, because James keeps looking at you like he has something to say. You've never been the object of a pretty boy's affections. You're worried that it's all in your head, and that you'll make a fool of yourself if you try to flirt back, but his face when he'd seen you in your costume gives you a terrifying new confidence. 

James had been ecstatic. His eyes had roved all over you and he hadn't tried to hide it. His smile was huge and one hundred percent genuine: appreciative. Like he couldn't be happier to see you. 

Is it wrong, then, to assume he likes you? No. You’ve known for a while. 

"Oof," you mutter to yourself, stepping back into the general chill of the rink and its surrounding stands. 

As you predicted, laps are over and the boys are in the thick of it, protection on, sticks shivering across ice with a sound like sharp blades. You stand behind a plexiglass screen and follow James' darting figure from afar. He's recognisable to you from the way he pulls back his arms, and the slight lean of his torso when he's standing still. You've spent too much time watching him. 

Too much time, and yet the rules are still complicated in your mind. James and Sirius are arguing with Frank on the opposite side about icing, passionate enough that James pulls his helmet off and begins throwing threats at his friends. 

"Mate, I'm actually about to drown myself," he warns, laughing through each word. "Are you listening to me? Take the penalty before I scream. Good god, man." 

You laugh. James' head almost snaps clean off his neck with the speed at which he turns to look at you. 

Sirius' head follows. 

"Hey!" Sirius calls immediately, abandoning his skirmish to skate towards you. "What the fuck! I wanted to see the dress, you let James see it! Go put it back on right now." 

"How'd you even know I was in a dress?" 

"How did I know? James lit up like a Christmas tree, that's how I know. He's disgusting all the time and it's your fault." 

"It's not really a dress," you say. Sirius is as nice as James but he's intimidating where James isn't. He's less smiles, more barking laughter. Less compliments, more playful chastisement. It's not his fault in any shape or form that you find his personality hard to respond to, but you do. "It's a bodysuit with a skirt. But sometimes… sometimes the girls do wear dresses."

"Yeah? I think he might pass out," Sirius says. Then, with a neater smile. "He told me to be nicer, I didn't know I was being mean, sorry. I really do wanna see your 'bodysuit with a skirt'. A little to make fun, but I bet you look good." 

James sweeps in and promptly knocks Sirius sliding sideways. "She looked amazing, now stop antagonising her." 

"I wasn't flirting, Jamie, no need to worry–" 

"Be gone, you beast." James' voice is tight with an emotion you can't name, lest you have another ruinous conniption for all to see. "Fuck off." 

Sirius snorts. There's a commotion, their unprofessional coach shouting about idiocy, a lack of commitment, and more laps if there isn't an improvement in team cohesion. James rolls his eyes at you as the coach drones on. You feel guilty for giggling. 

"Sorry for Sirius." James puts his hand on the top of his stick, bottom lip sticking out a touch as he grimaces. "Sorry for me, I'm sorry. I was hoping he'd use, like, a modicum of subtlety, but he's a dickhead and I know that. He's also a sweetheart. I should've guessed he'd rush to apologise." 

"No, don't be. He doesn't need to be sorry for anything, and you don't have to be sorry for looking out for me." 

"I'm not. Definitely not sorry for that." 

James pushes a curl behind his ear. His hair is lusciously shiny under stadium lights, dark dark dark and curled, sweet and thick. 

"You're in trouble." 

James looks over his shoulder toward his coach's booming disbelief. "What, with him? We're in the off-season right now, he needs to relax… I'm sorry, I feel like I'm not talking like a real human being right now." He laughs, awkward and charming at once. "Do I sound weird to you? Don't answer, that'll make it worse," he adds, his voice dipping into a genuine sadness. "Awful. Well, I'm going back over there to finish. Can you stay?" 

Not do you want to. Can you? It feels incredibly intimate, his easy assumption without a lick of expectancy. If you said no, he'd frown and throw his chest back, hand over his heart like he's been shot in one of his dramatics, but he’d understand.

"I'm staying," you say. 

"Brilliant. Okay." 

James Potter visibly flusters, tucking that same rogue curl behind his ear. You want to offer him something, a tight braid or one of your headbands from your bag. He skates off and you don't get the chance. 

You're a vestibule of conflicted emotion. James has been acting so unlike himself lately. He's shy at odd moments and quick to fluster, scratching at his neck or his biceps or his nose in what you've identified as his nervous tic. And you might be shy yourself but you're not stupid, he's practically a mirror.

Knowing James has a crush on you and accepting it are wildly different tasks.

What if you date and he realises it's a mistake? You'll lose your only good friend. No more practices with James on the sidelines shouting stories across the rink for you to hear. No more pep-talks on hard days, a big hand on your shoulder and his lilting superlatives in your ear. You're going to smash it, shortcake. No more half sandwiches when he forgets his lunch. No more laughing until your stomach hurts. No more of his cologne lignering on your shirt from a quick hug, the smell indescribable even now. Sandalwood? Dewberry? Something sweeter, fuller, bourbon vanilla?

James clatter off of the ice after a tremendous loss with high spirits. His helmet under his arm, mouth guard in hand, he walks on his skates to your bench and sits down with a smile. “That sucked.”

"It was a good game," you say. 

"Can't win them all. You going home now?" 

"Work. Gotta work my arms out too," you joke weakly, curling your arm inward. 

"Can I walk you? I can change quickly." 

"You don't have to–" 

"Please?" he asks. 

"Yeah," you say, feeling sick. "Yeah, okay." 

James guards up and leaves for the changing room. You sit on the bench tapping your knees together, wondering why it feels so awful to like him so much. Sirius and some other friends pack up soon afterward, and a few of them are nice enough to say goodbye as they pass. 

"See you tomorrow," Sirius says warmly. 

You grimace at him. You'd been attempting a smile, but that hadn't really panned out, meekness and nerves combined pulling the corners of your lips down. 

He wavers. 

"You know," he says, paused half a foot from you, "James is a big boy, he can handle rejection. He wouldn't be cruel to you, if you weren't interested." 

"That's not it." 

"No?" he asks, slim eyebrows raised. 

"It's the opposite of that. He's my friend." You admit it to yourself as you admit it to him. James is not an acquaintance. "Do you know what I mean? I don't want…" to lose him. 

Sirius nods. "You won't." His teeth flash as he smiles goodbye. 

James looks gorgeous when he emerges, his brown face framed by thick, dark hair, the strands closest to his face damp from a quick face wash. 

"You could put your hair up," you say, standing. "It's getting so long now." 

"Is it awful?" he asks, hand moving to the longest pieces at his neck. It's above his shoulder, but only just. 

"No… no, it's not awful." 

You both start walking towards the exit without another word. You should've said how you really feel about his hair —how it's gorgeous, and you'd like to run your hands through it, feel the softness for yourself and see the look on his face as he's touched with care— but you're worried one thread of honestly will pull at the rest, unspooling your innermost thoughts for him to see. You aren't ready for that. 

James puts a hand behind your shoulder as you pass out of the exterior glass doors and into the street. The rink isn't far from your work, only a ten minute walk, and the first two pass in silence. 

"You really looked lovely, in your costume. When is that, the competition?" 

"A week and two days." 

"Are you travelling?" 

You nod. "Not far, but." You wrap your arms around your front to stave off the cool chill of the whipping breeze. James' hair gets pushed into his eyes. "I have a bobble if you want it." 

"I can't do anything with it. It's not long enough for a ponytail, and I can't plait to save my life. I wouldn't know where to start." 

You're glad to be looking at the pavement in front of you rather than his face as you say, "I'd do it for you, but…" 

James' shoe hits a pebble. 

"I know," he says. "We're going down a one way street." 

"Right." Your heart soars, your chest lightens, so glad he understands where you're coming from. "If we keep going on like this there isn't a way to move back if it doesn't work, and I just… don't want to lose you. I can't, James. You're my– you're my only real friend. I like you," you confess, heart pounding in your throat, under your tongue, all the worst places it could stand to be. "I do. And I know you'd still be nice to me if I didn't. Um…" 

You flush with heat, realising what you've admitted, and what he hasn't. 

Like he can read it on your face, James' walking slows, and he turns in to face you.

"I like you, too," he says. "I'm a bit mad for you, actually." 

You'd known that. Hearing it is something else. You hadn't realised how strong the pull would feel after he said it aloud. You look up from his broad chest to meet his eyes, and see the magnetism you feel reflected in his gaze. His hand breeches the gap between your two bodies first, his fingertips and then the flat of his nails smooth as they slide across the top of your thigh. Careful, slow. 

James puts his hand on your waist. 

"You're worried we won't be friends, if we try to make whatever this is," —he smiles gently— "work, and we can't."

"Exactly. I… you're…" 

James takes your upper arm into his free hand. "I promise it will work," he murmurs. He looks at you with a steadiness bordering on stern. "Why are you so sure it won't?" 

"I'm worried," you say. 

"You're always worrying. But…” His hand flexes around your bicep. “You told me before, the reason you keep skating in competitions even though you don't win many anymore, do you remember that? You said you keep trying because the thrill of almost winning is nearly as good as the real thing." 

James' smile turns sheepish. "I'm supposed to say that I don't know if this will work. That the thrill of almost making it together will be worth it if we don't, but I already promised you we will." He leans in a little. You don't think he means to. "And won't that feel better than almost?" 

You look up into his handsome face, feeling your heart reach flat out, might as well be running full tilt speeds of beating. Your breath catches. 

"I don't want to end up alone," you confess on an exhale. 

"You won't. I'll make sure you won't." 

Wind curls his hair into his eyes. 

You reach out, your shaking index finger skirting over his brow bone as you tuck the runaway strand behind his ear. 

His grip grows tighter at your waist. Never cruel, but insistent, desperate almost, in the way that his thumb shudders across your hoodie. You can’t feel his skin over the thick layer of cotton and polyester but you can feel the heat, like a star blistered against your hip bone, like a begging wish. You want him to touch you more than you can stand — you’re pleading with him in your head to do what you can’t do. 

It must show in your eyes, the pained pinch of your brow. 

“We’ll take things slowly,” he says. “We won’t do anything we can’t undo. All you have to do is trust me. If… if you want to.”

You lick your lips. Taking things slowly. You can’t kiss him, can’t trick yourself into the gratification of having someone so darlingly gorgeous put his hands on you. If he kisses you now, you’ll forget all the reasons why this is a bad idea. You won’t be able to test the waters. If you kiss him, you can’t take it back. For either of you. 

James’ hand smooths down the length of your hip as he pulls it back. The other falls toward your hand. Your mourn the loss of his touch, but he’s offering you his hand, his long fingers separated, gaps waiting to be filled. 

“Slowly,” you say, putting your hand in his. 

He gives your joined hands an experimental squeeze. “We’ve all the time in the world.”

James starts walking back the way you came, pulling you with him down the road.

“James, where are we?”

“I told you. We went down a one way street by accident. Or, I tried to tell you, but you started talking.” His smile says he knows exactly what’s happened, the nature of your misunderstanding. “You were distracted.”

You’ve confessed on the basis of a misunderstanding. “This is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me,” you utter.

James swings your hand lightly. 

“And the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says. “Since you’ll be late now anyhow, maybe we could go get a hot chocolate.”

You gawp at his pleased smile. What have I gotten myself into? you think. And then, louder, Wow, he looks so happy. 

—

James strangles the neck of a bulging bouquet in his hands, green stems wrapped in cellophane choked between two stressed palms, ten rigid fingers. The smell of fresh pollen and something sweeter awakens at his abuse, but James can’t make himself put them down. 

You may not care if you win or lose the competition today, but he does. He hasn’t actually ever been with you during one, and he wasn’t supposed to be here today — he had a game, and as soon as it was over he piled into Sirius’ car with his kit on and had his friend break a couple of road rules (read: not laws, but guidelines) involving trampling a garden and a precarious not u-turn. (Sirius may have broken a law or two, but they were daft laws, and James didn’t get anybody hurt.)

He knows it doesn’t matter. He said you’d take it slow, and you are. He hasn’t even kissed you yet, and he doesn’t mind nearly as much as he worried. It’s enough to know you’re his, exclusively if tenuously, that he can find you at the rink or walk you to work and not need a reason anymore, because he wants to see you, and that’s enough. He’d even taken you out on a date, a proper one after the hot chocolate, with nice clothes and wine and champagne at a weirdly intricate restaurant that served foie gras and played classical music in the background. It was cute, and James adored being able to pull out your seat, take your jacket off of your shoulders, kiss your cheek goodnight just a little further in than a friend might. 

You’ve finished the jumps in your program now, and James is relieved and gutted at once. Relieved, because they hadn’t quite scared him so much on TV, and gutted, because you look beautiful every time. It’s insane to see your body twist and turn, land and leap with that level of precision. All that's left for you to do is dance. He likes the way it looks, eyes focused on the pull and fall of your arms, how you smile, and in that last moment, where you pull your body in as tight as you can and spin until James is sure he’d see stars. 

You skate to the centre of the ice and bow to the judges, and you don’t notice James is standing there waiting for you until you’re off the ice completely. 

“Oh,” he sees you say rather than hears. When you’re just close enough to hear, you say, “Jamie, hi. I thought you had your game,” and throw your arms around his shoulders. James is very tall and very wide, and there’s a bouquet of flowers between you, but it’s a great hug.

He hugs you so hard you start to bend backward under his weight, the soft material of your bodysuit so soft it feels wet under his hands. Your face is hot, and you're still trying to catch your breath after your program, quick breaths like small gusts of wind against his neck. He feels your arms tighten incrementally, impossibly, and he closes his eyes for a lavish second of burying his nose in your hair. 

“I played, we lost, it was good fun. Now I’m here to watch my girl win big.”

You laugh and pull away, your eyes shimmering with joy, post-competition adrenaline. “I flubbed my first jump, did you see? I almost hit the ice.”

“You pulled up amazing,” he says. 

He spies your coach (who isn’t so much your coach as a friend, Mel, from the rink who goes with anyone who can get far enough into competitions to need one) with your jacket standing a little ways away. 

“Hey, Mel, could I have that?” James asks.

Mel gives him a knowing look. She hands it over and he shoves the flowers at you without waiting for a reaction, wanting to get you wrapped up warm again as fast as he can. You slide one arm at a time into the sleeves and don’t say a peep when he zips it closed. 

“James,” you say. Your cheek dips a touch toward your shoulder. Fondness lined each seraphim feature. “Sirius is calling you.”

He frowns. He’s been hoping for a little thank you kiss (cheek or chin, whatever you could reach), and Sirius is neither. He turns to where you’re looking at Sirius standing a ways away with some other spectators. 

“You have absolutely no game!” Sirius shouts. “None!”

“What’s your problem?” James shouts back. 

“You’re supposed to kiss her now? You twit!” he shouts, vehement. 

James turns away from him, “God, I’m sorry, he’s such a fucking idiot, he…” 

You’re looking at him. Quiet, face turned up and eyes squinted, eyelashes kissing in the corners, your glossy lips turned up like you want to be kissed. He feels it like a cheesy movie and he doesn’t care, every moment spent with you condensed as his hands come alive and cradle your face of their own accord. 

He isn’t expecting you to lift up on your skates and kiss him first. 

He does get fireworks, thank you very much. James Potter has been waiting to kiss you since the very first time he saw you, on ice, curling out of a tight spin with a deliriously happy laugh. It feels like an explosion, and the crowd cheers behind you for a jump he can’t see and it doesn’t matter, it fits, it makes perfect sense that a whole room of people would be up on their feet as he presses his lips to yours. 

“You looked so pretty,” he tells you, nose sliding against yours as he holds himself back. 

You kiss his bottom lip, another burst of floral scents erupting between you as you try not to slip back on your skate blades. “Thanks, James.”

He smiles into your mouth, melts into your hold, and takes another heart-thrumming kiss. 

You’re runner up in the competition. You’re the only girl who isn’t on the pedestal that gets a bouquet of flowers, and likely the only one who doesn’t care, not one bit. You smile at James like you’ve won the gold on the way out of the centre, your hand latched firmly around his. 

“Sirius.” You stop in the car park, flowers pressed to your chest. James stops beside you with your skate bag swung over his shoulder. “What happened to your car?” you ask. 

Sirius kicks a new dent. “Friendship,” he says grimly. 

James leans toward you, his lips at your ear. “Bender. Best not to ask about it. He’s sensitive.”

“Oh,” you murmur. “Okay.”

He kisses your temple. “Thanks, angel.”

･:*:｡･:*:･ﾟ

thank you so much for reading! please reblog if you enjoyed, it makes such a difference for me <3<3<3<3<3

[jj-5656]

I have lived in Jersey all my life and nobody told me they’re called PUMP JOCKEYS. Also I have absolutely no clue how to pump my own gas id probably blow something up if I tried. Essentially, WaWa saves lives

Parts of the country where self-service gas pumping is illegal.

[jj-5656]

If it’s any consolation I have the same irrational fear 😭. Like sure my writings are for myself at the end of the day but the added encouragement doesn’t hurt. It’s a toss of the dice sometimes and that’s intimidating no doubt. Sending love💜

JADE MY BB MY HEART JUST BROKE A LITTLE SEEING SOME OF YOUR POSTS

i am so so sorry you have to go through that as a writer, whether it's the writing which is the cause of all of it or smth else. as a fellow writer, i agree that it is stressful but for other more so. ily forever love, take care of yourself <3

oh no pls everything’s okay! you don’t have to be sorry, nobody does! I like writing and I can’t wait to have some time to do some again when I have some free time and a little more energy, though I have to admit I’m very worried about my work ‘flopping’ which makes me a little reluctant to try sometimes. I know nobody really minds or cares but sometimes I worry I’ll embarrass myself when my work doesn’t get much traction, but that’s just how it goes. For me I think posting fic is like spinning a wheel and hoping it reaches people . I love you, I hope you’re taking care too ♥️

[jj-5656]

@forourmoons you are so sweeet!! Thank you sm💜💜

Mine First  With; James Potter (ATJ)

  A/N: Hello again! This took forever, I know. Writing has been taking me so much longer lately. What used to be single sit downs has become a three week mf process. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. This one was based of a request so feel free to keep flooding the inbox.

Summary: The one where you finally meet James’ best friends

TW: some suggestive humor, drinking

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