Alice

Geek account Maybe I'll post witchcraft on here idk though Remus Lupin fan account

[mischievousmoony]

how to evict a spider james potter x reader

summary: you're deathly afraid of spiders, but luckily james is here to save you ⊹ 620 warnings: spiders obvi

· ─ ⋆⋅✶⋅⋆ ─ ·

James skids into the room, socks sliding against the hardwood, on high alert at the sound of your scream.

“What?! What’s wrong?!” he asks, pulling you behind him, scanning the room for danger. But your living room is empty, not a pillow out of place.

And yet, you’re a trembling mess, clinging to his shirt like a lifeline.

“There’s a spider,” you practically whimper, pointing to the corner of the room.

“Oh,” he says on an exhale, relieved that’s all it is. He smooths a hand over the back of your head. “Want me to kill it?”

“No!” you shriek. “What if when you crush it, a million baby spiders pour out and infest our house. We’d have to burn the place and move at least two towns away.”

“I think that’s highly unlikely, love,” James says softly, but you’ve seen one too many videos online of that exact thing, which has only worsened your fear of the little creatures.

You look up at James with big, wide eyes, tucked into his side, all soft and vulnerable. And James’s heart melts.

You could ask him just about anything right now, and he’d find a way to make it happen.

“Alright, eviction it is. C’mere.”

James nudges you gently out of the way. The spider is minding its own business in a high corner, but not out of James’s reach. He carefully scoops the little thing into his palm.

“You’re using your bare hands!” you shout, a high-pitched shrill, losing your mind.

“It’s just a bug,” James shrugs, cupping his hands together, enclosing the spider that anxiously scurries around the small space, tickling his palms.

“That’s not even right,” you moan, staring at James’s cupped hands. The fact that there’s a spider there genuinely makes you feel queasy. “I’m gonna be sick.”

James stifles a laugh.

He realizes that he didn’t fully think his plan through when he reaches the door. Luckily, you’ve been following at a safe distance, watching in horror.

“Can you get the door for me, love?” he asks sweetly.

You gulp, keeping an eye on his hands as if the spider might jump out at you as you hold the door.

James crosses the street, releasing the spider in a patch of grass far away from your home. Any closer, and he knows you’d worry about it finding its way back inside.

You watch the whole thing from the porch. James returns to you, arms open, but you lean away from his touch.

“Right,” he nods, jogging to the bathroom to wash his hands first. Only then do you let him wrap you in his arms.

“You really got it?” you ask, needing to make sure, even though you watched the whole thing.

“Mhm,” James hums, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Even watched it run off in the opposite direction. It won’t be back.”

“What if there’s more? Like… it could have a whole family here that we don’t know about.”

“I’m sure that’s not the case,” he coos. Although there’s probably at least a few hidden spiders in every home, he pretends he doesn’t know that to be true for your sake. “Even if it were, which it’s not, I’ll always be here to protect you.”

He feels the tension slowly ease from your body at his reassurance. He hooks his thumb under your jaw, tilting your head up.

“Feeling better?”

You nod. “Love you,” you murmur.

“Love you too, my sweet girl,” he says, pressing a tender kiss to your lips.

· ─ ⋆⋅✶⋅⋆ ─ ·

[alicefromwonderlands]

i love a little something to comfort my arachnophobia

just this week i saw 3 massive spiders around my house just taking a stroll like it’s normal.

also WDYM LITTLE SPIDERS CAN CRAWL OUT i didn’t know they can do that??? good thing i’m sucking them into my vacuum and spinning around for good measure

anyway i loved this and ill always fall for the sweet girl petname

[staseras]

things my chronically offline bf does — Clark Kent

summary: clark kent thinks tiktok means the passing of time, you're a (wannabe) influencer. what could possibly happen? answer includes but isn't limited to thirst traps, using your hot bsf to go viral, online anonymous confessions, and one really old cat named bean. word count: 15k (insane, ik) content warning: heavy rom-com vibes, heavy on the comedy and ridiculous. heteroerotic friendship, domestic clark & reader (they see each other naked and sleep together & so much more, they're literally disgusting), size difference, reader is a (non famous) influencer but she goes viral thanks to clark not knowing what slay means, clark and reader have no notion of privacy or boundaries around each other, they're also so stupid. heavy fluff, everything is sweet and nothing hurts. an embarrassing amount of slang and memes and tiktok mention (i apologize). this is seriously just crack. oh ALSO protective clark oh em gee i swooned writing that part. lois and jimmy act like creepy twins /aff notes: this got out of hands, guys. ty for 1k<3 i hope you enjoy! apologies for the slightly rushed ending, i was growing tired with this behemoth of a fic

It’s common knowledge that Clark Kent and technology do not mesh well. He writes all of his drafts on paper. He takes notes on his legal pad with a pencil that he keeps losing, and he uses a cassette recorder for interviews, and he uses an actual camera for pictures. He has a phone, he has a laptop, he just— doesn’t really use them. He doesn’t know how to and doesn’t need to know more than is absolutely necessary (as in how to send emails, how to use Google and how to type his final drafts for proofing).

So anything beyond that, and he’s completely out of his depth. Put him in a complete alien civilization light years away from Earth and he would still be more at ease than if you’d asked him to make a TikTok video and, God forbid, post it. 

So really, it only made sense that his best friend was an influencer. You weren’t exactly popular, and you didn’t do it for fame, you just enjoyed sharing your life with the people who stick around. You were a wizard with your phone and could turn any moment into something cinematic. 

The two of you were polar opposites. He was the moon, pulled into orbit around you, and it made sense he felt so good whenever he was with you. You were the sun. 

He was happy to tag along with you to any of your adventures. Trying out a new restaurant, a new club, vlogging a last-minute trip, trying out PR packages you get. 

You’d always been the life of the friendship, and Clark was never afraid of being in your shadow. In fact, he reveled in it. He liked being invisible to others around you, as long as he was seen by you. It was more than finding a distraction so people didn’t look at him for too long and start getting suspicious; it definitely helped, for sure, but it was never what made him want you as his best friend. He couldn’t help it. After all, he was a sunflower. And you were the sun. 

Sometimes his colleagues at The Daily Planet didn’t believe him when he talked about you to them, and gave them your username. It didn’t help that he didn’t have any social media so he couldn’t show them that you followed him back. Clark didn’t really care whether they believed him or not. 

“It’s not because she has less than a thousand followers doesn’t mean your lie would be more convincing,” Jimmy said with the sageness of a monk. “She’s too pretty for you.” Then, as an afterthought, he added: “No offence, Clark.”

Clark shrugged. “None taken. I know she’s pretty.”

Lois hit Jimmy on the shoulder. “Eve is too pretty for you too but you don’t see me insulting you.”

Clark frowned. “Guys, she’s my best friend, not my girlfriend.”

Jimmy looked at him with pity in his eyes. “Lying about having a best friend is so sad… I didn’t know you were so lonely, Clark. I’ve been failing as a friend.”

Clark just rolled his eyes but didn’t try to convince him, since he didn’t seem like he wanted to be convinced. 

“She would love to meet you one day,” Clark added before forgetting. He kept forgetting to. Or maybe, he just wanted to have you all to himself. He’ll never tell. 

Jimmy looked at him suspiciously. “Is she just going to be a printed picture of her Instagram feed on a doll?”

Lois and Clark both ignored him. 

“If she’s your best friend, she must be a really good person, then. I would love to meet her,” Lois said, before pressing on the follow button. Ding! “Oh. She followed me back already.”

“She knows about you,” Clark said. “She must have recognized you.”

“That was quick,” Lois noticed. 

“Yeah,” Clark replied. “She says she’s terminally sick online or something. I never understand her when she says those Internet words.”

Jimmy’s jaw dropped. “He wasn’t lying…” he whispered to himself, mind blown. Which, honestly, he should have seen it coming. Clark was the most honest person he’d ever met. He was incapable of lying to save a life. Jimmy pressed the follow button on his phone too, as if some part of him still wasn’t convinced, and watched with quiet horror as a follow back notification popped. And he couldn’t justify it as you just following back everyone, because you only followed cat and food accounts.

Clark just thought Jimmy was being his weird self again and didn’t pay it too much attention. Honestly, he just took it as a compliment to you, which made him happy. He always felt proud and happy whenever people complimented you, as if he was an extension of you. 

“Great, I will call you for the details. She’s gonna love preparing something for the four of us. She’s such a good event planner.”

Of course Clark didn’t text. Not that he didn’t want to, it was just that even the biggest phone he could get was still too tiny for his hands and it made typing a pain in the butt. 

“Cool, can’t wait,” Lois said. Jimmy was just staring in the horizon. 

Clark smiled. He was happy all of his favorite people were going to meet. 

You were waiting for Clark at the Daily Planet’s lobby. You were taking pictures of the regular cat that became an honorary reporter at the office, more exactly. 

“Hi Clark,” you brightened when you saw him. 

“Hey you,” Clark replied, fondness dripping from his voice until it was sticky and sweet. “How was your day?”

“It was okay, I found this new spot we absolutely have to try together,” you replied, getting on your tiptoes despite your heels to press your lips to the edge of his mouth. Clark smiled instantly, like a switch was flipped.  

Some people would say you were too obsessed with image and social media, but Clark knew you better than anyone else. Even if you weren’t an influencer, even if social media and the internet didn’t exist, you would still be the same. You would still take pictures of your day, share your meals with Clark in a spot you really liked, and you would still take video diaries. 

“I can’t wait,” Clark replied. “Oh by the way, Jimmy and Lois said yes.”

With his superhearing, he heard Jimmy gasp from somewhere behind. “She’s really real. Wait, I thought he said she was his best friend? Why are they kissing?” Then the unmistakable sound of Lois slapping his shoulder. 

He tuned it all out. He would get over his weird crisis later. 

You grabbed his hand and dragged him away. 

“Oh, yeah, I saw they followed me both. I figured you talked to them.”

Clark squeezed your smaller hand in his. 

“What did they think?” you asked curiously. 

“Lois said you must be a good person if you’re my best friend. Jimmy… well, I think he really liked you. He said you were way too pretty for me, whatever that means,” Clark replied earnestly. 

“He’s an idiot,” you replied. “I’m not too anything for you. I’m just right for you.”

Clark nodded. “Exactly. Perfect for me.”

Clark often offered to learn about internet and what you do, but you just replied, “no it’s fine, don’t worry about it <3” (you made the heart with your hands). 

You appreciated his offer, but you knew how all of this made his head turn and how hopeless he was with everything that was even remotely tech-related (don’t even get her started on microwaves and Clark). And quite frankly, you found him cute just the way he was. Like an overgrown, oversized, oblivious but eager puppy. 

“You’re sleeping over tonight, right?” 

You were asking as if it was a planned event, when in fact Clark wasn’t aware of this until right then and there. But Clark was nothing if not adaptable (he did get adapted to an entirely new and foreign planet when he was just a baby), and nothing if not used to you, so he took it in stride and nodded. 

“Mhm,” he replied. “I’ll even make dinner if you want.”

“Deal.”

Walking to your place hand in hand had become routine early on in your friendship and one of the few things Clark would never bring himself to sacrifice. It was home away from home. 

“I’m going to the gym tomorrow, you’re coming with me.”

“Okay.”

“Great.”

Clark, being who he is, didn’t need a gym, or at least not one fit for humans, but you asked, so he obeyed. 

“What time?”

“Six am.”

That meant you were trying again to renew yourself and to adopt better habits and hobbies. It was something you routinely went through almost every six months. First when it’s the new year, second when it’s June, when you realized you’d been slacking off and not following your new year resolutions, and Clark became your accountability partner.

That title sounded big and full of responsibilities, but Clark didn’t really do anything, really — except show up wherever you went and gently reminded you of your commitments. When it was something really important, like taking your meds, he pressed but other than that, he let you flit through life like the butterfly you were meant to be. 

Clark was awake before you, unsurprised to find you pressed against his body, sleeping deeply while holding him like you were scared he was going to flee. Well, considering he was Superman, he guessed you weren’t far off the mark. 

With his free hand, he grabbed your phone to check the time since the arm he wears his watch on was currently being repurposed as a body pillow and his heart felt heavy at the thought of disturbing your sleep. 

5.15AM. He woke up early, but not too early. Just in time to wake you up so you could enjoy your ‘free time with Clark. That’s what you called cuddling up with him and talking about your dreams before you both had to leave the bed. 

“Psst,” he whispered against the crown of your head. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

“No,” you grumbled. 

He chuckled softly. “What about your free time with me?”

“Mhmhmhmmm…” you mumbled before shifting position until you were actually cuddling him. “‘m awake,” you said. 

He didn’t doubt you. He just thinks that you’re also asleep at the same time. 

The both of you stayed like this for half an hour, Clark rubbing his thumb mindlessly on your arm, a quiet and gentle smile on his face while he listened to you ramble about your dream.

“You dreamt I was Batman?” he asked incredulously, swallowing back the laughter that overcame him. “Sweetheart, I’m literally already my own superhero, why would you dream of me as someone else?”

“I don’t know, Clark,” you replied and he didn’t need to look at your face to know you were rolling your eyes. “I didn’t do anything. I was quite literally just a spectator. Don’t shoot the messenger and all that.”

“You’re right. How could I forget you were literally incapable of wrong doing?”

“Mhm,” you hummed. “Better not forget next time.”

You fell back to sleep at six am on the dot. Clark tried to wake you up and remind you of your plans but you declined all attempts with the smooth dexterity of a politician deflecting questions. 

“Sleeping with you is its own workout anyway,” he muttered to himself. 

Clark quickly left you when he heard someone call for Superman but he came back before you woke up, which didn’t actually say anything about how long he took, since your sleep schedule was as predictable as a string of letters typed by a thousand monkeys on a typewriter. 

He was under the shower when you finally woke up and barged in through the bathroom without a care in the world. 

“I’m sleepy,” you tell him while peeing. 

“Hi sleepy, I’m Clark,” Clark replied while showering. 

You chucked the entire roll of TP at him and Clark didn’t even try to avoid it, even though he definitely could have. (You loved Clark dearly, but his dad jokes when you just woke up were unforgivable.)

Morning you was the best kind of you, and it was nice to know that your grumpiness didn’t do anything to erase your lack of privacy, because invasive you was also the best kind of you.

It’s not like there’s anything you didn’t already see. 

(To be fair though, you didn’t just start barging in on him when he was naked without a care for his consent, it just… happened. 

First it started with you walking in on him changing boxers, dick and everything out. Then it was him accidentally walking on you under the shower (honestly, how he didn’t realize you were under there with all of his gazillion superpowers was beyond the two of you). And then again, you walk in on him because you keep forgetting that Clark’s at your place more often than not, and then after that Clark accidentally used his super vision on you because he thought you were injured.

 So you sat him down one day and asked if he minded whenever either of you accidentally sees the other naked and he replied ‘no’, so you asked, ‘would you mind if it wasn’t accidental? Not exactly on purpose but just… not caring at all?’ and he said ‘no’, and you said ‘okay, by the way you have a big shlong’ and that’s basically how it started (after teaching Clark what shlong meant.

Clark only regrets his decision when it’s early in the morning and his hormones are raging and you’re changing in front of him like no one’s watching.)

He was out of the shower by the time you were brushing your teeth. 

“You’re not vlogging this morning?” he asked, feeling that same rush of pride he felt whenever he used one of the words you taught him, towel wrapped around his middle. His hair was wet and curled and doing all kinds of swoopy woopy things. His chest was glistening and dripping with water. 

“I wanted to but I also didn’t want you to steal my thunder with your naked cameo,” you replied with a floss string between your two front teeth. “Although you would have definitely made me go viral.”

“Ah, my bad,” he replied humorously. “I’ll try to be less… hot under the shower next time.”

You threw the used floss in the bin. “I don’t think that’s possible, unfortunately.”

Clark blushed and the redness followed him right to his neck and collarbones. 

You grinned toothily at him so he could inspect your teeth. He grabbed your chin between his index and thumb, and used his thumb to push your lower lip lower. “Mhm…” he hums thoughtfully. “Perfectly flossed. You get a star. Doctors from around the world want you as their client.”

“Yay! Thanks, Clark!”

His lips broke into a happy grin. “You’re welcome. You know, it’s not too late to go to the gym now.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that,” you said. “My past self was crazy. I don’t associate with the likes of her anymore.”

“I see, your past self is being cancelled. Right?”

You burst out laughing before petting the top of his head. “God, I love you Clark. Never change.”

You ended up going to the gym anyway, dressed in your “cuntiest” outfits to “serve” (to serve what? Clark thought you quit being a server a year ago), but all you did was point at things and ask Clark if he could max them all out. Of course he could, and you knew he could, but you asked for a demonstration anyway. 

Then, because seeing him succeed flawlessly at every machine (and after attracting every “gym bro” in the vicinity who started asking Clark about powders and training regimen and whatnot, and lowkey looked impressed when Clark replied earnestly to the question of how he became so strong with “By being kind and respectful to everyone”), you decided he now had to do pushups with you sitting crisscross applesauce on top of him. 

“But why?”

“I’ve always wanted to know what it felt like to be a barbell,” you replied. 

“I think you mean plate, sweetheart.”

“Same difference,” you replied. And of course, Clark was totally convinced. 

“Do you mind if I take pictures?” you asked him once you were sitting on him and he was laying on the floor, shirt off. 

“You know I don’t,” he replied. He didn’t need to remind you not to post his face anywhere because he trusted you implicitly. 

And then he started the pushups with complete ease, because there was no better way for him to spend his day-offs than to go to the gym with your best friend and use her as additional weight. 

You took plenty of pictures; some you called aesthetically pleasing and “would do well in tumblr”, others you said were just silly and for fun.

You showed him the pictures while still on his back, your arms on each side of his neck as you scrolled through the pictures for him while he stayed in an isotonic contraction (his muscles didn’t even flail, and it took you almost fifteen minutes to show him everything because you annotated each one.)

“I really like this one,” Clark said, lifting a hand from the floor to point at a picture, still lifting your weight with only one arm. 

The picture he picked was one where he looked at the mirror in front of you, and he was obviously looking at you, while you were making a silly face that wasn’t really silly, because it made you look devastatingly pretty. You were also flexing your left arm, winking and tugging your tongue at the camera. 

“Solid choice,” you replied, tapping something on the screen. “Definitely one of my favorites too.”

He smiled happily, and then remembered they were in public and he shouldn’t be showing off his strength so much, as much as he wanted to impress you. 

So, he pretended to have his muscles locking and asked you to get off, in case anyone was watching. You were always up for a bit of acting with him. You said it made you feel like the sidekick of a hot spy in a film noir.

Clark hung in the side while you took a video of yourself rambling to the camera — he was tall enough that he didn’t worry about his face being caught on camera, but the camera could still pick up your interlaced hands from the angle you held the camera. People would only be able to see his arm swinging and the beginning of his legs. 

You were talking about going to the gym and how you earned a big meal after it (though if you asked Clark, he would say you should never feel like you have to earn a meal, and that you could eat anything anytime you wanted if it made you happy). 

You set up the phone against the wall so it could take a video of you and the table. Clark was sat across from you, and again, wasn’t visible at all. Not even your face fully showed. Just the bottom half of your face. Your hands did most of the talking as you animated your stories with a floating burger. 

The camera captured Clark’s hand across the table, wiping the side of your mouth with a thumb, and your pleased, bashful smile after. 

It captured you stealing fries from Clark’s plate, and then Clark sharing half of his fries with you. 

It captured your laughter, and then your lips as they moved to form the words: I love you, Clark.

(When you finally uploaded the video to YouTube a while later, people commented: 

‘am I the only one who felt like a third wheel throughout the video? I loved it though. Always wanted to be the third to a hot couple’

‘God I see the things you do for others’

‘Guys ik she said he was just her best friend but I’m seriously having doubts rn. Maybe she meant it as in best boyfriend?’

‘You’re so pretty!!!!!! And your bf looks so hot too. Definitely my fav power couple of youtube’

Which then pushed your videos to more people.

You read all of the comments to Clark while he was writing down notes for his next article. His thoughts? “I think they really liked the video. I’m happy for you, sweetheart.”)

You picked a nice coffee shop downtown for your first meeting with Lois and Jimmy. Jimmy couldn’t look you in the eyes in shame. 

“I’m so sorry I doubted Clark’s ability to have pretty friends,” he said, before getting elbowed by Lois in the ribs. 

“Excuse my friend. He’s a dumbass.”

You took it in stride. You loved them and they loved you. Jimmy helped you take the perfect pictures for your picture dump, Lois and you talked about fashion, and Clark was happy to just step back and watch as three of his five favorite people get along so well. 

“How did you guys meet?” Lois asked curiously. She’d been eyeing the way you were both sitting so close to each other it bordered on lap sitting. 

“He mistook me for a scarecrow,” you replied. 

“We were childhood friends.”

“Clark I love you, but for a journalist you’re really bad at hooking people in,” Lois said. “As for your best friend, she was clearly made to hook people in.”

Clark was too happy to even feel offended, and just let you tell the story. The insult flew right over his head. 

It wasn’t anything grand. Clark was in the fields with his parents when he noticed a figure almost his height in the distance, and ran towards it. It was you, standing still with your arms outstretched. 

He ran back to his parents and asked if they put a new scarecrow in the fields that looked like a little girl. 

Jo and Ma looked at each other concerned before setting off to find this little scarecrow girl. 

And the rest was history. 

“I still don’t know what you were doing,” Clark confessed at the end of your story. “You won’t tell me.”

You shrugged. “Because I am aloof and mysterious.”

“This raised more questions than it answered,” Jimmy said with a faraway look on his face. 

“Good,” you and Clark said at the same time. 

“Your friends are really nice. Maybe I should become a journalist too and then become your colleague. That would be so much fun,” you told him after quitting Jimmy and Lois. “What do you think?” You took a sip of your Oreo milkshake you got for take-out.

Clark smiled. “I think you just can’t get enough of me,” he said.

You squeezed his hand. “Yeah, you’re right. I won’t even try to lie.”

He laughed. 

He had never realized how his friendship with you could be seen as strange until you were both in college and everyone on campus the two of you were dating. It was common knowledge around all of the campus that you and Clark were the it couple. Even in high school, you’d been both voted prom queen and king, even though you both didn’t even know you were participating. Clark didn’t regret it though, because he got to wear a crown alongside with you and dance. It was one of his fondest memories with you. 

“Friends don’t act like that,” people would say. No one would ever be able to understand the bond you two have, so he doesn’t bother replying or trying to explain. Besides, what you have between the two of you was special, and he wanted to keep it that way. 

But Clark supposed there was some part of truth to that. Lois and Jimmy were his best friends too, but he would never cuddle in a bed with them, as much as he loved them. He also wouldn’t even dream of letting them peck him on the lips, or, God forbid, walk in on him under the shower. 

If this friendship was considered weird, then he was happy to be weird with you. Besides, nothing he could ever do would be weirder than being an actual alien pretending to be human. Or stumbling through your window into your apartment, jaw dislocated and nose bleeding.

“Clark? Is that you?” you called out from the kitchen.

He closed his eyes. Coming here was a bad idea, because he hated the thought of worrying you, but there was also nowhere else in the world he would rather be. “Yeah,” he replied, voice distorted because of his jaw. He heard you close the lid on a sauce pan and wipe your hands on a kitchen towel before hearing the soft pads of your feet walking into the living room.

“Hey, what did I say about tracking blood and mud in my apartment?”

Your words sounded mad but your voice betrayed your worry. You dropped the kitchen towel and reached him in quick strides. He was sitting on the floor against the wall, and you fell on your knees, hands hovering over his jaw, unsure whether you could touch him in this state. 

“Sorry,” Clark replied. “Will remember for next time.”

“There won’t be a next time because you’re going to stop letting bad guys hit you, okay?”

He laughed, even if it hurt to. Of course you said it as if it was that easy. It wasn’t, but Clark would make it so. 

“Stop laughing at me,” you chided, even as you inspected his nose. “It doesn’t look broken, so that’s good.”

“It healed on the way here. Perks of being Superman.”

“Stop acting like nothing’s wrong or I’ll break your nose myself, and I’ll make sure your healing factor is too busy to handle your nose first.”

“Wow,” he said. “Such violence coming from such a tiny little human.”

You grabbed his jaw without a warning and snapped it back into place. 

“Golly, woman! Warn a guy first, will you?” he yelped indignifyingly, rubbing his smarting jaw, before moving it left and right to make sure it was still working. He didn’t need to worry because you were a professional by now, ever since you were both fourteen and you started playing nurse for a Clark who was discovering his powers and trying each day a new way to test his abilities.

“If I warned you, you would never be ready,” you replied, and Clark smiled sheepishly at that. You were right. Despite him being the strongest human on Earth, his pain tolerance was subpar, and he always chickened out before anything like that. Usually, you would at least fake a countdown. “And besides, that’s what you get for making fun of me.”

He pouted. “I’m sorry baby,” he said, batting his eyelashes at you. 

“Ugh! This is so unfair,” you groaned, before bending at his height and pressing your lips against his pout in a quick peck. “I hate you.”

“I love you too,” Clark replied, not in the least bit remorseful for guilt-tripping you, basking in the bliss of the feeling of your lips against his, as fleeting as it was. 

You pinched his bruised nose and stood back up.

“Ow, ow, ow!”

“Don’t even try to talk to me for the next five minutes. I’ll be too busy hating you.”

He was behind you before the five minutes even were up, wrapping his arms around your waist, still pouting. “Why are you so mean to me?” he asked, cheek pressed against the top of your head. He was still in his dirty Superman suit; he hadn’t even taken off his boots yet. 

You were trying really hard to ignore him. It was funny, and Clark couldn’t keep up the wounded act any longer. His shoulders were shaking with barely suppressed mirth. 

“Message received, baby. I’ll let you be for five minutes. In fact, I’ll let you be for thirty minutes.”

He used that time to clean up the mess he’d left behind (superheroing wasn’t a clean job) and finally take a shower. He tried not to notice how you kept pretending you forgot something in the bathroom while he was showering. First, it was your glasses, which you hadn’t even found, then you had to check a pimple on your face, and then it was your makeup, which you needed to retouch. 

“You know,” he said, voice barely heard over the sound of the stream of water. “I’m starting to think you’re just finding any excuses to come check on me.”

You shot him a dark look. “You said you weren’t going to bother me for thirty minutes.”

“I’m not bothering you, but you are bothering me.”

He realized his mistake before the words even finished leaving his mouth. You gasped.

“See if I ever bother you again,” you said, turning on your heels.

Clark groaned, before shutting the water off and grabbing a towel to wrap around his hips and chased after you, dripping water everywhere but unable to care because he just wanted to catch before you locked yourself in your room (and coincidentally blocking him from getting his clothes) and started listening to heartbreak songs at full volume. 

“Nooo,” he whined, “you know I love it when you bother me! Please don’t ever stop!”

“Nuh uh,” you replied, escaping his hand narrowly.

“Oh come on, are you really going to sulk at me for that? And why were you so mean to me anyway? Ever since I got here, you were being grumpy, which, don’t get me wrong, I love it, but I don’t understand why, did I do something wrong?”

“Oh I don’t know, maybe it’s the fact that you were injured again as Superman, you don’t take it seriously when I’m worried, you make fun of me when I tell you to be more careful, and you tracked blood everywhere! You know I hate blood! Stupid blood! And your blood isn’t even normal, it’s alien blood!”

You still didn’t stop walking but now the two of you were walking in circles until you were the one chasing him now. It was a ridiculous sight, but it wasn’t an unusual occurrence at your household. 

“Wait, what do you mean by alien blood?”

“Your blood doesn’t come off easily, you know that! Remember when I was trying to scrub your blood out of the rug and I kept mixing any chemicals I could find and accidentally made chloroform?”

Clark felt silly for entertaining for even one second the terrifying thought that you thought of him differently, and his shoulders dropped. He stopped walking. And he did remember that time. Of course he did. He’d been sick with worry his muscles had locked in place for a few seconds before he finally spurred into action and got you to a safe place with fresh air and threw away everything else before it did more damage. 

He’d made you sleep over at his place for a week to make sure the smell had completely left the apartment. 

“Baby, I’m sorry, I know you hate blood, but I really wasn’t thinking straight, and I just wanted to see you, and it made everything else disappear. It’s not an excuse however, and I apologize for it. And I’m also sorry for not taking you seriously when you’re worried about me, it’s just… I’m not laughing at you, it’s just… it’s really sweet how you’re always so worried about me, and you always get so endearing when you lecture me, I just can’t help myself.”

You sniffed. “Okay, fine. I forgive you. And I’m sorry for being so mean to you today. It’s not really because of you. I’m just so irritated these days and lashing out makes me feel better, even though I shouldn’t.” 

Clark’s heart instantly broke at your small voice, and gathered you in his arms. “No need to apologize, sweetheart. I gave you a good reason to get annoyed at me, it was my fault.”

“It’s always your fault,” you mumbled, voice muffled by his chest. 

He snorted through his nose, unable to help himself. “Yes, baby. It’s always my fault, and I’m sorry.”

“Mhm, and you’re taking me out tonight.”

“Okay, baby. Anything you want.”

There was a comfortable silence before you said, “I think your towel just fell.”

Clark couldn’t look at you for the rest of the day without going as red as his cape in the face and you laughing at him every single time. 

“It was time it happened, you know? It’s just the natural course of events.”

You pretended it was fine, but Clark could tell you were embarrassed a little too and that knowledge comforted him a little. 

You were laughing at him again. Because he just took out his pocket notebook from his backpocket so he could make a note out of something he wanted to look up later. And he had a tiny pencil that came with it.

“You’re so—” you shook your head.

“An old soul?” Clark offered helpfully as he closed his notebook and slid it back in his pocket. 

“Chronically offline, I was going to say, and it’s crazy how even your words reflect how chronically offline you are.”

Clark smiled. He liked it when you teased him, because it meant you liked him, even if he had ten billion other proofs that you liked him. 

“I’m going to say words and you’re going to say the first thing that comes to mind, okay?”

“Let’s do it.”

He moved his upper body so that he could fully face you, giving you all of his attention.

“Serve.”

“Tennis.”

“Eat.”

“Food.”

“Slay.”

“Dragons.”

“Flop.”

“Flip flop.”

“Tik Tok.”

“Clock.” 

Your face got progressively red as you tried not to burst out laughing. 

“Do you know what rizz means?”

“Uh… not really, but I remember Lois telling Jimmy she didn’t understand how he got so much rizz. Is it… freckles? He has a lot of freckles.”

You broke into laughter. “Oh you’re so cute, Clark. I just want to eat you up. In a soup. Like wonton soup but it’s Clark soup.”

“Thank… you?” 

“You’re welcome, babe.”

Clark Kent was a mild-mannered, soft-spoken, respectful young man. It’s a truth universally acknowledged. Despite his stature and his size, no one had ever seen him use it in a way to cause harm rather than help. Sure, they’d seen him climb on top of a tree to save a kitten, help lift things from one floor to another, but they’d never seen him use that strength against someone else. 

And no one ever will. Not even you. Clark takes great mesures to make sure that it stays that way. He’ll do anything to protect you from anything that could upset you and if it’s truly important, he won’t tell you about it. Why would he ruin your day when he was perfectly capable of handling everything? He was happy to handle everything else while you were busy enjoying yourself, like now.

You weren’t even drunk — you hated alcohol and besides, Clark couldn’t get drunk either so it wouldn’t be fun for him to be the only one sober — but you were feeling the music, and talking to someone, looking gorgeous and in your element in your dress. You looked stunning. Not just because your dress was pretty — though it was — but because you were radiating with joy. You loved going out and having fun and dancing to a music that reverberated deep in your ribcage. 

“Hi Clark!” you screamed over the music, even if he could have easily heard you mumble it ten feet away in the middle of fireworks. “You having fun?”

“I am,” he called back.

You grabbed him by his hands and tugged him against you. “Come on, let’s dance.”

“Oh, no, you know I don’t do any of that.”

You snorted. “If it’s just because you’re embarrassed of your dance moves, I won’t judge, I promise. I’ve already seen them all anyway.”

“It’s not that…” he countered weakly. It was exactly that. His gracefulness as Superman unfortunately did not translate to when he was Clark Kent, and coupled with his height and size, he was an actual public hazard. He didn’t want to accidentally bump into someone or, God forbid, step on your feet. He knew you wouldn’t care, but he did, and it made him feel bad. 

You huffed. “Fine. I’m gonna go dance with that hot guy over there, then. He’s been trying to talk to me for like an hour but since I thought you were going to dance with me… anyway, it’s his lucky day, bye Clarkie,” you said, before sauntering over to the guy who, Clark had to admit, was attractive. 

He watched you talk with him with an unnamed feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he forced himself to take a sip of his water. Maybe he should have gone with you. 

But then you were back already, not even ten minutes later. You said you just didn’t “vibe” with him, but Clark suspected it was because you missed him.

“Let’s go home,” he whispered against the crown of your head. “I was getting tired anyway.”

“Bollocks,” you replied in a fake posh accent. “You never get tired.”

He hummed. “True. I just wanted to go home with you.”

“Then let’s go home.”

The streets of Metropolis were half-lit. It was a Friday night in the summer so everyone was still out, despite the late hour. He had your hand in his and you were skipping on the pavement, heels clicking, arm swinging. 

He loved you best when you were like this. Happy and blissful and totally unaware of the rest of the world, because you trusted him to have your back, even if you weren’t entirely aware of the many ways he’s had your back.

“I hate the subway,” you muttered, scanning your metro card against the reader. 

“Well, you refuse to fly you home, and also walk home so,” Clark replied patiently. 

“Should have taken a taxi.”

“And complain about how it’s expensive all the way home?”

“You know, Clark, I don’t think I appreciate how much you know me. Maybe it’s time we start putting some distance between the two of us.”

Clark didn’t need to reply, he merely looked down at the way you were literally pressed against him until there was not a single inch of space left between the two of you. 

“Shut up,” you grumbled. 

The subway was full despite the late hour so the both of you had to keep standing. Well, Clark had to, but you leaned against him, putting most of your weight against him. He loved it. 

It happened when there were only five stops left.

You were rambling to Clark about something even you wasn’t sure about it, when Clark noticed the man behind you who had been trying to get closer for the past five minutes.

His reaction was swift but controlled. Making sure your attention was elsewhere, namely fixating on the bright lights announcing the stations left, he grabbed the man’s wrist in a tight enough grip that it was uncomfortable, but not tight enough to break anything — yet. 

“Hey, baby, can you explain to me what Instagram again?” he asked you, voice soft and sweet. 

“Again?! You do realize it’s been—“

He tuned you out, not out of malice, just so he could focus his energy into the man who thought sticking his phone underneath your skirt was a good idea. 

The man’s eyes looked up in unwarranted anger, ready to yell at whoever dared touch him, but it quickly switched into fear once he saw the stony expression on Clark’s face — and the height and muscle he had on him. 

Clark knew he shouldn’t, but he squeezed his grip tighter until his super hearing could pick up the sound of his joints creasing against each other. 

“Are you even listening to me, Clark? This is your problem, because you say you want to understand but then you always zone out even before I even start.”

“Sorry darling, there’s just a… bug that’s been bothering me.”

“Silly, just swat it away, and then give me your full attention.”

Clark grinned, and twisted the man’s wrist until it sprained. Just enough to make him second guess himself next time he tried to pull this stunt again — to you or any other unsuspecting girl who may not have Superman by their side. The phone dropped and Clark ‘accidentally’ stepped on it.

“Perfect idea, my smart girl.” 

The rest of the ride home went without any other problem, but Clark still couldn’t for the life of him understand what Instagram was. 

You passed out in bed before Clark even took off his pants. 

He sighed at the sight, but without any real annoyance. He supposed your clothes were comfortable enough to sleep in, but he gathered your makeup wipes from the bathroom.

You mumbled something intelligible when the mattress dipped underneath his weight as he crossed a leg on the bed and sat down, and he smiled. Even unconscious, you were endearing. 

He poured some product in the cotton before he wiped your face with it gently. He did the same with another cotton wipe and focused on your eyes this time, removing the mascara and eyeliner he loved so much that made your eyes look even bigger and shinier. 

He threw everything away and then got into bed behind you. Sleep had never felt sweeter than when he slept with you in his arms. 

Things my chronically offline bsf does

“What’s this?” Clark asked, blinking at the screen you just shoved in his face as if you were afraid he was going to somehow miss the glowing bright box. He was drinking his glass of milk when you walked in the kitchen in a flurry of excitement. 

“It’s an idea for a TikTok,” you explained. It probably explained it for most people, but it only left Clark even more puzzled. He knows you explained it to him, multiple times, but he keeps forgetting. 

“What’s bee-ess-eff?”

“Best friend. It’s you. You’re my chronically offline best friend. I think the world needs to know about this.”

“Uh… sure?” He wasn’t sure why the world needed to know the things he did, but he wasn’t one to not show you support whenever he can, so he went along with it. “What sort of things do I do?”

“Take notes on an actual notepad.”

“That’s normal, why would they care?”

“You use physical maps.”

“They’re fabricated for a reason!”

You ignored him again. “You print recipes instead of following them on your laptop. Wait, let me correct that. You ask me to print you the recipes because you still haven’t figured it out.”

He blushed at that. “But it’s just so much easier that way! I like having everything I need right in front of me. I don’t want to have to scroll or zoom in or whatever else it is.”

“Mhm,” you replied, unconvinced. “I still think it makes for a really funny TikTok video, so. I’m posting it.”

“Well… okay. Sure. Maybe someone in the comment section will explain to me why it’s so funny.”

You snorted. “I love you, Clark.”

He brightened up, confusion leaving his face. This, he knew. This, he was used to. “I love you, sweetheart. Let me know when you upload it. I want to read comments with you.”

The TikTok was forgotten for a bit. Life got in the way, you got distracted by other shinier, newer, better things, and it was deadline season for Clark, and crime seemed to have multiplied overnight. 

So, it wasn’t long before he and you finally got to reading the comments. 

“Clark, you’re a famous man,” you preamble. 

He paused mid-slurp of his chicken noodles. “Huh?”

“The video blew up.”

Clark instantly looked concerned. “What? Are you okay?”

“Yes, silly. It means the video went viral.”

“It went where?”

“Ugh! Whatever. You’re famous. I got like 35k comments.”

Clark knew what going viral meant. He was just being a little jerk, and you were so used to him being actually that obtuse that the joke flew right over your head. 

But the number made him pause. “That many? Where do these people come from?”

“All around the world. Do you want me to read the comments for you or not?”

Clark placed his chopsticks down and stapled his fingers, as if he was getting ready for an important meeting. “Let’s hear it.”

You cleared your throat, readying yourself to start reading some sort of royal decree. “Him having the actual notepad from old iPhone noteapp is taking me out.”

Clark was frowning, not upset, just trying to understand. “Okay, but where is my notepad taking them out?”

“Do you actually want to know or do you prefer living in bliss?”

“Uh… is it bad?”

“No, I just don’t know if you want to preserve your ignorance.”

“Oh. Explain this one. I’m intrigued.”

You did, and he cracked a smile when he finally got it. You kept reading him some comments, explaining them when needed. 

“Someone said, this is the only person who would probably survive a nuclear fallout.”

You snorted at that one, knowing that the commenter couldn’t possibly realize just how close to the truth they were. 

“How did they know?”

“It’s a figure of speech, honey.”

“Oh. Okay, next one.”

“I am lowkey jealous of him. I bet he is happy and healthy and has clear skin.”

“Could you reply to them?”

“Yeah. What do you want to say?”

“Tell them that if they have questions about how I live, they can ask me. Or I guess, direct message you.”

“If I do that, everyone will flood my DMs but fine. The things I do for you… okay, done. Next. Bet he pays all his bills by check too with a crying emoji.”

Clark frowned. “Why are they sad? Did I make them sad?”

“A crying emoji is basically laughter, don’t worry.”

“Weird. Next.”

“This guy’s got the world’s cleanest internet footprint. Even rainbolt wouldn’t be able to find him.”

“Who’s rainbolt?”

“A dude who’s really good at finding locations in the world with the tiniest picture.”

“Oh.”

Sometime between the first comment and the last one, you’d ended up on his lap, and he’d leaned back against his chair to give you more space. 

“What is this one?”

“I hope he knows he’s iconic,” you read out loud. 

“Oh. That’s really sweet. I am iconic, thank you. But so are you.”

You smiled, pleased before bursting into laughter. “Oh you’re gonna hate this.”

“Uh oh. Lay it on me.”

“Chronically offline but chronically FINE,” you said, barely able to read it with a straight face. “I should have known people were going to lose their mind over you.”

“I’m fine? As in, nice to look at?”

“Yes, honey. They’re saying you’re hot.”

“Oh. How many of them?”

“That comment alone got fifty thousand likes.”

“Gosh. The Internet is a scary place.”

You kept reading comments, giggling to yourself. 

He can write me a letter any time. 

I would learn how to use a rotary phone for him. 

I’m getting a pigeon just so he can start sending me letters. 

“Unlucky for them, you’re all mine.”

Clark smiled, pleased and smug. That’s right. He was yours. 

You started including him more in your TikToks, partly because people demanded more of him, but mostly because you enjoyed doing things with him. 

You posted another one: 

things my bsf does for me because he’s just built like that

Ever since they met, Clark had just felt more inclined to do things for you. He was raised that way, yeah, but it was more than that. 

Clark didn’t think there was any door he’d let you open when he was around. Paying for you had always been second nature to him, just like kissing your forehead whenever he was happy. Holding your hands started out because you wanted to hold his hand, but he kept the habit. Now he couldn’t go anywhere with you without holding your hand. 

If anyone asked why, he wasn’t sure he would be able to explain why. He just felt like it. Just like walking on the side of the road, or gently guiding you with a hand to the small of your back. 

He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary in the things you picked, but somehow the internet had a lot of things to say about it. Surprisingly, they were all nice. 

May this kind of friendship kidnap me (What?!)

Is someone going to tell them? (Tell them what?)

I don’t think they’re aware they’re dating. (Clark would like to believe that he would know whether he was dating someone or not.)

THEY SLEEP TOGETHER?!? (Yeah? How else would they cuddle then?)

I feel so bad for their partners. (Clark and you haven’t dated anyone ever, so the worry was appreciated but unwarranted.) 

I’m struggling to find a good bf because girls like her are hoarding the good men (What?)

Girl you’re living the life. Where can I find me a man like that? (In corn fields.)

THAT SHOULD BE ME… holding your hand (Oh! Clark recognizes that song.) 

Clark didn’t say anything as you wedged your head between his arm and forearm, using it as a sort of prop, only watched in confusion as you took a picture of it using the reflection on the train’s windows. 

“It’s for my collection,” you helpfully added. 

Your collection of pictures of the two of you. Picture of your hand against his, another one of you flexing your arm next to his relaxed biceps, his hand wrapped around your waist. He never really understood why, but he didn’t need to understand it to feel a sort of understated satisfaction and pride at the sight of the two of you together, your difference in size so pronounced. When asked about it, you merely said ‘Tumblr’s gonna go crazy’ as if it explained everything.

Clark didn’t know who Tumblr was, but he felt bad for them. 

But like anything else that you did or said, Clark didn’t need to understand it to support it. 

During lunch break, Clark was swamped by Lois and Jimmy who stood over his desk like two very nosy sentinels.

“Did you see your best friend’s new post?”

Clark clicked out of a tab before peering up at his two other best friends through his thick glasses. “Uh… she didn’t show me anything, so I wasn’t aware she uploaded something new. Why? Did she?”

“Oh no,” Lois said, way too normally. “We, uh, we were just wondering if she was going to post something soon.”

“Yeah, we became huge fans. We can’t get enough of her posts,” Jimmy supplied. 

Clark beamed. “Oh, that’s really sweet. She’s going to be so happy hearing that. I’ll definitely let you guys know if she ever wants to post something new on the TikTok.”

“Cool, cool,” Jimmy said in his usual shifty way.

“Wanna go out for lunch with us?” Lois asked.

“Uh… sure,” Clark replied with a nod. You were busy that day, so it wasn’t like he had anything planned with you.

Clark wasn’t much of a talker. Around his loved ones, he preferred listening. He couldn’t get enough of it.

Jimmy was talking about his latest date with Eve, a really sweet girl who kind of reminded Clark of you, because she was an influencer too. 

Lois talked about her latest investigation against Luthorcorp. You could take her out of the office but you couldn’t take the journalism out of Lois. It’s how Lois and him had become friends when Clark first joined the Daily Planet. 

“How are things with her?” she asked once the conversation trailed off and Clark smiled, always happy to talk about you.

“Good, we’re actually going to the movies tonight. I can’t wait.”

Lois slurped loudly on her Oreo milkshake. 

“The new horror movie?” Jimmy asked. “Eve and I went to see it last week. It was really good but I think Eve forgot she had her own seat.” He rolled his eyes. 

“Eve deserves so much better,” Lois sighed longingly. 

“Hey! You said you weren’t gonna say stuff like that to me!”

Lois shrugged. “I lied.”

Clark watched them bicker happily. Weirdly enough, it reminded him of his own parents bickering together. 

Clark raised a brow at your look. “Lazy night tonight?”

You were dressed in Clark’s old hoodie that still hung loosely on you and a pair of sweatpants (not his, unfortunately), and your hair was tied haphazardly into a bun. “Mhm,” you grunted. “I looked at my closet and it looked back at me and then I stared back and I realized I was way too lazy tonight to dress up properly. So, you get this.”

“Well, not that you asked, but I still think you’re gorgeous like this. Actually, I think I like you better like this, wearing my shirt.”

“Possessive much, huh?”

Clark rubbed the back of his hand with a sheepish smile. “Ah, well…”

Clark liked going to the cinema with you. He liked buying you overpriced snacks just because you loved them, and he loved it when you inevitably get tired mid-showing and lay your head against his shoulder. Or when you grow bored with the movie and start playing with his hand instead, sending shivers down his spine when you caress the back of his hand with a feather-light touch. 

“This movie is so lame,” you grumbled, hand digging into Clark’s popcorn.

Most of all, he just loved you. Even when you were being a harsh critic.

Clark’s eyes crinkled as he laughed. “It’s a children’s movie, sweetheart. What did you expect?” he whispered back. 

“Even kids deserve quality! They need to watch good movies at the earliest so that they learn to appreciate good cinema.”

Clark snorted. He usually tried not to be so noisy in the cinema but the room was filled with approximately twenty children who were all screaming or crying or making some sort of noise. His snort flew under the radar. 

“Have you always been this passionate about children movie?”

“I was a child once too, Clark. This is very important to me.”

Clark barely resisted the urge to grab your hand, buttery and salty, and press a kiss to it. 

Clark cannot exist without you, but Clark thinks that you could exist without him, you just choose not to. 

“Clark,” you said one day, phone in one hand and Clark’s arm in the other. “My favorite bubble tea shop is offering free drinks for couples on Valentine’s day. We have to go.”

Clark knew that bubble tea was your favorite, so it was easy to agree. “I’m not sure they count best friends as couples, though.”

“Oh Clark, you dummy. We’re going to go there as a couple. I got us matching outfits. We’re going to be the cutest couple ever.”

Clark heard matching outfits and his heart hammered inside his chest. He was no stranger to matching outfits. It was you, after all, who introduced them to him. 

It had started out small: friendship bracelets, then necklaces, then clay rings they made together. 

Then one day you’d come across matching beanies and bought them on an impulse, because they made you think of him. Clark had really loved the beanie. His was red and blue, because of course it was. Yours had been pink and black. 

From then on, there were no more limits to what you would consider matching. You’d even made him exchange sim cards holders so that yours became black and his pink. 

A full matching outfit had always been the next natural course of action. 

“Wouldn’t that be… lying?” he said, smiling sheepishly. As much as he loved the idea of wearing matching outfits with you and helping you get free boba, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to help you commit fraud. 

“Clark, think about it. We regularly go on date together. Your toothbrush is next to mine in my bathroom. We celebrate anniversaries. We sleep in the same bed. These are all things couples do.”

“Yeah? But we’re not a couple.”

“They don’t have to know that! We’ll just let the facts speak for themselves.”

“Well…” 

Clark Kent was about to commit fraud in the name of love friendship.

You got your free drinks because nothing could stand in the way between you and your favorite drinks with pearl shaped tapioca inside. 

“Hey, Kat,” you said, greeting the cashier by name as if you guys were long lost friends. “Can you help me out?”

Kat had a confused smile, but she also looked intrigued. “Sure?”

You hook a thumb towards Clark. “He’s been sleeping in my bed for close to a year now, and he makes me breakfast every day, but he refuses to believe we’re dating.”

Clark’s entire face went beet red with sheer embarrassment. “H-Hey!”

Your grin could put to shame the Cheshire cat’s smile.

Kat snickered. “Oh boy, he’s got it bad, isn’t he?”

You showed her your matching clay rings. “Look at this. We made them together ten years ago. And now because he refuses to admit we’re together, I won’t be able to get my free drink.”

Kat’s eyes went big, before looking at Clark like he was really dumb. “Is he blind?” she asked you while looking at him.

“Well, they do say that love makes you blind.”

Oh you were good, and you were such a menace, and Clark wasn’t sure his face was ever going to be able to go back to a normal shade after this.

“Was this really necessary?”

“No, not really,” you admitted, taking a large sip from your straw. Your drink was pink, because of course it was. It’s Valentine’s day, after all. “But it was fun. And I technically didn’t say lie.”

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he whimpered.

“You love me.”

“I do. Unfortunately for me.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing, sweetheart. Enjoy your drinks. They’re tainted with the taste of my mortification.”

“Yummy. Extra delicious.”

Contrary to popular belief, Clark Kent was a menace too. He just hid it really well, and only let it show around you.

It was stupid, really. He came across a joke store and he went inside for some reason. He thought he would find something silly or cute for you. Maybe matching disguises. 

But then he found a disturbingly realistic cockroach and before he knew it, he was out of the store with a bag and three dollars missing from his wallet. 

He already felt so guilty, but also very excited. 

Clark was pretty humans all over the globe, metahuman or not, had been able to hear your scream when you noticed the cockroach right next to your eyes.

“Clark!” 

Your first scream was one of fear.

Another thing about Clark Kent was that he had a terrible poker face. It’s why you loved playing poker against him.

But it also meant that he was the worst at playing pranks, because guilt always showed on his face. Ergo, you knew instantly.

“Clark!”

Your second one was of anger and Clark smiled, ducking his head to the side. “Good morning?”

“Oh Clark, I hate you.” 

But Clark didn’t need his enhanced vision to see the way your lips quirked up as you struggled to not smile. 

“Are you free Friday night?” you asked him, peeking your head inside the bathroom where Clark was showering. Thankfully he was only showering and not doing anything else. 

“Uh, sweetheart, you know I’m always free Friday nights,” he said, wiping a hand over his face to see you better. 

You snorted. “Oh yeah. Forgot you were such a nerd. Oh well, consider yourself not free anymore. You know, you look really cute with your hair pushed back.”

He flushed.

“You blush down there too. Interesting.” 

You closed the door behind you and he let his forehead bump against the wall with a dull thud. Oh, he was in so much trouble. 

If Clark Kent stopped being dishonest with himself, he would finally let himself admit that he liked you more than normal friends, and more than their own brand of friendship.

His feelings for you ran as deep as the ocean, as old as the birth of his civilization. From the day he thought you were a scarecrow, to his first kiss. His first kiss was with you, of course. It was your first too. You said you wanted to know what the fuss was all about. 

Fireworks had erupted the moment your lips touched his, and never stopped once whenever he saw you. 

Clark Kent was really in love. With his first kiss, his first friend, his first love, you.

And it wasn’t as scary as people made it out to be, honestly. Nothing was scary when you were there. 

When he first started getting his powers, it was scary but you were there. You made it not scary. 

When Pa Kent had a health scare, it was really scary, but you were there. You made it not so scary. 

Point was, Clark wasn’t afraid of the depth of his feelings for you, because he had blind trust in you. (And something told him that you felt the same.) 

Even if you dragged him to random parties on a random Friday after work. It felt weird to spend eight hours cooped up behind his laptop and then find himself in a nightclub that same night, wearing clothes that were way too fitted. 

“I need you to wear something good,” you told him before dragging him into an impromptu shopping spree. It was planned for you, but it was a surprise for him. Really, who was he to tell you no? 

Your whistling and happiness were worth wearing something out of his zone of comfort. 

“You never leave your drink unattended, okay?” you warned him seriously. 

Clark only nodded sagely, even though he was fighting the stupid grin that was threatening to break on his face. It was cute how you worried for him, even though drugs literally had no effect on him. 

“No drinks left unattended, got it. And I don’t talk to strangers. Unless they’re cute.”

“Don’t sass me, young man. I’m doing this for you.”

His smile turned softer. “I know. Thank you, sweetheart.”

It was a regular nightclub, like any other. You wanted to taste their drinks, take pictures, have fun. Clark was used to these nights. You were there for the fun, he was there for you. 

He didn’t usually dance but there was something different about tonight. He remembered the way he felt when you went to dance with someone else, and he didn’t want to make the same mistake twice. 

He waited until you finished your drink to ask, “Can I have this dance?”

You looked at him with eyes wide like saucers. “Oh em gee!” you shrieked. “I thought you would never ask!”

If he’d known how happy it would make you, he wouldn’t have kept refusing you. 

He wasn’t really used to dancing, and the only thing that came to mind when he thought of dancing was slow dancing. So that’s what he had in mind when he asked you. But then you finished his glass in one go and pressed yourself to him until there was no more space left, and the rest of the world disappeared.

He could feel everything. The press of the swell of your breasts against his chest, your hands gliding along his waist, the intoxicating smell of your lavender perfume.

Oh yes. This was a nightclub. This was how people danced. He swallowed thickly. Maybe he chose the wrong time to ask for a dance. 

Your hands are now caressing your neck, up to your hair, your head turned to the side. You were one with the song, and Clark was frozen in place, hands hovering in the air, suddenly unsure whether he was allowed to touch you.

“Aw, Clarkie, getting shy on me now?” you teased him when you noticed him unmoving. You grabbed his hands and placed them on each side of your waist. “Just follow the music. Sway from one side to the other.”

He tried, but God did he feel stiff and watching you in your element didn’t help. The friction of your dancing body against him was doing something to his nerves.

“Look at how the man are dancing with the girls,” you whispered. “Try doing the same.”

He looked, and immediately averted his eyes. “I can’t do that,” he whispered in panic. “It’s… borderline graphic!”

You laughed. “Oh Clark. You’re adorable. I’m gonna grind on you,” you said with that same look on your face that said you were up to no good, and that Clark couldn’t even dream of surviving you.

“Please don’t,” he whimpered in a tiny voice. “At least not here, where everyone can see.”

You paused at that, your teasing smile frozen in place, and Clark watched with barely muted satisfaction at how he’d so easily rendered you speechless. 

But then your eyes turned mischievous, and Clark realized his mistake. “I like the sound of that.”

He groaned, throwing his head back. You used that moment of weakness to press your lips along the lines of his neck. Not a kiss, not a bite. Just the soft press of your lips against his neck.

And then you screamed when your favorite song came on, and it was like that moment never even happened. 

“This is my song!” you squealed excitedly. 

You were so drunk.

Clark Kent didn’t mind taking care of you when drunk. He would like to say it was because he always wants to take care of you, but the truth was a little more selfish than that. 

Sure, drunk you was a menace, but when you got tired and sleepy and drunk, you were always so sweet. So clingy, so desperately needy and Clark absolutely loved to take care of you in that state. You were already clingy on a normal day, but drunk and sleepy was a whole other level. If he didn’t have his Superman strength, he would never be able to extricate you from his body. You turned into an oversized, drunk, needy koala. Clark leaving for just one minute to bring you water was enough to send you into an inconsolable state, so he learned to improvise. Again, he was thankful for his superstrength allowing him to lift you with one arm while he took care of things. 

Tonight was no different. By the time you both reached your apartment, you were already dozing off to sleep but fighting it, your entire chest wrapped around Clark’s arm. 

“Clark, you’re staying the night, right?” you asked, voice muffled and words slurred. 

“Yes,” he replied, fighting hard a smile, turning his own copy of your keys in the lock. 

“And you’re staying with me, right?”

“Yes,” he replied. This time he couldn’t help the smile. He helped you walk inside.

Your bottom lip quivered, tears already forming in your eyes. You let go of him. “You hate me!” 

Clark’s eyes went wide. “What? Where the heck did that come from? I just said I was staying with you.”

“Yes, but you sounded like you hated me when you said it,” you replied, voice already watery. 

“Gosh no, what? I could never love you. I love you. Always have, always will.”

“So why did you stop calling me petnames? You hate me!”

You broke into tears in the middle of your living room and for the first time since ever, Clark felt utterly helpless. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d stopped. 

“Oh baby, is this what it’s about?” he cooed, and his heart broke when you nodded pitifully. “Come here sweetheart.”

He opened his arms and you launched yourself into them. He closed his hold around you, his arms wide enough so he could hide all of you, and protect you. Your shoulders shook with the strength of your sob, and once again he found himself wondering how such a tiny little thing could have so much feelings inside of her. 

“I love you baby, I could never hate you. Forgive me?”

“Okay,” you said, sniffing. A second later, he felt you wipe your snotty nose against the really nice shirt you got him earlier. He suppressed a small laugh. “I love you too. Even if you’re mean sometimes.” A pause. “Okay, you’re never mean. But still.”

“Thank you sweetheart.”

He kissed the crown of your head and you didn’t move for so long he thought you’d fallen asleep, but your heartbeat was still strong and rapid. 

“Let’s get ready for bed, okay?”

“Okay.” But you still didn’t move.

No matter, Clark thought. He had superstrength for a reason. He easily lifted you with one arm, and his heart swelled inside his chest at your giggle. You were such a strange girl. 

“Open up,” he said with a tap of his finger on your chin after he placed you on top of the bathroom counter, standing between your open legs, and pouring toothpaste on your toothbrush.

“Aaaah.”

“Good girl,” he praised, and started brushing your front teeth in gentle circular motions. 

You had your right index finger hooked inside his pants. You always needed to feel him around, even when he was literally brushing your teeth. 

Your mascara had run across your cheeks — unable to support a drunken night of dancing and singing and crying; your eyes were slightly red and your undereyes were swollen, and yet you were still the prettiest sight he’d ever laid eyes upon. Your lipstick was smeared across your lips, and Clark wanted to run his thumb across so badly, just to smear it even more.

You were patient while he meticulously brushed your teeth because you’d gotten used to him brushing them for two minutes exactly as prescribed by dentists. He was thorough in his cleaning, making sure you were properly clean before he makes you gargle and then spit in the sink. He didn’t give you water to rinse it off because he’d seen that you shouldn’t do that. 

Then, with movements honed with years of practice, he grabbed your cotton pads and miscellar water from your skin care product self.

“Can you close your eyes for me, sweetheart?”

The effect was instant. You pouted. “But I wanna see you.”

“I’ll be quick, I promise.”

“Okay.” 

You closed your eyes and he started with them, gently wiping your makeup with the cotton pad. “Almost done,” he whispered. Your fingers tugged at his pants. 

Then, it was your lips’ turn, and Clark imagined it was his thumb wiping them.

“Yucky. Doesn’t taste so good,” you mumbled.

He laughed. “Oh baby, you shouldn’t taste it.”

You pouted again. 

He used a fourth pad for your entire face, just to remove dirt and threw everything in the bin. 

You grinned at him, all sleepy and mellowed out and looking like the angel you were. You were still in your outside clothes — Clark hadn’t gotten to that — and the juxtaposition of your sweet and innocent smile and your clothing was endearing. You could do both so well, and he loved them both a lot, but he always preferred the side of you that felt more like his, the one with no pretenses, no walls put up. Just you and your unfiltered love. 

“All cleaned up, baby. Now we just need to get you into some comfortable clothes and we can go to sleep.”

You looked proud of yourself, even if all you’d done was lean sleepily against his chest and made his job a lot harder than it should. 

Neither of you blushed when he helped you take off your clothes. You were drunk and sleepy, and Clark would never take advantage of you in this state. His eyes didn’t look anywhere he wasn’t supposed to, and his movements were clinical. His hands didn’t linger, didn’t stray.

He loved you and that meant he would never hurt you. 

Then, finally, when you were both dressed and in bed, he gathered you in his arms and listened to your heartbeat until it slowed down. It never took too long, when he held you and you were drunk. You were always out like a light when he cuddled you close to his chest. 

Clark got the idea the next day, when you were under the showers and he saw your phone light up with a notification while he was still in bed. It was a notification from TikTok — he recognized that logo. 

He grabbed his own phone and downloaded the app himself, and struggled for close to thirty minutes just to create an account. Most of that time was spent figuring out a username (in the end he kept the default one TikTok gave every user). 

Then you came out of the shower and Clark forgot about it.

“Wanna go grab brunch?” you asked him, still dripping on the floor, towel around you.

“Sure. Bubby’s?”

“God yes.”

Bubby’s was your go-to restaurant whenever you were hangover — or just particularly hungry.

Clark didn’t waste a second and stood up from his bed, his phone completely forgotten. 

It was only a month later, when he received a notification from the app (that confused him for a good ten seconds until he remembered how he’d downloaded the app) inviting him to join a random person’s LIVE, that he remembered the really stupid idea he had.

He spent one hour learning how to use TikTok and another one trying to make a video. He kept accidentally deleting everything with his stupidly big thumbs and he tried five times before he finally finished.

It was nothing big — it wasn’t even a video. Just a static picture and some text, but he did it himself. He even managed to change the color of the words and add a gif (because he thought that was really cute and like something you would love).

He felt silly for how proud of himself he felt. He just hoped he didn’t do anything wrong, and then pressed on the post button. 

He wasn’t quite sure what hashtags were or even if they were needed, but he added one just in case — the first one that popped up. 

And then he deleted the app, promptly forgetting about it and going back to his usual life. It was either the stupidest idea he’d ever had, or the greatest one. In any case, he was already onto the next thing. Namely, taking you out to dinner in a near future. 

  ───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

You woke up to your phone absolutely blowing up. Clark was at work and had been for a few hours already.

It was strange, you thought as you looked at the hundreds of notifications showing up on your lockscreen. You hadn’t posted anything on there in so long, and definitely nothing about Clark (apparently your videos about him always did crazy well). 

Oh no, you thought to yourself. Were you getting cancelled?

Half of your notifications were mentions to a random video from an account with no name and no picture, and only one post.

IS THIS THE BSF?!?!

I KNEW IT!!!!

omg i ship them so bad

Is this @pinkbubbles’s bsf?!?! The girl in the picture looks so much like her

@pinkbubbles GIRL LOOK

LMAO i literally just saw the other pov of this, tiktok knows what its doing 

You clicked on the video. It was silent. It was just a picture, one that you recognized. It was you. A few years ago, when you’d traveled to the beach with Clark and he invited you to diner that night. He’d taken a picture of you, and he wanted to be subtle so your entire face didn’t show. Just your smile and your arms. 

The caption read: she doesn’t know i am so in love with her. 

This had to be Clark. The username and picture matched, and only him had access to that picture.

You burst out laughing when your read the caption and it was just ‘i hope she loves me back #charlidamelio’. But your heart was still hammering inside your ribcage like a crazed horse who wanted to break free.

Clark was in love with you. And he confessed through TikTok. Of all the places. It was so him and so unlike him at the same time, that you didn’t know whether you should laugh or cry or burst inside his office. 

Honestly, the crazier thing was that you had posted something exactly like it a few months ago. It was just a video of Clark, not showing his face, and the caption ‘he doesn’t know i am in love with him’. The only difference was that you’d used an actual song, and you didn’t use any hashtags. It wasn’t meant to go viral. It was just… a letter inside a bottle thrown to the sea. A way not to explode while holding onto what felt like your biggest secret. 

And Clark had the same idea, it seemed. A few months later, but still. You wondered when was it—what had pushed him to publish something like that. More importantly, how he’d even been able to do this, when Instagram as a concept itself broke him.

Oh God. He was in love with you, and his confession had gone viral. It was such a strange thing to say. Clark, going viral. Clark who only had an iPhone so that he could use iMessage with you and match lockscreens and sim card holders. Clark who thought TikTok was a song and not an app.

You think you’re going crazy. Clark Kent was going to be the death of you. 

He was acting like nothing was wrong when you met up with him after work. He had that dopey smile on his face, the one that meant that nothing was wrong and that the world was a beautiful and perfect place to be. He usually had a terrible poker face — just that one time he bought a fake cockroach to scare you and the guilt was written all over his face like face paint for children. One look at him and you realized that the monstrosity you woke up next to was fake, and none other than Clark’s latest childish stunt. 

Now 

So how did the man who couldn’t even keep a surprise secret without blubbering and stuttering over his words look so serene? As if he didn’t just break the Internet and turn upside down your heart in the same night. 

“Hey, baby,” he said, head tilted to the side like a confused little puppy who doesn’t understand why his owner wasn’t acting like normal? “How was your day?”

“Uh… um… it was okay. Thanks! How are yours?” 

He raised an eyebrow with a teasing tilt of his lips. “How are mine? Mine what?”

You’d meant to ask how his day was, but at the same time how he was, and your tongue twisted. Oh God. He was usually the awkward one out of the two of you. Not you. Never you. You didn’t even feel that awkward when you’d hugged him once and he felt your stupidly perk and hard nipples. Admittedly, that was because Clark had done something worse just the day before and by comparison nothing you could ever do could ever be worse. 

“I hate you,” you grumbled, slamming a weak fist against his chest. 

Why did it have to be you who found out? What even were you supposed to be doing with information like this? Kiss him? Offer him a ring?

Clark didn’t look particularly offended by that. His hand merely found its place on top of yours and squeezed. “Come on, let’s go. Where are you taking me tonight?”

Your mind blanked. “Uh. Home?”

“Then let’s go,” he replied, his hand finding its natural position at the back of your neck, warm and present and guiding without being oppressive. He’d done that particular gesture a thousand times and you’d never particularly reacted. But tonight, it was different. Tonight, you were being held by the neck with the knowledge that he loved you. That he was in love with you as well, and that maybe had always been. 

Well, if you were being honest with yourself, you would realize that this wasn’t supposed to be surprising. Clark was Clark and you were you, and the pair of you had always been like this — and your weird heteroerotic friendship had always been this way probably because you were both desperately and pathetically in love with each other. 

But panicking about required love was more dramatic.

“Clark.”

“That’s my name, yes.”

“Smartass.”

He smiled in reply. 

He was being so weirdly normal. As if he hadn’t posted his confession for possibly millions to see last night. 

What if that wasn’t even him? What if someone hacked his phone and got his pictures of her? Poor Clark was definitely the kind of person who would fall for a phishing scam. There was a 33% chance of him actually being hacked. This was serious. You had to talk to him about it. 

But… not now. 

Now, you were going home with your best friend of almost thirty years and you were going to make him make dinner and you’re going to light candles and then you’re going to make him take pictures of you. 

It was a regular night for the two of you. Except for the glaringly obvious and impossibly unavoidable fact that made every moment, every look, every touch a thousand times more… charged. More intimate. More… 

You were running out of adjectives. 

“This pasta is wonderful,” you told him and appreciated the way his ears still turned pink every time you praised his cooking. 

“Ah, well, thank you, sweetheart. I wanted to make them from scratch but I didn’t have time.”

“Another time,” you replied. His homemade pasta was to die for, and he always made the best shapes ever. (One time you stole dough from him and made a penis shaped pasta. He couldn’t look you in the eyes without bursting into laughter for the rest of the evening.)

“Another time,” he confirmed. 

Silence fell. The flames were still flickering, unbothered and swaying to the dancing of the air. It cast a particularly romantic light to the whole scene. Which was fitting, considering the two of you were apparently in love with each other, and probably have been for the past two decades.

Oh no. Have you guys wasted two decades for nothing when you could have been happily dating and in love? Perhaps you’d have even been married by now. Yeah, definitely married by now. 

“Clark.”

His fork stilled mid-twirl and looked up to you, his entire attention riveted on you. 

“Could you pass me the salt?”

His sauce was perfectly seasoned but it wasn’t your fault you chickened out right at the last minute. 

“Sure thing,” he replied, standing without a complaint and getting it from the kitchen. 

You were going to talk about the marriage thing another date. Well, you figured you should talk about the confession thing first. 

You can do this. 

You should also do something about those really nosy followers of yours who demanded an update quite literally every hour. 

You really missed life back when you only had one follower — Clark’s account before he forgot the password and gave up on having an online presence. 

You couldn’t post a single story of a cute cat you saw without getting swarmed with messages and comments, and not one of them was about the cute feline. 

“Hey Clark, look at this cute cat I saw earlier.” 

When in doubt (read: lacking attention), always turn to Clark. 

“Oh look at that little fella,” he replied, genuinely excited to see him. You could always trust him to say the right thing. “Was he on your way to work?”

“Uh-huh,” you replied. “He was sooo cute. Almost adopted him.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Oh, yeah. He was perfect. 

“Well we hadn’t talked beforehand about bringing a child into this life so I didn’t want to presume.”

“Next time, then.”

“Next time,” you confirmed. 

As easy as that. He’d agreed to adopt a child, so the marriage talk would be easier than anticipated. 

Naturally, you found yourselves at a rescue center, trying to find the perfect fit for them. Clark wanted a dog, you wanted a cat, so you compromised and got a really old cat who’d been waiting for a forever home for fifteen years. 

Her name was Bean (you let Clark pick) and she was both the loveliest and saddest creature you both had ever seen. Her favorite spot to sleep was between the two of you, and she got sad whenever Clark wasn’t staying over the night, so Clark officially moved in. For Bean, of course. 

Clark was, much to your dismay, her favorite, but you understood her. Clark was your favorite as well. 

“You know,” Clark said one day while Bean was busy purring up a storm on top of his large chest (oh how you were jealous), “she really reminds me of you. She always meows outside the bathroom door whenever I take a shower, and she recently learnt how to open the door. Just to stare at me.”

You snorted. “That does sound like something I would do.”

Clark scratched behind Bean’s ears subconsciously. “It’s not just that. It’s… well, she’s quite clingy.”

“I am not clingy,” you refuted automatically, but it was more of a knee-jerk reaction than anything. 

Bean meowed in displeasure too. 

“Sweetheart, you’re currently using my arm as a body pillow.”

“Doesn’t mean anything.” Bean meowed. “See? She agrees. We aren’t clingy.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He scratched the top of your head, and you think he meant to scratch Bean’s head, not yours, but you found that you absolutely didn’t mind. 

“Meow,” you said, just to really sell it in case he suspected something. 

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Clark was pleasantly surprised when Lois told him that she wanted to see you again. Jimmy, of course, heard it and was promptly standing guard at Clark’s desk. 

“I want to see her too,” he said. As always, he was expertly (read: awkwardly) avoiding the looks a coworker had been giving him for the past three days. 

“Uh…” he pushed his glasses up his nose. “Sure. She would love that. And I would love that too.”

“It’s weird, we thought you would be more ecstatic than this,” Jimmy said. 

“You guys talk about me behind my back?”

“Duh,” Lois replied. “What else are we supposed to do when you randomly and suspiciously disappear at random intervals during a work day?”

He blushed. “Fair enough. But why did you think I would be happier than this?”

Lois and Jimmy shared a look. “How can he be so big yet so dense?” Lois asked. 

“Hey!”

“Honestly, I just want to know what went through his brain at that moment,” Jimmy said, like he was discussing the weather. “Was he held at gun point? Did his phone become conscious on its own? How did he even know how to use the app?”

“I couldn’t have asked better questions myself,” Lois said, nodding wisely as she took a sip from her monstrous drink. “Clark, would you be up for an interview later?”

Clark frowned. “What… what is going on?”

They shared a look. 

“I don’t think he knows that we know.” 

“Or that the entire Internet knows,” Lois added. 

“Or that she knows,” Jimmy appended. 

“He thinks he’s sleek with it,” Lois commented. 

“Stop talking like creepy twins!” he shrieked. His dignity was never left intact around those two. “What is going on? No, I don’t wanna know. I need to take a break.”

“Should we tell him?”

“Yes. I mean, they adopted a cat together. I don’t think he knows the implications of it.”

“What does Bean have anything to do with any of this?”

“Bean is your child. You’re the father, your best friend is the mother. You guys have moved in together, you co-parent a child, and you’re both in love.”

He finally blushed. “No we’re not.”

“Yes, you are. You confessed to her and she confessed to you.”

“Wait… when did she confess?”

“Oh great heavens.”

Taking an impromptu coffee break, they dragged Clark to the break room where they sat him down (he was going to need it) and showed him his video on Jimmy’s phone and her video on Lois’ phone. 

“Who are you and what have you done with our Clark Kent?” 

“The Clark I know would have never confessed like this. Granted, it’s cute, but it’s not something Clark would do.”

“He can barely use the selfie mode on his phone!”

Clark Kent really felt like a hostage being interrogated, with the two of them looming over him like menacing journalists who wanted to get to the bottom of this. The only thing missing was the table and a threatening lamp projected right in his face, blinding him. He could very well see Lois with a foot up on her chair, elbow on her knee as she stared him down so menacingly he had half a mind to confess to things he didn’t even do, just to make her stop. 

 His face was impossibly red, and the only thing he was thinking about wasn’t about how millions of people saw his video, but that you must have seen it, because everyone was tagging you in the comments, and this was definitely not the way he expected to confess to you. 

Beneath it all though, his chest was rumbling with pleasure at the confirmation — finally — that you felt the same. Knowing it was different from being clearly told. 

“Stop grinning like an idiot, this is making me wanna puke.”

“Gross. Maybe we shouldn’t have shown him this. His face is making a very disturbing and off putting expression.”

“I’m just happy and mortified! Can’t I be happy and mortified in peace?” Clark whined. 

“No,” came their reply in unison. 

“Guys, something came up. I have to go. Tell Perry I’ll work from home.”

He doesn’t wait a second for their answer. Quite frankly, he didn’t care much at the moment. He had a girl waiting for him at home to kiss her senseless.  

masterlist ᯓ★ directory ᯓ★ come say hi

[alicefromwonderlands]

i’m crying because this was so perfect and just ughhh loved this to my core

[andrasdreamss]

you have some ink

pairing: remus lupin x fem!reader genre: fluff, slow-burn, academia tension, mutual pining, soft nerd love word count: idk lol warnings:dangerously soft Remus, oblivious idiots, casual flirting, one singular (1) moment of cardiac arrest-level hand contact

the thing about tutoring remus lupin is that it is absolutely, entirely, and in every measurable way, a mistake.

because remus lupin is not some flustered, bookish boy who blushes every time you correct his arithmancy.

no.

remus lupin is the worst.

because he leans too close. because he smiles every time you sigh in frustration. because he taps his quill against his lips when he’s thinking, and sometimes he mutters your name under his breath while reading through footnotes.

and worst of all?

he’s not even bad at school.

you’re convinced he agreed to these “study sessions” just to torture you.

case in point: today.

you’re in the far corner of the library, both of you huddled over your advanced magical theory textbook, your knees brushing under the table and his arm resting far too casually against the back of your chair.

“you’re doing that thing again,” you mumble without looking up.

“what thing?” he says, leaning in closer. (the audacity.)

“that thing where you pretend to need help with a chapter you clearly already read.”

remus smiles, soft and crooked. “maybe i just like hearing you explain things.”

you blink.

then, stupidly, you drop your quill.

it clatters to the floor with the kind of clack that makes madam pince hiss from twenty feet away.

you mutter a curse under your breath and duck to retrieve it. when you sit back up, remus is watching you with that half-scholarly, half-smug look that makes your face burn every single time.

“you have ink on your face,” he says.

you freeze.

“oh,” you say dumbly, wiping at your cheek with the back of your sleeve. “where?”

“no—” his fingers catch your wrist. “here. let me.”

and then he does it.

he brushes your cheek with his thumb. soft. thoughtful.

you forget how to breathe.

you literally forget how to breathe.

his eyes are fixed on yours, and you swear, for a second, the library goes completely silent.

he doesn’t move.

neither do you.

and then, in the smallest voice you’ve ever had, you say: “remus?”

he hums, low in his throat, still not looking away.

“there’s… still ink.”

you’re not sure why you say it. maybe to break the moment. maybe because if he keeps looking at you like that, you might do something really stupid like kiss him.

and to your eternal horror, he leans in again.

his thumb touches your skin.

you think your soul might leave your body.

“there,” he murmurs. “got it.”

you’re blinking at him, fully short-circuited. there’s a scribble of ancient runes on the page in front of you that might as well be hieroglyphics now. your brain is made of static.

remus sits back, his smile small—like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

which is rude. and possibly illegal.

“you alright?” he asks, as if you haven’t just suffered a minor cardiac episode.

you nod stiffly. “fine. just—fine. ink. gone. great.”

there’s a pause.

then remus tilts his head, almost mischievously.

“you’ve got something on your lips too,” he says, and it’s so smooth, so stupidly smooth, that you genuinely gape at him.

he smiles.

kidding.

but your heart still flutters.

you look down at the book again, eyes wide, trying desperately to remember how to read.

he chuckles—soft and warm—and picks up his quill like he didn’t just ruin your life in ten seconds.

you don’t make eye contact for the rest of the study session.

you can’t.

every time you glance at remus, he’s already looking at you—like he’s studying your reactions, like he knows. his quill taps against his lips rhythmically, and your brain just stops forming complete thoughts. you try to refocus on your notes, but his leg keeps brushing yours under the table like it has no regard for your sanity.

the ink on your face is long gone.

but the aftermath? permanent.

 “oi!”

the library doors slam open and there they are—the rest of the bloody marauders.

sirius is dramatically swinging his satchel over his shoulder like it personally offended him. james is trailing behind, throwing peanuts in peter’s mouth like it’s the olympics. the moment sirius spots you and remus in your little study bubble, his whole face lights up.

“well, well, well,” sirius singsongs. “what do we have here?”

remus visibly stiffens. you can actually see him preparing for impact.

you try to say “hi” in a chill voice. it comes out more like a squeak.

james drops into the chair next to you like it’s a quidditch pitch. “are we interrupting something?”

“yes,” you and remus say at the same time.

peter snorts. sirius actually smirks. “no need to get defensive, moony. we were just wondering why our dearest studious friend here has been mysteriously unavailable for the past three weeks during every single hogsmeade trip.”

“i’ve had homework,” remus says flatly.

“uh-huh. homework with y/n,” sirius grins. “every weekend. for hours. in the dark corner of the library. sounds very… educational.”

you bury your face in your notes. remus kicks sirius under the table.

but sirius—because he has no shame and a death wish—keeps going.

“just wondering when you two are finally going to kiss and put us all out of our misery.”

your head jerks up. remus freezes.

and in the silence that follows, james claps his hands once.

“alright! that’s my cue,” he says brightly, grabbing sirius by the collar. “let’s leave these two lovebirds alone before remus murders you.”

sirius grins at you on the way out. “he was staring at you like a lovesick librarian before we even walked in, just so you know.”

you want to melt through the stone floor.

they leave.

the silence returns.

and remus?

still frozen.

“sorry about them,” he finally mutters.

you shrug, heart slamming against your ribs. “they’re not wrong, though.”

remus blinks.

“what?”

you inhale.

oh, screw it.

“i know you don’t need tutoring. you’re one of the smartest people in our year, remus. you could teach the class.”

he looks down, slightly pink.

you keep going, your words spilling out now like you’ve passed the emotional event horizon.

“so, either you’re secretly illiterate, or you’ve been showing up every week just to sit next to me and make my brain short-circuit.”

he blinks at you. “your brain short-circuits?”

“don’t change the subject.”

“i’m not,” he says softly, and when he looks up again—merlin. his eyes are warm and golden and nervous.

“i just wanted an excuse to be near you,” he admits, barely above a whisper.

your breath catches.

and then—

“you could’ve just asked,” you say, smiling like a lunatic.

remus laughs under his breath, ducking his head.

“yeah,” he says. “i could’ve.”

a pause.

he leans forward, bracing his arms on the table between you. closer than before. close enough to see the freckles dusted across his nose.

close enough to kiss.

“you still have ink on your face,” he murmurs again, but his voice is different this time—like a question.

“do i?” you whisper.

he nods.

you don’t move.

neither does he.

and then, finally—finally—remus leans in and kisses you.

it’s soft. almost shy.

his lips brush yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

you kiss him back like you’ve been waiting for this forever.

because, honestly?

you have.

later that night, when you both walk back to the common room, pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, sirius is waiting on the stairs with a shit-eating grin.

“about bloody time.”

remus throws a book at his head.

💌 reblogs appreciated | pls don’t repost <3 for my best friend who's a sucker for remus, hope you enjoy jho<3

[alicefromwonderlands]

GOSHHHH

he’s so smooth and tbh i’d react the exact same just so nice to read and i absolutely love how the marauders always meddle in remus’s business

[outromoonyy]

The hottest thing a man can do is be Remus Lupin.

[dismalflo]

The Archive

Remus Lupin x Fem!reader ✩ 7k words

summary: After starting work as a museum guide, you get to know the brooding barista in the café.

cw: strangers to friends to lovers, a bit grumpy remus x sunshine reader, fluff, one mention of vomit, reference to a weird/creepy co-worker

The bus is loud and crowded, typical for a Monday morning, but the quiet thrill of starting a new job still flutters in your chest. It lifts you above it all, leaving you untouched by the noise and motion around you. Even with the sky draped in grey, you feel sunny.

The bus comes to a stop a few hundred metres from the museum with hissing breaks. The clouds haven’t moved; they still hang heavy and indifferent above the city, but you’re buoyed by a quiet sense of purpose.

Week two. You’re still learning the way your voice carries in the marble echo of the Ancient Cultures hall, still fumbling to remember if it’s the 5th or 6th century when someone asks about the mosaic floor. But you’re getting there. You like the way the museum smells in the morning, like paper and stone, a little musty, like it’s still half-asleep. You like the rhythm of it. Predictable. Solid. A place with weight.

Your feet know where to take you now. Down the staff hallway, past the security desk, a nod to the sleepy guard who never remembers your name, and then the turn into the little tucked-away café, the archive, with its blackboard menu and always-fogged windows. You’d discovered the free coffee perk on your first day  and it’s quickly become the small joy you look forward to each morning. A soft landing before the day begins.

Except, this morning, the usual barista – a blonde girl with star tattoos on her fingers – isn’t at the counter. Instead, there’s someone new. Well, new to you.

He’s tall, lanky, with a sweater pushed up to his elbows and a couple of rings that flash silver when he adjusts the grinder. His hair is the kind of soft brown that probably curls if he lets it, and his face, there’s something unreadable in the set of it, even handsome as it is. A few pale scars slash across his cheek and nose, faint but distinct. Not recent. You try not to stare.

You clear your throat quietly, stepping up to the counter. “Hi.”

He glances up, eyes warm-toned and quick. “Morning. What can I get you?”

Your routine wants to blurt out vanilla latte, but his voice is lower than you expect with a little gravel in it and now your brain’s off script. You manage to get the words out, but with half a second of lag.

He just nods and starts moving. Efficient. No wasted motion. There’s a practiced rhythm to it, like it’s all muscle memory. He doesn’t speak again until he’s back with the cup, reaching for the till. “That’ll be—”

You hold up your lanyard, the little plastic card still stiff from disuse. “Staff.”

His gaze flicks to it. “Oh.” He leans slightly, reading your name. “Are you new?”

“Yeah.” You smile, trying to match his neutrality, but you know your grin probably tips too friendly. “I started last week. I’m Y/N, by the way.”

There’s a pause, one breath longer than it needs to be. Then a tight smile. 

“Remus.”

And just like that, he’s turning back to the machine, rinsing something out, already done with the conversation.

You blink, standing there with your cup cradled in both hands. Okay then.

Sliding into your usual seat by the window, you sip the coffee - it’s better than last week - whilst sneaking a look back at him as he wipes down the counter. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t glance your way once.

Grumpy, you decide, watching him. Great. What did you do, breathe too loud?

You exhale into the drink. Maybe he’s just not a morning person. Or maybe he’s like the museum – slow to warm up, full of quiet corners.

Still, part of you hopes he’ll say something tomorrow. Even a hi would do.

You finish your drink, the cup warm in your hands, and head off for the start of your shift, back to the echoing halls and curious strangers. But the thought of him lingers, your attention captured by a stranger.

Everything goes on like that for a while.

Every morning, your routine holds. You nod to the guard, who now thinks your name is “Eloise,” but you don’t have the heart to correct him,  push through the café door with its quiet jingle, and find Remus already behind the counter. Always there before you. Always quiet. Always efficient.

The blonde girl reappeared once, briefly, but only to drop something off and vanish again, leaving Remus in charge. You’d hoped she might make conversation. Or at least act as a buffer. But no, it’s just him now. And you.

Your greetings are consistent, cheerful. Predictable, even.

“Morning, Remus.”

“How are you today?”

“Busy morning so far?”

“Did you get a break yet?”

Each one is met with a version of the same reply: a nod, sometimes a “fine,” sometimes just a half lifted brow that could mean anything. You get a thank you if you say something like “have a nice day,” but it’s clipped, almost like it costs him.

Still, you keep asking. Keep smiling. Keep showing up with soft eyes and the same friendly tone, like politeness might one day wear him down. 

You start noticing things. The way he always double-checks the milk temperature. The way he loosens one ring absentmindedly when the café is empty. The way he looks at the sky for a second before opening the blinds.

Week four. He hands you your drink, and when your fingers brush against his – purely by accident, you're sure – he doesn’t flinch away. He just glances at your hand, then back at you.

Week five. He asks, “Do you work in that old tile room?”

You blink. It’s the most he’s said to you in a sentence.

“The mosaic floor, yeah,” you say. “Ancient Cultures.”

“Thought so.” He looks down at the counter as he wipes it. 

You leave that day flushed, heart pattering like a schoolgirl with a stupid crush.

After that, his answers get longer. Not much. Not always. But enough to notice.

Some days, you learn things about him in scraps.

He used to work evenings somewhere else. He hates the music they play here now (“Too jangly”). He doesn’t like sweet drinks but will sneak half a biscuit if the blonde-haired girl (Marlene)  leaves them on the staff table. 

His eyes are a hazel that looks green in the café’s light, and when he smiles it’s a small, barely there thing. 

He still never asks anything personal. Never lingers. But he’s warming, you think.

Week seven.

The museum has settled into its summer rhythm, a slow, humming drone of tourists and school groups, all trailing sun cream and questions. You’re learning to smile through the heat, through the endless questions about where things are,  even though your exhibit is half a wing away from what they want. You ignore that one co-worker, Josh, who has made it his mission to make work so much harder than it needs to be. But it’s easier somehow lately. The rhythm of it. The known things.

And then there’s Remus.

You come in with your usual nod to the security guard – still calling you Eloise – and push open the café door. The bell chimes above your head in its usual sleepy way. You step into the warmth and scent of dark roast and milk foam, already sliding your lanyard from your pocket.

There’s a line today, longer than usual, and you join it without thinking, eyes on your phone, thumb tapping through unread texts.

“Yours is at the end,” a voice calls, smooth and unhurried.

You glance up.

Remus isn’t even looking at the current customer. He’s looking at you, wiping his hands on a towel like he’s been waiting. He tilts his chin toward the side counter, where a white cup already waits with its lid on, your usual blue marker initials scrawled across the sleeve. Still steaming.

You blink. “Wait–really?”

“Vanilla latte.” He says it with a shrug. Like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just take a quiet little hammer to your morning.

People behind you are shifting, someone’s tapping a foot, but for a second you just stare at him.

“Thanks,” you manage, a little too high-pitched, and scurry around the line and out of people's way.

You cradle the cup like it might shatter if you hold it wrong. Still hot. Still yours.

When you glance back, he’s already returned to the espresso machine, sleeves pushed up, rings catching the soft overhead light. But as he slides a shot glass under the portafilter, he glances at you. A flick of his gaze.

Then, the smallest twitch of a smile.

And just like that, the air feels warmer than the coffee in your hands.

You retreat to your usual window seat, hiding behind your cup, heart thrumming somewhere in your throat. You just sit there, quietly stunned, sipping the drink he made for you before you walked in. Like he knew you’d come. Like he looked forward to it.

You want to say something. To go back to the counter and offer something casual, “That was really sweet” or “So you do have a heart under all that broodiness.” But you don’t.

Instead, you watch him work. Watch the careful way he knocks the grounds from the portafilter, the way he leans into the counter when no one’s ordering, thumb worrying the edge of a napkin.

You wonder if he’ll do it again tomorrow

-

The café quiets, the hush of espresso machines powered down, the last clink of a cup into the dish tray, the low hum of fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. Remus moves through the space with the same muted precision he always does, wiping down the counters in wide, practiced strokes. There's a quiet satisfaction in it, the methodical wrap-up.

It’s muscle memory by now. Stack the ceramic cups, flip the chairs, sweep the corners, start locking everything up. His body knows what to do even while his mind wanders.

He doesn’t know why he made your coffee ahead of time.

He told himself it was efficient and you always come in around the same time anyway, like clockwork. A latte with syrup. Easy. It’s not a big thing.

But it sits oddly in his chest, the memory of your face when you saw the cup. The way your voice went slightly wobbly when you said “thanks,” like he’d surprised you.

He tells himself he didn’t mean to watch you the entire time you sat by the window, fingers curled around the cup.

“Stupid,” he mutters to himself, rinsing the last milk pitcher with a little too much force. The water splashes up onto his sweater sleeve. Of course.

He dries his hands, tosses the towel into the laundry bin, and flicks the back lights off. The place dims to a hush, that same familiar closing-time gloom. It’s a comfort, mostly.

Until he gets to the cubby room.

It’s a small alcove off the hallway outside of the café, half locker room, half staff closet. His bag waits in its usual spot, slouched and tired-looking. He shrugs his coat off the hook, ready to leave, already half-thinking about which book he might try and read tonight, but then–

He freezes.

A sound.

Barely there, muffled. A sharp inhale, the kind people try to bury. Then another. A stifled breath, wet at the edges. Like someone’s trying to cry quietly.

His jaw tenses before he even fully processes it.

He should leave. It’s late. It’s probably someone from exhibitions or marketing. Whoever it is deserves their privacy. He could just grab his stuff and go, let them have their moment, pretend he didn’t hear a thing.

But he doesn’t move.

There’s something about the sound that sticks under his ribs. He knows that kind of crying, the kind you push down until it erupts in the wrong place, where someone might hear. The kind that only slips out when you’ve kept too much in, for too long.

“Shit,” he mutters, exhaling sharply through his nose. Then, like the world's most reluctant ghost, he drifts toward the staff toilet door.

He knocks once, soft. The kind of knock you can ignore if you want to.

A silence. Then a rustling behind the door. He almost hopes they don’t answer.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, almost gruff. “You alright in there?”

Another silence. A breath. Then, to his slow dawning horror – your voice.

“I’m fine.”

You are absolutely not fine.

And now he’s stuck. Standing in a narrow hallway with your voice cracking on the other side of the door, and the memory of how happy you looked this morning when he handed you that cup.

Remus’s heart stutters painfully in his chest. Your voice cracking makes his stomach twist tight with something sharp and unfamiliar. 

“Y/N?” he says, his voice softer this time, like saying your name might somehow soothe the raw edges in the air between the door and him.

There’s a long pause. Then the door creaks open slowly.

You step out, shoulders hunched like you’re trying to fold yourself small enough to disappear. Your face is blotchy, tears streaked down both cheeks, and your eyes are red-rimmed, desperate to look anywhere but at him. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice barely more than a breath. “I didn’t mean for— I thought... Go ahead.” You try to step past him, head bowed, like you’re ashamed for letting yourself break in the first place.

But before you can slip away, Remus steps forward, blocking your path without a word. His hands clench into fists at his sides, like he’s trying to hold himself together. “What?” he asks quietly, but there’s something fierce in his eyes now, a sudden urgency. “No. I’m not leaving you like this. What’s wrong?”

You blink, the shame flickering against the tiredness in your eyes. You open your mouth to answer but nothing comes out for a moment. The weight of the silence between you is thick, almost suffocating.

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat making your voice catch before you manage to say, almost reluctantly, “Do you… know Josh?”

Remus’s jaw tightens, and something flickers in his eyes; something fierce, protective. He folds his arms, stepping aside just enough to gesture toward the bench by the lockers. “Yeah,” he says low, voice rough around the edges. “Enough said. He’s a right sod. What did he do?”

You drop onto the bench, shoulders slumping as if the weight of the day has finally caught up with you. For a long moment, you just stare at your hands, fingers twisting the hem of your sleeve, before you start to explain. Your voice is quiet, but steady.

“Josh… he’s made working here a nightmare. He’s always around, hovering where he’s not wanted, acting like he owns the place even though he barely knows anything about the exhibits. And worse–he’s gross. Like, constantly making weird comments, and he tries to make me feel stupid.” You let out a bitter laugh that barely hides the hurt. “He acts like he’s smarter than everyone, even though he clearly doesn’t know his stuff. I mean, I work in my area – I know what I’m talking about – but he’s like this constant shadow, trying to undermine me. Like if he can’t have control, he’ll just make things miserable for everyone.”

Remus’s eyes darken, and his hands clench again, fingers tapping against his thighs. “That’s bullshit. No one should have to deal with that crap, especially not here.”

You nod, grateful for the sudden flare of his anger. “I’ve been trying to ignore it, keep my head down, but some days it’s just… too much.”

Remus hesitates, then slides down onto the bench beside you, the scrape of his jeans against the chipped paint breaking the silence. His voice is softer now, cautious but edged with concern. “Have you talked to Mindy about it? The HR girl?”

You shake your head, shoulders trembling just slightly. “No. I didn’t want to kick up a fuss. I figured it’d just blow over… or maybe I’m just being too sensitive.”

He scoots a little closer, the space between your thighs shrinking until they’re almost touching. His knee bumps yours. “You’re not being too sensitive. And if you don’t say something, he’s just going to keep on doing it. It’s not right.”

You hum in reply, a soft, unsure sound. You lean your head against the cool locker behind you, taking a shaky breath as the tremors in your body slow. The pressure of his presence, quiet and steady, feels nice.

The silence stretches between you both, thick but gentle, as if the room itself is holding its breath. Your chest rises and falls unevenly at first, the raw ache behind your ribs dulling little by little. 

After a few minutes, his voice comes, low and careful, almost hesitant like he’s testing the air. “I’ll have to make Josh’s drinks even worse than I do now.”

You scoff, opening your eyes to find him watching you with a hint of dry humour flickering in his gaze.

 “Do you really do that?” you ask, a small smile tugging at your lips despite everything.

He rubs his nose with the back of his hand, a little flush creeping into his cheeks, and shifts so his body angles more toward you, less guarded. “Yeah,” he says quietly, voice rougher than usual but soft underneath. “Of course I do. People get the coffee they deserve.”

You laugh then, a short, genuine laugh that feels warm. It breaks through the tension in your chest, lightening the air around you. The sound seems to ease something in Remus, too, because his usual stoic expression softens, and you catch a flicker of relief in his eyes.

“Why do you think your coffee is always so good?” he adds, a teasing note threading through the words.

Remus watches you laugh – properly laugh – for what might be the first time. It softens something in his chest that’s been tight for weeks, like a string pulled too taut. The sound of it settles somewhere behind his ribs, where he knows it’ll stay longer than it should.

You're still smiling as you shake your head, brushing your sleeve across your cheek. “I thought you were just… good at your job.”

He huffs out a quiet breath, almost a laugh himself, but his eyes don’t leave yours when he says, “No. You’re just lovely.”

The words land in the air like something delicate. Not a throwaway. Not a joke. Just soft and honest and entirely intentional.

Your breath catches.

You look down, smiling before you can stop it. It’s a helpless sort of smile that blooms despite the redness in your eyes. You tuck your hair behind your ear in that absent, nervous way he’s come to recognise.

“Thank you, Remus,” you say softly. And the way you say his name twists something sweet and aching in his gut.

You glance at your watch then, eyes widening. “Shit. I have to go – or I’ll miss the bus and be stuck wandering the halls till morning.”

You stand a little too quickly, brushing off invisible dust from your coat. “But… I’ll see you tomorrow?”

He nods. “Yeah. I’ll be here.”

You give him a grateful look and then you’re gone, your footsteps fading down the hallway.

-

The air outside hits colder than you expect. The evenings dropped fast, draping the sky in a dull blue wash, and the street lamps blink on with a hum as you walk to the bus stop.

You shove your hands deep into your pockets and try not to replay the whole thing in your head. But of course you do.

You hadn’t meant to cry. Not here. Not where people could hear. Not where he could hear.

God, Remus.

He hadn’t turned away. Hadn’t offered you a useless platitude or made a weird joke or said oh no no no please don’t cry in that awkward way people do when they don’t know what to say. He’d just… sat there. Like it was fine. Like you weren’t making a mess of yourself.

And then that voice with its low, gravel-edge, “you’re just lovely.”

You groan quietly, ducking your head.

Great. Now you’re the girl who cried in the staff toilets and got soft-eyed over her barista. Maybe he was just being kind. Maybe he says that sort of thing to people all the time. He probably doesn’t.

Still, your brain itches with doubt. What if he thinks you’re too much? That you made it weird?

You scuff your boot against the pavement and watch a wet leaf stick to the toe.

Too late now. You’ll have to face him again tomorrow. You always do.

You let out a slow breath and step onto the bus.

He probably doesn’t think you’re a freak.

You hope.

-

You’re early but this time it’s not because of excitement or routine. This morning, it’s avoidance.

You skip the café.

You push through the museum’s staff entrance, still shrugging off your coat, and march straight past the security desk before Old Greg can butcher your name again (“Morning, Eloise!”). Your steps echo down the polished hallway, heart thudding with a strange mix of regret and mortification.

You should go in. That’s the truth. You want to, if only to prove you’re not the kind of person who has one crying episode and then pretends it didn’t happen. But the thought of seeing Remus again, of meeting those steady, unreadable eyes after sobbing in front of him makes your stomach roll in embarrassment.

So instead, you beeline for your exhibit.

The mosaic gallery is still dim when you get there, the lights on their early-morning timer delay, casting long shadows over the tiled floor.

You throw yourself into prep work you don’t need to do.

Brochure restocking. Cleaning the display cases, even though the cleaners already did it. You even re-label the “Unknown Roman Male Bust” for the fourth time, aligning the plaque a single millimeter straighter, because apparently today that matters.

You keep telling yourself it’s fine. This is fine. He probably didn’t think about it again. Probably chalked it up to an awkward one-off. If anything, maybe you did him a favour by not showing up.

Still, you feel… wrong. Like you’ve knocked something out of balance, a rhythm you didn’t even realise was holding you steady until it faltered.

Your first tour group filters in, three parents, two bored teenagers, and a kid who’s far too interested in whether anyone’s ever died in the museum. You manage it fine. You’re getting good at this. The words come smoothly now, practiced without being robotic, your voice echoing just right off the marble as you explain how these mosaics were lifted from their original sites in the early 1900s, how they tell stories if you know how to read them.

But your thoughts are elsewhere.

You wonder if he noticed.

You tell yourself it’s better if he didn’t.

You hate that you kind of want him to have noticed.

It’s only after the group has trickled out, sticky-fingered children and camera-toting grandparents in their wake, that you return to your little info desk tucked near the back corner of the gallery. You’re digging for a fresh stack of feedback forms when you spot it.

A cup.

Sitting quietly on the far edge of the desk.

Still warm.

White lid. Blue sleeve. Your name written in sharp, angled handwriting — the kind you’ve only ever seen scrawled on one café chalkboard.

A folded note lies underneath.

You freeze.

No one’s nearby. You glance toward the hallway as if the coffee might vanish the moment you look away.

You reach for the note with slow fingers, like it might burn you.

Unfold it.

You didn’t come to the café this morning, and I prepared my best cup yet :( — R.

The sad face is ridiculous. You stare at it like it might shift into something else. But no, it’s real. Undeniably him. A little crooked and careful. Like he’d been trying to be light about it, but something in the curve of the frown betrayed him.

And just like that, the giddy thing in your chest unfurls. Something warm and bright spreads up through your ribs, so soft you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

He noticed.

He didn’t think you were weird. He didn’t pull away. He made you a coffee anyway.

And he left it here. He found your station, dropped it off without a word, then vanished like a ghost with rings and good taste in espresso.

You hug the cup between your palms, holding it for a second before taking the first sip.

It’s perfect. Better than usual, even. He wasn’t bluffing about it being his best.

You smile into the lid, lip quirking against the rim.

Of course he made it today, of all days. The day your eyes are still puffy and your pride feels scraped raw. The day you told yourself to keep your head down.

And now you want to go see him.

But you don’t get the chance.

The museum is relentless. Your supervisor pulls you for an extra tour. Someone in admin ropes you into helping set up folding chairs for a lecture in the east wing. A kid throws up in the Greco-Roman alcove (pink slushie – impressive range) and you spend fifteen minutes helping a mortified mum find the right staff member.

By the time your shift winds down, the café is already closed.

You pass the doors on your way out. The lights are off and the chairs are stacked and you press a palm briefly against the fogged glass, just for a second.

There’s nothing in the window, no sign of him but you’re still smiling.

-

The next morning, you don’t hesitate.

No detours. No self-conscious stalling in the exhibits. You walk straight past Greg (who’s migrated from Eloise to Louisa, bless him), turn the corner before your nerves can change your course, and push open the door to the café with a soft jingle.

And he’s there.

Of course he’s there with his sleeves pushed up, a towel tossed over one shoulder and his whole shape haloed in the early light streaming through the fogged-up windows. He’s halfway through restocking the pastry case when the bell rings, but the second he looks up and sees you, he grins.

Not the usual small, polite tilt of his mouth you’ve come to know. No, this is a real smile. Full. Bright. It changes his whole face. Softens everything. Makes you feel like you’ve just walked into a sunrise.

His eyes crinkle a little at the corners as he leans both elbows on the counter, forearms flexing with the shift. One hand tucks under the other, fingers idly tapping as he watches you cross the room. The silver rings flash when they catch the light, and you’re momentarily derailed by the unfair handsomeness of it all.

“Morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep but lighter than usual, like the gravel’s melted into honey.

You raise your brows, dropping your lanyard on the counter between you. “Wasn’t sure I’d get such a warm welcome.”

“I was hoping I’d see you today,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in it. No second-guessing. Just those words, said with quiet conviction and a flick of warmth behind his eyes.

You grin, chin tilting just slightly. “Why? Did you miss my loveliness?”

Remus laughs that soft, startled kind of laugh that curls from his chest before he bites down on it. His head ducks a little, hand scrubbing the back of his neck, like he hadn’t meant to let it out quite so easily.

“Something like that,” he murmurs, glancing back at you with a spark in his eye that makes your stomach tilt a little too happily.

You lean on the counter to mirror him, fingertips brushing the wood. “Must’ve been hard for you yesterday, pouring your best coffee and no one showing up for it.”

“It was tragic,” he says, tone dry but eyes bright. “You’ll be pleased to know Marlene got to drink plenty of it.’”

“Well I suppose if I couldn't have it, Marlene would be my top choice” you say, smug.

“Don’t tell her that it’ll go straight to her head,” he says, mock-sulky. 

You laugh, and the sound seems to light something between you.

The rest of the morning blurs. You talk too long. Neither of you mentions it. He hands you your drink with a soft “here you go, lovely” that makes your ears feel too warm, and you tease him about his very nice handwriting. He deflects by accusing you of being a coffee snob with “absurdly high standards for someone who used to drink instant.” You gasp in betrayal and he shrugs, all innocence.

By the time you leave, you’re buzzing more from the exchange than the caffeine.

And then… it just keeps happening.

Every day that week, it’s the same. Easy. Familiar. Better than before.

He greets you with that real smile now, the one that makes you feel like you’ve been missed. Sometimes you catch him watching the door before you walk in, like he’s waiting. He’s still quiet in that Remus way, still folds into corners and doesn’t give much away, but with you, something’s shifted. He leans into the banter. Laughs more. Looks at you longer.

You learn he reads poetry – “the sad kind, mostly” – and hates using digital calendars. You tell him, what feels like a million little tidbits about yourself

Sometimes he tosses you a biscuit wrapped in a napkin. Sometimes you bring him a weird little fact from your gallery – “Did you know Roman cement gets stronger with seawater?” – and he rolls his eyes but always listens.

It’s all easy. Soft.

But underneath it, something else simmers.

A glance that lingers a beat too long. A brush of fingers over a coffee cup. The way your name sounds different when he says it, like he’s tucking it into his pocket.

-

The museum is quiet, everything is hushed and humming with the sound of a building exhaling. Somewhere, a cleaner wheels a cart down a hallway, the distant squeak of mop wheels echoing like footsteps in a cathedral. The last of the visitors are long gone, the lights dimmed to half, and you’re tucked into the little bench nook outside the Ancient Cultures gallery, coat balled beside you, bag in your lap, phone in your hand but not really looking at it.

The bus app offers its verdict with the apathy of a machine that does not know how tired you are. Next arrival: 47 minutes. Last update: 6 mins ago.

You sigh.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’ve had worse. It’s just – you’re tired. And it’s unseasonably cold in the kind of creeping, inside-your-sleeves way that makes everything feel a little thinner.

You glance out through the thin museum windows. The sky’s gone blue-black, smeared with the last streaks of orange. Your reflection stares faintly back at you in the glass, hair a little mussed, cheeks flushed from the air.

You don’t hear footsteps.

But you do hear his voice.

“Hey.”

It’s soft, close, and it pulls you out of your thoughts like a hand gently tugging at your sleeve. You blink up and there he is.

Remus.

Still in his work clothes – jumper rumpled, sleeves pushed up, messenger bag slung crosswise over his chest. His hair’s messier than usual, like he’s been dragging his fingers through it.

His expression is familiar. Open. That gentle, attentive look like he’s trying to read your mood before you can even name it yourself.

“What are you still doing here?”

You shift, a little embarrassed, brushing at the hem of your coat. “Oh – my bus got cancelled. Signal issue or something. Not sure. The next ones delayed too.”

He huffs out a breath, the barest edge of a smile curling at his mouth, and moves closer. Not just a polite step, either. Close.

You can feel the heat of him now, the warmth from his coat, the faint smell of coffee beans and citrus soap. He stops in front of you, hands tucked into his coat pockets, one eyebrow lifted.

“Come on,” he says, like it’s already decided. “I’ll give you a lift.”

You blink. “What?”

“A lift,” he repeats, deadpan, one brow raised. “In my car.”

You let out a startled laugh. “Remus, no, it’s okay. Seriously. I’ll be fine. The next one’s just a bit delayed, and there’s a bench, and I can’t ask that of you–”

He cuts you off with a tilt of his head. “You’re not asking, dove. I’m offering.”

Your brain trips over the word, the pet name, like it hit a loose stone. He says it so naturally, like it’s always been your name, soft and certain and low in his throat.

You look up at him, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You can’t just call me a nice name and expect me to go along with whatever plan you’ve cooked up.”

“It’s working though, isn’t it?” His smile curves sharper at the edges and it’s stupidly smug as he sighs. “Please let me give you a lift, lovely.”

You stare at him – this utterly ridiculous, infuriatingly warm-eyed barista with stupidly good hands and a knack for catching you right when you're about to spiral – and you want to say no. Just out of principle. Just to prove you can.

But it’s cold.

And the bench is hard.

And his voice is a warm hand on your spine.

“…fine,” you say, quiet but clear.

Remus smiles, it’s not smug, but pleased, quiet and certain. And before you can even start doubting your own choice, he reaches down and takes your hand.

He slides his fingers around yours like it’s nothing, like you do this all the time. Like you’re not two people who have existed solely in the space between lattes and locker room small talk.

The contact is warm. Solid.

You blink down at your joined hands, startled but not resisting, and he gives yours a soft, reassuring squeeze. Doesn’t tug. Doesn’t rush. He Just waits until you lift your bag with your other hand and nod and then he starts walking.

He doesn’t let go.

Even when you’re halfway down the main corridor. Even when Greg mumbles “Good night,” and you toss him a weak wave with your free hand. Even when the staff door groans open and lets in a rush of cold night air.

Remus keeps your fingers wrapped in his like he’s afraid you’ll float off otherwise.

You reach the staff car park, tucked behind the museum’s east wing. His car’s parked under one of the flickering lamp posts. A beat-up, dusky green hatchback with mismatched hubcaps and a dent near the bumper that you think might be shaped like a shopping trolley. It’s endearing. Stupidly so.

He drops your hand only to unlock the doors, tossing his bag into the backseat before opening the passenger door for you with a little half-bow.

You narrow your eyes, trying not to smile. “I take it back. I am getting back on the bus.”

“You’re awful.” He grins. “It’s too late anyway. You already agreed.”

You slide in. The seat is a bit low, the dash cluttered with a few loose receipts and what looks like a crumpled poetry zine jammed into the side panel. It smells like bergamot and espresso grounds – not unpleasant. Just… him.

He starts the car with a cough and a wheeze that makes you both wince. “That’s normal,” he says, fiddling with the heat dial. 

The first few minutes are… quiet. Not tense, exactly. But unfamiliar.

You’ve never been in a space with him that didn’t include steam or café noise or the soft clink of ceramic cups. This is different. Too quiet. His profile in the passing streetlights is sharp — all nose and jaw and flickers of shadow — and you catch yourself sneaking glances like a weirdo, trying to place this version of him. The one who drives you home.

You fidget with the strap of your bag.

He adjusts the heat and says, casual, “Do you not drive?”

You glance over, surprised, then laugh. “Not all of us want to be in charge of a vehicle, Rem.”

He smirks. “I suppose if I had people willing to drive me about, I wouldn’t either”

“Oh, shut up. I don’t know if you’ve realised, but the only chauffeur I have is public transport.”

He raises a brow, glancing over as he turns down a quieter side street. “ And me, now.”

You pause. “…And you.”

He grins, and it’s like the air eases. Warms. His voice goes a little gentler. “So. How was today?”

You shrug, staring out at the blur of headlights. “Long. Better than yesterday, though.”

A pause.

Then: “Glad to hear it.”

You glance at him, then back at the windshield, your smile small but sincere. “Thanks for the coffee, by the way.”

He hums, casual. “Which one?”

You nudge his arm with your knuckles. “You know which.”

“Oh. That one.” He feigns thoughtfulness. “Yeah, I wasn’t sure you’d find it. Had to bribe Carol from admin to tell me your desk.”

You laugh. “Carol? Cardigan Carol?”

“That’s the one. Very protective. Nearly bit me when I asked.”

“She likes me,” you say, pleased.

“Everyone does,” he mutters. “Lot’s of competition for your work time affections.”

There’s a beat of shared amusement, and then the conversation just… flows. You talk about nothing and everything. He tells you about a café regular who only orders hot water and leaves a ten-pound tip (“I'm worried it's some kind of social experiment”), and you tell him about the time a kid on your tour started a rumour that one of the Roman statues was haunted and it spiraled into a three-week school ban.

Somewhere between the second roundabout and your street, your laughter fills the car in easy bursts, the kind that makes your stomach flutter with something dangerously close to joy.

He pulls up to your building with a gentle halt, the engine coughing softly before it settles into silence. The headlights catch on the chipped curb outside your flat, and for a moment neither of you moves.

The street is quiet. No one else around. Just the two of you, tucked into the warmth of his little car, the windows fogged at the corners.

You hesitate.

Your fingers fidget with the strap of your bag again. Then you glance sideways, your voice softer now, careful. “Thank you.”

Remus looks over, brows ticking together just a little like he’s not sure why you sound so serious. “Of course, lovely. Anytime.”

But you shake your head, shifting a little in your seat to face him more fully. “No. I mean… for everything.”

He blinks.

“For being kind,” you say, voice low but steady. For making me laugh when I felt like shit. For remembering how I take my coffee. For not making it weird. I just—” You pause, breath catching. “You didn’t have to be so nice. But you were. You are. I was sure you didn’t like me when we met.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes, then something gentle and sharp all at once. His hand is still on the gear shift, thumb resting idle, but his whole body seems to lean in a fraction.

“I don’t think there’s anything that could make me not want to be nice to you,” he says. “I did like you, I’m just slow to warm.”

And while he says it, his eyes drop, just for a second, to your mouth.

You notice.

And you don’t look away.

“You’re really lovely,” you whisper, voice catching only slightly on the truth of it.

Your words tremble a little, but not from uncertainty. More like something building. Your eyes flick down to his lips, then back up again.

Then down.

Then up.

Remus swallows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The silence stretches, soft and crackling, full of tension like the second before a summer storm breaks.

And then – like it’s inevitable – you both move at the same time.

It’s not rushed. Not desperate. Just sure. The way his hand rises to cradle your jaw like he’s done it a thousand times. The way your breath mingles in the narrow space between. The way your lips meet.  Warm and firm and certain, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

The kiss is slow at first. Testing. Careful. His mouth moves against yours like he’s learning the shape of your breath, like he’s been waiting for this and wants to remember every second. His hand slips to the side of your neck, thumb brushing just below your ear.

You lean in closer, fingers curling in the collar of his coat, anchoring yourself to him. Your lips part and he kisses you deeper, fuller, with a low hum in the back of his throat that makes your stomach flutter.

The windows fog a little more.

And when you finally pull back, breath shaky, he doesn’t go far. Just rests his forehead against yours. His nose brushes yours. He smiles,  small and stunned and glowing.

You laugh, quiet and breathless. “Hi.”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Hi.”

You linger there, neither of you ready to break the moment. Outside, the street stays quiet. The world can wait.

Right now, there’s only the warmth between you.

And the way his thumb keeps brushing your cheek like he still can’t believe you’re real.

masterlist <3

[alicefromwonderlands]

IM BLUSHINGGGG

workplace romance is just the best thing ever

(did i ever mention i want to work in a museum?)

I’ll reread this so many times, that by the end of the month i’ll recite it from memory

[ghostedgwen]

i had this idea for a while so here you go!!

angsty remus x reader (established relationship). remus saw some girl and her boyfriend holding her books. and remus has a bad hip/cane so carrying books for his girlfriend is impossible for him. i feel like itd be in character for him to compare himself and fall deeper into self loathing.

idk if that’s good enough but i really want some comfort in the end please🫶 i love your work

it's always you | r.lupin

note : my heart clenched reading this request omggg and I love established relationship fics so much! thank you for requesting this! Sorry if it's too short, it was pretty simple and I didn't want to unnecessarily drag out the angst

warnings : angst with comfort, mentions of disabilities, Remus and his self-deprecation as always, pain but I get you band-aids

The courtyard was still slushy from last night’s snow, sludgy puddles glistening under weak winter sunlight. Students trudged between classes, scarves wrapped tightly, laughter puffing white in the air.

Remus Lupin stood near the old stone archway, leaning subtly on his cane, trying not to feel like the air was too cold for late January, like it was creeping under his skin.

You were inside, probably waiting for him at the library, already buried in Ancient Runes. He should be with you. But his eyes, traitorous, bitter things, were locked on a pair across the quad.

A girl giggling, half-tumbling through the slush, and a boy beside her. Her boyfriend, apparently. He had her stack of books in his arms, teasing her as she slipped on the wet cobblestones, steadying her with one hand. She laughed, bright and easy, and kissed his cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Remus didn’t know her. Didn’t know him, either.

But something about the image stuck in his chest like a splinter.

He shifted his weight, his hip flaring with dull, familiar pain. The cane felt heavier today, and the old scar down his thigh throbbed in the cold. He flexed his fingers around the handle.

He couldn’t carry your books.

Not without hurting. Not without risking a fall or stiffening up halfway to class. He’d tried, once, a few months into dating you - insisted on taking your bag, and you’d let him, though he knew you noticed the way he bit down on the pain. You never asked him to again. You just started walking closer. Offering your arm. Always touching, but never pushing.

And yet. And yet.

He wasn’t like that boy.

Wasn’t someone you could lean on in that way. Not without it becoming something extra you had to think about. Something inconvenient.

And hadn’t he always been a little too much? Too scarred, too tired, too broken?

He didn’t notice you approach until your voice sliced through his thoughts like warm light through mist.

“Hey, stranger.”

Remus blinked and turned. You stood beside him now, you seemed flushed from the cold, smile small and soft.

“Hi,” he said, trying to sound normal.

You tilted your head. “You okay?”

He forced a smile. “Yeah. Just… cold.”

You didn’t buy it. You never did. But you didn’t press, not yet. Instead, you reached out and gently laced your fingers through his free hand.

“Come on. I saved us a spot by the fire.”

He followed, cane tapping rhythmically beside you, each step measured and careful. You didn’t rush him. You never did, that's why you worked so well.

You could read him like a very open book, and you have memorized the tabs of his every page. How to handle his moods, the full moons, the angst, the pain - he could swear he'd never deserve you in any lifetime.

It wasn’t until the library was quiet again, after an hour of pretending to study, that it all spilled over.

You looked up from your notes, sensing him drift again. His knee was bouncing. His jaw tight. He often fidgeted like that when deep in some depressing thought.

You leaned in. “Talk to me.”

Remus blinked. “I’m fine.”

“Liar,” you said gently.

His mouth opened. Closed, then opened again : “Do you ever wish I was… easier?”

The question hit like a slap. You knew it was another one of those but that was too direct and sudden.

“Easier?” you repeated, the word tasted bitter in you mouth.

He wouldn’t look at you. Just stared at his hands, scarred and his eyes traced them. “Like someone who could carry your books. Who could run to class with you. Someone who doesn’t need to stop and sit after fifteen minutes. Someone who doesn’t need a cane at 17.”

Your heart broke in slow motion.

“Remus,” you said carefully, setting your quill down. “Where is this coming from?”

He gave a bitter laugh. “Some guy in the courtyard. Had his girlfriend’s books. She looked so happy. And I just… I can’t do that for you.”

You reached across the table and covered his hand with yours. “So you thought I’d want to trade you for some guy with exceptional knees and biceps?”

He flinched. “I just thought… maybe I’m a little too much.”

You stood, walked around the table, and knelt beside his chair. He looked shocked. You didn’t care.

“Listen to me,” you said, quiet but firm. “You are 'too much', yes. Too kind, too thoughtful, too self-deprecating, too worried, too loving, too cute even when you're brooding and all that.”

He opened his mouth, but you cut him off.

“And I don’t love you despite the hard parts, Remus. I love you, full stop. Books or no books. Cane or no cane. You’re not broken. You’re just you. And that’s who I choose, every time.”

His eyes filled, lashes fluttering.

“I don’t care if you can’t carry my books,” you added, softer now. “You carry my heart around like it’s the most precious thing in the world. That’s more than I’ve ever asked for.”

Remus let out a shaky breath. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and his arms came around you in a hesitant, fragile way, like he didn’t believe he was allowed.

But you held him tighter. Like your arms around him could say everything else that remained unsaid.

“You don’t have to compare yourself,” you whispered. “Not to anyone.”

“I just want to be enough.”

“You are. So much more than enough.”

He pulled back, eyes glassy, but clearer than they’d been in days. “I love you,” he said.

“I know,” you said with a small smile. “Now let’s get you out of this library before your hip seizes up, old man.”

He laughed and let you help him to his feet. Your hand stayed in his all the way back to the common room.

And if he leaned into you a little more than usual that night, you didn’t mind. Not at all.

end. masterlist

[alicefromwonderlands]

OHHHH MYYY GOSHHHH

„You carry my heart around like it’s the most precious thing in the world” MY HEARTTTT

I love how you handled his use of a cane and even mentioned the scar that left him with a bad hip.

I loved this in every way, you’re amazing truly🫶

[lookliketaylorswift]

happy swiftie independence day to everyone

[acheronsociety]

✶ SECRETS IN THE SUNLIGHT

in which... you offer to help remus lupin with sunscreen, only to discover the scars he’s been hiding—and the reason he can’t let himself kiss you, even when he wants to.

pairing: remus lupin x gryffindor f!reader word count: 1.6k content warning: angst ✶ fluff ✶ some cursing, marauders being marauders, the feeling of being a bit uncomfy in your skin, scars, and moony's sad poet's hours as sirius would like to call them. a/n: soft summer core vibe made especially for a dear friend of mine who's been crushing on lupin too hard... the only setback is—she crushes on angst harder !

𝑰𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 late June and the Black Lake had never looked more like ink and velvet soft.

The war hadn’t touched the school yet. Not really. There were whispers in corners and headlines folded under textbooks, but that day, the only thing that mattered was the sun, the stretch of freedom, and the way the air smelled like pine and mischief.

It was James’s idea, of course. Summer was here, N.E.W.T.s were done, and he was finally back with Lily after a week-long, soul-shattering breakup over that prank on Snape. She’d thrown a book at his head in the common room. Now, she was perched beside him on a blanket with her legs draped over his, her fingers tucked into the sleeve of his tee as though she still didn’t quite believe he was real.

Sirius arrived fashionably late on his ridiculous flying bike, with Cassandra Lockhart clinging to him like something out of a forbidden novel. Cassandra—Cass to everyone else, Trouble to Sirius—looked like the kind of girl mothers warned sons about. Slytherin to the bone, but smarter than any of them, and always dressed like she’d walked out of an editorial spread: black bathing suit, emerald-green silk shirt tied at the waist, and dark sunglasses perched atop her rich dark-brown hair. She barely acknowledged the others, but when Sirius helped her off the bike and whispered something at her temple, her smirk alone said everything.

And then there was Lupin.

Remus Lupin had that sort of quiet prettiness that wasn’t made to be noticed at first glance, but stuck with you. Soft eyes. Thoughtful hands. Always in linen or soft knits, like he was made of rainy Sundays and underlined poetry. He stood with his arms crossed, watching Sirius and Cass from the tree line with a half-smile, as if he didn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

You weren’t far off, lacing up your trainers again after kicking them off for a swim. Your hair was still damp, clinging to the curve of your neck. Shorts. Sports bra. Tan lines forming from all the running you’d done lately just to think clearly.

You weren’t close to Cass, but you didn’t dislike her. She was dangerous in the way girls were allowed to be when they didn’t care if people liked them. You were too busy trying to make your professors proud, juggling House Quidditch with your growing pile of books on ancient magic and magical creatures.

You should’ve been in Ravenclaw, they always told you.

But it didn’t feel like Ravenclaws would have gone along with James Potter’s mad idea to steal breakfast from the kitchens and sneak out to a hidden part of the Black Lake “for peace and quiet.”

Peace and quiet had not happened. Sirius was shirtless within minutes, jumping from a tree branch into the water and dragging Cass in after him. James was poking at a picnic basket with his wand, while Lily told him, gently but firmly, to stop turning the sandwiches into birds. Marlene was sunbathing in her combat boots and a bra, sunglasses on, flipping through Witch Weekly and rolling her eyes at literally everything.

Mary would join later.

And Peter was watching you again. That soft, puppy-eyed look he always gave you when he thought no one would notice. You didn’t mind Peter. He was sweet. Beautiful in a troubled way, his own way. But you wished—selfishly—that Remus would look at you the way Peter did.

Remus, who never stared. Who was always kind, but reserved. Like he wanted to reach out and never quite did.

You moved closer to the blanket where he sat, a half-read book on magical theory close by, and dropped down beside him without warning.

“Is that Wyrdways of Magical Creation?” you asked, bumping your knee into his.

He blinked, startled, then smiled. “Yeah. Bit dense for beach reading, I suppose.”

“You’d be surprised what I call light reading,” you teased, brushing wet strands of hair from your face.

He looked at you then—opened a door he usually locked. Your knees still touching. His eyes flicked to your legs, then back to your face. But his smile dimmed, just a little.

“You’re always running,” he said suddenly.

You tilted your head. “It’s quiet when I run.”

He nodded. “Guess I wouldn’t know.”

You hesitated. There it was again. That gap. That door closing. You could feel it, like a cold spot in the middle of the sun.

“Do you ever... sneak out with the others?” you asked, voice low. “At night?”

His posture changed. Slight. But you noticed. “What makes you ask?”

You shrugged, as casually as you could. “You four are up to something. I just know it.”

Remus gave you that tired smile again. “Would you believe me if I said it’s nothing bad?”

“I don’t think it’s bad,” you didn’t meant to pry, but curiosity had always gnawed at you. “I just think it’s secret.”

That made him pause. He reached for his water bottle instead of answering.

“I don’t like secrets,” you added, softer this time.

His hand froze. Then slowly, he set the bottle down. “Then you’d hate mine.”

Something twisted in your chest.

But before you could ask more, Sirius let out a war whoop from the water. “Oi, Moony! Get in here before Cass kills me for pushing her again!”

Remus rolled his eyes. “She won’t kill you. She’ll just destroy your self-esteem.”

Cass was already climbing back onto the rock, flipping her wet hair and giving Sirius a middle finger with a perfectly manicured hand.

You leaned in just a bit closer. “You don’t have to tell me, Remus. But I think I’d like it if you stopped pretending like I’m just another girl sitting next to you.”

He looked at you, caught off guard. His lips parted.

And then, like it hurt, he said, “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t,” he whispered.

You didn’t push.

You just nodded, stepped back, and let the space between you bloom wide again. Because some truths or bonds weren’t meant to be forced, no matter how much they sat in your chest like unsaid prayers.

So you turned away, back toward the sun-dappled clearing, where the lake glistened like a secret and laughter rose in waves.

James and Lily were in their own world—her head thrown back, laughing as James attempted to charm a rock into a reclining lounge chair. It half-worked, then exploded with a puff of green smoke, sending them both tumbling into the grass.

Peter hovered near the picnic, fretting over his already pinking skin. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, squinting at the sun like it had personally offended him. “This is how I die, isn’t it? Slow-roasted.”

You chuckled and stood beside him, hand already reaching for the sunscreen bottle. “Turn around, Pettigrew.”

He blinked, startled. “What?”

“You’ll be a tomato by dinner,” you said, unscrewing the cap and squeezing a generous amount into your hand.

He hesitated, then slowly turned, cheeks blooming red from something other than the sun.

As your palms smoothed over his back, Peter fidgeted and rambled nervously about a girl in Hufflepuff he might write to over break. You nodded, encouraging him, Marlene snorting from where she was sprawled, but your eyes drifted elsewhere.

Across the rocky bank, Remus sat alone now, tugging awkwardly at the sleeves of his shirt while everyone else basked bare-skinned in the sun. He looked out of place, too warm, too covered. His hair clung to the sides of his neck, and he kept scratching lightly at his elbow like his skin was crawling under the linen.

Eventually, he stood.

He wandered away from the group, toward the far side of the lake where a jagged rock jutted out into the water like a ledge. Sirius floated nearby, still swimming lazy laps, his silver rings glinting even in the water.

You saw Remus look back—once—before pulling the shirt off with a kind of hesitant resignation.

It hit you, then.

He wasn’t straying further to read. Or for the view. Or even for some quiet.

He was straying further so you wouldn’t see.

The distance masked the truth. From where you all were, you could just make out the faint lines of his frame, the curve of his shoulders, the angles of his back—but not the scars. Not the ones that lived where secrets liked to hide.

There were a few on his face, sure. A small one near his brow, a thin line along his cheekbone. Another crossing the bridge of his nose. Things boys collected in childhood. No one asked.

But you’d seen him fidget with his sleeves. Tense when people brushed against him. Stay clothed when others shed layers for the sun.

And suddenly, all of it made sense.

Still, you didn’t mean to walk over.

You didn’t plan to follow him.

But you found yourself walking toward the rock anyway, sunscreen in hand, the summer heat pressing soft and heavy across your shoulders. You told yourself it was to check in. To offer something helpful. But truthfully, you wanted to be near him. Even if he didn’t let you all the way in.

He was sitting on the ledge, long legs dangling over the water, shoulders rolled forward. Sirius was nearby, floating lazily on his back, arms spread like a crucifix made of mischief and silver cuffs.

“Mate,” Sirius was saying, “if I’d known you were going for broody lake aesthetic, I’d have brought a sketchbook. Or a cigarette. You look like a heartbroken poet.”

Remus laughed—real, soft. You saw it in his profile. He was distracted, safe. He didn’t hear you approach.

You took in his back—and the moment stilled.

Scars. Not deep. Not fresh. But many. Layered over each other like the rings of a tree. Like stories that couldn’t be told out loud. And for a second, you just stood there, rooted to the spot, like seeing them had knocked the wind out of you.

Not in horror. Not in pity.

But in the knowledge that he had carried this alone. 

Your steps were soft on the stone, but he still startled when you sat beside him.

He shifted quickly, muscles on his broad shoulders tensing, spine snapping straight. His hand twitched toward the shirt he'd dropped at his side. But you just held up the sunscreen, slow and easy.

“Thought you might want help,” you offered. “I did Peter’s back. Seemed unfair to leave you out.”

He didn’t answer.

His eyes flicked down, then toward Sirius direction, then up again—hovering somewhere between gratitude and discomfort.

Finally, he nodded. Just once.

Sirius, ever the opportunist, spotted you and grinned. “Oh, finally! This was getting agonizing.”

Remus shot him a warning look.

Sirius held up his hands in mock surrender and turned, calling back to the others. “If anyone needs me, I’m retrieving my dignity!”

He dove underwater, laughing.

And you were alone.

You uncapped the bottle, warming the lotion between your hands first. Then you touched him.

He flinched.

Not like he was in pain—like he wasn’t used to being touched without flinching.

Your hands moved slowly, deliberately. Over the shoulders first. Across the blade of his back. The lotion made his skin shine, made the pale scars glow like silver ink under the sun.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

Not until he exhaled, low and rough.

“I was attacked when I was five,” his jaw tensed, like the image was still vivid in his mind.

You stilled.

“Werewolf.”

There was no dramatic pause. No big reveal. Just the words, spoken like something he had rehearsed a thousand times in his head, and still hated saying out loud.

“I turn every full moon. I lose control. I... I hurt things. Myself. Sometimes... it used to be others.”

Your hand was on his shoulder, resting there now.

“I wanted to tell you sooner,” he added. “But I didn’t want you to look at me differently. I didn’t want you to flinch.”

“I didn’t,” you whispered.

He turned then, slowly, his gaze sweeping over your face like he was searching for disbelief. For fear.

He found neither.

Only you.

And for a moment—just one—he leaned in.

Closer than before. So close your noses nearly brushed, the heat from his body pulling you in like a tide.

You felt his breath. You saw the way his eyelashes trembled. The way his fingers flexed at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

And then he stopped.

Pulled back, just slightly. Enough to undo the moment.

“Peter likes you,” he said, voice so quiet it might’ve been a thought. “And I can’t... I won’t break his heart.”

You blinked.

Tried to swallow the ache that rose up so fast it made your head swim.

You could’ve told him that you didn’t choose Peter. That you’d never given Peter a reason to hope. That what you felt—this—wasn’t a crush.

But the look in Remus’s eyes was so soft. So damn gentle. Like he was trying to hold the whole world together with a single breath.

So you just nodded.

You sat back beside him, shoulder brushing his, and stared out at the lake where Sirius was now trying to coax Lily into the water with ridiculous splashes.

And you thought—this is what it means to almost have something.

And still want it.

© ACHERONSOCIETY, 2025. all rights reserved. do not steal, repost, translate and/or claim these work as your own.

[alicefromwonderlands]

that’s so beautiful i can’t

everything makes so much sense to his character, the insecurities, the loyalty and excuses, i can’t help but read it again and again.

[yourbridgebetweenworlds]

Seeking Solace ⏾⋆.˚

pairing: remus lupin x fem!reader

synopsis: full moon fast-approaching, remus browses the library in search of a book that will help him forget, but he finds something even better: you.

content warnings: loser!remus coded (kind of), lots of yearning, slight angst, bad writing

word count: 749

The drizzling rain hits the patterned glass windows of the library and its gentle pitter-patter casts a melancholic spell throughout the room. Remus quietly browses, foot-steps heavy as he walks through the spaces between tall, dark, and completely packed shelves. He hopes to find something new. Something compelling enough that he won’t notice the never-ending ache in his bones that grows stronger by the nights during this time of the month, every month.

Deep down he knows it’s no use. 

Before Remus realizes, he’s wandered to a part of the library (surprisingly) unfamiliar to him. About to explore, he’s stopped in his tracks.

It’s you.

Sitting in a secluded nook on what looks to be the coziest armchair and reading a book under a pretty stained glass lamp (though Remus would argue not nearly as pretty as you), you’re the picture of comfort—serenity. His mind screams at him to walk away, as disrupting your peace feels like an azkaban worthy crime, one he thinks he’s committing by just standing in your presence, and yet something inside him makes him stay…

Sensing someone, you look up from your book and notice him.

Before Remus’ internal panic can begin, you send him the sweetest smile, and he swears he can feel the warmth that you radiate and wants nothing more than to let it seep into his achy bones. 

He has seen you around the corridors before, paid attention to you in the classes he was lucky enough to have with you, and he’s deduced that you’re the personification of a warm cup of tea, a soft blanket, and his favourite knit jumper, and if he felt he deserved it, he’d want nothing more than to be enveloped by you. You’re kind and he’s never seen anyone fail to smile when you’re around. If there was ever any place to find solace it’d be with you. 

Remus hesitantly smiles back, and he wonders if you can sense its hidden wistfulness, maybe even see the way his heart is practically clawing its way out of his chest in hopes to get to your gentle hands. 

“Hi Remus.”

Two words, yet the butterflies he feels in his stomach after hearing you say his name must amount to several.

There’s so much he wishes he could say to you, except he doesn’t. And he never will. He can’t. So he settles with greeting you back, and searches for a way to linger a little while longer.

“What’re you reading?”

You extend your arm, favourite book in hand for him to take, and he comes forward, hyper aware of the way the distance he put between you both is closing in, making the magnetic pull you possess impossibly harder to ignore. When Remus’ hand grabs the book, he tries to push the fact that a mere inch from his fingertips rests yours out of his head. 

“It’s my favourite,” you reveal, smiling up at him.

The sight is too much so he looks down at the book now in his hand, forcing his focus to shift to the cover, examining it (though he can’t process anything with you right there).

In a moment of what he can’t decide whether is boldness or all his systems failing (probably the latter) he asks, “What’s it about?”

You visibly light up and Remus’ chest fills with pride at contributing to your expression. 

You begin to tell him about the book. Eyes twinkling and voice fond, he can tell how much you love it and it’s the most endearing sight. What would your eyes look like if it was him you talked about?

Remus scolds himself for wondering what it would be like to be the object of your affection. He knows allowing his mind on this path of imagination is a slippery slope, one that inevitably leads to heartbreak. But with the full-moons impending arrival, the fact that you’re talking to him feels like a gift, and he tells himself that he can be selfish just this once, so he hangs onto your every word like it’s the last time he’ll ever hear you speak.

Remus Lupin believes there’s no universe where someone like him would deserve, let alone end up with someone like you; however, your mellifluous voice, one he thinks must be coated in honey allows him to—for a moment— pretend, and as you go on, the ache he's so accustomed to feeling lessens. Enough that for once he can act like it was never there.

[alicefromwonderlands]

i think my heart exploded i need to reassure him he’s perfect

[cassielovesdeadwizards]

Mistletoe | R.Lupin x reader

| harrypotter x aunt!reader | remuslupin x fem!reader | golden trio era |

Synopsis: after the death of your brother, you take in your nephew as your own, shutting everyone else out in your grief. However, once you’re reunited with an old friend in Harry’s third year, old feelings start to come to the surface as you help each other through your grief.

WARNINGS: mentions of dea!h, mentions of grief. (In this story, let’s say Voldemorts curse bounced off Harry and killed moldy voldy for good, Harry has a normal childhood)

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

“Thank you, for standing with me.” You say, watching as the train leaves the station for the fourth time since your nephew had been accepted into Hogwarts. “It’s always so hard watching him go.”

“It’s no problem at all, you know that.” Remus told you, placing a tentative hand on your arm as you play with your hands worriedly.

It was the same overwhelming anxiety year after year, watching the only family you have left, the only part of James you have left, slip further and further away into the distance.

You and your brother were inseparable, known quite rarely as James and y/n, but more commonly as the Potter Twins. It was a rare occurrence to see one of you without the other, especially at school.

You weren’t with him when he died. No, you were in your own house, washing dishes by hand, because you were to bored to do it by magic. You weren’t with him, but you felt it. Like a knife through the chest, you felt the part of your soul that belonged to him fracture into a million pieces. Your heart that matched his break and turn cold as the glass you held fell to the floor.

You knew part of yourself had died, but not which part.

Not until you reached the Potter’s house.

Not until you found yourself screaming until your throat was raw, begging your brother to wake up.

When you finally heard the crying of a baby over your own sobs, you knew you had to take him before Dumbledore got his hands on him, taking him away from you forever.

“Hello, little one, Auntie y/n’s going to keep you safe.” You whispered, your voice only a fracture of what it used to be.

You tried not to look towards the lifeless form of what used to be one of your greatest friends.

You raised Harry as if he was your own, teaching him everyday about the parents he lost, because you would be damned if James Potter would ever be forgotten.

“I know it’s not, but still, thank you.” You tell him, before turning your head to look into his kind eyes. “You can come over, if you like? Despite what Harry might have told you, I’m a good cook.”

“That would be nice.” Remus chucked, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

Sitting with Remus at your kitchen table, you started to realise just how much you had missed him.

“I let him keep the map, last year.” He told you, a small grin tugging at his lips as he sipped his tea.

“Remus Lupin, despite the years that have passed you still have some mischief in you.” You tease, sipping your own coffee.

“Well, once a marauder, always a marauder. Isn’t that what we all used to say?” He retorted, and you genuinely smile.

A rare sighting since the passing of your brother, a sight only Harry has known.

You reach over and take his calloused hand in yours, brushing your thumb over a scar that lay there.

“I’m so sorry that I pushed you away, I never meant-“

“No, no, none of that. I won’t have you apologising for the way you chose to grieve. You lost your brother, and took on the responsibility of raising his child all in a matter of hours. I wasn’t what you needed then, and I understood that completely.”

That’s something about Remus that you had always loved. No matter how wronged he was, he had always found it within himself to understand. No matter how much somebody hurt him, his empathy would always shine through.

“What about what you needed? You lost everybody, and I shut you out.” You said, your confession leaves with shame and regret. He held your hand tighter.

“What I needed was to know that you and Harry were safe. And I knew that. I managed my grief in my own ways, but I managed nonetheless.”

Something else about Remus that you loved, was the way he held eye contact when he spoke. As if people would stop hearing him if he looked away. His eyes held onto yours now, sending secret messages of reassurance that he can’t speak with words.

He smiled, picking up his tea once more to take a sip. You wondered if he had had somebody to hold all this time, if somebody had been there to hold his hand as his world fell apart around him.

As you look at him, you remember the small school crush you used to have on him while at Hogwarts. The way you used to purposely sit next to him in the great hall so he’d have to lean down to talk to you, since he was so tall.

“You know, I’m pretty sure I had a bit of a crush on you in school.” You say, smiling down at you drink. He scoffs in amusement.

“Me? Why on earth would you have a crush on me?” He said, as if the idea was absolutely preposterous.

“Because you were always so kind. No matter how angry you were, you never spoke to me with anything other than kindness. And you’re tall, Godric knows that makes any girl fold,” you laugh. “And I thought you were pretty.”

“Pretty?” He looks scared to ask, as if the answer would somehow sting.

“Yeah, I’ve always thought your beauty was more soft than other boys,” you look into his eyes, seeing the same boy you loved in your school years. “The other girls would always tell me how gorgeous Sirius was, and he was, but I was always too busy staring at you to notice.”

Maybe it was the fact that you finally had a soul your own age to talk to. Or maybe it was the familiarity of talking to an old friend, someone you once spent every waking moment with. But you told him everything, about how lonely you’ve been, about how awful you feel about hating Harry’s similarities to James, about how much you love Harry and how it hurts to not be by his side at all times.

You tell him everything.

And he listens to every word.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

Remus came over almost everyday until Harry was due to come home for Christmas.

He laughed with you, held you while you cried, and grieved with you. The way the two of you should have done all those years ago.

It felt as if the twelve years you were eleven years you were apart never happened.

“Auntie y/n! Over here!” Your nephew called, carrying his case for the holidays with him.

“Harry! Oh, I’ve missed you!” You say, placing your hands on his cheeks and kissing the crown of his head.

“It’s only been a couple of months.” He says, smiling at your antics,

“I know, I know, but you know I have no one to fret over while you’re away.”

Harry hugs you, the kind of hug he knows you need once you see him again.

Harry knows his Aunt struggles to be away from him, he also knows that she thinks he doesn’t know. But since a young age Harry has noticed the way he Aunt always hugs him tighter in the mornings, as if being away in her dreams was far too long, and how she always holds his hand while out and about, and how she sends weekly letter just to check he’s doing alright.

And he replies to every single one, because while others would see it as suffocating, Harry feels nothing to affection and gratitude towards his aunt, because he may be all she had, but she’s all he has in return. And if a letter a week soothes her mind, he has no quarrels in doing that.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

Harry was beyond happy that Remus would be spending Christmas with them. To him, Remus was an extension of his Father, one more person he could ask to tell him stories and memories of the man he never truly met.

You would always tell him anything he wanted to know, but deep down you knew that he knew it pained you. And so he doesn’t ask much of you, but you wish he did.

“Did he get into trouble at school? My dad?” He asked at the dinner table, casting looks toward Remus and you.

You let a laugh slip past your lips, and you hold your hand to your mouth.

“Harry, your father invented trouble.” Remus told him, smiling fondly at the memories.

“Oh, come one. You talk as if you weren’t a step behind him at all times! More often than not, if my brother was in trouble, so were we!” You laughed, for the first time remembering your brother with joy rather than grief.

“And you talk as if you weren’t the mastermind behind most of that mischief.” He says, casting you a look of teasing and humour.

You gasp in faux shock, clasping your chest and looking towards your nephew.

“Absolutely false, Harry. I was no trouble in school.”

Harry laughed then, “Professor McGonagall says otherwise.”

You stop and snap your attention to your Nephew as Remus laughs, no longer able to eat.

“What?” You say, a little panicked, mostly laughing.

Harry watches as his Aunt and who he now sees as an Uncle playfully bicker and argue about who was more trouble to who, and wonders when they’ll realise just how in love they are.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

You’re clearing the table after Christmas dinner, stacking plates into piles and wrapping left overs in foil. Harry had retreated to his room to tend to his new quidditch set before the traditional Christmas movie night before bed, and y/n took it as a great opportunity to clear up.

A hand touched the small of her back, moving her slightly to the left as he squeezed by, taking the plates from her hands.

“You don’t need to do that, I’ve got it.” He says softly, sending her a small wink before carrying them over to the sink.

“Let me do something then, because you did most of the cooking and now you won’t let me clean.” You complained, not a single trace of discontent in your voice.

He turns to you, humour in his eyes but a frown on his lips.

“And what if I want to do all of this, then what?”

“Then you’ll just have to deal with me helping.” You say, stepping closer. You’re standing in front of him now, holding a cup full of cutlery in one hand and a plate of leftovers in the other. “Mr Lupin, I believe you’re blocking my way to the fridge.”

“Oh am I? Thats a shame, I guess I’ll have to take these off your hands then.” He says, taking the plate and cutlery and placing them on the side.

You’re about to argue when he turns back to you, much closer than before. “Let me help you.”

“You’ve done more than enough.” You say in a small voice.

“And what if I want to do more?” His hand reaches up and places a strand of your dark hair behind your ear, but his hand doesn’t fall, it stays put against your cheek.

You look up to see a branch of mistletoe growing from your ceiling, right between the two of you.

His eyes never leave your face, more accurately your lips as your breathing gets heavier.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, his voice so small you barely hear it. All you can do is nod as his other hand is placed ever so gently on your waist, pulling you in.

He places his lips on yours, and it’s the most gentle kiss, but you feel the weight of a thousand words that have never been said behind it, pushing him closer.

To Remus’ surprise, it was you who intensified the kiss, placing a hand behind his head and pushing further into him. When you broke apart to breathe, he placed his forehead onto yours and closed his eyes.

“I think I’ve loved you for a while now, Miss Potter.”

“I’ve loved you always, Mr Lupin.”

What neither of the two seemed to notice, was their nephew sitting at the top of his stairs tucking his wand back into his pocket, closing the book about growing magical plants with spells.

[alicefromwonderlands]

i’d lie if i said no tears were shed in the beginning

it’s just so beautiful and harry wanting happiness for his auntie and uncle? adorable😭

as always i appreciate dumbledore shade

[alicefromwonderlands]

i’m finally cleaning my depression room and only thing that gets me through vacuuming is dressing up as freddy mercury and blasting break free

[moonstruckme]

I loved your sky Remus fic!!!!! And ok it got me thinking as someone whose super extroverted and honestly a progressional yapper I would love to see a fic of the first time Remus flusters reader like may be it's on accident like he's just so sweet and earnest and he gives her a genuine compliment (something beyond just like ur pretty) and she gets super shy and flustered and he's just there like 👁️ 👄 👁️ omg what is this role reversal and just so cute fluff

Thanks for requesting <3

shy!Remus x extroverted!reader ♡ 941 words

It’s a cool morning, and the drink in your hand is cold enough to make you want to walk quickly on the little nature trail you and Remus have decided to meander down. The breeze licks over your skin, carrying moisture and hinting at rain later in the day, and it pinkens Remus’ cheeks along its path. Though, it’s possible that’s not the breeze’s fault. 

Remus’ cheeks tend to be pink, you’ve found. His friend James swears it happens most often around you, but you’ve rarely entered a room where Remus is to find him not already looking at least somewhat flustered. To be fair, his eyes are usually trained on where you’re entering, too. Maybe he’s only very attuned to the sound of your footsteps. 

Remus’ face gets pinker now, when you direct your smile at him and bump his elbow gently with yours. You nod to his drink. “Do you like it?” 

“Yeah.” You can hardly hear his voice over the wind whistling through the trees. He clears his throat. “What is it, again?” 

“A toasted sesame matcha.” 

Remus nods, peering at his drink. “And what’s yours?” 

“An ube matcha. Want to try?” 

You give it a little stir with your straw, passing it to him. Since you’ve known him, Remus has drank almost exclusively black tea. No milk, no sugar. Lately, you’ve decided to take on the fun project of getting him out of his comfort zone. He’s nice enough to let you without complaint. Unfortunately, he’s so nice you don’t think he’d tell you if he hated what you gave him to try. 

Remus eyes the purple liquid at the bottom of your cup warily. “Do you mind if I…?” He touches your straw. 

You laugh. “I hardly think we need to be worried about swapping spit at this point. Yes, you can use my straw.” 

His shoulders pull tight with embarrassment at your spit-swapping comment, and he ducks his head, sipping. 

“Mm.” 

“Mm?” you echo hopefully. 

Remus’ eyes flit to yours before they jump away, bashful. He hands you back your drink. “It’s good. It’s…sweet.” 

“I tend to like my matcha sweet,” you say. “Ube, strawberry, raspberry, anything really. But I thought you might like something earthier. We can swap if you want.” 

Remus refuses, agreeing that he prefers the nuttier flavor, and you begin telling him about why you’d thought that might be the case. You ramble on about flavor profiles and the artistry of making matcha and the value of a refreshing morning beverage until you see a familiar tree and realize you’ve gone around the loop of the trail already. You look over, and Remus’ cup is empty. 

“Oh my god.” You let out a breathless laugh. “I’m so sorry.” 

“What?” He looks confused. “What are you sorry for?”

“I’ve not stopped talking for probably twenty minutes!” 

“That’s alright.” Later, you’ll realize how rare it is for Remus to speak to you as freely as he is now, without even a hint of sheepishness in his voice. “I don’t mind.” 

“Your matcha is long gone, and I’m not even half done with mine.” You shake your head at yourself, exasperated. “I need to shut up.” 

“No, don’t do that,” he says, almost desperately. “I love it when you talk; I like listening to you. You have such a lovely voice.” 

There’s a flicker of something in your chest. It spreads outward, sending warmth to your cheeks and fingertips. 

“Do you really think so?” You don’t recognize the softness of your own voice. 

“Of course I do,” Remus says. “It has so much personality in it. And sometimes you get more excited as you talk, too, which is…well, it’s very cute.” 

Oh. Well. You’re no better than him, now, ducking your warming face towards your drink under the guise of taking a sip. You feel all flummoxed and fluttery inside. 

“Dove?” 

“Hm?” 

“You alright?” 

“Mhm,” you hum down towards the trail. “Yeah.” 

“Did I upset you?” Remus’ voice has returned to its usual shade of diffidence. He bends, trying to see you. “Was it…oh.” 

A tiny shock goes through you when his eyes catch yours, causing you to swallow a sip of your matcha wrong. You choke, coughing. 

“Fuck, shit.” Any other time the vulgarities uttered in such a soft tone would make you laugh, but for once you’re too flustered to try and fluster him. Remus pats your back hesitantly. “Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“What’re you doing to me?” you wheeze. 

“I didn’t mean to!” 

“I know, I just…” You fight the urge to fan yourself despite the cool breeze. Is this how Remus feels all the time? It can’t be. “You can’t say things like that.” 

“What things?” 

“Sweet things like you just said.” 

Remus is amused now. You can feel it. Sure enough, you look up to see a bemused sort of smile tilting his lips. “I’m not allowed to be honest with you? How would you like me to be instead?” 

“I don’t know,” you say miserably, pressing your free hand to your face in a futile attempt to hide from him. “Just not that. I’ll die.” 

“Alright, dove,” Remus consoles you. He takes your hand, tugging it gently away from your face to twine your fingers with his—a bold move, for him, but he must think you need it. “I won’t tell you I like your voice any more.” 

“At least give me some warning.” 

“Whatever you need.” 

You take a breath, trying to relax. “You’re a lot nicer about this than I am,” you admit. 

“Yeah? Well, I have some experience on the other side of it.”

[alicefromwonderlands]

goshhhh i am a chronic yapper so this is actually perfect

[alicefromwonderlands]

any witches know a good spell for luck or focus or motivation?

i got a math exam this friday and i’m so stressed out idk how i’ll manage to actually pass it

[whimsic4ldoll]

[bruisedboys]

Never listen to aggressiv anons, your garbage is really good garbage.

If you’re feeling up to it I’m always in a remus mood, you’re so good at writing him as confident and don’t get me wrong it always makes me swoon, but i was wondering if the roles were switched and remus was the shy one for a change🥰

hi lovely thank youuu for your request!! I’m very nervous cos this is the first proper thing I’ve written in like forever… if it’s bad don’t tell me 🙉

shy!remus x fem!reader

Remus can’t figure out why you like him. He’s awkward, and weird, and too tall, and he’s got two very handsome, much less shy, best friends, plus a lot of other friends (much cooler than him), whom he assumed you’d go for before him. He was mistaken. You’re all over him.

He watches as you approach the table where he, James, Sirius, and a few other friends have set up base for the night. It’s loud in the pub, busy and warm, but you’re moving towards him like he’s the only person here.

“Remus! Hello,” You say happily, coming to a halt in front of him. You don’t offer a hello to anyone else, though Remus chalks it down to the fact they’re all busy talking, or drinking, and he’s been sitting there at the edge of the group quite in his own world.

He blinks up at you. You look lovely. You always do, but you’ve put your hair up in a way he’s never seen you do before. Remus thinks it makes your shoulders look really nice, then realises that’s a totally weird thing to think.

“Hi,” he manages. He’s shy, but he’s not usually this shy. It’s just, you’re beautiful, and he’s got a huge crush on you, and you seem almost equally endeared with him. It’s a little absurd, in his opinion.

You give him a once over, eyes raking from his face to his knees and back up again. It’s quick enough that he shouldn’t catch it, but he does, and then blushes so hard he’s sure you could cook an egg on his face.

“You look nice,” you say breezily. Your eyes zero in on his hair. “Did you cut your hair?”

Remus blinks. “I— yeah, I did,” he says, a little stunned. He hadn’t expected you to notice. It’s not much shorter than it was before, and no one other than Sirius noticed it, and that’s ’cos Sirius is a hair freak.

He’s suddenly self conscious of it. His hand moves to the back of his head, tugging at the hair there. “S’it look bad?” He asks you.

You shake your head vigorously. “No, what? It looks good,” you say, like it’s obvious.

You reach out and run your hands through his freshly cut hair, fingers pushing against his scalp. Remus’ heart goes wild and his stomach does that thing where he suddenly almost feels nauseous, but in a good way.

“I like this length on you,” you say, giving his hair a gentle tug. There’s a sort of lilting cadence to your tone that Remus has come to learn indicates you’re flirting. It sure works. Remus feels like he’s been lit on fire, heat licking up his neck and settling at the tips of his ears.

“Thank you,” he says, almost choking on the words.

You grin. You must know what you’re doing to him, he can see it in your eyes. He figures the permanent blush on his face doesn’t help.

“You’re welcome,” you say back, dropping your hand from his hair. You give his shoulder a squeeze and it’s like jolts of electricity go through his arm. “Move over? I want to sit next to you, handsome.”

Remus goes a bit blind. He obliges, much too happy to do whatever you want, shuffling across the bench to make room for you. You slide in next to him, somehow too close but not close enough, and start chatting to him animatedly about your day.

Remus tries to listen, he really does, but it gets a bit difficult when your hand finds his knee under the table. Your sweet perfume washes over him, your thumb rubs the knee of his jeans, and all he can think about is how much he’d really, really, like to kiss you.

Sirius catches his eye from across the table and smirks. He’s in for a long night.

[alicefromwonderlands]

my sweet boy😭

first time reading shy!remus and DEFINITELY not the last

[alicefromwonderlands]

everyone shows that unbinding spell but never the hardship to even make that decision

that candle was once the most important person in someone’s life and now it’s being cut off in flames

[alicefromwonderlands]

it’s my moms birthday and she’s so happy it’s bizarre to me

on my birthday i cried the whole day through and barely held on when they sang happy birthday to me.

and meanwhile she’s giddy and giggling when she’s reminded of her birthday

is that what normal people feel like on their birthday?