let me just get this out of the way now, if you’re homophobic, transphobic, racist, sexist, or hold any bigoted beliefs, this blog isn’t for you!! i want this to be a safe space for everyone, and i won’t tolerate any disrespect, hate or disregard for basic human decency. anyone displaying or interacting with this behaviour will be blocked.
Can I request poly!wolfstar x reader who is feeling slightly insecure about her body for no particular reason and they notice even though she doesn’t say it?
I’m just sooo in love with your writing, it’s just *mwah* chef’s kiss
Hey gorgeous! Thank you for requesting <3
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her vile agendas
poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 820 words
Sirius hardly steps inside before Remus is fixing him with a look.
He raises his hands, grease-stained from working on his motorcycle all afternoon, in a gesture of peace. "I'm going to shower."
"Be careful not to touch anything on your way," Remus says. He doesn't take his eyes off Sirius while Sirius skirts around the edge of the sitting room with his hands upheld like a surgeon's. "Y/n's in the shower, so you might have to wait."
"Reckon she'll let me get in with her?"
Remus rolls his eyes, relaxing once Sirius clears the sofa. "You can try."
You and Remus hardly ever want to shower with Sirius. You both act like he has lewd ulterior motives and won't hear his environmentalist arguments. You're not wrong, but still.
It turns out he's too late anyway. You're just stepping out of the bathroom as Sirius comes near, steam on your heels and towel halfway wrapped around you. You do it up quickly when you see him.
"Oh—hi," you say, startled. "Sorry."
"What for, gorgeous?" Sirius grins. "I'm sorry for spooking you. Do we have any hot water left?"
Whatever strange timidity had come over you dissipates, and you smile. "We should."
"Don't suppose you'll keep me company?"
Like Remus, your eyes roll. "I just got out."
"Worth a try."
There's an awkward sort of pause, and Sirius realizes you haven't moved to put on your lotion like you usually do after showering. It's like you're waiting on him.
"Okay." He tries not to drag his syllables, keeping his tone light. "Would you mind grabbing the door after me? I think if I leave any grease marks on anything Remus'll toss me out."
"I wouldn't let him," you promise, stepping forward to help.
Sirius showers quickly. There is some hot water left, but he's chased out when the spray turns cold on him, greaseless and clean-smelling. You and Remus are splayed out on the sofa when he finds you.
"Aren't you warm?" Remus is asking in a low voice.
Your reply is equally soft, though somehow more secretive than intimate. "I'm fine."
"You're going to burn up in there, lovely."
"It's not that warm."
"I'm warm just looking at you."
"Well, you're always warm." Sirius turns the corner in time to see you kiss Remus' cheek, the sort of sweet peck that makes a flush spread under your boyfriend's freckles. "And a film calls for a blanket."
"Are we watching a film?" Sirius asks.
"We were thinking," you say. "Paper Moon?"
"Sounds good to me." He eyes Remus. "Am I allowed to sit now?"
Remus waves a hand. "Don't treat me like a warden. You wouldn't've wanted the stains on the sofa either."
"You're the furniture's champion," you coo, kissing him again.
As Sirius sits on your other side, he sees why Remus is worried about you overheating. You have a blanket draped across your shoulders so it covers all of you. It wouldn't be so abnormal most of the time, but it's the dead of summer—even Sirius only put on a tank top after his shower. Remus has been giving you all a show in his boxers for the better part of a week.
"Alright in there?" Sirius teases, fanning a corner of your blanket to give you some airflow.
Your look is exasperated, if fond also. "Fine."
Sirius thinks you're lying. You've been a shade of yourself recently—not in every way, not in how you speak or your general loveliness, but in how you hold yourself. You seem to be always covering up, curving in, turning away, like you have something to hide. You don't. Sirius knows you don't, because he's seen you just about every way you can be and it's all spectacular. You make him feel like a teenage boy in ways that are honestly humiliating. He'd put his own shames on display if it got you out of this funk, though.
Once the film gets going, Sirius sneaks a hand beneath your blanket and puts his arm around you. You still, but you don't move away.
He kisses your shoulder. "Love you."
"Love you, too," you murmur.
It's a slow softening. Your breathing deepens, your shoulders relax. You sink gradually into his side. Sirius does what he can to help without calling attention to it; he keeps his gaze ahead, strokes love-heavy touches up and down your waist, rests his lips on the crown of your head when you get near enough.
Eventually, you let out a breath and relax completely.
Remus must have been watching. "You okay?" he asks.
"Yeah," you reply. It sounds less like a lie than before.
"I wish I could join the cuddle, but I think I'd pass out from the heat."
"All relationships require sacrifice," you hum.
Sirius laughs, manhandling you into his lap so he can take Remus' hand. "There. Think you can bear this?"
Hi! Idk if you still write for poly! Wolfstar or poly! Marauders anymore but if you wanted to write for them again could I request a reader that literally never shows when their in pain and the bfs wake up in the middle of the night to the reader crying and throwing up from pain due to a kidney stone/ kidney infection and freak tf out? (Literally what happened to me one time and I never got around to writing a fic about it) obvs if you don’t wanna write for them anymore totally fine! Just thought I’d shoot my shot bc I love your fics and I’ve never requested anything before lol
Thanks for requesting lovely!
cw: vomitting, nausea
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words
You’re so quiet that Remus doesn’t wake until the bathroom fan comes on.
He’s aware, in the distant, half-coherent way, that you got out of bed some time ago. That’s not uncommon; at least once a night, one of you (usually Sirius, because he has a bladder the size of a pea) will clamber across the mattress in a drowsy obstacle course of tangled limbs to make your way to the bathroom. Remus registered your leaving, and went back to sleep.
Now, with the reminder of the fan, he goes to investigate.
Your name comes out soft and scratchy as he knocks on the bathroom door. Behind Remus, Sirius makes a mumbly sound that lands somewhere between irritation (presumably at realizing he’s been abandoned by both of you) and curiosity (presumably at why), but the drone of the fan drowns out any reply from you.
Remus knocks again. When you don’t answer, he twists the doorhandle.
The bright ceiling light is a shock even though Remus thinks he’s prepared for it. He blinks a few times, un-fuzzing your image until he can see more clearly the shape of you, which is curled over the basin of the toilet, your knees on the cold tile and face hovering above the bowl, seemingly trying to hug yourself out of existence.
A somnolent coo drops from his lips, and Remus drops to his knees behind you. “Hey.” He lays the backs of his fingers to your nape. You’re clammy—and trembling, Remus can see it in your hands—but you don’t feel warm enough for a fever. “Not feeling well?”
You make a soft noise that’s likely meant to be a hum of agreement. It breaks partway through and turns to a whine.
“Think you might have caught a bug?” he murmurs sympathetically.
You might shrug, though Remus isn’t sure if it’s only the involuntary jerk of your shoulders as you gag unproductively.
“I don’t know,” you say after a while. Your voice is raw, and exhausted; Remus’ heart wrings itself out like a wet rag.
He hums, sweeping his thumb over your nape as you breathe in and out through your mouths. A sort of breathing Remus recognizes, shallow and controlled.
“Are you in pain?” he asks.
Your breathing doesn’t change as you nod, eyes squeezed shut.
Remus’ alarm doubles.
You’re not one to broadcast your discomfort. You’d rather weather it on your own. This is an instinct Remus understands, and so he does his best to respect it; even when it pains him sometimes to do it; even when it means forcing Sirius to respect it against his instincts as well. There have been times when your boyfriends have learned that you pulled a muscle or hit your head days after the fact because you didn’t feel like telling them and you’re nearly frighteningly good at hiding when you’re hurting.
Now, your small nod sends fingers of dread creeping up Remus’ spine—not because you’ve never been in pain, but because you’ve never admitted to it. Whatever you’re feeling, the intensity of it overwhelms your want for privacy.
Before he can fully reconcile with this, Sirius comes stumbling into the bathroom. Remus hadn’t heard him coming over the fan (which, he realizes now, was likely a measure you took to keep them from hearing you). Sirius blinks, his face scrunched under the assault of the ceiling light in a way that would make Remus grin any other time.
Perhaps it’s because Remus’ expression remains so somber that Sirius asks instantly, “What’s wrong?”
(Or a more slurred version of that, but Remus puts it together.)
“She’s hurting,” he replies.
And Sirius, bless him, despite his still bleary eyes and his confusion and the fact that Remus knows it takes him at least a few minutes to wake up fully after getting out of bed, crouches behind you and knows precisely what to ask.
“Where?” he says, smoothing a strand of hair away from your mouth. And at your helpless whine, “Show me, baby.”
Remus watches you lift a trembling hand from the floor. Every movement looks like it pains you, and he feels vaguely nauseous himself at the prospect. You rest your palm over your stomach. “H—here.”
“Can I feel?” Sirius asks.
You look terrified at the prospect. “No.”
“Okay,” he soothes, “okay.” Remus rubs a slow back-and-forth across your nape, wondering if Sirius has noticed your slight trembling or the wet sheen over your eyes. If he’s as frightened by them as Remus is. “Did it just start?”
You take a moment to respond, breathing through another bout of intensified pain. Remus sees your throat work around a gag. “Yeah—” you manage “—just tonight, but it gets—it’s in waves.”
“Do you feel done being sick for now?” Remus asks.
You hum weakly. “I don’t think there’s anything left.”
Sirius makes a pitying sound. He takes your shoulders to help Remus ease you back from the toilet. You look like you want to curl up on your side, but settle for leaning into Remus’ side instead. When you push out another shaky exhale, a tear slithers down your cheek.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, baby.” Sirius’ expression pinches and he shuffles closer to kiss your temple. “I know it hurts. Does it feel like it’s getting any worse?”
Your reply is so soft Remus hardly catches it with you inches from his ear.
“Maybe,” he repeats for Sirius.
Sirius nods, his eyes clearer now and chewing his bottom lip. He sends Remus a grimace.
“What do you want to do, love?” Remus tries asking you. Because he knows what he and Sirius want to do, but it seems worth checking.
Your reply is near a sob. “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” Sirius is quick to reassure you. He kisses your head again. “Let’s start by getting some painkillers in you, angel, okay?”
Remus kicks himself internally for not thinking of that sooner.
You nod, and Sirius gets up to find them, the bathroom now full of sound between the fan and cabinets opening and pill bottles rattling around.
“And then,” Remus does his best to make his voice calm and lulling, “maybe we can go by A&E and see if they can help sort this out.”
He needn’t have been so cautious. You’re in too much pain to do anything but nod, a small miracle that makes Remus feel at once relieved and distressed.
Sirius sits beside you again, but not before—seriously, Remus could kiss him—shutting off the fan, extinguishing some of the chaos in the room in favor of a more peaceful sort of quiet.
“Here you go,” he says, dropping a couple of paracetamol into your hand. “You’ll be alright, sweetheart. We’ve got you.”
wait i sort of love that sirius is taking the lead in this one… usually its remus being the logical clear headed leader type but im eating this up!!! and oh lord anon i hope youre doing better now 😭😭
I'm an emt myself irl, and I looove your emt marauders! My request is this kidna scenario cause we all have "frequent fliers"- People we see regularly, usually elderly people or people on life alerts who live alone, and we do get attached to them- they tend to be simple calls, so it's always a shock when you rock up and it's something serious for once. Maybe reader who's a frequent flier who faints a lot so tends to fall? Most of the calls they get from them are mostly bruises but this time they fell down stairs really badly or something?
Hii, thank you angel! Please don't judge my poor medical writing too harshly lol <3
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 833 words
Time moves strangely. You feel tired, and weird, a prickle of unease somewhere near the back of your consciousness that you’re too lazy to reach for. You blink once, and your kitchen is empty. A second time, and Remus is leaning down towards your face.
“There you are,” he breathes. “Look at—hey, we need you to keep your eyes open. Look at the light.”
Though you don’t understand what he means at first, a white light summons your attention. Remus hums approvingly. There are hands on you, multiple pairs of hands. You make a sound when one of them touches your head.
“Found it,” says a different voice. One you know but can’t place. “Minor laceration on the head. Doll, what were you thinking, moving in here by yourself? Who was going to call us?”
You don’t like hearing voices you can’t see. You think you might try to shush them. Someone else laughs.
“She’s not in the mood to be scolded right this moment, Sirius,” they say for you.
The white light clicks off. “Do you know today’s date?”
You frown, trying to see who’s behind you. The moment he comes into view, Sirius touches your head to still it, grinning at you.
“He’s asking you, babe,” he says. “What day is it?”
“Oh. Um…” You try to focus. “Saturday? I’m not at work.”
“You’re not,” Sirius agrees. “Maybe if you had been, there would have been someone to catch you.”
“What?”
“Sweetheart,” Remus recaptures your attention, “do you know your birthday?”
It takes you a few moments, but you manage to scrounge up the date. Remus checks the tablet in his hands, confirming.
“Dislocated shoulder, thready pulse,” the last disembodied voice says. James, you realize. It has to be James. These three always come as a set.
“How did you…get here?” you ask.
Sirius’ voice is light, but you like to think that after so many visits, you know him well enough to hear the touch of concern in it. “Someone called it in.”
“But…”
“It must have been you,” James fills in the blanks. “You’re the only one here.”
“I called you?”
“Looks that way, lovely,” he says, folding your arm across your chest. You hiss when it tugs painfully.
You can’t wrap your head around it. It was always your flatmate who called emergency services, no matter how often you told her your fainting wasn’t cause for alarm and you didn’t need paramedics to come every time. You think maybe she liked to gawp at them (you can’t wholly blame her for that). The last time this trio had been forced to come lift your legs and feed you water, you’d joked about how they’d stop getting calls soon because you were moving into a place all your own. You’re beginning to piece together why Sirius keeps going on about that being a poor choice.
He strokes your forehead now, coaxing you to look at him. Sirius’ eyes have lost their playfulness, uncharacteristically soft. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I just…” You blink hard, trying to dispel the thick fog that’s clouding your thoughts. “I don’t remember.”
“It looks like you fainted and probably clipped your head on the counter,” says Remus. “You must have gone down fairly hard; you knocked your shoulder out as well.”
“You scared the shit out of us, you know,” Sirius chides you. “We had to break the lock on your door when no one came to answer it.”
“You…what?”
“Yeah, sorry about that.” James sends you a not-very-sorry smile. “It might be worth reconsidering cohabitation, love.”
“Not,” Remus says pointedly, “that you have to think about that right this moment. Does anything else hurt or feel strange?”
You take a breath. “I don’t think so.”
“Okay.” Sirius gives you a small smile. He works his hand under your shoulders. The other, you realize, is holding something tightly to your head. “Let’s get you moving, then.”
James counts down from three, and you whimper as you’re lifted into the air, the pain in your shoulder flaring. Sirius shushes you as you’re settled onto a backboard.
“I know, I know,” he soothes. “We’ll get you some pain meds as soon as we’re in the ambulance. Hang in there.”
“Ambulance?” you warble.
“Yeah, ambulance,” James laughs. The three of them lift your gurney up, wheeling you out of your kitchen. “This didn’t go quite the same as your usual spells, if you haven’t noticed. We can’t just leave you here with a bottle of water and a pat on the head this time.”
“Might not have happened if you hadn’t moved in by yourself,” Sirius sing-songs.
“Enough.” Remus shoots him an exasperated look. “Don’t lecture her.”
“We’re only worried about her,” James protests.
“She can’t properly process it now, anyways.”
Sirius hums, but leans down by your ear. “Listen here,” he whispers. “I’m going to come check on you before you’re discharged. If you don’t have a flatmate by the end of the week, I’ll move in myself.”
mae i’m reading through the blvd is not that bad and im living for the concept of reader finally being the one person in the world the boys have ever met to out freak sirius in the sexual tension war. it’s beautiful and ik they want her BAD
Thank you angel <3
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
cw: alcohol
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7
rockstar!marauders x journalist!reader ♡ 2.7k words
The way The Marauders play, you’d never guess the week they’ve had. Sirius flirts with Remus onstage, Remus rolls his eyes and ignores him like always, James laughs and blows Sirius kisses to make up for it. They’re magnetic, and carefree, and fun.
You think part of it is the music. Each of them clearly live for it, as all great musicians do. You can see the way James’ shoulders loosen as he lets the music draw him in, the way Remus’ hold on his bass relaxes (as though he hadn’t teased you for strangling it only a few days before). You ease up a bit, too, standing to the side of the stage and watching with a faint buzz of anxiety running through you.
Before the show you managed to corner a sound tech, asking him to double-check that everything was in working order. He gave you a look that asked without asking who you were to be making such inquiries. You contemplated flashing your press pass and seeing if that did you any good, but luckily Lily came along with the same request, and you left the bewildered sound tech in her capable hands.
Even so, you don’t fully relax until the show is done.
Remus walks off first, backlit by blue and red light. Then Sirius, who shoots you a wink on his way past. James laughs and pulls you into a sweaty hug, saying, “You looked so nervous that whole time.”
“Sorry.” You shy, patting his back awkwardly. “It was a good show.”
James shakes his head as if to brush you off. He leans close as you follow the other boys back to their dressing room, lowering his voice underneath the cacophony of others. “I was, too.”
You haven’t written one thing in your notebook all night. It’s shameful, a waste of your time on this tour and a smear on your reputation as a journalist, and yet you’re too relieved to feel very remorseful about it. It’s difficult to feel anything bad around such a merry band of marauders, anyway.
James and Sirius are singing and dancing, the elongated version of their song Sweet and Easy, Sirius playing the riff on his unplugged guitar. Remus has to maneuver around them to keep his bass out of harm’s way, his lips curled up with an exasperated fondness. The venue has left a bottle of wine, which the boys find quickly, completely ignoring the glasses beside it in favor of passing the bottle between them. Sirius puts his guitar away but doesn’t stop singing, occasionally taking breaks to make exuberant twanging sounds with his mouth. Lily stops in to check on them and steal a sip of the wine before flitting off to talk to some venue personnel about some business none of you pretend to understand.
You’re content to watch it all, finally getting some decent notes, but soon Sirius holds the bottle out to you.
“Have some,” he offers.
“Oh, I can’t,” you say. “I’m working.”
“What if you didn’t work?” James proposes. He’s got the sun shining out of his face, gleaming with sweat and smiling so big your cheeks ache with sympathy pains. “We haven’t had a proper night on tour since you’ve been here. You should come out with us.”
You raise your eyebrows, curious. “Out where?”
“I don’t know,” says James, as though it’s ridiculous to assume one would know where they’re going before they get there, “out.”
“You’d be alright with me coming with you?”
“You can absolutely come with us, if—” Sirius steals the pen from your hand. “—you leave your security blankie at home. No work.”
“I can’t,” you say, genuinely apologetic. This feels like an olive branch, a reward for your show of loyalty in keeping Remus’ illness secret, and you hate to refuse it. But the entire point of you being here is to work.
You brace yourself for Sirius’ anger, but he only pouts. It’s a nearly disorienting contrast, his eyes made big underneath all the eyeliner and bottom lip pushed out. “Why not? Aren’t you ever off the clock?”
“Are you?” you counter. These boys would know a thing or two about not being able to shed a professional skin. No matter where they go, they’ll always be The Marauders.
Sirius doesn’t back down. “Don’t work. Let us show you a proper night on tour, but it has to be off the record.”
You sigh, looking away from him as you consider. You do want to go. You only know that you shouldn’t, that there’s no real point in it if you’re not getting quotes you can use. Unless, maybe, spending off-the-record time with the band makes them more likely to give you good quotes in the future…
Your gaze wanders until it finds Remus. He gives you a shrug, as if to sympathize. You won’t be winning this one.
“Okay.” You take a breath. “One night.”
꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧
“We’re not up against great odds,” James levels with you, bent close to your ear as you both watch Remus chalk his cue stick across the table from you. “Sirius is good, and Remus is really good, but the good news for us is Sirius gets sloppy after a few drinks.”
“He’s had a few drinks,” you say hopefully.
James grimaces. “A few more. You said you haven’t played before?”
You take a sip of your beer (Remus had surreptitiously guided you away from the punch bowl, informing you that it’s often spiked with more than booze at these things) and regard the way Sirius is racking up balls on the other side of the pool table. It’s covered in red carpeting, and the size of it makes you wonder how whoever’s house this is got it in the door.
“Not much,” you admit.
James nods, then laughs at your grim look. “I’m sure you’re a quick learner.”
“I’m really not.”
“Are you going to break, or are we?” asks Sirius, grinning smugly at you both as he steps back from the table.
“We are,” James announces. He takes the cue stick he’d chalked up for you both a few minutes before and steps up to the table. It smacks into the white ball with a satisfying sound, sending the rest scattering.
“Stripes,” he says proudly, when one goes in. He tries to send another in behind it, but it bounces off the wall just shy off the hole.
Sirius says something to Remus as he goes up next. The music is too loud for you to make it out—An old rock album that you’ll have to ask the boys what they think of later. If someone puts on a Marauders track and you get their live reactions, you’ll really wish you hadn’t left your pen and tape recorder on the bus—but the glint in Sirius’ eye tells you it’s something that would make grandmothers around the globe clutch their pearls. Remus scoffs and banks a solid ball neatly into the corner hole.
He and Sirius take turns, and it quickly becomes apparent that James wasn’t exaggerating. They hit three in before Sirius misses the fourth. You’re about to tell James to forget you and try to save your team by doing it all himself, but he’s already putting the cue stick in your hand.
“Alright, so your hand is your bridge,” he says as he leans down beside you and helps you position your hand on the table. “You want to use it to guide the shot.”
He’s already hip-to-hip with you, but when his free hand lays comfortably on your back, showing you how to lean down, you stiffen. James takes it away instantly.
“Curve your thumb up a little…” he continues, putting a few inches of space between you. “Perfect. See, I knew you’d be a natural. Can you line it up from there?”
You try your best, but ultimately the ball goes flailing in the opposite direction of what you intended. You laugh at yourself as Sirius boos and James gaily accuses the other team of having sabotaged your cue stick.
Sirius sticks his tongue out as he lines up his next shot.
“You know,” James says quietly, underneath the sound of Sirius’ cue ball finding its mark, “you don’t have to believe the rumors. Not all of us musicians actually have every STD known to man.”
Your face falls, and he grins at you.
“I’m joking.”
“No, no.” You shake your head, heart in your throat. “It’s not that. I’m not—I don’t disapprove or anything, I’m sorry.”
“Hey, I really was joking,” James tells you. “It’s okay.”
“No, I think touching is great.” You feel your eyes pop as soon as you hear it out of your mouth. Shame washes hot from your chest up to your ears. “Not…I mean, physical affection.” You cringe, but you can’t think of any nicer way to put it. “I think it’s great. I just can’t do it.”
James’ look softens. “I get that. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t,” you insist. “Honestly, it’s fine. I’m just not used to it, so I…it surprises me, I guess.”
He nods slowly. Like he really is listening, and a little bit like he feels bad. “Okay. Well, if—”
“Hello?” Sirius says from the other side of the table. “It’s your turn, slackers.”
You smile at James in hopes of dropping it, and after a moment he smiles back, letting it drop. James gets one of your striped balls in before you manage to hit in the white ball by accident, which is apparently worse than hitting nothing at all.
Once Sirius and Remus realize how truly hopeless you are, they definitely start going easy on you. They deny it, but the change is hardly subtle. Remus misses easy shots. Sirius stops ragging on James for taking extra time during your turns to coach you. When you manage to make your skills look really pathetic, the unanimous decision is that you should get a re-do.
They still win by a good margin, obviously. Sirius is still fairly gloaty about it.
Remus is put on your team next to even the odds. He’s as good a coach as James, though he says the way James showed you how to position your hand was all wrong and makes you learn it again. You get two beers in before you realize that beer is having more of an effect on you than you anticipated. Sirius crawls up onto the table to make a difficult shot. Remus can’t stand to lose, and so sends a few of your balls home before relinquishing the cue stick to you each turn. James and Sirius give several demonstrations of the victory handshake they came up with back in school.
Eventually, Remus goes for a smoke, and then it’s only you and James against Sirius, which should be easy if it weren’t for James’ unwavering faith in you. Sirius shoots the eight ball around for ages while you try to catch up. When he makes fun of you you steal a cocktail napkin from the bar and play him at tic-tac-toe until you feel better about yourself.
“Easy,” James laughs, steadying you with a brief touch to your arm when you nearly sway into him. “You alright?”
You try to will your atoms to steadiness. “Mm, yeah. I’m good, I just…”
Sirius giggles. He’s a giggly drunk, you’ve learned, which suits him in a way you can’t explain. If you could draw instead of write, Sirius’ laughter would look like little starbursts coming out of him.
“You just?” James is laughing at you again. It’s catching; a laugh bubbles up in your own chest.
“I just didn’t think I’d get like this from a few beers,” you admit. You think hard. “I guess maybe it could be because of the hotel food.”
Sirius props his elbow on the edge of the pool table and his chin on his hand, looking up at you through his lashes. “The hotel food?” he asks.
You grin, sheepish. “That might be it. I’ve been stealing the free breakfasts from your hotel, so just, you know. Maybe those carbs aren’t still in me now.”
James makes an odd face—odd for him, at least, something not very smiley—and Sirius heaves a big, long sigh.
“I thought you were so smart,” he laments.
“I am smart,” you defend yourself.
“No.” He shakes his head. Morose in a way you’re beginning to recognize as playful from him. “You’re a silly, silly girl.”
“You’re mean.”
“I think they’re going to wind down here soon anyway,” says James. He gathers you and Sirius’ half-finished beers along with his own. “I’ll go find Remus so we can get back.” He sends Sirius a teasing look. “Can you be trusted with her?”
“What must you think of me?” Sirius gasps. “Go on. We’ll get the coats.”
“Not too much touching,” says James, already leaving.
Sirius stares after him with a bewildered look, but ultimately he shrugs, accepting. “Come on, doll.” He snags you by your belt loop, tugging you upright before letting go. “Let’s go see if someone hasn’t stolen our things.”
Along the way, Sirius gets stopped by others at the party, some who have just realized he’s here and others who have been waiting for the right time to ask for an autograph. People have been coming up to the boys all night. You’ve made yourself scarce when it happens, melting into invisibility on the sidelines, but now Sirius won’t let you; he keeps you close, hooking a finger in your belt loop again and then glancing over periodically to make sure you haven’t gone anywhere while he smizes and flirts with his fans.
Eventually, you make it to your destination. The impromptu coat closet is a guest bedroom, quiet and blissfully dark and with a sinfully soft-looking bed to hold all of the coats. You crawl up onto the pile without a second thought (you can hardly account for the first).
“What are you doing?” Sirius’ voice has softened, as though he doesn’t need to shout so much when no one’s around to hear it, but you can still detect the amusement in it. He gives your ankle a tug. “We’ll never find you if you disappear in there.”
“That’s fine.” You let out a sigh, sinking down into your plush mattress of outerwear. To sleep here sounds incredible. It’d be the best sleep you’ve had in a week, far preferable to the ever-hardening tour bus seats. “You should be happy. You can finally be rid of me like you’ve wanted.”
Sirius tsks. “Oh, but leaving you here like this would be playing dirty. I wouldn't want to win like that.” The bed shifts as he sits down by your legs. “Also, Remus would kill me if I left his coat, and you’re on top of it.”
“Oh. Sorry.” You abide the tug Sirius gives near your hip, lifting up so he can pull the coat free.
“How drunk are you really?”
“Not that bad,” you say, nearly falling asleep on a pile of coats. You turn your head. Sirius is little more than an outline in the gray dark. “Hey, can I…can I say something that’s going to make me sound like an idiot?”
“I would love nothing more.”
“You guys aren’t like how I expected you to be.”
He grins, surprised. A flash of teeth. “You aren’t quite what I think we were expecting, either.”
“That makes me feel better,” you confess.
“That it’s not just you?”
“Yeah.”
Sirius chuckles. “Happy to be of service.”
The pile of coats poofs with air as he lays down beside you. It settles slowly.
“I can hear your brain working. What is it?”
“I have a question,” you admit. “Off the record.”
“Shoot.”
“You really wouldn’t leave me behind just because I’m drunk?”
“I thought you weren’t drunk.”
“Not very.”
Sirius hums, considering. “I suppose not,” he says eventually. “The others are getting a bit attached to you. And Remus already told James we can’t have a dog, so.”
“So I’m…you’re comparing me to a dog?”
“Well, gorgeous, if the shoe fits…”
“You’re so mean.”
“Yeah.” His chuckle breathes up towards the ceiling, a sigh you don’t think you’re meant to hear embedded inside. “I know.”
im so early but oml i LOVE THEM!!! remus and sirius going easier on her cuz she was shit at pool 😞😞 my HEART IS BURSTING and YAY SIRIUS ACTUALLY WARMING UP TO HER AND UGH THEYRE ALL SO SWEET AND HOW DO YOU MANAGE TO ALWAYS MAKE DIALOGUE SO NATURAL???
hiiiiii <3 how would you feel about college au pre-poly!jily where james is very accustomed to haveing to go looking for lily after late rugby practice or something like that in the library and kind of collect her before it closes. and more often than not he finds reader there in some corner—one time she was asleep so he woke her up and warned her, and now every time he goes to get lily he jokes about how he's gotta go get his two swotty girls from the library and reader kinda laughs like "haha oh, i need to find myself a james" and lily's like "he's right here babes" or something
I would feel good about that!! Thanks angel :)
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
poly!Jily x fem!reader ♡ 783 words
You rouse to the muffled rumble of thunder and a warm touch on your shoulder.
James always smells the same after rugby practice. Like boy shampoo, fresh and crisp. If he’s here, it’s to bring Lily home, but that can’t be because rugby training doesn’t end until late. You pick your head up to see Lily gathering her things.
“Is it…” Your mouth is dry. It takes a moment to connect to your brain. “Did you finish early?” you ask James.
He shakes his head, fresh-faced and with his duffel slung over his shoulder. “Same time as always.”
You make an unhappy, sleepy sound which makes James laugh. You mumble at Lily, “You said you’d wake me if I fell asleep.”
“I’m sorry.” She zips up her backpack, sending you a sheepish smile. “You just looked so comfortable, I couldn’t do it.”
You sigh, but you can’t blame it entirely on her. You’ve only recently begun studying in the same cluster of chairs as Lily, but falling asleep at the library is a long-time bad habit of yours. It was how you first met her, and James. James came to collect Lily from the library, as he does every night after training, and stumbled upon you snoozing in a tucked-away corner. He woke you up to warn you about falling asleep by yourself in big, empty buildings; Lily gave you an energy bar from her backpack. A comradery of proximity and routine was formed.
“I think you should come home with us tonight,” says James.
The words take a moment for you to comprehend. James seems to process then at the same rate; his cheeks darken.
“I mean, you should let us walk you home,” he amends sheepishly.
“Thanks,” you yawn, “but I should probably finish up here.”
Lily frowns, soft and considering. There’s something about her gaze that always feels like she’s peeling you like a tangerine; you don’t mind the exposure as much as you should. “You studied a good amount before you fell asleep.” She leans towards you. “May I?”
You don’t know what she’s asking, but you nod anyway. Lily reaches for your face, carefully brushing aside a hair that had stuck to your cheek.
“You’ll probably only end up drifting off again,” she points out.
You try to come up with a response. Her touch on your cheek has stolen your voice.
While Lily persuades you, James steps behind her, removing the pencil she haphazardly twisted into her hair to keep it out of her face earlier. He fishes a hair tie out of his pocket and begins regathering it all with gentle, practiced movements. Lily doesn’t mind him.
You want what they have. Casual touches, easy intimacy, the comfort of knowing someone will come to take you home every night. It aches to watch them, sometimes, but you try to admire it instead.
“It’s also raining,” James tells you, his fingers still combing through Lily’s hair. It slips through his fingers like silk. “It’s one thing to walk home by yourself in the dark, but it’s even less fun when you’re wet.”
“Did you bring an umbrella?” Lily asks you.
You sigh. “No…”
James smiles, knowing they’ve won. “Get your things,” he says. “You can have my jacket to keep you dry.”
“I don’t need to take your jacket,” you argue, closing your notebook and putting it in your backpack.
Before James can argue with you some more, a librarian is drawn to the voices in your little corner.
“This is a study space,” she reminds you.
Both you and Lily wince, but James only smiles at her with the confidence of someone with natural-born charisma. “We’re leaving,” he assures her. “Just taking my two swotty girls home before they start bleeding out of their eyeballs.”
Lily frowns at him. “Don’t be gross.”
The librarian moves on, and you try to dispel the warm, tingly feeling you got from James lumping you in as one of his swotty girls. And the fact that Lily hadn’t corrected him.
Despite your protests, James manages to cajole you into his jacket before you step outside. Even so, Lily takes your hand and pulls you half under their shared umbrella. Rain beats hard on the top of it, pouring off trees and running down the gutters of the empty university roads.
“I really need to find my own James, one of these days,” you joke.
Lily smiles, glancing over at him. James is holding the umbrella up between them, only half under it himself, and squinting as he tries to make out what you’re saying over the downpour.
Lily squeezes your hand and leans in close. “You can always share mine.”
⤿ DICK GRAYSON is the biggest nusiance you've ever had to deal with in your many years of work, yet, he knows you wouldn't trade him for the world.
!! no warnings. fluff. fem!reader. athletic trainer!reader. f1!dick grayson. lots of banter. dick is a cheeky bastard. i got scared away from writing for dick but we're back at it. part of pit stop. ENJOY.
The treatment room door had barely clicked shut behind him before you knew this was going to be a problem.
Dick carried himself like he always did after a race weekend — loose, easy, a little too relaxed in a way that was meant to convince everyone around him that nothing hurt, that the strain of the last few days had slid right off him the second he stepped out of the car.
Unfortunately for him, it never fooled you.
“You’re late,” you sighed without looking up from your notes, even though you had been tracking the sound of his footsteps down the corridor long before he reached the door.
“I’m fashionably late,” he corrected, dropping into the chair like he had all the time in the world, like you weren’t already narrowing your eyes at him from across the room.
“This isn’t a social call, Grayson,” you replied flatly, setting the clipboard aside and finally giving him your full attention, your gaze sweeping over him in a way that was clinical on the surface and something else entirely underneath.
He smiled at that, slow and unbothered, like he enjoyed this part, like pushing you was just another kind of sport.
“Coulda fooled me,” he hummed, leaning back slightly, stretching his arms in a way that was just a little too deliberate, just a little too showy, “you always look happy to see me.”
“I look happy when my drivers aren’t hiding injuries from me,” you shot back, already moving toward him, your hands settling on his shoulders before he could dodge out of reach.
“I’m not hiding anything,” he said easily, which was exactly what someone hiding something would say, and the second your fingers pressed into the muscle at the top of his right shoulder, you felt it.
Tight. Guarded. Wrong.
You pressed a little harder.
He didn’t react, and that in itself was suspicious.
“Where does it hurt,” you asked, your tone shifting into something quieter, more focused, as your hands moved methodically, testing, assessing, waiting for the slip.
“It doesn’t,” he answered, far too quickly.
You hummed, unconvinced, your fingers trailing down along his shoulder blade, then back up again, mapping the tension like you’d done a hundred times before.
“Okay,” you said after a moment, voice light in a way that should have warned him, “we can do this the easy way, or I can find it myself.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh, like he thought you were bluffing.
“You’re not gonna-..”
You leaned your weight against his shoulder, not hard, not enough to actually hurt him if he was fine, but just enough pressure to catch him in his lie.
And the reaction was instant.
His breath caught, sharp and involuntary, and his hand shot out to grab your forearm, fingers tightening around you like a reflex he couldn’t stop in time.
You froze for half a second, then slowly looked up at him with narrowed eyes.
He was already trying to recover, his grip loosening slightly, his expression smoothing back into something casual, but it was too late.. and he clearly knew that
You had him right where you wanted him.
“…right,” you drawledslowly, tilting your head as you studied him, your hand still resting exactly where it had been when he flinched, “so you’re this big, burly man who can handle a car at two hundred miles an hour-...”
“It’s not-..” he started, but you talked right over him.
“...but the second I lean on your shoulder,” you continued, your tone sharpening just enough, “you’re grabbing my arm like I fucking shot you.”
“I did not grab you like that,” he protested, which was bold, considering his hand was still loosely wrapped around your wrist.
You raised an eyebrow and he backtracked, his eyes focusing on his lap with a slight huff.
“…okay, maybe a little,” he admitted.
“A little?” you echoed, incredulous, and before he could stop you, you pressed again, right into the same spot.
“Fuck me-! ...okay, yeah, yep.. there it is,” he hissed, his fingers tightening again before he forced himself to let go this time, like he knew he’d already lost the argument.
You straightened slightly, crossing your arms as you looked at him, utterly unimpressed.
“And you were going to tell me it ‘doesn’t hurt,’” you said, making air quotes with your fingers.
“It doesn’t hurt that bad,” he tried, and there was that stubbornness again, the same one that got him into your treatment room in the first place.
You stared at him.
He held your gaze for exactly three seconds before his shoulders dropped a fraction.
“…okay, it hurts,” he amended.
“Thank you,” you said dryly, stepping back in and ignoring the way your pulse had jumped when he grabbed you earlier, focusing instead on the injury you’d just confirmed, your fingers returning to his shoulder with more purpose now.
He watched you this time, quieter, the teasing edge dulled into something softer as your touch shifted from testing to treating, careful and precise in a way that made his jaw unclench despite himself.
“You’re impossible,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, as you worked.
“I’ve been told that,” he replied, but there was no bite to it now, just a faint hint of amusement threading through something more subdued.
“You could’ve made this easier,” you added, your thumb pressing into the muscle again, slower this time, controlled, easing the tension instead of provoking it.
“And miss out on you manhandling me?” he said, a hint of his usual grin creeping back in, even if it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
You snorted softly at that, shaking your head.
“This isn’t manhandling,” you swatted his arm, “this is me fixing the problem you pretended didn’t exist.”
“Semantics,” he murmured, but his voice had softened, the fight bleeding out of him as he let himself sink into the table slightly, trusting you in a way he didn’t with most people.
Your hands slowed, adjusting, working through the tightness with practiced ease, and for a moment the room settled into something quieter, the noise of the paddock outside fading into the background again.
“You always do that,” you murmured after a while, your voice quieter now, more thoughtful.
“Do what.”
“Wait until you can’t hide it anymore,” you replied, your fingers pausing briefly before continuing, “like if you ignore it long enough, it’ll just… go away.”
He didn’t answer right away.
When you glanced up, his gaze was already on you, steady, a little too perceptive for comfort.
“Or,” he said slowly, “I know you’ll find it anyway.”
Something in your chest tightened at that, unexpected and sharp, and you looked away before he could read too much into your expression.
“That’s not a strategy,” you sighed, trying for firmness and landing somewhere softer.
“Works pretty well so far,” he countered quietly with a wink.
You shook your head, but there was no real heat behind it, your focus slipping just enough as your hands continued their work, easing the tension bit by bit under your touch.
“Next time,” you said after a moment, “you tell me before I have to go digging for it.”
He hummed, like he was considering it.
“No promises,” he grinned, his cheeks pressing into dimples.
You pressed into the sore spot again, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind him.
He exhaled sharply.
“…okay, some promises,” he corrected.
That earned him a small smile, despite yourself, and for a moment it felt easy again, familiar in a way that was starting to blur into something more.
“Good,” you said softly, your hands slowing as you finished, lingering for just a second longer than necessary before you forced yourself to pull back.
He didn’t move right away.
Just sat there, watching you, something warm and unreadable settling into his expression.
“Y'now,” he drawled after a beat, voice low, “if this is how you react when I don’t tell you where it hurts…”
You glanced at him, already suspicious.
“…I might start keeping secrets on purpose,” he finished.
You rolled your eyes immediately, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you.
“Don’t push your luck,” you warned.
His grin returned, easy and bright, but there was something steadier underneath it now, something that lingered in the way his gaze held yours for just a second longer than it needed to.
Ok I know we’re in a very angsty sad time of princess au (and this can be angsty sad time too) but I think it’d be really cute for princess reader to have some traditions from home. Like James of course knows of some niche thing they do but he does it a little off and she’s shy but eventually corrects it and it’s cute and sappy or maybe sad bc like traditions but she can’t go home. That vibe if you get it! Not a super request but just like an idea for the au!!
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
poly!marauders x princess!reader ♡ 2k words
Bright light filters through your lashes. They’re heavy, the thick blanket of sleep not relinquishing you just yet. It’s not usual for you to sleep in late enough that the sun gets so high. Worry creeps in at the edges of your consciousness.
“There she is.” A hand pets your hair, and the worry dispels without a fuss. You know you’re safe. “Madam Pomphrey? She’s waking up.”
“How can you tell?” another voice asks.
“Her eyes are twitching.”
“Is that good? What if she’s dream—oh.” You finally manage to lift your heavy lids, your bleary vision focussing on Sirius. He drops to a crouch by your bed as his voice drops to a murmur. “Hi.”
“Hi,” you say back to him. Or try to say. Your voice comes out hoarse, barely there.
The hand on your head strokes your hair consolingly. You trace it back to Remus, who tells you, “Your throat might hurt. It’s normal, don’t worry.”
You try to clear your throat. It feels ravaged, torn and raw. “What happened?”
“Madam Pomfrey can tell you more about it,” he assures you.
“Who?”
Remus points behind you with his chin. You turn to find a plump older woman approaching your bedside. She’s wearing scrubs and has a pleasant, sympathetic face.
“Hello, Your Highness,” she says, sitting down beside you on the bed. “I’m sorry we’ve had to meet under these circumstances. Though, in my line of work, I hardly ever meet people another way.”
She flashes a kind smile. You return it on instinct. “It’s nice to meet you,” you say.
The woman—Madam Pomfrey—pats your hand. “Your throat is sore because we had to put a long tube with a camera down your throat, to see what was causing your stomach pain. Are you in pain now?”
You hesitate. “Not really.”
“Not as much as earlier?”
“No.”
“It would have been nice to know you were in any pain, earlier,” Sirius pipes up.
You glance at him, expecting an unimpressed glare, maybe one of his signature arched brows, but Sirius only looks concerned. Remus sends him a scolding look.
“You fainted,” Madam Pomfrey tells you gently, “and Sirius brought you to me. Do you remember waking up?”
You blink at her. “No…”
“That’s alright,” she assures you. “We had to sedate you to look in your stomach, which can sometimes cause short term memory loss. It’s perfectly normal not to remember.”
“Okay.” Your voice smalls. You repress the urge to draw your legs in on yourself like a child. How could so much happen while you were unaware? How could you wake up, and not know it?
“It really wasn’t as invasive as it sounds,” Remus promises, his tone soothing. “It’s just a small tube. You were only sedated so that you would be comfortable.”
You nod, still wary. Sirius is watching you closely, with a troubled expression. “What?” you ask him.
He hesitates. “You really don’t remember being awake?”
You shake your head. “What did I do?” God, if after everything you’ve done to keep your feelings to yourself, you told Sirius something mortifying you can’t even remember…
He must sense the direction of your thoughts. Sirius’ gaze softens. “Nothing, sweetheart. Nothing awful, you just…you were sick, and it was scary. I’m surprised you don’t remember.”
Sirius being so gentle with you alarms you more than anything so far. You stare at him, wide-eyed, and he only presses his lips into a sorry smile. You’re at a loss.
“I was sick?”
“After stomach pain, vomiting can be another indicator of stomach ulcers,” Madam Pomfrey hurries to tell you. “It looks frightening, but it’s nothing that isn’t fixable. And you shouldn’t need to worry about that happening again.”
“Ulcers?” you echo her.
Madam Pomfrey smiles compassionately. “Let me start from the beginning. You’ve been under a fair bit of stress lately, haven’t you?”
Your lips part, but you don’t know what to say. You look at Remus, then Sirius. “I…”
Sirius gives a quiet, forced laugh. “I’d think twice before trying to say you’re fine again,” he advises. “We’re not likely to believe you.”
Embarrassment pricks at your skin as you force your gaze back to Madam Pomfrey. “I suppose so. A little.”
The older woman nods. “Sometimes, severe psychological stress can have adverse effects on the body. In your case, an increase in stomach acid contributed to the development of a stress ulcer, which is what’s been making your stomach hurt and what made you faint.” Madam Pomfrey’s eyes flicker to Sirius, something you can’t read passing between them. “You’re lucky that you were with someone when that happened. It could have been dangerous if the ulcer continued to progress without treatment.”
You look at Sirius. “Thanks,” you say, sheepish.
He laughs again, a real one. “Yeah, babe, anytime.”
“Well, hopefully there isn’t another occurrence,” Remus chimes in, his hand coming back to your head fretfully.
“No,” Madam Pomfrey agrees. “I’m leaving you with some medicine. Take it every day before breakfast until it runs out, and you should be good as new.”
“Thank you,” you tell her sincerely, relieved you don’t have to do anything more serious.
“Oh, hey!” Another voice comes from the doorway, and you look over to see James bringing in a tray. “You’re awake!” He quickens his pace, causing Remus to tsk when he nearly spills whatever he’s carrying. “Why didn’t anyone come and get me?”
“She’s only just woken up,” says Remus.
“Angel, I feel so bad that—” James seems to realize he’s spilling, and he hisses through his teeth, rebalancing the tray. “—we’ve stressed you out so badly your organs shut down—”
“Not what happened,” Remus cuts in.
“Please don’t be sorry,” you tell him. “It hasn’t been that bad, I just—”
“I think I’ll leave you all to talk.” Madam Pomfrey stands. She reaches across you, pinching Remus’ cheek, and you watch in joyous astonishment as he flushes and smiles bashfully. “Look after each other. And you,” she says to you, “your medicine is on the nightstand, and stay away from acids for the time being.”
“Yes ma’am.” James salutes her. “After this last meal, of course.”
Madam Pomfrey huffs a laugh and goes. Sirius elbows James in the side. “You’re a disgrace.”
“Don’t make me spill,” James complains.
“You’ve already done a fair bit of that.” Remus’ chiding isn’t as effective when his cheeks are still tinged pink. The fondness curling up the edges of his tone doesn’t help either. “Why don’t you give it to her before you slosh the whole thing into her lap?”
James makes an indignant sound, but he’s very, very careful as he sets the tray down in front of you. “Right,” he says, “well. You don’t have to eat anything if you’re not hungry, but Poppy—er, Madam Pomphrey—said that maybe this one time acid was okay, so…”
You look down at the meal in front of you. A fair amount of it has sloshed over the sides of the bowl, it’s true, but you’re surprised you didn’t recognize it instantly by smell. It’s a traditional Pelerian soup, tomato-enriched broth with garlic and herbs, complete with tiny stelline pasta stars. You look up at James.
“Where did you learn about this?”
“I had it, once,” he says, “when we were visiting Peleria. I asked Marlene if she thought she could recreate it.”
Your eyes smart. “Thank you,” you whisper.
“Hey,” Sirius chides, still so very gentle with you. You bow your head so they can’t see your chin and its humiliating wobble.
“Oh, lovely.” James sits across from you on your bed, his hand finding one of your ankles through the covers. He rubs it bracingly. “Don’t cry. I wouldn’t have brought it if I thought you’d cry.”
You shake your head and breathe until you’re sure your voice will hold together. “No, it’s nice. I love it.”
“Do you grow basil in Peleria?” Remus wonders, eyeing the basil garnishing your soup.
You laugh weakly. It helps, bolstering you enough to pick up your head and wipe your face. “No. But it’s a nice touch,” you add for James.
He frowns. “I knew something was off. That was all Marlene, so you know.”
You laugh again, and a long-held tightness in your chest rattles looser. You’d almost begun to forget it was there. You pick up the spoon, taking a bite.
“It’s really good,” you tell James sincerely. “You all should have some.”
“No, it’s for you,” James insists.
“I can’t just eat in front of you.”
“Marlene made plenty. We’ll have some later, and if it makes you feel better, we can eat it in front of you then to make it even.”
You smile between bites. “That would help.”
“I really am sorry,” says Sirius. His gray eyes gone solemn. “I know I’ve said it already, but I want you to understand how much I mean it.”
There’s a sentiment you can relate to. “It’s okay,” you tell him.
Sirius shakes his head, growing frustrated. For the first time, you wonder if it’s not directed at you. “It’s not. I wasn’t trying to hurt you, but it’s—that’s just it. I wasn’t thinking about whether I did hurt you, and I’m sorry.”
“I think we’ve all had some role in that,” Remus murmurs.
A violent desperation to fix rises up in you. “That’s not true. You’ve all been really nice to me, and I’ve only made things confusing for you.”
James’ smile is heartbreakingly hollow. “I think things were always going to be confusing, lovely. That’s not your fault.”
“It’s not your fault, either.”
“Things haven’t been easy for you here,” says Remus, patient and even. Reasonable. “You’ve been so stressed that your body took it out on you in a drastic way, and whatever you might say to make us feel better” —He gives you a knowing look when you open your mouth to protest— “we certainly didn’t help.”
You rub your lips together, unable to deny it. After a moment, you look up at Sirius.
“I’m sorry for shouting at you,” you say.
His lips quirk. “You call that shouting?”
You give him your best attempt at an apologetic smile. It must be a fair enough attempt, because Sirius reaches onto the bed for your hand. He squeezes your fingers, his look tender.
“I earned it,” he tells you.
“And I’m sorry I kissed you,” you say to James.
His eyebrows fly up. “Kissed me? I kissed you.”
“Right, but I kissed you…worse.”
James laughs, the sound tinged with bemusement. “I’m sorry?”
You shrink in on yourself a bit. James leans forward as if to counter it.
“Lovely, honestly,” he says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. The kiss…I mean, you kissed me back, I thought, but everything else was me.”
Your eyes dart to Remus. You feel like it might be a bad idea to talk about this in front of James’ partners, but it has to be said. “I didn’t think so.”
“Does it matter?” Sirius asks.
Your head snaps to him. So do James’ and Remus’. You think that of all the things he could have said, that was the least expected.
Sirius is frowning, but not at you. Once again, he looks like his upset is directed inward. “Whoever kissed who, you both obviously meant it. We all have some unresolved shit to figure out.”
Remus hums. “Whoever kissed whom.”
“Right, whom.” Sirius’ eyes roll. “You’re a twat.”
Remus’ lips curve, but he doesn’t defend himself against the elbow Sirius sticks in his side. His harmless jab has loosened the other boy up the way he meant for it to. “We all do?” he asks, softly.
“Maybe.”
James’ face lights up. “You mean it?”
“You really need triple confirmation? I said I’m still figuring it out, James.”
“Um, sorry,” you say, hesitant to break into what appears to be a special moment between the three boys, “what are we figuring out?”
James’ eyes are practically sparkling behind his glasses. “Right, after the kiss, we were all talking, and—oh.” His smile drops abruptly.
Sirius frowns. “What now?”
“No, it’s just—I’m worried about your ulcer,” James confesses to you. “Things are about to get even more confusing.”
EVERYBODY STAY CALM!!! ITS HAPPENING!! I REPEAT ITS HAPPENING!!!!!!! OH MY GOD WHAT AN AMAZING THING TO WAKE UP TO THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE (no im not being dramatic IM SO HAPPY)
“We all do?” “Maybe” AHHHHHHHHHH YES YOU ALL DO YOU ALL FREAKING DO AND FINALLY YOU IDIOTS REALISE IT THANK GOD
poor reader being so stressed she got ulcers! but also good on the boys for taking responsibility, at least this is pushing them to actually figuring out whats going on with them!
ugh mae youre such a writing wizard goddess i dont know how you do it! literally go above and beyond everytime!!!! but you could also just write your grocery list and id read it fascinated because YOU wrote it and i love you
Summary: Just a couple scenes that I pictured while writing the series
A/N: the way i chose a name that was not even on the poll in the first place
Thanks so much for all of the love during this series guys honestly all of you are so amazing and so supportive and encouraging and it really motivated me to finish the entire series in the matter of a week so i truly owe it to you guys
love u all
credits to @/saradika-graphics for the divider
Masterlist
One day later:
The morning sun filtered softly through the curtains, painting the room in a gentle gold. Mattheo’s eyes fluttered open slowly, adjusting to the light, and immediately he felt the warmth of you beside him. You were still asleep, hair splayed across the pillow, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.
A small, tender smile tugged at his lips.
He reached out instinctively, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, tracing the curve of your cheek with his thumb. His other hand roamed lightly along your bare side, fingers grazing the soft skin, memorizing every line, every contour. The world felt impossibly quiet, intimate, like he had stolen a perfect, fleeting moment just for himself.
He leaned closer, pressing his lips lightly against your forehead, inhaling the faint scent of your shampoo mixed with the lingering warmth of the night. For a moment, nothing existed except you, the rhythm of your breathing, and the steady thrum of his own heartbeat.
And then—
A sharp crack echoed through the flat, followed by the unmistakable sound of magical displacement. Someone had apparated into the living room.
Mattheo’s eyes went wide. Instantly on alert, he rolled off the bed and grabbed his wand, only in his boxers, chest still bare and pale in the morning light. Adrenaline flared as he bounded toward the source of the sound, wand raised and ready, heart hammering in his ears.
He rounded the corner into the living room—and froze.
Standing there, equally stunned, was Harry Potter. His dark hair was as unruly as ever, glasses slightly askew, eyes wide with disbelief. For a moment, neither spoke.
Harry opened his mouth to ask what the hell Mattheo was doing there, wand still raised and tension coiling in his shoulders—but then his gaze dropped to the marks along Mattheo’s collar and neck.
Harry’s eyes widened, then narrowed with mischief as the corners of his mouth twitched into a shit-eating grin. He took a step closer, pointing, and the grin cracked into outright laughter when he spotted the bite marks along Mattheo’s biceps.
“Oh… my… Merlin,” Harry gasped between laughs, shaking his head, “You certainly know how to grovel. Spent a lot of time on your knees, did you, Riddle?”
Mattheo’s face flushed crimson, heat burning from his ears down to his neck. For a split second, he wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. His wand, still clutched loosely in one hand, suddenly felt useless in the face of this mortifying exposure—both physical and emotional.
Harry cackled again, stepping back, barely able to contain himself.
"I knew she would fold," He could barely even breathe, "Or rather, I suppose you folded her."
Before Mattheo could summon even a half-formed retort—or hide in shame—Harry apparated away, leaving the flat echoing with his hysteric laughter.
One month later:
The flat was alive with noise.
Game nights were always hosted at your place. It had started as a practical decision—you didn’t want to leave Leo with a sitter when you didn’t have to. Once he was asleep, you would quietly usher everyone in and play games all night.
This time, though, things were a little different.
You had invited Mattheo.
And, because you hadn’t seen them all together since Hogwarts, you had extended the invitation to his friends as well. Theodore, Lorenzo, Draco, and Blaise had arrived together, looking forward to the thought of a friendly game night between Slytherins and Gryffindors.
You had thought a little friendly competition might be fun.
Now, however, the Slytherins were beginning to suspect they had made a terrible mistake.
Mattheo, Theodore, Lorenzo, Draco, and Blaise were huddled together on one side of the room, their expressions somewhere between shock and existential dread. Their wine glasses hung forgotten in their hands as they stared across the room like witnesses to a crime.
Across from them, you and Harry were on the floor with the game board between you, the pieces scattered everywhere and the rulebook completely ignored.
Your wine glasses had long since been abandoned at the edge of the coffee table.
Harry was smacking your arm like a petulant child while you had him trapped in a full chokehold from behind.
“I fucking told you not to buy Gringotts, you bitch!” You screamed, shaking him slightly, “I was collecting all of them!”
“OW!” Harry wheezed, trying unsuccessfully to pry your arm from around his neck, “AND I TOLD YOU IT’S FIRST COME FIRST SERVE, YOU COW!”
“YOU’RE THE FUCKING COW, BITCH!”
On the couch, Ron calmly refilled his wine glass, watching the chaos with mild interest.
“I quite fancy some takeout,” He said thoughtfully, “You reckon any places are still delivering?”
“Maybe some fast food places,” Hermione replied, glancing at the clock, “We could probably get some pizzas delivered.”
She leaned forward, rolling the dice now that you had finally stopped trying to shove them down Harry’s throat.
“Was it my turn?” She asked casually.
Mattheo quietly thanked every star in the sky for the foresight he’d had earlier. With a subtle flick of his wand and a murmur under his breath, he had cast a silencing charm over Leo’s room before the game had even started.
His son would sleep peacefully through the night.
And, more importantly, he would not wake up having learned several extremely creative new curse words.
Across the room, the chaos was escalating.
“I’M GONNA CHARGE YOU EXTRA EVERY TIME YOU LAND ON IT TOO!” He yelled, shoving you away as you tried to steal the property card from him.
“THAT’S NOT HOW YOU FUCKING PLAY, WHORE!” You shot back, lunging for the board.
He froze mid-grab and turned so quickly toward you Mattheo heard something crack in his neck.
“I’M THE WHORE?” He screeched, “YOU’RE THE ONE WHO WENT AND HAD A BABY AT SEVENTEEN!”
“BECAUSE NO ONE WOULD’VE WANTED TO HAVE SEX WITH YOU UNLESS THEY WERE BLIND!”
“Hey now.” Ginny said sharply from the couch, sitting up a little straighter, clearly offended on her behalf.
The room fell silent for exactly half a second.
Then Harry reached over and grabbed a fistful of your hair like an overgrown toddler.
You immediately retaliated by yanking his back just as hard.
“I SWEAR TO MERLIN I WILL BANKRUPT YOU!” You hissed.
“I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL FART IN YOUR FACE IF YOU KEEP THIS UP!” Harry shouted back, completely unhinged.
On the other side of the room, Theodore stared at the scene in absolute horror.
“I cannot believe,” He said slowly, “that we ever thought they were in a relationship.”
Two years later:
You had been careful.
You really had been.
While Leo was the light of your entire life, you had to admit that he had, technically, been an accident. Not an unwanted one—never that—but an unexpected one all the same. You and Mattheo had been diligent. Careful. Meticulous even.
Which was exactly why the positive pregnancy test sitting on the bathroom counter had felt so surreal.
You had stared at it for a long time, blinking at the little potion vial as if it might change color if you looked hard enough. As if, by sheer force of will, the universe might decide to correct what must surely be some kind of mistake.
But it never did.
Eventually you had sighed, leaning your elbows against the sink, one hand coming up to cover your face as a disbelieving laugh slipped out.
Clearly, you had decided, either your egg or Mattheo’s sperm was simply superhuman. Because despite every precaution the two of you had taken, life had found its way through anyway.
And now, eight months after that shocking little test, your baby girl had finally come home.
Elena.
Your daughter.
Blessed, you kept telling yourself. That was the word. Blessed.
Even if the beginning of her life had already been far more frightening than you had ever wanted it to be.
When Elena was born, the doctors had recognized the signs almost immediately. Now that they knew what to look for—after Leo—they hadn’t missed it this time.
The same disease.
The same terrifying diagnosis.
For a moment it had felt like the world had folded in on itself again. Like all the air had been sucked from the room the moment the words left the doctor’s mouth.
But this time, there had been a crucial difference.
This time, Mattheo wasn’t the match.
You were.
And you had been adamant.
You refused—absolutely refused—to sit there and watch another one of your children suffer the way Leo had. You had begged the doctors to operate as soon as possible, barely hours after giving birth. Mattheo had argued with you at first, begged you to recover a little at least before doing this.
But you hadn’t budged.
You had done this once before.
You knew the cost.
And you were willing to pay it without hesitation.
So they operated.
And thankfully—miraculously—it had been successful.
After weeks of agonizing recovery in the hospital, of monitors beeping through sleepless nights and doctors constantly checking on both you and Elena, you had finally been allowed to come home.
Though “home” didn’t mean you were fully recovered.
Not even close.
You were bedridden, under strict orders of complete rest. No lifting. No unnecessary walking. No breastfeeding because of the medication flooding your system.
Which meant Mattheo had quietly taken over nearly everything.
The night feedings.
The diaper changes.
The endless rocking when Elena refused to settle.
And while it was hard as hell to drag himself out of bed every time he heard her cry, it had given him a deep, quiet respect for you—because you had done this alone once before with Leo.
Every sleepless night.
Every desperate attempt to soothe a crying baby.
Every exhausted moment where you had pushed through anyway.
Now he finally understood the weight of it.
Today had been no different.
Elena had woken again, her tiny cries filling the quiet house.
Mattheo had stopped cooking immediately, placing everything under a stasis charm before moving toward the bassinet. He gently lifted her into his arms, her small body curling instinctively against his chest.
He warmed the bottle. Fed her slowly. Burped her over his shoulder.
Her tiny fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as he rocked her gently back and forth across the dimly lit kitchen, murmuring soft nonsense to soothe her.
Eventually her breathing softened.
Her small body relaxed completely.
Finally, after what felt like forever, she drifted back to sleep in his arms.
Mattheo stood there for a moment longer, just watching her.
She was so small.
So fragile.
But she was here.
She was alive.
His baby girl.
Once he was sure she was deeply asleep, he shifted her carefully against his chest and went looking for Leo.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
He found him in the living room.
Leo was sitting on the floor with a small backpack in front of him, stuffing it with toys and a couple mismatched pieces of clothing with intense concentration.
Mattheo frowned slightly, leaning against the doorway, Elena still asleep in the crook of his arm.
“What are you doing?” He asked quietly.
Leo didn’t even look up.
“I’m running away.”
Mattheo blinked.
For a second he almost laughed, assuming it was some kind of game.
“Running away?” He repeated, faintly amused, “Whatever for?”
Leo zipped the bag shut with a stubborn little jerk.
Then he finally looked up.
“Because you and mummy don’t love me anymore.”
The words hit Mattheo like a punch to the chest.
“What?” He said immediately, confusion flooding his voice, “Leo, where did that come from?”
But Leo’s eyes were already glossy with unshed tears.
“You only love the new baby now.” He said, his voice small but firm.
Mattheo’s stomach twisted painfully.
“That’s not true,” He said gently, stepping a little closer, “Leo, we love you both.”
Leo shook his head fiercely.
“Mummy doesn’t even see me anymore,” He whispered, “And you’re always busy with the baby.”
Mattheo’s heart sank.
He crouched down slowly so he was closer to Leo’s level, careful not to wake Elena in his arms.
“Mummy is very sick right now,” He explained softly, “The doctors had to help her after the surgery, remember? And Elena’s very little. She needs a lot of help.”
Leo’s lip trembled.
But the explanation didn’t soothe him.
“You love her more.” He said quietly.
Mattheo’s chest tightened painfully.
“That’s not true, Leo.” He said again, softer now.
But Leo’s eyes were filling with tears.
“That’s why you were here when she was a baby,” He said, his voice cracking, “But you weren’t there when I was a baby.”
The words shattered something inside Mattheo.
Because Leo didn’t say it with anger.
Just hurt.
Simple, aching hurt.
Mattheo felt something inside his chest cave in at those words. Like someone had broken his ribs and punctured them through his heart and lungs.
He felt anger at himself.
He felt guilt.
And something deeper than that.
The quiet, crushing realization that even now—after everything—you couldn’t undo the pieces of the past that still lingered in the small, fragile heart of your child.
He exhaled slowly, steadying himself.
Carefully, he sat down on the floor beside Leo.
Elena stirred slightly in his arm but stayed asleep, her tiny face tucked against his chest. With his free arm, Mattheo gently pulled Leo into his lap until the boy was sitting against him.
Leo didn’t resist.
His small backpack still sat beside them, forgotten but not fully abandoned.
Mattheo looked down at him for a moment before speaking.
“Leo,” He said softly, “do you like your right eye more… or your left eye more?”
Leo blinked up at him, confusion knitting his little brows together.
“What?”
“Your eyes,” Mattheo repeated patiently, “Which one do you like more? Your right one… or your left one?”
Leo thought about it for a moment, clearly baffled by the question.
Finally he shook his head.
“I don’t have a favourite eye.”
Mattheo smiled gently.
“Exactly.”
He shifted Elena slightly higher against his chest and pressed a soft kiss to the top of Leo’s head.
“That’s the same thing with you and your sister,” He said quietly, “You’re like my eyes, Leo. I could never choose a favourite. I don’t love her more than you.”
His voice softened even further.
“I love you both. Exactly the same.”
Leo leaned against him, absorbing the words, though the sadness hadn’t completely left his face yet.
After a moment he asked, very quietly,
“Then… why weren’t you there when I was a baby?”
The question settled heavily between them.
Mattheo closed his eyes for a brief moment before answering.
“I’m sorry, love,” He said gently, “Before you were born… I made some mistakes.”
He smoothed Leo’s hair back from his forehead as he spoke.
“And some bad people got away because of me. So when you were a baby, I went looking for them.”
Leo listened carefully, his small face serious.
“I had to make things right,” Mattheo continued softly, “I had to catch the bad guys so they couldn’t hurt you or your mummy.”
His voice caught slightly as he finished.
“I never wanted to leave you alone. I loved you so much, even then. I wanted to be there for you more than anything.”
He pressed another kiss into Leo’s hair.
“But I had to make sure you and your mum were safe.”
Leo sat quietly for a moment, thinking about it in the simple, honest way only children could.
Then he nodded slowly.
Mattheo felt something loosen in his chest.
He wrapped his arm around Leo a little tighter.
“I love you, baby." He murmured.
Leo leaned back against him, carefully wrapping his arms around Mattheo’s middle so he didn’t disturb the sleeping Elena between them.
“I love you too, daddy.”
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
Summary: Curly brown hair? Brown eyes? You must be a Riddle.
A/N: i lowkey cried while writing this one
credits to @/saradika-graphics for the divider
Masterlist
Even though the self-stirring cauldron was shameful in terms of power, efficiency, and speed, it did have one redeeming feature: it kept count.
For most potioneers that hardly meant anything, but for someone like you—someone constantly juggling ingredients, customers, and the endless little distractions that came with running an apothecary—it was invaluable.
Counting stir rotations in your head while measuring powdered moonstone or answering questions from impatient customers was the fastest way to lose track and ruin an entire batch. The enchanted numbers etched along the cauldron’s rim quietly ticking upward with each rotation meant you could afford to glance away for a moment without disaster.
So when the bell above the shop door chimed softly, you didn’t panic when your attention flickered.
“I’ll be right with you!” You called, not even turning around.
You let the cauldron finish the final rotations—three slow clockwise turns until the etched numbers along its rim clicked softly into place. Only when the number stopped shifting did you lower the flame beneath it, letting the potion simmer gently as the faint scent of dittany and crushed starflower filled the air.
Then you straightened, wiping your hands lightly against your apron as you turned toward the counter.
And stilled.
Theo Nott stood just inside the doorway.
Tall. Composed. Dark coat hanging loosely over his shoulders like he’d thrown it on without much thought. His gaze swept across the apothecary—over the shelves of glass vials, the hanging bundles of dried herbs, the softly bubbling cauldrons—before settling squarely on you behind the counter.
Goddammit, Draco.
Him and his big mouth.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
It had been years since you had last seen Theo, yet somehow he looked almost exactly the same. Maybe a little older around the eyes, the sharpness of boyhood replaced by something steadier.
“What can I get for you?” You asked eventually, your tone carefully neutral as you turned back toward the shelves.
Theo stepped closer to the counter, his boots making quiet sounds against the wooden floor.
“I need dittany salve,” He said, “And something to help with surgical wound recovery.”
Your fingers paused.
Just for a second.
Then you moved again, reaching for a jar from the shelf with practiced calm.
“Post-operative care potions are on the second rack,” You said evenly, “Depending on the severity.”
“What do you have for organ donation recovery?” Theo clarified.
He was looking directly at you now.
Not casually.
Sharply.
The kind of gaze that made it very clear he wasn’t really asking.
Your jaw tightened, but you said nothing.
Instead, you gathered the items with quiet efficiency, placing them on the counter one by one.
Dittany salve.
A pain-dulling draught.
A regenerative tonic.
The same things you had been giving Leo.
Theo watched the entire process without speaking, his eyes following every movement of your hands as though he were cataloguing each action.
“You’re quite good at this.” He said suddenly.
You frowned faintly, not looking up yet, “At what?”
“Pretending you don’t know who they’re for.”
Your hands stilled.
Slowly, you lifted your gaze to meet his.
“I don’t speculate about customers,” You said coolly, “It’s unethical.”
Theo gave a quiet laugh under his breath.
There was no amusement in it.
“Ah,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly, “I see.”
His eyes flicked briefly over the neatly organized shelves behind you before settling back on your face, something sharper settling into his expression.
“For someone who cares so much about morality,” He continued calmly, “I’m surprised you’re keeping a father from his child.”
Your spine went rigid.
The glass vial in your hand creaked faintly under the sudden pressure of your grip.
“I’m doing no such thing,” You said flatly, “As far as I’m concerned, he’s not his father.”
Theo didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
“Isn’t he?” He said quietly.
Your chest burned.
“Then how on earth,” Theo continued, his voice still maddeningly calm, “did you manage to ask a random stranger to give up his organ?”
Your breath thinned.
“Not very ethical, is it?”
The accusation struck deeper than you wanted to admit.
“He made that decision himself,” You snapped, the words sharper than you intended, “I didn’t force him.”
Theo’s gaze traveled slowly over your face, studying every flicker of emotion you tried to suppress. However, his face was stone cold, like he truly believed you were the bad guy.
“No.” He agreed after a moment, “I suppose you didn’t.”
His voice softened slightly, though it carried no less weight.
“He did it for his son.”
You felt like you had just been struck.
The silence that followed felt heavier than anything either of you had said.
Theo reached into his coat pocket then, pulling out a small handful of galleons and dropping them onto the counter. The coins clinked softly against the wood, the sound strangely loud in the quiet shop.
“Keep the change.” He said simply.
He gathered the potions without another word and turned toward the door.
The bell chimed again as it opened.
And then he was gone.
Mattheo’s fingers tightened around the small paper-wrapped package, the brown parchment crumpled slightly where he had gripped it too tightly during the walk over. His hand hovered near the door handle, heart hammering in his chest. Your letter had been brief. Careful. Almost painfully neutral.
If you would still like to see Leo, you may come by Sunday afternoon.
No warmth. No hostility. No invitation beyond that single line.
For two days, he had read and reread those words, turning them over in his mind like a puzzle he wasn’t sure he could solve. Were they permission or warning?
And now, here he was, clutching a gift that had taken him far too long to choose, every step to your building feeling heavier than the last after he had spent nearly half an hour standing across the street from your building before finally gathering the nerve to come upstairs.
He exhaled, trying to steady himself, and knocked. Three soft taps that sounded far too loud in the quiet street.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then hurried footsteps, light and uneven, approached from inside. A small, excited voice rang out:
“Mummy! Someone’s here!”
Mattheo’s stomach dropped.
The door opened.
You were there, exactly as he remembered from the hospital corridor—tense, wary, arms loosely crossed as though you were holding yourself together. Domestic in a way that made his chest ache. Your hair was loosely pulled back, and a soft sweater draped over your shoulders. Flour dusted your sleeve, faint traces of the life he had been absent from.
This was your world. A life he had never been part of.
Your eyes flicked briefly to the package under his arm, then back to him.
“Hi.” He said quietly.
You hesitated for only a moment before stepping aside.
“Come in.”
The flat was warm. Small, but bright and lived-in, the scent of herbs and something sweet lingering faintly in the air. Toys scattered across the rug—wooden figures, stuffed animals, a miniature broomstick abandoned near the couch. It felt unmistakably like a home built for a child.
Mattheo’s chest tightened as he stepped inside, nerves and longing twisting together in a way he wasn’t sure he could untangle.
Something unreadable flickered across your face, but before you could speak, a small figure darted into view behind you.
Leo.
He stopped short the moment he noticed the unfamiliar man standing in the doorway.
Mattheo forgot how to breathe.
Even after seeing him in the hospital, seeing him here—healthy, upright, alive in the warm light of his own home—was different. His curls were slightly messier today, cheeks flushed from whatever he had been doing before the knock interrupted him. Everything about him screamed life, energy, and innocence.
And those eyes.
Merlin.
Leo stared at him for a moment, squinting thoughtfully as if trying to place him. Then recognition sparked.
“Oh!” He exclaimed suddenly, pointing, “You’re the hospital mister!”
Mattheo blinked. Not Dad. Not Father. Just a stranger he had once met in a hospital room.
He forced a small, careful smile, kneeling slightly to meet the boy at eye level.
“Guilty.” He said softly.
Leo’s face lit up with delight.
“You got better!” He announced proudly.
“Trying to,” Mattheo replied, shifting slightly as the dull ache in his abdomen reminded him to move carefully, “What about you, Leo? You feeling better?”
He nodded happily. Then his gaze dropped immediately to the package in Mattheo’s hands.
“What’s that?”
Mattheo hesitated, almost forgetting it existed. He cleared his throat, holding it out.
“Oh—uh. I brought you something. If that’s alright.”
Leo’s eyes darted to you, silently seeking permission. Your expression softened just slightly before you nodded.
“It’s okay, sweetheart.” You said.
That was all the encouragement he needed.
Leo skipped over, a grin splitting his face, plopping down on the floor right there in the entryway. He tore at the paper with fierce determination, the little hands eager and impatient.
Inside was a small wooden Hippogriff figurine, its wings enchanted to flutter gently when touched.
Leo gasped, eyes wide as he turned it over in his hands, marveling at the delicate movement.
“It flies!” He shouted in awe.
Mattheo chuckled softly, leaning on his knees, “I hope you like it.”
Leo’s grin was radiant, “I LOVE IT!”
For the next few minutes, the boy bounced between Mattheo and the toy, asking question after question, showing him all the tiny details that made him proud of his new gift. Mattheo listened, answering patiently, smiling quietly to himself as Leo’s energy filled the room.
And all the while, Mattheo felt the tug of a heartache he couldn’t name—longing, guilt, awe, and an overwhelming protectiveness. Leo had no idea who he was, yet every laugh and bright smile pulled at something inside him that he hadn’t realized was aching for so long.
You hovered nearby, careful not to interfere, watching both of them. Every now and then, your eyes flicked toward Mattheo, assessing, cautious, measuring the line you had drawn between them.
But Leo didn’t notice the tension.
The afternoon stretched on, golden light spilling through the windows, catching the dust motes in the air like tiny stars. Mattheo had placed the Hippogriff on the rug, and Leo had insisted it needed a “runway” to take off from. Soon, other toys—blocks, tiny wooden figurines, and stuffed animals—joined in, forming elaborate courses and obstacle runs.
At some point, Leo decided that the Hippogriff wasn’t enough. He rummaged through the toy basket and emerged with a stuffed dragon. “He can be the Hippogriff’s friend!” He declared.
Mattheo chuckled, “A friend for the Hippogriff, huh? What’s his name?”
“Drago!” Leo said immediately, bouncing in excitement, “He breathes fire!”
“Careful,” Mattheo warned, playing along, “We wouldn’t want him to accidentally set the rug on fire.”
Leo’s laugh rang through the flat, bright and full, and for the first time all day, Mattheo felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with relief. It was pride. It was something he couldn’t name—a tether, pulling him in ways he had spent years resisting.
You hovered in the kitchen doorway, leaning lightly against the frame, arms crossed, watching quietly. Mattheo and Leo moved around the room with a rhythm that seemed impossible for two people who had only just met. Was it biological? Some unspoken bond etched into the marrow of the body? Or perhaps something deeper, something unexplainable, that made a father and son who had never known each other suddenly thick as thieves?
They laughed together, argued over the Hippogriff’s “runway,” and shared quiet moments over blocks and books, and for a heartbeat, it seemed as if time had folded in on itself.
Your chest tightened.
Could you really allow this to happen? Could you really let Mattheo continue to meet Leo, unencumbered, without thinking of the consequences, simply because a part of you felt indebted to him for saving your son’s life? Was it wrong to let them grow this bond without rules, without boundaries? If it made you the “bad guy” to keep them apart, wasn’t that your job as a mother? To be the obstacle, the one who ensured your child’s safety even if it cost you your own heart?
And yet, you found yourself staring at them, unable to look away. Was he really the kind of person you could trust around your child? Responsible? Steady? Or would he vanish again the moment life became difficult, just as he had before?
And yet… and yet, your stomach twisted painfully, a small, stubborn warmth crawling through your chest.
If Mattheo truly were the irresponsible, selfish man you had assumed—if he were the kind to run and hide, too cowardly to break your heart to your face—then why had he laid on that operating table for your son? Why was he here now, kneeling on the rug in your living room, carefully guiding Leo’s hands over a wooden Hippogriff? Why did he laugh so softly at the boy’s delighted shrieks and keep his voice gentle, patient, even as Leo’s energy threatened to tip over the blocks again? Why?
You caught yourself glancing away, afraid he might notice the intensity of your gaze.
After snack time, Leo still had a boundless energy that refused to be sapped by food or the quiet lull of the afternoon. He dragged Mattheo to the couch, pulling the Hippogriff and the dragon beside him, scattering storybooks across the cushions like a child claiming territory. Leo curled up in the crook of the couch, eyes wide, fully absorbed, while Mattheo leaned over, reading aloud with gentle care.
He stumbled over a word here and there, his voice cracking slightly, but Leo didn’t notice—or if he did, it only made him press closer, eyes sparkling with fascination.
“Do you like The Princess and the Pea?” Leo asked suddenly, tilting his head as though assessing his new companion.
Mattheo froze mid-sentence, a flicker of hesitation crossing his features.
'Do I like The Princess and the Pea? Did Leo actually like it, or was he testing me? Should I say I like it, just to have something in common? Or should I be honest, to see if he would argue with me, to see if we could truly connect through truth rather than pretense?'
The small, earnest tilt of Leo’s head, the tiny crease in his brow as he waited, made Mattheo bite back a laugh. A bubble of warmth rose in his chest that had nothing to do with the pain in his abdomen.
“I… I do,” He said finally, his voice low but steady, and then he added, softer, “Do you?”
Leo’s face lit up with a triumphant grin. “I do!” He shouted, throwing his arms up, the dragon and Hippogriff bouncing along with him, “It’s my favorite!”
Mattheo smiled, truly smiled this time, the ache in his chest blurring into something more tender, more complicated.
From your place in the doorway, you watched every gesture, every glance, every small exchange. Mattheo was careful, gentle, attentive—but not overbearing. And Leo… Leo was thriving in that attention, eyes alight, cheeks flushed with excitement. Something soft and unyielding tugged at your heart.
And yet, despite it all, your motherly instincts whispered caution. Mattheo was still a stranger to this home, to this life.
Still, after everything he had done, after the surgery, after the sacrifice, you suppose he deserved to see Leo live the life that he had given him.
You stayed there quietly, letting the room fill with the small, happy noises of the afternoon: laughter, the rustle of pages, the soft patter of tiny hands moving toys around.
And when the sun finally began to dip below the horizon, casting long, warm shadows across the floor, Leo’s eyelids grew heavy. He yawned, curling further into the cushions, his little toys tucked in beside him. Mattheo gently handed him to you, smoothing the curls from his forehead.
“Sleep well, Leo.” He whispered.
You guided Leo into his bedroom, letting him curl up under the familiar quilt you’d folded neatly every morning. His little hands clutched the Hippogriff and the dragon, still soft from the afternoon, eyes already heavy with sleep. You brushed a stray curl from his forehead and kissed it gently.
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” You whispered, voice low and tender, “Sleep well.”
Leo mumbled a sleepy “Goodnight” back, already half-dreaming, and you watched until his breathing evened out and the soft rise and fall of his chest told you he was truly asleep.
Turning away, you exhaled and found yourself standing in the doorway, Mattheo behind you, hesitating, hands shoved deep into his pockets. You gestured for him to follow you, and he did, moving carefully, as if stepping into a minefield of old mistakes and unspoken grief. You walked him to the door, your steps measured, cautious, bracing yourself for the conversation you knew would come.
You walked him to the door, each step measured, careful, bracing yourself for the conversation you knew would come.
When he reached the threshold, his gaze dropped to the floor, avoiding yours. The apartment smelled faintly of baking and herbs, warm and lived-in, a place he had never been—and perhaps would never belong to—but he squared his shoulders as if to hold onto whatever small piece of courage remained.
“I… I know,” He began quietly, voice almost breaking, “that Theo… that he’s the reason you reached out to me again. I know he guilted you into it. I know you don’t actually want me in Leo’s life.”
His gaze flicked to yours, guarded, as if he feared your response. “And… truthfully, I don’t deserve to be here,” He continued, voice low, raw, “I knew I shouldn’t have come today. But I… I just wanted to see him. One last time.”
You clenched your jaw so tightly that it ached. Your hands trembled at your sides as the weight of all the years of absence, all the grief, pressed down on you. The corners of your vision blurred with unshed tears. He had accepted defeat before you even spoke—a quiet resignation that weighed on your chest like a stone.
“I did what I did because I would never have forgiven myself if I didn’t,” he said, voice attempting lightness, though it trembled beneath the surface, “I did it for my conscience, not for you. So… you don’t need to feel guilty about it anymore.”
Your brows pinched together, lips pressing into a thin line. A mix of frustration, heartbreak, and disbelief churned inside you. Mattheo misread your silence for dismissal, for the barrier you had always been, and turned slightly, shoulders curling inward as though preparing to retreat.
But you raised your hand sharply, trembling, and struck his chest—hard enough to shock him but not to harm.
“Why,” You whispered, voice breaking on the word, “didn’t you ever respond to any of my letters?”
Mattheo flinched, face twisting with shame.
“I… I’m sorry.” He murmured, voice barely audible.
Before he could recover, your hand struck him again, “Why didn’t you reach out to me when I didn’t come back in seventh year?”
“I’m sorry.”
You struck again, faster this time, voice trembling but steady, “Why didn’t you tell me you were a double agent?”
“I’m sorry.”
Another strike, harder now, and your chest heaved with a sob that had been building for years, “Why didn’t you reach out to me again after the war?”
The final strike left your hands shaking, and your tears fell freely, hot and relentless. You gripped his shirt collar to keep from collapsing, knees weak, heart breaking all over again.
Mattheo flinched under each strike, but he didn’t pull away. His gaze stayed lowered, shameful, heavy with all the guilt he carried alongside your pain.
“Do you know,” You whispered, voice cracking completely now, “how scared I was to find out I was pregnant? How alone I felt when you wouldn’t respond to me at all, pretending like I was just a speck of dust in your life?”
Mattheo’s eyes brimmed with tears as he watched you crumble, as he realized the weight of every moment he had missed. How many times had you broken down all alone because he wasn’t there?
“How devastated I was to give birth months after losing my parents? How heartbroken I was to leave the space for ‘father’s name’ empty on Leo’s birth certificate? How absolutely terrified I was when Leo first got his diagnosis?”
You gasped, choking on the grief, tears streaming down unchecked, “Do you know how guilty I feel… because he had to suffer, endure those painful hospital treatments for four years… when… when he could’ve been cured if I had just tracked you down earlier?!”
Your voice cracked, broken under the weight of years of longing, pain, and love you hadn’t allowed yourself to name. The words tumbled out, jagged and desperate, each one a blow to the past you had carried alone.
Mattheo’s knees buckled slightly, and he reached toward you, hesitant, unsure if he had any right to be here, to touch you, to witness the depth of your grief. His own eyes shimmered, glistening in the warm light, reflecting all he had lost, all he could not undo.
“I… I’m sorry,” He whispered, voice thick with emotion, “I’m so… so sorry, (Y/N).”
You trembled against him, letting your tears fall freely, letting the storm you had held inside for years pour into the space between you both. Your fingers were still twisted in the collar of his shirt, your knuckles pale from how tightly you were holding on, as if letting go might send you collapsing to the floor.
Mattheo didn’t move.
He let you lean against him, let your tears soak into the front of his shirt, his own breathing uneven as he tried to steady himself.
“I don’t want your sorry,” You choked out, shaking your head weakly against his chest, “I want to know why.”
The words hung between you.
Mattheo went still.
You felt it—the sudden tension that ran through his body, the way his chest stopped rising for a moment like the air had been knocked out of him.
Slowly, carefully, you lifted your head.
“Why?” You whispered again.
For a long moment he didn’t answer. His eyes dropped somewhere over your shoulder, jaw tightening like he was bracing himself for something far worse than your anger.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet enough that for a moment you almost didn’t hear it.
“I was the reason Dumbledore died.”
You pulled back from him instantly, eyes widening in disbelief, unsure if you even heard him correctly.
“What?”
Mattheo didn’t look at you.
“My father had been blackmailing me for a year,” He continued, his voice hollow in a way that made your stomach twist, “I was the one who snuck the Vanishing Cabinet into Hogwarts. I was the one who poisoned Ron. And I was the one who sent Katie Bell to St. Mungo’s.”
Your heart lurched violently in your chest.
For a moment you could only stare at him, your mind racing through half-forgotten headlines, whispered rumors from those dark months at Hogwarts.
Poisoned mead.
A cursed necklace.
The Vanishing Cabinet.
You had thought it was Draco.
“You—” Your voice faltered, “You did all of that?”
Mattheo finally lifted his eyes to you then.
There was no pride in his expression. No attempt to defend himself. Only exhaustion, and a deep, suffocating shame that seemed to sit permanently behind his eyes.
“Yes.”
The word was quiet. Final.
“But… why?” You breathed, “You said— you said he was blackmailing you. With what?”
Mattheo swallowed hard.
“With you.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“I tried to resist him,” Mattheo said hoarsely, “Merlin knows I tried. But the summer after fifth year he—” His jaw tightened, “He used Legilimency on me. He got inside my head.”
Your stomach dropped.
“He saw everything,” Mattheo continued quietly, “About you. About us.”
Your heart clenched painfully.
“And once he knew…” Mattheo’s voice faltered slightly before he forced the words out, “He told me if I didn’t do as he wanted, he would kill you. Slowly. In front of me.”
You felt your breath catch in your throat.
“He said he’d torture you,” Mattheo went on, voice barely above a whisper now, “He’d make you beg me to kill you myself just to end it.”
Your hands trembled.
“So even though I hated myself for doing all of it,” Mattheo said, his voice cracking slightly, “I did it anyway.”
Silence filled the room.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
“I don’t regret it.” He finished quietly.
You stared at him, stunned.
But then he looked at you—really looked at you—and suddenly you understood.
“I will never regret it,” He repeated, softer this time, “if it meant you stayed alive.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
The boy you had loved had been barely sixteen.
Sixteen and trying to hold the weight of a war, a murderous father, and the threat of losing you all at once.
“Why…” Your voice trembled, “Why didn’t you come back after the war then?”
Mattheo let out a shaky breath.
Because that question hurt even more.
“I was ashamed,” He admitted quietly, “How could I face you?” He continued, eyes falling back to the floor, “After everything I’d done? After the things I helped make happen?”
He gave a hollow laugh.
“How could I look you in the eye with the Dark Mark still burned into my arm?”
Your gaze dropped instinctively toward his sleeve.
Mattheo followed it.
“I wanted to come back,” He said quickly, almost desperately now, “Merlin, (Y/N), I wanted to so badly. But every time I imagined it I just kept seeing the look you’d have on your face when you found out the truth.”
Your throat tightened.
“So instead…” He continued quietly, “after the war I left. I went after them. The Death Eaters who slipped through the Ministry’s fingers. The ones who ran. The ones who disappeared.”
Your heart skipped.
“I thought…” His voice faltered slightly, “I thought if I spent the rest of my life hunting them down—if I helped clean up the mess I had a part in making—maybe I could redeem myself somehow.”
His eyes lifted slowly to yours.
“Maybe then I could come back and face you.”
Your chest ached.
“I told myself that once I’d done enough… once I’d proven I wasn’t the same person anymore… then I’d find you again.”
A sad smile tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth.
“But by the time I finally did…”
His gaze drifted toward the quiet hallway where Leo was sleeping.
“…I was too late.”
Your heart thudded painfully.
“You’d already built a life,” Mattheo finished softly, "Without me."
“I realize that now,” He said quietly, “I realize how alone I left you. What you had to go through without me. And I won’t keep reminding you of it.”
His hands gently closed around your wrists, lifting them from his chest. He didn’t push them away. Instead, he gathered them in his own, holding them there between you. His fingers wrapped around yours like he was afraid they might disappear if he let go too soon.
For a moment he just stood there, head bowed, thumbs brushing faintly across your knuckles.
Then he squeezed your hands tightly—almost desperately—and finally looked up at you.
His eyes were red.
“I missed my son’s entire life.” He whispered.
The words came out uneven as the reality of everything hit him at once.
He had never felt Leo kick beneath your ribs, never placed a careful hand over your stomach and waited for the small, impossible miracle of his son moving inside you.
He had never been there the night Leo was born.
He hadn’t held him as a newborn, small and fragile in his arms. Hadn’t been the one pacing the room at night when he cried. Hadn’t watched his tiny fingers curl around his own.
He had missed his first laugh.
Missed the moment Leo had taken his first unsteady steps, wobbling across the room toward you with that bright, fearless smile.
He hadn’t been there to hear his first word—hadn’t known whether it had been mama, or something silly, or a sound that only made sense to the two of you.
Five years of moments.
Five years of firsts.
All gone.
And now the boy who should have known him instinctively, who should have run to him without hesitation, looked at him the way a child looked at any stranger.
“He doesn’t even know me. Doesn’t know what a terrible father he has.” His throat tightened, forcing him to pause before finishing quietly, “And that’s the way it should be. I made my choices.”
Your throat tightened, but he kept going before you could speak.
He gave you a small, broken smile.
“I love you, (Y/N).”
The confession fell into the quiet between you like something fragile.
“I hope you’ll live well. I hope Leo grows up to be the man I’ll never be—beautiful and strong like you.”
Then he let your hands go.
For a second he lingered, as if committing the sight of you to memory—the slope of your shoulders, the shine in your eyes, the familiar shape of your face he had once known better than anything in the world.
Then he turned.
One step.
Two.
You felt something inside you snap.
“Leo has a wonderful father.”
Your voice came out barely above a whisper, but it stopped him instantly.
His shoulders froze mid-step.
Slowly, he turned back.
You stepped forward before you could second-guess yourself, reaching out and grabbing his sleeve, pulling him back toward you.
“I never stopped waiting for you.” You said, your voice trembling now.
His brows drew together in confusion, pain flickering across his face.
“I never stopped being reminded of you.” You continued softly.
Your eyes lifted to meet his.
“I see you in him.”
His breath caught.
“In his eyes. In his smile.”
You began to cry again, carrying through even though the ache in your throat, in your chest, begged you to stop, “He laughs the way you used to. He tilts his head when he’s thinking—just like you. Sometimes he’s stubborn, he refuses to listen…” A small, broken laugh escaped you, “…and he certainly didn't get that from me."
“I tried so hard to hate you,” You admitted, voice shaking, “It would’ve been easier. Raising him alone would’ve been easier if I could’ve convinced myself you didn’t matter anymore.”
You swallowed hard.
“But you never left. Not really.”
You placed a hand against his chest again, right over his heart.
“You’re here.” You whispered.
His chest rose sharply beneath your palm.
“And Leo…” Your voice softened, almost fond despite the tears, “…Leo deserves to know the man who gave him those eyes. The man he got that ridiculous stubbornness from.”
Mattheo shook his head faintly, his gaze dropping like he couldn’t bear to look at you while you said it.
You swallowed, your fingers tightening slightly against his shirt.
“Stop punishing yourself, Mattheo.”
The name felt strange on your tongue.
It had been so long since you’d said it like that. Not in anger. Not in bitterness. Not as something sharp and distant.
But softly.
The way you used to.
His head snapped up when he heard it, something fragile flashing across his face.
You hadn’t said his name like this in years—not with so much love tangled in it. Not with so much quiet adoration. Not with the aching longing you had buried for so long.
“You’ve done it,” You said gently, your voice trembling just slightly, “You’ve redeemed yourself.”
Mattheo stared at you, completely still.
“And it’s time to stop living like you’re still the man you used to be.”
Your hand slid down from his chest to his arm, your fingers curling lightly around his wrist, holding him there.
“It’s time to come home.”
Slowly, his hand came up, hesitating just inches from your face before finally brushing against your cheek. His touch was careful, almost reverent, like he was rediscovering something he had once known by heart.
Your breath trembled.
His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the tear that had slipped down your cheek.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that.” He said quietly.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m still the man you fell in love with.”
You held his gaze.
“You are.” You whispered.
Your hand slid up from his arm to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling lightly in the dark curls at his nape as you pulled him closer.
He inhaled sharply.
The distance between you disappeared in a heartbeat.
His hands came to your face as he kissed you—soft at first, hesitant, like he was asking permission. Like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to be this close again.
It wasn’t rushed. Or desperate.
It was slow, careful, like the two of you were relearning something sacred that had once come so easily.
The years apart, the grief, the longing—it all rushed forward at once.
His hands came up instinctively, settling at your waist before tightening, pulling you closer until there wasn’t an inch of space left between you. The warmth of him felt almost overwhelming after so many years without it. Your fingers tangled in his hair, and the quiet sound that escaped him at the contact made your chest tighten.
“I missed you.” He breathed against your lips.
“Mattheo—”
He kissed you again before you could finish, slower this time, his hands sliding down your back, holding you like he had finally found something he thought he’d lost forever.
You were the one who started walking first.
Slowly backing him up, your lips never leaving his as your hands slid down his chest. He followed instinctively, breath uneven, his hands tightening against your sides.
The hallway blurred past you both.
The door to your bedroom bumped softly against the wall as you pushed it open but neither of you noticed. Your breaths mingled on your lips, tongue still tasting the salt of your shared tears as you continued to stumble your way toward the bed.
Your hands moved to the hem of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric.
You tugged gently.
Mattheo pulled back just enough to look at you, his breathing heavy, eyes searching yours one last time.
When you stared up at him with so much longing, eyes still glassy, he reached down and pulled the shirt over his head.
Your hands slid over his chest instinctively, tracing the familiar lines you hadn’t touched in years. Every ridge of muscle, every scar and curve felt both impossibly new and painfully familiar, as if you were memorizing him all over again.
Then your fingers brushed the scar on his abdomen.
The movement stilled you.
It ran across his stomach—a long, raised line, nearly purple against his skin, a silent testament to everything he had endured for you and for Leo. Tears began to prick your eyes, blurring the edges of the dim light in the room.
Five years.
Five long years you had endured without him.
Five years of waking up to an empty space beside you, of turning your head in quiet moments and wishing he was there—wishing he could see the little things, the ordinary things that somehow meant everything. All the while, unbeknownst to you, somewhere far away Mattheo had been wishing for the very same thing.
Five years of missing each other.
Five years of loving each other in silence.
And now, after all that time, after all the distance and silence and pain, it felt as though everything had come crashing back together at once. Like two stars that had spent years drifting apart across the vastness of space, only to finally collide again in a brilliant, impossible explosion of light.
Your fingers traced the scar gently, reverently, the weight of it settling deep in your chest.
All the nights he had stayed away, all the sacrifices he had made without a word, without a plea, without asking for anything in return.
All the ways he had loved you, quietly, fiercely—even when he thought he had lost you forever.
You looked up, and your eyes softened, brimming with an emotion he hadn’t seen in years—a mixture of longing, relief, and a love that had only grown stronger with time.
“I never stopped loving you.” You whispered, your voice catching on the words.
Mattheo’s lips quivered, and you saw vulnerability in the face of the man who had always been so guarded, so self-contained. Something warm, fragile, and trembling passed through his expression before he leaned down to kiss you again.
This kiss was slower, deliberate, a deep and tender reclamation of what had been lost. Clothes fell away between you in unhurried movements, every touch and brush of skin a rediscovery, sacred and reverent. Fingers tangled in hair, hands roamed familiar paths, lingering over places that held memory and longing, every movement a silent apology and promise.
By the time you were both left with nothing between you, the room had gone completely still except for the sound of your breathing mingling together. It was intimate. It was quiet. It was a world unto itself, and you both existed there, suspended in the fragile bubble of shared desire and love.
Mattheo’s gaze roamed over your body slowly, as if he were committing every detail to memory—the curve of your shoulders, the soft swell of your hips, the marks that life and love had traced across you.
His hand reached out, brushing gently along your arm, warm and tender.
“You’re just as beautiful as I remember.” He said softly, voice low and reverent.
Then, after a small pause, he leaned closer, his hands grazing the stretch marks along your waist and hips—proof of the life you had brought into the world together, the tangible mark of your shared love, of your son.
“Maybe even more.” He added, awe lacing every syllable, eyes shimmering with a mixture of wonder and devotion that made your chest ache with longing and relief all at once.
You exhaled slowly, pressing your forehead to his, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours. In that moment, all the pain, all the distance, all the lost years melted into a quiet, fragile peace—and you knew that whatever came next, you were no longer alone.
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
Summary: The New Avengers start a full-on investigation when you and Bucky look a little too comfortable in your ''fake'' relationship.
Warnings: thunderbolts, fake dating trope (kinda), a lot of bickering and chaos, thunderbolts groupchat (!!!), a little suggestiveness, some russian (courtesy of google translate, so probably not 100% accurate)
A/N: this is definitely not my best work, it's just for fun :) nobody can stop me from carrying on the legacy of silly avengers tower fics. btw i giggled at how perfect that third photo is for this story. enjoy x
Word Count: 2,257
...
The assignment was supposed to be simple.
Valentina had announced her new idea like she'd been reading the weather report, strategically disguising her immorality with diplomacy. ''You have to appear to be dating to the public. It's good for optics.''
She doesn't add I don't care if it makes you uncomfortable, because that part is implied. She doesn't add do it or I'll make you regret the day you were born, because that part is implied too.
You and Bucky had stared at each other for a long beat, neither of you thrilled, sighing in synchrony before begrudgingly agreeing. You knew better than to argue with Valentina when she has her mind set.
You spent the last few weeks performing the part like soldiers on cue, sharing calculated smiles during press conferences, Bucky subtly but effectively leaning into you in front of the photographers, the choreography of a relationship that only exists on paper.
The change was easy to miss, at first. A fleeting look that held too much meaning, relentless teasing during sparring sessions, Bucky's hand lingering on your back just a second too long while guiding you through the Watchtower. Both of you had noticed it, of course, but refused to admit it aloud, too stubborn to face the truth.
The team noticed, too. You knew they did, even without peeking into their phones, because certain actions carried certain questions.
John, especially, had been watching a little too closely, catching your laughter echoing down the hall or the moments when Bucky's hand landed on your knee while you told a story. Bob had been quiet but observant, the corners of his mouth twitching in delight when your interactions strayed from strictly professional. Alexei… well, he lacked Bob's subtlety, his gaze often piercing through you with that wide-eyed curiosity that made Bucky stiffen in irritation.
Weeks have passed, the small moments having grown, imperceptibly but unmistakably, into an obvious pattern. Inside jokes on the Quinjet. Protective touches when navigating unstable terrain. A proximity Bucky usually doesn't allow anyone.
It was during one of the peaceful evenings, when the team had retreated to their quarters after a long day of training exercises, that it all began to stir. You and Bucky had gone to your room again, ostensibly to ''review mission intel'', though the way he had guided you to the door with a brush of his hand suggested otherwise.
''They are absolutely doing it.''
''That is not confirmed.''
''It is confirmed. I am confirming it.''
You don't turn around. Bucky definitely hears it too, but he keeps walking, the picture of stoicism.
From the hallway, you can hear the faint buzzing of phones, the unmistakable notification chime of a new groupchat message.
Mission Shipwatch they had called it, the team's space to dissect, speculate, and overanalyze every small interaction between the two of you. Obviously, you and Bucky weren't in it.
Messages flow in quick succession, each member contributing observations and suspicions.
Mission Shipwatch 🕵️♀️ (PRIVATE DO NOT ADD BARNES)
Captain Discount: Did you see the way he touched her arm?
RED GUARDIAN: YES!!!!! he touch her like… lover 💦
former child assassin: DAD PLEASE STOP USING THAT EMOJI.
Captain Discount: He opened the door for Y/N earlier.
former child assassin: Okay?
Captain Discount: And HELD IT.
former child assassin: That is a simple act of chivalry, Walker. You do not do this?
former child assassin: This is why your family left you.
RED GUARDIAN: i ship them.
Ghost: I am not a willing participant of this groupchat, but I did see this earlier today. 🔗[Photo]
RED GUARDIAN: CAUGHT RED-HANDED HAHAHAHAH.
Captain Discount: Well... That is pretty damning evidence.
former child assassin: THEY HOLD HANDS NOW???
bob: They look lovely together :)
...
Bucky hates when you patch him up.
Not because he doesn't trust you, but because he doesn't know where to look when you're right in front of him, his skin crawling with a bashfulness he hasn't felt since 1943.
Right now is no different. He's sitting on the edge of your bed, shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, a deep gash across his stomach that you're carefully disinfecting. He smiles sheepishly when you give him a look that says don't you dare downplay this. His breathing is shallow, but it's not because of the wound. You're kneeling between his legs, cotton pad in one hand, needle kit open beside you.
''Hold still,'' you mutter, even though he already is, ridiculously so. It's almost suspicious how obedient he becomes around you.
His voice is low. ''You're mad.''
''I should be mad,'' you say, threading the needle. ''You let a guy with a boning knife get close enough to do this.''
''He wasn't supposed to have a boning knife.''
You roll your eyes. ''Shocking twist.''
His mouth twitches like he wants to smile, but the door suddenly bursts open with all the grace of a landslide.
Your heads snap up.
John Walker stands frozen in the doorway like he's just walked in on a murder. Or something much, much worse.
You're kneeling in front of Bucky, your hands on his bare stomach. His chest is flushed, his breathing heavy. It… looks bad.
Very bad.
John blinks. ''Oh my god. Okay. Wow.''
You immediately lift your hands like you're being arrested. ''Walker, this is not what it looks like. I'm just patching him up.''
Bucky closes his eyes like he's praying for death to come take him.
John is already backing away, scrambling for his phone. ''This is not what Val meant when she said to pretend to be dating.''
''Jonathan, get your ass back in here. Don't you dare take—'' You stare at him, betrayed, after being temporarily blinded by the flash of his phone. ''I know you did not just take a picture.''
He's already halfway down the hall, sprinting toward the elevator. ''It's for evidence! The people need to know!''
''What people? Hey, who's ''people''? Walker!'' You step into the hallway just in time to see him frantically pressing the button to the 91st floor, and the elevator doors closing pitifully slow.
''I hate this team,'' Bucky announces, deadpan.
Mission Shipwatch 🕵️♀️ (PRIVATE DO NOT ADD BARNES)
Captain Discount: EMERGENCY. CODE RED.
Captain Discount: LOOK WHAT I JUST SAW.
Captain Discount: 🔗[Photo]
former child assassin: OH. I NEED TO BLEACH MY EYES.
Ghost: The one time I open this groupchat, Bucky and Y/N are fornicating on my screen.
RED GUARDIAN: YA ZNAL ETO!!! I KNEW IT!!! THEY ARE DOING THE BOOMBAYAH.
former child assassin: Oh my god.
Captain Discount: Y/N SAID SHE WAS ''JUST PATCHING HIM UP''.
bob: Oh no! Is Bucky okay? :(
former child assassin: I would never have believed you if you had not caught this on camera.
bob: Maybe Y/N really was patching Bucky up.
bob: He does look like he's in pain in the picture.
Ghost: Oh wow. Who's going to tell him?
Captain Discount: Not it.
RED GUARDIAN: HAHAHAH NEVINOVNYY. INNOCENT BOY.
former child assassin: Bob, it's not pain that Bucky was feeling.
bob: Huh?
bob: Oh.
bob: o_o
Ghost: Here's an idea. Maybe you guys shouldn't jump to conclusions.
RED GUARDIAN: NO! WE JUMP. WE LEAP. LIKE SIBERIAN MOUNTAIN GOAT.
Captain Discount: Uh oh.
Captain Discount: I can hear Y/N and Bucky.
Captain Discount: They're coming after me.
Captain Discount: GUYS HELP.
Captain Discount: GUYS???
Captain Discount: pls senf helpdhksbpppppppppp
...
Mission Shipwatch 🕵️♀️ (PRIVATE DO NOT ADD BARNES)
Captain Discount: They're doing it again. Door closed. That's like the fifth time this week.
bob: Y/N said they were just going to prep for the next mission.
former child assassin: They are either kissing or plotting murder. Maybe both.
RED GUARDIAN: i tell you, barnes is smitten like little puppy. he follows her with eyes like lovesick idiot 😍
Captain Discount: Pics or it didn't happen.
Ghost: We are not spying on them like creeps.
former child assassin: No, we are not. John is.
Captain Discount: No thanks. Not after last time.
Captain Discount: Thanks for backing me up, by the way.
Captain Discount: I enjoyed being put into an armlock by Y/N.
former child assassin: Eh. Most action you've gotten in months.
bob: Maybe they just became friends?
Ghost: No one likes being around Bucky that much.
Captain Discount: THAT'S WHAT I'M SAYING.
RED GUARDIAN: he smiled at her yesterday. ZIMNIY SOLDAT. THE WINTER SOLDIER SMILED.
former child assassin: And she brushed hair out of his face.
Captain Discount: She WHAT?
bob: It was cute :)
Captain Discount: Adding this to the spreadsheet.
Ghost: You have a spreadsheet?
Captain Discount: Don't judge me.
Ghost: Too late.
...
It's 2:17 a.m. The tower is silent. The only movement is you and Bucky, swaying in the dim kitchen light like two idiots who forgot they're supposed to be emotionally repressed.
There's no music to guide you, but Bucky has one hand on your waist, the other loosely holding your hand. His hair is a mess, your shirt is wrinkled, and he's smiling. Actually smiling.
He twirls you lazily, and you bump into the counter and laugh quietly. ''The kitchen's small,'' he mutters, rubbing your hip soothingly.
You jump and whip your heads around when you hear a loud crunch.
John Walker is standing there, barely hidden behind a pillar like a man who has never stalked anyone convincingly in his life. He's holding your bag of chips under one arm and his phone in the other. His eyes are wide like he's witnessed yet another homicide.
''Jonathan,'' you say sternly, putting on your best don't you dare face.
''Don't you 'Jonathan' me,'' John whisper-yells. ''Bucky doesn't dance. You don't smile. This is unprecedented. This is history.''
''You're being a tad dramatic,'' you laugh nervously.
''Oh, am I?'' John says, holding up his phone. ''Because I have visual evidence of emotion.'' You all stare at each other blankly for a long moment, and then John bolts out of the kitchen like a toddler about to tell the teacher someone said a bad word.
You groan. ''He's sending it to the groupchat, isn't he?''
Bucky sighs. ''Yep.''
Mission Shipwatch 🕵️♀️ (PRIVATE DO NOT ADD BARNES)
Captain Discount: WAKE UP. WAKE UP.
Captain Discount: THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
Captain Discount: THE PROPHECY HAS COME TRUE.
Captain Discount: 🔗[Photo]
RED GUARDIAN: HOLY MOTHER OF BABUSHKA.
former child assassin: IS BARNES SMILING??? I DIDN'T KNOW HE HAD THIS MANY TEETH.
Ghost: I don't know why or how I've become invested in this, but I just spit out my water.
bob: I feel guilty. They probably kept it quiet for a reason :(
RED GUARDIAN: INTERVENTION.
RED GUARDIAN: SEYCHAS.
RED GUARDIAN: NOW.
Captain Discount: EVERYBODY TO THE LIVING ROOM.
Captain Discount: YOU BETTER NOT LEAVE ME STRANDED AGAIN.
Ghost: I'm bringing popcorn.
RED GUARDIAN: i'm bringing camera, cuz i am historian first and foremost 😎
bob: I'm bringing good vibes :D
former child assassin: Bob, we're all waiting for you.
bob: WAIT YOU'RE ALL THERE ALREADY???
bob: DON'T START WITHOUT ME PLSPLSPLS.
bob: THIS ELEVATOR IS TAKING SO LONG.
Five minutes later, you and Bucky walk into the living room to the New Avengers arranged in a semicircle like a very poorly organized intervention.
Yelena clears her throat. ''Sit.''
You don't sit.
John scoffs. ''Fine. Have it your way.'' He points dramatically at the screen where the team has projected the photo he took mere moments ago like crime evidence. ''Explain this.''
''Y'know, we were there. The photo is unnecessary,'' Bucky grumbles.
''Right. This happened five minutes ago,'' you point out.
Alexei slams his fist over his heart. ''But this is love! I know love when I see it!''
John points at you like he's pointing at a war criminal (he is, by the way). ''You two brood. You don't giggle or dance.''
''I was not giggling,'' you protest, offended.
''Don't gaslight me, woman. You were. You're hiding something.''
Everyone nods like this is an airtight, scientific conclusion.
You exchange a look with Bucky that says ''do we tell them?''.
He sighs in resignation.
You take a deep breath.
''Okay, fine,'' you say. ''We're dating.''
For a moment, the room goes completely still like the air has been punched out of it, before the entire team erupts at once. It's a tidal wave of gasps, accusations, triumphant ''I knew it!''s, and stunned disbelief, every voice overlapping and getting louder by the second.
When the team finally calms, Yelena is the first to speak up. ''Real dating disguised as fake dating disguised as real dating— My head hurts,'' she mutters, rubbing her temples.
Bucky clears his throat, reluctantly clarifying the situation. ''It started out fake. Then it became real. A few weeks ago.''
''A few weeks— And you didn't tell us?'' Yelena gasps.
You gesture broadly. ''No, we didn't. This. This is why.''
''I'm really happy for you guys,'' Bob says cheerfully.
Alexei wipes a, likely imaginary, tear from his cheek. ''My children... they grow up so fast.''
''Dad, Bucky is significantly older than you.''
John blows air out of his mouth. ''Wow. Didn't see this coming.''
You squint. ''We literally caught you all stalking us.''
Ava snorts. ''Not successfully.''
Alexei claps his hands together, energized. ''We have to celebrate!''
''No, we don't,'' Bucky groans, but they're already fighting over the champagne Valentina keeps in the fridge for ''special occasions''.
Bucky bumps his shoulder into yours when the others aren't looking. ''Told you they'd lose their minds.''
You smile. ''Are we going to tell them they accidentally added you to the groupchat and we've been reading along this whole time?''
You hear a scandalized gasp behind you.
''WHAT?''
...
general tag list
@buckysgirl-12
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
poly!jily idea where their whole friend group is playing truth or dare in the common room one night and Jily are already together but reader isn’t with them yet. reader gets asked either what their type is or what their biggest/longest fantasy is and reader just goes oh pass please give me a dare instead I’ve made my peace with it never happening (bc why would jily go for them they’re already with each other and seem monogamous). And jily feels their hearts breaking and are also nosy as fuck so they corner reader later and ask and then it comes out jily likes them too hooray
Thank you for requesting! I did a magical spin on this, but I hope you still like it
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
cw: hogwarts uni au, mature themes, alcohol
poly!Jily x fem!reader ♡ 1.9k words
“It’d be Remus, Davey, Frank, James, Sturgis, then maybe Sirius,” Marlene lists off.
“Maybe Sirius?” Sirius cries. “What’d I do to land at the bottom of the list of blokes here you’d shag?”
“I wouldn’t shag any of you,” replies Marlene unhesitatingly. “This is only with a gun to my head.”
“Fine, but why am I last?”
“I don’t love being so far down either,” James commiserates.
“Because—” Marlene seems almost as though she tries to suppress the answer, but it comes rushing out anyway. “—between the two of us, we’d wake the whole school.”
The common room erupts with laughter. Sirius’ face pinks, and so does Remus’, a tiny bit, but they’re both grinning. Everyone who’s been in the hot seat so far has made spilling their guts look almost fun. A bit embarrassing, but only as much as can be laughed off. Sirius says purebloods play this game all the time, and it sounded like a good idea when you let him put a few drops of veritaserum in your drink. Now that you’re up next you’re not feeling so sure.
“Alright, alright.” As one of your friends who’s opted out, Mary has been tasked with questioning. She shifts her gaze to you. “Y/n, are you ready?”
“No,” you say, unable to stop yourself.
Quiet titters go through the room.
“Sounds like she’s ready,” Sirius teases.
Mary hums, considering. “You always say you have to leave these things early because you have to study. What’s the real reason?”
“I get sleepy when I drink.” The words fly off your tongue like you’ve just breathed them out. “I decide I don’t want to talk to anyone anymore and go to bed.”
“Oh, and you get out of the cleanup, too, don’t you?” James teases.
“That doesn’t hurt.”
Your friends laugh. You laugh with them, relaxing. This isn’t so bad as you’d begun to worry it would be.
“Didn’t we already sort of know that?” Emmeline asks.
Challenged with upping the ante, Mary’s eyes glint. “Who here secretly annoys you the most?”
“None of you annoy me.” It’s a simple truth, quick and easy. At least, so you think, until your mouth decides to keep going. You try to hold them in, but the words rise like bile in your throat. “But when Sirius played Bowie in the dorms for that whole day to impress Remus, I fantasized about shouting at him.”
Sirius makes an appalled sound, and James claps his shoulder.
“You can’t catch a break today, mate.”
“I won’t forget this,” Sirius vows, pointing a finger at you.
Lily swats it lightly out of the air. “Don’t be cross with her for that. Her darkest fantasy is about shouting at you, for pity’s sake. I thought about killing you.”
The common room fills with laughter once again, as James is forced to mediate between his best friend and his girlfriend. Your stomach flutters pathetically at Lily’s defence of you.
“Okay, okay.” Mary quiets everyone. “Y/n, what’s your biggest fantasy?”
Your heart thumps.
It’s an instinct to keep from looking at either James or Lily, but it isn’t your eyes that will betray you tonight. Your tongues vies to answer.
“I—I’ve thought about—” You clamp your lips between your teeth, your throat constricting around words you don’t want to say. “—about—eughh—”
A pained whimper escapes you as a powerful surge of nausea almost coaxes you into opening your mouth. Tears catch in your eyes.
“Hey,” James says, alarmed. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say.”
It’s sweet that he thinks that will free you, sweet of him to try, but it’s useless when everyone else is still waiting for you to answer the question.
“It can’t be that bad.” Mary looks like she feels bad for you. “Everyone’s said embarrassing things, we won’t care.”
You can think of at least two people who might.
“I really don’t feel well,” you blurt. The words are plenty true enough to pass your lips, even as the unspoken ones still threaten to surge out. You stand. “I’m sorry.”
You feel drunker than you should stumbling your way to the stairway, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. Your footing feels unsteady.
You think it’s your overwhelmed senses exaggerating things, but when your foot does slip, Lily’s there to catch your elbow.
“You’re okay,” she says gently, helping you up the next step. You turn to see her, sicker than sick to find James following behind. “Let’s get you to bed, love.”
Lily’s vanilla and jasmine scent wraps around you as you let her walk you up the stairs, testing out different excuses on your tongue. Eventually you find one that feels truthful enough.
“Thank you,” you tell them, “but I can get to bed on my own.”
James frowns at you. “You don’t want us to come with you?”
“No, I do.”
You wince, and James’ brows pucker with confusion. Lily takes your elbow again, redirecting you towards your room. “We just want to be sure you’re okay,” she says. “I know you’re embarrassed, I’m really sorry about that, but you don’t look well.”
“I think the veritaserum is making me feel sick,” you agree.
“Do you think you can try to relax now?” James suggests as he holds your door open for you. “We won’t ask you anything.”
“You just did,” you blurt. “And, um, no?”
“Veritaserum doesn’t work like that.” Lily grimaces. She sits at the foot of your bed, across from you where you take a seat and pull your knees to your chest reflexively. “Once she’s been asked a question, her body won’t let up until she answers it. And she still hasn’t answered Mary’s question.”
Like the reminder worsens things, your throat constricts again, trying to speak. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood.
James’ eyes widen. “Don’t hurt yourself.” He sits, reaching for your hand. If his legs were on the mattress, he’d be crowding both you and Lily off of it; your bed isn’t big enough for all three of you, you think wryly.
James squeezes your fingers, nearly pleading. “Just let it out. We won’t tell anyone. Whatever it is, it can’t be worth all this.”
You shake your head desperately. “I don’t want to tell you.”
“I know,” Lily soothes, “but it’s the only thing that will help.”
You’re sweating by now. You’re sure that James can tell, your palms clammy. Another swell of nausea rises in your throat, and you really do think you’re going to be sick then, your mouth opening on instinct—
“My fantasy is to have a threesome.”
The truth feels like taking in a gulp of air after nearly drowning. James and Lily relax, and so do you. You’re not prepared to stop what comes out next.
“With you.”
Two sets of eyes grow large in front of you. You gasp at yourself, but the inhale only gives you oxygen to keep going.
“I’ve liked you both for a long time. I know it’s wrong because you’re together, but I actually like you better together, and it doesn’t always make sense to me but I’ve tried to stop thinking about it and I haven’t been able to. I think you suit each other really well, and I fantasize about being a part of that.” You cover your mouth with a hand, a humiliated stinging in your eyes, but it all just comes out muffled into your palm. “I feel awful about it. I used to think it was just that I wanted a relationship like you have, but I’m fairly sure now it’s that I want to be with you instead, even though I know you’re committed to each other.”
“How…” James blinks. His obvious stupefaction threatens to bring back your nausea. “How long have you felt this way?”
“Since you got together. Or maybe a couple weeks after that. I think it’s that you compliment each other so well, and I saw how nicely you treat each other, but it doesn’t hurt that you’re both really attractive.” You whimper. “God, I’m really sorry.”
“Hey, shh.” Lily shifts closer to you. Her expression looks cracked open as she takes your head in her hands, pressing your foreheads together. “It’s alright. You’ve answered. You can be done.”
“Sometimes I see you holding hands and I don’t know which one of you I’m more envious of. Which is confusing, because I’m also happy for you.”
“Why is she still going?” James asks.
“I think it’s because she held it in for so long.” Lily’s thumb strokes your temple, grounding. “The reaction is trying to even itself out.”
“I’m happy to be your friend,” you go on, “and I don’t want to ruin it by asking for anything more. I feel really awful telling you all this. If we can pretend this didn’t happen, I hope that nothing has to change.”
“Sweetheart,” James murmurs, “please don’t feel bad.”
A few beats later, when you don’t say anything more, Lily lifts her head to look at you.
“Does it feel like you got it all out?”
“Yeah,” you sigh. You slump back against your bedframe, exhausted and already bracing for what’s to come.
James looks at you with worry nestled in the crease above the bridge of his glasses. “Are you okay?”
“Not really.”
“Let’s try to avoid asking questions,” Lily tells him.
James nods, pursing his lips thoughtfully.
“I like it when you do that,” you blurt.
He half grins. “Thank you. I like it when you smile really big and your nose wrinkles a little bit.”
You blink. “You don’t have to say things to make me feel better.”
“I know, I just…” James takes a breath. “I know saying all that wasn’t your choice, but I feel like you deserve some honesty in return.” He shares a look with Lily, one of those couple-y, secret language looks that you can’t interpret. “Yeah?”
Lily’s cheeks flush pink, but she nods.
You tell her helplessly, “You look pretty when you blush.”
Though your own mortification only worsens, it seems to help Lily. Her eyes soften. “Thank you,” she says.
“So.” James toes off his shoes, setting his socked feet on the bed. And you were half right; Lily has to scoot over, and his ankles tangle with yours, but you all still fit. “I don’t want you to think that we’re going to see you differently because of your feelings.”
You wince. “I don’t see how you couldn’t. I’d rather not talk about it.”
“What he means is that we don’t like you any less,” Lily promises.
James nods. “Actually, we might like you more. Which is difficult, because we already fancied you quite a bit.”
You look between them—James with his winsome smile and Lily with her stunning eyes—and your mouth opens before you can process what you think. “It feels like you’re just trying to make me feel better.”
Lily laughs, the sound bright and clear. “We’re not,” she assures you. “I promise, there would be easier ways to make you feel better than trying to explain all this. We’ve actually talked about it quite a bit.”
“About me?” you ask, astonished.
“About you specifically.” James grins. It’s borderline sheepish. “Since only a little while after we got together, actually.”
You stare at them. “I thought neither of you drank the veritaserum.”
“We didn’t. Like I said, I just think you deserve some honesty back for yours.”
“You’re too nice.” You turn your head into your palms, saying the words into them. “It’s part of the problem.”
“The problem?” You can hear James’ smile in his voice now. Picture him propping his chin on his knee as he says, teasing, “Tell me more about that, lovely.”
Lily swats him on the arm admonishingly, but you’ve finally gotten to something you don’t mind sharing.
oh my heart!!! is it terrible for me to confess i wasnt the biggest poly!jily fan for like a long while? but you, my sweet angel girl mae, have single handedly shoved my stupid opinions aside and made me love them!! ugh and the confessions are always my favourites too so double win for me im afraid
Hi Mae! I love reading your stories, especially your EMT marauders fics, and I have a bunch of them bookmarked so I can reread them (which I do multiple times a month). I was wondering if you could do an EMT poly marauders fic where reader like broke a bone (wrist or maybe ankle) but since she’s so clumsy she thinks it’s just sprained or badly bruised, but the marauders come home from work and see how swollen it is and how red/bruised it is and immediately get worried about it. Then they convince her to let them take her to the ER to see if it’s actually broken or smth.
I honestly just love EMT marauders bc you always write them so perfectly.
Thank you sweet angel!
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 633 words
You step out of your bedroom and almost immediately into a ladder.
“Careful,” says James, glancing down.
“Sorry.” You edge around him. “What are you doing?”
“Sirius wanted to see if these things really stick to ceilings.”
“Oh, sure, it was just me,” Sirius drawls. He emerges from the kitchen to swat James’ bum. “Take some accountability, coward.”
“I’m getting them down!” James defends himself.
Sirius rolls his eyes, snaking an arm around your waist and hauling you into the kitchen. “Gorgeous, we’re trying to decide whether to make Remus’ macaroni salad with or without capers. Without, you agree?”
“For a toff, you sure are a fussy eater,” Remus mutters, already dicing the capers.
You exhale a laugh as you weave between them to the freezer. “I think the fact that it’s called ‘Remus’ macaroni salad’ is your answer, lovely.”
Sirius groans. “Knew I should have left you in the bedroom.”
You throw him a look over your shoulder, to which he only narrows his eyes playfully.
“You’ve been in there a while,” says Remus. “Busy with work?”
“Yeah. Only took a break to get fresh ice.”
“Ice?” Sirius asks.
You hold up the bag of mostly melted ice you’ve brought with you from the bedroom to demonstrate. The steady thunking of Remus’ knife slows as you begin to fill it from the freezer with your good hand. “What do you need ice for?”
“Her wrist…” Sirius answers before you can. He crosses the room to you, stare lasered in on your hurting arm. “What did you do?”
You wrinkle your nose at him. “I didn’t do anything.”
The look Sirius gives you is exasperated, but his tone softens. “How’d you hurt yourself, sweetheart?”
“I slipped earlier and twisted it,” you admit. Sirius takes your wrist in hand, and you fight a wince.
“Twisted it?” Remus echoes.
“She okay?” James calls from down the hall.
“Yeah,” you respond, at the same time as Sirius calls back, “I’m checking.”
“Don’t worry him,” you chide. “I’m fine.”
“I don’t want to be left out of the group worry,” James protests, coming into the kitchen. He crowds Sirius for a look at your arm, and you look at Remus, pleading.
Remus’ mouth ticks. “When did this happen, lovely?”
You deflate. He won’t be rescuing you anytime soon. “Earlier. While you guys were at work.”
“And what makes you think it’s a sprain?”
“It doesn’t hurt that—ow!” You jerk your arm on instinct, but Sirius holds fast to your elbow. James sends you an apologetic look. “Well, it hurts when you push on it. But not really the rest of the time.”
“Sorry, sorry.” James kisses your hair. “Was just checking something.”
“It shouldn’t be this swollen,” Sirius hums. “Wiggle your fingers for me?”
“How do they feel?” Remus asks once you have.
You shrug. “Fine. A little stiff. Sort of tingly.”
“Tingly as in numb?” James checks.
“Yeah, why?”
“Right.” He pats your shoulder, going towards the hall.
Remus steps closer with a sympathetic pinch to his mouth and takes a turn kissing your head. “Grab your shoes, lovely.”
“What?” You look between him and Sirius, aghast. “Where are we going?”
“Doctor’s, obviously,” Sirius answers for him. “You’ve got a broken wrist.”
“What?” you ask again.
“They’ll need to confirm with an x-ray, but fingers don’t usually go numb with a sprained wrist,” Remus explains patiently.
“But…” Sirius begins shepherding you towards the door with a hand on your back, and you go along helplessly. James appears with your shoes. “It’s been fine all day. And I fall on it all the time, it never breaks.”
Sirius laughs. “Remember when you used to say the same thing about dropping your phone?”
i say the same things about my phone and now this is making me want to be more careful with it, but i swear ive dropped it more times than i can count and i havent even gotten a single scratch in the past 5 years! anyways i love you with all my heart emt!marauders 😞
dropping this request in if i may ~ 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯! so i was a tiny bit inebriated the other night and having the hardest time trying to coordinate putting my lipgloss on in the dark , when I was blessed with the vision of Remus applying it for reader sometime during/after a night out. I know Sirius would be more skilled for pro makeup application but I’m thinking about that gentle chin tilt … the big hands .. the jaw holding… the soft tracing with the applicator— the tension, ugh <3. not sure if it fits into your direction of the new girl au but i love a similar pre relationship vibe if it’s not too repetitive xx !
This was so fun, thank you for requesting!
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her vile agendas
cw: alcohol
Marauders New Girl AU
roommate!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 935 words
The world glitters as you walk from your table up to the bar. Sirius rolls his eyes at your giant smile.
“Must be going well,” he surmises, glancing at the man you’ve left at the table behind you.
You shrug, but you’re miles off from blasé. “I think it’s going okay.”
It’s silly to think you can tell much from a first conversation with someone, but your sort-of-date had a strong start by coming up to you while you were with your flatmates to ask if you’d join him for a drink. He’s your age, cute, the kind of confident that doesn’t overassert itself. You were beyond flattered to be asked, and things have only gotten better from there. You’re thinking you’ll ask to see him again.
James is smiling at you way too knowingly. You try to straighten your own face to keep him from teasing you. “Can we have two more of the same, please?”
Sirius frowns. He looks over you assessingly—checking if you’re too drunk to serve, part of his job and probably also a preventative measure to ensure you don’t monopolize the bathroom in your flat later. “You know I’m not comping these for this bloke, right?”
“Of course, yeah.” Warmth tickles your cheeks. “They’re on his tab.”
“Ooooh,” James sings, teasing, “he likes you.”
Sirius hums approvingly and goes to the other side of the bar to start on your drinks. You shy away from James while he tries to pinch your cheeks.
“And you like him!”
Remus swats James’ shoulder when you lean nearly off your stool, not even looking up from his book. “Don’t harass her.”
“Aw, come on,” James says, though he stops to prop his chin on his hand instead. His eyes have gone all squishy fond. “It’s cute.”
You peer over his head at Remus. “Actually, Rem…”
Remus glances over, and you make your eyes big and pleading.
“Since Sirius is busy, would you help me with my lip gloss? I tried, but my hand is…” You sigh, remembering how your lack of coordination had resulted in an embarrassing glossy sheen on your chin. “I can’t do it.”
Remus hesitates for longer than you’re expecting him to. He watches you from the corner of his eye before sighing, resigned. “Come over here.”
You hop off your stool, trading it for the one next to his. “Thank you!”
“What do you need to reapply for?” James asks as you hand Remus your tube of lip gloss.
You ignore the implication in his tone. “Because it wore off.”
“Mmmhm.”
You scoff, but before you can tell him off Remus is taking your jaw in a gentle hand. “Tilt your chin up for me?”
You do, watching as he holds the wand uncertainly. He meets your eyes.
“I can’t promise this’ll be much better than you would’ve done.”
That’s okay, you want to say. I trust you.
You keep perfectly still as Remus brushes the spongy tip of the wand over your lower lip. A soft heat spreads under your skin.
He works slowly, as meticulous as he is with everything, his smoked whiskey eyes focussed on your lips. And you find yourself focussed—wholly, painfully, focussed—on him.
You hoped you were over this. You wanted to be over this. It was the main reason you began seeking out dates in the first place, and now you’re here with an attractive man who likes you waiting for you to come back to his table, and you’re having heart palpitations over your flatmate’s hand on your face. And you can’t bring yourself to regret it.
“You really like him,” says James, watching you with that giant grin on his face again. “Look at you, you’ve got hearts in your eyes. I feel like I need to sneak a picture of you and your date to put on the fridge.”
Your eyes dart to him. Remus vocalizes what you can’t.
“Don’t you dare,” he murmurs, low and assured. An unwelcome thrill goes up your spine.
James makes a mopey sound. “What if I’m very stealthy about it?”
You nearly laugh and mess up all of Remus’ work. James doesn’t have a stealthy bone in his body. Remus meets your eyes, and you know he’s thinking the same. His tongue does that thing where it pokes into his cheek.
Fuck. You’re so done for.
“Alright.” Remus caps your lip gloss. “Let me try and clean it up…” He swipes a thumb beneath your lower lip. Your brain nearly whites out. “...and I think that’s decent.”
You rub your lips together, watching Remus’ eyes drop to the motion. They make a soft pop when they come apart.
“Let your Romeo know,” Sirius says as he returns to set your drinks on the bar, “that I’m closing his tab after these two. You’re cut off.”
“Okay,” you chirp, uncaring. “Hey, did Remus do a good job with my lip gloss?”
Sirius squints at you across the bar. His eyebrows rise. “Surprisingly, yeah.” He looks at Remus. “I’m impressed.”
“Surprisingly,” Remus scoffs, returning to his book. “I want my next drink comped for that.”
“Yours are all comped, prick.”
“Thank you.” You lean in to give Remus a quick side hug before remembering why that might be a bad idea. Your entire side tingles with awareness.
He hardly glances up, mumbling a quick, “Anytime.”
James grins and hands you your drinks. “Go get em’, tiger.” He spins you back towards your table. You go towards it on wobbly steps.
It’s possible the world glitters just a tiny bit more coming back than it did leaving.
I feel like jily would see reader and both be like oh fuck and then decide to just adopt/bring them into the relationship. Like they sit by reader at meals, James butters both lily’s toast and readers, lily sits on the couch by reader in the common room and puts her head in their lap while snatching their essay out of their hand to proofread while James sits on the floor and lily mindlessly plays with his hair, they save reader a seat at the three broomsticks on hogsmeade days. And poor reader just thinks they’re friends, or maybe they decided they need a kid since they act so married/mom and dad. And one day Lily or James is like yea my partners and reader is like uh as in plural? And both James and Lily whip their heads around and are like yea moron us three???? What did you think was happening???
Thanks for requesting!
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
hogwarts uni au
poly!Jily x fem!reader ♡ 1k words
All three occupants of the table light up when you and Remus enter the Three Broomsticks.
“Move,” Lily tells Sirius promptly.
He scoffs, but happily vacates his seat next to James in favor of one on the other side of the table, where Remus can sit next to him. “Fuck off, Evans.”
James slides out of his chair and into the next. “Saved you a seat,” he says, smiling that megawatt smile that jellies your legs. He pulls out the newly empty chair between himself and Lily.
“Oh.” You falter only a moment at the fact that they’re not sitting together before taking it. “Thanks.”
“Is this new?” Lily touches the pompom of your hat. It’s the faintest brush of her fingers, and yet your face heats like a struck match. Her eyes find yours, fond. “You look very cute.”
“Thanks,” you say again, quieter.
She smiles. “What kept you two?”
“Transmutation paper,” Remus answers for you, collapsing into the chair next to Sirius’. Your lips tug fondly as you watch how Sirius curls into his side, Remus’ arm coming around the other boy’s shoulders almost unthinkingly. “Our professor’s got his pants in a twist about structure. Wants us to hit every point of the rubric in order.”
“Tyrant,” Sirius decides immediately.
“Same one who gave us a paper due during reading week, too.”
“Knew I hated him. We should spell his shoes into tar.”
“Do you want me to read it over for you?” Lily offers, while Remus and Sirius sidebar about how a shoe-to-tar spell might be achieved. “I can compare with the rubric if you’d like a fresh set of eyes.”
“You don’t have to,” you try, but Lily waves you off, beckoning for it.
“While you do that,” says James, standing, “I’ll go get drinks. Moony, what’ll you have?”
“Whiskey sour, please,” Remus replies. He’s taking out his own essay, newly paranoid that he’s missed a point.
“Yuck. And you want a cider, angel?”
You assume for a moment that James must mean Lily, but she already has a drink. He’s looking at you. You didn’t realize he knew your usual order.
“Yes, please,” you say.
James goes to the bar, while Lily leans closer to praise you for an apt transition between your thesis and first argument. Her shoulder bumps into yours, a warmth you can feel through the layers separating you. It’s innocuous. But you wonder if Lily would be so comfortable around you if she knew of your giant, shameful crush on both her and her boyfriend.
It’s hardly your first forbidden crush (you carried a torch for Remus for months after he and Sirius got together) but it’s definitely new for you to have a crush on two people who are in a relationship together. Because fate likes to laugh at you, James and Lily decided they’d like to be your closest friends right around the time you started having feelings for them both. You feel a bit accomplished for having gone undetected for so long. Lily is smart; you thought she’d clock your puppy eyes within a week of getting to know you better, but so far nothing has seemed to deter the couple from wanting to spend more time with you.
“This is good,” Lily says, still skimming the end of your paper. “I can’t imagine what your professor could fault you for. You’ve laid everything out perfectly.”
“Ooh, high praise,” James teases, setting down your cider in front of you. A short glass has appeared in front of Remus. James lays his arm across the back of your chair casually. “Give her a break from school, love.”
“Wait.” Remus sends Lily a sheepish look. “Will you read mine?”
James laughs. “I think both of my girls deserve a break.”
“Hear hear!” Sirius lifts his glass, while the words my girls are still echoing around in your head like a song that sticks. “Speaking of, Prongs, do you want to do something off-campus on Friday?”
“Not this Friday,” James replies unhesitatingly. “We have a date.”
You turn to him, a bit wounded. “This Friday?”
James’ eyebrows raise. “Yeah. Did you forget?”
“I just…I thought we were going to the cinema on Friday.”
“That’s what I meant.” He squeezes your shoulder, giving you a bemused smile. “So like I was telling Pads, we have plans Friday.”
“Oh, sorry.” You feel silly. “The word ‘date’ threw me.”
Lily looks up then, her brows bunched to James’ raised.
“...Why would that be?” James asks.
“Because…” you say slowly, hoping one of them will finish for you. When they don’t, you flounder. “Well, is it a date?”
“Of course it is,” James replies.
You reel.
“Oh, lovely.” Lily sounds a strange mix of fond and empathetic. “Did you not know we were asking you on a date? What do you think the other night at our apartment was?”
“Studying,” you say tightly.
James nods. “A study date.”
“Right, but—when you called it that, I didn’t take it for—you know, anything. Remus and I have study dates all the time.”
“You what?” Sirius rounds on his boyfriend, who is doing his best to appear as though he isn’t listening.
“What did you think was happening between us?” Lily asks you.
You look at her helplessly. “Friendship?” With the added flavor of one-sided, hopeless pining.
“Godric.” James runs a hand through his hair. When he breathes out, his lips twitch; it’s like he’s incurable. “Well, would you want to date? Since apparently we haven’t started yet.”
“How many dates do you think we’ve had?”
“Four, love.”
“Five,” Lily corrects him. “You’re forgetting the pond.”
“Right. Five.”
You gawp at them, replaying every hour you’ve spent alone together in your head. It did feel strange that they kept inviting you along to things. But you only thought you were their very special third wheel.
“I’d like to be on a date,” you say.
James’ grin splits his face, and Lily laughs breathlessly. “Great,” she says. “We can consider this our first.”
