#james got them in trouble

[jehcee]

James: how much do you guys love me?

Peter: I will jump of a cliff if you wanted me to.

Sirius: I will give you my kidney.. or any other organ. Just say the name.

Remus: If you ever commit arson I'll be your acquaintance.

Lily: why do you ask? What did you do this time!?

James: Soooo... the slytherin arecomingtohuntus RUN!!

[mischiefmanagedmumu]

Sirius tag dump.

[barnesonly]

Miss Rabbit ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

congressman!bucky barnes x reader

summary: Congressman Barnes always finds the little bunny you hide in his suit. This time, he finds it mid-meeting, right before a big vote. When he calls you to his office that night, you know you’re in trouble… 🐰💼💋

words: 3692

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. fluff (kinda) to smut, established relationship, curse words, dirty talk, praise kink, spanking, fingering, oral (f receiving), PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex, teasing, edging, semi-public sex (office sex), breeding, overstimulation, petname (bunny), fully consensual by both parties although not explicitly stated.

Every morning before Congressman James Buchanan Barnes stepped into Capitol Hill, he carried a tiny secret stitched into the folds of his carefully polished world: you. Specifically, the little bunny you’d hide somewhere on him before he left.

Sometimes it was a pin tucked into his suit jacket. Other times, a sticker placed just-so in the corner of his wallet where he’d find it mid-meeting. Once, you’d clipped a stuffed keychain to the side of his briefcase, and he hadn’t noticed until the middle of a veteran affairs hearing. He’d given you a look when he got home, but the bunny was still dangling there the next morning.

He always grumbled about it, “Bunny again, doll?” “You’re trying to get me mocked in the ethics committee, aren’t you?” but he never once took them off. Not really.

Because he liked the reminder. Of you. Of home. Of the softness he wasn’t supposed to show.

And you? You liked knowing that behind every stern press release, every steely-eyed soundbite, stood your man with a tiny bunny tucked into his suit. Your personal rebellion against his polished public life. A quiet little claim on him the world couldn’t touch.

This time, it was a tiny bunny pin — soft beige felt, little floppy ears, stitched eyes. You’d snuck it into the inside pocket of his navy jacket while he was distracted on the phone that morning, already half-listening to a briefing about a defense budget proposal.

He didn’t notice.

Not when he kissed your temple on his way out.

Not when he walked past security.

Not even during the first two meetings.

It wasn’t until he reached into his pocket to grab a pen — mid-sentence, mid-argument, in a conference room packed with sharp suits and sharper words — that his fingers grazed it. The soft brush of felt ears. Familiar. Unmistakable.

He froze for half a second.

Then slowly pulled it out, holding the pin between his fingers like it might explode.

A bunny. Another one.

Someone across the table blinked. Another tried not to smile. Bucky cleared his throat, calmly placed the pin back into his pocket, and continued as if nothing happened but the tips of his ears flushed red.

Embarrassed? Maybe. But under that? A tiny, dangerous smirk.

Later, tucked away in the quiet corner of his office between stacked folders and closed blinds, he pulled out his phone.

Bucky | 4:36 PM

Come to my office after I’m done with my meetings. We have to talk

No emoji. No bunny mention. Classic serious boyfriend tone but you knew that tone. That wasn’t anger. That was danger.

Your phone buzzed again.

Bucky | 4:37 PM

Wear a dress. The one I like.

You didn’t knock.

You never did, not when he texted you like that. You just walked in, heels soft against the polished floors of Congressman Barnes’ private office. The lights were low. The building mostly empty. Evening sun poured through the blinds in long golden stripes.

He was at his desk, still in his full suit. Tie slightly loosened. Jacket still buttoned. The bunny — your bunny — barely visible in the fold of his pocket.

His eyes dragged over you the second the door clicked shut.

And God, you’d worn it — the dress he loved. Deep purple, thin straps, silk clinging to your curves like it was made to be peeled off. No bra. He could tell. And you’d pulled your hair back just the way he liked it, too, like a gift waiting to be unwrapped.

“You wore it,” he said quietly, pushing back from his chair.

You didn’t say anything, just smiled.

He stood. Slowly. Letting the silence stretch between you as he walked around the desk. His eyes didn’t leave yours, but you could feel the heat rising in his stare.

“I found the bunny,” he murmured, stopping in front of you. His hand rose, two fingers grazing the curve of your hip. “Inside my jacket. In a meeting. Surrounded by press and three senators who already hate me.”

You batted your lashes. “Did they think it was cute?”

“Think it’s cute to be disrespected in front of my colleagues?” His voice darkened, just enough to make your thighs press together. “Think it’s funny to act like my good girl and then pull stunts like that, bunny?”

Your breath caught. Your belly tightened.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Maybe I haven’t been clear enough with you.”

You whispered, “Then maybe you should teach me.”

Oh, he sure will.

Suddenly you were spun around, pressed face-first against the cool surface of his desk. His hand came down hard on your ass — once, twice, then rubbed the sting away with a low groan.

“You wanna act like a brat?” he growled, fingers slipping beneath your dress, hiking it up your thighs. “I’ll treat you like one.”

You moaned as his hand slid under your panties, knuckles grazing where you were already soaked for him. “So wet and you haven’t even said sorry yet.”

“I’m not sorry,” you breathed, hips rocking back.

Another slap. Harder.

“Then you’re gonna take everything I give you.” His voice was dangerous now—commanding, low, rough with arousal.

He dropped to his knees behind you like a man starved. Tore your panties down. His tongue was on you in seconds, hot and eager, licking long and deep until your knees nearly gave out. He loved eating you from behind, loved the sounds you made when your hands scrambled for purchase on his desk.

“God, you taste like fucking heaven,” he groaned into your folds, arms locked around your thighs to hold you open.

His tongue was relentless, flicking over your clit in steady strokes, then dipping inside you with low, hungry moans that vibrated straight through your core. You gasped, back arching, thighs trembling as he devoured you like a man with something to prove.

Like he wasn’t just your boyfriend. He was both your punishment and your reward.

“Bucky—” you choked out, your voice cracking when he flattened his tongue against you and dragged it up with aching slowness. “Oh my God, don’t stop—”

He didn’t. He couldn’t. His hands tightened on your thighs, pulling you back against his mouth with a low growl.

“You think you can get away with teasing me like that?” he muttered against you, voice dark and slick with heat. “Think you can put that little bunny in my pocket and walk away?”

You whimpered as his tongue circled your clit again—slow, deliberate, devastating. His nose brushed right where you needed him, and he knew it, because he did it again. And again.

“Answer me, bunny.”

Your knees buckled. “I—n-no, I was just—oh my God—”

He chuckled against you, lips slick. “Not so brave now, huh?”

And then he sucked.

Hard. Right on your clit.

Your whole body shuddered, mouth open in a silent cry as your orgasm slammed through you, blinding and desperate. Your hands clutched the desk for dear life, back arching as he held you down, tongue never stopping, dragging every last wave out of you until you were trembling and panting and utterly ruined.

Only then did he pull back. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stood slowly — towering behind you, one hand sliding up your spine.

He stood up, chest heaving. You turned just in time to see him unbuckle his belt, undo his slacks just enough to pull his cock free. Hard. Thick. Already leaking at the tip with precum.

“Bend over the desk. Hands flat. Don’t move.”

You obeyed instantly. The desk was cool under your palms, your breath fogging the polished wood. Behind you, you heard the rustle of fabric, the soft clink of his belt sliding loose, the quiet growl of a man holding himself back.

And then his hand was on you again, palm sliding up the back of your thigh, over your ass, thumb hooking beneath the band of your ruined panties.

“You really think I’m gonna fuck you without making sure this little pussy’s ready for me?” he murmured, low and dark in your ear.

You shivered, whimpering as he dragged the already ripped panties down your legs and tossed it aside. The air hit you sharp and cool, and then his fingers were parting you — spreading your slick folds with reverent care.

“Jesus,” he groaned behind you. “So fucking wet. You want it that bad, huh? Got off on teasing me?”

You whimpered, rocking back toward his touch.

“I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “I wanted you to get mad.”

“Oh, bunny…” he chuckled, fingers pressing gently at your entrance. “You’re gonna regret that.”

He slipped one finger inside — slow and steady, knuckle-deep. You gasped, walls clenching around the thick digit. Then two. He didn’t rush, didn’t fuck you with them yet. Just held them inside, spreading them a little. Letting you feel him. Letting you want more.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “How tight you still are? I could split you open right now and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

He curled them just slightly, finding that soft, tender spot inside you. Your mouth dropped open with a choked sound as he pressed into it.

“Ohhh—f-fuck—Bucky—”

“Yeah,” he growled, thrusting his fingers deeper now, slow but firm, like he wanted to feel every squeeze of your cunt around him. “That’s it. Let me stretch you, baby. Gotta make room for me.”

You were panting now, hands gripping the desk, legs quivering with every push of his fingers. He scissored them just a little, fucking you slow and deliberate, wet sounds filling the space between your moans.

“You’re perfect like this,” he muttered, mouth brushing your shoulder. “Bent over my desk. Dripping for me. So fucking good for me.”

One of his hands slid around your hip, pressing on your lower belly, holding you steady as his fingers picked up speed — thrusting now, curling with purpose, until your knees were buckling and your eyes were rolling back.

“Please,” you gasped. “Please, Bucky—need it—”

“Need what, baby?”

“You—inside me—please, I’m ready—”

He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, and you nearly sobbed at the loss.

“Oh, you’re ready all right, I get it…” he said, dragging his cock through your slick folds teasingly. “So ready I could’ve walked in here, bent you over and fuck you hard without a word.”

You whimpered, looking back over your shoulder.

He caught your eyes. Smirked.

“But where’s the fun in that, Miss Rabbit?”

With one hand gripping your hip, the other steadying himself against the desk, he pressed the thick head of his cock to your entrance and he slid into you slow, letting you feel every inch as he filled you up.

You moaned — loud, louder than you meant to —but the sound was barely out before his palm was over your mouth, hot and firm.

“Shhh,” he rasped against your ear, voice barely held together. “You want the whole building hearing how desperate you are for me?”

You whimpered against his hand, walls fluttering around his cock as he bottomed out—so deep you felt him in your belly. His hips were flush against yours, and still, somehow, it felt like he was buried too far.

“Fuck,” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut as he held himself inside you. “You feel that? Feel how tight you are around me?”

He gave a slow, punishing thrust, just once. Just enough to make you feel it.

“That’s it, baby,” he growled. “Take it.”

You moaned again, body arching. He fucked into you again — deep and steady, rhythm slow and full, each thrust leaving you more breathless than the last.

“Take it like my good girl.”

Your body jerked at those words. He felt the way you clenched around him — tight and greedy — and he grunted low in your ear.

“Ohh, you love that, huh?” he whispered, hand slipping from your mouth to your throat. Not squeezing — just holding. Claiming. “Love when I fuck you like this?”

You nodded — barely. Couldn’t do anything else with the way he was ruining you. Every inch of him dragged against your walls, pushing so deep it felt like he was fucking the air from your lungs.

The desk creaked beneath you, hips slamming into yours again and again until all you could hear was the slap of skin, his breath in your ear, and the filthy wet sounds of your cunt taking every inch he gave.

His grip tightened. His thrusts got rougher.

And his voice dropped lower.

“You know what happens to brats who leave bunnies in my pocket?”

You tried to answer. Failed.

He chuckled darkly.

“They get stuffed full until they can’t walk straight.”

His rhythm picked up — deep and punishing — and your moans turned to gasps. Desk creaking beneath you, his belt jingling faintly with every thrust, the bunny still tucked neatly in his pocket while he fucked you like he’d lost all political control.

You were close, so close. Every thrust hit deep, dragging moans from your throat as his hand curled tighter around your throat, your body trembling beneath him.

“Bucky—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Uh uh,” he growled. “Not like this.”

You barely had time to whine before he pulled out completely, your cunt clenching desperately around nothing.

“No—!” you gasped, writhing, reaching back for him.

But he was already moving — rough hands on your hips, flipping you onto your back like you weighed nothing. Your hair fanned out against the desk, chest heaving, dress bunched around your waist.

He didn’t give you time to think.

He stepped between your spread thighs, dragged you to the edge by the backs of your knees, and stared down at you with that look — like he was savoring the sight of you wrecked and needy, your pussy dripping for him, your lips parted in disbelief.

“Look at you,” he murmured, stroking his cock slowly with one hand. “Such a pretty mess. Thought you were being cute, huh?”

You whined, trying to rock your hips toward him.

“Uh uh,” he scolded, catching your throat in his hand again — gentle, but firm enough to still you. “You don’t come until I say. You understand me?”

You nodded, breath catching as his eyes dropped to where you were soaked and waiting.

“I already told you — You wanna be a brat?” he whispered, leaning in close, eyes locked on yours. “Then I’ll treat you like one.”

And then — just to be cruel — he dragged the head of his cock through your slick folds again… and still didn’t push in.

You sobbed.

“Bucky—please—I was so close—”

“I know you were,” he smirked. “Felt this pretty pussy squeezing the hell outta me. But maybe now you’ll think twice before sneaking bunnies into my damn suit.”

His cockhead nudged your entrance again — hot, hard, right there.

You arched toward him, desperate.

“Please,” you gasped, “I’ll be good, I swear—”

“Oh, bunny,” he murmured, finally letting his tip press just barely inside.

“Now beg.”

“Please,” you whispered, then louder, needy. “Please, Bucky, I need it—need you inside me, I’ll be good, I swear, I’ll be so good—”

He smirked, stroking himself over your slick folds, cock twitching in his fist.

“You’ll be good, huh?”

“Yes, yes—Bucky, please, I—fuck, I need you—”

His smirk faded into something darker. He gripped your thighs, shoved them up and apart, exposing you completely. His tip pressed to your entrance.

“Then take it,” he growled.

And he slammed into you — Hard. Deep.

You cried out, back arching off the desk as he bottomed out in one brutal thrust. No teasing. No holding back. Just his cock stretching you open and filling you to the brim.

“Oh my—fuck—”

“That what you needed, bunny?” he gritted, already moving, hips pistoning into you with raw, desperate power. “That what you were begging for?”

All you could do was moan — loud, shameless.

His hand slid down to your belly, pressing firmly as his thrusts pounded against it.

“Feel me right here,” he hissed. “So deep you can’t even think straight.”

You were gone — wrecked, toes curling as his cock hit every perfect spot, hips slamming against your ass in punishing rhythm. The desk creaked with every thrust, your body jolting with each one.

“That’s it, baby. Take it… Such a good girl.”

You gasped at the praise — shattered from it. He knew it. Knew what those words did to you. And he gave them right when you were unraveling.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, eyes locked on yours. “Pretty little bunny, soaking my cock, begging for it like you’re mine.”

“I am,” you cried, voice breaking. “Yours, Bucky—always—”

That did it.

He grunted — feral — and drove into you even harder, like he was trying to fuck your soul into the damn desk. Your thighs trembled. Orgasm built fast, high, dangerous.

“I’m—I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he growled, bending over you, hand sliding back to your throat. “Be my good girl and fucking come for me.”

And you did.

It hit you hard — a sobbing, shaking, back-arching mess of a climax as he kept fucking you through it. You clenched around him so tight he growled, low and filthy, before burying himself to the hilt with a broken groan.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—” he gasped, voice cracking as he came — cock twitching, filling you up in thick, hot spurts until you felt it drip out around him.

He didn’t move for a long moment. Just stayed inside, breathing hard, one hand still cupping your throat gently, the other gripping your thigh like he’d fall if he let go.

His cum spilled from between your thighs. He watched it with a proud, dangerous glint.

Then he looked up at you and smiled lazily. He didn’t pull out. Not right away.

Instead, he stayed where he was — buried deep, body pressed over yours, chest rising and falling. His hand stroked gently down your spine, grounding you. You were trembling beneath him, legs limp, breath stuttering.

“You okay, bunny?” he murmured, voice low and warm. “Talk to me.”

You nodded slowly. “Y-Yeah. Just sensitive.”

He kissed your shoulder. “Too much?”

A pause. And then — quietly — you whispered:

“No… not if it’s with you.”

That pulled a low groan from his throat. “Fuck. You know what that does to me, don’t you?”

You smiled, weak and bliss-drunk, still catching your breath.

He shifted, pulling your hips back just slightly — and you gasped when his cock dragged inside you, every inch too much and still perfect.

“God, you’re still so tight,” he breathed, voice reverent. “You wanna give me one more, sweetheart? Let me take care of you?”

You hesitated — just a beat. Then nodded again. “Yeah. Want you. Want more.”

His hand slid beneath your body, palm splayed over your lower belly as he began to move — slow, careful thrusts, deep and steady, every one making you moan helplessly into the crook of your arm.

He watched your face, your lashes fluttering, lips parted in shaky little gasps.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he whispered, kissing the side of your neck. “Taking me so sweet. So perfect.”

You whimpered. “So full…”

“You love it, don’t you?” he murmured. “Being full of me like this? With my cum still inside you?”

“Mhm…” you breathed.

“That’s right.” Another thrust, deeper. “You’re my good girl. My beautiful bunny.”

Your body jolted when he hit that spot again — over and over, his rhythm never faltering, not even when your thighs trembled and your whimpers turned to sobs.

“I can’t—I’m close—”

“Give it to me,” he urged, hand sliding to your clit, rubbing slow tight circles. “Let go for me, bunny. Just one more.”

And you shattered.

You came with a sob, your whole body curling, clenching tight around him as the orgasm crashed through you like a wave. Bucky groaned loud, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you a second time — slow, drawn-out pleasure, his head dropping to your shoulder as he moaned your name like a prayer.

This time, he stayed pressed to you, both of you shaking. His hand never stopped stroking your belly, grounding you, murmuring soft nothings into your skin.

“I got you,” he whispered, brushing kisses along your shoulder. “You’re safe. So good for me. So perfect.”

You weren’t sure how long you lay there, boneless and warm, cradled between the polished wood of his desk and the solid heat of his body.

Eventually, Bucky stirred.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he whispered against your temple, “c’mon. Let me take care of you.”

You made a little noise of protest — half whimper, half pout — but he was already scooping you up, strong arms holding you close as he carried you across the room. He set you gently on the leather couch in the corner of his office, murmuring soft praise as he tucked a throw blanket around your bare legs.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, pressing a kiss to your hairline.

A few moments later, he returned — warm towel in hand, a bottle of water, one of his dress shirts draped over his arm. You blinked up at him, still floaty, and he smiled as he knelt between your knees.

“Let me clean you up, bunny.”

You nodded, and he was so careful with you — dabbing between your thighs, soothing the sensitivity with tender strokes and quiet apologies. When you winced, he paused instantly.

“Too much?”

You shook your head. “No… just sensitive. But it’s okay. Feels nice.”

His eyes softened. “You’re such a good girl for me.”

Once he was done, he helped you into his shirt, buttoning it slowly over your chest with hands that had just been ruthless to your body �� now gentle, reverent. You nestled into him as he sat beside you, pulling you into his lap like you weighed nothing at all.

His hand found your thigh under the blanket. The other cradled the back of your head.

“You really okay?” he murmured into your hair.

You nodded, cheek resting on his chest. “More than okay. You?”

He chuckled, low and warm. “I just had you screaming my name over my desk, bunny.“

You giggled against his neck.

“Don’t tempt me,” you whispered. “I’ll put another bunny in your pocket tomorrow.”

He groaned dramatically. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You love it.”

He didn’t deny it.

divider credit: @bernardsbendystraws !! big thanks xx

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

Home Time | Bucky Barnes x Reader | Drabble - 469 words

Spoilers for the ending of Thunderbolts* , not super plot spoilers, but still spoilers. This is you warned.

Seriously.

No other warnings apply (just swears ☺️) just couldn't contain my excitement at home much I loved it! Had to let it out via fanfic!

When the fight is over, how's everyone going to get home?

Masterlist | Bucky Barnes

Bucky rubbed dirt from his forehead with the back of his hand and looked around at the assembled group.

Bob was chatting to Yelena while she picked rubble from her suit. Alexei was picking cement from Yelena's hair too and the blonde looked thoroughly overwhelmed.

Walker waved to the cameras while trying to suruptitiously bend his shield back.

Ava looked bored as she scanned the crowd. "Uh, what now? I'd like to go home now, maybe brush my hair."

"Ah, do not worry, I have my —ah — no. It is in the dessert " Alexei looked disappointed.

"I can get you guys to an airport or something," Bucky tapped his phone, "but you have to behave."

He looked around the assembled …mob.

"I am always on best behaviour, Red Guardian was role model—"

"Please shut up." Yelena snapped.

"Whoever your connection is, Bucky, we can behave okay just let's go home." Walker said waving his hand.

"It's not so much a connection…"

A black SUV pulled up among the rubble, tinted windows hiding the interior. It came to a slow stop and the drivers door opened.

"James, what the fuck?"

"James?" Bob whispered.

Bucky's face changed, the scowl gone, eyes wide, hands up in surrendor. "Doll, listen I —"

"Don't you 'doll' me Mr!" You put your hands on your hips. "Just the afternoon, be back soon, see you after the hearing." You raised an eyebrow. "Bullshit, you're in big trouble."

"And we had to behave." Bob whispered, perhaps a touch too loud.

Your head whipped to him, scowling, before returning to Bucky.

"I'm sorry, okay." He approached slowly, then cupped your cheeks in his dusty hands, "I promise it was for a really good reason."

You narrowed your eyes, "promise?"

"Of course, forgive me?"

Yelena thought she was going mad, was Bucky giving you puppy dog eyes?

Was it working?

"I've got a few new friends, couldn't give them a lift somewhere could you?" He gave you a charming smile, wrapping his arms around your waist and swaying you slowly.

You peeked around his back and scanned over Alexei, Bob, Yelena and Ava before narrowing your eyes at Walker.

"That guy?"

"I know, I promise I'll tell you everything later." Bucky kissed you gently.

"Later?"

"Hmm…" Bucky kissed you again, every reason for fighting through wrapped in his arms, safe, warm. He closed his eyes and soaked you in.

"James," you rubbed your hands down his chest, firm and real and back with you, "if your friends make a mess of my new car, you'll have worse things to worry about. Okay?"

You tapped his chest and he laughed, tucking you under his arm and turning to — he refused to say it, better to say friends than any stupid superhero name.

"You heard Mrs Barnes, don't make a fucking mess."

[bartonomy]

RESTLESS SILENCE!

PAIRING Barty Crouch Jr. x quiet!fem!Ravenclaw!Reader

SYNOPSIS Barty Crouch Jr. hated silence. You thrived in it. Being paired together for a Potions project in the library should have been simple—but Barty refuses to let the quiet win.

CONTENT WARNING obsessive! barty, possessive! james, angst, fluff, the boys not asking yn abt her feelings LMFAO lmk if i missed something!

WORD COUNT 5k words

library.

Barty Crouch Jr. prided himself on many things—his sharp mind, his quick reflexes, his ability to get under people’s skin ( much to Regulus’ and Evans dismay) when he wanted to. But patience? That had never been one of them.

And yet, patience was exactly what was required when he found himself sitting across from you in the library, parchment spread between you, potions textbook propped open, the air between you thick with silence.

It wasn’t just any silence. It was a suffocating, calculated quiet, the kind that settled around the you like a second skin. You liked it. Humming in contentment as you flipped through the book to gather enough information for your assignment.

It drove him mental.

You had been partnered up in Slughorn’s class earlier that day, much to Barty’s irritation. You were everything he wasn’t—controlled, meticulous, the sort of person who took diligent notes and never spoke unless you had something of actual substance to say. The worst part? You were no outcast. Despite your quiet nature, you were as well-liked, hovering at the edges of the Marauders’ usual chaos, laughing softly at Pandora Lovegood’s dreamy theories, and using your smart mouth (Gideon insists) to get the Prewett brothers out of trouble from Mcgonnagall. You were… respected.

Barty was tolerated, at best.

Now, in the dim glow of the library’s enchanted lanterns, you sat across from him, quill in hand, completely ignoring him. Well, unintentionally, he had been fussing in his place since you both arrived an hour ago, trying to get you to do merlin knows with him.

Barty exhaled sharply through his nose, slumping back in his chair. “You could at least pretend to be interested in conversation,” he muttered.

You didn’t look up. “I don’t find unnecessary conversations stimulating.”

He scoffed. “How very Ravenclaw of you.”

You merely hummed in acknowledgment but said nothing more, flipping to another page in his (you lended yours to Peter after he accidentally got soaked by the bucket of water from the black lake intended for Snape) textbook.

Barty’s fingers drummed against the table. He could handle a lot of things—detentions, duels, even his father’s unrelenting scrutiny, but this? This was insufferable.

So, naturally, he decided to make it his mission to ruin the silence.

It started small.

A flick of his wand, and your inkwell slid ever-so-slightly across the table. You caught it before it could spill, shot him a glance, and continued writing.

Next, he nudged your parchment just out of reach. You didn’t even blink, simply shifted your chair forward and carried on.

Fine. If you were going to be stubborn, he’d up the stakes.

With another subtle movement of his wand, your beloved muggle book „The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie“ the one you had tucked beside your Potions text, began to quiver. Slowly at first, then more violently, the pages ruffling as though caught in a windstorm.

you sighed, set your quill down rather roughly, and calmly muttered, “Finite Incantatem.”

The book stilled.

Barty whistled. “Impressive.”

You finally looked up at him, expression unreadable. “It‘s a First Year spell. Are you always this restless?”

He grinned. “Are you always this boring?”

There was no offense in your gaze, only quiet scrutiny. “No. But I also don’t feel the need to fill the silence just because it makes you uncomfortable.”

Barty opened his mouth, then shut it again.

No one had ever called him out so plainly before. Most people either avoided him, tolerated him, or challenged him outright. But you… you understood him in a way that unsettled him.

And worse, he had no idea what to do with that.

The pranks escalated.

By the end of the week, Barty had:

• Transfigured your quill into a small snake (you turned it back with no regard of his presence, only Trelwaney who shrieked in horror).

• Enchanted your book to read aloud in a dramatic voice (you merely bookmarked your page and waited for him to get bored).

• Jinxed your notes to rearrange themselves whenever you tried to read them (you rewrote them without complaint).

Each time, you met his antics with infuriating patience. No anger. No exasperation. Just quiet indifference, as if you knew exactly why he was doing it.

It wasn’t until he charmed your beloved novel to hover just out of reach that you finally had enough.

With a soft Expelliarmus, the book yanked itself free from his spell and slammed down onto the table between you. you met his gaze, eyes burning with guarded anger.

“Why?” you asked, voice level but firm.

Barty leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm. “Why what?”

You exhaled, slow and measured. Merlin, was he testing your already low patience “Why go to such lengths just to get a reaction?”

Barty opened his mouth to fire back something witty, but the words caught. He couldn’t answer.

Because the truth was something he didn’t want to admit. Because silence had never been kind to him. Because silence meant expectation, the weight of his father’s disapproval, the loneliness of never being enough. Because he didn’t know how to exist in a world that didn’t constantly react to him.

You watched as something shifted in his expression—something raw, something unguarded. And for the first time since you had been paired together, you didn’t seem like you were trying to solve him.

You just saw him.

The silence stretched between you once more. But this time, it didn’t feel suffocating. This time, it felt like something else entirely. Something dangerous. Something inevitable.

The library had become a battlefield.

Barty didn’t lose. Not at duels, not at arguments, and certainly not at mind games. But after a week of relentless pestering, pranks, and jinxed books, but all he was met with was radio silence.

And Barty hated being ignored.

Tonight was no different.

You were back in your usual spot in the potions section near the back, candlelight flickering over parchment, and you were sure you could hear people snogging in the aisle next to you. Barty wasn’t writing. He was watching, and it pissed you off.

“Fascinating,” he drawled, chin resting on his palm.

You sighed, not even bothered to look up. “What is?”

“You,” he said simply.

At last, you glanced at him, one brow slightly raised. Not surprised, not flattered, only curious and slightly amused. As if he was some interesting tale from Trelawney‘s weekly horoscopes

Barty leaned forward, smirking. “You’re too patient for someone who spends time with the Marauders. They’re reckless. Loud. Gits.”

Your lips twitched in almost a smile. “And yet, I don’t find them insufferable.”

“Lucky them,” he muttered.

You tilted your head, studying him. “You don’t actually hate them, do you?”

Barty scoffed, leaning back. “Tell them that, and I’ll hex you.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “You could have joined them, you know. You’re clever enough. Quick-witted. You keep up with them in class.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What makes you think I wanted to associate myself with obnoxious Griffins? I have a reputation to uphold ”

You only raised your eyebrow at that. “Oh yes, because being a maniacal, havoc wrecking wizard is soooooo important”

He roared into laughter, clutching his stomach like you have given him the funniest joke in Salazars sake. Tears were dripping out the corner of his eyes with his ropes falling messily over his shoulder.

After his sudden burst of emotions, there was silence, well, as much as you could say from Barty‘s loud wheezing trying to calm himself down and a group of second year Hufflepuffs discussing the use of Mandrakes, the space between you two was peaceful

Then, you shrugged, rolling your shoulders back to ease the growing pain (or the growing tension that is about to engulf you two) “or maybe, its because you’re lonely.”

Barty went still instantly.

For a moment, the pleasant quietness became oppressive, thick with something neither of you wanted to name.

Then,he laughed again. Though, now, it was short, sharp, utterly devoid of humor. “You think you know me?”

“I think,” you started, carefully trying to puck out the right words, “that you spend too much time trying to get people to notice you, y‘know?.”

His smirk returned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And yet, you’re the one paying attention.”

This time, you didn’t look away.

Checkmate.

Barty wasn’t sure when it started.

When you became the first person he looked for in a room. When silence with you stopped feeling suffocating and started feeling… different.

It was a slow, creeping thing, like poison slipping into his bloodstream.

You weren’t like the Marauders. You didn’t fill space with noise or demand attention. You simply were, an observer, someone who noticed things most people didn’t.

And Barty hated being noticed.

The Slytherin common room was quiet this late at night, with most students crammed at the Hufflepuff quidditch After-party after they had won against Ravenclaw earlier that day. Except for Barty and Regulus.

The younger Black sat in one of the loveseats by the fireplace, posture perfect as always with his messenger bag on his side while across from him, Barty sprawled lazily on the couch, legs stretched out, looking more reckless (or crazy according to Evan) than usual.

Regulus had been watching him for the past ten minutes. The tension in his shoulders, the way he ran a hand through his Black-Green hair in agitation or the way his knee bounched when he thought no one was looking.

Finally, as if this thought gave him immense pain, he sighed. „You’re obsessed.“

Barty stilled. „What?“

„With her.“ Regulus arched an eyebrow knowingly

Junior scoffed, throwing his head back against the couch dramatically, flailing his arms „Oh, not you too!

Regulus ignored him. “It’s pathetic.” Barty turned his head, smirking. “Funny. Sirius said the same thing about you once.”

Regulus’ fingers twitched. “Sirius is an idiot.”

“And yet, here you are, acting just like him—concerned about my well-being, giving me the I know best speech.” Barty sighed, stretching his arms behind his head. “It’s sweet, really.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t care what you do.” Barty grinned. “Liar.”

Regulus exhaled sharply. “What is this, Barty?”

Barty hummed, considering. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Reggie”

Regulus frowned. “You’re distracting me by talking about my idiotic brother. So spill, what are you afraid of? ”

Barty’s smirk faltered. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Just stared into the flickering fire, expression unreadable. Then, with a slow breath out “Everything.”

Regulus didn’t press. Didn’t have to. He understood better than anyone what Barty really meant. The weight of expectations. The suffocating presence of a father who saw only duty.

Regulus studied him for a moment. “You don’t get attached to people. Especially not to someone like L/N. " Barty’s smirk returned, but it was weaker this time. “Maybe she’s just different.”

Regulus leaned back, unimpressed. “Or maybe you just don’t like that you can’t control her.” Barty exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “And yet, I keep coming back.”

Regulus tilted his head. “That’s called liking someone, Barty.”

Barty scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Please. I don’t like people.”

“Then why does James Potter look like he wants to murder you?”

His expression darkened. “Because he knows.” the curly haired boy hummed thoughtfully. “Knows what?”

Barty looked him dead in the eyes.

“That she’s mine.”

Regulus sighed, standing up. “Merlin, you’re insufferable.”

But as he walked away, Barty didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, watching the fire, thinking about you.

It was , like Regulus said, James who noticed first.

Barty had expected it, really. The four eyed boy was too perceptive for his own good, especially when it came to people who operated in the gray spaces between morality.

One evening in the Gryffindor common room, James leaned against the couch where you were reading, arms crossed. “So,” he mused, “are you finally going to tell us why Crouch won’t leave you alone?”

You barely glanced up. “Because we’re Potions partners.”

Sirius, sprawled across an armchair, snorted. “Right. And I’m Minister for Magic.”

Remus, ever the voice of reason, tilted his head. “You do spend an awful lot of time with him.”

Peter nodded, mouth stuffed with fizzing whizzbees. “It’s weird.”

you sighed, closing your book without marking your spot first, which you internally curse. “He’s… frustrating.”

Sirius smirked. “But?”

You hesitated. Just for a moment. “But he’s not as easy to hate as people think.” That was all they needed to hear.

Sirius groaned dramatically. “Merlin help us, she’s sympathizing with the enemy.”

Remus grinned knowingly. “This is going to be fun.”

James Potter knew you better than anyone.

He had known you since you two were small—before Hogwarts, before the Marauders, before any of this. You had been his first real friend, little pigtails following him around, who always listened when he rambled about Quidditch, often times playing the referee and giving yellow cards to his imaginary opponents and someone who was there when he needed you.

And now? Now you were spending too much time with Barty bloody Crouch Junior.

James didn’t like it. Not one bit.

At first, he thought nothing of it. A Potions partnership was just that—a school assignment. But then he started noticing things.

The way you lingered in the library after hours.

The way Barty watched you fondly when he thought no one was looking.

The way you didn’t seem nearly as irritated with him as you should have been.

And that was unacceptable.

James wasn’t stupid. He knew who Barty Crouch Jr. was. The arrogant, sharp-tongued Slytherin who played by his own rules, who didn’t care about anyone but himself and his best friend‘s brother. And yet, somehow, he had wormed his way into your schedule, your attention—things James had always had without question.

He didn’t realize just how much it bothered him until he saw you two together.

It was a late evening in the library, and James had come to find you. Instead, he found your little pest stuck to your side.

Barty was leaning back in his chair, smirking, while you sat across from him, rolling your eyes but not actually telling him to leave you alone. There was something different in the air between them—an ease James didn’t like.

Not one bit.

“Oi.”

You looked up, blinking in surprise. “James?”

Barty groaned. “Oh, fantastic.”

James ignored him, focusing on her. “We were supposed to go over Transfiguration notes, remember? Minnie was bugging me to take lessons with you”

You frowned. “That’s not until—”

“Now,” James said firmly. Barty snorted. “Territorial, aren’t we, Potter?”

James’ jaw clenched. “Just making sure my best friend isn’t wasting her time.” He just grinned, all teeth. “Oh, trust me, she’s not.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples to ease the incoming headache. Is it from Barty‘s constant yapping, the oh so frustrating instructions of the Felix Felicis, or James bickering? Who knows. “James, we’re just working on Potions.”

“Right,” James muttered. “Because that explains why he won’t stop staring at you.”

Barty raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You jealous, Potter?” James hated how his stomach twisted at that. “Of you?” He scoffed. “Hardly.”

“Good,” Barty said smoothly, “because she’s free to spend time with whoever she wants.” The Gryffindor bristled. “And you’re free to bugger off.”

“James.” your voice was sharp now, cutting through the tension. you stood, gathering your books. “I’ll meet you in your common room later, okay?”

James hesitated, then exhaled sharply. “Fine.” But his glare at Barty said this isn’t over.

As he left, Barty chuckled under his breath. “Protective, isn’t he?”

“You love making things worse, don’t you?” you simply glared at him. Barty grinned. “Admit it. You’d be bored otherwise.”

You only shook your head at that, exasperated. But this time, you didn’t argue.

And Barty? He liked that just a little too much.

James Potter wasn’t the jealous type. At least, that’s what he told himself. But this—this infuriating, undeniable thing happening between his best friend and Barty bloody Crouch Jr.—was driving him mad.

It wasn’t just about Barty. It was about you.

You were his best friend. The one person who had always been there before Sirius, before Remus, before Peter. You had an unspoken understanding, a rhythm that no one else could touch.

And yet, somehow, you were slipping out of reach.

Because of that foul git.

Because wherever you were, Barty was not far behind.

Pandora Lovegood was an odd one. Everyone knew it.

She spoke in riddles, saw connections where others didn’t, and had a habit of appearing exactly where she was needed.

So James should have known better than to groan when she plopped down next to him on the bench in the transfiguration courtyard, humming thoughtfully.

“You’re sulking,” she observed. “I don’t sulk,” James muttered.

She smiled, entirely unconvinced. “It’s about her and him, isn’t it?” He scowled, borderline pouted. “There is no her and him.”

Pandora tilted her head. “Not yet.” at that, James sat up straighter. “Yet?”

Pandora just hummed again, her dreamy expression betraying nothing. “I think you’re afraid.”

��Of what? Crouch?” He snorted. “Please.”

“No,” Pandora mused. “Not him. You’re afraid because for the first time, she’s paying attention to someone else.” James didn’t respond. Because that would mean admitting she was right. The Rosier smiled knowingly. “You can’t stop it, you know.”

“Stop what?”

She simply shrugged, standing as if that answered everything. “The inevitable.”

James groaned. “Merlin, you’re worse than Moony.”

But as she walked away, her words lingered. And James hated that more than anything.

James found Barty alone that evening, leaning against the cobble stone wall just outside the Charms Classroom. He didn’t hesitate.

“Stay away from her.”

Barty turned, raising an eyebrow. “Potter,” he drawled, lips curling into a smirk. “This is getting predictable.” James stepped closer, jaw tight. “I’m serious.”

“Sirius is the loud one,” Barty quipped. “You’re the one with the tragic hero complex.” James hated that he had a point. “Whatever game you’re playing,” he said sharply, “she’s not a part of it.”

Barty’s smirk faltered. Just for a second. “Who says it’s a game?”

James scoffed. “Oh, please. You don’t care about her. You just like getting a rise out of people. And I won’t let you use her to do it.” Barty’s expression darkened.

“Use her?” he repeated, voice low, dangerous. “Funny, coming from you.”

James stiffened. “What the hell does that mean?”

Barty leaned in slightly, voice smooth as silk. “It means you don’t like that she’s spending time with me—not because you think I’ll hurt her, but because you can’t stand the idea of not being the most important person in her life.” James clenched his fists. Barty’s smirk was sharp, knowing. “Hits a nerve, doesn’t it?” James took a slow breath. He would not hex him.Not yet, at least.

“She’s my best friend,” James said coldly. “And I trust her. But I don’t trust you.” Barty’s gaze flickered—just for a moment. Then, with an infuriating grin, he stepped back.

“Well then, Potter.” His voice was almost mocking. “Let’s see who she trusts more.” And with that, he turned and walked away.

James stayed there for a long time, breathing heavily, hands clenched at his sides. Because for the first time, he wasn’t entirely sure who would win.

You were avoided him.

Not subtly. Not carefully. Just completely ignoring his existence

It started the week following the small… confrontation in library. Barty walked into Potions, expecting you to be at their usual table at the back, books already open,quill tapping absently against parchment, asking about his usual trouble with filch and a soft smile gracing your lips. Instead, your lips never opened and gaze never left your paper.

No glance in his direction. No acknowledgment at all.

Barty stared. His fingers curled into fists beneath the desk.

Fine.

But then it kept happening. In the corridors, you veered away when you saw him approaching. In the library, you sat with James, Sirius, even Remus—anyone but him. When he did catch youe eye across the Great Hall, you looked away so quickly it felt like a slap.

It wasn’t anger. It was erasure, like he wasn’t even there.

Barty Crouch Jr. had never been ignored in his life. People watched him. They feared him. They respected him, hated him, wanted to be him. But you—you were acting as though he was nothing.

And he couldn’t stand it.

At first, he played it off. Shrugged, smirked, pretended not to care. But then a week passed. Then another. And with every second of silence, something inside him frayed. He found himself watching you too closely. Waiting for you to look at him. Wanting your attention, even if it was anger, frustration, anything but this emptiness.

And when James Potter threw an arm around your shoulders at the Slytherin party, whispering something that made you laugh—

Something in Barty snapped.

You didn’t know how it had come to this.

One moment, you had been talking with Evan about absolute nonsense, nursing a cup of firewhiskey mixed with something you didn’t want to know, trying to focus on anything other than the tension between James and Barty, the way they seemed to be circling each other like wolves.

And now…

Now you were backed against the cold stone wall of an abandoned corridor, heart pounding as Barty loomed in front of you, eyes blazing with something wild, something dangerous.

“You’re avoiding me.” His voice was low, accusing.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m not.”

“Liar.”

You flinched. Not because you were afraid of him, Merlin, no—Barty is lunatic at best—but because there was something desperate in his voice, something fraying at the edges.

“I just needed space,” you said carefully. Barty let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Space? From me?”

His fingers twitched at his sides, and for a brief, terrifying moment, you thought he might actually grab you, hold you there like he could force you to listen. “You belong with me.”

The words sent a chill down you spine. Not because of their meaning—but because of how much he believed them. “Barty,” you whispered, voice betrying you slightly, much to your annoyance “you don’t own me.”

His jaw clenched. “I never said I did.”

“But you act like it,” you shot back. “Like I’m something for you to win. Like James and I can’t be close, like I don’t have a choice in who I spend time with.”

Barty exhaled sharply, stepping closer, invading her space. “You do have a choice.” His voice was low now, almost a plea. “So why do you keep running from this?”

This. Whatever this was.

You felt your breath hitch, your pulse racing as he stared at you, expression laced with something desperate.

“This isn’t normal,” you whispered. Barty tilted his head, studying you. “Since when have I ever been normal?”

Your heart ached at that. Because he wasn’t. He was sharp edges and chaos, wildfire wrapped in silk. And you were intrigued.

“Tell me to leave,” Barty murmured, voice softer now, more dangerous. “Tell me you don’t want me, and I will.”

You opened your mouth, words mingling in your head, yet none of them escaped your lips.

Barty’s smirk returned, but it wasn’t triumphant. It was something else—something satisfied yet frustrated, as if he hated how much he needed you to not push him away.

The next day, you felt off-balance. Everything was the same, yet nothing was.

The Great Hall was as loud as ever, filled with students laughing, chattering, passing notes between bites of dinner. James sat beside you, talking animatedly with Sirius about the shenanigans they pulled at last night‘s party. Remus was reading. Pandora was off in her own world, stirring her tea with the wrong end of her spoon.

It was normal.

But you weren’t . Because he was there. Across the room, at the Slytherin table. And he wasn’t acting normal at all.

Barty Crouch Jr. was watching you. His elbow was propped on the table, chin resting against his knuckles, eyes fixed on you with that sharp, playful intensity. Like he was waiting for something. Like he could still feel last night as much as you could—the heat of his breath, the weight of his words, the way he had opened your eyes.

Your stomach twisted but not in the usual dread

You quickly looked down at her plate, poking at the food with the fork, suddenly very aware of every movement, every breath.

It was fine.

You could pretend it hadn’t happened. You could move on, act normal, be the person she had always been. You could-

“You okay?”

James’ voice cut through your thoughts.

You startled, nearly knocking over your pumpkin juice. James frowned, eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses.

“You’re jumpy,” he observed. “Weird day?”

Yes. Extremely weird.

“No,” you said quickly. “Just tired.”

James didn’t look convinced.

Barty was still watching. You could feel it. Your pulse quickened. You needed to get out of here.

With a forced smile, you pushed back from the table. “I just remembered-I have to grab something from the library before class.” James raised an eyebrow. “Now?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

You turned before he could question you further, walking briskly out of the Great Hall, heart pounding.

You should have known he would find you.

It had been inevitable. Barty Crouch Jr. wasn’t the kind of person who let things go. He didn’t believe in backing down, in walking away—especially not from you.

And so, a day after the Slytherin party, after you had spent the night pretending you weren’t looking over your shoulder for him, he found you.

The Astronomy Tower was, to your luck, empty. The moment you stepped onto the stone balcony, the cold air biting at your skin, you felt him before you saw him in your peripheral vision.

He was leaning against the railing, staring out over the darkened grounds, sleeves rolled up, hands tense against the stone. He looked different in the moonlight. Less sharp, less manic, less like the Barty Crouch Jr. the world expected him to be.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“I hate my father.”

His voice was quiet. Hollow. You stiffened, startled by his sudden honesty, by the rawness in his tone.

Still, you didn’t leave. Didn’t move.

Barty exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he murmured. “To be expected to be perfect. To be a reflection of someone else, someone you loathe.”

Your chest ached at the exhaustion in his voice.

You stayed silent, waiting.

Barty let out a sharp laugh, but there was no humor in it. “He thinks he can mold me into whatever he wants. A loyal son. A future politician. A Crouch through and through.” He scoffed. “But I’m not. I never was.”

He turned to look at you then, and for the first time, there was no smirk, no amusement—just something raw and vulnerable, something you had never seen before.

“I think,” he said slowly, voice quieter now, “that’s why I wanted you so much.”

Your breath caught unexpectedly.

Barty’s eyes flickered over your face, unreadable. “You don’t try to make me be something.” His lips twisted. “Even when you hate me, at least it’s real.”

Something heavy settled between you, thick and undeniable.

“And”, he started, face twisting into something uncomfortable, trying to find the right words. For a moment, he said nothing. Just looked at you—like he was fighting a battle you couldn’t see.

Then-

“I hate him too.”

The words were sharp, bitter, cutting through the silence like a blade. Your breath hitched. “Barty—”

“No.” He turned to face you fully, eyes burning. “I hate the way he hovers around you like he owns you. I hate the way he looks at me like I’m something filthy. I hate that no matter what I do, he’s always there.”

Your chest ached at the frustration in his voice, the way his fists clenched like he was barely keeping himself together.

“He’s my best friend,” you said softly. Barty let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “No. He’s waiting.”

You frowned at that. “Waiting for what?”

“For you to wake up,” Barty muttered. “For you to realize that he’s the safer choice. The one who won’t make your life complicated. The one who fits neatly into your perfect little world.”

You stared at him, stunned. “You think this is about James?”

Barty scoffed. “It’s always about him.”

Frustration flared in your chest. “Barty, I chose to stay away.”

He stilled.

“I chose to keep my distance,” you continued, voice surprisingly steady despite the inner hurricane you felt. “Not because of James. Not because of anyone else. But because you—”a sharp exhale left your mouth. “You scare me.”

Something flickered in his expression. “I’d never hurt you.”

“I know,” you whispered. “That’s not what I meant.”

Because this, the fire between them, the way he looked at you like he was drowning and you were the only air left—

It was too much. Barty was too much. And you weren’t sure if you were strong enough to handle it.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then, slowly, Barty stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that you could feel his warmth, enough that your breath caught in your throat.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he murmured.

Your pulse raced. “Then stop—” “Stop what?” His voice was rough now, almost desperate. “Wanting you? Needing you?”

“Barty—”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how to stop.”

And maybe that was the real problem. Because Barty Crouch Jr. had never been good at letting things go.

And neither had you.

So when he reached for you, fingers brushing against your wrist like he wasn’t sure you’d let him, you didn’t pull away.

And when he kissed you, desperate and reckless and full of something sharp and aching,

you kissed him back.

[my-castles-crumbling]

letter - Jegulus Microfic - background wolfstar - @into-the-jeggyverse - word count: 363

“So, boys,” Euphemia Potter said one night at the dinner table during the start of the holidays, “how was the first part of term? Anything eventful happen?”

Sirius and James exchanged glances. “Erm, no…” James answered, trying to keep his expression neutral. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his parents–not at all! He just knew they might not approve of all of his adventures. 

Sirius piped up. “You know us, just…really focused on classes.”

“Sure, sure,” Fleamont nodded from next to his wife. “Of course. It’s only…” He tilted his head to the side, like he was confused.

“Yes, it’s the strangest thing. I got a letter from Minerva McGonagall. You know how she’s a dear friend,” Euphemia said lightly.

James froze, keeping his eyes on his food. There were a million things McGonagall could have written to his mother about. How much trouble was he in?

“Yes, well. She wrote about how she keeps finding the two of you in broom closets together all around the school,” she continued, tone still light. “Do you know anything about that?”

But now James was actually confused. He looked at Sirius again, and back to his mother. “Erm..honestly, I don’t,” he answered awkwardly.

“Oh, boys, you know we accept you for who you are, don’t you?” Euphemia asked, eyes wide. “It’s really alright.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Sirius said, face red. “I’m dating Remus. We got together in September! So yeah, I’m bent, but not for James! That’s gross! Er, sorry, Prongs…”

“Nah, same here,” James mumbled, also turning red.

Fleamont, however, wrinkled his face in confusion. “Then why did McGonagall say that James was all over the castle with ‘Mister Bl-’ ow!”

Even though Euphemia elbowed him in the side to shut him up, it was too late. Slowly, dawning comprehension spread across Sirius’s face as James melted lower and lower into his chair, trying to avoid the mess in front of him. 

It was only then that Regulus, who had been sitting silently by Sirius’s side and enjoying the meal, finally spoke up. “Fuck,” he murmured, biting his lip and smirking a bit at James. “Guess that’s one way to tell them.

[ddejavvu]

would you be up to do bff remus with no boundaries?? i think that would be an interesting dynamic

maybe like after a full moon and she just like fully gives him a shower, or something where he’s just completely naked and the boys are so confused at what’s happening

"Arm up, Rem," You hum, but your fingers pry at his pale, scarred skin before he can even begin moving a muscle.

You lift his bicep away from his side, bringing the lathered loofa in your hand to swipe through the curve of his armpit. Suds slide down his sides and you hear him hiss as they mingle with his still-healing cuts and scrapes, but there's nothing to be done except cleaning them before they can be dressed.

"Easy, easy," You rub a hand over his back in a soothing circle that carefully avoids his injuries, "Just gotta get 'em clean, then we can dress them. You can sleep on your stomach, that'll help the ones on your back. How'd you even get scratches on your back?"

"It's all the ladies I occupy my time with," Remus drawls, but his pain is evident in the weakness of his voice, "Women love werewolves."

When you don't answer, leaving an purposefully awkward silence behind that swirls with the steam from the shower, Remus sighs, "Got all scratched up from the tree branches out there."

You drag the loofa from his side to his back, carefully ghosting over the caked dirt around his wounds. His knuckles turn white as he clenches his fists, but when he tries drawing one into his mouth to bite at it you take it in your own free hand.

"No biting. That's reserved for your better half."

"Are you talking about Sirius, or the wolf? Sirius bites me," Remus grumbles, and- speak of the devil, there's feet pounding obnoxiously up the stairs and towards the dorms.

"Moony, we've got all the chocolate we could carry," Sirius informs him, and there's the sound of wrapped goods being piled on Remus's comforter before James and Sirius step into the doorway of the bathroom.

James lets out an 'ooh' and turns away with a grimace when he sees you kneeled beside Remus's naked form beneath the spray of water, but Sirius stands stock-still, frozen by some mix of intrigue and horror.

"Uh, are we interrupting something?"

"Just a bath," You smile kindly at them, scrubbing gently at Remus's neck, "He has trouble getting his back sometimes."

"Sometimes- have you two done this before?"

"After every moon." You nod helpfully when Remus merely ducks his head to rest between his knees, "You two are usually either asleep or trying to get grass out of your pelts."

There's something green in Sirius's hair that proves the two were unsuccessful this time around.

"Oh. I'm sorry, Moony, I didn't know you had a caregiver," Sirius snickers, "Does she help you put your panties on too?"

"Don't let him get to you, dove," Remus murmurs, his eyes slipping shut as the warm water seeps into his skin and heals an ancient ache in his bones, "He's just mad he'll never get to take yours off. They're a real pretty pattern, y'know," Remus glances up at Sirius with the ghost of a smirk on his face, muffled by pain but persistent all the same, "Shame she's not interested in showing 'em to you."

"You've seen her panties, mate?" James cuts in, peering over Sirius's shoulder, "What are you two?"

"Friends," You shrug, "But it's stuffy in here at night, and my sleeping pants get too warm."

"You're telling me all the times you two have slept over in here all snuggled up in his bed, that you've not had any pants on?"

"Well I don't make it a habit to strip in his bed," You scoff, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn grass stain on the pale plane of his hip, "But I can promise you that my pants are never gonna be on your floor, either one of you."

"Oh please, we wouldn't dream of stealing Moony's girl," Sirius claps James on the shoulder, "But whaddya think about that, mate? Strippin' down to cuddle in bed together? They seem to think it's a friendly endeavor."

"I typically only ditch my pants for Lily, Padfoot," James informs Sirius with a sympathetic smile, "But I'll ask her if I can bring my dog to her dorm tomorrow night. You can sleep at our feet."

Sirius begins valiantly arguing for a spot higher up on the bed, every dog's hardest battle to fight, but you're no longer interested in their antics or the noise they're producing. You reach out your foot to kick at the door, and it swings shut with a satisfying click.

"Thanks, love." Remus groans, his face squished between his knees, "They were givin' me a headache."

"They always give you a headache," You dig your thumbs into a tense spot on his back and he twitches beneath you with a hum of appreciation, "We should get a flat together without them. They can be the feral deer and dog that live outside our cottage."

"We'll have to call animal control" Remus grins wryly against the rounded bend of his knee as you lean forwards to wash beneath his thighs, "How strong are their strongest tranquilizer darts?"

[moonstruckme]

Hello! I’m new to your blog and am in the middle of consuming all of it. I have to say EMT maurauders are my fav so far though! If you haven’t done it yet and if it’s not too much trouble, would you be willing to do something with EMT! Maurauders where reader gets a bad bloody nose in the middle of the night and can’t get it to stop on her own so she’s panicking and feels bad about waking up the boys who of course take care of you and make you go to the ER since it won’t stop?

Thank you ☺️ Keep up the amazing work, your writing is phenomenal, I can’t wait to read more 👏❤️

Thanks for requesting lovely <3

cw: blood, mention of hospital

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 986 words

You give yourself twenty more minutes before you wake James. Sidling up to his side of his bed like a child who’s had a nightmare, one hand pinching your nostrils shut and the other holding ice wrapped in a paper towel to your nose. You feel glad that it’s too dark to see all the red staining it. 

James rouses with a reluctant throaty sound. He mumbles your name and takes your hand where it’s nudging his shoulder, content until the moment he feels the cold paper towel closed in your palm. His eyes peel open. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. It feels paramount that he know waking him wasn’t your first choice. Of your boyfriends, though, James is the most likely to help you without making a fuss. 

“What’s this?” In the dark, the cold hard thing in your hand is a mystery. James cups his hand around yours with a small frown. 

“My nose won’t stop bleeding,” you explain. 

His frown worsens. You feel bad. 

But James has no resentment for your midnight ailment; only sympathy. “Yeah?” He feels blindly for his glasses on the nightstand. “Does it hurt?” 

You slide them to his hand. “No,” you say. 

“It just…just started?” 

You should’ve taken him out of the room before telling him. Already, you can see Remus starting to wake, the covers on his side of the bed shifting. 

“Yeah.” You lower your voice, though you know it’s pointless. “About a half hour ago.” 

James is rubbing underneath his eyes drowsily, but at this, his brows draw together. “It’s been going since then?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe. 

“What’s going on?” Remus asks. His voice croaks a little, but aside from that he sounds more awake than James. 

You wince. “Sorry.” 

“It’s okay, dove. What is it?” 

“Her nose is bleeding,” James says through a great yawn. In between them, Sirius makes a half-asleep whining sound, but doesn’t move. “She says it has been for half an hour.” 

Now Remus is frowning, too. “It woke you up?” 

You hum, feeling your mouth pucker in distaste. “It got in my mouth.”

“Let’s see.” Without warning, James turns the lamp on. Both you and Remus rear back as if stricken, and Sirius’ head retreats beneath the covers seemingly by reflex. “Sorry, sorry,” James says, giving you soft eyes as he reaches for a box of tissues. “C’mere, sweetheart.” 

You take his cue to let go of your nose. As soon as you release it, you know it starts bleeding again by the way James raises his tissues in a hurry. 

“Christ,” he mumbles, moving them just slightly to see the damage. “This much since it started? Has it slowed at all?” 

“I don’t think so,” you say, stuffy. 

“How do you feel?” asks Remus. He’s sitting up now, bedsheets fallen around his waist and one hand resting on the lump that is Sirius. “Are you dizzy? Can you breathe alright?” 

“Through my mouth, yeah.” James is still peering at your nose, and it’s making you shrink. He lets you take the wad of tissues from him. “I’m not dizzy.” 

“Still…” Remus looks at James. 

“Yeah.” James sits up the rest of the way, stretching. He lets out another yawn. “Let’s go.” 

“Go to…” you hesitate, unsure “...hospital?” 

James hums in the affirmative, squeezing your shoulder as he gets out of bed. 

A moan of protest comes from behind him. You look to see Remus rubbing between Sirius’ shoulder blades, searching for his slippers on his side of the bed. 

“Get up.” 

“S’too early to be up,” Sirius whines. 

Remus shushes him, at once chiding and soothing. “We’re bringing y/n to A&E.” 

At this Sirius falls quiet. A moment later, his head picks up, puffy black hair and a furrowed brow. “What for?” 

“My nose won’t stop bleeding,” you say meekly. “Sorry.” 

“Angel,” James laughs, coming up from behind you to pass you some more tissues. He’s already dressed. “Stop being sorry. Did you plan this?” 

“No,” you reply, softly. 

“Right. As I thought.” He grins, planting a kiss on your cheek. 

As usual, James has come awake remarkably quickly once he’s set his mind to it. Remus moves toward the closet a tad less energetically, and Sirius appears to have to claw his way out of bed. 

He does it in your direction. 

“You okay?” Sirius asks, studying you as he drags his legs over the edge of the mattress. “Does your head hurt?” 

“I don’t think so.” His concerned gaze melts you to your core. You think you’d admit to anything if it got you a hug right now. “I’m just tired.” 

Sirius cracks a smile, though his eyes are soft with pity. “Well, yeah, baby.” He stands, smushing a kiss into your hair. “It’s the dead of fucking night. Your nose is a real blight on us all.” 

“Don’t talk about her nose that way.” James gives you the hug you wished for, strong arms wrapped around your middle. His chest is warm against your back. “Don’t listen to him, angel; he’s a prat when he’s tired.” 

“It’s fine.” You lean back into James. “It is a blight on us tonight.” 

“Precisely. You get it,” Sirius says, squinting his eyes at James. “I cherish her nose every other day, I’ll have you know.” 

“Get dressed.” Remus emerges from the closet to give Sirius a gentle shove in that direction. He takes yet more tissues, passing them to you seemingly without noticing the handful you’ve already got from James. “Are you ready to go, dovey? Have everything you need?” 

“What do I need?” you ask, worried. 

“Nothing, sweetheart.” James drops his voice at the first sign of fright from you; Remus does the same, both of your boyfriends softening around the edges. “We’ll take care of it, yeah?” He starts taking tissues from you, shoving them into the pocket of his sweatpants. “We’ll take care of everything.”

[mallowsweetmiri]

Potter!Reader x Remus

Summary: after weeks of having a painful crush on your brothers best friend, you make a plan to seduce him.

Warnings: smutty and slutty

Word count: 6k

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You groaned into your pillow, wiping the sweat from your forehead into the cotton fabric. This was the second time this week you'd woken up sweating from a dream about Remus Lupin, and it troubled you deeply that the scenarios you imagined would never happen. For one, your brother would instantly shut you down if you even suggested going out with any boy, let alone his best mate. The more unfortunate part was that you were almost certain Remus saw you as nothing more than James' little sister, a title you were tired of carrying. You huffed again as you rose to start getting ready. How much longer could this crush go on? It had started on the train in September. You remember thinking to yourself that Remus had become quite good looking over the summer and left it at that. But soon, he started to catch your eyes in the hallways, then in the common room, until finally he had managed his way into your head. You were constantly thinking about him. Thinking about the glimpses of his chest you'd caught one time when his shirt was unbuttoned, thinking about the way his adam's apple moved in his throat, thinking about his hands...

You shook your head and stepped into the shower. If only you could know what he felt like, then maybe this incessant urge to be with him would go away. You felt the water fall down your back as you washed yourself up. You were a pretty girl, you knew this. If you were someone else, had a different last name, maybe you'd have a chance. Although, you'd never really tried before. You kept these thoughts to yourself, having nobody to talk to them about. Normally you would tell James everything, and he would usually play parent when it came to your school girl crushes. But you couldn't exactly go up to James and say, "Hey, do you think you could set me up with Remus? Y'know, your best mate? I really want to see what he looks like with his clothes off." No, you couldn't do that. But perhaps you wouldn't have to...

You stepped out of the shower feeling confident in your plan. You had spent all this time pining in silence over Remus, it was time for action. While you got ready, you made subtle changes. You hiked your skirt up just a little and slipped into the button down that was just a touch too small. When you did your makeup, you were sure to make your lips look extra lush and rosy. You put on your favorite perfume, the one you saved for special occasions. This seemed as good a day as any.

"There she is," James smiled and stood as you came down the stairs to the common room.

"Good morning, Jamie," you chimed, "were you waiting on me?" James laughed as he grabbed his bag off the floor, the two of you heading through to the portrait hole.

"I'm always waiting for you," James nudged you with his shoulder. "You look nice today." You raised your brow at him, his statement more of a question as if to ask "Is there a reason you're making an effort?"

"Thanks," was all you replied as you made your way to breakfast.

PHASE 1: Hook

When you got there, the other marauders were already sat down. Sirius was talking animatedly with Peter as Remus sat quietly reviewing notes.

"We've finally arrived," James said to no one in particular, taking a seat and immediately filling his plate. Remus look up from his book and mumbled something before delving back into his work. You sat next to James and made a bowl of porridge, listening to Sirius boast about the Quidditch match tomorrow.

"Ravenclaw is going to destroy Slytherin," he bellowed, thumping his fist on the table. "And then I am going to destroy a bottle of Firewhiskey in their common room." He smirked, earning and high five from James.

"That's the spirit, Pads," James cheered, taking a drink from his cup. You rolled your eyes and stirred your oats.

"I don't know how the two of you haven't died from overconsumption yet," you quipped, spooning sugar into your bowl.

"Genuinely," Remus added, looking up from his book, "you two are menaces." You hummed in agreement, bringing the spoon to your mouth to lick the extra sugar off. You caught Remus watching from your peripherals and made a show of it, bringing your glossed lips together at the tip of the spoon. When you glanced up thoughtfully through your lashes, he was still watching. It made you chuckle as his eyes quickly averted back to his book. Baited.

"Are you coming tomorrow, Y/N?" Peter asked, shoving toast into his mouth. You swallowed your porridge and swore that Remus' ears seemed to shift at the question.

"Y/N never comes to quidditch parties," James pouted, turning to look at you. You rolled your eyes.

"Correction, I never come to your quidditch parties," you teased, poking a finger into his shoulder. "I'll probably go tomorrow to see Pandora. If Ravenclaw wins," you reminded them. Sirius grumbled something but you couldn't tell what he was saying through his mouthful of sausage. James' face lit up with excitement.

"Ooh! Sibling bonding time," he gushed cheesily, squeezing your cheeks. Oh, for fucks sake. Could he stop? You were doing everything in your power not to be seen as his bloody little sister and he was ruining all your efforts.

"Okay, that's enough. I'm going to class," you grumbled, trying to hide your annoyance in front of Remus. The boys chuckled as you gathered your things and got up from your seat. If James was going to be a tosser, you'd have to up your game.

"Oops," you said innocently as you dropped your book on the ground, loud enough to make a clatter. You bent over to pick it up, praying that James was currently not watching.

"Merlin, Y/N. Pull your bloody skirt down," James scolded, making a foul face. You rolled your eyes at him again and stuck your tongue out as you continued to exit the hall. Well, if Remus hadn't been looking before, he surely was now.

PHASE 2: Line

You were more than excited for the Quidditch game, especially after spending yesterday evening stuck in the dungeons fixing your laughing potion. You were also excited because you had another chance to see Remus. You had only seen him briefly yesterday, and he was always buried in his work. Hopefully you'd be able to gain his attention today at the game.

With this intention, you slipped on a white babydoll top and watched yourself in the mirror as you buttoned it up. You looked good. You left the top button purposely unlatched, knowing it could catch someone’s attention. After slipping on your favorite pair of jeans, you felt confident- sexy, even. Just the idea of Remus thinking you were sexy made you bite your lip.

You didn't wait for your roommates to finish getting ready. You did a last check of your things, grabbed your coat, and started down to the common room. As per usual, the marauders were sitting around the couches, talking loudly and taking up space. This time, Remus was clearly in on whatever bet was being placed over the quidditch game. His crooked smile made you curse under your breath and fix your hair. You decided to play it safe and sit by Marlene in an attempt to hide your fluster.

“Hi Marls,” you chimed, plopping down next to her.

“Princess Potter! You look absolutely dashing today,” she gloated, giving you a quick hug into her shoulder. You blushed from her compliment and peered upwards from the hug. Remus was smiling at something Peter had said, but was looking at you. You sent him a small wave from under Marlene’s arm to which he nodded up in response before turning his attention back to the boys. Why was that so hot?

Within twenty minutes, the group of Gryffindors was ready to leave, so the lot of you began the journey down to the pitch. It was nice out today, one of those afternoons where the sun seemed to warm the grounds and the breeze. This meant that the entire school would be at the game. You weren’t usually a fan of crowded spaces, but you silently thanked the gods for putting you behind Remus as you filed into the stands. It was so packed, you could smell the cologne lingering off his clothes as you sat down on the bench. You bit your lip, trying to hide your smile of satisfaction. It felt like the universe was helping your scheme.

“Y/N!” James called over the crowd, leaning forward to see you. You raised your brows and leaned forward to see him, giving him a forced smile.

“Yes, brother dearest?” You called back in a sickly sweet voice. At least now you had an excuse to lean over Remus, who was currently leaning back as far as he could to get out of the way. Perfect position to climb onto his lap, your brain thought intrusively.

“Your boyfriend’s up on the pitch,” he wiggled his eyebrows teasingly, pointing to Theodore Pompous, a 7th year Ravenclaw. You leaned over Remus and Peter to smack your brother.

“Bugger off,” you grumbled. “I admit to having a crush one time in third year, and you still haven’t shut up about it!” You felt your cheeks blush as James and Sirius continued to tease you in the most immature manner. All you could do was roll your eyes and take it, those prats.

“Still have a crush on that posh boy?” Remus leaned in with a teasing smile. You internally groaned at him for joining in on the joke, but you wouldn’t pass up the chance to tease him back.

“Why, are you jealous?” You challenged with a devious head tilt. Remus scoffed and trained his eyes back on Theodore.

“Nah,” Remus replied coolly. “Besides, James would never let you go out with that git.”

“Oh, yea?” You asked, leaning in slightly. “And who would my brother let me go out with?” He turned to face you, his eyes meeting your provocative stare. His eyes flashed with something before Marlene tugged on your arm.

“Can you tell the boys to scoot down? Lily just got here.”

You stifled the urge to roll your eyes as you and Remus called out for the boys to move further down the bench. There wasn’t much room to spare, and you ended up wedged between Marlene and Remus. You were painfully aware of his leg against your own, though Marlene's thigh didn't seem to cross your mind. Remus leaned away from you, his hand behind Peter on the bench to support his weight. It was only a minute of this compromising position before they announced the start of the game. Then, everyone leapt to their feet, eager to watch.

It was a riveting match, and Slytherin almost took the win. Luckily, Theodore managed to catch the snitch at the perfect score ratio, ending the game and sealing the win for Ravenclaw. As the excitement and cheers began to die down, everyone started slowly filing out of the stands. You shuffled behind Marlene, the noise of chatter and brushing of shoulders making you feel slightly overwhelmed. The party was going to be packed tonight. You were almost to the stairs when your foot got caught on a raised step, tripping you into the walkway. You gasped as your heart lurched forward. You prepared for impact against the steps, but it never came. Suddenly, you felt that Remus’ hands had wrapped around your waist. Your cheeks flushed red as you twisted around to face him, his right hand still lingering on your body.

“Thanks,” you muttered sheepishly, your body still shaken from the almost fall. He hesitated for a moment with his hand on you, and was about to say something before James appeared next to him. Remus dropped his hand and shoved it in his pocket. You turned back around and kept following Marlene, carefully watching where you stepped.

“Y/N, fix your shirt!” James called from behind. You clenched your jaw as you kept trudging on, shuffling along with the rest of the Gryffindors. Marlene fell beside you and scoffed.

“He is such a prat about you,” Marlene complained, throwing a dirty look back at James.

“Tell me about it. I almost eat shit and all he cares about is my shirt buttons,” you grumbled, begrudgingly buttoning your top. Marlene cackled and threw her arm around you.

“Please tell me you’re coming to the party tonight,” Marlene pleaded, shaking you slightly.

“Oh, I’m coming to the party tonight,” you grinned delightfully, nudging her in response. “And James is going to freak out when he sees what I’m wearing.”

PHASE 3: and Sinker

"Okay, actually what the fuck are you wearing, Y/N. This is my last straw," James warned, pushing himself up from the arm chair. His outburst made the other three boys heads snap up. You couldn't help but smirk as you felt Remus’ eyes on your body.

"What? This is what people wear at Ravenclaw parties these days," you shrugged, waving past them towards the exit. "Not that you lot would know. You don't get invited." Sirius barked out a laugh, while James sputtered in disbelief behind you.

"She's right!" Mary called from the stairs, bouncing into the common room with the rest of the Gryffindor girls, all looking flawless. You couldn't blame James for his reaction- If anything, you should be thanking him. He's doing a great job of getting everyone to stare.

"While I respect your opinion James, I think I look great. And I can wear whatever the hell I want," you snapped, spinning around to face him with a stubborn glare. The girls cheered, shouting some excited "Hell yeahs!" as James gave up with a resigned eye roll. He knew better than to cross you on something you wanted, and you clearly wanted something. He just didn't need to know exactly what it was. The girls followed you excitedly as you started out the portrait hole. This was going to be a fun night.

As predicted, the Ravenclaw common room was packed. By the time you arrived, the moonlight was already pouring through the glass ceiling dome, casting everything in a dreamy glow. It wasn't hard for Pandora to spot you, pulling you onto the dance floor with an airy giggle. The music was pulsing through your veins as you finished your first drink, then your second. Pandora pulled you into her body, the two of you laughing as you swayed and twirled. For a moment, your eyes focused on the group of Gryffindors hanging out in the lounge area, laughing at something Sirius had said. Remus sat back in a chair, his casual demeanor seeming out of place in a room like this.

Remus.

Your swaying slowed as you trained your eyes on him sitting nonchalantly. He was watching you, his jaw tightening as his eyes dropped to where Pandoras hands rested on your hips. It was too bad that Pandora twirled you around and you lost your train of thought.

"Panda, let's go smoke. I'm getting dizzy," you called over the music, Pandora nodding in response. The two of you resigned to a quiet corner, where you pulled out a tin of cigarettes and lit one with a flick of your wand. You inhaled deeply, enjoying the relief of cool air away from the crowd. You leaned your back up against the wall as Pandora took the fag from your hands.

“Lingering eyes are on you,” Pandora sang, her spacey eyes falling behind you as she took a drag. You turned your head to see where she was looking and was met with Remus' stare.

“Perfect. Those are just the eyes I want lingering,” you replied, bringing your drink to your lips as you watched him. You half expected him to look away, but his eyes were burning through you. You watched as he scanned up your body, his eyes meeting yours before he downed the rest of his drink. He then quickly averted to James who was trying to get Remus' attention.

"I need another drink,” you mumbled as you pushed yourself off the wall, Pandora's giggles echoing behind you. You crossed the room over to where the drinks were. You couldn’t tell if the room was charmed to be slightly purple or if it was the night sky above you. Either way, the ambiance certainly added to your intoxication as you neared the edge of the room. You almost didn’t realize someone slipping up behind you.

"Are you teasing me, Y/N?" Remus asked, cornering you by the drinks table as you spun around. He moved quickly, and you peered behind him to check for any lingering marauders.

"I'm always teasing you idiots," you sassed, turning to grab a bottle off the table. Remus seemed to step even closer to you. If one of the boys saw you like this, they'd certainly take notice. He was being bold. Luckily, you were hidden by an abnormally large globe and the mist that seemed to float about the room.

"I see you everyday," Remus challenged, huffing out a laugh, "and I've never noticed you looking at me with those eyes, Y/N." You hummed as you filled two shot glasses.

“What eyes?” You asked innocently, looking up at him through your lashes as you held out a shot for him. He scoffed out another laugh and took the shot from you.

“Cheers, love,” he winked, clanking his glass with yours before downing the shot. You followed suit, happy to consume some liquid courage. He leaned in closer to you and lowered his voice, “You know, you should really be careful wearing something like that.”

“Why’s that?” You swallowed, the burn from the shot making your cheeks hot.

“You might catch someone’s attention who you don’t want,” Remus said darkly, making you bite your lip. You’d never seen him like this before.

“And what if I catch the attention of someone I do want?” You asked coyly, looking up at him again through a tantalizing gaze. Remus scoffed again for the third time, as if he couldn’t believe your audacity.

“And who is it that you want, Y/N? Hmm?” He asked, more of a challenge. At this point, you were certain that he wanted you. That, or you were about to be in serious trouble. Either way, the risk seemed worth the reward.

“You.”

Something broke in Remus as he stepped forward again, impossibly closer as his hands met your hips.

"You mean to tell me you wore this dress, just to get my attention?" He laughed, his voice low and teasing. You bit your lip and blushed, trying to hide your blatant satisfaction. Remus was smarter than he looked.

"Mmhm," you nodded, your poorly hidden smile spreading to his face.

"Fuck, Y/N," he broke and turned to scan the room, his hands still grasping your hips. You stared up at him, watching his jaw tense as he tried to locate the marauders. His hands were burning through your dress as you stood completely still. You felt relieved when he muttered, "Follow Me," and ushered you towards the exit. You weren't sure where your brother was, but you trusted Remus to get you into the hallway. Once you had exited the doors, he wasted no time as he pressed you into the wall, the force causing you to gasp. He held you in place as he pressed his forehead into yours.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispered and you almost scoffed. You tugged him by the collar and collided his mouth with yours, groaning when he deepened the kiss immediately. His hands were greedy, grabbing at your body as he pushed himself against you. This was even better than your dreams. All sense left your body as he continued kissing down your neck. He pressed his knee roughly in between your legs. A moan left you lips as he bit down, nipping and sucking at your skin.

"Fuck, Remus," you panted, your hips rolling up towards his body. He grunted and pushed you back against the wall. Who knew Remus Lupin would be so intense?

"Can I take you back?" he breathed heavily, as if he was barely holding onto his control.

"Do you even have to ask?" you teased, his body flush against your own. He huffed out a laugh as he kissed your neck again.

"You know I have to ask, Y/N," Remus muttered darkly, as though the act of asking in itself was a violation. And maybe it was, but you couldn't care less about the line he was crossing.

"Does this answer your question?" You whispered, pulling his hand down to touch you. He cursed under his breath as he felt you, his hand seeming to move on its own as he ran his fingers up your soaking panties. It took him a minute to regain focus.

"Okay, let's go," he commanded, guiding you down the hallway with haste. You giggled as he held your waist, moving you quickly towards the Gryffindor tower. You couldn't believe this was actually happening. It surprised and satisfied you that your plan had worked, that you'd managed to tip Remus over so far that he was bringing you back to his dorm.

"You're moving so fast," you fussed as he dragged you up the stairs. His legs were significantly longer than yours.

"M' sorry," he muttered, his eyes focused ahead. "I don't want to waste any time." His urgency was contagious, and you felt yourself pick up the pace. He released you as you stepped through the portrait hole, his grip loosening with surprising restraint. He was careful, and as much as it didn't concern you in the moment, you were glad at least one of you was being responsible. There weren't many people in the common room, everyone either asleep or at the party. Remus' hand found your back once again as he silently steered you towards the boys dorms. You went up the staircase until you reached their door, looking back at Remus for permission before opening it. The windows let in slivers of moonlight and a cooling breeze. Remus shut the door behind you and turned you around. Somehow his faced seemed more real as he stood there, his eyes searching your face.

"Remus," you breathed, feeling the weight of his gaze. He huffed out a breath through his nose, stepping close to you.

"Just tell me Y/N," he said, his hands finding your neck, "Just tell me if you want me to stop."

"I want you," you whined, standing on your tip toes and pulling him down by the neck. He gratefully returned the motion, groaning as his mouth found yours. Remus was everything you'd expected and more. He knew what he was doing, and his blatant want for you made your legs buckle under his touch. He walked you backwards, lifting you by the thighs and lowering you carefully onto his bed. His hand smoothed its way over your leg, pushing up the hem of your dress. His thumb swiped against your front, causing your back to lift slightly under his touch. He hummed into your mouth as he ground his hips down into yours. You could feel him through his pants, and you groaned at his size. Fucking hell. You ran your finger nails down the back of his shirt. Remus pulled his wand out of his pocket and closed his curtains, sitting up on his knees and unbuttoning his shirt. You watched, mesmerized by the show in front of you. The scars that ran down his chest, lower to his abdomen, and lower...

"My eyes are up here, darling," Remus teased, smirking down at you as he tugged off his shirt. You swallowed, looking up at his eyes which were no less intimidating than his body. He scoffed out a laugh as he climbed over you, running his fingertips down your body.

"If your intention was to get my attention all night, you did a good job," he breathed, pressing his finger into your clit. "Such a good job."

He stifled your moan with his mouth, his kiss wet and needy. His fingers moved carefully over your panties, provoking a response from your body that you'd never experienced before. You were trying your best to keep up with his kiss, but the overwhelming sensation of Remus had you melting into the bed.

"Oh, fuck," you moaned, throwing your head back into the pillow as his fingers moved underneath the fabric. He hummed as he began to kiss roughly down your neck. His fingers swiped over your slickness, teasing your entrance. You grasped onto him tighter, your nails digging into his shoulder as he plunged a finger inside you. He pushed himself up to watch you as he pumped another finger into you, you hips moving rhythmically with his hands. By this point, you looked a complete mess with your dress bunched around your middle and your mouth in a permanent gasp. You groaned as you felt yourself beginning to pulse on the brink of an orgasm.

"Fuck, Y/N. Are you going to cum?" Remus mocked you, he fingers stealdiy curly up inside of you.

"Y-yea. M' gonna cum," You whimpered, screwing your eyes shut. Remus muttered a curse under his breath before ducking his head and finding his way in between your thighs. Without warning, he buried himself in you, lapping at your clit while pinning you down by the waist. You grasped at his hair, attempting to pull him off of you but it was no use. He was humming into you as you moved in circle around his face, teetering on the verge of your orgasm. He let out a particularly throaty grunt that sent you over the edge. You let out a muffled cry as you spilled your juices onto his tongue repeatedly. He finished you up, humming as he began to kiss up your body until he hovered over you again. You pulled him down into a rough kiss, your hips snapping up to feel his hard on. "You're so perfect, Y/N," Remus praised, pulling your dress down over your bum. Your tits were now fully exposed, Remus' hands and eyes exploring over your body like he was trying to memorize you. "So perfect... I want you so badly..." He groaned, kissing over you chest and rubbing your tit in his hand. You groaned with pleasure.

"Then have me." You didn't hesitate to pull off the rest of your clothes, helping Remus unbutton his pants and pull them over his ankles. He did the same with his boxers, his length springing free. You bit your lip at the sight, a little nervous for how big he was. This didn't deter you though as you sat on your knees and leaned forward, beckoning him to use you.

"You're so fucking-” Remus let out a groan as he pushed himself inside your mouth, grabbing the back of your head with his hand. You wet his shaft with your tongue, moaning as he began to move down your throat. "So fucking good." His praises made you clamp your knees together, groaning again as you took him as far as you could handle. He gripped your hair roughly and throat fucked you for a few seconds before pulling you off, as if he couldn't control himself. "Turn around."

You did as you were told and spun around onto you hands. He pushed you chest down into the bed lined himself up with your entrance. You tried to sit back onto him, but his other hand held your hips firmly in place.

"Please, Remus," you choked out, your face buried into the mattress. He groaned as he pushed into you slowly, stretching you out with every inch he pressed inside of you.

"Oh, fuck," Remus breathed, moving slowly to let you adjust to his size. This consideration didn't last long before he was pounding you into his mattress, calling you filthy names and tugging on your hair. All the restraint he seemed to have went out the window as he fucked you mercilessly from behind.

"R-Remus. Fuck- me-" you cried, whimpering with every thrust. His hand gripped your hip with a squeeze as he leaned over your body.

"You're taking me so well," He breathed, running his hand under you body. He snaked his hand over your tit and pulled you up against him, making you gasp with pleasure from the new angle. "You're doing so good, angel."

He had you melting from his touch as your body gave out underneath his hands. He bit your neck gently, sucking and kissing on the sweet spot he had found earlier. You groaned as your head lulled back on his shoulder. This was not what you were expecting. You had no complaints though as he reached down between your legs and started pressing on your clit, pushing himself deep inside of you.

“R-Remus,” you warned, struggling to hold yourself up. You could feel a knot forming in your stomach for the second time as his thick cock moved inside of you, putting more pressure on your nerves.

“Just like that, Y/N,” he murmured, his strong hands holding you in place. “Just let go, sweetheart.”

You didn’t have to be told twice as you let yourself release around him, guttural sounds coming out of your mouth. You had no time to feel embarrassed over your moans as he pushed you back on the bed and started fucking you senseless.

“So good, fuck me,” Remus mutter incoherently as he rammed himself inside of you, grabbing at your hips. You looked back at him to watch, and were not disappointed at the sight. When his eyes locked onto yours, he broke. He snapped his hips haphazardly as he released himself inside of you. You moaned again at the feeling of Remus Lupin filling you up with his cum. He thrust into you one last time before falling over you, moving your hair to one side to kiss your neck.

“So fucking good, Y/N,” he praised again, cleaning the both of you up with an impressive flick of his wand. You hummed and turned yourself around in a fucked out daze. He watched you pout as you pulled weakly on his neck. He chuckled under his breath and came down to kiss you. The two of you stayed like that for a while, lazily kissing as his hands rubbed gently down your body, a stark contrast from his rough actions just moments ago.

“I should probably go,” you frowned as he came up for air. He mirrored your response and sighed.

“You’re probably right,” he said, pushing himself off of you. “Here, let me grab you a shirt.” He pulled on his own pants before you heard him shuffle to his trunk. Just as you were about to move to get up, you heard someone bounding up the stairs.

“Shit,” you whispered, frozen in place. You saw Remus’ hands toss a shirt through the curtain before retreating, and you gratefully put it on. Luckily, your dress was still under you. You heard Remus kick your shoes under his bed.

“Moony? Why’d you leave so early?” You heard Sirius ask with a slight slur, stumbling into the room.

“Started boking,” Remus replied casually. “I feel like shit, I’m just gonna go to bed.” Sirius hummed and fell on his bed. You heard him kick off his shoes and manuveur himself under the sheets.

“You and me both, Moons,” Sirius groaned, seemingly too drunk to care about any lie Remus was spewing. Remus moved towards his bed.

“Alright, well. G’night,” Remus murmured, climbing into bed quickly.

“G’night,” Sirius muttered, rummaging through something. You looked to Remus with concern, who only put his finger to his lips as he came to lay down next to you. His haphazard smile seemed to relax you a bit as he pulled you into your chest, humming with content.

“Just go to sleep, love,” he whispered quietly and kissed your head. “I’ll get you back safe and sound.” Perhaps it was against your better judgement, but you seemed to trust Remus wholly to take care of you. That and your body was completely exhausted from him. You murmured a goodnight as you buried yourself into his neck, falling asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. At some point, you heard your brother come in with Peter. Remus momentarily tensed causing you to shift. His grasp tightened on you before he heard Sirius grumble something along the lines of “sick” to James and the room fell silent again.

The second time you stirred, you felt Remus pulling away from you. You mumbled lightly, confused as to why he was getting out of bed. He turned to shush you quietly before stepping out. You heard him shuffle across the room.

“James,” he whispered, “James, wake up.” You sat up quietly in his bed. What the fuck was he doing?

“Mm,” James groaned, turning in his bed. “Moony?”

“Yea it’s me,” Remus said quickly. “Can I borrow your cloak? I think a Slytherin charmed my drink last night and I need to go on a quick mission.” You rolled your eyes at this. Remus was smart, and his lies would perfectly convince James. He would never turn down a prank.

“Oh, shit,” James said, slightly more awake. “Do you want me to come?”

“No,” Remus answered quickly. “Uh, no. I’ll be super quick. I just can’t sleep until I know I got back at them.” This seemed to appease James as you heard him fall back into bed.

“Sure, Moony,” James yawned. “It’s in my trunk.” You heard Remus shuffle through his trunk before coming back around to the other side of your bed. You heard him slip on some shoes before holding the curtain open, once again holding his finger to his lips. You rolled your eyes at this and quietly stepped out of the bed, thankfully blocked by the rest of the room. Remus threw the cloak over the both of you and guiding you to the door, trying to be as quiet as possible. Both of you felt relief as you stepped into the stairway, making your way down to the common room. Nobody was here at this hour. Remus threw the cloak off of you.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said, spinning you around to face him. “I should’ve been more careful.” You shook your head.

“It’s fine, I didn’t mind using you as my pillow for a bit,” you chuckled lightly. “Besides, I could’ve used a bit more caution myself.” You blushed shyly at him. You hadn’t been the most discreet throughout the whole ordeal. Remus laughed at this and ran his thumbs across your hips, causing you to shiver. You wore only his oversized shirt and your panties.

“Nah,” Remus said with his lopsided grin. “I think I quite like your obvious pining for me.” You slapped his chest lightly as he chuckled. “I’ll just have to work extra hard to keep you to myself.” He leaned in to kiss you, and you felt your heart leap. So much for getting over your crush.

“Hmm, I’ll guess I’ll have to keep trying to get you attention then,” you whispered, pulling back from his lips. He hummed and kissed you again, as if he couldn’t get enough.

“Go get some sleep, love. I’m sure you need it,” he teased, flashing another grin at you. You rolled your eyes at him but couldn’t keep your smile down.

“Goodnight, Remus.” You started towards the girls dormitories.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

Remus found himself staying in the common room with James’ cloak, not wanting to return too early. He tried to convince himself this was a bad idea, but he couldn’t justify it. There really wasn’t anything that could stop him from fucking you again. His mind flashed with images of your perfect eyes looking back at him as he rammed himself inside of your perfect pussy. His head fell back onto the couch with a thud. He was a goner.

[yasministration]

traditions - remus lupin

part of my potter!reader x remus lupin secret relationship au - this is more focused on r! and james's relationship.

On the twenty seventh night of march in 1972, Professor McGonagall had come by two huddled figures in the twilight shadows of the courtyard, the moonlight casting a light upon hidden faces, holding a long letter between them, small parcels on the ground around them.

She had known the Potter twins proved to be trouble, but when it was over something so innocent, she couldn’t bring herself to be angry. As she approached the two first years, their whispers became more prominent, quiet giggles between them. And then, finally, they noticed her. You had gasped, slapping James in the arm to bring his attention to the intimidating Professor, her figure unmistakable in her pointed witch’s hat, robes flowing around her.

“I’m sorry Professor!” You had squeaked, hands immediately working to gather your things. Ever so obedient, scared to defy a person of authority you respected oh so much. James, on the other hand, grinned, as though he knew his next words would get you out of trouble. “It’s our birthday, Professor!”

Professor McGonagall’s lips tugged upwards, but she didn’t let you witness the smile on her face. Instead, she said with her signature unimpressed glare “Get to bed, the both of you.” Grabbing the letter, you scurried away, into the castle, leaving James to grasp the two small parcels — gifts from your parents — and follow after you with a last goodnight to the deputy headmistress.

And now, six years later, the same two figures sat hidden away in the tranquility of Hogwarts’s silent night, thick jumpers wrapped around you, the unforgiving weather of early spring roaring around you. It was a tradition of yours, McGonagall learned. Out of pure curiosity, in your second year at Hogwarts, she had visited the courtyard whilst doing her nightly rounds, a smile on her face at the realisation that the same pair of twins read aloud a letter from their parents and opened their gifts. She was glad to know that you were still best friends then, despite being so different and having different friends.

So in secret, Professor McGonagall returned to the courtyard on every night of your birthday. Tonight would be the last time she’d get to witness your little ritual, both of you graduating in just a couple of months. Now, you both didn’t bother trying to hide in your meet up spot, legs extended to provide you comfort whilst you tugged yourself underneath your thick, woolly scarf. You weren’t children anymore, but young adults, ready to take on what the world had to throw at you.

Professor McGonagall approached you, imitating your movements by staying hidden near the wall’s shadows, hoping to stay out of your ray of vision. You sat with James, shoulders touching as you held the letter from your parents in gloved hands, the wind attempting to fight the parchment out of your hands. Alas, you held on, reading out the loving words signed ‘Mum and Dad’.

Your bags of candies had already been ripped open, each having a stash catered to your own liking from the parents who loved you so much. Despite being six years older from when you’d hidden here for the first time, you still exchanged the cards you’d gotten with your chocolate frogs, now a pile of crumbs beneath you, all traces of chocolate otherwise gone. ‘For our beautiful twins. Will your smiles always stay as bright as those of children in a candy store.’ They had written, your last gift from them being the piles of sweets that would likely last you until graduation. Or perhaps just one lonely night.

It was bittersweet, knowing you would never have a birthday like this again — just the two of you, running away from the party your friends had thrown for you to spend sacred minutes together.

A long moment of silence passed before you turned to face your brother, voice quiet, happy. “Do you wanna see what Remus got me?” James nodded, shifting to face you, watching as you fished under the neckline of your jumper, pulling out a locket as you unraveled the scarf from around your neck. James squinted his eyes, smiling softly at the heart shaped locket with you and Remus’s initials engraved into the metal. You opened it, revealing the image of you Lily had taken of you and your boyfriend only a month ago. In the snow, Remus held you in a tight embrace. Your head was tilted upwards, watching him with loving eyes as he returned your gaze, a fond smile so clear on his face, your lips almost touching.

Instead of replying, James bumped his shoulder against yours, smiling at the daydreaming look on your face, staring into the photo. “He’s so perfect.” James scoffed, rolling his eyes “Okay, you sap.” But he knew there was nothing he would change about his best friend either. “Did you like Lily’s gift?” You asked. James’s mouth opened, but then he furrowed his eyebrows, glancing at you suspiciously. “Of course I know what she got you, I’m her best friend.” You added, replying to James’s unspoken question. He nodded quietly before a shy smile made its way onto his face. “Yeah, I really love it.”

At your sudden giggle, James’s head snapped back towards you. “Look at us. In committed relationships at the ripe age of eighteen. Who would have thought?” “Well I knew I’d have someone, but for you to be in a relationship? That’s-“ He blew a raspberry, extending his arms out in exaggeration. He yelped, feeling your fist slam into his bicep, and huffed stubbornly.

“Point proven.”

Professor McGonagall smiled from the other side of the courtyard, shivering slightly as a gust of wind blew past her. She retreated into the castle, hoping that soon, you would too. But she wasn’t the only one watching. From the gryffindor tower’s balcony, Remus kept his eyes trained onto you, who had begun wrestling with James. He sighed, resting his chin on his hand, recalling the moment he had with James as he watched you dance with Lily. He suddenly didn’t know if his confession had been too much for your brother, but he knew it was the truth.

“I’m gonna marry her one day, James.” Remus had said. And taking one last sip of his drink, James had shot Remus an incredulous look, replying with “You better.” And as he walked away, he heard him add “Who the fuck else?"

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @amatoanima, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @superlegend216, @treefairy-28, @kitkatkl, @rory-cakes, @juliet-f017, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @why-am-i-like-this18, @theoraekenslover, @animalcrossingshameless, @azure-drag0ness, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @girlontheblock, @matcha-kitty13, @thenasoneshots, @cakiebleh

[marauroon]

𝟏 𝐭𝐨 𝟏𝟎𝟎 — 𝐒𝐈𝐗𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑. (𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬)

two boys send you a series of letters over the course of the school year. one, a sweet ravenclaw boy who wants to get to know you. The other, well— you don’t know, but he already knows you.

eventual james x fem!reader | 14.0k | series masterlist.

main masterlist.

CW | the marauders are… reasonable human beings? technically oc love interest for plot reasons, james is a yearner, girlhood in its truest form

The first morning back is crisp and golden—the sort of late summer day that makes Hogwarts look like something out of a painting. You’ve just arrived off the train, your trunk bouncing along behind you, and the air’s got that unmistakable scent of lakewater, freshly-polished wood, and the beginnings of autumn. You’d missed it. Even if you’d never admit that to anyone.

Lily walks beside you, chattering about her summer, about Petunia being an absolute nightmare (what else is new), and how she’s already dreading the mountain of work that NEWTs are supposed to be.

You hum along at the right places, nodding as if you’re paying attention, but you’re mostly distracted—scanning the crowd ahead, watching as students laugh and jostle their way toward the carriages. You can already see the back of Sirius’ head, black hair tied back with a ribbon someone must have dared him to wear, and James beside him—his usual mess of curls half-tamed under a Gryffindor scarf, even though it's hardly cold enough for it yet.

They’re not causing trouble.

And that’s… strange.

You don’t realise you’ve slowed down until Lily stops too, blinking at you.

“You alright?”

You shake your head, smiling faintly. “Yeah, yeah. Just… forgot how much taller everyone’s gotten. They look like seventh years,”

She snorts. “Speak for yourself. Potter still looks like a fifteen-year-old with too much energy and not enough shame,”

You glance back at the group of boys as they vanish into one of the thestral-drawn carriages. The usual suspects: James, Sirius, Remus, Peter. The ‘Marauders’—still the stupidest name you’ve ever heard. Though you have to admit (not aloud, obviously) that it suits them. Or… used to.

Because something’s changed.

It started at the end of last year, when James had pulled you and Lily aside—separately, mind you, in an unusual display of emotional intelligence—and apologised. Properly. Not with a joke, not with a smug smirk, but with sincerity so unsettling that it had rendered you both speechless for a good few moments. You’d shared looks with Lily afterward, both trying to decide if it was a prank, some elaborate ruse meant to throw you off-guard.

It wasn’t.

And he hasn’t gone back on it either.

Which is why you’re currently standing in the entrance hall of the castle, shoulder to shoulder with your friends, and you feel a little… off.

Because things are peaceful. For the first time in years, things are actually peaceful.

The Marauders aren’t hanging hexed signs on people’s backs, they aren’t enchanting staircases to flatten when someone climbs them, they haven’t even thrown water balloons from the Astronomy Tower. And sure, they’re still winding up Severus at every opportunity—but even that’s been reduced from full-scale ambushes to petty jibes and muttered comments in the corridors.

It’s quieter.

Less… annoying.

And that should be a good thing.

It is a good thing. Probably.

—

You settle into sixth year like slipping on an old jumper. The classes are harder, of course—double Potions is hell on earth, and Charms seems to have tripled its expectations overnight—but there’s a rhythm to it.

You get up, you go to class, you spend time in the common room with the girls, laughing and playing Exploding Snap or braiding Dorcas’ hair while Marlene does impressions of the professors.

There’s no chaos. No Marauder-related distractions. And no James Potter, appearing behind you to tug on your robes or ask if you’re sure you didn’t drop your dignity in the corridor somewhere.

It’s… peaceful.

But peace, you realise after the third week, is a little boring.

No one’s called out your name in a loud, humiliating spectacle at dinner. No one’s nicked your favourite quill only to return it days later enchanted to sing show tunes. No one’s bewitched your name onto the Prefect noticeboard with the title “Most Likely to Hex You for Breathing Too Loudly.”

And no one’s watching you anymore.

Not in that way.

Because even when it was annoying—especially when it was annoying—there was something almost flattering about it. That attention. That sense of being seen, even if it was by someone like James Bloody Potter. It made you feel... well, not special exactly. But noticed.

You’d never admit it out loud. Not to Lily, not to Marlene, not even to yourself if you could help it. But in the quiet moments—when the library’s too silent, or the common room too tame—you find yourself missing the noise.

It’s deeply inconvenient.

—

The girls are thriving, though. Lily’s top of every class (no surprise there), Marlene’s got half the Hufflepuff Quidditch team vying for her attention, and Dorcas has taken to sketching everyone in increasingly dramatic poses. She caught Sirius with his eyes closed in History of Magic and drew him like a fallen angel; he signed it and stuck it to the back of Peter’s chair.

Even that felt nostalgic.

Because back in the day—not even that long ago—Sirius and James would’ve been howling with laughter, probably doing impressions of Binns until the man floated out in exasperation. Now, they seem more subdued. Not boring exactly, but... more grown up. As if they’re slowly starting to realise the world doesn’t revolve around them.

Well. Not entirely.

You still catch James showing off in the corridors sometimes—trying to balance a stack of books on his head while walking backwards or charming Remus’ tie to change colours during class. But it’s gentler now. Less abrasive. Like he’s finally learning the difference between being funny and being cruel.

And the strange thing is: you think you might actually like this new version of him.

You’re not sure what to do with that.

—

You’re sitting by the window in the common room, watching the storm pelt against the glass, your Transfiguration notes spread across your lap and a blanket tucked round your legs. The others are upstairs—Lily’s doing prefect rounds, Dorcas is in the bath, and Marlene’s probably flirting with the Ravenclaw Beaters again.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

You stare at your notes, then out the window. Somewhere down by the greenhouses, you think you can see Sirius running through the rain, jacket over his head. You squint, and sure enough, James follows a moment later, slipping slightly in the mud but catching himself with a laugh you can’t hear.

They’re soaked.

They’re laughing.

And they didn’t come bother you once today.

You look back at your notes. Your quill sits idle in your hand.

You’re being ridiculous. Pathetic, even. You hated when they bothered you. They drove you mad, especially James. The constant attention, the teasing, the half-jokes that toed the line between affection and annoyance—it was exhausting.

But it also made you feel like someone had your name in their mouth. Like someone saw you.

You press your lips together.

No. You’re being selfish.

You wanted peace, didn’t you? You got peace.

And now you’re here, sulking because a boy hasn’t thrown a dungbomb near you in three weeks.

Brilliant.

—

Lily finds you later, your notes long forgotten, the storm still raging outside.

“You look like someone drowned your owl,” she says lightly, collapsing onto the sofa beside you.

You blink. “Just tired,”

“Mm,” She eyes you. “You’ve been a bit… quiet lately,”

You shrug. “Just getting used to the workload,”

“You sure it’s not something else?”

You hesitate. Then: “Do you think James actually changed?”

She tilts her head. “Honestly? Yeah. I do,”

You weren’t expecting that. “Really?”

“Yeah,” She picks at a thread on the blanket. “He’s still a prat, obviously. Still immature and annoying and thinks the sun shines out of his arse, but… he’s not mean anymore. Not like he was,”

You nod slowly.

“And he apologised,” she adds. “That meant something to me. To you too, I think,”

It did. It still does.

You think back to that moment at the end of fifth year—James, red-faced and stammering, looking more like a boy than he ever had before. You remember how he wouldn’t meet your eyes at first, how he said your name like it mattered. And how for the first time, he didn’t laugh at the end. Didn’t wink. Just waited.

You’d told him it was fine. It wasn’t, but it was getting there.

Now, it might actually be.

But still.

“I kind of miss it,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Lily looks at you, confused. “Miss what?”

You shake your head. “Nothing. Just… never mind,”

She doesn’t press.

But later, when she goes upstairs and you’re alone again, you look back out the window. The rain’s slowed to a drizzle, the sky dark and drowsy. You think about James—how he used to be, how he is now. You think about how, somewhere in that strange in-between space, you stopped dreading his presence and started noticing his absence.

And the worst part is?

You’re not even sure when it happened.

—

It’s a dull, grey Thursday in early December, the kind that makes you want to burrow into your scarf and pretend the rest of the term doesn’t exist. You’re in the Great Hall for breakfast, half-asleep, cradling a mug of tea between your hands and trying to pretend that the mere idea of double Potions doesn’t make you want to fling yourself into the Black Lake.

Around you, the usual morning chaos unfolds: first-years bickering over toast, owls swooping in with letters and parcels, and Marlene arguing with Dorcas over who used the last of the strawberry jam. Lily’s scanning the Daily Prophet with her usual “this world is doomed” expression, and you’re debating whether or not to try and eat a banana when—

A piece of parchment glides gently through the air in front of you and lands, neatly, on your plate.

You blink. Then stare. Then blink again.

It’s folded perfectly, sealed with a little silver charm in the shape of a star, and it is absolutely not yours.

The table goes very still around you. Lily sets her paper down. Marlene pauses mid-swipe at the jam pot. Dorcas leans in with her eyebrows already raised.

You glance upward, half-expecting someone to shout “surprise!” or for Peeves to come crashing down from the ceiling, cackling. But there’s no sign of trickery. Just a few owls flapping overhead and a Ravenclaw table full of students minding their own business—or appearing to.

“Open it,” Dorcas hisses, eyes wide.

“I—what if it explodes?” you whisper back, only half-joking.

“It won’t,” Lily says. “Look at the charm. It’s a standard animation seal. Whoever sent it used proper magic,”

“That just makes it more suspicious,” you mutter, but your curiosity’s already gotten the better of you.

You peel the charm off and unfold the parchment.

The handwriting is careful, slanted slightly to the right, and clearly someone’s taken their time with it. The ink is deep blue and slightly shimmering at the edges—someone’s fancied this up a bit.

You begin to read.

Hi, sorry to send this in such a dramatic way, but I figured a floating letter was better than stammering at you in person and making a complete idiot of myself. I know this is kind of out of nowhere, but I’ve… well, I’ve noticed you. And I was wondering if you’d maybe want to write to me over the holidays? Just letters, nothing weird. Or, you know, more, if you’re up for that. No pressure though. I just think you’re kind, and funny, and I’d like to get to know you. From, Nick (Ravenclaw, sixth year, dark blond hair, sits near the windows in Charms—just so you can place me, if you want to).

You stare at the letter.

Then read it again.

And a third time, just to be sure it says what you think it says.

It does.

You make a noise somewhere between a squeak and a choke, and immediately try to stuff the letter under your plate, but Lily’s already yanking it out of your hand.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, skimming it with wide eyes. “This is the cutest thing I’ve ever read,”

“Wait, wait, let me see—” Marlene leans across the table, grabbing the other side. “‘Just letters, nothing weird’—what does that even mean? Is he worried about sounding like a creep? Oh, this is brilliant,”

Dorcas is fanning herself dramatically with her napkin. “Do you think he wrote a rough draft? This is totally a rehearsed letter,”

You hide your face in your hands, the heat of your cheeks threatening to set fire to your fringe. “Stop. Please stop,”

“I will not stop,” Lily grins. “You’ve got an admirer. An actual, charming, respectful admirer who wants to write to you like it’s the 1800s. That’s romantic,”

“It’s embarrassing,” you groan.

“It’s amazing,” Marlene corrects. “And you have to write back,”

“I don’t even know him!”

“That’s the point!” Dorcas says. “He wants to get to know you. He gave you a perfect way out, he’s not assuming anything, he’s just interested. That’s rare,”

They’re all smiling now, all leaning in, and you can’t help it—you laugh, a little helpless and a lot flattered.

Because it’s sweet. It is. And no matter how much your face is burning, there’s a fizzy, fluttery sort of feeling in your stomach you can’t quite ignore. You glance up again, eyes scanning the Ravenclaw table.

You spot him almost instantly.

Nick: dark blond hair, just as described, pale eyes, face mostly hidden behind a book, though he’s clearly not reading. He looks up. You look down. He looks away quickly, ears going pink.

You smile without meaning to.

“Right,” Lily says, dragging her bag into her lap. “We need paper. A quill. What colour ink should we use?”

“I’m not writing him back in the middle of breakfast,” you hiss.

“Why not?” Marlene’s already pulling a little bottle of silver ink from her satchel. “Strike while the iron’s hot! He’s probably dying of anxiety over there,”

You hesitate for a moment too long, and then the decision’s made for you—because Dorcas finds a clean piece of parchment, Lily’s already got your hand in hers, and Marlene is dictating a reply out loud while you splutter about how this isn’t how people normally handle these things.

You’re still trying to snatch the quill back when a voice drawls from behind you:

“What’s all the noise about, then? Secret girls-only plot to overthrow the Ministry?”

Sirius.

Of course.

You twist in your seat and find him lounging half on the bench, half on the table a few seats down, chin in hand, eyes glinting with nosy curiosity. He’s got toast in one hand and mischief in the other.

Lily lifts her chin and says, very primly, “None of your business,”

“Oh, now I have to know,” he says, kicking his legs up beside you.

You glance to your side—and there he is.

James.

Sitting quietly at the Gryffindor table, a few seats down, half a piece of toast hanging forgotten in his hand as he watches the scene with a blank expression.

It’s only a second, but you see it. That flicker of something behind his eyes.

Recognition.

Understanding.

And something sharp that he swallows before it can show too clearly.

Because James Potter knows what giggling girls and secret letters mean. He knows.

And it shouldn’t matter—it really shouldn’t. You’re barely even friends. Civil, maybe. Tentatively polite. But whatever it is between you now, it’s not enough to warrant the sudden, stiff way he turns back to his plate.

It shouldn’t sting.

But it does.

—

You finish the letter with the girls' help. It’s nothing dramatic—just a polite reply saying you’d be happy to exchange letters over the holidays, and that you appreciate his kindness. You keep it short and friendly and completely avoid saying anything that might sound too enthusiastic.

(Which is a lie. You’re a bit enthusiastic. But you don’t need them knowing that.)

Dorcas folds the reply with military precision, Lily reattaches the little star charm, and Marlene volunteers to deliver it on your behalf—“to spare you the embarrassment,” she says sweetly, already halfway across the hall.

You look down at your plate, appetite long forgotten.

“Alright?” Lily asks, nudging your shoulder.

You nod. “Yeah. I think so,”

“You’re allowed to be excited, you know,”

“I am excited. I’m just… surprised,”

She smiles. “It’s nice though, isn’t it?”

You glance again toward the Ravenclaw table. Nick’s looking at Marlene like she’s an incoming Howler, his whole face red to the ears as he takes the letter from her hand.

You smile again.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It is,”

—

Across the table, James doesn’t look up.

He doesn’t need to.

Because he saw the whole thing. The letter, the blushing, the girls all but bouncing in their seats. He saw Marlene walk across the hall with that parchment and Nick take it with shaking hands.

And it’s stupid. Petty.

But it hurts.

Because it’s been nearly two years since he realised he might actually like you—properly, not just in the annoying-you-is-fun way, but in the way that meant he started watching you when you weren’t looking. Noticing when you got a haircut. Learning the way your nose scrunches when you’re trying not to laugh.

He apologised. He grew up. He’s trying.

And it still wasn’t enough.

You’ve got someone now. Or the beginnings of someone.

And he’s just James Potter, watching from afar with jam on his toast and something bitter on his tongue.

He shoves the toast in his mouth and doesn’t say another word for the rest of breakfast.

—

You don’t expect the first letter from Nick to come so quickly. It arrives the morning after you get home for the holidays, hand-delivered by a glossy, silver-feathered owl you don’t recognise. Your name is written in the same neat, slanting script, and it still makes your stomach flip just a bit.

The note is folded crisply, the parchment thick and expensive-feeling. You hesitate before opening it, standing by the kitchen window with snow dusting the garden outside, everything quiet.

First off, thank you for not laughing at me. I thought I’d regret sending that letter the second I did it, and I very nearly snatched it out the air mid-flight to get it back. But you were so... kind. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t kindness. So thank you. It feels a bit odd writing like this, doesn’t it? But I also kind of like it. There’s no pressure when it’s just words. I don’t trip over them this way. So, here’s me: I like Charms best. I once accidentally set my robes on fire in Herbology (don’t ask), I’m allergic to pineapple, and I think people who can fall asleep on trains are borderline magical. Tell me something about you? Anything. Something silly, or secret, or both. Yours (nervously), Nick

You smile like an idiot for a full five minutes before you even think about writing back.

And so it begins.

The letters come every few days, sometimes short and scrawled in rushed excitement, sometimes long and meandering with little sketches in the margins. He tells you about his mum’s failed attempt at decorating the tree with actual enchanted snow, and how it flooded the sitting room. You send back a drawing of a dog dressed in a Father Christmas hat (badly drawn, but Nick says it’s ‘profoundly moving’). He tells you he’s rereading Hogwarts: A History just for fun, and you reply with a list of reasons why that’s definitely unhinged behaviour.

Sometimes he signs off with ‘Yours, Nick.’

Sometimes with ‘Yours (hopefully).’

Once—‘Yours (unless the owl’s eaten this and you never see it).’

You find yourself checking the sky for owls more often than you care to admit.

It’s not dramatic. Not whirlwind, heart-racing, can’t-breathe kind of love. But it’s nice.

And after the year you’ve had, ‘nice’ feels revolutionary.

—

You return to Hogwarts with a small box of letters tucked at the bottom of your trunk, tied neatly with a silver ribbon courtesy of Dorcas, who insisted they deserved to be “presented like the delicate artefacts of flirtation they are,”.

The minute you’re back in the dorm, you’re swarmed.

“Show us everything,” Marlene demands, already bouncing on the edge of your bed.

“Yes, come on, let’s see what your secret Ravenclaw Casanova had to say for himself,” Lily adds, mock-prim, though she’s clearly grinning.

You hesitate only a moment before reaching into your trunk. The box feels warmer than it should, like it’s soaked up some of the good from the past few weeks.

You hand it over, and the girls descend like a pack of curious Kneazles.

“Oooh, look at this one—‘Yours (unless the owl eats it)’—alright, he’s cute,” Dorcas says approvingly, flopping onto her stomach with the letter held aloft.

“Is this a little sketch of a Thestral wearing a party hat?” Lily giggles. “He’s got your sense of humour. That’s weirdly adorable,”

Marlene sniffs, mock-serious. “I give it two weeks before they’re holding hands by the lake,”

“Two? You’re being generous,” Dorcas snorts. “I give it until Sunday,”

You hide your face in a pillow. “You’re all horrible,”

“Don’t change the subject,” Lily grins. “Have you written him since we got back?”

You nod, biting your lip. “Told him I’d meet him after lunch. Figured we could, I don’t know… actually talk in person,”

They cheer like you’ve just won the bloody House Cup.

—

You find Nick leaning awkwardly by the courtyard archway, his hands stuffed deep into his robe pockets, and his scarf trailing loosely over one shoulder. He looks up at the sound of your footsteps—and immediately fumbles to straighten up.

“Hi,”

“Hi,” you smile.

It’s quiet for a moment, but not the awkward kind. Just the sort of quiet where snow mutes everything, and your breath fogs the air between you, and the castle feels suspended in time.

“It’s nice to see your face,” Nick says finally. Then pauses. “I mean—obviously I’ve seen your face before. Loads. I’m not, like, suddenly surprised you have a face,”

You laugh.

“I know what you meant,”

He exhales, relieved. “Good. I wasn’t sure I’d manage to string two sentences together without turning purple,”

“You’re only a bit pink,” you tease. “That’s manageable,”

You end up walking the long way around the courtyard, snow crunching underfoot. It’s a bit stiff, at first—he trips over his words, you don’t know where to put your hands—but something about it feels... promising. Like maybe the letters weren’t just a fluke.

He makes you laugh. You make him stammer in a way that’s far too endearing. It’s not dramatic, and it’s not sweeping—but it feels nice.

And when he says, quietly, “I’m really glad I wrote to you,” you don’t hesitate before replying, “Me too.”

—

From then on, you start seeing him more often. You meet by the greenhouses for walks after Herbology. You sit beside each other in the library, sometimes talking, sometimes just reading in companionable silence. You laugh when he fumbles his words or stutters a bit too quickly, and he blushes when you compliment his handwriting.

It’s soft. Sweet. Easy.

And that ease is what James hates most.

He doesn’t mean to. Really, he doesn’t. But every time he sees you and Nick tucked away in a corner, talking with your heads bent close, something in his chest twists too tightly.

He tries not to look. He tries.

But he always does.

He catches glimpses of you in between lessons, notices the way your smile tilts differently when you’re with Nick, the way you lean in without thinking. He sees the way you laugh, just slightly quieter than with the girls, more private.

He sees all of it.

And it kills him.

Because Nick doesn’t look nervous anymore. Not like he did in December. He looks like he belongs next to you now, like he’s settled into a space James never even realised was open.

And James?

James is still stuck in the same place, staring from a distance and pretending he doesn’t feel like his lungs collapse a bit every time your eyes skim past him without stopping.

The worst part is that Nick’s not even unlikeable. He’s polite. Respectful. He doesn’t show off or brag. He’s never hexed someone. He’s the kind of boy you should be with.

Which makes James feel like even more of a twat for hating him.

But he can’t help it.

Because you’re slipping further away with every shared smile and hushed conversation, and James Potter—Golden Boy, Quidditch Captain, supposed heartthrob—is left standing on the sidelines, too late and too cowardly to do anything about it.

Not that he deserves to.

Not really.

Not after everything he used to be.

—

There’s a quiet little path just past the edge of the Forbidden Forest, winding between thickets of tall grass and old stone walls from Merlin-knows-when. It’s not quite on the Marauder’s Map because it’s not technically a shortcut or a secret passage — it’s just peaceful. Removed. The kind of place couples start to frequent when they want to be left alone.

You and Nick have discovered it recently.

It’s become something of a habit, heading out there after classes with a thermos of tea or stolen pastries from the kitchens, bundled up in scarves and gloves, talking about everything and nothing as the winter wind rushes through the trees. It’s your space now, and it’s lovely. Safe. Uncomplicated.

You don’t notice the stag at first.

He’s standing far off at the treeline, half-hidden behind some low-hanging branches. Massive antlers, golden-brown fur, eyes sharp even from this distance. He looks almost surreal — like he belongs in some enchanted forest painting, too noble and elegant to be real.

Nick notices your distraction. “What is it?”

You tug his sleeve and point. “Look!”

His head turns, eyes following your finger. When he spots the stag, he startles slightly. “Blimey,”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you say, smiling. “It’s just a deer,”

“That’s not just a deer, that thing’s the size of a carriage,”

You laugh. “Don’t scare him off,”

You take a slow step forward, fascinated. The stag doesn’t move. Just watches you, eerily still.

There’s something oddly… familiar about him.

And James — because yes, of course it’s James — is having what could only be described as a full-scale emotional breakdown inside his stupid stag body.

He hadn’t meant for this to happen. Not exactly.

It had started out harmless enough — a little sulking, a bit of brooding, the usual staring-longingly-across-the-classroom-at-your-empty-chair sort of behaviour. And then Sirius had made some off-hand joke about how you and Nick probably had a “special little spot” by now, and James had laughed like he wasn’t actively dying inside.

Cue: terrible decisions.

Because obviously the most reasonable response to your blossoming teenage romance was to follow you in his Animagus form. Spy on you. Lurk.

Real mature.

But he couldn’t help himself.

There you were, sitting beside Nick, cheeks pink with cold, smiling in that soft way James remembered from last year when he made that ridiculous fireworks spell in Charms just to make you laugh. And Nick — bloody Nick — looked like he’d won the lottery.

It should’ve been him. He should be the one making you smile like that.

And then you turned, eyes catching the movement in the trees. James froze. For one horrible second he thought you recognised him, that somehow you could see straight through the fur and hooves and spot him for who he really was — awkward, lovesick, completely out of his depth.

But instead, you grinned.

Properly grinned. That wide, sparkly-eyed smile that had always made something in James’ chest flutter.

“You know stags are a sign of good luck,” he said, smiling softly at you.

You tilted your head. “Are they?”

“In some places, yeah. Seeing a stag’s supposed to mean… well, something sacred. Or new beginnings,”

James, still very much standing there like a massive idiot, nearly snorted.

New beginnings, his arse.

You took a step closer to Nick, hands fiddling with your scarf. “How fitting,”

Nick’s cheeks flushed red, even under the pale winter sun. “Yeah,” he said quietly.

James felt the moment before it happened.

There was a hush in the air, the kind that hangs between two people right before something changes. A kind of invisible pull. You leaned in—just slightly—and Nick moved at the same time, closing the space with a nervous sort of determination.

And then you were kissing.

It wasn’t a dramatic, spin-you-around kind of kiss. It was tentative. Careful. Sweet.

But it wrecked James all the same.

He wanted to close his eyes, but he felt as though he physically couldn’t. He wanted to disappear, but he was literally a giant animal. Instead, he stood there, paralysed, watching the girl he loved kiss another boy while he pretended to be a woodland creature.

You pulled away first.

Nick, ever the gentleman, looked nervous again.

“Sorry,” He muttered, hands fumbling. “I didn’t mean to— I mean, I did, obviously, but I didn’t want to make it weird. Was that… alright?”

You stared at him for a moment, lips parted. “It was,”

Nick smiled, visibly relieved.

And James—full of repressed feelings and bad decisions—bolted.

He galloped full-tilt back through the trees, hooves skidding over frosty ground, lungs burning with the kind of emotion that didn’t make sense in this form.

When he finally transformed back, he nearly punched the wall.

—

He storms into the dormitory, robes askew, hair windswept and damp from snow.

Remus looks up from his book. “Alright there?”

“No.”

“Did you fall in the lake again?” Sirius asks from his bed, chewing a Sugar Quill and looking thoroughly unconcerned.

“No,” James grinds out, pacing the room. “Worse.”

Peter sits up. “Worse than the lake?”

“I watched her kiss him.”

There’s a pause.

Sirius, now mildly interested, swings his legs over the side of the bed. “You what?”

“In the forest,” James says, throwing his arms up. “I was— I don’t know—just following—walking—I didn’t mean to stay that long, but then I saw them and I couldn’t move, and then he kissed her.”

He collapses into the armchair with the weight of a man who’s just seen war.

“Mate,” Remus says gently, closing his book, “you followed her?”

James groans. “Don’t say it like that.”

“In Animagus form?”

“Don’t say it like that!”

Sirius is cackling now. “James, my boy, you absolute idiot,”

James throws a cushion at him. “Do you want me to cry?”

Peter’s eyebrows are high on his forehead. “So… you watched them snog and then what? Ran off crying in your stag form?”

“Yes, Pete, that’s exactly what happened, thank you for summing it up so eloquently,”

Remus sighs. “Look. I know this is hard. But what did you expect to happen? You’ve been watching them from afar for weeks, acting like you don’t care, and now you’re surprised that she’s moved on?”

James sulks deeper into the chair. “I didn’t think it would hurt like this,”

Sirius tosses a Bertie Bott’s bean at his head. “Then do something, mate,”

James blinks. “What?”

“Tell her,”

“I can’t,”

“Why?”

“Because!” James flails his arms. “She hates me,”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Remus says calmly. “She was just… wary. And to be fair, you earned that. But you’ve changed. She sees that,”

“Lily’s talking to you again,” Peter adds. “That’s a massive shift from last year,”

“She’s dating Nick,” James mutters.

“So?” Sirius shrugs. “Relationships end all the time. Especially school ones,”

Remus shoots him a look. “Not exactly the message we want to send right now Pads,”

“Sorry, Moony, but it’s true. James has been pining for her like a tragic protagonist in a bad romance novel for years. If he doesn’t say something soon, he’ll combust. Or do something even stupider than stalking her through the forest,”

James groans. “You’re making it sound so much worse,”

“You made it worse, mate. You literally watched her kiss another boy from the bushes,”

He buries his face in his hands. “What do I even say? ‘Hi, sorry I was a git to you for years, but now I fancy you and have no idea how to act like a person anymore’?”

“Honestly,” Remus says, “not a terrible start

James peeks up between his fingers. “I can’t just tell her,”

“Then write,” Peter suggests, surprisingly earnest. “You’re always better in writing,”

The room falls quiet.

James slowly lifts his head.

“…Do I have to sign it?”

Remus frowns. “You want to send it anonymously?”

Sirius leans forward, interested. “Like a secret admirer?”

“No, like… a vent. I get it all out with no risks,”

“You think she’d read it?” Peter asks.

James shrugs. “She might,”

Sirius leans back, chewing on his quill now. “Alright. An anonymous letter. Bit dramatic, but very you,”

“You think it’s stupid,”

“I think,” Sirius says, “it’s better than sitting here moping while she falls in love with someone else,”

James doesn’t reply.

Instead, he stands, walks to his trunk, and pulls out a piece of parchment.

And a very fancy quill.

Because if he’s going to tell you the truth—even secretly—he’s going to do it properly.

—

It arrives one cloudy morning at breakfast, right between a plate of toast and a half-soggy letter from your mum asking if you’ve remembered to send your Nan a Christmas thank-you.

You barely register it at first—the slip of parchment settling onto your plate with an elegant little flutter, the ink shimmering faintly as if kissed by starlight. You glance up, expecting to see an owl flapping off, but the air above the Gryffindor table is clear.

Weird.

You look down again. It’s not a scroll, not a Howler, not a folded scrap from Lily asking about Herbology notes. It’s stationery. Thick, cream-coloured parchment that feels almost too nice for Hogwarts post. The edges are trimmed with delicate gold foil. The writing, when you unfold it, gleams like the surface of the Black Lake at midnight.

And it is… a lot.

You don’t know me. Not properly, anyway. Maybe you think you do, and maybe that’s my fault, maybe I’ve made sure you didn’t want to. Maybe I got too used to being the kind of boy people only like in theory. I can be a bit of a twat, but if I’d ever had the courage to actually be honest with you, this is what I would’ve said: I notice everything. I notice the way you chew your lip when you're thinking. The way your handwriting changes when you’re writing something personal. I notice that you give away half your dessert even when you complain you’re starving, that you always carry extra hair ties in case your friends need one, that you hum when you’re nervous. I’ve noticed that you like thunderstorms more than sunshine, and that you pretend not to care when people don’t listen to you, but it bothers you. I wish it didn’t. You’re not just pretty, you’re brilliant. You’re clever in ways people overlook, and kind in ways that make them assume you’ve never been angry. But I’ve seen it. I’ve seen your temper flare and your spine straighten and I’ve wanted to be someone who could stand beside that, not against it. I used to think if I just waited long enough, you’d look at me the way you look at the pages of a good book — like something worth opening. But I don’t think you ever will. And I’m tired of pretending I’m fine with that. So this is me. Being honest. Finally. I hope you’re happy. Even if it’s not with me.

You read it three times before you even breathe.

It is—quite literally—the most intense thing anyone’s ever said to you. And they didn’t even say it. They wrote it. Anonymously. No name. No initials. Just… left it here like a bloody emotional bomb.

“Oh my God,” Marlene breathes, peering over your shoulder. “Who wrote that?”

You blink, still dazed. “I don’t know,”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Dorcas is already reaching for the paper. “Let me see,”

Lily sets down her tea. “That’s not Nick’s handwriting,”

You snatch the letter back instinctively, folding it like a guilty thing. “It’s not from Nick,”

“Oh hell no,” Marlene says, loud enough to turn heads from the other end of the table. “What kind of coward doesn’t sign their name to something like that?”

You flush, tucking the letter under your plate. “Can we not do this here?”

“No, sorry, we’re absolutely doing this,” she says, hands in her hair. “You just got the Hogwarts equivalent of a bloody sonnet and we’re supposed to ignore it?”

You shrug, trying for breezy but failing miserably. “It’s probably a joke,”

“It’s not a joke,” Lily says, eyebrows furrowed. “No one puts that much effort into a joke. That was… honest. Painfully so,”

Dorcas whistles low. “I can’t believe someone’s been carrying all that around. And didn’t even sign it,”

“They should’ve,” Marlene says. “You don’t get to say all that and then disappear. It’s manipulative,”

“It’s anonymous,” you say quietly. “Not manipulative,”

“They want something from you without saying who they are,”

You shrug. “I don’t care who they are,”

Which is, of course, an outright lie.

Because for the next two weeks, you read the letter every single night after the others have gone to sleep.

You tell yourself you’re just curious. That it’s like solving a puzzle, trying to piece together who might’ve written it based on the phrasing, the details. You go through every male voice in your head like a bloody index file: is it someone from your year? Another House? Is it someone who sees you more than you realised?

And worse: is it someone you’ve hurt without knowing?

Because how long has this boy—whoever he is—been noticing you? Caring about you from some hidden distance? How long has he been watching you laugh, cry, argue, love your friends… and stayed silent?

Because now that someone has said those things to you—someone who wants your laugh, your bad handwriting, your bloody spare hair ties—you’ve started comparing. And Nick, for all his sweetness and quiet charm, hasn’t said anything remotely like that.

Nick likes you. He likes your face, your smile, your laugh. He likes sitting next to you at lunch and holding your hand when you walk to class. He likes being liked.

But whoever wrote that letter doesn’t just like you. They see you. In this terrifying, intense, specific way that makes your stomach twist every time you reread it.

And that’s the problem, really.

Because now every interaction feels dimmer by comparison.

When Nick compliments you, it feels too rehearsed. When he kisses you, you wonder if he’s noticed the freckles on your shoulders, or if he’s just decided that kissing you is nice. You still like him. You do.

But you also can’t stop thinking about the letter.

—

Meanwhile, in the boys’ dormitory, James is slowly unraveling.

He hadn’t meant for the letter to actually get to you.

Well, he had, obviously. That was the plan. Fold it all up, pour his heart onto the page, let the Marauders deliver it like some weird emotional owl service. But he hadn’t expected it to work. He thought maybe you’d read it once and toss it in the bin.

But you didn’t.

You read it. And then you kept reading it.

James knows because he keeps watching you. Not stalking—definitely not stalking—just… observing. From across the common room. Or the Great Hall. Or occasionally (and he hates himself for this) while pretending to tie his shoelaces in corridors you happen to be walking through.

You’re thinking about it. He can tell.

You’ve gone quieter, more introspective. You still hang out with Nick, still smile when he tugs you along to some late lunch in the courtyard. But the spark in your eyes when you look at him doesn’t quite reach the edges like it did before. Not like it does when you’re reading.

James sees you in the library with it tucked into a Transfiguration book.

He sees you smiling at it in Charms when Flitwick isn’t looking.

And every time, it hurts.

Not because you know it’s from him—but because you don’t.

You’re holding a piece of his soul and you don’t even know it’s his.

The Marauders are no help.

“Just tell her,” Sirius keeps saying. “It’s not going to kill you,”

“Yes it will,” James mutters into his pillow. “Instant death. Right there. You’ll have to plan my funeral,”

“Moony can write the eulogy,” Peter suggests. “Something tragic,”

“I’m not writing him a eulogy,” Remus says dryly. “I’m writing him a howler if he doesn’t grow up,”

But James doesn’t want to grow up. He wants to hide.

Because this is worse than being rejected. This is watching you choose someone else while still holding onto the most vulnerable thing he’s ever written and having no idea it’s from the boy who used to trip over his words around you.

He thought writing it would help.

It hasn’t.

If anything, it’s made everything worse.

Because now he knows how close he got. And how far away he still is.

And you— well, you’ve got a letter folded fourteen times and stashed in your pillowcase like some embarrassing secret. You’ve got Nick waiting for you after class and your friends teasing you about mystery boys and you’ve got no idea that the person who sees you best is someone you’d written off two years ago.

But you’re starting to wonder.

Because whoever wrote that letter knew things even you hadn’t noticed about yourself.

They knew how you listen harder when people talk about books, how you write longer sentences when you're nervous, how you care more deeply than you let on. That kind of observation doesn’t happen overnight.

That kind of thing takes years.

—

There are times in relationships when it feels like the edges of your life blur together, and the lines that once separated who you were from who you are in someone else’s eyes start to fade. It’s a strange and subtle thing. At first, it feels like you’re merely adjusting — slipping a little to fit more comfortably into someone else’s world. But gradually, as time passes, the edges of that world begin to shape you. And in the process, you start to lose sight of where you end and they begin.

That’s what happened with Nick.

At first, you thought it was something gentle — a sweet, budding connection. After all, the letters had been lovely, hadn’t they? The way he wrote about things you’d never noticed, the way his words seemed to speak to you in places where you hadn’t realised you were waiting for someone to. He was kind, he was funny in his own way, and he tried his best to get close to you. Really close.

But the truth is— he tried too hard.

You hadn’t noticed it at first, or if you had, you dismissed it. After all, it was sweet, wasn’t it? The way he wanted to take you to Hogsmeade every weekend, the way he seemed to try to do all the right things, say all the right words. He’d bring you flowers—small, simple ones from the Greenhouse, wrapped in brown paper. You’d smile, thank him, and tuck them into a glass jar on your windowsill.

But soon it wasn’t just flowers. It was sudden plans to study together for hours, even when you weren’t sure if you really needed to. It was long conversations about everything and nothing, always turning into late-night talks that kept you tethered to him, even when your mind wandered to other things—or to other people.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen, but the truth crept in. Little by little, things started to change. At first, it was just the fact that when you sat with Nick, it was easy to forget. You didn’t think about the boy who’d written you that anonymous letter, you thought maybe this was enough—that Nick was enough. But after a while, something started to feel… off.

It wasn’t his fault, not exactly. Nick was a genuinely good person. But somewhere along the way, he began to push harder than you could keep up with. And rather than reassuring you, that energy felt suffocating. The careful gestures, the predictability, the pressure to move things forward.

You began to realise that you weren’t sure if you wanted to move forward. Not with him. Not like this.

The shift became obvious one cold afternoon in the library, when Nick tried again—really tried—to kiss you. His hand brushed yours as he leaned in, but instead of feeling that warm flutter you’d always read about in romance novels, you felt yourself stiffen.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like him. You did. But with each moment that passed, the picture you’d once thought was perfect started to crumble. In that space between the kiss and the hesitation, you saw what was missing. It was like the world suddenly tilted. You realised you’d been holding on to something that wasn’t quite real, a dream of what could be, rather than what was.

You pulled away.

“I think…” you started, the words heavy in your throat. “Maybe we need to talk,”

Nick paused, his expression flickering with concern. “Talk about what?”

“I think I’m not really sure what I want anymore,” you said quietly. It wasn’t easy. It never is. “I think I’ve been… confused. I don’t want to lead you on,”

He blinked, his lips parted as though he was about to speak but couldn’t quite find the words. “You’re saying this now?”

“I know. I’m sorry. I should’ve said something sooner,” You looked at him, trying to make it hurt less. “But I think maybe we both rushed into this, and now… I don’t know. I don’t think I’m ready for this. For us,”

There was a long silence, his face softening, eyes full of something like defeat. And then he spoke, his voice quiet but steady.

“I think I knew, somewhere in the back of my head,” he admitted. “I wanted to be the one to make you forget. To make you forget the other person. The one who… knows you. Like that letter,”

You froze at his words, staring at him. “What do you mean?”

Nick shifted uneasily, rubbing his neck, looking around as if he wanted to find some kind of answer in the shelves of books. “I mean…” he said slowly, “You were never really mine, were you? Not in the way I wanted. Not in the way I needed,”

A knot tightened in your chest. He was right, but it hurt to hear it. “You’re not wrong,” you murmured, your heart sinking. “I don’t know what I was looking for. But I don’t think it was this,”

Nick gave a soft, resigned chuckle. “Yeah, I think I figured that out a little too late,” He paused. “I tried. You know? I tried to make it work, tried to be what you needed. But I guess… you’re right. I couldn’t compete with someone who really knows you,”

“I’m sorry, Nick.” You said the words because they were true, because you did care about him, but you also knew that this wasn’t right anymore. You couldn’t force it to be something it wasn’t.

He nodded, his jaw tightening slightly. “I just… I don’t think I can keep pretending I’m okay with the idea of you still thinking about someone else. I’m not him, am I?”

You shook your head, swallowing hard. “No. You’re not,”

For a moment, you both sat there in the quiet of the library, the sounds of students working, the soft scratch of quills on parchment. It was a peaceful kind of sadness, though. Not dramatic or explosive — just two people who had tried, who had cared, and who were now realising that they had reached the end of the road.

Nick exhaled softly, meeting your eyes. “I just want you to be happy, even if it’s not with me,” he said quietly. “I think you need to find the person who really gets you. The person who sees all of you, like that bloody letter,”

You felt something tighten in your chest at his words. “I want you to be happy too. I’m sorry,”

He smiled faintly, his eyes soft. “Don’t be. It’s just… I think we both knew this wasn’t going to last, not like this. I care about you. I always will. But I can’t be the person who’s always second best. I can’t compete with someone who sees you the way you deserve to be seen,”

You nodded, your throat tight. “I get it,”

“Good luck,” Nick stood up, dusting off his robes. “I hope you find what you’re looking for. Even if it’s not me,”

And with that, he walked away.

—

It took a few weeks for the aftermath to settle in. You weren’t sure if you’d done the right thing. But as time passed, you started to understand. You’d never been in love with Nick. You’d never been in love with the idea of him, either. And even if you hadn’t fully understood what that letter meant—the one you’d read so many times, the one you’d kept hidden under your pillow—you were starting to.

You’d tried. You’d tried to make it work, to make Nick fit, to make everything make sense. But in the end, you couldn’t ignore the cracks that had formed the moment you started comparing his kindness to the depth of someone else’s words.

You hadn’t found it yet, whatever it was that you were looking for. But you knew you would. It wasn’t about finding someone who could match Nick’s sweetness, or someone who could take his place.

It was about finding someone who saw you.

—

The Marauders had a plan. A very misguided, very well-meaning plan. And, naturally, that plan revolved around James.

They were determined to fix him, to make him move on, to help him forget about the girl who had (without him knowing) already managed to ruin him. But, as usual, they hadn’t bothered to take into account the very real fact that James didn’t want to move on. At least, not in the way they thought he should.

Ever since his brief but very real heartbreak — the one that no one, especially you, knew anything about—James had been moody. His attempts at pretending he was fine fell flat. He acted like he was fine, smiled like he was fine, but everyone who knew him could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t fine. He was not fine.

But the Marauders, being the Marauders, had an answer. They were going to find him someone to kiss, someone to distract him from you.

James had tried to shrug it off. He had told his friends, repeatedly, that he wasn’t interested in anyone else. He didn’t want to be fixed, and he certainly didn’t want to forget you, not when he couldn’t forget that letter, not when every little thing about you still echoed in his head.

But the Marauders were insistent.

“Mate, you’ve got to move on,” Sirius said one evening, sprawled across the couch in the Gryffindor common room. He was half-teasing, but there was a seriousness to his voice that James couldn’t ignore. “You’ve never kissed anyone else. Never shagged anyone. How do you know you don’t like it, huh?”

James shot Sirius a dry look. “I don’t need to shag anyone to know I’m not interested in anyone else,” he muttered. He had been hoping to avoid the topic altogether, but Sirius, as always, was relentless.

“You don’t know that until you try, Prongs,” Sirius said, winking as he nudged James in the side. “Besides, you can’t just pine over her forever. You’ll drive yourself mad,”

James clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists. “I’m not pining,” he growled. “I’m just… not interested in anyone else. It’s that simple,”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “If you say so,” He flashed a grin. “But you’re coming to the Quidditch after-party tonight, right? I’ve got a plan to fix this. You need to at least try,”

And that was how James ended up, several hours later, at the Gryffindor Quidditch after-party, reluctantly swept into the chaos of his friends’ scheming. There was no getting out of it. Sirius had insisted. Remus had given him a knowing look. Peter had simply nodded along, looking vaguely terrified of being left out of the plan.

James had been forced to accept that the Marauders weren’t going to leave him alone until he did something. So, with as much reluctance as he could muster, he gave in.

The party was rowdy, with a thrumming energy that could only come from a Gryffindor Quidditch victory. It didn’t take long before Sirius had dragged James into a conversation with a fifth-year Gryffindor girl, a girl James vaguely recognised from the common room. She was nice enough, but James wasn’t interested. Still, he followed through because, well, Sirius had already set it all up.

"Just give it a try, mate," Sirius whispered, giving him an enthusiastic thumbs-up from across the room. “You might actually enjoy it,”

James barely suppressed a groan. He couldn’t explain it, but the thought of kissing anyone but you felt wrong. There was a tightness in his chest every time he tried to think about being with someone else.

He didn’t know what it meant, whether it was the letter, or the way you had slipped so easily into his thoughts, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t supposed to be here. That he wasn’t supposed to be kissing someone else.

Nevertheless, after some awkward small talk, the girl leaned in, and there it was. His first real kiss, forced and strange, under the loud cheer of the party around them. It lasted barely ten seconds before he pulled away, completely baffled by the sensation. She smiled at him, clearly pleased with herself, but it didn’t feel right. The kiss, the girl, the situation, none of it.

It wasn’t until Sirius erupted from across the room, clapping and cheering loudly, that the full weight of the absurdity of the situation hit James. Sirius, always the showman, made it a scene—announcing loudly that James had officially kissed his first girl, and proudly pointing at James with a triumphant grin as if it was some massive accomplishment. It was a joke, sure, but it made James cringe.

You were standing near the punch bowl with Marlene and Dorcas at that very moment, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes as the whole situation unfolded in front of you.

There was something about the way Sirius made a spectacle of it that rubbed you the wrong way. The obnoxious cheering, the over-the-top comments, the way everyone turned to look at James and the girl like they were stars on a stage.

You couldn’t quite pinpoint why it bothered you so much. Maybe it was the sheer lack of subtlety. Maybe it was the fact that James didn’t seem to care much for the girl at all, or that he was only doing this to prove something. You couldn’t quite place it, but something about it left a bitter taste in your mouth.

You found yourself staring a little too long, a little too intently, at the scene. Maybe it was the stupid party. Maybe it was the fact that James had always been so full of himself. But whatever it was, it didn’t sit right with you.

Your friends noticed. Marlene raised an eyebrow and smirked. “You okay?”

You blinked, startled by the question. “Yeah, of course,” you said quickly, though your voice was a little too sharp to sound convincing. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She didn’t buy it, but she didn’t push further. Instead, she and Dorcas exchanged a knowing look, and you felt a flush of embarrassment rise up your neck.

You glanced back at James, still awkwardly standing with the girl, still the centre of the attention. You looked away, the feeling in your chest growing uncomfortable. You didn’t like it. You didn’t like the way this felt, or the way it made you feel. And yet, you couldn’t deny the slight tug of something — something more complicated than you were willing to admit.

After the party, James felt it too. The awkwardness. The discomfort. The wrongness. He sat with the Marauders, and despite the fact that they were celebrating his “success,” James couldn’t shake the feeling that it had all been for nothing.

“I don’t know what I expected,” James admitted, dropping his head into his hands as they all sat around in their dorm. “It didn’t feel right. I didn’t… I didn’t enjoy it,”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, an almost sympathetic look crossing his face. “You didn’t enjoy it?”

“No,” James muttered, running a hand through his hair. “It just felt wrong. It wasn’t the same,”

The Marauders exchanged glances, the air thick with unspoken understanding. Of course it wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be the same. Not when his mind was still filled with someone else. Not when James wasn’t ready to let go.

“Well, mate,” Remus said softly, “I think we all know what’s really going on here,”

James shot him a look of frustration. “I’m not interested in anyone else. I don’t want to be with anyone else,”

“Alright,” Sirius said, his voice suddenly serious, “If you’re really not ready then we’ll leave you to it,”

James sighed, rubbing his eyes in defeat. “I don’t want anyone else. I just… I don’t know what to do about it,”

The Marauders fell into a thoughtful silence, each of them looking at James with a mixture of sympathy and exasperation. There was nothing they could do for him, not unless he was ready to confront the real reason he was so stuck.

And, for now, James was content to wallow. He didn’t want to move on, and he wasn’t about to let anyone push him into it.

—

There was a strange sort of silence to James’ heartbreak. It didn’t roar like his laughter or crackle like his temper. It didn’t come out in jokes or pranks or the boisterous chaos that usually followed him around like a second shadow.

No, this was something different. Something quieter. Quieter than anyone had ever expected of him. There was a whiteness to it, an absence, a stillness—a kind of stillness that looked out of place on him.

He didn't speak to anyone about it anymore. The Marauders had tried—Sirius, mostly, with his not-so-subtle nudges and jabs—but James had stopped responding. He didn’t mope, exactly. He just grew more introspective. Not solemn, not angry, just… somewhere in between. And every time someone mentioned your name, something behind his eyes would flicker and then dim again.

It wasn’t until he overheard you, Marlene, and Lily chatting in the corridor near the library that everything shifted again.

You were trying to be quiet—your voice low, tone calm, your words slightly hesitant. But James had always been good at picking you out from a crowd. It was something he hadn’t even realised he’d trained himself to do until recently. So when he passed by that corridor and caught your voice, he paused. And then he heard it.

“Well, it wasn’t like Nick did anything wrong. He’s sweet. I just…” You sighed. “I don’t know. It stopped feeling like it was about me, you know? He was chasing something, not necessarily me. And after that letter turned up, it just made it worse,”

James stopped breathing. That letter.

“You still don’t know who it’s from?” Lily asked, a note of intrigue in her voice.

You huffed out a laugh. “No. And it’s driving me mad. I feel like… whoever wrote it knows me better than I know myself. And I don't even know his name,”

Marlene scoffed. “If he knew you that well, he’d grow a spine and tell you who he is,”

“He’s probably scared,” Lily offered gently. “Those letters aren’t just passing notes. They’re—intimate,”

James ducked into an empty classroom before they could spot him, heart pounding. His palms were damp. His whole body felt too hot, too aware. You'd broken up with Nick. Because of him. Not that you knew it was him, but still. His words had changed something.

He had told himself, after that first letter, that it was a one-time thing. A catharsis. An exorcism of all the things he couldn’t say to you out loud. But after his revelation. He found himself itching to write another. And another.

The second letter had come days after he saw you in the courtyard laughing at something Dorcas had said, your head thrown back in a way that made his chest ache. He’d gone back to the dorm, heart full and throat tight, and written about it—how he wished he could be the one making you laugh like that. How he’d never seen anything brighter than the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled.

Then came the third letter, and the fourth. And soon, it had become a habit. A ritual, almost.

When he couldn’t sleep, he wrote.

When he saw you in class and wanted to say something but couldn’t find the nerve, he wrote.

When you passed him in the corridor and gave him a polite, almost friendly smile, he wrote.

And the letters changed. They weren’t just emotional ramblings anymore—they were layered with observations, with memories, with confessions he had never let himself say aloud.

You wore your hair different in Potions today. I liked it. But I think I would’ve liked it even if it looked awful, which is… probably not a great thing to admit, is it? You’ve got this little crease between your brows when you’re concentrating—it only appears when you’re really focused. I don’t think you know you do it. When you walk down the corridor, I can tell what kind of mood you’re in before I even see your face. It’s in the sound of your steps. In the rhythm of it. Happy-you walks different than annoyed-you.

You never responded. You couldn’t. There was never a return address, never any way to send anything back. But James didn’t care. He didn’t need a reply. Just writing to you—being able to express it, even anonymously—felt like enough.

Sort of.

Because the truth was, as much as it helped to write the words down, it also hurt. Every letter was a reminder of everything he wanted and couldn’t have. Everything he’d spent years pretending not to feel—buried beneath jokes and hexes and all the noise of adolescence.

And you? You kept every single one.

You didn’t tell the girls about it. Not really. Not after the second letter. You pretended it was over, that it had been some sweet, silly little mystery. But in truth, you’d hidden them. All of them. In a little shoebox under your bed, wrapped in an old jumper. Some were creased from how often you unfolded and re-folded them. Some had the faintest smudge in the corner from where you’d cried, unexpectedly, at something you hadn’t realised you needed to hear.

You didn’t know what to do with them. You weren’t over Nick—not really. That kind of closeness doesn’t disappear overnight. But it was impossible to keep pretending that he had understood you like this anonymous writer did.

Whoever he was, he had seen you. Not just the version of you that most people acknowledged—the smart, sharp, sometimes-sarcastic girl who was always one step ahead of a comeback. No, this person had paid attention to the margins of you, the unnoticed edges. The things you didn’t even know were there until he wrote them down.

I think I started liking you back in fourth year. You were defending someone in the corridor—some little second-year who’d dropped their books, and some Slytherins were laughing at him. You didn’t even hesitate. You stepped right in like it was the most obvious thing in the world. That’s when I knew. Only I’m not sure if I just like you anymore. It’s something more. Something I don’t know how to name. Is it pathetic to say that I hear your voice before I see you? That I can pick you out of a room before I even look up? I don’t mean to. It’s just—it’s like my ears are tuned to you. Like a frequency I can’t ignore.

You lay awake most nights now, reading the letters again after the others were asleep. You tried to analyse the handwriting. You wondered if it was someone in your year. You made a list of suspects in your head and crossed off half of them, even though it didn’t bring you any closer.

Sometimes, when you caught James looking at you from across the room, you’d wonder. But then you’d scoff at yourself, because James Potter? Really? He was… well, James. All swagger and messy hair and cocky grins. You’d made peace with the fact that he wasn’t half as insufferable anymore, but he was still James.

And yet…

The letters were not the work of someone who didn’t care. They weren’t careless. They were intimate in a way that left you breathless. Each one revealed a little more—each sentence brushing up against truths you hadn’t admitted even to yourself.

They came like clockwork now—one every week, always arriving in the oddest of places. Slipped inside your Arithmancy book. Folded neatly on your dinner plate. Once, even tucked inside your scarf in the common room, which really freaked you out because it meant he was closer than you thought.

It was terrifying and exhilarating. And the worst part? You were beginning to need them. Crave them, even. His words had become a constant, something you looked forward to with equal parts dread and hope.

The box under your bed grew heavier by the week.

And James? He was slowly losing his mind. Every time he saw you reading a letter—head tilted, eyes flicking across the page, your expression soft and unreadable—it hurt in the best and worst way. You liked them. He knew you did. But the longer he went without saying anything, the more impossible it felt to tell you the truth.

Because what if knowing ruined it? What if it stopped being magical the second his name was attached?

He was a coward. Marlene had said so, loudly, and James knew it was true. He could face down a rogue Bludger, duel a seventh-year, prank Filch and escape with a grin—but he couldn’t tell you he was the one who had been writing to you.

And yet, he couldn’t stop.

He poured his soul into those margins. Into those pages that would never carry his name. Because it was the only way he could tell you the truth and survive it.

And maybe that was enough.

Or maybe, eventually, it wouldn’t be.

—

You didn’t mean to tell them. Honestly, you had every intention of keeping the whole thing a secret forever. But Marlene had a sixth sense for drama, and Dorcas had a sharper nose for mystery than a trained bloodhound. So when your bed-curtains had rustled suspiciously in the middle of the night and Marlene had caught a glimpse of shimmering ink through the crack of your open trunk, it was game over.

You’d barely managed to shove the letter beneath your pillow before she pounced.

“Aha!” she whispered in triumph, yanking back your curtains with no regard for your sleep schedule. “I knew you were hiding something!”

“Marlene, go away,” you groaned, but Lily was already sitting up, blinking owlishly, and Dorcas was dragging her own blanket across to your bed.

“Nope,” Dorcas said brightly, sliding in beside you with terrifying ease. “Spill it. Is it more letters?”

You were betrayed by the silence. The way your face didn’t even have time to arrange into a proper lie before the truth fell across your cheeks.

“Oh my god,” Lily whispered. “There’s more?”

“There’s loads more,” Marlene said, shoving aside your blankets and finding the shoebox tucked beneath your bed like a woman possessed. “Holy hell, you’ve got a whole bloody collection.”

You didn’t fight it. Not properly. Not after the fourth letter was unfolded and read aloud in a reverent hush, the girls falling completely silent around you—save for the occasional sniff or soft exhale of disbelief.

“He watched you drop your quill and memorised how you tucked your hair behind your ear,” Dorcas said, practically vibrating. “I thought blokes only noticed when girls breathed near them,”

“It’s beautiful,” Lily whispered. “It’s like something out of a novel,”

“Romantic,” Dorcas agreed.

“Terrifying,” Marlene added. “I mean, what if it’s Mulciber or something?”

You almost choked. “Please don’t even joke about that,”

Thus began the unofficial—and entirely chaotic—formation of The Girls’ Detective Agency. It wasn’t your name for it, obviously, but once Marlene had made badges (from parchment, glitter, and sheer manic determination), you didn’t have much choice in the matter.

The mission was clear: uncover the identity of your mysterious letter-writer.

Their methods, however, were… questionable.

They started with handwriting analysis. Marlene attempted to casually wander through the library, requesting to borrow ink samples from boys “just out of curiosity,” and Lily spent an afternoon in the common room “helping” people with their Transfiguration essays so she could examine their penmanship. Dorcas, who had stolen your Divination notes under the pretext of “astrological clarity,” tried to match the emotional tone of the letters to various star signs.

“I’m telling you,” she said one night with complete certainty, “this is a Cancer Sun, maybe a Pisces Moon. This is water sign poetry,”

You didn't know what a Pisces Moon was meant to mean, but Dorcas said it like gospel, so you just nodded.

Meanwhile, Marlene was not subtle. At all.

“What if it’s Remus?” she hissed once across the common room, loud enough for three people to turn around. “He’s broody. And he reads so much poetry,”

You swore you saw Remus twitch.

But you shook your head. “No. It’s not him,”

You were sure about that. Remus was clever, kind, thoughtful—but the letters didn’t sound like him. His voice was steadier, more deliberate. The person writing to you was something else entirely—someone who struggled with the weight of what he felt, who was reckless with his emotions in a way that wasn’t controlled or clean. Someone who wrote like he was bleeding onto the page.

There were flashes—little things—that made you wonder if maybe, maybe, it could be James.

But every time the thought flitted across your mind, you swatted it away.

James Potter didn’t write letters like this. James Potter was a menace with a Quidditch obsession and a lopsided grin. James Potter, who had only recently evolved into someone tolerable, wasn’t exactly someone you pictured lying awake at night, pouring his soul into parchment.

Sure, he wasn’t as obnoxious as he used to be. And sure, there was something softer in the way he looked at you lately—but you’d chalked that up to the fragile peace you’d made after last year’s chaos. There was no way he was the one leaving notes beneath your scarf.

Besides, if he’d written something this vulnerable, he would’ve shoved it into your hand and dared you to read it aloud just to watch you squirm. Right?

So, no. Not James.

You were wrong, obviously.

But that wasn’t the point.

—

The final week of term came faster than expected. sunlight glittered on the edges of everything—floating house flags outside the Great Hall doors, open windows letting in a soft breeze, a warmth that seeped into your bones. Everything felt a little too warm, a little too bright.

And still, the letters kept coming.

The last one arrived on the morning of the train home.

It was simpler than the others. A small square of parchment, no shimmering ink this time. Just words. Words that didn’t try to be anything other than honest.

I don’t know if I’ll write again. I think I might be running out of ways to say it. I miss things I’ve never had with you, and that’s a strange kind of grief. Have a nice holiday. Try not to overthink things. I know that’s rich coming from me. Yours, always— even if you never know who.

That was it.

You folded the letter carefully, hands trembling, and slid it into the shoebox with the others. And then you stared at it for what felt like hours, until Lily touched your arm gently and said, “We’ll miss the train,”

And that was that.

—

James watched you leave through the frost-smeared train window, his heart quieter than it had been in months. The Marauders were deep into a loud game of Exploding Snap, Sirius laughing at every blast, Peter shouting protests, Remus rolling his eyes fondly.

None of them knew he’d written another one.

James had stopped telling them after the fifth or sixth. It felt private. Sacred, almost. Sharing it would have made it real in a way he wasn’t sure he could handle. So he kept it to himself—his stupid little secret. His confession scrawled across parchment instead of spoken out loud.

He knew he was being a coward. That had become obvious. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Not when he saw the way you read them, all curled up with your bottom lip caught between your teeth. Not when he noticed the way your hand trembled slightly on the paper. You felt something. He was sure of it.

But he also knew that eventually, you’d want more. And he couldn’t keep offering faceless intimacy forever. So he wrote the last one. Said goodbye. Sort of.

And then he sat on the train with his forehead pressed to the glass, pretending he didn’t care that you hadn’t figured it out. That you were probably leaving for the summer thinking about someone else entirely. That maybe, despite everything, he’d never actually be enough.

—

Back at home, the days grew longer. The pace slowed. The house was warm, the food good, the sleep long and uninterrupted. And yet every night, without fail, you found yourself at the window.

The box of letters came out the first night you returned. You told yourself it was for closure.

It wasn’t.

You read them again—each one from the beginning. Chronologically. Like chapters in a book. You traced the handwriting with your fingers, letting the words sink into you slowly.

He loved you. That was the truth of it.

Maybe he hadn’t said it directly. Maybe he hadn’t signed his name. But no one wrote like that without meaning it. No one watched you so closely, noticed so many tiny things, remembered throwaway moments from years ago unless they’d been in love with you for a long, long time.

And you were still no closer to knowing who he was.

That was the worst part.

How could someone be so close and still so invisible?

You stared out the window into the night, watching your breath fog up the glass. The snow fell softly outside, blanketing the world in silence. Somewhere out there was someone who had seen all of you—really seen you—and hadn’t asked for anything in return.

And you missed him. Terribly.

Not Nick. Not the quiet comfort of that easy romance.

But him. The one who knew the cadence of your footsteps. Who listened for your voice before he saw your face. Who remembered fourth year like it was yesterday and noticed how your hands trembled when you were angry.

You missed someone you didn’t know. And it felt like the loneliest thing in the world.

—

I know I said I wouldn’t write you anymore, but I’m afraid I can’t help myself. The truth is, I’ve been terrified of saying it out loud, of giving you something you don’t need or want. But I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve loved you for so long, in ways that I can’t even put into words. I’ve watched you, really watched you, every day, and I’ve noticed things about you that no one else ever could. The way you bite your lip when you’re thinking, the way you hum softly to yourself when you’re studying, the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you care about. I’ve memorised the way your voice sounds when you laugh, the way you wrinkle your nose when you’re annoyed, the way you frown when you’re trying to figure something out. And I’ve done all of this because I care about you. So much more than I should. I’ve tried to get over you, to forget you. I’ve tried to date other people, to move on. But none of them were you. None of them could be. I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t even know if I’ll ever send it. But I need you to know that I’ve been here, always here, loving you in the quietest ways, the most secret ways. Maybe this is selfish. Maybe it’s unfair of me to ask you to care about someone who has never had the guts to say this to your face. But I don’t know what else to do anymore. I can’t keep pretending like this doesn’t matter to me. Because it does. You matter to me, more than I can say. I’ve always been here, waiting, in the margins of your life. Maybe that’s where I belong. But if you ever look up, I’ll be there, still waiting. —James F. Potter

He stopped writing. Blinked down at the words like they might rearrange themselves into something less terrifying.

His hand hovered over the signature. It looked too sharp, too obvious. Too final.

He stared at it for a long time.

Folded the letter in half.

Then unfolded it.

Folded it again.

“Mate, you’re torturing yourself,” came a groggy voice from across the room. Sirius, of course. “Just send it to her already,”

James looked up. “She won’t want it,”

“You don’t know that,”

“She might hate me,”

Sirius yawned and flopped back down onto his pillow. “She definitely won’t hate you. That’s the worst-case scenario you’ve built up in that tragically romantic brain of yours. And even if she did… so what? At least you’d know,”

James looked down at the folded parchment.

He could send it. He could sneak into the Owlery now, under his Invisibility Cloak, and you’d get it tomorrow. And then you’d know. Everything.

But then you’d know.

He imagined your face when you opened it. The surprise. The disbelief. The way you’d go back and read every single letter again, this time with the truth laid bare. Would it be relief? Would it be disappointment?

Or worse—would you already know, and just not want to face it?

James tucked the letter into his pillowcase and lay back down.

His heart was racing.

He didn’t sleep.

He didn’t send the letter, either.

Not yet.

Maybe never.

—next part.

[ticifics]

Hello author, can i request a part two dor divination? Maybe the vision finally came true and its all just fluffy? Thank youu

𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

── james potter x f!reader

summary: “Remember the Divination classes?” James asked suddenly, his voice light, almost as if talking to himself. “Yeah,” you murmured, feeling the memory bring an unexpected warmth to your chest. “She really got that one right.”

tags n warnings: just fluffy - after Hogwarts(married with children), a very cute little Harry. divination

a/n: hey honey, I hope you like it

The night in Godric’s Hollow was calm, the silence only broken by the soft crackling of the fireplace and the slow ticking of the clock on the wall. The golden light from the flames cast delicate shadows on the walls and filled the living room with a warm, cozy glow. It was one of those rare and perfect moments where time seemed to slow down, as if the world outside didn’t even exist.

Harry was on the floor, on the plush rug that covered most of the room, surrounded by colorful magical blocks he was trying to stack. He furrowed his brow, his little face serious as his tongue slightly poked out the side of his mouth. The newly built tower collapsed once more, and he let out an annoyed grunt before suddenly getting up.

James was sprawled on the couch, his feet resting on the coffee table, watching his son with eyes full of amusement. You were sitting on the floor with Dahlia standing between your hands, propping her tiny arms on yours to keep her balance. She let out squeals of joy every time she managed to take a wobbly step or two before safely falling back onto the rug. Each of her attempts was met with laughter, claps, and kisses on the top of her little head.

“Again, little one, come on,” you encouraged softly, lifting her under her armpits and raising her into the air. Dahlia giggled in her tiny voice, her round cheeks flushed from the effort, her eyes sparkling with pure joy. She looked like a miniature version of you, the features so alike that even James had commented more than once how it threw him off a little.

At that moment, Harry, who was facing away from you, found James’s glasses abandoned on the coffee table. He picked them up carefully, turning them in his little hands as if they were a treasure. Without a second thought, he put them on, the large lenses slipping down his nose.

“Dad!” he called, stumbling over his words as he turned around with a big smile. “Look, now I’m you!”

James’s laughter echoed through the room, that loud and carefree laugh that brightened any place. He threw his head back, his hands covering his face for a moment before he stretched out his arms to Harry.

“Merlin, you look just like me!” James said, his voice full of affection. He scooped his son into his arms, messing up his already wild hair even more. “You just need to try flying on a broomstick and get into trouble, and I’ll have to retire because my legacy will be secured.”

Harry laughed, adjusting the glasses that kept slipping. “I’m going to fly better than you, dad,” he declared with all the confidence in the world, which only made James laugh more.

“Of course you will, Prongslet. That’s the spirit.”

On the other side of the room, you watched the scene with a smile so wide your cheeks ached. Dahlia, now in your lap, stretched her little hands toward her dad and brother, babbling something that sounded like a demand for attention. James looked at her and froze for a second, his smile softening as he watched the little one in your arms.

He stayed silent for too long, his gaze almost absorbed as he studied Dahlia’s face, so identical to his. You noticed the moment and furrowed your brow slightly, your voice soft as you asked,

“What’s wrong? Why the silly look?”

James turned his gaze to you, that silly grin still shining on his lips, and then looked back at his daughter, as if he were trying to memorize every detail of her.

“It’s you,” he murmured, his voice so low that it barely reached your ears. “Smaller, cuter, but… it’s you.”

Your heart warmed, melting like butter under the sun. The look of adoration he gave his daughter was the same he reserved for you, and that always affected you in an inexplicable way.

“Careful, James,” you teased, your voice sweet. “She might end up wanting to fly better than you too.”

James chuckled softly, letting Harry slide off his lap as he stood up and walked over to you. He crouched down beside you, his arms extending around both of you.

For a moment, you stayed like that: Dahlia in your lap, Harry playing again with the blocks, and James too close, his presence as comforting as a warm blanket.

“Remember the Divination classes?” he asked suddenly, his voice light, almost as if talking to himself.

You raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Those classes? James, that was years ago.”

He laughed, resting his head on your shoulder while still looking at their daughter, now yawning and rubbing her eyes. “I know. But… I remember her talking about a boy with glasses. Just like his dad.”

His gaze softened as you also looked at Harry, who was now grumbling softly because another block tower had fallen. A boy with his father’s messy hair and huge glasses. It was truly remarkable.

“Yeah,” you murmured, feeling the memory bring an unexpected warmth to your chest. “She really got that one right.”

James turned his face to look at you, his expression so tenderly affectionate that it felt like your heart might leap out of your chest.

“And I also remember saying that I would prefer… a girl,” he continued, his eyes shining softly. “Someone who looked like you.”

The mention caught you off guard, an unexpected wave of emotion rising within you. Your smile was automatic, even though a stubborn tear threatened to fall.

“And here we are,” James murmured, kissing the top of Dahlia’s head as she finally fell asleep in his arms. “Who would’ve thought, huh? It seems like the future really was written. We just took our time seeing it.”

You smiled, one of those smiles that starts slow, spreading across your whole face, as you watched Dahlia’s little closed eyes. His words brought a warm feeling to your chest, mixed with old memories that seemed to come from another life.

“We really did,” you replied, resting your head on James’ shoulder, feeling his familiar warmth. “If it depended on you, we’d have been together since first year.”

James chuckled softly, looking at you with that mischievous glint in his blue eyes.

“I wasn’t wrong, let’s be honest,” he said, with a voice as if declaring a universal truth. “I spent six years trying to prove I was irresistible, but no… you preferred to ignore me. Ignore me, can you believe that?”

You raised an eyebrow at him, amused. “I’d call it common sense.”

James put on a mock expression of outrage, placing his free hand on his chest as though he’d been struck with an arrow. “Common sense? And when did you decide to lose that?”

“Sometime around sixth year,” you replied, trying not to laugh. “When you became less… unbearable.”

“Unbearable?” He blinked a few times, indignant. “Come on, love, you make it sound like I was the worst of the Marauders. Everyone knows Sirius was the problem.”

“Oh, of course,” you agreed, the tone ironic but playful. “Because Sirius, who by the way is the godfather who spoils the godson the most, didn’t learn from you how to be impossible.”

James laughed, shaking his head. “Sirius didn’t learn anything from me. He was born that way.”

You laughed louder but quickly put your hand over your mouth when Dahlia stirred in your lap. James looked down at her lovingly and kissed her forehead again, murmuring a “shhh, it’s all right.”

At that moment, Harry appeared in the room, rubbing his eyes with the cuff of his sweater. His hair was even more tousled than usual, and his oversized glasses— which he had taken earlier— were almost falling off his nose.

“Are you talking about Uncle Sirius again?” he asked, his voice heavy with sleep.

James let out a contained laugh and reached out his free arm to pull Harry in. The boy easily settled onto his lap, snuggling between you and James.

“Of course. We always talk about Uncle Sirius, especially when he’s not around to defend himself,” James replied, smiling at Harry. “It’s the price he pays for being the most impossible of uncles.”

Harry chuckled, his eyes almost closing again with sleep. You ran your fingers softly through his hair, feeling how warm and comfortable he was.

“But he brought chocolate yesterday,” Harry mumbled, his voice muffled against James’ chest.

“And ruined your dinner,” you said, rolling your eyes with a light smile. “Not even Remus can control Sirius when he decides to spoil you two.”

James nodded, amused. “That’s because Remus is a saint. I never understood how he puts up with Sirius even now.”

Harry lifted his head again, his little face scrunched up in curiosity. “But Uncle Remus likes Uncle Sirius.”

“He likes him a lot,” James confirmed, kissing Harry’s forehead, enveloping him in a warm embrace with both arms. “Uncle Remus and Uncle Sirius were made for each other, just like your mother and I.”

Harry smiled at you, his little eyes almost closing. “So you’re the same?”

You exchanged a quick glance with James, feeling the warmth spread across your face. He gave you a sweet smile, though full of playful provocation.

“Yes, Harry. But don’t forget to tell your mum I’m more charming than Uncle Sirius, okay?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to hold back a laugh. “More charming? James, what else do you want him to say? That you’re irresistible?”

James smiled openly, turning his gaze back to you. “I’d love to hear that again.”

Harry let out a little laugh, though he was already almost asleep again. You shook your head, amused, before looking at James more softly.

“All right,” you murmured, surprising him. “You’re irresistible, James Potter.”

James’ eyes widened as if he couldn’t believe it, before breaking into a slow, passionate smile. “Did you hear that, Harry? Irresistible. Next time Uncle Sirius says something, you defend me, okay?”

“Okay, Dad,” Harry whispered, with a sleepy smile before finally closing his eyes.

The silence returned to the room, warmed by the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth and the slow breaths of Harry and Dahlia. You rested your head again on James’ shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent and the peace of the moment.

James, for his part, turned his face softly and placed a lingering kiss on the top of your head. “Thank you,” he murmured softly, almost like a secret.

You furrowed your brow slightly, your heart beating faster. “For what?”

He smiled against your hair, as though savoring the answer. “For everything. For this. For choosing us. For being… you.”

You closed your eyes, squeezing his hand tightly. “I’d choose you a thousand times.”

James smiled, that special sparkle in his eyes.

“I am irresistible, after all,” he whispered, teasing.

You laughed softly to avoid waking the children. “And unbearable,” you added, looking at him fondly.

James pulled you both closer, smiling ear to ear. “I’ll take both. As long as it comes from you.”

And there, in the warmth of the fire and in each other’s arms, you stayed. A perfect picture of everything you’d ever imagined— a life full of love, laughter, and little miracles that even the best of seers couldn’t have predicted.

[hufflezki]

summary: remus thinks you're way out of his league. but, to his own surprise, you're here to prove him wrong.

-> remus lupin x gn!reader, just remus yearning & pining, swearing (because, cmon, its remus), inspired by role model's song (with the same name), word count: 1,503

Remus first met you during one of his Herbology classes. Where you helped him with his trouble with the Venomous Tentacula plants. The teethy little bastards annoyed him to no extent—his words—but you had come to his aid and stunned them every time they tried to bite him. He really wanted to make it up to you then, but you insisted. And you never really crossed paths again.

Until James barged into their common room, with you following behind him. Remus noticed you immediately and his breath caught. Turns out James knew you, he had for a while. Ever since he was paired with you for a Charms homework. And you have apparently taught him how to make a flower crown. Which was why James traveled from the courtyard to his common room, just to show his friends the ones you both made.

Remus didn't exactly know how they got you to start hanging out with them. One day you just sat next to them during lunch, and now they’re adding you to every weekend plans that they have. Remus’ friends accepted your addition to the group as if it was just any other day. But for him, it felt quite a lot.

Not to sound like he doesn't like you, it's actually quite the opposite.

Remus could go on with a list about why you're the sweetest person he has ever met. But that’d be never ending, which is probably why he’s in his bed right now, moping to himself about why you just have to be so out of his league. And this was purely coming from after he saw you interacting with Amos Diggory. Even though he probably just asked you a question. Remus shivers at the thought, embarrassed by his own jealousy. He was barely even eating the chocolate you’d given him this morning, having lost the appetite.

Merlin, how did you get him to act like this? He wasn't even supposed to be this miserable so early in the month. And yet here he was curled up in his bed, hiding himself under his blanket, as he let his guilt eat him up. You did look comfortable talking to Amos, though. He wonders if you ever looked at him that way too. If you feel comfortable talking to him at all.

A whine emits from the back of his throat, as he buries his face on his pillows. He was fucked, definitely fucked. You’re too good for him, you deserve someone better. But then he didn't like the image of seeing you with somebody else. So what the fuck is wrong with him?

“Remus? Hey, Moons.” He hears James’ voice as he comes in, closing the door behind him. The curly haired boy comes into Remus’ view with a wide smile, which falters when he sees his friend looking like.. shit. “Woah, what’s gotten into you?” James sits down next to him, eyebrows furrowed, worried. Remus sighs, his mood completely shifted now that James is here. After all, it's hard to wallow in your self-pity when you’ve got company.

“Nothing, I just woke up. What’d you need?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, James, I am quite certain.” Remus presses on, and James lifts his hands up in mock surrender. So, he starts talking about how he’s playing a board game with Sirius and Peter downstairs, and asks Remus if he wants to join. Which he originally said no to, but then James mentioned you’re also downstairs. So, now Remus is making his way down to the common room, following James’ steps.

Did he just spend the last couple of minutes crying about you? Yes.

Was he about to miss an opportunity to be with you? No.

Is he pathetic and a coward? Yes. Abso-fucking-lutely.

And turns out, the only way out of his miserable, depressing, and guilty state is you. You and the sweater you're wearing, that looks oddly similar to his. “Hi, Remus.” You smile once you see him—and it's so bright you might as well put the sun into shame—and he sits down next to you on the sofa.

You must’ve sensed that something's up with him, as you immediately rest your head on his shoulder. And he welcomes it, completely melting once you’re in near proximity. You don’t talk, you don't ask him any questions, you just sit there and offer him your comfort—silently. And maybe that’s just what Remus needs. A moment where he could turn his mind off, and don't let his thoughts consume him.

In a span of an hour, you managed to convince Remus to walk outside. And maybe it's just him trying to distract himself, but he’s pretty sure you might have Legilimency. Because why else would you take him to the Black Lake to see the sunset? If you didn’t know, he felt absolutely horrible? But, on a more serious note, you’ve always been spontaneous. And he likes that about you. Especially, when you pay attention to him so much that you know when things start to feel off.

Things like this, it makes him think if he really does have a chance with you or not.

“This is yours, by the way.” You admit, pulling on his sweater that you’re wearing while looking up at him, expectantly. And his eyes widened. “How?” He seems much more amused than you expected. “I was cold earlier, and this was the first thing Sirius gave me.” Remus raises his brow at the mention of Sirius’ name. “I asked him where he got it, and he said you let him borrow it.” Then you let out a laugh, finding it ridiculous. “Which I was suspicious about, but I didn’t ask him again.”

Fuck, Remus knew exactly why Sirius gave his sweater specifically to you.

“Looks like I have to talk to him about stealing my things.” You smile, glancing up at him and then down on the ground. He watches you kick a few pebbles to the lake, as a comfortable silence falls into you both. Then you say his name, and he hums, meeting your gaze once again.

“If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.” It's sudden, and he doesn't exactly know where it came from, but Remus appreciates your sentiment. More than so, when he finds your hand inching closer to his. And he’s never been brave enough to initiate the first move, yet here is, intertwining his hand with yours.

“Is this alright?” Remus whispers, voice coated with uncertainty. He’s already bracing himself to pull away, expecting the worst. But you tighten your hold, pulling him closer to you. “More than alright.” You assure him, lifting the weight off his shoulders. And he thinks this is the most convinced he’s been that he might have a chance with you. Because, all this time—as pathetic as it sounded—he would only wish for something to happen.

So, what if he did sneak into the Divination classroom, and tried to look into a crystal ball to see if there’s a future with the both of you together? He was desperate! Okay? He wouldn't have done it if it wasn't for the nagging voice inside his mind.

But it seems that he no longer has to come up with such desperate measures. As the universe presents with something more interesting. “Can I tell you something, Remus?” You ask, and he nods his head in response.

“I’ve liked you for so long. And this isn't exactly how I imagined I’d tell you–”

“You like me?”

He didn't really mean to interrupt you, but his mind may have short circuited the moment he heard the words ‘I like you’ . You look at him, baffled as to why he’s acting like this is a new discovery. Which it is, for him.

“Wait. You didn't know?” He shakes his head, and you cover your mouth in surprise. “How come? I thought I’d made it so obvious?” You really did think so. I mean, you’re wearing his sweater for Merlin’s sake! But, typical Remus, he’d rather assume the worst than ever think you had the same intentions as him.

“There might’ve been, uhm, some slight issues with the transmission, perhaps?”

“You mean you really didn't have a clue?” He nods his head, and you can't help the sudden laugh that comes out of you. “Did you tell James or Sirius?” Remus asks, and you nod your head. “I told both of them.” He gawks at you, before looking away to run a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself.

“Is that bad? That I only found out about it now?” You shake your head, things were already going the different direction, anyway.

“No, not at all.”

Maybe this isn't how the both of you expected for things to go. Remus thought you’d never like him back, but here he is pulling you closer after you just told him otherwise. And he felt the strong urge to really make it up to you this time.

marauders era masterlist ꩜ .ᐟ

[daisybvck]

Honey, you’re in trouble

Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Pregnant!reader

Summary: You need to go for a grocery run with Bucky when your cravings start and he finds something out that upsets him

Warning: sex in the back of a car, you’re pregnant, you have kids, smut, fluff, Bucky gets a little upset

word count: 1.2k+

A/N: Idea from @xplicitviewz and divider by @strangergraphics

Link to Au

You and Bucky are lounging on the couch when you start to grow restless, his hand on your baby bump drawing small shapes to soothe the growing life inside you. “What’s wrong doll?” He asks softly, his lips pressing a tender kiss to your temple. “I’m hungry, but I don’t know what I want I just- agh it’s so frustrating” you whine. Bucky frowns, he hates when you get upset and he knows how sensitive you are now that your due date is approaching. “Okay how about I go see what we have in the fridge and you tell me what you like” he lifts you off his lap and gently places you down on the couch, you sink into it with a sigh.

Bucky calls out everything he can see in the fridge and you reply with an array of ‘no’s’ at each suggestion. “Baby there’s some fruit, there’s strawberries and Kiwi and those really nice plums we got from the market-“ he says desperately trying to find something that you like. “Are there blueberries ?” You got off the couch and waddled over to him, he turn at the sound of your voice. “Baby why’d you get up?” he walks over to you quickly and moves you to the nearest seat at the dinner table. “Are there blueberries James”.

There it was, his name. Not ‘baby’ not ‘Bucky’ but ‘James’, his breath hitched for a moment. “N-no doll…there’s no blueberries”. Your eyes tear up and he sees the slight wobble in your lip. “No no no, hey no tears, cmon let’s go get some yeah ? We’ll go get some-“

“NO GROCERY STORE IS OPEN JAMES IT’S 8PM, I JUST WANT MY BLUEBERRIES AND-” Bucky quickly shushes you and wipes your tears away with the pads of his thumbs “I will find one that’s open baby, I swear. Don’t cry please, it’s killing me”

That’s how you guys ended up walking down a long dimly lit isle, and a heavy basket filled to the brim with much more than the blueberries you initially came for. You hum to yourself as you grab anything you can reach, once you reach the frozen section your eyes scan for the blueberries and once you spot them you smile. You walk up to the fridge and try to reach for it but it’s too high, Bucky sets down the basket and stands behind you, his hand resting on your lower back as he reaches and grabs the blueberries. “I could’ve gotten them” you say with a smile, he huffs and rolls his eyes playfully. “I know babydoll but you shouldn’t strain yourself too much” he kisses your cheek softly. He leans down to put the blueberries in the basket

Bucky’s eyes travel down your body, he notices the pebble of your nipples due to the cold air. Bucky smirks - you’re body reacts to the slightest things because of the pregnancy, it’s one of his favorite things. His hand moves up to your chest and his fingers squeeze the hard buds softly. He stands back up and looks down at you. You moan softly, “S-stop that, I-it’s too much ah” you bite your bottom lip hard when Bucky squeezes just a bit tighter. He chuckles softly, “What, I can’t play with my pretty wife now?”

Bucky’s pace is slow but his thrusts are hard and deep, his hands holding your hips gently and his lips on yours. Your dress is thrown somewhere on the car floor and his pants are pooled by his ankles. His tongue fights yours, your sounds being swallowed. Suddenly your phone rings out loud though the car, Bucky’s movements don’t falter.

"Who's calling?" Bucky huffs, his lips tracelling down your neck and stopping by your collarbone to suck, his hips keep snapping into you. Your teary eyes glance at your phone while you let out a small whimper.

"I-it's Grant." You breathe out. Bucky groans, of course one of your kids had to try and cockblock from miles away. Your legs are trembling beside his thighs as you straddle him, Bucky’s metal hand strokes your back gently. “Le-let it go to voicemail”, he kisses you hard as he pushes his cock back into you, inch by inch. He stretching you so wide open you think you’re gonna see stars. Bucky’s head is resting on your chest, his face a mix of pleasure and desperation, it’s been just one day that you two didn’t have time to fuck, and any day Bucky couldn’t be consumed whole by you and balls deep in your pretty pussy was his worst day.

Bucky grunts as his cock pound’s relentlessly in you, your wetness dripping down to the leather seat beneath you. Between Bucky’s busy work schedule, going on missions and now being a congressman, as well as you taking care of your kids and making your house a home, there isn't always the most time for you and Bucky to spend alone, so you two had to get creative or just take advantage of the moments you had where you could sneak off.

There was this one time you guys had Grant, your oldest, watch his siblings while you guys went to the pharmacy to pick up some medicine for your sick toddlers, which ended up being you two fucking in the back of his truck, in the dark parking lot before heading home. Kind of like now.

Or the other time your family was enjoying themselves at the beach and you went inside your beach house to grab some sunscreen, Bucky following you quickly after. Safe to say that you two were very sunburnt after that beach trip, but neither of you cared. Both of your days are busy, but Bucky never fails to make some time for you and your, his pussy.

Bucky’s cock touches that gummy spot deep inside you, he kisses your cheek softly, “Hey baby you still with me”. His voice is raspy, his hair messy from how your hands gripped it. You nod dumbly and he kisses you again, his hand tangles in your hair and your eyes gloss over. Bucky grips your hips softly and helps you bounce up and down rhythmically on his cock, his hand traveling from your hair to your back to hold you in place.

The phone rings again, Bucky breaks the kiss, “Fucking hell” he grabs the phone irritably, he looks into your eyes, his expression softer now. “I’m gonna answer okay, you just focus on feeling good”. You nod and your hands tighten their hold around his shoulders.

"This better be important Grant" Bucky answers the call, buried deep inside you. His eyes are hooded and he licks his lips. He rests the phone between his shoulder and ear, he needs both hands for you right now. He sticks two of his metal fingers in your mouth and his flesh ones slap your pussy softly.

"Oh dad? Where are you guys, where’s mo-"

"She's busy, everything alright?" Bucky cuts your son off. His eyes focused on your movements, you’re biting your lip to keep any lewd sounds hushed while he was on the phone with your son. He sucks in a breath when you clench tighter around his cock.

He clenches his jaw as he tries not to make any noise either, his thumb pinches and toys with your clit, your eyes roll so far back into your skull that your vision goes white. You whimper and he quickly moves the phone further away from you. You grab Bucky’s wrist and push his fingers deeper inside your mouth, his cock twitches and he breathes out shakily.

"I-is everything all right?” Grant asks sounding worries, Bucky grunts. “Fine, what do you want kid” Bucky removes his fingers from your mouth and grips your hair. He leans down to your chest and takes one of the swollen buds into his mouth and bites softly.

“Im going out to the movies with Tommy after this and I need some money for the snacks and tickets, mom said-"

He moves his mouth switches between your breasts, sucking and licking them both. "How much?" Bucky asked wanting him to get to the point so he can get back to his wife. Bucky loves his son, all of his kids, of course he does. But he loves you too, and right now he wants to make you feel good. He guides your movements gently, helping you take his cock, he spreads his legs wider and this new angle has his cock sinking in further.

Your hand quickly covers your mouth as you shut your eyes. Bucky definitely isn't holding back, not when you both need each other so desperately. Bucky was planning on showing you just how much he appreciated all that you do, fingering you until you couldn't talk properly, eating your pussy like it personally offended him, fucking you left, right, up, down, all up until your phone kept interrupting up.

He lifts you off his lap effortlessly and gently lowers you to your back and gets in between your legs, the back of the car not giving you much room but he makes it work. He pushes his cock back into you and bites his lip so hard that he draws blood.

"Like about $60."

"Okay, give me a minute." Bucky’s eyes are clenched, his balls slapping against your ass, the way you squeezed his cock, your eyes in the back of your skull, all of this was enough to make him cum right there. He feels himself throb inside you and pulls the phone away from his ear, breathing heavy. Your head rolls to the side, you feel him-all of him.

"Thanks da-"

Bucky hangs up the phone and tosses it on the floor, he lifts your head up slowly so you look at him. He peels your hand away from your mouth, he pushes them above your head. He holds you tight as he stops his movements "Tell me something honey." He hums kissing your swollen lips. You whimper as he fucks into you, slower this time, "y-yes?"

"When the kids ask for money, do you send it to them from my account?" He looks into your eyes, sweat dripping down his head watching your reaction to his question.

You're fucked, literally and physically. "Not alwa- o-ooh god yes right there right there." You moan, his finger now thumbing your clit. Bucky fucking hates when you use your own money, hell, even when you were working, he never ever let you use any of your money.

From the day Bucky laid eyes on you he already knew you were going to be his wife and that meant that he was to take care of you. Mind, body and soul. Bucky would pay all the bills no matter the amount, what ever you wanted, you got. He spoilt you rotten and he wouldn’t have it any other way. You would constantly protest against it but he didn’t care, he would always take care of you. His world.

It wasn't until you got pregnant with your first, did his wish come true that you’d stop using your own money. He was ecstatic that you’d finally come to terms with using his money in order to pay for any and all needs, and wants, you had. It made him feel needed.

"All the hours I work, going on missions, being kept away from our family, my perfect wife, fuck- my perfect wife's pussy, and you still insist on- fuck right there baby-, using your own money when you have access to my money- no fuck not mine, not even ours, your money." He moans grabbing your face between calloused fingers. He kisses you roughly and pulls back.

"Y-you pay for e-everythi-" you whimper

"I'm supposed to sweetheart. I want to, I need to." He interrupts you, his eyes dark but his words soft and sincere. He grabs your phone again with his free hand and sends your son $300 from his account.

"Why won’t you just let me do what I’m supposed to baby. I am the man, it's my job to take care of you, our family. Use my money for the kids, the house, the cars, those pretty nails, those cute babydoll sets you wear for me, whatever it is, I have enough, more than." He kisses your lips softly, opposite to his thrusts. "You don’t ever need to use your money, the only reason you should use it is if you want to buy something for yourself, even then, you should be using mine.”

“Everything I do is for you. It will always be all for you. Everything I make, it's yours, ours on paper, but it's all yours. All for you." He grunts into your ear, as if he’s trying to get it through your head.

"I don’t ever want to find out that you’re using your money every again, okay baby?" He hums at you softly and thrusts deep inside you. “Y-yes Bucky I promise”. He smiles at you softly.

“That’s my good girl”

[persefolli]

Seven

Smoke ‘Elijah Moore’ x Reader

Summary: After 7 years, your lover finally returns to Clarksdale

Warnings: Slight Angst, Cursing, Smut, somethingquickreally

Seven years.

Seven years since you laughed without a care in the world. 

Seven years since you walked the bayou with him.

Seven years since you said yes.

Seven years since his side of the bed was warm.

Seven years, and he still had the nerve to show up on your property.

You watched him pull up in a truck full of junk. He removed his cap from his head and held it to his chest once he made eye contact with you. Closer he came up the wooden porch stairs that were on its last leg. 

“Y/n.”

You scowled at him.

“Y/n baby.”

“I ain’t ch’our baby.” You shook your head and took a step back from him. 

The corners of his lips twitched, and he nodded. “Just came back from town.” He started. “They know you still my woman.” He pushed past, entering your house.

“I ain-”

“Ain’t nobody givin you trouble? Bothering you.” He interrupted. 

“No. Smoke.”

“Good.”

He looked around the worn down house and clicked his tongue, setting his cap on the wooden table. He walked until he spotted the counter, packages on packages stacked on one another, unopened. His eyebrows furrowed seeing envelopes with a very specific seal on them. “This better not be what I think it is.”

You sighed as he ripped open one of the packages, money spilling from the tightly wrapped paper. “You ain’t use not a damn penny I’ve been sending you for years!” He yelled holding up a wad of cash.

“I don’t need your money. And you bounced around too much for me to send it back.” You said retreating into yourself. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, a feeling you’d long forgotten til now. 

“I come back thinkin you opened up that lil shop you always talked about. This more than enough money! You just lettin this sit here! Living in this piece of-“

“Hey now!” You snapped at him. “This is home.”

Smoke placed his hands on his hips, sighing, you were right. He couldn’t deny it. This was home, and he would’ve been a bit disappointed finding out you had gotten rid of it. But he still couldn’t contain his anger, knowing how hard he worked, knowing it meant nothing to you.

“I wasn’t gonna use your blood money.”

“This ain’t blood money.”

“All money is blood money no?”

Smoke smacked his lips and turned to you again, walking up, hollering. “This the thanks I get?”

“Thanks for what?! Leavin me?! I didn’t ask for this fuckin money. And I sure never begged you to come home.” You yelled back.

“I take care of you. I took care of you.”

“Naw.” You shook your head. “My people got me. Even James up the road took good care of me.”

Elijah’s head snapped your way, and his eyes glared with rage. “James took care of you.” A twitch of his mouth flashed his teeth.

You stared.

“James ain’t take care of you.” He stroked his beard. “Nah cause….he know you ain’t to be touched.” He pondered for a moment, beginning to pace away from the table. Elijah looked at you one more time for confirmation, but when you said nothing, he stormed to the door. 

“No! Don’t” You dashed right behind him, grabbing his arm, “He ain’t touch me Smoke! Nobody did! He did help fix some stuff though, my stove went out!’ You panicked, knowing you had accidentally put a good man in danger.

“You could’ve bought a damn new one with the money I sent!”

You stood silent, looking at him with a hurt expression, bottom lip between your teeth as you felt the tension in the room humidify.  Smoke took a deep breath and stood in the doorway. “You don’t think I wanted to bring you with me?”

“Elijah-” You started, but he kept speaking. 

“I always had you.” He pulled out a locket to reveal a picture he’d kept of you. “Always kept ya.” He walked over to show you the locket, a picture of you taken a few years back when you had gotten your first job back when the two of you were teenagers. “Seven years or seven days I don’t wanna come home hearing nothing about no man takin care of my lady.”

You jumped when he swiftly closed the locket and stuffed it back into his chest pocket. He then grabbed you by the hips and pulled you close to him, kneading your hips, inhaling before looking up at you. 

“Cmon.”

“Where we goin?” 

“The bedroom,” He nodded to the open door that led to the only room in the house. “Gon get on that mattress and make love to my woman.”

You stood stagnant for a moment before going into the room, Smoke following. The door closed behind you two, the only source of light coming from the oil lamp and the cracks between the ceiling and wall. Smoke came up behind you, taking you by the waist again. “You let me take care of you.” He stated, pressing soft kisses along your shoulders. His beard tickled, grazing over your tender, untouched skin, His kisses traveled up to the base of your neck, where he applied more pressure. Open mouthed kisses, leaving the ghost of his passion on your skin. 

Smoke’s large hands squeezed your waist, traveling up your sides before trailing to the zipper of your dress. You let out a sigh as he slowly unzipped your dress, revealing your smooth back, disrupted by the presence of your white undergarments. You reached back for his belt, but he gripped you and pulled you against him, leaving no room for your hands to touch him.

“Don’t.” You pleaded with him to not tease you. That was the least he could do, not tease you after leaving you starved all this time. 

“Get on the bed.” He said in your ear.

Discarding your dress, you got onto the bed, sitting on your bum as you watched him undo his belt and discard his clothing. He took off everything but his socks, ritual for him. The two of you kissed as he climbed on top of you, hands roaming your body. His warm hands rubbed up along your thighs, reaching the waistband of your panties and pulling them down. Once he removed those, he trailed his hands back up along the undersides of your legs, pushing your knees back so your legs were perfectly positioned on each side of his torso. A shared groan. He’d entered you.

You looked at him with hooded eyes and whimpered as he moved, keeping his grip tight on your thighs. “Fuck. I missed you.” He leaned down and locked lips with you, swallowing your moans as he quickened his thrusts. The air filled with gasps and steam, sweat beading on your bodies. You ran your hands down his slick back and took hold of his hips, feeling his muscles flex as he got to work.

His face contorted, signaling that he was coming soon, but seeing that you weren’t there yet, he pulled out and quickly put you on your stomach. “Elijah~” You whimpered.

He grabbed your hips and entered you, the both of you sharing a moan again. You gripped the sheets as he fucked you from behind, hips snapping against you vigorously. You tensed up, let out a yell, and he smacked your ass in response.

“Fuck!” You shouted. Elijah wrapped his hand around and pulled your head up to level with his. He kissed you again, sucking and nipping your bottom lip as he fucked you into an orgasm. You gasped and lost the latch to his lips as you fluttered around his dick and began to come.

Elijah groaned and kneaded your ass as he felt you fall over the edge. “There you go.” He clenched his teeth and grunted as he finished in you. 

You two panted, catching your breath. He pulled out of you and laid down next to you. “Here.” He muttered and pulled you into his side, placing a kiss on your shoulder. 

Not wanting to get comfortable in his arms again, you turned to him.  “You gon leave again.” You stated.

You felt his lips press against your shoulder again, “Nah. I’m here. I’m stayin.”

[dirtyvulture]

The Maid - Part 5

Socialite!Wanda Maximoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

Maid!Natasha Romanoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

18+ only, read at your own risk

Word count: 3923

Summary: You are married to a wealthy socialite, but your newly hired housemaid doesn’t approve of the marriage.

AN: This took longer than expected, but it's the moment you've all been waiting for...

Read part 4 here.

*Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.

Natasha hasn’t left her apartment in two days. Her phone is on max volume, awaiting any calls or messages from you, but she hasn’t heard from you since she ran out of your home after shooting your wife. She played the local news 24/7 on her ancient television whose image blacked out every time the upstairs neighbors jostled her apartment. They reported a shooting in your neighborhood and showed a clip of flashing police cars and an ambulance fanned out on your street, with the victim hospitalized, but no further updates.

The anticipation was killing her. 

She had called Clint to tell him you knew about her background, despite what he had promised, and he offered to move her out of the city–state, even–immediately. But Natasha couldn’t do that to you. Perhaps she was a little naive to expect you to reach out to her after what she had done, but she believed you would keep your word.

Now, she has to get ready for a shift at Steve’s house, and she’s terrified to go back to your neighborhood. Clint had told her to cancel all her shifts there, but she refused, thinking it looked too suspicious. Plus, she was hoping to catch a glimpse of you while she was in the area. With anxiety knotting her stomach, she packs her car and drives to your neighborhood.

She doesn’t know why she didn’t expect to see your house still standing, as if the police would burn down a crime scene after their investigation. While the exterior looks perfectly normal, something feels off about it. Natasha wonders if you’re home, but she won’t dare knock on your door now.

Steve comes out of his house just as she squeezes her Nissan between a Mercedes and BMW. The street is surprisingly full of cars.

“Hey, Natasha!” Steve calls as he jogs down the sidewalk. “I’m so sorry, I forgot to text you to cancel. You can go home now if you want, and we’ll pay you for the trouble of coming over though–”

“Cancel?” Natasha asks, stepping onto the street. “Is everything okay?”

“Peggy’s hosting a little gathering right now, so there’s a lot of people in the house,” Steve says. “It’s been so chaotic around here the past few days–”

“Why? Did something happen?” She and Clint had agreed it was safer for her to play dumb, to reinforce the idea that she had been far away from your home the night of the shooting.

“Um.” Steve moves closer to her, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Did you hear about what happened at Y/N and Wanda’s house two days ago?”

“No.” Natasha tries to put on her best expression of confusion.  

“There was a shooting,” Steve says, and Natasha feigns a gasp of shock. “Wanda got shot, and she’s in the hospital now, but in a coma. No one’s seen Y/N since it happened either, and obviously there was only one person who could’ve shot Wanda…”

“No!” Natasha says, more out of disbelief that you’re taking the fall for her. 

“The whole neighborhood is shaken up,” Steve says. “Why don’t you come inside? A lot of the neighbors are here. We have food, and it might make you feel better to not have to process all this information alone.”

Against her better judgement, Natasha follows Steve into his house. It’s not nearly as big or grand as yours, but it feels more like a home. Steve proudly displays pictures of his family on the walls, and his children’s toys and belongings are often scattered everywhere. Natasha had met them only once as they were usually at school when she was there, but James was a mini image of his father, and Sarah was an adorable little girl. Steve’s wife Peggy was also extremely kind to her (unlike yours was), and Natasha genuinely enjoyed having the Rogers family as her client. 

There are only adults present currently, with most of them sitting on the lawn in the backyard, shaded by a canopy. Peggy is in the kitchen, slicing into a gigantic watermelon. 

“Hi, Mrs. Carter. Do you need any help?” Natasha asks out of instinct.

“Oh, hi, Natasha! I thought Steve was going to tell you to stay at home,” Peggy says. “Not that we don’t enjoy having you here–”

“I forgot,” Steve says, walking in behind Natasha. “Too much stuff going on–”

“Well, since you’re already here, help yourself to some food, Natasha. And you can join everyone out back.”

“Thank you.” Some of the people here are also Natasha’s clients, and the last thing she wants to do is share a meal with them, but she forces herself to stay. This is her chance to gather more info on you and Wanda.

Natasha grabs a paper plate and lightly loads it up with fruit and some appetizers she can’t name, then steps out into the yard. While the Rogers don’t have a pool like you do, they make up for it with a half basketball court and a little playground that even Natasha finds herself jealous of. 

“Is that Natasha? Having some fun on her day off?” someone calls out.

“Well, I came here to work, but apparently I wasn’t needed today,” she responds.

“Come sit with us, dear!” The loud voice of Agatha Harkness booms out. While she wasn’t a client of Natasha’s, she knows to keep a wide berth. It feels like she’s entered the lion’s den as she takes a seat next to Agatha, joining the circle of the neighborhood’s elite gossipers. “We were just talking about you.”

“You were?” Natasha feels her cheeks heat up.

“Of course! You do housework for most of the families here, so you must have a front-row seat to all the juicy drama, right?” Agatha says.

“I try to mind my own business.”

“Yes, but if something happens in front of you, won’t look away, right?” Dottie Jones, your next-door neighbor, asks. Natasha spares herself from answering by shoving a whole apple slice into her mouth.

“You heard what happened to Wanda?” Agatha asks. “Oh, poor thing. We tried visiting her in the hospital yesterday, but we were turned away. Apparently, Y/N won’t let any visitors in, but conveniently no one’s seen Y/N since the incident, that piece of shit.”

“Wanda should’ve gotten a divorce before it came down to this,” Dottie says. “I can’t believe she might lose her life to that bastard.” She wipes her eyes for dramatic effect, but Natasha sees no tears on her face.

“I heard it was a money issue,” Monica Rambeau chimes in. “Apparently, Y/N’s company is on the verge of bankruptcy, and Wanda wasn’t too keen on loaning her trust fund money to a failing business.”

“It’s just so fucked up,” Agatha sighs. “If your business is failing, that’s your fault and you need to take responsibility for it. Trying to kill your own wife to get her money is just so wrong on every level.”

It hurts Natasha to hear these women speak so poorly of you. She would defend your honor, but she also doesn’t want to give herself away.

“Did the police come talk to you ladies yet?” Dottie asks. “They came this morning to my house and asked a few questions. I told them I’d heard yelling a lot recently–mostly from Y/N. And what Wanda’s told us about not feeling safe or cared for in her marriage anymore.”

“But you didn’t hear the gunshot?” Monica says. Dottie shakes her head.

“I thought it was a trash can falling over or something.”

“Vision’s the one who made the call,” Agatha says. Natasha almost chokes on a cheese cube. “And it’s a good thing he did, otherwise they might not have been able to get to Wanda on time–”

“He’s always looking out for her,” Monica agrees. “He’s a good man. Wanda should’ve left Y/N for him already, then this would’ve never needed to happen.”

“When she pulls through–not if, when–I hope she sues the fuck out of Y/N,” Agatha says.

“I hope Y/N gets life in prison,” Dottie adds. “That bastard deserves to rot for eternity.”

Natasha stares down at her plate, wanting to cry and scream at the same time. She hates how these women talk about you, but she hates herself even more for not standing up for you. 

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

Natasha finally manages to escape their clutches and goes home, feeling much worse than she had when she left this morning. While she worked for half of them, she had never seen this side of them before. Clearly, Wanda had influenced them beyond reason: you were none of the awful things they said about you. It also made Natasha extremely uneasy to see how many people were on Wanda’s side when they didn’t know any part of the truth.

She trudges up to the third floor of her building because her elevator is broken again and nearly collapses when she sees you standing by her front door.

“Y/N?”

“Hi.” You look like you haven’t showered in two days, and your eyes are strained like you hadn’t slept since you last saw her. Your cheek is still a little swollen where Wanda hit you several times. “Sorry to catch you like this. I would’ve called ahead, but I didn’t want to leave any digital traces.”

Natasha doesn’t even bother to ask how you know where she lives, but she quickly goes over to unlock her door and usher you inside. She wishes she had spent more time cleaning her own place, she thinks, as she eyes the dirty dishes piled up on the counter, the unopened mail on the floor, the kitchen table loaded with used Tupperware.

“Are you okay?” Natasha asks. “I just got back from Steve’s house. He was hosting the neighborhood ladies, and they said no one’s seen you since–”

“I know. I just got released from jail,” you say, running a hand through your hair. “My lawyer posted bail, so I can’t go far, but I knew I couldn’t go back to the house. I’m sorry to bother you here.”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Natasha wishes she could say how happy she is to see you again. “Make yourself at home. Sorry it’s not the cleanest at the moment–when you spend all day cleaning, it’s hard to do it for myself–”

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, “Do you mind if I use your shower? It’s been two days since I washed up, I know I look like crap.”

Natasha wants to say you still look good as ever, but holds her tongue. “Please, go ahead. I can go down to the laundry room and wash up your clothes while you’re showering too.”

“I don’t want to burden you–”

“You protected me that night and you had no reason to,” Natasha says. “You could never be a burden to me.” She makes eye contact with you and feels her knees go weak when you smile at her. 

“Thank you.” You look away first. “I’m sorry Wanda was always so awful to you and that I never stood up for you. You were always so respectful to her and me, even when neither of us really deserved it.”

“You deserved it,” Natasha says, finding her courage. “You deserve better than her.”

You don’t respond, only nodding and walking to the bathroom.

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

You’re not entirely sure why the first place you went after being freed from jail was Natasha’s. Your lawyer, Murdock, had offered to book you a hotel, but you could’ve done that yourself and to be honest, you were afraid to be alone. It was an extremely vulnerable time for you. You were being charged with aggravated assault that could easily be upped to attempted murder depending on the investigation and Wanda’s condition. Murdock had played the self-defense card, which was an easy sell because of your injuries, but you knew not to celebrate too early.

When news got around of what you had done, you weren’t so sure how many would take your side. It would be dangerous to underestimate what Wanda might’ve said about you behind your back. But Natasha knew the truth. She was responsible for part of it, but you didn’t blame her at all. You knew you could trust her. Maybe that was because you haven’t slept in two days or had a proper meal, but you felt safe with Natasha. More than you ever had with your own wife. Even knowing what she had done in her home country that forced her to flee and take on a new identity. 

It was Wanda’s idea to run a background check on Natasha. You had protested at first, but she was adamant about needing to know every detail about the woman who would be spending all her time in your home. She made a good point, but the second you met Natasha, you knew you didn’t have to worry about her stealing or vandalizing, and to be quite frank, Wanda never cared about those things either. She just wanted the information so she could blackmail Natasha if she ever acted out, but neither of you were prepared for what the investigator came back with, and you were even more shocked when Wanda still agreed to employ her.

“She won’t kill us. It’ll be too obvious who did it,” Wanda says.

“I feel like being dead is enough of a problem on its own,” you counter. 

“If we hire her, with this information–” Wanda clutches at the thick folder the investigator had compiled “–she’ll have to do whatever we tell her. She’ll never argue back, she’ll never refuse, because if she does…” She flips the folder open to the page of a decade-younger Natasha, slightly blurred from the movement of running away from the crime scene. “Everyone will know what she did back in Russia.”

Your stomach twists at the way your wife is viewing the situation. She has no qualms allowing a convicted murderer to clean her home, simply because she could threaten her into doing whatever she wanted. You want to spare Natasha from this fate, but you know there’s no changing Wanda’s mind. 

Besides, if you never had the guts to kill her, maybe Natasha did.

You shower until the hot water runs out, and wrap yourself only in a towel to step out. Natasha is off washing your clothes as promised, but you’re shocked to find her waiting not only with your clothes neatly folded and clean, but also a bag of takeout on the table.

“I thought you’d be hungry too, so I went and picked something up. I would’ve cooked, but the fridge is a little empty right now–”

You cross the room in four large strides and scoop her up in a hug. You barely restrain yourself from kissing her too, but she doesn’t shy away from your hug, pressing her face against your chest and squeezing you back tightly.

“Thank you,” you whisper to her.

“Anything for you.”

You change into your fresh clothes quickly and sit down with Natasha on the couch to eat. The silence is not uncomfortable as you shovel food into your mouth, while Natasha’s appetite seems more reserved than you. She lets you eat all the leftovers and you feel like a bear before hibernation, tiredness hitting you full force as you sink back into the cushions.

“Let me clean up and then I’ll let you sleep,” you hear Natasha say, and she pats your arm as she gets up but you grab her hand to stop her from walking away.

“Thank you,” you say, knowing you sound like a broken record, but you’ve never meant the words more in your life. “You know you saved my life, right?”

Natasha looks away and shakes her head. “I almost killed your wife.”

“Exactly.” You tug on her arm and she loses her balance and falls into your lap. For the first time ever, her body is pressed against yours, her cheap vanilla perfume swirling around your head. Natasha puts her hand on your chest, as if she’s going to push away from you, but she doesn’t, trailing one hand up the back of your neck and cupping your head. You know it’s totally wrong to want her like this, to even have her touching you like this, but as far as you were concerned you weren’t married to Wanda anymore.

“Natasha,” you whisper so faintly you’re not sure if she heard you, “I think I’m in love with you.”

“Wanda doesn’t deserve you,” she says. “But I deserve you.”

The proclamation is enough for you. You tilt your head back and part your lips slightly, inviting Natasha to kiss you. She takes full advantage, slamming her mouth into yours, threading her fingers into your hair to hold you there. The touch of her lips is electrifying, with more passion than any of the kisses you’d shared with your actual wife. Your arms wrap around her back; it just feels so right to have her weight in your arms, her body pressed against yours. You never want to lose this woman; you never want to go back to Wanda again.

Natasha surprises you by grinding down in your lap. You moan when her thigh brushes over your bulge. You’re instantly light-headed by the way blood rushes to your groin and your hands slide down to her butt, squeezing until she groans into your mouth. 

She suddenly pulls away, panting, a rosy glow to her cheeks. “Y/N, you’re still married,” she says.

“We’re separated,” you tease, but you know she’s right. What you’re doing with Natasha right now makes you no better than Wanda. Your hands drop from her body to the couch in a sign of submission. “But…yeah. Things are complicated right now.”

“I think we should wait,” Natasha continues, and she sounds as pained as you feel about not being properly together. “I don’t want to rush into this, especially with everything going on.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” you admit. You feel yourself deflate in your pants. “Besides, I should probably get tested first. If Wanda gave me anything…I don’t want to give it to you.”

Natasha’s cheeks flame red when she realizes what you’re talking about. “That’s fair. We won’t do anything until you’re tested and all this is settled.”

“Yes,” you agree, even though it’ll take all your willpower to keep your hands to yourself. Natasha stands up and you join her, reaching for her hand again and spinning her around to face you. You can’t help yourself from bending over to kiss her, because you already miss her lips on yours. “You’re so beautiful,” you whisper, brushing your thumb over the curve of her cheek. “I could never stop thinking about you when you weren’t at my house.”

Natasha hums as she wraps her arms around your waist to hug you. “I walked in on you and Wanda doing it once,” she admits. “And ever since, I thought about your body and your cock every time I touched myself.” You practically shiver at the thought of Natasha using you in her fantasies. You can’t wait for her to show you exactly how she wants you. 

“Well, I can’t wait to make it a reality,” you respond, pushing your hips forward so Natasha can feel your growing bulge against her stomach. She brushes her fingers over the outline in your pants.

“I can’t wait until you’re properly mine.”

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

It feels wrong returning to your neighborhood the first time since the incident. But you didn’t plan on staying long, just grabbing some clothes and a few things from the home. Your lawyer had said to be quick and quiet–not that you weren’t allowed to go home, just that it wasn’t the best look to the public. You picked the middle of the day, hoping your neighbors would be out or working so you wouldn’t have to face any of them, but your luck was never great.

“Y/N?”

Your shoulders tense, but quickly drop in relief when you see Steve jogging across the street. “Hi, Steve.”

“Are you okay?” is the first thing he asks, and you’re touched by his kindness. If any of your neighbors had seen you here, they would’ve run you over with their car before speaking two words to you.

“Can you talk inside?” you ask, not taking any chances with anyone eavesdropping.

“Sure.”

You usher him through the front door and lock it. The house feels dirty and wrong, despite its clean appearance. Who knows how many pairs of police boots had walked through it, the amount of chemicals used to clean Wanda’s blood off the floor. But you don’t have a chance to think about that now.

“I’m so sorry about Wanda, Y/N,” Steve says. “If there’s anything Peggy and I can do–”

“Don’t. She doesn’t need anything from anyone,” you interrupt. Steve looks shocked at your words. “She was cheating on me. With a lot of people from this neighborhood.”

He’s silent for a moment as if having some kind of internal struggle. “Wanda tried to sleep with me, shortly after you guys moved in,” he finally reveals. “I should’ve told you, and I’ve been kicking myself ever since because I didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you?” You won’t tell him you were there, spying on them through the closet like a voyeur in your own home. 

“Wanda said she’d tell Peggy we had slept together. And all the other women in the neighborhood,” he says, sounding strained. “Peggy wouldn’t believe her, but I wasn’t so convinced the other women wouldn’t. Wanda has a lot of influence here. You’ve seen how they hang onto every word like it’s gospel.”

“I know.”

“And there’s something else I wanted to tell you,” Steve continues. “I knew about the gun.”

“The gun?”

“Wanda asked me if I knew where she could buy a gun,” Steve says. “I referred her to my friend Bucky, who runs an armory, and he sold her a revolver. It was done legally of course, and we’re all adults here, so I didn’t think much of it. It’s her right to have a gun if she wants.”

“Yes, it is,” you state, although you’re not sure why Steve is telling you all this. 

“The weird part is that Wanda specifically asked Bucky to sell her blanks instead of bullets,” Steve says. “He tried telling her that guns aren’t toys, and if it was for protection she needed live bullets. No noisy, flashy blanks were going to protect her from anything.”

You start to laugh. Steve was right; blanks wouldn’t protect anyone, but they would put on a good show. And your wife was all about the theatrics. But you knew her better than anyone, and if she was going to go as far as to fake a shooting, you would make sure she regretted it. 

“She said she wouldn’t buy the gun unless she got her blanks, so Bucky caved,” Steve says. “She could’ve gotten bullets from another source, but it was just so odd. We figured she might’ve just wanted the gun for show, you know? But she could’ve gotten a fake for much cheaper–”

“Steve,” you finally interrupt his rambling. “I knew about the gun.”

“Oh, you did?” Relief breaks out on his face. “That’s great–”

“And I noticed the gun had blanks in it. So I switched them with real bullets.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: The plot continues to thicken...Did this answer any questions or create more? 🤔

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