THIS SIDE OF REAL ⋆.˚ JAMES POTTER
PART ONE ⋆.˚ TERMS AND CONDITIONS → 2.0k
When James Potter blurts out to his friends that he's already got a girlfriend to shut them up about winning Lily back, he doesn't mean to drag you into it. But, now it's done, he's begging you play along. Begrudgingly, you agree. With rules, With caution, With your heart held tight. But the best lies always start with a little truth.
james potter x reader (slow burn, fake dating, fem)
series masterlist || next part
She sleeps like a child is the first thing James thinks when he encounters you dozing off on the couch. Limbs thrown astray, hair in your face, shirt riding up your side to bare your soft skin to the dancing sunlight in the common room. She’s going to kill me is the next thing that follows.
"Hey, love," James murmurs, bending down to kneel near you and brushing the hair from your cheek. Your eyes tighten, fighting against his attempt to wake you gently.
"What?" You say, nose scrunched. James can't help but think he's in for a load of trouble.
"Sorry, I really hate to wake you but I sort of need a favor. Urgently."
You groan, low and wounded, and James tries not to take it personally. "What kind of favor," you mutter, not even opening your eyes, "'s it something that can wait until I’m not dead?"
James smiles, guilty. “Tragically, no. Time-sensitive. Life-threatening, even.”
That gets one eye to squint open, glassy and irritated. “Did you get hexed?”
“No.”
“Lose your wand? Because I’m not going into the lake again searching for it.”
“No.”
“Fall in love with some clone of me and now you need help hiding the body of the real me?”
That makes his throat close around a laugh. It’s too on the nose. Too close. “Sort of the opposite of that, actually.”
You finally shift onto your back, blinking up at him with a sleepy, skeptical squint. “What I said made no sense. In fact, you’re making no sense.”
James sighs. Then runs a hand through his hair like it’ll rearrange the truth into something smoother. It doesn’t.
“I told the boys you were my girlfriend.”
Silence. The kind of silence that makes James feel like he’s balancing on the edge of the Astronomy Tower, toes over the stone, no broom. Heart racing, caution to the wind, adrenaline pumping. It’s a sort of danger-tinged excitement, waiting for your response.
“You… what?”
“In my defense, Sirius was being insufferable. He said I’d never actually move on from Lily and, well, I didn’t plan to say it. It just sort of," he mimics an explosion with his fingers, "happened. Very impulsive. Very Gryffindor. Very awful, very horrid, I deserve to rot, etcetera, etcetera.”
Your mouth parts slowly. “And I was the first girl who came to mind?”
James blinks. “Well, not the first—”
Your brows shoot up.
“I.” James sighs, shoving a hand through his curls again and looking at you, pleading, “You’re the only one I could actually trust to not hex me for it! And, you know, you’re already one of my best mates, it makes sense.”
You don’t answer, staring at him, speechless. After a moment, the self-deprocating grin falters on his face and warmth seeps into his cheeks. “I couldn’t take it. I’d already been rejected by Lily end of last term. I spent the summer pouting, and you know that – listened to me cry too many times for me to ever feel comfortable with you and Sirius sitting in the same room again – and now they won’t drop it. I’m over it, I really am, but I also needed them to be over it, too.”
You sit up, hair askew, shirt still rumpled, eyes sharper now. “And what exactly did you say?”
James has the nerve to look sheepish. “That we’ve been seeing each other for a bit, after all they’d all noticed that you’d been around mine a lot this summer. Said that you’re really really private about it, which is why no one’s noticed. Also that you’re terrifyingly brilliant, and way out of my league, which they didn’t argue, so you’re welcome for that.”
“James.”
“Please?” he says, voice breaking upward just slightly, boyish in the worst way. “Just for a little while. A month. Maybe two. Just until they get bored.”
You stare at him.
He stares back. All messy hair and hopeful smile and absolute nerve.
You fold your arms. “And what exactly does fake dating James Potter entail?”
James brightens like you’ve handed him a broom mid-freefall. “Nothing you’re not comfortable with, of course. Just a few well-timed appearances. Maybe a shared dessert at dinner, a couple cuddles in the common room, the occasional kiss if you’re feeling generous –”
You blink. Glare.
“Kidding! Mostly. I don’t really have the habit of self-control … Or doing anything by halves.”
“You’re going to owe me so much,” you mutter.
James grins like a man saved from drowning. “I already do.”
You sigh, resolve settling in your gut. “Well, come on, then,” you say, reaching forward and snagging his hand as you stand. Your eyes skim the floor, find your wand, and you begin marching while dragging him away.
“Where are we going?” James asks, sounding startled but following nonetheless. “Please don’t murder me, love, we’ve only just begun our years of fond bonding started by an idiotic plot!”
“Merlin, James, just follow me. And be a little less loud.”
You drag him by the wrist out of the portrait door and through the halls of the castle. It’s late afternoon, nearly dinner time, and most of the students are enjoying the fading light of the day after classes, sitting in bunches under trees or bathing in the sun. As you expected, the library is empty. It’s early term, only a few weeks in, so few feel the need to really push in their studies.
You nod and smile at Madam Pince as you pass her, ducking into one of the isles of books that lead to the back of the library. James is oddly quiet and pliant as you find the rows of encyplopedias that hardly anyone uses.
As the year progresses, this spot will slowly become known again to couples looking for a quiet place to be alone. Now, though, it’s blissfully empty and tucked just so that you can see out toward the library with little chance of someone looking in.
You throw yourself to the floor, knocking your head back against the shelves to look up at James. “Sit, let’s sort this out, then.”
James sits across from you, legs folding long and loose beneath him like he’s done this a thousand times—because he has, in a way. You’ve spent countless hours in these shelves with him, trading notes and teasing and whispering too-loud jokes until Madam Pince threatened to ban you both for a week. But it’s never felt quite like this.
You level him with a look. “If we’re doing this, we need ground rules.”
James straightens, all mock-seriousness. “Right. Rules. Hit me.”
“I’m serious.”
“Pretty certain you’re not,” James jokes with a wink. You knock his shoulder, glaring, hiding a smile. “No, you’re right. I can tell. You’ve got the rule-voice on.”
You press on. “First: no surprises. If we’re going to hold hands in public, or sit close at dinner, or, Merlin forbid, kiss anywhere people can see, I need warning. At least thirty seconds.”
James raises his eyebrows. “Do I need to narrate in advance? ‘Alright, sweetheart, my hand is now approaching your lower back,’”
“James.”
He grins, biting it back. “Okay. No surprises. Got it.”
You hesitate, then continue, voice a little lower. “Second: no one else can know.”
His face shifts a little at that. Not confused, just … quiet. He doesn’t laugh this time. You know he hates this, hiding from his friends.
“This was your idea,” you remind him, “and we’re trying to fool your friends right now.”
“Right. Makes sense.”
“Exactly. You can’t let it slip.”
“I won’t. Swear on my broomstick.”
You nod, satisfied, but something tightens in your chest. James watches you for a second longer than is comfortable, his eyes thoughtful, and then leans forward slightly.
“You alright?” he asks.
You blink. “Yeah. Why?”
“You’re all stiff. Weirdly quiet and compliant. Makes me nervous.”
“Like I ever give you a hard time when it comes to your schemes,” you mutter.
“No,” he says, smiling. “But you’re usually the one calling me out when I get like this.” He gestures vaguely to himself. “All impulsive and such. You nag me about it pretty often, actually.”
You try to wave him off. “Hence my rules.”
“No, but you’ve said yes. To something I was certain I would have to beg more for it to happen.” James tilts his head, eyes scanning your face thoughtfully. “I know I’m already gifting you the exclusive James-Potter-boyfriend-treatment, can’t be beat honestly, but what’re you getting from saying yes?”
You freeze just enough to betray yourself. James doesn’t pounce on it. He leans back, instead, hands moving to relax in his lap, like he’s trying not to scare you off.
“I’m not judging,” he says, soft now. “I just want to know I’m not pushing you into something you’ll hate. I promise to not make you miserable. I’m actually a great boyfriend,” he teases, earnest eyes still searching yours.
You shake your head once, short and automatic. “It’s not a big deal.” Softly, you whisper to him, breaking eye contact to pick at the edge of your nail.
“Alright,” James says, just as softly. “But can I ask anyway?”
You don’t answer right away.
He waits.
Eventually, you speak, voice small. “It’s just … people don’t really see me that way.”
“What way?”
“As someone who’d have a boyfriend.”
James frowns. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe. But I’ve never had one,” you admit, quickly, before you can stop yourself. “Not once. And when people joke about it, which they do, they’re never being cruel. Just casual. Laughing about how I’ll probably grow into some old, eccentric witch in the woods with a cottage full of cats and no one to kiss goodnight.”
James is quiet, letting it land.
“And I know it’s stupid,” you say quickly, too quickly, “because I don’t care, really, I’m not bothered, I just.” You shake your head again, curling in a little on yourself. “I just sort of want to prove them wrong. Like, maybe if they see that someone can see me that way, maybe I’m worth it? And so, really, nobody can know. Thi can’t turn into something they all laugh at me for.”
James leans forward again, this time slower. There’s no teasing in his eyes now—just something gentle, a little weighty, like he’s gathering his words with care.
“It’s not going to be like that,” he says. “Not with me.”
You glance at him.
“I won’t make you the punchline,” he goes on, steady and sure. “I won’t let it get to that point. And if anyone else dares to say something like that to you, let me know. I’ll take care of them.”
Despite yourself, you smile.
“I mean it,” he says, softer. “I know this is to save my pride and feelings, but this is for you, too, now. I’m not lying when I say I’ll be the best fake-boyfriend ever. You just get ready to fall in love with me.” James winks, goading a laugh out of you and relishing in the victory for a soft second before sobering. “And just because I’m technically your first doesn’t mean I get to keep the rest. You’ll still have all your good firsts. The ones that count.”
Your voice is a murmur. “Like what?”
James shrugs, but there’s warmth in his smile. “Real butterflies. Real messy late-night argument with someone who’s just as invested as you. First person to hold your hand just because they want to, not because they’re trying to prove something.”
You look down at your hands. “That sounds nice.”
“You deserve nice,” James says. “You know that, yeah?”
You give him a look that says maybe.
He nods like it’s a promise. “You will. When I’m done with you, you’ll see.”
Then he claps his hands against his knees, the mood snapping back to light. “Now – should we draw up a fake anniversary, or is that against the rules?”
You groan. “I’ll leave that to you. Just keep me in the loop so I know what to say.”
“Can I tell people I fell for you while you were cursing out a textbook in the library?”
“…Did you?”
James grins. “Maybe.”
You roll your eyes and shove his shoulder. “Come on, Potter. We’ve got friends to fool.”
He grins at you and the puddle of warmth in your stomach grows. You take a deep breath to steady yourself before taking his hand and letting him help you up.
You’re determined as you ignore the way your heart tightens when you walk out of the hushed library, hands clasped for everyone to see.
summary: steve harrington is down horrendous for you, his best friend. his love is not as unrequited as he thinks.
contains: best friends to lovers, mutual pining (but mostly steve pining), steve’s pov, fluff galore, idiots in love, reader is good with the kids, reader is a skater like max, reader hurts her wrist and steve is a worried lovesick idiot. cw! descriptions of wounds/blood, mentions of hospital, reader wears steve’s clothes. she/her pronouns used.
a/n: first long fic yay!! I am extremely proud of this so pls love it 🤍
fem!reader 5.3k words
gif by @barneswayne
Steve Harrington is totally, most definitely, not in love with you. Just friends, he thinks, best friends. Best friends who hold hands and sit far too close together.
Speaking of, you push further into Steve’s side, your scent washing over him. Your hand squeezes Steve’s, and he thinks, never mind. Maybe he is in love with you. So in love with you it fucking hurts.
A chorus of shouts erupts around him. You and Steve are watching Eddie, Robin and the kids play beer bong, only without the beer. It’s soda. Dustin starts doing a stupid victory dance while half of his peers laugh and the others cringe. Steve cringes. You laugh. All high and lilting and adorable. Steve has to remind himself to breathe.
He brings your joint hands to rest on his knee. Your rings push into his skin, almost like harsh reminders that he can’t hold you like he wants to. He frowns.
“Steve?” Your voice brings Steve out of his thoughts like it always does. You give his hand a shake. “You okay?”
Steve looks up and prays you can’t see the hopeless devotion in his eyes. You’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, with your messy hair and your eyes lined with glitter. Rosy cheeks, glossy pink lips that he stares a beat too long at. He’s known you for years, and yet he’s never gonna get used to how gorgeous you are. He swallows, forces his eyes up to yours.
“I’m okay,” he says, though he’s really not. He never is, because you never won’t look like that. “Are you?”
There’s another explosion of noise from the soda-pong players, but you don’t seem to notice. You frown like you don’t believe him. He’s being too obvious, he knows.
“Yeah, I’m good. Are you sure, Steve?” You stretch your free hand across your torso to touch his face. Steve heats like an oven under your hand as you press your palm to his forehead. “You’re not feeling sick, are you? You feel sort of hot.”
Steve grabs your wrist, harder than he means to. He loosens his grip guiltily when you give him an alarmed look.
“Sorry,” he says quickly, lowering your hand gently. He can feel your pulse, only just, underneath his fingers. It’s damn sure slower than his. “I— uh, no. I’m not feeling unwell. It is pretty hot in here though.”
A total lie. The only reason he’s burning up is you.
Your frown deepens, a push of your bottom lip that makes Steve want to kiss you. It’s such an overwhelming feeling that he has to blink multiple times to make it go away.
“Oh,” you say. You look around the room and then back at Steve. “Do you want to go outside?”
Steve has a bit of a dilemma. If he says yes, he’ll be alone with you. He can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing. If he says no, he’ll have to stay in this stuffy room with yelling teenagers and ping pong balls flying at him every five seconds. He decides on the first option.
“Sure,” he says as nonchalantly as he can. Then, to make you laugh, “Smells like boy in here anyway.”
You giggle. Steve feels like copying Dustin’s lame victory dance.
“You’re a boy, Stevie,” you say teasingly.
He wrinkles his nose at you. “No, I know, but it’s like … adolescent boy.”
You laugh loud, your mouth pulled up in a staggering smile. “Oh, okay,” you say, as if anything he just said made any sense.
Steve is starstruck for a second before you’re pulling him up from his seat, your hand in his a familiar, heart-aching weight.
Steve finds himself sitting side by side with you on the hood of his car. He can’t exactly remember how he got here — on the way, all he could think about was your hand in his and the fact that your thumb kept brushing over his knuckles in very distinct lines. Whether you’d meant to or not, he doesn’t know. He hopes you did.
“Any better?” You ask quietly, stretching your pinky across the small gap between your hands to tap his.
Steve feels something like an electric shock where your skin touches his. It baffles him, how such a tiny touch can cause such a big reaction throughout his body. He stares at your hand when he answers.
“Much,” he says honestly. He looks up at you. “You didn’t have to come with me, you know. You can go back in if you want.”
Secretly he hopes you’ll stay here with him forever. But that would be selfish, and if Steve is anything when he’s with you, it’s not selfish.
“Eurgh, no.” You pull a disgusted sort of face that makes Steve grin. “I could barely stand it when you were there. Without you, I think I’d die from the smell alone.”
Steve laughs. Really laughs. The words without you, I think I’d die, float around his brain like fish in a fish tank. When he’s done laughing he catches your smile, all pretty and wide, and his heart does one of those funny backflips that he’s never gonna get used to.
Steve watches as you brace your hands on the edge of the car and push yourself up the hood, pulling your shoes up to rest on the metal. Your skirt is short enough that Steve can see half of your thighs, more when you shift yourself like that. He stares for two seconds too long and then feels so guilty he almost apologises.
Instead, he says, “Aren’t you cold?” He points at your skirt but doesn’t look.
You shrug. “No, not really.”
With a sigh you let yourself fall back against the hood of the car. Your skirt rises even more and a half inch more of your skin is exposed — Steve feels like the universe is out to get him. His only escape is to fall back next to you, his right shoulder brushing your left one. You smile when he does, head rolling to the side to look at him. Face to face now, Steve can feel every small breath coming from your parted lips.
“See any stars?” He blurts, because your face is much too close and he’s scared if you look at him like that any longer, he’ll kiss you stupid.
You look up at the dark, empty sky and wrinkle your nose. “No.”
“Wait, look, there’s one.” Steve lifts his arm to point at what he thinks is a star.
You squint in its direction. “That’s a plane.”
“What? No it’s— oh.” He trails off when he realises the ‘star’ is moving. It disappears behind a cloud a second later.
You laugh, breathless and pretty, and drop your head onto Steve’s shoulder. Your perfume fills the air around Steve and he has to stop himself from leaning closer. You bring a hand up to fiddle with your necklace, a cheap, plastic ‘S’ charm that sits directly on your sternum. The fake diamonds are falling off, half of them gone already, but you’ve refused to take it off after all these years. Steve has one of your initial, too. You got them from a dollar store when you were twelve and pinky promised to be best friends forever.
You slip your necklace safely beneath your top and then stifle a yawn behind your hand.
Steve gives your elbow a nudge. “Tired?”
You shrug one shoulder and then droop further into Steve’s side. Every point of contact between you burns.
“You’re tired,” Steve says matter-of-factly.
You make a noise that’s probably meant to be a sound of protest but comes out more like a tired moan. Steve chuckles lightly, reaches over and rubs your arm.
“Alright, sweet girl. Let’s go home.”
‘Home’ really means Steve’s house, because you’ve left your car there and because you’re over so much it’s become your second home. By the time Steve is pulling up the driveway, you’re so dead beat he doesn’t even consider letting you drive yourself home. You practically hang off his waist as he walks you both inside.
“M’tired,” you mumble as you pass the living room.
Steve has to bite back a laugh. “Uh-huh, I can tell.”
You look up at him and squint like you know he’s laughing at you. Then you say, “Can I sleep in your bed?”
Steve’s heart skips. Sure, you’ve slept in his bed before, but every time you have Steve lay awake for at least half the night. He’s not above admitting that he’s watched you sleep more than once. He’s seconds away from telling you to take the guest bedroom when you pout dramatically.
“Please? You’re so warm.” You push into his side, your arm tightening around his waist like you don’t ever want to let go.
Steve hates himself for nodding, but he can’t help it. “Yeah, okay.”
He drags you up the stairs and into his room. Your makeup and stray jewellery is strewn across his dresser — you’d gotten ready at Steve’s before the party. If you could even call it that, Steve thinks. He plants you on his bed and you fall back immediately, eyes shut tight as your hair splays across the sheets.
“You’re like a zombie,” Steve says amusedly, his gaze all fond and mushy as he looks down at you. “From like, Day of the Dead or something.”
You pull a face, faux offended but your big grin gives you away. “Ew. I’m not that ugly, am I?”
Steve hums long and high like he’s thinking about it. This makes you gasp and throw a hand to your chest like he’s wounded you. Before Steve can get half a laugh out a pillow is hitting him straight across the face.
“Hey!” He exclaims, glaring at you. You’re still lying down, eyes screwed tight like you’re pretending you didn’t just brutally attack Steve. He laughs because you’re fucking adorable. “Zombies don’t throw pillows, Y/N.”
Your words are plagued by a yawn as you say, “This one does.”
Steve sighs at your antics, picks up your murder weapon (his pillow) and replaces it on the bed.
“Oh no,” you groan suddenly, like you’ve remembered something awful, hands flying to your face in despair. “My makeup, Stevie. M’too tired to take it off.”
Your words stick to each other like taffy in your tired state. Steve remembers the last time he let you sleep in your makeup. He didn’t hear the end of it for days. He’d rather avoid your wrath this time round.
Steve sighs, knowing full well he’s about to put his foot in it. “Well, will you let me do it?”
You open one eye blearily and look at him. “Would you?”
Steve shrugs, though the thought of being that close to you makes him feel nauseous. Luckily, you’ve closed both eyes again so he can blush all he wants. Plus, he’d do anything for you. Even endure the overwhelming urge to kiss you breathless.
“Sure thing, babe. I’ll get the stuff.”
Steve ends up sitting on his bed with you across from him, crossed legs pressing up against his. You’re sitting so close you’re almost in his lap. He ignores this for the sake of his dignity.
You’ve got your eyes shut and your hair up in a clip. A lock of hair has tumbled out of its knot and Steve pushes it away from your face, fingers hooking behind your ear and lingering. He keeps his hand on your jaw as he raises his other hand, a wet cloth ready to clean your sparkly makeup off.
“You sure about this?” He asks hesitantly. He’s dead terrified he’ll do something wrong, like get glitter in your eye.
You smile softly, your eyes staying firmly shut. “Yes, Steve, it’s fine.” Your tone is half reassuring and half exasperated.
Steve bites the bullet and goes right in, pressing the wet cloth to your cheekbones first. You’ve got blush and glitter there, sprinkled on your cheeks like fairy dust. He smooths the cloth along your skin and it comes away sparkly and pink.
“Okay?” He asks, pausing worriedly.
You nod slowly, your head starting to droop in his hand. “Yeah, Steve.”
Steve grins fondly at your face, screwed up in exhaustion. He tightens his grip on your jaw to keep your head steady, thumb hooked under your chin. Carefully, he begins to dab at your eyelids, also painted with silvery glittery eyeshadow.
Your face dewy and makeup-free, Steve thinks you’ve never looked prettier. So pretty it drives him mad. He stares, really stares, for far too long but he’s worried if he opens his mouth, breaks the silence, he’ll never get to see you like this again. Your hair all messy pretty, your eyes shut and eyelashes kissing, your pink lips turned in a half smile.
He’s not surprised when your soft voice drifts into his thoughts.
“You done?” You open your eyes, eyelids heavy and head heavier.
Steve snaps out of it. He lets go of your face quickly, slides off the bed even quicker.
“All done,” he says, almost tripping over his own feet.
You smile, seemingly oblivious to his clumsiness. Or maybe, it’s just happened so often that you’re not surprised. Either way, your smile is sickeningly sweet. Steve is torn between the desire to kiss you or run as far away as possible from you.
Your voice matches your honey-smile when you say, “Thank you, Stevie.”
You reach out to touch his forearm, your hand a heavy weight on his skin as you wrap your fingers around his arm and squeeze.
He grins lopsidedly, and he’s sure he looks like a lovesick idiot but he can’t find it in himself to care. “You’re welcome.”
You drop your hand and Steve’s arm suddenly feels cold as ice. He wants to touch you again but knows he shouldn’t. He strides to his bedroom door and pauses to turn and look at you.
“I’m gonna get you a glass of water,” he says. Your eyelids are drooping again. He laughs fondly. “Get in bed while I’m gone, zombie-girl.”
Your giggle follows him all the way to the kitchen.
When Steve gets back, a glass of water in each hand, you’re still as a statue on your self-appointed side of the bed. You’ve swapped your outfit for a grey t-shirt that you totally stole from him but deny every time he asks about it, and the shortest shorts known to mankind.
He switches off the light and shuts the door with his heel. Pointedly avoiding looking at your bare legs, he rounds the bed and sets the water down, then bends over you.
“Y/N?” He whispers.
You hum softly, though Steve can’t tell if it’s a hum of acknowledgement or just a sound you’ve made in your sleep. He leans closer, listening to your breathing. You’re awake, only just.
He brushes his hand over your upper arm, touch as light as a feather. He thinks he feels goosebumps on your skin but doesn’t have time to wonder why. You’re lifting your chin slightly, lips parted.
“Goodnight, Stevie,” you whisper, so quiet he barely hears you. Steve’s heart swells. “Thanks for … everything.”
A few moments later you fall silent and your breathing grows steady, and Steve wonders how the hell you always fall asleep so fast.
He rubs your arm, kisses your forehead because he knows you won’t remember this part. His lips buzz as he pulls away. “Goodnight, sweet thing.”
-
You’re outside Family Video. Steve emerges from the back room and spots you so fast it’s like he’s got a third eye. He’s both shocked and pleased — he hadn’t expected to see you until after his shift.
You’ve got the kids with you. You and Max are zooming around the carpark on your skateboards while Dustin and Lucas are poised on the hood of your car, poring over comics.
He watches you skate with Max. Like some lame rom-com cliche, your hair is blowing in the wind and Steve swears you’ve moving in slow motion. You’re laughing and joking with Max and Steve stares and stares. Stares until Robin sidles up next to him.
“What’re you— oh.” Steve can hear the smirk in her voice even though he refuses to look at her. “What’re they doing here?”
Steve shrugs and makes an ‘I don’t know’ sound, moving to the counter to put down the box of videos he’s carrying. Robin follows.
“You’re not gonna go say hi to Y/N?” Robin asks slyly. Steve can hear in her voice what’s coming. “You’ve been staring long enough.”
Steve blushes furiously despite himself. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Oh, sure.” Robin hoists herself onto the counter, peers into the box of videos and picks one out at random. “Just like you weren’t holding her hand on Tuesday night?”
Steve can’t exactly get himself out of that one. He snatches the video from Robin with an annoyed tsk, slotting it back into the box. Her laugh is devilish.
“You are hopeless, Steven,” she says, whacking Steve over the head as she hops off the counter.
Steve rubs his head and glares at Robin. If looks could kill she’d be dead meat. “That’s not my name.”
Robin gets this look on her face that Steve knows all too well. He wants to pummel her before she’s even said anything.
“Oh, sorry,” she says, all sarcasm. “What is it, then? Stevie?”
Steve’s blood boils. Only you’re allowed to call him that.
“Y’know what, Robin?” He says loudly. He turns on his coworker, seething. She’s totally nonchalant, a stupid smirk on her lips. “Why don’t you just leave me—?”
“Steve!”
A shout of his name from the door. He turns and finds Lucas standing there, looking panicked.
Steve’s brow furrows. Then he notices you and Max are no longer whizzing around the carpark. “What—“
“Y/N fell,” Lucas says, out of breath. “We think she hurt her wrist.”
Steve’s heart drops. “Shit.”
He goes flying out the door and into the parking lot. You’re sitting on the concrete, one knee pulled up to your chest, your skateboard dormant next to you. Max is kneeling over you, and Dustin has graciously abandoned his comics for your sake.
“Y/N!” He damn near shouts. He runs over to you and Max and gets on his knees. He’s probably just ruined his jeans on the concrete — he doesn’t give a single fuck.
“Y/N,” he says frantically, a tentative hand landing on your shoulder. Both your knees are scraped something awful and a nasty gash blooms on the outside of your wrist. Steve’s worry is loud and his heartbeat twice as much. “Y/N, are you okay? What happened? What’s—“
You look up. Your eyes are shining but you’ve got a dopey smile on your lips.
“Steve,” you say breathlessly. You blink and a tear falls from your eye and over the bump of your cheek. “Hi. Good to see you.”
Steve stares at you in horror. How can you be making jokes at a time like this? You laugh wetly and Steve looks at Max, totally alarmed.
“What happened?” He demands.
Max is much calmer than he is. “She went over a bump or something,” she says. She’s rubbing your back and Steve feels a rush of gratitude for the younger girl. “Fell on her left arm. Her wrist might be sprained or broken, but—“
“Broken?” Steve repeats. He’s pretty sure his soul just left his body.
“I said might,” Max says through her teeth.
“Y/N?” Steve slides his arm around your shoulder, carefully avoiding your left wrist, which you're cradling in your uninjured hand. “Y/N, baby, can you get up?”
You make a noise like a scoff but it’s muffled by your sniffly nose. “‘Course I can.”
Steve helps you anyway, Max on your other side keeping a firm hold on your jacket. You hiss as you straighten your legs, knee-wounds sprouting fresh blood. Steve bites down on his lip so hard he almost bleeds himself.
“Are you gonna take her to the hospital?” Max asks. There’s genuine worry in her eyes that Steve barely sees. Dustin, Lucas and Robin appear, looking equally worried.
Steve puts on a brave face. “Think so. What do you think?” He asks Max. “You’re the skateboard expert.”
She grins so quick Steve almost misses it. It disappears when she looks at you in your bloody and bruised state. “Yeah. Just in case.”
Steve walks you over to your car, half dragging you. Not that you need him to, he just can’t bear for you to hurt any more than you already are. He deposits you in the passenger seat, ducks his head in to pull your seatbelt across your torso. He’s seconds from ducking back out when you stop him, your uninjured hand on his chest, right over his racing heart.
“It hurts,” you say, quiet enough that only Steve can hear. Your eyes are welling up again. Steve feels like crying himself.
“I know,” he says, nodding vigorously like it will make a difference. “I know, sweet girl. It’s gonna be fine. You’re gonna be okay.”
At this point he’s talking to himself as well as you. You nod in an exhausted sort of way and Steve presses a kiss to your cheek. Slow and soft and as close to your lips as he’s ever kissed. He has to take a few seconds to compose himself before straightening up and turning to the others.
“I gotta take her,” he says, sending an apologetic grimace in Robin’s direction.
Robin nods once and surprisingly, doesn’t say a word. She looks about as sympathetic as Steve has ever seen her. He turns to the kids.
“Help Robin,” he says. He’s trying desperately to make his voice sound normal but falling short of the mark. Everyone notices but nobody comments. “Don’t mess up the store.”
He gives a grateful smile to Max and then rounds the car, hopping in and starting the engine.
-
You’re half asleep on Steve’s couch, your head in his lap. You’re wearing his yellow sweater — the one he bought only because you’d said he’d look good in yellow. You’ve just woken up from a post-hospital nap and Steve’s hand is in your hair, brushing slow strokes over the side of your head.
He’s feeling a lot of things. Relieved, for starters. The doctor had said it was only a sprain, they’d bandaged up your wrist and you’d left the hospital in far better conditions. Steve was in far better conditions, too.
Steve looks down at you, at your bandaged wrist and the huge bandaids on your knees and thinks, fuck. He thinks his heart is about to claw its way out of his chest. He doesn’t think he can take this love thing any longer.
You stir and take a long breath, turning your head in Steve’s lap to look up at him. Your eyes are tired but you’re smiling.
“You okay?” Steve asks softly. He doesn’t want to break the silence. It feels good, to sit in silence and comfort with you. He runs his fingers through your hair again.
You nod. “Mhm. I’m good.”
“Hurting?”
You shift in his lap. “No, not right now.”
You fall silent and Steve doesn’t know what to say. He wants to tell you how worried he was about you, but you could probably tell. Anyone with a pair of eyes could tell he was nauseous-level worried. Then he thinks about telling you he loves you. It’s a stupid reason, really, but it was all because a nurse had asked if he was your boyfriend. He’d wished he could say yes.
“Steve?”
Steve hums and meets your eyes. You move to sit up and Steve helps you, knowing you won’t let him stop you. A firm hand between your shoulder blades, his palm sliding down your back as you straighten yourself. You shift so you’re facing him, your legs crossed beneath you and your injured wrist resting in your lap. Steve is careful to avoid your wounded knees.
“What is it, babe?” Steve asks quietly. He brings his hand up to caress your cheek, dragging his thumb over a spot where your tears had smudged your mascara earlier.
You melt into his hand, eyes falling shut as a long, deep sigh falls from your lips. You raise your good hand to cover his, holding it to your face. Your hand burns stars onto the back of his.
“Is it your wrist?” Steve asks. You’re acting strange. He puts it down to your injured state. “Your knees? Do you want more ice? New band-aids?”
He’s being a total worrywart, he knows, but who can blame him?
You shake your head, eyes open but cast down. “No.”
“Just feeling bad?” He asks through a frown. In a strange parallel to a couple of days ago, he lifts his free hand to press his palm to your forehead. You feel warm but not hot.
“It’s …” you start, then trail off. Both yours and Steve’s hands fall to your lap.
Steve’s concern spikes. You’ve never been one to hide anything from him. “Yeah?”
“Um, it’s … it’s silly but—“ You take a deep breath and let your eyes raise to Steve’s. You get a look on your face Steve doesn’t quite understand, but it makes his heart leap to his throat anyway. “You know today, when that nurse asked us if you were my boyfriend?”
Steve laughs embarrassedly, too loud and too sudden. So you’d been thinking about that, too. He pulls his hand away from your lap and rubs the back of his neck.
“Yeah, that was kinda weird, wasn’t it?” He says, though it wasn’t really. Almost every new person he meets thinks you’re dating him. “I was—”
“I wanted to say yes, Stevie.”
Steve stops talking abruptly, his mouth slamming shut. He hadn’t really known what he was about to say, anyway. He searches for words but all he comes up with is a garbled, “What?”
You laugh, all soft and slow and distorted by fatigue. You raise your hand to rub your neck, a mirror of Steve only a moment ago.
“I wanted to say yes,” you repeat, like it’s obvious. Even the second time, Steve doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. His chest feels like it’s on fire, worse when you say, “I want you to be my boyfriend.”
For once in his life, Steve has nothing to say. He gazes at you like you’re some sort of angel on earth. Maybe he’s dreaming. Maybe he’s in some cruel dream and he’s about to wake up with his chest aching.
“I …” Steve‘s voice catches on the words. His throat burns so he mustn’t be dreaming. He tries again. “Y-You … you do?”
He’s not even embarrassed by the stuttering. Just when he didn’t think he could be any more in love with you, you giggle. He was dead wrong. His heart grows about three sizes too big for his chest.
“Yeah, Steve,” you say, fondness smothering your fake exasperation. “Do you … do you want me to be your girlfriend?”
What Steve wants is to kiss you. He wants to kiss you til you can’t breathe and then some more after that. Silently, he takes your injured wrist in his hand and gently shifts it so it’s out of the way, resting on the couch cushions. Then he grabs your face, fingers splayed over your jaw and neck. He can feel your pulse. It’s almost as quick as his. He leans so close he can hear every breath you’re taking.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he whispers, his lips ghosting over yours. “That okay?”
You laugh a giddy, breathless laugh, surprised at his suddenness. “Please do.”
He slams his eyes shut, darts forward to kiss you and fucking misses. Your noses bump. A surprised giggle bubbles from you and Steve goes red.
“Wait, I’m sorry—“ He tries again, tilting your head to one side and angling his head to the other. This time it works perfectly, and your giggling is swallowed up by Steve’s mouth, lips fitting together like they were made for each other.
You sigh and go all melty and Steve’s heart skyrockets. It feels like everything in the world is falling into place. It’s years of longing, eternities of lingering touches and offhand compliments and longing glances all rolled into one life changing kiss. Your good hand has jumped to Steve’s chest, first bunched in the material of his t-shirt and then spreading over it, palm atop his wild heart. He thinks he might die on the spot. Or like, catch on fire or something.
Steve is losing breath but he won’t stop just yet. He drops his hands to your shoulders and pulls away a hair’s breadth. Then he dives back in for one, two, three kisses that you respond to with all the eagerness in the world. Your kisses are so lovely they make him light-headed.
When Steve pulls away (for oxygen, nothing less) you chase his lips with yours. He laughs, all fondness. He’s dizzy with love.
“Woah, hold your horses, cowboy,” he says through a woozy laugh. He’s finding it hard to speak. He barely hears himself. For all he knows, he’s talking in an alien language.
“Sorry,” you whisper, not sounding very sorry at all. “So … was that a yes?”
Steve has to laugh. He can’t help it. “Are you kidding? Yes, Y/N. That was a yes. I—“
He’s rudely interrupted by someone banging on the door. He thinks he knows who it is. Only one person he knows knocks that hard.
He sighs morosely but he can’t keep the grin off his face for very long. “I’ll get it.”
He heaves himself off the couch and makes for the front door. You stop him before he gets very far, a hand in his bicep.
“Wait, Steve.”
Steve turns, puzzled. “Yeah?”
You’re lifting your chin up, lips parted. Steve knows exactly what you want.
His grin grows impossibly wider as he bends at the waist to kiss you once, chaste and slow and just as perfect as the kisses shared moments ago. When he pulls away you’re smiling so big he’s worried you’ll get stuck like that forever. He wouldn’t mind.
Another round of banging from the door. Steve sighs, squeezes your good shoulder once and then marches to the front door, just about ready to kick the intruder off his front porch. He opens the door and finds his suspicions were correct. It’s Dustin.
He’s holding a handful of flowers that look suspiciously similar to the ones that grow in Steve’s mom’s garden.
“Those for me?” Steve asks. He shoots his arm out to stop Dustin from barging in, hand gripping the door frame.
Dustin pulls a face. “Ew. No, they’re for Y/N.” He steps aside and more kids appear, plus Robin and Eddie. Eddie’s van has been parked haphazardly in Steve’s driveway. “Can we come in or are you gonna stand there and guard the door like that all night?”
“She’s tired.”
“But we bought chocolates.”
“Well—“
“Dustin?” You call from the living room. Oh, great. Now Steve’s gonna have to let them in. “S’that you?”
Dustin beams and gives Steve an expectant look. Steve drops his arm with a defeated sigh and Dustin goes marching in like he owns the place. Max, Lucas and even Mike follow. Mike, who never shows up to anything. Though Steve shouldn’t be surprised. You’re Mike’s favourite, out of the older ones.
Eddie comes next, then Robin, who stops to give Steve a grimace.
“Sorry,” she says wryly. “They really wanted to see her.”
Steve shrugs good-naturedly. He’s on cloud nine and much too happy to care all that much. He follows Robin into the living room and finds everyone crowded around you, Max on your side and Dustin getting down on one knee to present you the probably-stolen flowers like you’re the Queen of England. You look the same as Steve feels — kiss bitten and with your head in another world. But you’re pleased by the company, he can tell.
Dustin moves to give you one of his bone-crushing hugs and Steve goes all panic mode.
“Please be careful with her!” He says urgently, his panic obvious under the usual demanding tone he takes with the kids.
But you’re laughing under Dustin’s hug, and Steve can’t stay mad when you look like that. You meet his eyes over a mop of curly hair and your gaze goes all mushy and sweet. Steve’s legs feel like jelly. If he keeled over dead right now, he wouldn’t be surprised.
He’s sure someone will see but he doesn’t really care. Grinning from ear to ear, he mouths, “Love you.”
He’s said it before, of course he has, you’re his best friend in the whole entire world. This time though, it’s all the more different. It’s better. You flush, oblivious to the noisy chatter around you.
“Love you too,” you mouth back.
Steve can’t stop smiling for the rest of the night.
thank you for reading! feedback is appreciated!! reblog this and I’ll kiss you on the mouth mwah
𐙚⋆.˚Summary: Spencer is smitten for the T.A. at Penelope’s art class. And he just might have a chance with her.
⋆˙⟡♡WC: 2.3k
⊹܀˙CW: Suggestive language, Derek is half neked (for plot reasons of course), Spencer wants y/n so baddddd, Reader is described to have hips (the pic is to show the maxi skirt that I imagined), Reader has long hair.
♪‧₊˚A/N: hiiiiii I love this song + it came on my shuffle yesterday and it gave me an idea so yk I had to get to WORK. I hope u like. If this gets over 100 notes ill write Gravity pt 3. Okay bye bye
Spencer had agreed to take both Derek and Penelope to Penelope’s art class that night since her car wouldn’t start and Derek’s had gotten towed for being parked on the street too long while they were in Florida for a case. Derek wasn’t taking the class with Penelope—he was the model for it.
“It’s a life drawing class,” she had explained, giddily. “They saw Derek pick me up last week and the professor asked him to model for us today. And to bring baby oil.”
The art room was bright and beautifully decorated, with an abundance of ferns and vines and all sorts of greenery adorned onto the walls.
The professor had smiled as the three of them approached the stool that Derek was supposed to perch on during class.
“Penelope! Derek! Happy that you could make it. You can change in the supply closet on the left,” Professor Andi had gasped. “Did you bring some oil? I have linseed oil from my oil painting class earlier today that you can use if you didn’t.”
“I got some, don’t worry, Doc,” Derek had said with a wink before making his way to the supply closet and shutting the door behind him.
“Who is this? Are you here for the class?” Professor Andi had beamed.
“Oh… no. I’m Spencer. I was just dropping off—”
You had walked into the room, your hips swishing in your maxi skirt as you balanced a tower of sketchbooks in your arms.
“Y/N! Hi!” Penelope had smiled. “Do you need help?”
Spencer’s legs had started moving on their own toward you, taking four of the sketchbooks from your stack.
You had smiled politely at the tall man. “Thank you.” The both of you placed the sketchbooks on the table..
“You’re welcome,” he said, his gaze lingering on your face. Beautiful, he had thought, a warmth spreading through him. The first thing he had truly noticed were your lips—the way they curved into a smile as you spoke, their delicate movements as you formed each word. You wrapped Penelope in a hug.
“Oh,” you sighed, a faint blush gracing your cheeks. “How rude of me. I’m Y/N. Professor Andi’s TA. You must be Derek,” you had said, offering your hand.
Spencer, despite a fleeting thought about germs, had found himself wanting to hold it. Your touch was light, and your nails were a pretty pale pink. What would it feel like to have those hands explore…?
Spencer had cleared his throat, a nervous laugh escaping him. “I’m not Derek. I’m, uh… Doctor Spencer Reid—well, just Spencer. Please.” He had fumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets to resist the urge to reach for you again. “I’m Penelope and Derek’s ride.”
“My mistake, Spencer,” you had said, your eyes meeting his with a playful tilt of your head. “Will you be joining us today?”
Did you know the effect you had? It had felt almost cruel. He glanced at Penelope, who was practically begging with her eyes.
A subtle smile had played on his lips. “Looks like I will be,” he nodded, his attention already drawn back to you.
“Great! Come with me. Let’s get you a sketchbook,” you grinned, gesturing for him to follow, and he had found himself eagerly complying.
Your backside was just as pretty as your face. He watched you switch on the light in the supply room, the movement causing a soft sway of your hips that he couldn’t tear his gaze from.
You crouched down to the floor, rummaging through bins of pencils. The way your brow had furrowed in concentration was endearing.
“Have you ever taken art class before? Or just been creating independently?” you asked him, your voice a melodic murmur that had sent a shiver down his spine. Gravity had pulled your hair toward your face, showcasing the delicate slope of your neck—a sight that made his breath catch. He wanted to reach out, to feel the softness of those strands against his fingers.
“Neither. This is all sort of new to me,” he admitted, his chuckle betraying a hint of nervousness—a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show. Especially not to someone who already held his attention so tightly.
“I see,” you said, picking up a large sketchbook and a brand new case of pencils and blending stubs. “Well, what do you like to do in your free time?” Your eyes met his for a fleeting moment, his stomach fluttering.
He had taken the supplies from you, his fingers brushing against yours—a brief touch that sent a jolt of electricity through him. He wished the exchange could have lasted longer, wanted to linger in that delicate contact. He spent too long just looking at you, memorizing the curve of your smile, the way your eyes sparkled. Words, he had reminded himself. He needed to say something meaningful, something that would capture your attention as completely as you had captured his.
“I like reading,” he managed, his voice slightly rougher than intended.
You waltzed past him to re-enter the art room, your perfume drifting toward his senses. Hmm… Fresh. Pear maybe? The scent was intoxicating—a promise of sweetness that he desperately wanted to explore. He would’ve followed that fragrance anywhere, even into the deepest ocean.
“Me too. Um… what’s your favorite book?” you asked.
He paused. You wanted to talk to him. The realization sent a thrill through him. What timeline was he in right now? This had felt like a dream.
“I enjoy everything that I read,” he replied. He had known it was a terrible answer, a deflection, but his mind was still reeling from your nearness.
“Okay, but there’s got to be a standout,” you chuckled, raising a brow. Cute. The simple gesture had made him swallow hard.
“Well, recently I’ve been re-reading Orwellian literature, so something of that nature. As of the moment I’ve been particularly enjoying 1984.” He wanted to impress you with his intellect, hoping to find some common ground, some way to bridge the distance between you.
“Ooh,” you sighed, “That’s a good one. Mine right now is probably…” You trailed off, thinking as you opened a fresh kneaded eraser for him. “Lord of the Flies,” you had decided. “Works that ask the question if evil is ingrained into our morality are some of my favorites. I find them the most stimulating,” you said, your eyes holding a captivating intensity.
It hadn’t been suggestive in the slightest the way you had said it, yet it had stirred something within him—a deep need to know you. To know where you came from and the places you'd been. He had managed a curt nod, his usual eloquence deserting him as he had found a seat next to Penelope, his gaze still drawn to your every movement.
After Professor Andi gave a quick review (or introduction, for Spencer) of value and shape, Derek had stepped out of the supply closet, glistening like a glazed donut. The women in the class had turned to each other, giddy and excited. He had taken his place on the stool in the middle of the circle of chairs. Derek smiled at Spencer and Penelope before striking a pose.
Spencer didn’t give a shit, though. He had been staring at you as you peeled a clementine at your desk, the delicate way your fingers manipulated the fruit utterly mesmerizing. You popped a slice into your mouth before wiping the residue from your hands and taking your sketchbook in hand. He imagined the sweetness lingering on your lips—a dangerous thought that made his chest ache. He’s never wanted someone so badly before.
Professor Andi had put on her Bossa Nova playlist. How fitting. Your hoop earrings, the faint flush on your cheeks—you had looked like how Bossa Nova sounded: pleasant and dreamy, an ethereal vision that he had felt he could only admire from afar.
You had begun sketching furiously, a small pout forming on your lips in concentration, your brow furrowed. The intensity of your focus had been incredibly alluring. He had found himself wanting to be the subject of that fierce gaze, to have you study him with such intent. He envied the loose leaf paper of your sketchbook and your 6B pencil that had the privilege of feeling your touch uninterrupted.
“Why haven’t you started yet?” Penelope whispered—not so subtly. It snapped Spencer from his haze, the spell you had cast momentarily broken.
“Huh—what?”
“Your page. It’s empty. Why?”
“Just thinking of how to approach this, is all,” he lied, his mind still replaying the way your hair had fallen across your neck. Penelope had narrowed her eyes but had chosen to let it go.
He had desperately wanted to impress you, to create something worthy of your attention. The thought of your opinion consumed him.
Spencer had somehow managed to find the control to start drawing a half-naked, oiled-up Derek, but his values had gotten a little muddy. He had needed to block out the highlights like Professor Andi had said in her brief lecture. But his kneaded eraser was stiff and wouldn’t warm up in his hands, no matter how long he had pressed it between his palms.
“Do you need help?”
“Uh, yeah, my eraser won’t soften.”
“Y/N,” Penelope said, calling you over with a smile. You peered up from your sketchbook and smiled as you got up to approach her.
“How can I help?” you asked, bending over slightly with your palms on your thighs to be within earshot of Penelope.
“Spence needs help getting his kneaded eraser to knead,” she whispered, biting back a smile.
“No problem,” you smiled, dragging a stool next to him and sitting down. You had leaned in close to get a glance at the eraser. Pears, he had thought.
“Is it hard?” you asked. Ironic, he had thought.
“Yeah. I’m sorry. I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how to.”
“You’re totally fine. It happens to me all the time. Here. I’ll help,” you had said, taking his hands into yours. “See this part of your thumb?”
Your long, delicate fingers had softly rubbed the joint below the pad of his thumb. Spencer had nodded, his mouth suddenly dry.
“You’re going to press it against this joint,” you had said, your fingertips now tracing the second joint of his index finger. “And rub the eraser between your fingers to warm it up.” You had placed the square, unkneaded eraser in the described position and guided Spencer’s hands to repeat that motion over and over until his fingerprint had appeared in the softened eraser. Spencer had hoped you wouldn’t notice how badly his hands were shaking as you held them.
“Okay, good job,” you had said, a soft warmth in your voice. Jesus. “Now stretch it with two hands like putty, then roll it into a ball.”
Your molasses gaze had flickered over his fingers, briefly meeting his. He had your complete attention in that moment and he literally had no idea what to do with himself. He had rolled the now-soft eraser into a ball.
“Perfect. Now you can use it.” You smiled at him—a genuine, captivating smile that had sent a jolt through him—before moving your stool away.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice a little rough. You nodded politely before returning to your sketchbook.
Spencer had made the decision that he was going to try his absolute hardest to impress you. He had known it was probably stupid, but it hadn’t seemed impossible, and he had thought he had a good shot at making it work.
By the end of the class, everyone had given their sketches to Derek for him to keep. Spencer had handed his to Derek. Derek’s brows had risen.
“You did this?”
“Yeah,” Spencer croaked dryly, his mind elsewhere. He had been watching you through the mirror near the door. You had ripped out two pages and then gotten up from your seat.
“It looks good, actually. Nice work, pretty boy,” Derek had said, clapping him hard on the shoulder.
“Hi Derek, nice to meet you,” you said nicely, smiling. You had handed him your portrait, which—of course—had put everyone else’s to shame, Spencer’s included. You made polite small talk with Penelope until they had eventually needed to leave.
Spencer lingered in the doorway. Ask for her number. Stop being awkward and aloof for five seconds of your life and ask her. But what if you never called him? Should he ask you to coffee instead? Or lunch? You seemed like a brunch type of girl—
“Doctor,” you whispered.
Spencer had turned around, his heart leaping. “I have something for you,” you had said, walking toward him.
“For me?” he asked, a hopeful tremor in his voice.
You handed him something—it was a portrait. Of him.
“I did it after I finished Derek’s.”
It was beautiful. He looked beautiful. The delicate lines of the shadows sketched by your hands, the slope of his nose, the shape of his lips… it had been him, and it had been wonderful. And it had been by you. You had observed his face and felt the need to put pencil to paper.
“Would you like, um—Y/N… Do you want to get coffee with me sometime next week?” he stammered, the question tumbling out in a rush. A slow, knowing smile had crept onto your lips, and you had nodded. Unbelievable.
“Yeah, I’d love to, Spencer,” you chuckled breathily, the sound like a melody to his ears.
“Really? Could I… get your number?” he had asked, his gaze fixed on yours.
“Flip it over,” you said, brushing past him, your scent lingering in the air again.
He had followed your directions. Your number had been scribbled on the back of the portrait. “Bye, Spencer.”
He watched you get into your car as Penelope and Derek laughed about something.
Your car had pulled out of the driveway, and you had honked the horn.
Penelope had smirked at Spencer. “Someone made a friend.”
“I saw her helping you ‘knead your eraser.’ I can tell she likes you.”
“You think?” Spencer had asked, biting back a grin.
He sure had hoped so—because he was already obsessed with you.
the wedding band is doing unspeakable things to my psyche. there is not a single instance in existence where i am normal about husband spencer walter reid. oh my fucking god. #NEEDTHAT viscerally. carnally. poetically even. just him that wedding band and nothing else on.
summary four times james almost kisses you and one time he does. [9k]
warnings fluff, mutual pining, getting together, first kiss, idiots in love, first date, fem!reader, she/her pronouns used for reader, suggestive language/theme, late 90s au, rugby player!james
<3
James Potter is a little obsessed with you. In a cool, extremely chill and normal way, he thinks. It's hard not to be, here, at some random party half drunk and pushed into your side with your perfect hand held protectively over his head to shield him from the hubbub of partygoers.
"Still feeling poorly?" you ask, pushing the hair from his eyes.
"I need a haircut," he says, distracted by your touch.
"No!" you protest in a whisper. "No, James. Your hair‘s lovely, please don't cut it. What would I run my hands through if you did?" You say all this with a lopsided smile, one corner pulled up higher than the other, and a conspiring tone.
He blinks rapidly. Maybe he doesn't need a haircut after all.
Your fingertips push into the thick tresses at his hairline and scrape back. He shivers in light pleasure and reaches out to grab your thigh where his head is resting, indulgently absorbing the warmth of your body.
You barely notice, pulled back into a conversation with a girl on the sofa opposite. James feels his phone pulse in his pocket and is reluctant to retrieve it, worried you'll pause your ministrations. He watches you take a sip of your drink and almost spit it out laughing and deems you distracted, struggling with his phone, just drunk enough that his motor skills are fucking with him as he snaps it open.
Sirius told me to tell you that you look pathetic. Love Remus.
James scowls at his phone and lifts his head from your leg to look towards where he thinks his friends are located. Sure enough, they haunt the kitchen doorway with equally humorous looks on their faces, Sirius smug to Remus' pitying. James flips Sirius off and finds it returned, a perfectly painted and manicured finger held aloft.
You giggle by James' ear. "I hope that's not for me."
"Definitely to me. You'll have to forgive him. He was dragged up," he says, groaning at his embarrassing mates.
"Don't be cruel," you admonish, nudging him with a naked elbow.
His phone chirps again.
I also think you look pathetic. It's cute. Do you want food? Love Remus.
Moons u rly don't need to sign off every txt. Not hngry. Luv u
OK. Love Remus.
James laughs at his friend's hopelessness and tucks his phone away.
"I'm never cruel," he tells you.
You neaten the rolled up hem of his short sleeve unthinkingly and he can't help how much he wants to kiss you. It's all in the little things, he knows. You put your fingers in his hair and he's happy to lie in your lap like a dog; you fix his clothes and he wants to kiss you stupid; you smile at him sweetly, asking if he still feels sick, and if he is does he want you to go sit with him outside for a bit? He's ashamed of the heat in his chest.
James finds himself at your side with an inch between your legs, a porch bench swinging underneath you.
"I don't want to hurt your feelings," you say tentatively. He feels an alarming rush of vertigo at your words, until you continue, "But I think you could benefit from some mild temperance."
He scrubs his face, nausea ebbing as you clarify. He thought for a moment you were going to reject him before he even confessed.
"Yeah, maybe. Wouldn't have any reason for you to take care of me then," he says, startled and sounding it. He winces before he's done. You make a humming sound.
"You hardly need to be drunk for me to take care of you."
He sits with this and looks out over the garden. It's a nice space, the home in a wealthy neighbourhood, twinkling fairy lights strung up over the porch and solar powered lamps peppered down a keenly landscaped stretch of green grass and flowerbeds. There's a pretty stone path leading down to the end of the garden where a grey-white fountain spurts water. It sounds calm if you can ignore the sound of the party, which he finds himself more and more able to do as your knee creeps closer to his.
He wishes, and hates himself for it, that he'd worn shorts. Craves that tiny skin on skin contact when your thigh touches him. You must be cold in your skirt, a midi slit up one side that shows the smooth stretch of your outer thigh, colder on your top half in a spaghetti strap shirt and a loose knit cardigan.
If he thought you'd accept it he would offer you his jacket, but you won't. He's tried before. I don't want you to get cold, Jamie.
"You really don't think I should get a haircut?" he asks self-consciously, tugging a hand through his unruly waves.
"No," you say seriously, turning your torso towards him.
"It's a little long," he complains.
"James, please." You lift your hand up to replace his, pushing his hair back.
"I'll look like Sirius soon enough."
You shift. The bench sways. You push your second hand in his hair and pull it all away from his face gently. He can feel the cool breeze on his bare, clammy forehead as you sit there with your hands in his hair
You run your hand through his dark mop one last time, then stop with your hands braced at the back of his head, a big smile on your face.
"Don't cut it," you implore him seriously, looking into his eyes.
He deserves a medal for not leaning into your arms right then and there.
"How do you keep it so soft even though it's this thick?"
He doesn't understand how you can continue a conversation like this without melting. He's melting. You're talking like everything is normal, fingers twined between ink dark strands and fingertips massaging his scalp.
"I… I oil my roots before I wash it." He doesn't share how his mum insists on doing it for him most of the time now he's back home from school.
"You can definitely tell," you murmur.
His eyes shut. He blames it on his drunkenness and not the feeling of your hands.
"James?" you ask quietly.
"Yeah?" he asks, though it sounds more like an unintelligible hum.
"Are you tired? D'you need to go home?"
"Maybe." He does feel suddenly like his limbs are made of stone.
"Who are you going home with?" you ask.
You stand. The bench wobbles. One hand falls out of his hair to rest on his shoulder and his skin warms where it lands, the other tucking stray pieces of hair behind his ears. He opens his bleary eyes and is met with a silver of your midriff, promptly closing them again to push evil thoughts from his mind in which he kisses stripes over that naked skin for hours.
"Sirius is driving me home," he admits reluctantly.
"Let's go look for him."
James reluctantly follows you with a little wobble. His inebriation has faded as the night progresses but a general tipsy dizziness prevails. You press a hand to his lower back and he narrowly avoids trodding on your strappy sandals.
"I don't see him anywhere. Can you text him?" you ask.
James grabs his phone. You both press your backs to the wall to make way for some passersbys. He doesn't bother with texting Sirius: Remus always answers.
Where r u??
Went to get food. Love Remus.
When will u b back?
Sirius wanted Molly's Kitchen. Love Remus.
Molly's kitchen in MILTON KENYES?
Sorry. He is very convincing. Love Remus.
I know he is… luv u see u never when i die here abandoned & cold
See you tomorrow. Love Remus.
It takes him so long to type this all out he's surprised when you're still by his side. You're looking at the picture frames hanging on the wall with the patience of a Saint.
"They ditched me."
"Oh," you say.
"Yep."
"Well, you'll just have to come home with me," you say breezily.
He gawks. You fish your keys out of your cardigan and brandish them like a lump of gold. "I have leftover pizza. Or we can order in. If you're hungry?"
He's not. "Sure. Whatever you want."
"We can walk. It's not that far. If you can walk?"
"I can walk."
Barely. He knows it would've been a lovely stroll with you in the lazy summer air, sun still ligphting the sky despite the time, gauzy pinks and blues skimming the white-gold horizon, if only he hadn't been half cut. Your skin is shiny as finest silk and a gentle breeze floats your perfume towards him and he's close to admitting maybe he's obsessed with you in a way that isn't cool at all by the time you make it to the front door.
It's a mostly silent journey until you're shutting your bedroom door behind you and he's wondering how he got here, sitting at the end of your bed. Your room is an extension of you that he can't take in fast enough. He doesn't know what to do with his hands.
You lean down and unstrap your sandals and he toes off his own shoes, trying not to look at how you're bent over, at the silhouette of your legs in your light skirt. Next is your cardigan. He feels like a bachelor in the 1800s, hungry and guilty at your naked skin.
Your silver anklets click together as you weave past him to your bedside table. You flick on the glass shade lamp and an array of multicolour sprays up the wall and your hands. He's mesmerised.
"Pizza," you mumble to yourself, and then looking up at him, "James, I don't have any pajamas for you. Um… oh, and your jeans are gonna be uncomfortable. Do you wear boxers?"
"I- I- yeah. Yes." When he tells this story later, much later, he will not recall stammering here.
"Well, if you wanna sleep in your boxers I don't mind. Better than those awful jeans. I'm gonna heat up the pizza. Bathrooms right there," you point at the door, "if you need it. Are you still feeling sick?"
"No," he says, a smidge overwhelmed.
You reach out and cup his cheek for a second as you pass. He sits in your aftermath and worries he may not make it through the night.
Watching you eat is a strange pleasure. To get to watch you eat is the first, and then the face you make trying to catch a string of cheese is a close second. Now, lying shoulder to shoulder with you, too hot for the duvet and in his boxers he can't get the image of you out of his head. He's too afraid to turn and see the real thing in case you think he's trying to cop a feel.
He'd insisted on sleeping on the floor and you'd laughed so much you went warm in the cheeks. "No, James, that's okay. You're with me."
You'd swapped your skirt for a pair of loose cotton pants. The fabric of which brushed against his calf as you squirmed restlessly.
"It's too warm," you complain.
He's so tired he can barely answer. "Yes."
"I'm gonna open the window," you declare. You climb over his legs and there's so many points of contact he thinks he might go blind.
Window opened, you stand at the sill and pick your vest away from your skin, looking over your shoulder at him, catching him mid-heady gaze. If you care you don't show it, smiling at him with your big hoop earrings still in, your necklace, your bracelets. He frowns to himself. Are you supposed to sleep with jewellery?
You climb back into bed, standing at the edge and flopping down much closer to him than you had been before. It wafts a ridiculous gust of your intoxicating smell over him.
"It's supposed to be this hot all week," you say morosely.
"The miraculous nature of British summer time," he murmurs.
You laugh breathily. "How awful. When it's cold I want the sun to come out and when the sun's out I miss the rain."
He turns his head to watch you talk.
"I like the sunshine." You tilt your head up, in a deep debate with yourself. "It's the humidity I can't deal with. It makes my hair so frizzy. I want soft hair like you, and-" you pause. "Watcha doing?"
"Do you sleep with these?" he asks, poking at the hoop hanging from your earlobe.
"Oh. Sometimes. You're not supposed to, 'cos they're big and all, but I forget."
"Can I?"
"Sure, yes. Please."
He nods and brings his other hand up, pulling the latch off your hoop and sliding it from your ear. He climbs up onto his elbow and presses his fingers to your jaw, turning your head into the pillow so he can reach the other. You're decidedly pliant and quiet under his touch as he pulls the second out. He puts them down by your shoulder and pulls on your necklace until the clasp is in sight.
He's holding his breath. You're looking up into his face with wide, soft eyes, and he catches the tremble you resist as he pulls the necklace free from your neck.
"Tickles," you say sheepishly. He's close enough to feel the warmth of your exhale on his skin.
He drapes the necklace next to your earrings but can't bring himself to move. Your eyelashes twitch. Your lips part and he can see the tiniest sneak of your tongue.
The way you're looking at him is dazzling, dizzying. He smooths down the hair closest to your neck that he'd disrupted while detangling your necklace, ignores the unsteadiness in his hands, presses his fingers to the side of your throat.
Your eyelashes kiss as your eyes drift shut, and he leans down just as you turn your face from his.
"You're drunk, Jamie," you whisper, covering his hand with your own.
He knows you're right. Though drunk seems dramatic at this point, admittedly there's alcohol in his system, and he lets himself fall back into your sheets.
"Sorry," he says.
You bring your arm across your front to grasp his shoulder in your palm. Time moves slow.
"James?"
"Yeah?"
You brush the tousled hair from his face, your touch featherlight and familiar now against his temple. His heart soars as you cuddle in closer, skips when you touch your lips to the muscle of his bicep. "Sleep well," you say warmly.
You break the kiss and stroke the skin there gently with your thumb before turning on your back.
-
so u didn't kiss her?
u r exacerbating my pain, Black
Good. Ur pain SHOULD be 'exacerbated' idiot.
i was tipsy. she didn't want me 2
and in the morning when u were sober ??? couldn't have kissed her in between waffles????
she acted like it didn't happen so I did 2
oh my god! U r so dumb !
James dropped his phone in his lap, feeling the humiliation of his defeat tenfold. Sirius was right, James should have kissed you at breakfast. Maybe. Or at least made his intentions with you clear. He wasn't trying to kiss you because he was drunk or because you were there, he was trying to kiss you because he was hopelessly endeared to you and hoped you might want to put up with him for a bit. Or years. Whatever, it's not like he was planning the wedding or anything. Yet.
He very much hadn't kissed you the next morning. You'd gotten up before him, an angel in your new fresh clothes and your hair out of your face, skin dewy and fucking hell was he lovelorn. He'd been sick as a dog at the table and you'd mistaken it for a hangover, pressing a cup of water into one hand and two ibuprofen in the other, smelling like sweetness behind him.
"Temperance," you'd said encouragingly, lips by his ear.
He relayed this all to Remus over the phone on the bus home, who had listened without judging for the most part up until that point.
"Oh, James."
"You think that's bad?" he'd asked.
"James."
"Just. Don't tell Sirius?"
"I won't." A lie, evidently. At least I can be mad at Remus' blather mouth rather than my own pussy footing, James thinks happily, pulling a throw cushion over his face.
"I'm an idiot," he says into the cushion. It doesn't say anything back.
-
James Potter isn't your boyfriend to your whimsy disappointment, but you think he might want to be.
You'll admit that his tipsy almost-kiss was a speed bump where you worried that awkwardness would wedge between you ruthlessly, but the next morning he'd made enough jokes to have you tearing up and looked at you so adoring you assumed that point moot.
You dress extra pretty tonight, a million different trinkets, silver thin bangles that jingle. Please, you think. Please, James, just ask me on a date.
You're sick of motives. These days you only go so you can see James, tired of party drugs and alcohol and sweaty guys looking at you in that way where you know exactly what they're thinking.
You spy him now, pressing through the doorway with his entourage behind him. You think this with love. His two tallest friends are always right by his side, and a smaller girl trails behind them that you think is called Emmeline.
The first half of his friends that you knew of had arrived earlier in the evening along with your only mutual friend, Mary. You give her a saccharine smile as you peel away, not bothering to hide where you're planning on going.
She smiles indulgently and turns to the short-haired girl, Dorcas. Guilt-free, you wheedle past people you don't know and some that you do, giving pause when one of your friends from school appears. By the time you've finished menial well wishes you can't see James anymore.
"Looking for someone?"
You jump and spin on your flat shoes.
A relieved smile works its way across your mouth.
"James, you startled me," you say, voice light, pressing your fingers to your sternum.
"Sorry, sweetheart. Here." He gestures his big hand to you.
A flower. You take its stem between your fingers gingerly.
"Where'd you get this?"
"Saw it on the way."
You twirl it around and watch its petals dance before passing it back to him.
You smile despite yourself at his crestfallen expression and take a step closer.
"Put it in my hair?" you ask.
His brown eyes lighten, hot amber tea steeped in his irises. He's careful as he sews the flower's delicate stalk into the hair closest to your ear, his mouth hovering just over your forehead. You half hope he's going to press a kiss to your skin before he steps back. He doesn't, though his fingertips give you almost the same pleasure as he flattens what are already well tamed baby hairs.
You want an excuse to stay close to him. He'd done it all by himself the last time by participating in a drinking game he had no chance of winning and needing somewhere to lie down. Your lap had been open. You'd prefer he stray from any recreation of this tonight, and are saved from thinking up a new excuse when he taps the toe of his shoe into yours.
You look down at the rubber toes and then up at his face.
"Want a drink?" he asks.
You pull your shoe back just enough to hit his again. "Depends. What kind?"
"We brought a keg, not that I think you're interested in that."
"Nope," you agree, wrinkling your nose with a grimace.
His answering smile is ridiculously contagious.
"You don't strike me as someone so picky."
"I know what I like," you say, demure. "But I'll try anything once."
His eyes darken, sticky sweet; a playfulness edged in something like I dare you.
"Let's hope I can get you something that sticks," he says back, twice as smooth.
An immeasurable pleasure eats up your spine as his hand comes between your shoulder blades, steering you into the kitchen. He exchanges hellos with guys you don't know huddled around the kitchen table playing cards. One of them lights a cigarette and James stands between you and the twisting smoke, opening his arm out to the countertops covered in drink.
"What do you want, baby?"
You cross your legs and lean forward, pretending to read labels.
"How about you pick for me?" You turn your head to the side and enunciate each word through lips barely parted, eyes tracking his hands where they hang at his sides. His left hand twitches.
"And if you don't like what I choose?"
You straighten up slowly, "Then you'll make me another."
He laughs and you know he can see through all the aloof confidence you carry around you, can see you for who you are, but it doesn't read as cruelty so much as a kindness. You feel the layer of coolness you'd layered on slip away and smile at him with too much teeth, pleased when his hand claps your shoulder and he steps forward to make you a drink.
The concoction he makes is a little too sweet for you but you drink it without complaint, sitting up on the counter where there's room.
He leans with his hand braced behind him next to your thighs, face close to your own and beautiful as he talks to you, brown skin cooled by the white fluorescents and eyes shiny. You can see the smattering of dark stubble coming in if you look, which you aren't. Except that you are. Hungry, you soak in his little details. Tiniest scar by his mouth. Beauty spot not far from it under his nose, almost invisible against his skin. Wavy hair in tighter curls tonight and smelling of coconut or almond or something, fresh and fragrant and thick. His glasses, black wire frames, slide down his nose so often it drives you crazy to watch him push them back up.
Eventually, unable to resist the temptation, you straighten them on the bridge of his nose mid-sentence. He pauses to blow air out of the side of his mouth, warding off a curl dipping close to his eyebrows as you do, and the silence stretches even when your hands are safely returned to your lap.
"You look…" You press your lips together in an attempt to fight off a nervous giggle that slips out anyways as you continue, making the words less serious than they're meant to be, "Pretty. Or handsome. If you prefer."
He puts his drink down on the countertop. You knead your own fingers.
"You look pretty too. Handsome, if you prefer," he returns, creeping closer still. Your chest burns with the pleasure of being complimented. "So much jewellery tonight, you're a mirror ball."
"You don't like it?"
"Didn't say that."
You lift a hand, let all the bangles drop down your arm. "I may have bordered on excessive," you admit, abashed.
"Don't worry, I know all about excessive," he placates, picking his drink up pointedly. The image of him plastered and poorly pops up in your head.
"Yes, well, I was hoping you'd stay sober." You run your finger over the rim of your glass, unable to look at him. "In case I need some help."
His hand reaches out, a finger hooking under one chain bracelet and tugging gently. You can feel his gaze on your face, feel as he puts his drink down again with a final clink. His hand closes around your bracelet.
His fingers are gentle as his other hand slowly, slowly works up your face, fingertips pushing over the delicate, smooth skin of your cheek. His thumb finds a home at the bottom of your chin and he uses it to guide your face up, forcing you to meet his gaze.
It's intense because you want it, because he's handsome, because he's funny, because he's awfully, terribly kind. Because something between you both fits together like it's meant to, and you just know that if he kisses you everything is gonna work out like it should.
His eyes are on your lips. You follow his eyes with sick excitement and miss when he slips your bracelet off of your wrist.
You look between you both. He holds the silver links between his fingers. It's the only one he would've needed to unclasp, the rest are seamless bangles. This one, silver with small blue cut gems, is just his style.
You hold your palm out, mourn his hand as it falls from your face. You both look down between you as you wrap the tennis bracelet around his wrist and click it into place.
"There," you say, so quietly you're worried he might miss it. "Something for me to take off'a you."
His hand finds your face with purpose now, almost pulling you toward his own beaming face and he's opening his mouth, about to say something with a laugh already on his lips when a shattering crash echoes from the living room and into the kitchen. James stills, hand moving down to squeeze your shoulder protectively as he turns to the door.
A barking laugh. James turns back quickly, apologetic, murmuring a "Jump down?" and pushing his forearm under your armpit to help you down off of the counter.
As soon as your canvas shoes touch down, he takes a light hold on your wrist and pulls you along, following the guys who'd been playing cards. In the living room, Sirius sits at a coffee table with a knife in his hand. Sticking into his hand, blood already pooling around it in a black crimson horror that has half the room in morbid silence and the other half panicking.
Remus, at Sirius' left, is laughing with tears running down his cheeks, sounding like he's one guttural guffaw from throwing up. Sirius looks pretty cool about the whole thing, cooler when he spots James in the doorway.
"Prongs! Come and pull this out, would you? I'd do it, but I can't seem to make myself grab it."
Remus let's out another sobbing laugh. You can't help but giggle from behind James' shoulder, and Sirius zeroes in on this.
James drops your hand, walking forward and bending at the waist.
"Hey, don't think because you're his girl now that means you-fuck! Oh fuck, what the fuck-" Sirius presses the open sleeve of his dress shirt hurriedly into the wound, freshly opened. James holds the knife he'd just pulled free in his hand distastefully.
"Alright, hotshot, run your mouth in the car. You need stitches."
"Fuck's sake."
James drops the knife on the table and shoves the wounded boy's head with the flat of his palm, earning another curse. Remus, finally extending some friendly generosity, pulls the dark shirt he's layered over a t-shirt off and encourages Sirius to wrap it around his hand.
Sirius protests. "This'll give me an infection."
"Fuck off and die, then," Remus suggests lightly, wiping at his eyelashes with the side of his pinky finger.
Sirius wrinkles his nose. James tries to shepherd them both from the room, which has once again grown loud with laughing, most of it at the absurdity of Sirius injury.
"What did I tell you about pinfinger?" James asks scornfully.
"Not to play it," Remus supplies, stepping over people's feet with little apology.
You watch the sorry threesome make their way to the door, a disheartened feeling creeping in.
James opens the front door and pushes Sirius through it, torn looking back at you.
"Remus can't drive, so I'll have to take him," he explains.
"You still have my bracelet."
A weak argument. He can hear your disappointment. He smiles, eyebrows pulling up in… sympathy? Empathy? Apology? You can't tell what, only that he looks soft as butter as he says, "I'll call you? We can arrange a time for you to take it back."
"Okay," you agree, much too happy, just as he's pulled out the door by a bloody hand.
-
James doesn't have your number. He realises this in A&E, close to midnight with Remus asleep on one shoulder and Sirius slouched in the other, waiting for the plastics to come and assess if Sirius has done any permanent damage to his finger.
"I don't understand how you can stab yourself in the hand and fuck up your finger," James mutters for what's likely the fifth time.
Sirius sighs unhappily. "It's ligaments or tendons or something. I might very well have cut through a cord that needs to remain uncut."
"You're an idiot."
"Thanks, James."
"Yeah, you're welcome." James slouches a little lower in his chair to take the strain off of his best friend's neck in a show of genuineness. He does love him, after all, even after shocking displays of public stupidity.
"Sorry for cockblocking you," Sirius says.
"Vile. Wasn't gonna turn out that way. Though I was hoping I might actually make a real move tonight. I did make a real move," James shakes his head, disgruntled. "I was seconds away from kissing her. Your idiocy couldn't wait 30 seconds?"
"Wasn't exactly timing it, mate."
"Yeah."
James digs through his pocket for his phone. He never knows where the damn thing is. Your bracelet is tight to his skin and he looks at it with keen longing, imagining your nicely shaped nails running under it.
He shakes it off, goes to unlock his phone, and this is where he realises he doesn't have your number.
"Do you have Y/N's number?" he asks Sirius.
"No." It sounds like why would I?
"Fuck."
"She's Mary's friend, isn't she? Ask Mary."
He sighs and does as he's told, scrolling through contacts until he finds Mary MacDonald's.
Hi mary was wondering if u have Y/N's phone #
And why should I give it to you, Pots? :3 :D <3
pls mary I am not above begging u
While that would be a sight, I meant why do you want it? But please tell me more about the begging part!!! <33
mary
What are your intentions with my Y/N? She's much too sweet for you to manhandle <33
James blushes at her wording and groans aloud. "Girls are impossible."
"Yep," Sirius says tiredly.
James doesn't want his or your business passed around, and if he tells Mary, Mary will tell Dorcas and Dorcas will tell Marlene and Marlene will tell everybody she knows and will find it very, very entertaining as she does. He doesn't plan on awarding her the pleasure. He tells a white lie.
I found her bracelet and want to give it back :]
I'll give it back for you ;) <3
not that I don't trust u M but its super nice, id prefer to give it in person myself
OK OK I'll stop yanking your chain now Jamesie dearest hahaha. Her number is +44 XXXX XXXXXX. I trust the bracelet gets back to her in one piece. btdub, how's siri? <3
crying and shaking like a lamb, thanks m xoxo
He adds your number to his contacts and then stares at it until the nurse calls for Sirius and they get up to meet her, leaving Remus to blink awake confused at their departure.
-
hi Y/N, this is James
You look down at your rarely used phone and feel a warmth like sunshine unfold in your tummy. You don't use any emoticons, though you want to.
Hi James, how are you? How is your friend?
im amazing how r u? doctors are hopeful that he'll live, but it's up to him now :,(
James
kidding. he is fine. R u busy right now?
no I'm not busy why?
can I call u?
You call him rather than answer. He picks up straight away.
"James," you say quietly.
"Sweetheart," he says back. "Hey, hi. I had to get your number from Mary Magdalene."
"Wow, what was she like?"
"Uh… bloody? Which one was she?"
"I don't know, James," you say, laughing behind your hand.
"What are you doing today?" he asks.
You preen though he can't see. "Nuthin," you say, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth. "Why'd you ask?"
"Trapped you there, baby. Don't you know you're supposed to wait until after I tell you what I'm planning before you say you're not busy?"
"Oh, weird. Something just came up."
"Uh-huh. Anyways, busy or not, if you want to: I've got a match later. If you want to come." He sounds nervous. It's a new look on him.
"Do I get to sit pretty on the sidelines with the other girls?"
"You can stand, if you like. But yeah, otherwise. Oh, unless you have some kicks. I doubt it would take much convincing to get you on the team."
"How's that?"
"Well, you know. They aren't blind. Dumb, sure, but we play rugby. Not exactly a honeypot of intelligence, all it would take for half those guys is your pretty smile-"
"You're plenty smart," you cut off his compliments.
James gags. "Keep it to yourself. It starts at six, but come whenever. Oh- do you need me to pick you up?"
"No, that's okay. I'll walk. It's warm out."
"You're sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. It'll be nice. I'll wear team colours." You're almost afraid to suggest it until he makes a very happy noise that he coughs to hide two seconds too late.
"See you at six, then?"
"Definitely. You owe me a bracelet."
"It's a date." He hangs up before you can say goodbye. Good thing, because you spend the next ten minutes with your face in your hands, smiling so wide your cheeks ache.
It doesn't quite feel like a date on the sidelines but you're too busy walking on sunshine to care. You watch as James throws the ball behind him, torso twisting, bulky arms flexing. His shorts and socks are stained green and his shirt grips tight to his chest.
You can see why he wanted a haircut; ink dark hair falls in his eyes as he sprints after the team and he has no hands to tuck it back.
You'd been a little late, trying too hard to look effortlessly radiant at home and forgetting the time. As soon as you'd arrived, out of breath and half-dressed, you stood at the side of the pitch close to watchers but maintaining a small gap trying desperately to catch his eye. It was obvious when he saw you - he smiled beatifically and raised a wide palm in greeting before getting into position for a scrum.
After a while there's a halftime break where he comes bouncing off the field to your side. He goes straight in for a hug, brave, warm, exactly what you wanted, arms around your waist and lifting you off the ground half an inch with the force of it.
You wrap your arms around his neck and pretend it's all an inconvenience, wobbling on tiptoes. "You're getting grass all over me."
"Oh no," he says, faux worried.
He smells like so many things. Deodorant and sweat, grass and dirt and salt. You press your nose into his hair and smell the almond oil there with a lopsided smile.
He lets you down, holding you at arms length.
"You're so fucking pretty."
You try not to burst into tears, turning your face so he can see the heart on your cheek made up of glitter in his team colours. "It's the team rep."
"No, it isn't," he says, running his hand down your face to straighten your head, pausing with his fingers under your chin.
Your bracelet is still on his wrist. You can't find it in yourself to be embarrassed at the lovesickness you're feeling.
You push his hair from his face. He, reminded of this affliction, levels you with a squinting glare. "This is all your fault."
"Sorry, Jamie," you say, biting back a guilty smile.
"It's fine," he concedes immediately. You're suddenly overwhelmed by the power you have over this poor boy.
"How long is the break?"
"Halftime? About ten minutes left."
You nod, thinking to yourself. "Well, um. You can say no, but. I can plait your hair back, if you want. Out of your eyes."
"You can?" he asks, brightening.
"Yeah, I can."
James sits on the bottom bench of the stand and you stand behind him, your fingers raking through his windblown curls in lieu of a comb. He sits strangely still, more controlled than you thought possible of him as you braid back the longest strands at the front of his scalp, sliding your fingers through his hair as kindly as you can. The small intimacy of it all has your heart racing.
Securing the dark braid with a bobble, you take in the back of his head. His soft shiny hair is oil black in the sun, his skin painted with gold. His neck begs to be kissed.
You rub your hands down the back of his neck, across the curves of his trap muscles and then down his chest, leaning on him so you can press your lips to the highest point of his cheek in a shy kiss. He tilts his head to catch your eye as you pull back.
"Done?" he asks, something indistinguishable in his voice.
"Done," you confirm.
His face is close enough to spot the beauty mark adjacent to his cupid's bow. You resist the urge to kiss that, too, and stand at full height. He copies you. You find that the stands underneath you makes you taller, his eyes are level with yours.
"How's it look?"
"I did alright," you say modestly. "Though maybe a haircut isn't the worst idea."
He laughs and looks down, reaching for your hands. He's different without his glasses, not more or less handsome, but different. The focus of his face changes, and you find yourself distracted by his eyes, his nose, his mouth.
He holds your hands like a prince, brushing his thumb over your fingernails. Then, in true royal fashion, he brings your hand to his mouth. A kiss pressed to your knuckles. One kiss becomes two, two to three, a peppering of pecks up your hand and over your pulse and up your arm. He reaches your sleeve. His hand follows his mouth until he's holding your elbow in his hand like you're a sacred being, pulling you in.
You drift together. His hands cup your upper arms and guide you slowly to the left as he ducks in.
A piercing whistle leaps through the air. You flinch apart like guilty kids, his hands a searing heat through your shirt sleeves as the call for halftime's end rings. Loudly.
He grimaces bitterly. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I don't know why this keeps happening to us, I'm-"
"Going to get in trouble," you finish, peeling his hands off of your body. "Go on, before they get mad."
"Your bracelet-"
"Keep it. It looks good on you, anyways."
He leans in and holds you by the neck. Your heart is a hammering racket for no reason - all he does is peck your forehead, quick and firm. Then he pulls back all sorry looking and scrambles over the bench and the kit to get back into position.
You sit down heavily on the cold metal seat behind you and cover your chest with your hands, taking deep breaths through your nose.
He catches your eye from the pitch and winks.
-
"Be thankful it was your mouth and not your nose."
"Explain what you mean," James demands, wincing at his split lip.
You match his stride. James, having been hit in the face with the rugby ball hard enough to bruise and cut his top lip, had refused to let you look at him, despite the horror it had provoked, and then had refused to let you walk home alone. I'm not getting in your car until you see a doctor, James, I mean it.
Fine, then we'll walk.
So you walk. The sun is setting, the sky a mix of white-pink and light blue, a bleeding yellow light throwing big shadows every which way. You step out of the shade of a towering, green leafed tree where the main road began. Before James can stop you, you jump up onto the small metal barrier that stops cars from driving on the pavement and walk across it like a balance beam.
"Please don't," James says.
You ignore him, using your arms to stop yourself from toppling into the road. A small revenge considering he had ignored your medical advice. James lets you do this for around 10 seconds before he grabs your hand in his. You wobble along the last meter of barrier with your joined hands held aloft and tight before you finally let him pull you back down onto the pavement, giggling breathlessly. Cars careen past, each one wafting a breeze of petrol and fallen leaves towards your legs.
Fingers interlocked, you walk. You take in the relative beauty of your town in its approaching dusk, meandering past roundabouts and roads, back gardens and a corner shop.
You persuade James inside the shop and beeline for the cold drinks at the back. The open fridges cool your clammy skin.
"What one do you want?" you ask him.
"Anything. Whatever you're having."
You grab three identical cans and ignore his raised eyebrows as you bring them to the front of the store, the cashier hidden behind lollipop stands, magazines, a plastic shield plastered in leaflets for upcoming events. There's a small TV in the corner blaring summer music that you can't help but hum as you emerge from the shop, swaying your hips in time.
"Who's the third for?" James asks, accepting his can. You tuck your own in your bag and grin.
"You! For your lip," you say. "It's swollen."
"Doesn't hurt."
"Don't believe you."
He reluctantly takes the can from you and complains loudly, exasperated at having two full hands, one pressed to his face. You wiggle your empty one at him in bad sportsmanship. Before long you're standing outside your home and James is hesitating.
"Do you want to come in?" you ask, half-hopeful.
He shakes his head. "I can't, I have to take Sirius to get his hand looked at again by plastics."
"Too bad," you murmur, looking at his chest and then his face. "Thank you for walking me. I know it's out of the way."
"You're never out of the way," he says seriously.
You slide your fingers into the loose hair behind his neck, rub your thumb across the line of his jaw.
"Get home safe," you murmur as you lift up on your toes, shoes creasing. You press a half-open kiss to his jaw where your thumb had been moments before and close your lips over his skin slowly. You linger, pressing a second on top.
There's an unspoken acknowledgement between you both when you pull away. A promise.
He looks a picture of defeat walking down your front path. Covered in dirt and grass and sweat and blood, hair messy and chased by the last rays of sun. You watch until he's at the end of your street, butterflies thrashing in your tummy as he presses his index and middle finger to where you'd laid your kisses, as though checking his pulse.
-
James' parents own a restaurant. He knows, in his right mind, that this is a lame place to take you on a proper first date, only it's the hottest week of the year and everywhere else with outdoor seating is fully booked.
"I don't mind, James. Actually, I'm excited. I've never seen Sirius in a uniform," you say.
He scowls and scoffs melodramatically over the phone until you apologise to him for your terrible, awful, sick joke.
Technically, the Potter's restaurant is fully booked too, and he watches the books like a hawk for a week while his lip heals until he catches a cancellation. He instantly jots down his name. He's caught in the act by Euphemia.
"James," his mum had said, words drawn out. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
So really, he isn't sure why he thinks this date will go well. Everybody who works here knows him, and even as he waits outside for you under the dark wood porch a server comes up to him and nudges him with his elbow emphatically.
You turn the corner and he stops breathing, a vision in your sundress and sandals. He watches your anklets dance as you approach, eyes roving up your body devotedly until he finds a smile that matches his own in tenacity playing on your glossy lips.
He wants to kiss you then but wants more to foster a perfect, romantic evening first, so he's careful as he brings his hands up to your face appreciatively. Your hands hook around his elbows, an excited glaze in your eyes.
"Hi, pretty girl."
"Hi," you say, hushed by shyness.
He caresses your cheeks lightly, worried about smudging your makeup. Your eyes close when his hands move up, sliding over your hair to rest behind your ears. Sparkly earrings hang from each earlobe.
"You look beautiful," he says, because fuck it if James hasn't got game.
Your smile turns pouting at his words. He wants to record your voice and play it back when you say, "Thank you, James," in the softest tone he's ever heard from you.
He wants to stay like this. He swears he could happily stand in this bubble of the world with you and count your eyelashes, memorise the flecks of colour that surround your pupil, but you shimmy out of his hands and prompt him inside.
"Come on, handsome, I'm hungry." And then, inside the restaurant. "Oh my god. It smells amazing. What smells amazing?"
He has no clue. He's reluctant to go to the bar with you only because he knows exactly who stands behind it - Sirius, in his neat uniform, a towel thrown over his shoulder and a bandage wrapped around his hand.
He's well-behaved when he sees you, though a few things he says has James reaching to wring his neck.
"How's your hand?" you ask.
Sirius sets down James' pint and grabs for another glass, shovelling ice and pouring juice. "It's alright. The bandage is for health and safety, not because it's actually injured anymore."
"Plastics said he's fine," James interjects, raising the dark ale to his lips.
"Perfect," Sirius amends cooly, "is what they said. Head to toe."
James corrals you out onto the mezzanine before you can fall in love with the uppity bartender.
It gets worse from there. A server who's known James since he was in nappies takes your orders, an extremely handsome server with a deep dusky voice and black skin so smooth he's practically carved from stone.
"And what's for you, babygirl?" he asks after airing out every embarrassing thing James has ever done on restaurant grounds.
You're still laughing, but you turn to James with all the confidence in the world as you ask, "What do I get, James?"
He feels a little better after that.
The patio is perfect. The sun's out, the breeze is light. Every now and then he has a hint of your smell, sunscreen and perfume. Your leg bounces under the table, a tinkling sound of silver, and you lean forward. He doesn't look at your chest where the necklace hanging over your collar bones disappears, thank you very much, but you're so obviously perfect and he's attracted to everything - your body and your gorgeous face, yes, undeniably, but your voice! Your laugh, your smell, the way your hands move. The way your every word about him drips adoration. The pride in your tone as you recall what should've been his perfect match (if he hadn't been hit in the face).
After a lazy dinner and a second round of drinks he's buzzing and you're lovely, like a flower, bloomed and prettier than anything he's ever seen.
You leave the table and walk along the woodchip path and kids play area to look out over the lake, a dark shimmering sheet split in half by twisting white light, the sun falling from the sky.
The evening grows marginally colder, especially at the lakefront. At the first sign of discomfort he works his arm over your back, hand pressed to the dip of your shoulder
He's waiting for you to look at him before he kisses you.
"It's so pretty," you sigh happily.
Across the lake is a backdrop of green trees and a small, rustic boathouse. A family of ducks swim past, shepherded by a squawking swan.
"Bully," he mutters.
You hum. "Why is there only ever one nasty swan per lake?"
"Gotta fill their quota."
"The poor duckies," you sympathise. "Look, there's one of the fancy ones with a green head over there."
He follows your finger but gets distracted by the bracelets adorning your wrist, can't help but think about how you'd asked him to take them off.
"James, this is… it's really perfect. It's amazing."
He pulls you in a little closer. "I'm glad," he says, though he's finding it hard to respond - he can barely open his mouth. "I wanted it to be."
You finally turn to face him. He guesses his change in tone is what does it, because you sound similarly low and love-sticky when you murmur back, "Everything. It's all been so perfect. Everything with you."
He can't take it. He darts forward, so close to kissing you that the air between you is charged with it. When his nose grazes yours he gives pause, tries to work out what you're thinking as your tongue wets your lips.
Your eyes are closed. He shuts his own and-
"James! James Fleamont Potter! You come up here and help your mam!" his father's voice calls.
He drops his forehead against yours and lets out a pained exhale.
"Dad," he calls back, refusing to move. "I'm a little preoccupied."
"What? James, look, I don't have my glasses and your mother needs someone to write tomorrow's daily special!"
He pulls away from you and sends a heated look over his shoulder, one he's sure could melt metal and that his father can't even see. "And tomorrow's daily special, this couldn't wait until TOMORROW?"
"James, I've no clue what's turned you into such a sour puss tonight and I don't have time to work it out. All I'm asking is that you do this chalkboard for us and then you can get back to-"
"Dad! Dad! Alright, I'm coming!" he hollers back, cutting his father off before he can blow a gasket. "Jesus Christ," he says under his breath, defeated. You frown sympathetically at his embarrassment.
"You should probably go help your parents," you say, sounding similarly disappointed. He nods, unwilling.
"Just, don't move," he pleads.
You smile, total understanding on your face, and he's only taken a few steps from you when you turn back to the lake and your shoulders fall.
Fuck it, he thinks.
He turns your body with his palm on your shoulder and soothes your surprised flinch with a hand on your neck, your eyes meeting for a startled, excited handful of seconds before he's finally, finally, surging forward. You gasp into his mouth and his fingers tighten on your neck, lips aligned with your lips and searching deeper, parting to invite you in. You follow, a dance, a hand pulling you out of the road, a tether, and you taste like everything he's ever thought you might all at once.
You press your spread fingers over the fine material of his dress shirt and moan when he catches your top lip between his. He kisses, again and again, feels you slip through his hands like water. He hooks his arm around your head to keep you in place as he wades into you, slowing, softening, pulling away to plant one, two, three gentle kisses over it all like a balm. You respond to each one amorously. His chest rears to explode at your dizzy, pretty panting when it's over.
He loosens his arm to pull back and take in your entire face. Your eyes are shimmering, lips wet. He wipes his thumb over your bottom lip, finds it burning hot.
"Oh," you whisper.
"Oh?" he asks, endeared and amused and insanely happy.
"I didn't think it would feel so different to all the little kisses from before."
"Good different?" he asks, the damp pad of his thumb smoothing over the warm hill of your cheek, stolen bracelet scraping your skin.
Any anxiety he has unfurls and dissipates into nothing when you smile and lean in for a second kiss. "Good different," you confirm against his open mouth, "everything with you…"
He pulls you as close as any person can be to another person. He has a pretty good picture of what you were going to say, anyways.
<3
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there’s probably someone way smarter than me who can explain it better but kendrick lamar’s halftime show was an amazing performance piece that goes beyond a “super bowl halftime show”
the american flag motifs? uncle sam telling him his art is too ghetto and essentially too “black”? praising him for doing a censored disney song instead? AND DOING IT ALL IN FRONT OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES???
and oh yeah he called drake a pedophile in front of the entire nation
Like I have such a deeply ingrained need to be extremely defiant and hard to handle around this Spencer I want to bite his shoulder too hard he gets lowkey mad
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