⟡ Mischief Managed ⟡

Fuck JKR ☾ 27F ☾ moonlit-forks (side)

[accioaparecium]

Masterlist

Requests are OPEN

⟡ Bellatrix Lestrange

⟡ Cedric Diggory

⟡ Draco Malfoy

⟡ Fred Weasley

⟡ George Weasley

⟡ Ginny Weasley

⟡ Harry Potter

⟡ Hermione Granger

⟡ Poly!Marauders

↳ WolfStar x Reader

↳ Jily x Reader

↳ Marauders (minus Peter) x Reader

↳ Marauders (minus Peter) + Lily x Reader

⟡ Remus Lupin

⟡ Sebastian Sallow

⟡ Sirius Black

⟡ Tom Riddle

Side Blog: @moonlit-forks

[accioaparecium]

Bellatrix x cis male reader who makes her laugh and makes things light-hearted when everything's too dark and heavy

Bellatrix Lestrange x Cis!Male!Reader ☾ 843 words

SUMMARY ☾ When the world grows too dark and the war weighs too heavy, you’re the only one who can make her laugh.

WARNINGS ☾ N/A

NOTES ☾ 1) I am so sorry for how long it took me to get this to you. Work has been incredibly busy and time-consuming, and I’ve just had no energy nor the mental capacity to focus on writing. 2) I wasn’t quite sure how to specify the gender you requested, so I’m sorry if it comes off as a bit clunky. 3) I hope you can enjoy this for what it is!

The corridors of the manor are quiet. Too quiet, in your opinion. The sort of quiet that presses against your ears until it feels like the house itself is listening. Shadows cling to the walls like loyal servants, stretching long in the dim candlelight.

Bellatrix stands at the end of the hall. She leans against the tall window, wand twirling lazily between her fingers as she stares out at the black gardens just beyond the glass. You immediately clock the tension in her posture. That restless energy of someone who has been wound too tightly for too long.

For a moment, you just watch her from the doorway. Admire the way her silhouette seems to blend in seamlessly against the frosted windows.

Most people would have turned around immediately—if they value their lives, that is. But you can’t help but be drawn to her. You always have been.

You sigh softly and push off the wall. “Do you ever take a break from brooding?” you ask. “Or is this just part of the uniform now?”

Bellatrix doesn’t turn around. She doesn’t make any move to acknowledge your presence nor your words. But you know she hears you. She has a knack of hearing mostly anything that happens around her, even if it’s just in passing or from a few doors down. So you jam your hands into your trouser pockets and wait patiently.

Then finally, she speaks, the tone of her voice suggesting maybe she realizes you aren’t just going to turn around and leave her to brood.

“You’re very brave,” she says slowly, “or very stupid.”

“Both, usually.”

This earns a small reaction. Just the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. A mere hint that her stoicism is capable of cracking. It’s encouraging.

You step further into the room, unpocketing your hands to fold your arms across your chest. “I’m just saying, Bella. If someone walked in right now, they’d think you were rehearsing for a tragic opera.”

Bellatrix turns then. Her dark eyes narrow at your masculine frame, painting her in that portrait of obscure intensity that everyone seems to know her for. With her fair skin stretched across delicate yet strong features and the dark curls dancing wildly around her head, you must admit she looks like a vision—aristocratic and dangerously feminine yet fierce and undoubtedly dangerous.

“A tragic opera?” she echoes, her lips curled into that familiar sneer.

“Yes,” you confirm seriously. “Act One: dramatic staring into the distance. Act Two: monologue about betrayal. Act Three”—your voice drops into a theatrical whisper—“lightning strike. Possibly thunder.”

For a moment, she just stares at you. Then something unexpected happens. She laughs.

It’s not the wild, manic cackle that people whisper about. Not the deranged giggles that send fear up their spines. Not the cruel laughter that follows a curse.

It’s a real laugh. Short, sharp, and startled out of her like she doesn’t mean to let it escape.

“Well,” she says after a moment, lips curling, “that was terrible.”

You nod, your own mouth twitching. “Thank you.”

“You’d make an awful playwright.”

“I prefer ‘misunderstood visionary.’”

She studies you then. Really studies you. Most people can’t hold her gaze for longer than a few tense seconds. You’ve long since learned the trick is just not to challenge her, but also not to fear her. You simply exist beside the storm.

And somehow, you’ve learned, she seems to prefer that.

“You’re an odd man,” she notes.

“High praise coming from you. I’m flattered.”

“You mock me.”

“Only lightly.”

Her dark eyes gleam. “Dangerous habit, Mr. (Y/N).”

You shrug. “Someone has to remind you that the world hasn’t completely collapsed yet.”

Her wand stills between her fingers. For a brief moment, the room feels different than before. Quieter and not quite as sharp.

“You think things are… light-hearted?” Her question is uncharacteristically soft, but that mocking undertone grounds the moment.

“Not at all. Quite the opposite, actually,” you respond. “Everything is far too dark lately.” You gesture vaguely around the manor. “I just figure someone has to balance the scales somehow.”

She tilts her head and studies you with that curious, predatory interest she adopts when something puzzles her. “And you believe you’re that someone, do you?”

You shrug again. “I’m doing my best.”

Bellatrix steps closer.

Most people would back away. But you don’t. You can’t. Her presence is intense, like standing too close to a fire—beautiful, lethal, and absolutely impossible to ignore.

“You make jokes in the middle of war,” she murmurs.

“You laugh at them,” you counter easily. “I’d say we’re both at fault.”

You’re gifted another flicker of amusement.

Her smile is slow this time. “Careful, Mr. (Y/N),” she warns, leaning in just slightly. “If you keep making me laugh like that, I might just decide to keep you.”

You grin. “Sounds like a promotion, Madam Lestrange.”

For a second, she stares at you. Then she laughs again. And somehow, in a world drowning in darkness, the sound feels like a small rebellion.

[accioaparecium]

Requests

I’m looking forward to completing any requests you lovelies might have, but please see below for some guidelines:

⟡ I am currently only writing “x Reader” stories. In the future, I may be open to expanding into canon pairings, but not at this moment.

⟡ You can see which characters and poly!pairings I will write for on my pinned masterlist.

⟡ Anything I write will be intended for all characters to be at least 18 years of age, including characters who are canonically minors. It may not be explicitly stated in the content itself. But I will never write an underage character or pairing unless it’s a platonic relationship.

⟡ I will generally default to a fem!reader in my stories out of habit, but I am more than happy to write for any gender if you clarify in the request.

⟡ If you are requesting a prompt, please name the prompt list or link it in the ask. It will make it easier for me to find and also ensure that I am writing for the correct one.

⟡ You can always check the status of my requests on the pinned masterlist. As of right now, I am keeping them open. But if that should change, it will be clarified.

⟡ I’ll try to complete any and all requests as fast as I can, but I will never promise a timeline in which one will be answered. Work does take up the majority of my time and life will always find a way to interfere.

⟡ I don’t have any hard limits when it comes to writing. If something in a request makes me uncomfortable, I will politely decline and explain why.

⟡ Lastly, don’t be afraid to ask questions! If you are unsure or just want to double check about something, please message me. My inbox and DMs are always open—and this doesn’t just apply to requests! Feel free to drop by with anything.

MASTERLIST

[accioaparecium]

Your Tom Riddle fics are everything to me, sending you much love~~~ 🥰🥰

Thank you so much, sweetheart!

I may have something else posted for him sometime in the near future 😉

[accioaparecium]

Live, Laugh, Love

Poly!Marauders (minus Peter) x Reader ☾ 1.2k words

SUMMARY ☾ One shared flat, four personalities, and absolutely zero peace.

WARNINGS ☾ Fem!Reader intended but no gender descriptions used.

NOTES ☾ N/A

The flat always feels the most like home in these moments when it’s too loud, too warm, and just a little bit ridiculous.

Late afternoon light spills in through the windows, catching on dust mites and half-forgotten clutter. James’s scuffed trainers sit abandoned by the front door, the laces splayed like he simply evaporated out of them when he got home. Sirius’s leather jacket is slung haphazardly over the back of the sofa, one sleeve trailing onto the floor. The kettle is still warm, steam ghosting faintly into the air, and the herbal aroma of brewed tea lingers over everything.

You’re curled up in the bay window, knees tucked to your chest, watching the chaos unfold with the quiet satisfaction of someone who knows this is exactly where they’re meant to be.

James barrels out of the kitchen brandishing a wooden spoon like a weapon, his hair sticking up in a dozen directions. Sirius is right on his heels, wielding a cushion from one of the dining chairs with dramatic flair, laughter already breaking from his chest.

“Give it back!” Sirius demands. His voice echoes off the walls in a rumble of betrayal and delight.

James vaults over the arm of the sofa with reckless confidence in his escape.

“I made it!” he calls over his shoulder. “It’s my tea!”

“You drank mine!”

“That sounds like your problem!”

You snort softly, hugging your legs tighter as James nearly trips over the rug and Sirius skids to a halt, swearing creatively. Remus sits at the table across the room, a book open in front of him and reading glasses sitting low on his nose. He hasn’t turned a page in several minutes, just as enthralled by the chaos as you.

“Y’know, you're just encouraging them,” he accuses mildly, his eyes still on the text.

You grin. “Pretty sure they’d still be like this even if I wasn’t.”

Remus sighs fondly. “That’s true.”

James finally skids to a stop in front of you. His chest is heaving, his face flushed with exertion and triumph. “(Y/N), sweet angel,” he breathes. “Please tell him he’s being unreasonable.”

Sirius pops up behind him a moment later, his hair wild and eyes bright with mischief. “Tell him he’s a bloody criminal.”

You open your mouth to answer, but Sirius darts forward unannounced, fingers pressing suddenly into your side. The sound that comes from you is entirely involuntary.

You squeal and twist sharply, laughter bubbling free before you can even process what’s happening. Your balance shifts, leaving you to clutch at the frame to keep from tumbling off the still. Your pulse is quick and fluttery beneath your skin.

The room falls quiet. Like a groundbreaking revelation has just been brought to light.

Oh no.

James stares at you like he’s just witnessed a miracle. Sirius freezes mid-grin, offending fingers still hovering where they touched you. Across the room, Remus slowly lifts his gaze.

“Oh,” Sirius says softly, dawning delight creeping into his voice. “Oh. That’s interesting.”

James’s lips part, mouth splitting into a grin. “Did you see that?”

“No,” you deny quickly, heat rushing to your face. “No, you didn’t. That didn’t happen.”

Sirius tests it again—barely a touch, light as a feather against your side. You squeal again and jerk back, laughter spilling out of you unbidden. Breathless, helpless, completely exposed.

His grin turns feral. “Merlin, you’re ticklish.”

“I am not!” You scramble off the bay windowsill as James takes a step towards you. “I was just surprised!”

“Surprised,” James echoes, taking another step, and then another, already moving faster. “Yet, you’re running.”

Panic sparks bright and sudden in your chest. You dart across the room, giggles bubbling up again as Sirius joins in the chase. Their footsteps pound against the floorboards behind you. United by a common target in the aftermath of their squabble.

“This is a violation of flatmate trust!” You nimbly dodge around the coffee table.

“You signed away your rights when you moved in with us, bunny!” Sirius volleys cheerfully.

You don’t even think—you just make a beeline for Remus, grabbing the front of his jumper and ducking behind him.

“Remmy,” you plead, pressing your face into his shoulder blade. “Protect me!”

Remus stiffens, startled, his arms lifting instinctively as if to steady you. “I—what—absolutely not.”

James and Sirius stop short. They exchange a look so synchronized it’s genuinely unsettling.

“Ah, she chose you,” Sirius says, delighted.

James clutches his chest. “That’s adorable.”

Remus exhales slowly. His eyes close for a brief moment as you cling tighter, your fingers curled desperately into the soft wool of his jumper—the very one you knitted him for his birthday.

“You’re all impossible,” he sighs fondly.

You peek around him. “You won’t let them near me, right, Remmy?”

He hesitates. It’s just for a fraction of a second, but you feel it immediately.

“Oh, no,” you whisper. “Remus, don’t you dare.”

“I’m merely saying,” he starts calmly, “that if you just admit—”

Sirius lunges.

Remus yelps as fingers jab into his side. The sound is sharp, startled, and entirely unguarded. He jerks away, the book tumbling from his lap as choked laughter bursts free despite his obvious attempt to suppress it.

James’s eyes go wide with fiendish joy. “Moony?!”

Remus flushes, mortified, trying to recover his composure. But Sirius, completely thrilled, does it again. This time, Remus actually laughs, breathless and helpless. His shoulders curl inward to try and cut it short.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, giggles reigniting as you watch. “You’re ticklish, too!”

James looks between the two of you like he’s just won the lottery—and then he grins at Sirius. “We’re unstoppable, Pads.”

The flat descends into absolute chaos.

James abandons Remus only to scoop you up around the waist, spinning you away from your shield as Sirius resumes his assault on Remus with gleeful abandon. You shriek as your feet leave the floor, uncontrollable laughter tearing from you.

“Betrayal!” you wheeze.

James laughs into your shoulder, nearly dropping you as he stumbles towards the couch. “You started it!”

He deposits you unceremoniously onto the cushions. You barely have time to catch your breath before he dives in beside you. His hands are everywhere all at once, fingers tickling your sides and ribs without mercy.

You’re gone—giggles loud and breathless, body curling in on itself uselessly, tears pricking at your eyes.

“I hate you!” you gasp between laughs.

James just grins, glasses sliding down his nose. “No, you don’t, angel.”

Across the room, Remus finally escapes. He straightens his jumper in an attempt to regain dignity—only for Sirius to reach out and prod his side again.

Remus yelps again, and you lose it completely.

Sirius lunges for the couch and collapses beside James, laughing just as hard as he drapes himself across his side. He presses an affectionate kiss to his cheek. James kisses him back without hesitation, wrapping an arm around his waist.

Then, eventually, mercifully, the tickling stops. You lie boneless on the sofa, your chest heaving, cheeks flushed and aching from smiling too much.

Remus sits beside you. He draws you tenderly into his side, fingers smoothing your hair back with quiet care. “You all right, dove?”

You nod, still giggling as you say, “I’m never trusting any of you ever again.”

Remus’s smile is soft and fond as he presses a kiss to your temple. “You will.”

“Group cuddle!” Sirius calls as he throws himself across both of you. “Mandatory—yes, that includes you, Moons.”

James follows immediately after, sprawling on top of the pile with absolutely no regard for personal space.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

saw this being debated and just wanted to talk about it too.

"is it rude if I politely ask a writer if they use ai or chatgpt on their works because I'm almost certain they do?"

yes, it is rude. no matter how polite you are being when you ask them this.

you say you are almost certain. so you are not absolutely certain.

unless you are absolutely, undoubtedly certain — with actual proof — that their writing is ai generated, never ever ask an artist if their work is ai generated.

I know several writers who would stop writing and delete all of their works if they were ever accused of using ai. so it doesn't matter if you are polite when you ask them this, you are suggesting that their works are ai generated, that they didn't create the works they could have spent hours, days, weeks, months or years working on.

ai and chatgpt are trained on real humans' works, they are trained to mimic the way real humans write. so if you say a genuine writer's work "looks ai", I'm gonna have to ask you what you think ai was trained on.

a writer whose English isn't their first language may also write in a way that "looks ai" to some, if they write in English and have to rely on translator.

using em dash isn't a sign of ai. I do it all the time. my fellow writers all love em dash.

having long paragraphs with "overly described scenes" isn't a sign of ai. I do it all the time, and so do my fellow writers.

all the "ai signs" are actually just what most writers actually do. they get mistaken for "ai signs" because sometimes the way writers write or describe a scene in a fanfic or an original work is different than the way people talk or text. because they're writing a fic and describing a scene, not chatting with a friend. the way I talk is different than the way I write my fics.

if you suspect a work was ai generated, but are not 100% sure, you can always just stop reading said work without saying anything.

if someone does use ai to write, they will either a.) deny and continue using ai to write or b.) admit because they see nothing wrong with it and continue using ai to write.

if a genuine writer was wrongly accused of using ai, they may stop writing altogether.

asking a writer if they use ai or chatgpt to write will always do more harm than good. witch hunting will always do more harm than good.

you are not "fighting against ai" by throwing around such accusations. you are harming genuine writers and artists.

[thisisjustfuckingsterling]

It isnt an accusation. Its a fucking question. One that protects the very communities and artists that this post claims to defend.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

all of the fanfic writers, whom I personally know, say the same thing that they would feel discouraged and might delete all their works if they were asked this.

it’s not “hey do you like x or y” question. it’s a subtle implication that your work looks like it was written by a robot within a minute. if you personally don’t find that offensive, that’s cool. but I know a lot of writers do. and they have the rights to be discouraged by it.

also we are talking about fanfic writers who write as their hobby, getaway or safe place, writers whose works you read for free. not writers who sell their works and are making profit from what they write. fanfic writers don’t owe you anything.

[bardic-tales]

This just came across my dash. I'm going to be blunt.

Asking a writer or artist if they “use AI” is an accusation, no matter how you dress it up. It’s not neutral. It implies you think their effort, style, or voice is artificial. It implies that their human work doesn’t look human enough for you.

You don’t protect the community by policing people who are actually creating from scratch. You protect it by supporting human creators, reporting confirmed AI misuse when there’s evidence, and learning the difference between this sounds different than what I’d write and this is machine-generated.

Writers—especially fanfic authors—already pour their time, emotion, and identity into what they share for free. They don’t owe anyone proof of authenticity on top of that. And if your question makes someone want to quit writing, it’s not protecting the community. It’s shrinking it.

If you’re not 100% sure, just scroll. AI ethics don’t need to turn into public inquisition season.

[edwardcreel]

“And if your question makes someone want to quit writing, it’s not protecting the community. It’s shrinking it.”

^^^^ this

[accioaparecium]

THIS.

It doesn’t matter how you phrase it. The question itself is a criticism on the author’s writing style. It suggests their content isn’t human enough for regular consumption.

And that is 100% an insult.

We need to keep in mind that AI is constantly adapting to sound more human. It learns from the content we produce. That’s why it is becoming much more difficult to distinguish between human production and something that is spit out by a machine.

I periodically put my own work through AI checkers just out of morbid curiosity. Do you understand how often it will result as being anywhere from 40% to 80% AI? Nearly every time. Do you know how much of my work is actually AI-generated? Absolutely none. I use AI for help with titles or summaries—never for the content itself.

Just because something is written differently than you would write it or described in a way you wouldn’t necessarily relay in a verbal conversation does not mean it wasn’t written by a human.

So unless you have concrete evidence—which is virtually impossible—that a writer is using AI to generate their stories, you should not throw around the accusation. That is a sure-fire way to discourage writers from sharing their content and chase away the ones who already have.

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Sassy Dialogue

Part I

"Oh honey, if I wanted your opinion, I'd have rolled my eyes louder."

"Did you come here to be annoying or is that just a happy accident?"

"Please, your drama is exhausting and I only have one espresso left in me."

"It's cute that you would think that I'd care about what you have to say."

"I don't have time for this. My lip gloss is already drying."

"You talk a lot for someone with nothing to say."

"Congratulations! You just lost the argument and the plot."

"Is that confidence or just a delusion with a good contour?"

"You really committed to being wrong. That's dedication!"

"You say that like it's supposed to hurt my feelings. Cute."

"No, I'm not mad. I'm just trying to figure out how someone can be that wrong and still be alive."

"Wow. That was almost a valid point. Almost."

"If ignorance is bliss, you must be thriving."

"I've seen salad with more bite than that insult."

"You're not mysterious. You're just hard to tolerate."

If you like my blog and want to support me, you can buy me a coffee or become a member! And check out my Instagram! 🥰

[pinteresttbloggerr-deactivated2]

I wish I got those weird anonymous inboxes my mutuals get

[accioaparecium]

I wish I got anything in my inboxes. Requests. Random asks. Little ramblings.

[accioaparecium]

Two More Minutes (Denied)

Poly!Marauders (minus Peter) x Fem!Reader ☾ 1.2k words

SUMMARY ☾ A stubborn head cold is no match against your partners.

WARNINGS ☾ Bit of a bratty!reader. Casual dominance. Mentions of illness.

NOTES ☾ This is just a simple experiment. I’m trying to improve my capability of weaving in multiple characters for poly!relationships.

You know you shouldn’t be out of bed, but there’s a layer of dust on the floors that needs desperately to be swept.

That thought has been circling your head for the last ten minutes—right alongside the pressure throbbing behind your eyes, the congestion clogging your sinuses, the way every breath feels thicker than it should. But knowing you shouldn’t doesn’t stop you from grabbing the broom.

Chores don’t pause themselves just because you’re not feeling well. The house just feels wrong when it’s not clean, and sitting still or lying down, especially when there’s work to be done, just makes you feel worse.

You cough—deep, wet, painful—and pause just long enough to steady yourself against the counter. The room behind you falls quiet. Not an empty silence, but a focused one. You feel the shift long before you hear it.

“She’s sweeping,” Sirius says.

Damn it.

You close your eyes for a moment before turning slowly. All three of them are watching you like you’ve just admitted to committing a crime. James stands near the doorway, tea abandoned lonesomely on the table to grow cold, concern written plainly across his face. Remus leans against the wall with his arms folded loosely over his chest, his expression calm in that terrifyingly patient way of his. Sirius is closest to you—too close—his eyes sharp and jaw tight.

Your hands readjust their grip on the broom handle. “I was just finishing up,” you rasp, your voice scratching its way from your throat. “It’ll only take like, two minutes.”

Remus sighs. “Stop.”

You ignore him and continue sweeping.

James steps forward and places his foot gently over the bristles, halting the broom mid-motion. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t yank it away. He just looks at you.

“That’s enough, love,” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens. “I don’t understand why you’re all acting like I’m dying,” you snap. “It’s just a head cold.”

On cue, you’re thrown into another coughing fit. Your chest rattles hoarsely with each attempt to expel the congestion. You bow forward without meaning to as you struggle to catch your ragged breath.

Sirius’s hand immediately steadies your back, grounding, holding you upright until the wave passes. He keeps it there even after you straighten back up.

“You have a fever,” he says plainly. Calm. Flat. Certain.

“And?” You sniff harshly through your clogged nose. “I can still do things.”

Remus pushes off the wall and comes closer. “No one is saying you’re incapable, dove,” he says evenly. “We’re saying you’re sick and should rest.”

James reaches for the broom. You hold onto it for half a second longer than necessary. A stubborn reflex more than intention.

“Let go,” he instructs gently.

You do, but not without a scowl. Arms folding tight across your chest. You hate when they do this. Hate the feeling of being watched. Of feeling weak.

More than that, you hate that part of you actually wants them to stop you.

Sirius exhales sharply and runs a hand through his hair. “You’ve been ill for two days, bunny. Two,” he tells you. “And you’re still trying to scrub floors like the place will collapse without you.”

“I don’t like sitting around when there are still things to do.”

“And I don’t like watching you make yourself worse.”

Sirius’s words land harder than the others. They’re not loud or cruel, but they’re edged with a genuine frustration that ices the air. The room stills, and you feel yourself shrink just a little underneath their weight, guilt prickling behind your ribs.

He notices immediately.

The tension in his shoulders loosens just a bit, and his voice lowers. “That came out sharper than I meant,” he says. “But I meant what I said. You’re gonna run yourself ragged if you don’t let yourself rest.”

Remus steps in smoothly, reclaiming control of the moment. “Here are the expectations,” he says calmly. “You are done with housework. You are going to bed, and you are staying there. No arguments.”

“And if I don’t?” you challenge, even though your voice is thicker now. Resigned and tired.

James answers without hesitation. “Then we’ll stop you.”

“Every time,” Sirius adds, softer now but no less firm. “As many times as it takes.”

You huff, your shoulders tight, and reluctantly let them guide you down the hall. Resentment simmers under the exhaustion as you drag your feet.

“I could at least wipe the table,” you mutter.

“No,” Remus objects immediately.

“But I could—”

“No,” Sirius repeats, firmer.

By the time you shuffle to the bed, you’re scowling in full. You plop down onto the mattress and cross your arms, glaring at the wall like it’s personally offended you.

James pulls the blankets back and tucks them around you anyway. “You’re allowed to be annoyed, love,” he says gently. “You’re not allowed to ignore us.”

Remus passes you a mug. The steam curls up towards your face, soothing and herbal. You squint at it.

“Drink,” he instructs.

Your scowl deepens as you take it reluctantly, suspicious even as you sip. It tastes warm. Comforting. Slightly bitter under the honey.

Halfway through, you pause.

“You put something in this,” you accuse.

“I did,” Remus admits.

Your eyes narrow. “You drugged me?”

James snorts. “Merlin, (Y/N). Of course not.”

Remus meets your gaze steadily. “It’s just a mild sleeping draught mixed with something for congestion,” he explains calmly, like you didn’t just accuse him of chemical restraint. “You’re ill, dove. Your body needs rest.”

Despite yourself, you swallow another mouthful—and realize, with mild betrayal, that your limbs are already starting to feel a touch heavier.

“That’s not fair,” you mutter.

Sirius settles beside you and gently pulls you back against his chest. His arm wraps around your waist in a way that leaves no room for escape but offers plenty of comfort. You can’t help but lean into it.

“Good girl.” He punctuates his murmur with a kiss to your temple. “Thank you for drinking it for us, bunny.”

Your irritation flickers and then softens under the praise. Heat blooms in your chest.

James brushes your hair back from your warming face. “You’re doing exactly as we asked,” he says softly. “Even though you don’t like it.”

“And we notice,” Remus adds. “We appreciate it.”

You sniff as the annoyance dims into something sleepier. “I feel useless.”

Sirius tightens his arm just slightly. “You’re resting,” he counters. “That’s your only job tonight.”

“And you’re doing it very well.” James kisses your forehead.

The medicine is starting to settle in your system properly now. It’s pulling you down, your resistance blurring at the edges. Your eyes are getting harder to reopen after you blink.

“I still don’t like it.”

Remus presses a kiss to the top of your head. “You don’t have to like it, dove.”

Sirius smiles faintly. “You just have to stay.”

A deep sigh pushes past your lips. You finally let yourself sink into the bed. Into them.

“Okay,” you huff. “Fine.”

“Good girl,” Remus hums.

The lights dim. James’s hand lingers warmly at your shoulder. Sirius stays solid behind you.

And even though a part of you is still sulking, you don’t try to get up again.

[solnishkaaaa]

I lowkey feel that I’m the only one who likes tomarry/soul seeker with female Harry Potter 💔💔💔 I read so much wolfstar and m/m soul seeker that I just got tired, I really need some good fics with femharry

[accioaparecium]

Not gonna lie… Fem!Harry has always had my heart 💕

[accioaparecium]

Velvet Knife

Secret Agent!Remus Lupin x Villain!Reader ☾ 1.2k words

SUMMARY ☾ At a gala glittering with lies, two old rivals dance—both pretending not to lose something they never meant to give.

WARNINGS ☾ Muggle!AU. Enemies-to-lovers/forbidden/the-one-who-got-away trope?

NOTES ☾ To be honest, this was inspired by an episode of American Dad. It also inspired me to create THIS aesthetic. I’m also considering maybe turning this into a mini-series (like a series of one-shots), so please let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in.

Music swells through the ballroom. Strings and champagne bubbles and the soft rustle of money brushing against silk. Crystal chandeliers scatter light like fractured stars, and everyone there is pretending they aren’t exactly who they are—criminals with better tailoring, saints with blood on their hands, and governments wearing tuxedos.

They say the safest place to hide a secret is somewhere loud.

You belong there—and that’s the problem.

The flash drive rests warmly against your thigh, secured inside a slit sewn into your dress by hands steadier than most surgeons’. Matte black and unmarked, worth more than the GDP of several small countries. It all depends on who you sell it to, and who you’re willing to ruin along the way.

You’re debating leaving early when you feel it. That shift in the room. The tightening of the air.

Predators always know when another one encroaches on their territory.

You don’t turn immediately. That would be too obvious. Instead, you finish your champagne and set the flute down with deliberate care. Then you smile at your reflection in the mirrored column beside you. Red lipstick and calm eyes—a woman who looks as though she belongs to a list of benefactors rather than a watchlist.

“Still favoring exits,” a familiar voice comments behind you. Soft. Mild. British. Like a wise professor gently correcting an error.

You close your eyes for half a second.

Of course.

Remus Lupin doesn’t announce himself. He never has. He simply exists near you one moment, and then your world rearranges itself around the fact.

“I like to know my options,” you reply, turning at last. “Some habits die hard.”

He’s dressed in all black tonight—tailored suit, charcoal shirt, no tie. It’s giving less gala and more funeral. His hair is a little longer than the last time you saw him, curling just enough at the temples to look careless if you didn’t know any better. But his face is still unfairly kind. All soft lines and tired eyes.

The most dangerous men always look apologetic about it.

“Good evening,” he greets, as though we’re merely strangers meeting by chance. Then, he adds quieter, for your ears alone, “You look expensive.”

You lift a brow. “You look like you’re about to steal something.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Occupational hazard. I’m sure you’re quite familiar.”

You study each other. The years between you flicker in the silent pause. Burned aliases, near misses, and bodies neither of you ever talk about. You’ve crossed paths a total of three times before, always orbiting the same catastrophes without colliding. A weapons broker in Prague. A data leak in Lisbon. A man in Berlin who didn’t live long enough to regret either of you.

“You shouldn’t be here, (Y/N),” he says lightly.

“And yet,” you gesture around you, “I was invited.”

“That makes it worse.”

You smile. “You always were bad at parties, Lupin.”

He sighs through his nose. Something like fondness ghosts across the scars stretching over his face. It irritates you how real it feels.

A waiter passes. Remus plucks two glasses from the tray and offers one to you. You take it without hesitation. Poison is so gauche these days—even he has more class than that old trick.

“To old acquaintances,” he murmurs.

“To unfinished business,” you counter.

You both drink.

He watches your throat when you swallow. Not hungrily, but with calculation. As if measuring how close he needs to get.

“I hear you’ve been busy,” he notes. “New syndicate. New name. New rules.”

“People evolve.”

“Villains rebrand,” he corrects gently.

You lean in just enough for your perfume to reach him. Something dark and resinous. “Careful, Remus. You’re blurring the line between agent and judge.”

His eyes flicker. “There is no line with you, (Y/N).”

Ah. There it is.

The truth beneath the banter.

The music shifts into something slower. Deliberate. Smooth. Couples begin drifting towards the center of the floor like moths.

Remus glances at it, then back at you. “Dance with me.”

It’s not a request.

You laugh softly. “You’re bold tonight.”

“I don’t get many chances with you.”

“That’s because you keep trying to arrest me.”

“I prefer stop you before you hurt someone.” He offers his hand.

You place your palm in his. “And yet,” you muse, “here we are.”

His hand is warm. Steady. Too familiar.

You move onto the dance floor. Your bodies align with an ease that makes your spine prickle. He guides you with subtle pressure, his touch respectful—almost chaste—but every step is a negotiation of space. Of intent.

“You’re after something,” you say casually, resting your hand on his shoulder.

He hums. “Always.”

“Care to tell me what?”

He leans closer, lips brushing near your ear. “If I told you, sweetheart, you’d move it.”

“I already have.”

His breath hitches. Just a fraction. You file it away.

“You always do,” he says.

His hand slides lower to rest at your waist. You feel it then—the test. The brush of his fingers against the curve, searching seams and gauging reactions. A lesser man would already be patting you down. But Remus Lupin understands the art of consent even when lying through his teeth.

“You know,” you murmur, “if you wanted to search me, you could’ve just asked.”

“I did,” he replies. “I asked you to dance.”

You laugh again, genuine this time. “You’re insufferable, Agent Lupin.”

“And you’re stalling, Miss (Y/N).”

The two of you soon. Light fractures around you. For a moment, you look just like any other couple in the ballroom. Beautiful, dangerous.

Pretending.

“Why this file?” he asks quietly. “You’ve never been sentimental.”

“Neither are you.” You lift a brow, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Yet here you are, chasing ghosts.”

His jaw tightens. “People will die if you release it.”

“People already did to create it.”

You lock eyes. The dance slows.

“You could walk away,” he offers. “Give it to me. I’ll make sure it disappears.”

You tilt your head. “You’re lying.”

“Yes,” he admits. “But for a good reason.”

You smile sadly. “That’s the problem with you, Remus. You still believe in good.”

His hand slips, precisely and expertly, towards your thigh. For a moment, you let him think he’s won. Then he feels the absence before he registers the truth.

His fingers still against your skin.

You lean in, painted lips brushing his ear. “Check your jacket.”

You pull back just as the music ends.”

Applause ripples through the room. Couples separate. Remus reaches into his inner pockets. You watch his expression shift from confusion to understanding.

The flash drive is there. But it’s not the flash drive. It’s just a decoy.

Identical weight. Identical shell. Empty as a promise from a government agency.

“You taught me that trick,” you say softly. “Berlin. Remember?”

He closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, there’s no anger. Just resignation.

“You’re getting better,” he says.

“So are you,” you reply. “You almost had me this time.”

You stand there, inches apart, as the world roars back to life around you.

“Will I see you again?” he asks.

You step back, already fading into the crowd. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you stop chasing me,” you say over your shoulder.

He watches you go, eyes sharp and thoughtful.

You don’t look back when you slip out through the service corridor, your heels silent on the marble. The real drive rests cool and secure against your skin.

Remus Lupin will regroup. Reframe. Tell himself this isn’t personal. But he’s wrong. It always has been.

And you always get away.

[accioaparecium]

Secret Agent!Remus x Villain!Reader

Where Agent Lupin seduces his target—you—for a mission.

[accioaparecium]

Begging for Ruin

Poly!WolfStar x Reader ☾ 961 words

SUMMARY ☾ Soft praise meets sharp command, and you melt exactly where you’re meant to.

WARNINGS ☾ Sexual content. Fem!Reader. Dom!Sirius. Soft!dom!Remus. Cockwarming. Fingering. Dirty talk. Praise. Degradation. Hair pulling. Daddy kink.

NOTES ☾ I’m not going to lie—the only reason I kept this as a drabble is because I couldn’t figure out how I wanted to continue or end it. But I’m still relatively pleased with what I’ve managed.

You sink deeper into Remus’s lap. The creaky, old armchair envelops you both like a secret cocoon. The fire has long since died down to glowing embers, casting a soft, intimate light over the empty space, but the true heat comes from Remus’s body pressed against yours—solid, warm, and unyielding.

His arms wrap around your waist with a gentle firmness. One hand slides up your thigh to push your skirt aside, calloused fingers ghosting over the damp fabric of your panties.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmurs softly into your ear, his voice a soothing rumble that makes your core clench. “Sitting so pretty for me, aren’t you, dove? C’mon, show me how much you need this.”

You nod breathlessly. Your hips roll subtly over the hard outline of his cock straining through his trousers. Remus chuckles lowly, his free hand catching your chin to tilt your head back against his shoulder, exposing your throat for a trail of soft, open-mouthed kisses. He’s always like this—gently dominant, guiding you with tender commands that leave no room for doubt.

He shushes you reverently, fingers finally dipping beneath your panties. “I’ve got you, dove,” he whispers as he circles your throbbing clit with agonizing slowness. “You’re gonna take what I give you, yeah? Nice and slow.”

Sirius paces the room like a storm waiting to break. His grey eyes are locked in on the way you melt into Remus, focused on your soft whimpers filling the air. The sight drives him mad. His girl—their girl—grinding shamelessly on Remus’s lap. He can’t take it anymore.

In a flash, he’s towering over you. His hand fists your hair with a deliberate yank that arches your back further, pulling a sharp gasp from your lips.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, his voice dripping with raw hunger as he crashes his mouth onto yours.

The kiss is filthy—wet, messy, his tongue plunging deep and fucking your mouth in sloppy, demanding thrusts that leave saliva dripping down your chin. You moan against his lips, your body trembling as Remus’s fingers work you quicker. Sirius doesn’t let up, his grip on your hair tightening just enough to sting.

He breaks away with a wet smack, eyes blazing as he watches you squirm. “Needy little bunny, aren’t you?” he coos, using his thumb to smear the mess across your swollen lips. “Grinding on Moony’s cock like a desperate slut. Just begging to be stuffed full, hmm? You think you can tease us like this without getting ruined?”

Remus’s hand stills against your slicked cunt, drawing a pathetic whine from you, but he shushes you gently, securing his arm around your waist. “Easy, dove,” he murmurs, the effortless authority lacing through his velvet-soft tone. “Pads is right—you’ve been such a tease tonight. But you’re going to be good for your daddies now, aren’t you, sweet girl? Up.”

He taps your hip twice, and you obey without thought, lifting up slightly. Remus makes quick work of freeing his cock from his trousers—thick, veined, already leaking at the tip. He guides you back down slowly, inch by inch, until he’s buried to the hilt inside of your dripping cunt.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp as he stretches you perfectly, your walls fluttering against the exquisite burn as he holds you still. He doesn’t thrust yet, doesn’t move. He just fills you up.

It’s torture and bliss all at once.

His cock twitches inside of you while he whispers praises that nearly undo you right there. “That’s it, sweet girl,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Just sit pretty and take me. Feel how deep I am? You’re doing so well, dove. Clenching around me like you were made for this.”

Sirius watches with heated fascination, his hand still tangled in your hair as you adjust to the feeling. “Gods, you’re soaked, aren’t you? Dripping all over Remus’s cock like the greedy little girl you are,” he taunts, his free hand shoving down to palm himself through his trousers. “Bet you want me to fuck your mouth while he stretches that tight little pussy, hmm? Make you choke on my cum while Moony breeds you deep.”

Remus’s hips thrust up once, gently, sending a jolt through you. A gasp pushes past your lips before it dissolves into a whimper of their names, a desperate plea. He keeps the pace slow and controlled in spite of your growing need. His hand returns to your clit, rubbing in firm, loving circles that have you keening.

“Listen to him, pretty girl,” he encourages, nipping at your shoulder tenderly. “He’s gonna make you beg for it. But first, you’re gonna cum for us—just like this, warming Daddy’s cock until you’re shaking.”

Sirius tugs your hair again to force you to meet his eyes. He leans in closer, his breath warm against your flushed face. “Yeah, beg for it, bunny. Tell Daddy how bad you need us to wreck this pretty little cunt—fuck you until you’re stuffed full of our cum.”

His filthy words ignite you. Your cunt clenches desperately, hips fighting Remus’s hold to grind down harder, your body chasing the edge as their combined touches and taunts push you toward oblivion.

The pleasure coils tighter and tighter. Heat simmers in your lower abdomen, swelling until it burns. Tears prickle your eyes along your lashes as your lips part in staggered gasps.

“C’mon, dove,” Remus coos, pinching your clit gently but deliberately. “Let go for Daddy. Show us what a good girl you are.”

And with that, the coil shatters.

Your orgasm crashes over you in shuddering waves. Clear slick drips from your cunt as you clench around Remus’s cock. Sirius slots his mouth over yours in another brutal kiss that swallows your cries.

[writersisland]

Prompts: Sickness

✧ “You got me sick too, dickhead.” “Ah shit, sorry. Come on, slide into the quarantine bed.”

✦ “Lay your ass down and drink the tea I made you.”

✧ “Don’t touch me. I’m gross and sticky.” “You’ve looked worse.”

✦ “I hate seeing you like this. Feels wrong when you're not being annoying.”

✧ “You still alive in there?” “No.”

✦ “Sssh… Let me coddle you.”

✧ “I hate being sick.” “I know. You are rather sweet like this though.”

✦ “I’m terrified that you won’t get better.”

✧ “Don’t come in, I’m sick.” “Not gonna stop me when I know you need me.”

✦ “This is what you get when you go out without a jacket.”

[writersisland]

Writing Prompts: Secret Relationship

⋆ “Hey, whoa. You know you can't leave any marks.”

⋆ “I like that no one knows. More exciting this way, you know?”

⋆ “What if someone sees?”

⋆ “If you asked me to, I would scream your name from the rooftops.”

⋆ “We're not telling anyone until you're ready, yeah?”

⋆ “I love you, so much. But I hate that you make our love be something worth hiding.”

⋆ “They can be glad we're not public. I'd be so annoyingly doting where everyone could see.”

⋆ “I don't care how hard it gets. I'm sticking with you.”

⋆ “We shouldn't be doing this here…”   “Technically, we shouldn't be doing this at all.”

⋆ “It's hard not to smile at you when you look so damn good in public.”

⋆ “Gonna take you far away to a place where we don't have to hide.”

⋆ “Is it really so terrible for everyone to know that you're with me?”

⋆ “I don't want to live in fear anymore.”

[promptcalender]

Drunk Writing Prompts

“Stop making that face. I can't tell if you're about to kiss me or throw up.”   “Maybe I'll do both.”   “Please don't.”

“You're way too sober to be looking at me like that.”

“Want to see me climb that?”   “I do, but as the sober one I sadly need to be responsible here.”

[tries to open a bottle but instead falls asleep with it unopened in arms, cradled like a baby]

“You taste like trouble.”   “I taste like gin.”   “Yeah.”

“I can't say what I am thinking about right now, because you'll think it's the booze speaking.”

“Truth.”   “Who here do you have a crush on?”   “We're literally married.”

“Can I tell you something that I'm usually too afraid to say?”

“How much booze is in this drink?”   “Care to take a gamble by trusting me?” 

“We can blame this on the wine tomorrow, yeah?”

“Are you a sad drunk? Aw, man, you are, aren't you? C'mere.”   “[sniffles] Sorry…”

“I'm going to tell them I love them and I'm probably going to regret it tomorrow.”

“Where the hell did your shirt go?”   “I was hot!”   “And now you are hot.”

[Prompt Calender: November 26th, DrinksGiving]

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Twelve-Word Sentences

Day Twelve - Prompts Advent Calendar

"I need you to tell me the truth before everything gets worse tonight.

"We can fix this together if you finally start trusting me completely now."

"If there is a problem, I don't want to hear about it."

"Nothing will change unless we both decide to take responsibility for everything."

"I'm afraid you won't like what I have to tell you today."

"You don't realize how much your decisions have affected everyone around us."

"I've been waiting for the right moment to finally say this honestly."

"There's something incredibly important you need to understand before moving any further."

"I can't keep pretending everything is fine when clearly nothing actually is."

"If we work together, then we can overcome absolutely anything confronting us."

"Tell me why you suddenly changed your mind without offering any real explanation."

"Just because I don’t say much doesn’t mean I don’t notice everything."

"I cannot understand why you chose silence instead of asking for help."

"Nothing about this situation feels right, yet everyone keeps pretending it is."

"I'd love to see how you will get out of this one"

"I hoped you would recognize my intentions were always genuine from the beginning."

"You're asking too much from someone already carrying far more than expected."

"I can't believe I was actually stupid enough to fall for it."

"You never told me the truth even when I desperately needed answers."

"I don't want to hear another word coming out of your mouth!"

2025 Advent Calendar